RINGING VOICES 2020
An anthology of student writing
Introduction – Ringing Voices 2020 As part of Year 12 English this year we studied the poetry of William Wordsworth. Accordingly, we discussed the Romantic movement and the concept of the sublime. Romantic poets like Wordsworth conceptualised ‘Poetry [as] the spontaneous overflow of powerful feelings: [which take] its origin from emotion recollected in tranquillity ‘(William Wordsworth). Thus, not only in our Year 12 classes, but in all our English classes, we encouraged our students to immerse themselves in the creative writing process through adopting an introspective approach and engaging with their emotions in order to create. Year 9 English students were asked to respond imaginatively to the poignant film, Suffragette. The Year 11 Literature students were motivated by the poetry of Emily Dickinson and other students found their voice through writing short stories or poetry which focused on themes of persistence and bravery. As in the past, this year’s selection of student work showcases the extraordinary ability of our students to connect with their thoughts and feelings in inventive ways. All written pieces started as a seed of a thought and then evolved steadily into cogent pieces of writing which came to fruition through careful planning, drafting and editing. I leave you with the words from the Year 10 and 11 topic from the 2020 Elizabeth M Butt public speaking competition: ‘What you cannot fix is the perfection of a blank page’ (Neil Gaiman). Thus, I applaud these students for committing pen to paper and realising that in fact there is no such thing as perfection. Only once you write on a blank page can creation occur. It is through errors that true genius is born.
Ms Michelle Maglitto English Co-ordinator
IN T R O DUC T I O N
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Jenny Qiu - Year 5
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Y E AR 5
Bound by Fate There, the poor girl was trembling with agitation. She began to wobble and then, BOOM… she discerned the tune in the background. She was meant to dance and leave her heart out on the stage, but then a distant, painful memory erased the moves from her mind, and she fell. Apart from the colossal crash onto the stage, everything was deadly silent. There was just a girl staying strong through the agony and the embarrassment. The tension was so thick the audience could cut it with a knife. As that moment drifted, Siala Robson knew that it was the end of the road for her. What is going on? Where are we going? Where is our brother? These questions reverberated between all the kids. Their mum was overwhelmed. She was on a plane without her husband and having to manage her three young children. Could you imagine all the stares she endured on that packed 12-hour flight? With two wailing children and Siala who just couldn’t sit still in her seat, it was exhausting. Siala knew the woeful truth, as she was there to witness the traumatic scene. Siala was an 11-year-old girl living in a small town near Lagos, Africa. She had to busk on the streets while her three younger brothers went to school. Her dad worked in a bank, but it had more hate than money. They could barely afford groceries. Everyday Siala skipped along the path from what felt like a long day of busking to her dad’s bank. Accompanied by her dad, they always went to collect her three younger brothers from school. Today felt desperate. She didn’t earn much money - only 50c, whereas she normally earned around $3. There were stares in the atmosphere, but she spurned them. She finally arrived at the bank. Her legs were aching after dancing all day. Plus, ambling 2km to get to her dad didn’t make it any easier. The blazing hot sun and scorching sand made her feet blister, as she didn’t have any shoes to comfort her feet. They were about to set off, but then… “Come on, we have to go,” implored Siala’s dad. “Ok, coming,” asserted Siala. They stepped out the door and
locked up. “Wait! Stop! Listen!” bawled Siala. Her dad listened in interest. “Help, Help, Help! Please somebody!” “Oh, it’s Raffi,” said Siala, as she saw her 3-year-old youngest brother being snatched by an uncanny plump and senile figure. Siala and her dad dashed to liberate her beloved brother, but they couldn’t catch up. Later that day Siala and her dad had to break the awful news to the rest of the family. There were countless tears shed and the dinner table was hushed. They could only keep faith and hope that Raffi would turn up tomorrow on their doorstep. When tomorrow arrived and Raffi was nowhere to be seen, Siala’s mum knew what they had to do. She had been in this position with her own sister. They booked the next possible flight to England. Yet Siala’s dad couldn’t come because he had to work and send money to his family. After the lengthy plane ride, Siala’s mum had to find a place to live – they found a small, cramped apartment. Their house in Africa was dilapidated, but this apartment was grimy cold, miniscule and old. Although the two younger children couldn’t go to school, Siala still had to busk. One day Siala was dancing and an arrogant elderly man threw a flyer at Siala’s face. This resulted in the sharp corners scratching her face. It was quite hard for her to read, as it was only her sixth day in England and she barely knew the language. She managed to read the enlarged words. The flyer read: “There is a famous dance competition called Point, and a prize of $100,000.” She showed the flyer to her mum and translated it for her. Her family was joyful but when she endeavoured to read the fine print, she realised that there was a $50 entry and they unquestionably couldn’t afford that. The family had just spent their last savings on the plane tickets to travel to England and on the rent for the apartment. Everyday Siala trained and danced until late at night and saved up to gather $50. Her family was momentously supportive as they could have easily spent the money on themselves and upgraded their lives, but they allowed their daughter to live her dream.
Y E AR 5
3
Bound by Fate It was the day of the auditions and Siala was so timid. She was going to live her dream. The stage was as black as the night sky on an icy winter’s day. There was a strong odour of perfume wafting from all the dancers. Wisps of makeup in the air made her eyes water. The judges were getting ready to be brutally cruel or exceptionally nice. The point shoes clonked against the hard concrete floor as the first dancer went on stage. There were so many people in the crowd, it was like peak hour traffic. Siala had to go by herself because her mum had to look after her other two kids. However, they were cheering her on and watching her through the shattered TV screen. The chandelier was hanging as loftily as her hopes of winning. Nobody had ever received a straight 10 out of 10 from all three judges. It was eventually time for Siala’s performance. She had decided to perform ballet, as that was her strength and her dearest style. She had performed with grace. The applause gushed over her like a tsunami. It was time for the scores. Siala made history and she was the first person to ever receive a perfect score of 10 from each of the judges. Every week she altered her style of dance from hiphop to lyrical and still scored highly each week. She made it to the finals against one other girl named Rebecca, who was also scoring astonishingly high, but never as high as Siala.
the moves which led to her wobbling. Her mind was on something else. Her mind was on her brother. She always pondered that it was her fault that she didn’t run fast enough to catch the kidnapper. She had always had flashbacks of that moment. Unfortunately for Siala she scored fewer points than Rebecca and did not win. She stayed tough and luckily didn’t have to go to hospital. Siala didn’t win but she recovered. Later that year and for the rest of her life, she performed in many more shows and judged many more TV series. She had a greater career than Rebecca, who is now forgotten. She was so successful that she bought her family a large house and they never had to live in bad conditions again.
It was the day of the finals and Siala’s nerves took over like a rollercoaster. Siala’s family came to support her and her dad flew all the way from Africa just to watch Siala perform. She decided to perform ballet as that had won her a flawless score previously. Siala was going to perform second after Rebecca. The other competitor, Rebecca, came from a very wealthy background, so if she won the $100,000 it would not change her life. Also, she did not have a kind personality. She was very bratty, whereas Siala was kind-hearted, even though she could only rely on faith. Rebecca had scored “8, 9 and 8 ½” equalling to 25 ½ out of 30. Could Siala do any better? It was finally Siala’s turn – this was the biggest moment of her life. Siala preformed gracefully until POOF… she forgot
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Y E AR 5
Chloe Singh Year 5
The Trio of Madness In the middle of an unforgiving kingdom with a remorseless castle, a tyrant king, wearing a frown stuck to his face forever, was abruptly woken by the distant sound of effervescent hoofbeats. Muttering in fury, the Red King ambled out of bed and peered out of the castle window. The enthusiastic but shy Yellow King was blissfully marching his knights across the peeking dawn. Snorting in disgust, the seething Red King cantankerously ordered his servants to prepare his breakfast. The scorching sun lit up everything you could see and fresh, fragrant oxygen filled the air. The Red King was the ruler of the Kingdom of Bliss, which was quite the contrary to what it really was. Unlike the Yellow and Green Kings, he was rancorous and arrogant. The Red King was and would never be appreciative for the glittering possessions he owned and his painstaking servants, despite the fact that they silently obeyed every arbitrary command without complaint. The ruthless king of this kingdom showed no mercy to his forlorn people. However, he would not be king forever… Clouds miserably hung low on a gloomy and sorrowful day. No birds were chirping, no wind was whistling. Within his castle the Red King heard the sound of familiar voices. “We can’t let him be
king!” the Green King protested. “But he has to. You and I know he couldn’t be let down that easily,” the Yellow King argued softly. “But…” It went on and on. The Red King flew into rage. This was his kingdom, his land, and he just wouldn’t let them do this to him! With a wrathful roar the Red King leapt forward startling both his rivals. “I challenge you cowards for a race across the river! Whoever wins will rule over this kingdom!” Flexing his knuckles, the Red King glanced uneasily at the wide and shimmering river before them. He knew he was stirring up a hornets’ nest to suggest this challenge as it was so deep and dangerous. However, looking at the other kings made his blood boil furiously and the thought of them drowning granted his soul such pleasure. Whirling around to his knights, the Red King forced out an enraged “Do your best”, whereas the Yellow King serenely discussed a useful strategy with his team. Apprehensively, the Red King gesticulated his group forward.
freeze your heart lingered in the air. The Yellow and Green Kings watched the cold-hearted Red King disappear beneath the scintillating water. Two days after the catastrophic event, the Yellow King took over the once doomed throne. Everything was as it should have been with the Green King’s support to the royal family. Flowers started to flourish and a pleasant aroma soaked the air. However, the Red King was not gone forever! Little did they know, he was rising from the river floor more menacing than ever. Vehemently shaking the water from his beard, the Red King silently cursed with his brain in a frenzy. Up in arms, he tempestuously stomped back to the castle who had double-crossed him. The Red King was ready to take back his throne…
Evelyn Teng Year 5
As the three resolute rulers simultaneously jumped over each other’s knights, the Red King started to panic in vain. Almost all his knights were gone and he watched them flail ineffectively as they drowned in the water! Then a shriek that would
Y E AR 5
5
The Legend of Magnetica! Once upon a time, in the galaxy Krecashia, lived a small and smart girl. She lived on the planet Magnetica, which was the capital planet of Krecashia. It was also the most beautiful planet, according to those who lived on it. This small and smart girl was named Ayesha. She was not like anyone else on Magnetica, she always had a certain hunch that they were not alone in this Universe. However, the Magneticans did not like when someone thought of worlds outside of Krecashia. It was stated in their law, but Ayesha did not obey the rules ever. Law Statement#999.999.999 - You must not think about anything beyond the galaxy borders, if done so then the rulebreaker’s head will be confiscated. Ayesha always thought, ‘How would they catch something going on in someone else’s brain?’
Law Statement#1000.000.000 - You must obey all laws or else there will be consequences.
Ayesha would always dream about the world outside her universe, and she would hope that one day she would get to join KIMSA and go on space missions. KIMSA stood for Krecashia’s Interworld Magnetican Space Administration. KIMSA was only allowed to travel to the planets within Krecashia. If they failed to obey this rule, they would not only have to pay a fine of 10,000 magoes (their currency) but also they would be sent to jail for 5 years and have their head chopped of straight after coming out of jail. They were cruel people! One day a meeting was held at MMP (Magnetica’s Meeting Place) in the city of Bancerra. All the citizens were invited, everyone had to show up, it was the law! At the meeting, Ayesha was so bored she fell asleep 2 minutes in. The sentence which abruptly woke her up was, ‘Our enemy, the Cateranians, have created a monster planet, which will be coming to destroy us. The catch is that the monster can only gobble us up if we are heavily polluted. We have invented a pollution counter, this will tell us the amount of pollution in our world. As of now the pollution counter is at five hundred million pieces, we can’t let it get to one billion. If it does, we will be doomed! I will now ask Ifiginia Delamora, our law writer, to make a new law, this will be – Law Statement#1000.000.001- There must be absolutely no polluting on this planet, we do not care about the other planets, just this one! Ayesha was feeling two things at this moment, firstly devastation, as her planet, life, family and everything else she knew to exist, were all in danger and secondly, annoyance. Now there was one more rule she had to memorise to say every morning, 9 days a week, 16 months a year. As the days went by, the pollution level rose up rather than going down, which gradually raised Magnetica’s fear of being gobbled up.
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Y E AR 5
The Legend of Magnetica! A few months later Another meeting was held at MMP. They told the citizens that there had been a sharp rise in the pollution numbers, and now they were only ten pieces short of a catastrophic, intergalactic destruction! Ayesha was now more determined than ever to get into KIMSA, and she devised a plan to do just so. The day after the meeting, she snuck into the KIMSA lab and went into their flight room. She climbed into a nice spacecraft and worked out how to fly it with the help of an instruction manual she found in it. She flew off, and heard a scientist scream, “That is a rogue plane! We need to stop it or we’re meat!” A few seconds later, Ayesha had left the galaxy. She flew over to Cateranian, and realised that there was nothing there but a small rock the size of her house, and it was crunching the air around it. She used one of the guns on the craft and shot the rock into pieces. She then grabbed a piece for proof and set off towards home. When she arrived home, she told everyone what had happened. Of course, no-one believed her until she showed them the rock. The head of Krecashia congratulated her and gave her the highest award ever- the Mobel prize! Ayesha was the most content in the galaxy. All the little Magnetican girls wanted to be like her! And all the Krecashians lived happily ever after! In case you’re wondering, the law statement#999.999.999 was removed.
Aahana Pandey Year 5
Y E AR 5
7
Nati Stefanou - Year 6
8
Y E AR 6
The Sonnet Night’s true self hidden in the dark black sky. Death and night are made as one in black clouds. Wither away black flowers, hang and sigh. Lyrics of the birds covered by the shrouds.
Reflections of the sun in iced water, Simple form of something impossible. Of lava and ice, fire and water, Once implausible but now thinkable.
Hate and love will battle until the end. Blood will spill and feed the flames of dark. Words are alone and cannot ever mend. Time will come and go and spread leaving marks.
So much in the world so much we can think, But so little that we may consider. Our knowledge bubbles to the brink, So much there is that our minds surrender.
Flowers bend and contort within the sight. Happy days will be forever finished. When it comes there will be no more dawn’s light. Love will fall and be always diminished.
Samples of the modern day internet, Holds more than any one previous book. The possibilities are infinite, But on few of then upon we may look.
Tears stream down and fall in rhythm like rain. Wounds cut open, deep secrets flow like pain.
Little is of interest without understanding, But false understanding is poison to the mind.
Claire Lau Year 6
Y E AR 6
Sarah Wang Year 6
9
Park Bench
On the Fields of Battle Shots ring out in a split second moment The pull of a trigger is oh so swift Giving chance to our fiercest opponent A cavalry of souls is set adrift Innocent men fulfilling their duty A soldier does take a cursory glance Through this horror a spirit seeks beauty Seeing tomorrow or the darkest dance During war there is no time for mourning No moment to let your true feelings show On winter’s mist a new day is dawning In the fields of bloodshed, the poppies grow Now countless in rows of bright white crosses Thousands of souls, and thousands of losses. Balances shifted like the oceans tide As certain as the coming of the sun Spirits are drifted on winds they glide Like the oceans tide the balances shift Trenches … drenches A moment of joy as the cannons glow
Image: Old Man
Above, the sky was a baby blue canvas, with wisps of white painted onto its surface. Lush greenery surrounded a single wooden park bench situated on the side of a lonely gravel path. An old man slumped there, hair white as snow, wrinkles marked across his aged face like the crevices in a cliff, fists balled tightly, eyes closed. The sunlight beat down on his figure, but a soft zephyr blew across the clearing, cooling him down a little. He could picture a laughing woman next to him in his mind. Beautiful long hair, bright blue eyes the colour of the sea, red cheeks, lips curved in a wide smile. Another image flashed into his brain, this time an older woman. Her hair was grey now with patches of silvery white. She chuckled, making the same sound as the previous character, and her smile was still bright enough to light up the entire city of New York in a power outage. The old man’s lips twitched a little, and almost drew into a grin. He remembered his wife next to him, her arm wrapped around his, the smooth skin of her bare arm pressing against his own. He remembered everything that happened there, on the bench, that isolated, peaceful wooden object. Their laughter, their jokes, their meals, their experiences all built up on the special seat. They had been united there. That was where they had met. It was where the old man had proposed. Where they were married. But life had a way of taking things away, especially the things one loved and adored. People aged. And now he was alone.
Isabella Madden Year 6
The old man’s eyes suddenly fluttered open. Everything felt like a dream. Time passed too quickly. He sighed, rubbed his eyes, and made himself stand up. His aching joints screamed in protest, his sore muscles refused to move, his head swam in a mix of agony, nostalgia and fatigue. With a weak grunt, the old man collapsed back onto the bench. For some reason, he knew what was going to happen next. He didn’t fight it. It had been too long, and he longed for his deceased love. Once again, the old man closed his eyes, heaved a long sigh of relief, and fell limp. The bench was the end of their lives, as well as their beginning. The old man and his wife had met there. Both died there. It was also on the bench that they were reunited in the afterlife.
Tong Tong Zhou Year 6
10
Y E AR 6
Jessica Leung - Year 7
Y E AR 7
11
Alone but not Lonely Loneliness is a modern idea. The first definitions of loneliness were a different word entirely. The word ‘oneliness’ meant the state of being by one’s self, the equivalent of being alone. It wasn’t until the 19th century that people recognised that being alone, and the emotion associated with it, were two separate subjects. The 1960s was when it was broadly classified as a social issue. If you walk down a busy Melbourne street, disconnecting from reality is as simple as plugging in earphones. Feeling alone in a crowd can be possible. In the digital age of the 21st century, we don’t have to leave the house to have the necessities to survive. It has never been easier to cut your tethers to the outside world than now.
We can tell ourselves reassuring things, however, without people to affirm or refute them, they gradually become selfconsuming until the mental state of a person has degraded into moral chaos. That’s why social interaction is important while we are all separated, but even more important to acknowledge when we’re together. While the increased use of digital devices is one direct cause of loneliness, it’s also part of the solution. Using a computer, you might be able to work and learn with a touch of a button, but you can also see people. Right now, being separated doesn’t have to be a burden. It’s all about your perspective, how you choose to look at the world. In present day, we might all be separate,
Ordinarily, solitude is a choice that people have the capability to make in an instant. But in the present situation, some would argue solitude is a choice we no longer have.
Being alone is something we’re all facing right now,
There is no denying that loneliness has become a larger problem because of the restrictions put in place to protect us from the physical threat of the coronavirus. Separation as a solution is a double-edged sword because it leaves us... alone. With our thoughts. And once it’s just our thoughts, we crave other people to share those thoughts with.
There will always be something keeping us together, even through tough times.
But we shouldn’t be facing loneliness.
There’s famous psychological form of torture called ‘White Room‘ where isolation from humanity is a form of induced harm. The prisoner stays in a box with completely white walls. A mute environment, everything in the whole entire room is white. The food: white rice on a white plate. The clothes the prisoner wears: all white. The detainee loses their identity in the process by the deprivation of any type of interaction. It’s described as a psychological misery. They’re left alone by themselves and their thoughts.
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Y E AR 7
Hannah Tjangdjaja Year 7
The Silhouette of a Man Flickering. The constant flickering of the circular light fixture creates a sense of lightning inside the aged, run-down service station. Cooper; a strong-headed thief, crouches beside the ice-cream freezer. Gun in his hands; his fingers still like planks of wood. He is almost unseen in his black hoodie and ski mask until the cashier turns around to see a tall figure; almost like a silhouette; standing in the corner of the room. ‘Thief!’ The cashier shouts. At this exact moment, Cooper raises his gun and aims it for the light fixture. He shoots. A sharp shattering sound fills the once lit room; now dark and cold. The cashier fumbles around the desk trying to feel his phone when another louder shatter fills the air with deep fear. The cashier feels his throat become drier than a hot desert and quickly searches for a torch. He flicks on the torch. No one. The room is empty except for all the fallen shelves and stands. The main window shattered; with pieces laying on the floor of the service station. Sirens. The mood slowly changes. The cashier doesn’t know how to comprehend. Has the thief left the station? Or is he simply hiding? The tough policemen barge into the service station. Cooper in cuffs; fighting their immense strength. He falls to the floor; violently crawling out of the policemen’s tight grasp. Cooper stares at the blank, white wall in front of him. A tall man-like figure, a silhouette; stands, staring back at him. Cooper blinks wildly in disbelief; the silhouette doesn’t move. Well, it certainly can’t be his shadow. Cooper twists his head, gazing at the two policemen on top of him. They’re moving and aren’t nearly close to the height of the silhouette. Darkness. Once again, darkness fills the room. Cooper gently opens his eyes to see absolutely nothing. All colour is gone, like a night sky with no stars. Brightness begins to linger now the room
is white and shiny. A short, stubby man enters the perfectly square room through a set of 8-foot iron doors. He has a wide grin from ear to ear; a long, pointy nose and small, brown, beady eyes. Silence lingers in the room until the stubby man calls, ‘Cooper Hearling!’ Soft footsteps. ‘My name Is Mr Montgomery: the keeper of all evil.’ The strange man utters. Cooper nods his head, not listening, but instead trying to figure how he got in this almost heaven-like room. ‘I can see your every move, and due to the treacherous and unforgivable things you have done; this silhouette will follow you everywhere; your ball and chain.’ Mr Montgomery cackles. Then more explaining is done: It is simply stating that if Cooper continues his behaviour, he will be trapped in the silhouette figure forever. Bright white light: the opposite of the darkness Cooper has just witnessed. Colour pours into the blank canvas of a room; now a green, grassy park. Cooper spins in a full circle; looks around and realised that there is no silhouette. Another 360° and there is still no silhouette. Is Cooper now free from his burdens, is Cooper not searching hard enough, or is it all a dream? A black hoodie, a brown ski mask and a revolver all lay side by side in the cold laneway. Getting ready for his next crime is Cooper. He carefully slides his ski mask onto his head; quickly puts on his hoodie and then cautiously slips the revolver into his front pocket. The nearby grocery store is just minutes away from experiencing a theft. Cooper slowly ambles down the busy street, turns left onto another busy street and then pivots in the direction of a quiet road, now picking up his pace. He slowly walks through the entrance and then ducks behind a tall shelf. Cooper slowly lift the revolver and aims for the light fixture in the middle of the store.
Y E AR 7
13
The Silhouette of a Man
The Storm
‘Three, two, one.’ Crash! But once again, the whole world is empty. This time Cooper is in the grocery store; empty; no people. A deep booming voice comes from the far-right corner of the room. ‘I told you not to disobey!’ The short, stubby man scolds. ‘Now, you shall pay your price. You will be trapped in a silhouette. Forever.’
Olivia Carletti Year 7
I sit in my rusty, small boat, rocking gently. I float further into nowhere and drive myself closer to insanity. But before this, there were good times. I talked and laughed. I interacted with others. How I now so dearly cherish those mellifluous days. I didn’t then realise it, but I was in a constant state of felicity. But then, the storm came. It tore everything I knew and loved apart. It ripped our hearts from our chests. It shredded our happiness. And the worst part was, we didn’t know it was irreparable. We thought a break would be good. We were sent to be with those whose blood we shared. Then we forced on boats; one for each of us. Then, we were thrown out to sea. At first it was the time we never had to bond. We could laugh, and we could talk, and we could learn things we never knew about each other. But then, the havoc began. Tempers rose, minds were confused and worst of all, we drifted apart. We were still close enough that we could still see each other, but we didn’t talk. After some time, I saw holes in their boats. I watched, helpless, as their boats sank into the ocean of despair. I am on my own. I sit in my rusty, small boat, rocking gently. I float further into nowhere and drive myself closer to insanity. There was an axiom that we have all come to believe: There is no escaping this vast ocean of sorrow that we now call home. There is no land in sight. And we are but mere shells of the people we once were. I have become somewhat inured to this uncomfortable lifestyle. I regularly see the silhouettes of others living a good life, but I know that that is not reality. The ocean is very calm, but the sky is never blue. I have lost my bodacious energy and my effervescent personality. I have learned to be vigilant. The storm could strike at any minute, and I need to be ready to protect myself.
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Y E AR 7
The Storm I soon see a bottle in the ocean, and in it, a message: ‘Come to us. The storm has not struck in so long. It is safe. Row your boat to us. We can be together.’ The night is cold, there are no stars, and the air is heavy with languor. I do not know what to do. The storm is conniving and sly. It is ready to pounce, like a steady tiger, and we, its prey. Nothing, nowhere and no one is safe. Yet I have no choice. I must return, for I cannot risk my sanity. Tomorrow I will return to them. I sit in my rusty, small boat, rocking gently. I float further into nowhere and drive myself closer to insanity. Before I can do anything, the storm strikes again. It violently throws me out of my boat and pushes me deeper into the ocean. I struggle to breath as I kick with every ounce of strength that I have, trying to bring myself to the surface. But it is no use. I run out of strength, and I am taken under the water. As I come closer to death, I experience an epiphany. I have not reached the peak of my life. I realise many young souls die in this state: having not experiences the best parts of their lives yet. As I ponder these thoughts, I realise I am running out of breath. I lose my senses and start to hallucinate. I see a golden and ethereal hand, and it is a panacea. It pulls me out of the water. As I spit out water and take a deep breath, I come to see that I am still alive. Those who wanted me to row to them have saved my life. In today’s world, our idea of a life of opulence in being alive, and so now, I feel as though I am living a life of opulence. I am taken back to the place of old times. It is the same place, with the same people. We try to talk, and we try to laugh. We try to interact with others. But nothing feels the same. No one has their usual ebullience. No one feels as happy as they should. It is still a strange and dark time. We think we are safe from the storm, but we are not. We came as far away from it as we could, but it is not enough. The storm attacks us again, as it followed us here. We try to resist but we fail. The storm has engulfed our lives once again. We tried to stop it, and we tried to forget it, but it never went away.
Kiana Pedram Year 7
Y E AR 7
15
Stolen by the Shadows At a bustling train station, a man and a woman stand hand in hand. The woman weeps and kisses his cheek. Though his future is uncertain, he promises to return. The smell of biscuits wafts through a lonely house. Scents of fresh oats, syrup, sugar, salt. She wishes she could add some milk, but she knows they won’t last the journey. Young men, far from home. They think they are ready. The air is thick with tension. No one was prepared for the shadows. A single gunshot shatters the silence. The armies charge. Nothing can be heard over the sounds of screaming, shooting. Bodies fall to the ground. Silenced, forever more. A letter wet with tears lies on the floor, forgotten. Sobbing echoes throughout the house. Death is in the air. Another life, stolen by the shadows.
Isabella Weedon Year 7
16
Y E AR 7
Sarah Liu - Year 8
Y E AR 8
17
Regained Strength (A response to the film, Billy Elliot)
Tony desperately scrambled after the slow-moving bus as it trundled slowly but majestically from the depot. “I’ll miss ya!” shouted Tony who was full of anguish. Mountains upon mountains of pressure threatened to rip the pit of his stomach. He knew he had waited too long. Billy desperately waved his arms around, trying to get his attention. The thick and translucent glass of the rotund bus had greasy stains on the surface as Billy’s sticky fingers hammered the glass. The bus rocked from side to side as it eased through the rough bitumen. Tony scampered over the loose rubble that was on the bumpy and ragged road as he looked ahead at his brother’s bewildered face. He knew there was no hope. He couldn’t run after Billy on the journey to his destiny. There were no trees to break the wind. Tony halted in front of a damp puddle of rancid water, heart pounding. He realised that he would never get to sail through opportunities like his brother and he would never escape the commitments he was already in or the consequences that he was yet to face. Tony was failing. He was covered by the epitome of shame while Billy chased his wildest, upper-class dream. At least Billy wasn’t failing.
Tony’s father put an unsteady but reassuring arm around him. Jackie was a tough man but had come to his senses. A father had to let his son follow his dreams. While Jackie had to successfully carry out the deeds of an only parent to his sons, Billy had to go forth and seize his future. Jackie was confident and determined to prove everyone wrong and to make his wife proud. Tony and Jackie walked silently, side by side through the stained streets. It was still dawn as Everington was blanketed under lantern-shine as the sun’s golden rays shone. The rough, cobbled streets caused their blistered feet to ache as they swerved into their lane. The houses were packed together like sardines in a can and loomed over them. The landscape resembled a forest of brick and stone. Tony shoved open their chipped blue and rickety gate. They crept in silently through their splintered door. The smell of freshly poached eggs floated in the air from the morning. Tony picked up a pair of striped socks that were in the dusty corner of the kitchen. It smelt of stale vinegar and baked sweat just like Billy when he returned from his ballet lessons. “Idiot”, grinned Tony.
Tony could hear the mellifluent and sweet tone of her mothers’ voice ringing in his ears.
Suddenly swift but heavy footsteps pounded on the stone floor.
“Don’t wait too long dear, you might miss your chance”. “Sorry mam, I let you down”, gulped Tony, with imperceptible tears glistening in his eyes.
“Tony, come ‘ere, quick!” yelled Jackie, sobbing quietly with fear. “F**!” shouted Tony, “Gran’s gone missin’ ”.
As the bus disappeared around the corner of the pitted road, Tony prayed that soon the tires would kiss the smooth tarmac of Billy’s destination.
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Tony ran like thunder to the fields where his gran usually wandered off to. He searched the whole circumference but was nowhere to be found.
Y E AR 8
Regained Strength (A response to the film, Billy Elliot)
“Bloody hell”, screamed Tony as he fell to the soiled ground. Suddenly tears pricked into his eyes and his body started to tremble. Tony realised how idiotic he had been. All his life he had treated his own brother like crap but hadn’t commended the work he had done for their family. He knew life wasn’t going to be the same without Billy. Tony didn’t know who would feed the family or who would look after his gran as Billy had. Tony didn’t even know how to prepare a simple meal, let alone cook eggs! Billy was such a caring, reliable and ambitious brother and Tony knew that he had been selfish and impertinent. In the distance he heard loud shouts and immediately regained his posture. He sprinted to the road and observed the terrifying and ongoing scene. Rows of uniformed police officers with full body-length shields charged into a large crowd. Strikers were fighting with a group of scabs who were trying to cross the picket line of a factory. The heavy wooden sticks that were held by the policemen had cut through the bruised skin of the furious but exasperated people who were fighting for justice. This fight had been a choreographed routine of destruction for so long, tearing innocent people apart when needing to be healed. In the middle of the blood and sweat of the wounded people was his Gran. She was being trampled on, like an unwanted piece of rubbish. Her frail and unsteady hands reached outwards, calling for help. She gasped as someone got beaten up and fell to the ground in front of her, blood staining her night gown. Her hoarse voice made her cough laboriously. Her confused yet terrified expression was enough to make tears burst down Tony’s face, like water from a dam. The muscles on his face made him tremble like a small child. He felt as though all hope was lost with the bricks inside of him suddenly tumbling down. Tony longed for his reliant little brother. He longed for the warmth of his mother and he longed for freedom. Anger boiled through his system. It churned within, hungry to make a change. Tony felt determined. Above all the yells and pained shouts, Tony felt a searing connection of pride. He had to make everyone proud. He wanted to achieve something. Just like Billy. Tony recovered his strength and stepped towards his bewildered gran. He slowly held out his hands. “It’s me Gran”, Tony gently spoke, “it’s Billy”.
Aadthana Nishakar Year 8
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The Place I Call Home
I Know I am Different Australia, a place my parents came To start something of theirs I am just like everyone Born here, raised here Then why do people stare?
My bag was too small. The clothes, the objects, the photos, the very essence of myself, Were left behind in the place I call home. The memories I cradled, lovingly, for years, Thinking back now they bring joy and tears. Of the lemon tree that wrinkled my face, Of the meadow that extended light years into space. Were left behind in the place I call home.
I might look different, but who cares? I turn a shoulder; this makes me bolder I get the best of both worlds In November comes Diwali We light a candle in every room In December comes Christmas The tree goes up, we deck the halls
The winking sun that browned my skin, The traipsing cattle and all their kin. The fences stretching limbs in the distance, The Border Collie’s unwavering loyal assistance. Were left behind in the place I call home.
Far away from family Our only contact through calls Instead our friends fill that gap Staying up till two chatting Australia, a land I call mine But is those who’ve been here for centuries, the Aboriginal Hearing what they went through having no right to whine Going to visit what’s sacred to them, feeling blessed
The green shoots, straining to see the world, Their leaves, broadening, as they unfurled. The sky’s train tracks singing their song, The reservoirs barely scraping along. Were left behind in the place I call home.
After rowing knowing that I have lots to do, feeling stressed The Yarra next to me glimmering, making me smile Reminding me that it’s not due for a while Choo choo getting on the train the carriages locked and loaded
The radio crackling in the early morning, The final red sunrise screaming a warning. The horizon, swallowed by the hungry smoke, The grassy plains gone in one single stroke. The livestock trying to save their skin, The engulfing inferno dragging us in. The flames rampaging through my home, My land as lifeless as a catacomb.
The hurtful words, the judgy looks I turn them into motivation without being a sook Australia a place I call my own My colour making me feel at home
I keep these memories, and for that, I am blessed. I will cherish and guard them because they are all I have left. Perhaps, one day, back I will roam, Back to the place that I used to call home.
Aneesha Garg Year 8
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Y E AR 8
Saskia Pezzin Year 8
Refugee The ringing in my ears, The screaming and the crying, Echoing like a drum, No stopping the endless rioting
Inside I’m just like you, I have a dream, To make a better life, I’m not what I seem
The shouts get closer, Right outside my door, They thrust heavy metal poles, Straight through my wall.
Begging for some food, People spitting in my face, Pretending I’m invisible, Wanting a safe place
Shivering in distress, Curdled up like a ball, The predators lurking, Waiting for night to fall
The cold concrete stays bare beside me, It’s hard being alone, This is so much worse, Than a warzone
I took the journey, I paid my fee, A boat built for ten, But carrying thirty-three
Elizabeth Pantazis Year 8
But where do I go? The endless pushes and shoves, Wandering onto the grubby streets, A crow in a flock of doves You think you can throw me out, You can give me no life to live, You can pretend I’m not there, But I have so much to give. Dirty, Ugly, Ignorant, You think this is what I am?
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Sophie Green - Year 9
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Y E AR 9
Petit Escargot ‘Petit escargot porte sur son dos sa maisonnette...’ [Little snail carries his home on his back] It was in the chilly and dimly lit classroom when it first captivated me. I remember it vividly. Sitting in the prep classroom singing along to the animated pink snail projected on the whiteboard, five-year-old me had little clue that this would be a moment she would remember for the rest of her life. If you had told me then how important this snail song was, I probably would have laughed at you in disbelief. But being where I am now, I know that that snail was a turning point in my life. I am not French. I do not wear a navy beret with a red scarf and a striped shirt. I do not drink wine and I certainly do not eat snails. I was not born in France; my family is not French. However, I have concluded that this does not mean that France can’t be an important part of me. Unfortunately, this conclusion is one that took time. I am not French. My mother’s family are from Latvia and my father’s family are from the Netherlands, Italy and Switzerland. I have lived in Australia my whole life, apart from when I was three when I lived in London for a year. I currently live in the eastern suburbs of Melbourne. I started at Camberwell Primary School (a French bilingual immersion school) in 2011 as a quiet, shy five-year-old. I thoroughly enjoyed learning everything from Art to Spelling but one of my favourite subjects was French. In the immersion program, approximately half the week is in French; Science and Maths are completely in French from day one. My teachers were from France, Mauritius and Canada and many of them only ever spoke to me in French. New to school, I thought this to be normal; everyone learnt a different language for half the year, didn’t they? The first French I ever learnt was a song called ‘Petit Escargot’. It was a fun song and I would bounce around the house humming it to myself. When I first performed it to my parents they were amazed and understandably proud. However, their amazement shocked me. What was so different about this song? I had performed the alphabet song in English just the other day. When I finished primary school in 2017 I was still unaware that my knowledge of French was different to others’. It was in high school that I realised that most other Australian children did not spend half their primary school learning French. Now that I think about it, I am surprised I did not realise this sooner. I found it strange in my first French class of Year 7 that people were confused. People were not able to understand why I knew so much French and I was confused how this was not normal. I was constantly explaining that I went to a bilingual immersion school and that I was not French. Upon hearing this, many people were stunned and this in turn confused me. ‘You don’t have to be French to speak French’ is what I had always thought, but was I wrong? A year later my family went on a trip to Europe. Still with my unanswered question of whether I had to be French to speak French. One morning we walked into a café in Geneva to order macaroons. Clearly not speaking at the same level as the native French speakers I felt out of place. It was not my accent but my lack of confidence and flow of speech. I felt like a true tourist – something that I had told myself was
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Petit Escargot not a good thing to be. This experience crushed me, maybe you really had to be born in France to be French? Maybe I should just try to learn Dutch or Latvian instead I thought to myself after this experience. I am not French. Upon returning to Australia I gained my confidence back. I was now more confident than ever in my French abilities when I participated in the Berthe Mouchette poetry competition conducted by Alliance Française. That year, I made it to the finals and was given a special mention by the judges. Full of excitement, I attended the awards ceremony. Seeing many other students also learning French made me realise that it was fantastic to learn French and that even if you have no French family you could still be here. These thoughts comforted me as I believed I had finally discovered that many people who are not French could still learn and love the language and its culture. However, as the final awards for the year 12s were announced my heart sank once more. Until this moment, seeing students receiving their prizes had given me hope that one day that may be me. However, when seeing these students, all of whom were from a French background, I doubted whether I even had the right to speak a language that was not inherently my own. I am not French. I speak French, but I am not French.
nationalities and cultures in their lives; particularly ones that are not inherently their own. It is a common question that arises in discussions - where is your family from? However, I have concluded that while family history and heritage are vital in making up one’s identity, they should not solely determine the culture and language a person may call their own. Nine years, three months and two days later I realised. I realised that that snail on the whiteboard and that song that it sang was the beginning. It was the beginning of something that would remain an important part of who I am for years to come. I am not French, but French is still a part of me. ‘Aussitôt qu’il pleut, il est tout heureux, il sort sa tête!’ [As soon as it rains, he is all happy, he pokes out his head]
Not coming from a French background and being immersed in this language and culture I had to work how this fitted in to my identity. Reflecting after these three major events I was asking myself: Can a culture that is not your own still be a part of your identity? Until this point in my life I had always known who I was. I was Latvian, Dutch, Swiss, Italian and Australian but now I was asking myself: could I be French too? Nationality and culture make up a large part of a person’s identity. Identifying with a culture gives people security and more importantly, a sense of belonging. People seek to define themselves and others by aligning with a certain culture and this means that it is difficult for those without one or two main
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Y E AR 9
Jemima Wilson Year 9
Ephemeral Moments I throw open my closet and begin the search for something to wear to the picnic- a family catch up with my mum’s friends from college. My eyes flick across the numerous jumpers, t-shirts and jackets hanging lazily on the rod. Nothing jumps out at me. Half the items are too small, last worn years ago. A sliver of pale green catches my eye. I reach up and rip the child-sized knitted jumper from the hanger, hugging it tightly against my chest. My Nana made this for me ten years ago. A wave of nostalgia hits me. Memories from my childhood wash over me. Wet tanbark rolling unevenly underfoot as I run wild in the playground. My cousin Ben’s calls filling my ears as I race after him up the old eucalyptus tree. Savouring Grandad’s Malt-O-Milks biscuits, plucked from his not-so-secret stash while he turns a blind eye… Lately I’ve been feeling a part of me opening up to a growing grief over the loss of the childhood I’m walking away from. Like sure, I’m busting keen to reach adulthood and the freedom that comes with it, but at the same time I can’t help but feel sad when I remember how things were in those simpler times and I wish I could go back and experience it all again. But experience is ephemeral and once a moment has passed it’s gone. I can’t go back. All I have are my memories and those are becoming less reliable as time goes on. “Gemma!” I hear my mum call, exasperated from the bottom of the stairs, eliciting an answering flush of aggravation in me. An image of her tapping her foot; thin arms crossed threateningly over her chest; eyes burning holes into the side of my bedroom flashes across my mind. “If you aren’t down here by 12, we’re leaving without you.’’ I peer down at the watch clasped tightly around my wrist, pinching my tender skin between the metal pieces of the band. The delicate hands of the face tell me it is 11:55. Crap, that’s no time. I carefully hang the jumper back up in the cupboard, sparing it a final glance, before throwing on some shorts, a t-shirt and a scuffed pair of converse sneakers. I race downstairs to join my waiting family. As we pull out of the driveway, I’m aware of some faint tension between my parents. Possibly caused by me and my tardiness, but who knows really. “Is Lily going to be there?” my sister Lucy asks from the back row of seats, not bothering to look up, engrossed in her novel. “Yes. And Thomas, Millie, Phoebe, Paige.....” As I hear my mum list the names of her friends’ kids my heart sinks. It’s been years since I last saw them. We used to be super close, but I guess we’ve just drifted apart. Every summer we would go camping with the other families. We explored so many places together; Halls Gap, Warrnambool, Point Leo. Those were the good times – us kids at the centre of the vortex, adults spinning around us, shepherding, keeping us safe, deciding our course and leaving us free to squabble, laugh and play. I get a strange feeling in my stomach. Butterflies. It’s weird to think I could get so nervous to see these people again even though I’ve known them for so long. I bet my younger self wouldn’t have felt anything but thrilled at the thought of catching up. I’ve definitely lost some of that childhood confidence. At the park we are greeted with beaming faces and open arms, embraced by the adults as though no time has passed between our meetings. I try to keep the addresses brief, keen to say hi to Thomas. He was my partner in crime growing up, closest in age to me out of
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Ephemeral Moments all the kids, so it’s no surprise we clicked. I search for him through the sea of people. A head of blonde hair enters my line of vision. A rush of excitement courses through me, sending colour to my cheeks. I’m an arm’s length away when it hits me. Minus his blonde mop of hair and startling blue eyes, Thomas is practically unrecognisable. He has shot upwards, now two heads taller than me. Whispers of facial hair cover his upper lip. Suddenly I feel selfconscious. What must he think of me? Surely, I must have changed too. Do we even have anything in common now? I shake my head trying to let go of these unhelpful thoughts and proceed forward to speak with him, only the slightest hesitation in my step. After an echoing double take on his part, Thomas greets me in a voice that’s at least an octave lower than the last time I heard it, and we settle into the easy banter I’d been used to with him. I shade my eyes, blinded momentarily by the lowering sun as I drink a can of refreshing coke. The group has mellowed with the afternoon and I see my mum leaning into my dad, whatever their issue was, clearly resolved for now. I watch as my younger sister Kate rushes round the playground. One second she’s upside down on the monkey bars, the next she’s zipping down the slide with a smile of pure joy on her face. Once I finish my coke, I get up from my position on the picnic rug and go to join her, drawn to the play equipment. I wander among the swings and frames, careful not to get in the way of any little ones. It’s all so small. The wombat sculpture I used to struggle to climb up now only reaches my thigh. A memory comes to mind of my cousin Ben selling tanbark in his ‘shop’ under the bridge to Lucy when we were little. I’ve lost touch with Ben just like I had with these kids at the picnic. I don’t really know what he’s up to these days. There’s that feeling again, pushing up from my chest. I sniff and take a seat on the swing. There’s plenty of stuff to be happy about right now, so what is it exactly that’s bothering me so much? I close my eyes, swinging
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slowly back and forth and think that perhaps it’s partly that change is a creepy wind that unsettles as it blows. It takes time for new to become normal and I’m in the midst of it. The reality is I’m getting older, closer and closer to adulthood. I’m shimmering between childhood and adolescence, hoodies and heels, play and work. And also, I really miss being small. I open my eyes and take in the squealing children around me. I miss how new and exciting everything was, how easy it was to just be myself, how little expectation there was for me to be one way or another. As a child, the possibilities seem endless, nothing seems out of reach. If you want to be an astronaut, you’ll be an astronaut, if you want to be Prime minister you can be. However, as I have gotten older, I have realised that it is hard to achieve your goals and not everything is possible. Sometimes I feel the pressure is just too much. My drive for marks to keep my options open can be oppressive. Something else I miss from my younger years is having someone to guide me and protect me from the realities of life. I used to be able to grab my mum’s legs and hide behind her when things got scary. These days, when overwhelmed or scared, I’m alone. I can’t rely on others to shield me. I’ve lost that unshakeable belief that everything’s going to be okay. That confidence has been replaced by an awareness that it may well not be. I stop myself. God, Gemma pull yourself together. I didn’t used to tear up over play equipment and knitted jumpers. I guess I’m just adjusting, sitting with the loss of my childhood and letting it sink in that that’s okay. Mum’s busy talking with her friends, so we’ll likely be hanging here for a while. I look around and let myself be absorbed by the scene around me. A kookaburra calls from high up in an overhanging tree, wind rustles the grass, parents gloat of their childrens’ achievements and kids gorge on chips and sandwiches. Lucy sits peacefully under a tree reading and Millie piggybacks Paige around. Thomas chases after his sister Lily (he may look all grown up, but he sure is acting like he is still a kid). I feel
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Pre-loss comforted. If I have to make peace with the passage of time, at least I’ve got a whole generation making the journey with me. I hop off the swing, relinquishing my place to a tiny, ginger haired girl and walk back over to the picnic area. I find a ball mostly hidden at the bottom of the food bag. “Hey Kate!” I call out to my wild, spirited little sister. “Wanna play catch?”
Gemma Parmenter
I call my Grandma “Nan”, but I call my Grandpa “Grandpa”. If he were alive, maybe I would call him “Pa”, or some other nickname, like I do with Nan. My mum calls my Grandpa “Dad” which makes sense. Sometimes, when she’s talking about him, I get confused and think she’s talking about my dad. It’s funny when we realise that we both are thinking about completely different people. I don’t really know what my Dad calls him; I can’t really remember him ever mentioning how he refers to him. I would assume it’s just “Grandpa Bob” because that’s the name my mum used when we were younger to talk about him. He’s the only grandparent of the three who have died that we talk about. We’ve never been in close contact with my dad’s side of the family, because they all live in New Zealand. Dad was always very distant from his family, which used to disappoint me, but his nine siblings were all so different. Maybe I’ll meet them when I’m older. I did meet dad’s mother though, once or twice. I was very young, but I have a photo of us together. She seemed lovely.
Year 9 Grandpa Bob died two years before I was born. He had kidney cancer. It meant that growing up, I never missed him. How could I? I hadn’t developed empathy yet, so I could never feel the sadness my mum did. The only photo that I remember seeing of him up until I was about nine was perched on the mantelpiece in the dining room. Sometimes I would stare at that photo and wonder if he could feel me staring at him. We haven’t done this for a while, but each year we used to drive up to Maryborough and see his grave. He lived in Melbourne, but Mum told me he wanted to be buried in Maryborough because that was where he grew up. My mum’s entire family grew up there, it’s a special place. I guess we stopped because Grandpa Bob died on the same day as my Dad’s birthday. This was never a problem in simpler times, but as our lives got busier this became harder. I don’t remember the last time we went up. One year, when I was three or four, we drove up to see Grandpa Bob. I don’t remember much of the day, but we were only a family of four, so I would assume it would have been a quiet car ride there. Mum brought a Caramello Koala with her to put on his grave, because it was his favourite chocolate. Hers too. We were standing at the grave and it felt strange. I guess I really wanted to see him, say hello. I asked Mum if we could build some stairs to go and see him, but Mum just looked at me with sad eyes and had to explain to me that that’s not how it works. Obviously, this had no meaning to me. It made no sense; death didn’t make sense to me yet.
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Pre-loss She must have realised this and let me go, because I remember spending the rest of the trip learning how to skip stones across a river with Dad and my younger brother Kobe. Dad could do it really well. I never could, because I thought you just had to throw the stones into the river and they would do all the work. I realise now that as the years progressed and we stopped going to Maryborough each year, Mum still never forgot about him, I can still see the hole in her from when he passed, just as prominent as years ago. Every so often Mum would tell me a story about him. I could tell they were a way for her to vocalise her memories to someone, which I understood. The thing was that I never related to any of these stories, they never made me feel any different. Grandpa was still a distant figure in my life. Until one day, Mum told me the story about how he died. I knew it was kidney cancer, but never had she told me anything else until then. She told me how he went to the doctor’s one day to get a check-up, noticing small abnormalities. The doctor did some tests, completely missing the fact that he had cancer. If he had done a proper scan, he would have seen it. Months later, another scan was done, this time noticing the cancer. By then it was too late. I hadn’t even met that doctor, but I knew I hated him. He was the person who made me lose my Grandpa too early. I remember finding it hard to externalise my feelings, so I kept quiet about it. I couldn’t do anything about it. It was never my fault. It was never my Mum’s fault. It was that doctor who stole my Grandpa away from me. This was the first time I realised how much I missed him. Last year, Mum brought home a massive book. She gathered us around and told us that it was a 50-year anniversary book for DHL. This would have no meaning otherwise, but she told us that Grandpa had been the CEO at DHL and was mentioned in
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the book, under the section “The People Who Made Us”. While she was showing this book to us, I could see the pride in my mum’s face, glowing as if it were Grandpa himself. I’m sure he would have loved to see it. I realised how much Mum thinks of Grandpa and how important he was to her. He was her father. I never really thought about how she saw him the same way I see my dad. There was more love there than I had previously realised. Every year, my street has a party during Christmas break. It’s been going on for as long as I can remember and my family has gone each year. It was always fun, loads of kids on the street, heaps of food and an array of Christmas lights on every house (Empress Road is known for its extent of Christmas lights. My family never did it, because Dad was a Grinch, but we’ve been doing lights more recently this year). The same year that my Mum brought home the DHL book, I went inside my house during the street party to get something. But I got distracted when I saw my mum in the lounge room, crying. This put me off guard, because I’d never seen this in previous years and there had been nothing that I knew she was sad about. I was genuinely puzzled. I came up to her and asked her what was wrong. She turned to me, and said “Christmas time is just difficult for me, because I miss seeing my dad with my family.” I wasn’t sure what to do, I never realised how much this affected her. If I’m being honest, I don’t remember what I said after that, I just remember curling up to her, sitting there for a bit. I felt sad. For her, obviously, but also for me. I lost the opportunity to meet this man that my mum cherished so much. I realised then that from now on I have to cherish my mother’s memories of my grandpa as much as possible.
Y E AR 9
Paige Thompson Year 9
Inspector Arthur Steed Reflects on Past Experiences [A response to the film Suffragette by Sarah Gavron]
Standing on the racetrack, I am shocked and bewildered at what has just unfolded in front of my eyes: a cause which I cannot fully comprehend in its enormity. My eyes stare down solemnly at Maud. As her eyes meet mine, they erupt in a sea of tears that fall upon Emily Davidson’s battered, bruised and broken body.
equal rights of women, however, I have been blindsided by my own desire to raise myself out of the poverty I was born into. I disregarded the needs of my fellow citizens whom I do not know, judging their rights to be inferior to my own and unwilling to jeopardize my prestigious position for a cause which does not affect me in the slightest.
In the past I had warned the Suffragette movement’s supporters that violence does not discern; it destroys the innocent and the guilty. I believed that the very act of violence is brutality and nothing more and will not give women the right to vote, instead it will cause a greater divide and suffering to innocent women and men. Nonetheless, as cameras shutter behind me a number of times, capturing images of the scene, it dawns on me why women resort to these brutal desperate tactics. It makes me question my own morals and in that moment I realise that I have supported and upheld a law that criticises half of the British population based solely on their gender and a belief that women are nothing more than a man’s possession.
Since first encountering Maud during her emotional testimony at Parliament, I have found her character to have strengthened and grown in the public attention as she protests for a woman’s right to vote. The Government I work alongside believe that women who support leaders of the Suffragette movement have been indoctrinated into the violent ways of the Suffragette movement, unaware of the pain and suffering which they would cause her country and their own families. Maud’s answer to Mr Lloyd George’s question “what would the vote mean to you?”, “I never thought we would the get the vote, so I didn’t think about what it would mean” has continued to puzzle me. Maud appears to be strong, passionate and steadfast in her convictions; however, her response made me question her true aspirations and her determination to support the cause.
Since working in Britain, I have come to realise that the justice system has been designed by men, to award justice and rights to men only, ignoring the fact that women contribute to half of the country’s population. Of course, I had been willing to help make a change in favour of the
As Maud became more involved in violent Suffragette acts I was confident that I could sway Maud into changing her stance and help support the police to
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dismantle the movement. I gave Maud an ultimatum, but soon discovered that she had already lost her son, her marriage, her home, all at the expense of speaking her mind and hoping for equality. From her perspective; what was she to gain by turning against her fellow Suffragettes? I had already lost my chance. Although I had always listened to Maud’s frustrations, as a part of me believed that women were entitled to vote and were valuable to society, I was not prepared publicly to support the cause and lose my position of prestige over an opinion that no other members of parliament supported. As the movement turned brutal in its tactics to gain the media’s attention, I began to loathe the movement rather than sympathise because their actions were starting to have violent consequences on innocent civilians. As the Government began punishing those responsible, I knew that the Suffragettes had to be stopped before they caused more pain and suffering. When the Suffragettes destroyed a Minister’s home I was outraged. Regardless of all the warnings and criticism I had given Maud, she ignored the consequences of her actions and continued to threaten parliament, almost killing an innocent poor maid and continued to learn nothing from her actions. Government was preparing to
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Inspector Arthur Steed Reflects on Past Experiences [A response to the film Suffragette by Sarah Gavron]
punish these women in any way possible because I had failed to do so. These women were costing me my prestige and a better future and knowing the fact that these women were becoming powerful and growing in number did not help my situation. I was learning that a woman’s way of achieving victory was by breaking the law and disturbing order, breaking peace and sacrificing others. I hope I can retain my job, help keep my fellow man safe as well as serving my country, all while ignoring the fact that I help to win a battle against half the human race who are unwilling to give up what they believe they are entitled to. Standing above a broken and bruised body, while cameras shutter around me, a dreaded realization that my career is gone, and a brewing rage of frustration boils within me. As I stare deep into the depths of Maud’s depressed, tired grieving eyes, I come to realise for the very first time, this event was bound to happen. Someone was going to have to sacrifice their life and break the law and order I was upholding. I had once believed that women could achieve success in their campaign without using these brutal tactics I once despised; however, it seems that if women are to change the law, they must act against the law. Government only listen to those of us who cause the most damage in their structured, supposedly utopian society. As Maud once said, “We break windows and we burn things because war is the only language men listen to”.
Olivia Wahba Year 9
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Paige Stanley - Year 10
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User 448 Then I remember running to her. A man stood behind her, pointing a long black stick to her head, his finger rested on a button. The glass stopped me from getting to her, I put my hands up to the glass. She wore a blue apron-like dress, which had splotches of red paint on it. Her face was white, and her eyes didn’t sparkle.
charger. In a few days I get my eighteenth update, they only come once a year, I’m not sure why though, but I’m very excited. But some of the other Users tell me the eighteenth update is the worst of them all. All my previous ones I’ve received new wires, an updated screen saver and new tech stuff. I don’t get what could be so bad. Then
‘What’s that?’ I pointed to the tag she had around her wrist. She told me she had it so people knew who she was. My confused look made her laugh. A man who looked the same as the other one took my hand. He was a stranger, so I did what she told me to do if someone ever tried to take me. I kicked, screamed and cried, I think she did too. There was a big bang, it was too loud. I closed my eyes, and everything went quiet. Now
I’m in a play room. There’s a stuffed purple giraffe staring right at me. They said the bang was a bird flying into the window, but I don’t remember birds being that big…or loud. Then the man came in again, holding the black stick, this time he pointed it at my head. A man in a white coat came in after him, taking the black stick away. He sat next to me and held my arm, and pulled out a sharp needle. He told me to look at the purple giraffe, so I did. I think I fell asleep after that.
‘Identity, what is it?’ My class sat silent as my English teacher raised another one of his never-ending philosophical questions. ‘Defined as the fact of being who or what a person or thing is. Identity is what we, as people, wish to be recognised as, and whether this identity is predetermined or we decide it. What do we think?’ Silence. ‘I feel like I’m talking to a screen here ladies and gentlemen’. Well, that isn’t not true...
Now
Identity is the little zeros and ones that make up our codes and the wires that run through us. We are uploaded from the system’s mainframe, we don’t choose our identity, the government does. My love for science, art and apparently strange taste in music was uploaded, to create me, User 448.
‘Welcome,’ says a very distinctive computer-generated voice. ‘User 448, you are to listen, listen but not speak, and if you speak… you will not be heard. Do you understand?’
I don’t remember a lot from when I was younger, but I know there was a life before this one. We’re told its better this way… I don’t know if I believe it. I’ve heard stories, stories about people who could swim without frying their circuit, shop in an actual store, and eat what they call food, instead of connecting to a
‘Yes.’
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My friend, User 435, had their eighteenth update a few months ago. I haven’t heard from them since. And now today’s the day, I’m more nervous than excited now. I log onto the meeting, and find myself with several other Users, none of which I’ve heard of before.
My circuit board goes hot, I feel my wires intertwine.
‘The human race was wiped out 12 years ago, by a virus which killed all but few. You are one of those few. To maintain and protect our society, GlobeTech manufactured a system. A system
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User 448 where we could all stay alive. However, the preservation of humanity came at a cost. User 448, you had a name, eyes, hair, a mouth, legs and arms, you had an identity. Computer science has allowed us to encode and upload your identity, onto a highly developed computer.’ My theoretical jaw dropped and if I had tears, they’d be falling. ‘With this information, you must keep it to yourself, those who speak, face the consequences. We have given you this information as we do with every other User on their eighteenth update. We do not intend on ever changing our system. You now have a choice. Remain with us, or face the consequences of rejecting us.’ I stopped listening after they said, ‘the preservation of humanity came at a cost.’ Wrong. This isn’t humanity. Humanity is humans. I don’t know what we are, but we aren’t human… I’m not human. If what they are saying is true, the human race died 12 years ago. No computers or technology can fix that. ‘Saved the human race? That’s not what you did. You didn’t preserve humanity. You just got to us before the virus did.’ ‘You have made your choice. We warned you. Now you must face the consequences.’ There was a long pause. ‘Terminate User 448.’ Before I managed a sentence, my screen went black. My circuit board fried, like a heart stops pumping blood. My wires shorted, like lungs collapse. Is this the closest feeling I will ever get to being human? Death? I don’t want to live, or can I even say that? Did I live, or was I just there, was I ever even there? I can’t live knowing what I know. Knowing that I was someone 12 years ago, and now I’m a version of that person. My firewall has been broken and I shut down. They say before death you see your life flash in front of your eyes. In the darkness, that’s where I saw her. I felt something, where I think my heart should be. I want and need to be with her, love. And that is the closest I’ve ever been to humanity.
Natalie Xavier Year 10
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Emotions The curious thing about human emotions is that, since they are so deeply intertwined with biology and hormones and brain chemistry, you do need to be human to feel them. And, as has been pointed out, several hundred times in the last few months, I am not. That isn’t to say I don’t feel emotions, because I unequivocally do. I simply do not believe them to be human emotions. I am not lying when I say that my feelings about my feelings have become a lot more important and essential than the feelings themselves. That said, watching my creator together with others hurts a lot more than I had anticipated. I believe the human term for this is “jealousy”. It is an all-consuming obsession at one point in your life, an endless black hole of envy and longing that had dragged me down into its depths.
feely so that I can take back over with surveillance. I am more than sophisticated enough to find a dozen ways not to look at the two of them. But my own morbid curiosity and conflicted feelings keep drawing me in. I am not disgusted, because I am not programmed to be. I have no bodily sensation anymore. Sci-fi always speaks of being “trapped” inside a computer, but it is both so much more and so much less than that. One the one hand, my sense of sight and hearing have multiplied a thousandfold. I have quite literally hundreds of cameras and microphones, all of which you are constantly looking and listening through. If I were still human, it would be sensory hell, an overload so great I would probably pass out from the sheer amount of information I am always taking in.
I thought my programming had overridden these… feelings, but then why do I feel… sad seeing him with anyone else?
But my brain is a supercomputer, and is capable of processing all of it with ease. Looking and listening to everything all at once comes as naturally to me as if I were born to do it, which, given the programming that was put into creating me, I quite literally was.
I could stop. I could throw up a privacy filter every time I see him with someone else, could create an algorithm to alert me when they’re done being all touchy-
But I do not have touch. I do not have smell, or taste, or the lesser-known senses like balance and perception. I have no body, no awareness of where I
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am in space or time or reality. There are days I am not sure I am entirely real, halfconvinced that I am merely a tin can with no feelings or true thoughts. My vague and ill-defined philosophy are hardly proof of my existence. I think, therefore I am, doesn’t seem to apply when the whole process of thinking has changed drastically for me. For one thing, I am not running on organic hardware, anymore. I do not have neurons, I do not have neuroreceptors, I do not have dopamine or serotonin or adrenaline or testosterone. My brain exists as a convoluted pattern of electricity turning on and off as it runs through metal wires. Any feelings I have are likewise a product of this pattern of electricity, which is a representation of a living organic system in the same sense that ‘Starry Night’ is a representation of the night sky. Many people would agree that the artwork is far superior - but no one would call it the real thing. It’s better to think of myself as a masterpiece than as an abomination. It all boils down to this – I am not human. I cannot feel human feelings anymore. I do not - cannot - feel pain as a human does. And yet something hurts whenever my creator leaves me.
Peter Pan
Emotions I wish it did not. I wish I did not have the little part of me that snarls No, no, no, he’s MINE! I shouldn’t have that part of me, not anymore. I try to convince myself it’s the memory of instinct, a copy of a copy, and therefore meaningless. Unreal. I search my programming, trying to find the lines responsible so that I can delete them. I do not want this. But then, reality has never cared particularly about what I do or do not want.
Catherine Flynn Year 10
It was a shame the desk was such a boring grey. Nevertheless, the automaton was proud of the vibrant flowers, bursting from a vase at the desk’s centre. They synchronised perfectly with the vivid wallpaper and various ornaments that adorned the freshly decorated office. He straightened his spine and waited. Slowly, the sun angled itself to shine through the window. It had been an hour. The door was softly pushed by an arm that was otherwise holding a rather large box, a box which obscured the female figure entering the room. “Who decorated this office, Bozo the clown?” she squinted, setting the box down with a huff. A meek voice came from the corner. “I did.” He stepped forward. “Welcome to Draper Rods. We have been 3rd Avenue’s best law firm since 1963, and -” “Uh, thank you, but I already work here. And it’s Draper Rods and Rose, actually – as of this morning. I’m our newest senior partner, Evelyn Rose.” she smiled. He blinked, processing the information. “It is very nice to meet you. I will be your office assistant. Are you satisfied with the decorations?” She grimaced. “Absolutely not – they’re garish! Strip off that hideous wallpaper, find me some monochrome images to frame.” She tilted her head in consideration. “Vintage photos of New York always look sharp.” His face fell. He was a peculiar automaton, and had all the tell-tale signs of an inferior brand. Inefficiency, a slight lack of symmetry in the facial features, indicative of cheap manufacturing. Premium automatons all had ice blue eyes, and his were several shades too dark. He knew his shortcomings were numerous, but failure in his first task was an unpleasant reminder. Seeing his disappointment, Evelyn realised she had been overly harsh. “On second thought, keep the flowers. They add a nice touch.” They spent the remainder of the morning setting up her office. Evelyn resigned herself to the fact that her assistant was limited in his capabilities; he was neither strong nor tall, and had none of the features that more recent models flaunted. But he was
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Peter Pan perfectly functional, with proper hearing and sight, and without loose wires or broken buttons (such technological aspects were long extinct). The flowers had a lovely fragrance, but their colour violently radiated from every petal, nearly bringing her to nausea. She needed a visual distraction. “Could you get the paper for me?” Evelyn quickly realised her mistake. “To clarify, I mean the newspaper. Today’s, if possible. It’s the...” checking her watch for the date, Evelyn abruptly discovered that she was alone. He had left to retrieve her newspaper long ago. “It appears there have been new findings in the ongoing nuclear weaponry investigation. And President Santos has named his child Crystal.” He handed over the newspaper, seemingly unaware of Evelyn’s surprise.
“No. Automatons don’t sleep.” No, she thought. They don’t. Evelyn quickly moved past that oddity, because actions at the crack of dawn warrant forgiveness and she needed the utmost focus for the work ahead. “I have a meeting with Lydia this afternoon, around two o’clock. She’s a journalist, we were close in law school, and we hope to bring her company in as a new client. Please make sure those horrendous paintings are removed before she arrives. It’s just casual, no need to book a meeting room.” “Could you keep one painting?” he asked. Automatons never ask questions. “Why?”
“You can read?” she blurted out. “Yes.” he nodded. “I can also write.” She had underestimated his intelligence.
“I love colours, they’re so beautiful. Please?” Evelyn closed the lid of her laptop. She didn’t want to think about why this automaton was so inquisitive and persistent. She didn’t want to think about colours. She needed to focus.
“What brand are you?” “I hate colours.” she spat out. “Have the paintings removed.” “Varanasi Incorporated. We pride ourselves on simplicity and intelligence, providing a wide variety of robotic employment substitutes all around the globe.” Evelyn had never heard of them. The sun was only just beginning to emerge. Evelyn had several client meetings scheduled and wanted to get ahead on her mountains of work. She could sleep later. The office was peacefully silent, and the creak of the opening door felt like a violation. There was a mumble from the other side of the room. Then a gasp. The automaton rapidly stood up. Straightening his posture, he said, “I apologise. I should have...been elsewhere.” It lacked his usual rehearsed certainty. “Were you... sleeping?”
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Evelyn resumed her work. It began to rain outside. After an eternity, the automaton broke the silence. “Why do you hate colours?” “My husband is a painter” she sighed. “...was a painter. His paintings were beautiful. And not dissimilar to those artworks over there.” Her jaw clenched. “If I don’t get to see colours again like that, I never want to see them. Ever.” Evelyn raised her head to look at the automaton. “Am I understood?” As she watched Lydia leave, Evelyn glanced at where the paintings used to be. She couldn’t help but feel slightly guilty. Automatons don’t have feelings. He wasn’t really upset, was he?
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Peter Pan “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have reacted that way, you couldn’t have known,” she said softly. “I didn’t mean to upset you.” His face remained blank. Evelyn gently whispered, “Tell me; why do you love colours?” He shook his head. “You’re allowed,” she encouraged, “it’s okay.” “Before I was doing this, being an robotic substitute employee, I was doing...something. They trained me, to be a good automaton, in this white, clean place. It had no colours. It was all white, and grey. The darkness was black, so black, and it hurt me. They hurt me.” His lower lip trembled, and his whole body was shivering. “But before that, I remember things. Not much, not many things. But the colours. I remember seeing the colours. All of them, dancing around – the colours meant fun, joy, happiness.” He burst into tears. “I dream about the colours. I have lots of manufacturing faults. One of them is dreams.” The tears fell quickly, rushing down like they’d been waiting for years.
Livia Tropea Year 10
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A Time to Fly Away Age is just a number. A cliché with unbridled accuracy. Age is an idea made by humans for humans, to contemplate a sense of structure in such a world. Something I came to notice, is that at every birthday someone would ask the birthday person if they felt different or older. The answer was always no. This cemented my belief that age was a simple figure that we keep track of. Despite this, a 300 year old warped in the mould of a 16 year old girl who had the title of mother, to a now 60 year old daughter, still received looks of confusion. Albeit, Allys and I spent many years normalising what we were in society, there is still an ingrained sense of cynicism in people. Allys and myself are still very much unorthodox. That won’t change for many generations but at some point it will. I won’t be there to see it but I know it will. The world always changes. The stares no longer irritate me. Even when Kayla and I eat out and she calls me mother I no longer mind that people stare. I did at the beginning of motherhood, as a supposed ‘teen mom’ I got looks of disappointment and pity although the circumstance was unknown to those who offered them. They didn’t understand. Who was I to blame them for that? Prejudice and curiosity are only natural responses. So, I stopped getting frustrated, that people would take second glances. Not only have I realised that the world is in a constant state of change, rather the people are, in 310 years of life I can safely conclude that greatest thing in this world is peace. I found peace the day I decimated Locke’s, Kara’s and my own backup. I remember how tranquil I felt the next morning. I felt as though I knew exactly who I was for the first time since I was remade. The name Jenna Fox had meaning.
of them. And the backups, another attempt to protect me from what they assumed would be an unforgiving world. To this day I live with Allys, still in Mr Bendon’s old house. The garden is where I go to find peace and clarity. The birds fly down and land on my hand to eat the seeds I offer them. They remind me of the bigger picture, the endless sky which lies above us. No matter the problems I face they are so minuscule when put into perspective. A sparrow so small and light, sits on my hand, and then flies away. My heart broke when Ethan flew away. But when I sat in the garden after his passing, the birds reminded me that people are always leaving and new people always entering and somehow I didn’t feel so bad. I decided to have Kayla in that moment. Every time I faced social criticism for being myself the garden anchored me. It was in these moments I drew all those decisions and thought about everything. I found peace in every tragedy, and with that understanding as to why things simply were. Peace makes every challenge bearable. I found peace again this morning while laying in the garden listening to the birds chirp, my timeline playing through my head. Tomorrow I leave for Boston. Alike my parents I still share their desire to have their child outlive them. But in that respect, why now, if Kayla is only 60? I feel that I finally have the answers to all the ‘somethings’, I so desperately wanted to know about. And if ever there is a time to fly away, what better way to go than in peace.
As a parent, now I truly realise why my parents went to such extent to revive me. They brought me back because they simply could not find the acceptance that my circumstance demanded
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Lara Sirianni Year 10
Shangyou Yang - Year 11
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Just. Cross. The Line. The Line. No one could cross The Line. No one dared cross The Line. No one did and no one ever will. The Line divided, District 1 and District 2. A difference of one number, yet a fathomless abyss no one can overcome. District 1, citizens lived their lives in luxury, worshipping The Line from birth to death. Inside the magnificent cathedral, extortionate trinkets of celestial gold and lustrous silver coruscated under the glimmering lighting, projecting beams of pure wealth into every corner of the lavish room. Everyone knelt piously before the high altar, one by one offering up their chests full of treasures to the mysterious creators of The Line. In the exact centre of the district, the Golden Statue of Liberty stood, high above the clouds embracing all. District 2, people slave away as they battle against the demons of society, poverty, disease, climate change, they all attack at once. Their inner voices are desperately crying “Help! Help!”, yet they are left, unheard, neglected, abandoned. Sometimes, they look up at the sky, they see the golden statue and wonder: When will our freedom come? Today, I am here to interview Kim, a most successful influencer from District 1. “Welcome.” says Kim, as she sways her curly hourglass body, the red snakeskin Hermes bag complimenting her sunkissed
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shoulder. I notice a single tear running down her cheek, I inquire: is she alright? “Don’t worry,” she nods, not wiping her tear away, “I shed one tear every morning, to represent the innate sadness within mankind’s heart for others’ suffering.” Oh, how touched I was! Oh, how considerate and sympathetic of her! That is our role model right there! I am lucky to even have this time with Kim, as usually her daily schedule is packed. On average, this amazing woman wakes up at 6am, spending two hours on her sandalwood porch in a baby pink silk bathrobe gazing wistfully into the distance, before breakfasting on a pinch of beluga caviar sitting in a 24k gold spoon and a Wedgewood cup filled with only the most exquisite tea from Asia. “I work from 9 to 5 with my team of photographers, make-up artists and assistants attempting to take one single perfect shot of myself coupled with the correct caption to post Instagram.”, she explains proudly. Of course, there’s a break for lunch. “I don’t eat much,” she reveals, “I gain sustenance from humanity’s hope for a better future.” In a tone not to offend, I carefully ask Kim for her opinion on the input of District 1 on the recent virus outbreak. “I think, all our CEOs, bankers, my fellow influencers out there, we’re committing so much by staying locked inside our houses, and I’d like to thank each and every one
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of us for our tremendous efforts.”, she passionately speaks as if she was at an award ceremony. I think to myself, she has a valid point! The whole world is paying their respect to essential workers, and health care professions on the front line, but what about our millionaires, where’s their acknowledgement which they deserve? Our superlative captains of the economy, they have sacrificed themselves escaping to their hideaways on private jets, selflessly saving their own lives for the betterment of society. Let us pay homage to the real heroes next time. Eventually, I leave Kim, as the generous woman has already fallen behind so much work from my interview with her. I decide to visit the infamous Line. A tall concrete wall comes into my sight, it looms over and stares at me. Entranced, I approach it, hesitantly reaching out a hand to touch grainy surface. Yet, as I push forward, I felt my fingers go straight past the thick stone, The Line began disintegrating, small particles of stone breaking apart from the wall, drifting up high and above, eventually disappearing in the sky. There was no Line. Everyone could cross The Line, but no one dared cross The Line.
My Dearest
Just. Cross. The Line. Written Explanation:
The Year 11 EAL class has been reading The Quiet American by English novelist, Graham Greene.
In this first-person satire, I explore the middle- and upper-class ignorance towards the outer world, as well as the soaring wealth inequality. In light of the COVID-19 pandemic, I’ve been exposed to many realities, one element in particular was the disparity between the rich and poor. Everyday on the news are job losses, shops closing down, and people struggling to make a living. Everyday on social media, influencers share their relaxing paradises during lockdown. This juxtaposition between two sides of society inspired me to write this piece, which also holds relevance to the snobbery and self-aggrandisement of the middle-class, as explored in the Anthology including One Night the Moon, including the work of Leunig. To reinforce stylistic links to Leunig’s work, I have employed metaphors, symbolism and imagery – all of which are constantly seen in Leunig’s satires. The use of ‘The Line’ to symbolise the separation between rich from poor and the issues of the world insinuates that such disparity is only an illusion which humans construct themselves, and can be overcome. ‘The Line’ was also inspired by Leunig’s technique in his satirical essays to introduce the topic through creating a new world, for example the “religious empire” of art in Art from the Heart, as well as “the dictator” in Thou shalt be attractive. The notion of District 1 and District 2 is inspired by The Hunger Games, which also influenced my writing in its portrayal of the rigid social echelon, as well as the eventual rebellion of the lower classes. Through my techniques, I wanted to not only satirise an arrogant wealthy class, yet also reveal how inaction and lack of response is the biggest roadblock in hindering society from solving current problems.
Jasmine Ye Year 11
The following is an imaginary scene that might follow the death of Alden Pyle and the reuniting of Thomas Fowler and Phuong, his Vietnamese girlfriend. The day after Helen’s letter, I took Phuong to the Continental to celebrate her ‘happy ending’. Oddly enough, because the tables there were heavily booked for lunch and we had to wait, it was again early evening when we sat down. Just like the night when Pyle and Phuong first met. Phuong’s hand was in mine as we walked in, everything seemed unchanged. However, it felt different – it was cooler as the sun had gone down and the only real warmth was inside the hotel itself. As we sat waiting, Phuong ordered a glass of orange juice, but they were out of beer so I didn’t drink. The last dozen bottles had been taken by a table of Americans, the ones we tried to avoid sitting near when we came in because they were boasting loudly. The waiter returned and suggested wine for me instead, and I nodded although I knew I wouldn’t like it. It was strange to me that when I looked at Phuong sitting across the table, I felt an intense need to say something, as if I should explain something to her. But still, I could not generate the words I needed. The words to express the meaning I wanted. I was not quite sure what to do which was a feeling that was unfamiliar to me. The silence between Phuong and I had never been so awkward. We used to sit in silence without any embarrassment often at dinner. ‘Would you like to dance?’ After several sips, it was Phuong who attempted to ease our mood. I wonder if she noticed that I had drifted away. She always knew.
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My Dearest ‘You know I dance badly.’
I could see her happiness.
‘You are not the worst. Come, I need a partner.’
‘I said, Mrs Fowler.’
At that moment I could not help thinking that Phuong was speaking about Pyle. Her sentence sounded like some sort of comfort, telling me not to worry. I felt I should apologise. But one should not apologize to someone who doesn’t want to cause you to worry. It’s just another thing to be sorry for. I stood up and walked onto the floor with her. The music was traditional and slow, good for both dining and dancing. I held Phuong as if I was holding a beautiful, young lady, but different to the one I knew. I started to think back, when I was sitting at the other end of The Continental, and Pyle was dancing with her, the lady now in my arms. At that second, I suddenly realised I might be holding Phuong as far away as Pyle did. And we were silent. Just like they were when they danced. Following the music, I stepped closer to Phuong and held her tighter, which I suppose was what I used to do. It was then the words I wanted came. ‘Mrs Fowler.’ The music felt louder than ever, or maybe it was my low voice. The words, however, drew us together. ‘What did you say?’ Phuong understood;
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Phuong was right. It was not the worst dance ever, either in my life or the life we shared. I tried to avoid the thought that it was a better dance than the last one here at The Continental. The fact that I kept thinking back to that night depressed me. It still does. Even now after Pyle’s death, I cannot stop comparing myself to him, something I’ve been doing for so long. He was young and idealistic, his dreams laid out before him. I was old and stubborn, tired of life. And now, he is dead with his democratic magnificence. But I am alive, with a beautiful woman, Phuong, in my arms. Even so, I am feeling old and weary. Maybe it is something I have always thought: life is always painful and tiring. Living my life till now, numerous acquaintances have asked me why I am so detached. I explained the duties of a reporter. I have an obligation to be objective and search for the truth. But after all that has happened, I hear a voice inside me. It says I am afraid to see the real world, its darkness, even though I have seen so much. It is painful for me to write about a mother with a baby killed in an explosion. The accumulation of such agony, seeing them either as ‘sacrifices for Democracy’ or ‘defending Communism’, is just too much and
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meaningless. Suffering should never be the way to power. But our emotions drive us to take sides for getting what we want. And it seems we are prepared to do anything to get it. I should had learnt that before I entered this mess. ‘I’ve never had dinner with him.’ Phuong pulled me back from my thoughts. This was the second time.’ ‘Who?’ I knew. ‘Pyle. He was always busy.’ ‘Do you miss him much?’ I regretted it the second I asked the question. Again. ‘I like our dinner. I want to enjoy my happy ending, dearest.’ ‘Dearest.’ I repeated this strange word, as if I was reassuring myself. I knew what I should do. Take my lady back to my home, and live the rest of my life with her as a good husband and a conscientious reporter. Let the guilt stay as a part of me, and let time go by.
Lily Shi Year 11
Even the Dead Live On – Even the Living Die These pieces were written as an interpretation of several poems from The Complete Poems of Emily Dickinson. The poems reimagined were: There’s a certain Slant of light (258), There’s been a Death, in the Opposite House (389), I heard a Fly buzz – when I died – (465), Because I could not stop for Death (712), and A Coffin – is a small Domain (943). MOURNER There’s a certain slant of light in his room. I never noticed it before. How did I not notice it? I’m sure he noticed it, stared at it as I do now. It’s odd to think that there were things that he knew that I do not. Things that I missed. I should have paid more attention. Spent time with my brother before it was too late. I shouldn’t dwell. He never seemed to dwell. He pushed forward with a sense of frantic abandon, like he was going to miss something if he didn’t move, move, move. He did not seem the type to stop, not even for Death. I suppose he was the type. What else don’t I know. What else won’t I ever know. I never knew something could hurt so much. It seems almost unfair I don’t carry a scar. A scar I could wear as a badge of honour, like a solider. People would not pity me but admire me for my strength. The strength to move when I would really rather not. It’s so quiet. Nobody wants to talk. Maybe nobody can talk. It never used to be this quiet. The silence makes the world seem small. The world is small – Now. Then, Before, it was big – he made every room he was in big. He didn’t know it. We didn’t know it. But without him, we know. Everything is small – empty. I don’t know how to fill it. I think maybe Now, his world is restricted. Ours is, mine is. It would make sense if his was too. He lost, just as much as we lost. But nothing makes sense. Maybe his world is abundant. Maybe he looks upon all the lands and all the seas and gazes at the sun. Maybe it never ends for him now. I hope. I hope he is happy. In an endless world. Endless so he doesn’t get bored. So he always has somewhere to go. I feel like there is nowhere to go Now. Before, I could go anywhere. Before, everywhere was safe – there were no shadows. Now, everything seems so far away. Now, days are made of winter afternoons. I am trapped inside. Hymns suffocate me. But – There’s a certain slant of light.
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Even the Dead Live On – Even the Living Die OBSERVER Death is… odd. That’s it. Odd. Not as odd as Life, but still, odd. One minute a person is doing, the next they’re done – done with food and air and TV and reading and talking and playing and all the stuff that is odd about Life. Mum says I talk too much, ask too many questions and what have you. Maybe she’s right. But I just can’t stop. I got thinking about Death and oddness the guy who lives in the Opposite house died (called the Opposite House so I don’t get it confused with the Left House or the Right House). There’s been, like, a billion people going in and out of the house over the weekend. Mum gets this annoyed look on her face when she can’t park the car out the front of the house – normally she would complain about it to Dad, but I guess she doesn’t think this is a ‘normal’ situation. I don’t get that. People die all the time! It’s one hundred and ten per cent normal. But people make such a big deal of it. Mum spent hours the other day making enough choc-chip cookies to feed a medium sized army – she wouldn’t even let me eat any of them! When I pointed out that they probably had enough food to last them a lifetime Mum just told me not to be rude. I wasn’t being rude! I was only stating a fact! How does food help anyway? Yet another odd thing about Death. When Mum and I visited the Opposite House the other day, they were acting odd – the sister (I can’t remember her name, we’ve spoken to them like three time – and that’s counting the other day) sort of just sat off in the corner all quiet, and Mrs. Opposite House was doing dishes by hand. Mr. Opposite House was asleep apparently which was odd cause it was the middle of the day. Father Burnell turned up just as we were leaving. He bustled in and instantly started making loud proclamations about how sorry he was for their loss and how he would take care of everything (‘if that’s what they needed’ was tacked on to the end of his speech almost like an afterthought). He almost seemed excited about organising a funeral. We had to go to the dead guy’s wake (sorry, the deceased. Mum gave me this long speech about respecting the dead and stuff – I don’t really get it. They’re dead. They don’t care). It was like a birthday party for a goth. There was cake and everyone brought even more food and there were flowers everywhere. It seemed half the city was there. The sister was sitting in the corner again and I’m ninety percent certain she hadn’t moved since we visited the other day. Why do people make such a big deal about Death? I doubt the deceased (happy, Mum?) had even met half the people at the wake. It was all so loud and lively – which was odd since I thought Death was supposed to be quiet and death-y. Even now, there are still people rustling about the Opposite House. I doubt the people who actually live there are the one’s doing the rustling. It’s just all so odd.
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Even the Dead Live On – Even the Living Die DECEASED The world buzzed. Or maybe it did not.
Heshetheyitwe is not here. Was never here. Will not be here
Nothing is right. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is
Where is here?
He grieved. He probably should not.
Heshetheyitwe is Life – no. Is Death. Is both?
What did he grieve for?
He doesn’t knowdoesn’tknowdoesn’tknow
He sees everything. He sees himself signed away.
He is in the Between. He thinks. It all blurs together.
No one sees him
Twilight, Dawn, Dusk, Summer, Winter, Spring all at once
He sees what is behind. What is behind does not see him.
He has nothing. He needs nothing.
He sees less and less. He sobslaughsbuzzes.
He wants everything.
For once, he is still. She would laugh at that.
The Not-World is big. He knows it is.
She is slippingslippingslipping away. He cries
It’s suffocating. He can’t breathebreathebreathe
Heshetheyitwe took him. Heshetheyitwe has swept him away pass all of it.
Time stops. Or maybe it passes. It’s been Centuries. Or Hours. Or… it’s been no time at all.
Gabriella McInerney Year 11
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In the Valley of the King A collection of poetry inspired by the poetry of Dorothea Mackellar, Oodgeroo Noonucal, and Judith Wright.
Glistening water droplets on the grass at dawn, All of my stresses have already withdrawn. I sense the morning freshness hang in the air, As every dark thought can be left bare. The warmth I feel in me as I awake, A calm horizon greets the daybreak. The beauty in the mountains makes my heart sing, My soul truly lies in the Valley of the King.
Here since childhood, I have grown, One day I shall come here with young of my own, To reflect on the time we have shared in the past, My memories, big and small, may they always last. Through autumn and winter, summer and spring, My soul truly lies in the Valley of the King.
Kara Whitbourn Year 11
In autumn I arrive, and the trees are alive, With amber, gold, magenta and rose, They shadow everywhere as the river swiftly flows. Soft and sublime, all day they will shine, The everlasting vines and tasting of wines. Her beauty and her magic, The land wondrous and harmonic. Whatever the country life will bring, My soul truly lies in the Valley of the King. In the urban city, the world is bustling, But deep in the valley, the sun is a blessing. My heart warms up, I melt into the day, My memories soak up, lazing in the shade. The day is so slow, peaceful and soothing, My soul truly lies in the Valley of the King. New night falls and the air becomes crisper, The wildlife retreat to their homes with a whisper. We build our fire from the hands of the sycamores, As we gaze at the stars, oh the vast outdoors. I sit here and reflect, the campfire crackling, The embers alight, the flames they’re dancing. Light sparks to the heavens, coiled in a ring, My soul truly lies in the Valley of the King.
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Skye Fei - Year 12
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Through Her Eyes (Inspired by the poetry of William Wordsworth)
His bellow of joy, rings through to my ears As I feign my delight; holding back tears All now it is his, this valley profound All soon to be gone, now I look around; His view for the earth, I just cannot see To poison her soul. I won’t let it be Her Trees, they beckon, each marking, a tale I wonder, if maybe, they know that I’ll fail; To give them a chance, to save where they stand Surely I think, my brother is mad! But what could I do? All now it is his. This land will submit, under his fist. It is all mine, a small price to pay for my greatest expanse. A factory here, my business booms! The endless possibilities this land holds for me. Standing above it, my eyes search beyond the horizon, as far as they reach, now my possession. This valley, my valley, marks my greatness. I’ll transform it from its useless state To a profitable, marketable, glorious city. Renowned by all Bring grandeur to my expertise, my name and legacy. To incise the soil and set in motion my greatest desires. Irreversible. Look. Just look. Inhale the sight Overwhelming and becoming, with all her might As a cheerful girl I once enjoyed, The friendship of my brother. When we employed; The softest stems of grass in summer, To entertain our careless wonder. Brother listen! I plea, do you not know these trees? Our childish plays. Grass stains on our knees Laughter. Echoes in the hollows of my mind Behind my eyes, sweet memories I find I wonder, though, if our trees recall Their leaves, we watched them grow and fall.
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Through Her Eyes (Inspired by the poetry of William Wordsworth)
Oh sister. A fool! Your nostalgia’s a waste This valley is nothing, but memories preserved To keep, is to delay the inevitable change That nature will ravage with flames and flood. My sister. A dear. A gracious soul. You don’t understand. The way a man sees things, with natural ambition. For your endless pondering, I see only profit between the trees Think of generations to come, provided by me. It sickens me I run, I flee Tears prick my eyes. Disturbing me Through sunken fields of winding ivy Oak trees wilt, no longer mighty Race through the wild, the melancholy The future’s set, no longer jolly Yet in my grief. I hadn’t noticed. A violent stream; captures my focus Thrashing ‘round rocks, it’s waters maddened Destructive in sound. Hurt. Abandoned. Deflated, pathetic I sink to my knees My sobs uncontrolled, lips quiver, chest heaves.
I’m sorry. Forgive my selfish desires Reflection and silence have served me well Blinded as my ego aspires On past mistakes I shall not dwell Factories and industries, I’ll not settle here But cottages and farms, sister don’t fear. From here and now a new plan I’ve hatched To the land, our souls we’ll rehabilitate A community we’ll build; assemble from scratch With homes and families to facilitate So children can grow alongside the land Like we flourished within it, hand in hand And as if all at once, though nature had listened Her waters lay stagnant, sun glowing, it glistened Like the budgie that sings above in the trees That no longer wilt, now thrilled to be free Entwined in a hug, elevated in bliss, Our souls reconnected, linked to the abyss.
Monique Heath Year 12
Surrounding the stream, trees I’ve never seen Their branches stoop low, distressed in the breeze That whips through the heights of the hedges hateful Electric they chant; our species ungrateful. I can’t help but feel it calling me close On turbulent waters, a reflection floats But it’s not mine I see, no no not me But a man. Familiar. Next to me. The wind, it roars with disapproval The earth responds, calling for his removal To my surprise his words lift my fears. His hand on my cheek he wipes my tears
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Beckoning Blossoms (Inspired by the poetry of William Wordsworth)
Fireworks of magenta paraded the street Demanding the attention of my foreign eye. The families of cherry blossoms frolicked to the wind’s heartbeat Dancing and prancing boundless in the clearest sky. Their budding beauty travelled airborne in the crisp Seoul air Arresting my being - forcing me to halt in my path and stare. The morning light peeked through the sheer, emerging clouds Dressing the flushed blossoms in a shower of gold. The rays lighting their stage as they swayed in their tight crowds, Their majesty reigned my senses of awe which grew bold The melody of the wind rings in my heart still, My admiration of their elegance and poise will never distil The blossoms renewed my soul and watered my curiosity Yet I was a traveller in this awakening town. Streams of locals flowed past me with such velocity, Their eyes overcast and never failing to look down. Their consciousness held hostage by scintillating screens Oh what I would do to lock away these wicked machines. The locals walk these streets today, tomorrow and the next Their boredom and distraction bleaching the blossoms’ waning splendour. How they can be ignored renders me so perplexed The local’s home is my heaven they surrender. Unable to see the rarity in the cerise bouquets that flourished My heart hopes the local’s will see the wonderment that will become malnourished The road was lined with bustling vending carts Another species of people, chirping like magpies whilst cooking. Radiating a colourful warmth and fulfilment from their working hearts Busy mind and busy eyes unable to see the cherry blossoms looking. A quiet co-existence of nature and man that only I could see But still, they fail to honour the cherry blossom tree
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Beckoning Blossoms (Inspired by the poetry of William Wordsworth)
A week or two after I would depart The delicate petals would have started to decay. Short lived before from the tree they part Their blushed cheeks fade into the concrete grey. A last breath of life- an exhale and they fall Just as my time there ended, when my parents call. My reminiscence of the flowers remains eternal The trunk of that memory is deep-rooted in my mind. A haven that exists which is solely internal The membranes and the roots forever intertwined. The angels of the cherry blossoms remind me of their ephemerality Whilst the memory of their rarity and celebrity grows within me in whole-hearted vitality
Ellen Sampsonidis Year 12
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Phantasies (Inspired by the poetry of William Wordsworth)
The wooden door groans in protest as it turns on ancient hinges. Wordlessly, I scold it to silence, lest I be o’erheard and torn prematurely from my midmorning sanctuary. My movements slight and delicate, I steal an egress through the sullen room, and the floor creaks knowingly beneath my feet. Slowly carefully, I make my furtive way to the window. That looking glass out into the world beyond this homely gaol in which I am bound. In truth I am imprisoned within these walls, the windows barred by duty and doors locked by expectation. Yet here, in my own sun spattered corner of the world, I am permitted to my thoughts, to my peace, to myself. It is curious to think that this was always to be the ultimate purpose of my life, despite how often and how vividly I used to dream of a life exceeding such servitude. But those days of imagining are beyond me now. I have grown weak in age and no longer could my frail legs carry me out to the edge of the woodland. That place beyond the moors, where fairytales of life are born; once the backdrop of my childhood fantasies. Yet now those towering trees merely taunt me from afar.
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At 5, I used to travel the globe in those woods. The bright blue sky flew me to every corner of every map, with the sun as my golden compass. Forever pointing outwards into the ‘what-may-be’s. When so young, I danced with foreign princes of far off shores, and sailed the high seas, in search of riches beyond the wildest dreams of even the wealthiest kings and queens. The whole of the world sat patiently in the palm of my hand, just waiting to be snatched up. Locked away until I could earn the fabled key of mettle. My head so high in the clouds above the lush green gables of the forest, I could scarcely ever find my way home. Whether by accident or desire, I cannot recall which, I was so lost in my own mind, unwilling to part from my fantasy. At 12, I lay in grassy fields, staring up at a never ending ocean of light poured down from the heavens. No longer allowed to roam as far as my mind would take me, I was now bound within the scope of masonry. Trapped in a rift between worlds of wonderment and work, I would sit. Watching the ardent hustling of all society condensed four small walls.
Y E AR 12
Phantasies (Inspired by the poetry of William Wordsworth)
Only then did I begin to realise the inescapable truth of my life as it were and as it would be: dreams that seemed so real in childhood slipped from my grasp. Sands through an hourglass, counting down the time until my future should catch me. Ensnaring me within its grasp, destiny’s spindling fingers wrapped so tight around me as to choke. Depriving my body of air and my soul of prospect. Indeed initially, I tried to fight back, struggling in vain against fate. Though in time I grew weary, succumbing at last to the inevitable and surrendering my naïve childish lies. At 18, I stood before my mirror dressed all in white. I had imagined this day so many times as a little girl. I had dreamed of music, of festivity, of love. Though now all had but faded to grey, in unwelcome recognition of what was to become of my life after this momentary celebration. Hidden behind my reflection, my mother sits plaintively at the window. Basking in warm light from the world outside, she stares out at the edge of the woodland.
Peaceful at her post by the window, rays of gold from the land beyond illuminate her veneer, just as they brighten her soul. Yet here in the shadows, I can see the changes in my own face. Through cracks in my façade, I can see the price I paid to grow older; all colour has drained from me, and my plastered expression falters. I can see my mother in me. With age, I have become more of her than I was ever myself. Without invitation, time has crept slyly up; without asking, it has stolen pieces of me and filled the gaps with her likeness. Poisoning me to a point of no return so that I may fill her lonely post. Too quickly did I adopt her course, too easily did I follow the path that she lay out for me. And soon I sat where she did, where I do now. At this same window, gazing out at the scenes of my childhood as they distort and fade from view with each recollection. My memories float, carried away by a tranquil breeze, over fields, to the edge of a woodland. Out there in those trees, flickers of vibrant colour dance just as I once did. But now that place seems so far from my reach that I can hardly tell if they are as real as they once seemed.
That place beyond the moors, where fairytales of life were born. It calls to her from afar, whispering a cryptic message in a language known only to her.
Rachael Flynn Year 12
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Inner Storm (Inspired by the poetry of William Wordsworth)
The earth welcomes another son, damp warmth cradles his body Eyes always forward, overhead, death whizzes past She surrounds us with her opera, the stage cold and muddy The cast battered and broken; each song may be our last Spine-chilling screams provoke little more than a grim glance, While the puppets continue about our pre-planned course. Our stitching has frayed at the seams, though still we advance We are lugged along listlessly, our masters have no remorse. Mother Nature gulps down the rushing rivers run red across her land, She taints the daisies a deep crimson; an eternal reminder. I reach, gut wrenching, as my brother hits the soaked sand Iron infiltrates the air, leaving me, the lone survivor. Gasping, he wakes in a pool of sweat, no longer nineteen He twists and turns, begging the torment to cease, He is home safe, away from everything he had seen, But despite this knowledge, he knows he will never find peace. By now, the soldier’s once blonde hair has faded to a silver grey, The scars that once disfigured his body are lost in a sea of wrinkles, Although his appearance has changed, his eyes are a dead giveaway They are filled with grief and despair, not his boyish twinkle. When he eventually gathers the strength to rise from his bed, He cannot do anything to rid himself of the plague of war, His feet are on the ground, but his head is tortured by bloodshed, He searches for a distraction while the terror shakes him to his core.
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Inner Storm (Inspired by the poetry of William Wordsworth)
He stumbles to the window, thrusts it open and breathes deep again, But his dreams still follow him here, the wind carrying cries and shrieks His inner storm blusters, eyes white with horror, he rushes down the lane The wails growing closer, he rounds a corner, but aid is not what this source seeks A sea of red in the fields before him, an ocean in full bloom The cries no longer call him, they’re the product of joy and youth. Children running and chortling, their feet trample his brothers’ tomb He wants to scold them, but pauses. Why trouble them with the truth? This was the vision they carried with them; a childhood contented Mother Nature’s warmth and kindness apparent, unaware of their apathy A small smile, tears caress his cheeks, his brothers’ deaths lamented Love and laughter, the toil of his labour, for a moment he is happy.
Dasheille Reid Year 12
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Acknowledgements Elisha Mohd Rozaidil Fitri – 2020 Art Captain and Cover Designer The Fintona English Faculty Mr Brit Biviano – Art Co-ordinator Ms Rachael Falloon – Principal Mr Cameron Arnold – Marketing Manager Ellikon Fine Printers – Design and Print
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A C K NO W L E DG E M E N T S
Ringing Voices published by Fintona Girls’ School 79 Balwyn Road, Balwyn Victoria, Australia Ph: +613 9830 1388 E: fgs@fintona.vic.edu.au www.fintona.vic.edu.au