Creative Writing

The first archived edition of the Scotch College creative writing magazine

The magazine’s intention was to celebrate original creative work by Scotch College boys. In 2014 The Raven was resurrected in a new electronic form. Each term there is a new edition. Included in each edition is a collection of meritous writing and works of visual art. Since 2021 there has been both a Senior School and a Middle School edition. Some OSCs have sent their writing for publication also.

So, Primary, Middle and Senior School students, if you have some good creative writing (with a maximum word limit of 1,000 words), send it to Dr Weeda on jeannette.weeda @scotch.wa.edu.au. It will be edited and then there’s a good chance that it will be uploaded to The Raven. All entries go in the running for the various Reporter prizes.

Bitter Sweet - Harry Burbury (Year 12)

Run! Run! Get there! He feels his lungs hurt as he gasps for air. It’s hot, dry, dusty. He sprints, willing himself on. Tired legs scream. He ignores them. Must keep going. His hand touches leather. Not even a hand, a finger. Then he slams into something solid, unmoving. He’s knocked to the ground, hard. He tries to breathe but the shallow, short breaths give him no respite. He groans and rolls over, looking up at the bright blue sky. It’s an endless blue dome, unbroken by clouds. The scorching sun’s rays burn down on him. He closes his eyes, takes stock of his injuries. Nothing that can’t be pushed down, saved for later when he has time to recover. He hears the loud screech of rainbow lorikeets, squabbling over nectar in the bottlebrush nearby. The deafening drone of cicadas calling for a mate. He feels a hand on his shoulder. Someone pulls him to his feet. He wipes the dirt from his eyes. Spits out the grit. Takes another breath. Gathers himself and pushes on.

He loves this game. Loves the thrill of the chase, the contest for the ball. Arms pumping and legs flying behind him as he races across the paddock, the kind of freedom you only feel in dreams. His father played this game. Taught him how to handball. Showed him how to take an overhead mark and kick a torpie. Taught him what it meant to be in a team. To be part of something bigger than yourself. Playing a role and working towards a common objective.

It’s a physical game, full of hip and shoulders, pushes in the back. There are elbows crushing ribs and bone-jarring tackles. He endures all this, welcomes it almost. It’s part of the game.

He squints in the midday sun and sees the yellow ball soaring in the blue sky. He watches it float over his head. He turns and chases it. It was just him and the ball. Until it wasn’t. He feels a presence. A dark shadow advancing. He tries to avoid the inevitable collision. Too late. Crunch. He feels the baked earth beneath him. Not much grass really. He’s dazed and he shakes his head to clear his vision, still lying flat on his back and clutching his ribs. Everywhere aches. He tries to move, but can’t. The umpire’s shrill whistle cuts through the ringing in his ear like a squawking canary, awarding him a free kick. He climbs to his knees, deprived of oxygen. Finally, up to his feet. He takes the ball and walks back off his mark. Turns around. The siren sounds. Silence. His heartbeat echoes in his ears. The ball beneath his fingers. He looks toward the goals. Then he hears it.

Those words. Those same familiar words that have haunted him throughout his life. You never get used to them. Like gut punches each one. Never build up a tolerance. Only words, people say. Names can never hurt you. And yet, what is this feeling if not pain? This feeling that you are somehow less of a person. Inadequate. Part of a team but never fully accepted. Words that are thrown about carelessly, thoughtlessly. Said without considering the hurt caused. Or then again, perhaps that was their intention all along. He takes three deep, shaky breaths, trying to push these words out of his focus. He walks, then jogs and drops the ball on his left boot towards the four tall sticks. His kick is off, across the face. He drops his head. Smirks are seen and jeers are heard, humiliation felt deeply burning in the pit of his stomach. Failure.

Three quarter time. In the huddle. He watches the coach’s mouth move as he delivers his speech. Sees his eyes blaze and his spit flying. Barking orders and offering encouragement. He hears none of it. Shame eats away at him. Why is he even here? He feels unworthy. His head is full of doubt. When will he be seen as an equal? When will he be seen for who he is? He feels his passion for the game diminishing. He hears his voice in the smattering of people along the boundary, he locks eyes with his father. Was there a small nod? Deep eyes, old beyond his years. A look passes between. An unspoken understanding. Old as time. A shared pain. A connection. A belonging. An understanding. Family. A swell of emotion like a tsunami hits. It’s almost physical.

The game continues, final quarter. He feels his heart quicken as the whistle blows. He loves this game, the great outdoors, the bright blue ceiling. The red dirt in his boots. The deep ache of his muscles as he pushes his body to the edge. The exhaustion and exhilaration in equal measures. He breathes in deeply, tasting the heat. Feeling the dampness of his jumper sticking to his back. The umpire bounces the canary yellow ball in the centre… He is ready.

The Catacombs - James Caporn (Year 12)

I wandered through the sanctioned corridors, sensing the shelves close in around me, forming walls, a dark, black tunnel, suffocating me with the dust and dirt in the air I could all too well see, coating all surfaces in a thick layer of black grime. The sense of decay here was ever-present. Looking at all the dust and dirt particles floating in front of me, they seemed to never settle, or even move, as if they have remained in stasis. Forever.

“Hello?” I exclaimed, hoping for even the slightest response from someone. Anyone. But all I heard was my voice reverberating off the walls, and then an eerie silence, complemented by the sharp and cold gusts of wind that echoed throughout the aisles, and the silent creaking of the shelves around me, all housing something shrouded in dust. A few minutes later, however, I started to hear a noise. It sounded quiet and human in nature. Curious, I started towards this noise, making sure to avoid what seemed like rubble littered all over the floor, impeding my path.

Eventually, I found the source of the noise. It looked like a human, quietly reading something in a monotone voice, as if it didn’t want to disturb anything around it. I quickly sneaked to a shelf nearby to observe this interesting character. Despite the darkness, I managed to see the titles of the books that it had read, works such as The Communist Manifesto and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I counted myself lucky that I could make that out, as there were few people left who could still read. These books were all tossed onto the ground, left to be consumed by the darkness and forgotten. I listened for a while and heard the distorted THUD that was accentuated and echoed by the vastness of this labyrinth every time this figure tossed a book onto the floor after reading it, like clockwork, and the silent outcry of the shelves at every book taken from them.

Suddenly, I saw a book come screaming towards my face. BAM. “Ow!” I screamed, my nose now bleeding profusely, dripping red blood everywhere, even onto the books, not that it made any difference to the state that they were in anyway. I realised that I had been discovered. The figure knew I was here, and instead of turning its body to face me, it instead turned just its head, extremely slowly, as if it was on a swivel, revealing a crooked smile, warped after years of disuse. Its malevolent red eyes glared into my soul, lighting up the black shelves with a sickly red glow.

“Hello- may I- service today?” A distorted, crackling noise emerged from the figure. In shock, I stumbled back, accidentally knocking over what felt like dry small skulls from the shelves, making loud hollow clunking sounds as they thudded onto the floor, devoid of all life. It was trying to be friendly, but failing miserably. It must not have had much human interaction. The figure seemed to be staring at me. Unmoving.

“Who-What are you?” I asked, startled. I was met with an uncomforting, deafening silence. Despite the figure’s creepily nonchalant demeanour, accompanied with its inhuman posture and glowing red eyes that tracked me, I cautiously reached out. I felt the cold touch of steel and the rough feeling of rust. It was evident that this was a machine that has stood the test of time, like everything else in this place, and firmly attached to what seemed like a small, rusted railroad that snaked around the shelves, leaving this robot bound in the confines of this labyrinth. The robot seemed to be an old, antique model of the TX8100 with a rusted arm, and the other one missing with a tangled mess of wires hanging out in its place. Little was known about the TX8100. It seemed to be a lone sentry patrolling something that was forgotten long ago.

“Hello? What are you doing here?” I asked, backing away behind a shelf, guaranteeing to not get hit by another book to the face.

“Hell- I am th- TX8100. I wa- designated he- to protec- and safeguard this plac-.” The robot replied disjointedly, as it slowly adjusted its head and body to a human-like composure.

I thought humorously to myself how hypocritical that statement was, and how the robot casually threw these books away to rot on the floor with the dust and dirt without a care in the world. It had clearly been warped throughout time. What I found even more curious, however, was that the meta-net said that this was an ancient catacomb, but there were books here, and a robot too. Kneeling, I picked up what seemed like a dry foxed manuscript, with uncut, unopened edges, that seemed to have been marinating in this decay for eternity. It had the title The Canterbury Tales. Being a historian, I would have thought that I knew what this book was, but I did not. Perplexed, I put the manuscript back in its rightful place on the shelves. Although I heard nothing, I almost felt a chorus of approval resound from the shelves around me.

“Hey, robot, I seem to have lost my way. Do you by chance know the way out of this maze?” I asked, not at all expecting a valid reply due to the condition it was in. The robot’s eyes rekindled, as if it finally had a purpose. “Yes, I kno- a way. Follo- me please.”

Unexpectedly overjoyed with the robot’s promising reply, I followed it for what seemed like hours in this dark maze, as it smoothly snaked throughout the shelves with a natural demeanour, as if it knew this place like the back of its hand, if it had one that is, with each corridor, shelf and book looking identical to the last, unchanged. Finally, I reached the exit, which was a small staircase, leading to the surface. As I left, I saw a small, rusted sign inscribed with the word “Library”, and I suddenly realised what this place must have been. I thanked the robot which was still finding refuge in the darkness, avoiding the light, and I told myself from that day on that I would never return. Some things left in the past are better left forgotten, as humanity steels itself for the future. Besides, I didn’t want to get another book hurled at me.

Inches from Glory - Harrison Hill (Year 10)

Bat, ball, stumps… let’s go! I walk down the steep, rocky hill leading down from our rusty but sturdy 1950s holiday shack in Augusta. My periphery catches one of my mates, fiery Tom, the fierce but inconsistent fast bowler from North Fremantle. If I had to compare him to a current Aussie bowler, he would be the Pat Cummins of the team, although maybe a bit more intense. On the other side of me, striding purposefully down the hill, is the young and upcoming deadly spin bowler, Nifty Nico from Swanbourne. I would describe him as a Shane Warne but with less of his repertoire. The sheer confidence and trash talk emanating from these two lads suggests that I am up for a very competitive game of backyard cricket.

As I take my first steps on the recently mowed, home-grown pitch, full of bamboozling lumps, bumps and holes the size of craters, the brisk sea breeze sweeps up my back causing back tingles and finger twinkles.

I realise my time has come as I take guard and stare straight into Tom’s intense eyes charging down the pitch towards me. Added to this, I can hear Nifty’s aggressive whispers from behind the stumps … “Oh Harry don’t get out … You’re gone. No big score for you today mate!” he chuckles.

“Just get the job done,” I say to myself while I raise my bat, gripping the handle as tightly as I can.

“Ooooh!” shouts Nico as the first delivery whizzes straight past leg stump.

“Thankfully, not another golden duck,” as I remember last night’s poor performance.

“You got lucky there, Haz,” said Nico from behind the stumps.

“Harry, you’re meant to hit the ball not the air,” shouts Tom as he returns to his mark.

The pressure and trash talk are really getting into my head now and the goose bumps and sweaty palms are building. I grit my teeth and give myself a motivational couple of words as Tom starts his extra-long run up, “Come on Harry, Come on!”.

“Oh, Ahh, howzat!” shout Nico and Tom as the next couple of deliveries narrowly miss the stumps. I try to calm my nerves, telling myself to re-focus.

“Bang! That’s the one!” I celebrate as the ball sails over the fence for six. Bang, Bang, Bang! I am on a roll now with a couple of fours added to the tally. It is a decent start but from previous games with Fiery and Nifty I know I need a few more boundaries to be in a strong position.

Nico charges in for his first bowl of the day. The ball is fizzing and swinging into my leg stump as the sea breeze hits it. I wind up to smash it for six as the ball hits one of the many divots in the pitch and finds its way to middle stump. I stand frozen in my defeated stance. I can’t believe it. I stare helplessly at the bails lying uncomfortably on the ground. I look up to see Nico and Tom celebrating like there was no tomorrow.

I take a deep breath and realise that I now must bowl and wicket keep like Dennis Lillee and Adam Gilchrist.

It’s game on!

New Danger - Richard Gamble (Year 10)

Social, a human behaviour

Media, a global conversation

So why through this never-ending spiral Do we want everything we have and know to go viral?

From cat videos to sport fails to singles only a kilometre away We dedicate our lives to this spotlight Wasting away the Day.

Book with a face instant gram now I have a weird ad wonder if it’s a scam.

Now it’s live from across the globe testing our patience just like a probe. to the dark web and new different disguise I’m a new person Humanity slowly dies.

Social Media

Never ending spiral So why does everything Have to go viral?

Blissed Out - Tommy Clements (Year 10)

The sun shines dimly, Peering at the world below, Golden rays reach out through the clouds, Like God has touched the Earth. Sunlight reflects off the glassy river, A warm breeze glides over my face. A swan drifts past, Nesting on the rocks. The winding of a fishing rod, The hum of two parents chatting, The smell of fish and chips, The whirr of a bike passing, The touch of the cool jetty, The speaker plays music, Friends sharing stories, Telling jokes, Laughter. On the safety of her beach towel, Dolphins splash as, The sky flashes orange, Illuminating the clouds, She glows in the dimming light, We watch the sunset. Kids shout and play, This is the end to the perfect day, Bliss.

The world is a such beautiful place, I wonder when the grin will leave my face.