37The Upper School

The Handbook

I could write a poem on love.On how its slings manipulate usTo compare thee to a summer’s day,And to conceal the cracks we have compressedWith the concrete of a positive outlook.

Or I could glance to the canopy above,Muse on the tendrils and thusComment on the kaleidoscopic arrayOf violet, cherry and lemon blossom.Tick off the natural clichés from the textbook.

Or talk about childhood, being free as a bird,Another possible path to pursue.Or childhood memory, there’d be plenty to say.I could muse on that birthday or biology test:Complete the poetry handbook.

But this is not that poem.

Isabel McGrady Lower Sixth

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Editorial

Images

Taken from Wikipedia Commons: Copyright of images permitted under terms specified.

2016 Verve Team

Izzy Ormonde, Niamh Meyer, Molly Marr-Johnson, Jo Gray, Alice Thompson, Isabel McGrady, Nathaniel Robinson, Daniel Wu, Kelly Liu, Rachelle Lam, Natasha Norris, Laetitia Moon, Miranda Zhang

Help with publicity: Ruihua Zhang, Nazli Asardag, Olivia Nevill

Verve publicity video: Rachelle Lam, Oliver Best

Text Selection: The Verve Team

Poster and Cover Design: Daniel Wu

Editing and Layout: Anne Durnford

With thanks to the English department for running creative writing competitions in Years 7, 8 and 9.

Here we speak, the team from Verve,Prose and poems we do serve,Imagination freed from fetters,Now portrayed in printed letters.

From psyche’s ardent inner brewTo eyesight’s record, clear and true,Here we proffer unto thee,Verse acrostic, blank and free.

1The Lower School

The Mind of a Card Magician

52 cards, 52 weeks in a year,4 suits, 4 seasons, spades, hearts, clubs, diamonds.The mystery of the deck, 13 cards per suit:Ace, 2, 3, 4, 5, 6, 7, 8, 9, 10, jack, queen, king.‘Randomly, I want you to pick a card and memorise it’.

Shuffle, relax, fan and relax,The cards move, chasing each other, mechanically, fluidly,The order changes, mixed and remixed,Take a deep breath, smile calmly, and‘Place your card anywhere in the deck’.

Control the cards elaborately,The perfect shuffle, the strip out, the Hindu, a sideslip, a pass,Jumping from hand to hand,Focus, slow down, look up, then‘Tell me when to stop’.

Build up the tension, the anticipation,So many combinations, positions, permutations,The chosen card appears,Stay relaxed, as they look amazed, ‘That’s impossible!’

William Gough-CooperWinner of the Year 7 Verve Competition

2

Memories of a Slave

I steady my breathing and clasp my hands together. Apprehensively, I glance out of the door to the much larger hall that I will be entering in just a few minutes and I see the women of the Rochester Ladies Anti-Slavery Society filing inside and filling up the rows. Today, I am going to speak out against the great nation of America. Today, I am going to speak out against one of the greatest problems that humanity has ever faced. Slavery. And I am going to…

‘May we please all welcome Frederick Douglass, born a slave, but now one of the most brilliant and powerful leaders of the anti-slavery movement.’

I freeze. I try to call to mind words that simply will not come. And in their absence, come the thoughts and memories that I have harboured for so long inside of me, enveloping my mind in an isolating darkness of fear.

The whip coiled and curled in the air like a snake, and then struck at my back, sinking its teeth into my skin and tearing up great strips of bloodied, flayed flesh. It came down again, cutting another burning swathe of agony across my body. It came down once more and this time my body contorted and writhed under the blows as though I were caught up in some grotesque sickening dance. I looked around, my eyes blurred from tears. My attacker raised his whip…

I open my eyes. The familiar surging tide of fear swells inside me, numbing my mind. A freezing cold pulses down my spine, making me shiver. Memories rush through my brain. Memories of death, pain, isolation, fear; of being treated not like a human, but like a disobedient dog.

But I am here now, with an opportunity to shape the future into something better than my past, into something better than anyone’s past. Today, I am going to show the world the disgusting truth about slavery and I am going to give black people a chance to shape their futures.

I feel my chest swell with pride as I inhale the great burden of all my fears - and step out onto the stage.

Robert Allen Year 7

The Lower School

3The Lower School

Carving

Cloaked in layers of dust,Years and years on a shelf,Strong on the outside,Intricately shaped.

The headdress of a fierce predator,Intimidating all prey,Piercing eyes like daggers,Showing no mercy.

A necklace hangs loosely,But holds the shield firm,The innocent shells his weakness,His soul a brave tiger.

Exquisitely carved,A symbol of culture,The sole reminder of my grandpa,Who remains so distant from me.

Ethan Phillipson Year 7

4

I’m Sorry

Fidgeting awkwardly on the bench, I watch the seconds drip off the clock.

My fingers rove obsessively over the new patchwork of scars that envelops my wrist. I stare at my reflection in the window and am shocked at the man staring back. Eyes, dark and haunted, gleam out of a wan face. Purple shadows bloom on the pallid skin beneath tired eyes, and exhaustion carves lines across a once smooth face.

Is this who I have become in the last few weeks?

My gaze flicks up to the clock again; the jurors have been deliberating for nearly an hour. The prosecutor looks at me grimly as my lawyer tries to reassure me with his eyes. My aching head finds the palms of my hands and the images that haunt me flood in...

Drinks on the table, disappearing fast. A man laughs boisterously with his friends and orders another pint. The hours pass, and still they drink. Late in the night the man knows it’s well past the time to go home. The sound of the car door slamming makes his head pound as the world spins in and out of focus. On the dark road, his hands tremble as cold air rushes through the window. Suddenly, he catches but a glimpse of a woman crossing the narrow road. His mind screams for him to brake, to stop the car but his body fails to react. An impact. Darkness…

Flitting from image to image, my mind skims through a photo album of my wife, my child and my life before the darkness…

Of a man and a woman gazing at the setting sun. They hold hands and their faces are resplendent in their all-consuming love.

Of a toddler screeching with laughter as her father tosses her up into the air. Golden locks and rumpled dress fly around as her chubby little legs kick excitedly. ‘Again, Daddy! Again!’ she giggles. Her father smiles indulgently and throws her up into the air again and again.

The Lower School

5The Lower School

Of a car driving down an empty road. Above it, the stars shine bright and the moon illuminates the world with a silver light. In the back seat of the car, a golden haired child sleeps deeply; cheeks infused with a rosy glow and dimpled hands clutching a teddy bear. Her parents glance at her lovingly.

I gasp, wrenching myself from my past. Sweating profusely, I clench my hands to stop myself from wiping them on my suit. My stomach contracts and I dry-heave; I didn’t eat anything this morning.

The Judge is staring. I sit tall, trying to salvage my last shreds of dignity. My emotions are in turmoil. I didn’t mean to kill her. I used to be sure that I was a decent person, but now I am not so confident. I try to convince myself that I am a good person, that even good people make mistakes. But I can’t.

Any happy memories fade with the passing days, replaced by the terrified face of the woman I killed and the devastated faces of my wife and child. I have destroyed innocent lives. I deserve this. I hope that my little angel will not grow up knowing what her father did. Maybe her mother will explain, someday. A tear, silver and glistening, falls onto the blank white sheet of paper in front of me. I pick up a pen and begin to write a letter to my wife and daughter so that maybe one day they will begin to understand. ‘I’m sorry…’

Tasha DambacherWinner of the Year 8 Verve Competition

6

Mother’s Love is Stronger than Evil

Yesterday, we met for the very first time, but I knew it would be the last.

For when you read this, I will almost certainly be on the road to my death. I have watched over you, my angel, for all of your living years. Yet, the time has come for me to say goodbye and watch you fly from my sight, like the angel you shall become. My love for you, dear Mary, is stronger than the torrential waves parting us, stronger than the darkness of the shadows surrounding us.

I have your eyes, or rather you mine, a fiery volcano consumed by otherworldly light. People judge us for that. As a child myself, I suffered like you, being taunted and sneered at like an animal. Then the accusations started pouring in. ‘Friends’ called me ‘Spawn of the devil’ and ‘Evil’s offspring’. So I fled. I’m not proud of what I did.

Running helped me fulfil my dream, that one day people would greet me with open arms instead of pitchforks. Running left all my fear and turmoil behind. But running made me leave you. I love you, my angel, and I will be with you wherever you go - no matter the distance or circumstances.

For the sky we live under is vast, but is one. The stars we wish upon are seen by all. The earth on which we stand touches every inch of the world.I won’t be here for much longer, but please know I’ll always be with you. Whenever I miss you, I will stand on the grass, stare towards the heavens, and be a little closer to you, my angel, Mary.

Zoe TockmanYear 8

Inspired by Celia Rees’ novel, ‘Witch Child’, set in the 17th Century. Mary writes to her daughter explaining why she has been so absent in her upbringing as she lives in constant fear of being accused of witchcraft.

The Lower School

7The Lower School

8

The Lower School

The bliss of oblivion will not grace her white, exhausted face,The shroud of sleep will not fold her in its encompassing embrace.For she is a sinner, and may never truly sleep.

Shallow tears do not fall, though her features are distressed,She feels no remorse, only desperate want for rest.For she is a sinner, and may never truly sleep.

At night, haunted by the victims of her bitter, twisted dance,She might wake, but does not mourn, those she never spared a glance.For she is a sinner, and may never truly sleep.

Curled up under her long cloak of indestructible deceit,The spirits often mock her, in her kingdom of conceit.For she is a sinner, and may never truly sleep.

They later find her frozen, blank face lovely as her lies,Sing praises of her beauty, laid to death under the skies.But she was a sinner, and may never truly die.

Celia Merson Year 8

No Sleep For A Sinner

9The Lower School

15 minutes

15 minutes. Everyone wants to know when they are going to die, but now that I know… it isn’t as exciting.

It snapped in half whilst I was repairing some wires, which were not as strong as I thought they were. I guess NASA had a small budget when it came to tethers.

Now I am spinning and floating to my inevitable death in the infinite void that is space. Huh. Bet you not many people can say that in their life, even if it is in the last 15 minutes.

Izzy Mayes Year 8

10

Mine

I gaze down into the black maw of the cave and listen to the rhythmic dripping of its springs. The foetid stench of the cave’s dark matter seeps into my nostrils and makes my nose burn. I can’t do this. I don’t want to do this again. But I must. I need to appease him. Fumbling in my back pocket, I yank out my torch, muster courage and move forward.

I head down. Down into the very gut of the world to dig out riches and treasures hidden beneath cracks, in fissures, under rock. I need to find

the gold; I must not emerge empty-handed this time. My debts to the Master make me his creature – I must succeed. But even so… I ponder the stakes. Will finding gold ease his anger towards me, or will it only encourage his avarice? The Master is never (in my experience) grateful for what I do. I farm for him, I venture

out to find wood for his fireplace, and I mine riches for him, just like a slave. I never hear any thanks.

I shake off these thoughts and scan the cave walls. Nothing. I skid down some scree into a long ravine and peer around. A glint of something reflects back at me. Gold! This should satisfy the Master!

An unearthly groan penetrates the stillness. Who is it? I reach for my sword, in case I need to defend myself. I laugh nervously, reassuring myself that it’s probably just another miner looking for riches. Of course it is.

The Lower School

11

A scaly, moss-coloured hand lurches around the corner, throwing a hunched silhouette onto the stone in front of me. I freeze. The hand is soon followed by a lump of rotting flesh - is that an arm? Alarm bells begin to ring, but it’s too late. The monster is right here. Its eyes are rolled upwards, exposing red-tinged whites. Veins stand up on the mottled skin of what must be a face, deforming it even more. It bears scimitar teeth. I feel a white hot stabbing pain and… and… I am floating in a mist of shadows.

The boy groaned as the message flashed up on the screen. ‘Steve was slain by Zombie’

His sister sneered at him from across the sofa.

‘Bumped off by a zombie? Ha! They’re the easiest of all the monsters to kill in Minecraft.’

The boy snarled back at her. He’d really wanted that gold. Disgruntled, he switched off the iPad.

It gave a click and was silent.

Lucy TansleyYear 7

The Lower School

12

A Letter

It’s quiet here. I’m in the dining room and The radio’s on.I’m sorting the cards thatYou gave me last year.7, 6, 5, 4…

3, 2, 1…Get down! Get down youStupid child.It’s knocking on the dust now,Rattling the hinges,Jolting the latch.Don’t answer! Not again!Remember, remember -

I’ve woken up again. It’s 3:06. Perhaps I need a drink.Should have got one earlier.I never remember, always forget.I’m going downstairs now.It’s raining outside.

Don’t look!This isn’t hide and seek - Child’s play, really.Just stay down. Cover your ears.Don’t listen.The sirens will get you.It’s raining, it’s pouring,The old man is snoring…

The Middle School

13The Middle School

It’s 5:42.Get up, wash. Get dressed, downstairs.Eat. And now,Maybe I’ll watch T.V.I need the remote - Spilt my tea.The cup’s rolling towards the edge - It’s going to break - Brace!

Brace! What have you been doing! Get up!Why are you not moving? Under a sea full of rainYou saw him gasping,Clutching the shore.But the edge is so thinAnd the waves smile.

It’s quiet here.I went to bed at 9:30 last night,Just as you said.But it’s come back again, Mother.It’s come back.

Aria Baker Year 9

14

The Middle School

Snow White

When the sun rises, she wakes up. The world is bright and beautiful, as always. She smiles a sweet little smile, she yawns, and she dances to the window. The sun casts light on her fair face as she greets the animals and the grass waves back at her. Or perhaps that was just the wind, light and cool. She opens the window and the birds tweet cheerfully back, one landing on her outstretched palm. How wonderful. She twirls downstairs, arranging the house while she goes. The dear little dwarves must have left earlier, but have left behind ingredients for her to make dinner with. How nice of them. She dreams and sings as she prepares a fresh meat pie. ‘Some day my prince will come’, flashing, no, Grumpy, ‘come back’, the pie, focus. Think how the dwarves would feel if they came home and she hasn’t made dinner with the ingredients they prepared just for her? Cut off the crust, no that knife’s dirty, when did that happen? She ought to wash it. The squirrels come and watch her as she finishes up. The pie is done. Perfect. She can’t wait.

When the sun rises, she wakes up. The world is beautiful, as always. She smiles a little, she yawns, and she dances to the window. The sun casts light on her face as she greets the animals running around the garden and the grass, damp with morning dew, sways in the wind. She opens the window and the birds begin to sing, high and loud, and fly in flocks. How lovely. She twirls downstairs, sweeping away the spider webs and moving the accumulating dust on the stairs. The dear little dwarves must have left earlier, but have left behind ingredients for her to make dinner with. They must have, surely. She dreams and sings as she prepares a fresh meat pie. ‘Some day my prince will come’, flashing, no, Happy, spiders, ‘some day’, the pie, focus. Oh look, a naughty spider crawled into the pie! Think how the dwarves would feel if they came home… and… (They’re not coming home anymore, silly Snow White.) Bright flashes, the world in technicolour, today is Happy, goodnight.

15The Middle School

When the sun rises, she wakes up. She thinks she had a dream last night, and hopes it was a happy one. She has no patience to smile this morning, however. There are no animals in the garden to greet today, and the wind is cold and strong. There is something wrong. She dances, quickly, down the stairs, brushing the cobwebs out of the way as she goes, and

opens the package on the chopping board. It smells. The meat is old and off. Wrong. Her vision flashes, the world is bright and blinding, brighter than the sun, more colourful than the birds and she clutches her head because this is strange, this is overwhelming, this is too bright, this is wrong. Make it stop. She thinks she hears a knock on the door. This is her salvation. This has to be right and real. She rushes to the door, her prince; her knight in shining armour is there,

waiting for her! She can’t wait any longer! She flings the door open and… Only her shadow stares back at her. (Foolish Snow White, you think too much. Go back to sleep.)

When the sun rises, she wakes up. The world is bright and beautiful, as always. As it should be.

The spider webs grow by the day.

Tiffany Griffths Year 11

Inspired by the Sevenoaks School Making It Exhibition ‘Reanimation – Snow White’ by Oliver Beer

Image © Oliver Beer. Animation created from over 500 individual drawings by students from the Alpes-Maritimes region of France.

16

An extract from ‘What a Wonderful World’

Here, silence reigns supreme. It is the undisputed dictator of the darkness, the lord of fear. The silence is total, inescapable and overwhelming. The sun is high over the ridge now, like a bloodshot eye. It stretches out its tendrils to scour the land for flesh to burn. The twitter of birds, the humming of cars, the friendly exchange of that most human thing: words, are non-existent. It is a silent world. As if nature itself is shocked at the massacre, the destruction.

Skyscrapers which once stood tall and proud, piercing the clouds, lie crippled, backs broken, long distorted shadows stretching far behind them. Roads, once smooth, have become gaping chasms, their hungry mouths open, ready to consume. Trees stand defiantly upright, shards pointing like daggers into the dusty air, their scorched roots bare above the ground.

The body’s shirt is torn and caked with blood. Its right arm protrudes from the rubble at an odd angle, the shattered bone pushing through torn skin like some giant splinter. Its face is barely discernible, but one can just make out the features of a middle-aged man, his matted hair sticky with congealing blood. The soldier looks down at him with merciless brown eyes, his gloved hand gripping the gun. A faint moan escapes the distorted mouth and without thinking his finger twitches – but he walks on. He has his orders.

The raging sun beats down upon his exposed neck. In the deepening silence his thumping heart resounds in his sunburnt ears. As morning moves to day and day to evening, he remains the only living thing in a wilderness of barren death.

Now closer to the heart of the city, the bodies become uncountable, unrecognisable. No more than human-shaped cinders. A flutter of movement to his right distracts him and swivelling round he finds himself being scanned by a pair of beady eyes. They inspect the scene with a matter-of-fact, almost quizzical air, as if he was simply a curiosity. The crow seems to judge him as a minimal threat, an air of arrogance in its upturned beak.

The Middle School

17

The skies above are more beautiful than he has ever seen. The setting sun tints everything around him into a city of crimson and orange. Ash, gently snowing from the sky, settles in a soft blanket over his body. A tune pops into his head and he finds himself singing:

“I see trees of green, red roses too. I watch them bloom for me and you…”

His voice sounds strange to him, like a forgotten friend; it echoes in the empty city as a startled crow soars up, unfurling its ragged wings like a veil of death. Ben Hancox-Lachman Year 10

The Middle School

Change

If change was an object,It would be a bombExploding with thoughts, Emotions and free will. Breaking out of its cage,Releasing all of its power,And like a mushroomCloud, signal the startOf a new era,Of a new age.

Spiros Giovas Year 9

18

The Virtuoso

Every last breath is a song,Death - an art.Killing is a performance,I am the director. It is time for your curtain call,It is time,To make you beautiful.

Once the curtains fall,The lights dim,The warmth leeches away.I take a bow.

I accept the applause,Gleeful celebration.You have played your part well,Without script or rehearsal.

A shame you may not perform again,A talent well wasted.Others dread an encore.Alas, this was merely Act One.

James Perman Winner of the Year 9 Verve Competition

The Middle School

19

Alone

I remember it hurting. That with every step I took and every corner I turned, the sickening agony rose, carving through my awareness until it hurt to keep my eyes open. They were a sea of grey faces, their smiles and comfort nothing but a worthless mass of self-indulgent good will. And as they whispered, I heard. Whispers shouldn’t have been that loud. Even in the midst of the crowd, I was alone. My voice unheard and my tears unseen.

Their whispers are still loud. Their faces still haunt the shadows, blank and contorted. I embrace the raw comfort of the pain, letting it remind me that something is still real. I think of all the things that they will never know, all the things I will never tell them. How they will stare and talk, without ever really knowing.

Surrounded by a sea of people, I am invisible to them, as their talk is filled with laughter and carelessness. It pushes up inside of me again, the longing and the want. To have their same sense of contentment, to feel safe. I watch their eyes, their smiles, their perfect lives and I know that I can never have that. I see that they are all good people and I am a broken doll, fractured and bent beyond repair.

It is darker now and the rain falls. I let it drown out everything else and listen to the steady drone of it. It clouds my senses until I can’t hear their whispers anymore, and I can’t see their dishonest eyes. I close my eyes slowly, and for a second I feel safe, for a second I don’t feel afraid. But the fear falls too heavy and it drowns me too quickly and I fall too fast. So I let myself fall. I let myself slowly fall apart.

Naomi Jennings Year 9

The Middle School

20

An extract from ‘My Moroccan Odyssey’

Leaving behind the bustle of Marrakesh, we headed towards Essaouira, the white city. As we approached, I felt a different tempo. A serenity, a calmness. The sky was speckled with black dots. Like ink blotches against blue paper. Sometimes the dots dove down, their small figures growing larger, more defined, until they morphed into the shape of a seagull. The gentle murmur of the ocean sung a soothing melody.

In the distance was a weathered fort that shielded the city from the ocean. For centuries, it had guarded over the rocky shore and protected its inhabitants. Upon entering the fort, I was struck by the juxtaposition of old and new. The scars on the stone walls told tales of long-forgotten battles. Now, tourists posed on the ancient lead cannons taking photographs.

The ocean was peppered with fishing boats. Below, the marina was brimming with fish stalls. Fishermen unloaded their cargo: fish, crabs, octopus - their eyes still open, unblinking, staring at the fishermen as if in judgment. The warm breeze carried the smell of salt and fish. Hidden in the shade of a fish stall, plump contented cats lay gnawing at the remains of discarded fish heads.

The numerous alleyways of the city reminded me of an intricate spider web, glistening in the sunlight. Here, the merchants approached us in a languorous haze, indifferent as to whether we bought from them. Unlike Marrakesh, the white city was tranquil and still.

Siena CastellonYear 9

The Middle School

21The Middle School

22

Schloss Toteninsel

She contemplated the black, inky night and did not want to return: she could not, not now, not like this. Yet compulsion pulled at her and she yielded to it. Where was the passage? Where? She must find it.

The swirling clouds of rain cloaked the foreboding island in a satin funeral shroud. She gazed up at the rocky outcrop, around which clung in dark and stony embrace the steep, slippery stair back up to the castle which had been both her home and her prison until scarcely a week ago. She felt neither the cold wind whipping her hair against her face, nor the cold drip of the rain running like skeletal fingers down the back of her neck, so great was her fear of returning too late, of not getting back before some horrific and irreversible mischief was done. Even worse was the possibility of her failing to get off the island, of her incarceration proving to be inescapable. Dampened and puddled from the deluge, she slipped more than once on the narrow, rough-hewn steps leading from the dismal beach to the equally uninviting castle, which loomed high above her. Time and again she struggled and fell, with the rain and the wind lashing down from a cantankerous and vengeful sky.

She found herself crouching at the feet of once well-pruned yew trees, now choked by long, gnarled vines, which were slowly throttling and strangling the overgrown topiary. Her scarlet dress, saturated by the downpour, clung to her like an unwanted visitor. A broken window provided a convenient entrance, as though her passage had been deliberately eased, to lure her on the path dictated by her fate. The contents of the room were momentarily highlighted by a sudden white flash. Now immediately overhead, the storm seemed to redouble its efforts and thunderous rain issued forth from the heavens. The ever brighter lightning flashes were accompanied by a tympanic eruption of noise from the sky, making the windows reply in perverse harmony. The wind howled through the crooked gaps in the window, provoking the tattered, scarlet curtains into a furious and accusing dance. The room barely resembled her father’s old study; his books scattered over the dusty carpet, his desk overturned, the papers torn and discarded. The mahogany chair that he had so prized was now marked by a vicious scar, which ran in crude criss-cross over its back, the two lines meeting (or so she fancied) where her dear papa’s heart would have rested. Suppressing a sob, she fled the room and burst forth into one of the dim passages that ran vein-like the length and breadth of the castle.

The Middle School

23The Middle School

The noise of a heavy oak door rattling and banging as it was alternately sucked in and exhaled by the swirling vortex of wind brought her back to her senses. Timidly she moved forward, as if drawn by the compelling and otherworldly song of the Charybdis. Tugging at the back of her mind was a suspicion that she was being watched. She halted and peered rabbit-like and nervous into the inky darkness. She was certain she could hear heavy, irregular footsteps behind her, as if someone, something, was shadowing her.

Suddenly a door slammed. Fear welled up so quickly she could not suppress the scream. She ran. Out, out of the dark arcade! Nauseated and claustrophobic, the earth spinning underneath her feet, Isadora burst out of her prison and into the dark expanse of forest that grew in the heart of the castle, her father’s pride and joy. The trees stuck out their roots to make her trip; they held out their branches to grab her, hold her back, prevent her release. In a final attempt to escape the memories, the horrors of this castle, Isadora pushed past the barrier and fell with a thump on hard cobblestones.

Before her were the rose gardens, once so beloved of her mother and sisters. She thought of the stormy sea and the grand city lights that sparkled across the deep, slate-coloured waters. She was reminded of her dear brother, the Duke, living in his residence in the Old Town; reminded of joyful summers playing in the garden, of ball gowns and grandeur, of parties and of gentlemen admirers. What ephemeral pleasures! She thought of her dear papa, of his dear sweet face and his amiable whiskers and with a cry of resolve and a gargantuan effort, she picked herself up and started her quest anew. Nervously she set out to find the Great Hall and the little anteroom, in which she knew she would find the key that she sought so desperately, which would grant her freedom from this wretched island and the torment of the last five long years.

Orlagh Meyer Year 11(Inspired by the study of the Gothic)

24

Bakerloo Line

The daily grind of commuters rush undergroundSipping caffeinated morphine.Feeling lost, I fall in lineDescending into madness.On entering the carriage I feelSuffocated by numbness.Taking in the enmity of emotion around me,I taste my self-conscious saliva.What if my boss thinks my breath smells bad?We move.Should I sit or should I stand?The professionals are to my leftStanding to attention.The un-professionals litter the seats on my right,Bystanders to their own bleak futures.The tube makes a groan.My shoes are dirty.A man in a grey suit brushes past me.I have to remind myself That this is not that sexual abuse ad on The YouTube.Hearing fragments of Brahms and Busta Rhymes,I congratulate myself on making the tube on time.My thoughts return to my work.I hopeThat soon I will be making ‘ad copy’,But in my bones I knowI will probably just be supplying coffee.Maybe they Share my anxieties? The tube grinds to a halt,Screaming in pain.I have missed my stop.

Saskia Ziv-GuestYear 10

The Middle School

25

Marks of Life

Stretch marks, bite marks,Skinny jean seam marks.Birth marks, bump marks,Sunburnt skin marks.Scratch marks, cut marks,Angry mole removal marks.Laugh marks, cry marks,End-of-topic test marks.

Daisy Hargreaves Year 10

Homeless

Homeless,Cardboard boxesAnd bare feet, a forgotten face In a busy street. No future, Just hope.

Sophie DarganYear 10

The Middle School

Peace

A wordInitiating tongue biting.But is it sincere?Or just wanted by those tired of fighting?

Rebecca Bartlett Year 10

26

Sandcastle

He built his kingdom with a plastic cup. The sand, carefully chosen, firmly held its shape, and from the beach he moulded towering structures that loomed over the coastline. Upturned cups of sand became turrets, clumps of clay doubled as buttress walls, and a seashell he’d dug up adorned the gate like a coat of arms. Digging into the sand, he carved out a moat around the castle and watched it fill with sea foam. Every now and then he’d pause, brow furrowed with concentration, and look over his construction with a tactician’s eye. His fortress would be impregnable.

He worked with deft precision, etching oriels onto the towers and carving merlons into the tops of the battlements. Everything was going to be perfect

this time, he’d decided. He checked to ensure he’d left enough room at the front for a portcullis and found some twigs of driftwood to plant as flag masts, nudging them until they were positioned just right. As he looked out towards the water the sun glinted off the parapets and cast long shadows across the shore - it was just as he’d pictured it in his head.

Behind him, the tide drifted up the coast and began to lap against the walls.

He paid it no mind. His empire grew, spreading along the network of roads and canals that he traced into the sand. He saw it all now - rows of houses, plazas and statues and city squares, and, at the centre of it all, his castle stretching skyward - and he smiled. It was all there, coming closer and closer to reality with every cup of sand he shovelled. Boyish excitement buzzed in his ears and almost drowned out the distant roar of the surf.

He woke with a start to the crash of waves and turned to see the eastern ramparts crumble into the swash. Water rushed in to flood the town - seeping inland, it tore chunks out of the walls and swamped his houses with froth. His eyes widened with petulant worry. Those strands of seaweed that were now clogging his street, and there, that bit of flotsam that had

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lodged itself into the ramparts - they shouldn’t be there, that wasn’t right. Mercifully, the sea receded, and the trespass was over as quickly as it had begun. He didn’t relax though - the next threat neared, surging eagerly forward, and he rushed to repair the damage in the short lull between the swells of the tide.

He’d known it was coming of course, and he’d tried to prepare. He’d worked hard on this. After all, if it was going to be so perfect, it needed to last. There was a purpose to his designs, a grim reason for all the bulwarks, fortifications and barricades, and for a moment he stood, confident, and watched the waves pummel his fort. The walls, so intently formed, held fast. But the waves were relentless, and the tide continued to rise. Slowly, his towers collapsed, the edges of his fortifications dulled, and his sharp crenellations folded into blunted, ugly clumps. And still the waves persisted, crashing in and receding and crashing in again with their rhythmic precision. His castle softened into a mound of sand. It wasn’t long before the kingdom disappeared under the brine and foam.

The next day, when the waters ebbed and the tides retreated, the sun rose over a very different coastline, smooth and unmarred. The sand was pristine, and only the keenest eye would find the sad stumps that marked his efforts.

But he wasn’t looking - he wasn’t there. Just further down the beach, plastic cup in hand, he was already envisioning his next metropolis. And it would be perfect.

Daniel Wu Lower Sixth

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The Upper School

Keys

You stare at the keyboard, 88 keys. You want to use it, But your fingers are too stiff.

You stare at your shadow on the black upper panel,And think of the scores on your desk That should have been the key to your future.

Play You tell yourself.Heal.Persist. That, you are told, Is the key to success.

They don’t talk about the times you had to Look into their sorry eyes, and hear them chirp:Don’t worry,This story Just went horribly wrong.But it won’t last for long. Persistence is key.

29The Upper School

Your fingers,Unaccustomed to use,Tremble, tumble andFumble to find the right notes, To hit the right keys,To shape the right story. You press the keys,Press them hard

Until,You see the thirds and the fifths and diminished sevenths Swirling in front of your eyes, Hear the crotchets and quavers and semiquavers Singing and shouting and fighting. You let it arrest you, You let it enshroud you, You close your lidsAnd ignore the saltiness that accumulatesAt your lips.

Adriana Lee Upper Sixth

30

Eyesore

The tattoos caught on incredibly fast. After all, it was about half a year after the C.O.D came out. The press got into a whole dispute about what to call it – but in the end some clever atheist named it C.O.D. as a jab at the omniscience of the divine.

Anyway, about 6 months after the first confirmed prediction, these tattoos starting showing up. At first it was one of those crazes – everybody did it. You would get some blood drawn, the machine would emit a low hum and you would take your paper straight to the tattoo shop. But pretty soon as the reports rolled in, it became more and more relevant.

Almost everyone has their C.O.D. tattooed these days, just below your left wrist – they can remind themselves of how they’ll die every time they check their watch. Walking down the street you can see it all. Plane Crash and Fire are holding hands, window shopping. Old Age walks around with a smug look on his face – of course he does. No one is embarrassed and everyone rolls up their sleeve. Of course nobody believed it at first. Experts in all sorts of fields were on every news channel proclaiming the limits of technology and the power of free will. Go about your daily lives. Work, live and die on your own terms.

Well, here we are 3 years later, and every tattoo, every prediction in every medical file, matches every death certificate since then. The C.O.D is never wrong.

People didn’t riot when they learned their C.O.D.s – the world didn’t end. But there were some big changes.

If you were lucky enough to have substantial stock in any of the large chain fast food companies, you’re a billionaire now, since everybody without heart-failure lined up for a Big Mac. Needless to say obesity is through the roof. So is drug addiction. So is alcoholism.

Last night, a comedy show had a sketch about a doctor destroying a slip from the C.O.D before the patient could read it. The punchline was that the slip said ‘Malpractice.’

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Out there the life insurance companies are still scrambling to come up with a viable business model.

Out there parents are learning how their newborns will die and are sure to completely mess their kids up trying to avoid it – it’s only natural. Who wants to know how their child will die?

Out there schools are being constantly re-segregated whenever a new School Shooting shows up.

Out there patients with Heart Attack are being abandoned by the paramedics.

Out there the government is monitoring and interring the Suicide Bombs and the Martyrs. But it never works, the machine always wins. But with all the Knife Wounds and Earthquakes and Fires, my tattoo alone draws stares. With all those clever puns and social commentary scarred on left arms, mine alone attracts questions. When the blood had been drawn and the papers signed and the C.O.D stopped shaking and humming, my mind started racing.

I thought about my father – a drunk driver, paralyzed from the neck down, longing for his Aneurism. We are convinced of our own immortality when we think our Achilles’ heal is etched into our left arm.

So I had a different tattoo; and every time I check my watch, there it is, my reminder. My defiant show to the rest of the world: ?????.

Just because it’s there, doesn’t mean you have to show it.

I never roll down my sleeve.

Nathaniel Robinson Lower Sixth

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Opium

The clouds were on fire. It was As if their underbellies were groaning As they protruded under the weight of The vast meal they had just consumed.As if Hera had ladled large spoonfuls ofPomegranate juice into the great crevicesOf their soft stomachs, sipping and slurping.

At the tip of the sky the clouds thinned Out into steely grey wisps. Like young hair,Fragile threads, remnants of the Milky Way. The cloud sheet was being pushed down To the Earth.Crushed colours and crushed bodiesAs the poppy tears pierced the skin.

Laetitia Moon Lower Sixth

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Disorder

A vase held high as expectations, Balanced precariously, Supported by weak, trembling fingers.Fragile, fleeting, exposed. But losing her grip, it flies out of control - And falls,Fragments irretrievably scattered.She panics, picking up the pieces, Forcing them to hold together. But the glue is weak,The strength is illusive,The mend is transient;Details are missing, cracks forming.

The pallid surface no longer shines. Curves, once smooth, stand out as jagged edges,Harsh on the eye.‘Perfection doesn’t exist’. But they still notice the flaws, Hiding their judgement in a dusting of whispers. So she hides the broken vase under a baggy veil, Concealed, drowned, engulfed. It seems smaller than ever As she buries it deep underground, And it’s forgotten.

But slowly it’s crumbling under the pressure.Empty crevices form, and it’s dying from the inside out, Spiralling into complete disorder.

Natasha Norris Lower Sixth

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The Price of Friendship

“Will you please take a seat? Herr Bergmann will see you shortly.”

He cast a vague nod of thanks towards the girl. She smiled thinly as he regarded her, with her dull blond hair piled on top of her head in a coil of plaits. Her scrubbed, sallow face was pulled inwards in a grimace that appeared part suspicious, part indignant, as if she resented the task of guiding him down the short hallway to where he now sat on the hard wooden bench, back pressed against the cool, white wall. With a furtive glance at the frosted glass door opposite, she half-heartedly enquired if he would take some coffee. He shook his head. “No. Thank you.” With a terse nod she smoothed down her starched white blouse and returned to her desk, the tapping of her heels reverberating around the stark, func-tional corridor. Sighing heavily, Hans lent forwards to rest his elbows on his knees, his large pale hands clasped tightly together. He lowered his head and held it between his palms, gently massaging his temples, which were beginning to throb dully. Raising his head slightly, his eyes rested upon a small smear of mud on his left shoe. In contrast to the polished black leather, it offended him. He rubbed at the stain with his thumb.

“Hans! The Rosenbaums are here!” The muffled sounds of greetings be-ing exchanged was immediately drowned out by the thundering of small feet down the hall, by shrieks of excitement as the children enthusiasti-cally discussed new games, showed off new toys. Striding into the front room Hans greeted his friends. “Jakob, Frieda, it’s wonderful to see you. How are things?” he asked. “It feels like years since we last saw you!” “Well, you know how things are” said Frieda, smiling plaintively. She exchanged a brief look with her husband, who had moved to stand with his hand placed protectively on the back of her chair. Softly shaking

her head she sighed, and turned back to Hans. “How’s the new job?” “Oh you know, it’s early days yet. A lot of responsibility. Now, if you’ll excuse me, dear friends, I should help Liesel with the tea.” Walking into the kitchen he hummed contentedly to himself. His wife stood at the sink,

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busying herself with a large vase. He walked over to her and lightly rested his hands on her shoulders. He kissed her cheek, admiring the blooms as kitchen scis-sors struggled to cut through tough rose stem. Returning to the parlour Hans laughed jovially as the youngest Rosenbaum ran at full pelt into the room, his arms flailing like windmills. Smiling apologetically at Hans, Frieda reached down to her son, as his pudgy outstretched arms reached up to grasp her. As their hands met, Hans noticed the band around the boy’s arm, the harsh angles of the black six-pointed star emblazoned on to the yellow material. Hans looked up, his eyes meeting Jakob Rosenbaum’s for a brief moment before he turned back to the table, embarrassed. “Does anyone want a slice of Bundt cake?”

The door swung open, and Hans leapt to his feet. “Ah, Herr Schneider. Thank you for your patience,” came the deep, pleasant voice from inside the study. Bergmann appeared in the doorway, his broad frame incased in an expensive looking suit, his posture held rigorously upright. He ad-justed his suit jacket, the small swastika pin on his lapel gleaming against the dark material. He stood back, holding the door open. Taking a deep breath, Hans stepped into the office.

“I have some information.”

Niamh Meyer Lower Sixth

‘The price of anything is the amount of life you exchange for it’ - Henry David Thoreau

36

Child of Hell

If scripture is rightOur love is unholyAnd we, the lovers, are destined for hell.Well I say let’s not wait to get there.Let us drinkAnd fightAnd lust,Until my father down belowMakes way for my triumphant return homeTo claimHis throne.

If scripture is rightOne sin will damn you,Whether hedonistic or self-preserving.So why not fall as a legend?Why not commit tensUpon hundredsUpon thousands,Until my father down belowSees that I am primed and poisedTo takeWhat’s mine.

Oh, how we will go down in history.Me, child of hell,And you,Innocent untainted lover.We will show the menBehind the golden altarThat perhaps the greatest love of allIs not a decree from aboveBut a revolution from below.

EJ KokUpper Sixth

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The Handbook

I could write a poem on love.On how its slings manipulate usTo compare thee to a summer’s day,And to conceal the cracks we have compressedWith the concrete of a positive outlook.

Or I could glance to the canopy above,Muse on the tendrils and thusComment on the kaleidoscopic arrayOf violet, cherry and lemon blossom.Tick off the natural clichés from the textbook.

Or talk about childhood, being free as a bird,Another possible path to pursue.Or childhood memory, there’d be plenty to say.I could muse on that birthday or biology test:Complete the poetry handbook.

But this is not that poem.

Isabel McGrady Lower Sixth

? ?

Editorial

Images

Taken from Wikipedia Commons: Copyright of images permitted under terms specified.

2016 Verve Team

Izzy Ormonde, Niamh Meyer, Molly Marr-Johnson, Jo Gray, Alice Thompson, Isabel McGrady, Nathaniel Robinson, Daniel Wu, Kelly Liu, Rachelle Lam, Natasha Norris, Laetitia Moon, Miranda Zhang

Help with publicity: Ruihua Zhang, Nazli Asardag, Olivia Nevill

Verve publicity video: Rachelle Lam, Oliver Best

Text Selection: The Verve Team

Poster and Cover Design: Daniel Wu

Editing and Layout: Anne Durnford

With thanks to the English department for running creative writing competitions in Years 7, 8 and 9.

Here we speak, the team from Verve,Prose and poems we do serve,Imagination freed from fetters,Now portrayed in printed letters.

From psyche’s ardent inner brewTo eyesight’s record, clear and true,Here we proffer unto thee,Verse acrostic, blank and free.