Ringing Voices 2022 | An anthology of student writing

Ringing oices 2022

An Anthology of Student Writing

Introduction – Ringing Voices 2022

‘Imagination is the beginning of creation. You imagine what you desire, you will what you imagine, and at last, you create what you will.’ ~George Bernard Shaw -

The human mind is extraordinary in how it can imagine, create and innovate. The process of generating, selecting and ordering random ideas into coherent pieces of prose or poetry is an extraordinary feat. Using language to convey emotions and engender reader engagement is laudable. The pieces of writing selected for this year’s publication of Ringing Voices reveal the unique thinking and imagination of the minds of students from Years 5 to 12.

Writing in response to a prompt, a text or a visual stimulus is the cornerstone of our English curriculum at Fintona. Working in tandem with reading engagement, we seek to foster a learning environment that develops the written communication skills of our students and allows them the freedom to explore different ideas, forms, and genres in their writing. Some of the pieces in this publication were inspired by other works of writing or in some cases audio-visual texts. Other pieces were created through group discussions and a focus on a particular genre or form of writing.

As you turn the pages of this anthology, you will be taken on an emotional journey, immersed in the world the writer has created through carefully selected words and phrases. Images will be evoked in your mind as the words awaken the senses of smell, sight, touch, sound, and taste.

Complementing the written word is an array of impressive student art. Each art piece also tells a story and seeks to take you on a visual journey. The front cover of this anthology was designed by this year’s Art Captain, Kristen Goh. Her design was created in partnership with Alianna Huang. The typewriter, a classic symbol of writing, stands centrally in the image and the free-flowing paper emerging from the typewriter is representative of the thinking process. Kristen has purposely chosen to add texture to the typewriter and selected heightened colours to convey how writing and reading are immersive experiences.

Ms Michelle Maglitto English Learning Leader

Caitlin Membrey - Year 5

Up Here

“More, please,” I begged. “Keep on looking.”

Down on earth, lightning is something to scare little toddlers at night. Up here in the galaxy, lightning is precious. It gives us our energy. Our lives depend on it.

“Gradus, master. We have searched for months. The amount of lightning is dwindling, whether you like it or not.”

As the ruler of the day, the Sun needs the most energy to survive. He is a reckless ruler, happy to do anything he pleases to people who disobey him. My head began to hurt. I was desperate. Hopeful. Frightened.

My name is Gradus. I live on Star 0.08 in solitude. Occasionally, my men visit to speak. Otherwise, they will endlessly continue to search for lightning. I mused over my options. Could I tell the Sun, mighty ruler, the truth? Or could I finally locate a storm? Either way, this situation would likely end in a fight. And maybe a death. Well, I’ve lived my 10,000 years of life decently enough. No. I can’t think like this. The shortages of lightning may be inexplicable, but I was always destined for glory.

“Well, continue searching,” I ordered my men. “Or else it will be the end of us all.”

A soldier burst through the door. He was panting. I looked right into his eyes.

“The Sun has found out the truth,” he blurted, sweat all over his face.

I gasped. “Keep on searching, friends. I must leave. Possibly forever.”

I jumped of the edge of the star I had always lived on. Finally, I felt free. I was a bird who had finally been released from its cage. On Earth, people hustled through the streets. Chatting. Smiling. A young girl offered me an apple.

“For me?” I confirmed.

“You look like you’ve been having a hard time,” she replied, casually.

The apple was nourishing. Nothing like I had ever tasted before. It was juicy, delicious and sweet. I thanked the young girl and decided that I had finally found my place in this vast, uncertain universe. It wasn’t long though, before somebody grabbed my hand.

“I’m guessing your life up there wasn’t enough,” the man said. I recognised his voice. The Sun’s most trusted guard, Sunstar.

“You were well provided, honoured and people trusted you. But I guess you needed more. You don’t understand. You have another chance to get your life back on track. Take it.”

I shook my head.

“Then there’s only one direction you’re heading now,” Sunstar grinned.

In prison, the Sun taunted me all day.

“I made the wrong choice to hire you, Gradus,” he would say. “You were not smart enough. Not strong enough. Not grateful enough.”

Soon after the Sun left, I noticed Sir Roberts, one of his former men, guarding the cell. “Roberts,” I whispered.

“Gradus, is that really you? I guess you were right,” he said falling to his knees. “I am so sorry. I should have continued searching. I shouldn’t have betrayed you. Forgive me,” he pleaded, regretful for his choices.

“Do you know the code to the cell?” I questioned Roberts, dismissing his apology.

“No, but I think it has something to do with a lucky number,” Roberts replied, straightening up a little. Finally, I realised that he had been familiarised with the code his whole life. ‘The key to your freedom,’ I pictured my mother advising me. ‘90880000000.’ My forever lucky number! Fate had for once given him a blessing. I ordered Sir Roberts to put the code in, and unbelievably, it worked! I mumbled my lucky number once more and was suddenly transported to a new universe. A new beginning. Finally, luck was on my side.

Caitlin Membrey

I loved my thrilling life, I thought it could never get better, That stayed true for a while, Until I received a Red Setter.

I stood there a little bit gobsmacked, But only for a second, Then I squealed with joy, And to the puppy I was beckoned.

His wet and slobbery tongue, Made contact with my face, We scrambled into the car, To quickly get back to our base.

I went and retrieved our neighbour, To show her our rusty red friend, To find a fitting name, We had an argument to end.

Though it took us a bit of time, And left us like bears that were cranky, We found a suitable name, That just happened to be Frankie.

Scarlet Campbell Year 5

Meera Iver - Year 6

Resurrected

The rain felt like spears piercing the back of the girl’s neck. Her hair was soaked, and the loud thunder penetrated her eardrums. She held on as tightly as she could as the icy wind began to blow. She looked the same as she did on the day she had left the Earth – forever 13. Her limbs were stiff from disuse, but worst of all, she felt a pounding sensation in her chest that was not there for decades: a heartbeat.

The girl, Emilie Alastair, could not fathom the reason for the peculiar sensations she was feeling. The last she remembered was feeling immense pain, flashing lights, and screaming before everything went black. Emilie turned around and encountered a vast graveyard. Gravestones, large and small, were surrounding her, but on the spot she was standing, an irregular space that could have been home to a gravestone was right there. It was only then when she realised, with the stinging rain pouring down, that she was not dead anymore.

Emilie staggered to her feet and began to recount what had happened. She was apparently reincarnated and standing in the graveyard in which she was presumably buried. But one thing didn’t add up; where were her parents? Wouldn’t parents come to visit their dead daughter regularly? With these confusing thoughts swirling in her head, Emilie stumbled towards the town surrounding the graveyard.

The town was completely deserted. Trees and creepers almost engulfed the houses. The wind eerily blew through the streets, almost whispering. It was almost as if something had forced the people to leave and never return. Emilie’s head hurt, her feet felt numb, and she was exhausted. Then, she chanced upon a certain house, that made her heart almost... ache? It must be, she thought. This building... it was my house!

It was empty, like everything else in the town, but Emilie wasn’t disheartened. She knew that somewhere out there; her parents would be waiting for her... right? She racked her brains for anywhere useful her parents would have mentioned, and then it came to her. There was only one place in the entire world where her parents had desired to go – Haven Beach.

The journey was long, especially for a pedestrian, but since Emilie did not have any other means of transportation, it was the only way. She had visited the beach many times during her childhood. She was comfortable with the path, but there was a daunting fear that being dead for so long would affect her memory. Nonetheless, she set off with false hopes North – the direction of the beach.

What should have taken only a few hours felt like days to Emilie. She trudged onwards, determined not to give up. After barely an hour, she collapsed on the side of the road, not because she was so tired, but because her leg was almost glitching? When Emilie discovered she was able to put her hand through it, she shuddered and realised the truth. My reincarnation is temporary, she thought. I better find my parents quickly.

Emilie persistently trooped on. Both her arms glitched, her other leg glitched, yet she persisted. Before she knew it, she had arrived at Haven Beach, or rather what was once Haven Beach. Previously there had been dunes of fine, white sand. Instead of that, Emilie faced a bizarre scene: The beach was now reduced to a bed of pointy, grey rocks, and there were more grey buildings obstructing sunlight from tourists. Emilie took a deep breath and proceeded towards the buildings. The beach was mostly empty, as it was the off season, so Emilie was spared of the curious glances of people wondering why a strange girl wearing clothes from 10 years ago had showed up looking hopeful.

It was then when Emilie noticed the rundown beach house, almost drowning in overgrown trees and bushes. It almost felt like... home. She jogged up the steps and knocked on the door. No answer. Please, she felt herself begging. Open the door, please.

The loud noises attracted the attention of the neighbours, who crowded around her. Almost instantly, people were bombarding her with questions.

Who are you?

What are you doing here?

Resurrected That Boy Wizard

(inspired by Harry Potter & The Philosopher’s Stone)

Why are you pounding on the door?

All questions that Emilie didn’t have answers to.

‘I... I don’t know,’ she stuttered, her voice hoarse from disuse. ‘And I haven’t known for a while now.’ The neighbours looked around sadly, for it seemed they had just recognised the girl in front of them.

‘Are you the Alistairs’ daughter?’ She nodded. The speaker took a deep breath and continued. ‘Your parents... they died about 5 years ago. They...were good friends of ours. We buried them in their front yard.’ The neighbour gestured to two rocks which were apparently marking the graves.

NO NO NO, she thought. THIS COULDN’T BE TRUE!

It all happened in a blur. The next moment she threw herself onto the ground and started digging. She needed proof before she could believe this.

‘They can’t be dead; they can’t be dead.’ she chanted. The neighbours tried all they could to cajole her into stopping, but she kept going. Digging, digging, digging. Suddenly, she stopped. There was a wristwatch on a cold hand; her mothers. Emilie took a deep breath. Her hand glitched. It was true, her parents were dead and there was nothing she could do about it. Her leg glitched.

Emilie knew what she had to do. A life without her parents is no life at all. She lay down as the glitching began to increase, and at last she was reunited with her parents up in the clouds. Over the years, 2 new lives were born where 3 had ended. A Jacaranda tree with a Virginia creeper winding around it. Just how Emilie was devoted to her parents, the creeper stayed tied around the tree, as if it would never let go. Meera Iver

There was a skinny, lightning-scarred lad, Whose family were way far from rad. They fled to the raging ocean, There came a rather strange notion, Why he was a wizard, might I add!

He went to study in a palace, And found out that he was quite famous. He met a blonde boy, Who planned to deploy, A plan with a great deal of malice.

With the help of Ron and Hermoine, The trio was complete, all three. They worked past each barrier, And defeated a betrayer. So, Gryffindor won the house trophy.

Caterina Lear

The Field of Flowers

Her hand trembled as she went to open the door. The mail man stared at her with huge, worried eyes. The words that came out of his mouth confirmed her fears. “I’m sorry. He was a great man,” he said quietly, and hurried away. Numbly, a lonely tear tumbled down her cheek as the ripped envelope fluttered down. She crumpled into a small, rocking figure and cried, sobbing into the arms of her mother, grasping the fragile hand of her younger sister. Words swam across her blurry sight. Lost in battle...lost in battle...lost in battle...

Jean kept reminding herself that she had to be brave, that she had to do all the chores of the house and be a good role model for her sister. Her mother had gone to sleep early, suffering an aching headache from stress of running a busy coffee shop and poor health. “Tell me a story,” Bethany whispered. “What? Oh, a story...” Now that she had finally received the letter saying that her father had died in the war, her head was throbbing and contained nothing but depression.

“A story. All right. Once, there was...a little girl named Bethany,” she whispered, combing her sister’s fair hair with her fingers. Bethany did not smile, but she gazed up at Jean with concentration. “Bethany was a very intelligent and pretty girl,” Jean went on. She told Bethany about how the girl in her story went to the farm and bought some milk for her family, and how she helped injured animals and the villagers. “At last, Bethany was rewarded for her kindness and went to live in a castle with a princess and her father,” Jean finished. She had added the part about Bethany’s father on purpose. Looking down at Bethany now, Jean realized how small and hopeless her baby sister was.

Her heart shattering, Jean leaned over Bethany and kissed her on the forehead. Bethany’s eyes were closed. Slowly, a tear dripped onto the blanket. Jean wiped her eyes and raced as fast as she could out of the house. The back door creaked wearily, and the old apple tree swayed to the rhythm of the wind. Jean grabbed the basket next to the wooden porch and filled it with bruised but juicy apples. Then, she flew to a worn, rusty house close to her own. Cautiously and carefully, she opened her mouth and began to mimic the sound of an owl. Far above her, the squeaking of a window opening painted a small smile onto her face. A

boy with mousy brown hair leaned over to wave at her. Suddenly, he leapt from the open window to a towering oak tree!

“About time. I thought that you had forgotten the signal,” Max exclaimed, lowering himself down. Jean sighed and took his hand. “Did you bring the blankets?” she asked. Max tore himself from her grip and grabbed a bundle on the deck of his house. “Here,” he said cheerfully. Jean tried to look as content as he was, but she just could not. Concerned, Max asked her why she looked so down. “I’ll tell you later, once we get to the flower field,” she answered.

The field of flowers was hidden behind a clump of trees at the abandoned sheep meadow. Max and Jean would sometimes leave letters for each other under a dry stone near the well that was in the sheep meadow. Jean’s father, knowing how much she and Max wanted a secret hideout, had showed them the field. “I used to come here all the time when I was young. It was my favourite place. I give it to you two, now.” he had retorted. While the moon rose across the dark patch of sky, Jean and Max clambered through the uneven grounds of the forest and emerged with moss green leaves in their hair. “My papa died,” Jean suddenly blurted out, and immediately began to sob.

“He died. Mother has a fever and cannot work in her coffee shop, and poor Bethany cannot take care of herself. I need to be strong, but I am afraid that if I pretend too hard I will one day break down!” Jean cried, burying her face into Max’s shoulder. He held her and murmured soothingly while she confessed her deepest, darkest worries. Anxious as always, Jean asked him if it was all right for them to stay the night in the vibrant flowers. Of course, he agreed. “It will be all right. You are the strongest person I have ever known. You can do this,” Max reassured her. They lay next to each other, huddled up in blankets and snacked on Jean’s apples.

“There is just one thing,” Max said, when he was sure that Jean was awake. If they squinted hard enough, they could see a line of lavender light on the horizon. Dawn was coming. “What is it?” Jean whispered, pulling Max closer. “I always wonder. Why is it that you make friends

The Field of Flowers When George Decided

with boys, but never girls?” Jean giggled and took a bite out of a blushing red apple. “I never really liked the girls at school. They are too gossipy, but boys in this village are sporty and fun. I like you because you calm me.” Satisfied with this answer, Max let Jean lean on his shoulder while his arm went around her back. What a wonderful girl, he thought. The two of them watched the sun as it crept up slowly into the sky, welcoming fluffy pink clouds and casting rich golden light across the lush green grass and the colourful flowers beading the field.

5 years later

Jean bid goodbye to the customers who had bought the last coffee. She had taken over her mother’s coffee shop and worked well with Bethany in this job. Now, though, Bethany and her mother were back at home sewing a large blanket for winter. Few yards away, Max was working as a farmer, waiting to go to Jean’s place for a late-night feast...or was it a date? However, Jean sneaked around the kitchen for some candles and a picture of her father. She put them in a silk bag and opened the door to the coffee shop. The bell tinkled, as if it were laughing, as she locked the shop.

Humming along to a tune that her mother would sing to her in her mind, Jean hurried along, down the sheep meadow, through the forest, and to the field of flowers. She found a particular bright patch of tulips and set the picture of her father on the ground, propped up. Sticking the candles into the dirt, Jean lit them to life, one by one. The light from the candles joined the beginning of dusk as she knelt, and her eyes shone with unshed tears. “Happy birthday, Papa,” she whispered.

She stayed until the sky darkened to soft black and wrapped itself around the stars that blinked in the sky. She stayed until the candles had burnt in glory to peony smelling stumps into the rich soil. She stayed until she heard her father’s voice in her mind. “Goodnight, Jeanie-bear,”

At last, the bright circle of the moon rose once more, and Jean went home.

Chung Year 6

George’s grandma couldn’t help being cranky She coughed and sneezed into every hanky Every single tooth was so fake Her personality like a snake All poor George could do was look at her blankly

Finally, George decided one day His ghastly grandma just needed to pay He came up with a marvelous plan She’d look worse than a musty old can He hoped his grandma would be swept away He went and got A big, large pot Popping random things in Taking things from the bin There was a lot

He gave the grisly mixture to granny She shot up and looked rather uncanny What the heck is happening George? I don’t know but you ain’t look gorge Grandma + house is a double whammy

Charlotte

(Inspired by Roald Dahl’s “George’s Marvelous Medicine”)

Allegra Bouw Year 6

My Migration Story

A breathtaking, sudden, unwanted change.

Quickly pack up everything, say goodbye.

Board the huge boat, my life rearranged. The tropical weather during July.

Maybe, just maybe, this will be so grand.

Swim, swim, swimming all day under the sun.

Eight weeks this is a breeze, can’t wait till land. Two months onboard the cruise, now we are done.

Australia, no kangaroos in sight.

New everything, new house, new school, new life.

Xavier College gave me a fright. Now I must find myself a loving wife.

Learned so much, achieved my dream, so grateful. The land so beautiful, I’m so Faithful.

Megan Clarke Year 6

Yitong Dong - Year 7

Change

What I love about the world around me.

Let me start with a personal story- a story about change. It all began with a phone call. Then a plane ride. And then after a bumpy landing, my life was never the same again. Imagine waking up in a foreign country, intending to celebrate your 13th birthday. Just as you step out of breakfast ready to take a hot air balloon over the jewelled desert dunes, you are told your house is on fire! The shock and weight on my head felt as heavy as lead, as I paced around gathering the pieces of my life back together. Profound emotions engulfed me. Then I realized that I had a choice: I could reframe my situation and look at the positives, or wallow in loss forever. I know where my journey has led me. I have become resilient and strong in the face of this personal adversity. But this is my story. The uplifting hot air balloon is my sign of a metaphoric journey.

Change is what binds us together, sets us free, and lets us reach new heights.

Rumi, a Persian poet once stated: “It’s your road and yours alone. Others may walk it with you, but no one can walk it for you.” For me, this quote encapsulates the beauty of the world around me. The change of seasons, flowers in bloom and the pursuit of excellence. However, the deeper meaning is the human ability to confront any adverse change or event and adopt a transformative mindset. But this is not easy. At an individual level, it requires a certain framework and a will to change.

At a world level, change requires courage, determination, and a range of leadership skills.

Recently, the impact of the pandemic gave rise to alarming global statistics about the mental health of a significant number of people suffering anguish and inability to cope with change -whether it is schooling, work, travel or everyday routines. This has left me pondering why some people cope with change and others don’t.

We often read about adversity as a catalyst for change. Finding ways to be resilient in the face of life’s challenges is a measure of who we are. When dealing with change we are faced with challenges, provided with opportunities, and we grow as a person. Change should be used to rise up instead of being knocked down.

But let’s face it. Most people don’t like change and we seldom view it as positive. Change is inherently uncomfortable and confronting. It is challenging. It requires courage. In fact, we resist it. We cling to old habits and old ways. Change is a layered and spiralling process.

Life is constantly changing, whether we like it or not. We have a choice: we can remain stuck in the past or embrace the future. Every opportunity for change that you and I face, can make us stronger and more resilient; or weaker and trapped- depending on how we deal with it. If we dig in and refuse to adopt change, we will be stuck. If we embrace change, we will learn from the past, accept uncertainty and become stronger and healthier.

Quite often, however, we overestimate and catastrophize how bad things might be. This is called a negativity bias. It is ironic, the process of change that burdens us, is not change itself. Fighting and resisting this change ignites fear and anxiety. Taking risks and embracing change allows us to grow and get outside our comfort zone. When we embrace change, life changes for the better. Change leads to opportunities and choices.

Studies show that only a mere 38% of people cope with change and can flexibly move out of their comfort zone. Only 38%. Out of everyone in this room, that is only 6 people. What about the other 62%? What about the other 13 people? Change doesn’t have to be large, or global, it can be small and individual. Working through our resistance to change, allows us to become mentally resilient. As such, we find it easier to adapt to new changes, situations, and possibilities.

When we embrace change, we transform and allow growth, challenges and opportunities. Change is a process, in which we have to work through in both good and detrimental situation situations. Evolution demonstrates how we are primed to deal with change. Fighting against change only makes us miserable. Change is only the beginning. So, everyone chose your road and be the change you want in our beautiful world. Our past is set in stone, but our future can… correction, will always change.

Library

Leo got up from his chair.

“Okay,” he clapped, “you guys wanna go to the library down the road?”

Max looked down at their sandwich and sighed.

“Can I at least finish my sandwich?”

“Nope,” Leo said, his lips making a popping sound.

He stood up and took hold of max’s wrist and pulled them out of their chair. Max was wearing a mustard yellow sweater, a hand me down from their older brother, over a black tee-shirt with a pair of black jeans. Over their jumper and shirt, they had on a dark-brown coat that was about 3 sizes too big (also a hand-me-down). Max loved their brother but really wished they could get some of their own clothes for once.

Max groaned, their sandwich falling out of their hands. Evelyn grabbed her hot chocolate and her scarf wrapping it around her neck.

“If we’re going to the library then I have some books to return.” She took seven books out of her bag and placed them on the table.

“Rocks and crystals in the Middle East? The Life and Times of Shakespeare? When did you read all these?!” Max said astonished.

“I’m a fast reader,” Evelyn said simply, placing

her books back in her bag. “We’ve got to start walking if we want to get there before rush-hour.”

“There’s a Library rush-hour?” Max interrupted.

Evelyn rolled her eyes.

The three trudged through the snow down the street.

“Ughhh my socks are wet,” Max groaned.

Leo stopped, crossing his arms. “I told you not to wear your docs.”

“But they look so good!” Max protested.

“I never said they didn’t,” Leo said raising his hands in defeat. “Now, if we want to get to the library by next Tuesday, you’d better get a move on.”

The door’s bell rang as the three entered the library. The heat from the room washed over them like warm fudge on ice cream.

Leo sighed with relief. “It’s so warm in here.”

“That’s because we’ve had the heaters on all day.” Max jumped and turned to his left.

There was a boy around their age, seventeen or so, standing behind the counter. His hair was around shoulder length, a reddish-brown colour with the top half of it tied up. Pinned to his uniform shirt, there was a name tag with

the name ‘River’ on it.

“Name’s river” he said, sticking out his hand to Leo.

“Leo,” Leo replied, shaking River’s hand.

“Anything specific you’re looking for?” River asked, dropping Leo’s hand and turning to Max and Evelyn.

“Nope,” Max said, rocking back and forth on their heels.

“-Yes” Evelyn cut in. “There’s about five books I have reserved.”

“I’m gonna go over to the non-fiction section. You wanna come with?” Leo whispered under his breath.

“Nah,” Max replied shaking their head and meandering over to a bookshelf with a sign hanging above it that read ‘graphic novels, comics and manga’.

There was a lady in around her mid 40’s and a boy around seven-years-old whom Max assumed was the woman’s son standing in front of the shelf. The boy was tugging at her sleeve.

“Yes, yes Hunter, we’ll go see the picture books in a minute,” she said with what seemed to be forced enjoyment injected into her voice.

Her hair was pulled back in the tightest bun max had ever seen. She was wearing a

disgusting floral blouse that looked at least 500 years old. She was also standing in front of the books Max wanted to look at.

“Excuse me, ma’am,” Max said, tapping the woman on her shoulder, “could you please move a bit so I can have a look at those books you’re standing in front of?”

The woman sneered. “What are you wearing?” the woman spat, disgust lacing her voice.

“I’m sorry?” Max asked, startled by the comment.

“Your jumper,” the woman said, shoving a finger into Max’s chest. “It’s inappropriate. Honestly, what did you expect to happen wearing something like that in a public place?!” She was on a roll now. “I don’t know what’s gotten into you young people, wearing stuff like that around children.” She emphasized the words ‘young people’ and clutched her son’s shoulders as if trying to protect him from Max.

Max’s head spun. “You’ve lost me,” Max said. “What’s wrong with my jumper?”

“Is everything okay over here?”

A familiar voice called out from behind them. They turned to see River sauntering over to them.

“’Is everything okay?’ ‘Is everything okay?!’ Does everything look okay?” The lady said in a raised voice.

Before Max could say anything, the woman swept in to answer her own question.

“No! No, it’s not. His outfit is completely inappropriate.”

The lady pointed at Max, squeezing her son’s shoulder even tighter with her other hand. The woman’s son didn’t actually seem to be upset at all. The boy was about a third of a way through a book called ‘The Deep & Dark Blue’ and seemed quite bored, if not wincing a little due to his mother’s fingernails digging into his skin.

“I don’t see anything wrong with his outfit,” River replied quizzically, tilting his head to one side. In his hands was a collection of books Max assumed were for Evelyn.

The lady took her hand off her son’s shoulder and instead grasped Max’s shoulder and shook him. “I personally see a great deal wrong!”

The woman was practically yelling at this point. Max shrugged the woman’s hands off.

“You are harassing a customer and causing a disturbance. If you have forgotten- and it seems you have – this is a library. You can’t behave like this in a library. I am going to have to ask you politely to leave.” River said calmly.

“Max! There you are! … what’s going on...?” A voice said from behind them.

Max turned to see Leo standing there,

carrying ‘An Encyclopedia of Sea Creatures.’

“I’m not really sure myself,” Max said.

River and the woman continued to argue, River remaining frustratingly calm.

“Ma’am, like I said, you were harassing a customer. You’re going to need to leave now.”

“Oh, I give up! I’ll leave!” The lady said, throwing her hands up in either defeat or outrage. Max assumed it was a bit of both.

She tugged the book out of Hunter’s hands and shoved it back onto the shelf. “Come on Hunter, we’re leaving.” She grasped Hunters’ hand and began to storm out the library. “You’ve just lost a loyal customer!” She yelled over her shoulder.

“No loss,” River muttered to Max. “It’s not like she pays to borrow those books anyway.”

And she never did come back to the library. She did complain about the experience on Facebook. A lot. But Max didn’t think it harmed the library all that much. Max didn’t care much either, he was just happy to be able to borrow ‘Beetle and the Hollowbones”.

Evelyn wasn’t the only one who made book reservations.

Amelie Ashley

My parents really should have thought over my name just a little bit more. They honestly should have realised how horribly they had jinxed themselves. Had they named me Angeline, a name fit for an angelic individual, I would have been their stunning new brooch they would wear proudly on their lapel to stun any of their friends. If they had named me Valerie, I would have, as the name suggests, grown into a healthy young lady and the new face of my family. Instead, they settled with Mallory, meaning unlucky or unhappy.

The gods watching from above must have remembered that, I thought as my parents argued and struggled to pay their debts and my sister found herself a new bedroom in the hospital. My life was crumbling around my feet. ***

front door, I mourned for the misfortunes of the parents of my peers that led them to have those animals for children.

It occurred to me, as I entered the kitchen to wash my lunchbox, that my life was far worse than that of my peer’s parents. The thought hit me as a plate soared passed me, smashing against the wall and narrowly missing my face. I had forgotten to duck upon entering the kitchen, a technique I had procured over years of such behaviour, because my mind had been wandering. I often came home to my parents making such a scene, ever since they made the horrible mistake of borrowing money from a sketchy hooded man on the street and now they were in interminable debt. Although they did ask for it.

hand. (I already struggled to hear my teacher from the back row. Either that or they just spoke far too quietly.) Just down the street from my house, there was a tram stop which I took quite often to head out to the city. It was quite an old tram, rattling along on the tracks, as electricity crackled sporadically from the line above and showered sparks on the road below. I sat at the window seat, staring out into the bustling tsunami of people going about their business.

The tram slowed to a stop, squeaking as it went about it; I had reached my destination. The hospital towered above me, its high cemented walls and enormous garden were quite a change from my house full of exasperated animals.

One blissful summer afternoon, I was walking home from school down the vivid footpaths of my neighbourhood. It was quite a delightful afternoon, the way the trees danced in the summer wind and my whole neighbourhood seemed to be smiling (which I found quite horrifying), enjoying their lives.

As I walked, I recalled how the newest generation of human beings had horrendously failed yet again in the form of my classmates. I remembered my time at school that day: the paper wads shot at numerous teachers, the whoopee cushions, the defacing of more school property and the mess the cafeteria had become. Opening my

As I tried to calmly wash my lunchbox at the sink, the shouts of my parents were not, of course, inaudible. Through the running water of the faucet, I could hear them quite clearly, in the little corner of the kitchen in which the sink was in place, taking up almost the whole kitchen yelling things like: “It’s all your fault you lost your job, Alfred!” and “You’re the one who made that deal with that man of the street! If you hadn’t, none of this would have happened!” as well as the occasional clatter or smash of another kitchen utensil, wasted for the purpose of expressing rage. They had destroyed more of our house than any act of God ever could.

I ducked out of the house to avoid going any further deaf, clutching a wrapped gift in my

When I entered the building, the receptionist recognised me at once. She smiled at me, sweetly, but I could see the pity in her eyes. I half-smiled back at her and went on my way up the stairs and down the hall. Though the look in her eyes stayed with me, I had always hated when people pitied me.

“Oh, your parents are abusive, oh, your sister is in a coma, I’m so sorry.”

That’s what they’d always say. These phrases of compassion continuously failed to impress; they merely reminded me of the unfortunate path my life had led.

I pushed open the door to a hospital room numbered 303 to find a little girl on a bed

under the covers. Dressed in hospital robes, she lay still, facing towards the ceiling. Her eyes were closed, and her black hair fell around her shoulders. She looked awfully a lot like me. Room no. 303 was quite empty; the hospital bed in the middle of the room, with a vital signs monitor to the left and a bedside table with a pile of books on it to the right. An enormous window overlooked the hospital gardens down below with a chair next to it.

“I brought this for you,” I said, holding up the wrapped gift I brought for my sister, Zoe, and unwrapping it to reveal a new addition to her pile of books. “See?” I said, putting on a smile. “It’s the book you’ve always wanted. I finally scooped up enough money to buy it for you.”

Zoe didn’t move. She couldn’t. She merely lay there, her face stone cold and unflinching. My smile faltered for a moment and I found my vision cloudy as it filled with tears.

Apparently, my parents had finally decided to visit their child and they burst unceremoniously into the hospital room. They clearly were trying to make an appearance (and failing) as my mother was wearing a fancy dress and a fur coat she’d bought from the op shop down the road and my father was wearing his only suit and tie. After them, Zoe’s doctor strode into the room with a large clipboard in hand.

My parents explained to me that they’d (finally) run out of money to keep Zoe in hospital. They wanted to unplug her life support.

“Honestly, I don’t understand why you still want to keep her here. She was quite a large burden. If I had known she would end up like this, I would have sent her to an orphanage on day 1.” My mother said without looking at me, leaning back in the chair she now occupied. I stared into the devilish eyes of that remorseless beast my mother had become. She really didn’t care about Zoe. Or me. If I were to drop dead then and there, she would have screamed with joy.

My father tugged at the collar of his jacket. “We just feel that,” he said before taking a deep breath, “Zoe won’t be coming back. We’ve kept her here for what, a year now? I, for one, think that it’s time we let go.”

“Let go.’” I mumbled to myself. How could I? Zoe was the only thing I’d ever wanted, even as a little girl. A sister. Someone to play with and talk to when there was no one else. Sure, we had some fights, but she was always there for me when I needed her most. My parents’ insensitivity towards me was infuriating. I was prepared to burn the whole city down if it meant bringing her back, but all that came out of my mouth was a simple “I can’t.”

My mother abruptly got out of her chair and shook me vigorously. She was yelling at me but I heard nothing. All I heard was Zoe. Her voice. My eyes wandered over to her bed, but she was as still as ever. Then I heard her again.

“Let go,” she was saying. I couldn’t, I can’t, I thought. I felt her gentle smile warm my skin.

“You have a life to live. Go on.” But I can’t leave you like this. Each time she encouraged me to move on, I pushed the idea away, even though I knew staying like this was inevitable.

I ran through all that I had left of Zoe. My memories. Her birth. Everyone had called her an angel, that she was the sweetest thing they’d ever seen. Everyone loved her. But mostly me. Her first day of school. She was running around the front yard in her uniform, my old uniform, with her My Little Pony backpack. Chasing butterflies and other things little girls do.

Then there was the accident. I remember it so clearly now. We were on a seaside holiday about a year ago. My family and I. Zoe was standing there, posing in front of the waves on that summer day. Her hair flying through ocean breeze and her smile as bright as the sun as she posed for a photo. Then she began to run, run as she tried to race me across the beach. Then she slipped and hit her head on a rock. That’s honestly quite anticlimactic, I thought grinning slightly through my endless tears of despondency.

Looking at her now, her lifeless body buried under the covers of the hospital blankets, I realized she had had a life, and lived each day to it’s fullest. She had memories, hopes and joy, and me, and that was enough for her. Maybe it could be enough for me too.

“Watch for the cranes, little one,” I whisper, “watch as they bring my love to you.” The daring little girl curled at my feet laughs, showing her gaptooth smile. She has always loved that poem. Like mother, like daughter I suppose. Her name, Kulafir is a constant reminder of who she is. My child and the child of all the guardians of my life. She doesn’t know that, of course. To her, life has been nothing but polluted airways and warnings of dangerous places; a life in the city. She has never known what it is like to breath in history and love, unafraid when night comes.

7 years later from that fateful moment of confronting Jane Watson, the birth of my child was the greatest thing to happen to me. The amount of shame I had felt returning the dead book of my culture back to my village had driven me from my family; Ling Ti and I had returned to the city the day after my grandmother collapsed into anguished tears, claiming the book unfixable. From then on, I had cut all ties with my homelands, wanting my and Ling Ti’s daughter to grow up without the need to please or take care of anyone; to be a child. Our plain grey cemented apartment is all we require, small mementos of our travels sprinkled throughout, pictures of our trio of smiling faces, hers an identical smile to that of her father.

With the rising rays of the sun, this morning marks 8 years since the loss of my treasures; the river and the book. Arising to see that the birds were still chirping, the leaves still the vivid versions of their crimson selves, my feelings felt inadequate. Every year it had been the same low blow, a constant reminder of my peoples had lost, our guiding stars amidst our sea of troubles. The river had failed not long after Ling Ti and I had left; an unwelcome reminder that change was all we had left.

In order to distract myself from the inevitable cloud of grief to visit later in the day, I took Kulafir to the marketplace, still the colourful tangle of organised chaos it had been all those years ago. Ling Ti waved us off with bleary eyes and a tired smile from the warmth of the kitchen window; he had never been one for early morning trips. Kulafir and I weaved, hand in hand, through the remnants of stares left by the drunken politicians of last night, drinking in the first straggling rays of the Sun. The lone dusty tree in the square stilled as we arrive, we are

but two of the many coming to hear the sugary words of the great storyteller Blind Harim. He begins in his usual way: “As far away as the North Wind, and as long ago as forever...” As I listen to the innocent sighs of the children surrounding me, I cannot help but ignore the persistent tapping of a wish coursing through my veins. It is the same sense of wanting I had first felt when I began to write my life onto paper those many years ago; a longing desire to share my own story with the world, rather than just listen to the echoes of old tales.

Kulafir and I returned home shortly after noon, both sticky handed after wolfing down the last of our shared jam donut. Kulafir bounds up the stairs in her usual 5-year-old manner, whilst I take my time, peering out toward the glossy leafed fig tree, standing tall in the breeze. I make my way up toward our attic, shared between us and the solemn family next door. A strong waft of yellowed paper sails out as I unlock the wooden door and begin to pull boxes of shelves in a manic manner. I don’t know exactly what it is I’m looking for, only that something feels right being here. A tightly wrapped parcel of some of Ling Ti’s old poems tumbles out as I sweep my hand toward the back of a cupboard and pull out an old paperback ‘The River People of the Pembar Plains’ written by Jane Watson. This is what I have been looking for.

I must have spent at least 2 hours that night reading, just pouring over the words of that novel. The pictures seemed no less alive than they did that day, my face still stared eerily from the cover page. However, flipping through the pages one last time, I noticed something: “For enquires about this book call 9003 373 425” Reaching for the phone, I was suddenly crippled with dread, though pushing down my jumbled tangle of nerves, I dialled.

Sitting in the office where I had once confronted the woman who had violated my soul, was an odd experience. Drinking the tea she provided for me, even more so. But nevertheless, I still found myself there having a conversation I thought I never would. “First of all, I am so glad you reached out to me, Sim. And before anything, I just wanted to say that I’m sorry. It may have taken me a few years, but I finally realise how much I have done you wrong.” I was quite taken aback by this little spiel.

Remembering Mely’s forgotten words, I whispered “Regret is only a punishment to oneself…” The crease between her eyebrows eases whilst some of the desperation leaves her face. She collapses into a rickety desk chair mumbling “I really am sorry…” I reach across the table and take her reddened hand in my own. “I know you are sorry, Jane. And here is a chance for you to do something about it.” Reaching into my woven woollen shoulder bag, I pull out a rectangular, paper wrapped package. Peeling the outermost layers off the parcel, she almost seems to deflate. “I can’t do this, Sim…” “Then help me to,” I murmur.

Two weeks later Kulafir and I are still curled amongst the cosiness of the kitchen, laughing crazily about Ling Ti’s newest poem. “Tell me a story!” the sparky little girl demands. As our joyful giggles die down, I pull out a new hard cover novel from the bag beside me and begin to read aloud: “A collective account of The River and The Book as written by Simbala Nuum and Jane Watson…” A confused look flashes briefly into her umber eyes. “I didn’t know you had written a story, Mum…” “This is not just a story little one. This is your history. A history of change.”

Nia Jayasinghe Year 7

Alyssa McCormack - Year 8

Prologue:

Astrid Golden was a straight A student. Her parents loved her, better yet they idolised her. She was perfect, when she walked past people stared. She had straight, platinum blonde hair that she kept out, flowing behind her as she walked. She had bright blue eyes that complimented anything she wore, and a herd of people following her everywhere she went, wishing to be her friend. In her parent’s eyes, she was an angel but like everyone else she talked. She liked to start trouble, liked an adrenaline rush and loved to watch movies, which one day wouldn’t turn out too well for her.

A tall, slim man with grey hair, a pointy nose and sharp eyes strode into the room and took a seat on the chair opposite me. His face was stern and melancholy.

“The names Ike. Mike Ike.” He reached out his hand to me as I just stared.

I wasn’t in the mood for polite gestures or friendly introductions, I just wanted to go home, to have a shower so hot the water pained my skin, to have takeaway pizza whilst watching tv, to sink into my bed and sleep for as long as I wanted. But that wouldn’t be the case for at least another month. I couldn’t fall asleep no matter how hard or much I tried. Watching tv made me feel sick, seeing the movie I was watching when it happened on the screen made me want to vomit.

When I didn’t respond he cleared his throat

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awkwardly and drew his hand back.

“Look...” He trailed off suggesting he wants to know my name.

“Tate, my names Tate.” My voice was croaky from crying o much recently.

“Look, Tate I know this must be difficult for you, after all I know your only 14, but I really need to know what happened that night.” He paused, thinking of what to say next, he had to word it to me so carefully so I wouldn’t burst out into tears.

“The family of the victim deserve justice. The killer needs to be caught and I can’t do that if you don’t tell me everything you remember from that night.” He sits, waiting patiently for me to answer, he was in no rush.

And so, I start talking, the words flow out of my mouth, reliving the night. I get shivers up my spine as I get closer and closer to the moment where I must explain seeing the body.

“The movie blasted through the speakers as the universal intro was cued and I sat down with Toby. Only one other person was in the theatre, we sat down a few rows behind them as I pulled out my phone to check the time. 9:18 pm. The movie title came up onto the screen “The spider web”. Eerie music sounded signifying the start of the movie. Right at the most terrifying part I fled to the bathroom to splash my face. I could hear the suspenseful music continuing in the next room when I heard a scream. I didn’t think

anything of it, assuming it was part of the movie and continued to freshen up. When I got back to the theatre, Toby was on his phone and the other person was still in their seat facing away from us. Their head propped back against the headrest. As the movie ended and it was cut to the credits, the lights turned back on. And thinking back to that moment, I really wish they hadn’t...I turned to the side vomit spilling from my mouth as my throat dried up. Toby was frozen in fear, standing speechless with nothing behind his eyes.”

I finish speaking and sink further in my chair. Hearing it come out of my own mouth had just made the whole thing more real.

Mike sat, expressionless, thinking about what I had said. After a few minutes he spoke up.

“Tate, you’re free to go for now.”

I walked out the room my mind numb, my body senseless. I went home, straight to bed and just like the night before I got no sleep.

The next day was absolute chaos, I was brought back to the police station questioned by Mike once again.

“Nice to see you again, Tate.”

What a bunch of rubbish. It wasn’t nice for him to see me again at all. It meant that the investigation was going nowhere, that I was a main suspect, that the victim’s family hadn’t gotten justice, that a killer is still on the loose.

“Her name was Astrid.”

I looked up at him, “What?”

I knew what he said I just needed to hear it again to confirm.

“Her name...was Astrid.”

I sat there, completely still. I took in a deep breath and composed my thoughts.

“How old was she?”

“17.”

Another deep breath, holding back tears.

“Mike, I’m telling you now and only now. I did not kill Astrid.”

I left the room walking out to the exit where in the waiting room, I saw Toby. I froze in place, staring at him. He quickly walked up to me reaching to hug me, but I stepped back. He dropped his arms, “You don’t think it was me, do you?”

I didn’t know how to respond so I just stayed quiet, head down towards the floor.

“Wow...” He moved back to his chair, practically falling on it.

I was still stood there, staring at the floor, a tear fell down my cheek. One more deep breath, in...out. Then I turned back, striding

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towards Mikes office. I burst into the room, Mike was still slumped in his chair, and I moved to the other side of his desk. I stayed standing and in the most confident, steady voice I could muster I said,

“I never left to go to the bathroom during the movie.”

Contrary to her parent’s belief, Astrid didn’t have a perfect record. There was a single incident that would lead to Astrid arguing with someone who was bold and smart enough to commit a murder and get away with it. Harper Brown. A notorious track record of shoplifting, break ins and most significantly, holding grudges. Crimes would seem like the worst thing that a person could commit but in Astrids case a grudge held by Harper could cost her, her life.

It was a Friday night and Astrid was out in the city. She came across a perfect alleyway for her to vandalise, so she got out her paint and started spraying. Astrid never knew why she did this, but it gave her an adrenaline rush that no one else understood. As she was painting, a dark figure approached her. Astrid hadn’t noticed them and went on spraying but what she didn’t realise was that this person watched her vandalise shops and street art for the rest of the night. The thing that pushed this person over the edge was that all the art that Astrid vandalised was theirs. So as Astrid went to spray over the last and best artwork the hooded figure stepped out of the shadows and spoke,

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.”

Astrid paused but then went on painting. The hooded figure stepped closer and repeated,

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you.” Their voice was menacing.

And when Astrid went on spraying the figure pulled her hands behind her back and dragged them to another alleyway.

They let go of Astrid and took off their hood. Harper Brown.

Once more, Harper repeated in the most threatening way possible

“I would stop it if I was you.”

That’s when Astrid threw a spray bottle at Harper and sprinted off into the heart of the city where it would be impossible for Harper to find her.

All the art Astrid had ruined took Harper hours and hours each to paint so as Harper laid in bed that night a plan formulated in her head. Not just any plan, but a plan on how she would kill Astrid Golden.

Mike was calm. His eyebrows raised but still, he was calm.

“Have a seat, Tate.”

I sat down reluctantly and shuffled in my seat.

“I know that you did not kill Astrid, Tate, so please tell me why you would lie about leaving

the theatre when Astrid was killed?”

Mike looked at me, his voice was reassuring.

“How do you know that I didn’t kill Astrid?” I asked.

I was a nervous wreck, fidgeting and pulling at my hair. Shifting in my seat and my hands sweaty.

Mike smiled.

“Because Tate, when you’re in the force as long as I have been, you know whose innocent. Now answer my question.”

I told Mike everything from when I arrived at the theatre to when I went home that night.

“Before the movie started Toby had gone to the bathroom so I lined up at the candy bar. It was a long line, so it took me a while to get to the counter. And just as I was about to order, Astrid cut in front of me, which is obviously irritating, so I told her to go to the back of the line. Obviously being 17 and all she didn’t like tha-”

“Sorry to interrupt but what time was this around?” Mike interrupted.

“Um...like 9:10.”

My voice was shaky, and I was so obviously unsure of what had happened but still, Mike believed me.

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“So, we got into an argument, Astrid started screaming at me, and a lot of people were watching but I caved and let her go in front...”

I realised how bad of a person I sounded like once I had said that to Mike, making such a big deal out of it but I continued,

“By then it was around 9:15.”

I stopped. Mike was looking down deep in thought. Then finally he spoke up,

“Let me get this straight, you got into an argument at the candy bar with several witnesses, so you lied about going to the bathroom...why?”

“Well, I thought that if there were several witnesses and a murder happened the same night that we got into an argument I would be accused of killing Astrid...”

“Ok, thank you Tate you’re free to go.”

Harper trotted through the large crowd, blending in as they walked by and slipped into the projector room. She waited 1 hour until the most climatic part of the horror movie to shoot Astrid with her silent gun in the back of the head, instantly killing her.

The last words that Astrid would ever hear were the voices of movie characters begging for their lives, something Astrid didn’t have a chance to do,

“DON’T DO IT, PLEASE!”

I got a call from the police station, I reluctantly answered as I heard Mikes voice.

“Tate, we did it we cracked the case, come to the station!”

I eagerly but melancholily walked into the police station straight to Mikes office. Toby was sitting down on the opposite side of the desk of Mike, we made eye contact as I mouthed the words,

“I never said I thought it was you.”

He sadly smiled as a sign of forgiveness, and I sat down next to him to listen to Mike.

“The results from the autopsy came through today...Astrid was shot in the back of the head. Now we already knew this, but we were told at what angle she was shot, and that the shot would have been coming from the projector room meaning both of you couldn’t have possibly been the murderer. We rechecked the security cameras for the hallway next to the projector room and we saw someone slip into the room at 8:30...they came back out at 10:30...”

No-one spoke. Mike, silent. Toby, silent. I finally pitched up,

“So, who was it?”

Mike turned his computer to us. A girl with short brown curly hair and green eyes. She was rather beautiful but still she was a

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murderer. He told us their name. Harper Brown. He told us she had been caught by the police earlier this day. I smiled empathetically at Mike and walked out of the room; I needed a breath of fresh air. I left the police station and got in my car.

As I drove to the beach, I thought back to Astrid. I remember our argument at the candy bar, her blonde long hair flowing behind her as she walked and how she spoke. I felt a weight lifted off my shoulders, Astrids death was not my fault, the family got justice and Astrid...well...never vandalise street art, I guess.

The beach was perfect, the salty fresh air, the sounds of the waves crashing, children’s laughter. It was all so peaceful. That night I got a good night’s sleep for the first time in a week. Astrid was a troublemaker, but she was still a person and people don’t deserve to be murdered in a movie theatre whilst trying to watch “The Spider Web”. I guess Harper takes her art pretty seriously.

Julia Stefanatos Year 8

Airports are my least favourite place. Mainly because of the planes. I hate flying. I collected my bags and hurried out of the stuffy airport into the cool outside. Was Paris always this cold? When I accepted the job offer to move here, I was elated. I would be living in Paris, the city of love, happiness, and joy! I called a Taxi and began to wait. After 45 minutes, I felt a tap on my shoulder. I turned around and saw a woman in a long red coat and beret.

“Hello, I just couldn’t help but notice that you’ve been waiting here for a while. Traffic can be very bad around New Years.” she spoke.

“Oh, that would explain it.” I exclaimed.

“Are you staying at a hotel or with family?” she asked.

“Hotel Montaigne! It’s supposed to have great views of The Eiffel Tower.”

The girl laughed. “Hotel Montaigne is only two blocks away. Can I walk you over?”

“Yes please! I hope it’s not an inconvenience.”

“It would be my pleasure.”

As we walked over to the hotel, I learned that her name was Eloise and she was from Los Angeles, just like me. She moved here for a ‘change of scenery’ and to become an author.

When we reached the hotel, she handed me a book from her handbag.

“Here is a book I’ve written. I hope you enjoy it”.

Insistently, she put the book in my hands.

“Thank you.” I smiled reluctantly.

I said “goodbye”, picked up my bags and walked inside the hotel.

Zoè and Lily were the best of friends, ever since they were 7. They went to the same school, had the same friends, were in the same class and even liked the same boys. They were inseparable, that is until Charlotte came. She was pretty and popular. Zoè could feel Lily

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getting pulled away from her more and more every day. She barely saw her anymore at school. Lily ate with Charlotte, sat with Charlotte in class and never talked to Zoè. It was like Zoè didn’t exist. Years…

I slammed the book shut. How strange, the main character had my name. Come to think of it, I used to have a friend named Zoè...no. I don’t think I did. Or maybe I did… Never mind. I had to go to work! I grabbed my keys and walked out the door to the nearest tram stop. More of a chance to read the book.

…went past, and their friendship became a distant memory. Zoè would see Lily in the hallways, but paid her no attention. Zoè was no longer a part of Lily’s life, until the accident.

My tram stopped and I closed the book. What accident? I quickly opened it again before I started work.

On the 7th of January 2022, Lily’s face was seen plastered over all the news. Zoè was consumed by thoughts of Lily. She haunted Zoè’s dreams. Zoè knew something no one else did.

My first day at the job went... well? I can’t tell. I was ignored and generally avoided. Maybe it was because of my poor french? I returned to the hotel and opened the balcony door to sit down with a cup of coffee and the book.

Zoè was there walking her dog the night it happened. She couldn’t get the images out of her head. Lily’s clean pink car, crashing into a tree and tumbling into the darkness. It happened on Zoè’s street, Elgow Grove, 3 blocks from Lily’s house. She witnessed the accident, she looked down the embankment and saw Lily crawling out of the car crying for help. But Zoè ignored her and kept walking. She saw Lily’s license plate on the road and picked it up. The next day Lily’s death was reported in the news. Zoè felt like a monster for not helping Lily, but at the same time, she felt like she couldn’t. The licence plate haunted Zoè.

This was getting creepy. I put the book down and backed away from it.

How did Eloise know my name? How did she know that I drove a pink car, and lived near Elgow Grove? I was freaking out. I couldn’t read anymore, but at the same time, I had to.

The plate resided in Zoè’s closet for 2 weeks until she couldn’t bear it anymore. She had to leave. Get rid of the plate and leave the town. Everywhere she looked she saw Lily. Lily was in every thought, and she couldn’t have that anymore. Zoè told her parents she was going to Paris for a ‘break’ and urgently she was on a plane, with the plate buried in her suitcase. On the plane, she compiled all her feelings into a book. She needed to leave her past behind. In Paris, she disposed of the plate in the garbage outside her apartment and went for a walk. She needed to relax now that everything was gone. But not yet. The book wasn’t gone. She spotted a girl outside the airport and started talking. Before she left, she gave the girl her book. As soon as it left her hand, Zoè felt an enormous weight lift off her.

What. Was. Happening? The names: Lily. Zoè. Elgow Grove. I was given a book by a person who came to Paris just like in the book. I had to go back. I put the book in my handbag, flagged a taxi to take me to the airport. I caught a last-minute flight to Los Angeles. Was I crazy, and everything in the book was just a very accurate coincidence? I felt compelled to go home.

We landed and I hurried off the plane and out of the airport. I caught a tram to my house and rang the doorbell. No one answered, so I grabbed my key out of my purse and twisted it in the lock. Huh. It wouldn’t open. Had they changed the locks? I had only been gone for 2 weeks. I decided to go to Zoè’s house. Maybe she could help me figure out what was going on. I rang the doorbell, and her mum answered it. she looked past me quizzingly.

“Hello,” she said.

“Who’s there? Zoè is that you?”

She must not have recognised me.

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“Hi, I’m a friend of Zoe’s from... high school. Have you seen her recently?” She didn’t answer.

I heard a voice from inside the house “Hasn’t Zoè just left for Paris?”

Paris? What was going on? I ran as fast as I could until I got to the corner of Elgow Grove. On the side of the road was a tree with a little memorial, with crosses, flowers, candles photographs and messages of someone who I couldn’t make out. I bent down and gasped. There were photographs of me and my friends and messages saying how much I was missed. Was I... dead? No. I wasn’t dead. The memorial said the 7th of January 2022 - 2 weeks ago! I was still very much alive!

Distraught I stumbled to the local cemetery. I froze, there were my parents, putting flowers on a grave.

“Mum? Dad?” I trembled. They didn’t notice or hear me. They stepped back from the grave.

My heart dropped.

In Loving Memory of Lily Victoria Morgan 1996-2022

3 days later.

The garbage truck pulled up at 7:30 am. A man in a blue uniform hopped out and grabbed a trash bag from the dumpster in front of Zoè Eloise Lynch’s apartment. He didn’t even notice a Los Angeles licence plate fall out of a small tear on the bottom of the bag.

Matilda Hodge

Year 8

The Sunrise and Sunset

Every day for the past seven years I watch the sunrise. Every morning I get up out of my bed and run to the shore and watch. Every day I walk through the sand barefoot, feeling the sand between my toes. I sit down right by the shore, feeling the waves rushing up and down against my feet. Just as the sun has almost completely risen, I walk back to my home, taking one last glance into the distance before opening door and going inside.

It had been one year since the car accident, and I was still trying to process everything that happened. A year ago, my life was going smoothly. I had the two most amazing parents that I adored with all my heart. Every day was a new adventure, we’d go to restaurants together, get ice cream together, go to the beach together and many more fun things. Sadly, all these things are now only memories. But that’s life I guess, one moment you’re having the time of your life, and then the next thing you know, everything goes downhill. But at least I still have some things in my life that are good. I have my home, my car and recently I got a dog at the local pet shelter. I wasn’t sure what to name him for a week, but I soon found out how mischievous he was, always taking my stuff and hiding it somewhere I won’t find it. So, I decided to name him Loki. Three weeks ago, he stole my car keys. Whenever we wanted to go somewhere we had to walk, which is probably why he stole them in the first place. Luckily, I found them a week ago buried somewhere in the garden.

Every night for the past seven years I watch the sunset. Every night I walk down to the seashore to watch. I wait and wait. Hoping that something will happen. But it never does. Yet I still sit there staring out into the distance. Breathing in the fresh air as the wind blows through my hair. The only noise that is present is the sound of the wind and my breathing. As the sun completely sets and the moon has risen, I walk back to my home, taking one last glance at the night sky before I go inside.

Today I decided to finally clean my room I’ve been meaning to clean for a long time now. The last time I remember cleaning it was before my parents had died. I’ve been putting it off ever since.

Perhaps it’s because I was scared that if I cleaned my room, I would be getting rid of all the memories.

Just as I was sorting through a drawer of old stuff, I came across a photo frame. Inside was a family photo of me, my mum, dad and my sister, Iris. I was about five in that photo and my sister was nine. We were wearing these beautiful matching dresses the colours of the sunrise and sunset. Tears began to rapidly rush down my cheeks. It had been seven years since my sister had mysteriously disappeared one night. For years my family searched for her, but there were no traces to where she had gone.

I can still remember the last day I saw my family. I was fourteen at the time and we were going out to a fancy restaurant at the beach to have dinner with some family friends. My sister and I were at another table talking about how we were going to buy a house when we were older, right by the beach and live in it together until we got old. After dinner we were walking back to the car, when I saw something sparkle in ocean. Without telling anyone I went to investigate it. I walked into the ocean and tried to pick it up from the sand. I don’t remember much after that, except that the last thing I saw was a massive wave was rushing towards me. The next day I woke up on the shore somewhere new, not knowing where I was or how to get back to my family. To this day I am still trying to find them, and I will never give up.

Ever since I found that photo I have been really upset, so today I decided I’d go to the beach to clear my mind. I was walking across the beach playing catch with Loki. I threw the ball far away and he raced after it like a lightning bolt. The ball landed in the water, and he went to pick it up. He was taking longer than usual to get it so I walked over to him and asked, “Loki what’s the matter can you not find the ball.” I looked down into the water to see if I could find it but instead, I spotted something shiny poking out of the sand. I went to pick it up and as I pulled it out, I realized that it was a glass bottle, with a note inside it. Curious, I opened the lid, took out the note, and read it. I was amazed to see what was written on it. It was a letter from Iris! She had written that she was on an Island somewhere and that she prayed that I would get

the message one day and come to her. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Was it possible? Iris is still alive!? I had to find out for sure.

The next day I took the ferry to the nearest Island. I searched the whole day until I looked out the window of my car and spotted this one house right by the beach. It looked exactly like the house that Iris and I had dreamed of having as a kid. I walked up to the house with Loki by my side and took a deep breath. After all these years is it really possible that behind this door is my lost sister? I took another deep breath and then I knocked at the door. I waited a few seconds for a reply, but none came. I knocked again and still, no answer. Disappointed, I figured that it mustn’t have been her house. The sun was starting to set, and we were just about to hop back in the car, when I saw a familiar woman sitting on the sand right by the shore. I walked up to her and as I got closer, I realized that it was Iris. For a few moments I just stood there and stared in disbelief. She turned her head around to see me staring at her. Straight away she leapt up from the ground and she ran up to me and hugged me. “Ivory, it’s really you. You found me! I’ve been waiting for this day ever since I washed up at this Island.” She said while happy tears formed in her eyes. I told her about what happened to our parents a year ago and she burst out crying into my shoulder.

The next few days I organized for all my stuff to be taken to Iris’ house. I set up all my stuff in the spare room and of course, a special place for Loki and his stuff as well. The next few months we caught up a lot with each other and everything finally felt like home again.

Every day we sit on the veranda and watch the sunrise, and every night we sit and watch the sunset. It looks like we did get the dream we hoped for after all.

O’Brien

Ruby

The Woman I Never Knew

Today my parents told me that we are moving halfway across the country to go live with a grandmother who I last saw when I was three. My father barely even talks with her and now my parents have decided that we are going to live with her, in some random small town, seriously have they gone mad? Don’t they even care that that I’m leaving behind all my friends, I’ll be joining a new school where I know absolutely no one, and worst of all I won’t get to do life with my best friend Milly by my side! I know she has Dementia, but can’t I just go and live with Milly’s family; they are more like family to me than some stranger Grandma Lina. Besides I have worked so hard for so many years to get the lead role in swan lake, ballet is my life and now I’m going to have to give my lead away, all because we are leaving next week.

Stepping through the dull red front door I’m overwhelmed by the smell of honey, and what I can only describe as the smell of an old vintage store. I look around the living area and notice cupboards full of antique China sets, and what looks like dried bouquets of flowers. Everything was dull, like I had stepped into an old photograph, hues of deep red, brown and cream. Mum told me to go upstairs and find my room, which had been somewhat updated by grandmothers’ carers. It was not to my taste at all, but it was better than the rest of the house. The view over the fields was pretty, purple and white flowers dotting out amongst oak trees, but it wasn’t LA. I felt sick to my stomach, I missed my old home, and I really just missed my California life.

The next few days I spent exploring the house, as there was no internet connection, and the phone signal wasn’t too great either. The attic was a little scary, as there wasn’t much natural light or air in fact, and I’m sure I had just seen the largest spider expanding its already massive web in the corner. The room was full of things, all of which were covered in a thick layer of dust. There were a lot of newspapers in a language I didn’t recognise; boxes of autographed programmes and photographs. In one corner was a full-length mirror, and ornate furniture and hidden in a chest I found a few journals with the initials GSM. I opened the first page only to see more of the same foreign language, Галина Серге́евна Мéзенцева was all that was on the first page along with the date 1973. I flipped through very carefully and it was full of the most beautiful cursive

writing I had ever seen, and it was in English! I decide to start reading from the beginning of the journal, hoping to pass some time.

“Even after these many years I don’t believe that I am this lucky to have my dream life. Every day I am doing much hours of hard work but I am loving it. Mother had always spoken these words to me as a young children and even now many time later I am still remember them “GlaZAH baYATsa, a RUki DYElayut” These words go an on around my head before I go on stage, I hear the people the music and the feel in the air, it is so excitement for me. I know this like I know to walk but sometimes there is a little scary. I do quick eyes closed and big breath say GlaZAH baYATsa, a RUki DYElayut again and more times.”

The English wasn’t very good, but I got the just of it. Who was this person and what did GlaZAH baYATsa, a RUki DYElayut mean? What stage were they talking about? Maybe they were an actor, or a musician, ooh maybe even a famous one! I grabbed the book and took it downstairs, searching for a much more comfortable place to sit and read, and one that wasn’t so dusty and didn’t smell so stale.

“Abigail, come down for dinner please,” I hear my father yelling from downstairs. I shovelled my food down quickly, so that I could get back to reading the journal.

“Abigail how are you settling in honey, I know you were feeling unsure about the move, but you seem to be coping well with this,” my father says kindly.

“I still miss my friends very much, but I miss the ballet studio even more. Other than that, I love it here! My room is perfect and has heaps of room to decorate, I hope Milly can visit these holidays to help accessorise my room.” I explain

“Oh that’s wonderful honey, I’m so pleased that you’re loving it here. Have you found some ways to keep busy while the internet is getting fixed, I’m surprised you have lasted this long without your phone” my father jokes.

“How could I forget to tell you! I was exploring the attic and found some old journals that are half written in this foreign language, and what is written in English is very funny to read. I’m not sure who the journal belongs to, but it’s one of the most interesting books I have read in a while.” I say.

“That’s wonderful Abi, just don’t go making a big mess, your mother and I have so much to take care of already.”

I bolted back onto the couch and continued reading the journal. “This day my feet is sore, I have done many hours of the practicing and now I must meet Nadia, she is help me to learn best English so I can speak with better people. Nadia say that my English is good and we must go by cinema and listen to American accent, so when I am izvestnyy I can make good speaking and talking.”

It had been over two weeks living with grandma and I had only seen her twice, she never really got out of her bed. The good news was that we had finally re-joined the modern world, and I could use google again. I just had to know what those funny words meant, maybe it would help me figure out who GSM was. “The eyes are afraid, but the hands are still doing it” was the direct translation, meaning “Feel the fear and do it anyway!” Wow I loved this saying, this was often how I felt before a big performance, so it really resonated with me. If I looked at the crowd before the performance, then the nerves would start to set in, but then my body almost takes over, as if on autopilot and then I am simply lost in the dance. I googled the words from the first page of the journal, it was a Russian name, Galina Sergeyevna Mezentseva, she was the principal dancer at the Kirov/Mariinsky Ballet, for almost 20 years. I froze, I literally had no words, time seemed to stop while my brain went a million miles an hour. Galina Sergeyevna Mezentseva was MY grandma Lina. How did I not know this! Why didn’t either of my parents ever mention this to me before, how could they keep this from me.

I sprinted outside yelling at the top of my lungs for either of them to hear me. I found mum first and it took me a second to catch my breath before I was able to appropriately express my frustration at not being told who Lina was.

“Mum how could you not tell me that the women lying in bed upstairs is a world-famous ballerina”, I yell.

“Abigail Martins calm down right this minute. Dad had his reasons for not telling you, mainly because he wasn’t very close to his mother. Grandma Lina left your father for his aunt to raise him, all to focus on ballet.” my mother explains.

“I still can’t believe that you wouldn’t tell me, now my own grandmother doesn’t have a clue who I am.” I exclaim.

I run back into the house in a huff and grab my phone. I type in a song that I remember my grandma talking about into the journal titled Spartacus. I performed for her, and she beamed as I attempted my best devant and la seconde around the room. All this time I had the best teacher in the world, and I never knew, I felt robbed. All I had now was her journals, I would learn as much as I could about her and hopefully carry on her legacy.

Ava Kirkwood

Sophie Ang - Year 9

The flight attendants drifted along the isles, dragging large drink carts behind them. They would first ask in Finnish, haluaisitko drinkin? They would ask again in English Would you like a drink? or another distant language, followed by the list of drinks, tea, coffee, alcohol, water, or juice. When the cart pulled up to our aisle, I chose juice, the attendant handed me a cup filled with juice the colour of deep indigo. I took a tentative sip, thick, sweet flavours filled my mouth, a sudden tartness quickly cut through syrup. Images flashed through my mind of icy cold cordial by the pool, only this was different, fresher, simpler.

Thick layers of snow carpeted every surface, trees bent over in a sombre manner, their branches weighed down by pillow soft powder.

The igloo village was bright and clear, the remaining shards of sunlight bounced off the thick glass shells.

The cold air was almost calming as the soft breeze, kissed any visible skin beneath our layers. As we entered the igloo, the heat trapped inside, forced sweat to bead on my forehead. Two worlds, a sheet of glass separating them, created a ridiculous juxtaposition. Although that night was spent on the couch, my sleep was filled with a blissful quiet as the stars lazily twinkled and danced above me, uninterrupted by the light and noise of non-existent nearby cities.

The strange juice that had been served on the plane was displayed in large, glass

A New and Unfamiliar Place

canisters around the breakfast room. Small labels told me it was blueberry juice, I was taken aback by this label, I hated blueberries, and yet they made the most amazing juice I have ever tasted. The buffet was filled with foods I did not recognise, so I settled on a piece of toast with the trademark mini packet of vegemite. As I sat down at the table, I saw the sun beginning to rise over the horizon, it was almost 11 o’clock and the sun had only just decided to begin it’s day. The sky was instantly filled with the usual hues of pink and purple, but as the sun grew higher, crisp hints of blue and green pierced through the pink and almost instantly created the same level of calm that had been created in the night.

Our first trip out included a trip to the nearby ‘snow village’ and hotel. All structures were made with traditional Sami methods, some were built from trees branches and blanketed in snow, others were entirely built from ice. The structures were so simple and ancient, yet practical and beautiful. Coloured LED lights had been places behind thinner layers of ice, illuminating the walls of the cosy interiors. In the centre of the hotel was a large room with a long elegantly winding slide against the back wall, built entirely of ice. The surface was cool and damp, through my layers of snow clothing. The slight breeze created by me flying down the slide brushed over my face, calming my senses. Although the slide indicated it was for kids only, my parents had a go. Coins fell out of my dad’s jeans and fused to the surface of the slide. The next room along served warm chowder in traditional

Sami kuksa, the thick broth filled my body with extra warmth and strength to continue our expedition through the village.

My first glimpse of Levi sent shockwaves of a strange calm and happiness through my mind, mounds of light powdery snow lined the streets, locals quietly milled about the streets in their layers of clothing, speaking to each other in the rolling lilt of the Finnish language.

Behind the town sat a large mountain side, dotted with small fences and poles, ski-lifts lined both sides of the run. A smaller ski run below the mountain was filled with tiny children, slipping, and sliding in their huge skis. A large map showed the spread of different ski runs available in Levi and nearby towns. A huge ski centre was nestled in between the central sprawl of the town and the mountain, a massive hotel sat at the top of the mountain, slightly off to one side, our hotel.

The hotel was huge but deliciously warm, a small information board in the corner of the room told me it was currently 20 degrees inside and -20 degrees outside.

Our room was on the 5th floor and overlooked the snowy driveway, just past a large igloo I spotted a paddock with horselike creatures milling about, I never thought reindeers existed past Christmas jingles and kids’ books.

On our way out of the hotel, a woman at reception handed us a large bag of foul-

A New and Unfamiliar Place

smelling mossy stuff (lichen), to feed the reindeers with. My mum told me then and still tells me now that I positively embodied the definition of pure happiness and excitement that day.

In the days following I couldn’t wait to venture outside, explore the town, go tobogganing, maybe even skiing. I felt myself feel strangely comfortable and safe in that environment, the land radiated calm and quiet while locals happily clunked along the streets in their layers of clothing, laughter erupted from every pub and restaurant.

A small hut sat on the side of a tobogganing hill, families and people streamed in, hoping to melt the frost off their fingers and toes, kettles full of mixed juices sat heating above the fire. Cups were handed around to anyone entering, beckoning for them to heal their bodies with warm juice. Some locals even pulled sausages out of jacket pockets and began roasting them over the fire.

The tiny cottage was filled with the sounds of the fire crackling, sausages sizzling, people sipping warm juice and quietly muttering amongst themselves. The simplicity of it made me feel so welcome and loved by strangers, I never wanted to leave.

On our last night in Levi, we all had dinner together in a small pub on the edge of town. We ordered the Finnish special, not checking to see what that included. The entrée consisted of an arancini ball topped with

shredded slow cooked black bear. Although the serving of black bear was small, the flavours were incredibly rich and deep. Our two main courses included a reindeer steak and traditionally smoked salmon. Both dishes sent my taste buds into a state of euphoria. Each dish was so incredibly simple, and yet unique and full of flavour.

We left the next day to head back to Helsinki, a deep hollow feeling filled my chest as I stuffed my layers of clothing back into the suitcase. My backpack contained only the two physical souvenirs I chose to take, a book about Sami religion and a small Piste map. The drive back into Kittila airport was dark and solemn, the only thing that kept me from jumping out of the car was a small kernel of hope, a hope that I would remember this place and return sometime in the future.

Now, a small Piste map and Sami book stare at me, they tell me to keep going, that I will return someday soon.

Brown Year 9

Zoe

Control

Ah. The ‘good old days’ of primary school. I was barely tall enough to steal the chocolates in the pantry that were strategically placed just out of reach for my short, stubby, seven-year-old arms. The ‘no hat, no play’ rule was enforced as the sweltering sunshine beat down on our skin, and days were wasted playing tiggy with the other children or reading by myself in the library.

My overriding concern at that age was figuring out how to smuggle in loom bands into my formidable teachers’ classroom whilst sustaining my ‘studious’ student façade (look at me being so rebellious and two-faced). Lunchtimes were spent flipping page after page of the ‘diary of a wimpy kid’ series, fangirling over ‘Crystal the snow fairy’ (Rainbow Magic), blissfully unaware, but happy. I didn’t have to think, or worry, or think.

I’ve had a myriad of ‘highs’ and ‘lows’ on the ‘miraculous’ rollercoaster that is life. Reminiscing on playground ‘lows’ brings me back to tiggy.

It was intense competition. I wasn’t exactly a ‘people person’, but the few times I did join in, it induced profane language (including bouts of ‘shut up’ and ‘damn it’) and brawls. Combine all this with kids racing at their top speeds. What could possibly go wrong?

One recess, I was playing tiggy with my feet moving determinedly of their own accord, seizing control of me. I tumbled down the concrete stairs, in a front-rolling fashion and ended up grazing my entire front shin. Saying it did not look good was an understatement. One of the teachers in the highvis vests, sent me to the nurse’s office to apply one of those big band aids. Seeing the patches of red blooming from my shin, I prepared to start the waterworks. That’s when the teacher attempted to comfort me, praising ‘how brave and grown-up I was for not crying’. I swallowed my tears before they ran down my face.

Tears were not shed in the playground alone, but the classroom as well. In maths, we were split into four different groups. There were the rectangles, triangles, squares, and circles.

“Everyone, it doesn’t matter what group you’re in, as long as you improve!” My teacher would stand up, hoping to instil these important morals from a young age.

However, even as a seven-year-old, this motto was lost on me. Despite being told repeatedly there was no ‘good’ group, and ‘everyone learns at different paces’, there was an unwritten language. We all knew those heralded positions of the shape hierarchy.

Pressures mounted on top of me. I was desperate to be the best, but always fell short of the coveted ‘rectangle’ group. Much to my excitement, after months of diligent hard work (as diligent as a seven-year-old can be), I was finally upgraded to the ‘rectangles’. My heart swelled with pride as I read how the names on the board were rearranged, and immediately my adrenalin began pumping.

Finally, it was my chance to prove myself! Scraping my chair across the carpet, I sat down in my seat. A worded problem. I could do this. My eyes flew through the worded problems, taking up key words. But it didn’t make sense. Determined, I glared at the window, trying to reset my brain. I couldn’t reveal to my teacher my incompetence and forfeit my ‘rectangle’ title. I couldn’t show everyone how dumb, and stupid, and worthless I was. Just picturing myself in the ‘square’ group once again was enough to induce tears in my eyes, which flew down, cooling my cheeks. I was excused from doing my work. Immense relief overcame me, but it was soon shrouded with shame, having cried in front of my classmates. Ingrained in me was what

Control

that yard-duty teacher implied all those lunchtimes ago. I had connected the dots. If choking back tears was admirable, allowing them to fall was simply pathetic.

At those moments, being treated by a teacher and having my back rubbed by a fellow math-hating student willing to take pity on me (thanks Janelle), I thought crying meant a person was weak, and since I cried, I was weak too. Seeing crying as weak created problems for me. I would see others with tears splashing down their cheeks and brand them as well.

The first time I saw mum cry was after my cousin’s birthday party. 9 years old. Sitting in the car, mum choked out news about my dad ‘taking a break from us’ for a while. Minah and I looked at each other, having the same thoughts. He’ll come back to live with us after a while. It was a ‘break’. We would be the best children ever and make him need to come back and raise us in our house.

What we didn’t realise back then was that it wasn’t ‘just a break’. Sure, we would see him, but we wouldn’t live under the same roof forever. We didn’t understand anything, because we weren’t told anything, benighted as we were. We thought it was nothing. All I saw from my end was my mum, the strong woman who migrated and learnt a new language for her children, shedding tears over such an insignificance. It made me squirm in my seat. How could a figure of authority so prominent in my life be so vulnerable?

My mum doesn’t ‘filter’ news anymore.

Just the other day, I arrived home after a long day of school. I was already exhausted, and mum looked depleted as well. Driving me home in the darkness, when the sun had already set, she asked me how my day was. I rested my head against the comforting coolness of the car window and responded with ‘good’ and ‘fine’; my mind was wandering elsewhere. I wore her down with my lack of response and we continued the drive, in dead silence.

As I dragged myself through the door, I dumped my bag apathetically on a chair. There was something wrong. I set on me then; it was deafeningly silent. I glanced back at my mother. The darkness of the night was reflected on her face.

“Where’s Minah? Minah?” I called my sister up the stairs, letting my voice rattle through the hallway, piercing the silence.

“Lady?” I summoned my adorable, cute, endearing dog, thinking it was strange that she didn’t rush to greet me as usual.

“Where’s Lady?”

‘Minah must be hiding her’, was my first thought. I turned to my mother, almost smiling, waiting for her to reveal the punchline of the joke. The dark shadows of the moon were reflected in her eyes, exacerbating the morose appearance in her face. Eyebags hung under her eyes, highlighting her pale skin. She was exhausted. My sister came down the stairs, eyes swollen, and her face, the identical macabre tone as mum.

‘Hannah. I’ve got some sad news. About Lady.’ She made direct eye-contact and delivered the sobering verdict.

Control

I’ve heard my mum cry surreptitiously many times, often behind closed doors, when I needed to get water or visit the bathroom at 3 am in the morning. I have seen her cry in front of me and my sister precisely three times in my 15 years of living. This was astronomical. But unlike other times, her crying didn’t make me feel unsettled or awkward, willing myself to look away from her, and shove my hands deep into my pockets.

I grasped my hands firmly around my mum, and pulled her in, tightening my grip, as tears fell silently from her face. ‘Are you okay?’ I asked. Her arms wrapped around me even tighter, almost desperate. In our embrace, I could feel the tension in her arms being released.

It made me realise how old I was.

Younger me thought ‘crying was weak’. Younger me shed tears over trivial things like maths problems. Younger me was sheltered from harsh realities. Younger me was unable to comfort mum’s tears. Most of all, younger me didn’t realise how ephemeral life is. I didn’t believe it’s possible for the people you love to exit that suddenly.

Lady grew up with me, from 9 to 15, and when she passed, a part of my childhood did too. We got her after my dad moved out, so the house wouldn’t be so quiet anymore. Now there was no barking or jumping greeting me every day after school. Every night she stole my favourite U-shaped pillow, which still reeks nostalgically of dog. In the house, the constant reminder of her death- silence- rings in my ears.

It was too sudden. No cause, perfectly healthy, and only 8. She was supposed to live. We cancelled her haircut on the coming Saturday, not giving the hairdresser a reason. When I opened the fridge the next morning, I was met with a half-eaten dog-food packet. Heartworm tablets we bought in bulk for the next two years were left on the table, unused.

Life is unpredictable. And we can’t control it. Any of it.

Hannah Tjangdjaja Year 9

Melting Pot

There is a feast laid out for the ancestors. Bowls of jasmine rice, sticky rice, and purple rice. There is a steaming bowl of thịt kho, my bà nội’s specialty. I have never tasted pork so dry, and it’s a stew. My Uncle Daniel has bought a plate of dumplings. They’re Chinese. He’s Australian, anyway. A candy bowl is filled with a mismatch of sweets Bà Nội has accumulated over the years. It’s my recommendation to not eat them. My cousin, James had once found a chocolate bar that had been discontinued for 20 years. He sold it on eBay. There is also a plate of kangaroo stew, my grandmother’s new favoured meat dish. In the corner, there is a can of condensed milk, a jar of instant coffee, and a croissant on a plastic plate; in memory of my grandfather. Every morning my ông noi had a bowl of coffee and a croissant, the French way. It probably contributed to his demise.

Bà Nội finishes her prayers. After Tata Toots, it was my father’s turn. It’s three short bows, four long, three short. In the long bows, my brother’s head touches his knees and his clasped hands brush the floor. We’re Catholic. We’re not supposed to believe in reincarnation or ghosts. My mum does.

After the offerings, it’s time for the feast of the living. The adults bring the food from the offerings to the dining table. The scent of incense clings to them. Before my cousins and I leave the study (that is currently serving as an altar) our grandma beckons to us. She hands my older cousin a bag of Coles brand easter eggs.

“A treat for all of you.”

“Cảm ơn Bà Nội.” We nod in unison. It’s July. Easter was three months ago. There’s not enough room at the adults’ table so my cousins and I sit at the “kids’ table”. James is 24 years old and still hasn’t been promoted to the adults’ table. Meanwhile, Jenny, aged four swings her leg from an actual chair. The couch is higher than the coffee table. With each bite I take, I have to lean down and over my knees. Eventually, I give up and sit

on the floor. My cousins and brother follow. James can’t fit in the gap.

“James, ah sit down. You might break the bowl.”

He raises his hands. And drops the bowl. The ball of xôi rolls out. The bowl bounces. James picks it up. He grins. Bà Nội gestures to the bowl.

“It’s broken.”

“It’s fine. No cracks, see?”

Bà Nội grabs the bowl. It breaks. She gives it back.

“You’re paying. That was my good China.”

My mum walks in with a plate of chả giò, six rolls high. She places it in the centre of the adults’ table.

They compliment my mum on her ‘homemade’ spring rolls. She actually just buys them in bulk every new year. And at every family event, she fries them.

“How did you make them so well?” Uncle Daniel’s mouth is stuffed with lettuce and a roll.

“It’s a secret. Prayer helps.” Well, she does buy them from a lady at the church.

I finish my rice. All the plates on our table are empty. Jane is halfway through her fourth bowl. I wait for her to finish. She goes to grab another piece of tofu, from the thịt kho, but her chopsticks return empty. “Help me gather the plates.” I pick them up and start to stack them. Her hand stops me.

“Don’t.” She walks to the adult’s table and begins getting more food. My grandmother offers me a bowl of kangaroo.

Melting Pot

“Here, I made extra.” It reeks of spices. She smiles. “So, how is your study going?”

“Good.” I bow and back away. “How is Vietnamese school?”

“Em không đi học tiếng việt. But, I still go to church there.”

Her face falls. It’s not like any of my other cousins speak Vietnamese. Bà Nội can barely cook Vietnamese food. Actually, she can barely cook food. That is evident, as I swirl the watery kangaroo stew around in my bowl. She only cooks for family occasions. She doesn’t have to cook, all her meals are gifts of gratitude for her work. Back, before they came to Australia she had servants. Her family was wealthy landowners. You can guess how that turned out, after a communist takeover.

“Pray for me, Jane.”

The kangaroo is very chewy. The broth too rich and salty. It leaves a sour aftertaste in my mouth.

“I’m going to the bathroom.”

After lunch, we sit around the coffee table.

“So… what do you want to do?”

My cousins shift around on the floor. Jenny, who was demoted when my mother came, sits on the couch pouting.

“Well, we could maybe do an Easter egg hunt. Actually, never mind, its July.”

Josephine Nguyen Year 9

I walked through the corridors of the hospital. The smell of disinfectant and sanitiser spray surrounded me. The sounds of monitors beeping in the distance and conversations between patients, doctors and visitors created an unsettling feeling in me. The sight of doctors and nurses bustling around with folders, paramedics hurrying through the emergency entrance with ill patients on wheeled stretchers left me questioning whether any of them were for my grandma. I looked around at all the sick patients in search of my grandma. A sickening feeling overwhelmed me and I felt as though I should be in a bed as well. The thought of seeing my grandma in this state created a tight feeling in my stomach.

We took the elevator, up eight floors in silence, not knowing what state my grandma was in. The elevator door opened and my sister and I followed my mum to the nurse’s station. The doctor sat us down. I recalled his words, “It could possibly be pancreatic cancer”. There was a sharp feeling in my throat. My heart began to beat twice as fast. I stood outside her room, afraid to enter. My mum held my hand tightly and led me into her room.

There she was, lying motionless- her face lit up when I walked in the room and she extended her arms towards me. I fell into her arms, the warmth of her hug made my eyes tear up. I gave her a hug that I hoped would last forever. Her soft voice was comforting me, telling me not to cry and that everything will be okay. I felt reassured and comforted if only temporary.

I was sitting by her hospital bed. Her soft, wrinkly hand was clenched tightly in mine, neither of us wanting to let go. During that moment, all the memories of when I was young were resurfacing and flooding my brain. I remember spending every day with her when I was little. She taught me about our culture. At Easter, she would teach us how to make traditional biscuits, ‘kouroulakia and tsourekia’ and she would teach me the importance of our religion. She taught me how to make my favourite food – Pastitsio. It is a recipe that to this day I still haven’t forgotten. She taught me about morals and she shaped me into the person I’ve become today. A moment that I will cherish forever was

sleeping over at her house every weekend and playing games with her. The sounds of laughter every time my sister and I slept over made me smile. The smell of a fresh cooked meal as we walked into her house is a scent that is embedded in me. She was an amazing cook and everything was mouth-watering. She would spend hours in the kitchen to prepare one of my favourite meals which was spanakopita and would make my sister and I baklava for dessert.

The safeness I felt when she would tuck me into bed is one that I still feel to this day. She always put another blanket on top of me to make sure I didn’t get cold throughout the night. I remember one night, not being able to fall asleep and going into her room to sleep with her. She stayed up all night reading to me until I fell asleep. In the morning I would wake up to the smell of eggs and the sound of the Greek news playing on the TV whilst she was seated on her recliner couch. All these precious memories caused tears to run down my face.

I sat watching her sound asleep in the hospital bed. Luckily for me, she was now sound asleep and unaware of the state I was in but she flinched and I realised that subconsciously she was aware that I was hurting.

In all this time, I never believed that I would lose her so quickly. The 2 months she was given at the time of her diagnosis turned into 2 extra years with us. In those 2 years I spent as much time as possible with her. I was praying and hoping she would recover.

A life without my grandmother was too painful to fathom. She was my security blanket, my world, my everything, who loved me unconditionally. To her, I was perfect and she never failed to tell me so.

When the time came to say goodbye, I was unprepared even though we were told she was palliative. I had played this moment over and over in my head but now that it was here it felt surreal. I didn’t want to believe that I would never feel her hand in mine, that she would never tuck me in again, that her soft lips would never again touch my cheeks and that her warm embrace would never envelop me. It was then that the white butterfly flew into the room and perched itself on the bed for what

seemed like hours but was probably only a few seconds. In that moment I knew that my grandmother was still with me, that she’ll always be with me.

Walking into her house after her passing was extremely difficult. No scent upon entering her home, an empty recliner chair. I walked into her bedroom and noticed that her bed was made perfectly with her most precious possessions placed on her bedside table – her religious icons and the photo of her four grandchildren who were the centre of her world. I sat on her bed and looked outside the window and in that moment a white butterfly fluttered by. I smiled.

To the world my grandmother was one person but to me she was my world.

Cleo Kenos

Anika Bartholomeusz - Year 10

a stream of consciousness

the feeling of going for a walk just to be outside the feeling of really being outside, feeling immersed in the world it’s the closest you can get to the sublime in suburbia; that split-second moment where you feel harmonious with everything, like a tiny essential piece in the puzzle that is the world the way the air felt cold and pure and when I put my hand on my cheek; it felt as cold as the silver ring on my finger that I bought second-hand because I like the idea that someone else thought it was pretty thoughts, trickling slowly, naturally, like a stream on a summer’s day

the way I had one headphone in, and it felt like I was halfway between two worlds: one that only I could hear and one that unites us all, purely in the fact that we all exist in it and that space between the two worlds is my world, my world of solitude and isn’t it ironic that the most universal state of being is solitude? and those of us that love Solitude are the lucky ones, because if you don’t appreciate Solitude then at some point you’ll feel lonely and Loneliness is Solitude’s ugly little sister it is just solitude but without being comfortable in your own company. the stream starts flowing, gushing, as my mind starts thinking deeper

the way the car whistled as it went by, like I was living in a slowed-down version of everything that crushed can looks as out of place against the grass as I feel right now, because I’m the only one thinking my thoughts and I touch my earring and see my reflection in a window and it reminds me of the vanity that consumes us all and I yearn for something more, a place where my reflection does not matter to me someone has cut down a tree and it’s on the nature strip, why did they kill it? why do humans have a sense of superiority to everything? is that why there is so little peace in this world? the stream’s intensity isn’t just pretty anymore, it’s angry, a flood

and that is it, that is a little excerpt of the constant stream of consciousness that is life… we are nothing more than our thoughts thinking is such a beautiful thing, and its beauty expands exponentially when you can take a moment and pause to define your thoughts, and share them, and write them down, and worship them in all their natural perfection instead of letting life just settle into a blurry feeling of ennui, by thoughtlessly going through meaningless actions, let us revive it: let us live a life centred around the beauty of a Thought and, consequently, experience a higher plane of being something deeper, more profound, more full; just step back and watch the stream flow.

This poem is a collection of thoughts that I wrote down as I went for a walk one day.

Saria Ratnam

I am the stars that steal the sky

I am the cliffs that rise so high

I am the sun on fields of grain

I am the gentle autumn rain

I am the taunting silver light which penetrates and scares the night

I am the remnant hopes and dreams Now all that is was is not as it seems

The crushing of the golden sand

The tirading tide of bland

Of children that circle their kites

There is not a star in sight

From colour of the sweet green grass That was all just in the past.

Glistening of the water’s edge

Staring past the window ledge Berries once stained our fingers red Memories stay in my head

Sense of sweet wattle

smelling of wet gum trees

Of the subtle ocean breeze

Native flowers grow on the path And their voices eco as we laugh Red and yellow as they begin to bloom Sunlight of the early morning floods the room

Music plays in the distance

The bane of my existence

Am forced to stay in my seat

The truck pulls into the end of the street

Warming of the cool ice-cream Something I could only dream We were wide-eyed and young The songs that we had once sung

Fireworks in the night

Their colours slash and scar the sky

As flames take flight

And they fade away and die Bright gold sparks in a distant shower Crowds stand at every turn Smoke creates a faint flower

As winds begin to burn Smoke fills the night

The slight glow of coloured lights Carnival rides dotted everywhere Screams of children fill the air

Once upon a time

South side sun shines through the blinds Wish we could rewind

But we cannot turn back time Sweet taste, a bitter end Feeling of losing a friend

The days seem longer as I stare at a screen

All that were once memories But stand on the beach and believe

I am still there

I did not leave

Anika Bartholomeusz

Year 10

I Am Still There, I Did Not Leave

Her parents’ names were marked on a polished stone. The little girl tugged on a crying man’s arm and asked, “when can I see them again?”. The man’s only response was to cry harder and flinch at the pellets of raindrops. Everyone’s heads were bowed, sheltering their face from the onslaught of grief or rain yet making puddles themselves. Frowning, like all the others, she looked down at her sloppy, wet shoes.

The next day she took some flowers to her parents like the other people who came and cried. White chrysanthemums, she recalled. She looked at her parents’ neighbours who had flowers bursting out of the stone, by the way they were placed. Like hers – white chrysanthemums – its white petals stretched hastily to cover the brown and lifeless ones underneath. The wind caught her flowers and whisked them away. She wondered, did my parents not want these flowers today?

It was Monday. She had school today. The long hallway, her path to the classroom waves her through unwelcomingly. Her classmates who crowded the hallway parted like the Red Sea. Everyone donned a frown on their faces and nodded to her in polite sympathy, so she nodded back with a tight-lipped smile, continuing her way towards her classroom. She was on the red carpet that had no people, no cameras, but noiseless flashes of obligatory pity. All she wanted to do was run away, to run outside into the sunlight. She wanted warmth.

She now lives with her uncle. His house was

Their Dance in Rain and Petals

loud with frantic flapping and feathers of birds who welcomed themselves into her uncle’s habitat through the open windows. The branches of the trees in his garden stretched to fill the inside of his house. It barely had a roof. A bird’s instinct is to fly, his uncle would say. No amount of wind, no lack of feathers, no heaviness of weight would stop them. Birds are free. So she looked up instead with light in her eyes and said, “then so will I, I want to fly.”

The earth’s fresh fragrance and dew drops hanging from each blade of grass hugged her. It was warm, as if she was sitting in her mother’s lap. The soft, warm breeze – despite it being dark – brushed her loose, long hair. Mother would do that too. The little girl did not bring any flowers this time, but instead looked up from where she stood. There were two bright stars so close to each other surrounded by many familiar others. They sparkled, laughed, graced the world with their light, their life. The little girl held out her hands and asked the stars, “can we dance like we used to once again?”

Her damp shoes squeaked on the sleek school tiles. Yawning, she sat down at her desk. She could feel her classmates’ glances towards her – why, they seem more concerned than herself!

“We have a special day coming up –” the teacher’s gaze flickered to the little girl who caught the action like a hawk’s claws snatching prey, “we... have ‘Parents’ Day’ this Friday.” The teacher’s words were loaded with

hesitancy, saw the little girl having no outward reaction before resuming in overly excited chirps. The girl was too busy thinking of stars.

When it was the awaited day, the people in the hallways were the blood pumping through the school’s veins. Doctors, architects, engineers, lawyers all greeted in their tight suits and neck-choking ties. Their jobs keep them busy, they said. The little girl then asks, “can you fly?”

A raise of an eyebrow, a lift on the edge of their mouth, a squint and a scoff. “No, little girl,” they replied, “humans don’t have wings.”

It was finally the little girl’s turn. The other parents looked on with pinched faces and sighs. She led them across the grassy field, now dry without dew drops brushing against her ankles. Past the swaying trees, past the protruding stones until she stopped in front of two that were side by side. The polished stone glimmered like the stars. She held out her hands again.

“Here are my parents, they can fly,” she spoke, her voice gentle but loud. “We dance together every night, we laugh and we live! Would you all like to dance with us three?”

So they danced around the stones, hand in hand. The little girl, her mother and her father. The stones were covered in red chrysanthemums.

Chloe Chiu Year

When I Fall

When the wind blows, The dandelions dance. They revel in your beauty, And bask in the warmth of your love.

When you rise in the morning, The plains blush a deep rosy red That match the colourful splatters Of a stolen canvas.

And when the flowers blossom for you, The lonesome spectator watches And wonders dismally, Whether the world would collapse Before they could be loved too. So, they blame the beautiful sun, For shining so brightly It blinded the rest of the world.

And they blame the plains, For singing a simple song That revolve around the days.

And they blame themselves, For never being enough.

The broken lightbulb Under an abandoned roof, That struggles for every flicker of light In hopes that someone will come home.

Yet under the bloodied thorns, A deflated heart lays. Once having beat too For the effeminate sun. An appetite that craved the butterflies’ visits When a flame sparked along the horizon “After the heavy misery of the dark.

And now still, Their collapsed lungs Breathe the weak remedy Of the sun’s warmth. But tears drowned the love And guilt weighed down on the body.

And that skinny affection thins, Every time the plains sing A song of melancholy When the sun grows tired And the sky stains red.

It’s the fault in our stars. The world only stills When you come to life, And only the crickets care When you shine your brightest.

The five seconds of glory you chase, As you streak along the sky, Play advertisements

Upon the ocean bed’s reflection, Without the eye of the careful watcher.

And as you burn

To a point of absolute nothingness, The world will not stop, And the rain will not pour, And the flowers will not mourn.

A life lived

As the caterpillar Who emerged as a moth. A fitting ending

For the sunflower that whittled away In the harshness of the desert.

The torch that revels in its own beauty, But shines upon the cracks of my dusted floor. When I fall, Will you stay? Or does everyone cry When the moon rises, And the dandelions die. my little star, aren’t you getting tired?

Maggie Little Year 10

Lucy Parmenter - Year 11

Survival

The bristles of the rope create a tingling sensation on my fingers as I trudge through the shriveled mound of hay. The sweltering heat surrounds me. I can hear the hay crackling under my bare feet with each of my steps. The sunburnt land sizzles under the blazing sun, no vegetation survives, but my father does.

I remember my stomach growling, I was starving. Father was grumpy; he only gave me a spoonful of watery soup for dinner. Father tells me to be an Aussie, to persist, and to survive through hardships. Every day is the same, every meal is the same. The monotony, boredom, the struggle- it is our life.

panting…My heart skips a beat. I gingerly touch something oddly familiar, the bouncy soft curls of my Lamb. It’s okay my Lamb is still with me. But the panting continues and disturbs my thoughts.

‘Crunch, crunch..’ I hear distant footsteps and recognise immediately that they are my father’s footsteps. My father’s hoarse voice sounds ‘Oi, lunch’s ready.’

As I enter the hut the smell of lamb wafts through the air and overwhelms me. ‘Buzz, buzz, buzz.’ The mozzie’s disrupt my thoughts. I am brought back into the present. Now that I am 30 years of age, I now understand my father more. I knew, as a child, we were deprived of food but my innocent admiration for my father prevented me from seeing the truth. I believed my father always had a solution to every problem.

‘Buzz, buzz’, the mozzies circle around me, as I hold the thick twine leading to my lamb. From a young age my sense of smell and hearing developed to compensate for my visual impairment. Touching familiar surfaces made me feel at ease. ‘Thump!’ My hand touches the end of the pole, I grab the coarse rope, running my fingers down to my precious is my Lamb. I run my fingers through her wool, her soft curls tangle around my finger, her warmth comforts me. My Lamb is my only friend. Father tells me that ‘here in the middle of nowhere, even with boundless plains surrounding us, the vast horizons envelope us with loneliness. I bring my hand up to my Lamb, my fingers skim something unpleasant. Something soft, triangular, sharp, with spiky short hair on my Lamb’s head. My breath fastens, anything unfamiliar makes me insecure.

I exhale, I focus on the buzz of the mozzies and the familiar scorching heat of the sun surrounds me again. Wait! I can hear the panting of our sheepdog. How come I did not notice it before? I follow the rhythmic

I now understand that the act of killing my Lamb was for the sake of our survival. Regardless of the brutality, he chose the most rational option for our survival. As my father always told me: The Australian masculine identity is to remain stoic in the face of adversity, to not be afraid of sacrifice. Yet, he also showed compassion and tenderness by trying to protect me from the truth. Disguising our sheepdog as my Lamb was not an act of deception or simply derived from a need to survive. It was an act of love.

Inspired by the short film, Lamb by Emma Freeman

Rebecca Chen Year 11

I Run Free

Lacing up, tuning in, ready to conquer.

I am grateful for the stamina and endurance my body provides.

It aligns with the longevity of the land and the narratives that have developed over time.

When I run, my thoughts run with me – they are peaceful, reflective, memorable.

Such is the diversity of our Australian culture. I run free.

Cheeks flushed with the force of effort, Limbs heavy with the pound of each step, Chest burning with the heaving of breath, Sweat pooling with the heat of the sun, Heart pounding, driving me on, bringing me home, I run free.

I feel a physical connection… feet pounding, heart pumping, lungs pressing

I feel an emotional connection… mind slowing, soul singing, spirit soaring

I feel a spiritual connection…one with the Earth, the sky and Mother Nature - she surrounds me

I feel a connection with my people; past, present and future. With this in my heart, I run free.

Rain, hail, shine. Running moves the earth.

From trudging through sand to hiking grassy hills, to endless tracks made ochre from the Earth’s crust.

From city scapes to country trails, I run. I move the earth. It moves me.

Tracks and trails I’ve run for years – I have altered but they have not.

I find empathy with my Native past, running along red dirt, free.

Footprints I have formulated over time – they are my story, narrative and identity, I run free.

Running is a personal journey.

It changes like the pages of a book. My identity is unique, we all identify differently as Australians…but I am a runner.

There is no right or wrong way to be Australian; we are a culture seeded from our heritage.

I grow.

You grow. We grow.

United, we are the pulse of Australia; the heartbeat. In. Out. In. Out. Together we beat in unison but, I run free.

Together as Australians, we run. I run alone, towards my future in this safe and secure Land. I run alongside you, towards a hope for our kids and generations to come, to connect with the Land. We run together, towards a nation living free from conflict, hoping to grow this beautiful Land. Each step may not be with ease. Each kilometre may not be without pain, But while others battle, I run free.

Some flee for their lives, Whilst I run free.

Freedom surrounds me and my fellow Australians; our life, our liberty I pray that one day, every soul will run free, just like I run free.

Alice Whitbourn

The Relocator

Doctor Ed Welsh and Professor Alex Lyson received the Nobel Peace Prize for the invention of a machine that could alter the atomic structure of a human body in such a way that they would appear invisible, move via a magnetic connection to a second location of choice, and relocate themselves into their original form. It was technically labelled molecular relocation, but it was obviously marketed as teleportation. Dr Welsh and Professor Lyson became disgustingly rich.

Upon the invention of the machine, it was not for sale to the public. Too big, too expensive for mass production, too dangerous. But eventually, a few rich businessmen and anyone else in the top 0.01% of the world’s wealth were able to purchase one, for testing. They were the only ones who could afford it. Think about the first travellers to the moon, for commercial purposes.

This, however, was before they knew how to keep private property, or anything that shouldn’t be accessed by anyone, safe from these machines, which the media soon translated to the population as “NO ONE IS SAFE WHEN THE WEALTHY CAN APPEAR IN YOUR HOME.” You can accurately predict that many assassination attempts, successful and not, ensued.

Once scientists and engineers found a way to prevent users from entering private property, via a machine installed in a home, building, or anywhere that needed to be protected, the killings stopped, but the anger didn’t. People

wanted to use these machines for themselves, experience something that had only been seen in movies or books. They demanded for a cheaper alternative. Scientists were unable to produce this for around 4 years, until Dr Welsh found ways to use cheaper materials and achieve the same results. His team made it smaller, enough to hold in one’s hand. 12 months later, everyone in Welsh’s team and their assistants were happily retired within the nicer parts of the world.

Anyone who could afford the newest iPhone could afford “The Relocator”, as Lyson & Welsh inc. were calling it. People were experiencing magic, no one was late anymore, travel was minimised and so was vehicle pollution. The climate cooled a healthy amount. People saved thousands on petrol and car insurance.

Simultaneously, the entire transportation industry was eradicated. Car companies went out of business, as did flight and commercial sea companies. Bikes, scooters and anything else that was small with wheels became something kids did more as a toy than anything else. Every truck driver, every Uber and taxi driver, pilot and anything else that took something somewhere lost their job. The only people who could still work were bus and train drivers, for those who could not afford a relocator, but give it a few years before they are replaced by self-driving trains.

from new technological advancements. Carly Martens and her 19-year-old son Connor (Con, for short) belonged to a group of people who would turn back the time if they could – pre teleportation. They weren’t the unluckiest – when Carly’s husband Samuel passed not long after he lost his job as a truck driver, the two still had their house within the outskirts of Perth, and a decent amount of money that Carly and Samuel had saved up, with retirement in mind. But with the world expanding and advancing at a hefty pace, having enough to get by just wasn’t enough.

With people spending no money on shipping / transportation of their items, naturally the prices rose to match what companies were making before. Smaller companies who relied on shipping prices had to double, even triple their costs. It wasn’t long before places like Chinatown closed down – no one wanted to go if they could get to the real China without taking a step. Local shops shut down – the ones that survived relied on the few who couldn’t teleport – and the few who couldn’t teleport relied on the few shops that remained.

Con didn’t get yelled at anymore for not attending school.

It is unfair to assume that everyone bettered

The rich kids didn’t go anymore. Instead, Con would spend his time helping his mother – keeping the house clean, doing the shopping, trivial things. His dad hadn’t been gone for long – his mother was still in mourning a lot of the time. Con didn’t mind

The Relocator

taking over most of the chores. It was doing these chores he found a miraculous machine.

A rich man’s Relocator. A rich man, who had lived the majority of his life in Sussex, but moved nowadays between Paris and Milan, was a journalist. His name was Dominic Thomson. At 26, he didn’t have a partner or any children, but he had been seeing someone from his work for quite some time, named Scott. Scott was a part of the company’s legal department. It had been going well.

Journalism was one of numerous industries that thrived upon the invention of teleportation. Dangerous or difficult locations, such as active volcanoes, the International Space Station, or active war sites, could now be documented through live visitation. Many discoveries about Earth have been made. Journalists have been making millions on new stories, discoveries, and all sorts of other news.

Dominic was very grateful towards Lyson & Welsh inc. ever since his position made him a millionaire. He was recognised for stories such as Coco Chanel’s fashion show on point Nemo – the most isolated place in the world, in the middle of the Pacific Ocean. He also covered the story for the first concert held on the moon – a popular band named Symphonic.

Although young, Dominic didn’t really need

to work much anymore – he could retire if he wanted to. But Dominic loved his job, even the less interesting stories. It gave him a chance to travel to the most exotic places in the world.

He didn’t love the days when he had to cover the super mundane stuff, particularly when covering stories around those who didn’t have the luxuries he did. Often, he’d feel bad. The people he’d interview were never the nicest to him – but he understood where the hatred came from.

It was covering one of these mundane stories where he was shot and killed. He didn’t ever see who exactly it was who killed him, not like that would matter. He didn’t know anyone from Australia – or at least anyone who still lived there. It was a lady, grey-Ish hair, maybe 50 or so – that’s all he saw before he fell back. She was probably a one of many who were mad at people who owned Relocators. There’s a lot of them nowadays.

Dominic wasn’t the first reporter to be killed on the job, but it was rarer around this time. By now, it’s just too hard to kill everyone. You just have to be one of the unlucky ones, it seemed.

would bother to investigate the shooting – too common nowadays. And too difficult to track.

Most murderers had Relocators. Police knew this now. Tracing technology was underway.

About 15 minutes later, her son came home from getting the weekly groceries, holding the dead man’s Relocator. He showed her and she forced him to throw it away.

“It will turn you into a mindless monster.” she warned him.

Upon the man falling to the ground, the woman hurried inside her home before anyone could notice. She stashed her pistol, and turned on the TV, fast-forwarding it to suggest she had been watching it for the past half an hour, at least. It was unlikely anyone

Con didn’t believe this, so he didn’t throw it away. He hid it in his room instead. He was scared to use it.

Most people were too scared to try out the Relocator for the first time.

Eventually, it got too tempting, and he gave in, and tried to set the machine to somewhere local – the shop he just visited. Nothing special. He felt a little tingly after it happened, but it worked. He didn’t understand the technology behind it – this one looked pretty new, had some cool buttons or something. He wasn’t sure. It took him places, though. That was enough.

Buzzing with excitement, Con set the Relocator to a few streets from home (he didn’t want to risk his mum seeing him) and planned to walk the rest of the way. It was

The Relocator

as he was putting the relocator in his pocket that he felt a sharp pain slightly left of his upper spine, coming from his back. The bullet didn’t go all the way through, it must have hit something in Con’s body, but it clearly did enough to kill him pretty quickly.

to violence as a result of teleportation. It took six more years for the government to make all forms of teleportation illegal. Lyson & Welsh closed down – and the few people who knew the right formulae to achieve the production of a Relocator swore an oath to never make, nor explain the mechanics of the machine. The files and documents were burned, as were the copies.

Thomas felt quite proud of himself, upon shooting the boy. Bit young, for a reporter, he thought. But this was definitely the guy. The lady down the road mentioned to him that some journalist with a supposed “prick” attitude had died merely an hour or so ago, so someone might be over to see what happened, having assumingly lost communication. No one teleports around here – this must be the guy; Thomas had thought before promptly placing a bullet through the young reporter’s chest. He didn’t think much of it after that. Not the first, definitely not the last. The news didn’t travel very far, of Con’s death or Dominic’s. Didn’t matter that Dominic had hundreds of friends across the world – everyone had hundreds of friends across the world. His company didn’t drop after his absence either, there was a colossal waiting list for journalists. Con’s mother mourned, but no one else.

Con and Dominic both passed on July 3, 2090, at 11:25am and 12:09pm, respectively. By the end of the year, they were two of the 104 million people who were killed that year due

Today, there is no one currently alive who knows the science behind it.

Paige Thompson Year 11

Alice Hu - Year 12

Always

Rounding the corner we stop at a halt It draws the breath from our lungs

After walking in circles, these same 4 streets, It was hard to believe what we were among

The cardinal clouds field our view

The violet shades are glimmering A glow more incandescent than ever seen before, His eyes dance again, blue and shimmering

His evergreen figure next to me I feel giddy like a child Alone in our own dreamscape Our excitement no longer mild I turn and ask “do you always see the sunsets?”

“Always” he replies, Content I look back at the scene Relieved tears leaking from my eyes

In solitude we sit, In peace at last The colours leading us Acting as a mast

He is here, for evermore now So close I can feel his embrace, His arms encapsulate me as they once did, His smile spreading across his face,

Our moods mercurial as we bathe in the light, Nothing could ever disturb us now, Together at last, we rejoice, Sitting under the boughs

I turn and ask “do you always see the sunsets?”

“Always” he replies Then suddenly I’m conscious again This time without him by my side

He’s lost, one side of the sky I’m trapped, separated on another Surrounded by these same glowing clouds This time I’m filled with a shudder

Unconscious, the only time I see you now

It begins to feel painfully unfair, This same sky, just above us, No longer can be something we share

The warmth is gone, the rain is coming Everything changed in an instant How can one’s previous reality Suddenly feel so distant?

These clouds are heavy, they follow me now Things that once were a connection, Suddenly form an indelicate mirage, They act as a reflection

Glaring back down at me, they expose all that is lost , The love, the innocence, the naivety, Your withering away, at a cost

It taunts me, the sky it does, Its duplicity, its lies How can something that once appeared so beautiful Become something I despise

Approaching those clouds I felt a sense of hope, A reconnection at last Now all I see in them Is something unattainable, an echoing of my past

When I turned and asked “do you always see the sunsets?”

“Always” he had replied

When I think back on it, Does that mean he always sees me cry?

Abbey Jacobs Year 12

Across the Seas

Soul of Bar-Tailed Godwit Hien, Died 1965

For years, the Can Gio mudflats were vibrant with life – my brother, cousins, aunts and uncles crowded around in a gaggle of long spindly legs and feet, sticking their upturned beaks into the thick, chocolate loam, every so often chewing complacently on the delicious meal they had so successfully snatched up for lunch.

I remember the midday sun sparkling on the ocean and the city of Saigon in the distance, and the wind gently ruffling our speckled feathers.

I remember my younger brother, Con (or, as we called him, E17), grinning at me boastfully with the flesh of a large fat snail just slipping through his beak, before gulping it back. I retaliated to his cheek by pulling up two snails in one go. Then, chuckling heartily to myself, with my teeth, I pulled at the faded yellow tag around his ankle, that gave him this ridiculous nickname, that all of us older boys often laughed at. Losing his balance, he splashed into the ocean. I was a true comedian.

Further out from where he was now spitting water at me, I noticed metal tubs were tossing about on the waves gently, crammed to the brim with fish. The humans, once they had hauled in their catch, headed home to their families, waiting for them on the beach. Smaller humans on wobbly little legs dug around in the sand, closely watched by their

mothers, picked up handfuls of pipis with glee to show their fathers, who would smile, then encourage them to give their treasure to us, waiting patiently.

What I knew now made me realise that life flies by and you’ve really got to seize the moment. Because now, I look back and want to shout at myself, prepare myself for what was to come. I had no way of knowing, of course not.

The city in the distance exploded into flames. The sound of a thousand thunderstorms all at once surrounded us, blocking out the calm sound of the waves rolling in and out of the mudflats. All around me, fishermen ran for their boats, clutching their toddlers in their arms. There were 40 people trying to squeeze onto one metal hull. Before, it seemed so big.

But now, it was not nearly big enough. They would make it. As my brother always says, positive people are survivors – the worst happens, and they can lose and fail, but they will be alright - they still celebrate coming second because they’ve given it a red-hot go.

My whole extended family took off at once, flapping wildly in the now-smoky air. We all could have fit in second helpings, but I supposed that it was time to move on down

south now – what with all these loud sounds and strange happenings around us.

My brother flew beside me as we let the wind carry us into the air. As we were at our prime age and were the strongest fliers of the flock, we acted like windbreaks for most of the journey, meaning that for most of the day, we were staring directly into the sun and facing the violent winds head on. Both of us uncertain ourselves, we tried to calm some of the others around us, particularly those who were on their first flight.

“Hey Bo, did you know that if ever snails tell you they want to move out, they’re lying?’

Life was full of simple pleasures. Roars of laughter erupted around us.

As we flew on, the sun rose and set six times. We enjoyed the journey, despite its incessant obstacles – the constant spray of salt on the underside of our wings, the harsh heat on our backs as we flew on, with no water to quench our thirst, winds that knocked us off course and the endless muscle fatigue. We knew it would take about nine days before we saw the big green-grey smudge on the horizon, although some of the newcomers on our flight were already getting restless in anticipation. I could hear over the spray of the ocean, that Con’s stomach was rumbling.

‘Your stomach is as loud as that blue whale we just passed, E17.’ I teased. ‘I knew I won the eating competition.’

Across the Seas

‘That’s not my stomach.’ he replied, a sense of concern in his voice. ‘Look up ahead.’

We were flying straight into a black mass hovering above the roiling ocean.

Winds knocked us off course all at once. The ocean tossed and churned beneath us. We had seen many storms before – this was nothing new, but it was never a fun experience. You just had to keep flying – one metre at a time, one wing flap after another. It would be a real physical test of our ability, but as long as you kept in mind the rewards of the larger, fat, Australian snails waiting for you, you would be fine.

Finally, after the eighth sunrise, very far off in the distance, we saw it – ‘Land Ho!’ I shouted at our cousin Ho, who had just made his very first flight. As we got nearer, we squinted as large, tall columns blocked our view of the sun.

This was where our home was supposed to be, right? We hadn’t made a mistake – our great-great grandfathers had done this same journey and they had never gotten lost. Shiny surfaces reflected the sun back into our eyes, not sparkling, like the ocean used to do – this was much harsher, blinding us. We would have missed the people walking down where the mudflats used to be, if it weren’t for the noisy, furry, rats running alongside them. All our senses were being assaulted all

at once as we took in the place that used to be home yet was now so unrecognisable.

All around me, my relatives were complaining. There was nowhere to rest, nothing to eat. Our best option was to turn around and try to make it all the way back to Saigon. Admittedly, this may not have put us completely out of danger at all, but at least Saigon still had food.

Some of the weaker members decided to try to search for another beach. But Con and I were strong. We knew we could make the journey and could lead those who were fit enough to fly back to Saigon, to a new prosperous feeding ground. We would be fine, I assured myself. Besides, it wasn’t about us. We could do without food for a while, but my family couldn’t.

And there were only two times in life. There was now and then there was too late. Con was the quietest I had ever seen him. I tried to keep joking with him, but he wasn’t having any of it. His feathers were ruffled, and he kept periodically closing his eyes. His paleyellow tag even seemed to be weighing him down, for he was now heavier on one side. No one made fun of this anymore.

I suggested that I fly in front for a while – give him time to rest and recover – he agreed, which was a warning in itself. I should have

seen what was coming. I guess I was stupid to think exhaustion wouldn’t affect the strong ones amongst us.

Because when I looked back to check on him, he was gone.

I cried for three days and three nights after that. No one told jokes anymore. My aching wings, my parched throat, my rumbling tummy were all becoming far too noticeable now, each flap harder and harder. And what else could I focus on now that there was no promise of the Promise land? I only hoped that the women and children left behind had found some morsels of food.

Every so often, when I looked behind me, I saw fewer and fewer of my family left.

And then it was just me.

On the fifth day, when I saw the big black sky looming up ahead of me, I closed my eyes, and let the tiredness wash over me.

I felt myself fall into the swirling ocean below.

But I would be okay, because I’d given it a red-hot go.

Retallick

Genevieve

To Idle Reveries!

The moon is at her zenith, in the night The humming cars, the restless prattling In slumber they lie idle for a while Earth blanketed in soft serenity

On rosy tiles softened with green moss

The meditative wind plays on my cheeks And liberates the thoughts inside my mind.

Like from the salty sea a flying fish Does leap and kiss the air with joy, and for A ceaseless moment it soars through the sky So weightless and free does my heart feel!

The wind sings through the trees in harmony. The rustling leaves whisper in languages I do not recognise. And yet I understand Their songs far better than most human tongues. In quiet grace, with no expectancy The purest form of Nature shows herself.

With open eyes, I watch in wonderment The pearls of light in heaven’s blessèd black. Familiar are constellations, which By newfound perspective seem all the more Majestic. But perpetual is your hope And wisdom, ye that glitter in the night!

The stars lie on my heart, a mother’s touch A trusted keeper of my secret strains A gentle guide which leads me on my way Connected to the measure of my soul.

I see a second sky of vivid hues Producer of the permanent skyglow That reaches out and slowly effaces The woven tapestry of stars divine.

Oh! To give a lily to the city!

And make it see with eyes unclouded that It’s chasing madly wealth it does not needCold copper coins and darkened peppered moths -

While streams flow gently ‘mid the whispering reeds, And buds of violets unfurl near its feet.

The fertile, winding vales, and green-clad peaks, They see each tree we fell, each creek we foul. Poor man! Imagining ourselves so big, To masquerade our infinite smallness.

With wings that beat in perfect harmony, Disrupting not the silence of the night, A bat, a silhouette on cityscape So effortlessly glides across the sky, My heart regards it with a baby’s awe. Could it be something from my reveries? To watch the dreaming child within me?

As swiftly as it came, the curving arcs Which drawn by velvet wings, the rooftops crest

And disappear. The edges of my dream Begin to fray, like how the boundless blue Awaits the carefree, buoyant flying fish.

We live as we dream - alone!

But still the ladder stubbornly remains Like drops of jet-black ink on crisp white sheets To lower me to ponderous pondering. But though I leave, our bonds shall not be lostThe midnight stars through window glass shall sing

Their graceful tune; the dreamlike bat shall ride The updraft; zephyr stirs the murmuring leaves ‘Till I return to idle reveries!

Musing on fond, former days, this Park- the beating heart of My memories. I would enter The large gates and be met With families on their Sunday Stroll, pacing the wide and Gravel tracks. Tropical trees stood Lined by the path. Though I Sweated in the humid air, my Legs still ran anyway...

Often on my personal cloud I sink and drift awayAlas! That night saw me no rest, No disembodiment, Nor refuge from the calendar’s Toil ahead. I foresaw No risk recalling this park. Who Knew memories could fool? No resting place should ever ask How much my childhood lies.

To this park I would often go, Bread I would break, feed the Turtles, shy from the monkeys. But On occasion with great Delight, catch the stream’s delicate Creatures. Memorised path Led me to the pool, I entered, Shooing amicable Dragonflies, their homes intruded Into- Poor, brave insects!

No wonder man and nature part, Man capitalises, Wearing blinkers- blind to others’ Existences and wants.

Prisoned by Old Prisoners

Nature though, is docile at heart. Behold her strength! For she Endures the inescapable Actions of humankind. Oh, I remember the poor fish, And what I did to them!

Like a dog set free, having just Been unchained, I entered The knee-high waters. Net and pail Clenched. Endless directions, Precious unbound mind overflowedThe heart of Innocence. Early mind of mine trickled too With drops of unjudged thoughts. My Carer- provider of joy In all actions humble!

Now unarmoured, I wake to my Unchangeable, unjust Doings. Torturing equipment Embraced by a slayer’s Small hands- stream struck repeatedly. Damage- displaced dwellers. But when my pail was full, I was Pleased, attentive to my Prisoners. For their abode- a Sudden forgotten care.

At a time before being tainted By humanity’s prized Institution, I saw no wrong Transporting my swimming Dolls to my home’s pond- built, concrete. To steal from nature with No guilt is no more, infected By years of existing.

Prisoned by Old Prisoners

An ongoing cry for her near Comfort- under her wing.

Once, accustomed to the gift of Flowing water. But now, Settled for a stagnant shelter. Delicate guppies met With Koi, who sat on the pond’s throne. Guppies faced a certain, Nutritious death. Worlds closing. Time Changes nothing. Without Notice, my Carer- off on a Permanent vacation.

Now, even if I could relive, Meet the glistening pool With a net, would it satisfy, Knowing my criminal Deeds? With age, the oblivion She provided offers No consolation. But present Mind limits my wrongs. Crimes Are of the past. To learn to careTo leave- she needed do.

Though now the unchained dog just walks, My Carer lives! Off to A lucky Child. Experience given from her- a gift Irreplaceable. Satisfied With her memories as Unjustified thoughts are a fear That cannot be... That the Guppies swim free, that the child plays, Is my sole wish today.

Goh Year 12

Kristen

Acknowledgements

Kristen Goh (2022 Art Captain) - Designer of cover

Alianna Huang – Co-designer of cover

The Fintona English Faculty

The Fintona Art Faculty

Ms Rachael Falloon - Principal

Mr Cameron Arnold -Marketing Manager

Ellikon Fine Printers - Designer and Printers

Ringing Voices published by Fintona Girls’ School Wurundjeri, Woi Wurrung Country 79 Balwyn Road, Balwyn Victoria, 3103 Australia

Ph: +613 9830 1388 E: fgs@fintona.vic.edu.au www.fintona.vic.edu.au