The Realms 2022, Deception

THE REALMS 2022 EDITION

Winner of the Art Prize

Contents

Editorial 3

Deception: Kevin Ch’ng (First Prize) 5

Deception: Kensei Soegijono (Second Prize) 9

Being true to yourself: Charlie Leong (Third Prize) 13

Iris: Marcus Peeters-Williams (Open Prize) 15

The Trojan Horse: Oliver Gaudion (Best Poem) 20

Murder in the Mist: Matthew Stephen (Middle School Prize) 23

Parasitic Relationship: Matthew Lau (Most Inventive) 30

Deception: Justin Zhou (Honourable Mention) 33

A record of beasts and mortality: Kevin Wang (Honourable Mention) 39

A Faded Dream: Jonty Neil (Honourable Mention) 45

Cover Image: Justin Zhou (Winner of the Art Prize)

Editorial

The 2022, Realms Writing and Arts Competition has been more than a delight to run this year. Along with the amazing pieces of writing that were submitted, the new addition of an ‘Arts’ component has allowed students to display their unique and creative abilities surrounding this year’s theme of ‘Deception’. To this somewhat challenging theme, both the judges and I have become very well versed after indulging ourselves into many stories of the Trojan Horse and spies at work. However, some students delved even deeper, with some exploring the duplicitous nature of relationships and identity whilst others highlighted the often ambiguous life choices and their unfortunate consequences. The ability for students to visually echo their thematic ideas was also greatly appreciated, providing an intriguing depiction of such deceiving machinations. All entries were a pleasure to read and the students are to be greatly commended for their creativity, imagination and command of the English language. A special thanks to Mrs Renieris and her endless enthusiasm and passion for organizing the competition and also to Mr Allen, for his sound and adept judgement on the pieces submitted.

Ryan Le Prefect for Publications

Thanks to the Committee Members and Editors: Ryan Le, Aneta Renieris and John Allen.

DECEPTION

written by Kevin Ch’ng, Year 8

You hold the business card in your hand. The card reads ‘Deception’. Beneath it, ‘Lawyer, Consultant, Anything you want.’ Turning it over, you read the instructions on how to reach him. ‘Deep, deep, down.’ It is a delicate situation, and you must handle this craftily. Deception is the only one who can help.

And so, your journey begins.

You travel down for a seemingly long time before stopping to rest. Approaching from a distance, you see an old man. You instantly recognise him as Truth. It is not entirely unexpected that he is the first to have crossed your way. You rely on him so much, so very much, for both guidance and counsel in times of need. Should you listen to him now?

No, not this time. He just would not be able to offer the advice that you need. Only Deception can help you.

So you back away.

But Truth is not going to let you off so easily. With surprising speed, he reaches out and grabs you. For just that moment, you consider letting Truth in and accepting the consequences. He will always lead you up the righteous path. Whereas Deception would lead you down the more comfortable direction.

As you prepare to let Truth take charge, a young girl skips up towards the both of you. You know her as Imagination. Someone who would always fill your mind with joyful dreams. Someone who would come up with something wondrous and inventive, and occasionally useful. Someone who would help you deny Truth for a while.

So, you let Imagination take your hand, in the hope that she would lead you to Deception. They work closely, after all.

In that instant, you see a vision that the young girl has painted for you. You, smiling from ear to ear, skipping through rows of shimmering green grass. Best day ever! If you would only choose Deception over Truth, this would happen.

Powered by Imagination, you spring away from Truth. Deception is the only one that can save you now.

And so, the journey continues.

You trek along for quite a while until you reach the base of a cliff. Looking up, you spy a teenager, in a ragged school uniform, teetering along the edge. You wonder if he is about to fall, before realising, to your horror, that he is contemplating jumping. He looks shameful about something that he had done.

You feel sick and nauseous about the fact that you cannot do anything for him from this distance.

But as you study him longer, you realise that he is guilty. He thrives by making you regret all your choices and by attacking your morals. You know that the only way to get past Guilt is to ignore him as best you can, however heartbreaking or unconscionable it may be. He will always be lurking in your mind, but as you begin to walk away from him, you can at least try to dull the sensation. You decide to focus entirely on Deception, to help you forget that you ever met Guilt.

And so, the journey continues.

And as you continue further down, you see Deception. His dark silhouette is all that you can see. Lightning trails behind him whilst rain beats down upon the pavement. You hear a loud burst of thunder. The street along which he walks is lit by flickering street lamps. Cold wind blows, carrying all manner of rubbish flying around, as well as causing nearby trees to flail violently.

This moment could not be more clichéd if you tried. It’s quite understandable, really. Your mind has always been filled with nightmares and dramatic scenes. This has all been manifested to mirror your thoughts.

He approaches and beckons to you, but you back away, suddenly unsure. Are you certain that you want to do this? Perhaps you should think about your alternatives a bit more and consider what you could do instead.

He senses your wavering and leaps towards you.

You feel Deception merging into you, as you both become one. You feel power. Power that you have never felt before, and you understand the extent of Deception’s influence and intensity. An evil smile spreads along your face.

Guided by Deception, you begin the trek back up to the top of your mind.

Finally, just as you are about to reach the top, you meet Anxiety. She is the last line of defence, the only thing standing between you and your actions. She shares traits with Imagination, but you know the difference.

Anxiety shows you the worst possible outcomes and guides you to a path you feel comfortable with. Imagination, on the other hand, shows you all the possibilities, good or bad. He is unbiased about the path you take.

However, now that you are powered by Deception, none of this matters. She takes away all the possible choices except one. You stride past Anxiety easily.

“MUM! I’m coming in half an hour, just gotta finish this essay!” you shout back. You then look back down at your phone, scrolling through your socials, while Deception smiles.

DECEPTION

written by Kensei Soegijono, Year 9

Iwalked through the lonely, desolate street, shuddering as I pulled my coat closer to me. I sought the next oasis of light from overhead fluorescents as they fought to keep the choking waves of darkness away. I clutched my coffee in both hands as if my sanity depended on it and shivered. I wished I had brought a warmer coat to protect me from the icy winds. The hoot of an owl, hunting in the vast domain of night, scared me and I flinched, spilling my holy coffee. Cursing at my cowardice, I continued trudging along the cobbled street, one step, two steps. I looked up as I left the light, and entered the dark unknown when I saw... doors?

A wall seemed to appear in front of me with doors on them, each one with words written on it with what seemed like blood. ‘Not scary at all’, ‘Scary’, ‘Very scary’. My heart pounded as I stared at the doors, my feet rooted to the ground. Thousands of thoughts ran through my head. Was that a faint hiss I could hear? The clatter of claws on a hard surface? The crunch of bones being gnawed on? As these thoughts ran through my head, I tried to dismiss them. “Nonsense” I muttered to myself, but even my own voice seemed to echo ominously.

I stayed there for what seemed like forever, wondering which door I should pick. Were the signs telling the truth? Were they tricking me? Did I even need to pick a door? I turned around and froze. More doors? I turned my head from side to side, more frantic with each turn. I was surrounded by doors, and reality hit me. I was stuck unless I picked a door. My stomach churned and my heart seemed to be trying to pound out of my chest as sweat beaded down my face. What was I going to do? My wife, my son and my daughter were waiting at home and my phone had run out of battery.

I looked up at the sky and the stars twinkled cheerfully above me, seemingly oblivious to my problem below. It was a simple choice to choose a door, yet my feet refused to move and my muscles turned to jelly. Why wasn’t anyone nearby? I cried out for help in a futile attempt, yet my calls remained unanswered echoing through the narrow streets, almost like I was talking to myself. I fought back the tears that were threatening to flood my face with despair. “It’s alway doors,” I muttered angrily and threw my hands up in exasperation. Primary school was writing about “the door”. Middle school was writing about a picture with doors on it.

I clenched my fists and scrunched my eyes close. I was going to do it. I was going to open a door. I didn’t care what was behind the doors but I would rather face what was behind the doors than slowly go insane and die of hunger and thirst. What else was I supposed to do? One step at a time, my breath getting faster and faster, my heart beating so fast, I felt like a rock band was playing “The final countdown” in my chest. Three steps, two steps, one more step,

as if I was in a trance, my hand moved from my side and grasped the cold brass doorknob. ‘Very scary’ was written on it and my knees nearly buckled under me in fear. I licked my parched lips and I could already feel the exhaustion setting in.

“I can do this, I can do this” I muttered to myself over and over again as I gripped the doorknob, my knuckles turning white. Was the signs on the doors all a trick? Was I making the wrong choice? I could easily turn back. But maybe that’s what the doors were trying to make me do. Maybe they were trying to mess with my head and trick me into doing nothing. “Nonsense” I scoffed to myself, “Why would doors be trying to trick me?” I shook my head as these thoughts echoed through my head, making me unsure and feel so small. I knew that if I kept waiting, the choice would be harder. So I did it. I turned the now warm doorknob, took a deep breath, the last of many, and walked forward with my eyes shut, praying that there wasn’t anabomination waiting for me on the other side.

I stumbled into an empty, grey, monochromatic room and as my hand unclenched on the doorknob, the door closed with a loud BANG. I screamed in fear, expecting something to come lunging out of the darkness and take my head off in one swipe. I cracked an eye and was about to relax when I saw... god damn it, another door! Another scream let loose from my lips and my exhaustion was replaced with anger. Who was doing this? Was this some sort of sick prank? I looked around the empty room and my eyes fell on a piece of paper in the middle of the room. Was this some sort of game? Was this like a movie set I accidentally walked onto? Is someone trying to deceive me into walking to my own death? I slowly approached the note and reached for it with caution expecting it to bite my hand off. The door did say very scary after all.

I grabbed the note and read it. “Congratulations! You totally picked the best door to pick! Now all you need to do is go through the next door and try to survive and handle whatever is in there. Try not to die!! The clue to what it is is ‘It is man’s most loyal and loved soldier.’” Man’s most loyal and loved soldier? Was it this guy’s sons? Maybe this guy was a general in the army and was going to pick one of his soldiers! I racked my brain trying to think what it could be but drew a blank. No sense crying over spilt milk I thought. I was already here and there wasn’t anything I could do to change that fact.

I felt a sense of deja vu as I trudged to the next door and grabbed the doorknob. I was probably going to hate doors after this, I smirked and twisted the door. That’s when I froze. I heard a low growl from the other side of the door and the sound of paws padding on the ground. Was it a tiger or jackal? Maybe some “frankenstein” creation that this person made? Fear overcame me again, a feeling I was now well acquainted with and my stomach churned. Was this some sort of trick? What was happening? I didn’t do anything!

Tears rolled down my face and the world became a blur. This was going to be the end. I had always been a coward and never took responsibility for my actions. I knew that if I was going to die, I would do it my way, opening the door and facing whatever was in front of me. My choice.

My will. My responsibility. I took a deep breath and walked forward for maybe the last time and to face whatever insidious creation that was waiting for me. If I ever get out of this, I’m going to have a phobia of doors I told myself.

As I walked through the door, a sense of calm and peace overcame me, surprising me. Maybe I knew this was going to be the end. The door opened fully and I walked through, fists raised when a huge body slammed into me. I shut my eyes in fear and squealed like a baby. Maybe I wasn’t as calm and collected as I thought and I felt the hot breath of whatever was on me. I slowly opened my eyes and came face to face with a huge, slobbery, SCARY ... dog? I struggled up and I saw a St. Bernard leaning over me, its tail wagging as it licked me playfully. I let out a laugh as I realised that all this time, the growl, the pad of paws, was just this huge St Bernard. I stared into his warm brown eyes and as I looked behind him, I saw an open door, leading to the street in front of my house. What was happening? How was this possible? I had somehow made it to my house by crossing through 2 rooms! Was I drugged?

I struggled up and tried to get the dog to follow me. My kids had always wanted a dog but I always told them no. This would be a great surprise I thought as I imagined the smiles on their faces. What else was I supposed to do with this dog? I walked out of the room with the St Bernard and the room disappeared behind me. Good riddance, I thought to myself as I approached the door to my house. I stared at the door, my heart beating as I imagined how my wife would reprimand me about how late I had come home when I laughed out loud. What was I to be scared off? If I could open those doors, I definitely could open this door and handle what was on the other side.

I pushed through the door open and called “Honey I’m home!” She stormed down the stairs looking an angry look plastered on her face when she suddenly saw the dog behind me. “What were you doing!?” She asked me, a puzzled expression replacing the angry one on her face. “I got you guys a present.” I replied and called my kids down. When they saw the dog, they squealed and ran forward, caressing the huge dog’s long fur. The dog rolled over and the kids laughed. I smiled at my wife and she smiled at me. Looks like I was forgiven, I thought when she came forward and punched my arm. “I was so worried about you! I thought you had been mugged! After all, we all know how bad you are at everything!” She said and I realised that she was angry because she was worried about me. “Hey!” I laughed and put my hand over her shoulder. “Don’t worry, I’ll always be here. I’ll be fine.” I whispered and she looked at me again and smiled at me as she whispered “I know you old donkey.”

“How did you get the dog dad?” my son asked me, interrupting the moment. “Well, let’s just say I found it on the streets,” I replied, laughing. That was sort of the truth, I told myself and looked at my family smiling, laughing, and generally being happy. That was the last thing I saw as I lay on the sofa, collapsed with exhaustion and let the warm embrace of sleep engulf me. As I slipped into unconsciousness, I heard a faint voice. Another man’s voice that seemed to be coming from outside. “Looks like my brother fell for it, what an idiot.” the voice said. The voice continued with a sinister note of amusement, “The job is done. We got the ‘dog’ in. It’s time. As Jim Sanborn said, ‘Deception is everywhere’...” Wait what?

Being true to yourself

written by Charlie Leong, Year

11

You find yourself in the silent darkness, when your unfamiliar heart pounds, and your fear-ridden eyes stare into the shattered reflection in the mirror. ‘Be you’ they cheer, But they never mentioned that by doing this

You will not be loved,

Because you are not like them. So get into that mould, force on that stifling mask. Society now adores and accepts you.

A blurry glare in the distance, A force that sucks you into the fog.

What looked like an ocean, Only turned out to be a desert.

Why aren’t you happy yet? Are you even you?

Your smile is crooked. Maybe this isn’t the answer.

There must be another way. Throw that insincere mask away, and free yourself of lies. Find the pure you and own it, For this doesn’t require anyone else’s permission.

You must respect yourself first in order to respect others. Say goodbye to fake friends, as on the horizon, There are true companions who will love you for you.

When winter passes, spring will always come.

IRIS: A MEMOIR OF MY ROMAN TIME AND EGYPTIAN UNIVERSE

written by Marcus Peeters-Williams, Year 12

Soul of Snake Died 100 AD, The Aegean Sea

1. Epistulae ad Atticum, et Terentiam et Quintum

56 BC. I lay coiled in a basket as warm as a womb, sitting on the ochre tiles heated by Cicero’s hypocaust system. We had been in Thessaloniki for two years since the statesman had been exiled for his orations against Clodius – Cicero’s defence of the republic, his loud mouth, had got me shoved out of the citadel. I was wrapped up the same as his quill and ink, his furniture, and whatever else he owned under Roman law. When I first slithered into Cicero’s abode in the capitol he had been a groomed man, with hair that only lightly brushed the top tips of his wide ears, and he always wore a brilliantly white toga which was constantly rubbed with chalk to demonstrate his status as a statesman. Before his exile he would religiously don his toga candida but now he only wore torn clothing, the holes in his tunic exposing his white, tired skin. The fat which once sat around his belly had waned away, revealing his exposed ribcage. His hair now tumbled well past his ears now confidently flanking his sallow cheeks, recalcitrant to any stately will left in Cicero. Most significant, however, was the length of his beard which now rested just below his beltline. In Roman custom, this was a symbol of mourning generally reserved for the loss of a loved one – indeed, Cicero had lost his love for politics, and for the Republic. I watched him write his letters to Atticus, his closest friend left in Rome. From the beam I coiled myself around in the thatched roof I peered at his writings, which told of his love Atticus, whom he often talked to me about. He greatly missed his confidante and frequently sat on the steps outside the house which ran down to the Aegean Sea, staring off into the horizon directly towards Rome itself. It’s a shame he could never grasp the true beauty of seclusion, the drum of Roman neuroticism in the far distance.

In his letters he told of the end of his world, without Atticus, and of course his wife Terentia and his brother Quintus, whom he also occasionally wrote to. He begged Atticus to come to meet with him in his palace of exile, to travel south to save his soul from the edge of life itself. A snake can only chortle at his desperation for masculine company, when he was so bountifully surrounded with the daughters of Terra Mater in the form of the roses, narcissus, crocuses which pervaded the rolling hills, and deer and goats frolicking amongst them. Yet, human seeks human, bound by a primitive force quite alien to me as a lone being who would rather anything else than to suffer another snake by my side. His moans and groans had become unbearable to me by 54 BC, at which point I was considering slithering off into the undergrowth, foregoing the warm tiles just to escape the unsound Cicero, who had now become manic and constantly lashed out in fury, one time grabbing me by my tail and

yelling that I was a portent of evil, another time spinning me around and tossing me against the wall, accusing me of being a spy of Clodius. One day a carriage arrived, led by two white horses adorned with heavy metal armour and golden manes. They sneered at me and I sneered back. Cicero was approached by a man who resembled Hermes, and as they conversed Cicero began to hoot wildly, jumping up and down as he did so – he had been recalled to Rome, and would be reunited with Atticus. I, however, was not jumping up and down, and not just because of my lack of legs. Ripping me from Thessaloniki was like ripping a swaddled child from the arms of a new mother, and I was incredibly reluctant to be once again wrapped up with Cicero’s belongings, so much so I struck out at the slave who tried to package me, but it was not use. I was loaded into the carriage, with piles of Roman trash on top of me. We travelled for days, seldom stopping –but when I saw my opportunity, I took it. We had stopped only a couple of Roman miles outside the city which Cicero had pined for so greatly in our isolation, and he ordered the carriage stop atop a hill so that he could survey it in its complete splendour. I slipped out of the wraps which held me, and quietly escaped out the side of the carriage and into the grasses by the side of the road.

For 14 years I was a freed snake, slinking through the Roman forests, without the watchful eye of a master except Terra Mater; I once again, as I did as a younger snake, felt at peace with my surroundings, which lacked the imperial exertion which I had endured with Cicero. I felt that in amongst the iris, gladioli, and amaranth I did not age, as though I were in perfect stasis when living in the natural order. Light, warm breezes lapped at the hills on the first day of spring in 39 BC, the hills shimmered with their swaying grasses, great swathes of choreographed dance along the countryside, and at the top of one hill sat a man, cross-legged with a basket to his side and a yellowed sheet of papyrus in his lap. I swam up the hill through the grasses towards him, and curled myself in his basket. He looked to me and was not shocked but marvelled at my scintillating skin and patted my head, as though I were his lifelong pet. He lifted me in his basket, gently placing his papyrus to my left, and walked me back to his town, Mantua.

2. Of My Mother Once Again, I Sought The Hills

I later learned the man whose basket I had coiled myself into was the poet Virgil, a poet whom Cicero had scorned, with Cicero being of a Homeric style and finding anything non-classical to be distasteful, particularly Virgil’s Eclogues which discussed love outside Cicero’s conceived boundaries. Cicero’s disdain for the young, invigorating writer was more reason to like Virgil, who wrote of pastoral love – a far cry from Cicero’s cherished republic, with its urban cram. I thought I would be enchanted by my new life, with a much younger man, but therein lied the problem. Virgil often took me through the family farm in the same basket he found me in, touring me through the wide expanse of crops, which glowed under the golden rays which Phoebus cast on the empire. But Virgil did not understand my desire to live in the shadows, and repeatedly attempted to pair me with a female snake, who he had named Fulvia. Despite his apparent affinity with nature, he failed to determine my sex. Admittedly to the masculine eye the differences are indistinguishable, but a feminine attention to detail notices the thinner, more elegant tail with its smooth, gradual taper. It occurred to me at this point that Cicero had never called me by any name, partly for his obsession with his own life, partly for his despising of me.

Virgil. however, at the very least had the respect to name me, and he did so with the name Isis, for he told me my reflective scales reminded him of the shimmering moon.

Fulvia and I did not mate, much to the dismay of Virgil, but instead had constant conflicts, with her assertive fangs striking my wayward armour many times as though she was defending her fatherly Virgil from a foreign ophidian threat. Over the course of the coming years I began to hear serpentine whispers behind my back, and I would often turn to see the slippery Fulvia coiled around Virgil’s crook. I saw Virgil’s eyes shift from their glittering soft azure shade to a much darker, stormier look, as though his eyes had been shadowed by thick, ominous rain clouds.

By 37 BC Virgil had been lured into the corrupting stone metropolis, thanks to the success of his poetry. He had now been subsumed by Gaius Maecenas, who had inoculated the impressionable poet with rhetoric against the great soldier Mark Antony. They often talked of his corrupting, by this mysterious female figure, the Regina Meretrix, as they called her. I was rapt by their slanderous stories, that a woman could so brutally reject the masculine world which so often pushed itself outwards across the Roman empire. Maecenas told Virgil of the plan to meet Mark Antony in Brundisium, to attempt to reconcile him and bring him back to Rome. I flicked my tail in excitement at the news, and hatched my plan to board Mark Antony’s ship, to meet the famed Regina Meretrix.

3. In Octaviam

The dark sky loomed above me, such that the paved road only extended a few feet before vanishing into the dark void which surrounded Maecenas’s estate – I was in my element. Alone, I wriggled into the carriage which sat outside the house’s gates and nestled between the crates which sat in the back of the vehicle. The party left at the first crack of Apollo’s whip, the finest white horses selected for the 3 day journey. I dared not move a muscle, fearing I would be thrown out of the carriage, my one chance at a greater freedom lost. And so I endured the journey, scarcely eating except in the dead of the cold autumn night, when I could eat out of the rations carriage without being seen. Finally we arrived at Brundisium, the turquoise waters of the Adriatic Sea reflecting against the white stone of the surrounding town. In the distance, Mark Antony’s fleet stood stoically anchored just off the water’s edge. I watched a lustrously dressed man disembark a barge sent off to shore, and immediately identified the fabled Mark Antony. I made my way down to barge and slipped myself into the empty sword sleeve which Mark Antony had left on the barge. I sailed back to Alexandria with him, and after his initial shock at finding a snake on his ship he quite warmed to the idea of non-human company, being already acquainted with the exoticism of the languid lands of the Ptolemaic dynasty. However, I had no real interest in the man myself, despite how acclaimed he may have been; my interest remained with the Queen.

Arriving at the palace, I watched her from the banks of the Nile as she moseyed down the rich and powerful river on a barge. She sat one a beautiful throne, not worthy for her divine queenly body. Striking purples complemented the golds of her ceremonial dress and the silvers of the oars, which moved to the tune of flutes playing from the shores. Antony put me in a small

reed basket which was cramped and uncomfortable, and I was ported from the shore to her chamber, where I was gifted like some novelty entertainment. The Queen’s presence calmed me, and I became entranced with her very aura, a refreshing feminine existence surrounding me. She did not wrap me like an object as Cicero had done, nor tried to make me mate as Virgil had done, but she took me as is, and she retreated to her chamber with me.

Each time I slithered into her chamber, she welcomed me with enthusiasm and affection, letting me slink across her golden adornments. Oftentimes it would be only me and her in the chamber, and she would speak to me as she did to her two ladies-in-waiting, Iras and Charmian. Together, Cleopatra and I existed on the same plane of existence. I no longer felt like the lowly snake, she had rescued me from the rabbles of Rome. In her presence and her presence alone, I felt truly elated. She gave no thought to my sex, no thought to some chauvinist law of the jungle.

What sincerely intrigued me about Cleopatra was her radical ability to truly choose her seclusion; Cicero was chained to it, Virgil required it, but Cleopatra was entirely free from any psychological bondage. It seemed she was a cat who had the key to her own cage. Now I could see why the Roman men called her the Regina Meretrix – simply because they failed to understand the complexity of her character and attempted to rationalise it with Roman logic. Of course, no Roman logic could impose itself on Egyptian rule. Except that Mark Antony, who was like a stabbing stone against my scaly white belly. When he entered my Queen’s chamber, I quickly slithered to the garden, so I could maintain some form of isolation. He melted my Cleopatra like licking flames melted Troy. I despised the Roman injection, a threat to the serenity maintained by the women of the chamber. Mark Antony failed to appreciate the importance of fitting every soul for independent action, the immeasurable solitude of self.

The time I spent with Cleopatra brought me as close to Terra Mater as I had been in the Roman forests, but all good things (according to humans) must come to an end. Although I didn’t find that to be true in any respect (humans clearly don’t understand the beauty in the infinite cycle of nature) it seemed fitting in this moment, as a fatally wounded Mark Antony was carried into my Queen’s chamber, disrupting our previously undefiled confinement. I sat in the corner and watched the Regina howl in pain, her piercing lupine-like screech reaching the banks of the Nile, from which Octavian and his legion were steadily advancing towards our chamber. Cleo ordered Charmian and Iras to dress her in her most queenly robes, and as they left she turns to me and lifts me until my eyes meet hers. I coil myself around her arm, her porcelain skin, and she strokes me and tells me what must be done. Iras and Charmian dress my queen in a brilliant shimmering gold piece, dazzling to any mortal being. I gaze upon my Queen one last time, before she presses me against her breast, my deadly fangs piercing her nipple. She collapsed, as beautiful in death as in life, her crown still resting gently on her head. I remember slithering off into the garden and then as far as I could go, venomous tears in my eyes.

4. Diverging Lives

I was captured by Octavian’s forces, and brought back to Rome, the place I had tried so hard to flee from. I was paraded around the city streets as some sort of perverse war trophy, the asp that killed my beauty, Cleopatra. Octavian held me in his keep well-fed for many years, but no number of grapes could intoxicate my serpent blood the way Cleopatra had – the luxuries of Rome did not replace my longing for absolute solitude. So often in the company of humans, I had the contradictory desire to never be let go of, always to be left alone. Octavian kept me in a purpose-made glass vase, which had a concave divot for water, and another for food; the vessel was an all-round peculiar and unique device, specifically made for the psychological torture of snakes like me. From my glass palace I saw the comings and goings of many men, eventually many emperors, and many years. Many days I wished for the privilege of death, in its infinite black expanse, that it could fit through the holes at the top of my vase and consume me, transport me to the void. I felt the curse of my lustre, which trapped me under the pellucid ceiling. Maybe now I felt the torment of Cicero – how dearly I missed my Cleo. Day and night blurred, the twinkling night stars superimposed against the ubiquitous Sol. My imagination saw my foremothers dancing in the shadowed sky, dancing with Hatshepsut, Merneith, Nefertiti. I did not know if I wanted to join them, or if I wanted to sink into the ocean, their reflection which danced on the water’s surface.

A hundred years may have passed in that cell, but years didn’t quite matter to me anymore, the Roman republican calendar didn’t hold significance to me. I remember the day a new man raised my vase to his eye level, dark curls and a matching trimmed beard. His gold and purple attire indicated to me that he was the emperor, not that I cared. He handed me to a man with a much longer, much greyer beard, whose cheeks were pallid, his head wrapped in some rouge headdress. I was taken out of the palace, sunlight filling my vase and warming my cold blue blood. At his residence, which was substantial, he released me onto the floor, and I slithered across the tiles which were cool against my belly. I came to know the man as Plutarch, some new writer. I was a gift, from an emperor called Hadrian, who had given me to this stranger as a reward for his writings. I watched him write, and was disgusted by his recounts. He painted my Queen as some erratic harlot, who subjugated the supposed chivalrous Antony. If only Plutarch had seen her in her chamber, her brilliance and her resplendent wears, her soft and gentle touch against my scales. I thought many times of striking his wrinkled neck, but a greater power prohibited me, yet my soul refused to stay in that house.

I saw the Acropolis in the distance, and the Aegean below. It was turning dusk, and the streets were clearing out. I swam down the cobbles, the speed of my movement scraping scales clean off the bottom of my soft white underbelly. The waves rapidly approached, and as I entered the blackened water, once cerulean, a rapid trepidation came over me. Though my exile was voluntary, I feared leaving the forests, as Roman as they may be – will I lose myself as Cicero lost himself? What demon would be waiting for me at the bottom of the ocean? Once I sunk below the fish which swam in lighter waters, this paranoia dissolved. As I sunk into the black, I lost all sense of direction, and the bottom of the ocean opened to the sky. I began to dance, swimming freely through the night. Krill swam around me, each twinkling just like a star. Alone, but not lonely, I sunk into the sky, the krill and I.

A Poem About The Trojan Horse

Description: This is a reverse poem. When you read a reverse poem from top to bottom you get a normal poem, but when you read the poem from bottom to top you find the true meaning of the poem.

Why it fits the theme of deception:

In this poem I not only wrote about the Trojan Horse which is a theme of deception in itself, but I also wrote a reverse poem. When reading the poem from top to bottom you get a false meaning (the poem deceives you), but when reading it from bottom to top you discover the true meaning of the poem. Hence, the poem in itself IS a deception!

Note: When reading the poem from bottom to top you are not reading each line backwards you are simply reading the bottom line, then the second last line, then the third last, and so on.

Punctuation and capitalisation: Please note when writing a reverse poem it is extremely hard to get the correct punctuation for both ways of reading it. I also capitalised the start of each line because almost all the time it doesn’t make sense to put capitals on some and not others because it is almost impossible for that to make sense forward and back. So I made them all capitals.

The Trojan Horse

Written by Oliver Gaudion, Year 7

The Trojan Horse was a ridiculous idea. There is no way that You could not see it coming from a mile away! And yet The Trojans still built it anyway, Although The plans were admittedly quite rough Of course. The horse appeared suspiciously at the front gate And no one thought It was a normal gift It seemed That the horse was very deceptive. The people, however, seemed to overlook the fact That the horse was hollow, Although there was some talk about the topic In the end the victory of the Trojan Horse was sheer luck! And you will never hear me say The Trojan Horse was an ingenious idea.

Murder in the Mist

written by Matthew Stephen, Year 8 October 4th,

1888 1:44 am Prologue

On a misty Autumn night, in the labyrinthine network of dim-lit streets in the troublesome East-end of London, Constable Edward Watkins was walking his usual beat down Mitre street. It had been an uneventful night compared to most in the district of Whitechapel. Echoes of drunks screaming, “Murder is amidst!”, “The Ripper’s comin’ to get me!” howled through the foul-smelling air. Watkins wandered up the cobblestone streets avoiding eye contact with the destitute ladies searching for the vulnerable and empty-headed men of the night. There was little light in the darkness beside a clunky oil lamp Watkins hoisted around his satchel. Soon he turned right into Mitre square, making sure to check the corner of his eyes for any lurking in his midst. His steps were loud and assertive, alerting any nearby to his presence. As he made his way into the square he smelt something, not the usual sewage-filled aroma, but an unsettling metallic stench.

Still standing at the entrance of the square, Watkins caught sight of something on the ground to his right. He couldn’t quite yet discern what this was, but he certainly had a thought. Watkins carefully approached, shining his lamp around, making sure there weren’t any unwanted pests in his way. Just as he suspected, his worst nightmare was true. There lay a woman on her back lying flat on the ground. Her throat was cut open and her bowels protruded through her ripped-up stomach. Blood dripped from her mouth into the growing red pool she lay in. Watkins had never seen something so vile, something so inhumane.

Fortunately, he knew a night watchman who was on guard in a building on the other end of the square. Quickly he fetched him and showed him the body. He, unlike Watkins, was unphased by the disembodied figure. This however aroused little suspicion in Watkins as the night watchman, George Morrison, was a retired constable who, he had presumed, had seen much worse in his time. George then raced off to Aldgate street, furiously blowing his whistle to alert the authorities of the murder.

Within minutes a crowd of worried bystanders had built up in Mitre square. Men and women shared the same horrified expression, thinking that the murders had finally come to an end. Soon the authorities arrived and turned the once deserted square into a bustling crime scene. Detectives and constables scoured every corner of the square, not leaving a single spot unchecked. However, after hours of an intense and thorough search, not a single atom of evidence was found.

5:13 am

The Detective

It has been around 5 hours since the body was discovered in Mitre Square. This is the fifth victim of an unknown serial killer that my fellow detectives say leaves no trace, but I don’t think they are looking in the right places.

The public is outraged and demanding answers that we can’t provide. People are losing trust in the law and are taking the initiative themselves to find the killer. Some would say bravery, I would say idiocy. As much as I make myself believe that we are close, that the answer is on the tip of my tongue, in the end, that’s all it is.

Simply a belief, nothing more, nothing less.

However, the recent events of the Mitre Street murder have resulted in two suspects who both have promising motives and were within the vicinity of the crime.

The first suspect is Francais Tumblety, an eccentric American who has already had a few skirmishes with the police in the last couple of weeks. He was found lounging in a saloon in Goulston Street, a couple of streets up from Mitre Square. Witnesses reportedly said that he was bragging about “an act that would forever torment humanity”.

The other suspect is Constable James Harvey, who has a history of using his power for his own benefit, once caught taking bribes from the Monkey Parade gang. His beat would have taken him through Mitre Square around 1:40 am, merely minutes before the body was found, yet he apparently saw nothing. If there is a god, I pray that no more must people die and that I can put a stop to these hideous acts.

It was now my job to pick truth from deceit, and piece together a puzzle, whose pieces are yet to be found.

6:12 am

Suspect #1 - Francais Tumblety

I walked up to the heavy wooden door, adjusting the position of my silver pocket watch held up by the buttons of my navy waistcoat. I pushed the cold door open to reveal a sombre but familiar room with little decoration besides a clunky old lamp hanging from the ceiling and a table with two chairs.

Cuffed to the table was the American doctor, Francais Tumblety, a peculiar-looking man with a long and thick moustache that he had grown well beyond the borders of his face. His eyes were filled with disturbing laughter. He wore a militaristic outfit that demanded so much attention that it was almost humorous. This was not the first time that Tumblety had encountered the English police, even though he had only arrived a couple of months ago.

I pulled the opposing chair out and took a seat, watching Tumblety’s every move.

“So, may we get started? After all, I am positive you would be aware of the procedure by now?” I said to him while he stared off into the distance.

“Well… I suppose we could, however, I see no point in an interrogation that will end in me walking out free of charge,” Tumblety announced confidently.

“Don’t be so quick thinking Tumblety, we have much to discuss, why don’t you start off by telling me what happened tonight? I just love a well-fabricated story,” I stated.

“It’d be my pleasure, detective.”

Tumblety’s Perspective

“I was hurrying down Aldgate street at around 1:40 am, setting my eyes on the women and rowdy crowds passing by me. I was looking for new clients interested in my groundbreaking herbal medicines that can cure any conceivable disease. However, it seemed my luck had run dry. I suspected I was being trailed by a patient whose treatment was having the usual side effects as I had received a letter earlier in the day stating ‘I wouldn’t live to see another day’. But she, like so many others, was just another simple-minded fool. I continued to make my way through the frosty air, letting the sub zero wind blast into my eyes. I peered into the shops, examining the various carefully placed items while I meticulously planned my next dubious strategy to market my own product.

Before I could complete my thought, an annoying screeching whistle came barreling towards me. A man, concealing what appeared to be a red handkerchief in his fist, revealed himself out of the luminous dense fog. He shouted, ‘There’s been a murder!’ Swiftly constables from the surrounding areas converged on his whistle while also attracting the attention of many regular folks nearby. Out of pure curiosity, I, along with many others, followed the constables. Turning right into Mitre Street, a previously stagnant area had quickly turned into chaos. Some screamed, “He’s back!” while others hid their emotions in an attempt to look brave and in control of this uncontrollable force of death. All that was on my mind was what a brilliant time it would have been to advertise my herbs, so many people in need of fixing!

Eventually, I managed to squeeze through the crevices in the collection of bystanders to get a decent view of the body. It was beyond anything of my imagination, never would I have thought that such mutilation was even possible outside of the surgical room. Her bowels were drooping from her stomach like a snake about to pounce at any moment. Her clothes were drenched in crimson blood. Those around me were in horror at the sight that beheld them. I slipped back through the crowd swallowing the sight I had just seen. I hustled my way back onto the main road seeking a saloon where I could relax my nerves. Before I knew it I had walked far from Mitre Square, unwilling to think of anything but sustenance.

The empty sky and seemingly endless rows of small gothic apartment complexes were all that comforted me now. To my luck, I saw the light of a teeming saloon on the far end of Goulston street. I stepped into the saloon, greeted by the thick scent of gin and rum and the sounds of men clinking their glasses. I grabbed myself a bottle of gin and joined the delirious.”

“Thank you, Tumblety. Before I depart may I ask, where did the woman you suspected of tailing you go?”

“She must have… got lost in the crowd when I went to look at the… the body,” Tumblety quietly mumbled.

“That will all be, for now, Tumblety,” I declared in a hasty but careful voice.

No matter how hard one may try to deceive, a liar is a liar and Tumblety is no different.

His story is certainly riddled with logical inconsistencies, but rather fascinatingly makes special mention of the man who alerted the police of the murder: George Morrison. Tumblety stated that he was trying to conceal a red handkerchief. Obviously this could all be but a ruse by Tumblety to lead my suspicion elsewhere, however in these circumstances, no lead can go unchecked.

Before I could move on to my next suspect I was greeted by none other than Commissioner Sir Charles Warren, who had been standing opposite my desk for quite some time as I was indulged in my thoughts and had failed to notice his entry. His exploding red face projected anger into all corners of my office, it was an understatement to say he looked uneasy.

“Chief Inspector Abberline, I will be damned if you cannot provide me with a single shred of evidence in hopes of finding this undetectable serial killer! The public wants answers and as you know, it is no longer a matter of finding this murderer, it is a matter of keeping the trust of the public,” he shouted in rage but also in great tribulation.

His face hardened awaiting my response.

“Commissioner Warren, sorry to keep you waiting, but I have two promising suspects I am looking into currently that may lead us to or could even be the murderer. I just need more time…”

“Time! That is a luxury that we do not have. Chief Inspector Abberline I will be expecting, no, demanding that you announce something that is not, ‘we need more time’ to the public tomorrow morning, whether it may be truth or make-believe. Your job, my job, and the security of your friends and colleagues depend on it. Do not let me down.”

4:18 pm

Suspect #2 - Constable James Harvey

Once again I placed my trembling hand on the same heavy wooden door as before, confused by my previous exchange with the Commissioner. What was I to do, to forsake the integrity of an investigation simply to give the public half-witted answers? To tell mistrust to gain trust? Before I gave it greater thought, I realised that choice was no longer up to me.

Upon opening the door, a small and unthreatening man sat caressing his curly brown moustache in thought – unaware of my entrance. The constable, James Harvey, was dressed in his midnight blue regulation police uniform, sporting a bewildered appearance. He shot his dreary eyes towards me. I took my seat opposite him.

“Constable, I am sorry for placing you in this position. But as you should know we are in trying times and I cannot leave any lead left to hang.”

“I understand, detective.”

“Could you please explain to me what you were doing prior to and after walking past Mitre Square?”

“I was walking my usual beat down Duke Street around 1:40 am. It was particularly murky and visibility was poor. It had been an uneventful night so far, the regular crowds of drunks and pesky rats were the most I had dealt with. Wandering up the street I glanced into Mitre Square, but I heard not a single sound and could see very little, and my fading lamp was of hardly any assistance. Not suspecting anything, I turned back to set off on my route.

Before getting very far I was promptly interrupted by an old friend of mine and nightwatchman, George Morrison, who seemed to be in quite a huff as he sauntered towards me. I couldn’t make much of his figure but his wine-filled breath could be smelt from a mile away. I asked him why he was out.

He shouted back to me, “I’m coming back from the ale’ouse, an’ also could you be so kind to spare me a ‘andkerchief, I’m feelin’ a bit stuffy,” in a raspy voice.

I dug into my pockets and passed him a clean one, catching sight of his mucky hands which seemed to be smeared with something he claimed to be red wine. Having no reason to suspect him, I wandered off, not thinking much of our recent interaction.”

“Thank you, James. Are you aware that George Morrison was later seen concealing a red handkerchief and was the man that blew the whistle to alert authorities of the death?” I stated, with a slight bit of glee.

James looked at me in shock.

“I find that highly improbable detective, since Morrison appeared to be extremely inebriated when I talked to him, barely being able to pull a sentence together.”

All of a sudden, like a gift from God, the pieces of my puzzle fit together.

“It’s Morrison! It has to be, he must have been acting when he spoke to you and used your handkerchief to clean the red wine stains on his hands.”

I stood up about to dart out the door, believing I had solved the case. “Detective! Don’t you think we should look further into this, or at least gather some more constables?”

I shot my head towards him and nearly erupted. “No! There’s no time left. We can tell everyone once we have caught him. Get up constable, you’re coming with me to catch this killer!”

11:35 pm

The end

I flew down the stairs in front of the grandiose police building as Constable Harvey trailed not far behind. My overcoat caught the blistering wind and flew out behind me, hitting those II passed. We took a sharp turn onto Houndsditch Street, not letting anything get in our way. I knew we were close to finally putting an end to the devilish acts that had haunted so many. I could almost sense it, the killer was nigh. The people were still unsettled by the acts of last night. They shot their eyes towards us shouting, “God, has there been another one?”. But I knew the killer’s time had finally come to an end.

We had reached Duke Street, the same empty street that Constable Harvey was walking just last night. We were only a couple of yards away from the entrance to Morrison’s house. Carefully we crept forward, trying to make as little noise as possible. His house was small and almost derelict. The paint was flaking off and the glazing on the front door was smashed to bits. Stains that appeared to be new led up the cobbled steps and past the front door. I looked around, making certain no one else was near.

Once we had meticulously climbed our way up the steps, I slowly lifted my quivering hand through the broken glass on the door. After what seemed to be an eternity of shuffling my hand around, I managed to grab hold of the door knob on the other side. I pulled the door open feeling the heat of a fire emanating from a room close by. We stepped into the house, examining the eerie portraits of different faces placed along the walls. Soon the flickering sound of the fire grew, leading me to a room at the end of the hallway. Taking a deep, calming, breath, I stepped into the room.

A man sat on a tall ominous chair, shrouded in the shadow of a cabinet in front of the fireplace.

“Get up, George, there’s nothing you can do. Your time has run out,” I commanded sternly.

He stood up, revealing himself from the shadows.

“Renowned Detective Abberline, known for his attention to detail and ability to see things others do not. I hoped you would find me, I just didn’t believe it would be so easy to get you here. All I had to do was conceal a bloody handkerchief and you came chasing after me like a pathetic child for some candy.” George said in a raspy voice.

“It doesn’t matter Morrison, we’ve got you, there’s nothing you can do,” I barked out in anger.

“We, isn’t that funny. James.”

Small chuckles came out from behind me as my heart skipped a beat.

“Constable…why?” I blurted out desperately.

“Liars are always liars, Abberline. How could you forget that? It’s nothing personal, it is simply a matter of business,” he replied snarkily.

“It’s time, Detective.” Announced George.

“Time for what?” I asked worryingly. “The end of your investigation,” George replied with a cheeky smile.

Suddenly I felt a cold knife pierce through my back, sending shivers down my body. Warm blood started trickling down my back, with more coming out every breath I took. I fell to the cold ground, each laboured breath granted me little relief as the pain pulsated in me. I could see a black circle, slowly engulfing my vision. I heard the muffled voices of George and James echoing in my head. Soon enough I gasped my last breath, hoping I would wake up, but I never did.

October 5th 1:44 am

The Note

On another misty Autumn night in Whitechapel, Constable Watkins was once again walking his beat down Mitre Street. After the events of last night, he was apprehensive about making the right turn into Mitre Square, but after working up some courage, he did it. He shone his clunky oil lamp around the square, certain that nothing would be there. But to his dismay and horror, there lay another body. This time it belonged to a man, with a long waistcoat and a silver pocket watch tied around his waist. Upon further examination, Watkins saw a small folded-up note on his chest, he opened the blood-stained note, and it read:

“He had eyes. But could not see.”

Parasitic Relationship

written by Matthew Lau, Year 10

6opened his eyes, his dream of rolling hills and flowing rivers already fading as the cold clinical walls of his room came into focus. He pushed himself out of bed and glided to his kitchen to make himself breakfast before heading to work. Dressing quickly, he floated out into the bustling corridors of the space station, making his way over to the rooms marked with a microscope. He ignored the view of the vast universe the windows afforded him, already used to the sights, and donned his lab coat.

“What’s up 7?” He called to his counterpart, working across from him on unknown bacteria, likely alien bacteria.

“Not much,” he replied, “5’s turning up later today, said something about a cold, and 9’s just inside over there.” Pointing to the frosted glass window of the meeting room, where the silhouettes of two figures could be seen.

“Ooh, I hope she goes easy on Albert, he’s just an intern.”

The two returned to their work documenting their discoveries of their microbes, working in comfortable silence. The day dragged on, and the occasional comment and conversation filled the empty space of the room. 9 re-appeared, followed by a very disheartened and anxious looking Albert.

“Hey Al, how are you holding up?” called 7, laughing. Al turned to him with a weak smile. Suddenly a crashing sound drifted over to 6. He turned and saw that Al had knocked over 7’s bacteria filled petri dish.

“My bacteria!” he cried, leaping towards it. He reached out trying to salvage what he could. “Wait!” cried 8, “you can’t touch bacteria directly without proper protective equipment!”

7 quickly tried to pull his hand back, but his momentum in zero-g propelled him into the floating shards. 7 turned around and… nothing happened. Al returned holding a tray to help clean up the shards. 6 discussed with 5 what to do, they would probably have to isolate 7 and monitor him for the next few days, maybe even a few weeks. Suddenly he heard a scream. The others, 7,8 and 9 had been in a line trying to clean up the shards and quarantine the area. 6 turned around and noticed 9 was gone, 8 was staring at 7 in horror. 7 was smiling viciously at them, his skin was rippling, dark veins growing and consuming him. Soon a vaguely humanoid figure emerged, glistening and opening a gaping mouth in its midsection. It seemed endlessly deep, filled with serrated teeth and had a crimson tongue which whipped out and wrapped around 9, dragging her in. In the blink of an eye, she disappeared into its depths, her muffled scream cut short. Oh no! 7 ate 9

There was a moment of silence, the calm before a storm. Then everyone screamed, 6 and 8 escaped out the door, sealing it before 7 could follow them. 6’s mind was racing, adrenaline clouding his mind even as he tried to figure out what had happened. Then he felt something cold and hard on the back of his head. Slowly he turned around, beside him he could feel 8 doing the same thing. They came face to face with… Al. He had a maniacal grin on his face, a far cry from the scared look he had plastered onto his face just moments ago. Suddenly it all made sense. This whole chain of events had started when Al had knocked over the type B bacteria. He must have visited the dangerous biohazards room and swapped 7’s bacteria with a deadly microbe. This was a B-tray-Al

“No hard feelings guys.” Al said mockingly before pulling the trigger.

Deception

written by Justin Zhou, Year 7

Prologue

Time will pass by before one can realise, no matter how long it may be, joyful or grim. As the newly elected leader of Goreland, Gaudion had built a strong and wealthy nation in the small amount of time since he took office before people slowly realised that they had fallen into the trap that he had developed, to whom they pledged their trust. He had become the one thing that all feared: a brutal dictator.

It was almost December again. Caleb and his family had been planning to visit their grandparents in the western region for months. There was a certain feeling when he woke up that day. Something hard to pinpoint exactly. It was a weird mix of excitement and a sickening feeling. He had woken up extra early, before dawn broke to finish his chores, as he did not want to work at all during that month. Not when he saw all the neighbouring kids playing merrily outside.

As he finished the final job, he heard footsteps ruffling through grass from behind, and before he knew it, it had knocked him into the gooey brown stuff on the ground. “Mate, not cool,” Caleb sighed, “And why are you awake anyway?”

His younger brother gave him an indignant look. “It’s already sunrise, Of course I’m awake!”

Caleb found it both intriguing and annoying that during the weekends and holidays he was always the first person his younger brother went to and babbled endlessly. He realised suddenly that he was still covered in manure and waddled to the water tub before anyone realised.

“George”, mother called, pouring some coffee, “Have you seen Caleb anywhere? I really need someone to toast this piece of bread.”

“I saw him in the morning,” he said, bits of scrambled eggs flying from his mouth. “Where?”

“He was milking cows at like 3.00am,” he remarked.

Right at that moment, Caleb came rushing in through the doorway, water dripping behind him. Mother looked up at him, as if about to say something, but returned to mixing her drink. Awkwardly he sat down at the table.

“Don’t just sit there, come help me with the food!” she scowled.

He quickly got up and went over to the kitchen. Conversation arose between his brother and mother. However, he knew that once he joined in, mother would start scolding him again.

He stood in the background, with a heavy heart. For the longest of times he thought he was adopted, but his mother would never talk about it. He didn’t think of it much anymore. And his father...he distinctly remembered an image of his father. However, according to his mother, he died in some war when he was an infant. He had always doubted that, and that doubt was growing stronger than ever.

As they were about to leave for their grandparents’, a shrill siren emanated from outside and into their dwelling, followed by a robotic voice.

“Attention all citizens of Goreland! All surrounding borders shall be shut until further notice.” The siren ended abruptly, and the streets were quickly clear of people as they were herded into their homes.

“That blasted Gaudion!” Mother growled, “Been ruining my December for five years in a row.”

Caleb had already run to the farmyard, as he already knew that if he stayed, the room was going to turn into a mess. He sat on an upturned pail and sank his head into his palm. That Gaudion character seemed to be the root of Goreland’s chaos. If only he could kill him, somehow.

The streets quickly returned to their busy atmosphere. Stalls were up again, and the fragrance of mouth-watering cuisine wafted through the air as people were drawn in. George bounded gaily into the market, his stubby legs struggling to sprint for very long. He looked around for something to eat, the array of options dazzling him. He struggled to push through the large crowds, however he was the size of a dwarf compared to others. Just as he sprinted towards his favourite stall excitedly, a sharp claw grabbed him by the sleeve and pulled him aside. “Huh, what just happened?” George glanced around, startled, “Why you gotta-”

A tall and slim figure stood in front of him, waiting impatiently for him to shut up.

“Listen, child, I am a wizard, and I-” “Pftttt, a wizard?! You gotta be joking mate, you look more like an unevolved monkey!”

The chubby kid tumbled around, laughing at his own joke. He had a point, though. The wizard had the look of a homeless man, with a dodgy and a haggard look. His fingers were shaped like claws, which had punctured George’s sleeve. “Alright, listen,” he began, gaining control again, “I have come on a mission. I know that you are George Robinson and your brother is Caleb Robinson.”

The wizard thought for a moment before uttering the next sentence.

George led the wizard to their farm, and returned to his dwelling, content with his two sausage rolls and a meat pie given to him under a bribe. The wizard gazed upon the distance and spotted a figure.

“Perfect, just who I was looking for,” he nodded his head in satisfaction. He lifted off from the ground and glided through the air, landing softly on the grass beside the boy.

“Caleb,” he whispered softly.

“Argh!” Caleb screamed, falling from the pail he was sitting on. His eyes darted around, meeting those of the wizard. He glanced around nervously, edging backwards and looking for an escape from the shady looking person.

“Don’t worry, I am here to help,” the wizard began, “To help you kill Gaudion.” He was bewildered by such a statement, and paused to think. He allowed the wizard to continue.

“Who are you?”

“I am a wizard, and I come from the western region. My team and I have been conspiring to kill Gaudion the day he took office. Now, listen, my dear child. You are the only one who can complete this mission. I have seen it in my visions, you are the chosen one.”

“Why should I trust you?”

“We have a common goal. You are the only one who can restore Goreland to peace again,” Caleb pondered for a moment, it seemed there was no other choice.

The following night… “Gaudion,” the wizard called, “I have the perfect thing to show you.” Gaudion entered the room, his footsteps echoing through the cave walls. He hadn’t been in the wizard’s lair for years. A pigsty, as he had expected. Days weren’t good for the wizard lately. Gaudion was finding a way to break the spell that had controlled him for the longest of times.

“You are growing weaker, I can feel it,” he murmured, “Your spell cannot contain my anger anymore. Just give up.”

“Haha,” he cackled drily, “watch this.”

The wizard swung around and approached him. Waving his hands in a smooth motion, a globe was conjured upon his palm. He gently rubbed the top, and a faint scene of a child talking to the wizard emerged.

“Remember who this is?”

It took a moment for him to recognise the person, but soon the realisation hit him.

“No,” he said, shakily, “How did you find him?!”

Gaudion glanced at the wizard, convulsing in pain as his hatred burned more viciously than ever. The wizard sneered conceitedly.

“You may think you’ve outsmarted me, but there’s more coming. Do as I tell or I will end you once and for all.”

“Take me to your brother.”

Caleb snuck out before the break of dawn, tentative with each step as he slid precariously out the cave, taking care to not create too much of a rattle. The sudden gust of wind that swept over him didn’t aid his confidence.

“This will work, this will work,” he murmured to himself repeatedly. There was to be no time for breaks, for this plan relied fully on the timing. He took a deep breath and started running.

He didn’t know how long had passed, all he knew was that his legs were dying. He glanced upwards - the government house was in sight. However, he quickly realised that time wasn’t in his favour. It was already noon, time was running out. Fatigued as he was, he kept pushing forward. He felt more the destination coming into his grasp. Slowly, the small building from afar emerged as a colossal landmark.

“Father!” Caleb called, still catching his breath, “I found out everything.” The scene of the battlefield ten years ago flashed before Gaudion’s eyes. At the most intense moment of war with the enemy, the wizard kidnapped his only child, as a threat. In Gaudion’s panic, the wizard took advantage and manipulated his consciousness to achieve his ambition to rule Gorland.

“Son, are you okay? How did you escape from the wizard?”

“I’ll explain later, we better hurry!”

In the castle the next day…

“Your disobedience has led you to this fate,” the wizard sneered. “About to be killed by a child, eh?”

An evil cackle echoed through the room as Caleb pressed a small but sharp dagger by Gaudion’s throat firmly.

“You are a disgrace, wizard,” he spat, breathing heavily under the weapon, “A disgrace to everyone of Goreland and all of humankind!”

“Oh, my ignorant little puppet, what can you do? Believe it or not I can send you to hell by the snap of my fingers,” He sniggered, “Looks like your time has come, Gaudi-” A sharp dagger suddenly penetrated the wizard’s chest, blood gurgling out. His eyes darted around desperately, clutching his stomach in pain and disgust.

“Caleb…how dare you?” He groaned in disbelief. Gaudion rose and stopped before the pool of blood, nodding his head in satisfaction. He exchanged glances with his son.

“You thought you could outsmart us, eh?”

“Help…help,” he whined.

“Oh, now you’re begging?” Gaudion cried, stuttering as he flashed back to the past of carnage, “All Gorelandians shall rejoice, and for you? Enjoy watching from hell’s helm after your life of deception!”

Epilogue

After the death of the wizard, Gorelandians were soon to discover the true dictator, the real person behind all the treachery. Gaudion had returned, and the people breathed a sigh of relief to see their respected leader come back. “Caleb,” Gaudion called, sitting by his desk. “Yes, father?” “I have something to tell you,” he considered for a moment, “I would like you to run for the election for next leader of Goreland.” Caleb was stunned by such a statement, but thought carefully about it. “Yes, but would the-” “I know, my term is coming to an end. I trust that you will bring peace and prosperity to Goreland.”

A RECORD OF BEASTS AND MORTALITY

written by Kevin Wang, Year 8 Soul of Tiger Died 220 AD, China

1. A spiritual recount

In the Autumn of 184 AD, man had once again decided to wage wars over the distribution of lands within my kingdom. In my raging fury, I hunted the inferiors that dared to go against my rule, as the humans fled in droves trampling upon each other to scramble for safety; only one man stood his ground. In the years to come, I would acknowledge the man as a companion and a brother despite our difference in species and natural prowess. I would also stumble upon the realisation that my previous self had been trapped in a delusion of unmatched ferocity, though a born ruler over the beasts that roamed the earth, I did not understand that there were varying interpretations of power.

2. A fall into a ditch makes you wiser

On that fateful day, the creatures who had always gazed upon me with frenetic worship had turned upon me, wielding oddly shaped sticks they called swords and prodding at me. No longer could I disregard their transgressions as my vampiric fangs sank into flesh and I relished in their fear as the light bled out of their eyes.

In my feral and implacable state only one man deigned to reach into the ocean of blood and filth, Liu Bei, the man I would come to share mutual admiration with and follow in his conquest of the boundless forests. This king’s majestic image scorched itself into his consciousness as my incandescent amber eyes glowed with a blinding exquisiteness as narrow, razor-sharp stripes cloaked my muscular frame like bold calligraphy strokes on sheepskin and marred my lustrous orange coat of fur. I took pride in my position as a symbol of pure, unadulterated fear and carried myself as one would expect of the earthen King of Beasts.

In my curiosity I did not strike down the fool who chose to linger in my presence and prowled with an uncanny balletic grace unsuited for my hulking frame, weaving between the malady-brown trees of the forest and bounding across sooty coppices in search of human prey.

As he gazed upon my monstrous form, he was instantly entranced by my visage, the crown of my convex head as the four stripes marking my forehead coalesced to form the character “王 [King]”, symbolising my status as ruler of the mortal animals.

The man stood awestruck and his gaze prompted my hubris as I recklessly chased after my prey, only to fall for one of their dastardly contraptions, reversing our roles and subjecting me to their whims.

He began rushing towards me as he slashed with two swords, one in each hand, shredding the chains restraining me as the moonlight shone upon us, enveloped our figures in a hazy white aura. An unearthly howl came from my jaw as my amber eyes filled with a ghastly incandescence; I was enraged and ashamed at being captured and subsequently saved by a species I had despised, but respect coursed within my veins towards the man who had saved me, pledging to return this favour.

3. Favour must be returned with grace

History repeated itself sixteen years after meeting my master, as I was captured by my master’s enemy, though he admired my martial might and hence ordered his men to treat me with courtesy. Notwithstanding my commitment to my master, before I returned to my lord’s side, I had decided to reciprocate the favour I had received, to kill a commander called Shen Dong.

For even if he was my master’s enemy, tigers are unlike dogs in that they do not bite the hand that feeds them and hence I set out to kill his rival. With a single bound, I had crossed a thousand Li, none of the subordinates under my mark could stall me for more than a split second as I arrived before my prey. A single swipe and his head flew, silence ruled over the battlefield in that moment, as the man’s wide-eyed stare greeted me.

It was only later that I was informed that my actions had caused my master to be spurned by Shen Dong as his animosity grew towards my lord upon hearing that I had assisted their enemy.

Even as I was returning to my master, his enemy seemed to bestow his grace upon me once again as he ordered his men not to chase me, stating; “each for his own master; hence do not give chase”.

4. Even a dragon struggles to control a snake in its native haunt

208 AD. A heavy smell of blood and iron filled the air as I raced across the muddy forest grounds. Through the shrubbery and thickets, I emerged and was greeted by an uncommon sight in the forest, devoid of trees and littered with the corpses of tribal men. As I bounded across the mountain of knives and sea of fire that had formed from the fighting, my claws swiped and thrusted until I had arrived beside my master. Heaven’s providence fell upon me, its touch invigorating me but burdening my enemies as they sank into the mire.

Try as I may, our enemies held a significant numerical advantage with my master’s allies only amounting to a mere dozen fighters, while the opposition had upwards of a few hundred under their command. So, I slashed and slashed, the faces of my enemies blurred and superimposed upon each other.

With the rise and fall of the sun, my bite had become loose, my limbs heavy with fatigue as lassitude began to come over me. However, the deep, resounding sound of a zhangu rang across the battlefield conveying that my master and I had won!

Jubilation and gratification filled me as dazzling moonlight from the west shone upon my master and I, as if affirming our victory, bestowing upon me a translucent white cloak and bestowing upon my master Heaven’s mandate.

In the wake of our victory, my master established his own tribe, in reverence of my power and courage, the tribe was named Hu Di. His ally formed the Nan Tai tribe, while our enemy declared himself ruler of his own tribe.

At that time, it confounded me how Heaven could be frivolous enough to bestow the right to rule over others to more than one being; however, despite all this Liu Bei continued to treat me as his brother.

In the coming years of following my master, our bond deepened and I could feel myself connecting with him in a mystical sense. My sense of acknowledgement had been provoked by accompanying him as I felt myself become nothing less than his spiritual companion.

5. A ruler’s wisdom

As I followed my master, he would often tell me tales, even though I could not respond. The meanings conveyed by his stories were often too profound for me to understand, however, one story in particular illuminated certain concepts to me:

What good does bloodshed achieve The corpses pile high

As the shadows of the forest blend

The sound of weeping a forlorn conclusion, Yet man strikes fear into the hearts of others

More than beast ever could

Although my master would not be necessarily renowned for his martial might in generations to come, however, his power stemmed from a different source in that his wisdom was far beyond the reaches obtainable to common men.

Owing to my position from birth as an apex predator, I had unknowingly been placed into a solitude, the kind of isolation that arose from my physical superiority to other creatures that roamed the earth.

As such my previous narcissistic character stemmed from my limited worldview and I came to the realisation that not all animals are equal, at least not to humans, not even some humans are equal to others of their ilk.

6. Fall from heaven

In the summer of 219 AD, I set out to further spread the glory of my master, Liu Bei. Rain once again fell, blessing me with the strength to fight against the many. Initially, the forces of Nature seemed to conjoin with my efforts as the tide of the battle shifted in favour of me, the August rainfall flooding the nearby river that ran through the forest, engulfing my enemies.

As I moved, so did the tide, the river emulated my fluid movements and allowed me to inch closer and closer until I had almost captured the enemy outpost.

However, as if mocking my efforts, word had spread that the Nan Tai tribe had betrayed my master and, in my desperation, I fled to protect my lord, only to be led out of my mountain and into a series of defeats in my irrational state of mind.

The lack of caution caused me to receive a near-fatal wound to the shoulder as a poisonous arrow firmly lodged itself and forced me to recuperate; to ‘lick my wounds’ so to speak.

With only darkness as my company and the occasional echo reverberating off the inner wall of the cave at which I rested, I was left alone with my thoughts and despairing imagination of the tragedies befalling my master as I was forced to recover and stave off the wretched poison.

To my luck, one day light flooded into the cave as a wizened old man entered the cave and extended an outstretched hand to placate me of my worries and ‘administer treatment’, a term the humans had coined.

As I began to drop my guard, the sagacious man began to cut into my flesh using a miniature sword-like tool, thunderous roars came out of my jaw and yet he continued to meticulously scrape, and scrape, and scrape, until my body grew sluggish and the pain dulled.

Black blood flowed, vitality was restored as my eyelids drooped to a close and I was allowed a brief reprieve from the worries of mortality as I slept with the comfort that my body had been cleansed of outside substances.

When I later awoke, the man was gone, the only evidence that he had ever used such unique medical treatments to extract poison; could be found on my body.

However, time waits for no tiger and so I traversed over the marshlands, through the bogs that littered the forest landscape only to chance upon my pursuers.

My body filled with lethargy stood no chance against the seas of humans and soon I was caught.

In my last moments, my jaw warped into a self-deprecatory smile as I made a last-ditch effort to maintain a dauntless and courageous front, extending an outstretched paw towards the sky as light glinted off my razor claws; as if vowing to obliterate the clouds in the sky, to eradicate this disgrace.

The ever-expanding blue of the sky warped into blackness, as only darkness and I remained, sealed inside a nephrite cocoon to be admired by humans forevermore, my valiant image chained to the warriors of man and immortalised to safeguard man.

As my consciousness faded, a last thought came to me; I had now truly been trapped in solitude as only the darkness and I remained inside the cocoon, until ‘I’ faded away and only darkness remained, the lustre from my smouldering, chatoyant eyes finally losing their glisten.

Birds die in pursuit of food, Humans die in pursuit of wealth I have died for loyalty, For His vision

A Faded Dream

written by Jonty Neil, Year 10

As you stand up, the world twists and turns upon itself, spinning infinitely in every direction like fractals on a universal plane. The sight is beautiful and grotesque simultaneously, endless possibilities from endless pathways, immeasurable pasts to immeasurable futures. Limitless presents happen in unison, each one so similar, yet so different. The ghosts of descendants look upon the birth of ancestors, a glimpse of the past but a vision of the future. Everything shifts back and forth, cracking and crumbling yet never breaking. Colours jump and explode, a full spectrum that stretches beyond visible light, a complete grayscale consisting of an entire rainbow. A volley of smells assaults the nostrils, everything from the delightful to the putrid, like a war fought on a two caved mountain. The tongue is bombarded with tastes unobtainable, yet in ready supply. From familiar to unimaginable, the flavours arouse hunger, whilst destroying the appetite. Every sensation attacks from every way possible, charging and retreating. All vision fades, blurred against the perpetual scope of time and space, two separate objects occupying the same state as the fourth dimension. Eternal ringing drowns out the last bond to the real world, an endless loop cycle of every tune, in every key, with every note possible to exist. Every note blends into one melody, a harmony made through the chaotic cacophony of silence. Everything melts, tilting in every degree instantly, but endlessly gradual. A reach for anything to stop the falling is fruitless, as numbness prevents any attempts of steadiness. As the floor is met, the feeling of agony engulfs everything, yet no suffering is felt. As all contact to the world is shut off, the senses shut off one by one, but still sense the wild thoughts of the mind. As everything falls through the endless pull of the void they all fade as what’s left of the eye focuses upon them. Thought is the only company now, drifting endlessly until it too disappears, leaving everything devoid of light, nothing but pure black to accompany what’s left of the dying husk. Through this seemingly reverse entropy everything appears, while infinite others look on through the absolute nothingness of this endless plane. The void becomes emptier as it crowds with nothingness while the singularity of everything fills and overflows. Both presences fade into each other, together and apart. A plague of cleanliness eats at the world from its core, but the world contracts inwards from this redundant oxymoron. This solvable paradox crumbles under pressure, but remains unscathed. The world collapses into itself, broken in its invincibility, before… And then I woke up, the experience nothing but a distant memory, an unborn past waiting somewhere beyond perception.

a burst of colours in a world of grey, a cacophony of sounds in a silent room, a city crowded with emptiness, a waterfall frozen in movement, a blinding light in a sable void, a symphony of silent music, a creature with no mind to think, a motionless world forever moving, a vacuum containing everything, a choir with no voice to sing, a lethargic world of industry, a maelstrom of stillness.

55 Mont Albert Rd, Canterbury Victoria 3126 Australia Tel: (+61) 3 9835 1777