Stylus 2014

St Margaret’s

tylus

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Forward from the Editor Roald Dahl is one of my favourite authors.

His stories are not just creative, the characters are lively, fun and as relatable to the reader as close friends. The book Matilda tells the story of a brilliant but lonely little girl who escapes the dull reality of her life by reading.

“So Matilda’s strong young mind continued to grow, nurtured by the voices of all those authors who had sent their books out into the world like ships on the sea. These books gave Matilda a hopeful and comforting message: You are not alone.” ― Roald Dahl, Matilda

Literature is a wonderful form of escapism.

Through the characters in a story, the reader can experience life as another person, in another time. The best writers are nearly always good readers, who learn from the works of others.

Stylus is a magazine intended to showcase creative excellence in the subjects of English and Art. It is designed to help students aspiring to an A standard of work learn from the fantastic examples of literary and artistic talent displayed. Works appearing in the magazine must satisfy three criteria, these are: they must be assessment pieces from 2014, they must be of an A standard and they must be selected by the teachers as work of the highest calibre within their year level.

When editing the magazine, I realised just how good at English and Art some of the girls in the St Margaret’s community are. The Stylus magazine is a platform to display the high standard work of St Margaret’s students.

I hope that you enjoy our publication of creative excellence as Stylus approaches its first anniversary.

Georgina Quayle Editor in Chief

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Sophie Candy (Year 12) 3 St Margaret’s Stylus 2014

Heart Ache Lizzie Fowler (Year 7) I began packing my bag for my Dad’s house, excitement bubbling inside me. My brother, Michael, and I, were finally spending the weekend with him. We don’t get the opportunity to do this often, as we only see him twice a week. I couldn’t handle my excitement, because we always do something fun and unforgettable. I grabbed my bag and threw it into the car. Inside, my Mum and Michael were waiting for me.

I sat down, and we drove to Ashgrove. We came around a corner and pulled into Moola road. Our little car roared up the steep hill, reaching the cream house with “94” plated on the wall. As we pulled into the driveway, my Dad came out to greet us. I embraced him in a long hug, as he lifted me into the air. I said goodbye to Mum, and ran into my Dad’s old, rickety house.

The weekend consisted of my Dad, Michael and I scooting around Ashgrove and playing board games. It was, and has been, one of the greatest weekends at my Dad’s. Sunday came too quickly, and before I knew it, we were waiting out the front of his house for Mum to arrive. To pass time, we threw the rugby around. Mums car pulled into the driveway and sadness filled me. I didn’t want to leave, I’d been having so much fun, and not to mention I had homework waiting at home. I embraced Dad in one last hug, remembering the weekend I just had. I’ll always have those memories.

“I love you Dad” I said and hugged him closer still.

“I love you too.” he said and kissed my forehead.

I jumped in the car, the sadness building up again. I rolled down the car window as fast as I could.

“Bye!” I screamed out the window.

“Bye!” he screamed back. I took one last glimpse at him and his house, and then drew my attention back to the road in front of me.

That night, I did my homework and got myself ready for bed. As I did every night, I called my Dad to say goodnight. It was a little ritual I had gotten myself into. I dialled the familiar number and waited.

There was no response, so I decided to leave a message.

“Hi Dad, it’s me. I was just calling to say goodnight and I love you. Call me when you get this message.”

Thinking nothing of it, I hung up the phone and climbed into bed. My thoughts would often wander to Dad, and I would wonder if he was ok. He would always answer, so when he didn’t answer, it made me feel sick in the stomach. My thoughts finally settled, and I drifted into a deep sleep.

I woke up the next day feeling strange, if not empty. I walked out to the lounge room, where I could see my Mum sitting with her friend. I first noticed that she had been crying. Why was my first thought. Mum noticed me in the doorway and came over to me.

“Lizzie, something’s happened. I need to tell you and your brother.” she said, her tone dead flat.

Now I became even more scared. She spoke with such a flat tone, it was as if I could feel her pain just by what she had said. She took my hand in hers and we walked to Michael’s room, where he was still sleeping. He woke to the sudden disturbance, and sat up in his bed. He, like me, had noticed Mum had been crying and now looked worried.

“Something’s happened.” she used the same tone she had used when she said that last, and the repetition of what she had said made me feel sick, the sickest I’ve ever felt in my life.

“Dad’s passed away.” Mum explained.

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It was as if the world had stopped around me. I couldn’t process what she had said, and I didn’t want to. Tears sprung to my eyes, and I looked to my brother. He was crying too. Lots of thoughts went through my mind, but the main one that stuck was no. He can’t be gone. The words my Mum had said bounced around my head, echoing in my ears. He couldn’t be gone. Why did this happen? I’d only just turned nine two months ago, and he was only fifty. He was supposed to be there for things like my wedding, and me finishing school. Lots of questions ran wild my brain, why did it happen?

Did anyone help him? When did it happen? Was anyone able to help? But I couldn’t even face the fact that I wouldn’t ever see him again. He can’t be gone.

To this day, it’s still hard to process it. This year has been my fourth year without him, and it’s slowly getting easier. Every year I overcome one thing a tiny bit more. I will never fully get over it, but I’m overcoming more things. Some nights, I’ll dial his phone number and almost ring him, but I’m snapped awake to the horrible reality. This has definitely been the hardest thing of my life, but I’m getting better at dealing with it. He may not be here in person, I know he’s still here. It’s been a tough journey, but over the four years, I’ve overcome so much. I have an approach and this is it: Every year is a barrier, and every one of them is making me stronger. I’m not going to let a barrier stop me.

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Elizabeth Palmer (Year 11)

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Jump Kelsey Booth (Year 7) I come home from school feeling good, for two reasons: number one, it’s a Friday! And number two, we’d gotten our Mandarin marks back and I’d gotten an A! Mandarin was turning out to be one of my best subjects.

I dump my bags in the quiet, deserted hallway. “Hey Mum!” I call, breaking the silence. She comes bustling out of the lounge room.

“Hi Jazzy, honey. How are you?” Mum asks, stroking my hair.

“I’m good. We got our Mandarin marks back today and I got an A for the test!” I say.

“Not bad, Jazzy. You can push for the A+ next time… What about your other subjects?” she quizzed.

“We don’t get them back until next Wednesday,” I replied. “They’re making us wait the whole weekend.”

What did Mum mean, not bad? Surely an A was good enough. But she’s been like this more and more lately. Pushing me to do better and making me think that what I was doing wasn’t good enough.

“Speaking of the weekend, I’ve booked you into a class with the Adrenaline Company on Saturday.

You’ll finally be facing your fear of heights, Jazzy.”

“On Saturday?!” I panic. “But that’s tomorrow! I can’t go tomorrow! I have WAY too much homework to do!”

“It’s all organised, Jazzy. I’ve paid and everything,” Mum says.

“But Mum-” I start to say.

“You’re going tomorrow and that’s final,” Mum ends the conversation with a stern look.

I go up to my room and sit on my bed. It is so mean of Mum to decide that I am going without even asking me first! And how can she just ignore my feelings so much? She doesn’t even care how sensitive I am about my phobia.

I wake up the next morning feeling really sluggish. I do not want to go to the Adrenaline class today.

I am so annoyed. Mum really just couldn’t have asked me what I wanted to do? But I get up. We leave the house. In the car, Mum and I are silent. The car trip seems to last forever. Finally, we arrive at the Adrenaline class.

A man in a green and black jacket greets me as Mum and I climb out of the car. Together, we walk over to a giant sign that says, “Heights Jump 101’’. Immediately I’m afraid. Mum didn’t say anything about jumping! What was she thinking? But of course there would be jumping involved; how else would you get down from a height with a class run by a company called Adrenaline?

Mum and I follow the man who greeted us. He makes small talk as he leads us over to two guys but I’m not really listening. The Adrenaline Company staff give me a big, long safety talk.

It’s then that I see it. A massive structure that must be at least 40 metres tall. It stands over the river with a rectangular ladder and then a long skinny platform jutting out above the river I hadn’t noticed until just then. So, am I supposed to jump off the platform into the freezing cold water of the river?

If that’s what I’m supposed to be doing… no, surely not. Even Mum wouldn’t…

I wait for the guys to put me in a harness or something but they don’t.

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One of the guys tells me to start climbing the ladder that leads me to the bit where you jump off.

Without a harness? Is he crazy?! I am so scared. I am completely frozen – I can’t even move. There is no way I can climb this ladder.

But some very stern words from my mother change my mind.

I start climbing. The ladder wobbles and wobbles with the wind. I swear I’m going to fall off this thing. It feels like forever, but eventually I get to the top. Now all I have to do is jump. Jumping – that’s the hardest part. How can I jump off a plank into freezing cold water? How? The guy at the top of the ladder is not helping. He keeps telling me to jump. Whatever, dude. I’m not really listening anyway. All I can really hear is a buzzing in my ears. Nothing really sounds like it should, but I can still hear a wave of sound from below.

I realise that I just have to jump. There is literally no other way down.

I try to move my legs and realise that is actually possible. I shuffle towards the end of the plank. It wobbles; even more than the ladder did. This time though, I know I won’t fall – I’ll have to jump instead. I check behind me just to make sure that no one’s going to push me off. All clear, and the guy on the top of the platform tries (and fails) to give me a reassuring smile.

Suddenly, out of nowhere, I get the courage to jump. I step off the end of the platform… and scream. I’m petrified! Something triggers in my mind and I remember to put my arms and legs in the position the safety guys demonstrated. Even so, it still tingles and makes a slapping noise when I hit the water. I’m soaking wet and in a bit of pain but I still manage to be happy!

And it’s all because I’ve jumped. Finally, I’ve started to overcome my fear.

Ella Meyrick (Year 12)

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Journey Grace Adeney (Year 8) Just ten more steps and I’ll be there.

My feet burn and my head hurts from the intense heat burning down on me. Poor Daisy, exhausted from the walk, patters up behind me. I notice her tired eyes, old body and stiff movements, and realise with sadness that she is growing old like me; a beautiful dog, and a loyal one too. I wish she could regenerate and relive her time as a young dog. Maybe she could live a better life.

We finally reach the markets and sigh with relief. A small tent has provided a stick of shade for us to stand and cool down under, and there’s an old tap to fill Daisy’s bowl with. She thirstily scours every millilitre of water there is to drink before lying down for a nap. I smile as I tie her string to a post with my sore hands and then set off in the direction of another stall to collect my fruit and vegetables. It’s a lovely old couple who run the stall, and my heart suddenly aches at the loss of my poor husband. He died of a common sickness; there was no money to call for a doctor. I push the thought aside and walk on with my old squeaky trolley, listening to whispers of the wealthy passing by. They avoid me by a mile, like I am infected with a dreadful sickness. That’s the way it is for us poor folk, and young Peter and Alexis; unable to get a proper education. I wish I hadn’t been the start of the family debt. I left my son and his children in a hole that was so deep they couldn’t climb out. It left Peter and Alex sad, with no imagination or creativity to escape with.

What a horrible Grandma I am, I never had anything to give them.

I start to sob, and that’s when I kick something with my foot. At first, I can’t quite make out what it is, but afterwards I make out its small red cover and light pages.

I bend down to pick it up, and feel the spark in its cover.

I slowly stand back up and smile.

I have found a little slice of imagination.

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Liadin Knee (Year 11)

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The Whole Other World Lauren McDonnell (Year 8) The pain was unbearable but I kept on pushing; we kept on pushing. My hands were hurting, my feet were hurting, every part of me was hurting, but I knew I could do it. It was just something we, my twin and I, were used to. We had to be able to complete all the chores. Someone had to do them!

We live on a farm and we did these things to survive. If we didn’t…… No! I could not think about it.

I’ve grown up living with my grandmother Alice, my old, loving dog called Rosie and my twin brother Thomas. I couldn’t imagine a world without my brother. When I wake up, he is the one I think about. He drives me to put my dirty feet on the freezing cold floor and stand up, each and every day. I’ve just accepted the fact that we are poor and not a thing can be done about it. My whole world is made up of dirt, work and sleep, but that all changed when I found……

One day my brother and I were in our secret hiding place; the only thing we have to ourselves. I could feel him next to me, that re-assuring breathing always in my ear. We were sitting on top of our old disused toilet when my brother saw something red lying on the ground just outside the gate.

It was something peculiar. Hang on, it’s a book! The thought hit me like a bucket of freezing cold water in the face. It’s a book. We ran home and the only thing I could hear was my hard, heavy breathing, for my heart was pumping so fast. I thought it was going to pump out of my chest.

The first time I read our book, it was like the sun on a rainy day, a rainbow in the clouds. It was amazing. No words could really explain the feeling of going into another world. I could forget the pain, the work and the dirt and suddenly have the ability to imagine this whole new world. I couldn’t get enough of it. My brother and I shared it with everyone, wanting everyone to feel the way we did. It lifted every worry and care off our shoulders.

Charlotte Smith (Year 12)

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What Tommy and Lisa Found Jessica Herbert (Year 8) Arnold wasn’t happy at all. Tommy and Lisa, the brother and sister that lived three houses down from him, weren’t waiting for him at their usual spot under the lamp post at the corner.

Before Arnold had met his best friend Tommy, and his little sister Lisa, he was a lonely boy. The mess and filth of the run-down city suburb was a daily reminder of how poor his family was, and the desperate situation they were in. His Dad and oldest brother, Peter (who was all grown up now), worked hard at whatever job they could find, and they were usually very unpleasant jobs. Arnold’s mother was too ill to do anything with him, and the family could barely feed him. His life had been dull and there wasn’t much to smile about.

Arnold had quickly made friends with Tommy and Lisa after he met them at the usually deserted skate park. They met at the lamp post and played together every day. The three friends would watch the men working at the rusty mechanic’s shed where Tommy and Lisa’s Dad worked, take long walks along the dusty dirt road, but most of all they liked to play at the only small patch of dead grass in the suburb, kicking around the three litre plastic milk bottle that doubled as a soccer ball.

It helped Arnold to keep his mind off his hunger, but still, life was colourless and sad. The three children longed to escape the muck and the filth of the world they lived in, and had nothing else to occupy their minds all day.

Six year old Arnold was now very unhappy. He stood with slumped shoulders, bare feet twitching in the dirt. He’d been standing under the lamp post for over twenty minutes now, and still no sign of his friends. He glanced left and right sat the monotonous scene surrounding him, then ran three hundred metres to Tommy and Lisa’s house, jumping over the broken bike, the sleeping dog, the bag of old tools, and continued towards the outdoor dunny from where he could hear muffled sounds.

From the roof of the dunny, the two siblings called out in excitement and told Arnold to come up.

They were holding a beautiful, bright red, hard-covered book. Arnold had never seen a book before, but had heard about them.

Later that day, as Tommy and Lisa’s Grandmother read them the story over and over again, the children’s minds raced. They imagined bright and cheerful things.

The children no longer wandered aimlessly. They played creative games, went exploring, and imagined sailing away from the desperation of home in the giant teacups from the story. Now, everything seemed so colourful and vibrant, that the three friends took pleasure doing everything.

Often other children from the neighbourhood came to hear the grandmother read the story, and they made lots more friends. After the book arrived, no matter how bad the life situations were, they knew that reading was an escape from everyday life.

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Eva-Jane Dibella (Year 12)

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Gran’s Gift Annabelle Madden (Year 8) I slowly make my way home pushing my rusty trolley full of unsold pots, while Heidi trails behind me with her usual steady gait. I push the trolley up the steep hill toward our house while my bones wobble inside of me. Heidi sits, her legs giving way beneath her. I tap her with my foot gently and whisper, “Come on girl. Almost there”.

The dog slowly finds its feet and continues beside me. We reach the front gate where we are greeted by nothing but the wire and sticks that lay on the dead grass that canvases the front lawn.

My two grandchildren Charlie and Erin come running towards me.

“Granny!” they shout with excitement.

“Hello kids! Guess what I bought you?” I say. I look down at my bag to grab it but then I feel a gush of wind on both of my sides. A sound attracts me, but when I look up it is only Heidi drinking from the trough.

I hear one of the children call, “Sorry Granny, too much to do!”

I walk over to the veranda where Edward is building a bike out of some old parts. He looks frustrated.

“Afternoon Edward”, I say.

His head turns quickly in my direction.

“Morning Mags,” he sighs, “No luck at the markets?”

“Oh you know. Nobody is ever there. How’s your morning been?”

Edward looks at the ground and mumbles, “Things aren’t well with Jody. She’s been in hospital for six months now. What are we going to do?”

I put my hand on his shoulder.

“Well we are certainly not going to panic. Everything will be fine. I bought the kids a book to get their spirits up”, I say soothingly.

He looks at me with his big brown eyes. “Really? They will love that.”

I place all the unwanted pots back on to the rickety wooden shelf in my shed, and as I look through the window I see the kids sitting outside, looking down. I reach into my plastic bag to get the book, but the bag is empty. I look around on the floor, but the treasure is gone. It must have been whisked away with that strong gust of wind that I had felt earlier. I feel crushed. I wanted to share this wonderful book with the kids but now I can’t. I am miserable and slowly make my way back to Edward on the veranda. I sit on the ratty old faded couch and close my eyes.

I wake to the excited chattering voices of young children. I sit up to find Erin and Charlie, and some of their little friends in a circle. “Look what we found grandma!” said Charlie. “A book!” said Erin.

“Read it to us!”

I laugh a little with relief and pleasure. “Ok, here we go”

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Ella Cassiniti (Year 11)

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Worth Dying For

By Claudia Tomkins (Year 10) 'Worth Dying For' illustrates the struggles of a jihadist soldier when not only the fate of a young boy's life, but also his own, depends on a single decision he has to make. Similarly to 'Lord of the Flies', the story portrays the concepts of good and evil as characters are torn between a need for power and the knowledge of what is morally right.

A mob of young faces appear before me, shadowed in the dark. Their bodies move in synchronisation. I can see the children shaking, traumatised by their capture, and the vicious deaths of the weaker ones. A hot, angry flush bolts through me as the turmoil that is my conscience rages inside of me. In the past I fed off the pleasure and the thrill of the power to take another’s life but recently the demons of all the dead that haunt my nightmares have consumed this pleasure.

I shudder for a moment. Reaching up I clutch my head as the souls of the dead that haunt my mind start banging against my skull. The beads of sweat are cold under my hands as they parade down my forehead. My rough, calloused fingers feel like sandpaper as they rasp across my brow, leaving a trail of thick black filth. My brain pounds against my skull pulsing through my body like gun shots, drowning me in a sea of pain. Digging my fingers into my scalp I long for an escape. I stumble backwards. Reaching out to my side, I grab the wall, steadying myself. My thoughts have become disorientated. I know I have a job to do as the great Omar has instructed but the mighty war that rages inside me between the teachings of the prophet and my own sense of right and wrong is taking my sanity.

Just as we are filing the last of the children into the dusty crowded cell, a little boy, no older than seven, rises frantically from his place on the cold concrete floor. Ducking around bodies he races for the door, slipping out behind turned heads. I face away, pretending not to see, giving the boy an easy route out. I stand paralysed for a moment unable to come to terms with what I have just done.

His sudden flight to freedom sets off a spark in the room, sending dozens of bodies scrambling after him. In alarm the men barricade the door, guns poised, ready to fire at any given moment.

Instinctively I join them as other uniformed men race to catch up to the young boy.

In the distance I can see the boy's dark, thin legs wobble, struggling with the speed. Sargent Habib grabs him by the neck, dragging his body back towards the others. The boy is struggling to breathe, gasping for air that is unable to reach his lungs. Urgently he claws at the strong hand clasped around his throat, digging his fingernails into the skin. Cries of hope ring out from the mob watching at the door, and deep down inside I am silently cheering with them. I shake my head in frustration. I can't be thinking like this. Thinking like this is going to get me in trouble, it's going to get me killed.

Feeding off the cries, the young boy musters all his strength to deploy weak punches that bounce harmlessly off the uniformed man's chest. Aggravated, the man tightens his grip around the boy's throat. Blood rushes through the child's face as his glassy eyes bulge out of his head. I know all too well what the soldier is feeling. I hate the fact that I feel like this; despite all moral judgement I always end up loving the feeling of absolute power over life and death. I crave to be rid of this evil monster that rages inside of me.

"Stop!" I yell. Quickly, I divert my eyes back towards the stolen children, in shock that the word escaped my thoughts. The warm glow through my body, burning brighter than ever before. To my dismay the Sargent does stop. Slowly, as if still taking in the surprise, he releases one hand from around the boy's throat and turns to face the row of men I am standing with.

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"Who said that?!" he speaks slowly and calmly at first before his voice raises to a furious bark. The world goes quiet. I can hear my heart pound, growing faster and louder with every second the uniformed man waits silently for an answer. I stay quiet, unable to form the words with my lips.

Uncomfortably, I chew on the soft flesh lining my mouth. The taste of warm, metallic blood trickles over my tongue. I can feel everybody's eyes burning into the back of my head. I know it was me, the others know it was me, he knows it was me, yet nobody dares to speak.

"I thought so…" he mutters to himself, yet loud enough for all of us to hear. He turns back to the boy in his hand and the dark spark rekindles in his eyes. With a burning anger he raises his hand, moulding it into a tight fist. His fist connects with the flat area just to the right of the young boy's right eye. A sharp cry echoes for miles around, the sound bouncing off the tight knit of decaying buildings that form this dilapidated village.

The young boy's body goes limp in the soldier's hand. A hushed mutter falls across the onlookers and slowly, yet all at once, they move further away from us. No-one's brave enough to attempt the escape now.

Throwing the body to the ground, the man turns so he is once again facing me. He reaches around and snatches up the gun that lay hanging behind him from a strap around his neck. His fingers move in a wave over the grip, as if to taunt me, before resting comfortably around the cold metal. My body trembles. He sets off towards me with long, smooth strides, his eyes never leaving mine. The fire still burns bright in his eyes the way mine used to. Now I am in their position, the position of the young African children we have been capturing and torturing for years. He smirks at me as if daring me, daring me to try to escape. Flinching away from his evil gaze I look down to study my dusty, blood-encrusted boots.

This is a broken world we live in. It is a world of broken values, of broken morals and broken objectives. The world serves no mercy to the weak and I no doubt never will. Humanity is scarred, like a wound that will never heal, and as the world grows older and the generations pass that burning fire, the fire that comes with the need for power, power to torture, power to kill, will never be extinguished. He lifts his gun, placing the end of the barrel on my sweaty forehead. I stare into his eyes and long for the release from this life that his bullet will bring.

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Holly Sprague (year 12)

Courtney Bartels (Year 12)

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The Cure for Revenge Alexandria Harris (Year 10) “The Cure for Revenge” is a thrilling story of a group with strength who overpower a man with intelligence.

Similar to “Lord of the Flies,” it explores the conflict that arises when intelligence and strength cannot work together to overcome adversity.

Thomas slid the burning candle across the small wooden table to where he was feverishly jotting down elements. His head was craned down so low, that he felt the tongues of flame licking his cheek and his glasses fogged up. Albert and Isaac, both middle-aged men who were also at the meeting, had large books sprawled open in front of them and were deep in thought.

The bitter wind howled outside the ice crusted window that separated them from the sickening smell of death in the village. Less than two years ago, disease had seized bodies and engulfed whole families as swiftly as an ocean wave. The Masterminds, quite an ironic title for rulers who had little intelligence, took advantage of the geniuses’ abilities. The Masterminds had their own advantage: strength. Ruling with brute force, they had always acquired what they wanted. Now they wanted answers and a cure for the disease; anything less guaranteed certain death.

Thomas’ heart pounded as he realised they hadn’t found another cure. What they had now offered relief to the infected, but was deadly to The Masterminds. Abruptly the door splintered and then ricocheted off the stone wall as four beefy officers shoved their way into the room. Startled, the geniuses slammed their books closed, Thomas knocking over the candle as he did so.

All too quickly the officers advanced, leant over the table and pulled their thick arms back. The left side of Thomas’ face exploded with pain and he slumped to the floor. Large hands hauled him up and flung him against the wall. Thomas heard the air whoosh out of his lungs. For a moment he felt terrified but then he remembered the cure book. The feeling of dread was instantly replaced with revenge. Warm liquid spewed from his mouth but he kept his eyes fixed on the cure book. Thomas toppled over to his right and could see past the officers who tossed the books into their rucksacks.

His vision became blurry and with too much blood loss, the blackness enveloped him.

Thomas woke up in the dark, his head throbbing and blood rushing through his ears. Two tiny blue lights shone brightly, sending blurry rays around their edges. It smelled vile. The smell reminded him of the decaying bodies Albert and Isaac had examined. Where were his friends anyway? His heart skipped as his vision began to clear, his eyes fixed on the distinctive silhouette of a Mastermind.

Thomas had overheard the villagers murmur about their rulers.

“Their heads are much bigger than ours. They must be very intelligent.”

Thomas knew the latter was not true but The Mastermind did have an abnormally large head. The rope strapping him to the chair was digging into his flesh. It felt like spiders crawling under his skin trying to escape from his body. If The Mastermind didn’t kill him soon, the anticipation definitely would. He started to whimper in desperation.

Tell me the cure, said an unresponsive voice inside Thomas’ head.

He couldn’t believe it! Was The Mastermind talking to him inside his head? How was this possible?

Tell me the cure, it repeated. You know the cure. Now we must know.

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“You don’t want the cure!” hissed Thomas. The tiny blue lights swam through the dark until they stopped right in front of Thomas. He gasped. The lights were the eyes of The Mastermind. Now he could see his face. Thick black pus oozed out of his eyes and nose.

You know the cure. Don’t lie. Tell us. And with that, The Mastermind took out a knife and slashed it across Thomas’ stomach. Searing pain erupted in his stomach and hot blood spurted out seeping to the cold floor. He screamed louder than the laugh in his head.

Light poured in through the doorway and Thomas had to squint his stinging eyes. A figure who bumped his head on the doorframe blocked out most of the light. He was holding something but Thomas already knew.

“Master, I think I found the cure.”

No one noticed the smile that crept over Thomas’ face moments before he died.

Georgia Hackett (Year 12)

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Tahlia Pheely (Year 12)

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Heavy Traffic Mia Campbell (Year 10) Think about the most ruthless punishment you could possibly imagine. Now multiply it by onehundred and imagine having to endure it for around 4380 days without a lunch break! This is the life of Australian, Warren Fellows, who spent twelve long years in two notorious Thai prisons for drug offences. Fellows’ story is not only a captivating read, but possibly the only thing of value to have come out of his harrowing experience.

During his imprisonment, Fellows witnesses and personally suffers pain, humiliation and despair to an extent that words can barely do justice to. People rarely recover from trauma of this extent and Fellows remarks “I know that place, the horrors that occurred, and all the loss it delivered me as it buried in my heart forever…I’m afraid, I can’t ever be free” (P209). Fellows must know the meaning of regret more than anyone. He chose to deal drugs and had to face the consequences. The Damage Done is a story that needs to be read and relays a lesson that needs to be learnt. It could be the strongest of deterrents to potential drug traffickers.

I would love to know how many lives The Damage Done has saved. It makes you wonder how many susceptible travellers blinded by the offers of large sums of money to deal drugs have been deterred by his book. For his story is like a bloodcurdling ride at a theme park, mercilessly dragging you in and spitting you out the other side disorientated, dizzy and sick. It made me think that if Fellows had read a similar autobiography, he would not have gone ahead and committed the crime he did.

It appears that Fellows was blinkered by the financial reward of drug smuggling. He was arrogant and greedy and in his autobiography he makes no attempt to justify this. He acknowledges his guilt and at no point does he ask the reader for sympathy or forgiveness. However, the reader cannot help feel empathy for him as there could be no crime of earth that would ratify the punishment dealt.

As the book progresses it is hard not to like Fellows, in fact, I’d go as far as to say I admire him. His mental and physical strength are critical to his survival but he also demonstrates other virtues.

Fellows has an innate protective instinct towards the weak and vulnerable that does not fade despite the frequency and flippancy with which torture and cruelty was dealt: “The guards continued to beat the prisoner until his bones were breaking and his skin began to burst. I just couldn’t watch anymore… I simply could not stand here and watch this man be pulverised to death. I leaped in and started to pull the guards away from him, yelling at them to stop… One of the guards thumped me hard above the eye with his baton, sending me to the floor.” (P.146).

While I felt inspired by Fellows’ resilience and humility, I felt equally disgusted at the actions of some of the prison guards. The concept of a human torturing, humiliating and degrading another human, especially a vulnerable person, was new to me and filled me with revulsion, disbelief and disgust. At many times when reading about the guards’ gratuitous cruelty, I was consumed by unspeakable rage.

The emotion felt by Fellows is not conveyed by clever writing techniques in the autobiography.

Fellows probably found this would be unnecessary and I agree with him. When the subject matter is as abhorrent as this there is no need for impressive writing techniques. His style of writing is explicit and he doesn’t hesitate to spare any gory details. “The most horrifying of all were the sewer rats… their bodies were thick and slimy as if oozing some sort of oily sludge… they’d come out at night in little packs and ferociously attack, biting chunks out of you as you slept” (P61). My apologies to anyone who has just read this and just had lunch! Interestingly Fellows omits to comment on his feelings after many events similar to this. It’s just not necessary as the outrageous events experienced by Fellows speak for themselves.

The lessons learnt from reading an autobiographical text such as this are particularly poignant. Firstly because they are non-fiction and secondly, as the writer is telling their own story, the message is

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more confronting, real and accurate than a story told by a third party. The fact that ‘The Damage Done’ is factual and autobiographical makes the message honest and hard hitting.

We all make mistakes. Some we get away with and some we have to accept the consequences for.

Through brutality and horror, Fellows’ autobiography is inexplicably gripping and enthralling. His story is not only a captivating read, but it has become the only value that has come out of Warren’s ruined life. Without this book, the dark secrets of Thai prisons would remain hidden and more foolish people may be tempted to take that fateful suitcase across an international border…

Jen Goodrich (Year 12)

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What are you about, Lance?

Olivia Millard (Year 10) Unless you’ve been living under a rock, you should already be aware of the drug cheating scandal involving world renowned cyclist Lance Armstrong. Doping throughout his entire career, is a fact Armstrong fails to mention in his autobiography: It’s Not About the Bike. Coincidence? I think not.

Armstrong has produced a story, using many specialized writing techniques, to delude the reader of his deceitful behaviours, as we know, it wasn’t about the bike at all, was it Lance?

Lance Armstrong, as presented in the book, is a man with no regrets. He has suffered bravely from multiple types of lethal cancers and through months of sickening chemo therapy, with survival odds from which no person is expected to recover from. Armstrong’s It’s Not About the Bike displays the enormous challenge of his comeback into the world of professional cycling and the motivation, hope and faith he has given to countless young and elderly people alike. Overall, Armstrong depicts himself as a respectful, good-hearted, fair human being who was courageous enough to overcome adversity in the greatest amount. Unfortunately, everything written on these 411 pages is nothing more than a lie; no better than fiction.

When Armstrong states It’s Not About the Bike, it really begs the question, if you aren’t completely revolved around your profession, what are you about Lance? This complex question has a fairly simple answer: international fame and a colossal fortune. Quite evidently, this is the opposite of what Armstrong portrays in his book. In penning his autobiography, Armstrong was awarded the opportunity to persuade audience members that family life and being a ‘Good Samaritan’ are his two true desires. However, as Armstrong explains continuously throughout the text, he "doesn’t care about the sport of cycling or riding his bike… To me", he says, "it’s a job rather than a passion".

Obviously, cycling was an occupation in which his only goal was to earn an abundance of money and gain universal stardom. No wonder he felt no guilt in cheating throughout his entire career. I can't help but thinking that Armstrong only ever desired the monetary prizes and had no respect for the sport or other competitors.

As an addition to this, gaps and silences, once again mislead the reader, revealing that it is essential to skip over sections of your life in order to be displayed as the most perfect version of yourself. In Armstrong’s case, the gap he left was so large, it allowed his entire history of performance enhancing drug intake to be simply forgotten. Although he does mention how many other cyclists had gotten themselves “in trouble with the International Cycling Union” over the issue, he is quick to forget about his own abuse. With the employment of strategic silences throughout the text, Armstrong effectively ignores his negative behavioural characteristics.

If I am being honest, however, I have to admit that this book was both entertaining and intriguing for me.

Armstrong uses the perfect balance of explicit language to produce a humorous story which, pardon the cliché, I was unable to put down. The swearing count as a whole is kept to a minimum, but Armstrong has effectively placed each word to enhance the intensity of his sentences. The utilization of explicit language throughout this autobiography exists to enrich the audiences reading experience and does so exceedingly successfully.

Remembering that this book was written in 2000, when no one really understood what Armstrong was up to behind the scenes, he could easily ‘pull the wool over everyone’s eyes’. Even reading it now, in 2014, I had to keep reminding myself of all Armstrong's dishonest behaviours to ensure I wasn't being persuaded into thinking he was a genuinely amiable person. I urge you to use It’s Not About the Bike to remind you, that a person’s nature is really based on what they do when no one else is watching. Lance Armstrong was a disrespectful cheat and even an adversity as testing as cancer couldn’t change that.

Although we can do our best to reinvent ourselves, at the end of the day we are all accountable to our own behaviour.

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Tahlia Pheely (Year 12)

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Disenfranchised Ruth Bridges (Year 11) Our society has created a very clear image of the ‘perfect Australian childhood.’

For many, growing up Australian means spending hours wandering the streets of their close community with their ‘gang’, chatting with neighbours who are more like family. However pleasant this expectation, is it entirely accurate?

In Australia, as in any other culture, children are born with the natural desire to seek a sense of acceptance and belonging. Yet, despite being a privileged society, Australia’s judgemental and divided communities makes the acceptance of some impossible to achieve.

In Australian society it is a social obligation to act as if you ‘have it all together’. As a child grows up, they learn that it is necessary to pretend they have no problems, and that it is inappropriate to show any kind of fault.

In Craig Silvey’s novel, ‘Jasper Jones’, he explores this issue through the character of Charlie’s mother. Throughout the novel the reader is given hints about how deeply miserable and frustrated she is and how desperately she seeks acceptance and belonging. After Charlie catches her in the act of betrayal and she is ultimately humiliated, there is a power shift between them and Charlie takes notice of ‘how ugly and old she looks when her makeup is smudged.’ (p323) When taken metaphorically, this demonstrates how delicate the layer is between how we, as Australians, present ourselves and how we actually behave. This ‘false identity’ is something that is developed by all young Australians as they ‘mature’ to adulthood.

Through this character Silvey has cleverly displayed the contrast between how long it has taken to build a respectable name and how quickly it can be destroyed, ‘In an instant she’s stripped her name of whatever careful varnish she’d glossed it with for so many years’ (p370) In a similar way, the power balance can be seen in Patrick Holland’s novel ‘Mary Smokes Boys,’ between Grey North and his father. Whilst the relationship between them is non-existent, Bill North does wish a future for his son that he cannot have ‘You don’t have to tell me what you’re thinkin. Work it out for yourself, then just get up and go. Nothin’d make me happier.’ (P123) He has capitulated in the effort to maintain a ‘false identity’, which has negatively affected Grey in the sense that he has been left in the same category. Having never been taught how to get out of this cycle, Grey is left with the responsibilities of an adult and is rapidly developing the mindset of his father.

From a very early stage, Australian children develop a desire to ‘fit in’ or to be identified with a particular group of people. The majority of this is done voluntarily, but whether it is a learnt behaviour or not, an individual will align themselves with a certain set of characteristics in order to gain a sense of ‘belonging.’

This effect can be seen in a local surfing gang of Maroubra, or as they have christened themselves, the ‘Bra boys.’ They involve themselves in street fights, assault the police, show aggressive behaviour towards the locals, have ridiculous territorial assertions and, perhaps least significantly. They surf. In their documentary, they present themselves as ‘unlikely heroes,’ neglected children who have found a purpose. In reality, they are a group of locals who never quite outgrew their teenage years- but they have done it together, so it’s ok, right?

Despite the fact that this ‘Pack mentality’ appears voluntary, it is in reality quite compulsory. In Silvey’s Novel, Jasper Jones is presented as an outcast. Motherless and with an alcoholic father, the town of Corrigan foresees no future for him. Assuming that he will become another troubled delinquent.

The significance is that this behaviour is expected of him, he has not earned it through reckless or destructive actions, but is typecast into the role by his ‘fractured heritage’. Jasper does not identify 26 St Margaret’s Stylus 2014

with any category of Corrigan citizen, and is therefore made an outcast, used as a scapegoat for everyone else’s grievances. Silvey has accurately depicted the way in which Australia’s judgemental society has made it impossible for young people to develop a ‘sense of belonging.’

Despite being an exceedingly privileged country, the image of the ‘perfect Australian childhood’ is not always fulfilled.

In our society it is obligatory to present an idealised version of yourself and to find a group of people who you can ‘fit in’ with. These issues are of great significance because we spend our lives incessantly seeking acceptance and belonging, which in some ways, is entirely unachievable.

Silvey’s novel ‘Jasper Jones’ accurately represents the way in which Australian youth are growing up with an unfulfilled desire for acceptance and belonging.

Phillipa Hacker (Year 12)

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Teenage Dirtbags Holly Sachs (Year 11) According to Australian literature and media, our society can be cruel and unforgiving, especially for teenagers who just want to find a place to belong. The path that takes many teens on a journey of selfdiscovery can be destructive and modern literature, in particular, is now displaying what it truly means to be a young Australian – writes Holly Sachs If you support the idea that the young characters in our novels and television programs do not present an accurate representation of today’s teenagers, then our society has never been a more obedient place. Children often experience an almost instinctual fascination with things that are ‘forbidden’ by their parents. When today’s youths aren’t too busy watching reruns of ‘Teen Wolf’ and creating unnecessary drama via Facebook comment sections, there may be a more sinister conduct going on - behaviour that often stems from a strong desire to feel a sense of belonging and to be seen as an adult to experience ‘grown up’ activities. Bizarrely enough, many young people seem to think that to be seen as adults and fit in with the crowd, they must partake in risky, negligent behaviour. Sex, violence and alcohol abuse… that’s a lot more mature than acting responsibly, right?

Teenage delinquent’s behaviour may always be blown off as an excuse for wanting to grow up too fast. Some may feel forced to mature more quickly, whereas others take up drinking, smoking and forms of violence to set up false bravados as a means to impress their harshly judgemental and unforgiving peers.

Young men in particular, often become involved in felonious behaviour as a means to “fit in”. They try to prove their masculinity through forms or violence and abusive use of drugs and alcohol. Craig Silvey’s novel ‘Jasper Jones’, provides an insight into the harsh reality behind this type of adolescent behaviour in today's society. Sadly, this type of conduct is more common than you may think. In the novel, brooding, broad-shouldered beef-head Warwick Trent is described as the epitome of manhood. He’s sporty, hairy, massively large and “he’s had real, actual sex” (pg.75). But overall, his defining feature is that he is surly and violent.

Young men involve themselves in vicious behaviour to prove their masculinity because they are shown from young ages that violence is something to look up to. The evidence is all around us – men are praised and commended for fighting wars, advertisements on television show little boys having fun shooting one another with their new Nerf guns and, well, what’s a good action movie without a big fight scene loaded with fire-power and flying fists? Society seems to forget that these acts of violence aren’t as ‘brave and masculine’ as they are so often depicted to be in the media.

Another particularly good example of how rowdy behaviour is utilized to prove masculinity is displayed by The ‘Bra Boys’ documentary. The ‘Bra Boys’ mob is depicted as being intensely masculine, showing off their bulked up, tattooed chests by refusing to wear shirts during their interviews. How manly! After all, they are the creators of “the strongest handshake you could possibly do.” This Australian gang resides in Maroubra, where they have claimed the land and beach as their own and will involve themselves in fights for “their territory”.

Most children have a place of their own that they like to go to that makes them feel safe, whether it be a cubbyhouse, a fort made from mum’s couch pillows, or even being locked inside their bedrooms. Despite the beefy chests and knife wounds, it seems as if the Bra Boys never quite grew out of their child-like selfishness. Maroubra Beach is the only place where these men and boys feel they belong. In the Bra Boys documentary, Koby Abberton, a member of the gang, states that, “The beach was our life. It’s all we had.” Teen identity relates heavily to this in the sense that teenagers will cling onto anything that they feel will give their young lives meaning.

Similar to the boys from Maroubra, Jasper Jones has his own place in the forest. Just like many young people his age, he needs a place to call his own. Since Jasper Jones is shunned by the town as an accused criminal, this is the only place where he feels like he actually belongs, thus satisfying his teenage urge for a sense of belonging; “This spot here, this space, it’s sort of mine… I sleep here and eat here when I’m not at home. It kind of is my home.” (pg15) 28 St Margaret’s Stylus 2014

Australian adolescents want the same independence as adults and crave a place where they can be free. Another reasoning behind this relates back to masculinity, where some young men feel the need for dominance over a place, person or thing. Perhaps this is due to the way violence and “adult activities” are depicted in our films and television shows.

Teenagers are always looking for ways to amaze their peers and find their place in society, and when the influence of violent behaviour comes to play, it never fails to impress. So what’s the big deal? A little roughing up never hurt anybody, right? The real question is, who will be the one to stop our society from growing more devastatingly vicious in the future?

Luckily enough, modern literature is accurately depicting the truth about the way our youths are dealing with the stresses of becoming an adult. Possibly the newfound awareness that modern television and literary works are providing could be enough to keep our teenagers away from wild behaviour; or maybe our society will continue to spew forth these ‘Teenage Dirtbags’.

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Phoebe Coates (Year 9)

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A Bright Light on our Dark Truths Alice Robertson (year 11)Being a typical Aussie girl, I like to focus on the positives of our nation and somehow marginalise our dark history in whatever way I can. However, Australian literature has recently lifted the lid on the stories of Aboriginal people and their suffering since white man’s arrival.

Perhaps it was the release of The Rabbit Proof Fence in 1996, which in 2002 became a movie that sparked the wave of novels, texts, and films, that still continues today, all bringing to life stories of Australia’s Indigenous youth. But are they really telling the complete story, or simply the ones that Australians want to hear?

Craig Silvey’s 2009 novel, Jasper Jones, follows Charlie Bucktin and Jasper Jones’ chilling quest for the truth behind a young girl’s death in their home town of Corrigan in rural Australia.

Jasper is an Indigenous Australian who struggles to have success on many fronts; including his identity, his reputation, and his home life. Set in the 1960s, Jasper Jones takes place before Aborigines received a vote, were legally discriminated against in the community, their children taken away if they were ‘white enough’, and when Australia’s literature was silent on Aboriginal stories.

As portrayed in the Australian film, Kanyini (2006), a significant part of Aboriginal spirituality is finding one’s true identity; be that one’s place or one’s people. This proves difficult for Jasper as local residents make an effort to “Stay away from Jasper Jones,” (page 7). Deemed as Corrigan’s “outcast” (page 19), Jasper decides to keep to himself and not associate with anyone unless necessary. This leaves Jasper with a displaced sense of identity and an inability to connect with his spirituality. Silvey subtly juxtaposes Jasper with the Christian members of Corrigan and invites readers to decide who is morally superior. The outcast or the Christian town leader?

Luckily for Jasper, his new side-kick Charlie, an avid reader, can see his real self. A strong-willed teenager who knows the only way to truly find himself is to get out of Corrigan and start a fresh.

Similar to Jasper Jones, Belinda Jeffrey’s Brown Skin Blue (2009) delves into the complexities of finding one’s identity through the eyes of Barramundy, a young Aboriginal boy searching for his father in outback Australia. Barramundy is given a list of five men who could potentially be his father and sets out on a journey to escape his past and find himself and father. Although set in 2009, the character of Barramundy still closely aligns with the marginalisation of Jasper Jones in 1960s society, highlighting the fact that Aboriginal adolescents are still discriminated almost 40 years later.

Being a man of few words, Barramundy struggles to express himself verbally to his friends, giving Jeffrey the opportunity to explore the mental anguish of Indigenous people through Barramundy’s powerful thoughts. Australia’s Indigenous adolescents are still faced with the full-force of Australia’s black history. Jasper Jones and Brown Skin Blue opens readers’ eyes to the personal journeys experienced by our nation’s Indigenous youth and the community’s perception of them both previously and today.

Certain that he would be blamed for the murder of Laura Wishart, Jasper enlists the help of Charlie to prove his innocence. The fact that “they [the people of Corrigan] expect” (page 45) that Jasper committed the crime, is a direct reflection of the past and how the original people of this land were treated. In the 1960s it was a common notion that the Indigenous population was responsible for murders and theft. However, there was no statistical data to support this claim. Although today Indigenous 10-17 year olds are 24 times more likely to be in detention than a non-indigenous person of the same age (AIC 2013). Jasper does have a reputation of being “a thief,” (page 6), to which he explains that he has never stolen “Nuthin big, ever,” (page 44). This begs the question of whether young Indigenous people simply become thieves to conform to the perceptions placed on them.

People of all races from low socio-economic backgrounds face problems which those of us from wealthier families have trouble even comprehending. “[Jasper’s] mother is dead and his father is no good” (page 7), meaning that Jasper must grow up quickly and learn to fend for himself.

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Approximately 15 percent of the nation’s households are one-parent families, meaning there are many non-Indigenous children who can relate to Jasper’s situation. Although this situation has created bitter moments in Jasper’s life, it has also given him a stroke of independence, something that Charlie has always admired him for.

Brown Skin Blue also touches on issues of coming from a broken home. With his dad-issues and alcoholic mother, Barramundy must conjure up his strength to leave behind his family, friends, and home town, a place that has brought him great agony while simultaneously being his point of refuge.

Today, Indigenous Australians have a greater opportunity than their elders. To break the cycle of poverty and suffering experienced by their previous generation, today’s Indigenous youth must build for themselves a better future. The nation is miserably failing these adolescents when 18 per cent of the Aboriginal population are unemployed, three times the community average, and it is not until now that Indigenous specific issues are being raised in popular culture in means of texts like Jasper Jones and Brown Skin Blue.

Australian literature has finally given a voice to its Indigenous youth, creating accurate representations of their stories in both older and contemporary contexts, building awareness in mainstream society of the past injustices and the challenges facing Aboriginal adolescents today.

What is important here, is not just the issues that Indigenous youth face, but how they overcome them. And considering many of these issues have their genesis over 200 years ago when white man arrived and have only been brought to life in recent years with the help of texts like Jasper Jones and Brown Skin Blue, I personally believe the nation has a responsibility to help fix them in partnership with Indigenous people.

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Isobelle Teljega (Year 9)

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Touch Gabrielle Sachs (Year 11) The surgical mask is itchy. Anya wants to reach up and rip it off, to take in a lungful of cool air unimpeded by the rough fabric, but she doesn’t. She just sits at her computer, tapping one stupid key at a time and avoiding looking at the clock for the hundredth time in five minutes.

She looks up instead. Her co-workers are sitting in their transparent cubicles, masks on as-per-usual, quarantined by glass walls and inflexible rules. Two women - a mandated five-feet apart, of course chat by the printer with voices muffled by pale blue fabric, holding photocopies in gloved hands. To Anya, they look distant. They’re talking, but the space between them is hollow and empty.

Anya’s gloves are too tight. The Contact Officer in the corner is staring at her.

With some effort, she locks her eyes back onto her screen, gloved fingertips hovering over the keys, but all she can see is the time in the corner. A single bead of sweat forms on her temple.

11:59am.

On the wall at the back of the office, a red eye winks at her and rotates on its axis, sweeping a cold gaze around the room. A poster on the wall lists flu symptoms in vivid blue tones, urging any citizens suspecting sickness to see their nearest Contact Officer immediately. Anya’s eyes flick back to the screen.

12:00pm.

She lets out a breath she didn’t realise she was holding. Anya turns to Joel, sitting in the cubicle next to her. “Hey, Joel?”

But ‘next to her’ really means five-feet away. Without thinking, she rolls her chair a foot closer, and Joel recoils violently. He’s staring at her like she’s lost her mind. The space between them is a chasm, but Joel looks like he can’t get far away enough.

“What? What is it?” he reaches anxiously for his mask.

Even after a lifetime of reminders, Anya still struggles. Proximity Laws have been around longer than she has, and yet the regulations still feel like an uncomfortable intrusion, breaking what should be a flow of interaction into fractured, awkward pieces. She resists the urge to move closer, trying to appear casual but betrayed by stuttering and broken sentences.

“I’m just gonna step out for lunch, okay? J-just so you know, I mean, just in case you were curious.

About where I was going. T-to lunch.”

The stammering is unavoidable. She’s done this countless times, but the lie, simple as it may be, doesn’t get any easier to tell. Thankfully, Joel gives her nothing more than an odd look, so she takes this as her cue to leave. Anya stands and smooths down her skirt, taking a long breath to slow her heartbeat. It doesn’t do much good. An animal hammers inside her chest, not a heart, and there is little she can do to control it. The Contact Officer’s stony gaze follows her as she heads for the door, passing through a Bio-Scanner which, with the flash of a green light, declares her to be free of illness. For now.

“Stay distant. Stay safe. Stay healthy,” the officer says curtly, as always. He enforces Proximity Laws and watches for signs of sickness; conversation is not in his job description. All Anya can do is nod tersely and leave, a little more hurried than she was before.

Outside, the buildings are bare and cold, the sidewalks empty, but that’s normal. Everybody has somewhere to be, and staying on the streets for too long is said to be unsafe. It’s rumoured that all sorts of contamination lingers in the unfiltered air. The Council for Human Health has offered no 34 St Margaret’s Stylus 2014

clarification thus far, and so Anya is unsure what to believe. But there are worse things out there than rumours.

Anya recalls a fact that she heard when she was younger, at one of the mandatory Health Seminars that all children endure: human bodies contain more foreign bacterial cells than human ones. People are walking petri dishes of disease, spreading their sickness with every touch. The thought makes her skin crawl. That’s why they have the Proximity Laws, after all. To keep everyone safe.

Anya’s stomach tugs guiltily, but she tries to ignore it. The only person’s health she’s risking is her own. Hopefully. Even so, she pulls her coat just a little tighter and walks just a little faster. The breeze turns the sweat on her forehead cold. She tries to ignore the posters, but they’re everywhere, the letters a thousand eyes burning into her back.

Stay Safe! Stay Healthy!

Report all suspicious symptoms to a Contact Officer!

Distance is safety! Proximity kills!

Remember: physical contact is a federal offense!

The mask is suffocating.

Anya spots her destination: an alleyway so shady that it’s almost comical, long-avoided for fear of disease or contamination. Its high brick walls shelter Anya from the wind, but a shiver passes through her anyway as she peels off her gloves and stuffs them into her bag. She keeps the mask on.

Even now, she can’t seem to abandon that.

The fragility of the silence is unsettling, but she doesn’t have to wait long. A man materialises from the shadows, tall and broad. A tattoo snakes its way down his arm.

He’s not wearing a mask.

Anya’s heartbeat thrums in her ears, and she reaches inside her purse, hands closing around something as the man steps towards her. His face is grim, arms outstretched, huge hands reaching...

He embraces her. For a moment, she resists, a lifetime of conditioning locking her muscles with fear.

But now, as every time, his arms draw the tension from her body, and she eventually lets it go. A sigh falls from her lips. This feels like safety, despite everything she’s been told, more real than any conversation she’s ever had. There’s a certain flicker that words can’t evoke. Her fingertips trail down his arms, goose-bumps fluttering across her skin from the bliss of the sensation. It’s warmer than any summer, soft and steady in the same instant, unparalleled. She could easily float away in it, and for a short while, she does.

But eventually, her time runs out. As the man’s arms slip away, Anya’s hand finally comes back from her purse, a wad of cash bunched in her fist. She hands it to him. Before he leaves, he gives her a sad smile, leaning down and pressing his lips to her cheek. Anya whispers a thank you, but the cold air swallows it whole and she can’t be sure if he hears it as he goes.

It’s quiet when she finally leaves the alley, heading back towards her world of distance and disconnect. The mask is itchy, but the warmth of the man’s touch lingers, and for the moment that’s enough. But tomorrow, as every day before and every day after, she’ll be back.

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Georgia Modin (Year 12)

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The Fault in Her Scar Holly Sachs (Year 11) The scar from Camilla's Amicable-Response-Chip is itchy. Her fingernails scrape against the small bump on her temple, but a sharp electrical jolt forces her to stop. She feels a rude word rising like a lump up her throat, but swallows it before it escapes. There is a ringing in her ears that eventually subsides, but leaves her with a pounding headache. Her gaze lifts and settles on the Communication Officer who is, once again, staring at her from the end of the row of checkouts. The Officer stands tall with sternly folded arms, his stark uniform perfectly fitted and pressed.

The corners of Camilla’s lips tug upward into a mechanical smile and she turns back to see a pile of groceries stacking up beside her. She hopes that the Officer didn't notice her moment of panic from the shock.

The store around her is almost silent apart from the quiet hum of cheery music and the occasional complimentary phrase heard floating out from behind neatly displayed shelves. A loud buzzer sounds, slicing through the quiet atmosphere. Every head turns with mechanical synchronisation towards a speaker. Camilla frantically follows suit.

A smooth, female voice cheerfully says, “Reminding all shoppers to visit our Communications Facility for a free Amicable-Response-Chip check-up! Have a wonderful afternoon!”

There’s a soft beep and the people’s gazes drop suddenly, as if a string has been cut. They look mildly dazed, but go about their business again with smiles and polite words.

"Please, take your time!" a man's voice interrupts Camilla's thoughts. Although his tone is pleasant, there is something unsettling about it. Camilla turns to face him, immediately noticing how his cheeks are flushed and a pulsing vein on his forehead looks as if it is about to pop.

She takes a moment to think of a response. She still isn’t used to this. Usually, she would open her mouth to spew the first, vague response that popped into her head. The AR Chip would immediately produce a sociable, sugar-coated phrase that took its place. However more recently, and much unlike anybody else, the frequent electrical shocks that rattle Camilla’s brain are a constant reminder that she needs to start thinking for herself.

“Many apologies for the wait, sir!” Camilla finally replies, trying to sound as rehearsed and nonchalant as possible, “Must have been daydreaming.”

The man’s lips pull into a tight smile, but his dark eyes remain cold and unimpressed. A small, green light blinks from beneath the flesh of his temple, reminding Camilla to check that her fringe is still firmly in place to cover her own.

Camilla begins packing groceries into plastic bags, still very much aware of the man’s icy gaze. The only positive thing about the AR Chips, she thinks, is that customers can’t upset her with rude remarks. But this doesn’t stop her from feeling threatened by the man’s clenched fists.

When her chip was functional, she never even considered that it could be a bad thing. It wouldn’t let her. She never imagined that instead of removing antagonism from the world, the chips would instead encourage other forms of anger release.

Camilla’s shift finally ends when the clock ticks over to seven o’clock. She steps out into the cool evening, a strong gale picking up the corners of her blouse. The streets are almost completely empty, as per usual. Being out in the open at this time of night is never safe anymore.

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As she waits for the bus, an explosion of conversation erupts from a few yards down the road and another gust of strong wind hits her as she peers out from behind the shelter. She smooths her hair back, tugging a few fingers through the tangles. It falls in wild ringlets around her face. A fat drop of rain splatters on Camilla’s cheek as she stares at a small group of three men across the road. The sky cracks open with an explosive blast and rain pours down in a solid sheet. As if triggered by the lightning, the malfunctioning chip in her temple sends a deafening shock through her skull.

In the middle of the cluster of men, a blonde-haired boy, not much older than Camilla herself, holds a stick out in front of himself, occasionally making a wild jab to keep the group at bay. His face turns toward Camilla and for a moment she sees the fear disfiguring his features as he lunges forward with another stabbing motion. His lips are tugged into a tight grin, but his eyes look despondent.

Within seconds, the group is upon him. After a rather pathetic swing, the stick makes contact with the wrist of one of the larger men.

“Good aim!” he bellows, his face pulling into an unnatural smile. The stick strikes him again, this time connecting with his left shoulder. Once again he responds with a compliment, though the twisted look on his face suggests that it isn’t sincere. The group lunges forward, the stick clatters against the pavement and the blonde-haired boy falls. A series of loud thuds and sickening cracks follow.

Camilla hears something that she suddenly wishes she’d never had to experience, a piercing yell that seems to climb into the air and hang there. It is the wildest and most inhuman sound she has ever heard. Before another thought enters her brain, she sprints into the rain toward them.

“Stop that, you monsters! What the hell are you doing?” she shrieks furiously.

There is silence. The men stop hitting and turn to stare at her, their heads cocked to the side, quizzical expressions etched onto their faces. Heavy rain pelts down, immediately soaking Camilla to the bone, but that isn’t the only thing that sends shivers down her spine. She notices the green lights of their chips are blinking considerably faster, and the frowning faces immediately jerk into oddly pleasant smiles.

“You shouldn’t be out here on your own,” one of the men says in a calm voice and takes a few exaggerated strides toward her, “It could be dangerous!”

Another man notices the blonde boy struggling to pick himself off of the ground and kicks his supporting hand out from underneath him, causing him to fall into a crumpled heap. There is blood all over his face, though Camilla can’t tell where it’s from.

“What is wrong with you people? Can’t you see what they’re doing to you?” she is frantic now, setting her gaze on the glow of their AR Chips. Her own chip jolts her again, causing her to gasp as painful crackles travel through her limbs. As if on cue, the three men turn to her with synchronised precision. Their AR Chips are no longer flashing, but instead produce a constant green glow that is only barely visible through the thick rain.

The closest man grabs her, “You seem to be acting strangely! Let us help you to your nearest Communications Facility for a free check-up!”

Camilla stares at the neck of his sweatshirt, too nervous to raise her eyes any higher, conscious of the firmness of his hand on the wet nape of her neck.

“Let go of me,” she tries to yell, but all that comes out is a trembling whisper.

“Please, allow us!”

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Two of them grab her from either side and begin to drag her down the street, each walking with identical, smooth strides. Camilla’s chest tightens with fear and time seems to slow down. She feels like she is watching herself in a movie. Short, flickering scenes, as if the film were old and missing frames, the whole thing spliced together badly. Underneath her resistant shrieks, she can barely hear the mechanical comments from the men around her; “The weather is rather nice, isn’t it?”

She keeps struggling, but the constant zaps of her chip betray her, exhausting her to only a few, halfhearted tugs. One of the men gives her a smile so grotesquely wide that it seems more like a grimace.

“Don’t worry!” he says, “We’ll have you back to normal in no time!”

Chanel Micalizzi (Year 12)

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A Shaky Start Sophie Robertson (Year 12) Jane Eyre rightly states that “Prejudices, it is well known, are most difficult to eradicate from the heart whose soil as never been loosened or fertilised by education: they grow there, firm as weeds among stones” (chapter 29). Correspondingly, ‘A Shaky Start’ is a modern reflection of this quote, commenting on modern prejudices made towards people due to their socio-economic status and appearance.

The walk home from town was always long and tedious but today was a real stinker. He could smell the hot bitumen melting on the road. Dust swirled in a haze as the cars zipped by. Everyone was in a hurry, to be somewhere or do something. His life was in slow-motion. Nothing really happened to him. Nothing really would.

He walked this same road every Thursday. With limited options, it was hard not to get addicted to those weekly payments from Centrelink. Walking along the side of the road, lugging the few meagre groceries he needed, he held out his tattooed arm in a futile attempt to score a ride home.

Failing classes all through high school meant that by the end of the tenth grade, dropping out was hardly a surprise. There was more on his mind than studying and following rules, and anyway, what was the point of finishing school when he couldn’t afford university? The handful of jobs in town didn’t even require Grade 12. The only exception was the bank, but they were never going to employ him. And besides, he had too many other things going on in his life to focus on pointless school work. He had to look after his ‘crop’ in the backyard, after all.

Maybe the easy way out was to blame his parents. Everyone blames their parents - or their teachers.

His Gran had told him about being abandoned at age two. Sometimes they received the odd piece of news from his mother about work up north. As for his father, he was long gone.

Finally he reached his turn-off from the highway. The streets were wide and empty and the low set weatherboard houses sat back from the street, their gardens unkempt and overlooked. It was like any other street in the outlying suburbs. He walked along the grass verge, the horse in the vacant lot staring at him. He reached his arm out to it. It loved to have its nose stroked and they were friends.

Coming to his neighbour’s house, he stopped and admired Murphy’s lemon tree, which seemed to flourish year after year with no attention at all. Gran’d love some fresh lemons, he thought and his eyes moved along the boundary fence. He noticed some leaves from one of the bushes in his backyard poking through the rotting wooden slats but he was distracted by voices from the front yard.

His heart skipped a beat when he saw the police car in the front drive. Adrenaline made him weak at the knees but he forced himself to walk calmly. He reached the front gate before he was stopped by two policemen.

“Mate, we’ve had a tip-off from a neighbour about your marijuana bush in your back yard. We had a look while you were out,” one of the policeman said, standing up straighter, his large belly bulging as he pulled the handcuffs off his belt. They clinked, the shiny metal rings swinging with his lazy movements.

“We’re going to have to arrest you.”

“What? Look! Hang on, it’s not for me!” he tried to defend himself as they handcuffed him. “I never touch the stuff myself and I certainly don’t sell it. I can’t afford to be stoned ‘cause it gets in the way of caring for Gran.”

The policemen glanced sideways at each other.

“Please let me see her. She’s been upstairs alone in her room all day. Please, I beg you. We don’t have the money to pay for someone else to look after her. I’m all she’s got!”

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Throughout high school, and then the years after, he had worked long hours at the supermarket, working to keep himself and his grandmother alive. Most nights the earliest he would get back was past midnight. That was until his grandmother got sick.

“The marijuana’s for my Gran. It’s the only thing that helps her. She’s dying.” His words trailed off as if there was nothing further to be said and certainly nothing that could be done.

The officers regarded him doubtfully until one shrugged, rolling his eyes and mumbling, “What can it hurt?”

They allowed him to enter the premises if he promised not to make any trouble. Rubbing his wrists where the handcuffs had been, he showed them to the front door. He had recently repainted it, a nice cream colour, just the way his Gran liked it. Taking the key from his pocket and sliding it into the lock, the door creaked opened to the smell of a simmering stew almost ready. It was his Gran’s favourite and he liked to cook it for her once a week when he left her to collect the benefit money and do the shopping. The smells made her feel less alone and were a reminder of happier times.

The grandfather clock ticked away quietly. The house was well ordered, the walls covered with floral wallpaper and chintzy old-fashioned furniture. A round lace cloth covered the surface of a small hallway table. Freshly picked hydrangeas from his neighbour’s front yard sat in a jam jar. On the table were photo frames of himself from the age of two to twenty years of age with his Gran by his side every step of the way. Placing his keys on the small table, he continued down the hallway and climbed the carpeted stairs.

“Gran, I’m home!”

Suspecting a trick, the policemen watched his every move with uncertainty. When he reached his grandmother’s door they were right behind him as he turned the handle slowly.

“John is that you? I heard voices,” his grandmother called from inside, her voice feeble. He poked his head through the doorway. Her greying eyes met her grandson’s and her wintry brows raised, uncertain. He remembered a day when those eyes of hers shined, her wrinkled skin tanned and her hands sturdy. Now, her leathery skin was pale enough to see the dark circles under her eyes and her hands quivered uncontrollably. The Parkinson's had taken a heavy toll. She held out a gnarled, trembling hand to her grandson.

He was soon kneeling at her bedside, hand in hers, whispering at her soft cheek, “It’ll be okay Gran.

Dinner’s almost ready.”

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Angels in the Sand Chloe Morgan (Year 12) The quotation from ‘Jane Eyre’ which ‘Angels in the Sand’ is based upon is; “I am no bird; and no net ensnares me; I am a free human being with an independent will.” (Chapter 23). This quote relates to the protagonist in ‘Angels in the Sand’, Tom. Tom represents Jane in that he has a will of his own. In contrast, the protagonist’s mother represents an ensnared bird, enslaved through her own crippling depression.

Ultimately, both Tom, representing a human being in this context, and Tom’s mother, representing the caged bird, are freed.

I found a bird yesterday.

It was a dead bird, a small one, collapsed on the sand about 20 metres from the shore. Its wings were spread out, so delicate and beautiful that I was afraid to touch it. I thought that one touch would make it crumble and turn to ash. The bird was stormy grey, cream, silver and ochre brown.

Its eyes were black and shining in the dying light.

Splayed with outstretched wings, I thought the bird looked like a fallen angel, like the ones the religion teacher gave up on explaining to us in school after a couple of the older rugby boys laughed once too many times at her attempts to get the class to learn some semblance of Christianity.

I gently cupped my hands and picked up the bird’s soft, small body from the grainy sand – broken, yet still so lovely. I lifted my hands and rubbed its smooth feathers against my cheek. It was so silky, made warm by the sun.

The sun! – Suddenly I looked across the ocean and saw that the sun was extending its final tendrils of light across my face. Mum was going to be angry, if she wasn’t in one of her empty moods again. I was going to be home late.

I dug the bird a shallow grave, my back to the sun, then gently placed the bird inside and covered its fragile form with sand. Satisfied with my work, I sprinted back through the ocean of sea grass to the charcoal asphalt of one of the only well paved roads in town.

Running through steadily darkening streets, broken and full of potholes, empty but for smashed bottles of XXXX and the occasional barking dog, I could see the lights in the Queenslanders around me turning on. It drew attention away from their peeling paint and rotting wood stairs and instead to their inhabitants – fishing families and miners’ wives, mostly, but there were the occasional young yahoos that the old, broken men shook their heads at when their utes, red and green P plates tacked to the windows, roared through town.

I opened the rusted garden gate just as the first of the street lights flickered into half-hearted life.

The lights at home were off, but that didn’t mean anything. With Mum, you just couldn’t tell until you’d gone inside.

‘Mum?’ I queried as I pushed open the fly screen door halfway off its hinges. Dad had said he’d fix it before he went away. I’d fix it if I learned how. Or I’d get a tradie in if I could scrounge up the money. Both scenarios seemed unlikely.

‘In here, love,’ Mum’s voice replied weakly from the lounge. I turned on the nearby light switch to find her in her pyjamas on the sofa, looking dazedly up at me. She had an unlit cigarette in one hand and the television remote in the other.

‘Haven’t got a light on you, by any chance?’ she asked me hopefully.

‘Mum, you know I don’t smoke,’ I told her.

She looked up at me vacantly before turning the TV on.

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I started preparing dinner for both of us, although Mum rarely ate anything other than rice bubbles.

Heating things up in the microwave was my speciality. Tonight’s gourmet meal - macaroni cheese with broccoli.

After eating an unfulfilling dinner in front of ‘A Current Affair’, I turned to kiss mum goodnight, only to find her crying silent tears as she stared at the screen.

‘Mum, are you alright?’ I asked her, concerned.

She faced me with an unusually intense expression on her prematurely lined features. She raised her hand and caressed my cheek, looking over my face hungrily, her eyes flitting across, dancing over my eyes, nose and cheekbones. I was frightened by the desperate way in which she was examining me, as though committing my face to memory.

‘Tom, I love you so much, you’re such a good boy and I am so, so proud of you,’ she told me.

Her words frightened me further.

‘Mum of course I know that,’ I told her and decided to bite the bullet. ‘I love you too.’

I carefully watched her face as the intensity in it slowly faded, as the deep ochre of her hair had gentled as more silver streaks made themselves known. When her features were once more neutral and her eyes a million kilometres away again, I kissed her on the cheek and bid her goodnight, a deep, unsettling fear resting in my stomach that I did my best to ignore.

But then, hours later, I heard the creak of the garden gate being opened, and that fear solidified.

Trying not to panic, I climbed out of bed in my trackies and quietly slipped my thongs on. I walked down the hallway to Mum’s room, and I knocked on the wooden door, white and stained. When no answer came, I opened it slowly to find an empty bed and an overflowing ashtray. Dread filled me and made it nearly impossible to think logically. I forced myself to breathe, in and out. Where could she have gone?

She had done this once before, and I found her by the rotten wood planks of the old pier. With that thought in mind, I sprinted out the door. It banged loudly behind me, interrupting the silence of darkness. I waded through the overgrown grass and jumped the rusted fence.

I ran through the darkened streets, the flickering street lights and the bright half-moon overhead the only sources of light helping me to hurdle over any obstacles in my path. Heart pounding in my ears, I burst through the long sea grass and onto the sand, the pier looming up ahead.

And then my heart stopped.

Mum stood at the end of the rotted wooden pier, in her white nightgown. She was far enough away that all I could see was her nightie, glowing in the starlight.

The wind was up, the tide was high and the current was impossibly strong. I knew this from a glance, after living by the sea for my whole life, and Mum knew that too. It was death to jump.

She was too far away, I realized, the dread swallowing me whole. There was nothing I could do. Her wiry, tanned arms were outstretched as though she were about to take flight.

And then she jumped.

I think I cried out, but the wind and my panic carried my voice away to a feeble nothing.

I stood, helpless, in the sand, and watched the white of her nightgown disappear beneath the choppy water without a sound.

I sat on the sand, curled in on myself as the wind chilled me inside and out, until the relentless darkness gave way to the first vestiges of dawn, when I fell into an exhausted, grief-stricken sleep.

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I found Mum today.

She was washed up on the shore, her nightgown and long hair spread out around her like wings.

I saw a small ochre bird fly overhead.

Ayla Beagrie (Year 9)

Thank you to our team of dedicated editors.

Maggie Wu Art Editor Josie Shannon Literature Editor Sophie Robertson Executive Editor (Editor in Chief, 2013)

Than you also to Heads of Faculty Mr Shorter (English) and Ms Smith (Art) for their help in selecting works for the magazine.

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