ARTS

Lachlan Hyndes (Year 12) performing in the Chamber Orchestra, photograph: Claire Pelliccia

Camden LeFevre Captain of Music

MUSIC

David Chidgzey (Teacher) on keys and Arad Rad (Year 12) singing at Scotch Rocks

MUSIC IN ISOLATION The arts and music industries have taken a huge hit this year. Musicians could not perform and therefore could not be paid. But it was not all doom and gloom and I would like to share how music saved my sanity during isolation.

During the period of home learning, I remember saying to my parents that I was grateful I could play the guitar, piano or harmonica to stimulate my brain and fill the many hours that were previously filled with sport, socialising or travelling. I challenged myself to learn new songs and record them on social media, so other people might find inspiration in their isolation. I gained followers from around the world and started to connect with people who sought out music to fill their days. I hoped in some way it helped them to stay sane, like it had for me.

In a time when students are confronted with increased solitude and potential anxiety, music provides reassurance and escape. Whether it is a mainstream hit or a haunting orchestral piece, music lights up memories of past times outside isolation, helping us to remain hopeful. BACK AT SCHOOL Live Music Mondays were the first performance opportunities to resume. Once Assemblies recommenced, Senior School ensembles such as Concert Band, Symphonic Winds and the PLC Scotch Symphony Orchestra performed.

The House Singing competition was reinstated, allowing boys to express their musical abilities. We also staged We Will Rock You, enjoyed the Scotch Rocks performances at the Rosemount Hotel, and held the Junior and Middle School Soirées and Year 11 and 12 Recitals.

Thank you to everyone in the Music Department for organising the many events that took place with such short notice this year. On behalf of the Music cohort, we all had fun and felt special, given everything the department endured.

I wish the new Year 12 Music leadership team every success in 2021. It has been an honour serving as Captain of Music and working with the staff and students during such a turbulent time.

Beginning Bowmeisters

FRONT ROW: Eden Scott, Austin Palassis, Albert Wang, Kristian Michael, Seth Kwan BACK ROW: Miss Sarina Li (Director)

Scotch Chamber Orchestra

FRONT ROW: Heath Arbuckle, Julien Montandon, William Moffat-Clarke, Emanuel Radici BACK ROW: Lachlan Hyndes, Mr Griffin Wright (Director), Charlie Radici ABSENT: Harry Frodsham, William Gagen

Concert Band

FRONT ROW: Rupert Arbuckle, Austin Savundra, Emanuel Radici, Joshua Cahill, William Arundel, Benjamin Berglin, Angus Treen, Aidan Brookes, Alec Prendiville SECOND ROW: Mrs Suzanne Wydra (Director), Mr Matthew Walker (Director), Willoughby Sadleir, Aidan Matthews, Alexander Dore, Jake Scott-Hill, Christopher Zyweck, Louis Wiese, William Steinberg, Hugo Silbert, Mr Tim Simpson (Director) THIRD ROW: Patrick White, Daniel Wiese, Timothy Hardcastle, Alexander Pigneguy, William Tonkin, Tobias Knox Lyttle, Jason Pocock ABSENT: Benjamin Brossard, Rory Bruce, Thomas Byass, Calum Cameron, Oscar Clements, Rory Fleming, William Gagen, Lachlan Parry, Max Shervington, James Watson

Scotch Drumline

LEFT TO RIGHT: Alexander Dore, Mr Thomas Robertson (Director) ABSENT: Isaac Norman

Scotch Flute Choir

FRONT ROW: Heath Arbuckle, Rory Fleming, Aidan Brookes, Alec Prendiville BACK ROW: William Tonkin, Ms Penny Rinaldi (Director), Alastair Walker

Fretboard Surfers

LEFT TO RIGHT: Thomas Osling, Mr Rob Spence (Director), Charles Burton, Ahren Mahesh

Gael Force

FRONT ROW: Ryder Campbell, Angus Oakeley, Ezekiel Ritchie, Jack Mayo, Harry Nicholls, William Golsby, Charlie Robinson, Seth Loveday, Andrew Katsambanis SECOND ROW: Mr Lachlin Brooks-Crew (Director), Xavier Riley, Alexander Everett, Hamish Middleton, Benji Landau, Magnus Fleming, Oliver Montandon, Mr Matthew Walker (Director) THIRD ROW: Bjorn Rothwell, Thomas Lovegrove, Daniel Weustink, Rafferty Donovan, Luca Regli, Oliver Payne, Jackson Walters

Alba Guitars

LEFT TO RIGHT: Dhilan Sarkar-Tyson, Mr Scott Loveday (Head of Performing Arts) ABSENT: Thomas Gleeson, Abraham Prendiville, Mr Mathew Laurenson (Director)

Scotch Guitar Experience

FRONT ROW: Mikhael Djauhari, Siyuan Yuan, Oliver Cropp-Chabanne, James Cowan, Caelan Browne, Julien Montandon BACK ROW: Camden LeFevre, Archibald Frazer, Mr Rob Spence (Director), Ryan Benney, Thomas Veitch ABSENT: Stewart Gifford

Guitar Mezzoforte

FRONT ROW: Xavier Vanden Driesen, Thomas Lovegrove, Willem Campbell, Jonathan Gattorna, Brenn Armstrong BACK ROW: Mr Rob Spence (Director), James Stephan, Guillaume Daoud, Richard Gamble, Ruhaan Satija

Petites Guitares

FRONT ROW: Noah Hubble, Benjamin Roberts, Harrison Dolling, Otto Blackburne BACK ROW: Lachlan Gillett, Mr Scott Loveday (Head of Performing Arts), Robert Mackay ABSENT: Mr Mathew Laurenson (Director)

Jazz Big Band

FRONT ROW: Angus Treen, Anthony Hughes, Hugo Silbert, Louis Wiese, Caelan Browne, Alexander Dore, Andrew Walker, Oscar Ralph, Austin Savundra BACK ROW: Mr Tim Simpson (Director), Mr Scott Loveday (Director), Timothy Hardcastle, George Colley, Alexander Pigneguy, Thomas Byass, James Cowan, Mr Lachlin Brooks-Crew (Director)

Junior Choristers

FRONT ROW: Alexander Haynes, Moez Ballal, Frederick Bostock, Leonard Hatch, Jeter Lee, Mason Lee, Preston Rogers, Yuvaan Satija BACK ROW: Mr Scott Loveday (Head of Performing Arts), Arthur Redfern, Nicky Bunning, Edward Jones, Harrison Dolling, Frederick Young, Neo Pentony, Mrs Katrina Pollock (Director)

Pocket Aristotle

LEFT TO RIGHT: Archibald Frazer, Mr Scott Loveday (Head of Performing Arts), Arad Rad, Camden LeFevre ABSENT: Mr David Chidgzey (Director), Hayden Coombes, Isaac Norman

Left: Lachlan Hyndes (Year 12) Above: Charlie Radici (Year 12) Photographs: Claire Pelliccia

Saxophone Colossus

FRONT ROW: Thomas van Kranenburg, Joshua Cahill, Henry Alexander, Hugo Silbert, Alexander Merry BACK ROW: Adrian Garbowski, Mr Lachlin Brooks-Crew (Director), Thomas Byass, Alexander Dore ABSENT: Timothy Hardcastle, Mr Luke Minness (Director), Christopher Zyweck

Scotch Vox

FRONT ROW: Ethan Lamb, Samuel Bennett, Thomas Lovegrove, William Oxlade, Arad Rad BACK ROW: Mr Scott Loveday (Head of Performing Arts), Max Jones, Sebastian Wright, Hugo Fellows-Smith ABSENT: Mr Reece Clark (Director)

Sinfonietta

FRONT ROW: Adalbert Koth, Reuben Hubble, Harrison Alder, Rowan Sundaresan, Ziyi Gao, Hugo Smith, Luyiming Wu, Konrad Michael BACK ROW: Sarina Li, Angus Noble, Thomas Gamble, Thomas Haynes, Connor McManus, Eamonn Maher, Hugh Healy, Lucas Kwan

Scotch Youth Strings

FRONT ROW: Bryce Harding, Thomas Lovegrove, Billy Chambers, Jack Mayo BACK ROW: Mr Scott Loveday (Head of Performing Arts), Luis Nettleship, Thomas Mengler, Simon Pocock ABSENT: Dr Noeleen Wright (Director)

Junior Vocal Ensemble

FRONT ROW: Henry Elderfield, Taj Cook, Elijah Little, Harrison Alder, Angus Noble, Tom Osling, Jacob Little, Lachlan Shadlow, Berti Koth SECOND ROW: Miss Phebe Samson (Director), James Walawski, Roman Merenda, Ahren Mahesh, George Young, Jacob Young, Hugo Smith, Brandon Wu THIRD ROW: Rowan Sundaresan, Raymond Brodie Hall, Eamonn Maher, Eugene Cha, Billy Black, Connor McManus, Michael Reed ABSENT: Tomas Robaina Chacon, Piran Wallace

Right: Guitarist Camden LeFevre (Year 12) at Scotch Rocks Below: Violinist Heath Arbuckle (Year 7), photograph: Claire Pelliccia

Symphonic Winds

FRONT ROW: Angus Treen, Emanuel Radici, William Steinberg, Jake Scott-Hill, Max Shervington, Aidan Matthews, Timothy Hardcastle, Hugo Silbert BACK ROW: Mrs Suzanne Wydra (Director), Mr Tim Simpson (Director), Tobias Knox Lyttle, Rory Bruce, Daniel Wiese, Alexander Pigneguy, Mr Matthew Walker (Director) ABSENT: Oscar Clements, James Watson, Christopher Zyweck

FRONT ROW: Nicholas Livingston, Heath Arbuckle, Charles Major, Reid Knox Lyttle, Aiden Perrin, Alex Betjeman, Thomas Sojan, Thomas Van Kranenburg, Matthew Berglin, Harry Gibson SECOND ROW: Mr Tim Simpson (Director), Jasper Constantine, Joseph Finn, Bowie Abbott, James Stephens, Alec Prendiville, George Di Prinzio, Oscar Ho, Bruno Erickson, Oscar Foster, Mrs Jennifer Sullivan (Director) THIRD ROW: Anthony Hughes, Marc Ricciardello, Benjamin Pritchard, Jialuo Li, Alexander Buswell, Val Davies, Zane Levy, Him Chan Chi FOURTH ROW: Thomas Lambo, Oscar Ralph, Adrian Garbowski, Henry Ledger, William Tonkin, Alistar Walker, Calum Cameron, Rory Fleming ABSENT: Harry Alexander, Xavier Balnaves, Lachlan Cairns, Ari Coulson, Lachlan Dauth, Mitchell Henwood, Ronan Lieshman, Joshua Swan

Scotch Youth Winds

Drum Sergeant (Snare) Matthew Kerfoot (Year 11) performing in the Scotch PLC Pipe Band, photograph: Claire Pelliccia

PIPE BAND David Stülpner Pipe Major

THE YEAR STARTED in a normal fashion, with March Out 2019 and the anticipation of a great year ahead. In addition to new leadership, we had the privilege of having two new tutors, Mr Julian Anderson as our new drumming instructor, and Mr James Murray as the new Middle School piping instructor.

Immediately we started preparing for Highway to Hell, a high-profile event for which we learned AC/DC tunes to play while standing on the iconic Canning Bridge. This event was a great highlight and we were fortunate to play as weeks later, the COVID-19 pandemic struck.

COVID-19 hit the band mid-March, effectively writing-off the rest of our performances, as well as halting band practice for a term. Although this was saddening, we nevertheless set to work with Mr Bailey, Mr Murray and Mr Anderson charged with the task of conducting lessons over Microsoft Teams. During this time, we learned three new sets, each based on contemporary, non-traditional pipe tunes, something no other pipe band in Perth had attempted.

When rehearsals recommenced, we practised the new sets to performance standard and reminded ourselves of the more traditional repertoire. With the recommencement of Marching, the Year 12s had the opportunity to lead the band before our March Out. Of note was the band playing The Beatles’ classic, Ob-LaDi, Ob-La-Da, which was received with acclaim from staff and students.

This year has also marked the start of a new era in the Pipe Band as Mr Bailey, Mr Anderson and Mr Murray have started integrating the Middle School and Senior School Pipe Band programmes, which will encourage the younger boys to become more enthusiastic and develop their skills further.

I have really enjoyed the opportunity to be Pipe Major this year, and I wish the best of luck to the 2021 leadership group. Immediately we started preparing for Highway to Hell, a high-profile event for which we learned AC/ DC tunes to play while standing on the iconic Canning Bridge.

Pipe Band at Friday Marching, photograph: Pixel Poetry

Middle School Pipe Band

FRONT ROW: Thomas Sojan, Cooper Campbell, Thomas Chalmers, Jack Boylson, Marc Ricciardello, Harris Baddeley, Max Thorpe, Zachary Anderson BACK ROW: Mr James Murray (Pipe Instructor), William Buur-Jensen, James Tan, Lachlan Teissier, Adrian Garbowski, Bram Ezekiel, Sam MacGregor, Mr Julian Anderson (Drum Instructor)

Scotch College Pipe Band

THIRD ROW: Matthew Kerfoot, Daniel Kerfoot, Kane Mackintosh, Harry Simm, Gianluca Mastrocinque, Lewis Castleden, Milan Narula, Benjamin Scott, Hamish Meston, Julius Kain, Xavier Dry, Henry Allan, Arthur Bannister, James Anderson, Edward Young FOURTH ROW: Lachlan Bowen, Joshua Reid, Alexander Russell-Weisz, Jim Allan, Banjo Harold, Alexander Pigneguy, Benjamin Ramsden, Jarrah Withers, Thomas Lynch, Oscar Clements,

SECOND ROW: Oscar Petersen, Charles McCarthy, Declan Reilly, Thomson Unsworth, Joshua Holborn, Hudson Grant, Sam Wake, Joseph Harris, Giancarlo Kain, Taj Clarke, Joshua Cahill, Max De Nardi, Ryan Shine, Joshua Hooke, Charlie Lewin

Max Freedman, Charlie Bevan, Max Anderson, James Crawford, Mitchell McVicars, David Stülpner, Mr Craig Bailey (Pipe Band Master), Angus Page, Matthew Steinepreis, Mr Julian Anderson (Drum Instructor), Benjamin Cooper, Robbie Macgregor, Liam Howgate, Alexander Aakermann, George Lewin, Will Partridge

FRONT ROW:

SENIOR SCHOOL DRAMA

Sarah Combes Drama Teacher | Curriculum Leader – The Arts

Patrick Eastough (Year 12) as Buddy Holly

WHO WOULD HAVE THOUGHT the opening lines from the prologue of We Will Rock You, this year’s musical, would become a reality in 2020? When the cast and creative team were momentarily faced with the prospect of no Senior School production, we all came to realise how much we take the experience of live performance for granted. Like thousands of theatrical productions worldwide, COVID-19 saw rehearsals for We Will Rock You grind to a halt with show dates postponed. Luckily, through the magic of Microsoft Teams, our hard-working cast and dedicated Performing Arts staff stayed connected and kept the spirit of the show alive.

We Will Rock You is set in a dystopian world where live music is outlawed, individuality is crushed with an Orwellian fist and social engagements only happen online. One could not help but draw similarities between the narrative of the play and the impact of COVID-19, as our collective yearning for communal congregation created through live entertainment became increasingly evident. This production highlighted the necessity of creative expression to the human spirit and the essential role of the arts in society.

It is this endurability of the arts, along with unwavering passion and commitment, which saw the team navigate uncharted territory to bring We Will Rock You to life. The resilience, collaboration and creative spirit of Scotch and Presbyterian Ladies’ College students was truly remarkable. Despite the COVID-19 challenges, in the words of Freddie Mercury, everyone had to “keep on fighting till the end” for the show to be the success that it was. When production week arrived, the cast and crew could not have been more excited. The anticipation only intensified when it was revealed that the writer of We Will Rock You, Ben Elton, had accepted our invitation to attend. It was an honour to have a successful and influential stand-up comedian, scriptwriter, librettist and novelist, share his time with us. Ben Elton kindly offered to host a Q & A before the performance, regaling everyone with fascinating anecdotes accumulated from many years working in the performing arts and entertainment business. He also offered the cast words of wisdom on acting, writing and advice for ‘making it’ in the industry.

After the show, Ben had wonderful praise for the cast and crew backstage, leaving everyone feeling absolutely elated and inspired. It is not every day you can say, “We performed We Will Rock You for Ben Elton!”.

LIFE IS LIVED ONLINE. NO CROWD GATHERS, NO BAND PLAYS.

William Oxlade (Year 11) as Britney Spears, Jasper Blunt (Year 11) as a bohemian, Jasper Japp (Year 12) as Puff Diddy Daddy, Tahlia Hanikeri (Year 12 PLC) as Ozzy Osbourne, Winton Messina (Year 10) as Paul McCartney, Arad Rad (Year 12) as Galileo Figaro; Gianni Kain (Year 12) as Commander Khashoggi; Arad Rad (Year 12) as Galileo Figaro and cast; photographs: Kelly Bucksey

The cast and crew of We Will Rock You, photograph: Kelly Bucksey

We Will Rock You

FRONT ROW: Arad Rad, Patrick Eastough, Joshua Keatch, Sebastian Wright, Baden Ralls, Max Jones, Kieran Waddingham, Jasper Japp, David Stülpner SECOND ROW: Mr Scott Loveday (Music Director), Rowan Smith, Finnegan Harold, Winton Messina, Joshua Woodward, Xavier Houston, Lochie Elliott, Ms Sarah Combes (Director) THIRD ROW: Xavier Dry, Jasper Blunt, Joshua Galvin, Giancarlo Kain, Kieran Doyle, Hudson Grant, Ambrose Nicholls FOURTH ROW: Julien Montandon, William Oxlade, Hugo Fellows-Smith, Toren Edwards, Heath Smyth, Samuel Bennett, Patrick Stewart, Robert McAullay ABSENT: Mawson Barr-Willans, Tobias Evans, Oliver Hayers, Mrs Kirra Muni, Will Partridge, Mrs Suzanne Wydra, Mrs Emma Cooper (Director)

MIDDLE SCHOOL DRAMA

Austin Castiglione Drama Teacher

Teamwork, focus, problem-solving, perseverance, emotional intelligence, friendships and memory are all put to the test in theatre, and the Middle School production of Kicker Thompson was no different.

THE COMMITMENT the students and their families demonstrated through long rehearsals over an extended period was outstanding.

“I really enjoyed the whole experience. I learned a lot, made some new friends and had fun along the way. This was my first Drama production at Scotch and I really look forward to future productions.” Oscar Foster, Year 8

“My favourite part of rehearsals were the hilarious moments we had during the smaller practices, mostly to do with making fun of our characters in the play. These moments brightened up rehearsals.” AJ Merry, Year 8

“I found rehearsals fun because people that shared a similar passion for acting could come together and practise extremely hard to create a great play.” Jarrod Hutchison, Year 7

“I really enjoyed Kicker Thompson, the cast were all vastly different and we were able to work together to create an amazing play!” Jack Douglas, Year 8

“Doing the rehearsals was challenging, fun and exciting. It was also a lot of fun pretending to be someone else and have a new identity.” Lachlan Bird, Year 6 “One of my highlights was sharing the theatre space with so many interesting kids from the Middle School. I loved Kicker Thompson, and I reckon it’ll capture many people’s hearts.” William Fairclough, Year 8

“It was an honour to be in this amazing community and I had such a great time with the other Scotch boys. The whole time the theatre had such a glowing aura. What an experience.” Darcy Gifford, Year 7

“KICKER THOMPSON WAS AN AWESOME WAY TO EXPERIENCE DRAMA DIFFERENTLY. IT REALLY HAS INCREASED MY LOVE FOR THEATRE.” GEORGE JERINI , YEAR 7 C

The cast of Kicker Thompson

Middle School Drama

FRONT ROW: Lachlan Bird, Oliver Cooper, Abel Algie, Abraham Prendiville, Bjorn Rothwell, Magnus Fleming, George Sermon, Darcy Gifford SECOND ROW: Mr Austin Castiglione (Teacher), George Jerinic, Jarrod Hutchison, Thomas van Kranenburg, Henry Alexander, Alexander Merry, Thomas Lovegrove, Lucas Marley THIRD ROW: Lachlan Gooding, Charles Bowles, William Fairclough, Jack Douglas, Sam MacGregor ABSENT: Matthew Berglin, Rohan Bignell, Oscar Foster

ARTS AND

LITERATURE

Dr Jeannette Weeda English Teacher | 2IC English

Writing Awards and Prizes

We know that when writing creatively the imagination and intellect work together with the language and stylistic choices we make to innovate. To create something new.

TO BROADEN THE WAY WE THINK both logically, emotionally and creatively and to exercise our problem-solving abilities. Creative writing gives us a voice. Our boys here at Scotch know this.

Over the year we have published four editions, one each term, of our own in-house electronic creative writing magazine The Raven. Boys who have been published have composed both fiction and non-fiction writing – over 60 pieces were published this year, along with visual art pieces. These are exhibited as exemplary and innovative writing and are enjoyed by the wider Scotch community. They are also used regularly for teaching purposes in the classroom. The Raven can be accessed via home.scotch.wa.edu.au.

At the end of each year a panel of judges awards The Raven prizes for Prose and Poetry categories and these are presented at Speech Night. This year the Years 9 and 10 Poetry prize was awarded to Tom Gray for his poem entitled The Man at the Bus Stop and the Years 9 and 10 Prose prize went to Emanuel Radici for his short story entitled Gone. The Years 11 and 12 Poetry award winner was Will Partridge for his poem entitled I want to live/I want to die.. The Years 11 and 12 Prose prize was awarded to Ashley Edgar for his short story entitled Californification.

Many of our boys entered poems into the nation-wide Dorothea Mackellar Poetry Awards and we received some encouraging feedback from the judges. Jasper Blunt, Hugo Elliot and Tom Mutter were asked to have their poems published in this year’s edition of Primo Lux, a state-wide poetry anthology. These three poems respectively, rays pierce a clouded sky, Disconnect from the Online and Motorbike in the Wind are published on pages 130 and 131.

Both Sam Wolf and Taye Barlow were awarded a 2020 Tim Winton Award for Young Writers, Highly Commended certificate in the Upper Secondary category, for their short stories. These awards go to only a handful of finalists in this widely recognised and popular writing competition. Sam Wolf’s story Sea of Dust and Taye Barlow’s story Night Terrors can be read on pages 135 and 131.

Despite COVID-19, we were still able to participate in the Young Writers’ Programme run by the Fremantle Literacy Centre, albeit largely online. We had three participants, Emanuel Radici, Blair Shields and Ben Walsh. The first term’s session was at the Fremantle Literacy Centre and the following three terms’ sessions involved online collaboration and learning with published Australian writers and peers from across the state also passionate about creative writing.

Motorbike in the Wind

Tom Mutter, Year 9

As the roaring motor soars through the air, He looks at the stands and people are everywhere, He keeps his balance veering left and right, It looks like he has taken flight.

The beautiful beast carrying him up to the sky, He thinks to himself, “Am I gonna die?” He lets go of his hand, takes a couple flips, Showing the crowd all of his tricks.

As the bike tilts forward preparing to land He hears the crowd’s roar and the clapping of hands Taking that smooth landing on both wheels, He slams on the brakes pushing down with his heels.

His family rush fast to congratulate him, Lifting him up with the crowd, chanting Tim! That feeling of the flip was like winning the Olympics, I hope they all took a million pics.

Disconnect from the Online

Hugo Elliot, Year 10

Slow down, it’s not a race, take a step outside Switch off the phone, disconnect from the online Life is not a sprint, but instead a joyful ride Breathe in and out, just take your time.

The busy streets, cities and skyscrapers Concrete walls, no grass but large stone pavers Trapped within walls, stuck behind a screen The mind is not at rest here, although it might seem.

Why do we do this? It is not right A concrete jungle, not a natural tree in sight Ease your mind, do some meditation Clear your brain from all frustration.

Just a moment out of your day Relax, kick your feet up and swim in the bay Unplug the screen, take a well-earned rest Forget your worries, break free from your stress.

Rays pierce a clouded sky scape

Jasper Blunt, Year 11

adding shivers of fine white light to spectred lands. thin pines are bent over backwards, wildflowers wilted, silver grass a burnt amber.

hoisted lumps of earth scatter the horizon Tufts of ashed-snow cap each separate peak jagged hillsides are minatory and oppressive against blinding blue hues of light pockets through clouded sky.

And brass at the bottom of a white pine frame reads ‘mountain scape, oil on canvas, 125 x 60’.

Night Terrors

Taye Barlow, Year 11

The propeller keeps us afloat in an Autumn sky. The constant shudder of the engine acts as a metronome for our chirpy self-assembled crew choir. We sing our favourite church classics, belting out each one with an intensity that would match the Führer’s speeches.

“Rock of ages, cleft for me Let me hide myself in Thee…”

Little things like this distract us from the thoughts of impending doom. The odds are against us RAF. Fly and die. Charred, bubbling skin burned beyond recognition, limbs twisted and disfigured, 20 thousand feet above the ground; a fireball of metal and flesh soaring through a navy sky. This is how most of us end up.

The night cloaks our approach to fascist soil. The lustre of the hull glistens like the stars in the moonlight; which are decoys to our squadron. Gliding like a shiver of sharks through a sea of twinkling lights and navy-blue water. The endless fields of bodies are our ocean bed. In Nazi Germany, 12 planes reflect the void of darkness.

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound That saved a wretch like me…”

The singing also diverts our consciousness away from the innocent families conversing over dinner, talking about their day, telling stories by the fire, but those stories are going to be cut short. Never to think another thought. Never to tell another joke. Never to find love or continue loving. Obliterated by an unseen enemy soaring above. We attempt to suffocate the guilt with lighthearted carols, but it always manages to crawl out. Grasping and clawing at your oesophagus. My rear-end gunner, almost with seemingly telepathic ability reminds me, “Who would you rather, us or them?”

A crackle from the radio alerts us that we are entering German territory. The singing halts. The sickening silence deafens us. I sit at the helm with a tight grip on the controller making my knuckles white. As straight as an alert meerkat, I sit upright scanning excessively for hostile activity. Every sense is overloaded, the rough leather of the seat grips to my grease-infused uniform. The shaking of the aircraft reverberates through my bones into my skull. I can sense the amatol, eager to decimate ‘Nazi Scum’.

A flicker of light in the distance; Molching. No different to any small town in Allied possession but for one distinguishing factor. It is a home of German filth. As we approach the classic sharp spires of the churches come into view. The apartments materialise. Grid of streets take shape. I loom above the sleeping Germans.

A brief bark from the radio signals that we are ready to deliver devastation to the unfortunate Germans of Molching. Hesitation is a murderer of men. A split second can determine whether you live or die. A moment of remorse for the enemy can result in your own demise. I do not hesitate. The world blurs. Mechanical release of the payload. Whistling of death. My eyes are transfixed by the orange and yellow lights. Like a pyromaniac, I cannot look away. The blaze and the crumpled buildings make a Hell on Earth. Bodies buried, boiling, burning under the crumpled buildings. Plumes of smoke emerge from the scorching town like the souls of the deceased residents. It’s us or them.

Two makeshift goals between garbage cans, children grunting as they compete viciously for the dusty football. Ragged shoes gripping on the rough asphalt. Mothers calling their muddy kids in for lunch and scolding them for being dirty. Fathers wiping the dirt off their child’s youthful face. DEAD.

Dreams torched to embers. Life erased from Earth. The plane begrudgingly wheels around. I feel absent from my body, my hands so far away. Bodies crammed into graves with no names. Bodies unrecognisable. Did I really do all of that? One action, hundreds of lives. The crew sits in silence, no singing now. A squadron alone in a German sky.

The sun rises in all its magnificence making the sky alive. The dead of Molching, a distant memory. Lush green, rolling hills are illuminated by the pink and red light of the morn. The clouds are dancing in the brilliant rays. Compete to collect the beams as they sway in synchronisation with the cruising clouds. In Nazi Germany, 12 planes reflect the glory of the sun. How can such beauty come from such devastation?

Californification

Ashley Edgar, Year 12

7:45

Fifteen minutes to make the 21-minute walk back home.

The two-gallon carton of milk sways in my hands like the palm trees towering 20 feet above me. A Santa Monica staple – radiating from the city centre along its vast suburban landscape. The scarp walling in our basin from the fields of the republic beyond our inhabitance, once an obstacle surveyed by Spanish explorers and hunted by Tongva tribesman, now one of the many barriers to the outside word.

My worn basketball shorts are stark against the cleanliness of the suburban background. A desert tamed by man; Destiny made Manifest. Neat houses and vacant blocks follow the contours of the land – once taped over with red stickers announcing ‘Foreclosure Sale’ – now rebuilt, renovated and reinhabited…an American dream. A lottery where the numbers aren’t so random, where luck is given rather than received. It’s easy to talk about life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness when you already have everything anyone could ever want.

I enter Regent Boulevard; American Craftsman homes unnaturally define the boundaries of the street – uniqueness in conformity – the hypocrisy of our system.

7:55

The phone rings – it’s Mom.

“¿Cuándo vas a estar en casa?”

She knows I don’t speak the language.

“Soon Mom, I’m just down the road.”

“And Isabella, mi niño?”

I hate it when she calls me that.

“She’s on her way.” I see Isabelle, dragging her feet on the dusty pavement, outside my neighbour’s. Her uniform brown hair brushing her shoulder blades over her white polo shirt and Levi jeans. “Babe,” I feel the warm embrace of her body amongst the aroma of her Cartier.

An elegant space divides my skin from hers, the warmth dissipating like sweat from the skin.

Isabelle steps onto the path entering my neighbour’s place: I touch her hand indicating “wrong way” – followed by an awkward laugh. I retreat to our home, the foreigner next door.

An oasis of Spanish Colonial Revival in a desert of suburbia. It looks somehow more at home in our desert state, compared to the lawns and picket fences of our neighbours. The openness of the courtyard is uncomfortable amongst the practicality of the clean wooden façade of our neighbour’s.

“Wow, what a spectacular house – is it like your place back home?”

“Yeah!” I lie. I’ve never lived anywhere else.

My mother opens the door.

“Niño!” She embraces my shoulders and ferociously kisses my forehead.

“¡Buenos días, Isabella¡ ¡No te quedes ahí en la puerta¡ ¡Pasa!”

“Maria, nice to meet you!”

Isabelle awkwardly looks to the side as she receives the same treatment, Mom offering her warm embrace.

We walk through the arched door, which swings aside to reveal the buttery yellow interior. The wall is broken up by little droplets of solidified paint, the result of Uncle Antonio’s attempts at renovating. The tiled floor relieves the heat from outside as we remove our shoes. Isabelle doesn’t look particularly comfortable – I want to assure her my mom’s floors are clean, but the gleam probably already tells her that. I quickly dunk my fingers in the bowl of holy water haphazardly nailed next to the doorway, realise how odd it looks, and try to surreptitiously do the sign of the cross under the guise of a cough. On our right is a Credenza containing the car keys, Mom’s hair pins and a series of bills – a horrendous photo of middle school me, braces, bottle glasses and bad haircut. I thump the frame down onto the table, hoping Isabelle won’t notice the worst phase of my life.

Our hallway opens up to the kitchen, photos of Mom’s extended family on the wall.

Her parents, old and fatigued from years of manual labour but still grinning beside pallets of someone else’s produce – the work ethic which allowed them to afford the very walls their picture adorns. I never met my grandparents, as the banned chemicals of a generation ago took their toll.

Another is a photo of me near the window, with the cousin who I dragged to the Southern California Medical Museum when they came from Mexico. My grins hide the fact that I hated their visit – I was their awkward shadow for the whole trip, shambling beside their realness and authenticity at 12 years. At least that particular trip to Pomona gave me the idea that I wanted to be a doctor.

There were many more, all these photos of places I’ve never been, most people I’d never met. My father is notably absent from even the smallest photograph. The story keeps on changing like the photos on the wall.

The tiled backsplash draws both Issy’s and my attention, the mahogany table a centre piece to the room. On the kitchen bench quesadillas overflowing with cheese, elote skewered in a line on a bright blue dish, and the aroma of the posole dominating the kitchen.

“Mom, you didn’t have to go to so much effort!” I say half-proud, halfembarrassed.

Maybe she’s cooked so much because she’s nervous.

Isabelle’s eyes bulge slightly. Her Mexican dining experience is limited to the Taco Bell dollar menu. “Holy…!” She breaks her silence, almost involuntarily.

Mom looks at her in shock. If I spoke like that, I’d be family history.

This is going to be a long night.

The Man at the Bus Stop

Tom Gray, Year 9

Man sits at the bus stop, drowsy and dreary. The arid heat of July piercing his cracked face, The dull golden blur fills the world around him, His destitute presence contrasting its rapid pace. The ambition and pride in his heart is dim, Denial and rejection suffocate his soul at every turn. He has searched and searched and found no bliss And so his eyes rest, his legs too, as the sultry air and his body become one. As he drifts into a haze, his ears still ring With the laments of the everyday man in front of him.

As his consciousness fades, an emerald hue is shone upon his face, He quickly opens his eyes, and what he finds seems so out of place. Like a feather in the wind, It floats and sways, Dancing and prancing Delicate and divine. A quaint fern sprouts from the ground, So small yet so profound, It seemingly emits light A beacon of hope in a world filled with blight. He is suddenly awake, No longer wearied from his woes, He fixates on the quaint beauty across from him. Soon, a crisp air envelops his cheeks, Like a winter sea, it floods away the misery and chills the soul. The horrendous heat fades away, Left only is the sun’s glorious ray.

The once empty pit inside him, now overflowing A sense of euphoria ever-growing. As he imagines a flourishing forest, Lively and vibrant, Standing tall, filled with life.

Crisp waterfalls washing away evil, Birds singing and chirping Each note gleaming with joy. Trees dwarfing the virgin earth, From a time before humanity’s birth.

Soon a blistering wind knocks him from his feet, His lucid vision escapes his mind. The midsummer misery drains his soul yet again. The world no longer green and alive, But crippling destruction in overdrive, Cracked concrete-covered streets engulf his entire reality, As he observes humanity’s harsh brutality.

The fern now worn and weary, Tired from the world around it, All life drained away. He sits and wonders how something so seemingly meek, Had provided such a great mystique. And mankind something so bleak.

Crisp waterfalls washing away evil, Birds singing and chirping Each note gleaming with joy. I want to live/ I want to die. [extract]

Will Partridge, Year 12

i stood at the gate of the kingdom contemplating how such beauty, and such power could exist. the doormat of the almighty, the boundary of life. i never considered i could be standing here. ***

my journey began in a slum of fruit flies and machinery. the shamans painted me in shades of isolation and regret. a group of Swedes put me on a train headed for the end of the world. where vibrancy trumped business, and where beauty trumped net worth. a billionaire’s freighter glided through god’s tantrum. maybe net worth is inescapable. the great plains blew me westward. a breeze from the ocean; a gentle reminder of past torments. a healer in a hut built of straw pierced my septum with a needle crafted from bone. she told me “listen intently, to the stories of others.” i spent only a brief time in churches, more in monasteries. the ancient fortresses of the old gods stood opposing us. heretics screamed in ancient tongues, as Americans and Europeans lectured about the power of god. i never felt inclined to listen. modern inquisitors gave me sideways glances. and then the fog rolled in. i felt it clamouring and hollering, sometimes screaming murder. fear becomes real once you can’t see your hand in front of your face. once all you hear is hissing and moaning. once all you feel is a cool brushing, from something not there. when your life becomes redundant. your heart could stop and you wouldn’t even be able to tell. by the time i reached Douala,

i felt the world surrounding me, like that fog had done many months before. i turned around and saw life, yet looked ahead towards clarity. the rolling, discursive waves reminded me of my great great great grandfather, that colonial emperor. as the captain welcomed me to my quarters i considered for a moment what my father would think of this journey. would he think me childish? would he respect my resolve? would he notice i was gone? ***

it was snow that dragged me from the Amazon. a Chilean monk brought me to his home in Valparaiso, and his brother whispered stories of gods and monsters, as we journeyed to the Andes. his log cabin in the mountains became home for a month or two. the stone monsters and frozen embrace helped me learn to feel. time slowed and senses evaporated. unity and harmony between human and nature. motion. motion became my universe. “without motion” the brother taught “we and everything we know… are dead.” when the snow had melted that summer the motion had fallen still in my mother. ***

freedom could be found down every other street then. i loved that. it was like a paradise lost. like heaven could exist. it restored my faith in god. it destroyed my faith in humanity. the earth which i had treasured became a waste land. and i a pawn. in some vile game.

Gone

Emanuel Radici, Year 10

My time has come. My forests, once so dense and serene, now are barren. My oceans, once so full of life, now sit, with the life I gave slowly asphyxiating from the plastic surface. The future, which once seemed so promising, now seems bleak. I am now a wasteland. An example to others that even the most infinite beings have a limit. And that limit was reached. And surpassed. I have not felt the soft, warm glow of the sun on my plants for years. The light is filtered out by the thick, choking layers of smoke and carbon. My people have taken the decision to leave. Their own home, built around them, has no longer become sufficient to sustain them. And so, the decision was made. To leave in spacecraft, with no aim, but just to escape the one place they once called home. As I watch the first people leave, I contemplate everything I have been through during this time.

I start at the beginning, when I came into existence. Young and fruitful, gifted the chance to host life. It really was a long time ago. I was able to watch these people grow and develop. My humans. They started as nothing, just like me, and they evolved, they changed, they grew into what they are today. We have been through so much together. They risked their own extinction many times, but through great efforts and control they managed to save me. I reflect in sadness; today will be the last day that I am able to look upon my creation. I can’t control myself anymore. I can no longer hold in the steam and superheated metal of my volcanoes, neither can I stop the cascading waves of water. It seems surreal to me, to think that what I created, what I nurtured and brought to life, now is leaving me for a better place. It’s like a parent, who has done their best to support their child, but eventually must face the inevitable end product: a person who must choose their own path and forge their own legacy. It’s not my fault that they must leave. As I feared from the beginning, they did it to themselves.

Allow me to take you to the memory of my world, the world I created before the people came.

The trees sway gently in a cool, evening breeze. The soft trickle of water from a nearby river snakes its way through the landscapes. The tiniest details of my world, I honed to perfection. The dirt was moist, full of nutrients, the foliage green and healthy. Birdsong rings throughout the forest, a sweet and melodious tune. A mother deer guides her fawn through the thick canopy of the trees. The golden sun shines gently down into the clearing, illuminating the smallest elements, all contributing to make one perfect place. Slowly, the river comes into view. It’s as clear as crystal. Fish playfully dart around, turtles swim among eels. Contrasting the birds’ melodies is the harmony of nature. Nature which I created. Nature which they destroyed.

I don’t know how to feel. I know that I am nearing my end. Should I feel angry? Should I be resentful towards them? For all the damage they caused?

The land is barren now, devoid of colour and life. The minerals have been cleaved from the ground; vast expanses of trees have been torn from their roots. Every corner of the planet has been stripped bare. The air is heavy, dark and choking. The icy tips have long since melted, and water laps at the inland. It is the heat that bothers me most, day and night, oppressive.

I watch them go. I wish I could say something. Speak my mind. Tell them of their creation, of how they came to be. But I cannot. All I can see is myself, and even the corners of my vision are starting to darken. I do not know what this means. I was brought into being for a purpose. My purpose was to support life. But now that life is leaving me; what is my purpose? Am I to be cast aside, like a used tissue, to be thrown into the waste and left somewhere? Maybe I will just dissolve into the same nothing from which I came forth. I do not know. I cast my eyes up, towards that last rocket, carrying the last people. I feel saddened that this last generation will only carry away the memories of a desolate wasteland.

As I watch them slowly shrink to a small speck in the sky, their rocket fumes an ironic parting gift, I whisper a final farewell.

I am tired.

I am old.

I am damaged.

Sea of Dust

Sam Wolf, Year 12

And in that moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came. It tapped away on the roof and the silent fields.

However, earlier that day it had been different.

I woke hours ago, but there was no rush to get anything done. What more could I do? I could feed the sheep, but they’d already been overfed. All they needed was water, and water I could not give them. I had exhausted every last drop from the well, the dam and anything I could find, but it wasn’t enough. They couldn’t last much longer and, honestly, neither could I.

Even as I pulled my socks on they scratched away at my dry feet, and my shirt stunk of day-old sweat. I only do one load of washing a week, because it’d be a waste of water. It’s so expensive now, I’ve no other choice. It’s not like I was making any money from my sheep anymore. I pulled my worn and dishevelled boots on and put on my broad, dusty hat. Each step toward the veranda creaked in the old house. The sounds of the house provoked memories. It hurt to live here; this place brought back too many memories of Amy. We’d come within a week of getting married and then she just up and left. She “couldn’t live out here, in the middle of nowhere,” apparently, and away she went with some bigshot businessman from the city.

The fly screen door flung open with a small nudge from the tip of my right boot and it crashed loudly into the house. I stood out on the deck looking over what was left; not much. From the top of the hill, I could see almost everything, except for the old dam where the sheep spent their time. There was a sea of dust before me, and at the bottom of the valley was the old fig tree I’d proposed to Amy under. It was now a flimsy skeleton of branches, strewn with patches of dry leaves. It was all once mile upon mile of luscious green pasture. An array of native birds used to socialise in the trees around the house, chirping all day. Even the birds were gone, which left a lifeless silence for miles. On the horizon, clouds hung over the land, tormenting me.

I started up the rickety old ute. It groaned as it struggled to turn over. I’d had to sell the Landcruiser to pay for bringing in as much water as I could, but that only lasted a few weeks. I had to check on the sheep. The sheep that once numbered 4,000 were now down to a few hundred, and if I lost these, there was no hope for this place, let alone me.

The ute reached the base of the hill, on the other side the sheep would usually lie. They somehow clung onto hope by sitting near the dam, expecting it to magically fill up. Poor things. I don’t know how much longer they could last. It could be days, a day, or they could all be dead already. I was about to find out.

I stepped down from the old red ute and landed on crusty dead grass that crunched like broken glass under me. I was nervous for what I would find and began sweating. I didn’t know if it was fear, heat or both. I lunged my way up the hillside, pushing off my knees for support. The hill began to level out and I finally got to see.

First it was the smell. I knew what it meant, but I didn’t want it to mean that. I looked around. The ground around the dried-up lake was smothered by dirty white sheep. There were hundreds but none made a sound. At least a hundred would be dead. None ran away in fright. I could see the rise and fall of breath in many of them, but that was all. I’d failed. They wouldn’t last another three days.

The drive back to the house was the worst hour of my life. As the ute rattled along the track I struggled to see through my tears. I can’t even remember having my eyes open for it. I drove slowly, wailing and crying. I crawled out of the car and left it running. What would it matter? I stumbled up the steps and flung the door open. It crashed into the house, harder this time, and broke off the door’s top hinge. I stumbled through the house and fell face down onto my bed. I lay on those sweaty sheets for hours until the cool of night began to flow through the front door and push away the day. I hadn’t stopped crying.

Hours more passed, until I eventually reached under the bed and fumbled my arm around in the dark until it found what it was looking for. The stainless steel was cold in my hand, and the wooden stock was menacing. I was crying loudly now and trembling like nothing else. It was my only choice. A thousand memories rushed through my head.

CRACK. A terrible deafening sound split the sky and shook the house. Then there was a moment of silence. But I was still here. The sound had been lightning, and in that moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came. It tapped away on the roof and the silent fields.

I burst into tears, and I cried for hours. It rained for days.

Even the birds were gone, which left a lifeless silence for miles. On the horizon, clouds hung over the land, tormenting me.