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RINGING VOICES 2023

An Anthology of Student Writing

CONTENTS Ringing Voices 2023

Reality

A Midnight Transformation

Reality is blurring with delusion

Lost in the Darkness

Victory Apartment

Internet Safety for Kids

We need to stop complaining, but is it our fault that we can’t?

Echoes of a Changing World

A Future Stolen by the Shadows

Freedom 9

We Are Human Too

Tango Lamen

Nameless 35

The Nest

The Battle of The Nile

Outside that Window

A Journey on My Lotus

Frantically Late

A Wrinkle of Youth

The Antique Store

In defence of my embarrassingly non-diverse bookshelf

Spare Me

The Almost Empty Colour-Pencil Box

The Power of Humour

The Deafening Silence

Bleached Voices

The Drowning of Youth

Let Go

The Wanderings of a Woman Lost

Two Hearts

White Coats

Shattered Glass

Acknowledgements

Ringing Voices 2023 “You should write because you love the shape of stories and sentences and the creation of different words on a page. Writing comes from reading, and reading is the finest teacher of how to write.” –Annie Proulx From the moment we are born, we have the capacity to think, feel, and create. From a young age, we have the aptitude to learn how to communicate through words, phrases, and sentences. As we grow and engage in a formal process of education, these words take shape and through a combination of biological and social factors, language is formed. The process of producing, choosing, and arranging ideas into cogent prose or poetry is generated through the symbiotic process of reading and writing. The two are intimately interconnected, for the stories we immerse ourselves in create visual images in our minds, inspiring our thoughts, leading to the birth of our own stories. The pieces of writing selected for this year’s Ringing Voices Anthology showcase the inspired minds of students from Years 5 to 12. The focus of the writing units of study within our English classrooms this year was to expose our students to other forms of writing. Mentor texts and supplementary material were carefully curated so that students’ minds could be inspired by the ideas of others. Provided with models of effective writing, students were then invited to craft a response to a prompt, a text, or an image. The cornerstone of our English studies is to foster a learning environment that develops the communication skills of our students, providing them with the freedom to explore different ideas, forms, and genres of writing. Complementing the written word in this collection is an array of remarkable student art. Each art piece also tells a story and seeks to take you on a visual journey. The front cover of this anthology was designed by this year’s Art Captain, Lucy Parmenter. The two young figures, standing centrally in the image, are engrossed in the reading process; represented by their animated faces. Lucy has purposely chosen to blend the cursive writing in the background with two people absorbed in the words of the book to convey how writing and reading are collaborative and shared experiences. Reading and writing are personified in the image, and they are quite literally merging. Enjoy turning each page of this anthology and immersing yourself in the reading experience.

Michelle Maglitto English Learning Leader

I N T RO D U C T I O N

Melody Yang

Y EA R 5

A Midnight Transformation One fateful night, while in my bed, I heard a sound filling me with dread. A lightning flash, a roar so loud, A force arrived, my thoughts it vowed. I gazed outside at the window opaque, Saw a sinister eye, an evil shape, Staring right at me, unblinking and cold, A feeling of fear, my heart took hold. It whispered my name, and breathed on my chest, A ghostly presence that would not rest. I knew I had to act, had to escape, From the clutches of this menacing shape. I climbed out the window, into the mist, The air was thick with an eerie twist. I saw a mouth, twisted and grim, A nightmare made real, my fate looked dim. Through the grass I swiftly tread, In the dead of night, my heart in dread. To the graveyard, I ventured, devoid of light, Where fears take flight, in the darkest sight. I checked the first grave, and what did I see, My own name inscribed, a ghastly decree. Fingernails dug into my skin, A zombie’s life, a curse to begin.

Cynthia Dong

Y EA R 5

Lost in the Darkness “I want to be independent and go to that dinner! I AM TWELVE YEARS OLD ALREADY!” “No Tereasa, you are NOT going.” I was tired of my father always being overprotective of me. I was clever, courageous, and big enough to go to a restaurant myself. Without a second thought I dashed outside with angry tears flooding my eyes. All my friends could board a bus by themselves, but why couldn’t I? Those words spiraled in my mind over and over again making me more determined each time. After five minutes of deep thinking, I decided that I was not going to let my parents break my freedom and so I went. I sprinted towards the shabby bus station across the road and waited for the bus to arrive. “Tick, Tock,Tick,Tock!” I waited for a long fifteen minutes and finally the bus arrived. Little did I know this was all going to turn into a disaster!

We ordered our favourite pizza, the Pizza Tower, and the best dessert, Lily Jelly. We all took a bite of our scrumptious looking pizza, and it was like heaven. The cheese melted in my mouth and the crusty ham crunched through my teeth. It was the perfect meal! The sweet jelly was just like cotton candy. We all felt like we were on cloud nine. After our marvelous meal we joyfully chatted about some childhood memories, and it was remarkably interesting how we got together as we were all going to different schools but met at the same bus station every day, before and after school. “Buzzzzz!” All of our phones suddenly died. “Oh no, I needed that to navigate my way home!” wailed Sammy.

At school today my friends (Katrina and Sammy planned a meeting in our favourite restaurant, Lily’s Fine Dining. This dinner was especially important, and I just couldn’t miss it. It was our fifth anniversary of being BFF’s and if I did not go my friendship would be ruined. I just couldn’t let some stupid argument with my dad block the way of my happiness. From when I was born, I was beautiful with my shiny emerald eyes and my silky silver hair. Everyone in the hospital room came to take a glimpse of me (the beautiful baby). You would think my life is perfect, right? Well not at all as my parents were so protective that when I went to a playground to play, they would make me wear many heavy, metal shin pads and all the kids would mock me for it. They were literally my 24/7 bodyguards. Everywhere I went they would follow. They were simply CRAZY!!! “Rmmmmm!” The bus started its engine. By now it was 9:30. I clambered onto the back seat and the bus slowly started making its way to the restaurant. “So sorry I’m late,” I muttered out of breath. “It was my outrageous parents again!”

It had been fifteen minutes since our phones died and we were all agitated and worried. Our bodies were shivering in the harsh weather outside. We could feel the icy wind whipping our faces and beads of nervous sweat were dripping down our foreheads. Now we were lost! We did not know which bus to take or which route to go! The best day ever suddenly turned upside down! “HOOOOOONNK!” A vibrant beam of yellow light shot into our faces and when we turned to look at what it was, we could not believe our eyes. It was the Harry Potter Midnight Bus! “Come on board, why are we waiting for the grass to grow?” shouted the unusual conductor. “What bus is this?” I asked cautiously. “AHH, who cares, quickly get on board and we will zoom like lightning to your destination, my beautiful!” screeched the conductor in a wonky voice.

“It is ok bestie; omg it is our fifth anniversary. YAY!” yelped Katrina.

Y EA R 5

Lost in the Darkness Since we all really wanted to go home, all three of us reluctantly got on the bus and told the driver our addresses. Soon enough we were rushing through the streets, squeezing through buses, and even waiting for the old lady to cross the road at midnight. It was just like in the Harry Potter books. “Ding Ding!” The bell rang, and the conductor said we had reached our first destination. Katrina got off the bus like Bolt but a few seconds later rushed inside like lightning shouting it was not her house. After observing the place for a while, we found a police station. FINALLY, WE HAD A CHANCE OF GETTING HOME! We all sprinted to the police station and told the police officers all about our crazy situation. “OK we will deliver you guys right back home, don’t be anxious!” remarked the police officer in a thick voice. A few minutes later we were all back in our comfortable homes and it was officially midnight. When my parents saw me, they hugged me tight and cried hysterically for hours. “I am sorry, I will listen to your advice next time,” I whispered sulkily to my parents. “We have our faults too honey, you are a teenager, and you should be more independent. Just make sure you ask for our permission first.” whispered Dad forgivingly. It was the greatest day of my life. I was free at last!!

Lillian Xue

Y EA R 5

Internet Safety for Kids Amy: Wow! You handled that situation really well! We want to make sure if anything happens online you can go to a trusted adult so they can help you stay safe online!

Amy: Good morning everyone my name is Amy Chloe: And my name is Chloe Chloe: We will be your hosts for today’s podcast. Amy: Before we go on talking about internet safety for kids, I would like you to reflect on what this means “think before you click.” When I read this quote, I thought about all the times I had to “think before I click” because I wasn’t sure who I was talking to, and I had to do the right thing that would lead me to be safe. Chloe: I agree Amy. Most of you listening have gone onto a platform where you can talk to strangers, where they could say something that seemed normal. You don’t know who’s behind that message they just sent you. Amy: Yeah, like it could be a 50-year-old man. That person could say a fake name, a wrong age, where they live or even a little thing like if they were still in school. Chloe: For example, by the way this happened a few weeks ago, I was peacefully playing a game and a random guy came up to me, they said “Hi!” I was perplexed as I didn’t know what to say because no one has ever tried talking to me. So, I simply replied “Hello.” It seemed like we had lots of things in common as we went on chatting, I had a burning suspicion they weren’t who they seemed. Then it hit me when they asked, “What is your name?” I raced to my mother with my iPad in hand, some could say I was Usain Bolt running that fast! My mother than helped me realise that anyone could be trying to steal my personal information and told me to come to her if anything like that happened again!

Chloe: But what would happen if kids shared their personal information with strangers? A name is just a name, I’m sure some people listening would have the same question. Amy: Wow that is a superb question! Well Chloe, you could think that this person is really entertaining and try to meet up with them. Imagine going to meet up with your online best friend and seeing a grown man ready to kidnap you, about 2 people per 1000,000 people get kidnapped in Australia. You are just increasing your risk by talking to strangers! As you stated “A name is just a name” but really, they could go onto a different account and impersonate someone and tell them personal information. Simply by saying “Hey its (whoever e.g., mum, dad) I can’t access my proper account (your name) for some reason, do you mind chatting to me using this account? Chloe: I never thought about it that way! Did you know that according to a recent survey 43% of kids aged 8-13 have shared personal information with strangers online? Amy: That could be you if you don’t “think before you click” Chloe: Well, that’s it for today! We hope you have taken something important from this podcast Amy: And remember to stay safe online! Both: Bye!

Amy Gillman

Y EA R 5

Echoes of a Changing World As pristine beaches unfold their arms, Children’s laughter ricocheted, a joyful charm, Yet, the coral’s hues began to fade, Fears of their existence, my heart swayed. As my eyes unfurl, the truth is nothing but surprise, The globe reveals a place in demise, Everywhere surrounded in trash’s disguise, My hope dwindles as the impurity lies. Afraid, I am, of what’s to come, Powerless, I feel, no solution won, But in the void, can hope be perceived, To heal the wounds, to mend the ground. Yet, behold! A shimmer of change arises from thin air, Groups of people emerged as protestors, generous souls who care, With a passion to heal, a duty to bear, A radiant Earth we can just repair.

Sylvia Sun

Y EA R 5

Scarlet Campbell

Y EA R 6

Freedom Passion and laughter The greatest treasures More valuable than gold They are what I am after

Gunpowder and smoke Furtive plotting Merciless killing All the conflict made me choke

Malice and cruelty Welcome the storm Shatter the peace A catalyst to flee

Now I wander, gaunt and withdrawn Gloomily pursuing a long-term home In this new land, I hold my head down Trudging through memories, I am forlorn

I cannot envision hope Hope is lost, not intended to be found All I perceive is rage and terror Will I ever be able to cope?

But soon I find myself accepted in a benevolent household Where I am not a guest, but instead, an eternal brother Family is all I will ever need They do not fret when I keep my thoughts untold

I owned it before A wholesome life A future as clear as crystal I owned it before, and now I yearn for it once more

At last, I will tell you my story in short It begins at heart and concludes at heart At last, I will tell you my story in short It is a story of both the good and bad sort

Vibrance and zest Satisfaction and pleasure I used to have it all Before this unfolding quest

I was born an effervescent, vivacious child Then my people were made traumatised I escaped whilst they perished in the blitz And now finally at ease, I smile

They are gone but I am saved ‘Conceal yourself,’ they clearly warned Therefore I had no choice but to obey I knew the consequences may be grave

Belonging Acceptance War a distant memory Finally, I can be free

Caitlin Membrey

Y EA R 6

Tango Lamen For a mockingbird to destroy one’s dream, you must look for their heart. You must fight against their dream. You must look for their inner self, and most important of all, they must be free. Every day, Beti is reminded of that mockingbird. The mockingbird that pulls him back from being free. He is trying his hardest to fly away from all those birds, who say things against his love for dance, his love of dancing. Swaggering towards my devious school, I knew that someone was about to grab my arm, swing me around, and smirk. Maybe laugh and snigger. Someone is going to yell maliciously, “Hey dance guy! Mind doing some twirls for us?” These “someone” are Teasers, vicious bullies. I wonder why people don’t visualise boys as dancers, and why I can’t have the courage to show case my forte? As always, I answer the Teasers with a curt nod and a morning fog around my face. With meagre thoughts, I wander around. Since I have just started year 9, it’s a trembling wonder that I am still stuck with dance. Me, a 15-year-old boy. If I ponder around a lot, maybe I’ll awaken my daydream. But as my mother always says, “You cannot dance. Be a doctor, or a scientist. Not some stuck-up, meaningless dancer. “My Mother is kind of right: I would have to defend the enemy of my special heart destined dream. “Um, excuse me, Miss Gonzalez, can I please go to the bathroom? I’ll be only a minute.” I uttered softly. As my form teacher nodded, fuming at my sudden request, I felt a pang of nerves and guilt. I’m not really going to the toilet. I’m done. I’m going home to have a break from the annoying, senseless Teasers. At the very least, that was what I intended to do. Out of nowhere, someone jumped abruptly in front of me. My heart skipped a beat. “Who are you?” I said softly. The person was a girl- grinning ruefully and her eyes were large with curiosity.

She was Najah. We haven’t met before, and her sudden appearance got me thinking for a while. Najah was a 14-year-old girl with black unruly hair who shares the dance dream with me. Ballet, to be specific. “Oh, Beti, can we sit underneath that willow tree to read? Or even maybe the cupboard to stash our snacks? Or maybe we can prank Miss Gonzalez?” Najah was peppy and snappy. She has clear hazel eyes and a sharp tongue, always ready to pounce at my Teasers. “Alright, let’s prank that evil teacher! Where’s your water bottle?” I can’t believe Najah had brought the inner wild child out of me. That night, the night where my mind was racing wild, I lay in bed, dreaming of the Teasers being knocked out by voracious Najah, a giant ball of crimson fire preparing to destroy them. Every day at school, Najah talks about her future dance career, and about helping ME pursue MY dream. “Beti! Check this out!!” Najah squealed with glee and optimism. I read the heading of what she was showing me. “A dance competition opens to all dancers, contemporary, jazz, hip hop and more!” I read out loud, heart pounding. For a second, I thought this was some sort of dubious news. “Najah, are you planning to… compete in this thing? Because I feel I should…” I questioned meekly. Najah, putting her phone away, answered with an excited nod. “Oh, yes, Beti! Of course! But it says here that we need our parents’ permission.” Then, it hit me. My parents SURELY would not let me compete in ANY dance competition. They certainly would not expect a fragile, delicate boy prancing around the spectators. As I shakily wave to Najah goodbye, I secretly feel desolated that my chances of getting into the competition is rather unlikely. One of the Teasers saw me looking deflated and jumped at me with a sight for a chance to splash water onto my face from the lake. After that, another droplet of water ran down my cheeks. But this time, it was not a droplet from the lake.

Y EA R 6

Tango Lamen “Mother? I’m home.” I call to a crouched shadow moving in the kitchen. Mother was in there looking at her phone. Something about the site she was gazing at seemed quite familiar. “A dance competition is being held tomorrow, 7pm.” She read out loud to me. “Surely you of all people would love to go and compete?” My mother chuckled, as she stared right at my surprised face. I couldn’t believe it. Could it be true she would finally let me? “Yes, you can, Beti.” I guess she read my thoughts! I pinched myself hard on my arm, to see if I was imagining things. But it hurt. On the night of the dancing competition, I saw Najah’s cheery face amongst the crowd. Quite frankly, I had the consent to compete from Mother. Still, I couldn’t believe I could go. “Hey, Beti!” Najah smiled at me warmly. “So, you did decide to come. Who let you? I can’t wait! What song are you dancing to?” Najah was filled with spirits that evening. “Hi!” I answered back beaming. “I got my mother to let me go…I’m quite happy about that.” Then, I heard both of our names being called up to the stage. My true moment came! I will show everyone that I can dance too. That I can finally prove the Teasers wrong. That I can achieve my goal, whatever it is. I walk up, my heart beating rapidly as I see the judges, looking grim faced and soulful. But I don’t panic, because when things get hard, you do not quit: you fight for your dreams. But I am still wondering.

Caitlin Huang

Y EA R 6

The Nest “Chirp, chirp!” says the hungry, baby miners. Their mother comes to their desperate aid. She feeds them worms and goes to fly higher, As the sun set, daylight started to fade. The hungry mother soon began to weep, Her cries of grief filled the starry night-sky. She arrived, and dared not make a small peep, While her children slept, she breathed a small sigh. Winter came, and their mother sadly left, Her children grew up, but never forgot, About Mother’s fate, same as King Macbeth. And years later, their bones began to rot. But some sweet-hearted angel plucked them high, Now they live together in the night sky.

Angeline Zhou

Y EA R 6

Outside that Window A sweet wonderland outside the window, All I can do is wail in longingness. In the lawn, lies the garden flamingo, A fairy too, a face full of kindness. How I wish that I could live with the gnomes, Run around, scream and shout in the garden! While I’m bedridden, unable to roam. So, I watch the gardening tools sharpen. The lily pads atop the pristine pond, With so many frogs croaking along too. It had always made me wonder beyond, Would I ever have the chance to be you? I like the warm comfort of the grounds. Even though I am kept in these bounds.

Clarissa Hagues

Y EA R 6

Hana Le

Y EA R 7

Frantically Late My vision blurs, creating the illusion that I’m in two dimensions at once as I scan desperately through the rows of teasing titles. They laugh at me as it seems that my anxiety is humorous to them. I mutter bitterly, careful not to let a curse slip from under my tongue. As exasperating as it is, not a single novel stands out to me. Every one of those sombre spines only reflect my own dull thoughts. I swing my body to the opposite shelves in an act of desperation. Before my eyes can follow, they dart towards the red brick wall, which faces my far-right side. At the top of this wall sits the victorious clock, showing no mercy towards me through the intense race between us. In a maleficent way of provoking me, its hand inches daringly close to the ‘9’. I tighten my hands into fists with frustration. I cannot be late this time, not a third time in a row. My heart skips a beat as I continue in my never-ending search for an appropriate text. It beats rapidly now, creating a rhythm with the melodic tapping of keys in the background. The sounds cloud my mind, and my thoughts are carried further and further away from the task at hand.

Before I leave, she mutters something about how kids nowadays are disrespectful, and I emphasise her point further by running carelessly through the library doors. As soon as I meet the fresh breezy air outside, I break into a sprint. Past the local supermarket, past the chemist and I don’t even stop to take in a sniff of the freshly baked bread from the bakery. I don’t pause until I’m securely in the school grounds, and even then, I pace hurriedly into the building. I’ve made it. Crouching over my knees, I pant with relief until my breathing turns back to its normal rhythm. But then it soon occurs to me that the hallway is oddly quiet. Tilting my head up, I don’t see a single soul around me. I glance at the calendar on the wall next to me. It’s the Summer holidays.

Tayla Chan

I blink several times, bouncing back into reality, and only now do I finally snatch up a book. After tearing through the pages, I conclude that there is nothing special about it, but it must do. I race frantically over to the familiar oak counter and wait impatiently as the grey-haired lady hobbles over, in a snail-like manner. We exchange smiles, in a silent greeting as she slides the book out from my hands with her own frail, trembling ones. She clumsily scans the barcode on the cover, and I cannot hold in my annoyance any longer. My foot taps the floorboards, which lets out a click-clack sound, echoing across the room. The lady glares at me disapprovingly, asking for my details with a sneer. She senses my peevishness, and she will not reward me for it. Once I respond, she types the information down in a deliberately slow manner, in an attempt to discipline my poor behaviour.

Y EA R 7

The Antique Store In the midst of a hazy, mundane day in a swarming city of skyscrapers. I strolled through an unfamiliar side street during my daily lunch break. It was rather short yet something about the slightly aged buildings compelled me to decelerate and observe the contents of that unusual street. On the left, I gazed upon a glimmering office building that was nothing out of the ordinary, on the right, I observed a row of glossygreen tiled one-storey stores. The shops looked as if they had been transported through time, from which the city may have been nothing more than an undeveloped town. The antiquated stores had signs hung upon their windows communicating the kind of products that were sold. The first was an old-fashioned confectionary, the second was a dressmaking and the last was an antique store. All three had flashy red “Open” signs displayed behind their stained-glass windows, but only one lured me towards the frail front door. My steps slowed as I neared the third of the outdated stores. I placed my hand on the brass doorknob and turned it delicately, pushing the Brunswick green door forward. I was faced with a polished mahogany countertop with an ancient brass cashier on top. There seemed to be no one managing the store. I wandered to the left and discovered a high-ceilinged ornate hall-like room. The walls were decorated with an outdated burgundy pattern and intricate botanical cornices lingered from the tops. The ceiling was painted with an aureate shimmer and classically candle-lit chandeliers were hung to produce a nostalgic sepia hue. The store seemed to be pervaded with an atmosphere of reminiscence, oddly distinguished by dust and cobwebs. As I glanced down, I observed a brown carpeted floor that was engulfed in a cluster of historical items, forgotten by time. Along the wall, I spotted a polished cupboard. I treaded prudently towards it, squeezing through the congested clutter of furniture.

Only after I approached the ancient cupboard did I fully grasp the immense size of the towering structure. Across the cabinet faces were carvings with finely elaborate imprints of meaningless swirls. I came across a cobweb-covered leather book that was withered by age, within a compartment of the cupboard. Engulfed in a furious daze of curiosity, I gently opened the ruff leather cover to reveal the first page. A peculiar feeling wallowed in me as I stared deeply into a monochromatic photograph. This was the first vintage photograph I had seen, yet something about its slightly blurred contents lingered with a sense of familiarity. As I examined the still face looking at me, a name suddenly came into my mind. “Margaret Wiltshire,” I blurted aloud uncontrollably. Confusion struck me. Thumping footsteps came from behind as I slowly spiraled around in perplexity. A bristled old man appeared, and a low baritone voice echoed through the walls. “You have found the cupboard of past incarnations, the name you are perceiving is the one you were once called.”

Jacqueline Ho

Y EA R 7

Spare Me Spare me the pain. You succubus, spare me your spells, For I have heard it all. Your pleasantries, Your wistful banalities; have no power over me. You pruning harlot, you satyr, Don’t lie to me. Spare me your talons from my heart. What more do you want from me, What more can I give. “I yearn nothing but you,” they said. Liar. What joy do you deem in toying with a dead heart, its shell, splintered, shattered to millions by your kind. I have no heart to give, I can’t do it again. If you were to kill me, Kill me now. I cannot bear this no longer. “Then give me what’s left of you,” they said, “And I shall piece you together myself.” How can I give you what’s already yours? The moment your eyes met mine, I belonged to you, I was powerless. All that I am, All that I ever will be, Belongs to you. Do with it what you will. Spare me the pain.

Lancy Zhang

Y EA R 7

The Power of Humour Laughter really is the best medicine. It is more than just a “Knock, knock?”, it’s a powerful weapon for battling mental illness and pessimistic emotions. It allows you to forge everlasting relationships and understand your friends better. Not only does laughter gain you emotional and social benefits, but you also help your body to build physical wellbeing and good health. I think most of us underestimate the power that humour has on us, which is why I am here to tell you the wonderful ways that laughter enhances the quality in our life. A few weeks ago, we were all told to write a speech for the Elizabeth M Butt Competition. And after a few days of work, I had everything planned out and all my paragraphs written down on a word Doc in Office 365. So that afternoon at home, I waltzed into my bedroom, thinking all I had to do was to edit my work. I flung open the computer and loaded the Word Document. And all of my progress was gone. The next half an hour was spent contemplating life choices and screaming into a pillow. A minute of anger weakens the immune system for five hours. But a minute of laughter strengthens it for 24 hours. Laughing releases brain chemicals that combat mental illnesses and even serious ones like cancer and protects your heart from cardiovascular issues. Overall, humour boosts up your health and physical wellbeing.

Laughter is more than a tool for building relationships—it’s a powerful weapon that conquers tough times and lifts your mood. Laughter works its magic by releasing more positive chemicals in our brain. It’s like the brain’s own enchantment, reminding us that stressing over a lost document won’t scar us for life. It allows us to embrace inner happiness, and to momentarily forget about our burdens, challenges and hard feelings. And that feeling when your stomach hurts from laughter? That’s exactly how I felt when I found my work in my email. For a few minutes I was clutching my stomach and trying to learn how to breathe, instantly making me forget about my “lost” document. I knew laughter could heal but I didn’t know it could kill. Nothing can cure sadness or cool down anger than a good laugh. Yet, laughter goes beyond its reputation of a silly meme or cringy joke. It possesses extraordinary power, a tool capable of conquering the most challenging of situations. It’s a simple antidote to sadness and grief, even for lost word documents. Laughter strengthens relationships, fortifies our physical well-being, and provides an overall boost to our health and vitality. “It’s always funny until someone gets hurt. Then it’s just hilarious.” Bill Hicks. Thank you.

Melody Deng However, have you ever felt nervous or awkward? Then, someone tells a joke, and suddenly everyone feels like old friends. It fosters friendship and builds connections and allows you to understand people better. I remember being anxious and struggling to make friends when I was new to Fintona. But as the days passed, I realised the crucial role that humour played in creating lasting connections with my peers. Instead of relying on the usual talk on birthdays or pet names, we talked about pet windows and how we would just sit there and do nothing but decimals and guess and check and maths. From then, every encounter involved sarcastic storytelling about the best things to feed your window, proving that humour really can bring people together. But

Y EA R 7

Leah Dong

Y EA R 8

Bleached Voices Beneath the vast cerulean expanse, where whispers of waves Lap gently upon the fringes of a fragile paradise Lies the Australian coral reef, once adorned in vibrant hues A sacred tapestry woven by the hand of nature’s artistic muse. In times long past, an underwater symphony unfolded Coral blooms blossomed in iridescent glory. A kaleidoscope of life; a testament to resilience Where vibrant colours danced their tidal dance But now, a gradual fading casts a sombre pall Like a dimming ember flickering, losing its fiery essence Once vibrant coral; now wears a forlorn pale shroud A once sacred place silenced like the voices of our Indigenous people For just as Sea Country surrenders the reef’s resplendent hues So too, our First Nations grieve for a vibrant tapestry Unravelled and torn; eroded by the rolling hands of time Sacred voices silenced; identity insidiously bleached Once ancestral language carried rhythms of the land. Resonating harmoniously with the heartbeat of Country Now, piercing echoes of silence persist, lost in the whirling wind Dreamtime stories tattered and untold; heritage obscured

Y EA R 8

Bleached Voices Breathless coral reef temples once injecting life and rhythm to a thriving ecosystem Seeped with ancestral Dreamtime tales, lie silently weeping; bleached Ancestral struggles confronted long ago hold a mirror to their dreams Deep-rooted connection eroded; their essence silenced Collectively let us remember the vibrant mosaic of voices Stitches of time echoing chains of hope across our sacred Country For as the reef yearns for renewal, so too do the people Longing to reclaim lost heritage, pride, and voice In the abyss of loss and grief, hope and longing linger relentlessly Flickering flames seep deep in the hearts of those who remember And once more, cascades of colours will swirl reawakening the land We must all listen, learn and honour ancestral enduring strength For when Sea Country regains its sacred vibrant hues For when ancestral voices resonate once more Our First Nations people shall reclaim their place of belonging Country and cultural tapestry shall stand erect flourishing as never before

Chloe Singh

Y EA R 8

Let Go Lying on the rickety trampoline Every move I make, every breath Creates a symphony of echoes But no one else is here, no one else is left Behind me lies a dilapidated house It creaks with nostalgia They say new memories can heal I don’t want to forget Looking up I see them Each one as imperfect as the next All jewels of their own kind swinging in the wind Some may say they are mundane Yet I see their beauty, their life The bush, A place of mystery and wonder, The trees reach down to me, Older and wiser than one could ever imagine Chickens cluck in the distance I smile They will never have to know the loss I face For this place is now a part of my identity, my childhood I now must find a new place Somewhere that my lost soul shall accept I cannot wander without a dwelling to come back to A sanctuary, where I am safe I let the sounds around me take control I let the trampoline embrace me with its comfort I let myself reminisce, treasured yet tortured, impossible to forget I let go, I must

Audrey Masters

Y EA R 8

Two Hearts My heart has been split in two, distant siblings they are now. One lives in the land down under, while its’ twin resides a world away. One lives near barren, bleak bushland, illuminated by a glistening sun. The horizon shines with tall sticks, and opportunities alike. The other, covered in sweat and heat, covered in bites from a blood-sucking bug. A cacophony of murmurings and shouts, fine dust and spice in the air around. One is never alone, but always lonely, buried under its own expectations. The other, always forgotten, never to be whole again. They used to be joined at the hip, finished each other’s sentences. Then one left, forgot its roots, erased its past and started anew. It adapted to the new way of life, became like the hearts around it. Yet, try as hard as it can, it never truly belongs. But now it doesn’t belong anywhere, wandering lands, it does not know. Never a settler, always a nomad, since it left its other half behind. They meet scarcely, a rare visit, but they hardly know the other. A certain, longing ache is present, but, as good as strangers they are now.

Aahana Pandey

Y EA R 8

Shattered Glass Running from my past. Running from my present. Running from my inevitable future. Running even though it won’t make a difference. She is dead, and she will never come back. Running from her ghost. Running from the guilt. Running a race that I will never win. A race with no finish line. A race that will end with me losing. No matter how much I try. But still, I run. I cannot contain my tears. I drop another item. This time, it’s my lucky charm. It shatters into millions of pieces, so many that it is beyond repair. No longer a marble, it is only dust. Just like my life. Her face haunts my thoughts. My eyes want to look away but are forced to watch it all. Relive every moment of it. Pictures of her deathly-pale skin and her blood oh, her crimson red blood. Running from my mistakes. Running from reality. Only death can free me from this eternal race. Even if the monsters catch me, all the other things I am running from will haunt me until the day I die. My chest burns and my legs ache. I can’t keep running for much longer. This race will have to end. The monsters will catch up. The monsters will overwhelm me. The monsters will be the end of me. The shadows will be with me forever.

Y EA R 8

Shattered Glass I don’t have to willingly stop running, give in to the monsters. I trip, and my best efforts to get up fail. The monsters and ghosts creep up. I look at my hands, one last time. The hands I hate so very much. The hands stained with my friend’s blood. The hands that took an innocent life. The life of my best friend. I have lost the race. The shadows swirl around in a way that looks almost beautiful. It’s driving me insane. They are whispering things. In my friends’ voice. The guilt is killing me. I bury my head into my hands and shut my eyes, trying to block out the shadows. I have to get away from the monsters. I have to push the shadows away. I claw my way towards the edge. The edge of the cliff. I can’t let the monsters keep me trapped with my only company being the shadows and ghosts. The monsters try to keep me back, but my will is too strong. I know that this is my last chance to end this race. To be free. Finally, I reach the edge of the cliff. I let my head go over the edge, to look down. I have never really felt this sense of peace before in my entire life. “I’m sorry... I just can’t do this anymore. I never meant to-” They’re here. And I push myself off, headfirst, letting the feeling of weightlessness engulf me.

Riya Gupta

Y EA R 8

Ivanka Zhou

Y EA R 9

Reality Temptation glints in his eye, The hands of greed wrapped around his throat, Staring at the cold shoulder of Illusion he lunges, Grappling for the Utopia he’s always strived for, Only to miss and face the two figures of Dystopia, ‘Relax’ one says, beckoning, as the icy touch of Reality puts pressure on his back, Staggering under the weight he tries to run, ‘Relax’ they mutter, getting louder and louder, The roaring voices belt at him, Pulling him sideways, throwing him around like a ragdoll He shouts ‘Illusion,’ his voice straining with effort, But she walks away, gliding across the endless abyss, Reality forces the man to his knees. Delusion walks closer and closer, taking his time. Hand in hand with reality, Delusion closes in on him, The man crawls away, only for his back to hit an unforeseen wall, Reality crouches down and holds out a hand, Delusion only watches, his eyes never leaving the retreating figure of Illusion, ‘I want Illusion’ the man croaks out, ‘We all want what we can never have’ reality responds, reaching his arm out further, With a trembling hand, the man lays his palm in Reality’s, Only to be swept away into the arms of Delusion, The man’s vision darkens, his eyes fading in and out of focus, Delusion tightens his grip, trapping the man. Straining with all his might the man tries to pull away from Delusion, Only to fail as his greed had failed him, Illusion watches from a distance, never moving, She looks into the eyes of her brother, Delusion, and nods, The man stills as reality bears down on him, drawing him out of Idealism, And back into the loving embrace of Realism.

Mackenzie Ash

Y EA R 9

Reality is blurring with delusion A world where jewels are valued, More than love and health, Forgotten all their morals, To instead flaunt their wealth. They gaze upon their heavy sky, Yet when they see the stars, All they see are flakes of gold, Designer clothes, and cars. Willing to lie and betray, Built on the legs of greed, Delusion, that if you are rich, In life you will succeed. Described as El Dorado, A false reality was made, That the only key to happiness, Can be bought or sold or paid.

Mahlia Ratnam

Y EA R 9

Victory Apartment “I promise, I promise you, my darling. The sun will shine on us again.” An amiable voice murmured, it sounded so familiar, yet so vague that I doubt if it was only an illusion.

There I was, pacing down the street full of poor stalls, filtering out the seller’s yelling and the customer’s gossiping in my head. “Have you heard? They are planning to knock down Victory Apartment!”

… She promised.

“Why, as if those poor tenants aren’t miserable enough! I’ll definitely do something about it if I was them.”

She ought to be keeping it. Then why, why would she break it? How can she leave me in the endless darkness, all by myself and vulnerable without her reassuring appearance? She’s all I have in this brutal world, my refuge from the reality, my sudden and only clarity in the mist, my feeble ship’s exclusive harbor in the storm of the treacherous unknowns. I miss her.

Useless. Useless gossips that the lower-class wasted time on, that was exactly why these people would end up in the slums. But my indignation was outstripped utterly with acute shock and absolute grief in a flash. I saw my mother, the only person who loves me, the only person I loved, lying in a pool of blood still-warm , her dead body so ravaged that I can hardly recognize her.

… I liked the feeling you get when you suddenly woke up from a dream, it was like rising from the depth of a lake, reaching the surface of it, feeling air and life. Like coming back from the world of the dead. What exactly happened in the dream I couldn’t remember, but the feeling lingered, and was lasting until now.

“You will eventually, they are going to knock this entire slum down, and by then we’ll all be living under a bridge”

I ran to her as fast as I could, pushing away the bewildered crowd. I can’t and don’t want to remember what exactly I did, all I remembered from that day was the note my mum was holding so tightly in her hand that I had to break through her already stiff fingers to reach it. Written on the note was simply three words----“save our home”

It evoked memories, fragments of despair hidden deeply under the surface of the forlornly ravaged ruins in my soul. … It was years ago, a morose day. The depression hid in the thin air, disguised itself as the muffled complain emerging from the slums.

I don’t understand, why? Why did she protect the note like it’s the most important thing in the world? Why is this happening? I don’t see it; I can’t see it! My brain is too occupied by self-pity mingled with confusion that I didn’t notice they were carrying my mother away. I didn’t pay much attention to the note as I couldn’t decode the words,

Y EA R 9

Victory Apartment as I was in a highly sensitive and frantic mood, everything about her would trigger deep throes in my heart. I wandered like a ghost around the slum those days, resenting the idea of going home, yet didn’t have a destination.

Driven by a curious desire of wanting to see my apartment----strange that I’ve lived here for long but can never resemble the look of it in my head because I’ve never really saw it----I went outside to see the panorama of the apartment for the first time in my life. And saw on the boards hanging above-

I saw people in ragged clothes gathering, whispering to one another with serious looks on their face, holding things I would call a blueprint in their hands and pointing at it with rage. Yet there were the more pessimistic people, crying their eyes out from twilight to down, weeping with their shabby handkerchiefs, and those are the more fortunate ones, the ones with less fortune would have to just let the tears to dry out by itself. It must be about the knocking down of Victory Apartment, I’ve heard they are not going to give the old tenants anything for make-ups, but I didn’t really give attention to the slums’ sullen groan.

“Victory Apartment”

During one of my days drifting about the slum, I witnessed a murder. It was my uncle John verse a government official, the demolition contracts he brought was circling his dead body like flowers around a grave.

Shirley Li

I can see it now, I see it in the massive boiling chaos of thoughts, resembling a clear, brittle line that forms an astonishing contrast with the bleak background about. So bright I have to sew my thoughts shut. Truth. Like a blanket that blinds your eyes but leaves your feet ice cold.

“Shhhh, I’m saving our home, you don’t want Victoria to sacrifice for nothing, don’t you?” Uncle John asked. Victoria is my mum’s name. I couldn’t comprehend his words, but I detected some relation between this and my mother’s death. And suddenly, I missed home. Perhaps it was running into a family member, perhaps it was the mention of mum, perhaps it’s nothing. I don’t know, but I made my move. I stood in front of the entrance of the apartment, it was so povertystricken that it can barely be called an entrance, but merely the ruins of two poles. I entered, and abandoned life ever after.

Y EA R 9

We need to stop complaining, but is it our fault that we can’t? If you were to receive 1 million dollars, you would accept instantly, and I know I would be in a good mood for a while. But let’s say that someone offered you 10 million dollars, but with the guarantee that you will not wake up tomorrow. I would decline as quickly as I accepted the million dollars and I’m sure all of you would agree. Doesn’t this mean that we value waking up in the morning more than 10 million dollars? If this is the case then why aren’t we waking up in the morning we the same joy that the one million dollars would give us? Why are we waking up in the morning only thinking about the “dreadful” day ahead of us? Why are we waking up in the morning only to start counting the hours until the day ends? Just to do the same thing the next day and the day after and so on. We need to start seeing the value in our lives. We need to realise that our lives give us more joy than 10 million dollars. And we need to start acting that way. It’s the only way to move forward and see the opportunities and experiences that our negative perspective on life is currently blinding us from. We need to stop complaining. When we are at school, we complain about the next test. When we are at home, we complain that we need to study. When we are out, we complain that the day will end and we will be bored again. Yes, the day will end. And it will end with the only thing you getting out of it was the anxiety of what was going to happen next. We are missing out on valuable experiences because of our inability to stop complaining. We are going through life only allowing ourselves to notice the negatives of a situation. Once something happens, its out of our control. So why do we still dwell on it and waste our valuable time complaining about the past? Everyone tells and warns us of the risks of consuming alcohol or doing drugs because of their harmful affects they may have on us, for example shrinking the hippocampus, a part of the brain that plays a major role in memory and learning. But what most people do not know is that complaining also affects this same part of the brain according to research found by Stanford University. Constantly complaining is affecting us and will continue to cause harm if you do not put a stop to it. It is causing us to focus on the few downsides of life rather than the positives. We will miss lifetime experiences if we continue with this behavior.

But is it really out fault that we cant stop complaining? Look around us. Students sitting on desks in an enclosed room. A board at the front ustilised by a teacher. These are the circumstances in which we are taught in every single day. But you know what’s funny? When you watch old movies you look at the set and it is obvious how much our world has evolved surrounding nearly everything like roads, infrastructure and technology. Everything except the way students are taught. Yes we may have updated from chalk boards to white boards, but we are still teaching students in the same way. How is this even comprehensible. We get told to stop complaining about school as other people don’t even have the opportunity to go, but how is it possible when we spend 26 and a half hours sitting in a classroom per week. One thousand, nine hundreds and eight hours per semester are spent sitting in these enclosed spaces were we are expected to learn and absorb what we are being taught. Yet the average attention span for a 14 year old is 28 to 48 minutes, which probably explains why we zone out in the middle of a class and why I now know that out of the three fintona flags at the front of the school the middle one is a slightly different shade of blue. Our school system needs to change if we want students to take advantage of opportunities. We need to find different and efficient ways to teach children in this generation. Studies show that children’s attention span is increased when working on hands on activities. This is exactly what we should be doing in classes. We need to be learning in creative ways that allow us to reach our full potential and prepare us for the future. We need to stop putting the blame on the students for complaining and look at the real cause of the complaint. I’m not saying it’s easy. We all do it whether it’s subconsciously or not. But we will start seeing the affects complaining has on us in our everyday lives. If we can not fix the cause of the complaint, like our education system, then we have to change our mindset because in the end no matter what is happening around us, it is yourself that is being affected.

Chloe Saleh

Y EA R 9

Sophie Ang

Y EA R 1 0

A Future Stolen by the Shadows What started as a childhood friendship Seamlessly transformed into love. Their white wedding made way for a picket fence, A picturesque home filled with laughter. A future filled with promise. On a crowded train platform, Atmosphere filled with tension and uncertainty. The man and woman embraced longingly. The woman wept and kissed his cheek. He promised to return. The smell of biscuits wafted through the house. Scents of sugar, salt. Syrup, oats. She wished she could soften them with milk, But she knew they wouldn’t last the journey. On the battlefield, A gunshot pierced the eerie silence. The armies charged. Nothing could be heard, Over the sounds of screaming. Shooting. Bodies falling to the ground. Silenced, forever more. Within a day, The trenches were filled with skeletons. Cowering and cradling their ears In a futile attempt to silence the waves of death. The ‘brave young men’ papers had worshiped Were painted deep red. A letter wet with tears Lies upon the floor, forgotten. Sobbing echoes throughout the house. Despair. A future stolen by the shadows.

Isabella Weedon

Y EA R 1 0

We Are Human Too We are human We eat too When we walked into the restaurant We expected food But what caught us by surprise Is the judgement we felt From most people’s eyes

Always judged by how I look Sometimes when I go out People think I’m a crook It makes me want to shout I feel misunderstood Not everything Is based on looks.

We are hungry We eat too when we went to order the waiters flew this felt like torture as we heard our tummies rumble we raise our hand once more aren’t we all people? Next thing you know we are surrounded by a crowd A large man comes up to us and says ‘Could u please leave?’ Me and my family were wowed How is this fair?

Every day I look back to the lives that are lost to the people who are classified as “dark” Every day I look back at the horrible way people are treated all because of the white that they lack Every day I look back and see that the only problem is that we are black Looking back at the past It scares me to think Of what else could happen Am I safe? Should I worry for my family? I Cannot believe that this Is reality.

All we did was walk inside Is this because of the color of our hair Or because you just don’t want us around Why would they do this? But then I realized it’s because of the color of our skin this took me by surprise as I thought that this would all be in the past.

From the color of our skin to the tones of our hair we are all humans this seems unfair This feels as if it’s been going forever I wonder when it’s going to end.

Don’t we live in a land where people are told to be free? Please tell me Where is this freedom That I can’t see

Farida Taha

Y EA R 1 0

Nameless Fear and adrenaline seem to tauten and stretch the air with tension. The impatient shuffling of feet, too quiet to be noticed, but too loud in the presence of strained ears and tense bodies. The sky above is still dark and peaceful despite hours having gone by, as if it too hoped to give the people below a little more time. Amidst the muffled line of people, a boy clings tightly to his Ma’s skirt. He does not know where they are going. All he feels is the wind stinging his face with its salty, fishy breath, as he stumbles onto a swaying boat. All he hears is the shuffle of feet and rustling of wind on ocean.

“He’ll be able to send us letters when we go to America… right Ma?” The boy’s Ma bites her lip, her eyes suddenly shiny as she nods but doesn’t reply. “Don’t worry, Ma,” he says quickly, noticing her expression, “If you just give birth like that woman, you can have another son - Ow.” The boy grins as his Ma slaps him across the head and laughs with a shake of her head. It fills the boy up with a happiness he hasn’t felt in a while. He snuggles close to his Ma, wishing that it could always be like this, and allowing the gentle thumping of the waves drag him into a dream not far from home.

All he knows is that he is leaving home. ~ ~ “Patrol boat!” “What’s that?” The boy tugs on his mother’s sleeve, his eyes trained on the queer bundle, and prune-like blur hidden in the mass of blue-tinged blankets, carefully being rocked in the arms of a young woman. His Ma opens her tired eyes, and squints at the woman and her bundle. “One of the women who recently gave birth. That’s her child. Remember when we went to pay our respects and congratulate her when she gave birth a few weeks ago?” The boy briefly remembers a blur of bright pink buns, the sound of men laughing, his older brother asking him to retrieve some grape-flavoured lollies from across the room so that he could talk to one of the girls with the fake laughter and loud voice. He shudders at the thought and wonders where his brother was now.

The words are piercing. They seem to echo and crackle, just as painful as a gunshot in the side. The boy’s Ma pulls her son close and begins to pray, as sobs break out amongst the crowd. “They will take us back. They will take us back” someone mutters incoherently in the background, as others press themselves into dark corners of the boat – as if that would save them. “Quiet! You must all be silent, otherwise...” the men’s words trail off, as they slam the trapdoor shut, and only the sound of the boots scuffing can be heard. From somewhere nearby, the sound of another engine spurs into notice. Everyone falls silent, barely daring to breathe. Some people pray silently, others stare hopelessly into the darkness. And then it starts.

Y EA R 1 0

Nameless At first the whimper is barely audible, mercifully drowned out by the crashing of waves. But despite the lullabies, the gentle rocking, the baby’s screeches increase. Its screeches clash violently with the rough waves outside – the beginning of a storm waiting to be unleashed. “Someone quiet the child” a woman whispers harshly. For a moment there is no movement, only the kicking of the baby against the wrappings, the sound of boots hitting wood above, and a low murmur of voices above the waves. Then the mother clamps a hand over the baby’s mouth, tears streaming down her face, as the baby’s muffled cries increase in volume, untilThe silence is deafening.

“What was the baby’s name?” the boy whispers to his mother. But she shakes her head, hushing him into silence. When the boy reaches the front of the line, he stares at the child. It does not look human, more like a misshapen mound of skin, bone and cloth. Could this really have been living only hours ago? Beside him, his Ma prays quietly over the baby, her eyes closed, and palms pressed tightly against one another. It reminds him of when his grandpa died. It reminds him of the smell of burnt incense, and the bright red platters stacked with ripened fruit. It reminds him of the golden buddha statue and the high ceiling of the temple that housed memories and the respect of generations of people. But here, in the vast ocean, there is nothing to be remembered by. There is no incense to burn, no fruit to stack, no buddha to pray to. So, the boy closes his eyes.

Then a murmur of indistinct voices above, breaks the silence. There is a loud whistle, and then the scraping of boots against wood once more. The revving of an engine begins, fading back into the crashing of waves, and the whistle of the wind. The boy glances up at his Ma who has been gripping his hand tightly in the entire time, her arm wrapped protectively around him. Everyone is silent, their heads bowed, eyes unwilling to gaze on the slack whisp of a baby.

He prays for this child whose name he never knew, and whom he will never know.

Now only the mother’s weeps ring hollow across the space.

The boy wonders if he too will follow the same fate.

The boat is swept back out into the vast, lonely ocean.

They wrap the baby up in the soft, baby-blue material it had initially been carefully bundled in. Candles that can be spared, are carefully lit across the dim cabin. The mother sobs quietly beside the body, as person after person sends their prayers over the baby.

The fate of the Nameless.

The baby is carefully lifted into the arms of the weeping mother, as she places him below in the ocean, into the ocean’s dark unknown depths. The bundle of blue is delicately swept away, until nothing more can be seen. The mother kneels on the floor, and weeps, and weeps and weeps.

Katherine Hinh

Y EA R 1 0

The Battle of The Nile “I think our agriculture system is thriving remarkably. It is a pivotal source of our profit.” I explained to the room full of regents sitting around the large, intricately carved marble table. “Investing in expanding the system would be greatly beneficial.” I looked around desperately as a wave of silence hit, searching the unimpressed eyes of the regents for any validation in what I had proposed. “I think you’re right Cleopatra,” my brother, Ptolemy XIII, said as relief washed over me, and the regents immediately began nodding their heads violently, of course agreeing with anything Ptolemy said. “How do you think we could do this?” “What about freeing up more land for farming? If we cleared some of the marshes, it would give us a bit more land to work with,” I suggested hopefully, thankful that someone was actually listening to me. “Yes! And how about draining some of our swamps? That could work too,” he proposed. That was why I loved ruling Egypt with my brother. Without him, none of the regents would be listening to my ideas. But Ptolemy always found a way to make my proposals work, and always supported them, no matter what. “Yes, that’s perfect! What else could we do? How about the Nile floodplain? We could-” I started, as Ptolemy cut me off and finished my sentence. “-reclaim the land and use it for agriculture as well! This is such a great idea!” he exclaimed, beaming up at me. Ruling the kingdom alongside my brother was honestly much more fun than I thought it would be. For years, I had worried about who would rule the kingdom after my father passed away, fearing that it would be left to Ptolemy, or even him alongside our younger brother, Ptolemy XIV, and I would have no say in the decisions. I was so thankful that my father had wished for us to rule alongside each other, and I was extremely fortunate that we got to continue his legacy and fulfill his expectations. Despite the regents’

hatred towards me, bouncing ideas back and forth with Ptolemy were some of the best experiences I had ever had. “Upon a thoughtful discussion we had last night, we have decided...” I waited for the regent’s booming voice to announce our new agricultural improvement plans, as he read off a papyrus scroll in front of a crowd of citizens. “...that it would be best for Cleopatra to be banished from Egypt, making Ptolemy the sole ruler of our kingdom.” What?! Burning anger and hatred instantly shot through me as a murmur rose from the crowd. How could Ptolemy, my own brother, banish me from my kingdom? How could the one I trusted most betray me like this?! I had put my unwavering faith in him, believing that he would not fall under the regent’s spell and push me out of the position my father had wished for me to have. I searched the room for Ptolemy, trying to find an answer in his face, but I found his eyes fixed on the floor, doing everything he could to avoid my gaze. That traitor!!! I was going to get him back for this! Immediately, I rushed out of the palace, gathering all my loyal guards and servants. Driven by my emotions, I led my supporters to Syria, not letting myself think through what I was about to do, but when I told my supporters my plan, they kept cutting in, greatly disapproving. “But what if-” they tried telling me with rushed, panicked voices. “No.” I refused to listen. “But that could possibly-” “No.” “There must be a better way-”

Y EA R 1 0

The Battle of The Nile “No!”

Yes, it was working!

“Cleopatra, you have to think about this for a minute-”

Then we stopped suddenly, but before the enemy could get too close, a mess broke out as our bows started flying through the air, hitting the other army and their ships. Everything froze for a moment. There was a brief pause as we caught them off guard, the water calmly rippling beneath the ships. But then, like fireworks, the water exploded into chaos and shouts. Ships started ramming into each other as soldiers jumped onto their enemies’ boats, clashing their swords together and swinging their axes. The air became a swirling storm of arrows and heavy catapult stones, raining down upon the havoc below. The catapult stones struck their targets, ripping through the ships like mortal wounds, sending them beneath the waves in a catastrophic display of destruction. Just like I had dreamt of, the inexperienced and unaware opposition became overwhelmed, struggling to keep up with our tactics and strategies. As they hesitated, not knowing what to do, our ships moved in, encircling the enemy and forming an impenetrable wall, isolating them from any hope of escape.

“NO! Everybody stop! I’m going to do this, and I’m going to win!” All I wanted was to defeat Ptolemy. The anger and hatred were taking over me, and thinking through this rationally could take away my streak of motivation and prevent me from following through with my plan to build up the strongest army possible and initiate a war against Ptolemy. This was the only way I could win back my position as queen. My frustration and resentment had made me fixated on winning against my brother. I spent a year in Syria building up alliances and recruiting an army with a variety of skilled and clever people, ranging from Roman generals to Syrian aristocracy. Finally, the day had come for the battle to begin. I sat on the top floor of the Royal Palace of Alexandria, overlooking the picturesque view of the city. It would have been a beautiful sight, if only I did not have a perfect view of the two clusters of soldiers at the Nile River, right near the glimmering open water. I anxiously watched the battle unfold from miles away, as the clever plan I had devised with my army began to play out. I was extremely confident that with a strategy as brilliant as ours, we could easily emerge from the war victorious within a week, surely defeating Ptolemy and anyone who got in our way. I watched Julius Caesar, the leader of our fleet, signal with his hands for the army to get into their places. Almost instantly, my fleet stood in a defensive position, appearing unwilling to fight. Ptolemy’s fleet hesitated, seeming confused for a second, before seeing this easy opportunity to advance on us, believing they had the upper hand. As they began marching toward us confidently, my fleet boarded their ships and sailed out to the open waters, pretending to retreat while luring the other fleet to pursue us as they trailed behind like shadows.

Days later, I arrived back at the familiar walls of the palace, taking in the beautiful sunlit room, decorated with intricate tapestries, marble pillars, and gilded walls. A surge of happiness shot through me as I sat back on the throne, watching as my crown, gleaming with precious jewels, was placed back on top of my head. My assistant walked up to me, bearing a worried expression on his face. “Cleopatra, your brother, Ptolemy, has died. He was crossing the river as he was fleeing from the battle scene, but his armour was too heavy, and it pulled him underneath the water, drowning him.” A shock rushed through me as the colour drained out of my face and chills were sent down my spine. The heavy weight of what I had actually done left a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. I just killed my brother. I had gotten so caught up in my emotions that I completely ignored the consequences of the war. Everyone had tried to warn me,

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The Battle of The Nile but I refused to listen. Instead, I persisted on with the lethal plan to defeat my brother, letting my anger guide me, as I refused to rationally think through the problem. I was stabbed with a pang of guilt as my mind gave me vivid flashbacks of the catapults flying through the sky, crashing into ships and sending them beneath the water. What had I done? How many others had I killed? This was not part of the plan! I did not want to rule Egypt on my own! I wanted Ptolemy here beside me, supporting my ideas when no one else did. I started tearing up as I realised it was too late for that. I had failed my father, who had expected us to rule the kingdom together. Instead, I had killed my own brother, completely neglecting the consequences of my actions. What did I think would happen? Why couldn’t I have stopped, for just a second, to think about the weight of my plan? If only I had listened to my supporters instead of letting my emotions get to me, then none of this would have happened. The next morning, I lay awake in my bed for so long as I watched the brightness of the sun rising up into the clouds, until I heard a soft knock on my door. It opened slightly as my younger brother, Ptolemy XIV’s head poked through.

“Cleopatra? Are you okay?” he asked with genuine concern in his eyes. “I’ll be fine. You can leave now. Tell the servants not to worry about me.” He hesitated at the door for a moment with a sad look in his eyes. “Wait!” I shouted before he was gone. I had an idea. My father had wanted me to rule Egypt alongside Ptolemy XIII, he never wished for me to do it alone. Even though there was nothing I could do to bring Ptolemy back, there was a way to continue my father’s legacy. “What if we ruled Egypt together? We could be co-rulers,” I suggested hopefully, really wishing he was not too mad at me for killing our brother. “Really? You want that? Wasn’t that whole war about fighting to be the sole ruler?” “It was at first, but it just doesn’t feel right. Our father never would have wanted this to happen. He would have been so disappointed if he saw our battle. He wanted two of his children to rule his kingdom alongside each other. We can fulfill his wishes together.” As he looked up at me, his face lit up with a radiant smile. “Yes, I would be honoured, Cleopatra. Our father would have been proud of you.”

Marcella Kedzierski

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Mia Lee

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A Journey on My Lotus Goddess Lakshmi is a Hindu deity, representative of wealth, prosperity and love. The pink lotus on which she sits on is symbolic of purity, fertility and beauty. She is often depicted with four hands, portraying the four goals of life: karma, artha, dharma, and moksha. When I was young, I hated being Indian. Lotuses floating on water meant nothing to me. Growing up in a western country like Australia, where everyone’s meals were pasta or burgers, and everyone’s names were either Sophie or Jack or Sarah, I hated that I was fated to Dosas and Pongal for dinner and the name Sowmya. I didn’t understand why my parents purposefully chose to humiliate me by giving me the most un-pronounceable name. Somya, Chomya, Soumya, Swompya, Sonia, Somiya are all mispronunciations of my name I have constantly heard. Seriously, I bet if you could come up with some weird way to pronounce my name, I am 99.9% sure I have already heard of that variation. But it didn’t end there with just my name. I despised Indian clothing, the pattu pavades and churithas being too itchy and two sizes too big. That’s a thing you will commonly find with Indian mums. They will always buy clothes that are way too big, claiming ‘you will grow into it’. We all know that it’s just a way to keep their piggy banks full! My religion and culture were always a burden to me as a young girl. It felt like a commitment and a chore rather than something I should feel proud of. Trips to the temple, daily at home prayers to the Gods, and the ritual of throwing lotus petals on the deities felt like an added item on my to-do list, and often, a groan would follow suit when I realised it was that time of the day. As I grew older, I realised that there were many clashes with the Indian and western views and values. Indian families value good grades from their children, social respect and dignity. They value perseverance and persistence, which is why our divorce rates are much lower than that of western families. Indian people are much nosier and more deceptive, constantly gossiping about their children’s successes and upcoming marriages between two people who apparently are not compatible at all. They praise other people for their achievements, whilst jealousy and greed secretly engulf their very beings. I constantly rolled my eyes at

this, not understanding why Indian people value outshining everyone else. But Indian people also value family, harmony and unity with others. I guess that’s why my mum always dragged me to Indian functions. On the other hand, the western culture values sports and family barbeques. Inevitably I grew more attached to these Western ideologies. I always craved bike rides and play dates with my friends, but instead became destined to Kumon classes. How fun! I can’t exactly pinpoint when I finally accepted my heritage because it was a gradual awakening for me. But an incident that sparked this change in my perception, was when my ayyah explained to me the meaning of my name: ‘Your name Sowmya comes from the Goddess Lakshmi. She is the deity of prosperity, love, purity, generosity, grace, and charm. She stands on a lotus flower, which floats in a sea of water, wearing a beautiful red saree and holding a lotus in 2 of her four hands. She is a Goddess that portrays beauty and love so eloquently’. This explanation made something strike within me, a ground breaking revelation that I never knew would be so impactful and powerful. There could be a million Sophies, Sarahs and Emilys, but none of them had the same sentimental origin as my name. Even if people still managed to mispronounce my name, I was proud. Proud to be representing such an important deity in my Hindu religion, proud that I was part of a few people out of the eight billion people on planet earth that had a name with its own story that was still developing to this day. These principles that Goddess Lakshmi represented resonated with me. They were the traits that I wanted to become my motto, the qualities I wanted to carry forward for the rest of my existence. Progressively, Indian functions no longer became a responsibility for me, but rather a priority. I went to these gatherings not because I had to, but because I wanted to. I looked forward to putting on my Indian clothes, wearing gold jewellery and singing and dancing to Indian songs with my other Indian friends. The vibrant colours of our dresses, the loud energetic music that would be blasting through the speakers and the gentle sound of bangles jangling as we danced and swayed our hips

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A Journey on My Lotus to the beat made the atmosphere that much livelier; I would be floating in my own red saree as I gracefully leaped across the room on top of my lotus. It was not just my own bangles that I could hear rattling as I danced, but also the bangles of the goddess as she handed me the lotus that would lead me towards the path of prosperity. At the end, we would end up in a sweaty heap, too tired to even stand up. Patches of red spots would blanket my face, imitating the same golden blush on Goddess Lakshmi’s face. But it was these moments that made me realise how grateful I was for my ethnicity; how thankful I should have been all those years ago when I protested that my parents change my name. And it was in these circumstances that I had an epiphany: Goddess Laksmi was my second mother. Then came my relationship with Indian food. In case you hadn’t realised, Indian food is packed with spices: turmeric, coriander, cinnamon, cardamom, fenugreek and chilli powder. Lots and lots of chilli powder. I often used to think that my parents purposely wanted to kill me by adding spices in my food whenever they had a chance. Seriously, if I wasn’t in a coughing fit and in desperate need of a glass of milk after one bite of my food, something was wrong. Even the wafts of Indian spices sent me into a sneeze fest. The food we ate was one thing, but the way we ate the food was another. In Indian culture, food is traditionally eaten with our hands. I often wondered why our hands were our utensils when we were already surrounded by silverware. Sticky, gooey rice and sambars coated every patch of skin on my hands, making me secretly gag in disgust. But after my revelation, I quickly realised how thankful I was for this tradition. Every time I let the water trickle down on my hands after a meal, I pictured Goddess Lakshmi using the sea of water surrounding her to cleanse my hands, helping to clear the sins I had committed in my lifetime and purify me. As for the spices, I didn’t think I would ever get used to the amount of heat that was packed in every Indian dish. But it was all worth it considering that it was the wealth Goddess Lakshmi had provided to my family that enabled traditional Indian food to be on my plate.

I quickly realised that I had developed a sixth sense: a sense of belonging. This sense of reassurance I gained, knowing that I not only had physical support from my mother, but spiritual support from the Goddess Lakshmi made me feel unconquerable. They were my people. The people I knew who would understand me, the people I could connect with. I had finally become comfortable being both Indian and Australian. Goddess Lakshmi looks at me and sees the potential for wealth, prosperity and love. The pink lotus on which she sits welcomes me and strengthens me with purity, fertility and beauty. Her four hands embrace me. One points me towards my future, showing me the path towards what is good and noble. Another holds my hand, swinging it beside us as we walk. The third hand lifts the back of my saree as we travel over bumps. Her final hand, wipes the tears from my face, showing me that I am not alone in this world. I am on my way. I am Sowmya Sornam Sivakumar.

Sowmya Sivakumar

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A Wrinkle of Youth “What is life, but a contest of beauty?” the young man stretched himself across the chair, auburn curls tousled by the wind creeping in from an open window. It was an unexpectedly bright winter’s day, the kind that quivers onto the edge of spring; the chilled sunlight biting into the dull thrum of the city, a few birds absently humming a familiar tune. “I doubt you would pay me as much attention if I were ugly and wrinkled.”

“My dear Arthur, how would you ever be able to enjoy the pleasure of love if you can’t pretend to love the mundane? With such a beauty I should hardly think that a talk with her would be nearly so stimulating.”

The youth who was sitting across from him looked away, a flush spreading across his pleasant features. Although they were sitting in his own house, Mr. Arthur Daley felt a stranger amidst the cold glow cast by the winter sun, especially upon his friend before him, who continued, “Like the flowers outside, vying for the attention of everyone who cares to look, beauty is a matter of life and death. To be ignored is to disappear.”

“Well,” Mr. Corbett rose from his chair, adjusting his sleeves as he did so, “I shall see what I can gather when I go to Mrs. Davenport’s tonight; it might finally give me something of note to do. Stop by my place tomorrow and I might have found something of interest to tell. And please replace those camelias – their rotting smell is making me quite sick.”

“Well, I certainly don’t believe that Theo, and it is not why I’ve invited you here today,” Arthur replied, sitting up straighter and adjusting a strand of hair that had fallen across his face. “Of course, that is not why you invited me, whoever calls upon another but to selfishly indulge their own beliefs?” came the blunt reply, but Arthur simply smiled. Mr. Corbett was in another of his strange moods. “Oh Theo, I saw a girl so beautiful even your head would turn! I have been unable to get her out of my head ever since I saw her radiant smile at Mrs. Anderton’s dinner party, I should believe it was an angel who crafted her out of a summer morning.” Theodore smiled, a glint of amusement dancing across his face. “Well, I should imagine it so, if you are so enraptured that you think I would know her without even a name to go by.” “But that is why I’ve asked you here today! You know every person worth remembering, surely, you’ve met someone by this description? She spent the entirety of dinner chatting with Mr. Woodsworth about some run-down den on the East End, and it was so dreadfully boring I could not bring myself to interfere.”

“Don’t be so dreadful, Theo,” Arthur admonished. However, in spite of this, he shared a knowing smile.

With that the young man swept from the room, a steady stream of sun beginning to fall through the window, the breeze blowing the scent of just-wilting flowers into the coming spring. Mr. Daley stood in front of the young man’s house, a strange quiver of excitement passing through his body. It was the first time they had ever met here, despite having known each other for many months. Theodore’s face appeared at the door, eyes glinting with a strange delight. Stepping out, he motioned towards the door, “Since you have been ever so kind to tolerate me, it is only fair that I return the favour, is it not?” Arthur stepped through the doorway, and it was not the bright grandeur he expected of Arthur that met him, but a dimly lit corridor, and a strange sickly smell that pervaded his senses. Unsettled, he turned towards his companion, only to recoil once again. A dog! – or, what was a dog, now mounted upon polished mahogany, frozen in attack with its jaws wide open. Looking past its unblinking eyes, Arthur saw it as if the corridor expanded infinitely, rows upon rows of sinister grins pulled taut against glistening fangs, snapshots of flapping wings framing cold, beady eyes.

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A Wrinkle of Youth “Theodore!” the young man shakily exclaimed, “If what I believe you are asking of me is correct, I would not be doing you a favour, but rather condemning both our souls for the rest of time, monsters in the eyes of living and the dead!”

“Do you like them?” prompted Theodore, fondly looking over his animals, his smile fading as he saw the horror fixed upon his companion’s face. “Theo, what is this?” Arthur murmured shakily, unable to look away from the cold, unblinking gazes, fixed upon him in a predatory glare. “What have I done? Why, I have only done what is right,” came the reply, something hardening in the young man’s face, a finger beginning to tap impatiently against the banister. Both men’s gazes turned towards the dozens of bouquets of flowers, hanged on the wall upside down and spraying a wretchedly sweet smell down the stairs. Arthur started to feel a sickness rising through his throat. Turning back around to meet his friend’s gaze, he found Theodore no longer beside him, but in a room off the corridor, admiring the instruments meticulously placed upon his bureau, picking them up as he did so. A sliver of the sun struggling through the muslin curtain struck the silver of the knife, the gleam reflecting off his friend’s eye in a strange new fashion that Arthur did not like. “I know this is horribly demanding of me Art, but I am in need of a favour.” Despite being shaken, there was no good reason to refuse this chance to repay his friend for his endless favours. “You have always been of the utmost help to me, Theo, I shall try to understand what is plaguing you as best as I can.”

“Monsters? Am I cruel, then, in helping these creatures avoid that final day where they are forgotten in some pit far away, decrepit, and alone? Am I the monster, or those who throw their animals and children onto the street to be ripped apart? Who forget what is no longer beautiful? Humans don’t deserve beauty; our souls are so wretched that they will stop at nothing to make sure everyone else’s are just as damned. No, dear Art, what you would be doing would be helping me restore humanity! “Oh, and your dear Lucy? Yes, that’s her name, and she would have been at Mrs. Davenport’s dinner – a shame, really – if some intoxicated fellow hadn’t marred that face of hers; she’s quite hideous now.” Offering Arthur the knife, Theodore found his friend step backwards cautiously, this action tugging at the growing feeling of hatred building within him. “We are running out of time, dear Art! I already have the beginnings of the horrible disease of age growing at the creasing corners of the eyes and,” he pulled at his hair with a frantic look in his eyes, “Grey is beginning to eclipse my hair! Oh please, for any love you have for me as your friend, do not let me reach that horrible day!” Taking a shaking step backwards, Arthur regarded the handle of slender silver. “You mustn’t be so rash! I am sorry, Theo, but you are asking me to condemn my very soul.”

“I want you to preserve me.” There was a stunned silence, as Arthur took in what had just been asked of him. Theodore continued, with increasing fervour, “Just like my little animals you met a few minutes ago, I would like for you to do for me the same favour I have done for them.”

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A Wrinkle of Youth Mr. Corbett regained that strange smile, one of defiant resignation. “I understand, my friend. It is a lot I ask of you. But you must forgive me, for I cannot let myself succumb to a fate worse than death. I trust you will do what is right.” With that final word, Theodore raised the silver knife now clutched tightly in his hand, and plunged it within his chest, twisting once and wrenching it out in a ruthlessly graceful motion. Arthur watched as his friend lurched forwards onto his knees; for a peaceful moment it seemed as if he was in prayer, and then he was falling with a dull thud onto the cold mahogany floor beneath his feet. The deep crimson pool seeping through his white linen shirt accentuated a cruel, beautiful smile within the sensuous mouth, a peaceful face. Somewhere outside, amidst the dull hum, a crow sang. The burial for Mr. Theodore Corbett was held with much grandeur and over half of the West End attended with weeping condolences; a gloomy pall cast over the city. But there were dinners to attend, and Mrs. Davenport’s parties to prepare for, and soon it seemed all of England forgot about the radiant youth. Mr. Arthur Daley looked upwards towards the powder-blue sky. It was finally spring.

Lejia Feng

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In defence of my embarrassingly non-diverse bookshelf Everyone needs to read more diverse literature, says the voice on the podcast. I nod, agreeing. And then I look over at my bookshelf. Dickens, Brontë, Austen, Steinbeck. There’s a Toni Morrison book, and a few by Jhumpa Lahiri, but there’s no escaping it - my bookshelf is overwhelmingly white. We all like to read books that we relate to, yet as someone with migrant parents, I read almost nothing by multicultural authors. But as I think about it, I realise that my subconscious aversion to most books written by diverse authors is deeper than my dislike for dystopian and sci-fi novels. It’s not just a random, irrational preference. I think it represents two things - my rejection of the ‘immigrant’ identity label, and the vision of diversity I have for the world. So why don’t I read many multicultural books? Well, one reason is that they tend to be an echo-chamber of stereotypes. I’ve lost track of the number of books I’ve read where a disadvantaged kid from a poor village takes a boat to flee a war-torn country, and everything is just so sad and terrible. This is undoubtedly a very real experience for a lot of people, and there should, of course, be books written to reflect that. But this is not the only migration experience; and the idea that every single person who has a slightly different skin colour is a ‘boat person’ is an inherently harmful assumption, because it just isn’t true. My grandparents took a plane to Australia with skilled immigrant visas, yet I’ve still been subjected to people asking me if I migrated here illegally; and I can’t help but feel like this skewed media representation of immigrants as ‘boat people’ is partially to blame. These books also often have characters whose only personality trait is being an immigrant, and whose entire life’s plotline is their migration journey. This, to me, is an incredibly limited, one-dimensional view of a person. I truly believe that it’s when diverse books allow their characters to break out of the mould of being ‘just immigrants’ that they begin to capture the individuality and humanity that every human possesses, regardless of whether they’re an immigrant or not. One of my favourite books, The Kite Runner by Khaled Hosseini, features what is very much a ‘typical migration journey’; but it presents the process of migration as one stage of its characters’ lives, like any other singular experience,

rather than being what defines them. I’ve found it difficult to find many ‘diverse’ books that are willing to do this; to show that the life of an immigrant is still the life of a person. It’s not the choice to write about a migration journey that I disagree with; it’s that these books often focus solely on this period in a character’s life, without addressing every other part of who that character is. And this is not a criticism of the authors, per se; I’m sure that having diverse backgrounds themselves, they face being treated as a less-than-whole person every day. But the publishing industry seems to only want to publish multicultural voices as part of some progressive marketing tactic. So, if books don’t fit into what the world sees as obviously, stereotypically ‘diverse,’ they won’t be published, and diverse authors are consequently forced to fit into such narrow boxes of what they are capable of. The very idea of ‘multicultural books’ also seems to reinforce the world’s sense of ‘otherness.’ For at least the last 50 years, most colonised countries have been gradually moving towards independence. I think that as each liberation occurs, countries often go through two stages of post-colonial national identity; firstly, a stage of anger; of expressing and telling the world about the deep harm and suffering caused by colonialism; and secondly, a stage of reconciliation, where a complex, fractured nationhood is brought together into a national identity which reconciles Indigenous history with the indelible impact of colonialism. Every country and every person whose heritage is, in some way, tied to a colonised nation, is at a different stage; I think that Australia is certainly still reckoning with the harm of British settlement, and that many First Nations people are rightfully still in that first stage. And people who are still facing the repercussions of colonialism do, therefore, have a right to express that pain in writing. One of the most powerful pieces of literature that made me empathise with the everlasting harm of British settlement on Indigenous Australia is Evelyn Araluen’s Dropbear, which makes no attempts to hide the visceral anger its writer feels. But many countries in the world are moving towards the second stage – reconciliation - and I think that there is a point, once the harm is recognised and addressed, that we need to start looking forward; otherwise the world will be eternally divided into coloniser and

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In defence of my embarrassingly non-diverse bookshelf colonised, victim and oppressor. I think a lot of diverse literature is stuck in the first stage; it continues to retell all of colonisation’s damage without attempting to surpass it. The sense of anger and perennial victimhood alienates most non-minority readers; I doubt that many people want to be continually blamed for things that feel ancient and far-removed from their lives. It also reinforces the sense of permanent victimhood that people like me want to let go of; I don’t always want to feel like a victim, and I would like to see books that show empowerment and reclamation of power, rather than unsurpassable suffering. But ultimately, books are inherently personal, and the ones we read and write are up to us. I’m not saying that boat immigrants shouldn’t write memoirs, or that those still dealing with the harm of colonisation shouldn’t express their pain in writing. But those books aren’t right for me; they reinforce ideas about my identity that I will always try to let go of. I believe that the beauty of literature is that it transcends the individual experience; regardless of a character’s race or religion, their stories often teach universal lessons. Books written centuries apart, in different nations, fall under the same themes and put forward the same warnings about the human condition; Pandora and Eve were both doomed by curiosity, Macbeth and Frankenstein ruined by their unchecked ambition. So, I’ll keep reading books I relate to; but that doesn’t mean they all have to be written by people who look like me. I think it’s undoubtedly important to read books written by authors from a range of backgrounds, and that diverse authors deserve extra opportunities to write to compensate for centuries of being silenced. But my vision for ‘diverse’ literature is one where eventually, multicultural authors add fresh perspectives to the same themes, without being seen as a genre of their own. There is no point in separating and dividing authors based on something as superficial as race; literature will always have the unique power to break all labels and unite people by the timeless universality of the human experience.

Saria Ratnam

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The Almost Empty Colour-Pencil Box We’d laugh, like it meant nothing, Milk chocolate and white chocolate, Little kids after all…. it was entirely loving. Poisoned roots gripping tightly, Growing everyday slightly, To bloom, would bear a beast, Eager to latch on and feast. Colours were not on a spectrum, They were fixed. No fifty-fifty allowed, Never dare get them mixed! “Can you pass me the green?”….. Sure! She doodled trees, very serene. “Could I please have the yellow?”…. She scratchily scribbled the sun. “Can you give me the skin colour pencil?” Without question, I gave her the peach as if we were all made from one stencil. All alone, in the crumbling cardboard box, Laid alone the brown pencil; As sharp as a knife, Never touched, never needed, Treated unworthy, it’s entire life. AND Standing tall, it grew with the world’s tender care, Becoming impaired, living unaware, Potential to destroy, being bold, Thriving only, with what fit the mould. Already reaping brutal damage, Untouched, it has turned savage.

“Where were you born?” An innocent question, Little did I know, already sprouted a thorn, Australia, my home, ever since birth, Apparently wasn’t possible, with my skin like raw earth. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------Born here, but the first words out of my mouth were Tamil, So “where am I really from”? It remains a puzzle. Australian-Sri Lankan? Saturday sports, while other kids scramble away at their Tamil reports, Skipping Carnatic music class, to train with not one person resembling me, In shorts, more than I’d ever be in a pavadai*, But ate curry and not snags, On identity day, didn’t draw 2 flags, The lion stared back at me on my page, The sole reason I wasn’t born there, But the others didn’t even care. So no, not white enough… Sri-Lankan-Australian? In Tamil school, Bharatanatyam and Carnatic singing, School kids knew nothing about my upbringing; “Do you speak Indian?”, “How do you say Niger?”, I felt safe being with people like me, proud to wear my pavadai and pottu*, we’d always have each other, that was guaranteed. Australia was our parent’s lifeboat, So we were all in the same boat. But, when drowning in a sea of white, I was embarrassed, I’d peel off that pottu before walking into a shop, I didn’t want to be stared at, as if I was a prop; Sometimes, it’s easier to just blend in, Than to deal with shooting eyes, glaring at your skin. So no, not brown enough…

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The Almost Empty Colour-Pencil Box I had the best of both worlds, But they’d never intersect. Is there a missing a puzzle piece? Or is it just me… I don’t know how to check… ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------Not a hyphen, Not owing anything, to make you understand. With white friends who sympathise, And brown friends who empathise, I might not fit a label, But it doesn’t matter, I’m not a product for sale. Confidence in self, can ward off any disease.

*pavadai: A traditional Sri Lankan clothing, that consists of a blouse and a skirt. It is usually worn until puberty. *pottu: Usually a small black/red dot or line on the forehead, either painted with a liquid or stuck on with special stickers, worn by Hindus (and some other religions). It was traditionally worn, with the colour choice symbolising marriage status, and the dot acting as a 3rd spiritual eye, similar to the evil eye, warding off negative energy, a form of protection.

Mathangi Sritharan

SO It shoots to the sky… Searching for a victim, Don’t let it make you cry! Let it run through your veins. Let it boil your blood, Then it can be bound by chains. Severed at the root, Buried temporarily, that shoot. ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------On my paper, I placed the brown pencil, once settling dust, Even with the short peach laid out; it was time to cast doubt. With each stroke, revealed beautiful, contrasting melanin, Only then, did others realise, that there’s more than one skin. With each stroke, did the brown finally get a win, Only for the paper, to end up crumpled in the bin.

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Lucy Parmenter

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The Deafening Silence We pattered along the trail of dirt, bark scathed the bottom of my feet Through the twirling crowd of leaves, we wandered To find our spot amongst the tangled branches of green Nearing the blazing sun, piercing daggers in our eyes I was guided by the call that led me through the garden way We stood beneath the towering tree which hid the sun away

The atmosphere around me unfreezes Life injected back into the world My wandering mind returning from one momentary pause The blurred pictures dissolve despite my efforts to make them stay I still stand solely under this tree Only now with the memory which lives on in me

The uneasy ladder, swiftly travelled in the wind Merely tall enough to reach the ripened figs Unveiling the green leathered skin, revealed a star filled sky of seeds An everlasting burst of sweetness that left our palms sugary sweet Through chatter we wait with ease For the birds to appear in the growing breeze

The path scattered with fallen figs Only few remaining, dangle weepingly from the branches Tremors send the browning leaves tumbling to the ground As the rustling of the nearby tree comes to an ease Whistles in the air as the bird’s glide past my feet I reminisce of the tradition that will forever be incomplete

Lifeless seeds laid scattered on the dirt We found joy in waiting for the flock Vague cooing and calls echoed through a brisk wind The fluttering of feathers as they perched on the branch Hastily the seeds disappeared, one by one slipping away We always returned to feed them the very next day

As memories piece together like a growing field of springtime blossoms I reminisce to fill the void of loneliness The bright beaming flowers which grow beside the tree Lie patiently in waiting to be delicately picked I choose the brightest bunch from the yard I place them where he rests, in the graveyard

This thought enters unaware to my mind Swirling around me, like a tumultuous sea Only now revived as I wander alone Inundated by the motionless crowd of leaves The silence, deafening inside my brain Pandemonium growing as no one is there to call out my name

Caroline Georgarakis

Unsettled by the daze, beneath the swaying branch Sounds become static as my hearing slowly fades My vision blurring as I remain paralysed in my thought Raindrops from the leaves trickle down my cheek Merging with the tears that flow I stand, starring dimly at the night-time glow

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The Drowning of Youth O southern waters, celestial waves, Bound by these four corners of flimsy film, Your corporeal visage preserved with pixel inks, Your purer soul caged within a silver screen – Ten years have passed, Since that unprofitable picturesque day, When I, a child of seven summers of age, Was a traveller amidst these self-same crowds, And now the mighty sights of the Apostles tall, Gold and glistening against the balayage blue, Has more than any photos, prim and trimmed, Stirred the buried memory, captured and kept, To once more resurface to the mind’s forefront. The inward eye unravels my unwearied years, Who, how like a unspoilt sponge, Drinks the spirit of these heavenly scenes, Drenches its squander and squalor in equal weights, Drowns in the embrace of the enclosing frames, unnoticed, The latter of which my present self does make mockery of. For there was a queue on the clifftop high, To where the frenzied crowd had as one pursued, As if sating their hunger with treasured prey, By trade of a paper for a ticket torn, In giving themselves the birds’ dominion, Bearing false hopes of immortality By the fruitless offerings of camera scrolls. To this fitful flight, had I rushed towards; And I – like the lonesome copter, Whirling over Earth behind matted glass, Whose screeching spins did seabirds fright, Eroding away the wholesome heart – Was made then utterly desolate, By the vain loss of the Elysian fake, A box unticked, and a video untaken,

Souring the temper of a sweet summer day With a wealth of corrupted decadence. That cloud of youth has since dissipated, And am I a moth floating towards the Romantic light, In mimicry of long dead poets with Words of Worth! For the wiser mind, the master of my present will, Tempering my moods with moderate maturity, Yearns not for the cloudless skies, But drifts to the ground beneath lofty cliffs, Level to the fallen bridge, the ephemeral rocks Of the dozen which four had with weather withered, For a chance conversation, a fated blessing, An immortal heart gifted to the mortal vessel; Where the signal-less and crowd-less cove Is void of the edges of this suffocating scaffold, And full of vitality – Now I see the sun shining at its zenith, Blinking to the camera flashes; Now I hear the ocean waving in its slumber, Dancing to the children’s laughter; And I smell the salted sea breeze, And taste the barbecue smoke; And I imagine the cityscapes a hundred miles away, And find in that moment, on that day, Something more than picturesque, no less divine, A Paradise real for the solitary traveller! So nature, as it oft does with its art, Swayed my strayed but homebound heart, And pulled my weight towards the land, The lukewarm waters and the sun-scorched sand. And I feel in my body and in my spirit gleam, A tranquillity, a calm, a paralysing dream, A sleep so deep, only awakened by the beat Of the drowned Earth from the child’s splattering feet.

Dora Li

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The Wanderings of a Woman Lost I liked to look in the mirror like this, while he was down getting coffee. He wasn’t there but I could feel him, the indent he made in my chest, like he’d carved out a place inside me just for him. It was a nice feeling. Very familiar. Camilla, he called me. It wasn’t my name, but he liked it well enough, so I enjoyed it fine. Sometimes I called myself Camilla in front of my parents, and I had to make up something about some book. It wasn’t totally a lie. I can still remember when I think he chose it. We were lying together, having a cigarette between us and he was reading some book I wasn’t interested in. His eyes got real big one moment, the most shocked I’d ever seen him, though he was still handsome with his eyes bulging out of his head. “What’s wrong with you?” I’d twisted my lips up like Marion Shilling does when she’s not really smiling but trying to get something, and I remember how he turned to me like I was crazy. “Julia!” He kept repeating my name until he asked me if I’ve heard of Julia of Corsica, to which I said a definite no and asked him to stop talking nonsense. He’s always getting mad at me for not being more ‘engaged in the culture’ or whatever that means, but it just bores me to death. He told me Julia of Corsica was some Saint of suffering torture by God, which I kind of doubted because he always went on about how stupid God was, and eventually I had to kiss him to get him to stop talking about it. He left it alone but on when I turned 18 he started calling me Camilla, said it was better for my independence. It made me snort just to think about it. But it was nice, being this sexy, new woman when he was around. I started doing proper pin curls, making my lipstick all bloody red and I even rouged my knees once like they did in the 20s, but then my mother saw it and started talking about how she used to do that so I never tried it again. I frowned at my lipstick, all smudged and ruined, and though I knew it satisfied Edward to see me pretty and used, I got real sick of looking at it quickly and turned my gaze to the floor, where my best afternoon dress lay all crumpled, like someone had trampled it with bare feet. I knew there was a pack of

Lucky Strikes in there so I sort of sauntered over, practicing fitting that Jean Harlow type Edward liked so much before I turned the dress over ‘till I found it, and it was easy for me to become quite subdued after lighting it up. When I first saw Edward smoking, I thought it smelt disgusting, though he looked handsome doing it. But he was always going off on smoke breaks without me, so I ended up going with him, pretending I was some nicotine expert, though he knew I was practically clueless. Maybe he liked that. He’d started talking about babies the other day, the poor man, how he wanted me pregnant as soon as possible so we could create something that we could mold and shape to be our perfect little thing. I liked the idea enough but didn’t tell him, saying ‘no way’, or at least not yet, because I was still young enough that the only other girl I knew who’d gotten herself pregnant at my age worked at Little Lon. Also, my parents were big on babies and my dad was always telling me suitable ladies become mothers, which was enough to sour me on the topic. Nevertheless, I did like the idea of motherhood, a secret fantasy I indulged in whenever I was alone. Imagining myself fat and swollen with Edward’s baby, heavy with the indent of our connection, so strong that every passerby would know I belonged to someone. Talking with the other women about how my babe was falling asleep so quickly and having them all be jealous of my skills. I liked the thought of clipping on his miniature pants with suspenders from the elastic used to hold Edward’s morning paper together. Seeing Edward every day, having it not be secret because we were married, spying my parents faces as I walked down the aisle towards an atheist who’d done his vital studies on that awful romantic literature they hated so much. The scene amused me greatly, and I was almost laughing imagining my mother in tears but stopped after a while because I probably looked crazy. Edward came in, then, as I was smoking on the floor, sipping at his drink, which he passed me without speaking. I handed him the cigarette and watched him take a drag, soft and masculine in his movements.

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The Wanderings of a Woman Lost “Darling, if you don’t stop smoking, you’ll honestly kill yourself.” All I could do raise my eyebrows and giggle as I stood and forced him to the bed so I could pretend to melt into his chest. The coffee was abandoned on the dresser as I focused solely on my lover. “You smoke so much more than me, damned hypocrite.” I kissed him then, soft and slow for just a few moments as he held me in his arms. “I’m not a pretty thing like you, though, am I?” Hearing the smile in his voice was enough to flush me crimson. I jokingly pushed him down, but then just fell down into his arms so we were lying together. “Are you kidding?” I was too exhausted to say anything else so I pretended to fall asleep, wanting to stay for as long as I could. I noticed his hand softly caressing my belly and I smiled inwardly, indulging in my short fantasy of motherhood. I thought of my father, then, his smug dumb face I knew would be there if he could read my thoughts and I pushed Edward’s hand away. He was tired, though I could feel the disappointment as he curled a hand through my hair. I had upset him. His words didn’t suggest otherwise, but his tone betrayed it. “Are you turning into Corsica again, my dear?” It was with a teasing lilt to his voice that he finally spoke, and I was momentarily relaxed. “You’ve got to stop saying such ridiculous things,” I murmured this, but turned so I was facing him. “I don’t even know what a Corsica is.” “Torture victim, lamb.” He seemed to enjoy that I didn’t know who she was, which I found plenty amusing.

“Ah,” It was only after then that I processed his meaning and pursed my lips in a funny way to indicate my mock disgust. “I feel as though you’ve made sure enough I wasn’t her.” He smiled, then, lovingly, but there was something behind it I couldn’t quite place. “My Camilla,” he smiled, and kissed me. I leaned into it, soft and pliable against him. “I’m sure I have.” The night, then, passed as expected and I went home the next morning rather begrudgingly after Edward insisted that I must visit my parents at least once, lest they think me dead. I made a valiant attempt to be discreet in my entrace, yet my mother being situated directly in front of the sewing machine in the front room defeated my case. “Darling!” It was continously difficult not to throw up when anyone but Edward called me ‘darling’, since he’d claimed that name for himself, but I tried to smile at my mother despite this. She was aging rather rapidly, induced, perhaps, by her slavish devotion to her homely duties. “I’ve made you a dress, Julia, you must see it and try it on at once!” She made an unsteady journey to the sewing machine, and I was horrified to see what looked like a dress one might find belonging to the babe of an old maid who still mourned the death of Queen Victoria. Remembering Edward insisting on me being ‘good’, (and the knowledge I could tell him all about the dreadfulness of such a robe with his deepest sympathies), I seized the monstrosity, hugging it to my chest and pretending to inspect it. “Beautiful, mama!” I exclaimed, and the pitiful thing was so delighted at my false happiness that she grabbed hold of me and cradled my face in her labour-worn hands. Her rusted wedding ring scratched across my face, and I had to stop myself from wincing in pain.

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The Wanderings of a Woman Lost “Darling Julia! I am so glad of it!” Her terribly chapped lips spread apart, revealing a frightful grin that quickly turned to disapproval as she inspected my face. “Oh, dear, you really must stop applying that ridiculous lipstick. I have never seen anything ruder, and I am sure your father will have an aneurism after seeing you. But enough of that. I am so glad you have finally come home.” I smiled, then, placidly, promising the woman I would remove it at once. She followed me into her bedroom with the monstrosity in hand, pushing it into my hands while she waited impatiently outside my door. I examined the thing, pink, frilly with splotches of light blue, meant to be flowers. “My darling, you haven’t told me the reason for your constant absence,” The insatiable crone continued to speak to me through the door, and I could hear the curiousity teeming from her wretched voice. “It is a man, yes? Oh, a man. I knew it so! I must prepare for a wedding! A grand-child, maybe. What joy!”

Never, I thought, for I shall go far away from you to do it. Though I did not respond, merely revealing myself. She cheered happily as I spun around for her, ever so excited by the ugliness of her creation. “You are beautiful, my dear,” she wiped a tear from her eyes. Like this to you, maybe. I thought, and as I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror I couldn’t help but to frown. It came to me that I wasn’t sure of the woman I saw reflected back. The Marion Shilling smile, the lovely mother, or the baby in a bonnet. Camilla, Julia, a lamb, a darling, a chainsmoker, whatever I was deemed to be. I didn’t mind being a springboard for whoever would take me, for I was pleased by their presences. But the frown reflected back at me made me wonder of myself.

May Commerford

I froze, then, while I was zipping the thing from the back, pertrubed by her insolence to my sensibilities. “You really must lower your standards, mama,” I spoke while attempting to tie together the mammothly large buttons, “I’ve been staying with a friend.” A brash lie, of course, but I could not tell her the truth. If I were to make it work with Edward, we were to elope to Italy, or France, perhaps a faraway exotic place to have our children. I hadn’t told him, but I dreamt of it often. My parents could never know. No matter how many times I fantasised of them watching me marry a man they would so clearly despise, it was an impossibility if I were to spite them as they truly deserved. “Oh, my Julia,” she made an effort to audibly sigh, “when will I ever see you married?”

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White Coats She came to the frame with eagerness and curiosity, The clear and immutable eye of childhood, Embracing the compelling sight before her. A city, sparking excitement with each flicker, each flash. An ever-present vision. She marvelled at the grand grey towers with their peaks parting clouds, The swarming of people at their roots below, Absorbed and mesmerised. The kaleidoscope of shapes held her imagination In a world of perfect harmony? The clarity of the lens shone, Reflecting both a power and a fragility Of the inward eye. And her hear sang as she watched the Thames Idly carving its path The river, carrying her forward, Along deeper, wider rivers full of possibility. The four walls of the room she was in no longer existed. Reality and dream aligned.

Only upon her return to the city, Did the silent weight lift, Such joy and a sudden rush did return. A familiarity so inexplicably overwhelming. The same grey towers, the same sprawling streets, The comforting cover of the clouds above. The lens was clouded but clear. Now with an understood sense of gravity, And lived experience, She came to the frame, Greeting the new lens. The lens, now with a permanent stain. Cherished, but never entirely restored.

Jemima Wilson

But the perspective of the perfect world falters, No longer is the lens clear and sharply focussed, The world outside the eye of childhood complicates and distorts, Was she so malleable that she was taken and shaped? Or was she parting with the last of a fleeting radiance, An image slowly fading? Only the whiteness of the room was clear now, Awash with realities harsher than recollected, The conflict of her memories exposed. A sombre underlying stream of truth haunted her. She was a child of three in a room of white coats. A room of beeping machines and a father.

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ACK N OW L ED G EM EN TS

Lucy Parmenter (2023 Art Captain)-Designer of front cover The Fintona English Faculty The Fintona Art Faculty Rachael Falloon -Principal Cameron Arnold -Marketing Manager Ellikon Fine Printers -Designer and Printers

Ringing Voices published by Fintona Girls’ School Wurundjeri, Woi Wurrung Country 79 Balwyn Road, Balwyn Victoria, 3103 Australia Ph: 03 9830 1388 E: fgs@fintona.vic.edu.au www.fintona.vic.edu.au

Ringing Voices 2023 | An Anthology of Student Writing