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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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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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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Hackers: The Year of the Snake

Nick Graham celebrates the Chinese New Year, which takes place today. Also known as the Spring Festival, it is the most important of traditional Chinese holidays. 2013 is the Year of the Snake.

Lion Dance, Chinese New Year, 2013
(source: Wikicommons)

Bells toll midnight,

Amid a cascade of fireworks,

Music in the streets,

A night of celebration.

A month later,

On a far continent,

Fireworks are lit,

As celebrations there begin.

A dragon dances through the streets,

Glittering red and gold,

A trail of iridescent canvas,

Spreading annual fortune.

Lions too gambol through the city,

Resplendent in their costumes,

Bringing luck and happiness -

Maned heralds of the year to come.

Superstition, tradition, faith,

They play their part now as ever,

The colour red holds power,

The year’s tone must be set this day.

The snake slithers in,

To claim its rightful time,

The dragon, its year done,

Must wait patiently eleven more.

A fleet of lanterns,

Drift through the darkness,

Carrying a precious cargo,

Hope,

And luck,

For a New Year.

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Poem: 'Night'

Holocaust Memorial Day is observed in Britain on January 27th, the anniversary of the liberation of Auschwitz by Russian troops in 1945. Zach Choppen presents this poem, inspired by Eli Wiesel's memoir of his experiences as a child in Auschwitz.

 

 

I heard the brake and felt the lurch.

The smoke in the distance,

A large chimney, a cloud of burning death

Night has fallen.

 

My childhood I have, but it is cruel.

For some it ends before they have words.

In the flames those babies burning.

Night has fallen.

 

The traditional ceremony of guns and cries.

Roll call, the dragging of withered feet.

The tears of many: those hunched black crows.

Night has fallen.

 

The sad eyed angel between the two from many.

The crows embrace.

Executioners' refusal, left to the slaughterers.

Night has fallen.

 

Long live liberty, cried two of nameless ones.

The sad eyed angel silent, watching.

A silent cry, the drop, the gentle swaying.

Night has fallen.

 

Death creeps upon tainted lips,

Sucking life from swollen tongues.

The crowd watching the dying child.

Night has fallen.

 

I walked past, his eyes pleading

Not for life but the peace of death.

Eternities end from a life of grey.

Night has fallen.

 

Where is God? A question unanswered.

Where is he?

The answer before me swaying like a rag.

My night has fallen.

 

(Based on 'Night' by Eli Wiesel)

See, also, Hannah Arendt's ''The Banality of Evil'

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Bram Stoker’s 'Fifty Shades of Dorian Gray'

by Gregory Walton-Green

E.L. James' "novel", 50 Shades of Grey, as many of you probably know, has been the subject of a great deal of controversy. It has received much criticism due to its explicit content, being described as misogynistic and having 'set back feminism by 400 years'. However, in the words of Oscar Wilde in his Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray  'There is no such thing as a moral or an immoral book. Books are well written, or badly written. That is all.' 50 Shades of Grey definitely falls into the latter category, with lines such as “My inner goddess jumps up and down with cheer-leading pom-poms shouting yes at me.” From beginning to end she proudly exhibits her awful writing style: excessive use of adjectives ("She's articulate, strong, persuasive, argumentative, beautiful"), her fondness for finding the longest synonym in the thesaurus, the repeated exclamations of "Wow!", "Holy Cow!" and "Oh My!", and her inability to understand that you do not know what your subconscious thinks, BECAUSE IT IS SUBCONSCIOUS. The list of sins goes on.

50 Shades of Grey started its literary journey as 'fan-fiction' for Twilight, which is also regarded as badly-written by many, but even the Twilight saga has been forced entirely into perspective by its successor. The origins of the Vampire/Werewolf theme in Twilight, which inspired the abusive relationship in 50 Shades, can be traced back to Gothic literary masterpieces, such as Dracula. In Dracula, a medieval, Satanic, blood-sucking, mass-murdering Transylvanian Count discovers Wilhelmina (Mina) Murray, and tries to win her away from her fiancé, the solicitor Jonathan Harker, to be his demonic bride. Along the way, the characters face moral dilemmas, as the Count (in his various guises as bat, smoke, aristocrat and wolf) and his three women slaves try to seduce them away from their virtuous life, and they face real dangers, with several of the characters, including Lucy Westenra, Mina's close friend, and Quincey, one of Lucy's suitors, killed and corrupted by Count Dracula. Twilight  diluted this aspect of corruption and danger to Bella having to choose to love either a sophisticated vampire or a down to earth werewolf, and neither decision having any serious consequences. Another Gothic parallel with 50 Shades is found in Dorian Gray, where a rich, handsome, attractive young man is morally repugnant, yet manages to seduce a naïve young woman, Sibyl Vane. The main difference between the Gothic novels and the modern ones (apart from them being in totally different leagues, two of them timeless classics, written beautifully, the other two trashy fads), is the issue of morality and consequences of acting deplorably, which is entirely ignored in the modern books.

In the following extract from my new bestselling novel, Bram Stoker's 50 Shades of Dorian Gray, I try to unite the truly unparalleled style of E.L. James with the late Victorian Gothic plot, bringing the literary journey full circle, from Gothic to tween-fiction to the narration of an abusive relationship and back again. Enjoy!

I viewed my visage in the somewhat dusty, tarnished, oblong looking glass: Why can’t I look more like Catherine Westenra?, my inner goddess whispered at me, biting her lip. My subconscious concurred: You’d need a lot more powder and lace to turn that into a beauty!

Hmm. What should I do? Catherine is so confident, charismatic, self-possessed and self-assured, that’s why she’ll make an excellent Lady of the House for Lord Godalming or Lord Henry Wotton, and she’s my dearest, dearest friend. In fact, she has already been invited to the theatre tonight by Lord Henry, along with a group of his friends, including the youthful, attractive, wealthy, pre-eminent socialite, Mr Dorian Gray. I do hope she keeps mindful of her modesty amongst all these men – she can be somewhat lax in her behavioural decorum on occasions… For this reason, I have volunteered my services as chaperone. 

Mon Dieu! I’m late for our appointment! I rush downstairs, seeing mother lying semi-conscious beside some gluttonous, drunken rogue. I find the whole scene quite indecorous and disgusting, and yet the overriding emotion is envy; I have never had someone look at me the way men gaze longingly after Mama and Catherine. 

I reminisce about my relationship with Catherine as I enter the Phaeton. We first met when her father brought her with him while he ‘discussed business’ with my mother. Catherine, calculating since birth, agreed not to tell her mother of the incident as long as I could be her own, special, servant-girl. Over the years, Catherine passed on the lessons she received in French, German, Needlework, Arithmetic and History from her esteemed, eloquent tutor, and I also received lessons on behavioural decorum and other such studies from other members of the household. My interest in learning grew to the point where I decided I should like to be an assistant schoolmistress, although I have heard that it is sometimes a trying job.

Upon reaching the age of bleeding, Catherine became unnervingly enamoured with the male sex. She spent hours poring over the various immoral acts in the Kama Sutra, much to my equal shock, interest, and disgust. Together we built castles in the air, whilst we talked together freely at her seaside home, far away from the common muck of London. Her dreams were of marriage, to a Lord, or an American! Mine were of learning to write in shorthand, and writing a stenographic journal, one I could write in whenever I felt inclined, not one of those two-pages-to-the-week-with-Sunday-squeezed-in-a-corner-diaries, and of learning to remember all that one hears and sees in a day, to write down descriptions and conversations later on, as I had seen lady journalists do. My inner goddess jumps up and down most improperly at the very thought of writing an interview, as if she had just smuggled her way into an opium den!

I am wrenched back to the present by Catherine: “Anastasia Vain! Why haven’t you responded to me at all for these past five minutes? I must say, I find this reticence of yours very taxing indeed! What on earth have you been thinking of all this time to cause you to ignore me? A man I hope? You must have been thinking about a man, it is the only explanation. But not Jacob Harker, I daresay? He has absolutely nothing attractive to him, he’s a lawyer for heaven’s sake! That wasn’t why you were late was it, you writing another one of your awful letters to him? You’re never going to make it anywhere in this world if you don’t set your sights a little higher, Anastasia, perhaps on Lord Henry; I feel he would have a very degrading influence on your morals…”

My subconscious jumps out of the phaeton, into a passing wagon, travels three quarters of a mile, then switches transport onto a chaise and four, on which it stays for approximately 10 minutes, until it reaches a rather more respectable part of town, at which point it rushes out of the carriage, crosses the road, and enters the nearest home, sheltering from my embarrassment under a chaise longue.

Anastasia?” My thoughts return to my immediate surroundings “I must say, Anastasia, your increasingly frequent and longer-enduring lapses in concentration are beginning to concern me. It is a rather excessive length to go just to avoid telling me why you were late today. Now, haven’t I always won our arguments in the end, being the more confident, attractive friend who the heroine aspires to yet realises she is superior to by the end of the novel? Tell me what you were doing.”

“I” I falter. What should I tell her? I try to think of an activity I could have been partaking in that Catherine would approve of, as well as being plausible and that would satisfy Catherine’s insatiable lust for proving herself right. I can’t tell her the truth – how I’d been putting on my make-up absentmindedly – I’ll never hear the end of it!

“I… I was fantasizing over a portrait of Lord Henry” I murmur, while I smack my lips together.

“Oh Anastasia, I always knew you had it in you! Wait until I tell Lord Henry what you really think of him - I always knew that your prudish, morally upright stance was only a façade!” Mon Dieu! I’d made the situation even worse!

“No, that was a lie; I was actually putting on my make-up whilst narrating my life in a dissatisfied schizophrenic manner!” I murmur.

“Never mind, I thought it was too perfectly aligned with my own pre-sentiments on the matter to be true. I suppose I will have to cancel the engagement party for you and Henry.” Catherine exhales with a sigh. “There may still be time for you to develop yet,” she chastises “but if you don’t start searching for a prospective lover, or at least a husband, soon, the quaint attractiveness of youthful innocence will crumble into the repulsive madness of an ageing spinster, who has shut herself off from the world.”

I also sigh, my inner goddess collapsing onto the floor with exasperation at my incurable modesty – enforce, my subconscious psychoanalysed, by my seeing the depressing consequences of the opposite path taken by my mother.

Catherine and I sit silently, waiting to arrive at the theatre. Suddenly, she points at my hair and says “By the Holy Father, how did both of us miss that envelope protruding from your hair?” I pull it out, and read the envelope:

Anastasia Vain,

42, Huswife Alley

Cheapside

Mon Dieu! It’s for me! I open the envelope, and find a letter inside. What can this mean?, my subconscious asks me. “I don’t know”, I reply out loud, gaining a concerned glance from Catherine.

“Are you going to open that or simply sit there looking bemused?” she asks.

Gathering all my courage, I read the letter.

5^th March

Dearest Stazza,

I hope you are feeling quite well. I do not know if you remember that I have been sent by Mr Gray, who has recently bought the solicitor’s firm I work for, to Transylvania, to act as an estate agent for a rich Count who wishes to buy a home in London. I must say the people here are all rather superstitious, but well-meaning enough. There have been a large number of ominous signs, suggesting that I am in great danger, such as the Count’s demonic appearance and the belief of all the locals that I am doomed, causing them to offer me crucifixes to protect me, and begging me not to go to the Count. Of course I was oblivious to all this and have now arrived at the Count's home, which is a ruined castle, most of which I am forbidden to enter. The Count has been very hospitable on the other hand, and our business is almost over. I have heard tortured screams coming from the dungeons, but perhaps it is merely the custom for servants to be beaten more thoroughly here, to ensure a good standard of work. Never mind, I don’t mean to trouble you.

Hoping to be with you again soon,

Your dearest Jacob.

P.S. Do you know whether the wolves here are rabid and look like seductive women? I’m afraid three of them bit me while I was deliriously having a masochistic fantasy.

 What can this mean? Mon Dieu! Does Jacob love me? I am not sure how to take his letter, perhaps his emphasis on his certain peril is simply a ploy to cause me to feel for him. Yes, I’m sure of it. He’ll be fine. He always has been: he was the only boy from his orphanage to make any sort of success of himself; the others all became actors or novelists. The orphanage was opposite my house, as implausible plot would have it, and when he used to direct inebriated gentlemen towards my mother’s establishment, I often ejaculated remarks to him such as “Hello, you are going to be the secondary love interest in my life”, while he tried to ignore me. Perhaps this rejection led to my current state of excessive propriety… Over time, we started to converse in earnest, and while I grew ever more introverted and meek at my position in the Westenra home, through his connections with indecent gentlemen he gained a position at a third-rate accountancy firm based in Exeter.

“Come on Anastasia, we have arrived!” Catherine scolds, and, once my subconscious has buried my emotions for Jacob under decades of mental instability, my inner goddess, charging like a racehorse on steroids, drags me into the theatre, and towards Dorian Gray.

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Snow by the Seaside

Snow, sand and sea,

Such an unusual sight to see.

Snowmen towering high,

Like mountains rising up to the sky,

Looking out over the sea,

Their faces all smiles.

The beach huts,

Once all different colours,

Transformed by the snow,

Into small cottages - all white.

The snow covers everything,

Like a blanket of pure white,

It is crunchy and hard sometimes,

And other times soft and smooth.

Smudges of white fly through the air,

Missiles made of snow,

You must duck and dodge,

Otherwise… SPLODGE!

The normally golden sands glistening white,

Pebbles like glowing pearls,

Snow on roofs and branches,

Like icing sugar sieved onto a cake.

It is amazingly beautiful,

With everything smothered in white,

It is simply magical,

Like the mystic land in an ancient fairytale

Snow, sand and sea,

Such an unusual sight to see,

All in perfect harmony.

                                                               
                                                                                                    Nick Graham

Photograph by Nick Graham

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Hackers: My Last Duchess

Tom Harper presents his own take on one of Robert Browning's finest.

 
I stand on solid dirt, carefully
Crafted and Compiled beneath the shadow of the church. And you will say
‘O Noble Duke, the meadow past the fence is calling, fresh and vast’
But watch the light caress its skin.
It gently nurtures foolish kin.
No –
First the sun must set before my eyes
Before I attend the business of my mistress
Beneath the moon’s accusing glare.
Forgotten will my lady lie.

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Hackers: Musings on a Molehill

by Gregory Walton-Green

(source: mikeashworth.co.uk)

Musings on a Molehill

I saw a molehill in a field

Break through the lines of living green,

With regimented rows of wheat

Usurped by poppies, which lowered their yield.

I gazed awhile upon this scene;

This thought appeared within my head:

Those moles who ravage ordered crops

Free the Earth for blooms of red.

My mind fell down a rabbit-hole

To investigate the mole.

Released from how the surface seems

I burrowed into Forms of dreams.

I was a sewer-rat in France

Amidst the dank of hell

In haste I scurried

Eternally worried

Scared lest the walls fell.

Drudging through the dirty Styx,

I came to a drain beneath the granary;

And there in a hollow,

Where none should have followed,

I placed my base offspring.

I was gold music in a cage,

A mole dragged me deep underground,

He quarried hope to earn his wage

When suffocating greed was found.

I stopped myself, self-sacrifice

My voice in exchange for his life:

For silence hides the darkest crimes

Unchallenged moles control the times.

When underneath the soil living,

Grieve if there are no birds singing.

But I've deceived you.

I spoke as if Ideals were reality;

Unashamedly anthropomorphising,

My musings made a mountain.

No poppy can bloom near the work of farming men.

Poppies are delegated to the slate thin soil of forgotten wastelands,

While moles luxuriate in the riches of the earth.

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Hackers: Forest of Light and Dark

Betwixt the trees the shadows loom,

Molten darkness ‘neath the moon.

Pools of lucid moonlight glimmer,

Beams of shining silver shimmer.

Gnarlèd boughs of solid oak,

Skeletal hands the night sky choke.

A single gleaming golden sphere

Through the azure sky draws near.

Shafts of light like liquid flow

Through canopy to ground below.

Vaulted halls with walls of pine,

Through leafy ceilings sun doth shine.

At last the sun begins to fall

Towards horizon, this day like all.

Shadows grow in size and power,

Strength increasing by the hour.

The rise of dark and fall of light

Repeats as marches in the night.

Betwixt the trees the shadows loom,

Molten darkness ‘neath the moon.

Pools of lucid moonlight glimmer,

Beams of shining silver shimmer.

Gnarlèd boughs of solid oak,

Skeletal hands the night sky choke.

Tonight, as ever,

The domain of darkness.

The forest awaits us all.

                                  Nick Graham

 

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Hackers: Writing

Writing

I once set out to write a rhyme:

Something to do to pass the time.

I tried to write, but at each verse

My words grew dull, the rhythm worse:

And so I stopped.

I wrote a story, short and sweet,

Then tried to force it, make it meet

The standards of a classic book.

I lengthened it to make it look

A masterpiece, with gripping plot

Great characters and themes: the lot!

But cracks appeared after a while

That revealed a laboured style:

And so I stopped.

I sat down at my desk one day –

I had in mind to write a play,

A quasi-tragicomedy –

A timeless great my play would be.

I wrote from three till half past four,

Then found that I could write no more:

For I learnt that, during Act Two,

My hero had nothing to do:

And so I stopped.

I started my biography –

I set it out as poetry.

Each poem on a different theme,

Like love, life, friendship, and writing.

But on myself, I have no thought:

So I must end this too, of course.

                                         Gregory Walton-Green

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Hackers: The Quill

The Quill

Here lies the profit:

trapped

in his legacy of erasers and tipex.

Forsaken. Forgotten

by the Master for whom he built empires

of love and loss. Each night his blood

was spilt in oceans of bold passion

with wings he’d soar through sparkling skies

and please his Lord, so was the fashion

of his kingdom, which was admired

by fans and critics far and wide.

But soon his feathers

crumpled and his

blood boiled

under the artificial shadow

that left his nation

a wasteland.

A castaway remains:

a preacher

abandoned

by a God.

                   Tom Harper

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