LOVE, STELLA
Spring/Summer 25
Edition 4 - Aureate
‘Radiant in a way that describes the sunlight in spring when it seems softer than harsh rays of summer ’
ALetterfromStella
‘Love,Stella’isanartsmagazineproducedbytheStellaSociety,ourstudents’andstaffs’veryownliteraryand artssociety Ourfirsteditionof‘Love,Stella’for2025incorporatesablendofthegentlevibranceofspringin bloomandtheeasytransitiontotheluminousthemesofsummer.Ourcarefullydeliberatedtitle‘Aureate’ drawingfromaspectsofbothseasons,withitsmeaninginthecontextofthispointoftheyearencompassing theradianceofthesunlightinthespringthathasjustpassed,whenitseemssofterthantheharshraysofa fleetingsummerthatneverseemstoprevailforlong.
Whilethedefinitionof‘Aureate’withinourmagazine’scontextisthesun ’ stransitionbetweenseasons,itis alsoemblematicofourstudents’transitionalperiodatthispointintheyear Withnewbeginningswithin Stella,thedawningofnewacademicandextracurricularendeavoursthataccompaniesthis,aswellasthe opportunitiestheStellaSocietyisdelightedtohave– includingtheStellaLiteraryEveningonWednesday the27thofAugustforoneoftheStellaPrize’sshortlistedworks,‘TheBurrow’byMelanieCheng(more informationistocomeonthis!)
Asmyfirsteditionof‘Love,Stella’asthe2025captain,itmarksthelegacythatwasbegunlastyearbyEmelia Coopthatwillcontinueandadaptwitheachyearandevolvewithstudents’andstaffs’enduringboundless passionandcontributiontothearts Thisedition,likeeachonebeforeit,deliverseloquentpieces,stimulating topics,andelaboratevisualdesignsthatencompassesthemoreexactfeelingof‘Aureate’,to‘makesomething golden’ Abeautifuldescriptionofwhatyouaresoontoexperiencethrougheachsensationalwork
ThiseditionbringsinsightintoStellawithsnapshotwriting,briefwritingpromptsthatwebeginwithatthe startofeachsession,suchas‘Itwasanundoubtablyforgettableday ’ ThecollaborationofourStella memberscanbeobservesin‘PluvialSummer’,atapestrystoryinspiredbythisedition’sthemes, encapsulatingtheseasonswithourwonderfulauthors AlongwithcontributionsfromallmembersofStella, inpoetrysuchas‘Passionfruit’,reflectionsandhomageofourpresentandpasthistoryofstudents,guideson howtogoaboutextravaganttripsoverseasordaytripswithinMelbourne,andarangeoffictionalandnonfictionpieces;allaccompaniedbyextraordinaryvisualsfromourstudents
Thiseditionof‘Love,Stella’embodiestheuniquefeelingofSpringandSummerandhowtheycanblendinto onewhileremainingindividualintheirfeatures,muchliketheunificationof‘Aureate’thatispossibleonly fromthecollationofuniqueandimaginativeworkings.Ihopeyouenjoytheexpeditionthat‘Aureate’takes youonandthatyouseehowthedevotionofourStellaritesshinesthroughtheirbrilliantwork Love,
urStellaCaptain Olivia
Seeds and Blossoms
Cecilia Xu
There was a backyard behind our house - well, the word really speaks for itself - filthy and yellowed and littered with all kinds of sporting equipment which my brother and I refused to pack away. The scene was a mess - a reflection of our negligent attitude towards caring for our surroundings
But tucked away in the left corner was a space of a completely opposing nature - my grandmother’s humble garden The garden was split into three sections - one for vegetables, another for fruit, and the last for plants and all kinds of flowers. Each section would be sprucely trimmed, watered and free of weeds The scene was a blessing to look at - a reflection of my grandmother’s devoted attitude towards caring for her surroundings
And there she was, from sunrise to sunset, hunched over the garden as though it was only the two of them in the world Every day I stood eagerly by her side, watching in awe as she watered the tomatoes or fertilised the zucchini, each action taken with complete compassion and consideration, tending to the variety of fruits and vegetables like they were her own children Occasionally, I heard her talking to them, recounting stories of her childhood and expressing the emotions she felt as a woman of eighty-years in a country so far from home Never before had I seen someone care so much for the earth, and beholding these interactions lit a snug fire in my heart
“Nainai’s garden”, as she would call it, “the place where plants grew and fairies flew, a place where magic happened.”
“What magic?” I asked zealously “What fairies?”
“My dear,” she said with a chuckle, “The growth of the plants, the chance for new beginnings, the possibility of blossoming into something truly wonderful - that is where the magic lies ”
Back then a question about the fairies lingered on my lips, still, but I said not a word more as Nainai turned to her side to work her callus-worn fingers into the earth And it was with a reverent fascination that I'd watch her, steady hands digging small holes just fit for the seeds nestled in her right pocket Resting it on the seed-bed before her, she tucked the seeds in goodnight, and covered them with a blanket of soil. Then she turned to me and pulled out another seed, this time smaller and thinner than the rest
She pressed the seed in my hand
“For your new beginnings ”
I am 16 now The echoes of my childhood still linger in the corners of my mind, like faded whispers of a distant melody I can't help but recall the moments my grandmother and I spent together - the days I’d help her choose seeds at the flower shop. Or the times she chased me around the garden trying to get back the shovel I stole Or the time we planted our first tree together Yet, the once vibrant tapestry of our shared experiences now lies weathered and packed away My grandmother has departed this life, leaving behind an unfillable void in my heart
As I stand in my childhood backyard, the must of dirt and fertiliser I was so accustomed to enveloped my nose In these quiet moments of solitude, I find myself yearning for her presence, longing to hear her gentle hum of chinese folksongs and feel the reassuring warmth of her embrace The memories we had woven together, of fairies dancing and flowers blooming, now served as bittersweet reminders of what once was, but never would be again.
Yet in the left corner of the yard, her garden still stands The rooms in our house which had once abounded in her snug presence had grown cold and empty, but the garden still instilled a sense of warmth, a sense of tenderness. It felt as though she was standing beside me with a hand on my shoulder, asking me to water the roses But the roses weren’t there anymore, neither were the carrots, nor the pumpkins, nor the tomatoes In her absence, the once flourishing garden became a deserted wasteland, no longer exhibiting the passion and love that was once so prominent Even the hand painted sign of “Nainai’s garden” had faded, and it was as though she was slowly withering from my memory too
I’d promised my grandmother that I would maintain her garden’s budding state, caring for her roses if anything should happen to her What’s a promise in the face of grief? She’d left me her legacy but I could do naught but weep before it - perhaps if I loved her more, I thought, I’d have dutifully taken care of the garden after her passing - in grief I’d allowed myself to be selfish in my sorrows But in the months following her passing, I couldn’t even bring myself to look at, let alone tend to the garden Every leaf, every petal and every seed was a reminder of her laughter, her care and her dedication, and I couldn’t face knowing that I would never live through those experiences again No longer could I retreat into the sanctuary of my childhood fantasies, where plants grew and fairies flew, where I felt truly safe The garden remained in a perpetual winter, devoid of the magic that had once illuminated my days
My grandmother used to tell me to not be afraid of death, saying how it is a truly beautiful phenomenon that paves the path for new opportunities But tell me, Nainai, how can death be beautiful when it feels like the whole world is crashing down on me
every second that you aren’t around? My grandmother was my biggest supporter, best friend, my lifeline And now she is gone She had gone where I was too young to follow, and I was left behind in this cruel world without my guiding light
But now, as I gaze over her garden, amidst the ache of loss, there remains a flicker of gratitude for the bond we had shared, for the precious moments we had cherished together For even in her absence, my grandmother continues to inspire me, her spirit a beacon of hope in the darkness, urging me to press onward, to embrace life’s challenges with courage and resilience, finding the opportunities amidst chaos
And there, in the centre of the garden, stands a singular cherry blossom tree The bush is small, frankly it was quite frail, but it stands solemnly amongst a plain of dirt and leaves, its soft pink aura brightening the whole yard At that moment, images of my grandmother planting that seed all those years ago came rushing back in my mind Her infectious laughter, my naive questions, our comfortable silence
Then, I was 6
Now, I am 16
I reach into my pocket and pull out the seed she had given me on that day. I had completely forgotten about it until now
Yes, my grandmother is gone, but who is to say that this is the end of her journey?
With tears flowing down my cheeks, I bury the seed into the ground.
“For our new beginnings”
My grandmother’s cherry blossom tree
Passionfruit
The lucid buzz of nothing
Whispers coiled round my hair
Oh mine, oh mine, but we dance
Ablaze. Apart together for one infinity
My palm tightens and pulls
Sunlight dripping down mywrist
Notes pouring down my throat
My chest born, to the gentle crescent folds
Child of Africa
A woman, with shining grey hair and a spark in her soul that her eyes would always disclose Dominating her exterior of fragility, was the strength of a nation and the whim of her ways; an unimaginable strength and unbreakable spirit.
“They say ‘ you can take the child out of Africa, but you can’t take Africa out of the child’, and it’s as true as words can be,” she would remark fondly to her grandchildren, a tenderly placed hand atop their head and kiss upon their cheek after a day in the sun, exhausted from the freedom her home provided For the children who visited every so often, but not frequently enough to quench her thirst for love and generosity that had been woven deep into her soul, it was a land of limitless adventure – but for the woman whose smile held the warmth of the African sun and the joy of an escape from societies assumptions, her home was no longer this place.
No longer amongst the raw, unapologetically free lands of Kenya, where cheetahs would roll around with the children and no longer could squeals of delight be heard blowing in the wind across every radiant part of the land For her, the farm that skirted the proliferate urbanisation came with a reminder of the unforgiving, destructive side of humanity, the manipulation and force of expansion that closed in on her every day
For her, home was not where she resided, not where she struggled to hold her own, struggled to hold her memories, her pride Neither was home her birthplace, a foreign land of tea drinkers, ‘ proper ’ customs and well-respected monarchs Her true home, her true love, her haven from all, would always be Africa The Africa she had travelled to when she was still small, unaware of the ecstasy that was yet to enrapture every memory of the home she would choose
As she went on with her life, little pieces of the person she was, came and went The puzzle of who she was, was perpetually constructing and dismantling itself relentlessly Some pieces, more intrinsic to her, were thought to be more secure: Children, relationships, her residing place. Though, with time comes misfortune, desolation,
unanticipated events
Pieces diminish Fade Are apprehended with no remains Little parts of her puzzle broke ever so slightly, ever so gently A fracture emerged in her new life that she had built from the very base Nonetheless, the one constant, the singular pillar that anchored her on this pedestal of determination, was her roots that went deeper than the cracks of her foundation
The daughter of survivors, of soldiers, of a mother and father full of pride for the country they served. Though not Africa, it led to a woman whose will would take centuries to dint, despite slowly fading from the world’s perception of capability A fracture in her bones, tragedies in her home, disasters in the past, present, and future, yet she would not break. Her spirit was never less than admirable in all respects, her hopes only of pure and beautiful intentions, and her wishes of all that is good and kind for her descendants to nurture. Though on occasion, her unhindered spirit slipped from her grasp, her stubbornness was laced so tightly within that amid hardship, she could never resist an impertinent joke or supress her kooky whims and fanatical tendencies that rendered her spirit consistently unordinary
Just like everyone, her life was a puzzle that could only be put together by her, the process rough and unpredictable at some points, but it was hers to make and hers to understand The foundations would always remain the same, remain the Africa that follows her every move, lives in her like a spirit that refuses to vacate their vessel, or a wind that refuses to stop blowing across the land
Every now and then, a glimpse of what once was, could be, and never has been, will cross her mind, although the African ways of grateful dominating all would never cease to take over her mind
Appreciation, the bearer of optimism will continue to prevail and the soul of the children of Africa will carry on through the genes coded in her ways
A child of Africa She will remain undeterred
A child of Africa, will never be far from her heart
A child of Africa. She will always live on
The Encounter, Emily Brennan
Olivia Jane
MelbourneGirlsGrammarisaschoolofrichtraditions.Someofthesetraditionsremain steadfastandstable,creatingalivingthreadthatconnectsthemanygenerationsof studentswhohavepassedthroughitsirongates.Othersaremoremalleable;change occurringnotonlyfromthepassageoftime,butthroughtheactiveshapingofitbythe tapestryofcharactersandpersonalitiesthatmakeupitsheartandkeepthisvitalorgan beatingstrongaftermorethanacentury.
As‘Love,Stella’entersitssecondyear,weseektopayhomagetotheliterarycuriosity thatcamebeforeit.‘Brick’wasthetitleoftheschool’soriginalalternativestudentrun magazine.Operatingfrom1955to1972,studentssubscribedtotheprintedmagazine paying6penceandlocalbusinessesplacedadvertisementswhichinthemselvesarea fascinatingreminderofhowvaluesandexpectationshavechanged(theStellaSociety willadamantlybeavoidinganypromotionstostudentsofwhathomegoodstopurchase assoonastheyaremarried).
Themotherofanoldschoolfriendofmine(thesecondofthreegenerationsofOld Grammarians)remembers‘Brick’fondlycitingitas‘verypopular,fullofessaysand poemsandotherreports’Earlierthisterm,ourStellaritesflippedthroughsomeissues fromtheschool’sarchivesinawe,musingonhowtheirpeers,whosewritingand drawingsareimmortalisedbetweenthepagesofthemagazinewerebothsodifferent andsosimilartothemselves.Fromwhatweknow,dependingonthesizeand enthusiasmofthereportingteam,Brick’waspublishedanywherefromseveraltimesa yeartoeverymonth.
Inmanyways‘Love,Stella’picksupwith‘Brick’leftoff,anaturalevolutionofstudent agencytocarveforthemselvesanoutlettosharetheircreativityandcollaborationnot becausetheyhavetobutbecausetheywantto.Whilst‘Love,Stella’issharedasadigital lovelettertothecommunity’sinterestinwriting,readingandart,wehopewithmanyof ourfutureeditionstorekindleandreconnecttothespiritandheartbeatofthosewho havecomebefore.
WeareindebtedtothegenerosityofOldGrammarianswhoheldontocopiesof‘Brick’ sincetheirschooldaysandtheirkinddonationstoourarchives.
~AliceSibley(néeMinns),TeacherofEnglishandOldGrammarian,2007.
Lovinglysharedfromaneditionof‘Brick’,1971.
A Formal Fit for a Fairytale
Pippa Watts and Ava Samarasinghe
Itwasamagicalnightonthe7thofFebruary Theracewason,everyonewasdiscardingschooluniformsfor theirgowns,stylingtheirhair,applyingmakeup,transformingintotheprincessversionsofthemselves.The ‘night’commencedassoonastheschoolbellstruck12:30 Insteadofapumpkin-turned-carriage,wewere drivenaroundincarsandUbers InsteadofPrinceCharmingswehadourtrustyfrogs(ourformaldates) however,thereweresomePrinceCharmingsinthemidst
Ourfirststopofthenightwaspreswherethephotoshoot began,insimilarfashiontotheMetGala–except photographersandpaparazziwerereplacedwithproud parents’cameras.Theparentswereatadinexperiencedinthe photo-takingdomain,soweresoonreplacedbyfriends.We weresoonthehitinternationsensationviaourparents awkwardInstagramandFacebookposts,reflectingtheir inexperiencedphoto-takingskills,howeverwestilleagerly indulgedinthisfame!
NextonourjourneywasourarrivalatZincinFederationSquare.Wewereprovidedwithafullcoursemealwith DrMeathandMsBroadwaydancingfordessert Carryingthedecadeslongtradition,theydancedwiththe SchoolCaptainandSchoolViceCaptainsofMelbourneGrammarSchool HenryFlintoft,theSchoolCaptainofMGS,saidhimselfthathe“felthonoured”anddescribedMsBroadwayasan “excellentdancer” Heevenwentasfarastosaythatthiswasthe“highlightof[his]night” HadMsBroadway foundherPrinceCharming?
Suchtraditions,suchasthisonethatgoesbackdecades,reflecttheintertwinedcultureandembedded relationshipbetweenMelbourneGirlsGrammarandMelbourneGrammar
Thenthemostanticipatedpartofthenight–awards!
“MostlikelytobeaWAG”wenttoVioletNBand“Mostlikelytowina fightwithateacher”wenttoMimRose Formalkingandqueenwent toourveryownMrSmith(wholookedverypleasedwithhimself whenhewascrowned)andStephFourlanous(wholookedextremely happytobecrownedalongsideherfavouriteMathsteacher).Such excitementpropelledbothstudentsandteachersaliketohitthe dancefloor
Thenaquickoutfitchangetookplace Ourgownswerediscardedand painfulheelsthrownoffsuddenlytransformedintocomfysneakers
Quicklyrushingbeforeourcarsturnedintopumpkinsbefore12 (whichwaswhenwewouldbelockedoutoftheafterparty) Outofthe after-party’svenueonFitzroyStreet(note:theschoolwasnot affiliatedwiththis)ahugelinesnakedoutthedoor Onceagain,the dancefloorwashit,endingthenightonafeverishhigh!
Finally,itwastimeforthefairytaletoend Wefarewelledourfriendsandheadedhomeforamuch-neededsleep Thenextweekwasthebeginningofanevenbiggerjourney–year12 So,webegin“TheClimb”andwelook forwardtoanotherhugecelebrationtogetherwhenwereachthesummitattheendof2025!
BoundinVeiledEchoes
Itwasasbitteraneveningasany.
Theairthickerwitheachsigh’sdeparture. Theenticinggraspofsleepclosedin, Slowlyluringmewithatighteninggrip.
Theairthickerwitheachsigh’sdeparture. Moonlightprancedinechoes. Slowlyluringmewithatighteninggrip. Iwasboundedinchainsofgoldendreams.
Themoonlightprancesinechoes, Whileattemptingtobreakfreefromforbiddenrealms. Iamboundinchainsofgoldendreams, Buttheyarefake,false,adistortionofreality.
Fallingfordistortionsofrealmskeepsmeinmyhaze, Obscuredasingleforebodingplaceaway. Fake,falsedistortionsruntheircoursefarfromreality. Drenchingfeartuggingatthecornerofashroudedchaoticveil.
Iwaketosleep’svigilance, draggingmebacktothedepth, onabittereveningasany.
PluvialSummer
AstraBashar,AlexiaChatfield,ArabellaPappas
Iwalkthroughthesand,pulpyafterthemorningrain.Aplacethatseemssoperfect whenthesunisupoverthehorizon,childrenplayingandthesandcoveredbyaseaof rainbowumbrellas.However,ithasamelancholybutalmostpeacefulfeelingafter thedropsofrain.IremembermygrandfathertakingmedownherewhenIwas younger,hewasnotafraidoftherain,infactheindulgedinit.Withnoteventhe lifeguardsswarmingtheshores,hespentthedaywithmeinthecoolwatersthat somehowfeltlessglacialwiththewarmthofourlaughter.Iceasetoknowhow,even whenwewerebackinthecity,Grandfatheralwayssmeltofourspecialplace,salt waterandcheaplifeguardsunscreen.Withouthimtosupportmeinmylastyearof highschool,Ifeltlost,asifoneofthesmallsailboatsoutontheshore,sailing aimlesslyoutoftheharbour,forlornandalone.IremembertellingMumlastyear thatIwouldstopmysailingtrainingtoundertakeadegreeatSydneyUniversity,the lookofsubtledismayshegaveme,tooexhaustedandmournfultocare,madeher lookolder,moreweathered,andrelinquished.Hereyesempty,foreheadpuckered, andtimeworn.WhenIfeelthecoolwaterundermyhandsIcanfeelhispresence. Simplydancingacrossadistantmemory,dancinglikethepushandpullofwaves.The riseandfallwithoutwarning,theebbandflow,therhythmicpullbringinghishearty laughterbacktome.Evenifmomentarily,Ifeelthesurroundingworldevanesce,and Icanalmostrevelinhisvoice;steady,reassuring.Inthetenderhitofthecurrent whisperingtome,itisasiftheoceanitselfholdshisspirit.WitheverystepItake alongthisfamiliarstretchofsand,Ifeelfreeoncemore.Yet,astherainbeginstostop andthefirstraysofdaylightbreakthrough,Icannothelpbutwonderifthememories ofhimareallIwilleverhaveleftofourtimetogether.
Icanfeelitdeepinmycore.Theemptyspacewhereheonceexisted.Agapingholeof nothingnessthatcannotbefilledbyanythingphysicaloremotional.Itburns sometimes,deepinmychest,spreadingslowlythroughmyarmsintomyfingers.Yet astherainstopsfallingontothesand,Idetectashiftinmyheart.Memorieswillfade; intenyearsIwillbarelyrecallhisarmsaroundmeorthetaponmyheadhealways greetedmewith.Thewavescrashagainsttheshore,butinsteadoffearingthem,I begintounderstandtheirdefiance.Wavesarepushedbythetideandthewindtotear againstland,thefullforceofthemerodingawayprecioussedimentfrommy favouritebeaches.
Therhythmicpulloftheoceaniscomforting,andasthelastgleamingraysofthesun touchmyback,Istarttoletgo.Notofthememories,butofthepain,hardship,and sadnessthathascomewithlosingmygrandfather.Before,Imayhavetriedtoescape thesefeelingsbyrunningofftouni,butnowIappreciatetheiruse.Thatgapinmy heartisnotavoidofdespair,itisaspacefulloflove,laughter,andfondtimes Yousee, theseaisneverquiteempty,althoughthewavesstretchlonginglytowardstheshore, theyalwaysreturnintothewater,fillingthedeepbasinoflifewithitsintegralparts
Thesunisslippingawaynow,pastthehillsinthedistance,towhereveritsleepsinthe sky.Idipmyfeetinthewater,itscoolnessseepingupintomybones,chillingmefrom theoutsidein.Asolitarybirdfliesinthedistance,returninghometoitsnest,andIam remindedofthelong,windingwalksIsooftenenjoyedwithhim.Mymemoriesarea gift,giventomebythoseIlove,tokeepallthatIoncedelightedinalive.Theoceanis myconnection,myplacetoremembermygrandfatherandallthathedid.
ItseemspoignantthatthethingIhavespentsomuchofthelastfewyearsonshould bemylinktohim.Thatmysailingshouldbetheunitingfactorbetweenthethen,and thenow.Maybenowmymumwillbeproud.ProudthatInowknowhowimportant sailingshouldbetomylife.IthinkIshouldstarttrainingagain.Connectwithmyold teamandjuststartalloveragain.
Griefisall-consuming Whenitcatchesyou,itleavesnoescape,andnoroomforjoy Butallisnothopeless Youmustfindthatjoyandtrapit,unitinglovewithloss The waveswillalwayscrashontothebeach Theoceanwillalwaysconsumewhatitwants Sotoo,mustyou
Griefcannotbeconquered.Itcanonlybequelled.
StellaRecommends
TheGreatestFilmYou’llNeverWanttoWatchAgain.
ThoughtearsstainmypagewitheverywordIwrite,GraveoftheFirefliesisnotonetomiss.The1988filmis simplybeautiful,filledwithchildhoodinnocence,sceniclandscapes,andeachframecraftedwithcareand intention,muchliketheotherStudioGhiblifilms.However,makenomistake,thefilmisdevastating.Basedon thechildhoodexperiencesofdirectorIsaoTakahata,andthesemi-autobiographyshortstorybyAkiyuki Nosaka,thefilmshowstheeffectsoftheSecondWorldWar,notfromtheperspectiveofasoldier,butratherof twochildren,SeitaandSetsuko.Thesesiblingsarenaïveandignorant,filledwithchildishideasoftheworld, yetthethingtheydoknowistheirloveandcareforeachother.Thefilmtouchessodeeplyintooursoulaswe stayhopelesslywatchingthehorrorunfold.Yetdespitetheheartbreak,thefilmgivesyouempathyand compassion,andbecauseofthat,Istillurgeyoutowatch GraveoftheFirefliesifyouhavenot.
AndIdon'twanttotalkaboutanything...
AdrianneLenker'sAnythingisahauntinglybeautifulsong,withenchantingvocalsandtenderlyricsthatevoke asenseofwarmth,comfort,andfamiliarity.Regardlessofhowyouinterpretit,onethingiscertain;Lenker’s whisperedwordswillresonatewithyouinsomeway.Forme,thesongfeelsliketheembraceofagentlelove thatyoucanreturntoafteralong,exhaustingday—wheretheweightoftheworldmeltsaway.It’sthekindof lovewherewordsdon’tmatter;allthat’sneededissimplythepresenceofanotherperson,theirwarmthfilling thespacebetweenyou.
Anythingcarriesthequiet,profoundyearningforconnection nogrand gestures,noneedfordeepconversations justthecomfortofbeingtogether It feelslikebeingledthroughapersonalstory,shiftingfromthepeacefulcalmof ChristmasEvetotheanxiouspulseofanemergencyroom,andthentothe simple,groundingactofgroceryshopping Thesongtouchesonthelongingto escapetheemptinessofdisingenuous,fleetingmoments,andinstead,finda senseoftruebelonging Lineslike"Ijustwanttobeapartofyourfamily"speak totheprofoundcomfortofbeingwithsomeonewhomakesyoufeelathome,at ease.
Thebackgroundmusicperfectlymirrorsthesentiment,weavinginasenseofnostalgiaandthetimeless comfortwecanfindinsuchintimate,familiarmoments.Listentothissong,andyou’llfeelthekindofsolace onlyatrueconnectioncanoffer
-VioletteShiltonMurphy
-AstraLeanaBashar
TheLibraryofBorrowedHearts
TheLibraryofBorrowedHeartsfollowsChloe,whowhenhermother abandonedheryoungersiblingsshewasforcedtomovebacktothesmall townshewassoeagertoleavebehind.Tosupportherfamilysheworksin thelocallibrary.She'sjustaboutattheendofherropewhenshe stumblesacrossarareeditionofabookfromthe1960satthelibrary. Withinthemarginsshefindsmysteriouslovenotesfromthe1960s betweentwolovers.Chloeisevercurioustofindoutwhowrotethose heartwarmingnotesinthemarginsofHemingway.Thenovelfollows Chloeassheuncoversthismysterywhilstjugglingsupportingherfamily. She’sshockedwhenhercrankyhermitofaneighbourswoopsinand offerstobuythebookforanexorbitantprice.Intrigued,Chloetakesa closerlookatthenotesonlytofindoneoftheyoungloverswasdefinitely JasperHolmes,hercrankyneighbor.Herdiscoverythattheywrotein otherbooks,kickstartsaliteraryscavengerhuntthatChloeisdetermined toseethroughtotheend Whathappenedtothetwotragicloverswho correspondedinthemarginsofsomany differentlibrarybooks?Andwhatdoesithavetodowiththeold,sadmannextdoor whoonlynowhasbegun toopenhishomeandhearttoChloeandhersiblings?
TheLibraryofBorrowedHeartsisaromantictalethatspansthedecadesasChloediscoversthatthere'smuch moretohergrouchyoldneighbourthanmeetstheeye Andinallowingherselftoaccepttheunexpected friendshipheoffers,shelearnsthatsomelovestoriesbeginintheunlikeliestofplacesandaredestinedtoend.
TheDaVinciCode
TheDaVinciCodeisathrilling,captivatingmodernmasterpiecethatfollowsHarvardSymbologyprofessor RobertLangdonandFrenchNationalPolicecryptographerSophieNeveuonagripping,mystifyingand magnificentlytoldjourneytouncoverthemostancient,powerfulsecreteverkeptthroughtheviewofthe pairsquite-witted,brilliantminds.Hiddenandpasseddownformillennial,atthecentreofeverymajor historicevent,isthesinglegreatest,mostdesirabletreasure,launchingcountlessbattles,bloodshed,quests, expeditionsandsecrecy,thissecretisthoughttobelostforeverafterthelastkeeperofthisphenomenaltruth dieshorriblyatthehandsofevil.
Thejourneybeginswithagruesomemurderthatbringsourtwocharacterstogether,howeverasuddenturn ofeventsleadsthepairtogrowclosertogetherandtoamuchmorerivetingtruth.Takingourtwo protagonistsintodepthsofriddles,codesandpuzzlesbackasfarasthetimeofChristastheyuncover astonishingconcealedmeaningsinpaintingsandmanyotherwonderfullybizarrechasesthroughtheages, thisnovelisanespeciallyenticingone.Thedepthofdescriptiveimageryandeloquentlystrungtogether phrasesweavesatapestryofhistorythatencapsulatesthereaderinmorethanahypotheticaljourney,but onethathasalreadyplayedoutthroughgenerationspast.
-OliviaJane
-AbigailSwan
Itwasundoubtablyaforgettableday...
SnapshotWriting
Itwasundoubtedlyaforgettableday
Therainwaspouringandthecloudsalwaysstayed
Isatinmyroomwithteaandabook
Andfeltthetimeflywithbarelyalook
Thesoundoftherainwentpitterandpat
Asdadcookedinthekitchen,makingaspat
Mymumplayedthepianoinherspecialroom
Whilstmybrotherheldhisconsole,andtheflowersoutside bloomed
Thedaywasasoftonewithoutmuchofanoise
Exceptforthepuppy,whowassqueakinghistoys
Weallsatdownattheendoftheday
Towatchourshortshowwithmanyhiphiphoorays
Itwasundoubtedlyaforgettableday
Butstillonewithmyfamily,whichisneverevergrey
Intertwinedbetweenthewhimsoftimeandplace,thecordsthatconnectedmelifeandthesoul pulledtighterandtuggedontighteningknots.Theunrelentingpulseofamachinesoundedunlike myown,drawntoandfromrealityinvertiginousawakenings,whilesharplightsinhostileconflict wrestledontheedgeofmysubconscious Coulditbeadaytoremember?Nightcouldhavedawned withnothingbutforgottenirrelevancesoftheday,ofeventsIcouldnotrecall,eventsthathad cascadedintoaneruptionofpsychologicaldisarray.Dwindlingonthepointintimebeyondmy reachasIlayshackledtotheunknown–orwasIlaidtorestinmyfinalplace?
Thedaywouldgoonthough,theleaveswouldstillcontinuetochangeandfall,thewindswould stillhowlintoabysses,theworldwouldcontinuetospininitscertaintyororbit.Thedaystocome wouldcontinuetoroleonastimewouldneverstopwiththetragicorthemisfortunate,butthe tragicandmisfortunatecangoonwithtime.Thedaywasaforgettableone,butwouldneverbe forgotten.Thedaywasatragicone,butcouldonlybeovercome.
Theforestshookandshudderedundermyfeet;thetrees veeredasmyeyesrolledback Ifelttheworldflypastme asIhitthegroundembracedbythemoss Islowlyopened myeyes,thelightassaultingmysenses,andstrainedto recallhowIhadfallen Myanswercameasforest thundered,thesoundofallitsinhabitantsfleeing,birds screamingoverheadpaintingtheskyliketoddlerfinding apackofneonhighlighters.Tigersandelephantsran together,unitedmomentarilybytheneedtoflee.Ijolted frommytrance,suddenlyawareofhowmuchdangerI wasinastheworld’sbestpredatorscamechargingatme. Ifranticallysearchedforsomewhere,anywheretopull myselfoutofcertaindeath.
Thelastwispofsunlightcatchesthecornerofmyeye, Eyesclosed,mymindopenstoanuncharteredrealm Thenightskyabovemeisamesmerisingvoidofuncertainty, Darkness,encrustedbyasprinkleofstars. Igazeintothestreamofthemoonlightbeforeme Ifeelthecrispairsurroundingme, engulfingmeinitscomfortingembrace Thearomaticodourofpinetreesfillsmylungs, AsIwaltzthroughthescatteredtreesoftheforest. Ifeelmyeyesdroopwithfatigue, AsIlaymyheaduponthesoftpineneedles.
Thesoundofthewolveshowlinginthedistanceringsinmyears, Fearmakesmybodychill,asifIaminaplacemoreglacialatemperaturethanpossiblefor humansurvival.
Ihearahowl, Comingcloser
Edgingcloserandclosertowardsme, Afinalhowl,threatening,minacious Myeyesreframethemselvesonmyteacherwhostandsbeforeme, Eyes,lion-like
Finger,situatedincommandgesture
Voice,ofdeathlywrath
Andso,Istepintotherealmofpossibility, Andbracemyselfforanundoubtedlyforgettableday.
Stella Prize Shortlist
Overtheschoolholidays,someofourStellarites congregatedatthebeautifulWheelerCentrefor theannouncementoftheshortlistedtitlesforthe 2025StellaPrize ThenightwashostedbyInala CooperandElizabethMcCarthyintheir discussionofthetextswithexcerptsread beautifullyfromarangeofAustralianfemale performers.Aninspiringeveningwhichleftus withfullheartsandmorebookstoaddtoourtobe-readpiles.
(Theshortlistcanbeseenbelow!!)
“Thisyear’sshortlistisconsequentialforAustralianliteraryhistory,asitisthefirsttimethe StellaShortlistfeaturesonlywomenofcolour.Nowinits13thyear,theseworksshowcase anincrediblecommandofcraftandunderstandingofouruncertaintime.Theseworksare riveting,andtheystoodouttothejudgingpanelfortheirintegrity,compassionand fearlessness.”
AstridEdwards–ChairoftheJudges2025
Acknowledgements
Thankyoutoallthedevotedstudentsandstaffthatcontributedto‘Aureate’.The culminationofworkthathasgoneintothiseditionwillalwaysbeaneloquent reflectionofthemembersofourStellaSociety’sdevotionandloveforthearts, andtheirpassioniswhathasallowedthiseditiontoflourish
Themostimportantacknowledgmentfor‘Love,Stella’willalwaysbetoMsSibley –thankyouforyourconstantdedicationandorganisationinthecomplex processofediting,collation,productionandorchestrationofourmagazine,itis theveryreasontheStellaSocietyhastheopportunitytocontinuetoexpressour passionforliteraturethroughourzine
Finally,thankyoutoeachreaderandsupporterofthezine,thisavenuefor expressionprovidesasafeandfreespaceforbrilliantworktobeenjoyedand acknowledged.Yourroleasareadernotonlyencouragesstudentstoflourishin theirwork,butisthemotivationbehindtheartistrythathasbeenbroughttolife.
‘Love,Stella’givesuspurposeandprideinourworkandallowstheentire communitytobeinspiredbyexpressionwhichisatrulybeautifulthingthat shouldalwaysbeappreciated.
Ihopeeachofyouhaveenjoyedthiswonderfullyinspiringculminationofwork asmuchasourcommunityhaslovedcomposingit.
Love,
Olivia
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