Epilogue: A Collection of Students' Creative Work

Epilogue

A Collection of Students' Creative Work

Foreword

I am thrilled to present the most recent compilation of Epilogue, comprising students' work from 2023. It is a testament to the talent and imagination of the students of All Saints’ College. Within these pages, you'll find a diverse array of voices, each offering a unique perspective on the human experience.

It is incredibly inspiring to see how our students explore, express, and connect with the world around them through their creative works. This magazine is a showcase of their efforts and a testament to the power of storytelling and art to captivate and inspire.

To the writers: your dedication and creativity shine through in each piece you've contributed. Thank you for sharing your voices with us and for reminding us of the beauty and power of language and creativity.

To our readers: I invite you to dive into these pages with an open mind and a sense of curiosity. Whether you find yourself transported to distant worlds or reflecting on familiar experiences, I hope these stories leave a lasting impression.

Thank you for joining us on this literary journey.

Natasha Saunders, Acting Head of English

Cover Art By Andy Zhou (Year 10)

Editor's Note

What an amazingly creative and talented group of writers and artists we have at ASC! We also have an equally talented group of editors, so I would like to offer a big thank you to the student editorial team of Dominique To, Sue-Ning Chee, Madison Every, Kyle Stuart and Amber Lynch who reviewed submissions, made suggestions, helped select artworks and assisted with flatplan ideas. They worked really well together as a team and brought insight and creativity to their roles.

A big thank you, also, to Alexis van Leeuwen, Chloe Mitchell, Sherry Zeng and others who have worked on the design of Epilogue – you’ve made it look beautiful.

Included in this edition are five extracts from our 2023 Write a Book in a Day books which were created by teams of students in a twelve hour period. If you would like to read the whole book, you will find them all here: https://writeabookinaday.com/library/.

I am sure you will enjoy this compilation of student work and once again will join me in appreciating the amazing array of ideas, images, word choices and creative expression.

Rev. Liz

The Gilded Seraph

By Aiden Thum (Year 11)

Nestled in the heart of the city, where the bustling streets surrendered to the gentle embrace of cobblestone pathways, there stood an exquisite café known as "The Gilded Seraph." Its facade was adorned with ornate golden motifs and towering windows draped in velvety crimson, beckoned patrons to step into a world of opulence and refinement.

As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm, amber glow upon the street, "The Gilded Seraph" came alive with the soft murmurs of patrons. Crystal chandeliers suspended like luminous constellations illuminated the mosaic-tiled floor where antique furniture invited guests to linger in luxury.

Amidst this picturesque setting, two souls, David, and Isabella, found themselves drawn to the cafe for an evening of shared conversation and lingering glances. David, a passionate artist with dreams of painting masterpieces in different corners of the world, possessed an unwavering determination that could sometimes border obsession. Isabella, a spirited writer with a deep love for home and roots, brought a comforting perspective to their union. Their connection, as fragile as a porcelain teacup, was imbued with an air of anticipation.

Their evening, initially brimming with promise, soon veered toward a world of misunderstanding. As a symphony of laughter and clinking china enveloped them, a disagreement about their future grew into a tempestuous argument. Voices sharpened like shards of glass threatening to shatter the serenity of the Gilded Seraph.

"David, you can't just move to a foreign country on a whim," Isabella declared, her eyes flashing with frustration, "We have responsibilities here, our families, our careers."

David, his artistic fervour consuming him, retorted, "Isabella, you know how much this means to me. I can't ignore an opportunity to paint in France. It's a dream come true."

The crescendo of their quarrel reached a breaking point, and amid their heated exchange, Isabella stormed from the café, leaving David alone amidst the opulent decor. The chandeliers seemed to dim, mirroring his desolation.

In the aftermath of their argument, David felt an emptiness gnawing at him. Regret weighed heavily on his heart. He yearned to make amends, to reclaim the harmony they had lost. Summoning his courage, David rose from his seat, determined to find Isabella, and reconcile. As he stepped onto the cobblestone pathway, the city lights twinkled like distant stars, guiding him in his quest to mend their fractured connection.

David found Isabella standing beneath a lamppost, her gaze fixed on the shimmering reflection of rainslicked cobblestones. The night air charged with an unspoken longing as their eyes met, conveying apologies words could not express. It was at this moment that they both knew their shared bond was worth mending.

Isabella’s eyes softened, "David, you know we have to make life decisions together, as a team, moving to a foreign country is an enormous step.” David agreed.

With a gentle touch, David reached for Isabella's hand, and she allowed herself to be drawn close, their hearts beating in unison. The city, a silent witness to their reconciliation, seemed to exhale with relief.

Returning to The Gilded Seraph, their tumultuous evening gave way to a newfound serenity. Their lingering argument had become a testament to the strength of their connection. The gilded seraph once marred by discord, now radiated with the warmth of their renewed love.

As they shared a steaming coffee beneath the chandeliers' luminous embrace, The Gilded Seraph bore witness to a love rekindled. In the quiet moments of their evening, they discovered that amidst the grandeur of life's fanciest settings, it was the authenticity of their love that truly mattered. And so, they penned a new chapter, one defined by the resounding harmony of their hearts. In this timeless sanctuary, they learned that love, when nurtured with understanding and forgiveness, could be as enduring as the golden motifs that adorned the café’s facade, and as beautiful as the music of a love song played by a master pianist in the night.

Raphie Benjamin (Year 11)

Echoes Of Redemption

An

Extract By Ali Zakareia (Year

8)

Andy Zhou

In the darkened streets of a gang-infested neighbourhood, Jaylen Jeffries, known as "Jay “, to his friends, dreamt of a life beyond the suffocating grip of violence and poverty. With each passing day, the weight of the trauma and bloodshed he had seen grew heavier on his young shoulders. But Jaylen was no ordinary young man; he possessed a quick wit and a resilient spirit that allowed him to navigate the treacherous world he found himself in. Jaylen had a burning desire to break free, not only for himself but also for his loved ones and the entire community that had become trapped in the cycle of despair. He wanted to achieve his lifelong dream of being a successful rapper, not like the rest - he had goals and aspirations he wanted to achieve with his younger brother to live a nice peaceful life and achieve true inner peace. The gang leader, a figure who stood for all that was wrong in their neighbourhood, had become the root of their suffering. Jaylen was determined to cut this source of evil and bring justice to those who had been held hostage for far too long.

However, tragedy struck before Jaylen could set his plan into motion. His younger brother, an innocent soul caught in the crossfire of gang violence, became a casualty of their ruthless actions. Grief consumed Jaylen, fuelling a thirst for revenge that burned deep within him. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go, Jaylen’s mind suddenly flooded with memories of his brother and their shared dreams of rapping etched in his broken heart. Jaylen would always spit the hardest bars and Ayden was a master with making the beats. He closed his eyes and remembered the late-night conversations they would always have imagined a life beyond the suffocating grip of the neighbourhood. Now it was personal, his desire to break free and achieve the success they had always dreamed of together. The gang leader, aware of Jaylen's intentions, took sadistic pleasure in taunting him, knowing that Jaylen's anger and thirst for vengeance would lead him into a dangerous game of cat and mouse.

Determined to bring down the gang leader, Jaylen hatched a daring plan with the support of his loyal friends, Malik, and Maya. Malik was a very strong powerful young man that would take advantage of his situation and always push through no matter how beat up he was. Maya was a very emotionally intelligent young woman; she understood people perfectly. Malik’s physical qualities, Maya’s people skills, Jay’s strong spirit and Jay’s brother Ayden’s innocence and book smarts (while still being humorous) made an amazing group all working hard to achieve their goals. Now that Ayden had been killed, they had even more determination to avenge him and bring justice to this community. Together, they meticulously plotted every move, aiming to dismantle the toxic hierarchy that had plagued their community for far too long. Their determination knew no bounds as they prepared for the ultimate showdown.

But unbeknownst to Jaylen, the people he trusted most, Malik and Maya, had succumbed to the intoxicating allure of a hefty bribe offered by the cunning gang leader himself. In a cruel twist of fate, their hearts became tainted by greed, leading them to abandon Jaylen in his most vulnerable hour and align themselves with the very person they were supposed to confront. However, the truth would not remain hidden for long. One fateful day, as Jaylen was rummaging through a pile of discarded fastfood wrappers in a dimly lit alley, his eyes caught sight of something that made his heart stop. There, scribbled on the torn edge of a crumpled wrapper, were the chilling details of Malik and Maya's plan.

It was a chilling revelation, as if fate had conspired to expose their deceit. Every word on that greasy piece of paper echoed their betrayal and revealed the depths to which they had fallen. Anger burned within him, but so did a deep sense of disappointment and betrayal. 'How could they do this?' Jaylen's thoughts echoed, his voice filled with a mix of disbelief and seething rage. They had always grown up together in the broken cold streets of the ghetto, and always had dreams of something bigger, something outside this hood but somehow, they were willing to sacrifice it all for a temporary feeling of power and increased material wealth.

Jaylen confronted Malik and Maya, their guilt evident. They confessed their alliance with the gang leader, driven by greed and power. The weight of their betrayal bore down on Jaylen's heart, threatening to crush him under its unbearable burden. The sting of betrayal cut deep, slicing through Jaylen's soul, and leaving him in a state of profound shock and disbelief. The foundations of trust crumbled beneath his feet, leaving him standing alone in the face of adversity, questioning not only the loyalty of those he held dear but also the essence of human nature itself.

Tears streamed down Jaylen's face as he listened to their hollow justifications, their words falling on deaf ears. The pain of their betrayal was unbearable, piercing his heart with a sorrow that would forever haunt him. In that moment, he felt a profound loss, not only of his trusted friends but also of the innocence and faith he had placed in them.

At a pivotal crossroads, Jaylen carried the weight of his newfound knowledge, torn between vengeance and redemption. Despite the anguish, he chose to rise above and channel his emotions into a relentless pursuit of justice, vowing to dismantle the toxic hierarchy that plagued their community, fuelled by the betrayal he had endured.

Chloe Wong (Year

The Thorn that Grows from Every Rose

By Sophia Clement (Year 7)

Friday, 11/8/18. Silver streams of light pass through the window beside me. I sink into the bed, closing my eyes into dreamtime. Rosemary grabs my arm, aggressively flinging it about in the hope to wake me.

“I’m going to go play with the dogs, I’ll be back soon” she says approaching the door. Despite my blurry sight, I sit upright on the soft mattress, reaching for my battered phone on the nearby shelf.

As I swipe it off the chipped surface, I hear ringing. I pick it up to hear a recognisable tone, one I fail to pinpoint. “Ebony…”. I’ve heard that name before. “… You have stolen someone”.

The connection breaks. I sit there, shaking. I look down at the screen, attempting to catch the number of the mysterious voice.

“043...” I muttered to myself. “54…”. I continue to verbalize the series of digits… until I realise the number belongs to me. How have I stolen myself? I struggle to grasp the foreign concept.

Hours later, Rosemary bounces back into my room with more energy than she’d left. “Yo! Sis, what’s up?” … “Sorry I stayed so long, puppies are so cute, you can’t stop staring at their little faces.”

I stayed silent, drawing her attention to my paled complexion. “You alright? You looked like you just saw a ghost”.

She softened her voice, becoming more aware of my inability to express the ideas swirling through my head. “Rosie, I-I a-am R-Ruby, ri-right?” I say, stuttering with every word.

“Well… duh. Who else would you be?” she replies with laughter peeking through her words. Though it was a joke to her, my mind fought with my memories to find the definition of Ruby Smith, who is she?

I remain consumed by inside thoughts until Rosemary’s next words: “You’re you. My sister, a kind person, a loving friend”. My brain was

baffled by her positive affirmations. Was I? Or has someone else created this view of me? Rosemary gives me a blank stare.

A dashing blood-red clip falls from her silky locks. The rose addition feels familiar.

“Mum will be home soon; I’ll leave you and your shaking self be.” She cautiously walks out of the room, with confusion emanating from her being. I too understand her disoriented state centring this unheard situation.

As soon as her foot steps out the door, I dash to the rusty computer. Scrambling my fingers on the keyboard, I shot to the web in aspiration to find me. A document appeared on the cracked screen: ‘Ruby Smith, daughter of Rachel and Colton Smith. 13 years of age, sister to 1 – adopted after the loss of Ebony Smith’.

“My mum, my dad, Rosie” … “Who’s Ebony?” I whispered. Bewilderment clouded my brain. I dug into a related article: ‘The Smiths adopted one young girl; Ruby, following Ebony Smith's tragic passing. The cause of death is yet to be found. Updated 2014.’

I scroll further through the plethora of writings; they were all about… Ebony? ‘2015: no information on death, 2016: no information on death, 2017: no information on death.’

As I hear noises coming from the hallway, I hastily turn off the device and dive into bed, too scared to even glance at my phone. "Ruby, come for dinner!" I hear Mum call.

Despite the horrifying text I had just read, I manage to conceal my expression. “Coming!” I say, using the last of my certainty.

While the family eat dinner, I plan my next steps to escape this hole I’d fallen into. Once mealtime concludes, I bolted up to my room, in search of answers. I ignore my hidden terror towards my phone and dial the number I once thought belonged to me. “Help me”, I started the conversation.

“You are not you. You’re me”, they reply. The conversation finishes.

I call again. “Ebony's life reached a standstill several years ago, transforming you”. The words raise a petrifying suspicion.

I’m Ebony. Ebony is hiding under Ruby’s form. Ebony died but her flourishing soul continues to reside in Ruby. I resist the urge to scream. What happened to me? Flustered, I begin examining the dangers in my surroundings. I feel the desk's sharp corners and the room's low ceiling. I was 13, it couldn’t have been old age. If it was with family, it would’ve been reported, right? I become anxious over the location where I took my last breath.

I spend my night twisting and turning over the circumstance that killed me. The only reasonable explanation would be murder, but who … and why? I begin contemplating my life desperately trying to uncover the root of the purposeful kill. It could be jealousy, ignoring the small unique qualities I possessed. Fear, revenge, anger; why these emotions towards a regular, young girl? I can’t comprehend the murderer’s intention. I decide on obtaining physical evidence to prove the reason my life came to a halt.

I creep out of bed in the dim light, balancing on silent footsteps to my wardrobe. With a gentle touch, I look through my mass of filthy shoes and clothing to reveal a clue. After no success, I travel to the desk. Coughing on the mound of dust in the drawers, I come to find a photo. A photo I’ve never seen before. It consisted of Rosemary and me, alongside our two guardians. We were at a beach, with visible waves hitting the rocks. I observe my bright facial features and delicate brown hair, with a blood-red clip, in which incorporated was a rose. I link the piece to my sister’s entrance the day before. Recovering from my aghast reaction, I scrutinise my bedroom, embezzling any treasures into a petite bag I find in my hunt.

After a long while, I hear thumps through the hallway. I plummet back into bed, sneaking my finds under the thick covers. I pretend to be deep in slumber. The door opens; “Ruby? Are you up?” Rosemary questions.

I reply with silence. “Oh sorry” she says, slowly shutting the door with minimal sound as she exited. I pull the various items towards me, studying each one closely. My collection included an engraved ‘Ebony’ bracelet, a doorknob and the photo. I anxiously wait until the breaking of dawn the next morning.

I cuddle into bed, falling into an inquiry about my discoveries. I prop my eye against the objects, noting every detail. I notice subtle graffiti on the doorknob; it announces the name: Rosie. My jaw shatters on the ground. I refuse to believe my innocent sister may be responsible for Ebony’s transformation.

Being alert of everyone’s sweet delusion, I swerve through the bedrooms and into the laundry, enabling my access to the crusty ladder. I climb up the wobbly join of logs and reach the forbidden attic. I rattle the hoard of boxes, different items meeting my eye. I pause when I unveil a match.

Rosemary’s original script, including a signature, identical to that on the doorknob. I feel betrayal circulate through my blood. I continue with vigilance; aware the perpetrator was under the same roof. Surely, I took one step after another, eventually descending the ladder and climbing into bed.

I squint at my phone. She’s the voice. I snatch it from the desk. “Where is me- Ebony? ” I hush my voice to its lowest volume. “Follow your spirit” Ruby replies. It was my voice that strived for the termination of this discovery.

Muddled by the vague instructions, my eyes wander around the dull space, in search of additional clues. I cease when I notice the dusty mirror there long before Ruby’s existence. Smudges cover Ruby’s reflection. I investigate the thousands of petite marks, collectively becoming a set of directions. Right, Left, Left, Left, Forward’. Being led by the guide, I am soon awaited by a plain, knobless door. I withdraw my prior find and jam it into the wood. As the entrance widens, I peek at the interior. An inky casket lays in the centre of the room, and on the crown…

Is a rose.

Eva Chi (Year

Blackout Poetry

By Alicia Best (Year 8)

By

Jessica Frame (Year 8)

The Ruby Through Time

The early morning hustle and bustle woke Liora as excitement filled the air. It was the final hours just before the wedding of her friend Anne Boleyn. She quickly pulled on her corset and ran up the stairs, as the questioning eyes of guards followed her. Liora knew she should be intimidated and probably would have been if not for the utter joy that was flowing through her. “Don’t you dare act like that around the Queen to be! Calm yourself Liora,” Jane Seymour, the lady in waiting, scolded Liora. Ignoring Jane’s harsh words, she burst into Anne’s chamber. “I can’t believe you are about to rule England, but it would be nice if it was for love,” Liora chimed as she helped Anne with her hair. “I know but there’s not much else I can do, “she sighed in frustration.

Liora turned to look at the mirror as her pure white hair cascaded down her shoulder. The thing that had caused her the most trouble but had also led had also led her to Anne, she had always seen it as a curse until that fateful day when they met. Anne was a beautiful person inside and out even if the rest of the country hated her. They switched positions and Anne quickly did up Liora’s hair in a high bun and placed a necklace around her neck which made Liora gasp.

“You can’t give me this it’s your favourite, I can’t, I won’t accept it,” Liora exclaimed shocked.

Anne chuckled, “No, you’re my favourite.”

An Extract By Ruby Adams, Anna Gray Penelope Duff, Amelia Hall, Ameila Winzar, Stacie Purdy and Amanda Tang (Year 9 “Write a Book in a Day” group)

The Abyss Sea

By Sue-Ning Chee (Year 8)

When I dream, I dream of the ocean. Bright and blue, crystal clear. Filled with the most gorgeous plants, from coral to seaweed to underwater flowers. I dream of sea creatures. It is beautiful.

That is why no one suspects when it swallows you whole. Into the darkness.

My feet quiver as I step onto the platform, hands numb from the cold, and lips chapped and dry. A breeze flounders with my hair and tickles my skin, and the floor still seems to sway beneath me.

“Xavier? Are you listening?” The voice seems to come from far away.

“Sorry,” I murmur, face flushing.

“Anyways,” my instructor continues, shooting me a look, “The Abyss Sea is incredibly dangerous. You are here to get abyssal pearls. That’s it and that’s all, so be careful. You all remember your training, so use it carefully.”

Abyssal pearls. One of these can go for a million dollars. Why are they so expensive? They are gorgeous, enhancing one’s beauty to the point that others feel affection for them. It is a painful irony, truly, that such beautiful things are found in such a hideous place.

“Align your boots on the platform.”

I step forwards, correcting mine into the faded outlines. Several gaps show from either side, just a stark and simple reminder of everything that is wrong. I strap the buckles around my waist, tightening them as hard as possible. The platform starts to lower, every centimetre making my heart race, the glass helmet snapping over my head. The embrace of the ocean begins to meet us, until I feel that we are fully under the waters.

Hands shaking, I unstrap myself from the platform, my last lifeline gone. Just the ocean and I now. Taking a deep breath through the helmet, I propel myself into the darkness, the others following suit. The water seems to swallow all noise there is, until I can only hear myself breathe. I flick on the headtorch, immersing the environment around me in a languished yellow glow. Taking a deep breath, I take in the area, my mind preparing for what horrors I am about to witness.

Black, slick rocks sit near coral, which is blue and mottled, as though infected. Besides it hovers an octopus, eyes pitch black as though staring into my soul. It looks like a place for the living dead, and as I descend further, the feeling of isolation begins to overcome me.

It’s so quiet.

It’s the type of quiet that makes you feel stressed, not relaxed. It’s the type of quiet that makes you scared, not calm.

It’s the type of quiet that makes you feel like you are about to die.

Is this it? Am I going insane? No. I have come too far to be broken. I kick and swim, my instincts guiding me as I whirl through the abyss, leaving bubbling trails in my wake. It is almost fun, and for a moment, I can understand why some people would risk their lives to have this profession.

But I still cannot shake this feeling…

This feeling of being watched. I turn, and the shadows dance in my vision, playing with my eyes.

It’s then I know I am not alone.

The shadows move again, and I gasp, the sound disappearing in quick haste, like this creature has drunk all sound from the waters. The rumours, the stories that I thought were lies… they are all true. The monsters of the sea aren’t figments of anyone’s imagination. They’re reality. Suddenly, I can hear my instructor’s voice.

“Monsters are myths. But here, all myths are real.”

I press up against a black rock, desperate not to be noticed. It’s then that I see it. A sleek grey body that ends off with a fine black tail that darts about, dark as the night. It has too many curves, as though it has been reformed by an amateur sculptor. At what I assume is its waist a silver cloak billows, as though blown by invisible wind. Atop the splash of white hair on its head sits a tiara, adorned with a shining objectan abyssal pearl. But it looks cracked, like it’s been dropped far too many times. Another thought comes to bursting through the fog of panic, from a book that I read as a child with my grandfather, about how abyssal pearls gained their powers.

“They belonged to mermaids, Xavier. Each had a pearl. However, when they broke it, many say that they’re cursed to turn into something else. A monster.” I’d always thought that story was nothing but imagination. But... is that what this- thing is? A mermaid turned monster? It doesn’t look like it could ever have been beautiful.

It nears, until my heart is beating so loudly in my ears, I could go deaf from it. It’s coming closer, and yet I can’t move, can’t look away. Time seems to still as it floats in front of me, and our eyes meet. Nature green to ocean blue. Land meeting sea. It doesn’t speak, doesn’t move, and we remain in a terrifying silence for what feels like hours.

Then, suddenly, it reaches out with a greyish webbed hand and touches my arm. My eyes widen, the sudden motion jarring my senses. For a moment, I feel like a lifeless body drifting in the ocean with nothing but a beating heart. Nobody would believe me if I told them I met a monster.

“Who are you? A land dweller?” The creature’s voice unlike anything I’ve heard before, both haunting and melodic. It feels like a thousand voices all at once, the sound resonating through my very bones.

“I… yes-”

“Finally…” It hisses, and before I can even form a coherent thought, it grabs my left arm, this time harsh and strong. I struggle to get out of its grip, then look up. Its eyes have turned a black, stormy blue, like there is a maelstrom gathering within.

I exhale sharply, trying to pull back, but it’s surprisingly powerful. So, this is it. I’m going to be kidnapped by a monster, and lured into an abyss from which nothing returns. It sounds unreal, as though I’m living in a dream I can never wake from.

I am going to die here.

I feel like crying, but I know it’s pointless. I know that people only cry because they think someone will hear them, cradle them into their arms, whisper comforting words into their ears. But I also know that here, my voice is silent. I can scream my life and dignity away and the only thing I will receive is death. For no one will hear me, as this is the abyss.

It grips my arm tighter, and I come to my senses. I can feel its webbed fingers digging through my skin, even with the suit.

Suit.

With a flash of realisation, I reach into my belt with my free hand and yank out my metal pick, made for digging out abyssal pearls. But today, it will serve a different purpose. In a split second, I slash the pick against the creature, and it releases my arm, shrieking. It reaches for my legs, and I barely avoid its grasp, dodging, adrenaline pumping through me.

I will survive.

All that’s left to do now is swim. So, I do. I pedal and I kick with great gusto, the creature barely a few centimetres behind me. I’m so close I can see the light. It’s bright and safe and warm.

All that’s left to do now is swim. So, I do. I pedal and I kick with great gusto, the creature barely a few centimetres behind me. I’m so close I can see the light. It’s bright and safe and warm.

I will survive.

My head breaks the surface and I release the helmet, taking great gulping breaths of fresh air, and I can hear the creature crying out. It’s the sunlight, I realise. They can’t be in the sunlight. I snap on the helmet again and sneak a look into the water.

It’s gone. I feel strong, powerful, like the very life of the sun has been absorbed into my skin, it’s energy seeping into my body. I made it. Yes, I made it!

I’m alive...

When I dream, I dream of the sea. Dark, murky waters. Hands that snatch you into the abyss. I dream of haunting voices. It’s horrifying. Terrible.

And it’s after another sleepless night when I hear the voice.

“Run, land dweller, until your bones break and your shins snap. Until your legs crumble to dust. Until your heart beats no longer. Run as fast and as far as you can. It doesn’t matter. I will still find you. Until your end.”

And I wake, gasping for breath.

Just a nightmare. Just a nightmare.

Breathing in and out until my heart settles and the stress releases.

It’s only when I see it that I

Truly

Do Scream.

Andy Zhou (Year 10)

Bus Stop at the Waiting

By Katie Biddulph (Year 11)

Get on the bus, just get on the bus. His restless hands fidgeted in his lap, popping every knuckle with relentless force. Get on the bus. The bus door closed. He wanted to stand up, he wanted to move forward, he wanted to get on the bus, but he was glued to the seat of the bus stop and his feet had been stuck in concrete. He did not get up. He watched as the bus that was mere metres away from him pulled back out onto the road, off to deliver passengers who had the decency to get on the bus once they waved it down. A part of his heart sunk as the bus disappeared, he was sure that he had had the courage to get on this time. He dropped his head into his palms and cursed himself for being such a coward. He stood up and kicked his backpack, sending it toppling away from him. It was filled with everything he owned. All of his belongings condensed into a dirty, black backpack. Why can’t I get on the bus? It was what felt like the 100th time that he had watched the bus pull away from the bus stop without him on it. Sometimes he thought he could see himself sitting on the bus through the window, jeering at him as it pulled onto the road. Gloom overcame him as he sat back down, waiting for the next bus that would arrive soon enough.

At 16 years old, Kyle was a tall and strong boy with pale skin and dark circles around his eyes. It had been a long time since he had gotten a full night’s sleep, and the bench of the bus stop wasn’t a particularly desirable mattress. He moved his belongings to one side and made room on the bench as a woman with a pile of grey hair and a cane approached to sit down. The wrinkles on her face danced to acknowledge his presence as her mouth cracked into a toothy grin. She took a seat on the opposite end of the bench, and the boy acknowledged her with a nod and eye contact. They sat in silence. Across the road, Kyle noticed a mother and son cooking in the window across the street. He felt memories start to flood back to him as he remembered the warm embrace of his own mother, the beautiful woman who he had not seen or heard from in weeks. The memories were tinged with sadness as he recalled that he was the reason he had not seen her. Kyle had made bad decisions that led him to this bus stop, yet this was the path

that he had chosen, and there was now only one way to get off.

When he was kicked out, he had thrown things. Everything that was in sight bore the burden of his rage as he kicked and screamed and punched until there was only emptiness inside of him. He could smell the alcohol on his breath and the sweat on his shirt as spit flew out of his mouth as he towered over her. His mother had not reacted. She had held her ground like the saint she was as he threw things at her, shrieking the ugliest words imaginable. It was the same thing she had done when Kyle’s father had acted out. “Out.” He could still remember the resonate sound of her voice as she commanded him to leave the house. He regretted everything. He hated thinking about it, about who he was, about the person he had become. He had never achieved anything; he was just an enraged bag of muscles and strength that ruined everything he touched. The intense emotions that he felt from that memory made him wish that he had something in his hand to take away his pain, a bottle, a needle, anything. Something that would give him a rush, make him feel invincible or perhaps even numb. Something that forgives all his short comings and lack of talent so he could feel free. He craved the feeling that coursed through his veins when he had it. He craved the escape that it gave him, the power. His body began to shake as a cold sweat ran down his spine and he felt an overwhelming rage replace the empty hole that had been his soul just a few seconds ago. Digging his nails into his palms, Kyle brought himself back to earth, back to the present. Remember where you are. With shaky breaths he fought his anger, subduing it until the beast that it was had cowered back into its cave. He heaved a sigh of relief. It was slowly becoming easier to control his anger. Painstakingly slow, but it was becoming easier. He closed his eyes and focused on his breathing when the lady who had become invisible sitting on the bench beside him spoke

“You look troubled young man, is there something I can help you with? Is there something you need?” Her voice was like a cloud in a bright blue sky, reminding him that he had his feet on the ground.

“I’m fine,” he responded. He shielded his face away from view, avoiding her unobtrusive gaze that had seen him in a moment of weakness. A melodic rhythm began to sound as his shoe tapped in a fast pace against the floor. The lady nodded and returned to the knitting that she had retrieved from her bag, working at a fast pace decreasing the size of the yarn ball that sat placidly next to her.

Other strangers gathered at the bus stop, and as the next bus was waved down, Kyle picked up his bag and placed it on his lap. He felt the strangers shift away from him, regarding him with infiltrating stares. The bus stopped in front of him, and he drew a sharp breath. That same, strangling feeling overcame him as he felt his feet sink into the concrete and the cool rock solidify around his ankles. He had to leave, he had to get better. To move away from the environment who had created the monster inside of him was both the easiest decision and the harshest reality all at once.

The old lady stood as she gathered her belongings, ready to get on the bus. The strangers ignored her presence, continuing on with their lives without giving the woman a second glance, but Kyle watched. He watched as her hands shook as her feet dragged along the floor as she made her way towards the bus, she paused as she reached the edge of the kerb, sizing up the large step that was in front of her. “Will you help me young lad?” Her eyes met Kyle’s. The words hung in the air as a sense of waiting fell across the street. Without conscious thought the cement around Kyle’s feet liquified and he moved to help the lady, flinging his backpack onto his back. He held out his arm and the lady’s fragile fingers wrapped around his forearm as she took a tentative step onto the bus. The step that had seemed like a mountain just a few moments before, was suddenly a step they could make effortlessly together. Kyle glanced at the bench behind him, still supporting the woman on the step, and he knew if he didn’t make the decision now, he wouldn’t make the decision ever, and the bus stop wouldn’t keep waiting for him.

Kyle Stuart (Year 10)

Roses lament 1

What it means to be a flower,

Should I live a life as right.

To lounge my leaves ‘neath trees that tower,

To swallow rains and drink the light.

My sisters, brothers bloom in belts,

To kiss the earth where hands but felt.

I sleep in sun, and sleep in moon,

But we, my rose sing different tunes.

I may walk the valley's breadth,

But play a different role in death.

For when not anchored to the earth,

We men return to hum and hearth.

For though I move from place to face,

We both await with shining face

By Kyle Stuart (Year 10)

Maddy Ong (Year 12)

Roses lament 2

My sweet red rose, my heart is blue No breath of joy, no caring hands, Today I speak my woe to you, And sweetly say the thorns of man.

Thy sweet suppose, you sunlight kissed, We cannot compare to this, A man lives life in light refrain, But rage is held within his name

Names hold folds, and folds and depths, They hold our joy, our life in spark, Its face remains in kind effects, Its corners stay content in dark

Our roots in dark, in this we kin The rose in earth, the soul in sin, But should we stay and shadows tend, Would spell aloud the fall of men

Listen rose, and hear my oath, My brothers sisters, take my vow, Find a way, in darkness cope, Fix the flaws and life endow

I am cruel, I am vain And all my corners share this pain, Against my nature I concede To what awaits who live in greed

Do not worry, don’t despair, I do not wish to frenzy fright You will not understand my prayer, That roots may someday grow in light

By Kyle Stuart (Year 10)

Happy birthday

By Axel Rafferty TSS (Year 10)

I know I’m no longer there to wipe your tears. To disprove all your fears. Happy birthday.

I know we are over, and those days have past. Like time we ended all too fast. There’s nothing I wouldn’t do to see your face Say tomorrow won’t be the same, as we embrace. Happy birthday.

I know today you don’t want to ponder or celebrate.

But when the stars brought us together, it was fate. Both considered freaks. We hated the same cliques. Sixteen, a day suited for a king. I'll blow out the candles. take a deep breath and sing, Happy Birthday

I can’t just brush off the 28th Like crumbs on a plate. It's the day that reminds you of the lonely darkness. Celebrating feels harmless. We should be together, opening presents. Laughing at our adolescence. Pretending our love wasn’t severed. Happy Birthday

Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Staring at the clock.

I'll wait every year as the days tick by. Typing these words, wondering why. We can't just celebrate your special day. So instead my mind will replay.

Blowing out your candles as dust covers over memories.

December 28th, a day that never heals.

Happy Birthday.

Jodie Rankin (Year 11)

From a Chrysalis

By Holly Harban (Year 9)

It was a halcyon day, the smell of summer wafted in the air, and birds chirped in the trees with the drum of a woodpecker in the distance. It was a day filled with the joys of living. The three boys laughed, their long-awaited early morning adventure had led to lifted spirits and an abundance of excitement. Billy shifted his rucksack to a more comfortable position, ran a hand through his carroty hair and grinned at his friends. It seemed like this day would never come, the anticipated hiking holiday in Yosemite.

It was also the day that everything changed. The summer that flipped Billy’s life upside down, causing him to question who he really was.

“Look!” Tommy exclaimed, pointing to a small glowing gap in between the verdant mountains in front of them, “Sun rise!”

Billy strode on ahead of the pack, filled with the confidence of his youth. He was the jock, an athlete, everyone’s friend. He was a hero, Superman, Moses, a leader of men. Tommy followed behind, trailing in Billy’s shadow. Rob, the smallest of the trio, shivered in the crisp morning air, as he brought up the rear. A nature lover, he fell behind as he paused to examine the flowers and critters they passed. Rob knelt to look at a chrysalis, taking so long that the other boys backtracked to see what the fuss was about.

“I thought it belonged to a rare Lupin Blue butterfly,” Rob explained, “But I’m pretty sure it’s just a Common Buckeye.”

“Naw, I bet it’s the rare one,” Billy exclaimed as he pushed Rob aside to get a closer look, “It’s gonna be brilliant!”

Rob shrugged, “I don’t think so.”

“Race you to that waterfall!” Tommy yelled and dashed off, “Last one is a rotten egg!”

A few hours later the boys stopped at a stream between mountains, heavily panting in the now hot day.

“There’s a pool through there,” Tommy gestured, “You guys go cool off, I’ll sort out the picnic stuff.”

Tommy grabbed the pack from Billy’s sweat-dripping back and sorted through it, digging out Graham Crackers and apples.

The other boys sprinted down to the lake, falling over their feet as they dashed down the steep hill. Billy ripped off his top as he dived into the cool water, exposing the rippling muscles of a 16-year-old, desperate to assert dominance through his physique. Rob followed, splashing gratefully into the refreshing pool.

“Hey look,” Billy pushed back his wet hair, “Dare you to swing across the water on that rope.”

Rob wrinkled his nose uneasily, “It looks kind of old. Slipping into the water, could really hurt. It’s pretty shallow.”

“You won’t slip,” Billy countered impatiently, “Just grip the rope and land on that hill,” He pointed at a ledge, sticking out just enough for the rope to reach.

Rob frowned doubtfully, “Nah, don’t want to.”

Billy rolled his eyes, “You’re such a wuss. Not like Tommy and me. We aren’t scaredy-cats.”

Rob bit his lip, “Fine,” his voice wavered, “I’ll do it.”

He pulled himself out of the water and trudged to the rope, precariously tied to a leaning tree.

“It’s not far,” Rob muttered quietly, “I can do it.”

He shook out his skinny wrists and gripped tightly to the dangling rope.

“You got this!” Billy yelled; all frustration towards Rob evaporated once he got his way.

Rob gulped, took one final look at the sparkling water before closing his eyes and launching off the bank.

Billy never forgot the sound of the crack. It seemed to echo across the mountains, silencing birds and animals, rebounding and dancing across the wilderness. Afterwards, he thought it was impossible how one tired, weak branch caused such a commotion.

Billy flinched, hands covering his mouth, as he watched both Rob and the rope fall, like a marionette with its strings cut. He only hesitated a second before splashing through the shallow water, desperately wading to his friend. Billy grabbed Rob by his armpits and pulled him though the water, fear escalating once he realized his friend wasn’t waking.

“Call an ambulance!” Billy yelled in answer, “Dial 911! Now!” His chest flipped in panic, and he sat down by Rob, dizzy from his immediate fight or flight instincts. He stared at the boy’s limp body and blank face.

“Please be ok,” he whispered.

Alysha Pascoe (Year 12)

The next hours were a blur of flashing airlift chopper lights, whirring rotors, rushed explanations to paramedics and a bumpy flight to a hospital in San Fransico where Billy waited, gripping his hands together until his knuckles whitened. Nothing felt better than the relieved hug Billy gave his mother once reunited outside the hospital. But nothing felt worse than the sleepless night that followed, with Billy’s stomach clenched in guilt.

It was a week before Billy and Tommy were permitted to visit Rob, the boy lying flat on his hospital bed.

“My back’s broken,” Rob told them quietly, “I have to use a wheelchair.”

“For how long?” Tommy questioned apprehensively.

Rob brushed away an escaping tear, “Probably for life,” his words felt weighted.

“Do you remember falling?” Billy interrogated, unable to withhold his question. “Or the rope?”

Rob shook his head, “I can’t remember any of the hike. Doctors said I suffered concussion.”

Billy let out a long-awaited sigh of relief.

“They told me you saved me though,” Rob smiled at Billy, “You got me out of the water. I won’t forget that, thank you.”

“Oh,” Billy choked out, his cheeks flushed, “No problem, you’re welcome.”

Tommy grinned and playfully nudged Rob, “Our friend, the hero! I didn’t see you fall but I watched Billy rescue you.”

Billy felt numb, dissociated. He shuffled down the hospital corridor with Tommy trailing behind like a loyal dog, exclaiming appreciation towards his chivalrous friend. He couldn’t look Rob’s father in the eye as he shook his hand, he felt sickened by Rob’s mother’s grateful hug. Home was worse, his parents beside themselves in pride, cooking Billy’s favourite meals, showering him with undeserved compliments. Food tasted like sawdust and praise pierced like knives, but Billy couldn’t tell them that.

He lay awake at night, a battle of inner conflict roaring. To tell? Or not to tell? That was Billy’s question. He clamped his hands over his ears as the inward voices grew too loud, screaming at him to decide.

“I thought I was brave,” Billy whispered to the dark, “But I don’t feel very courageous anymore.”

Only cowards wouldn’t tell, Billy knew. But the struggle of owning up, of admitting fault seemed scarier than any challenge faced before. He thought of Rob and that cursed rope swing. The decision he pressured his friend into making.

Billy groaned, knowing what he had to do. At breakfast, Billy’s favourite blueberry pancakes, he bit his lip and began to speak.

“Mum,” Billy trembled, “Dad?”

“What’s up Billy?” His father grinned at his heroic son.

Billy inhaled and sat up straight.

“I -,” He paused and wavered, “Can you pass the syrup?”

Billy drizzled a sickening amount of maple syrup over his pancakes, dismayed with the realisation that he could never find courage to confess.

Looking back, Billy wished things had gone differently. It was the day he found out the truth about himself. He wasn’t a hero, he was a coward, and though he spent his life atoning for what he had done, he knew the truth. Not every chrysalis contains great promise.

Billy didn’t have the spirit of a magnificent Lupine Blue butterfly.

He was only a Common Buckeye.

What else could I do?

By Ashleigh Gurr (Year 12)

“What else could I do? He thought he was good as any white man.” - J. W. Milam (when asked about the murder)

I still remember the first time I realized what it meant to be black in the South.

It didn’t sneak up on me, but hit like a freight train - in a cacophony of experiences, this was the one that solidified it, draining my childhood innocence like sick honey.

“Don’t forget me!” Emmet had said, “Write to me! You know my address” before running along with the car as cousins do, wind flapping his shirt. Mississippi winters were cold, but nothing could stop his giggling, even as his lips frosted and he was overcome with shivers.

Danielle Sutton (Year 9)

And I didn’t forget him. But I hadn’t written back. Not because I didn’t like him, but because things had gotten in the way- the school play, John Burrow’s birthday and other daily musings that slowly enveloped me.

Emmett’s address went from my mind like baby birds leaving their nest.

When my parents said we were going to Mississippi again on a rather short notice, I knew I could catch up with him again. Tell him about all the cool things I’d done over summer break, play football in his yard and ask him what his favourite ice-cream flavor was. (obviously strawberry, otherwise were we really related?) I couldn’t wait for next time.

What my parents didn’t tell me is that the next time I would be seeing him would be at his funeral.

Two weeks later

It seemed that the quivering, shrunken trees were the only things that could stand up to the Mississippi heat. The sunset was just about gone, slithering through all the cracks in the sky, and expelling the clouds with a burst of light that could stun a man if he looked too long. I saw people that I had never seen before, Mama telling me names like Aunty Pat and Granduncle Jim and second Cousin Robert. I thought these people only existed behind mahogany glass, in our dust-caked living room frames.

They told me he died in his sleep. I couldn’t believe that though – only old people, who have cranky faces, falling-out teeth and hobble along die in their sleep! Kids can’t do that. Even now at the funeral, I couldn’t believe them. I heard my mother calling me over, and I realized the funeral was starting. I slowly filed into the church along with the others, as if we were filling to watch an event, except that this event was Death himself, with a Machiavellian smile. The idols of Mary too stood in arrogance, as if they were mocking me. Their pale, perfect complexions were in stark contrast to my own tan one. They were better than me, and they knew it. I brushed them off and resumed trying to find my seat. Soon enough, I saw my aunt get up, wipe her tears to replace them with a demure, forced smile. Finally, she placed one trembling hand on the coffin and lifted the lid.

3 hours later

The car drive home was noiseless. Inside the house, it was the same – no words were spoken in a stifling silence until the young me decided to shatter it. “Mama,” I said, “What happened to him? Why did he look like that?”

Nothing.

“MAMA!” I yelled, tears starting to burn and shred through my eyes. No sooner had I said that than I felt my mother’s arm around me. She was crying too.

“He was hurt, my girl.”

“But how?” I yelled. My mind was drunk on possibilities. Did he get hit by a car? Tumble off his bike? Fall of a high wall? He was always doing things like that.

“The white men,” She whispered. “He was shot.” That was the moment. She continued to talk, but I could barely hear her. Something about a shop, a white woman, and being stolen but I couldn’t listen anymore. My body was taken over as if I had a puppeteer, controlling my strings, and I fled. From what, I don’t know, but I fled to my bedroom and burrowed myself between the covers. I had to make my own safe place because this world wasn’t safe. When would they come for me? I stayed there for what felt like years, and I could hear my mother’s sighs as she resumed her chores with that same mechanical fervor. I realized she had been through this before. She had lost someone too.

“Mama, you’re a superhero,” I said, slowly inching outside the safety of my perfect kingdom. She froze and turned around to meet my tear-stained eyes.

She took my own hands in hers and said, “I’m more than a superhero, Lily. I’m a black woman in the United States.”

That was the day I realized what it meant to be me.

The Room

By Clarissa Siew (Year 8)

- 3 Weeks Before -

“How do I get more views?! Seriously, my YouTube channel is not doing well,” exclaims Addi.

“I’m not really sure Addi, there’s nothing really special I think you can do,” murmurs Delilah, without making any eye contact with Addi, “Maybe you should stop your YouTube channel.”

“No, I’m not doing that, I’ve spent way too long getting my subscriber count up to 10,000.”

“Well, I’m not sure, okay? Just go think. I’m busy.”

“Busy doing what?”

“Studying, go away.”

Addi doesn’t move. She simply stares at the chipped walls of her sister’s room. She isn’t going to move. She isn’t planning to move. Not until Delilah says something.

“What? I said go away.”

“Okay, when you tell me what to do.”

There is a moment of silence.

“Okay, I’m only telling you this, so you go away. You better not do this.”

“What are you talking about?”

“Before you were born, there was an inn in Huntsville, the Oak Grove Inn that almost burnt down on the 26th of February. Everyone got out alive, except one girl. Anne. She was 15 and she died in her room. The Oak Grove has since been refurbished, and no one talks about this, but Anne’s room is said to be haunted, but, only on the 26th of February. A few years ago, someone broke in, and they were found dead the next day.”

“Uhm, why don’t I know about this? I could do this! If I survive and record it, I will get millions of views!”

“But really Addi, you shouldn’t do this.”

“Yes, I know. Thanks anyway.” says Addi, leaving her sister’s room with a smirk on her face. She isn’t going to listen to her sister.

- 26th of February -

The cold air wafts into the Inn, followed by the closing of the heavy wooden door. Adam glances up warily to find a slim, young woman sporting aviator sunglasses, fitting leather leggings with a sheer blouse and designer bag standing before him. He hates working on the 26th of February. Five people have already tried to get in earlier today. She was going to be the sixth. Even before she speaks, he warns, “Anne’s room isn’t open tonight. You should know that. Head home.”

“I’m not heading home. Give me her room.”

Adam sighs. “I can’t, and I couldn’t even if I wanted to. The room is off limits to everyone, so just go home.”

Addi ponders to herself for a second.

“I don’t live around here.”

“Mhmm, really? A teenage girl travelling around by herself? That doesn’t sound very safe. Especially if you’re going to Anne’s room.”

“Well, I’m 18 and I’m not leaving. I would like to book a room for tonight.”

He kneels, unlocking a cabinet under the reception desk, and grabs a key. Room 108.

“Here, take this then. It’s the closest you’ll get to Anne’s room. Now, please fill out some of our booking papers.”

She takes the key and fills out the papers.

Addi follows him to her room. She sees Anne’s room on the way. It isn’t that she knew it was hers; she could just sense it. The door was a dark mahogany colour without a number on it, unlike the beige painted doors of the other rooms in the Inn. The hallway is lined with a vintage gold flowery wallpaper, and the air has a musty scent, reminiscent of damp wood.

“Good night, Addi. Now, don’t leave this room till tomorrow morning. Trust me. Okay?”

“Sure, sure. Good night,” she mutters quickly, almost shoving him away.

Addi wraps a mauve scarf around her neck and settles on the old bed, her thoughts revolving around waiting till 2am to start recording.

- 02:00 AM -

The door of Room 108 creaks, as Addi slips out, finding herself enveloped in deep darkness. With a camera slung over her shoulder, and clutching onto her phone with one hand, she ventures into the corridor. A cold breeze dances, playing with her hair, in the windowless hallway. Odd, she thinks. Quickly illuminating the hall with her phone’s flashlight, she looks for anything abnormal. Nothing but silence and darkness. But something isn’t right. She turns around, and suddenly a silhouette leaps from the shadows and knocks the phone out of her hand.

“Shoot, where’s my phone…” a whispered plea breaks the silence.

On her knees, Addi frantically searches for her phone, goosebumps trickling down her spine. It wasn’t there. What was it? Was it even there? It’s nothing, she tells herself. But is it really haunted? Was she really meant to be here? The voices mumble through her head, but the fear of her failing channel drowns them out. She resolves to do this. And with that, there is a click of an open door, and the hall lights turn on.

“What the hell…”. Fumbling with her camera, the quiet beep of the recording button echoes in her ears. Anne’s door. It was open. Each step toward it brought more questions, more hesitation, yet something draws her to it. Some sort of allure. Something beyond comprehension. Each step becomes increasingly tremulous, yet they don’t stop, simply falling one after another.

Before she realises it, Addi is in the centre of Anne’s room. There is a loud thump followed with a click. The door is closed. Locked. By itself. No, it couldn’t have, the voices whisper. Excuses begin to overflow in Addi’s mind, like, ‘it’s 2am, I’m tired or I must have knocked it’. But nothing could divert her mind from the reality of this room. The room itself didn’t seem scary, or even haunted. It was simple, new. A TV, a kitchen and bathroom on one side, and in front of her is a bed. Sheets made, blanket folded. Comfortable even. Addi sinks onto the bed, trying to block out everything. This room couldn’t be haunted. No.

Then, a faint flicker of light appears in the corner of the room. Barely noticeable. Perhaps, imagination. Yet it repeats. Again, and again. Sanity returns.

“What am I doing here? Why didn’t I listen to the guy at the reception? Why am I so stupid -”

Words cease. Lights extinguish. And the black figure appears again, moving closer. Walking, walking, running. Breath quickening, Addi’s body yearns to escape, yet nowhere to hide. She has to get out. Forget the camera, forget everything. Just be alive. Breathe.

She stands up and begins to storm towards the door. Yet, something on the bedside table catches her eye – a phone. Her phone. How did it get there? Run! Addi desperately pounds on the locked door for help, but no response. A rumbling sound emerges behind her, and she closes her eyes, turning around. The sound intensifies, and the thoughts echo. Eyes pry open, and every object in the room begins to shake and float off the ground. Addi looks down to see that her feet are no longer touching the carpet.

A warped and eerie voice emerges from the chaos.

“Why, hello Addison Grace Thompson. I see that we’ve finally met. Well, are you excited? This is just the beginning…” A piercing banshee scream echoes through every room of the inn.

- 10:25 AM -

His footsteps resonated through the wooden corridor as he approaches Room 108. Knocking, Adam called out, “Addi? Will you be coming down? Check out time is at 10am. Hello?”

Silence.

Something prompts Adam to glance into Anne’s room. He doesn’t know what. But he looks. Peering through the keyhole, he sees Addi on the bed, almost as if sleeping. Next to her, is a neatly folded mauve scarf, and a phone rests.

Then he realises she isn’t sleeping.

Illusion of Perfection

By Aurora Neill-Stevens (Year 9)

Silver Springs is paradise. Every day is paradise. My life, paradise. We live isolated in the middle of Arizona. Not in any way that may seem concerning. It's the opportunity of a lifetime, and all they request in return is for us to show no sadness or negativity. When you live in a town where everything is flawlessly curated to have everything you would ever want, there's no need for any of it.

Every day starts the same. The sun beams through my floor-to-ceiling windows, kissing me with the ever-so-subtle warmth that will put a smile on anyone's face. I turn on my radio, the sound clear and crisp. My extra-hot espresso and toasted croissant are waiting for me on the kitchen bench, steaming just the way I like it. This morning is perfect. Silver Springs is perf-...the sudden sound of crying drowns out everything around me.

My open door reveals a crying baby on my doorstep. I snap my gaze around my cul-de-sac to check the other houses. Normally if something new appears in your house, everyone will get something similar. This baby is alone, tears pouring out of its eyes. Scooping it into my arms, I take it inside to care for it. No one can see it out here crying or there will be trouble.

I haven't heard the sound of sadness for a long time. It's deafening. Cold. How am I supposed to stop the crying if I've barely experienced the emotion myself? While rummaging around the house I come across a box full of my old baby belongings and find a pacifier. I insert the pacifier into its open mouth. Silence. A sigh of relief escapes my mouth.

That peace was interrupted by a sudden knock at the door. My head whips back to the baby, surprisingly undisturbed by the sound.

I open the door to find Charles. The genius behind this whole town. Some would say he is the guide to our happiness, some would say the controller of our emotions. It really just depends on your perspective. Something is off today. Something I can't put my finger on.

He stands at my doorstep surrounded by identical people in long white lab coats.

"Hello Bonnie," Charles greets me, his face splitting with a predatory smile.

"Charles," I reply warily, my heart pounding in my chest.

"I've been told that you might have come into possession of something...unusual," he continues. "A baby?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about," I reply, composing myself.

Charles takes a deep breath. His eyes widen to a point where his irises are surrounded by whiteness. His head slightly tilts to the left, releasing a subtle psychotic sigh.

"I am going to give you a second chance. Do you have a child in there?"

Just as I go to deny it again the baby begins to cry. I proceed to slam the door shut but Charles catches it right before it closes and barges in. The white lab coats spread out into every room of my house, eyes peeled for the baby. Something inside me begins to tell me I need to protect this child.

"Stop!" I scream. Struggling to find my step as I run towards them. "Don't hurt it". The white lab coats trap me in a circle while slowly creeping forward.

"Stop it!".

I’m pulled to my knees and a cloth pushed against my mouth.

"Thank you for your cooperation" Charles whispers to me. My eyes become heavy and slowly close.

I wake up in a white box of a room. Head throbbing. Completely disorientated. The stretcher I lie on is the only furniture in the room.

No windows. Nothing. Despite my current state I jump up and start banging on the heavy-duty door.

"Let me out!" I scream. I can't even tell if there is anyone on the other side but there's nothing else, I can do. 'Help me!!"

The door opens to the top level of a prison courtyard. As my eyes adjust to the sunlight, I make out the multiple storeys of cells layered below the ground. Burrowing down to a neglected paved area filled with even more neglected people in scrubs.

"What are you doin' here?" says a familiar voice from behind me. I turn around to find my old neighbour Wanda, whom I thought moved out. She doesn't look the same as before. Her face now lacks any hint of emotion or colour, as if she's lost all her vitality. A blank canvas. Even her smile seems forced and lifeless.

"What even is here?" I reply.

"They call it the 're-education camp', but it's just a prison. They lost control of each one of these minds in here."

"Who?"

"Well, who else other than your psychotic best bud Charles and his close-knit government of mindcontrolling scientists? Why did you think you've never cried before? Silver Springs isn't perfect at all. They surgically insert a bio implant in our brain before we move in. Helping them to control everyone. No one can remember this occurring because they knock you unconscious and place it inside of you without you knowing. Then cover it up with a perfect town. That's why everyone thinks we live in...well paradise. Of course, except everyone in this camp. It's really messed up Bonnie, and no one living in town knows about it."

Hina Saegusa (Year 11)

"But...But the baby..."

She hesitates "Not real. We're all still trying to make sense of it. When you start to gain control of your emotions, your subconscious mind starts to create hallucinations of things you deeply desire but can't have, as a way to embody your sadness. I’m sorry..."

I stand there completely horrified. A wave of uncertainty and disbelief washes through me. The town I know and love is nothing that I thought it was. A complete lie. My head starts spinning again and my breathing becomes heavy. I feel like I can't breathe with my heart ramming against my ribcage. I raise my trembling hands as my vision becomes distorted. A lifetime’s worth of emotions rushes through me at once.

"Hey! Calm down. You're going to make a scene." Wanda tells me. She grabs my hand and starts to take me down to the courtyard.

Natural instincts take over as I pass the guarded gate to the top of the prison. Unconsciously, my hand breaks free from Wanda’s, and I begin to charge the gate as it opens to let some of the guards through. My head still spinning, I force my way through, shocked I was able to do so. I climb the ladder at an unimaginable pace. The sounds of the alarms blast around the whole prison and I can hear the stampeding guards behind me. Just as I think I can't climb any further, the edge comes within reach. I stretch my arm out and thrust myself upwards, beginning to sprint away, my bare feet tearing at the desert ground.

The ground shakes as a herd of cars chase after me. They begin to close in, passing me and forming a circle that forces me to stop. Yet again they are using this hunting method on their prey. Before I can even catch my breath every muscle in my body contracts as a jolt hits my spine. I collapse to the ground, letting out a scream of agonising pain. Paralysed.

Charles's face appears in my sight, hovering over me, still smiling. Leaning down to my ear he whispers, "We will have to try again. I hope you will be better when you wake up. I would have loved more cooperation from you Bonnie."

My world goes dark.

Autopsy

By Lucy Sinnott TSS (Year 10)

This gate. This gate I have come across many times before. Through its sturdy silver bars, I see the endless rows of the dead. Their tombstones sticking out from the earth like jagged teeth. The thick fog of the morning rising, and the songs of the graveyard birds are slowly but surely returning to silence.

I take in a big breath of the full, morning air and let the life of the morning and the death of the graveyard mix in my lungs, a strange concoction. Perhaps it’s the crispness of this morning that led me to venture upon these rigid gates or perhaps it’s the persuasiveness of the dead that have led me to do so, regardless, I suddenly find my stocking clad legs carrying me into towards the jagged teeth of the tomb stones.

There is not a breath of wind. The fabric of my skirt lay dead at my legs as does my god-awful mop of hair (the stuff is terribly brown; I’ve never quite gotten fond of it).

Kate Best (y10)

Due to the lack of wind, there was not a sound in the air, I couldn’t even hear the beating of my own heart. For a moment I feared I might join the dead sooner than I had anticipated.

The tombstones vary. There are stone ones that are rounded at the ends, there are wooden crosses that are slowly decaying and there are plaques imbedded amongst the stiff grass. I found myself wondering if these people had any say whatsoever over what their tombstones resembled. Is it something one writes in one’s will? Or do you leave it to the living and hope they make the right choice?

I dread the idea of being laid to rest for eternity beneath a plain old piece of stone. That piece of stone will be the only thing left to represent me in this world, the only part of me that still gets to feel the crispness of the morning air and the blissfulness of being rained on.

I must make it a priority now to ensure that my tombstone is a plaque embedded in the grass. In hopes that moss grows upon it and nests in the crevices of my human name, carrying on its legacy.

Or maybe I could be buried with the seedling of a sycamore tree and as the tree’s leaves sprout and its branches grow, it will be my body in the soil that it feeds off. As long as that tree is alive, I will be alive. I will continue to feel the crispness of the morning air and the blissfulness of being rained on.

Unfortunately, I cannot speak for my soul. I am in reasonable control of the fate of my body, but my soul decides its own fate. This is one of the greatest downfalls of human life. I cannot write out in my will where I’d like my soul to end up, I cannot bury it beneath a plaque or a sycamore tree, all that I can do is die and hope that my soul is intelligent enough to sustain itself, which I’m not exactly sure it is, it’s failed me far too many times.

I haven’t set foot on these dry grounds since the day of his funeral. But I had dreamt about him last night, I dreamt of his hands reaching out and holding my face. I could feel his pulse against my cheek and his blue veins were full of lively blood. His eyes were deeper and more lovely than ever, holding a look I have been longing to forget since the day he died, a look I fear will stain the inside of my eyelids until the day I too am dead.

These vivid images compelled me to return to him, to return something to him, something that is really his. His grave is the third one in the fourth row, an ordinary spot. The grave itself was also quite ordinary, a decaying white cross with his ordinary name engraved on an ordinary small bronze plaque in the middle. Despite all these ordinary surroundings, the body that lay beneath is far from ordinary. His very presence was mesmerising, to look up and see him there is all I’d ever needed for the rest of my life. He filled my lungs with air and my mouth with water and now that he is gone, I find myself choking.

I slowly lower myself down into a cross-legged position facing the cross at the foot of his grave. The dirt is staining my skirt, but I don’t care, this is the closest I am able to get to him, for us to be stained with the same dry dirt is as intimate as we can get in this life. I gather this dirt in my calloused hands. I lift it to my face and breath it in, I inhale it. If I breathe it in enough maybe I’ll recognise his scent, maybe I’ll smell the gentle aroma of his cologne or the dustiness of his clothes, but all I got was that soft smell that is dirt.

Dirt, dirt, dirt.

I wipe away the dirt from my hands and reach into the pocket of my coat. I retrieve a stained, creased letter that has frayed at its edges. This envelope was once a nice pink, but it has now faded into a reddish brown.

Annabelle Berry (Year 11)

I have carried this letter with me everywhere since before he died. It was my plan to give this letter to him before I left town for several weeks to let him mull it over. I think it’s obvious that this letter entailed my love for him. In fact, it entailed my very soul. But the moment never came, the earth took him before I could. The very day before I left. Mere hours before I handed over my soul. I thought that if I carried this envelope with me, I would be carrying around my love for him. I couldn't risk it fading. But it has taken me some time to realise that stains like this don’t fade.

On the off chance that his soft pulse is still alive beneath this dirt, that his mesmerising presence is still present, I scrape a hole in his grave just big enough for the envelope. I lay it to rest as I did with him so long ago and cover the hole back up. Quiet tears are rolling down my cheek, making my awful hair stick to my face. I would give a perfectly detailed, intricate description of the state of this misery, but I don’t think it’s necessary. If I did that, it would be nothing but cliche. This grief needs no explanation.

Although I haven't opened the envelope in years, I remember it word for word:

My dear,

This must be the most terrifying I’ve ever done because I don’t want to scare you away with this foolish heart of mine, but I’d rather be a fool than a coward. If you don’t feel these feelings as I do, I will understand. I will go on living and so will you.

You haunt me. You’re alive and yet you haunt me. I love you, I love you, I love you. Not even the unfaithful parts of me doubt that. Just be here, I don't care for your motive, just be here.

You know better than anyone that if I love something I let it consume me. It bites away at my nails and stains me with ink. I let it drive me to insanity until I’m left crying on the floor of my bathroom. My love for you holds me captive. My crazy, extraordinary love. You keep me alive. The day I cease being ripped open by this love is the day I cease to exist altogether. And that in and of itself is a righteous thing.

The poets say that the way you love someone reflects your soul. This means I must have a magnificent soul because it is full of you. Look at me like that for the rest of my life. Look at me like that in sickness and in health. Because when you look at me like that, I swear I'm beautiful. You make me beautiful. Hold me. Hold my hands. Hold my dirt and my grime. Hold every part of me you can manage. Hold my soul, even if you must heave it over your shoulders to do so. Loving someone can be rotten work, but not to me, not if it is you. We can live here, we’ll make do. Just never, ever take your eyes off me for as long as we both shall live.

I want nothing more in this unruly world than to get blind drunk on you. I want to run into walls and slur my words and I want you to carry me home afterwards and lie me down on the couch like a child. I want you to pull on my loose strings until I become nothing more than a pile of thread because if you are my undoing, I will eagerly come undone. Hold me in your hands and I will crumble like dry pastry. Or I will bloom a million times over, becoming more beautiful each time. Or I will cradle my knees to my chest and sleep like a child. I should hate you for how for making me feel so hopeless. But I don’t think I could ever thank you enough. Break my heart, break it. Don’t be afraid to shatter it into a million red fragments. Leave those fragments scattered on the floor and I will gather them in my sore arms and spread them like ashes into the ocean. My heart can be everywhere at once, and although it hurts to break, I couldn't thank you enough for laying your beautiful hands on it.

You are my common ground. You are my something to stand on.

Yours truly

I lift myself back up and walk through those sturdy gates for the last time. No need for another autopsy. No need to rip myself open any longer. No need to mull it over. Life is good this way.

Annabelle Berry (y11)

Bookshelves And Forge Fires

An Extract By Amber Lynch, Andy Zhou, Dominique To, Jack Goddard, Kyle Stuart, Madison Every, Taryn Lee, Kimberley Stone, and Katalina Savanyo. (Year 9/10/11 Write a Book in a Day team)

...Deep in the snow, there was a building, towering and strong. Deep within the building was a room, cavernous and old, and deeper still within that room was the sharp sound of a hammer against metal. The sound pounded against the walls to escape the room, but the room was cavernous, and the tower was looming. Its empty silence wrapped the noises within itself, smothering it lest it run. Finishing with the hammer, the man set it down and started working the pieces of metal in his hands; his palms were rough, callouses smattering his fingertips, but the back of his hands were as smooth as the metals that he worked with and as soft as the silks he wore.

Parrin ran his hands through his hair, dying the paleyellow strands deep brown and black. He worked, jaw set, brow furrowed as his eyes danced, sparking like embers from a flame. With a final twist, the windup toy sputtered to life and hopped a couple of feet before unfurling its wings as if stretching from a long nap. With a whisper of encouragement, the magpie flapped its wings and fluttered into the roof. Parrin watched the bird until it could no longer be seen, leaning over, and crossing something on a piece of paper next to him.

'Alice Springs, age: 4, behaviour: good, toy: Finished'

Bookshelves and Forge Fires

Ruthie Ong (Year 11)

On the Flip Side

An Extract By Aditya Patel, Alby Monaghan, Ali Zakareia, Enoch Wang, Ricky Qiu, Nishaan Sunner, Nithin Shivakumar, Yusif

Muhammed

(Year 8 “Write a Book in a Day” team).

Tyrone slowly got up, awoken from his slumber. He rubbed his head, feeling the dent that caused his throbbing pain. He slowly stood up, feeling dizzy. He grabbed onto the sides of the rocket to get up, and saw his dog Snoop cowered in the corner, whimpering as he crawled into a small ball.

Tyrone walked towards his loving dog and patted him on the back.

“It’s okay little buddy,” he whispered as he stroked Snoop, and Snoop slowly stretched out and came away from the corner. He nuzzled his head against Tyrone’s lap, and together they felt a glimpse of hope as they went further and further away from the Earth. Tyrone looked out the window of the rocket. It felt so cold out here so far away from home, and as he looked down, Tyrone could see the entire moon. It was encompassed with large craters, but the light outside kept on going darker and darker. Soon, he couldn’t see a single thing outside the window. However, they kept on going in the dark, for hours on end.

Suddenly, the rocket ship began to slow down.

At least it would be over and done with. The ship began to land, and Tyrone had to hold onto the side of the rocket so that he didn’t go flying. He grabbed Snoop tightly, and a single tear slowly made its way down Tyrone’s cheek.

Suddenly, the rocket ship came to a halt. The door slowly opened, as fog flew into the floor of the room. The first thing that hit Tyrone was the cold. The cold was unbearable. It felt like thousands of knives were digging deep into his skin, ice cold shivs stabbing again and again. It stung like thousands of wasps had taken turns stinging through his entire body. Suddenly, a thick fleece jumper dropped from the sky, as if a God was out there, listening to their prayers.

Death on the Waters

By Rhys Miller (Year 9)

Detective Dick Nolan walks into a library. The harsh smell of bleach hits him, burning his nostrils. He feels the slight rock of the boat, and steadies himself, knowing he is going to have a long night ahead of him.

“We got almost nothin’ from this one, no motive, no DNA samples” explains the nearby Officer Hughes. “As you can tell, the killer used a lot of bleach to cover any evidence.”

Walking over to the body, they see there is strangely nothing out of place, aside from the body and the bloodied floor. “Hmmm, no sign of struggle, no murder weapon, he knew the person who did this,” Detective Nolan remarks as he begins to inspect the body of Charles Phillips, the owner and captain of the superyacht they were standing on.

Charles Phillips, a man with thin, grey hair on his head and bushy facial hair, lays lifeless in a blood-stained grey tuxedo. His once-fancy Rolex watch now marred by crimson splatters. Nolan examines the wounds on the victim's body. "The neck wound is drier than the ones on his belly. They incapacitated him first, so he couldn't call for help, then brutally stabbed him repeatedly," he concludes. "Who are our suspects?"

"First suspect, Gustavo Cook, the chef" replies the detective, recalling the fiery personality of the small Italian man with black hair. "No criminal history. He's been with 'Chaz' for fifteen years, the only person he trusted to prepare his food." Detective Nolan considered.

"I did not kill the captain. Yes, he was a rich jackass whom all the staff hated, but that doesn't mean I'd murder him!" Gustavo vehemently yells from across the room, his distinct Italian accent thickening his words.

"He had access to all the sharp utensils in the kitchen; maybe one of them could be our murder weapon," Officer Hughes suggests.

“True. Look into that. I’m taking a break before I interview the son.” The detective walks from the cabin and makes a beeline for the bathroom. While washing his hands he sees that the mirror is slightly cracked, and has a large, sharp shard missing. A shard that could possibly be used as a blade.

He rushes back and grabs the Officer, showing him the missing spot from the mirror. “Hughes, I think we’ve found our murder weapon. Now let’s see what we can find out with the last interview of the day, bring in Steven Bell.”

Within a few minutes a large man wearing a black t-shirt, jeans, and a sad look on his face sits down on a chair opposite the detective. Bell has a strange, but sad aura around him. “Gentlemen,” he says reaching out to shake their hands, “I’m Steven Bell.”

“Thank you, Mr. Bell, we need to ask you some questions about the murder of your Father, Charles Phillips,” says the detective, for what feels like the thousandth time of the day.

“Of course, let’s get started then.”

“What was your relationship like with your father?” asks Dick.

“Well, he was my father. I mean, it’s not like we didn’t have a rocky relationship. But I still loved him,” answers Steven.

“And why is that?”

“Every family has its problems, ours were just that I didn’t feel that I got enough support when my mother was sick,” Steven bitterly replies, “but, when she passed, he was there for me.” The detective nods.

“Where were you around twelve o’clock today?” inquires the detective.

“Fixing the mirror in the bathroom. I don’t know if you’ve noticed but it’s slightly cracked, and there’s a piece missing,” he answers, but then sees the detective’s face. “Which it looks like you already knew about, it seems” He then pulls out a long shard of mirror from his pocket. The detective sees a small amount of blood on it.

“Damnit, I must have cut myself on it earlier. I was heading to put the piece back in the mirror when you called me in here. I found it near where Gustavo suggested it might be, near one of the bins.”

The detective produces a job schedule from his pocket and points to a square marked Steven. “This here says you were on laundry duty, does that also include tasks like fixing the mirror?”

“Yes, it was something my father asked me to do. Can I go now?” he asks. The Detective and the officer look at each other, “For now, but don’t go too far - we may need to talk to you later.”

“So, we know that the killer needed something to stab and slash at Phillips so we could have a knife from the kitchen, or more likely, the piece of mirror, that Steven had. Convenient, that he ‘cut’ himself with it. We also know that there was facial hair, and Gustavo nand Steven are clean shaven.” says Officer Hughes, going over the first few pieces of evidence.

"Steven was fixing the mirror, and the library was a bloodbath. You would get blood all on your clothes, unless you cleaned them in say, the Laundry, where you could also access bleach,” suggests the Officer. “But the mirror was mostly fixed, and according to the kitchen staff, they were running late with lunch, because of Gustavo going to the ‘Toilet’,” rebuts Detective Nolan.

“Gustavo had a clear disdain for Charles, you could hear it in his voice,” the officer puts across.

“That’s true, but we can’t accuse him on circumstantial evidence. Besides, no motive,” points out Detective Nolan.

“Gustavo has a clear hate to his former boss and maybe it trails down to the son,” says the detective.

“Watcha mean?” asks the confused officer.

“Well, none of the evidence makes sense. There was nothing at the scene and he had no motive. However, Steven shared one piece of key information that may crack this case. The shard was right where Cook told him it would be. How would he know that, if he had been in the toilet and kitchen the whole time?”

“But what about the bleach? How would Gustavo get that if Steven was in the laundry?” asks the quizzical Officer Hughes.

“Simple, he wasn’t in there. He was fixing the mirror, he couldn’t do them in the same place, because they aren’t on the same floor. Gustavo hated the family, so he decided to frame Steven and tell him where the piece is, and bam! Perfect frame. He probably thinks he’s getting away with it too. Let’s let him know otherwise.”

As sirens wail in the distance, Detective Nolan confronts Gustavo , "Gustavo Cook, you're under arrest for the murder of Charles Phillips. You have the right to remain silent."

Steven, now informed, charges at Gustavo in anger. “Why did you do it? Why’d you kill my father, you bastard?” demands Steven, taking a swing at him.

The detective pulls him back and stops him from trying again.

“I have a Michelin Star; I am world famous,” Gustavo cries. “And I do not deserve to be treated worse than his DOG!”

Nolan and Hughes lead Gustavo away from the yacht, leaving behind the flashing blue and red lights reflecting off the water.

Holiday Memories

Sydney! On my uncle's boat, heading under the Harbour bridge and seeing the Opera House with my cousins who live there. This time on the boat, it was me, my cousin Jasmine, one of her friends, and her dad. I felt the wind pushing my hair back and a salty, beachy smell coming from the water. I felt happy. It was nice spending time with my family whom I hadn't seen in 5 years. There was also a built-in barbecue on the boat! We made hot dogs, and it was so good. Perth doesn't compare to Sydney, there's so much to do like seeing sea planes, and water police - it was all so cool!

By Kelvin Ooi (Year 8)

Genevieve Ho (y11)

A four-hour drive, an uncomfortable air bed and a cold shower are the only bad things about my family’s yearly trip down to Augusta. I love going down to the beach and water skiing with friends I have known for my whole life. We go down to the beach on a hot, calm day, take out our paddle board as far as we can, and have competitions to see who can get the other one off first. I love eating bacon and egg every morning, going for a coffee run down to the beach, as well as riding my bike to the shops and buying a bucket load of lollies from the IGA. There is no other place I would rather go for a yearly trip!

By Evelyn Kemble (Year 8)

I have never felt so cold. It was December, I was in New York, and it was freezing almost to the point of snowing. There were so many people around, I almost couldn't breathe. We went ice-skating; the ice was so slippery, but I didn't fall. Dad did. He hit the back of his head, but he got up and laughed it off. We spent two weeks there. I spent time with my cousins, saw the 9/11 memorial and went shopping in this one huge shopping mall called American Dreams! From New York

I went to Ghana. When I got there, I noticed the temperature was a huge difference. It was so hot; my face was a melting ice cream. We were visiting Ghana to meet my other family members and to see my Dad’s work and house. It was a very different experience to New York!

By Samuel Pobee (Year 8)

Every time I go to Denmark, it's the best time of my life. Most years, I go there with my family to visit our half-family’s farm. It's my happy place and I always feel free. Every time we go to the farms and go 4-wheel driving and to the beaches with the cousins. I feel exhilarated when drifting and doing donuts on quad bikes with my cousin, Ryan. Denmark is my diamond ring; whenever I'm on the farm with my cousins, it's like heaven. When I arrive at the driveway of the farm the smell of hay floods my senses. I always do farm work with my uncle and cousins, and then we mess around, which is always a great, fun experience. When it's time to go home, I never want to leave, but we have to, so straight away, I start counting the weeks until I can go again.

By Rachel Moore (Year 8)

A Phoenix, a Cat, a Fairy and a Fountain

By Leticia Avery, Rosie Bennison, India Blaxell, Clarissa Chan, Kodi Hill, Ella Smith, Caitlin Ting (Year 8 Write a Book in a Day Team)

The blades on the helicopter began to pick up momentum, filling the air with a faint humming. The winter air bit at Anthony’s face, causing a shiver to run through his body. He heaved the last cage on board, which contained a small scarlet bird, and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. Although it was cold, he still felt unpleasant heat radiate from himself. He gripped the door and pulled himself into the helicopter, packed full of cages containing animals of all shapes and sizes. Anthony managed to readjust himself to close and secure the metal entrance he had come through. He squeezed himself into the cockpit, inhaling to allow himself access to the passenger seat.

“Thanks again, Anthony. Volunteers like you really speed up the process of finding these animals a home.” Captain Gregus explained. Anthony smiled and secured his seatbelt. Gregus grabbed his headset and adjusted the microphone so that it was aligned with his mouth. He then tossed some earmuffs to Anthony, who slid them onto his head. Gregus pushed a few buttons in what seemed to be a random order, and the helicopter began to slowly rise. The flight wouldn’t be too long, as the adoption centre wasn’t far away. Anthony craned his neck to look around at all the animals behind him. He had loved animals ever since he was a child, so it made him happy to know he was helping them find a home.

In the back of the helicopter, a small black cat lay flicking its tail impatiently. Its green eyes flitted from bird to bird, hoping to get an opportunity to pounce. Misha pushed at the metal bars of her cage, hissing at her lack of strength. She slipped her paw through the gap and scratched at the latch containing her. She extended her claws to their limit and fumbled with the latch; her clumsy claws unable to free herself from the cage. Annoyed, she lay back down, and her stomach roared as she longed for food. With renewed motivation, the cat tried once more, and before she knew it, Misha had lifted the latch. The metal door swung open, causing the black cat to jump. She silently stepped out of the cage and turned her attention towards the red bird perched peacefully in its own cage. The bird was yet to notice Misha, claws extended, with an unwavering gaze stuck on her small, red prey.

Ruby Red

An Extract By Sophia Clement, Thanvi Bhatt, Bailey Every, Aarya Khalate, Rishinie Vasudevan, Olivia Renton, Anisha Gopalan, Lekhasri Devan, Isabelle De Luis. (Year 7 Write a Book in a Day Team)

I was allowed to leave my orphanage whenever I wanted, as I was now 17. I drove to the shopping centre. On my way in, I saw a wooden notice board outside next to the front entrance. I walked briskly towards it and stop to read. There was one poster. A singular poster. The black ink was faded on the yellow paper. It read ‘Do you want a Job? Then a mechanic is for you!’ There was an address at the bottom. There were also scratch marks across the poster, but I suppose that could be from anything. I bit my lip. Should I take it? I hated living at the orphanage. This could be my chance for freedom. My first job! But the flyer was so old, and the handwriting was so old fashioned. Would the job still be available? Before I apply, I walk into the huge shopping centre to buy some equipment. I start by buying five big sponges in case there were oil spills in my new job.

I took a small bus to the address, only to find myself in an abandoned shopping centre. The bus drove away, leaving me all alone. The silence was deafening. I looked at the address. It was the right place. I wondered whether this was such a good idea after all. The place was deserted, could there really be a mechanic in there? But something in there was calling to me. This would be my very first job! I couldn’t help but be excited. But why would it be in an abandoned shopping centre? The only thing to do was go inside and check.

Nervously I pushed on the door, only to find it swing open at the lightest touch. It was pitch black inside the shopping centre, and the door behind me shut with a loud bang. I tried to get out into the fresh air but instead I started freaking out because the door wouldn’t open. I felt cobwebs brush my head. I hoped that the spiders who made them were long gone. My frizzled red hair wouldn’t lay flat, and I desperately smoothed it down. I reasoned that the sensible thing to do was to find the person interviewing me for the job. But I could hardly see, and I didn’t even know where the place was! I started to wish that I did not decide to apply for the job, and I wish that I had a parent to help guide me. But they were gone

Russian Pelicans and Ukrainian Sardines

Madi Kent (Year 9)

Woooooo, BOOM! Woooo, BOOM followed by bangs, screams, tears and buildings collapsing to the floor. That’s all I hear outside now. Russian bombs were leaving our country in pieces. Families were being torn apart by the war, including ours. One part of me thought that when I woke up the next morning it would all be over- but the bombs and Ukrainian people continued to fall. That is why my mother Galyna decided it was time to leave Zytomry and head to a Red Cross evacuation center in Lviv. My sister Solomiya, Mum and I packed as much as we could into a backpack. I packed a tin of sardines and other canned food including water and dried beef. Mum found blankets and warm clothing for us. Solomiya, being young, packed her favourite teddy. I also put in a family photo.

My Dad volunteered to fight in Kyiv, and I know that I might never see him again. I put on the heavy backpack. I insisted on carrying it the whole way to Lviv, but Mum told me to share it with her even though she was carrying Solomiya too. As her big brother, I wished I could carry her, but I was not strong enough yet.

As we made the journey to Zytomry train station the streets were bare, cars were in flames and buildings were in ruins, including my school. We were all alone. I wondered how many of my friends were killed. I started to tear up.

How am I ever going to make it to Lviv if I know I might not survive the journey? Sadness and fear filled up inside me. I thought back to the day it happened. The day it all changed.

I was in maths class at school. It was just a normal day. I mean, we knew the war was all around, but we tried so hard to keep our nerves at bay. It wasn’t before I heard a scream that sounded horrifyingly like my sister’s that I knew the war had come.

BANG! CRASH! A pile of brick landed outside the window, some piercing through the glass and sending sparkling shards towards my eyes. I closed my eyes. I wish I hadn’t.

Andy Zhou (Year 10)

“GET OUT!” a booming, panicked voice cried. We ran out to the oval, I turned and looked back and recognized my best friend, Artem. He was trampled by older students in the chaos, in the bushes. Artem! Artem! the retched cry curled up from the depths of my throat. I tried to run back and get him, but adults pushed me back until out was out of the school gates. I was out of strength to get to him, adrenaline whizzing through me, but it was an impossible attempt. I would never reach him. I was a fish trying desperately to swim upstream. Tears fell down my face, All I wanted to do was sit there and weep, but I had to keep moving. I ran all the way home a feeling inside of me creeping out, a monster of guilt and grief, waiting to escape.

I had to keep moving now, to keep my family safe, and hope that their fate will be different than Artem’s.

“Fadeya, are you okay?” Mum asked.

I just stood there. I felt the strain of the backpack pulling down my shoulders. The weight never felt like it was going to stop pulling me down. The backpack should feel comforting, having our belongings on hand, instead it felt like emotional baggage I just needed to get rid of to have some sort of sanity in my life right now. The guilt of wishing I did more to save Artem.

“No. Why would I be ok? I’m forced to flee the one place I’ve always known. Artem is dead. It’s my fault. Dad is probably too, and I feel so hopeless.” I cried. Seeing me cry made Solomiya cry too.

“Listen, Dad is ok. He knows what he signed up for and is willing to make a sacrifice for us. Everything is going to be fine, Artem is strong, like you, we just need to get on that train, and we’ll be safe. Remember, Fadeya means brave warrior, so be brave for me, Fadeya. Just like Artem was. You got that?” Mum asked as she looked into my tearful eyes.

“Yes,” I replied, as brave as I could muster.

It was not long before we reached the train station. It was crowded with many families like us trying to head west to Lviv. My Mum pushed through the hectic crowd with me and bought tickets with some of the little money we had left. We waited for the train. It arrived, and there was chaos. People fell down and tripped but never came back up. Everyone was shouting at a news reporter speaking a foreign language to get out of the way.

We were able to get through the train door and I relaxed. Now we were on the train I felt safer. On the train it felt like we were in a tin of sardines all squished together. I do not know how long we spent on that train. It felt like we waited forever. Soon I felt the train slowing down. I saw the sign for Lviv through the window and I knew we had made it. The train doors opened. There was the same scramble to get off the train. We exited and followed the crowd toward the evacuation center. We entered one of the many queues to get in. After what seemed like forever, we made it to the front of the queue. A kind looking lady asked Mum some questions like “How many people are needing a bed? “ and “ How long are you planning to stay here?”

Three, my mum said to the first question. To the second, she said- as long as we can. We also all applied to be refugees. The lady led us through the rows of shelters and directed us to the family area. She showed us one of the last free shelters and told us we could stay there for now. The shelter consisted of three small camp beds, a small table and chairs and a portable gas burner. There were also some cupboards for storage. Our space was also near a communal toilet. A sense of relief came over me. We had made it to Lviv and were in a safe space where we had food rations, water and a place to sleep.

I took off the heavy backpack. The last thing that I had to do was put our small number of belongings away. I also unpacked the photo of Dad. Mum laid down on one of the camp beds and I put a blanket over her. I gave her some dried beef rations and water and she nodded her thanks. “Thank you for being brave, Fadeya. I know that this was a lot to take on and I know that you all miss Dad. I know that this is so much to be responsible for when you are just 14. Thank you for working so hard to keep your family safe. You remind me so much of your Dad and you are growing into such a fine young man like he was,” Mum said.

“Thanks Mum,” I replied solemnly. The memory of Dad leaving ached inside my stomach. It felt like a creature threatening to tear me apart. I gave Solomiya her teddy. She smiled so hard and laughed.

“I love you so much Fadey! Solomiya said

“I love you too, Miya,” I said shakily.

I started crying tears of joy! Happiness ran through me even if it was only there for a minute. The monster of grief started to fade.

It was late. Mum and Solomiya were in bed. I could not sleep. The bombs, gunshots and air raid sirens were keeping me awake. I got up, sat at the table and opened a can of sardines. I remembered how crowded it was on the train earlier and remember thinking I was a sardine. Then I realized that sardines were caught by pelicans and eaten. Were the Russian bombs like pelicans diving in and destroying the Ukrainian sardines? Sardines like Artem. I suddenly felt like a vulnerable sardine, waiting for the inevitable.

Kim Stone (Year 10)

On Nausea And Strange Sensations of Loss

By Dominique To (Year 10)

Most days, you can almost convince yourself that you want this, to wake up to chequered beige wallpaper and a soft mattress under your body, to amble out of the little bedroom you painstakingly decorated all those years ago in anticipation, slowly, aimlessly; you remember longing for aimlessness, for time to whittle away on frivolous hobbies, time you never had, time you now have in abundance.

You rarely eat breakfast, a habit you acquired from a life spent skimming minutes from the morning to run around the yard, book in hand, do a few kickups, whatever you happened to occupy yourself with that day. Instead, you take your softly steaming tea – unsweetened, Lipton-branded black with a splash of milk – outside, to the park across the street from your house, to a small wooden bench, worn down over years you never really witnessed while you were away. Pale green leaves hang over your head, mottling the watery sunlight that splays its meagre warmth across your shoulders.

The pungent scent of alcohol pervades your nostrils as you stride briskly into the kitchen. Determinedly averting your gaze from the figure slumped at the table, you fill the kettle, setting it on the stove and leaning down to light it.

As the water boils, you bite down on a slightly soft apple, the only thing in the thick, glass fruit bowl you vaguely remember receiving from your grandmother last Christmas. A household essential in Germany, she had informed you, and you had nodded, smiled politely, made noises of interest and surprise at the right moments as she talked about how sophisticated Europeans were, not like England at all, no, they had real culture, real history.

You toss the apple core into the bin. A muffled groan comes from the table. The kettle starts to whistle, smothering the sound

There is something foreign about it, the silence and the calm. Sometimes you think it cannot have been long since there was a low, incessant buzz of conversation in your ear, when you would press cheek against the smooth, cold glass of the window in the team bus and wish for quiet, a wish that was never granted, not that you ever really expected it to be, back then.

So many goddamn idealists, you remember thinking that day, glancing around the dimly lit bus. You remember the two boys slumped against each other behind you, one with his head nestled heavily on the other’s shoulder, nose pressed into his neck. You remember wondering, with dull ache in your chest that you attributed the usual bitterness you have long associated with losing a derby, what it must be like to feel young, unafraid, to have no trouble falling asleep after a disastrous performance like the two of them were doing, you wonder how it must feel to have a career, a future, stretched in front of you, glittering with hopes and dreams that always seemed to turn into churning nausea and a visceral sensation of loss.

The scene feels oddly delicate, breakable. You imagine yourself for a moment as some kind of huge, grotesque monster, stumbling into a sunlit forest glade, arms thrashing clumsily for balance, tearing at the trees by your sides. You exhale shakily and turn away.

You never did bother to find out happened to those boys.

A year and a half becomes a decade in what simultaneously feels like a second and a century. You think your voice must have strangled itself in despair by now from lack of use.

You tell yourself you are not lonely. You are just waiting. Waiting for something to happen.

The Devil's Due

By Jack Goddard (Year 11)

James always played risky games. He quite liked Uno, but there were no stakes in that. He also enjoyed stealing other kids' shoes and chucking them in trees, but there was no competition there. So, when the new casino called The Devil's Due opened up at the end of his street, boy was he was excited. Luckily by that time he had grown a bit older, but with it more arrogant. However, he wasn't the only one who had grown. The Mafia had exploded recently due to the new laws on alcohol, and everyone was eager to get money a bit more... leniently. So down the street he walked, the sound of his shoes echoing throughout, the moon his only spectator. Designed after Dante's Inferno the outside walls showed vibrant depictions of hell, the door looking like an old, yellowed contract held right below a grinning devil face. As he pushed through, the doors swinging aside with a creak as if it were a saloon in the wild west, James felt like he had just walked into something he shouldn't have. The thought quickly passed, however as inside it was a very different story. Bright, flashing lights on every table, all designed after one of the sins, representative of the games played upon them. The bar on the opposite wall stretched down the length of the building, seemingly very operational, and very enticing. The only sin that was missing was greed, with the bar even being designed after sloth. Unbothered by this small fact, James went on to play the night away, returning every night to win big before sleeping most of the day. At least, that was his plan. Very rarely did he win big, and very rarely did he get a full day’s sleep, instead choosing to play until the sun was at its highest, baring down. He only kept himself afloat on the money he occasionally won.

News quickly spread in the casino of how much time James was spending there, along with his skill at cards and dice. He managed to walk away some nights with a hefty win, only to lose it the next. One night, while he was at the bar talking to someone about the irony of placing such alcoholic drinks in a place designed after Hell, something about fire, one of the workers there, a middle aged woman dressed up to look like a succubus, walked up to him.

“The boss heard ya pretty good, and wants to speak to ya because of it. He’s out the back. Don’t keep him waiting.”

Confused, James got up and decided to go look for this boss, or even a door to get to the back. As he looked, he was distracted by the walls which were covered in paintings of hell, mass amounts of human souls screaming in agony, as if they were begging for release and help. It didn’t normally bother him, but tonight he swore he could hear their screams in the back of his head, almost like they were right behind him, whispering in his ear. But there was no one behind him, and no one whispered here.

“Must just be my imagination,” he said to himself. “Conjuring sounds from the mafia fight two streets over from the other night.” Their screams were still implanted in his head. Yet his gut told him otherwise. Among the murals, there was one where a devil offered a contract to some humans, only for the next panel to show them being boiled alive.

As he examined the pot (in the mural), he saw some staff come through the image of the contract, opening like a swing door on the front. Going through, he was met with a long, green table, with depictions of people longing for riches, knowledge and fame etched into the woodwork. So, this is greed, he thought, as he looked up to the head of the table and, saw a large man sitting in a throne-like chair.

“Come in, come in. We’ve been waiting.” His voice made him feel like his body was being dragged over a gravelly road, but without any pain. Cautiously, James walked up and took a seat at the end closed to the door, intrigue winning the fight in his head.

“I’ve heard word of your skill, so I decided to ask you to play at our table. Here, we gamble as we please, and drink when we want from the barrels along the far well. If you can’t pay, you can still play, just be careful not to lose.”

So, throughout the night, James played, the games varying as time went on, often losing all his money, only to gain it back the next round. Throughout the night, most of the other patrons either left swaying, or drank themselves into a stupor.

As the clock struck 2, the man at the head of the table said, “Alright now, let’s play dice shall we? You know the rules – place your bet and roll the dice. The person with the highest roll wins. You playing, James?”

As he asked this last part, he pushed forward a large pile of gold coins, as if a volcano erupted them from the table. Throwing caution to the wind, James nodded his head eagerly, despite not having anything of his own left to bet. He had lost it in the last game. The thought of how much that pile was worth motivated him like nothing else. So what if he lost, it’s not like he had anything to lose. Throwing first, the man at the head of the table chucked his bone white dice forward, rolling a respectable 10. All I have to do get an 11 or 12, and that gold is mine, James thought to himself. Throwing his blood red dice forward, his face dropped in disappointment as the man said, “Snake eyes, poor luck, kid.”

Getting up, James saw that the man stood over 8 feet tall, and was he walked over to where James sat, frozen in fear, the man’s head warped to form a sharp red crescent, while a small fleshy spear like a limb began to follow him in his wake.

“You ever wonder why this place is called The Devil’s Due? It’s because when arrogant little humans like you come in to play and bet with what they believe is nothing, I come to collect the tab. By walking through that door, you agreed that should you ever lose and be unable to pay, your soul would be mine. Now then, it’s about time you joined the others.”

At this point, James’ body erupted in unbelievably intense pain, as if his flesh was being ripped from his bones. Unable to stay conscious, James welcomed the darkness to end his suffering. But before long, James awoke, staring out into the casino, his body hot and flesh red. Looking around, he realised he was in the place of one of the people in the pot, forced to suffer for eternity for his greed. As other patrons came and went, he tried to scream out for their attention, scream out for help, but to no avail. Over and over, he watched as others entered that back room, never to come out, forced to suffer with him for eternity.