abbey%20arts%20magazine%20july%202016%20final%2006-07-16%20%28low-res%29

bbey

r tsA collection of Writing and

Artwork by The Abbey Girls

bbey

r tsA collection of Writing andA collection of Writing andA

Artwork by The Abbey Girls collection of Writing and

Artwork by The Abbey Girls collection of Writing and

Abbey Arts Magazine July 2016 FINAL 06-07-16.indd 1 06/07/2016 08:05:09

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Art by Jessica Brauner, LVIEC3


Contents

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Front Page Artwork by Freya Jönsson, UIVNArtwork by Jessica Brauner, LVIEC 2-3 Foreword Mrs C O’Hanlon 5 Artwork by Alexandra Mariano, UVD 5Who am I? by Hannah Guile, LIVH 6Artwork by Alexandra Mariano, UVD 7Shadows by Isobel Lazenby, LIVS 8Cat by Jade Bedingfeld, UIVS 9Light by Aarohi Lakhani, UIIIV 10Blind by Georgie Lockwood, UVICB 12Everything and Nothing by Alix Addinall, LVE 14The Leopard by Jenny Egan, LIVN 16 Artwork by Jade Bedingfeld, UIVS 17Evacuation by Annabel McLoughlin, LIVS 19Masked by Bella Law, LIVH 20Artwork by Zofia Dudek-Wawrzynowicz, UVIEC 21Not Laughing but Crying by Adeen Ahsan, LIVH 22Artwork by Lucy Walker, UVJ 23Unseen by Milly Thomas, LIVH 25Artwork by Caitlin Clamp, UVIJL 26A Murderer’s Eyes by Amelia Milton, LIVS 28Can you see the positive side? by Emily David, LIVH 29Fallen Warrior Lila-Klara Raczkevy-Eotvos, LIVS 30Artwork by Freya Jönsson, UIVN 30The Creeper of the Night by Jwalita Manikandan, LIVS 31Illustrations of Skellig by professional artist Paul Jeacock 32-33The Creature in my Garage by Smruti Balaji, UIIIP 35The Figure Within by Amelia Lee, UIIIP 37The Departure by Freya Malhi, LIVS 38-39Artwork by Amelia Trood, UVIJL 39The Departure by Camila Dantas, UIVM 40Artwork by Amy Luke, LIVN 41The Departure by Kitty Bate, LVM 42Artwork by The Abbey Girls 44-47Back page Artwork by Georgia Johnson , UVIRJ

Poetry Competition Senior Winners: Blind by Georgie Lockwood, UVICB

Everything and Nothing by Alix Addinall, LVE

Poetry Competition Junior Winners: Light by Aarohi Lakhani, UIIIV

I am Light by Lila Spencer, UIIIM


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ForewordTh ank you for taking an interest in ‘Abbey Arts’, our brand new Arts magazine.

Th e aim of our new magazine is to showcase the very best of our student writing. It’s very easy to be modest about one’s own achievements. Writing poetry and

fi ction is a very personal matter and I would like to thank all the talentedgirls who have contributed their powerful poems, gripping stories, and

breathtakingly beautiful artwork. I think it’s fair to say that Abbey girls arevery gifted and talented!

Going forward, we would love to hear your ideas and suggestions. Shouldwe give each issue a theme? Would you like to see more debate, or more

analytical writing? Th e magazine is keen to include work from girls of all ages.Do contact the English Department with your feedback.

Last but not least – enjoy the magazine!

Mrs Cassie O’HanlonCoordinator of Abbey Arts Magazine

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Art by Alexandra Mariano, UV


Who am I?Am I

Water or fire?Square or circle?

Butterfly or snake?Happy or sad?

Am ISmall or large?Cotton or silk?

Considerate or cruel?Smooth or sharp?

Immature or sophisticated?Always right or never wrong?

Have I taken the right path or the wrong road?Am I what I want to be or what I have become?

Have I reached the end or justThe beginning?But who...who

Am I?

Hannah Guile, LIV

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Art by Alexandra Mariano, UV


Shadows...A whisper,A wind,A figure,

A shadow.Light, dark,Entangled,Dancing,

The world’s their stage.Playing peek-a-booWith your mind.

In front?Or behind?

Rejected,Caught up,

Shamed,Dejected.

The beauty!The fear!

I’ll…stay here.Away from my shadows.

Isobel Lazenby, LIV

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Illustrated by Jade Bedingfeld, UIV9


LightSo bright in real life, dim thoughts in our minds

In its strongest spirits...the inferno.The God of power, yet silent like cat.

Delicate, deadly, devious. Dark’s dead.

Rays of light are rays of intense beautyMore happy than over a thousand smiles

More blind-curing than a princess’ teardropMore mesmerising than the Titanic.

Golden, like a French horn, polished for years.Magical, like a burning firework.

The king of brightness and beautiful blazesBirthday cake candles, Diwali divas.

Bonfire night. Without it, can’t see theSorcery of our world that we can now...

Aarohi Lakhani, UIII

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BlindWhen will the morning come again, welcomeAs Light creeps through a crack in the curtain,

Swallowing my body in warmth and glow?Th e lapping of warm waves hits me gently

Like the soft fur of a cat in the sun.

Light is not sightTo me, but only the crisp

Crunch of the Autumn leaves and the crackleOf winter fi re, fi re, fi re fl ourishing freely in

Th e acoustic of a steely G sharp.

White noise and just noise on automatic.I hear her shine through the oboe swelling

In the opening few bars of Peer Gynt.To me, I hear Light, a sweet rhyme quelling,

Joining in almost perfect harmony.

Sometimes she is soft, sometimes she is sharp.Only she envelops every crevice.

I know my friend, a dark shape, silhouettedFollowing me when I am in Light’s presenceTh ough I have never seen my friend before.

Light, never sight, a condition I will never seeTh rough. But the light I can feel, taste, touch...will always prevail:

Blind in her sight, what she gives I cannot take, only in my own way.Light is hope, the soft petal of a fl ower blossoming

In Spring as the dawn comesAgain.

Georgie Lockwood, UVI


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Everything and NothingTh en, it is light

And darkAnd everything all at once.

My brain is cold,Lights blind my nervesAnd veins toss and turn

Choking on the poisonous oxygenOf oblivion.

Moments rush by slowlyTh read of an incomprehensible web

Cast into perfect sequence again and againPuncturing the intricate spaces

With explosions of wailing silence.I am suspended, falling

Heavily through nothing.Th en the whole mess of it

UnravelsTies itself in knots

Suff ocatesAnd comes to life with a scream.

Th en it is lightAnd dark

And everything all at once.

Alix Addinall, LV

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People know the price

of everythingNowadays

&The ValueOf Nothing

Epigram by Oscar Wilde


Th e LeopardFrom a distance it must be

Th e vain leopardHunters from young

Killers for a meal

Striking fear into those who watchTongue like a snake hissing

A nefarious smirkTeeth that pierce lavish fl esh

Glossy fur licked cleanCrusty blood but not of himOh! How he stalks his prey

With elegance never short-lived

Just as fear itself persistsTo embed itself in its victim

Deception sharpens its ever-sharpened clawsCombined with its transparent angelic ways

But alas as he comes nearWe see he is no leopardOnly the neighbour’s cat

Who melts away like morning dew.

Jenny Egan, LIV

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‘Cat’by Jade Bedingfeld, UIV

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EvacuationI feel like a used match

Three strikes and then I burn out.I undo my luggage latch

Hot tears roll down my face as I takeAn unknown route.My soul is empty.

My limbs feel so weak.I’m filled with distant memories...

My heart is oh so bleak.My past...a distant album.

I’ve lost my will to live.I feel my heart beat like a drum:

How can my mind forgive?I wonder how they do it?To face pain just for us?And not admit defeat?How do they adjust?Or maybe it’s a lie...

The fear inside their eyes...A soldier’s job is not to reason why.

A soldier’s job is to do or die.

Annabel McLoughlin, LIV

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Masked Hiding away

Never noticed.Always listening

Always there.

Nervous smilesDarting eyesTapping toes

Sighs.

Eyes on the floorHearts pumping.

Watching your every move.

Never blinking,Never sleeping,Nervous fingersBlushing cheeks.

I’m watching. I’m listening.I know,

I was there.

Bella Law, LIV

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21Art by Zofi a Dudek-Wawrzynowicz, UVI


Not Laughing but Crying Inspired by Stevie Smith’s Not Waving but Drowning

Head down, shoulders bentShuffling along the streetExcept no-one could see

She wasn’t laughing, but crying.

It was only a gameTo begin with, at least:

“Steal her hat!”They’d all shouted with glee.

Head down, shoulders bentShuffling along the streetExcept no-one could see

She wasn’t laughing, but crying.

Keep your head down!Don’t look them in the eye!

Edging closer and closerUntil I suddenly saw...

That the random bursts of laughterThat we all knew her for

Were not...really laughter at allBut something we chose to ignore.

Adeen Ahsan, LIV

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23Art by Lucy Walker, UV


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UnseenToo dark to see me

Too light to watch meHiding in your shadow.

Too slow to be caughtToo fast to be stoppedLurking behind you.

Too far to reach meToo near to touch meNever to be retrieved.

Too muffl ed to be heardToo vague to be recognised

I am always here...

Milly Th omas, LIV

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Art by Caitlin Clamp, UVI


A Murderer’s Eyes

Th ey found her standing frozen above;A bloody victim, splayed across the fl oorKnife in hand, dripping with crimson,

Painful guilt etched across her face,A killer, a criminal, a murderer in your eyes.

Cast away, behind iron bars.Locked away, forever more,

Shadows wander past her cell doorFreedom lost: darkness and

Rats scamper past into nooks and crannies.

Every day ticks past like a year.No light of hope

Guiding us through our lives to help us cope.Just an empty heart

Losing its purity, sinful and black.

Her eyes. A murderer’s guilt beholdPrevails over interrogation

How do eyes hold the power?To tell our every thought and emotion?

Any of us could becomeA killer, a criminal, a murderer in your eyes.

Amelia Milton, LIV

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Can You See the Positive Side?inspired by Chanie Gorkin’s poetry style

Read this poem top to bottom, then from the bottom to the top....

Today is a bad daySo don’t try and tell me that

Despite everything, today is a good day.

Life may seem badBut trust me that

All that has been, has beenLife must go on.

Th at is NOT trueTh e truth is that

‘Everybody does hate me, and I know it.’

Emily David, LIV

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Fallen WarriorShe jumped to catch the ball

I saw it in her eyes,She knew it was too late.

She crumpled to the groundWe crowded round, unsure of what to do.

She began to laugh.

Relieved, we laughed too,Great big belly laughs:

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA...

Th en...she sobbedWe stopped, confused.

She turned her tear-streaked face towards us.Not laughing, but crying.

Lila-Klara Raczkevy-Eotvos, LIV

Art byFreya Jönsson

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Th e Creeper of the NightEvery night

I creep up the shadowy stairsAs cunning as a cat

Meticulous, I place my feetAt the edges

To avoid the steps creakingBeneath my weight.

At the topI hold my breath

ApprehensiveGlancing up

At the trapdoor high above me

A wooden frameA thin square of wood

Is all that separates me from.....

I listen. Can I hear...breathing?Can I hear a twisted claw scratching the wood?

A drip of blood?A heavy body settling in to wait for me?

I hurry on by, on tip-toe.My back is exposed.I dive for my bed.I am safe...for now.

Jwalita Manikandan, LIV




To avoid the steps creaking


ApprehensiveGlancing up


A wooden frameA thin square of wood

Is all that separates me from.....



I hurry on by, on tip-toe.My back is exposed.My back is exposed.I dive for my bed.I am safe...for now.


Th e Creeper of the Night

I listen. Can I hear...breathing?




To avoid the steps creakingBeneath my weight.



A thin square of woodIs all that separates me from.....



I hurry on by, on tip-toe.My back is exposed.I dive for my bed.I am safe...for now.


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A quick note on the illustrations for The Strange Creature in the Garage

Both of the prose compositions were inspired by David Almond’s marvellous novel ‘Skellig’. We are never quite sure who or what Skellig is. He might be an old tramp, an alien being, or a fallen angel. All we know is that he is a skeletal, shadowy character with wrinkled skin and haunting dark eyes. Understandably, this makes him pretty hard to draw. Abbey Arts is very fortunate to have been

given exclusive permission to reproduce these three stunning illustrations of Skellig by Paul Jeacock.

About Paul JeacockPaul is a gifted artist and illustrator with an eye for the mysterious and fantastical. He has worked in the television, film, advertising, gaming and publishing industries. He creates visual concepts and ideas for films such as ‘Skellig’, ‘Children of Dune’, ‘2000 AD’, and, most recently, the Mad Max ‘Fury Road’ video game. Many thanks to Paul

for giving us permission to use his artwork. You can explore his wonderful images: http://www.concept-artist.net/apps/photos/


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The Creature in my GarageA descriptive composition inspired by David Almond’s Skellig

My nervous heart was pounding like a powerful drum as, slowly, I trailed towards our dilapidated and derelict garage. I had always listened to my parents and obeyed their command to avoid this place; although for some reason, my Mum’s request for me to not enter had no power against the mysterious room which somehow enchanted me.

Surreptitiously, I edged towards the garage and saw the weather change; the skies darken and the clouds crouch down-it was as if my rotten and rebellious mood was being reflected

by the world around me. I turned on my torch and pushed open the rusty garage door. The smell of damp timbers and mould quickly permeated the room. Yet curiosity got the better of me. I stepped in, and peered up to look at the whole room. I soon realised that it was as filthy and jumbled as a demolition site. I struggled to balance among the crowded mounds of junk. There were millions of small woodlice squirming around the crumbling floor. As I looked deeper, I noticed the thin bones from a dead animal piled in a heap in the arid atmosphere. The brick walls were falling to pieces. I now understood why Mum

didn’t want me to come in here; it was as if the whole skeletal structure was going to collapse any second. That’s when I realised just how unsafe it was. Just then, I heard little scurrying

noises and scrambled back to the door. Then, as I squeezed passed the ancient chest of drawers, I heard a desperate, loud groan.

Trembling, I shone the torch in the space where I guessed the unusual noise had come from. Something nearby smelt musty and old. I took a few steps closer, and the decayed and putrid smell got stronger and stronger. In the corner of my eye, I saw a restless, thin

creature. It seemed to be in a lot of pain. I jumped with fear, but made myself stay, because I had to discover more...

The creature was propped up uncomfortably against the wall with its neck twisted to the side. There was no movement for a minute or two but then its wrinkled, frail body turned into another awkward position. Bones jutted out from its torso and its skin was as white as wrinkled as wastepaper. Its emotionless face was as monotonous as an old and fragile

metronome. Then, piercing the silence like a gunshot, it belched. That’s when we made eye contact and saw each other. Its bony face looked desperate and I saw a small tear forming in its eye. I saw it move and come towards me, light flashing in its beady eyes. I was a small, confused, helpless mouse about to be pounced on by this fierce lion of the shadows. I felt myself shaking with fear. The decrepit, unearthly creature was drawing closer and closer....

Smruti Balaji, UIII


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The Figure WithinA descriptive composition inspired by David Almond’s Skellig

I took a deep breath, turned the handle and stepped inside. A sudden stench of rotting wood and rusty metal hit me, like a tsunami of decay. It was as if the entire garage was made of rotting rubbish. My torch flickered into life, illuminating the

dilapidated space before me...

The place was alive with groans and scratches coming from all directions and, seemingly, never-ending. With great trepidation, I inched forward another step. The door slammed shut behind me. A sliver of spider’s web brushed my face,

with its scratchy strings irritating me like an uncut fingernail grazing my skin. The garage was stuffed with huge bags of cement, rolls of rope, piles of pipes and boxes

of rusty nails. Ancient cracked hand basins lay scattered on the muddy floor of this decrepit place. All the light came from one miniscule, dirty window covered

in dust and thick with mould...

My mouth felt unexpectedly dry and was filled with the flavours of rotting food. It was as though the contents of a dustbin had been poured into me. I spluttered

and choked, but kept moving forwards. Suddenly, I heard a muffled whimper from the corner of the room. I turned my head to see eyes as black and beady as a

snake’s glaring back at me.

His skin was as wrinkled as a prune’s. His skeletal and hollow-cheeked face rested on a box and was still as a statue, while his death-black eyes darted searchingly around the room. I was frozen with fear. A scurrying spider scuttled by, and the figure darted out a long tongue, swallowing the spider whole. Slowly and

stiffly, he lifted his head as if to watch me more intently. Struggling to speak, I whispered: “What are you?”

Amelia Lee, UIII


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The Departure by Freya MalhiOne hour. Just one hour. I’m rigid with tension, worried about my first time spacewalking from the international space station. I take a calming breath, willing myself not to panic. I hear a buzz from the speaker in my ear and a woman’s crackly voice cuts through my

thoughts. ‘Mr. Reynolds. Prepared to commence operation in one hour? Over.’

I speak into the microphone clipped to my breast pocket, ‘Yes sir. One hour. Over.’ I cut out the speaker with a click and sigh. Time to go and put on my suit.

One hour later, I await the order to step outside into space. I wear a white suit with the Union Jack on the shoulder, and upon my head is a bulky helmet, connected to the

oxygen tank at my back. Secured tightly around my waist is a thick cord connected to a bolt screwed into the floor of the airlock chamber.

‘Preparing depressurisation. Ready when you are,’ comes the order. I wait a moment before stepping into the airlock. The door closes behind me and I am shut in the small

chamber. Slowly the metal door in front of me opens, and...

I’m in space.

I’m not sure what I was expecting, but I certainly wasn’t prepared for this. I am completely weightless, cushioned by the void around me. Earth blinks up at me from below. The

cord tugs lightly at my waist. I turn round, remembering my mission, but I am unable to continue, consumed by the sheer beauty of what I see. Millions of stars twinkle at me in

all their bright glory from the dark sky. Earth seems so insignificant now.

I suddenly begin to think about my life. It’s all been a struggle for control over terrible events. It began with my parents, really. They died when I was three, in a fire that I only survived because they ran in to find me before they died themselves. I was put into care

and tossed around different foster homes, before I moved out when I was eighteen. I thought things were looking up for me when I married my wife. But then, five years ago, I lost her too, and our son, in a horrifying car crash. I had nothing left. So that was when I

began training as an astronaut, trying to give my life some sort of meaning.

But now I see the stars. And we are so insignificant. I reach down to the cord at my waist.

‘Mr. Reynolds! What are you doing?’ asks ground control.

‘Letting go,’ I reply.

I cut off the speaker and unclip my cord.

Slowly, I drift away.

Winners of the Abbey School short story competitionGirls were given the challenge of writing a creative composition with the title The Departure


39Art by Amelia Trood, UVI

A television plays a news report:“Mr. Frederick Reynolds sadly passed away yesterday having never awoken from the coma he fell into after a car crash fi ve years ago. His wife and son, who survived the crash, are

devastated. Mrs Reynolds commented, ‘I hope he is at peace now, dreaming perhaps about space. He loved the stars. He will live forever in our hearts.”

Winners of the Abbey School short story competitionGirls were given the challenge of writing a creative composition with the title Th e Departure


The Departure by Camila Dantas, UIV We entered hurriedly into the airport, accompanied by our heavily-packed suitcases,

trailing dutifully behind us. The organs of the airport held a dream-like familiarity: the tightly – arranged food shops and canteens, the solitary information desk with its lone

chair and abandoned computer, the muted, mumbling voices, humming disconnectedly as though heard through a padded wall, rising softly from the crowd of expectant travellers.

We approached the first queue. The surrounding silence was interrupted only by sudden shrieks of laughter or exclamation that rose further, through the canopy of soft mumbles,

daring, like defiant emergent trees, to be distinctly noticed. Comforted by the solitary reverie that such silence provided, I observed the faces of my family members, who were

pressed reassuringly against us. I glanced at Gabi, who was distractedly watching the other weary travellers. She appeared tired; her bright eyes a little dimmed, her often wide

grin weighed down into pursed lips. Her countenance, so strangely glum, reminded me once more of the quickly-approaching event. Our departure from Salvador was

consistently despondent, persistently solemn, unfailingly dreary and painful, regardless of the enjoyment that was experienced during the brief holidays preceding it. If our holidays

had been unmoving and uneventful, we wept and grieved at the possibility of familial intimacy and fun that had been, although within our grasps, unachieved. If each day of the short holidays had brought excitement, intriguing novelty and comforting tradition, loving reconciliation and the strengthening of relationships, we would weep with equal desperation, wishing quietly that our stay could be prolonged, or that a cousin or aunt

could accompany us to England.

Sitting down at a nearby canteen, we ate slowly, awaiting the arrival of the remaining cousins and friends that were to wish us farewell. I continually glanced at my father, fiercely fearing the moment in which he would alert us with his grimace that we were now to pass through to the departure area. Such a feared moment inevitably arrived, and was met with

unprecedented dread. We all stood. Embraces, held for as long as our arms could withstand, were given; tears instantly followed, thick and consistent. Words of love and promises of maintaining correspondence were uttered as we were gently pulled away and directed to

the queue of definite separation: the queue that our beloved relatives could not follow. The sorrow that befell me here was almost indescribable: it was all-consuming, suffocating, irrepressible. I kept my eyes low, my vision disabled by another swell of tears. When,

however, we were to pass through the glass doors into the area beyond, I turned swiftly, daring my external self-composure and inner tumult to have a single, final glance at the

distant huddle of bodies. My family, standing silently, with loving, tender, desperate yearning in their faces and postures mimicking my own; their comforting presence rapidly dissipating;

the irreversible, obstinate nature of what was to come, running forwards ahead of us in uncaring haste, weighed down upon me, pressing more tears forcefully from my eyes.

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Art by Amy Luke, LIV


The Departure by Kitty Bate, LV

The air in Martie’s stable hangs lifeless; there is still leftover water in his bucket but it has a stagnant glaze over the top from dust. It was the right thing to do, of course. But when

the vet rang me I was, essentially, scheduling his death: 2nd July, 2pm. It would give me plenty of time to say my goodbyes, the vet said. I don’t think any amount of time

would ever be enough.

His nameplate hangs uselessly on the door, a reminder of something that ended. They say ‘nothing lasts forever’ and I understand that. It’s just that I thought maybe, just possibly, that Martie would last forever. I’ll never forget the sheer power he held over a jump, legs tucked tight underneath him. When I was younger I used to think we could

defy gravity. I guess that in a way, we were.

When he was older I’d just spend time with him. I’d sit with him in his field, combing every burr out of his mane, making him shine just a little bit more

every time I did it.

Then little patches of hair started to come out and his knee clicked when he walked. Everything got worse and he stopped eating. I couldn’t brush him because it hurt him.

That’s what made me hurt the most too, so I made my decision.

On the day, I went to see him. I did everything normally because he didn’t like his routine changed. But really, I think he knew. I managed to hold it in until one o’clock. That was when the first tear came. I couldn’t stop them so I held his nose and kissed his

head. He stood there without complaint, accepting it. He wore his special head collar; the leather one with his name engraved. When I’d put it on I turned to leave his stable and

he put his nose on my back, pushing me. It was as though he was willing me on, he wanted me to go. So I opened to door and I did.

That last walk down to his field was the longest I’d ever done. I walked by his side and stroked his neck and he walked with his head low, ears forward. I synchronised

my steps with his, tangled my fingers in his mane. These were Martie’s last moments, so I treasured them.

The vet was nice and went around Martie quietly. I stood by Martie’s head, stroking his nose. I tried to forget what would happen but really, how could I? The vet stroked him before putting the injection in. I shut my eyes and hugged Martie tight. He didn’t flinch, he’d always been brave. Tremors shot through his legs and his knees gave way and he fell to the ground. I was left hugging the air with the rope still in my hand. Everyone and everything fell silent. And for a little while, everything was quiet. Just for my Martie.

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Tel: 0118 987 2256 Email: schooloffice@the abbey.co.uk

17 Kendrick Road, Berkshire RG1 5DZ

www.theabbbey.co.uk

Art by Georgia Johnson, UVI


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