College Crow, Semester 2, 2023 by PLC Sydney

PLC Sydney’s Student Magazine | Semester 2, 2023

Contents From the Editors

memory watching: was, is, will

3 Staff Coordinator: Ms Kathryn Munro. 5 Assistant Editors/Proofreaders: Katarina Ahmed (Year 11), Jocelyn

Farsickness

6 Victoria Chan (Year 9), Alyssa Chang (Year 10), Nancy Chen (Year 9),

Our Waltz

8 11), Chloe He (Year 9), Isabelle Ho Shon (Year 11), Aileen Kim (Year

Paint

10 Anastasia Prokhorov (Year 11), Chrysty Salla (Year 9), Elizabeth Song

Moulin Shrek, or:

11 (Year 11), Angelina Wang (Year 9), Carolyn Wang (Year 11), Cindy

A Lifetime We Won’t Forget

14 Yu (Year 11).

Nostalgia

16 Design/Layout: Anshita Baijal (Year 11), Lulu Catalano (Year 9), Yilan

The Daily Bull

18 Huang (Year 10), Amanda Huang (Year 9), Jasmine Huang (Year 9),

Book Recommendations Corner

20 Isabella Loo (Year 10), Abigail Ong (Year 11), Lola Pittams (Year 8),

College Crow Riddle Page

Arkapaw (Year 11), Anshita Baijal (Year 11), Lulu Catalano (Year 9),

Yu Ting Chen (Year 9), Stephanie Chew (Year 10), Natasha Chuan (Year 11), Chloe Kwok (Year 10), Euna Oh (Year 10), Abigail Ong (Year 11),

(Year 10), Maggie Su (Year 8), Katelyn Tsourdalakis (Year 8), Claire Van Wang (Year 10), Rachel Yang (Year 10), Ziqi Yang (Year 9), Jacqueline

Chow (Year 10), Alison Fang (Year 11), Isabella Fu (Year 9), Aileen Amy Jia (Year 8), Sahana Kumar (Year 8), Kristine Liu (Year 10),

Sasha Prokhorov (Year 11), Chiara Saad (Year 8), Reina Shi (Year 10). College Crow Committee: Katarina Ahmed (Year 11), Jocelyn Arkapaw

Canon Events from our Childhood 23 (Year 11), Anshita Baijal (Year 11), Priyanka (Priya) Bhadri (Year 9), Sugar Coated

Memories

In the Midst of Memory

Chanel No. 5

Ranking & Rating 10 Iconic Nostalgic Childhood TV Shows

The Onion Family

Orchid

never to be lost

on becoming your mother

Lumbini (Lulu) Catalano (Year 9), Hannah Chalmers (Year 7), Olivia Chan (Year 11), Victoria Chan (Year 9), Alyssa Chang (Year 10), Nancy Chen (Year 9), Siyi (Selina) Chen (Year 7), Yu Ting Chen (Year 9), Stephanie Chew (Year 10), Yilan Chow (Year 10), Natasha Chuan (Year 11), Emily Doust (Year 9), Alison Fang (Year 11), Isabella Fu (Year 9), Jasmine Gifford (Year 10), Sophie Graham (Year 10), Johanna Grogan (Year 8), Chloe He (Year 9), Isabelle Ho Shon (Year 11), Zi Fei Iris (Iris) Hon (Year 8), Aileen Huang (Year 10), Jasmine Huang (Year 9), Qirun (Amanda) Huang (Year 9), Xinran (Ruby) Huang (Year 10), Xiaofan (Amy) Jia (Year 8), Emelie (M) Johansson (Year 11), Sophia Kelleher (Year 9), Aileen Kim (Year 11), Kate Kim (Year 11), Zoe Kopczyk (Year 11), Sahana Kumar (Year 8), Chloe Kwok (Year 10), Kristine Liu (Year 10), Annika Lo (Year 9), Isabella Loo (Year 10), Anastasia Mouzos (Year 9), Do Quyen (Quyen) Nguyen (Year 8), Euna Oh (Year 10), Abigail Ong (Year 11), Lola Pittams (Year 8), Alexandra (Sasha) Prokhorov (Year 11), Anastasia Prokhorov (Year 11), Yolanda Qiao (Year 10), Chiara Saad (Year 8), Chrysolite (Chrysty) Salla (Year 9), Reina Shi (Year 10), Jae Won (Elizabeth) Song (Year 10), Maggie Su (Year 8), Katelyn Tsourdalakis (Year 8), Helena Tuo (Year 7), Claire Van (Year 11), Danielle Vo (Year 9), Angelina Wang (Year 9), Anna Wang (Year 11), Carolyn Wang (Year 11), Cindy Wang (Year 10), Mimi Williams (Year 11), Youtan (Rachel) Yang (Year 10), Ziqi Yang (Year 9), Tanika Young (Year 10), Jacqueline Yu (Year 11), Cathy Zeng (Year 10). Front cover illustration: Isabella Loo (Year 10). Back cover illustration: Sophie Graham (Year 10). Page 4: Illustration by Priya Bhadri (Year 9). Page 13: Illustration by Anna Wang (Year 11). Pages 32-33: Background illustration by Jasmine Gifford (Year 10), left page illustration by Danielle Vo (Year 9), right page illustration by Zoe Kopczyk (Year 11). Stock images: Elements throughout magazine provided by Canva.

View the Semester 2 2023 College Crow magazine online:

The College Crow Committee!

Check out past editions of College Crow: PLACES / College Crow Tile

From the Editors Some thoughts from our 2023-2024 Publications Co-Captains, Kate Kim and Zoe Kopczyk.

I am mesmerised that I am able to witness many of the efforts in the lead-up to finalising the College Crow magazine. It feels like I am almost adopting the role of an omniscient narrator! I am incredibly proud of the College Crow Committee for all their efforts and contributions to this latest edition. The theme for this semester is ‘Nostalgia’, one that is intriguing but also challenging. Nostalgia encompasses many ideas and connotations, and every individual is bound to have different interpretations. From reminiscing about your childhood, to revitalising memories of watching Shrek or Disney movies, we all have nostalgia that overwhelms us with emotions. There has been a wide range of creative contributions from the committee, as you’ll see in the magazine, from the classic Daily Bull, to captivating short stories, to exquisite illustrations. Everything that you see in this edition, regardless of how coherent or abstract, reflects nostalgia, but in different forms and shapes. I hope that the girls keep on writing, illustrating, editing and designing - however big or small your contributions - they are all integral to the final product! And of course, huge thanks to my co-captain Zoe for her incredible efforts in arranging and finalising the magazine! I am so glad to work alongside you and see the remarkable final product we have invested endless time and work into. Also, a big thank you to Ms Munro for organising everything and making our workload lighter! Without you, this magazine would not have been successfully completed! Thank you for your incessant support and guidance in aiding Zoe and I to fulfil our roles as Publications Captains! I am so grateful to be a part of an amazing team of students who have all poured sweat and tears into this edition! I hope everybody enjoys reading this magazine, and perhaps, you will end up reminiscing about your own nostalgia. ~ Kate ~

This term, working with the College Crow Committee, has given me the opportunity to see a vast array of different works of art. Whether it be written or visual, the girls of the committee have done an excellent job weaving their thoughts and ideas into creative pieces that I hope they are proud of. This semester, I believe, was a particularly challenging one, with the theme of ‘Nostalgia’ acting as the stimuli for the committee’s pieces. Nostalgia means something different to everyone, so presenting something to the rest of the school that you believe fits the idea of nostalgia can be very daunting! We’ve seen many a take on the idea, from childhood movies and toys to memories with friends and family, or the faux nostalgia for the 80s that many of Gen Z, including myself, seem to have! From this difficult stimuli, the works the team have created take unique spins on the conventions of the idea, and I’m very proud of them all! We’ve seen many different creative approaches, from brainstorming in large circles to frantic scribbles on a whiteboard, to simply keeping ideas to oneself and letting them flow naturally, each method has worked to benefit the magazine as a whole! A big thank you to the College Crow Committee for their hard work this semester writing, editing, designing and illustrating! Another big thanks to my co-captain Kate for aiding in the organisation of the magazine, and helping me interact with the other students and collate all of their ideas! You’ve been a great help and motivator! And a huge thanks to Ms Munro for helping both Kate and I with the intricacies and difficulties that come with all the organisation required to keep this committee a well-oiled machine. Thank you for answering all our questions, no matter how small or silly, and guiding us to better understand this role! I hope those reading enjoy this edition in whatever way they like! Whether that be skipping immediately to The Onion Family or Daily Bull, reading through all the amazing stories and poems, or gawking at the fantastic artwork made by our fellow students! I am so happy to be a part of this issue with such talented people! ~ Zoe ~

memory watching: was, is, will Written by Kate Kim (Year 11).

rusty scent hovering, photographic incandescence, images flickering unconsciously, filtering expired air.

chapter 0

taste of strawberries and cream, vivid – traces of savoury famine, eyes inviting pink, yellow, blue – no other, this overture caramelised.

chapter 0.1

fingers oppressed by the screen, the gram – a lifeline, sprinkled letters, caked words, anonymity – the prime key.

chapter _

bare decades gone, a crane circling above, air evaporating – condensing, visceral incandescence.

Farsickness Written by Sahana Kumar (Year 8), illustration by Cathy Zeng (Year 10).

She could hear them faintly, those sounds. She could hear them as if they were murmuring to her through a closed door, muted, as though they were not real, as though they had never existed to begin with. In her semiconscious state, she heard an unmistakable sound. George must have kissed Jane, because she felt the warmth that everybody must feel when they hear Jane’s laugh. Her friend had a way about her of making someone love her. It was impossible not to love a person with no malice or pretension. She felt envy towards Jane. She felt its green, crawling shape festering within her, begging to be let out. But she couldn’t. Her friendship with Jane was precious. There was something Jane had that no one else did, something you never missed but upon seeing her you realised you were sorely lacking. It was just that she did not know what exactly she wished to remove her envy of. It was frustrating not knowing what frustrated you about someone. She was sitting by a small windowsill in the spare room, leaning on a cushion while Jane celebrated her engagement at the gathering in the house. Suddenly she felt disgusted with herself. It was not often she felt any deep emotion; it rattled her, and she got up abruptly, her body’s imprint left in the cushion. She inspected it for a moment, her nose crinkling with self-loathing, or despair, or both. She slipped out quietly through the back door, and followed the well-trodden path to the harbour. Her only aim was to escape her own bitter thoughts for a while. She was so uncommonly flustered she did not notice the new spring roses, peeking out of their buds, their dusky skin and sweet scent. Nor did she see the sun, a mass of hazy pink and gold, soon to go under the horizon. If she felt normal, she would have remembered the place she came to to escape

thoughts of Jane was the place Jane came every evening without fail. Jane refused to take anyone with her. Once she had followed her, unseen, and even she had left, half frightened and awed by the look on Jane’s face. She took a seat in a comfortable little nook next to the dock and buried her face in her arms awhile. The fishermen brought their catch in at noon, and the sailors returned after weeks, if they ever did. That was the advantage of living in Jane’s why-must-I-climb-up-the-hill house all your life, she told herself, and what an advantage it was. It was then that she saw it. At first she thought Doomsday had come, but the old gossips had been saying that since… well, a long time, so she shrugged it off. It was the sunset. How could she not have realised how a sunset looked? It dawned on her that she had never seen the sunset from the harbour, and very seldom from the house. It had always been Jane’s spot, but she was here now and she knew suddenly what she envied Jane for. Jane always came home after her harbour visits with that queer sense of longing in her eyes, but she sensed that even Jane did not know what she longed for. To see the sun slowly dip with infinite grace, to see its rays shine onto her face, illuminating it with pure, unadulterated light. To see the harbour ripple, even for seconds, as if it were a cloth of the finest gold. To see the ships’ prows bob up and down in their curtseys to the sunset for another end to the daily miracle of beauty. To see all this was to see the world in a new light. To see what she was missing, the elegance of Paris and the gondolas of Venice. But she would never see them, and would always be Peter West’s orphan girl up the hill, Jane West’s best friend. But she knew something else. She knew that those places existed, and would yearn for them all her life, but never quite believed that

they could be more sweet and dear as the sunset on the harbour that night. An invisible cord had connected her to Jane that night. She slowly understood Jane’s spells of moodiness, her wistful silences, her daydreaming. She was to have them too, both of those dreamers who saw the world in all its beauty and were always eager to see more. She got up from the stone seat she had found herself and climbed back up the harbour path, this time rejoicing in everything she saw before her. This time, she stopped to exclaim over the roses. She rubbed a petal softly between her thumb and forefinger and marvelled at the fact that, before now, she had never even thought to look. Finally she reached the paddock gate, opened it, and walked the last few steps to the front door. Later, she wondered whether she came to the front door by intention or whether she truly wanted to cause a fuss. As soon as she rang the bell, she registered dimly that the piano had stopped. Jane opened the door with no small confusion. The aforesaid old gossips were to talk over the day with puzzlement. No one could understand why Becky Milton had gone out the back door and come in the front door at Jane West’s engagement party. Becky answered the questions posed to her with little detail and the utmost sincerity. She did not want to share her thoughts with anyone but one person just then. The questions subsided quickly, more quickly than they normally would have, for she looked as if she had undergone a great transformation. Her figure held itself with its previous erectness of bearing, but there was a loosening in her shoulders, and a softness to the set of her lips that could be attributed to that night. She smiled at Jane, telling her that she knew what Jane knew and would bear that blessing which was also a cross her entire life. That deep ache for some place, any place, a place unknown. When she saw Jane’s answering smile, she knew that she would never feel envious of Jane again.

Our Waltz Written by Stephanie Chew and Aileen Huang (Year 10) Illustrated by Isabella Loo (Year 10)

Your eyes were like the galaxy And I gazed into them, lost, Mesmerised by the beauty Of a long-forsaken past. And I asked you For a moonlit dance as the stars watched the daylight die. Time’s footsteps echo across empty hallways; Void of memory; nameless, deserted, buried And my still heart beats along To the rhythm Of a forgotten place. You took my hand, and your words were my melody The hours passed fleetingly, and I reach out to grasp them now; But I’m left with the shadow of a memory of what once was With nothing more than a whisper Of the sweet-tinted waltzes. A sunset painted with the colours That time stole away Faded, dark, black and white. You could see the sunsets, twisting Colours of the night even on the darkest days. I remember the cherry blossoms Their sweet scent and bittersweetness They were beautiful while they lasted, their fresh petals hanging; Yet they withered as they died; a short beauty And I’m reminded that I am a scattered droplet amongst the ocean. 8

My whole world was you; You were my story; and I, I was only a chapter in yours; A line, a footnote, a fleeting moment A shattered fragment of the past. Don’t hold onto me, the false hope, The empty promises And dream that we have forever. I’m just a breath of the past A floating wind that can’t find its place. You are the light of my world You brightened up the darkest shadows of my soul I showed you the parts of me I showed no one else. My wings are broken, now, and I will not fly again in your rays; I’ve fallen, crashed into the Earth, a life held by a string. And I am left Clutching, holding, clinging Onto the broken threads That nobody seems to want; living In this constant struggle. My symphony has ended long ago Dreaming of the past and yearning for the future; But yours is only one page in, And you may dance another waltz Alongside one who is not me. Nothing can bind a grieving heart; They say the quietness of death comes knocking At your door in the stillness of the night But your time has come not yet; do not linger onto me For death has long ago already rung my bell.

Paint

Written by Chloe He (Year 9), illustration by Iris Hon (Year 8). Paint held memories, just as easily as it could wipe them. Pink had watched over my childhood. It had been chosen carefully at the ripe age of five, scanning over the paint swatches, until I chose a palette of three shades that would define my room until the day I left. Pink had watched me grow from kindergarten ‘til high school, watching my highs, my lows. If these walls could talk, pink would’ve been my closest childhood friend. Green for growth, for freshness, for life. Green holds the future. When I moved houses, to an unfamiliar room with the same walls, I had thought of green. From the sweet pinks to moody sage greens, life had changed, leaving nostalgia and vestiges of green tea leaves. Paint was supposed to, would’ve, made the room come to life, just as it used to. And yet with the shifting years, so did my walls. I’m old enough to leave behind painted walls. And so my rooms, past and present, remain white. The white that hides the pink. The white that awaits green. A blank canvas, awaiting memories, a fresh start, rubbing out what used to be and leaving what could be. Paint that wipes, paint that holds. So as I watch the paint drip, I wonder is it dripping nostalgia or future dreams?

Moulin Shrek, or:

Written by Alison Fang, illustrations by Anna Wang (Year 11). With all the knowledge of Moulin Rouge! afforded to me by a basic awareness of Year 11 Advanced English*, I began the task of matching the Moulin Rouge! cast to their Shrek counterparts, one fateful Monday lunchtime. Both cult-classics with their own fair share of adaptations, I hoped that linking these two films would somehow lead to a revelation that would let me connect Shrek and Moulin Rouge! (henceforth called Moulin Shrek) to this semester’s College Crow theme of nostalgia (whether this was ever actually achieved is up to you, dear reader!) But upon matching** off Shrek’s two ogres and dubious parents-in-law, I soon came to the disappointing realisation that I was running out of characters to smush together. Donkey, Puss, Gingy, Doris the Ugly Stepsister, and basically every other cool character in Shrek got matched up with Toulouse, which got me thinking. Each of these characters is so different, but in their own way, they all have extreme Toulouse Energy™. This brings me to the crux of my article: Toulouse the Character vs Toulouse the Concept.

“Concepts are the building blocks of thoughts. Consequently, they are crucial to such psychological processes as categorization, inference, memory, learning, and decision-making.” - Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy Basically***, concepts are general, usually abstract ideas that help us organise information and communicate by categorising things (in this case, Shrek characters). Today, I’m going to prove that Toulouse, our loveable little man of Bohemian ideals, is more than just a character. He’s also a concept . But what makes something a concept?

✨

1. Concepts are usually an abstract or mental construct. In my very qualified opinion, classifying Shrek characters in terms of a little guy from Moulin Rouge! is pretty abstract. Mental constructs are basically beliefs we hold, and Moulin Shrek could totally be a belief! 2. Concepts generalise shared characteristics. Let me walk you through Alison’s Guide to What is Toulouse: Has bohemian ideals (Puss, Donkey, Gingy - they do kind of go on an anti-corrupt-Farquaad tirade, so I think they successfully upheld truth, freedom, and love!) Is a Short King (Puss, Donkey, Gingy) Is the leader of a little gang (Gingy) Passionate and driven (Gingy, Donkey) Facilitator of the main couple getting together (Donkey) 3. Concepts can be organised in a hierarchy in terms of how specific or broad they are. I guess your hierarchy would look like “1. Bohemian. 2. Toulouse. 3. Gingerbread?” This point’s still a work in progress. 4. Concepts can be imagined in a pretty set way - the prototype (like most people imagining an apple for the concept of fruit). I mean, I imagine Toulouse when I think of Toulouse. Is that prototype enough? 11

Continues on page 12.

Continued from page 11. 5. Boundaries between different concepts can be unclear. Does Dragon give Toulouse Energy or Unconscious Argentinean Energy? You tell me. 6. Concepts help us communicate. What better way to describe someone as freedom fighting, passionate, and maybe slightly vertically challenged than as Toulouse? I think this needs to become part of our daily vocabulary. Modern day slang conveys specific subtexts and avoids miscommunication, and I think Toulouse-concepts could do just the same, or even better. 7. Concepts are dependent on context. If I said you gave extreme Toulouse energy right after you happened to spill a drink over an Important Rich Guy Who May Or May Not Be A Duke, it probably has a different meaning to me complimenting you on your Toulouse energy at a human rights rally (I’m fairly certain human rights live up to Bohemian Ideals). In summary, Toulouse could totally be a concept. We might need to flesh him out a bit more and start using him in our daily language, but I think there’s definitely an alternate reality where this little lad is a revered and accepted concept. But does it really matter whether Toulouse can be a concept or not? To me, it does. Being able to define characters as Toulouse extends beyond the Shrek-verse. It opens up a whole new range of possibilities for defining our own individual identities, an age-old conundrum that humanity has struggled to come to grips with - I quote “Onions have layers. Ogres have layers.”, which I think applies to even the least green and Scottish-accented members of our cohort. When I embarked upon this process, I was afraid that defining characters in terms of one singular little guy would diminish their pizazz. Take Puss in Boots, for instance, a distinguished little swordsman, who is also a cat, both of which are criteria Toulouse fails to fulfil. But establishing Toulouse as a concept means these characters, and by extension, our identities as well, aren’t restricted to fixed little boxes with no wriggle room. Unlike tests like a MBTI or Enneagram, where a series of questions defines you by your traits, defining ourselves in terms of Toulouse (the Concept) allows us to make our own interpretations on what being a Toulouse, and what our identity, truly entails. And isn’t that half the fun? (For the concerned readers wondering whether they’re Toulouse enough, the answer is yes, yes you are. Everyone is Toulouse. Toulouse is Everything). Or maybe none of this actually matters, and this was all just an elaborate excuse to put more Shrek propaganda into the world. Who knows? * I should probably note that between As You Like It and Moulin Rouge, I preferred the former. I am not a reliable Moulin Rouge! source. ** For those curious little lads amongst us, my mental list looked something like this: Shrek Christian**** Fiona Satine Harold and Lillian (the King and Queen) Zidler Lord Farquaad the Duke Fairy Godmother Nini Legs-In-The-Air Dragon the Unconscious Argentinian (and even that’s a stretch) Donkey Toulouse Gingy Toulouse Doris the Ugly Stepsister Toulouse *** Forgive the generalisation, dear reader. **** In my follow-up essay (never to be produced) I will argue why Shrek actually fits Satine better, and not just because their names both start with S.

→ →

→ → →

→

→ →

→

, My dearly beloved I last saw you. e nc si le hi w a te ui s been q How are you? It ha u haven’t changed yo e p ho I – on so t you I’m planning to visi n undergo many ca n so er p A l. al at not much; preferably, ange, I cannot escape ch en Ev s. ar ye n ve ld changes in se each other we wou ld to s ay w al e w surprisingly. Though . Time has its own us r fo t ai w ’t on w ust never change, time lling me that we m te be to s em se e m agenda. In fact, ti loucester soon. G to er nd yo up g be headin part ways. Yes, I’ll s its place in my ld ho m le Sa u? yo h, won’t You’ll stay in touc se to leave you if I oo ch r ve ne ld ou w u–I heart, and so do yo r me after what fo g in m co be l ’l t they had the choice, bu l of you… they’ve done to al ntury or r me for a good ce fo ed rr cu oc t no Nightmares have a simple snap of in ld or w is th e av lives le so. Yet watching 19 metres off the 2 ed d en sp su ly p ies lim the neck, their bod watch me emptily; l ’l ey th , ts gh ni e … Som ’ll cold rocky ground . Some nights they em th om fr ed in dra lent eyes desolate, life They’ll cry their si e. ov m ’t on d s th ou cry, though their m e done something. ’v ld ou sh ou ‘Y f: el ys cries and I’ll tell m d them.’ You should’ve save . I really cannot stay e. se n ca u yo e p ho I Point 23rd Dec 1699

fectionate friend XOXO, your truly af

My dearly beloved, I send my regards. My time at Gloucester proved fruitless and I can’t help but think that was simply a waste of my many years, so I digressed. I found my way to the East; a fascinating place. I stayed for a good 88 years. Surprisingly (or unsurprisingly), I managed to find myself an identity of quite high status. Convenient, really. Unfortunately my luck didn’t last long. Some scoundrel – the watchmaker’s mistress – framed me for theft! So… How should I word this… I am writing to you from the shores of New Holland. I still find it truly a surprise we didn’t sail off the edge of the world. The days have been long, every swell of the tides brings bile to my throat. Even still, these long nights silenced by the cry of the sea and the screams of the wind are still a much kinder punishment than being hanged. Take no offence, my dear. Should I ever return, do expect that I’ll be dropping by to see you. Point 18th Feb 1788 14

XOXO, your truly affectionate friend

My dearly beloved, Today, I saw a cardigan th at I wanted to buy for yo u, but you are no longer here to wear it. I bought a dessert I knew you would love to try, but you are no longer he re to taste it. I saw many unfamiliar things today in this new land, bu t you are not here with me to experience it anymore.

‘...we shall someday sail the canals of Venice, roam the markets of South-East Asia, explore every corner of the Amer icas.’ Remember, the last time we talked, back in Salem? I spoke these ex act words to you. Funny how the mind work s over the years, isn’t it? You remember things you’d never need again, and forget everything wh ich has ever really meant anything to you. Cruel, isn’t it? Day by da y, I stop and remind myself that I have long fo rgotten the name which once was ‘mine’. Yet somehow, fortunately, yo urs stays within my hear t. Sometimes I’ll stop and remember that name was perhaps not the first , nor the last you took, yet it will be the on e I remember you by, fo r all of eternity. I apologise. I hadn’t mean t to get so sentimental. As much as I wish I didn’t have to, I miss yo u, I really do. Point 23rd Dec 1840 XOXO, your truly affect ionate friend My dearly beloved, So sorry for being late – the 20th century wasn’t particularly interesting. Can I be honest with you? I’ve been feeling… quite lonely, for the past hundred years. But I think times are finally changing. For years, you’ve been the only one I’ve had, despite your physical absence. For years, I’ve battled with the part of myself that refused to forget you. Some nights, I just can’t rest as the memories of you that I’ve tried so hard to suppress, play over, and over, and over. It’s funny to think that once again, for the hundredth time, I’ve returned to this hellhole people call ‘school’. If I’m not careful, I’ll be stuck as a schoolgirl for the rest of my life! Although, yes, things are changing. I’ve told myself to stop running and hiding, to come to terms with this curse disguised as a blessing. Though through these past centuries, after losing you and many others, I think I’ve come a long way. I am no longer that little girl who tried a good hundred times to take her own life after realising no matter how hard she tried, she’d die alone. I’ve made new friends – three of them. If you were still here, I think you’d like them. Maybe I’ll take them to visit your grave some day. Perhaps things have finally come to rest for you and I. Point 18th Feb 2023 XOXO for the last time, your truly affectionate friend

Nostalgia Written by Helena Tuo, illustrations by Selina Chen (Year 7).

Some think of nostalgia as an accompaniment to memories. We thought of it as a bridge. A bridge to cross together. The day when I was about to cross that bridge, something suddenly crossed my mind’s path. If you and I were able to make it, we would have. Your identity stopped us, a step, a plank away from our goal. Looking onto its first wooden board; I see us talking shyly together at a party our friends were hosting. Both of us were holding up cups filled with crimson wine, clunking them together and sipping without a care in the world. When I offered to walk you to your house, you refused politely, emitting a golden glow in the smokescreen of the night, the ethereal model that you were. The next step, the next board of the bridge. We were seeing each other out, texting each other. We would probe around whether we would be ready for whatever we had planned out so carefully, cautious to not leak our plans. We were almost inseparable in those few months, turning up at the doorstep with a gift or a bouquet of flowers every week. You always seemed to have a halo around your head, clusters of stars forming a myriad of colours. The next few sighs, and steps. We were having dates constantly, texting each other rapidly whenever we had the time to. We were stuck where we were at that point, having fallen into love’s metropolis in warped unison. Gifts were barricading doorways, each with a card that was honey to my ears and eyes when read. But despite this, you seemed to have your two hands clasped together, pointing upwards whenever you visited me, as if pleading for more time. The next thought, the next board. I was busy poking around into jewellery stores, whatever ones I had just passed or scheduled down carefully. I carefully studied whatever diamonds or precious jewels they had on display, preparing for the moment. You seemed to be floating about with big feathered wings, waiting with a bittersweet expression of maiming longing and eager. “Is it time yet?” “Almost.”

When we were just about to cross the bridge, hand in hand, step into the church, you disintegrated into thin air, leaving me dumbfounded as I watched your final ascension. Gone, the bridge. You were an angel, heaven’s blessing, love’s curse. But how come you didn’t warn me how excruciating love’s jinx was? And why did you leave me to cross nostalgia alone?

The Daily Bull Year 7 Any Year 7 that uses Chat.GPT for their assessment tasks will be required to perform a play about the dangers of AI at assembly. Please hold Year 7 cult meetings away from the locker area. Due to the immense quantity of decorations in Year 7 lockers, there will now be a routine weight check where lockers will be weighed. Lockers with too many decorations will be thrown away. Macbook and school supplies included! When there is a senior student in a particular library room, no Year 7 must enter that room — do not be a nuisance to the seniors, you will regret it!

Year 8 Where did all your locks go? What’s plastic and what’s real? Any Year 8 found sticking their nose into other people’s business will be legally obligated to wear a long rubber nose, alerting those around them that a sticky beak is afoot. Year 8s found being taller than Year 9s will be subject to “Under 5’5” Training.

If nobody in your Morning Connection class wanted to be SRC, Morning Connection Captain or Service Captain, the three students who volunteered for these positions will be exempt from attending Morning Connection.

Year 9 NESA has banned students from changing elective subjects. However, PLC Sydney recognises that students may be unhappy with their current subjects, and anyone in this situation may consult Ms Pollett about the six-month long, deep-cover mission to Siberia that counts as HALF a subject. Despite the fact that there is only one year left without your phones, some students can’t seem to make it by. Those caught on their phones will have their search history and Instagram DMs performed in a lyrical dance piece, set to their most played spotify song under the genre “Country”. The group with the hip hop dance that makes Dr Burgis react the most (in any shape or form) will obtain the right to make the PDHPE department dance an even more humiliating performance which will be revealed at assembly in front of the whole school.

Year 10

Year 12

Students found to be rolling their kilts into mini skirts will be required to put on whatever Kindergarten uniform they used to wear for the rest of their time at PLC Sydney.

Whoever makes a mess of the Common Room microwave shall be made infamous in the 2023 Aurora.

Any student caught with their socks not pulled up (wearing the kilt or otherwise) shall be forced to wear green thermal pantaloons for the rest of the semester. For any Year 10s who pestered the Science department with their SRPs, with lab bookings and other annoyances, you will be mandated to do the SGP next year even if you don’t choose that subject – it’s not Science! (try guessing what subject SGP is for!). For all the sad children not going on exchange, you lucky people get to be our guinea pigs the first to experience PLC Sydney’s new and improved work exploration program! Possible careers for exploration include: 19th Century Child Labourer At A Very Dubious Coal Mine Who Will Probably Soon Contract Lung Disease And Die, Human Experimentation Subject, and Tooth Fairy.

Year 11 Due to the cruel new restrictions on jersey names, students may now receive a complimentary tattoo displaying the nickname of their choice. Tattoos may be displayed on the forehead, neck, cheek, or another uncomfortably public location. Students will now be forced to recite Gwen Harwood poetry when greeting teachers and staff. If not correctly recited, they will be required to take a Summer program dedicated to the appreciation of poetry through the medium of interpretive dance. Any Year 11s caught by the Science department sitting in the locker areas outside the Q Labs during lunch will be mandated to carry out 120 hours of errand service for the Science teachers. This is equivalent to the hours for your L driver's license so no complaints accepted!

Year 12s caught asking others for their Trial marks will have their mark embroidered onto their Jersey. Any Year 12 who told off younger students for not singing during House Choir and didn’t sing themselves will be required to explain to Dr Burgis why they failed to fulfil their responsibility as a senior (to be explained while singing). Year 12s who buy something from The Strand during school time and bump into a teacher on the way back will have to give whatever they bought to that teacher.

Staff Every minute that a teacher is unable to turn on Vivi at the start of a lesson will be the number of minutes students can leave class before the bell. If the Sky Path is not open in the morning, staff will be forced to enter a “Sky Path Escape Room” where teachers must escape the Sky Path using their knowledge in their respective subjects.

General Any Morning Connection stall that didn’t announce that they’ll be running one, but makes more profit than the stalls that did give a notice, will receive a pocket. Any student who drops their Frank Green bottle will have to buy the witness(es) a Frank Green.

Illustration by Sophia Kelleher (Year 9).

College Crow’s Librarians-in-Residence Book Recommendations Corner Written by Jocelyn Arkapaw, Olivia Chan and Ella Raggett (Year 11).

Welcome to the Book Recommendations Corner! We hope you enjoy this edition and maybe you'll find a good read. Check out these books at the school library. - Jocelyn, Olivia and Ella The Inheritance Games | Author: Jennifer Lynn Barnes Library code: F BAR | Reviewed by Jocelyn: 3.9/5 I may be a little too far gone to give this review, as I’m already reading the last book in this trilogy, so I’ll try to be as unbiased as possible (the next books of the series are definitely not as good). I was really excited to read this book because it was super hyped. Overall, it was a fairly generic concept: a girl inherits a fortune unexpectedly, from a guy she doesn’t know, and is trying to figure out why, while at the same time trying not to get murdered. However, I quite enjoyed the writing style, it has some really rich descriptive language and portrayed the characters well, if a little archetypal. That said, some of the moments made me cringe too, and some of the similes were worded a little strangely. I will be honest, I couldn’t put this book down, it truly was a page turner and I was eager to find out what happened at the end. But be warned, the ending of the book sets it up for Book #2, so you won’t feel too satisfied. Dial A for Aunties | Author: Jesse Sutanto Library code: F SUT | Reviewed by Olivia: 2.8/5 Ok, this book, what a crack up! But also, the most absurd plot line I’ve ever encountered. Brief run down: She kills her date by accident, yikes, and then all her Asian aunties need to help her cover it up. They end up at a wedding, held at a fancy hotel where the main character’s ex appears. How convenient, didn’t expect that at all. Ridiculous book. Slightly horrifying plot twist at the end which really, we probably should’ve seen coming (as in, the characters should’ve seen it too, *eye roll*). High-key and annoying main character (ngl, what did the love interest see in her also those two had some lemon juice cringe-worthy lines - get over yourselves) but her mum and aunties were hilarious. It’s just one of those books where, while you’re reading it, you think, this could have been avoided so easily, in so many ways, at so many different points in time... but you keep reading anyway. Not really recommending this though, but it was funny. It was kinda silly, I mean that’s the whole point… it’s definitely not a thrilling murder mystery or even a complex in-the-mind-of-the-criminal or anything. But not like it was terrible - can’t say that I had a bad experience? Idk, I’m trying not to diss on it but, I’m realising now, don’t expect to get a lot of value out of it - it’s really just for laughs. Also, it’s the most hysterical book to read out loud (don’t do that in public though). 20

The Jewel | Author: Amy Ewing Library code: F EWI | Reviewed by Ella: 3/5 Throughout my time at PLC Sydney, I’ve seen this book many times while stalking the shelves for an interesting book to read. I was always intrigued by the cover but just never ended up taking it from the shelf for one reason or another. So, I decided to finally read it and see if it lived up to my expectations. The first thing I have to comment on is the names of the characters: Our main character is Violet (acceptable, but in a main character kind of way) so of course other members of her family are called Hazel and Ochre (these two are also somewhat acceptable). Violet’s best friend is Raven, so her sibling’s name is of course - I bet you’re not ready for this - Crow. The high class citizens are all named after precious stones such as Pearl, Sapphire and Garnet. There’s a girl who works in a factory whose name is Cinder. So, now that that’s out of the way, what did I think of the plot? Contrary to what the laughable naming system might make you think, the book actually has quite a serious plot to do with the inequality of wealth. It’s set in a dystopian future where some girls are raised to be bought at auctions by the rich elite to serve as surrogates. Overall, I thought that the premise was interesting but the execution was not as strong as it could have been and relied, quite strongly at times, on overdone clichés.

Babel: An Arcane History | Author: Rebecca F Kuang Library code: F KUA | Reviewed by Olivia: 5/5 Hi. So, this book has too many “added titles,” like if you go into the library catalogue it’ll show you all the alternative titles “necessity of violence,” “Oxford translator’s revolution.” Gee, couldn’t choose a name, could you? I’m going to update this review as I go on reading so within the first maybe quarter of the book I will say, it started off very interesting and unique. I like the concept but there’s a lot of directions this could go - like, OK author, I’m impressed but now what? Halfway through - oooooh. This is very good, this is a really interesting book. Now I can see where it’s going. Are we seeing other background stories? I like the character development that has gone into each of the four main characters. Three quarters through - woah. Wasn’t expecting that. End - this book is a must-read. I would recommend this to anyone. It’s a really powerful book, 5 stars, A plus. SO this is an historical fiction that centres around a group of young scholars studying at Oxford during the 1830s (to give context, this was during the Opium Wars in China and when Victoria became the Queen). It’s super detailed, it focuses on colonialism and cultural assimilation as well as linguistics and expressing interests for the foundations of language (very cool). I would definitely say that this leans a lot more on the fictional side, hence, it resides in the fantasy section of the library. The amount of research that probably went into this book shocks me. This is not a hard book to get through. It doesn’t have a slow start (I thought it would). The concept is so unlike other books I’ve read (idk, maybe that’s just me). It’s historical, it’s fantasy, it’s about the intricacies of language, it’s giving dark academia and it’s about systemic oppression and all that. But on top of that it’s actually interesting too. 21

College Crow Riddle Page

Sourced by Kristine Liu, illustrations by Tanika Young (Year 10).

I have cities, but no houses. I have mountains, but no trees. I have water, but no fish. What am I?

A girl has as many brothers as sisters, but each brother has only half as many brothers as sisters. How many brothers and sisters are there in the family?

Three different doctors said that Paul is their brother, yet Paul claims he has no brothers. Who is lying?

A is the brother of B. B is the brother of C. C is the father of D. So how is D related to A?

4. 6.

With pointed fangs it sits in wait, with piercing force it doles out fate, over bloodless victims proclaiming its might, eternally joining in a single bite. What is it?

The thing that all things devour: birds, beasts, trees, flowers; gnaws iron, bites steel; grinds hard stone to meal; slays kings, ruins towns, and beats high mountains down.

Answers: 1. No one. They are Paul’s sisters. 5. Four sisters and three brothers.

4. Time. 2. A is D's uncle.

6. A stapler. 3. A map.

Sources: www.boredpanda.com/hard-riddles, www.rd.com/list/challenging-riddles, logiclike.com/en/hard-riddles, www.popularmechanics.com/science/math/a31153757/riddles-brain-teasers-logic-puzzles

CANON EVENTS FROM OUR CHILDHOOD! Written and Illustrated By Yilan Chow and Isabella Loo (Year 10) Frozen Remember when we could hit the high note in Let It Go?

Loom Bands Cut off our circulation

ABC 22/23 Shows (Pre-Netflix)

Toy Story 3 nightmares Scarred for life

Beanie Boos Not creepy at all :)

Smiggle Edible

Rainbow Magic The only books anyone actually read

Mathletics Playing 1st-Grade addition to win Mathletics live

Scholastic book catalogue Highlighted everything but never got anything

Sugar Coated Written by Hannah Chalmers (Year 7), Illustration by Yolanda Qiao (Year 10).

My grandmother blinks her azure eyes at me as I exude curiosity. Today I want to learn. Not just the recipes Grandma and Mamma cooked for the family tens of years ago, but about the stories treasured beneath the measurements. I want to learn how the cups and teaspoons can be translated into smiles and giggles. How the smells and spices mixed with her perfume create indescribable scents. It doesn’t have a particular flavour, just nostalgia. The recipe is civil, the ingredients simple, but I still manage to decorate Grandma’s kitchen with wisps of batter and puffs of flour. Though the pie is now in the oven, the whole baking process reminds me of simpler times. It is a special time for Grandma and I to reminisce on when cupcake liners stacked the kitchen counter, not overdue bills. Mamma, when she was alive, would always promise me a heaping spoonful of batter to enjoy whilst the real treat was cooking. As I lick the last of the eggy vanilla remnants, I toss the small silver spoon into the mountain of dishes, soaking. The timer of the oven blinks ‘10 mins left’. Time to succumb to the need for custard on everything! A rule Mamma admitted to our household when she was pregnant with Oscar, my late brother, only a few months before the accident. As Grandma takes a peek in the oven a warm hug of heat circles me and fogs my glasses. That gentle heat of an oven slowly turns into the aggressive flames of the explosion. The flames surged through the farm, undid Grandma’s freshly sown seed and took my mother and soon to be brother with it. A tear trickles down my eye to the corner of my lip. The salty flavour refreshing against the ashy taste left on my tongue. The fire took away my mother and brother and left my grandma and I with a home filled with shadow. Every year following we tried to restore the light, cast some brightness on the shadows through Mamma’s recipes, but, in the end we needed something new. So we moved away. 24

Far from the scraps of farmland, of a house that brittle old Grandma and I inhabited. Ever since we buried our memories and stories back in St. Clems, talk of Mamma hasn’t resurfaced. Now as we stand here in the tiled kitchen in our apartment in this cold city, we defrost. We relax and loosen. The warmth and cinnamon apple scent caressing and comforting the two of us. “Your Mamma would tell me to help her make this pie when you were only a newborn y’know.” Grandma’s eyes crinkle. “She wouldn’t even mash it. Just stab a fork into it and then in your mouth. She didn't want you to miss a thing.” I miss her. Timely, the gentle beep of the oven grabs my attention. How full circle. The pie, in all its glory rises from the oven in Grandma’s worn hands. I pivot to turn it off and collect the treat, ready to savour the special conversations looming above this pie. Grandma’s ornate knife sinks into the handcrafted treat and you can see all the nostalgia and memories to revisit pour out with the first slice.

Memories

Written by Chrysty Salla, illustration by Danielle Vo (Year 9).

I close my eyes darkness closing in on me black fingers edging into my brain, the end drawing near.

Memories flash across my mind burning into my vision reminding me of all that was that I am losing now. Memories of times near and times far, cherished memories, scenes of joy and celebration and those of sorrow and pain.

I love these moments filling my mind in these final moments allowing me to embrace them now, my wonderful, beautiful, unique life coming to an end.

In the Midst of Memory Written and illustrated by Iris Hon (Year 8). She felt the warmth of her cheeks melt into the cold floor and focused on her breathing, which penetrated the eerie silence. She felt exposed - exposed to whatever imaginary threats were lurking in that strange place. Her arms felt numb as she reached up to push the strands of hair out of her face. The girl looked around in the darkness. There was a steady rhythm of water dripping off something resembling canvases suspended in mid-air, all lined up like a museum exhibition. She looked into the first screen. It seemed to be a girl around the age of ten, wearing a ballet dress, dancing underneath the autumn trees. Her arms swayed around gracefully, and her legs syncronised. But then, the dancer stopped, and stared straight into the eyes of the girl watching her. Her face fell, and all of a sudden, the whole canvas withered with her emotions. A strong wind ripped the leaves off their branches and the sky turned into an ugly shade of grey. The dancer continued to stare straight at the girl. “Mae!” The word took the girl looking at the canvas by surprise. The dancer said it again, “Mae!” The word started coming quicker and quicker - until it clicked. “It’s me. I’m Mae.” Mae tore her eyes away from the canvas. When she looked back, the girl returned to her graceful state. But something was different. The darkness surrounding Mae felt as though it was closing around her. Something cold and rough hit Mae’s head and fell to the ground. She looked up just as a small rock hit her cheeks and she jumped. The following crack from above seemed to jolt her to life and shook the ground beneath her. A low rumble travelled around, within the infinite darkness. Continues on page 28.

Continued from page 27.

There was an explosion which sent cracks darting in every direction across the floor, creating a gaping hole just in front of Mae. The canvases had transformed into thin cards and moved suddenly, diving into the hole in the ground. Mae’s eyes searched the whirling tornado of cards, unsure as to why she was doing so. But there it was. A single photocard amongst the many others. She instinctively dived for the card, diving into the hole at the same time. The cards threatened to cut Mae's skin from all directions, making it almost impossible for her to open her eyes without being scratched. But she managed to squint open one eye to reveal a picture of two girls in her hands. One was fixing her hair while the other girl was ruffling it, as if they were preparing to take a picture. But her eyes couldn’t seem to focus on their blurred faces. Mae’s attention was interrupted by a powerful jerk of something from behind her, pulling her out of the hole just before she was consumed by it. Gasping, Mae sat up and looked around. She was somewhere else. She was no longer in that mysterious dark space. Instead, Mae was in a library, and in front of her was a girl around her age, sitting at a desk reading a book. Mae got up silently, but the girl heard her. She turned and gave Mae a strange look. “Mae?” The girl stood up, a surprised and confused look on her face. She stared at Mae for a good few seconds. “I thought you’d forgotten me. I thought you left me here forever.” “Forgotten you?” Mae repeated. The girl took a few steps closer to Mae, who, taken by surprise, took a step back. “Yeah, you didn’t think you could really forget me, did you?” “What?” Mae was having a hard time trying to comprehend everything. The girl frowned and grabbed onto Mae’s shoulders. “Mae, I’m your little sister. Sure, I died, but I’m not gone.” The girl’s fingers were beginning to numb her arms. “S-stop it.” Mae managed to say, just as a loud thud came from somewhere in the library. It took Mae several seconds to realise where it had come from; the bookshelf at the end of the library had toppled over, and it collapsed onto the next bookshelf, then the next, the dramatic thudding getting louder and louder. Books of all sorts fell from the shelves like an avalanche. 28

“We need to get out of here!” Mae yelled, looking around for a way out. But the girl laughed. “Get out of here? Why would you want to get out of here?” The girl scoffed, “You see, this is your problem. You’re always running away from your problems and now you’re running away again!” The girl was in tears, but Mae didn’t have time for this. She needed to get out of here immediately, but the library seemed to stretch on endlessly. “You left me here thinking I could just rot away? No! I am forever tied to the place I died!” The girl lunged at Mae and they both hit the ground, a struggling mess of flailing arms and legs, before Mae managed to shove her to the side. But just as they did so, one of the great bookshelves came crashing down. . .

Mae shrieked, diving for safety. She felt the rubble settle around her as the bookshelf landed, dust leading into a coughing fit. The library had fallen into silence. Everything was calm and peaceful again, as a library should be. Mae opened her eyes, but she wished she hadn’t. Her stomach flipped and she keeled over, vomiting. The girl was dead. Her body lay underneath the shelf, only her deformed arm remained visible. Then she remembered. She remembered the day it happened. The little girl had been in the library when the shelves collapsed. The same sickening sound happened when it came down upon her. The distorted dead body appeared in front of her. It was a wound reopening. 29

Chanel No. 5

Written by Katelyn Tsourdalakis (Year 8), illustration by Anna Wang (Year 11).

“Come in my little pumpkin!” … I take a deep breath in … “How have you been? It’s so lovely to see you!” … I breathe a deep breath out … “Would you like some murukku? Some chickpeas?” … I close my eyes … “Sit down with me! Come, tell me how school has been,” … The warm scent of perfume fills my senses … “Will you help me hang up the washing?” … I ring the doorbell … “I was going to ask you to pick the mandarins but the racoon came again!” … I let the flowery odour engulf me … “Okay, now let’s go inside for dinner. I made your favourite!” … I open my eyes … “I love you darling! Have a safe trip home!” … I step inside …

“Look at you! You’ve grown again little pumpkin!”

Ranking & Rating 10 Iconic Nostalgic Childhood TV Shows Written by Sasha Prokhorov (Year 11) and Illustrated by Reina Shi (Year 10). I don’t know about you, but I grew up mainly watching two TV channels - ABC Kids and ABC ME. For those of you who live under a rock and had no childhood, ABC Kids is an Australian TV channel that broadcasted, and still broadcasts kids shows, while ABC ME is for older, school aged kids. Being something that shaped my childhood and me as a person (dramatic, but true) and now brings me a lot of *nostalgia*, I thought I would pay justice to these 10 truly iconic and nostalgic TV shows by reviewing them here today, years later.

#10 Bananas in Pyjamas (1992-2001) | Rating: 6.5/10 A classic, iconic staple of Australian TV, culture and childhoods. I was both concerned for the bears these bananas were chasing, and impressed by their random twin telepathy… #AreYouThinkingWhatI’mThinkingB1? #IThinkIAmB2!

#9 Octonauts (2010-2017) | Rating: 6.9/10 With probably the most dramatic intro montage in any children’s TV show ever, this show wasn’t a drop-everythingand-watch, but kept you entertained during those endless after school hours. Ah, the good old days. *sigh*

#8 Arthur (1996-2022) | Rating: 7/10 For some reason, I remember being obsessed with this show. The intro was very uplifting and memorable (Hey! What a wonderful kind of day!). Now, memes of this show will occasionally pop up on my social media. But, hey, I’m not complaining.

#7 Dragons: Riders of Berk (2012-2014) | Rating: 7.7/10 I loved this show. It began my passion for the #Hiccstrid ship and my obsession with the How To Train Your Dragon franchise, including all the movies. Not to mention, Toothless is adorable.

#6 Shaun The Sheep (2007-2021) | Rating: 8/10 This show played routinely every single evening and was the last before the ABC Kids channel finished at the end of the day and turned into that weird adult game show (I did some research and it’s called Spicks and Specks). A truly iconic end to the day.

#5 Angelina Ballerina: The Next Steps (2008-2010) | Rating: 8.9/10

🎶 She’s a dancing star, she loves to twirl all day 🎶 🎶 She’s gonna go far, that’s the Angelina way 🎶 🎶 Follow your dreams wherever they take you 🎶 🎶 You can succeed don’t let anything shake you 🎶 🎶 AAAAAANGELINAA BAALLERINAAA 🎶 No words are needed.

#4 The Classic Adventures of Thomas & Friends (1984-2021) | Rating: 9/10 One of the oldest on this list, this classic is truly the definition of iconic (and nostalgic). To this day, if you ask me to (please don’t) I will recite the entire “Thomas and His Friends” theme song. Don’t make me do it… #They’re2they’re4they’re6they’re8…

#3 Play School (1966-Present) | Rating: 9.5/10 Fun fact, Play School is the longest-running children’s show in Australia! And the second-longest-running children’s show worldwide. Plus, it’s educational . It has rightfully earned its bronze-medal place on this list.

✨

#2 In The Night Garden (2007-2009) | Rating: 9.99/10 A truly iconic comfort show starring the likes of Maka Pakka, Iggle Piggle and the Tombliboos and their transport system The Ninky Nonk and Pinky Ponk. Iggle Piggle sailing away on a boat into the ocean was meant to be a calming event before bed but for some reason, it is something I now find deeply unsettling. But oh well, we were kids, what did we know?

#1 Giggle & Hoot (2009-2020) | Rating:

∞/10

Jimmy Giggle and Hoot literally ran the entire ABC Kids Channel and are indisputable icons. My biggest dream as a kid was also to get my artwork featured in the Giggle Gallery (lesson of Wisdom: not all dreams come true). At the end of the day Hoot’s lullaby would play, Hoot would fly away into the night sky, and the most poignant, moving, touching lyrics would play; honestly these are worthy enough to be analysed in HSC English. “...and soon the smiling sun will rise again, And light the way to a bright, new, day…” *sad ending riff* “See you in the morning, hoot hoot!” Brings tears to my eyes. Thank you for being a part of this nostalgic and emotional roller coaster journey with me. I hope this reminds you that time flies, and makes you look back fondly on your childhood and feel proud to have grown up with these iconic shows that have shaped an entire generation of Aussie kids.

P.S. Jimmy Giggle was played by Jimmy Rees, who left after 11 seasons of the program at the end of 2019. He went on to reinvent himself as an Australian icon during COVID, creating comedy videos for social media and going viral. And even though he no longer wears his bright yellow flannel Hoot pyjamas, we will always remember him as Jimmy Giggle, icon.

Walk down memory lane with

By: Aileen huang, Isabella Loo, and reina shi (Year 10).

Note: Onion dad’s handwriting onion mum

onion child

cutee

am: f e h to t e m o child c n o i Wel n eet o w s Our

First day of school!

i a t s e e f c of y dad b

Can’t believ e I ma rried you...

Graduated with honours. just like me!

grow ing u p so fa st :’)

don’t look at my f ace

Graduated!!!

So, whose idea was it to go on this ride?

Mine. ..

we’re it calling onion n. chicke

but that’ s so generic ! e oh com WELCOME TO THE FAMILY!!! on,you e h were t o one wh then I should’ve named named her ‘Onion Dad Jr’ ild our ch

DAD IM A GIRL.

Orchid Written by Quyen Nguyen (Year 8), illustration by Jasmine Gifford (Year 10). An orchid stands in its small yellow pot, placed on the corner of a desk. It is a small, delicate thing, but it has seen much in its short lifetime. The orchid does not know how it came to be, or how it was placed into the clay vessel that has housed it for as long as it can remember. It only knows what it has witnessed: the warm sunlight through the window; the pale clusters of lavender by the gate outside; the camellias creeping over the fence. The orchid does not require much attention, but it is happily provided with nourishment and care by the elder who shares its home. The elder is ancient, as much a part of the orchid’s home as the cherished yellow pot and white-walled room, and its affection carries the orchid through countless quiet days – until winter appears one morning, and so does a sprout. It skips past the camellia, tripping over the lavender with much less grace than the guardian that trails it, and throws itself at the elder with delight. The sprout takes the orchid’s room and spends the next consecutive mornings staring expectantly at the orchid’s branches. Patience does not appear to come easily to the sprout, and after weeks of fruitless watching, it seems ready to give up. When confronted, the elder shakes its head. “Don’t badger it, and wait. The orchid won’t bloom until your next visit, and there’s no point in expecting flowers at the wrong time of the year.” The sprout leaves with this wisdom, and life goes on. The orchid is there to witness the return of the sprout, and its subsequent comings and goings. It is there throughout the steady decay of the elder, and the increasing appearances of the sprout and its kin, until one day they come, and go, taking the elder with them. The orchid is not there when the elder’s body is laid to rest, but it is there when the sprout carries the orchid in its yellow pot away, past the wilting lavender and the wild camellia. It is there throughout countless not-so-quiet years, as the sprout changes and grows, until their former haven cannot hold them anymore. 38

An orchid stands in its small yellow pot, placed on a shelf between the lavender and camellia. It is a small, dying thing, but it has seen much in its lifetime. And as its branches begin to wither and its flowers bloom for the last time, the orchid is content.

Written by: Stephanie Chew (Year 10)

Illustrated by: Isabella Loo (Year 10)

13 JUNE 1965. It was on this day you were born, when the stars aligned to create you; when you smiled at the sun and cried at the moon. It was on this day you were born with a silver spoon, a life of luxuries ahead. It was on this day your mother cried – cried at the perfect beauty she had birthed. It was on this day I was born, another mouth to feed, another person to house. They say the stars fell down from the sky when we were born, did you know? The stars fell, and the moon eclipsed, but you giggled, as the world around us fell apart. 7 SEPTEMBER 1970. You found me on the hilltop, scratched, beaten, crying. I was vulnerable then, and I foolishly accepted your warmth and your outstretched hand. The water was ringing, do you remember? The birds were singing, and you, clothed in white, looked to me to be the very visage of an angel, dripping with fire with feathers of pure light. You cried for me, laughed for me, a stranger in rags. You healed me with a single touch; I felt imperfect next to the perfection of you; how could I ever compare? My hell stopped and time stood still; this was our first encounter; this marked the beginning of a promised love. We came from opposite worlds, you and I; you were my saviour and I worshipped you, bowing at your feet, overwhelmed by the weight of a godly presence. I had never been so dirty, but at the same time, my soul had never been so cleansed. I fell in love with a world through your eyes; but little did I know it was a lie. I thought I knew you like nobody else; your impulses, your imperfections. But what I believed to be true was all just a broken, empty shell; a shadow of reality; akin to a mirage really. I thought I had everything, but now I have nothing, completely barren and devoid of anything. I thought the world was in the palm of my hand; you were my world, and when I think of my life, you are all consuming. 13 JUNE 2010. I have lived with you longer than I have lived without you. I lovingly shaped my life around yours, so that you may chase your dreams and ambitions. Our very existences were intertwined. You mocked the heavens, never to be cowed. And the celestial cities stared down at you, jealous of the finely arranged stardust that you were. You delved into the fragile parts of me, parts that I showed no one else; you tore me apart inside out and I bled the colour of red, the colour of passion, the colour of sacrifice, the colour of broken trust. But while I cried out in the angst of the waning day, you plucked a rose, a white rose; the colour of innocence, the colour of purity, the colour of youthful joy. You played me like a fiddle. You strummed my strings; so in tune was I to the sweet poison of your melody that I could only stare – hypnotised – lost in the labyrinth of your smiles. You stood on the hill, the sunlight gleaming, your jewel eyes sparkling; and you were laughing uncontrollably, your hair whipping around your face, pulling me down deeper into the chasm that is ambiguous at best, opaque at worst. There were daggers beneath your smile as you waved the morning goodbye; as you farewelled a day of angst. And you waited, quietly, patiently, for another day to come. You smiled like one who chose their outfit from a closet, deliberately, carefully. You’ve killed so many with your bare hands and strung their hearts as necklaces. Their bones are twisted, carved into the shape of a pearly circlet that adorns your head. But you continue to smile, oblivious to the stench of blood that surrounds you, by the overwhelming sweetness of a honey-dripped flower.

Sometimes I brush my cheek and find it wet with the smiles of yesterday’s memories that are lost forever to me. Your hand’s on my throat, sweet and salty as I choke; you breathe the life out of me, but if I die by your hands, I leave behind a life of no regrets. The moon shines its ghostly hue on the reflecting river as the sun burns in its brilliance across the plains. Three hundred days have passed, three hundred days of waiting. But time after time, I find myself climbing up the hill to meet you again. I move like a ghost haunted with grief; barely clinging onto the frayed threads of my life. But you, you were gone long ago, leaving behind nothing but the bittersweet memories and the faded photos. And the hill that I am climbing shocks me back many years to that fateful first meeting, for this is the same hill that you loved to visit. Did you know that the sun reaches here no more? As the months dragged on and the days grew longer, the pink tulips and pale daisies hung their soft heads, dried up, died. But white lilies and black roses thrive in this forgotten realm, and I line your grave with black dahlias. Your laugh and light gave people clarity to their darkness, but you yourself had darkness too. You were neither the moon nor the sun; you were a single dying star, alone in your self-imposed solidarity, left to wither away as the clock counted the hours. You gave me hope. You gave me light. You gave me grief, showing me what a world with no colour was. I never gave my goodbyes to the ones that hurt me the most; but in itself, that continues to torment me. The past is the past, but remembrance is history worth living. I long wistfully for the stars, and wonder how a gaze at them is a window to a billion years of longing!

on becoming your mother Written by Victoria Chan, illustrations by Priya Bhadri and Annika Lo (Year 9).

February 7th I wonder if this is a typical confession, among other things. I am writing for back when I thought I could still save you. That time you and I had walked down the coast of Whampoa, where you stood awestruck at the clusters of rose myrtle that had somehow grown through the wooden floorboards from the underside of the pier. For when you had crouched and traced your fingertips to the beckoning bend of its leaves, with that knowing look in your eyes. “Look,” you murmured, “So pretty. So alive.” I once heard this saying that went a little like this: “Family is not a temporary rainstorm but rather a lasting mist.” I think now of that woody stem, with its subtlety but its fire, like a phoenix and its ashes. Rhodomyrtus tomentosa. How it wasn’t its aestheticism that had drawn you in, but rather its tenacity. That western patience, a type of pity so universally reserved for those desperate to live, desperate to die. Because that was madly alluring in itself, to suffer so openly and unendingly. I am writing to you because we have built an empire around our mistakes, a kingdom with our grievances. We live our lives on those two pillars, surrounded by the bridges we have burnt and the choices we have made. In this way I had inadvertently stained Neptune’s seas incarnadine, with my girlhood and my shame. It is a guilt I will carry with me through all of it, from mother to mother, daughter to daughter. I understand now, the difference between satisfaction and fulfilment, that one is temporary and the other ossifying. I am ultimately unfulfilled, as all teenagers are, haunted by a hunger that escapes me; one that eats and eats and eats until the calories and the difference between fat and muscle hammer themselves into my marrow. I look prettier like this, don’t I? I loved you. Haven’t I always? Even with our cultural obsession with winning, to be left with nothing but the bruises on our knees and the cuts on our hands. 42

Yet we deserve more than this. We, a collective in the way mothers and daughters are united in grief, are both captivated by a cosmic fate we know so little about: I am followed by a past I cannot go back to and you are chasing a future you cannot have. Don’t you see? Every paragraph up until now has started with “I”. “I” love you. “I” hate you. How personal it all is, to love someone because there is a choice. Is this finally my life to live? Is this finally my choice to make? Everything is embarrassing, if not terribly revealing. Everything looks like it could be the final nail in the coffin, like somehow the more I speak the more the words become mine. I own my tongue like I own my choices, like dangling my legs off the roof of an apartment complex or standing in the middle of crosswalks sort of hoping for the noise to stop. But what about my guilt? What about all of it? If even something as subjective as poetry could be met with a “move on” or an “it’s not that deep”, then I am writing to you to be selfish. I want it meaningless, even if every word I put down might move me farther away from you. I want it while I’m still alive, because everything is embarrassing, as well as menial. If I could fill the world up with my useless thoughts and my useless existence, then it’d be enough for me. I guess what I mean is: I want to prove to you that I have lived, even if it isn’t prettily. That time when I was 12 or 13 or so, fresh in the country, we had visited grandma on Dad’s side. Uniting Abrina, an elderly home designed for Chinese-Australians, was one of those liminal spaces that had no windows so you couldn’t tell what time it was ever. You sat there, in the guest chair next to her reclined bed, and held her hand. It was strange because she was practically a stranger, yet I still saw the patience you had extended, with her frail hands, and you looked like you were staring at your own reflection in the mirror. I didn’t know you were, in a way, preparing for battle, or that there was one to begin with. Is there a line? I mean, is there a point to all this? The idea that we are constantly running away from something: you, yellow river, yellow song, yellow decade. There are no words in the mother tongue, or rather, the mother’s tongue, for this fear of something that far precedes us. I inevitably repeat your history, pursue your future. But maybe this is how it is. Maybe this is our legacy, one of loss and grief; maybe this is an ache that keeps on aching even as we walk past it, a cycle sort of like emotional consumerism. I love you the same way a bee loves its stinger, both my downfall and my protector. To love so barely, even on the cusp of danger. Because something better is always somewhere else. 43