THE SCHOOL MAGAZINE

Summer 1964

Untitled by L. Hammans (6th Form)

Wet rooftops show the slow, sallow moon
And trees cry silver tears.
Flagstones lie sweating and fretting,
Impatiently waiting the click of stilettos
Or even a soft footfall
To break the windless quiet.
To the left and beyond,
Shining rails stretch like slumbering lightening
Into a grey darkness.
And then, from that darkness,
Emerges sound.
And movement
As a train draws near.
Cumbersome metal surges forward
Proclaiming its steamy triumph
And scorning the cold, calm air.
On and forward it comes
And, as quickly, disappears
Leaving a memory, a warmth,
A regret at its passing -
And silence.

THE SNOW by P. Beattie (4J)

It snows in winter,
It falls in frosty flakes,
It covers the flowers and trees.
Everything is covered by this white carpet.

The fires die down, because the
Coal bunkers are buried under the snow,
Children play in the cold wet air,
They build snowmen tall and fat.

The berries of the holly are
Bright and red under the snow,
While branches of other trees seem dead and bare.
The flowers are frozen also.

THE REVELATION by L. Hammans (6)

The cackling flames crawled closer and reflected their leer in the terror of his eyes. How he wished he could pray. In his panic he projected an image of himself among these relentless tongues. He would be kneeling of course, with hands clasped, eyes closed and lips moving silently and reverently - achieving nothing. He screamed, on the verge of hysteria and his holy counterpart vanished.

He was suffocating now, choking on the acrid blanket of smoke. The desperate effort of breathing rasped in his throat and he dropped to one knee. The other leg gave way and he fell, rolled over and slid smoothly into darkness.

And yet, while he lay unconscious he watched - he watched the flames change from the harsh yellow curtains of death into soft, inviting velvet; he watched the smoke thin and curl wraith-like through the room until there was just one small cloud left. He watched and he was afraid.

The blue haze slowly spread and suddenly he realised that he was looking at a ghostly face. He studied it. There were delicate wrinkles, there was a beard, a firm mouth, a strong nose - but oh! The eyes! They were as no others he had seen. They were ageless, eternal, impassive. Then the revelation shrieked through him - there is God.

When the shock had gone and he knew, he was able to see again and he noticed that the head was moving sadly from side to side and slowly receding into a dark sea that had begun to cover him too. But before that face disappeared completely, two golden teardrops dropped from the eyes and ran under him and found his soul - waiting for its longest journey.

A FAIRGROUND ON A FROSTY EVENING by Janis Marcu (3S)

Earlier in the evening everyone was bubbling over with joy in this happy place. Everyone was eating candy-floss, and had red, shiny noses from the cold.

Now the place is deserted. The big wheel is perfectly still as if frozen. The helter skelter stands so lonely in the middle of the fairground, glistening with frost. The fairground looks so frozen stiff that it would not move for a hundred years.

Not a person is to be seen, except the manager of the fair. He is walking round the place with his hands in his pockets to stop the bitter cold from getting to his hands. He gives an occasional shiver as the frost seems to go up and down his spine. He has a thick woolly scarf round his neck and is remembering how long he will have to stay in this particular place before moving on to the next town. He sees the grass twinkling in the dim light of the solitary street lamp.

The ghost-train and the roundabout seem to be looking at each other and saying that they wished the fair was still open and that they still heard the laughter. But all there is to be heard now is the lonely cry of a stray cat, longing for someone to take it home, out of the cold. An old rat is running from the bingo-stall to the hoop-la stand, and now another is chasing it. That is all, except the people who work there. But they are asleep, unaware of the loneliness around them.

ISOLATION by Diane Whaley (4J)

Why did I come here to-day? I do not know anybody and nobody knows me. Beaches are supposed to be such happy places. If only I had someone to talk to. An old library book that I had read before and a bottle of sun-tan lotion are not good companions. Everybody is enjoying themselves except me. Even though this is England I feel like a foreigner. The sooner I go home the better, back to my friends. At least this only happens once a year. Time seems to pass so slowly, another hour before dinner. Is this what loneliness is like?

ISOLATION By Janet Anderson (4J)

Entombed between four walls, alone; A certain uniform designed wrong doers, I am one amongst thousands, yet still alone. The silence of the cell gives time to reminisce, to work it all out over again. Once more the feeling of guilt comes surging into me, to be quelled upon by tears and followed by resentfulness. Determined to start afresh upon leaving this prison of humiliation. This kind of disgrace will never be repeated.

ISOLATION by Anne Murden (4J)

Away from all humans, animals and civilisation, only the wretched, howling wind and great, wicked snow storms to keep the two Arctic fools company. They are both American Professors sent to this country of clean white sheets to test machines, against wind. What fools has the mighty God created? They are idiots who live alone, without comfort, in a bleak hut buried under the crinkle of the one enormous sheet. Not a soul to talk to, no-one to listen to, only that damned wind always hammering at the door, never ceasing, constantly asking entrance.

They do not know what goes on in the other earth, if there is war or peace, love or hate; never knowing the sorrows of the other place. But they are alone and miserable.....or are they? Yes they are alone in a different world. A world of peace and love, for here there is no-one to quarrel with, except that hammering wind.

POTTERY by John Beasley (4S)

The colour of clay for making pots is either white or brown (proper name Terracotta).

Clay has to be wedged first of all. It is thrown on a table, fairly hard, cut in half and stuck together again. This has to be done about 24 times to make sure there are not any air-bubbles in it.

Throwing the clay on the wheel has to be fairly accurate, as it has to be centred. First of all wet the clay with some water and also wet your hands, so that when the wheel goes round, the clay slips through your hands.

Make it into a cone shape, by squeezing steadily with your hands. This has to be done fairly slowly otherwise you might knock it off centre. Then bring it down into a toadstool, do this about 4 or 5 times. Then when satisfied, you can slightly press your thumbs in the centre of the clay. Slowly press harder until your thumbs have gone far enough down. You might want to have your pot as it is, but if you want to make it tall put one hand inside your pot and your thumb (which is bent into a 'G' shape) outside. Keeping your hand inside the pot quite still and bringing your thumb up the side of the pot, press slightly.

After you have shaped your pot cut it from the wheel with a length of nylon line attached to two buttons, run water under the pot then slide it on to a glazed tile.

Let it dry for about a day and a half, the proper way up, then turn it upside down for a further day and a half. This is so it will be able to dry throughout. When you are satisfied that your pot is "leather hard" (not too dry), you would be able to turn it. Get a piece of clay which is soft not sticky, and the same colour as your pot. Centre your pot on the wheel and stick it down. Then you will be able to turn it with your turning tools. First of all you have a tool with a rounded point. Press lightly off the centre and make a groove which should be perfectly round. Make the groove open out, like the groove of a record, until you come to the rim of your pot. Then thin the clay off until your pot is smooth at the bottom. When you have finished take your pot off the wheel and put it in a dry place for about 3 to 4 weeks.

After 3 weeks all the water will have dried out of the pot and it can now be decorated before biscuit firing. For this first firing the kiln can be loaded with pots placed on top and inside each other and the temperature is gradually taken to 1050.

Stir the glaze you want to use, opaque or transparent, very thoroughly and sieve it. When you have finished, pour some of the glaze into your pot filling right up to the brim, but not overflowing. Pour it fairly quickly. Any glaze which has spilt over the edge of your pot you can brush off with a special brush. Then after that dry for a few minutes, turn the pot upside down, dip it perfectly straight into the glaze, so that it will make an air-lock. Do not keep it in the glaze too long, otherwise the glaze will be thicker than needed. Brush off the glaze evenly where it is irregular.

Shelves which can be mounted inside the kiln, have to be powdered with sand. Do not stand pots smack bang up against each other, because the glaze will start to run and stick the pots together. When the glaze firing has finished the kiln takes about 36 hours to cool down, then you can take out your pot.

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