Issue #15 March 2019
THERE’S MORE TO DISCOVER AT MOD.: WAGING PEACE What’s happening during March?
A brand new gallery for students’ artwork and an ode to those who create it
The Effin’ Review: Bohemian Rhapsody
EDITORIAL The city of Adelaide awakens annually to embrace the cultural delight of ‘Mad March’, and during such a joyous period of transition, the crisp mornings and copious pilings of auburn leaves offer a welcome reprieve from the oppressive heat that inevitably characterises the summer. It is around this time when students at Adelaide High School find themselves in the midst of commencing yet another year of schooling – a year no doubt brimming with endless possibilities, limitless opportunities, and invigorating experiences. In 2019, the expanded student editorial team at Blueprint have worked enthusiastically to provide yet another issue of this now long-running school magazine, welcoming contributions from students both young and old into the fold. Issue #15 features a wide range of deliciously haunting monologues, narratives, and poetry, as well as offering an exclusive peek into the wondrous student art gallery. The editorial team also got the opportunity to visit the exciting new ‘Waging Peace’ exhibition at MOD., a museum fuelled by a rich sense of innovation and culture that Blueprint similarly prides itself on delivering in each and every issue. Shae Clutton
EDITORIAL TEAM Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod Artistic Director: Francine Legaspi Editors: Gabriella Akele, Hamish Anderson, Shae Clutton, Madeleine Coates, Faith FittonGum, Charlotte Fleming, 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, Grace Tyler, Lilli Vitagliano, Holly Webbe
CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Calling all writers, artists, and creative types! We want your talented work for our sixteenth 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 1000 words each) Short reviews of anything linked with the creative arts. This can include films, television, shows, music albums, live concerts, theatre production and are 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 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 01
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meatball day
jewel day
pi day
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gryffindor pride day
st. patrick’s day
sleep day
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plant a flower day
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international women’s day
world book day
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puppy day
marching band day
dr. seuss day
national pig day
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waffle day
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world piano day
NEWS WRITTEN BY | Arnav Kapoor
THE RECENT Three Oklahoma City teenagers arrested after trying to use an uber as a getaway car!
Firefighters tackle an unusual emergency as a “ton” of liquid chocolate spills onto the streets of Berlin, causing the local firefighters to shovel 108 square feet of chocolate!
Satanists sues Netflix for $150 million – The satanic temple is suing Netflix for featuring the Baphomet, an
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“androgynous goat headed deity”, in their recent re-imagining of The Chilling Adventures of Sabrina. The temple is stating that the company is “infringing on its copyright, as well as violating their trademark and destroying their business reputation.” More than 1,500 turtles and tortoises found in luggage – On 4th March, officials at Manila's Ninoy Aquino
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International Airport examined four unclaimed pieces of luggage from a flight that arrived on Sunday in Hong Kong and discovered 1,529 exotic turtles wrapped in duct tape. It is speculated that owner of the luggage fled soon after learning of the strict vigilance that the Bureau of Customs has regulated against illegal wildlife trade. Grandma floats away on ice throne during photoshoot – Judith Streng was travelling in Iceland with her
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son when they spotted photos of an ‘iceberg throne’ located at Diamond Beach in Jorkulsarlon. Judith decided to try it out as it “looked like fun”, however, the ‘ice throne’ suddenly was washed away due to a large wave, with Streng stranded helplessly on top, only to be rescued by a ‘Florida Man’.
KFC raising funds to create 'Kentucky Fried Hot Tub' – Fast food chain KFC is turning to crowdfunding in
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order to raise money for an unusual product: The Kentucky Fried Hot Tub. This has been described as “a KFC bucket, but bigger and filled with soothing hot water instead of delicious fried chicken.” This incredible invention is capable of holding up to five fried chicken loving people.
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Quantity Over Quality by Faith Fitton-Gum Princess of Power by Francine Legaspi
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Don’t Forget the Art Students Written by Macy Newman
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rt’s simplicity never fails to amaze. It is a wondrous aberration within the education system, consisting of complex topics that illuminate the human mind. Despite this ocean of possibilities, sceptics think of the Arts as unnecessary, an adjunct to the curriculum that is called for by the staid figureheads of education. However, this is an obvious fallacy. Such a stereotype only exacerbates the stigma around art, vilifying it as a whole. It would be reasonable to assume that by now the world would have come to the understanding that creative subjects are vital in our society, yet regrettably this is not the case. Is it supposed by stubborn devotees of the educational world that art is easier? That it is merely a way to pass time and is no longer relevant in modern civilisation? Is this why art students are forced to endure a torrent of misguided criticism? Arts should be considered equal to that of its more conventional counterparts, such as mathematics and the sciences, rather than being treated as an irrelevant hindrance, merely clogging up the system. Can you imagine art school graduates lolling about each day, indolently dragging a brush to paper, churning out a canvas or two whenever they feel like and then producing the Guernica or The Starry Night in a mere few hours? I can’t. All too often art students must fight against the pressure from those not only close to them, but also those unknown, perhaps even those in the public eye, who decry their desire to pursue art seriously. Students these days have enough to worry about without needing to be callously lectured about what classes to take and careers to pursue. This vexing misconception about the Arts further corroborates society’s obliviousness, in addition to highlighting its wanton tendencies. Students are frequently at serious risk of mental health issues, as they are constantly being bombarded by a rigid sense of conformity. This cloud of misunderstanding commonly centred around the Arts only degrades the minds of students who wish to pursue the subject or embark on a creative career, driving them to study subjects that they have no real passion for, which is commonly against their better judgement. Imagine that you are working assiduously at your desk on an art assignment with a plethora of papers strewn around the room. You fight the impulse to close your eyes whilst working into the early hours of the morning so that you can produce the perfect masterpiece. The next day you arrive at school lethargic and heavyeyed, while a physics student, who spends far less time and emotional energy on their work, receives the same grade as you, yet is still considered as possessing ‘superior intelligence’. This heartbreaking realisation continually plagues art students, causing feelings of woebegone uselessness and a lack of appreciation and purpose. Just because the practices and methodology of learning differ from one subject to another, it does not mean that one is more challenging than another, merely that they are different. If only this was an attitude embraced by society in totality…
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A Harris Poll conducted in 2015 by the National Assembly of State Arts Agencies has provided acute insight into the attitudes of Americans towards the Creative Arts within the education hierarchy. The survey found that 93 per cent of participants agreed that Artsbased subjects are vital to providing a well-rounded education for children. So why is it that this stereotype continues to exist? After a passionate calling for the Arts to be branded mandatory for all schools, the leading countries of economic and scholastic growth, including America and the United Kingdom, reassessed what subjects were offered in schools. If more people advocate for the study of the Arts in schools, educational facilities will be able to realise the benefits of offering not only Fine Art, but also a diverse range of artistic subjects, thus demonstrating the public’s power in being a catalyst for change. In the early twentieth-century, certain aspects of science were yet to be discovered, and the people of these times valued Fine Art. They would show it off exuberantly, flaunting it to their peers. They tended to prefer the creative forms of expression as opposed to the pursuit of natural science. Artists were considered leading innovators of their time, individuals who influenced others whilst promulgating their work. Conversely, leading pioneers of science were not considered as precocious, and in some cases, were regarded as heathens, questioning the existence of God, and troublemakers. Orators of STEM are now highly praised, as the requirement for understanding and communication via technology is paramount, whilst leading visionaries of the Arts often remain left in the history books. This demonstrated ‘evolution’ of our society is a perfect example of the need for all areas of study to be taught in our education system, as it shows that our ever-changing society brings with it equally ever-changing needs. Therefore, in order to succeed as a global community, we must continually strive to include all fields of study within the education system. The public as a whole should appreciate the worth of innovators and artists alike and understand their need for each other as the people of earlier times did before them. Art isn't just abstract canvases and vague explanations that only savants can appreciate. Whenever we cast our gaze over a poster, when we use an app on our phone, or even when we appreciate the niceties of true fine art, we find ourselves appreciating art in its highest or humblest form. Art adds a spectrum of colour to our otherwise monotonous, pedantic lives, functioning as a medium that can be applied in the modern world. While artists may not be able to place the mitochondria, scientists meanwhile may not have the dexterity required in producing visual artefacts that assault the senses. Art is a subject that promotes creative thinking and a high level of skill that should be treasured as a valued resource, specifically one that all disciplines ultimately benefit from.
Field Courtesy of Heikala
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Waging Peace Mod at UniSA is a future-based museum that explores the unique way science and art can be fused together in order to offer a truly sensory experience for all visitors. Upon arrival, the Blueprint Editorial Team was greeted by the knowledgeable and friendly staff, who explained the various galleries and rooms showcasing the new ‘Waging Peace’ exhibition. At this point, we let our curiosity run wild, marvelling over the innovative museum’s exploration on whether it is possible to aggressively pursue peace. - Milla Maronich Sleep Ops Sleep Ops is designed to guide you on a whimsical journey to your subconscious – a wondrous place where peace is everlasting. You are required to venture through a room woven with silk cocoons, bathed in luminescent purples and blues, where you are immersed in a world of tranquillity. The serene atmosphere is complemented by the hushed holograms that lull you into a blissful slumber. When sleep calls, we are at our most vulnerable, as our minds lead us to a place of gratifying peace. The Sleep Ops exhibition conveys the importance of sleep in making rational decisions, especially in a chaotic world where political and social tyranny hinders idealised conceptions of peace.
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Shae Clutton and Charlotte Fleming
Polar Commons Polar Commons ties into the central thematic concerns of the ‘Waging Peace’ exhibition hosted at the MOD by presenting interesting information on the frozen continent of the South, which fifty-three countries have agreed must “be used for peaceful purposes only.” A model of an Antarctic base is situated in the corner of the room, with a quirky little yarn spool representative of snow resting to the side. Visitors are encouraged to contribute to the length of this yarn spool in order to reflect how by positively working together, we have the capacity to reduce the threat of conflict and harm to our wondrous nature resources. - Mitchell Miller
Cosmic Living Room The Cosmic Living Room is the latest extra-terrestrial exhibit to grace the innovative hallways of the MOD, offering a subversive and eerily calming experience. Created to explore the ageold question ‘Are we the only intelligent beings in the universe?’, the living room evokes an deep sense of thoughtfulness and tranquillity. The ambient atmosphere is created through the use of warm lighting and incorporation of unique chairs that not only emit pleasantly mellow music, but frequencies not actually audible to humans, in the odd chance that a star-faring alien might respond to them. Providing a thoughtprovoking peek into the cosmos, theCosmic Living Room is an exhibit that is simply not to be missed. - Jagreet Malhi
Trigger Warning Trigger Warning is not only the title of Superflux’s speculative short film, but the label they assign to the very future it forecasts. The film imagines a world where the disparate ideologies that line the streets and trickle insidiously from the gutters collide at the intersections of our increasingly fractured society – a battlefield where every attempt to conceive a single lucid truth only amplifies the chaotic cacophony of keyboards and caps lock. While its denizens seek comfort in ‘fake news’, fabricated memories, and superficial solidarity, Trigger Warning holds a prismatic fragment of our reality to the light: we’re too busy in our pursuit of peace to realise that the war we strive desperately to prevent has already begun. - Madeleine Coates
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Orbitopia Orbitopia in an integral part of the ‘Waging Peace’ exhibition that will undoubtedly appeal to visitors of all ages. The stimulating artwork and interactive screens that occupy the entire room create a fabulous effect, filling the audience with a sense of wonder. Orbitopia seeks to satisfy the curiosity inextricably intertwined with space, as the room offers many astounding facts complemented by dazzling visuals of the awe-inspiring universe that we live in. The giant planet sphere situated in the middle of the room also allows visitors to video the different planets and space bodies with life-like representation, providing a dynamically new way to learn about space travel and exploration. - Heeyani Mittal
Water colour Cloud My soul is in the sky Courtesy of Finn the Pigeon
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Strains of Triumph Written by Anh-Thu Huynh
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am preoccupied by the sorrow that infiltrates my mind. As the day is swallowed up by the rich black of midnight, and the moon wanes in obscurity, the demons reveal themselves to me. Trapped in the confines of my room, I am forced to withstand their hostile company, all the while demanding for slumber to seize my consciousness. It was at the precipice of my newfound success that I was first greeted by the malevolent deities. Juvenile and naïve, I allowed myself to be manipulated by their derisions. Despite my achievements, they knew my heart was tainted by the coldness of a void – it was a fact they took great pleasure in exploiting. Years later, their incessant taunts continue to haunt my life, a ubiquitous reminder of the pitfalls of victory. As I attempt to recall the events that led me to this state – the languid deterioration of my mind – I am ironically assaulted with illustrations of my successes. My wealth and power, sources of devastating envy, act as manacles, constraining me to the depths of this materialistic world. From this point, I feel the weight of humanity’s greed, and I am helpless to alleviate their insatiable longing. I watch people suffocate themselves in lies, sell their souls to the devil, and lose their life to the pressures of fame – all to taste the sweet nectar of success. Without striving for it, I was bestowed the achievements that all others crave, an illustrious gift crafted to disguise a curse. My existence is plagued with guilt, as the demons that penetrate my mind scorn at my apathy. But who am I to whine about the stresses of success, as if my life is worse than those defeated? I am able to achieve everything I want, yet my soul remains hollow. It is not fame and fortune that I yearn, but knowledge of its true value. I embody a victor who cannot tell the definition of victory. A lifetime of privilege has resulted in my declining resilience. The comfort of wealth generates an air of false entitlement, allowing me to become accustomed to the toxic culture of supremacy. However, my dominion falters against the devilish phantoms that haunt my waking moments. Lacking any strength of will, I become powerless to ward off the monsters of the night. Ceaselessly, their cruel whispers perpetuate my confusion and self-doubt, asserting pre-existing deprecations. I am worthless. I don’t deserve it. The cacophony of jeers reverberated within the confining walls. Swiftly succumbing to their vile sneers, and I lay still, heeding every corrupting remark they hiss at me. Tonight, the spawns of Satan appear more menacing, as their grotesque frames cast ominous shadows against the walls. A foreboding sense of dread sends a shiver down my spine. They loom over me, giddy with anticipation. Their chorus of taunts once again pierce my mind and threaten to unravel my being. Weakened since their first intrusion, my resolve finally begins to crumble. The torturous echoes within my head amplify, silencing the anxious cries of my internal thoughts. Desperate for freedom, I take a final
Inspired by Emily Dickinson’s Success is counted sweetest
glance at the fading shadows – and I am deeply disturbed to see their smiles gleam brighter in the darkness of the night.
+The Scales of Death+ Written by Lily Han Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ And Death Shall
Have No Dominion
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he sickly pale figure lurked in the darkness, watching over the n earth, waiting for the final curtain to fall so that b she could have them at her mercy. Even when the all-powerful entity held power over the reins of Death, she still shall have no dominion. Silly mortals. They should know better than to run from her, to fear her, to mourn for her. They clung to their mortality like a lifeline, refusing to acknowledge the inevitable. Yet, despite all the power she wielded – and all the fear instilled in them – Death had no control over fate. She was only a follower – a seeker. Whoever and whatever was lost will be found eventually, and those who were wronged would meet justice soon enough. Death shadowed them as they followed the west moon, seeking solace in Hades’ realm. Death had spent centuries charting and watching souls from afar, as the twinkle in their eyes faded into the dusk, only to find themselves living among the stars. Envision a memory that would be remembered for centuries – one who would never be forgotten. Those who were previously driven mad shall recover and discover their sanity hidden in the depths of the underworld. Never lost, just merely concealed. Those broken and scarred by sticks and stones will rise once more, proudly illuminated in the night sky. Star-crossed lovers separated will soon find themselves in each other’s embrace. Even a tragic love story as beautiful as Romeo and Juliet will remain untouched, as she had no dominion. She is merely a pawn in fate’s ruthless game. Death had no control over land, nor sea, yet she came rolling in violent waves, consuming them as they took their last breath. Their scattered bodies were left long under the winding sea. The broken bones carved from battle scars, whom had seen suffering, would not be broken any more, but rise from the ashes and unwillingly lead to the gates of the underworld. How foolish and desperate did those poor, naïve spirits have to be for them to willingly hand their souls to the wishing stars? They should know better than to hope for another chance, to beg for forgiveness and to bargain with her for more time, but as always, it was not her decision to make. It never was. No, instead, she will take them and they will kneel, trembling before Hades as he weighed judgement. The king only allowed those worthy to pass after all. Death just collected lost souls, yet still she internally prayed that he would judge mercifully. She pleaded that those souls were allowed to reconcile with family, friends, or even lost lovers, to see justice prevail, and most importantly to be given another chance, but the king would not have ascended to his throne if he were sympathetic. Death will not wait for those who are not ready to accept – she never has and never will. However, her presence does not mean that the end is here, merely that they have reached an intermission, if you will. She signifies the beginning of a transcendent adventure for those who are brave and worthy enough to step into the scrutinising spotlight. The souls she will collect over the centuries to come will be shepherded towards the west moon, shown the luxury of meeting her at this crossroad. They will be thankful that it was her that came to collect them, for she came with a message. Death, the reaper of souls, was to deliver a memorandum that would soothe the future souls collected by her, allowing them to go gently into the night. She promised that when she came for them, life would follow after, but only for those who were worthy. She had finally accepted the fact that she will never have control over the life mere mortals lead.
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Untitled courtesy of Liam Ashurst
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Written by Maaike Williams Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s Tulips
hese bare plaster walls of the hospital room hold the wails of women in pain, the cries of the precious newborns, and the silence of the still. I want to scream at the silence, just to make it stop. It’s a part of the job, helping the women that are lost in the silence. This place is not appropriate for them as, they find happiness and joy in life a truly sickening concept. The cards, balloons and flowers linger the halls as a sign of congratulations to those who were successful. The flowers are remorseful: a solemn and poignant exclamation of both compassion and sadness. The roses die quickly – they engulf the room with their sweet aroma and then wither to corpulent petals, draping over the vase in exhaustion. The peonies offer a fake sense of warmth in the room: they are an obnoxious and cheap happiness lulling recipients into a fabricated and momentary state of bliss.
frozen terrain outside her small window. This woman lay deathly still on her bed, as if she were a stranded raft lost at sea, waiting to be rescued by a kind ship with warm intentions. She wanted to be saved, but at a loss as how to signal for help. She rejected the tulips, and wished for them to be removed from her presence. She treated them as an unwelcome guest, for they blocked her view of the freedom outside, dampening her mood. These tulips were emphatic and their ruby red petals had savagely snatched her peace.
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My favourites are the tulips. They stand tall and gracefully – radiating empathy. The tulips watch over those who need a shoulder to cry on. They demand a presence in the room, as their boisterous colours dazzle under the fluorescent lights. Their petals contrast against the snowy garden outside the window – bright, youthful and rotund, the petals huddle together, hoarding all of the possible sunlight. The tulips offer excitement in a world consumed by pain. The flowers are a reward, but a twisted one at that. I often think about my patients who have received tulips, but always one in particular. She lost what was once a part of her, a part that another child could never replace. Swabbed clean, she looked to the cherished photo framing her young family and then out to the
As a nurse I have seen the five stages of grief and apparently time heals all, but I wait for the day when that time eventually comes. It doesn’t creep up on you as time usually does: you are running after it, sprinting, crawling, limping and falling. I have immense admiration for these women, for their hard work and dedication to a living being they have never met. The woman bounded in her room by those retched tulips wanted to be free of these halls and loose of our shackles. She wanted to leave. Her rescue ship came and sailed as far away from here as possible. Never hesitating, as if she had been waiting for this time since the moment she stepped foot onto the ward. That night remains vivid in my mind, as it was the first and last time she ever spoke to me, and I swore to never repeat it. By morning her sheets were empty and crumpled like a broken heart. Everything remained in her room the way it was – her family portrait lingering on the bed side table – marooned and forgotten. The tulips that formerly slept next to her, the magnifier of her pain were sprawled across the ground – glass shards and water flooding the hospital floor. The abandoned flowers lay depressed and defeated on the floor as a reminder that they were not wanted. She didn’t want any of it.
Chaotic Resolve Courtesy of ArtByNicoleG
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If only we had time Written by Shae Clutton
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he delicate rays of the sun warm my tired eyes, as she triumphantly marks the dawn of another day. I much prefer the moon – she and I crave the permanency of endings – the reprieve she offers hiding within her hood of bone. Time has been spiteful, ensuring that I remain on the painfully endless cycle some refer to as ‘life’, yet she was callous as she gave you none. It is the stars that smile gleefully when I pray you reside among them. They seem to shine brighter knowing they have infinite years with you, when you and I had none. The dead, white lilies, now weary of colour, are nestled on the wooden bedside table neighbouring the silk-embellished cradle. My hands rove the stretched and scarred skin of my now sunken stomach – it is taunting me, and serves as a permanent reminder some kind of sick smile of failure. The baby pink balloons remain tethered to the bed post, as an abundance of your untouched toys litter the room. My tired feet seem to understand – they carried the weight of us for nine months. We have come so far but it is over now. My body knows she’s perfected – she refuses food and is tormented by the endless currents of bile she sends clawing at my throat, searing at my insides as it makes its way up, up, up. As time imprisons my withering body in this abyss of darkness referred to as ‘life’, I let my mind run free, while she focuses on what our lives should have been like – it is a bittersweet reprieve. She dreams of the mornings I am blissfully awaken by your body nuzzled at my side. She cherishes your viridescent eyes that flutter open, as I press shy kisses to your brow. She foolishly indulges herself in admiring your mischievous grin and the dimples that dent your cheeks. My broken body knows I am precariously teetering on the edge of a dream – a life that will never be lived, yet she cherishes the refreshing relief of sleep. In my mind, you, my daughter, are like a flower that has unbridled grace, flourishing proudly and blooming with a smile that would blind the brightest of stars. I am taunted by the temptation of your small hands encircling my neck, as you stand on the tip-toes of your black, leather lace ups and kiss me goodbye. I picture the quizzical expression lining your features as you see the ocean for the first time. There is no sound as wondrous as your giggle, and you stare awestruck at the pallor of your skin through the ripples of the sea, reminiscing about your hopeless attempts to out run the looming waves. I am kneeling in the warm waters, reaching for your outstretched arms when a wave as black as night breaks, sending a torrent of memories flooding our way. I see you on your tenth birthday; your first day of high school; your sweet sixteenth; and even your first kiss. I see you with a man as charming as he is bright, and children I presume were to be my grandkids. I am drowning in the years of a life that was never to be, and awaken abandoning the dreams of a life stolen from you, my baby. It seems time is torturing me – she fiddles with the strings of your life like those of a puppet, merely rationing me glimpses of a future she has weaved from her web of lies. I can no longer fathom closing my tear-stained eyes, as I have decided it is finally time. Like time, I too can be spiteful, and if she does not deem the sentence I have served as punishment enough, then I will speed up her tortuous process – with the only form of serenity that comforts me.
Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s Edge
Untitled Courtesy of Jennifer Mathson
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Written by Charlotte Fleming
Silver Thief
he wet earth squelched beneath Azriah’s aching feet. The weather had remained this way for weeks and she was surprised the cobble streets had not yet flooded. She huffed as the mud lined the bottom of her torn ragged pants. They were once a beautiful white pair – her only pair – and now they were stained the deepest of brown. In a way her pants were like her family name – tarnished. Many people around the city had pants like Azriah’s, as well as dresses, shirts, and shoes. Anything that crossed these paths would soak up the colours of the slumful city. Except for the fishermen. Those lucky men, at least, had a chance to clean themselves without wasting the painstakingly expensive diamond liquid that was a basic need – water. But then again, even they could not escape the scornful eyes that passed over the people of Morta.
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Azriah despised the perilous buildings that many call a home, particularly the lack of light, and the sky full of dark polluted clouds. The odour was enough to make a grown man drop to his knees, but that was not what made her sick. Not any of those things could darken Azriah’s soul and make her blood boil more than they did… the Savills. If your blood ran with the deepest red then you were a Savill, and you could have anything within the palm of your hand in seconds.
Azriah walked along the markets, subtly noticing that around the tents were more people than she had seen all year. After all, it was Callkin, a day where both Morta and the noble blood of Callacorda mingle under the small market stalls made out of old tarps, but the Savills would never speak to her kind, not even take a glance. If there were two things in this world of which she was certain, it was that she hated the Savills, but loved their greedy pockets, and if there was any way to make a fortune in Morta, it was on Callkin. Both young and old scrambled to buy life’s necessities – wood, cloth, and bread – with only the few measly coins they had in their patchwork pockets. Clothed in warm whites and rosy reds, the nobles paraded around the stalls. Sellers and merchants cleaned up their small patch of ground, and each tent was made to look extravagant in the hopes of catching a wealthy man’s eye and hopefully his overflowing coin purse.
Red courtesy of Igor Piwowarczyk
Azriah slid with ease throughout the crowds of people, quickly slipping her nimble fingers between pockets and coats. The mass of bodies made it easier for her to rob the sleazy old men. However, trying to pick a silver pocket watch or a crystal cufflink from a Savill was a completely different ball game for Azriah. Like herself, they were fast, cunning, and swift, and looking around for people like her – they were targeting people to lock up… or worse. Azriah slid through the brown and blue tarps looking for her next victim, There! She thought. She approached the rich male – a tall frame and broad shoulders adorned his body. With a swift turn, her fingers were in and out of his pocket. Although she was fast, she was not fast enough to get away before a large warm hand took a rough hold of her wrist. “Hello… little thief”
EYES Written by Riya Shiju
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hen I look into your eyes; I see the pain of people who have fled from war – I find it hard to find a place to called home. This makes them feel lost in this country where people say bluntly “go back to where you came from”. When where they come from has been reduced to a crumb now, and as they enter this new country, they see people who breathe, who educate, who bleed to the end with hate for the ones who thought they could come with no fee charged as they plead to be free from this devastation they called hope. But they let their greed destroy their humanity, saying that we don’t care where you go as long as it’s elsewhere.
Sometimes you think of the beautiful place that you used to call home where people lived with an amused smile on their faces as they move on. Now what can you do, because everything you knew isn’t real, so now you have to renew your life by living in a country. This is one big tree with not so strong roots that would fall into political lawsuits, and recruit more people just to pollute the water that would help them flood the waterways that they use to stay in their home. When I look into your eyes, I see the place you call home that you insure with a home loan because this is the only thing you could truly own. Not like Google Chrome, which owns your privacy that you sold for free because you wanted to connect without ever taking a look around at your family. You clumsily enter the keyword that you thought was perfect. Home. Forget about the palace that you made memories in, as the walls fade away you realise that you have had centuries worth of memories in this house. Like accessories, worn not knowing how many times as a child you said you wanted to be a unicorn but as they float away like clouds, you finally realise the value of the memories that comprise this house. You were forewarned they knew time would run out, and yet you still choose your screen and watching Wolverine over the house you grew up within. When I look into your eyes, I see the struggle you try to hide behind your phone, pretending to have a muggle mind, while your mind tries to smuggle the one thing that keeps you sane. You may not notice that black in your eyes that symbolises the lies – you say so they don’t notice as the happiness slowly dies off. Although they believe, I see you grieving, trying to leave the mind palace that has taken its place. It’s eating away your thoughts, as though there is nothing left to see, and as soon you're left with this black hole that you call normality. Steadily growing, devouring your personality, so that the only thing left is a speck of dust, as it swallows your reality. I suddenly see a speck of hope. Like the dot that symbolises the beginning and the end of each of my sentences like rises of waves as they crash on the shore. But when I look into your eyes, I see a ray of hope that shines, so instead of praying with the Pope, I’m going to choose a different way and say nope. I may be small in this world, but even if I crawl, I’m still moving forward – I’m fighting the battle we all go through that despite the odds we encounter – we will rise for the challenge and be able to acquire the knowledge that is needed to move on. So stand tall and move on.
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FEI: Hi all, welcome to our first review of 2019! FRANKIE: The year’s had a rough start for us, but for films it hasn’t. *wink wink* the Oscars. FEI: I’m going to tell you something: I didn’t actually watch the Oscars. I didn’t read about the Oscars either… FRANKIE: I only watched about five minutes of it, to find out if my favourite film of 2018 won ‘Best Animated Feature’. FEI: And it did! See, I know you. It was Spiderman: Into the Spiderverse. FRANKIE: So we’re being relevant by reviewing the film that won ‘Best Actor’. This is mainly because we haven’t seen the film that won ‘Best Picture’ – Green Book. FEI: I am going to go see that with my dad, but haven’t gotten around to do it yet. So today we’re going to be talking about Bohemian Rhapsody, which I have seen, twice in fact.
What was the film about? FEI: It is largely about Freddie Mercury, but it is also about his band, Queen. He serves as the central character. FRANKIE: It’s his biopic, if that’s what people call it. Yeah, his biopic. FEI: His life was dramatised and adapted for the big screen, which some people were a bit upset about. The film has rearranged events, exaggerated some things, and left others out – something that’s always going to happen in a biographical film. FRANKIE: They added a sprinkle of movie magic. It starts from when Freddie Mercury was in his late teens and continues until Queen’s performance at the famous Live Aid concert. FEI: Basically, it shows most of Freddie Mercury’s musical career with Queen.
Why did you see it FRANKIE: I wasn’t really a Queen fan – I know some of their songs, but I don’t really know much about it. Since everyone was saying Bohemian Rhapsody was iconic, I went to see it. FEI: Me too – I went to see it because I’d heard that it was really good. When I went to see it, I wasn’t really expecting that much. I didn’t know very many Queen songs, just like you, Frankie. But Bohemian Rhapsody actually did really surprise me.
How did you feel about Bohemian Rhapsody? FRANKIE: Guess what? Guess what happened after I finished the film? FEI: You cried, didn’t you? FRANKIE: I cried. Yeah, I cried. In the cinema, watching the credits roll, the tears just started. Actually, up until the last quarter, I was crying. FEI: To be honest with you, I started tearing up. I didn’t cry, but I started tearing up. FRANKIE: Wow, that’s a lot coming from you, Fei.. FEI: It sure is, Frankie! FRANKIE: So, as you can tell, my scale of whether a film was good or not is whether I cried at the end. FEI: Frankie, that’s basically just like flipping a coin. FRANKIE: Well, that’s true. I should probably make a scale of how much I cried. I could say the tears flowed a steady stream until I exited the cinema.
19 Freddie Mercury ‘I Want to Break Free’ courtesy of Svenja Raatjes
If you could describe Bohemian Rhapsody in one word, what would it be?
FEI: And we’ll add a new category into our next edition of The Effin’ Review, which will be ‘Frankie’s Cry-O-Metre’ score. Anyways, I actually really enjoyed the film the first time I saw it. I think the direction and the writing were good, so yes, while they did play around with the order of events in Mercury’s life, they did so in order to create an epic film that would bring the audience with them on an emotional journey. I did truly feel jubilant and sad along with Freddie throughout the film.
FRANKIE: I don’t feel like I have a wide enough vocabulary to select a word that fully describes the essence of this film. You know what? I think I’m actually going to go with phantasmagorical. It sounds ‘extra’ enough for a film about Queen.
FRANKIE: It was very aesthetically pleasing as well – not only was I invested in the story, I also liked looking at it.
FEI: I want to say moving, but it was grander than that. It was sweeping, perhaps? It sounds like a weird thing to say, but it was sweeping.
FEI: Another thing was that nearly the whole soundtrack was made up of Queen songs, and every time a song would play, I would think ‘I know this song – I love this song. This is a Queen song?’ I didn’t know that a lot of those songs were Queen songs, even though I knew the songs themselves.
FRANKIE: It swept you off your feet?
FRANKIE: ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ is no one’s favourite song, but if you play it, everyone knows it and loses it.
FEI: Off-sweeping. Away-sweeping.
FEI: It swept me away. That’s not one word, but it swept me away. FRANKIE: It swept.
FRANKIE: And that’s been – FEI: And Bohemian Rhapsody did make me start listening to more Queen music.
FEI: Bohemian Rhapsody.
FRANKIE: It’s the Queen Renaissance.
FRANKIE: And’s that’s been our first review of 2019!
Did it live up to your expectations and its Oscar win? FEI: I can’t say it didn’t live up to my expectations because I went into it with virtually no expectations, and I walked out of it absolutely blown away, unable to think about anything else for the whole night. FRANKIE: Bohemian Rhapsody was nominated for a lot of things, but the Oscar it won was for Best Actor. FEI: It definitely deserved that prize, because Rami Malek was amazing as Freddie Mercury. FRANKIE: From the prosthetic teeth to the new accent, I was really able to see the character of Freddie Mercury through Malek’s acting. FEI: He made Freddie into a quirky, but very human character. He brought out the rock star side, that’s for sure, but he was also able to portray Freddie Mercury as a realistically flawed and vulnerable person as well. And that can be a difficult thing to do.
Who should see this film? FRANKIE: Any self-respecting Queen fan should. FEI: And even if you’re not a Queen fan, if you enjoy films about friendships and self-discovery, you will probably enjoy Bohemian Rhapsody. FRANKIE: If you’re anything like me and you want a real tear-jerker, I’d recommend it.
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