2012 Edition
Lorraine O’Brien, Editor
Editorial
Welcome to the 2012 edition of Impressions, an annual publication
of exemplary student literary and visual art work at Christ Church
Grammar School. The new format was designed to showcase
students’ work in a vibrant and engaging fashion, whilst honouring
their artistic expressions and emulating the School’s ‘motivated to
become, free to be’ message.
Included in this anthology are prize winning works from the
English Department’s Creative Writing competition, the P.D.
Naish Poetry Competition, the Upper and Middle School
Creative Prizes, and the Art Department’s annual exhibition.
Stories include one that captures the hope and determination
of a young schoolgirl, living in an oppressed society; another
the repercussions of cloning; then there is the depiction of
heroism of soldiers fighting in a war or the bravery of Beowulf.
The wide-ranging subject matter of poetry can be summed up
in the title of Christian Fini’s “Youthful Aspirations.” Prose and
Poetry is juxtaposed and balanced with examples of student
photography, painting and sculpture. Luke Kolbusz’s photographic
print, the layering of multiple exposures, seems to sum up a
student’s varied impressions of school life, from inner reflection
to direct engagement and emphatic vocal expression. I wish to
congratulate all students who have contributed to this fine body of
work. I hope you enjoy the read.
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Their faces basked in an electric glow ...
Alistair Morgan, excerpt from ‘Impressions’ pg 24
Tashi Stewart, Year 11
Photographic Print
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They said that the
land is rough and
strong
And the water is
pure and calm.
But the earth can be
still and tranquil too
And the waves, like
raging bulls.
Alexander Theobald, excerpt from ‘Symbols‘ pg 16
Thomas Pennell, Year 8
Mixed media
Thomas Pennell, Year 8
Sculpture
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Louis Payne, Year 12
Mixed Media
Oliver Kruk, Year 9
Glass
Thomas Golovoda, Year 11
Photographic Print
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Andrew Jian, Year 8
Painting
Charlie Offer, Year 7
Print
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It was rolling slowly towards me, a rising
wall of water.
Thomas Wright, excerpt from ‘A Day at the Beach‘ pg 54
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Aiden McDougall, Year 12
Mixed Media
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Alexander Yellachich, Year 11
Conscience
Concealed in minds
Lying dormant in times of passivity.
Lurking in the shadows of our psyche,
Creeping silently through liminal space.
Emerging into the realm of awareness
Wise words whispered,
Its work is done.
Crawling back into contemplation
Quivering quietly in the depths of the
mind.
Jabbing incessantly at my thoughts.
Implanting ideas
Advising for,
Advising against
Urging
Pushing
Wailing!
Buzzing!
Nathan Debnam, Year 12
Photographic Print
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SHRIEKING!
A battle of morality
With no escape.
Like my shadow, always by my side.
Ah! But what would I be without you?
My saviour on countless occasions.
Guilt, a thing of the past
A distant sensation long forgotten.
My noble adviser, my moral advocate
Ever-present.
But when conscience lies discarded,
Passions run rampant,
Dark desires break free
Impulses of greed,
Of selfishness,
Are left to brood
And Breed.
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Billy Sing –
The Gallipoli Sniper
Angus Dickson-Collins, Year 8
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A century ago, the bushman was the hero,
Of the Australian boy, said Bean, the arts of
the bush are his ambition,
He learns of half the arts of a soldier by the
time he is ten years old,
This a hundred years ago, said Bean.
For Billy everything came naturally, he aimed
to shoot to kill,
And when he fired he killed,
He then refined his shooting skills at the
Clermont Rifle Club,
Such was Billy Sing.
To sleep in any shelter, to cook meat, to bake
a damper,
To catch a horse, to find his way, by day or
night to ride,
I’m reminded of Billy Sing, half ‘Chink’ by his
birth,
Born at Sandy Creek, near Clermont in 1886.
And then came 1914, one of Bean’s boys
came from the bush,
Billy Sing was his name,
From Clermont town, where gold was won,
In far North Queensland.
Billy’s Dad, a Chinaman, taught him from an
early age,
To be self sufficient, to shoot straight, how to
stalk small game,
To observe well, and watch the signs, of the
animals in sight.
As well as the birds in flight, by the waters of
Sandy Creek.
From his Mother an English woman, again
from an early age,
She taught him perseverance and patience,
Together with a desire to learn, Billy won an
education prize,
Such was his education in Clermont town.
His Dad, he was a Chinaman, the racial taunts
came thick,
But Billy was intelligent and did his work well
at school,
There weren’t the opportunities that boys
have today,
So Billy at fourteen years of age a drovin’
went to work.
As well as being a stockman, he worked as a
station hand,
A horse driver on a team, and a musterer,
His love to hunt and shoot, helped to fill in
his days,
Sitting quietly at a waterhole at the twilight
of the day.
The cooees rang the bush, as they rode to
join the ranks,
The 5th Light Horse accepted Sing, because
he could ride and shoot,
The old AIF didn’t care about a man’s colour
or creed, if he were Australian,
And measured to the mark, he was accepted
for the task.
He’s only a bloody Chinaman, but we don’t
really care,
He’s a tough fair dinkum bushman, spent his
life a drovin’,
Down by Sandy Creek, far away from here,
He can ride and hunt and shoot.
So Billy sailed to Gallipoli, where he duelled
with Johnny Turk,
Up there on Bolten’s Ridge, with an observer
as a mate,
He sent two hundred Mehmets to their
paradise,
But the trauma and the hardships took their
toll in later life.
As I look upon his tombstone, Bean’s hero
from the bush,
Of this man from long ago, I’m remembered
of those bushman,
Who were willing to have a go, from far
distant places,
We have now all but forgot, but who made
this country,
Through their perseverance and grit, an
inheritance to us,
From them, to us, we will not forget.
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David Ng, Year 12
Restart
I had to leave then, so it seemed,
To make the move to the debris,
Where stories of fortune and fame,
Are little more than a misty haze.
The sunlight burns through the peaceful
dark,
Clawing through the cracks of half-bent
shutters,
The grime perverting once white walls,
Clings to the light with a tenacious hold.
Hunkered down beneath the sky,
The sound of cars and passers by
Like white-noise to the untrained ear,
Squeals like a baby; fuels my fear.
Where am I now, what room am I…?
Oh yes, that’s right, Room 101.
The bed is one without a base, yet
Pillows fluffed – sheets folded down,
Seasoned wallpaper curls its edges,
Where floral patterns wriggle astray.
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Is this the place where I should be
And how should I begin?
(Perhaps this was a foolhardy path)
I hear you clearly like a drum
You said: ‘Work here is still around,
You must just find where it is found.’
But no,
Out here compared to where
The cattle roam and sparrows sing,
The jobs are broad and vast and wide
For those who survive the battle zone.
Talking heads scurry down roads,
Not one turning to look at another.
Of no great matter – I’m not important
I wouldn’t know where to begin.
So here I am, sentenced indefinitely,
To seek out what I came to find,
But I grow old, I am unsure,
If I have the ability to comply.
Of restless nights in cheap motels,
And neon lights and city cars,
Come, let us go outside,
To meet strange people in the bar.
Richard Taylor, Year 12
Charcoal drawing
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Hope
Albert Qiu, Year 9
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Tears dripped to the ground.
The last board was nailed in by soldiers. The
building that had once held their secret
school was unusable. Sadia watched as
they ripped apart the drawing that she had
written on a flag to symbolise their school.
She turned away from the dusty window in
despair. The textbooks under the window
sill caught her gaze, covers torn and bent
in various places. However, the multitudes
of pages within the books were still clearly
legible, her pride and joy. Her mother had
tried to dissuade her from keeping the
books and attending the secret school,
but to no avail. She trudged off in anger to
her bedroom in the cellar as the soldiers
marched off.
Sadia lived with her younger brother and
mother in a small house. Outside, the sun was
shining and it was a pleasant day, a gentle
breeze rippling gently through the village,
but she was far from happy. She could never
be with the soldiers ruthlessly patrolling
every corner of their town. Where was their
freedom? She tried to show her brother how
to write the letter G. He finally got the hang
of it when the pencil fractured. Sighing, she
told him that she would help when she came
back. She gathered her textbooks, hid them
in a bag of fruit and hurried out.
Sadia sprinted to the bookshop as the town
clock chimed, hurriedly knocking on the
door with a secret pattern and rushing down
the stairs into the basement. Panting, Sadia
pushed through the creaking door into the
makeshift classroom set up in the basement.
Her best friend was already sitting down and
she moved along the row to let Sadia have
a seat. Sadia smiled gratefully and opened
her textbook, squinting in the dim lighting
supplied by the single naked bulb dangling
from the ceiling.
She glanced enviously at her friend’s
mathematics textbook which was sitting
on her desk, proudly displaying 3rd Edition.
She almost had enough saved up ... just a
few more days of working at the rubbish
dump. She focused on the chalk on the wall
as the teacher, her friend’s father, explained
geometry to the class. The confined space
of the classroom was stuffy and cramped
and there was always one student at the
doorway, watching out for the feared patrols
that occasionally passed by. They always
exited the classroom in small groups so as
not to raise suspicion.
The teacher was halfway through drawing
a diagram of a circle when the light cut off.
The student sentry sprinted from the door
to his seat and tried to hide his textbook,
as did the rest of the class. Heavy footsteps
could be heard outside and a loud
banging noise echoed in the basement.
All the children turned. The creaking of
the door shattered the silence. Suddenly,
the door was flattened. Soldiers stormed
into the room. The law that declared that
children could not be educated had clearly
been clearly violated and the teacher, her
best friend’s dad, was taken away. The
soldier glared at each of the children and
told them in a harsh voice that if they were
seen together ever again, they would be
shot. The textbooks were ripped from
their hands and pencils snapped. Her best
friend broke down next to Sadia, tears
falling onto the precious few pages left of
the textbook. Sadia tried consoling her, but
she broke away and sprinted up the stairs.
The class slowly packed up the remaining
shreds of their books and trudged upstairs.
When Sadia got home, she was in no
mood to talk. Her mother opened her
mouth as if to say something, but Sadia
held a hand up and walked dejectedly to
her room. She sat on her bed, head down.
Why wasn’t anyone stepping in? It wasn’t
fair. She wished that her father, lost in a
mining accident, would turn up now. She
needed someone to stand with her against
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the corrupt soldiers who imposed their
power upon the town.
She couldn’t talk with her friends because if
communication between fellow classmates
was discovered, the consequences would
be hideous. Sadia sighed. If no-one was
willing to help her cause she would do
it herself. She checked the secret hoard
she had built into her wooden bed. She
counted the multitude of coins and notes,
as she did every night. There was almost
enough for the book she had been saving
up for: 3rd Edition Mathematics. She hid
the money back under the bed and left
a note on the back of the door telling her
mother that she was going for a walk.
She ambled through the meandering
passages of her town. Upon seeing the
alley where the secret shop was, her
eyes lit up with excitement. In just a few
days, she could own the maths book.
She climbed the stairs up to the kind old
man who owned the shop. However, the
imposed death threat made him more
paranoid and he pretended to sell novels.
She wanted to have a look at the book
before she bought it and used a secret
code tapped out on the desk to tell him.
The hunger for knowledge in Sadia’s
eyes rekindled and she ran back home,
making sure she wasn’t found in the
secret bookstore.
Unexpectedly, she slipped on a thin
patch of mud. Picking herself up, she
heard raucous laughing coming from the
direction of a soldier patrol. Telling herself
to calm down, she looked down – and saw
a 20 rupee note fluttering in the gentle
breeze. Anger forgotten, her heart raced
as she realised that she could pay for the
book. She sprinted home, money in hand,
watching out for mud to avoid humiliating
herself, yet again.
She was soon on her way. She slid to a
stop outside the bookshop, but something
was wrong. The rebel patrol was tossing
out books through the cracked window
that landed on the street below as the
other soldier held the bookshop owner
for playing a part against the government.
She screamed, grabbing their attention.
She yelled at the soldiers for not letting
children be educated. The soldier holding
the bookshop owner turned to her, gun
loaded. She ignored him – he wouldn’t
shoot a child. She continued yelling about
how their children wouldn’t be educated.
And she saw the man raise the gun.
Loud shouting and screaming was the
first thing Sadia noticed when she woke
up. She was in hospital. Glancing out
the window, she rubbed her eyes. There
seemed to be some kind of protest
going on ... but what about? Then she
recognised her friends, holding up signs
and shouting about education. Shocked
to the core, she had a sudden realisation.
They weren’t protesting about lack of
food ... then she saw a poster with her
name scrawled upon it.
Help had arrived.
Tears of joy sprang from her eyes.
Then there was a gunshot.
The world spun around. She felt a jolt
against her head. Then pain kicked in and
her sight faded to grey as she fell to the
ground. People rushed to help her.
The hunger for knowledge
in Sadia’s eyes rekindled ...
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Beowulf Creative Writing
Clarence Wang, Year 7
14
Black clouds devoured the sky; thunder
clapped overhead, illuminating the wet
and drenched men. The dark clouds
blocked the sun’s rays from reaching the
boat, making men stumble and trip over
each other. The downfall was almost
unbearable even with the armour on.
The water was stinging our faces, soaking
our bodies, wearing us down. The salty
sea smashed onto the side of the boat,
rocking the boat, knocking men around
and spraying water onto our bodies. The
pungent smell of the salty sea hung in the
air. Coldness stung like bees, soaked men
stumbled across the deck, desperately
trying to find something to hold onto. The
rain hammered onto my armour making a
light drumming noise, seawater clung onto
my hair and face.
ropes. The boat surged through the ocean,
ropes grinding against the mast, the sail
blowing with the wind. We were getting
closer with each second so I told my men
to prepare to land. I licked my dry, cut lips
and tasted the salt of it. My skin was damp
from the torment of the rain.
“How far until we reach The Land of the
Danes, Wiglaf?” I shouted, trying to be
heard over the deafening noise of the
creaking boat and the rumble of thunder.
I jumped down onto the beach. I could feel
and hear the sand crunching under my
feet. The white tipped waves crashed up
onto the shore then give up and flowed
back into the blue, clear, pristine ocean.
I was trying to sort out the confusion
among the men when the drumming
of hooves suddenly interrupted me.
Not knowing what it was, I signalled my
soldiers to draw their swords. I saw eyes
darting around, trying to find the source
of the noise. A Danish warrior charged
down the hill, carrying a spear and p news
on Hrothgar.
A small, red headed, stubby man appeared
behind me. He was holding what seemed
to be a map. It was soaked and looked as if
it would fall apart any second.
“According to the map, Hrothgar should be
in sight ... now!”
The rain suddenly turned into a light mist,
clouds turned white and the sun brought
warmth to our bodies and what it revealed
was a magnificent sight. A sandy beach
then a rocky ridge protruded out of the
ground. Green grass lay like a blanket
across the ridge, hills plotted the land and
cottages dotted the field.
The sudden shudder of the boat startled
me. I grabbed onto the rough, course rope
to stop myself from getting knocked over.
“Beowulf, we have arrived at The Land of
the Danes!” Wiglaf shouted, trying to push
himself through the crowd of men.
“Lower the plank and get the men and
the resources onto the beach. Who knows
what awaits us!”
“Who are you and what is your purpose
here?!” the warrior man demanded.
“I am the warrior, Beowulf, and I have come
to rid the horrid beast you call Grendel!”
“Men, we have found land!” I shouted.
“Beowulf? I am sorry my Lord, I will
have men down here in a few minutes
to escort you to the castle,” the young
Danish warrior said and, with that, he
galloped away.
Cheers sounded from the boat. Men with
renewed strength ran and started to fix the
A short while later, five Danish warriors
escorted us to the castle. I glared at the
“Aaahhh… never thought I would see land
again,” Wiglaf exclaimed.
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colossal hall, the great studded oak doors,
printed with carvings of fearsome dragons,
heroes and blood lusted beasts. The
door, however, was locked and chained,
scratched and splintered. A man stepped
forward from the crowd, his long grey hair
swaying in the wind, his long embroidered
cloak dragging along the ground. His
forehead was wrinkled; his cheeks were
puffed up and drained of colour.
“Beowulf, I thank you for travelling to our
land to aid us against the fight against
Grendel. Tonight we shall celebrate the
arrival of Beowulf! Open the door of the
hall!” Hrothgar shouted.
The men of Hrothgar shuddered; the
thought of Grendel must have been
horrific. Two men appeared and walked
towards the locked door. They cut the
rusted chains with silver clamps and
the doors flew open. The horrid stench
of the dead seeped through the men.
Once inside it became even worse, blood
painted walls, limbs and body parts left
scattered on the tables, chairs and the cold,
cobble floor.
“Get the cleaners. Beowulf, come with me
to my room,” Hrothgar demanded.
Night came sooner than I had anticipated.
The smell of mead and rum filled the
hall. Drunken men laughed and flirted
with women. I looked out the window,
watching the murky, dark mire. Large
beams stretched across the roof, the fire
danced along with the drunken men. I had
chosen not to wear any armour for Grendel
did not. I also did not use a weapon
because Grendel only used his hands. I lay
on my back, resting and gathering my
strength for what surely was going to be a
mammoth battle ahead.
The fire suddenly flickered out, causing
the men to disperse, but it was too late.
The great oak doors swung open, revealing
a large, scaly troll. He lurched into the room
and seized three of my men and quickly
disposed of them. Grendel continued his
ravenous slaughter, blood cascading down
Grendel’s chin then slobbering onto the
floor when he shook his head. He swung
one arm wildly, knocking down a pillar
and sending the chandelier crashing onto
the fire pit. Grendel left a trail of thick, red
blood. His sharp teeth bit into the flesh
of the soldiers before he dropped their
lifeless carcasses onto the floor. Soldiers
ran in terror and dread as the horrid beast
gave chase. Grendel swung his arm in
an arc and caught one of the soldiers.
Grendel chuckled at the despaired man
then crunched his head. I recoiled in shock
as I saw the blood ooze out of Grendel’s
mouth. Then he stopped. I could hear
every breath he took becoming heavier
and heavier. Then Grendel began to retreat
back to the door. I seized my chance and
climbed onto a wooden beam. I jumped
off and landed onto the scaly monster.
Grendel fought back with renewed
strength. He swung his arm wildly, nearly
striking my head. Grendel knocked himself
into a pillar making me lose my grip and
forcing me onto the bloody, cobble floor. I
jumped back onto Grendel, this time with
a piece of broken wood. I pierced it into
Grendel’s ear, thrusting it in deeper each
time, making Grendel shriek in pain.
Grendel bellowed in rage and ran towards
the door. I grabbed onto the broken
chandelier and knotted it around his arm.
Grendel screamed in anguish as he realised
what I had done. He continued to run
towards the door, the chandelier dragging
behind him, creating bright orange
sparks that bounced around the floor. I
let go of him and pulled a chain from the
chandelier around a pillar. He tugged on
his arm, trying to get out of the hall. He
still had great strength and I was losing
the battle. I could hear the chain grinding
the pillar. I was about to lose my grip when
Wiglaf appeared and skewered his sword
between the chain link. I ran towards
Grendel who was almost out of the hall.
I grabbed hold of the studded oak doors
and slammed it into his arm.
“I am the slayer of monsters. I am
the bravest, the strongest, the most
courageous. I AM BEOWULF!” I shouted.
I slammed the door one last time with all
my might, shutting the door and dropping
the severed, still twitching arm of Grendel
at my feet.
Coldness
stung like
bees ...
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Alexander Theobald, Year 11
Symbols
When I read a poem about sunflowers
They told me it was about the joy of life.
“Why?” I asked the tall, scholarly man.
“Symbolism!” he replied, but I was none the
wiser.
They told me that the sun represents godlike power
And that the moon embodies mystery and
intrigue.
But to me the sun is just a great light in the
sky
And the moon is a beautiful satellite.
They said that the land is rough and strong
And the water is pure and calm.
But the earth can be still and tranquil too
And the waves, like raging bulls.
When I look at things, I don’t see symbols,
I see the beauty of what they really are.
So when I read a poem about sunflowers,
To me, it’s about sunflowers.
A State of Subsistence
Harry Smallbone, Year 12
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In the grey time, I watch with eyes
That have known life too well, have been
worn, by and by,
And faded, frayed by the anger of times
past, future.
We exist to be confronted, and in the
confronting
To fall back on the certainty of existence,
A moral compass shattered on the rocks of
discomfort.
I loved once, the red, vital love of roses
blooming,
Of a glittering pool of water, consuming
The stolen light of others.
I stole her heart, my Desdemon of grimy
gutters,
But that was long ago, yet she remains,
Lingering, a vague yet insistent stench.
Pretences swarm as grinning faces,
Cold touch of warm embraces,
Of briny smells in fish markets,
And late night charlatans, preaching
To painted faces, chipped puppets
Dancing on lonely strings.
And in the corners of my mind darkness
falls,
I feel the rage that beats against glassy
walls,
The trappings of hidden anguish, stale
society and
Finding no purchase, falls back into
obscurity,
Hyde to the Jekyll of simpering politeness
greeting
Half-forgotten acquaintances.
The grey flame flickers and gutters,
For where is purpose, where adventure?
Only twilight subsists, hiding the malice of
human hearts.
Rustling trees obscure all sight in the
deepening gloom.
In between the gaps of existence, I watch
and wonder,
The horror, the horror.
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David Ellis, Year 12
Rain
It was Saturday night. Party night. Residents
had been ringing non-stop complaining of
fights, noise and drinking, but we had been
sent to investigate reports of an overdose.
We drove down the narrow road, sifting
through crowds of inebriated teenagers,
chewed up and spat out by the party onto
the raw gravel. It was 1.30 in the morning,
but they littered the street. Girls clung to
one another, stumbling, trying as they
might to stay on their feet. Young men
in baggy jackets glared at us as we drove
through, oblivious to the half-blinding
spotlight and sirens. We weren’t welcome.
The party wasn’t as out of control as it can
get. There were no fires, no one jumping
off the roof, but the door had been kicked
in and indecipherable scrawl covered
most of the brick exterior. Climbing out of
the wagon, I breathed deep the smell of
vomit and sweet liquor that clung to the
air. “Bayden, let’s head inside,” my partner
said. We strode through the corridor of the
house, ushering aside tripping, wiry, drugbent teenagers. The electronic thrum of
the music throbbed in my head, pounding,
surging like waves against a reef. The
strobe lights were hypnotic, wonderful. The
disorienting combination of the two lulled
me into a dull, almost mesmerised, state.
Around the side of the house, beside the
asbestos fence, a couple of kids huddled
around a young man, a boy, splayed out
on the cold earth. He laid face down, still, a
pool of vomit around his head.
The howl of sirens grew louder as grim,
hooded teens trudged fearlessly through the
darkness, drifting back to their broken homes
or at least somewhere. Their fearlessness
was no show of bravery or courage. It was
the nerve of defeat. A monotonous feeling
of indifference, of not caring, of acceptance.
They had been brought into a tough world,
which they passed through aimlessly,
uncaring, beaten. It was hard to move
beyond that pitiful existence. I had been
there. I had done that. I knew how it felt.
I was raised in a small brick house in Carmello.
My father was a burly man, aggressive,
abusive. He was a mechanic but he spent
most of his time at the pub. Coming home
late each night, he would beat my mother
over the most trivial things. Like my father,
mum was a drunk, though I think she only
drank to escape him. I was the only child,
neglected and overlooked. I spent my
youth doing whatever I wanted, though in
retrospect I think I yearned for, needed, some
kind of structure.
I went to the local primary school, a small
place with only a hundred or so students.
It might have been the best time of my life
before things changed. People were nice.
Life was fun. I learnt things. Looking back
on it, I was a bit like Roald Dahl’s Matilda. I
was smart, really smart. My teachers said I
had a lot of potential. By Grade Three I could
read and write well enough, self-taught,
but my parents didn’t care. They scoffed at
my report card. Being smart didn’t matter
around here. I was destined to follow in my
father’s footsteps, destined to become a
mechanic. I was just like everyone else, and
by the time I reached high school I followed
the same path.
High school was different. By the time kids
reached high school their innocence had
been shattered. They had awoken to the
harsh reality of their life, no longer able to
live in a fantasy world with toy guns and TV
and they could grasp what was going on
around them. Now able to comprehend the
abuse, the neglect, our shit lives, we couldn’t
see ourselves going anywhere, and like a
self-fulfilling prophecy, we resigned ourselves
to any prospect of becoming something,
anything. We cared no longer. We didn’t
have a future. We wouldn’t become lawyers,
doctors or engineers. In our minds we had
nothing, and when you have nothing, you
have nothing to lose. We were reckless.
It’s easy to say I got in with the wrong crowd,
but then again, all the crowds were as bad
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18
as each other. We knew we were bad, and
we liked it. We usually just skipped school
entirely, spending most of our time at
Jimmy’s house, a broad-shouldered kid with
wild, brown eyes and olive skin. Jimmy’s
mum had died years back, though Jimmy
didn’t tell us how or what from, and his dad
worked like a mongrel to support them,
spending a lot of time away from home.
Almost totally neglected by his parents,
Jimmy was the craziest, wildest of us all, and
it was he who introduced us to fighting.
Fighting was a practical thing around where
we lived. It came in handy to know how to
fight and if you couldn’t fight yourself, you
had to at least know people who could. We
were all fighters, though Jimmy was the best
of us all. His older brother and his friends
were mostly meth-heads now or were in jail,
but they used to teach us all how to fight. We
looked up to them and they looked out for
us. Afternoons were spent fighting out the
back of his house. We fought until we were
bloody and bruised, until we could stand no
longer. We held no grudges. After the fights
we would clean each other up and sit back
with a tinnie, watching the rest of the fights.
All kids these days do martial arts and that,
but I’m still not sure exactly why we did it.
Perhaps it was some kind of unconscious
longing to feel something other than the
pain we felt at home – a kind of escape from
our shitty, hopeless lives. Perhaps we were
just angry, testosterone-fuelled kids with
nothing better to do. I didn’t think about it
too much, we just did it. It was normal.
By the time we were seventeen we were
decent fighters, but we weren’t exactly
sure what to do with ourselves. We
were more aggressive than ever, angrier,
more volatile. It was as if each emotion
was intensified by a scale factor of ten.
We needed our fight club, but Jimmy,
the glue holding it together, had left
with his Dad who had bought into the
mining thing, getting a job up North.
Without him, it just wasn’t the same.
Our aggression remained, but with
our sole means for exorcising it gone,
we all harboured an immense rage.
It was dangerous.
It was a Friday night, hot and humid, the sort
of day when the Fremantle Doctor never
arrives. We felt restless, jittery from the crack
the half-dozen of us had smoked back at
Max’s place. We were on edge and the night
only seemed to intensify the feeling. The
moon was a sliver, the light filtered by the
sparse foliage of Eucalypts overhead. Cicadas
clicked on either side of the road anxiously, as
if waiting for something to happen. Striding
forth, indifferent to the uneasy faces of
onlookers, the light cast six hooded shadows
over the road. Cigarette smoke hung in the
air, its sweet aroma poisoned as we passed
fags and cheap wine back and forth between
one another in silence.
The fighting continued despite his
absence, taking a more reckless turn. It
was different now that we didn’t have
Jimmy’s place to fight. It wasn’t the same
kind of atmosphere. We didn’t fight one
another, mopping each other up after each
fight, grinning at one another maniacally.
We were looking for fights and we were
bigger, stronger. What we didn’t realise was
that we could do some serious damage.
I felt tense, alert, almost irritated. We’d heard
there was a party a few streets away. As we
rounded the corner my eyes darted from one
side to another. There it was, number 37. We
walked inside, heads held high, unchecked
by the people at the door. They knew who
we were. On edge, buzzing, humming with
energy, we were looking for a fight and they
knew it. We spotted him.
We went out one night, aimlessly roaming
the streets, looking, waiting for something
to happen. That’s what our existence had
come down to – a wearisome searching for
something to do. After all, we had nothing.
A few of us had a job, but most of us were
on the dole or still living with our parents,
having dropped out of school. Regardless,
there was no overarching purpose to our
tedious, wandering lives.
He was muscly, perhaps a football player, and
handsome too. He wore a white, buttoned
polo and a burgundy jacket hung off his
wide shoulders. He didn’t fit in around here.
He was something else. A pretty girl stood
at his side, blonde haired, curvy. She seemed
to think he was funny. He looked so nice and
so perfect that it angered me. The others
nodded towards him, pulling their hoods
tight around their faces.
Laurence Vanderhor, Year 9
Charcoal drawing
P
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Max grabbed the girl tight, whispering smut
into her ear, telling the kid to clear off unless
he wanted trouble. Just as expected, acting
nobly, he stood up for the girl, pushing back
at Max, and with that he was done. The five
of them lashed out like pit bulls as I stood
transfixed. Max hit him with a clean right
and blood spewed from his crooked nose.
As he stumbled backwards, hands flailing,
the pit bulls moved forward menacingly.
A second punch saw him tip backwards
and with a sickening crunch, his head hit
the concrete floor.
Blood gushed from his open head and his
eyes gazed upwards unconsciously. The girl
shrieked, “You bastards!” It had happened. I
felt like I had been kicked in the guts. I was
disgusted. Music throbbed, lights danced, I
stood there, transfixed. Horrified. “Jeez mate,
let’s get outta here now,” Max said, grabbing
me, shaking me, pulling me with him, but
I couldn’t go. I couldn’t tear my eyes away
from the pathetic sight of the young man out
on the floor, whose life we had just wasted.
That moment changed me. Although I didn’t
actually kill him, it still made me realise the
full consequences of my actions and unlike
the others, I had a conscience. I didn’t have
many options, but I was going to make a life
for myself. I was going to give up the drugs
and fighting and do something.
We drive through the crowd, the ambulance
has come and collected the dead kid. Heavy
clouds hang overhead, about to burst, but
the partygoers seem not to notice. Indifferent
not only to the weather, but to the tragedy
of the night, they are numb. I see myself in
them. I see that same boldness, that same
sense of indifference, of resignation. I look at
the pregnant clouds overhead. “Come on,
rain,” I mutter under my breath. If only those
clouds would break, pour and make those
kids feel something real.
Alistair Johnstone, Year 10
Soul
19
The baby’s fingers were closed in a loose
fist. He was barely bigger than the pair of
hands carefully pressing a stethoscope to
his bony chest. The infant didn’t put up a
fight. He was already too weak from clinging
to life. His dark skin was in stark contrast
with the white walls and the lab coat of the
doctor. The doctor was a tall man with thin
cheekbones. He withdrew his arms from the
incubator in which the child lay. He sighed
the sound of despair; he knew there was no
hope left for this child. He knew the baby’s
life would be over almost before it began.
This was the fourteenth child taken in for
examination, taken from the surrogate
almost as soon as he was born. #14 was
his only means of identification. Another
failed experiment for the company. The
doctor jotted down his observations on
a clipboard and strode away through the
white halls of the establishment towards his
office. He passed several television screens.
The news being announced was about the
war. It was always about the war these days.
Ever since Venice had been sunk, people
had been demanding action. Up until that
point, the cities lost had all been far away.
Far enough away to convince people they
would never dare attack closer to London.
London, the last safe refuge in Europe: it had
been quarantined early on in the war and
so far none of the enemy had managed to
penetrate London’s defences.
The doctor wasn’t proud of his work, but it
was necessary. After the public outcry of the
Venice incident, he had been chosen to lead
a new project. This project would centre on
cloning. Until this point in human history, it
had been illegal to experiment on humans.
Now, though, the people liked the idea of a
soldier who was expendable – no grieving
widows, fatherless children. A soldier was
born to kill. It seemed to be the perfect plan.
Yet so far, fourteen children had been born.
Fourteen children had shown excellent
signs of advanced growth and good vital
signs for two days. After the two-day mark,
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20
all of them had stopped growing, and
died. It was a tragic thing to witness once,
but fourteen times was too much. The
doctor tried not to think about it. What was
important now was his work. He had to
find a way to make this technology work.
In theory they could do it, yet there was
something missing. The doctor knew what
was wrong but he didn’t want to believe
it. The clones’ physical bodies were fine,
yet they had no spirit. They lacked the one
thing that humans had. Humans had souls.
They could fight for their life, even against
a terminal disease that ate away at them for
years on end. Humans fought. They almost
never just lay there and took what life gave
them. The clones didn’t fight. They had
no will to live, no will to survive. No soul.
The doctor didn’t want to be the one to
tell people what the problem was. When
he arrived at his office he found someone
waiting for him. It was the Chairman.
When the Chairman had gone, the doctor
collapsed in a chair. “Ten weeks?” he
muttered. “That’s impossible.”
Over the next eight weeks, the doctor
poured himself into his work. He stayed
up late at night. He tried out new ways of
getting the clones to survive. They needed
a soul; they needed a reason to start living.
Two weeks later, the ten weeks were up.
The Chairman was not disappointed. The
doctor wasn’t there. In fact, no-one had
seen him for fourteen days. The Chairman
didn’t mind. He’d never liked the doctor.
The man was always scared. Scared of the
war, scared of his work, probably even
scared of himself. A nurse came through
the door.
“Really?” said the Chairman. “Some people
have been giving me reports of how the
experiments are going. They say that the
clones seem to lack...soul.”
“Ten weeks? Very well, Chairman. I will do
as you ask.”
“Have you seen the doctor recently?” the
Chairman asked. “I wish to congratulate
him on his astounding result.”
“I’m sorry sir, no-one has seen the doctor
for about two weeks, roughly when the
clones started to survive.”
“Never mind, how many can you create?”
“A lot, Sir. We can have the production up
and running in 30 minutes.”
“Good. Produce as many as you can. Carry
on.” The Chairman smiled.
“Where are the clones?” he asked.
Thirty minutes later, the production line
started up, it was all connected to a sleek
metallic box, about six feet square. Tubes
and wires ran into the box, yet nobody knew
what was inside. It was the last thing the
doctor had made before he disappeared.
He said that if the box were to be opened,
the production would not work. Away from
prying eyes, inside the mysterious box, a
man stood. Tubes penetrated his arms and
wires were attached to his skull. He stood
there, never moving, simply staring at the
wall with his mouth open. His white lab coat
lay in a crumpled heap in a corner. He had
no willpower, no reason to live. Every time
the machine shook, he shuddered a bit and
the light in his eyes dimmed even more. This
was the secret to making the clones work.
The man was a shell, a husk of a human. The
gaunt man had no purpose. He had no soul.
... they had
no spirit.
“Well I assure you that everything is
going fine.”
“Very well, Doctor, carry on with your
work.” The Chairman stood up from his
seat. “I am sure you have heard about the
recent conquest of the enemy. Brussels
was wiped out in a matter of days. You
have ten weeks, doctor. We’re running out
of soldiers.”
“Yes, Sir. The doctor managed to figure out
how to give them... soul.”
“If you would like to step this way,
Chairman,” she said politely.
“My dear doctor, how are you? I trust the
work is going well?”
“O-of course, Chairman,” the doctor
stuttered. He couldn’t bring himself to
make eye contact with the Chairman.
“Everything is going fine.”
“Impressive,” admitted the Chairman. “Can
they think for themselves?”
“They are right here, Chairman,” the Nurse
replied, pressing a small button on the
doorframe. The electronic door unlocked
with a metallic whir and a clone came
through. Dressed in matte black armour,
he was over seven feet tall. His face was
completely hidden by a Perspex visor
and the only things left uncovered were
his hands.
P
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David Ng, Year 12
Contact
Reports had flooded back on the comms
to Delta HQ that 10 Platoon had been
in contact with an unknown number
of Vietcong guerrillas; they had been
attacked patrolling the Phuoc Tuy province.
Reinforcements were requested, as was
Starlight, the code word for the regimental
medical officer. It was time, yet again, to
help men who should not have even been
down there in the first place. Australia’s
part in the war had been as a result of US
intervention and again we were fighting
a war that did not involve us, did not call
for our aid – it was like the Great War, only
serving under the US as opposed to the
British Empire, yet still as pointless as the
former in terms of Australia’s involvement.
The war, initially colonial between France
and Vietnam, would send Australian
servicemen to fight for a cause that did
not involve them, hidden beneath the
façade of patriotism, and send them to
unnecessary deaths.
On approach to the contact, what could
have once been a small village was now a
wreck of splintered wood and straw, embers
still consuming the town. Passing through
the debris, the smell of the tropics had been
smothered by that of the burning village, or
even that of the charred bodies that were so
hastily scattered amongst the ruins. Voices
consolidated in the distance, nearing. The
sudden noise of gunfire erupted every few
seconds, shattering the silence as though
stones were being propelled through a
stained-glass window. As we rounded the
bend, we saw them huddled behind what
few trees and mounds of earth provided
them with protection from the unknown
enemy position. The feeling down there
was chaotic. Our view from the Jeep
allowed us to see the enemy holed up in
a couple of small bunkers and a trench
system on the far side of the plain, just on
the ridge, hidden behind the trees. Our
boys would have had no clue they were
there, if not for the gunfire. These men were
wreaking havoc on the diggers below. In
21
‘no man’s land’, between the two battle
positions, a few men from both sides lay
strewn on the open field, red staining the
earth around them. Once brave, courageous
and loyal, they were left abandoned by their
country in the heart of battle. Most of them
were dead, the only movement being the
occasional muscular spasm as their spirit left
their bodies. The few who were still alive
lay there at the mercy of the cone-shaped
shards of metal that flew over them.
It was beyond protocol to help any of them.
My job was simple – remain behind the
lines, out of battle, and provide aid to the
wounded. The role was pivotal and there
were only a few medics assigned to each
company. This meant the loss of one of
us was supposedly more important than
the life of one of the other men out front.
Supposedly. But how was I to provide aid to
the wounded when I couldn’t even reach
them? Back in 1964, just before conscription
into the cause, in a past life, I was a civilian
nurse with little experience in all things
military. Back in Fitzroy, there’d always been
opposition to violence. I witnessed the
aftermath of brutal stabbings, murders,
rape, of death. Now it was all thrown into
one, a blender of all things horrible and
wrong with the world. Whilst none of that
could have prepared me for what was to
come in the war, I had finally accepted I was
here and that it was my duty to help the
men who needed it.
Meanwhile, 10 Platoon could be heard
hurriedly ordering commands and moving
into a streamline formation. They were
engineering what could either get them
out of their detriment, or worsen it. All of
a sudden, a group of eight men bolted
from the edge of the main group, scurrying
towards a fallen log from which they would
have a greater chance of pinning down the
Vietcong in the bunker system. They glided
along the mud, one after another, down the
home stretch. The Vietcong, armed with
a mounted machine gun, let loose bursts
P
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22
of fire, yet none seemed to collide with the
brave diggers that they intended to kill.
However, the fifth or sixth man seemed to
hesitate and stumble mid-way between
the two points and only after the section
had crossed did we (and they) realise one
of their men was hit. He was down, but
alive, his hand covering the wound to his
upper leg.
The wounded Digger joined the rest in
the open field, helpless in the middle of
it all. He didn’t seem to care that bullets
flew over him in both directions and that
the enemy could take him out any second.
He cared about how he could preserve
his life. The loss of life in the war so far
was astounding, and as a medic I knew
the effort that went into saving one’s life
was huge, yet realised how easily it was
taken away. Everything this man had ever
worked for would be before his eyes, and
it could all disappear in seconds. A surge of
emotion swelled inside me. I couldn’t stand
by and watch this man follow the pattern
of so many others and be killed on the
open field.
Rocket fire emerged from the bunkers and
the men of 10 Platoon were in total disarray.
Smoke filled the area amongst the kickedup dust and earth and the air provided a
visual barrier from their Vietcong foe. The
forward section was pinned down and
their lone, wounded comrade was still
withering in the open at the mercy of the
gods. With the haze caused by the rockets
partially surrounding them, this was really
the only chance to commit. The distance to
the casualty was about a hundred metres,
an easy dash, but it would mean exposing
me to enemy fire for the whole period. If I
did manage to get out alive, I would cop
a whack by the hierarchy above. I figured
it was worth the risk. This man’s life was
as important as my own. He was out the
front doing it tough and whilst it wasn’t my
job to do what he did, I still hadn’t done
anything as courageous and sacrificed as
much as that man had, even if this battle
was for nothing.
Just to the right, my second-in-command
(2IC), Joe, was preparing the medkits and
was on radio telecommunications with the
rest of the platoon. Together, we provided
aid for the company along with another
pair that were still at HQ. Joe had been with
me since the beginning and we both felt
similarly in regards to why they were at war.
Joe had been conscripted a couple years
after me, but we’d been mates ever since. I
broke the silence.
“I have to go out there, mate,” I finally
pronounced. “The bloke needs help.”
“No, you’re not, bud,” Joe responded. I was
about to get defensive when he added,
“We’re going out there. I’m with you. At least
we can finally do something worthwhile in
this war, help out another bloke. Let’s go.”
Like a childish experience where you finally
get the toy you always wanted, a grin
emerged over my face – we were going
together. With that, we sped out from
behind the cover of the Jeep and dashed
towards the wounded soldier. With Joe
right behind me, I was at ease knowing if
something went down, he’d be there by
my side. And so we ran.
Pounding the pavement and with every
step, we neared the objective. We kept our
heads down and continued forward. The
men of 10 Platoon would have thought we
were nuts, but that didn’t matter. As soon
as they picked up on what we planned to
do, they provided suppressing fire towards
the bunkers. Joe and I kept going, bullets
pounding between our feet and into
the dirt around us and all was well. Forty
metres. Thirty metres. Twenty metres. Then,
with a quick snap of his head backwards,
Joe fell behind. He was badly shot, multiple
places too. He took one in the shoulder,
another in the hip and a third in the leg. It
didn’t look good at all and the worst part
was, as a medic, I knew he wasn’t going
to make it. Almost certain. It was all so
quick as well and a sort of guilt washed
over me; why did it have to happen? The
simple answer in my mind was, it didn’t.
Of course, that wasn’t what the Generals in
the armchairs back home thought. Why did
they get to call the shots when they didn’t
have to go through any of this? At least
tell us why we’re here… Reaching out, the
rough collar of Joe’s webbing grazed my
fingertips and, without stopping, I dragged
us along towards the front section. Gasping
for air, we struggled forward. “Nearly
there, Joe…”
The wound was worse than it looked
from afar and Joe would need a CASEVAC
(casualty evacuation), that was certain.
But we were far from out of it, even less
so than before, now that more men were
pinned down behind this log. Though out
of immediate danger, there seemed to be
no way of getting back. But this didn’t seem
to be on the front section boys’ mind, who
seemed relieved that their mate was back
and like a sort of wolf pack they gathered
round us in a protective formation, none
caring any more for their life than that of the
man’s beside him. Time passed and after
about a quarter of an hour, the command
came back that retreat was issued. In the
front section, dismay and frustration was
in the air. Their section had sacrificed
everything to get into the position and now
the order to retreat was issued, they were
stranded and still pinned down.
“What are we s’posed to do now?”
“Bloody hell, this is a load of bull.”
“Joe down there’s hit for nothing, aye?”
Angry words filled the previously heroic air.
Who could blame them? This had all been
for nothing and the men who were hit,
were killed. They undertook the ultimate
sacrifice.
Eventually, in what seemed like a
contradiction to the retreat, a couple of
Centurion tanks were welcomed to the
fray, soaking up the fire whilst shelling the
unfortunate enough fellows in the bunkers
out of existence. The other tank was called
round to provide cover for the front section,
which I guess now included me, and we
slowly crawled back to the platoon harbour
using the cover the tank provided. The tank
rolled up gallantly in front, absorbing the
now-redundant gunfire from the persistent
Vietcong. It was a waste of ammunition,
if you ask me. The helicopter came closer
into view and the arrangement of Jeep and
APVs filled the landscape. We were back, but
what had we achieved, and at what cost?
The injured recovered well and after a few
weeks were back in shape and sent back
out to conduct other futile missions in the
jungle. Joe didn’t make it.
Back at Delta HQ, as expected, I was blasted
for breaking lines and given a hefty penalty.
Even though I pleaded my case that the
casualty wouldn’t have survived without
me, it didn’t seem to matter. He was just
another pawn in a chess game. And he
didn’t survive. The next day, those who
could, regrouped into sections, with a few
fresh faces joining the battle-hardened
warriors who had already aged far beyond
their years. The war went on.
Jerome Scaffidi, Year 12
Photographic Print
Christian Fini, Year 11
Youthful
Aspirations
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23
The flourishing fig trees once seemed so
high,
Mighty under my young, jubilant feet.
Unaware of my teacher’s petrified cry,
I’d proudly bellow, “Hey, hey, now look
at me!”
I held youthful aspirations,
Whilst I’d conquered each single tree,
And every standing mountain that ever
confronted me.
How was I to realise it was only my
imagination?
Nowadays, I’ve come to acknowledge
confining, inconspicuous fence lines.
The mountains I climb these days,
Are far more gruelling, hostile and incessant.
The battles I now endure are armed with
harrowing, suffering.
In my own experience with age and such,
I’ve always yearned to return back
To where the mountains weren’t so high
And where the fountain of youth would
never die.
P
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Alistair Morgan, Year 12
Impressions
I
I watched and saw the children play,
I saw their fortress up a tree,
While below the knights did slay,
A dragon, killed by royal decree.
And the dragon wagged its tail.
I smelled the whiff of cooking oil,
And flaming prawns laid on a grill,
I heard a crackle of the foil;
A parent stole a prawn with skill.
And the parent burned his mouth.
I saw the dragon sneaking near,
I saw its desperate lunge for food,
I saw the dragon disappear,
And watched the chaos that ensued.
And the dragon ate its meal.
II
I watch and see the hollow children play,
Their faces basked in an electric glow,
They sit there killing sphinxes through the
day,
And try to get a hundred-streak combo.
I smell the whiff of chips put on to heat,
And fast-food burgers, supersized for free,
I see the family sitting down to eat,
Their waxen faces fixed on the TV.
I see a forlorn puppy crouched outside,
His empty food bowl lying at his paws,
His hollow belly carelessly denied,
His cries drowned out by studio applause.
Edward Kermode, Year 12
Mixed Media
The Country
Daniel English, Year 12
24
“I’ll tell you where the dead heart of
Australia is. It’s right back there in those
cities. Not out in the sand and the mulga
and the stones burning hot under the sun”.
David Ireland, Burn
The hill was covered in bush, gumtrees and
scrub covering the area. The road advanced
through the prosperous nature to the centre
of our state, the capital city, a place of rivers
surviving in conjunction with civilisation,
of bush living with the vast population
of humankind, a hub for environmental
awareness, a focal point for life. Just ahead
of me in the distance was the beautiful
sight of Norfolk Pines spread across the
suburbs. The school had decided to take us
for an excursion today, for Geography 2AB.
We were here to see sustainable projects,
designed to rehabilitate the environment
and such. These were the real sustainability
projects, not like a bush area sanctioned
off as a reserve by some farmer hoping to
increase his income from the government,
not Dryandra Village, little more than a
mound of dirt with a couple of trees which
they called a nature reserve. No, this was
the stuff that really changed the city, the
stuff city councils and people spent days
planning, stuff that changed their landscape
into something beautiful. It was here we
were to see the Victoria Park Contact with
Nature project.
P
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25
I was bloody sick of the country. My Dad
was a farmer and although he never would
say it to my face, he had always had some
aspiration that some day I might follow in
his footsteps. Yeah, I could use a handpiece
to some extent, drive a tractor, fix the
spokes on an air seeder and build a fence,
but that wasn’t what I wanted. It couldn’t
be. After five hours of crutching, I just
about wanted to kill my Dad for making
me do it. Yeah, he’d said I didn’t have to if I
didn’t want to, but he’d really appreciate my
help. He was bloody good at guilting me
into stuff. Nope, as soon as I could, I’d piss
off to the city, leave the old codger and his
stupid farm behind me. My little brother
could deal with his shit after next year. That
was the other thing. He’s always favoured
him. He’d seen three of my hockey
matches – three – all season. Guess how
many of my brother’s footy matches he
had watched? All but two, which brings us
to a grand total of eighteen. Eighteen times
he had cheered on my brother as he hit
the footy field. He’d even left me behind to
fix a fence by myself to go see one. I didn’t
say anything, didn’t think it’d be polite, you
know, it wasn’t what a real bloke would say,
you know, “No, you can’t go watch your
son play footy and leave me here to fix the
bloody gate.” It’d make me sound soft or
something. Dad had pushed me away, no
matter how many skills he’d given me.
Anyway, here we were in Perth, looking
around for this sustainability project. I
hadn’t been to Perth for years. We were
in a kind of dodgy part, but I’m sure it’d
get better as we got towards Vic Park.
There were a fair few parks around here,
green as anything. At home we were still
waiting for the rain to come so it was the
same as summer, dusty as hell. Couldn’t
believe how green this stuff was, the
grass sticking out of the ground like thin
slices of emerald. Looked like the green
tags we’d put on the sheep last tailing
season. We kept at this windy road, leading
us to this place we had only heard of,
white lines guiding us to our destination.
The houses were getting a bit better so I
was optimistic about this whole project,
thinking it’d be as green as anything,
Norfolk pines, or whatever you call those
trees with the leaves like whips, jumping
out over the horizon with wildflowers
along the ground with a touch of grass
to finish it off, you know? A natural retreat
from the surrounding suburbia. There I
was, pressing my head against the window
of the bus, full of hope for two years from
now, where I could happily join the place
that’d become my home.
This was it. Vic Park. We’d made it here,
about three hours’ drive from Narro.
Bloody hell. There was a light blue sign
next to the road awaiting us. The paint
was fading; the edges scratched off
seemingly by some kid who thought it’d
be cool to write “skope” on it. The project,
if you could even call it that, covered
about twenty metres squared. What the
hell had I been thinking? The ground was
nothing but grey sand, divots throughout
formed by the ooze that’d hit here earlier,
excluding the many faded coke cans and
McDonald’s packaging we’d found there.
The vegetation wasn’t much better. It was
nothing but scrub, crappy little bushes
that if weren’t dead grey were a dull green,
forever in a state of decay. The branches
held nothing but thorns, covered for the
most part in an orange dust, produced by
the fungus that was slowly killing them.
Small tufts of grass protruded from the
ground, like unwanted hands, reaching
from the earth at my hopes of seeing a
city of beauty and promise. Nothing here
was worth the space it had wasted, it was
an all-encompassing grey, emitting from
this centre of decay that was supposedly
“Contact with Nature.”
God, I missed the country. It’d taken an
unveiled ugliness, but now a realisation
had hit me. The bush, the farm, anything
that didn’t encompass this all-consuming
grey was home to me now and had
been always. What lay behind me was an
uncompromising truth of how lucky I had
been to escape that sickening abyss of
lies. The city – it was nothing but a dark
capital of pollution that’d even stained
the earth; where the bark was scratched
off trees revealing the flesh, red as blood
hidden beneath. The garbage bins were
all covered in some sort of black sludge, a
stench wafting across the cesspit that was
urban society. The road home, snaked up
the hill, tyre stains and pot holes spread
down the grey mass, like some sort of
disease. The sky lying behind – no blue,
no white, only grey – is there. Grey as the
city that lies beneath it. A slight drizzle
continues, the kind of rain that doesn’t
even put its heart into it, that just seems
to slip out of the sky like some clear ooze.
The sandy grey pathway also trundles up
the hill, covered in dry, black remnants of
what used to be gum, while brown tufts of
grass seep through the cracks between the
stones and dead leaves border the edges.
The country. It was where I’d grown up,
where I could see things properly, without
the smog of city life to interfere, where
things made sense to me, where life could
exist without hindrance, where a boy could
succeed at a man’s work. It was the last
place I would now think to call the dead
heart of Australia. The true dead heart lay
behind me.
P
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Beyond the Flags
Harry Smallbone, Year 12
26
Physically, people go through stages as
you slowly tease, then rip an emotional
reaction from them. The body squirms
uncomfortably, as if it were a particularly
nasty beetle plucked from its repulsive
dung-hole and slowly, inexorably
tortured under the light from a child’s
magnifying glass. Slowly, as the pressure
of peer scrutiny builds or the revelation
of some childhood transgression is
brought to light, they flinch visibly, a
tic forming and manifesting the results
of some inner neurosis. Finally comes
the crack, the yolk in this case being
some understanding of who they
really were beneath the tedious white
of the everyday. This was my current
fascination as I went through another
torrid squabble with my dearest wife
of some fifteen years. It was a dry day,
hot and passably sunny, the kind of day
when you’d rather be inside with the
air conditioning, but you find yourself
inexplicably at the beach with sunglasses
and burgeoning sunburn.
Although I’m proud that I’ve at least
made it this far without a divorce, I enjoy
reading people. I can’t resist making
them uncomfortable and watching
what really makes them tick. The distinct
tremor in my wife’s voice, and the faint
but unmistakable wobble in Charlie’s
upper lip, told me that this was going to
be another rotten ending to a perfectly
serviceable argument.
“I’ve had it with you! You and your
personality analysis!” she said, words
dripping with sarcasm and the bite of
years of maltreatment. By now we were
attracting the gormless stares of the
throngs. Attention moved from Johnny’s
latest mishap to the angry loony with
the patient, calming husband. Normally I
enjoy this sort of thing, but today Charlie
decided to burst into tears of bitter
recrimination and the pain from the
sunburn had made me irritable.
“Fine,” I snapped, standing up and taking
the opportunity to brush the sand
into their laps. “How I managed to get
married to someone as single-mindedly
boring as you I’ll never know. ‘I do love
to be beside the seaside’ indeed.” A bit
unnecessary perhaps, but I like to make
an exit. Pushing past the glares of the
unashamedly conventional, I made for the
sand. The beach at that point was covered
in pasty tourists and the faint scent of
aftershave and body odour from the
unwashed skin. I waded in the shallows,
feeling the salty tang of seawater as
it brushed against the burn from this
morning’s incident with the breadknife. I
cursed loudly. It was bitterly cold despite
the heat from the sunburn and a thicket
of tourists had started to gape openly at
the crazy man.
I left the crowds behind me at the
promontory, finding that peculiar
loneliness that ignores the humdrum
cares of the world and leaves only an
empty wistfulness. I stare transfixed at
the crashing ocean. The chill wind blows,
blows the scent of pickled fish and the
memories of a childhood spent alone in
places like this. I suppose I wasn’t happy
with how my life had turned out so utterly
run-of-the-mill, because I just stood and
let the ambience wash me out like so
many pathetic others. A surfer caught my
eye, barrelling down a corker of a wave so
freshly and exuberantly that it fair made
me laugh the laugh of prior experience. A
few more years on the grinding treadmill
of life and he’d laugh up here with me,
no doubt the product of a mangled body
broken from years of beach escapism. It
was a sobering thought.
I’d surfed myself, back when the fire of
youth had seemed inexhaustible and I’d
had the will to take what I wanted out
of the cruel jaws of fortune. It had been
after just such a wave that the call from
the grey men who plague such events
P
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27
had come, telling me of the death of my
father. “An early death” they’d called it.
Not early enough – he’d made his mark,
indelibly stamped on the fits of rage I
found myself prey to. Now I revelled in
it, but not then. Then I’d had a surfboard
and laughably serious thoughts of a
full-time career. The sea called me now
as it did then. The sun reflected off its
glassy depths, the wash and wash of
waves on the flat grey rocks. The surfer
had left by now – off to shallower waters
and the pub, a bar fight with friends that
I later learned led to his death. Why not?
I thought.
This time, I pressed on through the hues
of faint, green shallows to the blues then
out past the breakers. There is a sand
shelf just before making it out past the
waves. Here I stood, letting that chill wind
wash once more and feeling the sharp
rocks chafing underneath, always ready to
seize their chance and get into a scrape.
The unknown stretched out underneath
me, a vast emptiness devoid of human
interaction. There could be any number
of sharks, stingrays, even reefs with their
clown fish darting in and out of bleached
and bleaching coral. It was intoxicating,
heady, yet also different. I could feel ... an
atmosphere about this of all swims. The
seagulls cawed overhead, their dirty white
almost mocking in the midday sun. They
were as ever untouched, holistic almost,
eyeing all challengers off with beady,
hungry eyes. “You old fool,” I thought to
myself, leaping off the shelf and surging
forward with strokes as powerful as I
could muster nowadays.
The stragglers, apathetic surfers and
daring but slightly overweight fathers,
soon fell away and I was alone once more.
The tide ebbed; I was left drifting, drifting
through the darkening blue. I imagined a
seagull pecking at my stomach as in the
tales of Prometheus. I imagined a world
where I was alone; where I had followed
through on the promises I made as a
youth and run away, a modern Robinson
Crusoe, to that strange empty place on
the precipice of the promontory. I had
survived and subsisted on a diet of strict
reality and boredom to remain the loving
husband so desperately wanted by the
people I was forced to live with. The
worlds revolved in my head, like spinning
mobiles of dusty blue above a child,
innocent yet too damaged to take any
one of these worlds for his own.
... letting go
of my famed
presence of
mind ...
I woke from my daze to realise that I was
nowhere near any sign of people, ships or
rocks. Although not a poor turn of events,
I realised next that I was in the grip of a
strong current. This rip had pulled me out
far, far beyond the breakers towards where
the newspaper helicopters would travel,
bringing news of another horrific death.
I began to struggle the desperate
struggle of a man who for too long has
been complacent and suddenly realised
that this, right now, was his last chance.
The current seized limb and muscle,
catching it with sharp impact and then
twisting, spinning it like a ragdoll. I was
reminded of a fight with my father,
stubborn and brutally unwilling to give
the slightest quarter. Grapple, twist.
Flailing about, I took my first gulp of the
salty water underpinning this shadow
dance, filling my lungs with the sour
taste of defeat. Gasping and gritting my
teeth, I pushed on before finally being
pushed underneath.
I remember the first time I stopped
believing in superheroes, stopped
believing that anything could stand up
to the rage of life’s great enemies. I was
lying broken on the craggy sand, beaten
by classmates and left to hear their taunts
swarming in my head, around and around
and around. I remember feeling dizzy,
mouth hanging slack and open for spittle
to drip slowly into the unyielding grit
below. Someone would come, surely.
A superhero! When I was picked up by
my father it was affirmation that good
people existed and if you held out long
enough ... but it was futile, crushed under
the beating I received that night. There
are no superheroes, just people who
through their flaws seek to impose their
will on others and in so doing grasp at the
remnants of their own failures.
I imagined this as I went down into the
depths. A pain from my side reached
me – some gaudy fish had chosen to
impress what society existed down here
and cut along my midriff. Isolated there,
buffeted by the bullying current, I saw the
sun, a great white dome of shimmering
light. Illuminated in this way, I lay there
suspended on a breath of air, tenuously
alive and wondering. Is this judgment?
I laughed to myself; it was too pathetic
to be anything of the sort. I had merely
lost another race with success and the
jackals behind had caught up to me and
pulled me here to laugh at my misfortune.
28
The baleful eye of my misfortune now
glared at me through the water, transfixed
me and found me wanting. I took
another gulp of brackish seawater. Is this
my legacy? I kicked once more, fought
against the oppressors, imagined or real.
Breaching the water, I gasped, spluttered
and let the rip take me once more.
I moved for a time, past the feverish
waking dreams of faceless men sucking
me under, the sun burning my harsh
red sunburnt skin. In the moving, the
relentless eddies of the water, I felt anew
the urge to escape, to run away from this
all-too-real nightmare. But by and by,
this passed, and I woke to find the old
beach once more in front of me. Pulling a
twisted grin, I flopped out of the shallows
and was borne on to the sands. It was
ironic, I suppose. Letting go of my famed
presence of mind and willingness to fight
had saved me. It should have changed
me, and it did, until I saw my family again,
saw once more the pressed lips and harsh
voice of a wife scorned. Charlie looked at
me with eyes as cold as the icecream he
devoured with the speed of a ravenous
jackal and I was reminded once more
of what I had seen, and what I would
see. Banality.
“We’re going. You should have stayed in
the water.”
“Fine.” Wearily, I left all the same, back to
the doldrums of reality, the vacant smiles
behind lifeless eyes and a lifetime spent
in that quiet sarcastic entertainment
reserved for the supremely bored. At
night, I still think on the time spent in
that surging, raw current, full of what I
detested from my past and yet still most
desired. And at these times I sit there in
the emptiness and battle once more with
my father. And finally I wonder. Wonder
if there is a superhero waiting within the
darkness, who will take me back there.
Back down, down, to the deep.
A Picture of
My Love
David Ellis, Year 12
P
A
G
Please forgive me my crude, flawed strokes.
For all that I impart be but the feelings of
my heart,
And though my heart may see an end,
I may not play the part.
Now tell me, how shall I paint thee,
Thou nefarious angel of mine,
Who ate most like a maggot
At the creases of my mind?
Maybe I shall paint thee so,
You, the epitome of my woe,
Who through most wicked ways confessed,
Did nest a spot deep in my chest.
Or perhaps like this shall I convey,
As like a lover’s doting cliché.
For though I wear my heart on my sleeve,
Fitting words, I cannot conceive.
But then one day you swept afar,
My wounded heart left bruised.
Strong I stayed, and firm and true, though
My patience was abused.
But as the moon doth chase the sun,
So I chased you too.
And six months on, when we eclipsed,
I saw both sides of you.
‘Twas day in night and night in day,
But the bright night saw you true.
P
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29
Nicholas Rankin, Year 10
Digital Print
P
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30
Alexander Dunn, Year 12
Mixed Media
Rohan Golestani, Year 11
Painting
P
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31
In time it
will come;
not too
soon or
late.
Michael Zhou, extract
from ‘Koi Pond and
Willow Tree’ pg 64
P
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32
Arnold Chen,
Year 7
Sculpture
Isaac Pang,
Year 7
Sculpture
Michael Brand,
Year 7
Sculpture
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33
P
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34
... a place of
rivers surviving in
conjunction with
civilisation ...
Daniel English, excerpt from ‘The Country’ pg 24
P
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35
Angus McMillan, Year 12
Mixed Media
Jack Johnson, Year 10
Architecture
Robert Ivankovich, Year 10
Architecture
P
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36
Dewammina Dharmaratne,
Year 10
Digital Print
Jack Weir, Year 10
Digital Print
P
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37
P
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38
And in the corners of my mind
darkness falls,
I feel the rage that beats against
glassy walls ...
Harry Smallbone, excerpt from ‘A State of Subsistence’ pg 16
Brynn O’Connor, Year 10
Digital Print
Callum Hope, Year 12
Painting
P
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39
P
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40
Lloyd Drake-Brockman, Year 11
Painting
Luke Kolbusz, Year 11
Photographic Print
P
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41
P
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42
Lewis Oliver, Year 11
Photographic Print
P
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43
They needed a
soul; they needed
a reason to start
living.
Alistair Johnstone, excerpt from ‘Soul’ pg 19
P
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44
Justin Han, Year 12
Mixed Media
P
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45
Maclain Robinson Year 9
Nanna
She looks at me with eyes of knowledge
And for a second I think there is a memory
A warm, happy smile, a flicker of
recognition
But there is none.
In her confusion she wants to know me.
“How was your day?” she asks.
And again she asks, “How was your day?”
The information passes through her like
water through a sieve.
I knew someone who had made me feel
so safe,
Who felt safe with me.
She looks perfect on the outside, her
beautiful clothes starched and pressed.
But her mind is an empty shell.
She sits, gazing into a world she no longer
understands.
The strength and invincibility of the young
girl,
The woman, the mother and the nanna is
quietly fading
And all I can do is watch.
Timothy Chapman, Year 7, Noake
The Perils of
Snow and Skiing
The snow, a place that I will go
A desolate white expanse
That will only freeze your pants.
It is so cold that only the bold
Will dare to ski the slopes.
But if you ski feeling too carefree
Then you would be on the go
Like an arrow from a bow,
Straight into the path of a yeti
Spraying snow about like confetti!
Unless you enroll in lessons
And do not give up hope,
As you slip down the slope
Your skis would blur past my eyes
In a whoosh of surprise.
If you do go down the slope
With too grand a disposition
Soon it might become
A deadly expedition
And an accident might occur.
If you ski
Don’t take a chance
Or else you might end up in an avalanche.
So if you go, that is, to the snow
Proceed in a cautious manner.
P
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964
Cameron Chung, Year 11
46
We put our lives behind us.
We braved the seven seas.
We made it to your country.
And how were we received?
We knew the promises wouldn’t hold true,
We had hope; your government let us drown.
They didn’t let us in, instead
They turned the boats around.
200 strong, rocking on water,
Like tuna in a can.
Yet unlike fish, we yearn,
For firm, familiar land.
They dare say no; reject us
After we’ve lost seven to the sea.
We’re accused of jumping queues
(And although we won’t deny it) a life’s a
handsome fee.
There’s nothing left for us back there
We left our country for good reason
Our government?
Corrupt.
No family, no home. Persecution.
Matthew Edgar,
Year 11
Photographic Print
We put our lives behind us.
We braved the seven seas.
We made it to your country.
And how were we received?
Jordan Davies, Year 8
A Famous
Australian
Andrew S.W Thomas was an astronaut
Born in Adelaide, South Australia
He enjoyed horse riding, mountain biking
and guitar
He liked learning and disliked failure.
Andrew Thomas was a professional
scientist
He was in charge of the fluid dynamic
instabilities
He led a research department of engineers
and scientists
He was the manager of the test facilities.
Andrew Thomas was on the STS-77
The flight was launched from the Kennedy
Space Center
The crew deployed two satellites in orbit
They were sure to have an adventure.
Jacob Marsh,
Year 9
Charcoal Drawing
P
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47
In January, Andrew Thomas boarded the
Endeavour
He was to dock at Mir space station
He served as a flight engineer aboard the
Mir
He was sure to serve his nation.
Andrew Thomas was on the eighth shuttle
mission
He accomplished many things
During one mission Thomas performed EVA
In his accomplishments he was delivering.
Andrew tested and evaluated flight safety
After the journey they landed at the air force
base
He did inspection and repaired thermal
systems
Andrew Thomas finally found his place.
P
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Beowulf Recount
Keaton Wright, Year 7
48
Thick black rain bellowed overhead, sending
down torrents of ice-cold rain on its victims.
I turned to the bow and gazed through
the grey fog, but failed to see our location.
The salty spray battered my chainmail,
sending tension through the rope I was
holding onto. I licked my salty lips and
looked towards Wiglaf. The moment our
eyes locked, the short, stubby red haired
man nodded. Land was near. I smiled. The
monster that called itself Grendel, the beast
that terrorised peasants and ate the women
and children of the kingdoms, its end was
near. The boat surged through the waves
and onto the pebble coated shores, sending
a tremor through the boat and knocking
me to my knees. I turned to my right and
watched Wiglaf pull his way through the
masses of confused men. “We have arrived
at the land of the Danes, my friend.“ Wiglaf
smiled. I grinned. Never have I felt so good
to see land again. Suddenly the pounding of
hooves filled the air. I turned to my left and
squinted through the sun’s rays to where a
lone rider rode towards us. Wiglaf pulled his
gleaming sword from its sheath, but I waved
him down and pointed to the ship’s storage
area. “Unload the cargo, I’ll handle this.” The
man, no older than me, stopped less than ten
metres away, his rusted spear glinting in the
morning sun.
“What is your purpose here, stranger?” he
asked. I turned to my sides and beckoned my
men to approach.
“I am Beowulf and these are my faithful
companions. We have come to slay this
Grendel of yours.” The man stared aghast at
us, eyes darting around.
“I’m sorry,” he replied. “We will have an escort
very soon,” and with that he fled.
We were escorted to the kingdom by five
men on horseback. Ahead of us stood
Hrothgar, his grey cloak flapping in the
ferocious winds. “Welcome,” he shouted, “It
surely is an honour to meet you, Beowulf.”
Hrothgar stepped forth, reaching out his
hand in gratitude. I took it in return, my
eyes studying his drooped, grey face.
Deep lines crossed his skin giving a ghastly
impression. Black rings framed his eyes.
“We have come to free you of the curse
that prevails your kingdom. We have come
to slay Grendel,” I finally spoke. Hrothgar’s
eyes glazed over at the mention of the
name, almost as though it was too much
to bear.
Eventually I found my eyes darting
towards the great mead hall. The colossal
oak-studded doors were branded with
carvings of extraordinary dragons and
horrific beasts, yet the great building
stood quiet in the wind, neglected and
out of use although it attracted the great
beast, Grendel. Hrothgar followed my eyes
and ordered his men to cut down the
rotting slab of wood holding the doors in
place. “Tonight we shall feast,” Hrothgar
shouted. Cheers filled the starless night sky.
Hrothgar was right, someone would feast
tonight, yet who that would be was still the
unanswered question.
The candles burnt high, casting impossibly
shaped shadows across the walls and
the sound of singing was thick in the air. I
turned to look at my companions, the icy
wind spearing my bare flesh. They were
all armed yet as much as Grendel seemed
outnumbered, I could sense doubt in their
throats. Soon the troll would arrive and
the fight would begin – and soon it was.
Suddenly there was a humungous crash
on the large oak-studded doors, sending
spasms down the heavy chains holding
it in place. My men laughed at Grendel’s
inability to break them down yet my face
remained straight, knowing that he would
soon breach the small barrier. Another
smash and the doors creaked with strain.
One more blow, I thought. There was one
last almighty crash and the doors were
blown away as though made of parchment.
P
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G
Before us stood a mottled creature, a
deformed troll from the marshes, screeching
with triumph. My men advanced, but were
knocked away like wooden dolls. Grendel
screamed and tore off the head of my
nearest companion with his relentless jaws,
grinding bone, flesh and muscle all together.
Now it was time.
I launched myself at a barrel of mead and
knocked it into the flames, sending up spirals
of fire. Grendel screamed and went berserk as
I leapt onto his back and wrapped my hands
around his neck. Even with my long arms
I could not reach around the beast’s head.
His scaly skin grazed my bare chest as I was
swung around. Amidst the fighting I noticed
Grendel’s ear and how the eardrum sat on
the outside. I began to focus my attacking
there and the result was immediate. Grendel
screamed a blood curdling sound as my
hand was submerged in the blood of his ear.
His body spasmed and I was flung onto the
floor. I slowly stood up, grazing my knees on
the cobbled floor. My foot struck a rusted
chain, sending it clacking across the floor.
I picked it up and threw it at the retreating
Grendel, locking his arm in place. This was my
last chance to kill Grendel. I turned to Wiglaf
who stood behind me and pointed to the
chain. “Lock it in place,” I said. He nodded
and ran over to the pillar holding the chain
and thrust his silver blade into the soft wood
holding the chain in a locked position. I
strolled over to Grendel who stood wedged
between the doors, groaning in defeat. “I am
hunter of dragons, slayer of trolls and crusher
of curses,” I boomed. “I am Beowulf!” In one
swift blow I slammed the door on Grendel’s
arm, breaking it clean off and severing sickly
sinew, blood and bone. Grendel’s howls
filled the room and he limped off into the
cold, black night. The fight was over, and we
would be feasting tonight, yet for how long I
was not sure.
Max Welborn, Year 11
The Eight
49
The blast of the starter’s horn,
Always anticipated, yet
Always shocking,
Adrenaline surges...
The Eight sweep violently,
Boat jerking backwards beneath.
Eight handles rise as one, eight oars sent
to kiss
The limpid waterway, mirrored stripes of
oars flashing,
Hamstrings tensing, legs squeezing.
Blades square softly, poised to slice the
glassy surface.
Eight long oars touch the water with a hiss,
A gentle splash rising up from the catch,
A curtain of spray enshrouding the blade
in mist.
Eight burning thighs push,
Eight arcing backs heave,
Eight straining arms snatch,
Eight blades warp the oars,
Eight pairs of lungs stammer
For breath. Eight hearts hammer.
Hands driving and twisting,
Oars clunk from the foam.
The Eight slide forward, the boat
Glides backwards beneath.
Bracing to lead into another stroke.
Eight minds unite to fight,
Determined to conquer
Two thousand endless metres,
Two hundred fevered strokes.
Each race an epic contest,
A triumph of will.
P
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The Shooter
Samuel Stone, Year 12
50
The sound immediately woke him. The same
droning sound that had woken him every
morning for the past four years, four long
years. He reached over quickly to turn it off, as
if to spare him from the pain. He let out a sigh
and let his bed engulf him once more, gazing
at the ever-growing wet patch forming on
his celling, spreading like an ugly infection,
probably from the abandoned apartment
upstairs. Not that it mattered to him, he’d
be out of here soon enough. He rolled over
onto his right side once again to glance at
his clock. Still 6:30am. The same time he had
woken up almost every day for the past four
years, a never ending blur of days, neither
one differentiating from the day before, or
the day before, the same routine over and
over again. Not today, though. No, today was
going to be very different.
He let out a small grin, thinking of what lay
ahead of him on this very day. He could feel
his heart pounding in his chest, as though it
was trying to escape. The hair on the back
of his neck began to rise and he could feel
a cool chill running down his spine. The
sensation was brief, however, as he wiped
the grin off of his face quickly, as if ashamed
and scared that somebody might be
watching him, or even worse, that something
might actually make him happy. He clenched
his fists, remembering his anger, brushing
the tips of his fingernails against his palms
frantically, frail and weak having just woken
up. He gritted his teeth, grinding his molars
against each other, as if trying to grind them
to a fine powder. He continued to stare at
his clock, refusing to blink, as if he were to
blink or stop concentrating on the clock for
just one second, he would cause the whole
universe to collapse and fold in on itself. The
end digit flicked over, 6:31a.m. He could stop
looking. He unclenched his fists and took
a deep breath before sliding out the other
side of his bed. It had to be the other side of
the bed, it always had been. To get out on
the right side of the bed would almost be
unthinkable. He placed his feet on the icy
wooden floor before tiptoeing over towards
his slippers at the end of the bed. He could
see it was still pitch black outside, another
cold winter’s morning in Ohio. The dull red
figures that now read 6:32am offered the only
light source in the small damp room. Any
light that could have flown into the room
was prohibited by the large wooden boards
covering the windows above his bed, to stop
the cold coming through the seeping gaps in
the windows during the winter. Not that the
darkness mattered, of course. He knew every
feature and item of his room down to the
exact detail and precise location. He knew
he’d find the slippers his mum had bought
him five years ago, precisely at the end of the
bed, with the right slipper slightly ahead of
the left slipper. He slipped both them on; the
left foot first, as it had been since he could
remember. They were too small for him now
and he could feel the icy floor welcome his
heel with every step he took.
He flicked the switch next to the half
painted door, causing a light bulb to flicker a
few times before illuminating the room. The
room was strangely well kept and tidy, yet
still gave an impression of being dirty and
disorderly. The room contained only a bed,
a set of drawers and a mirror in the far right
hand corner to accompany them. There
was no mess or dust, no clutter or rubbish
lying about. Instead, there were two pairs of
shoes aligned perfectly next to the chest of
draws, with a small stack of books and neat
files next to them, arranged in alphabetical
order from Advanced Astronomy to the
works of Wittgenstein. The rest of the room
was empty. It was an eerie emptiness, like
that of a prison cell – neat and tidy, but
lacking any emotion or feel. There was
an abundance of colour apart from the
fading yellow wallpaper beginning to peel
away. No posters of bands or sporting idols
you might come to expect in an average
teenager’s room. The only artifact that
distinguished the room from a prison cell
was a single photo frame that rested on top
of the chest of draws pushed up against the
deteriorating wall.
P
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G
51
The photo frame contained two pictures.
The first photo filled the whole frame
and showed a young woman smiling
on the beach, probably aged between
twenty-five and thirty. The photo had
begun to fade, but clearly the woman
was beautiful. Her face had a pale tone to
it, perhaps emphasised by her strikingly
blue eyes and wavy long black hair. She
had a distinct smile, crooked yet attractive,
slanting towards a freckle on the left side of
her nose. The second picture was a small
Polaroid stuck in the left hand corner of the
frame. The picture showed the same young
girl, the same pale tone and blue eyes, the
same crooked smile and freckle, only this
time with a young baby in her arms.
He made his way over to the desk, walking
carefully to make sure the floorboards didn’t
creak and wake Frank up down the hall. The
last time he woke him up, Frank had made
him pay the price. He glanced at the picture
frame before quickly deferring his attention
to a heavily annotated calendar. A thick red
texta had circled today’s date: February the
27th, 2012. He paused staring at the date, as
if inspecting a fine work of art. He grinned
again briefly before remembering his
sadness, today was the day.
Some of the day’s first rays of sunlight
had managed to manoeuvre their way
through the buildings of the city and
through the small gaps of the boarded
windows. It wasn’t long now. He slipped on
his favourite jeans and pulled out a neatly
folded buttoned shirt from his chest of
drawers. He had to look respectable, he
thought to himself. He dragged himself
over to the mirror in the far corner of the
room and looked at himself with a sense of
repulsion. It was a routine he had become
far too familiar with. Past offends and insults
echoed through his brain as he scrutinised
himself. He could hear past and current
bullies taunting him in his head with rude
names and insults. He despised himself and
he despised them.
He was an ordinary looking boy of moderate
height, medium to large build and short
black hair. Like the woman in the photo, he
too had blue eyes and a pale skin tone. Only
these eyes weren’t so bright and striking.
They seemed tired and vacant, like the
beauty they once held had been possessed
by sadness. He clenched his fists and his
heart began to take off again. He gazed at
himself and smirked, he didn’t want to hide
it this time. He turned and looked at his
clock: 6:50am. He’d normally be dreading
the day ahead by now, scared of what might
lie ahead, but today he knew perfectly well
what was going to happen and it didn’t scare
him at all.
He moved out to the corridor and tiptoed
his way over to a small worn down table
by the front door of the apartment, scared
that every breath he took might be too
loud. The table had a small drawer in the
front of it. He knew that what lay inside
would define his life. Within an hour he
would be world famous. Within an hour
he would have his revenge on society. He
opened the drawer slowly and pulled out
a .22 caliber handgun. He stood there for
a moment, appreciating the pure power
that he controlled in his hands – a power he
could touch, feel and own. His moment of
tranquility was interrupted abruptly by the
sound of creaking floorboards coming from
Frank’s room, only metres down the corridor.
He grabbed the gun and chucked it in his
rucksack before racing out of the door. It was
time for school.
Past offends
and insults
echoed
through his
brain as he
scrutinised
himself.
P
A
G
A Day to Remember
Thomas Maouris, Year 7
52
It was Thursday morning, another day at
school. We started the day with French
where each member of the class had to
give a presentation on Life in Paris. None
of us was looking forward to the horrible
comments the teacher, Madam Lavender,
would throw at us when our presentation
had nothing wrong with it. The last time
we had to do a presentation she had
said that they were all rubbish and that a
ten year old could have done better. We
disagreed!
Madam Lavender hurried into the classroom
carrying all her posters on today’s lesson.
“Okay, class, I am expecting much better
presentations than last week,” announced
Madam Lavender in an arrogant tone. “Oh,
I’ve forgotten the role,” she said. “Class,
don’t move, I’ll be back in a second.” When
she had left the classroom, it began to feel
like a funeral. Everyone was moaning and
groaning about doing the presentation.
I then came up with the best idea I had
ever thought of. It was risky, but absolutely
wonderful! I was so pleased. I stood up and
announced my glorious plan.
When Madam Lavender finally came back
into the classroom the atmosphere was
completely different from when she had
left. Everyone was excited and buzzing like
they had drunk two litres of Red Bull. When
she was out of the room I had unplugged
the computer on which we had to present
our PowerPoint. When she called the
first student up and pressed the POWER
button, the computer didn’t turn on. She
pressed the button again and it still didn’t
turn on.
“Why isn’t the computer working?” she said
in frustration.
I shot my hand up and said, “Maybe you
should press the ON button harder.”
She was obviously not amused with my
hilarious comment like the class was and
gave me the evil look. Madam Lavender
stormed out of the room and went to find
the technicians. The moment she left the
room we all seemed to be thinking the
same thing, ‘Let’s plug the computer back
in,’ so we did just that.
When she come back into the room
with the technicians and explained the
problem, the technicians pressed the ON
button and the screen lit up! She turned
around and looked at us. We could see
the smoke coming out of her ears and
nose. “One of you has messed with the
computer,” she screamed, “If you own
up, none of you will get in trouble,” she
said. That was a total lie. She held us in
for recess, but no one said a word, so she
finally gave up and let us leave without
any punishment. All day I couldn’t wipe
the smile off my face. It was a day to
remember.
P
A
G
Lewis May, Year 8
The Lightning Bolt
Usain Bolt, the fastest man alive
The time he runs is a 9.5
He’s incredibly fast, just watch him stride
He walks around with so much pride,
He’s earned the nickname, Lightning Bolt
The speed he runs is as fast as a jolt
How he does it is practically insane
I’m telling you now, it drives me out of my
brain
Bolt’s records are so outstanding
Every training session so demanding
People must wonder how he does it
Hard work and training, you’ve got to love it
53
If he were to run at you, it would sting like
a bee
Usain’s training partner, The Beast
Will also make you jump out of your seat
The Beast trailing not far behind
Towards the end of the race he’s out of
Bolt’s mind
A true champion Bolt has become
A freak of nature, Bolt can really run
His achievements are recognised
worldwide
When he hits the track it looks like a glide
He’s so fast, just watch him fly
Faster than a plane up in the sky.
The five-time world champion is so out
of reach
It seems to be impossible to teach
His work rate is as high as can be
Kale Adamson,
Year 9
Vector Illustration
P
A
G
A Day at the Beach
Thomas Wright, Year 12
54
I was lying, gazing up at the radiant light
bursting through the clouds, rays of light
warming my skin, sand granules massaging
my back. I looked left; my mates Jack, Ben
and Steve were lying there, eyes closed,
almost religiously peaceful. I slowly turned
back watching the waves roll in, whitewash
flooding the beach, their intensity
uncontrolled and natural.
The day was heating up, the sun right
overhead, clouds clearing, allowing the
sun’s radiance to reach me. I felt my body
respond to its rays. My muscles relaxed,
my heavy head sinking deeply into its
sandy pillow. My skin began to prickle,
lapping up the heat as I pleasantly roasted
on that oven of a beach. I could feel the
hairs on my arms and legs extend, basking
in the glow. Every part of me was saying
thank you to the sun. Every part of me felt
vibrantly alive. I let my mind drift off. I was
seventeen and full of energy for life. I was
going to grab life by the scruff of the neck
and squeeze every ounce of pleasure from
it. I was going to do everything and go
everywhere. No fear, no apprehension –
nothing would stand in my way.
Without thought I jumped up and ran into
the lush deserted waters, water luxuriously
lapping up to my knees, the horizon clear
and peaceful. The surf was rising and I
would have one last run before home
time. School was looming next day and
I would make the most of this last day of
the Christmas break before my freedom
was curtailed once more. There was one
last chance for the next few months to feel
really alive!
As I paddled my board slowly out towards
the horizon, my mind lurched unwillingly
to the upcoming year filled with exams and
assessments, soccer trials, training sessions
and endless homework. It felt like stepping
onto a moving treadmill that would crank
up in speed as the months slipped by. I
dreaded that feeling of relentless pressure,
not being able to step off till this time next
year. Expectation was a ruthless taskmaster
permanently on my case.
I turned to look back to the beach and
realised I had drifted further out and further
down the bay than I had first thought. The
surf was better here than at any time this
summer. Suddenly the water beneath me
was rising and falling with real force. I could
see the surf crashing onto the beach. Jack,
Ben and Steve were on their feet. Their
mouths were working overtime, waving and
pointing in my direction, but the only sound
I could hear was the crash of waves on the
beach at their feet.
For a second I had a terrible thought.
Pointing arms and excited faces could spell
shark. I looked round frantically, surveying
the water beneath me, a deep empty space.
Then I scanned the surface, silvery blue
reflecting the sun’s rays. The telltale fin was
nowhere to be seen. The guys were clearly
pulling my leg.
I shouted towards the beach, “Ha ha!
Very funny!”
Then I saw it. It wasn’t a shark that they were
pointing to, but the biggest wave I’d seen
that whole summer. It was rolling slowly
towards me, a rising wall of water. I would
never out-paddle it. The daredevil inside
me decided it was death or glory. I turned
my board, gripped it with both hands and
prayed. As I felt the wall lift me to its cliff top,
I paddled for all I was worth, cresting the
tip of the wave. I launched myself up, arms
spread, feet planted firmly and prepared for
the ride of my life.
The shock of the sheer drop before me
nearly took my breath away, but instinct
kicked in and I rode the descent with more
skill than I had ever felt before. Adrenaline
was rushing through my veins and every
nerve and muscle strained to keep me on
the board. Suddenly, the sun was dimmed,
P
A
G
55
and blue shadow stole over me. I couldn’t
move my head for fear of losing balance,
but I knew I was encased in the tube of
the wave with a complete circle of water
enclosing me. The wave was bigger and
stronger than I was. Suddenly, I was shrunk
to a tiny bug as the wave filled the whole
sky. The tunnel ahead of me narrowed as
each second passed until my world was
nothing but blue. The wave seemed to grab
my board from under me and I was beaten
and shaken as if in a giant tumble dryer.
I opened my eyes on the beach with Jack,
Steve and Ben staring down at me. Their
mouths were moving but for a moment
all I could hear was the surf pounding on
the beach and my own blood beating in
my ears. Then, as if from a long way away, I
began to register their words.
“Bloody hell, Tom,” Ben shouted. “We
thought you were dead. You were gone for
ages, and your board shot up twenty feet in
the air. Are you alright? Can you hear me?”
I opened my mouth to answer, but nothing
came out.
Steve turned to Ben. “He’s in shock. I
read about it. He needs sweet tea or an
adrenaline shot.” He stepped away from me
and shouted.
“Jack, where the hell’s that ambulance. It’s
been ages and Tom’s hurt!”
But I wasn’t. I couldn’t understand why
they were so anxious. I was so relaxed. I
wasn’t in pain. I couldn’t feel anything, just
a warm numbness.
“Take off your shirt, Ben, we need to
bandage his leg; he’s bleeding really badly.”
Steve was wrapping Ben’s shirt around my
leg, but I couldn’t feel a cut; I couldn’t feel
anything. I started to panic. I was shouting,
“Ben, Steve!” but they didn’t look up. I
reached out to grab them, to demand their
attention, but my arm didn’t move. All I
could feel was a blind panic and the angry
beating of my heart. Slowly, I began to drift
as if I was floating away out to sea. The last
thing I heard was a very distant siren and
then nothing.
I woke up, suspended in a mist of white. All
I could hear was a persistent sucking and
slapping noise. For a second I thought I was
still lying on the beach with the surf racing
up rhythmically onto the sand, but there
was a ceiling above me. As I turned my eyes
to the left I could see a man in a white coat
giving me an encouraging smile. I strained
to look right and there was my mum, with
my hand gripped in hers and a look of
desolation on her face.
Time
became
fluid; my
existence
became
erratic.
That was when I knew that this was as bad
as it could be.
I would have given anything to be walking
into school right now, even with the
weight of expectation and responsibility
weighing down my school bag. Suddenly,
homework and soccer training seemed a
million miles away. I strained every muscle,
but there was no response. I had never felt
less alive. The more I struggled to shake
out of my numbness, the more distant my
surroundings became.
The doctor was speaking to my mum.
Nobody seemed to realise that I was
actually there.
“The first few days are vital. We’ll keep him
sedated and hope for the best.”
Time became fluid; my existence became
erratic. I was floating in a drug-induced sea
of sensations, none of them real. Soccer
matches played underwater with sharks
in goal melted into seaweed, wrapped all
around me, sucking me down to the sea
bed. My limbs floated about me like sunbleached driftwood, lifeless and haphazard.
Frustration and panic seemed to fill every
nightmarish moment. Drowning was my
constant state of being, but yet never the
peace of the drowned man.
Gradually, I floated back to the surface,
watching the seaweed as it sank beneath me.
My nose was itchy. I grimaced and screwed
up my face. Then someone was scratching
my nose. My relief was replaced with curiosity.
Who could have known that my nose was
itchy? I opened my eyes to see the hand close
up, rubbing my itchy nose. Beyond the hand,
I could see the doctor grinning and my mum
crying. She turned to him and hugged him.
Then I realised that the hand was mine. That
was the moment when I knew that this
nightmare was over. That was the moment
when I felt my life slowly return.
56
Friends Close,
Enemies Closer.
Henry Cooney, Year 10
P
A
G
Silence has its advantages. Intrinsic
advantages, advantages that only silence
can bring. To listen, not to hear. To see,
not to look. To understand. Naturally, with
such silence come labels and judgements
– assertions of narcissism, of anxiety, of
avoidant personality traits. But when
confident in knowledge, such names
mean nothing, and the ignorance of such
asserters astounding. Narcissism is my
favourite. Such an apt word. “Delusions of
grandeur” – yet when so superior, these
“delusions” become real. My superiority is
assured of itself. Was assured of itself. What,
unfortunately, was not assured of itself, was
my ability to stay silent. Whilst I needed
silence, whilst I craved silence, I could not
afford it. Not nearly afford it.
When I opened my eyes, I was shackled
to my chair and staring into a face I didn’t
want to see. Mr Rivers, a psychiatrist. And
a host of other men I had never seen
before in my life. Mr Rivers was explaining
something to the other men when I woke.
“In cases of extreme violence, shock, or
emotional trauma, the mind can split,” he
was saying to these other men. “The mind
breaks down into separate personalities,
personalities that had previously co-existed
unnoticed. In the case of Ian Dakota, I
believe that his mind broke down into
six different people, six people who had
no knowledge of the other’s existence.” I
realised he was doing it again. Calling me
Mr Dakota. Even though I had told him my
name is Frederick. Frederick Washington.
“Your Honour,” Rivers was saying, “the man
who killed three young women four years
ago is not this man. He is simply one of
those six personalities. If the personality
who committed those murders is killed
tonight, so to speak, then my professional
opinion is that Mr Dakota should not be
held accountable for what his body did
to those women.” There he goes again
– calling me Mr Dakota. My name is not
Dakota. I’ve told him this. My name is
Kansas. George Kansas.
I walked into the motel dining room. I have
been forced into this motel as a fallen
power line has blocked Route 23, the
only road into town. There are five others
in this room who I acknowledge with a
nod of my head. A police officer named
George Kansas, a young boy, David, the
hotel manager, Caroline, and the mother of
the young boy – someone in a somewhat
unusual situation.
Unusual is a word I don’t understand.
How can any situation be considered usual?
The boy’s mother, as George explained,
must have tripped and fell on the knife
she was using to prepare her son’s food.
George entered to find her lying down,
bleeding from a stomach wound. George
shouted instructions around the room;
for someone to grab some towels – “Old
ones!” And for someone to find a needle
and thread. Apparently, he intended to
suture her wound. Caroline hurried out of
the room and I followed her in case she
needed assistance. However, my attention
was averted when I found a small pass card
– the type used to open the rooms here.
The number “1” was all that bore notice
on the card face. I pocketed the card. As
I stood up, wondering how a pass card
ended up out on the road, a muffled yell,
followed by several calls for help, drew me
from my thoughts and had me running
towards the yelling. David, the boy who
couldn’t have been more than eleven
or twelve, came running out of a nearby
room. He didn’t say anything, just pointed
into the room he came out of. Bravery was
a characteristic I lacked. I walked straight in,
though. Brave.
Sometimes silence is a curse. When trying
to communicate information, hand signs
and facial expressions alone are almost
never enough to fully interpret anything,
and in situations like these I become
incredibly frustrated. However, sometimes,
silence is a blessing. Silence allows you to
P
A
G
57
hide emotions – particularly easy to hide is
fear, when no screams, yells or curses can
be heard. Yes. Fear. This was a time when
my fear really did need hiding.
I came very close to screaming when I
walked into the room. Caroline was staring
at me, with a vacant look that betrayed
nothing across her face, with perhaps the
smallest smirk in one corner. What did
betray her condition was that she was
floating several metres off the ground.
This was the point I almost screamed,
when I realised she wasn’t floating. She
was pinned to the wall behind her, the
nature of which involved three gardening
stakes and an obviously insane attacker.
In my attempt to exit the room as fast
as humanly possible, I tripped and fell,
coming face to face with, among other
things, the floor. One of those other
things was another pass card to a door.
Even before I turned it over I knew what
number would await. A two. I realised
now that David’s mother’s injury was no
accident. I raced back to the dining hall,
taking the crying David with me, but I
stopped before I entered. The sign above
the dining hall read “23 Fine Motel Rooms.
See Manager for Prices and Booking
Info - Caroline Georgia.” Below this was a
map of our country’s fifty states. My heart
almost stopped.
“Kid, what’s your last name?” I asked.
Silence would have to wait.
“Nevada,” he cried.
“Your mother’s name?”
“Emily Arkansas... I take my dad’s name.”
David Nevada. George Kansas. Caroline
Georgia. Me, Frederick Washington. Emily
Arkansas. My eyes flickered to the map again.
“Mr Dakota, listen to me. You are almost
there. This part is crucial!” Mr Rivers again.
What was he doing inside my mind? “Your
six personalities have confronted each
other. It is imperative the one who killed
those women does not survive!” And the
sound of Mr Rivers dissipated.
Silence
me down again. This time, his hands were
around my neck. I struggled as hard as I
could, but with every second I could feel
my consciousness slipping away. Just as
everything started to go dark, Kansas
coughed. Interestingly, as I regained my
vision, I realised he had coughed blood
onto my face. He rolled off me and I
understood why. An axe was buried to the
hilt in his back. David, crying still, helped
me to my feet. Again, I simply nodded to
him, and, despite himself, he smiled back.
It was a somewhat excited smile for a kid
who had just lost his mum.
allows you
“Come on kid, let’s get out of this place.”
Turning to leave is the last memory I have.
to hide
“Well done, Mr Dakota! You did it. He won’t
harm anyone again.” I looked into the eyes
of Mr Rivers and saw that he, along with
the other men, was smiling.
emotions ...
I threw myself through the dining room
hall doors just as Kansas turned around. He
was smiling. David’s mum’s lifeless body
lay behind him. He threw me a plastic
card and without looking I knew it had
the number three on it. In a movie, this
would have been the time for me to say
something smart. Something memorable.
Instead, I just hit him. I swung my fist into
his head and kicked at his leg. His smile
gone, he charged into me and threw me
to the floor. I struggled but his hands
had locked my arms in place. ‘Fine,’ I
thought, and head butted him as hard as
I could. Momentarily stunned, I took this
opportunity to punch his mouth and roll
out from under him. Just as I got to my feet
a chair slammed into my back, knocking
“Mr Rivers,” said the man at the head of
the table, “the county would be more
than happy to drop all charges against
Mr Dakota. He is free to go.” As I stood to
leave, I did something that intrigued no
one except Mr Rivers. I smiled. Mr Rivers
followed me out and together we got
into his car. We left the building we came
from and began travelling towards the
institution where I was kept. Mr Rivers was
still smiling, the same stupid grin I saw
back in that room.
“Six years ago, I killed six women,” I said.
The smile on his face vanished.
“What did you say, Ian?”
Now it was my turn to smile. “My name isn’t
Ian Dakota. My name is David Nevada.”
P
A
G
Peer Pressure
Benjamin Seymour, Year 7
58
I was at a campsite on holiday and we had
all pitched our tents. I was joining in on a
game with my friends, where we all had to
race from one side of the campsite to the
other as fast as we could. We were having
a blast.
As the bright sun gave way to a pale full
moon, we lined up for our last run towards
the finish line.
“Ready?” someone to my right mumbled.
“GO!” and with that, our entire troupe
darted off at a lively pace towards the neat
row of tents. It was a dead heat and I was in
the running for first place that would have
gained me respect amongst the group.
Suddenly, without notice, my friend Sam
jumped over one of the stranger’s tents
before landing skilfully over the other side.
“Ha!” he exclaimed, “Whaddya think o’
that?” All the other boys found this exciting
and began to attempt jumping the tents as
well. I was shocked that they would even
think of such a thing. They could damage
the tents, or worse, the people inside them.
“Come on, Ben,” they encouraged whilst
laughing. “Give it a try.” I was reluctant to
do it, but didn’t want to disappoint my
mates and so decided to attempt a jump
at what looked like an empty, low tent.
I had shadows of doubt in the back of
my mind but all this was pushed aside. I
cleared the tent with ease and felt a boost
of confidence inside me. I had done it. I
smiled smugly, but was unaware of what
lay ahead. However, the race was still on
and the other boys were off again, jumping
over the tents ahead.
With the finish line in sight, it was neck and
neck. All of a sudden, the others stopped.
But I didn’t. I was drunk with confidence
and foolishly decided to try and clear
another. A large grey tent loomed closer
and I prepared myself to jump. With a
leap, I flew upwards over the tent. Mid air
I decided to do an exuberant flick of my
heel and consequently stumbled over
the synthetic canvas. I crumpled to the
ground and caught a mouthful of dirt for
my efforts. I was on the floor, dizzy, and in
the corner of my eye glimpsed a shadow
emerging from the tent.
As the figure moved closer I began to
recognise its features. I knew immediately
who it was. It was my Dad and I was in
unearthly trouble!
Ric Maddren, Year 12
Mixed Media
P
A
G
Alistair Morgan, Year 12
The Destination
59
Everything was so normal. That’s what still
gets me. She was the most normal looking
person I’d ever seen and yet she is the one
person I will remember forever. I’d seen her
a few times before on the train. There was
nothing unusual about her at all. You know
what I mean. She was one of those people
you see every day on your way to school on
the train. The fat man who sleeps on his way
to work, the really strict looking lady with the
constantly sour expression, or the really loud
kid who throws a tantrum every time he gets
on the train.
always wore the same outfit, or had anyone
else she talked to. I think she sat alone but I’m
not sure. I only know things about her from
that one day. Every detail about her from that
day is permanently imprinted on my mind.
Her wallet, her shoes, the look on her face…
These characters are the people who make
up the wonderful experience that is public
transport. There are always different people
each day, most of them indistinguishable
from the general throng, but if you ride
the train long enough or catch the bus a
sufficient number of times, you will begin
to recognise those few people whose daily
programs happen to coincide with yours.
It was winter, though it wasn’t really cold
or wet. The clouds looked like they might
rain later but knowing our weather you
couldn’t tell. The sun was visible but not
actually shining.
Each person has their different quirks,
their own characters that mark them as
individuals. For example, the fat man always
took the same seat. Everyone else knew this
and so we saved it for him. He would hop on,
walk down the middle of the train, sit down
and fall asleep. It was quite amazing really.
He always woke up one stop before he was
supposed to get off. I never saw him miss it.
She was one of those characters. She was
different though. Everyone else had some
little thing that was individual to them, and
them alone, and marked them out from the
general crowd. The fat man with his seat,
the old lady with her sour expression, or
the kid who always threw a tantrum. She,
however, didn’t seem to have anything. I only
remember that she was a regular because of
what happened. She was just a background
figure, someone who you didn’t notice,
somehow always part of the crowd.
I don’t remember much about her really.
I couldn’t tell you if she listened to her iPod,
It was such an ordinary day when it
happened. That still gets me. Everything
was so normal. If you were to pick one day
of the year that you would call normal, that
would have been it. At least before I arrived
at the station.
You know how sometimes the clouds are
covering the whole sky, but you can tell
where the sun is because there’s a big patch
of light, even though you can’t actually see it?
It was like that. The clouds were completely
covering the sky and the only trace of the sun
was a cloud that was slightly too bright to
look at. Just enough to make your eyes water,
but not actually blinding.
It was an almost day. Nothing in particular
stood out. It was almost raining, almost cold.
It was a day that wouldn’t stand out in any
way. It was like her.
Everyone was crowded into the station in
a big, bustling mass of people. It was really
busy. That was the first unusual thing. The
bus drivers had gone on strike and some
of the train lines were being rebuilt, so all
of the people who normally took the bus
had to try and use the train system instead.
It was perfect timing. The bus drivers’ union
had picked the moment of maximum
inconvenience. Good for them I suppose,
but hellish for the rest of us. I’m pretty sure
most of the conversation in the station was
about exactly what some people would do
with a bus driver if they met one. I heard one
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businessman in a suit telling his friend in
quite graphic terms exactly where the bus
drivers could shove their strike.
Apart from that one moment of brief
amusement, I was feeling really annoyed.
My smartcard had run out of credit and
although I’d meant to fill it up on the
weekend, I’d forgotten. Of course, this
meant that I had to wait in the MASSIVE
queue of people waiting at the ticket
machine. It took ages and the lady behind
me kept on giving me dirty looks and
muttering about young people not
respecting their elders. I certainly didn’t
respect her; she was acting like a total cow.
For the entire time I was in the line I was
struggling to stop myself from turning
around and having a go at the old hag. I just
kept telling myself that it was my own fault
for forgetting to refill my smartcard.
That’s the reason I noticed the girl, actually.
I’d just reached the front of the queue and
had bought my ticket when she just walked
up, tapped her wallet on the sensor, and
went down the steps to the platform.
She did it with so much ease and so little
regard as to what might have happened if
she had forgotten it, it drove me crazy.
You know that feeling you get when
you’re first learning to ski? You’re standing
there, struggling to stay upright while
desperately trying to snowplough your
way downhill, when a line of three year
olds torpedo past you and breeze their
way to the bottom of the slope. You feel
like a total idiot and you desperately want
one of them to fall down, just so there is
someone on your level. I had that feeling,
except a hundred times worse, because
I know I could easily have been able to
do the same as her and just walk casually
down the steps if I hadn’t been such an
idiot and forgotten my smartcard. Feeling
like the world’s biggest moron, I followed
her down the steps and onto the platform.
It was really crowded. The extra
passengers caused by the bus strike had
completely overwhelmed the system.
There were people everywhere, crammed
into every inch of space on the platform.
The only space where there wasn’t
anyone was the thin strip of concrete
between the yellow line and the edge
of the platform. It’s funny really. People
will walk all over it on an empty platform,
but the moment there are other people
about, it is avoided like it is coated with
some kind of explosive. The only people
who still stay on it are the twelve year olds
who think that they look cool by defying
the rules and openly standing on the
yellow line.
Even they weren’t standing at the edge
today. The station was so crowded that
standing on the edge would probably
mean being bumped into the path of an
oncoming train. Even they weren’t that
stupid. Standing on the edge on a day like
that was actually dangerous.
Ahead of me I saw the girl through a gap
in the crowd. I followed her. I’m still not
entirely sure why. I think it was curiosity.
Previously, I’d been aware of her existence
as one of the regulars on the train, but
that was all. She was a mystery.
Anyway, as I was trailing along behind her,
I noticed her wallet fall out of her pocket.
She mustn’t have put it back in there
properly after she used it at the top of the
stairs. I bent down to pick it up and give
it back to her, but as I stood up again, she
had completely disappeared. The masses
of people around me made it impossible
to see her anywhere.
I looked down at the wallet. It was dark
brown and made of leather. It was a really
nice wallet. It struck me how strange it
was for a girl to carry a wallet instead of a
purse and I wondered why. For a moment
I considered opening it up to see if I could
find out, but I decided against it. I could
ask her when I gave it back.
This was where what little knowledge of
her I had became useful. Figuring that she
was boarding the same carriage as usual,
I started off to the spot on the platform
where the train usually pulled up.
There were a ridiculous number of people
milling about, and I kept on getting
bumped by random strangers. Finally, I
managed to shove my way through to the
usual spot.
I tried to see her, but there were still too
many people in the way. Then, I caught a
glimpse of her, between a pair of mothers
with strollers. But by the time I got there,
she had vanished again.
In frustration, I scanned the platform once
again. I could see the sleepy, fat man on
my left fighting to get near where the
doors would open. By the looks of things,
he would be lucky to get a seat at all, let
alone his favourite one. I turned again,
and accidentally bumped into someone.
I looked up into the face of the cowwoman from the line. She gave me the
filthiest look yet, which took some doing
considering the ones she had given me
before, and started berating me about
watching where I was going. By this
stage, I was getting really annoyed, and
was about to start yelling back at her
when the rumbling of the train in the
tunnel became audible over the general
noise of the crowd. The lady looked up,
distracted, and I was able to slip past her
and avoid the next spate of yelling. As I
did so, I saw the girl standing on the edge
of the platform near the fat man, who had
managed to fight his way through to the
area marked for the carriage doors. She
was over the yellow line. I started forwards
towards her and managed to reach the
line just as the train began pulling in.
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You know how some people say in
stories that things happened in slow
motion? That’s total garbage. No
matter how hard you try, your mind can
only comprehend things at a certain
rate. I think what they mean is that
they became really aware of what is
happening around them. Everything
becomes extremely detailed.
As I reached the line, the train came
rushing towards us in a cloud of raised
dust and the girl stepped out to the very
edge of the platform. Behind me, I could
hear the tantrum kid beginning to throw
his very first one of the day. Just near the
girl, the cow lady was shoving her way
towards the front of the mass of people.
I stepped forward, towards the girl, and
was just about to speak when a particle of
dust whipped up by the train flew directly
into my eye.
Boon Mahaguna,
Year 11
Photographic Print
I bent down, my eye watering, and tried
to clear it. As I looked up, I saw the girl
tilting backwards off the edge of the
platform. Her heel was out over the edge
of the platform and she was just in that
moment of balance – right before you
fall…
A moment later, she had disappeared
again, but this time I knew that she
wouldn’t appear at some further point in
the crowd.
I never did find out why she had a wallet
instead of a purse. There must have
been some reason. It was the individual
characteristic of her that I hadn’t noticed
before, the little thing that marked her out
from the general crowd. I often replay that
fleeting moment of balance in my head.
Did she overbalance, or was she bumped
by some accidental elbow in the faceless
crowd? Or did she mean to fall? Her face
was totally blank, serene as she fell. It gave
me no clue as to why she fell.
I’ll never know why she fell. But one thing
I do wonder is this: If she did mean to fall,
then where did she expect the train to
take her?
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Alone
Harry Sanderson, Year 11
62
How can we say there is any justice in our
world, any at all, when everything we are can
be stolen by death’s quick hand in the night
with no warning at all? Nothing is fair about
death, and we cannot escape its cruel unjust
shadow that hangs over our lives
I’m fifty as I sit in my chair. He is fifty-two.
Was fifty-two.
How can we enjoy the game of life when
we know it always ends exactly the same?
“He looks peaceful, mum,” he offers quietly.
“I mean they’ve done a good job.”
I clutch his cold, wrinkly fingers in mine.
I feel as though I’ve been exhaling for
minutes. Minutes that have become hours,
hours moved to days, days to the last two
weeks. Subtly exhaling, perpetually, slowly
feeling myself pour out into the universe
around me, slowly feeling my breath carry
the very fibre of my being out into the air,
leaving my body, once inhabited, desolate,
shaky, alone.
I cast my eyes up to the bed next to which
I sit. He lays there, cleanly shaven, hair
combed, eyes gently closed over. I try to
murmur agreement, but can’t be sure if any
sound reaches the outside of my mind.
Alone.
That’s all I’ve been thinking about. Being
alone. Not knowing what it’s like to be
alone. To have always had someone. To
have always had him. Not physically. Much
more than that. Years of absence would
not mean I was alone. I wasn’t even alone
before I met him. Even then we were
together, subconsciously, unknowingly, we
were together. Never, ever alone. And now,
for the first time, I am.
I take my eyes off the pale, white floor they
have been fixed upon and glance up. My
son stands at the door, solemnly conversing
with a doctor. He is sad. But not broken,
as me. This is not the end for him. He has
another life now, a family of his own. He will
patch up the hole in his heart soon.
I continue to slide my fingers through the
pale, cold hand.
It seems only yesterday I told him I was
pregnant and he scooped me up, kissing
me in the sunlight of our first home’s
kitchen.
I feel warmth on my cheek and my eyes
focus onto my son. He sits opposite me
and sorrow clouds his eyes.
The doctor re-enters the room and squats
down beside me. She offers me a tissue,
which confuses me, until I look down at
my shirt and realise tears are flooding out
of my eyes. I choke back a breath, hard,
laboured, and then continue to exhale.
Breathing everything out.
“We think he passed around five this
morning,” the doctor moves her hand onto
mine, giving it a light squeeze. “There was
no pain. He was extremely fortunate.”
Fortunate.
This word echoes around my head,
dwarfing any other thoughts previously
there.
He was fortunate.
It is enough even to stop the continuous
stream of outward breath. I squeeze
my eyes tight shut, willing the world to
disappear.
He was diagnosed with brain cancer just
over a year ago. He had never smoked,
never sworn, nor harmed a fly. Kind,
honest, respectful. Handsome and with
an honest nature that was peerless. He
would never remain seated when anyone
entered the room, even in his later years,
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when he could barely stand himself. He
felt for others’ suffering and helped them,
selflessly, in any way he could. He loved
me more than anyone has ever loved
anyone before and every time he looked
at our children you could see the pride and
adoration in his eyes. He wasn’t ready to
die. His life was still ahead of him, barely
into the third quarter. He still had so much
to give, so much to get. Men are supposed
to live to eighty. Men are supposed to be
there for those they love.
And here I am, left alone with only the
cold, wrinkled, lifeless hand of the man that
is, was, everything. And he is fortunate.
Was fortunate. And so am I.
Anger and sadness consumes me. Tears
flow more freely. My eyes remain tightly
closed. He was taken from me. Stolen. He
never acted for himself once his entire life.
I am not holding the cold, dead hand of a
man who did act for himself.
if they paused before drawing through
his name. I wonder if they reviewed all the
love he had given, examined the kindness
he held in his heart. Or if they just kept
flicking through the book, skipping over
the names of people who gave nothing.
People who deserved to live less than
him. Random chance, and he’s gone. No
warning, no reason, no justice.
No justice for me.
To leave me here, crying in the night, with
no reason I can think of for him not being
next to me. To have everyone at his funeral
whisper their condolences and tell me how
lucky I am that I had him for so long.
Lucky. Fortunate.
Lucky.
Lucky is finding a dollar in the street. Lucky
is something you should be grateful for.
Should I consider myself lucky? Lucky
because I am past fifty and all we were
doing for the last years of our time
together was waiting for death to knock
on our door? Lucky a train has smashed an
irreparable hole in the wall of my being?
Lucky I now sit alone, watching rain and
wind come through the gaping hole in
my life, knowing there is nothing I can do
but save my sobs till the night time, and
pretend I haven’t been broken by the only
consistent thing I have ever known in my
life being taken suddenly in the night,
without any form of justice, informing me
as to why. Lucky all the colours of my life
have faded to grey, all the purpose has
been vacuumed up, and now all I can do
is wish that when I go to sleep I will never
awake. Lucky. I wish I never get to see sixty
like he should have.
I choke back another sob now as I sit
alone. And then again I continue my long,
unbroken chain of exhaling. I wonder if I’ll
still be exhaling when I see him again.
Unimaginable.
Those who were worse people are outside,
living selfishly and are the better off for it.
And I’m supposed to accept it. Accept it
as just. Tell myself that I win some, I lose
some and go home to sleep, to accept
that I will be alone forever now. That there
is no more. I keep expecting to wake up
as a twenty year old and see him, lying
peacefully next to me. Maybe that would
be just.
I open my eyes.
Only my son. The doctor has gone. I choke
back another sob, silently asking why it
had to be him. Who decided, up in the
heavens, that he should be taken? Who
decided it was fair? Who decided it was
just to him? Who decided it was just to
me? I imagine them flicking through a
book of names, of faces, deciding whose
time was up, and whose wasn’t. I wonder
I squeeze my eyes tight
shut, willing the world to
disappear.
64
William Kermode, Year 12
To a Drunk
No, no, go not with Melancholy,
Her soft hands, holding some dull opiate,
To ease yourself from Erebus’ grasp, nor
Escape the shadows of Eris’s fate,
Eat not her golden fruit, hung among the
clouds
For its shades ripen and fade when dew
As dawn brings to day, dusk dwells into
nights,
When thy thirst is parched, when sorrow
shrouds
Thy judgement, drink from a wine of red
hue
And remedy with fruit from luscious vines.
When embracing Dionysus’ full harvest,
Tasting the sudden rush of ecstasy
Bore by the fermented grape, is it a pest
Not to the soul but only the body;
His spirit rests your fears into otherworldly
hands,
And sends senses into aching frenzies
Of careless Joy, blooming through poison’s
bliss;
While still under his might, mysteries of
time stand
At a still, left untouched, for then I feel
Unwavering peace, within thy drink’s kiss.
As Amphion strikes with accented chords
That dwell with harsh tones and harm the
soul,
You relish its eternity that accords
To beauty, as they from the heavens call;
Perhaps thy grains are malnourished,
And half-reaped, ravaged by withering
land
Or thy flesh is pale and head burns lighter,
While thy vision would blur if had
Melancholy flourished.
Grapes’ nectar burns bright, revealing Joy’s
hand,
For in darkness does Light shine brighter.
Koi Pond and
Willow Tree
Michael Zhou, Year 11
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Spring is indeed the season of birth, Blades
of viridian climb out of moist earth. Leaves
aflutter, buds shooting,
The willow tree has finished rooting.
Light dappled water scintillates
In a sanctuary, emotion infiltrates.
Outgoing koi meet and play,
Black and white brocades on display.
In summer the fires of passion burn,
As the parched, yellow grass quickly learns.
Yet proud and green stands the willow,
Its bountiful leaves in the wind billow.
Water then roils as it must,
When residing with currents so full of lust.
Rippling koi lock in love’s glacéd embrace;
Yin and Yang’s seed soon fill this space.
Autumn now comes more desperately
than wind,
The greenery dies without having sinned.
The willow branches in ardent gales sway,
Burnt out leaves, like children, run away.
And alas, alack!
The Great Net - as with all fact,
Holds irrevocable power,
Just another worker in Death’s corporate
tower.
And in a single sweep,
Makes new orphans weep.
Thus winter comes and branches droop,
The willow has now an old man’s stoop.
Reduced to a skeleton in grey skies,
At such macabre thoughts it sighs.
Cold koi shiver under frosted roofs of lily,
They watch the porcelain land melt to slurry.
But not all is grim,
There is next spring.
So koi pond and willow tree sit and wait,
In time it will come; not too soon or late.
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65
Jack Erickson, Year 12
Mixed Media
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66
Billy’s Dad, a Chinaman, taught
him from an early age,
To be self sufficient, to shoot
straight, how to stalk small
game,
To observe well, and watch the
signs, of the animals in sight,
As well as the birds in flight, by
the waters of Sandy Creek.
Angus Dickson-Collins, excerpt from ‘Billy Sing – The Gallipoli
Sniper’ pg 10
Timothy English, Year 9
Painting
Bryon Hall, Year 9
Painting
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68
Liam Gnaden, Year 12
Film Still
Mason Prior, Year 12
Graphic Design
Alexander Dunn, Year 12
Graphic Design
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69
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Ric Maddren, Year 12
Mixed Media
Ben Nagappa, Year 10
Sculpture
Liam Gnaden, Year 12
Mixed Media
Rohan Golestani, Year 11
Vector Illustration
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Harry Hoffman, Year 12
Mixed Media
Kieren Tan, Year 12
The World is
a Beautiful Place
And the Lord God planted a garden in
Eden, in the east, and there he put the man
whom he had formed.
Genesis: 2:8
Oh, just look at the sea!
And you’ll surely agree
The way the waves come and go
Like the dump trucks ebb and flow.
The world is a beautiful place.
Don’t you agree?
Just look at the sky
Where fresh, artificial clouds pervade the
air
Above pristine factories
Like brooding volcanoes.
What is it you say? Still not convinced?
Just look at the progress we have made!
From Ancient Rome, to Gallipoli, to
Hiroshima…
Never before have we been so efficient
At mining metal, farming forests and
annihilating animals…
Oh, don’t give me that sardonic look,
Just look at the streets!
Where termites infest and swarm in
endless
Circles, crawling, consuming, and finally,
crumbling.
The world is a beautiful place… isn’t it?
Motivated to become,
free to be
to be
Motivated to become, free