Bright Ideas - English Creative Writing Booklet

Bright Ideas

Editorial

KRISTEN MCEVOY

Thank you for reading our next edition of Bright Ideas! Our purpose has been to capture the creative thought and expression of our senior students in their study of units which require the crafting of language in an increasingly complex and precise manner.

In their study of our unit, Contemporary Australian Experiences, Year 10 students have had opportunities to engage with concepts of representation, cultural identity and diversity, reconciliation, voice and authorship. Students were encouraged to experiment with new forms of expression and structure whilst also considering the nature of storytelling and the impact it can have on our identity as Australians. Neve’s story uses the Australian sun as a motif to parallel the experiences of her protagonist, whilst Erin’s, Allison’s and Christiana’s pieces explore the connectedness that our cultural identities can offer us within our communities. Evelyn’s and Lauren’s stories explore some of the complexities that come with these experiences.

We’d also like to celebrate the successes of Year 11 students in their Reading to Write unit, which has had them take inspiration from mentor texts and integrate these features cohesively into their own writing. Lucy’s and Arabella’s descriptions are examples of fragment writing, designed to help students experiment with crafting characters and settings. Julie and Ellie present two unique appropriations of Charlotte Bronte’s ‘Jane Eyre’ as part of their unit Reshaping the Narrative: The Significance of Multiple Voices and Perspectives in the English Extension course.

In their Craft of Writing unit, Year 12 have the opportunity to refine their writing in many different forms. This edition highlights the creative approaches that Tiffany, Alyssa, and Sophie have taken in responding to prompts, crafting characters and their relationships with their settings.

Lastly, this edition showcases the exceptional graphic design of Jacqueline Qin, who has interpreted components of some of these written works into beautiful illustrations. •

Neve MacColl

Neve’s imaginative piece was inspired by a work of Australian fiction by Wiradjuri author, Tara June Winch. ‘Cloud Busting’ explores the individual relationship with the Australian landscape and uses perspective to explore character relationships with it. ‘Boiling Over’ experiments with perspective shifts in a similar manner to Winch’s text.

BOILING OVER

Contemporary Australia is often characterised by its weather, specifically its blazing Sun and scorching temperatures. It’s commonly interpreted as a metaphor for Australia’s bright and energetic nature. But as I see it, the sun is weary and exhausting, dragging all life with it. My story contrasts the contemporary understanding of Australia from an outsider’s perspective, exploring the life of a girl raised and currently living in Western Australia.

We try our best to run to the pool before the heat catches us. The scalding pebbles attack our toes, biting at our flesh, and triggering the instant liquefication of our skin. Shrinking as we melt onto the ground, our steps leave small prints where we tread; just two sets, made by Charlotte and me. I lift the plastic gate opener, careful to avoid the black line of insects tiresomely marching toward their nest. We barge through the vibrant green gates and crash into the water– the cool moisture wrapping itself around our bodies, relieving our sores and crisp skin. I explode to the surface shortly after Charlotte to assess the 3rd-degree burns. We bring our goggles to our eyes and maneuver ourselves into ‘C’s to get a better look. Nothing. Pink skin stares back at me and I look toward Charlotte, just to be met by my own expression.

We were young then. Our wrinkles nonexistent, our cheeks round with innocence. The Sun hadn’t won then, its manifestation only just commencing.

Charlotte still visits, but we aren’t as close as we had been when the sun shone, its damage now clearly visible. The pool boiled over long ago, and these days we hide in the shade.

I can hear her walking across the rotting wood leading to the front door. Rubbing planks squeak with each step she takes, and I’m reminded of the times we would sprint across the porch, comforted by the short-lived effect of Zooper-Doopers and Golden Gaytimes. “Knock, knock!” Charlotte exclaims through the screen door.

“I’m comin’!” I shout back, “Just give me a minute!”

We don’t talk about many new things these days; the town doesn’t have secrets or stories. The newspapers have nothing to report except for a crime or two, mostly theft or break-andenters. We amuse ourselves as much as we can despite the lack of excitement– Beers on the porch or the occasional trip to the local markets. Sometimes Charlotte even tells me about her brother, Marcus. I never met him, nor did I know he existed for much of my life. She says he was much older than us and lived in Sydney, but I don’t think that’s true.

He couldn’t possibly have vanished from this small town without anyone knowing or caring. Nonetheless, I always find myself attentively leaning over the table with my chin between my hands.

It’s on these occasions that my skin clears, my body is energized, and I feel warm, not cicadachirping warm, but a warm that is homely and snug.

“Go on, tell a story then,” I say to her impatiently.

“I don’t have one ready though,” She grumbles, “You’ve drained me of my stories, there’s only so much I can tell before I run out and you’ll have to go across the road and ask Sandy for hers.”

I smile at her. “Tell one about Marcus.” She pauses for a few seconds to think–possibly to formulate a fictional story, but I wouldn’t care either way. “Fine,” She begins, “Here’s one you haven’t heard.”

The car’s paint wasn’t always peeling. The slide in the park wasn’t always faded. And Marcus wasn’t always in Sydney. When he was here, the plants were bright green, the flies had disappeared, and the Sun didn’t seem to bite as hard. The trees welcomed wind between their leaves while the skinks sat on rocks to absorb as much heat as they could before the kookaburras spotted them

I can’t recall the day I lost my first tooth, nor the hour I rode without training wheels, but I can’t seem to forget the minute in which Marcus said he wasn’t coming to visit anymore.

It was a Sunday. Not one of those Sundays with my friends in a pool or playing cricket in our cul-de-sac, but instead sitting with my brother in the grass of the back garden. We had been passing a tennis ball to one another – which I later lost over the fence – When he suddenly told me something.

Charlotte, I won’t be coming home anymore so I want you to do one thing for me; just a small chore: Water the plants when the sun starts to fall onto the horizon. The sun will evaporate the water, and none of it will be absorbed by the plants. Promise me you will wait until the day cools.’

It didn’t matter what I replied with. Just like a field of buffalo grass, he kept his sharp bindis hidden but when you stumbled upon them, they stung and kept on stinging. I stepped on one that Sunday.

I don’t remember ever watering the plants in our garden and I watched as days passed and the grass turned a dry, sunburnt brown. I never played in that grass again and I don’t think it ever was cared for even after I moved out.

And ever since he slid open the fly screen, wiped his feet on the shaggy doormat and stepped back into the house, the days don’t seem to cool down the same. The plants shrivel rather than flourish, lizards fry instead of bathe, and flies prefer to swarm than hide. I guess the plants needed water to cool down, just like I needed ice cream when there were heat waves. But, unlike the plants, I’ve learnt to survive here and even though I can’t play in the Sun like I used to, I won’t let the heat get to me like it did my brother. ∞

Christiana Soo

Christiana’s piece integrates perspectives from Noongar culture to examine the ways that Australians interact with their environment. This piece was composed in response to Tara June Winch’s ‘Cloud Busting’ similarly capturing the sense of wonder that the protagonist feels towards their Australian setting.

VERANDA WATCHING

Every day an old woman sits on the veranda, watching.

When golden rays begin to stretch over the rusty dirt, she sits watching. Every day, she watches the stretch of farms yawn into the distance and kiss the soft pink horizon. A simulacrum of a world that no longer exists. Every day, she watches the golden sun die into the paddocks. “What a pretty death,” she thinks to herself, “like a dying sun”. As the old woman watches the orange, pink and yellow swirls get swallowed by the inky night, a nostalgic warmth washes over her soothing the aches in her bones. The death of the day makes way for the beauty of night. Her peace was interrupted by a small girl’s voice calling her name.

“Grammy! Grammy! What are you doing?”

She turned in her armchair to face the little girl clutching a pink-plastered Barbie doll. Raising a hand withered with age, she stroked the arm of her granddaughter.

“I’m watching Garreembee1. Come child, what do you see?”

The inquisitive child climbed onto the chair and sat beside her grandma. Squinting her eyes into the distance, the girl ran her eyes across the arid landscape and the sky filled with an array of colours.

“I don’t know Grammy! I see rocks and trees and skies!”

The old woman shook her head. “Look beyond what you see.”

Scrunching up her face, the girl looked again. And again. And again. “I don’t know Grammy!”

A calm stretched across the old woman’s face as she turned back towards the scene in front of her. She imagined the splatter of stars that used to waltz across the night sky. As a child, she had loved gazing at the constellations patterning the midnight sky, but alas, so few stars twinkled nowadays. She used to watch the little lights dance and know her ancestors would protect her. But now, she was alone. She imagined the sun dipping under the horizon and the roos that gathered to watch its descent. She imagined herself as a child dancing along the rocks towards her own grandmother.

“Garminy!2 What are you doing?” she would ask tilting her head towards a venerable old woman sitting on a rock staring at the horizon.

“I’m watching Garreembee. Come child, what do you see?”

She would pad along the dusty ground and lean up cross-legged against Garminy. She would watch the horizon, the flourishing greenery, and the families of kangaroos. She would watch the flaming symphony of colour that decorated the furthest corners of the land. She would watch the warm black night settling in from above and the lights decorate the sky.

“Garminy, I see my ancestors in the stars. I see my family on the land. I see my friends in the sky and sea.”

A smile of approval would crinkle Garminy’s face, and they would sit there together until the life of the night began to awaken.

The old woman sighed. Her memories of Garminy brought great joy but also prodigious sadness at the whole she left in her heart. The old woman watched the land bathe in an orange light, before whispering to her granddaughter the phrase that would change her life.

“Let me tell you of the dreamtime.” ∞

1 The word ‘sunset’ in Noongar Culture

2 Grandmother on the mother’s side in Noongar Culture

Allison Wang

Allison’s story aims to capture the complex relationship between an individual and her dual identity as both Australian and Chinese. This was composed for our Year 10 unit on ‘Contemporary Australian Experiences’ in Term 1 2023.

SALMON FISH MIGRATION

The Mandarin word for “mum” is 妈妈 , which sounds a lot like mama, like ma mère, like a word that wraps all around your chest and holds on tight. When I was little, my mother used to take me to see the fireworks. She’d hold my small hand in her larger, calloused one, point to the bursting lights in the sky with a smile, and I’d watch the colours dance on her face. She was so beautiful then, with her hair down and eyes burning with quiet mirth. I’d try to catch the sparks. The harbour would shake with all the stomping footsteps of people celebrating and I’d listen to her tell me stories about the new year over and over. Pop! Bang! And so the people of the village came together, fireworks in hand, to scare Nian, the monster, away.

It’s been a while since we’ve really sat together and talked. Knowing what to say is something that comes with age, I guess, with growing older and growing apart. I don’t think I’m quite there yet, but in spite of that, I still dial her number on the phone and press it to my ear, waiting. It takes her a moment to pick up, because she hates her phone and always keeps it at a distance – something that my sister and I used to laugh at, when we were teenagers.

“Hey, 妈妈.”

She always answers in Chinese, and it’s always the same questions: Are you studying well?

How are your friends? Have you eaten? The tightness in my heart loosens a little when I hear her voice. I wonder if she feels the same. I answer each of her questions in turn, with a yes, I’m doing great, my friends are cool, I just had lunch, and she hums under her breath. This is routine; I call her every Friday in my dorm, cross legged on the bed, facing the window. Outside, there are students, some lying on the grass, others hunched over their notebooks, all making the most of the afternoon sun. Everything is softened by an orange glow.

Then my mother says, You don’t have to come home this weekend, if you don’t want to, and that softness shatters. My chest becomes tight again.

Your sister might not – and here she pauses –She’s not staying for the New Year. Very busy with her overseas business, now.” My sister is very different from me. While I try my best to sink into my surroundings, she repels it. When I try to assimilate, she rejects. It’s like she’s a singular puzzle piece, destined to never fit.

She always sniffs and says that Sydney will never be her home – she was born seven years before me, in China. I’d only been alive for half a year before we’d left, so I don’t remember it much, but it’s not like we’ve suffered here. We lived typical lives in a typical suburb. Apples and sandwiches for lunch, running down to the

park in the afternoons. In some ways, though, I understand where she’s coming from; there isn’t much you can do when you get wrenched out of one place and planted in another, except feel a sense of utter hopelessness, I suppose.

Sometimes, I don’t know how to talk to her, but we’re sisters. There’s supposed to be this intrinsic bond between us. We’re supposed to be able to read each other’s minds. She told me a couple weeks ago that she was planning to move to New York, to pursue a marketing degree there. I asked her why she couldn’t just stay, do it here instead, and she hung up on me, very abruptly.

“Mum,” I say, “It’s nearly Lunar New Year. I’m coming home for the weekend, and she will too. I’ll talk to her about it,” and I can hear my mother sigh slowly over the phone.

My mother is equally soundless when I open the door, and I know I shouldn’t talk to her right now. She’s got her own things to mull over, and I’ve got mine. The only time she speaks is to tell me that dinner will be in an hour. There’s no Welcome home, no I’m so glad you’re back! In this family, we’ve all got strange definitions for love.

I busy myself with unpacking, and then I check the fridge to see if there’s anything that needs restocking. If there’s a tradition in this household, it’s gorging ourselves on good food when we’re together, and sometimes we eat so soundly that I feel like we’ve been starving ourselves in between these gatherings. Before long, I find myself at a supermarket, flicking my way through packets of instant spice, a bag of tomatoes hanging from the crook of my elbow.

It’s an Asian supermarket, one with old Chinese grannies who always wear long pants even when it’s hot, who walk around like they’re lost inside the aisles. They always know which produce is the best, and where the best deals are. One of them recognises me as I pass her,

eyebrows lifting and wrinkling her forehead even more. She’s got her hair cut short, now, but I vaguely remember her with a tight bun and less crow’s feet around her eyes. I think she used to give me milk sweets, always infinitely supplied with them in her pockets. Today, she reaches forward and pinches my cheek.

Ah, child, she says, in a brittle kind of voice. I haven’t seen you in a long time.

I smile apologetically and nod until she lets go. She frowns.

Why do you never come home anymore?

I shrug, and there’s a prickling sensation on the back of my neck. I turn back to the shelf of spices, and none of them look appealing anymore. From where I’m standing, I can see past the open shop front to the other side of the road, where a broad-shouldered man, skin tanned lobster-red from the sun, is buying a meat pie. I forgot to check if we had any eggs left. I call Mum to ask.

When I was ten, my mother told me to record her voicemail for her, because I was the only one in the family who spoke English without stumbling. It always jars me now to hear my own voice whenever she doesn’t pick up.

My sister arrives as my mother is handrolling dumpling wrappers and I’m unloading everything I bought into the fridge. Immediately, my mother lifts her head, and I try not to be bitter about it. They hug, and then my sister calls my name out, and I have to face them both. I feel like a kid again, back when it seemed like my mum and my sister were the same person. As soon as I come to face her, she presses something small and red into my palm. It’s a lucky charm; red cord knotted into a flowery pattern, with tassels hanging from it.

For the new year, she explains. To new beginnings. I don’t understand why everyone

can’t just speak English. My sister tilts her head, watching me.

“Thanks,” I say with a wince, because my voice comes out dry and croaky. She’s still holding on to the charm as well, fingers pressed to the inside of my hand.

别客气, she replies with a smile, and trying not to roll my eyes becomes a herculean task. I know that it’s the proper response to someone thanking you (bié kèqì), but I can’t help but remember its literal translation. Don’t be polite. Drop the niceties. I think she’s a bit of a hypocrite. I stuff the trinket into my pocket, and then our mother waves us apart, tutting, shooing us towards the kitchen table, and we sit down beside each other awkwardly, because the chairs have uneven legs. Mum brings out a bowl of mince, and a plate with all the wrappers. We start folding dumplings, one by one.

The process is simple but precise. You can’t put too much mince, or the dumpling will break when it cooks. Put too little, my mother claims, and you might as well be eating air. I lose myself in the repetitive, mechanical motions, scooping and pinching and scooping and pinching. Beside me, my sister’s speeding

through her pile of wrappers, the finished ones sitting in circles on her plate.

She used to laugh fondly when I couldn’t quite get the pinch right, and I remember the three of us passing lopsided dumplings around a table. I used to be jealous of how she made everything seem easy, used to hate her for how tall and knowing she seemed. But now, I look at her and all I can see is my big sister. She’s got lines around her mouth that I want to smooth away, a wrinkle in her forehead that wasn’t there the last time I saw her – and I’ve grown taller, too. Our mother frowns and leans over to say something in her ear. Her face tightens. They’re so alike that it scares me, sometimes.

The dumplings get slowly cooked in hot water, and we eat with a weird sort of tension between us. I feel as if I’m stuck in a moment in time, in a portrait painting where the light is dappled and the people are fixed into place.

say – my mother freezes, chopsticks still in hand, and I see my sister’s ears turn red. I try to bury myself in my bowl of dumpling soup. A kookaburra, blissfully unaware of the slowmotion car-crash occurring in the dining room, laughs its shaky guffaw through the stillness. My sister, in turn, begins to look even more like she’s about to combust. She keeps glancing towards our mother, who stays stoically silent.

“You don’t get to judge me for this,” she says. I can hear some deep, cutting hurt woven in her voice, sharp like a shard of glass.

“I’m not judging you,” I reply, and I’m speaking the truth. I just don’t understand why she always feels the need to leave before she gets settled, and I tell her as much. When my sister was in high school, she transferred three different times, for “academic reasons”, she told me, but now I think it was just because she was untethered, a dandelion seed in a hurricane.

She shakes her head. “Australia’s not right for me. You might be okay with being complacent, but I want something more than that.”

“At least I’ve got the guts to commit.” Choosing to stay isn’t complacency. It takes effort.

“It’s not about whether you have guts or not,” she retorts, incredulously. “America is unique, a clean slate. I need a change of scenery. 妈妈, surely you understand.” Her breathing sounds ragged, and her voice cracks. She turns to look at our mother again, and practically stumbles backwards in disbelief when she doesn’t reply. I know what our mother is thinking – there’s plenty of scenery here in Australia; my sister just wants to run away. My sister turns back to me with a watery shine to her eyes, which I ignore.

“You’re never satisfied with anything,” I spit.

“What the hell do you mean by that?”

There’s a sudden clang of chopsticks meeting ceramic. Our mother sets her bowl down with trembling hands.

Stop, she says. You’re speaking too fast for me to understand.

We both go completely still, and her face twists. My sister glares at me, as if to say, look what you did, you’ve ruined this beyond comprehension, and she stalks away to her room, leaving me with Mum, who still has barely said anything. It strikes me, then, that she has never seen us fight, not really. It was always me under my sister’s wing, back when we were kids. Always my sister looking after me, even though we were so diametrically opposed.

You should have been kinder, my mother says, finally. I’m still mad. My mother walks over to where my sister was sitting, lowers herself into the chair and places her hand on mine. I’ve got my fingers clenched tight in a ball, my skin crawling with the urge to pull away.

“I didn’t say anything I didn’t mean,” I huff, and she whacks me firmly on the arm. Talk to me in Mandarin, she reprimands, or don’t talk at all. I don’t know if it’s because I’ve been on edge the entire day, or if it’s just because of my sister, but the frustration and anger and resentment boiling in my stomach starts spurting out like venom.

It’s your fault, I say, voice shaking. You brought us here.

The soft sadness on her face falls away completely. It’s like watching a windscreen wiper sweep away all the emotion in her eyes. I don’t dare say anything more. All I can hear is my mother’s controlled breathing.

“Christ, you sound just like Mum –”

Then she bows her head and whispers, almost

to herself, Your sister can leave whenever she likes. You can too, for all I care. My chest tightens at the dismissal, and I draw my hand away from hers.

Maybe I will.

And I push myself up and away from the table, chair squealing against the hard wooden floor. She doesn’t make any move to follow me. The air around me feels suffocating, like the whole house is trying to choke me to death. Every thought in my head echoes too loudly. I try to breathe through my nose, count to ten, but nothing stops the overwhelming sense of powerlessness. I feel vaguely dazed, so I stop near the hallway, bracing myself on a door frame.

From where I’m standing, I can still see my mother sitting at the table. She looks small, and her head is still bowed. I watch as two teardrops roll down her cheeks, one for each daughter, landing in star shaped splatters on the kitchen table. Guilt crashes onto me in rolling waves, punching the breath out of my lungs, and it doesn’t recede when I turn my back and walk away. I stand in the centre of my room for a moment, feeling as if I’m balancing on a rocking boat, and nausea builds in my throat. I go to sleep, uneasy.

In the morning, I stubbornly decide not to think about the night before. Instead, I go to the kitchen and cook. It’s been a while since I’ve made a proper meal – university life rarely affords anything greater than a microwaveable dinner from Woolworths.

As I pick out four tomatoes from a shelf, my mother comes back in from the verandah, having hung a load of washing on the line outside. She looks at me, and I feel more than see her gaze as it drifts over the top of my head. She doesn’t say anything, but takes a bundle of chives from the fridge and crouches on the floor. I stop my movements to watch her.

She lays out the chives on sheets of old newspaper, spreading them into thinly layered rows of green, running a wrinkled knuckle over parts that need smoothing. The morning sun sends slats of light through the windows, spilling over them in a yellow glow. I blink, and then go back to picking out the tomatoes. I choose the ones that look the ripest, that feel a little tender, that sit in my hand well. I always take longer than I should to pick. My mother used to tell me that.

First, I boil the tomatoes until they soften enough for me to peel the skins. The tomato juice stings my nail-bitten fingers as I strip the tough outer layer off the first, then the second, leaning over the sink so it doesn’t stain my shirt. I really should have put on an apron. Then, I slice them into wedges, slide them into a wok with a little oil and water. The sizzle is soft in the silence of the house, accompanied only by the snores of my sleeping sister, and my mother is already gone from her seat on the floor to complete other chores.

As they cook, I retrieve two different types of soy sauce, dark and light. I never really understood why there were two – it wasn’t like I could taste the difference – but I remember my sister explaining it to me; something about how 老抽 (lǎo chōu), the dark soy sauce, brings colour and flavour, while 生抽 (shēng chōu), or light soy sauce, adds saltiness. It was something she’d learnt from our mother’s mother, from before we’d arrived in Australia. I don’t remember her at all. They’re like brothers, my sister had said, as a very commanding fourteen-year-old. If she and I were sauces, I think I’d be the light one, and she the dark.

I pour a bit of both into the wok, two parts dark and one part light, and a deep, rich sort of scent begins to fill the room. I stir a little, pushing chunks of tomato around with a big wooden spoon. My mother walks back into the room. She sits at the dinner table, in the same chair as last night, and watches me. I tense,

and suddenly feel self-conscious, as if her mere presence has made my noodles worse. The tomatoes swirl in soy sauce, and I set the wok back down over the stove to get some eggs. They split open with a crack against the benchtop, and I am left with a bowl with runny, translucent egg-whites and three bright orange yolks. I start beating the eggs. My mother gets up from her chair, muttering under her breath until she comes to stand beside me.

You’re doing it wrong, she berates, gesturing for me to hand her the bowl and the chopsticks. I hand them over, but I can’t hear any real heat behind her words. She beats the eggs and I watch as they almost fly out of the bowl in small yellow whirlpools. Then she stops, hands everything back to me, and says, Now you try.

I tentatively start to whisk, but she tuts again, grabbing my hand. She rotates my wrist once, and then again, guiding my hand through the movements. The chopsticks clink against the edge of the bowl.

Don’t be afraid to spill some of the egg. It’ll make the rest taste better.

I nod and try again. She smiles a very small smile. There we go. She takes the bowl, pours the eggs through my tomatoes, and it feels like a truce.

My sister stumbles into the kitchen, yawning. She runs a hand through her hair, then freezes. She doesn’t meet my eyes.

“What are you making?”

Mum answers – 西红柿鸡蛋面 (xīhóngshì jīdàn miàn). Tomato and egg noodles. Mandarin can be very literal, sometimes. All I can think of is how we used to make this dish together, as a family, and how I started this morning alone.

“I’ll help,” my sister says quietly. I take a shuddering breath.

We haven’t cooked the noodles yet, I reply. She looks up. I grab a packet and hand it to her, and in doing so, realise that I still have the lucky charm she gave me. I press a hand to my pocket, and quickly make a wish. My sister fills a pot with water and brings it to a boil. My mother continues to stir, and lowers the heat beneath the wok. We stand in the kitchen until the entire house smells of soy sauce and something that I cautiously label as love.

Afterwards, we sit at the dinner table again, bowls cradled in our hands again, this time full of warm noodles. I clear my throat to speak.

“I don’t want you to leave,” I admit. My sister tilts her head and her mouth curves up in one corner, but her eyes still look sad.

She pauses, thinking for a moment. “You know how salmon fish migrate?” I wrinkle my nose at the metaphor, but she continues. “They live and swim and feed in the sea for years, but somehow, they always know how to get back home to the stream they were born in.” She sighs, looking down at her hands, and it sounds like she’s exhaling all the air out of her body.

“It’s not about leaving, okay? It’s about coming back home.”

“You said that Sydney would never be your home.”

“Perhaps not,” she acquiesces, and then she looks up at me and Mum, “But you are.”

“The noodles are getting cold,” I say, because I’m still sort of angry, because I can tell that she is, too. It’s a work in progress. Our mother sits quietly, watching us, but her silence is loving and warm.

“You’ll survive without me,” my sister replies. “I promise.” She reaches out for my hand again. I take it with a squeeze, and then let go.

And then we eat. We eat until our stomachs are full and our discontent diminishes. We eat, and in eating, the noodles take the place where our sorrows used to sit. Instead of feeling heavy, I relish in the meal I made with my own hands. The egg is fluffy and the tomatoes are soft and the flavour is just right. I almost begin to taste the two different soy sauces, and it makes me smile. My mother brings out big, half-moon slices of watermelon, cold from the freezer, and it tastes sweet, like youth, like healing. Juice dribbles down my sister’s chin as she bites into a piece, and we all laugh.

I think to myself, Hey. We’re getting there. My sister leaves the next day, like she said she would. I help her pack her things.

“You know,” she says as she folds a shirt, “I was the one who made you sandwiches for lunch.”

I furrow my brow. “I thought Mum made them for both of us.”

“Mum made us fish, tofu, and green bean porridge – it stank,” she replies, looking at me pointedly. All of a sudden, I understand. I open my mouth, then close it again, swallowing thickly.

“Thank you,” I say, and she shakes her head.

“Don’t thank me. I’m not sure if I regret it.” She leans over to clap me on the back, hard enough that I cough a little, and switches the topic. When she finally steps out the door, I keep one hand clenched tightly around the charm and its little red tassels. I think I’ll keep it with me. I hug her and promise to call more often. Mum and I say goodbye to her quietly, our voices echoing through the empty afternoon. I feel my mother kiss me on the head, softly.

Later that night, we’re both crouched on the step of the verandah and watching the stars. They’re not as bright as fireworks, not as colourful either, but they are constant –fireworks always go out quickly, in a blazing trail of glory, but stars are perpetual, like little pin pricks that a giant poked through the sky. I lean my head on my mother’s shoulder. She looks beautiful tonight, with her hair in a bun and creases at the corners of her eyes, her hand in mine.

I love you, Mum, I tell her. The words feel strange in my mouth.

She nods. I know.It’s not yet New Year’s Day, but it feels like it.

“

妈妈,” I whisper into the darkness. “Tell me a story.” She clears her throat.

Once upon a time, there was a monster named Nian… •

She laughs.

Erin Porter

Erin’s narrative is about a protagonist who faces internal conflict when she leaves her island home to study in the city, and ends up finding comfort in Sydney’s coastal environment. She took influence from the short story ‘Better Things’ by Balli Kaur Jaswal by capturing the unfamiliar nature of an urban landscape.

SMALL FISH

Yawning rays stretched over the horizon, painting a golden hue across the island. Sparkles appeared in the gentle ripples of the water, reflecting the sky’s rich colours like a mirror. As the light of dawn filtered through the palm trees, the sun’s embrace enveloped Mickey as she rose out of bed, eager to beat the sun at its own game. The weathered boardwalk to the beach became a ten-metre obstacle course as Mickey sprinted down, her feet moving with practiced precision, avoiding every sharp nail and gap that threatened to send her tumbling into the sand below. She refused to glance down, her gaze fixed on the riot of oranges and pinks that were painted on the infinite horizon.

“I’m looking for Jane or Pat. Either or, tell ‘er the tinny’s playing up.” A stubby bloke crushed his empty beer can with his fist and released it onto the scrap lumber floor, bound together with salt-stiffened rope and rusted nails. A gust of wind invited itself into the wooden shack and rattled a driftwood sign that read “Jensen’s Boats and Bait: A Family Business”.

Mickey sighs. “No can-do mate, mum’s down at the mainland markets, dad’s at the fish traps. Let me have a look at it, would ya?” He gives her a doubtful look. “Oh, come on, you didn’t

come all the way out here for nothing…” she pleads.

The air was thick with salt, and the fringed palm trees danced to a rhythm only they could hear. The azure waters mimicked the cloudless sky as the heavy sun cast sharp shadows that outlined the jagged rocks. With a keen eye for detail and a toolbox at her side, Mickey diagnosed the man’s boat with a broken fuel plug. He winced as she dismantled the outboard motor, yet much to his surprise, the engine roared to life after she was done. The man exhaled a staggering breath as if a loved one had been revived, and shook his head. “You sure are your father’s child, let me tell you” chuckling to himself. “Mikayla, is it? I always wonder how you Jensen’s do it. It’s nice out ‘ere, but eighteen years? Don’t youse get lonely?”

“Call me Mickey.” She pauses. “I don’t believe in isolation. On Pelican Island, we call it freedom. Besides, there’s mum, dad…” Mickey shelters her eyes from the harsh midday sunlight. “Look. In a few weeks’ time, I’m off to Sydney for uni. I’m just making the most outta being here while I still can”.

The day had come. Mickey squinted her eyes into the distance, trying to make out the silhouette of Rockhampton, however a sheet of clouds masked the mainland like a thick blanket, embracing the distant shoreline in a misty veil of grey. Her bags were heavy with clothes, her brain heavy with memories, her heart heavy with emotion. Mickey inhaled a shaky breath and turned to her parents, choked with tears. Her father gazed into her eyes with pride and sadness. “You’ll do great things, my love. The world’s your oyster.” His voice catches, and a heartbreaking smile emerges through his tears.

“Flip to page 652 of your textbook.” The professor’s booming voice ricocheted off the lecture theatre’s towering walls as Mickey scrambled through her salt-stained tote bag. A multitude of plush, upholstered seats, each equipped with its own desk encircled her. The realisation dawned upon Mickey as if the ceiling had caved in on her - she was a small fish in a big pond. A massive pond. Mickey was surrounded by more people than she had ever seen, yet for the first time, she felt isolated.

“Rooster’s Surf Shop?” A croaky voice emerged from over her shoulder, followed by a scruffy hand pointing at the red bumper sticker on her textbook. “I’m Brody. My mates and I are headed to Freshie, you down?”. Not knowing who, what or where Freshie was supposed to be, Mickey nodded for adventure’s sake.

Mickey went to slam the rusty car door, but the view captured her attention sooner. The familiar hypnotic rhythm of the waves reintroduced itself to her ears, while she inhaled the salty breeze as if it was her only source of oxygen. Before Mickey could process the beauty, she found herself in a trance, frolicking toward the waves. The chill of the ocean welcomed her like a long-lost child - the same ocean that surrounded Pelican Island, the same ocean that befriended her eighteen years ago. The arms of the sea protected her, tightening its embrace as she dived in deeper. Mickey closed her eyes and felt the ocean’s heartbeat in sync with her own. As a sprig of seaweed climbed up her leg, it dawned upon her that her home is infinite. For once, being a small fish in a big ocean was exactly what Mickey wanted. •

Evelyn Zhu

Evelyn’s story aimed to explore the challenges of growing up through the protagonist’s interactions with the landscape as a place that is paradoxically harsh yet beautiful. This piece engages with key aspects of the Australian identity – a deep connection with nature and the freedom to chase individual dreams.

A CONTEMPORARY AUSTRALIAN EXPERIENCE

The hike wasn’t as difficult as Alex remembered. Then again, it had been years since she had last been here. She took her time walking up the meandering bush track, savouring the feeling of sun-baked leaves crackling underfoot. Gusts from the sea pulled wisps of hair from her ponytail. As she walked, Alex pictured her destination in her mind. It was a lone red gum at the top of the headland. It towered loftily above the clearing, like a proud sentinel. One gangly branch dangled over the edge of the cliff. Alex used to climb the tree and creep down the branch, until her mother’s berating or a sudden lurch sent her scuttling back to the safety of the sturdy, grey trunk, like a soldier crab to its burrow.

The thought of her younger self made Alex chuckle lightly. She would never do something like that now. It was far too risky. What if the branch snapped? She would plummet, then crash onto the jagged rocks waiting below. Alex felt her breath quicken just picturing it. I have nothing to worry about, she thought to herself. I’m not climbing any trees anytime soon, and my life is under control. She had a stable job as a marketing analyst and a great salary. By all standards, she was doing well. Yet every morning, something in her stomach would drop when she arrived at her white desk. Maybe it was the perpetual drone of the

air-conditioner hammering into her skull, or its frigid drafts that somehow felt stifling. Alex sighed. She didn’t like thinking about it, or the bone-deep ache of regret that lingered from when she declined the Conservatorium offer years ago. No, she reaffirmed to herself. I am exactly where I should be. Finally, Alex reached the summit of the headland. Panting, she scanned the clearing for the red gum. Alex gasped. “Oh no…” she breathed to herself. She took a few uncertain steps forward. “This can’t be real,” she muttered, shaking her head slowly. The red gum had fallen. Its roots had been brutally torn from the earth, leaving a gaping maw in the ground. Bushes and shrubs were crushed beneath its limbs, and its leaves had withered into husks. The tree was dead. It was merely a hunk of wood clinging onto a rock, devoid of life. Alex clamped a hand over her mouth to stifle a sob. She sat on the trunk and noticed a burl jutting out of the tree. Memories began to flit through her mind, like muddy sediment swirling in a creek after a storm. She remembered it all so clearly. How she would step on the burl. How she’d always climb to the top. How safe she felt in the canopy, like the tree was enveloping her with its branches. The whole world seemed to unfold before her when she was so high up. It was an expanse of blue peppered with white crests on one side, and green forest stretching as far as she could

see on the other. Alex felt tears well up in her eyes. She missed it – sitting in the tree, tracing lackadaisical shapes on the bark, and simply existing. She missed being as carefree and untethered as the ocean breeze. Alex bowed her head and kicked at the dusty ground. She wished she could undo the past few years. She could feel another life calling to her — the thrill of blinding stage lights, thunderous applause, and the smooth piano keys under her fingers. She realised that she wanted to climb a tree. It seemed like such a stupid idea, but now she couldn’t stop thinking about it. Across the clearing, she spied another gumtree. It wasn’t quite as tall, but she already found herself scouting for handholds. Alex stood up. She could feel her heart pounding while her mind

muttered to herself. She used to climb so often. Had she lost even that too? She reached up with her right hand and grabbed a branch. She pulled herself up and carefully placed her foot onto a knobbly burl. She gradually put more weight onto it and breathed a sigh of relief when she didn’t slip. Alex kept climbing, much more slowly than she used to, but eventually, she felt the noose of fear loosen. When she reached the top, her hands were slick with sweat, and she was out of breath. She perched precariously in a fork in the branches and looked up. The blanket of leaves swathed her in dappled light. She grinned and whooped loudly. She knew there would always be more trees for her to climb. For now, she was content to just breathe, in and out, just like the tide. •

Lauren Korenblyum

The narrative, The City, aims to explore an individual’s perception of the Australian landscape, and the ways in which this can change over time. Lauren took inspiration from mentor texts studied in her unit on Contemporary Australian Experiences.

THE CITY

The walk to the CBD was surprisingly calm. The sky was cloudless as Joel embarked on his journey, making his way through the quiet streets. He had expected more looks, perhaps an occasional drunken leer, but the uncharacteristic emptiness was relieving. He passed roads with broken gravel, grassy paths unkempt and dewy, alleys with dilapidated walls cocooning into dark shields, only disturbed by the occasional flicker of the broken overhead light, a buzz echoing, causing Joel’s ears to twitch from the disruption. He passed apartment complexes, graffiti-ridden with profanities and saddening confessions all moulded into short strings of words and symbols. Free of bearded ruffians with unfitted trench coats and flip-flops following him, Redfern almost felt welcoming. Almost.

The re-emergence of pedestrians and sounds of roaring engines reminded Joel of his purpose today. Soon the cracks in the walls were replaced with brick, and the exposed tree roots made way for cemented comfort. Joel’s feet welcomed this changed, and he quickened his steps to reach the approaching buildings. Tall buildings, not unlike those he was accustomed to, but these were glazed with a metallic elegance while his were encased in depths of brown and decay. Cars filled the narrow lanes, honking as angry drivers caterwauled and gestured at each other over the shrill beeps of the traffic lights. People shoved past him, hastily throwing about excuse-me’s and pardon’s but

never losing sight of their path, almost trampling Joel in the process.

He remembered the last time he came here. It was mid-February, and the heat was unbearable. Pulling him by the hand, his mum marvelled and pointed at the sights to see.

“Look at that Joel! That’s the UBS building, bankers get a hefty wage over there”

His brain glossing over those foreign terms, focused on gripping tightly to her, for wherever they were was too crowded, and so darn hot! His mum kept on - how she remembered the paths like yesterday, scoffed at the ‘overly scandalous’ attire of the female workers - until they came to a halt at a large structure, doors substituted with glass panes revolving round and round, leaving small gaps to enter.

Joel was enthralled by the building’s intricacies. The marble exterior was adorned with bits of cobblestone engravings, glowing with light like golden sunshine escaping through the cracks. Looking through the glass to the inside, he could see woollen spreads, woven with expertise, tossed over leather couches, bright and luxurious. A man quickly pushed past them and ran to catch the next opening in the glass, muttering a nonchalant apology, briefcase clutched to his chest. Joel looked over at his mum to ask why the man did that, when he noticed her tears. Eyes squinted, trails of liquid

sorrow and regret adorned her reminiscent features. As she noticed him watching, she shifted slightly, hands resting on his shoulders, a slight grin replacing her frown.

“Oh, don’t worry, it’s just been a while.”

Not understanding, he asked her what was wrong.

“Nothing Joel, but promise me, promise you’ll come here again when you’re older, alright?”

Still uncertain, Joel agreed, and they embarked on their voyage back to Redfern.

Joel approached the building, and his eyes lit up in infantile delight. He rushed to the glass panes, revolving like he remembered, and delighted in stepping through the opening. He passed the leather couches, which had now taken on the monochromatic scheme of modernism, and practically glided to the elevator, giddy with anticipation. Leaning against the attached railing, Joel watched the doors slowly close, then halt inches away from each other, and re-open.

A man entered, and immediately the air had purified with cologne. Adorned head to toe in a tuxedo, everything about him spoke to his status; slacks ironed and weaved to perfection,

shoes, long and uncreased, polished as if they had come straight from the window at RM Williams. His hair was sleek, not a single loose strand had escaped its gelled confinement.

The man turned his gaze towards Joel. Inquisitive eyes scanned him up and down, observed his fraying hem and worn tie, and asked:

“What are you doing here?”

Almost accusatory, his voice echoed with a cultivated nuance, his words laced with years of linguistic expertise. And yet this didn’t faze Joel.

“I’m here for an interview.”

Eyes squinting at the man, looking him over, he noticed the other’s abashed expression. Caught off guard, he turned away from Joel, choosing to fiddle with his bag handle. Gazing at the doors as they finally closed, elevator beginning to rise, Joel knew his mother would grin proudly at him when he told the story over dinner.

Exiting the building after the interview, elated, even the traffic lights sounded more melodic.

The CBD was rather welcoming after all. •

Julie Sheng

Julie’s piece is an appropriation of Charlotte Bronte’s ‘Jane Eyre’ from the perspective of Blanche Ingram. This imaginative piece and reflection were composed for her Year 11 Extension English I assessment task.

NAMELESS

Names matter. At the age of twenty-three years, my dear mother successfully ensnared a man of both sizeable income and decent estate, a laudable feat which endowed her progeny with the respectable name of Ingram. Ingram. It rings out deep and majestic – the regal nasal note debuts with poise, then dips seamlessly into a rich, velveteen growl, before culminating in a prim pursing of lips. Ingr-am. One could never have guessed that I was virtually penniless from the elegant English chime of my family name.

Names matter. When my brother was born, he was bequeathed with a noble title worthy of the heir to the Ingram fortune. Theodore. Teddy or Tedo made for affectionate diminutives, but it would always be Lord Theodore Ingram whose birth one frost-bitten winter’s morning left me dependent on the whims of fickle admirers, Lord Theodore Ingram whose existence abruptly cast me adrift as a reluctant player in the game of marriage. But I am not resentful of him, for it is not my place to be resentful. After all, such is the natural order of things.

Names matter. Pained attention had been lavished on the selection of my baptismal one, the sacred name which my suitors would come to murmur with yearning, the cursed name which my rivals would come to snarl with rancour. My father envisioned his daughter’s forename with an exotic French lilt. And so, I was christened Blanche – a nymph of chaste white, a specter of ethereal serenity.

I endeavored to fulfill the demands of that name. But I disappointed. I know that I am beautiful. I relish the lustful whispers that trickle after my footsteps, the flushing of cheeks when I glide near. But my beauty is not a tame one. I bloom dark and Roman. My complexion is closer to dusk than it is to dawn. My eyes are not a calm, azure blue, but simmer a thick and roiling black, weltering with unknown passions. I am a desirable woman. I am an enchanting woman. But a fair woman, I am not.

And to finish the procession of demerits against my name, I have now passed twenty-five fruitless summers in this world. By my mother’s standards, I am overripe by two years, a festering plum which burdens the branch that it saddles. Each day that flickers by is a taunting reminder of the fact that I am being edged closer and closer to the sordid doom of spinsterhood, a rancid fate reeking of squalor and privation.

It was in a concerted effort to rescue me from this harrowing destiny that my mother charged me with a new duty.

When she first broached it, I found it an unsavoury one. The assignment was nearly twice my age, and with a bastard child in tow. Moreover, from what dim memories I had of him from a soiree seven years ago, he was possessed of neither looks nor wit. What he did have catalogued under his inventory of appealing qualities was an impressive homestead in the late-Gothic style, and a handsome treasury to match.

I was offended at the possibility of such a groom. I was Blanche Ingram, daughter of a lord, a fine lady of (as one past commission had put it) “breathtaking allure and impeccable bearing.”

But those endearing testaments to my charms were from two years ago, and the man who had uttered them had eloped with his housemaid in the end. So, after tortured contemplation, I morosely swallowed the task at hand.

Names matter. I ran his name over and over on my tongue all the way to his manor. It felt heavy, stilted, unnatural, knelling of acrid winters and mottled gargoyles. Rochester.

Ro-ches-ter. Mrs Rochester. A label foreign to my ears, but one which I must grow accustomed to, if I am to emerge victorious as a contestant for his hand.

For it was a tournament, I realised, as soon as I caught sight of her.

She was but a wan creature, an anaemic sheet of skin stretched over a brittle framework of bone. A plain specimen of femininity, she would have been an otherwise insipid blot lurking in the periphery of my vision if not for the devotion that flared in her eyes whenever Rochester passed before her, the hatred brimming behind her furtive glares at me. She tried to conceal it, her love for this man, and perhaps to all the others, she was indeed discreet. But to yours truly, one well-versed in the spasms and twitches of love, it was strikingly clear that she was afflicted with a grave ache of the heart.

In that moment, my own body throbbed with an acute convulsion of envy. It was not envy on the score of Rochester. No, that would have been a blistering stab, a slice of spite cutting into my throat. I did not care for my quarry. He did not care for his huntress. So it was a different breed of envy that coursed through me then, a dull, swollen envy. It was an envy for her irrelevance, her utter insignificance. Her freedom.

I did not know her name, but it did not matter.

Names had no meaning to her. There was no mother to glance scathingly at her when she returned from yet another ball with her finger still bare, no brother to jeer condescendingly at her when she was jilted by yet another courter. She had clambered out from the recesses of a hard life, a grim life, but she was fully, wholly alive – alive in a way that triumphed over my slender, translucent survival. She was solitary, yet she held strong against the ceaseless assault of the world, with no shackles choking her wrists, no mask clinging to her face.

In that moment, I suddenly longed to be like her - to be alone, to be forgotten. To be nameless. Not Young Mistress Ingram. Not Miss Ingram. Not even Blanche. Just a woman, a woman in white, a woman wild.

REFLECTION:

In my appropriation of ‘Jane Eyre’, I explored the perspective of Blanche Ingram and, through her inner conflict with Victorian patriarchal conventions, conveyed the idea that the feminism embodied by Jane in the original novel is a luxury inaccessible to most other women of her time. Although Blanche was characterized as materialistic and superficial by Bronte, I believed she deserved empathy, since she was forced by societal pressures to submit to an arranged marriage. When writing, I employed first-person narration from her viewpoint to enable the reader to connect deeply with her.

Throughout my piece, I used the repeated motif of “names” to indicate that Blanche feels compelled to conform to patriarchal social expectations out of duty to her family. Traditionally, “names” are associated with an individual’s reputation, and I built upon this notion to render Blanche’s “name” as symbolic

of her family’s honour, which largely depends on her successful marriage. Blanche’s desire to be “nameless” reflects how she yearns to escape the burden to uphold her family’s respectability. Her envy for Jane’s “freedom” from familial constraints highlights how female empowerment is not as achievable to women like Blanche, who are enmeshed by such obligations, as it is to women like Jane, who are fortunate enough to be financially and socially independent. Hence, Blanche is representative of early feminism’s failure to uplift all women, regardless of circumstance.

Thus, by presenting her struggle to reconcile her yearning for self-fulfillment with the demands of her family reputation, I have tried to depict Blanche sympathetically to reflect the unattainability of female autonomy for women in delicate social positions and the injustices they suffer under the patriarchy. •

Ellie Beck

Ellie’s piece is also an appropriation of Charlotte Bronte’s ‘Jane Eyre’, however this response aims to connect with Bertha’s perspective in greater depth. This imaginative piece and reflection were composed for her Year 11 Extension English I assessment task.

I had nursed from the breast of hope for 15 long years in that attic, though my circumstances and their duration turned her milk acrid and scarce towards the end of my confinement. My freedom had renewed her reserves and I drank deeply then for the first time in a long time till I was swollen with the stuff; stuffed to the seams with raw, desperate, life-affirming hope. A naïve kind of hope for the future and justice and freedom that stuck steadfast for a moment, even when it was announced that I was the one being prosecuted. That moment was beautiful, and brief.

The first to quash my hope was not my husband, Edward Rochester, but a man that claimed to be our butler. It was the first time I had ever seen him. He could not meet my eyes and spoke rapidly, saying that I’d tried to burn my husband as he slept and near succeeded. “If only he’d come forward then,” he had sighed. “It couldn’t be helped, I suppose. She’d threaten to cry abuse herself, and with all this MeToo stuff, he’d have stood no chance”.

Grace Poole was next. I watched in disbelief as she sat perched upon the stand and wrung her talons between performative sobs, recounting the ‘horrors’ that she had supposedly experienced at my hands. Oh, how I had terrorised her! Throwing things at a whim, pulling her hair, tearing her clothes. How little she had been given in return; a pittance of a wage and bruises! I was a madwoman, she said, and I had intended to burn her as she slept on that fateful night. I made the mistake of scoffing at the incredulity of it, and every face in the

courtroom turned towards me; the faces of the jury members twisted in degrees of distrust and shock, and that of my ex-husband in a kind of gleeful smile. Perhaps, my scoff had seemed a snarl, I had thought, and they were merely taken aback. I pressed down the truth; that they saw my matted hair and dark appearance and a kind of broken manner of speech instilled by my confinement and believed the lies. My denial sustained my hope momentarily.

But then the next witness took the stand and affirmed Grace’s story. That I had abused Edward over the course of our marriage. That I had been paranoid, almost certifiably psychotic, that I was violent, and as cunning as a witch. That I had mostly confined myself to a room, only emerging to abuse my husband and the staff or to cause some kind of commotion. Each day brought forward yet another batch of my captors-turned-witnesses-for-theprosecution in a seemingly unending chain. The gardener. The cleaners. The maids. They all told the same story; the story of Edward Rochester, a timid, kind man, driven to infidelity by his cruel, abusive, crazy wife after 15 years of torment. The same lunatic wife that had set their house alight in the dead of night, intending to kill him and the rest of the staff.

The media sank their fangs into this narrative, as I would later find out. At the time, though, I was clueless to the workings of the modern world. My scoffing at manufactured testimony had been front page news. There were thousands of video essays about me. Socalled experts analysed my manner and body

language as I left the court. A mere tilt of my head away from the crowds that had gathered to hurl abuse was a sure-fire sign of my guilt. I became the unwilling figurehead of a movement; I came to represent the women who conspire to ruin powerful men with false accusations, the hysterical woman, the manipulative ex-wife, the gaslighting girlfriend, the female. If it had been up to the media and public, I would have burned at the stake along with my reputation.

I eventually took the stand, though. I told the truth as best I could, struggling to put thoughts into words, struggling to catch myself when I spoke internally rather than aloud. I hoped that my single voice would be louder than the machine that is a powerful man. I looked into the eyes of every jury member and hoped that they would somehow see my innocence in my pleading gaze because I could not escape my vessel, an inescapable glove in which Edward’s narrative so perfectly fit. I told the jury of how I had been held captive in the attic, forced to endure Edward’s rages, forced to watch as he cheated with a French dancer, then a young governess. I told them of how I had tried to escape again and again, and how my wings were clipped every time. I told them of how on the night of the fire, I had tried to escape too, but Edward had been outside of my room, and I just knew that he would hurt me, so I punched him, and ran, but he caught me by my hair, and threw me back into the attic before setting the door ablaze in a fit of rage. I told them of how I had to make the choice to jump from the roof, nearly breaking my legs in the process. I told them everything. I knew they hadn’t listened.

At that point, a sense of finality had settled over me like a fine mist, and as the cross examination bled into the verdict, the teat of hope had finally run dry. By the next day, when the verdict was delivered, it was barren. I watched as a sharp sword emerged from the mouth of the judge, and he struck me down with it on Edward’s behalf to the beat of his gavel. I remember a single thought rising, swelling to the brim of my skill; unjust, unjust!

PART B: REFLECTION.

Numerous stylistic choices in my appropriation support my purpose of privileging the new perspective of Bertha and giving rise to a new understanding of Bertha’s treatment as an injustice enabled by the privilege of her abuser and societal attitudes. Bertha’s perspective is privileged using first-person narration, which communicates the account of events and opinions that constitute her perspective. The use of stylistic choices to give rise to a new understanding of Bertha’s treatment as an injustice enabled by the privilege of her abuser is epitomised by a biblical allusion, which describes how “a sharp sword emerged from the mouth of the judge” and struck Bertha down “on Edward’s behalf”. This references a line in the Bible emphasising God’s power by using a sword as a metaphor for his power. By likening the power of the Judge to that of God and demonstrating that this power has been harnessed by Rochester by virtue of his privilege, it is made clear that an injustice has occurred. As this modern setting reflects the original text in that Rochester similarly avoids accountability for abusing Bertha by virtue of his privilege, this suggestion promotes new understanding of Bertha’s treatment in the original text as an injustice too. Additionally, this injustice being enabled by societal attitudes is suggested using listing to emphasis the multitude of sexist stereotypes such as the “hysterical woman” or “manipulative ex-wife” that affect Bertha’s treatment and reflect societal attitudes. This mirrors the fact that societal attitudes towards women and women’s mental health similarly enable Bertha’s unjust treatment in the original text. Overall, these stylistic techniques very effectively accomplish my purpose of privileging Bertha’s perspective and giving rise to a newfound understanding of her treatment as injustice enabled by the privilege of her abuser and societal attitudes towards women and women’s mental health. •

Lucy Yates

Lucy’s character description was inspired by Charles Dickens’ depiction of the character Scrooge. This description was composed for the current Year 11 Reading to Write unit.

Sarah’s hand was still tight but brittle from the drudgery of last night. Notes upon notes were still flustering her mind. Her fingers were like fragile glass, hard on the surface but would totally shatter with the touch of a feather. Her brain was bruised and swollen from all of the information, the facts, the statistics, the evidence that were now absorbed. Empty stomach but a full mind, Sarah left with a quick, “see yah Mum.”

“Okay darling, oh and good luck for your....”

Her mother’s few words were shortened with an urgent slam of the door. Jess was no better, her sore eyes groaned at the sight of light, sleep was obviously not on her to-do list that night. Her general thoughts were obstructed by details that no one else would be aware of.

“There is no way someone could as worked as hard as me,” she thought to herself in confidence.

Her room was buried by books, paper and the occasional red pen, looking like a crime scene.

The thin glass doors smudged with greasy hand prints swung violently back and forth, allowing the early morning breeze to breach the room. The bitter frosty season was beginning to change into a humid one as one by one overworked students entered the room. The puny locker doors were stained, some with sunlight, some with food, some with a sad students attempt of graffiti. The beams covered with expired moths flickered dull light throughout the room. The single analogue clock spent its time in the corner of the room where the light couldn’t reach. It sat there most days reminding students the little time they had. Each locker had its own unique odour which all combined left the room with a nose scrunching stench. As more students began to frantically file into the room the glass windows and doors began to fog up as the rain began to downpour. •

Arabella Smithyman

Arabella’s purpose in composition was to create a setting where two characters come together in conflict. This was inspired by John Steinbeck’s ‘Of Mice and Men’.

The platform was full, teaming with people as it always was at six in the morning,

swarming with those streaming down the stairs, frantically pacing in expectation of the train’s arrival. The sky was covered in big bellowing clouds that created a thick blanket of grey, stretching further than the eye could see. The train could be seen from a distance as it approached the platform. The exterior of the beast was dirty, dirty as a rock, wrecked with scrapes and scratches destroying the painted patterns. The windows were cloudy, hardly letting one see in and out, creating a sense of entrapment. As the train arrived at the station it came to a screeching halt, the immediate clashing of the steel wheels against the tracks sent echoes through the platform.

A man in a grey suit trekked to the nearest carriage door; waiting his turn he strolled into the carriage. Looking around for a seat, that was when he saw Jack: Jack looked perfect, with his suit buttoned up, his work bag in hand, reading his book. He could not believe that the two of them were in the same carriage, on the same train. Worst of luck really.

There had been a constant hum of competition ever since they had worked in the same team - always going for the same promotion, on the same cases, and working for the same manager. Although they both denied the fact that they were applying for the new position, stating “they are happy where they are,” they both knew today was the important day: the interviews. It had been late in the afternoon, on the last day of applications when they had submitted their resumes, both casually

forgetting to mention it to one another.

Peter was tall, with long scruffy hair, that added to his laid back personality that disguised his true brightest, and willingness to work; It trapped him, holding him back. He had joined the company two months after Jack, around 3 years ago. He always worked hard, without showing it. Peter never received recognition for his important role he plays in the company. While on the other hand their is Jack who is perceived to be the definition of a perfect worker, who looks the part, says the part, but does he do the part? Jack is first to work and the last to leave. He wears a full suit with his hair neatly back. He’s been nominated employee of the month many times. But the quality of work that he delivers is not half of what Peter produces.

“Oh hello Peter..” Jack uttered, in a shocked, and arrogant way.

Jack hesitantly moved to create a small spot for Peter to relieve his legs. They were forced and trapped in a bubble of small talk, weekend plans, weather events, and work events. Almost every polite subject came up - they both thought they were in the clear.

Peter thought to himself “thank goodness he must not have applied,” whilst Jack felt smug about Peter missing out on an another incredible opportunity.”

“Next stop Edgecliff,” ran over the speaker.

Both men stood up, inched closer to the doors about to open up the day, oblivious they had interviews back-to-back.

Let the best man win. •

Hanle Wong

Hanle’s story was composed for her Year 11 assessment task which aimed to capture a moment of hesitation, whilst taking inspiration from a mentor text studied in her English unit.

ALIEN

My mother always told me to step boldly.

I never thought I’d need to heed that advice until the day I washed upon these foreign shores -- with nothing but a rickety wooden raft and a shell on a string, sitting neatly on my chest -- a symbol of the past that I’d fled over oceans from.

Besides me, the ocean foam nipped at my feet. The scraggly trees that dotted the horizon’s far ends seemed to shrink away from me, as if knowing that I didn’t belong. That I was a refugee.

Here, I was an alien.

Alone and afraid, I could only despair that my steps weren’t bold at all -- instead, they were hesitating tip-toes, careful not to disturb the sand which rumbled in its slumber.

As I looked down, I noticed, strewn across the tide-beaten shores; shells, broken and battered. My heart thrummed with a mix of sympathy and sorrow. The ocean had brought in aliens of its own.

Emerging, shakily, from one of the shells was a small creature, a hermit crab. It looked around, as if bewildered, and scurried backwards into its broken home.

I crouched down to offer some warmth - a semblance of reassurance. But as I reached out a tentative finger, it shot out and away, making me yelp with surprise.

I don’t know why, but something twisted deep inside my heart, and I chased after it -- my steps pounding after each other. The salty wind lashed at my cheeks and whipped my hair as I bit my lip and forged with newfound courage. For a moment, I could almost hear my mother sigh into my ear once again.

“Step boldly.”

By the time I’d caught up with the crab, whose deceptively tiny legs had carried I so far, I found it nestling in a new and intact shell.

For this alien, too, had stepped boldly. •

Tiffany Bae

Tiffany’s writing uses character detail in addition to the metaphor of the bonsai to explore the nature of creativity and art.

THE BONSAI

When the craftsman takes his shears, the handles meld into the bulbous joints of his fingers and bloom as a fresh appendage. Ink drips from the stunted arch of scissor-blades and he commences his craft, with a back mimicking the poised contour of a crane’s neck. The craftsman begins with a seed. Left to his own devices, he fumbles for a droplet - plain, but brimming with promise. The seed will curl in on itself then germinate slowly, before sprouting into a tender sapling - its infant leaves springy with chlorophyll and dew. The seed is still young, but its stems stretch upwards eagerly and breeds branches swelling with unripe buds.

The bonsai, despite its essence, is an unnatural art. The craftsman plucks from reality’s soil: confining the sombre grandeur of the maple into a delicate prison, framing the world in a shrunken, uncanny interpretation. But despite its size, the maple is honest; with twisting trunks and leaves blemished with soft reds and oranges, it recalls familiar seasons imprinted on the back of our eyes. Is the bonsai not an echo of authenticity? A vessel of fiction? The greenthumbed gardener prunes with calculation, the beaks of his newly sprouted fingertips carefully nip at jutting foliage as he pries through the leafage in search of an ill-fitting frond. He whittles away at the winding branches, coaxing the tree through its evolving variations, each forming a temporary draft. It is his tending and his hours spent carefully cultivating which determines the bonsai’s being. He watches the amateur botanist with slitted, feline pupils – envying their hasty snips, scoffing at their

naivety. Watch as that child puddles his pot and sits his elm indoors, overfeeding the pitiful plant! But of course -- the craftsman too may tire, chew on his lip, curse, and twirl his sore wrists - but in the end, he levels his eyes to the cascading greenery and nods. “This will suffice.”

As the horticulturist may teach, the maple is certainly not the only form of bonsai. The broad-leaved boxwood is robust, and longlived, denting history in quick strides as it joins its counterparts on the higher shelves. Whilst the cherry blossom sighs briefly, budding romantically before the warmer months wilt its petals and its scent ghosts the air. The spruce allows itself to be windswept, limbs splitting and needles tumbling in a turbulent design, sending your eyes sweeping down its whorled branches. Enter a nursery and each bonsai will arrange itself proudly, no matter its mess, seducing the horticulturalist with its lilting boughs.

Now listen closely: you mustn’t judge a bonsai by its pot! No matter the pearlescent glaze coating the ceramic, or soft, mottled designs –the terracotta is not the story! The simulation is birthed in the tree itself, and its little branches, flowers, and leaves. Imagine the craftsman’s dropped jaw as you admire a slab of clay over his craft, his lips soured as his skin stretches taut over his clenched knuckles.

You must learn to navigate the bonsai, do not group it with the backyard rose bushes or the dandelions squeezing through the pavement cracks. It’s art, goddammit! •

Alyssa Yee

Alyssa’s composition is a piece of independent writing that explores the symbolism of a train within the inner world of her protagonist.

VIGNETTE

…So she closed her eyes. The steady rhythm of the wheels rumbling against the tracks soothed her trembling heart, a calming presence in the face of the infinitely more daunting prospect of never turning back. To stare ahead was like signing off the deed to the locked backrooms of her brain, without pausing to read the terms and conditions. Ironic, really, seeing as the train seats faced sideways. Nothing was ever simple. If only she was as good at solving riddles as her life was at writing them.

“I hope you charge rent to the people inside your head,”

an echo of the past that never failed to break all her resolve. Had the train stopped right then and there, forever stranded on the tracks, she wouldn’t a care in the world. The memory was bleached colourless through overuse, but it was far more powerful than she could ever hope to articulate.

A small grin, hardly visible but there nonetheless, crept upon her rose-tinted cheekbones, sleeker than glass shards but struggling under the weight of the tiredness evident in her pale grey eyes. Because there was that fuzzy feeling again. So strong it was almost suffocating. It felt like a delicate kiss and tasted like warm cocoa. For all the things she wished to escape, that memory was not one of them.

But fairy tales were for little girls, and she was not so lucky now.

Were the moon not concealed, perhaps she would have hidden her memories in one of its craters. Save herself from the heartache of having to let go by pretending she could have it all.

Relaxing her back into the sturdy yet comforting chair, cherishing the familiarity of its frame in all its gum-ridden glory, she watched idly as people shuffled from platform to carriage and back again.

There were the upstate girls with their misdirected smiles, the kind that refused to slink delicate fingers around the metal handrails for fear of breaking a nail, travelling with the wind without stopping to appreciate the view. The small children with bright smiles upon silent faces were unassuming at first glance, but their eyes held the threads of a thousand stories yet to be told. Then there were the businessmen in their suits, of fine pressed pleats and brightly shined brogues. She didn’t like them. They didn’t understand the beauty of the journey, they only focused on the destination.

Slipping her eyes shut, as the carriage quietened, all alone. There was something so peaceful about not knowing the destination. With no time to worry about wasting, and no one relying on you at the other end.

When she opened her eyes, everyone was gone.

But there was a light at the end of the tunnel. And as the thrum of the wheels on the track beat on, it was like a gentle reminder that she was not alone in spite of the empty carriage.

Sophie Christopher

Sophie’s story takes inspiration from a personal experience to explore the importance of storytelling in strengthening relationships.

SNAKE MEAT

When the waiter walked past carrying a white, ceramic plate, Anna felt her throat constrict as she stared back at the yellow snake coiled on top. Its cold, dry scales tightly wrapped around its long carcass, its tiny black eyeballs and fangs squeezing out through layers of skin. Anna and her grandpa had been glancing at the alien textures being brought out from behind the kitchen for a while now, stuck in a stiff silence at their wobbly table against the wall. The faded, bubbling wallpaper peeled at the edges to reveal glimpses of the grey, rotting panels underneath. Its cheap, light-blue print clawed its way to the lumpy, uneven ceiling sagging down above their heads.

Vinegar and sweat seemed to leak into the air. It spread from the crevices in the roof and seeped up from the matted carpet below. On the table in front of them lay two pairs of chopsticks, a crinkled serviette under each, a bottle of soy sauce from which a pungent, stale fluid slowly dribbled out, and a tattered menu book. Anna reached out to trace the embroidered letters on the front, only to quickly retract her hand, now scraping her palms against the chair in an attempt to rid herself of the greasy, brown substance stuck underneath her fingernails. The dissonant crashing of plates and knives from the kitchen rattled against every surface. Somewhere behind them, a man shouted in angry Vietnamese. Her grandpa flinched.

Anna watched the way his face shifted, and at once found herself back teetering on the edge of the stool with her hand raised to the top shelf. She was nine, and her grandpa’s house smelt like toffee and crackers and his rugs were soft and old and everything was warm to touch. Anna had crept into his bedroom, curious as to what important things were kept in there. She had stood on her tip-toes and reached above her head to open the highest drawer she could. Something cool and smooth was buried underneath a stack of dusty, thin paper. She had pulled it out, holding it up close to her face. The iron smelt metallic, almost sweet, and it glinted in the afternoon light. Softly, her fingers brushed against each point of each star, the letters, the emblems, all inscribed in important capital letters. ‘1970. VIETNAM.’ But the metal fell from her hands. She had been caught. She watched as her grandpa’s small figure bent down, seized the medals, placed them back in the corner of the cupboard, and left, his rigid shoulders framed by the doorway, receding into the hallway.

Now, as Anna looked across the table, she saw her grandpa, still rigid, lost in thought. His eyebrows were tensed, his mouth stiff and motionless.

The waiter came up to their table and stood right against it. He set his elbows down, leaned in so his ancient face was in full vision

with all its sunken, oily pores, and smiled. His flaking, crusted lips encased two rows of decaying, yellow teeth entrenched with slimy, green spinach. His wet, raspy breath smelt like sulfur and fungus, heavily wafting into Anna’s mouth with every word he spoke.

“Today’s special is snake meat!”

Her skin crawled. Her grandpa’s face was still blank. Her mouth quivered. She chewed the inside of her lip. She tapped her foot. She searched in his eyes for a sign. There was none.

Anna began to scan the room for an exit, perhaps by the bathroom or the kitchen, she hoped, somewhere discreet. But just as she gripped onto her chair, ready to scrape it backwards against the floor, she heard something.

It was her grandpa’s familiar voice, its husky quality, scratchy and low, saying something back to the waiter.

Vietnamese summers, her grandpa had said, were not like the ones over here. He remembered thick cargo pants shoved into heavy boots, mud-encrusted helmets. Dripping sweat. Trees blocking the sky, the sun so big, it melted skin like it was wax. Bullet casings and shredded fabric lay sunken in the dirt, boot-prints stamped on top. There was a village. Tho Ha Village, he was pretty certain. He had seen many, and this one had not been unique, except until he noticed the child sitting amongst the fallen wood. She was small, her baggy dress bunched up at the floor, its white fabric muddied at the hem. He recalled that she looked up and called out in Vietnamese to him. Called out to him, a tall white man in a military suit with a gun strapped on his shoulder. He said that she had been eating. That there was this greasy, warm aroma coming from her food that reminded him of when he last ate a homemade meal (he had been scraping out soggy oats from his rusted

tin can every single day for months now). She gestured to him a bite. He hesitated, but finally, found himself taking a small step forward. He took his bite. His eyes widened. He let out a chuckle. What was this strange food that this strange girl had offered to him that tasted so good?

A pause. And then, “I soon figured out that what I had put into my mouth was snake meat.”

As her grandpa spoke, his warm, flowing words were spilling out in bursts of colour and light and sound. He had taken each sentence and wrapped it carefully in brown paper, sticking the edges down, tying around string, tenderly passing each package to the waiter, who was there, ready to receive each new gift with grace. These were packages her grandpa had never shared before, not even with her. And the waiter could not have known this, yet he smiled gently as if he did.

An idea occurred to Anna which she quite liked. After closing the menu book, she asked to place their order. The waiter asked what they were having.

Two servings of the day’s special, she replied. •