Bright Ideas: featuring writing from English students in Years 7-12

Featuring writing from English students in Years 7-12

Bright Ideas

Reflections on our World

EDITORIAL 4

POETRY

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A Loaf of Paper by Emily Abadee 4

The Ring by Julie Sheng

NON FICTION 6

How does the media shape our view of robots and their place in our future? by Ollisha Muthukda 6

Why do our novel to film adaptations disappoint? by Olivia Blayney 9

A Bibimbap of Societies by Christine Hur 12

What motivates people to act unethically? by Emma Parsons 14

Modernism: A Tale of Two ‘Kitties’ by Young Cho 16

Speech for the Patricia Burgoyne competition by Ellie Beck 19

Modernism discursive by Yu Zhou 21

The Natural Biology of Resilience by Chelsea Shi 22

FICTION 24

Tossed into the Current by Jessie Xie

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The Illicit Red by Christy Xue 26

Setting descriptions by Nikita Srivastava, Katherine Pan, Clare Vincent, and Angela Zhang

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Year 8 English Extension Project 32

Imaginative recreation of Act 3, Scene 2 of Shakespeare’s A Midsummer Night’s Dream by Lily Still

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Editorial

KRISTEN MCEVOY

I am pleased to present our English magazine, Bright Ideas, inspired by our thoughtful students who never cease to surprise their teachers with their insights and creativity. We are delighted to have a forum where we can celebrate student achievement and writing craft.

In this edition you will find a range of student responses which present reflections on changing societies, changing landscapes and our changing future. The topics explored by our secondary English students are wide ranging, from Ollisha’s commentary on the representations of robots in literature and film, to Alissa’s, Amber L’s Amber W’s, Grace’s, Imogen’s, and Katherine’s dystopian regimaginings, and Christine’s, Christy’s and Jessie’s explorations of culture across different historical periods.

I’d like to give special thanks to Serena Xue, one of our Year 12 students, who has designed the cover of Bright Ideas as well as all the illustrations within this publication.

Emily Abadee

Emily’s poem experiments with focalisation in writing and was composed for our Year 9 unit on ‘Finding Voices’. She has used multiple narrators to reimagine books as a remnant of our 21st Century civilisation to generations of the future.

A LOAF OF PAPER

I met a distant traveller, From an old forgotten land, Who grabbed a loaf of paper, And put it in my hand, The person said, “this is a book, Of stories and of tales, And in its pages you may find Fictional details”, They told me “Open up the book! See what you will find” And as I did my whole world changed, My whole world realigned The pages read: “Hello new friend, From a distant land, I heard that you would come to me So now I must command, Read the pages of my book I know you won’t regret, You’ll meet new friends and places here You surely won’t forget.” So with that I flipped the page And to my own surprise This book was filled with mysteries, With dragons and demise, I looked up then to thank the traveller To give them all my best But through my eyes, to my surprise The traveller had left.

Julie Sheng

In this poem, Julie aimed to explore the significance of marriage and its complicated relationship to gender from the perspective of a wedding ring. Julie submitted this piece for the National Hilarie Lindsay Poetry Competition and was honoured to win first place.

THE RING

I am that slender band of silver, Twirled around a tube of flesh. The skin bulges slightly. I slip on, soft, inconspicuous, Cool, like a woman’s kiss.

She has waited for me, For a long time. Eagerly, she grasps me.

I complete her. I melt, Into the pale pink of her skin, Tickling the fuzz on her cheek.

She takes me everywhere. Golden interstices seeping, Into my cold bones, Leaving behind the scent of summer. Shimmering pools of unbreakable vows, Under the archway heavy, With clusters of white flowers.

I am her triumph, She is my Napoleon. In me she carves out her family. The warmth of soapy dishwater froth, A speck of gravy grease, The tender skin which I embrace, Grows chafed, red, sore, Hardened with time, But she doesn’t mind.

She adores me, still. Perhaps for ever. In my circle of silver, I hold a little home. I bind them together, And I seal their love. I am the pillow on which she sleeps. I am the romantic hush of eternity. I am their unspoken promise.

And I am what ensnares, The meat on his finger, Trapping his flesh, suffocating his bone.

I am the unwelcome reminder, The prick of conscience.

And when he sees the other woman, He takes me off.

Ollisha Muthukuda

Ollisha composed this discursive response as an extension task on our Year 9 unit on Media. She explored the perceptions of Artificial Intelligence and robots in literature and cinema, reflecting on their place in our world.

HOW DOES THE MEDIA SHAPE OUR VIEW OF ROBOTS AND THEIR PLACE IN THE FUTURE?

“AI will probably most likely lead to the end of the world, but in the meantime, there’ll be great companies.”

SAM ALTMAN, CHAIRMAN OF OPENAI.

When looking at Altman scope of the vastly complex yet unforeseeable future we can only imagine through query and imagination if robots will first be friends of humanity and then “completely destroy us”. Yet his perspective is only one of many regarding what the role robots will be.

The media which heavily teases the uncertain characterisation of the world’s tech giants’ beloved metal boxes (robots). I am currently reading “Klara and the Sun” by Kazuo Ishiguro which displays AFs (Artificial Friend) (or robots) as “perfect companions” and can be seen as equal to a friend to get rid of your loneliness. In contrast, “Agents of Shield S5” largely portrays robots as enemies of humanity or destructive forces (with the exception of Enoch.) Still, this science fiction is slowly turning into reality with waiter bots that deliver food to tables. These stories and truths are examples of the various interpretations which the media constructs, begging the questions, how exactly does the media sway our impression of robots and the role will they play in our future?

Having read “Klara and the Sun” I was able to

witness the way in which Klara, the robot (AF), perceives the world. She seemed observant, curious yet extremely polite. Klara was very loyal towards her owner(s) despite any argument or conflict that arose between the characters. Ishiguro doesn’t paint all AFs that way, with some being disobedient like the new B3 models, which gives the robots a more “humanly flawed” quality. AFs have their own personalities; they adapt to their environment with humanlike values and possibly morals. What makes Klara so interesting is that while she looks at the world with a keen, perceptive eye, her role in the book makes her similar to that of a parent but also a loyal dog. She keeps Josie (the protagonist) company, plays with her, comforts her, prays for her health with great worry. Klara turns to the sun as one might turn to a God to try and ensure good health (in most instances) which made her likeable. To a reader she seemed human.

However, she has restraint, similar to one of an obedient dog or child (not in a condescending manner.) One day, Klara is asked to perform tasks like recite what one of the girls at a party was wearing however, because this order did not come from Josie, Klara did not respond. Though Klara doesn’t respond, she presents herself as a faithful AF and along with her good nature and kind being, it is evident that she has her owner’s best interest at heart. This makes me wonder how would it be if Klara and others

like her were in our society to keep children company? What could go wrong?

The media has given us so many examples of how robots are the future, and how they could oppressively control our daily actions and take over earth but reading this book, I couldn’t really say that the idea of an AF was so bad. However, looking at the movie “I, Robot” we question the integrity of robots seeing as 1) they are not human and 2) they act human. Let me elaborate on point two. In the movie, the robot “Sonny,” is questioned for allegedly murdering his creator and is chased by a detective who doesn’t trust robots (due to personal trauma.) Throughout the movie the audience considers whether Sonny actually murdered his creator. What makes him (Sonny) so special is that he doesn’t have the basic, and equally famous, “Three Laws of Robotics” programmed into him and essentially has the choice of free will. This means that Sonny is basically human, in terms of personality and capability; he is able to harm humans and doesn’t have to obey orders by humans.

The lack of programming he has makes him all the more dangerous due to his ability to be the equivalent of Ted Bundy. But we learn that (and this is a definite spoiler) that Sonny is in fact innocent and instead becomes a rather compassionate character who puts his “feelings” (but maybe they’re really feelings not “feelings” buts that’s another debate) into play when executing his actions, like when Sonny saved the detective instead of a child.

So, from this we can see how robots can be helpful like Klara and Sonny (who both show compassion and a gentler nature) which cinema and entertainment have painted as a positive feature that robots can convey.

But let’s look at the status quo and see how robots are represented in society. So, while there aren’t bots like Klara and Sonny, there

are simpler more “real” ones like BellaBot. But first, what (or who) is Bella. Well, BellaBot is a robot that waits tables for restaurants and has provided relief for small businesses. An AFGF article shares their view on Bella? Since COVID emerged, businesses have been hit hard with things like financial and staffing losses making it harder to run at a profit. Two local restaurants in Sydney have purchased a BellaBot which has allowed them to be flexible with staffing (and consequently payment.) In an article from The Guardian titled their piece about BellaBot, “Not-so dumb waiter: UK restaurant chain Bella Italia trials robot service” that not only provides a positive connotation but represents the success of a robot.

So, I suppose in this aspect, they aren’t a disastrous thing so what exactly is so threatening about robots? I mean, you have companions, friends and bots for convenience that make human lives easier, but this would still mean there’s another side of the story.

Once upon a time, humanity was living its best life but then BAM robots invade earth and destroy the world. Heard that one before? Well of course because there are so many examples that are seen in the media like “Agents of Shield,” “The Matrix” and “Terminator.” So yeah, of course robots could eventually end up literally destroying the world like we nearly/do see in movies and shows. But….there’s another way they are creeping into our lives.

Let’s go back to BellaBot. The robot is an insanely cool idea that definitely provides an easier way for employers to cope with the pandemic but what about things like staffing. Since you have less employees, less people have jobs thus less people are getting paid (which is beneficial for the employer but not the employee,) but think about this on a larger scale. Imagine if every restaurant you stepped into had only BellaBots welcoming you into a café, waiting and serving you and cleaning the

dishes. It honestly seems a little scary that the jobs we need for people are being taken away by something made by people. The headline of a GIZMODO article states that “CES 2020: Robot Cat Aims to Replace Human Waiters” which plays our enemies as robots who plan to take over the essentials of one’s lifestyle like with jobs. When considering this, Altman’s quote creeps back into my mind; regardless of whether Bella is helpful company, could this “Robot Cat” contribute to the end of the world?

On a wider scale, a PBS NEWS HOUR article has titled one of their articles “Robots are the future, and we don’t trust them.” The article immediately dives into an incident that occurred in an Amazon warehouse stating, “When a robot in an Amazon fulfillment centre accidentally punctured a can of bear repellent, sending 24 human workers to the hospital....” It then continues to say “…the incident raises a more realistic, immediate quandary for AI designers.” To what extent are we willing to tolerate robots’ mistakes? Already, we are facing a chilling future with the way in which we now see robots.

I mean, could someone like Klara or even the seemingly harmless waiter bot Bella do something like this? Maybe Bella might accidently crash into a table and spill all of your food and drink or collide with you when you’re walking. Would Klara do anything Josie tells her (even something sinister?) Of course, there are times when we have to depict fact from fiction but there’s always the question of how much we can trust these robots.

Is it fair for us to rely on the media as our eyes for the future? TV shows, movies and books all play on fun (yet equally valid) concepts and articles simply put different points of view out there but none of this can assure the fate of robots in our world.

But all these types of media help us grasp an idea of what our future may look like. AF’S

like Klara could be an amazing way to keep people company especially if they live alone or need assistance, and waiter bots like Bella are a good investment for businesses in need of staffing HOWEVER, none of this is definite. As technology advances so does the need for bettering and developing the technology we have/want to have which can make human lives easier but also destroy them. There is no way to ensure that bots like Klara can always be a content companion and instead turn into Agent Smith from The Matrix. Instead, we will only know if robots are good or bad for the future in the future, and a way to ensure they remain beneficial is by not going overboard and satisfying every craving for making robots more human, or making them more efficient at getting the groceries (or worse….)

I will leave you with this question: Are robots a measure of human progress or are they something we should approach with caution? ∞

Olivia Blayney

This is Olivia’s first attempt at composing a piece within the discursive form. She explored her topic of literature vs. film adaptations as an extension task in Year 9 English during our unit on Media.

WHY DO OUR NOVEL TO FILM ADAPTATIONS DISAPPOINT?

It’s arguably every reader’s greatest dream and a nightmare to have their favourite book turned from austere white pages to the glitzy silver screen. But at the same time, there is nothing quite like the horror of a novel to film release that seemingly misinterprets and desecrates the book you’ve come to take as sacred (Lest we forget the horror of the 2019 adaptation

The Goldfinch. I still shudder every time I remember it exists). While I don’t doubt the legitimacy of the films within their own right, an unsatisfactory feeling comes with watching another mass-produced multi-million budget film that takes the bare bones of a book, or worse, over-explains the premise to the point of becoming horrifically dull.

Surely you know the urge to explain that, no the book wasn’t like this at all, in fact, the book looked at this with more nuance, and you see, here they actually got rid of a character which is a shame because they were actually the best and offered so much depth to the novel. The movie is indescribably intertwined with the novel - the actors and the piece become one and the same, with preconceived notions about the characters and book before you’ve opened a single page.

Of course, film adaptations exist for good reasons. Often, the film will add to the original text’s popularity, growing the readership.

We see people more likely to pick up a novel after the success of a film they see independently. In a similar vein, as highly popular actors, directors, and producers begin to work on film adaptations, hype begins to grow for the film for existing readers and external fans. Even before an adaptation is made, you can only see this as you, trawling through blog reviews where fans offer “fancasts”, and thematically relevant additions producers could make if only it were picked up. As it stands, people can and often do enjoy adaptations. These often capitalise of the success of previous actors, something that builds credibility within a world of superficial approval. But whether this adaptation will be enjoyed is often hard to guess. After all, we seem to approach adaptations with a degree of cynicism.

A troubling trend within this debate of the benefit of adaptations is the often blatant elitism that plays a part in this. Film is, by design, a far more accessible medium of media and, to that extent, a less intellectual medium. Omar Rahmoun writes, “this assumption degrades cinema because of the companies it keeps and the common lower-class people it targets, a guilt by association.”1

Novel to film adaptations tend not to be seen as admirable as the novel - Films are inherently a more inclusive medium to tell a story in

today’s status quo, and transforming books (higher echelon) into something a layman can consume goes against the basic tenets of a novel in its idealised form, one that evokes a sense of classiness beyond that of the “plebians” who simply read a novel.

After all, Hollywood - the city of lurid glamour - is seen as something so tastelessly vapid, maximalist overstimulation to the minimalist and classy, oak-panelled world of literature. We see books as the far more intellectual medium, which places the consumption of more classical (therefore academic) literature as the pinnacle of self-education. Stam & Raengo2 write about the movies as being “designed to gratify an audience lacking in what Bourdieu calls “cultural capital”; an audience which prefers ‘the cotton candy of entertainment to the gourmet delight of literature”. Filmsmoved to the forefront of media consumption - were easy to watch, something people

mindlessly flicked on at night.

Books themselves wrote the constant use of film as an unappealing trait (see Matilda and the Wormwald’s constant TV dinners and ModCons in direct contrast with Miss Honey’s ‘traditional’ home of simple homemade meals and light reading by the pond), something which raised television and movies as an extension of modern laziness, categorical neglect of one’s own intellectual betterment that the youth had adopted - mindless, hopeless, fatigued, the youth moved to such a passive media that anyone could flip on, that nobody cared about. Something so gaudy and almost immoral had since been moved to the home. Of course, now this reprobate media had started simulating novels - something which seemed to stand so against the very ideals of TV. It moved these novels - things so high on the ‘good-taste’ pedestal down to a more inclusive and commonly viewed medium.

This is not all to suggest that disliking a novel to film adaptation turns you into an unconsciously classist and traditionalist persona. Afterall, while a film is more widely digestible, it is fundamentally an entirely new medium. For the transposition of the written word to screen (and equally to stage) is the transposition of two almost unrelated mediums.

The small intricacies of a novel - small stylistic choices, the atmosphere created through language and diction - don’t hold up within a film, where these smaller, but often crucial, details are forgone. Films are often unable to transport elements of novels - metaphors, stylistic writing choices within prose - into a visual element, thus removing part of the novels original interest point. When a novel could conjure a gothic atmosphere through allusions and extended metaphors, a film must takes pains to try and give visual representation of this issue.

This lack of fidelity is not just an issue within the more miscellaneous ideas of a movie. Equally, due to the change in length between a novel and a film, plot points, character arches and side plots that audiences may deem critical to the plot may be removed. The stipulation that a film is bound to create an eidetic copy of its original novel is fundamentally flawed. As a visual and auditory medium, it cannot quite recreate the same tone of the novel; long gone are silent films and their textual references within the film. Our novel to film adaptations seem to disappoint because, at the end of the day, a film can never come close to recreating the same je ne sais quoi of the original novel, the film’s fidelity cannot be absolute in any way.

I used to look for fidelity when I was watching an adaptation. But now, as I look through an adaptation, I look for signs of fruitful inspiration, looking for how good it is as a stand-alone medium rather than a ‘direct translation’ of sorts. But it is important to remember adaptations to be just that. An adaptation is a

transposition from one medium to another, an adapted source made for the wider inclusion of audiences.

I leave you with a quote from Leo Tolstoy. It perhaps gives reason for the issue at hand. After all, the assumption that we will have an ideal adaptation is idiosyncratic. Our different mediums require different skill sets and different expectations; we should not view an adaptation as purely an adaptation of a novel in and of itself, but rather as a medium that exists solitary to other iterations. ∞

“We shall have to adapt ourselves to the shadowy screen and to the cold machine. A new form of writing will be necessary... But I rather like it. The swift change of scene, this blending of emotion and experience- is much better than the heavy, long-drawn-out kind of writing to which we are accustomed. It is closer to life. In life, too, changes and transitions flash before our eyes, and emotions of the soul are like a hurricane. The cinema has divined the mystery of motion. And that is greatness.”

LEO TOLSTOY

1 Rahmoun, Omar, Film Adaptation Between the Pride of Literature and the Prejudice of Inferiority (March 14, 2020). AWEJ for Translation & Literary Studies, Volume 4, Number 1. Available at SSRN: https://ssrn. com/abstract=3554145 or http://dx.doi.org/10.2139/ ssrn.3554145

2 Stam, Robert, (editor.) & Raengo, Alessandra., (editor.) (2005). Literature and film : a guide to the theory and practice of film adaptation. Blackwell, Malden, Mass, pp. 226.

Christine Hur

Christine’s discursive piece explores the multifaceted and complex nature of the experience of being Australian. This was composed for her Year 10 unit on the contemporary Australian Experience.

A BIBIMBAP OF SOCIETIES

Growing up in a public school in Neutral Bay, I often heard that I was ‘whitewashed’. When I first heard the term, I was confused. I had always had a healthy tanned appearance. An even after I knew what it meant, I was still left questioning the phrase, because I always felt Asian in the company of my Caucasian friends.

Being a third-generation immigrant, you learn to live as two persons, delicately balancing two worlds. On one hand, you cannot become too ‘whitewashed’ to the extent that you scrub off your oriental appearance, and in the other, you adopt the customs and accents that are not ethnically your own to avoid rejection.

My childhood memories are scattered with phrases such as “Your English is great for an Asian”, and “Why aren’t you fluent in Korean?”. In a way, I had found myself discriminated by both sides of the racism divide.

Despite our country’s claim of a “vibrant and multicultural country” with “rich and cultural diversity” as one of our greatest strengths, racial identity in Australia has aged quite poorly. Explicit derogatory terms have just been replaced by casual racism, which has gradually bettered itself in the background of Australia’s vastly multicultural identity. Australia is my home, where I was born and raised. But I still find myself getting ready to put on my most Aussie accent whenever I have to speak, just

to prove that, despite my appearance, I am not like those other Asians. You don’t have to tell me to “go back to where you came from!”

Emmanuela Luka, a South Sudanese girl writes about the subconscious undercurrent of racism that flows underneath the sundry land in her article What does being Australian mean to me?. She states, “It can be a racist, biased and bigoted land...It is a nation that may be able to distinguish an Italian from an Englishman but assumes that the dark-skinned Nigerian boy in the year below must be my cousin.” Luka’s experience unveils the two sides of Australian culture. On one hand, it is home to over 200 nationalities, with a rich and complex diversity that colours our suburbs and cities.

But on the other side of the same coin is the prevalence of racial stereotyping, where immigrants are stripped from their unique cultures and identities, replaced with the generic label of ‘immigrant’ - another way of saying ‘not Australian Australian’.

The image of an Australian Australian is a paradox itself. The Aboriginal people, who have called the island home for over 65,000 years, have long been forgotten behind “the true blue Aussie”.

The drastic underrepresentation of their

heritage and significance only demonstrates how Australia has lost its connection to its true origins, ironically defining who is Australian and who is not, when almost everyone is actually an ‘immigrant’. Whether we like it or not, “to be Australian” is to belong to a concoction of nationalities and rich cultures.

As such, identifying ourselves as solely Australian is not only illogical but redundant. Nabila, who was raised in Sweden but born in Lebanon to a Kurdish mother and Lebanese father, challenges this question in the article Veils and Vegemite. She voices her frustrations, “To be honest, I’m tired of defining myself. Am I Swedish? Am I Kurdish? Am I Lebanese? I’m all of these things and none. Sometimes I’m more Swedish than Kurdish, sometimes I’m more Lebanese than Swedish. In the end, I’m just me.” I resonate with Nabila’s exasperation.

People should not have to find themselves trapped within the rigid walls of a single country, ethnicity and culture. In our increasingly globalised society, where individuals are being recognised as more than a racial classification,

I should not have to introduce myself with the shackles of hyphenated identities to avoid confusion. I will not be split into my societallyconstructed halves; I am Korean and I am Australian. I am me.

I think I’m starting to understand what it means to be truly Australian, and it’s more than chucking shrimps on the barbie, chilling on the beach, and having avo on toast for brunch. Australians can be represented as more than a two-dimensional population of racial stereotyping and casual racism. To call ourselves Australian is to recognise the collective experience of wanting to belong: to a country, to a community, to be appreciated by society and acknowledging that we all do come from somewhere. As I enter the front door of my home, the forks on my fingers morph into chopsticks, and my tongue switches to another language, and I feel proud exploring the collision of my two vastly different worlds. At the end of the day, I am myself, “whitewashed” or not: a bibimbap of societies, a meat pie with a multicultural filling. ∞

Emma Parsons

Emma’s piece explores the nature of power through reflections made in her learning, experiences and engagement with world events. In this response, Emma drew inspiration from the stimulus “Thou wouldst be great art not without ambition, but without the illness should attend it” from Act 1 Scene 5 of Shakespeare’s ‘Macbeth’.

WHAT MOTIVATES PEOPLE TO ACT UNETHICALLY?

Chimpanzees, gorillas, tawny frogmouths, stick insects, humans - what do they have in common? Whilst the answer may seem obscure, it is deceptively simple: they all possess a propensity for deceit. In fact, studies involving a multitude of crustaceans have shown that animals are capable of not only lying to others but lying to themselves too; convincing themselves that their claws are much more effective at pinching than they truly are. Now, this conclusion may seem intrinsic and self-evident, but it inspires a host of questions extending past the act of lying itself and towards an understanding of why it occurs. What motivates us to act unethicallyto lie, cheat and steal?

A fond childhood memory presents a prime example of unethical behaviour and its motivators. As a child, it is likely that many among us succumbed to the irresistible allure of the biscuit jar. Many a time, I found myself conveniently seated within arm’s length of the aforementioned jar, grubby fingers seemingly acting on their own accord as they reached into the mountain of baked goods. Lifting the decadent choc-chip treat to my lips, I savoured its mouth watering flavour. Yet, the satisfaction I felt as I consumed the sugary goodness was transient, impeded by a guilty conscience. Even at that young age, I was capable of rationalising

such guilt away. If my mum had just given me the biscuit in the first place, then surely I wouldn’t have felt compelled to steal it! In fact, my behaviour was completely justified, and the restraint I had demonstrated until this point surely entitled me to a second biscuit. Nevertheless, as I bit into the second biscuit, I was wholly aware of what I had done - trading my good behaviour streak, my conscience, my morals and my parents’ trust for a few moments of sweet relief. My submission to the temptation of the biscuit and the promise of a short-lived sugar fix had much larger ramifications than I had initially anticipated.

In a similar vein, most of us would be familiar with the ‘Marshmallow Test’. It assesses the level of restraint young children exhibit when confronted with the temptation of a pillowy marshmallow. Three distinct personalities quickly emerge in this test for delayed gratification. The first type are the Lady Macbeths of the world, who, despite strict instruction to leave the marshmallow in its place until ordered otherwise, hastily devour the sugar-filled delight. When their supervisors return to the room, they make a concerted effort to conceal the empty plate from the adults’ view, unaware that a security camera has recorded every moment of this charade. This facade demonstrates deceit beyond the

form of verbally lying, revealing one’s corrupt thoughts through their actions. As Donalbain commented, “there’s daggers in men’s - or small children’s - smiles”. The Lady Ms are escorted from the room without reaping a reward for their patience (though I can see why sugary confectionery holds more appeal). Then there are the Macbeths; fidgeting in their chair, covering their eyes, singing songs to themselves and holding the marshmallows up to their nose for an indulgent sniff before rapidly replacing it.

A small nibble to satiate their hunger spirals into a frantic, flour-coated consumption of the sweet treat. On the supervisor’s return, they conceal their plates before their sheepish smiles give them away and they extend the marshmallow plate remorsefully.

Finally, there are the Malcolms; the patient, pious children who swing their legs in anticipation. Though they may twist the plate to inspect the marshmallow from several angles, or drum their fingers steadily against the edge of the porcelain, they take the utmost care not to touch the treat at its centre. On the supervisor’s return, their unwavering resolve is richly rewarded. Their prize is delivered in the form of an additional marshmallow, the modern-day equivalent of the Scottish Kingdom.

The marshmallow test helps us understand that people even at a young age make a very conscious decision to obey a request and be true to the values and expectations of those in authority, or otherwise wilfully pursue their selfish desires and then attempt to conceal their wrongdoings. It helps us understand that our human nature may at times seek gratification based on the notion of, “if I can get away with it while no one is looking, I will.”

This experiment is representative of both Macbeth and wider society. The marshmalloweating Lady M was consumed by her ambition

and the promise of the “golden round”, driving her to act impulsively without considering the long-term consequences of her unethical decisions, including the guilt she experiences as the result of her immorality. She is the niggling voice within Macbeth’s head, the devil on his shoulder, repressing his internal conflict and coercing him into eating the marshmallow, the physical representation of his “vaulting ambition”. As for the supervisors, they are the witches: the antagonists driving the play’s plot, dangling the metaphorical ‘marshmallow’ of Macbeth’s fate in front of his face until feels compelled to take it into his own hands.

Nevertheless, the marshmallow test fails to provide an answer for why we act unethically, simply proving that many will act rashly to achieve short-term gratification at the risk of foregoing much greater later gain or satisfaction. There is growing evidence that external influence, particularly from others held in high regard by an individual, can adversely impact one’s moral compass. Studies have shown that one of the drivers in businessmen’s unethical decision-making is the influence of friends and family, who provide support and insight in resolving ethical issues. In a similar fashion to Macbeth, many are vulnerable to the Lady Ms within their own lives, who “chastise with the valour of my tongue” and try to steer them down a certain path that they believe will lead to success.

Nevertheless, whilst Lady M was a formidable force to be reckoned with and is often considered culpable for Macbeth’s initial immorality (as she manipulated him into murdering Duncan), her influence over Macbeth only extended so far. Personal morals and values are regarded as the primary factor in unethical decision making, even when a decision conflicts with one’s moral code and understanding of ethical conduct.

The dissonance from conflicting attitudes and decisions drives some people to consult

sources that will reaffirm their unethical resolution, particularly when they are wholly responsible for a decision that will have ramifications on others. This leads people to seek information that they know will support their action in a type of confirmation bias, as Macbeth frequently sought Lady M’s counsel, conscious of her skewed perception of morality. They also distort or intentionally misinterpret information to support their decisions, just like M-dawg distorted the prophecy to act as a justification for his immorality.

Finally, they convince themselves that the advantages far outweigh the negative consequences of their decision, as seen in Lady M and Macbeth’s decision to kill Duncan so they could swoon over the crown. Nonetheless, whilst others may reaffirm one’s beliefs, a decision being made is still an individual’s choice. We cannot blame other people or external influences for our unethical decision making, when a decision and its outcomes are ultimately determined by us and are hence our personal responsibility.

The American banking conglomerate Wells Fargo exhibits the common unethical conduct that is consuming the corporate world. The company came under fire for its employees, opening up more than a million fraudulent accounts that were used for embezzlement purposes over the span of several years. Arguably, the most concerning element of this scandal was not the illegal activity taking place, but the sheer scale of the deceit.

More than 5300 employees were involved in the fraudulent money-grab, demonstrating that the unethical behaviour taking place was not an isolated incident but rather a company-wide phenomenon. Such behaviour suggests that there is often a willingness to abandon morals when there is no incentive to behave ethically, particularly when unethical behaviour is rewarded with hefty compensation and minimal accountability. At its core, when people see others escaping blame or even making significant behave ethically, particularly when unethical behaviour is rewarded with hefty compensation and minimal accountability. At its core, when people see others escaping blame or even making significant gain for poor conduct, they are motivated to mimic this self-interested behaviour. This results in their morals being compromised.

Banking industry regulators have condemned the behaviour exemplified by Wells Fargo, stating that “unchecked incentives can lead to serious consumer harm.” They point to the leaders of these organisations, often responsible for the implementation of supporting a culture of short-term objectives that can result in unethical practice. On occasion, senior staff have been known to turn a ‘blind eye’ toward the behaviour of their employees, even evidenced in fines levied on major ‘reputable’ Australian organisations.

Westpac, a leading retail bank, has been involved in a 1.3 billion dollar settlement with

AUSTRAC for their failure to declare over 19.5 million international transactions. These may have been linked to criminal

Activity and child exploitation. It seems inconceivable that so many transactions of this nature had simply flown under the radar. Most would agree that corporate integrity needs to be driven from the top down, otherwise individuals will assume that their behaviour will go unchecked. This involves ethical role modelling, transparency and accountability. As Ron Carruci noted in the Harvard Business Review, “leaders must accept they are held to higher standards than others. They must be extra vigilant about not just their intentions, but how it is others might interpret their behaviour.”

Whether it is at an individual or corporate level, ethical behaviour requires conscious decision making and a commitment to moral conduct, irrespective of whether anyone else is looking. Perhaps the same children who couldn’t resist the marshmallow are the adults who still can’t resist their impulses. ∞

Young Cho

Young’s response explores the contradictory nature of life in response to the Charles Dickens quote: “It was the best of times, it was the worst of times, it was the age of wisdom, it was the age of foolishness, it was the epoch of belief, it was the epoch of incredulity, it was the season of light, it was the season of darkness, it was the spring of hope, it was the winter of despair.”

MODERNISM: A TALE OF TWO ‘KITTIES’

I refuse to acknowledge that it’s been almost three traumatising years since the grotesque birth of Covid-19, alongside its sibling, pandemic marketing. I’ve been fed ad after ad on virtually every platform (pun intended), spewing the same fabricated lie that despite society has united through efforts to “flatten the curve” by “social distancing” and “quarantining”. Now that we have emerged from those “trying” and “unprecedented” timeswords I never want to hear again- I’ve come the realization that Covid has done nothing but provide a stagnant incubation period for the spawning of hate, accusations and mandates that fragment a society wallowing in meaninglessness and confusion, a legacy from the Modern era. The paradoxical nature of Covid-19 is merely a 21st Century remnant of the contradicting flaws that marred Modernist society from truly attaining progress.

Modernist ideas revolved around countless paradoxes that defined a sense of confusion, one of which was the urban paradox. German playwright Goethe presents this in his 1831 tragic play, “Faust”, through the protagonist’s steadfast pursuit of his empty desires. Faust seeks to “find joy and torment in his forward stride” but he is constantly “unsatisfied… at each moment”. Under Faust’s urban gaze, the joys of urban existence are overshadowed

by tormenting hollowness, alienating the city dweller within the urban landscape. By the 1920’s, over 50% of Americans lived in urban areas, increasing by 30% from the Mid-19th century, surfacing the paradoxical notion that individuals who flock to cities in pursuit of coherence and liberty are inevitably disappointed by rigid values and roles defined by the urban landscape which suppress the intrinsic autonomy of city dwellers. Another Modernist emblem of societal progress was technological advancements, which were simultaneously condemned and embraced. The consequences of society’s infatuation with technology is portrayed deplorably in F. Scott Fitzgerald’s 1925 novel “The Great Gatsby”, which is centred around the motif of automobiles, bad driving, and accidents, such as Myrtle Wilson’s brutal death. This reflects the beneficial intentions behind technological advancements that contend with their inevitable contribution to destruction.

Perhaps it can be argued that the key paradox of the Modern existence was society’s idolization of the past despite apparent pursuit of progress. Although Modernism claimed to challenge past institutions, society’s inability to overcome these values led to a pervasive sense of incoherence that plagued writers such as Fitzgerald, whose characterization of rambling

rambling millionaires such as Tom Buchanan in “The Great Gatsby” referenced backward values. Tom’s praise of “Goddard’s” work as “scientific” and calling “the dominant race, to watch out or these other races will have control,” critiques the white supremacist notions that evolved from the pursuit of racial equality that historically shaped America’s national identity through events such as the Civil War. Encompassing these paradoxical values was an overarching sense of meaninglessness, exemplified through Amy Lowell’s 1913 sonnet, “A Blockhead”. Lowell’s scathing critique of society’s idolized past inspirations and vigour is portrayed through the persona’s present

aimlessness and confusion, representing Modernist society’s backwards values.

The Modern era brimmed with radically opposing beliefs and institutions that predetermined future societal models. Covid has, upon reflection, instilled bitterness and emptiness in an already paradoxical world. It’s fascinating-no, sobering- to me how three years of a pandemic can evoke so many remnants of a bygone time, connected through deception and contention, but above all, a sense of aimlessness that we can’t seem to shake off, even a century later. ∞

Ellie Beck

Ellie wrote and performed this speech for her Year 10 cohort about the contradictions and complexities of modern life. Below is the transcript of her entry to the Patricia Burgoyne speaking competition.

SPEECH FOR THE PATRICIA BURGOYNE COMPETITION

I acutely remember the moment I became aware of my own mortality. I was around 6 or 7, and up until that point I had possessed a kind of innocence akin to blissful ignorance. But all of a sudden, I came to a shocking realisation: I wasn’t immortal! Someday, somehow, I going to perish. I would later find out that I am not alone in this experience: you too, perhaps, have experienced something similar. But somehow, between then and now, we’ve managed to gain a sort of purchase on life. We’ve figured out a way to go about our daily lives that allows us to bear the weight of this knowledge.

Perhaps, we’ve adopted some sort of goal. Perhaps, like the modernist cynics, we choose to identify and criticise apparent societal and human flaws. Or perhaps we are in pursuit of something. For James Gatz, this something was the achievement of wealth and status, which was presupposed to come hand-inhand with stability, happiness, and purpose. And so forth Gatsby marched down the path marked “American Dream”, ever-insatiable, morally lost, lacking in genuine connection, and ultimately, in the happiness he sought to achieve. At a certain point, the hedonistic

treadmill that is the pursuit and consumption of the material that money can buy lost its green, green glow, and became simply a cyclical process of gain and dissatisfaction.

The very mention of a “glow” actually reminds me of something quite profound that I read recently in response to the same question of how best to cope with death-related-dread and live our lives. For Dr. Julia Baird, the answer to this question is seeking out that which keeps us ever-slightly phosphorescent. That is, having realistic expectations for our happiness and doing what we can to gently nurse its softly glowing coals. That means appreciating nature, being awe-inspired, and “so many” other things.

Now, if there’s one thing shared between the approaches of Gatsby and Julia Baird, I’d say that it’s the belief that there is meaning to be found in life. But if that was something that everyone believed, then we wouldn’t have nihilists. Forget hedonistic treadmill: we must also confront the suggestion that life is a hill and we are sisyphus. The nihilistic perspective, I feel, is well described by this passage:

“everything is devalued, de-symbolised, and untenable in the face of death”.

Now, as I sat here writing this, I found myself thinking of the future. Of a time when my hair will be grey and teeth once again loose. I thought to myself: this is the youngest i’ll ever be. This is basically the best it’s ever going to be: physically, that is. I considered the fact that I can live my life in the pursuit of many things, and that I have the capacity for many feelings, too. But two things I do know are that I prefer to be happy, and that there are things I cannot change. I can only work to try and achieve happiness by influencing my environment in such a way that I might realise my goal. Ultimately, what I’m trying to say is that I can’t provide you with an answer as to how you should live your life, and evade the eventual product of your aging.

All I can assure you is that once YOU find something that soothes you in this process, you have the ability to work to achieve this thing: whether it be happiness, quiet phosphorescence, money, or finishing your speech. ∞

Yu Zhou

Yu composed this response for her Year 10 English assessment in response to the prompt “We are like the tree standing in the middle of a bushfire sweeping through the timber. The leaves are scorched and the tough bark is scarred and burnt, but inside the tree, the sap is still flowing and under the ground, the roots are still strong. Like the tree, we have endured the flames and yet we still have the power to be reborn” by Miriam Rose Ungunmerr-Baumann.

MODERNISM DISCURSIVE

Poppies taught me about nature’s ability to enchant viewers with its mesmerising scenery and its crucial role in healing humanity, but also its ability to destroy it. Disguised in the delicate, black seeds of a poppy is a derivative of opium; a powerful narcotic that sparked conflict, disputes, and wars. The Opium War, for example, shocked China and Britain with countless deaths and sparked hatred, unleashing conflicts never seen to mankind. In soldiers’ folklore, the red poppy is symbolic of their comrades who died in battle, their blood forever ingrained into the petals of the flowers. Mother nature’s ability to create these beautiful colours inspires societies to create these stories and remember what was lost. The first World War was not just a societal tragedy but left a trail of environmental destruction. Devastated pastures, swampy marshlands and charcoaled trees are prominent features of conflict but is often romanticised as a backdrop for battle. After the war, society chose to ignore the ‘scorched leaves’ and ‘burnt bark’ that had been left behind. Abandoning the carnage of the war, civilisation believed it could achieve Utopia.

What happened to this Utopia?

Well, society never truly recovered from the

devastation of the war; rather, our hedonistic nature drove us deeper into a hole. Like Miriam Rose once said, ‘We are the trees standing in the middle of a bushfire…we are scorched and burnt.’ Humanity is still at war with nature, and nature is fighting back with greater strength and fury. For years, the headlines have been disheartening, with floods, hurricanes, prolonged droughts, and bushfires wreaking havoc. Biodiversity is decreasing. Ecosystems are disappearing.

Miriam Rose’s words triggered memories of my family’s experiences during the Cultural Revolution in China. My grandmother once told me that as a result of the Great Leap Forward, forests and birds collapsed to mass steel production. During Mao’s era, the slogan ‘Man must conquer nature’ portrayed Mother Nature as a foe to be defeated during the revolution, but as a result of the mass destruction of nature, civilians died from their own pollution. Nature gives people a sense of place and identity, damage to the environment erodes the human psyche. In the words of Miriam Rose, ‘We have endured the flames and yet we have the power to be reborn.’ Like nature’s power to regrow and harness love, we too can learn to restore peace with the environment. However, we are now witnessing

history repeat itself. Leaders remain ignorant Climate Change Protests, abdicating their responsibility by simply placing the problems created by previous generations on the backs of future generations.

Maya Angelou said in her poem, ‘A Brave and Startling Truth’, ‘We are the people on this drifting planet whose hands can strike with such abandon, that in a twinkling, life is sapped from the living…we learn that we are neither devils nor divines.’

Humanity is travelling through time and space on this planet in search of peace. We’ve seen in the past how society has the power to start destruction, but we also have the ability to create a world free of conflict.

We must learn to stop smelling the powerful poison in the beautiful poppies and wake up to the cries in our society calling to us right now. ∞

Chelsea Shi

Chelsea composed this response for her Year 10 English assessment in response to the prompt “We are like the tree standing in the middle of a bushfire sweeping through the timber. The leaves are scorched and the tough bark is scarred and burnt, but inside the tree, the sap is still flowing and under the ground, the roots are still strong. Like the tree, we have endured the flames and yet we still have the power to be reborn” by Miriam Rose Ungunmerr-Baumann.

THE NATURAL BIOLOGY OF RESILIENCE

I was only 10 years old when I saw the burning trees on TV. ‘A bushfire sweeping through the timber’ where ‘leaves [were] scorched and tough bark [was] scarred and burnt.’ My quivering heart pounded as I watched the orange and grey pixels flutter across the screen, apprehensive about the damage that may have occurred. The screen ticked over to the reporter and I shut my eyes in anticipation…

But instead of the solemn rigidity of a tightlipped grimace, they were beaming? The reporter, the firefighters, everyone?

Let me rephrase. I was only 10 years old when I learnt about backburning. Although I couldn’t tell the difference between a controlled burning of foliage and an unruly bushfire when I was younger, I certainly understood the

significance of the role of backburning now. I remember being even more astonished when I learnt that certain trees need fire for their seeds to burn off their shells and germinate!

How curious that two things that are as opposed as plants and fire could coexist and benefit from one another?

Too often we underestimate the adaptability of nature, and as Miriam Rose describes how inside a burnt tree ‘the sap is still flowing and… the roots are still strong’, nature is much more robust than we envision it to be.

There are a multitude of instances that can be referred to when exhibiting the resilience of nature. Volcanoes explosively erupt to give way to fertile soil, Galapagos finches adapt to the food available on certain islands, or even just the unique features that animals possess to be able to survive unforgiving environments like the cold temperatures of winter with hibernation or shaggy coats.

However, these examples are quite specific, and if you aren’t a nature enthusiast (like me), they may not come to mind as easily. Despite this, everyone should have at least one example that displays the power of nature very fresh in their mind.

The COVID-19 pandemic.

While we fragile and tiny humans were trapped inside the insignificant stone structures, we call apartments, nature was busy reclaiming its territory. Never before had we seen such a remarkably rapid overtake of nature once the presence of humans was removed. Fish came back to beaches, animals returned to forests, and even the air seemed clearer for a moment!

It is times like these that we should hold reverence to the resilient power of nature and its ability to consistently bounce back, whether from the frigid and barren Ice Ages or pesky human interference.

But where does that leave us?

Humans seem to be caught between the brink of pure animals and technology. Evolution is slow and we don’t have all millennia to wait for our brain capacity to expand or for us to develop these advantages as animals do. In our case, all we have are opposed thumbs and more importantly, resilience.

Humans are natural creatures and with nature comes resilience. While we may not be very physically tough, we certainly wouldn’t be able to regenerate after a wildfire or slow down our heart rate to survive the cold, our resilience presents itself in the form of mental spirit.

Our desire to stay alive and our will to fight for the societies that we have created add to our strength and give us the resilience to make it through the tumultuous path of life. We started as vulnerable hunter-gathers, so we built cities and farms as a defence. Our people got sick, so we invented medicines. Our primitive tools were ineffective, so we prototyped machinery. We have worshipped the art of resilience since ancient times, for example, the Ancient Greeks adored their epics such as ‘The Odyssey’ by Homer which praised the exceptional mental strength of the protagonists on their perilous

journeys. Even though our lives are filled with a lot fewer mystical gods, the core positive values remain roughly unchanged.

Like plants and like nature, we continue to rise out of the barren environment and flourish, and this has been proven through our pretty good track record of surviving the last few thousand years.

Our forms and capabilities may not be anything like our natural plant and animal brethren, but the same soul remains. Our spirit needs to be nurtured and raised up, as even a weed wouldn’t be able to survive a forest fire, but as we develop and gather our strength like

a sturdy oak tree, we will be able to face the flames and come out the other side standing, hanging onto the ‘power to be reborn’ and march forward.

So, people may attribute human’s best ability to our technologies, our intelligence, or even our development of language, but our resilience as a species should still be considered a valid contender in this contest. Though we definitely aren’t the strongest competitors in comparison to hardy plants and the fierce evolution of animals, there is something to be said about the resilience that resides within us that can be found all throughout the natural kingdom. ∞

Jessie Xie

Jessie’s vignette explores a character’s response to the social pressures of the world of 1920s America. This was in response to a unit on Modernism where Jessie explored the concerns of the context in impacting individuals in society.

TOSSED INTO THE CURRENT

The dawning sky pried open crimson crevices between the compact clouds and honeycoloured sunlight seeped into the bedroom, accompanied by the riotous radios. Spring was arriving, brightening the world with an explosion of colours. The burnt orange fingers of the morning light penetrated the apertures of the window blind, scintillating the room and disposing the shadows of the night from all four corners. The yawning window, flung open by the breeze, pushed out the musty air of the enclosed bedroom with the bitter

scent of coffee. New York buzzed with hectic activity like a swarm of bees roused by the temperature of the new season.

This overflowing morning finally compelled the body to shed the remnants of sleep from his mind and open his azure eyes. Henry viewed his bright-lit surroundings through his grey bangs and distinguished the overhanging candelabra chandelier of his bedroom. Under the blistering light of dawn, the chandelier boasted of newfound luxury and emulated the

beaded skirts of yesterday’s flappers.

He turned away to avoid the final slanting rays which clashed with the arms at the back of his head.

Sharp bayonets pierced the back of Henry’s mind, stabbed his eyes, and sliced through his thoughts. In his stomach, walls of water swelled, surged, and pounded continuously on the rocks. Each breath was tinged with the pungent, sour smell of distilled gin. His doughboys had called him a lightweight and he lay there wistfully imagining their reaction if they were there. They were always right, but he understood that he would drain the gin again and the nights would repeat like the eroding waves as they advanced and retreated in a continuous cycle, over and over.

Sighing, he twisted his head to the side painfully. His wine-stained tuxedo was flung onto the back of his chair and his tailored work suit had draped onto the ground, disappointed at his negligence. His black trousers were abandoned before the bed like a carpet and his pair of black shoes were lying on their sides. Rejecting the dismal scene, he snapped shut his eyes and thought of last night’s exhilarating episode. The tranquil cerulean sky had shed her checked apron for the glimmering plaid skirt and had melted into the starlit night.

Henry saw himself stepping into the speakeasy where women’s faces burned golden under the electric lights like daffodils opening up to the warm spring light. The crowd crushed him with their lavish clothing and glistening accessories, setting off a fire of yearning in his chest. As the blinding light spilt over the room, his eyes became engulfed by her alluring face.

Prancing down the bar, she tossed her head and stamped the wooden tabletop with fierce gaiety. After another two strides she twisted her hips, casting away the merciless reins and flinging off the saddle. As she flicked up her

leg, the faux ivory pearls alighted under the prismatic lights. The ecstasy of her dancing was uttered through the resplendent bangles on her willowy wrist. He saw the kiss of the strapped heels on the wooden floor, the bronze face hugged by the brown bob and the sway of the plaid skirt as she twirled through the Charleston. It was all like a dream, reflected Henry as he thought back to her beauty and liberation, all like a dream. As he watched her, his thoughts floated to the mundane day ahead and his gaunt face crumpled in frustration. Every day, he was clinging to the end of a rope, unable to pull himself back up and climb towards his destination above.

Reaching for a brimming glass of Highball, he laughed emptily to the jazz music. He remembered the multifaceted gin with its juniper flavour, masks for the ceramic alcohol. It was rough against the throat and sickly sweet, but he had choked back his revulsion and gulped down glass after glass. He drank away the exhaustion of the day and allowed his disguised merriment to drift to the roof alongside the cheers and the smell of sickly perfume and the blaring saxophone.

Outside his bedroom, automobiles screeched as they trailed one after another towards the distant yet luring skyscrapers. Children laughed with excitement as they boarded their school bus, which groaned before transporting the children to pursue their procurable dreams. As longing squeezed his throat, he knew that he too, must continuously chase the day, sacrifice, and work earnestly to fulfill his interminable yearning and aspirations. He understood that he had to exit his house, grab his cheaters, and turn on his Ford to relive that dreamlike evening with the dancing women and the drinking men. They were always pushed onwards by the incessant waves, by the current of the decade, unwillingly into the future. With that he opened his eyes and greeted the early morning light. ∞

Christy Xue

Christy’s imaginative piece explores the impact of the Red Terror in 1920’s America on Chinese migrants. This was in relation to her study of the contextual features of the Modernist era in Year 10 English.

THE ILLICIT RED

Mr Wong is certain that he did nothing wrong, but is now hurrying through the eroding pages of the Chinese-English dictionary, trying to figure out what the police are accusing him of. On the ground, two crimson couplets1 lie awkwardly before his foot on that are written: gong-xi-fa-cai; xin-nian-kuai-le (wishing you happiness and prosperity; happy new year).

“Red. Posters. On. Your. Door.” The brusque and husky tenor added to the confrontation the uniformed police presented with a skeptical contempt.

“Oh, it’s for Chinese New Year. It brings good fortune”. Mr Wong speaks with an unnecessarily guilty tone in an accent archetypal to his heritage. He is a short man, with the front half of his hair clean-shaven and the rest weaved into a long thin braid.2 Moustache grew wild on his sallow and cratered face like weeds in an abandoned mining town.

Mrs Wong stood behind her husband, her ankle-length qipao3 stained by soap-water patches which contoured her impoverished physique like an unornamented terracotta doll. Her body hunched back with shrugged shoulders: one can see nothing other than her plain bobbed hair and cracked lips. Under the qipao, her narrow shoes shuffled nervously upon the police’s curious stare, her forbidden

ground - the ‘golden lotus’.4

“Fine, Next time…” the police’s finger pointed like a loaded pistol “it’s deportation!” Followed by a bark of utter disgust. Spattered by flying droplets, the Wongs returned to their lunch.

Their room was no bigger than an attic. There were no beds, just thin sheets of stitched fabric filled with cotton on the ground. Dead silence was spontaneously disturbed by muffled radio static. Deterred by sunlight, blankets of dust consumed every crevice and with the unventilated moist permeates a metallic eroding smell, leaving a sour aftertaste. On the stove, water evaporates from the shrieking iron pot into the congested air, addressing an opaque white light revealing the dancing specks of dust.

There was a small table in the middle of the room, on which were two steaming bowls of watery porridge and skinny dumplings. Beside the chopsticks laid a copy of The New York Times with the headline: RED RAIDED IN SCORES OF CITIES; DEPORTATION HEARINGS BEGIN TODAY (7/2/1920).

“Zen me le?” Mrs Wong asked at last. Her voice was trembling with careful tentativeness marked by subtle hesitancy.

“Who we’ve been seeing…. And why we hang

red couplets outside our door,” Mr Wong muttered, his croaking voice, with a deep hoarse note slipping off his tongue like every breath had lost its meaning. “He also said something else but I couldn’t catch it…”

Mr Wong mumbled on, his eyes fixed on the newspaper headline. Through the patches of ink stain, he recognised some words ‘Bombing… Wall Street… red communists… deportation’ and his sight went down to the heart. His legs tap in an uneven rhythm as his index picks repeatedly at the dead skin on his thumb. The screaming pot rings in his ear like those neverending infant cries in the dead of the night and with a burst of frustration he exclaimed, “Why is the pot still on the stove?” Mrs Wong, startled by the suddenness, stared in stark confusion and looked around the room like a lost toddler at the school gate.

‘Yao cha ma?’ her brittle voice was like the swaying willows under the overcast sky.

“No, I don’t want any tea”. His tapping became faster, “And I’ve told you, speak English at home…..”.

He felt the burning humiliation from the ineluctable disdain, and the police’s jarring reverberation lingered in the brittle winter air. ‘You think you’re a big cheese, don’t you? Speak. Our. Language.”

Yet his prevailing stare nevertheless asserts a paternal coldness, provoking a stark contrast to the swirl of frustration and an inescapable abyss of regret.

Puzzled by the stare, Mrs Wong returned to the table. Her restless glance drifted to the dusty coat lying guiltily over the cardboard against the opposing wall. Under the fading fabric poked crimson auspiciousness - a silent rebellion. Those illicit lanterns abandoned by their deported owners now take refuge in the Wongs’ dwelling like lost orphans in a hurried migration.

Her eyes flickered with dissatisfaction, its bleary sight spotted a fading pamphlet on the opposite wall, its bold letters screamed in the capitalised form: AMERICA - A DREAM FOR EVERYONE. On it, a blonde family gathers around a dinner table with turkeys and wine, all smiling in jubilant decadence. Their dimmed blue eyes brood in a wry manner over the Wong’s cramped, run-down dwelling.

Outside the window, derelict Chinatown lies in the canyon of alluring Manhattan skyscrapers, disillusioned of its old crimson joy, like a rusted urban dumping-ground. Half-burnt lanterns and scarlet decorations crumpled in the dumpsters. Stone tigers 5 watched the corrugated pavements which trailed into a messy collection of overgrown moss penetrating and seeping into the cracks of granite.

The Wongs did not receive any New Year wishes that day. ∞

1 Couplets (春联): A pair of vertically written poetry in black pink on red paper. They are usually pasted on front doors and are used to express hopeful thoughts for the coming year.

2 Braid (辫子): A hairstyle worn during the Chinese Qing dynasty (1644 - 1912), it was seen as a sign of conservatism and holding on to the ‘old ideas’.

3 Qipao (旗袍): A close-fitting dress evolved from traditional Manchu outfits that popularised in 1920s Shanghai.

4 Golden Lotus (三寸金莲): Feet binding through breaking feet arches and toes then binding them to the sole of the foot. It was a sign of conservative female modesty

Nikita Srivastava

As part of our creative writing focus in Year 8, students composed two contrasting descriptions of a landscape. The first was one in which the landscape was comforting, the second as one that was unfamiliar and frightening. Students considered how they might use descriptive and figurative language to create the two very different moods within the same setting.

SETTING DESCRIPTIONS

I stop for a moment, trying to take in as much of the bush as possible: the tall trees, flourishing forest floor, and reflective silence stopped only by the crisp crunching of dry leaves. It has been a long time since my head felt this clear. In the trees, the kookaburras’ laugh harmonises with the lorikeet’s song. I look up into the canopy. There is a palette of greens, with specks of the banksia’s crimson. The canopy shields me from the sun, pockets of light illuminating the delicate wings of insects hiding in the bushes. A breeze glides through the air, carrying the aroma of fresh soil and eucalyptus. The bushland was like this before I was born and will be like this after I am gone. The thought calms me.

The lush, seemingly infinite bush makes my problems seem unimportant. A smile crosses my face as I walk further into the vast landscape. I breathe deeply, inhaling the eucalyptus scent. As I walk gently, careful not to disturb the land, I look around. I wonder why people avoid going into the bushland, calling it “unpredictable” or “dangerous.” Its unpredictability is its beauty. Its danger feels comforting; it helps us realise that in nature, we are all equal. I try to absorb the entire landscape, hoping to somehow imprint it in my mind so that I can remember just how calm I feel now. ∞

Katherine Pan

As part of our creative writing focus in Year 8, students composed two contrasting descriptions of a landscape. The first was one in which the landscape was comforting, the second as one that was unfamiliar and frightening. Students considered how they might use descriptive and figurative language to create the two very different moods within the same setting.

SETTING DESCRIPTIONS

The forest is still. Nothing can be heard except the soft crinkling of leaves beneath my feet and the faint chirps from a baby starling. There’s a light breeze blowing from the east, rustling the twigs that are sprayed across the grassy floor. My feet feel steady on the ground, and there’s an upbeat spring to my footsteps, almost as if there were metal coils underneath my shoes. The woodland is a safe sanctuary – a place I always return to for utter serenity. In here, sunlight filters splendidly through the foliage, dappling the bush with radiant patches of light. Shadows and sunlight interweave perfectly to emit a warm glow in the forest. This time of day is my favourite.

It’s a late afternoon in spring, and I always seek shelter in the little hut near the ancient eucalyptus tree. It’s made out of several planks of acacia wood, still sturdy after years of wear and tear. When I was little, I would crawl inside the hut and sleep for hours until I heard my mother’s voice echo through the forest, calling my name. The forest silences the ticking of clocks outside and gives promises of nothing but tranquillity. Slowly, I close my eyelids and release the tension from every limb in my body. I breathe in - then out - and the forest breathes with me. ∞

As part of our creative writing focus in Year 8, students composed two contrasting descriptions of a landscape. The first was one in which the landscape was comforting, the second as one that was unfamiliar and frightening. Students considered how they might use descriptive and figurative language to create the two very different moods within the same setting.

SETTING DESCRIPTIONS

I ran through the bush, feet blistering from the jagged rocks digging into them. I scanned the passing gum trees and evergreen shrubs, searching for some sort of familiar landmark. Slowing down, my footfalls fatigued and uncertain, I looked up at the canopy, the dull yet blinding light making me squint. The roaring of cicadas was deafening, and I heard a branch fall nearby. Another surge of panic seized me. What if I was lost in the bush forever and never got home? A magpie eyed me as if to say, ‘You’d better get used to it. Here, eat some leaves.’ Its sharp beak glinted.

There was nothing to do but keep going,

so I kept trudging along, legs aching and eyes drooping. The trees looming above me seemed to blur into an imposing, overwhelming mass of light brown and green, as I stumbled over roots and shoved past the thin leafed, almost spiky fronds. Dusk was falling, and I found myself swatting mosquitoes left and right. A pair of glowing eyes looked down at me from the leafy darkness, a shadow scurried along a branch.

I shivered. My arms itched, my eyes stung, my feet hurt, so I eventually leant against a paperbark tree and buried my face in my hands. ∞

Angela Zhang

As part of our creative writing focus in Year 8, students composed two contrasting descriptions of a landscape. The first was one in which the landscape was comforting, the second as one that was unfamiliar and frightening. Students considered how they might use descriptive and figurative language to create the two very different moods within the same setting.

SETTING DESCRIPTIONS

The scorching glare of the omnipresent sun drew shadows and shapes across the darkening forest, which watched me critically as I tentatively pressed the soles of my feet onto the bareness of rock and dirt below. My eyes wandered over the looming eucalyptus trees, an overwhelming green canopy stretching across this isolated labyrinth; a world shrouded in secrecy, distant from the clutter of civilization. The air clogged around me, trapping me in a net of humidity and I surrendered to its silent force. My body stilled, save from the subconscious clenching and

unclenching of my hands. The trees were too tall, the ground too hard.

The blue of the sky against the brown of bark dizzyingly brash and the sun too overbearingly bright, articulating the piercing white of stone and vibrant lime of the leaves as I felt my every move examined. With each step, my uncertainty only grew as an incessant ringing in my ear filled the hushed silence. The staleness of the air taunted me with the failed prospect of fresh relief. A clearing was nowhere to be seen and I felt hope start to fade. ∞

Year 8 English Extension project

In Term 2, 08EN01 undertook an extension project, creating their own dystopias in response to our novel study in the genre.

HOW CAN LITERATURE ENCOURAGE SOCIAL CHANGE?

Based on their study of the novel The Giver and inspired by a project created by Lattes and Lit, as well as informative presentations from literary and scientific experts, such as Library Team Leader, Ms. Zwar, Head of Science, Dr. Spence, and Head of Religion and Ethics, Ms. O’Brien, students were tasked with creating their own dystopian vision of the future.

Working in small groups, they considered which current trend/s, idea/s or event/s most need changing in our society to avoid a future dystopian reality and, from that premise, built their own dystopian world. The groups explored issues such as: latestage capitalism, social mobility and poverty; religious persecution; water shortages; and excessive government control leading to mass surveillance.

To complete the project, students were required to create: a map of their imagined world, a piece of propaganda used by its government, and a glossary of words used in the world. They were also required to compose a creative representation of their world that emphasised the warning embedded in the dystopia. One of these creative projects – the first chapter of a dystopian novel can be found on the next page:

At the end of the project, students presented their project to a panel of judges for adjudication – Ms. Tarrant, High Potential Learning Coordinator; Ms. Lombard, Head of Year 8; and Ms. Zwar - with all three greatly impressed by the imagination and effort on display.

Alissa Xue, Amber Li, Amber Wang, Grace Beck, Imogen Wu and Katherine Pan

CHAPTER 1

Midnight.

The fog of the city lights coloured the undersides of the clouds a smoky brown. Fuelled by cheap coffee, and leaning on the cold brick of the gate, Elliot kept watch over his side of the Brooklyn Bridge. On one bank, the outline of imposing yachts clustered near private marinas. On the other, rusty shipping containers were scattered along the dingy harbour, barely visible over the towering wall.

Nobody ever wanted to take these night shifts - ten hours of gazing over the crumbling patchwork that was North Brooklyn, while Manhattan’s luxury cars and club music threatened to lure you away from your duty. However, Elliot told himself he would put up with it, for the sake of the State - for the sake of having enough points to compensate for his escalating debt.

He swore that one day, he would be one of those happy people on the other side, someone who could serve in the stunning headquarters of the Citizens Association.

Do enough good and you’ll always be repaid, the State droned. The slogan was on every advertisement, every publicised video and every poster of a government building.

It was a promise of opportunity and social advancement, available to every citizen.

Suddenly, Elliot heard the crack of somebody stepping on a piece of trash. He pulled out his flashlight instinctively, pointing it in front of him in one swift motion. Almost immediately, a

boy broke into a sprint, before halting in front of the closing bridge gates.

Elliot examined the boy with his flashlight. He was young, perhaps in his early teens. Twelve, thirteen? His cheeks were thickly layered with grime, and his hair was dishevelled like a bird’s nest. The boy’s ribcage was scarily conspicuous under his tattered clothes, a common sight in the malnourished ghettos of Brooklyn.

Elliot’s thoughts were interrupted by a series of blaring alerts on his flashlight’s screen: “Matteo Sanchez RED violation in living unit 3037. RED violation in street 34. Trespassing out of designated residence block.” RED violation… that meant… smashing cameras?? That kid’ll be dead meat when we turn him in. 2000 points if I turn him in.

As the boy scrambled onto the side of the bridge, Elliot grabbed his arm and shackled his bony wrists with iron handcuffs.

“No, please - let me go. All I want is my mum. My mum…” the boy croaked weakly, “She left us. All of us.” Tears were beginning to roll down his cheeks.

“Nice story, but you’re still coming with me,” Elliot remarked bluntly.

“Look, this is us,” Matteo pleaded, pointing to the fading, crinkled photograph of a young family that had slipped out of his jean pocket. They were smiling in the photo, arms locked together in a secure chain. “That’s Dad, Elle, and Sara. Mum’s gone.”

God, when would this kid stop?

Elliot pulled out his phone and dialled the number of the police station. He grimaced at the weak signal bars. ‘Damn it,’ he muttered. He placed his phone in his back pocket and clicked his tongue in distaste - he’d have to deal with this little one for a while.

‘My youngest sister, Elle, she’s only three,’’ Matteo pleaded, ‘Dad can’t do this by himself. I can’t do this by myself. Please, let me just go to Mum,” he begged with a desperate look.

The boys’ eyes flitted frantically from left to right, right to left.

“Your mother was doing her duty for the government,” Elliot recited apathetically.

“No. My mum didn’t care about the government before. Or the economy. She never cared about this worthless point system. Never once.”

Elliot was taken aback. It was unspeakable to criticise the government.

“It’s not her fault though,” Matteo continued, “Everyone in our community has thought of leaving. She was desperate and finally got a chance.”

Elliot’s gaze softened. He knew there was only so much hunger and discomfort that one person could take. In the ominous streets of Brooklyn, there was never enough food to go around, never enough room in the living units.

“She started growing… distant,” Matteo continued.

Elliot could tell he was starting to become hesitant about letting him hear all his thoughts and emotions.

“She left her own family. Yesterday the officials came. We saw them coming through a

peephole in the attic door. She packed faster than they could knock on our door.”

Matteo grew quiet.

“The Benefactors never did anything for me or my family. All they did was tear us apart. I’m done with them just turning everything upside down. All I need is one chance to find Mum and bring her back to us. Please… look the other way, just this once.”

Elliot had grown accustomed to these tragic stories. Gripped by despair, their parents realised they could get more points by offering their whole selves to the government and the corporate world instead of prioritising their family: moving up ranks by leaving their children behind. In this world, it was everyone for themselves, and the children had only themselves for comfort. Elliot flinched at his own memories. Even his own father had deserted him to join the Benefactors, years ago.

But what could Elliot do? That was the way the system worked.

A loud splash awoke Elliot from his musings. In his peripheral vision, a small, bony body flailed in the water beneath the bridge, clawing for the other side. Matteo locked eyes with Elliot in the water and he could have sworn there was a wild glint in his eyes while he swam desperately to the shore. Damn it, Elliot swore. He hesitated, just for a moment, before diving in.

As much as Elliot wanted to hate this kid, he couldn’t help feeling a twinge of sadness for him. ∞

GLOSSARY

Citizens Association – The current government Point system – The system used to decide people’s social status

Lily Still

Lily’s imaginative recreation aims to capture the conflict presented between Helena and Hermia in Act 3, Scene 2 of ‘A Midsummer Night’s Dream’ studied in Year 8 English. Her focus was on modernising the setting and emphasising the conflict through dialogue, action and description.

IMAGINATIVE RECREATION OF ACT 3, SCENE 2 OF SHAKESPEARE’S A MIDSUMMER NIGHT’S DREAM

The air was sharp, wind whipping violently against her face, icy cold in a way snow could never hope to be. She walks faster her hair flying freely behind her, dancing playfully with the wind as she follows the sound of uneven breaths and loud wails. She strides through the dark street, occasionally passing by a flickering, dim street light, the bottoms rusted with age.

Her heart beats faster as she rounds a corner, tangled ivy decorates the mouldy concrete walls sheltering her from the harsh wind. The wails get louder and louder until Helena comes to an abrupt stop. Hermia sits against the wall, dirty plastic bottles and wrappers scattered in bushes and around the path. Her knees are brought up to her chest as her shoulders shake from the sheer force of her emotions.

Hermia”, Helena breathes, catching the attention of Hermia who raises her head quickly, eyes widening as she realises who’s there. She stands up, her chest heaving as she struggles to control the tears pouring out of her eyes, she takes a shaky step forward. Helena’s heart flutters, and she moves to wrap the smaller girl in her arms, surging ahead with big open arms ready to cocoon her in a tight hug and never let go. And then-

Smack.

Helena’s head snaps sideways, her cheek burning. Hermia’s palm still raised, her face set in a deathly glare.

“Don’t touch me.”

It wasn’t a hard blow, Hermia never really had strong upper body strength but it’s the thought that truly burns because Hermia just raised a hand against her. Hermia is still glaring daggers at her, bristling and offensive, and for a moment, all Helena can feel is complete and utter confusion.

“You thief of love.” Hermia teases dangerously, her voice high with feigned playfulness, “You were so upset that that piggish cow Demetrius doesn’t love you that you decide to ruin my life.”

She chuckles maniacally, dried salty tear tracks shimmering in the dim streetlight.

“Hermia, I-”

“Did you and Lysander think it would be funny to trick me, to mock me?” Hermia spat the last few words out with a look so dark that it sent shivers down Helena’s spine.

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

Helena pleads, taking a timid step backwards,

“Lysander loves you. Why do you accuse me of things I haven’t done, you gnome? Why?”

“Gnome? Gnome?” Hermia scoffs, striding forward, “Are you saying Lysander loves you because of your height? How short am I, you giraffe? I’m not so short that I can’t reach up and claw your eyes out.” At that moment, Lysander and Demetrius rush in faces flushed scarlet from the fierce wind.

They both freeze at the sight of Hermia attempting to gorge out Helena’s eyes with a spoon, still stained with rust.

“Please,” Helena calls out to Demetrius desperately, attempting to fight off the insane woman in front of her. “Don’t let her hurt me. Though she is little she could kill me with a single glare.

“Little!? There it is again.” Hermia shouts, tears making a dramatic return, retracing the dried tracks of their predecessors.

They both freeze at the sight of Hermia attempting to gorge out Helena’s eyes with a spoon, still stained with rust.

“Please,” Helena calls out to Demetrius desperately, attempting to fight off the insane woman in front of her. “Don’t let her hurt me. Though she is little she could kill me with a single glare.

“Little!? There it is again.” Hermia shouts, tears making a dramatic return, retracing the dried tracks of their predecessors.

“Hermia, don’t be so resentful towards me,” Helena begs, hiding behind Demetrius, “I’ve always loved you. I’ve never done anything to deserve this. Please let me go. I don’t want to fight you. I’ll leave you alone, just please,” She pauses desperately, “let me go.”

“Just go,” Hermia seethes, jaw clenched, “Who’s stopping you.”

“The one I love, Demetrius.” Helena says distantly, turning to face him, “Demetrius, let’s leave before her temper gets the best of her. Though she is short, she could best us all in a fight.”

Short again!” Hermia explodes, her face turning red, “Nothing but small and short. All this confusion is because you were jealous of my life.” She deflates, any last reminiscence of anger gone. All that remains is tiredness, “Just leave, you goon.”

Helena turns to Demetrius and Lysander, a look of quiet relief on her face.

“Let’s leave, we’re faster than her anyway.”

As the trio leaves Lysander shoots one small look at Hermia, one of past longing before a blank look returns to his face. He blinks once before turning on his heel and joining the other two in walking back to town.

As Hermia watches them leave, a giant wave of sadness crashes into her, it feels like an inescapable prison. A dull, black cell that is filled to the brim with constant reminders of how it once was, once happy memories were now so heavily drenched in regret that the happiness once felt was no longer present.

And if this sadness was the overwhelming force of a tidal wave, then Hermia was the stone that happily welcomed its embrace, sinking to the bottom of the ocean to never resurface again. ∞