Pegasus / Campanile 2014 by sarah murphy

PEGASUS

CAMPANILE

2014

A COLLECTION OF STUDENT WORKS FROM TINTERN SCHOOLS

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

KELLIE STUBBERFIELD / YEAR 11

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

2014

THE PEGASUS CAMPANILE COMMITTEE

2014

Kaitlin Bakken (Leader)

Daniella Cosentino

Michael D’Addazio

Elly D’Arcy

Caitriona Dempsey

Breanna Fitton

Lucy Garland

Alexandra Hellard

Maeghan McKenzie

Lauren Merritt

Alannah Murray

Blathnaid Murray

Rory Shepherd

Jenny Sun

Ryan Tierney

Henry Wang (Leader)

Ruby Wensor

Anna Wilson (Leader)

Naomi Wittner

EDITORIAL

MS CHRIS MILLGATE-SMITH / PEGASUS CAMPANILE COORDINATOR Welcome to the 2014 edition of Pegasus Campanile, the Tintern Schools’ showcase for the literary and artistic talents of our students. The student committee, ably led by Kaitlin Bakken, Anna Wilson and Henry Wang derived much satisfaction from the challenging task of making this selection. This year, the committee launched two new awards for work of outstanding merit and appeal: the Editors’ choice was selected by Anna, Kaitlin and Henry, and the People’s Choice was chosen by the committee as a whole. We hope you will gain as much pleasure and entertainment from reading it as we did from compiling it.

FRONT COVER ARTWORK: ALISON YANG / YEAR 9

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

NEVER JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER

IT’S OVER

Army jacket pulled tight, she shifted her weight. The delicious smell of a double shot caramel mocha wafted. The Starbucks was surprisingly devoid of its usual Macbook-toting, WIFIleeching occupants.

The blood stained sky pelted light upon us,

A barista, his carefully trimmed moustache shimmering with steam, called her order and she left, leaving the warm bubble of the store. Obviously, once she turned the corner she’d find a similar bubble produced by the well known chain. It was only as she passed the third Starbucks on her way home that she heard the footsteps.

We betray the kind and evil for fear,

EUNICE TANG / YEAR 11

It was stereo typical, the dark sky, the lack of other people. The perfect scene for a horror movie. Her heart beat faster, aided by the coffee she has just consumed. Reaching for her iPhone, she spun to face her follower. It was almost surprising how scary it was being followed in real life in comparison to on Twitter or Tumblr. The barista from the Starbucks stood there, bucket hat on his head and moustache free of steam. “You dropped your flower crown”. He shrugged and walked towards her. She smiled, holding out her hand, forgetting she hadn’t been wearing a flower crown. She never saw it coming. As she lay bleeding in the bushes she whispered “ I thought he was only a hipster”. It turns out there’s not much difference between the clothes of a hipster and those of a serial killer. Never judge a book by its cover, or rather, a person by their bucket hat and moustache.

THE BOMBS

RUBY EARL / YEAR 7 The bombs are falling from the sky From the planes we watch them fly From up high I hear the cry

ASHLEE CROWE / YEAR 7

Raven and baby screams fill our stone hearts, The thirst down pours into our loving minds,

Nothing will stop our revenge and hatred, Lies dig holes in the ground and burst us open, And now it has stopped for love showed throughout.

THE VULTURE

PATRICK BURNS / YEAR 11 They had got him, finally. After ten long years of tenacious flight the vulture of the east was caught. He had no name to the German authorities who detained him, just a number. To his people, however, he was a hero, one whose absence would be noted. To the Germans he was a 21st Century nightmare, but he never bombed Germany. The entire perfect world with every ounce of fibre of their beings hated him, and for what? Where he came from there was no Government, just pure anarchy. He united a whole nation after years of war, he reconciled and he led those people into the safest and most prosperous period they had ever known. He was an educator and a peacemaker, loved by many and hated by few. But not here, not now; here he was a murderer and oppressor and his heathen faith condemned. A usurper they called him, treason his crime and for that he would be strung up like a hunk of butcher’s meat. A hailed leader and idol of newly freed people to be cut down when he had so much more to achieve, when he could have freed the world! Their backs turned in protest, vainly they denounced him and as he took that fateful blindfold his body turned another saviour extinguished. The Reich would live on.

Of a child about to die In their last moment I hear them sigh In a soft voice they say, ‘why’?

STRIPES

LAUREN ANDERSON / YEAR 7

I don’t know why I could hear them cry From my plane that was flying high.

The people in the stripes are different They live behind a fence One by one they disappear I don’t know where they go The black smoke flows from the chimneys And fills the dark grey sky The days get longer the smoke gets thicker I can only wonder why.

TINTERN SCHOOLS

2014 QUICKSAND

HENRY WANG / YEAR 12

SEE, HEAR, SMELL, FEEL AND TASTE A CHOCOLATE JASMIN LIEW / YEAR 7

It is a miracle That I am still alive After being stuck here For what may seem like life. Others wanted to help, Kindly offered their hands. But I did not let them, I am quite alright, friends. They knew I was lying, Yanked me hard as they could. I was still like a kid Who would not go to school. As expected, they left, Lost their patience, rode off. Some did not understand, What an absolute snob! Snobbery, arrogance, Pride - Call it what you like. Alone, I resumed my Struggle, fixing this plight I was not going to Share the confronting fact That I am a nudist To such good friends of mine.

UNCERTAIN

ANNA WILSON / YEAR 12 The future cannot be foreseen, the future is uncertain, So how can we know our dreams aren’t behind a curtain? What if what we want so badly is just out of reach, And we can’t give ourselves another motivational speech? What if we aren’t made for our dream, And our future begins to rip at the seams. All our hopes and prayers are answered by number But only if we stop ourselves from going under. Under the books, the notes, the quotes

The strong, bold, four-letter word leapt out at me. The deep red and gold contrasted strongly to the black wrapper. MARS became MA as I gingerly opened the treat, listening as it crinkled in my grip. Instantly, the most delicious smell hit me making my mouth water, chocolate and caramel rolled into one piece of edible gold. The beautiful brown surface felt smooth under my fingers and looked irresistible! The first bite was a moment to remember, the caramel melted in my mouth while the nougat was soft and yummy. The second bite went quicker but tasted just as delicious. And all too soon. It. Was. Gone...

THE MASTERPIECE

KAITLIN BAKKEN / YEAR 12 Concealed behind note books and twittering pens, I watch you walk through, entirely Uninterested. Quiet and distant. All we want is attention. No mention. Not since my time. Not in my time. Never. Ignored, neglected. Years within four-sided wooden boxes Transcribed into text books. Light, dark, a contemporary tone. Brush strokes, alone. Eyes locked unseeing. Unseen. Beside Le Rêve The Dream. No more than strokes of a 2000 year old paint brush. I tell you my face is still. Life-like and real. Valued, expensive, Titan, Tiepolo, Tintoretto. A real painter’s painting. Point. Not at me. Immaculate. Design. Lovers. At different sides of the room. Framed. All the same. What am I to you? Need not the recognition, The eyes of youth. Just artists who already know me. I see painted eyes. Just paint. But I am a Masterpiece! In your notebook...

And all we can do is trust our boat floats, Above the ocean of tears spilt nightly, As we hold onto our dream so tightly.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

BARGAINING WITH DEATH

ANNA HARVEY / YEAR 10 I wake in his library. He has such a vast and wonderful place. There are dozens upon dozens of shelves lining the walls with books filled with the secrets of everyone. There are treasures and mysteries waiting to be read in those books by any man who is given the chance. However I am looking for just one book. And only he can find it for me. He would be at the top of the library, his favourite spot. I race up the many staircases to his lair. Last time I checked, there were forty-six thousand, three hundred and four stairs. I constantly tell him to invest in a lift but he insists that the he needs the exercise to keep his figure in shape. He is quite the odd sort of fellow. The view at the top always takes my breath away. The top floor is an extravagant dome that has a full 360 degree view of the stars. Every star in the galaxy can be seen from this room. I see my star, just barely alive. It won’t be there for much longer. He sits on his throne with his back towards me and stares out into the universe. He picks up a glass of champagne to sip and gives a satisfied burp. Upon placing the glass down, he says, “Good evening John, and oh, what a fine one it is at that. I see that your star is about to disappear. Perhaps it will see its last moments of light tonight?” And this may be the end of it. I had come here with the decision made. But I just couldn’t believe my time would be over so quickly. “Yes, I think so.” I sigh. He turns to look at me. I reach to cover my mouth as I stifle a gasp. His appearance always disturbs me. ‘Death’; that is what he calls himself. He appears before me as a ‘skeleton in a tuxedo’.

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That was the fashion statement Death prefers. He says it enhances his figure. Death yawns as he acknowledges my decision, “I see.” He reaches into his hollowed eye socket as if to wipe away sleep. He then rests his skull upon his bony hand and looks at me blankly. I hesitate for a moment but I decide to stick to my original decision to ask for the book. “Charlotte Black,” I say. “Ah, she is an interesting one, that young Charlotte. You’ll enjoy reading her’s. But this will be your final instalment in our bargain. Are you sure you want to do this?” I bite my lip. Death’s playing tricks with me again. I had come to the library with a firm mindset but now he was questioning my dedication to my work. This book was the answer to the six month long murder case that had the entire nation baffled. Millions of people were counting on the ‘Great detective John Larkin’ to solve the case like so many others he has solved. But this may be the last case. I would be giving up the last year of my life. That was the bargain I made with Death. For every person’s book I read, I am able to solve their murder but the price of my one year of my life. And now, a thirty-six year old detective with just one year left. This may be the final flicker of life from my star. Death shifts in his seat. I glare at him. “Ok, take your time, take your time,” he mutters. I have the choice; my duty or my life. I stand up straight and look Death directly in the eye socket. “Well?” Death asks. I take a deep breath in. “Yes.” I say finally.

MY FAVOURITE PLACE DAISY MCMILLAN / YEAR 9

The very best time to be in this place, my favourite place, is when the crisp and cold morning turns into a sunny, warm day. I wake to see the cold, frozen grass, that still holds its bold and beautiful colours. I wake to see the bird baths have turned into mini ice-skating rinks, where the little birds sit pecking, to break the ice. This is my favourite place because of the peace. The quiet. Sometimes I lie down, in the sun, just to listen to nothing. The sound of nothing sounds a lot like birds and trees, but even quieter. Everyday holds a new and exciting adventure, one day it might be finding the most possums sleeping in the trees or how many types of plants I can name. But most days, I’m in my place to relax. To enjoy life, in the slow lane. Here there are no bustling cars, maybe the odd bike bell and a friendly hello to follow, but I am away from all that is bustling here. This is why it is my favourite place, Alexandra.

DESCRIPTIVE POEM BASED ON THE BOOK ‘FIRST THEY KILLED MY FATHER’ BY LOUNG UNG KALI DOLPHIN / YEAR 7 Pa A tsunami of sadness crashed over me, drowning me in my own thoughts as the reality of life became clear; Pa was not going to return. My stomach churned and knotted inside of me at the thought of living without him. A wild fire started blazing inside but no matter how many tears I shed nothing could wash out the pain. The rivers streaming down my cheeks made the dirt underneath my feet muddy and I was slowly sinking down into the earth. I slumped down onto my knees begging to the gods that this was not true, that he would return, that he was still alive. I shut my eyes as tight as I could for I did not want to see a world without Pa in it. I miss you Pa.

2014 A MOONLIT SORROW KATE SWAIN / YEAR 7

A long time ago we were all together watching the melting red sun set over the bay, as if it were never to return again. My father used to cradle me in his warm and loving arms, whilst calmly rocking back and forth in his weathered, grey rocking chair. He did this to the soothing yet constant crash of the moonlit waves, as they rolled onto the shore submerging sandy creations that had been made earlier that day. My mother sat there too, on the arm of my father’s rocking chair, cradling her stomach carefully. I remember her soft caramel hair that seemed to flow on forever, and when illuminated by the moonlight, it created a halo around her, just like an angel. She had freckles that popped in the beaming golden sun, and cheeks of the rosiest pink. Her lips, the colour of love, never touched because she always wore a smile that radiated goodness, hope and love. But like I said, that was a long time ago. One night, my father held me tightly in his arms. As I felt his loving body radiating warmth onto mine, something felt different. It wasn’t the fact that my mother sat on the rocking chair instead of its arm, nor the fact that the sun had already gone down and we had not been there to witness it. It wasn’t the fact that my mother didn’t have her luscious hair as it had disappeared many weeks ago, nor the fact that my father’s eyes were no longer blue, and were darker than night in the midst of winter. It was that something was going to change. Fear seemed to have taken control of my father’s body, and as he gazed into the night, he closed his eyes. Was he imagining, or was he remembering? Was he hurt or was he healing? Whatever it was, I knew that my father would never return to his hopeful state ever again. As I watched his grey eyes reopen, they found my mother’s and were conversing by exchanging glances. What they were saying, however, I will never know. My father turned to watch

the waves again, and they reflected the angelic white light that beamed out of the moon. My mother spoke words to my father, and as he shed just a single tear, he placed me into her arms, but didn’t quite let go. As my mother’s eyes shifted off my face, she briefly stared at my father. The second he felt her glance, he released me. My mother wasn’t as strong as she used to be, so she dropped me from her arms onto her lap. I knew it was going to happen, just like it had mere weeks ago, so I had prepared myself as I knew it wasn’t going to hurt. Then I witnessed a single tear roll down the cheek of my mother, shimmering in the light as it fell. I felt her warm breath pipe into my ear like lemon butter icing being frosted onto sweet little cakes. In a soft yet scratchy voice, she spoke to me; “No matter how weak nor how strong. How full of energy nor how lifeless. No matter how close or how far apart we may be, I will always love you and will be with you forever”. Then in a softer voice she said, “It is now”. Screams of pain and sadness echoed out from a clinical white room, with soulless metallic machines. Men and women dressed in crisp peppermint green garments conversed with abbreviated medical terms, whilst busily surrounding a woman who seemed grey, withered and ailing. Then all fell silent. No more words, no more sounds. Suddenly an infant’s cry, unlike any other, broke the silence and echoed throughout every hall. I followed the cry as I felt it was calling me, needing me to be close.

Standing in between them, was my father. He didn’t know whether to feel complete sadness and desolation or to feel blessed by a new soul. So he just stood there stunned. The two bodies rolled out of the now solemn room, the lifeless following the lively. They travelled one behind the other, down a narrow and completely empty hallway; then departed through two different doors. My father stood between these two doors, contemplating which he should enter. So I stood with him, squeezing his hand with reassurance. Then I let go and confidently ambled through the door that held the living. My father remained firmly planted between the two doors for what seemed like a lifetime. He then inhaled deeply and took a single step towards the door of the living. He took one final glance back at the door that my mother had just entered, and then without looking back, he entered the door behind me. As one life ends, another must begin.

THE ANZAC

JEMMA THORNTON / YEAR 7 I am stirring the cocoa in my pot Opening cans of bully beef Slicing bread that is hot Serving them to soldiers with no grief. Most men injured and sick But some of them still well They couldn’t decide what to pick So I said to them ‘have a smell.’

On sterile white sheets lay a body; a body completely devoid of any life. On a folded blanket, in a clear case, lay another body; a small body with tubes and wires coming and going from everywhere. Multitudes of people huddled over this small child, but all I could notice was the soft caramel hair that coated his small head as it was strangely familiar.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

ELIZA WILSON-HALL / YEAR 12

ALICE CHURCH / YEAR 6

OLYMPIA SARRIS / YEAR 12

TINTERN SCHOOLS

MEREDITH WATTS / YEAR 12

VICTORIA MCKENZIE / YEAR 5

JING SHUANG ZHAO / YEAR 12

BREANNA FITTON / YEAR 12

MADISON JONES / YEAR 9

2014 SLICE OF THE CITY - THE SCARS OF TIME NICHOLAS ELLIOTT / YEAR 10

“This is where we kept the inmates at night” the gruff sergeant said. He motioned towards one of the several gloomy cells which had a tiny door and an ominous allure. “You are now free to wander around as you wish, but we’ll be meeting back here in five” he said. I entered the cell and took a seat on the small but solid bench. I felt uneasy in the cell: the distorted light from the corridor which made its way through the half open door was flickering like an old film. I began to imagine the press of the people around me, I was thrown into the cell with other prisoners. I could hear the shaky breathing mixed in with snoring of the men inside. My own breath was ragged from the rough treatment I had received from the sergeant. What had I done to deserve this? Well, it could be a number of things as the sergeant had said before. Maybe I had punched a guy, maybe I was charged for drunk and disorderly conduct, it didn’t really matter whether I hadn’t paid my parking tickets or brutally murdered someone. I would still end up in one of these cells. I looked down and saw rough scratches sown across the miserable wooden planks which made up my seat. At first I thought it was just graffiti done by some ignorant school kids but then I looked and saw that it was evident on every bench in the room. There were far too many to be done by a couple of school kids. As I looked closer I saw that they were dates and names as well. Simple scrawlings like “smithy 98” or “Leroy 62”. Some were longer though, whole sentences, and others were even longer still going on for at least a paragraph or two. These I immediately assumed were the ramblings of a madman who had spent far too much time in this musty claustrophobic cell. Many contained profanities regarding the officer who brought them in or the police force in general. Even though they were fairly simple phrases the vulgar language and the simple spelling mistakes gave a thought to who was in here. Perhaps they were etched into the wood as a way for the inmate to have a place in history, a living legacy, or was it just another mark on an old seat. For some reason I was captivated by this rambling remarks, they were scars, marring the lovely wood, defiling its beauty. Any of these etchings which had had any contact with moisture swelled up like a cut left untreated. Most of the oil seal had worn away and as I looked across the bench I found that most of them had swelled and enlarged, ruining the tranquillity of the rest of the bench. There were a few names and dates, however, which remained untouched by this disfiguration, maybe they were the lucky ones who wouldn’t be like the other 90% of reoffenders who would end up back in here. Who would have to spend hour after hour wait just waiting to see what would be decided for their punishment.

I had to get out. I launched from my seat and ran out of the cell only just remembering to duck under the low door at the last second. Ah, that’s better, I thought as I entered the wide corridor and looked up at the sunlight which was making its way hesitantly through the ceiling. I took a deep breath realising that I had been holding my breath for the last couple of moments in the cell. I glanced around, my movements dopey and strange. Many of my friends were only just beginning to meet in the centre. Was that five minutes? It felt like an hour. I glanced back at the cell and saw the dim room with the half open door beckoning me again. No thank you! I thought as I hurried to the meeting place. I’m not going back in there, too much time in there will change anybody.

NEVER JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER NICK WALTON / YEAR 11

Meet Joe. Joe was a poor boy from birth. As a child, the world viewed him as worthless. They didn’t believe he was worth their time, and soon enough, Joe didn’t either. Joe fell into a grave depression; he wished and wished for a better life. Joe would have killed for a better chance. It was only a matter of time before he realised that he would get one. You see, Joe had a gift, well, he never lost the gift really, so some might say Joe has a gift. Others, on the other hand, would say prison is no place for the gifted. However, this is getting ahead of the story. Joe’s gift is a very useful one in the modern world; he has the gift of code. Numbers and algorithms flow through his veins, and it wasn’t until adolescence that he discovered this. His depression lifted. For the first time in his life, Joe felt like he mattered in the world of the wealthy. Now usually a story like Joe’s would end happily; his gift saves his life and leads him down the path of endless opportunity, but Joe was just a poor boy. With no role models or advice, Joe took the wrong path; the one that leads to prison gates. Hacking was his new game. He practically ate fire-walls for breakfast. Nobody could stop him when he got hacking. But, as most would foresee; a crime such as hacking only returns to plague the inventor. Now Joe is just a prisoner. Poor Joe the prisoner.

I had to get out. The cell was suffocating me, I felt as if I had been dropped in a pool of oil and I was desperately trying to keep my head afloat while this, black muck, was seeping into my skin.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

THE GAP IN THE MOTHER/SON RELATIONSHIP

RYAN TIERNEY / YEAR 10

People’s Choice SENIOR COLLEGE

On the 31st of April two individuals wrote diary entries documenting separate problems that were resonant in their lives. The two individuals were a teenager and his mother. From these two entries we can see a certain gap in communication that seems to be a trend in the common mother to teenage son relationship. The diary entries are as follows: Mother: As a mother I can’t help but wonder what my son has been up to. I remember the beautiful baby boy who smiled when he saw me and the little toddler who talked for hours on end about the simplest things. When he came back from primary school he’d put his bag on the table and tell me how his day went. His demeanour has changed so much in the last few days. I’ve started to miss him and I feel as though I’ve done something to make him angry with me. He never says much anymore; just locks himself in his room the second he comes home. I wonder what he’s doing in there; it isn’t fair that he can suddenly cut me out like he has with no explanation. The only time I feel like I see him is when we’re sitting at the dinner table, but he barely even looks up. He may as well not even be there. He tells me he’s going out, and at first I was happy for him. He’s always been an introvert, and he didn’t have many friends. Now I’m scared of whom he’s hanging out with. I’ve never met any of them and he’s obviously never talked about them. They could be anyone. I watch 60 minutes, I know the kind of drugged up rascals that hop around town. What if my son were one of those rascals? I’ve always looked at those parents on TV and said to myself “They’re a disgrace, how could they be so careless as to let their children grow up like that,” but how do I know I’m not one of those careless mother’s whose sons are already doing those awful, horrid things? I looked through his wallet and all the allowance I’d given him was gone. I don’t know what he spent it on, but I fear the worst. I just can’t even be sure. Sometimes I try to ask him where he’s been, but he gets angry and defensive. He makes me feel like I’m the problem. I’ve looked through his room but I haven’t found anything. I just need a sign, something to tell me one way or the other if he’s ok. I’m a mother; it’s my job to worry. I need him to know that I’m here for him. There was a time when I tried to ask him what was on his mind. He told me “nothing” and that it doesn’t matter, even not to worry. I told him that I’m here for him and that I loved him, he mumbled it back, but he didn’t even look up. He was just eager to run back off to his room. My friends have told me that I should be worried. They have kids around his age, and they say that they’re not experiencing any similar problems. I must be an awful mother. I can’t help my son through whatever he’s going through. I wonder if he misses his father. I miss him. Maybe if his father was here he’d be able to help. I know that I can’t fill the void that his father left, but I’m trying my best. I know that boys are different from girls, and that there are some topics that only fathers can discuss with their sons. I’ve been reading up on puberty in boys and have found out that what he’s going through may be hormonal, or that he’s

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

acting out through sexual frustration. The book says that it’s a natural stage that some teenagers go through and I’ve resolved to discuss this with my son. I’m feeling optimistic about this approach but if it doesn’t work I don’t know what I’ll do. I’m scared for his wellbeing. I’m praying that it’s just one of those “stages” that kids go through, like a passing fad. I’m just so scared. My life is a train wreck. I wish I knew what was wrong. Son: Playstation won’t load, can’t figure out why...

YOLO

ZOE STEPHENSON / YEAR 11 I guess there are many differing opinions on the phrase yolo. For those who haven’t accepted it into their everyday vocabulary, It is usually met with a deep sigh, And a roll of the eye Followed by an exasperated “tsk tsk, kids these days” or a rant about how the beauty of the English language is being lost to laziness and everyone’s eyes are constantly buried in their phones, and oh, for God’s sake if they would just look UP They would experience life first hand instead of through a goddamn Instagram post Or something to that effect. Suppose the whole world fell over and used the one bandaid turn-by-turn; most people would cringe at the gross over used excuse for a bandage Come back when you hear “lol just got a frozen yoghurt yolo” “yolo going to the gym!!” “omg I might even yolo and catch the bus” At least 35 times a day And try to tell me you wouldn’t cringe It’s evolved into a widely accepted encouragement to do ..Anything Stuck in a hospital bed with a broken leg while a middle-aged nurse affirms the passenger died overnight is when you would realize two things Bandaids don’t fix broken legs And that “yolo” Does not justify twelve shots, four beers and the money you saved your mate on a cab He only lived once too. In my opinion, I don’t think the phrase itself is a problem If it motivates just one person to do what they really want to do in life, to pick themselves up dust themselves off to slap a bandaid on and keep walking Then I’ll forget the stigma surrounding it Because, yolo, am I right?

2014 THE CITY IN A 9 PART SYMPHONY RORY SHEPHERD / YEAR 10

Editors’ Choice SENIOR COLLEGE

Synopsis: The following writing piece is set out as though each small paragraph is a bar of music. The numbers in brackets represent the counts in a bar. Repeat. (One) Eyes open. (Two) The clang of construction site failures bring a start to the day. (Three) A pipe dropped onto hardened concrete. (And) A hammer just grazing the edge of a nail on attempted strike. (Four) The man who couldn’t quite manage to park his van without poking his nose out into traffic. (One) Swivel. (And) Feet peck the soft furry cheek of the bedroom floor. (Two) Body dragged up and out on strings controlled by an imaginary promotion. (Three) Flung into the shower. (And) Water on, lather, rinse, repeat; lather, rinse, water off. (Four) Stare at myself, grab tools from the cabinet. (And a) Preen and dress up until I wear the facade of my parent’s dream. (One) The burning scent of charred yeast wafts around the room. (Two) Munch on a square of lukewarm mould. (Three) Lay the plate down in a cot of suds with a water cycle. (And) Brush my teeth in time to the beat of the morning news anchorman’s barely awoken blinking. (Four) Strut out of the door in a clean pressed suit complementing a melancholy smile. (One) The garage door opens. (And) The car rasps awakes, choking on auto-gas. (Two) Slip into traffic, congestion as fluid as tar. (Three) Road governed by drivers with the ethics of Goldman Sachs. (And) Radio spurts opinions on overpaid office workers and C.E.O scandals. (Four) Red and vitriol fill the air in the car like the cigarette fumes fill the air in my lungs. (And a) Sideswiped turning by a toss pot running a red. (One) Arrive without a “Welcome”. (And a) Sit without a smile. (Two) Balance portfolio. (And) Balance portfolio. (Three) Lunch break. (And) Balance portfolio. (A) Balance portfolio. (Four) Stand without vigour. (And) Leave without a “Goodbye”. (One) Keys slide into warn ignition with nary a click. (And) Car starts eager to exit this spirit slaughter house. (Two) Enter river of tar filled with half the patience of the morning and twice the inconsideration for thy fellow man. (Three) Turn radio off and test the stability of the steering wheel with my forehead. (And) Ponder the events that brought one here without the slightest look of pride. (Four) The garage weeps at the return of its owner. (And a) The door closes and with it another day of a short unfulfilled life. (One) Prepare a store bought meal whose texture only compares to raw veal. (Two) Turn on the TV and get under a blanket to distract from the freezing loneliness. (Three) Shovel down sustenance that was never capable of a single sentient thought. (And) Leave the “untouched” in the Tupperware limbo labelled “leftovers”. (Four) Turn the TV off.

(One) Turn on the sink. (And) Squeeze out the minty white paste claiming to give one the smile of Adonis. (Two) Make eye contact with the man in the glass. (Three) Up down, left right, up down, left right, spit. (And) Up down, Left right, up down, left right, rinse. (Four) Turn off the sink. (And a) Bid farewell to the man in the glass for another day. (One) Lights go out. (Two) Cry the tears of a regretful old man whose clock will soon strike. (Three) Stare at where a partner should lay nestled in the bosom of the blankets. (And) Fade out of consciousness. (Four) Silence... Repeat.

IMAGINEERED MEMORY

OLIVIA BRIDGFORD / YEAR 11 An Earth deserted mountain. Caresses of rain, harmonising the sky top. Paint strokes of vermillion defying moss on ancient whispered boulders, soaked in years. Moon ship clouds which rumble towards the elusive horizon. A memory of wind, tousling the quiet green secret keepers. A breeze to a gale as I to those trees; of such dark, valley canyoned bark. I climbed such trees of tall temptation, rungs of the ladder up the rocky tower until only the children were left to try to keep me from their treasure. A triumph, as my head cleared the group of leaves, and my eyes sought reprieve. And all about life sung her exquisite melody, echoing off the cloud stirring mountains, peaked with frozen tears. While the silver dance weaved its way through the sea wave of a meditating forest, tapping heads and shaking shoulders. And all now awake conducted a glorious story of sketch book scenery, the rivers a tumble of stories as the blanket of clouds cast a ghost mist over everything, all the magic of the world hidden within it’s Antarctic embrace. I remember reaching a heart aching palm towards the place where the wind taunted the puppet string clouds, my fingertips entwining in the sorcery above. And on that day, the truth tiptoed from above, it’s pattering feet tattooing my arms in freedom from the school board grey clouds; the saviour of worlds. The rain fell, and I remember falling with it, until all I was left was a reflection of the sky tears, calling to the child inside. A horse drawn hearse of the silent secret keepers shrouded the path of haphazard cobble from whence I once came. And on days like these, humanity paused to wonder at the world around them, the way in which the trees fought f.e1”’the shackles of the earth, seeking that which they would never have. An existence of wilderness, nothing but a contemplation of possibilities.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

NO TEARS

HOLLY FRYER / YEAR 8 An American, a British and a Spanish guy finally meet in the desert. They sit down under the flame of the sun and try to make out the vision of a city in the distance... I stare at the television screen, now fading into black, the bright sand and sun of the movie in stark contrast to reality - eleven o’clock on a winter night, in my small attic bedroom. As a fifteen year old girl, I am starting to tire from of all these lousy, predictable movies. I sigh, slip out of bed, silently treading down the stairs in my socks, take out a glass and turn on the tap. My dad is here in Cambridge with me, sleeping behind the door about three meters away opposite the kitchen, but my mum left for Paris four years ago when they separated, leaving me and my younger brother Michael here, confused, hurt. Unloved. I have learnt to deal with it. Even now, looking around my kitchen, I can’t see any traces of her, to bring back memories, pain. Or joy. No photos, to remind us of the beauty of our parents’ wedding, none to show us how lovingly she looked at me when I was just toddler. None to show our joy of going to France with her, none to show the laughter we shared as my mum, Lindy Grace, looked out over the Seine from the Eiffel Tower, for the first time. No souvenirs from the surprise trip to the theme park she sprung on us when we were small, innocent, unsuspecting. Nothing. All gone. Sometimes I sense myself forgetting her face, her smile. All I can remember, sometimes, is her shouting voice through the floor of my bedroom, her fighting, her tears, my tears. I scold myself and force myself to remember the positives, but when my recent childhood has been full of neglect, hate, and negatives, that is hard. Very hard. I feel as though yet another weight has been placed upon my shoulders. As I trudge back up the carpeted staircase, I see a vision of my mother’s tear-streaked face flashing with anger, before a door slams in front of it, her

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

footsteps quitening to silence one last time. A tear escapes my eye. I open my eyes. I stare at the ceiling, and blink a couple of times as the brightness seeping thorough the crack in the curtains hurts my tired eyes. I have a strange nagging feeling in the back of my head, as I usually do when I first wake up, as if my brain wishes for me to immediately recall my memories from last night. I have no intentions to do that. I will not cry today. Today is the last day of the holidays. Tomorrow, I will have other commitments, other worries, other things to busy me, to fill in my spare time. I can blend in at school. People never notice my blank face as I try to hide my pain, the memories that flood my brain as it sits idle at lunch breaks. No. No tears. I figure I might as well do something, so I ride with my brother to his under twelves soccer training and sit on the sidelines, just watching - well, this isn’t really ‘doing something’. Bad move. I try to occupy myself by playing dumb games on my phone, but even the cute smiling characters in the game remind me of someone else, of the same cheerful emotions reflected onto another’s face. Three guesses who. I glance over at my dad, cheering Michael on. The first few weeks were hard for him, I suppose, but not anything like the months before the divorce. My eyes sting with anger, tears threatening the spill over my eyelashes. No. I check with dad, then walk slowly over to the shops opposite the oval. I see clothes stores, shoe shops, McDonald’s, the library... But what interests me is a poster for my favourite movie pasted all over the front of a DVD rental place. I shrug. Anything to stop the tears. No tears. After examining the cover of a few movies, not getting too excited, I decide just to get the one in the poster. As I walk over to the counter, I hear an old man with an overly-excited young granddaughter approaching also, out of my line of sight. The girl giggles and runs forward infront of me, knocking my feet out from under me. Grumbling, I try to push myself up from the floor, but stop in my tracks. As I turn my head to the side, I see a medium-sized black, rectangular box

under on of the shelves. Here? In a well-run, spick and span, DVD shop, a discarded video tape? I dust myself off and, after brushing off the apologies thrown feebly at me by the grandpa, I quietly slip over to the shelf I saw earlier and reach under it. My hand draws back, now grasping a video with a label I can’t quite make out. Does it say... Green? Grease.. No... Grace? Now I’m certain I am seeing things. I convince myself, as I walk home, flustered and out of breath, clutching the video like a lifeline, that it was my brain’s fault. It conjured up the illusion of my mother’s surname on the label. I was already thinking about her, so the handwriting seemed to... Just... Look like hers. Yes. That’s it. No tears. Still, here I am now, opening my bedroom door, and rushing to the old VCR played in the storage cabinet opposite my bed. I dust it off, plug it in, and run the tape, my heart beating. I shouldn’t be doing this, I tell myself. I shouldn’t have found this. But even as the tiny screen suddenly switches from static to a blurry, frozen picture, my heart start to quicken its pace. Images flood my mind, of my mum, young and happy, holding up a video camera as me and Michael, him only three, me seven, roll down a green hill, giggling and shrieking with joy. I remember carrying the thing myself, feeling very important with the satchel around my petite shoulders, the metal of the camera jangling against my knees. No... Tears... Hold it together. Memories of family gatherings, Christmas, New Year’s, always ending in a round of photos, slides shows and videos of our family, being viewed on the TV in our old house. As the first scene plays, a bright, glowing woman smiles at two children, holding hands as they race over to her. I clutch the remote between my hands as the breath is sucked from my lungs. I stare in wonder as the memories of her, me, him, us are played back to me in the familiarity of my comfortable bedroom. A smile grows on my lips as I hug my arms close to my chest. I feel wetness on my cheeks. I let the tears flow.

2014

MILLY ROSS / YEAR 11

NAOMI WITTNER / YEAR 12

JAKOB MAZONOWICZ / YEAR 3

RORY SHEPHERD / YEAR 10

CASSIE JONES / YEAR 10

RABEEH KURBAN / YEAR 12

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

REGRETS

TESS HAHNEL / YEAR 9 The interview had been going fine, well even. I had started to let my guard down a bit, easing into a casual conversation with my (hopefully) soon to be employer. He was a surly old man, short but strong, his calloused hands were tanned and well worked, as you would expect from a mechanic. I liked him. He had been rattling off questions about car bumpers and broken engines and “how do you know if I tyre is worn out and needs replacing?” Which is probably why his final question caught me so off guard, is that the kind of thing you ask at job interviews? I suppose it is, trying to get an idea of character of something. The question made me think of something that I had spent a long time trying to forget. What is your biggest regret? My younger brother had always wanted to be like me. He idolized me, acted as though I was the most important person in the world; I suppose I was the most important person in his world. Our parents weren’t around often; both of them had nine to five jobs that often ran late into the evening, leaving my brother and me a few hours after school finished to ourselves. My brother was four when it happened. When I was five, my obsession with batman began. It started when I won a magazine competition, earning me a limited edition Batman lunchbox. That Halloween I wore a full black Batman costume, I had three Batman video games and a Batman action figure. When I was eight, I was told that I was too old for superheroes. I never did want to disappoint father, so that was that. On a particularly boring Tuesday of a particularly boring week, Sam and I were watching TV after school, some boring cartoon that he loved and I pretended was really lame, although I never missed an episode. Sam was squirming in his seat on the sofa, with the endless energy that only a four year old can manage. I knew we weren’t supposed to leave the house, my one job has always been “look after Sammy.” I was eight, he was four, we just wanted to play.

His restless movements irritated me and I had had enough. “Sammy, quit shuffling around on that seat and watch your stupid show.” He looked at me then with those puppy dog eyes he had mastered the day he realised it got him what he wanted. I never could resist those eyes.

TIMAHOE CROSSROADS

“But I’m boooored,” he complained, stretching out the o’s like four year olds do. Like I said, I could never resist those eyes.

The violin rings out a jig

“Alright, fine, let’s get out of here; we can go play superheroes if you want.” I replied, trying to feign disinterest; eight was too old for superheroes. At my words a new light shone in his brown eyes excitement evident in his wriggling muscles. “Really?” “Really.” “Dibs Batman”, he called running from the room, I laughed and followed him to his room where I had long since donated all of my Batman memorabilia. He put on his Batman cape and offered me a Superman one, I tried to tell him Superman was lame but I couldn’t keep the grin off my face. We went outside and played for hours, racing each other and mock fighting as our characters (I always lost), it was only when it got dark that we realised we should probably head back, only we didn’t know where we were. Our backyard backs onto a state forest which is where we had spent most of the afternoon, racing from clearing to clearing. I spun in a circle trying to see which way we had come in and try to backtrack from there. I noticed a few cracked sticks in the edge of the clearing and went to reach for my brother’s hand. It wasn’t there. “Sammy!” I called panic stricken, look after your little brother that’s your one job, you have to look after your little brother. “Luke, look!” he called and I spun in a three sixty, relief spreading over me at his voice. “Look I can fly!” We said and leapt from the huge pine tree he had climbed. Everyone knows that Batman can’t fly. “I don’t really have any regrets.” I lied, a smile plastered onto my face. “What’s done is done, there’s no changing it.” I got the job.

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

ALANNAH MURRAY / YEAR 12 Glasses empty and smiles cracked across faces. rhythmic as the steady sipping. And the laughter and the open fire warm your fingers and your heart The darkness outside and the darkness at home can’t touch this pocket of paradise Where chatter sings and eyes sparkle and feet tap themselves to the beat of the bodhran and the warmth of the whisky loosens the tight wires of your body And your tongue. You hand over the notes and the coins and the bitter burn of your drink begins to sink seep slither through Your veins. And it blazes too bright and burns deeper than your cousin’s “nerves” your father’s debts your uncle’s weakness for the drink But you don’t mention that, just force a smile with your burning lips then sip another glass and drain another that never quite manages to drown your sorrows And then when the morning blossoms You head home and crumble into the bed asleep until you can do it all again Tomorrow.

2014 CITY HAIKUS

Soda Rock Café Squished in side by side At brightly coloured tables Each bumping elbows

NIGHTLIFE

Train Trip City trip today Up early to get the train Don’t want to miss it

Greasy food is served We eat with shining fingers Until we are full

The first thing that hits me is the musty smell of old grime. I proceed forward slowly, aware of the door teetering on its rusty hinges. I call out to my mum, announcing my arrival home and a groan floats out from the lounge in reply.

SARAH COBB / YEAR 10

Waving arms from door Calling me to the carriage Where they wait for me Crowded together As squashed bugs clutching cases Hurtling along

New song, waiters dance In a line they jump and clap We stand to applaud Now it is our turn The Chicken dance and Nutbush We laugh and have fun

The city, we’re here! Dump our cases, now let’s go First up, the old gaol!

Screen Worlds Free time! What to do? Near Fed Square, visit screen worlds? Sounds fun, we should go.

Watch house Sargent’s dim office Handing out fake crime records Now we’ll be locked up

Oh look here and there Let’s play Mario carts now Oh, Matrix photos!

He’s a good actor Shouting and glaring at us Hard to keep face straight

Time to go back now Wait, where is my phone, it’s gone! Searching all over

All locked in a cell Suddenly screams as lights out Locked down for the night

Still gone, can’t be late We’ll have to come back later Running for the train

Children’s songs we sing Together in the darkness Sargent’s straight face fails

We come back next day The office doesn’t have it We find it ourselves

Urban Seed Starting at a church We discuss stereotypes Then we hit the streets Saddening stories And heartbreaking memories We listen, we talk

GENEVIEVE BARCLAY / YEAR 10

Padding down the hallway towards my room, if you could call it that, I drop my school bag on the floor and it is instantly lost in the jumble of clothes, overdue essays and old food scraps. My bed creaks under my weight and I pull a stray sock out from under my head. As I wait for sleep to wash over my tired body, noises erupt as a reminder of my miserable school day. The jeering calls of blonde high school barbies calling me out on my choice of clothes, the state of my hair, nails and every other imperfection that they could possibly conjure up in their small minds. The buzz of gossip in the girls change room as we step into our uniform white sport gear avoiding the water on the floor from the showers, and the many spritzes of deodorant. I blink and turn over, willing for sleep to come. But it never does. My night life is filled with uncertainty, nightmares and occasionally yells from my mum that are indistinguishable. On the occasion that I do fall into a restless version of slumber, I am dogged constantly by nightmares which include giant black crows, the uncertainty of the dark and the peaceful poison of being alone.

Sighing I extract myself from the duvet and make my way towards the bathroom. On my way there, I get a glimpse of my mother asleep in the mangy old couch in the living room, our brown cat Randy on her lap. The TV is on, but reflecting only the static with occasional glimpses of preening ladies with too much makeup on. Looking back to my mum, I turn off the TV. I’m glad at least some people in this house can sleep. Our bathroom consists of a chipped blue tiled shower, a toilet missing a lid and a sink in desperate need of cleaning. I stop just inside the door wondering why I came in here, so I sit on the toilet not minding the hole. Unconsciously I scratch at my arm, and it starts to bleed as the old scabs peel off, a bloody reminder of what my life is. I spy my mums sleep tablets on the sink, and a few minutes later the bottle is empty. Tears begin to flow down my cheeks and I let them fall. I can’t cry in front of my mother, but in here, no one knows or cares. This room has seen more of my life than any other. It is my hideaway and although the walls are full of my personal torment, there is something comforting about it. The shower door is clouded by water droplets mimicking my tears. I can feel myself beginning to feel lightheaded, the tablets are taking over my brain, the fuzzy nothingness is comforting and for the first time, I fall into a deep easy sleep.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

NAILED

SABRINA WANG / YEAR 9 September 23rd Monday, 2002 It still felt terrible even after all this time. I wanted to close my eyes and have a rest, but I couldn’t. I could only see her begging eyes in front of me. Now I can remember her face, because obviously, her face is on every news channel. She was beautiful, but like any other victims of the serial killer, her nails were peeled off. But in my dreams, the face was covered by mist, just like everyone else who ever appeared in them. I’ve never seen a clear face. Except hers. My next patient is waiting outside. September 27th Saturday This week was really busy, don’t know why people all choose to experience some mental breakdown recently. No dreams, of course. The dreams don’t come to me if I am busy or tired. It didn’t come a lot anyway, but it certainly got enough frequency to worry me, or not just worry me, more like--freak me out. Maybe I should go to the doctor’s, do some psychotherapy, for I know exactly what they will say, ‘Dream is just a form of concern. Stop worrying, just let it go.’ Sounds like something I always say to my patients. I sometimes wondered what if they are right. What if my dreams are just something I imagine to annoy myself. What if my dream is just the reflex of my concern, most likely, I didn’t even have the dreams I think I had at all, I just think I had the dream after I saw the news. But Then I would denied myself totally. I know the dreams more than a fake, more than a concern. It is something I can really feel, I can really understand. Why? When I first dreamt of it, it was just a broken window. That night, for the first time, I saw it. I could only see his face in the mist, but clearly, he is throwing a rock to the window.

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

I felt as guilty as the troubler should be after the dream, not just because I witnessed it, but in my dream, it felt just like I did everything myself.

Does he like collecting nails? That’s an interesting hobby.

Since then, I know what I ever saw and I will ever see in the future is true, I’m just special.

That’s just stupid that people can’t see the real him. But it is good for me, because I know he only talks to me, I feel superior when I think that. He only trust me, he only talks to me.

A little bit too special.

Because I am special.

September 29th Tuesday

October 1st Wednesday

I feel refreshed this morning when I wake up. Is it because of the good dream last night?

I didn’t see him last night.

But I can’t see any chance the dream I remember could be called good. Dreaming of him is not going to do me any good. I feel like we talked for a really long time in my dream, it wasn’t a terrible experience, not at all. I felt like we were in step with each other, we understood each other. For the first time, I felt this on another person. He sometimes acted like a fragile child in front of me, so weak, I felt like he would break apart if I touched him rather gently. And he was always holding a shadow. I couldn’t really tell after I woke up if the shadow was just an impression from his personality or it was a real shadow-like thing.

People’s Choice MIDDLE SCHOOL

When I woke up this morning, I felt dissatisfied for some unknown reason. Maybe I should buy a new mattress? October 2nd Thursday He wasn’t in my dream last night neither. I wonder what happened to him. No news suggested that he was arrested. Or maybe the government just executed or drove him out secretly because he holds classified national files and they made secret deals......Who knows. This thought makes me feel uncomfortable. How could they catch him if they didn’t talk to him every night? Or maybe they did? That’s a good question, for it makes my superiority all gone. Then why would he talk to me in the first place if I’m not useful? Or maybe he talk to everyone?

I decide to sleep now, I have an early patient tomorrow.

Maybe it’s time to find him and start some conversation about us.

September 30th Tuesday

October 3rd Friday

I was so tired when I woke up this morning, sore back, sore arms. Probably because of that dream I had last night.

‘Say it, and do it’ has always been my life philosophy. So I just acted.

It was a little bit creepy. Actually, talking to him is more relaxing than seeing him killing. I just point that out, in case you don’t know. He was killing last night again. Rumour is flying over the streets, everyone is in a hurry. Except me. Part of the reason is that I know he is not going to hurt me; and the other part of reason, which is a more important reason, is that he is not going to kill for no reason. This victim is just like other victims, nails were peeled off.

I gathered everything I could find about him. Media is very well-developed nowadays. The chance of me catching him is very small, police have been chasing him over years, with their official report and many other confidential information. But I am going to catch him. Not for police, just for myself. And for himself, maybe. I am the best for him. He should’ve know that. October 6th Sunday I kept looking into all the things about him, all of his victim’s nails were peeled off. That’s odd.

2014 He hardly left any evidence, as he shouldn’t. But there was something suspicious. When I was looking at the photos of his first crime scene, I saw a pink rectangular thing on the ground. There was no record of it, but I understood, the first victim was killed in a poor dirty alley, there was all kinds of stuff on the ground, no one would take a second look of a unknown pink rectangle thing. Stupid. Now I can see why he is never found. That pink thing is quietly lying on the ground, just like a clue he left on purpose, for me. October 8th Tuesday I tried as hard as I could thinking about any pink thing that could match with this one. Nothing came to mind. I also found that the harder I thought, the less I could recall. It was a beautiful pink, just like the pink my girlfriend will like. Would like.

I sometimes forget the fact that she is dead, killed, more specifically. Probably because I’m too into his cases. Her rich parents are still keeping her apartment just in case she decides to come back--they don’t know she is dead, no one knows, they just think she is running away from her family which is totally understandable. But only I know. She wasn’t missing. She is dead. I saw it, well, I dreamt of it. It was the first time some murderer came into my dream, and she was the one I mentioned before, the only clear face I ever saw. Sometimes, when I missed her, I went to her apartment. Secretly of course. They will never know she gave me a key. October 9th Wednesday Her apartments was still the same, that helped bring back my memories. She had a photo wall, which I have nearly forgotten. It was where all our memories remain. I could see many pictures of us, on the beach, in the

EXPLORATION OF THE STAIRS….. JESSICA REID / YEAR 8

You open the door and start walking down the steps…. You go down five steps and realise that it becomes darker the further you go down. It is very dark and you can’t see where you’re going. Luckily, you have a torch handy in your pocket. You turn it on and you see a creepy doll, just sitting on the wall staring at you and blinking every so often. The doll starts to swing its legs and you are really freaked out so you scream and run back up the five stairs you walked down but the door shuts and locks in front of you. You are trapped. You can only see the light that comes through the bottom of the door but you can’t reach your hand underneath it to signal to everyone. You scream for help but your voice, it grows lost in the dark room and echoes deeper down the staircase until it is lost. You have no other choice but to continue down the stairs. Great, you’re stuck in a dark room with only a torch and a creepy doll that watches every move you make, whether it’s subtle or not. You can only ignore the doll and continue to walk. You stop about twenty steps from the top and shine your light back up to the door, but realise you’ll probably never be going back or seeing your family ever again. You suddenly re-direct your glance up to the wall. You see that, on every five

library, at her place......we took one of them three days before she was killed, her pale skin was shiny under the sunshine, and her hand with her beautiful favourite pink polish on was holding my shoulder. I came back home with all sorts of thoughts. I trusted him. Trusted. I thought he was a friend, I thought he’d never betray me. I was wrong. Turning my neck, I tried to relax, I was so tired, from the heart. So I lay down on the floor which I haven’t done for years. And then I saw it. A shadow of a shoebox --or something looked like a shoebox was quietly lying under my bed. It was a dark-coloured box. I opened it with my shaking hand. A nail box, that’s what it was. All kinds of nails, some were shiny, some were old. And nine with pink polish.

steps, there is a doll staring at you but each doll has something different missing from it. It varies, from an eye to hair. Blood starts dripping from the missing part and their faces turn from creepy to upset and scared. Knives start shooting out from the wall like a cannon, from the top going down towards you. The dolls then fall helplessly ragged and dead. You scream in terror as each doll falls and comes closer. You start running but they fall faster and faster and come closer and closer to you. Your torch starts to flicker as the battery is running out so there are just flashes of light and, with every flash, they get faster as they fall. You can’t run anymore. You know that this is going to be the end. You stop running and with the last flash of light, the knife comes towards you and everything is pitch black….. You wake up in a sweat and think that this is all a bad nightmare, but you are still curious. You climb out of bed and go to the door underneath the stairs to clarify that it was all a dream and nothing was real. You open the door and you see all of the dolls you saw in your nightmare there, positioned exactly in the correct place. You close the door and know that you can’t tell anyone about this because they would think that you are crazy. But you wonder why that door is there, where does it lead to, has anyone been down there? All these questions will never be answered as nobody knows but you. It’s your special secret.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

TEDDY BEAR

A SLICE OF SUMMER

One day, thirteen years ago A special teddy bear was sold And brought to a baby no more than a year old

There was a breeze. There was a dance of sunburnt summer leaves. A seagull shrieked with pain as the heat mercilessly cooked the bird to its bare bones. Spreading its brilliant white wings, the seagull took off like an eager airplane and disappeared into a withstanding river gum tree. Leaving the gold sprinkled shoreline, the beach was left to the accompaniment of splashing waves and fried seaweed.

DANIELLA COSENTINO / YEAR 8

The little baby girl was so excited She immediately took a liking to this bear And soon the teddy was surrounded with great care In the several years to follow The bond between the teddy and the child Strengthened and grew with every laugh and smile The girl brought her teddy everywhere To the shops, to school To tennis, to the pool One day, a terrible event occurred The girl stormed into her room And slammed the door with a big “boom!” The girl collapsed on her bed, angry and tired She grabbed her teddy and hurled the bear away It was obvious the girl didn’t want to play The teddy bear lay there, sprawled on the carpet But the girl was upset and she didn’t care What would happen to the teddy bear? Some time passed before there was a change The girl gently lifted her toy off the floor She didn’t feel so angry anymore Holding her teddy close, she apologised The girl was ashamed at her attitude And decided to show some gratitude Her teddy was a silent companion A treasure to cherish A trusted friend that listened to every hope and wish The girl had learnt not to discard things that should be valued And soon Teddy was back to being adored And the loving bond was restored The teddy and the girl were content What followed was lots of laughter And they lived happily ever after.

ZOE ZHANG / YEAR 11

It was that time of the year. Yes, that time where children swallowed their ice-cream in greedy mouthfuls and where parents pinched their temples after receiving another costly water bill. The traditional Australian heat was really getting to everyone- a large family dressed in trunks and the latest bikinis arrived along the already crowded beach and urgently searched for a suitable area. Finally settling down beside a depressed tree which hung its dried leaves and cried for rain- the family seemingly ignored the shrub’s cries and instead stabbed a forceful peg into the muscular trunk. Much Better. The father was overheard muttering as he clawed a pair of chubby fingers into his fat decorated stomach. The mother scoffed at her husband’s words- but kept silent from any arguments. Pulling out a thick novel, the pale lady disappeared into the freshly structured tent and never came back out. The children, however, excited to see the shimmering sands and swishing seawater, all cheered with triumph as the youngest boy punched the air. All eagerly making a wild dash for the waters, the children released a unison of cries as the unbelievably cool water lapped at their overheated skin. Tasting the seawater’s salty elements, the juveniles peeled with laughter and giggled with joy as they teased and pushed their youngest sibling into the depths of the water. Scoffing and diving down his old and wrinkled eyebrows, the father remained ashore and watched with a rather annoyed expression as his youngest son was bullied into the deep ends of the ocean. Sliding his eyes towards the side, the father carefully eyed the structured tent and hoped that his pesky wife didn’t witness the children’s unjustifiable behaviour. Certain that the mother was tucked away from the firing sun, the father gave himself an affirmative nod before stripping off his sweat painted t-shirt. Sinking a pair of obese feet into the sand, the father took slow and tired steps into the water. Finally allowing the ocean to sting against his waist, the elderly man soon paddled deeper into the water. And although this story might be coming to an end - the hot summer and accompanying beach will never be missed. With a spread of divine white wings, a high-pitched squawk was heard as a warm breeze took me into flight. Dancing through the sky, one last stare was delivered to the splashing father and children before the thought of hunger shot my nerves and I glided away for food. What a summer - what an experience.

TINTERN SCHOOLS

2014 TIME TO MOVE ON

my recommendation is that you go home, spend time with your family and do anything you’ve wanted to do.” I absentmindedly shook the doctor’s hand and thanked him for all he’d done.

I woke to the humming, buzzing and beeping of the machines surrounding me. I had no idea what they were, or barely knew what they did. I suppose it’s not really what they get paid for, explaining things like this to me. All I needed to know was that these somehow inanimate, but alive at the same time, ‘machines’ were saving my life. When I say they I mean the doctors and nurses working to rid me of whatever rare disease I have. When I was taken into this program they told me I was a ‘one in a million man’, I wasn’t sure if that was meant to cheer me up, but it certainly didn’t do the job.

It was time for me to move on with my life. After special consideration I decided I wanted to spend whatever time I had left with my family as they are the most important. Maybe we could travel and spend all my life savings as well, after all…you only live once.

JOEL RITCHIE / YEAR 11

I quickly snapped back to reality. I’d been doing this a lot lately, drifting off into my own thoughts. Maybe that was a side effect of - “no stop it Bill! Pull yourself together man!” I said to myself quietly. I quickly looked around, taking in my surroundings. I stayed in a two bed room in the clinic here, the other man in a bed opposite me was George, he had the same disease as me. He was a funny fellow that one, always happy and energetic even when he was on medication, it was like his body aged but his personality and mind wasn’t a day over ten. The thing was that George wasn’t there. His bed had been stripped of all the sheets and his personal belongings were gone off the mahogany bedside table. I stared at the bed for a long time, barely thinking at all this time, not being able to even consider what had happened to my ‘room buddy’ as he always called it. My concentration was broken by the sudden loud noise of a fork hitting the floor. It was, Margery, one of the nurses bringing me my breakfast. She quickly looked up from the tray and started “Oh I’m so sorry! I didn’t mean to disturb you, Bill!” Margery was in my opinion one of the best nurses here, she was always honest, answered every question I asked and was also very caring. I casually replied to her “Don’t worry, Margery, it’s completely fine, and don’t bother replacing the fork, I’m sure it won’t be the thing that kills me after all.” She placed the tray down on the swing around table and pressed the button to raise my bed, adding the humming which was now my silence. “What happened to old George over there, Margery?” I asked in a relaxed tone. Suddenly it felt more silent than it had before; I looked up at her, wondering why she wasn’t answering my question for the first time since I’d met her. Her body was tense and she nervously scratched her face as she said, “Right, Bill, so here are your pills for this morning and the doctor will be around shortly to check up on you”. After Margery had left I sat in bed once again staring at where George used to be, wondering what had happened to him. I was once again snapped back by a noise but this time it was the doctor pressing buttons on a machine next to me. He looked uneasy, was sweating slightly and made a quick glance over at George’s bed. “As you’ve probably noticed, George isn’t here this morning, Bill. We are very sorry to say that he passed away early this morning from the disease. Now this is the first we’ve found out about this disease basically and we now know that it is a cancer”, the doctor said quickly but clearly. Before I could take in what he had said he continued, “We can’t estimate accurately how long you do have left but

NEVER JUDGE A BOOK BY ITS COVER ELLY D’ARCY / YEAR 12

Remember this, bind it tightly to you, my words, like the finest, richest Indian silks; my stories, hold them in your hands. Feel the sound of me echo from rivers and mountains, stretch me far across cornfields, pull my voice from the bells of trumpets: a blue note, a wolf’s cry a rhapsody in love and grief. Know me, need me, breathe me in, but most of all tell nobody. On this, the day of my death, you will lead me to the gallows by the river. Make me, swan-like, extend my big black neck, I always did like to stick my neck out. Of course, it’s useless telling you I didn’t do it. I was there that night. I saw her crumple. I can tell you the knife was slow and silver, and who held it. Naturally they thought it was me. A crime of passion – red and defiant. We all like danger. We’re like moths to a flame, burning our wings. How many more wings do we need to burn before you know I was innocent, since the beginning of time? You would never suspect him. I didn’t either. Until I saw his eyes. You know when you go fishing, executioner, and you get a catch? You stand there, triumphant, until you see the fish’s eyes – pale, reproachful, resentful. His eyes were like that. Had you looked closer – leaned in – you would’ve seen them. Had you looked closer, I would be dancing by the river while he walked in my place, guilt sodden and tearful, to dance on air. Nobody looks that closely. Did I tell you my name, executioner? Rosa. Rosa Mae Campbell. The strong names. Taste them on your tongue. If you say them loud enough, you can own me for a little while. Go on say it, I dare you. You know my name, my crime, you’ve drunk my life away like black coffee. Leave me the grounds. Look no deeper than you need to. Kiss me with that rope of yours. Steal my breath away. Go one honey. Turn the page. Kill me.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE KAITLYN WOODHILL / YEAR 7

BASILISK I leaned against the wall, panting. Was it still following me? A hiss told me it was. I looked at the floor of the passage behind me, using my mirror. It hissed again. Dammit! It had smelt me! I sighed, time to face it again. Then I noticed something strange, spiders were running away from it and out towards the door, where dawn was breaking. I almost ran out there, but I knew they would be waiting. The ones who put me in here, weaponless, to kill this beast, or die trying. As I watched, the sun rose and the roosters crowed in the early morning sun. The hisses behind me suddenly stopped and I looked around the corner. The beast that I thought to be my downfall lay there not, a mark on it, but nonetheless, dead. I remembered now, the story of this creature and its name. The basilisk, with poisonous fangs and petrifying eyes, eyes that kill with once glance. I looked at the fangs, dripping with the deadliest substance known to man. Basilisk venom, which can only be cured by phoenix tears. I looked into its eyes then, and that was my mistake. Even in death its gaze was petrifying and I fell to the floor with a thud, and shattered into a million pieces.

I watched her put her down and I went to get some tissues, she wouldn’t want me to see her like this. When I got back I saw her finally break down with a sob that broke my heart. I finally let my own emotions through and I sobbed with her. When it started to get late, I laid her down on the ground with a pillow and some blankets and watched her as she slept, so peacefully asleep with no tears dripping down her face, no pain in her smile.

THE ASTRONAUT’S WIFE ELLY D’ARCY / YEAR 12

They warned me about you and your friends, when you’d come back to earth, that is. They told me how you’d seen amazing things like the Great Wall of China from outer space, brown spine of a blue world, Or the pitted face of the moon or stars up close.

ELIPIS

They said that, for a while, you would probably feel

I tried to ignore them but I couldn’t. On their side of the lithos they danced and laughed their cruel laughter and called me to join them in their dance of ice and fire, evil and pain. But I will not join them I told myself. When this pithos is opened I will stay here and the humans will not yet give up Hope. I wince as I feel a tremor and the kid of the pithos cracks open. The others rush out of the pithos, but not me. I will stay and will always stay until a child of mankind releases me. When the humans give up Hope. Fortin I am Elipis, spirit of hope, and I am the only one left in Pandora’s pithos waiting, waiting, for my turn to be freed.

suddenly, desperately lonely,

INSOMNIA

in consolation, like a dog.

Tick, tock, drip, drop. I take a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Tick, tock, drip, drop. One sheep, two sheep, three sheep, four. Five sheep, six sheep, seven sheep, eight. Tick, tock, drip, drop. I turn over and close my eyes. Tick, tock, drip, drop, tick, tock, drip, drop. I get up and have a drink, turn the tap off and go to bed. Tick, tock, tick, tock. Relax my body muscle by muscle, like the doctor said. Tick, tock, tick, tock. I give up and turn to my nightstand. On it there is a dose of sleeping pills. I take them dry and drift into a drugged sleep, like yesterday and the day before that and the month before. When will I get a natural night’s sleep, with no insomnia?

Professional, yet fatherly.

TEARS I looked down, ashamed of what was about to happen. Tears pooled in my eyes like little salt lakes and overflowed down my cheeks in rivers of sadness that made me feel worse rather than better. My first breath came in as a gasp and out as a sob and the tears started flowing down my face in floods, torrents of sadness weaving down my face and dripping into my lap. I sobbed harder and harder until I ran out of breath then I buried my face in my hands and sobbed myself to sleep, unresponsive to the voice sobbing with me and being laid gently down on the carpet with a pillow underneath my head and blankets being laid on top of me.

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

torn from that faraway dark sky to a life of lunchboxes and cups of tea and wives who had never floated above the clouds. “He’ll have seen things you couldn’t even imagine” one of them said. He reached out to pat my head

I offered them cake and meekly rolled over.

Now that you’re back, safe and sound, I think I’d like to talk to them again – they were right, after all, But this time I’ll tell them that I, too, have seen amazing things like the polished heels of newborn babies Or the way an autumn tree burns slow or the sunlight dizzy on the river. I think on Saturday’s shopping round I will buy two dictionaries, and I can look up space and time and galaxies and you can look up births and deaths and marriages and we can begin again; make ourselves for a new world, As light and gentle as walking on the moon.

2014 THE TAIL

AARON DREW / YEAR 10

silhouetted by the bronze sunlight as it stuck its fingers through gaps in the rusty metal and rotting wood structure.

Crickets growling, trees creaking, worried clucking. These were the things I heard as I crept towards the chicken shed. The dry grass caressed the edges of my feet as my thongs crunched loudly in the eerie near-silence of the farm at sunset. My legs kept moving, my feet placing themselves in front of one another in a rhythmic and instinctive manner. While my limbs listened to my all-knowing instincts, my head remained oblivious to the danger. Lurking at the back of my mind, hissing in my ear, dragging me towards that little shed. It is this instinct that warns all animals when a predator is near.

Glancing back at the distant house from which I had come, I knew I had to continue. The sun was half submerged and darkness was flooding the field and drowning my sense of direction. Tentatively, I reached for the gate and lifted the lock. Pushing it aside, I placed my right foot inside. It was cold, musty, and smelled of manure, and when I squinted I could just make out the frame of the nesting boxes. ‘There it was! That sound again!’ Thud, thud, thud, like the beating a cat’s heart, before it pounces on its prey. It sounded... excited, but somehow frustrated, as if waiting impatiently for something. I took another step.

If I had awoken from the daydream I might have saved myself, but my mind was not with me, and the hands that gripped the puny egg basket were not under my control. As the sun began being pulled behind the horizon, I heard it; a slow but menacing thud of flesh against tin which snapped me out of my dreamy state, but too late. I looked to where the noise had come from; the looming shed only metres away was

The chickens started up their fearful clucking again and the beating got louder. Each step I took made a squelch in the mud and each squelch triggered more thudding and more clucking. My free hand moved slowly to touch the first nesting box. I placed the basket down so I could shift the box and peered into it. ‘No eggs.’ I felt around in the second box, nothing but dry straw and feathers. Frowning, I began to shift it back into

the tin wall. The wooden frame rasped along the ground and I waited for the feeling of it falling into place. The box stopped, but I heard no sound of it hitting the wall. I pushed harder and everything went quiet. The thudding that had seemed so near just vanished. Confused, I leaned in closer to see what was jammed in between the box and the wall. In the desperate last rays of sunlight I saw them. Little glistening, brown diamonds joined together in a long rope-like tail. Rearing back, I stumbled on a box behind me and hit the wet ground. My weight had been keeping the box pressed against the wall, but no longer. It was free, and it was angry. A head swung around the empty nest and blood red eyes flashed before the darkness completely engulfed me. The fangs of the brown-snake were the last thing I remembered as they stood out white on the black of night. I sprinted home, not even thinking to lock the gate. No chickens were missing the next morning though. We found them all, some still hanging from their little perches, paralysed until the venom reached their little beating hearts .

“IT DOES NOT DO TO DWELL ON DREAMS AND FORGET TO LIVE”(JK ROWLING)

of furniture from every corner of their acquaintance. Mr McCarthy had intended to fix it all up himself. Of course Mr McCarthy could do no such thing. Because Mr McCarthy was away. In France. Fighting.

Mrs McCarthy looked out the window-it wasn’t so grey as it had been the past weeks. Mrs McCarthy had hoped that her husband would return to blossoms and yellow sunshine for he loved the spring and its bright colours. It had been spring when the McCarthys had first met. Though of course they had not been the McCarthys then. Mr McCarthy had said that that his sweetheart had the fair colouring of just those flowers that had blossomed above their heads. On the apple tree in his sweetheart’s garden. It had not been so cold then. Or so grey. It had been a warm spring in 1914.

But of course, every soldier had his due leave and Mr McCarthy had missed so many Christmases and summers and Bank Holidays that surely he would walk through that garden gate any day now. Mrs McCarthy had stopped receiving communications from the War Office and even the papers had stopped reporting the fighting on the continent and the bombing in London. But of course people always got tired of these things; the officials clearly knew that constant news of fighting did nothing to lift morale in the country. There had even been that sorry attempt by the Evening Herald in 1918 to claim that the War was over. But Mrs McCarthy had paid it no heed. It had been ludicrously ridiculous to suggest that the War had ended twelve years ago and that her husband had not been home at the first possible opportunity. He would never be compelled to do such a thing. Utterly ridiculous.

TRINA SPINNLER-JENKINS / YEAR 11

Mrs McCarthy’s eyes left the garden gate and returned to the room in which she was sitting on the wearing settee. It was getting shabbier by the day; she must remind her husband to take it to his brother’s upholstery to have it recovered. Mr McCarthy’s family was so terribly practical, she had felt so inadequate so often, especially looking around this room. It was crammed with furniture needing attention, worn carpets and moth-eaten lampshades. And she, here, without any idea of how to get on alone. They had packed the tiny terrace full

Mrs McCarthy went to bed knowing that tomorrow, tomorrow would be the day that her husband would walk through their garden gate. Tomorrow would be the day. Tomorrow.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

RHIAN WILKINS / YEAR 12

RITA CHEN / YEAR 8

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

AVA CANTOR / YEAR 2

KRISTEN ISBEL / YEAR 11

2014

KAITLIN BAKKEN / YEAR 12

SABRINA WIDJAJA / YEAR 11

IAN XU / YEAR 8

STEPHANIE TANOUSIS / YEAR 5

PEGASUS CAMPANILE / JUNIOR SCHOOL SHOWCASE

CANBERRA POEM

MY BEST FRIEND

As we drive past in our big long bus, Captain Cook’s Jet seems to wave at us. It sprays white mist high in the sky. We see a glittering rainbow, My, oh my!

My best friend…

BIANCA SETTLE / YEAR 6

We see the grand Parliament House, We wonder if Tony Abbott’s in it, We see the mighty spire shine in the sun, Bet you didn’t know it weighs 220 tonnes! The flag itself is as big as our bus, And weighs almost as much as one of us! We admire the portraits in the gallery, There are many of these to see, We learn the meaning behind the canvas, There’s more to them than you can see. The serene, peaceful Senate Gardens, The Sun is shining, The sky is blue. We run through the rose bush mazes, The lovely garden was there to amaze us, The knobbly trees were there to shade us. We wonder which politicians stood here and admired them too. We’re on our best behaviour at the War Memorial, Vibrant red poppies in our pockets, Come to pay respect to those Who made the ultimate sacrifice. Finally, finally, Questacon, Science, technology, oh what fun Flashing lights A million beeps “Hey look over here!” “Look at that, OMG!”

A SWIMMER’S LIFE

JADE HUTCHINSON / YEAR 6 The strive to win, The cold water on your skin, The early mornings,

JOSHUA APSEY / YEAR 4

Is adorable Sleepy and lazy Has floppy ears that are as soft and smooth as a pillow Loves rolling in mud and grass Has a loveable cute face you cannot resist Loves to run around and be adventurous Has baby paws that are as light as a feather Is very playful Has baby teeth that are blunt as the front of a shoe Is more Intelligent than most humans I know !!

THE ANCIENT CASTLE SARAH CHEN / YEAR 4

Dewdrop Road was quiet and deserted except for a figure, Chloe, sprinting determinedly down the road, her footsteps echoing on the stone. Chloe’s feet were sore, but she had to save the key that the Loom family wanted to destroy. The key was hidden in the old, run-down castle far ahead of the road. The key was precious to Chloe since it could awaken her cousin, Emilia, from the curse the Looms had done on her, but the Looms wanted her to never remember who she was. Chloe soon got to the gates of the rusty castle. With great difficulty, she pushed open the heavy gates and walked breathlessly into the yard. It had no more than a stump of a tree and a shrivelled up bush and a musty smell filled the air. Wrinkling her nose in disgust, Chloe entered the castle. The floorboards creaked and the masks on the wall seemed to dare Chloe to move farther. Statues and portraits seemed to gaze at her blankly, pillars carved out of emerald glistened sickly on every side of the hall and Chloe had a feeling of being watched. Chloe’s mind jerked guiltily back to the key, she knew she must have wasted a lot of time. She strode across the hall and, looking back once at the hall, she swept up the first flight of stairs and disappeared. Somewhere, hiding behind one of the pillars, a hooded figure slid out. Laughing softly, it locked the gates and followed Chloe up the stairs...

RECIPE FOR A FRIEND

ELIZABETH MADGE / YEAR 4

We are always yawning, The endless supply of caps,

Tip three cups of kindness, loyalty

The millions of laps,

And caring into a bowl and stir.

Going to the gym,

Add one cup of giggles and very

That’s why I swim.

Clever thinking to make a Special friend.

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

2014 BLUE

a young boy creep quietly over and pick me up and put me into his basket. As the lid closes I soak up my last impression of light that I’ll ever experience.

Blue is the colour of the sky on a summer’s morning.

LOST IN THE ICE

ALISTAIR HOWLEY / YEAR 3

Blue is the colour of the swish and swoosh of the waves at the beach. Blue is the colour of the cold rain. Blue is the colour that wakes you up on a warm summer’s morning. Blue tastes like the flowers on a summer’s morning. Blue is the colour of Butterss with a lot of cheering and noise.

FALLEN LEAVES

DINALI FERNANDO / YEAR 5 Summer The old gates creak open and people flood in. I watch from my branch high above the chaos. Tourists stop and take photos of me and the old wizened tree that I have called home for so long. The light breeze makes me sway ever so slightly. I see children chatting and playing games. Of all the seasons I’ve been here summer is the most crowded. It’s not peaceful; it’s like being stuck in the middle of the riot. Suddenly I see something in the distance. A little girl, no more than seven years of age, is playing by herself in the bough of a neighbouring tree. The other children are running around but she remains in her secret spot. Autumn

WILL PAUL / YEAR 6

The clouds were threatening to cast a blizzard upon me as I pushed on up the icy slope. I was looking for a place to burrow deep into the snow. Then I glanced down at my pick which looked as though it had enough. I was right. The handle looked like it was about to snap when it finally gave way. I used my reflexes to anchor my hands into the snow. The storm was beginning to pick up so I started digging for my life. I cleared a flat area for me to start digging downwards. The wind was making me very cold and I was worried about hyperthermia. I dug harder and faster until I wore myself, however I had myself a cosy hole. The blizzard was threatening to kill me but it couldn’t because the snow and ice that was around me was a good insulator. The storm was pressing on and I could definitely feel it shaking my cubby hole. I smiled and thought, this is probably my best experience. I yawned and set my pack on the floor and had a snack and then a nap. I woke up and the blizzard was over so I got my stuff and hauled myself out. But it was dark so what was the point? I went back in and had another sleep. A large smash startled me but it was only a chunk of ice sliding down the slope. I looked outside and it was still very dark.

I see piles of red, green, orange and yellow. Another falls from its branch. Couples stray from the path to inspect what I see every day. The lake is dotted with fallen leaves and swans gently glide across the water as food is thrown at their feet. A rustling of the wind makes me look down. I see green eyes; greener than grass. I recognise her. Her features are the same but she seems to have aged. A twenty year old now, she strolls slowly and somewhat delicately through the park. As she passes she gently strokes the trunks of trees.

I knew that this was a helicopter flight path so all I had to do was wait.

Winter

GOLD

It took about an hour until I could hear the drone of the helicopter. I grabbed a flare and lit it. As it came closer it dropped a rope so I climbed up it. They welcomed me aboard and took me back as I told them all about my survival adventure.

The park is deserted apart from me. Thousands of colours I normally see are replaced by one; white. The tree is almost bare and only a few leaves remain. They’re cracked and brown and look like every inch of life had been sucked out of them. I see movement and hear a noise barely audible. A lady with a toddler slowly moves into the park. Her face is familiar. While she examines the fallen leaves her toddler plays quietly in the snow.

BOWIE KOBAYASHI / YEAR 3

Spring

Gold is refreshing, the feeling of happiness

I hear birds singing and children laughing. So many people walk by but only two faces catch my attention. A woman, about 32 with a young boy about seven years old. The boy is looking around dazzled by his surroundings. They look at me as a I fall slowly to the ground. The wind carries me. I lay on the grass looking up at the tree that has been my home for so long. I see

Gold is hard

Gold is rich, it feels fantastic Gold is beautiful in your heart Gold is the colour that shines your eyes

Gold is the sound of coins clinking on the ground

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE DANIELLE GILLS / YEAR 11

From Altrano, Almalfi, Italy 19/6/12 Daniella Giovanna Rosemary Da Varano

From Sydney, Australia 15/4/12 Dear Papa, I wanted to thank you for the beautiful flowers you sent congratulating me on my graduation. It’s unfortunate you couldn’t come watch me graduate, but I’m sure some absolute emergency came up to prevent you from coming to visit. How are you and Mama doing? I hope this spring has seen her enjoying the beautiful gardens. I have some wondrous news. I have decided to go back to college once again, to major in art history. I am aware that you do not approve of art as any kind of profession but I assure you that with the business degree you so profusely insisted on, I will be able to make a steady career. Yes, I know you are not and never have been a fan of my love of art; however, I have decided that my dreams are worth pursuing. I hope in time you will be able to accept my choice and will come visit me (finally). Give my regards to Mama and the rest. Love Daniella

Under no circumstances will I allow my only daughter to flit about with this dilly dally nonsense. You are an Alfieri and you should learn to respect that. You will continue your path in the business world or you will lose the right to your family. You are a disappointment to us all, but you still belong as a part of this family. I realise you believe you are following your dreams, however there will come a time where you must wake up and live in reality. I pray that time comes sooner rather than later, for both our sakes. Luciano From Sydney, Australia 4/6/12 Father, I’m sorry that you are going to be like this but I will not be persuaded or threatened to change my mind. I wish you and our family all the best. Daniella From Paris, France 4/5/18

From Altrano, Almalfi, Italy 23/4/11

Dear Luciano Da Varano,

My darling Daniella

Father, it has been too long. Six years is a long time to hold a grudge. I miss you and mama every day and I wish you would let go of your pride but maybe I am asking too much. I heard about Angelo’s son, although I’m not sure which is more of a surprise to me, that I actually had a nephew or that that boy has turned out some kind of a musical genius at five years old. Please give them both my love. And Mama. I would love to hear from them.

While I respect your decision to pursue a career you enjoy, this hobby of yours can in no way support a lifestyle especially for a woman and her children. You are already qualified to succeed in a highly rewarding career and you would be foolish to give that away. While I would love to encourage you in your career, I fear I will not be able to waste my money on some whimsical education and hope that in time you will see this as the right thing to be done. I have already found some contacts in some upcoming companies that will ensure you a stable career. Regards, Your father. From Sydney, Australia 10/5/12 Papa, I am already well aware of your prejudice against the creative. However, you must learn to forget your bias, as your own daughter will soon become a, as you so eloquently call them, ‘hippy’. I, however, will still continue to pursue art despite your disapproval and I am well equipped to pay for my own ‘whimsical education’ with my own hard earned money. I would love to have you onboard with this, although I realise it might take a while for you to see past your pride. Once again you are well aware of my lack of children, a fact you seem to remind me of quite often. However may I remind you that this is the 21ST CENTURY and we do not marry our women off to have kids at 21. Please reconsider your position on this, I would love for you and Mama to come see some of the work I have been doing. All my love, Your daughter.

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

Papa, you should see this place, it’s amazing. I got a job as a curator here in the city, it’s beautiful. The city is breathtaking. If only you could see it. I’ve gotten engaged as well. His name is Christian, and Papa, he is the best thing that’s happened to me. Oh, and he’s a businessmen so I guess you would approve. I wish you and Mama would come to our wedding but since you have not replied to the invitation it seems as though I will not be seeing you there. I would’ve loved for you to give me away. Give all my love to everyone there and I’ll be wishing on my stars to see you at the wedding. All my heart Daniella (Your Daughter)

2014 ALONE

ADELE BICKNELL / YEAR 9 Dear Nameless Eyes The first day I saw you will always be clear in my mind. I don’t know what made me look up at that point in time, maybe it was fate; I like to think it was. Whatever it was though, I looked and I saw you there. Alone. You stared at me with those eyes. Those eyes, to me, seemed empty and alone in the crowd, much like the moon in the sky full of stars. To me, those eyes seemed hollow and longing for something to make them shine. But to everyone else they were just eyes. I suppose for most people, a moment like what we had shared the first time I saw you, would have been overlooked and life would simply go on and at first this is all that happened. However, those eyes haunted me in my sleep, I found myself looking for those eyes in the crowd of faces, but I made no real effort. I replayed the first moment I saw you over and over again in my head. I was running down the school corridors and I turned the corner and ran right into you. You just stared at me with your eyes; they looked confused, like you knew something troubling about me that I didn’t even know myself. I would have said something to you but my friends were with me and they just laughed at you and me and our awkward situation, so I just walked off embarrassed. I should’ve said something to you then, but I didn’t. I saw you again during lunch time. You were alone. Your eyes were coldly piercing into me. I guess, I almost felt sympathetic for them; but brushed these thoughts aside and moved on. Would it have made a difference if I’d acknowledged you then? Asked who you were? Or even how had your day been? I got on the bus after school one day, like I do any other day, but something unusual happened. For the first time out of all the times I’ve caught the bus, I had a realisation that you caught the same bus as me. It’s weird, I’d never noticed you on the bus before. I felt really upset that you’d been around me for so long and we had never spoken, so as I walked past you to go sit up the back with my friends I said hey to you and flashed you a smile, and you shot me a look back that

sent a shiver down my spine. You looked at me and it was like we had a conversation without even talking. I’m not really sure if I was imagining it. Maybe I was really just having a conversation with myself or did I actually have this unreal moment with you, that’s only talked about in movies? From that point onwards everyday seemed different now that I’d meet you. Although I didn’t actually meet you, hell I didn’t even know your name! But never the less, I felt like we had a connection. A connection that didn’t need to be spoken about to be obvious. The connection was those eyes. Your eyes. Your eyes were everywhere I looked. When I saw other people’s faces all I saw were your eyes in their faces. Every time I looked into the mirror I saw your eyes become part of my face, however my face was a foreign face that didn’t do your eyes the justice of which their true emotions deserved. I look back on it now and I could say that maybe I was obsessed with your eyes, but really, who couldn’t be? I now realise that I was wrong; I was the only one that truly cherished you and your eyes. I was wandering through the overcrowded school corridors one day and your eyes caught my attention for another time. They watched me with the alone feeling they always had. It surprises me how they had such a captivating hold over me. I think it was then that I really noticed how truly beautifully sorry your eyes were. I could almost see them begging me to come and help, to save them from the depression in which they constantly lived. Your eyes looked so...alone. Alone, just like you. But I wanted to tell you that you weren’t alone, I was there and I could help. I didn’t. I wanted to scream it out from the roof tops that I was there for you. I didn’t. It was only a couple of weeks before it happened. I actually noticed more things about you, not just your eyes. You had jet black hair that fell over your shoulders, probably too long for any normal boy. You were the height of any average teenager and dressed in the same un-unique uniform that everyone else has to wear. You would have just simply melted into the crowds if it wasn’t for your deep and meaningful eyes. They just looked past my exterior and straight inside of me and I knew I could trust them. I trusted you with these moments

we had shared over the past weeks, as I knew you were always alone and would have no one to tell them to anyway. No one was ever with you to notice your eyes like I did. This was another reason why you did it, wasn’t it? I’m sorry. I didn’t even see it coming, I should have but I didn’t. No one did. No one ever noticed you or your eyes. You were just a shadow of the night. Unnoticeable. The day after it happened I came to school with one goal. It was to finally actually meet this mysterious person, with the eyes that dazzled me. I don’t know what I thought would happen, maybe I thought I would introduce myself and you would too and then a friendship would have been sparked. How silly to think this would happen. I looked around for you. I looked and looked. You weren’t anywhere to be seen. I felt alone. You were gone however no one else noticed your absence. As the day drew to an end the school held an assembly in which they carefully told us you were never going to be coming back. It’s ironic I didn’t even learn your name but still, I cried. No one else did. People would probably think I was crazy having such an obsession with some boy that I didn’t even know anything about. But the crazy thing is I felt as though I’d known you and your eyes forever. But this didn’t stop you from doing what you did. As I write this letter I know that it will change nothing that has happened but I hope you can accept this as a token of my apologies. I don’t expect you to forgive me but yet I still ask for your forgiveness. I’m sorry I never did anything to help. I guess I was being held back, by what? I don’t know; maybe my own fears or by peer pressure? I’m not sure, but still that makes no excuse for what I did, or what I didn’t do. And although I’m writing a letter to someone that I know will never read it or know how I feel. I still take some comfort in the fact that in some strange way you may still read this and understand what I’m saying. I can only hope that you found the escape you were looking for and that finally your eyes can lay to rest where all beautiful things sleep forever. I’m Sorry, With Love, Annie

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

BELIEF IS A FOOL’S WISH AND THE TRUTH IS OUR OWN VERSION OF REALITY JAKE HILL / YEAR 10

I feel helpless and I want to believe that my brother didn’t do what he did. But nothing can change that, it doesn’t matter how I believe it to be or how the people close to my brother see the truth. All that matters is that right now the world sees the Truth as that my brother did the crime, he did something that by society’s views is wrong. The question now comes, do I keep on believing what I hope to be true when I have no clear evidence other than my brother’s word, or look at what my life and the current actions that have taken place to discover what might shape my life as Truth or Fact? Simply, what we do becomes a story, our story is how we see the world. How we see the world is based on the truth and lies that one tells to shape one’s life. When they look back on their life they’ll remember those moments of truth and ask was that really the truth, or was that how I wanted to see the world at the time. Growing up, my brother, Reggie, always looked after me; he was my guardian. Our mother was an alcoholic who would not be home for days and our father worked so hard to send us to school that he practically lived at the shoe factory. It was a rare occasion for my mum to be awake let alone home, except when she was awake my mother fought with my brother. Whenever this happened my brother would take me into the other room, make me focus on him, tell me to shut my eyes and cover my ears. I’d do this for minutes on end then once my brother tapped me on the shoulder I knew it was okay to open my eyes because the bad things were finished. My brother always made sure I worked hard and was the whole reason why I am where I am now, as the CEO of a large accounting business. He drove me, he inspired me, and out of anyone in the world I never thought he’d be someone to kill a man. That was my belief anyway but it seems the truth is going to leave Reggie as a horrible murderer who was destined for this. You know what the truth is to me? My mother may contest this seeing as she felt I was sheltered and Reggie was leading me astray. The truth to me is that Reggie was a good human being, a better brother and he wouldn’t have taken this action unless he was forced to. Nothing is known, simply believed. Unfortunately no one has any clear idea about what events actually have taken place in the world as they are all a recollection, they are a story that has been transferred generations but have morphed each generation it passes. Now the time has come for me to believe a story I thought I saw, one night after a Bachelor party I went outside for some fresh air, standing there was Reggie. Reggie has always had a particular look: charismatic and ice cool, lean with his arms folded to show off his muscular biceps and his grey eyes gazing, reflecting the light, almost like a ghost. It had to be him, it couldn’t be anyone else in the world who looked as cool as he did. He started walking away down an alley way. At that point I had not seen my brother for more than six

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

months as he lived on the other side of town. I elected to follow my brother down the alley, all to share some brotherly love. It was a shock that he was already so far in front standing over a body as I walked into the alley. I couldn’t see his face, I could just see a pool of blood flowing to me like a river and this shape standing over it, with my brother’s exact build. That night it seemed I was the only witness of this death, without exact knowledge of the truth I am trying to believe that that night the dark figure wasn’t my brother. It was someone different, my memory has created this story that my brother did murder this man, however that’s what the ‘truth’ is trying to tell me. That is my current version of reality, and my belief is that my brother could never do this to anyone. So I face the problem, to see the truth as that my brother did commit the murder, to foolishly belief that not even he could become so desperate at a point to not stoop as low as killing a man! The truth is a funny thing, and how I see my own version of the Truth is that my brother did not kill this man, my brother is innocent of this murder, and the truth is it will never be resolved but my reality shall forever stay that my brother is innocent and a good man, and that belief that my brother will do no wrong for entirety of his life is a fool’s wish.

WAR HORSE

KIMBERLEY MAHER / YEAR 7 It happened suddenly, without warning or preparation. I was grazing in my field when a man came running up the hill carrying riding gear. It wasn’t my usual saddle and bridle and this wasn’t my usual rider but he seemed gentle, and therefore, trustworthy. “The king requires your assistance, sir,” he talked softly to me as he saddled me up. After a while he jumped on my back and kicked at my sides. I began to trot but the man seemed to be in a rush because soon we were galloping through the streets, towards the king’s castle. Before I knew it I was in the second row of countless lines of horses and riders carrying weapons. In the distance, the opposing army was growing closer and closer. Soon, my rider and I could see the details of the dark force facing us. I could hear the stomp of hooves and the deep intake of breath. My rider patted my neck, “Good luck,” he whispered in my ear. I grunted in response before facing forwards once again. 3... My heart pounded in my ears. 2... My mouth was dry as a desert. 1... Impact.

2014

STEFAN BENNETT / YEAR 8

JACK HORMAN / YEAR 1

ISABELLA SMITH / YEAR 11

HEIDI RUCKERT / YEAR 10

JUNIOR SCHOOL BOYS COLLABORATION

JUSTIN ROCIO / YEAR 10

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

SHATTERING SWING SET

ELIZA HARVEY / YEAR 9 Dappled light shines through the trees, illuminating the swing set that lies abandon in the park. Maple trees surround it, enclosing it in a circle, trapping the memories once created in it. The grass around it is as green as the fairy tales, the daisies at its bottom as beautiful. My steps falter as I draw close, the smell of wildlife drifts around me. My hands start to shake, not a good sign, it means I may cry. I remember playing on the swing set when I was little, with my father. It was our own secret spot, enclosed from the trail. We never once saw anyone on it, Dad said it was because we were the only ones who knew about it. We didn’t even tell Mum, just said we were going to a playground. I remember the laughter that floated through the air as dad pushed me higher than ever before, and I thought I would reach the clouds. I remember the fear of going the whole way around, and flipping over. I remember the triumph of jumping off it when it was off the ground, mid swing. I also remember the last time I came here, it was on my eighth birthday. Dad was very pale that day, and he came in a wheel chair. Mum had insisted on coming, but he denied, saying he had to talk to me. We each sat on a swing, swaying back and forth. The birds were chirping, the sun shining bright. It was a glorious day. After ten minutes of swinging silently, enjoying the gorgeous clearing around us, I asked Dad why he was so sick. I remember the dread that settled deep in my stomach as I got the answer. I did not understand what on earth he meant, just that he was going to visit some angels, take a small holiday. I started giggling uncontrollably, I felt so excited for him. The dread disappeared, replaced with a tinge of jealousy. I mean, he was going to the fairy tale place. To this day I do not understand why he did not tell me otherwise, why he did not tell me he was not coming back.

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

Why he broke his little girl’s heart into shattered pieces. His blue eyes glittered as he laughed, his once tan face now a shadow, skin hanging lifelessly of his bones. He was laughing as he twisted the two chains around and around. His features were blurring, the high cheek bones he wore so well started to fuzz. He looked like a beautiful ghost. Shortly after the world was just lines of colour, and the sounds muffled by the wind. I had started to giggle uncontrollably, this day was turning out amazingly. Not only was I a big 8 year old, my dad was going on the holiday of his life. Literally. Later that evening we were opening my gifts, which were very small and inexpensive. Luxury was something we rarely enjoyed, for to us it was better to put our money to Dad. I had just opened a snow globe, its snow glittered in the water, falling at perfect synchrony, smooth and floating, inside was a little girl on a swing, surrounded by maples. I was just about to open my mouth to say thank you when the most joyful laugh sounded from the couch not more than a few feet away. It was Mum. She had her pale hand outstretched, a new gleaming ring now adorned her ring finger. It had a gold rim that shone so brightly it hurt your eyes if you looked at it for too long, and gorgeous diamonds laced around it, evenly spaced. Mum had called it an eternity ring, something very special. The smile at that moment lit up her whole face as she asked Dad how on earth he paid for it. It was a secret he said. To this day, that day was the best time of my life. However the world is a cruel place, that will snatch everything that holds you up from underneath you in a blink, ruin your dreams in a flash, and crush your heart in a kick. We had not even been asleep for an hour when a piercing scream sounded from down the hall. I was sure it was the Cookie Monster, coming to take revenge for the cookie I stole out of the jar a month ago. I had run to underneath my bed for cover, into the shadows. I had to watch as the flashing lights shone through my windows, red, blue, red, blue. I watched as blue-suited men entered my house, yelling commands everywhere. I listened as Mum’s screams made

themselves all the way to my core, shrivelling me up from inside out. I had also watched as my father’s lifeless body was carried away on a stretcher, his hand dangling over the edges. His body was no longer grey, simply a white, bland, peaceful. His eyes were open, not blinking, and glassy. They reminded you of a dungeon, trapped inside a body, unable to move. He was taken from me, in an instant. He was taken by the flashing lights, the blue-suited people, the world. He was taken from my mother, who loved him more than life itself. What people don’t realise is, that day, my father wasn’t the only who disappeared. The universe lost my mum too. She no longer had a strong support, simply a by-product of the love she could no longer have. Today is my 16th birthday, 8 years since my father’s death. The swing squeaks as it goes back and forth. I miss Dad, I really do. But it’s time to let go. Today, I will start again.

2014 UNANSWERED QUESTIONS ELIZA MIGNOT / YEAR 9

Shadows obscured the dark mass before me. As the porch light sensed movement, it illuminated her face, blinding me so that it took a moment to comprehend what was slung around her shoulders: a body. I stepped back without a word, my eyes wide, relinquishing my controlling stance over the doorway as she rushed manically over the doormat and into the lounge. Clutching the open doorway, I took a second to find my balance after my gut punched itself through my spine. “Emma, how?” I pleaded with the girl kneeling beside the ornate day bed, my eyes begging her to tell me it wasn’t what it looked like. Her reply was a groan and a tight squeeze of my sister’s hand, the package she had delivered to my door in a state of distress. Another sucker punch came my way, forcing me forward to kneel by my twin’s prostrate body. It had happened...again. I drowned in helplessness; I couldn’t truly be a protective brother if my sibling was the danger to herself. I caressed her forehead, her auburn hair catching between my fingertips and trailing behind them like gentle ripples in a pool. Her skin was smooth and even, no frown or crease to indicate that minutes before she had been in the middle of a seizure. Emma swallowed, dragging my attention from my twin’s calm face. “I always knew but I’d never seen it until now. I’m sorry, was there something I could have done to stop her fitting?” I sighed and shook my head solemnly. There was no way to stop her convulsions once they started. We were praying for a clue as to what triggered them. “We can only hope that someone can figure out why she seizures.” My sister groaned in her unnatural sleep and convulsions wracked her body, the seizures an aftershock to the earlier earthquake. Terrified that she would roll off the day bed, Emma and I held her down. I gripped her head between my palms, whispering her name repeatedly, praying that I could somehow bring her back to consciousness. “Robyn... Robyn... Please Robyn.”

I leant back, her cheeks between my hands as I swept away her tears with my thumbs. A sympathetic smile crept across my face, reassuring Emma that I wasn’t the one who was traumatised. Re-wrapping my arms around her, I murmured into her hair that we should probably take Robyn to the hospital before the next fit came on. Emma had never been in this position before so she followed my lead as I wrapped Robyn in numerous blankets and carried her to my car, careful not to jostle her and to support her head. Emma sat in the back with Robyn’s head on her lap in case she convulsed in the car. As I slid into the leather driver’s seat, Emma cleared her throat, breaking the silence which had drawn out since her last teary outburst. “Ben, I’m sorry about before. I didn’t mean to make you feel awkward or anything. I was just upset but I think I can control myself now.” In the rear view mirror she ran her nimble fingers through her raven hair, pressing them into her skin in an attempt to physically release her emotions. My Toyota Yaris juddered to life beneath me and sped off down the darkened street. My eyes kept flicking back to the rear view mirror to check on the girls behind me. Not because I yearned to ensure my sister was safe but to see Emma. I found something about her infinitely fascinating, not in a scientific study sort of way but in a way I could not define. Her face was perfectly framed by her fringe, brushing across her eyebrows as she gazed down at Robyn. It hit me that she was more concerned about her welfare than I was at this point. I chastised myself for getting distracted from the problem at hand, my protective brother mindset reinstated yet still I found my eyes wandering to the rear view mirror. Emma’s eyes alternated with mine. She quickly shifted her gaze after our eyes met for a fraction of a second though her cheeks did not warm. Maybe she was too confident for that but maybe she was avoiding the questions looming above our heads; what were they doing when Robyn collapsed and why was my sister even out at night when our parents were away? Whatever the answers, I pushed the questions to the back of my cluttered brain as we hurtled into a parking spot. I gently lifted Robyn from Emma’s protective arms and, as our hands touched, she blushed this time. She smiled reassuringly as we strode through the Emergency Unit doors.

I screwed my eyes shut to purge my mind of the sight of her eyes rolling around in their sockets. We waited silently until she lay still, just as before. Emma released her bated breath and our eyes met. Her hazel eyes shimmered with fear at seeing her best friend, a gentle and caring friend, helpless. I knew that Robyn had been an older sister to Emma despite being only four months apart in age. I gently drew her to my chest in a show of solidarity, something my father did for me the first time I witnessed my sister’s seizures. Her torso shook in my arms. “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I should be comforting you. She’s your family.”

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

MY DAY AS A SUPERHERO GAVIN CHOONG / YEAR 8

A shooting star zoomed past the night sky. I was staring out my bedroom’s window when I saw a bright star flying across the night. My bedroom was filled of posters of superheroes and I had many figurines of super villains. My posters included the Hulk, Batman and Thor. My super villain figurines collection included Doctor Doom, Magneto and the Red Skull. I was a bit of a superhero/ super villain freak! So, when the shooting star shot past the sky, I wished that I got super strength, x-ray vision and the ability to fly.

I couldn’t feel any pain so I slowly opened my eyes. There I was, hanging in the overgrown tree in our driveway. I had landed in a nest of birds and I think that I was even more scared than then. I had to wait for my dad to get me from the tree. I tried to picture his expression when he retrieved me-a mixture of anger and relief. Oh Life Must Be Hard As A Superhero!

WAR HORSE

OLIVIA CROSS / YEAR 7

The next day, I felt great. Warmth was surging through my body. It was a sign of power (or maybe just a sign of a warm day)! I didn’t brush my teeth or eat my Weet-Bix because, in my collection of 103 Superman comics, not once did Superman have to brush his teeth or have to eat his breakfast. I hopped into the car happily and my mum drove me to school. When I reached school, I saw the school bully teasing a boy.

I grew up in Devon, England.

I shouted out to him. ‘Buster, pick on somebody your own size!’

And it was very chilling.

His hawk stare shifted and he stared at me. It was going to be a match between justice and evil. It was the Joker vs Batman. Buster ran up to me and pushed me into a puddle of mud. That wouldn’t stop me. I stood up and felt my seven hundred or so muscles tightening and enlarging. My knuckles changed from soft pillows to hard rocks of unforgiving pain.

The other men were getting buried,

Somehow, I ended up with my face in dirt, and the school bully laughing…

I became temporarily blind in my quest.

It was my first class-English. Mrs Old rambled on and on about how important English was in life, while only a bunch of people were half awake. The hottest girl in my grade, Bethany, was sitting next to me. I tried to activate my x-Ray vision to look at her. I was straining my eyes and concentrating on Bethany when I suddenly noticed that the whole class was silent. You could hear a pin drop. I looked up and saw the whole class staring at me, almost as if they were expecting something. ‘Are you on Earth with us Gavin?’ Mrs Old asked with a furious tone. I stammered yes back in reply. Then, Mrs Old asked me why I was staring at Bethany. Immediately, the sound of laughter filled the room and my cheeks turned into tomatoes. I glanced at Bethany and saw her turning away from me, with an even deeper shade of red on her cheeks. I got back home from a fairly disappointing day at school. I didn’t have super strength or x-ray vision. But maybe I could still fly…I went to my bedroom window and leaped off, spreading my arms. I shut my eyes and tried to flap my arms, like a robin. CRACK! That was the next sound I heard. Oh God…I must have broken some bones!

TINTERN SCHOOLS

I had joy, until they had to deploy my horse. He was the task force in the war. All the bore water disappeared, taken by the Germans. There was a lot of killing,

many were getting carried by their mates. I joined the war when I was nineteen. The cause was to find my horse, I needed some rest badly. One day, someone called its Joey. I crawled to find him. They were going to shoot him, it was pretty grim. But I called “No” don’t shoot him He is mine. Joey and I had been through heaps. As I returned home my mother wept!

2014 COCO

HAMISH ENSOR / YEAR 8 I can still vividly remember the day that we got our pet dog Coco. My Dad had just arrived back home from the Alpine Classic, a 250 kilometre bike ride that he did annually, and the whole family rushed out to greet him. As we got closer to the car we noticed a strange creature hiding underneath it. Dad was standing next to the car with a huge grin on his face. The puppy under the car wasn’t. As we later found out, Coco had just spent three hours vomiting in the boot of the car and was now cowering in terror underneath it, wondering who these strange people surrounding him were. We spent the next half an hour trying to unsuccessfully coax him out from under the car with doggy biscuits and eventually decided we needed to try something else. My brother went into the house and returned with a big juicy piece of chicken which he placed on the ground next to the car. Obviously Coco was hungry because he shot out from under the car like a mouse being chased by a cat and gobbled up the chicken in a matter of seconds. We immediately pounced on him and began to pat, scratch and hug him. He seemingly decided that this was enjoyable as he made no further efforts to escape from us. We soon got Coco inside and guided him to his makeshift bed. He immediately fell asleep. With Coco asleep we turned to Dad. Where? When? Why? How? Needless to say, we were all very happy.

Coco is an Australian Kelpie and he is almost a mirror image of “Red Dog” from the film. He has brown fur with patches of gold above his eyes and on his chest, while his most distinct feature is his big ears. As we’ve often stated in family conversations about Coco, his ears seem to have a mind of their own. When Coco is asleep his ears seem to continue functioning as if they were still fully awake, and they move around like little portable satellite dishes on top of his head. He is a medium sized dog and has seemingly boundless amounts of energy, and, although leaving a lot to be desired, his behaviour isn’t too bad. Thankfully Coco came toilet trained so we didn’t have to deal with that problem, but we soon discovered that he chewed on anything and everything! Socks, underwear, teddies, chairs and even couches were in grave peril whenever Coco was in the house. We soon learned to close our bedroom doors whenever we were out just in case Coco managed to get inside. Coco sleeps in the laundry, and our main problem in the morning is getting him outside before he empties his bowels on the laundry floor. We do our best to try and exercise him at least twice a day, but he seems to be full of energy no matter what we do. We love Coco, and even though he can be a pain, it’s good that we always have a fun, energetic, positive and loyal dog to rely on when we need cheering up. We are definitely very lucky to have him!

THAT FATEFUL DAY

HARRISON VALENTINE / YEAR 8 It was a while back, that I can remember. I had it all planned. Hughy was going to arrive, we were going to have lunch, then we would proceed to play ‘Transformers Monopoly’ until we got bored and did something else that eight year-olds like to do. Now usually, this kind of arrangement would have me pretty excited anyway, but there was something else that made today special: I hadn’t seen Hughy for three years! An opportunity to become this excited was something to behold. Of course, it was nothing in comparison to the excitement that would be generated in a scientist upon discovering a new planet, for example. But at that point in time, at least for me, there wasn’t a single thing more exciting than what was going to happen that day. But there was always something lurking in the shadows with this kind of thing, ready to spoil your day. It chose me as its next victim. Anyway, as I was saying, it was less than an hour before Hughy arrived. I was practically bouncing off the walls of the house. He couldn’t come fast enough. I raced around, leaping up onto the kitchen bench and taking a moment to peer out the window before twisting around and flying down again to resume my restlessness. I can imagine my mother wouldn’t have been very relaxed, either. She never is when people come over because she feels inclined to make the house as clean as possible. I can’t imagine my bouncing around would have been helping her tolerance for the whole event, but being eight years old, this didn’t occur to me. I continued to leap and hop and skip until something happened that would indefinitely seize my distracting behaviour by force. Speeding around the corner, I ran into the kitchen and pushed myself up onto the bench using my hands and looked out the window. Satisfied that there was nobody there, I twisted around to jump off for the last time. I thundered into the ground face first and heard a sickening crack as my nose smashed into the hard wooden floor. I saw the blood before my nervous system even registered the impact. Being the fairly dramatic child I was, I screamed as loud as I possibly could for my parents, although you can understand that this was probably justified considering I had just broken my nose. After much fussing, crying and emptying of tissue boxes, my panic was, for the most part, extinguished. I found myself worrying about something else instead, which was infinitely more important and pressing that a broken nose. “Mum, can Hughy still come over?” The answer was destined to be negative. I sat in my room sadly, reflecting on the days events. Stupid nose, I thought to myself. Why did you have to get broken?

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

DON’T LOOK DOWN

ISABELLA CHAVEZ / YEAR 8 You start to walk down the stairs. Every step you take, you feel that the steps are becoming deeper and larger. One step, two steps, three steps. This is taking forever; you take a breath and continue. You start to hear noises. You pause for a moment. Drip, drip, drip. Did you leave the kitchen tap on? You begin to start again. You feel a cold wet sensation on your feet. You drop your hand to see it. It is red. You think it is only juice. Think again. You instantly feel your leg getting weaker and weaker and weaker. You have been cut. You look down. Instantly, you shoot your head back up with an idea that you saw a person looking back at you. You hear thunder from outside your window. You look up for a moment but the lights are turned off. You remember you have a flashlight. You try to move yourself to the next step. But you feel your body breaks down inside. You trip. Suddenly, you see a flash of colour with a shadow. Don’t look any closer. Your fear is starting to eat you alive. With all your remaining energy, you leap up from the stairs and continue to walk. You make it to the bottom. You pick up your flashlight. “Who is there?” No one answers. All you hear is the sound of someone breathing over your shoulder. You are going to make a run for it. You count down the seconds in your mind: 10- take a deep breath; 9- keep yourself together; 8- hold your leg; 7- once you make it out call for help; 6- find the door; 5- never come back; 4- find your happy place; 3- everything is going to be okay; 2- you have lived a good life and 1…run. With just two steps made you get pulled back. Your shirt is ripped at the side. “Who is there?” No answer. You run straight forward and make it to the door. Locked. With tiny bit of light you see the stair case. You bolt straight for the stairs. You trip. Your foot is caught on something. You look down. You see a hand holding onto your shoe. You slowly look away. You scream at the top of your lungs…….”light?” At the top of the stairs you see a light appearing through the dark. You slowly stand up. With the fear that someone is there and watching your every move. Suddenly the light appeared

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to be getting darker. You slowly take little steps to the kitchen. You grab hold of a knife. Thinking it was a knife. Bang. You’ve been hit. Right through the hip….. you collapse down to the floor. You can feel your body losing blood as the minutes go by. You hear a match lit and smell smoke. The ceiling starts to crack. As you can see no such thing, you sit. You are in so much pain, you feel yourself becoming closer, and closer to death. With your last few minutes as human, someone covers your mouth. As your trying to gasp for air. It doesn’t work. You take it as what it is. With your last few seconds you look to your left and see your old music box. It opens. It starts playing the song your mum used to sing to you ‘go to sleep, go to sleep, go to sleep my little baby. ‘Go to sleep, go to sleep when you wake up I’ll be here when you wake up. When you wake you will see me standing with you, you just wait and see, soon you will be right here with me’ you start to remember how your mum was. A joyful spirit to be around. You remember the day….you were three, making a monster, you took the scissors and ran for it, you tripped and a second later your mum was gone. as it continued to play my vision went white. And with my mum you would be. Weeks pass. No one has found you yet. Your body starts to rot. Months later there’s a knock. The door falls down and up come a huge dust wave. There is no person waiting at the door. But in comes a white figure. Floating on air. She kneels down beside your dead body. “It’s nice to see you…..I’ve missed you” she lays one fingertip on your shoulder. It’s gone. Once was a breathing, healthy body is now a pile of dust. She picks up a hand full of you. She lets in go throw her sand like hand. She turns around to see the music box playing she starts to sing along to it as your mother did. She picks it up. The ballerina figure is spinning. She rips out the girl and opens the head, she puts you dust into the figure. You’re trapped. The wind gashes through the door blowing all of you around the house. Within a few seconds you start to form. But not in the way you would like. You’re a ghost, just like your mother. “Well, isn’t it nice to see you again,”……… you look at her with fear in your eyes…… ..”Same for you……”

WAITING

JACK DOWLING / YEAR 10 It had happened again, this time stronger than the last. It kept happening more frequently and more powerful. I hope one day it will stop. For now I’ll just have to deal with it, go to school, be normal, do my work, be normal, go home and wait.… Wait. Wait for it to happen again. The next one is two days later, the soonest it has ever been. This time … different somehow, charged, powerful and just as exhilarating…yet….dark forceful...malevolent and strong. I know this is different, I know something has happened...unfamiliar in its hold. I awake...feeling a rush, and know then that this day is going to be significant. School is normal, was normal. Work is work…but not work. Time passes yet it does not pass. I enter the..…..a burst explodes through my body shocking...convulsing...I drop to the ground. The last thing I hear... “he’s …don’t.. seiz…!” I slip into unconsciousness. I hear the parental words “don’t .. attention/leave/...don’t make a fuss’ The hours pass through my unconsciousness. Parents. When they finally arrive, they both arrive. Something I had never seen…. Before.

2014 ESCAPE

JAYAN PILLAY / YEAR 9 Darkness, it is all I have seen in the past two days. Pitch black. Darkness. I close my eyes, and instantly thoughts and images flood through my mind’s eye, as if I had been watching a TV which was just turned on. I see him, that man, that sinister, wicked, man. My kidnapper. His face, beaten, bruised, unshaved and unwashed, is simply terrifying. He clearly has suffered some sort of trauma, perhaps in childhood, and evidently is isolated from society. He is weak. That is why it is me, a child, who is his victim. But why? What makes a man so mad, so evil, he takes children from their home. Home, the word instantly reminds me of what I need to do, which is not analyse the psychology of a madman. Home, the word simultaneously evokes images of my family, my mother, who must be absolutely distraught. It brings back images of my younger days of childhood, of Christmas and birthdays and even visits from grandparents. As these thoughts come to mind, tears come to eyes. I feel terrified, horrified, fearful for my own life in a way I have never felt before. I’m confused. I don’t know what to do. And then I see her, my mother, my darling mother, who utters the word ESCAPE weakly, with tears in her eyes and love in her heart. As she utters the words I hear a “BANG”. My eyes flick open in a split second. The area which was once entirely covered by darkness now has a small bit of light. I realise what the “BANG” was; it was a door, and now, I hear footsteps, quietly and slowly moving, as if concerned not to wake a sleeping child. Is it I, he is fearful to awaken? Suddenly a flick, and all of a sudden bright, fluorescent light blinds me. In reaction I close my eyes and groggily moan. “You are awake,” says the man, in a monotonal, emotionless voice. I open my eyes wearily, to see the room, illuminated with a bright, white light. I also see him, the man, who looks at me. I fearfully attempt to stare at him, to fill him with grief and pain and sorrow. To make him regretful in the hope he will let me go. My attempt is to no avail. He doesn’t move a muscle. He walks away from me, picks up something from a table, then leaves, leaving me in the infinite loneliness and fearfulness of darkness. ESCAPE. I remember what I heard my dear mother say. I must escape. I must leave, I must leave now, and so I create a plan. I will untie myself from the restraining knot to the wooden chair on the floor. Then, I will call to him, scream and yell and make all kinds of noises to get his attention. Next I will creep up, right up to behind the door. It takes him about five seconds for him to flick on the lights, and before he does I will sneak past him, through the loud door which made a “BANG”, making sure I am ever so quiet. By the time he turns on the light, I will be out the door, running for my life, and by the time he notices that I am not in the room, I will be out of the house and on my way to the police station. I feel scared, he is a mean creature. I am terrified that he will be furious. But I hear my mother’s voice, I see her face, I am motivated to move, to run, to escape. So I do. I follow the plan, step by step, and I, after two days of absolute fear and sheer terror, ESCAPE.

BAD MEMORIES RHYS KAIGG / YEAR 10

Dinner was fantastic as usual with so much variation that I felt truly content. There was drowsiness, warmth and that energy which only derives from sugar and good company. Two aunties, two uncles and two kids; and The Grandpa and The Grandma– in-law.. They got on my nerves a bit but then again, that’s family, right? Enjoyment really is what I crave from this night with family and it is always a pleasure asking about people’s lives and what had been happening. School, work, friends and deaths were some of the things said and some of the things left unmentioned. … I load the dishwasher, the dishes clanging as I put them in. I’m looking out past the counter to the two couches and beyond to the trestle tables ..the dinner table laden with people and food. It is quite dark now and the beautiful view has been trashed by darkness. I am, of course listening to the grasps of conversations. I remember it clearly: my grandfather facing me in the middle of the table as I rinse the plates. My sister circling me and ordering him to leave.. He refuses. She insists. Conversations drift in and out; an argument; a voice rising and falling in volume. More volume. My sister now in tears. The fuse had been lit and the explosion detonates. He shouts and rages. I grip the plate with ferocity, look down and realise my hands tremble and I want to break the plate.

A familiar bellowing surges through the rising density of emotion and screeching. The squabble escalates. I take a deep breath and roar from the depths of my lungs.. ..“GROW UP” My eyes blazing and directed at the framed figure passive and immobilised in the middle of the table. There is silence for what seems like a minute… then nothing. I hear fragments of the argument splinter the silence. He strides out, flinging his napkin on the table and asks her to get her ‘stuff’. They leave. I want to hit, hurt, punch something, anything but I keep control. Walk Tears struggle within me, with my fists clenched and my vision failing slightly. I step into the cool night air and I feel a little better. I watch the moon through my blurred vision. Making my way to the miniature deck overlooking the pond the stars seem perfect. It was cold but my body hot. I don’t feel it. All I feel is sadness and anger and confusion. Time drifts away as the cold presses against me. The sound of cars driving away lifts a great pressure from the room. Tension in my chest loosens and with a deep breath I transfer my thoughts to the Christmas tree glistening, shining bright.... things will never really be the same again.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

SLIPPING OFF THE EDGE KEELY MCGOVERN / YEAR 10

My fingers flowed smoothly across the keys, as easily as waves washing up against the shore. I forgot my worries, my struggles, as I became lost in the music that I was creating. My music made me happy. It made me forget the world I existed in and transported me to the world in which I belonged. I was scared to stop playing, in case this time my burden pushed me over the edge, like water running off a fall. I was pushed to the very limit of the fall when Granddaddy died, leaving me with nothing but his beautiful drawings and his life lessons. He used to let me draw on his best pads, with his best lead pencils and helped guide my hand across the paper, like wind pushing a cyclist forward. When he left, the wind started pushing against me, forcing me to finally give up with paper and pencil. Then Mama left me for another family, a better, more perfect one. She took all the laughter and happiness with her, leaving me with just the piano as company. She had taught me to play and I took to it like a fish to water. I loved it, the way I was recreating the tunes by the great Mozart and Tchaikovsky, making my own dent on their compositions. I loved the way that I could make my own melodies, just by putting two different keys together again and again until everything came together and made music to my ears. When she left, I fought the wind pushing me backwards over and over, until finally it died down, letting me win for once. I pushed down on the last notes and left my hands hovering as the sound slowly died into silence. As I stood up, I felt something that I had not felt in a long time. Happiness. It filled me like air in a balloon, expanding across my chest and body, spreading a tentative smile across my face. It could not feel much better than this, could it? Maybe, just maybe, if I dared to hope, the wind was starting to lift again, pushing me in the right direction. I felt so enthused that when I strutted out of the house fifteen minutes later, I was wearing my best dinner suit and shoes. I did not know where I was going, or what I was doing, but I hummed happily as I walked down the street. I was still humming when I bumped into somebody. Cursing, I looked down and straightened up the lady that I had nearly knocked down. She looked up at me and I gasped. It was Mama. “Mama!” I cried out in delight. “It has been too long!” I saw a flash of recognition pass through her eyes before they went hard and angry. “Who are you?” “Mama,” I began uncertainly, “It is me- your son.” “What son? I have no son! You are no son of mine!” she exclaimed. She wrapped her jumper around herself like a protective layer, glared at me like I was something rotten on the bottom of her shoe and stalked off. I watched her go, my balloon of happiness bursting into sorrow filled clouds. I was no son of hers. I was a nobody, someone who had nobody. Bad memories started flowing in. Her and Dad arguing. Her running out the door, slamming it shut. Dad drinking. Finding him dead on the floor two weeks later. Granddaddy passing on, leaving me. Like everyone had. I was nothing. I wanted to become nothing. My legs carried me along the sidewalk, before the concrete turned to golden sand. I looked up. The beach. The sun shone brightly in the sky, the sand glowing gold. The water rippled softly across the shore,

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glistening an azure blue. The best bit? It was deserted. I waded into the water, until it was up to my chest. The water was warm, slapping my suit around me. Surrounding. Comforting. A desire to stay in its clutches forever overtook my mind. I took one last look, standing at the edge of the waterfall. This was the last thing I was going to see before finally falling off the edge. I held my breath and slipped below the surface. I curled into a ball, the sea currents pulling and pushing me around like a rag doll. My aim was not to die, but to forget my life, to wipe a blackboard clean and start all over again. My life would slip into the ocean the way notes blended to music. Slowly I began to lose my grip on reality as the salt water finally washed away my identity.

A ROAD TO NOWHERE

RACHAEL MERRITT / YEAR 10 The red road stretched out as far as the eye could see into the distance. We were the only vehicle on the road. It didn’t matter what side of the road you were driving on, for there was no one to collide with. No vehicle in sight. No road signs or speed limits either; we had left them behind one hundred kilometres ago. Our rickety bus juddered and rattled over the unsurfaced dirt road, leaving a small tornado of disturbed dust trailing after us. The white gaze from the sun was so intense and magnificent. It glared down at me through my window onto the vacant seat next to me. We were moving quickly and the landscape outside became a blur of vibrant reds, deep greens and charred blacks. I thought of being stranded out there, under the gaze of the blistering sun. Buckling in the intense heat, no trees to take shade under. No hope of survival. The country was flat and endless. There were few tall trees, mostly dead withered skeletons of something that could have once been a tree. Tough and wiry salt bushes blossomed from the red dirt. I loved the vastness of the country, the way it invited you in. The bare flatness of the landscape, looking from horizon to horizon and seeing nothing but red dirt. Enjoying the silence and tranquillity, closing your eyes and losing yourself completely. So far away from the blaring horns and poisonous gas fumes of the city. A distant memory. I slid the curtain across to block the sun’s bright gaze and tried to focus my mind on reading. I spread out on the seat and turned my attention to the black and white print. The book described the setting of Mississippi 1962, a place that seemed a world away from me right now. The people so different to those I would meet and see out here. They were all boarded up in their neat houses with white picket fences in their perfectly friendly neighbourhoods. Not one part of me envied them. We were truly in the middle of nowhere, but I loved it. The feeling of being apart from family and familiar surroundings may sound daunting to some. In this desolate place, I found peace in the feeling of being removed from everything familiar. The great sense of adventure and excitement of the unknown was exhilarating. There was nowhere else in the world I would have rather been, than on that bus. The feeling of my brain rattling round in my head as we skittered and bumped deeper and deeper into the heart of nowhere.

2014 MEMORIES

we did. Every moment was spent living life to the fullest and ready to take on any adventure. I see how foolish I was back then, thinking life was going to be perfect. Time is a thief and he had stolen the time when I was young, foolish and in love.

I have that day burnt into my memory. How the morning light shone through our bedroom, and how handsome he looked that beautiful spring morning. How were we supposed to know that it was his last? One last kiss, last embrace, and last time to look into his sparkling green eyes. Then he was gone, gone before I could say I loved him one more time.

I knew this time would come it had to. I couldn’t keep up this calm façade forever. As I walked home from work, my walls I’d worked so had to keep up started to crumble. Salty tears were streaming down my face, the pain that I had been trying so hard to hide has come out to show its face. My heels on the side walk click as I run the rest of the way home. But a sudden thought comes across my troubled mind. I make my way to a bridge, the bridge were we had kissed for the first time. The rushing water below seemed to call to me; the call sounded like his voice, his voice calling me to be with him. As I pulled my self up over the railing, the moon illuminated the night sky giving me one last look at the world that we had planned to rule together. I would be with him; no more suffering, no more pain and we would be together forever just as he had promised. The touch of cold wind rushing past my face was the last thing I felt before I closed my eyes.

LUCY WHEELER / YEAR 9

It’s been weeks since he died, I don’t think I’ll every get over this timeless pain. Sometimes I wonder when people lose a loved one, how do they wake up each morning, how do they face each day? But you do wake up. And for just a second, you forget, but only for a second. Then you remember, whom this cruel world kills so suddenly. It kills without a second glance, a glance that could stop this darkness from devouring me whole. Looking back on those weeks there was only one real time that I felt something, some emotion that made me feel alive. Anger. I became consumed by this rage. Why did he leave me? Did he want me to suffer for the rest of my life alone? Why me? Images of him clouded my mind, my head began to spin, all my thoughts mixed into one. Storming around my apartment I grabbed every thing that reminded me of him. Tearing up each picture, each letter, and each memory. Only thing I felt just the feeling of wind on my face as I threw my memories out into the bustling streets below. The only thing left of him was the broken photo frame that contained the first picture of us. The glass pane smashed into a million tiny pieces, just like my heart. I’m empty with out him. I feel like I’m to blame, we didn’t have to go out that foggy morning. If only I had gone shopping the day before. What if, what if, what if? Why couldn’t have it been me, he could have given so much more than I could. He instantly charmed everyone who met. He just was too perfect; I would never deserve that boy. That kind, warm-heart, kind, funny, passionate boy My life has become a blur, everything I do clouded and unsure. All I want to do is lie in bed and dream of him and I together and how easy life was with him. I have been told the best way to get over grief is to have something to do with these long painful hour, so I work. I am a secretary for a local book publisher. Fake smiles, cheery voices, all hide the agony inside. My days are wasted in silence, only speaking when I really need to. In fear that I may break down, that for a second I may let my guard down and show the heartache that has become. What hurts the most is thinking of what we could have been, what we should have been. Many nights dreaming with stars in our eyes, whispering sweet nothings whilst thoughts of marriage and our wonderful future whirled though our young and simple minds. Running away from Paris and have family away from the smoke of Paris. Everyone said we were meant to be together and that fate had brought us together. An unlikely pair, me, a girl from the country waiting to see what the big city had in-store and him, a charming young man who has ready to face the world. Our lives were ours for the taking and

LE PARISIEN WOMAN JUMPS OFF PONT ALEXANDRA III BRIDGE Late on the 26th of August 1951 a woman jumped off Pont Alexandra III Bridge. Latest reports from the Sûreté Nationale say that the woman…

A MARS BAR

ROSE RUSSELL / YEAR 7 This is cruelty. The luscious black, red and gold cased chocolate is sitting around thirty cm in front of me, waiting hopefully to be eaten. We’ve been separated for too long. It’s time to be united once again. I violently tear the wrapper off the Mars Bar, and without any further ado, I plunge my teeth into the chocolate volcano. The flavours erupt in my mouth. The gooey caramel oozes through my teeth and seeps down my throat, followed closely by the chocolate nougat clumsily rolling down the hatch. Oh, and the chocolate. The chocolate. It melts on the tip of my tongue, satisfying my sweet tooth. The flavours are so strong that they waft up into my nose. And then it’s gone. A final crinkle of the casing as the Mars Bar finishes its journey and ends up in the bin. I love Mars Bars.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

CYBER CELEBRITY MAE EADIE / YEAR 8 I couldn’t move. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t breathe. Literally. My heart was pounding in my chest, threatening to burst out and bound away down the path. My hand trembled as I lifted the latch and pushed the gate open. ‘Will they recognise me?’ I worried. My oversized school shoes slapped the concrete walkway as I walked, head down, through the gate. I walked past a group of girls, they were one or two years younger than me. I could feel their eyes burn through the back of my head as I walked past. Their excited whispers nauseated me. So much for not getting recognised. As I made my way over the basketball court, I could sense girls peering at me over the tops of their phones, wanting to get a look at the infamous cyber celebrity for themselves. I heard the boys elbowing each other, pointing me out like an exhibit at the zoo. My ears burned and my cheeks turned beetroot red. I scuttled off hurriedly for the toilets, biting back tears. My dress caught on the door handle as I slipped into the classroom. People sniggered and snorted openly as I hurried to the spare seat at the back of the room, my eyes red and blotchy from crying. The teacher walked in, terminating any rude remarks heading my way. I was introduced and class began. As soon as the teacher had her back facing the class, a scrunched up piece of paper hit the side of my head. It bounced off and landed on my desk. Heart in my mouth, I quietly opened it up. No. I stared in disbelief at the picture in my hands. No matter how many schools I go to, I couldn’t run away from my cyber self. I am being stalked by something I created. A stupid picture I took. I tore up the sheet, fingers trembling uncontrollably, avoiding the gaze of twenty two smirking teenagers. The rest of class seemed to go on for an eternity, but finally, after receiving three more scrunched up messages, the lunch bell rang. I piled all my books into my arms and ran out into the corridor, gasping for breath in-between sobs. The door of my locker flew open and I jumped in, along with my books. There I sat, all during recess and the next few classes, squished up in my locker letting the tears flow. All too soon, the bell rang once again and I listened in horror to the sound of six hundred pairs of feet thundering down the tiled corridor. My neighbouring locker squeaked open, followed by the sound of books tumbling in. “Hey, Loz, have you seen the new girl? Hanna, or something like that? You know, like, the slut whose picture went viral?” The girl outside the locker let out a cruel laugh.

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“Yeah, I have. I mean, like, how stupid can you get? She’s, like, ruined her life, ya know?” “Yeah, I know, right. Oh, hey...” The two girls walked away, the sound of their footsteps getting quieter. Not that I noticed of course, I had my swollen face buried in my hands, tears rolling down my arms. After a while I knew I would have to get out. I was in desperate need of a toilet break and I wasn’t making myself feel any better locked up. Cautiously, I slunk out of my locker and speed walked down the hall. People stopped to look at me in the yard. Some shouted names at me, name I won’t repeat. I was sick to the stomach, sick with humiliation. I ran into the girls’ bathroom and locked myself in the far cubical, giving into the feeling of hopelessness and idiocy. Not long after, I heard a soft pair of footsteps walk up to my cubical. They knocked twice on the door frame. “Hanna?” The voice was a girls. But I was too distraught to notice the gentleness. “Go away! Leave me alone!” I screamed. The girl didn’t move anywhere. My heart began to race. “Hanna, I don’t want to hurt you. Can you open up?” The girl asked softly. Confused, I slowly undid the lock on the door, expecting to see twenty smirking faces making fun of me. Instead, I saw a girl with a plain face and soft eyes. She smiled at me. I smiled back. The girl reached out and took my hand, warming me inside and out. Maybe there is hope left for me.

2014 HENRY’S CAT

SOPHIE PAUL / YEAR 9 Why the cat chose their doorstep, I have no idea. It was a grey morning, with ash coloured clouds blanketing the sky, when the cat eventually appeared at Henry’s front door. It was a grey little thing with tangled fur and a chunk of its left ear missing. Henry looked at this forlorn cat and, the kind-hearted soul he was, decided to fetch the grubby mess of fur a saucer of milk. The cat, which Henry later named Basil, drank up the milk hungrily and disappeared down the street. The next morning Basil was back and Henry fetched another saucer of milk for the cat. Basil appeared the next day and the day after that and every time Henry gave him a small saucer milk which he lapped up in a flash A routine began to settle in and the cat appeared at Henry’s doorstep every single day, without failure. However as the weeks unfolded, Henry noticed that Basil was becoming increasingly thinner and more weary every day that he returned. “Mummy is Basil alright? Why is he getting thinner?” Henry questioned. His parents looked at each other, speaking with their eyes in a language that Henry did not understand. “I think that maybe Basil is growing a bit old and tired, but I’m sure he is very happy to have a friend like you,” Henry’s mother replied. On one bright, sunny day in July Basil did not appear. Henry waited on the steps for hours. Basil did not come. His parents tried to find activities that would lure Henry away from the front door. “Henry,” his Dad called, “Why don’t you come and help me draw a picture?” Henry didn’t budge. Why wasn’t Basil here, at his doorstep? Where was he? Why would Basil just leave him? Was he alright? Henry lay in bed that night, tossing and turning with the worry of his poor little friend. Henry woke up the next morning with a goal; he was going to find Basil. Down Harrison Road Henry went, checking up in the canopy of the large eucalypt,

standing solitary and tall next to the pavement. Basil was not there. Where could he be? Henry continued down Stanley Avenue and looked under the banksias’ and the rhododendron bushes that lined the street, hoping to catch a glimpse of a furry grey face. He wasn’t anywhere to be seen. Why did he disappear? Henry searched down Chauncy Crescent and along the fence that separated the houses from the road. Where could Basil be hiding?! Henry yelled and yelled hoping that cat would recognize the sound of his increasingly desperate voice. Henry began frantically searching in the bushes and hedges that surrounded him as wound his way through numerous roads. Did Basil hate Henry? Had he had enough of being his friend?! The sun was shining high in the sky and Henry hated it. He hated everything. He hated the cat for making him feel like this and leaving, without even a goodbye. Henry kicked at the leaves that were scattered across the foot path and started to cry. As Henry’s thoughts cleared and his tears dried on his little, round face he decided it was time to make his way back home. He turned around trying to reorientate himself and recognise the direction in which he had come. Which way led home? There were so many different streets! He didn’t belong here. It wasn’t his street and he needed to go home. So he started walking back, or so he thought, in the direction he had come.

The young lady and Henry began to navigate their way through the neighbourhood, with Henry still pausing to check under any bushes that he may have missed. The kind lady asked what he was doing. “I’m looking for my friend.” Henry told her. Henry explained the story of Basil, telling her about how worried he was about the bedraggled cat’s whereabouts. Her eyes were sad as she listened to Henry’s story. Henry eventually recognized his street and saw his house. The lady walked him up to the front door where Henry’s parents greeted them in tears. “Where have you been Henry?” exclaimed his mother, pulling him into a tight hug. “Don’t ever run away again,” his father scolded Henry. Henry and his parents thanked the young lady and she thanked Henry for telling her the story about Basil. Henry woke the next morning, exhausted. He crept to the front of the house and slowly opened the front door. Basil was not there. In his place at the doormat was a large brown box. Henry bent down and peeked through an opening on the side. Staring back out at him was pair of green eyes and little face of black fur, with a bright green bow tied around its neck.

Henry had been walking for a very long time when Henry came across a younger woman, who had long brown hair swept up into a bright green bow. She was hurriedly grabbing shopping bags out of her car. Henry stood behind her, waiting, too shy to approach her. With a mountain of bags in each hand, she turned around, startled to see Henry standing silently behind her. “Hello, are you alright?” she asked Henry Henry looked down at his hands and back up at the woman and spoke shyly, “I think I might be lost.” The young lady started at him for while and eventually said, “Don’t worry. I’ll help you find your way home.”

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

INGLISHE CAPTENN’S

ELLY D’ARCY AND ALANNAH MURRAY/ YEAR 12 (Ellie and Alannah were the inaugural English Captains in 2014. They wrote this verse as their application for the role.) Shall I compare we to a Great Captayne? We art more betterer and much more good We would relieve essay pain Revolutionise the world, we could. There are times when costumes we would bring To get the school excited for reading joy. If elected, we would put a ding In universes for every girl and boy. Tonal shifts and metaphors galore, Before the altar of techniques we kneel. O! So many devices to explore! ‘Neath the beauty and the pow’r of simple TEEL. Dark and fire shall not block our way, Despite the stormy skies of Mathematics We’ll use our English wings to bear us away. About grammar good, we are ecstatic! We’ll swim through the sea of sexual repression, past religion and death and the human condition, And into oppression we’ll make a transgression, To the English team we’ll make a great addition.

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

THE NEW GENERATION OF SUPERHEROES HAMISH ENSOR / YEAR 8

The citizens of the world need a new generation of superheroes and they need to get them soon. While all of the evil villains hide away in their secret lairs-no doubt plotting evil things - our old superheroes are crumbling into dust and falling into legend. Wayne Enterprises is now in debt, so Batman cannot make any new gadgets, and Robin has left him to pursue a career as a model. Superman has been growing weaker and weaker ever since they added kryptonite to the water supply, while Green Lantern was unfortunately mistaken for an actual lantern at Chinese New Year. Spider-Man was sucked up a vacuum cleaner by a mother protecting her child from a “scary spider”, and after pondering his thoughts for many years Iron Man has only just worked out his arch nemesis “The Mandarin”, is not in fact a mandarin fruit. The mighty Thor is now in a coma after he forgot to catch his hammer, while Hulk is still off smashing...someone... They’ve all got their own problems, but the citizens of the world have one big problem. If all of their old superheroes are in debt, modelling, in China, vacuumed, pondering, in a coma or off smashing someone, then who is going to step in and save them? What are we going to do if the bad guys try to hijack a plane, or poison our water supply, or bring down an army from Mars to enslave us? I know who will save us! Black Thunder and his sidekick Yellow Lightning! With their awesome superhero powers they can send the bad guys right back to their lairs! Just look at them go! They can take the place of our old superheroes as they fall and become obsolete. As long as there are superheroes there will be hope. So long as we have hope we will fight. So long as we fight we will not fall, but rise against those who would try to put us down. So take this as a message you evil-doers out there. So long as we have superheroes you will not succeed!

2014 AFTER DARK

BED IS BEST

Daylight dims, plunging the city into darkness. The once busy streets left empty and lone. The last light is turned off in a cramped office block. The late night tram makes the final round, delivering the last of the night stragglers. Rush hour passes. The city is left in darkness, with restaurant diners, drunks and shift workers the only inhabitants. Few know that humans are not the only creatures to walk the streets at night.

I drifted back into consciousness but lay for what could have been minutes or possibly hours in an indescribable state of nirvana. Without opening my eyes I could visualise the darkly lit room around me, every knick by every knack carefully lining the shelves or tucked away in their cupboards, as I in my bed. Everything would be as I had left it the night before, just as motionless and calm as I was. When my knees bent up to my body and stretched back across the mattress I felt every muscle sigh with contentment. The warmth of cotton sheets held me in their own charming way, and I realised at that moment that there was no simpler or more inordinate relaxation as this. As a wayward child it would be at a drop of a hat that I would lay my head to rest and nod off in an instant when presented with a bed to lie in and a thumb to suck. Though the simplicity of naptime eludes me in my teen hood, its allure is stronger than ever and at any opportunity my head would find itself snuggled against a pillow, like a bird returning to a nest.

RACHAEL MERRITT / YEAR 10

A cool night breeze gently moans down a damp alleyway. Dead, brittle leaves scuttle and scratch over the cobblestone ground. A single street light illuminates a lone street corner, its white light beaming down on the dirty pavement. A group of moths cluster around the bright globe. A slender figure appears beneath the light, dressed in a silken kimono the colour of fuchsia, wrapped tightly around her fragile frame. A parasol poised lightly over her left shoulder half conceals her dark hair pulled back loosely in a bun. As she begins to sense your presence, she slowly turns to confront you. A deep blood red slit from ear to ear is the immediate point of fixation. The edges of the pink kimono are tattered and stained with dried blood. Her pale and clammy skin is tainted green, her eyes sunken deep into her delicate skull. A scream that pierces the night escapes from her worn mouth and she vanishes into the dark. Tucked between two buildings, a dark alleyway beckons to be explored. The smell of damp concrete and sickening smoke fills the air. Shady strangers lurk in corners, lighting up cigarettes. Walking past you question who you are scared of, ghosts or human beings? On a lonely night, some say that the ghost of a murdered prostitute walks these alleys and torments lone males. People have said to have heard the ‘click clack’ of high heels come from behind them, to turn and realize no one is there. Walking through the endless labyrinth of darkened streets, every alley, lane and backstreet has its story. One alley tells the tale of a little girl who was brutally murdered. Her small body dumped at the back of an alley. The next morning her naked body was found murdered at the back of the desolate alley. An unjustly accused man was sent to his death over her murder. Years later he was found to be innocent. The real murderer never caught, free to kill again. Where once the scene of a crime, now stands garbage bins behind a classy restaurant bar. No one walking past would know of the alley’s tragic story. Many say that the ghost of Alma still haunts the lane.

RYAN TIERNEY / YEAR 10

Sleep: much more than just a physical necessity. It is emotionally, mentally and spiritually invaluable. Sleep is like a wind that blows the fog of a day’s confusion away. To sleep is to have one’s mind swept free of distraction and put to no other purpose than better the person. In our sleep deprived states we are irrational, dull, some even border abhorrent. So is it truly outlandish that bed might be my favourite place to be? I could regale you with stories that my monotonous mind could not have concocted in its lucidity, but when presented in my dreams form images beyond description. Bed is great, but sadly for every good time there are bad times, and oh, how distinctly the bad times appear in the corners of my mind. Who, for instance, could overlook the incident of 08”? When a young boy of only 10 years old fell out of the bed he had trusted to keep him safe in his nightly hours of vulnerability. But the feeling of a noggin crashing against a bed side table could not overpower the positive feeling of a warm bed on a cold winter’s morning. So call me mad, call me lazy, call me what you may, but nothing in this world has fulfilled me more than the moments of solitude I’ve spent in my bunk.

In another dark crevice wedged between two buildings, the chilling distant laughter of lost children can be heard echoing off the brick walls. Late at night, the ghosts of children wait for an adult. In desperate hope of attention, they softly tug on a jacket sleeve or lightly hold their hand. By day, these haunted alleys are filled with men, women, children, homeless, artists and buskers. The streets are brimming with life. Many walk these paths by day with little or no idea of the murders that have happened on the cobblestones beneath their feet.

A Collection of Student Works

PEGASUS CAMPANILE

A DISCOVERY

NICOLANI SUSANTO / YEAR 7 A boy. A girl. A book. A meeting. A secret. A discovery.

The boys have the same floppy, brown hair. The same big, brown eyes. The same cheeky grin. The same thought about books. As they read, on and on, they learn more about themselves and each other. Everything they have ever known has been put into this one book.

Looking for the perfect book can be hard. Especially for a boy who only finds pleasure in reading comics.

The boys share the same thoughts.

Looking for the perfect book can be hard. Especially for a girl who finds every book she reads perfect.

~~~~*~~~~

Scanning books on the library’s rickety shelves, a girl and a boy find themselves meeting by fate in the search for the perfect book.

The girls share the same thoughts.

It goes on and on. As if someone had happened to know who they were, what their life would be like, when they would meet, how they would meet.

For the boy, he wishes for a book full of adventure, villains and heroes, a battle to the death.

Over this one book, that they just happened to notice, with its radiant glow, its colourful pictures, its strong words and its dazzling cover.

For the girl, she wishes for a book that takes her to another world, a book that she can’t put down, a book that lives forever.

~~~~*~~~~

Then, they meet. Hands on the same book, intrigued by its somewhat radiance. A silent glance passes. “Sorry!” together they murmur casting shy looks at each other. The boy looks at the floor, red faced, wishing it would swallow him up. The girl looks at the floor, red faced, wishing she could be taken into one of the book’s journeys. Then they leave. The next day the boy walks through the doors again, hands in his pockets, hood up, going for that ‘cool boy’ look.

They find themselves bumping into each other again the next day. In a quiet, isolated alley. A perfect place to be captured by a book. They sit down opposite each other nervously, silently, cautiously. Taking care of their every move. Then the boy trips. He turns red immediately, totally embarrassed and disappointed at himself for making a fool out of himself in front of the girl. Then the boy hears a soft, tinkling sound. A beautiful sound. It’s the girl softly giggling, her eyes still on the book. The boy starts laughing too. And all of a sudden the heavy air around them drops.

At the same time the girl walks through the doors, a summery dress on, blowing in the wind, going for that ‘pretty girl’ look.

And they bond. They talk to each other happily in the small alley. They become friends. They learn new things about each other, and see that the book is a mirror image of them.

Again they meet, whether it by chance or fate or maybe even magic, who knows?

They meet again and again, countless times. Talking about the book, laughing and crying.

They go off in their own directions and meet again at the book. This time there are two.

They had found their own perfect book.

The boy takes his and leaves without a word.

The girl closes the book and lays it down with a smile.

The girl takes hers and leaves without a word.

The boy closes the book and lays it down with a smile.

That night, although they don’t realise it, they both sit in their beds. The book propped open on their knees. Both leaning against the wall. Both intently sucking in every word they read. They go on into the night. Always taking in each word, each sentence, each paragraph.

They go and meet each other again.

~~~~*~~~~ In the book there is a girl like the one reading the book. In the book there is a boy like the one reading the book. And the book revolves around one thing. A Discovery. The girls have the same long, wavy, auburn hair. The same bright, blue eyes. The same small, pink lips. The same thought about books.

T I N T E R N S C H O O LS

They had made their own discovery.

The book’s pages flip, to the last page. And a picture forms. A girl and a boy together. The girl leaning on the boy’s shoulder. They are looking out from a hill. Across the city. At a beautiful sunset. Flowers blow in the wind. And the story is finished.

Editors’ Choice MIDDLE SCHOOL

2014

CIANA ROGERS / YEAR 3

GEORGIA KRUEGER / YEAR 8