Epilogue 2022

Epilogue

A Collection of Students’ Creative Work

Foreword

It is my pleasure to again present to you our latest issue of Epilogue on behalf of all the students in the College. Within it you will find another collection of the creative expressions of many of our students from Years 7 to 12.

I always enjoy listening to student voices as they navigate our complex, modern world and it is important that we listen to them. However, we never truly thrive without creativity. This, above all else, defines us as humans as we express our wonder, puzzlement and joy of the world around us. The opportunity for students to creatively express themselves is the driving force of this magazine.

My special thanks to Rev Liz Flanigan and the editorial team for producing such a great edition. Without their expert guidance this anthology would not exist.

I am sure you will find the quality of the work in these pages a powerful testament of our students’ creative abilities.

Mr Peter Langford-Smith Head of English

Editor’s Note

Yet again I have been so impressed by the amazingly creative and talented group of writers and artists we have at All Saints’ College. This year, it was great to work with a student editorial team who read submissions, reviewed artworks and made their recommendations. A big thank you to Madison Every and Felicia Ho (Year 9, 2022), Nishaan Sunner, Ricky Qiu and Nithin Shivakumar (Year 7, 2022) for all the time they put into this publication. I am sure all who are reading Epilogue this year will enjoy the compilation of some of our students’ creative work and once again will join me in appreciating the amazing array of ideas, images, word choices and creative expression.

Rev Liz Flanigan College Chaplain

Artwork right: Samantha Shenton (Year 11). Cover art: Lara Levichkina (Year 12)

Karijini

Carefully climbing down the steeping rock stairs, Surface so slippery I must walk with care, The sun reflects off the side of the gorge, Native art works in rocks, they are forged, The landscape unique just like a canyon, The quolls and the wallabies, my only companions, Birds soar high above the rough terrain, Land so desolate, you barely see rain, Colours so vibrant, red, green and blue, Now I am crawling on all fours just to get through, No one to rescue if you fall, Heartbeat accelerating, is it worth it at all,

A sacred land so pristine and pure, Traditional owners must protect its allure, Millions of years spent in its creation, Protecting this beauty is mankind’s obligation, Forged by a giant serpent when the Earth was young, It’s spirit rest in the waters, in which it had clung,

Glimpses of lush I can see from beyond, Nearing the end of the path that I am on, Swaying with the wind, the scrub rustles gently, Ever so calm, as if it could sense me, Following my instincts, I pursue the passage, Not knowing where it goes, I’m unaware of all the facets,

Emerging from the rocks, the sunlight shimmers, I can just see the water, as it speckles and glimmers, Astonished by the sight of what I have just found, The pools and the waterfalls, like emeralds all around, Sounds of trickling water disturb the silence, The water, and it’s flow form nature’s alliance,

As I approach the ledge I glance at the pool, Small fish, quickly approaching in a school, Sliding off my shoes, I begin to enter the basin, Many have followed my path throughout the generations, I stare forwards, towards the gleaming falls, Australia’s holy little gem, hidden amongst rock walls.

By Jacob Skender (Year 8)

Fraser Kearney (Year 10)

The Dog’s Boy

The boy had a dog. Except, I believe it may be more fitting to say the dog had a boy.

10/05/2001

A meadow. Dennis lounges in the clearing, tossing his ball. Up. And down. Up. And down. He watches Poppy as she bounds through the vegetation, enamoured with the plethora of scents and colours. He hurls the ball across the field. It soars for miles, Poppy in close pursuit. She is swallowed by the greenery. When she emerges, a triumphant grin spans her face. Poppy drops the slobbery ball at his feet, collapsing into the grass. As she basks in the mid-afternoon sun, Dennis admires the palpable atmosphere of serenity.

21/07/2003

A tiered cake covered in Marzipan lilies. Guests pause to marvel at the craftsmanship. They come bearing presents, piles upon piles, until there isn’t an inch of space left on the dining table. Dennis loses count of the number of birthday wishes he receives, and the overwhelmed thanks he gives. Beneath the table, Poppy’s head is resting on his knee. It’s grounding. Off-tune singing ensues, and everybody applauds. Dennis lifts Poppy and they blow out the candles together.

04/11/2005

A dripping tap. Dennis grabs a beer before collapsing into his tattered sofa, threadbare at the corners. Exhaustion is etched on his face. Poppy settles by his feet. She sniffs his left hand, limp by his side. Drip. Drip. Drip. Dennis can feel his fuse shortening with every godforsaken droplet that leaks from that tap. If only he could fix it, and he could enjoy his evenings with Poppy in silence once more. Only the sound of their breathing to be heard. He entertains the thought, but only for a moment. He knows his pockets may as well have holes in them. Poppy leaps into Dennis’ lap, nestling into his chest. She’s too big for this now, but neither of them mind.

09/01/2006

A seagull overhead. Fine grains of warm sand seep between Dennis’ toes. He can taste the salty air, hear the waves crashing against the rocks. Poppy is at his heels, panting as they stroll. The minute the ocean is within their line of sight, Poppy is off. Dennis takes off after her. He feels like a bird, wind beneath his wings. There’s no high better than this. He doesn’t slow

when he reaches the water, submerging himself up to shoulders. Poppy paddles towards him, accidentally splashing the cold seawater in his face. It’s worth it to see her like this.

11/12/2008

A jolly man in a blue shirt. Poppy sniffs his shoes. Dennis runs his hand over the red leather, admiring its sheen. Not a single seam or thread out of place. It’s not long before Poppy takes her place on the recliner, curling into a ball.

“We’ll take it,” he says.

15/12/2008

A monotonous sitcom. Every episode has the same plot, but Poppy and Dennis watch them religiously regardless. It’s their routine. Each week, when he comes home, she springs from her favourite spot in the red recliner to greet him. There’s a permanent Poppy-shaped indent in the seat now. Dennis thinks it was the best purchase of his life. After she greets him and he prepares a snack, they sit and watch sitcoms together. All evening. With Poppy, loneliness is truly unfathomable. He sneaks her pieces of sausage every few minutes, much to her pleasure. Tonight is no different, although Dennis swears the plot is worse than usual.

12/04/2010

A laboured breath. Dennis can see Poppy’s stomach rise and fall at increasing intervals in his rear-view mirror. She releases a pained whine, and he feels his heart twinge. He doesn’t want to leave the car. He’s afraid of what it might mean. Reluctantly he does, lifting Poppy from the backseat as if she were a feather. Inside the vet, the heater is broken. Dennis can barely feel his fingertips. He takes off his woollen jacket to wrap it around Poppy’s shivering body. When the vet comes to take her from him, he almost refuses to let go. Dennis returns to his seat to wait.

And wait.

And wait.

He estimates that he and Poppy could watch two whole episodes of their sitcom in the time it takes for the vet to come back out. When she does, she has that look in her eye. And he just knows. He just knows, and it breaks him.

The vet takes him to the back room, where Poppy is laid under a harsh, industrial light. Her face is completely devoid of the smile he’s so accustomed to. Dennis wonders if the pain of being penetrated by a thousand tiny shards of glass would even come close to what he’s feeling. He zones in and out as the vet tells him the options. He tries to swallow the lump in his throat, but to no avail. Dennis is frozen. He asks what the vet recommends, even though he already knows the answer. When she answers, he wants to clamp his hands over his ears like a kid and pretend he hasn’t heard her.

“Will she feel any pain?”

The mere idea shattered his heart. Of never being able to watch another sitcom together. Of never running along another beach together. Of having to blow out birthday candles on his own. He

was losing his best mate. Dennis approached Poppy and held her in his arms. He could feel the tiredness in her limbs. He looked at her, and she looked at him. There was mutual understanding.

13/04/2010

An empty recliner. Dennis waits for Poppy to jump up from her seat and ambush him in the doorway. He closes his eyes. If he waits long enough, wishes hard enough, maybe, just maybe, she’ll be there when he opens his eyes. He’ll hear her whines of excitement, and he’ll wrap his arms around her. This time, he’ll hold on a little tighter.

So, the dog had a boy. And without her, the world was a little less bright.

By Mia Lowe (Year 11)

Taryn Lee (Year 10)

Ocean

Smooth, blue

Gentle, slow, bright Sun shining on the tide

Waves crashing on the smooth yellow sand Beauty

By Caleb Carruthers (Year 7)

Poison

Poison

Taking over.

Can’t breathe, falling, falling Running all through me, Shutting down Now, Gone.

By Mia Stoyanov (Year 7)

Waves

Crashing...

Advancing waves

Soft white frothy wonder Curious, entrancing, then Gentle

By Shola Adeniyi (Year 7)

The Outback

A lonely red road

Leads you into the unknown Adventure Awaits

By Ella Walden (Year 8)

Waves

Curling blue waves

Crashing on the sandy shore Refreshing blue ocean

By Eden Penty

(Year 8)

Kangaroo

Profound dignity, an emblem, swift, strong, and sure. King of the outback

By Ved Pulikot (Year 8)

Annika Haslemore (Year 10)

An Artist’s Touch

Fireflies float in the dark like enchanted candles. The cold air keeps me awake as I search for the source of the small shining movements that catch my eye. At this point, I notice some more peculiar things happening. The river bends and turns, but when I look back all I can see is a straight river. The mangroves reach across the river despite its width, with their roots holding them further above the ground than should be possible.

The fish in the river swim swiftly, but silently, jumping out of the river at impossible heights to catch small insects. The river sends offshoots through the roots before they come back together like a huddled mess of wires.

Despite being unarmed during the dead of night, nothing is attacking or even attempting to harm me, with my only signs of injury being my bruised arms and legs from the occasional tumble onto the roots. If I want to survive this warped wetland, I must persevere.

I keep walking until the river ends, at which point I pause to check my surroundings and time. My watch says 12:00, but the moon’s position says it’s about 10:00, so either my watch is broken, or the moon is. On top of this, the mangroves continue far beyond the waterline.

As I hop from mangrove to mangrove, using the branches to support me on the roots, I begin to tire. Going from a run to a walk, to eventually a standstill, I survey the area once more. The trees acted like prison guards, ensuring there was no escape. Some of them stand tall, whilst others lie horizontal. The smell of stagnant water permeates my nostrils, and the chirps and trills of frogs and small insects assault my ears, startling me.

After a few minutes of catching my breath and adjusting to the environment, I smell something sharp and metallic. Blood. It overpowers the pungent scent of the water. As I look down at myself, I notice deep cuts covering my arms and legs. Oh no. I’ve got to move, and quickly, before anything tracks me down and decides I look like a good snack.

I break off into a run as I look for a way up and through the trees. The further in I go, the constant buzzing sound of the swamp life intensifies. I eventually find a way up. None the less, propelled by a thought that isn’t entirely my own, I leap between the treetops, careful not to lose my footing. I make out what appears to be a clearing. From beneath my feet, I hear a rustling join the cacophony of nocturnal life.

I arrive at the edge of the clearing, perching on an outstretched branch. From my vantage point I see the painter again with her canvas. Out of the blue, I hear a cracking beneath me, and the branch I’m standing on snaps, sending me plummeting into what appears to be an abyss.

This is the end, I think.

Charlotte Clinckers (Year 10), Madison Every (Year 9), Jack Goddard (Year 10), Felicia Ho (Year 9), Taryn Lee (Year 10), Amber Lynch (Year 8), Kimberley Stone (Year 9) and Kyle Stuart (Year 9)

(An excerpt from a book created in the 2022 Write a Book in a Day Competition)

Taryn Lee (Year 10)

Home

Home is where the blonde beaches lie, Below summer clouds - seagulls soar in the sky. waves rage on top of the sand, the warm sun leaves me sun-kissed and tanned.

Home is where my friends are by my side, together we have yelled, laughed, and cried. Memories we made I will forever cherish, stored in my heart, they will never perish.

Home is where beloved kangaroos roam the land, koalas comfortably dreaming with eucalyptus in their hand. Echoes of the kookaburra’s laugh embodies peace, I hope these iconic native faunas never decease.

Home is where the Jacaranda trees grow, the scarlet red bottlebrush is the best-dressed flower I know. Lemon banksias are found in every corner of Australia, you certainly won’t find these exotic plants in Pennsylvania.

Home is where I am entitled to my human rights, I live in a society without any wars and fights. I can go to school, I can ride my bike, I can live my life however I like.

Home is where days are long and warm, summer is endless and there is rarely a storm. The silky, soft breeze dances through my hair, the weather never makes me feel despair.

Isabella Leniartek (Year 8)

The Country – An Insider

Into the bowl went the two eggs from Francine’s chooks, a stick of butter from last Sunday’s farmers’ market and the sugar. Next came mixing them until they were light and fluffy. These steps were a part of Carol. When she finished mixing, Carol set down her spoon and gazed out the window.

The storm clouds she had seen gathering at dawn had finally opened their gates. The slow pitter-patter of rain at noon was now gushing down. Carol saw from her window how the entire world responded to the rain, answering its call.

Her rosemary bush, once dying of thirst, reached towards the sky. It drank up every one of the thousand drops that poured from above. She liked to think if the rain had come any later the rosemary bush would have uprooted itself and gone searching for water itself.

Her roses perhaps had seen better days, but in the grey skies, the scarlet hue and deep green thorns called for attention in the picturesque painting that was her farm. Back in the city, rain meant traffic jams and squelching shoes. Here, it took on a whole new meaning. Rain was a part of life itself - with it came growth. Her flowers would bloom brighter because of it and her neighbour’s wheat crop would thrive. Out here the weather was a cycle, it pushed and pulled at the world around it but in the end, at her home, the farm, earth, and sky were one. Living in a beautiful unison of growing.

Carol felt that she too was a part of this cycle, playing a role in the ebb and flow of the seasons in the countryside. She spent the summer tending to her garden and dealing with the beehives that popped up around her. The autumn was spent collecting auburn leaves from the trees, and laying them by the various ponds, so that the tadpoles had a home to hide in as they hopped into the world as frogs. It was when

the world was tinged with warmth and the smell of petrichor danced across the wind. Wintertime was spent shivering while helping her neighbours round up their livestock. And spring, the seasons’ magnum opus. The flowers around her bloomed and filled the world with a prismatic display of colours. The air became perfumed with the rich smells of bergamot, hydrangea and thyme.

Of course, farm life wasn’t always an idealistic dream, but the give and take gave every effort a reward: a day spent setting up a fence was met with a night collapsed comfortably in bed, a couple of hours spent driving into town was met with open arms and invitations to tea in rocking chairs.

Carol returned to her cake, now sifting and folding in the flour, slowly turning the gifts of this world into a delight. The memories of first making this cake as a little girl were evoked whenever she saw how the flour puffed up in little clouds as she sifted it.

There was a calm here in the countryside; Carol had felt it ever since she was young. Even in the rain, the calm was palpable. Here, the rain had a song. The rain came with a melody that wasn’t drowned out by passing cars and the hubbub of city life. Here the song carried across hills, valleys, and mountains, like a symphony of nature’s gifts.

She poured out the batter into her Mum’s favourite tin and slid it into the oven.

All that was left was setting the timer for 30 minutes.

By Riley Landau (Year 11)

The Country – An Outsider

Those memories are red now. The rust-coloured dust of my childhood has managed to penetrate every deep recess of my mind and body. Some mornings when I put my shoes on, I swear I see red on them.

The red dust belonged to nowhere. It stuck to everything. It was like a fly in summer. It covered your shoes. It covered your clothes. It stuck under your nails. The world out there was trying to bury you, to make you the same as everything around you.

Of course, I never let it consume me. Every night after I scrubbed my body clean of the cursed dust, I would take a toothbrush to my shoes, soak my clothes in the bathtub and scrape under my fingernails. Every Saturday I would mop the floors and wipe down the windowsills. All of it to remove any trace of that dust.

I was naïve to think that countryside life would be easy. I ate the lies my own father had fed me. “Every day is an adventure out there,” he’d exclaim as we packed our lives into brown boxes that would soon take on the reddish hue of the inhospitable world we were moving to.

The first night there was one of the worst. I felt like I had been chewed up and spat out in a new alien world. The aircon had been broken for weeks; the house was at a temperature hotter than anything I’d felt before. The morning after wasn’t much better. I woke up covered in sweat and saw how the dust now covered everything I owned. Long gone was dinner with friends, midnight runs to McDonalds, Sundays in the city. Dinner became a can of baked beans; midnight runs were now to the phone to check fire notices and Sundays were spent on the cold bathroom tiles because the air conditioner still didn’t work.

I quickly learnt how lonely it was out there. That amount of loneliness, knowing that the nearest town is an hour’s drive away, does something to you. If ever I looked up towards the horizon, I was greeted

with nothing. Red dirt and scraggly patches of grass stretched on forever. And all of it glimmering with the heat of a hostile sun burning down. Those mirages were like a gate, some otherworldly barrier separating me from the world.

On the days when I would walk aimlessly through the property the mirages would loom over me. But they were still out of reach. No matter how far I’d walk, shifting red walls surrounded me, taunting me. Reminding me that I was trapped.

Sunday was the rare day where those mirages would fade away as I got driven to town. But even there – things were different. My last connection to the outside world, the people of the town, became another barrier. The red dust was replaced with scathing glares. Everyone knew everyone. Which meant everyone knew me. But I didn’t know them.

If this world was an alien plain to me then I was an alien to them, an oddity, some strange creature. I wasn’t covered in the same red dust that they had come to terms with. Their gazes would follow me as they whispered questions under their breath.

I knew that I would never fit in. I was more than aware of that fact, but the way I was pushed away shocked me. It was like they were one breathing creature hunting me, trying to push me out and poison me. It felt like the dust they lived in had corrupted them – made them hate the outside world.

They didn’t want to know me; they didn’t want me in their town. I was an outsider. But I guess that’s what life in the country is like for people like me.

By Riley Landau (Year 11)

The Dread of School

I roll out of bed and remember it’s Monday, I can’t seem to find the motivation. Going to be late; what’s the point anyway? Dreading my desk, my permanent station.

The bus is close, the omen of stress, The arrival bears my greatest fears. Impending doom, Friday’s maths test, Thinking about it sends me to tears.

The constant pressure from those around me, The chance of failing lurks in my head. The feeling you get when you are lost at sea, Not enough sleep; I feel like I am dead.

The loud ringing of the school bell, Signifies the entrance to another day in hell.

By Rithvik Simhadri (Year 8)

A Student’s Attention

Her eyes swirl with suppressed mischief, joyful at not studying. Each time a letter appears on the computer screen, it shines like a bright fire. The document will soon be forgotten, but for now, she devotes her attention to it. Her fingers flutter across the keyboard, dancing in rehearsed patterns to form letters, sentences, paragraphs.

‘Eureka!’ A moment of inspiration. She leans forward, intent on recounting her masterpiece with her computer. Her conspirator. Her sharer of secrets and words. Together they collaborate, creating a wonderland of prose.

In the corner of the screen, the abandoned study page is alone, languishing. The homework cries out for affection and attention but is despondent; the student has long since disappeared. The tab flashes red, earnestly demanding attention, but Katherine is occupied, her heart fixated elsewhere.

Mrs Euler slinks from behind the door, returning from her tedious journey around F Block. A wild shriek emanates from the stringent teacher as she spies Katherine’s screen. The noise reverberates around the closet-like classroom, bouncing off the walls, echoing back to the corner where the wicked student sits. Katherine switches back to work immediately. But it’s too late. The teacher has seen her secrets.

By Felicia Ho (Year 9)

Danielle Sutton (Year 8)

So Long, No See

Pale streaks of moonlight peek through dusty curtains into a dark and silent room. The only other source of illumination is the radiated light from two obnoxiously bright computer monitors. Seated in front of said monitors, headphones over ears and thoroughly engrossed in his video game, is Brian.

The stillness is suddenly broken as the room’s door swings open, letting in a soft, warm light from the hallway outside.

“What the hell, mum?!” Brian asks, pulling his headphones down and giving the woman standing in the doorway an irritated look.

“Ah, Brian. I was just bringing a letter up for you. No need to be rude.” The woman says disapprovingly, gingerly stepping into the room. The floor is littered with empty energy drink cans, chip packets, and scrunched-up pieces of paper.

Navigating the piles of rubbish, Brian’s mother places an envelope beside her son, who’s already gone back to playing his game.

“Well, aren’t you going to open it?” She asks her son expectantly.

“I already know what it is.” The young man replies petulantly, still staring at his screen. His mother sighs.

“You still have two weeks to think about it, but Brian, don’t you think you’ve been cooped up in here too long? Even if it’s part time, you’ll get to see your friends again at college.” She says. No response. The woman silently shakes her head to herself.

“You’re 20 years old, Brian. I just wish you’d stop shutting yourself off from the world. You’ve got so much to offer to society, yet you choose to sit here in the dark all day playing your video games.”

“I don’t care, mum. I don’t want to go to college, I don’t want to see my stupid friends, and I don’t want to contribute to this useless community. Just leave me alone!” Brian says, raising his voice. Picking up the letter, he shoves it into his pocket, glaring at his mother. Brian’s mother is no stranger to her son’s temper, and even if she doesn’t understand it, she knows better than to provoke him when he’s in a bad mood. Relenting, she slowly retreats from the room, shutting the door with a gentle click.

A few hours later, Brian’s phone rings. He ignores it, like he ignores everything nowadays.

The second ring comes almost immediately after the first, which makes him begrudgingly look at the device to check who it is.

2 missed calls from his mother. He puts the phone back down and goes back to his game. His mother never calls about anything important. Besides, he reasons, she’s probably just at the shops. Anything she has to say can probably wait.

Not long after, he notices a strange, burning smell. It’s faint, and there’s nothing in his room that could be burning, so he shrugs it off again. Hearing soft footsteps on the stairs, he assumes his mother is home, probably on her way to tell him whatever she wanted to say on the phone.

The door slams open, hitting the wall with a sound that makes Brian look up.

“Brian! Why didn’t you answer my call?!” The furious voice of his mother is something the young man hasn’t heard in a long time.

“Just tell me whatever you wanted to say now, mum. Don’t call me.” He grumbles, leaning back in his chair. His response seems to anger the woman even more.

“I called you to turn the stove off, Brian! I left the fire on when I went shopping, and when I got back, all the water in the pot already boiled away! Do you have any idea how dangerous that is?” She rants at her son, who still doesn’t seem to be taking the situation seriously.

“Well, that’s your problem. Not mine.” He replies irritably, already going back to his computer screen. Something seems to snap in his mother, who strides across the room and pulls the computer’s power plug out, disconnecting the device. Brian lets out an indignant shout, finally turning to face his mother.

“That could have started a fire, young man! Your selfishness could have gotten our house burnt down! Don’t you care about yourself? Don’t you care about anyone in this family?” She asks angrily, throwing the computer cable down.

“Just leave me alone, mum. I’m sorry I didn’t get your stupid call, okay? It wasn’t my fault you left the fire on.” Brian rolls his eyes, picking up the cable and plugging his computer back in.

After a minute of stony silence, Brian’s mother walks back to the doorway.

“I’ll expect your apology when you stop being an immature, selfish brat, Brian.” She snaps, leaving the room and slamming the door shut behind her.

One of the things Brian has noticed since he’s been spending most of his day in his bedroom is how hard it is to keep track of time. In the darkness and silence, an hour can seem like either minutes or days. So when he wakes up to see slivers of sunlight from the gaps in his curtains, he can’t tell if it’s morning or afternoon

Not bothering to change out of the crumpled shirt he slept in, Brian trudges through the mess on the floor towards his computer. Sitting down in his chair, he starts the device, puts on his headphones, and opens Chrome. No internet.

Confused, he clicks on his Wi-Fi, only to see the familiarly annoying ‘connected, no internet’ status. Sighing, he tries disconnecting and reconnecting to no avail. Frustrated, he takes his headphones off and walks across the room to the door. Opening it, he winces at the brightness of the hall outside and stumbles slightly on the way to the stairs.

“Mum?! The internet is down!” He calls over the banister. There’s no answer. Now thoroughly annoyed, he storms down the stairs.

When he gets down to the kitchen, he realises the house is empty. Wandering over to the table, he finds a handwritten note stuck on it. Skimming it through, he reads his mother’s message informing him she’s visiting a friend interstate and will be gone for a week.

Crumpling up the paper in vexation, he lobs it at the trashcan. He misses.

As it turns out, living alone is much harder than Brian initially thought. Later that same day, he discovers to his unpleasant surprise that his mother has changed the Wi-Fi password, and not bothered to tell him. The fridge and pantry are also empty, courtesy of his mother leaving before the weekly grocery trip.

Finally, on the second day after his mother’s unannounced departure, Brian concedes defeat to boredom and hunger. Pulling on the only clean coat he

can find, he ventures towards the front door, preparing to leave the house for the first time in over a year. He’ll just walk down to the little shop at the end of the road, buy some food and a portable Wi-Fi module, and leave, he says to himself.

Upon opening the door and stepping outside, the first thing he notices is the sun. More specifically, how bright and warm it was. How long had it been since he’d felt the sun? Brian barely remembers. It’s also far too hot to be winter, and he realises with a start that it’s already spring. Keeping track of seasons was difficult when you never leave your room.

Walking down the driveway, his eyes slowly adjust to the brightness of the outdoors. Looking around, he spots his mother’s little front yard garden. Since the last time he saw it, she’s planted new wildflowers that are starting to bloom.

Even his neighbourhood seems to have changed since he last saw it. The house across the road has a new swing set installed in the front yard; Brian remembers his mother sending them a congratulations card for their new baby just two years ago. Strolling slowly down the street, he can’t help but wonder exactly how much has happened while he was away.

The footpath is still the same old, cracked one though, and Brian takes some strange comfort in noticing that fact. Though it does pique memories he’d unknowingly buried, like the times he ran around the neighbourhood like a lunatic with his friends or walking down to the local corner shop on the weekend.

Suddenly, he sees a shuttlecock flying towards him out of the corner of his eye. Some long-forgotten instinct seems to awaken in him, and he kicks the feathered shuttle, catching it in his hand.

“Woah, mister, that was so cool!” He looks up to see the speaker, a young boy who looks primary school-aged, leaning outside the fence of the house he’s passing.

“Yeah, throw it back, mister!” Another child, similarlyaged, shouts, running up behind the first boy.

Brian throws the shuttle back, feeling a small smile grace his lips at the excitement of the kids. How long had it been since he’d been like them? Full of life, joy, and the ability to be unreasonably happy over the smallest things.

So Long, No See Cont...

“Children, children, I told you not to go outside the yard!” A woman’s voice admonishes from over the fence.

“Grandma, we were just talking to this mister! He’s giving back our shuttle.” The first boy explains as an old lady walks out of the yard onto the footpath.

“Oh, Brian! I haven’t seen you in so long, young man! Look at you, you’re so grown up now!” She exclaims.

“Hi Mrs Donohue.” Brian responds awkwardly, looking down at the cracked stone path. He remembers the old woman, of course he does, but since when did she have grandkids? It barely feels like a year ago that she was talking about her kids going to university.

“He caught our shuttle, grandma! Kicked it up and caught it like a pro!” The first boy says excitedly. Mrs Donohue just laughs and pats him on the head.

“Brian here is very good at this game, Fraser. Maybe if you practice more, you’ll be as good as he is when you’re older.” She says.

“Well, it’s good to see you, Brian, but I won’t hold you up any longer. Have a good day, young man.” Brian nods goodbye to the old woman, who’s now pulling the young Fraser back into their yard.

The interaction doesn’t leave his thoughts as he continues towards the corner shop. Old memories of himself as a child; bright, bold, and determined to do everything for himself, resurface. How had everything gotten to this point, where he can barely drag himself out of bed in the mornings? How had a hopeful child and teenager become a young adult who refused to even leave his bedroom for days on end?

Pushing the door of the corner shop open, the small welcome bell’s jingle reminds him again of everything he’s missed in the past few years he spent as a hermit and social recluse. The warmth, the people, even a silly bell are enough for him to remember a time where he wasn’t always angry and sad over everything.

“Oh, Brian! Haven’t seen you in a long time, mate! What can I get for you?” The friendly voice of the shopkeeper asks.

It takes Brian about 2 minutes to get what he wants from the little shelves around the store. Even though he hasn’t been here for a long, long time, the arrangement of goods hasn’t changed from the way he remembers it. Out of an odd compulsion, he doesn’t pick up the portable Wi-Fi he originally wanted.

“It’s really good to see you around again, mate. Anything else you want?” The shopkeeper asks as he scans the items and puts them in a big paper bag.

Looking around the counter as he puts his hand in his pocket for money, Brian pulls out the crumpled college admissions form his mother gave him yesterday. Turning the envelope over, he thinks for a second before looking up at the shopkeeper.

“Actually, could I just borrow a pen?”

By Dominique To (Year 9)

Samara Ainge (Year 12)

Spring

It’s nature shrugging off the winter chill, the whimsical wildflowers sprouting out of the damp earth. It’s the busy bees buzzing through beautiful banksias, the new-born birds singing a sweet melody.

It’s the delicate stream dancing carefully through the meadow, the cherry-blossoms blooming and fluttering like hummingbirds. It’s the children laughing as they play in the dappled sunlight, the delicate breeze rustling the fresh new leaves.

It’s the dainty butterflies exploring the colourful flora, the fresh fruits ripening in the warming sun. it’s the sun dipping and diving gracefully into the ocean, the starry sky as summer shines ahead.

By Ella Riches (Year 9)

Annika Haslemore (Year 10)

School

Part 1.

Question 6: Has this reflection time helped you to understand and resolve the problem?

Sitting in this stuffy room afterschool, I stare at the stupid question on the stupid paper. It stares back at me, pleading with me to just take the easy option, to tick ‘yes’ and relieve the school faculty of having to deal with whatever is wrong with me. My mum says that I’m just not a “people person” and my principal says that I need to “think before I act” and the school councillor says that my “moral compass” is a “little off”, whatever on earth that means. Either way, whatever’s wrong with me didn’t stop me from slapping Sara Smith’s ugly, lying, little squished-up face and ending up here. In detention. Again.

I look up from my paper at the clock on the wall and see that, it too, like everything else in here, is moving in slow motion, the second hand moving at a pace which draws the time spent in here into what feels like hours. Or maybe days? Weeks? The only thing in this whole stupid room that’s moving at a reasonably normal speed is the walls, which have managed to creep in a little from where they were five minutes ago. Which I guess, when you think about it, isn’t really that normal at all. Moving on. I refocus my attention on the dozens of posters pinned up on the prison walls, posters which offer dumb encouragements like “nothing is impossible if you try hard enough”. I have to stop myself from gagging as I read the others, which are, if possible, worse than this. If the teachers really believe this is helpful, then they’re more air-headed then my so-called moral compass is out of whack. The kids in this room need a lot more help than what they can get from sitting in this “reflection time” and reading whatever a stupid piece of paper has to say.

And not only those in the room, this school was full of them, these struggling kids, only some of them didn’t show it as much. There are kids who don’t eat and kids who smoke in the bathrooms between classes. Kids who hurt themselves and kids who eat lunch alone and kids who walk around like zombies, living off two hours of sleep. Kids who hide their bruises and kids who hate other kids and kids who hate themselves. And of course, kids like me. We don’t really have any friends meaning we get to be the people who are close enough to see what these kids are going through but too far away to be able

to help. The teachers, those with actual power to do anything, are useless. Sure, they’ll do a quick google search finding some irrelevant quote to stick on posters or pad their speeches with, but they don’t see what’s really happening. Or they just don’t care. When it comes down to it, they’ll lock us who need their help the most in a room and leave us to watch the walls close in.

Looking back down at my desk, I try to quieten my breathing and focus back on the question, wiping sweat from my hands on my pants. I know the answer I should give but I also know the answer they all want me to give. And maybe it’s because I know my rebellion won’t make a difference or maybe it’s because I really really just want these stupid walls to stop moving, which, by now, have gotten so super close to me. At this point I’m too tired to care so I pick up my pencil and tick the box that says ‘yes’.

Part 2.

I’m running to catch the ball in PE class when I trip over my own feet and face-plant on the ground.

I’m gasping for breath and tears are filling my eyes and my palms sting from where I tried to stop my fall. Blood is spilling from a graze on my knee, and I look away because, well you know, gross. The class stares at me like I’m a giraffe that just fell out of the sky and landed in the splits. Some concern, mostly amusement. I’m embarrassed and a bit sore and trying really really hard not to cry but it isn’t easy because I am so not okay right now.

Now my friends are helping me up and brushing me off and calling to the teacher that we’re “just off to the health centre, back in a minute”. And here we are, in the health centre I mean, and I’m a little more okay because they’re already laughing with me about the totally ridiculous thing that just happened to me. We’re laughing hysterically because now it’s the funniest thing in the world and the nurse is asking me to stop moving and sit still so she can get a proper look at my knee. We’re quiet for about 15 seconds and then we make eye contact which is enough to set us off again. They manage to become a bit more serious and ask me things like “are you okay?” and tell me to “look at them” so I don’t see the blood that’s outside my body instead of inside it where it’s supposed to be. Their concern makes me feel warm inside even in this totally cold, totally gross sick bay. They hold my hands while the nurse bandages me up and I love them so much in this moment.

Now I’m lying in my bed and its 1am and I feel totally okay now. I don’t even care that I stacked it in front of my whole class or that my knee still stings underneath the bandages the nurse gave me. I don’t care because the truth is I love days where I completely embarrass myself. I also love days where nothing remotely interesting happens and the days where I wake up with a sore throat and get to stay home from school. I love my family and I love my cat and I love curling my hair and having hot showers and going to the beach and saying “good” every time my mum asks me how my day at school was. I love rewatching the same bad teen movies and rereading the same books and hanging out with my friends, staying up all night to talk about boys or girls and just being 16 years and seven months old. It may

sound a bit weird, but I’d take worrying about how stupid I look in front of my class then having to think about anything actually important, like I don’t know, what I’m going to do for the rest of my life? Should I be a doctor? Or a teacher? No thank you, why would I waste my time worrying about this when I’d much rather think about whether I should cut a fringe in my hair or if that eye contact with that girl meant anything like I thought it did or if I’d just imagined it.

I roll over in my bed and hug my teddy bear to my chest. Now I’m drifting off to sleep and the last thing I remember thinking about is which of my friends I’m planning to sit next to at lunch the next day.

By Kayli Bussell (Year 11)

The Moon

As night falls upon us, the moon arrives once again. It’s pale hue begins to wash over me like a heavenly light. As I marvel at it’s features and my mind fills with curiosity: I calmly gaze at its deep, endless sea of possibilities...

The moon’s beauty is beyond compare- it overwhelms me. But as the sun rises at the edge of the horizon, I begin to yearn for the peace and joy night brought me And slowly but surely, the moon floats out of view; Leaving the sun to share its light.

By Chloe Kent (Year 7)

New Beginnings

Oh, my home I used to love, now left behind I can no longer smell gunpowder, only the salt of the sea Relief at last, new beginnings await after this voyage The island on the map is where I want to be.

The breeze on deck had my hair blow blissfully in the wind Aspirations were set, I was to be free and almighty A new woman perhaps, a new way of life

R.M.S. Otranto, you gave me hope, never achieved by old blighty!

Oh, my home I now love, cherish my harmony at last Acceptance is key, your sunlight is the one for me. This warmth had been swept away in the shadows of the warfare Now it is here to stay, I can finally see!

By Danielle Sutton (Year 8)

Samantha Smith (Year 10)

The Stranger

Bang!

The gunshot reverberates throughout the bushland, echoing around the trees before fading into the melody of birdsong and rustling leaves. The sound of a large mass colliding against the ground up ahead signifies that I have hit my target. Lowering my shotgun, I trudge towards the source of my next meal, a kangaroo laying limp with a blank expression on its face. I watch as the life gradually seeps out of its beady black eyes, a carpet of rippling crimson liquid unfurling beneath my feet. I kneel beside the body and place my hand on its side. It’s still warm from when a heart was beating inside its chest mere seconds ago, circulating blood through its veins. When it was still breathing, living, and doing whatever it is that kangaroos do. Despite this, I find it difficult to feel any remorse for its life. It’s almost thrilling, in a sense, that I have the power to end everything by pressing just one finger to a trigger. Reaching inside my coat pocket, I draw out a knife. Its handle fits perfectly inside the palm of my hand. I raise the blade above my head, ready to carve the meat.

“What an unnecessary death.”

Within a matter of seconds, I am on my feet with my gun drawn. I aim in the direction of the disembodied voice. My heart thumps in my ears. It beats so hard I feel it ricochet against my ribcage like a tennis ball. I relax and lower my gun once I can confirm that it’s just an old man. He stands like a statue, completely still and placid and not at all alarmed. His back is hunched into a capital C and in a wrinkled hand he clutches a wooden cane. A thick black jacket hangs loosely off his wiry frame, and his hair is white and balding. Set on the grass next to him is a canvas carry bag. But there is something unsettling about his appearance. His eyes. They’re an unnatural shade of blue, as if someone captured the sky and injected it into his eyeballs. The stranger’s piercing gaze travels from my face down towards the blood smeared onto the hem of my coat, still damp from when I shot the kangaroo. He takes in my dirty jeans and mud-caked boots, and the dried blood clinging to my face and hands, cracks appearing on the surface like a dessert ground amid a drought. I cannot help but shift my weight awkwardly from one foot to the other as he continues to study me with his judging eyes. They eventually meet mine, and it’s like I can feel him tunnelling his was into the very depths of my soul.

“You must be Mister Taylor, am I correct?” The man rasps. He sounds as if his voice box is made from sandpaper.

“Uh. Yeah. Do I know you?”

“You’re quite well-known around these parts, y’know. The infamous Fence Jumper. People have been complaining about missing livestock, and I just assumed it was some homeless bastard,” his thin lips twist into a grin, “But it appears you’re just a child.” Who does this guy think he is, waltzing up to me and interrupting my meal, just to spit nonsense? I can feel my stomach begging me for food, and my patience is running thin.

“What do you want, old man?” I snarl. He chuckles to himself at my response.

“That’s no way to greet your elders, is it? But I suppose you don’t enjoy small talk. Would you like to join me for lunch, instead? I have a picnic rug-”

“Thanks, but no thanks,” I dismiss him. I’ve just met him, and the last thing I want to do is sit with some creepy old guy out in the middle of nowhere.

“That wasn’t a question, Mr Taylor. As you are aware, I’m not the one with a criminal record here. And this is my property. I could easily get you arrested for trespassing,” I glare at him loathingly, “So, I suggest you join me.” I watch as the man uses his cane to awkwardly lower himself down to the ground, his frail body contorting painfully into a cross-legged position. He pats the empty patch of grass next to him with his hand, beckoning for me to sit. As much as I want to resist, I am hypnotised by those eyes of his. Hesitantly, I join him, finally surrendering despite my stubborn nature. He removes a platter from within the canvas bag beside him. Piled onto the plate is an assortment of meats and vegetables pressed between two slices of fluffy white bread. A sandwich has never looked better in my life.

“Help yourself,” He gestures towards the platter. Without hesitation, I greedily inhale the food, not caring how much of a mess I create. The man and I sit in silence as we eat, admiring the view before us. I gaze past the shrub-lined cliff edge at the vast ocean below. It’s an ebbing and flowing mirror, reflecting the endless sky above that is the same dazzling blue as the eyes of the man beside me.

“I used to know your father,” He breaks the silence between us. I look at up him in shock.

“How?”

“I was his teacher,” the old man says, a nostalgic expression knitted into his face, “We were always very close. I think he looked up to me as a father figure.

He was a good man, a very smart one, too. Lots of potential. But that potential was wasted. He met the wrong people and ended up with a bullet through his head.” My heart plummets faster than a brick dropped off a twelve-storey building.

“Don’t tell me he’s…” My voice trails off. He nods and gives me a mournful smile that is so genuine I begin to tear up. Internally, I am appalled by my reaction to the news. I cannot believe I am crying for the man who found the word ‘father’ a foreign concept for fifteen years, yet tears slide freely down my face regardless. I’m not used to feeling so vulnerable, so I angle my face away from the man and his all-seeing eyes.

“The reason I approached you today was because I am worried for you,” He explains. “Your father was involved with some very bad people before he passed, and unfortunately, people these days don’t know how to deal with being wronged. They always seek revenge or compensation.” I dry my eyes on the sleeve of my coat and watch as the tears mingle with the blood stains on the fabric.

“I’m afraid people will come looking for you sooner or later in search of one or the other.” He reaches between us and cradles my closed hand in his, an intimate gesture that I cannot remember ever

being offered. I can feel every callous, wrinkle and vein on his skin, and it’s comforting. It makes me feel human. At that moment I realise how lonely I’ve been for all these years, blending into society. I was surrounded by people yet still isolated. He peels my fingers away from my palm and places a small card into the centre of it.

“My address and contact details. Come find me if you ever need help,” He releases my hand from his grasp, and I swear that winter has come early. Excruciatingly slowly, the man attempts to stand on legs that are so slim and fragile they could pass for twigs. I offer him my hand, eager to feel the same warmth I felt just moments ago. He mutters a thank you, brushing himself off before standing up as straight as his back allows him to. And with that, he turns and begins shuffling off.

“Wait!” I call out, desperate to know more about this mysterious stranger, “I never got your name.” The man turns towards me once more, his brilliant blue eyes crinkling at the corners as he beams at me, the warmth from his smile like a gentle caress to my cheek.

“You will find out soon enough. Good day, Mister Taylor.”

By Amber Lynch (Year 8)

Howard Shen (Year 10)

Doll Domination

They both woke up together from the deafening sound that derived from the lush green forest. They got up and made their way to the rainforest to investigate. The sight of a stream of water immediately lit up their faces, as they went down to drink this refreshing water. It was truly a sight for sore eyes, with all the water and the fruits surrounding them. They both ate together and drank together. They felt so happy, the two of them might as well have been a community. They had completely forgotten about the sound, but they were unfortunately reminded when a ruthless dastard dashed towards them.

It was a truly terrifying beast, thick, grey hair encompassed every inch of its indestructible hide. The shade from the tall trees made it much more menacing, as half its massive body was covered by shadows. The beast looked at the sky and howled, revealing its long, sharp, barbaric teeth. The sunlight poured in, revealing its hungry eyes. Its entire body gleamed with the macabre, and the Mechanic and Goofy stopped to gape at this creature’s dangerous beauty. They were quickly interrupted when the wild animal began to run towards them. The mechanic screamed and Goofy howled. They both began to run away, but no matter how fast they ran, the beast managed to catch up. They could almost feel the beast breathing on them but somehow managed to escape its evil clutches. Yet, the Mechanic got unlucky and fell on a branch, adding to the many scratches which covered his body. He screamed as the beast tumbled above him, but when the beast stepped on him, the creature’s leg went right through him.

“Huh?” the mechanic looked dismayed as he looked around. He realised that he could slightly see through this creature, and then the entire forest around him turned into mist.

By Edward Liang, Aditya Patel, Ricky Qiu, Nithin Shivakumar, Nishaan Sunner and Ali Zakareia (Year 7)

(An excerpt from a book created in the 2022 Write a Book in a Day Competition)

Ali Zakareia (Year 7)

Memories

My page shining in the blazing sun, As my pencil gracefully dances across the paper

As the gum trees tower over me, A light breeze sweeps through my dark chocolate glowing hair

Drawing the glistening dew drops on the yellow tinted leaves

The pathcy, rough red-brown bark slowly flaking, Drifting gently to the ground while dancing in the wind, Colourful leaves laying on the red moistened soil. The gleaming glorious gallons of water

Calmly slithering through the hundreds of leafy trees, Subtle soft whispers, snaking through the forest

The natural landscape coming to life

As colour blooms on my page

A beautiful memory preserved

By Saya Quartermaine (Year 8)

(un) Australian

(a reverse poem)

Living outside of Australia

We would never be happy

Wearing thongs or even going bare foot

We should be

Selling our precious barbeque

How could we ever think of Calling each other ‘mayte’

When we meet up we’re always

Reluctant to buy a Bunnings hot dog

Who would ever be

Happy while at the beach

We would always be unwilling to eat salty vegemite

We are never Australian

By Kate Grogan (Year 8)

Street People

“One copy of the Daily Mail,” I told the paperboy as I flicked him a dollar. As he fumbled with the coin, I swiftly took a December edition newspaper from the stall and continued down my morning route to work, down the battered and worn street I had recently become accustomed to. The streets were badly maintained and littered with potholes. This place is always so busy, yet you feel so isolated, living in your own little bubble, headphones in, eyes down and always having something to do, somewhere to go.

“Got any change?” A raspy voice spoke from somewhere up ahead. I glanced up from my newspaper and saw a heavily bearded man sitting next to a dumpster, asking people walking by for change. It was the same man that sat there every day, asking the same annoying question to the same people, and always getting nothing from it.

I’m so sick of this, I’m sick of having to encounter the same street person every day. I work 60 hours a damn week and I’m still just as broke as you are. I thought to myself. “Got any change?”

I looked down at him, “No I don’t have change! It’ll be a miracle if you catch me with spare money in my pockets!”

He didn’t say anything, he just looked up at me, unfazed. As I walked away, I could feel his eyes burning into my back, but I didn’t turn to look back at him.

“My strategy is to only give them money if they actually ask,” my co-worker Bill explained to me, “otherwise, I’d give away too much money.”

“Wow, look at you go,” I remarked, “well my strategy is to literally be poorer than them, but that doesn’t seem to be working too well. I should be the one asking them for change.”

I stared out the cafe window for the remainder of my shift. I could see the dumpster where I knew he would be sitting. I watched as people walked by, looking down at their phones to read non existent texts. I watched as parents picked up the pace while holding their children’s hands, shielding them from view. Everyone avoided him while making it seem like they had a plausible reason.

As the sun began to retreat over the city skyline and the city nightlife began to emerge, I finished closing the cafe and began the walk to my apartment. As I neared the dumpster, the familiar voice spoke out again, “Change?”.

I simply said, “No,” and continued walking, not bothering to look at him as I spoke or slow down my pace.

The following day, I walked along the battered sidewalk trying not to get in the way of people rushing to work.

“Ugghh! Get out of my way, I’m going to be late to work!” I yelled out with no hope. There was no point in pushing against the crowd, I was being pushed from all sides until I finally squeezed my way out of the crowd.

“Got any change?”

“Ohh great,” I uttered bitterly, “No, I don’t have change! Do you?” “Nah,” he responded despondently, “That’s why I’m asking.”

“Why do you even have to sit here every day? Why do you have to bother people? Everybody else is working crappy jobs, we will literally hire anyone who can put on our uniform!” I snapped back. “So why do you live on the street?”

I watched as his eyebrows deepened, thinking of a response.

“Well, imagine what would have to happen for you to live on the street and it probably happened to me?” He replied calmly.

“Yeah, well a hell of a lot would have to happen for me to lose all my self-esteem and hope and live my life on the street.”

“Yeah... well, I’ve been through it all sister.”

“Right...” I replied slowly, looking at the crowd of people still blocking the sidewalk, ah whatever, I decided “Do you mind if I take a seat?” I asked.

“Nah, not at all. I’m here all day.”

I sat down carefully, making sure not to sit in something that would stain my work uniform.

“Larissa,” I introduced myself, holding my hand out for him to shake.

“George,” he responded, “You know the place next door closed.” “Wait what? The book store? The sign says, ‘closed for renovation’.”

“Nah, I see it all the time in this city. The sign is just them trying to avoid the reality of it.”

“Man, that really sucks. I had some great memories in that place. I used to spend whole afternoons reading books as a kid there wishing time would just freeze. Man, that sucks.” I spoke.

“Yeah, I hate change,” George replied. “Not the money kind, the other kind.” He added.

I chuckled and as I looked into his eyes, I saw for a moment a flicker of hope, or maybe it was just the sun’s reflection.

“Cola?” I offered him, holding out the half-full cup of soft drink I had been holding onto.

“Nah, I know I’m not supposed to have preferences, but I prefer coffee. But I’ll take the cup, some guy stepped on my old one.” He pointed to the crushed coffee cup in front of him.

“Hey, it was nice talking to you, but I need to get to work.” I got up, quickly finishing the coke and handing him the cup.

“It was nice meeting you sister.” He said as I disappeared amongst the crowd of people.

“Is that all?” The cashier asked.

“Actually, I’ll get a coffee instead ofthat cola thanks.” I responded. “No problem, have a great Christmas.”

I walked through the snow-covered sidewalk, holding a hot cup of coffee, with the name George written across the side, between both hands. I walked with purpose, towards the dumpster where I expected to find him but when I arrived George was no one where to be seen. I stood there in the snow as people walked past in their own little bubbles, headphones in, eyes down and somewhere to go. It’s crazy how fast things can come and go.

By Jaden Thesman (Year 9)

Nikita Arun (Year 12)

Saturday Sport

Part 1.

I nervously step up to the transverse line and give a small smile to my teammate next to me. My brandnew uniform is bright turquoise and is so big that mum had to tie the back of the shirt with a hair band to keep it in place. I glance at our umpire, she is much older than I am, and I admire how confident she looks as she uses clear hand signals to communicate with the other umpire. I make a promise to myself to be just like her when I’m older.

Before I can think, the centre of my new team, Lucy, jumps into the circle and the crisp sound of a whistle follows. I dash forward. The cheering from the parents suddenly feels far in the distance and all I can hear is the loud pounding of my heartbeat. The defender is hot on my heels as I run and she leaps in front of me, slapping the ball from my grasp. I feel my stomach drop with disappointment, but I don’t let it stop me. I redeem myself by darting in front of my opponent and defend her with my hands up. The ball is swiftly passed down the court and the Palmyra’s Goal Shooter dodges her player and scores with an easy flick of the wrist.

I sprint back into position; trying to mimic how the defender positioned herself to stop me on the first pass. I scuff the court to position my left foot at the line and tense my back leg muscles in anticipation.

Determination invigorates me. I feel lighter on my toes this time as the whistle is blown. I race in front of my player and manage to stop her from running forward for the pass. The centre looks around frantically as the three seconds tick down and tries to pass but Lucy is too fast. She whacks the airborne ball causing its course to diverge straight into her arms.

“Good job Lucy!” I cheer. I drop into my position for our set play and fake running out, but at the last moment I spin in the opposite direction, losing my opponent to receive the chest pass. Elation rises in me like bubbles in a milkshake. I lob the ball to our wing attack at the base of the goal circle and run around her as fast as I can. With a swift leg split, I have the ball and I pivot on my foot closest to the goalpost. I glance nervously at the Goal Shooter, and she gives me an encouraging nod. I bend my arms and knees and flick my wrist just as my coach had taught me and the ball flies up and through the net with a satisfying swoosh

I can’t help myself from grinning as the parents on the sideline cheer and the Goal Shooter gives me a high five. The exhilaration of my first goal with the

team fills me with energy as I race back. Soon, I am in the flow of the game and I’m running, jumping, and passing with ease. The brisk air whooshes past my ears as I play, levitating my loose strands of dirty blond hair and filling my lungs with surging energy. I feel like I’m floating as I glide across the court. Each component of our team is working together perfectly like the gears in a clockwork. It takes me back to home and the feeling is euphoric.

I now know that with this team backing me, I can get through anything my new school throws at me… Especially if it is a netball.

Part 2.

The piercing wind whips my purple cheeks and stings my chapped lips as I run through the morning’s icy haze. My sneakers and socks soak up the water droplets clinging to blades of grass, leaving my feet sodden and numb. I shakily reach for the screen of my watch with blue fingers, to change the interval on my timer. My nails are illuminated in the dawn light. It casts a spotlight on how chewed and mangled they are from the psychological agony of the racing season.

My bitten-down nails are a fun by-product of not sleeping last night. Lying awake knowing how much I needed sleep sent me spiralling downwards. I couldn’t stop myself from fixating on the importance of getting enough rest for training. Before I could try to calm down, my heart was pounding uncontrollably, and I felt pressure on my chest suffocating me.

Meanwhile, paranoia had been racing through my head and had demolished reason. When I closed my eyes, I couldn’t stop thinking about everything and anything that could go wrong in my race. I imagined the feeling of lactic acid building up in my legs, making them heavy and useless. I imagined it screwing up my race plan. Not being able to keep my pace… Not qualifying. Enduring the guilt as my parents give me masked smiles and fabricated reassurance.

It should come as no surprise that my paranoia, accompanied by her cheer squad anxiety, has been winning the race lately. An alert from my watch reads “behind target pace” snapping me back to reality. I swipe up, and my watch reads:

24:47.62

182BPM

3’54” ROLLING KM

4.85KM

My pace for this interval isn’t good enough. I need to stay focused on pushing myself if I’m ever going to make it to nationals. I will my legs to run faster until they start to burn, (as I gasp?) gasping in shaky breaths. I can’t disappoint my coach. I need to get a good placing. I can’t put to waste all the work everyone’s put into getting me this far. I’m thinking about everything at once and I can’t stop. Each thought leads down another twisted road of doubts, each tightens my throat more and more until I’m suffocating. But I can’t stop running. My watch keeps buzzing me, rubbing it in my face that I’ll never make it. My face and body are burning up despite the cold. Jagged breaths rasp out of me. I can’t stop. I know I need to, but I can’t. My wrists are balled into fists so tight that my nails dig into my skin. I wince as each step hits the floor and pain strikes through my shins.

Tears pool in my eyes, blurring my vision. Panic squeezes my throat like a vice. Everything is spinning and I have no sense of where I am.

“Mariah? Do you hear me? MARIAH! You have to stop.” I look around hysterically, the sound of my dad’s voice manages to jolt me. I collapse, gasping for air. I gag as bile rises in my throat. My hands tremble as I yank at my hair and squeeze my eyes closed. Hot tears slip down my face. My body is numb all over, but I feel my dad’s arm come around me. I hug my knees to my chest and let the tears fall.

Amberley Baker (Year 11)

Jaide McPhee (Year 10)

Slime Making is a Dangerous Business

Long story short, I stabbed myself. Not in a suicidal way, but in an accidental way. Let me explain.

It all began when I started my year five slime business. I was a budding entrepreneur and making major bank. I had just received a stack of orders, and started making those said orders, when I realized that my glue was tough, almost dried out. The ultimate consistency is stretchy warm glue with fresh shaving cream, ready for the activator (in this case, Borax – I did say this was a dangerous business) to blend in nicely. Panicking because I would have some unhappy 10-year-old girl customers, I attempted to problem solve.

I came up with the marvelous idea that to make the glue softer, I would simply melt it in the microwave. How genius. As I took the glue out of the microwave, I realized my brilliant plan had the opposite effect: the glue was now rock solid and stuck to the bowl.

This was a disaster. But, no worries, I had a new idea. Instead of waiting for my mum to come home and explaining the situation to her, I decided to grab a spoon and try to chip away at the glue. After a few hacks at the glue, I realized I needed something stronger, sharper –something more dangerous. So, I grabbed the biggest knife I could find and decided to start stabbing this rock-solid glue.

You might be thinking is this a child genius? How would she have ever thought of this amazing plan? Well, every plan has flaws, and as I was chipping away with this massive kitchen knife, the worst possible thing could have happened. The bowl slipped. I know - so tragic. But actually, it kind of was – I ended up with a massive kitchen knife stabbed through my wrist.

I took out the knife and stared at it for a few seconds. My arm was gushing blood, and I thought wow, I am going to die now. My entrepreneur career is over, my arm is gushing blood and I am going to die. I’m going to die at 10 years old. So, I did what any rational person would do, and started running around screaming while my arm was gushing blood, leaving a snail trail of my blood around the whole house Lucky for me, my sister was home at the time and was a responsible 12-year-old girl who decided to grab ahold of me and then squeeze my arm so more blood would gush out, and then freak out. What did she think was going to happen, she would squeeze my open arm wound and the bleeding would stop? Anyways we called my mum, who was at the football, and she got my cousin to come over to help us. My cousin decided to frantically wrap my arm up in 50 bandages and wait for my mum to come home. She reassured me that I would not die, thank God.

I was then taken to the hospital to get it stitched up. I could return to school the next day to continue my entrepreneur career, and deliver handmade slime to 10-year-old girls. Phew!

by Isabel McKenna (Year 10)

The Lettuce Disaster of ’22

Citizens outraged everywhere NSW, VIC, and more They can’t stand this lettuce tragedy

They’re attacking the KFC store

KFC announced something terrible Lettuce is cabbage disguised They can’t afford to sell the lettuce They’re feeding you with lies

Let us have lettuce, it’s all that we need!

People scream from the streets

Police are called to control the crowds

But today, there will be no peace.

The tear gas comes rushing in, The police haven’t seen this before. The colonel’s head: decapitated Lying on the floor.

Lettuce violence spreads through the nation, No-one is safe, they cry.

Karens, you can’t call the manager Tragically, they didn’t survive.

They found the poor NSW farmers

“WHERE IS THE LETTUCE GONE!”

The farmers will never wake up again

The rooster: Silent at dawn

The lettuce disaster of ‘22

Will go down in history.

Countless innocent lives were lost It was such a tragedy.

By Nicola Fallon (Year 7)

The Truth Has Spoken

Camp is exciting, Supposedly, Everyone with their friends, Bonding over fires and marshmallows.

Camp is exciting, Supposedly, Friendships as strong as metal, Laughing uncontrollably.

Camp is exciting, Supposedly, Perusing impenetrable activities, Breaking all boundaries.

Camp is atrocious, Genuinely, Secluded from your life-bond friendships, Eating while mosquitos eat you.

Camp is atrocious, Genuinely, Forced to pretend to like people, Crying internally.

Camp is atrocious, Genuinely, Moribundly forced to participate, Violating peace.

By Roshini Yasir (Year 8)

Hayley Kleyweg (Year 10)

Little Girl

In the study, there is a young girl. Her head tilts daintily to the side, gently smiling at her work. Her mahogany dress twists slightly, her long daffodil hair clinging to the fabric as her arm moves away from her paper. How pretty a painting this scene would be. The unadulterated young girl and her daffodil hair surrounded by a sea of dark furniture and leather-bound books, her offwhite paper and off-white skin, her hair a bright lantern guiding lost figures through the night. She is proud of her artwork. Crayons forgotten, she grasps the paper and holds it at eye level, eyes sparkling bright with undiluted joy. The dark, primitive outlines of a man scrawled across the page and synthetic red hastily drawn spurting from his neck were a source of infantile fascination. She has created this with her own hands! She skips out of the room, searching for her guardian to whom she can show off. She finds him in the living room, a cold draught whistling through the door from outside. She shivers involuntarily, her striped socks protecting her feet only partially from the chilly bite of the wooden floor. Ignoring the bitter cold, she laughs cheerfully and rushes to his slumped figure. She calls his name. She touches him. She does not notice the soft drips of blood staining the floor beneath his chair. She ignores the dark, gaping smile slashed across his neck and the blood splashed like paint across the table. Instead, she continues to laugh. “Father, father, look at what I drew!” If she had never drawn that artwork, this wouldn’t have happened. Abruptly, her laughter halts. “Father…I thought you were different from the others. You allowed me to draw whatever I wanted. The others used to lock away any pencils or crayons, keep any parchment out of my reach. I thought you were different. But as soon as I draw your portrait, you go on and die on me! How mean!” Despite her disappointed words, the smile remains on her face. She shakes her head, hair swaying side to side like a flower waving in the breeze. Her glass eyes shift towards the looming door to the outside. The draught beguiles her, wrapping its captivating promises of freedom around her ankles. How many years had she awaited this moment?

She was found at the feet of her parents’ corpses. When the adults saw, their eyes had filled with horror. Her drawings told the tale. She was taken away to the institution, with their cruel mothers and fathers. When they pieced together her cursed ability, the mothers and fathers would take her to their home and lock her away. Her first room had a window to the street. She envied the liberty given to adults. She would gaze out the window at them wistfully, watching them walk by on the streets, knowing that she would never get to experience that kind of freedom. Not without action. But what could a child do when their world was filled with the potency of adults?

First, she had cried. She would sit in her prison-like room in her temporary house, weeping on the floor,

thinking that surely, they would care enough to come and console her. But they never did. Next, she tried anger. She beat her tiny fists against the door locking her inside her room. She screamed until her voice was hoarse, until she could no longer speak aside from a pained rasping gasp. Her body ached, but she continued to heave objects about the room, smashing glasses to tiny fragments, all the while tears and mucus running down her distraught young face as her heart wailed with pain. After this, her first temporary parents gave her away, back to the institution. They were so blinded by their fear that they didn’t see her as human - they only saw a fiend. Instead of seeing her pain, they thought she caused ruckus to try to get her chubby hands on a pen and paper and draw them all to death. She longed for the gentle hands of a mother, like the ones she saw on the street, taking so much care to ensure their precious gems were never stolen, scratched or damaged. But the only eyes directed at her were filled with fear, loathing, and revulsion.

After a while, she changed tack. If she just forgot, turned back into what a little girl should be, everything would be okay. This was when her current father took her in. Oh, but he’s dead now. He was lulled into her ploy and became too pliant. He trusted her with pen and paper. This was his mistake. The little girl, who had smothered her feelings down for too long couldn’t help herself. It was her chance of freedom.

Ever since her now dead father had gifted her access to pen and paper, she had taken to hoarding. The pockets of her wears would be incessantly stuffed with paper, and she would never be seen without a pen in hand. There was no doubt she could survive on her own – she could draw whatever she desired. But what she really needed, she could not draw. She could not draw love into existence, she could not draw care.

Sighing, she skips towards the door to the outside and stretching for the handle, pushes outwards. The door groans in dismay at its brittle hinges, as if it knew that it should never have been opened by this young girl. Without bothering to put on shoes, she steps onto the icy, damp gravel which lines the pathway to the door. She walks towards the woods, breath clouding the air in front of her face. At last, she stops smiling. Her eyes morph into ones more suited to one who has already seen too much. As she steps into the first lining of trees, the marshy ground beneath her striped socks grows black. The last glimpse of her bright daffodil hair fades away as she disappears into the trees, leaving behind her a trail of mouldy earth floor and shrivelled up saplings. Throughout the woods the narcissuses whisper – her freedom was bought by blood.

Alia Salgado (Year 9)

ShiYing Liang (Year 8)

A Selfless Heart

She couldn’t tell if it was the raindrops or her tears that blurred her vision.

The walk to the hospital seemed longer than usual. Her eyes were dark and lifeless from sleepless nights. Evenings were consumed by ruminations, what would life mean without her husband?

The same scene replayed in her head; the daily hospital visits to see a loved man who may never come back. The sight of a man whose once sparkling, golden eyes were now dull and struggling. The arms of a man that would once welcome her in a warm embrace after a long day at work, now paralyzed and bedridden. The heart of a man who once shared love with her now battled to survive on a weak and faltering heartbeat. She shivered and snapped back to reality. Her clothes were drenched as she looked up to a sky of rainclouds that blanketed the monochrome city. It’s as if the clouds were crying with her. She fell to her knees. She buried her face in her hands and felt the coolness of her tears on her fingers. The hospital wasn’t too far now, but the weight of her grief chained her from going further.

It was only the sound of the rain on pavement and quiet sobs until a voice spoke.

“Would you care to chat?”

The woman looked to her left. A homeless figure, fully cloaked in black and wearing a kitsune mask sat on the pavement.

“What is your name?” His voice was quiet and muffled from the mask. It sounded alien and artificial.

“…Kiko,” the woman choked through tears.

“Kiko, I have seen you walk to this same hospital every day as I rest on the streets. Who are you visiting?”

Kiko didn’t bother to look up. “My husband…Kazuo. He was diagnosed with a cancerous heart tumour… these are his last days…” she lingered on the last word, refusing to accept it.

The cloaked man was silent.

Kiko cried violently. Suddenly, she broke into bawling.

“I just don’t understand why! Why must he go so soon? I can’t stand it anymore! I can’t stand watching him in so much pain! He coughs up blood! Blood! And sometimes…Sometimes he can’t even breathe!” Her throat felt hoarse from crying and screaming. She looked directly at the masked man.

“I’m afraid soon he might descend into sleep and never wake up. I might never see Kazuo again.”

The masked figure seemed to give no reaction. Kiko sniffled and wiped her eyes.

The rain continued.

Finally, the man spoke slowly.

“What if I told you, I can cure your husband, but you must make one sacrifice. Would you do it?” His voice was cunning, almost threatening, yet Kiko’s eyes widened.

“…C-cure Kazuo? You can do that?”

The man nodded.

“I’ll do anything!” she bawled, “I’ll do anything to see him well again! Please!” More tears streamed down her face. “Please! Anything! I would even give up my own life!”

The man perked up at the last sentence.

“Give up your own life to see him well again you say?” His voice was dangerously quiet.

“Yes! I’ll do anything!” she cried.

The masked man leaned in close to Kiko. He stared at her through the mask for what seemed like a long, long time. Finally, he spoke in a twisted voice that echoed through her mind.

“Your husband is cured.”

The hospital corridor was dim, yet a ray of sunlight peeked through the rainclouds, illuminating a rainbow streak on the wall.

Kiko stood behind the familiar door to Kazuo’s hospital room. A haunted look spread on her face. What if the masked figure didn’t fulfill my wish? What if Kazuo’s condition has gotten worse? Could I even trust that homeless man? How foolish I could’ve been!

Yet a giggle escaped from her throat. A giggle that turned into full, genuine laughter. The fact that there was a chance she could see her husband alive and thriving, left her hysterical with excitement. She giggled like her teenage self over Kazuo’s sparkling eyes. The childish nervousness before meeting a crush and all the memories she shared with Kazuo flooded back like a crashing wave. Hesitantly, she pushed the hospital door open.

“…Kazuo?”

“…Kiko?”

The man stood up from his hospital bed. The sunlight from the window highlighted his silhouette and defined his glowing figure.

He darted towards Kiko and enveloped his wife in a warm embrace. The couple returned to the sanctuary of their relationship, a home of love forged with trust and vulnerability, both thought such euphoria could only be achieved in a dream. Arms tightened as a promise to never be separated again. Kiko clung to her husband like a little child. She cherished the warmth, the world shrunk to be simple, soft, and loving; everything else disappeared.

Perhaps the universe is kind. It let me have my husband in flesh and bone, cured of his illness and loving me. She felt a steady heartbeat resonate against her chest. Genuine smiles lit up the couple’s faces.

“Let’s get out of here together,” Kazuo laced his fingers with Kiko’s.

As the couple walked towards the doorway hand in hand, Kiko swayed, unexpectedly dizzy. It’s probably just the excitement. What else could it be? An uncanny feeling grew in her gut. Maybe it’s just the surprise of knowing that he’s okay?

Suddenly, breathing was arduous. Kiko sucked in raggedy breaths. The world spun as black and white spots swirled through her vision.

“Kiko! Kiko are you okay!?”

Kazuo’s voice was drowned out by a shooting pain in Kiko’s chest. It’s as if a stone erupted in her heart, weighing it down. She collapsed to the ground. What’s happening!? Coughing, Kiko panicked at the coppery taste of blood coming up her throat. The world’s gravity seemed to strangle her heart. Kiko’s eyes flickered as she struggled. She had no strength to scream. Her vision blurred, and she opened her eyes for a final time before descending into darkness.

The sacrifice had been fulfilled.

By Saskia Catalan (Year 8)

Irene Jatmatama (Year 12)

Epilogue 2022