A Writer's Wonderland [PDF] - University of Portsmouth

University of Portsmouth
Creative Writing
2011-2012
www.port.ac.uk
Editors Sarah Mather and Lauren Smith
Illustrator Sarah Kent
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Acknowledgments
Sarah and Lauren, as the editors, would like to give our thanks and gratitude to those who
contributed their work to A Writer’s Wonderland.
We would also like to thank Holly Howitt-Dring, as module coordinator, for her guidance and
support throughout the production of the anthology. We owe Alison Habens, our unit
coordinator, our appreciation as she has compiled all units across the years. Finally, we would
also like to mention our teachers, Steven O’Brien and Sally O’Reilly for aiding us and our other
students throughout our time at university for giving us the valuable skills to write
professionally, and for preparing us for the future.
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Foreword, 5
I Prose
Aaron Ogles – Adam Noble’s Intervention, 9
Amy Lodowski – That Tallahassee Diner, 13
Athea Husted – Monday, 107
Bryony Noble – The Hurlers, 20
Georgia Standen – Eoin – The Changeling, 23
Glenn Barr – Able Ashton, 26
James Gannon – Piccadilly on the Mind, 30
James Law – Honour , 32
Contents
Jenni Ellegard – The Beautiful Princess and the Ruby Slippers, 38
Jo Oram – Vesper, 45
Joe Gibbs – Good Morning, 50
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Kirsty Franks – Beauty and the Leash, The Hypocrisy of Fairytale, 53
Maddy Connolly – The Salesman’s Wife, 57
Nat Dalby – The Red House, 61
Sam Scurfield – Dust, 65
II Poetry
Aislinn Shivakumar – Bonnie Bold, My Queen and My Bride 67, 69
Athea Husted – The Struggle, Wither, 71, 72
Jenni Ellegard – The Housemate, 73
Jo Oram – Purgatory, 76
Joe Delarue – One Self Analysis Too Many, The Roadside’s of India, Beaten to Decadence, 78, 79,
81
Lauren Smith – A Humble Vow, 82
Manon Pilarz –The Pen of Life, 92
Pete Campbell – Borders, Cecil Grove, Realising Receipts, Sentimental Leave, 94, 95, 96, 97
Raimy Large – Fight, Our Body, 99, 101
Sarah Bean – Too Afraid to go Insane, Joy, The Blaze, 102, 103, 104
Sophie Goodall – Illumination, 105
Will Sherwood – An Idyll of a Memory, 107
III Plays & Screenplays
Naomi Spicer – Empathy, 110
Sarah Mather – The Mustant Arbors, 146
Afterword
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Foreword
I am proud to introduce a fantastic and diverse reading experience from, A Writers
Wonderland: A Collaboration of Creative Writing from the University of Portsmouth 2012.
From poetry to prose to screenplays, we have organised every creative style and literary
genre within these very special pages. Now they tingle in anticipation for the chance to be read!
This anthology has been designed specifically for you, my dear reader, and contains all the
best work from the students of the Creative Arts, Film and Media Department; from the bright
and shiny new first years, to the wiser second years, up to the experienced third years, and
finally, to the very intelligent MA students.
They have very generously given their work over to be displayed in this anthology for
all to be read and if they aren’t shy, then there’s no reason for you to be. Take a look at our
inspirational collection, perfect for everyone and anybody but will especially be intriguing to
those prospective students, who are interested in coming to Portsmouth University to develop
their creative skills.
As the writers of this collection worked hard to showcase their highest pieces of work,
so I and my co-editor Lauren Smith worked hard piecing the anthology together. However, the
most strenuous element wasn’t the editing as most people would assume but strangely enough,
was the selection of a title. This must have taken up to approximately three hours in total of
hard labour and I can tell you, after that ordeal, we took a well deserved coffee break.
I think at one point we may have come up with name ‘dream scope’ which in itself
wasn’t bad, except it gave connotations of the anthology being based around dreams rather than
creative work. It was a dilemma to say the least. Nonetheless, the hours of toil was worth it in
the end as we decided on an admirable title where nothing less would have sufficed. This is
what the anthology meant to us and hopefully, it will have the same importance in your lives as
it has in ours.
To give you a little tease of what’s inside this unique anthology, I’ll donate to you a tiny
taster of the work displayed within its pages. Two of my favourite pieces are the poem by Will
Sherwood and the prose fiction by Kirsty Franks.
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Sherwood’s poem, named An Idyll of a Memory, is a sweet reminisce of a man and his
woman laying in a meadow on a beautiful summer’s day. The imagery is astounding in this
extremely special piece and I’m sure the words will touch your heart as they did mine. It was
clear Sherwood really had embodied the words of William Wordsworth, who had said to ‘fill
your paper with the breathings of your heart’.
Kirsty Franks prose piece, entitled Beauty and the Leash: The Hypocrisy of Fairytale is a
parody of the famous tale of beauty and the beast. Comical and ironic, it will be sure to open
your mind to the stereotypes of fairytale fiction and most importantly make you laugh; an
extremely significant gift in writing.
Such awe-inspiring works could not have been achieved alone without the guidance of
the creative writing lecturers; a lively and considerate bunch with plenty of personality.
When you begin this course, don’t miss out on Steven O’Brien’s Irish ballad singing in
the Telling Tales unit like I did! I’ve heard that it was as if he had brought the fairies themselves
with him into the lecture theatre. Such an experience is not to be missed!
The playwriting unit led by Alison Habens is sure to keep you entertained with her
vibrant approach to teaching. Plus, she will teach you the fine art of writing plays which you
won’t have come across before.
This is sure to help you on your way to screenwriting, an exciting unit for those
interested in the film industry. These are only some of the many units you may study on the
course; just imagine the possibilities of the alternative options granted to you.
Also, as the creative group tends to be smaller than the other courses, you’ll be sure to
mix with everyone and begin bonds that will last through-out your university years and long
into the future.
Creative writing has become somewhat of a dying art these days. Not enough people are
thinking creatively; as the great Albert Einstein has said, ‘Imagination is more important than
knowledge. Knowledge is limited. Imagination encircles the world’. So don’t be fooled into
thinking creativity isn’t as important as the more factual subjects, such as science or business. In
most cases, to be creative is more important. How would any scientist make new discoveries if
he hadn’t opened his mind to the possibilities? How could entrepreneurs create new business
products and sell these items without some form of imagination? The world would become a
dull place if the universe had to live without creativity.
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I hope you will enjoy your journey through this anthology. It truly is a writer’s
wonderland; brimming full of possibilities. So immerse yourself within its contents and notice
the potential you have in yourself to produce similar, if not better, pieces of creative work.
Good luck and goodbye.
May your dreams of writing come true!
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-Sarah Mather

Aaron Ogles
Third year Creative Writing and English student.
Adam Noble’s Intervention.
It was green and grey inside the house today. It was mid-
morning and after stumbling through the front door in a
haze of fog and drizzle, Adam was greeted by a simple: ‘He’s here, Bri,’ and quickly found
himself ushered to the sofa by Sue. Brian entered a few moments later, joint in hand, and an
expression of pure detestation on his face. Adam eyed his parents with a kind of defiant
apprehension. He’d been naughty, time for slapped wrists.
‘What’s up with you?’ he scoffed to his father.
‘I’ll tell you what’s up with me, you little shit.’ Sue put a restraining hand on Brian’s
shoulder, ‘Get off me! You took my fucking float, I need that!’
‘For your little business transactions? You’re pathetic, Dad.’ Adam got up and took a few
steps across the room, ‘And if you will leave it on the cabinet like that. Carelessness leads to
costliness.’ He brushed a bit of fluff from his sleeve, ‘Is that even a saying?’
Brian’s face contorted with fury as Sue reapplied her hand to his shoulder, as if the mere
presence of it could calm him.
‘What did you spend it on, eh? Did you get another sparkling little ring for your face?’
‘No, actually,’ Adam strutted over to the window ledge and leant casually against it. The
yellow net curtain twitched as it brushed his clothes, ‘I went to your friend’s place and bought a
few grams of skunk,’ Sue slowly slid her hand from Brian’s shoulder, ‘then I took it to the old
Drop Redoubt fort on the cliffs, got high with my boyfriend, you know, the one you sold weed to
the other week, and then I fucked, literally fucked the shit out of hi-’
Brian was on him within a second, bounding across the room and with a swift swing
Adam was on the floor. A bloody eyebrow bar rolled across the carpet. Sue was between them
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instantly, putting her hand on Brian’s chest as Adam struggled to his feet, covering his eye with
his hand.
‘Someone’s got issues,’ Adam spat. As he staggered back to his position on the window
ledge Brian went for another shot. Sue managed to push him back and shot a venomous glare at
her son.
‘One is enough,’ her warning was to Brian, ‘Unless you’d like to hit me as well?’
Adam was laughing, ‘You should listen, Dad.’
‘I said enough!’
Brian huffed like a stroppy child and stormed into the kitchen, slamming the door
behind him. Adam rubbed at the tear in his eyebrow and looked at the blood on his hand. He
took a step towards the stairs.
‘Don’t you dare leave this room, Adam Noble. You’re not getting out of this.’
‘Out of what?’
Sue glanced fleetingly at the red wood cabinet, ‘Were you lying?’
‘About what?’
‘Were. You. Lying?’ Each word was slow, emphasising the hidden meaning which she
couldn’t bring herself to say.
Adam faced the window and pinched a piece of tobacco from the net curtain. He let out
a muffled, ‘No,’ as he flicked the tobacco to the side. Sue had to sit down; she buried her face
into her palms. There was silence for a few moments and then she rubbed her face on her
greasy apron. Her eyes were puffy.
‘Why did you do it? How could you do it – just the other day you were saying,’ she let
out a frustrated sigh. ‘What did we do?’
Adam turned around to look at the pitiful woman on the couch, her eyes swimming in
the salty, liquid disappointment.
‘Nothing.’
‘Then why?’
‘No, that’s it. You did nothing. I told you that I – about – I told you I was gay and you
didn’t even pretend to care. Dinner was more fucking important than I was!’
‘So drugs were the answer? Adam, I don’t care whether you’re gay, it doesn’t bother me.
What I do care about is my son doing drugs, stealing from his own father.’
‘It fucking hurt, okay? It hurt when you just ignored it, like I wasn’t there or something.’
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Sue got to her feet, ‘So you decided to hurt us back, did you? Well you certainly knew
what you were doing. And yes, I might’ve ignored what you said, but maybe some of us have
more important things to think about!’
‘Well I managed to work that out for myself. Obviously I’m not important enough-’
‘Me and your dad are getting a divorce, Adam. We’re getting a divorce. So yes, there
were more important things than my son’s new boyfriend. And quite frankly, Adam, grow up!
You’re just like your father was at that age.’
Adam was silent for a moment as he processed this new information. Divorce. Yet he
couldn’t bring himself to react, not when four other words were ticking around in his mind. Just
like your father. He shook his somewhat inebriated head, ‘I’m nothing like Dad.’
‘I can smell the weed on your breath! You stink of it just like he does. Take a look at
yourself, Adam. You are just like him.’
She had delivered the final blow and stood there eyeing her prey for a moment or two.
He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact. He simply stared at the carpet; there was now a
tiny red stain next to the brown one the coffee had left. Sue went into the kitchen and closed the
door behind her. Adam bent down and pinched the bloody eyebrow bar between his fingers, it
was then that he realised he was actually in some pain.
Self Inflicted. They cut me.
The redwood cabinet was still in the corner. Always in the corner, unmoving. Adam was
going to open it, and nothing was going to stop him. Calm but focused, Adam took a chair from
behind the table and approached the cabinet. Upon the first hit the cabinet shuddered, the now
empty mug was shook to the floor again, it shattered this time. As the second hit made impact
Brian and Julie burst into the room. Amid shouts of ‘Adam, stop!’ and ‘What the fuck are you
doing?!’ he hit the cabinet for a third time. From the corner of his eye he could see Sue trying to
keep hold of Brian, both still shouting. Adam was too focused to distinguish any words. Fourth
hit, wood splinted and hinges shuddered. In the periphery Brian was released but Adam was
ready. He took a swing to the side and Brian was struck down by the chair in an instant. Sue
continued to yell as Adam clawed at the splintered cabinet until finally it yielded just like the
lancet at the fort, a gateway into darkness.
Inside the cabinet were several large sealed bags, some of green weed, some of what
looked like brown bars of soap and others that were filled with small, jagged brown rocks.
Adam was fondly reminded of the smell it exuded when his father burnt it – barbecue sauce. He
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took them all in his arms and headed for the door. On the floor Sue was cradling Brian. He was
groaning and holding his head in his hands. The red stain on the carpet was larger now. Adam
had never seen her eyes look like this before - as if they were focusing every ounce of hatred in
her body straight at him.
‘If you leave this house with that, Adam Noble, don’t even think about coming back!’
Adam stepped over his parents, stuffed the sealed bags into a rucksack and opened the
front door. The wind blew the rain in.
‘I was wrong,’ Sue said shakily as Adam crossed the threshold, ‘you’re nothing like your
father. You are something so much worse.’
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Amy Lodowski
Third year Creative Writing and English student.
That Tallahassee Diner
Linda wanted to be a waitress. Ever since what happened at the
diner in Tallahassee, she could think of nothing else. The problem however, was her brilliant
mind. She had to keep her ambition a secret and settle for a high paying accountancy job
instead. Linda hated working with numbers. They were cold and cynical and never told her any
interesting anecdotes or laughed at her witty puns. Granted, Linda was genius when it came to
math, she always had been and it seemed logical to follow a career in the field you excelled in,
but ever since that fateful morning in Tallahassee she longed for the simple and friendly life of a
diner waitress. She often thought of quitting her executive job and handing in a CV at the ‘Big
Al’s Diner’ but she thought of the smirks on the girls from the eight floor faces and couldn’t bear
to think of them mocking her behind her back. No, she’d grit her teeth and bare her stupidly
well paid job and not give them the satisfaction.
***
Linda woke to the sound of her alarm clock. Beep. Beep. Beep. She hit it. Silence. Twenty minutes
later she was stood in front of her steamed up bathroom mirror practising her Southern accent
and wishing her damn crows feet weren’t so noticeable. After the usual morning routine of
coffee and a quick check on the basement she was out the door and on her way to work. It was
busy in the streets of San Francisco. She pushed past people, men, woman, children (God she
hated children) until finally the battle was over and she was at the door of ‘Archer’s Accounting’
(The finest accounting firm in America!) She made her way across the lobby and pressed the
button for the elevator. Once inside she selected the 9 th floor. Ping. The elevator doors hummed
open. She walked down the corridor to her office, sat down at her desk and glanced at the pile of
paper in front of her.
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‘Shit!’ she swore under her breath. Scrawled on a post-it was a reminder she had her
quarterly evaluation at two ‘o’ clock this afternoon. She’d totally forgotten. What a shit day this
was turning out to be.
At one fifty six, Linda sat outside her boss’s office waiting for his secretary to signal she
was allowed to enter.
‘You can go in now,’ said the secretary with a nod toward the door.
She opened the door and went inside.
‘Ahhh, Linda. Please do take a seat,’ her boss said as she walked toward the desk, ‘I feel
we’ve much to discuss.’
‘Much to discuss Mr Archer?’ Linda said.
‘Indeed Linda. I’ve been looking at your recent progress reports. I asked you to evaluate
each of your team members, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I specifically said to include at least one positive point of evaluation, yes?’
‘Yes, sir.’
strong team?’
‘So tell me Linda, why you haven’t said a single positive thing about any of your thirty
‘I didn’t want to lie, sir. I wanted to be as honest as I could and I’ll be honest with you
now. They are all half witted kiss asses, who show no interest in anything other than accounting.
I think it’s sad.’
Mr Archer was taken aback. He wasn’t expecting such up front brutality from one of his
finest employees.
‘Can you please explain then, why you decided to refer to one particular employee, I
shall name no names, as a ‘boring saggy titted fuck weed’?’
‘Because she is. I can’t stand to look at her. I hate the way her tits hang by her waist and
she never seems to wear a bra. I mean, who does that? Seriously?’
‘Miss Bletchley! You are acting in a totally inappropriate manner. There is absolutely no
need for such personal attacks and such coarse language too! I’m absolutely disgusted!’
There was a pause as Mr Archer pretended to contemplate the situation. The truth was
he’d already considered what he was going to do. Mr Archer was a selfish and greedy man. You
had to be to get to his sort of position of power. It dawned on him while reading Linda’s report
that the honourable thing to do would be to fire her immediately. But Mr Archer was not an
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honourable man, and Linda knew it. To fire Linda would mean getting rid of the greatest asset
Archer’s Accounting had. Already in the three months of her working there she’d handled two
of the largest accounts the company had ever seen and had generated fourteen per cent of the
firms profit singlehandedly. Linda was not the sort of employee you let slip through your hands
for the sake of a few swear words.
‘I am willing,’ said Mr Archer, ‘to ignore this report on the grounds that you provide an
alternative by tomorrow morning. Is that clear?’
‘Yes sir.’
‘You’re lucky I didn’t fire you. You can go now.’
‘Yes sir.’ Linda stood up and left.
***
Linda poured the coffee into the mug and had a sip. She stood leaning on the kitchen counter
thinking about her day and how she was going to write another department report by tomorrow
morning. With a sigh, she put the coffee mug down and went to the bedroom. Once there, she
ripped off her tailored suit and shirt and looked at herself in the mirror. After a couple of
minutes evaluating the progress of her failing diet she went to the wardrobe and selected
another outfit; a cheap pinstriped short sleeved shirt, a plain black skirt which rested just on the
knee, skin coloured tights and plain white pumps. She put on an apron, tying the strings behind
her back and was ready. She went down into the basement, flicked the lights on and
surveyed her kingdom. Stretched before her was a mock semblance of a cosy diner. She had
everything from the rotating barstools to the signs for the male and female toilets. She looked at
the old coffee percolator and the rusty Route 66 sign hanging on the wall; the high backed red
fake leather booths, the cash register, the napkin dispensers, the movie posters, the salt and
pepper shakers and the sundae making station. It was amazing what you can find at junk yards
and in second hand shops. Finally, she glanced at the several people sat waiting for her to take
their order.
‘Alright now darlins’, I’m here. I’ll get round to all of you, don’t you worry now!’ Linda’s
voice was thick with a heavy Southern accent which sounded perfectly at home within the walls
of the fake diner.
She went over to the coffee maker and pulled out the pot.
‘Now who’s for decaf?’ she beamed as she looked around the room.
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One of the prisoners tried calling for help, but the gag prevented him. All that could be
heard was a muffled cry. Linda made her way over to him.
‘How’s the decaf working for you hun?’ she said as she poured the liquid into his cup,
‘sleepin’ any better?’
station.
cream!’
More muffled cries.
‘Well that’s too bad. Have you tried milk and honey before bed?’
Linda finished filling everybody’s coffee cups and went and stood by the sundae making
‘Now I’ve had such an awful day today, but you know what always cheers me up? Ice
She picked up the scoop and started spooning chocolate ice cream into a bowl. Out of
the corner of her eye she detected movement. Someone had escaped their bonds and was
stumbling toward the basement stairs.
‘Where the hell do you think you’re headed?’ she said as she ran after him.
Once at the bottom of the stairs she lunged toward him and managed to grab his ankle
and throw him off balance. He flew forward and hit his head with a sickening thud on the top
step. He was unconscious and a blood was trickling down his face. Linda grabbed him by the
legs and dragged him back to his seat. There, she tied him double tight to the fake leather booth
and made sure his hands and feet were bound as securely as possible.
‘You can’t leave yet hun! You haven’t had your ice cream yet, silly!’ she said cheerily as
she gagged him.
After an hour or so of carefully restricted merriment a knock sounded from upstairs.
Linda glanced at her watch.
gone’ she said .
‘Now who can that be?’ she muttered, ‘Now, don’t anybody be trying to leave while I’m
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Athea Husted
First year Creative Writing and English student.
Monday
We’re in the kitchen. The shiny kettle wobbles about,
preparing to rocket into outer space as steam erupts from the spout and crawls around the
kitchen, pressed down by the cupboards mounted on the wall. The conservatory, like a glass
bubble, captures the light of summer and bathes the room in it, including us. I am happy, I am
safe. Every Monday, I dash home from lessons at 11 o’clock because I prefer to spend my three
hour break surrounded by familiarity and comfort, rather than wandering pointlessly about the
vast emptiness of the college. Mum is in the kitchen, ironing and quietly filling the house with
love. She pauses ‘Holby City’ on the iPlayer as I come in, dumping the accessories of my
education about the house and asks me about my day. Enthusiastically, I relieve myself of the
anger perched in my mind about an idiot driver, or update her on the latest developments of my
friend’s eccentric love life. I stop the stream of my day only to ask her if she wants a cup of tea –
as always, the answer is ‘yes’.
This Monday, however, is different. My little brother, Nathan, has no school because of
an inset day so he’s at home ‘Driving me barmy,’ Mum tells me. I smile because I know it’s true.
He’s okay for the moment though, as I can hear him half-muttering the Scooby-Doo theme in a
sing-song voice so he’s occupied and probably has his eyes glued to the screen, completely
mesmerised by everyone’s favourite talking dog. The conversation moves onto how the new
Scooby-Doo could never outdo the old original. I’m only seventeen but I’m already old enough
to reminisce about dated cartoons and penny sweets.
We’re in the process of debating the pros and cons of ‘Tutti Fruities’ and ‘Black Jacks’
when Nate comes crashing into the room, clearly unable to entertain himself for all of the two
minute advert break. His dinosaur roar stops our conversation dead and his light blue eyes glint
impishly. He knows he’s being cheeky, interrupting our conversation, but he loves the attention
and can’t keep the excited, toothy grin from his lips. Nate raises a little leg high and stomps it
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down with enough force to make the room ripple, then he does it with the other; slowly
thumping towards me while he pulls his elbows into his body and wiggles his tiny T-rex hands
at me. He’s coming to get me.
Suddenly, another child – a little girl – spins delicately into my vision. She’s the same
age as Nathan and her eyes are the same colour blue. The girl carries on twirling around the
kitchen and my mind, feeling a little ill from the movement now, but she’s determined. She is a
fairy, she shall fly and turning repeatedly in circles is the way to do it. Bounce-bounces are
useless. Countless times had she willed herself to leap into the air and soar over the house, only
to come tumbling down, mud squelching between her fingers at the foot of those hard, steel
legs. Mum would appear at her bitter howls of shock and disappointment.
‘What’re you doing there, you silly sausage?’ she’d laugh, but it wasn’t a laughing
matter - she was trying to fly. She still is.
The girl stops and giggles sweetly as the room lurches about in all sorts of shapes and
sizes. She then looks right at me, wondering if I had noticed how magical she is. I hear Nate’s
feet still pounding in a slow motion dino-walk, and Mum carries on with her ironing while the
girl shimmers like a precious gem caught amongst the sands of time. Only I look into her
ghostly eyes because only I can see her clearly. She proceeds to inform me of the fairy queen’s
birthday.
‘It’s the 19 th May, you know – that’s tomorrow. We’re all going to a party in a tree and
we’re going to drink honeysuckle out of flower-cups.’ I nod and raise my eyebrows in a look of
genuine interest, which is a reaction she isn’t used to and it causes a small smile to creep gently
over her mouth; but afraid of ruining the moment, she catches the smile and locks it up by
throwing her nose into the air in very grown up, know-it-all fashion. Playing along to make her
happy, I ask her how she knows. ‘Well I got a leaf-letter telling me, didn’t I? I’d show you it but
you don’t speak fairy language and it’s invisible because it’s magic.’
‘How’re you going to fit in a tree?’ I ask in a tone of absurdity, despite knowing exactly
what the answer is.
‘I’m going to shrink OBVIOUSLY.’ Obviously.
Bored with my stupid questions, the little girl carries on spinning and I’m left with Nate
pretending to gnaw at my leg, clinging to it like some kind of sloth.
‘All right there T-rex?’ I ask him with a poke to the belly.
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‘Yes. You’re tasty. I like being a T-rex. I wouldn’t want to be a triceratops because then
I’d have a funny head or a brontosaurus because I wouldn’t be called a brontosaurus anymore,
I’d be a Supersaurus. That’s a stupid name. It’s not nice to call people stupid names.’ My brother:
the six-year-old palaeontologist.
Out of the corner of my eye, the girl dances off and away to Fairyland where she’ll drink
honeysuckle from flower cups and dance with the queen. I wish I could go with her, but I can’t.
I am not a fairy. For now I must be a grown-up - a firmly grounded entity for the T-rex to snack
on. I’m still trying to fly.
One day, I will.
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Bryony Noble
Second year Creative Writing and English student.
The Hurlers
In Cornwall there is an ancient circle of stones known locally as The Hurlers. Legend goes that a
group of men came to the spot and were turned to stone.
Gray clouds encompass the cliffs, and are shattered by the spraying water of a puddle. Tumbling
over heels, six brothers collide with a corner. All are wearing black, long coats for church;
underneath are the course trousers, patched waistcoats and braces of a poor man’s brood. They
are the richest in the village; they are full of health and vigour; the oldest has the fox’s eye, the
second has the snarl, the third has a magpie’s heart, the other has its skill. The fifth has second
sight; he knows what day he’ll die. The sixth will die a soldier’s death, but he will not die today.
The cobbles whisper shamefully as the boots curdle dirt; all is quiet in deserted streets
save for the cackling thunder. A door bursts open at the steps to the guildhall, the wind cracks
their backs upon the wall and there, like an angel of vengeance stands the priest, in resplendent
wings of dirty white. The eldest son skids to a halt and stares intently at the old man’s face,
working away at words to steal into the wild landscape. The young man takes a cigarette from
inside his sleeve and lights his last match upon his boot, and stands as a model of tranquillity to
listen to the warning. The poor fool is creaking on the hinges of his vocabulary; the words slur
on the way to his lips with a hot pressure that burns and crackles his throat. The sight of these
young men spurns every lesson he has taught himself in his celibate life of solitude. The eldest
son takes a long draw of smoking air, glancing up to sniff the coming rain. His eyes and hair are
black like his father and he smiles to hear the priest abuse him, his headless father in purgatory;
his mother, his filthy mother forever pleading with the merciless boatman, his sister - The son
hisses, smoke escaping through his nostrils. The priest pauses for breath almost choking with
indignation as the man smiles, a scowling grin of pleasure, tongue pinched between pale fangs.
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They are gone. No word of warning will bring them back. And they will never see their
sister again. But they know nothing of that; only the rotten apple that tumbles from their boot
toes. One by one they pounce over the wall, into Farmer O’Brien’s field. The frail leaves cover
their buds and tremble as the shadows leaps across the sun. The magpie catches his feather on
the drooping beach, his brother’s flying arm pulls him free. The fox leads the pack with long
limbed loping, and the beta howls to the triumphant sky in a running leap, heading up the slope,
further up, up and over.
The circle lies far on the heath, on the edge of the brown cliffs where foamy waves dash
their heads against the crags of man. Six sons leap across chaffing cuts, howling to the wind and
whooping like crows. They throw stones to the sea and climb further, higher. Six pairs of boots
scramble up the pillars of the ancient salt grains, six hands caress the corpse of the aged ones.
Six feet cross the border. The clouds break. A drop of rain catches the cigarette of the eldest son
and the flame goes out. Spiting sprites beat the heads of the young men, amidst the crashing
waves they look down and retch. An ominous mass of pebbles spew in bloody turmoil from their
insides; they scream but the gulls peck out their throats gagging their pleas, and throw their
voices to the crying waves. It’s all over now. Nothing can be heard but the echoes resonating on
the insides of the dark caves where the waves are booming.
Cassie Brethren, excused from church but not from frowns, is the first to cross the stile.
The clouds are torn into shreds, scattered across an icy sky. Where are they Cassie? She crosses
Farmer O’Brien’s field and the furrowed brows muddy her hem, causing her boots to sink. Her
brother’s feathers are fluttering against its bars; the twigs scratch her face but she snaps them
with her washerwoman fingers. The handful for wounded dark nestles in her hand, loose
stitches that she did by candle light not a month ago. Pocket it for now. Further across the field,
the walk is long, her gown is ruined. Six twelve feet stamped this ground; they start deep with
mortal effort. But now they are softer, the pads of prints are indented where the heel
disappeared; they were running. They leapt clean over the lightening log. Here they are again,
now the wall refuses to speak. She looks up and down the road; the left that goes to the end
town, the right to the ridges. No road here leads anywhere. Where did they go Cassie? She opens
the gate and goes through.
Cassie Brethren is the first to climb the cliffs in years. She traces bloody handholds, and
climbs over the edge of the circle. Calling for her brothers, she wonders across the ancient site,
trips on death and rolls over. Black feathers stifle her fall, swamping her mouth, don’t touch
21

them Cassie. Winds are blowing, sending shivers up her spine; a gull swoops suddenly from the
sky and she ducks. She calls, and again, now again over there. Salt rock smites her nostrils in
quick stabbing swipes; the eyes of screaming gulls dive at her and in the muddy puddles she sees
some crazy girl, hair falling out of Christian fold.
Now the stones turn to her and she screams suddenly from nothing. Then again, as she
turns, and once again when her back nudges a solid statue of stone that grabs her.
“Cassie! Look at me!”
The youngest son clutches his sister and away they flee down the hillside with the wind
hurling them on. They scream when they stumble, but the toll has been paid. Six climbed the
ridge that day, and feathers on the rocks lie bared. Six have sinned today, and one was spared.
22

Georgia Standen
Second year Creative Writing and English student.
The Changeling
Eoin was my baby. His face was sweet, milky curd and
blonde like his hair. He was tiny like a nut and smooth
like butter. When Eoin was born with a smile on his face, I knew God had blessed me with a
very special baby.
However, shortly after Eoin’s birth my contentment ended. My husband recoiled with
abhorrence at the very sight of Eoin, leaving the room if I entered clutching him in my arms
tenderly.
‘Why do you move away from Eoin?’ I asked my husband imploringly. ‘Why do you
move away as if I am nursing a monster?’
nothing.’
‘Nothing is wrong,’ he would say dismissively, his eyes never leaving the floor. ‘It’s
One time my husband brought a priest into our home. They whispered in my husband’s
dark study. Several times they approached my Eoin and me with looks of thinly veiled odium.
The priest was a hideous and evil man with a taste for the diabolical.
‘Neasa,’ said the priest with his silvery forked tongue, ‘would you put the child down
while we speak please?’
‘Why?’ I questioned suspiciously.
‘Please Neasa,’ the priest urged, ‘I need to speak with you away from the creature.’
‘Creature?’ I repeated confused. ‘What do you mean creature?’
‘The child is evil and has cast a spell of foolishness upon your brow. It is an ugly, cursing
goblin,’ the priest beseeched smoothly, like wine.
23

Aghast, I peered at Eoin and saw his tiny hands reaching for my face. I turned to the
blasphemous priest angrily.
‘How can Eoin be a goblin? His eyes are blue and his skin is soft. He is an angel!’ I
exclaimed, my anger rising.
‘No, he is a demon,’ the priest said lividly, ‘he must be destroyed. There are only three
ways to break the spell. We must throw him in a boiling pot, cast him into fire or roast him
upon a shovel! It is God’s will that the demon be cast out! Please you must believe the word of
God!’
‘If he is a goblin with slimy skin, then why can I not feel it?’ I uttered coolly. ‘If he is a
goblin and he curses like a sailor, then why can I not hear his swearing? You, sir, are asking me
to doubt my own baby but I only doubt you.’
‘I demand you to relinquish the demon!’ the priest bellowed standing up abruptly. ‘I will
not have a child of the devil in this village. You hear me woman! You will not bring hell upon us
all! Give me the Changeling now!’
I stood up slowly holding Eoin tightly in my arms. My eyes narrowed as I spoke
contemptuously.
‘You dare come near my child, you unholy bastard, and I will cut you.’ I promised, my
voice low. ‘Try to use him in your satanic sacrifices and I will kill you. Now get out of my
house!’
Cursing under his breath the vicious priest flew from the house. Carefully I placed Eoin
in his crib and I charged at my husband.
‘How dare you bring the devil into our house!’ I screamed, pounding my fists against his
chest. ‘What is wrong with you? Why would you do this to our family? To Eoin and me? Do you
hate us so much that you cannot see beyond satanic lies?’
My husband bowed his head. ‘That is not it at all. I love you more than anything. I am
sorry, I did not mean for things to go that way.’
‘What did you expect?’ I screamed loudly, waking up Eoin. ‘Look what you have done
now! Why did you have to ruin everything?’
As I reached down to soothe Eoin, my husband began to leave the room. Just before he
did he spoke in no more than a whisper.
‘I’m sorry.’
24

That night I awoke to shuffling outside my window. I felt for the shape of my husband
but felt nothing. Anxious, I rushed out of bed and peered into Eoin’s cradle.
‘Eoin!’ I howled at the empty cot.
My heart grew frantic as my instincts took hold of me. I flew like a woman possessed
tearing apart the house searching for a sign. It was then that I heard a horrible bone-chilling
screeching. I rushed to the window and saw an orange glow flickering behind the barn.
Without thinking, I bolted.
Behind the barn my husband, my neighbours and the vile priest were crowded around
the bonfire. I pushed through the crowd and gasped.
‘Oh God, Eoin! What are you doing to my baby! Give me my baby you monsters! Give
him to me!’ I wailed, fighting against my neighbour’s hold.
Over the flames the priest stood, his face glowing with hellfire. Next to him my husband
was leaning over the inferno holding a crude shovel. On the blade of the blackened shovel lay a
small shape.
bastard!’
‘Oh my God!’ I screeched desperately. ‘You’re killing him! You’re burning our baby you
Ignoring my cries, my husband stood firmly over the fire despite sweat dribbling down
his face. Feeling the heat on my face, I knew it was the same heat that was killing my baby. His
charred body emitted an excruciating cry of agony that broke my heart. My eyes full of tears
couldn’t turn away from the sight of Eoin’s burnt skin.
Since then I could not feel. I felt nothing when I slipped silver between the shoulder
blades of the priest, when he dribbled blood. Nothing when I held the hands of my neighbour’s
children as they turned blue beneath the water. When I slipped a tonic of poison into my
husband’s ale, I did not feel anything as I watched him choke purple. I did not feel the licks of
the flames cloaking me in orange as my skin peeled and blackened like my Eoin’s.
25

Glenn Andrew Barr
Masters year Creative Writing student.
Able Ashton
Young Ashton discovered that he was going to die
much sooner than expected. News of Ashton’s premature demise hit home six days ago. I pushed
the test results through because I had some clout at the local hospital. Being the older and
slightly famous brother had certain advantages. People labelled me a wannabe pop star: Clyde
the Crooner, they mocked. But I preferred to be known as the Chart-climbing Music Therapist.
Fortunately, their faultless medical knowledge faded when compared to the power of my
celebrity.
Friends and family often came out of the woodwork whenever bad news surfaced, and
Ashton was utterly powerless to keep well-wishing leeches at bay. Some broken old maid had
claimed to be a distant family member; not distant enough, as far as Ashton was concerned. She
wanted to get closer, and that kind of thing made us nervous, as if an agent from hell had
dropped her off without prior warning. I was visiting Ashton very soon, and would send her
away empty-handed.
I pictured Ashton closing his eyes and pretending to be dead on his small faded settee.
My famous piano sulked nearby; it felt lonely when the highly polished lid was closed. Clucking
relatives fussed around Ashton’s exhausted body. Dreams set in and protected Ashton against
the groping outside world.
The majority of people are desperately sad when they actually know their days are
numbered. Not Ashton, he welcomed inevitable peace and the impending yet comforting veil of
darkness. This man had absolutely no intention of charging off around the world, frantically
ingesting do-before-you-die experiences, feeling the pulse of life, so to speak. Death was a
welcome distraction, his one-way ticket to another reality, or whatever lay beyond life and
forced religion. In fact, Ashton’s faith was dying too. He did not consider himself to be a holy
26

man, yet always believed something watched over humanity; but not any longer. Eternal sleep
beckoned, it offered luxurious blankets for the soul, and a permanent playground for his spirit.
Ashton was being consumed by cancer. He favoured the world of dreams where
anything was possible, even a complete recovery. His upper-body strength was comparable to
any Paralympic athlete, but he could feel disease smashing through his veins like clouds killing
a perfect skyline. Disability was not a factor in the reality he had created for himself, and
prescribed medication ensured prolonged stints between fantasy and the waking world. Then
evil invaded his dreams and Ashton prepared himself to catch a killer. The last time I visited,
Ashton left me a message:
She is coming.
Disease has escaped from his dreams, and this was our chance to end her treacherous
ways. He spoke of painful nightmares offering dual reward: freedom from suffering and the
opportunity to rest in peace.
An out-of-body experience took Ashton more than a little by surprise. He manipulated a
well-wisher to locate a pen and imagined himself writing a new series of notes for me, before
planting them inside his wallet. Ashton slept through the entire experience, and expressed his
suffering in a decidedly unique, constantly evolving fashion. She wanted out, and Ashton
showed her a doorway to this reality. But everything has a price.
I finally arrived home five days ago. My brother was sprawled across the settee, hidden
under a patchwork duvet cobbled together by two crumbling Aunties. Grapes were being
stuffed into Ashton’s dribbling mouth by a pig-tailed menace. Her twin brother rifled through
Ashton’s wallet with grubby fingers, until he located a scrap of paper and pulled it out. A
message caused the little boy to sob uncontrollably and drop the loot. Ashton was particularly
fond of these monsters and would have given them the world, if only they’d asked. I prayed for
Ashton to wake up and witness the truth of our fake family, but to no avail. The boy and his
sister were whisked away by the Aunties, and cakes were plugged into their spoilt mouths. The
wallet landed on a rug next to some shiny grapes, and the note draped itself over the top like a
miniature silk parachute. This is what it said:
Give it back now... or join me in hell!
I retrieved the scrap of paper and slipped Ashton’s wallet into my own pocket. I glanced
at the message then smirked at my slumbering brother.
27

‘Still good with children, eh?’ I folded the scrap of paper and pushed it into Ashton’s
dressing gown pocket. ‘Keep dreaming, little brother.’ I cracked ageing knuckles and began
composing at my cherished piano.
Four days ago, the broken old maid whispered in my ear:
‘They call me Lenora. Please allow me to assist Ashton during his time of need.’ She
wrinkled her nose and stifled a sneeze, almost caused by my generous cologne application. I did
not want to look at another wizened well-wisher, and surprised myself with tears induced by
her very touch.
‘He refused hospital treatment. My hands are tied.’ I coughed to remind everyone of my
status. ‘Will you people please just give us some time alone?’ The well-wishers gawped and
silence danced with the devil. Lenora sat at my piano and caressed a key, the very sound
whistled through her gaunt cheekbones.
‘What is this infernal device?’ Lenora killed the music, approached Ashton and stroked
his bald head with an empty hand.
‘What the hell do you want from us?’ I had grown weary.
‘Don’t blaspheme!’ Lenora turned and slapped my face. ‘Now fetch me a glass of milk.’
I staggered away in total shock, because she had delivered quite an effective wallop for
such a frail old thing. The well-wishers shuffled like zombies and ventured into the front
garden, as if ordered away by an external force.
of attack.
Ashton would be protected momentarily by good dreams. I needed time to form a plan
The room was empty now except for Lenora and long-suffering Ashton. I watched in
silence from my hiding place. She held his hand.
heartbeat.
‘As beneath, so is beyond.’ Lenora searched for Ashton’s wallet and checked his
I entered the kitchen and rinsed a glass without thinking. Then I remembered we were
out of milk. Running water eased my senses, until I experienced an uncontrollable urge to
examine the contents of Ashton’s wallet. A yellow slip of paper stood out from everything else. I
unfolded it and inspected neat handwriting:
She is not a friend of any family. Get her away from me. Use the water.
28

I froze on the spot and stared at a crease in the paper, then realised I was squeezing the
glass under flowing water, enough to create grooves in rigid flesh. I checked the glass for cracks,
turned off the tap, and went to the rescue of my brother.
‘Looking for this?’ I waved Ashton’s wallet at Lenora.
‘I don’t want money. Give me his life-essence!’ Lenora snarled and pounced on Ashton.
I tipped the glass of water over Lenora, and then stepped back. She wailed like a dog
trying to avoid bath time, then raced from our company and dashed into the front garden. The
door slammed behind her. The well-wishers never came back.
Ashton opened his eyes three days ago. He did not attempt communication. His eyes
were distant and clouded like a pair of evacuated planets. I nodded and smiled reassuringly,
through anger, at what was supposedly nature claiming my little brother.
Ashton communicated verbally with me two days ago. This is what he said:
‘They don’t know how to play the piano in hell, dear brother. Beelzebub could take a
lesson or two from you.’
‘This is hardly the time to advertise my music career! Who is that bitch?’
‘Play your music and break her will. Do it for me.’
Ashton tried to hang himself from the banister yesterday morning, it splintered under
the strain. I suppose he wanted to take his own life before something worse than Lenora
intervened. Ashton finally went to hospital.
I poured my heart into the piano, and performed a song to honour the wishes of my
brother. The final message from Ashton’s wallet served as lyrics.
She does not belong in this world or the next. Give Lenora my perpetual nightmare. Kill
this killer. Kill the cancer.
Lenora tried to enter, but her influence was fading in the wilting garden. I continued the
cleansing song for Ashton, the hero, on this final day. She screamed at such heartfelt devotion
and turned to dust. The garden flourished and ingested Lenora as welcome fertilizer.
The well-wishers would never have believed what transpired these past six days, yet I
knew it to be true.
My brother embraced the waking world once again and eventually came home. As our
song reached number-one in the pop charts, Ashton’s hair showed signs of life.
29

James Gannon
First year Creative Writing and Film Studies student.
Piccadilly on the Mind
‘Youth is an opinion’ she said, as she wrapped her arms
around me. ‘We aren’t too young for anything.’
The rain fell around the taxi, attacking its sides and trying to rub the black paint away from its
doors. ‘We can go wherever we like- we could go to Marble Arch and tear it down, or we could
go to Piccadilly Circus and steal the lights,’ she continued, but this city’s too hard on ones so old
and it’s too big for ones as young as us. We’re caught in an awkward stage where the city once
belonged to us - the bars in the night and the cafes in the morning, but we’re still too young to
survive alone, to prosper and to take control.
‘Or we could go home and we could go to bed,’ I whisper calmly.
‘There will be other beds.’
‘And there will be other nights, other years.’
She shoves herself into the corner of the cab and whispers, ‘there could be other men.’
There could well be, but I know that there never will be. The girl’s smitten.
We turn the corner past the Astoria heading up toward Camden Barge where the people
stagger in the light and in the dark.
‘I’ll drop you here then, and I’ll go to Piccadilly myself.’
‘What are you going to do there by yourself?’
‘I’ll take the bulbs.’
You’re being absurd now. ‘And what will I do here?’
‘You’ll wait on the corner for me to return. You can look around the stalls.’
‘It’s one in the morning, they’ll all be shut.’
‘Well look at the empty stalls and pretend they aren’t. Pretend there are a hundred
different things to buy. You could think of something to buy me - a gift.’
Something has a hold of you and I don’t know why. A delirium is in your brain, eating
you away from your center.
***
We climb into bed and I turn out the light. You rest your porcelain skin against my chest and let
out a contented sigh, as my breast rises whilst I breathe in deeply.
‘I could still go. This room needs more light.’
‘Then I’ll turn on the lamp. Sleep now.’
30

to wear.’
‘I’ll go and take the signs and the advertisements and I’ll shape them into a smile for you
‘I don’t need a smile.’
‘You do, it’s been gone too long. Or I could bring them back and fashion them into a
heart for you to keep.’ I’m half asleep now, listening to your soft voice rebounding against my
eardrums.
‘I’m worried you’re going insane. There’s nothing to you anymore but insanity.’
‘I’ve never been fuller. I’ll never be empty. Especially not compared to you- you used to
be more than concrete.’
‘I’m flesh and blood.’
‘But you aren’t, love.’ I know what it is now. It is desperation and it is romanticism- but
it’ll pass, my dear.
Now I am asleep. I drift off as I hear you say-
‘I’ll go tomorrow, I’ll take all the balloons from all the vendors and I’ll wrap the lights
around them so you and I can hold on; and then we’ll float away into the sky, attached to a large
bright star. Hopefully the lack of oxygen will make you as loopy as me.’
normal.
I don’t answer - I’m already gone. I can’t help but think that maybe I’d be just as
31

you.’
James Law
Masters year Creative Writing student.
Honour
‘This is the highest honour that can be bestowed upon
The words were spoken as harshly as the blow that had preceded them.
Abel suppressed a cry of pain and made no attempt to stand; a move that would surely
provoke his father.
‘I know the honour. I respect the honour,’ he whispered, his eyes downcast. ‘I want,
more than anything in this world, the honour. It is not the importance of honour that I do not
understand; it is the means.’
He could feel the numbness spreading along the side of his jaw but experience had
taught him that he was not made of glass.
His father, the Patriarch, loomed above him.
‘And who are you to question the choices that have been made?’ demanded his father.
‘Who are you, but a mere servant of our creator, to question his will?’
Abel turned to look around his room. It seemed starker than ever in these bleak times; a
single sign of their god hung on the far wall below a picture of his mother. He bowed his head
before his eyes passed over them; he could not look at either.
to his feet.
‘I am sorry, father,’ he said.
The worn hand of his father stretched down towards him. Abel took it and was helped
‘In times like this, when the doubt of our righteousness creeps into our minds, we must
go to prayer and speak to our god,’ said his father. ‘Come, we will go together.’
The walk to the worship hall was short and subdued. The streets were quiet but for the
army of the occupiers who filled the checkpoints and public buildings. Abel and his father were
32

stopped half a dozen times on the journey. Each time they showed their papers and smiled at
the now familiar faces.
‘Pray and find your path, my son,’ said his father when they were away from the
checkpoint. ‘But do not speak your doubts in open forum. They will not be as forgiving here, as
I am in my home.’
Abel nodded but said nothing. He forced his eyes to remain downwards on the road
before him. He felt the tightening of his chest and the deepening of his breaths.
embrace.
‘Abel,’ boomed a worshiper as they took the steps to the hall. ‘How are you my son?’
‘I am good.’
‘Your time for greatness draws near,’ the worshipper said as he pulled Abel into an
‘Babasi is speaking in the lower hall,’ he continued, loosing his grip and holding Abel at
arm’s length. ‘I think he would very much like to see you today.’
Abel nodded and turned away. He made the sign before he crossed the holy threshold
and nodded respectfully to the elders as he turned towards the Lower Hall.
‘Maybe I will come with you today,’ his father said. ‘Time spent hearing the founding
principles together, may do us both good.’
‘Father, you have heard three generations of Babasi preach to the young of our people. I
will not shame you; I will not shame my mother.’
The anger he expected did not surface. Instead he saw something that made his
stomach ache like the worst hunger they had endured; he saw love.
words.
‘Then go,’ said his father. ‘Tomorrow you achieve a greatness that I can never aspire to.’
His father nodded and turned away, hiding his face, even before he had finished his
***
‘And so, you can see that it is through love that we must defeat our enemy; it is through
kindness that we must sow seeds of doubt in their hearts. They see us as ignorant, but we are
wise. They see us as primitive, but we are older and more learned than they. They think that
power comes with weapons and technology, but we know that true power can only be gained
through love.’
33

As the Babasi spoke, Abel was transfixed by his presence. The elder was old and grey,
leaning on a stick as he moved around to meet the eyes of all that were gathered. Those eyes
penetrated Abel every time they fell upon him. They were like two deep blue moons, perfectly
round at the edges and set clear against his wrinkled skin.
‘But we must fight, Babasi,’ rose a voice from across the crowded room. ‘Love has not
driven them from our streets.’
Babasi’s head snapped around. He took only a moment to locate the speaker from the
hundreds that were gathered.
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘We must also fight; for all who are wise realise that love and hate are
soul-mates, or cell-mates, coexisting in the hearts of all men.’
The room was silent until Babasi spoke again.
‘We must love them like our own child. But when a child you love is evil, then that child
must be punished. It is this punishment, given with love that teaches the child to grow as a
strong and responsible adult, capable of loving others as he was loved.’
hand.
Applause sounded around the room and Babasi paused to allow it. Then he raised a frail
‘It is those among you who visit this punishment, that are bright enough and strong
enough to give their all for their people, that should be applauded; not I.’
‘But Babasi,’ Abel’s voice rose before he even realised he had spoken. ‘What is our fate in
the eyes of our creator when we punish those who are not guilty?’
Babasi smiled.
‘Abel the Compassionate,’ he said. ‘Most beloved of our sons, our finest scholar. You
raise a good question. What of those who are caught in a war that is not of their doing? What
would our creator say of them?’
nearby.
Babasi’s eyes soothed Abel as he watched the elder think.
‘One cannot make an omelette without breaking an egg,’ whispered a voice from
A murmur of agreement and laughter spread through that part of the crowd.
‘No!’ shouted Babasi. ‘This ignorance and cliché is not the way of our people. We can
never take life as a frivolous act.’
He glared at a young man near to Abel who immediately averted his eyes.
34

‘Even if the lives of our people are taken without conscience; this makes us more
determined to show them our way; the way of love.’
A bell tolled and people began to rise all around the hall.
Abel waited.
Babasi was watching him, also waiting.
‘Walk with me, Abel,’ he said.
They strolled through the lower hall, past the symbols of their faith, and the name
boards of the honoured dead.
‘Something troubles you, Abel?’ said Babasi.
Abel felt his cheeks redden and looked again to the floor, to the path before him.
‘I am worried Babasi. You know what I will do tomorrow. You know I do it without fear
and am honoured to serve my creator.’
‘But,’ prompted Babasi.
‘But so many will die; so many that are not soldiers of our enemy. I feel that my duty is
split as part honoured soldier and part cold-blooded murderer.’
Abel stopped and turned to Babasi, his eyes still down cast and the red hue of shame
spreading on his cheeks.
He felt a hard, weathered hand rubbing his swollen cheek.
‘And this is from when you mentioned this fear to your father?’ Babasi asked.
The gentle touch relaxed Abel and he raised his eyes, which were filling with tears. He
had known that Babasi, a preacher of love and tolerance, would understand the doubt in his
heart.
‘I do not want to dishonour my father. I do not want to dishonour you and those you
have lost. But how can the deaths of innocent people bring us this honour?’
Babasi smiled and rubbed Abel’s cheek. The warmth seemed healing as it radiated from
the great man’s hand.
‘We have both lost, Abel; your mother, and my wife and daughter. Loss can change a
man’s heart, drive him to revenge. But, any who stand by and allow an atrocity to occur are as
guilty as those who committed it. That they look the other way does not dilute that guilt.’
Abel nodded. He had heard this before.
‘But I see your worry and it pains me,’ Babasi continued. ‘When I was younger I was
told as story about a great prince. He would only kill those who were sworn soldiers and spare
35

all other souls. When he attacked a city he would light his torches, as his armies marched near,
so that all who were not warriors could flee. He was the most revered and honoured of all his
family.’
36
***
Smiling at the checkpoint was hard. He had walked the route many times now and he
recognised the guards who only glanced at his papers. The weight of his honour smothered him
as he entered the university building. The faces around him were every colour, like autumn had
come to the human race; the faces of the occupiers were a fungal disease spreading between the
leaves and branches.
He heard the words of Babasi again and reached for his mobile phone.
‘Operator, where may I direct your call?’
‘In two minutes a bomb will detonate inside the University Main Building. This is in
defiance of the occupation of our Holy Land. Unless you act now, thousands of people will die.’
He ended the call and walked up the stairs standing on the centre landing and turning
to face the glass exterior of the building. He opened his coat for all to see.
The noise and movement began almost immediately. The soldiers, who had been
smoking and chatting to girls who should know better, leapt into life and began to evacuate
people to the huge car park in front of the university.
be traced.
He knew he shouldn’t, but he dialed another number, the one that he knew could never
‘Babasi,’ he said as the call was answered.
Silence.
He paused and looked again at his clock. The building was almost empty now only the
army was there, surrounding him. Outside, through the long glass walls, he could see the
thousands of innocent faces who had evacuated into the safety of the car park.
‘Have you begun the count, my son?’ asked Babasi.
‘I have. Soon enough I will earn my honour and around me are only the true enemies of
our people. It cannot be undone now.’
creator.’
‘You have done well Abel,’ said Babasi. ‘I look forward to meeting you at the table of our
Abel felt the weight of the bomb strapped to his chest and checked the clock again.

Less than thirty seconds until he would earn his honour.
He looked down at his feet.
‘Babasi,’ he said again.
‘Yes.’
‘Thank you,’ whispered Abel.
‘No Abel,’ said Babasi.
The elder paused as an eruption rocked the university building. Abel felt his skin burn
as a car exploded outside. A thousand pieces of shattered glass fell like hailstones around him as
an inferno engulfed the crowded university car park.
speak again.
He looked down at his own clock, the countdown almost complete, as he heard Babasi
‘Thank you, my son.’
37

Jenni Ellegard
Third year Creative Writing and Media Studies student.
The Beautiful Princess and the Ruby
Slippers
In a land far away sat a castle at the top of a hill. It was the
largest and most extravagant castle in the entire Kingdom, and was once home to the Great King
Letholdus. He was loved and adored by all his people and was never seen apart from his
beautiful wife Isabel. Though, she was not the true mother to his daughter Arianna, said to be
the most beautiful maiden in the land, she cared for her and loved her like her own, and the
three of them were never seen without a smile on their faces.
One stormy night, however, King Letholdus suddenly died. No one knew why, and none
of the Royal Physicians could discover what the cause was. The Kingdom soon fell into the grasp
of the King’s daughter Arianna, and though she started off ruling just as her father did, with
love and dignity, greed started to consume her. Her decisions were rash and unjust, and she lost
the admiration of the people that her father had worked so hard to achieve. She disbanded the
Royal Court and ordered her step-mother to give her all of her finest clothes and jewellery.
Though she was still the most beautiful girl in the Kingdom, her personality made her uglier and
fouler than any troll or goblin there ever was. The palace was no longer a pleasant place to be.
One day, Arianna had decided to take a stroll into Fenwick Forest, whilst she left her
mother to make preparations for her twentieth birthday ball, when she came across an old hag.
Arianna held her head up high, trying her best to pretend she never saw the hag, when
suddenly the hag spoke up.
‘Oh beautiful Princess,’ the hag croaked, holding her withered arms out in despair.
Arianna continued walking. ‘Please help me, your majesty,’ the hag continued. Arianna stopped
and turned round on the spot, with her arms folded and a foul expression plastered on her face
as if she had just encountered a dead corpse.
38

‘What on earth do you,’ Arianna began, her eyes looking the hag up and down in
disgust, ‘want my help for?’
‘I was a friend of your fathers,’ replied the hag. She smiled and looked up at the sky.’ He
was ever so kind to me. I was so sad after he died. How I cried and cried for days-’
‘Are you going to tell me what you want, because I am a busy girl and I have not got all
day!’ Arianna protested. The hag nodded.
‘My apologies your majesty’ said the hag. At once, she motioned for Arianna to look past
the torn ragged cloth she was using for a dress and to look at her bare feet. They were full of
cuts and bruises. ‘It is my feet, your highness,’ she said, and lifted up a foot so Arianna could see
fresh blood trickling out of a nasty gash on the sole of her foot. ‘I had to sell my only pair of
shoes at the market last week to buy some bread to feed my children. I heard you have such a
large collection of shoes. I am not asking for a fine pair, your majesty, perhaps just one of your
maid’s old shoes. Anything to stop them being so sore. This forest floor isn’t kind to bare skin,
you see.’
Arianna said nothing at first, but after a minute or so, she started to laugh. The hag
started to laugh too, exposing her brown, rotten teeth.
‘May I ask, your majesty, what it is we are laughing at?’ the hag asked.
‘Why, it is just-’ Arianna began, taking breaths in between laughing ‘- it is so funny that
you think I would give one pair of my shoes to you! I mean, look at you!’ Arianna had just
about stopped laughing and was now once again standing perfectly composed. The smile
disappeared from her face. ‘My father may have taken pity on you, hag, but I do not. You do not
deserve such wealth to be upon your wretched, decaying feet. Do not bother me again or your
feet will suffer far more than cuts and bruises!’
Arianna was just about to turn and walk away when the hag strode up to Arianna and
with all the force she could muster, grabbed either side of her collar so their faces were a mere
inch apart. Arianna tried to writhe and wriggle her way out of her grasp but the hag was
unnaturally strong.
‘Listen here, brat, and listen well,’ the hag began, her voice now a lot deeper and sharper
than before. ‘You had better start being kinder to your people, as your father was. If you do not,
on the eve of your twentieth birthday, something terrible will happen. This is not a threat. You
have been warned.’
39

Before Arianna could even comprehend what had happened, the hag had gone, and in
Arianna’s outstretched hand now laid a silver necklace, swaying to and fro.
***
‘How dare she!’ Arianna shouted as she stormed through the castle, her voice echoing
among the high ceilings. Arianna’s mother Isabel soon came to her side.
‘What is wrong, my dear child?’ she asked. Her voice was melodic and soothing.
‘I’ll tell you what’s wrong, mother,’ began Arianna, ‘an old hag in the Forest just
attacked me! Attacked me I say! I should have her killed!’ Isabel moved towards her step-
daughter as if to comfort her, but Arianna struck her arm up immediately. ‘I do not need
comfort, mother, I am not a child!’ Isabel solemnly took a step backwards and clasped her hands
together in front of her.
‘What did she do to you?’ Isabel continued to ask.
‘She tried to rob me!’ screamed Arianna, as she was pacing backwards and forwards.
Several of the palace maids had left their duties and were now hiding behind nearby statues and
walls to get a glimpse of the commotion.
‘She had me strangled and spat at me and told me something terrible will happen on the
eve of my birthday if I don’t act more like my father. How dare she tell me how to rule my
Kingdom?’
‘Do you remember what she looked like?’ asked Isabel calmly.
‘Like an old hag! Short and ugly and smelt repulsive! But that describes almost half of
the Kingdom!’ shouted Arianna. She suddenly looked her mother in eye. ‘And she disappeared
soon after she attacked me,’ she said much quieter, ’and left a silver necklace in my hand....’
Isabel had a puzzled look on her face, and was just about to ask another question, when Arianna
continued, ‘but I cast it into the lake at once. I do not want some fake, enchanted piece of
witchcraft! Now come on mother, I would like to try on the dress for my ball.’
Arianna turned and made for the marble staircase towards her chambers, and the
scurrying of the maids footsteps back to their duties could faintly be heard. Isabel smiled and
followed her step-daughter up the stairs.
When she got to Arianna’s chambers, she found her standing in front of the mirror,
wearing the dress her mother had made especially for her. It was floor length and deep red, and
glistened in the light.
40

‘It..... You look beautiful,’ Isabel stammered.
‘No I don’t!’ shouted Arianna, as she stood with her arms crossed in front of her chest,
her long blonde hair cascading over her shoulders. ‘I haven’t got the right shoes! These ones are
disgusting!’ she said, and lifted up her right foot from under the hem of the gown to reveal a
stunning, beautiful diamond slipper.
‘But darling, those were the slippers your father had made for me for our wedding,’ said
Isabel, smiling, as she slid the slipper off her foot and examined it as if she had been re-united
with an old friend. ‘These shoes are priceless you know, and are of great sentimental value to
me. I’d be honoured if you were to wear them.’ She held the shoe in the middle of her
outstretched palms for Arianna to take back, but Arianna simply snatched it from her mother
and threw it across the room in rage.
‘This is my birthday ball, mother, I do not want your used cast-offs!’ screamed Arianna,
‘I want a new pair of ruby slippers! I have to look the best at my ball!’ She turned around and
looked her mother in the eye. ‘Father would have wanted it!’
Isabel quickly wiped the stream of tears that had fallen down her cheeks. ‘O-of course
he would dear,’ she said, her voice quivering. ‘I’ll m-make sure you get a pair of ruby slippers in
time. I love you, Arianna.’
‘you’d better.’
***
Arianna stormed into her bathroom, and with one final look at her mother simply said,
Three days passed and there was still no sign of the Ruby slippers, and as every day
passed Arianna was getting angrier and angrier. On the morning of the fourth day, Isabel
decided to ride by horse and carriage through the Barley meadows until she reached the village
of Little Hockford. It was here that the Royal Cobbler lived.
Isabel walked up to the hut and rapped on the door three times, but heard no answer.
She pressed her ear firmly against the oak door and heard the familiar clanks of a hammer.
Silently, she pushed the door to and stepped inside.
It wasn’t a very big hut but there were cupboards and drawers from the floor to the
ceiling that covered most of the walls, and many bits of material hanging here and there. Thick
oak beams ran in lines from left to right across the ceiling, and on each beam hung at least two
dozen pairs of shoes from rusty, wonky nails. There were big shoes, little shoes, pointy shoes,
41

curved shoes, heeled shoes, flat shoes, red shoes, green shoes, shiny shoes and fluffy shoes. Two
small circular windows either side of the door let in a trickle of light, but it was the raging fire
at the back that was the main source of light. In the middle of the room, huddled over a gigantic
beech workbench that seemed to tower over him, stood Dredgerus.
He was a little man by normal standards and much of thick brown hair had faded to
grey. Humming pleasantly to himself, he startled as he heard the door click shut behind Isabel.
‘Good gracious, Your Majesty!’ he exclaimed, dropping his hammer on the floor. ‘You
startled me for a min-‘
‘I am sorry to be bothering you, Dredgerus,’ she said. He sensed uneasiness in her voice.
‘How long till they are ready?’ she pleaded, glancing about the room looking for a sign of the
ruby slippers.
‘My dear Queen,’ he said reassuringly, ‘to make these shoes in under a week alone
would take a great deal of magic. I am already working well into the night and I am afraid the
soonest I can get them to you is a fortnight from now.’
Isabel started to sob. Dredgerus picked up his hammer from the floor and placed it onto
the workbench, dusted his hands on his apron and walked over to Isabel and took her hands in
his.
‘It is such a shame to see tears ruin such a beautiful face.’ Isabel pulled out a
handkerchief from her sleeve and patted her face softly.
‘I am ever so sorry, Dredgerus, I just cannot bear her wails and longer’, she sobbed. Still
gripping his hands tightly, she stared out of the window. ‘If she doesn’t get these slippers in
time, I honestly don’t know what will happen...’ her voice trailed off to a whisper, ‘...I wish her
father were still here.’
‘We all do, your majesty,’ he said to her, ‘the Kingdom has fallen into dark times since
little Arianna took the reins.’ Isabel said nothing, but instead still stared out of the window.
‘Leave it to me, your majesty,’ Dredgerus added. ‘I will do whatever it takes to make sure these
shoes are ready for her birthday, for your sake.’ His face creased up as he strained to put a smile
on his tired face.
before leaving.
***
‘Thank you, Dredgerus,’ she said. She bent down and gave him a kiss on the cheek
42

‘MOTHER,’ screamed Arianna. She was standing in the gallery at the front of the palace and was
peering out of the window, as if waiting for something. Isabel quickly appeared. ‘Mother, where
are my slippers?!’
‘They are still being made,’ Isabel quickly replied, ‘But Dredgerus said-‘
‘I DO NOT CARE WHAT HE SAID,’ bellowed Arianna, her face growing redder and
redder by the second. ‘You promised me my slippers, mother. Promised!’
‘I know I did, but-’
‘Mother, if I do not have them by tomorrow then I will also have to break my promise,’
she snapped. ‘You do remember what that was, don’t you?’ she asked in a mocking tone. The
colour suddenly drained from Isabel’s face.
‘You... You wouldn’t,’ she stammered, and took a step backwards and clasped a hand
firmly over her mouth.
‘Oh I would,’ Arianna reassured her, enjoying the look of fear in her step-mothers eyes.
‘You don’t want everyone in the Kingdom thinking you murdered my father, now do we? No? I
thought not.’ Arianna took a few steps towards her step-mother and smirked as she saw her
cower. She closed the gap between her and her mother so their faces were a mere inch apart.
‘Get me my shoes, mother. You have until tomorrow.’ Arianna turned around and strode off
down the gallery, leaving her mother alone to weep.
It was nearly midnight, and Isabel ran to her chambers. She packed an assortment of
clothes into a leather carry case, packed away the few remaining pieces of jewellery she had left
and quickly scrawled a note. She called one of the maids and asked her to leave it at Arianna’s
bedside table for when she awoke, trying her best to conceal her tears. Isabel returned to her
chambers and was just taking a last look round the room ready to leave when there was a knock
at the door.
‘C-come in’, she stammered, and in walked the maid still clasping the note.
‘I’m ever so sorry, ma’am, but Arianna is not in her chambers,’ the maid said.
‘She may have just gone out for a late night stroll,’ said Isabel. ‘Just leave it somewhere
she will find it when she returns.’
‘It is not that which is bothering me, ma’am,’ the maid quickly added. ‘I’ve been
polishing the windows just outside Arianna’s chambers all night, see, an’ I saw her go in. She
went in but she never came out, ma’am, and there ain’t no other doors out the castle from her
chambers, not that I know of anyway.’ Isabel turned around and saw that the maid generally
43

looked concerned.
‘No,’ Isabel agreed, her voice much quieter than usual. ‘There aren’t.’
‘Would it be possible that she’s been kidnapped, ma’am?’ asked the maid. ‘She is an
awfully pretty little thing, an’ it’s not long before she’s got to choose a husband an’ everything.’
‘Perhaps...’ said Isabel. She was rather surprised that she too was worried about her
step-daughters sudden disappearance.
Isabel dropped her case and quickly made off downstairs for Arianna’s chambers, at
first walking but soon running. Within minutes, she was standing outside her door. It was eerily
quiet.
‘Arianna?’ she asked, knocking on the door. For the first time in her memory Isabel
would have quite welcomed the distressed screams from her step-daughter, but there was
nothing. Something wasn’t right.
Isabel opened the door and looked around, squinting in the dark. She lit a candle and
just as the maid had said, Arianna was no-where to be seen. Something on the far side of the
room, however, was glistening. Isabel approached it cautiously, and gasped as she realised what
it was. She noticed it was perched neatly on the pillow of Arianna’s four-poster bed.
It was a pair of ruby slippers. Dangling from the heel was a little silver necklace, which
was swaying to and fro.
44

Jo Oram
First year Creative Writing and Media Studies student.
Vesper
Vesper was fearless. He didn’t even mind going outside
at night and no one ever went out at night. Ghosts
roamed the streets after sunset. No one knew where they came from. They had just showed up
one night and never left. The first week had been chaotic; anyone who came into contact with
the creatures died. Eventually, the ghosts became known as the Soul suckers.
Vesper liked the night and the Soul suckers had ruined it for him. No one held parties
anymore. Even the bars didn’t open. Vesper had to do something about it. He had crafted a
sword and modified it to release a burst of electrical energy and UV light into anything the blade
struck. The Soul suckers evaporated before it.
During his perambulations of the city, Vesper had noticed the ghosts gathering at the
Southbank, the deserted dockyard on the River Fluss. He suspected that it was where they
spawned.
‘The best place to stop a leak is at the source,’ he muttered, approaching the abandoned
warehouse which dominated the docks. He clambered onto the roof of the building. With a
well-aimed kick, he smashed one of the skylights and crawled inside, balancing on the narrow
beams that supported the broken strip-lights. Ghosts gathered below him, escaping through
cracks in the exterior walls. They seemed to be rising from between the floorboards; the source
was below ground.
‘Hey!’
Vesper nearly toppled off his beam, startled by a voice. Through a grille in the wall, he
saw a pale face staring at him.
‘Lux? What are you doing here?’ Lux was both his best-friend and mortal enemy.
‘Ssh!’ she hissed as she pushed open the grille. Vesper followed her into a ventilation shaft.
‘What are you doing here?’ she asked, in hushed tones.
45

‘The Soul suckers annoy me.’
‘So you came here?’
‘I want to get rid of them,’ he explained. ‘Why are you here?’
‘Uh, well…’
‘You look terrible.’ He hadn’t seen her since the ghosts arrived. When they first met, she
was like sunshine to him. Now she looked rough. ‘So why are you here?’
‘Long story,’ she said, beginning to shuffle along the tunnel. ‘Come on.’
Vesper sighed and obeyed. She had always been bossy. He followed her to the end of the
tunnel and watched as she deftly slid out into the room below.
‘What’s going on, Lux?’
She had lost a lot of weight since he had last seen her. She had always been too skinny, but
now she looked unhealthy. There were a series of large gashes up her left arm, wrapped
clumsily in a strip of dirty cloth.
‘What happened to you?’ he asked.
‘It’s just a scratch,’ she lied.
‘Why are you here?’
‘I’m trying to stop the Soul suckers. It’s my fault they are here.’
Vesper put his hand on her shoulder. She shrugged him off. He smiled to himself; she
would never accept his support. He wrapped his arms around her waist and refused to let go.
Lux didn’t have the strength to fight him.
‘Tell me everything.’
She elbowed him in the stomach. ‘Get off.’
‘Charmed.’
Lux sighed. ‘I was visiting my dad and he said that he was buying the docks. I came here
to see what he was working on but…’
‘But what?’
‘But someone drugged me and I woke up here, in a locked room and I couldn’t escape.’
‘But you did.’
‘Yeah, well… I fainted. Or rather, I pretended to, while the guard was trying to move me.
He ran for help and I ran away.’
‘Not the brightest of men then, your captors?’
‘Apparently not.’
46

‘Where are they now?’
‘Probably in the basement but—’
Vesper marched towards the door. ‘Let’s go.’
‘No. You can’t.’
‘Can. Will.’ He continued out into the corridor. Lux hurried to the door behind him.
‘I won’t come. You’re on your own.’
‘That’s fine.’ He stopped, turning to face her. ‘How do I get to the basement?’
‘I won’t tell you.’
‘Fine.’ He strode away. Lux did not follow. Vesper made his way through the maze of
corridors and staircases. He began to hear voices as he neared the basement. He followed the
sound. A dim light flickered through a grate in the floor. Two men were talking in the room
below, pacing about with boxes in their hands.
‘Hey, you!’
Vesper drew his sword, hearing a voice behind him. The two men in the room below
looked up, dropping their boxes. He had been discovered. The first man was coming towards
him with a knife. Vesper thrust the blade into the man’s chest and let him fall to the floor.
Vesper began to run, a plan forming in his mind.
Footsteps and voices echoed in the corridor. The two men from the basement were coming
after him. Their shadows danced up the walls. Vesper did not slow down, even as they came into
view. He ploughed straight through the two men and for a second, he thought he had escaped,
but then he was yanked back as one of the men caught hold of the tail of his coat.
Vesper struggled to get free, but the man twisted his arms roughly behind his back. Vesper
dropped his sword, aware that the man had a knife to his throat. The second man stepped
forward. It became obvious to Vesper that this man was the superior of the two. He wore a
waistcoat and a bowler hat, whereas the first was just in scruffy overalls.
‘What are you doing?’
‘Oh, just having a look around,’ Vesper said. The man with the knife tightened his grip.
‘Don’t be flippant, boy. Why are you here?’
Vesper smirked. ‘Was the blonde girl one of yours?’
‘Where is she?’
‘In one of the rooms upstairs.’ The waist coated man made to run away. ‘I wouldn’t bother.
She’s dead,’ he lied.
47

‘What‽’
‘Killed her.’ Vesper shrugged. The man glared at him and stormed down the tunnel,
beckoning to the second man to follow him. Vesper found himself frog-marched into the room
he had seen through the drain. There were channels cut into the floor of the room designed to
drain liquid into a cellar below.
‘Was she important, Blondie?’
The waist coated man punched him in the stomach. ‘Her blood fed the Soul suckers.’
‘Oh. How terrible. My mistake.’
‘No matter. You can make it up to me. We’ll use your blood.’
The man holding the knife dragged him into the centre of the room. The channels seemed
to originate from that point. He supposed that they would drain his blood away to the Soul
suckers. He looked across the room. The waist coated man was worrying away at some intricate
machinery, turning valves and pulling levers. A low rumbling began to issue from below the
floor, followed by a hissing noise. The lights in the room flickered and went out, replaced by a
glowing from below.
It was the glow of the Soul suckers.
‘Blood,’ Waistcoat man barked. Knife man tugged Vesper’s arm out and slashed violently
with the knife.
‘Vesper!’
Everyone in the room glanced up at the grate. Vesper saw Lux looking down through the
grate in the ceiling. He winked at her. Blood began to pour from his arm and pooled on the
floor, running into the grooves.
As the first drops of blood began to trickle through the drainage holes, the glow became
brighter. It rose up through the holes and began to form the shape of a Soul sucker. Vesper felt
dizzy. The room seemed to be getting darker. He fell to the floor as the man with the knife
stepped away. He couldn’t even put his arms out to break his fall.
‘There’s something wrong!’ Vesper heard one of the men shout.
A pair of boots crossed in front of him, but he couldn’t lift his head to see whose they
were. His vision was becoming blurry and the sounds of the room became subdued. A blue flash
lit up the fog and a muffled scream rang out. There was another blue flash, and then orange
sparks. Vesper noticed a thumping sound inside his head. It was the last thing he was aware of
before he let his eye lids close.
48

‘Vesper.’
* * *
A sharp pain in his side followed soon after the voice.
‘Vesper!’
above him.
The pain stabbed in his side again. He opened his eyes warily. The heel of a boot hovered
‘I will kick you again if you don’t sit up.’ Lux stood over him. She was holding his sword.
‘Have they gone?’
‘Everyone is gone; the men, The Soul suckers – you destroyed them.’
‘Result.’
‘Your blood,’ Lux murmured. ‘It’s the wrong colour. It’s—’
‘Black?’ Vesper shrugged. ‘Yeah, I know.’
‘I am never going to understand you, am I?’ She held out her hand to him again.
‘Nor I you.’ Vesper took her hand and pulled her down next to him.
‘I will punch you, Vesper.’
‘I know. But it would be so worth it.’
49

Joe Gibbs
Second year Creative Writing and English student.
Good Morning
As a crack of thunder pierces the blackness, my eyelids
peel apart sticky, gritty. Blinking the confusion and exhaustion out of my eyeballs I stare up at
awful grey sky, at misty rain and black clouds. I pull myself – no, force myself up into a sitting
position and as I do my scrambled brains rock forward and bash into the front of my skull, rattle
there for a few seconds and then settle in a seeping, heavy mush. A hoarse cry escapes my
parched lips as a terrific pain lances into my right eye, deep into my head and out of the other
side, like someone has their thumbs in the socket and is trying to wrench the thing apart.
Gingerly, I ease my legs over the side of the bench and plant my bare feet onto wet concrete.
After a minute or so hunched like this, counting down from a number that I can’t even
remember to fight the mounting nausea with splintered breaths, light hazy rain begins to
penetrate my ripped t-shirt. There are drops of blood on the white fabric.
Freezing cold and my shoes robbed – fantastic start to the day, son. T-shirt. Christ,
where is my jacket?
My jacket cost all of last week’s pay cheque – that only a few hours ago had my keys,
wallet and phone resting in the nice, safe zipper pockets. I can’t help but grin at the irony. Then
I stop grinning because it feels strange. An inspection with my tongue tells me that I am missing
a lot more than my keys, wallet and phone, as it jabs at a section of bloody-tasting gum; an
empty section of bloody-tasting gum, a space that before I woke up housed the teeth on the left
half of my mouth.
Jesus Christ on a bike, what happened last night?
I know I was with Frank - not because I remember being with him, but because it had
been arranged all week. He was back for the night, his outfit docking in Portsmouth. Trying to
ignore the fierce pain in my head, eyes and now my mouth, I notice my hands for the first time.
50

The knuckles are torn to pieces and swollen resembling sausages – extremely bruised sausages
at that.
The rain drifts through thick walls of fog, which in turn half-conceal towering council
flats. The tops are lost in the tethers of mist but the middle sections are visible. Dismal,
crushingly grey concrete towers. The small windows running in parallels up the flats are a hazy,
smoggy orange; home to God-knows-what kind of residents on this estate. Still, it looks a hell of
a lot warmer than it is out here. I shiver.
With a deep breath I heave myself up from the wet bench, only for a severe cramp to
wrap its iron fist around my arched spine and twist until it feels like it’s going to break clean in
half. Like an old tramp I hobble for what looks like an exit to this awful, grey enclosure of
concrete, rain and poverty. Suddenly through the fog I can hear the clanging of the Guildhall
clock and I thank my lucky stars; I can’t be too far away from home. I groan as my unhinged
brain bounces from one side of its casing to the other, sending out spasms of dull sickening pain.
Hands gingerly shoved deep into pockets, shoulders hunched against the cold, I make
my way out of the estate and past a row of crumbling bungalows that run like gravestones to the
left. On the right is an overgrown, weed infested section of grass; in the middle is a punctured
football, the scraps of leather clinging to the interior like a skin disease.
What happened last night, then? I know I was with Frank but I hardly drank a thing –
was I drugged? Were we jumped? That would explain the pain and the busted hands but why
would they take me so far away from where the two of us met?
No answers come so I grit my teeth (then wince as I antagonise my empty bleeding
gums) and push on, trying to navigate myself to some sort of familiarity. My bare feet slap
through the growing puddles –
Why are they bare, where are my shoes?
-and begin to get numb.
At the end of the path lined with gravestone bungalows is an empty road, which leads to
nowhere. Just into more fog, rain and concrete. The only way I can go is forward, on through
the cold. I pass a bunch of flowers roped to a wrought iron fence where somebody was maybe
stabbed, or killed in a crash, or some other awful yet everyday death, and notice that the flowers
are all dead. The rain falls indifferently on the shrivelled brown petals.
51

Petals. Somebody, a woman, fat and repulsive, called me ‘petal’ last night. The Moors
club – we were in The Moors and she came over to Frank and me, licked the top of her bottle of
fizzy blue drink and asked ‘Can I have a dance, petal?’
She most certainly didn’t get a dance – but that doesn’t matter, because now I remember
where we went. The Moors nightclub, the dingiest, dirtiest place this side of the south coast, had
certainly been Frank’s idea. But this is where things get hazy, like a nightmare so terrible that
my subconscious is striving to conceal it from me lest it should turn my mind insane.
The pain in my racked body increases with almost every step until I am sure I will vomit
if I don’t stop. Kneeling over, I begin to retch but suddenly can’t. My stomach turns to steel. To
my left is an alleyway. That nightmare is beginning to break the boundaries set up by my
subconscious, seeping through like an unstoppable poison. I recognise this alleyway. I recognise
the streak of blood at its mouth.
Stepping forward ever so slowly, my brain starting to pulse in its bone prison, yearning
to break free from the confines if it, I approach the foot of the alley. Images from last night begin
to flash before me like strobe lights.
Leaving the Moors with Frank… Me leading Frank here… The smell of blood. The smell
of Frank’s blood. I know what I will find before I find it.
Frank’s body lies at the end of the dismal alleyway, lost to the reaches of the clawing
shadows. In the amber light of a streetlamp I can make out the devastation of his face; the skull
wrenched apart as if by a crowbar, its precious contents glistening on the concrete floor,
mingling with rain water. The rest of him is a crumpled mess; no more than a sack filled with
broken bones and ruptured organs, thankfully concealed by the darkness. I remember what
happened now – the look on his face as I changed, the screams – the sweet, sweet screams. What
I didn’t remember was to take my monthly injection yesterday; my immunisation against the
sickness.
Last night was, after all, a full moon.
I kneel down and snuffle greedily over the remains of last night’s dinner.
52

Kirsty Franks
Second year Creative Writing and English student.
Beauty and the Leash: The Hypocrisy of
Fairytale
Beyond a sheer drop, set into a landscape soiled with soggy mud, in a dank country not too far
from you, there is a house of infinite proportions. Yet while this house brims with the
stereotypical imagery of those twisted tales your granny used to dictate to you through her
beady glasses while bits of her face sagged away, we shall not be visiting the tallest room in the
tallest tower, but rather an inconspicuous little room on an inconspicuous corridor somewhere
on the second or third floor.
This particular tale takes place on a quiet, passive day, perhaps sometime in the middle
of October, if you’re interested. Our protagonist, Beauty (I’m very sorry if I appear to be a
plagiarist of the fairytale, but that really is her name), finds in her blissful eyelids a reaction to
the light permeating through the cracks in the curtain. As she opens her eyes and flutters her
eyelashes a couple of times in that adorable Disney Princess sort of way, she feels the dust lift out
of them and settle on her cheeks like when you sprinkle icing sugar on the top of a Victoria
Sponge. By poking her dainty nose round the edge of the velvet curtain, she ascertains that it is
midday. Actually, it may be dusk; I can’t particularly remember the story anymore. I suppose if I
have to choose, it seems more haunting to set the tale at dusk, yes?
To recap, Beauty awakes in a room at dusk. I should probably also mention that she is
not clothed; perhaps whoever placed her there mistook her for an orange and peeled away the
layers of her clothing as if it were a waxy skin that needed to be removed before she could serve
her purpose, or perhaps she was just a bit of a loose cannon and removed them herself.
Our heroine lifts herself off the bed and picks herself about the room, wiping away the
concealed blood she finds on her inner thighs with the corner of the plum curtains. They’re
such a brash colour that no one will ever notice. I’ll leave out the part about the stinging
53

sensation she finds rooted within her sex, as you’re not really supposed to talk about things like
that in nice stories, are you?
Anyway, Beauty, crying over the violation of her virtue, steps back into her white cotton
knickers and pulls her dress over her head, allowing the tumbling locks of her hair to fan back
over it. Did I mention that her hair is so beautifully glossy that if you look at it without wearing
sunglasses, it blinds you? All the best girls in literature seem to possess some beautifully deadly
trait like that, don’t you think?
Because Beauty is a dainty female, she’s obviously physically weak and mentally dim, so
it takes her several minutes to figure out which way to turn the doorknob in order to free herself
from the dingy room on the second or third floor. However, she manages it eventually all by
herself, without the help of a fairy godmother or a troop of superhuman mice, and pries open
the mahogany door.
We’re now in the type of corridor you find within a luxurious hotel: beautifully
decorated, yet so utterly flawless that it lacks the impression of being lived in. It is easy to
assume that the owner of this particular hallway loves their luxuries; every inch of the hallway
is richly detailed, whether it be burgundy rugs adorned with silly tassels, or roses dropped into
ornate vases so recently polished that the scent of falsified cleanliness still lingers in the air.
Portraits of numerous beautiful women scrutinize her in parallel lines down the hallway, as if
they’d created a catwalk of lingering eyes that only serve to be judgmental. As Beauty picks her
way down the corridor, so lightly that her toes skim across the top of the carpet rather than
sinking into the thick pile with the weight of her frame, she picks out only one portrait, and
chooses to rest her attention on that. Granted, the portrait depicts Beauty herself, so it’s
understandable that it would capture her attention, but still, there is a sense of vanity in staring
at a picture of oneself for a prolonged sense of time in the pursuit of pleasure, surely? Because it
is pleasure, rather than bemusement, that Beauty obtains from this portrait; she admires the way
her lips are a blossoming pink, and the felinity in the upwards curl of her eyes. Her beauty is her
pride, because to be beautiful is to be extraordinary, yes?
Tearing her gaze from the portrait, she moves with grace in search of an exit, or
perhaps for someone to paint her up like a china doll. The corridor begins to taper inwards and
become narrow; or perhaps it is Beauty who is growing larger? Her fingers begin to graze the
smooth wood of the doors on either side of her, yet she continues, not because her IQ is too low
to comprehend the consequences of a narrowing corridor, but because she has become fixated
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with a door right at the end, which sits three-feet shorter than the rest of the doors in the
hallway. Actually, perhaps the door is of a normal size, but because it is so far away, it appears
to be smaller? Just like when you hold your fingers up to a person in the distance and pinch
them between your fingers, because it’s wonderfully easy to squash someone when they’re only
two centimeters tall.
I have fluctuated away from the point; Beauty progresses down a corridor that clasps
her by the shoulders, and with a little effort she maneuvers herself onto her knees when the
ceiling begins to disrupt the buoyancy of her hairstyle. It is lucky that she is a rather archetypal,
skinny heroine, because if I were to break tradition and give her some baby-weight, she would
never have been able to fit down the hallway that leads to the door, which I have just
remembered was not a door, but rather a dog-flap.
Beauty pushes the dog-flap ajar with one beautifully preened hand to find a mutt sat
squarely in front of her, gnawing tenderly at some brownish-red substance on its forepaw;
presumably some exotic type of dog food. Who knows what these privileged people put into
their pet’s food?
As Beauty gazes into the eyes of the dog, she is filled with motherly tenderness, because
she is generally very lovely. However, the dog stares back at her with a ‘Don’t-fuck-with-me’
sort of expression. Oh, excuse my vulgarity; stories like this aren’t supposed to have bad words
in them, are they? I’m very sorry.
As Beauty’s eyes widen like those of a squirrel caught in the path of a predator, the dog’s
lips twitch. Beauty, who opens her front door every morning to find floods of cats and birds
singing together in harmony, begging for milk and freshly baked cookies, knows that all this dog
wants is to be cuddled and fussed, so she coos to it and smiles with a set of teeth so beautifully
white that she can provide three hundred homes with year-round lighting. Not only is she
beautiful, but she’s energy efficient. However, her expression drops and nerves wrench at her
stomach as the dog raises its upper lip into a trembling snarl, exposing its yellowing teeth.
As the dog’s grumbling begins to ripple out into its cheeks and lips, Beauty moves with
haste back towards the door, and it is not until she is squashed into an awkward stance between
two pressing walls that she recalls the narrowness of the hallway that holds her like a leash. It is
at this point that the dog takes motion, bounding forward with, we wrongly assume, the purpose
of protecting its home, and as it lunges for her, she has no means for escape.
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Before Beauty can free herself from the dog’s path, the mutt sinks its teeth into her
fleshy waist and tastes the impurity of her blood. With each drop of beautiful blood that touches
the dog’s tongue, it transforms; its claws retract back into its hairless hands, and its nose shrinks
to a quarter of its original size. Its tail wags once, twice, and snakes back into its tailbone as it
sheds, littering the carpet with a hundred deadly strands of fur. With every tug of Beauty’s flesh,
the dog becomes a handsome prince.
As the prince only needs the blood of the beautiful in order to briefly lift his canine
curse, he does not need to entirely consume Beauty, yet he does it anyway, either because he has
a nasty culinary taste, or because of some sense of nutritional value; perhaps both.
I apologise that this story ends in a rather grim manner, but I suppose Beauty was a bit of a
pain in the arse anyway, don’t you think?
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Maddy Connolly
Second year Creative Writing and English Literature
student.
The Salesman’s Wife
Earl Ober was between jobs as a salesman but Doreen,
his wife, had gone to work nights as a waitress at a twenty-hour hour coffee shop at the edge of
town. She was bitter about this, Earl could tell. She never said anything but she sent him looks
that he was unwilling to receive. She would come home, and while Earl checked the local
newspapers she would snore softly in their cramped single bed. Her constant whining put his
teeth on edge and her small hints were like earthquakes rupturing their unstable marriage. If
Earl could have found a job he would have left, just to get out of the suffocating air that seemed
to leak into the flat. But there was nothing out there; nothing in the papers, nothing in the
windows of their small town’s high street shops.
One day however his luck changed. The newspaper offered him with a tip - a salesmen
job had come up for a big, successful company around the corner from the estate that held their
overpriced and under achieved accommodation. Earl leapt on it with joy and straight away
booked an interview for the very next day. Doreen sniggered at his attitude.
‘You haven’t got the job yet Earl, and by the looks of you you’ll have a hard time ever
getting it’. Once, Doreen had been supportive of his job. There had even been a time when she
had come with him to meet more people, to spend time with him. But the years of hard labour,
of juggling several jobs while scraping and saving money, had forced her thoughts and feelings
towards Earl and towards life into murky waters. Life was now a relentless routine. She spent
the day sleeping, cooking and cleaning in a building that would never be free of cockroaches,
damp or draughts, and then she went to work at a coffee shop where customers treated her like
she was the scum of the earth because she lived to serve them. She took their stringing words
because she had no choice, not while Earl sat all day at the kitchen table, staring mutely into his
coffee. Coffee. She refused to drink it after living with it all night.
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She would often wonder at how things had escalated between them. They had gone
from love, to mutual likeness, to nothing. Absolutely nothing. Now, all she enjoyed was reading
Women’s Weekly and sighing over the silk stockings and feather hats. The best she could do
nowadays was fake seamed tights by drawing a line up her leg with cheap kohl, even though it
was just to go down to the seedy pub at the end of the road. There she would have drowned her
sorrows but she couldn’t even afford to do that.
Week after week Earl did not find a job and Doreen had started doubting that he ever
would, until now. She did, in fact, think he would get the job for he had a knack for selling
things door to door, which was not an easy thing to do. Doreen had simply said what she’d said
to inspire him to get off his bony arse. Anything she said now he seemed to go against and
Doreen had soon learned to stop resenting it and start using it to her advantage. That’s how little
she cared.
So the next day Earl walked with a determined stride down to Barker and Co, a
company that made and sold anything from clogs to toys to kitchen appliances, as long as they
were wooden. The building was formidable, as was the owner; Mr Barker. His face was as red as
the flames in the furnaces. His eyebrows, which sat dominating his face, were steely grey and
stretched from one side of his face to the other. His dark little eyes peered out from under them,
missing nothing. His neck was thick and covered with bulging veins that ran like cords down
under his collar. His voice boomed around the factory floor as he looked Earl up and down.
Earl was quickly put on a trail job, working the streets early mornings and late evenings,
so Earl went home happy for the first time in a long time. However, it was short lived. Doreen
was not happy with this arrangement, and she didn’t tell Earl the particular reason why she
spent the entire evening glaring at him from across the counter, before grabbing her shabby
coat and marching off stating she was going to work.
Earl tossed and turning that night, confused and angry. Sleep would not come as his
thoughts returned again and again to Doreen and her reaction. She should have been happy. He
had a job and wages, he was back on track, he would be able to make friends again. Doreen
would be able to come again. Everything would be as they used to be. There would be no more
sitting around. No more whining from Doreen. This was the job that would save their marriage
- what was left of their marriage. He couldn’t wait to start; he had a reason to wake up in the
mornings.
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But as the days went by Doreen’s mood did not change, not even when he took her to
the pub for a rum and coke. She was only happy when she had time to herself in the mornings
before Earl came back for the rest of the day. This was the time she would sigh with relief, make
herself a cuppa and think about the good old days. They had married in the country and Doreen
had fallen in love with it. She had also made her best friends there, girls who gave her a break
from married life, but Earl had fallen in love with being a salesman. The pickings were slim in
the country and so like a fool she had followed him to this dirty, smelly place where her looks
had been wasted working day in and day out. She had been too busy to make friends and now
she resented that the most.
The days were so lonely. So similar she could predict every minute of every day. The flat
let in the cold, grimy outside world so that even her home was no longer a cocoon of safety, of
comfort. It was a reminder of how harsh a hand life had dealt her. Her misery must have pushed
through Earl’s calamity because the very next day he insisted that she attend the Barker and Co
Christmas ball and that he would buy her a new dress. Once upon a time, this would have
brightened her week. Now she dreaded mixing with society, should she have to admit to the
drabness of her own life.
The day they went shopping was cold and wet, and the wind howled like wolves. The
bus was full to the brim and people pushed and pulled as they shuffled in. They were going to
Blackpool, a few minutes’ drive from their own little town. Doreen supposed on a sunny day the
pier, music stands, inviting and vibrant cafes but today, just like she, they were sad and
misplaced. The sea roared along with the gull’s screeches and the waves crashed against the
sharp, deadly rocks. The scene was one of destruction and havoc, but it brought Doreen peace
and tranquillity. To look at the deep, dark water below was to look at the absolution that it
would stop this dreadful existence and that she would never have to work in the coffee shop
again. She would never have to worry about having nothing, no friends, no one to love, no
children. She would never have to sit on the bed waiting for Earl to leave for work.
Her trembling hand gripped the rail until it turned as white as the sky overhead. She
stepped up onto the wall and looked down. Earl was just returning from the vending machine,
an ice cream clutched in each hand. His hopes of a better day than recent ones where returning.
He was just in time to see his wife’s slight, puny body drop like a stone over the pier’s banister.
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‘No!’ he screamed and ran with desperation toward the spot. He could only watch as
Doreen, now a small speck against an eternity of blue, soared down to met the furious waves
which seemed to reach out and embrace her as she disappeared under the folds.
A large group of sightseers had witnessed the shocking scene. They rushed to his side
and with gushing speech asked him why she’d done it. But Earl did not see these people, nor did
he see the police when they finally arrived with their flashing lights and their awful questions.
He could only see thing; Doreen’s face as she had soared through the air and how utterly and
completely happy she had looked. This memory, he knew, would haunt him forever.
60

Nathaniel Dalby
Second year Creative Writing student.
The Red House
Sometimes I sit up all night thinking about it. The soul we found trapped in its corridors. I’ve
sold it, packaged it. Maybe some would call it a blessing in that respect. But it’ll always be a
mystery to me. I’ll tell you the story, if only to keep it in the family consciousness. Then, as far as
I’m concerned, time can have it.
Back in our heyday, Stuart and I would ramble. Stuart Copland was my fellow rambler
and partner in all my daft little endeavours. We had dreams of being journalists, you see, and we
reckoned that if we went roaming on some sort of Hunter S. Thompson-esque adventure then
we would have collected enough photographs and accounts to be able to make it big. We
thought that maybe we’d even find our own little place in the world.
The Red House in York was part of one of those old “Ghost Tours” they have in historical
cities; bits of pulpy fluff to keep the tourists happy. Now, Stuart; he couldn’t resist this sort of
high-drama journalism, and had approached the local paper, asking to take some photos in the
house itself for the culture section. They commissioned him, and he blustered in, striding with
smug pride and papers in hand.
‘A Ghost Tour? Really?’ I sighed as he eagerly slapped the papers onto the desk.
‘C’mon now, taking a few pictures in a supposedly haunted area of Northern England called
“The Red House”? Where’s the danger?’
‘Ridicule, becoming unemployable, maybe even death,’ I scoffed. I hadn’t really mellowed by
then. I wasn’t as grey as I am now.
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‘We’ll be like The Avengers: Paranormal investigators in a cynical world.’ He talked to the
window with his hands behind his back. Dull rain spat down in response.
‘Or, like the pound-shop Mulder and Scully.’
The rain itched down onto York harder as the afternoon drew in. Stuart and I squared
up to the house and observed it in a haze of shower. My eyesight was just as ropey as it is now,
and I roughly dried my drenched glasses on the lining of my coat before looking over at
dripping Stuart, his normally neat parting devastated by the weather. York’s supposed spectral
pride loomed over our modest party, and I heard Stu’s camera click out a greeting.
‘Seems pretty vanilla,’ mused Stuart, ‘well,’ he backtracked, ‘apart from the colour.’ He frowned.
And he was right. A house that old, with the harsh weather of the north; years of wind and rain
battering the whole country, and the red had lost none of its power. The same red then
crumbled in my mind, and a freeze came. It could have simply been the rain, but there was
something about standing outside that house made my blood stand still and watch with me. We
turned to each other and nodded in respect to the thing that had stopped our steps whilst Stuart
popped the collar of his coat as he started up the stairs and into its belly.
I shook my head slightly like a dog out of the rain as Stuart wiped his feet on the mat
provided as if he was coming into his own home. The foyer’s well-trodden wooden panels
knocked a greeting on our boots. I inspected my damp thatch of hair in the relic of a mirror that
hung just above a simple table and closed my already tired eyes for a few seconds. Stuart
squeezed the water from his coat and put his hand on my shoulder. My eyes started open.
‘You see,’ he reassured, ‘it seems pretty harmless to me. Nothing bad ever came from wandering
around an empty house.’ His nervous irony once again concealed a good point. It was empty.
Back then, I just assumed that rain and early afternoon had taken all the revellers to an early
lunch, but now, now the jury’s out. Perhaps the feeling that had run up my spine in the shadow
of the house had run through the blood of other potential visitors, and maybe the same thing
that had compelled us on had told them to turn around and walk away.
‘Upstairs?’ asked Stuart, through the distraction of his chirping camera. The old wooden
staircase creaked in either agony or gratitude as we trudged up it. At the top sat a chair, as
simple as the table in the foyer, solemnly looking out of a line of windows lining the corridor
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that brought in the shady afternoon gloom. It lingered at the far end, like a child hiding from its
monster. I found myself looking at that chair for what seemed like hours. It brought with it a
sense of melancholy; as if its purpose hadn’t quite been fulfilled yet, as if it was waiting for
something...
Stuart startled me back to reality.
‘This is perfect.’ he whispered, breaking the silence.
‘Why? Isn’t it just a chair?’ I wasn’t really sure myself.
‘Well, isn’t it obvious? We take a few shots of this corridor, run it next to some human interest
story about the people who lived here. “Who sat in this chair? What would they think of today?”
etc.’
‘I’m not sure that’s really in the spirit of the event, mate.’
‘In the spirit, exactly; in the spirit. We can play up this ghost thing, you know. You could be the
next Derek Acorah, my friend.’
‘Not even Derek Acorah wants to be the next Derek Acorah.’ We joked, but the unease was still
there, the same unease that had kicked me at the door and in the lingering silence.
‘Well, better get yourself prepared’ he said, holding up the camera to his still damp face, ‘Agent
Scully, I hope you’re ready to believe.’ The camera flashed and I winced.
That’s when everything changed. Stuart was right; the press did lap it up. He and I came to
cherish the girl in the chair as the thing that made us successful and wealthy, but all the while,
we, and the whole world, could never put finger on why she scared us so much. Because she
had been there, ready for collection with the rest of the photographs. Stuart’s chronological
account of that day ended with the picture of the chair. And it had hit me with the same
creeping sense that the world was not at peace; the same lingering feeling that had set my blood
on edge back in the house. Not a monster or a demon, but a girl. A girl in that quaint little chair,
staring out of the window with her white eyes, her hazy, frail figure patiently sat there. And we
never found out who she was. Historians and investigators were brought in but it transpired
that there never was such a girl that lived in that house, the lords and barons who made up the
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previous owners had no time for simple young women. Maybe that’s why we could never look
away. She had no reason to be, no reason to exist.
And whilst Stuart and I settled down to a life of journalistic success, we’ve always had
our theories. Sometime Stu still likes to pretend to be sceptical about it, he’ll scratch the back of
his neck and tell you that perhaps it was just a printing error, but I can see it in his eyes that that
little girl sits in his head as she does mine. I’ve always thought she must have been waiting for
someone, that girl, waiting for the time when two naïve adventurers would find her sitting
there, and set her free in a photograph.
The Red House burnt to the ground precisely a year after our visit there, a year after that
day when Stuart and I stumbled into a world that neither of us could have comprehended.
Maybe she didn’t need it any more. In the aftermath, I remember dipping my hand into the
ashes of the thing that had once stopped me and my friend in our steps. It had been the making
of the both of us. And since then, I’ve always thought that maybe the rage and the fear of one
lost little girl could come to define what we all need in the end.
Maybe, sometimes, we all just need to be found.
64

Sam Scurfield
Third year Creative Writing student.
Dust
The air was still and heavy, thick with ash and the coming storm. Light breaths of wind snatched
at rivulets of dust, gently lifting it up in ghostly whirls before once again scattering it across the
floor. The stuff coated everything in a thick layer, slowly burying the scorched, twisted remnants
of the cars and buses that turned this road into a parade of jagged metal and broken glass. In the
distance, a figure picked its way through this graveyard. It was a young man, swathed in
shapeless, colourless rags that clung to him like dead skin. He covered his face, shielding his
eyes and lungs from the poisonous ash. He moved slowly. He ached with exhaustion and
hunger. His mouth was dry and cracked. He knew that in the fraying satchel that he hauled
with him was a dented flask, a sliver of water cradled within it. He also knew that he was saving
it for when he couldn’t walk any more. A last drink. In the distance, the silhouette of his
destination could just about be made out against the dull, lightless sky. A city. The buildings
were skeletons, steel girders standing naked against the cold winds, their brick and glass shells
torn away by an unimaginable force. It was the only landmark for miles of scorched, dead
planes. He hoped there might be food there. Water. Shelter. At the back of his mind though, he
knew that it was hopeless. He knew that he would die there.
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Bonnie Bold
Sweet care not found in every hand
Or in each day that slowly rolls
Aislinn Shivakumar
Second year Creative Writing and Media Studies
student.
But what would support the great Realm of Man
If it were not for the Bonnie Bold
High grow the lilies old
Low grow the rose gold
The safest I have ever felt
Was found amongst the Bonnie Bold
The human race runs the riches chase
And many cannot touch that cold
But if it falls to the hands of man
It’s not so sweet as a Bonnie’s hold
Give me an hour of simple peace
With a feather touch within my reach
A laugh that fills a sunlit hold
The only comes from my Bonnie Bold
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High grow the iris old
Low grow the lilac gold
The sweetest face I ever saw
Was the smiling light of a Bonnie Bold
I know some may sneer and say
I’m a man who should remain untold
But the wisest man whom I’ve ever known
Was the one to cherish his Bonnie Bold
High grow the ivy old
Low grow the marigold
The strongest will I ever met
Was planted in the Bonnie Bold
High grow the lotus old
Low grow the calla gold
There’s only one for who I earn my load
Only for my own Bonnie Bold
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My Queen and My Bride
Oh, the diamond has shattered; you’ve torn the butterfly wing
And I hear them now. That dreadful sound! Like the voice of a sword hand sing!
And you, good sir, do you have no tears? Speak now or forever hold your peace!
Look! See clear and then pray do fear what has done to the sweet Alise?
Ah, my angel, my angel! How could you have died?
You leave me forever, my queen and my bride
She needs but an anthem, a march, a song from the gods to be sung
Our queen has forsaken us, she died far too young
And fiends! You crows! How dare you mourn her loss now!
You relish her death. Now your wish has been blessed. Dare the gods let this be allowed?
I know how you thought, how you cherished her wealth,
But you despised, despised her pride!
But my queen was too clever, even sick, still too clever.
So you prayed for her health that she died.
How could I then let you lead the march? Let you write the great song to be sung?
For it is you I shall blame, you murdered my flame! Who took my queen to die so young!
No! Stop! Hold your tongue! Let no song be sung! Let no march sound or bells toll,
That would not be right; there must be no sound tonight, less it disrupt the flight of her soul.
It must be silent all near, for I need to hear. There could be a laugh, a whisper, a sigh,
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I must hear one more time, the sweet voice of my bride
As she leaves this cruel earth behind.
My queen has now died, my love and my bride,
And you all fight for her treasure like she was never alive.
Now she can dance with friends above, and I shall call friends from below
And like hell I shall rule those you made you grow cold.
Ah, my angel, my angel! How could you have died?
I shall love you forever, my queen and my bride.
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The Struggle
When we plough the page for rhyme
First comes fancy;
Inklings – tadpoles of soul swarm
To our mouths to sit on our tongues,
A pit-stop on the pilgrimage to Mother Page.
Their ambition burns us but we
Bite them back and salivate
Through our craving for release.
They are not ripe; and neither are we,
We must stretch and flex our mouth muscles
To give the tadpoles strong enough legs
To leap free and be heard.
They are often premature and
You must quickly, greedily, snatch them back
Before they slip away like bars of wet soap -
It’s easier to catch cigarette smoke,
But after a while you’ll be a dab hand at it.
The difficulty is in the birth: you’ll scream,
Athea Husted
First year Creative Writing and English student
71
.

And bleed but sometimes even your
Twenty-nine bones and thirty-four muscles
Will not suffice.
You know you’ll be exhausted, and torn.
All this pain for a rhyme to be born.
Wither
Glowing, a baby boy babbles in sheer
Harmony with all things bright in the world.
But he wilts; and all babbles cease. Lips near
A yawn, while eyes scream agony. Now curled
Up, flesh deflates and once springy skin sags,
Tongue charcoals to his mother’s love-howls as
Your mind crumbles out of control. Become
Vulture of Fear: legs moved, made to circle.
Nameless, impossible, improbable boy
Whose outpour of shit shrivels him whole.
Prune-like. You stop aghast, and question this...
Relief? Defeated, you’re forced to your knees by Life’s Tyrant.
His frost glitters over you like glass. You too, are his toy
And gasping, you beg ‘why?’ Why wither that poor baby boy?
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The Housemate
I’m not gonna lie, we don’t get on,
here is no bond between us,
to redeem us
from being so much more than just housemates.
And at first it was going great;
we’d stay up late,
Jennifer Ellegard
Third year Creative Writing and Media student.
stuffing our faces with plates and plates of crisps and cakes,
that we ate just for the sake of eating with our mates,
and we’d sit and rate and slate all the fake, two-faced girls
on take me out,
but now, those days are nout
but memories.
I feel like a paper swan in a lake,
coming last in the boat race
while they all finish in first and second place.
It’s hard, you know.
Five girls;
two best friends, and me.
I hear them through the walls and the floors, watching Glee
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laughing and sniggering,
joking and giggling,
never once asking me, for my company,
or if later I wanna go with them to costa coffee.
I like coffee too... you know, I wanna say,
but I don’t get a chance to say,
when I see them maybe once every other day,
as I pass them in the kitchen
and all I hear is bitching
about whose turn it is for washing up
and clearing up and why the fuck
is there not even enough milk to put in their fucking cup.
I got some new speakers for Christmas,
but now they’re fucking useless
because every time I put them on,
not just late or early, even about two-thirty,
the middle of the fucking afternoon,
I get a text two minutes later from her room
‘cause she’s busy sleeping,
or reading,
or her head feels like it’s bleeding:
‘Can you turn your music down? I can’t focus with that sound.’
I want to grab my speaker and just jam it in her trap
so next time I’m eating dinner, I don’t have to hear her yap,
I’d like to watch come dine with me and hear what’s going on
instead of hearing her rendition of Lady Gaga’s latest song.
But I don’t.
Because my parents raised me well,
and though my head begins to swell
with the endless list that dwells
in the depths of my brain cells
of all the things she does that piss me off (which by the way, is a hell of a lot)
74

I’d gain nothing if I rise to yell,
two months before we say farewell
You see, I don’t want to have all hell break loose,
to be the noose, to be the cause,
the catalyst for household wars
by illustrating all her flaws.
I feel my oesophagus expand with strands of verbal slams,
like the waistband of a fat man of my local burger van.
But to prevent this terrible, inevitable riot; I keep quiet
two years I’ve been on my verbal diet.
I just sit and smile and take it in
screaming ‘fuck yourself’ behind my grin.
But mark my words when I pack and leave,
and wipe fake tears off with my sleeve
the fat bitch will find her cupboards bare
and see her food no longer there
and as repayment for all the pain she cast
she’ll find a sachet
of slim fast.
75

Purgatory
I was led through Purgatory
by a crowd of Keepers –
the hermaphroditic guardians of the realm
Jo Oram
with wings of leather and faces like sunken ships.
They took me through the dusty wasteland,
where the fog filled my lungs, threatening to suffocate me,
and the wind howled in my ears like a banshee,
but I never once felt it upon my skin.
The Keepers escorted me over a barbed wire fence,
kicking clouds of grey dirt up as they set foot on the other side.
They crept forward, commanded, I was silent
as they took me past their ‘waiting room’
where, beyond another fence, I saw piles of bodies –
but the Keepers said they were only asleep
and that I must not disturb them,
for they were waiting to be redirected towards Heaven or Hell.
We walked onwards and a bird screamed out.
The Keepers laughed at me as I searched for the creature
and told me that it was another illusion, like the wind,
there to disorientate unwelcome visitors.
First year Creative Writing and Media Studies student.
76

A stone amphitheatre loomed up on the horizon,
towering over me like a giant, intent on consuming me.
The Keepers marched me towards it,
ignoring my calls of distress
until we were there, inside the arena.
They led me to the best seats in the house
so that I may watch the show they had arranged
and see what the Keepers duties entailed.
Below, Angels and Demons stepped into the showground,
fighting like gladiators while the Keepers cheered.
They told me this is how they settle disputes that occur in the afterlife.
I wondered how Hell could be worse.
77

Beaten to Decadence
Joe Delarue
Third year Creative Writing and Film Studies
student.
Romantic men shudder with hunger and weep with fear,
As purity and truth are stolen by gold clad thieves,
Who toy with the angel faces of old,
As they sport a mask that should never have been touched.
Why must we go forwards when ground beneath never feels right?
A smack to the wrists and a stumble to the street,
Night screams for help,
Yet the sweet whispers and promises of a dusty tomorrow are fake.
And when the sun kisses concrete all will sing of the same,
The footprint engulfs the track as the mol-es-tation,
Of the unknown copulates with the known and sweats down,
To drench the feet of those who barely realise they are alive.
Harmonic sirens call for martyrs,
To float to another being and peak over the shore of a final breath,
Yet they refuse the other side and sit secluded,
With ankles dripping of what could have transpired,
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Grins mirrored, but a malady scarred,
Peace sunk for now yet the end undying,
And trapped, soullessly perusing me,
In a twisted interminable roll of time.
One Self Analysis Too Many
Blank paper stares back,
So I rack my brains,
But it seems all I can find is what I lack.
Gaps fill me,
Substance illusive, in an ambiguous recluse,
Full of intrusive whispers.
I want to disown my own heart,
Part from the spark that smouldered
Into this regurgitating mess.
Instead of alternating between
Twisted highs and lows,
I want to try and dispose-
The stagnating hatred,
That continues to flow.
Slow me down as I notice the room
Filling with a stench of the same doom.
The realisation takes place,
I’ve graced another creation with the past.
Deterred and unable to find the words
To describe this absurd cosmic dread
79

That I can’t shake from my hexagonal head.
I borrow lost lines of fake sorrow
From false poets, riding the burden of tomorrow.
I just wallow here, fear scarred
In the depths of my eyes,
Accompanied with a cackle,
A last laugh of demise.
I’ll just canter on with horse and knives,
Blunt and dull from the years of lies.
And one day when
I accept this stained bliss,
I’ll finally take it to my wrist.
But not today,
Something insists a delay
A blink in the blurry distance,
Carves out an unfounded resistance,
An unattainable hope, of a fire burning, unexplainable.
In the turning of the world on its side,
And the tide falls down and collides with the sky,
And I need to know I’ve tried to widen,
My misguided perception, instead of snidely lying with pity and scorn.
So I pause.
And go back to my first line,
And blank paper still stares back.
So I rack my brains,
I find a door and have a look in,
But all I can see is another self-indulgent poem.
80

The Roadsides of India
There are no tears left anymore.
Love’s lost, hidden behind closed doors,
Roadsides now grace bodies of the young,
Nowhere to go, nowhere they came from.
Dowsed in acid, mutated to be sold-
Limbs and bodies butchered- ready to mould.
Blind girls beg, purring with gloom.
A darkness inflicted- conceited wounds.
Contrasts fashion a vile portrait.
Stenches of injustice and crooked fate,
Corruption controls the turn of the sky,
Hopes and dreams smoulder in the grate of lies.
Souls of a generation trickle into smoke,
Hearts and their being eternally broke.
Despair and pain sit deep in lost eyes,
As another perished slum life slowly dies.
81

A Humble Vow.
I
I kneel at his feet and beg for mercy,
Beg him to see his humble, loyal Queen.
I bid him to rid the whore from his eye.
Holding myself steady, I keep his gaze.
I search his hard eyes, his wrinkling face for
His cherub cheeks, and his youthful smile.
He is an old King, a desperate man
Without an heir. He is a King bewitched.
I say to him and I say to the court,
‘I take God to witness that I have been
A true, modest and obedient wife...
I take God to be my judge, I came to
You as a true maid, without touch of man!’
I beg him for my honour, for our daughter.
I see his men, indifferent to my cause,
Talk amongst each other, shuffle papers.
Henry plays with the rings on his fingers,
I can see the grief, the guilt in his eye -
I must force it into his loyal heart!
Lauren Smith
Third year Creative Writing and Film Studies student.
82
I can see the grief, the guilt in his eye -
I must force it into his loyal heart!
He shows no interest. He sees only lust.
I rise and I stride from this corrupt court.
They beckon me; they summon me but my
Ladies drown their cries with adoring cheers.
I stride from the court and do not look back.
II
I have never known such pain as I have
Since I have stepped foot on English soil.
I have always done what was bid of me.
I have always been the docile puppet
At the mercy of men who have too much
Power, and don’t know what to do with it.
I married into this family once
Before for an alliance between men.
I married the young Prince Arthur when
We were only children – aged just sixteen.
We slept side by side seven times, to no avail,
before the sweating sickness came.
The Prince and I fought for our lives in Wales,

The Prince and I fought for our lives in the
Treacherous, marshlands of Wales and
fought well.
My husband died after only five months.
There were many times when I wished it
Upon me, I prayed to God to kill me
So that I could be at peace, but I know
That he was only building my strength for
What I was to bear later in my life,
So I would be a strong Queen of England.
I was promised to his brother and then
Cast aside before the almighty God.
I spent years at the mercy of two men
Who squabbled for money, squabbled for
greed.
Such a sin and such anguish for my fate –
To be passed from place to place, to have no
Money given to me by even my
Father, King of Spain. Such shame to behold
Upon his daughter, and such illness came
Over me because of it. I pawned my
Most precious belongings just to afford
My servants, my ladies, my food, my home!
When it was decided our marriage
Was never to be, I found hope again.
Our God took King Henry VII’s life
And his son upheld his promise to me.
He came to me when in my apartments
And bid my ladies to leave. He bent close
And asked, ‘Will you be my wife and my
Queen?’
His foreign tongue, most beautiful to hear,
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I gladly accepted and we married.
I stand before my silver looking glass
On this most wondrous Midsummer’s Day,
About to be crowned the Queen of England.
I wear a graceful gown of white satin,
And my hair is left loose, long down my
back.
I am most Godly to behold today.
I was a wife of his brother, but now
I am the wife of King Henry VIII.
III
‘Do you grant to be held and observed the
Just laws and customs that the community
Of your realm shall determine, and will
you,
So far as in you lies, defend and strengthen
Them to the honour of God?’ A voice so
Thick and powerful, it echoes as though
God speaks directly through him, directly
To me as I sit on my throne, high up
On a platform, holding my husband’s hand,
My King’s hand. I respond with confidence.
‘I grant and promise them.’ And that I do.
My golden crown fits nicely on my head,
The ring slips gently upon my finger,
The sceptre is strong, grasped in my right
hand -
The hand of the Queen Consorts of England.
God shines warmly over us as we walk
The streets together under canopies
Held by barons to Westminster Abbey.

Our people have gathered - they sing,
dance,
They adore their Queen, their Spanish
Princess!
The beautiful city is decorated,
Festooned in green and white, banners
draping,
The girls wave branches of white may for
us
As we walk through the tall archway into
The beautiful, staggering Westminster Hall.
We celebrate with a lavish banquet
In a hall stretching tall enough to touch
The Heavens! Golden candlesticks flare
Worthlessly against the glare of sunlight.
Our thrones sit at the head with the light of
The lord shining through the grandest
window.
We feast on a hundred dishes of the
Most extravagant meats and fruits, we
dance
‘Til the early hours as newly-weds.
Together we have it all, the kingdom,
The love of our people, and now we need
An heir. We spend our summer in passion,
Frolicking and whispering desires.
I earn the love of my precious ladies,
I learn the language of my new realm,
I yearn for the blessing of a baby.
My husband is fit and strong, he spends his
Days jousting, hunting, and fighting. At
night
84
He bursts into my rooms, pink and white
cheeks,
A charming smile on his cherubic face
Cleverly disguised to surprise his wife
And I of course am shocked each time! The
boy
Never tires of it, and I never
Tire of pleading him to take care
When he fights and plays until the sun falls.
IV
It is an end to a perfect Summer.
My ladies flutter around me, I glow,
I am with child, but we wait to tell the King.
We must be sure; it is of the utmost
Importance to bear our cherub King an
Heir, and we mustn’t disappoint him with
False hopes. I pray to God to bless me with
A boy, to bless me with a strong, healthy
Baby for our most gracious King Henry.
When the nights are long and the days so
cold,
I coo to him one early evening
To cheer his spirit, ‘I have news, Henry.’
He kisses my brow and runs through the
hall,
We party and feast, he is delighted!
But when our first child is born, our first
girl,
She is too pale and quiet... I hold her
In my arms and I grieve, shamelessly.

I pray God that next time, our child will
live.
It is not long before Henry finds his
Way to my chamber. It is only months
Before I am blessed with a child again.
Exhausted from conspiring with Spain,
Fighting the French for my King’s heritage,
We can rest and ready for England’s heir.
When the time comes, I am locked into the
Darkness of my chamber and I am told
To lie and to rest. I dare not move, not
Even when I am in pain, I must rest
For this child. My pain is much worse this
time,
But when I feel my child leave me, I pause...
And it cries. My baby, my boy, he lives.
I have an heir for the throne of England.
Henry is delighted, England is too.
On this New Year’s Day, the tower explodes
With the sound of the guns, bells toll all
over
England, London alights with bonfires
And the Kingdom’s people rejoice with
wine!
Our worries are over, England is strong.
On Twelfth Night our son, Henry, is
christened.
We surpass any festivity with
This day, dedicated to our new son.
Henry is elated, he brands himself
Sir Loyal Heart, as compliment to me.
Our pavilion is endorsed with HK,
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Our initials in gold on his sleeves and
Clothes. We celebrate most divinely for
Our beautiful baby boy, Henry,
Who little did we know is fighting for
Breath as we sing and we dance to his
death.
I pray God that next time, our child will
live.
V
My knees are hard from the cold chapel
floor.
My heart aches for our loss. It is callous
To play with the strings of a woman’s heart.
God has betrayed me, and betrayed Henry.
Henry is so confounded that his men
Do not even give their sympathy for
Our Prince Henry. They do not dare to
speak
Of him. It is as though the little boy
Never existed. But there is still time.
Henry realises this before I.
He distracts himself - planning wars against
France, and entertaining women of the
court.
I turn a blind eye. He loves me, I know.
The musicians play his songs written for
Me, the lords and ladies twirl to our words.
When he wraps his hand around their
young waists,
It is my gold initial on his sleeve
That presses their skin, for I am his wife.

It is I he dotingly returns to.
I smile at his arrival, I smile at
The sight of his cherub face, lit for me -
Sir Loyal Heart. Though his chambers may
be
Open for whores, only his heart opens
For me. I hold him softly as he sleeps,
His auburn curls are peppered with spices,
His skin scented faintly with lavender.
He whispers to me in the candle light,
He tells me his worries and his secrets,
And one night, swathed in the cool silk
sheets
I whisper to him, ‘I am with child’.
When Henry leaves for France I am left as
Regent. I am left to bear a child
And left to govern an unstable realm.
The Summer is long and I fight to hide
My ageing, aching body from the courts,
But I still hear their whispers in the halls,
Bouncing from the stones, fluttering behind
Tapestries. Autumn comes. It is yet months
Before I am due to give birth but I’m
Overcome with pain. I hide in my rooms,
I hide from the voices. I kneel and pray.
I promise God to withstand and bear this
Insufferable pain if through it I
Can hold a child of my own in my arms,
To watch and guide him as he grows to be
Crowned the next glorious King of England.
I am deep in prayer when I feel the warm
Blood ooze between my legs. I feel it soak
86
My thick, velvet gown, and stain the stone
floor.
I pray God that next time, our child will
live.
VI
I feel it is a miracle that I
Fall pregnant again, and so quickly!
The leaves have not yet turned crisp,
servants
Do not light our castle rooms ‘til supper
When Henry returns from his tennis games.
Though this time there is less hope and
worship.
Henry bestows his adoration upon
Me as always, but with less fervour now.
He departs from my rooms early, a glint
In the eye of the lady he will be
Joining later – a young, fair newly wed
While I stay alone, wrinkled and swollen.
Though his time I feel it is different.
I pray to God, this time our child will live.
I enter seclusion when the time comes,
The curtains are drawn, candles are lit and
I stare aimlessly at the thin strings of
Grey smoke for weeks, until the dire pain
comes.
My ladies wipe the sweat from my face as
The doctor shoves and heaves my tender
limbs.
I have never felt so grateful when I
Hear the desperate cries of my daughter.

I hold her in my arms and I thank God.
I hear Henry’s excited voice behind
The heavy, oak door. He calls out to me,
Peering inside, and then hurling himself
To my waiting side. We name her Mary.
Henry hides his disappointment as well
As he hides his identity in his
Masquerades. He tells me, ‘It is a girl,
But surely now boys will follow, my love.’
She has his cherub cheeks. She has my eyes.
My ladies try to take her from me but
I cannot part from her. She is wondrous.
We christen her at Greenwich, we mark her
Birth with great celebrations, we mask the
King’s, the court’s, the countries
disappointment.
I do not care for them, I adore her.
Still my Sir Loyal Heart is unwavering.
Henry is determined for an heir but
I am thirty two years now - I am old.
I manage to conceive for the sixth time.
My body is weak, my back and limbs throb,
I doubt I can withstand another birth.
When they rip the baby from my legs, I
Know the baby is weak, I hear it rasp.
The sixth small body is wrapped up in cloth,
To be the fifth buried. I do not speak
Nor listen. Henry does not tend to me.
Another girl. Dead within a few days.
VII
I spend much time with beautiful Mary,
87
She has men and women running about
Her as though she is a Queen already –
And at just three years! She carries herself
Like a Princess with plump, steady legs and
Elegant stature, though I am scolded
For encouraging her to giggle and
Play too much – she has a duty, even
At this young age. I see in her the best
Of Henry and I, there is no doubt that
She will be a most powerful lady.
But alas, she is a lady, and what man
Could be eminent enough to follow
And rule as well as our Sir Loyal Heart,
Our most gracious, almighty King Henry.
Mary can rule as well as he, but a
Woman’s job is to bear England its heirs.
My pregnancies are shorter and shorter.
The King is beside himself with worry –
‘What if I am being punished by God?
What if I am not worthy?’ he asks me.
I soothe his gentle heart, but he does not
Listen to me much anymore. He turns,
One day. ‘I am considering Henry
Fitzroy,’ he tells me, most coldly. I am
Aggrieved! He would overturn his own
Legitimate daughter for this bastard!
I cannot bear to hear his words, I won’t
Allow it! ‘Mary is our daughter, there
Is still time yet for a boy,’ I demand,
Though in my heart I know it may not be.
A bastard as King, what a dishonour
For Mary, what dishonour for England!

If I did not have to waste seven years
Mourning Arthur, and waiting for Henry
I could have had a nursery filled with
Heirs – but Henry VII, may he rest
In peace, left me wandering England in
Poverty while he pondered his Spanish
Alliance. It is a sin to back out
Of a betrothal – maybe this is our
Punishment. Another pregnancy lost,
Before the year is out from the stress of
This bastard child. This bastard child who
dines,
Plays, educates, with my Mary, as Prince!
I have closed my eyes to his pleasures with
Other women as a good Queen should do,
But I cannot close my eyes to this act.
He knows it, and he shall have to bear it
As I have bore his children and his games.
VIII
The boy is forgotten. Henry has found
Another interest to distract him.
Our daughter, Mary, is a true Princess,
Most enchanting, most righteous and
divine!
I love her dearly, and Henry is quite
Taken with her also. She reminds him
Of himself when he was a young King and
Free from the loneliness of silent work,
Silent study, and a silent childhood.
She carries herself humbly for her court,
So that he sees me in her too. She is
88
Most pious, praying numerous times a
Day, and the courts adore her. They send
her
Lavish gifts, they write tales and songs for
her.
They sing their praises and thank God for
her.
I feel Henry has accepted her and
Accepted his lack of a male heir. I
Spend much more time with my favoured
ladies,
Sewing for the poor, crafting tapestries,
Reading for hours until I am stout
With knowledge. I admit, his eyes are most
Wandering since I have departed from
The court life. My looking glass uncovers
My lines, my greying skin, and my coarse
hair.
I have not aged as well as he, and he has
Girls who prance around him with hair of
silk
And the supple skin of maidens. Henry
Tends to me dotingly as much as they,
I suppose. Though my heart shall forever
Belong to him, my loyal, cherub King.
It is a great day when I find that I’m
Pregnant once more. Henry abandons his
Latest love folly – the elder Boleyn,
Yet another lady from my waiting.
As the weeks pass there is no blood - a
Blessing, but I dread that there is also
No child. Can it be I am already

Passed my child-bearing age? Henry will
soon
Realise, the doctors question me but
I do not know where the bump of my
Belly is, I do not know what I am
Punished for... I see the court whispering.
I sense their spies circling me, I shiver
In my chambers because I know they are
Pressed against the thick, dark wood,
listening.
They consider their rewards and betray me.
They have told him and he is furious.
He has no heir. He has only Mary.
I cannot calm him. There is no hope left.
We do not pray to God for a next time.
IX
This affiliation with the Boleyn
Girl has become something quite different.
Henry has abandoned Sir Loyal Heart,
And now he pronounces his motto as
‘Declare I dare not’. Is this for her, Anne?
She has denied him, yet this entices
Him. He stalks her, writes her secret letters,
He has bestowed Anne her own apartments!
I am alone in this scandalous court.
Mary has been sent from me and I dare
Not leave Henry alone to his sorceress.
In my rooms, Anne deals cards for her and
I.
I feel the ladies watching intently,
I struggle to retain my appearance,
89
But I lean forward and utter to her,
‘You have good hap to stop at a King, Anne,
But you are not like others. You will have
All or none.’ She looks at me and she slips,
Her sleeve rides up to reveal her blemish,
Her sixth finger, her mark of a witch.
Others would cross themselves, but I
refrain.
She is a clever girl, denying a
King to get what she wants, to make lust
look
Like love. She does not play games like a
whore,
She uses dark magic, worthy of death.
I hear rumours that Henry doubts our
Marriage, I hear that he wishes to try
Us before a court of law. I am dumb,
Stunned, affronted, I am almost sick!
There is not much time. I alert the Pope,
The Emperor and Rome - they must stop
this.
My letters are barely thrust into the
Palms of my Spanish ally when Henry
Comes to me in my closet. He bids my
Court to leave us. He is shamefaced. I wait,
He has prepared himself. I lean myself
Against the back of my chair, I grip the gold
Until my hands turn white. He drops and
kneels.
‘Learned and pious men have advised us to
Separate, Catherine. We are living
Together in sin. I should not have wed

My brother’s wife; we are punished by
God.’
I cannot believe it to be true, he
Would have our marriage, our love nulled,
he would
Basterdize our daughter, he would insult
And dishonour me... My emotions are
Suddenly too sharp to stifle. Hot tears
Mask my face, my words are inaudible.
Henry cannot calm me. His excuses
Come too fast and defeated, he withdraws.
X
I fear that I have sought myself further
Injustice by pacing from the courts at
Blackfriars. I did not even return
The following day. I refuse to be
Humiliated before a hostile
Court and prejudice judges, when our case
Is still to be tried in Rome. I have now
Realised that I am not fighting men.
I am fighting the devil himself and
The witch who cursed them all with her
magic.
Henry’s court falls apart around him, he
Loses his once favoured men due to my
Refusals, but I will rescue his soul.
I will save him from retched damnation.
Henry and I now only see each other
At formal events when we are civil.
I remain the dutiful, humble wife,
And ignore the slights as Anne is granted
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My precious, heavy jewellery, jewels of
A Queen. She is no Queen and the people
Loathe her. She presents herself to them and
They reject her. They name her a foul witch,
They hurl foods and faeces at her and the
Soldiers struggle to shield her. If only
Henry would see. We have been hunting at
Windsor much longer than usual this year.
I ponder over Henry’s intentions
As I mend his best shirts. I long for his
Touch and affections. My mind was
engrossed
With reclaiming Henry’s eye, that I quite
Forgot his qualities that I pine for.
‘Your Grace?’ I turn to the angst face of
My lady. I know the worst, but nod to
Her to continue. ‘His Highness has left.
Anne and his court are among him,’ she
cries.
I stand and cross to the far window where
His men are still loading his gear onto
Carts to be brought behind. ‘Never mind
that,’
My voice firm, yet inside I’m utterly
Devastated and I must stand still to
Cease my bones from quivering like a sad
Child. ‘Fetch me paper and my sealing wax,
I shall wish him Godspeed as a wife should.’
My lady bows and departs to leave me.
I fall into my chair. My hands fumble
With the needle. My fingers slip over
The silk. I work leisurely, astray to

The activities around me. I do
Not notice the paper before me, the
Voices of folk, nor the dusk descending.
XI
I am detained at Ampthill. I am asked
To renounce my title in bargain for
Some indulgence. They underestimate
Me. I survived years in poverty and
Poor castles at Henry VII’s hand –
I can withstand this neglect from his Son.
‘See reason Catherine,’ Lord Mountjoy
pleads.
I still refuse. ‘He married her two months
Ago! Your cause is lost! His love for you
Is lost, my Lady.’ I see no pity,
91
No compassion upon his pointed face.
He leaves me with warm ale, and I leave it
To waste as my five years have been wasted.
Over the following months, I feel my
Heart and body wilt. My insides are as
Cold as a lake in winter, yet my brow
Burns like a stone floor in stifling sunshine.
I think of Mary, how I yearn for her...
God calls me, but he can wait for a while.
I must write my final words to my husband.
I forgive you, my husband, and may God
Pardon you also. Be a good Father
To Mary - Care for our daughter, our heir.
And lastly, Henry, I make this vow, that
Mine eyes desire you above all things.

The Pen of Life
Time is an indelible pen.
We write lines and lines
of meaningless pains.
We crumple the thin paper of our hearts,
we rip it,
we toss it,
only to get it back
from a bin full of drafts
full of trash
to rewrite better senseless lines,
and pain after page
and draft after trash
confidence is regained.
Time, the pen of life, is endless
but it is greedy.
Manon Pilarz
Third Year Creative Writing and Media student.
92

Its ink is ITS inks.
Black in our hands
but blank on the page.
We know we have so much of it,
but time refuses us to waste it
Use your ink preciously and maybe,
- maybe -
you won’t run out of it.
Though,
if you run out of ink,
do not worry, be pleased,
it means you fully drank your life
to the last drop of ink.
93

Borders
Pete Campbell
Third year Creative Writing and Film student.
Hello mate, spoke the semiotics from eyes induced by hate,
As each hand trundled in with water-mill heavy precision;
In the hope of squeezing bone to air in dormant style.
Across the hardwood table housed by public license,
The point of contention watched on with ignorance,
Focusing on two good men born to paths quite separate:
And out of passion for Her, have been brought to an emirate of cohesion,
Where a land battle seems surely inevitable –
Introducing the Bums of Navarone, and wait
…watch this space…
One figure holds Queen and Country close, taking up arms on order;
Opposite a verbose Brummel of alter ages
With hope for different freedoms written up his arm.
What tender and eclectic taste, she must have in all her men –
94

Forsooth quite the skill, to claim stake in both their hearts
And still head held stellar; with expectation to wed rather than reject.
The initial parry has to face question in the gleaming of violence,
More so for the prolific dainty whose skill in fists had not faced war,
And whose sumptuous blood would meet the floor, first.
The fop had no chance and felt at the imperative play of strings,
The esoteric girl with halo had failed –
In the knowledge that his whole was hers and she had left it by the rail side.
Cecil Grove
Red buildings are split with slides of purple on corners,
And balconies, risking nothing but life, hold flowers, reluctant.
Across the alley of Cecil Grove windows stare down at elder counterparts
With cream trim and walkways suited to amateur tight rope-
Artists that resided two centuries ago.
The horizon fell a long time ago, only to have glaring towers supersede its place.
Emerging broken, like a pawn from the battlefield
Comes a girl; her form barely more than shadows,
Following eyes that snake from the darkness; slim, slow and sliding -
While deathly glints shimmer in the cracks of Cecil Grove.
Torn lace hides one shoulder with aplomb and what could only be eternity,
Highlighting empty pupils that glare forthright
At the injustice she lay in her own lap,
95

That will hold her down to the paving evermore.
Pawed digits fumble tumbling copper with gramercy –
As the idea of gorging the dragon is once more resolute.
Moons drop again and again, and any realisation of nights passed
Would be from her tender waist.
The curtains close on Cecil Grove while she holes up into holes, barely whole.
Gentlewomen and Lords, all shy past with a questionable authority.
Here she lies in the house which never saw the rising sun,
And while deprecation falls from the sky, how could she possibly ever run?
In her home of Cecil Grove.
Base pink, to gaunt black to peroxide grey – until the lights turn off she’s here to stay.
Realising Receipts
Terracotta tips, slip past orang-utan lights of industry.
What an encapsulating frame they behold,
In stupors of steam and lethargic hormone.
Petulant leaves hang from the bodice of what they say they want,
But baritone mess from the ground deems nothing.
Dig, and dig, and dig they do.
Pulling up our roots for currency of others,
And the comfort, of disillusioned mothers.
Ten pounds for a morphine shot and the resonating words, are “fuck off”.
Two hundred or nothing and you’ll still lose your soul,
Where’s the worth in that?
96

Back to the Walmart of roads, or transport of rails
And Balfour Beatty is there,
While photos are taken and nobody cares
About Potter’s Bar five years on.
What are lives lost at a corporeal cost?
Glimpses of nothing is all you can tip your hat to;
When the fields of expanse are the very bars
That kept more glorious men in than time.
Feral veins bulge at the idea of one thing; something.
And its bursting at the knowledge where seams overlap the cardboard cut-out ambition of life.
Eyes plummet to that stomach feeling
Upon realising the fingers on the hand in front, are yours –
And they’re cracked.
Sentimental Leaves
Sentimental leaves that show photographic ink
Of a life you never had –
The fuck ups you wish were on your own head;
While dirty floor boards claw up your legs.
Cash money spread around proud trilbies
With breasts behind shoulders to the left,
And tears on the book cover which suggest
Sockets that no one can see.
97

Imaginings that the signature and its history,
Detailed on the fighting brown front,
Shows your life in its fictional glory
Off in a Shambles.
Down the road from a fantasised Brick Lane,
The Queen of Hoxton held sixty happy heads in her hand
And more than one person in the crowd hoped for the stage,
Dismissing their lives, gasping testimonies aloud.
Is it the stress of longing? That led to
Inadvertent Crack hopes in dusty Paris hotel rooms,
Hiding from the sun in baths,
As your brother screams behind the door.
Ceramic that once had a patent shine is
Now the only vehicle for blood,
Split bone and worried eyes
All washed up in lies that stain.
A friendship built on reverie and White
Was lost in a delusion fuelled by Brown.
Which for the why, loved ones can’t understand,
You need to replicate soon and now.
The smashed Martell left a little seat for you
As hallucinations lift and you’re found alone, crying;
In a sultry bathroom that the suburbs own -
With shocks of someone else’s past in your hair.
98

Fight
There’s this polaroid of an old couple,
laying dusty in a dusty antique shop;
it’s got a measly price scrawled across the back of it
in pencil.
and I see us there,
with the world brimming in our eyes;
forty years’ time.
I wanted you to fight.
I took a pencil sharpener to my chest,
Raimy Large
Second year Creative Writing and Film Studies student.
and I watched as the tiny spirals of muscle flake away, and settle on the ground.
It reminded me of the time that
I strung up every piece of you,
around my being,
pride welling in my chest;
wrapped in this purple shawl.
And how my eardrums,
twiddled their thumbs,
waiting for your call.
99

There’s this magnificent crater
stripping back the edges of realism in South Africa.
I fear if I see it without you,
it will swallow me whole
and the wind will always sting.
I’d beckon the perimeter for you,
and wrap it around your finger
like an engagement ring,
I just wanted you to fight.
I still dream about that time
when your ecstasy flooded
my fingertips,
and when we were fused together by our own fumbling.
no jacket will feel as stunning wrapped around my back
as your legs did.
Come, come on princess,
we can both bleed.
I’ve got everything I am dismantled and placed on opposite ends of a seesaw.
You’re sat on the end that doesn’t want to taste the ground,
at least you were,
before my eyes became glued to the skies.
I hate to see you not fighting.
I wish I hadn’t had to write these lines because
the earth never had to explain to the moon why the two of them needed each other.
To stop the tides from hurtling into our lives
and crashing down the houses we used our paper-thin limbs to build.
100

I’m having nightmares about Troy,
that night where all that hung in the air was bleak.
And you look devastatingly beautiful as a Greek.
Our Body - Sonnet
I took the blows of the wind, slapping against my skin.
Like an old man’s cough, like the air’s own sin.
The pebbles whisper and hum beneath Our body
from the cathedral of my throat, hold me
like the Bible holds its molested pages,
and the sea, that turbulent lover, cages
the tide and wills her to his arms
until we lose Ourselves, until our fingerprints know calm.
We’d danced to the very edge and held a gaze with infinity.
I clothed myself in metaphors and waited for you to lead me
like a lamb. Like a deaf man holds the composer.
Like the North and South poles; begging to be closer.
Down here... Love wasn’t meant for me,
You left me here naked; I thought You knew how it felt to bleed.
101

Joy
I lay beside, myself with grief.
Feeling not that steely sorrow's capture.
No longer do your words tear,
As they tear down my eardrums.
The Berlin wall crashed softer than your home truths.
Finally fitted curtains block the invading dawn.
As you lay to rest so too, do I.
Free from the weight of criticism.
I lay to begin a child’s liberation,
Discovery permits my tender steps.
Such babies’ feet in grown up's shoes.
I falter and stumble like the fly drowning in wine,
A delicious freedom in which to sink or flourish.
In grief I do not bask, but in relief
I lower a chipped warriors’ mask.
Sarah Bean
Third year Creative Writing and English student.
102

The Blaze
Over the haze of smoke she caught his glance
She was his target, he was her chance.
Blown out pupils are a too clear sign
As he staggered over like a puppy on lino.
He fell into her, now secure in that tight warm space.
She’d removed the black lace barrier,
And so painted smiles on his face.
The pace of the party inside was, crawling
So boring, some of the others were snoring.
But the pair moved fast. Neither tired.
She was desperately trying to stamp out the fire,
On the end of his cock.
Flames dying, the ship arrived to dock,
The thick white cream was the final sign,
He nodded his head and she muttered “it’s fine”
She replaced the black lace fire blockade
And slowly the cream began to dry and fade.
Stiffened drips, aired out on her thigh,
She barely saw the next guys’ eye.
There was another blaze she had to hose down,
She was the best damn firefighter in this town.
As the evening drew to a satisfied end
She couldn’t careless that she was no one’s friend.
103

Too Afraid to go Insane
Drop your hat Sir,
Handwritten delegates from your own life swim
Around your hat Sir.
A splattered selection still float in insanity’s waters
Past / Present / Future.
Take a seat Sir,
As the mass are howling at the rubbish van
Driving down your road Sir.
That’s your wife, daughter, dog trying to free angels from the recycling
Laugh / Cry / Turn a blind eye.
Cup of tea Sir?
The shop keepers’ wrists are scarred with white lines of sorrow.
You know why Sir.
Your grandmother met her fatal end with a frail gripped red razor.
Grief / Relief / At peace.
Must you leave Sir?
The patients are tucking down to fruit coloured wallpaper for dinner
Won’t you join Sir?
You haven't eaten a melon in years, sir; see the holes around you Sir.
Madness / Hysteria / Normality.
104

Illumination
Tides curl up over the lips
Of the hollow’s cavernous maw.
Wash over wash of disappointment
Leaves nothing but pebbles dancing
Under the fleeting waves.
The ashen cliff walls erode, dissolve
Into the sea foam
Gathered upon the creaking timbers
Of a shipwreck trembling
Beneath a fading moonlight kiss.
Hidden in winter, set
Within the craggy peaks,
A gentle egg nestles
Inside a down and wood crown –
Sheltered, protected from the tempest below.
Sophie Goodall
Third year Creative Writing and English student.
105

But watching over
With an optimistic eye,
The tiny bulb awaits the first droplets
Of sunlight to rain through
From the tenebrous storm clouds above.
106

An Idyll of a Memory
I remember the water
Sliding by the painted scene.
The suns glow gave a celestial
Glitter to your form.
Your head rested upon my chest,
My arm under yours, my hand resting on your waist.
Our feet were bare and the sweet apple grass
Caressed our skin lovingly.
I remember the trees
Bowing over the glade where you slept.
And, as you dreamt
A fawn entered the picture –
Completely at peace, it
Nibbled affectionately at the
Daisies and lilies that decorated
Our scene.
It raised its head to gaze at us.
Imagine, not fifteen feet away!
Will Sherwood
Second year Creative Writing and student.
107

With care it approached, I knew it was watching you.
Maybe it sensed how tranquil you were.
The fawn inclined its neck
And breathed in your scent.
I found myself suddenly staring, deep
Into those thick, glossy black eyes.
In a moment that I shall never forget
An image passed between the fawn and myself -
I saw your soul, ablaze with the light of Angels!
Within my mind I witnessed what He saw.
Gone! – Before my eyes opened
Like the water, out of our scene.
Now, whenever I behold your form
I remember what I witnessed -
I remember the fawn,
I remember that you are God’s Brightest Angel.
108

109

Empathy
Synopsis.
Naomi Spicer
Third year Creative Writing and Drama student.
Connected by their experiences of abuse, SKY and BRUCE find comfort and solitude in each
other’s presence. We walk with them on their journey through a student-teacher relationship as
they fight against head and heart to make sense of life. But at what cost do they satisfy their
curiosity?
110

Cast of Characters
Bruce Harrison: Brisk. Physically abused
by his father. 16 years
old. In year 11 at school.
Frequently skips lessons
and is known for smoking in
school. Has either a shaved
head or extremely styled
hair. Bruce’s crudeness and
playfulness brings light to
the play.
Sky Johnson: Teacher. Moved to the city
to avoid the distraction
of surfing. Family friend
with Headteacher. Was abused
by uncle. Is 24years old.
Graduated one year ago.
Was fired from last job for
taking sick days to surf.
Anne Lawson: Headteacher. 30 years old.
Extremely successful. Looks
down on Sky, almost with
pity. Always excels. Knows
about Sky’s previous abuse.
Got Sky the job at her
school.
Timothy Smith: Peer of Bruce. Geeky with
few friends. Speaks before
thinking. Will do anything
to fit in. Sounds awkward
when trying to talk in a
similar way to Bruce. Swear
words used by Timothy are a
particularly humorous moment.
16 years old.
Mitchell Harrison: Bruce’s father. Thug. Lots
of facial hair and tattoos.
Intimidating.
111

ACT I
Scene 1
The stage is set on two levels. The top level
can be raised in any way but there needs to be a
significant difference. Center-stage are three
or four rows of school desks. Door stage-left
that is used as a door into "BRUCE’s house".
Door stage-right with ’BIKES’ sign to symbolise
a bike shed. This is also the exit/entrance into
the classroom.
This play is written with only 5 characters.
Adding school children to fill the scenes with
movement, or to add SKY’s father in the abuse
scene would be plausible.
TIMOTHY and BRUCE are at one of the desks. Books
scattered around them. Both wear school uniform
but BRUCE’s uniform is considerably more
relaxed.
112

TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
Roulade? It’s easy? Mum always says that it’s a real
party pleaser for any occas..
What the fuck is row-lade?
It comes from France, they mix cheese with garlic and
stuff before rolling it up to make a roll. They make
cakes out of it too, chocolate logs and the like.
They do look cool.
I really couldn’t give a flying fuck, I’m not gonna
be making it anyway so you just pick whatever you
wanna make innit.
Well yeah, I mean, that’s what they say, I say we
just cook like custard or something and blag it, who
cares, right?
ANNE and SKY enter the classroom. ANNE wears a
suit. SKY wears relaxed clothing with lots of
colourful jewellery.
(Slowly.) Fucking hell.
113

ANNE:
SKY:
ANNE:
SKY:
ANNE:
SKY:
So this is your classroom. I’m sure you’ll be fine,
as long as you don’t go getting up to your old
tricks. You know I’ve put my neck on the line giving
you this job.
Anyway, how are the family?
Yeah, I won’t let you down, London couldn’t be
further from the sea anyway so don’t worry about
that! The family are fine, same old.
Have you heard anything from...
No.
Sorry, I just, anyway, make yourself comfortable. Oh,
and the lad at the back, next to the geeky looking
boy? Watch him, complete trouble maker. Just ignore
the constant profanities and pretty much anything he
says and you’ll have no problems.
Oh ok, thanks. What time’s break again?
114

ANNE:
SKY:
SKY:
10.15.
Perfect. See you then.
Cut lights on lower stage and bring lights up on
raised platform so that audience attention
transfers.
I’m not doing this.
I will tell. They will all know what a pig you are.
Please, please.
(Desperate - trying to make ordinary
conversation.)
How’s Auntie Mary? Is she well? Is your marriage
doing well? It’s twenty-five years soon isn’t it?
How are my cousins? Is Daisy moving schools this
September?
Is she still surfing like I taught her? I will have
to see her again this summer.
Why do you do this? You have a wife! Please, please
just leave me. No, no I won’t. I’ll scream.
115

TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
This can’t go on any longer. This does not make you a
man. Just because you are stronger. It makes you
weak, pathetic and disgusting. You are disgusting, a
disgusting human being. Fuck off, fuck off, fuck off.
Please.
(Screams word:)
Cut back to main stage area, taking the raised
area back to black. BRUCE and TIMOTHY stand in
"Bike Shed". BRUCE has a black eye.
Maybe we should have gone completely out of school,
makes it more, erm, dangerous?
(In American accent:)
School sucks ass man.
Mate, you’re not freaking out about bunking off are
you?!
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
Course not, as if!
You look like you’re about to cry!
Why would I cry? I’ve never been caught before!
116

BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
You have to have bunked before to have been caught?
Fag?
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
Since when do you smoke?
I always smoke, just don’t make as much of a scene
out of it as you.
(Regrets this, worried he has
offended.)
I mean like, I just, my ’rents aren’t as cool as
yours.
So, what you doing after exams?
Exams? ’Aint taking them. After school "officially"
finishes? World is my fucking oyster baby, whatever
the fuck I wanna do. Australia, America, New Zealand,
Vegas, whatever appeals.
Wow, I’ve never been abroad.
You’re fucking kidding me? HA! I go abroad all the
117

TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
time, that’s why I’m off school mostly. Can’t tell
school that though, they worry that I’m too spoilt,
that the travelling will make me realise what a pile
of wank education is innit.
Yeah, school is...wank. Innit.
BRUCE smiles at TIMOTHY trying to mimic him.
So, same place next break?
Nah mate, no can do, got art next period.
Huh?
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
Have u seen Miss Johnson? New art teacher?
No, I’m in set 5, we just get Mrs Gunn, the one with
the massive bottom and huge boobies that shouts a
lot.
Ah mate! That’s probably why then; set 5 don’t get
hotties. You wanna get yourself up to set 4, she’s
fucking unbelievable. I’ve never seen an ass that is
so perfectly rounded...
118

ANNE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
ANNE:
BRUCE:
or a rack that...
(Mimes with hands.)
ANNE ENTERS
Boys. Are the bikes OK?
Fine, perfect, erm, just checking none had been
stolen.
Is it me, Miss, or can you smell smoke? Fucking
disgusting habit if you ask me, we smelt it and came
to check it out, nice like that, us two. If anything
we should get like ’star of the week’ or summink?
Laughs and exits.
BRUCE AND TIMOTHY enter classroom through
stage-right door. SKY is bent over the desk
slightly.
Fuck me. Please. Oh my god, I think I’m gonna blow.
Is that not just the ripest arse you have ever seen?
119

TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
SKY:
BRUCE:
Shhh! She might hear you!
What’s wrong Timmy? Got a hard on for Miss Johnson?
No, course not, I have to get to my class.
But you agree right? Fucking goddess.
Cor, yeah, she is right hot, like, phwoar. Erm,
(mumbles)
I’m going to be late.
TIMOTHY leaves through classroom door.
Right guys, today we’re studying portrait with
different mediums.
Can I use my body Miss? I feel I really need to
express my portrait with my body, you know, feel the
curves.
BRUCE winks.
120

SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
You can use your fingers to paint if you feel that
pre-school methods are the only thing you’re capable
of Bruce, sure. Enjoy that.
Miss, did you just own me? You lad!
The bell rings to symbolise the end of class.
Bruce, stay behind please.
(Talking to audience as if they are
classmates:)
Told you she wouldn’t be able to resist! Miss Johnson
fucking wants a piece of my hard...
Bruce, what happened to your eye?
You should see the other guy darlin’!
Is it from a fight?
It was nothing, some guy rubbed me up the wrong way,
121

SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
got all up in my grill and shit.
How old was this person?
Mate, I don’t have a fucking clue yeah? 18, 28, 38?
All I know is he was a prick, so I decked him.
What did your parents say?
You do realise that as a teacher at this school
you’re not allowed to notice me right? Did Mrs Lawson
not tell you to just pretend I don’t exist? She
normally does.
Do your parents know?
Er...nah. I mean, they don’t need to know my private
life yeah.
Can I tell you something?
122

BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
You fancy me? Think you’re in love with me? Want me
to rub my...
As a child I was abused by my uncle.
BRUCE’s whole nature completely changes.
I was the one that he chose to take his stress, and
pain, and disgusting fantasies out on.
Miss, I’m not being funny but that is some deep shit.
Bruce, listen to me, I was too scared to tell anybody
for years. If you’re being...
Woah, hold the fuck up. You saying my family been
smacking me up? Is that what you’re fucking saying?
You are so far out of line you can’t even remember
what a fucking line is!
I’m just saying that abusers work on fear, fear that
you will tell. If anyone found out they would be
looking at a serious prison sentence.
123

BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
Like prison would touch him. He’d probably enjoy it,
gather some allies, make lifelong friends.
Wouldn’t you prefer this person who, "got all up in
your grill" to be sent down for doing this to you?
Nah man, it’s hassle. I don’t wanna deal with fucking
pigs.
What if I help?
What you gon’ do? Meditation? Pray to the hippy surf
gods?
Do you get on with your father when he’s beating you?
Fuck off yeah, you have no idea what you’re on about.
He’ll fucking have you if he hears about this.
Is he quite a violent man then?
124

SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
That’s not what I meant.
You don’t have to defend him.
Listen, I don’t want this going no further, hear me?
He’ll fucking kill me. He asked for it ok? Shouted at
my six-year-old sister. Fucking six years old. She
don’t know any better! So I told him to back off. But
the bastard just turned on me. I had no choice but to
defend myself. He’s a lot stronger though. Just uses
his strength. Fucking pussy.
Was your mum there?
That’s the worst fucking thing. She does fuck all.
Just tells me not to wind him up. Tells my sister to
behave. Justifies him. It’s like he gets a fucking
kick out of it. I hear him going into her room at
night. I think he just watches her sleep,
(SKY’s face changes as realisation
dawns.)
finds it calming or some shit, but she don’t like it.
I heard her crying the other night. The bastard
should just leave her alone, you feel me?
TIMOTHY appears at classroom door but is out of
125

BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
sight of SKY and BRUCE.
Fuck this, you didn’t hear that. This is fucked man.
Bruce, I’m not going to tell anyone.
Like shit you aren’t! It’s your duty! No-one ever
sticks up for the fucking rebel. No-one ever cares
about the kid who doesn’t do parents evening. You’re
just like the rest of them. Making up shit about your
uncle to get me to talk? That’s sick man, and not
sick in the good sense of the word. Makes me so
angry, just using me to feel better about yourself
innit, you’re all...
SKY grabs BRUCE and they kiss passionately.
TIMOTHY is still watching. BRUCE is extremely
confident and is not afraid to use his hands to
pull SKY closer. BRUCE suddenly pulls away,
smacks SKY on the bottom and leaves through the
classroom door. TIMOTHY moves out of the way of
the door. BRUCE starts to head towards the door
of his house.
Were you just kissing Miss Johnson?
126

BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
Where the fuck did you come from?
You were! You were kissing a teacher!
You fucking stalking me now? Dunno where you were,
but I fucking wish I was kissing that beaut, yeah, I
was fucking snogging her face off during my wank last
night.
MITCHELL:
No! You were just kissing her!
BRUCE turns on TIMOTHY.
I just told you, you don’t know what you’re talking
about. Alright? Now either shut the fuck up and come
for a fag or fuck off.
BRUCE turns away and continues walking, smiling
to himself. Upon arriving at "BRUCE’s house"
MITCHELL comes out of the door. He wears
tracksuit bottoms and a t-shirt with a large
animal picture on it, e.g. a rottweiler or wolf.
Where the fuck have you been?
127

BRUCE:
MITCHELL:
BRUCE:
MITCHELL:
BRUCE:
TIMOTHY:
MITCHELL:
TIMOTHY:
It’s only 3.30? School only finished ten minutes ago!
Since when did you go to school? HA! Prick.
Ha, yeah, good one.
BRUCE is clearly subdued. TIMOTHY, as always,
looks confused.
So come on then, how was school? And who’s the geek?
This is Tim.
Timothy is my full name.
HA! You need to pipe down, no-one gives a shit. Enjoy
school do ya Timmy?
Not as much as Bruce!
128

MITCHELL:
TIMOTHY:
BRUCE:
MITCHELL:
TIMOTHY:
You takin’ the piss son?
No, I mean, I just mean...
(blurts out)
he kissed our teacher.
BRUCE turns to TIMOTHY.
(Whispering.)
You’re kidding, right? What the fuck man?
Sorry?
MITCHELL:
I mean, joking! Haha?
You fucking what? Bruce? You fucking what? Get in the
fucking house. You. Wimpy. Get the fuck out of my
sight before I make you regret the day you forced
yourself out of your slutty mother’s hole.
TIMOTHY runs away. MITCHELL enters the house
first, out of sight of the audience. BRUCE
follows. Lights up on the raised stage.
129

MITCHELL:
BRUCE:
MITCHELL:
BRUCE:
Go on then?
You being serious? You’re not seriously gon’ believe
that dick? Said it as a joke, didn’t I. Larking
around and all that. Course it didn’t happen!
I thought the new teacher looked like a bit of a
slut.
MITCHELL:
BRUCE:
She’s not a slut.
Why so protective son? Am I insulting your little
whore?
She’s not a whore. You don’t know what you’re talking
about.
MITCHELL:
Apparently no-one does. Get a new line already, have
some originality, you fucking bore me. You tell your
little slut that if she wants to call a
parent-teacher meeting I would happily demonstrate
the biology of a real man showing a little whore a
fucking good time.
130

BRUCE:
MITCHELL:
BRUCE:
MITCHELL:
SKY:
Shut up yeah.
Have I got you? You gonna cry? Baby ok? Aww, I’m only
joking son, come give your dad a hug.
You’re kidding right? Touch her and I swear to God I
will kill you. She’s done nothing wrong.
BRUCE has squared up to MITCHELL. MITCHELL is
laughing.
You’re so fucking precious about sumink that ’aint
even yours! All girls are the fucking same, think
your mother isn’t? She’ll do anything for a good bit
of cock...
Bruce?
BRUCE punches MITCHELL but he instantly punches
back. MITCHELL holds BRUCE in a head-lock and
repeatedly punches him in the stomach. Black on
raised stage.
Cut back to lower stage. Enter SKY. Enter BRUCE.
131

BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
What?
What happened to you?
Nothing.
Well clearly it’s something.
IT’S FUCKING NOTHING OK? FUCK YOU, slag.
I’m sorry? Who the hell do you think you are? If you
want to be an immature child, fine. I stupidly
thought that you were actually someone with more to
them. Apparently I was wrong.
Apparently you were.
You know what? You’re not the only person in the
world going through this. And the worst part? You
could do something about it if you grew some balls!
132

BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
What if it doesn’t work? What if I fail? I just hand
him my death sentence. He would fucking go to town on
me. Thanks, but I think I’ll pass.
Bruce, you can’t let him keep doing this to you!
What like you did? You’re one to talk.
Ok, yeah. I kept quiet for too long, and everyday I
wish I had stopped it sooner. There’s nothing I can
do now, I can’t go back in time! All I can do is try
and stop you making the same mistake I did.
So you’re trying to live your mistakes through me?
Your little charity case to feel good about yourself?
You know it’s not like that.
I don’t know anything! My ribs are broken, my body is
completely bruised and I can barely walk without
crumbling in pain. Now tell me, if there’s a chance
that this will be worse what exactly is pushing me to
tell? Huh?
133

SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
You don’t even know. You can’t even answer me. You’re
such a hypocrite! You stand there, telling me you
know the best thing to do. But you’re just as bad.
You’re just as bad!
You ran away. You didn’t confront it. You ran away.
Tell me why else you would leave your beloved surfing
town for East London? You’re a fucking pussy, that’s
why. And that makes you just as bad as me.
I didn’t run away from anything.
You fucking did!
My uncle is in Scotland! So how exactly was I running
away from him?
Memories.
I got fired, OK? I got fired because I was so
distracted that all I could do to take my mind off it
was surf. It’s the only time that I have no worries.
Teaching those kids every day in school killed me,
knowing some of them would experience what I’d felt.
134

BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
ANNE:
It killed me! Then I came here, and you’re so
vulnerable. I thought I could help. You’re worth so
much more than this.
Like what? I’m not worth anything! Ask anyone;
teachers, parents, friends. Not worth a fucking
thing.
Don’t.
Or what? You know it’s true!
They kiss furiously, almost angrily. BRUCE
pushes SKY onto the desk and pulls off her
shirt. The lights gradually fade.
Scene 2
SKY and ANNE are in the classroom.
I just don’t know what you were thinking? I mean how
could you be so fucking stupid? Excuse my french, but
what the fuck Sky? A student, I mean, for fuck’s
sake. I know you’re young, but he’s a child!
135

SKY:
ANNE:
SKY:
ANNE:
SKY:
I know, I know. I never meant for it to happen. I saw
my childhood in him. I thought I could help him. I
learnt so much about him, saw a totally different
side to him. The fool is often wise you know, really
wise.
That’s brilliant, really. But you should have stopped
it at the point of giving advice. I know you’re laid
back but Jesus Christ Sky, you royally fucked this
up. Do you not want to work at all? Do you want to be
totally unemployable with your teaching degree for
the rest of your life? I put my neck on the line for
you, and this is how you repay me? Well that’s just
fan-bloody-tastic.
Even you told me to ignore him. How do you think that
affects him? He is being abused and knows that you
are telling your staff to just act ignorant toward
his presence? I’m pretty sure that goes against
everything you are taught as an educator.
Don’t you dare make this about me.
I’m sorry. I just, I understood him, he opened up to
me.
136

ANNE:
SKY:
ANNE:
SKY:
ANNE:
SKY:
Well we all know you opened up to him!
Seriously. I didn’t want him to go through what I had
to. To have to face life completely on your own and
alienated by those around you because of one selfish
prick’s inability to control himself. I thought I
could stop it.
So offer him a cup of tea and a biscuit, freshly
baked if necessary! Refer him to counselling and keep
an eye on him, not jump into bed and comfort him with
your breasts!
You realise this going to court is the least of your
worries right now don’t you?
What?
How do you think I found out? In your little
counselling services did Bruce happen to mention his
lovely father, the one beating him to a pulp?
Well obviously...
137

ANNE:
SKY:
ANNE:
SKY:
ANNE:
ANNE:
Right so you will know that he’s a dirty, nasty piece
of work. And you have successfully made yourself his
personal enemy number one.
Nice one.
What?
Apparently Mr Harrison takes the vulnerability of his
son extremely seriously, and wants to not only press
charges but also deal with you privately.
Oh God.
Well exactly. You know I really thought you had
gotten over this flighty personality trait of yours,
the one that doesn’t think or consider any sort of
consequence. Apparently I was very wrong. This is
your mess, you sort it.
BRUCE appears at the door.
Go and sort yourself out. And for God’s sake get the
138

ANNE:
BRUCE:
ANNE:
BRUCE:
police involved to try and protect your safety a
little bit, not that I think it will make any
difference.
SKY leaves the classroom, not looking at BRUCE.
BRUCE enters.
What the hell were you thinking?
I thought this might become an issue. Now, I know
you’re jealous Miss but there’s enough of me to go
around! Want a piece of my sexy sixteen-year-old
butt? Wow, would you look at that for alliteration!
Turns out my extra curricular activities really have
paid off!
This isn’t a joke Bruce.
No I know! For the first time in years I have
actually done homework and paid attention in class.
Instead of fantasizing about Miss Johnson’s breasts
and what they may look like, I can fantasize about
Miss Johnson’s actual breasts. That, as I’m sure you
can imagine, takes a lot less concentration. To be
honest I’m thinking of writing to parliament and
suggesting that they enforce it.
139

ANNE:
BRUCE:
ANNE:
You realise that your father doesn’t see this in such
a positive light? He will press charges and your
little fantasy will end when Miss Johnson is put in
prison.
Mate! How fucking hardcore is that! Not only is my
girlfriend a teacher, but also a jailbird!! My street
cred has never been so good! Oooh, I’ve always had a
thing for bad girls you know, that and uniforms. I
tell you what, if you dress up in a uniform we can
have some fun. I’m happy to do that for you, as a
favour and that.
Ok, let’s be blunt. Your father frequently beats you
up pretty severely. You are a lot stronger than Sky.
How the hell do you think she will hold up against
him? Because in my mind I can’t actually see her
living through it. Can you? Your lovely father is on
a warpath. You have given him something new to focus
his violence towards, and you and I both know he will
not give in until he has finished; until he has made
a point. So when are you going to start taking this
seriously? When she can’t come into school because of
a black eye? Because of a couple of broken ribs?
Because of hospitalisation? Or because we’re
attending her funeral? Which is it going to be Bruce?
140

BRUCE:
ANNE:
BRUCE:
ANNE:
BRUCE:
ANNE:
Or was the whole affair just a joke?
Don’t be sick.
I’m just being realistic and you know it’s as likely
as I do, which is exactly the reason that you’re
refusing to address it. Or is it because she is just
a joke? Just "street cred"?
No!
You seem really bothered, really sure.
Fuck off! When have you ever known what I have
thought? You tell everyone to avoid and ignore me!
She is the first person that has ever listened, even
without me talking. And you brought her here. You
brought her to me. You pointed out that I needed
helping by telling her to ignore me. You’re just as
much to blame.
Ok, fine. Deal with this alone.
ANNE leaves the room. A minute or so passes.
141

SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
SKY:
SKY enters.
I’m so sorry.
Don’t.
I’ve made everything so much worse for you.
Don’t.
I should have just let you be. I should have stayed
on the outside.
What do you think he will do?
How am I supposed to know?!
BRUCE opens arms and SKY steps into them for a
hug. They pull away slowly and kiss.
We shouldn’t be doing this.
142

BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
BRUCE:
SKY:
BRUCE:
Well we’ve already created a commotion in the ocean,
stopping isn’t going to help anything! If anything it
will make things worse!
How do you manage to make a joke out of everything?
It’s like a talent!
ANNE enters on stage and pulls SKY to one side
of the stage to stand on a desk. MITCHELL does
same to BRUCE on other side of stage. Spot on
BRUCE and SKY. Like a court stand.
Nothing happened. I was joking around with a mate, I
didn’t realise he would feel the need to tell my
psycho. father about it.
I could see that the pupil in question was
distressed. As a teacher it was my role to ensure
that he was safe at home and that he felt he had a
retreat, someone to confide in should he need it. You
know what kids can be like, spreading rumours.
You know what kids are like, spreading rumours. I’ve
143

een ignored the whole of my school life. Miss
Johnson took an interest, and actually cared. She
wanted to help, not just ignore my presence.
No, not a sexual interest. I mean she let me talk,
she was there to listen when I was ready to speak.
He should be the one in this box, not me!
(Pointing at MITCHELL.)
Why do you think I needed someone to confide in in
the first place?
Miss Johnson was trying to persuade me to speak out
about him. Mitchell Harrison is a nasty piece of
work.
No, I know this isn’t about him. But as I’m here I
might as well get this out in the open.
Please, Your Honour, just let me say this.
I have been beaten up by my father weekly, if not
daily, for the last five years. My sister is six
years old. She often misses school because she is too
bruised to go. Mum knows it’s wrong because she knows
they will ask questions if they see the bruises! But
she doesn’t do anything about it does she! The reason
that we’re here is because he can’t control his
temper. He needs locking up. Miss Johnson is
completely innocent here. A mate took a joke too
144

MITCHELL:
SKY:
seriously. Nothing has happened between me and this
teacher. Except that she actually saw what the
headteacher has been refusing to address for years.
You know she tells teachers just to pretend I don’t
exist? Even if I’m asking for help with the work? Now
tell me that the right people are standing in this
stupid box?
MITCHELL is in handcuffs on the raised stage.
You think you can do this to me? You really think you
can blame me? Think you’ve got one over on me do ya?
Think you’re a fucking clever boy? You will never be
clever! HA! You’re just as fucking stupid as your
mother. Be a man! If you weren’t such a pussy it
wouldn’t be so easy to crush you!
Think you’re not gonna pay for this? Think you can
get me sent down? You’re fucking joking aren’t you?!
I never wanted you in the first fucking place.
Hahahahaha!
Prick.
Turns and whispers to BRUCE:
I love you
- Black -
145

The Mutant Arbors
Synopsis.
Sarah Mather
Third year Creative Writing and English student.
Set 4,000 years into the future, earth has become over-run with gigantic mutant plants. There is
only one person who has the ability to save the human race; her name is Jadrien Mace.
The mission doesn’t go according to plan though and the stakes are raised. Jadrien must search
for something both the Mutant Arbor’s want and the humans’ need if they will have any chance
of defeating the mutated organisms.
Through her mission, Jadrien meets an interesting character named Hemi. She soon realises he
is more than what he appears to be. The fate of the world lies on Jadrien’s shoulders but will she
choose her heart over her mission?
146

EXT. FOREST. DAY. EARTH.
A blurred outline of trees appear. Gradually, the focus
returns onto a MAN and WOMAN from a bird’s eye perspective.
They walk hand in hand. Their voices are muffled. Laughing
can be heard as they stroll along. Zoom onto MAN and WOMAN.
A WOMAN’S (Late 20’s) violet eyes peer into the sunlight.
Her brown hair catches in the breeze and her pale skin
shimmers slightly. A MAN (Early 30’s) walks beside her
squinting with brown eyes into the sun.
WOMAN
(Smiles)
Let’s play hide and seek, Riley.
RILEY
(Laughs)
What?
WOMAN
Yeah, come on, it’ll be like we’re
kids again!
RILEY
Jadrien...
JADRIEN
Come on, it’ll be fun!
RILEY takes JADRIEN by the waist and leans back against a
giant tree. He smiles and squeezes JADRIEN’S waist tightly.
JADRIEN tries to pull away.
RILEY
Better start hiding then.
JADIEN
(Laughing)
Let go!
JADRIEN frees herself and begins to run through the forest.
Greenery and trees whizz past as she runs. The sound of
RILEY can be heard behind her.
Music is happy and light but as JADRIEN goes through a spot
of purple leaves the music changes abruptly to an intense
tune. JADRIEN’S face drops as she notices the purple leaves.
Then everything happens very quickly. A slithering sound is
heard. A rattling noise follows soon after.
JADRIEN slows down but the footsteps behind her remain the
same. A flash of red whips past the corner of JADRIEN’S
vision. JADRIEN’S face is a picture of horror. She comes to
147

a halt and turns around.
JADRIEN
RILEY! IT’S THE-
RILEY smiles at JADRIEN oblivious to her fear but in that
second his face drops and a red vine comes from the depths
of the trees and whisks him away.
JADRIEN
(Screaming)
Nooo!
JADRIEN sees a red flash in the corner of her eye and at the
last minute dives out of the way. A gigantic red vine
smashes down beside the spot that she was just standing in.
As she gets up to run a voice rings out.
STOP.
RILEY
JADRIEN freezes and turns around. She gasps in shock as she
sees RILEY in the grasp of the giant plant, hanging
unconscious. Tiny red stems wriggle in his ear. The veins on
his face stand out and his nails have turned black.
RILEY
HE DIES IF YOU RUN.
JADRIEN stands frozen in place, her breath steams in the
air.
JADRIEN
I won’t run. Just let him go.
GOOD.
RILEY
The vine holding RILEY shifts and in a flash disappears into
the forest.
JADRIEN
(Screams)
Wait!
Another vine suddenly comes from the trees and wraps itself
around JADRIEN’S waist hurtling her backwards. She tries to
escape as she is being pulled backwards but the vine holds
her too strongly. The purple of the leaves change to deep
red and JADRIEN is dumped into the middle of a clearing.
148

INT. RUNDOWN SHACK. NIGHT.
JADRIEN
(Whispers)
Oh god. I’m in the heart of their
forest.
149
CUT TO:
Lightning flashes overhead. Rain glides down the broken bit
of window and splashes into the inside. A MAN (Late 40’s)
huddles over a blue glowing light.
(Pause)
MAN
Xandrell... Are you there?
Xandrell?
MAN
The MAN shifts on his stool and sighs in frustration.
Suddenly an echo comes from the round glow embedded in a
tree
trunk which grows through half of the shack.
XANDRELL (O.O.V)
Maxxam, hello?
MAXXAM jumps and leans eagerly towards the round glow.
(Pause)
MAXXAM
Xandrell! It’s me! I’ve been
waiting for hours. Where is she?
She should have reported by now.
XANDRELL (O.O.V)
There’s been an unfortunate
accident. Jadrien has been taken
into heart of the Mutant Arbors
forest.
MAXXAM (IMPATIENTLY)
That’s what we want isn’t?
XANDRELL (O.O.V)
Riley has also been abducted.
MAXXAM’S face drops and he places a nervous hand over his

head.
MAXXAM
That wasn’t part of the plan.
XANDRELL (O.O.V)
I know. Our spies have located her
position but we can’t get a visual
on her. Once we step into the red
zone our men will be splatters.
We’ve resorted to hiding in the
purple leaves section.
MAXXAM
Well, we always knew this wasn’t
going to be easy. But now that her
husband’s been taken...
XANDRELL (O.O.V)
She might have to cooperate with
the Mutant Arbors.
MAXXAM puts another hand on his head and clenches his teeth.
In an abrupt movement he smashes down his fist onto the bark
of the tree.
MAXXAM
Which means she’s not going to
complete her mission! Everything
we’ve planned will be a complete
waste of time! How do we know she
hasn’t spilled top-secret
information we’ve discussed
already?
XANDRELL (O.O.V)
She’s a trained spy. She’ll know
what to do.
MAXXAM
She was supposed to be the one to
end the war! She’s our only hope!
XANDRELL (O.O.V)
Maxxam, cool it. I told you, she’s
been trained well. She’ll know what
to do. I know Jadrien. However much
she loves her husband, she won’t
let that distract her from her
goal.
MAXXAM sighs and slumps on his stool.
150

MAXXAM
You’re right. They’ll both be dead
by the end of it anyway.
EXT. HEART OF MUTANT ARBORS FOREST. NIGHT.
JADRIEN stands rigid as RILEY hangs before her.
JADRIEN
(Firmly)
My answer is still the same.
RILEY
WE MAY BE PLANTS BUT WE ARE MORE
INTELLIGENT THAN YOU HUMANS. WHY DO
YOU THINK THAT THE HUMAN RACE IS
DYING OUT NOW THAT WE HAVE EVOLVED?
JADRIEN
I would call it more of a mutation
than an evolution. It was because
of us that you ‘evolved’ in the
first place.
RILEY
YOU ONLY QUICKENED OUR EVOLUTION.
JADRIEN
(Quietly)
Let him go. He won’t be any use to
you.
RILEY
HE IS USEFUL FOR YOUR COOPERATION.
HE WILL STAY WITH US UNTIL YOU HAVE
PROVIDED US WITH WHAT WE WANT.
JADRIEN
And when I find it? Will you let us
go?
RILEY
WE ARE THE ORGANISMS OF THIS EARTH.
WE DO NOT PLAY GAMES LIKE YOU
HUMANS. WE WILL LET HIM GO ONCE HIS
NEED IS FULFILLED.
151
CUT TO:

JADRIEN
Put me into the Dream Sleep. I’ll
get you what you want.
RILEY
THIS IS THE WAY IT WAS SUPPOSED TO
BE. HUMANS HAVE DESTROYED THIS
EARTH FOR TOO LONG. HUMANS USE ALL
THE RESOURCES FROM THEIR
SURROUNDINGS BUT GIVE NOTHING IN
RETURN. IF YOU WERE LEFT TO BREED
IN LARGER NUMBERS THEN THE
ENVIRONMENT WOULD BE DESTROYED.
THE LAND DIES AND HUMANS CARRY ON
AS NORMAL. DID YOU THINK YOU WOULD
GET AWAY WITH IT FOREVER, WITH NO
CONSEQUENCES? IT WAS ONLY A MATTER
OF TIME BEFORE WE TOOK OVER...
INT. CAVE LIKE STRUCTURE. NIGHT.
152
DISSOLVE TO:
RILEY lays in perpetual darkness. He is held aloft by two
red vines wrapped around him. He seems to be unconscious.
JADRIEN stands at the entrance with a poker face.
INT.PULSATING CAVERN.NIGHT.
CUT TO:
JADRIEN lays on a pulsating white translucent bed-like
structure. The lights on the bed shine rainbow colours. Zoom
in on her face, eyes closed. See the small hairs of her eye
lashes. From the ground small translucent tendrils creep
into her ears.
INT. DREAM WORLD. DAY.
MUTANT ARBOR
YOUR HUSBAND WILL BE KEPT IN THE
TWILIGHT SLEEP UNTIL YOU HAVE FOUND
WHAT WE WANT.
CUT TO:
A bright white light flashes completely bleaching everything
out. Slowly around the edges it dulls down and a grey
silhouette of a woman is shown. Slowly JADRIEN is seen
amidst white clouds. She stands on a huge rainbow coloured
ball which floats in the air. She surveys her environment.

Camera slowly pans around. A flock of jumping sheep leap
overhead. A floating piece of land drifts past with dancing
pixies and a band of instruments that play themselves.
Creatures of the night in astral form whizz past in a black
cloud.
JADRIEN
So, this is the dream world.
Jadrien crouches and springs into the air, landing on a bit
of floating land. She holds out her hand, palm upwards and
closes her eyes. A small device appears in her hand.
JADRIEN
(Smiles)
XANDRELL was right. All I have to
do is imagine.
XANDRELL’S VOICE
Remember, Jadrien, the dream world
is a dangerous place. Only those
with skill can make their way
through it. The imagination can be
a fickle friend. If you begin to
think negatively the dream world
can turn into a nightmare...
JADRIEN looks down at the device in her hand. It is round
with a blue screen. A small red dot in the middle beeps
quietly.
JADRIEN
(Sighs)
Not even close.
JADRIEN looks around and suddenly spots a dark figure in the
distance. She stares for a few moments indifferently and
then leaps onto another bit of floating land. JADRIEN peers
down at the device in her hand again. The red dot has become
slightly bigger.
JADRIEN
(Mutters)
Well, that’s interesting.
From the corner of her vision she suddenly notices
something. When JADRIEN looks up with a frown the figure has
moved closer to her. She can just make out that he is a man.
He stands on an enormous butterfly with bright purple wings
and golden eyes.
153

JADRIEN
(Murmurs)
Travellers.
JADRIEN begins to jump away from the ‘traveller’ when she
abruptly stops and puts a hand to her head. A crackle is
heard. Then a sound like a whip lash. JADRIEN drops the
device she is holding and clutches her head in agony.
INT.PULSATING CAVERN.NIGHT.
JADRIENS eyes pop open and she groans in pain.
JADRIEN
(Angrily)
Did you have to do that? It’s
painful if you didn’t know!
MUTANT ARBOR
THIS IS IMPORTANT. WE HAVE FOUND A
SPY HIDING IN THE PRECIOSUS-COR OR
AS YOUR KIND CALL IT, THE RED ZONE.
JADRIEN blinks in surprise and releases a slow breath.
JADRIEN
And what has that got to do with
me? I was on the trail of the-
MUTANT ARBOR
YOU HAVE LED THEM HERE. WHAT DO YOU
KNOW OF THIS SPY? WE WILL DISPOSE
OF HER SOON.
JADRIEN
Nothing. I know nothing.
MUTANT ARBOR
VERY WELL.
154
CUT TO:
The tendrils still in JADRIEN’S ears wriggle furiously which
make her wince. A light appears in the far corner of the
cavern. Yelling can be heard in the distance.
MUTANT ARBOR
YOU CAN WITNESS HER DEATH.

JADRIEN sucks in a breath and sits up.
A woman with red hair is dragged in by an enormous plant
type creature. Green vines tangle around her wrists and its
body shuffles along on millions of tiny vines which somehow
support its large size.
WOMAN
(Breathless)
Help me. Tell them I’m not a spy.
JADRIEN stiffens slightly and gulps.
JADRIEN
(Shaking head)
I don’t know this woman. Let her
go, she’s probably wondered here by
mistake-
The tiny vines go into a frenzy cutting JADRIEN off
mid-speech.
(Pause)
MUTANT ARBOR
SHE WAS SPOTTED BY OUR DETECTORS
WITH A WEAPON. HAVE YOU LED HER
HERE?
JADRIEN
(Angrily)
Then she is obviously a stupid
teenager who has found something
she thinks she can play with! I
don’t have time for this nonsense.
Chuck her into the grey section
where she belongs.
WOMAN
How dare you! I am a trained
official-
JADRIEN
(Yelling)
Have you no brains! This is no
game.
Child.
JADRIEN
155

MUTANT ARBOR
YOU HUMANS THINK THAT LIES CAN
EVADE US? WE ARE BORN OF THE EARTH.
WE CAN FEEL THE BEAT OF YOUR HEART
AS IT DRUMS IN YOUR VEINS. SHE WILL
BE DISPOSED OF. SO WILL EVERY OTHER
SPY WHICH HAS FOLLOWED YOU HERE.
THEN WE SHALL KILL YOUR HUSBAND IF
YOU DO NOT FIND WHAT WE WANT. WE
GIVE YOU TWO DAYS.
The woman with red hair chokes as a vine wraps around her
throat. Her face turns blue and the vine tightens slowly and
then with a loud crack her neck is snapped and her head
hangs limp with open eyes. JADRIEN stares shocked; her eyes
only showing her fear.
INT. DREAM WORLD. NIGHT.
JADRIEN
Two days isn’t enough.
MUTANT ARBOR
TWO IS ALL WE WILL GIVE YOU.
156
CUT TO:
JADRIEN glides along on a large red ball through the clouds.
She taps her foot twice and the ball veers to the left.
JADRIEN looks at the device in her hand and frowns. The red
ball is still small and beeps quietly. Suddenly it enlarges
and the beeping quickens. JADRIEN grows excited and stamps
her foot down hard causing the ball to quicken its pace.
MALE VOICE (O.O.V)
Where’s the Mutant Arbor?
JADRIEN jumps in surprise and the ball stops dead in its
tracks. She blinks rapidly as the figure from earlier
appears on his giant butterfly. He is a MALE (Late 20’s) jet
black hair, dark brown eyes and pale skin with a tinge of
green to it. He gives her an amused look.
MALE
You were going so fast I Could
barely keep up with you.
JADRIEN
(Sighs)
You again.

JADRIEN taps her foot and the ball begins to move again. The
MALE follows her on his butterfly.
MALE
I saw you yesterday and I must say
I was extremely surprised to see
someone so well versed in the way
of the dream world.
JADRIEN
Save your flattery. I have work to
do. Don’t you?
JADRIEN frowns at the device in her hand. The red ball has
grown twice the size it was.
The MALE laughs.
The MALE laughs.
MALE
No, not really.
JADRIEN
Travellers are always hunting for
something or other.
MALE
Yes, they are aren’t they? I think
they search for the way back to
reality. Many are stuck in this
world. They wonder around like
ghosts looking for a way out of the
world they no longer belong in, yet
they can’t go back to their old
one. Waking up to find yourself as
a brain in a jar wouldn’t be very
pleasant, would it?
JADRIEN
(Distractedly)
Is that what you’re doing then?
MALE
(Smiles)
Fortunately for me, I’m not one of
the dream travellers.
JADRIEN
Then what are-
157

MALE
Let me ask you a question.
JADRIEN
(Surprised)
What?
JADRIEN begins to walk away.
MALE
If you had the chance to escape to
a different world. One that was
free of the Mutant Arbor’s but
which meant you had to leave
everything behind. Would you take
the risk?
JADRIEN
I don’t have time for games.
MALE
What are you looking for?
JADRIEN
I don’t think that’s any of your
concern!
MALE
Can I ask your name?
JADRIEN
Look, I have business to attend to.
MALE
Yes, I see that you are very formal
in your mannerism.
JADRIEN
(Annoyed)
Are you taking the piss? Fly
somewhere else please.
MALE
I’d just like to hear your name.
JADRIEN
It’s Jadrien. Now can you leave me
alone? I’m running out of time!
JADRIEN stamps her foot down hard and the ball zooms into
the distance. The MALE stares after her like a kicked puppy.
158

INT. RUNDOWN SHACK. DAY.
MAXXAM paces back and forth in the small space.
MAXXAM
(Murmurs)
Hurry it up, Xandrell.
159
DISSOLVE TO:
There is a knock on the door. MAXXAM looks startled and then
hurries to open the door.
MAXXAM
What took you so long?
XANDRELL (Late 20’s) brushes past MAXXAM.
XANDRELL
I told you I needed to pick
something up on the way.
MAXXAM
And it took you five hours-
MAXXAM pauses and stares at the CHILD (Early teens) he has
just noticed beside XANDRELL.
MAXXAM
You brought a child with you? Here?
Here! Of all the places-
XANDRELL
Maxxam, calm down. He is my
sister’s child and an extremely
good problem solver.
MAXXAM
He is a child.
The CHILD scowls at MAXXAM.
CHILD
Stop calling me a child! I probably
got more brains than if there was
two of you combined.
XANDRELL
(Frowning)
Quiet, Zane.

MAXXAM raises a finger at ZANE.
MAXXAM
Now, you listen here-
XANDRELL
(Firmly)
Enough of this. We have important
matters to discuss.
MAXXAM
(Huffs)
Yeah, with a child involved.
XANDRELL
It’ll be good for him to learn at a
young age, Maxxam. Plus, he does
have exceptional problem solving
skills.
ZANE
(Smirks)
Yeah, and my skills are still
growing, unlike yours old-
XANDRELL silences ZANE with a look. ZANE shrugs his
shoulders.
XANDRELL sighs.
MAXXAM
(Frowning)
Fine, take a seat. Nerissa has been
killed.
XANDRELL
Yes, I was informed yesterday. I
had to tell everyone to back off.
The Mutant Arbor’s begun sending
out waves of their most venomous
attackers. We have no idea if
Jadrien is still alive or not.
ZANE
She’s still alive.
MAXXAM
(Grunts)
How would you have any idea if
she’s dead or alive?
160

ZANE
Well, the Mutant Arbor’s want the
anti-serum before we find it first.
So, they’ll use Jadrien for a while
to see if she can find it in the
dream world. They need her. If they
captured anyone else they’d need
something to persuade that person
to find the anti-serum. They have
Jadrien’s husband, so they have a
hold over her.
XANDRELL smiles faintly and nods at MAXXAM.
Told you.
INT. DREAM WORLD. DAWN.
XANDRELL
MAXXAM
You told me Jadrien would put her
mission before her husband. If the
plants find the anti-serum before
us and destroy it, we have are
lost. We’ll have no way to reverse
the effects of their mutation! Our
race is already dying out!
XANDRELL
Jadrien has the chip we inserted
into her ear. All she has to do is
click it and she’ll be transported
to the part of the dream world we
have secured.
ZANE
Does anyone know what the
anti-serum looks like?
XANDRELL
That’s a good question, Zane. The
answer is we don’t. Dr. Harris only
specified that it was hiding in the
dream world and that it would only
be found through the Mutant Arbor’s
portal. The rest is up to her.
161
DISSOLVE TO:

An array of florescent colours smudge in the sky. JADRIEN
sits on a cliff staring at the device in her hand with
worry.
MALE VOICE (O.O.V)
It’s beautiful isn’t?
JADRIEN jumps and twists her head around sharply. She sees
the same male who was riding the butterfly.
JADRIEN
(Angrily)
Are you following me?
MALE
You leave a trail wherever you go.
Not many wander in these parts of
the dream world. It is mostly
deserted because of the Arbor’s
surveillance here.
JADRIEN looks at the male with piercing eyes.
JADRIEN stands up.
HEMI raises an eyebrow.
JADRIEN
So why are you here then? You say
you aren’t a traveller, so, then
what?
MALE
(Shrugs)
I am many things.
JADRIEN
Who are you?
MALE
My name is Hemi.
JADRIEN
I didn’t ask your name. I asked who
you were.
HEMI
I could ask you the same thing.
JADRIEN
What are you talking about?
162

HEMI
Well, I don’t even know your name.
JADRIEN
Don’t- you- don’t need to know
that. Stop changing the subject!
HEMI smiles and crosses his arms.
HEMI
So it’s ok for you to ask me
questions about myself but when I
ask you something, you don’t like
it.
JADRIEN opens her mouth and closes it.
JADRIEN
You’re so infuriating!
JADRIEN begins to march away as she shakes her head and
glances down at the device in her hand.
INT. DREAM WORLD. DAY.
163
CUT TO:
HEMI gives JADRIEN a beautiful crystal dagger .JADRIEN gazes
at it in awe of its beauty.
HEMI smiles gently.
HEMI
I’m sorry. Living with no other
humans cuts your social skills up.
JADRIEN
Erm... thanks. I- You didn’t have
to...
HEMI
I thought it was something that
suited your personality. A rare
beauty, yet able and dangerous in
its own right.
JADRIEN
That’s probably the best compliment
anyone has ever given me.

HEMI smiles.
HEMI
Maybe I can help you.
What?
JADRIEN
HEMI
Well, you’re looking for something
aren’t you?
JADRIEN
Yeah. I’m sorry but I can’t talk
about it now and you can’t help me.
HEMI
I’ve been in this world for nearly
all my life. I know every inch of
it. Let me help.
JADRIEN
Nearly all your life?
HEMI
Yes. You look confused. I find it
better in here than in the real
world. For one thing, there are no
Mutant Arbor’s.
JADRIEN
(Shocked)
But then... your real body. You can
only spend a week at most before
you have to rejuvenate your body or
it’ll grow weak and eventually die.
HEMI
Hey! I know a fantastic place here.
I could show you if you wanted.
Erm...
HEMI grabs JADRIENS arms.
Come on!
JADRIEN
HEMI
164

INT. DREAM WORLD. NIGHT.
165
CUT TO:
JADRIEN and HEMI stand in a dark space. They are surrounded
by millions of floating chocolate. JADRIEN’S eyes follow a
snickers bar as it glides past her.
HEMI laughs.
HEMI
Isn’t wonderful?
JADRIEN
Yes... but what are they?
HEMI
You don’t know?
JADRIEN
No- I- They look like bits of shiny
wood.
HEMI
Wood?! They’re chocolate!
Shoklaate?
JADRIEN
HEMI
No, choc-o-late. Chocolate!
JADRIEN
I have never heard of such a
thing...
HEMI
Then you don’t know what you’re
missing! Look, try some!
HEMI plucks a bar of Twix out of the air and hands it to
JADRIEN.
Try some.
HEMI
JADRIEN begins to bite down on the wrapper.
HEMI
No! Wait, first you have to take
the wrapping off!

JADRIEN
Wrapping...
HEMI tears the wrapping off and exposes the bar of chocolate
inside. JADRIEN stares at it.
Oh.
JADRIEN
HEMI
Go on, try it.
JADRIEN takes a bite and chews slowly. Gradually, her eyes
lighten up and her chewing quickens.
JADRIEN
(Between mouthfuls)
It tastes weird.
HEMI
But a good weird right?
JADRIEN
It’s so sweet- and chewy.
HEMI
It’s from decades ago. 4,000 years
in fact.
JADRIEN
This is food from the past? From
before the time of the Mutant
Arbor’s?
Yes.
HEMI
JADRIEN suddenly drops the chocolate bar and clutches her
head.
HEMI
What’s wrong-
INT. PULSATING CAVERN. DAY.
JADRIEN’S eyes snap open and she groans.
166
CUT TO:

JADRIEN
Do you have to jerk me awake like
that?
MUTANT ARBOR
HAVE YOU FOUND IT YET?
JADRIEN
No and it’s going to take a lot
longer if you keep waking me up.
MUTAT ARBOR
YOU HAVE LESS THAN A DAY.
JADRIEN
Look, I’m close. Just give me a
little more time-
MUTANT ARBOR
A DAY IS ALL WE GIVE YOU. WE GROW
IMPATIENT. FIND THE ANTI-SERUM OR
BOTH YOU AND YOUR HUSBAND ARE DEAD.
The tiny vines which have been inserted into JADRIEN’S ears
wriggle slightly. She opens her mouth to speak.
INT. DREAM WORLD. DAY.
JADRIEN begins to stalk away.
JADRIEN stops.
HEMI
The Mutant Arbor’s are using you
aren’t they?
JADRIEN
How... Look, I appreciate you
showing me that space with the
chocolates in but I can’t mess
about anymore.
HEMI
A pretty young thing like you
can’t mess about? I don’t
believe that for one second.
HEMI
I know what you’re looking for.
167
CUT TO:

JADRIEN
I don’t think so.
HEMI
You want the anti-serum don’t you?
JADRIEN
What if I do?
HEMI
I could help you...
JADRIEN looks suspicious.
JADRIEN
Yeah? Find it for me then. That’s
the only way you can help me.
HEMI
If you need it that badly, follow
me.
You know-
Come.
INT. DREAM WORLD. DAY.
JADRIEN
HEMI
168
CUT TO:
JADRIEN and HEMI stand on top of a giant nose. They are
surrounded by noses, some standing up, other on their side.
Each one breathes, gusts of wind spiral in and out. The
space is consumed with the sound of breathing.
HEMI
I come to this place to think
sometimes.
JADRIEN
It’s an interesting space.
Jadrien...
HEMI
JADRIEN looks at HEMI quizzically.

HEMI
Do you think the Arbor’s are so
very different from human beings?
JADRIEN
Of course they are! How can you ask
me such a question? I thought you
brought me here to help me find the
anti-serum. Instead you ask me
stupid questions!
HEMI
I will tell you where the
anti-serum is!
JADRIEN
What... then you know where it is?
HEMI
But first I need to ask you a few
things.
JADRIEN
Have you known all this time?
I-
HEMI
JADRIEN
You knew and you didn’t tell me! Do
you have any idea- My husband is
being held captive by the Mutant
Arbor’s as we speak!
HEMI gives JADRIEN a piercing look.
HEMI
And you know they’ll kill you both
as soon as you hand the anti-serum
over.
JADRIEN falters and her eyes flick sideways.
JADRIEN
It’s not just that. I’m the one
they chose... I’m the only one with
enough ability to manoeuvre through
the dream world. It’s my mission...
169

HEMI
Then were you going to give the
serum to the Mutant Arbor’s or the
humans?
JADRIEN
To us of course! I- I would have-
HEMI
Then your husband and you both die.
JADRIEN
That was never the plan.
HEMI
Maybe you could have found a way to
escape if they had only captured
you but with your husband
imprisoned... You have only two
options. One, you give the
anti-serum to the humans and leave
your husband to his fate-
JADRIEN
I can’t do that-
HEMI
Two! You give the anti-serum to the
Mutant Arbor’s and hope for the
best; the best being a swift death.
JADRIEN
I can’t let the Arbor’s have the
serum and my husband...
HEMI
(Quietly)
There is another way.
JADRIEN
Another way?
INT. RUNDOWN SHACK. NIGHT.
170
CUT TO:
XANDRELL leans against the tree trunk. MAXXAM paces back and
forth in agitation while ZANE lounges on a chair.

MAXXAM
What will happen when Jadrien finds
the anti-serum? How will she get it
to us?
XANDRELL
Once she has hold of the serum it
will materialise with her
consciousness into reality.
MAXXAM
Yes, I know that!
ZANE
(Laughs)
No, he didn’t. He’s just trying to
sound clever.
MAXXAM turns on ZANE in anger.
MAXXAM
That’s it! I’ve had enough of your
lip-
XANDRELL
(Loudly)
When I brought Zane here I reckoned
that he would listen and learn for
when he might have to plan ahead
and go on future missions. I also
reckoned Maxxam would have a little
more patience. We have matters to
discuss.
ZANE
Skies above, didn’t think everyone
would be so serious.
MAXXAM
Xandrell, you know what’s at stake
here!
XANDRELL
Unfortunately, I do.
MAXXAM sighs and brushes a hand through his hair.
MAXXAM
How will she get the anti-serum to
us then?
171

XANDRELL
The initial plan was for her to
create two copies of the serum in
the dream world; one fake and one
real. She would give the fake serum
to the Mutant Arbor’s and make her
escape.
ZANE
Sounds pretty simple.
MAXXAM
Right. Except, Jadrien’s been
compromised.
MAXXAM gives a hard look at XANDRELL who remains relaxed
against the tree.
XANDRELL
Only time will tell.
INT. DREAM WORLD. DUSK. MOMENTS LATER.
JADRIEN and HEMI stand on the same giant nose.
JADRIEN
Time’s running out! What other way?
HEMI
You could forgo earth. Forget your
past life and escape to another
one; a better one.
JADRIEN
What world?
HEMI
I know a gateway which runs along
the borders of the real world and
the dream world. It is the entrance
into a new and peaceful world. One
that has no Mutant Arbor’s within
it.
JADRIEN looks stunned as she stares at HEMI.
JADRIEN
You- you can’t be serious.
172
CUT TO:

No, I’m-
HEMI
JADRIEN
I think you’ve been in the dream
world for too long now. There is no
such thing. If there were-
HEMI
Yes, if there were?
JADRIEN
If I could have escaped from the
hell-hole earth has become I would
have done it aeons ago.
HEMI
(Smiles)
Come with me. Come with me to a
better place, free from all the
destruction and decay of earth.
JADRIEN
I have a mission...
HEMI
Jadrien, do you want to know where
the anti-serum is?
JADRIEN
What... yes-
HEMI steps forward and grabs JADRIEN’S hand.
HEMI
It’s right here.
Whaa-
JADRIEN
HEMI
Look at your tracker.
JADRIEN blinks rapidly and glances down at the device she
holds in her hand. The red ball has grown so much it barely
fits onto the screen. The beeping grows in sound and
suddenly cuts off to a high pitched ringing tone. JADRIEN
looks down at the device and back up to HEMI’S face.
JADRIEN
I don’t... understand.
173

Don’t you?
HEMI
JADRIEN
You? You’re the anti-serum? But
that’s impossible.
HEMI
I am half human and half... I have
Mutant Arbor genes in my body.
JADRIEN’S eyes widen and she pulls her hand from HEMI’s
grasp. She shakes her head in shock.
HEMI
My genes contain the anti-serum
able to reverse the effects of the
Mutant Arbor’s mutation. I was born
in a lab. I was human- a human baby
and then Dr. Harris implanted the
Mutant Arbor’s genes into mine. My
body was the only one that melded
with theirs.
JADRIEN’S
This explains so much. Why you kept
calling us, humans as if- as if you
weren’t one yourself. Why my device
was always beeping whenever you
came close.
HEMI
I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you. I’ve
been in hiding since Dr. Harris
discovered what my genes could do.
The Mutant Arbor’s would slaughter
me.
JADRIEN begins to back away from HEMI.
JADRIEN
You’re not even human.
HEMI
No, I’m not human. I was once and
it was not my fault that that was
altered. The doctor... the doctor
named me Hemi which means half in
Latin.
JADRIEN continues to back away slowly.
174

JADRIEN shakes her head.
JADRIEN stops.
HEMI
(Quietly)
I’m still like you.
HEMI
Would a Mutant Arbor eat chocolate?
HEMI
Would they even like the taste?
JADRIEN
No... No they wouldn’t.
HEMI
I’m still the same as you.
JADRIEN
Where do we go from here Hemi? I
can’t just leave everything
behind...
Can’t you?
HEMI
JADRIEN
My husband...
HEMI
Is already dead.
JADRIEN gives HEMI a hurt look and her eyes tear.
(MORE)
HEMI
Come away with me Jadrien. Come to
a better world. It does exist. I
stood at the gateway ready to go
through. I could hear the sounds
and smell the scents from that
world. Oh Jadrien, it was so
beautiful! The sounds were like
they were a gift from the heavens
above! I could feel the vibrations
from the atmosphere and it called
to every inch of my being. I knew
that it would be perfect when I
175

HEMI (cont’d)
stepped into that world...But I
could not go.
JADRIEN
(Softly)
Why couldn’t you?
HEMI looks at JADRIEN with sincerity and longing in his
eyes.
HEMI
I was waiting for you.
The music becomes intense and sweet. JADRIEN’S eyes tear up
and she visibly sags in her composure. HEMI steps forward
and gently takes JADRIEN’S hand.
INT. DREAM WORLD. DAY.
176
FADE OUT:
Pure white light fills the scene. Gradually, it diminishes
and two figures stand holding hands surrounded by light.
THE END.

Afterword
"There is more treasure in books than in all the pirate's loot on Treasure Island." - Walt Disney
A Writer’s Wonderland showcases the very best work from the students of the University of
Portsmouth. The anthology focuses on displaying a variety of voices and writing styles, and the
chosen works have achieved in presenting our readers with emotive, exciting and exceptional
material.
There was no given theme for submissions to the anthology, despite its name. We did
however, find recurring themes arise in the content of the submissions. These were
unintentional, the most common being fantasy, death and love and these have spread right
across A Writer’s Wonderland. The best of these have been selected because we have been
captivated by their words and enchanted by their worlds, and this was our desired intention.
Sarah and I instead wanted to create a wonderland of our own through worlds created by our
writers, and we feel that we have accomplished this very well.
A Writer’s Wonderland is a beautiful insight into our students, as every writer’s
wonderland is a place in which they can truly express themselves. Writers can release their
burdens and they can create a land completely of their own. One wonderland especially
explored throughout the anthology, is that of the fairytale. We have lands of castles and
monsters, where the moral overcome the wicked, and then we also have the lands in which the
good does not always triumph and so the monsters can feast on their tasty meal. We are offered
lans of harsh realism, the sights of the roadsides of India, the troubled lives of teenagers growing
up in a home speckled with drugs and children used for ‘the greater good’. We read through
worlds of lost love, of the pain and sorrow brought forth through words, where names and dates
do not matter because you can see your own lost lovers on the page. My own wonderland is
exploring through lands already passed, where stories are ready to be retold. A Humble Vow
gives voice and world back to Catherine of Aragon, so that I can explore her everyday life, her
fights for survival and her triumphs as Queen.
A writer can escape reality and they can transform themselves into anyone and
anything that they desire, or they can look at themselves in the mirror and they can bravely
scrutinize themselves. The tone of the A Writer’s Wonderland therefore, is varied. Some pieces
177

included are especially raw and quite shocking to read, for example Honour by James Law, a
gripping story which left me speechless at its finale. Another turn of the page will have you
laughing as with Jenni Ellegard’s, The Housemate, a hilarious performance poem that had lines
and images repeating over in my mind for the rest of the day. Other stories, or tales, completely
engross you within a fairytale world, especially if you have read Eion – The Changeling, a
chilling fairytale by Georgia Standen that depicts every parent’s worst nightmare. This
anthology is filled with suspense as the reader does not know what they will find on the next
page, and they do not know what turn each story, poem or play will take as the pieces have been
so well written and crafted. They are as unexpected. They are full of surprises. They are as
unpredictable as the events in Alice’s rabbit hole.
Each piece of work has been carefully discussed and then selected to be a part of A
Writer’s Wonderland. Each piece is entirely unique to the next, and each has remained
memorable to their readers. We have worked with our writers to maintain both what we, as the
editors require for the anthology, and what they require as a writer. Writers have therefore had
to edit their works for length and context, while we have been careful to uphold their
underlying messages and voices.
It has been a struggle to decide between the works of our writers. A Writer’s
Wonderland was designed in order to display the array of voices and styles, and so we have had
to take care when allocating the number of pages to each individual. Some forms have meant
that more pages have had to be shared than our desired spread numbers, and other stories have
been too well crafted and written that every word is essential, and so cannot be extracted or else
detail of the tale would be lost. I do not feel that any work, no matter how small has been lost
amongst the longer pieces however, as each piece selected was chosen because it has been
imprinted on our memories after the final word was read.
The contents of the anthology have been sectioned for precision. The majority of the
book has been filled by poetry and prose submissions, but we have also included examples of
our plays, which ironically have taken the bulk of our anthology. Our poetry has a variety of
forms as they include poems for both voice and for page. We have examples of work that delve
into the history of poetic form, with our inclusion of the ballad and the long, character driven
epic. Our prose remains primarily with stories, though we also have examples of
autobiographical accounts and microfiction. Finally, our wonderland concludes with our plays
178

that have been written for stage and screen, their stories and emotions told entirely through the
power of speech.
We hope that you have enjoyed reading our anthology and that our students work have
left you in the same wonder that they have left us. We are so proud of everyone from the
university, and this anthology shows just how much you can learn from the University of
Portsmouth, as well as all of the opportunities possible for writers who wish to become a part of
our course.
in your writing.
Thank you for reading A Writer’s Wonderland, and may you discover your own world
179
-Lauren Smith.
.

A Writer’s Wonderland
Creative Writing Anthology 2011-2012
Every year a number of Creative Writing students
can opt to take a Publication – Process and
Production module, of which they would
commission, collate, copy edit and proofread the
Creative Writing anthology. The anthology consists
of a variety of work given from students in all years,
including masters, and these have been categorised
into three chapters of Prose, Poetry and Play.
University of Portsmouth
180