Blueprint #18 by Adelaide High School

Issue #18 November 2019

TRADITION IT’S THE NEW THING

What’s happening during November?

DIY – For the gift giving season

The Effin’ Review Dora and the Lost City of Gold

The forthcoming weeks mark the imminent beginning of Term 4, functioning as a hopeful guide to the closure of the 2019 school year – but to us secondary school students, specifically seniors, we know this period by a different title. SACE’s ‘Sanctuary of Sorrow’ is a legit thing, and the word ‘exams’ alone encapsulates the emotional and physical change in Adelaide High – if you see a Year 12 in the hallways over the following weeks, please wish them luck… they’ll need it! Although it may seem a time of doom and gloom, let it not be forgotten that sunshine and its loving companion ‘summer’ reside just around the corner, longing to lift spirits, drain bank accounts, and provide a time of restoration for students to engage in what may come to be favourite memories of youth. For teachers, maybe this is your time to start planning a long, long holiday – preferably somewhere warm and fresh, where the breeze smells of freedom. There is an inkling that 2020 may just surprise us all in what has to offer, so ready yourselves – it certainly looks promising!

EDITORIAL TEAM Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod Artistic Director: Francine Legaspi Editors: Gabriella Akele, Hamish Anderson,

Although it has been difficult to encapsulate the true spirit and passion that thrives within the walls and students of Adelaide High, we believe that Blueprint’s Issue #18 has done just that in our bumper finale for the year. This issue features a wide range of fiction and non-fictional pieces, and our student gallery is back and swinging with some of the school’s best art pieces to date! We take a throwback in time and look at how the idea of tradition has changed over the years and have included some holiday-themed tips and tricks to help one soar through the Christmas season in our regular DIY column. As we put away our pens, pencils, and paintbrushes for another year, we will continue dreaming and engaging in our respective passions. On behalf of the entire student editorial team, we look forward to returning in 2020 with plenty more imaginative and intellectually engaging content, not to mention maybe even a little more magic.

Madeline Coates, Faith Fitton-Gum, Charlotte Flemming, Arnav Kapoor, Jasmine Kaur, Dain Lee, Zoe Liang, Tiana Loechel, Jagreet Malhi, Milla Maronich, Mitchell Miller, Heeyani Mittal, Preshna Nakarmi, Riya Shiju, Fei Stokes, Janna Tapales, Lilli Vitagliano, Holly Webbe

CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Calling all writers, artists, and creative types! We want your talented work for our next issue of Blueprint.

Charlotte-May Fleming

We are especially keen on your best: Fiction writing including (but not limited to) short narratives and stories, recounts, poetry, film and drama short scripts (no longer than 1,000 words each) Short reviews of anything linked with the creative arts. This can include films, television shows, music albums, live concerts, theatre productions, and art exhibitions (no longer than 250 words each) Non-Fiction writing of anything related to the school, local community, or creative arts. This can include food and travel writing, ‘How To’ articles, or any other topic relevant to the student readership (no longer than 1,000 words each) Artwork, graphic design, or illustrations Please email or submit contributions to Mr. Macleod (email: scott.macleod@adelaidehs.sa.edu.au or office – Room 42 / classroom – 124). Alternatively, if you have any ideas for writing or artwork that you would like to contribute to the magazine, please contact one of the super helpful magazine editors listed above.

what ’s happening ?

november 03

’

clicheé day

author s day

use your common sense day

05 love your red hair day

11 origami day

world freedom day

world kindness day

international selfie day

19 ’’

20 ’

international men s day

take a hike day

universal children s day

start your own country day

sardines day

international hat day

buy nothing day

NEWS WRITTEN BY | Arnav Kapoor

THE RECENT Man Arrested for doing ‘Doughnuts’ on Donald Trump’s New Jersey Golf Course

Scottish Lake’s DNA Suggests Loch Ness ‘Monster’ Might Be Giant Eel

Cops follow trail of macaroni salad straight to robbery suspects – the Livingston County Sheriff's Office has reported that thieves broke in and stole a cash register from Build-A-Burger Restaurant, along with the establishment's entire surveillance system and a large bowl of macaroni salad. Deputies were hot on the criminals' trail (literally!), as they attempted to escape via the nearby Greenway Trail. Found along the trail were “cash register parts, surveillance system parts, rubber gloves, loose change, and a steady trail of macaroni salad", the sheriff's office reported. The three criminals were apprehended a short time later.

Obese hedgehog goes on a diet after being too fat to curl into a ball – An obese hedgehog named Jabba, who weighs nearly three times the average weight of a wild hedgehog, has been placed on a strict diet of liquefied dog food. Upon arrival at the Oak and Furrows Wildlife Rescue Centre, located near Swindon, the hedgehog earned unflattering names like ‘Hogzilla’ and ‘Mr Piggywinkle’. It is hoped that he will lose over a kilogram to hit his target weight of 650 grams before being released back into the wild.

City combating dog poop problem with flags that read: 'Is this your turd?’ – A city in Missouri is taking an unusual approach to solving the problem of dog droppings by planting little flags next to abandoned poop with slogans such as, "Is this your turd? 'Cuz that's absurd". The flag slogans also include, "drop in the trash, not in the grass" and "this is a nudge to pick up the fudge".

ode

to the

old

Written by Lilli Vitagliano

y Dear Edna,

Indeed you are crude Your fine hair wears the common cold, age. My dearest, you are a tired old lump. You moan and grieve the loss of your plump cheeks and pink nails. My dear Edna, if time were a thing, I’d turn it right back. For to turn it back for you, would be like Chasing a small dog into the woods of your neck. Your tired old neck.

will show no pity. And you,

So flaky and crumbly that I won’t bother you by touching it.

You mop of oxygen, show no pity to me.

But why must you make it a mournful task?

We are in unison – let’s keep it that way.

For water flows within and blood trickles down your scaly face.

But when you leave and your final breath draws out of your mouth,

Embrace it, you pheasant. You pheasant of the wild.

Leaving trail marks like those of a snail, I will not go with you. I will be happier. I will be fruitful. So, my dearest Edna, Pick yourself up off the ground. Lift your sagging chest and wear age as though it were an Expensive frock. Leave with nothing. Leave, aged and wrinkly and smelling putrid. Acclaim your youth! Droop no more and

Leave me.

“Mixed Media” courtesy of Silvia Pelissero

Written by Lilli Vitagliano

ut where does the Wind come from? I say, where does it live?

ut oh mighty Wind, not even a hint?

We’re longing for your beauty and unforgettable print.

It comes charging through the south but with nothing to give Woah, it sails past the east and the North hears it come

Ribbon a ripple a ravenous chum Your elegance is tempting like the ol’ serpents tongue.

It’s steady in the evening but is loud as a drum.

ut who directs its paths as it wonders through the night?

For it drinketh the night’s perfume and sucks the blind man’s sight. It goes home in the day, but where, is a conundrum. For this Wind is sweet and warm like rum.

his Wind is swift - it belongs in the ocean

With the mighty whales that rock the earth with wholehearted devotion. For it ripens the human like a blossoming plum Though man must not know where this Wind comes from

o, no, man must not know where this Wind lay

won’t bother you, but know I mean well

For there’s nothing more perfect than being under your spell. You’re free and happy and that’s the way it should be For no matter where I go, I know you are with me.

nd when you go home - fragile, a kindling flame

Forget all my treacherous and deafening claims. Forget where you live, forget where you lay Forget where you come from is what I will say.

ou deserve all the best, you are one of a kind

For we would destroy its power, wonder and grace. I always believed, now I have peace of mind. But merely to wonder I’ll let the angels above take care of you now Oh this mighty Wind So there you have it Wind, take your last and final bow.

Where do you come from? Where do you live?

ou feast on the flesh of the tall mighty trees

And nestle in the epaulettes of the small buzzing bees Your ferocious whistle beguiles the storm For you are resplendent and was born to perform.

BUT WHERE DOES THE WIND COME FROM?

Do It Yourself Presents:

HAND CRAFTED GIFTS Written by Faith Fitton-Gum Are you in need of some inspiration for the gift giving season? Prefer not to leave your bank account totally depleted? Don’t have many supplies on hand? Running low on time and patience? Well, don’t worry because in this issue we’ve got you covered. From making delicious biscuits to keeping up with the latest trends, you are sure to find the right gift for the ones you love Scrunchies Keeping up with current trends is almost impossible when they are always changing, but scrunchies are quick and easy to make. You with have a personalised hair tie like no other! Materials Hair tie Fabric scraps Sewing thread Sewing needle or machine Method 1. 2.

3. 4.

Measure out an 8 by 16 piece of fabric, and cut it out. Carefully wrap it around the hair tie inside out. Carefully stitch the two sides together along the top to create a donut shape. As you keep stitching, you should begin to notice your fabric ‘scrunching’ up. Make sure you finish with two holes that meet. Do not sew these two ends together. Now here is the tricky part – the fabric needs to be turned around the correct way. You may need to use a pen or pencil to poke out the last parts. Fold one end inside of itself and poke the other into it. Using a thread with a colour matching the fabric, and sew the two ends together. Ta-da! You have made your scrunchie!

Hot tips You can vary the sizes of your scrunchies by changing the dimensions. I recommend making your scrunchies narrower if you have short hair, and making them wider if you have long hair.

Hair clips Tired of using boring old bobby pins? Maybe that hair clip needs a bit more pizzazz, and lucky for you, I have just the trick! Materials Felt or fabric scraps Embroidery thread Sewing thread Sewing needle Hairclip/Hair tie/bobby pin Scrap paper Pencil Fabric scissors Paper scissors Method 1.

2. 3.

Create a design for your new hair tie using a pencil and piece of paper, then using a pair of scissors, cut out the template. Bear in mind that if your design uses layers of fabric of other embellishments, you will need to make a separate template for each element. Pin your template onto the back of the fabric or felt, and neatly trace around it using a pen or pencil. Remove the templates and carefully cut out your shapes using a pair of fabric scissors. Carefully pin the elements of your design together, and begin stitching.

Place your hair tie or clip on the back of your embellishment, and neatly begin stitching them together. Ensure that your hair tie or clip is secure.

Hot tips Fabric or hot glue make for excellent alternatives to a needle and thread. Pinking Shears or other scissors can add interesting textures and are a fun way to liven up a design.

Shortbread Cookies Shortbread cookies are affordable and easy to make, and make excellent gifts for people of all ages. What better way to get into the festive spirit than with warm, surgery cookies! Materials Cooling rack Baking trays Baking paper Large bowl Wooden spoon Rolling pin Plastic wrap Cookie Cutters 150 g plain flour 100 g butter 50 g sugar 1 tsp vanilla essence Method 1. 2. 3. 4.

5. 6.

Preheat the oven to 180o c, and line several baking trays with baking paper. Chop flour and butter together in the large bowl, mix until small crumbs are formed. Add sugar and work together to form a firm dough. Roll dough into a large disk, and then wrap in plastic wrap and let it cool in the fridge for 20 minutes. The dough must be cold when rolling it out, otherwise the butter will melt and the cookies will fall apart. Sprinkle flour on a clean table top, and remove the dough from the fridge. Insure that the rolling pin is thoroughly coated in flour and roll out at about 3 mm thick. Carefully cut shapes and place onto baking trays. Bake for approximately 20 minutes, or until golden brown on the top. Remove from the oven and place on a cooling rack.

Written by Dain Lee

he inexhaustible, slips-between-our-fingers fluidity of time and change within society, beckons us to participate in an endless strive towards the shapeshifting ideals of the current day. An idea to finally be grasped, only to realise society is already hundreds of miles ahead of you, impatiently demanding you catch up. And as you catch your breath and tie your laces, begrudgingly preparing to pursue this ‘new ideal’, the glint of a shop sign invites your sceptical, albeit curious, attention. Tradition, it reads. Curiosity, stubborn as she is, takes over, and after a quite startling entry, you find yourself taking refuge within the familiar. Just for a little while, before society realises your lack of contribution to its ‘newness’. However, perhaps that’s not how you would define ‘tradition’. Perhaps your tradition manifests itself as a sly politician, subliminally making its presence the foundation of all excuses to continue irrelevant effort. Or again, configured as a cherished heirloom, admirable but too outmoded to make of any use now. If the mechanisms of society were to be illustrated as formless, eminently expressed at the time but always through an impermanent appearance, tradition would be its inverse. Its multi-faceted character earnestly resides within the lives of all individuals and cultures, remaining inconspicuous until the desired moment. But are they imperative? “I’ve decided to do what’s right and break tradition”, Merida announces in all her glory, her depiction of liberalism paralleling the unwavering statue of liberty, and without a doubt becoming the representative vessel employed by Disney to accentuate its ‘new and improved direction’. It was an anticipated revelation. As within society’s natural change, the media culture has become the face of modernity. It moulds itself to the development of the people, who in turn mould themselves to the transitions of ideas, which are ultimately influenced by the media. It’s a perpetual cycle. Amidst this constant change, traditions can’t help but stick out like a sore thumb. Sure, traditions are adaptable, but in contrast to the clockworks of society, any developments made to the central ideas are always led by the people, never the other way around. And as the media culture searches for a worthy component to antagonise, movements such as liberalism and feminism, having only been represented as an effective protagonist on a battlefield, the targeted contender seems to be traditions. This misrepresentation of tradition being the enemy of liberalism has become the reason why culture, largely influenced by the media, seems to reject the use of the noun, finding it ‘old fashioned’. Well, why shouldn’t we neglect tradition? What has it done for us? On the contrary, every birthday candle blown, every present exchanged under the Christmas tree, every white dress worn under the altar, exemplifies the presence of tradition within our daily lives. Ultimately, tradition doesn’t centre around the individual, but is instead formed by the collective. In other words, when we reminisce our past traditions, it was never and will never be about me, it’s about the people that we share them with. And through these traditions we form comfort and

security amid a crowd of aliens. On rare occasions, we stop to acknowledge them.   The move to a new city, a new state, a new country can seem like a migration to Mars, foreign and intimidating, but at least you know that every second Friday is still movie night, and that the morning after, breakfast is always pancakes. Every June you go on a camping trip, courageously facing the dangers of critters within your tent, small cousins in your sleeping bag, and finding yourself immersed within a shower of stars every night. For another family tradition means a large bowl of salt and vinegar crisps once every year, one person too many on the worn-out couch, and three generations gathered around the brightly-lit screen, waking the neighbours as the gold medallist raises her flag. The continuation of these traditions extends a multi-generational story about family. It is these memories and experiences shared with loved ones that build the infrastructure for the proud tower we call our identity. For there cannot be a future when there is an absence of the past, and there cannot be an identity when there is an absence of history. The assembly of identities is what constructs cultures, and consequently what drives a nation. This, like the perpetual cycle of our tumbling society, generates another cycle. Collective identities form cultures, and through these cultures we form bonds, which in turn allows identities to evolve. But traditions within cultures aren’t just the fine prints of the beauty of this cycle, it contextualises and deepens the cultural component of an individual’s identity, allowing them to feel a part of not only a family, but of a population; of a nation. Take one of the many cultural traditions of Greece, where children eagerly anticipate the loss of their tooth, only to throw it on their roof, symbolising the growth of healthy teeth and a prosperous family. On the opposite face of the globe, Korean infants turning the age of one, undergo a ritual where the child must select an object from a presented assortment, from which the chosen object then foretells the child’s destiny. Traditions are able to teach younger generations of the histories of their ancestors, and to pridefully accept their identity. In our ever-shifting place in society, tradition grounds us to not only our past and the cultures within history, but what grabs us by our feet and urges us to admire the small beauties in life. Although the mechanism of current day society is notably flawed, and too proud to admit it, the juxtaposition of traditions and the factory of modernity conceives a world full of intrigue and passion. Society’s fast pace allows for the constant weaving of a new present, and teaches the key to innovation, learning to throw away the old, and accept the new. Traditions, however, are about finding the new in the old. Every generational interpretation of this tradition manifests a new experience and a freshly inked page in history. In the words of Gustav Mahler, “Tradition is not the worship of ashes, but the preservation of fire”. Never was it the obsession of the obsolete, but the attempt to revive and preserve the art of existence. So, are traditions imperative? Very much so.

A Day At Lake Attersee

‘

By Lily Sayers

he elderly sailor gazed out upon Lake Attersee from the weathered upper deck of his boat, admiring the view of the lake as daylight faded. The rays of dimming sunlight accentuated the soft colours of the still body of water, as greens turned to blues, and those blues turned to purples under the cloudy sky. The sailor hummed to himself, his eyes hungry to devour every last detail of the scenery in front of him as he replayed the memories of his youth. The man turned his gaze to the cliff faces to the right of his vision, watching the water ripple as it made contact with the gargantuan rocks that lay at the base of the cliffs. The sight stirred bittersweet feelings in the elderly sailor’s chest, as he reflected on the many years that he had spent on and around the water. The young families situated on the shoreline reminded the man of his own childhood and the summers spent there, forging friendships with the other children and spending time with his late mother and father. The lake was home to many cherished memories for the sailor, from playing with the other children on the edge of the jetty to building towers with the rocks on the shoreline. As the years progressed, playing make believe on the jetty slowly turned into experimenting with different types of bait and comparing catches, as he spent precious moments with his own father that would shape the rest of his adult life. The elderly sailor reflected upon the hours spent watching and waiting by the water’s edge, which he once considered agonising, but now cherished with overwhelming sentimentality. The man eventually left the care of his parents to explore the world on his own, travelling the air and seas to each corner of the globe. He travelled from Sweden to Australia and from Peru to Japan, with each new country fuelling his innate desire for exploration. However, despite encountering all of the beauty and wonder that the world had to offer, he was continuously drawn back to the home of the fondest of his childhood memories where he intended to forge more of his own.

reminisce on the times that they had spent there as children. Now adults themselves, each had brought their own families and friends to enjoy the same experiences that they had had. The sailor was happy on his own; happy to simply enjoy the company of his longtime friends, for the thought of starting a family of his own was in the furthest corner of his mind. He clearly remembers the day when it happened, particularly when he met his now wife for the first time. They had both been quiet and reserved throughout the entirety of the holiday, neither one of them provoking conversation amongst their friends, and happy to simply contribute whenever they felt the need to. It had been a somewhat cool evening when the sailor had decided to take his boat out of the harbour and head deeper to fish. His now wife sat on the edge of the jetty, her legs dangling off the edge and her toes dipped carefully in the cool water. Her face remained expressionless, almost bored by the occasion. The sailor didn’t know what had possessed him to, but for one reason or another, he decided to approach his now wife and offer to take her on the boat to show her around the lake. Even more surprisingly, she had agreed. Neither of them spoke a single word the entire time on the water, but the company of each other was enough for the two of them to continue the habit for the rest of the summer, and then for years after. Unbeknownst to the sailor at the time, that same jetty would be where he would say goodbye to his wife for the last time. The sailor’s eyes swept across the views in front of him, taking in the scenery, the faint laughter of children on the shore and sound of the wind on the waves for the final time. Reflecting on the incredible things he used to do at this place, that was as meaningful to him as his childhood home, and on a time when he wasn’t senile or unable to do the things he once loved. Under the setting sun, the elderly man took a deep breath of fresh air and hobbled towards the edge of his beloved boat. He swung his frail legs over the edge of the boat with a surprising level of ease for someone of his age, and closed his eyes a final time before plunging himself into the icy water of Lake Attersee.

Upon his return to the lake, he was met with old friends eager to

1 Credits to unknown, gdbee.store

Lost Realities Written by Jessica Le

t’s that time of the year again – that vital moment where time is brought back that one precious hour. Tick, tick, tick. The sounds of all the clocks that hang around the room, along with all the grandfather clocks that lay on the cold wooden floorboards, continue echoing against the dull walls. As he paces slowly over to each one, he begins moving them backwards by an hour, before reaching for his own pocket watch. The thin, golden chain falls upon his drab waistcoat, with the face of the watch nestled in the palm of his hands – the glass gleaming against the light. As he winds the crown, the clicking sounds take him closer to the end of the day. …

Reaching for his top hat, he makes his way out of the cramped store, leaving behind the endless ticking of the clocks. Yet when he turned to face the street that was filled with rubbish and pollution, he saw life again. There were birds singing and people strolling down the street with smiles beaming across their face. How could it be that in such a monotonous city, where time moved ever so slowly, there were now people who happily roamed the streets. It was as if time was turned back to when civilisation bloomed. Everything was different – everything had changed. He looked up to see that the sky had been smothered by a series of ominous grey clouds, obscuring the sun and leaving the world to deal with its own tragedies. However, what he now saw was clear skies, with the sun glaring its beams directly onto his face. It was a warm sensation that he had missed oh-so much. There were children running around, screaming and laughing with joy. The stiffness of his face began to dissipate, replaced with a smile that began to ache his muscles. It had been a long time since he had seen the world this happy, and there was nothing that could stop him from engraving such a beautiful moment into his mind. His clothes made him stick out from the crowds, specifically his dreary waistcoat that made him look like an outcast – he was a person that didn’t belong in such a colourful world. Pulling out his pocket watch, he realised he had been roaming the streets for hours on end. However, it barely even felt like a few minutes had passed. He didn’t want this to end. He couldn’t let this end. He screamed his heart out – all the pain and agony he had kept deep inside his heart finally had the chance to escape. The people around him stopped their chatter and all turned to face him for a passing second. Then, they went back to their conversations, smiling and laughing again, unfazed by the primal scream that just echoed against the stone walls.

But with each step he took, he realised that the skies became gloomier, as they were slowly being engulfed by the darkness that lingered from the previous world. The people’s smiles began disappearing, displaying more sorrow than the contagious happiness from before. The loud chattering that filled his ears now became a distant whisper. It had seemed that this was all an illusion, and that his precious time was running out and his memory disappearing forever. His body began to shake, and his legs began to give out, leaving him sitting against the cold concrete pavement. His head was pulsing – the world appeared to be spinning in circles. Distorted sounds of ringing and ticking reverberated through his ears. After rediscovering a world that he hadn’t seen for so long, his mind could not suffice against his alternate reality, and this had, in turn, dissolved his sanity. With his head still spinning, he just barely managed to crawl his way back to his home, which was one of the many boxes that lined the cramped street. Extending his arm onto the latch of the deteriorated doors, he gathered all the energy left in him to push his way through. As he sat against the door, his breath began to shorten, as droplets of sweat lined his forehead. His eyes, slowly closing shut, managed to take a final glimpse of a female figure that patted away his sweat. Her soothing voice whispered out to him: “Welcome home. Stay here and I will go prepare your medication.” With a heavy sigh, his body fell limp and his eyes closed, taking him into a light slumber. He was one of the unlucky ones. Here, the unlucky ones were those that had to fight their own inner demons. They are the ones who suffer from the altered realities – they consume their minds with false narratives that savagely eat away at their sanity. And here, they call him what the world knows as a ‘schizophrenic’

SILVA SPIRITUUM Written By Patricia Georgopoulos

he stars present during the dark, clear night illuminated the heights of the forest’s dark crown below. The forest’s translucent emerald leaves appeared as if they were made of delicate stained glass, iridescent under the moonlight. Below the heights of the trees was a wide path of distinctly pale stone, winding along the forest floor. And upon this idiosyncratic stone path travelled two young women: Anima and Libitina. Since childhood, they accompanied each other as inhabitants of the forest. In this desolate life, it was just them alone, coinciding with the forest’s lush. Suddenly, Libitina clutched her heart and fell to the floor. The darkness within her had regained its dominance. In this present moment, it had never been so strong. Anima rushed towards her with a grave expression; however, it was too late. Libitina’s joyous glow had left the very existence of her being. Her smile was quickly fading and the sparkle in her eyes had already vanished. As Libitina lifted her head, Anima could see watery eyes and a single tear trickling down her cheek. Libitina felt as if the forest was caving in around her, with the air being ruthlessly pulled from her throat. All she could feel was pain and sadness. When Anima asked if she was all right, Libitina desperately tried to reassure her. They both smiled kindly, but it was merely all for the sake of exchanging false hope. After a while, Libitina rose up and began to depart, telling Anima there was something she needed to do. Anima called after her, pleading her to come back. There came no answer, as Libitina knew there was nothing left for her in this world. Once Libitina reached the mountain cliff, she was above the trees of the forest. A golden horizon met a layer of warm tones that gradated towards an azure heaven. As the golden medallion rose, Libitina breathed in the pristine air. Below her was a great waterfall, plummeting down the cliff-side with relentless rage. Yet once the water joined the river, it journeyed along calmly and beautifully. Was this the very essence of tranquillity? It has been such a long time since Libitina has felt this way...

The stone path disappeared as Anima approached the course of the river. Walking along the bankside, Anima slowly came to a halt. Her content face turned to a worried frown. Her gaze moved to the top of the waterfall where there stood a figure: it was Libitina. Shocked, she began to run, but it was simply too late. Libitina jumped from the cliffside and disappeared beneath the mist of the water. Anima continued to run down the side of the river, frantically hoping Libitina would resurface. Libitina did finally arise, albeit breathless. Anima’s knees collapsed beneath her as she fell to the ground. Her fingertips dug into the earth beneath her and she let out a wailing cry that echoed through the forest and was carried by their branches. She wept as her heart broke for the very first time. The twilight was receding to give passage to the advancing night. The water of the river was now clear, aside from the stars reflected in the gentle ripples. As Anima walked along the bankside, she carried the most divine white rose to lay down in honour of her friend. But as she did so, something caught her eye. On the other side of the river stood Libitina. Anima’s eyes widened at the sight. Libitina did not look alive, yet was also not deceased. The forest around her was disparate – it was overcast and the trees were thin. The leaves were not an emerald green, but rather a scorched umber. As Libitina smiled at her, a rainbow bridge transpired over the river to connect the two sides. Hesitant, Anima and Libitina walked along the bridge and met in the middle. Anima lifted her hand to reach out to her friend, but an invisible barrier separated the two sides. However, as she glanced down, Anima noticed half of the rose had passed thorough the veil. Looking into her eyes, Anima handed the rose to Libitina. As the rose entered the other side, it withered. Despite losing its lively, white beauty, it still somehow kindled a peaceful aura. These two kindred souls had become gatekeepers: Anima of the living, and Libitina of the weary. When their time had come, all living things were led by Anima to Libitina. As they crossed the rainbow bridge, they were able to enter the other side, where they were freed from darkness, pain, or even just old age. They could find eternal peace. The flora formed a new beauty as both the fauna lived on as spirits. Even humans from faraway lands journeyed to this haven. And those who grieved the loss of their loved ones knew they would one day meet them on the other side. Hence, the forest became known as Silva Spirituum: Forest of Spirits.

Courtesy of Jarek Kubicki

Capriccio Written by Ying Stokes

e was a gladiator, a Hoplomachus. Sold into slavery at the aaaaaage of nine by his mother, his life was spent looking up at a aaaaasardonic crowd through blood-soaked eyes. A prized possession to his master, his skill with the spear was simply unmatched. To him, Rome was one sprawling prison: the colosseum its tort`ure chambers. He was a quiet man, but in his sleep, his splendid dreams were expressed in incredibly serene detail. In the long winter nights I spent with him, he revealed to me his deepest, most sincere desires. In his dreams, the trademark spear became a brush, while the crimson blood of his opponents became a rainbow of paints. From his hands sprung wondrous images of joy and prosperity. The inspiration of these images was a mystery to me, for these were surely concepts he had never been introduced to in his wretched, tumultuous life.

In sleep, he spoke only of one other thing. Some nights, he screamed of suffering a blistering punishment hotter than the coals of the sun – a scene borne from his torturous life that was consumed by staring into countless dying eyes. He would beg for forgiveness from whatever creature was punishing him, repenting ceaselessly for the deaths of beasts and men alike. The day of his downfall was a day I remember all too well. That day, the crowds roared louder than they ever had before. He was to fight three other gladiators to the death as the main show of the largest munus Rome had ever seen – thrown by the emperor in honour of his deceased wife. Long before the Hoplomachus stepped into the arena of the colosseum, he could hear the crowds. The tunnels through which we trudged shook with the sounds of thousands upon thousands of people shouting and cheering with an unrivalled ferocity. When we finally arrived at the arena, his face was grim. He never smiled, especially not when anticipating bloodshed, but this was something else – for the first time, he was ready. It was mid-afternoon. The sun was beating down upon the packed stands, which writhed as the multitude moved asynchronously. He planted his feet into the sands of the arena, and looked to his opponents, who were raising their weapons to the crowd. The noise was building to a painful crescendo. At this moment, I could see it in his eyes. He knew that he would never be an artist, and he refused to paint any longer in the blood. Slowly and painfully, he raised his spear from the ground to point at the emperor, who was sitting far in the distance, perched atop the highest stand in the arena. At first, the crowd thought it was a display of recognition, paying homage to the organiser of the competition. Somehow, the noise grew even louder in giddy anticipation. And then, silence.

There was a clatter, and then the sound of crunching sand, as his spear and shield fell to the floor. For the first time, the crowd heard his voice. “I yield.” And the floodgates were open. The crowd roared its confusion. Bursting into action, a guard behind the Hoplomachus savagely pressed a hot iron to his bare, scarred back, but he did not flinch. He was kicked to the ground, the hissing iron burning further into his skin, yet still, he did not move. The emperor watched on in fury, his grand display of power and wealth interrupted by one defiant man. Beside the emperor, the slave master shouted frantically, as the guards did all in their power to make the Hoplomachus’ refusal mean pain. Even lying in the sand bleeding, he did not so much as cry out. Even until he had collapsed, he would not give them a show. After that, the slave master’s inability to gain favour with the emperor drove him into a mad rage. Upon returning to the barracks, the defiant Hoplomachus was immediately thrown back into his cell, despite his severe injuries. Powerless, I had to watch as he succumbed. That night, his speech was weak and ragged. But there was something else to it. His voice held a quality of contentment I had never heard before. Through the bars, I could hear his pride. And so, for hours that passed like minutes, he narrated the process of creating his magnum opus, the fantastical landscape he had wished to paint his entire life. The firm presses of his brush crumbled the colosseum and toppled the forum. His gentle strokes raised emerald foliage to cover the rubble. Soft clouds rolled onto his canvas, the flight of birds grew peacefully to rest, and with his last breath, Rome had been miraculously replaced. He was, in the end, a victim. Imprisoned in this metropolis of a jail. It is our right and duty to make our home a better place, so why should we stand Rome to be a prison? So today, raise your brush in honour of the defiant Hoplomachus. Let us paint his capriccio. The firm presses of his brush crumbled the colosseum and toppled the forum. His gentle strokes raised emerald foliage to cover the rubble. Soft clouds rolled onto his canvas, the flight of birds grew peacefully to rest, and with his last breath, Rome had been miraculously replaced. He was, in the end, a victim. Imprisoned in this metropolis of a jail. It is our right and duty to make our home a better place, so why should we stand Rome to be a prison? So today, raise your brush in honour of the defiant Hoplomachus. Let us paint his capriccio.

Take my Hand,

Painted in Red Written by Holly Webbe The sky reminds him of a canvas, when Levi first wakes. It looks like a compilation of every paint in existence. As his body musters the strength to pull him to stand, and he begins to walk, he sees that this strange, colourful stretch of sky is in fact not the sky at all, but tree tops. Blurred leaves stretching out as far as he can make out. Underfoot, a cobblestone path, and bronze lamp lights he knows are unique to France on either side. All of it is strangely blurred, but no matter how much he blinks, it doesn’t go away. It is as his brain struggles to remind him why he’s here, when a woman emerges from the white mist at the street’s horizon. Her eyes are cocoa coloured, round as a doe’s would be, and they’re easily the nicest feature on her face. The rest is a little off. Nose crooked on one side, mouth sagging a little to the left, and a thin white scar etched against the cinnamon skin of her face. Despite it though, she’s pretty. Pretty in the sense that a flower is, delicate and soft compared to surrounding world.. He doesn’t mind it. “What’s your name?” He asks, finding it a perfect greeting all on its own. “Eloise Hargrave.” A smile. The kindest he can manage. “Levi O’mahoney,” He says, before she can ask. There’s very little point in waiting for a question he knows the answer to, at least in his eyes. “I was wondering...do you happen to know where we are?” He asks, gently. She frowns at him, and her brow furrows in thought. “I don’t know. Last I remember, I was...eating, I think. There was a croissant, buttery, and Harriett was nudging me and asking for my phone...I...” She stops abruptly, confusion evident on her face, “I don’t know...who she is...I just know she was there. Little. Chubby arms reaching in my purse...I don’t know, it’s all very scattered.” He nods, even though the information means nothing to him at all. The scene her memories paint for him doesn’t share any similarities to what he can recall for himself. The flash of LED lights, stress and sweat. His heart pumping and head aching, with the feel of leather, then something steel-like, on his fingers. “Perhaps you’ll remember more in a little,” He suggests, admittedly talking to himself more than her. “In the meantime,

let’s take a walk. ”Eloise glances apprehensively at the shifting trees and the warped pavement, but she nods nonetheless. “Ok,” She replies, tucking her hands into her hoodies’ pockets, “Yes. A walk

might help. ”Very little changes once they start moving. The trees continue to switch in hue, the leaves flourishing from

peach to indigo in a matter of seconds, but the rest of the street stays the same. Untouched, bronze and blurred enough to make Levi’s eyes hurt. Eloise stops when his foot snags on a piece of fabric left on the floor. It’s a faded blue, cotton blanket of some kind, with a plush elephant head sewn on one corner. She bends down to scoop it up from the fuzzy floor, her bottom lip quivering. “This...is Harriett’s...I made it for her second birthday...today...” She says slowly. “We were taking a stroll after dinner...”Eloise remembers something, and so does Levi, because suddenly they’re both running. He remembers’ now. He’d leapt over her body, bypassed the child and taken off down the street, car lights flashing and the knife sticky in his grasp. Scarlet like paint on his skin, he remembers it now. How it enthralled him and how he’d slowed to marvel at the colour. Then the crack of something loud. Then nothing. The memory of running blurs with his sight as he tries to keep pace with Eloise, who is careening out of sight with the blanket clutched in knuckles turned white. He’s not sure when the ambulance appears. It’s just suddenly there, in a blink of no light at all. Its’ siren blurring, and officers mulling about. Some panic stricken, some quiet. All dressed in uniform, but as fuzzy as the rest of the street. Like they were paint that had been lightly smudged over with streaks of water. Their whispers come up to meet him. They speak of a blade, stab wounds and head trauma. Their voices lament over the child they have bundled inside the ambulance, and what they are to tell her now that her mother lies dead on the pavement. When he turns back to Eloise, they scarcely make eye contact, yet she stumbles back from him, eyes watery and blown wide in terror. Her legs crumble next to the sheet, and her hands shake as they hover over the body covered by white. Eloise screams into empty air, and Levi looks away from her to watch the delicate fall of the leaves, their chocolate colour staining red as they brush against the skin of his face.

What was the film about? Fei: A sheltered, socially inept jungle girl is thrust into the wilds of a high school in America. Indiana Jones, but child-friendly and without the racism, misogyny, and colonialism. And also actually funny. But, plot-wise, it’s about Dora the Explorer as a sixteen-year-old, with her parents as explorers and researchers. Frankie: They’re trying to discover things and not plunder things. That’s basically the moral of the story. Fei: Dora and a group of friends – who provide the realism and comic effect – get stranded in the jungle and chased by bounty hunters in their search for the lost city of gold. However, Dora also has to save her parents from the bounty hunters. There’s a lot going on. Frankie: Everyone is trying to find the lost city of gold for different reasons. And Diego is in it! I think we need to mention that Diego is there because we love our boy Diego.

Why did you see it? Frankie: I thought it would be mediocre. I was searching for a film for the next Effin’ Review, and we’ve never done a bad film review. We thought Mr. MacLeod would like to see one, but this really exceeded my expectations. To be fair, my expectations were on the ground. The bar could never be lower. Fei: I saw it because it looked like it would be a fun time. Frankie: You wouldn’t need brain cells for it. Fei: Exactly. It would be enjoyable, fun to watch. Boom. Easy.

How did you feel about Dora & The Lost City of Gold? Frankie: I – it – I – I don’t know how to describe it, because it wasn’t a bad film, but it wasn’t an Oscar-award winning masterpiece either. Watching it in the cinema with my friends was a really weird, albeit enjoyable experience. Fei: I enjoyed it. It was really fun, which was what I wanted from it. Frankie: I’m just honestly surprised by everything. Fei: It was fun, funny, wacky, and really really weird at times. Frankie: It gives you a lot of questions and never any answers and you just have to sit there and take it.

Did it live up to your expectations? Frankie: I didn’t have any. My expectations were on the floor and Dora just skyrocketed past them. It was absolutely wild. Fei: Like I said, I expected to have a fun time, and I did – more so than I expected. It was funnier than I expected, more interesting than I expected, and it was better quality than I expected. It looks like they actually spent a lot of money on it. Frankie: I actually laughed out loud. In the cinema. I was actually squirming and writhing on my seat. Sending glances at my friends like ‘Is this actually happening?’ ‘Are they actually doing this?’ ‘Are they for real?’

How does the cartoon translate to live-action?

Fei: Well, it’s quite different from the cartoon, but Dora the character is exactly the same as Dora in the cartoon. Frankie: The talking map and bag that Dora have are apparently figments of her imagination, but the stuff that goes down in the film is another allusion to the fact that in this universe magic is a real and potent thing. Fei: Swiper is a CGI fox that talks, and everyone is somehow okay with this, but Boots can’t talk. Frankie: Dora’s grown up in the jungle, but Diego moves to the city and has become a city boy, which throws their whole dynamic off and also contributes to some plots lines about Dora not fitting in. Fei: Dora eventually makes friends and forms a squad with some ‘normal’ people from the city who act like real people – they are shocked about Dora’s survival skills and the crazy events happening – and that juxtaposition is the funniest thing I have ever watched. Frankie: It follows the same essential plotline where there’s a problem and they go fix it, teaching some Spanish along the way and yelling ‘Swiper no swiping!’, but at the same time it was a jungle adventure film. Fei: All the tropes were there, but there were also people commenting on the tropes and calling them out. Frankie: There were so many wild things happening, it felt like I was getting punched. ‘Are gods real?’ That’s the question I pose for Dora. Are gods real?

Who should see this film? Fei: Not Mr. MacLeod. I’m sorry, but it’s true. I think it’s for younger people or those that are young at heart – oh, this sounds kind of bad. People who liked the cartoon Dora as kids would probably like it. If you want to have a fun time and watch something that’s not too serious, Dora and the Lost City of Gold is also a good choice, but you have to be able to suspend your disbelief. Frankie: Or if you just want to have a nostalgia trip, to watch Dora speak directly to the camera and have other people look at her like she’s crazy. Fei: I think you should definitely go see this with a group of friends. Frankie: If you walk in alone, that’s pretty weird. Fei: It’s a social film.

If you could describe this film in one word, what would it be? Frankie: Fantastica! Get it? Because that’s fantastic in Spanish and Dora teaches Spanish. Fei: Trippin’. Frankie: There literally was a trip. There were hallucinations. Fei: It was wild.

â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;vision by Ivy Bell

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Magdalena by Francine Legaspi The Pestilence by Mia Dichiera Sketch by Bianca Chu

5. Sunsets by Francine Legaspi