Blueprint Student Magazine_Issue 14

Issue #14 November 2018

WONDER AND WIZARDY: An interview with the creators of the AHS Harry Potter club What’s happening during October-November?

Feast on fabulous fiction

The Effin’ Review: My Neighbour Totoro

EDITORIAL The most famous bard once declared that “parting is such sweet sorrow”, and as we sally forth into this final term of the school year, Shakespeare’s wise words encapsulate how it is inevitable to be consumed by mixed feelings. While the Year 12 cohort melancholically grapple with the prospect of school finally being over, the Year 11s officially kiss goodbye to childhood, as they gear up for the stressful senior year. Meanwhile, the Year 10s fondly farewell Middle School, as the Year 9 gang celebrate their release from that dreaded stage of limbo and bad haircuts. And who can forget the rambunctious Year 8s, who will simply rejoice in that fact that soon they will not be the babies of the school any longer.

In this bumper last issue of Blueprint for 2018, we showcase a captivating selection of written and visual pieces designed to illuminate the human mind and reinforce the importance of recognising culture and the creative arts. It is also vital to acknowledge that the end of the school year does not indicate an end for everything, as we introduce the school’s exciting new Harry Potter Club in an interview with the fanatical house leaders, and sign out with a throwback edition of our now trademark feature, ‘The Effin’ Review’.

Fei Stokes & Mr Macleod

EDITORIAL TEAM Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod Front Cover Design: Francine Legaspi Editors: Gabriella Akele, Arnav Kapoor, Dain Lee, Francine Legaspi, Tiana Loechel, Jagreet Malhi, Mitchell Miller, Shardul Mulye, Thao Nguyen, Fei Stokes, Janna Tapales, Kim Van, Lilli Vitagliano

CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Calling all writers, artists, and creative types! We want your talented work for our fifteenth issue of Blueprint.

We are especially keen on your best: Fiction writing including (but not limited to) short narratives and stories, recounts, poetry, film and drama short scripts (no longer than 1000 words each) Short reviews of anything linked with the creative arts. This can include films, television, shows, music albums, live concerts, theatre production and are exhibitions (no longer than 250 words each) Non-Fiction writing of anything related to the school, local community, or creative arts. This can include food and travel writing, ‘How To’ articles, or any other topic relevant to the student readership (no longer than 1,000 words each) Artwork, graphic design, or illustrations.

Please email or submit contributions to Mr. Macleod (email: scott.macleod@adelaidehs.sa.edu.au or classroom – 124.

Alternatively, if you have any ideas for writing or artwork that you would like to contribute to the magazine, please contact one of the super helpful magazine editors listed above.

what ’s happening 25 world pasta day

October

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halloween

howl at the moon day

November

03 national sandwich day

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11 sundae day

vanilla cupcake day

world kindness day

22 go for a ride day

television day

pickle day

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26 national cake day

national chaos day

cappuccino day

10

french toast day

09

30

stay home day

NEWS WRITTEN BY | Shardul Mulye

THE RECENT ‘Drunk’ birds cause havoc and crash into windows after consuming vodka in Minnesota

Time travel to be publicly available in just ten years, according to claims from British ‘spy from the future’

Stunned squirrel revived after driver gives CPR - A driver stopped to give a squirrel CPR after fearing he

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had killed the little critter with his car. The man, was spotted by two police officers in Brooklyn Park, Minnesota as he crouched down at the side of the road to offer the squirrel some help. The squirrel eventually sprang back to life and jumped away, leaving the officers amused by the unusual turn of events, and joking that the man should be nominated for a life-saving award.

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'Better late than never'. Overdue library book returned after 84 years - In a Facebook post, the Shreve Memorial Library in Louisiana declared: "Better late than never, right? We had a patron return a book to our Main Branch yesterday that his mother originally checked out in 1934 when she was 11 years old.” This means the book, Spoon River Anthology by Edgar Lee Masters, is now 84 years overdue!

After 50 years, New York fixes typo in bridge's name - It was an engineering marvel when it opened in the 1960s, but the Verrazzano-Narrows Bridge has been mocked for incorrect spelling ever since. It is unclear how the error originally came about, but it is thought that a typo in an original construction contract cited the bridge's name with one ‘z’, and leaving it stuck with the incorrect spelling for decades.

Lego wheelchair helps injured turtle to move - An injured turtle is now literally back on his feet, thanks to the help of a uniquely customised Lego wheelchair. The Eastern box turtle was found in a local park with multiple fractures to the bottom of his shell, and was quickly taken to Maryland Zoo's hospital for treatment.

Vets operated on the turtle to repair the fractures, using metal bone plates, sewing clasps, and surgical wire to mend the pieces together.

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By Faith Fitton-Gum

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Written by Fei Stokes What inspired you to create the Harry Potter Club?

What is the purpose of the Harry Potter Club?

It started out as we were just having a conversation in class about Harry Potter. It was pretty much a big joke after the Macrob Exchange. The Macrob girls have a Harry Potter Club with over one hundred members, so we got competitive and decided that we need to start our own Harry Potter Club. Then everyone got really excited, and Mr. Macleod was on board, so we just formed the club.

It was to create a community for people who all shared a similar interest, which gives everyone an outlet to get excited about Harry Potter. It’s going to be a space in which we can make friends and discuss Harry Potter stuff, and will cater for a lot of people who’ve felt that there isn’t really a club for them at school. Another one of the main purposes is to get people to join Quidditch (for those who don’t know, Quidditch is the magical sport played in Harry Potter) and form Quidditch teams and a proper competition.

What do you hope to achieve over the next year?

We hope to succeed in creating a lively community and have fun events, such as fundraising and movies nights. We want to do treasure hunts and other activities that will also count towards House Points for a Hogwarts Cup. Hopefully these events will make other people more interested in the club, so that we can gain more members and become truly inclusive.

In the end, we’d like to have enough interested Quidditch players to have legitimate tournaments, and perhaps even include Quidditch as a sport in the next Macrob Exchange.

What are your roles and responsibilities as House Leaders?

House Leaders take care of their houses, so people can go to them if they have any questions, concerns, or queries. Even if they had a personal issue, we’d also like them to come to us if they felt comfortable, as we’d like to be a support person for everyone in that house. It’s also to keep things organised as well, because without this kind of structure everything can get a bit messy and chaotic. We do most of the organising behind the scenes.

Why choose Mr. Macleod as the supervisor?

What are the entry requirements?

He chose us. Just as the wand chooses the wizard, the teacher chooses the group. He was eavesdropping, and then he committed to the idea and made it happen! We needed teacher support to form the club anyways, so we just thought we’d use him.

There are no real entry requirements – we just ask that you complete the Pottermore Sorting Quiz and obviously have an interest in Harry Potter. It would be preferred for you to have watched the films, read the books, or be in the process of either, though of course we wouldn’t exclude anyone at all. Don’t worry – we’re not about to conduct background checks on anyone! (laughs)

‘Hogwarts castle’ Courtesy of Pottermore

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AHS HARRy potter Student society Whether you are a diehard 'Potterhead' or newcomer to the world of Hogwarts, the Harry Potter Club caters to anyone who has an interest in all things Harry Potter.

If you would like to join the club, please contact myself (Mr. Macleod) or one of the Student House Captains (Club Co-Creators) listed below:

Gryffindor Shae Clutton

Ravenclaw Maaike Williams

Hufflepuff Amy Britton

Slytherin Rebekah Frisby-Smith

Written by Amira Buela

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ou give me the strength to conquer my burden of despair.

When I didn’t know if I could go on any longer, you ravished me with comfort and love, saving me from my own worst fears. I’m glad that you are a part of me, yet a part of me continues to contemplate how different I would be without you… Do you even know your worth? You never fail to remind me about mine. In those melancholic sleepless nights, you whisper your words in my ear, akin to the way that nurturing mothers sing sweet lullabies to calm their restless young’uns. You provide the only remedy to my toxic mind, preventing me from plunging into that deep abyss. I frequently choose to see what I am not, whereas, you choose to see the true potential of whom I can be. You’re extraordinary like that, and it baffles me how we are the same person, because I am nothing like you. I am nothing but unstable – I’m a fragile porcelain doll waiting to crack after every senseless fall. It’s become my hamartia. My once powerful exterior is slowly rusting into unusable debris, but you fix it every damn time, and I don’t know how you do it. You show me time and time again that I can be fixed, and that is what continues to give me hope.

You deserve better than my egotistical deceptions, but please know that the words I wish to say are hard to articulate, as I am ashamed to voice the pain I inflict upon myself. I weigh myself down like an anchor, letting my fear control me. I’m afraid of being happy…

I feed ravenously from you, selfishly exploiting your radiant energy to lift myself from the sunken bed every morning and embrace some notion of pride in who I am and have become. I feel as if you feed off me too – you use my self-loathing as a mould, and like an artist with a paintbrush, you transform me into something unexpectedly astonishing any chance you get. However, my own appearance haunts me like a ghost of someone I used to love. The apparition acts as a reminder of how I used to love who I was, and somewhere deep inside, I believe I can be that person once again. I’m a woman after all – underneath all the bolts and wires and flaws that I’m terrified to show, I know there is something there you will perceive as pure beauty. I’m sorry that I’m blind to what you see, as I am too selfish to open my eyes to your perception of me. Instead, I willingly deceive you, and like a naïve and innocent soul, you believe all my manipulations and the elaborate web of lies. The guilt overwhelms me – it consumes me every day.

I could say thank you for eternity, but it still wouldn’t be enough to represent the true extent of my gratitude, and yet I am still compelled to utter those two simple words – thank you. Despite our contrasting personalities, you have shown me how to be genuinely comfortable in the skin in which we live. The blinding light of hope you radiate allows me to confront my fears with unexpected courage – I can believe in myself. That’s the person I’ve always wanted to be, yet have always been unable to embrace.

Time after time, I have to repeat the words you whispered in my ear during those melancholic sleepless nights. It is during these desperate times where I most intensely question if my existence is even valuable at all. What if I will never change? Can I still find happiness?

“Battle Between Heart and Mind” Courtesy of Varsha Bobbili “Battle Between Heart & Mind”

It’s comforting how you’re so fiercely protective of me, but I worry that you’ll lose yourself in the midst of my own chaotic doing. Unlike your grandiose heroics, I won’t be able to save you. I find myself battling multiple voices that reside deep in my sullied mind. You bring silence to my violent truth – the same truth that infects my thoughts like a fatal virus. I am unworthy and unlovable – a disobedient bird deservedly trapped in a cage and left for dead. In those tortured times, where my bright colours begin to fade into monochromatic obscurity, you purify my soul and cleanse me from my sins. You desperately try to teach me how to be like you. Happy.

Graceful. Confident. However, these are words that can only describe you. I feel nurtured in your presence, as your compassion exposes my most sensitive and finest qualities.

Yes

like minds Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ poem Love in the Asylum

Written by Jack Konnis

T

man I once was has been mercilessly supressed in this nightmarish room. Every mark of sanity has left my soul, seized by the four suffocating walls that now serve as the bane of my existence. I am forced to lie in this crypt, cocooned in sheets stitched with devilish red cotton and pillows so tough that my mind can never find tranquillity.

Sporadically, I am let out to walk on this angular black gravel like a dog on the leash – a sardonic therapy for all who exist in this crazy madhouse. Then I saw you – a stranger. Your very presence released the forceful stranglehold that the asylum had bestowed upon me. My lungs were suddenly invigorated with your oxygen – an alluring sensation that made my blood flow energetically through my veins. You were brought in a wheelchair, heavily sedated and wearing a straitjacket over that all too familiar orange jumpsuit. I knew immediately that you were special, as only a select few come in this way – your vulnerable state ignited my compassion and instilled me with a sense of misguided comfort.

Your nightly screams became as regular as the evening meal, only interrupted by opening doors and the obligatory medication that was designed as a pathetic means to soothe the savage beast. These long, perpetual nights that once toyed with my soul have now become a trusted friend. I lay awake, waiting anxiously to hear your cries. What punishing persecution did you endure to evoke such hysterical responses? I am left to ponder, searching deeply into the recesses of my mind – only to find some scattered pieces of the jigsaw from my past that give me false hope for redemption. I think about you constantly – your vision is etched in my corrupted soul. I long for the moment that we can be together, so we can explore each other’s fragile minds – compare scars and pick at healing scabs. I am strangely excited by all these possibilities...

When you opened your mouth to speak, your first word seemed

to come out in slow motion, looking for clues that I could use to assist in my quest to win your affections. You spoke my own unique language – a way of communicating where the boundaries of reality and fantasy don’t exist. This made me desire you even more. It amused me to think that love such as this was a possibility in an unlikely place, where insanity doesn’t correlate with conventional love. How could this occur in a world where our souls are tormented by terrible lows and manic highs?

Then everything changed forever. It was like a rubber band being stretched and finally snapping. I recognised the signs, for there had been moments in recent times when I hardly recognised you.

I had hoped that sooner or later your familiar self would reappear.

However, this was not to be. You had become the runaway train hurtling towards the point of no return. You frequently screamed for death, making it transparently clear the ghastly extent of your suffering. I was horrified – whilst I had a glimpse of your internal torment – it was nothing as relentless as this…

It was in that moment when I knew that I had to join you, as this was the moment you needed me the most. I searched for ways to prepare me for this new journey. I lay awake in bed, revisiting every bad thing I had done, every malevolent thought I have had.

I knew that I was getting closer to you again. Love is a malleable state of mind that never has predictable outcomes for both the well-balanced or for us forlorn beings. While our love will endure, it won’t happen in this world.

My thoughts for you are real, initially spawned by your tentative nature, and sustained by a genuine curiosity of who you really are. You are a piece of the asylum puzzle, but somehow you do not fit neatly – there are too many sharp edges. You wear a mask like some kind of superhero, concealing your identity, but maybe that’s what madness is all about... Your aura is utterly bewitching, only serving to increase my irrepressible attraction for you, spurred by the thoughts of forbidden love. I have been lured like a siren to a mariner. This will almost certainly lead to the destruction of our souls, but I’m prepared to risk all.

‘Faces’ courtesy of Agnes Cecile

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Ashen Feathers Written by Tien Lam

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is wings are burnt, the left in a more critical condition than the right, but he’s still flying, desperately trying to survive just like all others around him. He is calm, however, unlike the rowdy flock of doves surrounding him, many tragically descending to their death. Life has never felt more surreal, for every precious second flashes by as his wings flap rhythmically, unlike the constant sound of the blaze roaring behind him. The smell of freshly burnt wood has never been more familiar – he has been consumed by the evergrowing smoke, flying blindly, albeit swiftly. The doves flying ahead give him hope that the sky will reappear like it always does after a tranquil night, but something in him cannot quite accept this belief.

Awoken by his rackety nestlings, the day seemed like all others. He would hunt for food, as his nestlings are back home, chaotic and starving. It is his responsibility to care for them, as they are currently too frail to lift their wings – too delicate to let go – and for this reason, he must prioritise their lives over his. Their feathers are soft as a spring breeze, white and delicate like pearls lost in a sea of ashes. Their chirps periodically harmonise, creating unique sounds that no other forests could replicate, hence enabling him to always find his way home. His love, however, did not make it back.

Like him, she would leave the nest as the sun rose over the western horizon.

Her eyes were luminous as she flew in the direction of the light. She was the white shining star, flying in the eternally green galaxy, and for this reason, she stood out to many of the menacing creatures that lurked below. It was a wild, vicious skulk of foxes that followed her every day, eliminating any creature in their way. Their teeth were in horrendous condition, stained with infected dried blood, and they drooled excessively as they scowled in her direction.

Swooping down, in an attempt to catch some earthworms, she entered dangerous territory. Her beak was ever so precise and accurate, targeting a group of earthworms that wriggled rambunctiously in the freshly grazed summer soil, as the vicious foxes lurked in the dark bushes, waiting for their chance. It happened in a matter of seconds – she was not anticipating it, and her elegant wings were suddenly torn apart, disappearing from this world like she would be from her family for eternity.

“Icarus Trump” Courtesy of Jeff Thomas Black

It has only been two days, but the struggle has gotten to him. It was an unsustainable situation. Even though the nestlings are important, the lack of eating has weakened him to the point of breaking down. Powerless, his frail body lurched through the jade green canopy in a desperate search for food. The sky was darker than usual, with grey clouds swarming above the forest ominously. It was abnormal for such foreboding weather in summer, yet even amid such precarious conditions, he was forced to carry on.

It had gotten significantly darker – the sun was now completely consumed by the monstrous clouds, eliminating the last remaining thread of sunlight creeping into the forest. He was searching for his way back – flying frantically amongst the blinding canopy that once exhibited a beautiful shade of green. It was now darker, more like a Brunswick green, and he began to panic, dodging the sharp branches, as his wings moved rhythmically to the sound of the rain falling. A storm was about to drench the forest, wiping out all creatures living within. He was close, for he could hear the frantic chirps – it was the panic from the other doves, their wings furiously flapping just like his.

Unexpectedly, a piercing roar reverberated throughout the woods.

Lightning had hit a tree far north, and consequently, a raging fire had begun.

The rain suddenly softened, but the fire continued to expand exponentially, slowly creeping towards his nest. Fear had filled his soul – his nestlings were still weak from the rain – he was forced to leave them behind. His heart was aching, and he took off to the sky along with hundreds of other doves. The blaze slowly reached him and embers hit him, like a monster’s tail whipping at him as his wings become slightly burnt. Yet, he continued to fly. The sounds of the doves flailing to their impending deaths pierced his ears – his eyes were focused on the canopy above, as he tried not to be consumed by the smoke.

The sky has become hotter by the second. He is desperate to live, but the smoke swiftly overtakes him. His flapping becomes considerably slower, as does his breathing – death is creeping upon him. He ultimately falls – the heat reverberating through his feeble body as the ever-growing inferno takes his soul to the clouds above.

Written by Dain Lee

I

could only stare. Stare through the pane of glass at the melodious howl of a winter evening. Before me was not a window overlooking the silvery streets of winter, but a grand painting framed by dark chestnut wood and ivory silk curtains. The sight before me could not be described with the limited expression of my words. How does one describe a house? There were houses lined across the street, akin to an assortment from a child’s bedtime story, their doors painted in stark reds, greens, and blues. And how does one describe the sky? For before me was the sky – it was so endless that you could not see where the rooftops ended and where the sky began.

Meanwhile, the people were bustling over the cobblestone streets, yet in the same instant, they were motionless, as one is when only flecks of colour emerge on a canvas, their faces indistinguishable under smudges of harsh white paint. What was before me was a work of Caillebotte, or perhaps Monet… It is a strange sensation to find oneself immersed in a piece of art. The scream of winter stroked its finger down my spine, causing the hairs on my arms to suddenly come alive. The flames that rested on the sleeping logs had not yet ceased their debauched laughter. In the night, my eyes feigned sleep, however, my mind stayed awake to ponder the possibilities.

The morning entered with a gentle knock against the door. Golden honey spilled through my glass panes and ivory curtains, caressing my skin in a luminous greeting. In due time the warmth began to overflow, and soon felt like I was drowning amongst my bedroom sheets.

The bloom of a muffled chuckle nested against my ear, awakening the lazy lids of my eyes. Tossing my sheets aside, I approached the silk curtains once again,

Windows of New York courtesy of Jose Guizar

All but one bird had become black speckles on the white canvas. It sat on a rooftop that was powdered white like flour, and shuffled snow off the edge with its claws. Swiftly noticing my curious gaze, two black beads met my own dark eyes. With a blink it was gone.

The two black beads remained in my thoughts, as my legs traversed back to the bed.

The food arrived accompanied by a male, tall and lanky, with hair so blonde it was white against the sunlight. The strands of his curls bounced across to his olive almond eyes and high cheekbones. His eyes sauntered across the room to the bed upon which I sat.

His lips pressed tight before each end was hooked to each ear, and he asked if I was hungry. I decided I was and took the plate from his outreached hands.

The fork offered a cool embrace against my warm touch, as I plunged the depths for the fleshy fruit.

transfixed by a moment of bewilderment. The images before me had been replaced from the one of yesterday in the hours of my slumber.

What had once been cobblestone streets and colourful entrances had now been painted anew, as if the colours of yesterday had only been fragments of my restless night. White doves danced against the canvas, their wings freckled in black. But as the birds pleaded to be freed from the burden of the snow, the night was born again amongst their feathers, fleeing with the promise of return.

As I called out to inform the man of my finished meal, I was taken aback by the appearance of the black crow once more. It was not so much his appearance that had startled me, but the position at which he stood. Upon noticing my presence, the bird proceeded to stretch its wide wings, taking off across the room. It was sheer curiosity that forced me from blinking, as I slowly rose from my bed, treading lightly in the room. In the moment of my soft movements, the bird continued to swoop through the canvas, only now it was a black flick of paint. I stood staring.

Before me was the snow-covered cobblestone streets and the black bird within. And I followed, swollen whole by the melodious howl of the winter evening. The bird only stared – it was the black bird in the snow.

Inspired by Gustave Caillebotte’s Vue de Toits (Effet de neige) and Charles-François Baubigny’s La neige

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Joanna Inspired by Max Meldrum’s Portrait of Ida

Written by Anh-Thu Huynh

he meteor shower erupted above our heads, illuminating his elegant features beneath a brilliant shower of silver. It was under the blanket of the night that I realised I was falling for him, like the shooting stars above. As everyone gazed up at the sky of midnight velvet, I focused my attention on him. I felt his heart beat against my head and listened attentively to his soft breathing above my ear. Despite the cold wind that pierced the air, I remained warm in the comfort of his arms. When the last star fell, I lifted my head to peer into the blue depths of his eyes. As I drowned in his glorious gaze, I confessed my love for him, for he had managed to penetrate my melancholy heart.

T

I looked down at him resting below the starry night, mesmerised by his unabashed beauty. Dazzling blue orbs peered up at me, glinting off the reflection of the bright specks in the sky. If the eyes are the window to the soul, his soul was a curious amalgam of intensity, honesty, and gentleness. My gaze followed the sharp panes of his sculpted face to his mouth, where he could so easily captivate my soul with a simple upturn of his lips. I was enchanted by the way his lips moved in a kiss, and how his hands followed the curve of my body. Beneath the scattered moon dust in the sky, we collided with reckless abandon.

His love for me was rivalled by an entity I failed to foresee. As each day passed, I witnessed his feelings for her grow stronger. A fire raged within me, burning more fiercely with every thought of

their inevitable union. It was not merely another woman or man that had their claws affixed into his heart, but someone who had yet to step a foot upon this red earth – a mistake.

When he looked at me, I knew his mind thought of her, for she and I were connected through an unbreakable bond. As I laid my hands to my stomach, I envisioned her – a bewitching creation who seamlessly captured the beauty of both her mother and father. She would be born with skin of ivory, smooth and unmarked by the callousness of life. Her sweet innocence would lure many to her company, while her hypnotic eyes would enthral all who drank in her youthful complexion. She would be the object of many desires, and consequently my narcissism longed to bestow my progeny upon the world. Yet, as I dwelled on her, at the cusp of acceptance, I remembered that she had stolen my love’s heart.

In our most intimate moments, he continued to speak only of her. On one chilling night, he actually graced her with a name. His eyes shone as he said it, like the glow of the full moon that watched us through the window. I shied away from his blissful expression, disturbed by the knot that formed in my chest. How could I compete with the love of a father? As I laid with my back to him, I allowed a single tear to fall, awarding her with her first victory over me. Oblivious to my sorrow, he continued to repeat her name, driving that dagger further into my heart. How ironic – I thought – for her name to

mean ‘gift of the Lord’ when her existence had done nothing but leave me with immense affliction.

Our future, which I always imagined belonged to the two of us, was now plagued by her presence.

Years ago, he built our home in my vision – grandiose and adorned to capture the era of Elizabeth. It was the result of years of labour on his back, and it was now compromised for her abrupt arrival. He reimagined every room for her, storing away my favourite accessories in favour of her belongings. The hallways that were so familiar to me now reeked with the odour of disinfectant, suffocating me in its sterile grip. As the date drew closer, friends and family spoiled our house with gifts for her. I stood idly by as she infiltrated our haven…until the scream of jealousy grew too loud to bear.

Nothing could compare to the intensity of this weight I carried. It cast a heavy shadow that I knew would loom over me until the end of my days. I felt it grow heavier each time I walked past that empty nursery. Still, I endured the relentless pain. I was caught off-guard when it fell down on me, crushing my ribs and stealing my breath away. I peered down through the agony to see my body producing milk for a baby who wasn’t there. At that moment, I yearned to cry for help, knowing there could be no relief. While the weight slowly crushed me to death, I now revelled in his undivided attention.

‘Untitled’ courtesy of Fizdi

The Curse of Written by Lily Han

Y

ou’re currently at the club, sitting in the very same booth where you met her for the first time.

Despite the lively mood, you slouch in the booth with creased eyebrows, while your bottom lip is caught between your teeth.

A half-empty bottle of beer remains clutched in your grasp, as a blank expression replaces your previous sullen state. You wallow in the ‘silent’ bubble you’ve created, reminiscing about her.

The first time you saw her, she was sitting at the corner of the club with her head bowed down as waves of chocolate locks fell, concealing her face. A glass of red wine sat untouched. Her fingers traced random patterns on the table, as she nodded absentmindedly to whatever her friend was saying. Her golden orbs flickered up in curiosity when she sensed your piercing stare burning into her skin, the corner of her lips tugging into a shy, yet amused smile. You looked down, finding sudden interest in the hole carved in the table, your cheeks flushed as the bubbling sensation set in.

Music blasted from the speakers. The musky scent of sweat and alcohol lingered in the animated atmosphere. Dim lights seemed to amplify her very existence, softly illuminating her silhouette as she twirled around on the dance floor. Your eyes never seemed to wander far from her. They followed her every move. There was something about her that drew you in. Maybe it was the dangerous red flame dancing in her eyes, attracting you like a moth to the light. Or perhaps it was her cherry stained lips, stretched out into a mischievous smile – one that should have made you run for the hills, but only drew you in further.

Perhaps it was the way her hips moved to the hypnotic beat of the song, arms dragging slowly down her body – past her breast, down towards her waist, only to snap above her head. Or even her melodious laughter, which reminded you of chimes tingling in the summer wind, and seemed to pull you deeper under her salacious spell.

Aphrodite

just didn’t realise how distant she was when she was with you, how she eyed up every man as you both enjoyed your meals, and how she nodded inattentively as you spoke about your darkest secrets and your deepest regrets.

You let her in, showing her your soul, but she never removed her wall. Your friends told you to leave her and your parents warned you about her, yet you didn’t listen. Why didn’t you listen? If you had just listened, maybe you could have saved your bleeding heart from forever weeping for her.

You admire her beauty as a lazed smile takes over her soft features. You mutter goodnight, your eyes struggling to stay open, but soon darkness takes over and you fall into a soundless slumber. You are drunk in love.

The last memory you had was when she gave mock salute before stumbling into the cab.

This one particular morning felt off. You slowly opened your eyes, turning over to hug and kiss her good morning, but her side was left unoccupied. Not even a trace of her left behind. Your blood ran cold – your heart stopped. She’s gone.

You sat up in haste – everything was clean and spotless. Your clothes were neatly folded at the foot of your bed. The lamp you managed to knock down last night was placed where it was previously found. She was gone. No note, nothing.

The only thing that remained was the hole she had left in your heart.

She would forever be imprinted in your mind. The last happy memory of her that you could recall was that night. The first time you met her. An image of a young woman dressed in a sparkling wine dress, looking back towards you. Hair flying wildly in the wind, bruised lips curved into a lopsided grin, your leather jacket barely hanging on to her shoulders, a freshly painted bruise on her neck, her hazel eyes glazed over in amusement. She looked like a mess – a beautiful yet tragic mess.

‘Drama’ courtesy of Mike Redman

You find yourself on the dance floor, gravitating towards her like a lost pup trying to find his trusted owner in a crowd. You were drawn to her. Her laughter set off fireworks in your stomach, leaving you breathless and love-struck.

You are tempted to blame the alcohol, but actually think this might be love.

You asked her out. She agreed. After date one, came date two, followed by three, four, and so on. You were certain that she was falling for you. So certain in fact, that you missed all the signs. You

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Red Red Sky Sky At At Night Night AA Shepherd’s Shepherd’s Delight Delight Written by Violet Spanner he other night, the sky glowed red. Not just any red, but the ruby red of both dreams and nightmares – a red so unnatural and alien for our sky that it made the news worldwide. Shaky cell phone footage taken of the event made the morning news the next day around the world, irrevocably shattering the peaceful sleepiness that used to accompany the rural town of Gum Flat.

T

Journalists began arriving in waves from all over the country, first booking out the little motel by the highway, and once that displayed “no vacancies”, they turned to the motels in the neighbouring towns. The locals grumbled – their privacy had been ruthlessly invaded. Simply walking to the bakery or the supermarket became an event, as suddenly there were people everywhere, interrupting their days with invasive questions. Someone had slipped letters under doors too, inquiring about exclusive interviews and promises of fame and riches.

It was around this time that old man Reilly, the grumpy owner the post office, was overheard complaining to one of the other locals, “Don’t see what the fuss is about, it’s just the weather at this time of year…”

It was true, these small towns in rural areas often get redder skies in late spring, as the warm weather fronts drift in. However, the one the other night seemed almost supernatural…

Not long after the journalists arrived, busloads of crazies began rearing their obnoxious heads, armed with conspiracy theories and camping gear, intending to stay in the town that had been dubbed “Shepherd’s Delight”.

Inspired by Jason Cordero’s The Question Has Been Answered Despite all the whinging, some of the locals were making quite a sum from these shenanigans, such as Bruce and Sarah, the couple who own the property by the river on the edge of town and began using one of their empty blocks as a campsite, charging fees of up to $30 per person per night, while another couple were making postcards and little souvenirs based on the so-called supernatural event.

However, most of the locals are still grumbling, nostalgic for their old way of life – the one where their town isn’t buzzing with weirdos and nosey reporters, where they could just go about their daily lives without bumping into hundreds of strangers.

Posters start appearing, sporting slogans like “take back our town” and “let’s remove the filth”, quickly followed by details about a meeting in someone’s house strictly for “locals only”. The media snaps up the drama, approaching locals left and right in order to get a mole into the meeting, hoping to catch something front page worthy, something juicy enough for a nice exposé article on “the town that turned on its good fortune”.

By the time the meeting rolls around, nearly all of the locals are sick and tired of the “invaders”, as they’ve taken to calling them. The brewing emotions beckon turmoil, particularly when the most agitated of the bunch take the floor, stirring up deep-rooted pride the people have for their town with heated words and loaded phrases. The attendants end up agreeing on one thing: the “invaders” have to go.

This new attitude adopted by the town’s people only strengthens the bad blood between the two parties, with the visitors sensing the hostility towards them more and more every day, thus showing less courtesy and respect to the residents.

It finally hits melting point when the people camping at Sarah and Bruce’s discover that their landlords attended this hate campaign meeting, and have since been overcharging them. All hell breaks loose.

The newcomers, sick of the hate and disregard for common courtesy, begin to refuse to pay for goods, and when the police from the neighbouring town get involved, they claim xenophobia as the reason for their actions, raising questions about the abhorrent actions of the townspeople.

These “exciting” developments are being reported on every news channel across the country, to the point that even international news stations have picked up the story, reporting Gum Flat as a xenophobic town. This results in more journalists arriving in the area, but also creates a bad name for the town and its surroundings, sparking reports that “expose” the racism of rural Australia, whilst ruining reputations for other rural towns.

After a few days of constant social warfare between the sides, the police decide to put a stop to it. They order that the locals pay the newcomers compensation for their actions, and in turn, the journalists and conspiracy theorists will be required to leave the town within the next three days.

Three days later, after the last bus has left, the locals all gather to count their losses. Bruce and Sarah had to repay most of what they earned in compensation to the campers, while the couple making the little souvenirs hadn’t sold any after the first few days. Everyone is thoroughly dissatisfied, and as a result, the townspeople decide that next time the sky glows red at night, they won’t even look at it. They’ll leave it alone and never talk of it.

Screw “red sky at night, shepherd’s delight” – a red sky is always a bad luck charm!

The Black sea ‘Ships Aground’ courtesy of Ludolf Backhuysen

Written by Ellie Wells

I

tap on the wooden table beside me – the edges are harsh enough to pierce through my delicate skin. I stare at the light hanging by a thick hook from the ceiling, as the visual projection of my grandfather appears in front of me. For a man of small stature, his confidence trims the tops of the clouds. Sadness surfaces in my mind every time I’m reminded that my grandfather will not witness my first steps onto the shores of Istanbul. Fortunately, my grandmother will be there to offer me a warm embrace.

As I travel towards the treasured city, I become more concerned about the journey ahead. The pile of saturated clothes is now almost reaching the ceiling, while the dishes in my small-scale kitchen are stacked up and haven’t been used for days.

I’m starting to get hungry.

The tenacious moon looms above me as I lay in bed – I’m so thin that I can feel the metal frame imprinting marks along my spine. Nightmares are surfacing more frequently as the days vanish. I desire just a meagre glass of water.

I often envision my grandfather alongside me as I stare down at the blue water skimming the edges of the boat.

His presence gives me incentive, as in this moment he would almost certainly offer me a pat on the back, one just hard enough to slap any hesitancy out of me. He could be a hard man, but I knew it ultimately came from a good place.

The boat suddenly shifts. My head collides with the ceiling, resulting in a punishing headache that brings with it agonising discomfort. With an exasperated sigh, I lift my body out of bed to check for complications outside.

The boat begins to lurch, and I find the palm of my hands pressed against the wall. My feet feel as though they’re trekking through dense mud as I reach the handle of the hatch. I push it outwards as usual, but it sticks. The food shortage from the past few days is beginning to have a drastic effect. I have to use my whole body to force it open, which reveals the brooding grey skyline. The waves are violent and the clouds stare down ominously.

How was I unaware of such a substantial change in weather?

My quivering hands reach for the wheel, and I use the little amount of strength I have left to veer towards the lighthouse in the distance. A mammoth wave thumps the back of the boat, thrusting it forwards recklessly. My

shoes become damp, as the deck is suddenly awash with water.

We’re about to go under.

I heave the boat towards the lighthouse, just as I notice an enormous wave behind me. The boat seems so small in this moment, as it edges towards rocks neighbouring the lighthouse. I make my way to the bow and spring off the front of the boat, clinging tightly onto one of the larger rocks. Groaning in sheer agony, my weakened arms pull me across the jagged rocks above the edge of the water. I stumble my way to the lighthouse and force the door shut behind me. Sliding down the wall, I place my head in my knees and listen to the wave devour the boat.

I’ve never felt so weak.

Feelings of isolation sit in the periphery of my thoughts. I blink a few times, attempting to concentrate on anything other than my tiring body. I want to give up, as the exhaustion weakens my spirit. I feel twisted up inside like a wrung out cloth. I have to focus. I use my last reserves of energy to conjure an image to assist in my survival.

My grandfather.

I see my grandfather in front of me at the bottom of the stairs. As dazed as I am, I push myself up and stagger towards him. His silhouette begins to walk up the spiralling staircase, towering above me. My legs feel heavy as I totter my way towards the top of the lighthouse, following closely behind my grandfather. The last few steps at the top begin to appear further from view, and I suddenly miss a step, dropping onto the hard floor.

Only a few more steps.

Life’s light flickers briefly before my eyes, and I see darkness looming in the edges of my vision. I want to hold on to the image of my grandfather, but it now appears different. I try to lift my arms, but they resist. My stubborn legs cease to move no matter how much I implore them.

My head sinks – I lay deathly still on the cold cement. The silhouette cloaks my vision. The final few noises I hear are from the violent black sea outside.

He will open his arms to me, for we were always destined to reunite here.

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Fairytale in which I am not the Victim Written by Fei Stokes

O

nce upon a time there was a girl named Hui who ran away from home.

It’s not that her home life was so bad, for she was not an orphan named Cinder nor a princess named Briar Rose. She was not trapped by a Beast; she had no wicked stepmother; no stone tower; no poison apple. At the same time, she had no fairy godmother, no Prince Charming, no prophecy, no destiny.

Her family loved her, but more than that, they needed her. Perhaps they loved Hui a little too little, and needed her a little too much. They had lived Hui’s golden childhood with her, but Hui soon grew up, and the perfect summer of her innocence had to come to an end, as all summers must. Summers give way to autumns, where the night is chilly but the fire is warm, the company rich and the harvest tiring but fruitful. And so Hui lived for a time, in relative comfort.

A short time afterwards, a stranger came to live with them. Her father’s shadow. Her father was – or rather, had been – a merry man and a music-maker. But the dark power of this shadow twisted everything it touched: warmth into cold, strength into weakness, health into sickness.

And this shadow stole Hui’s father’s warmth, and strength, and health, transforming him into a feeble, fitful fellow. Thus it was that the fields were left fallow, and the sun finally went down, and the cold came.

It went on this way for a time, for Hui and her mother and her brother undertook the work laid down by her father, and bathed his ailing brow besides. It was hard, for the work of four now had to be done by three, and her father was another burden to be borne. But they were still a family, and they managed – for a time. The malignant power of the shadow was not yet done with them. It took up residence in the back of their minds and the corner of their eyes, looming over them, blocking out the light, overseeing their every move, weighing down their every thought. Its presence inveigled its way into her mother’s mind, making her both sad and angry, and she too laid her burden on Hui’s back.

each time Hui had said: it’s fine, don’t worry about me, I’m fine, in precisely that manner that said: it’s not fine, it’s not fine. But best friends know that you have to be left to make your own decisions, and so Mab let it be. Eventually, Mab saw that she could not wait much longer, and offered Hui some unasked-for but much-needed advice.

So with the support of her friend, Hui sent her brother to stay with his friends, and gathered her belongings. She no longer had parents or a home to speak of. She had only a car, and a road, and a hand to hold, which was perhaps all she had ever really needed. She’d give herself a week – no, ten days – for a little holiday, and then she’d come back.

Because everyone needs a break sometimes, right?

The two friends sped down the highway, long-caged birds freed and stretching their wings, taking flight. Hui felt as Atlas might feel upon setting down the sky. She had ten days – to think! Ten days of life! – and a curious feeling bubbled up inside of her, like sparkling wine made of sunrays. It was joy, which she had all but forgotten.

They travelled in a companionable silence, for no words needed to be spoken, and happiness filled the car with buoyancy. They went wheresoever they wished, and did nothing they did not want to do.

They witnessed the vast expanse of the countryside, and the endless stretch of the sea, and the infinite depth of the night sky. They were as sleepers slowly awaking from a delicious dream only to find a far more delightful reality. This, Hui realised, this was contentment.

After a few days of wandering, they reached the city. They stayed with friends of the people Hui’s parents had been, who housed them and fed them well, reminding Hui that kindness was good and comfort sweet.

They explored the city and saw many strange and wonderful sights.

One night, Hui and Mab saw musicians play. The flashing lights stunned their eyes, the throbbing bass vibrated in their bones, and the vibrant music and dancing shook their limbs; the elation of the past week culminating in a single euphoric experience that made them feel truly alive.

Hui stumbled on doggedly, though the shadow-days were dark. She now carried the weight of both her parents, and she did not have the strength nor the time to clean the house and stoke the fire. Her brother was either too young or too thoughtless to do either, so the hearth went cold and the rooms gathered dust, and melancholia flooded the hallways like night-dark wine. Hui subsisted on dry bread and thin gruel and the dumb determination to endure. Yet the shadow crouched still in every corner she looked, and a voice in the core of her heart knew that she could not go on.

When the ten days were over, the two girls returned with heavy hearts and dragging feet, but responsibilities are responsibilities. Hui saw her brother, and finding him well-provided for, she thought it might be kinder to leave him with his friends. Firming up her resolve, she faced that awful house where her parents still lived in the darkness and the cold. But the shadow gazed back, and chilled her bones, and Hui shuddered away. There was nothing more she could do for them. So she turned away, and she called Mab, and –

As it turns out, Hui did indeed have a fairy godmother of sorts – her closest and only friend Mab. Mab, who had stood by and stood back

Once upon a time, there was a girl named Hui, who ran away from to home.

‘Unnamed Image’ Courtesy of Pinterest

1

What was the film about?

FRANKIE: So! Should I take the steed on this one?

FEI: Do you mean take the lead?

FRANKIE: Take the lead! Yeah!

FEI: Well, you are our resident Japan expert, so go ahead.

FRANKIE: Thanks! I don’t know whether to take that as a compliment or not.

FEI: Assume it’s a compliment and move on.

FRANKIE: Okay, so the film is about these two sisters who move to the countryside with their father. As they’re moving in, the younger sister sees some strange entities and follows them into the forest, where she discovers the titular my neighbour Totoro.

FEI: I wouldn’t say that My Neighbour Totoro has much in the way of plot, but it’s essentially a cute story about two children and their adventures with some forest spirits.

When & why did you see it?

FEI: I actually saw My Neighbour Totoro very recently, only a couple months ago. I saw it with one of my friends because she’s a really big fan of Studio Ghibli films, and Totoro is a well-known part of the Ghibli pantheon. When I watched it, I absolutely loved it. I wished it was a film that I had seen as a child. It feels like a film that I should have grown up with.

FRANKIE: What you wanted, I had. As a child, I watched it several times. I think the first time I saw it I was around six, and had just been newly introduced to Studio Ghibli films. It wasn’t my first film by Ghibli, but it’s probably one of the most memorable. Even now, I still continue to watch it every time I can, every opportunity that presents itself to me.

FEI: Every minute of every day you’re just sitting there watching Totoro or waiting for the next moment you can watch Totoro.

FRANKIE: Live laugh love Totoro.

How did the film make you feel?

FRANKIE: If you have seen a Studio Ghibli film, you can understand the emotions that a Ghibli film always has – the nostalgia and the very relaxing and quaint feeling. It’s about appreciating the little things in life. It always feels familiar, like I’m coming back home.

FEI: I absolutely agree with that. It was never part of my childhood, but when I was watching it I felt nostalgic for a film I’d never seen before.

FRANKIE: I don’t know how to describe it – every Ghibli film fills me with the same sort of feeling. It’s so full of whimsy.

FEI: The whole time I watched it I was smiling. Not grinning until my cheeks hurt, but just a contented happy smile throughout the whole film.

Why is Totoro so beloved by the world? Is it justified?

FRANKIE: Well, I think that anime isn’t a very common interest, but this is a film that people just know, like Naruto. It has the elements of a Japanese film, but everyone can appreciate the calming feeling it gives you. Since it aired a while ago, during the ‘90s boom of anime in America, ‘90s kids were exposed to it in their early childhood and they still cherish it now.

FEI: I think part of the magic of Totoro is that, while it is a children’s movie, it is the kind of children’s movie that will make teenagers and adults nostalgic of their childhood.

FRANKIE: It makes you look back on your childhood as a pleasant memory.

And I think it’s justified because the character Totoro is just really big and cute and loveable. Who doesn’t want to find a forest spirit and have hijinks in the middle of nowhere?

FEI: The art of the film – it’s a hand-drawn animated film – is so satisfying and perfect as well.

FRANKIE: It’s so unique. Studio Ghibli has a very definite style to it that other people can’t replace or copy.

FRANKIE: It fills your heart with a certain fondness that you can’t feel anywhere else.

FEI: Yeah. Like if a film could be a warm summer afternoon.

Who should see it?

FRANKIE: That is so accurate! So accurate.

FRANKIE: Everybody.

FEI: In a meadow.

FEI: Everybody should see it.

FRANKIE: A meadow…

FRANKIE: Everybody.

FEI: With wildflowers.

FEI: If you saw it as a child, you should watch it again. Why haven’t you seen it again?

FRANKIE: This is getting more accurate as you continue this description.

FEI: With some really fluffy clouds in the sky. It’s half clouds, half blue sky.

FRANKIE: And the sun isn’t that bright, but the sunshine on your face still feels warm and pleasant.

FRANKIE: And again. And again. And again. And again.

FEI: And if you haven’t seen it yet, you really should. If you ever feel like you’re growing up too fast, or you got old too fast, then take a moment to look back on your childhood and relive it with My Neighbour Totoro.

FEI: And a little breeze that brings you the smell of pollen and damp earth.

FRANKIE: There are rabbits bouncing around in the distance.

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