Reflections 2018

Reflections

2018

Reflections

Reflections magazine showcases the creative talents of St Clare’s students. It consists of a combination of written responses and visual art pieces. written responses and visual art pieces. of St Clare’s students. It consists of a combination of Reflections magazine showcases the creative talents

Cover artwork by Sheridan Stroud

A Dance of Death I give a cocky smile, and pull the knife from my chest. ‘Was that supposed to hurt?’ I see her eyes widen in shock, shock at what just happened.

‘You’re a…’ she whispers, in disbelief.

‘Weaver? Yes, yes I am.’ I finish her sentence, smiling wildly. The hole in my chest starts to piece itself together, similar to that of cloth-making, hence the name. It tickles a bit, but you get used to the sensation.

“But- but they’re a myth!’ she yells in frustration. I gesture to my rapidly healing chest. Proof of our existence.

We’re rare, yes, but we do exist. I roll my eyes and reach behind my back, unsheathing my beautiful blade from its home. I rest my sword in front of my body, ready to swing. The girl glares at me with determination, unstrapping a small dagger from her thigh. I almost feel sorry for her, but I know that being cocky won’t win any battle. No matter

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Olivia Pollett

how minor. I bare my teeth, and let her make the first move. The dance has begun. I watch her pose, the way she tilts her head gives me all the information I need. She’ll aim high, strike low. I shift my sword slightly, and at the last moment move it down to meet her shoulder. The move is purposely sloppy. I want her to think she can trick me, but with 30 years’ experience, I know knife-fighting body language like the back of my hand.

She swings her arm high, intending to go for my neck. I twist my body around and use my left arm to block her. I use the blunt edge of my sword to knock her over. She cries out in shock and falls to the ground. She truly thought she had me. Now is so not the time to get ahead of myself, I scold. I slash my sword across her lower torso, the blow won’t do too much damage, just a bit of blood, but it buys me enough time

to bind her wrists. I do, and leave her there for the cops to deal with.

On the walk back home, I marvel at the wonders of battle, the dances of death.

How graceful they are, the way you twist and turn, swing and fire. The way it sends you into a trance, like you were born to do this. Adrenaline swimming in your veins. Battle is the ultimate tactical sport. One wrong move and you perish, one right move and you may win.

I marvel at many things, the way of this world, as I draw my coat closer around my body, and snow gently starts to fall.

Twisting and turning in the wind.

Emmeline Wilson

3

A Whale's Fate The wide expanse of the ocean The place I call my home.

More beauty and tranquility Than any being has ever known.

The flora and the fauna Live side by side as one My love for this place, my home, Can never be undone.

For years I’ve roamed these waters So many places to explore My adventures span across the globe, Each encounter is an open door.

Yet I know I’m in grave danger, My fear never stops.

Not of what’s below the water But the evil lurking on top.

The big black boats sit waiting For those like me to arrive And once you enter their vision No creature ever survives.

Even though my years of adventures, Have been nothing short of great, The evil eyes lurking above Control a whale’s fate.

4

Lauren Thomas

Hannah Kelly

Áine’s Golden Horn A long time ago, in Ireland’s fields lived the Tuatha Dé Danann, a powerful magical race. A young warrior king named Lugh, was attempting to court Áine, the goddess of summer and wealth. Lugh had fallen deeply in love with Áine and with each day grew more and more determined to prove himself and win her heart. Lugh did not realise however, that Áine did not return his feelings. Áine agonised over how she could deter Lugh but could think of nothing she had not already tried. One day she had a bright idea. Áine would ask the advice of the wisest man in all of Ireland, Fionn mac Cumhaill, who as a boy had been filled with the infinite knowledge of the salmon of wisdom.

When Áine found Fionn mac Cumhaill, she explained Lugh’s unsought love for her, and asked what she should do. Mac Cumhaill presented her with a solution.

He told Áine of a golden horn that when played made a noise so terrible that,

upon hearing it, Lugh would fall out of love with her. This sounded like the perfect solution to Áine, so she asked Mac Cumhaill where she could find it.

Mac Cumhaill revealed the golden horn belonged to Niamh, Queen of the Land of Youth, Tír Na nÓg. Áine knew those who travelled in search of the elusive land of youth rarely returned, but never the less, asked mac Cumhaill how she could travel there. Mac Cumhaill instructed her to take a boat far out into the ocean. This confused Áine but mac Cumhaill insisted that this way she would find Tír Na nÓg.

Therefore, the next morning Áine crawled into a boat and rowed herself out to sea until she could no longer see land. As the goddess waited in her boat, she saw a large wave rushing towards her. As the wave drew closer to Áine, recoiled in fright. She waited for the wave to crash over her and her little boat, but it never came. Opening her

eyes, she saw the wave had vanished and a man now appeared before her.

The man was Mannan mac Lir, son of the sea. Mannan had become familiar with the ocean after being cursed by his stepmother, who was jealous of him and his brothers, to drift over it, possessing the bodies of swans for hundreds of years. Before Áine, he promised to take her to the place she desired, Tír Na nÓg.

Mannan and Áine sailed to the edge of the Earth, where they reached a mysterious island, concealed by cliffs of dark and jagged rock. They had reached Tír Na nÓg, the afterlife and home to the Aos Sí, ghosts, demons and fairies of the otherworld. Soon, Áine reached the dwelling of Niamh, queen of Tír Na nÓg. Appearing before her, Áine asked for the golden horn whose powers she desperately desired.

The queen heard Áine’s request, but Niamh told her she had to think about

Laura Harrison

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the matter further. Until then she said, Áine could stay within her fortress.

Niamh did not sympathise with Áine.

The otherworld’s queen thought Áine was cruel for rejecting Lugh so readily and thought her elaborate scheme to kill his admiration for her was childish.

As Niamh was a clever, cunning woman she decided to trick Áine to teach her a lesson. Áine patiently waited for Niamh’s response for one whole month.

Eventually, the queen called for her and Áine ran excitedly to hear Niamh’s answer to her request. Niamh told Áine that she would permit her to take her golden horn back home with her.

Little did Áine know that time travelled slower in the land of youth and that in reality, ten years had passed. Niamh had given Áine what she really wanted, the one way to ensure that Lugh fell out of love with her. When Áine returned to Ireland, Lugh did not even recognise Áine until she introduced herself, and even then, Lugh confessed that he remembered little of her. In the ten years that had passed, Áine’s parents 6

had died of a plague that spread through all of Ireland and the goddess was now all alone. At first Áine was angry with Niamh, but she came to realise she was only angered by herself.

She had allowed her pursuit of a way to deter her admirer to take away ten years of her life.

Jessica Poyser

7

An Act to Provide for the Protection and Care of Aborigines In the beginning Karora’s deep breaths shook the earth.

There, under the starless sky he lay asleep upon the billabong shores; hands gently resting upon the barren ground. From his fingertips, a labyrinth of dreams flooded the earth. Then, the sun rose like the deep breathing of his chest; the sea of desert around him rusting with each exhale. From his tender hands the gidgee trees sprung forward to bask in the sunlight, whilst the guguburra sang the secrets of the ancient land to all who would listen. Here, song lines and lifelines intertwined into creation; here, my people were at home. This was the dreaming.

Then destruction.

They were not like us. With foreign tongues they sang of a grey, distant land, and preached the words of an altered dreaming. From mother to child, our stories continued through generations.

They may have claimed the land, yet we alone knew the sacred energy of the earth, Karora’s spirit deep within us all.

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Leah Morberger

With the knowledge of our elders, we thought for certain that our connection to the earth would never cease.

Then they took us.

Snatched from our mothers, the connection to our people’s spirit shattered in an instant. Taught to reject our ancestry, the ancient knowledge of the land was lost with us.

Karora if you can hear me now, take me to the evil. Reverse time to the place of our downfall.

There, with poison ink the aliens sealed a future that could never be undone. I hear their joyous lies.

‘This act will protect these children’ ‘We are providing them with a proper European education’ The earth shakes with the wrath of Karora.

‘Do you see my anguish now? Do you see the future you have destroyed?’

I scream and hot tears stream down my cheeks.

But I am neither a shadow nor a reflection in their cold eyes.

I fade into darkness once again.

Nothing can restore what once was.

Now I wait for the great flood of honey to engulf the pain and sorrow of my people.

Maybe then our stories will be told once more.

They took us to the sea today it has been so long since I have been when was that again I think it was with Tallulah yes I see it now on those rocks down there we had chased each other with dry seaweed and lay under the blazing sun giggling to each other oh Tallulah Tallulah where are you now?

I had run so desperately to you when those people had come to our refuge I ran so fast that when I reached you I could barely breathe but you only had to look into my eyes to see such fear and you held me so close and whispered that we wouldn’t ever be apart but where are you now? When they took me away from you I had cried for so long that my eyes were sore and

I slept for days I used to hope that someone would come for me so that I could break through the grey walls of this forsaken institution and that I would be rescued from these cruel people but no one came and now I can barely remember your face Tallulah do you still have that goofy smile does that loud mouth of yours continue to get you into trouble… do you still think of me like I think of you?

My beige dress is so scratchy and now the waves are tickling my feet if I venture out far enough perhaps I will find you if I wait down here in this underwater kingdom we will surely one day meet and I will never be alone again but how long will I have to wait? I hope that you are in a better place than me maybe you are still with Mother oh how is she Tallulah is her heart still in one piece does she still weep in her sleep is her hair still long and flowing a protective cloak around me as she holds me close I miss the stories she used to tell us Karora and the guguburra still visit me in my dreams sometimes they whisper stories of the past but their whispers are so quiet that I can barely hear them anymore I don’t even remember what they used to say and

now I often wonder if there is anybody who remembers our stories at all?

But I know you would Tallulah oh if only I could find you if only I could walk across the sea like that man did in those stories from the old leatherbound books we are taught from I do not like these stories very much but I daren’t open my mouth for fear I will be struck last week I was struck for singing our traditional songs and my shouts were so loud that I thought for sure their echoes would find the ears of somebody who cares but there was no witness of my suffering to be found.

I am alone. I am alone. Why am I here?

What is the purpose of living if all I feel is longing and pain? My feet are no longer scraping against the sand now how easy it would be for me to end my suffering here in this peaceful deep nobody could ever hurt me again…

Would anybody here even miss me?

Oh Tallulah how desperately I want to be with you around the fire where we used to dance and paint our faces with the colours of the earth you had looked so pretty that night when you sang about the ancient stories with our mother your smile so radiant it became you I used to dream of being

beautiful like you but now the women at the institution laugh at me when I try to braid my hair as you used to they told me I’m too dark to be pretty dark like the sea so cold that my teeth chatter yet I continue further into the waves. I close my eyes and imagine you underneath the surface waiting for me to join I hold my breath and sink below the light reflects ghostly green and my skin appears lighter am I beautiful now? Am I as radiant as you once were or am I destined to fade into the darkness just as you are fading from my memories?

Underneath, the oceans waves surround me they hold me with a chill so unlike one I have known. So cold. So welcome. But I know truly that I cannot go. No. Who will tell of Karora or the guguburra then? I must tell them for you Tallulah and if I see you again we will tell them together. Together we will tell our stories once more.

I float to the surface. Sweet summer air fills my lungs once again. I am here Tallulah. I am waiting.

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Anechoic I will never experience pure silence, even in the anechoic chamber, where the beating of my heart will torment my dreams. Every hour, the music of my heart sings louder than ever, a single voice with the magnitude of a choir. I find comfort and reassurance in the constant melody, and yet I am so fearful of it. As I plead it to stop, I know I will regret my wish. It will only be a matter of time before the hands signal for me to be struck again, until the band threatens to strangle me. I catch a glimpse of my enemy’s ever changing face; foreign yet familiar with its round edge, sharp features and tired lines. I see the crown they wear, the beauty of gold is deceiving, a symbol of their reign over my frantic body.

They possess the power to prevent my passing. I run in an eager attempt to escape, but the ticking becomes louder, until it is no longer drumming but pounding; harder, faster and more desperate. The song has ended, and 10 Piper Davis

the ringing has begun; loud in my ears and dominating my thoughts. No matter how far I run, my efforts are minute; I am circling around myself, faster and faster, only to arouse so many others, as if I were a central gear.

When I was younger, I was told never to talk to strangers, but only now do I realise how I was lied to for so long; only now do I understand the words of Hector Berlioz, “Time is a great teacher, but unfortunately it kills all of its pupils.� Time is the real enemy, more than a stranger will ever be. Tick, tick, ticking away, unnoticed until it is too late, until the heart fails to beat. I am alone in my realisation, and my fate is in the hands of my enemy. {Within this piece there is a poem: I experience a single melody as a glimpse of gold passing my thoughts faster than a heartbeat. I am alone.}

Piper Davis 11

An Account of Lughnasa from an Irish Man How I love Lughnasa! Our whole tuath’s day has been filled with joy and celebrations. In many ways the festival of Lughnasa is our final opportunity to relax before the harvest comes and we are all put to work. Legend tells the god Lugh himself held the first Lughnasa in honour of his mother Ethniu, after she died of exhaustion from clearing every field in Ireland. Hopefully, today we have pleased Lugh with our sacrifice and fine arts and he will grant us a successful harvest. Although I myself am only useful for farming, Irish generally possess a great talent for adding beauty to the world around them.

When I was a child my mother would tell me to hush. I would tremble over each word and syllable—I never could keep a melody. My mother believed that my curse would bring shame upon our fine. It meant that I was never good at talking, let alone reciting poetry.

When I first met Eimear, I was so 12 Laura Harrison

nervous for her to hear my voice that I could not force words out of my mouth.

My unintentional silence offended her tremendously, but when I attempted to explain myself, the look on her face—I will never forget. She understood as soon as I began. I am lucky to have her, she is a good friend and wife to me.

In honour of Lughnasa, today everyone dressed in their best leines, linen tunics, which had been died bright colours using either berries, urine or copper. Many of us also wore our brats, woollen cloaks, woven in handsome tartan patterns, held up with fine golden brooches. However, it was still obvious who the brides and grooms were, they looked the grandest. In total three couples were married today— festivals are a popular time to wed.

Around midday, a group of wandering performers, known as bards, assembled in a large paddock, where many of the celebrations were taking

place. These bards, all the way from the kingdom of Mide, expertly captivated us with their superb stories and poetry, demonstrating why they are so highly respected in Irish society. One bard, an older man with long grey hair expressed the bard’s plans to travel across all five fifths of Eire; Ulster, Connaught, Mide, Leinster and Munster. Then, another man, dark and burly, approached us and began to brag about his extensive travels throughout Eire and beyond.

The man, Eamon, told us how he had just returned from a raid on Britain and brought back a Roman to be used as a human sacrifice to honour Lugh. At this, cheers erupted from the whole tuath, and a few women welcomed Eamon home, his wives I assumed.

As we waited for the druids to conduct the sacrifice, my eldest son, Auliffe, played his cláirseach for those who had gathered. As I listened to the sweet song of his harp, sitting amongst the green of the fields, I swelled with pride.

Across the whole of Eire children learn the instruments of their parents and by tradition, fashion their own instruments once they turn fourteen. I taught Auliffe to play the harp, just as my father had taught me.

As the day progressed, the sound of music mixed with sounds of meaddrunken singing, laughter and fighting.

By evening, we were thoroughly exhausted from a full day of activities and dancing. Sitting around the fire, my family and I feasted on freshly caught salmon and eel a neighbouring fine generously shared with us. My wife Eimear used the fish to make us a hot stew with leek and cabbage and, as a special treat, Eimear also roasted apples covered in honey and nuts for us to all share. Our children were delighted with their sweet treat and fell straight to sleep, after what was a full day of Lughnasa festivities.

My bones are aching even now as I think of the workload ahead of me, for I am sure that after today, Lugh will provide us with a bountiful harvest.

Abigail Everett 13

Another Name for a Bundle of Sticks I am a bundle of sticks – Destined to burn out I am a bundle of sticks – “Only good for lighting fires” I am a bundle of sticks – Only just being held together I am a bundle of sticks – “Burn at the stake!”

I am a bundle of sticks – Or at least that’s what they call me

14 Portia Greenwood

Bella: Anorexia Nervosa Breakfast: nothing Morning tea: Two carrots and hummus: 150 calories.

Lunch: Salad: 140 calories.

Dinner: A cup of broccoli-31 calories and one potato-130 calories Total daily calories = 451 Perfect. Under the 500 mark Before my day begins, my brain works away preparing for the day of eating ahead of me, counting every calorie I plan to eat. I've used apps to track them for so many years, that I know the calorie count of most foods off by heart and just do the math in my head.

The past two weeks have felt like a lifetime without Jake. I thought I finally had someone in my life who I could talk to and trust, but I guess I just wasn’t a good enough girlfriend for him. To be honest, I knew it was coming: I’m not good enough for anyone; not my family, my teachers, or my friends, so I would be silly to think that after opening up

to Jake, he would accept me, and my baggage. I get that people can’t fix my problems for me, which is why I keep them bottled up inside, but honestly, sometimes it’s like trying to keep a lion in a jar.

I’ve needed some sort of comfort, some sort of outlet for this overwhelming gloom in my life, and when my family hasn’t been there for me to turn to, I've found my relief in controlling the food that I eat, and when that doesn’t work, I etch lines on my skin with a blade to take away my pain. When I can’t change much in my life, at least I can make myself skinner than anyone, and maybe I’ll begin to feel as beautiful as everybody else. After all, calories can’t lie to you.

Maybe if I’m skinnier, Jake will want me back?

I don’t even know if Mum has noticed the weight I've lost over the past several months. I don’t talk to her much, I

prefer to hide in my bedroom where it’s just me, and my monsters. My journey to beautiful and skinny is consuming, but it’s stable and I need that.

Getting ready for school is a challenge – I am forced into seeing the reflection of myself in the mirror, where I see the cuts and scars where my blade meets my skin. The mirror is something I can never ignore. It tells me my beauty, my worth, and encourages my starvation. It makes me depressed, but it pushes me onwards.

I wear the same baggy clothes as last week, and I’ll wear them again next week, and I will wear them until I am skinny enough to show off my body.

The long sleeves also hide my cuts, because the last thing I want or need, is attention drawn to them, and others worrying about what is happening in my life. Regardless of the temperature, having multiple layers helps to keep me warm: I constantly feel like I’m living in an ice-box.

Charisse Timermanis 15

Every time I pull my hair brush away from my head, it seems to take with it long strands of my hair.. Great: now I’m malting. Even my best makeup can barely conceal my dark under-eyes. I guess I look on the outside how I feel on the inside – dead; but it won’t last long. My life is going to get better, but at the moment, I’m doing what I can to push through.

Mum has two pieces of toast waiting for me on the kitchen table: this is our simple routine. She thinks she is being a good mum by making my breakfast, but little does she know, that the minute I lose sight of our house, the toast goes directly into a bin. I’ve planned my food for the day, and my stubbornness will not let anything get in the way of it. I spend my lunches and recesses alone, because I can’t bear to sit and watch other people eat so easily. During the day, I see people stare at me, as if there is something wrong with me. I don’t understand why someone who has lost her friends attracts so much attention; maybe it’s because I’m ugly.

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The school bell rings, meaning it’s time to hit the gym and shed any calories that I’ve eaten, and more.

Sweat soaks my clothes after spending about 2 hours straight running on the treadmill. People think I’m crazy, but this is my way of keeping sane. My knee hurts like crazy, and I know from past experiences that it’s quite injured.

I have had a fracture in it before, but I don’t want to tell Mum about it this time: I don’t want her worrying. At first it was hard, but I am good at pushing through every ache and pain that seems to enter every part of my body.

No amount of light-headedness or pain will stop me from running towards my beautiful goal.

I make my way home, which is just around the corner from school, and prepare myself for the upcoming challenge: dinner. It’s a battle between eating something so my family are not suspicious, and not eating too much, otherwise I’ll get fat. I always just say that because I’m such a fussy eater, I prefer to make my own dinner and I guess Mum has just let me do that.

After all, I’m honestly doing just fine and it isn’t like it is affecting her or anyone else. As long as there are some low-calorie options like veggies, I will be fine.

We’ve started sitting at the table as a family for dinner time, and part of me wonders whether they’ve started doing this because they’ve noticed something about my weight and what I’m eating.

Argh! I wish they would just leave me alone, what do they know? I’m eating healthily anyway.

Finally, my whole family is asleep, meaning I can finally begin my nighttime ritual. I measure the circumference of my arms, thighs and waist, to make sure I’m getting smaller. I can tolerate a maintained measurement for a few days before I reduce my daily caloric intake further.

I’m so close to having my pointer finger and thumb meet around my arm which is an exciting relief for me, but also a reminder that I’m not thin enough yet. I spend a long time in front of my mirror, analyzing every inch of my imperfect body, wishing it looked like

the Instagram models. The longer I stare, the more I hate myself, and it is this vicious cycle that turns me to the blade. The blade brings me comfort because of the pain it gives – I forget about the war in my head, and feel only the searing burn of my torn flesh.

It hurts, and I like that.

Back at school, I overhear a few girls talking about me, glancing at me intermittently. They aren’t laughing or teasing me, but simply discussing how anorexic I look. This is the first time I’ve heard that word used about me.

They are saying that I look so unhealthy and they think I might collapse at any minute. I think that they are genuinely worried about me.

is so frantic that I barely take note.

She’s nice, but I can’t stand these questions being forced down my throat.

This is the first time anyone has actually approached me with concern, and I've never thought about what I might say to defend myself. I deny any problems at home, at school and I explain that I am doing fine, but something about her doesn’t seem convinced. I’m scared: what if they call Mum and Dad, what if I have to go to the doctor? This is too overwhelming for me, I’m fine.

I can’t stand this anymore.

I get up out of the chair and leave the room.

It’s now lunch time, and throughout the day so far, I’ve begun noticing rumours that are going around the school about my depression and anorexia, and that I self-harm.

My head is spinning, and I don’t know if that’s because of the weight of all my thoughts, or because I've barely eaten in days. The corridors are spinning and I try to run to escape this spider web I’m trapped in, but before I reach the doors, everything stops.

Before I know it, the school counselor takes me out of class to talk, and never in my life have I felt so humiliated.

Mrs Brookes is her name, but my mind

I wake up, I don’t even know where.

I’m lying in a bed, wearing a thin cotton gown, a tube in my arm and things stuck to my chest. Confusion

fills my mind. Why am I here? What is wrong with me? Is it true that I’ve got anorexia? Surly not. The beeping of machines is unsettling and my mind frantically searches for some sort of explanation until my parents enter the room, followed by a male doctor.

The image of their tear marked faces will remain with me forever. I've never made my mother cry before; she is a hard shell to crack, so obviously they think this is serious.

The medical team for eating disorders and the psychiatric team come to the conclusion that I am to undertake involuntary treatment for anorexia nervosa. It’s those words again.

I feel absolutely worthless: no one will listen to me, and I’m being treated like an object. After the battles in my head, with my family and with the medical team, the time comes to have a nasogastric tube inserted into my nose. They hold me down and I feel my dignity and humanity being stripped away.

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The nasogastric tube is so uncomfortable, but the nurses here just keep telling me that this pain is nothing compared to the pain my death would cause my family.

The hardest part of all though, is having no control over the 1,200 calories being fed into my body. I can’t keep count of the number of times I've been told that I am on the verge of death. I still don’t know how I got here. The last thing I remember was running down the corridors at school, before waking up in this living hell. Apparently, when I got here, my heart-rate was 30 BPM, and they won’t let me leave until it is at least 45BPM. I can’t believe my life has come to this and nothing I say or do can convince them to let me go. I have run out of options, I am no longer in control.

It has been three days since I was admitted here and begun my involuntary treatment, and to be honest, I am just so scared of the weight gain that has been forced upon me and will be reflected in the mirror.

I overhear the doctors talking to my parents, and it sounds like they will let me out of here soon, but under the 18

condition that I am closely monitored at home. My heart rate does increase somewhat, and I determine in my mind that I will be able to convince them to let me out.

For the first time in three days, I stand up, with some help, and look at myself in the mirror. I think I finally understand what’s wrong. I've never realized how unhealthy I look, but now; I can’t believe that reflection is me. I’m so scared. So extremely scared. Anorexia.

That word – I think I believe it now.

I finally have been allowed back home, and I’ve decided that I am going to get better.

I really underestimated how difficult this would be. I look at my plate, which has been micro measured to specific portions, and cry. I can’t do this. There is no way I can eat all this. I gather some greens on my fork, but nothing can bring it to my mouth. I drop the food and run to my room, slamming the door and this impossible world behind it.

There is nothing I can do. Nothing.

Anorexia has a tight grip on me, and no

amount of fighting will free me from it.

I want to get my blade back out. I don’t want to change, but I do want to get better. How can something like this be pushing and pulling me like a rag doll beyond my control. I thought I was the one in control.

I’m stuck in this downward spiral, and it is getting harder and harder to breathe.

Emily Boyd 19

20 Georgia Martin-Pang

Ceto - Greek Goddess of the Dangers of the Sea I am water.

I am the source of life; I always have been.

I was born before time and I will live to see it die; I am ancient, beautiful, powerful.

I bring the gifts of colour, vitality, joy; I am waterfalls, I am oceans, I am lakes.

I am elegant and graceful, gentle and kind.

But when I am not treated as the goddess I am, I grow angry.

I am a force to be reckoned with; I am a destroyer of cities and a reaper of souls.

I am cruel, unforgiving, violent.

I tear down buildings and drown the innocent with no remorse.

I am storms and tsunamis and cyclones and floods.

I am the biblical cleansing and the end of worlds.

I am water.

I am life and death.

And I will not be treated as less.

Natasha Fecondo 21

Dainty, Though Dangerous The small perfect droplets splash delicately onto the path, they know only happiness, yet with a simple overdose they bring destruction. Dainty, though dangerous.

I have always admired the rain. The way it does as it pleases. No evil stepfathers and oblivious mothers, no hateful teachers, no disgusted peers to bring it down. Oh, how I wish I could be rain. I could destroy those who destroyed me, and I could bring new life to those who suffer, just as I do. I love the way rain dances, twisting and turning as it falls through the air, the way it swims down gutters and streams. Elegant. Rain is not to be underestimated, without it we would surely die, and with too much you would find yourself in danger yet again. What I wouldn’t give to be rain.

“Charlise!” Mrs Brown spits. Her voice breaks the ice. I stare at her disgusting, rotten teeth and then flick my eyes over to the blackboard. I’m lucky, 22 Annica Barber

the equation is simple. “142, Miss.”

I say, not sure what to expect. “Yes, Charlise that is the answer. Of the equation we finished fifteen minutes ago!” I look away and roll my eyes. I should be mortified, but I’m 99.9% sure Miss has Alzheimer’s because she has never actually followed through with a detention, and usually forgets everything we’ve done in the last few lessons. My eyes dart over to the clock and I’m relieved to see there are only five minutes left of school.

I race out the front door and into the carpark. I have to run Mum’s errands before I’m free. I bolt to the local supermarket and grab the cheapest eggs I can find, 5 potatoes and a jug of milk. I quickly swipe them across the checkout and throw in a chocolate bar last minute. I shove my 10 dollar note into the lady’s hands and take my bag of food. When I step outside I feel the soft breeze of freedom. I have an hour to kill before Steve expects me to

be home. I run to the park and plonk myself under the giant fir. I take out my chocolate bar and bite a big chunk off the end.

The animals prance playfully around the pond. Rain falls softly, bringing with it the new life of spring. The Wildebeest rejoice, for to them rain means green grass and full stomachs. The lions know their hardships are over. Both lift their heads in appreciation, as if they are thanking the sky for its kindness.

I open my eyes and glance at my phone. Shoot, 4:50, ten minutes! I grab my things and sprint down the street. I run along paths and across roads, angry drivers honk at me. I yell sorry in their general direction.

A quick look at my watch says I’ve been running for five minutes. I reach our front door just as it turns to five o’clock. I walk inside, my face red as a tomato. Steve growls at me. I lift up the bag of groceries and Mum says

in her shrill voice, “Wonderful, just in time Darling, how grand!” Sometimes she disgusts me more than her greasy, fake, spoilt husband, Steve. He glares at me then turns back to my mother and starts talking to her like he loves her, he plants a sloppy wet kiss on her forehead. I can’t take it, I turn around and retch.

“Diner my sweets!” Mum yells from the kitchen. I shuffle down the hall, and watch Mum grab her coat. She tells me it’s time for work, I wince. That means alone time with Steve. I shudder at the thought. She plants a kiss on the top of my head and I wipe it off almost immediately. She kisses Steve on the lips and waltzes out the door. Once he’s sure she’s gone he turns to me.

“So, you got a detention?” Ah. The worm doesn’t have Alzheimer’s after all. She must have emailed him. I’m in for it. A smile creeps onto his ugly face and I anticipate the words that will come next. His grin widens at my fear, and I shy away. “Hands out,” he says, lingering on the ‘s’. Slowly I put my hands in-front of my body, what good would it do to disobey? He gives me a

knowing smile, and slowly unbuckles his belt pulling it out of the loops. “How many should we do?” he asks himself, “5, 10? No, no. That would do no good, how about 20? Yes, that’s better,” he whispers, snakelike. He turns his psychotic smile to me and I frantically try to put my mind elsewhere.

Rain falls furiously, people flee…

“ONE!” pain spreads throughout my palms. Rivers quickly rise, overflowing…

“TWO!” he yells, more pain. Flood warnings are issued, people start to leave their homes. “THREE!” this time agony. Rain pelts own, full of fury, people cower in fear… “FOUR, FIVE, SIX!” he bellows, I scream, the agony is unbearable. Rain is full of anger how could these people not appreciate its fine work? They must pay the price…

“SEVEN, EIGHT, NINE!” Tears stream down my face. Water gushes through valleys, leaving nothing but destruction in its wake. “TEN, ELLEVEN, TWELVE! THIRTEEN, FOURTEEN FIFTEEN!” he screeches at the top of his lungs. Rain starts to slow, waters start to recede…

“SIXTEEN, SEVENTEEN, EIGHTEEN!” I’m sobbing. People return to start the

clean-up… “NINETEEN… TWENTY!!!”

The last hit is the hardest yet, but I’m too relieved that it’s over to feel it. As soon as Steve leaves, I run and grab antiseptic cream and bandages, I clean and wrap my new wounds.

I wish yet again, to be just like rain, dainty, but not underestimated, because I could be full of destruction. I could bring life or take it away. I would be dainty, though dangerous.

23

24 Amy Fisher

Lucy Donohoe 25

Extract from the Diary of a Roman Prisoner of War… I fear this will be my last entry. My captors are planning something terrible with me. While they shout and sing outside I sit here, preparing myself for the worst. I may not speak the language, but they have given me enough clues to piece together my fate. I believe that these Irish are going to kill me as a sacrifice to one of their gods. Oh, simply writing that down has made me ill. Perhaps, writing it on paper somehow makes it seem more real. I don’t imagine I am ready to die, there is so much I still want to do with this lifetime, but I guess a man does not get to choose how he dies. Just not like this, please…

look twice as strong as any man back in Rome. There is a belief among us Romans that these Irish are a brutal and savage race, yet what savages read poetry to one another and comb their hair? That is perhaps, what most astounds me- the care they take in their appearance, bathing each day and washing their hands with soap!

The other day I caught a glimpse of a woman applying lime juice to her long hair. I think this practice is what gives the Irish their light hair. Look at me! I am about to have my throat slit by the bastards and I am fawning over their looks! Perhaps, I should instead write about where I am?

I will distract myself from my thoughts by continuing my account of this foreign land. Before I was brought here, I had heard things about the Irish. Tall, they were described as- and that is true. These people are tall and fair. On many occasions the mere sight of the men here has intimidated me- they

I am on the dirt floor of a small hut that smells of animals and filth. There is nothing restraining me, except the knowledge that there is a man standing guard outside. The walls are plastered with what I believe is a mixture of earth and manure. Above my head is a cone shaped thatched roof. In the

26 Laura Harrison

centre of the floor is a pit to light fires in. Lining the curved walls is a wooden bench, that appears so old and rotten I don’t trust myself to sit on it. I couldn’t imagine myself living in such a place, thankfully I am not an Irishman, so I don’t have to. Didn’t have to… I won’t sleep in my own bed ever again, will I? I wonder which of the Irish’s gods my death is destined to please? In Julius Caesar’s account of the Celts he wrote that the Irish he encountered worshiped Roman gods. I think it is more likely their gods are similar to our own. I hear them playing the horns again. Those tall ones the warriors play.

The sound of them chills me to my bones. Here they come now… Coming to bring me to my fate.

Brianna Williams 27

Fruit of Love (Inspired by TS Eliot) Marvell would marvel at our story: Quiet, loving, pure glory.

Each would lie beside the other, Thoughts consumed by their lover.

Among trees that have watched over eons, Nestled in sunlight, tickled by birdsongs, Beneath a sky truer than Plato’s blue: I would treat myself to watching you.

When the sun had donned its evening cap You would jump up with an eager clap And I, following, would start up a jaunty whistle, And beneath the astronomer’s nightly task In our shared universe we would bask: Beautiful, brave and blissful.

Come find me in these lonely streets, Walking slowly, muttering Keats, Watching lovers make their retreats.

For Time, that treacherous accordion, Passing off as music its twisted tune, Has dangled by my outstretched hand all this, And yet here I am, without you.

Hairspray and cloying perfume Rush to surround the room: 28 Emily Fleming-Berry

Skin of the apple around The worm within.

Hair a stiff, brown crown, Powder caught in the canyons of a frown, A pearl necklace suffocated By sagging skin.

Just another pay-by-the hour woman, Cold hands on a cold body.

A neck outstretched, a hand lingers, Velvet and cigarette smoke and my withered ambitions.

The echoes of grand cathedrals Are still simply whispers.

Come find me in these lonely streets, Walking slowly, muttering Keats, Watching lovers make their retreats.

Let’s leave them to their Picket fence affairs, Leave behind their words and Mocking stares: Gossip like the hushed prayers of church.

Spilled coffee and flat chlorine: Smells twisting beneath a dusty limousine.

Two seats behind a grimy dashboard, Old photo of a yacht moored At a distant river, Overshadowed by a diseased liver.

A nurse beside a bed Big enough for two.

Your form within the dancing rain, Tapping gently at my window pane, And I, Apollo’s smile dancing on my lips, Would pause a moment, smile wider, savour it: Your face against the glass, rough bricks pressed against your hips – And I, Apollo’s stolen smile, my hand upon the window clasp, Am just another remnant of the past.

The grand cathedrals and eager worshippers, Become a shrine and pilgrims for the dead.

These waves have tossed me, far and wide, Never quite breaching our divide.

My time is gone, this I know: I’ve heard them speak of Michelangelo. still have the opportunity.

Time by the tangle of your hair Centuries in the hollow of your collarbone Decades within your sleepy stare Millennia when you moan.

Eyes watch me from windows on high, Pinned by their gaze, down here I lie, I know Time’s river rushes by, Oh, gipsy man, I hear your cry!

Here is what I have meant: When home is only a name for the time spent; When the orange tree on my porch grows stunted and bent, Like a crumbling snake skin, I have felt The marble seas and soft light of chandeliers, 29

30 Mia Stains

Eliza Foot 31

Happy Place May 15, 1917 My love, The enemy creep closer and closer to us every day. Gigantic rats swarm the muddy hollows of our trenches and the stench of rotting flesh is overpowering.

You wouldn’t be able to recognise my dirty, malnourished body in its current state. The rations have been significantly reduced in the past few months so I’ve become accustomed to the constant hunger. Everyone thought this war would be over by now and so the Allies are trying to conserve as much as they can. None of those things compare to the constant drum of gun fire, day in and day out. Yesterday, our trenches experienced a horrific air raid. I have never been more afraid of anything in my entire life. As the shells flew down in a constant rain and my heart beat raced faster than the gun fire around me, one of my fellow comrades, Skip, turned to me and told me to

32 Lauren Thomas

“picture my happy place” as he ran off in search of the communication line. As I contemplated what exactly my happy place was, I saw one element that connected all the good times in my life.

My love, my happy place is you.

I can see snippets of my happiness.

The first moment I saw you, laughing with your friends in the school courtyard. The day I finally worked up the courage to ask you on a date. I can see myself reaching out to hold your hand as we strolled along the riverbank of the Murray on that cool summer night. Buying our first home together on the top of the hill where we exchanged our first kiss. The cold winter’s nights cozied up by our fireplace under mounds of blankets. The memory of nights you would read to me fill my heart with happiness as I hear your velvet voice, shaping the words on the page into thrilling adventures. The image of coming home from a tireless

day of work to your warm embrace fills my body with relief. My heart skips a beat as I recall the moment I asked you to be mine forever. And the moment you said yes.

Images of you appeared in fragments.

Your sapphire eyes dancing in the moonlight on our first date. Your cascading brown curls bouncing as we raced through the park. The creases in your eyes as you smiled lovingly at me during our proposal. Your soft lips as they searched to find mine in the darkness. And somehow, through those moments of reminiscing pure happiness, I felt peaceful and the raid finally came to an end. As I emerged from the cover of my mound, I saw Skip, sprawled dead, metres away. Skip had been my best mate since training camp in Townsville. He was going to go home next week.

I cannot sleep. Every time I close my eyes, the image of Skip’s lifeless

corpse flashes across my mind. I am increasingly conscious that I can never take any moment for granted in this place as it may be my last. Today made me realise that I need to leave no page unturned in my life, which is why I am writing you this letter. It is still dark so I crouch now beside my swag, over the faint light of a kerosene lamp, writing this to you from a million miles away.

My love, this is the hardest thing I’ve ever had to tell someone. My tears are streaking onto these grubby pages so please forgive me if the ink is blotched.

I want to be wherever you are now and tell you this whilst holding your hands and looking into your eyes. My love, your happiness means more to me than anything and I love you more than life itself. So if I die in this tremendous battle, do not grieve for me. Move on with your life. Let go of all things that connect me to you. Sell our home and sell my belongings. Travel the world.

See new places. Fall in love again. Start a family. You will be the most amazing mother; so kind and sweet and true. I

don’t want my passing to be the reason you never fulfil your dreams.

And although my heart may cease to beat, my love for you will never die.

Years from now, once you have begun your new journey, you can look for me in the sky, for every eagle that passes above you will be my love, soaring high.

I love you, more than you will ever know.

Yours forever, Peter

33

Hammered by Mjotion Resting, in deathly silence, remains the hammer left by my father moments before his death. I haven’t had the heart to move it, move on, move forward.

Late Sunday afternoon. I positioned myself perfectly in front of the horizon, golden strokes of sunlight caressed me gently. I lay in the lap of safety, and haven’t returned since.

Day faded to night, and I commenced the hasty journey down from the roof. As I slid down the roof’s slope, I stumbled, and frantically reached for the gutter to prevent my fall. As I did, the gutter gave way, and I watched it take my place in the lengthy fall to the concrete below. Troubled, I swung myself down to the verandah, and joined my family at the dinner table without a word.

Two weeks later, several episodes of heavy rain drew my family’s attention to the inoperative gutter. Of course, 34 Amelia Quirk

Ruby Dean

when I stayed silent, nobody owned up to having any knowledge regarding the poor state of Dad’s new, expensive gutters. With that, my father went straight to the shed, returning with his ladder and repair kit. Relieved I had avoided a confession, I escaped to my bedroom where I collapsed on my bed for a midday nap. It was only several minutes later that I was awoken by an ear-shattering crash that shook every inch of my body. Silence.

No words will put justice to the horrendous reality those events unravelled that day. That sickening crash was the sound of every bone in my father’s body shattering into thousands of splintering pieces. He was pronounced dead only minutes after arriving at hospital.

It’s guilt that has powered my every move since my father’s departure. Or, more so, my desire to avoid it. I stay busy, constantly, my mind must tick before reality finds a way to surface.

Every time I look down I see my father’s blood on my hands. I cannot let go.

The past repeats itself.

Late Sunday afternoon. I position myself as best I can before the horizon, sharp golden beams of sunlight make it impossible to see clearly. As sun is replaced with the heavy night sky, I shuffle close to the edge of the roof, and park myself behind the broken gutter. In front of me lies Dad’s hammer. I look to my left, where the pool sits, silently, free of movement. My hand, as if beyond my control, reaches for the hammer. I inch towards the left side of the roof. Stillness grips me by the throat. My face is reflected on the surface of the water. I look into my own eyes, however, they don’t belong to me. They belong to my father. As I stare at my reflection I can no longer see myself. I cannot look, but neither can I turn away. I am held by the water.

My hands are shaking, I can’t let go.

But I do. I release the hammer from my grasp, dropping it into the pool. As it hits the water, ripples pulsate through my reflection, erasing it entirely. I lean further over the edge, as gravity beckons me into the water’s arms.

Under the water I can’t hear. I can only see figures that are unclear and beautiful in their vagueness. Only the flat water has the ability to reflect my features, the stillness, the loneliness leaves nothing but the sheer truth.

So, I keep myself busy, until my clock ceases to tick. Only then do I not have the choice to ignore the silence, only then am I trapped with only myself.

35

I See I see many things hidden in the folds of the monk’s orange robe.

I see silence, I see reverence, I see faith, I see peace.

I see serenity and I see purity amongst darkness and filth.

I see the sun burning brightly as it sets on the African savannah, refusing to be forgotten as it paints the sky and earth red.

I see a warrior of peace standing in the desert, ferocious winds catching his cape and billowing it out behind him.

I see orange dunes of sand growing and vanishing with every gust of wind, shaping Mother Earth’s ever-changing face.

I see a tiger, soundless and soft-footed, creeping stealthily through the jungle, yellow eyes stalking its prey through thick green foliage.

I see the arid Arizona landscape, harsh and unforgiving to those who tread her, chains dragging in the dust as men in jumpsuits walk beneath the blazing sun.

I see fire, hot and angry, painting the world black, burning the tree from which Eve ate the apple.

I see many things hidden in the folds of the monk’s orange robe.

36 Natasha Fecondo

Nikola Sofatzis 37

38 Anna Mihalyka

Irish Beauty

No one at all.

Irish beauty, Wash and comb your hair Use a lime to make it fair Irish beauty, Using ruam stain your cheeks For this is what your complexion seeks Irish beauty, Dye your brows with berry This trick will make you merry Irish beauty, Trim and stain your nails Wild blackberry never fails

School bell rings As they go to class I sit in the corner Watching time pass It is deadly but silent It's a killer that's violent How will I live When all is dark I feel so alone There is no spark There is no one out there I'm left here dying Alone with my thoughts Unstoppably crying I hear a scream Crying for help But they hear a whisper Only a yelp What is deadly What is a killer You may be wondering Well it's quite a thriller When you’re left all alone With no one to hold

Laura Harrison

Beth Kelly

You are a lost cause You feel so cold You never spoke out They don't know As you sit there dying You have to put on a show It scares me to tell you If I'm saying the truth It's a scary thing When you’re still in your youth There is blood on my arm The pain is unreal I don't think I can do it It is quite an ordeal I am all alone In this empty world No one to call No one at all

39

40 Petria Nagel

Music and Misto: Healing the World in Harmony When adversity strikes, the power of music to heal and strengthen is indomitable.

Have you ever wondered why so many break-up songs exist or how music is almost always used in meditation and relaxing activities? Interestingly, I have.

Hear me out.

Every day, we face a variety of challenges which change and impact our lives and occasionally we are forced to confront the “most lacerating of circumstances”. (Harms, 1996) To cope with hardships, many people have turned to music therapy to reflect, strengthen and regain control of their lives. Artists like Taylor Swift often write about the heart-breaking nadir of their youth as it allows them to gradually recover from trauma and connect with audiences who face similar situations, creating a sense of unity and empowerment. Music also revitalises those who participate in meditation,

helping them to focus on peace and avoid negative influences.

John Misto, playwright of The Shoe-Horn Sonata, highlights the way two prisoners of war overcome hardship through music, and shows this through the themes of friendship, survival and loss of innocence.

bring the characters together, and strengthen a struggling yet persevering friendship between Bridie and Sheila.

This is the same case for people who recuperate through music therapy as it helps them reconnect with the most important things in life - loved ones and happiness.

The Shoe-Horn Sonata analyses the strength of friendship between the main characters by exploring their shared experiences of music. Even when they first meet, the characters strike an intense connection through music and this is evident when the women in the camp form a choir made up of their voices and a shoe-horn, performing songs to alleviate and briefly transcend the horrors of the camp experience. Bridie in an interview reminisces that “though we were starving we were all in tune. And while we sang, there wasn’t a war. There was only peace on earth.” (Misto, 1996, pp 53) The music and the shoe-horn

Charles Browne, a Vietnam war veteran, who like many others, suffers from post-traumatic stress disorder and this has devastatingly affected his life (Swanson, 2010). He often has nightmares, can’t work because of intense anxiety and feels as though his life is a continuous war. Through music therapy, Browne has been able to gradually relax and recover from various anxieties and psychological pains. I believe that music can be an escape from any bad or stressful day, while providing a fresh healing journey. Perhaps the reason why music therapy is so successful is because the soothing notes of music shepherd Ashley Tang 41

people away from stress and allow them to recover before confronting the harmful situation again. Like other therapies, research and clinical practice are utilised in music therapy (Music Therapy Association of British Columbia, 2018) to ensure patients have the most effective recuperation with music that directly targets the main problems.

A person’s mood can be changed and heightened by musical tempo, tone and rhythm and therefore music therapy with appropriate choice of music such as enlightening yet reflective music for traumatised individuals, can be effective in overcoming adversity.

Scientists have proven that music affects both sides of the brain, enhancing emotional stability and increasing logical flexibility (Clark, 2011). Throughout The Shoe Horn Sonata, determination to survive the brutality of captivity and starvation is presented with a significant recurring motif related to music. This motif is the shoe-horn which represents the women’s strong will to survive, and is 42

used in the choir as a metronome to help them sing fluently and emotionally, constantly helping them rise above hardship and horrors. Bridie recalls when a missionary found interest in her shoe-horn, and how she replied, “’But we don’t have shoes,’ I told her. ‘No, my dear. But now we have a metronome.’”

(Misto, 1996, pp 46) When a seemingly ordinary item like a shoe-horn is associated with music, it can save and nourish many lives by giving hope to those enduring difficult situations.

Loss of innocence is explored in The Shoe-Horn Sonata through the juxtaposition of the stirring English song “Jerusalem” with the devastating situation presented when the English ships are sinking and helpless nurses and women are being captured. The scene and causes us to empathise with the innocent women, children and nurses who show immense desperation through their singing, while being exposed to such trauma. “As the chorus is sung, the Japanese flag fades and we see photographs of the Japanese invasion of Singapore…when the British

Empire teetered and fell…” (Misto, 1996, pp 36) This scene shows the reality of the war. Although the song “Jerusalem” describes a victorious England in battle, many innocent British people in war suffer and are oppressed.

At the beginning, the women believe that the British will win the war and that they’ll be safe, and so singing this song helps the characters alleviate the shock of reality, and allows their loss of innocence to transition more gradually.

Music therapy, as outlined by the Georgian government has many benefits (Georgia Government, 2017), specifically for people who have experienced loss of innocence and high-level trauma like the characters in The Shoe-Horn Sonata. These include provoking a sense of familiarity as many people already listen to music regularly and therefore is a familiar relaxation medium for various individuals (Georgia Government, 2017). By having something that is familiar and understandable, those who face trauma are able to recover more effectively and

eventually be able to acknowledge the situation which caused their anxiety.

Research shows that music therapy is more successful than traditional therapies as it’s readily conductible and doesn’t require complicated equipment.

Music therapists only need to prepare a clinical plan, music and time. It’s about listening and unwinding at one’s own pace, which has caused more participants to be willing to join in.

Everyone experiences adversity and life-changing obstacles such as a death in the family or community, and the power of music to heal and nourish enables people to overcome these difficulties. Misto has incorporated a medley of impactful ways that music enables the characters in The Shoe-Horn Sonata to overcome lacerating challenges through the themes of the strength of friendship, determination to survive and the loss of innocence. People from a variety of backgrounds and professions including trauma patients, scientists and government officials, have acknowledged the benefits of music therapy.

Amy Gasnier 43

One Shot My mind aches with thoughts of home. But I dare not stop. My body aches from the constant impact of the unstable ground. But on I trudge, both fearful and eager for what awaits. In these moments, I pay close attention to the small scar on my left wrist due to the watch that never sits quite right on me and ask myself, “Would he be proud?” But I do not wait long enough for an answer, anxious to know the truth. “Jones!” a rough voice barks from the radio on my chest, “Change of direction: Run east 150 metres! No time for explanations! Just run!” My mind begins to race. As I prepare for my departure from the platoon, a palm slaps my shoulder, not harsh but rather as a sign of friendship. “This is it,” says Harrison, “You only get one shot.” I want to demonstrate my gratitude but the only thing that escapes my mouth are harsh puffs of air. I run. With each step comes another urgent thought.

Thud. Is this how he felt? Thud. Is 44 Bronwyn Kneeshaw

Piper Davies

my fate to be the same? Thud. Am I a failure too? Thud. Thud. Thud.

The tension stops me in my tracks and combined with my anxiety, I feel as though I may crumple into the sand. I breathe in the scene before me: men armed with the power of death. The power they possess in their hands is incomprehensible to me, but I know, as Harrison said, that this is my one shot.

I take my position beside them and mimic their strong stance. My hands quiver with the weight of responsibility, so foreign to me. I know I am lying to myself; this is not who I am, I am not my brother, but this is who my father wants me to be and who am I to object?

Silence.

The calm before the storm. The bullets begin to rain down and screams ring in my ears. I tremble. “Jones!

Shoot it for God’s sake!” I nod in acknowledgement, but my body is frozen by the cold look in their eyes.

We pause, staring down the barrel of the other’s rifle, staring into the eye of death. This is my fate, just like his.

BANG! A wave of shock overcomes me, both from impact of the bullet and from my actions. The pain burns my chest and begins to spread like wildfire throughout the rest of my body. My veins pulse with blood red pain as I become the target for more bullets.

I once again notice the sharp pain from the watch he gave me. This is his fault! The soldier beside me stares at my body with sorrow and as I look around, I am overwhelmed by pain and emotion. Overwhelmed by colours.

Colours? Confusion overwhelms me, and I am distracted by my new abnormality. “Jones!” Chief yells, “Get up and keep shooting! You’re fine!”

The boom of his voice is deafening, and I scream in the hope of drowning out the colours, but the rawness of my throat forces me to give in. Doesn’t he understand that I’ve been shot? I am overcome by curiosity and look down at my bullet wound. I shake, and my breath becomes uneven until I am hyperventilating. I have not been shot myself, but I myself have shot. I recoil in self-disgust as the realisation hits

me, harder than a bullet ever could.

I killed him.

I am buried beneath the colours and I shut my eyes in an effort to escape.

Slowly the world begins to fade until all I can hear are the rain and thunder. *

*

*

The memories are intruders with their bright flashlights, unwelcome and persistent. No matter how hard I try to fight them off, I fail. “You’re weak,” My father constantly reminds me, and I see the disappointed shade of blue in his eyes. Only sometimes though, and then I am okay again. The nightmares are consuming but I have learnt to cope.

There is irony is my experience; the colours are pretty, but the memories are not. The watch I wear on my wrist reminds me and sometimes the scar is coloured, and other times it is not. I am, once again, lacking power over my life; I am held captive by the colours.

45

Oranges The warm hue of the oranges smiled sweetly in the sun. The orange farms of Griffith, NSW were always a wonder to us. After driving from the city to the Riverina, they were always the first sight that greeted us after the empty vastness of the country roads. The fruit pickers worked quickly on their ladders to get their hessian bags full of the sweet fruit. They brought a sense of comfort and homeliness compared with the glass and metal of the city buildings. The trip to visit our family was long, but the view of the oranges was always what we looked forward to.

The wind flowed through the fruit trees as if it were a child running, its hand through the leaves. They stood in the straight, ordered lines. Row after row after row. Each tree held such strength and stillness in its grand immensity. The rich soil was dotted with a few small oranges that had fallen during the past

46 Elena Catanzariti

few weeks. We had heard accounts over the phone of the weather that some farmers had to endure during the season and the destruction that it had caused for so many families. Storms had torn the pigmented fruits to shreds.

Heidi Byrne 47

Silence There are three kinds of silence.

Number one, the awkward, fidgety silence that comes with a half-finished conversation left to linger in the atmosphere, when both parties involved feel the need to say something, but neither knows exactly what to say in order to fill the void. Two, the silence that comes with knowing someone inside out, such that you don’t even have to say anything to know what they’re thinking, a warm, comfortable silence leftover from years of talking and listening. And three, the allencompassing, all-consuming silence that only surfaces when nothing else can. The kind that settles in your chest, rising and falling with each breath, growing little by little, until suddenly it’s choking you. This is a story about silence. I’ll let you decide which kind.

Seventeen years old. 5:07 PM, in the middle of summer. I was sitting in front of my vanity mirror, braiding my hair and squinting at my pock-marked, freckled face around the spidery crack that 48 Lara Maloney

had slid its way down the glass nearly twelve years ago. A floaty summer dress fell across my shoulders, a bit too big, but the best I had. Having stomped down the veranda steps, I slid into the beaten up, rusty car. Driving at a snail’s pace because it was raining, and I was perhaps an overly cautious teenager. Pulling up to the pizza place on the corner of Pine and Emerson. I sat across from a boy, one year younger than me, picking at a scab on my knee and tapping the chair leg, waiting for something to happen. Of course, nothing did. Both of us were looking around, staring anywhere but at each other, and outside the sun set slowly.

Our orders came, we made awkward conversation, and there were questions that both of us wanted to ask, but didn’t. I drove home, soaking in the afterglow and the smell of rain.

Age thirty-three. Curled into the side of that same boy from sixteen years ago, him reading, me sketching, and neither of us speaking. The darkness outside

was kept at bay with candles and low lighting, the regular sterile light fixtures replaced by slowly melting golden flames. Everything felt toasty warm, the soft kind of heat that fills empty spaces with a buzz, even though there was no actual noise. The smell of home filled my nose, more apparent than it had ever been before, and more apparent than it would ever be again. I had the urge to grin, but only after, when this scene became a past yet vivid memory in my brain.

Seventy-eight. A fluttery pulse under my fingers, wavering. The soft beep of hospital machinery moved in time with my breathing, cool and uniform. The hot sting of tears on my cheeks, knowing even before the rhythmic thump of his heartbeat petered out, that this person with this pulse that I had inexplicably grown to know, would not be here for much longer. Quiet. The routine hospital noises replaced with a ringing so loud, yet so distant. A swelling of dark in my chest, threatening to spill out of me

from everywhere at once. I felt so far away, the tears from only moments ago a distant memory, cold and sticky on my skin. I had experienced this feeling in fleeting moments, in places of pause where it seemed difficult to press play again. But then, the dam had burst, and I was left with it pooling in every crack and crevice, slowing my thoughts and numbing my nerves.

There is never silence anymore.

Everything is always noise, the TV on full volume along with the stereo and the sound of other people’s chatter, because when there’s nothing there, my ears turn themselves inside out, and the darkness in my chest wells up.

My hair is now grey, my cheeks sagging with the weight of wrinkles and creases that stretch across my face. Concerned expressions float in and out of my field of vision constantly, and I resist the urge to bat them away, instead letting them please themselves, retreating into my head as soon as they’re gone. The memories are faded, and I feel around again and again for something solid to hold onto, but all that’s left are a few sepia-filtered snapshots of someone else’s life. I fear the silence now.

Lauren Miles 49

50 Charlotte Burnette

Amber Dawson

The Ghost When I was a girl, I loved Halloween.

I loved trick-or-treating in the evening breeze.

I’d shriek with delight at each passing ghoul And hear scary stories of creatures wicked and cruel.

I stood and stared at the ghost before me Because of ghosts like him, I’d heard stories.

I knew those white robes with the crest on the heart I knew what they did to those whose skin was dark.

I only owned one costume when I was growing up Papa worked hard but money was never enough.

So Mama took a white sheet and cut it down to size It covered my whole body and had holes for the eyes.

Blue irises glared at me through narrow eyeholes And in an instant, gravel was kicking up from under my soles.

I ran and I ran as fast as my legs would let me To Mama, to Papa, to home, to safety.

I wore that sheet with pride at the age of ten.

At that stage, I didn’t know what irony meant.

There’s something nostalgic and bittersweet about it now About a little black girl wearing white upon her brow.

That night haunts me still when my head hits the pillow My mind filled with bodies hanging from the weeping willows.

I never again wore that little white sheet, for Halloween had lost its charm.

And today the only ghosts I fear wear a red band on their arm.

Time carried on and the seasons changed and Halloween returned to Mississippi state.

So, I donned my white sheet and stepped out the door Even though at age twelve I found trick-or-treating a bore.

As I wandered at dusk through those quiet streets Accompanied by nothing but my steady heartbeat, I spotted a man clad in a pointed, white hood, His hand clutching a piece of burning firewood.

Natasha Fecondo 51

The Passengers The city that never sleeps is truly an understatement; frantic passengers eagerly await their destinations upon tired trains. Each passenger is possessed by anxiety, fearful that the train will abandon them in this colourless void. They are oblivious to the repetition of the subway system as they stare fixated at the clock, governed by its principles.

The constant fear of missing out is ever present in the air I breathe, and I laugh at the irony. Uncovering the mystery of existence is simply not enough to fulfil the curiosity of the human mind. It is only when one appreciates the wonder of these mysteries that they become fulfilled. I often find myself pondering upon life‌I’ve concluded that people let their lives consume them, rather than them living their life. They are far too caught up in their own obsession, they become oblivious to this simple truth. They are oblivious to the coloured realms they enter so rapidly, unable to savour their beauty, and once again, I am alone in my realisation.

52 Piper Davies

A man with a briefcase races to catch the next train to 1958 and it astounds me the ignorance of his actions.

All these passengers governed by the numbers on their wrist, all too consumed by their significance that they are oblivious to the majestic element of their travel; in and out of realms filled with colour and darkness.

The dark and uninviting route of 1941 is filled with shrieks as passengers exit with ghostly white faces, stumbling upon the platform, barely composed.

I walk towards a lilac 1992, climb the stairs, and enter the futuristic world of 2030; bright yellow taxis and greyscale buildings tinted by a forest shade of green. This concrete jungle. Tuesday stands to my left, and as I approach, I am awed by its warm, inviting tones of orange. Blinding rays of heat radiate from my skin, and I feel as though I have returned to stardust. In this moment, the universe has become sapien-centric, and I have entered the minds of all the passengers.

Not all who wander are lost, and I know for certain that I am not lost; not lost within my own mind, not lost amongst the colours, not lost in the sea of passengers. I rock amongst the waves of passengers as I approach Wednesday, with its inviting cool tones. This day feels as though I am surrounded by the ocean, but I am not drowning. No, I am being carried in this realm of relaxation, being carried by the colours. *

*

*

Dear reader, despite the constant judgement from all the passengers that time travel is simply a fantasy of the human mind, I assure you that what I have just described is my truth.

The year is 2018 and although time travel does not exist, this is my reality; surrounded by time as if I am Hugo Cabret. If only, even for one second (to my left, if anyone was wondering), these mindless passengers took a break from their greyscale lives, they would see the world through a whole new dimension where the impossible becomes possible and the scars of time seep with colours.

Ella Hickey 53

54 Charisse Timermanis

The Phoenix

三人成虎 Tiger

A shimmering blanket of indigo, Pierced by a burst of gold.

A shooting star, its fiery glow, What wonders does it behold?

This tiger, it follows me, stalking night and day It brought a black dog who will not go away It feels like people are staring at me, a thousand piercing eyes, I cannot see them but can hear them whisper, up inside my mind I’m trying to fight this battle but the voices won’t be silent They yell and scream as if they think they are loud, blaring sirens I wish it were the Greek sirens, with their sweet song before the storm Than this piercing noise that crowds my head with loud screeches as it swarms The black dog chained me to this bed and the tiger taunts me as it pleases, The voices say that summer is approaching which means it's starving season, I feel like I’m drowning up inside of my own damn head It seems as if the only way it will stop is if I wind up dead All I ever wanted to be was me Now I just want to be free.

“The phoenix” the wind tells me A melodious cry rings out.

Intrigued, I cannot flee, But then its call becomes a shout.

Sparks fly across the calm sky, The danger is growing.

One flies down, cuts my eye, Its beauty a ruse, a traitor.

Trapped in this creature’s land.

Terrified, I must leave.

I reach out with my trembling hand, But escape is not an option, I was so naive.

But within this mighty bird There is something human.

Its tears fall, my vision is blurred The phoenix gone and with it, my pain.

Olivia Kirkcaldie

Portia Greenwood

55

The Secret Life of Bunk Beds Agghhhhhhh! New people. I hate new stupid campers. With their happy-golucky attitudes and their sheets that are too small to fit over the mattresses.

They rock me around and slam their feet onto my ladder. Like, come on have some respect, and they are so rude.

Always complaining about how I’m not comfortable and how I’m old and creaky. You know I have feelings too.

I get it, okay. Room 4 has the nice, new, comfortable beds and I’m just the old gross bed in Room 11. But I can’t help getting stuck with the bad mattresses and the lumpy pillows. It’s not my fault. You know when you people jump around on me it really hurts. Would you like a 60 kilo 18-year-old boy jumping around on you? it’s painful. I mean the younger kids are better. They go to sleep earlier and are less annoying. We get it, your boyfriend dumped you and you’re 18 and there’s no life ahead of you, just shut up and go to sleep. But, older kids are more interesting. There’s 56 Lily Watts

more talk about gossip and more mature stuff and less about My Little Pony and who your favourite Power Ranger is. Life gets boring as a bunk bed. I’m forever stuck in Room 11 with the rest of my grouchy friends.

Until the day I’m taken to the tip. That will be the day my life changes or ends.

I may find a real home. That is ever bunk bed’s dream. To have a home and be owned by only one or two young people. They would love me and not treat me badly for a couple of days and then leave. But if I’m taken to the tip, I could be crushed or deserted. Life isn’t great as a bunk bed.

Georgia Ugov 57

The Secret Life of the Challenge Wall Another day, another group, I think to myself. I’m exhausted and I never seem able to catch a break. Of course, nobody thinks about me. All they see is green wood. No one shows me any compassion. I’m hit on a daily basis, I have people latching on to me and dirty shoes scratching my face. Sometimes I just wish my last few remaining cells would die.

I see the herd of excited children looming in the distance, and I brace myself for the inevitable pain. I listen to the instructor explain the challenge, and then the children talk about possible strategies to climb up and over me. I feel a hand hit me hard and know the climbing is about to start. I hear two others yell ‘Go! ’I feel the pressure and the agony of a person trying to climb up my face without any arms to help from above, I hear people egging her on, no one ever eggs me on, I think.

To distract myself from the pain, I think of Rain, my best friend. She 58 Annica Barber

understands things the others don’t, and she talks to me whenever she comes. She helps calm the pain too, when she is cold. The only time I enjoy and feel happy to have my life is when I’m with Rain. She shoos the people away too.

The girl has finally finished climbing, and I wait patiently for the next person to start, she does. The pain is worse than before. I writhe in agony the pain too strong to resist, nobody stops though. I am here in constant, excruciating pain, yet no one does anything. Of course they don’t, they don’t know I can feel, see, hear, and think. They don’t know I live in agony.

They don’t know the physical and emotional pain they cause me, how can they? I’m. Nothing. But. A pile. Of. Stupid. Green. Wood. Pent up anger and rage bubble and boil inside me. I hear Rain start quickly, the children running for cover. Rain desperately tries to calm me down, I continue to writhe and

scream and kick. No one can stop me, it’s time for me to get revenge! But I’m wrong because everything goes black.

I wake, confused and scared. Pieces of my memory slowly come back to me, everything is fresh and calm.

Rain patters down slowly, I feel her on my face and back. I ask her what happened and she calmly explains that the pressure and pain got to me, so she had to strike me with lightning before I exposed our secret. I apologise profusely, because that is in no way the sort of thing I would usually do. Rain does too, we continue to chat about life, its pros and cons, the pretty things and the ugly things, the love and depression that occur around our world. I sit there, Rain by my side, and for the first time in my life I am happy and content as I am. I know my cells are slowly fading, and I know I am too but while I am still here will be happy to live as I do, and I will die a peaceful death, with Rain by my side.

Jessica McLoed 59

60 Sarah Goodwin

The Wrong Key to the Wrong Box in the Wrong House this house does not feel like home it hasn’t for 16 years all the furniture my parents have given me never makes it sweeter I think I was given the wrong key to the wrong address the inner workings of this house make me want to vomit or starve - I can’t renovate for another two years

Portia Greenwood 61

This is My Advice to You Dear Friend, I have been here before.

Remember that light is at the heart of every darkness, That those who seek to harm you are often betrayed by greed, Show compassion on your journey, always, Help can be unexpected, and you are braver than you think.

As the darkness settles in and the mist surrounds you, Remember who you are and stay true to the path you are on.

You may be tempted to take a more pleasant route, But it is an illusion and you will never find what you seek.

Find the gnarled tree with no leaves but one bright red apple, Pick the apple but do not eat it, though you hunger, Save it for the one who has nothing.

Do not be tempted by the warmth of the roadside fire you will find next, It is but a trick to lure you into the icy cold of indecision.

Be kind.

You may be fearful, but kindness will always help you find what you need.

62 Kayla Walker

When at last you reach the castle, Though it may appear dark, isolated and lonely, Do not give up on your quest to find the door.

Determination will heed you well.

Find the three keys hidden amongst the thorny brambles, Their thorns are only a faรงade, they will not harm you.

Find the keeper and give the keys to him, Here your humility will help you through, For the keeper is insecure and often misunderstood.

When the keeper has the three keys he will show you to the door, It is hidden where no human could ever find it.

As the door opens shield your eyes but do not close them; It is a sight to see.

Beyond the entrance I will be there.

Take my hand and together our strength will guide us home.

Emily Boyd 63

64 Shania Morgan

Tomato Day The empty glass bottles reflected the sunlight as we walked into Nonno's backyard. We were greeted with warm hugs and gentle smiles upon our arrival from the rest of our family who had already arrived. Today was Tomato Day. Nonno's old vinyl was playing The Best of Dean Martin album upon Nanna's request of course.

We put on our aprons and moved to our usual jobs located around the yard like ants in a colony. Our destination was the mountain of tomatoes accompanied by chairs and short knives awaiting our use. The synchronized dicing began across the table. Three strokes down and another three across became the silent mantra that was on a constant loop for the first few hours of the day.

Conversation this early in the morning was minimal until Zia Rosa brought out the cafetiere that held our strength for the long day ahead of us. After a few sips of coffee, the whole backyard became a stage for an orchestra

of conversations. Nonna started to reminisce about her time in Italy and how she met her sweetheart. "Your Nonno was a cheeky man you know,� she said with a laugh. Her thick, Italian accent still present after all these years.

She continued to talk of the sun dresses she joyfully made for her honeymoon and promised that when we were done she would show them to us. We all wondered what those first moments were like when Nonna and Nonno met.

Did they realise how many lives would be fruits of their marriage? Did they realise the legacy and unique identity that would be passed unto us? Their stories they told of their days in Italy always captured our hearts. But why did they leave Italy? Australia seemed so vast and empty compared to the culture and beauty of their homeland.

They always told us that Australia was their new chance at life. Chance?

What could they mean by chance? The opportunities or the luck?

In the midst of the constant work and routine, every now and then we looked up and admired the happy family around us. As luck would have it, we ended up here in this backyard.

How lucky we were to be able to share our culture and feel part of such a beautiful country. Maybe that's what my grandparents meant.

Elena Catanzariti 65

Waltz to the Under Eyes open, fading light She lay there, a husk, a sight of sorrow and warning, as she knew the melody of doom.

The slow, rhythmic pace of breath, ever slackening her grip.

A bed cradles her tight and true, hoping to embrace her into life.

Yet her feet have stopped dancing, and set anchors at her ending age.

Flecks or ambers, scarlets, greys and greens, The seasons had passed her by.

Never stopping no matter how she begged, Always looking onward to a new day, Leaving hers to fade away.

She watched them twirl, leap and skip, Pushing her further towards the ground.

And as they disappeared from sight, She waited for the night as He stalked in the distance.

Now run! RUN! There is no time to waste!

Like the coming of the tide He makes his way closer.

Ever looming in the corner of the eye, The road of those past beckons you forward now, Woman.

Hand in hand, bound by the voice of the violin, the waltz to the under begins.

66 Hannah Campbell

Rachel Salmond

Then…

Silence. She floats in a sea of silence, Drowning gently whilst still meeting the air.

A gnarled claw returns to flesh of milk and honey, And footprints of crows wash away with the tide.

She watches an eternity of darkness and dust, As it swallows her down deeper and deeper.

Until she arrives at a beacon of white, Inviting her like the young men in suits.

So, the girl goes forward to the orchestra, Learning to dance to a tune never once heard.

Eyes closed, light is born Flatline Beep…beep…beep…

Some would find it unjust, How something so fragile was made to break.

Orbs of shining naivety, absorbing a new world, Would wither to dust in a heartbeat.

A fresh river of blood flowing furiously, Would dry into a barren wasteland.

As the cord connecting it to life, Was torn away from the mother, It started the cursed clock to the other place.

Ticking away at the cursed beeps.

Some would find it unjust, The tears that would blossom,

As the dirt was dug out and in, out and in.

A room doomed to be still and silent, Would forever wait, With melancholy rabbits leaping on the wall.

How a plethora of eager, impending memories, Of morning, day and night Would be consumed by a fire of mourning, With nothing but harsh ash left to take its place.

Some would find it unjust, That it would never meet the sun, As it painted the sky and grass, And forgot the ones trapped beneath.

How two would be left to bear the burden, To receive the offerings of thought and prayer, When neither could ever fill the place, Of holding it close on a rocking chair.

Yes, some would find it unjust, How I would arrive uninvited, With gifts unwanted, And songs unsung.

They would blame me for taking her away, And curse my name till their dying days.

Yet she would not weep like the willow, As I guided her little hand to the door.

Instead I would watch her run to a new day.

While the beeping of old finally gave in.

67

68 Laura Kelly

St Clare’s College ABN: 34 447 289 629

02 6260 9400 | stcc.act.edu.au 1 McMillan Crescent Griffith ACT 2603