Epilogue
A COLLECTION OF STUDENTS' CREATIVE WORK
Foreword
IT IS WITH GREAT PLEASURE THAT I PRESENT TO YOU OUR LATEST EDITION OF EPILOGUE ON BEHALF OF ALL THE STUDENTS IN THE COLLEGE AND THE STUDIO SCHOOL (TSS).
You will find in this edition another wonderful collection of stories, verses and artwork from across the College and TSS and I am positive you will have a wonderful time reading through them. However, whilst this magazine celebrates some of the best work from our students from 2024, it reflects much more than this; it is above all a symbol of the value we place in creative expression. There are many students who have taken the opportunity in the classroom and
Editor's Note
Yet again I have been so impressed by the amazingly creative and talented group of writers and artists we have at ASC and TSS! This year, it was great to work with a student editorial team who read submissions, looked at artworks and made their recommendations. A big thank you to Dominique, Madison, SueNing and Zach for all the time they put into this. I am sure you will enjoy this compilation of student work and once again will join me in appreciating the amazing array of ideas, images, word choices and creative expression.
REV LIZ FLANIGAN
COLLEGE CHAPLAIN
elsewhere over the last year to express themselves and find their voice who are not represented here and we celebrate their endeavours along with those contributors who are included.
My thanks, as always, to Rev Liz Flanigan and the editorial team for producing such a fantastic edition.
MR PETER LANGFORD-SMITH HEAD OF ENGLISH
SMITH YEAR 10
COVER ART BY HARLOW PATON YEAR 10 (TSS)
ALISON
Conversations Over Tea
BY DOMINQUE
TO YEAR 11
I wonder where you are when I measure pellets of tea into my cup in the morning with the precision of a rifleman, when the sun is watery and white through the kitchen window and I’m sitting at the table you salvaged from your uncle years ago. One leg is a little shorter than the others; I remember you grinned ruefully after hours of trying to fix it. You were never the best at fixing things, but we hadn’t had the money to take it to a proper carpenter, so it’d stayed that way, wobbling precariously every time I placed the soup pot on its well-scrubbed surface.
Our daughter comes into the kitchen no more than a minute either side of seven, stifling a yawn behind her hand. It’s been months since she’s asked about you; I can’t remember exactly, I’ve lost count. We don’t talk about it. She hurries through breakfast - rice porridge with your favourite mustard stems - and is gone before I can say more than a few words, brushing me off with a huff, barely throwing a ‘goodbye’ over her shoulder.
That popped rice stand from the market you used to cajole me into visiting on the weekend disappeared a while ago. The husband’s not been around, of course, and the last I saw, the wife was huddled in a huge black shawl. I remember she used to tell me off, in the way all older women seem to chastise their juniors, for wearing a grey skirt instead of a colourful one. She said it made me look too stern, too old.
I wonder how you’re eating when our daughter comes home at noon and I put a bowl of rice in front of her, scraping some from my own into hers when she’s not looking. I was never very good at
cooking; I remember you used to laugh affectionately when I spilled the salt jar on the floor, even though you knew we’d just refilled it, or when I’d recoil as the fire hissed up from under the pan at me, watching helplessly as the flames licked and charred the vegetables.
They’ve been taking from the harvests to send up north, I’ve seen the trains; great, cumbersome things heaving with so much grain they seem to huff with exhaustion as they crawl along the tracks. The children are fascinated by it all, constantly hovering around the station instead of going to school. Sometimes, I see them throwing old blankets and tins of sugar and thick gauze packages of tea on the train cars.
My hands are perpetually stained black and blue and red, like yours had been. There’s a dull ache in my arms when I push the heavy platen of your printing press into alignment by the flickering light of a candle, hear the sizzle of wet ink on paper, slide stacks of still soft copies of the daily bulletin into a dozen satchels, and hand them off to the new delivery women. We’re slow and clumsy, but there’s a neatly folded newspaper on the doorstep of every house before the sun has fully risen.
The local party Chairman has been making home visits lately. The other morning, I’d sent him on his way after some tea, watched him potter down the line of houses as I scooped the damp leaves, still tightly furled like dozens of tiny pills—I’d gauged a generous gram— out from the bottom of the cup. He’d reminded me of one of those oversized
garden gnomes we used to see outside manors in the city.
There’s this sense of melancholy at home, not all new, of course. I still see that old gentleman in the city. He’s always on that bench under that tree with his threadbare coat and gloves that are more hole than wool. The other day, I smiled at him reflexively out of politeness, and he’d just stared vacantly at me until I turned away, unnerved. I remember you were always upset after seeing him, and I’d ask but you’d brush me off and tell me not to worry. I suppose you must have recognised him from the troubled times. You always insisted on remembering, for whatever reason. I never told you about all the times I’d woken up to your anguished mumbles, seen sweat beading on your forehead, the thrashing of your limbs, all the times you’d begged please, no, there’s no one else home, eyes screwed vehemently shut as I pleaded with you to wake up, it’s not real, not anymore.
You only ever remembered the dreams afterwards, never the sharp crescent incisions your nails dug into my arms or the finger-shaped bruises around my wrists.
I sleep alone now in our old room, our too-large bed that’s frigid in its expansiveness. In the evenings, a brisk breeze seeps under the door and through cracks in the walls. I remember, in winter when the cold had slipped insistently under the blankets and bitten into our bones, how you used to bury your nose in my shoulder, wrap your arms around my waist, how I’d always let you, even when the pulse of your heart against mine was
too close, too loud, even when it felt like you were stealing all the air between us and leaving me with none.
Your nightmares had always been less violent in winter, cowed by a wakeful glare and the soft mist of my breath in the air.
Last Tuesday, I’d called out absentmindedly, asking you to tie the strings of my apron. You hadn’t responded, and there'd already been an irritated comment on my lips by the time I realised you’d never been there to hear me in the first place.
Nanjing is quiet, docile. I’d thought I would love it this way, all those years ago during the occupation, the days when I’d mutter a prayer under my breath every time I walked past the guard stations, suppressed a shiver at the hands and eyes of the ochre-clad soldiers raking over my body. There’d been something unsettlingly sadistic about them, the way they’d laugh and leer as I walked past. I remember a burning sensation on my back even when they were behind me, and how I’d quicken my step until the feeling faded around a few bends of the street.
I wonder what you must be thinking when I sit by the oil lamp at night, bolts of coarse fabric passing through my fingers. I wonder if you’ve even had time to think. There’s been murmurs among the women in the neighbourhood, worries that their husbands have betrayed them, sordid imagination of affairs with foreign prostitutes. I don’t pay much mind to such rumours, but I do wonder, some nights, as my needle weaves messily across small tears in the silken blue vest you neglected to bring when you’d left, telling me it would only get covered in mud and grime – and blood, though you hadn’t said that aloud. I suppose I should have sent it to a tailor, spared myself the look of horror on your face if you ever saw my uneven stitches and poor choice in thread.
I wonder if I’m losing you. If I’ve already lost you.
There’d been a river of tears that day when you and hundreds of other men got on the train to the front. None of them had been ours, though I suspect you would’ve cried had I not left hastily, dragging our daughter behind me. I’d
wondered that day, briefly, if I could’ve gone in your place, if it would have hurt her less than seeing your face disappear behind a dirty train window. She always adored you, far more than she ever did me. I’ve had that feeling since she used to fuss and reach for you while still attached by the mouth to my breast as an infant.
You were always a better mother than me. I wonder if I should resent you for it.
I’ve taken to watching my tea leaves unfurl themselves from the gunpowder-like pellets they’re pressed into. You had a way of reading them; I remember the little glint in your eye when you’d turn my cup a few times and tell me that I’d have good fortunes at the market, or that I should be careful walking under a thatched roof. I never understood how you did it; I tried to learn, once, with a few of the old women from across the river, but my head had hurt when they’d wheedled about the nuances of fortune and favour and destiny.
So I just watch. The air seems to still until there’s nothing but those leaves, sinking gently to the bottom of the cup. As I watch, I wonder when you’ll come home. I wonder if you ever will.
REBECCA LEE
Predator and Prey –the Frozen Expanse
BY JAMES NELSON YEAR 7
A loud crack echoed ominously. A warning, this ice-bound desert suffered no lost fools. Howling winds, mixed with the ear-splitting calls of seabirds, whipped across the glacier. The ice creaking in protest under the light of an eternal moon hung high in the heavens. As powdery ice flew randomly in the vicious wind, frigid waters pushed up through the rifts in the frost. An otherworldly chill emanating from the bones of the arctic wasteland.
Mountains loomed, like a jagged, scabbed over cut against the inky darkness. Falling ice shattered into glimmering constellations. Stars flickering like diamonds in the night. Vibrant colours painted the sky, bathing the foggy land in the alien hues of the northern lights. Tangy oceans smells whipped through the frosty land. The cold bite of the sub-zero temperatures froze the moisture in the crystalized air. Amidst the eerie beauty of this otherworldly landscape, a predator stirred.
Immense ice-incrusted claws glinted. The icy daggers digging into the hard snow. Silver bone illuminated against heavy-set paws. A set of eyes carved from the stone of midnight flare dangerously on its chiselled features. A dark moon overcome with fur lay alone on
its viciously soft face. Fanged, serrated teeth impaled deep into its mouth, stained red with salty blood and gore dripping onto the snow. Pieces of bone lay alongside the gory remains in the jaws of this animal slaughterer. The sour stench of rotting meat wafting up.
Ivory fur, chaotic and unkept, enveloped a predator’s frame. Twitching ears stood up. It’s back curved, anticipating. A barrel shaped chest rose and fell with massive breaths, compressing snow into hard ice. Four shaggy and muscular legs rippled with unbelievable strength holding up the polar ruler. The unrelenting eyes of the apex predator surveyed the icy scene, waiting for its next meal. Contrasting to this mighty predator, its small prey emerged from the punishing land.
Flippers like the fins of a fish flapped lazily through the glassy water. Jet-black smears dotted the oily skin, reeking of dead fish. Its eyes ferociously soft. Small nostrils opened, a stark dark moon on its snowy fur.
Fear hooked its barbed fingers into the innocuous animal. Miniature teeth lined its wide mouth. Flat hair stretched and dimpled over its fat, streamlined and pristine body. The arctic water trying to bite its way
inside the blubbery skin. Black whiskers protruded from its velvety nose and the curves of it’s chubby frame took up all the space in the breathing hole.
A stench of rotting meat curled slowly into the seal and anxiety took hold of functioning thought. A single shadow slowly loomed over the doomed meat. It fell, belly up, resigned to its fate.
10
TYLER WHEELER YEAR
Interstellar Elegy
BY LUCY SINNOT YEAR 11 (TSS)
A dog a few streets over howls, a sound that cuts and bleeds. A mutt, a mammal, Laika, Laika, she has faith in him who feeds. A calf lies dormant in a paddock, born to move but far from nomadic, too young to know faith, but faithful nonetheless. He died like a sinner with no sins to confess. Somewhere up North there’s a woman in the slums, resisting temptation but forced to succumb. Way up high a mighty kingdom yields, the collapse of an empire, the dark night conceals. The death of a star, interstellar supernova, so close, so far. A nebula, a foetus, to a minute vacuum of light, interstellar supernova, a miracle of night. Perpendicular shapes and souls combine at every breath. A starving mutt, a life unjust, is all the same in death. A fallen tree that no one heard: a dormancy so discreet. Interstellar supernova: all death divinely meets.
ASHLEIGH SMITH YEAR 12
Fading Memories
BY AMELIA LUFF YEAR 11
The first snowfall of the season blankets the town with silence. Lara gazes out the window, fogging up the glass with each breath. The grass, once green a few months ago, now lays thick with white crystals. The houses next door wear crowns of frost and the trees are weighed down by mountains of snow. She glances over her shoulder at her mum, sitting in her favourite chair near the roaring fireplace. Her mother’s eyes, once full of life, are now occupied by the falling snow outside. Lara steps back from the window, leaving her fingerprints on the glass as she watches her mum drift further away into the fog of Alzheimer's.
It started with misplacing keys and forgetting important dates, but Lara thought that just came with growing old. Now her mum forgets family recipes she has made for years and confuses the names of her loved ones. Every day is a battle against time, against memory and against the disease.
Her mother, Geraldine, was once the heartbeat of the family. Her laughter echoed through a house full of stories she told about the old days, rich in detail. Now there are fewer stories, and the laughter grows more distant. Each morning, Lara's Dad, Nigel, speaks to his wife as if nothing has changed,
but slowly her spirit is fading away.
There are some good days among the bad, with photos and music sparking small memories - bringing her back to the present for a few seconds. The brief moments of lucidity are the ones Lara and her family treasure. In these moments they hope, against all logic, that somehow that their mother will be the first to awaken from this horrible disease.
“Mum, do you remember what we talked about? About visiting a new home for you?” Lara asks gently. Unsurprisingly, there is a stunned silence. A mixture of fear and uncertainty washes over Geraldine’s face.
“I’m already home and I’m quite alright here with you!” replies Geraldine. Lara swallows hard, trying to fight back the tears about to come streaming down her face. She knows her mum isn’t fine with the latenight wandering and constant delirium. There are times she doesn’t even recognise her own daughter.
“It’s for the best,” whispers Lara as Geraldine’s gaze falls to the floor. Her husband, Lara’s beloved Dad, stands up and walks out of the room, wiping away his tears. All Lara wants is to run into her mum’s arms
like when she was younger, but instead she grabs a photo album hoping to create a connection in her mum’s mind.
Geraldine runs her fingers along the detailed patterning around the edge of the album as she looks into Lara’s eyes and holds her hand.
“I’d better go finish the washing,” Geraldine says, completely unaware of what happened a few minutes ago. Lara is used to it by now but still hopes that one day her mother will come back around.
The next day arrives with heavy emotions hovering over the family, except for Geraldine, who is unaware of what was decided yesterday. Lara helps her mum by packing a few of her belongings, each feeling like a piece of her heart.
They arrive at the nursing home and walk to the front desk.
Lara’s Dad has not come; it was all too much. The walls are lined with colourful artworks and conversation echoes down the corridor. Lara feels a glimpse of hope, but it is quickly overshadowed by Geraldine’s apprehension.
“Welcome!” says the receptionist, “We can’t wait to have you with us, Geraldine.”
Geraldine, tightly gripping Lara’s
hand, hesitantly follows the lady to a door at the end of the hallway.
Lara and Geraldine push through the door to a room with bare walls, unfamiliar furniture and the smell of antiseptic lingering in the air. It was offputting and all Lara wants to do is take her mum home.
She pushes the feeling away as she helps Geraldine get settled into her new room and introduced to the nurses.
“Where’s your father?” yells Geraldine.
“Um, he is off buying you flowers,” replies Lara, hoping to distract her. Geraldine snuggles into bed under multiple layers and Lara flicks the TV on.
“Where’s your father?” Geraldine asks again.
“He has gone to buy you flowers,” Lara replies again.
“What is he doing? Picking them himself?” Geraldine says angrily.
Lara knows she is going to have to leave soon, but doesn’t know how.
“I have to go, Mum, but I will be back tomorrow morning.”
Geraldine nods but her eyes are bewildered.
Yet again Lara is trying to fight back the tears.
“You will be OK, Mum.”
SIENNA GORMAN YEAR 11
Knots
BY NICOLA FALLON YEAR 9
I look across the room before me. It’s all so familiar, but wrong at the same time. This bookshelf is still filled to the brim with all my favourite books from primary school. But they don’t sit on the shelf right. It stands tall, in a gleaming new coat of white paint. I open the windows. The streetlights illuminate the main roads, but leave the tight alleyways engulfed in darkness as the rain slowly trickles down. People rush by, indifferent to the loud honks of car horns and sirens of police cars racing through. I desperately look for a sense of warmth, belonging. But all I meet is the emptiness crowding the room in front of me. My feet slide across the cold concrete floor, and I reluctantly get into bed.
I try my best to ignore the endless calls of the birds. Eventually they get to me, and I slowly emerge out of my creaking bed. My phone lights up, displaying my one new message:
“hey, wanna come over?”
“sure, be there in ten.”
I quickly throw on an old t-shirt and grab my bike.
I exhale deeply, letting out the dust from the house, and breathe in the crisp winter air.
The leaves shake in the breeze,
falling to the ground. They cover the floor like orange confetti, quickly destroyed as my bike rides over them.
“Good morning!”
“Morning!”
The kind hellos remind me of the community I’d always longed for here. My face is warmed by the gentle sunlight beaming down today. But I can’t enjoy it. I try to ignore my impending isolation, clouding my thoughts. To shut up the knot in my stomach and to bask in the warmth. But it won’t be silenced.
All the thoughts of the move rush out of my head as I hear the excited barking from the screen door. I throw my bike onto the ground and run to meet her.
“Who’s a good dog? You’re a good dog!”
A grin creeps up my face as I pet her.
“So, are you actually here for me, or Scout?”
I tease back, “Not sure yet” as I see my friend’s face emerge from the hallway.
We go back around to her room, Scout closely behind. Our laughter echoes around the house, filling it with joy. Yet I still
feel the knot in my stomach, slowly tying tighter and tighter as the minutes tick by.
“Hey, we’ll still call when I’m gone, right?”
“Yeah, of course!”
I know she said yes, but I still feel like my whole body is on edge. The knot only tightens. What if she doesn’t really mean it? What if she only felt pressured to say yes? We’ve only been friends for 3 months. What If she just feels bad for me? I’ve lived here for 4 years, and it still took me this long to make a friend. What are the chances I’ll get this lucky again?
We continue to talk and joke. I try to enjoy it. I try to let my body relax. To relish in the feeling I’ve become accustomed to these past few weeks. I try to feel free. But I can’t help but think about how quickly this is going to disappear. How lonely everything is going to feel once again. The knot tightens, twisting its way across my whole body.
I managed to sleep through the night. But instead of being awoken by the birds I’ve grown to love, I’m awoken by a speeding car. I pick up my phone. Three new messages:
“Hey, can you call?”
“I NEED to know how it went!!!”
“PLEASEEEE, answer me!!!!!”
I try to dial in her number, as my hands shake. Almost instantly, I’m met with her face.
“Finally!! How did your first day go?”
“Well, I’ve unpacked everything, but it was so loud at night! You wouldn’t believe how many people there are walking around on the streets in the middle of the night.”
“I would be WAY too tired to ever be out at that hour. I need to visit you!!”
“I only just moved!!!”
“Yeah, but I already miss you.”
As I talk to her, the knot slowly unties. As the knot is twisting and unfurling across my body, that wonderful sensation washes over me. I can let everything out. My hands stop shaking. My breathing slows down.
I never got what was so amazing about friends. I never knew what friends really were until this moment.
But this feeling, this peace, finally explains it.
AVA O'ROURKE YEAR 11 (TSS)
Sonnet
BY IZZY HAMILTON YEAR 8
The first new seedling breaks the empty ground
A speck of green amongst the cold harsh earth
Alone in darkness, freezing winds surround
Eternal nature’s cycle, death and birth
Soft leaves unfurl in iridescent light
The breezes blow, the bright clouds laz’ly part
In this new painfully beautiful sight
Frozen harsh rains are still yet to depart
The silence breaks through the harsh pounding rain
It slows and stops, fin’lly relief at last
A second unfurls, bringing joy and pain
A glimmer, hope arrives that winter’s passed
A spark alights, a skip of hope in dark
But stubborn winter will still leave her mark
10
LEAH WU YEAR
Eulogy In The Mud
BY EVA CLARKE YEAR 10 (TSS)
“Get Ready Lads!” I clutch my rifle to my chest, ready to charge. The cold brass fails to instil calm in me. Instead, shivers rattle my spine. I’m about to compete in a race to my death. I can’t do it, the weight of all my equipment pulls me down. I fight against the sensation of mud slowly creeping up and through my body, covering my mouth and nose. I begin to gag, and with each breath mud floods into my mouth until I can no longer breathe.
“Charge!” I snap back to the cold air filling my lungs, arms and legs automatically lifting out of the trench. I make sure to keep my helmet facing the direction of the oncoming gunfire, just like I was trained to. I panic. The mud squelching under my feet feels thicker than before. I make a vital mistake: without thinking, I stop moving and look down. What I am stepping though is not mud. Between my boots shines the pale face of a now rotting comrade. His body marked with bullet holes, each one filled with maggots slowly carving through his flesh. The blood in his mouth has crystallised, giving the appearance of deathly raw rubies. My stomach grumbles and saliva shoots through my mouth.
The ground beneath me begins to shake rapidly. I look toward the source of the disturbance and catch a glimpse of the shrapnel flying toward me. The fires of hell ignite inside my eye. I wail in agony. Is this God’s way of punishing me? A rush of adrenaline shoots through my veins and my legs start moving on their own. I run as fast as I can, as if I can outrun the pain somehow.
Slowly everything around me distorts into a symphony of suffering. Those I call mates drop to the ground in waves like a macabre dance of death. The rapid thumping of bodies hitting the ground transforms into a drum-like beat, as life leaves; their screams form a choir, and the aeroplanes overhead play like out-of-tune violins.
My legs fail and I too drop. The mud begins to envelop me, and I loll into the river of death swallowing everything in its path. I know my time has come. I watch as the sky blooms like flowers in May. In war, the only peace to be found is in death.
My lungs, now starved of air make a last-ditch attempt to save me. Forcefully inflating causing me to lurch up, coughing like a zombie from a muddy grave.
I marvel at the silence around me, drinking it in, despite the sounds of war continuing to play like a record on repeat in my head. The hairs on my arms stand to attention caressed by the breeze, honouring the souls of the fallen. I feel their torment continuing, even in death.
Stumbling, ignorant relief rushes through me with the warmth of my blood returning to my dull cold feet and tingling fingers. I feel reborn, but of the underworld. I stand, marking myself as a bullseye amongst the bloodied remains of friends and foes radiating out around me. Fabric the only difference dividing us now; all our mothers will grieve. I feel a sense of brotherhood: all of us pawns in the unwinnable game.
9
SEDLEY HOAR YEAR
Poems
BY JINNING HUANG YEAR 10
DEVASTATIONS
A wave of panic lingers in the air
As a gulf of burnt wind caresses your cheek The bitter taste of ash reaches your throat And the crackles of wood harmonise with the screams Sparks of light float from the charred trees Leaving behind a blazing mess
A roar of waves rush onto the dry land urgently Towers of water collapse down Muffled cries arise from the people below Buildings collapse under the pressure of the water
A murky substance floods the land
As floating debris bounce up and down the flowing stream
A dry barren land
Once filled with hope
But the cattle are slowly dying And the plants have been left to wither away
Underneath the scorching heat In the evening, the dry wind blows And wicks away the moisture from your face
You try to think clearly though you know that you cannot Just look around.
All that is left is a devastated country.
LUCKY BAY
Crystallised waters
A smooth white blanket of sand
Art in its best form
GREAT BARRIER REEF
From the sapphire waters that we adore
As the water sparkles in many hues
To the shine of the golden shore
With all its magnificent views
The waters ripple across the coast
Smoothing over like a piece of clear glass
The sunbeams down at the reef And the sand becomes the shade of brass
But underneath the sparkling wonder Lives a constantly moving web of life
As all kinds of creatures swim over and under The bright corals, cutting through water like a knife
The reef has lost half its splendour
For the corals are now in despair
We need to protect our great reef more
So future generations can enjoy its flair
GENEVIEVE HO
YEAR 12
My Mother: The Ocean
BY AVA O'ROURKE YEAR 11 (TSS)
My mother is peaceful, My mother is clear, She recites sweet sounds, When no-one is here. My mother is pretty, My mother has depth, My mother will be there, When all my friends have left. My mother is a mirror, When the waves have divided. She can be loud, she can be cold, Stinging the wounds, I thought had subsided. But the movements of her waves, She does not mean to harm, Upholding her responsibility, Keeping the millions of critters from harm. So, I know my mother loves me, And so do I,
As there is not a moment which goes by, When she does not try.
EVA CHI YEAR 9
Haikus
BY ISABEL TJANDRA YEAR 8
Sugar coated words, Rolling off their tongue like rain, Posing as the truth,
Bittersweet ideas, Noxious like a poison, Tainting purest thoughts,
Verity is smoked By the brutal masterminds Masquerading lies.
The Train To The Other World
BY AVA O'ROURKE YEAR 11 (TSS)
His eyes followed the black ink, which looped and linked into a steady riverway across the page. As he reached the third line, a silent thunderstorm ruptured in his chest, lightning-coloured red struck in the corners of his eyes, his blue irises now a tinged grey and the rain that followed left his cheeks dampened. The dark clouds that resided above his head merged into white steam, and the silent thunderstorm became the screeching sound of the train coming to a halt. He wiped the tears from his eyes and stood from the bench. The station clock read 4:30. He worked quickly to fold the note, jamming it deep into his change pocket. Men and women with tired faces flowed off the train in a stream. One little girl strayed from the flow; a puddle, alone and confused. She hopped from the train and held a case with both her hands. The girl wore a blue dress that rippled at her knees. Her hair was in tight ringlets which hung just above her shoulders. Her little black shoes faced towards each other, and a tag hung from her neck. The little girl’s eyebrows knotted together, and she rapidly moved her head from side to side. As the man began to approach her, she moved left from his view.
“Excuse me.” The little girl's voice trembled.
The ticket woman who sat behind the window stood to peer down.
“Well, aren’t you a small little thing. What would you be doing here?”
The lady’s voice was warm as the early bloom.
“I…I’m supposed to be meeting my uncle…” The little girl held her tag up to the woman. “I am evacuating,”
“I see, Theodora. A pretty name, and you’re only six years of age?”
Theodora looked down at her little black shoes. “Yes, but not only. I’m quite big.” She tucked a brown ringlet behind her ear.
“Ah, my sincere apologies Theodora. Indeed, you are a lady.” The woman’s grin broadened across her face.
“Indeed, I am.” Theodora pulled her shoulders back and lifted her chin. “My Mummy told me big brother Robert was also here.”
“Excuse me.” The little girl turned to see him. “I’m Theodora’s Uncle, William.” William directed his voice to the woman. He looked down at the Theodora, his deadpan expression lightened. “How you’ve grown. I haven’t seen you since you were a baby,” William cupped her face.
“Where is Robert?” Theodora looked left to right, right to left.
“He should be back at home. We should leave now; your Aunty Edith is cooking a huge meal in celebration of your arrival,” William took the case from her hands and tipped his hat to the ticket woman.
“Safe journeys and good luck, Theodora.” The woman waved goodbye.
As they sat on the tram, Theodora noticed the corner of a tightly
folded note, peeking out from William’s patch pocket. “Uncle, what is that?”
William looked at what Theodora was pointing at. He hurriedly jammed it deeper into his pocket. “Best not to discuss it here
Theodora,” He offered a timid smile. Theodora only sunk into her seat, looking out the window. The yellow dim of streetlight poked through the unclear fog-filled road.
They arrived at the doorstep.
“I’m scared Uncle.” Theodora wrapped her arm around his leg.
“Of what?” He placed a hand on the back of her head.
“I don’t know.” She looked up to him. Tears filled her eyes. “I want Mummy,” The tears streamed down her face, and she clung tighter to his leg.
“There now, Theodora.” He knelt and wiped her tears. “I know it’s been hard, you’re a very strong young lady. But your Mummy wants us to look after you for now, and she will come to get you soon.”
Theodora sniffled. “A-...and Robert?”
William flashed a half smile, and her breathing steadied. He stood up once more and guided her up the step to face the front door. William knocked twice. Theodora swallowed hard and crossed her arms.
“Is that who I think it is,” An older woman’s voice echoed from down the hall, each word seemingly coming closer. As the handle
twisted, Theodora’s arm clung back to William’s leg. The door flung open, and a woman stood in the doorway. She wore a floral dress, and the wrinkles forming around her eyes signalled a life of gratitude and love.
“Welcome my lovely niece, please do come in.” The woman stood to the side, taking Theodora’s case as she did so. “Now, Theodora, the lamb is still cooking, so why don’t you take yourself upstairs, get yourself comfortable? Your bedroom is the third door to the left, I’ve made up your room, I do hope you like it.”
Theodora smiled. “Thank you,” she said. As she walked up the stairs, William looked at Edith.
“Do you have it?”
Edith whispered under her breath. William took out the note and handed it to her.
“The poor girl,” he said, the tears returned to his eyes.
“Indeed, she is very young,” Edith sighed.
“It’s horrible how it happened.” William averted his gaze to the floor. “I’d read it after dinner if I was you,”
Theodora made her way up the stairwell, swallowing hard as she measured the distance with her eyes. Suddenly, her foot skidded up from beneath her, and she fell to what should have been the moment she sank through the floor to the next world.
She woke to find her Aunt and Uncle helping her up.
“What, how…?” She pulled her
head back, looking at the top of the stairwell as if trying to eye the top of a mountain that hid behind thick white clouds.
“Well, you must have been lucky. Careful next time, Theodora.” Edith brushed her hair from her face.
“Where is Robert? You said he be here,” Theodora moved her head from side to side.
“All in good time Thea.” Edith placed a hand on her shoulder.
“What is that supposed to mean?” Theodora jolted away from her hand and furrowed her brows. Edith and William looked at each other, William shrugged, and Edith sighed.
“That is a conversation for after dinner.” William said, placing a hand on Theodora’s back. They walked to the dining room; the table was lit in an angelic light. The lamb sat in the middle, with and roasted vegetables.
“Have a seat.” William pulled out a chair, gesturing for Theodora to sit.
Theodora sat, and William pushed her chair until her chest met the table. “Thank you.” She whispered. They all sat down around her. Gathering food to their plates.
“Are you going to have anything darling Thea?” Edith asked as she heaped roasted potato on her plate.
“No. I will not eat until big brother Robert is here,” Theodora crossed her arms. Edith and William stopped serving food. They just looked at each other, William nodded, and Edith sighed.
“Theodora…” Edith placed her hand
on Theodora’s arm. “Now Robert is…not coming…”
“What? Why would not he be joining us?” Theodora looked at her aunt and Uncle; her head slightly tilted to the side.
“Well, do you know why you are?” Edith asked.
“My Mummy sent me here because of the war,”
“Yes, now do you remember the whole trip to see your Uncle? Do you remember saying your goodbyes to your Mummy?”
Theodora looked at her plate; they sat in complete silence. “Well, it is quite blurry,” she said, not taking her eyes away from the porcelain.
“There is a reason you don’t remember,” William began.
“Why?”
“Because, my dear, no one planned for you to be here,” William looked to Edith, her tears were restrained from the damn of deep-set tear ducts.
“Dear Edith, Robert has not died, but someone has,” William’s throat hitched on pebble in the waterway.
“Who?”
The silence lingered.
“Who?” Her voice was gentle rain falling on a puddle; the ripples disrupting the stillness which surrounded her.
Edith now turned to Theodora, tears pouring down her face. “You have passed, Theodora.” Edith spoke between broken breaths; her tears overflowed the weir that poured over her cheeks into a turbulent stream.
To Be In Society
BY GRACE SHACKLETON YEAR 9
A new day begins, a new trend is set, I try to keep up, but the expectation is never met. Society is a gossiper, a whisperer at the least, Changing our habits, unlocking a beast.
It paints our futures with its artistic touch, Guiding our steps, it becomes too much. We have to be this, we have to be that, We are too lean, too skinny, too fat.
How could a voice be so silent, yet so loud?
In this society how can we be proud?
Self-love has moved on, it’s gone chasing the stars, in its place anxiety and depression will leave their scars.
Try this new cream, and these new lotions, We can’t let them see those bad emotions. No one will love you if you aren’t to this standard, If you show your true skin, you will be slandered.
From the clouds of judgement comes a subtle light, Illuminating the path, guiding us through the darkest night. We begin to re-write the pages that were once told, We begin to change the world, which has become cold.
Against the tides of expectations, we stand tall, Unlocking our hearts, answering the inner call.
No longer bound by society’s narrow views, We explore paths for future generations to pursue.
Far beyond these shackles that hold us down, Through the waters of negativity that make us drown
A light is still pure, the flame cannot dim, Move against those waters and try to swim.
Embracing those flaws that once made us hate, Realising we are only human is our nearest fate.
To forge your own path, guided by your heart’s song, To be free in our skin, we will believe we belong.
12
TARYN LEE YEAR
Nature And Its Beast
BY MILLA SUDJANA YEAR 7
The night in all its stillness and silence seemed to tremble in fear of something – something ghastly that was coming, that spared no-one and left nothing. The trees, drastically different from their usual calming sway, seemed to shudder; and the animals burrowed into their homes to hide away from the calamity. The snow, now pure, white and glistening, would stain with a deep, dirty crimson, which shone in such contrast from the rest of the snow. It dripped fearsomely along the hills of white, buried deep into the forest. The moon, shrouded by clouds and trees, barely fell to the bottoms of the canopy, where the animals spent the night in dark, black ink. The remainder of the moon – just a fraction of what remained was there, hanging gloriously in the sky like a ruler would to their subjects. The wind swirled in its relentless, unforgiving cold – one that streaked the land, sending spirals of dust wherever it went. It carried the sound of the wild hounds of the night echoing ominously from willow to willow, across the land, in an epiphany of horrid screams. They, too, knew something was coming. Again, the wind would pick up – tearing leaves from trees, throwing them into the fray, into the night – ever so unforgiving, a cold, icy wind that made the hairs on your neck rise and shudder, sending chills down your spine. The animals
shifted, uneasy and disturbed. And when you listened closely, you would hear the screams and howls of the night that seemed to draw nearer with every heartbeat closing in upon you. Only then would you realise the night had arrived.
And when you delved, just a little deeper within the depths of the icy canopies, you would notice the little wonders that nature had left for it to enjoy. A creature, whose cotton tail moved so slightly with the wind, utterly defenseless and unknowing of the dangers of the forest, unable to fend nor escape the beast’s gaze, lay; doe eyes and brown fur powdered with puffy, pure snow. The fawn, just born from the loving care of a mother nuzzled against her breast. They sat in their nook in the gentle snow in anticipation. The fawn, so carefree, innocent, pranced upon the snow in the dimmed moonlight; its steps, like the feet of ballet dancers, gently caressing the sheets of snow that fell from the sky like the wonders that they were; its fur, streaked with that powdery snow glistened in the glow of the moon, with a grace so beautiful that this creature could be described as such of an angel’s creation; hooves poised almost as if in the dainty tiptoeing of a baby that could be described as such of a piano player’s movements, so graceful, beautiful, magical. In all its awe, it
seemed nature, too, was graced by the presence of this creature as the storm stilled to watch the beauty of the fawn. Snowflakes that mirrored the delicateness of the little animal cascaded among luminous, ethereal snow, reflecting rays of moonlight from those unsuspecting eyes.
A low, hungry, gravelly snarl came from the depths of the stomach of the beast. It reared its ugly, canine-like head: eyes that carried the look of longing for bloodshed; pinpoint accuracy that narrowed in on the nearest prey. Its eyes, cold with hatred, darted from frosted tree to tree, seeming to carry hell wherever it laid them, expressionless save for the longing for bloodshed and hunger. The beast’s monstrous stature, matted, unwashed fur and claws cast prey aside as mere child’s toys, as if they were pawns that occupied its glorious kingdom. Powerful legs set in strong, white bone and metals of the finest grade, which propelled the beast forward in one effortless stride on all fours, as a cat would to a mouse, pouncing on its target with utmost precision. The beast paced around the forest impatiently, claws leaving great imprints upon the pure, everso-white snow- as he opened his ghastly mouth just enough to display a row of gleaming, pointed teeth. Those teeth, so
pointed and hellish, gleamed like the icicles that hung from frosted trees in the harsh, cold winter, and it stood, presence alike, poised so elegantly; its dignity and declaration of power seemed to radiate upon the cold winter night, where the snow fell in blankets of ice and sleet. Oh, as he grew impatient, impatient of waiting for prey to come, he rumbled with his unfathomable, merciless howl upon the forest of ice and sleet, enough to make the heavens and stars in their glory tremble. He would claw at the damp frosty ground with those
claws of ivory and steel, forged in the furnace of god’s creation. He used them, teeth and claws alike, as daggers to rip, tear, destroy. Set in his very own mouth, used as swords against humanity and those who threatened to displace him as a ruler, a leader. Weapons stained with blood of the pure bred, merely just for fun, for enjoyment as a show of his almighty rule. The beams of the moon seemed to grace him, shining their rays of glory upon its ghastly shadow. How could something so cruel cast the gaze of the heavens? The frosted trees
SUE-NING CHEE
YEAR 9
dangled precariously with icicles that threatened to pierce the hide of a warrior merely trampled upon by the leathery paws of the beast. Its feral, ugly expression and longing for blood, terror, stood for generations to come, and that scent of blood would hang just slightly in the frosty, melancholy night.
Silence In The Shadows
BY EMILY RAFALA YEAR 8
Despite the covering of azure sneakers on her feet, a chilly air still seemed to sweep across them. A lovely white jacket covered her arms, even with the warm summer’s breeze that outside owned.
Her mother always said to laugh in the face of danger. This saying looped in her mind, despite the constant reassurance from her heart that this wasn’t danger, but a miracle.
Her eyes glanced back to see light coming through a large crack in the door. She wouldn’t be able to fit, but she wasn’t bothered by that. No going back now, she thought. But why would she?
She knew she could do it for the hour required, but the intention to stay longer was like banging bongo drums. Loud, repetitive and very, very annoying.
The man at the front desk said she could easily do it for an hour. He bore such a huge smile; she wasn’t sure how it fitted on his face. She said nothing, just politely smiled back. He wished her a sincere good luck, and his smile seemed to somehow enlarge at his words. A glisten of danger crossed his eyes. No, vulnerability.
She brushed the thoughts off. Maybe it was just my imagination, she pondered. What was his name again? Charlie? Billy? She didn’t remember.
She walked into a rectangle of light, the one made by the door. It was in the middle of the humongous room that she was standing in. A huge shadow surrounded the sanctuary of light – the rectangle was like fire in the blackest night. The shadow extended so far, as if she could forever walk in one direction, yet still never reach an end. Her eyes were set on what she thought could be a wall, but her feet did not move.
Her legs felt heavy, like bags of sand on a hot air balloon. But she didn’t know what caused this feeling, or how to push the bags off.
She knew she was falling backwards, but she didn’t catch herself until her own shadow touched the surrounding darkness. Her arms flung out, where goosebumps and spiked up hairs nested like eggs. Sharp pains shot through where her hands touched the ice-cold floor.
Despite the constant ringing in her head, regardless of the jacket which at some point was thrown into the nearby abyss, she laughed.
It was forced, and dry, a lack of water alarming her mind like the siren of an ambulance, a sudden thirst she never realised she needed. It was so fake, yet every part of it was real.
Whatever part of her mind she still had thought, ‘Laugh in the face of danger.’
I must do this for Mum. I need this money.
Her hands clutched together, they were covered in hundreds of tally marks.
Bare legs buckled as she broke down on the tile.
Her body was no longer in the light but smothered with the darkness, yet her eyes could still see, and they read a message which the floor carried.
"WATCH
THE SHADOWS"
Charlie knocked on the door. “Avarice?” he asked. A weak, sickening groan came in response. “I’m here to see how your hour went.” Charlie smiled to himself.
Many moments passed and there was still silence, so he changed tactic.
“I have your money!” he stated cheerfully. His voice had a singsong tone and was higher pitched than normal. He looked down in his cold hands where stacks of 100 dollars bills and an 80,000-dollar cheque rested peacefully. His fingers were gently brushing against the bills.
“Say something if you want the money,” he said. He had to askno matter what stage the person
was in. They were guaranteed to receive it, if they finished the hour, or stayed in for longer, which resulted in an even bigger salary.
He was given silence yet again as a response, which made him raise his eyebrows beyond his hair. Her name was Avarice – and in the form which she had filled out, her name meant ‘greedy’.
He shifted himself so the money was in his left arm and used his index finger to press a white button which was hidden on the side of a mini yucca plant. The leaves were slightly limp. Charlie made a mental note to water it after. The button blended in well with the white pot, and no person had ever seen it yet, upon arrival.
Charlie pressed his ear against the door and heard a deep click. The cracks in the door were no longer darker than shadows. A bright light was now seeping out the gap between the door and its frame. He twisted the door open with his right hand. A cool air had hit him instantly.
A body was shivering in the offcentre of the room. Skin had been picked away from her, where bone was exposed. She had blood on her hands, as if trying to bandage the wounds which were given.
Charlie walked towards Avarice. His legs buckled back after a couple steps, and he stopped in his tracks. While he was walking, his gaze had drifted to a message on the floor in blood. “You didn’t watch the shadows, did you?” he queried, despite the answer being obvious.
He placed the money in front of her eyes. Her nose began to twitch, as if she could smell the money. Charlie then took the money back in his arm.
Silence was the response yet again, but this time Charlie didn’t raise his eyebrows higher than his hair. His jaw didn’t drop to the floor. His eyes didn’t widen across his face.
Charlie went on his knees and checked her pulse. He rested two fingers on her ice-cold wrist for at least 30 seconds, but not one thud could be felt.
Charlie turned over her wrist to see hundreds of black tally marks which were in lots of 5.
“They got you many times, didn’t they?”
He placed the cheque in front of her gaze, where eyes watched, not blinking. The bills were left in her scuffed arms.
Charlie stood up, pushing his hands on his thighs to help him. He smiled, ear to ear. He smiled, and it didn’t fit his face.
In the happiest voice he could muster, he spoke:
“Congratulations! You survived the hour required. We hope you enjoy the pay we promised!
He left the room, feet thudding on the floor, and he closed the door behind him without looking back.
Her body was embedded in his mind, but most of all, her arms.
They were thin, extremely thin, but not because she was skinny.
They were limp, limper than the leaves of the plant at the front desk, but not because she was dying.
They were white, whiter than snow, but not because she was pale.
They were white, whiter than snow, because all that was left was a skeleton.
Nonet
BY AMELIA SIMON YEAR 8
Danger revealed in beauty so cold
I am lost in petals and thorns
Each person hiding their cold truths
What’s left is nothing real
Look past the petals
Every person Is like a Simple Rose
AVA O'ROURKE
YEAR 11 (TSS)
Rain
BY KYRA CHANDRA YEAR 7
Padding on your window, Knocking on your door, Whispering as the drops hit the ground. Falling, Splashing, Delicate gems of liquid, Spreading life on all surfaces.
A great pounding on the floors, Forming crystal puddles. The sound rises,
Dripping from dainty leaves, Rolling off rooftops, Splashing into gutters.
Children watch from windows, Serene, Calm, Worries washed away.
Nurtures homes, Sings lullabies, Guides us into slumber.
Rain helps succulent leaves grow, Sustains our world, Quenches our thirst.
Without rain, the earth dries up. Rivers shrink, plants wilt, the ground cracks under the heat.
The sun takes more and more, turning water to steam, erasing the sound of raindrops.
But rain is important. It keeps everything alive. Without it, we struggle.
We need to protect it. Stop the heat from taking too much. Keep the rain falling, keep the earth thriving.
Protect the rain. Protect our homes, our plants, our future.
Siren Story
BY ANYA RAY YEAR 8
Mermaids are born of love of the sea. Whenever someone with a great love of the sea dies, they turn into a mermaid. They live happy, peaceful lives, and at the end of their lives they are reunited with the sea for ever. Their eyes become pearls, their hair seaweed, their body seafoam.
Sirens, however, are born of a violent, watery death. They are born of people who have drowned, were murdered at sea, or whose bodies were thrown into the sea shortly after death. They get their revenge by singing with their enchanting voices, luring all to their caverns, where they are then devoured.
came in every cold wind that sent goosebumps down your spine.
There was a figure perched on the concrete at the edge of the beach, his shoe tracing circles in the glistening sand. It was a boy, his blond hair tousled by the wind. His green eyes were fixed on the horizon, staring unblinkingly at the point where the sea met the sky. His calloused hands were tucked deep inside the pockets of his dark sweatpants. He was wearing only a thin shirt on top, but he didn’t shiver, even as the wind caressed him with its cold fingers. He had come here to be alone. Still, he didn’t startle as a haunting melody floated on the wind.
This story begins on a beach just after sunset. The stars were starting to scatter across the sky, which was a rich, dark indigo. The ocean was fairly still and extended for as far as the eye could see. It was the colour of ink, and every now and then the still surface would be disturbed by slight ripples. The water was most disturbed at the shoreline, where there was a cluster of large rocks. It was almost silent. In the far distance, somebody was throwing a party, and the faint noise of rock music disturbed the peace. Occasionally, a bird would call out, but, other than that, it was almost quiet. The air faintly carried the stench of salt and seaweed, which
The song was indescribable. No one who heard it could tell whether there were words or not, whether the voice was male or female, and nobody could recall the melody. The boy got to his feet, spellbound by the music. He followed the enchanting tune to the edge of the sea. A little further out, there was someone in the water. It was a girl, a smile playing on her pink lips as she sang. Her long, dark hair clung to her back and chest, the ends trailing in the water. Her pale skin glistened with water droplets, shining in the moonlight. She reached out to the boy with a slim hand, and the boy stepped into the water.
He stepped through the water, ignoring his clothes getting
soaked. The girl remained where she was, still singing the unearthly song. She shifted slightly, and the boy saw something he hadn’t noticed before. Underneath the water, she had a fish’s tail shimmering with teal scales. He hesitated and, for a second, he could have sworn that he saw the girl bare her teeth. But she sang with a new vigour and he plunged into the water, swimming to reach her. His head was full of the song and it overwhelmed all his
senses, muffling the small voice of caution. He reached out to grip the girl’s hand and she smiled— properly this time—and the boy saw her shark teeth, tinged red at the tips.
He tried to move away, but the girl lunged towards him. She dragged him under the surface before he had a chance to scream. She kept a firm grip on his arm as she swam further away from the shore, her tail taking powerful
strokes through the water, propelling them incredibly fast. The boy’s lungs began to burn and he struggled to break free from the girl’s iron grip. He was almost out of air when the girl stopped swimming, turned and stared at him, waiting. He could do nothing as the last bit of air in his lungs gave up, and as his eyes fluttered shut, he saw the girl sink her teeth into his chest.
11
ANDY ZHOU YEAR
Ice Fire
BY ENZO THEN & JAMES DILLON YEAR 7
Rivers rushing across the earth, Yet serpents burn, worse than a hearth. Glaciers shatter, destroying lands. But nothing matters if there’s no end to man.
Tongues of crimson, ravaging forests
Destroying the hopes of all future florists
The ash of life as death turns black, As man to trees they slowly hack.
A war that began eons ago
Continues to thrive as dawn glows.
Fire vs ice the phrase that has spread
A name that began and is almost dead.
Greenhouse gases burn the atmosphere
But all the heat occurs here.
An oath to keep this world safe, But we have reached boiling point, is it too late?
Desperate times call of desperate needs, Too many deaths and too much to feed. Day zero will be a big dent, When will the war of ice and fire end?
TYLER WHEELER YEAR 10
You'd Still Be Here
SUE-NING CHEE YEAR 9
I’m not alone on a Sunday
At your favourite coffee shop
Our wedding song is playing
This happiness, it never stopped
I can get out the house and live my dreams
And when I hear your name
In a world where you’re still here
I never feel ashamed
You’re in our bedroom, holding my hand
And I can go to sleep
Without ever needing to pretend It’s always you right beside me
Instead of seeing a monster
I can look in the mirror with a smile
My grip on life gets tighter
Even if only for a while
I guess I should’ve realised
All your hated secrets
But maybe if you told me I wouldn’t have believed it
Your scissors weren’t for cutting paper
You didn’t get scratched by a branch
Your safety pin didn’t hold things together
And you liked to play pretend
So I’ll pretend we’re dancing at a disco
And everything I’ve ever loved
Isn’t gone and buried
Or a million miles above
Yet I read your note again and again
And I can never let it go
The pain and searing regret
The fact I didn’t know
But if I knew
I would’ve stayed through troubled times
You’d still be here
Had I known to save your life
ARMSTRONG YEAR 10
ANGELINA
The Silent Betrayal
BY ANNA HE YEAR 11
The air was buzzing with casual conversations and laughter, but the way I felt was far from excitement. The party was a casual one, with music blasting from the DJ stand, and the smell of fruit punch and pizza lingered in the air. Tommy and I had been at many of these events for weeks, but every time the trail went cold.
“Tommy, smile!” I sharply told my dance partner.
A bright flash filled my eyes as the photographer captured the scene. Though the dance floor was buzzing, Tommy and I were here for a different reason.
“Look over there, Mia, in the corner,” Tommy whispered in my ear as we spun around the dance floor.
I glanced towards the dimly lit corner of the room and there sat Hugo. Previously I had only seen his photos from the case file. He had this gorgeous long blond hair and piercingly dark eyes which made him instantly recognizable. I would have thought he was quite good looking, if I didn’t know that he was connected to the series of drug scandals that we had been following for weeks.
Tommy’s hands on my waist guided me through the crowd until we were at the punch station with a clear view of Hugo. The light of the party barely illuminated his features. We watched as a short figure made their way up to him.
“Do you see? We need to move in,” I said, my eyes following the plasticwrapped something that Hugo had given to his customer.
Glancing up at Tommy, he was just pouring himself some punch with an uninterested look in his eyes.
“Nah, not yet, he replied curtly, “We need more than just suspicion.”
I was taken aback. My partner was usually quick and sharp with his decisions. We had just witnessed an exchange, and we had done nothing.
“I’m going to get more pizza,” Tommy drawled, “Do you want some?”
“Sure.” I forced a cheery tone, but a sense of unease gripped me. Tommy was acting too casual. He was out of it. His movements slow and unresponsive. He seemed hesitant, almost like he was stalling.
I looked back at the dingy corner, but Hugo was walking away. I followed, my heart hammering against my chest, but making sure to keep my distance.
I watched him move into the storage room, holding my breath in the small corridor I was hiding in. He exited and I listened to the sound of his fading footsteps, before I made my way into the room.
Opening the heavy door I saw a very normal storage set-up. Cleaning supplies were lined up on the shelves and brooms, mops and
vacuums scattered across the floor. But something caught my eye. A shiny duffle bag. Something far too new to fit in here.
With shaking hands, I slowly zipped back the zipper to reveal rolls of cash and small white packets… drugs! My head and heart were now pounding. This is what we had been searching for, for weeks. This was the evidence we needed.
A soft click of the door handle turning made me freeze.
“Find something interesting? Tommy’s voice floated to my ears.
Zipping up the bag, I stood up and turned to face him. He was lazily leaning against the doorway. His face unreadable. His eyes cold. A pang of fear hit me as my unease deepened, recalling all the memories from these past weeks. The missed meetings, the evidence trail that always seemed to go cold every time that Tommy was involved. The realisation hit me like a truck. This whole operation –Tommy had been in on it.
Forcing a casual tone, I replied, “No, just party supplies.” I hoped my voice didn’t sound shaky.
“Oh good. I was hoping you wouldn’t find something that shouldn’t be found.” His voice was even, no emotions.
I glanced around at my surrounding. Tommy was standing at the only entrance and that meant the only exit.
“Actually, I did find something near the back. Come have a look.” I gestured for him to come.
As he strolled closer, a sudden burst of adrenaline took control. I kicked his legs and elbowed the back of his head as hard as I could. With no time to spare, I bolted towards the door, grabbing a fallen broom on the way out. I could sense Tommy lunging towards my heels, but I slammed the door behind me with a bang and locked it in place with the broom. Then I ran out past the lively party and straight out to the car park until the building was blocks
behind me.
My fingers trembled as I called the station.
“Tommy is in on it please come quickly, I need back up!” I spoke in one breathless sentence.
Exhaustion took over and I dropped onto the cold pavement. The distant sound of police sirens was welcomed by my ears. I reflected on what had just occurred, who knows how many scandals Tommy had helped cover up? But I know that this is just the beginning of unravelling his web of lies.
SMITH YEAR 12
ASHLEIGH
Dreams Of Above
BY JACK GODDARD YEAR 12
Sapphire lived in the Lower City. Mounds of factories and production plants littered the ground, threatening to crush the houses and people that lived beneath them. The smokestacks rose high into the air, and in the centre of city a mountain of industry reached up in an attempt to touch the Upper City, floating high above. Above lived the angels, people born with wings who could fly better than they could walk. They had the finer jobs and ran the city from above, their home of Upper City resting like a halo above the smog-filled streets of Lower City, and had egos bigger than the turbines which kept it afloat. The police were particularly brutal to the humans that lived below, believing all of them to be criminals, waiting for a chance to strike. The only chance for the humans was the challenger law. Anyone could challenge anyone else to a competition, with the victor winning whatever was agreed upon. Due to the lack of limits for the competition, the angels often challenged humans to a duel, using their wings to outmanoeuvre and execute them to reap the rewards. As such, some believed that if they could just get someone into a job above, they might be able to change things for the better. That was Sapphire’s dream. To change things for the better. And she had a plan. She would get a job in the police force and allow humans to come up in the balloons that were used to ferry goods to the Upper City and, hopefully, cause ideologies to change. She just had to get up there.
“You can’t be serious about this. They’ll just throw you off once you get up there,” cried Ruby, red hair trailing behind as she ran to catch up. Her voice echoed in the open warehouse, filled with Sapphire’s half-finished projects and rudimentary living quarters. Ahead of her, on an elevated platform, rested a massive pair of metallic wings that reminded her of the launchpads the angels used to leave the Lower City. She had been Sapphire’s best friend since she was little, and one of the few people that looked after her when her parents were slaughtered in a cargo balloon by a guard who thought they were smuggling goods, challenging the couple to a duel for their innocence. The authorities didn’t even bother to check the burning wreck. “Then I’ll just fly back up there. Besides, I can’t let all this be for nothing. I finally have an opportunity to change things, to be the first person from Lower City to work up there. You know that’s why I built these.” She turned to face Ruby, with her back to the machine that would propel her towards her dreams. She began to slip on the restraints to bind her to the marvel behind her, Ruby helping her tighten the straps. Pulling a hair lacky from her overalls, Ruby looked up at her friend and whispered, “Come back alive.”
“I will,” she vowed as she tied her blue hair into a braid and slung it over the back of the wings. With a smile, she pressed a button at her side, and the machine came to life. The twin turbines hummed in
their housing as old motors slowly flapped the beaten flat blades that constituted the feathers of the suit, as if she had regained a phantom limb. With a jolt, the ancient warehouse roof opened, the Upper City looking down at her mockingly. Let’s do this. With a breath, she launched herself into the air, the massive wings moving the air with a thoom, like how dragons of old would take off. The turbines rotated in their housing, helping balance and increase her speed as she flapped towards the Upper City, more akin to an enormous eagle than a person. She gained speed with every second, as the Wings of Daedalus propelled her forward.
The centre of martial force was a small building overlooking the hole in the middle of the upper city, metallic arms held onto chains that suspended cages, the Lower City looming far below. Out the front, angels trained with spears, ends shaped like crescent moons. From above, Sapphire was so absorbed looking for the captain, that she didn’t notice him approach from behind. With a slam, a large crescent appeared around the back of her neck. “What in the name of god do you think you’re doing impersonating an angel?!”
“In the name of the law, I challenge your fastest pupil to a race, to see who is faster in the air.” she responded. By now, people had begun to notice, as two sets of wings hovered mid-air, the white ones of the captain’s completely eclipsed by the scrap metal amalgam that was Sapphire’s. “In
the name of the law, I challenge your fastest pupil to a race. If I win, I get to join your forces on equal standing with your angels! If I lose, you can cast me down to the Lower City!” She yelled, hoping to get as many people’s attention as possible. Swiftly, two angels flew up to join their captain, one with short, silver hair and the other with close cut sandy blonde.
“Alright then. Quicksilver, you will race this rapscallion throughout the lower city on the training course. The new recruits can wait to fly till tomorrow. Meet me on deck in 5. Don’t lose.” The captain demanded from behind, before forcing her forward with a push from his glaive.
On the edge of the deck, a person who Sapphire assumed was the race manager began reading out the rules. To her left crouched the man with short silver hair, presumably Quicksilver. “Follow the markers, and remember, no executing the public.” The manager droned on. “Best of luck Q. Don’t lose.”
“Can’t be that hard, it looks like she barely got up here.” He joked back.
“3. 2. 1. Go!”
She launched herself off the deck, with barely enough time to turn on her turbines. Her greater weight and size meant she would fall and move faster, but turning was harder. With all her might, she pushed herself forward, down through the centre, Lower city making a rising ring around the main exhaust pipes in the middle
before shooting forward under some maintenance bridges. The sharp turns this far down meant she couldn’t get up to speed, giving up her early lead to Quicksilver as her wings made deep scratches in the metal decking below and around her, sparks flying. Ducking and weaving, she tried desperately to keep up with him, using every long stretch to shoot forward before losing the advantage at the next turn. As she flew past a maintenance outlook, she spied a flash of bright red hair.
It wasn’t long before it was time for her to head back up. With sharp winding turns, she followed far behind Quicksilver, the Lower City changing and cheering her on as she chased him on the stretch up. Managing to catch a sudden jolt of bustling activity on the deck, she noted that the cheering became quieter as people began running around. It wasn’t long before she figured out why. The cacophonous groan of the pipes and tubing forcing all the exhaust air out began around her as the pipes opened below. With a quiet roar, the air became filled with the toxic exhaust blast, the heat and speed forcing her up faster than ever before. Noting this, she held her breath and spread her wings, hoping to conserve her breath until further up while using the exhaust to rise. Now beside her, Quicksilver struggled to maintain his breathing, evidently puffed from the flight and now out of clean air to breath and smaller wings, he ducked out to the side to catch some air. Her
speed kept increasing however, and while Quicksilver tried to keep pace outside the centre, her immense wings and high max speed eventually caused him to fall behind. With a thud, Sapphire landed on deck at the finish line gasping at air, the captain in front of her. “Well done. You may join the same as the new recruits. Meet here tomorrow morning for the drills. Don’t be late.” Weakly, Quicksilver came up behind her and crashed onto the deck. “Well then, Quicksilver. What do you have to say for yourself.”
“She cheated, sir. The exhaust bla-”
“Do not blame the exhaust blast for your failure. Things like that happen all the time and you need to be ready for it. For failing and trying to pass off your failure as the fault of someone else, it would seem that you have Fallen. Guards. Let’s make it official.” Begging for mercy, two guards dragged Quicksilver to the side of the deck. There they carved off his wings, leaving only bleeding stumps.
“Evidently it’s possible to find wings down there, so if you’re lucky we’ll see you again. That is, if you survive.” The captain coldly called, before kicking him off the edge, the image of his falling body forever emblazoned in Sapphire’s mind.