Elm '17

2 Zoe Harris Creative Response 3 Jack Condon Creative Response 4 Chamiska Isaacs Reflective Essay 6 Eliza Vinci Creative Response 8 Grace Brady Creative Response 9 Eloise Moya Creative Response 11 Jaahnavi Cheyyur Creative Response 13 Anastasia Hendrawan Poetry 13 Annelise Meerton Poetry 13 Imogen Reed Poetry 13 James Zuvela Poetry 16 Julia Ly Short Story 18 Kaitlin LeRoux Literary Reflection 21 Maddison Gill Poetry 21 Olivia Cheong Poetry 21 Jordyn Grobler Poetry 21 Eric Babu Poetry

22 Kaylee Cranley Creative Response 23 Ben Harper Poetry 23 Joseph Merendino Poetry 23 Anissa Mamedev Poetry 23 Sebastian Bevacqua Poetry 23 Kane Mallet Baxter Poetry 24 Valentina Castro Suarez Short Story 26 Xueting Shang Poetry 27 Alyssa Coelho Poetry 27 Caitlin Silas Poetry 27 Chelsea Ford Poetry 27 Maddie Pollard Poetry 27 Ziyi Zengz Poetry 28 Crystal Mahilum Poetry 28 Esther Maloba Poetry 28 Grace Loh Poetry

FRONT COVER Xueting Shang EDITOR Amy Morris DESIGN Timothy Excell OUR SPECIAL TEACHERS Jenae Camp, Martin Dickson, Lynette Field, Marianna Fisher, Ryan Gaynor, Donna Gratton, Christina Howard, Emma Jermy, Mirjana Lagator, Sara Middleton, Dableyn Ng and Tom Ryan

WHO FOSTER THE CREATIVE TALENTS OF OUR STUDENTS IN ENGLISH AND ITALIAN

CREATIVE RESPONSE

SKULDUGGERY PLEASANT

The rain was pouring down, and the street bustled by. The moon shone a magnificent silver that shone through the many buildings in the city, my storm blue eyes wandered down the street, trying to find a familiar face in the sea of people. My heart was pounding in my chest as worry engulfed me, I knew this was a stupid idea if anything happened- I was cut off short by the loud sound of sirens blaring past the gloomy street, by then I knew something was wrong. As I looked up into the night sky I could see from a distance the thick grey smoke had begun bubbling into the night sky and by then I knew something was wrong. I took off running my eyes darting across the street, my legs soon began to burn and my lungs started to collapse begging me for a break but I kept going, my raven black hair flowing in the cold night air as my storm blue eyes shone with determination.

After what felt like hours I reached my destination, to find a building that held so much importance was burning. The devilish flames danced as people tried to extinguish the flames but to no avail, the crimson flames greedily engulfed the building before devouring everything in its path. My heart stopped the flames continued to dance and

the waves of the intoxicating heat burned on, the fire crackled as if laughing at the scene it has caused. Without thinking for a second I ran into the building that slowly burnt to a crisp, the voices behind me yelling as I continued to run faster and faster with each step I took. As I got into the building the heat was intoxicating, I coughed and coughed and my vision started to blur.

But I continued on, I desperately clung to the wall trying to find the entrance to the sanctuary. I soon found the entrance and by then the flames were worse, tears were in my blue eyes and I continued to cough as my lungs begged for mercy. With a flick of my pale wrist the wall collapsed and I muttered a quick spell that would keep the flames that continued to roar at bay, before running inside to the sanctuary.

There I ran into a room where the three elders; Eachan Meritorious, Sagacious Tome and Morwenna Crow, we’re standing with a man I did not recognise were shooting spells and enchantments at a man with dark hair and eyes that could make even death cower in fear, he wore a suit as black as night and his eyes held anger. I knew who this was for this man was one of the darkest elementals the world has ever laid their eyes upon this man that had killed for the fun of it, was Mevolent. With 2

a twist of my wrist a flame rises up in the palm of my snow-white skin and shot it towards Mevolent, Mevolent not seeing me stumbled back a bit when the flame hit him but quickly recovered non-the less. I rushed at Mevolent anger clouding my vision, just as I was about to slash at him with a knife he sidestepped to the right. My blade narrowly missing him, turned and side kicked him.

Before I could throw another attack at Mevolent he swiftly punched me in the face knocking the wind out of me in doing so, just as he about land to another punch I ducked and slashed his arm with my blade he winced and clutched his arm as he sends me a death glare. I kick him in the knee and he staggers back glaring at me “This isn’t over! I will win this war!” Melvolent yelled as he slowly disappeared “Why can’t villains accept defeat?” a voice said, I turned to see the man in the trench coat.

He had chestnut brown hair and greenish blue eyes.

“Well now that that’s over my name is Skulduggery Pleasant” he said giving me a warm smile, little did I know that one sentence would change my life forever.

Zoe Harris :: Yr 7

CREATIVE RESPONSE My heart sinks with the metal door in front of me. It collides with the weathered mahogany frame, and I’m sent back a few years for a moment. I have been exiled. Expelled from my own sanctum, and this only settles in my mind when I haul myself out of lost thought. I’ve been kicked out of my home for the second time now, and my instinct senses the upsurge from the first instance.

My mind is erased momentarily.

But it has learned to digest such a situation by now, and it hits me.

I know that He is not home. He who is the cause of this series of events, and He who has damaged my fragile mother beyond repair.

My weathered leather backpack finds its way onto my shoulder. I close my eyes and breathe deeply.

And I know where He is.

I stride away from the house, into the south street. My mind wanders and my feet find a rhythm. I know exactly where I’m going, and I know exactly how to get there. My thoughts twist and turn, and tangle themselves in dirty, convoluted webs. The spider favours a single strand and I cannot pull myself from replaying that scene, from just 5 minutes ago, over and over in my head. Like no man’s land.

My mother’s words had hit me

MASS MISTREATMENT like a rock today. Straight to the spine, and left me paraplegic. I find it funny how she let it slip.

She’d inadvertently mentioned the true cause of her disfigured and discoloured eye, and our three eyes locked for a painful moment. It was so unexpected for the both of us. The elephant in the room was finally butchered.

The mass mistreatment exposed.

Exhibited now. Loud, unintelligible yelling emerged from the painful silence, but didn’t aid the awkward feeling that lingered heedlessly in the dusty air.

I felt truly isolated.

I know what is to be done when I reach my terminus. The boulder in my chest rattles every time my mind sways through that thought.

It’s sickening and comforting, dirty and cleansing, rotten, but a fresh start. I manage to distract myself while my feet are working forwards. The trees on this backstreet stretch high, and sit on thick roots. That’s inspiring isn’t it? Thick roots shoot high. Hmph.

The shrubbery at the summit veils the overcast sky, but drops of rain begin to seep through and crash gently onto the asphalt beneath my feet. The weather really picks up as I cross over into a nearby bushland. It’s a lesser known shortcut. I feel like I’m hacking through the dense African jungle with a machete, as I push away branches of the Australian eucalyptus. There’s a true storm brewing now, it saturates the air like it saturates my mind. The fury dug it’s way back into my heart 3

now, and only the soft patter of the bullet rain melting the soil calms my mind.

I abandon the bushland shortcut, and find myself positioned before a long stretch of bitumen, with scattered trees and little traffic. My journey up the barren boulevard feels like a quick one. The dry air attacks my throat, but somehow I feel at peace. I feel like everything will soon be resolved, and I can move away from this dirty town at the centre of the earth and build a life for myself. My left turn into a big empty car park gets my blood pumping. A small service station sits right in the middle of this void space, and three cars hug each other, parked to the right of it.

The rain has now come to a halt at the closing of my journey and I know that He is here. My leather bag slips off my shoulder and falls into my left hand. A glare down at a gap in the zip of my bag sends me a glimmer of light from the rusty hatchet that rests there.

There’s something poetic about that I think. My thoughts fall. The peace of my mind is broken, and the storm brews up again. The fury is back.

Here goes nothing.

Jack Condon :: Yr 11

REFLECTIVE ESSAY

MAN IS WHAT HE BELIEVES

Essay by Aleksandr Ignatyevich Vershinin on the Philosophical Aspects of Life The cycle of life is a fascinating continuum. From the time one is born, they’ve been gifted with all the hopes and aspirations the world could offer. However, as humanity continues living, breathing and existing, these God-given powers rapidly diminish. The climax of this depletion, as we know, is death which can lead one to ponder on the question, ‘Why live when we are going to die anyway?’. Whilst most believe that the answer to this question is hidden in the cosmos, the sanctuary of our Creator, it may just as well be said that each and every life has a hidden card, only dealt by the hand of God. Our entire lives, our mind, body and soul continuously revolve around these mysteries of the universe where purpose, knowledge and meaning are unknown. This uncertainty and pure bliss in oblivion are what both makes up every fibre of our being, but also deceives us into thinking that man himself, can prove to go beyond what was already predestined for him.

In spite of this, mankind has been equipped with the tools to change the course of the life giv-

en to him. A level of intellect and reason, faith in the supernatural and love, lead mankind on the frightening yet alluring path to ultimate happiness and sublimity.

Inevitably, the power to create change is what permits man to become what he believes.

Inevitably, this power lies in the hands of mother Russia in the 20th century.

Man’s inability to remain stagnant in this forever- changing world has paved a path of social and spiritual progression. The social change permeates Russia and the world society, as the time has come to introduce equality, freedom and brotherhood.

Rooted in the desire to translate the infinite to the finite, life has become a messenger of the heart, unlocking the key to all that is possible and impossible.

This state of lucid dreaming is masked by silence. The silence, inexplicable yet comforting, carries one’s heart through each day and night and is where courage to escape is found. Only when courage through intrinsic motivation and belief is achieved, silence no longer becomes mute to the world. Rather, it stores the power to voice what the heart yearns, once too afraid to cry 4

out. This silence does more than mask the pains of a dulled heart, but casts a shadow for where all things good in the world can steer clear, keeping those precious on the path of light and the path of life. The few that are able to recognise this are the ones who channel their energies to help others to see the bright light of change. A light that is so entrancing and captivating, merges reality with fantasy, making the impossible seem possible and in such a state is where man should aim to be.

Once change begins, regressing to the former means of life seems further and further away. Life in its simplest form isn’t absorbed by the mundaneness of man’s trivial pursuits, but is engaged in ultimate happiness with its ultimate purpose being to seek the unimaginable. To idle in this world is a ticket to immortal regret and thus, preparation for uncertainty is vital for survival.

Who knows how far the human race will go, with generations upon generations all lining up in the stars for a chance to prove their worthiness of a more deserving life in a greater world.

However, to open the gates of the stars, one must first believe that life in the stars exists.

The very gift of life is one that goes beyond the ability of words to manifest its grand nature. Not limited to mere bone and tissue, man has been gifted with various abilities and talents that can be used to be tools of social change to channel all that is love into the darkness of the world. Love, a celestial body which envelopes man, is unseen and supernatural.

To believe in what one sees is superficial, but to believe in what is invisible is real commitment, devotion and self-sacrifice. What one does not see in this third dimension of living is like looking through the lens of a microscope, only man is not the seeker, but the sought. Sought through the active force of God, we are destined to form a path that follows the beam of light.

Nonetheless, a path doesn’t simply exist for us to walk on, but must first be made by toiling the very grounds it wishes to change.

Fortunately for current society, God has graced man with conscience, a moral compass which enables us to navigate the seas of moral ambiguity and confusion. Gifts, talents and self-determination are all interwoven in our existence, aiding us on our journey to pure euphoria. Unfortunately, some will not experience this evolution being content and humble as happiness is like a continuous monochromic haze, one minute it is there, the next, it disappears.

Even at the point in time where society believes it has come close to understanding the networks of the universe, man at that time will still believe that humanity is yet to reach the epitome of social progression. In the meantime, the world will change and the only person that can account for this change is God Himself. Every complex of love and sacrifice

woven into the constellations of the universe exist at the work of His hand, the hand which has the same power to restart His project, if a need ever arises.

Everyday, our eyes are subconsciously glazed with awe at His creative forces, as mankind is a product of His Grand Plan. Life, no matter whether one agrees or not, is predetermined, premeditated and preordained.

Overall control is never in our power, as we fall prey to the inferior and primitive nature of humankind. The finite cannot exist without the infinite, a culmination of everything that has existed and is yet to exist.

Thus in essence, when one has faith, only then will they truly live.

The ability to reason is what allows the human mind to tap into the realm of physical awareness and metaphysical consciousness. That reason is exactly what makes the scientific quest of man possible, and opposed to faith, enables us to observe the world around us realistically and objectively as it is. A life without reason is similar to that of a beggar, diminished to the rations given on the whim of greater knowledge. In a world which torments us for following the winds of change, it is left up to the individual to discern right from wrong in their lives. In this case, suppression of detrimental desires is essential to survive.

The ability to reason also entails the opportunity to decipher what it means to live, which current circumstances show, is to suffer.

Suffering has rippled through human history, staining the idyllic paradise into a perilous abyss filled with grief, anger and hatred.

The inevitability of this suffering plays the same note as change where nothing which once was, 5

will still be. It is an individual’s duty to understand that the world doesn’t revolve around the ideals of justice, peace and harmony just because it wants to, but continues on the same journey, because it has not reached its destination. The more a person becomes aware of this journey, the more enabled they will become to redirect the anguish to a greater belief in the works to come. This belief will overpower the uncertainty which plagues our hearts, empowering one to focus on love and work towards its embrace.

Love, in its own right, entails work and work manifests the desires to be loved. No wonder that the greatest European minds (such as Dr. Sigmund Freud) have realised the importance of love and work for one’s happiness. Truth be told people fall in the midst of the two, limiting their lives to the moral dilemma embedded in the imperfection of man. Never running thin, love seeks to be captured in the hands of all who pursue it, fuelling a primitive desire to belong and fill a void with purpose. Acting as an unbreakable thread, love works by stringing heart to heart, forming the beautiful tapestry that is life. No one who is alive can truly live without a glimpse of love as man’s innate dependence on seeking what is pure and innocent in its very essence, is love in its simplest form. Love, a perennial stream, flows into the oceans of hope, justice and harmony, pushing the tides of evolution to the foreshore of man’s mind. Love has the power to mend, create, redirect and nurture the course of any life, and whilst true love may be

Continued...

All too often, love is used as a label to characterise the driving force which urges man to procreate, yet, to diminish love to such a primitive state is cruel to man himself. Love isn’t just a mere rush of chemicals in the brain, but is as transcendental as time itself, which binds man to himself and man to God. Ultimately, if it weren’t for love, the masterpiece of life itself would never have been created.

In this misty-eyed universe, one must clear the fog and diverge the clouds that rest on our chilled hearts. However, like most things in life, that is easier said than done. The chilled heart which crystallises the eyes, scatters all judgement and moral inhibition, yearning to be defrosted by the passionate fire of change that comes with the ignition of a sparked heart. Fuelled by the God-given levels of intellect and reason, faith in the supernatural and love, it only becomes a matter of time before the heart will combust into an inferno of liberation. However the heart can only be struck alight if it first believes it is the flame.

As the great Tolstoy simply put, “If you want to be happy, be,” and it all begins with three simple words: Learn.

Love.

Live.

Chamishka Isaacs :: Yr 12

CREATIVE RESPONSE

unreachable at times, it will never fail to prevail in times of when it is needed. What man suffers from most, is a lack of belief in this power of love.

DEADLY RAIN

Keeza’s skin seeks warmth from mine, clinging onto me like a new born koala.

Nugla Mia, our place they call it. Settled alongside the Bungle Bungles, where the vast sunbaked land scattered with boab trees, feels home to the Kija People and its welcomed visitors. Where one meets another. Where they learn from each other. Both finding peace within the Kimberley. The wet season feeds the parched land but it’s not so dehydrated this year. Leaving downpour in the streets community, demolishing everything in its way.

Dream time.

The only place where rain is safe.

I feel her small fingers grip my hips, tightening as the morning wind rushes through the spiked hairs on those fragile but energetic limbs. The sun awakening and warming up to twenty-seven degrees. Bare feet, dry skin and dirty school uniforms that have faded from a bright yellow to a mustard from the sweltering sun. But these kids still had smiles on their faces like the most privileged.

“Why are you so cold Keeza? I’m getting sunburnt out here!”

Keeza fights to laugh but her chattering teeth will not allow it.

“Miss it’s winter, this is cold you ain’t from here ay?”

I definitely wasn’t from here. I was from Perth, with assignments waiting for me at school, homework piling up... stress bli nding me from what I really should be appreciating.

My eyes drag my attention on large shadows circling slowly on the grassed school oval. I look up and my eyes lock onto the low flying wedge-tail eagles. Gliding like great beasts coming closer and closer. It’s like I’m their prey.

I’m much plumper than all of the other children here. I’m a great source of proteins and fats, that will last those eagles a few days.

[Note to self; begin notes for physical education, of different food sources. Test week 4.]

Happy.

Content with their lives.

I blink, try to lose focus on the enormous birds and appreciate what’s around me. Nature, beautiful people. The beauty; so invigorating. So I cling back on Keeza reciprocating her shivering grin.

Warmun was a welcoming community, 3000 kilometres far away from home. But whilst I’m in a different territory I still feel at home, close with the people and land like I’ve never seen before.

The winter weather brings hot winds and floods of rain frightening Ma. It was our first day of school for me and sis yesterday. It was rainin’. Pouring it’s little ass down on us. Our toes

6

painted orange from the wet sand we walked on. The colour of it reminds me of Nans new piece of art. Shows the white people being smoked, by the sunset to be welcomed to our land. I wanna paint like Nan... There’s new white fellas at school now.

They’re older. They’re nice.

Bloody scared of the birds though. Today it’s chilly. This cold weather scares us locals. Rain here is vicious and fights aggressively. Crushin’ down our houses and everythin’. Ma is worried, the sky is black today and there are crows cryin’ in chaos. Not a good sign.

The sun has gone shy, hiding itself behind the storm clouds. I feel a tug on my shirt and my collar goes tight around my neck snapping my head down to see Keeza staring at me.

“Miss, where ya from? Does it rain like it does here?”

“I’m not too sure K but I bet Turkey Creek could easily win that competition.” I replied back.

“Wasn’t there a flood two years ago up here. Knocked everything out?” I questioned the 11 year old.

“Yeah miss we lost our school dog. Skitch was his name.

Everyone loved him, but he disappeared when the flood came”.

Keeza gasped and wiped her forehead. I was going to ask why but then I felt it. Not only the drops of rain hitting my cheeks but Keeza’s worry. She’s tense and I see her jaw clench. “Come on, let’s get out of this rain.”

Miss and I run up the green grassed hill to sit on the covered veranda escaping the djart. I dun’ like it. Scares me. I remember the look of the clouds that day. The day we lost skitch. I drew em.

Today feels different... The same

feeling when one of our elders pass. Murky and cold. Reachin for my pocket I grab the small, shrivelled drawings of the clouds, I held it up to the sky..”Aahh balay!” Looks the same as two years ago. Evil and dangerous.

The rain is heavier. Falling straight down like tin soldiers. The children’s eyes around me are wide filled with panic and their breathing is becoming heavier, loud enough for me to hear their distress. Puddles begin to form on the oval below us creating a perfect mud pit that any child would love. But not these kids. How bad was this flood? Where were they when it happened? Their family members could’ve of been hurt....

And everyone is family here..

God, I hope they were safe at the time.

“You’ll be okay Kee..”

I look down beside me where Keeza was just standing. She’s gone. Disappeared.

“Shit.” I whisper to myself. I know she isn’t safe... She had that look on her face that something was about to go wrong.

I look out across the oval to search for her somewhere, but on my right a see a strange body climbing up the old eucalyptus tree so fast like the ground is poison.

“Keeza! What are you doing?

You’ll hurt yourself!”

I force my legs in her direction but she climbs higher and higher.

Closer to the clouds but further away where the flood begins.

Rain covers her body from head to toe but I know she’s crying from her puffy cheeks and irritated eyes.

“K, please come down, we will be safe I promise!” I shout below her.

Keeza looks down at me. I’ve never seen so much hurt. So much pain in a child’s eyes. I’ve never seen someone so scared 7

of something that keeps us alive.

Maybe it’s a killer in her eyes.

[Note to self; begin research for human bio of biggest killers in Australia including heart disease.

Test week 5.]

Bloody hell that’s not important right now. Shit, do I call a teacher? I’ve never had to get a child out of tree before. I hate climbing trees. I’d always get splinters if I tried. I think I nearly fell out of one before, maybe that’s why. Can I ask Keeza how she did it so easily? Nah, that would be rude. She’s still crying and shouting. How do I do this!

“Alliwa! Alliwa!” She shouts to her peers. She’s warning them but frightening them even more.

“Keeza! Please come down, it’s just a heavy pour, nothing serious! I can feel it softening up can’t you?”

I turn around to the other children and they nod their heads agreeing with me. Keeza’s eyes hop from me to the others trying to find any source of reassurance.

Suddenly the rain stops.

Her sulking, wet body stops convulsing from hiccups and her tears disappear. She edges her body slowly off the tree branch to reach the one below.

“I’m here for you” I reassure her.

She jumps. From a height so high that it sends us both tumbling onto the muddy ground.

She’s safe. I’m safe.

Her arms tighten around my waist and she curls her small frame into mine.

“You’re okay,” I whisper to her as I hug her back with the same intensity to comfort her.

Thankful that she trusts me.

The white girl who is a stranger.

She trusts me.

Eliza Vinci :: Yr 12

CREATIVE RESPONSE If I’d known then what I know now, I never would have stayed quiet. I wouldn’t have felt this much guilt if it wasn’t for them.

But I accepted because I thought they were innocent. I guess I was just naive.

It was always sunny in Florida.

Especially on that day. I walked down the long, crowded hall, bumping into people as I wandered past. Just like any other day. I headed for the cafeteria, though most people headed for the two big double doors at the other end of the hall. Outside, the white clouds filled the bright blue sky. There were birds having conversations in the trees. Most students gathered their friends and waltzed out those doors. But not me. No. I just took my lonesome little self to a lonely little table, and sat. A few people strolled past me and gave me some looks, others said some things I’d rather not recall. But I was used to it, it happened everyday. Something I would like to recall though. Seeing Jayden Sanford, quarterback of the football team, stride past me every lunch, beautiful blonde locks flowing across his face. He approached his friends, who were also on the football team. They fist-bumped

I’M NOT WHO YOU THINK I AM each other, as they always did.

But then I overheard something.

It didn’t seem so shocking to me, but they were all pretty alarmed.

Aaron, the loudest guy on the team, was being pretty quiet. They all noticed, so they asked what was up with him. “Well, it’s probably nothing. But, I don’t know, Gaz hasn’t been here for a few days, and he’s always here. He’s also not picking up my calls or answering my texts. I guess I’m just worried.” Jayden turned away, a guilty look spread across his face. He saw me looking at him. We locked eyes, and he gave me a deep stare. That’s when I carefully studied his face. He looked like hell. There were purple bags under his strained eyes. He obviously hadn’t slept for days. I knew he had something to do with Gaz, I could feel it. But I didn’t know why, because he was his best friend.

When Jayden’s friends left, he stood and stared at me, again. His piercing green eyes stared right through my soul. I vividly remember it. His face looked perfect, even though he was shattered. His jaw was beautifully structured, and those eyes, don’t even get me started. But that was just his face, his external features.

His personality? That’s another thing. His deep stare pulled me in, and I couldn’t look away. Then, he walked over to me and sat down.

Me, of all people he could’ve sat with, he chose me. I was skeptical. “Hey. Corinna, right?” I still don’t know how he knew my 8

name. He slid across the bench, and was only a few inches away from me. He looked anxious.

“Um, yeah, hi.” I stuttered. He frowned at me. “I know you heard the conversation, about Gaz,” I looked down at my feet, and wondered why he was involving me in this. “I need your help.”

He looked me dead in the eyes.

“Please, you’re the only one who can help me with this.” He was so desperate, but in that moment, I didn’t even know what he was referring to. I asked him what he meant, and a single tear rolled down his cheek. A few seconds later, another slid down the other side. I didn’t know what to do. I didn’t even know what he’d done.

It became very obvious to me that he had something to do with Gaz. He wiped away his tears, took my hand, and yanked me off the bench. It startled me. He pulled me out of the cafeteria, but it wasn’t forceful. It was gentle.

We walked down an empty hall.

“What’s going on?” I begged. He took a deep breath. “Gaz, he’s,” he swallowed, “he’s dead.”

I was stunned. He grabbed my hand softly, and held it. He started telling me his story. Gaz and Jayden got into a huge argument about the football team. They got impatient with each other, and started fighting.

Physical fighting. Jayden hit Gaz a little too hard, and that’s when he realised. He wasn’t waking up. A few minutes went by. He checked Gaz for a pulse.

Nothing. No response, no sign

There was a news story published a few days ago, “Teenage boy found dead at garbage tip.” The body was uncovered by a group of students visiting from Germany. The police identified the body. Gary Weaver, more commonly known as Gaz. There were no traces of the killer found on the body. No fingerprints, nothing. I knew then I had to come clean about what really happened, even if it meant I had to suffer consequences. I couldn’t live with the guilt. I was on my way down to the police station, when I got a call.

“Hello?”

“Um, hi, it’s Jayden.” I was going to hang up, but I wanted to know what he was going to say. At least I thought I did.

“There’s something I need to tell you. Gaz’s death, it wasn’t an accident.”

Grace Brady :: Yr 10

CREATIVE RESPONSE

of life. I didn’t know what to do in that moment. I asked him what he did, but there was no response. I tried to stay calm, but I could feel the tears that were going to emerge. He told me I was the smartest person he knew, that I should be able to help him with his situation. I couldn’t. I couldn’t help him cover up his best friend’s death. He had to confess. That’s what I told him. But he wouldn’t listen. He couldn’t confess, not now. Imagine what would happen to him, his reputation. He looked into my deep blue eyes, and told me he would work it out himself.

He wouldn’t involve me anymore, as long as I promised not to tell anyone. I wanted to help him, but I just couldn’t be involved.

I thought the only way I could get out of the situation was to make the promise. So I did. And I shouldn’t have.

through the Mist

George sat at his desk and stared out into the misty air outside his window. The dark presence hugged the road and the trees and the buildings with a grey cosiness. He tapped his pen impatiently and looked down, glaring at the paper that lay on his desk. His suburban house and the street on which it was standing was nothing special, deserted most of the time, but to him it was the beginning of the road to freedom. One day he’d drive down that street and never have to return. The paper, which was George’s newest school assignment, untouched and unmarked, seemed to be mocking him from its spot on the desk. He huffed and rose from his chair, giving up on his empty pages. He couldn’t sit any longer. He told his parents, who were enrapt by the current headlines in the evening news, he was going for a walk, and after convincing his mum that going out in the cold wasn’t all that bad, he was off.

Maria was worried about George.

He had been agitated, restless for weeks. It was agony to see her son like he was, and was longing to help him, but he showed no evident signs of needing it. She had heard 9

George’s heavy footsteps trudge on the shiny wooden floorboards before she saw his lanky figure edge into the living area. “Get out the way, son, you’re blocking the news,” was all Gus had to say.

George slowly moved out of the way, while shooting his father a glare, which was promptly ignored.

As soon as George shut the front door and joined the gloom outside he immediately felt the cold bite to the air. The fog closed in on him, his surroundings damp and glistening. George took a deep breath and put one foot in front of the other, aware that he was moving, but clueless as to where his feet were taking him.

Outside, it was calm, peaceful, but inside, his mind was a tempest, storm clouds swirling and rain threatening.

“Are you alright, George,” asked Maria in a low voice, relieved that he was at least out of his room. She had almost burst into a delightful grin when he told her he was going for a walk. “Are you sure you’ll be warm enough, love?” After his attempts at convincing her that he wouldn’t be too cold, she let him go, not because of his good persuasion skills, but because seeing George actively want to leave the house was a rarity. She smiled to herself as she heard the front door being gently closed.

George took a breath that gave his lungs a refreshing burn. He looked to his right, up at the looming clouds, and through the grey, he saw the point of a building poking through, eerily floating like a UFO. But George knew it wasn’t an alien, because this was the building he’d always wanted to visit: the Tyn Church.

He could hear it through the condensed air; the eerie melody of the cimbalom played by a solemn fellow, matching the dense weather. He could smell the warmth of fresh pastries and breads wafting through the air, a contrast to the sharp chill of the air. George gave the gothic structure of the Church a revered stare before turning left at the end of his street.

The news was a bore. Maria had not idea how Gus could comfortably sit and watch the nonsensical babble every single day. Before George was born she had dreamed of travelling with her husband, but she had long since buried that dream and happily settled with a son, who had inherited her excessive day dreaming. “…several attacks on the busy street…authorities are securing the area…suspected terrorism…” Maria stood up and began to prepare dinner, busying herself with something other than current affairs.

George became more comfortable with the chill with every step he took. He was so consumed by his the buildings around him that he was startled by the dong of the ancient clock striking five o’clock. He hadn’t been walking long, but he knew he should be home before the hour was up, to keep his parents from worrying. His feet stopped short when he looked up at the

breathtaking sight before him.

The Charles Bridge had materialised in front of him, its glowing lights guiding him through the fog.

The news presenter announced the five thirty mark just as Maria finished placing the now sizzling pieces of fish into the pan. She was getting fidgety, George had been out a while, and she was worried that the mist would seep through his clothes and make him sick. She knew he could get carried away with his daydreams sometimes, and hoped that he was safe, wherever he was.

George strolled past the garden that his father had spent hours perfecting, feeling more at ease than he had in a long time. The faint sound of the news presenter made him reluctant to walk back inside. He turned around to face the street. He wanted to escape right now, more than anything in the world. After a moment of silent debate, he opened the front door and slowly walked inside. He quickly announced to his parents that he was home before slinking back to his room.

George’s cheeks were bright pink from the cold, and Maria could tell that he had been smiling.

“Did you have a nice walk? It wasn’t too freezing, was it?”

George shook his head, his face growing paler and sterner. Maria wanted to ask what he had been day dreaming about. Where did he travel? What did he see? She knew that was the only thing that caused him to smile these days, and she was glad that he got to escape for a small time.

Once again, George sat down at his desk and looked at the assignment paper. He sighed.

10

Looking up at the picture of Prague, a wide, sweeping panorama of the city from the hills, he felt a sense of longing, and wished that he could one day walk through the cobblestoned streets for real. Instead, he was here, in his ordinary street in his ordinary suburb, agonising over an insignificant school project. A strange determination suddenly settled over him as he stared into the swirling lines and vast colours of his painting. He couldn’t keep wasting his time walking through the mist.

Eloise Moya :: Yr 12

CREATIVE RESPONSE Note to the reader: Some of the elements in this story may be unfamiliar to you, as many mortals cannot grasp the nature of them; it is beyond the scope of human understanding.

For example, the aura is a part of every living thing, inextricably linked to the very soul of the object. The aura is very personal to a soul and has a distinct appearance and odour, unique to an individual. Pay very close attention to the aura; it can reveal many secrets of a human and the lives they live.

One of the most common misconceptions of humanity is their antagonistic portrayal of Death. Not death, the act of dying, but Death, the figure in charge of collecting the souls of humans as they pass into the afterlife. Too often in literature, the character of Death has been constructed as this horrible, sadistic, humourless beast who loves nothing more than to rip people away from their loved ones and drag them into hell.

Why, I have spoken with Death many times and he finds this a tad bit painful; he always has taken care of and guided human souls into the afterlife very considerately, if not lovingly.

Keep this in mind reader, as you read one of his strange

encounters with a very famous character as he traverses the mortal world, in particular London, during the Victorian Era. ___________________________ The cobbled surface of the bystreets vanishes and reappears in the shifting body of fog. Moonlight filters through the thick, stifling air; spots of light illuminate the road in between swirling pools of smog. This calm atmosphere, however, is a lie. The night cloaks London’s indecent, inhumane secrets; witnessed blatantly in the light of day by this uncivilized society, and yet ignored. But who am I to comment on the civility of this culture? I’m THE Death, apparently the most uncivilized, ghoulish, inhumane of them all.

On that comforting note, I gather my cloak around me and move through the shifting fog, scythe in hand.

As I float through the maze of London’s cramped streets in Soho, I reminisce over today’s Gathering. The number of deaths grow exponentially as the days progress, with some gruesome ones occurring only today. I sigh as I lift my palm in the cool night.

An iridescent yellow orb flickers into existence, a miniature sun in my hand. In its depths, images are brought into focus and blur out into the thick opaque center of the human soul. I look despondently into its depths: a newborn baby being placed into the arms of his joyous parents, a little boy running around his countryside farm with his dog, a family on a shared carriage leaving the farm. The images 11

continue to shift; the bright glow of an idyllic countryside fades to a sickly grey - the orb dims slightly in brightness. The boy now traverses London’s streets covered in soot and fluff, grinning happily as he tightly holds on to a single coin: his pay for the week.

The image then shifts to a cotton factory, a gaggle of people huddle around a heap on the ground covered in a bloodied white sheet; the mother of the boy sobs into her husband’s shoulder. I close my palm into a fist and the orb dissipates into thin air.

Humanity. They are a joke. And I was stuck with guiding their souls to the afterlife. I never used to mind my job, until they became so obsessed with money-making and stopped caring about the wellbeing of their entire race. It is understandable when they want to support their loved ones, but the ones with surplus and power must care for those who have nothing. Pointless deaths like this lovely child’s may well be prevented if that was the case.

I sigh again, twirling my scythe as I glide along the damp, cold streets. Good souls with happy endings were hard to come by these days. My scythe hummed in agreement as it lazily swiped through the fog.

Suddenly, erratic footsteps echo down the street. The figure, however, is hidden in the fog: I cannot see them. As it approaches, I feel a rather queer sensation ripple through me, sickening me straight to the core.

I am quite baffled; I have never experienced the repulsion I am feeling currently. My curiosity is

piqued, I quietly approach the advancing figure. It staggers through the fog directly towards me. I grab the hem of my cloak and cover my body; I disappear from mortal view. I tense as the moonlight illuminates the hunched silhouette.

I cannot describe to you the troglodyte that approaches me.

He is small, extremely small for a man his age. He is not old but he is hunched over, as if in pain.

He lets out sporadic grunts and moans; to my eyes, he appears to be a ghastly combination of an ape and a ghoul. I narrow my eyes and study him more closely.

He has two legs, two arms, two eyes, two ears and all the other features of a normal human, but something is off. He is not unlike a devolved human, with what I can only describe as Neanderthal features: thick, coarse eyebrows sit upon a heavy brow and uneven, ogre-like teeth jut out from in between his puffy lips. Of all the humans I have encountered over millennia, I have never come upon a mortal anything like the one before me.

There is no way to describe him other than the fact that he merely does not seem human.

I must know more of the nature of this modern caveman. I twirl my scythe in an intricate pattern, concentrating as thin, charcoal black tendrils of my aura leak out from my weapon; the spicy scent of pepper permeates the air. My aura snakes towards the approaching man and coils around his feet. As the tendrils touch him, his own aura blooms around his body: he is surrounded by a blood-red miasma; the sense of dread inside of me intensifies.

I sniff the air and immediately gag, my eyes watering up. The

air reeks as if this small London street is piled high with rotting corpses, feces and decaying food.

I had only experienced this stench with the worst of the worst: murderers, warmongers, criminals and the like.

This man’s aura, however, is a hundred times stronger and worse. What kind of life must he lead for his soul to be so tainted?

He staggers to the ground and lets out a low growl, clawing at his throat painfully. I move forward slowly, looking for the telltale signs of imminent death: the slow fading of the aura, blue lips, blue-tinged skin and a glow of white around the body, signaling the exit of the soul from its physical shell. His aura indeed is fading now and so I move forward, lifting my scythe to draw the soul towards me. It is getting a bit harder to see through the blanketing fog.

A minute passes, and the man’s writhing silhouette has slowed.

His ragged pants have slowed to a rattling breath as he seemingly gives up the fight to live; his aura completely vanishes, the red glow in the fog blinks out. I swipe through the thick fog to clear my view of his body. As he comes into my view, I stop dead in my tracks. (pardon the pun) His ill-fitting clothes shrunk and are now perfectly fitting to his form. No, I correct myself disbelievingly, he has grown to fit his large clothes. Gone is the Neanderthal that staggered before me on this London night. In his place lies an older, quite larger gentleman. He seems about fifty years of age with quite a handsome, healthy face. But, lying on the ground, he looks rather gaunt with his pale, sickly skin and a furrowed, sweaty 12

brow. I tap the butt of my scythe against his arm.

His eyes fly open: clear baby blue discs reflect his inner turmoil. His aura blooms around him; a dim yellow outline at first which then explodes outwards to become a bright yellow halo that drives away the fog surrounding us. He shakes his head and gets to his feet, looking rather disheveled. His suit is crumpled and his pepper-salt hair is slovenly. The laugh lines on his face make him appear like a gentle, sweet old grandfather but, in my extremely long life, I’ve learnt an important lesson: looks can be deceiving.

I deeply inhale the cold London air, and there it is; the faintest whiff of the despicable rotting corpse amidst a fragrance of citrus. I wrinkle my nose and focus on his aura; there it is! The yellow halo has a tinge of crimson right around his silhouette: the gentleman has a dual aura, or a split aura. His very soul had fragmented into the two primal beings present in every human soul: the agape and the eros.

Very rare, and this case, very discomforting. This respectable, old gentleman, I realise, harbours a murderer inside of him. He had given in to the worst desire ever, committed the worst atrocity a human could ever commit. He killed one of his own.

The gentleman, already gathering his bearings, frantically shuffles down the street, very evidently in a hurry to get somewhere.

Curious, I follow him. The fog parts before the man’s aura; he is a beacon of light in between the clouds of London’s streets.

Contrasting the deceiving warmth, however, is the

The man stops in front of a rather dismal, closed off building: no windows, a stained door and discoloured wall above it. As he moves to climb the stairs, the light around him flickers: once, twice. He falters and grabs onto the wooden railing for support, breathing heavily as if to compose himself. The yellow darkens into a bloody crimson and the foul miasma of the troglodyte returns.

The man chokes and grabs at his throat; his shoulders bunch up as he hunches over and gags.

POETRY

permanent whiff of death and decay in the air and it certainly is not me: I smell like roses.

Pollution Rubbish in the sea Pollution on the air Animals dying.

A PEN

Annelise Meerton :: Yr 7

If I were a pen, I would be munching on paper, Dancing on notebooks.

Weekends I would patiently wait until Monday, Until my owner is ready to use me again.

CATS

Anastasia Hendrawan :: Yr 7

Man of the Future

“Someone, please help me.”

The Beach

I tense and will myself to move away; Death cannot interfere in the matters of the living. His time will come soon. I can only pray it comes soon enough and puts the man out of his wretched misery.

I hear the waves rolling, crashing against the shore I hear the quiet hustle of voices, talking far away I hear the seagulls squawk, calling for each other I see children happily playing, making a sandcastle I feel peaceful, like the wind whispering through the sand I hear the cars driving past, speeding down the highway I hear the boats swimming through the water, racing to catch the fish I hear the BBQ sizzling far away, cooking up Saturday arvo lunch I taste the salt in my mouth I smell the breeze as it sways and dances through the air.

I am a child I am all the things of my past I am a computer that knows all the answers I am all I see, a beautiful river holding clear and shiny water I am all I hear, a buzzing bee and a singing bird I am all I feel and taste, fresh sparkling water and chocolate I am all I remember, a beautiful sound on the piano, a football being kicked perfectly, a whale jumping from the water I am all I’ve been taught, a story, a poem I am all I think, a lake with many reflections I am like a bird with many bright feathers But one day I will be a man of the future.

Annelise Meerton :: Yr 7

James Zuvela :: Yr 7

“Please no!” he cries, clutching at his throat and tumbling down painfully to his knees. I turn away, repulsed by the strengthening of the eros in his sickly aura. As I begin to drift away through the maze of streets, he begins to whimper.

Jaahnavi Cheyyur :: Yr 11

13

Creeping quietly Sneaky and independent Selective with love Imogen Reed :: Yr 7

SHORT STORY

breaking boundaries

He left this message on the wall: ‘If I had known then what I know now, Mum, I wouldn’t have done what I done, I wouldn’t have hurt you and the rest of ‘em so bad.’

At the next house, Leila walks to the front porch, accidentally kicking down an empty beer bottle. This house is completely different to the one earlier. The house of a Cambodian family.

She can still feel the pulse of it, the heart of the family within.

A beating, live thing, fresh with the pulsating lifeblood of a living body.

The garden was a wreck. In the dirt is a rusty shovel. All the flowers dead. Knee high weeds rustle against the cold breeze. She smells the last person who was here a few hours ago, the scent disappears. Cobwebs at every corner, more empty bottles lie still on the concrete floor, old cigarettes dead all over the ground.

The man comes to the door. He is swaying side to side, and the smell of beer and cigarettes hits her. She crunches her nose.

“Good evening, sir. Would you like to buy fundraising cookies?”

Leila asks, gritting her teeth, but still smiling and showing him the

pack of cookies. The man looks young, in his thirties and he is shirtless. His beer belly showing.

He is tall, around six foot and his arms are bulked. Tattoos inked all over his arm, torso to his neck. He towers over her and smirks.

“Come in,” he grins, widening the door so she can squeeze through. “I’ll buy some.”

Leila is invited to sit down as the man hurries off into a room, closing the door behind him. She takes this moment to scan the house. It is dark. Only a small lamp, few candles and the flashing of the tv screen lights up the area. It reeks of ragged clothes, dust, dirt and blood. Rubbish lies everywhere, ants crawling all over it. Religious paintings hang on the wall. Leila gulps.

The man comes out of the room with a lit cigarette in his left hand.

He throws the money on the table, the coins land like shiny broken teeth. Leila flinches, leaning back. The man walks behind her.

“Sorry, dear, did I scare you?” he chortles mockingly. “I didn’t mean to.”

“That’s okay, sir. Thank you for donating.” Leila goes to stand up when the man curves his fingers around her shoulders and forces her to sit back down.

“Stay for dinner,” the man insists, circling Leila who stays still, expressionless in her chair.

She stares straight ahead, unfazed by his presence.

“So little girl, name?” he inquires as he sits down in the chair to the right of her.

16

“Leila,” she answers simply, watching his every move.

“The name’s, David,” he begins.

His eyes avert to the flashing tv screen, making Leila look as well.

A reporter stands in front of a mass of protesters.

“We are here today at the town square where there are Neo Nazi’s protesting about the refugees. They say refugees should not be allowed into Australia, where they do not belong.” The reporter is interrupted by a man with a host of facial tattoos and metals in his lip who yells, “Send them back!”

David laughs loudly, showing his rotten yellow teeth.

“This country needs to get rid of all races besides pure Australians,” he exclaims. Leila bites her lip as the television starts to lose signal and it jumps to different channels. It goes all fuzzy.

“What’s happening?” David questions.

“I think it’s wrong,” Leila speaks out. David snaps his head to her.

His smile turns to a frown.

“That all races should live here?”

Leila nods. “Australia is an accepting nation. Many people come here to seek refuge,” she voices. The man snickers.

“You think they,” he points to the static screen, “can ever be at home here?”

Leila nods firmly, her lips form into a straight line. “It is a country that accepts, not declines.”

“That’s a load of rubbish,” he slaps the table, causing it to shake. “They are not welcome in

this land! Australia would be so much better without them. They only cause harm, trouble and bring bad luck!”

Leila lets out a huff. “They need to escape their country because of war, for their future, family’s future and wanting to survive.”

“It doesn’t matter to me. If anything, they should all die in their own country. Live and die over there,” he argues, spits spraying from his mouth. She feels his blood boiling.

“Nationalism makes no sense because we are all people and should not be treated differently based on arbitrary distinctions,” Leila reasons. David abruptly stands up, his chair falling straight to the floor but it doesn’t faze either of them. His chest rises and falls, as he picks something up from the pile of rubbish on the floor. He throws it in front of her.

The Bible.

Leila widens her eyes as she stands up and flicks it away. Her fingers tingle.

“Exodus 8:23, states that ‘God shall put divisions between the people tomorrow,’ ” he reveals.

“Boundaries do not exist except in our heads,” Leila disagrees.

The veins on his neck start to poke out. His pulse radiates. She inhales the constant beat of every breath.

She craves it.

“Australia needs to be protected from people like you,” Leila argues. “Not refugees, who seek to live a better life.”

David takes a deep breath, closing his eyes for a second.

“I hate people like you, trying to fight for a multicultural country?” he laughs. “If that happens, this country will never survive. You want to know what happened to the last young lady who was here?”

Leila’s gaze pierces through him.

“She died,” he smirks.

He stands tall, grasping onto her hair, dragging her face to the table and smashing her against the hard wood. She lets out a yelp, her nose shatters. A pool of red blood oozes against the table.

He grabs onto her shoulders, lifting her up with his strength and slamming her whole body onto the table. He straddles her down, making sure she can’t move.

Leila sniggers, she grabs his arm and twists it, making him yell in pain. The cracks of his bone could be heard, and they mingle with his screams. His bones in his left hand, crunch like a dead dry leaf, leaving Leila only half satisfied.

She kicks his stomach, and a spray of blood escapes his mouth. His body falls to the floor. He cradles his hand, and his eyes go white and wide.

“People like you have no heart.”

Her eyes turn a ruby red as she gazes down at him. His heartbeat increases, drumming at Leila’s ears. She can smell his fear. It’s like gravy on a pork roll.

“Leave me alone,” he implores, using his legs to push himself back. She tilts her head, amused at his quick change in reaction.

She lets him crawl away.

“Still want to argue with me?” she innocently smiles. He dashes for the bathroom, locking himself inside. Leila moves as fast as light, teleporting right in front of the bathroom door. She knocks on the door.

“Write a message to your mother for your last moment,” Leila commands him.

After hearing his pen stops writing, Leila fiddles with the door knob. She opens it in an instant, her body already pinning him against the wall. Her fangs grew from her mouth, overlapping her bottom lip. Leila turns the tap on 17

for the bathtub, the water gushing out. David’s eyes pop out of his head as he suffocates under Leila’s hold. She lets her hand off his neck, but he continues to stifle. She presses his lips shut tightly. He struggles to breathe, his face going red. She lowers him to her eye level. She looks down at his neck where she sees the small continuing, beating pulse.

She leans into his neck, tilting it to the right angle before digging her teeth through the layers of skin, tissue and biting deep into the veins, blood oozing out. She begins to feed on this, her body coming to life with every drip of blood. It tastes bittersweet, she can taste the thirty years of his immoral life, sins he’s collected, the women he’s harmed and all the wrong-doings of his past life.

She sucks up all the nutrients in his blood, blood slide down the corners of her lips. He is completely dry when Leila let go of his body. She wipes her mouth with her sleeves. Her fangs disappear, and her eyes become her brown. She stares at the lifeless body drowning in the flood of water and turns her head to see his message. She shrugs, leaving him there and walking out.

Leila grabs her belongings, walking out of the house casually. She breathes in the fresh night air, a soft smile present. She feels accomplished, content and satisfied with her work tonight.

Her mind travels back to the news on the television earlier about the continuing protest tomorrow. She knows where she’ll be getting her dinner. The menu’s packed with new, different cultural tastes. Her taste buds water at the thought of the various types of bloods available.

Julia Ly :: Yr 10

LITERARY REFLECTION Written by Aleksandr Ignatevich Vershinin They’re all running around as though they’re rats who have been decapitated. All screaming “Doctor! Someone! Help!”

“How lovely if Chebutykin could be here now,” I whisper humorously to myself.

Before this we were all pigs sent to the slaughter. No one sees the liberation. No one knows the new world that is being forged.

“What do you think is happening?”, asks my beautiful Masha. Eyes barely moving from the novel in her hands.

“Something exciting I think,” Olga replies, “The noise is unpleasant however. I can’t concentrate on marking these papers with all that noise. Oh! And how’s your wife, Vershinin?”

Out of the corner of my eye I see Masha lifting her head slightly.

“Haven’t seen her around as of late. So I can’t say I know,” I reply.

The screaming really is very distracting. Without any conscious thought, I’m infant in front of the window. Looking out at the chaos beneath us. With

innocent eyes. Oblivious to the cruelty of this world. The ground is moving beneath my feet.

Almost like the Earth is about to split. Ready to swallow me into it’s hellish depths.

I sometimes wonder if I truly know much of life.

“Ahhh. How cruel is this life we live? This city is so tedious. We’re shrouded in clouds of chemicals.

It can’t be good for our health.

We’ve been here barely a year.

Almost two decades it took us to return. And what a disappointment it has been.”

Andrey Prozorov asks as he enters the room he barely owns.

It doesn’t take him long to claim a chair situated around a small table, good for nothing except maybe to lean on. Perhaps adequate for reading.

If I concentrate hard enough I know I could feel the entire house shaking. The walls have grown ears, and with that, mouths. This very Earth is rumbling with the excitement of revolution. The windows look out to a view of chaos and red. As though hell has risen.

We all jump unanimously when the door breaks against the wall.

“It’s happening! People are fighting for no reason whatsoever,” screeches a rounded Chebutykin. Eyes bulging out of his head. Resembling a madman 18

who’s escaped the clutches of an asylum. “Those peasants are tearing it all down!”

“What do you mean by that, Ivan Romanovich?”

“Masha dear, do you not see?!”

“Yes! Doctor, I was just wondering, what effect can this air have on our health?” Andrey questions.

Outside of our safe walls Moscow looks to be falling. The city the sisters once dreamt of, only to return and find it dilapidated, dirty, destitute and a cruel mockery of a beautiful fantasy.

In the distance, the screaming only continues. There’s now a red hue spilled across the room. Hell is seeping up, up from its depths.

It’s leaking onto the clean floors of our Earth, wreaking havoc on a beautifully disguised world, given a sense of order.

Irina enters the room. Not fazed by the splintered door. Her silhouette shrouded in a red glow.

“People are yelling, Andrey. Their noise has interrupted my sleep.

This city is so tiresome. I took a stroll to the park yesterday, and I couldn’t help but notice how filthy these streets are.” Before allowing her brother to speak, Irina turns her attention to Masha, “What are you reading Máshka? You appear to be f ascinated.”

“Nothing you’d be interested in,

sister.”

Irina wasn’t listening. “Oh, I do wonder where the Baron is. I haven’t seen him all day. Nothing new ever happens here.”

“Do you remember when father was still with us?”, asks Olga.

“Such a long time he’s been dead.

And mother too. Our family was much closer then. When father was alive we didn’t mind living in the poor town so much. Even Moscow seemed much better when mother and father were still here. We had our family and that was enough. I think we were happy then. All of us. But Irina, you are happy, or content. Aren’t you, sister?”

“I would be happier, if I had work to do. I don’t do much. It’s a rather modest existence, Olya.”

“You have worked before, Irina.

You didn’t enjoy it much,” Masha mumbled, distracted by her book again.

“Yes, Masha, I do remember. But, it wasn’t fulfilling work. Maybe I should become a teacher. It’s not too late. Olga, you seem to enjoy your work. There are plenty of schools here in Moscow at least.

I believe our city was much more interesting during childhood.”

The conversation ceased briefly when the yelling outside only intensified.

“All you’d be doing with your time is marking papers. Oh! And teaching students who’d much rather do anything except for learn. No one values education as as they should. Also, there are far too many students to teach, too many people to be educated here. You see, that’s the issue with large cities.”

“What are they screaming about?”

“I believe some revolution or other, Irina,” Olga says.

“They’re attacking!”

“I could do with something to keep me occupied. Some work may be good.”

“Don’t yell so loud, Chebutykin.

You’ve aged too much. Of all people you should know the danger unnecesary aggravation can have on an individual,” Masha scolds, looking up from her book.

Indeed he was limping. Although it could barely be seen. It was a miracle he had reached this old age. If it weren’t for the evident commotion outside, we may not have been surprised if the old man were hallucinating.

Andrey eventually lifts his violin and begins to play. As he continues Georgiyevich Mostras’ haunting tune starts to dance throughout the room. Placing us in a picture frame of sound.

Removing the burdens of the outside world. Encasing us in a vault of our own making.

The clock ticks too fast.

“Oh, Olga! I must tell you of my grievances. I went to visit Petrov’s wife early yesterday morning. Do you remember them? I had this image in my head of them being interesting people. I must say I was highly disappointed. Lady Petrov was dressed in the most ghastly attire. The conversation was of little intellectual value. Oh! I was bored out of my dear mind, Olya.”

“Poor unfortunate Masha,” Olga replies.

Goosebumps rise up on my skin.

The fireplace has gone out. No more fire is needed inside when there’s too much outside. An 19

onslaught. Fire and more fire.

Enough rebellion, resentment and fury to fuel a flame for the next fifty years.

“Ahhh! Comrades! Ladies! There seems to be some kind of racket outside our doors.” Baron Tuzenbakh enters, seemingly perplexed at the unnecesary commotion.

“Yes darling, the peasants are in a revolt or something or other.”

“Well, whatever for, Irina?”

No one takes the trouble of answering. Instead, I observe dear Masha remaining fascinated with her novel.

Andrey has transitioned from a melancholic tune to one filled with joviality.

“And how’s your wife, Vershinin?”

How is she? I wonder. “I can’t be too sure. It wouldn’t feel truthful to tell you. I don’t speak to her too often you see.”

“Yes, yes. Women can be trivial creatures at times.” The Baron replies.

I glance out the window once more, observing all the lost boys running around. Attempting to find peace in the chaos around them. The world never did have a place for those who are lost.

“The world that we once knew, my fellow comrades, is being ripped from its seams. Those peasants are trampling all over our culture and tradition. If they are yelling then I will too. I have more right to yell than they anyway! They know nothing of this world. We have given them work, homes, some even received education. Like children, they are acting on impulse without a thought spared for the repercussions which our fair

class will be left to deal with. So, say what you want, but I will yell because right now that’s all I can do.” The chair shrieks as Chebutykin’s body falls into it. It moves an inch or two. Almost colliding with the wall behind him.

The yelling intensifies.

“Perhaps we should just do as Tolstoy suggested.” The doctor’s mouth only flops open at Masha’s flippancy. “If you want to be happy, be.”

“Masha!” Olga exclaims. “If life were that easy, I’d be married with a dozen children, married even to a farmer peasant and still in that small town. Instead, I’m left on a deserted island of loneliness and regret. Not even Moscow, whom I loved so much once upon a time, has gifted me the family I long for.”

Some words are whisked under the ensuing rumblings outside these four walls. It’s as though a cloak was placed over our home.

Hidden away from the reality of the world. We aren’t really here.

We’re hidden from prying eyes.

“What is true happiness?” The Baron interjects.

“I believe happiness is what you make of life. Perhaps it’s something we can decide for ourselves, almost like a light switch.”

“Yes, Vershinin, we are happier now than we were. I remember in my youth how I did not work. Not at all. I believe I would be much happier now, that is, if I did have a job. But I believe, especially in this city, I would be shunned for worked, being the aristocrat that I am,” replies Tuzenbach.

I turn my gaze towards the wall furthest from the door. Above the fireplace, hangs a once broken clock, patched back together too many years ago.

“I wish to disagree,” Masha says, “I dreamt of the happiness Moscow would bring us all. We grew up so happily here. We had such fond memories. Us three sisters, mother and father. Our home was never empty. There was always noise, dancing, laughter and even when no fires were burning, there was warmth. I think that’s what happy people bring everywhere with them. Warmth. So all you would need for happiness is people, company, friends.”

“Are you suggesting you’re unhappy, Masha?”

“I’m suggesting nothing, Olya. But Moscow is not what I wished it to be. I have found no happiness here. Just look at what’s happening outside. Who can be happy in a place like this?”

The broken clock continues to tick. It only seems to be getting faster and faster. But, time can’t slow down or increase in speed. It doesn’t work like that.

“Maybe we should indulge in some poetry?” I suggest. “Or better, let’s philosophise. Yes, let’s continue to philosophise.”

“What on Earth can we persist on philosophising about this late at night? In any case, it’s best if I turn in for the evening. It feels as though this day has stretched on far too long. Some rest may be preferred, don’t you agree Irina?” the Baron replies.

“Yes, I may do the same my dear.”

Our company is reduced by a third. Masha is still enraptured by the world in her story. Olga 20

continues to mark her papers.

The old doctor lays with his head draped across the shoulder, oblivious to his surrounding.

“They used to whisper our names, hide in the pantries and whisper. Now they’re threatening to burn our houses down,” I only hear Chebutykin mutter to himself because the world is lost to the old man.

‘Knock! Knock! Knock!’ “‘You can’t imagine how stupid the whole world has grown nowadays.’ Gogol once said so, you know,” Chebutykin closes his eyes to the world.

Kaitlin LeRoux :: Yr 12

POETRY The Library The bookshelves wrap around the building, A comfortable hug.

The spines of the books are soldiers, lined up, ready to go.

The library is quiet, a private sunrise.

Maddison Gill :: Yr 7 The world I want to give up being the Earth, I’ve been the Earth too long.

People don’t look after me, they pollute me, they rip me up, They pour oil into my fish tank and skin my cats.

I want to give up being the Earth, I’ve been the Earth too long.

I want to be a star, wakening up the night, Dancing in the sky.

Olivia Cheong :: Yr 7 Woman of the future I am woman of the future I am all the things of my past, losing my first tooth and kicking my first footy.

I am a daisy in a poppy field, who

is one in a million.

I am all I see, the waves crashing against the sand and the trees waving in the breeze.

I am all I hear, the sound of music beating against my ear and the splashing of pool water in summer.

I am all I feel and taste, the soft, sweet and fluffy Nutella sandwich that I had after school and the feeling of my Mum’s warm hugs.

I am all I remember, the happiness on my sister’s faces at Christmas I am all I’ve been taught, to tie my shoelaces neatly and to always use my manners.

I am all I think, to always be kind.

I am like a rose ready to bloom, a butterfly ready for flight.

But one day I’ll be a shooting star because I am a woman of the future.

Olivia Cheong :: Yr 7 Green Beauty Green is a smart color so colorful, the growing colour , Or planet, we call earth the green colour is so bright It’s more like the light from the sun like a light from lightning flashing in beauty But always glaring its colour and beauty Like an emerald but with a blinding sight of lighting Sharing its color and ist light Despite it being everywhere I love it Jordyn Grobler :: Yr 8 21

Freedom Bird How I wish I was a bird Soaring in the sky The world beneath me And the sun above me Living like a gush of wind Floating through the air My wings aligned with the horizon While I breeze through nature Freedom surrounding me While I fly, defying gravity Blissfully chirping a heavenly song So the odyssey will not seem too long And what I greatly think, I nobly dare Too high up for a hunter’s eyes to prey High enough to live another day Fat worms waiting on a dawn bright lawn Food for my newborn ___________________________ The cliff stands tall, crumbling at the edge “You cannot fly” they would sit and allege “You are human, you don’t have wings” But in the air I want to be a king I want to prove them wrong And sing that heavenly song So I spread my arms apart ...

And I leap Eric Babu :: Yr 8

CREATIVE RESPONSE 1951, Corrigan, WA ‘Where are you taking me?’, I whisper as I push past the dense earth blocking the path ahead. The vines sweep the floor and the gentle crunch of leaves on the path begin to sound customary to my ears.

“You’ll see Rosie”, he replied to me with such smugness, boy I bet he is absolutely loving this, he knows I hate surprises especially the ones you can’t tell are good or bad. He came to my window at about ten past nine tonight, asking me to join him on a ‘moonlight randevu’.

This was pretty usual for us, especially lately, after the townspeople found out about us, going round’ together.

The blatant stares and utter disgusted faces I pass in the streets is all becoming too much, they fear it, they fear what people will think of them, they fear the test toward their regimented town. I try to forget the looks and whispers burnt into my head as we stroll towards the end of town hand in hand, but as we turn left toward the forest, I can’t help the pull of my head right as I glance at the ‘Leaving Corrigan’

sign, “if only”, I sigh under my breath, moving my eyes immediately to determine if he heard me or not, he didn’t.

We continue walking and chat our un-meaningful banter, “honestly, your wrong, red cordial beats green, every time!” Jesse proudly argued, I retaliate, “You’ve never even tried any other flavours!”, “Well.... that may be so, but why try for more when you already know you have the best?’, he smirks back at me raising his eyebrows and flashing his deep, dark brown eyes. I’ve always said his eyes were deep enough to drown in, and how could I possibly win, when I drown every time.

We walk a few more hundred metres until we reach a clearing, a crystal lake shimmers in the moonlight in the shadows of a hollow eucalyptus. I gasp.

“Taadaaa!”he exclaims, flipping his arms out each side. “I never knew this town could hold such beauty”, as my eyes navigated the clearing it almost felt like our very own secret spot. I slowly moved toward the eucalypt, examining its old frame branch to branch. Although it may seem common, there was something about the night, something about the moonlight and something about the thick air that made everything so much more remarkable. As the enchanted sky reflected the water a small ripple surfaced following the pebbles Jesse skimmed gently along the surface. I sat silently, watching and smiling to myself, feeling for the first time in months, truly happy.

22

He planted himself next to me as he flashed a cheeky grin. I shook my head and rolled my eyes trying not to show mine.

“Ya know”, he began followed by a large pause of the chorale of crickets and frogs, “I am always going to look after you, you and him”, he said gesturing his head toward my stomach, “and that’s a promise.”

A tear rolled down the right side of my face and I gave him a quick smile as I placed my head upon his shoulder before he could see the uncertain fear upon my cheek.

We sat there for a while longer, just the two of us and the silence of the night.

The trees blew shivers into the sky and the howl of the moon itself was beaming with energy. Jesse stood up and extended his hand to pull me up, as we walked toward the clear water, he suddenly came to a stop, bending to pick something from the floor.

“Well, what’dya know, I thought these disappeared from our town years ago”, “I’m pretty sure we have rocks in town...” ,I replied confused and a little disinterested, “This isn’t just a lousy rock, it’s a Jasper stone!” The fiery ruby red drew my eyes in with awe, “ apparently they call it the ‘nurturing stone’ supposed to protect and care for you or something like that”, how he knew all this about the stone I did not know, but I was still standing intrigued by the exquisite gem when he began to ready himself to skim it along the water.

“Wait!” I jolted toward him, clutching the stone from his

POETRY fingertips inspecting it in what would have looked like the act of a madwoman. “Jasper”, I whispered under my breath in an epiphany of hope. As the words slipped past my lips I felt a kick from my stomach, and I felt as though my eyes couldn’t possibly go wider if I tried.

“Feel”, I giggled as I held his hand under my own.

“How about it?”, I smiled and asked with revelation sitting upon my face. “How about what?”, he replied confused as a bat hanging from the floorboards.

“Jasper.”, I replied.

“Jasper?”

“Jasper?”, he repeated looking at my face, then to glance down toward my stomach.....

“Jasper.”, he then smiled and exclaimed with a subtle nod.

I smiled wide enough to expose what felt like every bit of my mouth, I laughed and felt s sense of closure, it was the first decision I hadn’t felt I was making wrong in a very long time. Everything about it was right.

I felt warm and safe in my own skin, standing in our own little piece of the world, Jesse smiled at me with a comforting expression upon his face, I stared at him for a while, falling deeper into his eyes ... and far away from any fear.

Kaylee Cranley :: Yr 11

Estate Summer Limonata fredda cold lemonade Gelato, fare lo surf ice cream, surfing Castelli di sabbia sandcastles I bagnanti, la sabbia life guards, sand Bel tempo, sole calore beautiful weather, hot sun Spiaggia, nuoto beach, swimming Caldo, tiepido hot, warm

Ben Harper :: Yr 9 Fulmine Lightning Piu’ veloce di un proiettile Faster than a bullet Distruttivo come fuoco Destructive like fire Da dove viene?

Where does it come from?

Nessuno sa No-one knows Energia nella sua forma naturale Energy in its natural form

Joseph Merendino :: Yr 9 Rose Roses Le rose sono rosse Roses are red Le violette sono blu’ Violets are blue Non ci sono luci there are no lights E ne te nor are you Le rose sono secche The roses are withered Le violette sono morte The violets are dead Il mio amore per te My love for you E’ scuro come il cielo is dark like the sky.

Anissa Mamedev :: Yr 9 E’ Inverno It’s winter E’ nuvoloso, fa freddo,

C’e’il temporale e la grandine, piove Fuoco accogliente, maglione,

It’s cloudy, it’s cold

It’s stormy and there’s hail, it’s raining welcoming fire, thick jumper,

pupazzo di neve, zuppa snowman, soup Tira vento, cappellino, guanti It’s windy, beanie, gloves

Sebastian Bevacqua :: Yr 9 Inverno Winter Piove, fa freddo, nevica It’s raining, it’s cold, it’s snowing L’aria e’ fresca The air is fresh Meno gradi, tremendo degrees minus, shaking Pupazzo di neve Snowman Alberi con la neve Snow covered trees Combattimenti con palle di neve Snow fights

Kane Mallet Baxter :: Yr 9 23

SHORT STORY

the day that changed everything

If I’d known then what I knew now I never would’ve signed up.

It was raining .

Not regular rain. The kind of rain that rattled your bones, and destroyed buildings. The kind of rain that put such a fear in your soul. I couldn’t hear anything but a continuous, dull pounding in my ears. Was I screaming? My mouth was dry and full of plaster dust.

My head felt heavy, there was something warm on my hands, I couldn’t see. Time felt slow, How long had I been here? I felt like I was moving through molasses. I could feel what i’d assumed was the corpses of french resistance fighters. Suddenly, The shock wore off and I could hear the deafening roar of bombs being dropped and something else.

What was that? I was screaming.

I could feel the plaster and smoke cling to my clothes, my hair, my lungs. I breathed raspy, ragged breaths. I stayed there forever.

The repeated roar of the city being blown to bits outside and my endless distorted screams blended in until I heard nothing.

The world was still. I don’t think I could ever decide what was

worse, the ear popping sounds of German artillery or the ear splitting life-less silence. I could taste the thick, metallic aftertaste of blood in my mouth. I crawled on my knees, shaking. The stones pricking my knees and piercing the skin. I still couldn’t see. I felt my way around the floor. I couldn’t tell up from down but I kept going. Until I felt something cold, and soft. Eerily similar to a hand. My eyes had started to finally adjust to the never ending darkness. I could make out the rows of pews standing stock still. Stoical in the deadly silence.

That’s when I saw their bodies. I couldn’t tell if they were alive or not.

“Hello?!” A muffled voice split the thickness of the air like a beacon of light through the murky-ness of the barren church hall. I was so startled, so shocked, so stunned I couldn’t find strength enough to yell out.

“Is anybody there? est-ce que quelqu’un peut m’entendre?” The voice spoke again louder. I took a deep dirty breath and stood on shaky legs.

“Hello? Help me… Please…” Tears streamed down and stung my debris covered face.

24

“ Over there!Déplacez vite Sebastian!” A light brighter than life shone into my eyes, temporarily blinded I stumbled into a warm embrace. I could hear the distant voices of a man. “ Va-t-elle bien? La sortir rapidement! I’ll look for more…”

The rough, french mans voice faded, I could feel my body being lifted. I was being carried out.

“Madame, restez éveillé.” The man carrying me tried desperately to keep me awake, but my eyelids seemed to have a mind of their own. As soon as I closed them, I could hear the man mumble some sort of distressed french, he moved faster. I felt weightless, yet as heavy as an anvil.

“Madame, please!”

Black.

I remember the day clearly. In fact, I remember the insignificant moments, that in hindsight were monumental, and detrimental, that led me into that godforsaken place, to be buried under piles of rubble and cold disfigured corpses of my friends.

It was September, 1940. A brisk day in ol’ London town. I was only 18 at the time. Fresh faced and

full of optimism. The war had just broken out and nobody remembered the first war enough to be deterred by the horrible realities of war. To the prideful youth, it was nothing but a scary bed time story. ‘They’ll kill you Johnny boy!’ How ignorant we were.

While parents watched their kids being marched off to a death sentence, I was determined to do my bit. The RAF held admissions in the Rivolli dance hall off Brockley road. I walked into the hustle and bustle of the hall.

Uniformed men mingled in between the girls, obviously trying to woo the girls with their enlisted swagger.

“Oh hang it up men! We’ve got work to do!” A loud gravelly voice shouted among the crowd.

Instantly, the men straightened up. A whole new attitude taking over. I could see the disappointment in some of the girl’s faces.

“Can I help ‘ya darlin’?” A wide toothed grin, belonging to a tall, handsome man.

“Excuse me? ” Surprised by whatever this man was attempting to do, I stepped away from him. “ I’m Barty, love—“ He never got to finish as a shortish, greying man came up to him, conveying clearly. He’s in charge. “ Mr Andrews , would I be wrong to assume you’re trying to ‘make

a pass’ at this young lady?” He spoke clearly, and strong.

“Uh no sir. I was just helping Miss-“ He was cut off again.

“Get outta my face before you say something you will definitely regret.”

“Yes Sir, of course Sir” Barty was so clearly distressed he awkwardly bowed his head and ran away from the intimidating senior officer.

“They never learn. Goddamn pain in my neck that one is.” He turned to me. Looked me up and down. I had absolutely zero words to say besides: “My name is Mary-Allen James, Sir” I stuck out my hand to shake.

He smirked.

“Pleasure, Miss James. I’m Colonel Peters, Now, tell me somethin’ are you afraid of heights?”

I was. I never told him that though. That’s one of the clearest memories. Everything following became a sort of blur. I enrolled as an Air nurse. I quickly moved up ranks, and even entrusted to many solo flights. Taking in and rescuing med stations out in nowhere.

Though, not everything was smooth sailings. One of the first women to fly doesn’t exactly go down well for the ultra masculine men. I had to earn respect. Once I had, the boys there were basically family. Even hard-ass Peters.

25

“ ‘Ey! James!” I stopped in my tracks. I had just finished maintenance on my plane, The Runaway. When Barty Andrews started running up to me.

Andrews was by far the most egotistical American out of my squadron. I looked back at him jogging to catch up to me, across the airstrip. I rolled my eyes and kept walking. An arm soon grabbed my wrist and pulled me back.

“What’d you want now Andrew, I’m busy.” I sighed, trying my hardest to not get annoyed.

He draped an arm around my shoulders.

“Don’t you miss me doll?”

“If I ever did, it’d be when you’re six feet under.” I replied my voice sharp, I pushed his arm off me.

“Ouch, Darlin’ that hurt” He feigned pain, grabbing his heart.

“Good.” I kept walking. I had nearly reached the doors into the Mess Hall when he sneaked his way in front of me, blocking my way.

“Stars ’n’ Stripes, please get out of my way. You may have time to waste being a jackass, but I do not. Go bother some of the nurses. I hear Katie has the hots for you.” I smiled sarcastically, pushing him out of the way. “really?”

I entered the Hall to find a bunch of rowdy men playing cards and smoking, or trying their luck with

“Yes Sir.” I followed him outside of the mess hall into the empty corridor. “ I have been informed of some news.” He spoke low, with importance in his voice. I daren’t say anything.

“Your squadron has been requested to fly tonight, to do an emergency rescue for some French resistance fighters.”

“May I ask why, Sir.” “No. This is all ‘need to know’ basis. Nobody must know. This has been requested by the PM himself. If you must tell your crew than so be it. But, this is highly confidential. Any word of this gets outside of these walls and its all of us in the grave. Understand?”

“Yes, Sir.” Lied right through my teeth. What the bleedin’ hell was going on? My head was reeling!

“Good. say nothing. There will be a package waiting in your dorm.

Good luck” He gave a small smile.

“Thank you, Sir” I replied curtly.

That night, we flew out. Over enemy lines. The banter and friendliness of my squad had been replaced by melancholy, and seriousness. It took about 3 hours before we reached the port of Dunkirk.

“Where are these ‘french resistance officers’?” John questioned as we began to descend into a field next to a church.

“They shoul’ be in there” Replied Harry, flicking what was left of his cigarette on the rattling floor of the aircraft. As soon as we landed. It all went wrong.

POETRY

some of the nurses. I reached my table. The rest of my crew, Paul Winton, John Doyle and Harry Fitzpatrick were already there having one of their usual trivial debates.

“Hiya lads!” I greeted. Andrews wandered off to find a Katie the nurse. “ ‘Ello Mary, ciggie?” Asked Paul, who was spectating the heated debate. “ Ta” I tuned into whatever they were trying to prove.

“All i’m sayin’ is, them french birds are a thousand times better than the Americans!” argued Harry. Ah, girls. “ Is that why Matron caught you in bed with that American lass, aye ‘Arry?” I asked smirking, cigarette hanging slightly off my lips. The nicotine rushing through my system. “ I KNEW IT! Dirty liar you are Fitzpatrick!” John shouted. “ You owe me a tenner john!”

Shouted paul “ You what?!” Clearly outraged.

The argument ensued, but I tuned out. Instead, focusing my sight on one Air Vice Marshal Stevens. He was a tough Mother’, anybody and everybody was deathly afraid of him. He was chatting quietly to some higher up, when he locked eyes with my table. He made his way towards us.You could feel the air shift. The whole hall seemed to tense. “ Oh no. ‘Arry, what’ve you done now?” Paul whispered across the table once he spotted Stevens walking over to us. “ Shut up! the lot of ‘ya!” I whispered viciously. He stood at the head of our table. Staring each and everyone one of us down.

“Squadron Leader James, may I have a word” He spoke. Shivers ran down my spine.What’ve I done now?

The War I was tired of the sleepless nights, the never-ending wails of the dead.

They said it was but a phase, nothing a few sessions won’t solve.

What did they know except the glory’s mask, talking like it’s sport and not war.

I was walking on their contrived path.

Their strained cheeks and over used mouths.

Their empty words and broken promises.

We were naught but a dog on a leash, played like a fool, the pawn in their games.

How could they lead us to our deaths like cows ready for slaughter?

I could still remember fields painted in red, trapped within the bubble of stench.

Every breath I exhaled was in pain, like the intoxicating fumes attacking the air.

We were wrapped around dread’s blanket, a death’s fog.

Valentina Castro Suarez :: Yr 10

January, heat rays attacked the lands, soon

26

it’s sister shall follow in August with it, the Grim Reaper’s curse.

Time was quicksand.

The longer you stay, the faster you Sink.

Immerse.

Drown.

Engulfed in its embrace.

Until you knew no more, and the silence of voices remains I was there in March, the end was so near.

We were the last of the trees, yet another leaf has fallen.

The souls carried off into the winds, everyday was a hurricane.

There was blood on my hand, yet the praises were grand.

Only the swirling amber concoction of the devil can numb the cries.

Diminish the agony, and the taints of the soul.

The fame was but a fragrance of heroic deeds, the lingering scent a choking hold.

It was poison for the mind, a blow to the heart.

Left behind a body of a sixty year old, a detached robot with running shoes in hand.

So to answer your question, What was war?

It was death, but you’re alive

L’inverno Winter Luna piena Full moon Il vento soffia The wind blows La citta’ vuota The empty city

Alyssa Coelho :: Yr 9 L’inverno Winter L’inverno bello Beautiful winter Sempre nevica, neve Always snowing, snow L’aria fresca Fresh air

Caitlin Silas :: Yr 9 E’ Primavera

It’s Spring

E’ Primavera It’s Spring La stagione della nuova vita The season of new life Ciao ciao Inverno Bye bye Winter

Chelsea Ford :: Yr 9 La Luna The Moon Tutta da sola All alone Velato da nuvole Veiled by clouds Essa osserva It observes

Chelsea Ford :: Yr 9 Il Sole The Sun Il Sole splende luminoso The sun shines bright

Attraverso molte nuvole.

Across the clouds Rosso e fiero caldo, Red and fiercely hot, Il centro del Sistema solare, The centre of the Solar System E’ una stella che galleggia nell’aria. It’s a star that floats in the air.

Maddie Pollard :: Yr 9 Nuvole Clouds Tu sei la nuvola Cosi’ bianca, cosi’ pura Cosi’ morbida, come un cuscino

Ho pensato che tu fossi qualcos’altro

You are a cloud So white, so pure So soft, like a cushion I thought you were something else

Mi fai sentire triste quando e’ buio I’m sad when it’s dark Mi fai sentire calmo quando sei in giro I’m calm when you’re around

Ziyi Zeng :: Yr 9

Xueting Shang :: Yr 10

27

POETRY

Mirror

On stage an opening flower, croisé Hands of a pianist initiating the fall, Monochrome keys sing!

Before the people she raises to her toes above all, relishing the brisk-free air of Melrose.

I reflect, you see My principles are well known The light, so good, it shines on me And I try to shine back But how can you whole heartedly give When you are nothing Nothing but a stone

A wondrous life her crow-feet speak of, tingle a little as she gazes upon them.

The fervent yearn to dance instigated an ambition too too large for her body, as it is a calling for her soul.

You smile, I am all smiles You cry and your tears are sown We have both been through your trials But in anger, I feel no pity I know what you are capable of So, to mark the beginning of seven years I will cut you to the bone

Tulle brushing against the air, humming involuntarily dazzling endlessly....

Crooked on the inside, her slender feet just like parading on twigs Glossy Shiny Salty

a body of water & its thoughts I am the recurring ocean, Serene until you startle me.

Serene until you pass me.

Serene until your alluring breeze musters my ripples forcing my waters to rise, vigorously, then fall.

You know too well my weaknesses, a captivating pull, and so I grow.

I know too well you’re inferior, a higher entity, and so I bow before.

Goddess of the Goddesses your origin, I’m unaware.

Beautiful theories of interaction yet I imagine you see contrary.

Contrary to belief, I dedicate one though you’re offered many Though my tides stay persistent, you abandon me though they only rise for you, you’d rather watch the sunset.

In no way could I ever be the sunset blasphemy I’d write on my waters for you to overlook, because we only yearn for those we do not possess hence why I stay my perpetual self, nonetheless wisdom, it takes to understand that notion thus you’re foolish. as am I for aching your current like the blind leading the blind.

“Peccancy” the shore hollers ergo, I am as unrighteous as you are divine.

Crystal Mahilum :: Yr 10

You see me, but you don’t know me Do I not feel?

If I cried would you hear my plea?

If I am nothing am I still real?

In my picture-perfect frame, I know I am privileged Could be sitting in a dusty shelf Or staring at the alleged You think my life is ideal, my job simple and easy So, let me ask you this: How is it I see the good in others But not the good in myself?

Esther Maloba :: Yr 10 28

trickling down her pointy elbow lingering vanishing Compilation of uneven heartbeats, fragile bones, dragged hips, paralysed toes, vulnerable eyelids; Chaos Everywhere.

I see how she danced with her heart how her body followed Reverence In my mind she sketched A valedictory wave, Yet they see her no more than a blooming flower.

Grace Loh :: Yr 10

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