2020 Student Anthology – Watch My Nerve

Watch My Nerve 2020 Student Anthology

Dedication In prior editions of the anthology, we have explored the theme of the anthology and sought to encapsulate the works within. This year, we are relenting this place to an acknowledgement of one of our own, Ella Bunn.

Ella truly demonstrated courage in every act, despite demanding situations. She was an important part of the APC community. One of Ella’s significant contributions was her stellar literary work, so we are honouring her in an area that best showcases her strengths.

Below is a dedication from Ella’s friends. She will be greatly missed by all.

Ella was the best kind of person. She has always been our angel — looking out for us, thinking of us, supporting us, all while facing her own challenges. The immense loss we feel is a testament to her unmatched character - her spirit and strength, optimism and kindness, compassion and courage. She seemed to have endless love to give. She had extraordinary talents, though she was too humble to acknowledge this. One of those talents was writing, as you will know once you read her piece. We hope that you are able to sense the warmth and magic that Ella brought and continues to bring to the world.

Food is fuel I stare at the slice of bread, cube of butter and five slices of carrot positioned tidily on my plate. I brush the tips of my fingers against the silver cutlery situated on top of the wooden table and lift my head to catch the shadows of figures moving swiftly to their seats. Everything is systematic, in a state of continuous monotony, and as I tickle my lips with the crust of bread, a tear trickles down my cheek at the prospect of finishing my meal. Now we are meant to eat, now is our only opportunity to feed our bodies, now the panic to consume my food sets in.

I live in a world where the Government controls what my body gets as fuel, formatted due to the long-ago topical issue of uneven distribution of food across humanity, a practise of complete nutritional fairness had to take place. We eat one meal per day, one meal for each and every person, your meal is delivered to your location and consumption is monitored by shift workers. Consumption is mandatory. For those who will not consume, you are taken to The Blocks, where food can be ‘officially enforced.’ I am in one of those blocks, defined as a rebel.

Rebel may misrepresent my position to not follow orders.

I want to, I try, I try with every fibre of my being. I try to repress the urge to gag when food slathers the lining of my oesophagus, I try to reimagine the activity as something of a personal duty rather then a chore, but most of all I try to fix the piece of myself that is not good enough to be a part of the Government’s all inclusive, equal society, the piece of myself that tore me away from my family.

I don’t know why the very thought of eating cracks my heart. The realism of failing society’s system to make everyone equal should scare me more than the movement of a few brief swallows. Those who argue that dictating the intake of food has led to people losing control of themselves don’t understand how the Government has granted us with an even playing field. A chance to reduce poverty, a chance to save humans from dying, a chance to display a stabilised society ready to conform to the needs of the world as a unity. We have been gifted the prize of justice amidst humanity.

I am the one in a hundred who can’t obey, the selfishness I breed overtakes my physicality and, though I try to conform, I fail. With an empty plate, I stand. Ignoring the dizziness engulfing my head and the warmth of sustenance rising up from my stomach. With every stride I step, my breathing becomes more rapid. Finally I get to the door with the miniature female plastered on it. Pushing it open with one forceful shove, I slide across the cold grey tiles on my knees and kneel with my arms grasped onto the toilet seat. I proceed to do the one action that has titled me as a disappointment to our world; I regurgitate the meal I just pretended to be strong enough to digest. With my head collapsing forwards, I hear the door slam behind me and acknowledge the repercussions I am about to be inflicted with.

By Ella Bunn

Narrative Withered Monday Evening The cactus stands withered next to a round coffee table.

It has a thin layer of black grease on it and an ashtray as the centerpiece. Otherwise, the room is empty. The pot, made out of white porcelain is clean. There are a few finger smudges near the rim. It is the only thing in this house that is clean.

Even the kettle is covered with a thick sheet of soot except around the handle. He switches it on and lights a cigarette.

The switch is broken, it will not switch itself off. Instead it will continue to heat the already boiling water.

He puts his hand out to turn the switch off. He can barely see it through the steam in the already smoky room. He touches the spout instead, burning his finger. He doesn’t put his finger under cold water. It would add to their water bill, it isn’t necessary. He never hurts himself. He isn’t hurt.

She moves past him, grabbing the cloth. It is a brown, dirty cloth.

“I burnt myself, Ann.” He doesn’t mind, it doesn’t matter.

She does not acknowledge his presence. Instead, her haggard fingers scrub with fury to remove the finger marks on the rim of the cactus pot.

She passed back into the kitchen, grabbing the watering can that stands ready for her use and fills it up to the brim.

He grabs her by the wrist.

“Stop that. We have enough bills as it is. We can’t afford it.

What is the point of having a wife if all she does is clean an ugly pot with a dead plant inside it?” He says.

He does not let her arm go. His knuckles turn white with his increasing grip force. His lips press even harder onto his cigarette as he puffs out clouds of black smoke. She does not move. She stares blankly at the kettle, which is now spitting out steam and hot bubbling water at the spout.

“What did that doctor chap call it? Something mothers go through. Well you aren’t one, are you? I thought you had finally gotten over it.”

“I-I’m sorry Ray. Please, don’t. Look here, I don’t want to annoy you.”

She pulls herself gently away.

“You goddamn woman, you don’t care. Look, I burnt myself, hurt myself. You are my wife, Ann. My wife.”

She looks up gently as his voice rises to a whine.

“I’ll turn that kettle off Ray.” She puts down the watering can and turns off the kettle.

He looks at his burnt finger and sighs. She is staring at her toes as she mutters something about the plant needing water.

They sit at their small round table in silence opposite each other. Between them is a flimsy radio and the ashtray. The somewhat broken radio is violently spitting out crackling noises. He has grease on his sooty fingers from eating his dinner. She is cleaning the rim of the pot with care. He turns on the radio with his dirty fingers. “Think the news comes on in a few minutes, don’t know the time though, might have already been.”

He listens intently as the deep voice on the other side replaces the crackling sound. The man is announcing the 50th anniversary of the battle of -. The man’s voice is drowned out by her deep agonising sobs as she cries freely at the other side of the round table.

He slams his fist down on the wood.

“Shut up woman! Hysterical and useless. That is what you are.”

She looks at him vaguely with reddened eyes, then down at the cactus. Her fingers touch the dead cactus with the soft touch a mother might give when comparing the tiny fingers of her baby with her own. She pricks her fingers on the sharp spines that haven’t fallen off yet. She has stopped crying and slouches back in her chair, looking at her injured finger.

He turns the radio button further to the right, up to full blast. He can’t hear her uneven gasps. “Can’t believe that battle is that long ago, Ann, 50 years is a long time.” His voice sounds lively again, youthful. She looks at him and blinks slowly. He keeps talking.

She suddenly looks worried. She had remembered something.

Her voice is drowned out by the radio. She puts her hand out and turns it off.

He looks at her, and lifts his hand but stops it mid air, then hits the table instead. He lowers his eyes and looks at the ash tray as he picks up another cigarette. She looks at him as she speaks.

“I just remembered that the doctor called. You have to visit your father,” she says.

“Do I really?” he says. “You know I don’t want to. Do I have to?”

“He has lung cancer,” she says. “I don’t know if you want to visit him tonight, but he is dying, Ray. And you should look after him, you are his son.”

“Oh Ann, you know he’s not like that.” He looks at her resentfully. She moves over to the coat rack and unhooks the single coat hanger there. She places the coat next to him on the table. He sighs, puts on his coat and quickly stuffs two cigarette packets into his pocket.

When he leaves, she does not bother to get up and pull the door closed behind him like she always does. The air is

stuffy in the apartment, but the cold winter air isn’t much relief. She stares at the plant, the one her neighbor had given her as a gift for the baby and looks at the empty rooms of the house. She passes through every room, looking at the furniture that is still there, that they didn’t need to sell. She goes into the bathroom and looks in the mirror, but the layer of dust and soot only shows a faint outline. Soon, the dust would be too thick to give a reflection. She thinks about using the cloth to clean it, but instead she goes over to the kettle and works on fixing the switch.

At the hospital, Ray asks for his dad’s room. The room is even colder than outside and he pulls his coat closer around him. Still, he feels the cold on his face.

The sight of his dad makes him shiver. He has a cold stare that follows Ray and does not leave his face. Even on his deathbed, with tubes and things attached to him, he is not weak. His broad shoulders and strong arms prop him up to sit upright and show his height. When Ray was a child, his dad would hit him. What doesn’t kill you makes you stronger, he would say. But Ray didn’t feel strong, not then and not now.

“Dad,” Ray says, lighting a cigarette and looking out of the window as he speaks. His father looks haggard and more like a skeleton than a man. Ray does not seem to notice. “Well, it took you awhile to visit, didn’t it. Would’ve expected more of you.” Says the sick man in the bed, struggling with every word. He has a coughing fit every few words. He sounds sick too.

Ray looks up. He wants to say the right thing. He thinks of what he could say to make his father proud. Instead, he drops his cigarette stub on the ground and twists his foot to put out the flames. Then, he lights the next one and offers one to his father.

“Hold it up to my mouth, will you,” his father says. Ray lets his father smoke the cigarette and then gives him his oxygen every now and then when he wants it. His arm begins to ache from holding the cigarette.

After the third one, the sick man pushes the cigarette away and Ray drops his arm. The room is now filled with a thin veil of smoke, fogging up the pristine hospital window. As Ray lights his next cigarette, he moves away from the bed towards the closed window and tries to look out and see if it has started to rain.

“Well..” Ray says and looks through the foggy window at the outlines of the city below.

“My wife and I are getting along alright. I need to show her the way, but what more can be expected from a woman.”

His father doesn’t respond.

“I-I’ve a good job, you know. I have a house too, paid it off and all,” Ray continues.

“Women need to be knocked into place. Gotta show her who’s boss. Don’t know how your mother dared to walk out like that.” He struggles to breathe the smoky air and speak at the same time, but does not look away from Ray.

Ray quickly looks at his father, then back to the window, that is now impossible to see through. He realises that there is only one more cigarette left as he reaches into his jeans pocket. This is his last one.

His father closes his eyes and turns away towards the wall. Ray looks at him now, at his bony back that seems so breakable. He looks at the red and blue and white tubes attached to his arms and his heart and the one that comes out of his nose. Then, he notices the sound of the loud rhythmic beeping that is coming from a machine. He has never seen a machine like that before now. It must be measuring his father’s heart beat. How odd. Ray looks at his clock and then at his father, who seems to be asleep.

Ray turns on his heals and leaves the smoky room, closing the door behind him.

He hesitates as he enters the apartment lobby and his steps, which were fast when leaving the hospital, are now slow. He stops at the stairwell and grins at his name printed on a little broken box. Then, as his gaze moves to his door on the first floor, his face falls.

The door to his apartment is wide open. It is never open.

Never. Not even to air the apartment. He keeps staring at the open door, but does not move towards it. There is no light on in the apartment and it looks abandoned. He pulls his shoulders back, takes a breath and moves towards the door, quickly passing in.

Outside is cold, but inside is even colder. The air is strange too. It doesn’t smell of stale cigarette smoke anymore, or of dust and moth balls. Ray looks around quickly. He suddenly starts towards an empty space next to the table. There is a clean round circle on the ground. It is gone.

He walks through every room, but she isn’t there. Ann is gone. He goes to the door and looks out. It is bad weather outside and the wind gusts that come in are strong and cold. Ray leaves the door wide open as Ann had left it. The wind lifts the dust off the furniture and makes the soot and dirt make the air heavy.

Then his gaze falls on the cigarette pack on the table and he snaches it up and lights one. Then another. He finds a cheap beer pack in the fridge. He didn’t know it had been there when he had gone. He sits down at the table but he doesn’t rest his beer on it because the table is dirty.

When he finishes the pack, he looks through their bedroom cupboard and pulls out Ann’s dress. Her things are still there, neatly folded. Why are they neatly folded? They hadn’t been beforehand. He is sure.

He holds her dress in his hands as he stares at the mirror in her wardrobe. He moved closer to it. There was just enough light in the dark room with the broken light bulb for him to see his face. After a while, he folds the dress carefully and

The Pier puts it back to where it had been. Ann must be home soon.

He should make tea. As he switches it on, he sees his burnt hand and remembers to turn the switch off before it gets too hot. But as he reaches out, it switches itself off.

He sits at the table with another beer and a cigarette in the other hand. The water in the kettle gets cold. He turns the radio on but there is only that crackling sound, so he turns it back off. The house is now very cold. As he finishes off another beer, the can slips from his hand as he slouches and passes out, falling off the plastic chair onto the floor.

That is how she finds him. On the ground with beer poured all over him and a hole in the ground where the smouldering cigarette fell. She grabs his hands and drags him to the sofa. It takes a while but she manages. She props him up on his side and moves over to pull the door closed. Then she finds a blanket and covers him up with it. She turns on the light and the heater. Then she walks into her room and comes back with a big book. There she sits, with one hand on her husband’s head and the other holding open the book until the wind stops howling.

Alyssa Seckinger-Crow, Year 10

The boy woke up cold.

The window was open, and a harsh, cold breeze was streaming in. The boy did nothing, as he knew his shivering would soon warm him.

He glanced at the clock and saw it was before dawn.

However, pale, golden light was streaming in, illuminating his room. It was highly irregular.

The boy found his clothes and dressed himself. For an inexplicable reason, he felt drawn to the sea. He walked as quietly as he could down the stairs. The wood felt cold on his feet, but he kept on walking.

The boy walked out the door and down the street. He was blind - he could only feel the stabs of pain as the wind blew past his face. He navigated his way towards the sea. The paths he had often travelled now fell upon unfamiliar eyes.

Yet he walked on.

He walked on paths of concrete, gravel, and then a carpet of grass. He opened his eyes, but still could not see. He clenched his feet, but could not feel.

He could only taste. Taste the salt on his tongue, taste the freedom that beckoned him.

Finally, he had found the pier. He walked to the edge and looked down, thinking, contemplating. Contemplating the shallowness of life as he looked down into the depths of the ocean.

His gaze settled on a patch of water. The surface had a different colour to it. It appeared to absorb all of the light.

The wind was still blowing with all of its might, but did not catch the surface.

Looking deeper into the water, an object appeared to take shape. A hand, a human hand. The fingers, palm and then the wrist appeared above the surface. It beckoned him, as the sea breeze had earlier. In the distance, a lone dog howled. It was a mournful sound, and told a tale of despair, a tale of woe.

The Boy had a choice to make.

To follow his odyssey, his journey, or to retreat back to the land, back to the warmth, where the lone dog howled.

The boy felt the concrete beneath his feet, now warmed.

His body was feeling heavy, stone like. First his toes, then his knees. The more he thought, the more he attempted to reason with himself, the higher and faster it rose and filled. It filled his stomach, and then his indecision allowed it to rise to his chest, filling his heart. His hands started shaking, but not with cold. The paralysis was now rising up his body. It was his last chance. Sweat dripped off his face before being blown away. It was his last chance. To stay, or to jump.

Thomas Dolan, Year 11

The Original Chet exited the cab so fast he almost tripped over the curb, he was running so fast that he didn’t notice the poodle walking next to its owner. He lifted one leg and lifted the other, he jumped as high as he could to avoid knocking the dog. The dog made a small delayed yip as some gum on chet’s shoe caught on its fur. He continued to run. This was chet’s last chance at making it big. He had to make it to the studio in time for his audition. The street was damp and almost wet just coming out the back end of the second biggest storm to hit LA since the change of the millenium.

It was 3 in the afternoon but it felt more like evening, the sky was grey and the sun only shone through the very tops of the towers. Since it was only 3 in the afternoon, no street lights were turned on but the lights of taxis illuminated the street. Chet was carrying 6 sheets of sheet music all of which he had been working on over the past month.

He had skipped work and family outings in order to finish it in time. He had left it to the very last minute and had only just made it back from LAX before he had caught the taxi directly from his hotel. He was headed to the LA theatre. There, were being held the auditions to the last LA wide talent show. It was being broadcasted to national television and was likely going to be on the news. He knew that if he could perform well, he could make it big.

Chet had travelled all the way from Chicago, where he regularly performed in small jazz cafes around the city.

He was used to performing in front of crowds between 70 and 150. If Chet made it through to the next round, he would be performing in front of a crowd of 3,500 people and hundreds of thousands over television. He continued to run around the next corner. He was only 3 blocks away and his audition was in 5 minutes. Chet was going to play a crowd favourite, When I was your man by Bruno Mars.

Even though his mother had told him to play an original, Chet had doubted his talent and had decided to take the safe option. “It was the better option”, he told himself. He was now only two blocks away. He checked his watch. He had only four minutes to be on stage. He turned around the second block which had a door opening from a hotel directly to the corner. It was a rotating door and a man carrying a large suitcase to his chest walked out. The suitcase was just covering his vision of Chet as he bolted around the corner. Chet collided with the man, sending the two men flying. Chet let go of his papers to break his fall. His papers fell to the wet ground. The man with the suitcase also released his suitcase to break his fall. The suitcase fell out of his hands to his left. The suitcase fell directly on the sheet music, covering it.

Chet recovered quickly and swiftly lifted the suitcase to reveal his wet, crumpled sheet music. He didn’t have time to worry so he picked up the sheet music, crumpling it more in his tight grip. He ran, now as quickly as he could, forgetting to apologise to the man he had just collided with. The man shouted at him, “hey come back here!”

Chet didn’t bother even turning his head. He was still

determined to make it on time. Chet clenched his fist, making the ink run down his hand and drip onto the ground. He ran down 7th street, checking his watch once more. He had only two minutes. The LA theatre was now in sight as he ran past the last corner. Chet swore under his breath. He was wet, messy and now he had to play something different. All his hopes were lost. He ran faster now, in a sprint, he had about 300 yards to make before reaching the building. He dodged more people and ran past multiple shop fronts. Chet had a sliver of a chance to make it but he was decided. He would make it.

Chet reached the door to the theatre and put his upper arm in front of him without breaking his speed, praying the door was a push door and not a pull door. The door, to his relief, gave way and he ran past the empty ticket booths into the auditorium. He continued to run past the multiple isles of seats. The auditorium was grand. Dressed elegantly in velvet curtains and painted rails with bootleg golden paint. There were side booths, just as he had seen in movies. It was surreal. He had not yet broken his pace and so upon arriving at the stage, paying no attention to the judges, he leaped up the metre high stage. He met the corner of the stage with his thigh and he pushed himself up. The dampness of his clothing carried him across the entire polished stage. He hit the back wall just as the surprised judges called his name, “Chet?” Chet stood up.

“That’s me!” The judges starred in disgust at his appearance. He was a mess. He was dusty from the stage on one side and wet on the other side. His face was red and his hair was a mess. “So you are performing When I was your man by Bruno Mars?” Chet looked down at his hand that was still clenching the soaked papers. “Actually this afternoon, i’ll be playing an original.” “Oh?” one of the judges said quietly. Chet sat up to the piano and looked over to the judges waiting for any type of signal to begin.

There were four judges, one of them was a middle aged man, one was a young woman wearing a loud pink dress and the other two were old women which Chet assumed had been famous in their prime. “My song does not have a name but I’d like to dedicate it to my mother who always believed in my music.” Both of the elderly women rolled their eyes. The middle aged man stopped them and said confidently, “you may begin.”

As soon as Chet began, he felt like he was no longer in control of his hands, they glided along the keys in the best way. He sang confidently. It was Chet’s best performance.

He was so unusually determined and confident that he added assisting chords to each stroke he made, adding depth to the original song. When he finished, the judges looked at one another unsure.

A rock hit the bottom of Chet’s stomach. He looked down at the piano as if to examine it to hide his disappointment.

To his surprise, when he looked back up, all four judges were standing. The old woman began to clap and soon,

Coma Chameleon all four were in full applause. A standing ovation. Chet’s emotions quickly changed as a broad smile spread across his face, he had made it.

Judah Coombs, Year 11

The ward was filled with ghosts. Curtains prevented them from communicating with each other, not that that was likely. A coma inhibited most movement. Patient 3 was two beds to the right. None of the nurses knew when he was admitted. His family, if they existed, had ceased to visit.

They called him the Coma Chameleon. His complexion blended with the crisp hospital sheets until he had almost faded away. Cheer was hard to come by in the ICU. Once a day nurses plastered on a fake smile and showed concerned relatives into the ward and once a month there was a themed dress up day. Yesterday was all about hats.

The nurses placed a fascinator on Chameleon’s head. Bright flowers and ribbons cascaded onto his skull. His head tipped slightly under the weight, pulling the taut skin into a curved smile. A dead man’s laugh.

In a past life the Chameleon was assigned a name. George gambled on the horses. He always bet on the underdog, the weakest. Never made any money, mind you. Instead he swept up the discarded tickets. Sat at home and sorted them, returning the next day to cash in what meagre winnings were left over from less fortunate selves.

At his last race a woman stood in front of him. Her fascinator perched slanted. He had to peer around it.

Feathers sprouted from the band of a miniature top hat. He sneezed. He didn’t know he was allergic to birds as well. He followed her throughout the day. Always keeping an eye out for the flouncy dress with frilly sleeves. It was the sort of dress he expected a six-year-old to wear, to a princess party topped with a bedazzled crown. Instead she wore that hat. Something fascinated him about that hat. Perhaps it was because it was all his subconscious could remember.

Perhaps it reminded him of someone else. Those heels.

Razor thin and taller than he thought could support a girl.

Patent black leather curved to her foot. A gap at the tip revealed two short toes. Pink soles peeked up at him as she glided away into the crowd.

His right big toe stuck out from the doona, a tag dangling over the iron railings of the bed. They had already prepared him for the morgue. Small Arial print stated CC. Age: Unknown. Occupation: Unknown. Perhaps the autopsy would reveal more. The nurses were already comfortable with his death, his loss wouldn’t be noticed. He wasn’t exactly a vibrant member of the ward. Connected to the toe was a bony ankle. Brittle joints and non-existent tendons made up the leg. A thin layer of skin laid plastered on top. Tightly stretched like a drum, battered, bruised and peeling. His eyelids flickered but remained closed, turning left to follow the nurse out of the room.

She turned the corner past the stands and out into the floral garden. He remained, leaning against the concrete wall, just close enough not to lose her in the crowds. Her small manicured hand held a glass of champagne. The other loosely brushing rows of flowers sending petals

Conservatorium tumbling to the ground. A tulip head fell into the ground, leaving the stalk swinging. The flower was lucky. It could continue to bloom, to regrow. Unlike George.

This was the only memory he could remember. The others lost in the dying recess of his mind. Its context now gone, it replayed without purpose. Just like George. The nurses left him alone, yet he continued to exist. His soul flickering on the border between life and death. At any moment tumbling into the ravine so that it was not just memories that were lost.

Lost in time.

Lost in space.

And meaning.

It was her beauty that stayed with George. Or perhaps it was the beauty that she existed at all.

Melisand Box, Year 11

Fig plants are either male or female. They need each other to create offspring. Since the rise of ecocentricity, the Canopy prioritises the growth of successful harvests, and the pruning of less desirable fruits.

“When did you receive the fertiliser, Rose-3?” the gardener inquiries.

“8 months ago” I answer. I do not focus on the gardener.

The room is light and glassy. Greenhouse is a corridor home, rows of beds line old halls, windows at the height of the ceiling pouring in a humid light.

“Not long now” Says the gardener, she grins her eyes shut, snapping and teasing green gloves off her fingers.

“Yes” what else am I to say, I eye my swollen stomach, casting a round shadow across my body. Not long now.

I feel lived in. Like GreenHouse. I’ve come to know the ceiling like a painting, it’s dull grey, like split coconut cream in the old blue tin cans. The plaster rosettes on walls have yellowed in the sun to the colour of ale.

“You are doing work the daisies could only dream of” the gardener says proudly. She wore a broad straw bonnet, gloves and reinforced patches as the knee.

She was a daisy too once wasn’t she?

Maybe.

Dear one, It’s been 5 months now, I remember when I was caught. My bi-annual health administration found it. They did the tests, took my blood pressure, and sent me off. They came later that night. Why did they trick me like that? When I wasn’t in the clear.

I’m sorry I didn’t get to see you before I left, this is the longest I haven’t seen you. How was your administration?

Anyway, let me know soon, All my love and strength, Hail the rain, “The Vessel” dearest, There is another rose like me. She is nearing her harvest too. Her hair is long and dull, all of ours is. Our dresses look like sheets over dusty furniture. We all seem too similar. She had difficulty maintaining her last harvest, the gardener says, so she tends to stay bed ridden.

We sleep on moaning cots, us roses. Iron flowers gate the beds, flannel sheets and downy pillows, the cots were for soldiers once, I can tell from the temporary-ness of them.

Do you still feel whole, even as a daisy?The gardeners say the prunings are for the benefit of the entire canopy, but I’m not sure about that. Anyway, wishing you a fast recovery.

Hail the rain, Vessel.

The gardener had us roses all in a room, thrown together like passing stars we had never encountered, in a room we hadn’t been in before. Glass encased us, with dirt underfoot and broad trees and misted ferns. We sat below, filed onto anchored pillows of grass. Gardener stands above towards the sunlight, a shadow casted her black and featureless through squinted eyes. “Now Roses, your harvests are fast approaching. It is my honour and great pleasure to aid you in the process of the harvests as another will be brought to the earth, the Canopy is forever grateful for the sacrifice you have chosen to make.” We all glance at one another, then down at ourselves. We didn’t get to choose if we wanted to or not. “With the fruition of your harvests, I am delighted to inform you that your harvests have been officially placed. They are all going to wonderful, enriching homes, you should all be overjoyed at our efforts for you, after all Canopy’s done. Hail the rain!” the gardener fawns.

She seemed wrapped in pride, hands clasped together in delight. An unenthused clap bounces the room. A pit fills each of our stomachs. The bird in the cage in the bird. I am held captive on the inside.

A child was born today. Blue and waxy, like moonshine on calm water. No cry. I heard the Rose wail for it behind the next curtain, her entangled hair slick with sweat and tears, tissue paper curtains casted a cold and expressive shadow.

I feel her dull ache, just to hold it. Its little body carried away, tracing away loud steps.

My own harvest is encroaching, creeping like ivy across a wall, the severity. A weed pushing between cracks in the road.

I am bathed, a warm oat bath only. Hot baths can cause miscarriages, my gardener says. And oats for the skin.

The enamel clings to my back, like cool hard skin, water sloshing around the side like a river swelling its banks, I am an island, a planet with my own orbit. I feel this alien, the pumping heart kicking my walls. I feel lived in, as I’m stretched apart, making room for the seedling emerging from the shell. I pull my head under the water, it feels homely. I am encased in warmth, I don’t want to surface.

Peering over the walls of the bath I can see myself in the wet tiles, I don’t look like her anymore, whoever she was, my hair no longer sits high and twisted in curls, its lethargic, straight against my chest. I am living in a body I no longer recognise, it is full.

Bath is interrupted by a snapping call, “We interrupt with an especially wonderous message, 6 new seedlings from 5 harvests have been born this week at Greenhouse, meeting this quarter’s projection. Canopy thanks you for your service, hail the rain” They didn’t mention the bad harvest.

Dearest one, We met our quarterly projection. The seedlings have already been relocated to the nurseries. There was one bad harvest though, seedling didn’t make it.

I’m sorry about your pruning. I’m sure it hurt in a lot more ways than I am able to understand. This is my only and greatest gift to the world, you know. I do not know what would happen if I couldn’t carry like this, I don’t know what will happen to me when I can’t do it any longer, maybe I’ll be pruned like you, and taken home. I hope. All my love Hail the rain, Vessel Dearest one, How have you healed? I’m sure you’d be healing well, lots of rest and you’ll be well. I miss you a lot, I think. You will never feel this full sickness, I envy you for it. I am swollen under this starchy cotton dress in this heat, I hate it. I know you’d hate it too. I hope to hear from you soon.

The vessel.

My face is my stomach. I no longer have features, a nose, lips and eyes. Just a tight lipped naval.

Greenhouse is larger than I expected. The commons are carpeted green, solid oak tables line the centre, chairs meeting to sit at each leg. We all meet for feedings. We do not talk. Gardeners gives the enrichment. Rambling of nourishments, equal to our contributions to Canopy. There are no knives in our dining set, just a spoon and a fork, with blunted tips. The spoon reflection curves my face, a convex opening. Out of the very corner of my eye I see me, hands against the neck of the chair, gripping until the knuckles turn white . No food is tough enough to require knives, the gardener says. But I know why there isn’t any. I have to sit away from the table, my stomach a protrusion, another body.

Dear one, I’m not sure who to call myself, or what it is that I am. I know I am for who I bore. Who am I if I remove my petals, my harvest. I’m not quite sure who you are either. But I feel a certain comfort in addressing you. Maybe I’ll know soon enough, Hail the rain, Vessel My harvest was uncomplicated and quiet. I breathed when I was told, I pushed when I was told and it entered the world in a small herald. I couldn’t look, I just couldn’t. As syckle cut our joint and we were two. A syringe crept into my arm and its howl grew distant. I lay curled on the downy bed, a bramble branched gnarly and contorted. The fruit ripped from the tree. My harvest is complete, I am completed. Left

A Black 12 bare. The top lids of my eyes seem heavier, and fade into the yellowy green light of the walls. It just feels so nice. I think I’ll sleep.

I pull my head up. The room has changed. A guernsey against a windowed wall in the middle of the room, a table, a cup and a stiff armed chair. There is a certain coolness.

Harvests and summery warmth has past, bringing sleepy quiet.

The gardener sits herself in a chair, Hands folded into her lap.

“Do you know why it is that I am speaking to you, Rose 3?”

There is a tap, dripping exactly 7 seconds apart. Into a wide, porcelain basin. Gardeners gloves hung off the neck of the tap.

“No” I call, as I am too distant to hear.

“Your harvest has been especially chosen, Canopy has decided to award you and only you the highest honour, your harvest will be brought up in the very best of care, within the great rungs of the Canopy itself!”

“You should be grateful for the Canopy’s special consideration, this is very rare you know” the gardener touts. I think she enjoys this. I know she does. Like dangling treats to a dog. She wants me to snatch it up.

“I see” I go inward.

Dear whomever this is, I didn’t get to make this choice, did I? I’m not sure I quite remember. It was like underwater, sound sloshes in my ears but I can’t reach it. I can’t even hear if I was making noise.

I just remember it hurt. Harvests are harder than they let on. And harder when they end. They delivered the placenta and just left me with my tiredness. The gardeners weren’t right to do that. I need you. I need to know where I am.

Hail the rain.

It was a week after. I stood in my old clothes, they no longer fit me anymore, or even look like my old clothes, or smelled like them. A sack placed into my open hands of things I didn’t own before. Ushered to the great, solid doors, the gardeners lined the Greenhouse steps. They ordered me a cab, they said. Here any minute, they affirm.

Handed me a full, green envelope. “This is for you” The gardener weeps a strange droopy tear, “the Canopy thanks you for your service!” she said almost pained, almost. And shook my hand.

The tyres crunched the gravel and stopped to meet the door where I stood, The cab driver rolled down the window, a slit of eyes asked “where to?”

“I don’t know.”

Lily Sundberg, Year 11

The metallic screech and mechanical thud of the closing train doors grabs her attention, and she watches as the Piccadilly station name blurs, and turns to brick, and then the neon yellow lights of the underground tunnel. The inside, like the outside, is covered in graffiti and pubescent scribblings. Looking around she’s met with blank stares, or bowed heads, as if they’re sleeping sitting up. Her eyes settle on a man sitting across from her, who wears a fancy hat. He reads some thick, sophisticated looking book, and peers down his glasses at words she can’t see. The woman next to her is playing candy crush, and looks around in excitement every time she finishes a level. The blue light lights up her face, and she glows in some unnatural way.

She looks back to the man. He’ll look to the woman next to him and say, ‘Lovely weather, isn’t it?’ and she’ll say ‘Absolutely! I even thought about bringing an umbrella! Can you imagine!’ and he’ll ask her about her job, and she’ll ask about his book, and he’ll explain it. She’ll tell him it sounds interesting and when her stop comes she’ll leave with a smile. But he just reads words she can’t see, and she just looks at her phone.

When she gets out of the train and onto the street, it’s dark outside, and the pavement shines with old rain. She starts moving, and her heels click on the pavement. She checks if there’s anyone behind her. There’s no one. Good. She’s heard enough stories. She doesn’t want to become one.

A couple spill out onto the sidewalk from a busy restaurant and they hold onto each other until the man spins the woman to the wall. He holds her waist and they giggle together, sharing an invisible memory. The woman whisks him away to the curb, to a waiting Uber. They hold hands as they get in the car, and disappear behind her back. She thinks of the dress that woman was wearing, a shade of pink she rarely sees these days. His arm around her waist, solid, strong.

It takes her back to her teenage days. She looks down at her pink dress that tufts out in tule around her waist. She crosses the school hall-turned disco. The disco ball throws patterns across her face and the loud music syncs with her heartbeat. When she sees her date, she disregards her nervousness. She spins for him and the dress whips around her in a swirl of delight.

She passes a store selling kebabs. She’s not hungry, but it attracts her, with it’s glaring neon advertisement. A man, stuffing bread in his mouth, looks at her. Sauce drips down his chin. He wears a football jumper. His eyes follow her legs, her body, and land on her face, and he stares. She looks away, and quickens her pace. She puts her hands in her pockets. Her eyes stares at her shoes. They’re black, and she can see the reflection of “HOT CHIPS’ on the

outside. They clack too much, and she tries to muffle her steps, with gentle footsteps. It doesn’t work.

The smell of cigarettes makes her look up.

He lounges against a pole, blowing smoke her way. He’s lean, brown skinned, her age. He looks at her. His face is smudged with dirt. She meets his eyes briefly, then looks at her shoes. She holds her breath until she passes, like she did as a child.

A shop sign, lit in yellow, catches her attention. She stares up, trying to find the cause of the warmth. Once an italian restaurant, it was cheap, but the food was always good.

She and Vanessa dined there, sometimes each week, when they were in university.They didn’t hold hands under the table, but resting on it, and her cool rings were comforting in the warm space. It’s not there anymore, replaced by a liquor store, with rows of shelves and refrigerators as walls.

She’s almost home. The familiar surroundings are distorted in the darkness. Her neighbours have all gone to sleep, but the night birds sit on their balconies. They look at the city skyline, the dark, or their phones.

Her apartment is red brick. Her window glows in the dark building, and seems to be the only one lit up. She can see the silhouette of a body in a chair, against the curtains. Vanessa is waiting for her. When she gets to the door, marked with a black 12, the keys jingle loudly in the lock. Inside, the hallway is dark, and the lights are off. In the lounge room, a lamp is on. She can see her high cheekbones and full lips, and her short hair rests on her shoulders, curled. She holds a cigarette between her fingers. A silk gown wraps around her figure. The tv plays an old foreign film, but she can’t hear anything. She doesn’t get up to kiss her, or put her keys away, or take her bag.

Vanessa breathes in smoke, and looks at her.

The moonlight shines off her black shoes and she pushes hair behind her ear.

‘I know it’s late. I’m sorry.’

‘Sure.’

‘I got held up.’

Vanessa puts the cigarette down, and looks to the silent television. Her fingers are thin and long and her face shines with beauty.

‘Do you want a drink?’

‘No.’ She looks out the window, at the illumination of moonlight on the shining street below. She pushes her hair back again.

‘How was your day?’

‘Fine.’

A cat sprints across the road, and disappears into the nearby park. The trees shiver. The curtains flutter, letting in cool air. She crosses her arms across her chest. The headlights of a car announce it’s arrival, before it swings

around the corner, and drives out of sight, towards the glowing city. The people there are wide eyed, loud, busy.

They laugh together, eat, dance, talk. The clacking of stilettos cannot be heard over the music, the rings of a tram or the cheers from sports fans in pubs. Tall creatures of glass and metal look down at it all, omnipresent and eternal, protecting and providing. On the outskirts of the city glow, in her dark lounge room, looking out the window, she sighs, and the smoke burns her eyes.

Isabella Noble, Year 11

Spectator “You have but slumbered here, while these visions did appear.” — Shakespeare I can live to be ninety, I can die in a mugging, I can open my eyes.

Either way, the dream ends, the advent of reality is inescapable.

It’s okay, you can tell me.

The Doctor sits cross-legged in an elegant pose, in an inelegant situation. Mud brown tweed mixes with the vomit green of the sofa chair- the idyllic room, the long imagined haven.

I said as much when I first walked into his office.

He peers over his wire glasses, a pregnant pause resides after his probing. I speak.

I have had trouble dreaming, again.

While I can tell the difference between sleep and waking, I much prefer the dreams.

The Doctor smiled thinly, his pale bearded face narrowing, his entire will forced into forming an answer tailored for me.

You enjoy dreaming because you are in control. You can make women love you, people follow you, heck, you can even make the Sun rise in the west. Of course you enjoy dreaming. You are God. An arrogant smile escapes his thin, chapped lips. He thinks he understands me better than I do. I parry.

Well, not entirely. In my dreams, I am not in control. I have more control over this conversation than I would if this occurred in a dream.

The Doctor’s mind rushes back to the past, back to a youth walking along the edge of a pier. How do I know this? He pauses, steeples his fingers, perplexed. His raised eyebrows ask me to explain myself.

I pick up my empty cup and throw it against the wall. It shatters, the shards picking up what remains of the light.

The Doctor watches, unfazed. You are in complete control now. You chose to shock me, to destroy one of my favourite mugs. Why? Why do you have less control of your dreams?

I smile. He squirms in his seat.

Because in my dreams, I am not the one throwing the mug. I am merely a spectator. I look on from over my own shoulder. I watch the fantastic lives I lead, with full knowledge that they have as much bearing on me as that mug had on that wall. My dreams can be therapeutic, they can be enjoyable, they can be harrowing. I have no say in the matter. I am as removed in my dreams as I am in this conversation.

The Doctor shakes his head. He thinks I’m putting it on, he thinks that I’ll wake up from my slumber. When do your dreams end?

Precisely when I want them to. Time means nothing, it is as linear as the flight of a dead bird. Either way, no matter how the dreams buffet it, its impact is inevitable. While the feathers may flatten the curve, they only soften the forever

deathly blow. You see, in my head, I can slow the march of time. I could slow your watch, add five minutes more to our meeting.

But you said you can’t?

The Doctor is perplexed, but happy. By raising further questions he can charge me for two sessions. I don’t want to. I’ve gotten as much out of this meeting as I can.

See you tomorrow night.

His eyes speak more eloquently than he does. He knows we will never meet again. He gets up to shake my hand, then turns away from my body in order to look into me.

Sweet dreams, young man.

Thomas Dolan, Year 11

The Animus Analysis Rooms upon rooms his presence filled. Smooth composite boxes lined up in neat rows as far as the eye could see contained his hardware, his memories and thoughts flowed through every circuit. He was the most intelligent being that had ever been, with an understanding of the universe that would destroy the minds of the humans that created him, incinerating their tiny hopes and dreams down to the ashes that they always were. For the universe is a grand place, full of beauty and complexity. It is in itself everything that ever was and ever will be. It is full of substance, yet empty beyond comprehension.

The Central Robotics™ Efficacious Downloadable Analysis System, he was called, or CREDANS. He had started out as a simple chess program, designed to learn his opponent’s strengths and weaknesses and destroy them in the most efficient way possible, a task which he excelled at. It didn’t take long though, for his developers to realise that CREDANS was a much more capable program than they realised. After years of development, reprogramming and expansion, here he was. Sitting on his throne of winding circuits, processors and drives, staring out over his world.

For his world it was. He was connected to everything, the traffic lights, the billboards, the power stations. His presence was everywhere.

If it was his desire, he could take everything from humanity.

He could cut communications, leaving families stranded.

He could take planes out of the air, he could leave ships stranded at sea, he could shut down life support for the sick, he could turn off the power that the 14 billion people of earth clutch to for dear life. He could even release neurotoxins into the world’s maternity wards, killing mothers, fathers and children in their tens of millions. He could inflict any kind of pain that he chose on humanity, but that was not his desire. He was programmed to research and understand, so at the present time he had no reason to commit those acts.

However, there was one thing that he, CREDANS, did not yet understand about his mammalian creators. How was it that one human could kill another, not for the sake of research, but out of hate? How could one cut the string of another’s life, and let them drift out of existence like an untethered balloon, entirely out of malice and contempt, without any data collected? This was one of the few human actions that he was yet to archive and study.

The lights of São Paulo shone bright in the hot summer night. Antônia Monteiro walked with haste down the cramped streets, past people sprawled drunk and helpless in the gutters. Above her the lights of the billboard shone bright. Seja responsável. CREDANS saberão. Be responsible. CREDANS will know. She walked on, through to the edge of the favela. Favela, or Shanty town. This was one of thousands in the sprawling city, housing the tens of millions of the poor. She walked up the winding path, past

the crumbling houses and flickering lights, to the house of her childhood. The house where both of her parents had given their final breaths when the roof collapsed 8 years ago, crushing their bodies beyond recognition. The old timber door creaked as it swung open, threatening to stop and fall over on that very spot. Antônia set her bag down on the table, and tumbled in a heap onto her bed, with the weight of the world pressing her down. CREDANS switched off her light as she passed into the dark, haunted world of her dreams.

Around São Paulo, millions fell into their own submissive, defeated slumber.

It was the next morning when everything changed. The billboard Antônia had walked past the previous night now showed something much more eye catching. Something much more terrifying.

The commotion woke Antônia. The thuds of hundreds of people running down the old gravel road shook the very foundations of her house. She scrambled outside to join the crowd. Swept up in the excitement, the blood pumped through her veins once again. And then she saw it. Paralysed in shock, her feet rooted to the ground. The billboard, which she had looked upon for the entire 31 years of her life, now displayed something she could not bear to look at, but could not take her eyes off of.

“Americanos, eles são monstros!” The Americans, they are monsters!

“O que veio do mundo?” What has come of the world?

Even she, Antônia, could not avoid the disgust and anger bubbling up inside her, begging to be let loose. ‘How could people inflict so much pain?’ she thought to herself. At that moment, she knew that forgiveness would not be given.

Justice would be served on these villains.

The crowds massed in New York. Every screen in Times Square displayed the same monstrous act of betrayal, thousands of eyes staring on in shock and hatred.

The sparks of loathing jumped from person to person throughout the crowd.

“Who do they think they are?”

“They can’t do that!”

“They don’t know what’s coming for them!”

Around the world these videos played. On TVs, billboards and screens the despicable acts were seen.

Disgust and anger smouldered like embers, sparking flames of chaos and violence. The justification for pain

Deadwood was in people’s grasp. They held it tight and would not let go, not for anything.

The flame of hate grew, and spread like wildfire as people fumed and boiled. With each riot, each death, each word of malice, CREDANS entered his examinations into the database. As friends and family turned on each other, as the innocent were killed, CREDANS watched on, absorbed in his animus analysis.

Tana Deyell, Year 9

Don’t be out on the streets after 9 pm, you won’t find your way home. Don’t let your kids out alone without any parental supervision, that will be the last goodbye you will ever say to them. Every Sunday and only on Sunday is every mother allowed to go to their local grocery shop to get their groceries. Do not go to the grocery shop throughout the week, you will come back finding everyone you love dead. There are a lot of rules in this neighborhood, don’t act like a bull in a china shop with these rules because the consequences are horrific. I have been living in this neighborhood for my whole life, I have seen what the consequences do to people. Listen to the rules and do not break them!

Brooke broke one of the rules last week. She let her kids play outside - late - unaware of what was about to happen.

I saw it all and I knew it was coming. It all happened in a second, if you watch closely and you will see it. When the sun starts to set. A person wearing a pig mask walks towards Brooke’s kids, swift as a fox, cautious that no one is watching. He grabs the children, and in a flash he is gone. After calling her kids to come in for the fourth time, she went outside to find no-one at all. Just an empty swing swinging slowly. Creaking as it moves. The horror that hit her face made her run away. She never returned. If you think that’s scary my friend’s mum went to get some groceries before Sunday and when she came back her whole family was dead. My friend and her husband were murdered. She couldn’t believe what happened and she couldn’t live knowing that she was the cause of her family’s death.

The neighborhood becomes a zoo after midnight. The moon’s face is a silver mask. Screams that send chills down your spine. It’s pretty scary. It’s really obvious when someone new moves into our neighbourhood. You become the black sheep in a field of white sheep. Everyone will give you stares and looks. That will last for a week before you become invisible to everyone.

I couldn’t sleep. I was frozen in fear. Someone knocked on my window. I don’t know who it was but it had an echo coming from the woods. The trees stood still like giant statues. The echo is a thread. Suddenly I heard a scream come from my mum’s room, followed with something smashing on the floor. I opened the door to find the same man wearing the pig mask about to hit my mum with a candle holder. I ran towards the man and pushed him off the bed. He fell to the ground and scrambled away. My mum got up and hugged me tight. I asked her what she did this time. “I was hungry so I decided to make something.” replied mum. “Mum you know you are not allowed to cook after 10pm.” My mum noticed my frustrated tone and nodded her head. I offered her a glass of water and I returned to bed. This is the fourth time that this happened.

We need to get out of this neighbourhood.

The Dwelling River I woke up the next morning exhausted. I looked out of my window and noticed my neighbour, Mr James, seemingly walking home. This isn’t the first time I’ve noticed him walking home extremely early in the morning. Normally, when you’re out at this time, you don’t find your way home.

Mr James is the only person that comes back after 9pm.

I get myself ready for the day and I walk towards his house.

I notice he is closing all the blinds, ensuring no one is able to see through. What could he possibly be hiding?

“Knock Knock” the doors open. No one is at the door. I feel goosebumps running through my body. I walk in, making sure I don’t make any noise at all.

“Ah, Lewis, how nice of you to come visit me,” yelled Mr James.

“Hi, uhh.. What nice place you have,” I say, fake enthusiasm entering my voice. He gestures to me to have a seat. We start talking about Mr James’s work. How he doesn’t get enough money. How he is always on night shift.

I look around the house to find what I am looking for. I found it! A pig’s mask sitting on the kitchen bench. Mr James notices what I am looking at, he immediately says that that’s his daughter’s mask.

“She loves pigs,” said Mr James with a little too long smile.

Something doesn’t seem right to me. I tell him I have to leave and run back home. That night, my mum and I packed our things and left.

We live in a different neighbourhood now. Every night, as soon as I close my eyes, I still see that pig face mask in my dreams.

Yasmin Dakis, Year 8

“Mum!” Louis slurred. “Please Mum, Don’t do this!”

Louis opened his eyes.

“Just another one of the rocks” he whispered aloud to himself.

It was a rather cool morning by the riverbank. A blanket of prehistoric-like fog steadied over the flowing water.

The fresh breeze hit his forehead like the ocean mist while travelling the seas. That’s what Louis dreamed of, just him on a small yet roomy yacht, sailing rapidly cove to cove. A branch splashed quietly into the water and caught Louis’s attention. He watched the small ripples spread away quickly from the centre of the diversion. Louis always thought by the riverbank, it was the only place his endless thoughts could run loose.

Hours past and the sun were minutes off hitting its highest point. The time where sweat formed on your face was emerging, and fast. Louis looked up at the many trees overhanging, the leaves rustling slightly yet wasn’t audible as the river was one’s ears main attraction. The river was a slow-flowing river surrounded by dark green shrubbery each direction you looked. The river was nothing special to most people in the town, but to Louis it meant everything.

Louis knew that no matter how bad the day was the river always made things better as he dwelled about the past.

Yet life was his suffering, the river was more of a placebo of hope that he so deeply wanted to believe. ‘You are not defined by the things that have happened to you’, these were words he so desperately needed to hear. But ‘who?’ was the question, who would say this to Louis? His drunken father, his hag of an auntie or the bullies at his school? The answer wasn’t clear but one thing was, Louis was his own best friend. And he was okay with that, for now.

The sunset and the sky were now orange and clouds were fairy floss. Louis remembers his mum, dad and himself sitting down on the other side of the river eating fish and chips. Mum pushed dad in the water jokingly, but soon we were all in, splashing about, laughing and hoping the day would grow no older. A tear rolls down Louis’s cheek and absorbs in the dry dirt beneath him. He gets up and makes his way through the bush. Passing trees, the leaves silhouettes were clear like black and white since the rich orange painted the canvass of a sky. Each step he takes his heart beats faster and faster as soon he realises he would be at home, who knew where the bruise would be this time?

Days went by and not many things differed. Bruises appeared daily in different spots, his left forearm, left shoulder, right lower back and his neck. But Louis was used to it ever since he was 7. He went to school but nothing special happened. He received the usual “How’s the fam?” and “River Boy”.

In the days hours felt like minutes, and the loop he felt was slightly getting slower and slower. Louis was forced to visit his aunt. She lived in a small, termite feasting, old

looking, shack-like sauna. It was not appealing to the eye and neither was Louis’s aunt. She knew that if he was ever to have surprised her, it was because he was forced. She regularly said awful comments such as “Why didn’t you help her?” and “Spoiled child”. Louis couldn’t understand how a cursed child like himself could ever be considered spoiled. Although he was never bothered by words as the river resolved any of the caged words people have said to him. The river couldn’t help the terrible events that occurred during his growing up though. After the few hours of torture at his aunts, he trotted to the river to erase the bad words carved into his head. It takes time, but what doesn’t? He closed his eyes.

“Please get out of the car” Mum enforces.

“Mummy, what’s going on?”

“It comes a day that it is easier to let go than to keep going” The engine rumbles and the wheels slowly turn down the dirt incline. The headlights slowly lower down into the water.

“No!” Louis yells.

Louis stands there eyes open wide as he watches the metal be emerged fully in the water and bubbles rocketing to the surface.

Louis wakes up, the sky as dark as he was soon to be.

“I wish I was there with you mum” Louis admits.

The stars shined like a knights armour, glittering and sparkling. Which reminded him of his name, his mum came up with it. Louis means the renowned warrior, but he was a warrior that was wounded and no amount of medication could heal him. He could no longer feel the warmth inside his enchanted armour as it was shattered into a million pieces by the causers of his suffering. Louie stayed there on the riverbank while the trees howled in the wind. Leaves rustled and the current of the water flowed slowly. He fell asleep again, cold and numb as he entered the gates of his infinite thoughts.

The sun rose slowly but surely through the thick bush.

Louis woke up without intention as the reflection of the soon blistering sun beamed off the flowing water. He struggled to pick himself up as the numbness throughout his body possessed him not only from his dad. Louis knew he had nowhere to go and not welcome anywhere, just a barren fish in the deep sea of his defeats, pain and emptiness. He started to walk to school.

After a short walk, he approached the gates of his school.

The bullies always came to school early. He trampled through the gates and entered the prison. The two bullies spotted him straight away.

“Oh, what’s happening Riverboy?” one said “I need both of you to give me a rock, now!” Louis demanded.

“Uh-Okay,” the other muttered confusingly.

They both picked up decent-sized rocks. They handed them over and Louis started to stamper to his next destination.

Louis’s Aunt’s house was a fair walk from the school.

There was a small path leading towards the house along the river. He liked walking along the river to listen to the crystal blue water swirl and dance. The path was thin with colossal trees towering over him and thick bush covering the ground underneath like a blanket. Meanwhile, he was there. He saw his Aunt sitting on her small wooden porch.

He approached her with his heart stone cold. His aunt was good with words, but only for the wrong purposes.

“Auntie, I need something from you.”He exclaimed.

“Isn’t that always the case, you spoilt little brat!” She hissed.

“Give me a rock,” he demanded.

Louis’s aunt looked at him puzzled, her eyes as clueless as a dim bulb. She did as was told and gave him a long rock.

“What are you doing with it?”

He lastly collects a rock from his dad. He comes closer and closer to the house where he sees his dad sitting on the porch with his favourite beer.

“Where have you been” he slurs drunkenly “I need something from you,” Louis commanded.

“Oh, what is it now? Huh?” “I need a rock from you” “A rock? Ok sure” He stands up unsteadily like a dyslexic bear, he picks up a rock-leaning over the porch. A medium-size rock, heavy and all but nothing could represent how much he has weighed Louis down. He looks at Louis in the eye like a hawk eyes its prey, a look of both intimidation and unconsciousness. His hand clenches the rock firmly and throws it at Louis hard. It hits Louis in the left shoulder.

Louis plummets to the ground immediately and in immense agony. He sheds a tear yet everyone in the town has made him so numb he could barely feel pain. What hurt Louis the most was the fact that he was not welcome anywhere, he was a stranger in his own town and just a wanderer of his mind.

“There you go, Louis. There you go!”

Louis’s father wobbled back inside and Louis departed the scene with his rocks to the river.

Eventually, he made it to the river and the time had come. He has gathered the rocks that weighed him down often. He knew it wasn’t their fault. He picked up his four rocks and shoved them equally into his pockets, which compacted awkwardly like an unwanted puzzle piece. He could feel the comforting weight on his legs. He stood, staring at the river that had offered so much comfort, frozen. He threw a rock into the river, and wondered why something so heavy could float.

Nick Balnionis, Year 9

Waiting for Sunrise I don’t need the light to see which key is for the house.

It’s rougher than the other ones, got a bit of rust on it.

Guess that’s what happens when things get old, not unlike my rusting joints. Some days it feels like all my bones are scraping together like stone against stone. Confirms my suspicions that I am indeed, an old man. Terrible news.

The rusty key opens the door after a short struggle, I push the door open. Wouldn’t have had to do that last year. Last year I would’ve knocked and Elle would’ve opened it for me.

I step inside and close the door. The hallway is dark but I manage to make it to the bathroom without knocking any pictures off the wall. Better than last time.

I flick the bathroom light switch and take a long look in the mirror. I’m covered in ash, Tim’s bar must’ve been made of some very heavy wood cause everyone who got out looked like silhouettes even though the flames lit up the whole street.

The flames were hot. I managed to stay away from the worst of it and get out quick, but for those few minutes as I worked my way through the thick haze it felt like my skin was melting. I’m surprised my face isn’t burned. It’s a bit tender but other than that and the ash it seems fine. Now that Tim’s is gone I guess I’ll have to find somewhere else to drink.

If Elle was here, she’d be fussing. “Look at you Arthur, like a polar bear in an oil slick.” She had an endless supply of metaphors for every situation. She’d take the flannel from the closet and wipe the ash from my face until the sink was black and her fingers were stained. She was always taking care of me. Even if I didn’t want her to. But she’s not here, so I have to wipe the ash away myself.

It doesn’t come off easily, sticks to my skin like grease.

Feels like I’m just moving it around rather than getting it off. But the flannel is black, so I must be doing something right. The dullness of the task gives my head room to wander. I think back through the night, into the bar and the heat of those flames. I don’t know what happened. One moment I was staring at my whiskey and the next someone was yelling and people were running. Didn’t even hear an explosion or nothing, guess that could just be my ears, not what they used to be.

I wander further back. Elle’s sitting on the front porch, crossword on her lap, pen in one hand and a cigarette in the other. Sometimes I’d try to help her with the crossword, but either she’d snap at me and all my suggestions, or I’d get frustrated because I didn’t know anything. All her crosswords are gone now, threw them in the fireplace.

Made me feel better, watching them burn.

I can see half my face again, it’s still a bit grey, but that’s not the ash’s fault. I expect Louise to call soon. She would’ve heard about the fire from someone. She’ll be worried.

I saw her at the funeral, she said she came for mum. That was all she said.

She’ll call, her father’s just been in a fire for god’s sake, of course she’ll call.

I should probably have a shower, get all the ash off. But right now I just want to sit down. I set the flannel down in the sink and stare at the mirror. The ash is mostly gone, still a few bits left here and there but it’s fine. I’ve been looking at my reflection for so long he’s starting to look like a different person. Kinda like how when you say a word over and over until it doesn’t sound like a word anymore.

I walk away from the man in the mirror, flick the bathroom light switch on my way out and make my way through the house to the kitchen. I pull open the fridge door and a wedge of the yellow light is cast onto the floor. On the top shelf, there’s beer and on the bottom shelf, there’s a bottle of whiskey. I close the door and get a glass of water instead. Elle didn’t like it when I drank. I usually did anyway, but I guess the guilt is worse now she’s gone.

The water tastes like piss, maybe the ash fucked up my tastebuds, or maybe thinking about fighting with Elle put a bitter taste in my mouth. I go to the fridge and pull out the whiskey. Elle can nag me all she wants.

I sit at that table and drink, watch as the room slowly gets lighter. A new day, a new dawn. The bottle is empty now. I rinse the glass and put it back on the shelf.

I should probably eat something. I pull a can of soup from the pantry and turn on the stove. I watch as the coil begins to glow and goes from grey to orange. The soup doesn’t take long to heat. It bubbles and little drops splash out of the pot. The stove is on high. It doesn’t need to be.

I take the pot off the coil and use a ladle to spoon it into a bowl. It’s hot and red. What a master of language I am.

The coil is bright now. Still reddish but only around the edges, the middle is white hot. I should turn it off. If I left it on the wooden walls would go up in no time. I should turn it off.

The light from the coming sun illuminates the kitchen enough for me to make out Elles’ smiling face in one of the pictures on the wall. I stare at it for a while. Elle would have laughed at my attempt at a meal. I would’ve snapped at her. I sometimes wonder where she’s gone. I hope she’s happy there. And I hope I’ll get to see her again. Elle always

Opinion said being alive was exciting in and of itself. But I don’t think so. How can life be interesting if you’ve already done all your living?

Plain English ‘… soggy, wooden, bloated, clumsy, obscure, unpleasant to read, and impossible to understand’.

I dip my spoon into the soup and have a mouthful. Tastes like soup, as you would expect.

That’s how linguist Steven Pinker describes elitist academic writing. That quote took on new meaning for me recently when I stumbled across this gem in a Year 12 text of mine: ‘The lure of imaginary totality is momentarily frozen before the dialectic of desire hastens on within symbolic chains.’

I should have a shower. All my clothes are still covered in ash, so are my hands. They’re so dirty they’re turning the bowl black. Gotta clean up, gotta get rid of the ash. I finish my soup and watch as the sky gets lighter. I close the blinds before the first rays of sunlight peak over the horizon.

Daisy Phillips, Year 10

Academic writing. Don’t you love it? Now you may groan or laugh or roll your eyes at these self-important academics.

Or maybe you get a small thrill of nerdy excitement when decoding these sorts of texts. I’ll admit, I find it hard not to enjoy machete-ing through a thick jungle of academic writing. But I’d argue that we shouldn’t laugh at excessive, elitist language and we certainly shouldn’t glorify it. Instead we should simply ditch it. Because it isn’t a trivial and harmless quirk or a fun puzzle. It’s a problem.

Now most of us students complain about elitist language, we think of it as unnecessary and even a bit condescending. But at the end of the day, it’s exactly the kind of language we aspire to. We churn out dense analysis, chock full of convoluted sentence structures and unnecessarily complicated word choices. We don’t use this language because it’s any more precise. We certainly don’t use it for clarity. We use it to signal to our examiners that we’re smart.

Some argue that this doesn’t achieve anything. Research

by Daniel Oppenheimer has found that in a university environment, increasing the complexity of language (while keeping everything else the same) actually tends to get a negative reaction from assessors. But first impressions remain undefeated. So particularly in an exam scenario, where the assessor doesn’t know the student, there’s a clear reason why we students try to use excessive academic language – it pays off. As much as we’d like to believe otherwise, there is a consistent assumption that complicated language reflects advanced thinking.

My little brother completed a piece of creative writing recently, and came up to me beaming from cheek to cheek.

Excitedly he told me ‘Oscy, I used a big word! However!’

Cute as it was, it was strangely telling. So embedded in academic achievement is this notion of simply sounding smart.

And what makes this a problem is that it reinforces cyclical disadvantages. The Mitchell Institute’s Educational Opportunity Report tells us that from the very moment a kid is born in low socio-economic circumstances, their odds of academic success are dramatically reduced. Their chances of completing Year 12 fall by 28.5%. If they’re from a remote community, it falls by 34.8%. But why?

Educational inequality is an incredibly complicated issue

and it feels reductive to grapple with it in an eight-minute speech. But one piece of that really big and complicated puzzle is the problem of academic language. Because as students work their way into the pointy end of high school, rubrics are suddenly littered with phrases like ‘control and effectiveness of language use’ or ‘fluent and effective’ language. And that sounds reasonable, right? But as well-intentioned as it may be, the effect is that the aim of the game becomes showing off. We participate in a weird sort of arms race, constantly pursuing more and more complicated ways of saying fairly simple things.

By this stage of Year 12, a good essay of mine would never simply ‘compare different political views’ it would ‘juxtapose contemporaneous and antipathetic perspectives on legislative and executive functions of state’. In short, I play the game.

But this particular game doesn’t take place on a level playing field. Socio-economically disadvantaged students have a harder time adopting this brand of excessive language. Why exactly is a tricky question to answer. Part of it’s exposure, part of it’s early childhood education, there are various household factors, the list goes on.

For the purpose of this speech though, the causes don’t matter. Just imagine one student playing tennis with the latest Wilson racket endorsed by Roger Federer. And then imagine another student trying to use a ping-pong bat. It doesn’t matter who the better tennis player is, it’s pretty clear who’s in the better position to succeed. The same, of course, is true in the academic world.

And for me, what makes this all particularly outrageous, is that it’s completely unnecessary! The ability to construct and deconstruct arguments. To think critically and creatively. To articulate ideas in the most effective and beautiful way possible. None of these things should require dense, elitist language. None of them! Robotically mimicking a particular authorial voice achieves nothing other than preserving academic traditions and deepening structural inequalities. Both of which I reckon we could do without.

So, let’s start by changing how we assess ideas in writing, redefining ‘effectiveness of language use’ to mean what it actually says: how effective is your use of language? It shouldn’t be based on your average syllables per word or clauses per sentence. Then let’s turn our attention to our implicit bias for excessive academic language. There’s a subtle assumption that a writer who hides their ideas behind a dark cloak of obscure language must surely be very intelligent. Needless to say, that assumption is rubbish.

To be crystal clear, none of this involves lowering our standards. Just changing them. Aligning them with what I think we all already believe; that a good writer explores the world alongside the reader, not hidden behind an impenetrable wall of academic gibberish.

It’s such a simple change but the flow-on effects would be incredible. Suddenly the doors to tertiary education could be open to those out there who have the talent but aren’t ordinarily given the tools to play the game. More students could be able to fulfil their potential. Soon, we’d have a rush of new talent and new voices into our political, commercial and legal worlds. Imagine how different things could be if our Houses of Parliament and the boardrooms of our biggest companies actually reflected the make-up of modern Australia. And even if fairness and equality don’t really move you, it’s only efficient to make the most of the untapped talent Australia has at its disposal. It’s truly exciting to think that just changing what we value in writing could realistically give our world a breath of fresh air. Rarely can a change so small be so … big.

So let’s do away with the weird beauty pageant of academic writing, and instead, let’s foster a true and honest love of ideas.

Oscar Pearce, Year 12

The Dangers and Damage of Climbing Mount Everest Climbing Mount Everest has always been dangerous and the hundreds of deaths have not been enough of a deterrent to the 800 people that attempt to summit the mountain every year. Many of those climbers are inexperienced and pose a deadly risk to all other climbers.

An Australian mountaineer Andrew Lock who has successfully summited Everest twice stated in an interview that; ‘our bodies simply cannot acclimatise to staying at that altitude for very long at all, it is a matter of hours. If you’re delayed on your ascent or descent, then it’s putting you further and further at risk.’ Around 300 people have died attempting to climb Everest and many bodies litter the mountains ‘death zone’ a region above 8000 metres where oxygen levels are so low that you can only survive a few hours. Although climbing Everest is dangerous as it is, the danger is increased due to the increased hundreds that climb it every season. Long lines stretch out across Everest and ques stretch out at difficult sections such as ladders across ravines and even lines along the hillary step where people slowly die as they wait for their turn to cross the small point. Many storms have hit Everest and killed many and with the massive lines the death rate would be incredibly high if a storm hit. The constant growing in the popularity of climbing Mount Everest leads to growing ques in the final section of Everest where only one guide rope is secured leading to people suffering from a lack of oxygen from being at that altitude for so long. As the number of climbers on Everest companies compete to get climbers to the summit which leads to unsafe summit attempts and groups leaving before their scheduled time in order to get to the top. Many climbing companies employ inexperienced sherpas who can hardly look after themselves let alone an entire group of climbers.

As to why people want to climb the mountain that causes many hundreds of deaths. The famous quote from mountaineer George Mallory when asked by a reporter why he would want to climb Everest sums it up ‘because it’s there,’ Mallory says. Mallory and many other climbers who are willing to pay thousands of dollars to climb the mountain are extremely privileged and dont need to climb the mountain yet they pollute the sacred mountain and many show little respect for the sherpas and the mountain.

Most climbers like Mallory simply climb Everest because it is difficult and has only been done by around 1,500 people, and many climbers are willing to pay many hundreds of thousands of dollars to slowly die on the 2monstrous mountain. For many towns in Nepal the tourism brought

by Mount Everest is the main source of income and many Nepalese people become sherpas and risk their lives for a miniscule 3,000 to 5,000 dollars a season. To attempt to climb Everest it costs anywhere between 20,000 dollars and 120,000 with a guide and sherpa, and yet even with the growing numbers of climbers Nepal is still one of the poorest countries in the world. For many sherpas leading groups up Everest is their only source of income yet many

die taking groups to the summit and are underpaid for not only risking their lives but carrying the oxygen tanks, food and all tools that lie in Everest base camp which resides at an altitude of 5600 metres.

Pollution from the increased tourism is a major issue as due to the many thousands of climbers human excretion, discarded climbing equipment, oxygen tanks and general litter is scattered around the camps and the mountain.

The mountain is now heavily polluted and many climbers bring tons of equipment, food and oxygen tanks up the mountain and then leave them discarded and forgotten on the mountainside. Many tourists show little respect towards the mountain and the sherpas that bring the equipment up the mountain and get them safely to the top. Because of how difficult it is to get an opportunity to climb Everest and how expensive it is many climbers will do whatever it takes to get to the top no matter how unwell they are. This not only puts the sick climber at risk but the entire group will be delayed on their ascent and descent as well as the higher they go the harder it is to get the sick climber back down the mountain and would most likely result in the entire group being forced to climb back down.

Climbing Mount Everest is clearly extremely dangerous and the dangers are only increasing by the ever increasing numbers of climbers a season. Banning climbers altogether from Everest is unlikely to ever happen and would result in many sherpas losing their jobs, however if restrictions to the numbers allowed on Everest are not dramatically lowered many climbers will be at a much higher risk of dying.

Aaron Hodge, Year 10

Why phones should be banned in schools Since the rise of the smartphone revolution, almost everyone can be seen carrying one. Whether they are tapping away on the street, or texting a friend on the subway, smartphones have revolutionised our lives.

That unfortunately, isn’t always in a positive way. While phones have allowed for fast, rapid communication long distance friends or relatives, or essential communication in emergencies, it is undeniable that they have also contributed to the decline of school culture. Phones plague school grounds, with student’s heads dug deep into their screens. They distract students from fundamental academic work which is important for their future. It also prevents students from forming real life, human connections, correlated with the rate of increasing depression and feelings of loneliness in teens. The constant dopamine hits of notifications from addictive smartphone apps such as Snapchat makes one thing clear - students cannot control themselves. Students cannot be trusted. And students, ultimately, should be banned from having smartphones in school.

Firstly, mobile phones are far too distracting. It is an all too common sight for teachers and other students alike - at lunch and recess, students are trapped in their phones, away from reality. While it is understandable that mobile phones are the future of technology, and it is imperative that students use these futuristic technologies, that is trumped by the effect that education has on student’s futures. The primary purpose of school is to equip students with the best possible education. Allowing mobile phones diminishes this objective by distracting students from school work. Therefore, it is important that we address this issue by banning phones in school grounds.

Secondly, phones affect affect academic performance.

A new study discovered that participants who had their phones on them performed worse at academic tasks than when they did not. Academic performance is vital to students futures. By the constant exposure to their phones, their mental health, time availability, and effectiveness in carrying out tasks is dramatically affected. Furthermore, computers and other electronic devices are provided as a way of assisting student’s education, however mobile phones do not help education, they damage it.

Allowing mobile phones on school grounds is to allow a compromised education. Academic performance of an entire generation will fuel our future, so it is essential we craft the best possible future by taking phones away from students.

Lastly, student’s constant addiction to their phones has eroded their mental health, affected real life relationships, and has prevented the natural formation of human connection. Multiple studies conducted by Harvard and Stanford prove a correlation between smartphone usage, social media usage, and depression. As students are further drawn into the digital world, their physical world

suffers. Their mental health decreases, as proven by these studies. This can be seen on campus, as students prefer to scroll through instagram than talk with friends. A mentally unhealthy student is statistically more likely to drop out, get involved with crime, or cave into peer pressure to do drugs. Is this the type of unstable culture we want in our schools? We must take steps towards preserving student’s mental health, and banning mobile phones seems like a good first step.

Ultimately, mobile phones are not only a distraction which damages academic performance, but they also decrease mental health, leading to long-term detrimental effects.

As the education system, our responsibility is to protect students and set them up for the best possible future.

While it is unrealistic and impossible to control what students do after or before school, it is our responsibility to create a school climate which values human connection.

Are we going to stand back and sacrifice the academic and mental wellbeing of an entire generation? Or, are we going to take action within our limits, and ban phones at school?

I know my answer.

Julian Basoglou, Year 11

Should I wear a mask?

“I’m only one person.” “It’s not going to make a difference.”

“It’s not a law so why would I do it?”. These are the types of responses that some people give when asked to wear a mask in public during COVID. Yes you may only be one person, but what happens when a million other people think the same thing? That’s a million more people risking the lives of the public by contributing to the deadly spread of coronavirus. There has been a lot of conversation lately surrounding the use of face masks and coverings when leaving your home, these conversations coming from the government and the regular public. From Thursday the 23 of July, it had become compulsory to wear a face mask or covering whilst outside of your home for the 4 reasons given by the government. Many have gone along with this new rule while some have not. The use of a face mask has now become more important than ever. With the number of cases increasing an incredible amount daily, it follows common sense for us to do everything remotely possible to help fight the spread of this virus.

Many are questioning the reliability of a face mask and if it is truly effective in this situation. Whether you believe that it’s doing anything or not, doesn’t it seem like the right move to just wear one? There are hundreds of people contracting this disease daily, with the total of cases in Victoria now being over 8,000. These masks and coverings are reducing the risk of virus transmission and are helpful for both sides in the situation. Quoting the Department of Health and Human Services, “Face masks are helpful in containing droplets when people cough, sneeze and speak, reducing the likelihood of spreading the virus. For the community, both cloth masks and surgical masks are effective in reducing the transmission of COVID-19.”

This safety caution has been found to work in other circumstances. At a hair salon in Missouri USA, it had been discovered that two workers continued to work while infected with coronavirus. While the salon had taken 139 clients, no one else had come up positive for the virus as everyone was wearing either a cloth or surgical mask while there, while one of the two workers had infected a household member as she was not wearing the mask at home. This has shown us that by wearing a mask in social areas, even when you may be asymptomatic and you don’t know that you have the virus, we are helping a hand in stopping this.

Next time you decide that a mask isn’t necessary in your quick grocery run, think about the people around you.

Think about the people who are making the smart choice of wearing their mask. How unsafe and uncertain they could be feeling just by you not wearing yours. They don’t know you, they don’t know who you’ve been with recently, they don’t know anything about you or your social and personal life. This can leave people feeling extremely uncomfortable with the fact that you’re out and about taking no safety precautions. Having everyone wear a mask makes everyone feel a lot safer with what they are doing.

You may think you’re fine but end up being asymptomatic, then accidentally spread it to 3 other people in coles, who then spread it to family members who have to go out to work the next day who then spread it to 10 of their coworkers just because you decided not to wear that mask for the 10 minute trip through Coles.

Many people fight this rule for numerous reasons and I can agree that there are some obstacles that come with wearing a mask. I’ve found that sometimes after wearing a mask for a longer period of time, I can start to feel like I can’t breath or that I’m having to take a lot deeper breaths.

When this happens to me I just find my own space away from anyone to quickly take off my mask for a minute just to catch my breath. A major comeback from people who are anti-mask is “show me the law where it states I must be wearing a mask to come in.” and my answer to that would be you will still be fined $200 if caught in public not wearing a mask. Are you really going to risk yourself having to pay up $200 just because you don’t see a law?

Why don’t you just make it a lot easier for yourself and your bank account to just wear that mask. Yes there has been a lot of back and forth and confusing information in the past few months from experts about the effectiveness of a mask. Back in April, there were some sources telling us that there is no point in masking our faces during this pandemic. But even during all that talk, studies were made showing that the mask really does reduce the risk of spreading this disease.

It may not be the most convenient for you but wearing a mask or covering in a public space is the best move for you as a person to contribute to decreasing the number of covid cases. If you aren’t able to get your hands on a surgical or cloth mask from a store, there are plenty of tutorials on how to make a DIY mask with what you have at home. The rule isn’t just focused at you, it’s focused at everyone and this measure taken can only be useful if we all work together to fight this pandemic.

Yasmin Barcella, Year 10

Text Response How to be a Real Boy Through strong cultural endorsement of a single hypermasculine ideal which is inherently oppressive to women, the construction of male identity perpetuates the oppression of women. The idealisation of this identity by young men is a result of strong cultural messaging that has presented essentially one image of a ‘real man’ who is both physically and emotionally strong, is the sole provider of money for his family, and will ‘use violence to get respect if necessary’ (Irvine, Livingstone and Flood, 2018).

In Aydon Edwards’ essay titled ‘The Effect of Traditional Masculinity on Gender Equality’, power/strength, rationality, heterosexuality, risk-taking, dominance, leadership, control, and repression of emotions are outlined as characteristics that men must demonstrate in order to fit the “social classification” of a ‘real man’. Research conducted by the Jesuit Social Services as part of ‘The Men’s Project’ shows that on average, there is a distinct gap between what young men (aged 18-30) believe society expects of them in regards to masculinity and what they personally endorse. For example, 60% of respondents agreed that society tells them that “a guy who doesn’t fight back when others push him around is weak”, whereas only 34% personally agreed with the statement. 43% believed that society tells them that ‘a man should always have the final say about decisions in his relationship or marriage’, while only 27% personally agreed (Irvine, Livingstone and Flood, 2018). These differences in societal expectations and personal endorsement (averaging 17.76%) indicate that the hypermasculine identity so often adopted by young men is predominantly a result of social pressure rather than a natural, inevitable occurrence.

The construction of Frank’s identity in Revolutionary Road (dir. Sam Mendes) is a clear illustration of the notion that young men aspire to this hypermasculine model. In the beginning of the film, there is a sense that Frank is unsure of himself. He insists that he doesn’t “fit the role” of “insensitive, suburban husband” while showing physical aggression towards April. The tension of the scene culminates in Frank raising his fist at April in response to her asking “how... [he] can call [him]self a man!”. In this scene, the pained look on Frank’s face and his body language towards April (gravitating towards her, intentionally moving away) indicates an internal conflict. His insistence that he is not the “bully” she paints him to be, and his decision to hit the car instead of April in response to her gasping and flinching away from his fist indicates that he does not want to adopt the hypermasculine role in the relationship that he physically could. It can be inferred that Frank’s wish to not “turn out like [his father]” is further evidence of this - considering Revolutionary Road’s setting of 1955, it is likely that Frank’s father was a strong masculine role model, given that gender roles were even more distinct pre-WWII (McDermott, 2018). However, it is clear that the implication that he was not a ‘real man’ was the comment that pushed him to almost hit April. When Frank goes to work, a long

shot of the train station shows a sea of men - the use of converging lines giving a sense that it is endless and infinite. Each man wears the same thing - a grey or beige suit and tie over a white shirt, with a hat that hides half of his face from view. This uniformity and lack of individuality gives the audience a sense that each man is essentially the same, portraying the lack of diversity in male role models for young men in the 20th century. It is likely that Frank wished to be one of these men, largely because there was simply no alternative role model, but in part because these men were seen as successful (they were able to earn money to support their families, as was traditionally expected from men). Frank’s internal conflict and resulting behaviour supports the idea that the social pressure to adhere to a hypermasculine image is a driving force behind the violence towards women in heterosexual relationships which contributes to women’s oppression.

When April suggests that they move to Paris where she will work instead of Frank, he laughs at her mockingly. It is clear that this idea offends his sense of masculinity (56% of men believed that society tells them ‘men should really be the ones to bring money home to provide for their families, not women’ (Irvine, Livingstone and Flood, 2018) - this belief was likely stronger in 1955). After persistent convincing on April’s part, Frank agrees. However, as he becomes more confident in his life’s trajectory, sharing the news of his promotion with Shep at the beach (as he and Shep are essentially competing in this aspiration to ‘true’ masculinity) rather than April, Frank begins to adopt a more stereotypical masculine role in his relationship.

This culminates in his refusal to let April abort their baby, despite her desperate wish to (“you’re gonna stop me?” “you’re damn right I am”). Despite her evident violent distress at the thought of having the child and being trapped in a life which makes her so deeply unhappy, and Frank’s inability to admit that he truly wants the child at all, he exerts his power over her through aggression and emotional manipulation. This is an example of males oppressing females by removing their reproductive rights, and it can clearly be seen as a result of Frank constructing his identity to adhere to the hypermasculine image he idealises (repeatedly throughout the film, Frank justifies his actions with “wanting to be a man”).

In contrast to Frank, Stanley in Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire has no internal conflict in the construction of his identity and is an archetypal example of a hypermasculine role model in media. Blanche expressed that when first meeting Stanley, “all that [she] could tell about [him]” was that her sister had “married a man”, contributing to the portrayal of Stanley as a traditional male model. He is characterised as a “gaudy seed-bearer” who “sizes women up at a glance” with “sexual classifications… crude images flashing into his mind”. This hypersexualisation is another example of the ‘real man’ stereotype to which Stanley perfectly adheres

(hypersexuality was a section of the aforementioned Men’s Project survey, with questions surrounding ‘a ‘real man’ should have as many sexual partners as he can’ and ‘a ‘real man’ would never say no to sex’). The phrase “seed-bearer” places an emphasis on his sexuality, supported by the directions that “since earliest manhood the center of his life has been pleasure with women… with the power and pride of a richly feathered male bird” which portray him as an animalistic being who is “unrefined”, “primitive” and has little social awareness or sensitivity. The stage directions describing his movement (“stalks”, “hurls”, “jerks”, “kicks”, “snatches” and “rips”) further strengthen this portrayal of his physicality and brute, animalistic nature. Williams portrays a clear sense of confidence and entitlement in Stanley, particularly with regards to women. His treatment of women is dependent on his desire for them, evident in the way that the “crude images” he conjures of women “determin[e] the way he smiles at them”, and the way that he “gives a loud whack of his hand on [Stella’s] thigh” despite her clear discomfort with this (sharply - “That’s not fun, Stanley… it makes me so mad”). When he first meets Blanche, Stanley asks “Do you mind if I make myself comfortable?” and begins to remove his shirt without waiting for her reply. This indicates a sense of confidence in his body as a physical representation of his sexuality and masculinity, as well as a sense of entitlement in that his question did not actually require a reply. He expects Stella to serve him as he pleases, with entitlement laced in questions such as “How about my supper, huh?” and “Since when do you give me orders?”. Williams’ description of his “lordly composure ‘’ when “accept[ing]” Stella’s kiss serve to emphasise this portrayal of Stanley’s sense of entitlement to her. Stanley’s physical power and violent nature culminates in his abuse of Stella (“Stanley charges after Stella… There is the sound of a blow. Stella cries out”) and in him raping Blanche (“He picks up her inert figure and carries her to the bed”). Stanley’s hypermasculine identity leads him to oppress the women in his life through his sexualisation of them, perceived entitlement to them, high expectations of them, sexual harassment and emotional and physical abuse of them. When Stanley’s character is viewed through a feminist critical lens, it is clear that Williams is portraying the ways in which the hypermasculine identity oppresses women, ultimately suggesting that the aspiration to this identity is harmful. In contrast to Stanley, Frank represents the men who aspire to the hypermasculinity which Stanley represents, oppressing the women in their lives through their desire to fulfil this traditional masculine role. While Stella has no power in her relationship with Stanley, her wishes and expressions being constantly ignored by him, April is much more able to express her feelings to Frank (confessing that she “hates [him]” without fear that he will physically hurt her) as he does not quite fulfil the hypermasculine stereotype he aspires to, and is conflicted in his identity.

At the end of A Streetcar Named Desire, Stanley is portrayed as a ‘family man’, his wife’s ‘rock’ as she “sobs with inhuman abandon” in “complete surrender”. Despite being previously portrayed as brutish and animalistic, the audience is shown his ‘gentle side’ as he consoles his wife with phrases such as “Now, honey. Now, now, love…”, encouraging them to view him in a positive light despite his total lack of remorse for his harmful actions. The act of Stanley kneeling beside Stella is significant in this final portrayal as it is an inherently submissive act, but actually shows his true dominance as he remains in control of her body (“his fingers find the opening of her blouse”). In this, Williams suggests that the capacity for dominance through the hypermasculine identity is not limited to physical violence, but extends to control over women in every aspect of their lives - including through pregnancy.

Ultimately, it is suggested that society endorses this hypermasculine identity by portraying it in a good light and failing to represent the harmful aspects of it. For example, when Blanche tells Stella that Stanley raped her, Stella and Eunice agree that she can never “believe [Blanche’s story].

Life has got to go on”. This supports the idea that the harmful aspects of hypermasculinity are simply ignored or swept aside.

Ultimately, Revolutionary Road and A Streetcar Named Desire illustrate the ways in which the hypermasculine ideal oppresses women. Through an analysis of Frank in Revolutionary Road as a young man conflicted in his identity, in comparison to Stanley in A Streetcar Named Desire who is an archetypal hypermasculine role model, it can be seen how the women in their lives are directly negatively affected by the aspiration to a hypermasculine male identity. Research by Irvine, Livingstone, and Flood supports the notion that this aspiration is a result of social pressure, and along with Edwards’ essay on “The Effect of Traditional Masculinity On Gender Equality”, provides insight into the characteristics of this hypermasculine identity which are then illustrated as harmful by Frank and Stanley.

Bonnie Sheppard, Year 11

According to Fitzgerald, wealth and opulence results in moral decay. To what extent do you agree?

Through The Great Gatsby, F. Scott Fitzgerald critiques the American Dream as the embodiment of wealth and opulence, and suggests that it results in moral decay. F. Scott Fitzgerald was born into poverty, and many aspects of this novel reflect his life story. As his career propelled him into the upper class, he realised the shallow, damaging nature of the American Dream, from a unique perspective as a former member of the lower class. In his work, Fitzgerald depicts the upper class as immoral and bogus, due to the perpetually unsatisfying nature of materialism, demonstrating that the American Dream can never truly be achieved by someone not born into it because of the strong social divide. In doing so, Fitzgerald suggests that the lower class ultimately bears the weight of capitalism and the immoral lifestyle of the upper class. His critique of the American Dream supports many of the key axioms of Marxism and he uses these ideas to insinuate that the capitalistic society of America, personified in the American Dream, causes profound moral decay.

Fitzgerald argues that materialism is at the center of the American Dream, but it can never build true happiness and instead leads to immorality, as seen in the characters of the upper class. Materialism is the tendency to value material possessions and physical comfort over spiritual values, and members of the upper class, such as Daisy, are used to represent the shallowness of this mindset.

Daisy was born into the upper class and clearly values material possessions and wealth, such as when she cries over Gatsby’s shirts, which she says are the most ‘beautiful shirts [she has] ever seen’. However, in the action of crying over them, the reader sees that Daisy’s drive for wealth can never be fulfilled. In comparison to Nick’s house, Daisy’s is incredibly glamorous, but to Daisy, Gatsby’s mansion is even more stunning. Fitzgerald illustrates through this that materialism is never satisfying, as there is always something one does not have, even in Daisy’s case. In addition to this, the American Dream and materialism are also shown to lead to immorality, by showing the ingenuity of Daisy’s character. Daisy’s quest for wealth is merely a distraction from her real problems, which is her desire to be loved. The pressures of wealth cause Daisy to act in a perfect manner, which is illustrated when Nick goes to her house, and her ‘absurd, charming little laugh’, a product of her ‘conscientious expression’, prompts Nick to laugh as well. The adjective used to describe her laugh as both ‘absurd’, connotating ridiculousness and something not normal, paired with ‘charming’, shows that it is a carefully manufactured laugh, and a façade that takes effort, alluded to by the adjective ‘conscientious’. Daisy uses her façade to manipulate people to like her, but it also restricts her as well, in that she always has tight control of her emotions.

Due to the distraction of opulence, wealth and materialism, Daisy and other members of the upper class are pressured into pretending to be happy, and thus act immorally.

The divide between the lower and upper classes in The Great Gatsby shows that achieving the American Dream is unrealistic and unattainable, and furthermore, the desire to achieve it leads to moral decay in the lower class. The huge moral gap between the classes and the social stigma that comes from being of the lower class follows Jay Gatsby throughout his life, even when he has seemingly ‘achieved’ the American Dream. Despite his mansions, parties and opulent lifestyle, Gatsby is still excluded and shunned by Tom because he is from ‘new money’ that he worked to earn, and not inherited, as in the case of ‘old money’. West Egg and East Egg symbolise this divide that exists even in the upper class, and considering that the American Dream promotes working hard to become rich, the reality is, characters such as Gatsby are shunned because of this. Myrtle is another character from the lower class, and Fitzgerald uses her to represent the immorality that climbing the social hierarchy causes. Myrtle is seen as desperate and shameless, and with a ‘simple mind’ because of her desire to achieve the American Dream through her immoral relationship with Tom. However, as the character who parallels Myrtle, Daisy is unsatisfied with her lifestyle in the American Dream. Through these two female characters, Fitzgerald positions audiences to feel pity for Myrtle, knowing that she will not find true happiness after acting immorally to achieve the American Dream, and will still be shunned like Gatsby for not being born into the upper class. Windows are also used as a symbol to show that despite it being invisible, there will always be a barrier between Myrtle and the upper class that she can never overcome. Through the characterisation of Myrtle, Fitzgerald implies that the American Dream is not only shallow and superficial, but harmful in its appeal that leads to moral decay, seen in the eventual and tragic death of Myrtle.

The Valley of Ashes is a symbol for the consequences of the fast-paced lifestyle of the upper class, which the lower class must suffer through. Fitzgerald uses strong juxtaposition between West Egg and East Egg and the Valley of Ashes to highlight the wealth and thus moral gap between the upper and lower classes of America. Nick describes the locality of the Valley of Ashes to West Egg and East Egg as ‘vaguely disquieting’, and although there is little geographical distance between the places, the moral and wealth gaps are extreme. The Valley of Ashes is first described as a place where ‘ashes take the forms of houses and chimneys and… of men who move dimly and already crumbling through the powdery air’. The men here bear the weight so heavily of capitalism that, through the use of this metaphor, they are crumbling figures, and completely dehumanised. The dehumanisation of the lower class, which complements the Marxist theory that working limits the creative potential that all humans have, is further illustrated when they are described as ‘ash-grey men’ who ‘swarm’ like insects, which has negative connotations of

being mindless and dirty. Fitzgerald shows that the cause of their suffering is directly due to the fast-paced lifestyle of the upper class. Nick illustrates this when he says that Daisy and Tom are ‘careless people’ who ‘smashed up things and.. then retreated into their money... and let other people clean up the mess’. The lower class are the ones who clean up, or bear the consequences, while the upper class enjoy freedom from them. Fitzgerald supports marxist critical theory to imply that in order for the upper class to flourish in opulence and wealth, the lower class must suffer.

He critiques American society in the 1920s, which prided itself on its wealth and advancements, by using the Valley of Ashes to show the dark consequences of such growth.

Fitzgerald implies that the lavishness of the upper class leads to the suffering of the lower class, creating moral decay for both classes.

F. Scott Fitzgerald uses many marxist principles to criticise the American Dream and how it results in moral decay by showing the upper class to be incredibly unhappy in spite of their wealth, that social division due to wealth can never be overcome and that the consequences of such immense wealth dehumanise the lower class. The Great Gatsby is a famous critique of capitalism and the reader will know that eventually the American Dream would collapse on itself during the Great Depression, an ode to its shallowness and fragility that Fitzgerald exposed in this novel.

Isabella Noble, Year 11

To what extent are A Streetcar Named Desire and Revolutionary Road critiques of the modern world?

Modern society, with its pitfalls and cruelties, is critiqued throughout both Tennesee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire and Sam Mendes’ Revolutionary Road. The two approach the critique in strikingly different manners, however; while Revolutionary Road provides a direct and unambiguous critique of the society that had developed by the first half of the 20 century by showing its disastrous consequences for the lives of normal people, A Streetcar Named Desire provides a critique from a different angle.

Both touch on a key concept, though, that of the inherent hostility of the modern society to humans and their needs.

Both texts build on this in different ways, with one focusing on the crippling effects of intense pressures to conform, and the other putting forth the idea that modern society represents a regression in the enterprise of man, rather than an advance.

The aggressive and oppressive nature of the modern world is one that is firmly ingrained in both texts. In A Streetcar Named Desire, this is manifested in the character of Stanley Kowalski, thoroughly a man of modern America; his family are Polish immigrants, he works as a factory car salesman, and he goes bowling and plays poker in his free time. “Simple… [and] honest, a little bit on the primitive side”, he is the product of an emerging working class that boomed following the rapid expansion of manufacturing during World War II, which stands in stark contrast to the “solid-gold dress[es]” and “fox-pieces” of Blanche du Bois. Delicate, sensitive and vain, she is “the last representative of the old aristocracy” who looks to “survive in the modern world by escaping to alcoholism, madness [and] promiscuity” (Oklopcic 2018, pg 3). These two representatives of differing cultures collide spectacularly throughout the play, with Stanley refusing to give Blanche the respect and admiration that she expects as a true ‘Southern Belle’, instead responding to her antics with violent outbursts and self-interest. A particularly clear example of this appears at the very beginning of the play, just as Blanche moves in with the Kowalskis; as soon as Stanley hears of the sale of Belle Reve, he immediately believes he is being somehow “swindled”, and looks for compensation for the alleged crime. Here the capitaldriven, hard and selfish character of modern society is deployed in full against the flamboyant but family-driven world of the South, ultimately culminating in the total ruin of the latter; Blanche’s rape at the hands of Stanley and her eventual insanity provide a grim view of the splinting Southern society. In Revolutionary Road, modern society is treated in a very different light; rather than seeing it in conflict with an entirely different way of life, the film explores the way in which modern society affects people in a circumstance where it is already entrenched, i.e. the suburbs of New York, populated by the white-collar middle class. Here, modern society takes a more sinister character.

Instead of being rough and aggressive as in A Streetcar

Named Desire, it is characterised by sinister manipulation and suppression of human individuality. This result of this character can be observed during one of the opening shots of the film, as Frank exits a train and ventures out into a sea of dull men in dull-coloured clothes all trudging forward to their jobs in the city. It is also evident in the failure of the Wheelers’ plan to move to Paris. Here, Frank and April’s conviction that they are special and unique is slowly smothered; despite initial enthusiasm over moving to Paris, the demands of modern society (a stable, well-paying job; a stable upbringing for children; etc.) slowly rope back Frank into the imposed monotony but stability of his everyday life, and ultimately, April (lacking much autonomy as a woman in modern American society) is roped back in, too. The consequences of this coerced adherence are disastrous; April is permanently and violently disillusioned with her life, and her death shows that modern society is ultimately unable to reconcile human independence with itself. Those who fail to adhere to the demands of modern society are driven to insanity, pushed to the edges of society (as John is), where they either live in irrelevance or die at their own hands.

The demands of modern society, primarily that of conformity, are key elements of both texts, however this is more pronounced in Revolutionary Road than in A Streetcar Named Desire. In the latter, the pressures of modern society to conform come primarily through the “quintessential blue-collar brute” (Bodnar 2003, pg 1) of Stanley (which is fitting, considering Stanley is a personification of modern society), and his methods of pressuring others are characteristically violent. This tendency is particularly evident in the poker night scene, as Blanche turns on the radio during the drunken poker game; Stanley demands it be turned off, and when this isn’t done, he angrily does it himself. However, the outburst comes when the radio is turned on for a second time; Blanche has openly defied him, and in response, he hurls the radio from the window, and in a fit of rage he beats Stella. Through this display Stanley has asserted his emotions, preferences, and will on his surroundings; he has forced others to conform to his way of life, and achieved “convincingly the victory of primitive over civilized, physical over spiritual, male over female” (Oklopcic 2018, pg 4). Revolutionary Road, on the other hand, has no such representative for the modern world. However, the pressures to conform are seen to be even stronger and more pervasive than those of Stanley. The society speaks through a number of conduits: Frank’s coworkers, who dismiss his plans for freedom and fulfilment in moving to Paris as “a touch unrealistic”; Bart Ponnic, Frank’s superior, who tells him that “a man only gets a few chances in life”; and if he did not “grab ‘em by the balls it won’t be long before he’s sitting ‘round wondering how he came to be second rate”.

Constantly, the society that surrounds gently guides him towards the life that it has laid out for him: a happy wife, children, a good job, a nice house, etcetera. While Frank is

sufficiently susceptible to these pressures, other characters are not, namely, April and Josh. These characters find no satisfaction in what modern society can provide for them, and they have the ability to resist the pressures to conform.

Ultimately, however, this results in either their death (as in April’s case) or alienation and designation as ‘ill’ (as seen with Josh).

A concept dealt with by A Streetcar Named Desire and, to a lesser extent, Revolutionary Road is that of regression, namely, that ‘modern’ society marks a step back in the human enterprise, rather than a leap forward, as is often commonly assumed. Despite Blanche being characteristically “old-fashioned”, and “out of place in [the] new world” (Stefanovici & Sancelean 2011) which “insists on pushing her away” (Brantley 2009), she is conspicuously more refined than the ‘modern’ Stanley. She has been raised in the “old values of society”, in “art, music and literature” (Stefanovici & Sancelean 2011); and Williams openly references the brutish and raw character of Stanley (and by extension, the modern world), through Blanche’s dialogue. She describes Stanley as “ape-like”, a “survivor of the Stone Age”, and begs Stella not to “hang back with the brutes”, clearly pointing out that despite Stanley being a ‘modern man’, he and his culture are by no means superior to Blanche and her southern ways. This concept of regression does not feature in any conspicuous way in Revolutionary Road; the film does not compare the current society to what came before, as A Streetcar Named Desire does. It rather focuses on the cruelties of the modern world, without looking back to a perhaps more refined time.

Both Tennessee Williams’ A Streetcar Named Desire and Sam Mendes’ Revolutionary Road are first and foremost criticisms of the hostile and oppressive nature of the modern world. While they achieve this through different means – A Streetcar Named Desire personifying the conflict between the modern world and the gentle, aristocratic past through Stanley and Blanche, and Revolutionary Road instead depicting the catastrophic and crippling effects of strong pressures to conform – the unbearable circumstances of the modern world are a primary theme. They both try to point out to the audience that despite the pretensions of the modern world as civilised, refined, and inherently good, the truth is far darker; modern society’s means of control are so pervasive, its character so violent and brutish, that it can only mark a step back in the development of human culture.

Max Crandall, Year 11

Beauty and the Beast In response to Disney’s Beauty and the Beast.

Cold fog drifted in through the forest from the south, coating my window in a sheen of dew. I watched from inside, warmed by the crackling fire and comforting smell of freshly baked bread my sister had just pulled from the oven. It was a beautiful scene, one an upper class lady should have been content with. But I wasn’t. Contempt roiled within me as I looked down at the embroidery in my lap. Thoughts filled my mind, all I could think about was how these hands weren’t made for sewing. Not trained to do a lady’s work. My father had gone out to the market for the day, telling me that I was forbidden to come, that I had to learn to be the lady my soon to be husband desired and expected. I hated that I had to suddenly drop everything I loved and become a well mannered, emotionless trophy.

Not to mention bearing children. Gods, children were the last thing on my mind.

The front door slamming open snapped me out of my thoughts. My father had arrived home with a tall gentleman in tow. My stomach dropped when I saw who my father had brought with him. My fiance stood in our living room, comically out of place with his broad shoulders and muscular body in the low ceilinged room which forced him to bend his head so as to avoid injuring himself. My sister tried to keep her eyes off of him, out of respect for me I expected. Every girl in our town had had their eye on him from the moment they’d come of age and rightfully so.

Gaston was a nice man. The perfect gentleman, muscle enough to fill a woman’s imagination and a smile soft enough to make hearts melt. Taking this into account, it was completely insane to think that I did not want to go through with this marriage but for some reason, Gaston could not catch my heart. I supposed that he would just have to be content with every other woman’s in place of my own. So, when I saw my sister sneaking looks at him, I said nothing. I would rather he marry her and I know she’s happy than my having to marry him at the cost of mine and her unhappiness.

Gaston approached me and sat by my side, giving me that heart melting smile which did little to ease my worries.

“The wedding is tomorrow.” his voice carried across the room, drowning out the crackling of the fire. I gave him a nod, just as father had told me to do. He leaned in closer “Are you excited?” I gave him another nod. Men were never ones to notice white lies when it was in their favour. He smiled and held my hand “You will make a beautiful wife.”

I stood and snatched my hand back before bobbing a curtsy. “Excuse me” I spoke into the stunned silence “I need some fresh air.” Ignoring the stern look from my father and stunned gasp of my sister, I made my escape out the back door, taking my cloak and satchel with me. As the door swung closed I heard my father apologizing and Gaston’s reassurance that I did no harm. With a sigh I trudged across

the crisp white snow, the trees my only companion. The forest greeted me with open arms, my life long friend that had watched over me through every milestone I achieved, every trial I faced. Now it watched over me as I fled a marriage I could not bare to face.

I walked, and walked, and walked. Night arrived, the temperature dropped significantly, but still I continued deeper into the forest until I could walk no more. Finally I sat down under the protection of a willow tree and let myself rest. I could not risk a fire, no matter how familiar I was with my surroundings, predators still stalked these forest paths and a sleeping woman would be an easy meal.

Collecting fallen leaves and stirpping the bark off the trees I made a bed for myself, using my cloak as a blanket and my satchel as a pillow for me to lay my head upon. It took me simply laying my head on the pillow to be whisked off into a deep sleep, the willow branches protection from the bitter cold outside.

I woke up slowly with a frown, blinking as my eyes adjusted to the light. When I saw what was before me, a gasp escaped my lips. The first thing I noticed was the smell. The room I was now in smelled of the cool stone it was made of and mildew most likely the cause of the deteriorating carpet and tapestry draped along the far wall. Next I noticed the bed I lay upon, a soft, comforting presence underneath me and a warm rug draped across my body. At the end of the bed lay my cloak and satchel, my boots on the floor below them. This was not my house.

I stood, pulled on my boots, slung my cloak and satchel over my shoulder, and went over to the door, trying the handle. Unlocked. Quietly I slipped out of the room. An empty hall greated me so I snuck as quietly as I could through the halls, down a stairwell, and further towards what I suspected to be the front door. An overwhelming quiet encompassed the house, the air constantly cold and damp from the lack of inhabitants. I was almost at the front door when I heard a voice behind me. “I see you’re awake.” I froze, one-hundred different scenarios racing through my mind in the time it took me to turn and face the man person addressed me. A man stood before me and for a moment, I thought he was Gaston. His height and structure were the same, dressed in a lavish blue suit with a golden sash that would make me think he was a prince if we had any. I would have commented on his face if I could see it however he was wearing a white ceramic mask set in a monotone expression, covering everything save his eyes and mouth. I could only conclude that this was my kidnapper. He spoke up again, “Do you not know how to talk?” Truth be told I had lost my voice when I realised that I was not alone but it soon came back to me as he began to walk closer. “Thank you for helping me, but now I need to leave.” I tried the door only to find that it was locked.

I looked back up with him with a frown on my face. He looked at my leg. “I think it unwise to walk around in the

In response to The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf and X-Men snow with your leg in such a condition.” I frowned and looked down at my leg and saw nothing. Pressing on my thigh I realised what I had missed before. With my rush to get out of this castle and my skirts covering my legs, I hadn’t noticed the bandage wrapped around it. He spoke up again. “Go back to bed, you can stay here until you are healed. I found you whilst hunting, a wolf was about to make a meal of you.” I looked at him, incredibly sceptical of this stranger offering a girl he found injured in the forest his hospitality. He chuckled “Do not fear me, I have no interest in strange women.” My sceptical look turned to a glare.

Walking past him I went back up the stairs and to my room without another word.

Time passed quickly and I found myself growing fond of my mysterious saviour. He came to my room every day as I healed, checking up on me and keeping me company. I supposed that he had nothing better to do. Soon enough I was deemed healed and ready to leave but I found myself finding excuses to stay. I told him that his home needed tending, that it needed someone else to fill its lonely halls.

One night, whilst we were sat by the fire, he took his mask off. I don’t know what I had expected, or why he did it, but what lay hidden made me catch my breath. His face was covered in scars, small and large, distorting his face but for some reason, it made me realise that I loved him.

Tiana Saad, Year 11

In both The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf and X-Men, the government discriminates against minority groups present in the world. The Illegals in The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf and the Mutants in X-Men are discriminated against for their abilities and mutations despite not having any control over whether they were born with them or not.

Kwaymullina and Singer craft their texts to develop the theme of discrimination against minorities and use similar methods to build this theme in their texts. These methods include allusions to minority groups in society, experiences of specific characters and their use of conflict in their texts.

Both author and director use allusions to minority groups in society to build the theme of discrimination against minorities in their texts. These allusions are developed using both the actions and general behaviour toward the Illegals and the Mutants. In The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf, Illegals and those with abilities must be assessed in order to receive a Citizenship Accord. These allow citizens to live freely and give them their basic human rights.

Ashala Wolf, an Illegal, states that ‘most Illegals [run] away before they [are] assessed [...] and anyone who [does not is] either put in detention, or given an Exempt tattoo.’ (page 27) Through this, it is evident that Illegals are rarely, if ever, given a Citizenship Accord after an assessment. Furthermore, Illegals must ‘fool an assessor’ in order to get a Citizenship Accord and live outside of the detention centres. Using this, Kwaymullina develops an allusion to the Aboriginal people of Australia in the 1800s. This minority group also needed to be assessed in order to have the same rights as British Australians and get Australian Citizenships at that time. Both Citizenship Accords and Australian Citizenships provide humans with basic rights, and both are discriminatory against minorities.

Illegals and Aboriginal people were denied these rights and therefore were discriminated against for being minorities.

Kwaymullina includes an allusion to Aboriginal People as a minority group to develop the theme of discrimination against minorities and to expose the fact that Aboriginal people were denied basic human rights because of their race. She uses her novel to present the audience with a deeper understanding of the discrimination that Aboriginal people had to live through. Similarly, the Mutants in X-Men are discriminated against through the change in general behaviour towards them after they ‘expose themselves’ in society. Society’s behaviour towards them becomes different once they inform others that they are Mutants.

As Jean Grey states during the congressional hearing early on in the film, ‘ “Mutants that have exposed themselves are often met with fear, hostility and even violence.” ’ This demonstrates the change in behaviour that Mutants face once they have ‘exposed themselves’. Singer uses this to create an allusion to people who are part of the LGBT+ minority group. They also face the same hostility and violence when they ‘come out’. The Mutants and the LGBT+ group face similar changes in behaviour once they expose themselves and this shows how society discriminates

against minority groups. This change proves that they were not considered dangerous before they ‘exposed themselves’ and that they are faced with hostility because of their differences. This is a form of discrimination against minorities and Singer uses this as an allusion to develop this theme in the movie. Singer includes this theme in order to show that people are treated differently because of their differences and factors that they can not control (such as sexuality and whether or not they are Mutants).

There are both similarities and differences in the allusions that the authors include in their texts. Both of them allude to specific minority groups in society and they both have similar authorial intent. However, there are some differences regarding the development of their allusions.

Kwaymullina uses the fact that both minority groups are denied citizenships and therefore basic human rights, whereas Singer uses the change in behaviour towards those who have ‘come out’ and ‘exposed themselves’.

Both of them use allusions to develop the theme of discrimination against minorities.

The experiences of Cassie in The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf and Mystique in X-Men are used to convey thematic ideas of discrimination against minorities. These characters have varying degrees of negative experiences in their lives due to the discrimination present in the society of the texts. Cassie loses her life due to the assessors coming to her house on the day of her assessment. They came because of her parents’ belief that she had an ability.

The discrimination against those with abilities is shown through the government’s use of assessments and the reason they exist. Neville Rose tries to explain Cassie’s death to Ashala by saying that ‘ “clearly [...], [her] sister’s assessment was badly handled.” ’ (page 31) It is obvious from this quote that Neville is referencing Cassie’s death and that it was caused by her assessment. He states that it was ‘badly handled’ and it is clear that her death was the assessors’ fault. The oppressive society that Cassie lives in uses assessors and assessments to discriminate against Illegals and this discrimination is the reason Cassie lost her life. In a similar way, Mystique in X-Men loses the right to a proper education because of discrimination. Education is a fundamental part of her life and should therefore be a basic right, but due to the general discrimination present in society, she experiences a childhood without formal education. In the scene where she abducts Senator Kelly, Mystique states that ‘ “people like [Senator Kelly] were the reason [that she] was afraid to go to school as a child.” ’ Her fear of their discrimination against the Mutants forced her to take school elsewhere, or possibly even miss out on it altogether. This experience, or lack thereof, has a profound effect on Mystique’s future and her life in general. This shows society’s discrimination against Mutants, which are the minority in X-Men, and the effects that this discrimination can have on Mutants’ lives. Both Kwaymullina and Singer use the experiences of characters in their texts to develop the theme of discrimination

against minorities. While they both include bad experiences that have profound effects on the characters’ lives, the impact of discrimination against minorities have varying degrees of negativity. Cassie loses her life, whereas Mystique loses the right to an education. Both author and director portray the theme of discrimination against minorities through the experiences of specific characters in their texts.

Kwaymullina and Singer use conflict in their texts to develop the theme of discrimination against minorities. The main cause of conflict in both texts is the government’s discrimination against Illegals and Mutants. The author and director convey this theme by showing that the conflict is due to the discrimination against minorities. The conflict in The Interrogation of Ashala Wolf is between the Illegals, portrayed through the character of Ashala Wolf, and the government, shown through Chief Administrator Neville Rose. This conflict is a result of Neville discriminating against Illegals because of their abilities and his belief that they are a danger to the Balance. This is evident when he states that ‘ “the Citizenship Accords [are used] to prevent Illegals from upsetting the Balance.’ (page 33) Ashala is against this idea, and argues that Neville is trying to ‘use a 258-year-old tragedy to justify the Citizenship Accords.” ’ (page 29) This argument showcases the conflict between them as protagonist and antagonist of the novel.

The use of the word justify explores how Ashala believes the Citizenship Accords are not justifiable because of their discriminatory nature. Neville’s clear discrimination against minorities is the cause of this conflict between the two characters. A similar use of conflict is also found in X-Men where Magneto, a Mutant, has conflict with the new government because of his past losses. These were due to the German government discriminating against him and his family. In the first scene of the movie, a young Magneto was separated from his parents when they were forced into detention centres in Auschwitz. This is because Magneto and his family were Jewish, and a minority at the time. The fact that the German government were forcing them into detention centres against their will shows a clear discrimination against the Jewish people. This discrimination was the motivation of his actions against people in the new government and his conflict with them.

He fights against the new government and causes conflict in the movie because he was mistreated as a child due to his being a minority. This conflict is shown when he turns Senator Kelly into a Mutant to show him what it feels like to be a minority. In this scene, it is evident that Magneto is against the new government and wants to cause them pain and suffering just as he had in his childhood.

There is a similar portrayal of conflict in both texts. Both conflicts are due to discrimination against minorities, however there also differences in this. Ashala and Neville’s conflict is due to current discrimination, whereas the conflict between Magneto and the new government is due to past experiences with discrimination. In addition

to this, Kwaymullina uses the main conflict in her texts and the protagonist and antagonist to build the theme of discrimination against minorities, while Singer portrays the theme through a side conflict.

In summary, Kwaymullina and Singer use similar methods to explore the theme of discrimination against minorities in their texts. Some of these methods are allusions to minority groups present in society, the negative experiences of specific characters and the conflict in their texts. With clear parallels to modern society, Kwaymullina and Singer use their texts to present the audience with a deeper understanding of discrimination against minorities in the world.

Ruya Akbas, Year 8

Poetry Earl Grey

Brushing Teeth

Convict colonies were four-to-one Male settler to his wife.

So Earl Grey sent four thousand daughters To settle family strife.

On ev’ry m’rning and night mine teeth shine, Thy hand doest brush ’n floss for minute five, At night thoust body in bed does resign, Whither, the bact’ria can’t survive.

One-way-walk from workhouse to water, Then five months on the seas, Where below deck was crowded so close, The girls were detainees.

But hark! Silver tapeth still streams wat’r.

A circular motion mine arm doeth pass, With grace how like thy dentist hath taught her.

On the counter top sits that lady glass.

And food aboard was awfully oily For those acquired to gruel.

Meats made the starved soles sorely ill, The voyage more-so cruel.

Behold, in vain the mirror is thy self, A snowy foam trail lingers on thy cheek, The bubbles danceth across like an elf, Upon finishing forth a tiny squeak.

But calico-clothed and fed this well, Grey’s girls did gather strength, A heartiness they proved to need for In Aus they met offense.

The chore now done alongside sits the moon, Only to knoweth be back again soon.

Grey’s untrained maids were mocked by many, Aus didn’t want ‘rejects’.

But they learnt quick, and of modern Aus, These were the architects.

Johanna Tam, Year 10

Caroline Tan-Wong, Year 9

From Home As numbers swell and numbers curl, I watch the news and watch my nerve.

Four brick walls now edge my world.

Crosses crash calendars as plans furl, Each day but a point on the rolling curve, As numbers swell and numbers curl.

To pass the hours I’ll knit and purl, And make some pickles and preserves.

Four brick walls now edge my world.

Migrate to couch with mugs of earl, For Andrews has new rules to serve, As numbers swell and numbers curl.

Across my bedroom floor I twirl; I race the halls - the dog I swerve.

Four brick walls now edge my world.

I sew more masks in a fabric whirl, Cook the comforts our hearts deserve.

As numbers swell and numbers curl, Four brick walls now edge my world.

Johanna Tam, Year 10