The Realms 2021 edition

THE

Realms 2021 EDITION

Contents Editorial 1

B

Most Distinguished Conspirator: Christopher Khong

3

Second Most Distinguished Conspirator: Allan Huang

15

Third Most Distinguished Conspirator and Finest Poem: Ray He

31

Most Imaginative: Elijah Pannozzo

33

Finest Argument: William Zhang

37

Best Middle School Submission: Matthew Stephen

41

Best Comic Piece: Orlando Kuti

47

Quirky Award: Kevin Chan

49

Best Short Story: Aidan Harris

51

Most Poignant: Sean Yang

57

Most Stunning Line: Dler Toghyani-Farshid

65

Commendable Poetry Award: Kevin Xu

67

Editorial The Realms Writing Competition has been an absolute pleasure to run in 2021. Though disrupted by the unanticipated return of lockdowns, the competition made it through the year and we set a new record for the amount of writing received. To the somewhat challenging theme of Conspiracy, the judges and I became very familiar with the demises of JFK and Harold Holt. Many ventured far beyond this however, and the competition received dystopian fiction, and the outlining of conspiracies as close as the CGS Latin Department. All entries were tremendously enjoyable to read, and the students are to be commended on their command of the English language and their imagination.

I would especially like to thank Hieu Tran (Year 11) for his sound judgement and advice, along with both presiding staff members, Mrs Renieris and Mr Allen, for their adept, erudite, and most skillful conducting of this competition.

My final imploration must be to all students to add their name to their work, as instructed, and to spell it correctly.

Alastair Joshi Prefect in Charge of Publications

Thanks to the Committee Members: Alastair Joshi, Hieu Tran, Aneta Renieris and John Allen.

Thanks to the Editors: Alastair Joshi and Hieu Tran.

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Most Distinguished Conspirator written by Christopher Khong (Year 8)

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he rain started falling again. Everyone was milling around, nervous for the judgment to come. Screams rang out from those the Hand of the Truth had found. The smell was nigh overpowering due to the crowd of unwashed bodies. Osque watched the bunched up crowd with little interest. It was just another week, another week when 7 people would be torn away from those they loved, and disappeared into the OverLord’s citadel, never to be seen again. Her cloak flapped in the wind as she jumped from the post, carefully hiding her left arm from view. With this many Hands around, she would be whipped to death if they noticed. The murmur hushed quickly as the High Infiltrator and High OverSeer came into view.

—b— No doubt the OverLord-cursed Eye of the Truth would be blending into the general crowd, ready to mark any dissenters. She brushed her way through the dirty, underfed populace to get a good look at them. The Infiltrator cocked his metallic eye at her, and a cold chill ran down her spine. His gaze lingered on her, then moved on. A breath she didn’t realise she had been holding blew the tension out of her body, her shoulders slumping. She looked up to the sooty sky, holding her resolve. However, before she could blend back into the crowd a piercing whistle signifying the beginning of the Ritual. The fear emanating from the people was palpable and a piercing scream told Osque that the Hand had found someone who hadn’t hidden well enough. However, before she could slink back into the crowd, a shrill whistle blasted, signifying the beginning of the Ritual.

—b— The OverSeer’s cruel gaze drifted over the crowd, and for a moment, Osque thought that she was to be chosen, that her life would have been for naught, that she would die today.

The Infiltrator’s spindly hand reached out and pointed to a famished man next to Osque.

His eyes went wide, panic clear on his face. Looking around for an escape like a cornered animal, he pushed straight into Osque, knocking her to the wet, slick tiles on the ground.

He didn’t get far before red welts appeared on his legs. A long metal whip retracted from the crowd, the citizens quickly parted for the member of the Hand of the Truth to walk through.

The man whimpered, trying to scrabble away to little avail. As Osque began to get up, her cloak became stuck under the boots of the panicking public. With her left arm now exposed, the citizens around her hurried away, forming a circle of gasping onlookers.

“Oh?”, Osque slowly turned towards the Infiltrator, his snaky voice slithering down her back “A MetalGraft hiding in peasant clothes?”

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Osque turned to find an escape, sprinting off in the opposite direction. She heard steps behind her, accompanied by grating metal on stone. She took a sharp turn, skidding on the slick stone towards the Merchant Sector. She reached out with her left whip and knocked down a stack of crates. Oranges spilled out, and she was rewarded with a large crack from the wood.

Emboldened by this, she turned around and was immediately cut across the face by the following Hands’ whip. Clutching her right hand to her now bleeding face, she hurried along, eventually throwing herself into an open doorway, sides heaving. Knowing that she was cornered, she readied herself for the fight for her life. The men who surrounded her drew out as much terror as they could, dragging their whips along the ground to create a grating cacophony. As her heart beat faster and faster, and she breathed faster and faster she watched the doorway, wondering how many she could take down before she fell. Then suddenly, she heard a sick thump and something that suspiciously sounded like bones breaking. Choking noises could then be heard.

Curious, Osque carefully poked her head out of the doorway, when everything went dark.

—b— As Osque awoke, she knew she had been moved. She opened her eyes a slit and took in her surroundings. She was in a well-to-do building, well lit. Her wrists felt raw as they rubbed against the thick rope holding them. Murmuring voices drifted down from the stairs.

“Dangerous...too many...can’t trust” Loosening her whip, she began to start sawing at her bonds. However before she could free herself and jump out the window, people began descending the stairs. She quickly relaxed and feigned unconsciousness. An ungentle kick told her that her ploy had failed.

“Open your eyes girl, you ain’t fooling anyone.” A rasping voice sneered.

Grudgingly opening her eyes, she looked at the five people surrounding her.

“So girl,” the lead captor asked, “Why would the High damnable Infiltrator himself send eight high ranking members of the Hand after you?” He begins to pace in front of Osque before abruptly stopping. “I know you aren’t mute, you were talking in your sleep,” Casually bringing out a knife from his belt, he began to file his nails. “Let’s get off to a good start shall we. I am Esque, and I am the leader of the Civil Uprising,”.

“Then you’re stupid for trying to fight back,” shot Osque.

“And you’ve never thought about fighting back, you’ve never wanted revenge?” asked Esque.

“Here’s the deal “You join us, or we kill you,” Osque contemplated her options. “Not like I’ll do anything else in this hellhole of a city.

What do I do first?”

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MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Christopher Khong

Osque quietly snuck over the slick tiles and tapped at the door in the set pattern. It opened a slit, revealing a darkened room and a bright pair of brown eyes.

“Pass?”. The eyes narrowed in suspicion.

“Knock it off Esque, if I wanted to lead Hands here, this building wouldn’t be standing,” Osque replied.

Esque’s eyes relaxed, and swung open the door, revealing him. His cloak immediately blew back from the wind, revealing his loose-fitting shirt.

“Come on in before the warmth gets out,”.

Esque stepped into the room, lit by flickering candles and the occasional blue flash from the corner. As her eyes adjusted from the bright exterior, the three other members of the Civil Uprising were revealed. Roque was leaning on a wall in a corner, black hair covering his eyes. The blue flashes were being caused by Tesque’s meddling with a bloodied silver whip, attempting to fuse it with what appeared to be a metal sheath of some sort. Torque, who had never made any attempts to be friendly with Osque, was cleaning his beloved maul. Osque had never seen him without it.

“Esque, there were a lot of ArchZeals out today. Way more than usual. Any problems?” asked Osque.

“It’s a distraction, like always. They’ll be preaching about his burning Holiness, and then they’ll sneak up and...” Esque’s rant was abruptly cut off, his face hardening. He walked over to Roque, whose brown eyes flashed up.

“How did the info gathering go?” barked out Esque.

Roque’s face closed off, the only sign that he wasn’t happy being addressed in that fashion.

“My contact knows where a key supply house is and can pull a few strings so that there won’t be any guards waiting outside.”

“You all hear that?” Esque pivoted, looking at each of the members, a ferocious glint in his eyes.

“Tonight we strike their supply chain and begin the chain that will topple the Civilisation!

Prepare to move out.” The house exploded into a flurry of activity: Torque attaching a comic amount of weapons to his person, Tesque bundling her various inventions into a backpack: a jar filled with blinding light, a sheath of metal with a claw attached to it and various other devices, Roque twirling his cane to warm up, and Esque unsheathing his twin knives and grating them on a dark stone. Osque stood awkwardly staring at the floor until a fair face framed with overly large glasses pushed itself into her face.

“Hey, Osque. I made these for you. Use it tonight. Also, don’t get in our way when we fight.

It won’t end well.” Tesque quickly spat out, gesturing to a sharp-looking metal lump then

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launched into a flurried explanation of the various gizmos and gadgets before noticing Osque’s blank-eyed stare.

“Osque, are you following?” asked Tesque.

“Could you... slow down slightly?” requested Osque, who had completely zoned out and had been thinking about what exactly she had gotten herself into.

“Alright, so it’s a glove. And it’s made from MetalGraft steel. And I made it. It melds perfectly to the user’s fist and reinforces it. It also sports razor-sharp daggers attached to the backside of the hand.” Barely slowing down in-between sentences, she continued to describe the varying features of what still to Osque appeared to be a lifeless chunk of metal. Graciously accepting the gift, she hurriedly backed away to get some breathing space. Now the activity had died down somewhat, but there was still a nervous waiting energy in the air. A sudden hand on her shoulder made Osque flinch and spin around, only to see Esque’s eyes staring at her.

“Considering this is your first time in combat, I would advise against eating beforehand, just in case it comes back up,” warned Esque.

“Esque you don’t need to baby me, I’ve been in enough fights to not spill up my guts when it matters,” Osque replied.

Esque raised his hand in protest but stopped himself.

“Might I ask some things?” asked Osque. When he indicated affirmative, Osque asked “Firstly what does Tesque do? I’ve seen her throwing around various flashes and things, but what are they?”

“Tesque is a previous member of the OverLord’s intelligence agency, the Eyes of Truth.

She knows things that we don’t, and she uses it to make weapons” Esque replied.

“Secondly, to put it bluntly, why does Roque hate me?” Before he could counter her, defending his friend, she continued, “He’s always brooding, didn’t try to even greet me, I had to learn everything from Tesque and every time I try to start up a conversation he busies himself with one thing or another and avoids me.”

“I’ll address the points one at a time. First, he’s always brooding, that’s his nature. Even when I first defended him from some low-rank Hands, it took me about 2 days to even find out his name.” Esque smiled at the memory. “When I first decided to save you from the Hands he refused to help, claiming that four was already large enough for our key group of rebels.

Even when we defeated the Hands, he was the one to knock you out claiming that my instructions were unclear. He was the strongest voice against taking you in.”

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MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Christopher Khong

“Then why do you keep him?” interrupted Osque. “It seems just like he wants to undermine you!”

“He’s only being a voice of reason, Osque.” Esque narrowed his eyes “Don’t question the longer-standing members of my team and their motives. I’ve seen what this rebellion has taken out of everyone, Roque included. So don’t push me.” Spinning away from the conversation, he yelled, “Let’s go. Target is in the Grafting Sector.” With that, he pushed open the wooden door and stepped out into the night.

—b— The group moved quickly throughout the Market Sector, passing other huddled groups.

The OverLord’s Spire hung in the distance, menacing as always. As they wound their way through the Tanning Sector, Osque gagged at the smell, but with a silencing look from Esque, she masked it with a grimace. As they walked along the dirty, stained path, hawkers called out to the late-goers, gesturing to a wide variety of goods, from simple brown clothing to a few elaborate garments studded with shining iron.

“Wait.” hissed Esque.

Peeking ahead Osque could see a crowd of people surrounding something.

“Move quickly, and ignore them.” There were grim affirmations from each of the members, except Torque who seemed to be seething.

As they snuck past the group, Osque could hear murmurs which eventually became words.

Then she caught the sight of him, the OverArch.

“My brethren, accept our Father the Overlord as the One True Lord. Give yourselves unto him, and become part of the Brotherhood.” preached the OverArch.

“Damn night sermons.” Osque turned to her left to see Roque’s anger painted on his face.

“Demotivates any would-be rebels from rising up with his ‘Praise the OverLord, he keeps us safe’ crap.”

They moved past the sermon and exited into the Grafting Sector. Large warehouses stretched as far as Osque could see. Esque picked up a brisk walk and hurried along, followed by Tesque holding a bundle of gadgets. Not wanting to be left behind Osque hurried along, not wanting to be left behind.

—b— As they approached the targeted warehouse, Esque pulled a dark piece of cloth over his face and gestured for everyone to group around him.

“Roque will provide a distraction at the front door with Torque as support, then Tesque will help me enter through the back.” Turning to address her he instructed, “Osque, stay near me when we enter, but as soon as we start fighting, stay alive and don’t get in our way.”

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Everyone began moving to their positions, and Osque hurried to trail Esque. A moment later she heard faint murmurs from the front door and the sound of people getting up from chairs and moving about from inside.

“Tesque, get us in,” ordered Esque.

Tesque pulled a bright sparkling something out of her sack as Esque took out his knives and fell into a sprinting stance.

“Look away when I throw it,” advised Tesque.

In one smooth motion, Esque cut through the wooden door and the bar holding it as Tesque threw a jar of light, which arced through the air like a thunderbolt. Osque averted her eyes as a loud crack emanated from where the light hit the planks, and her pupils quickly dilated as the light was so extreme from behind it lit up a large area of the Sector in front of her.

Momentarily stunning her, she gathered her wits and pivoted to see Esque already sprinting into the warehouse. She ran through and stopped for a second, eyes wide at the piles and piles of food and weaponry. If only those starving not twenty metres away from this building knew about this! Shaking the thoughts out of her head she sprinted into battle, to run straight into a guard, armed with a long metal sword. Quickly reacting she lashed out with her whip, only for the guard to catch the whip and twirl it around his sword. The end of it barely scratched his uniform, and a cruel, sadistic smile bloomed on his face. He yanked it back, pulling Osque towards him. She panicked and tightened her whip, slicing through the inferior steel of his sword. His smile of glee turned to anger as he revealed a small knife in his off-hand. Still skidding towards him, Osque tried to twist out of the way, but already knew she was too late.

Just before the knife entered her ribcage, a long metal pole topped with a blade cut through his side, the force of the blow so strong, he was thrown to the side. Osque skidded to a stop, to see Roque’s determined jawline pointing at the struggling guard, who was attempting to push the blade further into his side to kill him. Roque unceremoniously dropped him, blood seeping out of his side. Osque staggered back and surveying the warehouse. Some corpses were smoking, probably due to the red-hot chain in Tesque’s hand. Others had long jagged marks on them, clearly courtesy of Roque’s skill with the spear. There were stains on the wall with some sections blue. Then with a heavy amount of revulsion, she realised that the small blue patches from the guard uniform. Torque was again in a corner, cleaning his maul which was now covered with blood and flesh. But the worst of all was Esque’s handiwork. His victims were clear because these opponents hadn’t been a challenge to him. They had body parts lopped off, some with eyes gouged out and others still whimpering over their stumps that were once their hands. As she turned to run, Esque’s hand again placed itself on her shoulder, and she saw fire in his eyes, that he enjoyed this.

“Now the fun part,” Esque declared as he moved towards Torque, who had a foot on a wounded guard.

“Now, Eye,” Esque’s voice dripped with contempt as he squatted down. “Let’s see what we can do with you.”

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MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Christopher Khong

He gestured for Tesque to come closer who handed him a long piece of animal hide. He deftly tied the victim to one of the tubes used for heating the warehouse. Picking up Tesque’s chain, Osque felt her gut sink as she realised what he intended to do. Uncaring of the blisters now forming on his hands from the heat, he began to whip the Eye, interspersing the hits with questions.

“Who are the other agents? What other supply houses are there? What happens to those that are taken in the Ritual?”

Osque averted her eyes, as the beating continued. Tesque came up to her, clearly noticing her discomfort.

“This is what we have to do. These are niceties compared to what the Civilisation would do to us.” reconciled Tesque.

“If we do these things, if we are allowing ourselves to do these things, are we that different from those we oppose? Are we that different from monsters?” asked Osque.

Hurt by the questions Tesque turned away, and Osque stared at the roof as the Eye’s scream echoed throughout the warehouse.

—b— Rain fell on Osque’s face as she sat outside the hideout. The scenes she had seen in the warehouse had haunted her since they left. She heard footsteps from behind her, and Esque’s voice rang out.

“Osque, it’s been four days. We do what we have to do.”

She blankly turned to face him, impassive.

“Look, Roque’s informant has another lead. A nest of spies if you will. Since we move as a group, you’re coming with us.”

He pulled her up, and she readied herself for the onslaught of nightmares to come.

—b— Walking through the streets, their footsteps echoed through the puddles that laced the ground.

Though she wasn’t looking at it the presence of the OverLord’s domain, the Spire, could always be felt more than seen. Roque’s hand stopped her from advancing, and she averted her eyes from the ground to glare at him, when she realised that he had stopped her because there was a platoon of Hands walking by, whips dripping with rainwater, and uniforms polished.

One of the Hands was assailed by a blind old beggar, who didn’t know who he was addressing.

She couldn’t make out the exact words, but the Hand didn’t take it very well as he grabbed the beggar and whipped him across his face. Torque moved to help him, but Esque harshly whispered “We can’t help him. Not against those numbers,”. Roque also listed his points

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against attacking, but Tesque was the one who calmed him down. “If we fight now, we die.

If we fight later, we bring them down.” Torque’s anger curbed for the moment, they moved on.

Approaching the warehouse, Esque stopped them. “On the stroke of the eleventh hour, Tesque will run in, cause a distraction and make them focus their attention there, supported by Torque.

Roque, Osque and I will break through their lines from above, and we’ll cripple them.”

“From the sky?” Osque whispered to Roque.

“Oh, you’re in for a treat,” Roque replied.

As they moved into position, Esque pulled her aside. “Stick with Roque, he’s the least likely to accidentally kill you in battle.”

As the chiming from the bell tower began, the three of them tensed up, ready for the fight.

The wooden front door could be heard falling to the floor, and Torque’s war cry rang out.

They pushed through the door, and Osque prepared to cut through whoever was waiting.

But there was none.

“What is this Roque?” questioned Esque.

Roque’s face paled. “I don’t know, this informant is trustworthy, I swear.”

“This informant?” A mysterious voice rang out, seemingly coming from everywhere. A body dropped from the ceiling, causing Osque to flinch from the sudden noise. Roque’s face clouded over as he recognised the corpse.

“No, no, no, no, no...” panic began to take hold of the group as they formed a ring, backs facing inward.

“You poor insurgents, you think you can fight us?” The mysterious voice revealed its owner, the OverSeer himself. Nine other Hands, all platinum, dropped down to surround their group.

“Two on one, unfavourable odds,” muttered Roque.

“When are the odds ever in our favour,” wittily replied Esque.

“Two on one you say?” The OverSeer laughed. “How do you think we knew you were here?”

Esque’s face scrunched up in confusion.

“We can thank your good old friend, Tesque for telling us all about you. The Civil Uprising.

How pathetic.” The OverLord chuckled as horror registered on the faces of the now four members of the Civil Uprising. Face hard, Tesque moved to join the Hands, surrounding them.

“Death to the enemies of the Civilisation!” yelled the OverLord. Immediately Osque was beset on by two Hands, who had likely been trained together as they wove in and out, not getting in each other’s way. She could barely fend their attacks off, the platinum digging grooves into her

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MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Christopher Khong

inferior steel. Using the metal glove to quickly block a strike, she wrapped her hand around the whip, mimicking the move from the Eye in the warehouse. Pulling the Hand towards her in front of the other Eye, she slashed him across the face before disengaging. As she released the Eye, her right hand exploded in pain, the metal bleeding away from her hand. Wounded by the pain, the Hands easily restrained her as if she was a baby. She felt a spike of pain from the back of the head and everything went dark.

She awoke on a cold stone floor and again opened her eyes a slit to process her surroundings.

“No need to pretend Osque. There’s no point.” Osque fully opened her eyes and sat up.

She was in a dimly lit jail cell with Roque and Esque, light being filtered in by a small window.

She scooted up against one of the walls and winced when the wound at the back of her head made contact with the wall. “How long?” she asked.

Esque’s voice was hoarse when he replied “A day.”

As Osque’s mind began to clear, she realised that someone was missing. “Where’s Torque?”

Roque pointed to the cell across from them.

“They had to knock him and drug him when...” Esque paused “When they killed Tesque,” “She deserved it!” yelled Roque.

“She was still one of us, Roque. She was still one of us.”

The conversation died off, with tension clear in the air.

“So what happened during the fight Esque?” asked Osque.

“It was going fine, with Roque, Torque and I holding our ground. Eventually, we began to wound the Hands enough that they had to slow down. Just when the tide was about to turn, the OverSeer and Tesque began to fight us. He took on Roque and me, whilst Tesque fought Torque. Torque nearly beat her, but couldn’t bring himself to kill her. That’s when she did something to you. Then Roque and I were fighting 4 Hands and the OverSeer. Torque was unable to keep fighting Tesque, who threw wrapping chains around us. As the OverSeer was taunting us, the High Infiltrator appeared and whispered something into his ear. Whatever he said riled the OverSeer up, because he strangled Tesque. Torque snapped. He attempted to kill the OverSeer, but couldn’t stand up to that many. They knocked us all out, and now we’re here.”

Osque slumped against the wall, the realisation that Esque’s grand dream had been crushed.

So easily. As the enormity of Tesque’s betrayal and murder began to sink in, footsteps began to echo throughout the jail cell. All of their heads snapped up, except for Torque who was still unconscious. The High Infiltrator and the Overseer walked into view, and Osque readied herself for them to be tortured.

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“I have a proposition for you,” proclaimed the High Infiltrator. “Either, we kill you and burn your bodies.” He almost seemed to be savouring the prospect. “Or you help us overthrow the OverLord, and then we kill you.”.

Shock resonated throughout the group.

“Like hell we’ll work with you!” yelled Roque. Esque’s hand reached out to placate him, but Roque shrugged it off. “Why would you want to overthrow your grand and mighty OverLord anyway?”

“If I didn’t need you, I would kill you right now for asking such a foolish question, worm.”.

He swung open the door and marched in. “I. Need. You. To. Kill. The. OverLord.”.

He punctuated each word with a poke to Esque’s chest. “This isn’t a choice you ungrateful worms.

Either we kill you now, painfully and slowly, or we kill you after you help us, nice and fast.”

“We’ll do it,” Esque said quickly. Roque looked like he was ready to snap, but agreed very stiffly.

“Here are the rules of our treaty. You will be escorted by Hands at all times, and watched by Eyes. You will gather weapons and things you need from your usual shops and will meet at the entrance to the Spire. From there we will kill the OverLord and his ArchZeal fanatics, and get this done with. Understand?”

The group gestured in the affirmative, and the Infiltrator made way for them to walk out, unlocking Torque’s cell as well. They were immediately tailed by a group of Hands, who guided them out of the jail in the Prison Sector then stood behind the group, unflinching.

“I guess we go shopping,” quipped Esque. “Tesque, get us to the closest...” he cut himself off, remembering the state of his now three companions. “Let’s go,”.

—b— There was a large gathering of people outside the Spire. They were all hands, rallied under the OverSeer and Infiltrator.

“Tonight my brethren, tonight we bring the corrupt OverSeer down!” Esque and his group moved in front of the main unit, getting ready to charge.

“Forward!” yelled the High Infiltrator. Something was thrown from behind them and exploded the metal doors open. Osque charged through, sword unsheathed. As they ran through the carpeted halls, they ran into some panicked servants. Without losing a stride, she reversegripped her sword and sliced through their side. Esque moved ahead, jumping and embedding two knives in the next acolyte’s chest. Up ahead there were splitting paths. Esque ran through the rightmost part, and Osque the leftmost. Sprinting through, she ran into five armed ArchZeals and unsheathed her whip. She spun around with her whip spinning around, lashing out.

Two ArchZeals went down, clutching wounds on their torsos. The other three moved in, pikes elegantly cutting off the narrow space in the corridor. She fended off their blows and jumped

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MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Christopher Khong

over a low swipe by the left ArchZeal. Using her whip to tether, she pulled on a low hanging lantern and kicked an ArchZeal to the floor. As she prepared to kill him, Torque’s maul crushed the side of the nearest ArchZeal and moved on to kill the fallen ones.

“Run ahead, and meet up with the rest of them.” He crushed the skull of another one “Kill the OverLord for me.”.

She quickly ran through the passage. It widened, revealing a large area where Hands and ArchZeals were fighting in bloody hand to hand combat. Esque was in there as well, beset upon by three ArchZeals. Osque jumped in to help him, beheading an ArchZeal and whipping another. Esque quickly followed up with a flurry of stabs to the last one. With a section now clear, they hurried past the main battle.

“Should be the throne room coming up.” panted Esque. They approached a double door.

“Together?” asked Esque. Osque nodded. They both pushed open the door, revealing a large room. On top of a dark throne, sat the OverLord.

“So, I’ve been betrayed.” The OverLord’s smooth voice flowed over Osque. “No matter, I’ll replace them.” In an inhuman flurry of movement, the OverLord jumped out of his throne and ran Esque through with a metal scythe.

“Let the fun begin,”.

—b— Esque’s eyes widened as he realised what had happened.

“No!” Osque’s mind was slow to realise who had spoken. “Damn you!” Roque’s spear appeared and nearly pierced the OverLord, but got caught on the crook of his scythe. The OverLord lashed out, but Osque caught it on her sword. Anger flashing in her eyes, she flicked out with her whip.

The OverLord jumped back out of range, then straight back in, scythe flicking towards Roque.

Roque quickly blocked then launched into a flurry of strikes. Preying on the OverLord’s defensive play, Osque swung her sword vertically causing the OverLord to be forced into blocking both Roque and Osque’s blades. Osque flicked out with her whip, cutting into the OverLord’s arm. His scythe hold weakened, and together Roque and Osque pushed forward and cut through his chest.

“You fools.” The OverLord’s sounded like blood was streaming into his lungs. “Don’t you ever wonder what I did to those taken in the ritual? What I do?”

Esque and Roque stared at each other in confusion.

“You’ll know soon enough. When She arrives,” The OverLord’s laugh rang hollow.

“Just you wait.”. —

•

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Second Most Distinguished Conspirator written by Allan Huang (Year 9)

“I swear I will pledge undying loyalty to the regime. The regime provides me with food, the regime provides me with shelter, the regime provides me with security. To refuse the regime is to refuse love and care, it is to accept lunacy. Thus, I am prepared to sacrifice all I have for it, and mercilessly kill those who oppose it.”

– The Oath of Allegiance (1938)

T

he driver was used to the harsh winter, although; he knew, at least for him, winter was kinder. Heating, comfortable chairs, a roof over your head, can all be found inside a cargo truck. He can be warm, unlike others, unlike so many people that he drives by every day on his way to deliver food, tools and weapons in bulk. Unlike the people he could not stop for, no matter how much one woman desperately pounds on the side of the truck, pleading to be let in so her five-year-old son can survive, no matter how much a man yells at him for just one can of beef. He could not accept hitch-hikers, he could not share the cargo. They will know. “The regime is all-seeing,” is the message that is imprinted in bold, red text on countless posters, billboards, and signs that the truck-driver passes daily. And the public execution square, always full of burglars and other law-breakers, shackled on wooden posts, behind barbed-wire fences for everyone to see, is proof of this. Prisoners of all sorts, but always paper-thin, carrying nothing but ragged pieces of cloth that they call clothes on their backs, bare feet pressed against the snow, about to die in only a few hours. There is never an executioner present. The bitter cold is enough to kill even the toughest of men, given enough time. Guards are never present either. The cold whittles down your energy until not an ounce of strength required to escape is left. The driver is unfortunate enough to have to pass these unfortunate people every day on his way to and from the warehouse. He did not want to join their ranks. So he ploughed on, past the crowd of people sitting on the streets, their clothes blanketed by thick, white snow, towards his first stop.

“Bakery 6, entrance 2, employees only.” Except the sign was so ancient, with the dull paint flaking off, all that was readable was “ a ke e tra ce 2 plo ees on .” After all, the government has other things to do besides repainting signs. At least the official coat of arms, an ice blue polar bear, was just barely visible in the corner of the sign, warning ordinary citizens not to enter. Below it was a single square tunnel, just large enough to drive a vehicle through, locked behind a metal gate, a grey block in the middle of less grey concrete. From this angle, there was nothing to give away that this lump of rock was in fact, a bakery. It appeared to be just a square block on three sides of the building. Literally nothing. No brick patterns, no windows. Just a grey slab. Apart from the very front of the block, which had two doors, one red, metal door labeled “employees only”, was firmly locked shut and reinforced to the point that it might withstand a nuclear blast. The other door to the left, was about the same size and shape, still built like an industrial vault door, only unpainted. And there were people. So, so many people, young, old, male, female, lined in a mile-long

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queue that snaked towards the door, hands trembling around a bread ticket. For many, the only hope of being fed for the day lies in a slip of yellow paper with some credentials on it, which was of course, stamped with the crest of the blue bear. Periodically, the piece of metal would move, revealing that it was guarding a small, dimly lit room which can only be described as an airlock. The word “Next!” would echo from inside, and a new person wobbled inside, shaking off the snow that collected on their shoulders as they went. This would repeat, again and again.

Occasionally, someone would be hurried out of the same door and slowly trudged towards the main road, face blurred with tears that nearly froze into ice on their sheet-white face, but not before a fight. Not before a few sentences which tone could just be made out to be the sound of begging, muffled by the door of course, traveled out the building for those near the front of the line to hear. Not before suppressed shouts defiantly radiated from the room, growing ever louder, before a sharp “beeeeep” of the security alarm sounded. Then, the uniform, rythsmitic thuds from the leather boots of at least four different men followed, also increasing louder and louder, which was in turn, followed by either complete silence, a scuffle, or occasionally, a gunshot. Some would wait for hours, or even days in this line, out in the open cold. Not the truck driver though. He wasn’t here for bread. Or, at least, he wasn’t here to take bread.

If the outside of the bakery looked like a rock, then the inside looked like a nuclear bunker.

As the steel gate closed behind the cargo truck, absolutely no natural light slid through. This was the warehouse of the bakery. To one side of the warehouse, lines of metal, mostly empty shelves stood.

A few wooden boxes could be seen dotted among the sea of grey, labeled “FLOUR” in bold, red text. Underneath the dim-to-the-point-of-non-existence lights that hung from electrical cords on the white ceiling, the truck driver could just make out at tall man leaning against the shelves, with a thick black leather jacket, black denim pants, black sheepskin boots and a hard face blackened by years of cigarette smoke which all seemed to blend into one humanoid silhouette under the lighting.

The only part of his body that stood out were his warm, blue eyes among all the darkness that overlooked the truck expectedly. The man smiled, revealing a set of yellowish teeth.

“Alright, I’ve arrived,” thought the truck driver as his hands reached for the door handles.

—b— “Fredrick!” the man called, in the tone that one might use after seeing an old friend. “You’re here at last! I was worried you weren’t going to show up.”

The truck driver smiled, and said nothing for a while.

“Just help me unload the boxes,” he replied at last. The truck door swung open and the driver paced slowly towards the back of the truck, clutching a pair of keys in his gloved hands.

There were precisely 48 boxes in the truck, 12 of which contained flour.

“Got twelve today, Karl,” he said, working on the locks as he did so.

“Twelve? Only yesterday we had fourteen. Looks like the government’s cut food production again.

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SECOND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Allan Huang

I wonder what they’re doing with all that money instead of helping out the starving people in need,” he grumbled. Karl started to turn away towards a metal trolley; useful for carrying anything, especially boxes.

“I thought you’d know. You work for them, right?”

“Yeah, of course a bakery supervisor knows everything about politics and economics. Now shut up and start loading the boxes onto the trolley.”

The truck driver sighed. He supposed it was none of his business anyways. The regime knows what’s best for the country. If they do something, it has to be for a good reason. Or, at least, he told himself that, and hauled the first box onto the metal trolley. And then the second, and the third.

Each box he piled on, and pushed steadily towards the tall racks. A dull clunk meant that the box was unloaded from the trolley and onto the racks. The room was under a heavily undermaintaned light and the aisles in between the racks received even less light, and until the ninth trip, everything was normal, like any other day. But then, he found rack number seven. A dark narrow passage formed that extended all the way to the other side of the warehouse. To both sides, tall metallic racks half-filled with boxes towered, both of which slowly transformed into black the further they were from the entrance. There were no electric lamps above this aisle, so the only source of illumination was from the right, which were almost completely blocked by the rack on the right side, only managing to slither through the cracks in between the boxes and the shelves in faint blue slits of light, barely enough to see the surroundings with. Every few seconds, the ceiling lights momentarily flickered, plunging the aisle into complete darkness, like the insides of a black hole.

“Number nine,” he thought to himself. “Karl told you to put the boxes at rack nine. Just keep walking. You’re not supposed to be here.” But try as he may to force his head to turn away from the dark abyss, he could not shake the feeling that something was terribly wrong.

“Just keep walking. It’s just the lighting that’s spooking you.” Instead, he found himself frozen to the spot. He realised that he felt colder than all the winters he has ever lived through. “Keep walking, damn it!” But it was already too late as he realised his right hand was already clamped around his beat up service flashlight for the past five seconds.

—b— Section 2, page 18 of the Official Supply Manual for Transportation Workers stated clearly that all cargo, boxes and packages must be visibly stamped with the government seal to indicate government authorization of such cargo. Yet the rough wooden surface of exactly five crates seen under a dull, yellow light bore not a blue seal, but a faded green one with a great white shark head. And in the back of his mind, the voice of the country’s president, slightly grained by TV static, echoed again and again in his head.

“And remember: it is your duty as a model citizen to report all suspicious activity, either directly at the police station, or by telephone and radio,”.

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While vivid flashes of the local news bulletin, an old piece of wood and metal erected at the very centre of the town square, plastered with endless papers detailing the heroic acts of ordinary citizens who managed to aid police in solving crimes, entered his thoughts. He took out his radio.

—b— “Fredrick! What are you doing here?” The truck driver turned around sharply, and saw the silhouette of his friend rapidly approaching him. He immediately put his radio back into his pocket.

“Didn’t I tell you to put the boxes in rack nine?”

Karl was now close enough that the truck driver could see the absolute fury displayed on his friend’s face. Or maybe it was desperation, or fear. Whatever it was, Karl was yelling at the top of his lungs.

“I...I...just thought these, um, boxes here, eh-” “They’re nothing.” He was cut off quite quickly.

“Someone messed up somewhere. Got them boxes here two days ago. Stamped my boxes with some shipping company’s logo. Tried to call the transportation department about it, and they said they’ll come down here and ‘fix it’. And I got no bloody reply after that.” The driver saw he was deliberately trying to avoid eye contact.

“I mean, okay,” he replied. “I work for the transportation department, ya know. I could, uh, go and tell them myself, and get someone down here to sort it out myself.”

“Oh, no, you don’t have to. I’m sure they’ll do something ‘bout it.” The bakery supervisor’s tone of voice changed from angry, possibly fearful to definitely fearful.

“You sure? I mean, it really wouldn’t be much hassle for me to go and ask.”

“Yes I’m sure. I can sort this out myself.”

“Okay, I’ll just, uh, load up the rest of the boxes then.”

“No, I’ll take it from here. You can leave now,” the bakery supervisor said quickly.

“No, I insist. I’ll help you with the-” “GET OUT! NOW!” Not sure what prompted this sudden aggression, he walked defeatedly back to the truck, head slightly lower than when he came in.

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SECOND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Allan Huang

To calm themselves down, some people smoke, some people drink. The truck driver likes to listen to the soft roar of the truck engines and gazed out into the open road, while listening to the sounds of heavy rain hitting the roof. Well, there wasn’t rain, but snow will have to do.

He tried to shake his feelings, and more importantly, his suspicion.

“Just look outside,” he told himself. “Look outside the windows. Breathe in, breathe out.” He gazed out the thick truck windows, and watched the snow layer onto the apartment buildings on either side of him, deliberately ignoring a family of four, huddled under a thin blanket right outside the gates of the apartment building, a thin piece of wood separating them from shelter and safety.

“The Regime will look after them,” the truck driver thought, as he tried desperately to turn his head away from what he now noticed was a little child, no older than the age of seven, lying unconscious under the blanket, skin now icy blue, and what under the violent grumble of the engines could only faintly be made out as crying. He sank lower into his seat and placed his hand on the truck’s air duct, blasting warm air into his palm, and wondered, just for a second, if it would be enough to save the child.

“Look the other way,” he commanded himself, and slowly turned his head to the right.

He immediately regretted it.

—b— The standard soldier uniform was designed to represent the best of man. Neatly pressed green with brown leather boots and an unmissable badge practically showing the world how elevated their status is. And the driver expected soldiers to act as such. Instead, what he saw out the right side of the truck disgusted him.

“Alright, you promised to pay up by today,” he overheard one particular soldier state threateningly as he stood over a thin, young man who looked like he hadn’t eaten in weeks.

“I’m sorry sir! I need the money for rent.” the young man replied. The driver, upon close inspection, found the man’s eyes to be lined with fear, in much the same way of a mouse confronting a cat.

“Well looks like I’m gonna have to teach you a lesson to pay your money on time, then.”

And from his leather belt, he pulled out a solid metal baton.

“Look away, now! Just concentrate on the road. It’s none of ya business, none of ya business, none of ya business…” the truck driver droned. His hand hurriedly went to the radio knob to crank up the volume to the maximum to drown out what he predicted would be screams of pain. Maybe it was best not to look outside for now. One good thing did come out of that, though. The disgust at the soldier completely distracted the truck driver from his previous thoughts about his friend’s sudden, and quite suspicious anger. What even was he doing here?

So imagine his surprise when just ahead, five more soldiers in dark green sat in folding chairs around the road, guns laying strewn about a hastily made sign labeled “Checkpoint 1”.

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“We got someone!” he heard one of the soldiers yell. The casual atmosphere displayed was immediately replaced by the hard militant professionalism as the soldiers swiftly grabbed their guns from the floor and moved purposefully towards the truck.

—b— He rolled down the window. “What’s this?” the truck driver demanded, while his own mind was hard at work to provide answers to this sudden disruption in routine. He had never, in all his years on the job, been stopped by soldiers on the road. Tents on the side of the road suggested that this arrangement is temporary, but the “Under Construction” signs surrounding pits of wet cement suggests that the tents will soon be replaced by something more permanent.

“A checkpoint,” one soldier replied. “Can’t you read the sign?”

The soldier shot the driver a nastly look, and the driver returned it.

“Oh, and on what authority are you opening checkpoints everywhere?” the driver asked coldly.

“I have a good mind to report you to the government right this instant and-” “Actually, we are under orders from the government themselves.” the soldier said, and handed him a slip of paper through the window.

This is an official command from the Regime.

Checkpoints are to be established throughout the country’s main roads (you can find an attached map of the location of the checkpoints). Soldiers are to ask drivers that wish to pass for their identification as well as search their vehicles. If contrabands and/or invalid identification are found, the driver is to be arrested and the military is to be notified.

From the Ministry of Peacekeeping.

—b— In an instance, all the fight inside the truck driver disappeared, like the air being let out of a balloon. He handed back the letter and gazed back up with a set of defeated eyes, although he desperately tried to hide his emotions. He let his thoughts drift, and wondered just why everyone was being searched. As far as he could tell, the world has remained the same. Maybe someone stole something valuable? No, a respectable citizen would never do such a thing.

—b— “Hey, hey! I’m talking to you! Where. Is. Your. Identification?!”

“Oh, uh, sorry sir, gimme a sec.” And from his pocket, he pulled out a rusty key and thrust it into the keyhole located in a compartment under the dashboard.

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SECOND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Allan Huang

“Um, okay, uh, where’s my passport?” He muttered to himself as pages upon pages of documents were discarded onto the passenger seat.

“Oh, here it is.” he said at last when all that remained inside the metal drawer was a small leatherback booklet with the words “Passport of New Kobraski” and the blue bear stamped on the front cover.

“Okay, okay and okay. All seems good. Passport checks out.”

“Good. Can I please go now?”

“Patience.” The soldier replied. “Still gotta search your truck.”

The truck driver couldn’t help it. He let out a low, almost inaudible groan.

“What did you just say?”

“Nothin’, nothin’.”

“Hand me your keys to your truck.” the soldier demanded.

“An’ what if I don’t?”

“Then you’ll be intentionally breaking a set law and I’ll have no choice but to arrest you.”

The driver eyed him for a good second, as if holding back some sort of primal rage behind a thin veil of patience.

“Don’t you dare lose this.”

He was obviously not bearing any illegal cargo. But, he couldn’t help but feel that this was a serious intrusion of privacy.

“You better not touch anything in there.” he called. “You can search my cargo, but I’ll be damned if you break anything.”

A minute soon passed. Or was it two minutes? Maybe an hour? The truck driver did not know.

All he knew was that there was a very unwelcome man rummaging through his truck. At one point, he heard a deafening sound of wood banging against metal and prayed that none of the valuable crates were broken. He knew that would mean being instantly arrested, regardless of who actually damaged the crate. Still, he wasn’t sure if the soldier had any knowledge of that.

“You better not break anything! If you do, I’ll report you and have you off to jail immediately for damaging government property!” This was an empty threat, but he needed to appear in control. Because he knew very well that he had no authoritative power over a soldier.

After a long and uneasy wait, he was relieved to finally hear an “Okay, I’m done,” being shouted.

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“Took your time, eh?”

“Well, can’t be too careful.”

“Is there anything else you lot need to hold me up?” he asked.

“No, that’s it for today. And have a nice day.”

The driver drove out of the checkpoint with an unshakable feeling of alienation.

—b— He continued the rest of his day with a stomach full of unease. “Something’s not right,” he thought, as he recalled all that has happened so far. Boxes, weird logos, a nervous friend, a mean soldier, more mean soldiers, all visited his mind and left a small fragment of something, the tiniest of puzzle pieces building to some bigger picture, but for now, all remained jumbled in a disorganised heap. “Something’s not right.” But he did not know what exactly. “Something just is not right.” He knew the way one might tell a music piece is just slightly out of tune, or a cup in a painting is off-centre: just barely.

—b— Open, unload, close, open, unload close. The same cycle that just insists on repeating at every stop. The way the back doors slam shut, the slight bounciness to the suspension every time boxes were hauled off, and the cold, slowly creeping into his skin. His mind paid no attention to these things, and instead chose to remind him time and time again, repetitively drilling the message in place: “Something’s not right.” Twice he was behind schedule today, arriving later than usual and being confronted by an angry construction manager with a manly beard is never ideal. As the truck driver repeatedly, and absent-mindedly apologised, the way a child continues saying “sorry” to end the parents’ lecture as quickly as possible, while his mind worked hard, spelling out that something’s not right. Past the town square he goes, crowded with all sorts of people, pointing at the daily news bulletin. Unfortunately, the truck driver was too far away, and his windows too dusty to make out the headlines, but he knew they felt off.

The people felt off. The jumbled noise of a hundred conversations at once, friends meeting each other, talks of the weather, casual joking, were all gone, replaced with low murmuring as people pointed worryingly towards one particular headline. Something’s not right.

—b— The final destination. The Warehouse. Park his truck, and then go home. But he’s in no hurry.

“I’ve got plenty of time to go home,” he thought. “What if I just stay here a little longer.”

The sun, now bright orange, glowing like a phoenix just before it crumbles into ashes, is finally visible, no longer blocked by dark clouds. The few spots where the clouds could still be seen were bright pink under the sunlight. And the trees on the horizon, silhouetted against the warm background in tiny black shapes.

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SECOND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Allan Huang

“Why not? Why can’t I just stay a bit longer?” He thought, and picked a bench to sit on, first wiping the snow off it. Then, after what was probably forever, he finally walked home.

—b— “Daddy’s home!” was the first sound he heard as soon as he plugged the key into the keyhole.

The truck driver opened the door to reveal a narrow corridor, white paint flaking off the walls, and dust covering half of the bare, uncarpeted floor. And in the centre of the corridor, was a small girl, downed in a tiny blue skirt, running at full speed towards him.

“Hey sweetie!” he said.

“Daddy, how was your day?”

How was his day? Suddenly all of his momentary happiness disappeared. He suddenly remembered. Something’s not right. He remembered the bakery, the checkpoint, the eerie silence of the town square. The sinister feeling surrounding him. His smile vanished.

“Daddy?”

“Daddy’s fine,” he replied quickly. “I had an awesome day.”

“Oh! Would you look at the time!” he pointed at the clock hanging from the wall. “It’s way past your bedtime. Now why don’t you go to sleep, darling? I just need to do a few housekeeping tasks.”

“Ok” With that, she vanished from the room, along with the cheerful atmosphere she carried.

—b— If the truck driver was living alone and didn’t want to wake anyone up this late into the night, he definitely would have cried by now. Curled up behind a tiny desk, overflowing with sheets of bills and taxes, and a sea of figures bouncing around through his head. He picked up a cheque of sixty dollars, and sighed. Looks like they cut his pay again. This time for arriving behind schedule on delivery. He needs $10 for electricity, 15 for food, 5 for heating, 20 for rent. The leaking gas pipe needs to be repaired. The crack in the ceiling, which is letting in water, must be fixed.

All in all, a net gain of negative $30.

—b— As each new letter was opened, he sank further into depression.

“You’re a model citizen,” he comforted himself. “Your reward will come.”

He tore open the letter for taxes, and started reading under the dim light.

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Dear citizens, From the 24/5/1993, All citizens are required to pay double their usual amount of taxes in order to support the costs of increased security precautions. You do not have a choice. Failure to pay the expected amount will result in being jailed for 6 months.

From the Glorious Regime That night, he went to sleep knowing his responsibility to care for his daughter has doubled in difficulty, as well as the nagging feeling that something’s not right.

—b— DAY 2 Although he is in a truck with heating and a thick jacket on, the winter was slowly getting to the driver, although he doubted the chills he was getting down his spine had anything to do with the weather.

“The Regime is all caring.” Imprinted onto a yellow sheet of paper, stuck to the side of his truck, seemed off. The simple sentence felt odd, like there was a different meaning. The poster stared down at him, as though daring him to investigate. The text was perfectly centred, the yellow not too bright or dull, and the all too friendly cartoon depiction of the president, blended together perfectly to create something that was just off.

—b— “Karl!” He parked his truck in the bakery. “Look, I’m sorry about yesterday man, can we wait…who are you?”

For the man standing wore different clothes then Karl. He wore a clean, crisp suit with a bright orange tie. His hair was well combed, and he had white teeth. But his eyes were the darkest shade of black he has ever seen, like the insides of a tunnel.

“The previous manager has been replaced,” the man explained. His voice carried none of the impulsiveness that the driver’s friend carried, instead he sounded professional, as if he spoke in every conversation the same way he would speak in a business meeting. “My name is Gustave, and from today onwards, I will be your new manager.”

“What have you done with my friend?” the truck driver demanded.

“That is none of your concern. I am acting under orders of the government, who has asked me not to openly disclose such information.” the man replied coolly.

“Why are you here? I want my friend back!”

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SECOND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Allan Huang

“I don’t think you understand,” the man maintained his formality, but there was no mistaking the threatening tone. “Your friend was laid off due to incompetence. I am a high-ranking official sent under direct orders from the government to replace him. If you object to my presence, you object to the decision of the country. Do you understand what this implies?”

He let the truck driver dwell on his words for a moment. “You don’t want to be arrested, do you?” He continued to stare down at the driver, waiting for him to break.

“No, sir.”

“Good, then we have no problem. Now if you would kindly unload the boxes, that would be much appreciated.”

Something’s not right. This man seemed to know more than he said. If he wants answers, he’s gonna have to go for them now.

“This has something to do with the boxes, doesn’t it.”

“I’m sorry, I’m not sure I understand.”

“Don’t play dumb. Yesterday, five crates. Stamped with the wrong logo. Today, he’s gone.

What do you have to say about that?”

“I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re on about.”

“I suppose you thought he was responsible for the wrong stamping.”

“This is completely ridiculous!”

“Maybe you wanted the position so you found an excuse to-” “SILENCE!” Gustave roared. He waited until the driver had stopped talking entirely.

Then he very quietly spoke. “You have no idea what’s going on here.”

“Now please,” he spoke for one last time. “Just help me unload the boxes.”

—b— Karl was missing. That’s all he knew. That’s all that he needed to dwell on for the day. And the new man’s daunting words: “You have no idea what’s going on here.” So he did know more than he was letting on. Another piece of the puzzle, heaped onto the mountainous pile of puzzle pieces, unable to be solved. He was simply stumped, and frustrated with himself for not piecing anything together, like a writer frustrated with his lack of ability to pave the way for the plot of a story, instead sitting upon the typewriter for hours without tying a word, not knowing what to do, what to write. The writer randomly types out nonsensical phrases, just to get words on the page, just to feel productive when he is in fact running around in circles. The plot goes nowhere. The mystery remains unsolved. The truck driver randomly stringing together theories, until he found one that made sense. None of them did.

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“Are you sure you’re okay, dad?” his daughter asked him later that night.

“Yes, I’m fine,” he replied.

—b— DAY 3 “What do you mean, I need more than just a passport to pass this checkpoint?”

“What, you didn’t get the letter?” the soldier at checkpoint 1 replied. “They sent one to everyone last night. All transportation workers must provide a work pass from today onwards.”

“Why?” The soldier rolled his eyes, as if the answer was the most obvious thing in the world.

“Can’t you tell, mate? Security’s gone up.”

Only then did the truck driver realise all the subtle changes. A roadspike has been placed on the ground, constantly being swept clean of snow. Ten guards were put around the checkpoint, instead of five. The guards themselves were also different. Navy blue figures were in place of the previous green ones, each donned a green metal helmet with a thick, bullet-proof visor and what seemed to be heavy body armour. The pistols were swapped out with sub-machine guns.

No longer did he catch the soldiers lounging on folding chairs and smoking cigars. Each one stood still as a statue on either side of the road, indifferent to the cold.

“Fine. Where can I get one of those work pass thingys?”

“I dunno, I’m just a soldier. But I supposed they get issued at the post office or something.”

“That’s on the other side of the city from here! I’ll be late on my deliveries.”

“Hey, I didn’t make the rules. If you don’t have a work pass, you can’t pass.”

The driver now had to dwell on the fact that his pay will likely be cut in half for the rest of the day.

—b— “Daddy, I’m hungry,” The truck driver thought about the numbers in his bank account, and the letter he received later that day.

Due to constant tardiness, we refuse to pay you any sum of money today. Further displays of such behaviour will result in a termination of employment. Do not let this happen again.

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SECOND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Allan Huang

“I’m sorry,” was all he managed to get out.

“What will we be eating for dinner?”

“I’m sorry,” he repeated. He didn’t know what else to say. “I’m sorry.”

—b— DAY 4 He fought the urge to cry. Now he understood. Everywhere he looked was poverty, miserable people populating this miserable world. Was he miserable, too? He didn’t know. “The regime is all caring.” five words that seemed to mock him endlessly. He couldn’t bear to look at that stupid poster for a second longer.

All of a sudden, he heard a yell.

“Stop the truck!” He glanced through the snow-covered windows to find a thin man running towards him.

“Please sir, stop the truck.”

“What do you want?” he asked.

“Spare some food, please?” The man’s eyes glinted with desperation.

The truck driver swallowed an uneasy breath. Goodness knows how long this man has been living on the streets.

“It’s for my family. I don’t know how much longer they can go on.”

“The Regime is all seeing.” The message played through his head over and over again.

Obey the law, was what he was taught in school. If you break the law, you will be jailed.

Such is common knowledge.

He stepped out of the truck.

“Goddammit. Just so we’re clear, if I get caught, I’m turning you in as well.”

Twilight. The transition between the chaos of day, and the eerie silence of night. When the sun strikes the earth at such an angle to produce a variety of beautiful colours.

“Beautiful, isn’t it?” He heard a voice from his left speak.

“He immediately turned his head to see a figure gazing out at the sky, peacefully drinking a bottle of alcohol.

27

“Who are you?”

“I’m the one with all the answers.” He spoke with a gentle voice. “You see, we’ve been watching you for a long time. A truck driver is exactly what we need on the team.”

It was like every piece of the puzzle was put together simultaneously.

“You’re a terrorist, aren’t you?”

“I detest the word terrorist,” he replied. “It makes us seem extreme and savage. But, yes.

We need someone who can deliver supplies to various locations, so you’re a perfect candidate.

Your friend, the bakery supervisor, has been compromised and can no longer help us.”

“He was working for you?”

“Wasn’t it obvious?”

Everything was happening too quickly. He didn’t know what to think or say first, or how to respond to this person. He was being bombarded with information so quickly. How are you meant to respond when someone admits to attempting to overthrow the government? At last he said “Y’know, there’s nothing stopping me from reporting you this instant.”

And yet I have the strangest feeling that you won’t,” the man winked. “Now of course, it wouldn’t be very fair if I don’t compensate you should you choose to help us. What do you say about $200 a day?”

An awkward silence broke out, as the two lingered around for a few seconds not speaking at all.

“Oh, would you look at the time! You really should be heading back home. Remember it’s your choice. You don’t have to if you don’t want to. Same time tomorrow?”

The truck driver sat by himself. As the last hint of sunlight disappeared over the horizon, he knew what he had to do. —

•

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SECOND MOST DISTINGUISHED CONSPIRATOR | Allan Huang

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Third Most Distinguished Conspirator and Finest Poem written by Ray He (Year 10)

nature’s conspiracy a lost prayer to the sacred wind a fruit once sweet turned bitter a world once living now dead o mother how men entranced by greed abused you and now you conspire against us with the ferocious gales of the seven seas and the stunning might of your righteous rage no man can stop your inevitable wrath the world is incomplete until it has been burnt into rubble and ash. yet in ash a seed will grow more powerful and strong and bear fruits sweeter 31

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Most Imaginative written by Elijah Pannozzo (Year 12)

I

Arcana Fundorum

llum imum aedificii, quod in mediis nostrae seniorum scolae ibi stat, occupant officinae istae cubiculosque illos quos manu tenet ferri munus linguae Latini, et residentes sui, nominibus ‘grammatistae Latini sermonis et sui scholastici’, prava scientiis verba legere infernibus dicuntur, disperguntur susurru invocare diro inhumanos, nefasque sub praesidio summatim solitudinis celebrare putantur.

Has famas, sane, vera se includunt.

Eis istis magis de Hesperiae terrae bello virisque et atrocitatibus inter se conlocutis Mars hastam terrae lactis ac mellis coruscabat, eaque se convertit in terram cruoris ac violentiae sine ratione. Verbis de remedio pestilentiae antiquae in examine pristino ad linguam ingeniam translatis Spes mox remedii aetatis eius pestilentiae invasit. Multae tales res etiam ab grammatistis, in aetate ante aetatem, effectae sunt: exemplis de hastis trans homines perforantibus lectis caput ducis liberi mundi satis iuvenis acri glante perforatum; centum abhinc annis lapide trans lacus quam procul iactante, fax caelestis ab caelo ad Rutheniam cecidit; saxis iam dudum compulsantibus cultus aetatis aeris ab occultis perditi marium gentibus: latinistae semper fuerunt clades orbis.

Olim, in tempore recentius, celebrabant nonnulli latinistae suusque grammatista, dira susurrantes verba et deos venerantes alienos, ritus scelestos in quodam cubiculo, ducens ceteros globi dominus qui dicebat clamabatque fortissimus. At nescio qui, istum praeteriens cubiculum, illa visa congressione se constituit. Conspecto conticuere omnes intentique ora tenebant.

Nullo agente, cultores virum spectabant et is illos. In oculos viri magister immobiles inhiabat, et vir oculos rehiabat magistri perterritos.

Tandem verso pollice vir surrisit, magistro quoque surridente. Illo cuncti momento sciebant eum quae gerentes intellegere. Ab cubiculo gresso magister ritum cum latinistarum ope persecutus est.

Dicam quod erat ritum exsequebantur: per nexum aetherium principem consulabant examinatorum de examine futuro: nemo scilicet scit quo modo examines censeantur, sed constat artes infernas subvenire potere.

Hoc erat propositum hoc die, diebus autem aliis cum longe peioribus entibus consuluerunt de longe peioribus qui iam ignoramus…

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O

(English) The Secrets of the Lower Levels

ccupying the lowest level of the building which stands in the middle of our senior school are the offices and classrooms which the Latin department holds in an iron grip; its residents, going by the name ‘Latin teachers and their students’, are said to read foul texts with their infernal knowledge, are rumoured to invoke unworldly things with their strange mutterings, and are generally thought to be up to no good within the protection of their solitude.

—b— These stories, of course, are true.

—b— When those wizards spoke amongst themselves about the war in the land of Hesperia, its characters and the atrocities they committed, war broke out in the land of milk and honey, turning it into the land of blood and mindless violence. When they translated a text in their last exam about the solution to an ancient plague, hope came to them soon after in the form of a solution to the plague of their own time. Many such events were brought about by their teachers (in the time before time): when they were reading extracts about spears piercing through men, the still-young leader of the free world’s head was pierced by a swift bullet; when a hundred years ago they were throwing a stone as far as they could across a lake, a meteor fell from the sky down into Russia; whilst long ago they banged rocks together, the civilisations of the bronze age were destroyed by the mysterious sea-peoples: latinists have always been the scourge of the earth.

—b— Once, in more recent history, some Latin students were performing wicked rituals in a classroom, whispering foul-meaning words, worshipping foreign gods; their teacher was leading the coven, speaking and shouting the loudest out of all those present.

But someone who happened to be walking past that same classroom saw the group and halted in his tread. Upon seeing the man, all fell silent and stood transfixed. No one acted: the cultists simply watched the man and he them. The teacher stared into the man’s unmoving eyes, and the man stared back into the teacher’s terrified eyes.

At last the man gave a thumbs up and smiled, and then the teacher also smiled. At that moment all those gathered knew that the man understood what was going on.

After the man had walked off away from the room, the teacher continued on the ritual alongside his students.

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MOST IMAGINATIVE | Elijah Pannozzo

I should say what that ritual was that they were performing: they were consulting the chief examiner via an ethereal connection about the exam to come: of course, no one really knows how the exams are made (not even the chief examiner), but it is known that the infernal arts can be of help.

That’s what they were up to on that day, but on other days they’ve asked far worse entities about far more sinister things which to this very day we still don’t know... —

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Finest Argument written by William Zhang (Year 10)

An unusual encounter “Please! You have to believe me!” Galiath declared, “they’re real! I saw them myself !”

J

—b—

ohn Galiath knelt outside, on the cold, rough, stoney floor, hands desperately bashing against the closed sliding doors of the poorly cared for and largely forgotton Matheson Institute of Biological Science. His research papers, drowning in nearby puddles, begging for approval. Many people shot quick glances whilst passing by. Some, out of pity. Others, of confusion. Most, of digust, or simply, disappointment.

A tall, broad shouldered, intelligent looking man by the name of Dr Morrison, known to be the head scientist of the Matheson Institute, walked from behind John and patted his shoulder’s twice.

“Sorry lad, but you’re completely out of your mind! No one would believe you even if they wanted to! Not even me.”

Dr Morrison swiped his keycard against the entrance lock. The red light above the doors beeped twice and flicked green, and he entered the science building, the doors slowly shutting behind him, and Galiath, still kneeling.

As the doors met, the sound of the collision echoed incessantly in John’s ears, a sound that would haunt him for eternity. Embarrasement, anguish, melancholy, all emotionally developed through the simple display of the doors shutting and the light, flicking red. Rejection.

—b— Galiath reflected upon his memorable encounter exactly a year ago…

It was a frosty night in Richmond. John Galiath nuzzled his face into the warmth of his thick Dr. Who scarf that looked like a Tom Baker original. He switched off the lights inside the late 1800’s brick warehouse whose asbestos roof had recently been replaced with carefully selected frosted panes of glass that would control UV levels. He walked out of the entrance into a narrow cobblestone lane that was completely silent apart from his own footsteps that could be heard echoeing against the side of brick single fronted Victorian homes and turned right, progressing down a long narrow street, eventually reaching the end and entering a world of commotion.

John weaved his way impatiently between the slow moving patrons who were deciding which of the myriad Vietnamese restaurants along Victoria Street offered the best Pho. He glanced

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over the crowd, looking hopefully for the side street that led to his small rundown weatherboard.

As he stepped awkwardly around a young couple who suddenly hesitated, his eyes were immediately drawn to a blonde women in her mid 20s who was sitting in a bar across the street, appearing to be expecting someone. She was wearing a sparkly Forever New dress, her lips, coated with a layer of crimson rose coloured lipstick, her long, curley hair was let loose, swinging effortlessly about. An older drunk man in a slightly disheveled suit approached her, attempting to flirt and maybe secure her number, however, the woman’s expressions clearly showed she wasn’t impressed, nor interested. Galiath didn’t need his PhD to work out that this situation wasn’t going to end well. Harsh personal experience had taught him that already, and he felt sorry for the man knowing what would undoubtedly lead to uncomfortable self-reflection. Galiath quickly looked away, hoping he wasn’t caught staring, and continued walking hastily towards the street leading to his estate.

Turning into Horby Street, he noticed the two familiar gum trees on the edge of the lonely park that stood in between him and his home. They were swaying, seemingly dancing to the music blasting out in the chaotic street he was grateful to have left behind. Galiath’s stomach constricted. Even after walking through the gloomy park unscathed many times before, he couldn’t help but feel slightly anxious, knowing this was ‘hookup’ and ‘junkie territory’.

In broad daylight, the park was a safe haven, a place of relief. Like a cosy living room, it was bright, warm and welcoming. Birds sang as they perched on the wooden benches during warmer seasons, drinking out of puddles in the uneven bitumen path when it was wet. But at night, the park was an enigma and unpredictable. A whole different universe that Galiath would never understand. Frightening and elusive.

Even realising the potential danger, he was seduced by the silence and the loneliness which characterised the crepuscular park. An escape from society, where he could gaze up, searching for the occasional star on a particularily clear night, where it was bright enough to overcome the light pollution that constantly layered over the whole city. In the refreshing quietness, he filled his lungs with oxygen, bringing his thoughts to life.

Galiath entered through the rusty, metal gates and walked down his usual path. A luminous glow shone dimly behind a large rock a couple of metres ahead that was surrounded by a patch of overgrown bushes.

Anyone who was passing by during the day would’ve missed it, but the night’s dimness had revealed the presence of the strange light. He cautiously crouched to the ground and slowly shuffled towards the anonymous glow, a shell crab exploring a potential new home. He carefully brushed away the leaves and twigs in front of him, that may have given away his presence.

As he got closer, his heart rate, rose, realising that the light was actually coming from some unearthly-like creature.

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FINEST ARGUMENT | William Zhang

“Could this be?” he wondered.

Eventually, he was close enough to clearly make out the shape of the creature. Galiath looked around, seeking validation. Time seemed to stop. Before him was a small figure, flat irregularshaped that was stuck tightly to the back of a grainy rock. Its pale, green skin (if skin was the right term to describe it) was beautiful, reflecting marvellously in the moonlight. It had what took the shape of a protuberant eye, but only one. John did not dare to move, attempting to steady his breath, unable to believe that this was the same creature which had visited his lab the previous year. His eyes met with the creature’s. A sudden complex range of emotions seemed to be revealed in its single eye, suggesting to Galiath that it was friendly, yet dangerous.

It seemed curious, but also lost. At that moment, but only very briefly, he felt a connection to the strange life form, as if it understood him. Moreover, in some strange way, he felt as though he and it were alike. Soon, his own feelings became conflicted and even the most discrepant of emotions – excitement, fear and curiousity became indistinguishable.

The extra-terrestrial being detached itself from the rock, and stuck out an arm-shaped extension, touching Galiath’s leg. He could feel his leg hairs being brushed over, his muscles gradually tensing. The creature felt moist and slimy, yet John’s leg remained dry. Galiath grinned.

“Yes. This feeling. I remember now! It was just like this!”

As it ceased to explore his body, Galiath was almost immediately struck with a desire to explore the creature himself, to touch it again… just once more.

“No. Don’t leave! Not again!”

He reached out his hand, just scraping the top surface of the creature’s head. Soon after, he was struck with fatigue. His vision began to blur. He fought hard, trying to maintain his senses, but eventually submitted.

“I was right…” he thought, his entire body incapacitated.

Smiling, he stumbled backwards. His surroundings faded. Only darkness remained.

Tantalising, eerie, other-worldly. Oh yes, all of that… but, he knew it was real.

Or did he? —

•

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40

Best Middle School Submission written by Matthew Stephen (Year 7)

I

Ignorance and Hope

barrelled towards the light, not knowing how and where it would take me. It had been days, months, years since the calamity, time had stopped ticking, rivers had stopped flowing, babies had stopped crying. I was alone, my thick black hair and peculiar grey eyes were something I had pride in before it all went crumbling down, but now emotions are just a mere distraction from the truth. Some people ran and some murdered when it happened, when the cities fell and for once we all knew what was coming, but some, like me, stayed to watch. I watched as people ran from fire and gasped for their last breath, I stood there as my own people turned into dust.

Decilit streets passed me as I pondered around the remains of what was once a sprawling city.

The cars of people who once were, littered the streets, left alone, frozen in time, I could almost feel the panic that shot through the air when it happened, when people turned against each other, when suddenly all the hatred in the world was seen. Only those who didn’t feel were left alive, those who didn’t care. As humanity fell, nature had taken back control, trees crept through crevices in the concrete ground, vines hanging from the highest buildings, like they knew that we were no more.

As I drifted through the maze of streets I came across one of the supermarkets, just what I needed, I thought, it’s blinding green paint had been stripped away into a murky dull grey. Plants and weeds sheltered the building as I sliced through them trying to gain access to the goods within. Shoving through the dense forest of protection of which this door had acquired, rays of light hit the lines of shelves for the first time in so long, revealing the nutrients I so desperately needed. You have a customer and they’re certainly hungry, I thought to myself.

While my stomach rumbled like a volcano about to explode I sauntered through the cold still air, to my relief, I caught sight of the canned goods aisle. Cracking open a can of sloppy red tomatoes that were definitely slightly off, I breathed in a gasp of air, placed it on my dry tongue and forced it down my throat. Staring off into the darkness, I thought, how could this get any worse, I had been alone for six years, but not once I had wished for company. I don’t think I ever will. My mind drifted off in the dead silence.

“Hey Mr, can you help me find my mum? I saw you come in here and followed you,” said a boy in an annoyingly happy voice.

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My eyes shot open in pure anger, I could feel the blood rushing through my body. I had not seen a human for the last 6 years and the first person I saw was a small boy who wanted to find his mum, what could possibly be the odds?

“Firstly, that’s very creepy and sorry to disappoint you, but you do realize that she is definitely gone?” I replied stiffly.

“No! My mum said she would always be there for me, so are you going to help me or not Mr?” replied the boy in an almost scary voice.

I thought to myself, should I help this poor lonely child whose pants are nearly completely ripped apart and hat is almost as useful as a piece of paper. Definitely not.

“Well as much as I would love to help a small lonely child like you, in this world there is only one person who matters, and that is yourself, and from as far as I can tell, you are not me.

So good riddance,” I replied in a chirpily.

I took off confidently hoping never to see the sight of that silly boy ever again. I wandered through the shop, out of the dense jungle of a door and back out to the perilous silent city. Until suddenly it wasn’t so silent, the sound of light footsteps trailing behind me crept closer and closer.

“Come on I already said no kid,” I shouted as I turned back to realize that those footsteps did not belong to a small innocent child, but to a much more intimidating person dressed in a spotty green uniform. They also were holding quite a long bat. I really did reconsider all of my life choices in those moments. Within seconds my head was flying through the air with my impending doom almost arriving. My head hitting the ground, knocking me unconscious almost immediately, not like I wanted to be.

My eyes slowly lifted to reveal the sight of an old abandoned warehouse which had one of those old trains with funnels coming out from the top in it. I could sense that something was definitely wrong, my hands were tied together as I was dragged along by two large guards.

The crying of people who were packed in carriages passed me while thick dark clouds came into view. Screeeechh, a large decaying door on the side of the train slid open letting out a wave of sorrow out from the daunting people. I never knew that so many were still alive, I was better off without knowing. That’s how it is these days, the less you know, the better, the more you can focus on what really matters, surviving.

I looked up to face these new happy companions I had, full of joy, shown in the many tears coming from their eyes and very excited for the journey we had yet to experience together.

Pushing through any gap I could find in the sardine packed carriage(smelt like it too)I managed to squeeze my way to the corner of the carriage, where I saw the worst thing I had ever seen in my entire life. He had bluish green eyes and wore a hat as good as paper and was probably why I was in all this mess.

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BEST MIDDLE SCHOOL SUBMISSION | Matthew Stephen

“Hey Mr! I went out to follow you so we could find my mum but then a big person hit me with a bat! It was terrifying, but I know we are the way to my mum so I was happy,”exclaimed the little boy in that same annoyingly happy voice.

Some part of me wished that person would have hit that boy just a little bit harder, but you can’t get everything. I just couldn’t fathom the fact that out of every person left on this planet this boy who’s only mission in life is to find his mum ended up with me in a carriage on a train of who knows where. Yet he was the first person I had seen in so many years who had shown something so many had forgotten, love.

“You do know that we are most likely not just going to be dropped off nicely for your mum to be waiting for you and we are definitely going to a prison camp where you will spend the rest of your life suffering,”I responded neary shouting at him.

“Why.. would you say something like that, of course she will be there, she always is,” he replied as his eyes became as full as the ocean.

I looked out a small crack in the carriage seeing crows flutter by and dense mountain forests pass. The dark clouds had intensified, starting to slowly drench the land in the tears of the sky.

The boy had balled up on the ground, I could hear the sound of his wimpers through the now pelting rain, his thin white hair covering the look of his sorrowful face. I felt something, something other than a pure need to survive, something obscure, new, I felt bad. He was just a kid in such a lonely world and somehow he found the drive to keep going and I didn’t.

“How do you know your mum is where we are going?”I asked him, hoping to make sense of such a mind.

“It’s not that I know she’s there, it’s that I know she is here for me and that means that she will find me, no matter where I am,”He said quietly.

I had nearly forgotten what made humans so special, our ability to find hope in the most unlikely places. I could feel the train decelerating as we halted to a stop, the once almost dead crowd of people suddenly lifted their heads to view what was happening. Screeeeecchhhhh the rusted metal door was dragged open once again to unveil the sight of barbed wire and tall buildings with daunting light pouring out of them. It was like breathing water, every breath felt like a thick dense gulp. Besides the air, tall tropical trees surrounded the camp for as long I could see, providing almost perfect camouflage for this camp.

Prisoners were being hauled around dressed in dark green jumpsuits looking as if their souls had been pulled out of them, what had I got myself into? But just as I finished that thought, I caught a glance of someone holding a threatening black gun. More of these threatening people revealed themselves as I was shoved around trying to stay in one place. Suddenly I could feel the tension in the atmosphere rise as they whispered to each other, something was going to happen, something exciting, I thought.

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BANG! BANG! The air lit up with sounds, I could hear screaming, shouting, the first sign that these people around me were actually human. The armed people launched out of the carriage onto the murky ground while guards tried their best to shoot them down but there were too many. I turned back to the kid who was still huddled up in the corner. I could have left him, but he was the first person to ever make me think about someone else in this world and I couldn’t.

“Hey kid! Get up, we’re escaping and finding your mum,”I felt my nerves shock as I said that realizing the true magnitude of the situation we were in.

“Really? I can’t believe this after what you said,”He replied as I could sense the hope that I was missing all along coming back to him.

“Look, you made me realize that maybe there is a chance in this world for people like you, so stick to my back and don’t leave my sight,”I shouted while I almost made a cheeky grin.

We descended into what had now broken into a full on battle, shots flying from one side to another, explosions causing the ground to tremble. It was almost impossible to not get caught in the crossfire, sliding under fallen towers and leaping over holes left from the grenades.

But that’s when I heard it, my greatest fear, the sound of a bullet that did not make it to the otherside. My head flung back knowing what had happened, the boy had been hit.

I launched back like my life depended on it to see him lying still on the ground, but I didn’t and I wouldn’t lose something that had given me so much already. Blood was creeping down from his shoulder as I threw him over my back, you’ll be okay, I told him.

His bluish green eyes peaked open as he gasped for air while I raced towards the tropical trees drowning in sweat to get away from the fighting. I ran through the bushes filled by this new need for change pushed through vines and bearing the weight of a child on my back.

The air started to loosen and the sound of shooting faded away, I gently placed him on a log trying to find where he was shot. I tried to tell him not to speak but I think he knew that may be his last chance.

“Leave me, Mr, you have tried your best to help me and no one has ever done that for me, so really thank you,”he said breathlessly.

“But you can’t die, you can’t, what about your mum?”I said almost tearing up myself.

“My mum always told me that she would be there for me, I always believed she would find me, but now I realise, I’m finding her,”He replied as he gasped one last time and accepted his fate.

That’s the thing about humans, we can be arrogant, misled, fooled, but we know when something is right, through love and through pain.

I never lived a day ever again without thinking about that boy, he found a reason not to care and he survived in a world that no one was supposed to survive in. —

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Best Comic Piece written by Orlando Kuti (Year 9)

H

The CGS Conspiracy Theory

ave you ever wondered why there are so many solar panels at Camberwell Grammar School? Why do they generate so much more power than needed? Have you ever wondered why students aren’t allowed in staff rooms? And why are all our teachers always calm and positive?

My suspicions started growing in year eight, so did a bit of sleuthing. What I uncovered was extremely unnerving. Fearing my own safety, I figured the only way to protect myself was to spread the word. It might shock you too, but it’s better to know the truth than to be blissfully unaware of what’s been developing by the day.

At first I thought CGS might be using all the power it’s been producing to mine Bitcoin, and I suppose that would’ve been okay because no one would get hurt other than financially. But my theory didn’t explain how every teacher was able to remain calm and super positive even when faced with student misbehaviour and unruly classes. Last week for example, when Jimmy ate Maccas in math class then puked on his teacher’s shoes (a situation where any reasonable person would have lost it), his teacher just wiped it up and moved on. I witnessed this with my own eyes and it just doesn’t add up. It’s not normal BECAUSE IT’S NOT. They are not. Deep breath… what’s really happening in those staff rooms…stay with me…is that our teachers are plugging in to recharge their batteries. I’m not talking about coffee and cake here, but 240-volt power!

Here’s the thing; our teachers might appear human, but they’re actually part of an advanced artificial intelligence network run by none other than Mr Pisch. How do I know it’s Mr Pisch?

Because as any student of his English or History classes will confirm, Mr Pisch dresses like a supermodel (Gucci glasses, head to toe colour coordinated, never wears socks) and is unlike any other teacher. The robots aka our teachers on the other hand (and by the way I’m also highly suspicious of a number of students) are designed to fit in with the crowd and not bring uncalled attention to themselves.

So I manned up and took my concerns in person to Dr Hicks, hoping he wouldn’t think I’d completely lost it and follow up with an urgent call to my parents. But my greatest fears came to life when he responded calmly with perfect grammar, full of positivity and topping it off by reminding me of the school values. That’s when I knew for sure that Camberwell Grammar School is plugged into the AI network.

It all adds up. CGS teachers work day and night (except Mr Pisch of course) and convene throughout the week in secret staffrooms. There is a ridiculous abundance of solar panels and a not-so-evil genius disguised as an eccentric and fashionable art collecting English teacher.

Conspiracy theory? I think not. —

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48

Quirky Award written by Kevin Chan (Year 12)

Conspiracy and what is more, they tell to me, and this will surely blow your mind there’s stuff inside the water, mass control, I think you’re bound to find, that this goes high, straight to the top, what aren’t they telling you and me? Is the Earth flat? Is every jab mixed in with liquid mercury?

Can you not see, can you not tell, can you not feel inside your bones?

Life used to be so easy but they want to keep us down and so they

must have multiplied this madness by a multiple of six six six, I’m not insane,

I know that

someone else is playing tricks to fool us into thinking things, to making jobs so hard to get to making all the snow be gone and flames burn fiercer, hotter, yet we’re all told that it’s fine but I have eyes, I can so clearly see it’s common sense, the moon landing, all tricks on us,

the virus, climate change, vaccines

we’re fools, our lives are set, designed to stay on course it’s mass control by

Them

so that we never try to stop the source, the Marxists,

Jews, the Mexicans, or

dirty stinking Chinamen of Clintons, or lizards, Scorpios, a shadow cult something, when they come

for us, facades revealed, their weapons cloaked in dark of night, I’ll have the satisfaction then at least of know ing I was r i

g h t—

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50

Best Short Story written by Aidan Harris (Year 12)

CAIN: A MEMOIR OF MY YEARS ON LAND AND LAST DAYS AT SEA

Soul of Raven

Died 1900, Atlantic Ocean

—b— 1. STRAWMEN

I

t was but the spring of 1849, five years into my life, when I decided to leave my perch and seek out the man who had so inspired in me the longing for something greater than the weary cycle of the life I had become accustomed to. I spread my wings and bid the Maryland countryside farewell and flew towards Baltimore, where I would find one Edgar Allan Poe.

My previous owner was a recluse by the name of Samuel, a poor misunderstood farmer whom life had rather overlooked. Having run away from his father in search of something greater many years prior, he was little more than a peasant, out of place and eccentric as a parrot, though twice as talkative. I had watched him over the years, singing as he worked his little patch of land, from a dead oak overlooking the property. If I were to approach, he would make the sign of the cross and growl, his zealous belief in religion matched only by his trust in folk tales. Every now and again, a new figure would appear in the field, wearing a shirt more tattered than the one on his back, though this man was made of straw. How ironic was his belief that a scarecrow would intimidate me? My laughs would only increase the furrowing of his brow, and, perched on the arm of the strawman I was given my first human name: Cain, the murderer.

From Samuel I was to learn the history of my kin. My species was both judge and executioner, blessed with wisdom and foresight, to appear to men at the final hour as their knell. That was as much as I could gather, anyway, as his mutterings were near incomprehensible. Though he often feigned despise, I could sense, as all predators can, a weakness in him: the need to be heard by something, anything but his vegetables. Yet season after season, it was all the same.

Harvests came and went, while Samuel seemed only capable of subsistence; as the amount of grain planted lessened with each passing year, I made the conscious effort to not be an omen of his future.

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—b— 2. NEVERMORE

A

las, I was too late, too late to make Edgar Allan Poe’s acquaintance. A mere year after disseminating his greatest work of poetry, The Raven, to little critical acclaim, he had been found dead on the streets of Baltimore. Poe’s life had been one of intense sorrow, there is little doubt in that; abandoned as a child, knowing only fleeting periods of happiness in his short life, he had captured a great sadness in his works that only a man who had been catapulted from companionship to loneliness could understand. Though he married his cousin, Virginia Eliza Clemm Poe (which is largely accepted in the avian community, though less so in modern human society). Her death in 1847 left a lasting imprint on the final works of his life.

“Prophet!” said I, “thing of evil!—prophet still, if bird or devil!

By that Heaven that bends above us—by that God we both adore— Tell this soul with sorrow laden if, within the distant Aidenn, It shall clasp a sainted maiden whom the angels name Lenore— Clasp a rare and radiant maiden whom the angels name Lenore.”

Quoth the Raven “Nevermore.”

—b— Throughout his tumultuous life, Poe never had the privilege of introspection, the process of building one’s identity free from intrusion, defining oneself by themself. I mused to myself whether on that night in Baltimore, his heartbeat slowing as the alcohol that had so often been consumed took its final toll, he saw one of my kind standing by, black against the ink of the night sky, a gothic picture rivalling that of those he so often painted to his readers.

I was distraught, as Poe was one of those from whom I believed I could learn to understand the self; how else could he portray emotion so eloquently, despite such bleak surroundings?

It was in this loss by proxy that I began to see my resolve strengthen, to understand oneself until loneliness becomes a perfect solitude.

—b— 3. A DEMON IN MY VIEW

U

nable to return to my previous life, I presented myself, dark wings glossy with almost pearlescence, at an aviary in Baltimore, which would be my nest for the better part of three decades. I would read the news of the defamation of Poe’s career from a jealous rival, Rufus Griswold, hear the accusations of substance abuse fly against him; the dead cannot

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BEST SHORT STORY | Aidan Harris

defend themselves. I would hear recounts of other harsh realities of life: the ‘manifestation of destiny’ across my homeland, the first conflict in South Africa.

My time in the aviary would prove formative. Gentle handlers would provide bribes of seed to encourage me to perform tricks, deliver messages, hunt the odd mouse, though they soon learnt that I needed no conditioning to adapt to their chosen tasks. Ravens, I am proud to say, are devastatingly intelligent and though I spent most of my time in the company of depressed crows whose wings had been clipped, or, heaven forbid, a pigeon; I observed the world both outwardly and inwardly from my temporary perch; I knew it must be temporary, as I was waiting for the moment in which I knew what I was to do to achieve contentedness in my life.

I continued to feed my subconscious, poring through Poe’s large collection of works. Though they were grim, I saw in his prose and rhyming couplets the promise of fruit for my inner labour.

From the lightning in the sky As it pass’d me flying by— From the thunder, and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view— In truth I had never dare flown during a lightning storm, though in all other ways, Poe’s poem Alone was my almanac. I had spent just the right amount of time at the aviary, fathered a few eggs, sharpened both mind and beak, so when I heard that Oscar Wilde was visiting North America for a speaking tour, I was determined to not let this opportunity escape me.

—b— 4. THE PICTURE OF DORIAN BLACK

W

ilde was a man correctly named; never have I experienced a human so flamboyantly anachronistic. A dangerously open man, Wilde defied society with such open pride that I could not help taking a liking to him. Recognising my intellect, he would allow me to survey his American audiences at lectures as he spoke of dreams of decadence, having the beauty of the everyday conveyed to others as he saw it. This concept of aestheticism was entirely new to me and, though initially repelling, the juxtaposition of decadence and macabre of this intelligent young man broadened my horizon as to the malleability of the self.

As his American lecturing drew to a close (though it was extended multiple times due to its popularity), Wilde permitted me to be brought back with him to London. It was with him that I first encountered what I was to be enraptured by for the rest of my life: the ocean. The great expanse of salt water provided endless intellectual stimulation. Those twenty-nine days at sea

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brought forward an appetite that could not be satiated in a mere month. Contrastingly, Wilde despised the voyage, for the passengers soon tired of his quick wit, and he was intermittently sick.

On return to England he married a lawyer’s daughter and settled down, but I saw in his heart that attraction for him lay elsewhere. The rigid heteronormativity of Victorian life was largely lost on him, however, as he rather openly had various affairs with young men. While he wrote and loved vivaciously, I found my only company the six raven residents of the Tower of London. While the collective noun for crows in ‘a murder’, when we ravens form a group we are known as a ‘conspiracy’, befitting our intellectual superiority. These ravens had grown large and stupid, however, and did not seem to notice that they were the only ones of their kind left in urban society. It seemed to me to be the cruellest of punishments to have both one’s wings and future clipped from birth, with no prospect of developing a sense of identity independent from one’s unkindness (the less polite collective term for our species).

As Wilde became increasingly erratic and found himself a partner in Douglas, I realised that I too must be brave if I was to achieve the perfect solitude I dreamed of. Yet I found myself one morning encased in a wooden prison, my leg tagged and one perfect wing aching from where my flight feathers had been clipped. It was only later I discovered that Wilde had been convicted of sodomy and his distraught wife had me removed as to not bring back painful memories of her now estranged husband. I could not blame her but mourned the loss of my very freedom as I was delivered to the residence of Percy Grainger, a budding pianist and composer.

—b— 5. THE ONE RAVEN

I

did not enjoy my time with Grainger; a boy of eighteen with all the trappings of one branded a genius from a young age. Grainger had, in his own words, a “distinctly abnormal” sexual appetite. The year was 1900, and despite the grandeur of the turn of the century, Grainger seemed to only look to the past. When he wasn’t doing so, he was self-flagellating.

I was bought and brought to be the perfect specimen of the Northern Raven, Corvus corax Principalis, though by now I was well aged, my wings still a glossy black but less muscular than in my youth. I was still not used to the cold of Britain, much like Grainger, who was proudly Australian born. I was to be observed as a means of encouraging his musical expression in arranging the folk tune, ‘The Three Ravens’, one that Samuel had sung to himself so often in my youth. The finished work was haunting, befitting the Gothic and antiquated lyrics, but still I believed there could be something beyond this chronic retrospection I had all my life observed.

While nobody could doubt Grainger’s prowess with the keyboard, he never treated me with the respect someone so well-travelled deserved. His young mind was warped with ideas of supremacy and infidelity as to make his company almost intolerable, yet his music flowed with such an elegance it disguised the confusion underneath. In his craft, practicing at the keyboard with flair

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BEST SHORT STORY | Aidan Harris

and vigour, he seemed at peace. How one so young had mastered the art, I could not answer.

My time spent with him was short, as I could feel my age groaning like a ball and chain on my leg. Leading a largely grounded experience, I had not forgotten my voyage across the ocean.

Once the piece was finished and I was subsequently released, I bid Grainger an undeserved farewell and flew, hobbled as I was, to the Thames.

—b— 6. BLUE WATER SAILOR

T

he Thames was a bustle of activity; I quickly realised they were preparing for war.

It almost felt fitting, having never lived up to the herald of death I was always assumed to be. Perching on the lead ship crow’s nest (or should I say raven’s nest) I prepared for what I knew would be my last journey.

The ship began sailing downstream, rocking gently, and as I observed the country I had now known for almost two decades, I thought of Edgar’s writings all those years ago, that “there is no exquisite beauty… without some strangeness in proportion”. As the vast expanse of salt water drew ever nearer, I felt grateful to have my own thoughts to keep me company in this, my final lesson in solitude.

A cat climbed the mast and, saying nothing, joined me at my perch. We were now truly at sea.

I had spent my life in the company of outcasts who’d found their own way to a perfect solitude; a man of straw, an assumed suicide, a brilliant homosexual, a musical gigolo; all who discovered themselves through their craft despite rejection by society. After the first blast of creation, we were never accepted, and so had to accept ourselves.

Up and down the waves we rocked, the cat and I. —

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Most Poignant written by Sean Yang (Year 12)

WHAT I AM TO SHEEP, WHAT MAN IS TO ME

Soul of a Lion Died 1968, Botswana

—b— Perhaps that is what it means to be a father – to teach your child to live without you.

– Nicole Krauss, THE HISTORY OF LOVE I am not afraid of an army of lions led by a sheep; I am afraid of an army of sheep led by a lion.

– Alexander the Great

I

—b—

ts written in the stars. My… our father would always say. When we were cubs, my brother and I would often lie at the feet of our father, as the cool breeze of the Savanna during the hours of darkness drifted through our fur, as the stars and sky blanketed the barren night. Peace and serenity surrounded us. His dark, thick mane, indicative of his wisdom, gently swayed. His noble eyes, cursed with survivor’s guilt, casted his vision towards the stars, as he proudly retold the legendary stories of our distant ancestors. The legend of the Nemean Lion who had golden fur, impenetrable and impervious to weapons of mortal beings, claws sharper than humans’ swords, which could cut through any armour, was the Lion that every cub idolised. ‘There’s the head of Leo, the Nemean Lion, the king of all kings. He died an honourable death and that is why he is now with the stars.’

I have always been told that life is about survival, but if your death is glorious, if you die defending your family, then your soul will leave earth for the sky and that’s where you’ll spend the rest of your days, as stars to inspire the cubs below. At least that’s what our father had told us.

‘Family is the heart, but the king of the pride is the brain. One of you boys will be the next king after me. Like Romulus and Remus, only one will take the throne… you are too young for this… but one day you’ll understand.’

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My brother and I both wanted to be the Nemean Lion, the beast with supreme control and power, we would often practice our roars, attempting to mimic the grand, imposing stature of Leo, arguing passionately about who would have the darker and thicker mane, who would have the sharper claws, and often seeking our father’s approval. Yet we were too young and naïve to understand that only one of us could be Leo. I remember tailing our mother and the other lionesses from afar, as we watched them hunt, observing their ruthless ways of catching pray. The zebras’ and antelopes’ lives had ended as soon as their eyes met the fierce, fiery eyes of my mothers’ and the other lionesses’. How helpless. I was glad I never had to feel that way. I reminisce the days of my youth and innocence.

While my mother was the one who provided food most of the time, I thoroughly enjoyed the times I spent spectating the incredible hunts of my father. I watched as he laid hidden in the tall grass, as still as a desert tree, as quiet as a desert night, yet as minacious as Leo himself.

I greatly admired his patience, his methodical ways, unlike my mother’s unrelenting pursuits.

He would wait. The antelope stepping cluelessly closer. And wait. As the prey inched neared to death. Then pounce. Those were the meals that tasted best.

One day after a hunt with our father in Serondela, the Northeast area of Chobe national park, my brother asked our father to tell us a story.

‘Let me tell you a story about survival. First let me say one thing, we are not predators or hunters, we’re survivors. We keep balance. We don’t hunt for leisure. We don’t kill for fun.

We hunt to survive… now for the story. A long time ago in Tanzania, humans had eradicated all available prey in an effort to stop the spread of rinderpest among their livestock herds.

‘A pride of Lions worked together to devour more than a thousand people. These lions were called the man-eaters of Njombe. A frightening name, yes, but the truth is more saddening than terrifying. You see man only care about two things: other people and money. For the benefit of their own species they left nothing left for us. Cubs were starving, dying at the feet of their parents. The king didn’t know what to do, but his soul told him he had to do something.

So in order to survive they looked towards other mammalian prey – humans. The roamed the lands in search of human prey, not hungry for man, but hungry to survive. Yet man is the one and only creature across all the lands and seven seas, with a gun in his hand, does not fear us.

The tiny, puny mammals, whose strength comes from their weapons, not their heart. Soon after, those lions in that pride were killed by a game warden. Their souls are now in the stars.’

At that moment my heart ached with fear, stabbed with the knife of truth, as my youth and innocence bled out of me. I realised why myths are myths. No lion could truly become the Nemean Lion they dream to be, the best we could do is survive and protect our family, die a glorious death and be remembered in the night sky, that is the greatest honour, yet these man-eaters of Njombe, in trying to survive had been defeated by their own prey. How?

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MOST POIGNANT | Sean Yang

‘My job as your father, and as king is to protect my pride. That is my one and only desire. If you two live to see tomorrow, then I am contempt. Once you become fathers you’ll understand.’

We walked towards the floodplains, stopping to take sips of refreshing water. The sun dipping below the horizon in the distance, a beautiful and alluring orange hue splattered across the darkening sky, and patches of grey clouds overlayed the scenery. Everything felt calm again.

Everything felt normal, as if that wound in my heart had be stitched up.

My brother and I played in the water, swimming and splashing around. I missed playing with my brother. After some leisure time I went to take another sip of water. Before taking a sip I looked at my own reflection. I saw a lion… an older lion… a dark, thick mane went around my neck, golden fur covered my body.

I noticed that the giraffes, elephants and buffalos watched as we walked past them, but the antelopes, zebras, impalas and kudu startled by the sight of a us jumped in fear, some stayed and watched, some sprinted away. It’s almost magical, at the same time terrifying how much power we had.

As we edged nearer to our home of Linyanti Marsh I broke the silence that had spread into our prolonged, exhausting journey.

‘Father, you always tells us of Leo, the Nemean Lion and how great and powerful he was, how he died an honourable death and went to the stars, but how did he die?’

My father slowed his pace, almost to a halt. Hesitantly he began to say, ‘there was once a demigod named Heracles, son of the god of sky and thunder Zeus and human Alcmene.

Heracles embarked on many adventures. One cycle of these adventures became canonical as the “Twelve Labours”, the first of these labours was to slay the Nemean Lion.

‘Heracles had been sent by his cousin King Eurystheus to slay Leo. Heracles had come to the town of Cleonae. They say Leo would roam the hills of Nemea killing people and their livestock, terrorising Cleonae. Yet it was the only way for him to survive. In Cleonae Heracles met a boy who said that if Heracles slew the Nemean lion and returned alive within 30 days, the town would sacrifice a lion to Zeus; but if he did not return within 30 days or he died, the boy would sacrifice himself to Zeus.

‘While searching for the lion, Heracles fetched some arrows to use against it, not knowing that its golden fur was impenetrable. When he found the lion and shot at it with his bow, he discovered the fur’s protective property when the arrow bounced harmlessly off the his thigh.

‘After some time, Heracles made the lion return to his cave. However, the cave had two entrances, one of which Heracles blocked, so he then entered the other. In those dark and close quarters, Heracles stunned the beast with his club. He eventually killed the lion by strangling

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it with his bare hands. Heracles wore the Nemean lion’s coat after killing it, as it was impervious to the elements and all but the most powerful weapons.’

It was my first time seeing my father look so defeated. So ashamed.

‘Leo was killed with Heracles’ bare hands?’ I asked.

‘With his bare hands son. But death is not something to worship now that you are nearly adults. It is the province only of the very young to want things to work out badly.’

It took a demigod to kill Leo. Yet demigods are still half human. Are there really creatures more powerful than us? All these stories, were they all a lie? How can Leo be defeated?

I pondered all the way back home.

—b— It was time for my first hunt. Nearly two years old and my mane had begun to grow. I was nervous. This was my test. My initiation. After my first hunt I would no longer be a cub.

My brother and I followed our father out towards Serondela. My heart was trying to burst out of my chest with every pulse. With stealth we entered a patch of tall grass. A dazzle of zebras, unbeknownst to their imminent death, stood idly amongst a cluster of trees a few feet away.

‘Remember everything your mother and I have taught you. Soon you’ll become lions.’

My father’s words soothed the aching pain in my chest, my weary body was beginning to pump with adrenaline. I glanced towards my brother, simultaneously he turned his head towards me. Then we were off.

We bolted. My legs never having been pushed beyond the acts of running. This was not running, this was hunting. This was surviving. As we ran towards the dazzle, they flurried in every direction. I kept my eyes on one zebra and I chased. They were surprisingly fast.

Yet they couldn’t outrun fate. Once I was close enough I leaped, propelling myself off the ground towards my prey. Landing on top of the zebra, I dug my claws into his body. No escape now. Yet he was still struggling, trying to burst away. I didn’t know if I was strong enough for this. Suddenly my brother arrived to assist my first hunt, latching onto the zebra, biting at his legs. I bit into the prey’s neck. After a while the striped creature was lifeless, now it was just another meal. My mother and other lionesses had arrived, ready to congratulate us and share the quarry.

‘I’m proud of you. Both of you.’ And with those words, I now knew I had become a lion, ready to one day become Leo. The care-free life as a cub had now been expended, I knew now that I was responsible, I was powerful, I would soon be the king of the desert and maybe someday be seen among the stars.

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MOST POIGNANT | Sean Yang

Guns grant mortals enormous power, transforming them into demigods, and demigods are the only beings that Lions cannot conquer. We are just mere sheep to demigods. Even Leo cannot survive sometimes. I learnt all this when my father died. My heart shattered. A part of me faded away. My open eyes could now see the truth and lies within the legends and stories my father told us. I didn’t know what to believe. The burden of survivor’s guilt now plagued my soul.

With cubs of our own, we were the ones who retold them the stories our father had told us.

We watched as they entered their own little worlds, morphing into the Nemean lion and the lion of Cithaeron, their innocence clouded the truth and we as parents had to create that cloud.

They were still not old enough to know the truth, to be told the stories of Leo’s death and of the man-eaters, but one day, they will be ready.

The pride had to decide on a new king. Everyone agreed it was only right that either my brother or I take on the throne, but that meant we had to fight. I dreaded this day, the day our play fighting turned to a real battle, the day where only one of this will become Leo. The pride had made a circle around us. The cubs standing by their mothers. Their eyes eager to feast on a fight to the death. I stood a few feet away from my brother. Suddenly we were off. I ran and lunged, clawing at my own kin. It felt wrong… it felt unprincipled…yet this was tradition… it was written in the stars.

—b— The fight was moving around, growling and roaring, slashing and tackling. The lionesses swaying closer and further as the fight went on. Then I hacked at his face. Blood covered his face and mane. While he was struggling, I pinned him down and went for his neck. It was over.

Just like that. I knew it was over, but I couldn’t bring myself to end my own brother’s life.

His cubs and their mother slowly stumbled towards him. Embracing him one last time before he was exiled from the pride. As a cub I never expected to experience so much heartbreak.

I never knew the kings with their golden fur and dark manes and iron claws had to suffer such emotional distress, but I knew my job…my only job as king, as father was to protect my pride and hide my pain.

As my cubs slept at night, I’d often look to the sky. Not to find the stars of Leo, the man-eaters of Njombe, the lion of Cithaeron or the god Maahes, but I searched for the stars of my father.

I wondered if my brother had taken over another pride or had also found his ways to the sky.

I wondered.

—b— One day my cubs asked for another story. I wandered and traced through my memory.

The words of my father echoed in my mind and I bestowed those words onto my children.

‘Let me tell you the story of the beloved Cecil. Cecil was a resident of Hwange national park in Zimbabwe. He was renowned and adored by humans all around the world for his

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distinguishable, black-edged mane and lack of fear of human visitors, allowing them to come close to him. Cecil was an outcast amongst the other lions, so he found comfort through human love. He felt accepted among them.

‘Yet humans are still humans. They only care about two things, other humans and money.

That you should always remember. And so the humans had selected Cecil to become a trophy.

One day he was reputedly lured away from the safety of the park, shot with an arrow, then tracked and killed with a rifle by American Walter Palmer. While you may feel like you rule the desert, the humans rule the world, it has always been that way and it always will be… that’s the sad truth.’

A sharp pain stabbed my heart as I uttered these words to my dear children. I could see the fear in their unscathed eyes, the same fear that diluted my firm belief in Leo when my father told me the story of his death.

Suddenly I heard a roar. I turned around, stupefied by the sight of my brother.

‘My beloved brother.’ ‘what are you doing her…’

‘It’s been some time now I know, but I’m not here for formalities or to reconcile. I’m here to take your throne.’

‘You don’t have to…’

‘Yes, I do. There can only be one Leo brother and it’s going to be me.’

I was reluctant to fight my brother again, but roared and engaged into battle, into war. This was all too familiar, but I felt weak, or maybe my brother had become stronger. He was quicker.

He lacerated the side of my leg. I roared in pain, but before I could get back up, he slashed my face. This felt like the end. Maybe this was my time, to be with the stars, to be with my father.

At the corner of my eye, I looked towards my cubs.

Then there was a loud sound. A sound I had heard before. My heart sunk. The thump of my brother’s body resounded in my ears.

I casted my eyes towards the source of the sound. Humans. They were not locals, but familiar.

They sat in their shiny, metal castle that could run faster than us. Brimmed hats atop their heads, tanned skin, their shapes and sizes ranged dramatically, one of them was the largest of man I have ever seen. Are these the hunters that my species had always feared? The ones that killed Cecil? The ones that eradicated the man-eaters of Njombe? They laughed, chuckled and celebrated the collapse of my kin. I could see carcasses of other animals on their vehicle.

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MOST POIGNANT | Sean Yang

Was I going to be another trophy on their wall? I dug through the trenches of my most unpleasant memories and found the same men living deep in my mind. The same American hunters who slaughtered my father. My survivor’s guilt turned into raging fury and I only had one thing on my mind. I roared. With the spirit of Leo I lifted myself and shouted at my pride.

‘Run!’ Then I saw the large obese figure raise his gun, almost instinctively as my family ran for safety.

He peered into his scope, focusing his aim. My own skin cannot withstand a bullet, but the golden fur that covered my soul can never be penetrated. In my dying moments I recollected the story my father had told me once, written by Roman historian, Pliny the elder: It is a remarkable fact, that pards, panthers, lions, and other animals of this kind, walk with the points of their nails concealed in a sheath in the body, lest they should be broken or blunted; and that, when they run, their hooked claws are turned backwards, and are never extended, except in the act of seizing their prey.

The noble appearance of the lion is more especially to be seen in that species which has the neck and shoulders covered with a mane, which is always acquired at the proper age by those produced from a lion.

This reminded me of my strength. This reminded me that those beings on that truck will never die an honourable death. The soul of the Nemean Lion now etched inside my heart.

I let out my last roar. My fur turned golden, my mane had darkened, my claws sharpened.

Death could not scare me. Then another bullet left the man’s rifle. I fell again. Lying beside my brother, our souls leaving for the stars, as I heard my father’s voice say, ‘the souls in the sky live only as long as we remember their stories. Beyond that there is nothing, not for them nor for us.’ I knew my father would be proud. I knew my job here was done. A tear slowly fell down my face as I took my last breath, capturing the sight of my brother for the last time, recalling the times we’d play at the floodplains of Serondela. I came to final realisation: every lion could be Leo; every lion can ascend to the stars. —

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Most Stunning Line written by Dler Toghyani-Farshid (Year 8)

JFK assassination The wind blew swiftly across the dry and pale grass and the assassin’s gun went in for the shot.

The gun’s eyes were red with violent rage and aimed in for the kill, Yet did poor old JFK know that it was his final thrill, Suddenly as the bullet galloped through the sky like a Pegasus, to end his life it miraculously tripped and fell, And at the final moment of impact, the bullet did not excel.

Although JFK was saved, a dark figure was lurking around like a lion waiting for its kill.

As he took his final breath of sharp air the sweet bedtime kiss from the bullet wished him goodnight.

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Commendable Poetry Award written by Kevin Xu (Year 10)

Mother’s Guidance Alas, the endmost petal Curled its soft lure into bone.

Perhaps if Death is kind, It may survive to see Another reckoning.

To return to Earth some fragrant night, And see nature’s garden overgrown; Honeysuckles hung low and white Beneath the starlight And the gentle thunder of the sea; Mother Nature’s beckoning, The lease of life; A venture into the unknown, A time felt free, And in exchange, your becoming Evanesced.

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