Blueprint ahs student magazine issue8 (1) by Adelaide High School

Issue #8 September 2017

INTRODUCING THE NEW AHS PRINCIPAL: MS CEZ GREEN Is studying a violation of the adolescent mind?

A captivating pair of narratives inspired by the same artwork

Whatâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s happening this September?

We have reached a period in the school year where we are confronted with a multitude of ends. The end of another series of exhilarating exchanges, which sees our Melbournian contemporaries return home with their seemingly endless supply of water-related anecdotes. Meanwhile, senior students are entering the glorious final chapter of their high school journey, and the gloomiest days of winter finally appear to be behind us. There have also been several new beginnings with the exciting arrival of Adelaide High’s new principal, Cezanne Green, whose interview is featured in this edition of Blueprint. Other student contributions include an assortment of monologues based on mesmerising art, evocative poetry, and an exposé on the psychological damage cultivated by the habit of extreme studying. The eighth issue of Blueprint reveals the depths of artistic and creative talent harboured by our diverse student body, in what is arguably the most enjoyable issue to date!

EDITORIAL TEAM Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod

James Du Preez

Managing Editor: Alana Goldschmidt Editors: James Du Preez, Fei Stokes, Kaartik Walia, Lilli Vitagliano, Oscar Steene, Amy Pepler, Bozica Klisuric, Madeleine Coates, Arlees Blyth

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

BIODIVERSITY MONTH

ROYAL ADELAIDE SHOW

FATHER’S DAY

FIGHT PROCRASTINATION DAY

R U OK? DAY

CHOCOLATE MILKSHAKE DAY

NATIONAL SKATEPARK DAY

NATIONAL CREAM-FILLED DONUT DAY

NATIONAL CHEESEBURGER DAY

INTERNATIONAL ‘TALK LIKE A PIRATE’ DAY

MINATURE GOLF DAY

WORLD CARFREE DAY

NATIONAL COMIC BOOK DAY

‘ASK A STUPID QUESTION’ DAY

WORLD HEART DAY

NEWS WRITTEN BY | Oscar Steene

THE RECENT “man-eating sea lice were responsible.”

1 2 3 4 5

OLD AND NIGHTMARISH

On Wednesday, Domino’s Australia attempted to give away 10,001 pizzas in promotion of their new premium range, however, the giveaway website crashed due to the thousands of entries.

As of 2019, Disney will remove its movies and TV shows from Netflix and start their own online streaming service.

Fossils of Earth’s largest dinosaurs have been discovered in Argentina. The Patagotitan Mayorum weighed approximately 62 tonnes and spanned more than 35 metres in height.

Chantek, the first orangutan to learn sign language, clean his own room, and memorise the route to his local fast food restaurant, has sadly passed away at the age of 39.

16-year-old Sam Kanizay has emerged from a cold swim at Dendy Street Beach in Brighton, Victoria, with his legs bleeding uncontrollably. While the definitive cause of the bleeding remains unknown, rumour has it “man-eating sea lice” were responsible.

A Violation of the Adolescent Mind? Andrew Tu investigates the socially fascinating, yet almost sadistic phenomenon of extreme studying

icture a harrowing world in which the university you successfully gain entry to determines the course of your whole life – a world in which little else matters leading up to that one entrance exam, driven by the study, of study, darts from tree-toand your life only is driven onlyconcept by the of concept study, study, study . Can tree, effortlessly you imagine the level of emotional and mental trauma that it would cause to a young adult, especially one who holds a dizzying array of hopes and desires? This is the bleak reality that many students are often confronted with, sacrificing happiness in favour of marks and acceptance letters. The prospect of having no free time to recover, all your friends pitted against you, and your extra-curricular interests thrown to the side is something that must be prevented in order to ensure one’s academic success and well-being.

Free time should be mentally reserved for relaxation and distraction because relaxation is imperative to one’s emotional stability. Imposing the values of academia on students constantly during their teenage years is often the key to encouraging unhealthy competition between overly ambitious individuals. In countries that stringently prioritise rote learning over everything else, students are forced to constantly compare themselves to others through flawed self-evaluations, to the point that one less-than-desirable grade could cause them immense grief. This is no way to live, especially during a phase of life in which praise and approval is necessary in creating a well-rounded individual. It has been widely documented that a more relaxed school environment correlates with higher happiness levels and stronger academic results. Ultimately, a student who has grown only to appreciate the values of high results will have those morals starkly reflected on them in the future, which has the power to result in a future where happiness is a distant fantasy. It is imperative to fully consider each student’s individual capacity for studying and their possible interest in other fields. A fixation solely on academic results completely disregards the child’s emotional and social development, which is a crucial component in the complex coming-of-age journey. What if a child turns out to be extremely talented and interested in the performing arts? What if a child works best in practical or hands-on situations, and not while hunched over at a desk? Forcing him or her to only study the academic subjects that others have dictated are the ‘best’, instead of also having the opportunity to pursue their interests outside of the classroom, can result in students feeling incredibly isolated. An excessive emphasis on studying is extremely destructive towards the adolescent mind, as it utterly ignores an individual’s abilities and personal preferences. Today’s world is evolving at a rapid rate, surpassing all past expectations and placing extraordinary weight on the youth of the future. To ensure that our next generation is able to continue the exponential development of our thinking, an unprecedented emphasis must be placed on education. While students must remember that achieving good results is important, being forced to mindlessly study for days on end can be disastrous for an adolescent’s emotional health. High scores in tests do not necessarily equate to true happiness. It is therefore paramount that we do not force this kind of study onto our students in Australia, to ensure that their future remains joyful and fulfilling, and that they are able to successfully blossom as individuals.

All-nighters Courtesy of Nicole Clowes

Laura Searle ou are like that deliberating cramp that now torments my shoulder blade with devilish precision. Initially, it was nothing more than a small twinge that I could just shake off like a fly. harmlessharmless fly. However, it has now become a deafening pain that reverberates through every single bone in my body. The pain resonates to the tip of each hair on my arms, until a network of goose bumps interlaces around the surface of my skin. You are contagious, and I’m scared to not love you.

You have placed me in a dusty old music box, combed my hair haphazardly, and draped me in fabrics of silk. You have me on a pedestal, controlled by the cranks and wheels of your mind. You watch me pirouette effortlessly in time to the music, as a placid and plastic expression masks the bitter tongue I wish to thrash you with. I am your puppet, with a smile plastered across my face that is held in place by your strings. You force my eyes open to witness a loathsome life that is typically only inflicted upon the weak and reckless, but I was deceived by your vicious lies, and now this has become a mirror of my sickening reality. You are contagious, and I need to love you. Some days I wake up and forget about the handcuffs that are shackled around my wrists. Instead of rolling my eyes into the hollow space in the back of my head, I watch the beams of the morning sunlight caress my porcelain skin, clinging to the warmth like a flower sucking in the last rays of the sun before an eternal winter. You enjoy this game – strangling my existence with your burly bare hands and teasing me with the fairy-tale life we could have once lived. You control my life like a chessboard, exploiting my every feeble move with a simple flick of your fingertips. My emotions thrash on the cardboard walls nestled inside my mind, exasperatedly searching for air to breathe, but no one can hear my screams. No one can hear my pitiful pleas for mercy except for you. You are contagious, and you know that I love you. We have not always been ravished by such darkness and despair. Before this puppet show, you had cut out a newspaper crown and praised my existence with your passionate persona. You fed me deep red grapes, one-by-one, and watched the juice seep succulently from my rosy red lips. You had constructed an empire out of cardboard boxes and christened me the queen of your paper kingdom. Then came the wind and rain that washed away our delusional mirage. One gust of air was all it took before the walls began collapsing around us – it was only one drop of liquid and the scent of rum that saturated the air we breathed. It didn’t take long before you got bored with the paper crown and manipulated the puppet strings once again. Your ravenous appetite has become addicted to the taste of my tears. You are contagious, and I must love you. Days drip slowly with you. You weigh down the hands of the clock, blocking out the warmth of the sun with your domineering shadow. This is the grim reality of your puppet show – you forever hold the strings, making me move with uncompromising intent. You hold the key to my mind, controlling the way I look at the world. You wipe the slate of my mind and replace the emptiness with your toxic labyrinth of words. You are contagious, and I crave to love you. As the sun slowly vanishes below the horizon, the puppet show begins one last time. I am wearing the velvet blue gown that clings tightly to the curves of my body, revealing my porcelain skin. I am a lifeless doll, flickering under the harsh glare of the spotlight, ropes tightly anchored around my tiny wrists and fragile ankles. You push and pull, spinning me around with reckless abandon, as my dress flutters with the wind. My wrists begin to callus from the rope’s tight grip, but you don’t want the show to end just yet. Your addictive aura shoots through my bloodstream – you are nothing more than a plastic needle. I am so hooked on the adrenaline rush that reality has become a distant fantasy. You are contagious and I am addicted to you.

Puppet Courtesy of Imerlo 72

Reflections

In the Mirror Courtesy of Vivian Shih

Shreya Kalia

will be forever haunted by those names and words. For inside those names and words lies the malevolent apparition. I desperately attempt to vanquish the apparition, but it lingers in the air like a train’s lonely whistle echoing through the night’s silent ambiance. That same echo is always lingering: it never levels the atmosphere. This apparition crawls across the floor and snatches me before I can see it coming. Unloved. Worthless. Unwanted… the list of these violent words never seem to desist. You would think that these words would hold no power over me, but they do. They slither onto my skin and into my mind, intertwining into my veins to become part of me. These simple words eviscerate every shred of self-worth I hold inside of me, suppressing my ambitions and restricting my ability to fly freely into this world. Every time I look into the harsh glare of the mirror, the reflection of a vulnerable naked body with hollow eyes stares back at me. I glare at those same rosy red, bulging cheeks that everyone calls adorable, yet no one desires to kiss. Those words have led me to traverse dark paths, forcing me to clutch onto a distorted version of reality. As I stumble along paths brimming with treachery and injustice, the dark murky water grasps tightly onto my slender limbs as I try to retain a sense of hope, but I am frozen in time. In this darkness, my lungs scratch incessantly against my ribs, grasping for an ounce of air to breathe. I feel

perturbed and neurotic, as if each breath I take is going to be my last. I am trapped like a caged bird – each night I lie shivering with my eyes entombed by my lids as the cool wind lashes against my skin. The ferocity of my fear forces my head to sink more deeply under covers, and I curl myself into a cocoon, clinging onto the hope that when I emerge, I will blossom like a butterfly again. However, I have come to the horrifying realisation that only children believe in the beauty of butterflies, and reality is merely nothing but moths and worms. It was truly an unfathomable concept. What does it take for someone who does not understand the pattern of pain that colours each soul with its own unique brand of misery? It rips away the person I want to be, encouraging me to shrink deep into the seclusion of my mind. However, this asylum is only a temporary stay of execution from the madness and corruption that taunts me incessantly. I walk through the world with her, passing those who are oblivious to the invisible scars that have marred my soul. My smile is a thin veil disguising my pain from the world. My laugh conceals the tears in my eyes, so that they will never feel such insanity and hell. I stare at her in fear, running her into the ground and defining her for supposed flaws. I wonder if she will ever be wanted…

I prowl countless stores to find the perfect dress for her, yet I desperately struggle to find fulfilment, wandering aimlessly through life shackled to a shopping bag. I long for a hero, a knight in shining armour who has the power to look beyond her scars and love every inch of her untouched skin. I desperately desire someone who can teach her to release the powerful emotions that govern her life and to use all her senses to wander this world. Others inflict cruelness when I shine, as they are dispersed by the brightness I elicit. I do not want to wait for that one, glorious day when someone will reach out to me. Why shall I wait for someone to grasp my delicate hand and pull me out of this dark murky water, so that my lungs can be filled with the untainted air they so desperately desire? I do not want to be caged any longer. I want to leave all the earthly matters to you, for I belong near a different sun. I crave to be a star, so we can be released from this insidious isolation that has overwhelmed our life. The sky has no cages, and no cruel words can reach us up there. On Earth, each of us has a moment where we glimmer bright like the light shining off the surface of a glistening diamond, but within an instant these moments are gone, vanished for entirety. But with the shimmering stars in the sky, I know they'll be there nightafter-night – always there for me to make a wish, ensuring that the world is incapable of dimming my shine.

Inspired by Judith Wright’s poem, ‘Naked Girl and Mirror’ 6

Through the Cracks Cecile Moylan, inspired by Anthony Doerr – Four Seasons in Rome Will I fall through the cracks? They’re wider here than on the roads I’m used to, wide like streams, brimful of moss and cigarette butts. Will they swallow me up? Drown me out, trip me up and leave me gasping for breath? The cracks are wider here, cobbled, cryptic. I packed up my whole life. One travel bag, two gold zips and three blue pockets. Suddenly, I’m gone. Gone on the wind, until I find myself standing, staring at those cracks in the road. Believe me, it’s far away from home.

But now I am here and it’s not. Here when a man walks by with twins they say che belli, back home they commiserate, my goodness they look heavy. Look after your back because one day they’ll be grown and ungrateful, loud, and hateful. But not here. Here no one needs to remind each other of these small, stupid things. Here I am in a place, where I cannot pronounce words to describe the power of this space. Because beauty here is not like the sun, blinding your eyes so you cover your face. Beauty here is like the moon. In the simple, in the light, in the gloom.

I wonder if they notice. Maybe, if I keep my mouth shut, eyes down, it will be easier. Easier to blend in. But maybe that’s the problem because nothing really blends in here. In Rome, nothing wants to hide. The thundering Tiber, the ancient apartments. It’s confidence not ego. It seeps through each piece of marble, each ionic column from centuries ago.

If you look out from the view of the Palatino all you see is preservation. The Colosseum may have been a battle ground, but now it is an arena for the world’s restoration. Anyone can play, any gender, any nation. A photograph and diary entry can hold remnants of a generation. Can anyone compete with that?

Centuries of running through the streets. Not stopping, not watching, because again and again I gasp for breath. No longer speaking, but clamouring for words. Their syllables make sounds you’ve never heard. Like one black sheep in a common herd. But it’s beautiful. To step off a plane is like stepping out of a time machine. It’s to step into infinity because where else in the world can you give me the Renaissance, Romulus, Remus, risotto? A perfect pizza from a hole in the wall where the cheese is rich, like gold?

For directions. I want to see the Spanish Steps. Keats lived overlooking here you know. He was like me, foreign blood in love with Rome. Do you know what words lie over his chest?

But I’m not really here. There is always a distance somewhere. It’s because the words won’t fall off my tongue the way they did when I could talk. The way they did when I had a voice, because here if I raise my voice it’s not the right one. I don’t want to speak, don’t want to sound dumb. They want to talk to me in my mother tongue but it’s their home ground, the side of the advantage. Why do I deserve this simplicity? At my house you speak one way You look one way You are right so each day is the same. There’s no need to learn how they speak. Don’t ask them to repeat what they say. Because that’s not how it works. It’s too hard. They tell us on the telly. Unattainable and unnecessary. Difference is filmed in black and white. There is one side to every story and mine is right.

I ask you.

'Here lies one whose name was writ in water'. Because nothing is permanent. Except maybe Rome. But I can’t write in water, let alone the language I want to feel inside me, the language with which the children that run past me will grow up with. I want to be a child again and to absorb the words with no hesitation. With no fear. Because I fear it. I fear making a mistake so I keep my mouth shut. Eyes down. Maybe it will be easier to blend in. But how can I forget: in Rome nothing really blends in. So instead I raise up my head and speak. The words are fragile, fragmented. They are undercooked with too much pepper. But I love them because now they are mine. I can hold them, I feel them tingling in my spine.

Viva Italia, viva Roma! Live, because the world is alive like the words on my tongue. In the Gilead it says this: “There are a thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient.” I look at the cracks in the road and smile.

Maeve Plouffe

atch as the Priolo dips and glides between thickets of foliage and draping vines, each twist and turn as automatic as the beat of her heavy heart. The tips of her wings skim the clouds as she darts from tree-to-tree, effortlessly navigating the skies. With a flutter of feathers, she perches at the crest effortlessly of the Juniper, casting her eye deep into the infinite abyss below. Amidst the sweet breeze wafts a faint chatter from the furthest reaches of the island – a pod of humpbacks head south towards the Atlantic. Follow the chatter that floats atop the Priolo’s breeze – the breeze that carries her tiny body to the highest treetops by day and back to her nest before nightfall. Let it whisk you through Furnas Valley and dance with it across the fertile plains, breathing luminous life into the farmers’ fields before retreating into the dense forest scrub. Feel it turn violent as it scales the rocky face of Mount Pico, fueled by its burning volcanic core, ancient as the archipelago itself. Tip-toe through the blanket of vegetation daring to flourish in the dormant volcano’s shadow, the petals of each flower mildly coloured as not to disturb the rock in its age-old slumber. Feel the air grow denser as the coast draws nearer, heavy with whispers of whalers preparing for their southwards hunt. Here, on this rocky coastline, the crisp air is cut abruptly by the sour reek of rotting flesh, its putrid stench screaming to be heard. Mixing and churning between odors of sea salt and foam, blood and oil, it melts into a deadly concoction that settles along the rocky coastline, thick as the ferocious fog. The Storm Petrel is accustomed to the stench, and he takes little notice as he clumsily maneuvers across the jagged rocks. An icy chill nips his feathers – it is nearly winter. In a few days time, he shall migrate South of the Sahara. Yet the Storm Petrel is not the only one preparing for the long journey south. Picking ravenously at the rotten flesh of a discarded whale carcass, he keeps one eye on the gruff men stocking their vessel full of ropes and harpoons. Amongst them stands a boy, half as tall as they are wide. Listen as they speak lore of whales, legendary in size. Watch as the boy’s mother kisses his forehead adoringly before fastidiously fixing his collar – a bird pruning the feathers of her young. Sense her heartache as she sends her little boy south on his hunt for the humpbacks. Boa Viagem. Fly with the seabirds, open your wings with them, as they skim across the water in a flurry of feathers and sea spray. Watch the little whaling boat take flight with the current, the little boy heaving aboard the anchor. And as the rocking of the boat turns rhythmic, and the soaring of the birds effortless, feel time slip between his fingertips. Sense each aching pang of disappointment following every glimmer of excitement as he spots the faintest of shadows lurking beneath the glazed surface of the endless blue. But this time, do not follow the breeze. Hear its calm whisper spiral into a riotous roar, each gust drawing the peaks of the waves upwards like a needle pulling thread. The seabirds are seasoned migrants, and even blinded by vicious sea spray and threatened by thunder, they navigate the sweeping currents instinctively. However, the evolutionary compass etched within each of their minds is no match for even the most skilled of the whalers, hands callused by rope and mouths dry with salt. The birds battle on southwards as the little boat tumbles through whitewash, smacking into walls of water, thick as concrete. Disorientated and deranged, it is picked up like a play thing and thrown into the shallowest reef, blanketed with rocks which protrude like rusted daggers. With a deafening crash, hear wood splinter and men cry. The water bleeds murky black and red, the unused harpoons swallowed by the waves. The Priolo waits atop the crest of her Juniper tree, the warm summer breeze ruffling her feathers. The flowers veiled by Mount Pico’s shadow dare to radiate, and the horizon grows chaotic with flocking seabirds, returning from their winter refuge. The Egrets and the Grey Herons soar on the fishermen’s backs, the Strom Petrel picks at remnants of fish from a bountiful harvest. Yet the breeze does not carry the little whaling vessel and its young sailor. Deep in the valley, the mother remains put like the Priolo in her canopy. Her eyes are cast towards the open seas, her breath held as she anticipates the little whaling vessel gliding along the vast horizon. Her nest is empty – her heart cold. Like the Priolo, she knows nothing but her São Miguel home. Cry with her as her mind swirls through the possibilities, endless as the vast Atlantic, where her little boy remains lost, not yet fully fledged to fly.

James Du Preez

am not who you think I am. The person I was has been purified, and now nothing but this empty vessel of a body remains. Memories, thoughts, and associations have been mercilessly tossed in the fire – I draw warmth, not from those ferocious ferociousflames, but from the knowledge of what has been destroyed. I have conceived this state of mind from the barren emptiness of my existence – a haunting persona cultivated by my psyche and inflicted upon my physical form. I have constructed a façade capable of fooling even the most perceptive observers. I am a perfect replica, for even the creator cannot distinguish me from the original. Yet there is one loathsome thought that hauntingly lingers – it refuses to be extinguished in the fiery flames. Like a virus, it revels in dormancy, remaining hidden until its opportunity arises. I have exiled it deep within the recess of my corrupted mind. I want it to rot and decompose – its existence wiped from the pages of history. I do not want to feel what I did. I’ll soon forget what was never there – my recollection turned to ash and dust. Whilst sand has continued to flow through the hourglass, the prison has begun to weaken. Stones are crumbling into nothingness, while the scourge of rust has permanently tarnished the iron bars. I can feel something stirring in the back of my mind, rising from its slumber. My past will be suppressed for no longer – it is closing in on me like a tiger stalking a naïve gazelle. Weaving in and out of sight among the shadows of my denial, its murderous eyes become clearer as it inches closer to me every evening. It is a skilled assassin – its eyes ablaze with rage. I am the naïve gazelle – my fate has already been determined. The barricades are corroding, and I can hear the footsteps of my past approaching with chilling inevitability. Becoming greater each day, it places vile thoughts in head, bitter words in mouth, and wicked feelings in my heart. It has reached the final barrier – soon we will be reunited. The earth begins to shake, the wind and rain shreds trees like paper. Black clouds obscure any semblance of sunlight, as lightning tears apart the prison’s foundation and ruptures my mask of lies, leaving nothing but rubble and smoke. Everything is clear now – it has broken free from the shackles – it is free. The tortured memories of what I did, and what I should have done, overwhelms my mind. I am forever haunted by the soul-crushing guilt. The earth no longer exists, replaced by this twisted dystopia with black hate gushing from the soil. It resides in the dirt under my fingernails, fills the air within my lungs, and has infiltrated the blood rushing through my veins. Staining my body, your black rage drips like tar from my pores. You and I are reunited. It smells like your hair and tastes of your lips. As I reach to stroke your arm, my skin is set alight with pain, and blisters suddenly form on my fingertips. I see your face as it licks at my feet – there is a smile pressed against your lips as you urge this black mess to drag me down and devour my hopelessly broken figure. Seeping into my body, it steals the oxygen from my lungs. Its vicegrip fuses my skin and bones into an unidentifiable mess. Every breath and every movement is beset by a scorching sensation along my disjointed remains. I am at the mercy of a raging past that I so desperately wanted to extinguish. You draw delight from my suffering – it is a fitting revenge for my inadequacy. I must make peace – I cannot deny you any longer. The floodgates have opened and I am drowning in years of unspoken words and intimate thoughts. I am forced to confront my past – our past. I remember your broken body as a solidary breath left your lifeless lips. The feeling of your icy skin will forever be imprinted on my skin. The sound of your name has manifested itself under my tongue. I failed my duty to you. I failed to comply with your simple request to not forget. Please forgive my ignorance, for I thought I could begin anew, and start a life in which you never existed. How wrong I was. I was never anything without you – merely a lamp without oil, a plant without water. If this is life, it is not worth living. What good is a broken shell to the world? Suddenly it is over – death’s cold fingers have shut my eyelids for the final time, filling me with peace. We are finally as we should be. Together.

‘Boa Viagem’ and ‘You and I’ were inspired by Julie Fragar’s Goose Chase: All of Us Together Here and Nowhere (see left). The painting, which represents the collapse of time and space, won the Art Gallery of South Australia’s 2017 Ramsay Art Prize.

Mahshiat Tahsin Here I stand Amid the field of poppies The sky is so bland But the ground tells Another, more serious story. These flowers Soft yet strong, Cover the bones, Of the men who gave Their lives amid glory. I watch the petals Softly wilt and fall They drop so quickly Their lives short and small But telling the stories of the dead. I see flowers But I think of men, Losing their lives so quickly Blasted to death in open Fields that fill me with dread. What do these flowers Tell us about our lives? That we too are brief visitors Responding softly to urgent drives To protect those we love. This small field With its simple flowers To delight in the joys of life. Sometimes stormy showers Poppy Field on a Windy Day Courtesy of Listspirit

Steal those with the greatest love.

Haysan Morris

You were made different The colour of your skin You follow your leaders Seeking only to win You say, they’re not the same as me

You teach your poor children To hate those who do not speak the same But ignorance is no excuse And all you should feel is shame You say, they’re not the same as me

The greed never ceases While people suffer at your hands You take more than you need And you steal all of their lands You say, they’re not the same as me

Your bombs, that destroy and kill Wrecking what’s in front of you Not caring about your fellowman To imagine what they go through You say, they’re not the same as me

Those who hold the cash and power Who truly have the key Every day, I watch in great despair And study all there is to see And I hope one day You will think like me

Shop Local Courtesy of Russell Lake

Thao Nguyen hy do children love bright colours, but with age, those once bright colours suddenly seem distasteful and insignificant? As adolescents, we dream of a future propelled by naïve optimism, ignorant of the fact that we are all doomed by a fate bound by inexorable hardships. We perceive the world as a pale shadow of what it could one day be, and as we grow older, we become more familiar with despair and its suffocating reign over us in adulthood. Trapped in a state of perplexity, I wake at 4:30 am, my head flustering with obsessive thoughts of death and what lies after the fact. After countless years of struggle to find security in art, I have made a name for myself as a painter in the early Renaissance of Florence. What I find most irritating of all, far more than the sorrow itself, is that I am ungrateful for my success, as if it’s something I am not entitled to. Aware that my dissatisfactions are irrational, I conceal them behind the fragile illusion of happiness.

It has now been far too long since I have painted anything of outstanding merit,

and as weeks turn into months, the fog of disappointment grows heavier. My inability to paint torments me, and I am condemned by a malicious spirit of selfcensure. I hope that one day rationality will prevail, yet my mind does not allow me such reprieve. On rare occasions, I wander the bustling streets of Florence in desperation to ignite any semblance of creativity or revelation, but I am instead exposed to the flaws of human nature. A child catches beautiful butterflies, only to proceed in ripping their pretty little wings off, as his mother gives him an indifferent shrug. Ships of grains and spices arrive at the docks, but they now are laden with slaves who are sold to the rich and privileged. The world is an infinite canvas stained by a dreadful cacophony of colours that we cannot erase. Motivation consumes me, as thoughts of the universe inspire me to paint once again. Tonight, yellow and greens stain my fingers, red streaks across my body, and blue pastels tarnish my shirt. There is a certain agony within me that can only be released by the swipe of a paintbrush on an empty canvas. Words cannot

describe the resplendence of my masterpiece: it is the epitome of what must be perfection. Vivid colours compete with one another in my field of vision, the brushwork of colours from the foreground to the background portraying a pessimistic world. Shifting hues of violet consume, but do not overshadow my canvas, while vermillion complements bright primary colours, revealing the true magnificence of my magnum opus. Yet happiness still eludes me, as I am oppressed by the solitude and emptiness that lingers, and the air of melancholy that surrounds me. It is an ordeal of the most grievous kind to say the least. My existentialism only exacerbates, as this so-called masterpiece is nothing more than a mediocre mess – a disgrace! Anguish and desperation devour me, and I yearn for some kind of change or escape. In a burst of rage, I tear my paintings and throw buckets of paint on the pristine walls, laughing maniacally. Yet a small part of me is okay with that, because madness means liberation from the cruel tyranny of my mind, and that’s all I want – freedom. Art and colour intoxicates me, and I loathe knowing my talents always pale in comparison to that of the great Botticelli or Da Vinci. A blank canvas falls from the shelf behind me – I pick it up before collapsing on the hard wooden floor and weeping into the unvarnished piece of fabric. After hours of staring into this blank canvas, I revel in how pure it is, unmarked and free from colour. Although it does not demand attention, it is something ordinary that can be looked at with unusual sincerity and openness to a new experience. The canvas is reminiscent of freedom, and that idea echoes in my mind when I peer deeper into the blank, impressionable canvas. Upon first inspection, it is unremarkable and meaningless, yet it brings aesthetic joy when perceived in a fresh and positive light. It can be used as a medium for inspiration, which can be weaved into a masterpiece from the dull strands of everyday life. Revelling in its excellence, I am captured by its quintessential depiction of artistic beauty. It depicts the beginning of every painting, however, also reflects what all paintings will eventually become once they disintegrate into the earth. Plain, peaceful, quiet. It is my solace.

Faceless Courtesy of The Nightmare Factory

Christina Akele

y heart burns with melancholy, my eyes ache as they blind me with tears, and my lip quivers with every sound as I await Fate’s dastardly decision. My hands are clasped around those of my loved of myones, whose weeping echoes hauntingly in the air. As I seek refuge in my rocking chair, I close my eyes for several seconds to conceal the tears that threaten to escape. Reluctantly, I open my eyes. I feel myself standing, despite my deteriorating state of mind. I stand before the four cement steps that proceed to a dilapidated lift, which is fenced by tarnished brown beige walls that accentuate the glum wooden structure of the lift. This lift, though gloomy, evokes nostalgia, as I immediately recall my surroundings. This was the lift that led directly to my childhood abode. Although enraptured in this surreal vision alone, I could still feel the clutches of my loved ones, whose whimpers pierce through my ears, while their hands attempt to pull me away from beginning this journey. Despite the morose despair reverberating in my ears, I ascend the steps, dragging my chained clinched hands with me. One step. I stand in a daze, as the voices scream at this sudden movement. Two steps. Teardrops sting my face each time they fall, and I flinch at each whisper in my ear for my return. I wince at every calling of my name, but there is no going back. Three steps. The chilling path makes me shiver – its pale brown colours reiterate the start of a sentimental parting. Four steps. The fourth step abruptly incites retrospection. I see myself, decades younger, in the same setting. The vision is resplendent, illuminated by the fluorescent lights, while the walls appear paper white and the lift is busy at work. I know where I am going this time though – home – to my family. As this flashback concludes, I regretfully return to the room’s current mournful state. I conquer the difficult steps, and find myself directly before the lift, smiling to myself in the fallacious belief that I am returning home. The floor is chilling, as the steps emit cold air that engulfs the space. The voices hush, and what were firm grips clutched around my hands now feel like feathers. I find myself subconsciously drawing closer to the door of the lift, which is located in the dark corner of the wooden pillars that hold the contraption itself. The voices inside my head continue to burden me with hushed cries to “hold on”, while each breath slowly eats away my consciousness. I muster all of my strength to prevent parting with my loved ones. I suddenly turn around, and with all the physical power that remains in my fragile body, find a small staircase that will divert my current journey and allow me to return to some semblance of reality. Alas! Such was not to be – the flight disappears into a vacuum, deterring me from ever escaping this untimely fate. I unwittingly continue towards the door of the lift, turning around the corner and into the deadly darkness. A bright yellow light slowly shines onto my face as the lift’s doors creak open. I take a deep breath, shed a tear, and step into the confined compartment. The forced grip between me and those that I love breaks, however, their hushed voices continue to echo in my ears. The lift rises from the ground and the clattering of the mechanics drowns out the tumultuous voices. In my lifetime, I have used this lift several times, yet this time I know that I will not be coming down. The long elevation allows me to ruminate on my life: the laughter, the struggles, the happiness, and the tears. Fragments of memories dance before my very eyes. One that lingers is the memory of saying my goodbye to my parents, and this recollection of the bittersweet parting pains me immeasurably. I then see the long-lasting image of my parents together, their warm smiles and glowing faces, as if ready to welcome me. My eyes water and my heart rejoices. A lump in my throat suddenly forms, and I have a sudden urge to descend, to walk down those steps and back to my loved ones. There were so many things left unsaid, so many things left undone! What I would have done to spend some final fleeting moments. The higher the lift goes, the more refulgent the light in the lift becomes. As I reach the top, the cacophony coming from the lift rests, the hushed cries from my loved ones reverberate once again. As I grow stone cold, I shed one final tear, and blinded by the light, I tell those by my side: “I’m not going anywhere - I am just going home…” The Lift Courtesy of John Brack

Wings

Two Pairs of

The death of Icarus Courtesy of Federico Sciuca

Renee Tran

he had only ever had one unexplainable encounter in her life. She was young and curious, and her brain was unable to perceive the pragmatic impossibility of the situation. So when it crash-landed in her field, she was quick to rush to the scene. The wings were quivering, wrapping around the creature’s body. It was odd, as if the wings had a life of their own, moving discordantly from its host. The feathers were milky white, pure, and somehow radiated an ethereal quality that words would never do justice. Sure, she went to church every Sunday, but her rationality was rejected by what was right in front of her. Her automatic response was Angel – there was no other explanation. Like clockwork, his eyes had fluttered open and the wings stretched spectacularly. An anxious hitch of her breath was enough to alert the angel of her presence. The wings spread overhead, ready to protect its host, but she had noticed the drag in movement that accompanied his pained grimace. When the angel fell to the ground again, she was quick to aid him. He didn’t wake for three days. The barn was cosy enough when you looked past all the hay and the pungent smell of cattle. Thankfully, neither of those things seemed to affect him. As time passed, she noticed a number of irregularities about the angel she harboured, in contrast to the angels written in the bible. His lack of a halo was puzzling, because weren’t angels supposed to have those? The wings were also losing the initial glow that she had been enamoured by when he crash-

landed. They were beginning to moult, an ordeal that pained him physically, but caused a stream of agonising torment in the confines of his own sanity. She could tell that a part of him shattered every time he yanked out a feather blackened by the plague that spread steadily. They were tinged at the edges with black, impurity, and the wings were nothing more than a skeleton of the beauty they once offered. The barn became less of a home for the family’s cattle and more a burial for fallen feathers. “Beast,” he would mutter, over and over again in a gravelly voice. At least now she knew he could talk… She came home from church one day, donning a gift from the head priest: it was a crucifix necklace. As soon as she opened the doors, he lurched away, crashing into the side of the barn as if her presence was physically ripping him apart. It didn’t take a genius to figure the necklace was like poison chalice to him. A few weeks later, she decided to change up the usual porridge with a salty chicken broth soup. The meal was instantly heaved back up, splattering all over the barn floor. She made sure to never feed him salt again. She had harboured the creature in her barn for four months, and in hindsight, she should have seen it coming – the rotting feathers, the hypersensitivity towards holy devices, his skin’s raw sizzle upon contact with salt. She shouldn’t have been surprised when the barn doors swung open and she was greeted with an unmistakable metallic stench. The walls were painted crimson, a trail of red leading to the rotting corpse of a cow. Above it, stood the creature. He had the face of an angel, but

an essence of corruption lingered in his eyes – his crazed, bloodshot eyes. The wings were now nothing but a broken arrangement of bones and wilting feathers. The only thing on her mind was to escape from the creature – he had become a Demon. Her hands and feet carried her away from the barn and back into the safety of her locked home. However, even under the security of her quilts, quiet prayers whispering along the edges of the deafening silence, she couldn’t escape his pained wails. Couldn’t escape the lingering stench of blood. Couldn’t escape the blackness of his eyes as they twisted into her soul, beckoning every dark thought from the corners of her innocent mind. Sleep did not greet her that night. When she finally plucked the courage to go back into that barn – crucifix and handful of salt ready – he was gone. The only trace of evidence to signify his existence was a single feather, black as night. That was the last time she saw him. As the years passed, her obsession with the haunting wings evolved, her mind bordering on insanity. Sunday church grew into Monday, Tuesday, everyday church. That wretched feather was her only motivation to understand, to educate herself on the demon that manifested itself into the black voids inside her head. The demon may have disappeared from her barn all those years ago, but his impurity was imprinted into her soul for eternity.

Blank?

Interview Conducted by James Du Preez

Ms Cez Green Teaching, Drama, Mother, Exercise, Camping Mrs. Brady (The Brady Bunch)

The Brady Bunch John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’

The Giving Tree by Shel Silverstein Snakes The Charleston Avocado, Cheese, Lettuce, Chilli, and Mayo

Mrs Brady Caricature Courtesy of Deviantart

Ms Cez Green