What we do at
Well, I want you to put down that scrappy copy of Fahrenheit 451. I never liked Ray Bradbury much, pretentious if you ask me. Now, read a real story, read this story; the story of my life; a microcosm, if you like, of the world I inhabit. I’ve just left the apartment; the keys are in my pocket, my black, tailored suit-jacket – which you’d swear was from Dior – over my shoulder. Suits are important – they make a man; think of Bogart, think of Cary Grant, think of Karl Lagerfeld – I bet you’re thinking of them in tailored black suits. But the keys – the keys are all important. Maybe the keys themselves aren’t the thing of significance; it’s the fob. The fob, black, indented with a golden charging bull. If you have any access to the world I live in, you probably know what’s waiting for me on the corner of Watts Street, TriBeCa; I’ll assume you don’t. You probably drive a Peugeot, a Ford, maybe a Volkswagen if you’re lucky. As I enter the street what awaits me is a thing of feminine beauty: her lines are perfect, bewitching you might say; she has the curvaceous figure of a fashion model who isn’t obsessed with her weight; even in silence, you know she has a latent fury within her; she may be yellow, but like the prancing bull on the key fob, she has dynamic power and passion. The dash lights up, her engines spark to life, and I hear her feline purrs of satisfaction. We take command of the streets, and as we do so, everyone in the vicinity looks at us with longing. But the longing brings them no pleasure, because they, like you, know that they’ll never possess anything of such primal perfection. They live, you live, humdrum lives with mediocre jobs, mediocre pay packets and mediocre partners. They, like you, revolve around their weekly episodes of Breaking Bad and Game of Thrones, read their daily copy of The New York Post, their weekly copy of National Enquirer, all to allow themselves to escape momentarily from the mediocrity of their existences. You, of course, were hoping for such momentary relief by reading your Bradbury. But like those gazing at the car, this story is a confrontation with all those things that you will never possess. As we come down Madison Avenue the lights turn to red. I look up, the Diana statue looms large over Madison Square Gardens, launching her arrow at Don Draper and the rest of the Mad Men billboard crew that surround me. Mark pulls up alongside me. We nod. We know. We’re aware that we rule this city; we’re aware that we rule the world. People like you simply gaze, dreaming of a day when you could join the elusive ranks of our faction. I’m here to tell you that day will never come. This is the power that has been bestowed upon me; lifted day-by-day from the minuscule nature of your existence. As we pass the Goldman Sachs Tower, the glass reflection of Merrill Lynch on the left, I turn into the underground parking lot of The Crest condominium complex. George nods as he lifts the gate, especially designed by Clayton & Little Architects, we slither between the silver pillars towards my usual parking space, marked by the same golden charging bull as my fob. As ever, the parking lot is pristine, cleaner than most people’s bathrooms; surrounded by tile especially produced by the master craftsmen of Pietra Firma. I switch off the engine; she silences, but as always, with regret. Her angel’s wing rises and I feel a similar regret at placing my feet on solid ground again. I hit the fob, hearing the sound of security, and then make for the Savaria elevator. We go up to the 1st floor and Benny stands behind the desk with his usual maudlin expression.
Gabriel De Almeida (Year 7)
I n a small HQ, totally unknown to the outside world, lies a secret organisation, established to develop the great minds of creative writers. Some may call it creative writing club, but its operatives like to call it WORDSMITHS. It all happens on Friday lunchtimes. The WordSmiths room is always buzzing with exciting thoughts, and we are continually trying to find new ways to express them. Whether penning a poem or narrating a novel, the team – of which I am one – work round the clock to deliver fresh creative writing to the WordSmiths online blog. During the
session, we discuss what we should do, and if it is not too hard, we put pen to paper and write. Our inspiration could come from anywhere – from the sky outside to the 36th word on a page of a book opened at random. Whatever we produce, if it is any good it will go straight up on the page. Wordsmiths can be accessed on the Dulwich College intranet via MyDulwich (or the Parent Portal) – just click on the WordSmiths tree icon and have a browse. If you want to participate in this extraordinary club, get in touch via the blog.
Farm Lake by James Walde (Year 8)
I t was a cold October night at Gort. There was no evidence of any tracks in the papery earth, nor the evidence that someone had cycled there by Farm Lake. There should have been, but tonight was different. He ran... a scream, but still, there was nothing in the ripped seedy abysses that gaped at him between every tree. The withered leaves dangled like dead men hanged by rope, cracked and shrivelled, veins bulging like old fingers. The branches of the trees lurched, bowed and retched in agony as the wind sent cascading booms, clawing at the bark as the ripples flooded up the trunk. The stagnant folding water on the lake looked like the waste from a charnel house, creeping up the muddy banks. He was the only one left, desperately gasping for air as he scrambled up the loose rock of the ramshackle track that led to Mr Gren’s field, where he kept the horses. He knew a town: it was just over the hill. He would be safe from it there. Numbers were the only thing that could stop it; a nearby sanctuary where he didn’t need to be smart and quick, but he was running out of time. It was getting closer… he could feel it. A long shape was coming into view – it was the field fence, but in the overwhelming dark he could not estimate the distance of the nearing obstacle. He heard a wail and
suddenly burst into a rapid spree of sprinting. He jumped. A violent shock hit him in the legs. He hit the ground hard and felt a gruesome liquid dribble down his left leg. He felt around it and came across a sharp substance – it was barbed wire, and it had torn into his leg. It was deep. His eyes darted around – it was then he saw it, walking towards the field. He desperately searched his pack for his knife. It was getting closer, searching for him. He tried to pull the wire off. There was a tearing sound, and a husky cry erupted from his throat, and tears trickled down his cheeks. He found the knife. He clenched his jaw and began removing the wire from flesh, grimacing with utter pain. He was loose, but it was now striding towards him. He clasped the knife and limped helplessly towards the town, now only a few stone’s throws away. It was quicker than him now – he’d have to be smart. He glanced at the wooden barn, then changed his course, knowing it might be his only chance. It was nowhere to be seen. He clambered into the barn via the stable window. He sat between the hay bales, panting. The barn’s back door led to Jay Street – he was nearly there. He pulled up his trouser leg – his limb was raw and still had strands of wire clinging to it. But he ignored his leg and crept through the back door. He turned. It was in
I throw the keys on the desk, emasculated.
I take a seat next to Benny’s desk, drape my rain coat over my knees; there’s no label in the coat – I cut that out the moment I got it home. I sip what’s left of my Dunkin’ Donuts Americano; the remnants have a bitter taste. From the pocket of my coat I take out a paperback copy of Fahrenheit 451…
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