Ringing Voices 2021 | An anthology of student writing by Fintona Girls' School

RINGING VOICES 2021

An anthology of student writing

Introduction – Ringing Voices 2021 Like last year, many of us have not been able to journey far due to travel restrictions. As such, it is through our imaginations and vivid memories that we can traverse both space and time. Reading is a pastime which does not require you to move from one location to another and yet it can provide you with escapism and great joy. So, I invite you to sit down and relax in a comfortable chair and embark on an extraordinary journey as you read through this year’s Ringing Voices publication. Through their writing each student will take you on a journey, using carefully selected words and phrases to evoke images and elicit thoughts in your minds. Inspired by the range of literature studied in English classes from Years 5 to 12, the writing reflects the unique voice of the writer as much as the character voice they have chosen to create. Each piece of writing has been carefully crafted through a self-directed planning and editing process. I commend these students on their persistence and engagement with the writing process, for good writing is a testament to dedication and self-belief. Accompanying the student written word is 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 and created by this year’s Art captain, Shangyou Yang. It has been fashioned to evoke serenity and the tranquility which can be engendered when a person is immersed in the writing process. The idea that the thoughts are flowing freely from the person’s mind to the pen onto paper is aptly captured in this image. While the writing process is not always seamless, it is important to keep it progressing for “a word after a word after a word is power (Margaret Atwood)”. It is through writing that our students are empowered as they are provided with the necessary literacy tools to express their emotions, ideas, and opinions through words.

Ms Michelle Maglitto English Learning Leader

I N T RO D U C T I O N

Yan Yan Qin - Year 5

Y EA R 5

I’m on Earth! Prologue The air was clear. The ground was rocky. The sky was black, and the stars shone like gems. A distant satellite passed. I wonder how it got here? I rose off the ground, my wings pure white like snow. I looked up into the sky and beyond the Celestial Border was Planet Earth. I floated away from home, all the way to the world. Aleece Leaves rustled in the wind. I breathed in the sharp, cold air of the Autumn Forest. The wind whistled and I shivered, pulling in my jacket tighter to my body. I hear giggling and look up from my book to see Ember and Noah running through the trees. Ember catches my staring and stops just before plummeting into the lake. I shiver. It would be freezing in there. Ember calls to me ‘Hey Aleece! Get off the porch and come play with us!’ I shake my head in disbelief. Does Ember even know me? Some sister! I want to shout ‘Fourteen-yearolds don’t play, you nerd!’ but I shuddered at what Mum might say to that. So, I just shook my head and yelled back ‘No thanks! Just keep playing with Noah. You don’t get to see him all that often!’, I then got off the couch to get inside. Jojo jumped up off the couch and yipped at Ember, his tail wagging harder than I had ever seen a chihuahua wag before. Probably for annoying me. At least, HE knows I prefer inside to out. My hand was on the doorknob when I heard a scream and the windows rattled.

Noah and Ember ran up through the veranda, flung open the doors then raced inside, Jojo at their heels. I was just about to go after them when I froze. I had to see what it was. Maybe it was an Enderman that teleported out of Minecraft and scared Ember, and she screamed?! I couldn’t afford to miss it. I slammed the doors of the porch and peered through the glass. Noah was looking bewildered from behind the ginormous white couch and Ember was shaking her head disbelievingly from under the coffee table, clutching JoJo. I turned and rushed towards the remnants of the scream. In between two cherry tree’s 100 metres from the porch. ‘Perhaps not an Enderman. Maybe something more realistic?’ I thought to myself. ‘Maybe it’s a comet?’ I rushed over and saw it. A plane. Flying through the sky. My heart sank. Whatever it was, it was probably crushed by the plane. I looked around. Perhaps a fox that frightened Ember. I sighed and peered into the sky again. My heart skipped a beat. I had just seen an unearthly sight. A girl... A girl with snow-white wings was falling from the clouds. I rushed to the spot underneath her. I looked into the sky and prepared to catch her, but then I saw her legs move. She seemed to regain conscience and tried to fly away, but gravity did not let her. She screamed and I shuddered. I could hear the house windows rattle and the door shake in its frame. I could tell how loud she was screaming from here, and then... She landed in my arms. I was so shocked I almost dropped her. The second I saved her she jumped out of my arms and looked around wildly.

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‘Where am I? Who are you?’ she had a strange accent, and the way she talked was like the waves lapping at the shore in summer, like the crunch of new snow underfoot in winter, like the breeze through the field in Spring and the squirrel’s buried acorn growing in Autumn. It was a kind of sound that can only be described but not imagined and to know what it sounds like you must hear it. She had hair so blonde it was almost white, and her skin was paler than Snow White. When she talked, you could see that her teeth were unnaturally straight and sparkly. Her eyes were sky blue, and her clothes were different from the ones I’ve seen around town. She had yellow sleeves with black swirly patterns on them and they were not attached to her daffodil-coloured shirt. The shirt was longer than her knees, so it was more accurately described as a dress and had holes in the back for her wings. She also had long pants on that were patterned with strange shapes coloured in aqua and a colour that was rather reddish-brown with a pinch of yellow. She stared at me. ‘Who are you?? Where am I?’ she yelled again. ‘Answer me!’ I was startled at how loud she could shout. ‘I-I’m Aleece Jones.’ I stuttered. ‘Wh-Who are you?’ she turned her head, so it rested on her shoulder. A few seconds later she swivelled her eyes to look at me and fixed me with a hard glare. ‘How do I know I can trust you?’ she asked. Her voice was now hard and cold, and I shivered in my purple Nike runners. Her eyes glowed and I stuttered and mumbled under her cold stare. ‘Y’know what? Never mind. I have ways of making you talk, okay?’ She spoke to me. She

I’m on Earth! looked deep into my eyes. I began to notice her pupils glowing in a strange colour. It was rather creepy. But then again, this was a girl who fell from the sky and had wings under her shoulders. Then my mind went blank and all I could see was snow rolling in silence. I could feel my mouth moving but I couldn’t hear what I was saying. It was confusing and kind of inhumane Then my mind snapped back to reality. I looked at her. She had wide eyes, her face completely reflecting shock and surprise. She stuttered and mumbled as I had a few minutes ago. Then she managed to form words. She raised her head at the sky. ‘Sweet Forsaken Universe...’ she uttered. Then she laughed and her face shone with happiness, brighter than the sun. She looked back at the bright blue sky and yelled at the clouds ‘Hallelujah!’ she screamed. ‘I’m on Earth!’ ‘So, your name is Milana Clover and you’re the princess of the Forsaken Universe?’ I asked. We were sitting on the couch in the room overlooking the back porch. Mum had gone to a parent-teacher thing at my school in the city with Dad and it would end really late, so they were staying in a motel afterwards till morning. Ember was at Noah’s house for a sleepover and Mum had trusted me with the house for the night. I had gotten Milana (the girl) some new clothes and some food and we had been talking for ages, Jojo sitting in between us as we fed him bits of cookie. ‘Yup!’ she responded ‘Hey, what powers do you have? Since I am princess, I basically have every power, but you’re not Princess, so what do you have?’

I must have looked quite confused. ‘I don’t have powers’ I said, ‘No one does.’ She looked surprised. ‘But Papa told me that everyone has powers! So did Mum!’ I shook my head. ‘You’re from a different universe! In this universe, no one has powers.’ I told her. Milana looked startled. ‘What?! How boring! Oh, and I’m sorry I used my hypnotism power on you earlier. I just wanted good, true answers.’ She looked rather guilty. ‘It’s fine.’ I said and took a sip of the lemonade I had brought for us. I will forever remember Milana’s face when she realised that drinks could have bubbles in them. She reached for a cookie and bit it so that jam oozed out. It dribbled down her wrist ad Jojo jumped up off my lap and licked it off.‘I would love to see Earth.’ she said, looking down fondly at Jojo. ‘Could you take me to the city?’ I shook my head. ‘The city is too far away, and we need you to go back home before your parents get worried.’ She laughed again. Her laugh was like shaking sparkles in a water jar; gorgeous and lively. ‘I can pause time if you wish, and teleport. And fly and do anything to get us there in no time. Actually, I’m not that good at teleportation. And my parents don’t worry.’ she told me. I looked at the plate of cookies and realised that there was only one left. I decided to test her. ‘Here, duplicate this cookie.’ I told her and held up the biscuit. She looked at the cookie and concentrated. She squinted her eyes and ground her teeth. Then there was a pop, blinding white light and the was another

Y EA R 5

cookie lying on the couch, oozing jam all over the leather seat cushions. I was so shocked at this. I didn’t know what I was expecting. She looked at me with a smirk and an “I-told-youso” kind of look. She picked up the cookie and stuffed it in my mouth and took the cookie I was holding for herself. Once I had digested this piece of information (and the cookie), I told her ‘Okay, but how are we supposed to get you home when it is time for you to go home?’ She drained the rest of her lemonade (which had long since gone flat as she had insisted on watching every bubble pop) and looked at me. Her eyes were shining, and I knew she was going to say something mischievous. ‘I didn’t come all this way without a backup plan, you know.’ she told me. ‘What exactly are you saying?’ I asked, a bit apprehensively. The twinkle in her eye was brighter than ever. It shone like stars dancing in the sky. I had a sudden feeling that this was going to be a long day. Then she spoke. ‘Let’s just say... I know someone.’ TBC

Caterina Lear Year 5

A Tranquil Place

Gone

As the last of Winter died away, Blue hues painted the sky, The sun peeked from behind the clouds, Before coming out and blinding my eyes.

Water splashed against my ankle, The black clouds released their rage, We strolled through the drenched streets, As thunder and lightning took the stage.

The flowers awakened from their deep slumber, Bare branches alive with green again, A blanket of flora coated the horizon, When down came a light drizzle of rain.

The water level rose, Our safety couldn’t be guaranteed, The incensed nature was having fun, Our legs screamed run, but our hearts disagreed.

Chirps of birds spread across the land, As a rainbow of wings took to the skies, Up in snug nests away from it all, A little young bird falls but flies.

The wetness bucketed from the sky, We struggled away to the wild, Water as high as skyscrapers, Everything pulled us down, as water piled.

Vivid greenery pulled straight from a fairytale, Brightens up the place, A breeze as clear as water travels through the air, Winter had left no trace.

It filled our throats with death, Our brains fuzzed, My friend collapsed like a newborn bird, My questions buzzed.

Brilliant blue was the sky, As eccentric flowers covered the ground Joyful tweets came from the birds, Spring joy was all around.

He choked down his future, As death closened, Watch him go, The last time the teal eyes opened.

Melody Tran

Evelyn Zhang

Year 5

Y EA R 5

Draco Malus Welcome, welcome skeletons, ghosts and ghouls, to the wedding of I, and our young girl here. As you all know, I have been waiting for this for a long time, a long time indeed. They all nodded their quaint heads and gave a bow. He smiled thinly at them. He continued to speak with a dull expression, yet still with a thin smile as if something extraordinary had happened. It is time, he said. Mia Volkov woke up in a puddle of sweat. Startled, paralysed, incapacitated. It is time, it is time, it is time. The words buzzed around Mia’s head like a shooting star. She flew into her twin Lola’s room petrified and apprehensive. Lola was still peacefully snoring like a buzz saw. Mia glanced at the door and quickly tapped Lola on the shoulders. There were only two rules in the Volkovs’ house. No one was allowed to wake anyone up for any reason, not even in emergency circumstances. Lola stirred and muttered a quick Mia under her breath, turned around, her back facing Mia, then started snoring again. Mia was just about to creep out of Lola’s room when her doorknob slowly turned. Mia decided to quickly hide in the closet because of the family rule that no one was allowed to disturb someone when they are still sleeping. She felt anger bursting out of her like a can of soda exploding. Why did her parents care so much about Lola today? Did they even care about her anymore? When Mia remembered that it was her birthday today so shoved that thought away. She had to be happy on her birthday after all! When her parents left Lola’s room, she quickly jumped out of the closet into the living room calling her games birthday to a start. Surely it would cheer her up? It did. Immensely. But not how you think. The Volkov family blindfolded Mia, so she could pick a game to start the day. She gladly picked an ancient–feeling board game. She suddenly felt that she was the Grand Mia That Ruled the Family again. The board game seemed just right. It almost felt special to her. It was a feeling she never had before. Mia opened her eyes. Taking a deep breath, she opened the delicate lid of the board game. Her parents told her that it was passed down from their distant relative, the first emperor of China. Well, not really passed down. It was passed down to the next emperor when the first emperor inexplicably disappeared. Mia loved the sound of how baffling and mysterious it sounded. She pulled the old church bell announcing The Games to start. Mia went first. She took a fragile piece of wood and placed it on the first dragon. The game went on, and on and on. Even the quirky pet, dragon Inigo decided to watch. Abruptly, Lola’s hands started slowly turning into claws and grew a long, scaly tail. Even her twin Mia shrunk back in shock. She nearly looked . . . mythical. They decided to ask their funny, but wise dragon, Inigo. He told the family that they should probably say one last goodbye to Lola, then slay her. The Volkovs’were genuinely shocked. But they still did what Inigo had asked. They knew he was the only one with a brain in the family. Except for Lola. Surprisingly after slaying Lola, they continued playing the board game. It was all well until Mia breathed fire on the Volkov baby. Mia winced. She knew she was going to be in huge trouble. The family rule was that no one was allowed to touch any other person in the Volkov family that was under the age of eight. And the Volkov baby was only 5 months old. Everything seemed wrong today. Her parents didn’t even care when they saw that she wasn’t in her room. Nor did they hesitate to slay Lola, her one and only human that she ever loved (her twin). And why did they care so much about not touching baby Volkov when they didn’t even think twice about killing Lola? But Mia was wrong. The family did not punish her. They continued playing the game. The board game felt like a drug to Mia. Did my parents actually like the game? Mia didn’t know. She just thought that maybe the reason was that he played the board game too long and told the servants not to go in the room and check on him until he came out and filled dead because the board game was so addictive that he didn’t have time to eat and died of starvation. Only then had Mia realised that she could breathe fire and had wings. She stared at herself, thinking that she had to have a different personality. Like eating people. But she didn’t feel like that. She only felt sad on behalf of Lola. Mia trudged to her beloved Inigo, the only person (pet) she ever loved other than Lola. Mia rested her head comfortably on Inigo’s head feeling at leisure and as though everything was all right even though it wasn’t. He felt like home.

Y EA R 5

Draco Malus Up on Olympus, Zeus decided that it was just the right moment. All the gods would think that it was so hilarious. Inigo put his claw on Mia’s chest, feeling her breath in and out. Then, an invisible thing clashed into him. It felt just like a lightning bolt. Inigo sighed in relief. It was time, time indeed. He clutched his precious Mia tightly not wanting to let go before the right time came. After what seemed like a million years, the time came. Zeus harshly whisked both Inigo and Mia into the underworld face-first onto a mud pit. Mia woke up. Startled, paralysed, incapacitated. She couldn’t believe her eyes. This was the man that was in her dreams last night. This was the man that wanted to marry Lola. Or was it actually her, the great and mighty Mia Volkov, the one that ruled the family? As her thoughts became increasingly weird and intense, Lord Hades coughed at her loudly. When he captured her attention, he began. Welcome, welcome skeletons, ghosts and ghouls, to the wedding of I, and our young girl here. As you all know, I have been waiting for this for a long time, a long time indeed. They all nodded their quaint heads and gave a bow. He smiled thinly at them. Two skeletons thanked the church bell I Lord hades announce Mia Volkov as Queen of the Underworld. The crowd burst into applause even the dead dog sparked in delight until Lord Haiti shoot them the underworld would surely be a happier place if Lord Hades, was cheerful himself Mia felt terrified wanting to go back home. Instantaneously, she realised she was not feeling terror - stricken. It was a pleasant, but nervous feeling, as if she belonged. She now knew why the first emperor of China disappeared. It was because he was Lord Hades, the Ruler of the Underworld. And now, he had a queen.

Eugenie You Year 5

Y EA R 5

Alison Liang - Year 5

Y EA R 6

Dove

Fears

Love is a glittering white dove, Filling hearts to the brim with happiness, Gently caressing our lonely thoughts, Like a faint breeze in the warm air.

Hundreds of beady little eyes staring at me, Furry, long legs grasped onto my arm, feeding on my fear. The walls around me closing in, Nowhere to run, nowhere to go. I panic helplessly as the box stays shut. The near pitch-black space fools with my eyes, Imagining creatures that aren’t there. More small beasts sprawled across my legs, Making me scream. No one to help, All by myself, wondering if I will live. Yelling and yelling, with no response, Trapped in the box. The dagger-like fangs sink into my skin, Drawing blood from my arm. The thick, dark liquid dripped from the bite, Like the juice of a blood orange. My fears. Using the situation as an opportunity to thrive. Little things that make me go crazy.

Hate is a raging hurricane, Hungrily devouring minds and souls, Till everything in its path is ash, And only unpleasant memories linger. But love is the tranquil ocean tide, Tentatively washing away unwelcome days, Reminding us to start over, Like a gleaming summer’s morning. Yet hate thirsts for revenge, Wildly tossing boats in a frenzy, Leaving behind only destruction and debris, Unstoppable, infectious, noxious. Love and hate, forever foes, Hate, the remorseless feeling of endless darkness, Never truly leaving our sight, Until love sweeps in to save the moment.

Jalyn Sanqui and Emma Yung Year 6

However, love and hate may work hand in hand, Journeying in unison, learning in unison, For from the dull, dismal cinders, Arises the glittering white dove.

Evelyn Teng Year 6

Y EA R 6

The Grasp of Witchery My hand trembled as I went to knock on the door. The dark eerie alleyway was lined with thick hedges studded with thorns and abandoned houses. I took one step closer toward the ramshackle shed, my hand still shaking, only inches from the door itself. My chest felt hollow as my heart pounded inside and my breath grew heavy. Beads of moisture ran down my forehead as I made my decision; I wasn’t turning back. The metal on the door rattled as I brought my hand to it, clenched tightly into a fist. ‘Knock...knock.’ A wave of uncertainty washed over me. Suspense filled the atmosphere. Maybe she wasn’t home, maybe I should turn back. Maybe... then that’s when I saw her. In worn-out robes and a cackling grin. I grimaced at the sight of her silhouette standing out in the gloom of dusk. Her intense gaze pierced inside of me, observant and steady. It felt as though she could see right through me. “Inside,” she croaked. Despite my fear, I lunged forward over the huge concrete slab in the doorway and trailed behind her floating robes. She seemed to hover over the wooden floorboards, which stuck out of the ground like splinters. With every step I took, closer and closer towards whatever doom she was leading me to, thoughts of regret shot back at me. But it seemed as though I couldn’t stop walking, almost as though she was captive of me, as if I was on the path to becoming one of the Lost Children. I couldn’t let her take me away as she had done to those innocent children. I was here to break the curse, not fall for it. I tried to stop myself, but her invisible grasp was too much for me. That’s when I realised what she was doing. She had a thick gold chain on her sleek, bony wrist and whenever she moved it in any direction, whoever may be caught in her grasp would be controlled. That’s when it hit me. The charm must be embedded in her gold chain! I crept closer and closer toward her wrist as it flicked sharply in front of her. I slyly reached, not far from the chain. My fingers trembled as they hovered toward her wrinkly hand. I felt the cold metal feeling of the gold chain on the tip of my fingers, ever so slightly. I felt her hand twitch below the thickness of the chain. Panic filled my head and I froze. But she didn’t seem to notice anything at all. Any moment now, I would snatch the charm away from her and make a run for it. It was risky because she would most likely chase after me, but I had to take the chance. The tinkling of the chain sounded like tiny bells on a piece of string. Her shriek pierced through my ears as I sprinted through the labyrinth of a mansion. Doors surrounded me like uncertain decisions and I knew I had to make a choice. I hastily grabbed one of the door handles and jerked it open. There I saw it all again. The houses, the hedges, the darkness...the Lost Children? I signalled to them to go back but then realised that I had to rescue them. There was no sight of the only true resident of the haunted house, so I ran. With every one of the Lost Children by my side. As we rushed past the streets and roads, I slowly noticed them disperse into the narrow alleyways and dead ends. Finally, they were back, and soon so would I, now that I had the charm to free every other prisoner of the hidden witches.

Maheen Akhtar Year 6

Y EA R 6

Run A shadow moved past the dark window, silently waiting in the pitch-black curtain of the night. It swiftly stole through the streets of New York, tiptoeing gently as if it was too timid to tread. Feet squelching, whilst short, ebony locks swinging from side to side, like a weapon, the shadow crept toward the only source of illumination, the lone streetlight. Hitching up her faded auburn skirt, whilst retying tattered shoelaces, the shadow began to climb deep into the night sky, waiting only till she reached the top to let out a fleeting moment of pure joy, a smile. “Get her!” was the shiver-inducing scream that bounced off the streets of New York, following in the wake of Nancy Cobble, now famously deemed, bread stealer. Though this scream was not the loudest of screams, it was still enough to send elderly ladies tripping over their walkers and eager police constables scattering over the streets of Manhattan, each like a moth to a single flame, Nancy. The truth was that really, Nancy had only stolen a minuscule piece of bread from the local market, yet it was still enough for the police to be on her tail. Two days ago, Nancy would have scoffed dubiously at the whole idea of her stealing, but now, orphaned, hungry, and crouching alone behind a rubbish bin with stolen bread in her pocket, the reality was much easier to believe, no matter how much she did not want to. It was quite unknown what had caused the great death of her parents. Maybe it was the shock from the fact that the whole kitchen had been mysteriously set on fire, or maybe it was smoke inhalation from trying to salvage bits and pieces of remnants from the only home Nancy had ever known. Either way, they weren’t coming back anytime soon. Nancy scrambled against a brick wall scraping the rough skin from her palm, another metaphorical reminder that she was at a dead end. She quietly tiptoed down through an empty, sombre street, inky grime creeping through her fingernails, seeping through the bubble of warmth that she had been kept in for the only 12 years of her life. She stopped for breath, leaning against the cheerless, colourless walls of one of Manhattan’s many alleyways, whilst she let a feeling of fresh dejection wash over her. There was no turning back now. Whether she liked it or not, it wasn’t up to her. She was an orphan. The thrill of running away had now left her clutching onto straws, uncertain of who she was. Uncertain of who she wanted to be. Far-off footsteps woke her from her temporary reverie. Shoving down the mixture of desperate hope and wild fear to the pit of her stomach, she ran. She ran till no end whilst the wind clawed at her face, sending wisps of hair colliding into her emerald eyes. She turned her head for a fraction of a second, wishing to escape from what she saw behind her. The panic of what was happening finally set in whilst she sprinted, mere metres away from the grasp of the police. As she stepped onto a traitorous brick, her legs betrayed her, sending her tumbling back, feet overhead, right into the scarred hands of the police; a prison she would forever be bound to until her last day... a prison for which she only had herself to blame.

Nia Jayasinghe Year 6

Y EA R 6

Alexia Stefanou - Year 7

Y EA R 7

The Bombing of Berlin

The Voice of a Holocaust Survivor

Taken by surprise, Bombs soaring, falling, erupting, With no mercy, people dying, But it must end.

They captured us, Separated us from family and friends, And took us to an unknown destination. Our precious possessions stolen. Assigned a prison number, They stole our identity. We slept in cramped quarters, Wearing their unpleasant uniforms. Afraid. We were beaten and worked to exhaustion; Skin and bone, worthless slaves. They stole our hope. Many of us were lined up and shot at random, Piled into mass graves.

Bodies scattered in all directions, Houses flattened, engulfed in flames. Wood pieces flying, Stone roads dislodged and tumbling, The city of Berlin is now crumbling. But it must end. Flames slithering and crawling, Searching every small crevice, Leaving no place untouched. Smoke strangling and choking, Ruthless and brutal, Turning cellars into traps. But it must end.

Ruby O’Brien Year 7

Mothers, Slammed hard on their knees praying. Children, Cowering in the corner, hands clasped over ears. But they themselves have done no wrong. No fair way to end it, but it must end. People will die, people will suffer, Blood will stain the earth. But there is no choice, It must end.

Nati Stefanou Year 7

Y EA R 7

The Story of Summer Cassidy and her Backstory “Every dark alleyway held possible danger. Everything you said, could be recorded. Every person you talked to, could have the intention to kill you. Nothing was safe anymore; no-one could be trusted. Our country was war-torn, manufactured as black smoke cloaked our town......it became the new clouds. Battles between children for just the smallest scrap could be seen as normal.”-Blowing wind, from a cracked open window, awoke Summer from her unconsciousness and it took her a second to realise where she was. The desert. Summer felt something rolling in her lap and looked down. The vial. This contained the only source of pure water left on Earth. This was her ticket to clean water and wealth, happiness as her country relied on this (she looked down at the pearl-blue vial again). Suddenly, a wave of guilt hit Summer like waves against the shore. She stole something that wasn’t rightfully hers. But, just as quickly, she calmed down as she thought that this was for the better of everyone, not just herself. The constant bumping of the car was rhythmic as Summer and her driver sat in silence. His eyes were fixed on the road, his hands clasped onto the wheel so tightly that his knuckles were white. It was there when Summer could see their country that he spoke. “So, you’re Summer Cassidy, huh?” “Yup that’s me,” she declared, and they fell into silence again. She looked out the window and saw a group of young, strong bulls, feeding off an occasional scrub here and there. Their life was simple: Grow, live, and then die. They had nothing to worry about because they didn’t know when death decided to strike them, until it did. It was at least another 30 minutes until they reached their home: their black, dying home. The driver pulled up in front of the black iron gates, which seemed to stretch endlessly at both sides, the key into the country. “Password,” said a melancholic voice at the entrance. “Straw - I mean Pineapple,” stuttered the driver, pulling the window down. Typical. Their password always changed, but it wasn’t very hard to guess, so Summer didn’t know why they changed it at all. The iron gates steadily creaked open as their basil-green jeep drove into the main city. Summer watched in horror as their town only got worse in the time that she was away. Bombed buildings, broken glass, ammo lying around.

Summer’s jaw dropped as she saw an old lady, her hair wrapped up in a handkerchief, sitting on the sidewalk, her back hunched. She saw briefly that the lady’s blouse was stained crimson red. She was dead. They suddenly pulled up at the skyscraper known as – Main H.Q, and the driver parked the jeep into a random spot in the empty parking lot. “Thank yo-,” Summer started as she climbed out onto the concrete, holding the book to her chest, but all she saw was as the jeep zooming away, leaving black tire markings from his quick departure. Summer gawked at the skyscraper. She never realised it was this tall, it was around 300 meters high when it was properly measured. She walked into the building, trying to look confident but immediately shrank after she saw what was inside. Looming statues of the great rulers before them, polished guns were displayed next to the receptionist and finally, the heads of the decapitated, influential figures who were claimed to be traitors of their country. Summer headed slowly towards the receptionist’s desk, gazing at everything with an unsaid terror on her face. “Hello, dear Summer Cassidy, I see you have brought us the vial,” she said, purposely implying that the liquid was belonged to everyone, looking greedily at Summer’s chest, where the opal vial still was. “Uh - yes I have, can I please give it to the leaders?” she asked politely, and the receptionist nodded vigorously, snapping out of her gaze with the clean water, and gestured Summer toward the oneand-only elevator. Summer gave the receptionist one last look as she entered the elevator, and she left her uneasy with the hint of madness glinting in her eyes. Summer entered on level 101, where the leaders – burly men in suits with thick mustaches – greeted her with handshakes and hugs. “Please put the vial into the case over there -” said one of the leaders and pointed to a clear glass box, overlooking the city. She started walking over but stopped abruptly and asked, “Is the vial going to be used to create more clean water for everyone? Where is the money I was promised?” The leaders answered vaguely, “You will see. Just put the pure water in the case and the money is yours,” and brought up a black suitcase. “In here is your $1 million,” said one of the leaders and Summer turned back and sped to the case but didn’t put it in straight away.

Y EA R 7

The Story of Summer Cassidy and her Backstory Summer suddenly had a thought that what if she was to drink the water now? This was the only supply of clean water left on Earth and she could drink it right here, right now, guaranteeing her survival. She thought it was suspicious how the leaders could just give her the money there, but she needed it. Afterall, most of it was going to pay the bounty hunter that had been breathing down her neck now for years, threat after threat about death. Summer slowly slotted the vial and gazed at it for a while before putting the closed the case on it, closing her last chance at survival. She turned around only to see the leaders laughing. Water seemed to be spilling everywhere from their eyes, like a gushing waterfall. Each of the men wiped their tears carefully, as though avoiding getting it onto their suit. They must have been pitying at her ignorance and how she could of so easily fell for a trap like this. Summer felt anger. Betrayal. Despair. After all she had done for this vial, to get nothing in return set a pit in her stomach. She would die, no matter what and she was stupid enough to think that this mission would solve all her problems. She couldn’t look at the pitying leaders anymore and turned around. They sat like this for a while. Silence. Summer walked over again to the vial and began carefully inspecting it, as though it was of utmost importance. A thought about what would have been happening right now if she had drunk the vial popped into her head. Summer thought about violent fights with the leaders, and the cussing that she would have heard. She swore she heard vague footsteps in the background but didn’t turn around, as the vial was strangely hypnotizing at that particular moment.

Summer turned around and looked up to an empty space, only to realise that the leaders were gone. She had tears in her eyes as she fell to the floor and started tugging at her blood-red hair. Why, why did she fall for it and how was she going to get out? Summer rushed to the elevator, but it was jammed on her end, she ran to the back door, which swung open revealing nothing but air and cloud. Summer shut the door quickly and tried to think of anything that could save her from death, until she thought of maybe jumping out the stairless door, but that would kill her too. Summer’s thought trail was interrupted by the elevator door opening - ‘strange, she thought it was jammed’ - and a clever-looking scientist walking in with a glass of ordinary-looking water. But she suddenly remembered that this was the way people died now: drinking polluted water which will kill you in an hour, and as the time goes by, you start to feel worse and worse until you just die. The scientist handed Summer the glass and she looked closely at it only to see bugs and other dead creatures floating in the mixture that they called ‘water’. She looked back at the scientist with disgust, only to see him smirking and giving her one last mocking, mini salute as she gulped it down, like she was drinking vinegar, only this time, it was way worse. The pain kicked in straight away like a stomach cramp and she knew she had made the biggest mistake – to ever trust a politician

Y EA R 7

Alessia McCormack Year 7

Drums of War Heaving up one foot after another, The mud tugging at their boots. Their eyelids drooping, as heavy as stone, Preparing for the order to shoot. Here it is! Fire! Now! A volley of gunshots, like drumsThe drums of war, Screaming erupts as the enemy comes. Stretchers being rushed over, Their chance of survival Is a four-leaf clover. Hunching over, their heads reaching their knees, Submerged by smoke, Enveloping them like a swarm of bees. The mud under their feet soaks up blood, Puddles are pools of vermilion. More bodies hit the ground with a thud, As the enemy progresses even closer. Crimson waterfalls cascade from wounds, While severely injured troops are carried away. One soldier is sprawled across a field hospital bed, And cries of pain urge to resonate from deep inside him. However, he refuses to surrender to the darkness, Because thoughts of home begin to fill his mind. From all the horror there appears a glimmer of hope, The prospect of surviving and returning to see his family, Gives him balance on the war’s tightrope.

Sofia Marmaras-Turner Year 7

Y EA R 7

Hope Lakeland - Year 8

Y EA R 8

Too Perfect I turn into the park, my legs carrying me without thought. I feel as if I am floating, the wind whipping past my ears. People from the streets begin to fill the park, walking at an easy pace, yet somehow keeping up with me. They’re across the street, then behind the next tree. I dodge as they appear again and again behind trees and overgrowth. I’m surrounded by a million voices screeching for me to ‘hold on,’ and ‘calm down’.

Random people talk to me sometimes. People from the streets. People I’ve never seen before. They whisper things in my ears, or yell from the opposite footpath.

I climb onto a wooden table to interrupt the chorus of voices.

‘Sorry?’ I asked politely.

‘Why are you here?’ My cry echoes through the trees, as if they are walls. ‘Why do you want me?’

I was staring at tanbark, explaining to her how our project was due on Friday. I looked up and she was in my face, close enough to touch me. Her eyes wide and wet, she grabbed my shoulders, her head turning jerkily to the side.

‘To help you,’ They chorus, smiling, flaunting rows upon rows of shining pale teeth.

It’s been happening often lately. One day I was talking to my best friend on the swings, and she murmured something.

‘I need you, please.’ Suddenly I can hear my breathing, all around the park, blocking out all other sound. It’s hitching in my throat, not deep enough. I fall to my knees, gasping for breath, letting it all out in one final scream. All oxygen has nearly left my body, I’m limp. My life begins to flash before my eyes.

‘Erica? What was that?’

3 years ago, the world began to brighten, like a filter of vibrance. Suddenly things were clear, the world simpler. I assumed it was maturity, an understanding of the society stemming from my exposure to this world’s evil. The drunkard who drove the red pickup. That merciless man was found a day later, asleep in a ditch. When my parents and I were released from the hospital, life had assumed a cheerful, almost too-bright state. The world seemed perfect after the trauma I’d been through. I never heard of anything terrible on the news, there were no fights between the city gangs, I never got detention for submitting homework late. Life was perfect. Until everyone around me split into two. Of course, people aren’t perfect, and so they shouldn’t be. Strange people came up to me walking to school, reciting weird phrases.

I cringed back, and just like that I was staring at the tanbark again, her on the other swing, chatting away.

‘What was what?’ She smiled, showing off a full mouth of blinding white teeth. ‘Nothing.’ I’ve learnt that people are kind, forgiving. Even I’ve forgiven the sick man who nearly murdered me. Everyone shines with happiness, the sun dodges every cloud, rain couldn’t erase the smile off anyone here. Every turn I take, people are smiling wide, displaying rows of needlesharp teeth. The days don’t add up anymore, Tuesday after Tuesday, the days repeat, sometimes once or twice, occasionally in lots of 20 at a time. It’s become a regular occurrence, and no-one seems to notice. They go about their days, repeating the same actions in identical sequences.

Y EA R 8

Too Perfect I’d given up trying to understand the world I’d come back to, maybe it was always like this, the vibrant colours and strange people on sidewalks. I’d lost memory from the crash, only remembering bits and pieces from my childhood. Extreme head trauma, they called it. Loss of identity, I called it. I’m losing myself in this perfect world, questioning if anything at all is the same as before, or I’d just lost sight of the world during my isolated year in the hospital. I expected the world I entered to be merciless, reflecting the turmoil I’d seen. With every person I met, or met again, I assumed to see the drunkard’s face. I still don’t remember his name. You’d think it would be engraved into my skull, popping up in every nightmare I had. A relief. I’ve learnt that people are kind, forgiving. Even I’ve forgiven the sick man who nearly murdered me. Everyone shines with happiness, the sun dodges every cloud, rain couldn’t wipe the smile off anyone here. Every turn you take, people are smiling wide, displaying rows of blinding white teeth. I was walking down the home from school when the nice old man who lives outside Coles began following me. Nice old man. I began to take longer strides. A woman left her husband, joining the homeless man. Businesswomen, fathers, kinder students. A line formed behind me. I was nearly home, no doubt they’d follow me there. I turned to face them. A loud beeping began to fill my ears, fast paced and pitchy.

‘Hi,’ They chorused cheerfully, smiling. I ran towards the park, the crowd on my tail. Life’s gone from sunshine and rainbows to absolute custard. I wrapped my arms around my knees, surrendering to my inevitable fate, insanity. My life was flashing before my eyes, and I remembered everything. Every single detail of the crash came into my head; the rusted pickup as it approached us at full speed, my parents terrified yelling mixed with the sounds of hailstones thumping the bonnet. I also remembered the drunkard’s name. It matched his face. Regular yet dishevel, I relived the moments where Janson Davis looked me in the eyes and removed his hands from the steering wheel. Then I was exiting the hospital once more into this flamboyant world. I finally understood, reaching to feel my arm, I pinched the skin. I felt nothing. The beeping increased in pace until it became one high pitched whine, like a heart monitor gone dead.

Y EA R 8

Molly McKenzie Year 8

I Found them in my Basement The sound of the brushstrokes on the canvas filled the empty silence of the drawing room. Jack winced at the photograph his client had given him to make a portrait of. The man, I thought, resembled a toad. My client, who’s name was Fischer, had a wide face, with an equally wide mouth that stretched from one side of his face to the other. His slitted eyes lay close to each other, with a bulbous lump of skin bulging under his chin. I shook my head as I dipped my brush back into the gloopy paint dollar store paint, so that I could finish the painting as soon as possible to avoid staring at this grotesquely toad-like face for hours. After I finished my worst painting yet, I threw myself on the couch and groaned as I extended my hand to grab the dusty remote control. I pressed the one lonely red button to turn the TV on. The outdated TV shone brightly with the news report, forcing me to squint my eyes. The luminous TV contrasted sharply with the dark house that I owned, after I had spent my minimal money to buy food instead of using on electricity. I barely make any money from the portraits that I make despite putting hours and hours of work into completing them. At this point, I wondered if there was any point in pursuing my goal- to become a successful artist, just like Leonardo Da Vinci, like Van Gogh and like my mother. The lady on the TV said, “… Amanda Wool has been declared a missing person as of this morning. All her relatives claimed to not have seen her for exactly 8 days. Her only property, a 3rd story apartment, was found deserted. The local police department urges anyone, and everyone to keep an eye out for this woman. Her face is being displayed on your screen right now.” The lady, Amanda Wool, was a young lady, looked around 20. Amanda had long and wavy golden hair, which she had tied back into a high ponytail. Her deep blue eyes looked freakishly unrealistic, as if she were wearing contacts over contacts. Her lips were about 1cm away from the rest of her face which, I had thought, to have made her look a lot uglier than she was pretty. I brought out my candle which I lit with a matchstick before I reached for the remote to turn off the TV. As it turned off, the flame completely tinted the room orange, as if there were a real sun setting in the messy living room. As I turned to leave, I thought I saw someone out of the corner of my eye, but I brushed it off as I illuminated the area with the candle and saw nothing but piles of rat-infested cushions laying in the corner of the crowded room. I carefully made my way back to my bedroom, where I will remain for the next few hours, asleep. I awoke the next morning, the bright sun shining on my face as I opened my eyes. I squinted at the ceiling, the morning sun brighter than anything I’ve ever seen in my life. The painting that I had finished yesterday lay on the ground near me. I could not stand looking at the amphibian any longer, so I brought the painting over to my storage room where I store all my portrait paintings. I hung it up in the least obvious spot in the room, when I realised that one of my paintings was missing its subject. I saw an elegant chair, where the subject was supposedly seated, in the foreground instead of the subject, a vase of tulips on the table beside the chair and a beautiful glass door in the background. The wall was covered in a half torn yellow wallpaper, which revealed the brick wall behind it. I remembered painting this painting a couple of days ago, when a duck-like lady came to commission me to paint her. I had sent her a letter just two days ago explaining to her that I had finished her painting, and was ready to collect whenever she was ready, but I received no response from her. That was when I realised that the lady from the painting was none other than duck-lady, or Amanda Wool, the lady who was declared missing yesterday. I brushed it off again thinking that it was a mere coincidence, when I notices spurts of blood trailing on the ground leading towards the stairs towards the basement.

Y EA R 8

I Found them in my Basement I decided to venture down into the basement to see what was going on just in case it was just paint I spilt and didn’t realise when it was dark. I opened the creaky basement door. A scene more graphic than anything I’d ever seen unfolded and revealed itself to me. Every ounce of my being was telling me to back away and call the police, but something in me drove me towards Amanda’s limp body. I needed to see what had happened. The trail of blood ended when it reached her, forming a puddle around the corpse. Her seemingly expensive clothes were now stained with the gloopy blood. Although I had never seen a dead body before, I was still surprised to see that her eyes remained opened. After remaining in the room for so long, the shine in her eyes that I distinctly remember from painting her, her eyes remained dull and lifeless. I could the blood pounding in my ears. I knew that I needed to call the police to tell them what had happened, but a strong voice inside my head screamed that I would be the one to blame. I knew that I had done nothing wrong, but I still felt guilty. I sat there for what feels like hours, contemplating what I should do. I ended up making the worst decision of my life and continue with everyday life as if nothing had happened. The day passed slowly, my conscious mind constantly replaying the scene of the crime. I couldn’t concentrate on my new client’s painting. My hand kept shaking, the paint brush painting wobbly lines that made the client seem extremely fat and ugly. In the end, I gave up on my painting and decided to come back to it another day. When I turned around, the TV was on. It was on mute, but nonetheless, it was on. I rubbed my eyes, confused, as I hadn’t touched the TV since I turned it off last night. The TV was broadcasting the news again, the same news reporter, on the same person. “Good Afternoon, this is June Yu broadcasting the latest news. Yesterday, 23-year-old Amanda Wool was declared missing after relatives claimed not to have seen her for 8 days. Her 3rd Story Apartment was found deserted. However, Amanda was found earlier today at a local tornado shelter after claiming that she had seen a tornado on the way to Odyssey.” the news reporter, June stated. Nothing made sense to me. One minute, she’s dead, the next minute, she was just sheltering from a non-existent tornado. I followed the trail back to the basement. There’s no doubt about it. She’s dead. I crept out from the basement. I then spotted someone. No rather something creeping out from the storage room. It was the toad-man. Fischer. “Hey this is breaking and entering!” I screamed. Fischer didn’t respond. He silently put a finger to his lips. Two days after Fischer ‘broke’ into my house, I found him dead in my basement alongside Amanda. I realised that my paintings were coming to life. They were going to take over. They were murdering the real-life counterparts of themselves so that they could live on as the real person. There I stood, staring at my empty portrait that hanged in the middle of the storage room, as I patiently awaited my fate.

Nina Lei Year 8

Y EA R 8

The Voiceless Dream You stare at the girl. There is nothing remarkable to look at; she is too large, layers of loose skin and fat hanging like cobwebs; she is anything but beautiful, face covered with acne, skin ashen and sickly. Your throat tightens and warm, round tears rolled down your ugly face. The girl is you. You think to yourself “If outer beauty didn’t matter, then why am I here, tear covered? Why can’t I smile and giggle and hold the hand of another?”. Alas, you step away from the mirror, turning your head away in denial, and let your insecurities win. People love dreams- they love the fantasies about the future, what the world will one day be like, what they themselves will be like. You don’t believe in dreams, you think that it is foolish to hang on to the thin thread of hope that one day, everything will change, all flowers and blue skies. You hate the present just as much as you distrust the future; knowing that your looks will forever lurk over you, a haunting shadow that hid you from all the wonderful, beautiful things in life. You shiver at the thought of others, constantly eyeing you and making judgements. All of a sudden, you notice something outside your window. It is an astonishing thing, a statue of an angel, wings spread with a petite body and perfect, white face. A strange rush of anger and pain takes over, and you shove your curtains closed. You hate beautiful things. Amongst the wave of rage, there is something foreign and bright- hope. It is okay, you think to yourself, it is just a harmless dream, a mute whisper in the roaring wind. “But what if? What if I, too, can have such beauty and grace?” It is a frosty, bitter night, the full moon shines in the night sky, bright and ghostly white, even through the thick fog that hovers. You approach the statue, slow as if the smooth porcelain statue is a wild animal, ready to attack at any time. Standing in front of the statue in awe, you cup your hands in offering. Your shadow stretches on the pavement, slender and tall. “I wish to one day, no, to wake up along with the sun tomorrow, and have a body thin and smooth like my shadow.” With the wish in mind, you close your eyes, feeling almost dreamy, and prays with all your heart, pouring your anger and worries and hope into the angel statue. You feel a rush of relief, and the lump in your throat finally disappears into a burst of joy and grace, almost as if you have already become one of the girls you envy. As if you are already good enough for this world.

You amble back to the comfort of your home like never before, feeling your heartbeat fasten and relax like one of a young child at the sight of a new toy. The moon no longer looked ghostly, rather warm and inviting. You get ready for bed with a grin on your face, head filled with fantasies as you drift off to sleep. Your body feels light and silky as you wake up, your tight-fitting nightgown now hanging loose on your limbs. A jolt of excitement and surprise sends your mind to cloud nine. Driven by amazement, you rush to the mirror, noticing the lace of the gown hanging above your knees. Your heart skips a beat and your breathing pauses as your mind slowly but surely takes in the miracle in front of your eyes. Soft skin, soft lips, the version of you that you face is so beautiful that it hurts. You run your fingers down your own body, and take in short, sharp breaths of satisfaction with this new skin. You dart out the front door, swift and graceful instead of the usual dragging of feet, not caring that you still stand in your now over-sized night gown. Weaving through the world in this new, brilliant body, you still feel the gazes of the crowd. Yet you are filled with pleasure by the eyes on you- the disgust long gone, leaving affection and envy in its place. Inside of you, your rage and sorrow shatter, revealing a core just as ugly- a growing greed, and you know that what you have will never be enough. This only fills you with yet another wave of joy, and you grin as your head spins to face the angel statue. “Even if this is a mere dream, one day, I will become you.” The night is beautiful, the peak of rose clouds showing the first sign of spring. You stand in front of the statue once again, pouring your heart’s content into your wish, but finding yourself strangely hollow of desire despite your constant greed for more and more. You lift your head and stare at the statue’s face with hopeful eyes. In place of the once peaceful, angelic expression, sits a harrowing smile, extending from ear to ear. The angel’s eyes widen, transforming from the calm curve to a dark abyss of round pupils. Your face twists in horror, and you pinch yourself hard, trying to wake up and escape from this new-found nightmare. Realization

Y EA R 8

The Voiceless Dream

The Murder on Bright Street

and shock sink in along with the surge of pain. It is not a dream. Your shadow stretches miles and miles, and it was all you can do to run back to your home. You twist and turn on your bed, dreading the rays of sunshine signifying yet another day. The air becomes thick and your eyelids are forced shut by an ethereal force, and you weep in despair as you fade into sleep.

’11 years before, there was a mysterious case of a murder in Rye, East Sussex, England. The case was unusual to say the least. A grandmother and a son, locked in a chest, with the only key around her neck. They were the only things inside the chest, as the chest’s possessions were lying abandoned on the floor, forgotten in the time of need. Their corpses had begun to rot, as they had been in the chest the longer than thought. Their bodies lay decaying slowly, while their skin was covered in dry blood. Indeed, the officers were originally puzzled by the case as the family was originally thought to be missing. Yet somehow the cluses led back to here, a little house on Bright St, Sussex. No one really knew them; they were thought to be just the family that owns the picture framing shop. Yet something was unusual about the remaining relatives. They seemed... lifeless, like their souls had already left their bodies years ago, everything was odd with this family, nevertheless the police still were confused with the case., the sheer fact for this to be a murder… no, it didn’t add up. There had to a reason… there was no possible way for someone to murder them, there was no logical answer, no obvious answer to the crime. The police could think of no answer other than a suicide. Nothing else made sense, it didn’t, it wouldn’t, it couldn’t. The officers did not want to spend another minute on the case, yet something was bothering them. There was one piece of evidence that didn’t add up... why was their skin punctured? If it was indeed a suicide, then how could the nails still be deep in their skin when the chest was opened? There was no evidence of murder, there was no suspects, not any, and there was no logical reason at all to why these innocent people would have taken their own lives. Still, the police had missed one clue, there was a rusted old hammer under the bed, and a silent pair of eyes watching them.’

Bones and an unnaturally thin layer of flesh are all you can see behind the thick teras blurring your vision. As you try to reach for the angel statue with your impossibly long monstrosity of a body, you find that it is no longer there, disembodied just as you are, being prepared to be moved elsewhere. A deafening shriek filled the air, and you cannot tell if it was your own or of the angels. Yet, the eerie expression still remains, grinning from ear to ear up at your window. “Are you satisfied? You and I are now the same…”

Zimo Ding Year 8

The grandma took a breath, there was a strange crowd gathering... nevertheless she continued the story... ‘The silent pair of eyes continued to watch them for days, until the police received a letter... “Je te surveille. J’ai assassiné la grand-mère et l’enfant. Je vous rencontrerai à l’atelier d’encadrement à 12h. Je vous attends.” (Translation

Y EA R 8

The Murder on Bright Street for those who don’t speak French, like me - I had help from my mum who does speak French - “I’m watching you. I murdered the grandma and the child. I will meet you at the framing shop at 12. I am waiting.” ‘The police were confused as to why the person was addressing these letters to them? And did it have anything to do with the case? The officers decided to arrange to meet with the person, when they arrived at the framing shop they meet a person, cold, tall, dark, and lean, as well as quite skinny. He brought a dark looming presence with him, and his cold, grey eyes were constantly fixated on the framing shop, as if it were familiar. As the police advanced to the man, he greeted them. “salutations, j’ai hâte de faire vos connaissances.” (“greetings, I am looking forward to making your acquaintances.”) ‘The officers were slightly confused by the man’s wording, but at any rate they questioned him. “Who are you and did you murder those innocent people?” he answered merely “yes.” After further investigation outside of the framing shop, the officers discovered more... the man’s name was Mal mort-vivant, he was a French man from a mental institute, who recently left. He confessed openly to the murder, saying the grandma killed him just one year before, and that he was a dead man returning to “rendre justice à mon nom.” When the police asked how Mal mort-vivant committed the crime he described murdering her with a knife, as the child entered the room, to end up killing him as-well. The police were stumped as to how he forced the dead bodies into chest without a key, but they later found out that Mal mort-vivant used a hammer to remove the bottom of the chest shoving the bodies in, and nailing the board back on, letting the nails pierce the inhabitant’s skin. This led to the police reasoning that it was a double suicide. Shortly after confessing this Mal mort-vivant sprinted through the town heading towards the cliff. The police followed right on his toes, and came to a screeching Hult as Mal mort-vivant leaped off the cliff screaming at the top of his lungs “Je ne mourrai pas dans une cellule de prison!” the officers returned to the station, but they did not know that Mal mort-vivant was still hanging off the cliff.’ The grandma finished the story. “Grandmother, tell me how did we die?” she looked at the dead boy, sighed and began the story again.

Sasha Radze Year 8

Y EA R 8

Alex Retallick - Year 9

Y EA R 9

Memories It’s a miracle that life can evolve so quicky. We learn with one another; we grow but sometimes it becomes difficult to comprehend that those days won’t last forever. My grandparents lived with me for around five years. My ammamma or grandma lived in my brothers’ current room and my thatha or grandpa lived downstairs. Every morning I would race into my grandma’s arms just before sunrise so that I could listen to her sing the sweet melody of her Thirukkural also known as the Tamil morals or values. I would always stumble on the tricky, ancient words but finally memorised two of the one hundred and thirty-three chapters, proudly singing it to visitors and dancing around like a little princess. My grandma and grandpa gave me a snuggly hug insisting that learning a language was the road map to a culture. I kept that in my mind. As a couple of years passed, my grandparents moved out of my house. I was six years old at the time. My brother and I were so thrilled when we had invented a catchy song, “Thatha’s walking, walking, walking, Thatha’s walking down the street” that we would always sing to my grandpa when he went on his daily walks. Little did I know that “walking down the streets” to live in a house two minutes away would make us more distant than ever. Completely oblivious to how much my lifestyle was going to change, I started primary school. My focus swayed away from trying to spend time with my grandparents as I started to bond with a group of sensational friends. I understood that in life there are friends and there is family, but friends are also capable of becoming family. Don’t get me wrong, my social life wasn’t overpowering as it was fortunately balanced with my strong connection to family. All family except my grandparents. Nowadays I question why my grandparents were the exception. During the summer holidays of 2012, my parents were busy with work commitments for most days of the week. I felt so irritated when my parents dropped off my brother and I at my grandparents’ house. My mum was supposed to be spending quality time with me- something my brother and I fought over, but all those plans were ruined. I ignored the warm welcoming smile of my grandparents and stomped over to the living room and slouched on the edge of an armchair. I knew that the whole evening would be a monotonous, waste of time. Spending time with my brother wasn’t an option as his eyes were already glued into the world of gaming. I didn’t care to greet my grandparents or ask how they were. Overcome with boredom, I turned on the television to channel 22 to watch “Guess How Much I Love You”. That show was usually my all-time favourite except at that moment everything felt different. Tears leaked down my helpless face as I curled myself into a tight ball. Watching the strong father-son relationship of Big Nutbrown Hare and Little Nut Brown Hare made me feel devastated. Maybe it was the frustration from feeling abandoned and alone at my grandparents’ house. Or the feeling of resentment that my parents weren’t showing consistent, unconditional love towards me like in the tv show. I heard the faint creaking of the floorboards as my grandma advanced towards me, a concerned frown lingering on her powdered face. She offered me a bowl of her traditional sesame balls and homemade vadai which is a puffed-up spicy treat resembling a doughnut. If there was one thing that could soothe my sorrows, it would have to be my grandma’s authentic Sri Lankan cooking! I picked up the generous amount of food and stuffed it down my throat. The combination of spice-filled, earthy flavours made my mouth water. I winced as specks of herbs and crumbs fell onto the cotton cover of the armchair, aware that my grandma was a master in the art of neatness. I must

Y EA R 9

Memories have looked like a hungry, savage beast because instead of making me sweep up the mess, my grandma started laughing along with my grandpa. Suddenly, they crept up towards me and swept me up off the ground, caressing me in a warm hug. I had missed those hugs. I needed those hugs. My lopsided smile turned into an everlasting, joyous grin. From then onwards, I spent exceeding amounts of time with my grandparents. Whether it meant helping my grandma cook her MasterChef quality parappu curry (also known as dal) or sorting out gold coins with my brother and grandpa whilst watching “The Chase” on channel 7. My grandma shared her knowledge on how to create a beautiful headband out of delicate mallikai pukkal or jasmine flowers and reintroduced me to the Tamil language. I have learnt that Tamil is five thousand years old and the only classical language to have survived all the way through to the modern world! How lucky! My grandparents told me about the origins of my name Aadthana. I now know my name is a part of the eight manifestations of the goddess Lakshmi in Hinduism. Aadhi Lakshmi and Dhana Lakshmi, the goddess of fortune, prosperity and love. That pretty much sums it up, I am so fortunate to have such loving grandparents. The relationship between my grandparents and I is stronger than ever. Even during lockdown, distance couldn’t keep family apart as I patiently taught my grandparents how to use facetime. Along with the exasperated sigh of how “technology is corrupting young minds”, they eventually got the hang of it. I remember that one time, not so long ago, my grandpa drove my brother and I to Westfield just to buy us hot chocolate. “Thank you so much,” I said repeatedly. “Don’t be silly, this is what grandparents should do. This is what my grandparents did for me back in those days,” declared my grandpa. “Enjoy these moments while it lasts,” he sighed. Even as the natural course of time passes, a grandparent’s love will never grow old.

Aadthana Nishakar Year 9

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Second Best When I was six, I got a doll for my birthday. I had convinced myself it was the only thing I needed to complete my life. So, of course, I woke up that Saturday morning at the ripe age of six and was ecstatic to see the toy I had wanted for so long, was finally mine. My cousin, only a few years older than me, came over one day to play. She noticed my new, pretty, untarnished doll and decided she wanted to play with it. Being the fragile, hot headed child, I was, I was extremely hesitant in letting my precious doll near someone else’s hands. But I was six now. I had to take the high road. So, I let my cousin hold my doll. With fearful eyes, I locked my arms by my hips to stop me from reaching out. I was forced to draw my attention to my mum’s voice from the kitchen. When I returned, the once lost tension in my shoulders came back. The faint sound of scissors snipping came from behind my bedroom door, followed by some humming. As I opened the door, I saw what I had feared the most. Hair. Everywhere. Thick chunks of blond, tinsel like hair coating the floor like icing on a cake. Except the cake was made of wooden floors. And my doll, in her hands, was ruined. Let’s get one thing straight. I don’t like sharing. The bell rang. I swiftly lifted my chin from the palm of my hand. The teacher uttered some more words out to finish the class. I wasn’t listening. A storm of other 11-year-old kids bunched up by the door – my cue to get up. In that moment, I couldn’t think of anything else. In less than a day, my brother was going to born. 11 years as an only child made me a lot of things. I was spoilt, would always get what I want, and most importantly, I was the favourite. Well, since there was nothing to compete with. In fact, I enjoyed my position as the number one child so much, I begged my mum to not have any more children whenever the topic was brought up. I guess I liked the attention it brought me. I always had to be first in everything. I hated second best. I was watching the raindrops race against the car window when my dad called me. “Tara?” he repeated himself, smiling at me from the rear-view mirror. “How was your day?” he asked.

I replied with a half-hearted, “good,” playing it up a little simply for a check in. But nothing. No “are you okay?” or “tell me more,”. Just an insincere nod. The rest of the car ride was silent; and that’s when the grave realisation fell upon me. Suddenly, I wasn’t the most important thing in his life. Was it always going to be like this? I went to my aunt and uncle’s house that night, since my dad had to drive my mum to the hospital the next morning. I slept on a hard, single bed thinking to myself this was all life would ever be. Second best. I couldn’t sleep that night. How can you when you’re about to be a sister? I contemplated everything there was to contemplate. Would my parents still love me? What if he’s better at me in everything? Is he going take my room? Funny how none of those things was about him, but rather about me. My aunt and I drove down to the city the next morning. I could feel my heart beating faster in my chest with every street we passed. The sun was shining through the windows, warming the fidgeting hands rested on my legs. I checked my watch. It was 8:20. Any minute now, I was going to be a sister. I was going to be a sister. The same sentence engraved in my head the whole ride there. Before I knew it, there it was. A tall, striking building towering over us. My eyes were drawn to the sign, “St Vincent’s Hospital.” When we got out of the car, my aunt recognised the disengaged countenance on my face. She tried to comfort me, but my eyes were still fixated on the building that stood so ominously in front of us. I checked my clock again. 8:30. This was it. Nothing was ever going to be the same after this. At this very point in time, something, someone had entered the world, who was going to change everything forever. I was not ready. “How about we go for a walk?” My aunt interrupted my chaotic thoughts. We grabbed a hot chocolate from a café down the street and walked around a park. We stopped at a bench to sit down. The sky was a perfect shade of blue, accompanied by a steady sun. This entire day I was so busy thinking about all the things going wrong, I did not realise

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Second Best how perfect everything was. A part of me did not want it to be perfect. A part of me wanted it to be rainy and foggy; perhaps as a sign from the universe that this should not be happening. But it was perfect. Not a cloud in the sky. “I know change can be scary,” my aunt reassured me, “but sometimes great things can come out of it.” I knew she was right. I knew I had no reason to be afraid, to think that I was going to be forgotten. I just felt like the comfort I had from my parents was all I had. But I was 11 now, and to me, that was pretty old, so I had to take on the responsibility of an older sister. My brother needs a sister, he deserves one.

my brother. And, surprisingly, I was fine with that. I was fine with sharing the spotlight, because I knew it was for him. Now I look at my brother from across the dining table as he blabbers something in gibberish and makes a mess of his food. He’s still as annoying as he was when I first saw him 4 years ago. I look at him, and I know I would give anything for him to be happy. I look at him and I wonder how I ever lived life without him in my life. I was okay with being second best, if it meant that he was first.

Tara Dadafarin Year 9

As much as I wanted to delay the inevitable from happening, I knew I couldn’t for much longer. Change is a part of life. Whether the change was for better or worse, I had to learn to adapt to it. The anticipation I had from the elevator to the hospital room will be something I never forget. A million thoughts rushing through my head, and this time they weren’t filled with worry. But instead with excitement. What will he look like? Will he like me? I pushed the door open, with an equal amount of nerves and eagerness. He was so small I almost didn’t spot him at first. But there, in my mother’s arms, was the most precious baby I had ever seen. I stood there in disbelief. Through all of this, I never prepared myself for this moment. “Do you want to hold him?” My mum asked in a hushed voice. He was placed so gently in my arms; I was afraid to drop him. I slid my pinkie into his tiny, open hand and watched as he curled his finger around it. From his wrinkly, miniature feet to the large mass of brown hair on his head, I never thought I could love anything that much. I realised in that moment that I was not always going to be the most important thing in my parents’ lives. But that was okay; because a part of life is the change that comes with it. I could not stay the favourite forever. I had to move on to bigger and better responsibilities, like taking care of

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Emily Davison - Suffragette I push through the crowds, making my way towards the front of the racetrack. Colours whirl around me, my brain barely registering the joyous voices and laughter making its way into my ears. The rapid thudding of my heart drowns out most of the noises around me, beating loudly against my chest. From the corner of my eye I catch a glimpse of the police, making me conscious of the ball of fabric hidden in my jacket, the Suffragette flag. I need to do this before they catch me. “Emily! Emily!” Maud’s voice breaks me out of my trance, a reminder that she is there beside me, a source of support I can count on. I will be forever grateful for all the women that have done so much for the cause. My feet come to a stop behind a fence, the fence that separated the race from the spectators, waiting for the moment when the King’s horse would come racing around the curb. I look up at the sky, and see cameras staring back at me. It was time. *** I remember when I first met Maud, the day when she joined the suffragette cause. It was during one of my many times in prison, and Violet had introduced me to a new member. She looked tired and hesitant, desperate to get released. We hadn’t talked for long, only briefly greeting each other, but she seemed scared, second guessing her every decision. It hadn’t seemed like she wanted to take part in the fight, too worried about the consequences that could occur. She had changed so much since then, becoming bolder, standing up for what she truly believed in, and taking part in protests. I was on a hunger strike during that incarceration when I met Maud, and I could feel the way the skin on my cheekbones sunk into my hollowed cheeks, body weakening from the malnutrition and the strain force feeding had put on it. I remember the way the men that ran the building looked down at us from the walls surrounding the small court they made us walk in, looming over our figures. They looked at us like we were animals, disgraced creatures that failed the one thing we were supposed to do; appease our husbands. We weren’t even viewed as human to them, and that was wrong. Degrading. Dehumanising. I had to keep on fighting. We had to keep on fighting. Fighting for the cause until us women get the right to vote, the right to join the parliament, given the same opportunities as men. I was but one mere woman, but with the help around me I was sure we could achieve our goal. I still do. I stood in the court, flicking through the pages of my book, the book that contained the names of the brave women that fought for the cause, all sacrificing something to bring forth a better future. They gave me strength, supporting me through my days in the gaol and providing hope, hope that I could clutch onto and never let go of. I could feel the determination, the dedication rising from within the paper. As long as they were beside me, I could endure anything. Glancing around the court, I spotted new recruits, more women that would fight alongside us. Our numbers were steadily growing. The shrill sound of a whistle cut through the air, signalling that it was time to go back to our cell. As I walked through the doors of the gaol, book in hand, and the footsteps of my comrades resonating through my body, I prepared myself for the pain to come. Hands surrounded me, holding down my limbs and restraining me to the chair. A tube was shoved into my nose, white liquid forcing its way into my body. It wasn’t a sensation I was new to, but it didn’t hurt any less every time it happened. It burned my throat, my nose, my neck, flames licking through my body and scorching everything in its path. I struggled against my restraints, the image of the cold faces of the women above me searing its way into my brain. Through slitted eyes I could see the sergeant commanding the room, lips curled in a cruel sneer. Amidst the pain, an image

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Emily Davison - Suffragette flashed through my mind. Women working in terrible conditions, abused by their husbands, revoked of rights. Was this really going to be the future of our daughters? No. It couldn’t be. We needed to fight until women were able to live lives where they had the same rights as men. This was the reason why I put myself through this pain. This was the reason why so many women put themselves through this pain. This world is unfair and heinous, and we need to change it for the sake of the women to come. *** I look behind me, locating Maud in the crowd. She is proof of how far women have come, coming from a laundry worker scared of change, to an active participant in major militant acts. She is but one of the many women who have dedicated their lives to the cause. Her hat draws my attention, the green, purple and white flowers proudly representing the Suffragettes. I know I can rely on her to keep on pushing for what’s right. “Never surrender,” I tell her. “Never give up the fight.” I believe in the women, to keep on fighting after my death. I only hope that my sacrifice will be enough to fuel the spark that will eventually grant women the right to vote. I raise the suffragette banner over my head, step onto the race track and wait for the King. This is for all of the generations of women to come.

Mia Lee Year 9

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The Swing Set on Liboria Street The abandoned swing, marinated in birdsong and spring blossoms, was a picture-perfect part of the scene. My backyard full of life and vivacity, was stuttered by the eyesore that was the brightly coloured magenta playset. This eight-station entertainment device was nothing short of euphoric. The way the wind caressed my cheeks as my legs propelled my body up and gravity pushed me back down was utterly exhilarating. The aroma which bled from the organic peach tree three yards to the left, funnelled through my nostrils instantaneously making the saliva in my mouth ooze down to my chin. It was not the most expensive or elaborate piece of woodwork, but it was the one I sought for in my backyard. It was the swing that reminisced of my cousin’s playful laugh and my brother’s cheeky smile. It was not a penny over 100 dollars but did not disappoint in being the most well-made piece of equipment around the block. Every Thursday without fail, I would dash out of my mum’s XC60 as if I was being chased down by a formidable force, fervent to take flight on my swing and allow it to transport me into another dimension. A dimension where the sky was ablaze with the fire of the setting sun. A universe where the night sky was aglow with bright city lights. A realm where the pale crescent moon shone like a silvery claw in the night sky. Somewhere I could look up at the blanket of stars that stretched to infinity and aimlessly observe the city skylights tick over until the clouds became lit with fabulous, warm light as the rising sun announced the coming of a new day. The start of the end of the school week. I would sit, let the oscillations hypnotise my fears, and embrace the scent of my mother’s culinary expertise which combined briny sauce with pasta to offer the fresh fragrance of cheesywarm goodness. This swing was my sanctuary, every Thursday at the sixteenth strike of the clock to every Friday when I awoke to the irritating thud announced by the garbage truck, I was in peace. It was the one thing that no matter how sad I was, I could always count on to make me happy. It was me, my brothers, my cousins and (on a good day) my neighbour Steve, living in our own little bubble. A sheltered bubble that surrounded us and our fantasy’s where we reminisced over the day’s events and the only thing that prevented us from doing exactly that, was feasting on our dinner. We had no responsibilities, trivial fears and little independence. But there came a day on another ordinary Thursday, where the bubble of Liboria Street popped. The shelter of the swing would have now been removed. The rope would no longer be supporting the structure that was my ultimate safeguard. The rose-coloured flimsy glasses worn by my youthful optimism would now be replaced by matte black shield sunglasses. My childhood innocence was removed and so was my little pink swing. The only little pink swing I thought I needed. It was four hours into the afternoon (the appropriate timing for my weekly ritual), where I regrettably raced up the set of concave Georgian stairs that paved my garden unaware of the grim sight that was ahead of me. The grim sight that was a sleek, round, pedestaled seat shaped exactly like an eponymous egg, only hollowed in the centre. It was unfathomable for me to understand why the only truly important thing in my life had to be ripped away from me. I felt completely cheated and lied. All I knew, all I had known for the past eight years of my life was my swing. No matter what happened or what changed in my life, there was always that constant. Every week I knew that at four hours into the afternoon on a Thursday, I would be able to forget about all my petty worries and embrace my people and my childhood. And the sad thing, is at that time that was all I had. My swing, my people and me. But with no swing, came no people and with no people, well there was just me. I was now all alone, and I was utterly petrified of it. But sometimes something being taken away from you is exactly what you need to take a look at yourself. Whilst my fairy-tale did not resolve in a classical princess ending where the protagonist goes soul searching to find her true self and ends up embarking on a self-development course ultimately establishing her individual identity. I learnt some of the most valuable life lessons to learn. Like any good romantic fling, the swing on Liboria Street was certainly good while it lasted, but it was time to say goodbye. As I progressed on to my hanging egg chair, I appreciated that a

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The Swing Set on Liboria Street woman gains beauty from within, from the love she gives to her ideas and the creative ways she expresses her soul. She is one who wraps her arms around the soul of the world, of all who love her and those who need love. It is not about the material things you have, like wooden swings and barbie dolls because at the end of the day they are things. Things come and go; things get taken away from you and people grow up. Relying on material goods to provide happiness, is a source of temporary happiness. It’s a high that will only result in you crashing down three times harder, so relying on a piece of wood and the memories that come with it would have made me the saddest person in the world. The swing on Liboria street marked a nostalgic era of my childhood naivety and innocence, but I feel as if the time is right to leave that chapter as it is and move on to an even better one. Even though the character of the little pink swing was gone, the true beauty lay in the hanging egg chair, but I was just too blind to see it.

Katerina Marcus Year 9

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Annabelle Lee - Year 10

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Dual Anthology Where the ducks go in winter Shivering, in a sweater of thin argyle, Counting squawking ducks in leaping bounds, I am met only with a smirk and a smile. While shafts of light fall upon gentle swirls and ripples, Ponds watch strangers reconcile. Crickets applaud as we resume our jaunting, After a brief scolding for jumping in puddles. With wet footsteps I falter at the looming figure taunting– Geppetto’s whale, ivory fragments seamlessly entwined, Its sheer size forever haunting. Whirring screens report the fisherman’s pounce, left behind as I gawk at a skeleton, Whose name no toddler could pronounce. Starstruck by grainy footage, and crisp accents, When tapped on the shoulder I jounce. I’ve returned, though not wearing argyle, And there are no ducks to count. My lips are pursed in denial Of my impossible return to such a time, When this maze would always beguile. It still does of course, but it’s not the same, Since my parents are shorter and I am taller, And life does not feel like a game. The blue whale is not Geppetto’s, it is just a whale, Worth a minute’s glance before I wander off again. I can pronounce Pterodactyl – even spell it backwards – Observing tired mothers and fathers While new fledglings live out their childhoods. Their laughter is a disease, infectious I don’t want to leave, even though I should. Surely Pharlap is dusty by now,

But his vacant eyes seem as polished as ever. ‘Nothing will ever change,’ I vow, But I know that is ridiculous, I scoff, dry laughter - but a furrowed brow. Because in front of the whale is one pair of footsteps, Not two, and the footsteps are mine. The inevitable future I can only accept, Innocence and naivety, far behind, Though memories from long ago are kept. I understand what Holden meant, Asking where the ducks go in winter. All my worries weren’t worth one cent, Now winter has arrived, everlasting. The ducks are no longer counted, I lament. Peter A small child, a toddling creatureHer father told her my name was Peter. He voiced me himself, with a tip of his hat. I became a benevolent monster, I didn’t mind that. He made faces, giving chase as she squealed, ‘Peter will have you for his next meal.’ Her mother interrupted with a laugh like honey, And they moved on again, outside, where it was sunny. Again, they leave me here, but I know she’ll come back, With her cherry red raincoat and black knapsack. This time, with two new visitors, She envelops them in a hug, smiling wide at her prisoners. She returns again, holding their hands, She lifts them up to me, a beast, from a faraway land. I note her raincoat is gone, replaced by a dress, And watch her be chastised, her hair, ‘a terrible mess.’

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Dual Anthology She is taller, scribbling on a blue clipboard, I would smile if I could - only a creak I can afford. Sparing me a glance, before shooting the horizon a glare, She scowls, annoyed, at her paper’s tear.

I should have warned her To smile, before she could never stir. Our eyes both vacant, expressionless, Me, naked - she in formal dress.

She stays awhile, looking up to reminisce, A rare bittersweet smile, interrupted with a hiss‘Closing in five,’ a figure leans in to bark, She rolls her eyes, and the lights shut off, a goodbye in the dark.

I watch her child, starting anew, Her glistening face like the morning dew. I wish I could come down to greet her; ‘She always loved you, Peter.’

‘Pete would eat you with a spritz of lime…’ -a common line, but I don’t hear it this time. There are no recounts of daring adventures, no giggles and squeals, Just reading plaques, and turning wheels. She sits alone, peaceful – and so am I, Stony faced in permanent disguise, An emotionless pile of fruitless marrow, I only feel, but wish my eyes would narrow. ‘There’s Peter,’ she whispers softly. I yearn to look around, polish the dust off me. Her eyes meet mine, her father following her gaze, His hair now white, and his eyes a glaze. She is still entranced by the same video clips, But now she bears a toddler on her hip. She clutches her daughter as she teeters, ‘See him? My father told me his name was Peter.’ My other companions have long since left, Leaving me and Tyrannosaurus Rex. I ignore his contempt and brusque scorn, staring at the squawking crows here to mourn.

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Bella Stefanou Year 10

Daylight As the sun peeks through the curtains, You enter the spotlight. Like an angel, the white shine Surrounds you. In the haze of the morning, Your everlasting shine Pierces through my heart, And yet, I can’t help but smile. Somehow, you finally picked me, and only me, to sit next to. I almost gasp. Today is my lucky day. When the bell sounds, You turn around quickly And ask me, eyes gleaming, “Could I borrow a pen?” I hesitated. I was embarrassed, after all. How could just five words Make my traitorous cheeks Burn so bright? My heart whispered in my ear, My mind cackling in the other, All while you grinned at me And our eyes locked. Silently, I wished for more. Could I borrow some courage? To inch a centimetre closer, To drown in your warmth, To say all the words I want to, have to, need to-

To finally say I like you.

The eyes that light up your day, The eyes that set fire To your golden heart.

Could I borrow your time? To bathe in your radiance, To light a candle in your heart. Or could I borrow your hand, To see the stars together, To watch dusk fall, And point out every little sparkle That illuminates my grey skies. Could I borrow your heart? To hold close to mine, To love without care, To pretend for just a moment, That I am her. You glow, when you’re with her. Did you know that? You sit right up, You lean into her touch, Even your mood brightens. She’s your shooting star, Lighting up your sky Without ever casting a shadow. I want to borrow her hair, The hair you run your hands through, The hair you praise and admire, The hair stuck to your sweater After a long hug. I want to borrow her eyes, The eyes that watch you giggle,

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I want to borrow Her laugh, Her clothes, Her smile, Her lips. I’m trying to beam, But my heart rips. You say it again: “Could I borrow your pen?” And I nearly laugh. I clear my throat, And finally, I say no. No, you may not. You laugh, Taking one anyways. I laugh too. As class starts And the projector flicks on, I get up to draw the curtains. Sometimes the darkness Helps me see better. Truth be told, I could never borrow any courage, Nor borrow your time, Borrow your hand, Or even dare borrow your heart. I don’t have her hair Or her eyes, And I know

Daylight I’ll never have them. Of course, I’m still a little ashamed, That I’m not your first choice, That I’m not the most pretty, Nor the brightest star In your night. But I want to have my own laugh, My own clothes, My own smile, My own lips. I don’t have to beam all the time To be in your galaxy. Even while we sit together, You don’t stare at me, Or at the board, Or at your books. Your eyes instinctually find her, Even in the dark. And that’s beautiful.

As the sun peeks through the curtains And class comes to a close, You move to her seat, Begging to walk her home, And yet The light doesn’t chase after you. For once, The sunlight lingers on me. It envelopes me, gently hugging my sides, And it feels so, so warm. Quietly, I realise That maybe from today, I’ll stop wishing for more. I’ve been blinded by the sun For far too long. Today is my lucky day, After all. I’ll make sure it shines In its own way.

Katy Tam

As the spark in my heart begins to flicker, You drop my pen on the ground And nearly trample over it. But I give you the green light To use it anyways. You’ve always been... An idiot.

Year 10

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Miseria The timbers of my ship cry out And strain against the storm, By Jupiter’s own hand or fate That foaming folly fills my voyage And sails that billow, Hoisted by my own hand And my own will- but willing still? I know not. I hate the muse that does less than muses should and leaves me bereft, A curse is what this is- A verse not done, A trip as incomplete as Icarus to the sun. This panicked flight On a dark, ominous night I look upon the ocean swell Reflecting my internal hell. Lanterns peter at the stern My job to go and light them all, This ship is crewless Has only captain’s hands to toil And no one else to blame, If the oil should spill And combustion come to bury me in flame A funeral at sea. Herein lies the problem The words that empty at the pen Are only mine to write Just as this ship is only mine to sail A course I won’t get right Blinded more by Phobos than Jupiter I can’t decide and in not deciding My course is set. In yearning for the siren I’ve conjured her- no need for fire

Aergia’s inertia sings Anchor holding me in place Or is it Miseria whose sleep paralysis Holds me still while my splintered deck rears and crashes into rocks Sending me to Neptune’s depths All is still beneath the waves The storm rages on above But me, like Atlantis sunken, lost and forgotten Frozen fear; an immobility Caused by my own hand A prisoner to my own confliction A victim to the siren’s song So dash this upon your rocks I entreat you Neptune take me... Have I become lost to these delusions And self-deprecating conclusions A sailor who cannot sail A writer who cannot write Oh, How I long for sweet respite Yet, a pen still lies in my hand My feet remain steady on deck Tethered To the course I set The battle still wages on Nay, like Psyche My will... will prevail above all My ship keeps sailing on Explanation This poem aims to explore anxiety through the dual extended metaphor of a sailor in a storm and a poet who cannot write a poem. I seek to invite

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Miseria the reader to consider the writers’ block that I encountered trying to construct the very poem that they are reading. The poet’s inability to write is symbolic of my own struggles with demotivation due to anxiety and the accompanying internal battle. Often this demotivation can cause feelings of guilt, as I feel like I must be lazy, and hence Aergia (the goddess of laziness) is referenced. Truly however, anxiety induced malaise is not laziness at all, and so the speaker wonders if they are in fact victim of Miseria (the goddess of anxiety and depression) rather than Aergia. Demotivation can be extremely damaging to self-esteem and self-regard. I highlight this through the line “have I become lost to these delusions, and self-deprecating conclusions”. Despite my best efforts to persevere whilst anxious, the feeling is like a “sirens song” which keeps me from my “course” – that is, having a meaningful purpose and finding refreshment and fulfilment in endeavour. The poem ends on a positive note, the ship-wreck simply a figment of the speaker’s imagination. Ultimately, the speaker manages to persist despite the struggle, “[their] ship sailing on”. Additionally, the lack of a rhyming scheme throughout the majority of the poem combined with a few rhyming couplets are reminiscent of the unsteady, every changing state of the ocean which is constantly ebbing and flowing. Throughout this poem I aim to emulate characteristics of romantic poetry. More explicitly, allusions to mythology, references to nature (specifically the ocean), and exploration of the cycle of life as the speaker is overcome by extreme anxiety, to overcoming these feelings, are reminiscent of qualities of romantic poetry.

Lucy Parmenter Year 10

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Life’s a Planted Garden “To plant a garden is to believe in tomorrow” - Audrey Hepburn Underneath a beating sun and bright blue skies, Through the sprinklers and up big stone steps To pluck tomatoes straight from the vine. Sometimes, well most times really, Plopped straight into my mouth, Bright, red, sweet and delicious. But other times, the rest of the time, A small bucketful of the season’s harvest, cradled to bring down cobblestones, Proudly to mum in her backyard kitchen. So great had the cherry tree grown, Embellished with garlands of deep red hues. Amongst the fruits of the garden, And with great bounds in each step To the bottom of the apricot tree, Waiting to be lifted to the very top. Where one could nearly kiss the sky And where birdsong could be heard, An improvised chorus to the soul in the flutters of a warm summer’s night. Finally, when the carnival came out to play, Adorned in its parades of reds and golds. It brought with it, most importantly, A sweet, rustling choir calling forth The trees to let go of their fireworks and festivities, Covering the ground in a blanket of confetti. And the rains that came dampened them, Until they would be no places of hiding, But mounds of leaves to unearth and hurl, And drag away in a wheelbarrow.

Soon after came gusts of cold, icy air To lick away the last of my warmth. Lugging log after log toward the hearth, Beneath a thickening of black clouds That when burdened with weight, Plummeted down all at once like a roar. Even the screams of the storms sounded like howls, And when all ceased, an eerie darkness Was brought upon the world along with The smell of dampened soil. Under the covers lay I, dreaming of The smell of blossoms and the taste of summer fruits, Evocations immune to the winter chills. But with the departure of cold winds and dreary days, Is an awakening of blessing and song. Conducted by the harmonious opera Of creation and winged brethren In a promise of warmth, sunshine, And the gift of seasons to come, As winter is slowly lulled to sleep. In return for Spring’s abundant spirit is the Gentle tending and conditional offerings, A little more water one day, perhaps, A little less sunlight the other, In the hopes of a season fruitful. For fallowness is the wise reminder Of nature’s lack of perpetual sameness. Yet, the tomatoes are always there, Bright, red, sweet and delicious, At the beginning of every new year.

Shani Zhou Year 10

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Alice Hu - Year 11

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The Same Human Race Why is it always us? they ask, Puffed from running from their circling thoughts, Struggling to understand the subjugation, It only leaves them more distraught

But there’s only so long we can shield them, From the inevitable judgement faced, Judgement so damaging and cruel I question if we are all of the same human race

Will they celebrate invasion day? Will they uprise and retaliate? Our indigenous blood is merely an opportunity For the media to find reasons to speculate

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Treated by the systems as an after thought Why is it we are second best? Why is it that our culture is struggling, To withstand the time test? Landmarks once viewed as a symbol of our history, are diminishing into a mere political debate, the formations that stood proud one day, I myself, am struggling to celebrate And why do our cultural practices get spoken about so often, things that take generations to teach, things that are meant to be fostered and grown, are instead left for the privileged to preach The calamitous questions fill their heads, A breeding ground for cynicism, Why is it we have been cast away, Until living on our land has become a form of prison?

Trying to find the words to say, To express the importance of the injustice going away, I do what I can to support their race, But the injustice is malignant, it’s spreading at a pace People share on my social media to get the word out, The Instagram statistics feel like a never-ending roundabout, Everyone supporting the important cause, But do they simply do it for the applause? Their dwindling hope diminishes everyday, Constantly they are faced with disarray, trying to understand the ridiculous reasons why they are disadvantaged because of our predispositions, Is this the society we want to create? A society of judgement, and of bias and hate We must make a change now more than ever, It’s time to make it heard that Black Lives matter.

Abbey Jacobs Year 11

The innocence in their eyes fades away, The systems stripping them of hope The likelihood for incarceration, Is too unbearable to cope

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Her Bleak Existence This piece was written in response to the novel My Brilliant Career by (Stella) Miles Franklin. It takes the narrative from Chapter 6 ‘Revolt’, shifting the focus from the narrator Sybylla Melvyn to that of her mother. The perspective of Sybylla’s mother is one not thoroughly explored in My Brilliant Career - she is seen as an mainly adversary to Sybylla’s growing ambitions and desperation to be free from her menial and tedious life. As a character, Sybylla’s mother is a representation of the societal bounds which restrict Sybylla, particularly her gender and her class. In this piece, I intended to reinforce the thematic idea that the society of 1901 Australia was one that confined lower class woman especially into lives of misery, and had no interest in exploring their capability. Mrs Melvyn was not born nor suited to a life of poverty, and the dissatisfaction of her life, and her husband, pierced through her countenance. Her face was more aged than it deserved, and the agony of a gruesome expectations of her days, and watching the faint hopes of prosperity slip away, was thinly veiled. A once-loving husband had become loving of only drink, an abandonment of her and their family she never anticipated, and on every day that another cow would die Mrs Melvyn felt another wave of sadness on her eroded soul. The absconding of the bishop’s agent was a deep gash, and while her many pleas and consequent generosity of her relatives provided mild relief, it was impossible to ignore the impending need for Sybylla, her eldest daughter, to find work. Their relationship had been increasingly strained; Sybylla was determined to be her own person, and Mrs. Melvyn had no tolerance for individuality when it came at the expense of the time and effort she needed to ensure her family could continue to eat and live in the little comfort they were afforded. Gertie had been a blessing, a sweet, quiet girl who gave her mother no trouble and brought in a mild sweetness to the bitterness of a broken family and life of subsistence. Their family simply could not afford to keep Sybylla at home any longer, yet she had shown no propensity towards any skill or interest which might bring forth the income they so fiercely needed. Sybylla’s father, as Mrs Melvyn now inwardly referred to him, as she wished no memory of the romance once shared between them, had left them destitute and without hope, while only five cows and a nightly routine of returning his drunken amalgamation of limbs to shelter remained as their future. Mrs Melvyn despaired at her daughter’s complete lack of talent and of propensity towards a direction in life; despite a savagery toward her family and society, Sybylla held fanciful notions regarding her life’s aspirations and refused to face the constant poverty that awaited her. It was selfish to antagonise and battle with her mother all the time, while she was only aiming for a way their family could continue to live. Sybylla frustrated her at every turn. Any excuse available was employed; she wanted to study music, she had not enough time or money to pursue teaching, her intelligence was too high and her religious strength too low to bear the burden of living. Topics such as these were regularly argued, only building upon a mother’s despair. As with all failing aspects of her life, Mrs Melvyn persevered through difficulty, not without strain, but simply because she had no other choice. She held with great certainty that this was a world she understood, and Sybylla did not, for if she did, she would not fight these efforts to make this life ultimately more amiable. If only Sybylla could dress, and cry, and think as other girls did, she and her family would be better off for it. Whether as a cook, a maid, or a teacher, any occupation would suffice, if only to tame this wild and savage nature that seemed utterly unmanageable to a mother and wife already struggling. Mrs Melvyn could not have imagined what steps she had placed so drastically incorrectly to be cursed with this challenge, to make such a creature into a normal girl, of the status and gender to which she was confined. It hurt Mrs Melvyn, to know that her daughter hated her life so. But the sympathy she felt was hardened by the harsh reality of her surroundings; such was the hatred she herself had felt everyday, and knew absolutely she had no possibility of availing. There was hope for her children to regain what she had lost. But Sybylla was averse to work, to striving for such a chance. She was a dreadfully plain child, and marriage prospects in her current

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Her Bleak Existence environment would have been of no use regardless. Further, she had no interest in the few avenues through which she might make herself more marketable. Sybylla’s contempt for politeness and for vanity were easily detected, and a woman without domestic skills, wealth or status was unlikely to find herself whimsically swept from a life of uncongeniality. These were the thoughts that swept over Mrs Melvyn, providing even less comfort than the isolation and darkness of her bedroom. What use were husbands? She had done all there was to do for a lady of her position, she had married a man who claimed to love her, with good prospects accompanying. She had skills and love in abundance. The bitter cold of the room, the piercing hunger of her stomach would never allow her utter regret to dissolve. It only made her more determined to push Sybylla into work, into skills and income that could drive away the hunger and cold, but most importantly, that could give her something to clutch onto should she find herself, once married, still without a husband. In such a lonely existence, such abilities would be of great comfort. The tears were streaming now, as Mrs Melvyn saw not just herself but her daughters whose skin must face scratching cloth and the cold of a winter’s night alone. They too, in the darkness of her mind, seemed destined to a life beholden to men and to poverty. God help her! And Sybylla too, even if in her rejections of Him she spurned the one hope she had left in life, her mother’s duty was to pray doubly as fervently. Let the vicissitudes of life not hurt them so, she thought. Let them feel warm and free.

Livia Tropea Year 11

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One Night the Moon I reach out in one last desperate plea to save her. To save my flesh and soul and to save myself the grief that would inevitably crash over me, should I lose my dear Emily. Her small, fragile hand finds its place in mine and I relax the tense muscles at my shoulders and around my heart. Then, as if it were all a dream, her bony and tiny hand falls limp as I feel the muscles in her hand relax as if she were only falling asleep. Suddenly all of my breath gets sucked out of my lungs and my eyes fly open to the sight of the dark sweeping plains before me, and the damp, brittle night air. The Australian sun lazily rises over the horizon, immediately casting a humid blanket around the porch. Jim’s tense footsteps echo from the entryway, like a dull beat, the same as he has done for the past week. As usual, I stay stoic in the wicker chair, not bothering to turn around and wish him luck for the day. Even as I hear his steps pause to look at me, I stay glaring ahead at the barren land, cursing it silently for condemning me to a lifetime of misery and grief. Jim’s silhouette disappears into the distance, and where there would have been a single file of the same silhouettes helping Jim was replaces by the red dust being picked up from the wind. The sun shines brightly from above my head, threatening to melt me along with my grief. But if not even I can bear this beating heat, how was my little Emily going to survive surrounded by looming hills and plunging valleys. That’s it, I decided. Every day I’m with the child. She walks on my dreams and everywhere I go she’s there – even in the spaces of unfinished business. With a newfound determination and desperation for my Emily, I march down the stairs into the blasting heat, barely aware I was still in my pyjamas and wrapped in a shawl. I know the rough direction – I’d been there before. To that rough, desolate, and foundationless house where the black tracker lives. The rugged appearance of the shelter, once again drawing my attention rather than the black tracker who claims to be able to find my Emily. Fenceless, ragged, and bleak, and as if it were sagging from the inside. The house, made of mud and wood and the grub I find out in the garden, seems too simple to be a house. Regardless, I walk up to the black tracker who ploughs at the earth, busy to provide for his wife and children whose laughter echoes from inside the grey house. I stare into his eyes, finding myself unable to articulate my plea to him to find my Emily. Silently, he tentatively sets down the plough and starts walking, and without another glance at my unmodest appearance, he beckons me to walk with him. The dusk air filled with the sounds of cicadas and flies surrounds us as we walk seemingly aimlessly through the rough terrain. Despite the hostile appearance of the thorns and looming mountains and the threat of darkness that will inevitably settle in a couple of hours, the black tracker seems unfazed. He walks on with a firm step, guided by some internal map and compass that I cannot see. How that invisible sense of direction and connection worked, I had no idea, though my mind couldn’t help but wander back to the picture of Emily’s fragile and limp little hand in my mind, and the thought of my own connection to her. “Emily followed the moon.”, he explained after a while, “Kids follow light.” I followed his gaze towards the bright moon in the sky and hoped that it was the same view Emily was seeing too. The black tracker continues wordlessly absorbed in his thoughts, guiding me through the unmarked paths and thorny bushes towards the moon. As he picks up clue after clue, whether it be a strand of hair or a thread of the little nightgown I’d sewn her year ago, my thoughts begin to float back home – where Jim would surely already be drinking again with that sullen and stone-faced look he always wears after a fruitless day of searching. The black tracker continues leading me towards the moon and at last onto a pebbly landing with a low rocky overhang. I watch through frozen eyes as Albert slowly removes his hat and places it to his chest, and although I stood behind with my view blocked by his large frame, I could only imagine

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One Night the Moon what lay ahead. Her small body still swathed In the white nightgown falls stark against the dark nightfall. Her figure was placed in a way to depict a lump of brightness fallen limp on the rocky ground, reminiscent of the glow of the moon we had been following for hours. I didn’t want to see this. I didn’t want to imagine what her little bones would grow into. I didn’t want to think of the possibilities of what she could have become because I wanted to see it all for myself in reality. I walked towards her with heavy feet and lay beside her, tears falling steadily down my face. Now I will never know what my Emily would have become, never know what it is like to grow old with your daughter and to experience the pure joy written on her face, or feel the reciprocated joy in myself. So, as Albert gently picks her up to wrap his jacket around her, I curse Jim for taking away a future with my dear Emily and wish his damned distaste for the black tracker lead him to a similar lifetime of misery and grief. The tears continue streaming down my face, washing away the dust and sweat, but when I feel Albert pause hesitantly up ahead, still a little further away from my house, I follow his gaze one last time to see Jim, bottle in hand, standing still on the porch. An audible sob escapes my chest at the sight of him and I run to catch up to Albert, still carrying the dead weight in his arms. The memories of cooking with Emily at the kitchen table, and playing hide and seek between the laundry sheets cloud my vision, echoing the tears that have spilt over onto her body. I hear Jim approach from behind, and I turn to see him facing Albert eye to eye and my anger blurs with the bittersweet memories of my Emily. As Albert silently and tentatively hands over my daughter to Jim, I stalk off into the house without a word, in an attempt to put distance between Jim and I. The sun gently flows into the bedroom, warming my back as a soft reassurance. I lay on my side on the bed, staring at the corridor outside the door, wondering what I possibly could have done to change Jim’s mind. As if in answer, I hear various cupboards open and close one after another and then Jim’s heavy footsteps sound from the kitchen into the corridor, and when I see the loaded rifle in his hand, staring at me, I look into his eyes and find them mirroring my own grief. But he will never truly know my connection with Emily, and how could he, when he couldn’t even comprehend Albert’s connection to the land?

Alianna Huang Year 11

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Out I went out to see a movie, The love story of two boys. I saw myself in the characters, queer but not strange Yet still ashamed to be. I, like them, felt condemned to hide, So when the credits rolled I began to cry. And for the first time, only to myself, I was out.

I went out and found some others And learnt about myself. I learnt about my community and history and how we became Unafraid to be. With others like me there was nothing to hide, I knew I wasn’t alone and began to cry. And finally with others like me, I was out.

I went out with my family Afraid but ready to speak. They always gave me courage, and without them knowing They gave me the courage to be. I shouted to the others that I would not hide And when they held me, proud, I began to cry. For the first time, to someone else, I was out.

I went out and saw a movie, My first love story, me and a girl. We saw ourselves in each other And when we were together we felt free. I smiled when I looked into her eyes, But still, when the credits rolled I cried. And for the first time without speaking, I was out.

I went out to meet my friends, A misfit, oddball crew. We all knew with each other we didn’t need To ask permission to be. Around them I had no reason to hide, When I told them didn’t need to cry, For the first time without fear, I was out.

She and I went out together Went off to the parade I saw myself in those around me, queer but not strange, And unashamed to be. There was finally nothing I had to hide And as I looked around, I began to cry, Because for forever, to the entire world, I am out.

Catherine Flynn

I went out and met a stranger, A cruel, unkind woman. She couldn’t see me as me, only as queer and strange I felt ashamed to be. I ran to find a place to hide, And, feeling alone, I began to cry. As for the first time unwillingly, I was out.

Year 11

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Yoria Shi - Year 12

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Blind Dog Soul of Dog Died Venezuela, 2013

side of the room, where the accused must be sitting… it seems I’ve become all too familiar with human justice. ‘Let the dead bury the dead, Mr Finch. Let the dead bury the dead.’ -Harper Lee, to Kill A Mockingbird

I jolt as I am suddenly jerked awake, the blinding lights of the waiting room filling my inky-black eyes. I almost howl with shame – how could I have dozed off on duty? I am pulled to my feet and I scramble forwards, making my leash slacken in my urge to redeem myself. I am led through the grand oak doors of the Suprema Tribuno de Justicia, the Supreme Court here in Caracas, Venezuela. I am dazzled by stark white lights which cast deathly shadows onto the faces of the judge and jury, sitting high above us. I twitch my eager wet nose in the direction of the witness’ chair, and smell a light, flowery scent intermingled with the sour-oaken stench of the place. I furrow my nose at the severity of the atmosphere but then I see who sits in the witness’ chair: a young woman just on the cusp of adulthood, her hair as jet black as my own soft fur and a face as pale as the lights that illuminate it. I wish to join her and comfort her, sitting alone behind that slate grey screen! That is, as they say, why female dogs are primarily used as support dogs. They say we have a deeper level of empathy. I’m not sure if I want that to be true. Finally, I feel that my leash is being unclipped from my harness and I am filled with pride that I am trusted to be without it. I can barely restrain the incessant wagging of my tail as I tread dutifully towards the young woman. I sit patiently before her as the proceedings begin; I tune out the judge’s droning voice as he summarises ‘our purpose for being here today…’ the theatrics just bore me after all this time. I bring my focus back to the dark-haired woman; how I wish I knew her name! She slowly begins to pet me, softly, carefully, her hand barely touching the back of my head as if she’s unsure if it’s okay. I nuzzle closer into her and open my mouth in the closest imitation of a human smile I can muster. She pets me more desperately now, and I feel her hands shake, her lips trembling, as we wait behind the rusted metal screen. It only seems to shield the opposite

The judge motions toward two men in black suits; they rise and begin to speak. The woman’s knuckles go white as she clenches my fur, but I am all too eager to bear the slightest of pains for her. I slip into the sound of the men speaking a jargon too complex for me to make out, until I snap to attention as I hear a door on the side of the courtroom creak open. I watch as the bailiff slips inside: a large, tan man, slightly threatening as he looms at the edge of my periphery. Suddenly, I see another creature emerge from the darkness of the ajar door: A Great Dane, with fur as sleek and as thick as oil, slowly lopes inside. His muscles ripple in his back as he struts, ever soi slowly, his great head surveying the room… I gasp as he looks directly into my eyes. I return his burning stare and a cold rush ripples through my fur; for her is blind. His milky eyes bore into mine, and he grins ever so slightly as I whimper. How can he see me? The Great Dane assumes his post next to the bailiff and a murmur swells through the audience, down my spine… I swim back to the forefront of my mind. The young woman has risen and is delivering her evidence. I have never been so ashamed of myself. To have neglected her, as she trembles, with a tear falling from her haunted eyes; if only I knew what had happened, so I could understand, so I could help… for is violence a human trait? Or that of animals? Perhaps it is both. I shake my head to purge myself of these dreary thoughts and set my mind to the task of determining the case. The screen, the jury; I try to listen to her story, but she is veiled by tears. I feel such abject helplessness. Maybe I’m not the support dog I need to be. ‘He took everything from me!’ she cries, and my soul aches and recoils, rolling like the tears tumbling from her cheeks. That is, if I am worthy of a soul. Perhaps there was a robbery, a rapture of some sort… I sneak a glance again at the Great Dane, and my breath catches in my throat as I see that his unseeing eyes have been watching me for an indeterminable amount of time. A cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck and I pant more heavily, my eyes twitching back and forth in despair; can someone take that Great Dane out of here! Why does he unsettle me

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Blind Dog so? Why do I feel I have seen those eyes before? I wish that this whole damned thing would end right now and I could sink into the floor where he couldn’t watch me anymore. Beside me, the woman falls to her seat. Now I’m wishing I had a screen too.

at fault.’ Those eyes tear at my mind and I hear the verdict tenfold: ‘He could not see. He could not see.’ I rise, gazing into the milky depths of those eyes, the thinnest of smiles decorating his jaw, and waves of panic crash over me. ‘He could not see.’

At last the judge decides to adjourn the trial. The woman leaves before me. I look around the emptying courtroom, still trying to bring myself back to reality and out of my foolish, shameful thoughts. Apparently, I am to be left alone for the adjournment; somehow, I think it’s not a testament to my good behaviour. I sniff twice and decide to search around for anything to keep the image of those milky white eyes at bay. I poke my nose into bags and briefcases as the young woman’s cry echoes through my mind. ‘He took everything from me!’ And again comes the haunted image of the huge Great Dane, grinning, perceiving me through those hateful eyes. I shake myself hard, as if the image is a bout of filthy pont water that I will definitely be scolded for paddling in. Then I see a book underneath a seat at the back of the room. To Kill a Mockingbird. Harper Lee. Now that is a common sight! But now I wonder if Ms Lee ever went to a real trial. And I wonder why nobody cared about Mayella Ewell. But I must be too naïve for such justice.

I erupt from the lectern, a roar resonating within my throat as I rush at the Great Dane, my pupils mere pinpricks, his languid body unable to react, as I am already hacking at his skin with my tiny claws as he did mine, slashing the eyes that I wounded once – I hear roars from the crowd and I am grasped and heaved away. As my vision goes black, the last thing I see are his blood red pupils and that iron-wrought fur. * Light seeps back into my consciousness, a light so stark and bright it surrounds the figures like angels. The figures are dressed all in blue, with blue masks covering their faces. But this blue isn’t like the dear sky I know. They surround me on a high table; I spot the needle in the closest hands. ‘Let the dead bury the dead,’ I murmur into those blood-red eyes. A sharp stab, and I am blinded too.

The jury and audience are flooding back in as I am lying dejectedly on the ground behind the witness’ lectern. The young woman resumes her place, still pale, but with a twinkle in her eyes that hadn’t existed before. I wrench myself to my feet and lick her hands fondly. I think her eyes twinkle because the man behind the screen did not say a word. I begin to pant hopefully as the judge stands.

Olivia Johnson Year 12

As if on cue, the bailiff squeezes back through the door. I freeze in anticipation, and I am struck by the immense grey mass melting through the gap in the door. I attempt to swallow my heartbeat as again, he takes his place, grinning, those eyes boring into my body, into my soul. My pulse matches the young woman’s; for now, the jury speaks. ‘We have discussed all the evidence-’ the Great Dane stands lazily, his muscles rippling visibly under his sleek coat. ‘And we believe that he could not see that you didn’t consent-’ the woman stuffs a white fist into her mouth to muffle the sob that convulsed her wretched body- ‘So he was not

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Camille The Girl walked on a lonely path, And felt the breeze’s forceful wrath. The trees and flowers around her danced, While heart and soul became entranced. The sweetest rays of richest gold, Did kiss her skin and let unfold, A sense of Spirits that she would feel And transform the Girl who was Camille. The feet with which she walked were bare; Along this path without a care She felt the grass of olive green, Which reached her toes, her thighs and knees. The crispy leaves beneath her crunched And with that noise she felt a hunch In body she was there alone, But this Spirit was still a source unknown. The trees on either side were free, And swayed in blissful harmony. The Girl enchanted dared to follow, Without a thought or logic hollow. With gleaming eyes, she looked above, To see the clouds, the face of doves. White in heart, moral and mind, This purest state was she defined. Upon the path she reached a nook, Where daffodils had overtook. And beneath its bed she there did find, A body of sea, so kind, divine. The dainty step which was the girl’s, Dropped ‘to an abyss of grainy pearls. And it was there she knew the path Had led her into heaven’s bath. In a trance which she knew not,

She danced a slow and soft gavotte. Until the aqua hugged her feet The Girl had never felt complete. The Sea was calling out to her, As tranquil as it ever were. She felt the need to enter it And from Ages’ grasp she would acquit. Immersed in jewels of crystal sea, Her soul and spirit finally free. Water hugged her body naked, She was blessed by powers rich and sacred. For the pistil she held closely near, Would never fade through touch or fear. And in this state she’d forever be, A rose of youth and purity. With heavy lungs and eyes closed tight, She sank below with all her might. Her hands turned webbed and hair went silk; She lost the world and all its ilk. And deep below the girl remains, Her body was never to raise. A sense of freedom did she finally feel, The young Girl who was Camille. And now, In the same spot I sit. Two thousand suns and moons have come and gone, Their celestial light had watched as skin and mind became Conformed to time’s change and form. The sand of pearls of which I walked now black as coal As the Spirit fades. And what was mine, a Rose, Remains in the depth of sea, It’s velvet petals bloom through thought alone.

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Camille

The Azaelia

The trees still sway And these same feet still feel the olive shards beneath, Yet thoughts of grief encompass me, As I mourn the death of a rotting Rose And think back to fresher days of Camille, when I was a happy Child of Earth. And Earth, as my mother nurtured me, And led me to a vision of heaven, which my soul would never leave.

In the moist murmur of November’s tender breeze, and the first chuckles of cicadas, the languid stride of the ibis, coaxes the lake into her rippling dance. I sit on a bed of tangled reeds, the water lapping at their lips, Feeling its moisture seep through my outstretched fingertips. I am cloaked by the withering rays of late afternoon, And inhale a temperance of tranquillity.

And now. And now I walk with caution to the sea, And feel the coldness of this crystal bath take my vessel yet refuse my heart. With heavy lungs and eyes closed tight I sink below and in hope, await Camille’s return.

I drag my eye from devouring the blessed spectacle, And to the instructor it is forced. The Rules of Child’s Play roll sluggishly by, like the whirr of an old fan, Heard but alas, not Consumed.

I wait. I wait. I wait Until death’s hand touches mine and in fear I rise to the surface. And in an absence of spiritual sustenance There comes a banquet of beauty on which I feast. The setting sun’s sweet beams caress my cheek And I watch the clouds move gently through the blushing sky. These healing thoughts, These intimations of my past existence shall in my heart remain. And whilst the youth and innocence of my rose shall forever lay with Camille, I take comfort in her soothing thoughts, And embrace my mother as the moon ascends, And concludes another day.

Marianna Giavris Year 12

As words drone into unhearing ears, my gaze befalls her caper once again. Born in the liquid caress of the lake’s silken waters, from the slightest origin of life, I behold clusters of squealing tadpoles, Darting between shafts of dappled light and ravenous beaks. They are clinging, in instinctive determination. I hear the warning; That their plump skin be more tender than the mild blush of the azalea, never to be bruised and mottled, by the salmon pink paws of a child. When at length the hum of foreign tongues cease, And the mild cooing of lingering day alone is carried in the sweet breeze, To the banks are we released. Red buckets shove their way into the lake’s supple breast, Her dance flagrantly interrupted.

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The Azaelia Eager nets slash at her depths, Blowing billowing clouds of grit, in her virginal waters. And like hawks, eyes, glistening with anticipation --- removes person – aims to excuse the child stalk their skittering flight. A few cries of victory, Drown late dusk’s symphony. Pulled from her watery embrace, Bleating babes are plucked from their aquatic playground, And tremble in the stagnant water of, Plastic buckets.

As eye to eye we hold our gaze, I release is its flaccid form to the murky haze. As an unseen shroud o’er my senses lifts, I watch it, to her clouded depths, drift. Away from wilting panes of light, Sinking slowly out of sight. While the azalea doth have a flower brief, I feel in my heart it holds some grief. And yet it seems that even now, This silent sight clings to mind somehow.

Mia Pope Year 12

And as the sun rolls over the brow of the horizon, I am enthralled by youthful desire. An ardent lust palls reason’s course, to touch – to feel, a quivering pulse. Its writhe Is but fleeting. And in the moment where exultation, Paves way for a trickle of horrible realisation, That pools in the pores of my heart and eye, A tiny blot of sweet scarlet gathers at its pale cheek, And bores through its glistening translucent skin.

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The Flame A night in mid-Winter carries moonlight too soon It compels me to toil under clinical light. Although the brightness should kindle new sight, It creeps through my pupils, obstructing my view. Outside my four walls, I know a battle is raging Gladiatorial combat between the wind and the rain. Despite the impression that they argue with fury, They instead fight as play, as siblings may do. How I wish to be free from the constraints of my labour! How I wish to escape from this electrical cell! Through a lightbulb’s flicker, a hurricane is foretold I await, impatient, for the tension to release. This petrichor cracks and converts to a storm Uniting with the howls outside my abode Edison’s superficial creation loses its life Its source of energy is redundant now. Silent darkness and blinding noise Scatter my senses in their strange symphony This should trigger stress or uncertainty But all I feel now is a sensation of peace. With a scratch and a spark, life is reborn The heat of the light flickers through my cold daze My heart beats with new force from this column of wax. The flame is a spotlight on my revived form. A child of fire bounds in dynamic shadow, Her maternal warmth seeps into my skin. Work forgotten, I absorb her view, And allow her to wrap me in a blanket of light. Unrestrained and untouched, She explores her wilting wick She explores her already-melting wax

She explores her jar, and calls it home. What a naïve creature, yet wise beyond years! My eyes stare, transfixed, at her careless consumption Of her own home and life source. She lives not to die, but to experience. Her aura illuminates the walls of my room There are pictures that hang, displaying my past. She traverses my young face in her innocent quest As if she sees herself in me. The flame is unable to record her past; My whole life has been printed in ink. Will she reflect on the moments of now? Will she remember them when her wick has run out? Her fire spreads and ignites inspiration, A candle of my own burns with strength in my soul A constant reminder to live on and explore To appreciate what comes when it is gone. Time is almost up; the child has grown, I sit still, in awe, at the flame and my friend. Human ingenuity may have been foreign to me, But this craft is what houses safe fire. The candle falters in her steadfast stride, As the wick of her life reaches its ceaseless end. While the light dims and becomes one with the storm, Her smoke will linger in the air, forevermore. The wind and the rain call a truce in their fight As clouds part to unveil the soft moon. The tempest will rest and glide on with the smoke. Together, they will sleep in my mind.

Monique Solnordal Year 12

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Acknowledgements Shangyou Yang -2021 Art Captain and Cover Designer The Fintona English Faculty Mr Brit Biviano – Art Co-ordinator Ms Rachael Falloon – Principal Mr Cameron Arnold – Marketing Manager Ellikon Fine Printers – Designer and Printers

ACK N OW L ED G EM EN TS

Ringing Voices published by Fintona Girls’ School 79 Balwyn Road, Balwyn Victoria, Australia Ph: +613 9830 1388 E: fgs@fintona.vic.edu.au www.fintona.vic.edu.au