DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHYTYSON WATKINSYEAR 10 51
COLOURED PENCIL SKYE NEWTON YEAR 1152
MY SPECIALPLACEThe small amount of shade overhead. Patches of sandshowing through the green, well-kept grass. We alwayssit here; the same spot, the edge of the light brown path,across from the numerous trees and wood-chippingsthat lie in the garden. A bin, the only thing that wouldseem mildly out of place, other than the large whitecement path leading to two steel doors, is chained to alog post that has been planted in the ground. The sunhits everything and brings the bright colours to reachfor a higher shade of beauty. The rays hit everything,everything but our bodies and the worn-down patch ofgrass in which we sit. The fountain plays a splatteringtone that fills the air. If you focus only on it, the soundsof traffic and human movement almost disappears.Almost. Trying to focus on the fountain alone is difficult,but when you focus on the other sounds, the trafficgoes. The birds, leaves in the wind, the fountain. Sucha simple place, such beauty. Banksia trees push a redinto the scene. But bring the bees. I hate the bees. Youknow I hate the bees. The breeze flows through ourfaces, through my hair, through your hair. The gardenbed opposite the spot, in which we always sit, haspatches where there are no plants, but there are smallpieces of black plastic. I still don’t understand why theyare there. But they are. And it wouldn’t be the same ifthey weren’t.MONTANA O’BYRNE YEAR 9 53
OH, GRANDADWell, it’s around that time of year againWhere I’ll be standing once moreTo pay my respects to all of thoseWho were heroes of the warIt seems that a minute is way too shortTo talk to you againAnd hear about your storiesOf all the valiant menThe men who had no fearThat you would trust with your lifeOnes who were unknowingOf the horrors that were rifeOh, GrandadThat bugle call says it allThere’s something ‘bout that sad melodySomething that makes skin crawlThere’s a hollow feeling in your stomachWhen they play the last postIt’s almost like you’ve been taken awaySwept off your feet by a ghost54
You said that war is just a gameWhere pawns protect the crownedYou’d take each piece, one by oneUntil a winner was foundTactics and strategy could win you the gameControl and wisdom too‘cause an all in bet to win the matchCould leave you, nowhere to moveIt’s a song which signifies the endThe end of many long daysThe end of many great journeysWhich lead us from defeatIt’s along these walls of black and redSmall white print’s been writtenIn order, the names of many lost menThe total numbers left hiddenSadly it’s time to say goodbyeThough we have never metClose in my heart you will stay GrandadAs one, ‘Lest We Forget’ SAMUEL PURBA – BARNARD YEAR 9 55
OBLIVIOUSMy life came to a screeching halt.The sun went away, the sky went black, midnight sun. The brightness stolen by onesingle trigger, one single command, one perfect aim eliminating the light completely.Only memories wandered through the remains of a broken city that once thrivedfor millions of years with robot like creatures, no brain to think for itself, no heart tofeel, no pulse to live. We were lifeless creatures yet determined. Determined to getfrom here to there, determined to be the best, determined to live, oblivious to thedangers secretly waiting to pounce on the vulnerability that overwhelmed our souls.3 months before…I can almost predict what is going on the news. The same old junk they air to usevery night, slowly hypnotizing society with false reports. What a surprise! I’m right,as always. With a booming voice that makes my ears ache, the anchor reports“UFO spotted in broad daylight. An unknown flying object has once again madea…...” I shut the box off before I have a breakdown. It’s the fifth report this week andI’m over hearing the same thing. I don’t understand how people even capture thisstuff. No one ever leaves their house, they have no reason to. With TV manipulatingtheir mind and they cannot face the horrors of the outside world. If only they wentoutside they would realize there is none, they would realize the beauty of creation. Itry not to argue this with people though; I don’t want the men to take me away justfor breathing fresh, pure air.2 months before…Life is a dream in the night, a fear among fears. People say we are lucky to live, butno way are we really living. Over the course of a month things have taken a turn forthe worst, they have become weird, eerie. The men, continuing to force a utopia,say all is fine, but I can tell they are scared. As I go for a daily walk, I must stayhidden; the men will think I’m up to something. Peering through the tiny window, Isee how easily a television screen manipulates a family, with the latest report “UFOabducting trees by destroying families” runs on air, the family burns the last livingplant soul they have in their house. Some people are just unbelievable. It’s then aroaring lion shouts in my direction and now it’s my turn to run. The men find anyreason to lock you up so I know my best effort is to not face the destruction.1 month before…Some days my thoughts are just cocoons hanging from branches, waiting toemerge. I am now the only single being in this town that will venture outside theprison of which they call homes. Everyone is scared, but scared of what still makesmy mind boggle. Thoughts rush into my head as to why they are scared, but thenthey overwhelm my brain as if an orchestra has just destroyed a once beautifulsymphony. I now venture at night, as the men have died down, recharging their tiredbody as they wait for their next order. The stars dance playfully in the sky. Effortlessbeauty that always creates a string of envy in me. Alone, free and careless, all the 56
things I strive to be. But how can you in a society so worried, so fearful of theunknown, so controlled by people who only care for themselves. The sun rises overthe glistening meadow, lightly tiptoeing on the frozen grass and I knew it was timefor me to return to prison.1 week beforeThe news took me by surprise. There were no UFO reports, there was no fear,everything was peaceful and yet I felt more nervous than ever. I knew somethingwas up but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. The men had vanished into thin air,the TV reports were calm and the strangest of all, people were opening their doorsto the reality of the outside world. It was a dream I never thought would come topass and yet it was happening before my very eyes.The day…Our world was an intricate mosaic vase, with colours of the nation. Fragile. I amnow left here picking up the pieces, making it come back. Before I even lift a finger,within an instant I was whisked away into the unknown. Darkness, but I know I amnot alone. I can feel their heat, their breaths and even somewhat their thoughts. Weall think the same thing, what happened to us? Where are we going? Will we live tosee another day? For what feels like an eternity we are alone in darkness until I amhypnotised by the hands of sleep.Awoken, just as quickly as I was taken away. I’ve never seen a room so white, soclean. With a look of purity on the outside, I feel hidden secrets coming from thewalls. A voice, but nothing seems familiar about it, just a venomed melody “Hellohuman 835, your world has now become ours. Your kind made mistakes, mistakesthat were out of your control, but ultimately all must pay. The day is September 4th2694, the first day of your new life” and then silence. It’s then the door opens andit’s like nothing I have ever seen before, it’s happiness. STEELY DOYLE YEAR 10E 57
“MY PLACE IN WA”– YOUNG WRITERS INITIATIVEAs I walk through the house, I think of my favourite place. Withsoft grass, damp in the morning from the dew. The windmillscreeching as metal scraped over metal, as the head turned,adjusting to the wind. When I go there in the morning I can smellthe damp earth and grass. On a still morning I can almost tastethe water in the air, the damp earth, the metal of the windmill.I go there now. The morning air is slightly chilly as I walk out tothe back yard of our station at home. I go bare foot, for I love thefeeling of walking on the soft cool grass. When I get to the end ofthe veranda, I can see the pool, with its walls made of rock andconcrete. I can see the bougainvillea, the plant that mum finds sobeautiful when the flowers are in abundance as they are now. Istep onto the grass, and feel a sense of calmness, of relaxationpervade my senses. I enjoy the contrast of stepping from mycool place in the shade, into the pleasant sunlight. As the daydraws on, I can see the heat radiate off the ground outside thehouse paddock, where the ground is scorched and dry. Thegrass dried up and a pleasantly warm sensation runs through mybody. This is the backyard of the enormous station Mt Clere.My home. My favourite place. TIM WATTERS YEAR 1158
I stood in my old backyard looking at the place I grew up inwith sadness. The setting of my family farmhouse seemedduller than I remember, the air still and dead. I hear childishlaughter echo just like the distant memory it comes from,imagining as our father pulled younger versions of my sisteraround in an old go cart. I walk towards the door looking aroundat the veranda that surrounded the house, my bare feet hardlymaking a noise as I opened the fly screen with a metal squeak. Ihesitate with my hand on the cool metal of the back door handle,hearing more laughter and my mum calling our names. I takea deep breath and gather my courage as I turn the handle andwalk into the laughter I heard, now changing to the angry wordsmy parents often exchanged as I glance around my childhoodhome. The conjoined kitchen and lounge to my right, two doorsand a hallway down to the bathroom and laundry to my left. Mymind shows us as a family sitting around the table, as soft goldensunlight shined over us, my sister in her school uniform eatingcereal as mum fed me as I sat in a baby’s chair, while dad dranka cup of coffee, the smell lingering in the air. I close my eyes andsmile as the image fades, though I have no memories of thesekind of moments, it fills me with warmth. I go to the closest doorwhich had been me and my sister’s room, hearing the echo of mymother read us a story, another image flashes, as I see my sisterand I in our beds half asleep with our matching fairy covers, sideby side a small table, as mum sat in between with a story book.I felt a tear roll down my face as I decided it was too much andcould go no further. I left the house, the last echo I hear is my dadcry and telling us “She’s not coming home.” LAWRIE PASSMORE YEAR 12 59
DIGITAL PHOTOGRAPHY CHRISTINA JONES YEAR 1160
EIGHTHe awoke on his side of the bed to tendrils of sunlight reaching tentatively throughhis blinds. He awoke the same way he had fallen asleep in the tangle of his doonaand sheets the night previous - slowly and then all at once.His eyes opened in no hurry; the insistence of the rays as unwelcome as they wereundeniable. His body had refused the rest his mind had received, little though itwas. He ached all over, no doubt a consequence of the rigorous attention paid tothe corner of his mate’s shed that had been shoddily swept, sheets thrown overpaint tins and power tools and turned into a dance floor at a moment’s notice.The bass line of The White Stripes’ ‘Seven Nation Army’ still echoed in the recessesof his mind, twisted and morphed into the pounding headache that demandedhis attention, tapping on his skull; the result of combinations of multiple forms ofalcohol – consumed far too quickly for his liver to keep up.He rolled over and sat up quietly so as not to disturb the girl that had lain next tohim. She slept peacefully, curled with her bare back facing him, adorned only by herlong strands of hair that asserted her femininity, so fine as to float like spider webssuspended in air, pushed this way and that by the oscillating fan at the foot of hisbed.He dragged his lingering eyes away and in one questionably smooth motion, hestood up, stepping over textbooks, novels and clothes dotted haphazardly over thefloor of his bedroom. Avoiding touching his car keys that would break the silencethrough their betraying rattle, he picked up his phone, unconsciously making noteof whose birthday Facebook declared it was today, as if he cared. As he made hisway to the kitchen, he replayed the night in his head as best he could, mapping outkey points before giving up to the blend of strobe lighting, bass and sweat that wasthe party he attended. He flicked the kettle to boil and cracked the window closestto him, revelling in the slight breeze that cooled his face and eased the thumping ofhis headache.Dumping the standard teaspoon of sugar and freeze-dried coffee into his usualmug, followed by a dash of milk, he reached into the cupboard and withdrew theplastic box labelled ‘medicine’ while he awaited the tell-tale curls of steam from thespout of his kettle. Among the war zone of cotton wool buds, half emptied bottlesof iodine, cough medicine and safety pins, he managed to source a couple ofslightly crushed aspirin. He placed them on his tongue and swallowed them dry.He placed the box back and filled his mug with hot water. 61
EIGHT Grasping the mug in one hand and with the other snatching up his still sleeping mother’s lighter and packet of smokes off the kitchen table, he headed outside. He sat down on the grey concrete, back pressed up against the tree whose long limbs and green extremities still protected the colourless slabs underneath and surrounding him from the gentle rays of sunlight that sought to bring warmth to them. Removing a smoke from the pack, he placed the filter between his teeth, sealing his lips and inhaling as he struck the spark that lit the flame that sent the rush of nicotine into his body. Removing the cigarette from his mouth, he flicked ash onto the slab next to him. It was lost to his eyes in seconds. As he raised his mug to his lips, he caught a glimpse of the black horizontal eight that stretched the width of his inner wrist. He sipped at his coffee and closed his eyes. He let his head recline back as far as it could; not altogether that far, a knot in the wood decided for him. The stimulants did their work, and he began to think. His father had left when he was young. All that was left behind was his razor in the bathroom and a few photos. He remembered close to nothing about him, and his mother refused to speak. So from the photographs, he had made do. One day, close to a year ago, he had glanced at a picture of his father holding him aloft and focused on his father’s hands. Tattooed onto the middle finger of his right hand, directly on the knuckle had been a figure eight. In a fit of rage, he had driven to the nearest tattoo parlour which stank of old leather and buzzed like the wasps that came to drink from his ever dripping rain water tank. He had not been scared. It had stung, but his anger pushed the pain away. His mother had pretended not to see, when the redness had faded and the ink traced its wandering path over his skin. But she had seen. He opened his eyes at this thought and stood quickly, the stimulants coursing through his body, denying his stillness and reflection of the past year it had brought. The wind picked up and ruffled his hair, clearing the remnants of his headache.62
He butted out his cigarette quickly, left his still warm coffee and mug on theground and retraced his steps inside in a hurry. His agility was lacking as hestepped his way over his crowded floor, not caring whether he knocked oververitable mountains books.He slipped gently under the covers, pressing up to the girl and encircling herwith his arms.He nuzzled her neck, not minding that her fine hair played and tickled its wayacross his face. He reached his hand slowly up to tuck several strands behindher ear.His movements revealed a small horizontal black eight tattooed onto her neck,just behind her ear. He kissed it and her eyelids flickered slowly open.His eternity would be longer; theirs longer still. SEAMUS KEEFE YEAR 11 63
HISTORY OF EUREKAThey came in numbers to search for goldBallarat, Victoria is where the story is toldPeople from different countries united as oneDigging for gold in the harsh Aussie sun.The digger’s licence had them in a rageAs gold or no gold the same rate was paidThey made a stance and swore an oathAs Lalor’s dream saw the democracy growth.With hearts of gold and shedding tearsThe diggers spoke out amongst their peersTo change the rules and end despairAs the governing laws were extremely unfair.They gathered as one with licences in handLed by Lalor, they made a planTo burn their papers and swear by the crossThat their effort for change would not be a loss.Chorus: On Bakers hill, a barricade was madeWhich would later be known as the Eureka StockadeThe “Diggers” stood brave with firearms in handTo oppose the government and their law on the land. 64
The police attacked in the early hoursTo arrest the men and forge their powersThe miners stood brave with guns in handTo fight for their rights and make a stand.The battle was over and lives were lostAnd the governments’ victory had come at a costBut a trial for miners soon made things clearAnd the verdict would give them a reason, the cheer.The right to vote was given this dayAs miners were given their rights and a sayThe law was changed and history was madeAnd nobody will forget the Eureka stockade.As dust settles like gold in a panAnd the Southern Cross flag lay torn in the sandAnd with all that was said and doneThe democracy battle had been won.Chorus: On Bakers hill, a barricade was madeWhich would later be known as the Eureka StockadeThe “Diggers” stood brave with firearms in handTo oppose the government and their law on the land. ADEN MARSHALL YEAR 8 65
PENCIL & CHARCOAL ON PLYWOOD MAYGAN ROBERTS YEAR 1266
TRUE LOVE Enchanted mirror Poisoned apple Glass coffin True love Broken family Fairy godmother Perfect fit True love Stolen flower Lost child Golden hair True love Vain princess Cursed prince Lonely frog True love Monstrous king Wilting rose Caring woman True love ZOE STOTT YEAR 12 67
DON’T MIND MEBare. Not a single photo in sight that could be used to identify who lived in thishouse. Or a piece of colour amongst the black and white. “Modern,” they say. I’d callit distasteful decorating.I jump as her voice pierces my thoughts.“Stop wasting time staring into thin air! You haven’t even finished the dinner yet andyour father will be home any second,” she calls out over her shoulder disdainfully asshe marches off.Scarcely a second passes as the warmth of the open oven drifts across my barelegs. I cringe as the slamming front door reverberates in my ears. Heavy footstepsecho across the cold tile floor. Each step draws him nearer and nearer, his rumblingstomach leading him towards the dinner that I have sat on the countertop. Seizingthe dinner he turns, his large frame shambling towards his seat and the women nowsitting across from him, picking at the food in front of her.“What are you still doing standing around here for? Shouldn’t you be washing thedishes or bringing in the laundry from outside?” He questions before shovelling apiece of bread into his mouth.“But I’ve finished doing th.… ..”“It doesn’t look like you’ve finished to me.” He interrupts, regarding the clean disheswith a doubting gaze.“Everything was done be…...” I hurriedly try to oppose the accusation as they begintalking over me. Realising they have once again forgotten that I am there, I take theconcealed portion of food and quietly slink down the hallway to my room, leavingtheir voices muffled in the distance.As the subdued sounds of the TV reach my room I seize the moment, knowingthey have retreated to the confines of the lounge room. I inch towards the kitchen,treading softly, pausing only to check they are still focused on their show. With thedishes washed, I head to the bathroom; showering quickly before the cascade ofrunning water brings attention to my movements around the house.Grasping my metal door handle, I feel the coolness against my palm as I give thedoor a gentle push. Rushing through, I lean up against it, sliding safely to the ground.“Ahem.”I hastily raise my gaze towards the figure sitting in my chair. Carefully, I gathermyself onto my haunches, gently rising to my feet. Bracing myself for what I know isto come.“You do know what you have done, don’t you? You disobeyed our rules.” Her callousgaze hardening the soft features of her face.“A naughty girl like you must be punished. You will not leave your room, unlessit is to do your chores or to go to school, and there will be no breakfast for youtomorrow morning, since you are so keen to take our food for yourself.” She standsto leave, looking me over once more with disgust before vacating my room.I meander towards the window, observing the overgrown garden at the back ofthe house. With only the moon to light my room, I open the latch to the window andswing it open slowly so it doesn’t squeak. Using the window sill to brace myself, Igrab the roof and hoist myself up. Gently twisting myself around, my feet dangling 68
off the edge, I gaze at the group of teenagers, recognising one as my classmate,hanging out in the park across the street with longing. The gentle breeze causesmy hair to dance as though it’s a marionette. I raise my knees towards my chest astheir laughter is carried to my ears. I don’t understand why I’m not allowed out of thishouse. To meet people. The hairs on my arms rise with the wind. Dark clouds beginto cover the moon and I’m overcome with shivering. They leave the park togetherheading for their respective homes. As I slide over the side of the roof, careful ofthe loose roof tiles, I turn to look one last time at the last figures heading home,yearning to join them in that journey.Sunlight streams through my curtains as dawn breaks. Everything is still within thehouse, no movement to be heard. Removing my uniform from my closet, I glancedismally at it before dressing and preparing for school. Breakfast is cooked for twoand, just like any other morning, I have made a start on my daily chores so I don’tupset either of them.I escape the prison without a hitch and arrive at my locker at school just as the bellsounds, signalling class begins in five minutes. With a snap of the lock, I am sweptup in the crowd.The screeching of my chair on the linoleum floor causes the other students topause midsentence and glance my way before continuing their conversation,however, this time the topic is me.“Do you see the way she is all alone during the breaks and between classes? I’mpretty sure it’s because she grew up in the rich part of town, where you don’t talk topeople like us.”“But do you see how old her uniforms are; she looks like she hasn’t gotten newones in years.”“So did you want to come over to my house this weekend?”“Alright class, today.… ..”As final bell rings for the day, everyone streams out of the school, congregatingin their collective groups. Again I find myself staring at them with longing; wishingI could be a part of their friendship and their world. Instead, I’m always stuck in thehouse. They are allowed freedom, spending time with their friends and doing whatthey want. Why can’t I? These thoughts cloud my mind as I insert my key into thelock. Grabbing an apple from the kitchen, I drag myself to my room and take a bite.My bag lands in the corner with a thud and I open my window, bringing myself ontothe roof. Sitting on the tiles, I look out over the street. Admiring the people who areallowed to walk it just for fun. Seeing our unkempt garden amongst all the well-keptyards brings a smile to my face as I stand. Shuffling forward on unsteady feet, Ikeep my gaze on those enjoying their freedom. Smiling to myself one last time, as aroof tile skitters over the edge and shatters against the ground. HANNAH POULTNEY YEAR 12 69
70
MICRON PEN & PENCILOLIVIA HENDERSONYEAR 12 71
ACRYLIC PAINT & POSCA PEN EMILY GILL72 YEAR 11
THE INVISIBLE MUSICIANIt’s a cold winter morning in the city that never sleeps. Everyone is on the street,rushing to their jobs with their caffeine and busy schedules. The street noiseis like a brass band testing out how loud their instruments can go. And Mahonknows from experience how crazy and loud that can be. He’s been in New Yorkplaying astounding violin concertos from classical music legends, whose musicis seen in this society as ancient. Not to Mahon. Playing pieces by Bach, Mozartand Beethoven is his escape from the modern musical world of money, fame andprovocative lyrics that make your parents cringe. Mahon Abrams was known well byaspiring musicians all over the world for his skills with the violin. His ability to movehis fingers across the strings at a pace that is almost invisible to the eye is whatmakes him one of the best in the world.On this particular Tuesday morning, Mahon was playing his fascinating, one of akind Gibson Stradivarius violin in his luxury hotel room overlooking a white centralpark. Mahon’s manager, John, walks quietly into the room, with a smile on his face.“Guess what we’re doing today?” John says with a cheeky grin. Mahon smiles backat John.“Oh gosh, please don’t ask me to go with you to get one of those greasy hot dogsagain. That was horrid.”John laughs hysterically, “No we’re not doing that again Mahon. Today you’re goingto do an experiment.”Mahon looks at John with interest. “What kind of experiment?”“This is a social experiment about perception, taste and people’s priorities. You’regoing to play the violin like you normally do, but in the subway as a busker. We wantto see if people recognise who you are and see if they stop and appreciate thebeauty that comes from that violin.”Mahon looks at his violin, and thinks about what could happen with this experiment.After Mahon contemplates all the possibilities, he looks back at John and says,“Let’s do it!”So Mahon packs his million-dollar violin up in his leather case and picks it up withutter caution. He suddenly has an idea. “Wait, hold on one second,” Mahon says toJohn. John looks at Mahon with confusion as Mahon rushes into his bedroom. Afterten minutes, Mahon comes out in an outfit that looks like it hasn’t been washed inyears. 73
THE INVISIBLE MUSICIAN “Where did you get those clothes?” John asks. “That’s an interesting story that just shouldn’t be told. I thought it could add to the effect.” So off they went. Down the stairs, out of the hotel room and onto the over populated streets. The streets are covered in fresh white snow. The freezing wind stings John and Mahon as they push through the crowd to get to the subway. Finally they reach the stairs to the underground, where thousands of people will be waiting for the trains to take them to their next destination. Mahon starts to feel overwhelmed by the congestion. “I’m not too sure about this John. I’m starting to get a bit nervous,” Mahon mumbles to John. John replies, “Seriously? You have performed in front of the harshest musical critics in the world. You didn’t get a Grammy for nothing Mahon.” John finally finds a good area for Mahon to set up his busking area. Mahon puts his case on the ground, takes out the violin and puts it into position. He leaves the case open, just like any other regular busker on the street. He looks at John and smiles. “You got this,” John says to Mahon. Mahon nods his head and starts to play. The sound that comes out of the violin is like angels singing from the heavens. John watches from the sideline, immersed in the music. Mahon plays a piece by Bach that he played the night before in front of thousands of people that paid at least a hundred dollars to see. John observes the people that walk by. After one minute, so far not one person bothers to stop and listen to the beauty of Mahon’s playing. But Mahon does not notice. He’s in his own world. He blocks out everything else that is going on around him. After three minutes, a middle-aged man noticed that there was a musician playing. He slowed his pace and stopped for a few seconds, and then hurried on to meet his schedule. Four minutes down and Mahon receives his first dollar. A woman threw money in the case and, without stopping, continued to walk. Six minutes, a young man leaned against the wall to listen to him, then looked at his watch and started to walk again. Ten minutes, a three-year-old boy stopped, but his mother tugged him along hurriedly. The kid stopped to look at the violinist again, but the mother pushed hard and the child continued to walk, turning his head the whole time. Several other children repeated this action, but every parent, without exception, forced their children to move on quickly. After forty-five minutes of professional playing, only six people stopped and listened for a short while. About twenty gave money but continued to walk at their74
normal pace. After one hour of intense beauty, Mahon finished playing and silencetook over. No one noticed and no one applauded. There was no recognition at all.Mahon packed up the instrument, put the money in his pocket and started walkingtowards John with a false smile. “Well that was a success,” said Mahon.John looked at Mahon and said, “This is my conclusion to this experiment Mahon. Ifpeople do not have a moment to stop and listen to one of the best musicians in theworld, playing some of the finest music ever written, with one of the most beautifulinstruments ever made, how many other things are people missing as they rushthrough life?” ALICE CRISP YEAR 12 75
DIGITAL ARTWORK “fIortfIheteefhleefeiblfreisabrtuestattiuifttmuiielfm.ue”fl.o”rROBYN DUNCANYEAR 12 UGA of water she hadGNADNADr m how to use the little bit of water she had. Now that she has a steady source, she says she feels beautiful for the first time. 76
POVERTY POEM The gap between rich and poor growing, just like the sound of their pleading cries We are oblivious to the desperation, and the look of hurt in their eyes This need to cure obesity, stupid. There are bigger problems than that When there are children DYING of hunger, why are we dying from fat? You scrape your food into bins just like the meat off the ribs of the hungry Just so you can feel hot, and escape the class of the ugly Children who’ve never had a meal, wouldn’t know what ‘fat’ even was They’ve never been given a chance, no one’s fought for their cause These children spend their lives fighting, for life, each day’s a war With death their worst enemy, just a day in the life of the poor Their ribs, you see through the skin, poking through like 24 knives Each breath is a pain, yet a blessing to them, so grateful that they are alive Their little bellies bloated but empty, their big hearts broken but strong So alone in this big world, but nobody turns to ask what is wrong? We all know what is wrong, they are starving But too worried about ourselves to care We see it on TV, the news and the web, eating our dinners we don’t want to share We take it for granted, the food, and the fireplaces, the fireworks, and the fashionDBut do you think if it were different, and we were one of them, you’d want a little compassion? But no, we aren’t them so it doesn’t matter, it’s not really our problem Don’t want to stick our noses where they don’t belong, at least that’s what were tellin’ ‘em Don’t you feel bad? Worrying about petty little flaws, that don’t actually matter at all Unsatisfied with your weight, and your curves, you poor thing But maybe you’re lucky you’re not small The poor are poor because the rich are rich, isn’t that what they all say? So maybe it’s our fault, for having it all, why can’t we just meet them halfway? Why do we get brunch, and boats and buffets, while they lie hungry in the dirt They don’t know what its like to be clothed, and warm, all that they know is hurt Poverty is like a punishment, for a crime never committed, so tell me where’s the justice system now? 77
DIGITAL ARTWORK COREY MORRIS YEAR 1278
POVERTY POEMYet they serve their life long sentence, with no choice of repentance, please tellme, how’s that allowed?Why do we have the right, to bathe, in cleaner water than they drink?Why do we have the right, to even bathe, while they are left to stink?Why do we have the right, to wake up every morning and climb out of our own bed?For crying out loud they sleep on the floor, with not even a roof overheadBut these people know no different, they don’t know what it’s like, to be sheltered,and tucked in at nightFor them darkness brings fear, not comfort and rest, all it brings is the cold and thefrightYou can see it in their eyes, they need us to helpWithout us they’ll just wither awayDon’t be fooled by their smiles, they aren’t happyJust helplessly awaiting their very last day MADDI BROADHURST YEAR 11 79
TEARS OF THE NIGHT Tears in the darkness Ripped hair, loose ends Skin rubbed raw Scratching, twitching, shaking, hurting The lonely child has no face Her problems are not real But when the world turns away She lets those tears out Her sobs wrack her body With a sorrow she doesn’t understand A girl so privileged Doesn’t shed tears in the dark She puts on a brave face For everyone else to see Her eyelashes kiss her face There will be no tears in the light Her hands are balled into fists To make the shaking go away This is no place for her She will find no peace With her tears in the dark The silence is all consuming When her breath dies away No one will notice Until the very next day80
By then she will have risenRisen to the starsTo protect her from the darknessFrom the never-ending duskAll around are tearsStreaking down their facesSniffling, heaving, screaming, wailingTears in the lightShe never knew that they were thereHer fellow tears of the nightTheir emotions flow like oceansWith the ebbing tideA part that is missing, cannot be replacedBy tears of the lightHer tears in the darkness were all in vainThey never really heard her painShe sat there, silent and strongThey didn’t know, she had not longThey didn’t know, she was not strongAnd every day I see tears in the lightI think of my ownTears of the night DANIKA ABRAHAMS YEAR 11 81
RUNNINGThe long treacherous walk up to the starting lineFlags shivering in the windSweat is running down my face as the race is about to beginMy heart beats like a drum as the siren lets out a loud roarI think of my loving friends and family, who I am doing this forThe dirt track is made up of greasy gravel and green grassBut I push myself on and keep running fastI have a thumping headache but I carry on with the sun glaringdown on my backThe course is a long, unforgiving cross country trackBut my legs keep running and my rhythm just keeps flowingI promised myself I would finish what I startedI would go on, I would not be fainthearted…But to the left, a flash of colourSomeone is near, another runnerIt’s an electrifying dash to the finish lineSprinting for my life, first place is mine SARAH SIBSON YEAR 782
THE STORY OF THE MOONEvery night I awake, wrapped in a cloak of deep velvety blue,sprinkled with stars. Look carefully at my midnight cloak andyou will see works of art, lighter, darker colours and a million littlelights, drawing, creating pictures of wonder.You can see a swan, a pot and Orion’s belt if you look, but, if youlook closer, oh, closer still, you will see more. You will see the starsigns, the constellations that they are named after, Leo, Virgo,Libra,Gemini, Capricorn, Cancer and Aries, but that isn’t all.I am beautiful, yes, but I envy the Sun for he is the great admiredone and I am hardly seen. Seen only by those who take interestin the night in which I rule. But I have what he doesn’t, a dark,mysterious, undiscovered side. A side that may one day havethe chance of being discovered, but… I shall keep its secret untilthat day.I have different patterns for different months, moving changingand disappearing altogether, only to be reformed and changedagain and again in my place in the milky way.My life is lonely, no other nocturnal planets nearby. For most ofmy life I’m alone, but the odd time I am seen at day I cherish theadoration.I am The Moon and my story is everlasting, you see,I am always changing, always the same. MIKAELA MCAULIFFE YEAR 7 83
WARS COST The guilty look upon his face The single life he can’t replace The tension he carried through silence each day That wouldn’t fade or go away In silence he heard the blood curdling screams Returning to battle each night in his dreams He lay and stared at the medals he earned While he thought of the innocence; the innocence he yearned He stood in the trenches, consumed with fear He felt the enemies breath so very near Regretting the moment he fired his gun But soldiers admired, “Well done son.” He had done as required His mind now empty like the gun he fired Eight years gone, time passed slow His secret still secret, they never will know His story similar to many more Feelings of hatred, hurt, life just sore Why oh why, please end it now To live like he used to, he didn’t know how The young man suffered from PTSD A mind of freedom no longer free Remember that boy with innocence lost Though more think of wars ultimate cost MAGGIE KEEFFE YEAR 984
GRAPHITEJAHNI O’MEARAYEAR 12 85
DIGITAL ARTWORK ANGUS DUFOUR YEAR 1286
ASSUMPTIONSYou would think they’d stare. But they don’t, and honestly, that hurts more. Theireyes are immediately drawn to the ground or to the before meaningless, now turnedfascinating, objects in their white hands. They look anywhere but at me. They mayrefuse to see me, but I see them. I see them tighten their grip on their handbags, pulltheir children closer to protect them from me. I watch as they put as much distancepossible between us, as they frantically change their course of direction to avoidme. To avoid the truth. I see the cogs turning in their minds, attempting to discernwhether or not the Lexus I just parked was in fact my own. Whether or not theyshould report it to the police.I see the unmistakable warning glances they give their fellow companions to alertthem to my upcoming presence. They are ashamed of me, ashamed of what Irepresent. They believe I am a burden on their society, that I disgrace it, and that Isomehow degrade it; leave a black mark on it.They don’t know about my people’s culture or our history. They believe they aresuperior. They believe they are right.They will never take the time to know me. The truth is that I worked hard toprovide for my family, I was given nothing I didn’t earn myself. I am a man of goodintentions, great accomplishments. I graduated from school second place in myyear academically. I was offered a scholarship to the finest university and madesenior partner in my third year at a prestigious, executive law firm. But they don’tsee and they don’t know. And honestly, they don’t want to know. They only see mystereotype, they make assumptions.I’m wearing my worn out, old dirty clothes from a happy day of planting in thegarden with my family as I walk through the insignificant grocery store. Yet theydon’t let themselves contemplate the truth, they assume I’ve been lying under atree in town abusing passers-by and only in a store to replenish my alcohol supply.They assume I’ve been causing havoc and committing crimes. They judge me withtheir eyes.Why is it perfectly acceptable for white women to be seen in old clotheswith the general assumption being that they’ve spent their day in the garden orcleaning? Why is this accurate assumption hardly ever applied to me? To mycolour? To my people?I squeeze the small, warm hand enlaced in mine, reassuringly. Not two seconds latercame his squeeze of reply, spreading the warmth further up my arm. I looked intohis deep brown eyes, smiling down at him as we turned into the perishables sectionof the store. He let go of my hand just long enough to grab the first milk in the row, 87
ASSUMPTIONS one with a dark blue cap. His hand returned to mine, cold and slightly clammy after handling the bottle. I loved my boy, he gave me strength. We walked down aisle eight hand in hand as I picked out the necessary ingredients my wife had asked for to add to our dinner. Two more aisles later and I had the basic essentials to get us through the next few days of work, and school for my son. He pointed to all the foods on the shelves at his eye level that piqued his interest as I repeated “not this time buddy, you’ll spoil your dinner,” as he just politely nodded. He was a good boy, we raised him well. We raised him without prejudice, and he was still amazed by the beauty of the world, the beauty of all that surrounded him. He held no racist views; he only saw equality. He was who we all should be. I noticed who I presumed to be an employee of the store, following closely behind, yet at a safe distance from who she thought I was. She altered cans and boxes on the shelves that didn’t need to be fiddled with. I was accustomed to this now, it happened at least twice a month. Most usually kept a wary eye from a distance, although I had the occasional one who would follow behind making absolute sure I wasn’t pocketing goods as I made my way through their store. “To the counter Peter, we have what we need.” You follo’ me Daddy,” came his reply. As we approached the checkout, the teenage girl occupying it cleared her throat nervously and I watched as her eyes skittered around her, desperate to find her supervisor, someone to protect her. Protect her from what? From me? Just before I could put my items on the black conveyer belt, a man pushed past me so abruptly I stumbled, struggling to stay upright, and took my place in the queue. “Excuse me sir, I was actually...” He cut me off, muttering the words, “I have somewhere important to be... you lazy... good for nothing, piece of ...” I stopped, I wasn’t surprised at the words, I was surprised at who the words came from. He wore a light grey Armani blazer, with his slacks a matching colour; the colour of the doves that sit like majestic statues on the power lines intertwined throughout our bustling city. Contrasted with his slightly darker waistcoat, which instantly reminded me of smoke remnants after a destructive fire. The back of his88
mahogany tie was hidden by a turndown white collar, and his suit finished with a pairof shiny black John Lobb designer shoes. I knew from his expensive attire, he wasinvolved in law. Most likely a barrister like myself.I had no time for his menial insults, believe it or not, I’d heard them all.I chose to let the arrogant man take my place in the line. I did not want my son tothink we are to be powerless and pushed around, nor did I want him to think we fightall those who insult us. There was no winning a racist argument. I merely waitedfor him as he let out a few choice words at the young employee in impatience andhurriedly paid before racing off.“Where’s the fire?” I asked Peter sarcastically, trying to lighten the situation for him.He laughed, smiling up at me. I will never let them take his spark. I will never letthem taint his beautiful outlook.As I paid for my items and gave the employee a friendly farewell, Peter and I madeour way back to our car.What they never seem to consider nor understand is that they may change theircourse of direction, or pull their children closer to protect them from who they thinkI am, but so do I. Their bitterness and demeaning stares will never harm my child.They don’t seem to consider I am a parent too, with my son my first priority.They paint me with the same brush as those who bring shame upon my colouredskin. Stereotypes are vicious. They are untrue and they are painful. They don’t allowfor the truth.They only allow the lies. JADE BRIGGS YEAR 12 89
WINFIELDS The night comes back in flashes. The music pumping through the air switched to the sound of sirens in the distance. The joyful embers of a bonfire turned into the dangerous flames of a smashed car. The faces of people having a good time twisted into the bleak, stern faces of paramedics. A night to remember morphed into a night to forget. I remember the moment I first saw Hailey. I just knew there was something about her. She was beautiful, but not in an obvious way. You really had to watch her. Watch how her green eyes glistened in the sun, her auburn hair flowed in the wind, and her child-like laugh, to realize her beauty. She had a nose ring, which I normally thought was trashy, but it somehow suited her. I knew I had to meet her. I’ve always played the game of life on the safe side. From a young age my parents taught me to always do the right thing - eat your greens, don’t do drugs, treat others the way you want to be treated. They’ve trusted me enough that I’ve never felt the need to push the boundaries. Life was secure within these boundaries. I felt safe. I had direction in life; do well in school, go to university and study medicine. It would make my parents proud. I knew who I was, and what I wanted to be. Everything was clear - until I started spending time with Hailey. She had this wild look in those piercing green eyes of hers that challenged every one of my thoughts. One day, she asked me if I’d ever smoked a cigarette. Horrified at the thought, I remember giving her a lecture on the long-term health damage breathing in the toxins caused. Hailey pulled out a pack of Winfields, placed a smoke between her thin lips, then lit it. She inhaled, paused, then slowly exhaled, blowing smoke rings in my direction. She laughed, “Just give it a go, Dean! You only live once.” She tilted the smoke in my direction. I knew I shouldn’t. I knew how deadly they were. My parents would kill me if I came home smelling of tobacco. But to have something that had touched her lips touch mine, it gave me an unexplainable rush, starting in my stomach, and stretching to my fingers and toes. I tenderly picked up the cigarette with two fingers, and placed it between my lips. I inhaled. It felt like I was breathing in the Sahara desert, every last drop of saliva in my throat being soaked up. Coughing and spluttering as I spat it out, Hailey laughed at me. “You’ll get better at it,” she smiled. Somehow, I knew I would do this again. It began with the cigarette. Slowly, she built me up to drinking alcohol, and going on spontaneous road trips to unplanned destinations, sneaking me back home before dinner. My parents did have their protective instinct on guard though. I knew they didn’t approve of her. Even though they never admitted it, I could just tell by the way my mother stared critically at her nose ring. They were scared things were getting DIGITAL ARTWORK DARCY SYMINGTON90 YEAR 12
91
WINFIELDS too serious with her, and would constantly tell me, “Don’t let this girl ruin your future, Dean.” I didn’t even know if I wanted to study medicine anymore. Hailey showed me the side of life outside the boundaries I’d lived captive in all my life. I loved it. Every time I stared into her eyes, a shade of green I could now only associate with a feeling of adrenaline, I wanted more. She made me forget about everything I had worked for in life. It felt like I was being reborn every moment I spent with her. And I wish I could spend more moments with her. Especially after that night. “It’s going to be the party of the century!” Hailey had informed me, her eyes bursting with excitement. “Only catch is you’ll need a fake ID to get in.” I was hesitant to go. It would mean staying out past my curfew. Things were tense with my parents at the moment. I told them that I wanted to take a year off before going to university, and they didn’t take it well. I don’t remember much about the argument, but I think we left it on terms of “We’ll discuss this later.” All they wanted for me in life was to succeed. They were scared I was throwing it all away with ‘that girl’, as they would say. Hailey stroked my hand and nuzzled her head into the crook of my neck. She knew I was anxious. Staring up at me with those mesmerizing green eyes of hers, they won me over. Like they did every single time. “I guess I could get a mate to cover for me,” I replied. She smiled and kissed me. I remember arriving at the party that night. A vacant block with nothing but a mammoth-sized shed, dozens of cars lined row upon row, and a raging bonfire surrounded by youth. Hailey held my hand and lead the way to the shed, bouncing in her step along the way. The fake IDs got us through with ease. “This is going to be fun!” she exclaimed, handing me a can of Jacks. Oh, how I wish she was right. I only remember fragments after that first drink: a shed full of young adults having a great time, a round of shots, the flickering light of the bonfire, a bottle of vodka, the pounding bass that thuds throughout your entire body, another round of shots. Everything was starting to look fuzzy. I remember Hailey whispering sultrily in my ear, “Let’s go back to my place,” her hand running down my back. The feeling of adrenaline was stronger than ever, mixed with the sensation of desire. I wished that feeling could last forever. We staggered to the car with our arms wrapped around each other. I opened the doors, fumbled the keys into the ignition and drove out onto the road. I remember thinking that I was the luckiest guy in the world. My entire body was buzzing. I placed my foot down on the accelerator. Hailey laughed. Feeling reckless, I sped up more. Laughing with her, I looked at the girl next to me to see those sexy green eyes staring back. Life was perfect at this moment. I turned back to the road. “LOOK OUT!” A cow wandered onto the road, illuminated by the headlights. The car swerved. I slammed on the breaks. We were facing a92
tree. The tyres screeched. We were nearing the tree.It’s too late. We hit the tree. Glass and metal everywhere. “DEAN!”Flames...Sirens...Ambulance...Blackout.It’s been two weeks since that night. Now it’s time to face the consequences. Istand outside the church amongst everyone dressed in black, their eyes stainedwith tears from the service. I have to see those glistening, wild, sexy, green eyesone last time. I walk through the doors and down the aisle of the church. I used todream that one day I’d see her walking down the aisle in a white dress. That’s all it’llever be now, a dream. There’s a girl standing by the casket. I walk to her. A whitebandage is peeking out from under the beret she wears on her head, below that herface is battered and bruised. Her eyes are overflowing with tears, like a green seaon a calm day. She places a packet of Winfields in the casket, and walks away. Istare down into the casket, and see my own face staring back at me. CASEY SWEENEY YEAR 12 93
HAIKUすすいえ いえい です its swimmingおすぎよお よぐできます I could swimすいえいちがう swimming differentわかりません don’t understandわかりませんでした didn’t understandわかります understandおおきいとちいさい big and smallはながどこでも flowers everywhereあかとピンク red and pinkうみがひろい ocean wideみどりどこでも green everywhereきてください come hereシーーーープ its sheep!にくがおいしい meat is deliciousきれいです that’s beautifulKADE ALLEN, EMMA BATEMAN,TIANA GREGORINI, JAMES RANDALL,HUGH FLANIGAN & TIM WATTERSYEAR 1194
MICRON PENS &WATER COLOURGEORGIA WEBB YEAR 11 95
I FEEL EMPTY Being all alone and empty starts like a storm, sweeping you off your feet by surprise, losing the amazing feeling of freedom, as the feeling of emptiness kicks in Can’t even look in the mirror without your reflection spitting words of hatred at you Going out with so called friends to avoid the depressing feeling of emptiness, your “friends” try to give you hope by saying ‘you’re amazing’, but you can see through their lies They tell you more and more lies But you know you’re none of that And you know it’s only said out of sympathy They state rhetorical questions like ‘what would we do without you?’ But you always know that to them You’re a second choice and there’s always someone they’d choose over you But you know what makes it hardest? Being alone through it all... Deserted, detached and depressed Crying so much that your eyes feel dry like the desert, improvising with fake laughs, hiding feelings with fake smiles, letting silence speak when your words can’t Your mind feels like a snow globe that’s being constantly shaken You get to the point where you just wish that you could sleep forever because sleeping isn’t where the nightmares begin, instead the real nightmare begins when you wake up They tell you ‘it gets better’... But when? They tell you ‘it’s okay’... But it isn’t, (stop trying to give out false hope) They tell you ‘I’m here for you’...but they aren’t, they never were and they never will be They say ‘I know what it feels like’...but no they don’t, they have no idea what it feels like to be all alone The insults rain hard on you Your heart is broken Like a smashed plate with pieces missing You’re so fragile, you could break at any second And when you finally think you’re free and the storm’s over it just gets worse... SOPHIE MCCAGH YEAR 796
MIXED MEDIAJOSEPH TANTIYEAR 12 97
“MY PLACE IN WA”– YOUNG WRITERS INITIATIVEI begin trudging my way up the snowy mountain, thesnow slowly penetrating my sneaker causing myfeet to be enveloped in this sensation. The breeze ischilly up near the peak of the mountain and attacksmy face whenever it can causing me to shiver as ifcold steel had slapped my face. We stop near thepeak, people desperate for a drink of the meltingsnow. Even when melted, as the water trickled downyour throat it was as if the purest water, it somehowtasted different and was ice cold as if some miracle,rehydrating my body. As we reached the peak of themountain, I break in and look around and see nothingbut snow, when I breathe the air it was as if mythoughts were clearer, it feels like the purest oxygenever and as my head began to clear, I realised thereare reasons for me being here. TYSON FARRELL YEAR 1198
My Place…....The wind hammers in the main sail as I gaze upon theopen ocean. It’s more homely than my home, this is my home. It’sthe place where I want to be for the rest of my life. I’ve met mysoulmate, I don’t need anyone else. I may want more but when Istop and think, what more could I want. We glide across the wavysea, tightening the main, skirting the jib, it is my place where I canbe free and be me. The wind rushes through my hair, the windsalty and mouth dry. The force needed to make it, the strength,I’m not the person people think I am. I have the power to makesomething move in amazing ways, and the anger leaves at thefirst sight of a rope. The bright sun begins to set, it’s a race, achase to get to the light before it’s gone. That is the ultimategoal. The wind picks up, we reef the sail. Sprinting to the finishthat just keeps moving. We work hard, shouting orders as thelight continues to disappear, almost stating that it’s a waste ofour time. Today may not be the day we meet the light, but thereis always tomorrow. We take one last chance, the wind fills thesail, and it’s still there, the light, maybe… we did it, we made it. Thelight has so much power in its mighty size. Happiness, bliss arethe only words that come to mind. My home brought me here, thesea and the yacht, my home brought me here. The yachting lifeis mine, and the yacht, the sea is my home. I am home, my place,my home…...... My freedom…. CHANTELL FIELD YEAR 9 99
WAVELENGTH 2015 WAS CREATED WITH THE SUPPORT AND CONTRIBUTIONS OF…. Editor: Miss Jenna Borojevic Publication Design: Mr Matthew Grigsby Assistant Editor: Mrs Ann Boyle Thank you to the following areas of learning for their contribution: English and LOTE The Arts Nagle Catholic College Library In particular, Wavelength 2015 would like to thank the following staff for their support: Mr Jordan Andreotta Ms Paula Van Bladel Miss Caroline Comiskey Mr Glen Williams Ms Kirsty Sinclair Mrs Aoife Kelly-Wixted Mr Joshua Payne Mr Dean Murdoch Mr Nick Gillet Mrs Melanie Jodah Mr Josh Crothers Typists: Ciara Cooney (Year 12) and Ms Tanya Hatch Many thanks to Mr Mal Ennis at Guardian Print & Graphics for the ongoing support towards our publication. Thank you to all the students who contributed work and to those teachers who contributed work on behalf of students.100
Search
