Ringing Voices 2025 | An Anthology of Student Writing

Ringing Voices 2025

An anthology of student writing

Ringing Voices 2025

“There is no greater agony than bearing an untold story inside you.”

–Maya Angelou

These words from Maya Angelou speak to the deeply personal and emotional journey that writing can be. Writing is more than just a skill—it is a powerful act of expression, a release, and often a form of healing. When we write, we give shape to thoughts, feelings, and experiences, finding clarity and release in the cathartic process. It is both a form of art and a refuge, a way to connect with others and better understand ourselves.

The student work featured in this year’s Ringing Voices Anthology reflects this transformative potential. From heartfelt reflections to imaginative storytelling, each piece reveals the joy and depth that come from putting pen to paper. Representing students from Years 5 to 12, these works demonstrate the creativity, insight, and unique perspectives of our young writers.

Throughout 2025, our English program has built on last year’s momentum, aiming to expand students’ understanding of various writing forms and styles. Carefully selected mentor texts and complementary resources have served as inspiration, encouraging students to experiment with their voices and develop their craft in response to diverse prompts and stimuli. At the heart of our curriculum is the goal to foster confident, capable communicators who are willing to take creative risks and engage thoughtfully with the world through language.

Alongside the written pieces, this anthology also features an impressive collection of student artwork. These visual stories enhance the reading experience, each one offering its own interpretation and emotional depth. The cover, designed by Zindzi Clayford (Year 12 Art Captain), captures the essence of this creative journey—depicting a younger and older student sitting together, each absorbed in the act of writing, connected across age and experience through the shared power of storytelling.

We invite you to turn each page slowly, take in the words and images, and experience the vibrant imagination and reflective voices of our students.

Michelle Maglitto English Learning Area Leader

Charlotte Seng

Bushfire

A rage of orange engulfs the green

In a haze of yells and screams

All it leaves is the dark, black ash

A memory of the dreadful past

Flames that dance on once green hills

Whisper and crackle spreading smoky chills

Crimson tongues that lick the sky

Turning day to ash and blight

But the fuel dashes

The rage clashes

An empire collapses

Into nothing but grey air

To this day people mourn

The loved ones they have lost

In the flames that have consumed many

But remember

Fire will avenge again

Vishaka Hewabajjamage

Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief

‘It’s spring, 1942. The sky is blue; the air is warm and sweet. And then everything is gone. The flowers, the proud geese, the pretty wooden houses, the friendly neighbours. Only Sasha remains. But one small boy alone in war-torn Russia, cannot survive. One small boy without his home cannot survive. What that small boy needs, is an army.’ Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief is a heartwarming story about Sasha, a small boy and a soldier at six, fighting in the only way he can, with love. But what use is love, when everything you love is gone?

Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief is a multiple times award winner and one of Katrina Nannestad’s bestsellers. Among all its recognitions, a few examples would include being the CBCA Honour Book for Younger Readers in 2022 and being shortlisted for the 2022 Book of the Year Awards by the Australian Book Industry Awards. It is a well-recognised and very critically acclaimed book of hers.

Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief showed me that it’s not that simple as to point your opposition as the evil one. In the book, when the Red Army defeats their enemy in the city of Stalingrad, Sasha expects to see an army of monsters storming out of the city. Instead, his eyes are met with a group of sad fathers, sons and brothers being marched out of the city. He then realised that it wasn’t really his enemy that was evil and deserved to be hated, but the war itself. This book helped me learn how perspectives will differ and that no matter what our opinions are, that we are all equal

Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief is a beautifully heartwarming story which both stands alone among other war stories and is moving. Often war tales talk about fighting with weapons and physical strength, but this book believes not in fighting fire with fire, but with compassion and empathy. Because admist all the loss, destruction and despair of war, there will be rehabilitation, love and new beginnings. Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief is a truly superb story that will touch your heart in an incredibly meaningful way.

Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief has all the key qualities of a moving, special and unforgettable war book. It is heartwarming, unique and irreplaceable. Therefore, Rabbit, Soldier, Angel, Thief is an amazing book and a must-read.

Thank you.

Olivia Xu

The Earth is Gone

“Our Earth is dying. The duty to fix it falls upon your shoulders. Don’t mess up. Or else the future is no more. Wake up. Hurry. You are our only hope. For planet Earth.”

“OW!” I rub my head. I’ve somehow ended up on my bedroom floor, next to my bedside table. My soft toy Honey is rag dolled on the side of my bed. I creep back up, my legs limp and dragging along the floor. The sun is still low maybe 4 or 5am? I hear a snicker. My sister, Anna is at my door, a small grin, stretched and evil across her face. I wave my hands, and she slowly slides away from the door. I hate this new house. I can still smell the smoke from the neighbour’s apartment since the party last night. New York is always busy, and I can’t sleep anymore. I lay in bed, and I can hear the ticking. The old clock downstairs is so loud! I listen to the rhythm, and my eyes go heavy, and then all I can see is darkness.

“Three, two, one… CHARGE!” I jolt and sit upright, only to see Anna screaming, charging into the side of my bed, whacking my face with a pancake. “Wake up silly! Time for breakfast!” It’s a new day, 19/02/2025 and the sun is high up. My room gets lots of sun. Almost too much. I shield my eyes and tumble out of bed, into the bathroom. The floor tiles are ice-like, and my bare feet are dragging across the floor. “Ivy! I’m going to the library, and you’re coming!” I shut my eyes, lift my head and groan the loudest groan, to try and get mum to hear me. I sleepily throw my toothbrush in my mouth and stand there like a zombie for what feels like an eternity. “Ivy! Library! Now!” Mum is shouting. Startled, I jump, suddenly full of energy. We only have one rule in this house: Never upset mum. I get changed at the speed of light and brush my teeth. As I run downstairs, I see Anna, munching on a delicious pancake. My stomach rumbles, but mum is waiting, so I don’t eat breakfast. “In the car!” She calls out, and I jump in, putting on the seatbelt. The drive is short, and we’re there in a second. I get out, sign in and run to the comic section. Mum calls something, but I don’t hear. So, I just give her a thumbs up.

I’m in the comic section, looking at the books, and one catches my eye. Help the Earth! I grab it off the shelf and sit down on a cushion. I start but get bored. I hate reading. I get up, walk back to the shelf and place it back. When I do, I see an aquamarine fire expand across the books. I don’t scream for help, or yell. I stand. Mesmerized by the flames, I step in closer. Realisation creeps over me, and I try to run, but a burning force pulled me towards the fire. I grab for the sides, but the fire crawls along

the walls. Terrifying visions pierce my head, and a throbbing pain explodes in my head. My ears ring and spots danced in my eyes. I tried to scream. No sound. The fire gets closer… closer… closer… I am in it. The fire has engulfed my body, and the visions take over. Fire gleams in the sky. It’s hot, and steamy. Everyone is just doom scrolling, taking selfies or doing things on their phone. There’s a fire, and no one is doing anything about it! I feel sick; however, I calm myself down and try to find some water to land in. No blue. No water anywhere? The heat around is overwhelming my body. I’m falling. From nowhere at all. The wind is rushing in my ears, and then, I heard him. “Our Earth is dying. The duty to fix it falls upon your shoulders. Don’t mess up. Or else the future is no more. Wake up. Hurry. You are our only hope. For planet Earth.” My body goes slack, I slump, and I continue falling. Darkness. Again.

My head is throbbing and I’m lying in a field of burnt grass. The area around me is full of ashes. I gradually stand up and see a dead bunny, and it looks… cooked? I shudder and walk the other way. Then, I see it. My home. My eyes widen in disbelief. My apartment. New York. All burning red and on fire. This is terrible! No one is even focused on the giant fire, spreading slowly but dangerously across the city plaza. The fire consumes the people, but no one seems to notice. A voice rings in my head, “This is the future. Fix it. Make it right. If you don’t fight the past, you won’t have a future. Climate change is coming, spreading, and this is the new world you will know in the future years of 2100…” The fire is spreading rapidly, and I see a small group of people frantically trying to put out the flames with a hose. Swiftly and accurately, I dash towards the water hydrant and jump, grasping my hands onto the valve and yanking it hard. I run as the water climbs through the silver pipe. I dive in front of the fire, grabbing the hose and facing it upwards. The two other people copy me, and together we attempted to put the fire out. It was harsh. The ashes battling my face, steam blurring my eyes and the fire crashing into the nearby buildings. Although it wasn’t big, it somehow consumed everything in its path. The fire gradually got smaller, until there was only one sputtering flame, whispering in the smoke. We pointed the hose straight at it, and it disintegrates into nothing. “All right! Up top!” I hear the other two people jumping up happily and celebrating their victory. They run to me and pick me up, twirling me in a circle of joy. “I’m Hannah.” Exclaimed one of the girls. The other one jumped up.

“I’m Alina!” she cried, full of enthusiasm.

The Earth is Gone

“I’m Ivy.” I introduce myself and I try to act confident, but I can feel my cheeks burning up.

“Oh my god. Where are you from?” Questioned Alina as she inspects my clothes, hair and face. “Seems like… Wow, you’re old,” She concludes. My jaw drops. Old? I wasn’t old! “Yeah… 2025.” she whispers to Hannah (This was not a whisper at all! I bet the people across the street could even hear her!). Finally, I realised what they were wearing: future tech glasses with a neon cyan frame, shining bodysuits and their dark shining hair tied up in a space bun. “Back to the treehouse Alina. Invite this newcomer.” Ordered Hannah as she walked off into the dark oak forest. I was beckoned to walk along by Alina. 2100. 75 years into the future, and our lives would be ruined! After having a good look around, I pointed my gaze back to the two girls, who were already several metres in front of me. I chased them, and when I finally caught up, we were at the entrance of the endless forest, and a towering sky base looming high made the other trees look like a little bush. “In. Now,” Hannah’s voice was stern and dangerous. “The fire will be back soon.”

The treehouse wasn’t a treehouse. It was a castle! Nothing could fly higher than the mansion. No bird, no plane, no helicopter. They clicked their fingers, and an elevator opened, and we stepped in. Immediately, the doors closed, and the elevator whooshed up, and I felt my body disintegrate into the air. My airways closed and my eyes blurred. For a second, it was the worst feeling of my life. No control, liability. I returned to myself, and gulped for air while the other two walked in. There were beanbags spread evenly on a dark blue rug in front of what seemed like a VR station with a TV in front of it. The two sat down, and a table rose from the ground to chest height. A few taps, and the girls were on the mission. A see-through computer was hovering over the glass table, glowing turquoise. Suddenly, a bowl of snacks appeared in the middle of the table; however, I had never seen those snacks. Pink animal gummies and red flaming hot chips that were separated, not mixed. The girls dug in; Hannah eating the chips, Alina eating the animal gummies. I stood there awkwardly whilst they ate. They didn’t show any manners and didn’t beckon for me to sit. After what seems like perpetuity, Hannah interviews me, asking questions such as ‘where are you from’ or ‘what time are you from’. She brought me a beanbag and told me I could explore the house whilst they got some work done. I had a play

on the VR, and I explored the kitchen. Alina showed me where the snacks were. “Help yourself.” She said absentmindedly, still looking at her phone. Silence. She stands there silently, nothing is moving. Her hand reaches for her pocket, silent like a ninja. Suddenly, she whips out a grapple and holds me by the waist. She runs towards the window, with me being dragged along. Alarms blared. Alina jumped out the window and grappled the nearby trees and swinging like a monkey, she swung towards the entrance of the forest. A big fire was growing. The people were being engulfed again! This time, the fire was different, a purple turquoise colour, and a single sentence came from the fire, “You cannot defeat me.”

My eyes widened to the fire. Hannah and Alina are staring, eyes wide, mouth trembling and hands shaking. I gave Alina a nudge and she shook her head, face shaken from what she was seeing. “The visions will take control as we get closer,” Hannah warned, “Be prepared.” Alina nodded and so did I. We dropped to the ground and stealthily crept along the dark, ashy, burnt ground. We reached the entrance and as I stepped through, my brain swelled with painful visions of the past. Greenhouse gases are escaping into the air, factories emitting gas and thousands of cars along a small street. My head throbbed and spots danced in my eyes. I focused my attention on Hannah, who was putting her hand on her forehead in an aching position, also trying to get out of the visions. I put my hand on her shoulder, and a tear trickled down her cheek, and she fell to the ground, sitting on her knees. Her eyes flickered opened. “Is that what you’ve been living in? A painful, miserable, broken world where nobody cares about the Earth? Is this why Alina and I are here now, fighting this terrible world?” she choked out, voice raspy with agony.

I nodded, “I’m sorry. This world isn’t the type you want to live in, and I wish I could take you back with me, but truthfully, I don’t even know how to get back myself.” I helped her up, and she told me, “I will fight for this Earth, but if you ever go back, fix the world, and help 2100.” Her eyes began blazing cyan and I was blasted with a gust of water. I held my breath and clenched my eyes shut, scrunching my face in fear. I open my eyes and see that a shield of water has surrounded me. “You know what you have to do,” teased the voice in my head, “The Earth, for you. The sacrifice is what saves 2100.” My eyes brimmed with tears. I tipped my head down. I remembered the visions. Suddenly, fully charged of adrenaline, I run, and a giant water scythe grows in my head, shimmering a golden outline. I charged at the fire, my head stinging from the growing vision. I cried

The Earth is Gone

out a battle cry as I ran, straight into the fire. My world is now red. I lift my scythe and swing it around, ejecting water out of the sword. Unexpectedly, all the red disappeared, leaving a small blue flame in the middle. “Fight it.” Commanded the voice in my head. I ran towards it, my consciousness fading slowly, but I stood steady and cut the flame in half, with one single slice. The flame stood there, hovering over the ground. “You cannot defeat me,” I gasped, “You are weak.” The voice was terrifying, because it was the voice of my dad, and my dad was dead.

“That is not your dad Ivy. Do not be tricked by this illusion.” Reassured the voice. I nodded and ran at it again. I didn’t know this voice and I trusted it. I yelled out, and with all my strength, I disintegrated the flames. “Yes!” I cried. My strength wavered, and I blacked out.

“Wake up. Hurry.” My eyes blinked open, and I saw someone I hadn’t seen in 10 years. “Dad.” My voice wobbled, and I cried, hugging my dad. “You are safe now. Up here with me,” The truth shattered my body. I was dead too. “You sacrificed your life for 2100, and I am so proud to call you, my daughter.” He smiled. His warm glow filled my body with hope. Then I saw Hannah and Alina down below shaking my lifeless body. “Don’t cry. It was worth it.” I sent down a message. They put down my body, and looked up, nodding at the sky. I gave them a nod of approval, and they walked away, my body slowly being eaten by the Earth. Everyone stopped looking at their phones and looked around. A few of them sighed with relief, almost as if they knew what had happened. I smiled down at the Earth. I was happy now. Up in the sky, with dad. Today, I still watch down on Earth. Now it’s your turn. Do your part and save our Earth. Help the planet that we live on. Stop harming the Earth.

Bonnie Xu

A Portal to Arzcaf

The portal blinks once, twice, three times, I scream but a hand clamps over my mouth, as swift as thunder, I am pulled into the swirling, golden portal…

The sun is beginning to rise on Monday, my most hated day of the week, it’s all sad and cold, except for the fact that I am going to Aria’s house today! Grandmother is going to make me do all the chores now, right after I finished my homework. I grab my most treasured photograph, my last photo of Mama, before she disappeared into “The Dark Grey Gloomy Fog”, well that what Grandma calls it, though I prefer the name “The Mystical Fog of Hidden Secrets”, well doesn’t that sound so much interesting? My mind wanders back, and I find myself in my gloomy, miserable, absolutely boring bedroom, my eyes staring into the photo of my mother, my beautiful, wonderful mother. She used to tell me that I looked just like her and now, I can see. Wavy brown hair, long fluttering eyelashes and bright blue eyes. Everyone calls me Mini Rose; however, Grandma calls me something else-

“Elizabeth. Rose. Marrow. Come down here now!” a voice yelled from downstairs.

Grandmother (or Grandma as I like to call her), lives in the same house as me, The Marrow Estate Mansion. It’s a grand, vast, ancient mansion with a musty smell in addition to the fact that Grandma said it’s been there since The Start of Magic, which was, 10000 years ago. It’s a rather fancy, Victorian style mansion and I enjoy exploring all the rooms and hallways.

“Eliza! I’m not going to stand here waiting forever! Come down now or forever hold your hunger.” My grandmother shouted again, she is rather loud when she chooses to be.

“Yes, Grandma.” I delicately glided down ornate the stairs holding up my skirts, as though I was a princess from “The Fairy Wizard of Tantia”. It’s my most beloved book that I have ever read, given that I have read over a thousand. My grandmother, ushers me over to the smooth wooden breakfast table, where my breakfast lies. Her greyed hazelnut hair shines in the sunlight, hazy blue eyes twinkling with kindness and laughter. Inhaling my breakfast, I rush out the door to complete my chores. However, the second I step out of my grandmother’s sight, a twirling, mystical portal flickers open in front of me…

Colours swirling in front of me, bright light flashing into my eyes, a hand firmly fastened around my wrist. Could. This. Be. The end? I close my eyes in fear, only to feel the grass as soft as cloud underneath my feet, I open them again in confusion and everything comes flashing back, headaches, pain. Shutting them, I am once more in complete calm. Eventually, the faint flying feeling, fades away… I open my eyes to find myself in a moonlit valley, with a tranquil smell about it, it’s mesmerising, I feel around my backpack and sigh in relief, I still have my: compass, lunch, cloak, my favourite copy of “The Fairy Wizard of Tantia” and most importantly of all, my wand. When I focus my gaze once more to the front, a faint shimmering outline begins to take shape in front of me. Is that an elderly gentleman dressed in wizard’s clothes?

“Hello, Miss Elizabeth… I have been waiting for this day of fate to occur for many years, 1000 years perhaps, ever since I saw that destined reflection of the future in my crystal globe.” The wizard briskly explained without turning around.

“1000 years? Are you the First Wizard?” I queried with an air of curiousness. This time the wizard swivelled his head around,

“Yes, I am.” He replied with a deep voice, his head showed his age, wrinkles, horn-rimmed spectacles and wizened white hair.

“I am sorry for my incompetence, I am honoured to be in your shining presence.” I apologised in my best formal voice. Suddenly, a figure bursts into the clearing. Huh? I recognise that familiar clothing and that style of a witches’ hat! Is that Aria? What is she doing here?

“Hi Eliza! I see you have already met my mentor!” Aria exclaimed with an air of surprise.

“Wait, the First Wizard is your mentor?” I questioned with an envious feeling.

A Portal to Arzcaf

“I can be your mentor as well, that is if you wish to become my apprentice.” The wizard informed me. However, as sudden as clouds on a sunny day, a wave of doubt washes over me, something is not right… Aria’s hat has a gold circle in the middle, not a silver square. The First Wizards spectacles are gold-rimmed not horn-rimmed and if they truly were real people in my life, why was I dragged through the portal with a hand clamped over my mouth? I start to see them as they are, how could I have not noticed? Of course, there is only one creature they could be, Shapeshifters…

When the torments begin to realise that I am no longer entranced and believing everything they say, the environment changes, peaceful fir trees turning into blackened burnt ones, green lush grass transformed into ashes and sand, but most importantly, the moon, who was casting her shining, silvery glow over the valley, converted into a red hot star that looked like a planet on fire. This is no longer a bright moonlit valley, this is Arzcaf, where torments are sent. The torments’ bright smiling faces disappeared behind a deep, malevolent scowl. I race towards the glittering, twirling portal, my heart beats fastening with trepidation. My hearts drops when I near the portal, because it had disappeared. The great shining mass of illuminated stars had gone. Where it was only stood stones of burnt ash. I grimaced, the Shapeshifters had fooled me, transforming piled up rocks to create a portal.

Just as I thought all was lost, a beckoning, familiar voice calls out to me. That was… my mind goes blank and then I only have one goal in my manipulated head “Come to us, we will make you happy”, but I hear my friend’s ringing voice one more time and my head comes spinning back with a searing pain. Using my wand, I retain the Shapeshifters at bay, I cannot risk being caught. I climb up a charred tree, my saliva tasting like burnt bread, I must leave now, I cannot stay any longer. Climbing towards the welcoming voice, climbing towards my escape. When I finally reach the rocky cliff Aria was standing on, she hauled me up and I take a gasping breath of fresh cold air from the portal.

“Are you all right? I realised you weren’t there when we timed a visit to each other’s house, so I went to your grandmother, but she didn’t know where you were either.” Aria explained phrase after phrase.

“I’m alright, thank you for asking.” I responded shakily, still shell-shocked from my horrifying experience. Once we get through the portal, I breathe a deep sigh of relief. I’m safe, I’m back, I’ll be ok. I think to myself, feeling more relieved each time I repeat it in my mind. When we arrived at last back to The Marrow Estate Mansion, my grandmother is already waiting for me on the front doorstep for me with a worried expression on her face, but her hazy eyes lit up with joy when she saw me.

“Thank you, Aria. It was rather courageous of you to risk your life to bring Eliza back to me. I can never thank you enough, but would you like to start with some homemade lemon cake as a thank you?” Grandma questioned her with that old twinkle back in her once worried eyes. Aria’s face lit up when she heard this, for everybody knew that my grandmother’s cakes were the absolute best.

“Can I have some too?” I asked, excitement fizzed up inside me

“Now, I admit it wasn’t your fault that you got trapped in the portal, but…” Grandma starts, however she sees me staring at her with my best glare.

“Fine – fine, you can have some too.” Grandma gives in with a kindly laugh and we had an evening full of joy and laughter, fun and happiness. I have to admit, I couldn’t ever have hoped for a better life than the one I had in The Marrow Estate Mansion.

Rebecca Wang

Ira Dand

Bark bark! Working in the yard.

The sun is shining extremely hard.

Bark bark! Stop it, be quiet, little dog!

Can’t you be silent like a log?

All day and night, don’t you sleep?

Can you stop barking at us, please?

Little dog, you’re in for it now!

This is your last chance to shut your mouth!

A jet of water comes streaming over, And hits you squarely on your shoulders!

You run back to into your house.

Not my responsibility now!

Bark bark! Sitting inside.

I am so tired; I say with a sigh.

Little dog goes out to play,

The neighbours out, she has something to say.

She is confined to barking, it is her way of expressing herself,

She is unable to talk, only barking itself.

The neighbours spray water at her, she runs inside.

Cold and afraid, she shivers in her hide.

We go to have a talk, a heart to heart.

They say, “all day and night, all she does is bark!”

We are surprised, we did not know,

This seed of habit we did not mean to sow.

We go back inside and sit down.

We search up solutions with a frown.

As we search, our minds fog.

Is she naughty, our sweet little dog?

Finally, a solution appears.

We talk about it with our peers.

Maybe if we get a collar that zaps, Maybe she will stop barking, perhaps…

Bark Bark!

Bark bark! I am finally free!

Ooh, the neighbour’s out, I want to see!

Bark bark! I cannot see over the fence!

Bark bark! I want to see, hence I will bark louder in my hopes

To find out how my neighbour copes!

Dodging water is not very fun.

To dodge them, I have to run.

All of a sudden, I am cold.

I run inside; my joy has been sold.

They do not understand, I am suffering,

But they finally realise and dry me with stuffing.

They walk out and start to chat.

I don’t bark when I’m alone, I’m too much of a scaredy-cat!

They come inside, shaking their heads.

A collar that zaps? No way, please friends!

Evelyn Jiang

Bound No Longer-An Electron’s Journey Through Space

Every day is the same. I orbit the nucleus of an iron atom that is part of the surface of Mercury. I react with other particles. And I get teased by my so-called friends. My family. Because my dream is not to live a simple life as a lowly particle. My dream is to travel through space. To contribute to plasma! But I am a bound electron. Which means that I am trapped, forever.

“Move, you’re holding us up, daydreamer!” teased my sister, attempting to help react with other particles. If the atom we lived in was a kingdom, then my sister would be the queen, and I, her servant. I tried not to show how much her words pained me. “Don’t make me hurt you,” threatened the dutiful lady. I allowed a small smile to form on my lips. Electrons would repel each other if they came close together. Sighing, I wondered if my life would ever change.

Just as I was settling down in a forgotten corner of the atom, I felt a splitting pain in my body, followed by a burst of energy. Invigorated, I felt immense pressure before a feeling of freedom. I was surrounded by tiny, glittering lights. The canopy filled me with wonder. What was this spectacular universe? There was only one explanation - Compton scattering. I had been hit by a photon and now I was free. When I was inside the iron atom, I felt like a servant. Now, I felt like a king.

I felt the wind in my ears and the warm glow of the sun on my face. Suddenly, pain pulsed through my body, and I was repelled through the air. Collecting myself, I frantically searched around. My gaze was met by a ruffled electron who was negatively charged, just like me. “Are you alright?” I stumbled over the words. “Yes,” replied the young lady, her almond shaped eyes cautious. “Do you know how to find plasma?” I stuttered, trying to let the scared lady know that I was a friend, not a foe. “No, but I am looking for it too!” she exclaimed, her gaze brightening. “I’m Astrielle. Do you have a name?” she questioned. “No,” I replied. Astrielle had flowing golden hair that cascaded down her back like a waterfall and icy blue eyes. “Hey dreamers! I heard you talking about becoming part of plasma. Don’t you know anything? To achieve that, you will have to be swept up into solar wind. Astronomically low chances!” taunted a gruff electron. I realised that the impolite particle spoke the truth.

“We must find solar wind,” murmured Astrielle. “How?” I whined, tears gathering in my eyes like raindrops. “We’ll travel across Mercury,” Astrielle replied softly. Just like that, hope was rekindled in my heart like a candle being lit. Along our journey, we discussed nonconformity, the hardships of being a dreamer and how we got teased every day. As we floated through the air, waiting to be swept into a stream of other electrons and protons, I felt like I would only ever be truly joyful if I was with Astrielle.

Once we had been traveling for what felt like centuries, we laid eyes on an angry looking neutron. He had a cherry red face and tiny eyes that held a malicious glint. “I know your type. Dreamy. Blinded by fantasies. You need me,” taunted the neutron, shaking his fist at. “Come inside,” he continued, smirking. “It’s a trap!” cried Astrielle, face clouded with fear. Ignoring her, I stepped forward. Then I saw them. Positrons. Every electron’s nightmare. My eyes widened, and I felt myself being pulled upwards. Solar wind! “Astrielle!” I screeched, my eyes boring into her pain-streaked face as she became smaller by the second. “Achieve your dreams,” she shouted. Her voice was no louder than a whisper to me, as I was swept upwards through Mercury’s obsidian coloured atmosphere.

For what felt like centuries, all I could think about was Astrielle. Until suddenly, I felt the warm embrace of a fiery orange ball of gas. It glowed golden, and it swirled hypnotically. The sun’s plasma! “Attention workers!” called a gruff voice. The plasma king! “I’m about to send a stream of particles to earth to contribute to the northern lights. I need one more electron,” he boomed, standing regally on his bejewelled thrown. Tiptoeing over, I joined the line of particles, atoms and molecules, and we took off into space, towards Earth.

During my journey through the heliosphere, I passed glowing white blobs, and a scattering of translucent colours, until I finally saw a sprawling white tundra below me. Suddenly filled with the sensation of being trapped, I began to panic. But as I took in my surroundings, a wave of bliss washed over me. I was in earth’s magnetic field! Before I had time to celebrate, the familiar feeling that I had collided with something pulsed through my body. I caught a glimpse of an oxygen atom and realized that it had transferred its energy to me. Squeezing my eyes shut and taking a deep breath, I released the extra energy. Shades of ruby and emerald swirled around me. I had achieved my dream.

Bound No Longer-An Electron’s Journey Through Space

Ever since I arrived at the northern lights, I have been living in earth’s magnetic field, thinking about Astrielle. Why did we have to be torn apart? It was not fair! Then I saw something that made my blood boil. A positron. It was heading straight towards me, and I was defenceless. I would meet my end through annihilation. Suddenly, a particle jumped in front of me. “Astrielle!” I cried desperately. The determined lady stood in front of me, fists clenched, mouth set in a straight line. She began to fade away, dispersing into shimmering golden light. She whispered, “Goodbye. Stay safe.” Hot, salty tears streamed down my face, but I felt more peaceful than before. Astrielle would always be in my heart. She had given me the gift of life.

Sofia Hartnett

Her fingers twinkled across the keys, ran, almost, but still only a jog. Much like a jog you take on a Sunday morning. Outside the window, the sun glowed with pride, the ripple of the lake below. Everything seemed calmer than usual. The sun outlined her shadow and glowed off her glasses. Her long hair hanging down her back, out of the tight ponytail she usually put it in. Her eyes resembles pools of chocolate, darting over the sheet, every so often it darted to her hands, then back.

Eva Harracks is the most shy girl in all of Notepick Academy. Everyone tries to avoid her. One word or mention of the name Eva the class goes mental. The day Notepick Academy came to her mind she already thought about moving to a music school. She begged for months to go. She’d come home and before anyone could talk, she would beg “Please can I go” Fast forward a few years there she was at Notepick, wishing to go back. She really wanted a human friend, but there hasn’t been a human that came to existence that was fit for Eva. The only thing that had a chance as a friend was the piano. She forces herself to sit at the back of the class every time. How she manages to stay quiet and not get called on. I don’t know. She is in a class of 55 or even more! When she is called on, Alice would save her. Alice would cross her arms and roll her eyes then out. “I want to stay next to Hannie!” she complained every time and them Ayesha would make a buzzing sound like a mozzie.

Eva sat at the piano in her dorm playing. Her mind travelling back to the last period of the day. Mr Harvey had told Eva and Alice to switch seats. When Alice and her were equally next to each other Mr Harvey came out with, “Eva, you’re playing in the annual student spotlight!”

The Dance of the Notes

Eva stood flabbergasted. The class was silent, the bell rang in the silence to save Eva’s life and then she was off.

Last period, 4 days before the spotlight, Mr Harvey told them about the legend, Dance of the Notes. Notes jump off the page and irritate the player’s enemy or everyone. Eva later found herself in the library searching up the curse or legend. The book says, “Player must play the song in reverse to undo the curse.” After the trip to the library, Eva stood, looking at her used to be blank piece of paper, now scribbled with notes of the song, just translated backwards. Drawing nearer and nearer was the spotlight. The curse now forever haunted her in her dreams. Ok maybe not forever but just until the end of the spotlight.

The day of the spotlight came quicker than she wanted. All day she rehearsed the song backwards only. Outside the room Alice laughed loudly with Hannie. Just enough to cover the sound of the music. Eva became furious, her hands acting as though they were sharks hunting for fish. Bashing was the word used, knotting up her stomach. Lost in wonder, eyes closed the song went quiet to pianissimo.

Night dimmed the hall into darkness. Seats lined up, full of people. Spotlight searched for Eva. The lights finally found Eva. Eva’s eyes looked down and saw straight at Ayesha and her mind finally stopped its race. Eyelids gently closing, her hands floating. The song sped past, then it finished. Shouting of panic filled the air and she opened her eyes. Notes flew in all directions. “Stop it, you microscopic idiot!” a voice clipped across the air.

“I can’t,” Eva replied, “I forgot what the book said,” Just realising it was Alice. Before Alice could even

open her mouth Eva added, “I know I’m stupid, aren’t I?”

“Yes. You. Are.” The reply came from Alice before she could process. Desperate to prove wrong what she just said. “The paper, open the paper,” a small voice whispered at the back of her head. Thrice the voice came repeating itself. The paper fell out of her pocket. Looking eager to be opened. Backwards, yes backwards is the way. She bent down opened the paper. She wanted it soft, but it ended up sounding like a giant trying to subdue their anger.

Evacuated. They were all evacuated, and it was her fault. Trying not to cry of shame she ran off as fast as her slender, yet tall legs could carry her. Up the first 19 stairs, turn right 2 corridors then turn a left corridor, fourth door to the left, dorm 754. Her mind suddenly switched on. Ayesha, oh no, Ayesha. She thought. At Notepick people have a sliding door with the person next to you and Ayesha happens to be next to her. She tried to play the piano, but tears flooded down her face. Bangs started on the sliding door. Wiping clean her face of tears she slid the door open. “Leave me alone,” a hoarse sort of whisper coming out of Eva’s mouth.

“If you need,” Ayesha sighed, crestfallen. Finally, after what seemed like a million years, she went to bed.

Twisting, turning, thoughts filled her head. “Will everything be the same or will people hate me even more? Maybe like me even more!” Eva’s head echoed with the words. But she can only find out tomorrow.

Audrey Li

So many people ask, “When am I ever going to use this?” during math class yet only to grow up and ask google how to solve basic arithmetic. The truth is, mathematics isn’t just a subject on a schedule, it’s the invisible power behind every decision we make. One of the biggest skill we learn. From unlocking dream careers to sharpening our mind, even helping is figure out if we have enough pizza for everyone, math is everywhere. It’s more than numbers, it’s a navigation for life. I firmly agree that the skill math is one of the undefeatable. So, whether you’re solving an equation or splitting bills, math matters more than we realize, it’s time we give it the credit it deserves.

First and foremost, math isn’t just numbers, it’s a weapon for building a stronger, sharper mind. When my cousin was in year 6, she sat in front of a blank worksheet wishing that numbers would disappear. Now? In year 10, she could solve quadratic equations while only half listening to the teacher and sipping juice. That is true math skills. Dr Tanya Evan from Stanford University found that kids who regularly practice maths would develop a stronger pathway for logic and memory. This is mental gymnastics. Building stamina for concentration and boosting your ability to tackle challenges with calm. It’s no surprise that math teaches things deeper with resilience. You learn that no problem has an immediate answer, but with time, strategy and patience, most can be solved. Math may seem hard at first but pays off in the long run. So, what’s the formular for sharper thinking, higher confidence? Simple, patience and practice in math.

Maintaining Math

Ever tried landing to a top-tier job without knowing your basic statistics or how percentages work? It’s like turning up to a job interview and forgetting what you came in for. In today’s modern, data-based world, mathematics isn’t just optional, it’s essential. Employers crave candidates who can make accurate evidence-based decisions, speedy with all types of calculations. According to Aston University, a degree in mathematics doesn’t make you smarter, it gives you problem solving power. This isn’t just useful, it’s unstoppable. Want to command a higher salary, lead innovations and solve real world problems? Can you afford not to embrace math? Math is the queen of sciences, trust me, it doesn’t play favourites. It’s a secret weapon in your career finding. Picture this, every percentage you understand, every statistic you learn is another tool in your life and career. When others see numbers as intimidating obstacles, you see it as stepping stones. Therefore, the next time you see yourself hesitating over that worksheet, dodging a problem or overwhelmed by data, remember this, mastering math master’s your future. It leads you to a higher salary, leadership roles and allows you to change the world. Because in the end, those who master math don’t just survive, they thrive, unlocking your future success.

Lastly, everyday life runs on an invisible algorithm, whether you’re calculating how many bags of chip packets you can afford on a tight budget, adjusting a recipe to perfect, or negotiating how long you will take to get dressed. Students were gathered and, in the end, 80.9 % said that math we crucial in daily decision making. We don’t need to become the top in math, but try navigating rent, discounts or interest rates without asking a calculator

or google to do so for you. Math provides understanding, disguised in recipes and credit card statements. Without it, your just guessing, and guessing is a very risky business especially when garlic bread only coast a few dollars. Mathematics in daily life isn’t abstract, it’s action. It’s confidence in numbers, control in chaos and control over confusion. Isn’t it time we stopped questioning, as this everyday reliance in math shows exactly why it’s not just a school subject, it’s a vital skill that empowers us all.

In conclusion, so whether you’re decoding your payslip, doubling a recipe, or diving into data at work, one thing is clear, math is everywhere and it matters. It’s not just about numbers, it’s about the choices, confidence and the clarity that come with understanding it. From childhood worksheets to career-defining moments, math has always been there, quietly sharpening our thinking and guiding our decisions. We may not all become mathematician, but we all rely on math the navigate the world with intelligence and intent. So, the next time someone asks, “When will I ever use this?” just smile and say,” you already are.” Because in the world ruled by numbers, those who speak the language don’t just keep up, they lead.

Angela Shi

Jacqueline Zhang

A Song in the Maze

I had a dream of a maze closing in on me, the walls were growing taller, blocking all sunlight.

“Help!” my voice breaking.

Nowhere to go. Nowhere to run. Nowhere to escape.

I bit my fingernails, the words fought the numbers, and it felt like a war on my textbook page. I rubbed my eyes, but my vision was still blurry, there was nothing to see, I had already given up, I was not average for anything. Life felt like a knot, tied up, never being able to undo itself as it was tied too strongly, not able to be separated anymore, too hard to fix.

Ms Wang pointed at me with a test paper filled with red crosses. I could not hear what she was talking about but saw her cold, stern face. It was probably another scolding, but I was used to it by now.

The long day finally ended. I dragged my heavy legs to the locker room. The smart girls talked about quadratics and the popular girls sang along to their favourite songs from their phones. I squished past the girls, humming along some lines, but my voice drowned out. No one could hear me. No one wanted to. I was weighted with lifts I could no longer hold up, but kept it on my back, knowing one day I would fall. But I could not because I had to be at my next station in life.

“Shall we take it from bar twenty?”

“One and two and,” my piano accompaniment sang as I counted the beats in my head.

My fingers crept up the fingerboard, but I could not seem to fit in all the notes, as the final notes stopped, the music drew to a close. I picked up my case quickly and was about to slip out.

“Here, you can come to the church on Sunday, it would be fun for you to sing with girls your age?” he smiled as he handed me a sheet of paper with a written address on it.

“What? I – I do not sing,” I sighed, words tumbling out of my mouth

“A group of girls will be singing, I think you could too!” he closed the piano lid as he lifted his head, eyes bright with a grin.

Time to say good night to the world. I turned off the lights, not wanting anyone to hear and read the lyrics, over and over again, the songs were so bubbly and singing them made me feel enlightened, like a dark room revealing the things in it.

I wore my white floral dress as I stood on the stage of the church amongst the other girls. Shadows of the wooden seats were cast onto the carpet. The sounds of the pipe organ swelled in my mind, its majestic sounds welcomed all. Sunlight filtered through the stained glass, illuminating the people. My voice joined in the choir, singing my heart out. In this moment, I could truly be myself, not living under the eyes of others. The applause echoed through the halls, and I beamed from ear to ear, I never found a passion before, I had never loved doing something so much.

On the way home, I opened my mouth, weary, unsure whether to ask, “Mum, can I take singing lessons?”

She stared, her face slightly tilted, “Maybe we can focus on more important things, then you can try singing, okay?”

I turned my head away, trying to hide my tears.

The following day at school, I heard singing, a young girl’s voice from a small music classroom, her tunes were soothing. I halted to a stop and sat on the floor, under the window.

As I was humming the melody, the music teacher strolled out the door and her sweet smile curled up, lighting up her soft blue eyes, “Do you need any help?”.

“N-no, I am just having lunch,” I whispered, trying to avoid eye contact.

“I just wanted to tell you it is raining,” I could see her smile brightening.

A Song in the Maze

From that day onwards, I would come to school early and sit by the music classrooms. My voice once unsure and shaky, now reaching the highest notes. Since, a window was always left open, and I could hear better. I knew I had found my inner self, one where I could sing aloud at nights under the bed covers and hear melodic tunes from the flattering piano.

At our annual middle school concert, the foyer buzzed with endless rows of people. Then silence fell as the spotlight revealed the girl on stage. She had perfectly done makeup and held her microphone, ready to sing. Her light voice floated in the room like butterflies, elegantly and slowly. I sat in the crowd watching, admiring. I wished that was me, but I was never given a chance like that.

Suddenly, her voice faltered, leaving gasps in the crowd. Her hands were holding onto her dress, her eyes watering. Almost without a thought, I hummed the next few bars.

I lowered my head, wanting to disappear from the embarrassment, but a stiffened hand reached out. I knew this hand; she had played millions of melodies and taught singing in the small music room.

“Come on, it is your turn to shine!” she winked as she gave me a microphone, leading me on stage.

My heart pounded. I walked closely behind her, feeling pairs of eyes stare at me.

The girl on stage lit up and we sang the tune together. We echoed each other and the crowd applauded louder than ever. This was the first time I was proud of something. Maybe it was within my passion that I could find success.

“Thank you, Miss, the door was closed but you opened a window for me.”

The music teacher gave me a thumb-up. Today, the weight I carried eased, knowing my life was still a maze, not perfect but there was a path ahead of me.

Oceana Ma

Individuality Is Like Artwork

Welcome to the gallery of life. It’s like an art exhibition, filled with beautiful paintings. The only difference is that there is a piece of artwork to represent each person in the world. We all have our own paintings here. Our individual artwork grows and evolves as we do, and new additions appear on the canvas. It might be a swirl of paint, a splash of watercolour or a squiggle from a pen. Each of these elements express your emotions, thoughts, and ideas. Eventually, it morphs into a representation of you. What I love about the world is that no artwork is the same, despite there being over eight billion individual pieces. Every painting is unique, giving each one the power to change the world in a different way.

Thomas Edison is a name we’ve all heard of. Nobody can imagine a world without his life-changing light bulb. However, not many people have heard of the difficulties he faced as he introduced his idea to the world. Initially, people laughed at his impossible idea of inventing a ‘ball of light’. Edison was faced with immense scorn and ridicule. It would have been easy to give up on his seemingly mad quest, but no. He kept on going, until he designed the object that lit up our future. If he had been afraid to stand out, we would still be in a period of utter darkness.

Today, we are surrounded by modern technologies, futuristic buildings and life-changing tools. All of this is thanks to people that celebrate and value differences, using it to create a better future.

Individuality is also necessary to keep communities thriving. When individuals contribute their unique perspectives, it leads to ideas that are more powerful, creative, and effective. For example, in parliament, ideas are debated, and new thoughts are added to make the perfect solution to any problem. The same applies to workplaces, research laboratories, and universities. This has been proven by several studies, which have shown that the topmost companies have a diverse range of people, leading to a high success rate. Thanks to individuality, our world is full of diverse individuals who have new and fresh thoughts to contribute to our society.

These days people, particularly teenagers, feel a strong need to fit in. They long to be the same as their friends or peers. However, what they forget, is that one of the greatest joys in life is to have something that is uniquely you. There is an unmatched sense of pride and joy when you create something that is original and special.

Once, I was given an art assignment. Of course, I was deeply tempted to look for ideas on the internet and simply sketch something that someone else had already drawn. However, I told myself to create something new. Many attempts later, I painted something original and unique. Sure, it was nowhere near perfect, but knowing I was the one who had created it made it one hundred times more special.

So, what will your painting look like? Will it be a piece of abstract art or a beautiful oil painting? Maybe it will be a collage, a mixture of different techniques, or it could be something completely different in a medium the world has never seen before? Regardless of what form your artwork takes, remember that it’s differences that set it apart. As our visit to the gallery of life comes to an end, don’t forget the best pieces of artwork are the ones that are unique. After all, individuality is what sparks innovation, brings change and helps you understand the joys of being unique. So, don’t be afraid to stand out and I can promise you your artwork will be exceptional.

Ritisha Rao

The Friendship Stowaway

I doubled over in pain, uncontrollable sobs escaping from inside of me. My chest tightened, heaving in an effort to repair… to fix myself. Fresh, warm tears escaped my eyes. I gasped for air, but no more entered my lungs. Yes, this was the feeling and state of my burst, cracking heart.

Before she had left, Celeste gave me a hug, as if that could fix everything that she has ever done to me, tearing me apart piece by piece. A meaningless gesture. There I sat, cross-legged, isolated, as shouts of joy ricocheted across the yard, and as an increasing number of friends stood up and joined in on the fun. Eventually, the only person left sitting there, the one that was all alone, was me.

Betrayal stabbed me like a sharp knife. My mind shut down. My body felt numb, as numb as somebody would on a freezing, snowy winter day whilst wearing summer attire. How could she do that? Perhaps I was too enthusiastic, an eager puppy bounding down a hallway to greet its owner, coming home from work. My internal face flushed with anger, but on the outside, I was just a girl that was too innocent to know what was really happening to her. If only they could see all those scars I’ve ever bore… all those scars they’ve created. All those years sitting at the back of the classroom. All those painful lunches of getting those looks. Unwelcoming smirks. I was some inside joke. And now, when I’ve finally made a friend, she came and destroyed it all. They probably thought I was blind. The truth is, everyone, I was not.

Flee. Hide. Forget it ever happened. Those were the three steps that I have always followed, a procedure that guaranteed full comfort from the expressional slaps that hurtled towards me unintentionally. I was a target. I wasn’t aware of the situation. That is presumed by everyone, and they weren’t true. All my friends were slipping from my grasp and into the new girl’s. My hobbies and my attention? I lost those when she arrived. Oh, she’s so much funnier and smarter than me. I was worthless compared to her. Every time she went within my viewing range, I felt a powerful surge of hatred towards her. Since her arrival, I had sat apart from everyone else, feeling lonelier than ever. What was the point? It was too late. 9 years of chances, all stamped on and torn apart. Would there be someone I could rely on to never betray me?

I had then eventually become blended into a new friendship circle, and nobody ever noticed that I was out of place. A stowaway that didn’t belong and that had no clue about what was going on in their conversations. They didn’t even know that I’d existed. If I slipped into a group, I would be less of a target. Nobody knew what I had been through. Their excited, hushed whispers spread warmth across our bodies, but I knew my pain would never really go away. It would linger in the air, wherever I went from then on. So, I was ‘normal’… for now.

Grace Yu

Watching Time Fly

Standing in my colourful sneakers, under a hat covering my face, I looked at my new school happily, Small, six-year-old me has found my place.

Then came the lockdown that held me in, I closed the door and accepted fate, The world became silent, yet time flew by, That was the world back when I was eight.

Soon I turned ten, a cheerful year four, That was the last year at my old school, I played with my old friends one last time, There, I waved goodbye, on the bench stool.

Soon, three more precious years has flew by, Now thirteen, I’m better than before, I’m taller, wiser, and more helpful, New chances wait for me passed this door.

Sylvia Sun

Andrea Chan

A Question, Unasked For

I’m late to work. My head’s pounding from too little sleep and too much caffeine. I feel like I’ve been underwater all morning. The air is thick and sour; either it’s about to rain or it already did, and nobody told me. Today is one of those days that make everything seem so pointless.

I drag myself onto the train. The first thing I notice is the noise. Wheels screeching. Conversations blending. It reminds me of someone I used to know, filling every second at the dinner table with talk. In the end, none of those words mattered.

After I head to the back of the train, I look at the people around me, faces the same as usual. The mother yelling at her children, voice tinted with the kind of exhaustion that builds over years of being needed too much and thanked too little. The man in the suit, checking his phone, convinced he’s doing something meaningful. I sigh. It’s strange. After all these years, I still find comfort in their miserable lives. Watching these people go about their lives, it’s a reminder of why I keep my distance. They’re just reflections of the human nature I’ve come to distrust. They make it easier to feel sorry for myself.

I turn my head. I don’t need to look to see the way people interact. I already know. Human nature is predictable. Selfish. I’ve spent too many years watching it disappoint me to think otherwise. But then I see her. She moves through the train with the kind of energy I haven’t seen in years, like she truly believes in something. A young woman, bright-eyed and eager. She’s asking everyone about their plans. Her questions are simple, almost naïve. I roll my eyes and look away. It’s easier that way. I don’t need to hear her. Don’t need to see her. But still, she makes her way towards me. She stops next to a seat across from me, where a man is sitting, reading.

“What’s your name, sir?” she asks, voice almost songlike. The man grunts. “Leave me be,” he mutters, returning to his book. She doesn’t flinch. She simply smiles wider, as though his bitterness is an invitation to something deeper. “As for me, my name is Celine. Where are you going today?”

“Work,” he answers, gruffly. “I’m retired, but my wife has signed me up to volunteer. Cooking for the homeless for an entire month. What a waste.”

Celine’s eyes brighten. “Oh, you’re so lucky! That is the kind of work I dream of; giving away my time to those in need. It’s a shame, I think I’ll have to work at the café every day of my life if I’d like to keep on living.

You yourself must only be about fifty?”

He snorts. “I made a fortune in my thirties and now my son takes care of the business. It’s split profits,” he chuckles. “People are silly with their money –always have been. I just know the right ways to take it from them.”

Celine’s smile falters, just for a second. She never expected greed to be worn so proudly, as if it were a form of success. “I suppose everyone has their own way of life,” she says, quieter now. The man grunts, flipping another page.

She moves on, as effortlessly as she arrived. There’s a fluidity to her that makes me sick. Like she thinks the world is still full of goodness. I watch her go, stopping at each person, making connections. I can’t help but notice how people react to her. They laugh a little harder. They open a little more. Some even seem to believe in her. She was me, once. Before the betrayal. Before the world decided I wasn’t worth listening to. Before I realised that people were only nice when it was convenient. That being soft only gets you bruised. I used to believe in things, too. I used to think kindness was the answer. Then I learned that kindness gets eaten alive.

And then she stops. In front of me. I pretend not to notice, but she doesn’t move. She’s quiet for a second, maybe watching the heavy bags beneath my eyes, the permanent frown carved into my forehead. For a moment, we just stand there, the noise of the train filling the space between us. She looks at me, eyes wide, that smile still there, but softer now. Almost knowing. “Rough morning?” she asks. I don’t answer. I can’t. My heart kicks in my chest – not from fear, but from something even more humiliating. Recognition. She doesn’t wait for a reply. Just offers a small smile. A real one. No expectation. Not even pity. Just something quiet. Human.

Then she moves on. I blankly stare at her as she moves on, handing something to a young schoolgirl. Of course she does. People like her always give. People like me forget how. And I sit there, furious. Not at her. Not exactly. At myself. I sit there long after the doors close again. The train moves forward. Someone coughs. A phone rings. Life resumes. But something in me doesn’t. Not yet. I don’t feel better. Or worse. Just aware. Like I’ve been handed something I didn’t ask for. Not a truth, but a question. An old one. Something I buried a long time ago.

Caitlin Membrey

Memories

I was walking by my study when the book suddenly seemed caught my eye.

I had never paid attention to it before because it was just another collection of family memories that seemed too boring for my attention.

But these memories were slipping from my fingers, and in that moment, I had needed to take it and relive the past that I so dearly loved.

It’s slightly old, collecting dust in the black shelf it is perched upon. When the dust is lightly blown off it reveals the dozens and dozens of photos carefully printed and pressed into the clear folders.

There are photos that date back to the first day on this world to one that has been taken only a few days ago. Each one fills me with unimaginable bittersweet nostalgia, sad smiles and happy sorrow, an aching joy for a time that has long gone.

I flip through the photos.

One by one, bit by bit, photo by photo. The flipping seems to create a slow background noise that’s hauntingly tranquil, an eerie presence that plays in the back of my mind. The pieces begin to form as my past begins to jarringly flow through my mind, reminding me of the years that have passed.

There is one constant in these photos.

It’s the girl who stands beside me.

She is always a little taller than me, always smiling with her hand tucked around my waist. Somehow, she manages to express her fondness to me while still smiling at the camera where my parents hold it.

I remember the girl.

It’s hard to forget her when she has been with me ever since I was born.

A red-faced baby, tightly wrapped in a swaddle looks up to me from the first photo. I smile fondly, remembering stories told about this moment –how the girl squealed with excitement, how I was the special delivery she had been waiting for nine months.

The photos travel along our journey as the girl and I start to grow. She begins to lose her teeth, small gaps appearing in her smile and I begin to walk, toddling around with scrunched eyes and a smile showing all my teeth.

I hover over another photo – my first day of school. I’m in a drowning uniform but I am so excited, so eager to finally be in the school that the girl would go to every day. She stands beside me, her excitement written all over her face, our innocence matched with starry eyes and bright smiles that walked with no care in the world.

I flip through the photos, each one uncovering more of the distant, fond memories. This one is my sixth birthday party with me in a bright blue dress blowing out the candles. Our faces are glazed with happiness, and mouths are open in the middle of singing ‘happy birthday’.

I remember this age, where my father’s shoulders were the highest thing in the world, and the only pain I felt were the grazes on my knees after falling in the playground.

When I was around eight or nine, the girl told me one day as she lay next to me in bed to cherish the moment, because this feeling was one that would never come back – one moment that will stay in our minds forever but we’ll never be able to relive it.

I didn’t listen to her. I dreamed and hoped and prayed of getting older, not wanting to wait and grow up.

Today looking at these photos I understand what she meant.

Childhood is a bubble of happiness, a surreal paradise where we are all so naiive to the reality. We’re excited about what’s happening on the other side, the side of adulthood, which we imagine as a field of daises and flowers, love and belonging that we thought adulthood promised.

That field is different now from my view. It’s not a field; it’s a seemingly daunting mountain that towers above me.

Memories

The girl is still with me. She’s a bit further up the mountain, looking down on me watching me climb the part that she just did. She stands above, ever unchanging, just with me, the fond smile on her face like always.

I look at the most recent photo which was taken only a week ago. I’m still not her height, reeling at my luck while she gloats over it.

The girl stands beside me – always even after thirteen years of fighting. She’ll stand with me, even when there is no longer our parents standing behind the camera.

She is a sister. One that I’ll always forever be grateful for.

Wave

Birth of a newborn

A weak ripple, sliding uneasily across the surface

Vulnerable and timid

Crawling slowly

Wind beating against the surface

Outside pressure to grow

Ripples morph into one

Accumulating force

Flourishing

Working

Learning

Progressing

Augmenting

Morphing into a towering body, Its face a glass wall

Showcasing a life of fulfilment

Of achievement, success,

Utmost satisfaction

The peak of life

Until the brink starts to bend

Down onto the base

The curve caves in

The beginning of the end

A calamitous crash

A desperate struggle of churning froth

Grappling for survival

Fighting to stay afloat

An acceptance of loss

Froth bubbles down

Overwhelming tranquillity

Still on the surface

But deep down

A fervent force flies

A powerful legacy glides

Back to the start

Carving in its path

A new passage

For those waiting to be born

Mia Nguyen

Hana Sameer

The Unfiltered Truth – What Barbie Doesn’t Show Us

When I was a young girl, I wanted to be like Barbie.

Not because she’s a doll, but because of everything she stands for. Barbie’s a vet, a scientist, a pilot, a president. She can skydive, run a business, win an Olympic medal. All while wearing six-inch pink stilettos. She’s smart. She’s beautiful. She’s successful. She’s always in control, always smiling. And best of all, she makes it all look easy. When you’re a young girl watching that — how could you not want to be her?

For over 60 years, Barbie has been a role model for millions of girls. She taught us we could be anything. She wasn’t just another doll who needed saving. She was the astronaut. She was the doctor. She was the boss. Barbie gave girls permission to dream beyond limits. She told us we could lead, explore, create – be more than what the world expected of us. And this message? It gave so many girls their first glimpse of what could be. But over time, she’s come to represent something else. Barbie doesn’t just show girls what they’re capable of— she makes it look effortless, like we’re supposed to succeed without ever struggling.

When we grow up seeing this kind of perfection, day after day, on toy shelves and screens, we start to believe that’s how we’re supposed to be too. But the reality of being a vet, a scientist, a president, or even just a normal girl navigating everyday life is anything but effortlessly perfect. It involves struggle, failure, grit, and certainly a lot of days not wearing six-inch pink stilettos. Instead, she presents a polished, perpetually cheerful illusion that whispers, “you should be able to do it all, and make it look easy.”

“You can be anything” starts to sound like “You should be everything.” And that shift? Suddenly, it’s not just about dreaming big — it’s about doing it all, looking perfect, and never slipping up. We start to believe we need to be smart but effortless, successful but humble, beautiful but natural, confident but never too confident. And here’s the hardest part: Barbie never showed us what the struggle looks like. She didn’t show the late nights spent overthinking, the rejections, the failures, the heartbreaks, or the quiet moments of doubt. So, when we feel those things, we think something’s wrong with us. But nothing’s wrong with us. We’re just human. And that’s what makes us amazing

We are not made of plastic. We’re made of strength, softness, courage. We’re made of setbacks, honesty, and growth. My friend, a national swimmer, wakes up at 4am 7 days a week for training, not because it’s easy, but because she knows progress requires discipline. Another girl I know poured over 100 hours into her science project — and then deleted nearly everything because she knew she could do better. They’re not successful because things come easily to them. They’re successful because they keep showing up. Because they constantly refine, restart, and push through.

Barbie showed us we can be anything — and now, we get to decide what that looks like. Maybe being strong doesn’t mean doing everything — maybe it means asking for help. Maybe beauty isn’t about looking flawless — it’s about being true to yourself and shining from the inside out. Maybe success isn’t always about winning — it’s about growing, learning, and getting back up when you fall.

I’m not saying we should abandon Barbie. I’m saying we have to outgrow the idea of perfection she sometimes stands for. We can keep the ambition, the courage, the confidence — and just add honesty, rest, and realness. So let us redefine what it means to be like Barbie. Let it mean being bold enough to try, and brave enough to fail. Let it mean allowing ourselves to say, “I’m tired today” — and still get up tomorrow. Let it mean that dreams take time, and effort, and tears — and yet they’re still worth chasing.

So, when I was younger, I wanted to be like Barbie. I wanted to be all the things she was — smart, successful, beautiful, admired. But mostly? I wanted to be enough. And now? Now I’ve learned that being enough doesn’t come from a perfect outfit or a perfect smile. It comes from being real.

I am not made of plastic. I am made of courage, compassion, curiosity, and growth. And I hope that every girl out there knows that you don’t have to be perfect. You just have to be you — with your messy hair, your bold dreams, your loud laugh, your quiet strength. We are not dolls on a shelf. We are still learning, still growing. And that’s something Barbie never got to do. Because the truth is, becoming ourselves — fully, truthfully— is the most powerful thing we’ll ever do. And that will always be enough.

Angeline Zhou

Liana Lam

From Birth to Death

“This is it?” you asked. You looked up, wondering where the grown trees and tall buildings had gone — but all was grey. Then you looked down, but there were only overgrown and overthrown piles of grass, all bent down against the earth, as if cowering from the mist above.

“It is,” the Crow replied. The bird flapped its left wing, and then tilted its head slightly. “What more should there be?”

Everything, you wanted to say. But there is only nothing here.

“I thought — I don’t know.” But you did know. You thought of all you used to see — those stars, though they had slowly gotten blurrier over the years. You couldn’t remember where you were, and much less when. You thought it might have been spring, Before... (before what?). There should have been trees and blooms and tulips, because although you enjoyed spring, you remembered enjoying autumn even more, and watching those very same leaves fall into your hair, and if you were lucky enough, you might’ve even caught one in your hand. “I thought there would be more.”

“More?” the Crow asked, mocking, or maybe curious. It was much too hard to tell with its lifeless eyes not so unlike obsidian staring at you unblinkingly. “More of what?”

“There’s nothing here,” you tried to explain, but this was a bird. A bird who wouldn’t understand anything. But as it flapped its wings once more, your heart skipped a beat, afraid the creature might take off and leave you here. Alone.

“That is because everything is in the other place,” the Crow replied. “The other place?”

“Life,” it said. It looked at you curiously — now you were sure it had never mocked you in the first place — as though it could not understand the heartbreaking thought of Death. “Why, have you not had the time to enjoy it?”

“Not enough of it,” you replied, but the words sounded false even to your ears.

The truth was, you did have enough time. You had all the time in the world — perhaps five or six times worth the crow’s lifetime, though you’re not certain how long it lived. But all this time, you’d been waiting for a pause, a stop that

would let you breathe. You’d convinced yourself that if you caught up with Everything, if you managed to get Everything done and then some more, there would be time.

But time stopped for no one. Not for a crow, and much less for you.

You wished you’d taken the time to watch the seasons fly by a little longer, sit in that chair you love, reading an awful book for a few more pages. You wished you’d spent more time looking up useless information if only to amuse yourself, or spent more time in bed without feeling guilty about it. You wished you’d hugged your mother a bit more tightly the last time you’d seen her, or finally worked up the courage to ask this person out for coffee like you’d been meaning to for a while.

Thinking about it, though, you realize it doesn’t really matter. In fact, none of it matters, because it’s all over now.

There will never be good days again, but there will never be terrible ones again, either. You will never get to cuddle in that spot on the couch to warm up again, but you will never feel cold again, either.

From Birth to Death, you have seen everything. Your heart rests now, released from the heavy burden of being alive.

This is it, you think. And it doesn’t feel so scary anymore. “Shall we go, now?” The Crow questioned.

“Where to?” You looked toward the fence on which stood the bird. Your eyes wandered to its end, disappearing into the thick mist. “There is nothing this way, nor the other.”

“None that your eyes can see,” those same crystal-like eyes blinked at you. “But ahead, a path awaits, I see it so clearly. So, tell me, will you join me?”

Despite yourself, you smiled. You buried your hands into your coat’s pockets, wondering if it’s always been yours, if it’s what you’d been wearing Before. Your fingers played with some scraps of papers that you might’ve left there, and some old candy wrappings.

“All the way.”

From Death to Birth

“We must be getting close,” The Crow spoke, its feathers greying, as if it were aging in this timeless place. It had stayed with you, all the way here.

There had been a lot of walking, but it had felt neither long nor brief. At least, not to you.

“You keep saying that” you replied. The crow could never answer your questions, nor tell you where you were heading, if there even was a destination.

Time was no more a concept at this point. Death had long since been past, and it is not that you had forgotten what it had felt like to be alive, but it simply did not matter anymore.

You did not get hungry, so you did not miss the taste of food. Even, it became a strange idea to you, at one point, to put things in your mouth. In the same way, you did not feel like a clock was ticking, like you had a time limit here as you did before, so time was never on your mind.

You wanted to ask more questions, to push until an acceptable answer escaped the Crow, but you could not find the right words. Your fingers fumbled once more with the candy wrapping in your pocket, as if it might help you.

“What will happen when we do get there?” you whispered.

The Crow stopped, perking its beak into the mass of blueish grass, gawking at the small flowers bursting there. “I’m not quite sure yet.”

“So you don’t know?” It might have sounded harsh, the way you said it, but you felt… you felt, perhaps, a bit too much, for this place that held close to nothing.

“I don’t know much of anything,” it said, finally catching a branch of buds in its beak, and turned to you. “Why, I thought this was the point of our adventure?”

“Maybe for you,” you snapped, “But I thought there would be something more than just—” You passed a hand through your hair, and sat down with a frustrated sigh, “I thought we would find something.”

A silent beat passed. More nothingness. And then, the tap tap tap of small talons walking on grass, right next to you.

“But we have, dear friend,” it said. “We have watched a thousand sunsets and sunrises, walked through falling leaves and fell in sleeping snow, seen the moon dressed in all of her different gowns. And now,” it jumped on your shoulder, and placed the flower bits safely behind your ear. “Spring finally comes.”

The moon was there, up in the sky, thinning and shining.

“But you’ll leave soon, right?” You asked, quietly. “You — your feathers, they’re… greying.”

“Ah,” The Crow replied. “Yes, I supposed they are.” It said simply.

“Are you not afraid?” It was strange, because you did not know exactly what you were asking — or what, exactly, the bird should be afraid of.

You knew, deep down, that you simply did not want to find yourself to be alone again.

“No, my heart tells me it is good.” The bird stated. “I am simply changing, as all things do when given enough time. And so are you.”

You stared at the grass beneath your legs, through your translucent skin. Maybe there had been a quiet clock ticking after all.

“I am.”

The wind sang around you both, cool and soft, yet foreign. You took out the piece of candy wrapping, holding it while you still could.

When, at last, you looked up, you saw that the Crow was no more what it had once been: for it had become a Dove — with pearl-coloured feathers and a pair of gracious wings on its back. Still, its eyes held the same warmth.

“We grieve for Life, not for Death.” The once-Crow said, too wise and kind to go on living short lives of birds.

From Death to Birth

After a moment you asked, “Tell me, have we found what we came looking for, at least?”

It gave a sign with its head like a nod. “You could say, but that is not something I can answer, but rather you can feel.”

You smiled, satisfied with the answer, feeling yourself becoming lighter, lighter, and lighter.

Maybe dying wasn’t the end, and living isn’t everything.

Life was not a straight line — with a start and a finish— and nor was it a circle, where things were passed by over and over again infinitely.

It was nothing and everything. It was the space surrounding a circle. It was the extra dough outside the cookie cutter, after you had no more space to cut out more shapes, and had to roll it all over again.

It was, you had found, an end, but it did not feel infallible. Just like the end of caterpillars were also the beginning of butterflies.

Delicately, you let the bird grip your hand for support, and stood up.

“Let us meet again in the next one.”

You gave it the piece of paper, which seemed to be the most colourful thing on this earth. It grabbed it with its sleek beak, and you felt the last thread holding you here fall, ever so gently.

“And each one after that,” It answered.

As the bird flew away, you fell into something soft and kind, and let the tender breeze of spring plunge you into Life once more.

Lancy Zhang

Ghostly Guides Are Still Dead Men

They rise like ghosts on weary wings, Through twilight’s hush they cry. The mountain’s passage death will bring, Yet still they dare to fly.

The eagles dance with death’s embrace, Their talons tear the night. Yet never does a crane displace, Bound fast to fate’s old rite.

Their mothers bled, their mothers burned, Yet still they climb the sky. A legacy forever learned, But never questioned, why?

Jos Kerr-Smith

The Fear of Forgetting

Remember how you used to see sparkles falling through the sky? How they caught the light and fractured across the asphalt, pearl fragments like shattered bones. Look! You would reach up to grab them, only for your fingers to slip through thin air. No matter how hard you search, the sparkles are no longer there.

And it’s silly, you know, to lament the past. To grieve something that never really dies. But you’re afraid that you’re throwing dirt over its grave, burying it deeper in the back of your mind, in the back of your identity. After all, even roses wither without their roots.

Sometimes when you speak Spanish, the words run dry. Searching, searching for the right word but there’s a void in your throat. Your first language, now a match that won’t light, a leaky tap that trickles and stops.

At night, the sound of voices floats up to the ceiling like soap bubbles. The jarana and the violin, woven into wicked tunes. Bodies spinning, vision swaying, a pair of clammy palms hold yours. Now, you lie awake at dawn, hypervigilant, heart beating to the rhythms engraved in your veins. This silence suffocates you, smothers you with its thickness.

When it rains, you think of those nights. How you drank the moon with hungry mouths, waiting for the skies to break open like Lazy Jane. Stood on your tiptoes, trying to catch the shooting stars. Fireflies flickered and hummed, created galaxies between the trees. Perhaps they were stars sent from the heavens, perhaps you did catch a shooting star.

Your lips are shrivelling, breaking and chapping, and it takes you back to those years. The way cracks crawled across the Riverina, across the dusty paddocks and riverbanks. From there, you could see the edge of the world. Perhaps if you walked for long enough, you would fall into the Milky Way. Kick and flutter through its stars, the same way you swam through the Edward River- became the feathers and snags, ghosts floating through time.

You know that writing about the past won’t resurrect it. But sometimes you see its ghost haunting you, lurking in your peripheral vision. Catch a glimpse of it in the rearview mirror. You scream at it, beg it to come back. Fall on your knees, plead it to stay. It never stays.

Ixlú Aguilar Oswin

Why Habits are Quietly Ruining Your Life

Think about how you started the morning today. Did you wake up to the buzz of your alarm clock and dismount your bed on the same side? Did you eat the same breakfast, travel the same route to school, and sit on the same seat in class? These actions are all habits, and they make up 45% of our daily behaviors.

For years we’ve been told that habits are the secret to success and that “consistency is key”, however these sayings only apply to good habits such as doing your homework or brushing your teeth. Bad habits can easily form without your awareness and grow in subtle and insidious ways, to quietly, relentlessly and maliciously ruin your life.

The deceptive nature of habits allows bad practices to become ingrained in people’s daily lives unnoticed. Consider your phone usage as an example; do you often find yourself doom scrolling through utterly useless content halfway through studying? One seemingly harmless, insignificant action can grow to become a disastrous, engulfing issue if repeated. A little habit of excessive phone use can firstly distract you from completing your homework, but when repeated frequently, it can heighten to disrupt sleep and severely impact mental health.

A habit forms through a cycle, known as the habit loop, in which a cue or reminder is triggered to kick start a certain habitual behavior. Often, a previous action time or emotional state can prompt your brain to perform a habit that is strengthened through repetition. Most habitual behaviors happen automatically, once a conscious choice to pursue the action has been taken the first few times. These actions are encouraged initially by rewards such as entertainment and comfort.

Once a habit settles in, it’s incredibly hard to get rid of. The atrocious consequences of bad habits can accumulate, like debts in a bank account, and so many aspects of your life can be destroyed.

The habit of procrastination robs you from achieving goals and reaching your full potential. We always tell ourselves; “I’ll do it later,” “I need more time to think,” “There’s something else I need to do first.” This isn’t just laziness and incompetence; it’s often a deep-rooted tendency to avoid discomfort and prioritize immediate ease over long term development.

This bad habit cultivates a mindset of avoidance, encouraging a lack of selfcontrol and responsibility. You’ll find opportunities slipping away as your habit of procrastination grows stronger. Stress can build up and soon, you’ll feel the urge to completely give up on achieving your hopes and dreams.

Consider the habit of comfort. As humans, we gravitate towards what’s familiar; the same subjects, the same friends, the same food. This habit of staying within our comfort zone, whilst safe, is a silent killer of growth. I personally have noticed this issue in myself for years, as I would constantly improve my strengths but completely avoid things that didn’t come naturally to me. Over the years, I feel that I’ve become a prisoner of my own predictability. Attempting new skills and challenges are experiences that foster profound learning and improvement, but vicious habits of comfort can discourage you from gaining invaluable skills.

Furthermore, habits can quite literally ruin your life because serious health complications can arise from seemingly negligible practices. The habit of sleeping late every night can result in insufficient rest, which links to increased risks of heart disease, obesity and strokes. Frequently consuming unhealthy foods and avoiding physical activity can also lead to increased risks of chronic illnesses such as diabetes and cardiovascular diseases. More commonly, mental health can also be damaged by various unhealthy habits. Do you ever find yourself trapped in the prison of social media? This habit often encourages you to compare yourself with others; lessening your self-esteem and creating feelings of anxiety and isolation. Innumerable small habits can quietly grow into life-threatening problems and truly diminish your quality of life.

Habits are ruining your life, this is the truth, however I’m not suggesting you abandon all routines and live in chaotic spontaneity. The key to breaking the deadly cycle is uncovering awareness and shifting unconscious habits into conscious choices. The next time you reach for your phone, pause and ask yourself, “Is this what I truly want to do or is it just an automatic behavior,” When you find yourself avoiding a challenging task, acknowledge the habit of procrastination. Then, deliberately choose a different path, even a small one. Break a tiny habit today and choose to regain control over your life. Remember that you are not your habits; you are the architect of your choices.

Jaqueline Ho

Ally Weedon

In a World full of Chameleons, be a Peacock

From a young age, chameleons have always fascinated me. The reptile known for its ability to change its colour to blend in with its surroundings. I remember always wanting to be one. However as I grew up, I realised that we are no different from them. We too, adjust our ‘colours’, creating new identities by changing our behaviours, appearances, and beliefs to fit societal expectations or to make life easier. But what we don’t realise is that with every colour change, we shed a bit of our identity and forget who we are. And overtime, we lose sight of what’s real, leading to mistrust.

Social media has amplified this. Whether it is TikTok, Instagram, Snapchat, Facebook, YouTube or Pinterest, we are constantly reshaping ourselves to blend in.

Research by City University London shows that 90% of women like us use filters to reshape their feature, brighten their skin or whiten their teeth before posting. Our natural selves are no longer good enough, so we rely on filters to hide our true appearances. Why?

Fear. We fear judgement because our greatest desire is to fit in and belong.

But by hiding behind filters, we construct masks that overtime, erode and distort who we truly are. We forget the true beauty of our unedited selves. We forget that we don’t need to change ourselves to please others. Others forget what we actually look like.

No one can trust the image or information we present online because it’s not the real us. Everything becomes a facade. On Tinder, for example, 47% of users admit to lying about personal information on their dating profiles. That means within our class of 19, 9 of us might not be showing our real selves. Our community is turning into a group of strangers. It’s hard to know what’s real, or what to trust.

And then there’s the rise of AI.

AI, or artificial intelligence, can think, write, and solve problems like a human. When students use AI for tests or assignments, it creates a false version of who they are, hiding their true abilities. And this makes it difficult to trust if someone’s work is truly their own.

The above sounds authentic, right? Like I wrote it. But the truth is, I asked ChatGPT to ‘write 3 sentences on how AI creates distrust and a facade, causing people to forget who they are.’ With AI’s advances, it is nearly impossible for us to tell the difference between an individual’s work and AI’s work. Already, teachers are sceptical and unable to trust the work of many students.

Using AI to hide and replace our efforts certainly makes our lives easier and requires less effort, but in the process, aren’t we forgetting the value of hard work, motivation, perseverance, and honest reward? I fear that if we continue to rely on AI, our skill sets will become useless, and our sense of personal accomplishment will diminish. We will forget how to think critically and lose motivation and trust. Trust between us and teachers. Trust between us and our parents. Trust in ourselves, in our capabilities.

Much like a chameleon, we hide beneath layers of digital masks.

And this distortion of us extends beyond the digital aspect. We live in a world filled with pressures.

At school, there’s pressure to maintain friendships, to fit in, to look a certain way, to be liked, to be better than everyone else, to excel academically. At home, we are expected to uphold the family reputation and be the perfect child. We are conditioned to appear perfect, and hide anything that exhibits weakness, failure, or imperfection that we forget to speak out, to say, ‘I’m not ok’. Because in our society, vulnerability is often viewed as a weakness.

But don’t you wonder, won’t these constant expectations impact our mental health? And when issues like anxiety, eating disorders, or depression arise, wouldn’t we hide them to avoid appearing weak?

In Australia, over 5.4 million experience mental health issues. In 2020, two-thirds of the 3000 suicides were linked to mental health problems, averaging 8 deaths a day. 8 might seem like a small number, but these were real human lives. Someone’s child. Someone’s family. Someone’s friend. Someone’s mentor.

In a World full of Chameleons, be a Peacock

They appeared normal on the outside, but in reality, they were drowning in silence. Their struggle went unnoticed because they didn’t seek help. We can’t always trust what we see. Even when someone appears fine, we must be alert to changes in their behaviour and emotions.

Now that I’m 16, I’ve come to a realisation that I don’t want to be a chameleon anymore, constantly changing myself to fit in. Instead, I want to be a peacock, a bird that proudly shows off its colourful feathers, embracing its true self without fear of judgement. Let’s not hide behind our colours and forget our beauty, strengths, and the courage to speak out when we need it. In a world full of chameleons, let’s be peacocks and proudly strut our colours.

Chloe Yung

Fitting In, Fading Out: The Cost of Being Palatable

Nobody wakes up and says, “Today, I want to be exactly like someone else.” That’s not how it happens. We don’t disappear all at once. We vanish. Slowly. Not through catastrophe, betrayal, or any single shattering event, but through the quiet accumulation of small choices. We rehearse who we’re supposed to be. We reflect back what the world wants to see. And we reduce ourselves. Trimming edges, and muting colours, until what remains is not who we are, but who we’ve been taught is easier to accept. It is through these three phases, rehearsal, reflection, and reduction, that our mask forms, and in the process, we begin to forget who we are underneath. We shrink ourselves to fit into boxes: neat, labelled, and limiting- until eventually the box feels more familiar than what it once contained.

I. Rehearsal

It begins with performance. We learn early on how to read a room. We absorb the unspoken rules of acceptability: be pleasant, be polished, be palatable. So, we watch, we learn, and we rehearse. We rehearse how to smile on cue. We rehearse the right amount of emotion. We rehearse which parts of ourselves are safe to show and which are better left hidden. We practice answers we don’t fully believe in. We smile when we’re uncertain. We shrink in hallways and stiffen in assemblies. These rehearsals don’t feel dishonest- not at first. They feel like survival. Like adaptation. But over time, the line between the performance and our true selves begins to blur. We stop asking, “What do I want to say?” and start asking, “How should I phrase it? How will it land?” And that’s when the mask settles. We begin to live inside a box of our own making, padded with the versions of ourselves we think are acceptable. The box starts spacious, almost protective. But each performance folds the walls in tighter, until the space to move, to stretch, and to breathe, becomes smaller. We trade authenticity for containment, not realising we’re slowly sealing our own lid.

Fitting In, Fading Out: The Cost of Being Palatable

II. Reflection

From rehearsal, we move onto reflection- but not the kind that deepens our understanding of ourselves. Instead, it’s a reflection shaped entirely by how others see us: a mirror moulded by their expectations, judgments, and approval. We start to shape ourselves around the applause we receive, becoming sharper in the classroom, quieter at home, more polished online. Every environment demands a different version of us, and we learn to perform accordingly. You laugh a little louder when everyone else does. You agree before you’ve had time to think. You shape your opinion to match the room, not because you believe it, but because it’s safer. You begin to filter even your thoughts, wondering if they sound too different, too much, too strange. But with every new reflection, our original self begins to fade, blurred by all the versions we’ve learned to become. We don’t just wear the mask- we become it. So, we keep performing, and the mask begins to feel safer than the self it hides. Eventually, we stop adapting to the world and become a version of ourselves we no longer recognize. The box that once surrounded us is no longer just a boundary; it becomes who we are. We wallpaper it with praise and validation and decorate it with reflections, convincing ourselves that this confinement is comfort. But when all your mirrors show borrowed faces, it becomes easy to forget what your own face looked like before you stepped inside.

III. Reduction

And this leads to the final stage: reduction. Not subtraction- but erosion. The slow, almost invisible wearing down of who we are. It happens when we shrink ourselves, just a little, over and over again. A raised hand lowered. A thought left unspoken. A truth softened to avoid discomfort. Until, eventually, the boldest, strangest, and most brilliant parts of us begin to disappear. Not all at once, but in fragments. You used to be the loud kid who asked too many questions, until someone rolled their eyes, and so you stopped. You used to write poetry, until no one clapped, and so you stopped. You used to be full of colour, until it became easier to fade into grey. And it is in this pursuit of being enough for everyone, we become not enough for ourselves. We make ourselves easier to explain. More palatable. Less likely to take up too much space. We silence the sharpness. Tame the messiness. Sand down every edge. We group ourselves into roles to make belonging easier, “the funny one,” “the smart one,” “the sporty one,” “the quiet one.” But beneath these labels, we are all far more complex than any single stereotype could ever capture. In trying to simplify ourselves for the comfort of others, we risk forgetting the fullness of who we truly are. And so, the brightest pieces of you- the unruly, wild, inconvenient ones, are packed away neatly and taped shut in your box. Not lost. Just buried

And so, we arrive at this point. We didn’t arrive on lies, but on the quiet construction of characters we’ve carefully shaped through small, almost unnoticeable shifts. A slight adjustment. One that begins subtly, and unfolds through rehearsal, reflection, and reduction. Until one day, we’re performing a version of ourselves so well, we forget it’s a role. But there’s a difference between fitting in and fading out. That’s the cost of always trying to be palatable, agreeable, and acceptable. We vanish. Because the longer we wear the mask, the harder it becomes to take off. And yet, underneath it all, your real face is still there. Quiet, but waiting.

Thank you.

Chloe Singh

From Fragments to Mosaics: The Kiln of Transformation

Clay is peculiar. It starts off soft, shapeless yet full of potential. Clay has no say in what it becomes at first, no say in the countless hands which mark and mould it. But in time, it hardens – not out of control, but out of choice. Choosing its own shape, encrusted with all the fingerprints etched in still visible. And eventually, the artist too will have to choose. To preserve what has formed, or to shatter it and begin again.

Identity – it’s a word that can be elusive, sometimes frightening, yet an undeniable part of us. Identity is never stagnant. It can change every day, every minute as we grow. It’s the collage we work on for years, maybe our whole lives – of words, colours and lessons. Imperfect, some parts borrowed. We don’t always have to be satisfied, to satiate our inner desire to keep being more. But the collage is still whole, and still, who we are.

From a young age, teachers and parents have needled into our brains that “stealing” and plagiarism are wrong. But what is “stealing”? What if mimicking and learning from others isn’t theft, but the first crucial step to becoming ourselves? Are we afraid that by constantly improving from those we admire, by employing their brushstrokes, we would be seen as thieves or cannibals?

There lie the first foundation pieces of the collage. The first mouldings of the clay, and the layers that will come years and years into life.

Observing how your parents make their beloved traditional dish and recreating it years later. Picking up subtle expressions of language from preschool teachers, adding them to your own. Taking on customs from relatives in a rich culture. It’s no different to tying your shoelaces for the first time, or being exposed to the art your community makes. Parents begin the sculpting process, then teachers, then friends, until one day we become our own artists. All the experiences which shape our everyday lives, all the role models we aspire to be like, eventually pave the way for the path we decide to traverse. It’s not “stealing”. It’s enriching.

Many seem to think that identity has to be this grand, epiphany moment where something entirely original and world-changing is formed from thin air. But it’s not. Identity is about absorption – and with that absorption, transformation. It’s about what you take and how you make it your own. How you choose to reinvent the clay that was given to you at birth.

Every painting, every poem, every work of literature feeds on its surroundings. The hidden rhythm of a city. The bittersweet taste of a goodbye. A child’s bright laughter. And through creation, the creator discovers something more about themselves, pieces they hadn’t realised existed. An edge of their soul they hadn’t explored. The shadow of a feeling. A belief they hadn’t dared to touch. Lin-Manuel Miranda, the creator of Hamilton, snatched elements from modern hip-hop to musical theatre, fusing them into a single wonderful mess. The result? One of the most remarkable musicals and an expression of his love and respect for countless genres and artists. We might devour as creators, but art yields something greater back to the world – it opens our hearts. It unveils who we are, even as we’re still understanding ourselves. Strengthening a society built on truth and empathy.

Perhaps the core essence of identity comes down to an unbelievably simple concept. To take a raw medium, and under the guidance of others who wish to see it flourish, chisel it into something more powerful. More profound. Even the cast of who we were formerly can be reheated into entirely new selves.

When the Berlin Wall finally fell after decades of separation, suffering, and death, not all of it was torn down. The empty spaces became canvases, filled with graffiti and painted with remembrance and hope. What had once been a symbol of sorrow became a poignant mural of global unity, heartache and resolve. And that’s what identity can be too. Not untainted or untouched, but reimagined. Proof that through the power of human will, the cages which restrain initial creations can break, transformation giving rise to something extraordinary.

We withstand everything life throws at us – adversity, beauty, rebellion – and we turn it into something that speaks our voice. Our heart. Something that can inspire faith, reconcile differences, and even craft revolutions. So, sharing and consuming shouldn’t be condemned. It should be cherished.

If there’s anything art has taught us, it’s that all the colours that have been used before can still be combined to create something breathtaking and true. Identity, like creation, isn’t all about originality or craving to be exceptional. It’s about every little edit you make, every carving someone else inspires. And ultimately, the most incredible self-portrait isn’t the one desperate to be unique, but the one brave enough to reflect everything you’ve ever embraced and reforged.

Evelyn Teng

There’s something I don’t quite understand

Lost in the pull of the snow and the sand

Faces pulled from the sky, pillaged and plastered

Pale stares from yellowing fields all scattered

Amidst the blonde lawn, a house with no ceiling

The creaking floors all mixing and reeling

Gold washes over the shifting halls

Dirt hangs peeling from the walls

The screws in my bones sink and sit

Where’s my head? I’ve misplaced it

My brains buzzing with static and silver

What’s in the moon but the sun for a sliver?

Decay gasps in my eyes, sets

Slowly I rot, without regret

I feel my pulse thudding as the chamber narrows

I drown in marrow

The sun falls, and the stars are back

I’m staring from below into stifling black

My bones are shifting as the house adjusts

Flakes fall from the sky, grey with rust

Circling and staring, the stars and the sea

Blink, the house stood amidst misery

Watching, denied the gift to fall

Or memory, blinking, forget all

The Yellow Lawn

The dead grass roots twine with my hair

Hearts crystallize into something rare

I look up

I see the snow globe sky

On a salt cliff, a house sits whitened

Breached and breathed to sea, unfrightened

The bedrock melts to grass turned sand

I close my eyes, twitch wooden hands

I feel the soft crumble of rusted steel

The paintings and portraits brought to heel

I smile, feeling the floorboards flatten

A warm black pressed from beyond the lanterns

The face is smooth, the salt glistens

No sign that anything was ever missing

The stars don’t think so, nor do the sea

Some house a blip in lost memory

Remembered only by a lonely spire

Where once was there the fullest shire

And there’s nothing more to say

For we are all houses awaiting our day

Amy Zhu

Alaina Rumpf

Chapter I: Face of the Survivals

My gilt characters still gleams, Though foreign lights bleached them pale. Eleven thousands volumes once whisperedFour hundred remain to tell the tale.

The scholars’ hands that shaped mine spine are dust, yet their spirit still persists. In every students that reads the fragments, In every line the fire missed.

Every hand that crafted my page, still warm with their whispered thoughts. I reveal their dreams and ambitions, and the knowledge that they sought.

Every stroke a moral lesson, every stroke an unspoken wish. Hope for the words that would inspire, would outlast the sorrow and anguish.

Chapter II: Face of Loss

They called this preservationthis airless tomb of perfect gloom. Where no breaths stirs my loosened threads, No voice chants my distant home.

At dawn when pale light strains through glass, my shadows form the missing textA phantom library stretching east, where real remembrance lives and breaths.

Dust drifts like an unspoken prayer, a silent weight I bear alone.

I ache for home – its scent, its soundBut find only silence inside this crafted throne.

To be untouched is to be unheld, to lie in state, in stillborn thoughtsand every breathless year I linger, the more of me is lost.

Everyone That I Am

Chapter III: Face of Conquest “Observe the exotic bindings”

The tour guide tells the crowd below. None ask why the pages tremble, When the Summer Palace wind blows.

I am measured, scanned, and valued, every tear repaired with gluePerfect all but for the absence, of the hands I was made for.

They praise my form, my values and all, Trace the symbols without care.

To them, I am just an artifact, a trophy stripped of living air.

Yet my margins still remember, The smudges where ink met with fleshMy worth was never in my bindings, But in the history and knowledge I contain.

Chapter IV: Face of Longing

Some nights, the guards hear paper sighing, Ink weeping in its glass cage. Morning finds new dew-like droplets on the glass – not rain, but rage.

Not for me the scholer is quiet, not for me when they turn the page. Just these endless exhibitions of my sorrow and silenced rage.

I ache for the pulse of ink-stained fingers, the soft brush stroke that painted my cover, The soft weeps of robes in twilight halls, the warmth of a hand, the breath of a ghost.

Every polished pane of my thin veiled grave, each spotlight a cold, accusing stare. I wait for the day my voice breaks free, my echo shaking the sterile air.

Chapter V: Face of Defiance I am ink without its language, a song severed from its tongue. What you see is but a prisonmy true self remains unsung.

Let me crumble where I mattered, where my words still seed the earth. Even ashes know their homeland, even ghost deserve their birth.

Do not guild my grief in glass, do not bind my broken seamsfor every text that breaths in chains, a thousand words die in their dream.

I was born with a purpose and meaning, to carry, to spread knowledge and truth. I would rather rot in my homeland soil, than stand here, polished, in living death.

Julie Guo

Everyone that I am - And That’s Enough

Our classroom buzzed with music and laughter, chatter echoing down the halls. It was finally the last day of high school. Flags of different shapes and colours fluttered in the wind, symbolising the countless stories they represented.

I couldn’t understand all the conversations happening around me, some were in English, others in Mandarin, Japanese, Swedish. That was the beauty of an international school: a tapestry of languages, lives, and nations crossing paths in one place.

“Goodbye now!” Gianna shouted, giving me a firm slap on the shoulder.

I turned around, a bright smile spreading across my face. “Yeah… it’s time for us to move on.”

I remember when I first arrived in Shanghai, feeling like a loose thread with nowhere to go. I had two homes – Taiwan and Australia, yet I was far from both.

“This is the new student, Isla Cheng. She will be joining our class from now on,” the teacher announced. I don’t even remember her name anymore, this moment felt like a blur. The class clapped politely, and one girl waved me over.

“Come sit next to me!” She exclaimed, flailing her arms with enthusiasm. “My name is Gianna, and I’ll be your buddy from now on.”

I scanned her curiously, she had dark skin, curly hair, she looked different from anyone I had met before.

“Where are you from?” I asked, my curiosity bursting at the seams.

She sighed, “Ugh, that’s what everyone asks when they first see me… I’m from Italy. What about you?”

“Australia and Taiwan” I replied.

“Thailand?”

“Taiwan! It’s a small island country near China.”

“Ok, cool,” she shrugged. And just like that, I made my first friend.

Lunchtime was the next obstacle. The whole year level had lunch together in the cafeteria. Gianna dashed off, chatting animatedly in Italian with her friends.

The cafeteria was a map with invisible borders drawn by language and familiarity. The Chinese girls giggled over cartoons, speaking rapid mandarin. The Dutch students leaned in, laughing with ease. The Englishspeaking kids sat in a circle, tossing jokes like paper airplanes.

I looked from table to table, debating where to sit. I eventually approached the Chinese girls, and said, “Hello, I am Isla.”

They gave a polite laugh and whispered among themselves. One of them asked, “Does she know Chinese?”

“Yes, I do!” I responded in my best attempt at mandarin, my accent fraying at the edges.

They laughed loudly before pulling out a chair for me. For a moment, they seemed interested, but within seconds they turned back to their own conversation, leaving me in silence.

The next day, I tried the English table.

“Do you need help?” One boy asked slowly, as if speaking to someone unfamiliar with the language.

“No, I was just wondering if I could sit with you guys.” I replied, emphasising every syllable of my native tongue.

“Where are you from?” He continued to ask.

“Australia!” I answered quickly, feeling the need to prove it.

They all nodded politely but made subtle glances at each other and never made space for me. The conversation flowed on without me, and I was left standing with invisible ink scrawled across my identity.

Everyone that I am - And That’s Enough

Biting my lip, I held back my tears as I left the cafeteria. I ran to the lockers and pretended to tidy up, my hands moving aimlessly while my mind reeled. I wasn’t enough for the Chinese, and I wasn’t quite enough for the Australians either. My identity felt like an unfinished sentence, paused somewhere between two nations.

Then came an ordinary Monday with an extraordinary announcement.

“Next week is international week!” The teacher said, “Bring something that represents your culture to share with class,”

That night, I stared at my desk, caught between a jar of Vegemite or a plate of xialongbaos.

“Why don’t you just pick the one you feel most connected to?” my mum asked.

“I don’t know,” I replied, “Some days I feel Taiwanese. Some days I feel Australian. Most days, I just feel… split.”

She smiled warmly, “Then maybe you don’t have to choose,”

The day of the showcase finally arrived. I watched my classmates present their culture with pride – one flag, one story, one label.

“Isla!” The teacher called. My hands trembled as I walked to the front. I cleared my throat and reached into my bag. Slowly, I pulled out two flags–one from Taiwan and one from Australia.

“I come from two places,” I began, “and for a long time, I felt like I didn’t fully belong to either. But over time, I have realised that I don’t have to choose just one. I am not a single colour or country. I am a tapestry, woven from the red from Taiwan’s temples and the gold of Australian beaches, and every thread in between.”

A hush fell over the room. Then - applause. I could feel it, understanding threading through the air.

From then on, I was welcomed at every table. I even dared to sit with Gianna. Unlike what I had feared, the girls didn’t giggle or look away, instead they pulled out a seat and smiled. The lines in the cafeteria began to blur. We crossed over from nation to nation every day, each of us carrying languages, stories, and laughter that spilled beyond borders.

Now, as I flip through my yearbook, I see notes and scribbles in every language: Mandarin characters, English idiom, Italian slang, and Korean doodles. Though I was far from the places I once called home, I found one here.

Home, I’ve learnt, isn’t a single place. It isn’t a pin on the map or a passport stamp. It’s a feeling stitched together by people, stories, and the many selves we grow into overtime.

And just like that, it all changes.

The world we built fades, like breath on a mirror. Highschool ends. People move on. So must I. I’ll be returning to Australia for university, stepping into yet another version of myself.

Maybe I’ll never feel entirely Taiwanese or wholly Australian – and maybe that’s okay. Because we’re all different people throughout our lives. And each one matters. Every language I’ve spoken, every friend I’ve made, every moment I’ve seen – they’ve sewn themselves into me.

I am not defined by a single nation, language, or label. I am a patchwork of every person I used to be, and every person I’ve met.

And that’s enough.

Natalie Lin

Passing Through

Anna was born under a Melbourne sky, the colour of wet concrete -smeared and seamless, like an unfinished thought. Inside the hospital room filled with the stench of medicine and her mother, Akka’s sweat, the midwife Arya, a broad-faced woman with freckled arms and blond hair, peered down at her and clacked her tongue.

“Look at those eyes,” Arya cooed, the corner of her lips curling into a smirk. “So exotic.”

Akka, still panting from labour, flinched, not from pain, but from recognition. She knew what that word meant. Exotic. A polite way of saying other, a gentle way of saying you’re just a visitor here, disguised in the illusion of a compliment.

Outside, eucalyptus branches scraped against the window like restless ghosts. Inside, Akka whispered prayers to Guan Yin between contractions, her voice a fragile thread stitched together from fear and hope. When they placed Anna in her arms, cocooned in a hospital blanket, her mother traced the half-moon fold of her eyelids, a resemblance from a village in China she had left behind, a place Anna will never get to know except through fragmented collections: sepia-toned photographs curled at the edges, hollowed syllables of a dialect half lost to time, and the aching feeling of homesickness that lingered like an itch in the back of her throat.

Anna’s grandmother taught Anna her first verbs. Not through textbooks, but through the press of dumpling skin between her knuckles, the sharp flick of her wrist as she stir-fried bitter melon. Her mandarin did not speak, it simmered, curling through the kitchen like steam. Anna absorbed it like a sponge -- until kindergarten, when English slithered in and choked it.

Anna came home one afternoon, chanting, “See! Spot! Run!” each syllable a badge of assimilation -- bright and polished. Her grandmother’s face rearranged itself slowly, like wet paint smudged across a canvas, her smile landing in between pride and pain. “Smart girl,” she said in broken English, the words sour on her tongue.

At parent-teacher interviews, Akka created a careful facade. She smiled at precision, wore her traditional qipao, and laughed a beat too late at tired jokes about “math genes”, her laughter forced. Her accent, usually smoothed out for work calls, thickened when her nerves creeped in. Anna squeezed her hand, begging her to say less.

Assimilation is powerful. No one vanishes all at once; they erode.

At birthday parties, Anna traded the umami steam of char siu bao for the familiarity of sausage rolls, the kind that flaked into napkins like they belonged.

At sleepovers, Anna mimicked the way Emily wrinkled her nose when she laughed, the way Zoe twirled her hair when she spoke, wrapping herself in a language Anna would never understand. By ten, Anna perfected the ultimate disguise, answering “Where are you from?” with Box Hill, as if geography could erase ancestry.

Anna’s father, who still salted his watermelon packets and kept red envelopes in his drawer, called this observing and learning. Her grandmother called it insanity. Once, after Anna refused to try a distinct steamed fish dish, her grandmother whispered a proverb about trees forgetting their roots. This hit Anna hard, as she felt trapped, wanting to fit in the Australian culture, but not allowed to.

Middle school split her open.

It began with the racism that she experienced. Once, in class, someone beside her shouted, “Ching chong!” The teacher kept talking.

That night, she scrubbed her face until her cheeks burned, as if she could exfoliate her features. As if she could peel away the parts of her that distinguished her as other, the parts of her that created a barrier to people loving her.

However, high school was the real turning point.

Passing Through

Anna returned to China. In class, Anna shared about third-culture kids and hyphenated identities. She discovered writers who wrote about train whistles and twilight skies, who mapped identity in the spaces between languages. She found friends who embraced her identity, helped her grow, and loved who she was.

She began to recollect pieces of herself -- the way her mother hummed Leslie Cheung while vacuuming, the smell of her father’s star anise infused stew, the exact pressure of her grandmother’s fingers braiding her hair.

These became her new alphabet.

When her grandmother died, Anna was left with two things. A jade pendant, cold as a river stone, and a notebook of recipes written in characters she couldn’t read.

At the funeral, Anna surprised herself by bowing three times in front of her grandmother’s portrait, the motions flowing through her like muscle memory. She burned paper money at the altar, watching the edges curl into ash. Her mother whispered, “She would’ve hated this, we’re doing it all wrong.”

But the smoke rose anyways, carrying their imperfect offerings to whatever sky held her grandmother now.

Today, she cooks from Youtube tutorials, pausing to decipher soy sauce brands, attempting to recreate her grandmother’s steamed fish dish.

Sometimes, when Anna looks in the reflection, overlapping with the city’s skylines, she sees her father’s stubborn brow, her grandmother’s eyes, and her mother’s hopeful mouth. And beneath it all, the face she’s grown into, not an assimilated individual, but a proud Chinese educated in Australia.

The immigrant’s child is always a visitor. They observe, learn, grow, and love, carrying their uniqueness back home, developing into a transformed individual.

Belonging doesn’t mean choosing. It’s learning to see two skies in the same gaze, and finding the light that exists only where they overlap.

Cherry Sit

The Promise of Something Brighter

The promise of something brighter invites the child to open her eyes. Grass tickles her neck as she peers at the figure staring from above- was Mother always this tall?

Blink. Time passes slowly. Heavy with lethargy, she welcomes the bright pink orchid tucked gently behind her little ear with a smile. A stubby finger grasps at it and the petals crumble. She giggles. A few days prior, she’d stolen her father’s razor, and for reasons unbeknownst even to her, shaved her pretty hair clean off. At this unwelcome memory, the child grimaces. Her mother had taken one glance at the locks covering the floor and grazed her manicured fingers over the child’s stubbled head. No honey, you’re still beautiful. They had spent the afternoon painting her little fingers and toes a bright fuchsia. Time passes. Now, as she fiddles with her dress, she wonders whether princesses can have short hair. Off she drifts. Mother, why do princesses always have long hair? No matter, darling, it’s a stylistic choice. Time. She looks at the clouds. It’s a sunny day, birds peppering the sky, the pink orchid paling in comparison to the flush that overcomes her cheeks. The child blinks, as quickly as she can, because she knows beyond the darkness exists far greater pleasure.

A perpetual grey overcomes the sky. The dog pulls at his flimsy leash and she pulls it back tautly, irritated as he won’t stop smelling the roses. Time passes. Kicking at rocks scattered across the path, she trudges along, convinced she is comfortable in her boredom but feeling an irritation settle into her bones. The front door beckons to her. She has grown rather fond of the deafening silence that welcomes her upon re-entering the bedroom. Time passes. She’s fed the dog. It’s time to sleep. In bed, she shuts her eyes, and the inky black interior of her eyelids brings a twisted comfort to her motionless body. That night, however, she is anything but still. She dreams of dancing. Her body flits across the stage, pink leotard fluttering in the air, accompanied by a tune oddly reminiscent of the nursery rhyme her mother used to sing to her. She has been dead 12 years.

The years fly by before she can even blink.

Now she is a mechanic. The days are long, the pay is fine, the work is mind numbingly boring. Time passes. She spends three days scrubbing at a customer’s flashy red mustang. The paint flakes off, piece by piece, accompanied by the discordant melody of steel wool grating against metal. The man next to her comments on the beauty of the cogs he is fiddling with. She is mystified by the tender way with which he regards the parts, lightly grazing his fingers across the metal he claims “sparkles”. All she sees is the rust that coats it. It has been 20 years since her mother died.

That day harbours an especially cold night, but she forces herself to brave the elements and go cut the weeds that compromise her otherwise orderly backyard. Their green stems and pink petals stand out across the yard, and she allows herself to wonder how she let them get this bad. Squelch. Mud coats her sneakers as she trudges across the yard and yanks the flowers from their beds. Shiver. The pale moonlight casts a grey veneer over her already pale skin, and the hairs dotted across her arm stand up, resisting the cool breeze. Time passes. She stumbles inside, flops onto her bed, and closes her weary eyes, welcoming the familiar darkness. It has been 23 years.

Her dreams always stretch on forever. In this one, she is the protagonist. Characteristically, she walks down a street and appears to harbour a passive indifference to those who walk around her. But the story is never linear, and so, she randomly stops dead in her tracks, deadpan face suddenly sparkling with the passion of a woman awakened. There stands the brightest painting, thing, she’s ever seen. Hot pinks beguile her, colours that bleed into the centre of the piece and gradually grow lighter. Fragments of blue are scattered throughout, remnants of the sky of her childhood. A woman, occupying the centre of the piece, simultaneously looking forwards and backwards, frozen in the moment, emerging. It has been 23 years since her mother died, but for a moment, she forgets, and lets herself get lost in the rippling artwork.

The Promise of Something Brighter

Now, she stands in an aisle, the characteristic chill of the grocery store scattering goosebumps across her arms. Paintbrushes and easels of various shapes and colours scream at her. Overwhelmed, she grasps the unassuming brown paintbrush laying on the bottom shelf, the first stack of paints she sees, and makes a mad dash for the counter. Time passes. Once she is comfortably seated on the bus, she allows herself to close her eyes and embrace the darkness once more, ignoring the colourful supplies resting in her lap. It has been 23 years since her mother died; one day since, unbeknownst to her, she’d rediscovered passion.

She thrashes at the easel. Her brush scrapes at the board as she throws herself, her angst, her overwhelming passion, at its delicate frame. Scrape. In a violent motion, she drags her fingernail across the fresh paint, tainting her faintly pink fingertips a bright red. A tear drips from its socket, and a tear in the board emerges. She takes a deep breath. Her pinky finger gently strokes the ruptured easel, an alien motion to her violent self. Now, raising herself up, she shifts to a clean easel, and dips the paintbrush in fuchsia. With a delicate flick of the wrist, she produces a pink stroke, and a strangled noise escapes her throat. She tries it again. She exhales. Liberated. 23 years have passed quickly, with every day feeling like a minute- but in painting, every second feels like an hour. She allows herself to relish the slow passage of time.

Breathing in, her lungs are filled with the intoxicating scent of freshly mowed grass. Strolling down the path, leash in hand, she allows the fragrance to overcome her senses, and a small smile extends across the canvas that is her face. Time stretches, sedates, unfolds itself to her, and she lets herself manipulate the minutes and savour slow moments. The dog sniffs at a fire hydrant, and she becomes preoccupied by the little flower that blooms in the dirt next to it. Tender petals, once violent, now violet, flutter in the wind, seemingly brighter as she looks up at the great blue expanse arched above her head. Wrapping the dog’s leash around a pole, she lets go and wipes her hands on her overalls. They’re dotted with paint, but she likes the way the yellows and reds jump out against denim. It’s 1:15pm.

The board rests on its stand, basking in the sunlight that streams in from little gaps in the curtains. Scintillating rays brighten the pinks scattered across the easel, and make the blues glitter like pieces of the sky gifted to her artwork. She breathes in deeply as she tilts backward on her chair, allowing sunlight to fill in the craters on her face and feels a faint, familiar pink wash over her cheeks. She glows, everything glows, warmth seeps from the exterior of the paper-thin easel to the crevices of her heart. She closes her eyes, forgetting the time, the date, the year. But what welcomes her is unfamiliar. There is no inky black to lull her to sleep; no seemingly endless darkness to help her hide from the bleached outside world. What welcomes her is a kaleidoscope of colours. Each a part of her, meaningful and beautiful - together, comprising everyone that she is. A blush pink throbs at the centre of the mosaic.

It feels like forever before she can finally fall asleep. But it is in that fleeting moment before she loses consciousness that she realises she feels a little more alive than she does when she dreams.

Shenara Vidanapathirana

Emma Lavery

At the Back of the Crowd

Inspired by James Baldwin’s letter/essay collection ‘The Fire Next Time’.

Dear Patrick,

Almost five years ago, as you may recall, I first visited this country: and in this country I had remained until I had something to write about. It seems hardly fair, amidst the current political climate of what we deem “the Land of the Free”, that people — good people, like yourself — should be enclosed within those borders, while people like me, boarding another plane with another ticket to the golden past, should escape. The time difference between Australia and America might as well be in years, for everything that is coming to pass now in the southern hemisphere stands starkly in my recent memory of the northern one. Of this, as a writer yourself, I am sure you are cognisant — of this, you know how little the newspapers care. It pains me to wonder whether they know that this day marks a decade since the murder of an innocent foreign academic on their soil; whether they know, as I do, that the law courts across my hotel are, right now, in real time, battling a case that will change the course of history. Are they aware, as you and I are, of the countless, tragic, and completely avoidable events unfolding in the very streets of America — some “free” land — under their righteous noses, of these events that will soon befall them if they do not have the decency to simply look?

I fear to elaborate any further, lest my letters are used to fire me in the most incomprehensible ways. But it is no closed secret that humankind has a propensity to cause unto others, whether they are aware of this or not, an immense sum of pain. You, who have, I will concede, suffered much more than I, in such a way that has tempered your will with a much stronger iron than any, would understand — perhaps far more so than myself. And yet it is I, not you, who is sent off to contest with the struggles of others, while you remain at home, uneasy in hard-won pleasures I have not toiled enough to earn; hardly liberated, yet always deliberated. Strange, isn’t it, how a white man should feel so at ease in a foreign land’s freedoms, while others are trapped amidst the selective laurels of their own countries?

It was a Sunday night in the late 70s, as I recall: I remember so, because I was due to board a flight back to New York that would bring me back just in time to clock in for work that Monday morning. In any case, it was a Sunday night in Sydney; not a spontaneous gathering, either, but a riot — a passionate, inspiring riot designed to steal back the attention of the

people (which would seal its place in Australia’s halls of inevitably forgotten history). Even in the place of privilege I held that day behind the mass of the crowd, to say that I was terrified would be, frankly, an understatement. In reality I was, as a matter of fact, rooted to the ground, seized with an immeasurable fear: of being caught, of being arrested, even of being seen amongst these people, in whose company in New York — especially in New York — I would not be caught dead. There was no particular emotion to which I could attribute the unshakable tremor in my hands: nervousness? Trepidation? Excitement, perhaps? Indeed, the energy with which the crowd encapsulated me gave me a sort of protection that I had never known before, let alone from strangers, on what I thought would be an inconsequential night in Sydney, on a Sunday, at the back of the crowd.

Who would have known that the volta would come around so quickly? I wish you were there to see it, Patrick: the sun shimmering on the signs of the rioters, the sparkles adorning the complexions of my protectors. It was just before sunset, and the golden light suspended in its hope and innocence the magic of this moment. But, as in all sonnets, the pace quickens, the words collapse onto themselves, and the beauty of all the splendour that came before must be put to an end. It was as if a silent gunshot had rung through the air; for, upon the sun’s immediate disappearance, it was then that the carnage began. Interspersing the crowd like spilt ink, officers were bleeding onto the pages of history. Now the crowd was at their mercy; no help would come from bystanders now. The crowd was slowly whittled down to a petrified few, partitioned and corralled and wholly, indiscriminately, beaten back. And when I felt the hand of an officer on my arm, I saw my life — my career — tunnelling into that tiny pinprick spot, cradled in the hand of man. I was at the mercy of one who believed himself to be a servant of justice; and I knew it was, truly, justice which was about to be served. For all around me were faces mashed into the ground, women and the vulnerable being handled rougher than suitcases through TSA just beside me, and there was only one thought that came through clear in the thrum of nausea careening up my throat: dear God, let it not be me who dies tonight.

That was what I was thinking — what I was desperately, devastatingly thinking — when I saw, in that officer’s eyes, the same bravado that had slipped out of my grasp the moment I fell into his. I am ashamed to even recall (and I hope, dear Patrick, that you forgive me for this) that, in the expressions passing by, instead of pale, scared, white ones like my own, I saw yours: burdened brows which bore years and years of being broken and beaten down, signs of wear down to their very bones, and a resignation in their eyes that no amount of suffering they could experience now would ever surpass the culmination of all they had already suffered. To this day, I still hold one thing true: that it was not my casual self-separation from the crowd, nor the easy compliance with which I caved into the officer’s grasp, that told him to let me go. No, I am almost certain that it was my hair, which resembled somebody’s brother’s; my eyes, the same colour as somebody’s cousin’s; my skin, as white as his own, and his father’s, and his father’s father. I am certain — and you may agree, or you may not — that he saw something in me that seemed familiar in his eyes, and for that reason I was let go. And I am expected to retell these events, as if it were witnessed through a spyglass from afar, and not, as I really did, through the hazy desperation of my own eyes! The realisation of all these things almost brought me to my knees; and, with a laugh, as if sensing this too, I was thrown into the back of the crowd again.

You understand, I cannot write all these in my reports for the papers; but I tell them to you regardless — you, who have all cause to watch your words with the utmost wariness, for fear of retribution greater than any I could elicit — as I know you. I have confidence you will know what to do with these details better than I. Truly, I wonder, sometimes, whether I am indeed the best fit for the job I do, since nowadays it seems that they allow anyone — least of all me — to comment on struggles they neither face nor allow themselves to face. But it is at least a choice for them, still — a terrifying, selfishly curated choice at that. There was no choice for the fifty men and women branded in the newspapers the following morning; no choice to be beaten beyond recognition, to be placed between four stone-cold walls until morning came knocking. The streamers and glitter and the glitz and the glamour will be forever intertwined with the blood shed, blood incensed, and blood utterly wronged.

Even now I am yet to forgive myself. Please, Patrick, tell me I am wrong for this. For there is nothing I can write today — nothing at all! — to pay due tribute to the strangers who decided it would be my shoulders around which they rested their arms, without airs, without shame. Some stray gleams of streamers in my hair, on my shoes, which lasted the night, only served cruelly as a reminder of all that I could have done for them, and everything they had already done for me. And the weight of that forgotten, neglected responsibility dragged me further into the current of grief that had begun to sweep me away. It was the futility of my inaction: my inhibited intentions, charged with the energy of the crowd, pulsing to a fervent rhythm altering with my equally fervent heart, locked and loaded and shot into an empty sky of absolutely nothing at all.

There is nothing I fear more than the weight which I felt then, on a Sunday night in Sydney, face lifted to the sky, at the back of that crowd. I won’t forget it, not for a long time.

— E.

Kong

Christelle

No Right to Suspend Students for External Behavioural Problems

A compass is meant to guide you in the right direction.

But if it’s flawed, you might follow it with confidence and end up lost, facing the wrong direction.

Four days ago, a new policy in the Victoria’s Education and Training Reform Act came into effect, giving government school principals the power to suspend or expel students for behaviour beyond school grounds that can be justified as impacting the school space. The government claims this will guide Victorian government schools toward safer, more focused learning environments…

…but there are three fundamental flaws in this law, this misdirection:

1. It blurs the boundaries between school, parents and the legal system.

2. It overburdens an already exhausted education system.

3. It prioritises counterproductive punishment over meaningful progress

Traditionally, parents, schools, and the legal system, key support systems in a child’s life, have had distinct roles. Parents’ guide behaviour at home, schools protect the learning environment, and courts step in when laws are broken. This policy blurs those boundaries.

Despite requiring that the punishable out-of-school behaviour must have a clear school-related impact, the policy leaves room for interpretation - like a family dispute at home that causes a student to act out at school. Because the resulting behaviour disrupts the classroom, schools may be justified in responding to this out of school, domestic stemming behaviour. Hence, parents may seize this perfect opportunity to pressure schools into using their new punitive tools to discipline children for domestic issues parents themselves are unwilling to address. In effect, the cross-over inherent to the policy could render it a tool for outsourcing parental responsibility. Yet extensive research, including findings from the National Institute of Health, shows that open communication at home is critical to a child’s mental health and long-term wellbeing. Ironically, a policy designed to protect student wellbeing may erode it, by enabling parental avoidance where accountability is needed most.

Then there’s the overlap of responsibilities with the legal system. Even though the policy claims schools won’t conduct criminal investigations, or act in place of courts, they will simply “work with” the justice system, this strongly contradicts what they are actually asking of schools. Principals are expected to collect documents, assess off-campus conduct, and determine whether a student poses a “significant danger” to the school environmenta process that mirrors judicial decision-making.

Yet, schools are not courts. Because they are not impartial bodies; their decisions can be influenced by reputation, public pressure, and funding - all of which have no place in a fair, legal system. Hence, by expanding school authority into home and legal territory, the policy destabilises key pillars in students’ lives, leaving students with a fractured, confused support system.

Further, this law may name principals as the ones issuing suspensions, but teachers and staff will inevitably be drawn in, gathering evidence, supervising students, and navigating the fallout. And that means more time spent managing crises, less time doing what they came into the profession to do - teach.

Yes, the government promises investment in training of teachers and staff for these new responsibilities, but first, how can a few workshops prepare someone to aid in making informed disciplinary decisions under the new law without longer, specialized training ? Moreover, let’s not forget that Victoria faces an estimated 5,000-teacher shortage by 2028, new teachers are burning out within a year, and instead of acknowledging this, this new law will pressure teachers into assuming responsibilities under the illusion that this somehow creates better learning environments.

It doesn’t.

It is almost laughably contradictory to see a policy claiming to protect the learning environment by burdening the very people who make that learning possible ~~

Above all, this law is built on a flawed idea: that removal equals resolution.

Because here’s the truth: suspension is not helpful.

No Right to Suspend Students for External Behavioural Problems

A 2023 Grattan Institute report found that suspended students are five times more likely to drop out. The Australian Institute of Health and Welfare links suspension to long-term exclusion, justice system involvement, and mental health issues. Even this policy stipulates that suspensions should be a “last resort”. So why pour money into vague, unhelpful disciplinary powers instead of real, targeted solutions?

Instead of pouring resources into enforcing suspensions or training teachers to overstep as disciplinarians, we need systems that prevent escalation in the first place.

For instance, restorative justice programs.

They provide structured spaces for students to reflect, understand the impact of their actions, and repair harm - often through guided conversations with those affected. Unlike suspension, these approaches keep students in school while building emotional regulation, accountability, and lasting support. ~~

This policy aims to guide schools, but well-intentioned guidance is pointless if it leads to confusion, mistrust, or harm...

After all, a compass is only useful when it points true.

If we care about the education of all students we must stop acting for the sake of action and start choosing policies that genuinely lead us in the right direction - toward support, not punishment; trust, not pressure; and a future where students are understood, not pushed aside.

Katherine Hinh

Stand Up

We know protests have given many of the rights and privileges we have today; from our right to vote; to labour laws; to freedom of speech and fair wages. But today it feels like all protests fail.

From the lack of action on climate change; to the silence of governments around the world in response to the Israel Gaza conflict; to the slow erosion of women’s and trans rights; and the rise of the extreme right.

Hundreds of thousands of people are protesting; but nothing is happenning. Maybe governments no longer listen to the people. Maybe this is the new normal. Maybe, we really are powerless.

So let’s do nothing. It’s going to fail anyway. Let’s all sit in our chairs, and wait for someone else to come along. Someone more experienced, more knowledgable, more passionate. The young girl, standing up in the face of a fully armed solidier, is just going to be arrested. The students standing up in the face of their future, are just going to be laughed at. The people standing up in the face of an autocratic regime, are just going to be killed.

No. A single picture of the young girl, sets a spark in the souls of thousands of people. While, climate protests have been ridiculed for their “immaturity” and “short-sighted-ness”, slow progress is being made. And the people standing up in the face of the autocratic regime? They are the reason we are standing here today.

Have we already forgotten the history of our country? Of our parents, and grandparents?

In Vietnam, on 11 November 1960, soldiers seized Saigon in response to then South Vietnamese President Ngo Dinh Diem’s autocratic regime, his privileging of Catholics and crippling of the military during a war . It failed. The chief orchestrators fled to Cambodia. Diem’s autocratic rule grew. But it set a spark that couldn’t be put out.

Nearly three years later, on the 11 June 1963, a Buddhist monk, Thich Quang Duc self immolated in a normally bustling Saigon intersection. There was nothing left, but his still beating heart. There was no response from the government.

Stand Up

There was a response from the people. That Sunday over 5000 people gathered, in Xa Loi pagoda in Saigon. Hundreds of them were shot by police. But this only gave more kindling to the flames.

Finally there was a response from those in power. Madame Nhu, the defacto first lady of the time said “If the Buddhists wish to have another barbecue, I will be glad to supply the gasoline and a match.”

The inferno grew; over 15,000 people gathered at Xa Loi pagoda alone. Thousands more through out the country.

While this was happening American support crucial for Diem’s regime was slowly flickering out. This all culminated in the assassination of Ngo Dinh Diem on the 2nd of November 1963. The protest had finally succeeded.

Today, there are people begging for the canonisation of Ngo Dinh Diem. We grow up learning more about him than our actual patron saints, and every year we slog through an hour long power point about his life. He is admirable in many ways. He gave the Vietnamese Catholics hope after a long history of persecution. He was a proud nationalist; and was firmly against the communists. He reprsents the memories of a better time. But should we have an autocratic dictator to represent our community? One who allowed the Buddhists to burn?

We stayed silent, allowing the truth to be burned beyond recognition, as our community grasps onto the embers of a long-gone country. We tried to sketch an idealized picture of Diem’s rule, with the crumbling charcoal in our hands. “Our masters have not heared the people’s voice for generations and it is much, much louder than they care to remember.” They have forgetten what our people fought for, the inferno that once consummed our country.

In America, the Vietnamese diaspora is one of the few non white communities; where there is major support for Donald Trump. Superfically Donald Trump seems to have much in common with Ngo Dinh Diem. He spouts smoke, claiming to support his people, be a man of religion, and be firmly anti-communist. Only that, his people are billionaires, religion is a capitalistic endeavour and he is in reality only anti-China. He represents several of Diem’s qualities that were admired by his followers, with an orange veneer, twisted by the pursuit of wealth. But he clearly does not represent our community.

While South Vietnam, might have ultimately lost the war, her people still hold her values. Our people stood up for equality, and left Vietnam, after the Fall of Saigon, in pursuit of freedom; of speech, of life, of education. My own grandfather was involved in the 1960 failed coup. Our families witnessed the self-immolation of Thich Quand Duc. We may have not been there, but we still hold the torch passed down through our families. While South Vietnam, may no longer exist; her people still do, her heart is still beating. So, we must continue standing up for our values.

Vietnam as a country has always revered protest; even if from an outside perspective it was a failure. The Trung sisters are some of the most admired figures in history, even if their rebellion ultimately ended after two years. Hundreds of Vietnamese martyrs died, despite this there was little change at the time. Today they are worshiped, as symbols of hope, perseverance and tenacity. This is what represents our country. So why did we stop?

The second, the progress we’ve made starts eroding, when the lamps that have been lit start flickering. We need to stand up. We need to make sure the fire burns brighter than every before. Progress is something we must keep fighting for, keep dreaming for, keep burning for. It does not stop when one dictator is deposed. When the coup is complete. We must keep standing for truth, for freedom, for our future.

Even when a protest appears to fail, it starts a single spark that ignites an inferno. Now imagine, hundred, thousands, millions of little sparks. No matter how meticulously they try to stamp the spark out; the fire will blaze.

Remember, protest is not instantaneous. It is a torch we must carry through a very long, winding tunnel. It takes years. For the suffragettes it took 80 years. For the civil rights movement it took 20 years. For South Vietnam it took three.

So light your spark.

Even if you feel progress has already been made. Even if you are the only one. Even if you feel you will fail.

We won’t fail. Because there’s no such thing as a failed protest.

Josephine Nguyen

Stand Up or Scroll Up

Loud voices rattle the concrete ground. Stomping feet echo through the streets like a heartbeat. Cardboard signs rise into the sky, inked with bold demands. Strangers march shoulder to shoulder, in unity, in strength.

This was once the sight of protest. Raw, authentic. These street rallies where people screech their demands, wave their arms and come together as one, is the most common scene people visualise when picturing a protest. Although, this stereotype has transformed dramatically as our world has evolved. Loud voices have changed into Instagram comments; stomping feet into furious typing; cardboard signs into hashtags. The youth have created an entirely different world of protest, found online through popular platforms: Instagram, TikTok, X. The internet is forever and information spreads like wildfire. Young people have discovered technology and social media as an effective and efficient means of fighting for what they believe in. The context and strategies of traditional protests may have changed, but the purpose has always been the same. Young people are still standing up, just on a different pavement.

In the early 20th Century, the suffragettes didn’t just ask for change, they demanded it. Blowing up mailboxes and chaining themselves to gates; they USED their physical presence with ferocity. Exaggerating the importance of their cause.

Now leap forward to today. Paired with the hashtag ‘#BLM’, the movement for recognition of Black people’s suffering of prejudicial hate and abuse skyrocketed, going viral overnight. Suddenly, there were people with no knowledge of these atrocities, or even had no idea who George Floyd was, who were feeling obligated to educate themselves on a matter or post that now iconic black square on their profile. This is social -media based protest at its peak…at least for now. It caught the world’s attention rapidly, instantaneously, with an extremely simplistic approach. Out of control fires, police brutality and mass crime sprees were all preventable and prevented by this campaign.

All because of the press of a button.

The #MeToo project attempted to follow in this movement’s footsteps via a more emotional approach. Once again, celebrities, CEOs, and billionaires all joined online to share their personal stories about sexual assault, violence against women, and gender equality more broadly. People you would never expect to, were standing up, pressing that red flashing “record” button and opening up about past atrocities, and supporting the wave that was this movement. #MeToo made women feel heard, feel safe, feel hopeful. As a neglected issue, this hashtag reached millions across the globe, encouraging women not to feel ashamed of their past, but instead empowered to speak out. These two simple words reflected millions of strong independent voices in a matter of days.

Digital activism has opened doors. Wide ones, with just a phone and a Wi-Fi. Anyone can participate. With social media, protests have unlimited accessibility. If a movement goes viral, it goes global. People of all ages, genders, cultures and statuses, all have the access and ability to protest from the tis of their fingers. There is no longer any excuse to sit back. From the streets to the screens, from the chants to the hashtags, the voice of protest hasn’t disappeared. It’s just changed costume.

Annie Holland

Eloise Calder

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

Zindzi Clayford - 2025 Art Captain

The Fintona English Faculty

The Fintona Art Faculty

Rachael Falloon - Principal

Zoe Alexiades - Marketing and Communications Manager

Ellikon Fine Printers - Designer and Printers