Somerhill Review 2023/24

THE SOMERHILL REVIEW 2023/24

Years 7/8

Storm description by Arthur Springhall The storm was artillery. It was a constant bombardment, releasing salvos of wind into the unsuspecting forests. Lines of beaches held as the armies of water poured into their ranks, the towering cliff watched on as the waves exploded at their slowly crumbling feet.The miles of rolling hills flapped like small tents under the might of the wind.The spaces in between fell as craters between the trees. Small rocks looked like hunched soldiers in a trench and gale-detonated grass shook with the ferocity of a bull. Black clouds charged towards the horizon and flashes of lightning dive bombed towards the shivering ground. Old trees hunched as bushes exploded around them. Rain punched birds hid under shield like rocks and dulled orange foxes burrowed deep into the ground not caring for their hunger. Each wave that hit was like a mortar shell hitting its target. Each bullet of rain punctured the grass and drowned the flayed rock. When, despite the heavy salvo of wind and rain, a figure slowly trudged towards their small stone cottage. Each step it took was like a bomb against the wind and waves. But even so the wind started hitting harder in anger, flinging gusts of wind like stick grenades and firing more and more rain into the slowly yielding man. But he stood his ground, a beacon of hope for the landscape, until the wind started to die down and the rain seemed to be lighter on the cliffs. Just this man defying the wind had forced it to yield and hold back the assault. But the rain was still heavy on the hills, and nothing could stop it, not even the wind itself. By this time, the drenched man had just barely escaped the onslaught of lead rounds.Yet even though the spiral of wind and rain still hammered on the old, hunched house, the beach still held off the waves and everything seemed lighter than it did before the man appeared.

Memory Narrative by Douglas Bridgeland It was a warm, pleasant day with clear skies and waves that calmly lapped at your feet.The air was electrified with the joyous laughter of children and the salty scent of the sea. I lay peacefully on the sand, feeling the sun kiss my youthful skin as I giddily watched my brother wading out to sea, laughing light-heartedly. After a while, a distant hum arose to my awareness; gradually increasing in volume and vigour. Curious, I sat up and peered inquisitively through my sunglasses. A reckless, impulsive jet ski - the latest range - was thudding relentlessly in our direction. In no time, it had entered the bay and was only about fifty metres from the shore: not stopping. How was it that close to my brother already? My blood froze as time stopped. An extract from a narrative inspired by Dulce Et Decorum Est by Will Thorneycroft Like beggars wrapped in blankets, we cursed through sludge, the frost-bitten mud clinging to our tattered boots with utter desperation. Our once mighty battalion, audacious and valiant, now stumbling, our chests red-raw from spluttering and coughing like old crones. As the boreal wind slashed at our gaunt faces and sliced our once great coats, we walk silent, half asleep, half-dead, none of us daring to look behind at the atrocities, but towards our distant rest of hot soup and a bed are all that keep us half awake, half alive.

An extract from Clerval’s Diary by Theo de Ryckman de Betz As I stumbled my way from machine to machine like a useless boy, Mr Frankenstein was working with endless copper wiring. I stared in disbelief. Loose wallpaper hung off the brown-stained walls, and motor engine-like contraptions riddled with nuts, bolts and screws were littered around the place like toys. But this was just one of several corners of this H-shaped flat. How could someone live in such a place? A single bed, or what used to be, had been dismantled; a dishwasher that was wrapped around in metal lay on its side; and next to that was a large table that had bulky insides. “Mr Frankenstein?” I asked,“Do you mind making room for some supper perhaps?” At that time, I was so hungry, I could have eaten the raw meat under the once white cloth. But almost immediately I lost my appetite. Mr Frankenstein pulled out a human hand from a large bucket. I stuttered in horror. He brought it closer, and I dashed out the way as he placed the hand onto an old school desk. A mysterious, complex machine sat on this desk. Mr Frankenstein made a fuss of me as he sat me down and grabbed a glass of water for me to drink. He explained that the machine was a Wimhurst machine and that it inspired him to do what he does. He carefully and thoughtfully connected thin threads of wire to the hand in certain places and I slowly regained my confidence as he did this. I had multiple questions as to how and why he had obtained this hand.

And the answers I shall not share in this diary!

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