Blueprint Student Magazine Issue 10

Issue #10 March 2018

FINALLY, JUSTICE FOR THE MILLENNIALS! What’s happening during March Madness?

Four mesmerising monologues inspired by iconic poems

Running with Scissors: An interview with old scholar, now playwright, Clare McGarvey

EDITORIAL Initially conceived in late 2015 as a roughly-defined creative arts ‘project’ that was the brainchild of a rather pretentious English teacher, Blueprint has flourished into the dynamic magazine publication it is today due to the inspirational energy of prodigious young souls.

Like many of those young souls who have since graduated and are currently pursuing all their dreams, the magazine’s humble beginnings have also seamlessly evolved with the changing times. In 2018, Blueprint is being produced in connection with a new Stage 1 Journalism course, where one dozen immensely passionate students edit, design, and publish the magazine on a monthly basis.

Reflecting the kaleidoscopic creativity that not only flows through the cosy corridors of Adelaide High, but also the city of Adelaide in the mad month of March, Issue #10 offers a juicy assortment of imaginative and intellectually enriching student writing. ‘

Dion s compelling article launches a staunch defence for the millennials, while each piece of fiction provocatively assaults our senses through masterful prose and evocative language. Similarly, the feature interview with former magazine editor, now Adelaide Fringe playwright, Clare McGarvey, encapsulates Blueprint ’s ethos: to foster a rich culture of creative expression. We are eager to keep this fire burning throughout 2018.

Mr Macleod

EDITORIAL TEAM Editor-in-Chief : Mr Scott Macleod Front Cover Design: Francine Legaspi Editors: Gabriella Akele, Lahie Amat, 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 eleventh 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? -March-

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WORLD STORY-TELLING DAY

ELIMINATION OF RACIAL DISCRIMINATION

INTERNATIONAL DAY OF HAPPINESS

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WORLD POETRY DAY

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PUPPY DAY

WORLD WATER DAY

-April03

TELL A LIE DAY

WORLD PARTY DAY

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GRILLED CHEESE DAY

SIBLINGS DAY

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SCRABBLE DAY

SORRY CHARLIE DAY

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WORLD HEALTH DAY

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INTERNATIONAL MOMENT OF LAUGHTER

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ASTRONOMY DAY

NEWS WRITTEN BY | Shardul Mulye and Mitch Miller

THE RECENT German church’s Winter Olympics 2018: US gold medalist Red Gerard nearly ‘Hitler bell’ will missed final by oversleeping after watching Netflix remain in place

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Pretty much everyone on the plane threw up on a gut wrenching landing - A few minutes after take-

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Big Cheese Festival runs out of cheese - Ticket holders are demanding a refund after Brighton cheese

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off, strong winds caused turbulence inside the ‘Crusader’ travelling from Utah to New York causing passengers to feel sick and throw up.

festival ran out of its main ingredient. Held on Saturday, the big cheese festival fell at the final curdle with organisers blaming “adverse weather conditions” for the shortage.

Badminton match held on Thursday the 8th March - Students rally in to support the players, Anthony Truong and Scott Macleod, battle it out to find out the supreme badminton player. Tune in to the next issue to find out who won.

Time traveller from 2030 claims to have met himself from 40 years ago - Noah Novak claims to be from the year 2030 and said that the man sitting next to him is actually himself from the year 2070.

Mum in shock as she spots her son eating cottage pie on the Morrison’s beef poster – Mum, Sarah Joseph, was on her way to the deli counter when she saw her ‘son eating a cottage pie’. She does not know how he ended up there or why he was eating cottage pie.

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We don’t want a side of laziness, rebelliousness, and a lack of ambition with our ‘smashed avo’ Sorry, there’s no ‘Free Wi-Fi’ with this article…

Written by Dion Lobotesis

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ccording to the typical Baby Boomer, the life of the millennial is not dissimilar to the stereotypes often associated with a council worker – defined by a distinct laziness, lack of ambition, and utter impatience. Millennials supposedly live their unsatisfactory lives mooching off their parents’ retirement plans and spending their days lounging around glued to a screen. Their only communication with the outside world is through a mix of emojis and lazy txt speak. This complete indifference to the world is even congratulated with a ‘certificate of participation’.

Unfortunately for us all, if you don’t know what ‘smashed avo’ is, you are likely part of the group of Baby Boomers peddling mistruths enmasse about the younger folk. The so-called ‘millennial problem’ has been a hot topic on the grassy-green golf courses of retirees and within the walls of cookie-cutter cubicles over the past fifteen years. This apparent social ‘problem’, attempts to falsely legitimise the idea that Gen Y-ers like myself are self-entitled, unambitious, and lazy. Keep in mind, that it is without an iota of guilt that older generations ruthlessly perpetuate the idea that there exists a whole generation of inefficient, rebellious youths, whose sole purpose in life is to push around trolleys in a Coles carpark (and apparently they can’t even do that right!)

In many of his iconic novels (or the millennial equivalent – eBooks), H.P. Lovecraft references the idea that “the oldest and strongest emotion of mankind is fear, and the oldest and strongest kind of fear is fear of the unknown.” It has been the honorary role of every past generation in society to fear the changing world in which their children, the next generation, will grow up. To the wisest elders of society, the future of the world represents a distorted reality of what they previously knew to be the ‘good old days’. To myself and every other adult ‘adolescent’ (a.k.a. Gen Y-er) of society, this distorted reality is the world in which we have grown up.

Parents who still think tape-decks are ‘in’ are only now adapting to the world around them – they are only now starting to realise that what once were the pillars to a ‘successful’ life are no more.

Psychologists, such as William Strauss and Neil Howe, agree that older generations were taught to rely on themselves instead of others, thus parents of today are passing on these “solitary” habits to the next generation.

In reality, millennials are the most socially aware generation in history.

For instance, millennials have taken a stand against long-standing acts of rampant racism and sexism, seeking to bring to light social

injustice and inequality. Similarly, tertiary education is becoming more ‘hip’ than ever – statistics reveal that millennials are collectively the most educated group of people in history. According to figures published by The White House Archives in 2014, 47 per cent of individuals between the ages of 25 and 34 possess some degree of tertiary education. Millennials recognise the value of human capital, even if it means facing a life-long HECS debt. The sheer necessity of requiring a degree to even be in contention to pursue most career pathways was a phenomenon that never significantly impacted previous generations, therefore, the incurrence of staggering debts for education seems a foreign concept to many older Australians.

Despite the financial anchors saddled with a modern education, millennials have still exhibited a voracious love of learning. Through tertiary study, millennials have demonstrated that in an era driven by innovation and the endless consumption of information, education plays an integral role in achieving personal and professional fulfilment.

Millennials are undoubtedly ambitious and driven in their various life pursuits, which is contrary to the perception that such individuals would be content with merely becoming Netflix-watching zombies.

The 1960s and ‘70s are remembered fondly by all Baby Boomers as the ‘good-old days’. In a time of rapidly escalating political conflict, fighting back against the war-mongering ways of their rigidly defined parents was the norm. This behaviour brought rise to an unprecedented revolution, where much to the dismay of their tightly-buttoned parents, the hippies of the day expressed themselves more freely than ever.

Looking at the bigger picture, it is indisputable that the actions of millennials are emblematic of the expressions of youth evident in every generation before them. The ever-present need exhibited by the youth of society to rebel against all forms of oppression is a characteristic that extends beyond any one individual. Millennials are desperate to do away with their training wheels and make a real contribution to the world, whether it is in the social, political, or economic domain.

Most millennials have an insatiable appetite for knowledge – they are exhilarated at the prospect of turning up to work each morning, despite the scepticism perpetuated by the older folk. Even though they might not be able to afford their own home in a volatile and ruthless economy, millennials know that it’s still possible to live a fulfilling life – even if it doesn’t fit the traditional mould for a life ‘well lived’.

0.1NET Magazine Courtesy of Vincent Mahé

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Written by Tiana Loechel rinkled and calloused with cracks and deep potholes, the timeworn road runs without deviation, en route to the local park. A similarly dilapidated street sign, warped and twisted to point in the opposite direction, reads ‘Allora Avenue’ – the name of the road that runs by my house.

Then an intrusive sound permeates the atmosphere – a low rumble that gradually crescendos, manifesting as a number of dusty bulldozers seek to ravish the land and tranquillity. I do not feel any remorse as the asphalt is pulled up. If anything, I am filled with satisfaction and anticipation. The broken shards of tar never constituted ‘my street’. My street remains, albeit now complete with a resurfaced road and shiny new street sign.

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Our little nest lies at number 102 Allora Avenue – my home of fifteen years. The pale pink and white blossoms of Mum’s Pierre de Ronsard adorn its brow, and its white-washed walls glow in the early morning light. This is my childhood home – the very place where I drew my first breath. This driveway is the one I first learnt to walk on, stumble upon, and cry over grazed knees on. These paths saw my first triumphant wobbles of riding a two-wheeled bicycle, and this road may yet see the day that I stall and bunnyhop along its newly laid surface in the family Honda. As I have grown older, my house has also changed over the years, most prominently during our renovation of the kitchen and dining rooms. I distinctly remember the thrill in my brother’s eyes as we were permitted to hack away at the kitchen wall with hammers, and my eagerness to impress as I joined the extended family in helping to move bricks to the skip bin.

Subsequent improvements to the house have been regular, lengthy procedures that I now associate with the intoxicating smell of fresh paint, and in turn, happy times. These changes have not erased memories but rather created many more.

Many memories conjured about my street typically revolve around the pets that have also called my house ‘home’.

The most peculiar of these would probably be Lucy the Lamb, whose most memorable qualities were her ravenous appetite for Mum’s precious roses, her extraordinarily loud bleat, and her inability to be toilet trained, which

resulted in her gallivanting around in a child’s nappy. Then there was Toby, the massive rescued tomcat who ‘beat up’ our next-door neighbour, the four young ‘hens’ who each developed their aptitude for crowing, and Sandy, our beloved dog. A few short years after Sandy’s warmly welcomed entry from under the boughs of the Christmas tree, he somehow managed to position himself on the road in the path of a moving car.

A resounding screech reverberated through the air as the car painstakingly slowed, miraculously only nudging the confused dog. Sandy responded by rolling over, sitting up, and barking indignantly at the offending bumper bar.

The disadvantage of hosting a menagerie is that they inevitably cause us intense frustration, anxiety, and grief.

We move through these times, though never unscathed. Despite this, each of this host of animals have brought me countless moments of joy and imprinted themselves into the core being of my street.

Our home has an extremely reliable plan in place for emergencies that thankfully only occasionally arise. When the egg supply is exhausted, one could simply ring the friendly neighbours over the back fence and collect them at the top of the ladder connecting out two backyards. Alternatively, if one required newspaper, they need go no further than Susie’s back shed, which houses a trove of discarded copies of The Advertiser.

Cathy has a bountiful supply of chocolates she willingly shares, Mr Fred always offers a cheery greeting from across the road, and Gerard can provide information on the goings-on of the neighbourhood, as he spends the majority of his time seated under his peach tree in a prime position for observing the street. Our small circle of neighbours have never failed to support my family. Three years ago when my family attempted a garage sale, our ever-generous neighbours pitched in boxes of unwanted items. I fondly remember my grandad leaning back on his folding chair, presiding over the ensuing chaos. If a pedestrian was unfortunate enough to pass by the house, Grandad would immediately reel off a list of imaginary bargains in an attempt to lure them in. Through the successful garage sale, we met many more lovely members of the community, and were reminded how blessed we were to have so many great neighbours.

The negative stigma of a not-very-nice postcode pervades my home and its surroundings. However, these four numbers do not define the ambience of the neighbourhood. It is always friendly and welcoming, evoking a luxurious feeling that warms my soul each time I turn the corner onto my street as I walk home. My home lies at the very heart of the street, radiating countless blissful memories of childhood and our pets.

Inextricably entwined in these memories is the sense of the community – the garrulous neighbour that can find any excuse to come over for a chat, and that weathered, grey-haired man who drops off bags of unripe peaches on the doorstep. This is as it should be.

Courtesy of Tumblr House

Interview: Clare McGarvey

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ne of Adelaide High School’s beloved graduates, Clare McGarvey, was recently interviewed for Blueprint where we were given great insight into how her life as a passionate writer and Running with Scissors performer has made a difference in the lives of others.

How does it feel coming back to work with the company as an old scholar and past Running with Scissors member?

It’s a bit strange [laughs]. I feel very nostalgic, actually. It’s like coming back and being at school, being back at Running with Scissors. It feels so weird and I kind of miss it. But mostly I just really enjoy it. I feel really grateful that I can come back and give something back to Mr Tyler, to Running with Scissors, and to the school community, because they really helped me to form who I am and helped my direction in life. So coming back and being able to do something for them is really nice.

What is your general process when you write something like Our House, and do you have a preferred place to write?

Our House is the first play I’ve ever worked on as a writer. There were three of us who contributed to the script, and we were given a general idea, so I went away with that and came up with some events and themes that I wanted to explore. I established a timeline of the key events that have taken place in Australia over the last century, and then I created a list of characters, developing their backstories, attributes, and motivations. After this, I started writing the dialogue and creating the play. Initially, I tried to come up with dialogue before developing the backstories, however, I found this very difficult. In terms of having a preferred place to write – I’m not sure why – I don’t really like writing at home. But I do love coffee, so I often write at cafes and libraries.

Where do you find inspiration for your writing?

When I was writing this, I found that when I was speaking to people I was picking up on little quirks they had, particularly how they speak and their speech patterns, which I suppose I did not notice as much before. Of course, it’s also easier to write from what you know, and looking back on it, all of the characters are in a way drawn from people close to me, people who I admire, or people that I want others to be more aware about.

How long does it take for a drama production such as this to go from an idea, to being performed in front of an audience?

It’s hard to answer that, as this is the only time I’ve been involved from the very beginning, but I think we were writing for two-and-a-half to three months, and then the script got given to the cast. And then it’s another one month or two months from now before the final production is performed in front of an audience.

Has your experience as a past performer, especially with Running with Scissors, given you insight as a writer?

Definitely. I feel like it helps with the stage directions, the dialogue, and it helps a lot being able to picture the characters, the stage, the set, and how you're going to light it. Our House is quite minimalistic though, which I think is good for me, especially starting out as a writer, because we don’t have many other aspects to take into consideration.

Our House courtesy of Francine Legaspi

What are the most challenging aspects in developing a great character when writing a drama stage production?

I found it hard to specify the histories and backstories for all of the characters. I would have an idea of a character in my head, but trying to decide how they developed their personality and possessed certain traits was one of the main challenges. It was also difficult to come up with events in my mind that would lead or justify those attributes.

How do you establish a distinct tone or mood in a scene through the use of dialogue?

I try to have a really clear idea of the type of tone and mood before I start writing the scene. I find that stage directions help a lot more than dialogue in this respect, so in my writing I use a lot of ‘beats’ and short pauses to establish a dynamic tempo that contributes to the overall mood of the piece.

How many drafts does it take on average until it’s given to the cast?

Honestly, I would’ve drafted my work dozens of times. I drafted one of the other writer’s work maybe five or six times, and the other one twice. But now it has gone to Mr Tyler, who is the director, and he’s continuously drafting and editing it. I would say it has been drafted continuously, and I think it will continue that way probably till opening night.

How has it felt to see your words come to life on the stage?

I don’t really like it! [laughs] Not that I don’t like it, but you know when you kind of hear a recording of your voice, and it feels a little bit uncomfortable? It’s a bit like that, but as I’m becoming more used to it, I have started to warm to it.

I think all the actors are doing such a good job, and while it’s different to what I originally imagined, they’re really bringing their own persona and sensibility to the roles, which is really interesting to watch and see how it’s evolving.

Was there any one key factor or moment that made you realise that writing was a passion you wanted to pursue?

Not particularly – I was never very confident with my writing and I never really thought I was a good writer until I was in Mr Macleod’s class [laughs]. He praised, supported, and encouraged me to keep writing, and that also corresponded with getting more interested in culture, the news, and that kind of stuff. I also found that reading more made me realise that I really liked writing, as it has a lot of power and influence.

What advice can you give to students at Adelaide High who have an interest or passion in editing and writing?

Basically just try and immerse yourself in as much literature as possible – it doesn’t just have to be classics, even watching movies, TV shows, listening to the news and podcasts, reading advertisements, anything really. I keep a journal and I find that is quite helpful with vocabulary, and if I am at a place and think it’s beautiful, I try to write down imagery from what I am experiencing and use that later on. Recently, I have been trying to work on my writing technique and grammar because I think it’s something that’s extremely important.

What three words do you think best describe Our House?

Intriguing, entertaining, nostalgic.

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Dryad Inspired by John Keats’ poem, ‘La Belle Dame sans Merci’

Written By Fei Stokes

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nce, I was in love.

It’s hard to find something to love in this brave new world. Ha. ‘Brave new world’. Cold lifeless world, more like. The people are so caught up in their busy busy lives, burying everything under layers of concrete and steel, that they have no time for such trivial things as sunshine and flowers. They have no time to stop. They have no time for me.

It’s lonely here without people. What use are my soft flowered lawns with no one to lie upon them? What use are my quiet tree-lined laneways with no one to wander along them?

What use are my hidden-away places with no one to discover them? With no one to care, I languish, unattended. Weeds grow, and tangle, and wither. With no one to feed them, the birds and small animals depart, leaving my forested halls bare and bereft of their harmonious song. The seasons pass. I grow bleak. No one cares, and slowly, I stop caring too.

That’s what made her so special. She left her world of stone and steel and wandered into mine. She cared. She flitted through my woods and meadows with fleet feet and dancing blue eyes. She lay upon my soft flowered lawns and

wandered along my quiet tree-lined laneways, discovering my hidden-away places.

Songbirds returned and joined her in singing her mellifluous tunes, restoring to me their light and life. She was content within me, within this companionable solitude, and I was content to no longer be alone.

I think that this is maybe what people call ‘love’. I cared for her, I sheltered her, and I protected her. Even though we were worlds apart, she must have known I was always there, watching over her. I left her gifts of the most vibrantly coloured and delicately scented flowers, which she wove into crowns to grace her regal head. And her gifts for me took the shape of her sun-warmed smile, as her slender fingers twined through smooth leaves and traced along rough bark.

I think she belongs here. She wends her way through the woods with such ease and grace that it’s like she’s been here all her life. Her being here makes me feel peaceful, and some of that tranquillity passes through me into the wood, and through the wood into her. I can see the calm seep into her – it relaxes her. This is her respite from the hostile outside world.

Here, in the solace of the forest, a melding of minds and hearts takes place. Her soul is intertwined with the woods. Her spirit is

enmeshed with mine. We have never spoken, but we feel as one.

I imagine what would happen if I could step out of the trees and speak to her. I would reach out and grasp her slim wrist. I can feel the palpable warmth of her smile when she turns and looks me at, drawing me to her like new green growth to light. We cavort handin-hand through the greenwood. I move in unity with the trees, and she is no less sure of foot, quick and light and fleet as a deer. There are no dangers in these woods, but if there were I would step forward and defend her, a loyal knight to my noble queen. In the dying light of the day we stop to rest, and I dream that she lulls me asleep with smooth fingers on my forehead, a warm summer melody lilting through my slumber.

It is cold when I wake. She is gone.

I was in love. Once.

Untitled courtesy of Xuan Loc Xuan

THE THIRD MEETING Written by Christina Akele he has done it again. This is the third time we meet – it has been ten arduous years and she has missed me dearly. Her face, now pale and meagre, greets me with a cold and disdainful look. Her gaping, grey, bloodshot eyes interrogate me with the scrutiny of a prosecutor who scornfully accuses a victim. Her full, twisted smile radiates vindictiveness and intimidation. I find her odious, pungent breath both daunting and repulsive.

Although fatigued by her heavy, sepulchral soul and mind, she perseveres against her wearisome woes. I examine my surroundings – the tar coloured brick walls emanate musty, stale scent in an otherwise chilling room. An old lamp sits on the deteriorating desk, separating her from me – it flickers incessantly, amplifying the tension that irrevocably divides us. Dark, domineering figures suddenly manifest on the walls – they are the haunting shadows of her past. The silhouettes begin to jeer in a cacophonous chorus, but she just grins mockingly in the face of their oppression and malevolence. I look at the knife on the table, shining with sinister intent under the flickering light.

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Remember? she whispers. The first time we met, she was just a tender adolescent, no more than ten years of age. The scarlet that dripped from the knife glistened with her anger. At the tumultuous age of twenty, she summoned for me. I watched her choke down each pill, as she imperiously glowered at the voices of her past oppressors, who, as they did now, took the forms of grotesque shadows and devilishly danced on the walls. I was ready to take her, but the world pulled her away from me, disinterring her from the ground and dusting her off haphazardly.

The rebuking voices continue to reverberate in the room – they pierce the ear and burden the soul. Although her chalk white face becomes more intimidating and haughty against the callous comments conjured from the shadows, I feel her strength crumbling beneath such torturous sounds. Her animosity towards the shadows grows stronger. Despite her mental pertinacity to defeat the monstrous silhouettes, she continues to feel like she is trapped in the abysses of hell.

The vile shadows grow larger and more authoritative than ever. They hiss their malicious, abusive remarks that make me shudder in fear. The old desk lamp continues to flicker interminably, dimming in brightness, as if recognising the trauma and tragedy that beckons near, subsequently causing my companion’s features to appear more ghastly and menacing than ever. I wonder when she will yield to the vicious voices in her head. Her morose mind, burning with despair, finds no way to quell the malevolent monsters of the night. The light becomes subdued and she appears skeletal, a dispiriting representation of whom she once was.

She picks up the knife with steely-eyed precision. The formidable shadows begin to cower as the discordant sounds slowly fade away. Beware she cries, as she solemnly swears to return and torment the oppressors of her past.

The flickering light suddenly extinguishes and her abhorrent features disappear into the darkness. The shadows on the wall vanish without a trace. I sit in the desolate darkness, patiently waiting for the decision. I know that I can help her escape and triumph over her oppressors, but will she really come with me? Or will she rise again and live another life, only to reconvene with me the next decade?

Will she pay the final debt of nature, and have her revenge by leaving a legacy that will haunt her oppressors? She sits there – silent and inanimate – thoroughly contemplating her options and their dastardly outcomes. She draws the stone-cold blade closer and closer to her scrawny, exhausted body. Beware she says, for she will eat men like air.

Untitled Courtesy of Guy Denning

Inspired by Sylvia Plath’s poem, ‘Lady Lazarus’ hi _____ 11

Spiral Jetty Courtesy of Greg Rakozy

Written By Cindy Pang

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have become accustomed to the incessant beeping of heart monitors and the alien chatter of the masked men who look down at me with solemn stares. My days are numbered. The amount I have left is small, yet I do not see them as a countdown. I am dying, yet I still see a certain innate beauty in this world I will soon be departing. The stainless cerulean blue of the sky contrasts with the mild colours of the leaves outside my window, as the season subtly changes into autumn. The chirping melodies of the morning sparrows accompany the music of children laughing together. The sounds of life surround me, but they can never fully reach me. I lie down, resting my head on the firm pillow, while my hand reaches out towards that blue sky as my cold body is entangled in a vine of sinister machines with their sharp thorns pricking into my skin. Surrounded by my loved ones who weep at the edge of my hospital bed, as well as those who I view on a beloved photograph through a colourless glass pane, I close my eyes and slip away into the abyss.

For a solitary moment in time, an eternity of space exists. A chasm of endless grey, with nothing but a topaz sun and the soft wind grazing my arms, blowing my hair across my face. This feeling of placidity does not last for long. The topaz sun breaks down as if it was smashed by a hammer, sinking the sky into the depths of darkness. The calm winds spiral into a vicious roar, howling at a pitch that would put the cries of wolves to shame. My legs crumble underneath me, as my weight drops to a rough leather wheelchair – the very one I had sat in all my life. The stench of bitter medicine stings my nose, reminding me of the wasted effort spent trying to save my fragile body. My throat turns as dry as the desert sand as I recall the days I had spent on that world. It was so short. I stare at the infinite abyss that gazes back to me – I am a hopeless soul. As I sit, lost and dazed, a nagging thought tugs at my sleeves, clinging onto my body. Can I truly ever be free from these shackles?

I can and I will, for sorrow paves the way anew. The sins of my physical body do not haunt me anymore. No longer do the machines ring at my ears or the faceless men talk incomprehensibly over my long lying body. A spill of sapphire smears the sky, painting azure quills to fill the void above. The tears I shed hydrate the dry earth, so that the items of nature, the trees and the flowers may grow once again. Blades of chartreuse grass surge from beneath the grey floor and spring up around me, as if surprised to be awakened from a restful sleep. Oak trees with the leaves of autumn stand tall, showcasing their striking colours comparable to rare crystals. A gentle breeze blows, acting as the conductor of this elaborate orchestra, bringing all the sounds together in perfect synchronisation to form nature's purest melody. A diamond moon ascends from where the topaz sun had collapsed, illuminating the sky with glistening stars at elbow and foot.

Beneath the gazing cosmos, I rise and stand.

Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ poem, ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion’

Shower Thoughts Inspired by Dylan Thomas’ poem, ‘And Death Shall Have No Dominion’ Written By Thao Nguyen t’s almost absurd to think that we will all cease to exist one day. Maybe you will be rewarded a place in heaven, or damned to the pits of hell, from hence echoes of shackles and moans pervade the air as you stand before the ruthless red door.

Perhaps you will, instead, ascend to the cosmos, wherein your disembodied soul illuminates a thousand suns, and reunites with the west moon in the starry night. You may be transcended from the twilight of your soul into a rebirth of your own existence, where your flesh is picked clean and your bones clothed in eternal glory. Death will have no supremacy, and you remind yourself that you will continue to exist after the sun breaks down.

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And death shall have no victory, as dead men will continue to exist through the undying strength and nature of the human spirit. You hope that when you die, your departed soul will be free from the tyranny of death, and your legacy will continue to thrive in that starry night. Despite your suffering and hardships, you will go gentle into that good night, and your sacrifices will resonate beyond your life. Yet the notions of immortality, in its essence and of its nature, consumes you. It stimulates misguided optimism, presenting the

world through rose-coloured glasses, glorifying the beauty of death. You cannot help but sink into the hopeless void of pessimism. You struggle to conceive the inevitable, with the impending doom of oblivion denying the ultimate simplicity of death. You ask yourself whether life has any substantial meaning if everything were to cease to exist, or whether your existence has any greater purpose than to procreate. In other words, you ask yourself, why does anything matter? Without death, you would have no motivation to amount to anything, and you would be trapped in an unending cycle, waiting for some kind of inexplicable release.

Death is a blessing in a world where life only seems to have meaning because society decides to give it value through forms of materialism and superficiality. These ideologies possess you – they enslave you to ignorance, melancholy, and paradoxically, bliss. You are left to entertain this notion, aware of its absurdity, yet you are also somewhat content, submitting yourself to such empty desires.

From years of peering into the harsh abyss, you ultimately decide to live an unassuming and meaningless existence. You come to a sudden realisation that life, in all its malevolent

reign, seeks to destroy you, and you are forced to continue to just be. Yet you choose to cling to false faith, and believe in a notion of a life beyond your own, as if the sense of hope could provide solace in a universe beset by desolation.

The intrinsic nature of human life frequently denies death. The future is not yet real, thus it would be ludicrous to concern yourself with events that do not need dealt with in the present. Living seems too important, therefore, you tell yourself it is too exhausting to even attempt to conceptualise the concept of mortality. Completely divorced from the realities of your life, you refuse to be controlled by something that will inevitably happen. Yet you question who and where you will be when you no longer are. Lifeless, uninhabited, and isolated from the living world.

The acceptance of this possibility ignites into an uncontrollable blaze. The earth is dying.

Stars are collapsing. The legacy of humankind will be no more significant than a mere speck of dust, and ultimately nothing will matter.

Untitled courtesy of Karolina Koryl

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