Stylus magazine 2015

St Margaret’s

CHLOE BLOOMFIELD (YEAR 8)

FORWARD FROM THE EDITORS D

ear Readers,

Chances are quite high that you have read at least one classic novel in your life. For some, recently curling up on the couch to read Pride and Prejudice was a Friday night pleasure. For others, the very act of reaching for the musty yellowing pages of Jane Eyre, reminiscing about your high school years, is a phobia. There are mixed emotions about the classics, but there is one commonality. No doubt exists about the impact they have had on your very conscience and your way of life.

To Kill a Mockingbird was that book for us. The beloved story about the mindless accusation of a black man and his wise defender Atticus Finch. Along with Scout and Jem, Atticus tucked us in at night and reassured us that although “there’s a lot of ugly things in this world” we can try our best to make things right. Despite being written in 1960 when racism was more prevalent, the words of Atticus still resonate with people of all backgrounds. Sometimes you just have to go against what everyone else says, to do the right thing.

Scout is another profound character that influences the portrayal of youth. She does not know everything that Atticus knows, but she flourishes throughout the novel and her thought process is truly capturing. One thing that particularly stood out was when Scout explained “Until I feared I would lose it, I never loved to read. One does not love breathing.” Commenting on arguments and ideas that remain relevant today, To Kill a Mockingbird has become a favourite of ours.

The pieces we have collected from the students this year are also our favourites. Within the coming pages you will discover unique works written by the talented students of St Margaret’s Anglican Girls School. Work presented in the Stylus is of an excellent and creative standard; every piece is sure to provoke some inspiring thought.

We are so honoured to have been the Editors in Chief for the Stylus magazine for 2015. We are thrilled with the standard of work this year and have seen brilliant submissions.

We hope you enjoy our publication of creative excellence!

Kindly brought to you by the students of St Margaret’s, the English Department, the Marketing Department and your editors, Alexandria and Maggie.

Alexandria Harris and Maggie Wu Editors in Chief

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BRIDGET WALSH (YEAR 11) 3

BLEEDING FOR TOMORROW Olivia Lambert (Year 11) Millie’s pace quickened as she passed the queue of people at the transfusion centre and turned toward the dark, opaque expanse of wall known as ‘the Divide’. It made her shiver not knowing what was on the other side and no one was willing to tell her. As often as she’d ask the obvious, her parents would only answer in terms they thought a fourteen year old would understand.

“The Scarlet is produced beyond the wall and that’s all you need to know.”

It seemed peculiar to Millie that ‘the Scarlet’, as they called the transfusion given each birthday, was never spoken about openly. Secrets, she decided, were not usually good, and the foreboding barrier, topped with vicious razor wire that cast jagged patterns across the ground, kept a secret that made her more curious, not less, and strangely afraid.

That day at school Millie had accepted a dare from her friend Pippa to walk home along the far border of the Divide. She now fiercely regretted showing off. Creeping through the eerily dense and shadowy bushland like a zookeeper approaches a crocodile at feeding time, she was startled to hear a tapping noise and see a shimmery light ahead. Tentatively, she approached, and realised a small section of the diamond-hard glass wall was damaged, creating a small window through which she could see a boy, peering through the glinting shards back at her.

Millie gasped. She felt his large, dark eyes were boring into her soul when she blurted out, “What are, I mean, who are you?”

“I’m Hamish. I’m a donor of course. I live over there,” and he gestured to what looked like a long line of hangars or sheds in the distance behind him.

“I’m Millie. What’s a donor?” she asked falteringly, trying not to sound stupid.

“You don’t know?” he responded with surprise. He looked at her quizzically for a moment, before saying, “You know about the last war between the Borealis and Australis don’t you?”

Feeling awkward, she said, “No, and I’ve never heard of the Borealis, but I know I’m an Australis.”

He had a kind expression, the way she imagined a big brother might look at her instead of teasing, as Pippa would do when she didn’t know something.

“There was a war, Australis won, and the Borealis now have to live over here,” he said bluntly.

“Oh, I didn’t know. The government bans history because it’s not useful anymore, but my parents keep some old things hidden, because they still think it is important.” Then curious, she added, “So, what’s a Donor then if you are a Borealis too?”

“Never mind”, said Hamish, only this time his voice was softer.

Millie wasn’t anxious anymore and it even seemed exciting that she could make a new friend where she least expected to find one.

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“I can’t wait to tell my friend Pippa about you. She thinks it’s all just farms that are protected over there because food is so precious.”

“It is a kind of farm, but you can’t tell anyone Millie. Promise me you won’t,” his voice cracking in a way that shocked Millie.

“Ok,” she said quietly. “I don’t want to get us in to trouble.”

“You will if you say anything,” Hamish said urgently. “The government, the old War Council, controls everything on both sides, even if you don’t know it. They built this to keep us apart and stop another civil war. If I can escape I can help others escape. There’s something else too…” but Hamish didn’t finish his sentence.

Exactly four months had gone by since the game of Truth and Dare, and the trees still concealed the window and their deepening friendship. Millie helped from her side with an old hammer from her dad’s collection. Yesterday a long crack splintered the surface and they felt that Hamish’s escape was close.

“Hamish, I’m here!” she called, waiting for a response.

He answered weakly, “Millie, I can’t see you again. My number has been drawn from the ballot.

The collectors started draining my blood yesterday. It’s no use.”

“I don’t understand. What’s wrong Hamish?” she said with rising fear in her voice. “Why goodbye? I’m frightened. Who’s taking your blood? What do you mean by a few days left?”

“Remember I said I was a donor? During the last war between the northern and southern hemispheres in 2149, chemical weapons changed our blood. It defies nature now and extends life, but once taken it doesn’t replenish itself in the body, so we die when it’s taken. Borealis women are forced to have children, as many as possible, and nearly all boys’ names go into a ballot. I’m lucky to have made it to fifteen,” he said quietly, his expression a mixture of resignation and despair.

Her thoughts were scattered. Her mind raced. She wanted to vomit and scream, but she could barely move. Millie knew it was inhumane of the government to divide society so as to hold on to power, but it revolted her now to know the whole truth. The Scarlet was not a tonic; it was the blood of an innocent Borealis, like Hamish. She had been greedy to think of her own long future knowing that someone like Hamish could have no dreams of his own. Raging with anger and grief, she cried, “You’re not going to die! I’m going to help you. It will break today Hamish. Try!” “That doesn’t matter now Millie. It’s blood I need, and you can’t help me with that.”

“But I can, I know how! There’s an antique medical instrument my dad has from the 1960s. He showed me how it works. Stay there Hamish. I’ll come back as fast as I can. Keep trying to break the Divide!”

Millie ran and ran and ran. Frightened and determined, she quickly found what she wanted and was heaving for breath when she finally made it back. The wall had shattered just enough for Hamish to crawl through to Australis and collapse. Frantic, Millie wasted no time plunging the transfusion needles into their arms and watched as blood trickled down the old yellow plastic tube.

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They were lying together on the grass, Millie’s eyelids fluttering slowly like the wings of a newly hatched butterfly drying its wings in the sun. She took her final breath as the last drops of scarlet blood drained from her veins into his and after a while Hamish opened his eyes to see the girl he loved was holding his hand for the first time.

-- § --

CHARLOTTE TRAVES (YEAR 10)

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BONNIE MORRIS (YEAR 12)

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CHARACTER PROFILES Noreen Ryan (Year 7)

Gustav Gus hunched over, his old eyes straining to read the dainty writing of his daughter. It pained him to leave her all alone in his cottage, but he had no choice; service to the country was compulsory. He thought of her shivering in the fierce German winter, and tears streaked white lines down Gustav’s grimy face. He crouched lower in the muddy trench, the morning too bright to hide his tears.

-- § --

Chris Chris cast another line into the murky water. This had been an unusually bad season for him, as fish seemed to be migrating farther and farther away every winter. Many bottles were dumped at the bottom of the lake, so if he caught a fish, it would be lacerated all over, making its value at the market plummet. His customers were leaving like the fish, and if he didn’t catch a big one soon, it would be all over.

Chris reeled in another broken line, and threw out a new hook.

-- § --

Emelie She sat looking towards the sea, pen poised over another draft. As she wrote, her mind wandered to her estranged daughter in Moscow, and another tear splashed onto the embossed paper. She wondered whether it had been a good idea to move to Australia, when she had left so much behind.

It was three hours later, when she was sitting in the same position, and the sky was beginning to stud itself with jewel-like stars, that the phone rang. The ringtone was eerie; echoing along the beach. Anxiously, she snatched the phone and spoke. “Yes, it’s Emilie – any news?” She spoke worriedly, running her fingers through her short brunette hair.

Evidently there was some news, as she didn’t speak for some time, just listening, while her highcheek boned face, already ashen, turned even paler. She snatched up her sodden notebook and ran, disappearing into the darkness. The shiny silver cell phone gleamed in the moonlight, abandoned in the sand.

-- § --

Grace Grace bounced out the door of her house, coins jingling in the back pocket of her jeans. She had promised to meet Wendy at the Moonlight Bar, and finally, she would be able to shout her a…

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coke. Grace scowled suddenly, for it was her pet hate that she was only seventeen, and honestly, what did a year matter?

She shoved her hands in her pocket and continued along the pavement, superstitiously jumping every crack in the pavement. Wendy had had her birthday last month, and had invited everyone but her to the nightclub in town. She had apologised profusely, of course, citing age as a main factor, but…

“Ooof!” Grace looked up. She had accidentally hit someone with her satchel. Cursing fate under her breath, she helped the woman up. Her tear-stained face was awful to look at, but a wave of shock washed though Grace as she recognised it.

“Gloria?”

-- § --

Sarah Sarah squinted warily at the lines on her book – they writhed and wiggled like a thousand slippery snakes. She couldn’t understand how someone could possibly turn those weird scribbles into information about the pretty lady in the picture beside them. A hand touched her woollyjumpered shoulder. She jumped.

“Can I help you, Dear?” Asked the voice that was as smooth and sickly-sweet as honey. Sarah looked up from the puzzling maze. A towering giantess – pretty giantess, Sarah noted, almost as pretty as the blue-dress lady in the picture – looked down at her. “Can I help you, Dear?”

The giantess boomed again, looking a bit cross this time, and looking straight at her, though Sarah didn’t know why – her name wasn’t Dear, why didn’t she ask the girl next to her?

The lady was looking crosser by the minute: she had better explain. “My, my… name isn’t Dear…?” Sarah squeaked. Anxiously she looked up at the poker face; She understood… right?

Luckily, the lady’s face cracked into a huge smile, and she ruffled Sarah’s nut-brown hair. “Sure, Honey.”

Sarah growled.

-- § --

Al Al wearily packed up his kit: an old, beaten up camera and a rickety wooden tripod that had definitely seen better days. Then he slapped his worn denim cap on and climbed into an abandoned ute for a snooze.

The junkyard was more hostile nowadays, more broken glass and hooligans. He’d left home when he’d been an aspiring photographer, when the world was still his oyster. Then the fires broke out, and his oyster clamped shut on him, leaving Al with nothing but barnacles and mud.

Al turned over, muttering in his sleep.

-- § --

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MARIA COBAIN (YEAR 12) 10

WALLS Gabrielle Sachs (Year 12) “A lady's imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.”

This short story occurs shortly after Darcy and the Bingleys’ relocation to London. It explores the character and motivations of Caroline Bingley, highlighting her naïve optimism with regard to Darcy through the interactions between the two. As well as exposing a vulnerability in Caroline that is left unexplored in the original text, the interactions between herself and Darcy serve as an insight into how Darcy’s feelings towards Elizabeth Bennet have begun to shift.

-- § -Now that Mr Darcy was far from the influence of one particular Bennet, Caroline Bingley felt sure of being the sole object of his attentions.

She sat at her vanity, basking in the morning like a cat in the sun and pinching the apples of her cheeks to give them colour. Darcy waited downstairs, and the very thought made Caroline smile.

It had been so long since they were alone together, but finally, here in London, she would have him to herself. Finally, after that awful month in Netherfield, she was free to pursue him.

Until now, a wall had always existed between herself and Darcy, one that even Caroline, with all the force of her will, could not penetrate. But in separating her brother Charles from Jane Bennet they had shared a common cause. Cracks had appeared in the wall, she was sure of it.

Something was about to change.

Darcy stood and bowed as Caroline entered the room. She had known him long enough to realise that there was nothing in it but duty, and yet even this could not depress her mood.

“Good morning, Mr Darcy,” Caroline purred as she sat down, overflowing with self-assurance.

“A fine day, is it not?”

“Yes,” Darcy said curtly, reopening his paper. “Quite so.”

“I do find the city so much more agreeable than the country,” said Caroline, her eyes betraying a desperation that was at conflict with the smooth confidence in her voice. Had Darcy looked up, he might have seen it.

“Indeed,” was all he said. Caroline’s jaw tightened but she continued, her voice measured.

“It is a relief to have been in such equal agreement in bringing my brother back to London.

Finding another with such similar wishes as well as the grace to enact them is rather fortunate, don’t you agree?”

“I suppose so.”

The wall stood firm. Hairline fractures would not be enough.

“The company, too, in London is far more pleasing. I did grow tired of Meryton; the society there was not as one might hope. In fact, if considering discretion alone, I daresay that the most well-mannered there were the livestock!”

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Caroline was baiting him, but his response was not what she had hoped for.

“If that is how you feel, I rather wonder why you spent so much time with the eldest Miss Bennet.”

Caroline felt a curious sense of shame. Tomorrow she would visit Jane Bennet, reluctant but unable to avoid this small civility as long as they were both in London. It wasn’t that she disliked Jane; it was simply a matter of her presence being an interference. Caroline made no secret of the fact that she would prefer Charles’ engagement to Georgiana Darcy, firm in her conviction that no harm could truly come from such a connection to the Darcy family. Caroline hoped that one day she would reap the benefits personally.

Darcy had struck a nerve by mentioning Jane, but Caroline was determined to persist.

“You are a wicked man, Mr Darcy,” Caroline said, but she should have known better than to tease him.

He remained silent. An icy contempt crept into Caroline’s voice.

“Still, to be perfectly sincere, livestock may have been preferable in place of some of the Hertfordshire company. There is much to be said for that dreadful Mrs Bennet and her daughters.

Although, you seemed so taken with the second-eldest’s eyes, I rather wonder if you even noticed their impropriety.”

Another chip in the mortar. Caroline’s frustration only deepened at the fact that this, at last, was what made Darcy look up. He was intelligent enough to know that Caroline had just insulted him, and his face hardened.

“There was much to be desired in the conduct of some who were present, that is true,” Darcy agreed grudgingly but, to Caroline’s dismay, he would not meet her eyes. The bricks were crumbling away, but something felt wrong. Emotion rose in Caroline’s throat, whether anger or hurt she could not say, and her next words were disdainful.

“The lack of society of Miss Elizabeth in particular was most shocking. The manner in which she spoke sometimes! I truly wonder what kind of man would consider her for a proper wife – disregarding her obvious disdain for any of the civility which defines an accomplished woman.”

Darcy said nothing, but Caroline pressed him for a response.

“Don’t you agree?”

Unable, by laws of proper conduct, to ignore this question, Darcy finally looked at her. The anger she found in his eyes was wholly unexpected. His next words were spat, not spoken.

“And by what manifestation of faultlessness do you yourself make this judgment?”

“Wh-“ “To what standard must a woman be before she is worthy of your approval? Who is the model of which you so frequently accuse others of falling short? Yourself?”

Darcy was not prone to the expression of rich emotion, but now it was present with a violence that Caroline had never seen. The wall was rubble and chunks of stone, but it had released something Caroline had never anticipated.

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Even mortified, Caroline was still frantic to assure herself that he was on her side. “Really, Darcy, you can’t deny that the girl and her family do lack a certain … civility.”

Darcy’s composure was cracking. His fist clenched and unclenched on the table in front of him, but there was a degree of helplessness in his manner; he could not seem to find an adequate way to contradict her.

“Civility… ” he struggled for words. “It is not … to measure one’s character by … ” He coloured and fell silent. After a moment, he returned to his paper, gripping the pages more tightly than before and the two of them sat in silence, ghosts amongst the rubble.

Later, they moved to the parlour, but the quiet was so pervasive that Caroline was afraid to breathe. She tried to pen a letter to Georgiana, but her mind could only settle on two things.

The first was Darcy; he sat mere feet from her and yet felt farther away than ever. The second, of course, was Elizabeth Bennet. The rage she felt at the thought of that uncivil, insolent girl…

The prospect of Caroline’s visit to Jane in the morning was now entirely repulsive. To spend time with her – to be civil with one so closely tied to the object of her hatred – was almost too much to comprehend. She gripped the quill in her hand so tightly it might have snapped. After a moment, Caroline reached up and was startled to find tears glistening on her cheeks.

Panicked that Darcy might witness this lapse in composure, Caroline tried to dab away the moisture and resume her letter. But Elizabeth remained in her mind. Darcy’s disdain could not be forgotten. And despite her best efforts, there was a shudder in her breath that she could not suppress and a shakiness still in her hand.

-- § --

JIMIN LEE (YEAR 9) 13

IF SYMPTOMS PERSIST… Olivia Millard (Year 11) They had told him he would be fine, but he wasn’t. The world was falling to tatters around him and his once forceful heartbeat was converging to the flat line. Everything was far from fine.

The year was 2069 when the world finally found peace. Under a unified government, religion and patriotism no longer caused segregation or wars. Life was serene, safe and swell for all.

Violence was a thing of the distant past and all people, big and small, shared one common goal; the total eradication of disease and illness. They knew that Illness was the last imperfection in their world; it was their duty to rid themselves of faults. And that if they stood together, united and dedicated to the cause, the job was as good as done! That is what progress is.

Over time the government had begun to crack down harder on these ideals, with bills being passed disallowing sickness altogether. If you were found to have so much as the common cold you were obligated by the Supreme Law to turn yourself over to officials! As such, the fear of prosecution had become a virus in itself, spreading and growing within communities around the world.

Francis was a regular boy of sixteen. He took his 10 prescription medications and 23 essential vitamins every morning and night and never failed to attend his bi-weekly health check-ups. In the eyes of the government, he was the perfect citizen. No one could have possibly anticipated the unpleasant fate which awaited him…

One warm summer’s morning, he awoke with needles digging deeply into his temple. His eyes opened to see no less than oblivion and Francis let out a single, high pitched, earth-shattering…

“AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!” Weeps escaped as the echo travelled down the street. House lights flashed on and The Ambulance’s sirens wailed. When The Doctor reached the house, he knocked twice forcefully before kicking the door off its hinges. It seemed as though in the next second he was upstairs, hand cuffing sobbing Francis and dragging him off to The Station without a moment’s hesitation.

Mr and Mrs Bane ran to the door in nightgowns and slippers, screaming and beckoning, “LET HIM GO!” “Not my Son, please sir, please.”

Strangely, their tones showed little urgency and somehow, Francis’ parents seemed far less surprised than should be expected in such a crisis.

-- § -An abrasive voice pierced Francis’ ears, while the fog cleared with tinnitus loudly sounding.

“Wakey wakey, young man,” it crackled. The room was clinical and monochromatic with a single metal table and two chairs, a mirror on one wall and a clock Tick Tock Tick-ing away on another.

They were quite clearly indoors, yet protective white clouds covered the walls. Francis rubbed his eyes, and met the glare of a cleanly shaven man in a black suit.

“I am going to ask you a series of questions Mr Bane. It is your duty to answer truthfully and in full,” he said in monotone, without pause. “Let us begin…”

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As the man inquired about Francis’ mental, physical and emotional state, Francis’ answers became shorter and more strained. He started to feel a seizing swarm of honeybees stinging and stumbling in the pit of his stomach, rising slowly. Speeding up. Burning his oesophagus. It was a new and odd sensation and the fountain of brown, lumpy stomach muck which followed was more uncomfortable still. What was happening to him?

Across the table, The Doctor fell limp to the side upon witnessing the expulsion of fluid. He seemed to be comatose in a pile of Francis’ dinner. Seizing the opportunity, Francis staggered to standing and ran awkwardly towards the door. Unfortunately for him, he had forgotten about the mess he had just made across the cold concrete floor. Like a newborn foal finding his feet, Francis slipped and slid before toppling over entirely, his legs falling out from underneath him and his head hitting last. THUMP! And once again, Francis’ world went black.

-- § -And once again, he awoke.

His eyes adjusted to his new surroundings. He was lying down on something soft, struggling to breath. White lab coats moved gracefully around him carrying clipboards overflowing with notes. This was how they had described it; he had been taken in. The Hospital smelt of nothing, looked like nothing, but tasted stale; a bitter cross between disinfectant and something else.

Something unreachable. The Nurse reassured him that he was okay, despite the aches in his chest and continuous coughing fits.

“We have the cure, don’t you worry!” The Nurse assured him, “You will be just fine my boy.”

The Nurse held a syringe to the light, examining the incandescent green liquid which seemed so out of place in this black and white space. Francis instinctively lifted his arm for the injection and awaited his relief.

The young man had followed all the rules and never strayed from the progressive path. Not once. And yet all his hills and valleys had plateaued to a dry and still desert plain. Francis did not again awaken.

-- § --

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MIA FAHRENSOHN (YEAR 8)

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LAUNCHED FROM THE LENS TO THE WORLD STAGE Hannah Lane (Year 10) Hannah Lane explores the immorality of war as experienced by an innocent casualty in Denise Chong’s biography The Girl in the Picture.

As the age-old saying goes, ‘a picture is worth a thousand words’. One particular picture, taken at the height of the Vietnam War, left the world wondering what story lay behind it. The Girl in the Picture, Denise Chong’s biography of Kim Phuc, successfully gives a voice to the voiceless; the regular Vietnamese citizens who were the marginalised victims of the war. The biography follows the life of Phuc after the camera shutter clicked and she became profoundly scrutinised as the poster child for the horror of the Vietnam War. Chong articulates the situations of the Kim Phucs of the world; defenceless individuals with the tragedy of war thrust upon them. “Those who survive war know it has in store more cruelties than death alone.” Chong uses evocative language such as ‘cruelties’ and ‘death’ to evoke empathy from readers and paint a vivid mental image of the emotional damage that appears throughout Phuc’s story. I was astounded as I gained insight into her tumultuous recovery. Chong encourages the notion that can be found in most life writing; that a view of the world that is limited to your own experience is painfully insufficient.

The biography is not just about a girl burned by napalm. Chong adopts Phuc as a symbol of the typical Vietnamese peasant, and their experience of the war with no interest in the politics surrounding it. By describing them as “caught between the sticky rice and the bean”, Chong euphemistically illustrates the constant struggle of peasants to survive amidst the crossfire. The average peasant was “beholden to both sides”, only leaning towards “whichever side harassed them less”. Through her use of short but relevant statements, Chong captures the collateral damage of war in such a way that left me with an abrupt realisation of my fortunate life in a society free of conflict.

The timeline of Phuc’s life is used as a vehicle to deconstruct the consequences of war. By placing characters in a historical time frame, Chong makes for an engrossing read that comments on the ethnocentrism of war. She reveals that although the image assisted in turning public opinion against the Vietnam War, American interest waned after their forces pulled out. By bluntly asserting that “Vietnamese killing other Vietnamese evidently did not interest the American public”, Chong emphasises people’s ignorance of issues that do not concern them.

Through her use of both the Communist and American forces as examples for the brutality of war, Chong provides an impartial outlook on the political involvement in the book’s story. Despite this, at times I found myself doubting the intellectual honesty of the book due to the selective representation of certain characters. All characters who played a positive role in Phuc’s story were portrayed in a completely favourable light, while those who were seen to have hindered her plight were discredited. This resulted in a two dimensional depiction of characters in which Chong intended to show Phuc’s point of view as the unarguable truth. For example, throughout the novel, Phuc’s father Tung played the role of nurturing father. The author briefly mentions that Tung used a sum of the family’s money on gambling, however this is never elaborated on.

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It can therefore be assumed that Chong silenced any unfavourable sides to Tung to avoid challenging the representation that he was an almost perfect fatherly figure.

To so eloquently provide an explanation for such a pivotal moment recorded by camera is a feat that few writers can claim. Chong proves that a picture really can tell a thousand words as she creates a biography equally as haunting and thought-provoking as the unforgettable photograph itself. If that picture could speak, The Girl in the Picture would be its voice.

-- ยง --

SAMMY KYUNG (YEAR 11)

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THE YOUNG AND THE RECKLESS Olivia Millard (Year 11) Olivia Millard explores the pixelated interpretation of carelessness and courage, with focus on Craig Silvey’s genuine portrayal of adolescence in his coming of age novel, ‘Jasper Jones’.

Teenagers’ lives are a perpetual show of melodrama, rebellion, bad-decisions and irrational behaviour with new characters, relationships and judgement in every scene. But what if this soap we are all pressured to view, is washing away the truth of adolescence?

We are constantly reminded on the big screen and on paper that teenagers are simply the most thoughtless creatures to walk the earth. ‘Apparently’, adolescence is the time of rash decisions that undoubtedly lead to mass regrets. However, this definition just does not sit right with me.

Whilst reading Craig Silvey’s novel, my eyes were forced opened to see a more accurate interpretation of the teenage years.

Within his murder mystery, a young Charlie Bucktin is thrown into a series of unfortunate episodes, beginning with the Pilot: Jasper’s Girl in a Tree. In Corrigan, a town overflowing with blossoming and burning relationships, we follow his adolescent journey of self-discovery, as Charlie finally learns what it means to be brave. Each turn of the page reveals a new insight into the lives of teenagers in 60s Australia, which we are taught is far from exclusive to that time.

Whilst reading, I was compelled to consider whether we have been mistaking the courage of adolescents with irresponsibility, all due to their readiness to act. Is it that their bravery is reckless or is their recklessness actually brave?

Jasper Jones as a concept is no more unique than your favourite day time television show. It’s high point, however, is the author’s ability to manipulate balanced characters where archetypal somehow equals original. Silvey first identifies each character as either “a brain, an athlete, a criminal, a princess or a basket case” with Charlie, Jeffrey, Jasper, Eliza and Mad Jack Lionel, filling each of these roles respectively. He then uses this as the foundation to develop realistic characters.

The relationships that sprout between Silvey’s characters reveal their true courage. Let’s start with the obligatory love interest between our resident nerd and maiden. Young love is a focal point within teenagers’ lives, so kudos must go to Silvey’s decision to incorporate this in his novel.

We can all sympathise with the fright that comes from initiating romantic relationships and there is no doubt this act requires considerable bravery. Not only do you have the fear of rejection to hurdle, but there is also an equal level of pressure from outsiders to choose the ‘right’ partner.

In Eliza’s case, her Mr Right is perhaps what her parents deem as wrong.

Silvey offers us a princess-like character in Eliza Wishart, similar to that of Claire from 80s’ comedy The Breakfast Club. Both were born from high society families which Silvey reinforces, with alliteration in “The lawns are lush and thick and well-kept and two rows of trimmed peppermint trees track down its length”, as he describes Eliza’s street. In doing so, he is ultimately placing the Wishart’s on a pedestal of superiority.

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He later pushes her off this mighty stage as we learn, just like Claire discloses to her fellow detainees regarding herself, Eliza’s family is not all they seem. Unlike many domestic relationships, children in the Wishart family have weak bonds with their parents. Along with having this in common, Claire and Eliza both seek love with people who are far below their own social class; Eliza with Charlie and Claire with Bender.

Coincidence? I think not.

It has become the norm to portray adolescent girls in this defiant way and Silvey has bought into this trend. Many view Eliza and Claire’s choice to follow their heart, in such unforgiving conditions, a result of careless teenage lust, but I cannot bring myself to. Adolescence is a time to escape the control of others and to finally think for yourself, which is sometimes the most daring thing anyone can do. So, teenagers’ decisions to instigate relations may seem hasty, but above that, I find it all incredibly ballsy.

You will remember, the key source of fear as a teen is indisputably parents. In the average soapie, without fail, there is a controlling mother with a rebellious child.

Ring any bells?

Mrs Bucktin is this mother and Silvey’s story marks the start of Charlie’s position as this child.

When Charlie sneaks out to the library, he is intentionally opposing his mother’s authority. She screams later, “Oh! You just went to the library did you? After I told you not to leave this street.

Who do you think you are?”. In this, Silvey brands Charlie’s actions as textbook teenage irresponsibility, but isn’t this just another example of the struggle for independence?

Without this time of experimentation, you find young adults who are replicates of everything that is wrong with their parents.

The hatred.

The anger.

The prejudice.

And more often than not, these feelings are directed at innocent members of society. Silvey coveys this flawlessly in Jasper and Jeffrey as they are bullied on a racial basis. Jasper is let off the hook due to his sporting ability. But unlike Jasper, Jeffrey lacks the same aggressive approach and is forced to sit on the sidelines. Even now, for teens in Australia especially, due to our sporting culture, being an athletic success seems to excuse all bigotry aimed at you.

When Charlie states, “I don’t understand, because Jeffrey has tried this before and it never ends without some kind of humiliation”, it is easy to believe that Jeffrey is ignorant in his pursuit of training among these brutes; to risk his emotional and physical health. But yet again, I insist, it is a display of courage to disregard ones oppressors.

We live in a world where we are defined by others. One in which xenophobia is more nurture than nature, but as Silvey presses, breaking free from your parents is somehow both encouraged and shunned. In this soapbox opera we were born into, people judge those who deserve praise most. And for surviving this, maybe, just maybe, adolescents are the bravest of us all.

-- § --

20

LAURA CHANCELLOR (YEAR 9)

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LIKE MOTHER LIKE DAUGHTER Claire Johnston (Year 12) Jane Austen’s ‘Pride and Prejudice’ is of exemplary nature in its critique of the Regency Era’s societal, class and gender constructs that dictated in particular the behaviour of women, whose primary business often concerned marital pursuits and encouraged their frivolous and folly attitudes.

Darcy quotes, “A lady’s imagination is very rapid; it jumps from admiration to love, from love to matrimony, in a moment.” Austen by means of her characters embodies the ideologies and values of the era, satirically criticising them as she does so, and this style has been adopted in the short story, ‘Like mother, like daughter’. This gap within the original text offers a revealing portrayal of a young Mrs Bennet, whose relationship with her own mother offers a startling parallel to the relationships of Mrs Bennet and her daughters in the original text. Exploring the nature of Mrs Bennet and her own upbringing offers an outlook as to how her own opinions and attitudes regarding matrimony and maternal obligations have been formed and their consequential generational influence. These underlying themes of family sacrifice and gender constructs are interwoven to further magnify the criticism of Austen present in ‘Pride and Prejudice’.

-- § -It was known to all that it was the opinion of Mrs Bennet that if a girl was not in possession of a husband by the age of eighteen, she was to be considered quite the failure. While her husband made every effort to dissuade her from this line of thinking, once a woman’s mind is set on matrimony, it is impossible for anything of rational nature to occupy her thoughts. After scolding Lizzy for her nonsensical behaviour regarding the rejection of a proposal, she fancied her nerves in extreme peril, and the common feelings of faintness were beginning to settle in; the usual recovery period destined to last the afternoon. While she was resolved to meditate on her daughters’ undesirable sentiments, she could not help but be startlingly reminded of an altogether similar conversation she had once endured. The older but alas none the wiser Mrs Bennet cast her mind back in time…

-- § -“How you expect to attract the attention of Mr Bennet this evening by wasting the day sitting idly is entirely perplexing my dear.”

Mrs Gardiner, a woman of displeasing countenance and without genius nor taste, was at her most perseverant when the marriage of her daughter was concerned. Jane Gardiner, her only daughter and thus predestined to be at variance with her mother, was pointedly marking her indifference and continued with her needlework.

“Why should it be of any concern of mine where his attention is directed?” Jane retorted indignantly, avoiding the disapproving glare of her mother.

“It is a matter of necessity that you associate with people of rank Jane, and I will not accept your false ignorance of Mr Bennet’s admiration. You will make every effort this evening in securing your position.”

Jane listened in silence but was not convinced Mr Bennet’s behavior at their most recent assembly had not been calculated to please in general and she was disposed to believe in his deficiency.

Drawing on her own observations of conjugal felicity, Jane was of the opinion that a life of 22

contentment was not only unlikely to be attributed to marriage, but rather entirely impossible to arise. Her puerile mind gave sense to a world in which folly pursuits remained the object of her entertainment, uninterrupted by tedious marital obligations that threatened her delusions.

“Mr Bennet will make no advances in my eyes if he is to be reliant on his rank in encouraging affection. Why I would endeavor to secure a future predetermined on your part confounds me mother, given your lack in display of domestic happiness.”

“I do not care for your opinions of the man; I am entirely concerned of your disinclination towards propriety of conduct and the efficacy of your wild manners in driving away his respect, which you have so clearly proved just now.” She narrowed her eyes in further contempt and added, “You are foolish of mind and even weaker at heart if you believe yourself a woman above the obligations that govern us all. You are doing yourself more harm in trying to vex me my dear.”

And with these closing remarks she bustled her way out of the drawing room allowing Jane to meditate on her mother’s remarks in silence.

Jane, youthful and entitled to foolishness, entertained her vacant mind by living in perfect ignorance. She did not care for nor apprehend her mother’s precarious position in that Mr Gardiner would soon surrender to his sickly disposition and by the iniquitous nature of entailment they would be undoubtedly denied the family estate. She had not yet come to accept that her happiness in marriage would be entirely a matter of chance, persisting to entertain hopes of an esteemed husband and a marriage of true affection. Her mother’s impertinence was mercifully offset by her favoured parent, Jane’s father, whose reserved, mild nature appealed to her own naïve disposition and was the grounds of their mutual fondness. His imminent passing would be both an ordeal of great personal suffering and an alarming realisation that she would now be alone in the company of her mother until she too passed on.

Jane rose from her position and, in her reverie, absent-mindedly made her way to her father’s bedroom. Even in his poor physical state, her father found great entertainment in listening to his daughter’s animated account of his wife’s raptures. Knocking on the door, she spied the faint rise and fall of her father’s chest as she let herself in.

“Jane, is it not too early for your mother to have effected such contention?” a raspy Mr Gardiner enquired of his only daughter with amusement.

“Father, of this you are perfectly aware; she does not consent to any such timely rules of harmonious engagement.”

Mr Gardiner’s eyes sparkled and then softened as he continued to indulge her in humour.

“And what was the topic of your exchange?”

“Mr Bennet, and my apparent propitious engagement, one that I absolutely refuse to encourage.”

“So am I to banish all hopes of an imminent wedding?”

“Perhaps not on the occasion that the regiment were to settle here; imagine the gallantry of a sea of red coats! I would be very much content in my meeting of an Officer.”

Mr Bennet smiled with candidness and replied, “And it is your dying father’s wish that you are of absolute felicity.”

23

“Please father, do not be so morbid! I expect any day now you will see me the object of a thousand officers’ attention.”

“Perhaps I will, my dear.” Mr Bennett averted his eyes so as to not alarm his daughter with their veracity.

Jane began to protest at his uncertainty, but was interrupted by her father’s sudden fit of coughing and a cautioning knock at the door from Mrs Gardiner. With a gentle squeeze of her father’s hand, Jane left him in the care of the servants and made exit from the room, only to be held captive by her mother’s haughty stare.

“I hope you are not still entertaining fantasies of your father’s recovery.”

“Why would it so be harmful if I were mother?” Jane replied in her defiant tendency.

“The true harm, Jane, is in your stubborn ignorance of the urgent nature of your forthcoming engagement, attributed to your father’s illness,” Mrs Gardiner retorted.

“Why must I be burdened with this responsibility? Are you that illiberal in that you wish to see me in discontentment equal to your own? Do you truly have no care for my happiness?”

Mrs Gardiner stiffened and drew herself upright.

“I do not possess false assumptions of your contentment with the situation, but I offer caution in harbouring resentment. There will come a time in which your greatest solace will be marrying your own daughters into wealth, and you too will question the morality of the sacrifice you have unconsciously forced of your daughter. You can hate me for eternity Jane, but it will not save you from inheriting the same decree of selfishness in the decisions you make for your children.”

-- § --

ERICA FISHER (YEAR 10)

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THE COWARDLY LION Claudia Tomkins (Year 11) Claudia Tomkins explores how the qualities of the ANZAC spirit have been carried through future generations by analysing the adolescents in Craig Silvey’s Australian novel, ‘Jasper Jones’.

In 1955, merely 10 years after the end of World War II, Air Vice Marshal Hughie Edwards said, "Not only in war but in life a man must live by the three qualities of the ANZAC spirit: mateship, bravery and resilience… You can't live life a coward and you can't live life if you can never leave the past in the past and move on." To this day, these qualities remain vital to Australian youth.

Craig Silvey's novel Jasper Jones tells the story of a diverse group of social outcasts who show perseverance and valour in the face of adversities and the unknown. When Charlie and Jasper are confronted with the mysterious 'murder' of a young girl, they decide it's up to them to track down her killer, whilst Charlie's Vietnamese best mate, Jeffrey Lu, remains unbreakably determined to prove himself in a town of xenophobes.

Although Silvey does manage to successfully represent Charlie and Jeffrey as different versions of teenagers trying to be gallant and dedicated when it counts, his vivid imagination and tendency to exaggerate is what diminishes his realistic character portrayal.

The difference between bravery and stupidity is the purpose behind the action, yet as adolescents the thin line that separates the two can become blurred. Charlie Bucktin is portrayed as a boy of great fortitude who comes out of his shell, risking it all to help town ‘badass’ Jasper Jones. However, at least for the most part, I think Silvey has confused grit with recklessness.

Charlie's so called 'courage' takes off full throttle from page one and by the second page I'm already starting to doubt the reality of it. I'm not too sure about you, but when I was 13 I didn’t just climb out of my window in the middle of the night to follow some random boy, no matter how cool I thought he was or how badly he wanted my help. Hell, Charlie didn’t even know why Jasper was at his window! Yet, unrealistically, his thoughts on the situation were that “the thrill of this, coupled with the fact that Jasper Jones needs my help, already fills the moment with something portentous”.

To make matters worse we soon learn that all Charlie knows about the bloke is that "he's a Thief, a Liar, a Thug, a Truant". But off he goes, willingly chasing Jasper through the night like he is the Star of Bethlehem leading him to the baby Jesus.

As the story progresses, so does Charlie’s 'bravery', and by the end of the summer his reckless acts have really started to add up. He sinks a dead body; continues to sneak out at night; confronts a so-called ‘murderer’; lies to almost everyone; speaks to his mother in a way that I would have been killed for doing; drinks booze; smokes; and through all that never tells the police where Laura's dead body is. Are any of those really acts of heroism? Sounds to me like he's more a criminal than the innocent, moral boy Silvey portrays him to be. How could this possibly be a practical representation of Australian youth?! Silvey has defiantly exaggerated teenage behaviours to a level way past the realm of reality.

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The pop sensation Chumbawamba preached, "I get knocked down. But I get up again. You're never going to keep me down." As a kid, this was my mantra. But for Jeffrey when he gets knocked down… he never falls.

Resilience is an important quality that is embedded in Australian culture, however, due to a great deal of imagination, Silvey has failed to realistically depict this in his novel. Life is like a road. It has bumps and cracks, but in the end it gets you somewhere. However, in a town of xenophobes, being a different ethnicity can make it feel like your road has mountains not bumps, and chasms not cracks, and that it's going nowhere. And it is Jeffrey Lu that knows this better than any of us. Jeffrey Lu – Charlie’s best mate, his partner in crime, his bosom buddy, his B.F.F., the ice to his cream and the super to his hero.

To Charlie, Jeffrey is a hero. And how couldn't he be? He gets tormented day after day. They knock him around, call him every insulting name imaginable, refuse him the right to play the sport he loves, but somehow he doesn’t let it get him down. Charlie says that "Corrigan is a town whose social currency is sport", yet it is Jeffrey, most likely the best sportsman of them all, who is at the bottom of the social hierarchy. Despite everything, Charlie can see that “Jeffrey is unflappable. He has a smile that you can’t wipe or slap or goad off his face”. It’s hardly a realistic representation of Australian youth if the one that cops it the worst is the strongest of them all! Really Silvey? I think your imagination has diminished your ‘realistic portrayal’ on this one.

Yes, we Australians are raised to be determined like the ANZAC soldiers before us, but how can someone who will "be hit in the chest or the shoulder, and there will be a trilled roar and an exchange of money" still come back the next day, determined to do anything it takes to prove himself? Maybe Silvey’s objective is to represent an ideal spirit that all adolescents can aspire to. But in terms of a realistic portrayal? Sorry Silvey, but no child that is purposely hurt FOR A BET can possibly be that persistent and unbreakable. Not. Believable. At. All. Silvey's portrayal of Charlie's fearlessness and Jeffrey's perseverance in the novel is highly exaggerated, resulting in an unrealistic representation of Australian youth. I am Australian. I live in Australia. I grew up in Australia. Never have I met or heard about any adolescent as ‘gallant’ as Charlie or as ‘mettle’ as Jeffery. Maybe I am wrong. Maybe there are people out there like them. This is a big country. But to have two people like that living in the same town in the middle of bloody nowhere…. Sorry, but maybe I'm too cynical to believe that. The bravery and resilience the ANZACs showed at Gallipoli is still alive in Australians today, but at the level of intensity depicted in the book? I don't think so.

-- § --

26

LUCY TUFFLEY (YEAR 11)

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TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD CREATIVE PIECE Isabella Burdon (Year 10) Although we didn’t hear no more about the Finch family from Aunt Alexandra, we heard plenty from the town. On Saturdays, armed with our nickels, when Jem permitted me to accompany him (he was now positively allergic to my presence in public), we would squirm our way through sweating crowds and sometimes hear ‘There’s his chillun’ or ‘Yonder’s some Finches’. Turning to face our accusers, we would see only a couple of farmers studying enema bags in the Maycomb Drugstore window. Or two dumpy county-women in straw hats sitting in a Hoover cart.

‘They c’n go loose and rape up the countryside for all ‘em who run this country care,’ was one obscure observation we met head on from a skinny gentleman when he passed us. Which reminded me that I had a question to ask Atticus.

-- § -However, I had little time to dwell on my dubiety before Walter came running towards Jem and me with an expression of wild exuberance. ‘Hiya Jem. Hiya Scout.’ He waved, still a small distance from us. ‘Hey Walter. Whatcha doin’ in this part a Maycomb?’ I queried as Walter came to a panting stop. In a series of awkward movements, Walter emptied the change from his pocket and showed it to Jem and I. I was surprised for two reasons: the first being that the Cunningham’s didn’t have money, so Walter must’ve stolen this. Secondly that his pockets didn’t seem to have holes in them like the rest of his clothing. ‘M’ Ma trusted it to me,’ Walter explained in a lofty voice, evidently proud of the grubby bits of metal in his upturned palm. Jem, with obvious perplexity, was the next to question him, ‘Well, why’d she do that Walter, what’s the money for?’

That question seemed to cause Walter some stress and his face lost its previously jubilant expression. Solemnly Walter muttered, ‘It’s kinda a long story. Ya see, things’ve been different over yonder in the country, ever since that Tom Robinson case came ‘bout.’

‘It’s the same for us too Walter. Now-a-days we can’t even go into Town without getting trouble from you country folk’n townsfolk alike.’ I grumbled, crossing my arms. Jem gave me a nudge, reminding me of Atticus’ warning not to let people get to my head. I relented and Jem urged Walter to continue his story, explaining that Alexandra wasn’t expecting us till dinner, so we had plenty of time.

‘All right,’ began Walter. ‘It all started with that story ‘bout Tom Robinson and what he did ta the Ewell girl. Pa’s been sayin’ for a long time that those niggers out at the dump are good f’r nothin’ fellas. He said that if any of ‘em came near ‘is daughters he’d see to it that they be dead in a matter ‘f days.’

‘But Atticus says that Tom Robinson hasn’t done nothin’,’ I interrupted. ‘Well it can’t‘ve been a white person could it now?’ Walter countered. That and an elbow from Jem quickly ensured that my mouth stayed firmly shut for the rest of the conversation. Walter continued, ‘Well Pa’s been fit to be tied of late; runnin’ around telling us to do our jobs and to stay out a his business. But for some reason yesterday was different, Ma got madder than a wet hen at Pa sayin’ that he’s gone too far this time and that “we can’t afford to have ‘im rippin’ up sheets n’ running round with that lot” which confused me plenty. Later on, Ma tells me that I’m to go to town with me two 28

sisters, down yonder in that Hoover cart,’ Walter points to where his sisters have begun to sell the family’s produce, ‘to buy ‘er some new sheets. N’ that’s how I ended up with this.’ He jingled the cash that had returned to his pocket during his recount.

Jem and I were silent for a moment as we let Walter’s story sink in. I was beginning to feel as though there was more to Walter and his family than I had previously perceived. After all, that would certainly explain why Miss Caroline had been so outraged by my explanation concerning Walter’s lack of school lunches. ‘Oh’ murmured Jem, his lack of words seemed to confirm the thoughts ricocheting in my head.

Walter, realising that Jem and I were not at all sure what else to say asked, ‘Well what are you lot doin’ in town.’ At this question I jumped excitedly and began to babble. ‘Atticus gave us some nickels to get some treats from the dairy down yonder.’ I pointed to the dairy, presuming that since Walter was seldom in town, he may not know where the dairy was. Jem added politely, ‘You’re welcome to come if you want.’ Walter, with evident anguish, turned this offer down explaining that his Mother had told him ‘not to tarry’. With that, Walter waved and set off on his errand, leaving Jem and I to continue our stroll to the dairy.

-- § -‘What’s rape?’ I asked him that night.

Atticus looked around from behind his paper. He was in his chair by the window. As we grew older, Jem and I thought it generous to allow Atticus thirty minutes to himself after supper. He sighed and said that rape was carnal knowledge of a female by force and without consent.’Well if that’s all why did Calpurnia dry me up when I asked her what it was?’

Atticus looked pensive. ‘What’s that again?’

MADELEINE KOHLER (YEAR 12) 29

YOU CAN’T PUT A PRICE ON TRUE LOVE Felicity Martin (Year 12) Preamble: Inside the walls of Rosings, life has taken an unexpected turn for one of the wealthiest women of her time, Lady Catherine De Bourgh. Usually, a lady of such high class and stature is able to obtain anything she desires. In this case, however, the securing of the eligible Mr Darcy for her daughter’s hand in marriage is not going to plan. No servant is spared the wrath of her anger as Lady Catherine storms around the mansion, bitterly disappointed that Mr Darcy is in love with Elizabeth Bennet. During all of the commotion, Anne De Bourgh sits quietly in the reading room, contemplating her life and trying to gather the courage to stand up to her mother.

-- § -‘Neither duty, nor honour, nor gratitude … have any possible claim on me.’

-- § -Her mother’s voice echoed along the vast corridors of Rosings, rising and falling in a barely concealed rage.

Anne shifted slightly on the chaises and smoothed the hem of her skirt. For a moment she held her breath wondering if she was about to feel the full wrath of Lady Catherine De Bourgh.

Silence.

Anne waited.

The voice trailed off and she slowly exhaled. Picking up her pristine copy of Lyrical Ballads, she turned the pages slowly until she found it. The Rime of the Ancient Mariner. This poem had quickly become her favourite since Mr Greenough, her literature tutor, had introduced her to the works of Coleridge a month ago. Ignoring the muffled voice that now seemed to have retreated to the west wing of the house, Anne began to read, ‘It is an ancient Mariner, and he stoppeth one of three.’

She paused. If only she could channel the courage of the mariner, especially now when she needed it most. She didn’t need a degree in literature, or philosophy for that matter, to know why her mother was so upset. The events of last night were fresh in her memory, highlighting exactly why she would never be the daughter her mother so desperately wanted.

Oh she didn’t blame Elizabeth Bennet. How could she? Who wouldn’t fall in love with the attractive Bennet girl? She didn’t stand a chance with any suitor, let alone Mr Darcy, if Elizabeth was in the picture.

She’d never been envious of Lizzie. If anything, she had spent the years since they first met admiring her from afar. Lizzie’s smile lit up a room – not an easy thing to do in some of the cloistered and stuffy rooms they had frequented together. She had always been amazed how even the dull grey of a spinster’s drawing room took on a silvery shimmer when Lizzie was there.

Anne couldn’t understand her mother’s disdain of the Bennet family. Whilst there was the ‘inconsequential’ matter of lower social standing, as well as the whispers regarding entailment, 30

in her mind, the freedom the Bennet girls had to choose a husband, without the constraints she herself had, was worth far more than the titles she had at her disposal.

Ironically it seemed that Elizabeth Bennet would soon be moving up in the world. Her lower station in life would be replaced by a life of luxury.

‘Good,’ she muttered furiously to herself. For once, her mother would be put in her place; she didn’t have power over all matters. As if her mother sensed her mutinous thoughts, the clicketyclack of Lady Catherine’s black satin boots could be heard reverberating on the parquetry floor in the music room below.

The terse, clipped tones of orders being barked at the maid reminded Anne of that fateful afternoon five years earlier when Mr Darcy first appeared in her mother’s mind as the perfect suitor for her daughter.

That day had been tedious from the start. Servants rushing madly from kitchen to garden only to be berated when they didn’t move quickly enough. Anne had sat in bewildered silence in the corner of the drawing room, watching her mother stand at full height; a formidable figure of command, casting her eyes over the tornado of movement around her. She could remember clearly looking at her mother’s face, wondering if she enjoyed the power she had, or whether she crawled into bed each night, exhausted by the sheer effort of ensuring her household was in order.

Despite, or maybe because of, the frantic pace of the morning, Rosings was in complete order by the time the many guests arrived at precisely two o’clock that afternoon. Anne had tried to be as invisible as possible, hiding in the shadows, watching the women and men arrive in their finery. She had tired of the spectacle quickly, not understanding the fascination other young girls had with the conversations of adults. Was she staring at her future self? She had wondered with a strange sense of doom, knowing in her heart that this was surely true.

The monotony of the day was broken only briefly at a quarter past four when proceedings were interrupted by the late arrival of the Darcys. Anne recalled the time specifically, as she was staring at the stubborn hands of the grandfather clock when the carriage had broken her maudlin thoughts. At first she was strangely thrilled by the possibility that her mother would show her displeasure at the late arrival, however these thoughts were quickly vanquished when she heard the excitement in her mother’s shrill voice. Anne had quickly run to the patio to catch a glimpse of the late visitors, arriving just in time to hear her mother pronounce in a loud voice, ‘And of course, I am so glad to see you have brought along your fine, young son.’

As the word ‘son’ was uttered, Anne could feel her mother’s eyes seeking her out greedily until they fixed upon her. It was at that moment she knew. Catherine had claimed Mr Darcy for her daughter.

And so the years had progressed with the unspoken knowledge that one day Anne would need to play her role and win the heart of Mr Darcy. It didn’t seem to matter to Catherine that Anne had no interest in the matter; that she had no desire to wed or to bear children. Her sickness had come as somewhat of a relief to Anne. Perhaps now her mother would see the situation as hopeless. Unfortunately, this did not deter her mother; her mind was set. Anne would marry Darcy.

Her mother had not factored Elizabeth Bennet into her plans, however. Nor had she fully comprehended the power of attraction.

31

With every footstep that Anne heard from the sanctuary of the reading room, she could feel the growing fury of her mother. There would be no reprieve from the onslaught of her criticism fuelled by deep disappointment that her daughter was unable to catch the gaze of Mr Darcy.

She clenched her fists. Enough was enough. No longer would she bow to her mother’s desires and whims. Darcy was gone, thankfully. Her future was her own.

The door swung open swinging violently on its hinges; the penultimate act of the morning’s bubbling rage. Anne sat up, the copy of Lyrical Ballads falling to the floor with a resounding crash.

‘Anne,’ her mother declared. ‘We need to talk.’

Anne straightened, standing up to her full height. Then dropped into a curtsy, eyes cast downwards.

‘Yes mother. Whatever pleases you my lady.’

-- § --

EMMA MURRAY (YEAR 11)

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YELLOW Via Lim (Year 11) The day started off with the familiar empty ambience. The same grey and blue aura echoed through the reticent cave that had become her bedroom. Crisp white sheets whispered against the unmade bed and the abandoned lamp on the nightstand still hadn’t shrugged off its dust.

Canary curtains covered a part of the wall, resembling a single reflection of moonlight in the night sky. She liked to pretend that she had windows, if any curious minds had asked. She liked to sit on the floor alone in the midst of dawn, when all the colours fused, fuzzy and unclear, when she couldn’t tell the difference between day and night.

The feeling of restriction would always wake her out of her sleep; she often felt that she was jailed in her small room, blocked from the outside world where everything would be glistening bright. The whole room was asleep; the only sound that could be heard was the beep of the thermostat. It reminded the girl of her monotonous routine: when the sun was up, she went to bed. She’d been living in isolated darkness, in waves of gloom that no LED skylight or artificial plants could satisfy. People called her mad, people called her crazy, people called her idiotic.

She asked them silently how could anyone not have gone mad, when they were so confined and trapped, when they could never see the sun?

She had been taught in school that their earth had been destroyed by severe pollution and that it made the ultraviolet rays so strong that it could blind and burn the whole population in seconds.

All at once, authorities started to issue warnings and cities turned into huge indoor complexes.

Since then, humans never saw daylight again. If anyone had dared to go outside during the day, raging solar storms and flaming beams of the sun would kill instantly. The occasional explosions heard outside meant another fallen, curious soul.

Society had accepted the constant reminders. The videos of solar storms they would see daily on the TV and the government’s announcements of plans to recover the planet always remained the same. There was never any good news, never any change.

She knew the consequences of going outside in the daylight, long before the sun had become a symbol of fear, yet she craved the warmth. There was a time on earth when people tanned and bathed in the heat of the sun; she’s read it in the books, in the tales she was told as a kid, in the lullabies sung. She grasped these stories as though holding onto a lifeline, she drank them in until she was drowning.

She never stopped reading.

She was born in the wrong generation, in a world where only black skies and white moons existed. She dreamed of green grass and blue water, the sunlight shining on her face. She would float in the blankets of soft clouds and dance to the tune of trees in the radiance. But when she tried to tell of those wonderful fantasies, she would only be reminded that her present home was the safest place, a heaven that only cherishes.

It was days like this, when she was so frustrated by her own imagination, that she had to sit awhile and take a deep breath. The thermostat roused her and brought her back to reality. The beep indicated midday, meaning everyone was asleep. She slowly rose from her seated position and walked towards her wardrobe. The old wooden furniture creaked as she pulled 33

the door. She gazed at the lemon yellow dress and changed into the outfit in the dark, which had become easier with daily practice.

If someone had asked her the reason for her obsession with that dress, she would simply reply with something along the lines of “It makes me feel warm and happy”. But the truth was, she once read it somewhere in her antique collection of astronomy books, that the rays of the sun are bright yellow.

Yellow had become her favourite colour ever since.

The girl despised whoever neglected nature, whoever shot and made a hole in the shield of the planet and changed their lives forever. Every day started with the sunset and ended with the sunrise. The whole world was upside-down, yet no one questioned a thing. She was beginning to wonder that maybe there was something beyond the known. Seeing and feeling the sun was a privilege of death itself, and she yearned for it more and more, day by day.

It was midday when she entered the kitchen. She noticed that her regular dose of Vitamin D tablets had been placed on the marble counter once again. She loathed people’s dependence on the medicine; she would often flush her tablets down the toilet, feeling only slightly guilty for disobeying her parents. She never understood why her mother spent hours watering the genetically engineered garden.

It all seemed pointless.

That was when all her emotions hit like a brick to her head, flooding her vision with tides of desperation. ‘Today is another day in misery,’ she thought. ‘It was no different,’ she assured herself. Though her limbs told her otherwise, and guided her to the door of night, the door that only met the moon and reflected darkness. She had been there a million times before, yet today it seemed a little different. The familiar sheet of metal shone a little brighter and stood a little straighter, welcoming her into the forbidden world.

Her heart started to pound harshly as she unlocked the door, sweat forming on her pale forehead. She was hesitant. Nervous. She didn’t know if it was panic or excitement; one thing she desired the most was also the one she feared. The uneasiness in her chest didn’t seem to sink, only furthering her anxiety. She knew the outcome that would follow, but choosing between life and death, she knew her life now was not truly a living one.

The more she stood timid, the more inviting the door seemed. Its arms enveloped her, beckoning and whispering to her in calm security. It pulled her by her waist, tickling her sides as her fingertips slipped on the door handle. A golden radiance struck her face, blinding her sight.

Closing her eyes, she tumbled closer to the light and greeted the glowing sun. There was no regret, but only the thirst for more.

She opened her arms, wide and free, finally accepting the end and taking the last joy for granted. Then she waited. She waited for the slow burn that would soon fill her veins, the painful sting that would pierce her delicate skin.

A sudden flare, a pause, a silence.

It wasn’t the sun that ripped her wings, but the gunshots in the distance.

Red painted her yellow dress, mirroring the fiery celestial object. Another angel had fallen.

Twilight returned.

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ANNA GODLEE (YEAR 11)

35

LOST TALES – TO KILL A MOCKINGBIRD Edwina Whyte (Year 10) I feel my eyes growing heavier as sleep threatens to pull me under. Dill has long since surrendered, his head gently resting on my shoulder, while the courtroom buzzes with tension and the low rumble of hushed conversations. The clock outside strikes eleven, the dongs echoing through the warm night air. Scout snaps awake from her slumber and groggily turns to face me.

“Ain’t it a long time Jem?” she questions, yawning deeply as she speaks. “Sure is, Scout,” I reply, my voice full of hope.

“Well, from the way you put it, it’d take just five minutes,” Scout mumbles, shifting impatiently in her seat. I admit, I hadn’t expected for the jury to deliberate this long. In most cases like this, Reverend Sykes warned me that the odds may not skew in our favour, no matter how great a defence we were able to procure. But perhaps the fact it is taking them so long to decide is a good omen. Maybe there is some hope for Tom after all.

“There are things you don’t understand,” I briefly reply to Scout. She holds my gaze for a moment and opens her mouth as if to argue, but seems to decide against it. Just as well. I don’t have the energy to explain it to her now. She is naïve and young; she wouldn’t understand. At any rate, there are other things on my mind right now; Tom Robinson, his pending verdict, even Atticus…

I shift my attention to the courtroom floor, gazing to where he nervously paces back and forth.

He seems to be lost in thought, pausing only every now and then to push his horn-rimmed glasses further up the bridge of his nose. I can only imagine how Atticus must be feeling right now… this case has been worrying him sick for the past few months, consuming his every thought. The amount of time and effort he has put into defending a man he barely knows, owes nothing to… it’s nothing short of admirable.

I feel a pang of guilt as I reflect back to a time where I would chastise Atticus for his detachment and lack of involvement, refusing to retreat from my treehouse in a desperate bid for his attention. He would always have his nose buried in some book, often too busy or, as he would say, ‘too old’ to play with me and Scout. Then again, Scout always had her time with him at night where they would read together. I had grown up with all these people telling me my father was a great man, yet the way I saw it, he had nothing to show for it… until now.

Here he stands, putting his reputation and his credibility on the line in a fight for justice. A fight that is by no means easy and where there is no certainty he will win. Regardless of the outcome, the memory of him standing before the court just hours ago, valiantly defending Tom’s innocence, makes me glow with pride. Not a single trace of the cowardice I had originally accused him of.

It is only now I realise he is so much more than the reserved and modest man I grew up with; a man with courage and a pure heart. “This court will come to order,” a deep voice echoes through the court room, bringing me back to reality. The room falls silent; the white folks on the floor and the Negroes alongside us on the balcony all ceased to whisper. The tension hung thick in the air as we all waited with bated breath for the verdict…

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OLIVIA MAGNAY (YEAR 7)

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THE APPLE OF MY I Mia Campbell (Year 11) In 2015, it’s either update or throw out, but neither apply to Craig Silvey’s ‘Jasper Jones’.

Mia Campbell investigates. But first… let me take a selfie.

Welcome to generation ‘I’. A generation where the beeps and buzzes of iPhones fill the rooms of teenagers. Where the number of comments and likes on Facebook is paramount to social status. Where sending emojis and letters that are meant to resemble whole words is the done thing.

Even though modern teenagers exist in a cyber-world of monosyllabic abbreviations and acronyms, (#getwithit), we still experience the full version of the intricacies of relationships.

Whilst teen romance may begin with a snap chat and finish with a WTF, one must not underestimate the emotion that has existed between the two. Likewise, do not be fooled by the teenage 'attitude' of IDC when confronted with toxic family issues.

Craig Silvey's multi award-winning novel Jasper Jones tops the bookshelves, rams the hard drives and fuels the minds of the curious. It invites the unsuspecting reader to take a shameless, open look into the private lives of a group of Australian teenagers growing up in the 1960s. Between them, the group confronts a variety of issues ranging from discrimination to authority to relationships while trying to unravel the mystery of a dead school girl.

Although set five decades ago, its relevance and themes are so timeless, I myself could have stepped into the book and been inconspicuous to the reader.

Being a teenager is intense alright, and we go through stuff no one has ever experienced before… like love. The character Jasper Jones knows love, which is probably the only good thing in his troubled life. Being half Aboriginal, he is blamed for any crime that occurs in the narrow minded town of Corrigan. But, when he and main character Charlie Bucktin stumble upon the body of Jasper’s beloved Laura, we see the loving side of him.

After deciding to dispose of the body to shield Jasper from suspicion, Charlie describes, "as her leg rises, her hem spills, and Jasper pauses to adjust it, pulling her nightdress down to where it should rightfully sit” (p37).

A soft spot is hit in the reader when the realisation sets in that Jasper, yes a teenage boy, has actually taken care to preserve the dignity of a girl who will never be able to thank him. It is honour and respect at its finest; a beautiful component of this massive concept of young love.

OMG, it’s enough to make even Siri's voice quaver!

Jasper, with his tough-guy persona, killer abs and tan, (#hottie), would be considered a 'player' by 21st century teen girls, I mean, “He’s had actual real sex!” (p7).

On the contrary, his tender gesture proves that he feels a great depth of love. Such teen love has transcended throughout the centuries making it as relevant today as in the 60s. In fact, this is the very love that caused the death of Romeo and Juliet and many a modern teenager’s high school education.

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Craig Silvey further explores young love through Charlie. Not tough and not sporty, but humorous and sharp, Charlie relies on his quick wit to charm his 'crush' Eliza. Fumbling and bumbling his way through several innocuous encounters with Eliza is certainly not era specific! In fact, if Charlie were here now and sent a text saying, "Can I fetch you a bun?” it would probably autocorrect to "Can I feel your bum?" (#cringe).

Charlie’s determination to impress Eliza is endearing and something we can all relate to. Then and now. He questions his every move and ‘spell checks’ his every comment. In her company one day, Charlie divulges to the reader his barrage of thoughts including, “Should I hold her hand? Should I do that? I should. I should do that. But my palms are sweating. Profusely. Surely that would be bad.” (p116) How sad that Silvey has to contrast the optimism of young love with hatred and conflict within the Bucktin family. The issue of family feuding is not uncharted territory. The sound of screaming teens and slamming doors has resonated over the decades.

Charlie experiences this family anguish first-hand when his mother forces him to dig a hole of “roughly the diameter of my [his] arm span” (p124) as punishment for sneaking out to hang with Jasper. As his blisters bubble on his hands, so do the vengeful thoughts in his mind.

Fuming, “I [Charlie] scowl and shick the spade into the earth and imagine I am slicing clean through her neck.” (p125). I feel his pain… as does any other teenager who has had their iPhone confiscated for a week.

Charlie’s mother is the thorn in the family’s side as her unhappiness taints the interpersonal relationships within the unit. The pinnacle event that breaks the Bucktin’s is when Charlie catches his mother in a compromising position with another man. Shocked and startled, “I [Charlie] step back. My mother has awkwardly pulled her dress back on. The other man slinks back in the seat.” (p323) This is a particularly prevalent issue nowadays as extra marital relations and divorce continue to increase. In sharing this issue through the eyes of Charlie, readers are positioned to side with adolescents, allowing an understanding of our suffering and confusion when such or similar family events occur now as they did back then.

As teenagers, we feel the joy and the pain of relationships, whether it be the beauty of young love, or the bitterness of family conflict. We did in the 60s and we do in the noughties. And even though it seems like nobody ever understands us teens, one thing is for sure – Craig Silvey does.

He manages to put our feelings into words in his masterpiece Jasper Jones… now I wonder if there’s an emoji for that?

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ELOISE MAKIOL (YEAR 11)

PENNY CROTHERS (YEAR 9)

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VIA LIM (YEAR 11)

ELOISE MAKIOL (YEAR 11) Thank you to everyone who has contributed to Stylus 2015. It’s been fun!

Maggie Wu Executive Editor (Editor in Chief, 2015) Alexandria Harris Executive Editor (Editor in Chief, 2015) Thank you also to Head of English Miss Layton and Ms Smith (Secondary Art) for their help in selecting contributions for the magazine.

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NOTES

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St Margaret’s Anglican Girls School 11 Petrie Street Ascot QLD 4007 Australia Telephone: +61 7 3862 0777 Facsimile: +61 7 3862 0701 mail@stmargarets.qld.edu.au www.stmargarets.qld.edu.au St Margaret’s School Council Ltd ABN: 69069684019 CRICOS Code: 00511K A School of the Society of the Sacred Advent