The Realms 2020 Magazine (Year 12 Student Publication)

THE

2020 Edition

EDITORIAL The Savage started. That sensation on his lips! He lifted a hand to his mouth ; the titillation ceased ; let his hand fall back on the metal knob ; it began again...

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n Aldous Huxley’s dystopian 1931 novel Brave New World, the writer describes a multi-sensory entertainment experience that leaves one tingling with satisfaction. How I wish I could report my frequent forays into the internet have elicited comparable results. Instead of contentment, my trips down news articles, online videos and blog posts usually end with nothing more than vague feelings of despair. Some have suggested that humans are not built to handle the amount of news many of us consume on a daily basis. Like sugar and fat, information about the world beyond their world was a scarce resource for our cavemen ancestors who were profoundly limited by geography.

Whilst I can’t comment on the validity of those suggestions, I know I’m not alone in my love-hate relationship with news. Yet, I continue to check the same sites day in and day out until what was once a pleasurable retreat has become a compulsion. Perhaps you feel the same too?

If so, I don’t have the cure, but perhaps you’ll find part of the antidote within these pages.

Reading the news is draining because it strips away our agency - so too does literature. But whilst news pieces are designed to disrupt, to puncture our attention, the works featured in this edition of the magazine are designed to elevate and enthral. Centered on the theme of “revival”, students from Middle and Senior School have impressed us with the depth and breadth of entries.

Rhys Campbell invites readers to confront the multifaceted nature of grief in his

psychological thriller. James Thorn has woven a humorous and compelling adventure in the Spanish sands. Nicholas SarlosWelsh’s essay explores the revival of an art form once thought to have been permanently retired but is now enjoying the embers of a resurgence. Jamie Garnham has arranged a poem that touches on themes of reflection and coming of age, written in a childlike style to reflect its ideas. Standing out from the crowd with his unique interpretation of the theme, Marcus Liew’s “Abandoned” takes us back to the barbaric practices of ancient Greece. And there are many more which I will leave for you to discover for yourself.

The pieces included here are the crème de la crème, carefully selected from a large pool of submissions by our panel of judges.

In the process, we’ve had to reject many fantastic entries, and we implore those who were unsuccessful to persist. For the writers, poets and essayists who have been featured in this year’s magazine, continue writing! To you, the reader, we hope that our magazine can be an enduring source of joy in a world that doesn’t seem to want to stop spinning.

Though we cannot promise the “intolerable galvanic pleasures” described in Huxley’s world, we can promise you this: you will smile, you will gasp, and for a moment, the chaos of modern day society will retreat into the background, thus being reinstated back to its rightful place.

By Matthew Chan and Haotian Huang

Cover photo courtesy of Luke Stackpoole on Unsplash.com Art and Graphic by Sean Liu

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If He Were Here, Rhys Campbell (Y12) Short Story Recipient of ‘First Prize’

A Funny Sense of Fun, James Thorn (Y12) Short Story Recipient of ‘Second Prize’

Is 2D Animation Dead?, Nicholas Sarlos-Welsh (Y11) Essay Recipient of ‘Third Prize’ finis mundi, Elijah Pannozzo (Y11) Poem Recipient of ‘Outstanding Poem’

Revival, Sean Liu (Y12) Short Story Recipient of ‘Outstanding Short Story’

An Essay on Friendship and Why It’s More than Texting, James Thorn (Y12) Essay Recipient of ‘Outstanding Essay’

1.76 mHz, Kevin Yang (Y12) Eccentric Recipient of ‘Outstanding Eccentric’

The Awakening, Ari Canale (Y7) Short Story Recipient of ‘Outstanding Y7-9’

Ducklings, Jamie Garnham (Y12) Poem Recipient of ‘Outstanding Y10-12’

Abandoned, Marcus Liew (Y9) Short Story

The Diary of an Especially Average Human, Elliot Fry (Y9) Eccentric Recipient of ‘Outstanding Imaginative’

Recipient of ‘Outstanding Use of Theme’

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Artwork by Sean Liu, based on graphic from desktopnexus.com

IF HE WERE HERE

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Rhys Campbell, Y01

Obituary from The Blackcreek Daily, February 20th, 2003 In Loving Memory of James Kent (1954-2003) James Michael Kent is remembered as a family man, a loving husband and father of two. Friends and colleagues recall his fierce determination and loyalty, serving as a general practitioner at Blackcreek Medical for seventeen years.

James married his childhood sweetheart, Harriet (48) in 1979, living together in Blackcreek for the entirety of their married life. Their two children, Jack (11), and Lucy (9), are students at Creek West Elementary School.

He passed away from unknown causes on February the 18th. Funeral arrangements have been made for 10am, Sunday February the 25th at St. Peter’s Church, Carigan St. *** Discovery Harriet knew it was him as soon as they removed the sheet that covered his bloated, limp body. His eyes were still a sparkling blue, as startling as they always had been. Harriet thought that you could tell someone was dead by seeing the life drained from their eyes, but James Kent’s eyes were wide open.

Piercing.

“Are you sure he drowned?”

“No, not sure at all. All we can tell is that he was in the reservoir long enough for him to float back up to the top.”

“Well, is someone going to find out? Surely it’s the least you can do. He wouldn’t have done it. I know him. For Christ’s sake, he was a good swimmer, too.”

The officer hesitated, slightly. “Unless you want to fill out the paperwork for us to bring in a forensics team from Jefferson City, then I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do, Mrs Kent.” He placed his hands in his pockets and made his way back to the rest of the police group, his shoulders firmly shrugged to fight the frostiness lingering in the air.

Harriet stood there for a short moment, looking across from the bottom of the dam at the rest of the creek, the fading winter sun giving the water a strange shimmer. Slowly, she took off her shoes, placing them on the gravel riverbank,

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and began to slowly step forward into the water, soaking the cuffs of her jeans.

The water was freezing, but she didn’t flinch. There was something almost deafening in how cold it was. Everything else seemed to fade away until it was just Harriet and Harriet’s reflection, glimmering below her. When the officers’ hands came down to drag her out, she didn’t feel a thing. With arms underneath her shoulders, they carried her onto a stretcher, screaming for someone to get a towel and a change of clothes, while Harriet Kent just lay there, a perfectly still statue, tears streaming from her eyes and onto her chest. She didn’t blink.

Questions “I want you to know that you’re not in any kind of trouble, okay? In fact, don’t even think of me as a police officer. Think of me as your therapist. Is that okay?”

“Yeah. That’s okay.”

“Was there anything different about the last few days you spent together?”

Harriet exhaled softly as she leant back into her chair. “Not really. He said he was going away on business. In the city.”

“Is that all? No signs of emotional distress, reclusion, none of that?”

“No. I mean I don’t think so.”

“That’s okay. Was there anything which might have been bothering him?

Stress at work, or looking after the kids, maybe?”

“He was always busy with his work.”

“Did you ever have arguments in your marriage?”

Harriet looked up towards the officer, with a blank stare.

“It’s okay, I know it’s a tough question, we can come back—” “There was nothing wrong. In our marriage, I mean. We both loved each other very much. Actually, I think he loved me even more than I loved him.”

The officer was writing down on her notepad with a vigorous energy, before placing her pen on the table and straightening out her uniform.

“Look, Harriet. What’s happened is awful. We’re all praying for you and your family here at the station. But the truth is, the body didn’t have any scratches, cuts or anything. It’s not unlikely that James did this to himself. And I know that’s horrible, but just know, if you do want to lodge a formal investigation, you might get no closure at all. Or find out something you didn’t want to. So, it’s up to you, to either find out the specifics, or find closure and move on. I know it’s hard. I’m just being honest with you.”

The officer stretched out her hand and rested it gently on Harriet’s thigh.

“You’ll get through this, Harriet. I know you will. Okay?”

Harriet looked back up with the bleakest of smiles.

“Okay.”

Rhys Campbell | If He Were Here

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Funeral In the town of Blackcreek, a funeral is a social event. Like most small towns, it runs on gossip, scandal and mystery. Unsurprisingly, it seemed that half of the town had packed itself into the church to watch as Harriet Kent gave her memorial speech alongside her two children. From the back pews, they watched with eagle eyes as tears would stream out of Harriet’s face, perhaps bringing a handkerchief to their own eye as the reverend gave his words of prayer.

Afterwards, they would embrace each other, speak of how lucky they were that they’d be able to come home to a full household. Some would come up to Harriet, offer her a hug or a word of comfort. She barely knew half of them.

The post-service drinks and lunch was somehow an even grimmer affair.

James’ friends from work, family and other close companions had gathered in the chapel to share threatening whispers and slanted looks. Harriet sat in the corner next to Jack and Lucy, trying to convince them to try the cold tuna sandwiches the servers were handing out, to little avail.

“Harriet.”

She looked up to find Michael, James’ brother, looming over her so closely that his feet were almost on top of hers.

“I’m glad you made it Mike. I was beginning to think for a second—” “I’ll make it quick. I’m not here to comfort you. I couldn’t give a fuck how you feel if I’m telling the truth. We know that if it weren’t for you, he’d be here right now. So do me a favour, sweetheart.”

He leant over beside her, practically breathing in her ear.

“Don’t ever fucking come near me or the rest of his family again or I will call a lawyer.”

Harriet sat paralysed as he opened the chapel door for his wife and their baby swaddled in her arms.

“What did Uncle Mike want?” Harriet heard Jack’s voice from the back of the chair. She stood perfectly still, not saying anything, as Lucy dropped her tuna sandwich on the floor and began to cry.

Memory They had both agreed that Venice was the perfect honeymoon destination. James had been once as a child but remembered very little. Harriet on the other hand had never been outside of the country before. When they arrived, she caught her first glimpse of the sparkling blue Venetian Lagoon under the sweltering Italian sun. She remembered feeling envelopped, swallowed, by the parade of colour and sounds of the city. She took James’ hand and led him through the alleyways, practically tumbling into the churches and museums that lined the street corners. They spent a week there, visiting the islands, touring San Marco Rhys Campbell | If He Were Here

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square and feasting on fine Italian food. It was good. Happy. Harriet felt the most in love with James that she’d ever felt.

The last night they stayed, they wandered the streets in search for a small restaurant to take them in, when, without warning, it began to pour with rain.

They ducked into the nearest alleyway to try and salvage their clothes, but it was too late. They were soaked from head to toe. They didn’t mind. Giggling like a schoolgirl, James pushed her against the wall and kissed her, his hair dripping all over her face. Then, when the rain stopped, the sounds of a lone guitarist, playing in some nearby square, began to fill the night. James took Harriet by the waist and they slow danced, and as Harriet rested her head on his shoulder, she knew that everything was going to be all right. That night, before they made love, James told her that he loved her. They agreed that one day, they’d bring kids into the world, and bring them back to Venice.

When Harriet dreamt the night of the funeral, she dreamt of Venice. She dreamt of the kisses they shared in that rainy alleyway. She dreamt about one day falling asleep in his embrace the way she had done that night. When she woke, she was almost startled that James wasn’t there to embrace her. She swore she could feel the warm rain dripping from the ceiling.

After A week or two passed. The kids had been sent back to school, meanwhile Harriet had been given a month off from working. For the first time in thirty years, she realized that she was lonely. Really fucking lonely. She spent the days going through the house, cleaning. Once it had been cleaned, she cleaned it some more. Every time she dusted the bookshelves, she prayed that something would appear. A note, maybe. A message written in the cover his favourite book. A postcard, or just anything that was a sign of why his body was floating in that goddamn reservoir. But the truth was that she didn’t find anything. It was like he hadn’t even left.

One Tuesday morning, she got a knock on the door.

“Harriet? It’s me, Martha. From next door. I brought you some food in case you needed it.”

She opened the door to find Martha cradling a dish covered with a tea towel in her arms, and with a sad smile that was hard to place.

“Do you like casserole? I always find that I need something warm in the oven when I’m going through tough times. Always gets me through.”

Harriet turned to her with grateful eyes. “Thank you, Martha, I love casserole.

That’s very considerate.” She paused. “Actually, would you like to come inside?

For a glass of water or something?”

Rhys Campbell | If He Were Here

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*** They talked for quite some time. Martha was an excellent listener. Attentive, empathetic and allowing of Harriet to talk as much as she wanted. She was hungry for conversation.

“You know, it’s strange. I thought I knew him so well. Most of the time, we didn’t even say anything while we were together. We didn’t have to. It was just what he wanted, I think. I never doubted for a second that he wanted anything more. He worked, I worked. When he came home, we’d look after the kids, and well, that was that, I guess. But now that he’s gone, it’s so different. I feel like I’m forgetting things about him. I don’t know how to explain it. Like, for example, last night, I was laying in bed, trying to think of those last days together. What did he say? What did he do? And I couldn’t think of anything. I remember him coming home from work, and that’s it. I thought, you know, when it happened, that I’d remember all these things from when we were kids, or when we were travelling abroad. It’s just work, come home. And now the kids are getting to that point where they’re asking me about him, why do I think he went and did it. And if I’m honest, I don’t know. I really don’t know.”

Martha took her into a quiet embrace. “Harriet. There’s no point being hard on yourself. You’ll get through this, believe me. I know it seems dark right now, but you haven’t forgotten him. He’s still there and he’ll stay there as long as you live.”

She forced out a smile. “I hope so.”

In the evening, Harriet decided to take a bath. She lay in the water as it became tepid, her head rested firmly on the wall behind her. For hours, she lay there, almost entirely still as her mind drifted, an ocean of thoughts. She saw herself there, standing in the resevoir, paralyzed. The ground underneath her started to cave in, and she felt herself begin to sink slowly, deeper and deeper.

Nothing but black.

“Mom.” She gasped for air as she threw her head forward. Her head had been completely under the water. She looked up to see Lucy looming over her with a beaming grin.

“He’s home.”

Arrival “Harriet.”

His clothes and body were soaking wet. But it was him. There, in the doorway, dripping all over the carpet of Lucy’s room, was James Kent, smiling. Within a moment she was in his arms, her naked skin freezing from being held by this Rhys Campbell | If He Were Here

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drenched beast. When she looked up at his eyes, they were the same, piercing blue she fell in love with, brighter even.

“James.”

“I missed you.”

They stood there, holding each other, and far off they could just make out the sound of a guitarist. They were in Venice, she could see it so clearly. She felt the rain tumble down on her head as they slow danced, dancing until late into the night. The bells of distant cathedrals seemed to flutter in the distance like butterflies.

Harriet looked up at him, her tears being carried from her eyes with the pouring rain. “I was so worried that this would be the end. Where were you James? Where were you?”

He turned away slightly. “I don’t know.”

“What? What do you mean?”

She could tell he was crying now too. “I don’t know. You left me alone. All I remember now is coming home.”

Harriet looked into his eyes and then fell to the floor and began to sob uncontrollably. James placed a hand on her back as she curled into a ball, helpless.

“It’s okay, Harriet. I’m not gonna leave again. I promise.”

And then for a moment, in the middle of Lucy Kent’s room, there was silence.

The silence they were so accustomed to, the one where they knew that no matter what, everything was going to be ok.

James got up from sitting next to her and Lucy and Jack ran into his arms, as Harriet turned to watch him hold them like he would never let them go.

Shivering and in between sobs, she cried out.

“Do you forgive me?”

James gazed into her eyes from across the room and a small smile formed at his mouth. Silence.

Home The following Monday morning, the phone rang, and Harriet was startled out of her slumber. Cautiously, she picked it up.

“Hello?”

“Hi, is this Harriet Kent?”

“Um. Yeah, yeah it is.”

“Hi Harriet, I’m Melinda, I work as the school counsellor at Creek West Elementary. I was wondering if you had a minute to talk about Jack and Lucy?”

She hesitated. “Is there something wrong?”

“Well, we’ve just had some reports of unusual behaviour from both of them Rhys Campbell | If He Were Here

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which I was hoping I could just follow up on quickly, if that’s okay? There have been several people come to me over the past couple days and tell me that they were worried that both of them weren’t sleeping at all and according to them they haven’t been given food back at home for the past week and a half, and well, they’re looking a little worse for wear.”

Harriet inhaled suddenly as if she had forgotten to breathe. Her mind raced.

“I’m sorry, who did you say told you this?”

“Well unfortunately ma’am, I can’t tell you exactly who told me because of school policy, but is it okay if we chat about it?”

There was a moment of silence before Harriet hung up the phone in one, swift motion and proceeded to sit down on the bed. For a while she sat there, looking at the wall before getting dressed and walking downstairs.

She noticed a note left under the door and instantly recognized Martha’s handwriting.

Hi Harriet, hope all is well. Haven’t heard from you or the kids for a couple of days and was just wondering if you’d like me to pop in for a chat? Let me know.

M. She took the note in her hand and crumpled it into a ball. A cold feeling started to work its way down her spine, and almost instinctively, she ran for the stairs to the basement. Pitch black, she heard his voice seep through the darkness.

“Why are you so out of breath?”

Harriet stopped and tried to recollect. “I’m not sure. I guess I was just worried to lose you again.”

She turned on the light and walked over to him. She had chained him to the wall by his neck, arms and legs bound with rope. It had begun to cut into his naked skin and make it bleed, but he nevertheless broke into a smile. As beautiful as ever.

“I’m not leaving, Harriet. I’ll always be here.”

She caught her breath and went to sit up against the wall next to him, grasping onto his legs and resting her head on his shoulder.

“I know. I’m sorry.”

They sat there in silence, the warmth of each others’ bodies being all the conversation they needed. James leant over to whisper in her ear.

“Come home, Harriet.”

She ran her fingers through his hair and held his face to hers.

“We are home.”

James glanced back at her with a wistful look.

“Soon.”

Rhys Campbell | If He Were Here

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*** Report Courtesy of Blackcreek Local Police Department MISSING PERSONS REPORT Name: Harriet Elizabeth Kent Missing from: Blackcreek, Missouri Age at disappearance: 48 D.O.B: 6/13/1955 Caucasian Female Height: 5’6 Weight: 133lbs Hair Color: Dark Eyes: Brown Police are investigating the sudden disappearance of Harriet Kent and her two adolescent children, Jack (11) and Lucy (9). It is suspected the children are with their mother, and their car has been located less than a mile away from Blackcreek Nature Reserve. Police have noted that the reserve is home to a resevoir where the body of James Kent, Harriet’s husband, was found dead in a suspected suicide case two months prior. Neighbours and friends had noted that they hadn’t seen Harriet leave the house the week before she went missing, however forensics found no abnormalities in the house itself. She was last seen driving out of the family garage on Thursday. Investigators are now completing a thorough search of Blackcreek Nature Reserve and surrounds.

If you or someone you know sees Harriet or either of her two children, contact the police department immediately. ***

Rhys Campbell | If He Were Here

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Author’s Note on “Revival” When I was coming up with ideas for short stories to do with revival, my first instinct was to create a sort of Frankenstein story: one where a body is revived from the dead, but all is not as it seems. I was then drawn to the idea of grief; this completely isolating and haunting experience, and created a story that wrestled with the question: what if they were there again, standing in front of us? If we could bring someone back from the dead, what would they say?

In trying to find the horror and dread in my Frankesteinesque tale, I realised it isn’t the disappearances or the supernatural occurances that are scary. It’s the feeling of insecurity we all have when plagued by grief, that feeling of if I had helped somehow or done something different, would they still be here? After all, Harriet is trying to revive that image of her husband in head, that feeling of comfort, security. Whether he was really brought back from the dead, that’s up for interpretation, and I wouldn’t immediately discredit it either way. The story is really from her perspective, and I don’t think she’s a reliable narrator.

What is true, however, is that the real revival in this story is not that of James Kent, but Harriet trying to revive a part of her soul which she believed to have lost. That for me is the horror of grief.

Rhys Campbell | If He Were Here

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James Thorn | A Funny Sense of Fun Photograph courtesy of Jeremy Cai from Unsplash.com

A FUNNY SENSE OF FUN

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James Thorn, Y01

Soul of Scorpion Died 1962, Spain I first met her on one of those warm summer nights, when the evening air was crammed with the possibilities of adventure and sex. I’d always wanted to court, but the Mediterranean sands had never revealed any mates of interest before, not till Scamantha. I was late in. Brutho had got his spermatophore down before any of us, and Octavius and I had watched on like miscreants, clicking and howling and flicking dirt with delight. But we were young and didn’t know the dangers of sex, and our voyeuristic joy turned to confusion when in an act of erratic courtship Brutho’s fertilized partner pounced on him and ate him.

Octavius, next in the firing line of love, was more careful.

And so, as time would have it, I was the last of our tripartite nest to find a mate. Time brings many troubles, but it also shifts the sands, and the sands brought Scamantha. That’s how I see it.

Oh, promenade à deux, happy dance of reproduction! How Scamantha and I loved, the Almerian clouds rolling on above, as if to protect our intimate waltz from the prying eyes of the stars. She whispered poems of simple beauty under the night sky, speaking out words and feelings and unbridled bliss I’d never known before. Man, she was the gal I’d been searching these sands for. Sparkling, foreign phrases rolled off her tongue with the self-confident pronunciation that informed travelling brings. And she didn’t get angry at me for not understanding — I understood very little — but instead she would laugh her assured laugh and say, “I’ll show you,” as if the origins of such poetry came from a visible, physical place, not a metaphysical one.

When morning light came, neither of us wanted to leave. But I had this idea, an idea rooted firmly in my membrane and unbothered by the winds of time, an idea planted just after Brutho’s death. To share it meant I had to tell Scamantha about Brutho, and that reminded me of what had happened to Brutho, and that made me quake in my pincers. I hastily detached from her scaly embrace and scuttled back, naïve and scared and stupid all at once. Startled, she took my departure as a sign of disgust, and took off sobbing into the harsh Almerian winds.

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*** “But I thought you might have fluctuated, you know, changed with the morning light,” I kept repeating, following Scamantha as she scuttled further and further into the dunes. “I just forgot,” I sighed, exasperated, weak at her perennial disregard to my pleas and the love we had so easily shared.

“Forgot what?” She stopped and snapped, her voice cracking and betrayed and mad, all in those two words.

And then I told her about Brutho, and about how I had been scared because his was the only love I had witnessed before last night’s venture. I felt like I was talking into the wind. But she listened, and as the winds changed the sands, the winds changed her mind.

“So, what do you want from me? I won’t eat you.” She had said while lowering her metasoma, specks of sand bouncing off her tender pincers.

I truly believed her.

Recovering, I reached out, cradling her pincer in my own, saying, “Follow me.” And in the silver rays of dawn I rejoiced in this quicksilver life, that it could give, and take away, and give once again. *** We reached our nest mid-morning and by then the summer heat was getting pretty darn hot, the sand becoming oppressive under our feet. I found the shaded rock that Octavius usually slept beneath, and I burrowed under, feeling the cool soil gnaw at my feet. But life was about more than cool soil and a nonchalant nocturnal existence, it was about love, and spontaneous happenings, and Scamantha, so I woke my sleeping compadre and we set off, our nest three in number again, trekking through the harsh and unfamiliar daylight that held every promise.

Time seemed to dissipate into an invisible burrow and so did my energy.

My idea of unfettered adventure turned into a fever dream, a mirage hovering high above the inconsistent sands. Fatigue and the sweltering winds brought superficial flashes of blinding colours before my face, and I thought I had lost the others among the dunes on multiple occasions. In fact, they were holding me up, guiding me on.

And then, in the oscillation of the twilight wind, we found it. The train. A vessel of endless enterprise, shaded from the summer winds. Scamantha was sceptical of the train and said that it shouldn’t just be sitting there, that she had never seen this set of tracks before. But what the hell. An exploit just isn’t an exploit without mystery. So, we boarded, and slept all night and all day, because what is life if you can’t lay back and enjoy it every now and again?

James Thorn | A Funny Sense of Fun

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It was the next night that I knew something was up. The train hadn’t moved in 24 hours, but it was full of commotion and people in fancy clothes running this way and that, repeating foreign phrases that never sounded quite as beautiful as Scamantha’s had. It was Octavius who pointed out the obvious.

“I think we’re on a set,” he had said, peering off into the distance. None of us really knew what that meant, except that it would explain the stillness of the train and the fancy costumes and the repeated phrases that were never quite as beautiful as Scamantha’s. A fire lit up on the hill caught our attention and the smoke drifted our way, stealing all the starlight from the clear black above. The shadows of the flames flickered on a canvas tent, illuminating the surrounding area with a strange sulphur glow. It was decided that we should all head up to the camp, while the humans were sleeping and unlikely to step on us or interfere with our ventures.

The winds picked up, shifting the sands. Climbing the dune, I lost sight of Scamantha, and then Octavius, but I kept going. What the winds give and take away is out of anyone’s control. I hit something soft, backed up and tried again, but kept coming against a bouncy wall. I realised I had reached the top of the hill and hit the outermost tent. What luck! A light was shining through the canvas wall and a hushed voice was reading something inside. Not worrying about Scamantha or Octavius — the winds that separated us would bring us back together — I scuttled under the canvas wall, finding a warm haven in a desert boot. I settled down to recuperate what strength the dunes had stolen, planning to rest for only a minute or two, but the hushed, infrequent voice demanded my attention. It spoke, then stopped, then spoke again, but unlike any of the jumbled phrases on the train, it was a refined, beautiful thing, even in its isolated bursts. Then, as if satisfied with whatever lyrical soundness it had been trying to achieve, the voice began, and the sporadic phrases I had witnessed came together in a conglomeration of language and cadence and intonation that I had never heard before. I picked up only a portion: —means a thousand knives, delivered anywhere day or night. It means a thousand camels. That means a thousand packs of high explosives and a thousand crack rifles. We can cross Arabia while Johnny Turk is still turning round and smash his railways. And while he’s mending them, I’ll smash them somewhere else. Raph, it’ll be our revival. In thirteen weeks, I can have Arabia in chaos. I can have Arabia in chaos. I can have Arabia in chaos. I can have…

I scuttled away before he finished, the words fresh in my head and tingling down my spine. Not finding anyone at the fire, I figured to head back to the train, and wait till morning for Octavius and Scamantha there. It was nearly James Thorn | A Funny Sense of Fun

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dawn anyway, and the winds were quiet as I descended the dunes back to the paralysed vessel of enterprise. The morning came, and no sign of either two.

Then the train started moving. At first, I was scared outta my wits. I was really in the deep end. No Octavius, no Scamantha, just the methodical chugging of a train heading to an unknown destination. Who knew how far the tracks led? But then I realised. This was the idea. This was sporadic. This was new life.

No one else was on the train, not even the fancily dressed humans reciting mediocre phrases, and that was a little disconcerting. But it was a funny sense of fun, an improvised adventure. A white figure stood among the dunes, his robes billowing out behind him. A small reflection glinted behind him, following the movement of the train.

And then, from somewhere I couldn’t quite see, a shout rang out. “Fire in the hole!”

Phrase of such strange beauty. Fire in the —

James Thorn | A Funny Sense of Fun

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Illustration by Sean Liu, containing elements imported from Freepik.com

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IS 2D-ANIMATION DEAD? Nicholas Sarlos-Welsh, Y00

In 2011 Disney, the world’s leader in revolutionary and blockbuster animated films released its last hand-drawn animated movie, ‘Winnie The Pooh.’ Not two years later did the company’s head and CEO Bob Iger reveal that 2-D animation had been left at the door, with hand-drawn divisions subsequently eviscerated and many animator veterans let go. This moment marked a cold stab in the heart of the animation industry as 3-D animation swept the world and began to solidify itself as the primary medium for animated films.

Frame from ‘Fantasmagorie’ (1908) recognised as one of the first animated cartoons

This singular moment was, sadly, a long time coming. 3-D computer-generated imagery (or CGI) was already a popular medium for telling stories on the big screen. When compared to the laborious task of hand drawing, and physically or digitally inking and colouring acetate cels, 3-D animation was the clear winner.

Efficient, effective and ultimately aesthetically pleasing, but this begs the question, was it worth it? The simple fact is the film industry had been pushing for a 3-D takeover since Pixar changed the game with 1995’s ‘Toy Story.’ A film which revealed the strength and breadth of computer animation. Subsequently, other big-name corporations followed suit as, not too long after, DreamWorks released Shrek, which elevated the studio into an intimidating challenger for

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Disney (who had now formed a formidable partnership with Pixar). Meanwhile, other animation studios began to appear such as Blue-Sky Studios with their film Ice Age in 2002. From this period onward, companies simply began to realise that the task of hand drawing and animating was obsolete against the speed of computer animation. The industry quickly changed course, pumping out animated film after animated film each year fighting for the top of the box office. So, as studios began to familiarise themselves with the new technologies rapid ability to create films the speed in which studios could create flashy new movies ultimately outshone the charm of traditional animation techniques.

A traditional animator sketching a model sheet for ‘Pinocchio’ (1940)

However, amidst all this change and cinematic upheaval one studio stood resolute. Tucked away in the corners of Koganei Tokyo Studio Ghibli continued to inject life and tradition into their films. Since their first cinematic debut, ‘Nausicaä of the Valley of the Wind’ released in 1984 Studio Ghibli has been a fighting force within the cultural shakeup in the animation industry. The studio lead by the legendary Hayao Miyazaki prides itself on their polished and accomplished filmography producing academy award-nominated film such as ‘The Wind Rises’ and ‘Howl’s Moving Castle’, and wins with ‘Spirited Away’ in 2003. Of the 22 films distributed through Studio Ghibli, each has been created using the traditional hand-drawn and inked cel animation, by a team of animators in the streets of Tokyo. Ghibli has always been against the use of CGI Nicholas Sarlos-Welsh | Is 2D-Animation Dead?

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within their films and has developed a constant focus on retaining tradition in their theatrical works. Take, for example, their 2008 film ‘Ponyo.’ The film, set in a seaside town, tells the story of a young boy and an ocean princess and their adventure to save their island from danger (to put it simply). In the film’s most climactic sequence a car races to escape the oncoming waves, crashing behind it spectacularly. What makes this moment even more remarkable is the fact that director Hayao Miyazaki took it upon himself to painstakingly hand draw each frame of the sequence, which makes up just a fraction of the 170,000 hand-drawn animation frames seen in the film. Studio Ghibli is a shining example of the capabilities of traditional animation. The style and feel of their films are worldrenowned and have stood the test of time. They have inspired animators for 35 years to take on the challenge of hand-drawn techniques and have displayed the sheer emotional and fantastical abilities that animation holds in the heart of film and storytelling

A frame from ‘Ponyo’ (2008)

But now it seems Ghibli’s light is beginning to fade. Recent interviews with the animators at Ghibli’s Tokyo studio revealed that in the three and a half years since Ghibli’s new film project had begun, only 15% has realistically been animated. Now producing roughly 1 minute of film per month (opposed to a previous 5 – 10) the Japanese company is beginning to face the haunting truths of modern animation. That traditional methods are simply not effective anymore in the industry’s current climate, even with the company pulling Miyazaki out of Nicholas Sarlos-Welsh | Is 2D-Animation Dead?

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retirement to work on the new film’s development. And now, an announcement within Ghibli’s head office has revealed the nature of another film, helmed by Miyazaki’s son Goro. In late 2020 Studio Ghibli is set to distribute their first entirely 3-D animated film in their 36-year lifetime, ‘Aya and the Witch’, and thus marking the end of an era.

Hayao Miyazaki working on Ghibli’s new film in the Tokyo studio

Although we are effectively losing, in part, a major player in the world of traditional animation It seems the natural course of the industry is healing itself. The pristine and heart-warming aesthetic is essentially bleeding into modern 3-D animation as films attempt, to emulate the traditional 2-D style.

Through world building, character design or overall composition directors, animators and designers still long for the magical aesthetic of a hand-drawn film. Looking past the leaders of the animation industry indie developers and creators are still breathing life into the traditional practices of animation.

The Academy award-nominated film, ‘I Lost My Body’ is a shining example of how modern technology can revive, uplift and accentuate the visual storytelling found within handmade animation. The film effectively utilised three methods and mediums in conveying its tale. Employing live-action footage for reference imagery, CGI for digital animation and finally adding 2-D over the 3-D images to create and retain the traditional style. This example shows the ways

Nicholas Sarlos-Welsh | Is 2D-Animation Dead?

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that modernity and tradition can work hand in hand. It is a film which has demonstrated the fact that studio’s do not have to wholeheartedly neglect traditional methods. They can weave and intertwine them to create their films. ‘I Lost My Body’ is a movie which proves that the aesthetic of traditional animation is simply the product of the ingenuity of the designers, the animators and the directors. It is a piece of art which will hopefully introduce a new era of animation into the industry.

Frame from ‘I Lost My Body’ (2019)

Or take ‘Klaus’ another 2020 Academy Award-nominated film. Released in 2019 ‘Klaus’ took 2 years to make with 300 workers and 40+ animators working to create a bold and stylish film. The film, which is 2-D animated, ironically emulates the 3-D style tapping into the status quo. Utilising clever lighting tricks to create the illusion of depth in its world, melding the modern into the traditional and creating a film like no other. The film draws on century-old artistic principles and animation tricks to push the relevance of 2-D animation.

To prove it’s worth and power in the modern industry and display how effective 2-D animation can truly be.

It is ultimately a reassurance to see that 2-D animation is still getting the recognition it deserves in the 21st century, however, it still stands that studios adamant In producing films utilising traditional methods, or a mash of modern and traditional are either unable to keep up with the state of animation practices or unable to reach audiences. As 3-D animation has taken over, 2-D films have effectively been buried and families, who a lot of these films are targeted at, Nicholas Sarlos-Welsh | Is 2D-Animation Dead?

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simply don’t have the effort to dig down and search for them. However, online streaming services, primarily Netflix, have recently acted as a saviour to these smaller production companies as both the films above (‘I Lost My Body’ and ‘Klaus’) have been given a platform to stream on or have had their development funded by the company. Giving rise to not only the film’s popularity but their global reach and success.

Process depicting character development in ‘Klaus’ (2019)

So, is 2-D animation, or traditional animation for that matter, dead? In the regards of the big blockbuster, in your face, cinema. Yes, it is. Disney has essentially turned its back to the era of 2-D animation to focus on CGI and, now, the era of uninspired remakes and reboots. For other companies such as Studio Ghibli who, until recently, stood unyielding against the change in the industry it is clear they are beginning to succumb to the three-dimensional era. Now, indie developer and smaller companies are making up the final stand against the 3-D takeover and are effectively displaying the ways in which animation can modify and adapt itself to survive in the current climate. Ultimately, as the rate of consumerism grows rapidly in the industry and the need for films, sequels and cinematic universes increases, the labour and time that animators need to sink into hand drawing and animating films is outweighed by the lure of quick and speedy computer-generated animation. However, the aesthetic, the homely bold lines and warm colours. The familiar and magical feeling and style is something that can never die. Can always be emulated, manipulated and retained throughout the ever-changing status quo, and, it clearly is.

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REVIVAL

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Sean L iu, Y01

Inspired by true events I February 16, 1918. The cold winter air sent chills down my spine as the snow continued to fall down on the already whitened footpath of Fairhill, Philadelphia.

The streets were isolated as usual, partly due to the cold, and partly due to the long siege that took most of the men in this neighbourhood away. I trotted behind my mum as she called for me to hurry up. After father went away 4 years ago, mum had rarely been late to church. Especially not this year – this year, she’s always the first one there.

I sat gingerly (as always) in the small, congested seats of our community church. When I was little, I had always hated the idea of going to church – after all, that was time taken away from me playing with my friends. Even after all these years, I still dread the idea of going to church. But I guess it makes mum happy.

“The best gift I can give you is a religion,” she used to say (though I could personally think of plenty better gifts).

Today is baptism day, and already I can see rows of people eagerly waiting in the narrow corridors for the pastor to begin the holy rite of admission for them to officially become “one of us.” Mum called the day of her baptism the day she was “reborn,” but I never gave that much thought; my mum can be a little superstitious sometimes.

August 6. Words have spread of a new kind of flu that is going around, “the Spanish flu” they call it because apparently, it originated in Spain. Some crazy people in my neighbourhood barricaded themselves in as if the world is going to collapse the next day, but most of us know that it will pass just like all the other flu seasons we went through. I mean, with the scorching temperatures we have been getting for the past few days, the flu will probably get wiped out by the heat before it reaches us. Mum insists that we should not be scared of the flu because we have God watching over us, but I can tell that she has changed. When we go out to pick up fruits and vegetables, she used to take hours wandering around, meticulously calculating which market has the cheapest and freshest produces.

Now, she just dashes around, picking up the first thing she sees and drags me out of the market before I get second thoughts about buying candies from the local sweets shop. What did I say?

She can be a little superstitious sometimes.

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September 26. Today, my friend Justin asked me if I wanted to go with him to this war parade that the government is holding in two days.

“It’s to restore morale in the city,” he said as he gave me a gentle, but firm nudge. “Sulky people like you need it.”

At first, I was hesitant because of my mum’s ever-growing hysteria about the flu. I knew if I wanted to go, I was down for an argument with her. But Justin knew my weak spot.

“By the way Alex, there will be a showcase of the airplanes that we are using in the war,” he said with a sly grin.

That was it. One sentence was enough. He left me with no choice.

Ever since I first took a breath of air, I had dreamed of becoming a pilot. When my dad left for the war, he told me that when I turn 18, he would introduce me to the finest war pilots he knew (though I doubt he actually knows any). Every year, dad would send us a letter telling us how he is and what he’s up to, and always, there would be a stamp with my favourite aircraft on it. Over the years, I have already collected three of these stamps, but my dad stopped sending the letters last year. I missed reading his letters with mum; she told me that dad is busy at the frontlines, but she promised to buy me a stamp every year so I can keep expanding my collection. You can’t be too picky in these times, I guess.

I’m going to tell her about the parade tomorrow. I think she will understand how much this parade means to me. Right?

September 27. Outrageous. Complete disregard of my passion. Complete ignorance of my dreams. I knew that it was going to be hard to convince her, but I never expected her to react the way she did.

A simple, blunt “No” was her first response. But even as I cautiously treaded my way through her tunnel of fiery rage, a confrontation was inevitable.

“It’s way too dangerous Alejandro! It’s sensitive times, we’d be better off staying near this neighbourhood where we are next to people like us. And what if you catch the flu that’s going around?” She spoke in Spanish. Mum only speaks Spanish to me for two reasons: one, when she used to cuddle with me and read me Spanish bedtime stories (highly unlikely in this case), or when she wants to end an argument quickly (mainly because Spanish sounds much more intimidating than English). I’ve always avoided my full name because it made me different, it made me distant from the people around me.

“But everyone is going. They won’t be hosting this parade if it isn’t safe, we haven’t even heard of anyone getting this flu in Philadelphia. Just let me go,” I said as calmly and sincerely as I could manage.

“Absolutely not! I only have you to look after, I am not going to let you go in that sort of danger! That’s the end of that!” she yelled as she slammed her plate of breakfast on the table. She tried to maintain a menacing expression, but her Sean Liu | Revival

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cheeks started to shake, and her eyes moistened and glowed under the reflection of the searing sunlight.

I could feel the blood boiling in me, but I knew when to stop. There was no way out of that rabbit-hole argument, but I cannot just let this opportunity go this easily. Mum is going grocery shopping tomorrow, that’s when I’ll sneak out with Justin. We won’t be there for very long, but even if mum comes back before us, it doesn’t matter.

She needs to learn to give me independence.

II A mystic fog gathered in Philadelphia overnight, making the view of the Philadelphia skyline seem all the more distant from the humble neighbourhood of Fairhill. As Alex’s mother scurried off to the food market on her beat-up bike, Alex snuck out under the cover of the fog and joined his partner-in-crime. There was a springiness in his steps as he strolled past the rows of stale, disorganized, and tumbledown houses – a lightness that seems undeserved, but warranted nonetheless. The sound of victory echoed in Alex’s heart.

As Alex and Justin approached Broad Street, the commotion of people started to reveal itself, along with rows of elegant Victorian and Gothic-style buildings.

Though it’s only a few blocks away from Alex’s neighbourhood, he could hardly remember the last time he came here. Too long, he was sure, because he could not recognize half the shops on this street. There were many officers and state officials marshalling up and down the street, trying hard to keep the eager crowd back so there was a wide enough laneway for the parade.

It has been years since Alex had seen a crowd this large. Before the war started, Alex used to drag his father with him to watch parades in the city.

There was something enchanting to him, about watch adults – mostly men – protest about things they were passionate about, which is very often tax. Fights were a frequent sight, and the occasional brawl broke out if it was a divisive issue. But standing from afar, it gave him a sense of satisfaction, empowerment even, to be able to listen to, but not be affected by society’s problems.

However, this parade was very different. The crowd was composed mainly of women who were dressed in all sorts of workwear that only men wore before.

They were unusually quiet in the beginning, so quiet in fact, that Alex could still hear the autumn breeze fluttering around.

As the parade started, a voice could be heard from afar, chanting: “U-S-A, U-S-A!” Soon, the crowd all joined in unity, with a passion and determination in their voices that Alex had never heard before. The passion Alex heard at this parade was not inspired by anger or hatred, it was a passion out of hope, the dire Sean Liu | Revival

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need for a hope that will carry them out of the hardships of living in this time.

Alex and Justin found their way to a less crowded area to get a better view of the parade. The sound of trumpets and horns could be dimly heard in the distance as rows of vehicles started to emerge from the fog – the wait is over. Strangely though, Alex found it hard to focus on the parade that he so desperately wanted to watch. Instead, the image of his mother’s face twisted in anger kept on appearing in his mind, and an uneasiness spread over him. At that moment, her input in Alex’s life seemed unnecessary, distracting even, in his search of independence.

Alex managed to regain his attention as the procession went on. It was as spectacular as promised, with marching bands, a concert led by the “March King” himself – John Philip Sousa – and of course, the all-important parade of military aircraft. Although very few airplanes ended up appearing in the mighty procession, their ingenuity and build nonetheless amazed Alex. He knew the name and structure of all the aircraft on-show back to front: Curtiss JN-4, LUSAC-11, Heinrich Pursuit... But seeing them in-person still gave him goosebumps.

As the parade came to a conclusion, the crowd started to disband from the busy Broad Street. Their enthusiasm, however, did not die down; in fact, their chants grew louder and louder, filling the air with the voices of passion. Yet Alex could not help but notice the slight muffle quietly hidden behind the deafening chants of patriotism. The sound was so faint that he had to open his ears and try really hard to hear it, but if he tried not to hear it, it was still painfully there.

Alex felt anger brewing inside him as he turned his head around sharply.

Behind him, he saw a middle-aged woman eyeing him with horror and disgust as she murmured to her friend: “Is that boy Spanish?”

To which the other woman responded: “Looks like it. Dirty Spaniards.” *

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Alex was silent the whole walk back to Fairhill as Justin patted his back repeatedly, unable to find the right words to say. After a brief farewell, Alex found himself back at the base of the threadbare apartment building. He anxiously climbed up the circling stairs and noticed the door to his apartment slightly ajar. Standing in front of the scarred wooden door, Alex’s heart pounded like the thundering hooves of a thousand wild stallions, for he was sure what lied in front would be inferno. He patted off some dust on his jacket and knocked off the grime on his worn-out shoes, desperately hoping that this would purge Sean Liu | Revival

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away some sense of foreboding.

As he pushed open the creaking door, the inferno he anticipated was not there.

Instead, dead silence greeted him into the apartment. He could see the bags of grocery messily spread out on the floor of the apartment and his mother’s old, rusty bicycle laid flat on the ground. The wind made howling noises as it rushed through the flimsy window and into the apartment, sending shivers down Alex’s spine.

If this were not the inferno Alex anticipated, could it be paradise? Alex certainly does not think so. To him, this was just the long winding road downwards with Satan’s voice echoing in his mind.

“Dirty Spaniard… Dirty Spaniard…”

III Valeria felt her heart pulsing faster and faster as she knocked on the doors to Justin’s house for the second time. “Please be here, please be here,” she prayed in her head.

A flush of relief came when she heard thumping footsteps inside the house.

She did not wait for Justin’s mother to open the door.

“Marge, have you seen Alejandro?” she asked as she pushed open the unlocked door.

“Oh, hi Val. I was wondering who was in such a hurry,” Margret chuckled.

“Justin told me they were going to the park. They will be back soon, don’t be too worried. They’re old enough to manage themselves. Want to come in and have some tea while we wait?”

Valeria instantly realized what that meant and felt the blood rush away from her head. She declined Margret’s invitation as politely as she could and sprinted towards the crowded city that she tried so hard to avoid before.

The glorious Broad Street, along with the passionate chant of the people and the uplifting music played by the marching band filled Valeria with a sense of hopelessness. She held on tight to the cross on her necklace with her left hand and a small locket in her right as she stumbled her way closer to the parade, keeping her distance from the people around her.

Valeria’s hands shook violently under the sharp gusts of wind zig-zagging its way around the swarm of people. She stayed close to the buildings as she walked at a hurried, frantic pace along the sidewalk, calling out “Alex” from time to time, desperately hoping for a miracle to happen. But her calls were drowned out by the sound of the procession, her voice insignificant against the masses.

Her hope diminished as the parade concluded, and Valeria had no choice but to Sean Liu | Revival

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walk back home.

As she approached an intersection, a young girl in a grey jumpsuit approached her.

“Good day Ma’am, are you interested in buying some government bonds?” she asked politely.

Valeria shook her head sympathetically, as she noticed a blue patch of skin under the girl’s eyelid, resembling a bruise mark.

“Are you sure Ma’am? It’ll help out the soldiers at our front lines,” the girl continued. The word “soldiers” made Valera’s heart sink suddenly as if she experienced a momentary sense of weightlessness.

“I’m sorry, I don’t have the money,” Valeria said solemnly as she backed away slowly, taking deep breaths until she felt a temporary sense of relief, only to be struck again by overwhelming grief. She reached frantically for her locket as she made her way deeper into the crowd and held onto it tightly again, unable to muster the strength to open it up.

My Dearest Wife and Son, How shall I begin? The past few months have been quite harsh.

My squad has been stationed at the front lines for two weeks now.

I am lucky to say that I have been in the trenches twice, or in other words, have done two hitches to Hell. Sometimes we think seriously and wonder if the latter is any worse than some of the days we have spent. But you needn’t worry about me because I heard that my squad will be moved back in the next day or so; I might even make it back to see you two for Christmas! How are you two doing? I know it must be hard for both of you, but the end is near, I am sure of it.

Recently, the flu is making its rounds at our camp, but it doesn’t seem too serious. These occasional breakouts are unavoidable given the conditions we are in, but I know God will take care of me. Oh, and don’t forget to show Alejandro the new stamp I got him, it took me a lot of effort to convince my sergeant to give it to me.

I hope to see you two soon and know that I will always think of you…

This was the last letter Valeria received from him. A month after this letter arrived, another came, not written by him, but much more formal in its presentation. Valeria left that letter unopened on the table for days, and even when she gathered the strength to open it, regret flooded through her.

“Entire squad perished due to a significant influenza outbreak,” it noted emotionlessly as if their lives were just statistics on a report paper.

But those simple words changed Valeria’s life forever… No more endless days Sean Liu | Revival

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waiting for his letters. No more sleepless nights spent worrying about his safety.

No more frustrating disappointments from his unkept promises.

Valeria had once thought the separation was the hard part. But at least there was something for her to hold on to. There was a chance for her to believe in. There was a future she could dream about. There was a possibility of their old happy days being recovered. But now there was nothing left to give her the spring in her steps, and holding the locket no longer gave her the same warmth she once felt. There was no hope left.

The only person that kept her going was Alejandro. *

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Valeria made her way up the dark staircase of her apartment. As she climbed up the last flight of stairs, she noticed a strand of sunlight emerging from the clouds and shining through the small, broken window in the stairwell. An almost heavenly charm surrounded the worn-down building.

Valeria pushed the door gently open and saw Alex anxiously sitting on the sofa. Without a word, she rushed up to him and held him tight against her, tears streaming down her face. She could sense Alex’s initial surprise and hesitation; but soon, he also wrapped his arms around her, and they embraced for the first time in these dark gloomy years.

IV The clouds never faded after the parade. Instead, sheets of rain gathered to drift slowly up Delaware River and settled above the city of Philadelphia. The rain dampened the city, crumpling up the walls of buildings until sheets of cladding started to fall off one-by-one. The time of glory and hope suddenly became the time of horrors and nightmares as the City of Brotherly Love was consumed by the second wave of illness. The glorious Broad Street, with its magnificent buildings and fancy shops, became nearly isolated days after the parade. Birds and rodents became the new inhabitants of the streets as they picked away at the scraps of food leftover from the parade, and a deathly stench surrounded Philadelphia.

The food market at Fairhill which was always populated with residents seeking fresh produces, became a battleground where it was every man for themselves. At the fruit and vegetable stall, people crowded the vegetable stands and grabbed at the produces, ripping apart the vegetables like a cackle of hungry hyenas. At the butchery, people pushed one another in the queue and shouted at the horrified butcher like a drift of pigs battling for food. The Sean Liu | Revival

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friendly and courteous facades they put up disintegrated and along with it, any semblance of unity destroyed.

Valeria played a game of tag as she dodged her way around the chaos at the market with her bag of groceries in one hand and an umbrella in the other. She shivered under the harsh cold wind as she went around to the least crowded stalls, which naturally had the worst produce.

“I’ll have half a head of cabbage please,” she said, looking disappointedly at the limp vegetables on the stand.

The stall keeper gave her an odd look as she grabbed at the cabbage. Valeria self-consciously glanced at her clothes to see if there were any rips she was not aware of. None that she could see.

“Be careful out there Mrs.,” the stall keeper said as she handed Valeria the bag. Valeria stood puzzled and muttered a quick thank you before walking away, wondering what she meant.

Back at home, Valeria placed the groceries in the fridge and made breakfast for Alex and herself. She filled a cup with hot tea and walked to the sofa, anxiously opening the daily newspaper.

The headline was: “Spanish Influenza – A New Name For An Old Disease” and under the heading in caps, read: “MILD SYMPTOMS, NO CAUSE FOR PANIC!” Valeria took a sip of her tea as she trembled under the cold. From what she had overheard about the crowded hospitals, there was no way she would have believed what the headline said.

Suddenly, she felt a tingling sensation in her nose, pricking away deep inside her right nostril. Soon, blood dripped out of it. Valeria swore under her breathe and jumped up to grab a tissue from the toilet. It had been years since Valeria last had a blood nose, to the point where she had forgotten what it felt like. She stood over the bathroom sink as she pinched her nose tightly. The slight pulsation of her blood carried through her fingers, ticking away until the bleeding stopped.

Valeria stepped out of the bathroom, exhausted. She noticed that Alex was already eating breakfast. But when he turned around to face her, what filled his face was pure horror.

“Mum –, ” he stuttered. “Why are there blue marks on your neck?” *

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The hospital was filled by the time Alex and Valeria arrived there. The hospital corridor was stuffy and the air had an undertone of bleach. The walls were painted magnolia and are scraped in places from the hundreds of trolleys that Sean Liu | Revival

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have bumped into them. The pictures on the walls were cheap benign prints of uplifting scenes and above the double doors were large blue plastic signs with the areas of the hospital that lied ahead. The appearance of order however was quickly overthrown by the time they reached the entrance to the waiting room, and mayhem took over.

Inside the waiting room, some patients were yelling at the nurses, some yelled at each other for pushing into the queue and others have lost the ability to yell altogether. Where before, when all was well, they were able to stand in unity; in the most fragile and vulnerable of moments, they chose conflict over civility and selfishness over solidarity.

Alex looked around the room through the glass door and immediately, he noticed that many of the patients also had blue patches on their skin. He felt himself shudder as the realization dawned upon him. Valeria must have noticed this as well as she gave Alex a gentle nudge, indicating for him to go outside.

When Alex refused, Valeria gave him a weary smile, her lips trembled as she mouthed to him: “I’ll be okay.”

She turned away from Alex and headed into the room, leaving him alone in the hallway. Alone with his guilt and regret.

4 months later…

The street of Fairhill, Philadelphia began to liven up as the wave of the disease started to recede, but there was an unignorable undertone of melancholy and grief surrounding the city. On the streets, priests rode around in carriages, calling out to the residents for them to bring out their dead. And in the distant, at a local pub, a sorrowful voice could be heard singing: “Well it was God’s almighty plan, He was judging this old land, North and south, east and west, It can be seen, It killed the rich, killed the poor, It’s gonna kill just a little more, If you don’t turn away from your shame.” *

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You never know what you have until it slips away from you.

That was what Alex’s father repeated again and again to Alex. “Do not let go of what you love,” he said. “Let your passion guide you through life.”

And that’s exactly what Alex did. But in the pursuit of his passion, in Sean Liu | Revival

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his fight for independence, he had forgotten how much something else meant to him, something that was always hidden behind the curtains but is of most value to him. He had neglected something that cannot be returned; he had lost someone that cannot be revived.

Alex walked wearily towards the church Valeria used to take him to. The old paths she used to laugh with him on, the same path she yelled at him on. The memories of old, lost days simply kept on wearing a deeper groove on his already scarred heart.

As Alex walked into the church, the pastor gave him the usual warm welcome, and condolences were expressed. Alex still remembers vividly the excitement his mother felt – which he never understood – for coming to church. Her attachment with God, her need for a God… Her superstition. However, his contempt for such a force of control, at this moment, seems weak compared to his need for something to rely on, something to take the overwhelming burden away from his fragile soul.

Alex stood quietly in the line, observing the people in front of him as the pastor slowly lowered them into the tub full of water. Applauses would follow and they would rise out of the water, smiling in contentment. But perhaps to Alex, this seemingly arbitrary ceremony was different.

Did Alex expect some paradigm shift to happen then and there? Did he think he was going to be revived? And even if he somehow manages to recollect himself, would he truly feel whole again?

He did not know. But as the pastor called “Alejandro,” he looked up. The name only her parents called him by, the name he avoided for so long. In the pastor’s face, he saw the image of his mother, the gentle, loving smile his mother showed him when she used to read him bedtime stories, the smile he failed many times to reciprocate. He felt himself involuntarily moving towards the stage, closing his eyes slowly as he waited, prayed for his chance of revival.

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Illustration by Sean Liu, containing photograph by Jordan Hibbert

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FINIS MUNDI

The Realms 2020

Elijah Pannozzo, Y00

Author’s Notes: This poem is in the form of two Alcaic stanzas, traditionally Greek, but also adapted to be used by Latin speakers. It is significantly more strict (i.e more prescriptive in what words can be used where) than the more common Dactylic Hexameter. Also, there are no capital letters because traditional Latin didn’t distinguish them. finis mundi

Reading Guide

omnes abierunt - mundus relictus est;

[ōm-nēs] [a-biē]-[rūnt : mūn]-[dus re-līc]-[tus ēst];

sol clarus est nunc, sunt resolutae aquae,

[sōl clā]-[rus ēst] [nūnc : sūnt] [re-so-lū]-[t’a-quae];

atrae tenebrae, ingravatae aurae,

[ā-trae] [te-nē]-[brae, in]-[gra-vā]-[t’au-rae],

in locum proprium ineunt latebris.

[in lo-cum] [prō-pri-’in]-[eunt la]-[tē-brīs]

haud omne autem est nunc salvum, malo iam ei

[haud ōmn]-[‘autem’st] [nūnc : sāl]-[vum, ma-lō] [i’e-ī]

formas ad nativas remigrante: sic

[fōr-mās] [ad nā]-[tīv-:as] [re-mi-grān]-[te; sīc]

usquam ferae nunc inter se caedunt,

[ūs-quam] [fe-rae] [nūnc īn]-[ter sē] [cae-dūnt],

lamenta et viscera caelum complent.

[lā-men-t’et] [vī-sce-ra] [cae-lum] [cōm-plēnt].

Key: [ ] = a foot (traditional division of verses) ◌̄ = elongated vowel ‘ = omission due to lenition (merging of adjacent vowels) - = in-word boundary : = “caesura” (i.e a break in the line where the speaker may pause)

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Translated Version

The End of the World Everyone has left: the world has been abandoned; The sun is now bright, the waters have been unleashed; The dark night, unburdened winds, Enter their rightful place from their hiding spots.

But in no way is everything well, as evil now Returns to its natural forms: thus The savage beasts slaughter each other across the world, Pained cries and gore fill the sky.

Elijah Pannozzo | finis mundi

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Photograph courtesy of Katarzyna Grabowska from Unsplash.com

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AN ESSAY ON FRIENDSHIP AND WHY IT’S MORE THAN TEXTING

The Realms 2020

James Thorn, Y01 Friendship. What is it? Why is it important? Does life in lockdown (COVID-19, 2020) mean relationships suffer, or does the technology available to us in the 21st century make friendships easier to navigate than ever before? Intrigued by the recent conditions of pandemic interaction, I’m looking to unpack what constitutes real friendship when ‘zooms’ have replaced physical workplaces, schools, and living rooms; and whether my understanding of friendship fits snugly into a non-physical environment. I’m willing to bet it doesn’t, and here’s why.

To talk about friendship, we want to understand what it is and what it means — so I turn to Google. According to Oxford Languages (Google’s flagship dictionary; Lexico) a friend is: “a person with whom one has a bond of mutual affection, typically one exclusive of sexual or family relations.”

This is generally how we would describe our friends — people with whom we share a mutual affection, usually over a shared interest, that aren’t our sexual partners or family members. This is a pretty basic definition. It doesn’t account for the varying levels of friendships, or what it means to be a true and proper friend. Famed author of the ‘Narnia’ series C.S. Lewis writes that a friendship “is born at the moment when one man says to another “What! You too? I thought that no one but myself...”1. Here we see an image of mutual interest as the vessel of a deeper connection. But what is this deeper connection? Generally, I’m not concerned about the impact of technology on friendships where one ‘friend’ would describe the other as “just a mate” or a “good bloke… I’d call ‘em my friend”. Of interest is a friendship that delves beyond the shallows, which has meaning, importance, and ultimately something to lose. What is a friend if it doesn’t hurt to lose them?

This is where I’d propose that a true friendship, as opposed to glorified acquaintanceship, is comprised of four qualities: constancy, carefulness, candour 2 and counsel . Constancy is about being there, even when it hurts; about being a 1 2

C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves Friendship – Timothy Keller [Sermon]

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companion in happiness and in gloom; about not retreating when the road gets rocky. A fair-weather friend isn’t a friend. Carefulness is about understanding and empathy; about realising that your friends don’t always see things in the way you do; about avoiding emotional disconnection; and using discretion when sharing your own joys or miseries so as to not overwhelm or estrange the other. Candour is about telling it true. A friend who is careful yet fails to hold their equal accountable for fear of offence risks causing greater harm. The Old Testament book of wisdom, Proverbs, makes this clear: “Better is open rebuke than hidden love. Wounds from a friend can be trusted, but an enemy multiplies kisses.” 3 And finally, counsel is about confidence in confiding; about being vulnerable in sharing personal issues; about asking and receiving balanced advice, both reassuring and reliable. Given this understanding of friendship, why can’t it be fully supported by the advent of online video chats, texting and messaging, phone calls and non-physical interactions?

In answering this question, I want to make it absolutely clear that I don’t believe online interaction is a detriment to pre-existing friendships, but rather, that the formation and strengthening of a bond (as defined above) is nearly impossible to achieve in a non-physical setting. The advent of online communication — be it phone calls or messaging — has made organising hangouts and gatherings infinitely more convenient, but it has also allowed for a complacency in ‘maintaining’ a relationship purely online. This complacency to be avoided at all costs. In other words, in this era of social media, we need a revival of true, physical friendships.

J.R.R. Tolkien’s ‘The Lord of The Rings’ is unique in that it focuses entirely on friendships that are not sexual but gleaned from companionship and mutual sufferings. As per the Wiki (film series) plot summary: Set in the fictional world of Middle-earth, the films follow the hobbit Frodo Baggins as he and the Fellowship embark on a quest to destroy the One Ring, to ensure the destruction of its maker, the Dark Lord Sauron. The Fellowship eventually splits up and Frodo continues the quest with his loyal companion Sam and the treacherous Gollum.4 I raise ‘The Lord of the Rings’ not as a dedicated Tolkienite or an avid fan of the films, but to illustrate the importance of journeying through life (see “quest to destroy the One Ring”) with friends physically by your side. It is not logical to suggest that Sam could have met Frodo’s physical and mental needs by occasionally zooming in to see how he was progressing, or by sending ‘streaks’ with a third of his face and an inspirational quote like ‘dreams don’t work unless you do’. Rather, it is Sam’s act of physical presence and his willingness to accompany Frodo on a perilous journey that earns him the title “loyal companion”.

3 4

(NIV) Proverbs 27:5-6 Wikipedia, The Lord of the Rings (film series)

James Thorn | An Essay on Friendship and Why It’s More than Texting

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Friendships require constant strengthening, and the lack of a journey is a key reason why friendships are so hard to successfully build up online. On social media, you can respond to messages when you want, not when the other person needs. You can message, or ‘speak’, often more fluently because of the ability to stop and think and type, but you can’t accompany your messages with the body language, tone, or subtle emphasis that convey emotion and prioritise carefulness. You can tell it true and hold your friend to account over a phone call or a text message, but you can’t be there to comfort them in their difficulty or explain yourself if they leave the conversation.

As Professor Robin Dunbar, British anthropologist and evolutionary psychologist states, “On the internet, you can pull the plug and walk away. There’s no forcing mechanism that makes us have to learn.” 5 And you can share your deepest worries and concerns, but you can’t guarantee that on the other end there is a visceral emotional connect that always exists in the presence of a confiding friend.

Ultimately, as Dunbar points out: “Friendships, in particular, have a natural decay absence of contact, and social media may well slow down the rate of decay. However, that alone sufficient to prevent friendships eventually dying they are not occasionally reinforced by face-to-face

rate in the function to may not be naturally if interaction.” 6

While social media is certainly a convenient tool for maintaining friendships, it does not provide a sufficient means for cultivating them, even in an age where time spent socialising online equals or outweighs time spent in the physical presence of our friends. As shown from 7th century B.C Biblical teachings to 20th century epic high-fantasy novels, friendships have long formed a pivotal and highly valuable part of the human experience, and long will. For the sake of personal betterment in line with constancy, carefulness, candour and counsel, it is paramount we maintain and strengthen our friendships, journeying through adversity and joys alike. I give the final word to C.S. Lewis, who illustrates the living beauty and importance of friendship: “Friendship is unnecessary, like philosophy, like art.... It has no survival value; rather it is one of those things which give value to survival.” 7

5 6 7

The New Yorker, The Limits of Friendship The Royal Society, Do online social media cut through the constraints that limit the size of offline social networks?

C.S. Lewis, The Four Loves

James Thorn | An Essay on Friendship and Why It’s More than Texting

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Photograph courtesy of Alberto Bobbera from Unsplash.com

1.76 mHz

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Kevin Yang, Y01

(Begin transcript. The following are signals intercepted by the Kether satellite broadcast array on the 21st of August, 2020.) “... following is a routine transmission provided to you by the federal government of the United Territories of Anglicized Oceania and Australia. This is transmission 15 out of 34 of the Malkuth Programme, a series of informative broadcasts delivered to you live, informing you how to take care of yourself and anyone else you have found yourself accompanying in these trying times. This transmission is titled “you and the disease; what signs to look out for and what to do if the infection makes it inside”. Transmission 16, which will begin in 15 minutes, is titled “how to dress an abdominal wound with household supplies”, which will include a Q&A section composed of questions submitted by the public and answered by our team of medical professionals. But in the meantime, sit back and relax as I, your host…”

[SIGNAL WEAK. REACQUIRING] “... ​contrary to popular rumour, not of extraterrestrial origin, a bioweapon, a complex prion, a protist, a heretofore undiscovered lifeform or a fungus of the cordyceps genus. It is simply a typical virus. As such, it is vital that you observe proper hygiene in order to minimise the spread of the disease. The following guidelines have been put in place by the government; be forewarned that these policies are enforceable by the police, and that violating them may result in incarceration or capital punishment.

- 1: Avoid gathering in groups with more than four members under any circumstances. It has been shown that the infectivity of the disease as well as the severity of its symptoms increases exponentially with the number of persons standing near an infectee or asymptomatic carrier.

- 2: Wash your hands with soap before and after handling any potentially contaminated surfaces. Commercial grade hand sanitisers are typically insufficient for this process: try to acquire stronger sterilising agents such as concentrated isopropyl alcohol or bleach. While typical soaps and hand sanitizers have been shown to possess a limited effectiveness against the virus, they typically cannot ensure the user’s safety from infection.

- 3: Wear gloves and masks. If possible, wear full clothing such as long pants, jackets and hats. Minimize skin contact with surfaces of any kind.

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Replace the filters in your masks often in order to prevent them from becoming ineffective.

- 4: Do not expose yourself to large bodies of water such as rivers, lakes and rainwater. Use bottled, filtered or tap water for hydration and bathing.

- 5: Do not eat endemic wildlife or plants. Only consume processed foods manufactured and packaged before June of 2020 such as canned food and famine relief rations. The consumption of fresh meats and vegetables represents an inordinate risk of infection.

A vaccine for the infection is not currently available but I am told that​”…

[SIGNAL LOST, ACQUIRING NEXT STRONGEST TRANSMISSION] “... ​twelve hours after infection a person will develop ulcers on the parts of their body that have been exposed to the disease. This typically includes the fingers, stomach, larynx and lungs. These ulcers will expand rapidly, with an average surface area of sixty four square centimetres two hours after infection. The affected person will not feel pain during this process, and usually remains unaware of the ulcers before reaching stage two of the disease.

Stage two of the disease is signalled by the infected person becoming energetic, exuberant and prone to odd cravings. During stage two their ulcers will shrink and eventually disappear, with the infectee returning to a typical appearance within eighteen hours of the disease’s onset. During this time large deposits of a fibrous white substance referred to as “webbing” (excuse the ambiguous terminology) will form throughout the subject’s body, filling the gaps between their organs and muscles and replacing their ligatures. This will cause them to become unusually flexible. They will also begin to instinctively hyperventilate when surrounded by large numbers of healthy mammalian organisms, causing the disease to spread rapidly via the air.

An easy way to test whether a person is in stage two of the infection or not is to make a shallow incision in a soft part of their body such as below the calcaneofibular ligament or on the exterior of the thigh. If the subject is healthy, the implement should sink into their skin easily and draw blood. If they are infected, it will take a great amount of force to penetrate their epidermal tissues and they will not bleed. Instead, the interior of their body will appear white and fluffy, like loosely packed spiderweb. It has a certain gleam to it, likened to the glimmer of pearl. Terminate the infected as soon as possible. Gasoline jelly or ethanol serve as adequate ways to immolate the body. Do not attempt to confine or throw away Kevin Yang | 1.76 mHz

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the infected, there are no sufficient methods of containment currently known....​” [SIGNAL LOST, REATTAINING TRANSMISSION] “-​tor Hendricks’ report. Alpha instances are externally identical to living human beings. They possess post-sapient faculties and typically present themselves as ordinary, if anomalously charismatic persons. Alpha instances possess the memories of the person that they formerly were before infection but have been shown to universally identify with new identities. In short, Alpha instances are not the people that they attempt to resemble. They are highly intelligent, capable predators with one objective: to thrive. Their bodies are internally composed of webbing, meaning that they do not bleed.

Alpha instances have a homogenous internal composition, ergo they possess no organs, capillaries or sensory organs. The removal of their “eyes” and “brain” (or rather, the areas in which those organs would be in a healthy human) do not inhibit their senses or cognition. The substance which they are made out of, webbing, is actually a polymer made of trillions upon trillions of instances of the virus. Thus, every part of an Alpha instance is a vector for infestation. Webbing is extremely flexible and resilient, as well as flame-retardant. Small arms fire and handheld incendiary explosives cannot damage an Alpha instance.

Alpha instances do not respirate, do not need to eat or breathe. The only known way to consistently terminate an Alpha instance is to incapacitate it with sustained artillery fire and to immolate its remains with thermite. While explosives are moderately effective in disabling Alpha instances, they tend to spread the disease over an extremely wide area. Avoid using them if you are able to. In general, Alpha instances should never be engaged by a sub-platoon fireteam. Small gatherings are advised to pretend to be fooled by their social advances and to leave while they are not being paid attention to.

Gamma instances are stationary amorphous structures made of striated webbing. Gamma instances vary in size, with the largest being the Central Asian Hive Cluster (CAHS, or ‘cash’), composed of approximately 1.4 billion humans’ biomass and the bodies of innumerable other animals. The CAHS is 5,841 kilometres wide, stretching from the southern border of the former state of Kazakhstan to Fortress Seoul. The webbing within Gamma instances is capable of contracting and relaxing, similar to human muscle tissue. Thus, Gamma instances are capable of extraordinary feats of strength. Gamma instances Kevin Yang | 1.76 mHz

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made up of 500-800 persons have been known to collapse the foundations of buildings in order to gain access to the individuals within them, while larger Gamma instances have been observed to expand and contract on a countrywide scale, creating earthquakes to destroy fortifications and level large population centres. They pose an extreme risk to permanent installations: large convoys and troop columns should prioritize maneuvering across soft terrain, which is less susceptible to simulated seismic activity.

Gamma instances’ intelligence increases linearly with their mass. The CAHS is currently the most intelligent object known to the scientific community. This means that they are capable of advanced strategizing and formulating plans of action. Webbing is capable of adopting any colour or lustre, allowing it to visually simulate materials such as satin, wood, glass and skin. As such, it is entirely possible that large swathes of one’s surroundings such as buildings, trees, small animals and the ground may actually be made up of a singular Gamma instance.

The most extreme known case of Gamma infestation is South America, which was formerly believed to be an unexpectedly resilient bastion against the disease until it was discovered that the entire country had actually been engulfed by a large, contiguous Gamma instance which had been simulating the entire continent’s industries, populaces and military facilities in order to draw in refugees from other territories. This behaviour is believed to be directly connected to​...”

[SIGNAL LOST. REACQUIRING] …”-all civilians in the Redzone; due to recent developments in the disease’s progress, namely, Alpha instances learning to intercept radio broadcasts and imitating healthy individuals in order to dilute relief efforts, the government has discontinued all supply drop operations and extraction attempts. We recommend that you fortify yourselves within your annexes and hold out until the military retakes your area. Remember: infectees do not bleed...​” [SIGNAL LOST] “​... supply contaminated by the disease. Virus my ass, there’s no way it’s as simple as that. Swept through my battalion in a day, currently holed up in the capitol building. I know there’s no way to prove whether I’m infected or not. Guess this is-...​ ” [SIGNAL LOST] Kevin Yang | 1.76 mHz

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“... ​Kipley, I’m telling ya, the fish are all infected. Two weeks; two weeks we’ve been trawling through the sea and we’ve not picked up one carp or cod that wasn’t just full of white string. You need to listen, there’s no life on the sea, we gotta-​” [SIGNAL LOST] “... h ​ ello?! Hello?! My mom, sh-she’s-​” “​Harry? It’s okay, you can come out! I didn’t mean to hurt you, I promise!​” “​No! Daddy said you’re bad!​” “​Please, I’m not infected! Just come out! It’s not safe!​” …

(The sound of metallic clattering.) “​Oh, thank god! Harry, I thought I-​” (Squelching. Gurgling.) “​... a world filled from horizon to horizon by beautiful, perfect dots. I wish you could’ve been there to see it… ‘mom’.​” [SIGNAL LOST] “​... calm, stay inside your homes, do not attempt to leave! The army will be here soon. This is an automated message. Stay calm, stay inside your homes...​” [SIGNAL LOST] “​... red. White. Red. White. Red. White… god, let me still be red.​” [SIGNAL LOST. CANNOT FIND NEW TARGET]

Kevin Yang | 1.76 mHz

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Photograph by Annie Spratt, edited by Sean Liu

THE AWAKENING

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Ari Canale, Y6

A powerful wind, ragged screams, piercing wails and a loud splash. That was all I could remember before passing out. When I awoke, I felt as if I was submerged.

In an ocean perhaps. It was cold and damp, but also solid, certainly not an ocean.

As I opened my eyes I found myself staring blankly, into a dark and hazy void.

I tried to move but the translucent void prevented my movement. With much concentration, my eyes adjusted to the dark surroundings. I could barely make out blurry shapes of light moving below me. I could also see countless reflections of myself, distorted and warped but still clearly visible. As my vision blackened, a realisation entered my thoughts.

Frozen water... ice. Trapped in ice…

It was all I had time to think about before I passed out.

I woke again confused and anxious.

Where am I, wh-a-at is this place, who am I. My jumbled thoughts receded as my senses returned to me Beneath me, something soft… a bed. Good, familiar. Surrounding room, warm… furnace, but no scent of ash… or smoke.

I opened my eyes slowly, afraid of what sight would behold me.

Pink walls, black windows, grey floor, greyer ceiling. Unfamiliar… bad. No, different.

My vision was blurry and colour distorted. All I could make out were the rough colours of the faces of the room. I also noticed a warm, orange haze flowing through four evenly spaced windows. As my vision cleared, I analysed the rest of the room.

Four posts, flat slab, white grey… table. Good, recognisable, but of weird colour.

In the far right corner of the room lay a simple table. On it resided a translucent vase filled with a strange, purplish liquid.

Purple, no smell… poison. Very bad, familiar.

Opposite from the table rested a four legged stool. It had a weird metallic hue to it and it’s surface was unusually smooth. Looking around the room I noticed now a number of scratches and dents on the floor, presumably from disorderly transport of the stool.

Shiny, metal… armour. No, wrong shape. Weapon… no, unwieldy appearance,

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lack of edges… stool. Good, familiar, but with a strange colour.

In the absolute center of the room, a spherical glass lightbulb lay nested in a little alcove in the ceiling. It’s light was orange like that of the haze through the windows, however, the size was questionable.

Glass, bright orange… lamp, very small lamp. Familiar, good.

I continued cataloguing the furniture and decoy of the room. Apart from the lightbulb and room faces, every seemed somewhat familiar. At least until I inspected the TV opposite to me.

Flat, smooth… tapestry. No, there are no weaves in its texture. Unfamiliar, bad.

No, unique. I leaned forward in my bed, scrutinizing the strange object. It was rectangular, black and very smooth. It’s edges were raised and slighter lighter in colour. In the middle of the lower edge rested a small inscription rested. I strained my eyes, trying to decipher the strange style of writing it was written in.

B-A-I-R-D… Baird. Who is Baird?.

I glanced around the room again, searching for an answer. The only thing I hadn’t noticed yet was the bedside table. It was similar in design to the corner table, simple and grey.

Four poles, flat slab, light grey… table. Good, familiar.

On the table rested a strange looking staff. It was small, black and covered in weird looking buttons. I reached out to turn it over and examine its back.

I turned it in my hand, focusing my attention on it’s strange black surface. It looked kind of similar to the TV, only much smaller.

What happens if I press them.

My childlike instincts took over as I began mashing the buttons. After around two minutes, through chance alone, I managed to hit the power button. I flinched in fright as the TV buzzed into life.

Sorcery… Magic tapestry. Comprehensible, good.

By chance, I’d chosen a news channel. It featured two well-dressed men sitting behind a long bench while international events played out behind them. The first scene actually scared me. The camera zoomed in on a muddy battlefield somewhere in a place called Germany.

How are they so jolly in a time of war. They act as if they aren’t there at all.

While the spokesmen joked around, guns blazed on the battlefield. Massive Ari Canale | The Awakening

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bomber planes flew in overhead, dropping all kinds of ghastly weaponry. Right before the bombs hit the video stopped.

What kind of crossbows were they? What type of massive bird are those?

Many more questions filled my head as the news channel chose another feed.

The camera panned over another battlefield, this one even more conflict torn than the last. Even through the grainy video, I could see very clearly what it was showing.

So many bodies, so much death. What kind of army has this much power?

My primitive mind had only one believable answer.

God’s army, has judgment day finally arrived. Yes, it makes sense. I am safe, I have not sinned since birth. No, there can’t be this many sinners in the world…

A cold hand gripped my heart as a false realisation came to head.

Not God’s army. God is good, God does not kill good people. Satan is bad, he kills all people, good or bad. I am not safe.

My heart pounded rapidly. I felt as if my pulse was echoing off the walls of the confined room.

I need to get out, I need to get back to…

My train of thought stopped. Where had I come from? Who was I? Calm down. If the tapestry men feel safe, so should I. I flopped back onto the bed, my muscles relieved of their tension. I looked around the room again, searching for an exit. Relief filled my body as my eyes met the closest window, it’s orange glow still present. I sat up from the bed and walked over to the window. I tugged with all my might but it didn’t budge.

What can I do… the tablet!

I moved back towards the bed, hand outstretched to retrieve the remote. I picked it up and lowered my arm in my lobbed throw position. I would’ve thrown it at the window, had I not heard a knock at the door.

Panic surged through me as I dashed back to the bed. I hastily threw the covers over myself and waited.

“Hello, Nathan”, called a husky voice. “Are you awake?”

“Yes”, I whimpered quietly.

“May I come in”, asked the voice.

“Mm hmm”, I mumbled timidly.

The brass door knob rattled as the ‘intruder’ unlocked the door. The door swung open with a loud creak as a man strolled in.

Ari Canale | The Awakening

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The man was probably eighty, possibly ninety. You wouldn’t know it from the way he moved. He was as agile as any young adult and his stance was tall and proud. He picked up the metallic stool with ease and placed it next to the bed.

The man sat down with a loud sigh and looked me in the eyes.

“How do you feel?” He asked soothingly.

I slowly crawled out from under the covers and looked at him for the first time.

Olive skin, wiry hair… old… human. Familiar, good.

“Are you okay?” He continued, his tone rising near the end.

“Mm hmm”, I squeaked.

“How do you feel?” He asked again. “I’m not sure whether the stimulants cause pain.

I stared at him blankly, as if he’d spoken a foreign language. I tilted my head slightly and creased my brows.

“Sorry Nathan”, he said, waving his hands in negating gestures. “Don’t listen to my medical mumbo jumbo”.

Speaks English, but uses strange words. Does not know my name.

“Stimulants?” I repeated, confused. “Also my name isn’t Nathan”.

The man pulled a clipboard from his coat and began taking notes.

So Nathan has Amnesia, not surprising considering how long he was left in the ice. Low temperatures can cause serious brain damage.

“What is your name then”, questioned the doctor. “Or whatever you want me to call you”.

Now feeling a little more comfortable around the man, I decided there was no harm in answering his question.

“My name is Xavier”, I mumbled. “Call me that”.

“Okay Xavier, may I ask another question?”

I nodded slowly.

“Do you remember anything that happened before you woke up in bed?” Asked the doctor. “It’s fine to tell me. I can keep secrets”.

Telling him I remember screams might be a bad idea. Then again, I have nothing to lose.

“I may have been dreaming, but I remember people around me screaming. I remember a powerful wind and a loud splash”.

So he partly remembers the plane crash. Does he remember his parents? I should tell him they’re okay.

“Do you remember anything else?” Continued the doctor.

Ari Canale | The Awakening

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“No”, I squeaked.

In truth, that was all I could remember.

Should I fill in the gaps… no, that would worry him. Best to show him the bright side first.

“I’m going to call some people in”, announced the doctor. “Is that okay Xavier”?

I shrugged subtly.

“You can come in now”, said the doctor, his voice echoing around the room.

The door knob rattled as two blurry figures appeared through the door’s window.

The door swung open with another loud creak as the people rushed in.

They look kind of strange. Are they okay?

The middle-age looking parents stared at me for what seemed like an hour, expressions of joy, yet with traces of sadness evident. The father, a tall and broad shouldered man, seemed a little less emotional than the mother. Actually, he didn’t display much emotion at all. His body was slouched and his clothes scruffy. His face had an absent look on it and his eyes seemed lifeless. The mother, the shorter of the two, wore a dark grey sweater and bulky work pants.

I could see her face would appear gentle under normal circumstances, however now, around her eyes, were deep sunken rings - the hallmark of recent tears.

Her cheeks were sallow and her neck thin, perhaps from diet or simple lack of food. After rubbing her eyes countless times, she finally spoke.

“N-a-than”, she rasped. “Is-s-s that-t y-you?”

That was all she managed before she burst into tears. The father wrapped her in his arms and swayed gently.

Why are they so sad?

I turned my head excessively slowly to look the doctor in the eye. My face had a blank expression while I cocked my head to the side.

“Who are those people?” I asked bluntly. “Are they doctors too?” I asked matterof-factly.

The mother flinched at my words as her tears streamed faster than ever. The father’s absent look was replaced by a look of anguish and despair. Tears began to fall from his face too. Even the doctor seemed hurt by my blunt reaction.

Amnesiac. It seems his entire memory is gone. It could take decades to retrieve his lost memories, at minimum. I should tell his parents.

“Mr and Mrs Kunandra, can I talk to you for a second”, instructed the doctor.

The father answered with a brief nod as the doctor led them out of the room.

Ari Canale | The Awakening

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I sat there on the bed, trying to comprehend what had just happened.

Who were they? Did I hurt them? Am I bad?

I could hear loud shouting downstairs, likely coming from Nathan’s parents.

Who am I, why am I here?

I fell back onto the bed, confused, stressed and anxious. I turned over on my front and began to sob. I let my tears stream out, the liquid gathering on the pillow and pooling on the floor below. I could hear the quiet sound of the droplets falling to the ground. After a few minutes, my tears stopped.

I need to find out why I’m here. I’ll ask the doctor when he comes back. Yes, that’s a good idea.

I turned over again and sat back up. I wiped the water from my eyes and waited.

A few minutes passed, the shouting downstairs stopped abruptly. Ten minutes went by, the windows’ orange glow faded. An hour later, I was still sitting on my bed, but my stress was resurfacing.

Have I been left here?

My heart thumped in my chest.

Am I trapped?

The room’s walls seemed to grow and converge above me.

I’m a prisoner… No. The doctor’s just explaining the situation to those people.

Yes, that makes sense.

As these thoughts left my head, my heart stopped. My stomach lurched and the orange glow seemed to completely disappear.

No, it wouldn’t take that long. It shouldn’t… I need to get out of here, soon…

Now! I sprung up from the bed and prepared to bounce onto the floor. I stopped.

No, I have to be quiet. If I heard them before, they’ll hear me now. I have to move carefully.

I slowly placed a foot on the rough floor, then the other foot. I carefully transferred my weight to my feet, briefly freezing to listen downstairs. Silence.

Good, I’m undetected.

I crept over to the only door in the room. As I turned the handle, a resonating creak echoed throughout the room. I flinched in fright, still gripping the metallic knob. I waited, dreading the expected shouts and running that should’ve followed. Nothing, no footsteps, no audible conversations.

Ari Canale | The Awakening

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These guys must be deaf.

I continued turning the handle, with much more care than before. Having learnt my lesson, with infinite care, I pulled the door open.

No creaks, good. Relief flooded over me.

I peered outside, gazing along the long corridor I was about to enter. The style was similar to the bedroom. A rough grey floor, pinkish walls and a dark grey ceiling. The only difference to the structure were the windows, or lack of. The windows’ absence made the whole corridor seem very plain and bold.

Seems normal-ish, wait, where are the doors?

Looking back into the room I’d been in, it appeared to be the only of its kind. The hallway truly was a barren place. It was also very long, seeming to stretch as I began my trek along it. The bright overhead lights seemed more like tiny suns, their combined energy radiating their intense heat downwards.

Goooood God! How long is this thing? Am I going in a circle?

I glanced behind me, searching for even the slightest curve in the walls. I found none.

No, I would’ve passed the door by now… unless it disappeared.

I slapped my forehead, checking if I felt pain. I did.

Not a dream, sorcery isn’t real.

Ari Canale | The Awakening

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Graphic produced by Sean Liu

DUCKLINGS Jamie Garnham, Y01

a boy with little half legs his eyes shine hazel-brown

in his place a different boy not a man but twice his size

his mouth sings goo’s and ga’s not yet taught how to frown

his face a sullen hollowness i barely recognise

his fingers wrapped round dad’s his hair in golden spirals

his hands a little harder hair brown no hint of blonde

he runs behind the ducklings he giggles and mum smiles

i close my eyes and say goodbye to my reflection in the pond

i see him reach his hand out to touch the surface when a seed falls the pond ripples the little boy gone again

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Graphic by Sean Liu, based on photo by Jessica Delp

THE DIARY OF AN ESPECIALLY AVERAGE HUMAN

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Elliot Fry, Y8

March 3rd, 2020 - EARTH

My 8th birthday is in 3 days by Father says I cannot meet my friends because of the big cold. Grandmother has started to get a cough, but I still can’t visit her because Father says I mustn’t leave the house.

Mother and Father won’t stop fighting, I just want this to be over.

February 26th, 2033 - EARTH

I feel alone. Last month I missed the rent on my small flat. I would ask someone for help if I had anyone. With Grandmother dead since the Pandemic of the ‘20s and my parents long divorced and disappeared, my life has been reduced to an endless cycle of scraping my pockets for rent, mindlessly droning through Tafe and watching the news in hope of something interesting.

March 12th, 2041 - EARTH

How lucky I was years ago when the turn of a new decade meant something. I found out today that I am now 29. Another uncelebrated year. I am almost 30 and still have no connections, no one to reach out to. The one lonely man I knew was sent off to fight in these ever-present wars. They should send me out, at least my life would be somewhat productive then. I simply cannot picture myself fighting wars for unseen powers, fighting other people from other families and other communities, all with one common factor, our moral dwindling like the small tides of our now uninhabitable seas.

February 28th, 2050 - EARTH

I went to the ocean last Wednesday. I saw peaks and valleys of plastic, with the

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few dozen thousand fish lurking in the depths of the great seas, barely surviving under the thick film of oil polluting the surface. So called ‘Experts’ claim that the entire Earth will soon be completely uninhabitable, like the barren wastes of north Africa. However, there seems to be a persistent doubt in the collective consciousness. We ponder that maybe, just maybe, we can spend the final dregs of our lifetime living in the last sliver of peace left on Earth. Living the utopian life of our ignorant ancestors.

March 1st, 2060 - IN ORBIT ABOVE EARTH

Earth has been abandoned. I am now soaring above its blackened crust, reminiscing on my sad lonely home, way down there, in what they now call the ‘Black Zone’. No soul is ever allowed in the ‘Black Zone’ anymore, “too dangerous!” they say. My childhood home is now too dangerous for a 58-year-old man to go mourn his childhood.

Soon we will be on track to Mars, to attempt a colonisation. What is left of humanity knows it is just an attempt. They call it a ‘New horizon’, but we all know it’s just grasping at straws.

A new planet, a new life. What more can we do than flee our mistakes?

March 10th, 2072 - MARS

I’m old. Life on Mars has been a struggle for us all, but doctors say that although I am only 60, I don’t have much left in me from all the trauma. The scientists say Earth may be habitable soon, maybe the families of the future can enjoy the life we never got.

March 7th, 2080 - EARTH

The first seed has been planted.

My life as I know it is coming to an end, yet, in all I have been through at least I can find a sliver of hope and consolation in the knowledge that the families of the future can live in peace again. Humanity in itself is flawed. We may have fled our past mistakes, but all I know now is that somehow, there’s still hope.

In our flawed and imperfect lives, we can still help each other, and now that we have finally worked together… We have saved us from ourselves.

Elliot Fry | The Diary of an Especially Average Human

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Graphic produced by Sean Liu

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ABANDONED Marcus Liew, Y8

Author’s Notes: This is the revival of child abandonment. In Sparta, male children not fit for the brutal life ahead of them were abandoned and left to die. Imagine if our modern world did this exact same thing…

As dusk began to settle on the deep forest, a single car sped down the gravel path.

Two boys, no older than 11, stared past the thick trees and out to the beautiful orange sky.

“Where are we going daddy?”, asked a skinny boy.

“I told you Ludwig, we’re going camping. Now shut it boy. I don’t want another word”, replied an irritated balding man.

“Well where’s our stuff?”, continued the second, rounder boy.

The man kept silent as clouds began to darken and rumble, hiding what was left of the light. The group finally came to a halt and stepped out into the chilling night.

“Alright, here will do.”, the balding man muttered, more to himself than his sons. “Ludwig and Barry, go get some firewood and I’ll prepare dinner. You might have to wander quite far into the woods to get some good pieces but you’ll be fine.”

Without another word, the two boys treaded into the forest. Following their father’s instructions, they chatted nervously with only the light of the moon helping them see.

“We should turn back now. I think we’ve got enough.” Barry whimpered holding a single stick. “Besides I don-” But before he could complain anymore, the sound of a car roared in the distance and a faint light could also be made out. Confused, the boys jogged back towards their car but it seemed as if it was driving away. It was.

Distressed, Barry and Ludwig came to a halt at where their car should have been. There was no car, no dinner, no Dad. “Ummm… he probably just forgot something and went to go get it.”, Ludwig assured. “We’ll wait here and… he’ll come.”

Both were in shock. Why had their dad left? With nothing else to do, they sat down on the damp soil and waited.

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“I’m scared.”, Barry whispered as a ghostly silence washed over the place.

Ludwig couldn’t respond. It was if something had locked his mouth shut in anxiety. Minutes turned into hours and no Dad came into sight. They held each other’s hand, crying and calling for someone to appear. But no one did.

After a day of silence, hunger and thirst took over their minds. Swallowing saliva only made them crave water. Crave any drop. Finally, Ludwig got to his feet unsteadily.

“Let’s go.”, Ludwig said weakly. “We have to go.”

Without any complaint, Barry also stood and the two stumbled through the forest, lit only by the moon. After hours on end, Ludwig heard the faint sound of water trickling. Ludwig started a run, heart pumping faster, while dragging his brother through the thick bushes. They collapsed out of the trees and tumbled down a rocky slope. But Ludwig didn’t care about the bruises or scratches when water was so close by. He excitedly arched his head up with hope. Nothing.

He could no longer hear the fresh running water or the beat of his heart. The ghostly silence plagued the land once again, as the boys stared at nothing more than land covered by rocks.

“Maybe it will rain here soon.” Ludwig thought hopelessly.

Barry grunted, picking up a stone and throwing it pathetically, landing only a few meters away. Barry dropped and curled up on the rough rocks, exhausted.

Ludwig attempted to pull him up but collapsed right next to his brother. This was it. What had he done wrong? What had he done to deserve this? His father was out there somewhere and yet he didn’t come back. Anger began to course through Ludwig. But slowly, Ludwig’s thoughts started to blur. They became fainter and fainter every second. Ludwig made one final effort to hold his brother’s hand, before a warm blanket was wrapped around him and carried him off towards the beautiful moon-lit sky.

Marcus Liew | Abandoned

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Photograph by Brandon Lee, (left) Matthew Chan, (right) Haotian Huang

“

Much have I travell’d in the realms of gold, And many goodly states and kingdoms seen; Round many western islands have I been Which bards in fealty to Apollo hold.

Oft of one wide expanse had I been told That deep-brow’d Homer ruled as his demesne; Yet did I never breathe its pure serene

”

- John Keats

2020 Editors Matthew Chan, Haotian Huang

Designer Sean Liu

Special thanks to Mrs Renieris, Mr Allen, Dr Hicks, Ms Dolling, and the other Development Office staff for their contributions to the competition Many thanks to all those who contributed this year, and congratulations to those who were published.

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