Poem: By The Sea: A War’s Tale

Max Lancaster's poem, 'By The Sea: A War's Tale' won the Year 7 Leonardo Prize, 2013

The stars shone on the water

As I thudded up the beach

In green and black,

A solitary spirit.

The peaceful silence was broken,

Often by the sound of cannons,

The tranquil waters, once azure,

Were now tainted with a crimson haze.

The blades of the cold

Stabbed the unfortunate

As they drowned,

A gloomy end.

Sunlight danced along the rippling waves,

Like diamond eagles on a sunny day,

But battleships in navy blue

Blotted out the sun as they came in droves.

A bloodshot trail followed me,

Like parasites on their host,

The swarm of landing craft overwhelmed me,

A completely heart-stopping sight.

They showed no mercy, just brutality,

Slaughtering us by hand and gun.

I am now frozen in time on this decimated battlefield

As I lie dead on the sand.

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Poem for Sunday: Pevensey Beach

James Beattie's poem, 'Pevensey Beach', won the Year 9 Leonardo 2013 prize.

As waves broke against the bow of the boat,

As I stared into the sea’s mists,

The wooden planks groaned and the oars splashed

Only fuelling my anticipation.

My heart raced as I drew my sword

Admiring the finely-honed blade.

I knew the mist would soon turn red

As we approached the shores of Pevensey Beach.

The beach soon slipped into the surly white curls

As the dunes of sand slowly revealed themselves.

The tranquil waves lapped against the sides of the boats

Disturbed only by our oars as we slid onto the sand.

And at that moment the sounds of thousands of boots

Upon sand flooded the air around me

And we left the safety of our boats

As our eyes scanned the dunes of Pevensey Beach.

The crash of the waves and of our metal armour plates

Was the only sound that greeted us then.

No cry of the Saxons to start a blood fuelled rampage

On this tranquil yet hostile land.

Then a tidal wave of our men charged up the dunes

But were met with no reply

For there were none of Great Harold’s army

To defend the conquered Pevensey Beach.

And slowly the wispy curls disappeared

Along with the boats and soldiers.

No noise apart from the waves bombarded my ears.

Nor the colliding of armoured steel plates.

My mind’s imagination switched off the fantasy

Of being a Norman foot soldier invading Britain

As I sat on the sand of Pevensey Beach.

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Poem for Sunday: Deep Depths

Katie Green's poem, 'Deep Depths', won the Year 8 Leonardo 2013 prize.

Dark waves crashed mercilessly

Against the jagged rocks below.

The almost inky black colour the only

Clue as to the fathomless depth below.

I had to jump.

I had to jump.

I would jump.

I WAS going to jump.

I had to jump.

She asked me if I could hear the music.

I could hear it,

Slow like a lullaby

Over and over in my head.

I should jump?

I shook my head,

Snapping myself out of the trance.

They mustn’t have it.

They would never have it.

I had to jump.

The woman held out her hands to me,

Inviting me.

But I could see the cruelty,

The evil in her eyes.

I had to jump.

I looked down at the precious little bundle in my arms.

So small, so unsuspecting,

Giving no clue as to the power it held as it

Snuggled closer into my arms against the biting wind.

I had to jump.

My babe.

My poor, poor babe.

Unashamed, tears streaked down my cheeks,

For the life it would never know.

I had to jump.

Drawing all my courage around me like a cloak,

I glared at the woman, who had haunted my dreams for years,

And knew that here, it would all end.

And then I was gone, flying through the air down to the freezing depths below.

I had jumped.

Flying,

Falling,

Tumbling.

Down, down until I broke the surface of the water,

And it drew me into a loving embrace as my vision blacked out.

I had jumped, and that set me free.

My eyes snapped open, alert.

I was on my feet in an instant,

Ready to defend the fragile life in my arms.

Around me was grey sky and black beach,

But I just saw hope.

I had jumped to set myself and my child free,

And now the nightmare was over,

And a new dawn arrived.

I had now jumped and now, at last, I was released.

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Three Poems: 'By The Sea'

Three poems written for the Leonardo 2013 competition ("By the Sea") by Mark Richardson, Gillian Meadows and Emma Bell.


A Call

I never thought I'd live by the sea
The rolling sway, the darkening gleam of water.

I was earth bound, city-plunged, dancing on concrete.
The thrum of the taxi cab and the Routemaster bell sounded my call.
Sirens rang around my head,
My face was decorated with lipstick and dust,
And the clatter of heels and disappointments whittled away at my heart
As the airs of boys and girls drifted into the trees of Soho Square -

Now I lie on stones gazing at thousands of acres of sky
The shape of islands reconstructs me.
The forts, my stays.
The dove-grey water cleanses me,
The world revolves on its axis properly and
The wind is my siren call now.

As my children bathe their strong coastal bones in the Sound
And the seagulls' shrieks match theirs . . .
The foghorn sings a baritone.
Twilight: and lights pinpoint through the lowering sky
Illuminating our future.

My heart, mended-
This is now my call.

                                      Emma Bell

 

Without Me
You are my sixth sense.

Inland and parched
I wither and weather.
As sand-tears chafe
Dryly.

Marooned.

The sea-smooth rock
Shaped by time
And tide;
My shipwrecked heart
Weighs heavy.

Heavier still
With bitter salt
As the tides call
And turn
And turn again without

me.

In my dreams

The slap and drag

Of the shore

haunt me.

The sifting

Sand

And

Shifting land

Taunt me.

 

The shrill cry of the gull

Mocks me.

Calls time.

As the saline drip

Slips.

Slips away.

Salient.
Silent.

Down by the sea

Without me.

 

                          Gillian Meadows

 

Perhaps

 

Mary

Rose early that day:

The noise of the expectant crowd

Was a tumult through the window.

She must have known why;

Nelson was about to leave The George.

The High Street was jammed with people

Eager to catch a precious glimpse of "Him", the Hero.

She would perhaps have realised

That he would never get out of the front.

Perhaps she spotted him leaving

From the back of the hotel.

Perhaps. 

 

He could

Have turned left, up Penny Street

And into what is now

PGS, his very steps

Later celebrated in assemblies.

But he turned right, the road here clear.

His voyage was to the sea

He was wanted on the Victory,

Moored tidily off South

Sea beach.

Ramparts
Prevented him from leaving eastwards
So his likely path to the sea was
The tunnel below the southern platform,
Now still supporting a cannon
Pointing not at the French
But the dangerous Isle
Of Wight.

Last steps,
Then, were under that tunnel:
Narrow and dark, echoes of his quick step
In the sudden silence, and then
Out into the noise, the glare.
After that, the beach, his last solid land.
Legend has it that the crowds cheered.
Perhaps the ghost of Henry Tudor,
Standing by his tent by South Sea Castle,
Vainly seeking glory in battle with the French,
Was looking not at his ship
Foundering in the Solent
Nor hearing the faint cries of the
Doomed seamen and soldiers
Trapped by the nets and rigging,
But instead, gazing out at the hero,
The admiral, the darling,
And hearing the crowd's wild
Huzzahs.

Perhaps
If he left the town
By the Sally Port as intended,
He would never have died on that heaving deck
Off the coast of Spain,
Musket bullet fatally lodged in spine.
But as he strode to the boat
Through the tunnel by the sea,
Through the darkness and into
The glare.

Footsteps
Fade.
The crowds dispersed, later learning
Of Nelson's death in the victory of Victory.
Perhaps some recalled, "I was there."
Some might have said they
Saw his small boat launched from the beach huts.
Someone might have said they
Saw his small boat launched from the beach huts.
Someone might have seen him
Dipping his head, hat briefly removed
As he walked through that tunnel.
The George has gone,
The eastern ramparts
Long since removed.
Waves still flop
Onto pebbles.
A cannon still stares, one-eyed,
Like Nelson.
Footsteps fade.
What remains?
Stories.

                                Mark Richardson

 

 

                              

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Winner of the 2013 Leonardo Prize: What Lies Beneath

On the surface all you see
are ripples of love and devotion
but if you look deeply into their eyes
you reach the abyss of darkness

Being with them is endless light
entrancing azure eyes reflecting
a sea beating slowly and gracefully while
the sun soaks through the clarity

But, without them is like reaching blackness
an empty core of destruction
the endless depths of memory and regret
hold this lonely distance

In the end you realise all
the storms must be ceased
for it is better to leave the unspoken words
as something that lies beneath

                                                    Maddy de Vere

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Creative Writing: Prologue

by Katie Green

She ran. She ran as fast as her legs would carry her. The wind, gusting erratically, whipped her hair into her face, momentarily blinding her. She flung it out of her eyes without pausing and rushed onwards. She heard shouts and feet pounding rapidly on the ground. It was a cold September morning and the earth was just frozen enough for the boots of her pursuers to drum loudly upon it. Risking a quick glance behind her, she saw that they had drawn closer to her. She was tiring and couldn’t go on much longer.

Suddenly, like a ray of liquid gold shining from the sun through the cloud cover, she saw her destination. Her final destination. Tears both happy and sad mingled on her cheeks as they streaked down her ashen face. She increased her pace, putting her last drop of energy into her dash to the edge. The edge of the cliff. At last, she stopped. She had been running for the last year of her life and now here, finally, she ceased. She looked around her, savouring the view while she could. It wasn’t anything special, just a flat grassy field that dropped abruptly into the dark waters below. Water like ink, in the darkest shade of blue, battered the jagged rocks beneath her mercilessly. Its colour was the only clue as to the fathomless depth below. The dense clouds above blocked all but the tiniest drop of sunlight that leaked through the cracks. What little light there was was grey and bleak, offering no warmth. It was positively miserable, but to her it was beautiful. It was what freedom looked like.

She heard soft footfalls behind her and whipped round to face the woman who had been haunting her dreams for the last year. No, not dreams. Nightmares. Her face was pale and looked like it had been chiselled from marble. Her auburn hair was in stark contrast with her skin.  She knew she had to jump and edged slowly away from the woman.

“Can you hear the music?” the woman asked gently, but a steely undertone hinted at her malice. That and the evil, the cruelty in her eyes. “Sarah, can you hear the music?” the woman repeated.

Still she didn’t reply.

The woman thought she could hear the music and she was right. It lurked at the back of her mind, as always, slow like a lullaby. It grew louder and more dominant in her head. She could hear the music. The music the woman, that woman had put there. It was always there, like her own constant, not so quiet companion. But she had never heard it this loud, this crisply as she could now. She - she had come here for some reason. Why would she be here?

She shook her head violently, as if to shake of the thoughts out, and snapped herself out of her reverie. She knew why she was here. She was here to jump.

She looked down at the precious little bundle in her arms as it nestled more snugly into her embrace against the biting wind. It was so small, so unsuspecting as to the great power it held or the great destruction it could bring in the wrong hands. The hands of the woman. Despite all this time, she still didn’t know her name.

Her babe. Her poor, poor babe. As she thought about the life it would never know, the experiences that it would never know, the years they would never share, unashamed tears poured silently down her face. She wiped them away along with the tracks they left. She would not cry. She would not show weakness. She would not be sad that she was saving it from a life of misery and misplaced trust.

The woman continued to advance with her arms out, inviting her. She knew it was now or never. And then she was gone, flying through the air, down into the freezing murky waters of the sea. She had jumped.

She was soaring, falling, tumbling, down, down until she broke the surface of the water. It drew her into a loving embrace as her vision blacked out. She had jumped, and that set her free at last.

Her eyes snapped open, alert. She was on her feet in an instant, ready to defend the fragile life in her arms. Realizing neither she, nor her baby was in any immediate danger; she relaxed and sank onto the ground. She didn’t know how long she sat there, just grateful to be alive.

Eventually, she looked up and gazed around. She was at a place much the same as before, only the cliffs were replaced by a pebbled beach. It was by no means a pretty place. Where others would have seen ugliness and dullness, she saw only hope. As she set off in search of a new life, she thought that world seemed just a little bit brighter, had a little bit more sunshine knocking around and that that in turn had a little more colour, a little more radiance. At last her nightmare was over, and a new dawn had arrived.

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Pointless Poetry

As we approach the beginning of the end of the exam season, Tim Bustin remembers the frustrations felt while revising for the poetry section of the GCSE Literature exam.


Poignantly floundering; zenith mesmerising sea.
And taking samples of language to create pointless poetry
 

 

To write a brilliant poem:

Use a concoction of ridiculous words.

Non-sensical message conveyed. 

Show off your manipulation to language.

Stop. And pause. And start again,

Your repeated point no longer in tandem.

Then for some unknown reason ignore all logical structure and ask a question?

Darken your mood.

Randomly: use colons.

Where do you use; semi-colons?

Only poets admire your work.

The rest are ignorant gits,

who cannot see how your use of a thesaurus can bring untold bliss.

Reflect. Unreflect.

One or two words don’t quite make sense.

Finally summarise; your omniscient peroration takes flight,

Until, filled with silent anger, you see you’ve written utter sh----.

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Hackers: Pain Relief

by Gregory Walton-Green, with an introduction by Benjamin Schofield

Introduction

Prompted by a writing exercise in Hackers, here Gregory writes about the increasingly important issue of self-harm. It is strange to realise that the second biggest cause of death in 15-24 year olds is now suicide, yet depression still feels an unbroachable topic. Before you read this poem I would like to stress how important it is as a writer to believe that false stories can still matter. While Greg is most definitely not self-harming his portrayal can still capture something of the feeling, or at least how he imagines it to be. Ultimately the poem provokes thought, as all good writing should, in an area which desperately needs to be thought about.  

Pain Relief

It strikes across my naked knee –

A blade of endless sympathy.

It brings me pain but helps me hide

The greater pain that dwells inside.

I always strive to pierce the skin:

The blood flows out and peace rolls in.

My worries flee when it goes deep,

And now I sink to blissful sleep…

I need the pain, what it provides –

Release from torment of my mind.

I torture myself hopelessly

There is no end in sight

Though I know that it’s killing me

I cannot end my plight.

If you have concerns about a friend or feel affected by the issue of self-harm we would always encourage you to discuss these with a member of staff or the school's medical department. The school nurses can be seen in confidence and can provide professional advice to ensure that you remain safe. Alternatively, you can contact Childline: 0800 11 11. There is also a very helpful website you can visit here.

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Poem: El Grito de la Noche

by Liliana Nogueira-Pache

Si tienes que decir algo

No lo hagas en la oscuridad.

Sal a la luz,

que el sol ilumine tus palabras.

Grítalas al rojo resplandor,

rasga el azul con tu lengua,

que el relámpago de tu grito

no muera solo en la noche.

English translation below:

THE SCREAM OF THE NIGHT

If you’ve got something to say

don’t do it in the darkness.

Go into the light,

let the sun illuminate your words.

Shout them to the shining brilliance,

sear the blue with your tongue,

so the lightening of your cry

doesn’t cry alone in the night.

                                                                               

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Hackers: Rhyme

by Nicholas Graham


Does a poem have to rhyme?
To make it worth the reading time?
A rhyme is just a pattern of sound
To which a poem is often bound.
Why should it matter if it is used,
When often it is just abused?

Metre I can understand,
A poem without it is often bland.
But rhyming is just a test of skill,
Of finding words that fit the bill.
If it matters, then I'll give up now,
Because to rhyme I'm not sure how.

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Poem: Los Heroes de la Rutina

by Liliana Nogueira-Pache

No quiero ser Teresa de Calcuta

en un altar

¿Quién ayuda a la mujer

que viene a fregar?

No quiero ser presidente

de un tal país

¿Quién escucha al barrendero

que barre la mierda del pueblo?

No quiero ser Goicoechea *

¿Quién premia al maquinista

que me deja cada mañana en la estación?

No quiero ser Corbusier

¿Quién sabe dónde vive

el albañila que pone los ladrillos?

No quiero ser Armani

¿Quién lleva al oculista

a la que cose hasta quemarse la vista?

No quiero ser el señor Benz

En la cadena de ensamblaje

El peón es un don nadie.

No quiero ser Diana la pija

nadie crea un jardín

para la madre anciana

que sigue cuidando a su hija.

(*)Ingeniero español inventor del tren articulado Talgo.

 

Translation below the break:

  Heroes of the Daily Grind


I don’t want to be Theresa of Calcutta

on a pedestal.

Who helps the char?

I don’t want to be a president

of this or that country.

Who listens to the road sweeper

who cleans up our rubbish?

I don’t want to be Goicoechea.*

Who appreciates the driver

who delivers me to the station every morning?

I don’t want to be Corbusier.

Who knows where the bricklayer lives?

I don’t want to be Armani.

Who takes the seamstress to the opticians

when her eyes have given out?

I don’t want to be Herr Benz.

On the assembly line a worker

is nobody.

I don’t want to be the fragrant Diana.

Nobody creates a garden

to the ageing mother

who continues to look after her child.

(*) Spanish engineer who invented a revolutionary articulated train in Spain.

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Bram Stoker's Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray: Part III

by Gregory Walton-Green

The final instalment in my best-selling Bram Stoker's Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray trilogy. There have been some turbulent ups and downs that we've all suffered alongside the characters, and some unforgettable memories: searching through Anastasia's hair, hearing about her mental disorders, laughing at improbable plot devices, but now we have finally reached the end.

Well done for all those who stuck by me on this incredible journey, I couldn't have done it without you (I could have done, actually; I'm lying). Special thanks go to people I actually know. Now see as Anastasia has to make her final choice, between friendship and love, love and desire, self-respect and humiliation, a werewolf and a vampire. Be amazed at the array of characters who stand by and do nothing as I frantically try to tie up the loose ends with assorted characters from the original books, while stepping as far away from the original texts as possible. Did you wish for more dialogue than internal monologue? That's what you've got! If you didn't- tough luck. Enjoy...

The lusty performance of Bluebeard makes my inner goddess writhe in ecstasy, like an obese warthog, rolling around in its own filth to keep cool under the intense heat of an African sky. I berate myself for my base thoughts, but my subconscious replies Go on, you feisty little minx, have some fun for once in your pathetic life. As I battle inwardly between propriety and overwhelming desire, a hard pressing object against my thigh wrenches me back to my immediate surroundings. Mon Dieu! Could a chandelier have fallen upon my leg without my noticing it, being absorbed in my shameful imaginings? No, this presence felt like human flesh. I use my eyes to look down at the affected area: Mon Dieu! Dorian Gray has placed his hand upon my thigh! Does he feel… passionately towards me? I wonder. Of course you idiotic girl, my subconscious chastises. Dorian must notice that our physical touching has caught my attention.

“Anastasia, I wonder if I might propose something?”

Mon Dieu! He was going to propose to me! And after only such a short acquaintance. I really had played my cards right this time, to gain myself such a wealthy, desirable husband. And now I could have all the fun with him that I wanted, but without burning in hell for it by committing a sin! What a day this had been for me! My inner goddess bites her lip so hard that it draws blood, then licks the blood and relishes it as it pours down her throat, just as she luxuriates in the silken tones of his voice.

“Anastasia?” Dorian is looking at me with a puzzled expression, I must have missed the moment when he actually proposed “Aren’t you going to answer my question?”

“Yes, yes of course!”

“Do you mean that you will answer my question or that you consent to what I have proposed?”

“Of course I’ll marry you, Dorian!”

“Marriage?” he says “Anastasia, I said nothing about marriage. I asked you to become my mistress, my concubine, my lover, in a relationship where I would have all the power and you would do unquestioningly whatever I told you to do. We would engage in deplorable acts in my house, in what I term “The Vermilion Lounge of Bodily Woes” Considering the historical era we are living in with inconsiderable rights for women, there are no legalities involved whatsoever, and, should any harm come to you and you try to complain, society is bound to believe me and either chuck you into the gutter or send you to a mental asylum. Of course, there is one matter to resolve before I agree to take you as my mistress.”

“There is?” My inner goddess sighs heartily, scowling at me, suspecting that I would ruin her chance to perform unspeakable sins of the flesh.

“Considering your mother’s … profession, I have doubts about your own chastity. Tell me truthfully, are you pure of body? If you lie and I find out, I will terminate our relationship, and you for that matter, without a second thought.”

“Of course I am chaste, Dorian! Who else could there possibly be for me?”

“Me.” At that word, my inner goddess freezes, as if she has just collapsed from a heart-attack. She knows that voice: my subconscious knows that voice. Dorian Gray knows that voice, of his employee. On the other hand the rest of our entourage do not recognise that voice, as far as I am aware, excepting Anastasia and myself. I know that voice. It is the voice of my childhood friend, a lawyer, a man, a person. It is the voice of Jacob.

“Jacob?” I ask “Is that you?”

“Yes, Stazza, it is I. You might be able to ascertain for yourself if you had turned around!” My inner goddess blushes with embarrassment, bright red, as if her cheeks had just been wrenched open with a strawberry. I turn around to face him. “Stazza, I have just returned from a most demonic trip to Transylvania, did you not read my letter?”

“Of course I did,” I say as I disentangle it once more from my hair, “But you seemed quite content about the visit to the Count in the letter…”

“No, that was my first letter! Did you not receive my second letter, sent from the convent whither I had escaped after being brutally mauled by alluring-but-Satanic she-demons and turned into some foul monster myself? In which I wrote to you, begging your assistance, afraid of losing my life without casting my gaze upon thy impeccable, nay modest, visage?”

“Let me check my hair,” I reply as I plunge my hand again deep within the tangled mass, parting the hairs with unrelenting excitement “No. Nothing there except my spare pair of shoes, two quills, an inkpot, a briefcase and a hand-mirror. I’m afraid it must have got lost in the post, Jacob.

“No matter, the reason I have come is because I believe you to be in grave danger. Dorian Gray has handed over his soul to the devil in return for youthful good looks, he repeatedly engages in depraved acts and he has a painting that ages instead of him. I broke into his house and brought it with me.” Before Dorian has time to react, Jacob removes the painting from his coat. Mon Dieu! It looks like my dear Dorian, but is much older, with his wry smile replaced by an expression of immense pain and hatred for all life. His skin is wrinkled and blood-shot, his eyes sunken, his lips thin and cruel. My inner goddess finds this new version of Dorian perversely appealing, and starts to salivate as if a waterfall were streaming out of every pore.

Suddenly someone else speaks! Mon Dieu! I thought all the other members of our party would simply watch the erotic performance of Bluebeard and ignore my personal drama unfolding alongside them, to allow the narrative unfold smoothly and with as few interruptions as possible! My inner goddess lurches over backwards in utter amazement at the voice of Basil Hallward interjecting into the conversation, as if a herd of stampeding impala have just ushered her over the edge of a cliff into a bottomless ravine. “Why I painted that old painting of Dorian a few years back, when we first met. I must say we were all a bit bemused about how he was keeping his good looks. Typical of him to trade his soul for his looks, and to use my painting to do so; very top notch work there, Dorian old chap. As it so happens, I have another one of Dorian that I painted recently for me to lust over in private. Quite stunning isn’t it”

I look at this second painting of Dorian; he appears normal, quite handsome… Mon Dieu! My inner goddess reels backwards in disgust, as if she had just been presented with a bowl made of faecal matter and filled with intestinal worms. My subconscious speaks to me sheepishly: I’m sorry, Anastasia, I didn’t know that he was that depraved, I thought he was just depraved enough to bring some erotic interest into your life. My bad.

In that loathsome, immoral, decadent, beautifully-painted portrait, Dorian Gray is pictured engaging the services of my mother.

“Anastasia, I can explain!” Dorian interjects, attempting to appease my sorrowful anguish.

“Did you think I’d be just as easy to get into bed as my filthy mother? How could you do this to me? I thought we were getting married!” I sob.

“I already told you I simply wanted you to exploit you for my own pleasure, with no strings attached. No marriage involved.”

“But I thought that by acquiescing to you I would form a positive influence to make your point of view more closely resemble mine so that we could have a perfect fairytale ending!”

“Anastasia Vain!” Catherine’s supercilious tone forces me to lie down at her feet in a begging position, a technique she uses often, having learnt it from her privileged upbringing. “You are being totally unreasonable! Men have… different needs to women, of course. Mr Gray would try out your mother before you, to test if you Vain women were any good as partners!”

A chilling foreign voice permeates the air, bringing with it a new calmness and a sense of déjà vu. “Deed somevun mention VEINS?”

Mon Dieu! This new arrival looks just like Dorian, but in the clothing of a Transylvanian Count, with sharp canines and blood-spattered clothes. My inner goddess immediately bites her lip, swooning over the abundance of men in her proximity.

“I am Count Drah-cuhl-ah, I haff come here because that man, Mr Door-hrian Gray is a reincarnation of me.” I gasp in stunned amazement, as I make out his words more clearly “That is why, when he offered his soul to the devil, in exchange for youthful looks, and that his portrait should age instead of him, his plea was answered. For I already have a pact with the devil, to live forever in exchange for my humanity, and so it was easier for him to have his request granted. As soon as he lost his soul, I felt his presence here, in Inkland, and so I contacted him, and together we arranged a convoluted scheme to get me here, so that we could unite our power and become all the stronger. I needed a young British man to turn into a verrvulf in order to make myself youthful in appearance, so that ve would be the same age, othervise, we would not be able to merge ourselves together in one demonic form, and so remove my weakness of crucifixes and Mr Gray’s of his portrait being destroyed. So Mr Gray sent your childhood friend, Jacob Harker, under the pretence of being a lawyer for me to buy a dwelling in London, so that my succubae could feed off him, and I off them through more pleasant means, to restore my youth. I also brought my three succubae with me, for Mr Gray and I share similar tastes in vimen.” I watch Dracula and Dorian walk towards each other, sparks flying between them, I can only presume reflecting their intense spiritual connection.

At that moment, before the two soulless men can join together in a demonic union, another man bursts through the ceiling, letting the light of the full moon spill over Jacob. Jacob becomes more masculine, his muscles bulging seductively beneath his clothes, and suddenly they are ripped off him as he grows fur all over his body, and I see his most intimate parts cover themselves up with fur as well. As the man from the ceiling lands, I am mildly surprised to notice that all the other audience members are still calmly watching the play. The new arrival introduces himself as “Van Helsing”, before promptly decapitating Dracula. Van Helsing now turns to Jacob, but before he can decapitate him too, Jacob pounces on both portraits of Dorian Gray, ripping them into shreds. Van Helsing plunges the sword into Jacob’s heart, and then turns to Dorian Gray. I rush over to Jacob, and wrap my arms around him, grabbing onto his thick furry flesh, hoping to hold him from death. Tears fill my eyes, and he whispers to me “I’ve always loved you, Anastasia Vain…” and then he sighs, turning back into the form of a human male. I detach myself immediately, as the sight of me holding a naked adult male corpse is most indecorous. Mon Dieu! As I turn back to Dorian once more, he is the decrepid, ugly man in the portrait. Van Helsing raises his sword to stab him, but I find myself shouting “NO! I LOVE HIM!”

Van Helsing turns to me “Seriously? He’s a monster!”

“Not to me, now that he’s old and ugly, he might marry me, not just have some fun with me.”

Dorian Gray addresses me “No I won’t, I’m ugly now, not an idiot. Marrying you would be a nightmare!” Catherine concurs “You are extremely tiresome Anastasia”

“Kill him, kill them all” I say to Van Helsing, as I turn to walk out of the theatre, “I have now learnt my place in lower-class society; meddling with aristocrats will do no good.”

As I hear the crunch of metal against bone, my inner goddess smiles with the satisfaction of tying up all the loose ends. Mon Dieu!, my subconscious exclaims, What an interesting day it has been!

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Why Blogging (Successfully) Is Harder Than It Looks…(continued)

by Dodo Charles

The next dilemma: being recognised.

So, the blog has been up and running now for three months, and everything seems to be going great. But what I’m wondering is: how we have been found out about? How are we marketed to the world?

Until recently, I thought that our only readers were our friends… but, as I looked at the audience today, I realised that we have 25 foreign views, from 4 continents! This made me question how they found out about our blog, which we previously thought was very small.

The answer is: random followers.

It makes sense that someone who had stumbled across the blog, quite by chance- or accident -- might decide to tell his or her friends about it. I mean, it is an awesome blog… (just joking).

Here is some advice for all bloggers. Advertise your blog through social media. It will get you recognised.

Our blog link, complete with articles on ‘The Swinging Sixties’ and our latest range of altered clothes- http://www.lagrandeallure.blogspot.com.

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Poem: 'Spring'

by Nick Graham

Skeletal hands on a dark winter’s night,

Silhouetted on the moon,

Grasping at the elusive darkness,

For a final desperate time.

A golden orb among the clouds,

Shafts of sunlight filter down,

They strike the twisted boughs of oak,

And ignite a blazing emerald flame.

The flame takes hold,

Then assumes a form,

A slender pane of bottle green glass,

Curled and lobed to please the eye.

Bursts of jade among the forest,

Backlit by the gleaming sun,

An explosion of colour,

An explosion of life.

A common scene across the land,

Accompanied by a lively soundtrack,

A cacophony of mewling cries and squeaks,

The new-borns’ chorus - the herald of Spring.

Glorious weather,

All sun - no rain,

A colourful land,

Full of life.

Dreams of the future,

Of things to come,

A hope among the wind and rain.

The promise of Spring.

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The Voice of Reason: Part II

The second, and concluding, part of a short story by George Neame

We reached the chippy on Swanville Road. As expected, the boys had their backs to the grimy, graffiti-ridden wall, with a cigarette in one hand and alcohol in the other. They saw us approaching and a grin spread across JP’s face as he puffed out a huge stream of smoke.

    ‘Well look who it is,’ he said as we walked closer, ‘Mister ‘you’ll never get a job’. He looked Jonathan in the eye. ‘How’s mum and dad?’ he asked with a sly wink.

    Jonathan exploded. He raced forward unveiling the glimmering knife and plunged it unforgiving into JP’s chest. My knees weakened as blood flowed from the wound, the teenager screaming in agony and collapsing as more and more red swamped the ground. Jonathan turned to Scary Joe, who in a state of shock had failed to escape, and leapt on him, once again sinking the knife into his torso and giving it a sharp twist for full measure. Jonathan retreated to where I stood, watching as the teenagers writhed on the ground clutching their wounds, screams reverberating off the buildings. I knelt on the floor and began to cry. Watching the boys slowly bleed to death before me forced tears from my eyes and my whole body began to tremble. Jonathan tried to comfort and reassure me, he was shouting at me to run, but it was all too much. I collapsed onto the ground and my mind went blank, the sight of blood flowing down the road like a biblical flood still spinning inside my head.

    When I came to, we were in the back of a police car. Our wrists were bound tight in handcuffs. Once the car had stopped, they dragged us inside. The lights inside the police station were blinding, my head still recovering from my faint earlier. Two large, tough policemen grabbed Jonathan by the shoulders and started forcing him down a long corridor. My head was still filled with a torrent of blood as if Jonathan’s murder had been permanently burned onto my eyes; the corridor he was being dragged down was all red to me, and we were swimming in a sea of scarlet.

    ‘Please don’t hurt him!’ I shouted

    ‘Hurt who?’ the taller of the policemen growled. ‘You’re delirious.’

    ‘Seriously, he’s mad. They had him tested, he’s mentally unstable,’ I called.

    ‘He’s right,’ Jonathan cried, ‘I am! Honestly!’

    The policemen shared a perplexed look. ‘Maybe he is mad,’ one said.

    After the policemen had talked with some more senior policemen, we were led into a small room that was brightly lit, with a kind but severe-looking woman at a desk. She introduced herself as Dot, the prison’s psychiatrist. She was middle-aged, with long brown hair that flowed down her shoulders, her eyes were deep blue and her lips were swathed in red lipstick. I blinked, and when I opened my eyes her flowing hair was the blood rippling down the pavement and the lipstick on her lips was the blood seeping from Alex’s chest. The clock on the wall behind her seemed to tick slower and slower, until it appeared to stop moving altogether.

    ‘What’s your name?’

    I was sceptical about telling this woman my name. Did I have the right to remain silent? I looked at Jonathan. ‘My name is Jonathan,’ he said, so I told her my name. She gave us a quizzical stare.

    Why did you kill the two boys?’ she asked next.

    ‘Because they murdered my parents,’ Jonathan replied.

    ‘I didn’t.’ I responded, defending myself. ‘Jonathan did, because they killed his parents.’

    An hour or two later, we were at yet another table, in yet another brightly-lit room. Jonathan sat in the single chair, whilst I peered over his shoulder at the paper in front of him. He seemed unfazed by the experience; where I saw blood, pain and death, he saw only vengeance. We were the only ones in the room, but the walls were paper-thin and we could hear snippets of the conversation outside.

    ‘He’s insane,’ said the woman, Dot, who had been asking us questions earlier. I could tell from the harsh way the consonants left her mouth, but the smooth way she elongated the vowels. I presumed she was talking to a policeman.

    ‘I got his records from the general hospital. They have had him examined before.’

    ‘And?’ asked the policeman.

    ‘He suffers from Dissociative Identity Disorder. He has a split personality. That’s why he talks to himself, that’s why he both admits and denies the murders.’

    Poor Jonathan. I knew he was mad, but I never knew he was that mad. Talking to himself? Thinking he was two people? I peered over his shoulder again; he had been asked to write a statement, about why he killed the two boys.

    He put his pen to the paper, and began to write. He had always been a good writer, interested in books and school. He even had a corner of his room dedicated to all his work. I read what he wrote as the first line of his statement poured from his pen.

    ‘I should start by telling you about my best friend, Jonathan,’ it said. ‘He is a murderer.’

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