Impressions 2012 edition

2012 Edition

Lorraine O’Brien, Editor

Editorial Welcome to the 2012 edition of Impressions, an annual publication of exemplary student literary and visual art work at Christ Church Grammar School. The new format was designed to showcase students’ work in a vibrant and engaging fashion, whilst honouring their artistic expressions and emulating the School’s ‘motivated to become, free to be’ message.

Included in this anthology are prize winning works from the English Department’s Creative Writing competition, the P.D. Naish Poetry Competition, the Upper and Middle School Creative Prizes, and the Art Department’s annual exhibition.

Stories include one that captures the hope and determination of a young schoolgirl, living in an oppressed society; another the repercussions of cloning; then there is the depiction of heroism of soldiers fighting in a war or the bravery of Beowulf.

The wide-ranging subject matter of poetry can be summed up in the title of Christian Fini’s “Youthful Aspirations.” Prose and Poetry is juxtaposed and balanced with examples of student photography, painting and sculpture. Luke Kolbusz’s photographic print, the layering of multiple exposures, seems to sum up a student’s varied impressions of school life, from inner reflection to direct engagement and emphatic vocal expression. I wish to congratulate all students who have contributed to this fine body of work. I hope you enjoy the read.

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Their faces basked in an electric glow ...

Alistair Morgan, excerpt from ‘Impressions’ pg 24

Tashi Stewart, Year 11 Photographic Print

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They said that the land is rough and strong And the water is pure and calm.

But the earth can be still and tranquil too And the waves, like raging bulls.

Alexander Theobald, excerpt from ‘Symbols‘ pg 16

Thomas Pennell, Year 8 Mixed media Thomas Pennell, Year 8 Sculpture

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Louis Payne, Year 12 Mixed Media

Oliver Kruk, Year 9 Glass Thomas Golovoda, Year 11 Photographic Print

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Andrew Jian, Year 8 Painting

Charlie Offer, Year 7 Print

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It was rolling slowly towards me, a rising wall of water.

Thomas Wright, excerpt from ‘A Day at the Beach‘ pg 54

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Aiden McDougall, Year 12 Mixed Media

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Alexander Yellachich, Year 11

Conscience Concealed in minds Lying dormant in times of passivity.

Lurking in the shadows of our psyche, Creeping silently through liminal space.

Emerging into the realm of awareness Wise words whispered, Its work is done.

Crawling back into contemplation Quivering quietly in the depths of the mind.

Jabbing incessantly at my thoughts.

Implanting ideas Advising for, Advising against Urging Pushing Wailing!

Buzzing!

Nathan Debnam, Year 12 Photographic Print

9

SHRIEKING! A battle of morality With no escape.

Like my shadow, always by my side.

Ah! But what would I be without you?

My saviour on countless occasions.

Guilt, a thing of the past A distant sensation long forgotten.

My noble adviser, my moral advocate Ever-present.

But when conscience lies discarded, Passions run rampant, Dark desires break free Impulses of greed, Of selfishness, Are left to brood And Breed.

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Billy Sing – The Gallipoli Sniper Angus Dickson-Collins, Year 8

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A century ago, the bushman was the hero, Of the Australian boy, said Bean, the arts of the bush are his ambition, He learns of half the arts of a soldier by the time he is ten years old, This a hundred years ago, said Bean.

For Billy everything came naturally, he aimed to shoot to kill, And when he fired he killed, He then refined his shooting skills at the Clermont Rifle Club, Such was Billy Sing.

To sleep in any shelter, to cook meat, to bake a damper, To catch a horse, to find his way, by day or night to ride, I’m reminded of Billy Sing, half ‘Chink’ by his birth, Born at Sandy Creek, near Clermont in 1886.

And then came 1914, one of Bean’s boys came from the bush, Billy Sing was his name, From Clermont town, where gold was won, In far North Queensland.

Billy’s Dad, a Chinaman, taught him from an early age, To be self sufficient, to shoot straight, how to stalk small game, To observe well, and watch the signs, of the animals in sight.

As well as the birds in flight, by the waters of Sandy Creek.

From his Mother an English woman, again from an early age, She taught him perseverance and patience, Together with a desire to learn, Billy won an education prize, Such was his education in Clermont town.

His Dad, he was a Chinaman, the racial taunts came thick, But Billy was intelligent and did his work well at school, There weren’t the opportunities that boys have today, So Billy at fourteen years of age a drovin’ went to work.

As well as being a stockman, he worked as a station hand, A horse driver on a team, and a musterer, His love to hunt and shoot, helped to fill in his days, Sitting quietly at a waterhole at the twilight of the day.

The cooees rang the bush, as they rode to join the ranks, The 5th Light Horse accepted Sing, because he could ride and shoot, The old AIF didn’t care about a man’s colour or creed, if he were Australian, And measured to the mark, he was accepted for the task.

He’s only a bloody Chinaman, but we don’t really care, He’s a tough fair dinkum bushman, spent his life a drovin’, Down by Sandy Creek, far away from here, He can ride and hunt and shoot.

So Billy sailed to Gallipoli, where he duelled with Johnny Turk, Up there on Bolten’s Ridge, with an observer as a mate, He sent two hundred Mehmets to their paradise, But the trauma and the hardships took their toll in later life.

As I look upon his tombstone, Bean’s hero from the bush, Of this man from long ago, I’m remembered of those bushman, Who were willing to have a go, from far distant places, We have now all but forgot, but who made this country, Through their perseverance and grit, an inheritance to us, From them, to us, we will not forget.

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David Ng, Year 12

Restart I had to leave then, so it seemed, To make the move to the debris, Where stories of fortune and fame, Are little more than a misty haze.

The sunlight burns through the peaceful dark, Clawing through the cracks of half-bent shutters, The grime perverting once white walls, Clings to the light with a tenacious hold.

Hunkered down beneath the sky, The sound of cars and passers by Like white-noise to the untrained ear, Squeals like a baby; fuels my fear.

Where am I now, what room am I…?

Oh yes, that’s right, Room 101.

The bed is one without a base, yet Pillows fluffed – sheets folded down, Seasoned wallpaper curls its edges, Where floral patterns wriggle astray.

11

Is this the place where I should be And how should I begin?

(Perhaps this was a foolhardy path) I hear you clearly like a drum You said: ‘Work here is still around, You must just find where it is found.’

But no, Out here compared to where The cattle roam and sparrows sing, The jobs are broad and vast and wide For those who survive the battle zone.

Talking heads scurry down roads, Not one turning to look at another.

Of no great matter – I’m not important I wouldn’t know where to begin.

So here I am, sentenced indefinitely, To seek out what I came to find, But I grow old, I am unsure, If I have the ability to comply.

Of restless nights in cheap motels, And neon lights and city cars, Come, let us go outside, To meet strange people in the bar.

Richard Taylor, Year 12 Charcoal drawing

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Hope Albert Qiu, Year 9

12

Tears dripped to the ground.

The last board was nailed in by soldiers. The building that had once held their secret school was unusable. Sadia watched as they ripped apart the drawing that she had written on a flag to symbolise their school.

She turned away from the dusty window in despair. The textbooks under the window sill caught her gaze, covers torn and bent in various places. However, the multitudes of pages within the books were still clearly legible, her pride and joy. Her mother had tried to dissuade her from keeping the books and attending the secret school, but to no avail. She trudged off in anger to her bedroom in the cellar as the soldiers marched off.

Sadia lived with her younger brother and mother in a small house. Outside, the sun was shining and it was a pleasant day, a gentle breeze rippling gently through the village, but she was far from happy. She could never be with the soldiers ruthlessly patrolling every corner of their town. Where was their freedom? She tried to show her brother how to write the letter G. He finally got the hang of it when the pencil fractured. Sighing, she told him that she would help when she came back. She gathered her textbooks, hid them in a bag of fruit and hurried out.

Sadia sprinted to the bookshop as the town clock chimed, hurriedly knocking on the door with a secret pattern and rushing down the stairs into the basement. Panting, Sadia pushed through the creaking door into the makeshift classroom set up in the basement.

Her best friend was already sitting down and she moved along the row to let Sadia have a seat. Sadia smiled gratefully and opened her textbook, squinting in the dim lighting supplied by the single naked bulb dangling from the ceiling.

She glanced enviously at her friend’s mathematics textbook which was sitting

on her desk, proudly displaying 3rd Edition.

She almost had enough saved up ... just a few more days of working at the rubbish dump. She focused on the chalk on the wall as the teacher, her friend’s father, explained geometry to the class. The confined space of the classroom was stuffy and cramped and there was always one student at the doorway, watching out for the feared patrols that occasionally passed by. They always exited the classroom in small groups so as not to raise suspicion.

The teacher was halfway through drawing a diagram of a circle when the light cut off.

The student sentry sprinted from the door to his seat and tried to hide his textbook, as did the rest of the class. Heavy footsteps could be heard outside and a loud banging noise echoed in the basement.

All the children turned. The creaking of the door shattered the silence. Suddenly, the door was flattened. Soldiers stormed into the room. The law that declared that children could not be educated had clearly been clearly violated and the teacher, her best friend’s dad, was taken away. The soldier glared at each of the children and told them in a harsh voice that if they were seen together ever again, they would be shot. The textbooks were ripped from their hands and pencils snapped. Her best friend broke down next to Sadia, tears falling onto the precious few pages left of the textbook. Sadia tried consoling her, but she broke away and sprinted up the stairs.

The class slowly packed up the remaining shreds of their books and trudged upstairs.

When Sadia got home, she was in no mood to talk. Her mother opened her mouth as if to say something, but Sadia held a hand up and walked dejectedly to her room. She sat on her bed, head down.

Why wasn’t anyone stepping in? It wasn’t fair. She wished that her father, lost in a mining accident, would turn up now. She needed someone to stand with her against

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the corrupt soldiers who imposed their power upon the town.

She couldn’t talk with her friends because if communication between fellow classmates was discovered, the consequences would be hideous. Sadia sighed. If no-one was willing to help her cause she would do it herself. She checked the secret hoard she had built into her wooden bed. She counted the multitude of coins and notes, as she did every night. There was almost enough for the book she had been saving up for: 3rd Edition Mathematics. She hid the money back under the bed and left a note on the back of the door telling her mother that she was going for a walk.

She ambled through the meandering passages of her town. Upon seeing the alley where the secret shop was, her eyes lit up with excitement. In just a few days, she could own the maths book.

She climbed the stairs up to the kind old man who owned the shop. However, the imposed death threat made him more paranoid and he pretended to sell novels.

She wanted to have a look at the book before she bought it and used a secret code tapped out on the desk to tell him.

The hunger for knowledge in Sadia’s eyes rekindled and she ran back home, making sure she wasn’t found in the secret bookstore.

Unexpectedly, she slipped on a thin patch of mud. Picking herself up, she heard raucous laughing coming from the direction of a soldier patrol. Telling herself to calm down, she looked down – and saw a 20 rupee note fluttering in the gentle breeze. Anger forgotten, her heart raced as she realised that she could pay for the book. She sprinted home, money in hand, watching out for mud to avoid humiliating herself, yet again.

She was soon on her way. She slid to a stop outside the bookshop, but something was wrong. The rebel patrol was tossing out books through the cracked window that landed on the street below as the other soldier held the bookshop owner for playing a part against the government.

She screamed, grabbing their attention.

She yelled at the soldiers for not letting children be educated. The soldier holding the bookshop owner turned to her, gun loaded. She ignored him – he wouldn’t shoot a child. She continued yelling about how their children wouldn’t be educated.

And she saw the man raise the gun.

Loud shouting and screaming was the first thing Sadia noticed when she woke up. She was in hospital. Glancing out the window, she rubbed her eyes. There seemed to be some kind of protest going on ... but what about? Then she recognised her friends, holding up signs and shouting about education. Shocked to the core, she had a sudden realisation.

They weren’t protesting about lack of food ... then she saw a poster with her name scrawled upon it.

Help had arrived.

Tears of joy sprang from her eyes.

Then there was a gunshot.

The world spun around. She felt a jolt against her head. Then pain kicked in and her sight faded to grey as she fell to the ground. People rushed to help her.

The hunger for knowledge in Sadia’s eyes rekindled ...

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Beowulf Creative Writing Clarence Wang, Year 7

14

Black clouds devoured the sky; thunder clapped overhead, illuminating the wet and drenched men. The dark clouds blocked the sun’s rays from reaching the boat, making men stumble and trip over each other. The downfall was almost unbearable even with the armour on.

The water was stinging our faces, soaking our bodies, wearing us down. The salty sea smashed onto the side of the boat, rocking the boat, knocking men around and spraying water onto our bodies. The pungent smell of the salty sea hung in the air. Coldness stung like bees, soaked men stumbled across the deck, desperately trying to find something to hold onto. The rain hammered onto my armour making a light drumming noise, seawater clung onto my hair and face.

ropes. The boat surged through the ocean, ropes grinding against the mast, the sail blowing with the wind. We were getting closer with each second so I told my men to prepare to land. I licked my dry, cut lips and tasted the salt of it. My skin was damp from the torment of the rain.

“How far until we reach The Land of the Danes, Wiglaf?” I shouted, trying to be heard over the deafening noise of the creaking boat and the rumble of thunder.

I jumped down onto the beach. I could feel and hear the sand crunching under my feet. The white tipped waves crashed up onto the shore then give up and flowed back into the blue, clear, pristine ocean.

I was trying to sort out the confusion among the men when the drumming of hooves suddenly interrupted me.

Not knowing what it was, I signalled my soldiers to draw their swords. I saw eyes darting around, trying to find the source of the noise. A Danish warrior charged down the hill, carrying a spear and p news on Hrothgar.

A small, red headed, stubby man appeared behind me. He was holding what seemed to be a map. It was soaked and looked as if it would fall apart any second.

“According to the map, Hrothgar should be in sight ... now!”

The rain suddenly turned into a light mist, clouds turned white and the sun brought warmth to our bodies and what it revealed was a magnificent sight. A sandy beach then a rocky ridge protruded out of the ground. Green grass lay like a blanket across the ridge, hills plotted the land and cottages dotted the field.

The sudden shudder of the boat startled me. I grabbed onto the rough, course rope to stop myself from getting knocked over.

“Beowulf, we have arrived at The Land of the Danes!” Wiglaf shouted, trying to push himself through the crowd of men.

“Lower the plank and get the men and the resources onto the beach. Who knows what awaits us!”

“Who are you and what is your purpose here?!” the warrior man demanded.

“I am the warrior, Beowulf, and I have come to rid the horrid beast you call Grendel!”

“Men, we have found land!” I shouted.

“Beowulf? I am sorry my Lord, I will have men down here in a few minutes to escort you to the castle,” the young Danish warrior said and, with that, he galloped away.

Cheers sounded from the boat. Men with renewed strength ran and started to fix the

A short while later, five Danish warriors escorted us to the castle. I glared at the

“Aaahhh… never thought I would see land again,” Wiglaf exclaimed.

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colossal hall, the great studded oak doors, printed with carvings of fearsome dragons, heroes and blood lusted beasts. The door, however, was locked and chained, scratched and splintered. A man stepped forward from the crowd, his long grey hair swaying in the wind, his long embroidered cloak dragging along the ground. His forehead was wrinkled; his cheeks were puffed up and drained of colour.

“Beowulf, I thank you for travelling to our land to aid us against the fight against Grendel. Tonight we shall celebrate the arrival of Beowulf! Open the door of the hall!” Hrothgar shouted.

The men of Hrothgar shuddered; the thought of Grendel must have been horrific. Two men appeared and walked towards the locked door. They cut the rusted chains with silver clamps and the doors flew open. The horrid stench of the dead seeped through the men.

Once inside it became even worse, blood painted walls, limbs and body parts left scattered on the tables, chairs and the cold, cobble floor.

“Get the cleaners. Beowulf, come with me to my room,” Hrothgar demanded.

Night came sooner than I had anticipated.

The smell of mead and rum filled the hall. Drunken men laughed and flirted with women. I looked out the window, watching the murky, dark mire. Large beams stretched across the roof, the fire danced along with the drunken men. I had chosen not to wear any armour for Grendel did not. I also did not use a weapon because Grendel only used his hands. I lay on my back, resting and gathering my strength for what surely was going to be a mammoth battle ahead.

The fire suddenly flickered out, causing the men to disperse, but it was too late.

The great oak doors swung open, revealing

a large, scaly troll. He lurched into the room and seized three of my men and quickly disposed of them. Grendel continued his ravenous slaughter, blood cascading down Grendel’s chin then slobbering onto the floor when he shook his head. He swung one arm wildly, knocking down a pillar and sending the chandelier crashing onto the fire pit. Grendel left a trail of thick, red blood. His sharp teeth bit into the flesh of the soldiers before he dropped their lifeless carcasses onto the floor. Soldiers ran in terror and dread as the horrid beast gave chase. Grendel swung his arm in an arc and caught one of the soldiers.

Grendel chuckled at the despaired man then crunched his head. I recoiled in shock as I saw the blood ooze out of Grendel’s mouth. Then he stopped. I could hear every breath he took becoming heavier and heavier. Then Grendel began to retreat back to the door. I seized my chance and climbed onto a wooden beam. I jumped off and landed onto the scaly monster.

Grendel fought back with renewed strength. He swung his arm wildly, nearly striking my head. Grendel knocked himself into a pillar making me lose my grip and forcing me onto the bloody, cobble floor. I jumped back onto Grendel, this time with a piece of broken wood. I pierced it into Grendel’s ear, thrusting it in deeper each time, making Grendel shriek in pain.

Grendel bellowed in rage and ran towards the door. I grabbed onto the broken chandelier and knotted it around his arm.

Grendel screamed in anguish as he realised what I had done. He continued to run towards the door, the chandelier dragging behind him, creating bright orange sparks that bounced around the floor. I let go of him and pulled a chain from the chandelier around a pillar. He tugged on his arm, trying to get out of the hall. He still had great strength and I was losing the battle. I could hear the chain grinding the pillar. I was about to lose my grip when Wiglaf appeared and skewered his sword

between the chain link. I ran towards Grendel who was almost out of the hall.

I grabbed hold of the studded oak doors and slammed it into his arm.

“I am the slayer of monsters. I am the bravest, the strongest, the most courageous. I AM BEOWULF!” I shouted.

I slammed the door one last time with all my might, shutting the door and dropping the severed, still twitching arm of Grendel at my feet.

Coldness stung like bees ...

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Alexander Theobald, Year 11

Symbols When I read a poem about sunflowers They told me it was about the joy of life.

“Why?” I asked the tall, scholarly man.

“Symbolism!” he replied, but I was none the wiser.

They told me that the sun represents godlike power And that the moon embodies mystery and intrigue.

But to me the sun is just a great light in the sky And the moon is a beautiful satellite.

They said that the land is rough and strong And the water is pure and calm.

But the earth can be still and tranquil too And the waves, like raging bulls.

When I look at things, I don’t see symbols, I see the beauty of what they really are.

So when I read a poem about sunflowers, To me, it’s about sunflowers.

A State of Subsistence Harry Smallbone, Year 12

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In the grey time, I watch with eyes That have known life too well, have been worn, by and by, And faded, frayed by the anger of times past, future.

We exist to be confronted, and in the confronting To fall back on the certainty of existence, A moral compass shattered on the rocks of discomfort.

I loved once, the red, vital love of roses blooming, Of a glittering pool of water, consuming The stolen light of others.

I stole her heart, my Desdemon of grimy gutters, But that was long ago, yet she remains, Lingering, a vague yet insistent stench.

Pretences swarm as grinning faces, Cold touch of warm embraces, Of briny smells in fish markets, And late night charlatans, preaching To painted faces, chipped puppets Dancing on lonely strings.

And in the corners of my mind darkness falls, I feel the rage that beats against glassy walls, The trappings of hidden anguish, stale society and Finding no purchase, falls back into obscurity, Hyde to the Jekyll of simpering politeness greeting Half-forgotten acquaintances.

The grey flame flickers and gutters, For where is purpose, where adventure?

Only twilight subsists, hiding the malice of human hearts.

Rustling trees obscure all sight in the deepening gloom.

In between the gaps of existence, I watch and wonder, The horror, the horror.

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David Ellis, Year 12

Rain It was Saturday night. Party night. Residents had been ringing non-stop complaining of fights, noise and drinking, but we had been sent to investigate reports of an overdose.

We drove down the narrow road, sifting through crowds of inebriated teenagers, chewed up and spat out by the party onto the raw gravel. It was 1.30 in the morning, but they littered the street. Girls clung to one another, stumbling, trying as they might to stay on their feet. Young men in baggy jackets glared at us as we drove through, oblivious to the half-blinding spotlight and sirens. We weren’t welcome.

The party wasn’t as out of control as it can get. There were no fires, no one jumping off the roof, but the door had been kicked in and indecipherable scrawl covered most of the brick exterior. Climbing out of the wagon, I breathed deep the smell of vomit and sweet liquor that clung to the air. “Bayden, let’s head inside,” my partner said. We strode through the corridor of the house, ushering aside tripping, wiry, drugbent teenagers. The electronic thrum of the music throbbed in my head, pounding, surging like waves against a reef. The strobe lights were hypnotic, wonderful. The disorienting combination of the two lulled me into a dull, almost mesmerised, state.

Around the side of the house, beside the asbestos fence, a couple of kids huddled around a young man, a boy, splayed out on the cold earth. He laid face down, still, a pool of vomit around his head.

The howl of sirens grew louder as grim, hooded teens trudged fearlessly through the darkness, drifting back to their broken homes or at least somewhere. Their fearlessness was no show of bravery or courage. It was the nerve of defeat. A monotonous feeling of indifference, of not caring, of acceptance.

They had been brought into a tough world, which they passed through aimlessly, uncaring, beaten. It was hard to move beyond that pitiful existence. I had been there. I had done that. I knew how it felt.

I was raised in a small brick house in Carmello.

My father was a burly man, aggressive, abusive. He was a mechanic but he spent most of his time at the pub. Coming home late each night, he would beat my mother over the most trivial things. Like my father, mum was a drunk, though I think she only drank to escape him. I was the only child, neglected and overlooked. I spent my youth doing whatever I wanted, though in retrospect I think I yearned for, needed, some kind of structure.

I went to the local primary school, a small place with only a hundred or so students.

It might have been the best time of my life before things changed. People were nice.

Life was fun. I learnt things. Looking back on it, I was a bit like Roald Dahl’s Matilda. I was smart, really smart. My teachers said I had a lot of potential. By Grade Three I could read and write well enough, self-taught, but my parents didn’t care. They scoffed at my report card. Being smart didn’t matter around here. I was destined to follow in my father’s footsteps, destined to become a mechanic. I was just like everyone else, and by the time I reached high school I followed the same path.

High school was different. By the time kids reached high school their innocence had been shattered. They had awoken to the harsh reality of their life, no longer able to live in a fantasy world with toy guns and TV and they could grasp what was going on around them. Now able to comprehend the abuse, the neglect, our shit lives, we couldn’t see ourselves going anywhere, and like a self-fulfilling prophecy, we resigned ourselves to any prospect of becoming something, anything. We cared no longer. We didn’t have a future. We wouldn’t become lawyers, doctors or engineers. In our minds we had nothing, and when you have nothing, you have nothing to lose. We were reckless.

It’s easy to say I got in with the wrong crowd, but then again, all the crowds were as bad

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as each other. We knew we were bad, and we liked it. We usually just skipped school entirely, spending most of our time at Jimmy’s house, a broad-shouldered kid with wild, brown eyes and olive skin. Jimmy’s mum had died years back, though Jimmy didn’t tell us how or what from, and his dad worked like a mongrel to support them, spending a lot of time away from home.

Almost totally neglected by his parents, Jimmy was the craziest, wildest of us all, and it was he who introduced us to fighting.

Fighting was a practical thing around where we lived. It came in handy to know how to fight and if you couldn’t fight yourself, you had to at least know people who could. We were all fighters, though Jimmy was the best of us all. His older brother and his friends were mostly meth-heads now or were in jail, but they used to teach us all how to fight. We looked up to them and they looked out for us. Afternoons were spent fighting out the back of his house. We fought until we were bloody and bruised, until we could stand no longer. We held no grudges. After the fights we would clean each other up and sit back with a tinnie, watching the rest of the fights.

All kids these days do martial arts and that, but I’m still not sure exactly why we did it.

Perhaps it was some kind of unconscious longing to feel something other than the pain we felt at home – a kind of escape from our shitty, hopeless lives. Perhaps we were just angry, testosterone-fuelled kids with nothing better to do. I didn’t think about it too much, we just did it. It was normal.

By the time we were seventeen we were decent fighters, but we weren’t exactly sure what to do with ourselves. We were more aggressive than ever, angrier, more volatile. It was as if each emotion was intensified by a scale factor of ten.

We needed our fight club, but Jimmy, the glue holding it together, had left with his Dad who had bought into the mining thing, getting a job up North.

Without him, it just wasn’t the same.

Our aggression remained, but with our sole means for exorcising it gone, we all harboured an immense rage.

It was dangerous.

It was a Friday night, hot and humid, the sort of day when the Fremantle Doctor never arrives. We felt restless, jittery from the crack the half-dozen of us had smoked back at Max’s place. We were on edge and the night only seemed to intensify the feeling. The moon was a sliver, the light filtered by the sparse foliage of Eucalypts overhead. Cicadas clicked on either side of the road anxiously, as if waiting for something to happen. Striding forth, indifferent to the uneasy faces of onlookers, the light cast six hooded shadows over the road. Cigarette smoke hung in the air, its sweet aroma poisoned as we passed fags and cheap wine back and forth between one another in silence.

The fighting continued despite his absence, taking a more reckless turn. It was different now that we didn’t have Jimmy’s place to fight. It wasn’t the same kind of atmosphere. We didn’t fight one another, mopping each other up after each fight, grinning at one another maniacally.

We were looking for fights and we were bigger, stronger. What we didn’t realise was that we could do some serious damage.

I felt tense, alert, almost irritated. We’d heard there was a party a few streets away. As we rounded the corner my eyes darted from one side to another. There it was, number 37. We walked inside, heads held high, unchecked by the people at the door. They knew who we were. On edge, buzzing, humming with energy, we were looking for a fight and they knew it. We spotted him.

We went out one night, aimlessly roaming the streets, looking, waiting for something to happen. That’s what our existence had come down to – a wearisome searching for something to do. After all, we had nothing.

A few of us had a job, but most of us were on the dole or still living with our parents, having dropped out of school. Regardless, there was no overarching purpose to our tedious, wandering lives.

He was muscly, perhaps a football player, and handsome too. He wore a white, buttoned polo and a burgundy jacket hung off his wide shoulders. He didn’t fit in around here.

He was something else. A pretty girl stood at his side, blonde haired, curvy. She seemed to think he was funny. He looked so nice and so perfect that it angered me. The others nodded towards him, pulling their hoods tight around their faces.

Laurence Vanderhor, Year 9 Charcoal drawing

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Max grabbed the girl tight, whispering smut into her ear, telling the kid to clear off unless he wanted trouble. Just as expected, acting nobly, he stood up for the girl, pushing back at Max, and with that he was done. The five of them lashed out like pit bulls as I stood transfixed. Max hit him with a clean right and blood spewed from his crooked nose.

As he stumbled backwards, hands flailing, the pit bulls moved forward menacingly.

A second punch saw him tip backwards and with a sickening crunch, his head hit the concrete floor.

Blood gushed from his open head and his eyes gazed upwards unconsciously. The girl shrieked, “You bastards!” It had happened. I felt like I had been kicked in the guts. I was disgusted. Music throbbed, lights danced, I stood there, transfixed. Horrified. “Jeez mate, let’s get outta here now,” Max said, grabbing me, shaking me, pulling me with him, but I couldn’t go. I couldn’t tear my eyes away from the pathetic sight of the young man out on the floor, whose life we had just wasted.

That moment changed me. Although I didn’t actually kill him, it still made me realise the full consequences of my actions and unlike the others, I had a conscience. I didn’t have many options, but I was going to make a life for myself. I was going to give up the drugs and fighting and do something.

We drive through the crowd, the ambulance has come and collected the dead kid. Heavy clouds hang overhead, about to burst, but the partygoers seem not to notice. Indifferent not only to the weather, but to the tragedy of the night, they are numb. I see myself in them. I see that same boldness, that same sense of indifference, of resignation. I look at the pregnant clouds overhead. “Come on, rain,” I mutter under my breath. If only those clouds would break, pour and make those kids feel something real.

Alistair Johnstone, Year 10

Soul

19

The baby’s fingers were closed in a loose fist. He was barely bigger than the pair of hands carefully pressing a stethoscope to his bony chest. The infant didn’t put up a fight. He was already too weak from clinging to life. His dark skin was in stark contrast with the white walls and the lab coat of the doctor. The doctor was a tall man with thin cheekbones. He withdrew his arms from the incubator in which the child lay. He sighed the sound of despair; he knew there was no hope left for this child. He knew the baby’s life would be over almost before it began.

This was the fourteenth child taken in for examination, taken from the surrogate almost as soon as he was born. #14 was his only means of identification. Another failed experiment for the company. The doctor jotted down his observations on a clipboard and strode away through the white halls of the establishment towards his office. He passed several television screens.

The news being announced was about the war. It was always about the war these days.

Ever since Venice had been sunk, people had been demanding action. Up until that point, the cities lost had all been far away.

Far enough away to convince people they would never dare attack closer to London.

London, the last safe refuge in Europe: it had been quarantined early on in the war and so far none of the enemy had managed to penetrate London’s defences.

The doctor wasn’t proud of his work, but it was necessary. After the public outcry of the Venice incident, he had been chosen to lead a new project. This project would centre on cloning. Until this point in human history, it had been illegal to experiment on humans.

Now, though, the people liked the idea of a soldier who was expendable – no grieving widows, fatherless children. A soldier was born to kill. It seemed to be the perfect plan.

Yet so far, fourteen children had been born.

Fourteen children had shown excellent signs of advanced growth and good vital signs for two days. After the two-day mark,

P A G 20

all of them had stopped growing, and died. It was a tragic thing to witness once, but fourteen times was too much. The doctor tried not to think about it. What was important now was his work. He had to find a way to make this technology work.

In theory they could do it, yet there was something missing. The doctor knew what was wrong but he didn’t want to believe it. The clones’ physical bodies were fine, yet they had no spirit. They lacked the one thing that humans had. Humans had souls.

They could fight for their life, even against a terminal disease that ate away at them for years on end. Humans fought. They almost never just lay there and took what life gave them. The clones didn’t fight. They had no will to live, no will to survive. No soul.

The doctor didn’t want to be the one to tell people what the problem was. When he arrived at his office he found someone waiting for him. It was the Chairman.

When the Chairman had gone, the doctor collapsed in a chair. “Ten weeks?” he muttered. “That’s impossible.”

Over the next eight weeks, the doctor poured himself into his work. He stayed up late at night. He tried out new ways of getting the clones to survive. They needed a soul; they needed a reason to start living.

Two weeks later, the ten weeks were up.

The Chairman was not disappointed. The doctor wasn’t there. In fact, no-one had seen him for fourteen days. The Chairman didn’t mind. He’d never liked the doctor.

The man was always scared. Scared of the war, scared of his work, probably even scared of himself. A nurse came through the door.

“Really?” said the Chairman. “Some people have been giving me reports of how the experiments are going. They say that the clones seem to lack...soul.”

“Ten weeks? Very well, Chairman. I will do as you ask.”

“Have you seen the doctor recently?” the Chairman asked. “I wish to congratulate him on his astounding result.”

“I’m sorry sir, no-one has seen the doctor for about two weeks, roughly when the clones started to survive.”

“Never mind, how many can you create?”

“A lot, Sir. We can have the production up and running in 30 minutes.”

“Good. Produce as many as you can. Carry on.” The Chairman smiled.

“Where are the clones?” he asked.

Thirty minutes later, the production line started up, it was all connected to a sleek metallic box, about six feet square. Tubes and wires ran into the box, yet nobody knew what was inside. It was the last thing the doctor had made before he disappeared.

He said that if the box were to be opened, the production would not work. Away from prying eyes, inside the mysterious box, a man stood. Tubes penetrated his arms and wires were attached to his skull. He stood there, never moving, simply staring at the wall with his mouth open. His white lab coat lay in a crumpled heap in a corner. He had no willpower, no reason to live. Every time the machine shook, he shuddered a bit and the light in his eyes dimmed even more. This was the secret to making the clones work.

The man was a shell, a husk of a human. The gaunt man had no purpose. He had no soul.

... they had no spirit.

“Well I assure you that everything is going fine.”

“Very well, Doctor, carry on with your work.” The Chairman stood up from his seat. “I am sure you have heard about the recent conquest of the enemy. Brussels was wiped out in a matter of days. You have ten weeks, doctor. We’re running out of soldiers.”

“Yes, Sir. The doctor managed to figure out how to give them... soul.”

“If you would like to step this way, Chairman,” she said politely.

“My dear doctor, how are you? I trust the work is going well?”

“O-of course, Chairman,” the doctor stuttered. He couldn’t bring himself to make eye contact with the Chairman.

“Everything is going fine.”

“Impressive,” admitted the Chairman. “Can they think for themselves?”

“They are right here, Chairman,” the Nurse replied, pressing a small button on the doorframe. The electronic door unlocked with a metallic whir and a clone came through. Dressed in matte black armour, he was over seven feet tall. His face was completely hidden by a Perspex visor and the only things left uncovered were his hands.

P A G

David Ng, Year 12

Contact Reports had flooded back on the comms to Delta HQ that 10 Platoon had been in contact with an unknown number of Vietcong guerrillas; they had been attacked patrolling the Phuoc Tuy province.

Reinforcements were requested, as was Starlight, the code word for the regimental medical officer. It was time, yet again, to help men who should not have even been down there in the first place. Australia’s part in the war had been as a result of US intervention and again we were fighting a war that did not involve us, did not call for our aid – it was like the Great War, only serving under the US as opposed to the British Empire, yet still as pointless as the former in terms of Australia’s involvement.

The war, initially colonial between France and Vietnam, would send Australian servicemen to fight for a cause that did not involve them, hidden beneath the façade of patriotism, and send them to unnecessary deaths.

On approach to the contact, what could have once been a small village was now a wreck of splintered wood and straw, embers still consuming the town. Passing through the debris, the smell of the tropics had been smothered by that of the burning village, or even that of the charred bodies that were so hastily scattered amongst the ruins. Voices consolidated in the distance, nearing. The sudden noise of gunfire erupted every few seconds, shattering the silence as though stones were being propelled through a stained-glass window. As we rounded the bend, we saw them huddled behind what few trees and mounds of earth provided them with protection from the unknown enemy position. The feeling down there was chaotic. Our view from the Jeep allowed us to see the enemy holed up in a couple of small bunkers and a trench system on the far side of the plain, just on the ridge, hidden behind the trees. Our boys would have had no clue they were there, if not for the gunfire. These men were wreaking havoc on the diggers below. In

21

‘no man’s land’, between the two battle positions, a few men from both sides lay strewn on the open field, red staining the earth around them. Once brave, courageous and loyal, they were left abandoned by their country in the heart of battle. Most of them were dead, the only movement being the occasional muscular spasm as their spirit left their bodies. The few who were still alive lay there at the mercy of the cone-shaped shards of metal that flew over them.

It was beyond protocol to help any of them.

My job was simple – remain behind the lines, out of battle, and provide aid to the wounded. The role was pivotal and there were only a few medics assigned to each company. This meant the loss of one of us was supposedly more important than the life of one of the other men out front.

Supposedly. But how was I to provide aid to the wounded when I couldn’t even reach them? Back in 1964, just before conscription into the cause, in a past life, I was a civilian nurse with little experience in all things military. Back in Fitzroy, there’d always been opposition to violence. I witnessed the aftermath of brutal stabbings, murders, rape, of death. Now it was all thrown into one, a blender of all things horrible and wrong with the world. Whilst none of that could have prepared me for what was to come in the war, I had finally accepted I was here and that it was my duty to help the men who needed it.

Meanwhile, 10 Platoon could be heard hurriedly ordering commands and moving into a streamline formation. They were engineering what could either get them out of their detriment, or worsen it. All of a sudden, a group of eight men bolted from the edge of the main group, scurrying towards a fallen log from which they would have a greater chance of pinning down the Vietcong in the bunker system. They glided along the mud, one after another, down the home stretch. The Vietcong, armed with a mounted machine gun, let loose bursts

P A G 22

of fire, yet none seemed to collide with the brave diggers that they intended to kill.

However, the fifth or sixth man seemed to hesitate and stumble mid-way between the two points and only after the section had crossed did we (and they) realise one of their men was hit. He was down, but alive, his hand covering the wound to his upper leg.

The wounded Digger joined the rest in the open field, helpless in the middle of it all. He didn’t seem to care that bullets flew over him in both directions and that the enemy could take him out any second.

He cared about how he could preserve his life. The loss of life in the war so far was astounding, and as a medic I knew the effort that went into saving one’s life was huge, yet realised how easily it was taken away. Everything this man had ever worked for would be before his eyes, and it could all disappear in seconds. A surge of emotion swelled inside me. I couldn’t stand by and watch this man follow the pattern of so many others and be killed on the open field.

Rocket fire emerged from the bunkers and the men of 10 Platoon were in total disarray.

Smoke filled the area amongst the kickedup dust and earth and the air provided a visual barrier from their Vietcong foe. The forward section was pinned down and their lone, wounded comrade was still withering in the open at the mercy of the gods. With the haze caused by the rockets partially surrounding them, this was really the only chance to commit. The distance to the casualty was about a hundred metres, an easy dash, but it would mean exposing me to enemy fire for the whole period. If I did manage to get out alive, I would cop a whack by the hierarchy above. I figured it was worth the risk. This man’s life was as important as my own. He was out the front doing it tough and whilst it wasn’t my job to do what he did, I still hadn’t done anything as courageous and sacrificed as

much as that man had, even if this battle was for nothing.

Just to the right, my second-in-command (2IC), Joe, was preparing the medkits and was on radio telecommunications with the rest of the platoon. Together, we provided aid for the company along with another pair that were still at HQ. Joe had been with me since the beginning and we both felt similarly in regards to why they were at war.

Joe had been conscripted a couple years after me, but we’d been mates ever since. I broke the silence.

“I have to go out there, mate,” I finally pronounced. “The bloke needs help.”

“No, you’re not, bud,” Joe responded. I was about to get defensive when he added, “We’re going out there. I’m with you. At least we can finally do something worthwhile in this war, help out another bloke. Let’s go.”

Like a childish experience where you finally get the toy you always wanted, a grin emerged over my face – we were going together. With that, we sped out from behind the cover of the Jeep and dashed towards the wounded soldier. With Joe right behind me, I was at ease knowing if something went down, he’d be there by my side. And so we ran.

Pounding the pavement and with every step, we neared the objective. We kept our heads down and continued forward. The men of 10 Platoon would have thought we were nuts, but that didn’t matter. As soon as they picked up on what we planned to do, they provided suppressing fire towards the bunkers. Joe and I kept going, bullets pounding between our feet and into the dirt around us and all was well. Forty metres. Thirty metres. Twenty metres. Then, with a quick snap of his head backwards, Joe fell behind. He was badly shot, multiple places too. He took one in the shoulder, another in the hip and a third in the leg. It

didn’t look good at all and the worst part was, as a medic, I knew he wasn’t going to make it. Almost certain. It was all so quick as well and a sort of guilt washed over me; why did it have to happen? The simple answer in my mind was, it didn’t.

Of course, that wasn’t what the Generals in the armchairs back home thought. Why did they get to call the shots when they didn’t have to go through any of this? At least tell us why we’re here… Reaching out, the rough collar of Joe’s webbing grazed my fingertips and, without stopping, I dragged us along towards the front section. Gasping for air, we struggled forward. “Nearly there, Joe…” The wound was worse than it looked from afar and Joe would need a CASEVAC (casualty evacuation), that was certain.

But we were far from out of it, even less so than before, now that more men were pinned down behind this log. Though out of immediate danger, there seemed to be no way of getting back. But this didn’t seem to be on the front section boys’ mind, who seemed relieved that their mate was back and like a sort of wolf pack they gathered round us in a protective formation, none caring any more for their life than that of the man’s beside him. Time passed and after about a quarter of an hour, the command came back that retreat was issued. In the front section, dismay and frustration was in the air. Their section had sacrificed everything to get into the position and now the order to retreat was issued, they were stranded and still pinned down.

“What are we s’posed to do now?”

“Bloody hell, this is a load of bull.”

“Joe down there’s hit for nothing, aye?”

Angry words filled the previously heroic air.

Who could blame them? This had all been for nothing and the men who were hit, were killed. They undertook the ultimate sacrifice.

Eventually, in what seemed like a contradiction to the retreat, a couple of Centurion tanks were welcomed to the fray, soaking up the fire whilst shelling the unfortunate enough fellows in the bunkers out of existence. The other tank was called round to provide cover for the front section, which I guess now included me, and we slowly crawled back to the platoon harbour using the cover the tank provided. The tank rolled up gallantly in front, absorbing the now-redundant gunfire from the persistent Vietcong. It was a waste of ammunition, if you ask me. The helicopter came closer into view and the arrangement of Jeep and APVs filled the landscape. We were back, but what had we achieved, and at what cost?

The injured recovered well and after a few weeks were back in shape and sent back out to conduct other futile missions in the jungle. Joe didn’t make it.

Back at Delta HQ, as expected, I was blasted for breaking lines and given a hefty penalty.

Even though I pleaded my case that the casualty wouldn’t have survived without me, it didn’t seem to matter. He was just another pawn in a chess game. And he didn’t survive. The next day, those who could, regrouped into sections, with a few fresh faces joining the battle-hardened warriors who had already aged far beyond their years. The war went on.

Jerome Scaffidi, Year 12 Photographic Print

Christian Fini, Year 11

Youthful Aspirations

P A G 23

The flourishing fig trees once seemed so high, Mighty under my young, jubilant feet.

Unaware of my teacher’s petrified cry, I’d proudly bellow, “Hey, hey, now look at me!”

I held youthful aspirations, Whilst I’d conquered each single tree, And every standing mountain that ever confronted me.

How was I to realise it was only my imagination?

Nowadays, I’ve come to acknowledge confining, inconspicuous fence lines.

The mountains I climb these days, Are far more gruelling, hostile and incessant.

The battles I now endure are armed with harrowing, suffering.

In my own experience with age and such, I’ve always yearned to return back To where the mountains weren’t so high And where the fountain of youth would never die.

P A G

Alistair Morgan, Year 12

Impressions I I watched and saw the children play, I saw their fortress up a tree, While below the knights did slay, A dragon, killed by royal decree.

And the dragon wagged its tail.

I smelled the whiff of cooking oil, And flaming prawns laid on a grill, I heard a crackle of the foil; A parent stole a prawn with skill.

And the parent burned his mouth.

I saw the dragon sneaking near, I saw its desperate lunge for food, I saw the dragon disappear, And watched the chaos that ensued.

And the dragon ate its meal.

II I watch and see the hollow children play, Their faces basked in an electric glow, They sit there killing sphinxes through the day, And try to get a hundred-streak combo.

I smell the whiff of chips put on to heat, And fast-food burgers, supersized for free, I see the family sitting down to eat, Their waxen faces fixed on the TV. I see a forlorn puppy crouched outside, His empty food bowl lying at his paws, His hollow belly carelessly denied, His cries drowned out by studio applause.

Edward Kermode, Year 12 Mixed Media

The Country Daniel English, Year 12

24

“I’ll tell you where the dead heart of Australia is. It’s right back there in those cities. Not out in the sand and the mulga and the stones burning hot under the sun”.

David Ireland, Burn The hill was covered in bush, gumtrees and scrub covering the area. The road advanced through the prosperous nature to the centre of our state, the capital city, a place of rivers surviving in conjunction with civilisation, of bush living with the vast population of humankind, a hub for environmental awareness, a focal point for life. Just ahead of me in the distance was the beautiful sight of Norfolk Pines spread across the suburbs. The school had decided to take us for an excursion today, for Geography 2AB. We were here to see sustainable projects, designed to rehabilitate the environment and such. These were the real sustainability projects, not like a bush area sanctioned off as a reserve by some farmer hoping to increase his income from the government, not Dryandra Village, little more than a mound of dirt with a couple of trees which they called a nature reserve. No, this was the stuff that really changed the city, the stuff city councils and people spent days planning, stuff that changed their landscape into something beautiful. It was here we were to see the Victoria Park Contact with Nature project.

P A G 25

I was bloody sick of the country. My Dad was a farmer and although he never would say it to my face, he had always had some aspiration that some day I might follow in his footsteps. Yeah, I could use a handpiece to some extent, drive a tractor, fix the spokes on an air seeder and build a fence, but that wasn’t what I wanted. It couldn’t be. After five hours of crutching, I just about wanted to kill my Dad for making me do it. Yeah, he’d said I didn’t have to if I didn’t want to, but he’d really appreciate my help. He was bloody good at guilting me into stuff. Nope, as soon as I could, I’d piss off to the city, leave the old codger and his stupid farm behind me. My little brother could deal with his shit after next year. That was the other thing. He’s always favoured him. He’d seen three of my hockey matches – three – all season. Guess how many of my brother’s footy matches he had watched? All but two, which brings us to a grand total of eighteen. Eighteen times he had cheered on my brother as he hit the footy field. He’d even left me behind to fix a fence by myself to go see one. I didn’t say anything, didn’t think it’d be polite, you know, it wasn’t what a real bloke would say, you know, “No, you can’t go watch your son play footy and leave me here to fix the bloody gate.” It’d make me sound soft or something. Dad had pushed me away, no matter how many skills he’d given me.

Anyway, here we were in Perth, looking around for this sustainability project. I hadn’t been to Perth for years. We were in a kind of dodgy part, but I’m sure it’d get better as we got towards Vic Park.

There were a fair few parks around here, green as anything. At home we were still waiting for the rain to come so it was the same as summer, dusty as hell. Couldn’t believe how green this stuff was, the grass sticking out of the ground like thin slices of emerald. Looked like the green tags we’d put on the sheep last tailing season. We kept at this windy road, leading us to this place we had only heard of,

white lines guiding us to our destination.

The houses were getting a bit better so I was optimistic about this whole project, thinking it’d be as green as anything, Norfolk pines, or whatever you call those trees with the leaves like whips, jumping out over the horizon with wildflowers along the ground with a touch of grass to finish it off, you know? A natural retreat from the surrounding suburbia. There I was, pressing my head against the window of the bus, full of hope for two years from now, where I could happily join the place that’d become my home.

This was it. Vic Park. We’d made it here, about three hours’ drive from Narro.

Bloody hell. There was a light blue sign next to the road awaiting us. The paint was fading; the edges scratched off seemingly by some kid who thought it’d be cool to write “skope” on it. The project, if you could even call it that, covered about twenty metres squared. What the hell had I been thinking? The ground was nothing but grey sand, divots throughout formed by the ooze that’d hit here earlier, excluding the many faded coke cans and McDonald’s packaging we’d found there.

The vegetation wasn’t much better. It was nothing but scrub, crappy little bushes that if weren’t dead grey were a dull green, forever in a state of decay. The branches held nothing but thorns, covered for the most part in an orange dust, produced by the fungus that was slowly killing them.

Small tufts of grass protruded from the ground, like unwanted hands, reaching from the earth at my hopes of seeing a city of beauty and promise. Nothing here was worth the space it had wasted, it was an all-encompassing grey, emitting from this centre of decay that was supposedly “Contact with Nature.”

God, I missed the country. It’d taken an unveiled ugliness, but now a realisation had hit me. The bush, the farm, anything that didn’t encompass this all-consuming

grey was home to me now and had been always. What lay behind me was an uncompromising truth of how lucky I had been to escape that sickening abyss of lies. The city – it was nothing but a dark capital of pollution that’d even stained the earth; where the bark was scratched off trees revealing the flesh, red as blood hidden beneath. The garbage bins were all covered in some sort of black sludge, a stench wafting across the cesspit that was urban society. The road home, snaked up the hill, tyre stains and pot holes spread down the grey mass, like some sort of disease. The sky lying behind – no blue, no white, only grey – is there. Grey as the city that lies beneath it. A slight drizzle continues, the kind of rain that doesn’t even put its heart into it, that just seems to slip out of the sky like some clear ooze.

The sandy grey pathway also trundles up the hill, covered in dry, black remnants of what used to be gum, while brown tufts of grass seep through the cracks between the stones and dead leaves border the edges.

The country. It was where I’d grown up, where I could see things properly, without the smog of city life to interfere, where things made sense to me, where life could exist without hindrance, where a boy could succeed at a man’s work. It was the last place I would now think to call the dead heart of Australia. The true dead heart lay behind me.

P A G

Beyond the Flags Harry Smallbone, Year 12

26

Physically, people go through stages as you slowly tease, then rip an emotional reaction from them. The body squirms uncomfortably, as if it were a particularly nasty beetle plucked from its repulsive dung-hole and slowly, inexorably tortured under the light from a child’s magnifying glass. Slowly, as the pressure of peer scrutiny builds or the revelation of some childhood transgression is brought to light, they flinch visibly, a tic forming and manifesting the results of some inner neurosis. Finally comes the crack, the yolk in this case being some understanding of who they really were beneath the tedious white of the everyday. This was my current fascination as I went through another torrid squabble with my dearest wife of some fifteen years. It was a dry day, hot and passably sunny, the kind of day when you’d rather be inside with the air conditioning, but you find yourself inexplicably at the beach with sunglasses and burgeoning sunburn.

Although I’m proud that I’ve at least made it this far without a divorce, I enjoy reading people. I can’t resist making them uncomfortable and watching what really makes them tick. The distinct tremor in my wife’s voice, and the faint but unmistakable wobble in Charlie’s upper lip, told me that this was going to be another rotten ending to a perfectly serviceable argument.

“I’ve had it with you! You and your personality analysis!” she said, words dripping with sarcasm and the bite of years of maltreatment. By now we were attracting the gormless stares of the throngs. Attention moved from Johnny’s latest mishap to the angry loony with the patient, calming husband. Normally I enjoy this sort of thing, but today Charlie decided to burst into tears of bitter recrimination and the pain from the sunburn had made me irritable.

“Fine,” I snapped, standing up and taking the opportunity to brush the sand into their laps. “How I managed to get married to someone as single-mindedly boring as you I’ll never know. ‘I do love to be beside the seaside’ indeed.” A bit unnecessary perhaps, but I like to make an exit. Pushing past the glares of the unashamedly conventional, I made for the sand. The beach at that point was covered in pasty tourists and the faint scent of aftershave and body odour from the unwashed skin. I waded in the shallows, feeling the salty tang of seawater as it brushed against the burn from this morning’s incident with the breadknife. I cursed loudly. It was bitterly cold despite the heat from the sunburn and a thicket of tourists had started to gape openly at the crazy man.

I left the crowds behind me at the promontory, finding that peculiar loneliness that ignores the humdrum cares of the world and leaves only an empty wistfulness. I stare transfixed at the crashing ocean. The chill wind blows, blows the scent of pickled fish and the memories of a childhood spent alone in places like this. I suppose I wasn’t happy with how my life had turned out so utterly run-of-the-mill, because I just stood and let the ambience wash me out like so many pathetic others. A surfer caught my eye, barrelling down a corker of a wave so freshly and exuberantly that it fair made me laugh the laugh of prior experience. A few more years on the grinding treadmill of life and he’d laugh up here with me, no doubt the product of a mangled body broken from years of beach escapism. It was a sobering thought.

I’d surfed myself, back when the fire of youth had seemed inexhaustible and I’d had the will to take what I wanted out of the cruel jaws of fortune. It had been after just such a wave that the call from the grey men who plague such events

P A G 27

had come, telling me of the death of my father. “An early death” they’d called it.

Not early enough – he’d made his mark, indelibly stamped on the fits of rage I found myself prey to. Now I revelled in it, but not then. Then I’d had a surfboard and laughably serious thoughts of a full-time career. The sea called me now as it did then. The sun reflected off its glassy depths, the wash and wash of waves on the flat grey rocks. The surfer had left by now – off to shallower waters and the pub, a bar fight with friends that I later learned led to his death. Why not?

I thought.

This time, I pressed on through the hues of faint, green shallows to the blues then out past the breakers. There is a sand shelf just before making it out past the waves. Here I stood, letting that chill wind wash once more and feeling the sharp rocks chafing underneath, always ready to seize their chance and get into a scrape.

The unknown stretched out underneath me, a vast emptiness devoid of human interaction. There could be any number of sharks, stingrays, even reefs with their clown fish darting in and out of bleached and bleaching coral. It was intoxicating, heady, yet also different. I could feel ... an atmosphere about this of all swims. The seagulls cawed overhead, their dirty white almost mocking in the midday sun. They were as ever untouched, holistic almost, eyeing all challengers off with beady, hungry eyes. “You old fool,” I thought to myself, leaping off the shelf and surging forward with strokes as powerful as I could muster nowadays.

The stragglers, apathetic surfers and daring but slightly overweight fathers, soon fell away and I was alone once more.

The tide ebbed; I was left drifting, drifting through the darkening blue. I imagined a seagull pecking at my stomach as in the tales of Prometheus. I imagined a world where I was alone; where I had followed

through on the promises I made as a youth and run away, a modern Robinson Crusoe, to that strange empty place on the precipice of the promontory. I had survived and subsisted on a diet of strict reality and boredom to remain the loving husband so desperately wanted by the people I was forced to live with. The worlds revolved in my head, like spinning mobiles of dusty blue above a child, innocent yet too damaged to take any one of these worlds for his own.

... letting go of my famed presence of mind ...

I woke from my daze to realise that I was nowhere near any sign of people, ships or rocks. Although not a poor turn of events, I realised next that I was in the grip of a strong current. This rip had pulled me out far, far beyond the breakers towards where the newspaper helicopters would travel, bringing news of another horrific death.

I began to struggle the desperate struggle of a man who for too long has been complacent and suddenly realised that this, right now, was his last chance.

The current seized limb and muscle, catching it with sharp impact and then twisting, spinning it like a ragdoll. I was reminded of a fight with my father, stubborn and brutally unwilling to give the slightest quarter. Grapple, twist.

Flailing about, I took my first gulp of the salty water underpinning this shadow dance, filling my lungs with the sour taste of defeat. Gasping and gritting my teeth, I pushed on before finally being pushed underneath.

I remember the first time I stopped believing in superheroes, stopped believing that anything could stand up to the rage of life’s great enemies. I was lying broken on the craggy sand, beaten by classmates and left to hear their taunts swarming in my head, around and around and around. I remember feeling dizzy, mouth hanging slack and open for spittle to drip slowly into the unyielding grit below. Someone would come, surely.

A superhero! When I was picked up by my father it was affirmation that good people existed and if you held out long enough ... but it was futile, crushed under the beating I received that night. There are no superheroes, just people who through their flaws seek to impose their will on others and in so doing grasp at the remnants of their own failures.

I imagined this as I went down into the depths. A pain from my side reached me – some gaudy fish had chosen to impress what society existed down here and cut along my midriff. Isolated there, buffeted by the bullying current, I saw the sun, a great white dome of shimmering light. Illuminated in this way, I lay there suspended on a breath of air, tenuously alive and wondering. Is this judgment?

I laughed to myself; it was too pathetic to be anything of the sort. I had merely lost another race with success and the jackals behind had caught up to me and pulled me here to laugh at my misfortune.

28

The baleful eye of my misfortune now glared at me through the water, transfixed me and found me wanting. I took another gulp of brackish seawater. Is this my legacy? I kicked once more, fought against the oppressors, imagined or real.

Breaching the water, I gasped, spluttered and let the rip take me once more.

I moved for a time, past the feverish waking dreams of faceless men sucking me under, the sun burning my harsh red sunburnt skin. In the moving, the relentless eddies of the water, I felt anew the urge to escape, to run away from this all-too-real nightmare. But by and by, this passed, and I woke to find the old beach once more in front of me. Pulling a twisted grin, I flopped out of the shallows and was borne on to the sands. It was ironic, I suppose. Letting go of my famed presence of mind and willingness to fight had saved me. It should have changed me, and it did, until I saw my family again, saw once more the pressed lips and harsh voice of a wife scorned. Charlie looked at me with eyes as cold as the icecream he devoured with the speed of a ravenous jackal and I was reminded once more of what I had seen, and what I would see. Banality.

“We’re going. You should have stayed in the water.”

“Fine.” Wearily, I left all the same, back to the doldrums of reality, the vacant smiles behind lifeless eyes and a lifetime spent in that quiet sarcastic entertainment reserved for the supremely bored. At night, I still think on the time spent in that surging, raw current, full of what I detested from my past and yet still most desired. And at these times I sit there in the emptiness and battle once more with my father. And finally I wonder. Wonder if there is a superhero waiting within the darkness, who will take me back there.

Back down, down, to the deep.

A Picture of My Love David Ellis, Year 12

P A G

Please forgive me my crude, flawed strokes.

For all that I impart be but the feelings of my heart, And though my heart may see an end, I may not play the part.

Now tell me, how shall I paint thee, Thou nefarious angel of mine, Who ate most like a maggot At the creases of my mind?

Maybe I shall paint thee so, You, the epitome of my woe, Who through most wicked ways confessed, Did nest a spot deep in my chest.

Or perhaps like this shall I convey, As like a lover’s doting cliché.

For though I wear my heart on my sleeve, Fitting words, I cannot conceive.

But then one day you swept afar, My wounded heart left bruised.

Strong I stayed, and firm and true, though My patience was abused.

But as the moon doth chase the sun, So I chased you too.

And six months on, when we eclipsed, I saw both sides of you.

‘Twas day in night and night in day, But the bright night saw you true.

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Nicholas Rankin, Year 10 Digital Print

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Alexander Dunn, Year 12 Mixed Media

Rohan Golestani, Year 11 Painting

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In time it will come; not too soon or late.

Michael Zhou, extract from ‘Koi Pond and Willow Tree’ pg 64

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Arnold Chen, Year 7 Sculpture

Isaac Pang, Year 7 Sculpture

Michael Brand, Year 7 Sculpture

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... a place of rivers surviving in conjunction with civilisation ...

Daniel English, excerpt from ‘The Country’ pg 24

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Angus McMillan, Year 12 Mixed Media Jack Johnson, Year 10 Architecture

Robert Ivankovich, Year 10 Architecture

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Dewammina Dharmaratne, Year 10 Digital Print

Jack Weir, Year 10 Digital Print

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And in the corners of my mind darkness falls, I feel the rage that beats against glassy walls ...

Harry Smallbone, excerpt from ‘A State of Subsistence’ pg 16

Brynn O’Connor, Year 10 Digital Print

Callum Hope, Year 12 Painting

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Lloyd Drake-Brockman, Year 11 Painting

Luke Kolbusz, Year 11 Photographic Print

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Lewis Oliver, Year 11 Photographic Print

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They needed a soul; they needed a reason to start living.

Alistair Johnstone, excerpt from ‘Soul’ pg 19

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Justin Han, Year 12 Mixed Media

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Maclain Robinson Year 9

Nanna She looks at me with eyes of knowledge And for a second I think there is a memory A warm, happy smile, a flicker of recognition But there is none.

In her confusion she wants to know me.

“How was your day?” she asks.

And again she asks, “How was your day?”

The information passes through her like water through a sieve.

I knew someone who had made me feel so safe, Who felt safe with me.

She looks perfect on the outside, her beautiful clothes starched and pressed.

But her mind is an empty shell.

She sits, gazing into a world she no longer understands.

The strength and invincibility of the young girl, The woman, the mother and the nanna is quietly fading And all I can do is watch.

Timothy Chapman, Year 7, Noake

The Perils of Snow and Skiing The snow, a place that I will go A desolate white expanse That will only freeze your pants.

It is so cold that only the bold Will dare to ski the slopes.

But if you ski feeling too carefree Then you would be on the go Like an arrow from a bow, Straight into the path of a yeti Spraying snow about like confetti!

Unless you enroll in lessons And do not give up hope, As you slip down the slope

Your skis would blur past my eyes In a whoosh of surprise.

If you do go down the slope With too grand a disposition Soon it might become A deadly expedition And an accident might occur.

If you ski Don’t take a chance Or else you might end up in an avalanche.

So if you go, that is, to the snow Proceed in a cautious manner.

P A G

964 Cameron Chung, Year 11

46

We put our lives behind us.

We braved the seven seas.

We made it to your country.

And how were we received?

We knew the promises wouldn’t hold true, We had hope; your government let us drown.

They didn’t let us in, instead They turned the boats around.

200 strong, rocking on water, Like tuna in a can.

Yet unlike fish, we yearn, For firm, familiar land.

They dare say no; reject us After we’ve lost seven to the sea.

We’re accused of jumping queues (And although we won’t deny it) a life’s a handsome fee.

There’s nothing left for us back there We left our country for good reason Our government?

Corrupt.

No family, no home. Persecution.

Matthew Edgar, Year 11 Photographic Print

We put our lives behind us.

We braved the seven seas.

We made it to your country.

And how were we received?

Jordan Davies, Year 8

A Famous Australian Andrew S.W Thomas was an astronaut Born in Adelaide, South Australia He enjoyed horse riding, mountain biking and guitar He liked learning and disliked failure.

Andrew Thomas was a professional scientist He was in charge of the fluid dynamic instabilities He led a research department of engineers and scientists He was the manager of the test facilities.

Andrew Thomas was on the STS-77 The flight was launched from the Kennedy Space Center The crew deployed two satellites in orbit They were sure to have an adventure.

Jacob Marsh, Year 9 Charcoal Drawing

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In January, Andrew Thomas boarded the Endeavour He was to dock at Mir space station He served as a flight engineer aboard the Mir He was sure to serve his nation.

Andrew Thomas was on the eighth shuttle mission He accomplished many things During one mission Thomas performed EVA In his accomplishments he was delivering.

Andrew tested and evaluated flight safety After the journey they landed at the air force base He did inspection and repaired thermal systems Andrew Thomas finally found his place.

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Beowulf Recount Keaton Wright, Year 7

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Thick black rain bellowed overhead, sending down torrents of ice-cold rain on its victims.

I turned to the bow and gazed through the grey fog, but failed to see our location.

The salty spray battered my chainmail, sending tension through the rope I was holding onto. I licked my salty lips and looked towards Wiglaf. The moment our eyes locked, the short, stubby red haired man nodded. Land was near. I smiled. The monster that called itself Grendel, the beast that terrorised peasants and ate the women and children of the kingdoms, its end was near. The boat surged through the waves and onto the pebble coated shores, sending a tremor through the boat and knocking me to my knees. I turned to my right and watched Wiglaf pull his way through the masses of confused men. “We have arrived at the land of the Danes, my friend.“ Wiglaf smiled. I grinned. Never have I felt so good to see land again. Suddenly the pounding of hooves filled the air. I turned to my left and squinted through the sun’s rays to where a lone rider rode towards us. Wiglaf pulled his gleaming sword from its sheath, but I waved him down and pointed to the ship’s storage area. “Unload the cargo, I’ll handle this.” The man, no older than me, stopped less than ten metres away, his rusted spear glinting in the morning sun.

“What is your purpose here, stranger?” he asked. I turned to my sides and beckoned my men to approach.

“I am Beowulf and these are my faithful companions. We have come to slay this Grendel of yours.” The man stared aghast at us, eyes darting around.

“I’m sorry,” he replied. “We will have an escort very soon,” and with that he fled.

We were escorted to the kingdom by five men on horseback. Ahead of us stood Hrothgar, his grey cloak flapping in the ferocious winds. “Welcome,” he shouted, “It surely is an honour to meet you, Beowulf.”

Hrothgar stepped forth, reaching out his hand in gratitude. I took it in return, my eyes studying his drooped, grey face.

Deep lines crossed his skin giving a ghastly impression. Black rings framed his eyes.

“We have come to free you of the curse that prevails your kingdom. We have come to slay Grendel,” I finally spoke. Hrothgar’s eyes glazed over at the mention of the name, almost as though it was too much to bear.

Eventually I found my eyes darting towards the great mead hall. The colossal oak-studded doors were branded with carvings of extraordinary dragons and horrific beasts, yet the great building stood quiet in the wind, neglected and out of use although it attracted the great beast, Grendel. Hrothgar followed my eyes and ordered his men to cut down the rotting slab of wood holding the doors in place. “Tonight we shall feast,” Hrothgar shouted. Cheers filled the starless night sky.

Hrothgar was right, someone would feast tonight, yet who that would be was still the unanswered question.

The candles burnt high, casting impossibly shaped shadows across the walls and the sound of singing was thick in the air. I turned to look at my companions, the icy wind spearing my bare flesh. They were all armed yet as much as Grendel seemed outnumbered, I could sense doubt in their throats. Soon the troll would arrive and the fight would begin – and soon it was.

Suddenly there was a humungous crash on the large oak-studded doors, sending spasms down the heavy chains holding it in place. My men laughed at Grendel’s inability to break them down yet my face remained straight, knowing that he would soon breach the small barrier. Another smash and the doors creaked with strain.

One more blow, I thought. There was one last almighty crash and the doors were blown away as though made of parchment.

P A G

Before us stood a mottled creature, a deformed troll from the marshes, screeching with triumph. My men advanced, but were knocked away like wooden dolls. Grendel screamed and tore off the head of my nearest companion with his relentless jaws, grinding bone, flesh and muscle all together.

Now it was time.

I launched myself at a barrel of mead and knocked it into the flames, sending up spirals of fire. Grendel screamed and went berserk as I leapt onto his back and wrapped my hands around his neck. Even with my long arms I could not reach around the beast’s head.

His scaly skin grazed my bare chest as I was swung around. Amidst the fighting I noticed Grendel’s ear and how the eardrum sat on the outside. I began to focus my attacking there and the result was immediate. Grendel screamed a blood curdling sound as my hand was submerged in the blood of his ear.

His body spasmed and I was flung onto the floor. I slowly stood up, grazing my knees on the cobbled floor. My foot struck a rusted chain, sending it clacking across the floor.

I picked it up and threw it at the retreating Grendel, locking his arm in place. This was my last chance to kill Grendel. I turned to Wiglaf who stood behind me and pointed to the chain. “Lock it in place,” I said. He nodded and ran over to the pillar holding the chain and thrust his silver blade into the soft wood holding the chain in a locked position. I strolled over to Grendel who stood wedged between the doors, groaning in defeat. “I am hunter of dragons, slayer of trolls and crusher of curses,” I boomed. “I am Beowulf!” In one swift blow I slammed the door on Grendel’s arm, breaking it clean off and severing sickly sinew, blood and bone. Grendel’s howls filled the room and he limped off into the cold, black night. The fight was over, and we would be feasting tonight, yet for how long I was not sure.

Max Welborn, Year 11

The Eight

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The blast of the starter’s horn, Always anticipated, yet Always shocking, Adrenaline surges...

The Eight sweep violently, Boat jerking backwards beneath.

Eight handles rise as one, eight oars sent to kiss The limpid waterway, mirrored stripes of oars flashing, Hamstrings tensing, legs squeezing.

Blades square softly, poised to slice the glassy surface.

Eight long oars touch the water with a hiss, A gentle splash rising up from the catch, A curtain of spray enshrouding the blade in mist.

Eight burning thighs push, Eight arcing backs heave, Eight straining arms snatch, Eight blades warp the oars, Eight pairs of lungs stammer For breath. Eight hearts hammer.

Hands driving and twisting, Oars clunk from the foam.

The Eight slide forward, the boat Glides backwards beneath.

Bracing to lead into another stroke.

Eight minds unite to fight, Determined to conquer Two thousand endless metres, Two hundred fevered strokes.

Each race an epic contest, A triumph of will.

P A G

The Shooter Samuel Stone, Year 12

50

The sound immediately woke him. The same droning sound that had woken him every morning for the past four years, four long years. He reached over quickly to turn it off, as if to spare him from the pain. He let out a sigh and let his bed engulf him once more, gazing at the ever-growing wet patch forming on his celling, spreading like an ugly infection, probably from the abandoned apartment upstairs. Not that it mattered to him, he’d be out of here soon enough. He rolled over onto his right side once again to glance at his clock. Still 6:30am. The same time he had woken up almost every day for the past four years, a never ending blur of days, neither one differentiating from the day before, or the day before, the same routine over and over again. Not today, though. No, today was going to be very different.

He let out a small grin, thinking of what lay ahead of him on this very day. He could feel his heart pounding in his chest, as though it was trying to escape. The hair on the back of his neck began to rise and he could feel a cool chill running down his spine. The sensation was brief, however, as he wiped the grin off of his face quickly, as if ashamed and scared that somebody might be watching him, or even worse, that something might actually make him happy. He clenched his fists, remembering his anger, brushing the tips of his fingernails against his palms frantically, frail and weak having just woken up. He gritted his teeth, grinding his molars against each other, as if trying to grind them to a fine powder. He continued to stare at his clock, refusing to blink, as if he were to blink or stop concentrating on the clock for just one second, he would cause the whole universe to collapse and fold in on itself. The end digit flicked over, 6:31a.m. He could stop looking. He unclenched his fists and took a deep breath before sliding out the other side of his bed. It had to be the other side of the bed, it always had been. To get out on the right side of the bed would almost be unthinkable. He placed his feet on the icy wooden floor before tiptoeing over towards

his slippers at the end of the bed. He could see it was still pitch black outside, another cold winter’s morning in Ohio. The dull red figures that now read 6:32am offered the only light source in the small damp room. Any light that could have flown into the room was prohibited by the large wooden boards covering the windows above his bed, to stop the cold coming through the seeping gaps in the windows during the winter. Not that the darkness mattered, of course. He knew every feature and item of his room down to the exact detail and precise location. He knew he’d find the slippers his mum had bought him five years ago, precisely at the end of the bed, with the right slipper slightly ahead of the left slipper. He slipped both them on; the left foot first, as it had been since he could remember. They were too small for him now and he could feel the icy floor welcome his heel with every step he took.

He flicked the switch next to the half painted door, causing a light bulb to flicker a few times before illuminating the room. The room was strangely well kept and tidy, yet still gave an impression of being dirty and disorderly. The room contained only a bed, a set of drawers and a mirror in the far right hand corner to accompany them. There was no mess or dust, no clutter or rubbish lying about. Instead, there were two pairs of shoes aligned perfectly next to the chest of draws, with a small stack of books and neat files next to them, arranged in alphabetical order from Advanced Astronomy to the works of Wittgenstein. The rest of the room was empty. It was an eerie emptiness, like that of a prison cell – neat and tidy, but lacking any emotion or feel. There was an abundance of colour apart from the fading yellow wallpaper beginning to peel away. No posters of bands or sporting idols you might come to expect in an average teenager’s room. The only artifact that distinguished the room from a prison cell was a single photo frame that rested on top of the chest of draws pushed up against the deteriorating wall.

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The photo frame contained two pictures.

The first photo filled the whole frame and showed a young woman smiling on the beach, probably aged between twenty-five and thirty. The photo had begun to fade, but clearly the woman was beautiful. Her face had a pale tone to it, perhaps emphasised by her strikingly blue eyes and wavy long black hair. She had a distinct smile, crooked yet attractive, slanting towards a freckle on the left side of her nose. The second picture was a small Polaroid stuck in the left hand corner of the frame. The picture showed the same young girl, the same pale tone and blue eyes, the same crooked smile and freckle, only this time with a young baby in her arms.

He made his way over to the desk, walking carefully to make sure the floorboards didn’t creak and wake Frank up down the hall. The last time he woke him up, Frank had made him pay the price. He glanced at the picture frame before quickly deferring his attention to a heavily annotated calendar. A thick red texta had circled today’s date: February the 27th, 2012. He paused staring at the date, as if inspecting a fine work of art. He grinned again briefly before remembering his sadness, today was the day.

Some of the day’s first rays of sunlight had managed to manoeuvre their way through the buildings of the city and through the small gaps of the boarded windows. It wasn’t long now. He slipped on his favourite jeans and pulled out a neatly folded buttoned shirt from his chest of drawers. He had to look respectable, he thought to himself. He dragged himself over to the mirror in the far corner of the room and looked at himself with a sense of repulsion. It was a routine he had become far too familiar with. Past offends and insults echoed through his brain as he scrutinised himself. He could hear past and current bullies taunting him in his head with rude names and insults. He despised himself and he despised them.

He was an ordinary looking boy of moderate height, medium to large build and short black hair. Like the woman in the photo, he too had blue eyes and a pale skin tone. Only these eyes weren’t so bright and striking.

They seemed tired and vacant, like the beauty they once held had been possessed by sadness. He clenched his fists and his heart began to take off again. He gazed at himself and smirked, he didn’t want to hide it this time. He turned and looked at his clock: 6:50am. He’d normally be dreading the day ahead by now, scared of what might lie ahead, but today he knew perfectly well what was going to happen and it didn’t scare him at all.

He moved out to the corridor and tiptoed his way over to a small worn down table by the front door of the apartment, scared that every breath he took might be too loud. The table had a small drawer in the front of it. He knew that what lay inside would define his life. Within an hour he would be world famous. Within an hour he would have his revenge on society. He opened the drawer slowly and pulled out a .22 caliber handgun. He stood there for a moment, appreciating the pure power that he controlled in his hands – a power he could touch, feel and own. His moment of tranquility was interrupted abruptly by the sound of creaking floorboards coming from Frank’s room, only metres down the corridor.

He grabbed the gun and chucked it in his rucksack before racing out of the door. It was time for school.

Past offends and insults echoed through his brain as he scrutinised himself.

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A Day to Remember Thomas Maouris, Year 7

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It was Thursday morning, another day at school. We started the day with French where each member of the class had to give a presentation on Life in Paris. None of us was looking forward to the horrible comments the teacher, Madam Lavender, would throw at us when our presentation had nothing wrong with it. The last time we had to do a presentation she had said that they were all rubbish and that a ten year old could have done better. We disagreed!

Madam Lavender hurried into the classroom carrying all her posters on today’s lesson.

“Okay, class, I am expecting much better presentations than last week,” announced Madam Lavender in an arrogant tone. “Oh, I’ve forgotten the role,” she said. “Class, don’t move, I’ll be back in a second.” When she had left the classroom, it began to feel like a funeral. Everyone was moaning and groaning about doing the presentation.

I then came up with the best idea I had ever thought of. It was risky, but absolutely wonderful! I was so pleased. I stood up and announced my glorious plan.

When Madam Lavender finally came back into the classroom the atmosphere was completely different from when she had left. Everyone was excited and buzzing like they had drunk two litres of Red Bull. When she was out of the room I had unplugged the computer on which we had to present our PowerPoint. When she called the first student up and pressed the POWER button, the computer didn’t turn on. She pressed the button again and it still didn’t turn on.

“Why isn’t the computer working?” she said in frustration.

I shot my hand up and said, “Maybe you should press the ON button harder.”

She was obviously not amused with my hilarious comment like the class was and gave me the evil look. Madam Lavender stormed out of the room and went to find the technicians. The moment she left the room we all seemed to be thinking the same thing, ‘Let’s plug the computer back in,’ so we did just that.

When she come back into the room with the technicians and explained the problem, the technicians pressed the ON button and the screen lit up! She turned around and looked at us. We could see the smoke coming out of her ears and nose. “One of you has messed with the computer,” she screamed, “If you own up, none of you will get in trouble,” she said. That was a total lie. She held us in for recess, but no one said a word, so she finally gave up and let us leave without any punishment. All day I couldn’t wipe the smile off my face. It was a day to remember.

P A G

Lewis May, Year 8

The Lightning Bolt Usain Bolt, the fastest man alive The time he runs is a 9.5 He’s incredibly fast, just watch him stride He walks around with so much pride, He’s earned the nickname, Lightning Bolt The speed he runs is as fast as a jolt How he does it is practically insane I’m telling you now, it drives me out of my brain Bolt’s records are so outstanding Every training session so demanding People must wonder how he does it Hard work and training, you’ve got to love it

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If he were to run at you, it would sting like a bee Usain’s training partner, The Beast Will also make you jump out of your seat The Beast trailing not far behind Towards the end of the race he’s out of Bolt’s mind A true champion Bolt has become A freak of nature, Bolt can really run His achievements are recognised worldwide When he hits the track it looks like a glide He’s so fast, just watch him fly Faster than a plane up in the sky.

The five-time world champion is so out of reach It seems to be impossible to teach His work rate is as high as can be

Kale Adamson, Year 9 Vector Illustration

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A Day at the Beach Thomas Wright, Year 12

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I was lying, gazing up at the radiant light bursting through the clouds, rays of light warming my skin, sand granules massaging my back. I looked left; my mates Jack, Ben and Steve were lying there, eyes closed, almost religiously peaceful. I slowly turned back watching the waves roll in, whitewash flooding the beach, their intensity uncontrolled and natural.

The day was heating up, the sun right overhead, clouds clearing, allowing the sun’s radiance to reach me. I felt my body respond to its rays. My muscles relaxed, my heavy head sinking deeply into its sandy pillow. My skin began to prickle, lapping up the heat as I pleasantly roasted on that oven of a beach. I could feel the hairs on my arms and legs extend, basking in the glow. Every part of me was saying thank you to the sun. Every part of me felt vibrantly alive. I let my mind drift off. I was seventeen and full of energy for life. I was going to grab life by the scruff of the neck and squeeze every ounce of pleasure from it. I was going to do everything and go everywhere. No fear, no apprehension – nothing would stand in my way.

Without thought I jumped up and ran into the lush deserted waters, water luxuriously lapping up to my knees, the horizon clear and peaceful. The surf was rising and I would have one last run before home time. School was looming next day and I would make the most of this last day of the Christmas break before my freedom was curtailed once more. There was one last chance for the next few months to feel really alive!

As I paddled my board slowly out towards the horizon, my mind lurched unwillingly to the upcoming year filled with exams and assessments, soccer trials, training sessions and endless homework. It felt like stepping onto a moving treadmill that would crank up in speed as the months slipped by. I dreaded that feeling of relentless pressure,

not being able to step off till this time next year. Expectation was a ruthless taskmaster permanently on my case.

I turned to look back to the beach and realised I had drifted further out and further down the bay than I had first thought. The surf was better here than at any time this summer. Suddenly the water beneath me was rising and falling with real force. I could see the surf crashing onto the beach. Jack, Ben and Steve were on their feet. Their mouths were working overtime, waving and pointing in my direction, but the only sound I could hear was the crash of waves on the beach at their feet.

For a second I had a terrible thought.

Pointing arms and excited faces could spell shark. I looked round frantically, surveying the water beneath me, a deep empty space.

Then I scanned the surface, silvery blue reflecting the sun’s rays. The telltale fin was nowhere to be seen. The guys were clearly pulling my leg.

I shouted towards the beach, “Ha ha!

Very funny!”

Then I saw it. It wasn’t a shark that they were pointing to, but the biggest wave I’d seen that whole summer. It was rolling slowly towards me, a rising wall of water. I would never out-paddle it. The daredevil inside me decided it was death or glory. I turned my board, gripped it with both hands and prayed. As I felt the wall lift me to its cliff top, I paddled for all I was worth, cresting the tip of the wave. I launched myself up, arms spread, feet planted firmly and prepared for the ride of my life.

The shock of the sheer drop before me nearly took my breath away, but instinct kicked in and I rode the descent with more skill than I had ever felt before. Adrenaline was rushing through my veins and every nerve and muscle strained to keep me on the board. Suddenly, the sun was dimmed,

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and blue shadow stole over me. I couldn’t move my head for fear of losing balance, but I knew I was encased in the tube of the wave with a complete circle of water enclosing me. The wave was bigger and stronger than I was. Suddenly, I was shrunk to a tiny bug as the wave filled the whole sky. The tunnel ahead of me narrowed as each second passed until my world was nothing but blue. The wave seemed to grab my board from under me and I was beaten and shaken as if in a giant tumble dryer.

I opened my eyes on the beach with Jack, Steve and Ben staring down at me. Their mouths were moving but for a moment all I could hear was the surf pounding on the beach and my own blood beating in my ears. Then, as if from a long way away, I began to register their words.

“Bloody hell, Tom,” Ben shouted. “We thought you were dead. You were gone for ages, and your board shot up twenty feet in the air. Are you alright? Can you hear me?”

I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing came out.

Steve turned to Ben. “He’s in shock. I read about it. He needs sweet tea or an adrenaline shot.” He stepped away from me and shouted.

“Jack, where the hell’s that ambulance. It’s been ages and Tom’s hurt!”

But I wasn’t. I couldn’t understand why they were so anxious. I was so relaxed. I wasn’t in pain. I couldn’t feel anything, just a warm numbness.

“Take off your shirt, Ben, we need to bandage his leg; he’s bleeding really badly.”

Steve was wrapping Ben’s shirt around my leg, but I couldn’t feel a cut; I couldn’t feel anything. I started to panic. I was shouting, “Ben, Steve!” but they didn’t look up. I

reached out to grab them, to demand their attention, but my arm didn’t move. All I could feel was a blind panic and the angry beating of my heart. Slowly, I began to drift as if I was floating away out to sea. The last thing I heard was a very distant siren and then nothing.

I woke up, suspended in a mist of white. All I could hear was a persistent sucking and slapping noise. For a second I thought I was still lying on the beach with the surf racing up rhythmically onto the sand, but there was a ceiling above me. As I turned my eyes to the left I could see a man in a white coat giving me an encouraging smile. I strained to look right and there was my mum, with my hand gripped in hers and a look of desolation on her face.

Time became fluid; my existence became erratic.

That was when I knew that this was as bad as it could be.

I would have given anything to be walking into school right now, even with the weight of expectation and responsibility weighing down my school bag. Suddenly, homework and soccer training seemed a million miles away. I strained every muscle, but there was no response. I had never felt less alive. The more I struggled to shake out of my numbness, the more distant my surroundings became.

The doctor was speaking to my mum.

Nobody seemed to realise that I was actually there.

“The first few days are vital. We’ll keep him sedated and hope for the best.”

Time became fluid; my existence became erratic. I was floating in a drug-induced sea of sensations, none of them real. Soccer matches played underwater with sharks in goal melted into seaweed, wrapped all around me, sucking me down to the sea bed. My limbs floated about me like sunbleached driftwood, lifeless and haphazard.

Frustration and panic seemed to fill every nightmarish moment. Drowning was my constant state of being, but yet never the peace of the drowned man.

Gradually, I floated back to the surface, watching the seaweed as it sank beneath me.

My nose was itchy. I grimaced and screwed up my face. Then someone was scratching my nose. My relief was replaced with curiosity.

Who could have known that my nose was itchy? I opened my eyes to see the hand close up, rubbing my itchy nose. Beyond the hand, I could see the doctor grinning and my mum crying. She turned to him and hugged him.

Then I realised that the hand was mine. That was the moment when I knew that this nightmare was over. That was the moment when I felt my life slowly return.

56

Friends Close, Enemies Closer.

Henry Cooney, Year 10

P A G

Silence has its advantages. Intrinsic advantages, advantages that only silence can bring. To listen, not to hear. To see, not to look. To understand. Naturally, with such silence come labels and judgements – assertions of narcissism, of anxiety, of avoidant personality traits. But when confident in knowledge, such names mean nothing, and the ignorance of such asserters astounding. Narcissism is my favourite. Such an apt word. “Delusions of grandeur” – yet when so superior, these “delusions” become real. My superiority is assured of itself. Was assured of itself. What, unfortunately, was not assured of itself, was my ability to stay silent. Whilst I needed silence, whilst I craved silence, I could not afford it. Not nearly afford it.

When I opened my eyes, I was shackled to my chair and staring into a face I didn’t want to see. Mr Rivers, a psychiatrist. And a host of other men I had never seen before in my life. Mr Rivers was explaining something to the other men when I woke.

“In cases of extreme violence, shock, or emotional trauma, the mind can split,” he was saying to these other men. “The mind breaks down into separate personalities, personalities that had previously co-existed unnoticed. In the case of Ian Dakota, I believe that his mind broke down into six different people, six people who had no knowledge of the other’s existence.” I realised he was doing it again. Calling me Mr Dakota. Even though I had told him my name is Frederick. Frederick Washington.

“Your Honour,” Rivers was saying, “the man who killed three young women four years ago is not this man. He is simply one of those six personalities. If the personality who committed those murders is killed tonight, so to speak, then my professional opinion is that Mr Dakota should not be held accountable for what his body did to those women.” There he goes again – calling me Mr Dakota. My name is not Dakota. I’ve told him this. My name is Kansas. George Kansas.

I walked into the motel dining room. I have been forced into this motel as a fallen power line has blocked Route 23, the only road into town. There are five others in this room who I acknowledge with a nod of my head. A police officer named George Kansas, a young boy, David, the hotel manager, Caroline, and the mother of the young boy – someone in a somewhat unusual situation.

Unusual is a word I don’t understand.

How can any situation be considered usual?

The boy’s mother, as George explained, must have tripped and fell on the knife she was using to prepare her son’s food.

George entered to find her lying down, bleeding from a stomach wound. George shouted instructions around the room; for someone to grab some towels – “Old ones!” And for someone to find a needle and thread. Apparently, he intended to suture her wound. Caroline hurried out of the room and I followed her in case she needed assistance. However, my attention was averted when I found a small pass card – the type used to open the rooms here.

The number “1” was all that bore notice on the card face. I pocketed the card. As I stood up, wondering how a pass card ended up out on the road, a muffled yell, followed by several calls for help, drew me from my thoughts and had me running towards the yelling. David, the boy who couldn’t have been more than eleven or twelve, came running out of a nearby room. He didn’t say anything, just pointed into the room he came out of. Bravery was a characteristic I lacked. I walked straight in, though. Brave.

Sometimes silence is a curse. When trying to communicate information, hand signs and facial expressions alone are almost never enough to fully interpret anything, and in situations like these I become incredibly frustrated. However, sometimes, silence is a blessing. Silence allows you to

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hide emotions – particularly easy to hide is fear, when no screams, yells or curses can be heard. Yes. Fear. This was a time when my fear really did need hiding.

I came very close to screaming when I walked into the room. Caroline was staring at me, with a vacant look that betrayed nothing across her face, with perhaps the smallest smirk in one corner. What did betray her condition was that she was floating several metres off the ground.

This was the point I almost screamed, when I realised she wasn’t floating. She was pinned to the wall behind her, the nature of which involved three gardening stakes and an obviously insane attacker.

In my attempt to exit the room as fast as humanly possible, I tripped and fell, coming face to face with, among other things, the floor. One of those other things was another pass card to a door.

Even before I turned it over I knew what number would await. A two. I realised now that David’s mother’s injury was no accident. I raced back to the dining hall, taking the crying David with me, but I stopped before I entered. The sign above the dining hall read “23 Fine Motel Rooms.

See Manager for Prices and Booking Info - Caroline Georgia.” Below this was a map of our country’s fifty states. My heart almost stopped.

“Kid, what’s your last name?” I asked.

Silence would have to wait.

“Nevada,” he cried.

“Your mother’s name?”

“Emily Arkansas... I take my dad’s name.”

David Nevada. George Kansas. Caroline Georgia. Me, Frederick Washington. Emily Arkansas. My eyes flickered to the map again.

“Mr Dakota, listen to me. You are almost there. This part is crucial!” Mr Rivers again.

What was he doing inside my mind? “Your six personalities have confronted each other. It is imperative the one who killed those women does not survive!” And the sound of Mr Rivers dissipated.

Silence

me down again. This time, his hands were around my neck. I struggled as hard as I could, but with every second I could feel my consciousness slipping away. Just as everything started to go dark, Kansas coughed. Interestingly, as I regained my vision, I realised he had coughed blood onto my face. He rolled off me and I understood why. An axe was buried to the hilt in his back. David, crying still, helped me to my feet. Again, I simply nodded to him, and, despite himself, he smiled back.

It was a somewhat excited smile for a kid who had just lost his mum.

allows you

“Come on kid, let’s get out of this place.”

Turning to leave is the last memory I have.

to hide

“Well done, Mr Dakota! You did it. He won’t harm anyone again.” I looked into the eyes of Mr Rivers and saw that he, along with the other men, was smiling.

emotions ...

I threw myself through the dining room hall doors just as Kansas turned around. He was smiling. David’s mum’s lifeless body lay behind him. He threw me a plastic card and without looking I knew it had the number three on it. In a movie, this would have been the time for me to say something smart. Something memorable.

Instead, I just hit him. I swung my fist into his head and kicked at his leg. His smile gone, he charged into me and threw me to the floor. I struggled but his hands had locked my arms in place. ‘Fine,’ I thought, and head butted him as hard as I could. Momentarily stunned, I took this opportunity to punch his mouth and roll out from under him. Just as I got to my feet a chair slammed into my back, knocking

“Mr Rivers,” said the man at the head of the table, “the county would be more than happy to drop all charges against Mr Dakota. He is free to go.” As I stood to leave, I did something that intrigued no one except Mr Rivers. I smiled. Mr Rivers followed me out and together we got into his car. We left the building we came from and began travelling towards the institution where I was kept. Mr Rivers was still smiling, the same stupid grin I saw back in that room.

“Six years ago, I killed six women,” I said.

The smile on his face vanished.

“What did you say, Ian?” Now it was my turn to smile. “My name isn’t Ian Dakota. My name is David Nevada.”

P A G

Peer Pressure Benjamin Seymour, Year 7

58

I was at a campsite on holiday and we had all pitched our tents. I was joining in on a game with my friends, where we all had to race from one side of the campsite to the other as fast as we could. We were having a blast.

As the bright sun gave way to a pale full moon, we lined up for our last run towards the finish line.

“Ready?” someone to my right mumbled.

“GO!” and with that, our entire troupe darted off at a lively pace towards the neat row of tents. It was a dead heat and I was in the running for first place that would have gained me respect amongst the group.

Suddenly, without notice, my friend Sam jumped over one of the stranger’s tents before landing skilfully over the other side.

“Ha!” he exclaimed, “Whaddya think o’ that?” All the other boys found this exciting and began to attempt jumping the tents as well. I was shocked that they would even think of such a thing. They could damage the tents, or worse, the people inside them.

“Come on, Ben,” they encouraged whilst laughing. “Give it a try.” I was reluctant to do it, but didn’t want to disappoint my mates and so decided to attempt a jump at what looked like an empty, low tent.

I had shadows of doubt in the back of my mind but all this was pushed aside. I cleared the tent with ease and felt a boost of confidence inside me. I had done it. I smiled smugly, but was unaware of what lay ahead. However, the race was still on and the other boys were off again, jumping over the tents ahead.

With the finish line in sight, it was neck and neck. All of a sudden, the others stopped.

But I didn’t. I was drunk with confidence and foolishly decided to try and clear another. A large grey tent loomed closer and I prepared myself to jump. With a leap, I flew upwards over the tent. Mid air I decided to do an exuberant flick of my heel and consequently stumbled over the synthetic canvas. I crumpled to the ground and caught a mouthful of dirt for my efforts. I was on the floor, dizzy, and in the corner of my eye glimpsed a shadow emerging from the tent.

As the figure moved closer I began to recognise its features. I knew immediately who it was. It was my Dad and I was in unearthly trouble!

Ric Maddren, Year 12 Mixed Media

P A G

Alistair Morgan, Year 12

The Destination

59

Everything was so normal. That’s what still gets me. She was the most normal looking person I’d ever seen and yet she is the one person I will remember forever. I’d seen her a few times before on the train. There was nothing unusual about her at all. You know what I mean. She was one of those people you see every day on your way to school on the train. The fat man who sleeps on his way to work, the really strict looking lady with the constantly sour expression, or the really loud kid who throws a tantrum every time he gets on the train.

always wore the same outfit, or had anyone else she talked to. I think she sat alone but I’m not sure. I only know things about her from that one day. Every detail about her from that day is permanently imprinted on my mind.

Her wallet, her shoes, the look on her face…

These characters are the people who make up the wonderful experience that is public transport. There are always different people each day, most of them indistinguishable from the general throng, but if you ride the train long enough or catch the bus a sufficient number of times, you will begin to recognise those few people whose daily programs happen to coincide with yours.

It was winter, though it wasn’t really cold or wet. The clouds looked like they might rain later but knowing our weather you couldn’t tell. The sun was visible but not actually shining.

Each person has their different quirks, their own characters that mark them as individuals. For example, the fat man always took the same seat. Everyone else knew this and so we saved it for him. He would hop on, walk down the middle of the train, sit down and fall asleep. It was quite amazing really.

He always woke up one stop before he was supposed to get off. I never saw him miss it.

She was one of those characters. She was different though. Everyone else had some little thing that was individual to them, and them alone, and marked them out from the general crowd. The fat man with his seat, the old lady with her sour expression, or the kid who always threw a tantrum. She, however, didn’t seem to have anything. I only remember that she was a regular because of what happened. She was just a background figure, someone who you didn’t notice, somehow always part of the crowd.

I don’t remember much about her really.

I couldn’t tell you if she listened to her iPod,

It was such an ordinary day when it happened. That still gets me. Everything was so normal. If you were to pick one day of the year that you would call normal, that would have been it. At least before I arrived at the station.

You know how sometimes the clouds are covering the whole sky, but you can tell where the sun is because there’s a big patch of light, even though you can’t actually see it?

It was like that. The clouds were completely covering the sky and the only trace of the sun was a cloud that was slightly too bright to look at. Just enough to make your eyes water, but not actually blinding.

It was an almost day. Nothing in particular stood out. It was almost raining, almost cold.

It was a day that wouldn’t stand out in any way. It was like her.

Everyone was crowded into the station in a big, bustling mass of people. It was really busy. That was the first unusual thing. The bus drivers had gone on strike and some of the train lines were being rebuilt, so all of the people who normally took the bus had to try and use the train system instead.

It was perfect timing. The bus drivers’ union had picked the moment of maximum inconvenience. Good for them I suppose, but hellish for the rest of us. I’m pretty sure most of the conversation in the station was about exactly what some people would do with a bus driver if they met one. I heard one

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businessman in a suit telling his friend in quite graphic terms exactly where the bus drivers could shove their strike.

Apart from that one moment of brief amusement, I was feeling really annoyed.

My smartcard had run out of credit and although I’d meant to fill it up on the weekend, I’d forgotten. Of course, this meant that I had to wait in the MASSIVE queue of people waiting at the ticket machine. It took ages and the lady behind me kept on giving me dirty looks and muttering about young people not respecting their elders. I certainly didn’t respect her; she was acting like a total cow.

For the entire time I was in the line I was struggling to stop myself from turning around and having a go at the old hag. I just kept telling myself that it was my own fault for forgetting to refill my smartcard.

That’s the reason I noticed the girl, actually.

I’d just reached the front of the queue and had bought my ticket when she just walked up, tapped her wallet on the sensor, and went down the steps to the platform.

She did it with so much ease and so little regard as to what might have happened if she had forgotten it, it drove me crazy.

You know that feeling you get when you’re first learning to ski? You’re standing there, struggling to stay upright while desperately trying to snowplough your way downhill, when a line of three year olds torpedo past you and breeze their way to the bottom of the slope. You feel like a total idiot and you desperately want one of them to fall down, just so there is someone on your level. I had that feeling, except a hundred times worse, because I know I could easily have been able to do the same as her and just walk casually down the steps if I hadn’t been such an idiot and forgotten my smartcard. Feeling like the world’s biggest moron, I followed her down the steps and onto the platform.

It was really crowded. The extra passengers caused by the bus strike had completely overwhelmed the system.

There were people everywhere, crammed into every inch of space on the platform.

The only space where there wasn’t anyone was the thin strip of concrete between the yellow line and the edge of the platform. It’s funny really. People will walk all over it on an empty platform, but the moment there are other people about, it is avoided like it is coated with some kind of explosive. The only people who still stay on it are the twelve year olds who think that they look cool by defying the rules and openly standing on the yellow line.

Even they weren’t standing at the edge today. The station was so crowded that standing on the edge would probably mean being bumped into the path of an oncoming train. Even they weren’t that stupid. Standing on the edge on a day like that was actually dangerous.

Ahead of me I saw the girl through a gap in the crowd. I followed her. I’m still not entirely sure why. I think it was curiosity.

Previously, I’d been aware of her existence as one of the regulars on the train, but that was all. She was a mystery.

Anyway, as I was trailing along behind her, I noticed her wallet fall out of her pocket.

She mustn’t have put it back in there properly after she used it at the top of the stairs. I bent down to pick it up and give it back to her, but as I stood up again, she had completely disappeared. The masses of people around me made it impossible to see her anywhere.

I looked down at the wallet. It was dark brown and made of leather. It was a really nice wallet. It struck me how strange it was for a girl to carry a wallet instead of a purse and I wondered why. For a moment I considered opening it up to see if I could

find out, but I decided against it. I could ask her when I gave it back.

This was where what little knowledge of her I had became useful. Figuring that she was boarding the same carriage as usual, I started off to the spot on the platform where the train usually pulled up.

There were a ridiculous number of people milling about, and I kept on getting bumped by random strangers. Finally, I managed to shove my way through to the usual spot.

I tried to see her, but there were still too many people in the way. Then, I caught a glimpse of her, between a pair of mothers with strollers. But by the time I got there, she had vanished again.

In frustration, I scanned the platform once again. I could see the sleepy, fat man on my left fighting to get near where the doors would open. By the looks of things, he would be lucky to get a seat at all, let alone his favourite one. I turned again, and accidentally bumped into someone.

I looked up into the face of the cowwoman from the line. She gave me the filthiest look yet, which took some doing considering the ones she had given me before, and started berating me about watching where I was going. By this stage, I was getting really annoyed, and was about to start yelling back at her when the rumbling of the train in the tunnel became audible over the general noise of the crowd. The lady looked up, distracted, and I was able to slip past her and avoid the next spate of yelling. As I did so, I saw the girl standing on the edge of the platform near the fat man, who had managed to fight his way through to the area marked for the carriage doors. She was over the yellow line. I started forwards towards her and managed to reach the line just as the train began pulling in.

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You know how some people say in stories that things happened in slow motion? That’s total garbage. No matter how hard you try, your mind can only comprehend things at a certain rate. I think what they mean is that they became really aware of what is happening around them. Everything becomes extremely detailed.

As I reached the line, the train came rushing towards us in a cloud of raised dust and the girl stepped out to the very edge of the platform. Behind me, I could hear the tantrum kid beginning to throw his very first one of the day. Just near the girl, the cow lady was shoving her way towards the front of the mass of people.

I stepped forward, towards the girl, and was just about to speak when a particle of dust whipped up by the train flew directly into my eye.

Boon Mahaguna, Year 11 Photographic Print

I bent down, my eye watering, and tried to clear it. As I looked up, I saw the girl tilting backwards off the edge of the platform. Her heel was out over the edge of the platform and she was just in that moment of balance – right before you fall…

A moment later, she had disappeared again, but this time I knew that she wouldn’t appear at some further point in the crowd.

I never did find out why she had a wallet instead of a purse. There must have been some reason. It was the individual characteristic of her that I hadn’t noticed before, the little thing that marked her out from the general crowd. I often replay that fleeting moment of balance in my head.

Did she overbalance, or was she bumped by some accidental elbow in the faceless

crowd? Or did she mean to fall? Her face was totally blank, serene as she fell. It gave me no clue as to why she fell.

I’ll never know why she fell. But one thing I do wonder is this: If she did mean to fall, then where did she expect the train to take her?

P A G

Alone Harry Sanderson, Year 11

62

How can we say there is any justice in our world, any at all, when everything we are can be stolen by death’s quick hand in the night with no warning at all? Nothing is fair about death, and we cannot escape its cruel unjust shadow that hangs over our lives

I’m fifty as I sit in my chair. He is fifty-two.

Was fifty-two.

How can we enjoy the game of life when we know it always ends exactly the same?

“He looks peaceful, mum,” he offers quietly.

“I mean they’ve done a good job.”

I clutch his cold, wrinkly fingers in mine.

I feel as though I’ve been exhaling for minutes. Minutes that have become hours, hours moved to days, days to the last two weeks. Subtly exhaling, perpetually, slowly feeling myself pour out into the universe around me, slowly feeling my breath carry the very fibre of my being out into the air, leaving my body, once inhabited, desolate, shaky, alone.

I cast my eyes up to the bed next to which I sit. He lays there, cleanly shaven, hair combed, eyes gently closed over. I try to murmur agreement, but can’t be sure if any sound reaches the outside of my mind.

Alone.

That’s all I’ve been thinking about. Being alone. Not knowing what it’s like to be alone. To have always had someone. To have always had him. Not physically. Much more than that. Years of absence would not mean I was alone. I wasn’t even alone before I met him. Even then we were together, subconsciously, unknowingly, we were together. Never, ever alone. And now, for the first time, I am.

I take my eyes off the pale, white floor they have been fixed upon and glance up. My son stands at the door, solemnly conversing with a doctor. He is sad. But not broken, as me. This is not the end for him. He has another life now, a family of his own. He will patch up the hole in his heart soon.

I continue to slide my fingers through the pale, cold hand.

It seems only yesterday I told him I was pregnant and he scooped me up, kissing me in the sunlight of our first home’s kitchen.

I feel warmth on my cheek and my eyes focus onto my son. He sits opposite me and sorrow clouds his eyes.

The doctor re-enters the room and squats down beside me. She offers me a tissue, which confuses me, until I look down at my shirt and realise tears are flooding out of my eyes. I choke back a breath, hard, laboured, and then continue to exhale.

Breathing everything out.

“We think he passed around five this morning,” the doctor moves her hand onto mine, giving it a light squeeze. “There was no pain. He was extremely fortunate.”

Fortunate.

This word echoes around my head, dwarfing any other thoughts previously there.

He was fortunate.

It is enough even to stop the continuous stream of outward breath. I squeeze my eyes tight shut, willing the world to disappear.

He was diagnosed with brain cancer just over a year ago. He had never smoked, never sworn, nor harmed a fly. Kind, honest, respectful. Handsome and with an honest nature that was peerless. He would never remain seated when anyone entered the room, even in his later years,

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when he could barely stand himself. He felt for others’ suffering and helped them, selflessly, in any way he could. He loved me more than anyone has ever loved anyone before and every time he looked at our children you could see the pride and adoration in his eyes. He wasn’t ready to die. His life was still ahead of him, barely into the third quarter. He still had so much to give, so much to get. Men are supposed to live to eighty. Men are supposed to be there for those they love.

And here I am, left alone with only the cold, wrinkled, lifeless hand of the man that is, was, everything. And he is fortunate.

Was fortunate. And so am I. Anger and sadness consumes me. Tears flow more freely. My eyes remain tightly closed. He was taken from me. Stolen. He never acted for himself once his entire life.

I am not holding the cold, dead hand of a man who did act for himself.

if they paused before drawing through his name. I wonder if they reviewed all the love he had given, examined the kindness he held in his heart. Or if they just kept flicking through the book, skipping over the names of people who gave nothing.

People who deserved to live less than him. Random chance, and he’s gone. No warning, no reason, no justice.

No justice for me.

To leave me here, crying in the night, with no reason I can think of for him not being next to me. To have everyone at his funeral whisper their condolences and tell me how lucky I am that I had him for so long.

Lucky. Fortunate.

Lucky.

Lucky is finding a dollar in the street. Lucky is something you should be grateful for.

Should I consider myself lucky? Lucky

because I am past fifty and all we were doing for the last years of our time together was waiting for death to knock on our door? Lucky a train has smashed an irreparable hole in the wall of my being?

Lucky I now sit alone, watching rain and wind come through the gaping hole in my life, knowing there is nothing I can do but save my sobs till the night time, and pretend I haven’t been broken by the only consistent thing I have ever known in my life being taken suddenly in the night, without any form of justice, informing me as to why. Lucky all the colours of my life have faded to grey, all the purpose has been vacuumed up, and now all I can do is wish that when I go to sleep I will never awake. Lucky. I wish I never get to see sixty like he should have.

I choke back another sob now as I sit alone. And then again I continue my long, unbroken chain of exhaling. I wonder if I’ll still be exhaling when I see him again.

Unimaginable.

Those who were worse people are outside, living selfishly and are the better off for it.

And I’m supposed to accept it. Accept it as just. Tell myself that I win some, I lose some and go home to sleep, to accept that I will be alone forever now. That there is no more. I keep expecting to wake up as a twenty year old and see him, lying peacefully next to me. Maybe that would be just.

I open my eyes.

Only my son. The doctor has gone. I choke back another sob, silently asking why it had to be him. Who decided, up in the heavens, that he should be taken? Who decided it was fair? Who decided it was just to him? Who decided it was just to me? I imagine them flicking through a book of names, of faces, deciding whose time was up, and whose wasn’t. I wonder

I squeeze my eyes tight shut, willing the world to disappear.

64

William Kermode, Year 12

To a Drunk No, no, go not with Melancholy, Her soft hands, holding some dull opiate, To ease yourself from Erebus’ grasp, nor Escape the shadows of Eris’s fate, Eat not her golden fruit, hung among the clouds For its shades ripen and fade when dew As dawn brings to day, dusk dwells into nights, When thy thirst is parched, when sorrow shrouds Thy judgement, drink from a wine of red hue And remedy with fruit from luscious vines.

When embracing Dionysus’ full harvest, Tasting the sudden rush of ecstasy Bore by the fermented grape, is it a pest Not to the soul but only the body; His spirit rests your fears into otherworldly hands, And sends senses into aching frenzies Of careless Joy, blooming through poison’s bliss; While still under his might, mysteries of time stand At a still, left untouched, for then I feel Unwavering peace, within thy drink’s kiss.

As Amphion strikes with accented chords That dwell with harsh tones and harm the soul, You relish its eternity that accords To beauty, as they from the heavens call; Perhaps thy grains are malnourished, And half-reaped, ravaged by withering land Or thy flesh is pale and head burns lighter, While thy vision would blur if had Melancholy flourished.

Grapes’ nectar burns bright, revealing Joy’s hand, For in darkness does Light shine brighter.

Koi Pond and Willow Tree Michael Zhou, Year 11

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Spring is indeed the season of birth, Blades of viridian climb out of moist earth. Leaves aflutter, buds shooting, The willow tree has finished rooting.

Light dappled water scintillates In a sanctuary, emotion infiltrates.

Outgoing koi meet and play, Black and white brocades on display.

In summer the fires of passion burn, As the parched, yellow grass quickly learns.

Yet proud and green stands the willow, Its bountiful leaves in the wind billow.

Water then roils as it must, When residing with currents so full of lust.

Rippling koi lock in love’s glacéd embrace; Yin and Yang’s seed soon fill this space.

Autumn now comes more desperately than wind, The greenery dies without having sinned.

The willow branches in ardent gales sway, Burnt out leaves, like children, run away.

And alas, alack!

The Great Net - as with all fact, Holds irrevocable power, Just another worker in Death’s corporate tower.

And in a single sweep, Makes new orphans weep.

Thus winter comes and branches droop, The willow has now an old man’s stoop.

Reduced to a skeleton in grey skies, At such macabre thoughts it sighs.

Cold koi shiver under frosted roofs of lily, They watch the porcelain land melt to slurry.

But not all is grim, There is next spring.

So koi pond and willow tree sit and wait, In time it will come; not too soon or late.

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Jack Erickson, Year 12 Mixed Media

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Billy’s Dad, a Chinaman, taught him from an early age, To be self sufficient, to shoot straight, how to stalk small game, To observe well, and watch the signs, of the animals in sight, As well as the birds in flight, by the waters of Sandy Creek.

Angus Dickson-Collins, excerpt from ‘Billy Sing – The Gallipoli Sniper’ pg 10

Timothy English, Year 9 Painting Bryon Hall, Year 9 Painting

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Liam Gnaden, Year 12 Film Still

Mason Prior, Year 12 Graphic Design Alexander Dunn, Year 12 Graphic Design

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Ric Maddren, Year 12 Mixed Media Ben Nagappa, Year 10 Sculpture

Liam Gnaden, Year 12 Mixed Media

Rohan Golestani, Year 11 Vector Illustration

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Harry Hoffman, Year 12 Mixed Media

Kieren Tan, Year 12

The World is a Beautiful Place And the Lord God planted a garden in Eden, in the east, and there he put the man whom he had formed.

Genesis: 2:8

Oh, just look at the sea!

And you’ll surely agree The way the waves come and go Like the dump trucks ebb and flow.

The world is a beautiful place.

Don’t you agree?

Just look at the sky Where fresh, artificial clouds pervade the air Above pristine factories Like brooding volcanoes.

What is it you say? Still not convinced?

Just look at the progress we have made!

From Ancient Rome, to Gallipoli, to Hiroshima…

Never before have we been so efficient At mining metal, farming forests and annihilating animals…

Oh, don’t give me that sardonic look, Just look at the streets!

Where termites infest and swarm in endless Circles, crawling, consuming, and finally, crumbling.

The world is a beautiful place… isn’t it?

Motivated to become, free to be

to be Motivated to become, free