Blueprint student magazine issue11 by Adelaide High School

Issue #11 May 2018

DAZZLING COLOURS OF IMPRESSIONISM What’s happening during May?

The shameful corruption of the Grammy Awards

The Effin’ Review: Love Simon

As auburn leaves fall in delightful abundance and the exquisite aroma of petrichor fills the air, the season of autumn evokes moments of bittersweet nostalgia. Despite the fact that time often passes us by hastily, we must never abandon the unique talents that we each hold, and instead showcase such abilities to inspire the minds of those around us. While autumn can resonate as a period of introspection, it also has the capacity to produce times of unbridled joy, and those are the times that are worth treasuring for life. Although the sweet foliage may be hidden for some time, and the majestic sunshine is often too lackadaisical to fully express herself, the indescribable moments that autumn holds will always be at arm’s reach. Blueprint has collated a wide range of inspirational written pieces of writing and artwork befitting of this transformative seasonal period. Issue #11 includes enthralling narratives and monologues, awe-inspiring Impressionism art, and eloquent feature articles that explore many of the pertinent topics we are confronted with in society today.

Lilli Vitagliano

EDITORIAL TEAM Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod Editors: Gabriella Akele, Lahie Amat, Editors: Gabriella Akele, Lahie Amat, Arnav Kapoor, Dain Lee, Francine Arnav Kapoor, Dain Lee, Francine Legaspi, Tiana Loechel, Mitchell Miller, Legaspi, Tiana Loechel, Mitchell Miller, Shardul Mulye, Thao Nguyen, Fei Shardul Mulye, Thao Nguyen, Fei Stokes, Janna Tapales, Kim Van, Lilli Stokes, Janna Tapales, Kim Van, Lilli Vitagliano Vitagliano

CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Calling all writers, artists, and creative types! We want your talented work for our next 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 – 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 â&#x20AC;&#x2122;s happening ? -MAY-

01 hug your cat day

batman day

motherâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s day

15 chocolate chip day

dance like a chicken day

18 pizza party day

25 tap dance day

world turtle day

be a millionaire day

27 grape popsicle day

star wars day

eat what you want day

lost sock memorial day

national hamburger day

put a pillow on your fridge day

NEWS WRITTEN BY | Shardul Mulye

THE RECENT Planetary Defenders: Humanity’s greatest challenge to save the world from catastrophic asteroid impact!

Cow brought to Parliament House in Perth for a promotion escapes her handler and makes a bolt for it!

A white rabbit that travels around London on public transport has become an Internet sensation -

The adventurous bunny has so far been on the London Overground to Hackney and a 254 bus to Holloway in the city’s north - without an owner in sight. Matt Hepburn tweeted a photo of the rabbit casually riding on his bus, proclaiming: “There’s a rabbit on my bus.” The photo has since been liked more than 50,000 times by baffled, yet amused Londoners.

Badminton match held on Thursday, 8th March results – The epic badminton match held on 8th March between Anthony Truong and Mr. Macleod resulted in Truong’s comprehensive victory, leaving Mr. Macleod unable to digest defeat at the hands of an ‘unfledged amateur”.

A man who had his face and eyeballs tattooed to look like his pet parrots has gone a step further — by

cutting off his ears - Englishman Ted Richards, 56, is obsessed with his pet parrots, Ellie, Teaka, Timneh, Jake, and Bubi, to the point that he has his face tattooed with colourful feathers. However, the animal nut — who has also 110 tattoos, 50 piercings and a split tongue — has taken this obsession once step further and has also had both his ears removed, plus is planning to find a surgeon prepared to turn his nose into a beak.

Holy Guacamole! Man jailed for 50 years for million-dollar fajita (kind of burrito) theft- Gilberto Escamilla was jailed for 50 years after stealing more than a million dollars in fajitas over the course of nine years. He arranged deliveries of the Mexican meal to the Darrel B Hester Juvenile Detention Centre where he worked, but would sell them on himself on the same day. 5

The ‘Glorious’ Grammy Gold Road and its Shameful Corruption Written By Amira Buela or passionate and ambitious musicians, reaching legendary musical status is most reputably justified with a goldplated gramophone presented at the annual Grammy Awards show. Many music fanatics associate this spectacle with cutting-edge fashion and influential recognition of current and upcoming artists. While the Grammys is filmed and edited in order to present the façade of a perfectly unbiased image of the music industry, what hides behind the curtain is unfortunately much more ominous. The stench of corruption suffocates any aspect of integrity, which is epitomised in the flawed voting system, sickening dedication to selfpromotion, heartless discrimination against minority groups, and callous mistreatment of female artists. In calling for drastic measures to be taken to change the iniquitous state of the Grammys, it is only then that we will have the opportunity to rectify the deeply-ingrained flaws crippling the music industry at large.

While the winning of a shiny gramophone used to signify genuine musical artistry, this previous accolade has been trivialised by greedy tycoons, who have diluted the integrity of the awards solely for financial gain. This is contradictive of the values that should be practiced by the official Grammy Committee – rewarding the music industry’s most prestigious artists irrespective of current social statuses and wealth. The current morally ambiguous system manipulates the election of nominees on the basis of popularity, which is antithetical to the Grammy’s original purpose. The executive members of the voting committee are only allowed to vote for up to fifteen categories, not the full eighty-four categories listed by the Recording Academy. Consequently, the notion of honest deliberation and equal consideration is ignorantly overlooked, leaving too much room for favouritism and bias, which has become emblematic of the music industry’s corrupt nature. A necessary step in stamping out the ubiquitous corruption within the Grammys would be to dramatically overhaul this problematic voting process. The process itself immediately ostracises an incredible wealth of global musical talent, as an artist’s submission of a song, album, or music video must be only commercially released and sold. This not only frivolously excludes the opportunity for all artists to showcase their musical abilities, it is also compounded by the fact that an artist’s level of success ultimately dictates whether or not they are considered ‘Grammy winner material’.

The dependency of mainstream album sales and chart position is absurdly advantageous, fundamentally turning the Grammy Awards into a glorified popularity contest. This was disturbingly evident at the 56th Grammy Awards, when all nominees for the ‘Record of the Year’ Award had placed in the top fifteen of ‘Billboard’s Hot 100’ prior to the ceremony. Even past Grammy voters have divulged the misleading voting system, as Recording Academy voting member, Rob Kenney, previously proclaimed:

The 60th Grammys was a horrific example of such inequity, where iconic rapper Jay Z was nominated for eight Grammys, but somehow left the show empty-handed. The voting process has become so broken and prejudicial, it is almost as if ‘token white people’ have been purposely put on a pedestal and given the power to discriminate against people of colour, regardless of their musical contributions. This was also singled out by Adele when, upon winning the Grammy for ‘Album of the Year’ in 2017, she gave credit to Beyoncé instead, stressing that Lemonade be awarded due to its monumental social impact. For such a highly-respected global artist to refrain from accepting their own Grammy undeservedly illustrates the extent of the racial discrimination that still pollutes the music industry. Another issue prevalent within the Grammys is the notion of gender inequality and male dominance. In 2018, at the music industry’s major awards show, how is it remotely conceivable that only one female artist wins a major prize? Recording Academy President, Neil Portnow, addressed this controversy that took place at the 60th Grammy Awards, arrogantly stating that “it has to begin with women who want to be part of the industry on the executive level – to step up.” (Forbes Magazine, 2018)

“famous people tend to get more votes from clueless Academy members, regardless of the quality of their work.” (Complex Magazine, 2014)

The consequence of this debacle has instigated the dilution of music purely for commercial gain, stigmatising the significance of “musical excellence” that is supposedly recognised by the Grammy executives. Such questionable Grammy nominees over the last decade have also exposed the contamination of deviant manipulation and false hope, demoralising current musicians working within the industry. The ongoing pattern of mainstream superiority severely puts the Grammy’s credibility in question. Accompanying the preference on commercialisation is the unfair treatment in regards to artists of colour and those representing minority groups. For example, some of the most iconic musicians of all time are African-American, including Bob Marley, Diana Ross and Jimi Hendrix, yet shockingly, not a single one ever won a Grammy. This disturbing trend raises obvious suspicions of racial bias and discrimination within the music industry.

Does this mean that Kesha’s powerful performance of ‘Praying’ – an incredibly emotional song about overcoming sexual abuse, which was sparked by allegations laid against a high-profile music executive – wasn’t a step up? The prolongation of maltreatment towards female artists has thankfully resulted in the creation of an investigative taskforce, which will seek to remedy the inequality that has been epitomised by the travesty of the Grammys in recent years. It is important that initiatives such as this expose the music industry for what it has become – a sexist and racist domain that is dictated by ‘corporate men’ and has been corrupted by the need for male superiority. The next time you watch the Grammys, don’t let the extravagancy of star-studded appearances and ‘perfected’ performances distract you from the web of corruption that lies under the surface of every strategic nomination and award. The chronicles of distrustful voting, racial discrimination, gender bias, and the reliance on radio-friendly pop music have gone on long enough. Music is a creative medium that has the power to decisively break down social, moral, and political barriers, liberating individuals from all forms of prejudice and oppression. Therefore, for the sake of sustaining musical virtue, it is only fair that this domain is acknowledged and celebrated with genuine intention.

The fight Why the Internet Cannot Afford to Nuke ‘Net Neutrality’ for Written by Flo Figueroa

s a slow connection to the dominant digital world the bane of your very existence? Why should we be infuriated by the endless buffering that is inflicted upon us when subscribing to a digital service? As users, we justifiably expect to avoid this nightmarish first-world scenario and enjoy unregulated access to the infinite world of possibilities provided by the Internet. We expect that our trusty Internet providers are not manipulating the content we access, or even the speed at which it reaches us. What we expect when we use the Internet is ‘Net Neutrality’ – a vital safeguard mechanism originally created to protect our right to equal Internet access that is now precariously close to being eradicated forever. Net Neutrality ensures fair distribution of information for all users through the prohibition of content discrimination by Internet Service Providers (ISPs). However, this fundamental right is now in serious jeopardy of being dismantled by powerhungry organisations that exhibit a voracious lust for control. The initial enforcers of this regulation, the Federal Communications Commission (FCC), have succumbed to relentless pressure from ISPs and approved a plan to revoke Net Neutrality. Consumers are at risk of being robbed of the right to control the online content they can access, blurring the lines between necessary consideration for users and the imposition of extreme levels of censorship. Imagine the ISPs as owning a road between technology companies, such as Amazon or Google, and you, the user. In order for content to successfully reach you, companies must transport information down this road. Currently, all information rightfully travels down the same road and at the same speed, but imagine the ISPs build another lane on this road – an exclusive toll lane, liberated from the prospect of infuriating traffic jams. Bigger companies, who can afford to pay this toll, naturally will receive faster connections for users than those forced to remain with the status quo. Now consider the fact that ISPs not only have ultimate jurisdiction on the cost of this very toll, but can even refuse cars from entering the fast lane altogether. Every vehicle on this road will suffer from this utter violation of human rights if ISPs

succeed in their avaricious pursuit for the repeal of Net Neutrality. The withdrawal of Net Neutrality proposes a level of censorship for a contemporary world that simply cannot afford to be censored. Access to reliable and unbiased sources of information are utterly essential in order for us to continue to make informed and rational decisions throughout our lives. If Net Neutrality regulations are terminated, the integrity of information provided will be lost amidst the deluge of biased content already saturating our world. Through the repeal of Net Neutrality, ISPs will gain unprecedented power to control applications and content that reach consumers. By ruthlessly censoring websites that seek to promote conflicting ideas to their own, ISPs would wield draconian power and have the capacity to significantly influence the beliefs and values of consumers. This siege of power was previously attempted in 2007 when Internet provider, Verizon, refused to distribute a text message promoting abortion rights. However, Verizon was forced to reverse this decision when outraged customers deemed it as an “attempt to censor debate”, yet as Liptak (2007) notes, through the repeal of Net Neutrality, this unauthorised restriction of content will become commonplace and immutable. The prospect of allowing such oppressive restrictions to dictate our way of life in the digital world would send a chill down even the most technologically ignorant person’s spine.

Due to the enormous lack of diversity in mainstream media ownership, many minority groups are heavily reliant on the Internet as a platform where they are able to share personal experiences, acquire objective information, and battle discrimination. Without access to a platform that ensures the equal validation of all voices, the LGBTQ community, people of colour, and religious minorities will all lose the valuable representation and recognition they have fought so hard to attain. In a society devoid of Net Neutrality, ISPs will have the power to block messages from these groups, suppressing freedom of speech and evoking the potential distortion and dehumanisation of such cherished communities. Despite FCC’s claims that

quality

users will benefit from broadband developments funded by these fundamentally oppressive new regulations, they fail to highlight the negative consequences consumers will be dealt due to this disastrous decision. In 2014, prior to clear laws protecting Net Neutrality, Netflix was forced to pay numerous ISPs to combat absurdly slow Internet speeds. While these deals did coincide with a leap in Netflix’s connection speeds, they also prompted a price surge in subscription fees for American users (Kastrenakes, 2017). As Net Neutrality is once again in peril, consumers are at risk of being strong-armed into paying more money for identical content to satisfy the unquenchable greed of ISPs. The Internet has continued to thrive as an essential platform to social development due to the even playing field it creates for all users. When this equality is cruelly revoked, what remains is a hierarchy based on wealth, removing all remnants of the egalitarian values the Internet was founded upon. Start-up businesses will be particularly burdened when their individual worth becomes defined by the revenue they can offer ISPs. The genius of a social network such as Facebook, which emerged inconspicuously from a college dorm room to the billion-dollar enterprise we know it as today, would not even be a possibility in today’s climate if Net Neutrality laws are abolished. The drastic consequence of this would be the Internet ceasing to function as a platform where entrepreneurship can truly flourish, which would have devastating repercussions on the global economy. Net Neutrality is a vital social right that until now we have merely taken for granted. To protect our wallets and our freedom, it is crucial that we resist the attempts of merciless companies who seek to dominate the market and control our Internet access. As consumers, we must continue the critical fight for Net Neutrality to prevent our rights from being discarded in favour of the highest bidder. It is time that we all take a stand – our digital lives are at stake.

MASTERPIECES

Museè D’Orsay FROM THE

he Colours of Impressionism is an exclusive exhibition featuring a collection of eg masterpieces from over sixty renowned Impressionist artists, which is currently available for viewing at the Art Gallery of South Australia until July 29th. From the devout lovers of art to those who are merely curious, an abundance of people from all walks of life have already made the journey to the art gallery to purchase a ticket and admire some of the most visually appealing works of all time.

But what really is Impressionism? And why is it such a big deal that an exhibition celebrating this subject matter is now here in Adelaide? Impressionism is an art movement that began in late nineteenth century France, having originally been rejected from high art society because of the difference from the hyper-realism that was so treasured during that contentious time period. The name ‘Impressionism’ was given to the movement because of the blurry and undefined appearance of its art pieces that gave the spectator an ‘impression’ of what each piece was portraying.

I visited the exhibition as an avid art lover and artist myself, and I could only stare in wide-eyed wonder as I wandered through halls that were bursting with an abundance of gorgeous compositions. Being in the presence of all the masters of such an iconic art movement that I cherish so fondly instilled in me a sense of awe that was a lot to take in. As I slowly made my pilgrimage through each room, learning about the progression of the movement as well as the variety of techniques that accompanied it, my admiration only grew stronger. This exhibition will only be available for viewing in Adelaide for several more months before all the illustrious pieces are sent back to the Museè D’Orsay in Paris from whence they originated, so make sure to experience this unforgettable showcase before it is too late.

Written by Francine Legaspi

Written by Janna Tapales

take flight, swooping left and right. Embarking from my warm nest of security, I let my wings take me adrift, the cool wind kissing my gentle tamed feathers, spreading whispers as I navigate through these streets. The dusty road leads me, adorned with cracks like pulsing veins, framed by young trees bending in the breeze. I stop and peer at the houses around me, all made of stone: red, brown, and grey. Like sisters, the houses seem similar, with the same pointed roofs and verandahs that hug their homes in a tight embrace, yet I know better. The house on the corner is sheltered by the shadow of its jungle, with shrubs spilling over the fence and gum nuts imprinting the streets like droplets of rain. I can hear the echo of excited children in the distance, their shrieks radiating through the street. Their father runs after them, like a farmer chasing his hens, but their nimble legs outrace him. Their infectious laughter bubbles in my ears – their pure happiness is sweet like honey. They are two of the few children on this street, their youth transcending any boundaries created by the people around them. Barefoot, they swing from the trees they climb – they jump so high as if they are trying to reach the sky. The ravenous curiosity of their young souls is yet to be tamed, and their young minds are so free. Oh, it’s such a sight to see!

Folia Across the street, a woman leans on her fence to harvest the bountiful fruit of her lemon tree. She grips the fruit in her callused hands, marked by decades of rugged tree trunks and stained by the rich earth that they weave themselves into. Through her window, I can see scintillating treats adorning her table, teasing me, the marvelous sights and smells of her home intertwining to tantalize all my senses. I find myself trailing the scent as I perch in one of her many trees. An olive tree, with sulking branches weighed down with budding leaves and dark fruit like gleaming eyes, hang poised, as if forgetting how to fall. Around me, aromatic herbs, plump fruit, and glistening vegetables collude to form a small farm in this couple’s garden, with thick vines travelling across their fence to create a canvas for green jewels of grapes to caress. Their sparkling flesh tempt me, but her voice lures me out of my daze, low and melodic, and she directs her words at her husband, a stout man with a gleeful disposition. They converse in their mother tongue, sweet songs of Greek travelling across their tongues. ‘Soon they’ll be here,’ she says. Over the fence, I hear the tread of light footsteps coming from a home, an elegant swirl of creamy stone and ivory hued beams. A small woman emerges from the delicate archway framing the door – she is no bigger than that of an adolescent, but the gentle creases greeting her eyes allude to the subtleties of her age.

Her husband follows her from behind – slow in rhythm yet equipped with quick searching eyes – he trails over every curve of their home. He looms over her, juxtaposing her small frame as she intertwines his lean fingers with hers, leading him away from their home. She is his protector, the last of his memories of the world he used to live in. Her sweet scent and soft Italian whispers guide him through each new day. As they reach the door of the fragrant home, he asks her where they are, oblivious of the countless summer days his children spent running through its halls and winter nights when his rich laughter would shake its walls. She parts her lips ready to answer, but the door opens, new faces greeting him once again. From my branch, I see them cross the street, the family from 67a, a humble home framed by a spectrum of roses, from the lightest blush of spring to the intoxicating petals of the red summer roses. Their daughter walks behind, sheepishly cradling a cake, while her brothers fidget ahead of her, arguing over their day at school. Her parents reach the door and call out to her, ‘Hurry Janna!’ The couple welcome them with tender hugs and kisses, letting each enter one by one through the narrow door. I gaze as they arrange themselves around the table, already consumed by the vivid recounts of their daily trials and tribulations, only managing small bites inbetween words. They speak in a haphazard of tongues, with English sentences interjected by Greek descriptions about Italian phrases all in thick accents, yet it doesn’t stop them. The people around them are merely neighbours, strangers passing by. But they are more. They are three generations, three families, three stories all intertwined into one.

SENBAZURU Written by Fei Stokes

t is your six month anniversary, and you are nervous. You meet her in the same spot you had first met, feeling the same way you had that first time – your heart choking in your throat, your breath fluttering in your lungs.

Yes, yes, yes, your heart cries, and at the same time, No. You manage a lopsided smile. ‘Sure,’ you tell her. ‘Go ahead.’ Your throat is dry, choking the sounds before they can emerge. They are limp, flightless birds that flop and fall before they can fly.

Like a treasure hunter about to discover sumptuous jewels. Like someone opening a small velvety box to find a diamond ring. She looks beautiful and alive. She looks ready.

You see her head bobbing through the crowd in the distance, and your chest instinctively constricts. Shifting slightly, you look down at the box in your hands as it gives a slight rustle.

Her fingers trail down from your cheek, along your arm, and finally reach your hand. The caring caress makes you shiver. Twining her fingers between yours, she pulls you along to sit in the warm grass. The sun has baked it so that a warm hay-smell rises up from the soft blades. The sunlight hits her hair at the perfect angle for her flyaway angel wisps to glow into a golden halo.

She opens it.

She’s closer now, looking radiant – brilliant. The box is light, its weight barely noticeable, but right now it bores down in your hands with the weight of the world. Your heart is in this box. As she approaches, you stop breathing for a moment. Wordlessly, you hold it out to her. It’s a nondescript offering. The plain cardboard looks nothing like the bejewelled chest that should be holding a sacred treasure such as this. She smiles and you feel like you’re going to die. She mouths a greeting that you can hardly hear over the hammering crescendo of your heartbeat.

You cannot breathe and cannot think.

A flock of origami cranes bursts out, all rustling paper wings in a thousand bright colours. They swirl around her in a living rainbow, dipping, diving, tucking and gliding, touching her face and hands and hair in a thousand tiny kisses. They glow. She glows.

She sits cross-legged with the box laid out in front of her.

Emblazoned a thousand times over on their fragile wings, in words you could write but never speak, she sees it.

Her hands are on the lid.

And she smiles across the flock at you.

The placement of her hands, the tilt of her head, and her very bearing itself hint at her anticipation. She looks, you think, like an explorer looks when they first step off a ship onto a new land.

And she loves you too.

You say ‘hi’, trying to sound casual, but she knows you too well. Looking down at the box resting between your hands, she takes it. The action feels solemn, yet significant. It feels like a sacrifice – a gift. It is a weight off your shoulders. A load off your back. She looks at you. She understands. As she reaches for the lid, you flinch. A thousand doubts cascade down, drowning you in a sea of insecurity. What if she doesn’t like it? What if it’s too much? Too soon? Too eager? What if she doesn’t – ? You flash back through dozens of memories. Those times alone in your room at night, missing her, missing her, missing her. Wondering if she felt the same. Holding the phone, hovering over call. Not calling. Never calling. You are too desperate – too needy. You take up too much of her time. She doesn’t want you – not like this – never like this. You’re not good enough. You’ll only drag her down. A touch on your cheek startles you. Your eyes flick upwards, meeting hers. They are warm, dancing, and bright. Her hand is soft. She brushes a lock of hair back behind your ear. She’s asking if she should open this now.

Flowers Courtesy of DrawingSketchLibrary

Set Fire to The Stars Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ poem ‘Love in the Asylum’

Photo Credit Allan Swart, White Padded Cell

Written by Kim Van

he ambience was one of melancholy, but instead I felt giddiness in anticipation. The euphoria rose in my throat, escaping in fits of deep, breathy laughs that were sure to disturb the man with whom I must share this room. For the commune to call me “mad as birds” was indeed correct. Now I must suffer for this fact, trapped in these confines by those who regard me pitifully, all for my rebellion against social norms. I looked to my companion, who returned my curious gaze with harsh scrutiny. As his eyes bore into my figure, my heart surged before the entirety of my being shook in another rapturous frenzy. Nothing could compare to the intensity he exuded. He was always there, watching my every move, seemingly fascinated by this crazy girl who was forced into the same predicament he endured. From time to time, there were shifts in his stares – his eyes would darken, he would pinch his lips together, or he would simply bite his cheek in discomfort. My temperament would fluctuate often, enough to baffle even the greatest psychologists. I would want him to disappear so as to leave me in the comfort of my own isolation – I would simultaneously want to hurt him in the worst possible way and gaze longingly at him, imagining how I would feel to be wrapped in his secure arms.

He has memorised all my habits and tendencies through constant surveillance and scrutiny. He can pinpoint the exact moment my innocent daydreaming transforms into a state of selfdestructive inertia. He knows when the nightmares have overwhelmed my fragile mentality, because my slippers are already at the foot of bed, ready for me to pace around the room in a futile attempt to dispel my trepidation. I elude the restriction of a straitjacket on these occasions, simply because his word of mouth remains deathly silent. My anxiety from the night before would dissipate the following morning, when the brightest, biggest star in our universe emerged and blissful birds chirruped and sung melodies in the trees. The tiniest sliver of sunlight, which slithered through the tiniest window high above our heads, brought me the tiniest amount of comfort. It was the kind of relief I sought when sneaking away from the ward to wander the vast corridors, encountering other men just as misunderstood as me. I did not make any attempts to conceal the marks their lips left – the purples, pinks, and reds that scorched my skin.

I discerned that he was disturbed by my nightly activities. His eyes gleamed in the dark, narrowing at my reappearing figure each time – his lips pursed and on the verge of spitting out words intended to hurt me just as I did to him. His figure radiated an overwhelming sense of melancholy, which made me sickeningly giddy with delight. I should have felt remorse, regret, or guilt, but atonement evaded my very being. The salty intrusion of tears from his expression only served to fuel my desires. There were more men, more sinful rendezvous and quiet sniffles stifled from the other side of the room upon my return. Loyal to a fault, he remained my plaything. Eventually, when the nightmares became too much, I stopped pacing, preferring to alleviate the anguish in the narrow confines of his bed instead. Nestled in the security his presence provided, I felt sated. This was a different kind of relief – one that did not emerge from the rising sun, nor materialise through debauchery. I lost myself in the comfort of his arms. His brightness illuminated the distasteful darkness in my being, and I greedily absorbed the light in fear that it would disappear lest he comes to his senses. I am not perfect, far from it in fact. I do not deserve this man who has bared his heart and soul to me. As I look into his familiar eyes, I can think of one thing only… We will set fire to the stars

A Father’s Plea Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ poem, ‘Do not go gentle into that good night’

Written by Leah Triantafyllos am confined by the stark white walls and suffocated by the sanitary scent. The intermittent screeching of the trolleys only serves to accentuate my anxiety. The nurses’ frantic pacing down the corridors and routine shuffling of patient charts serve as nothing but a bitter memento of what has now become my way of life. Catching glimpses of the weary faces visiting their loved ones is an all too familiar cycle. The inconsolable sobbing that echoes from the neighbouring rooms fuels my rage. Why has fate chosen to punish me this way? Perhaps my deeds in a former life have come back to haunt my soul and the fruits of my loin have paid the ultimate price. I will not allow a youthful life to go unnoticed without the battle it deserves. Why don’t the doctors stand behind the oath they solemnly take? Their token efforts do not go unnoticed. Dayby-day, I plead with them to do more than the mere necessities, however, my desperate attempts fall on deaf ears like a pin drop to a seamstress. Despite the unbearable pain and anguish that besets me, I will not stand for him being treated like a deep-seated scar that no amount of sorrow can heal. Why won’t fate take me in his place?

His laboured breaths send a chill down my spine. His bright green eyes now stare indifferently and dull, while his once youthful, athletic physique now resembles a cadaverous figure. The darkness beneath his eyes contrasts against his now pale, gaunt complexion, while his hands remain motionless from fatigue due to the debilitating illness. He must rage against the nurse’s sympathetic smiles and pedantic efforts to comfort.

Their hopeless, pragmatic manner infuriates me, adding salt to my crippling wound. He is simply another pathetic patient to them, whose futile battle will inevitably culminate in defeat. If it was their own lying labouredly in the hospital bed, would they silently surrender or rage against the fight between life and death? I strongly object to their accepting nature, which acts as a catalyst towards my son’s inconceivable demise. His feeble voice reveals his tragic sense of hopelessness, despite my efforts to remind him of the promising future that lies ahead. The emotions he has not yet encountered: love, fear, passion, and perhaps even betrayal. No sane father would willingly accept the unjust loss of their precious child before his own death. Existing without a son is a burden no parent should ever have to bear. I will rage against this cruel reality – I will give him strength to rage against the dying of the light! As each day passes, the sight of my deteriorating son creates an indescribable, sickening feeling, but I cannot let him give in and lose the fight. A life so young and tender should always have the chance to dance in the night.

My selfish need to maintain his existence negates the overwhelmingly conclusive medical advice to let him go. They simply cannot understand the soul-shattering decision of consenting to another’s death. How can someone who barely has the capacity to breathe, be eligible to dictate their future? He is slowly fading, akin to a passing cloud before a thunderstorm. We must rage against what others see as inevitable defeat. One must have the courage to fight hard for life rather than welcome an easy death. Misfortune has burdened me with the weight of the world on my shoulders, for a life without my son is like removing the moon from a sky of dark hues. Without the determination to fight, how will he go on? With the dawning of each day, I fear my prayers go unanswered. I not only ask for forgiveness of my sins, but also that no other parent should ever have to endure such agonising pain. I pray that my son is given the strength to rise against all odds and rage against the darkness beckoning him. A strength so relentless that death would surrender and knock on another’s door. It is as if death has come like a thief to steal an innocent life, though nothing will halt me from guarding that door. A life so young should live until immortality appears beyond the bounds of possibility. Do not go gentle into that good night.

Fragments Inspired by Paul Auster’s novella, ‘City of Glass’

Written by Dain Lee

ou see, the world is in fragments, and it’s my job to put it back together again. As I stand here, the cold bites beneath my grip, while the warmth of my blood is unable to thaw my freezing hands. Each crease that runs along my hands tells the story of discovery and creation – the inauguration of language sewing itself together slowly, after all, language made whole again. My feet curl upon the edge like the feet of a ballerina. She prepares for her final leap, she will jump, and forever she will soar – the great blue moon will greet her, their dance an affair of eternity. Here, I will take my final leap, and I will fall, fall as Alice fell, my rabbit-hole leading me to the doorsteps of God.

Seldom do I think of her, but today she comes to mind. How nice it would have been if she were here now, our descent to God turned into an act of two. And you, my dear son, my little Peter, thoughts of you drift in my mind more often than not. Sometimes they come in dreams, where I sit in an empty room, my eyes desperately trying again and again to adjust to the darkness. They search desperately for something that isn’t there – perhaps a door or maybe a window – but only the bleak black smothers my eyes, illustrating a room where no light enters nor exits. This is a room where light has never existed. To dreams like these, I wake with a cry, my brain telling my eyes that I am still in that room, and that there can only be darkness. I sit, desperate and lost, drowning in the storms of my dreams and reality. In a matter of moments, I will be back again, back to the comfort of the steel bars surrounding me, the warmth of golden honey spilling between my fingers from a small square above my head.

The haunting of my dreams is merely a picture book compared to yours. For each page in my book was a day in your life. Light was a concept you did not believe, could not understand, but I believed in you. For you were my light – you were my key, and you. my dear boy, you were my son. So I believed in the light that you contained – I believed in the gold in your hair, the sky in your eyes, and the voice of a child. A child’s voice can be anything, for it can transform, learn, and create words that we cannot comprehend, nor try to understand as adults. But from the voice of a child can come the voice of God. If man’s language was not what you heard, would it not be the words of God that you would speak? And if you had spoken the words of God, would you not be considered the child of his words? So, I do not regret, for what greater gift could I have given, than the chance to speak the words of God? I do not regret, though saddened I may be. Saddened by each scar drawn on your skin, for you were my canvas, my brush drenched in dark red paint. In those moments the pungent stench hung in the room, overwhelming the darkness, for you and I were both suffocating in our own blood. My brush has dried itself done now – the muscles in my hands barely have enough strength to clench the metal bar against my back. Your body is now a gallery of paintings I have created. They are all I have to give, and for this I am sorry. But please, do understand, this is my final sacrifice – it is a sacrifice that will change the world. If only you knew how many had come to misunderstand me. They do not understand that my hands are worn of embodiment, that each crease tells the story of discovery and creation – the inauguration of language sewing itself together slowly,

Ni co ght S urt hif esy t of

rt P

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Why is the film so important? FRANKIE: It’s the normalisation of being LGBT+ all because we’re people too. FEI: And because it wasn’t this huge, tragic, LGBT+ romance where the central characters end up dead or separated or married to other people – it was just a normal, sweet story. FRANKIE: They shot the ‘bury-your-gays’ trope right in the head! I was so happy! FEI: It was exactly the same as any normal American rom com we’d get, but with refreshingly featuring a gay lead. That was it a normal film. FRANKIE: Most of it wasn’t even about the protagonist coming out, but rather about this love story between him and his secret pen pal, Blue, and yet it was so much more than that at the same time.

Is it good representation for LGBT+ youth? FEI: HECK YES! What was the film about? FRANKIE: It’s about 17-year-old Simon, a closeted gay teen, who starts a secret pen-pal email relationship with ‘Blue’, another closeted boy at school. When someone finds his emails he gets threatened with blackmail and the story… rolls from there.

Why did you see it? FRANKIE: I saw it because the subject is super important to me. I am a part of the LGBT+ community, and seeing a teen film that had a gay protagonist, normalising the coming out process was really refreshing instead of the exaggerated emotional struggle that is usually seen in these kinds of films.

FRANKIE: Yeah! I felt that I related to Simon a lot and to all the little inside jokes in the film. The director himself is a gay man and he cried seeing this film too because he needed this story. FEI: It wasn’t even that whole thing about ‘UGH, I can’t come out because my parents are homophobic.’ It was just ‘I can’t come out because it’s awkward and it’s uncomfortable and I don’t want to and I shouldn’t have to’. FRANKIE: And ‘I don’t want them to see me as someone else just because my sexuality has changed’. FEI: And that’s exactly how it is in real life! A lot of people don’t come out and it’s not because of religious reasons or because they’re scared of being abused, but because it’s weird, and it’s hard

FEI: Yeah, it’s really typical for LGBT+ youth to automatically watch anything and everything that has even a tiny bit of gay in it… FRANKIE: It’s a desperate grab. FEI: It’s because we tend to look for things that we can relate to and things we see ourselves in, just like everyone else. So that’s why Love, Simon was such an important film for us to watch.

How did you feel about the film? FRANKIE: I cried seven times while watching this movie. FEI: That’s a very precise number! FRANKIE: I counted the times when I was fully sobbing. I was crying all throughout the film but those seven times were where I truly felt the emotion. FEI: I’m not one to cry during films but there were specific moments in this one that I did, because I could see myself experiencing what he was going through. I was like, ‘I wish I’d had that, - what would it have done for me?’ Just some of the scenes where he comes out to people… FRANKIE: It was just so emotionally moving. FEI: I was not expecting to like the film as much as I did. I thought it would be too much of a stereotypical clichéd teen romance. But it was exactly what we needed and what we wanted. It captured the awkwardness of everything in real life too. There was also this sense of reality to it that’s often hard to find in teen romance films.

Do you have to be LGBT+ to watch this film? FRANKIE: No, everybody can watch it! FEI: It comes across as a ‘film for gay people’ but it’s really just a teen coming-of-age film. FRANKIE: You don’t have to be gay or bisexual to relate to it, because anyone can feel what Simon’s feeling, and anyone can sympathise with it. FEI: We know straight people who’ve seen it, and they have cried too.

FRANKIE: They loved it and this has been further exemplified by the massively positive response on the Internet! And in theatres where audiences cried and cheered. FEI: Straight people should watch it because they’ll potentially learn and understand more about LGBT+ communities. FRANKIE: And understand our experiences and the things that we can face and see it as normal. I feel like that’s the whole thing is to see it as normal and experience this great love story. FEI: Don’t think about whether it’s a film for straight people or gay people. It’s just a film for teenagers. FRANKIE: It doesn’t matter because it’s a great love story and that’s all that matters. FEI: #loveislove