English FacultyMelbourne High School

A compilation of literary and art work

by the students of

Melbourne High School

PRESENTS

LAUREATE2000-01

Volume 2

On Writing Maureen McCarthy 3

PERSONAL Metamorphosis Luke Faba 6A Traveller’s Tale Pondy Bazar 8The Truth of Life Tim Jones 9Life is Beautiful Edward Nguyen 10Thief Said Thank You Harry Pham 12The Most Memorable Day at School Being the Last Bo Jing 14My Life Michael Chen 16The Essence of Life Tim Jones 18Aussie Inside an Asian Skin Vincent Dang 20My Days of Freezing Winston Oi 22I Have a Dream Sina Babazadeh 24Untitled 1 Tushar Kuchhal 25Untitled 2 Tushar Kuchhal 26

POETRY Change Tim Jones 28AFL Football Andrew Lim 28Death Nirmalakanthan Amirthanesan 29The Final Moments Aashish Chopra 29Dreams Chris Vo 30Friday Afternoon Sandeep Gadgil 30I Look, I Find, I See Gaspare Aloi 30Friends Matthew Lewis 31Poetry Is Tom Divkman 31Your Love’s a Gift Jamie Zhu 31Less Quoc Ho 32Untitled Anthony Lim 32Untitled Chan Tan 33Untitled Larry Chan 33Life of the Sea Joel Tito 33Untitled Chris Vo 34You Kenny Rao 34The Journey Kenneth Koh 34The Eyes of the Dead Arindham Nagar 35My Street Christopher Parkes 36The Galloping Horseman Thomas Leong 37Physics Christopher Parkes 37A Room Christopher Parkes 37Life’s a Game Gary To 38Figures in the Column Nick Leslie 38March of the Dead Zhihong Chen 39The End of Human Kind Ling Zhong 39War Poem Nhat Tran 40War Ben Lichtenstein 40The War Called Peace Tom Dickman 40

IMAGINATIVE A Duty Shreerang Sirdesai 42A New Beginning Stephen Fang 44A Passionate Death Trac Trinh 46The Adventures of Benny Stamp Nathan Goode 48Alone in Space Joel Tito 50Into the Unknown Harry Comeadow 51Ask the Lonely Daniel Gold 52Escape Markiyan Stefan 54

Contents

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Familiarity Breathes Brad Barr 56Fear of Life Itself Thomas Morgan 57Grasshopper Richard Ibrahim 58In the Name of Honour Tze-Sian Hor 60It Takes a Thief to Catch a Thief Brian Young 61Plight of the Limbless Soldier Nick Leslie 62Say Something Ronald Chan 64Love Hurts Shreerang Sirdesai 66One and Only Chance, Blown Nathan Wawryk 68Palatial Furore Stephen Fang 70Perpetual Motion Thomas Morgan 72Phantasma Seng Teoh 74Sacrifice of One Abe Hu 75In the Beginning Evan Kettle 77Into the Woods Sanka Amadoru 78Sea of Racism Arindham Nagar 80Short Story Tim Shocker 82Sharpshooter Tristan De Lanerolle 84The Children Tim Jones 85Taking out the Trash Paul Greenhil 86The Battle for Vanheim Nathan Wawryk 88The Drifter Mihai Avram 90The Freedom of the Prince Wan Jing Zhang 92The Gods Imperial Steven Ma 94The Hidden Knowledge Wan Jing Zhang 96The Lonely Tears Andrew Thomas 98The Loner William Priestly 100The Mystical Harp Richard Ibrahim 101The Tiger Richard Ibrahim 102Shaman Robert McKenzie 104Search for Satisfaction Damien McLeod 106The Art of Life Chris Vo 108I Always Knew It Would End Like That Own Wolahan 110A Postmodernist Tale Christian Mooney 112History of the World in 10½ Chapters Sam Szoke-Burke 11455 Word Stories 115

CREATIVE (Emulating Peter Carey) Crabs Tim Baxter 118Life & Death in the South Pavilion Adrian Halliday 119Life & Death in the South Pavilion Nick Collins 121The Fatman in History Guy Edwards 123The Fatman in History Paul Cooper 124War Crimes Tim Harper 126War Crimes Dominic Melling 128War Crimes Rafiq Copeland 130War Crimes Simon Schmidt 132Peeling Adam Fraine 134Peeling Max Aneschi 136Room No. 5 (Escribo) Maciek Zielinski 137American Dreams Edward Strong 139

OPINIONATIVE He’s Gone As Far As He Can Kai Yuan Cheng 142The Beginning of the End for Australian Culture Matthew Dodds 143Ignorance is Bliss Ray Boyapati 144True Freedom – Myth or Reality? Geoffrey Wong 145Religion Has Done More Harm than Good Owen Wolahan 146Discontent Michael Chen 148

ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS 150

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On Writing

Extracts from a speech delivered by Maureen McCarthy

Some people might say, why bother? So a kid of sixteen has written a nice piece about his Dad, a car accident, a footy game or his cat. Why not just give him ‘A’ and leave it there? [Being published in the Laureate]... is a way of rewarding excellence... Everybody likes to be pulled out of the crowd when they’ve done something very well and be recognized for it .... you’re saying it is actually worth something above and apart from a school grade.

...you’re saying to the boys, “Your experience – the things that make you laugh and think, the things that get on your goat, your hopes, your dreams - are worth something. You are important. You are not just a cog in the wheel. It’s actually worth digging deep into your inner life and developing it.”

In this visually obsessed culture that we are living in at the end of the 20th Century, a little collection like this is saying that writing is still important...

About thirty years ago, the novel was declared dead. With monotonous regularity, every few years different versions of this are bandied around. Dead, moribund, fading away.

The novel hasn’t died ... it could, in fact, said to be thriving. And so is journalism.

People are always going to want to experience story from the inside. As powerful as film, video, TV are, you are somehow outside the experience. The depth, complexity and subtly possible in a piece of writing, is not always possible on film.

This little collection is also saying Writing is about the how we live our lives, now. Sure, a strong literary culture is about reading the best from around the world. It’s about being aware of the best from the past. Those books that have stood the test of time. But it is also about now.

Culture doesn’t just belong to other people. This little book says, “You, too, can be part of it!”

We haven’t yet produced a great, powerful, popular novel in this country (... on the level of, say, The Grapes of Wrath or Huck Finn). But this country is still young; still forging an identity. If enough people are out there with their heads in books and if enough people can have the confidence to believe that our way of life, our particular humour and speech idioms are as legitimate as anyone else’s then... that novel will come!

If these boys leave school knowing that their country’s culture is a living thing, and that they can be part of making and shaping it, then that is a great thing.

Congratulations to everyone involved: to the contributors (the writers), and to the teachers. The book looks terrific and I’m sure the boys will be very proud.

This speech was delivered by Maureen McCarthy at the official launch of the Laureate at Melbourne High School on Monday 29th November, 1999.

Maureen McCarthy is the author of: Queen Kat, Carmel and St Jude Get A Life.

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PERSONAL

Daniel Fox

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Metamorphosis

Luke Faba

He could never go back there. Just thinking about it made his stomach liquify and settle to the pits of his soul. However, a part of him would always remain there. An irretrievable part of his innocence, or was it his naïvete? Every child has a moment in his or her life where they lose their innocence, like a caterpillar emerging from slumber within a cocoon to become a butterfly. Sometimes the caterpillar never becomes a butterfly, but rather it dies. Other times, the butterfly will have no idea how lucky it is that it is alive. Come on man! Let’s go to Porter St! One butterfly knows how lucky it is to be here. The vision that it would no longer exist was placed in its lap and taken away at the last moment. It’s cool, Luke, I know the road like the back of my hand. Why had it been allowed to hatch from its cocoon and not become a statistic? The butterfly would never know. A million and one reasons could be offered as to why it was not to spend eternity in its cocoon, but the butterfly could be sure of none. What do you say, man? Why are butterflies so attracted to the beautiful glowing light of the insect-zapper? Do they not know that the light is deadly? Or do they know very well the great dangers and choose to proceed? This butterfly embraced the light. Its friends coaxed it into embracing it, friends that were never to hatch from their cocoons. 100km/h, 120km/h, 135km/h, 140km/h. Did these butterflies realise at the last second, the moment before they submitted to the beautiful light, that they were going to die? Were they suddenly wrought with feelings of regret and remorse? 150km/h, 160km/h, 170km/h, 175km/h. In that final moment, when all things were apparent to the butterfly, what did it think? Did it accept its doom or did it fight? It surely could not physically fight, as the beautiful light is far stronger than its own strengths. To survive, it had to fight not physically, not even mentally – but spiritually. It had decided it was not time to leave. 180 kilometres per hour. The three butterflies lay lifeless beneath the throbbing blue light. Its brilliant power had been too overwhelming. But one of the butterflies twitched. His intricate patterned wings where charred black from the impact, but its core still retained some form of life. It slowly began to move. Guys…guys…Andy…Shadi? Guys…hey, guys? Slowly, the butterfly hoisted itself up and flew away from the light with great effort. Suddenly, struck by a powerful realisation, it fell many metres to the ground below. Across the road from the butterfly, lay a steaming car wreck. A young man struggled out of the decrepit remains of the vehicle. For a moment, the young man just looked back at the car as if staring right through it, and then he too collapsed. He collapsed not because he was greatly injured, but because he had a shocking revelation. He looked through the windows of the ruins of the Ford Falcon and saw the lifeless corpses of his friends. Blood still flowed steadily from one passenger, coiling in marvellous patterns down the side of the door before dissipating evenly over the grass. The arm of the passenger swayed gently out the window, in a pendulum-like fashion, oscillating around a point on the ground. Every revolution reflected light off a ring into the young man’s eyes. Time slowed and came to a halt. The young man was, for the first time in his life, totally alone. What do you say, man? the words repeated themselves over and over in the young man’s mind, eating away at his conscience. He opened his mouth and let out the most gut-wrenching scream in this world, only no sound came out. He felt as though he was as small as an insect. In that moment, everything was clear to him. Somehow, he had known of the fate that was to befall his friends. He had been sure the accident was to happen and he only saved himself. By not answering the question no he had sealed the

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fates of his dear friends. Why was he not still motionless in the car? He had chosen not to be, but in his haste to leave the car, he had left his friends behind. He had left them in their cocoons. They had died with their innocence. His life had been going for fifteen years, but the instant the car lost control to the instant it lay motionless, seemed twice as long to him. In that time, he had decided he was not leaving this world. He had decided he was not leaving his mother. His friends had not thought of this. A butterfly flew awkwardly past the young man as he rose to his feet. He wished this day had never happened; it had changed him forever. He saw a part of his childhood lying in fragmented pieces on the road surrounding the defaced car. To this day, as he wipes a tear off his cheek, young Luke Faba promises never to get into a speeding car again. He promises that he will try to make his second chance on this Earth a well-earned one. He also promises never to go back to Porter Street.

Kiran Atmuri

7

A Traveller’s Tale

Pondy Bazaar

The powerful aroma of masala wafts through the air, managing to overpower the smell of the sweating bodies which filled the restaurant. It is lunchtime, rice and curry is being consumed with delight along with large helpings of iddly and pancake-like dhoosais with chutney made from freshly grated coconut. Those who had moved on to desert indulged in sugary bright orange jallebees and perfectly round ladus, which would no doubt increase their blood sugar. Men dressed in either dully coloured pants and white shirts or a traditional white veshti, much like a skirt coming down to their ankles, feet clad in Bata slippers; shoes and socks were unwise in such heat. The women in contrast wore brightly coloured sarees, ranging from exquisitely woven ‘kancheepurams’ with their gold thread work to the simple polyesters. Married women with round, red pottus in the middle of their foreheads and a gold thali around their necks’, unmarried ones with black pottus.

They sit there discussing their lives, the lives of movie stars come demigods, the country’s complex politics, its economy and whether or not Tendulkar should captain the cricket team. A waiter in a white uniform and a ‘Nehru’ cap comes to take my order, I take the lunchtime special, rice with five different vegetarian curries and pappadum. While I wait I drink some iced water, the water is suspect but in heat like this anything will suffice. I attract disapproving glances as my mouth touches the silver tumbler, most Indians drink without their lips touching the edge – a skill I have not been able to master without emptying half the contents down the front of my shirt.

I look out of the second floor window, the scene below is lively and chaotic. Bus drivers hurl obscenities at motorists who in turn abuse rickshaw drivers who are trying to dodge pedestrians. The road is narrow and pot-holed, with a coating of dust giving it the appearance of a dirt track rather than a main road. It is peppered with large brown lumps of cow dung, the smell is unbearable, though the flies don’t seem to mind. Horns hoot and tempers flair in heated exchanges. In the middle of it all a proud Brahma bull stubbornly sits, the heat too much for him. No amount of coaxing will make him move and no one dares force the mount of Shiva. A green ‘Pallavan’ bus thunders past sending up clouds of dust and belching out grey smoke, an asthmatic’s worst nightmare. It is precariously balanced with people hanging out the doors, no doubt not wanting to be late for important appointments. The bus is old, the rust shows its age; the deteriorating vehicle has no glass, just metal bars across the windows. Women sit on one side men on the other, the conductor yells at patrons who do not have correct change; the service makes the MET look good. Across the road is Pondy Bazaar, with its incredible range of goods: toys, books, magazines, clothes, shoes, food and even flower garlands. The colour of the garlands themselves enough to catch one’s eye, their sweet smelling nectars tantalising the nose, the vendors’ cries complete the assault on the senses. An old lady makes her way down the crumbling pathway; her skin dark, her teeth yellow; flies hover around her face, she ignores them; her limbs are malnourished; her features tired and worn; like her saree, haggard and washed once too often; the colour has faded like her hopes and dreams. On her head a basket is delicately balanced, it contains fruit; bananas, mangoes, moongoostans and paupaus. Their bright colours forming an ironic juxtaposition with her own appearance.

The pavement is crowded with stalls; a group of gypsies sell beautiful hand-made bead necklaces, earrings and bracelets; the kind you buy in Ishka for twenty to thirty dollars. Another sells peanuts freshly roasted in chili powder; the smell is strong and piercing. They are cooked on an open flame in a huge black pan, rather like a large wok, then wrapped in old newspaper rolled into the shape of a cone; the ink doesn’t come off Indian papers. The peanut stall is positioned near a teashop, a sort of Indian café. Two wooden benches sit facing each other on the pavement. Patrons are perched on them, reading newspapers, gossiping or smoking bedees – cheap local cigarettes. Two huge loud speakers blare out the latest Tamil hits, as well as a few Hindi. Further down the road there is a huge billboard for a movie, its size reflects the magnitude of India’s film industry: the largest in the world. It shows a muscular hero and a scantly clad heroine in

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each other’s arms. My eyes run down the heroine’s body, as I reach the bottom of the billboard I notice two children huddled under the billboard. They are dressed in old rags, the boy in a dirty vest and torn brown shorts; the girl, probably his sister, in a black skirt, which is ripped at the bottom, and a pale blue shirt covered in stains. Their faces are soiled and their hair in tangles, they call out to passers by, taking anything that comes their way.

Just then my meal arrives, the rice is steaming hot and I have to wait till it cools down. There are no forks or spoons; the only utensils here are your hands. The curry is hot! Very hot. I pity the Western tourists. I reach for some iced water to ease my discomfort. Despite its ‘hotness’ it is a treat for the taste buds, and disappears soon enough. Following the rice, I go to the taps in the middle of the room to wash my hands. I then move on to some jallebee; the sugary syrup in which it is coated melts down the side of my hand, I lick it not wanting to miss any. I get up and walk to the front to pay my bill and leave. I must get some roasted peanuts on the way to the hotel.

The Truth of Life

Tim Jones

Darkness all around me, nothing but darkness. I was free. Free to float the boundless darkness in solitude. Naught else shared my space: no people, no places, no time. Nothing to convolute life more than required. I was truly free: no stupid people with their stupid problems. Human kind can’t live in ‘peace and harmony’ - my life is a great testament to that truth. I try to evade their frivolous politics. Everyone backstabbing each other, then striking again through different avenues, all because they didn’t get their way. Constantly striving to evade their squabbling; ultimately I fail, engulfed into a black hole. The bickering never resolves; continuing; like a vicious tornado consuming all it encounters into its gaping maw.

Then it all gets too much. I must escape; flee from the world into my keep. My solid, solitary, bunker; with a big sound door. This retread often endures a savage beating; winds of hate, treachery and deceit scraping against it. Relentlessly howling, bashing, clawing to get at me.

During this I ignore these currents and relish my opportunity to exist on a simpler plane. I live life for itself. I do what suits me most. However, long after my withdrawal, I emerge from my shell. I rejoin the world and slowly the higher consciousness awakes within me again. Like a splitting headache the sentience oozes back into me. Painfully, I again start to see the world for what it truly is. I hear their song. The soft, comforting song of the Sirens. I used to be easy prey to these fiends becoming torn apart by the problems of human kind. Now I hear the song for what it truly is, like a practised musical picking that bad note. White and black the world becomes. Contrasts become apparent; and I become cynical. Life’s lessons have left me burned.

The first time I opened my eyes, seeing the world for what it really was, I could hardly believe what I was seeing. Person against person, battling for what is right to them. Naivety prevented me from viewing the full depth of the scene before me. Though in this two dimensional picture I could still see the message: ‘Life can’t ever be fair’.

My childish mind refused to believe. ‘Life is fair… it has to be!’ but the more I searched, the more I convinced myself of the ultimate truth. I didn’t like this new world. I wanted to go home, back to the simpler days, when life was fair. Sadly, deep down, I knew that place was gone. Gone forever.

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Life is Beautiful

Edward Nguyen

The war was over. My parents, after five years of terrifying ordeals, sleepless nights and hiding, sensed a new beginning. It was time to say goodbye, to leave the world they knew so well, the place in which they had been born, grew up in and made so many friends. They had a one-year-old daughter, my eldest sister, Anh, an innocent child unaware of the imminent change ahead. My mother had to give up her position as a lawyer and my father had to leave his school as Vice-Principal. Their decision was painful yet definite – it was time to leave!

The sky was pitch black. Fierce winds were howling and gusting at high speeds. Hundreds of people flocked to the piers, pushing and shoving for what they wanted – true freedom! This was it – now or never – life or death – they had to take that chance! Much of my parents’ concern was for Anh, as she was at most danger, but they were also worried about my mother’s family who had joined them in their search for a new life. As they all climbed on to the vessel, only thirteen metres long and three metres wide, the swell seemed to increase. The ancient fishing boat, which was carrying over 200 refugees, wallowed in the reeking water of the South China Sea. The journey had begun! Where were they going? They did not know. Destiny would decide! For three days and three nights, they endured the constant whining and crying of babies. The stench of the filthy, brown and cloudy sea, which made many seasick and the increasing deterioration of the weak due to lack of food only made the journey worse.

By the fourth day, my grandmother, an extremely kind and generous woman, had given all her food away. She felt sorry for everyone else who was struggling to survive. Sadly, however, others did not return the favour. Soon, my family were starving, especially, my sister Anh, who had nothing to eat. Everyone was forced to drink the seawater to survive, as the limited supplies of fresh water were quickly exhausted. Almost everyone was suffering from seasickness, malnutrition and dehydration, with the very young and the elderly most at risk. After five days many had lost hope, but not my parents, even though no land had yet been sighted. They were determined to survive despite the terrible conditions. What they did not know was that the worst was yet to come!

It appeared as a small black cloud on the horizon. At first there were cheers. Surely this approaching ship would help them to a safe harbour. It was only when the two boats were a few hundred metres apart that the awful truth became clear. These were pirates, vicious raiders who prey on desperate refugees. Far superior in force they attack small boats, steal any items of value, and often rape and kill helpless victims. My parents have always refused to discuss the details of what followed, except to say that some people died – they were stabbed and flung overboard because they refused to co-operate with the pirates. Just as the raiders came below in search of the women, however, a miracle occurred. The strong tides had pushed the boat into Indonesian waters, and a passing patrol boat came to the refugees’ rescue.

On dry land again, there were more problems to face. On contacting the Americans, all my relatives were accepted into their country except for my immediate family. So, the family was divided; my parents were flown to Australia, leaving the rest of my relatives to establish their new homes in America. Although grateful for rescue, safety and a chance for a new start at life, my mother and father were overwhelmed by isolation, language problems, and the difficulties of starting again.

Knowing no English, my mother found it very difficult as a tram conductor. My father, in the same predicament, worked in a cigarette factory. Both desperately missed their former professional lives in Vietnam, but their skills and status were not recognised here. As years passed, life became slightly easier as their knowledge of the English language expanded, and their job opportunities increased. Few of their jobs were well paid, the work was hard, and the hours long. They shed sweat and tears to bring up Anh, then Sue and finally myself.

For the past twelve years, my mother and father have been working as clothing manufacturers. For every

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time I feel I have wasted money or an opportunity, such as food, breaking objects, or buying goods which are not a necessity, I think of the struggle and hard labor my parents went through, and feel a burning sensation of guilt run through my body. Often, although I find it very annoying and hurtful at the time, my mother and father lecture me – telling me to work harder and harder. They sometimes question why I did not receive an A+, but only an A, which really makes me furious, but I know that they only make those comments to spur me on. So I aim for higher goals in life, hopefully getting into Medicine and becoming a doctor.

As every day passes and I gradually become more mature, I begin to understand my parents’ views on life, and in particular, their warning to never take anything for granted. I must also learn to help others in life and not only myself, as selfishness is the largest disease in the world. I know how lucky our whole family is to live in such a caring country. If I am to accomplish my goals and to have a sense of purpose in life, I will not only have to excel academically for myself, but as a doctor, I must help others. This will be my way of repaying the debt I owe to this country.

Harry Dang

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Thief Said Thank You

Harry Pham

3:48pm. I was on the train home from school. The man sitting across from me looked very familiar. I think back. Where have I seen him before? Is it just my imagination?

“I remember his face very well,” Linh replies. My family is still in a state of shock. My sister continues to describe the robber as the policeman records it in his notebook. She is obviously traumatised by the whole event.

Suddenly, the police officer’s radio buzzes and crackles with static. He stands up and tells us, “We have just received a call that a milk bar in Dudley Street is being robbed. The robber fits the description that Linh has been giving me.” My mother interrupts briefly, “That’s the milk bar around the corner from this place!” she adds, “I know the owner!” Quickly, the policeman closes his notebook and he and his partner head out to their car. My mother gives them a few brief directions before they drive off, siren wailing.

My family owns a milk bar. It is situated in a quiet street in the suburb of Footscray. We have lived in this area since I was born. I have a sister, Linh, who is two years older than me. When our parents aren’t home, we are always debating over whose turn it is to mind the shop. Usually, our mother is in charge while our dad is at work. Personally, I dislike having to look after the milk bar. It is a very tedious and boring job. Our shop does not get a whole lot of customers. I am always trying to make up excuses so that I don’t have to work. There is also a milk bar around the corner from our place. It has just opened under new owners after being closed for about four years. The owners are also Vietnamese.

The headline in the newspaper said it all “Thief Said Thank-You.” It is a small article, written very briefly. The headline sounds as if it is almost ridiculing us. I read the article and think that these writers do not know what it is like to go through one of these situations. Neither would the hundreds of people who also read this newspaper. I toss it out in disgust.

“I can’t Mum! I have to study! My VCE is this year!” I exclaim. She sighs, “Very well. Linh, would you be able to mind the shop tonight?” My sister shows her resentment towards me but has to agree to my mother’s wishes. I am not really going to study. My friend Anthony has just let me borrow his new computer game and I haven’t had the chance to play it yet. My sister can’t argue because our parents always tell us how important education is. I can only think of one thing important to me at that time.

It is a Friday night. Almost closing time for the milk bar. I am in my room playing the computer. Linh is in the shop. Ding! The bell signals that a customer is entering. Linh can immediately tell that this man is a very suspicious looking character. He walks up to the till. My sister is feeling ver nervous now. I just lost a life in my game.

“Hi” he says with a smile. His hands are in his coat. He purchases a packet of chewing gum. Linh is feeling relieved and makes a mental note never to judge people on how they look. As she opens the cash register to give the man his change she looks up and sees that her ‘customer’ is brandishing a knife. “Wait,” he whispers “I want you to take out all the money in there and hand it over.” My sister is trembling with fear. The thief maintains his composure. “Hurry up,” then he added the ominous word “please.” He thrusts the knife in her direction to show that he really means business. My sister obediently follows his orders like a dog obeys his master. She is screaming but I cannot hear her. The thief tells her “Please be quiet.” She nods with tears streaming down her face. Linh hands over the money “Sorry to do this to you.” He turns to leave. “Thankyou very much”

My sister runs to my room. “Quick! Call the police!” She shrieks. “What happened?” I ask. “We’ve Just been robbed!” I run out to give chase to the robber like a hero. I see him walking down the street casually as if nothing had happened. Slowly, and reluctantly, I follow. He turns and sees me, then ducks behind a

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fence. I stop. I think. He has a knife. He could jump out and surprise me. I run back home, bare-footed.

Weeks later, Linh recovered from the incident. The thief had made away with two hundred dollars and then walked around the corner and robbed the other milk bar. Eventually he was caught by the police. They couldn’t believe how the thief could steal from people and just casually walk away expecting to get away with it. I couldn’t believe it either.

I got off the train and walked home.

John Aitken

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The Most Memorable Day at School Being the Last

Bo Jing

Life is like a long time line; it holds memories of elation, bitterness, and most of all belonging. Usually, the most memorable days are those full of happiness or bitter ones that churn your stomach every time your mind ponders about them. But for me, the most memorable day was the last day of year eight because on that day I experienced a incoherently mixed feeling of grief and happiness so strong and vivid that forgetting it would be impossible.

I had been a student at Glen Waverley Secondary College since year seven in 1998. Being the only kid coming from my primary school was pretty daunting, but soon I made friends with students in my class who I knew were nice and understanding right from the beginning. As the year drifted on, friendship was strengthened; the entire class was bonded together like an unbreakable family. Even to this day my former classmates would say to me ‘Bo man! Our class is so cool, we’ve got the best class…’ Inside I would agree and feel the pain of grief grow like a balloon being inflated. I had not valued my friendship with the class because I never thought I would lose it.

When year seven was over like a short story, I was in year eight. Right from the start of the year I had a vision of gaining entrance into the prestigious state selective Melbourne High School. I was very self-motivated and ambitious, my parents did not force me to go, and I had made the decision because I pursued high standard education and challenge. Just like nearly everything, there was a price. Passing the examination meant dedication and hard work through sample papers. I was prepared for the work, but it wasn’t until near the end of the year and especially on the last day of school that I realized the bigger price, larger and more valuable than all the gold and diamonds in the universe, was leaving my friends.

The last day was somehow supernatural right from the beginning. Thinking about it now seems like it was a dream, but one that remains vivid in my mind. On my way to the school the sky was dark and filled with gloomy clouds, it was going to be a rainy day. ‘Typical weather for the occasion’ I thought to myself as I strode along the footpath. The feelings that I experienced were very strong, but very difficult to decipher into words. You could only know what it was like if you felt it.

All of my friends remembered that it was my very last day because when I arrived they came up and greeted me in a sad manner. I am very certain that they also grieved at my departure. Without any obvious reason, I felt an urge to throw up. Perhaps I was too anxious, but with luck I managed to settle down after awhile.

In class, I was flooded with Christmas cards from everyone. Inside each card, I was elated to find long passages bidding me farewell. It wasn’t those ‘Dear Bo, from …’ types. Some cards even included candy sticks! These cards are extremely precious and memorable to me. Every time I read them, a mental image of that person appears in my mind and makes me smile. I could still remember how the rain poured down from the sorrowing skies that day. It was like as if the sky above the school too deplored my departure to another school. Tears welled up in my eyes as I watched the heavy drain strike the ground, but I controlled the urge to cry. It was extremely difficult because sadness really squeezes those tears out of your eyes. Sometimes it can crush you to the size of a grain of sand.

I had loved the school so much that even leaving the classrooms was hard. Every time I walked out of a room that I had been used to, a voice in my head reminded me ‘this is your last time’. Soon I was quite exhausted from all the extreme feelings cycling through me. Whenever I wanted to bawl out the sadness I told myself that it wasn’t the end, that I would be able to visit my friends again. Never before had I felt so baffled by my feelings. Part of me deeply regretted of making the decision to leave and the other told me that I had made a noble and wise decision. But since it was my last day, the bias was on regret.

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Inevitably the last moment came. The school bell rang with great finality and no longer could I hold the piecing pain within myself. I let it all out through droplets of tears. Walking past my mates, I tensely shook their hands and gave farewell hugs to the lovely girls. They disliked, hated the fact that I was leaving, but at the same time I could see that they were also happy for me. Passing the locker bays, the buildings, and the wonderful teachers on my way out of the school, I shivered, although the weather wasn’t cold. I knew the end had come, swiftly like a dream.

The memory of my last day at Glen Waverley Secondary College remains vivid in my mind to this very day. I shall never forget, because on that last day I had learnt how important and valuable my friends are to me.

Liam Shiels

15

My Life – A Draining Sink of Wasted Opportunity

Michael Chen

Despite my vaunting ambition, rigorous self-discipline, assiduous attitude to study, and exemplary conduct in public and private, I have discovered much to my chagrin that I have not only qualified, but have probably won the race for the archetypal loser stereotype. My whole life is perhaps best described by the modest bathroom sink. No matter how much thought and effort I put into my actions, my personality, and my identity, all my hard work seems to go down the drain.

In the first year of high school, keen to participate in the new range of activities available, I decided to audition for the school debating team. This entailed being given a topic, in this instance “whether capital punishment should be legalised”, and in one night prepare a case for the affirmative. So, filled with new enthusiasm for my first challenge, I gathered my information and constructed a case that would have done justice to Rumpole.

I rehearsed my speech to perfection in front of my long-suffering family. I frowned and fulminated. My penetrating voice thundered and fell dramatically, near sobbing as I described the victims of crime. I paced, hand to brow, like a perambulating Rodin’s thinker, then spun to face the audience with an accusing forefinger. I could tell, with a self-congratulatory boost of confidence, that my parents and dog Felix were awed into a respectful silence by the potency of my oratory.

The next day, I enjoyed a substantial breakfast and left for school, immaculately groomed. Feeling pretty good about myself as I approached the lectern, I suddenly suffered a severe case of stage fright. The room blurred and spun. I vomited, putrid lumpiness spraying the podium. Would that have gone down the plughole instead of my shirt. The debating captain was so impressed that he sent me home with a sickly smile and recommendations to join the public speaking team.

Speaking of food, I remember a few years back when my parents were celebrating their 15th wedding anniversary. Once again, aiming to please, I graciously volunteered to do all the cooking, to expose my family to the hidden culinary expertise that I had so far reserved only for experimentation on Felix’s food. I laboured and slaved for hours on end, producing dish after dish of exquisite cuisine. I think it was the broiled lobsters in thousand island sauce that did it. My whole family were subjected to their first breathtaking experience of food poisoning. The violent diarrhoea that followed was as much a testimony to my incompetence as a lesson in humility, especially considering I had been the only one to politely decline to eat from my prize dish.

When I was accepted into a new school, I felt it marked a significant turning of events, and resolved to adopt a more positive attitude and perspective on life. As it turned out, the sinkhole of the metaphorical basin of my existence simply got a whole lot bigger. Some of my more vocal friends had come to think of me as a geek more than anything else. Although I didn’t particularly care for the title, strangely enough, I commanded some respect in the science lab as class nerd. At least I thought I did, before our first experiment. We were meant to be investigating some chemicals that produced a certain colour when placed in a bunsen flame. The teacher was out of the room, and my friends and I were having a disputation as to who would get the highest exam mark. I defended my dignity and competence from the scandalous accusations of having to resort to bribing the science faculty, but I felt that a practical demonstration of my academic prowess was in order. I told my classmates to pick any chemical, and I would give them a full desription of all its properties. When we got to the fifth container, I argued hotly that no, cyclohexane was definitely non-flammable, to the staunch disagreement of my colleagues. To prove my point, I splashed a substantial amount of the stuff on a naked bunsen flame.

The resulting explosion was actually quite spectacular. The teacher chose to return at that exact moment, and nearly fainted when he saw two dozen boys running full tilt into the doorway he was blocking. I

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remained in the room with half a blazer and a sooty face, right hand still clutching the bottle; a bit wild around the eyes and frayed around the edges, but otherwise fine. My chemistry teacher screamed his head off at me, tomato-red face twisted with anger and disbelief. He really hit apoplexy, though, when I told him that if the science department had allocated more funds to properly educate its students this would never have happened. My humiliation was complete when my parents received a letter describing my “totally inappropriate and irresponsible conduct that unnacceptably compromised the safety and well-being of other students”.

Don’t get the wrong picture about me, though. I am not just a klutz of an unaccomplished nerd. Although I am not exactly a physical Adonis, I do believe in mens sana in corpore sano - that there should be a balance between the mind and the body in order to succeed. This view led me to enthusiastically enroll for athletics as my term sport. Things went quite well for the first couple of weeks. I could throw the discus a respectable ten feet, my javelin landed without perforating anyone, and I managed to lift the shotput off the ground before gently lowering it again. Graduation from the field to the gymnasium, however, proved to be my undoing. The challenge required was to run up to the vaulting horse, place one’s hands on it while the legs carried through, and land in a balletic position on the other side. I must admit to being rather dubious about the horse, for fear of not clearing it and compromising my manhood. Thus it is entirely possible that my first run towards it was a little tentative, that I didn’t work up enough momentum to clear the wretched thing. I managed to place my hands on the tough rubber, and heave myself onto it with legs splayed, but I’m afraid that’s where I stayed. Worse, such was the pressure exerted by this unnatural sitting position that the elastic in my gym shorts snapped. My hitherto illustrious athletic career ended quite demeaningly that day with the coach having to help me down, my hands clutching the shorts tightly like a little boy who had had an accident.

I would love my cup, or as it is, sink, to be overflowing. I’d love it to be frothing and effervescing with bathbombs or even laundry detergent, most preferably with champagne. But somehow, though, I seem to have lost my plug, temporarily I hope. All I’ve got to show are a few stagnant puddles, the rest of my possibilites for now, having gone down the gurgler.

17

The Essence of Life

Tim Jones

A tall, looming colossus towers above me. Feelings of awe and respect fill me as I gape at its magnitude. Immense is all that can describe it; a solid mass of green spotted by occasional patches of gray. From back where I am, looking up, it is a vertical face, impossible to ascend. The trees are uncountable; thousands, millions – infinite. The colours consequently are also infinite; endless greens and grays make up the detailed scene.

I stand surrounded by pines, green with life, reaching up towards the endless blue. Their green is supported by wet gray trunks on a bed of orange needles. Far off in the distance the goliath shows complexity that doesn’t slacken here. The trunks are cracked with age; each crack different from the last. Closer still it holds depressions within the cracks. One tree; so large yet so dense. Nature does not stop there, many more trees surround; each with their own wrinkles. Their bed of needles placed every which way, stacked on each other too, displaying endless arrangements. There is so much detail and none of it repeated.

My ascent of the mountain has begun at a slow pace. Loose ground and incline make speed elusive. Within minutes of departure, endless new objects each with their own story surround me. The stone to the right of me, what event placed it spouting from the earth like that? The waterfall in the distance, why did the water first follow that path that has now become so well worn? Unlimited possibilities. What if it had not rained one day thousands of years ago: would the rocks be set as such. Even the sandy path I now follow: what if I step here instead of there, would the rain wash away differently?

Stopping for a break now, I look off the side of the mountain that I am propped against. Looking out I see the plains. Despite being mainly flat it promises to be intricate; for flat still holds subtle depressions. Where does the water flow from after rain? The grasses are still slightly different hues in the same paddock. What untold secrets lie beneath the grasses even? Looking behind I cannot see the peak of this immense rock. Even trying to look that high I am dwarfed by the trees surrounding what a few hours ago would have been an uncountable, unrecognizable speck. As I sit, tracing my finger along the grain of a boulder I realize I am just as unique as the boulder; the arches and circles of my fingerprints are different to that of any other person. My feeling, fears, confidences and aspirations are like no others. Does that make me worth as much as the leaf I hold in my hand? The leaf with a skeleton identical to no other. Or does that make the leaf worth as much as me? All things, it seems, are irreplaceable but that does not make them all-important.

My face is now becoming wet as I walk. The rain has come. Everything consequently takes a darker hue. The combinations become more immense, everything has changed. Change is not something that should be feared or prevented. Nor is it something to be embraced and advanced. It is something that happens; nothing less, nothing more. Change brings confusion, sometimes pain but at the same time it also brings a new set of possibilities and with that disappointment and satisfaction; in essence: life. Change cannot be stopped, it cannot be advanced and thus the same can be said for life.

Nearing the summit the rain ceases. This does not mean that things return the way they were before the rain. I have now passed the trees and am scrambling up the rocks to the peak. These rocks have become wet and slippery from the rains. My footing fails and I fall back aided by the wind. In my painful journey I collect moss that had until moments ago lived on these rocks. For some of this moss the rain had meant nourishment, for others, destruction. I also have changed; my footing is now more cautious but pained by the bruising soon to occur. Making the summit, I stand tall. Uninterested in the fatal drop before me – and the wind trying to entice me. I stand proud; the pain of before forgotten for the moment. A sense of achievement is what I feel after a long, exhausting and often painful trek to an impossible mountainous apogee. Now I am rewarded with a view of all.

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I look upwards, white swirls dance across the blue sky. The wisps ceaselessly metamorphose; shrinking and growing from collisions with others. Looking through the blue sky I imagine the countless stars with their infinitely different patterns of fire. The wind awakes me with its sweet aroma of dampness; not as appealing as roses but a new experience created by many currents and pollens. Looking below I see my starting point; a mere speck of inseparable orange and green, but from my windy point I see so much more. I see an overhead view of trees that once dwarfed me. I see tracks; twisting and turning as on a satellite map. Also – although I cannot see it – I know that on one of those specks down there is a series of cracks that is not repeated anywhere else on all the other specks of green in my view. Immense combinations of unrepeated patterns and histories surround me.

I am but one of these combinations. This makes me no more valuable than any other object shown before me. This mountain was created and will unquestionably wear away. I am much the same; born eventually to return to nothingness. Although during the course of my existence I will be faced with limitless possibilities – just as the rocks the trees and even the clouds. It is the possibilities that weave the nth dimensional fabric of life. If we are all intertwined by our actions and of equal worth, then we should not try to conserve. This is because in doing so it will cause change to blunder through equally important others. By the same ideals conservation at the cost of other beings is as futile as self-sacrifice because change is an unstoppable and indivertible force; change is the very essence of life. Sacrificing others denies life to what you are trying to protect and removing its life is changing it. Endless, unpredictable change is the only constant. It is in the ever-expanding matrix of life that this contradiction holds true. Getting comfortable on the precipice I grin – the truth of life is a contradiction. As I look towards a beautiful sunset made of million of oranges and pinks I aimlessly poke at what I’ll do tomorrow. Hmmm, I think I’ll take it as it comes.

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Aussie Inside an Asian Skin

Vincent Dang

Ting-Fung lay in bed with his eyes closed and face firmly pressed onto the pillow. The door to his room was closed, and the CD player was booming with incessant beats of techno and dance sensations. Ting-Fung was not doing this to indulge himself in the state of ‘bludge’ that most fourteen year olds would, but to alleviate himself from what was happening outside his room. He knew that the music filtered out the deafening arguments between his parents and his sister, Wai-Lum. Turning up the volume again, he avoided hearing his sister cry, “I don’t care what you think anymore!” Ting-Fung heaved a sigh in amidst of the chaotic cries; he was oblivious to the slamming of the door from Wai-Lum as she left the house in anger.

His sister’s boyfriend fused the recent turmoil within his family: he was not Chinese. The situation was intensified by the fact that his sister was only eighteen, and his parents still considered her to be young, naive, and vulnerable. As Ting-Fung burrowed himself inside his room, took a stroll around his neighbourhood, or as he travelled on the train with echoes of last night’s debate between his sister and their parents, he took the opportunity to reflect on the situation. In an attempt to maintain a neutral and non-judgemental position, he endeavoured to examine the conflict from both parties’ points of view.

Today, instincts warned him of an impending argument. Nevertheless, instead of concealing himself in his room, he decided to take a walk around the busier areas of the suburb. As he strolled around the main road, he noticed a sight that was common for all Australia born youths. There were teenagers from both genders who were of various ages and races hanging out together. This was something that most Australian born Chinese were accustomed to. Unlike the previous generations, these Chinese youths did not perceive other races as a “separate” nation; but instead, they saw them all as the same kind to themselves. Ting-Fung believed that more often than not, any verbal or physical disagreement amongst them would be far from relating to racial issues.

Approaching the shopping mall, the diversity of people was more prominent. There were slightly older couples, who were possibly in their forties sitting by the bus stop together. From this site, Ting-Fung recalled a justification that his sister once told him to reason her case with the conflict. He remembered that she mentioned something concerning that in the end; it would be her husband who would accompany her to old age. Ting-Fung realized exactly what his sister had asserted. She must have meant that it was all about personal choice since their parents were not the ones who would have to spend the rest of their lives with Peter. “This is a matter of my happiness, not theirs ...” were the words that echoed in Ting-Fung’s mind. At this point, he discovered new meanings in what he once thought of as a meaningless conflict.

Ting-Fung attempted to do his homework in his confined room that night. However, much like the rest of the week, he could not gather motivation to work. Instead, he lazily slouched back on his chair, paying little attention to the radio. He leaned over and looked at the family portrait. Idly looking at his parents, he wondered if they were simply overprotective. Ting-Fung’s parents did not want their children to adopt a relationship at an early age as they believed that it would distract them from what they believed to be more important essence of life and survival; academic success. “Love cannot feed you full ... “ was a common phrase lingering in the conscience. Their belief in the more practical side of life was easily justified by the penurious conditions that they once and presently had to endure.

Nevertheless, the issue of dating at a young age had been resolved through similar conflicts a year ago. Now, the real difference lay in Wai-Lum’s boyfriend’s nationality. Her boyfriend was Korean, who spoke no Chinese, and was “practically an Aussie living in an Asian skin”, admitted his sister once. This brought concern for their parents. Not necessarily concern for the parents themselves, but the concern from the parents for their daughter. The difference in culture, belief, and tongue was a major barrier between the foreign-born parents and the Australian born child. It would mean that they would not be able to actively

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defend their daughter if Peter was to abuse, or be unfaithful to her.

Ting-Fung left with his parents to have dinner in a Vietnamese restaurant. Such appreciation for Vietnamese culture triggered the sense of irony when it came down to their parents’ grudge with Vietnamese, Korean, and Japanese in terms of relationships. Traditionally, many Chinese have borne an impression of Vietnamese men as abusive, violent and inconsiderate, and the Vietnamese women being glamour seekers and unfaithful. Such also applied to Koreans and the Japanese, but on smaller scale. Prejudice against the Vietnamese from Vietnamese-born Chinese was justified but many years of experiences and examination of the culture that they once lived in. Although the grudge had relaxed over time, Wai-Lum still perceived it as racist, whilst her parents perceived it as the common truth.

It was the typical Friday evening, which Wai-Lum had dedicated to Peter. Predicting turmoil once again, Ting-Fung hid in his room, only this time, there was no radio, and the door was left open. He wanted to clarify the situation tonight, to be able to polarize the parties, and isolate one that deserved support. Nonetheless, tonight, there were still two hours prior to Wai-Lum’s schedule date with Peter, and yet the house felt peaceful, almost like the serenity before a storm. Seven o’ clock arrived, and Ting-Fung’s sister departed for the night without much to say. Nevertheless, Ting-Fung could hear the unspoken “take care” from the expression on his mother’s eyes as she stood by the window, contemplating her daughter. From this point on, Ting-Fung knew that at least one party had relaxed their insistency.

Ting-Fung was asleep when the ringing of the doorbell at two in the morning woke him. His sister had arrived home, but this time without her boyfriend walking her back to the door. Wai-Lum had broken up with her boyfriend. Perhaps it was due to the overwhelming pressure of sustaining the relationship, or the realization of differences between them suggested by their parents, or simply to satisfy her parents, or a mixture of all three. Wai-Lum cried on her mother’s shoulder, but not without a sense of accusation and perhaps anger. Ting-Fung stood on the doorway, relieved to know that the family turmoil was temporarily resolved, knowing that their parents’ restriction would be abolished, as well as his sister’s tendency to date another non-Chinese again. Ting-Fung smiled in the dimly lit corridor, feeling glad that he was fortunate enough to be the younger of the two siblings.

Liam Shiels

21

My Days of Freezing

Winston Oi

Radley and Clint were closing in on Ku. They were smiling slyly and evilly as the distance between them and the bench began to shorten. Clint went to Ku’s left side while Radley took the right, a tactic to create a confined situation. All Ku could do was let out his usual angry, disgusted facial expression, something that he usually would display to simply portray his ‘gangster’ image. I could clearly see what was going on. Before I even took a step they saw me. I was staring at them, emotionless. They knew what I was going to attempt. “Stay out of this Jack!” Radley warned. “Don’t try to reason with us!” Clint’s voice was quite gruff. He was serious. I froze. My blood turned cold. I remained stagnate, watching as they picked up a cup of water and splashing it in Ku’s face, only to run back to a tap and refill. After a few seconds it was over. Out of boredom Radley threw his cup, hitting Ku directly on his temple. They had the last laugh. Radley always had good aim. I should know. My head still hurts from the basketball he had thrown at me few weeks back. They were bullies, Clint and Radley. How could they do such a thing? How could they cause hurt to somebody without having any guilt? They deserve a taste of their own medicine. As for Ku, he surely didn’t enjoy his dose. Radley, Clint, Hamad, Mike, Ku, Chris and I; we were a group. We hung out with each other. We played at recess and lunchtime together. Order of leadership went Radley, Clint, Hamad and Ku, however Radley and Clint were the main leaders. Mike was a roguish troublemaker who went around swearing, breaking rules, shoplifting, spraying graffiti and causing damage to windows. Not that he deserves to be punished since his mother is a large contributor to the school budget. And besides, his mother says he’s a sweet boy. As for Chris and I, we were taggers. If you subtract Chris and I from the rest, your equation would equal group of friends. By gang I refer to what we see on TV, homeboys on the streets of Chicago, New York and Los Angeles. Dressed in basketball attire, with the names and teams of the best in the NBA. Wearing brands like Nike, Fila and Converse. Being skilled basketball players themselves. Always remembering to wear your cap backwards and end your sentence with “man”. Hassling people, displaying your power with intimidation. Presenting yourself as a “bad a** mother f* *ker who will get ya if you f* *k around with him”. Radley, Clint, Hamad, Mike and Ku weren’t completely like that. Mike mostly wore Aussie Rule Football attire and wagged school. Radley often wore his cap the right way. Taggers. People who tag along with a group. We didn’t want to be taggers. We simply were, because we didn’t want be a “bad a* * “ homeboy, hassling and doing people who mess with them. Chris was small, really small. So small that he wore his kindergarten clothes to school. Chris had a red belt in Karate. Not that it helped while being placed in a headlock by a person twice his weight and size. I was tall. The second tallest of the group, first being Radley. I wasn’t manhandled the way Chris was, because they found that I would cry if I was being put down and made fun of. Although Chris was a tagger he bullied me as well. He would call me a “sook” since I cry much more often then he did. A result of getting made fun of everyday. He would brag about how many times better he was then me mentally and then prove it in his work. I had to admit, he was better than me mentally. He was a determined child. He had tutors and spent most of his week going to specialist classes. However I didn’t enjoy additional taunting. I often wondered why Chris would want to pick on me. I did not hurt him. I did not hurt anyone. My answer came one day. I was walking up the stairs to the classroom along with Chris. We were talking about what homework we had yesterday when Chris’ pants suddenly dropped down. I heard laughter coming from behind me. I turned to see Radley, Hamad, Ku and Mike mouths open. Adams apples beating with hilarity. I turned back to Chris, and couldn’t help noticing the cookie monster underpants we wore. I burst out in laughter. Chris immediately pulled his pants up and yelled, “Don’t!” The only capable reaction he could come up with without making them angry. In the midst of my laughter I stopped and went silent. This was probably the hundredth and one time he has had his pants pulled down. And on every occasion when he had his pants pulled down in front of me I laughed. I may not have hurt him physically, but I hurt him emotionally. Even though I was just a tagger to the gang I still contributed to the emotional ache in the form of laughter. Chris was defenceless. He couldn’t get them back. He lacked size. And surely if he managed to pull the pants down off one of the gang members – which he did manage to do – he would surely receive something ten times worse. Everyday I would run home as fast as I could. Sit down in front of my computer and let my mind drift away from the recollections of the day. We weren’t tough. We weren’t intimidating. We made an attempt to

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dress “cool”, so we could be more like them – Chris tried once but he thought he was wasting money on new clothes – they thought we were “wannabes” disgracing the tough image. Goodie-Goodies wearing the wrong clothes. They would have dumped us if it probably weren’t for our previous friendship we made when we first came into the school. A friendship which is now lost and forgotten. Or probably because they didn’t want to go short on players in the basketball game. On the final day of our primary school life we had a graduation ceremony, which involved us, as our teacher Parkes quoted, “imagining ourselves as stars of a theatre production walking down our fire escape”. Below our fire escape was the rest of the school. It was my turn to walk down. My Converse shoes were worn out so I had to be careful of tripping. I looked down to my feet to inspect my sole. I looked up at the crowd. Then I froze. My blood turned cold. My gaze was directed at a group of year four students. There were five of them. Four of them were mucking around, pushing the one from side to side. The four wore smiles on their faces. The boy being pushed around wore one too but it showed a glint of reluctance. The four pushing him around wore basketball attire. The one being pushed around didn’t.

Sam Speller

23

I Have aDream

Sina Babazadeh

I have a dream. A dream easily fulfilled, if only we all work together towards the same goal. My dream is not one of World Peace, although that would be pleasant, it’s not of racial equity, nor riches nor glory. My dream is by far simpler.

I have a dream, not a selfish dream, of world domination, not a selfless dream of eradicating world hunger, but a small dream, one that I believe will one day come true, and when that day comes, I shall rejoice, dance upon the streets and forever be content with the world.

I have a dream. A dream whereby the tables in the examination room (R-building) are replaced.

I have a dream, of entering my exam room and sitting at a desk, where one is able to place all of one’s own books on the table and still have room to write.

I have a dream of being able to open an exercise book, or exam paper without half of it disappearing over the edge of the table into the dismal abyss.

I have a dream, of being able to write on my examination paper, without my writing utensil piercing the page due to an unseen crevice on the table, a crevice which once found is almost impossible to avoid, a crevice, which in time causes one’s exam paper to appear holier than a Christian cross.

I have a dream of having clearly outlined rows of tables and chairs instead of the chaotic multitude of semi-rows that are brought about by the mass migration of tables from their rightful line up.

I have a dream of being able to enter an exam room and sit down at a table which is stable, so that I may be able to write in peace and tranquillity without the added burden of having to calculate the exact angle, at which the pen must meet the paper to prevent the table from trembling from side to side, reminiscent of a severe quake.

I have a dream of sitting down and a table and being able to fully concentrate on the exam, instead of being distracted by the gruesome and filthy, yet comical graffiti which covers all but a few portions of the desk.

I have a dream of sitting at an examination desk, which has all four screws in place, fastening the wooden writing surface securely onto the ever-burdened steel frame. This would not only give rise to an easier time writing, but it would surely prevent any accidents involving a rogue table top and one’s own chin.

I have a dream, I dream of seeing a table frame, not fully bent out of place, warped beyond recognition, but rigid and solid and proud to be a table frame, so that my humble legs may fit comfortably underneath without major bruising and muscle cramping.

I have a dream, of seeing a table with a stopper on each of its four legs, so that the carpet beneath may be left unharmed and unmarked, ready to live to a ripe old age. Not only will the carpet be far better off, but also one’s own toes will no longer be in danger of amputation due to sharp, un-stopped table supports piercing leather, sock, skin and bone.

The dream I dream, I know will cost thousands of dollars. But how can the hierarchy of the school, be so blind to the fact that the costs are necessary. Replace the turf of the school oval they will, build an ineffectual shade-cloth they will. However, replace the greatest single reason for underachievement they cannot, nay, will not do!I have a dream, a simple dream, a modest dream, a dream quite easily achieved. I know there are many, such as I, who believe in this dream. We must make a stance and make our voices heard. Not for us, for

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we are year 12 and our time is almost up, but for the next generations, for our children and our children’s children. I hope that they will be able to sit at tables that are straight, large and stable and manage to pass examinations which their forefathers before them had no chance of completing.

Untitled1

Tushar Kuchhal

Dawn’s first hour. Calm as the day the earth was born. Shimmering sunlight, and a cool spring breeze. Robins singing a tune so beautiful, it can only be imagined in the dreams of a man who knows no happiness, and must conjure joy within the confines of his mind. I am one such man. As I lie here gazing at the warm sunlight drifting through the one open space in my wall, I imagine the scene outside. I close my eyes. The walls dissolve away.

Those same robins that sang their lovely song watch me with small, curious eyes, and then fly back. Back into the trees from whence they came. Back to their homes where they live life with no worry. Back to the children they nurture and love. Back.

I open my eyes. The walls close in on me like a blanket of hatred and fear. Suffocating me. I look away. I must escape this world built by the sons of men who deny themselves the identity of human beings. I close my eyes. The world dissolves away.

I lie on my back under a mighty oak. It’s great branches sheltering me from the world. Here, I am safe. I feel life all around me. In the ground where the grass grows green and thick. In the bushes where the shrubs make fruit sweeter than the food of the gods. In the sky where a hundred birds fly eastward into the rising sun, greeting with open arms, the start of a new day, the start of a new life.

Not far away, I see a small pond, water so still and clear, you could see each grain of sand at the bottom. Trees stand all around it their branches protecting it as the mighty oak protects me. But something is different. A single leaf falls from a tree. Winding its way down this path never trod before. Shattering the serenity of this place. The leaf descends alone; like myself, unsure; like myself and afraid, like myself. It wonders what has happened. Why, suddenly, it has been cast out from the tree, it’s home and from the world, which it knew so well. It hits the pond. Ripples in a silent pool thundering so loudly that I cover my ears that they may not be damaged, yet soft enough that none may hear its quietness. Ripples move outward from the leaf, bouncing off the sides of the pond and continuing to do so endlessly. The peace and stillness of this world within my mind is gone. A sad consequence of this inevitable deed. Not the fault of the leaf, for it had been cast out and simply did what it knew. But now it shall shoulder the blame for this destruction. I open my eyes.

The walls suffocate me again. Even in the deepest recesses of my mind I cannot escape. Like the leaf, a deed for which I shoulder the blame is no fault of my own. But it has destroyed the world within my mind. I stand up and grasp the bars that hold me in this prison cell. Sadness grasps my heart and does not release its unrelenting pressure. Some call it guilt. For thirty years, this pressure on my heart continues, increasing each day. I lie down again. I close my eyes. Life dissolves away, and I am free.

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Untitled 2

Tushar Kuchhal

Running along the wet, muddy path, a clamp encloses my heart as it gets harder to breathe. I glance upmomentarily at the sky-1 I see clouds darker than the devil’s soul swirling in a maelstrom of destruction and chaos. I fall. Mud covers my face and as I wipe it off, I see a small plant growing on the side of the path. It is insignificant, yet captivating. It does not produce fruit or vegetables, nor flowers worthy of a royal court, yet it is captivating. A thin stalk extending out of the ground, three leaves attached to the tip. The model of simplicity and humility. As I pull myself out of the mud and resume my short jog back to the farmhouse I wonder what strange feature about this insignificant plant had caught my attention.

The storm gets worse. Lightning and gale force winds accompanied by rain the likes of which I have never seen. Looking across the fields at my crops growing in the paddock, I realize none will survive this night. Water flows from the hilltops, like the one on which I live, down into the fields where the crops are growing. It washes away all plants and ruins the carefully planned irrigation system. My life is ruined. The one source of income devastated by the terrible reality of this weather. It will take years to regrow many of the varieties of plants I cultivated and sold. In the years it will take to regrow them, I will die of starvation, or have to sell my house, the one place in the world where I am happy. Years of hard work drowned in the floodwaters and their unrelenting cruelty. Water, the drink of life, now a poison deadlier than the bite of a snake.

Trees fall all round my house, blown over by the winds. Nervously I make my way downstairs lest one fall through the roof I cannot sleep. The sense of impending doom crushes my emotions till I don’t recognize them. Sorrow, remorse, sadness, there are many names for what I feel. What I would call it matters not, for I should never wish to burden another with a sense of what I experience at this time and place. Hope leaves me as though I never knew it. My heart is a caged bird of beauty and grace with feathers more colourful than can be imagined in the dreams of men, whose wings cannot unfold to their magnificent glory. So the bird beats it’s wings as wide as possible until it dies knowing that it’s existence was a farce. That it never displayed its greatness to the world before it was struck down. That it was never truly happy. And in this thought, my last vestiges of hope are eaten away as darkness covers my vision and a tear forms, descending down my cheek.

I awake reluctantly. I long to return to the comforting darkness which protects me from the world I have to face. I stand up, shivering with uncertainty, which threatens to freeze my soul. I walk outside and look around me. Almost all trees as far as the eye can see have been flattened. Landslides and flash flooding have destroyed my crops and half of the neighbouring farmhouse. It is quiet, as though nature has realized its terrible deed and recoils when confronted by the anger within me. I look down and a veil of death lifts from me and a bright light shines forth.

At my feet is that same simple, humble, and insignificant plant I had seen the previous night. This small twig in the ground had withstood the greatest storm to hit my farm in five decades. By some act of God and the holiest of saints, it had stood up to the rain, flooding, wind and lightning. When trees mighty as the earth itself are consumed by water, charred by lightning or blown over by the wind, this stick and three leaves kept hope and survived. In the same way, I find the hope I lost last night, saving it from destruction; I lift it from the black void within me and gaze upwards. The sun shines through the clouds, banishing them for their brutality. I remember a man who once said, “Look at the bow in the cloud, in the very rain itself That is a sign that the sun, though cannot see it, is shining still – that above, beyond the cloud is still sunlight and warmth and cloudless blue sky.” A song drifts through the air. In one of the trees spared from death, a bird of beauty and grace with feathers more colourful than can be imagined in the dreams of men, unfolds its wings to reveal their magnificent glory. It displays its greatness to the world and flies away. It is truly happy. Turning back home, I ponder the bright future. Some birds just aren’t meant to be caged.

26

Carl Jackson

POETRY

27

AFL Football

Aussie Rules Football, it’s of Australian nature.All the players playing are of a great stature.

Each and every week, sixteen teams compete,All striving for the victory-the other team to beat.

Stadiums full of people-cheering for their teamAnd cheering for the players who play to the extreme.

When someone kicks a goal, fanatics can be seen.Playing for their football team, that’s everybody’s dream!

Aussie Rules football, a great Australian sport.Anyone can play it, whether they are tall or short.If ever you do play it-remember one small thing,

Play for the mighty Bombers, ’cos you are bound to win!

It takes a man of courage, to play this risky game,And when you do get round to it you’re bound to get some fame.

Whether you are an old veteran, or someone who is new,Run around and kick some goals; the crowd will cheer for you.

Channel 7 broadcasts the match on Nation Wide TV.That way you can stay at home and watch the game for free.

The annoying commentators are McAvaney and his gangAlways talking, never stopping, driving us insane!

When you are growing older, in doubt of what to do,You cannot be a sailor ’cos you’re rejected by the crew,

You can’t even get a licence to fly an aeroplane,Think about playing footy, ’cos it’s the greatest game!

Andrew Lin

Change

The forest was a wonderful place. The tall pine trees, reaching for the wide blue sky above them, their wrinkled trunks proudly displaying their countless age.

Green pine needles fall to the ground and leave a soft orangey carpet underfoot as they brown. Green shrubs of all variety dot the landscape.

Tufts of grass spring from the earth and feed the numerous venison that roam their native terrain. Heavenly beams of light warm the picture as a gentle breeze tickles us.

But then winter comes.The proud trees are stripped all but bare of their once plentiful needles.

The soft carpet rots to a dark hue as the rains mercilessly thrash it. The flora disappear as they are torn away by the floods.

The sky roars in anger as and the icy wind slice through everything. Deer, once abundant, are now scarce as they shelter from the aqueous cataclysm.

Time brings change.

Tim Jones

28

Death

Death, a crouching tiger, is like,With black and orange stripes on its hide;

He is hidden from our might,And camouflaged from our sight,

Yet always is he ready and poised to strike.

Joyful is he during any famine or flood,And fond is he of World Wars and blood.Our population, he consumes one by one,Until he has consumed every single son.

A friend is he to every traitor,He salutes with honour, Wilhelm the Kaiser.

Pride he takes in Stalin and Hitler,(Though John Howard is the more sinister)For in the end, Death is the one true victor.

Care for his pets he does with pleasure,For often he will send his terror,

Through dogs and cats and men alike,Who fell mankind in their ignorance and spite.

Yet why is it that when we hear of him we shriek?And that we think of Death as being such a freak?

A world free of MHS assignments is where he will lead,That are due twice and thrice, and every single week.

Nirmalakanthan Amirthanesan

The Final Moments

I felt the axe fall upon my soul,I was dying; my life had ended.I knew I had entered the tunnel,

A beaming light shone at one end,An incomprehensible black hole filled the other.I reached out for the light…

“He’s ok now – we’ve saved him.”I saw a doctor leaning over me smilingI asked him what had happenedHe said: “You’re the first person to see death And live to tell the tale”.

Aashish Chopra

29

Dreams

Whenever you close your eyes,you open your mind to a world of fantasyLike a box of images awaiting to be opened,your innermost thoughts and feelings are releasedYou escape the depths of reality and allow yourself to dream,become anyone or anything you wish

You can be a knight in shining armour,and rescue the maiden princessYou can be a warlock,casting evil spells on all of humanityYou can even be a birdfree, flying from destination to destination

Like a blank canvas awaiting to be painted,the possibilities are only as endless as your imaginationThese visions surround you,as glimpses of your thoughts and emotions take control of your mindThe fantasy overwhelms you,and you are taken in by the subtle images of your soulThe only method of escape is to return to reality,where truth and evil meet, where life is not a fantasyAnd you wake from the unconsciousness and open your eyes

Chris Vo

I Look, I Find, I See

I look up at the sky,And wonder why is it so high.How can it be blue?With the yellow sun shining through.

I look to the ground,To see what is bound.The tree, flower and plant,Which appear before the sand.

Ahead I find the sea,Which is slowly crawling beneath me.It creeps up to my chest,Before I go down for a rest.

Down below I see the colourful fish,And see the dolphin’s tail go plish plash plish.As the blue-ringed octopus swims to where I am,I get bitten on the toe by a clam!

Gaspare Aloi

Friday Afternoon

The heat of the afternoon,Grows to unbearable,A man talks tirelesslyThe undertaker,The devil.Everyone is drowsyHypnotised by watching the clock handsThis hell intensifiesCausing scorched painThe bell ringsCalmness overtakes insanity.

Sandeep Gadgil

30

Friends

I was the new one,the one who nobody knew.

I felt as if I were a lonesomeexplorer in virgin territory.

Each step I took meantanother set of piercing eyes looked my way.

You came to me and asked me my name.

I replied with a smile.Then silence……..

silence…….It was then I realised that

I was not the only lost soul,but we were both explorers in

a new world.We talked, I admired the

way you listened.The way you were there

through the good and the bad.We were the sea and the sand…

inseparable……It was then I knew that friendship

is what makes the world a better place.

Matthew Lewis

Poetry is

I love PoetryAt times I am upsetUpset with things others have doneUpset with things I’ve doneAngry and disillusionedAnd I have to tell somebodyI tell my paper with, not words,But strokes of pen and ink.Poetry helps me express myselfWhen I really want to cryI cannot because I am a “man”So I present my poem insteadNot wanting any to read itBut hoping somebody willSo now I’d like to thank,Poetry and anybody who reads itFor poetry doesn’t exist in wordsWith rhyme and imageryBut in the emotions they presentAnd without this outletI’d be an extremely sad person.

Tom Dickman

Your Love’s a Gift

I think about you all the timeAnd wish one day you’ll be mineYou’re my only love, that’s true

So this poem’s especially for you.

I am the bee, you are my flowerYour love gives me strength and power

You are the beating of my heartWithout your presence I’ll fall apart.

You build a fire, I’ll guard the flamesYou go to live in Mars, I’ll do the sameYou commit a crime, I’ll take the blame

I’ll make it right, so you won’t be ashamed.

You’re like sunshine on a freezing dayYour love’s a gift, that’s all to say

In a dream, you’re the only one I seeI can’t describe what you mean to me.

Jamie Zhu

31

Less

Hopeless,Is the notion that describes the life I now lead,Worthless,Are the distant bright stars, which turned their backs on me,Loveless,Has been and will always be,Hapless,Was the life that I once dreamt was mine forever,Fruitless,Is every word I utter under my breath,Lifeless,Is the zombie which stares back through the mirror,Emotionless,Are these eyes which have never shed tears,Useless,Are the thoughts I convey to you,Effortless,Will be the ending of this story…

Quoc Ho

Untitled

I sit at the small pools, Fresh water flowing though the gaps between boulders,To think of what had come To an end.

The gushing of water fills The cool, damp air around meAs I pick up a pebble, and thrust it – Across the skin of the lake.

We used to come here – She and ITo sit just like now And to laugh, think and cry.

How many months will pass Before I stop coming here?When will I learn to accept She is gone.

The pebble sinks to the bottom, and I wonder,Is it worth my time?From morning, to evening, to night – How much longer will it take?

Anthony Lim

32

Untitled

Serene as it may appear on the surface,Mayhem is present, that rages within.Repeatedly the waves of malice ravage,Again and again like there is no endEndlessly fuming like hill’s furnace,Established we have, today’s society.

While at tender age we’re forced to cope,Absorb and endure immense cruelty.Times like such and I contemplate,As I attempt to decipher the runes of life.The existence of the matrix, perhaps true,Yet beyond its boundaries I dare not view.

Sometimes I think and begin to wonder,And realise the inevitability of our fate.Wisely it would be to accept life’s hurdles,For battling it is a mad man’s choice.Hope is the fountain in the desert,The tantalising mirage that denies our reach.

The masks we perceive to be amiability,Obscure the rivalry and contempt lying beneath.Sadly enough I’m helpless as I witness,Viewing the corruption and forced to accept.Escape I will resort to, the last countermeasure,For ignorance is truly bliss.

Chao Tan

UntitledThe sky was grey, clouds black and white,A thunderous silence roamed the land.Stagnant air of death and decayThe plague of locusts consumes the wheat of peace.Tears fall from the clouds, fireballs rain down.Destruction and terror like a knife to the throat.Yet the wounded doe still flies,Bullets and missles soar through the skyAnd yet, the wounded dove still flies.

Larry Chan

Life of the Sea

Waves Crash,Water splash,

The sea is coming inGiant dark blue wavesThat tingle on my skin

The sea is full of lifeAnd this you can’t deny

But without its cheerful presenceAll animals would surely die

The fish would not swim,The seagull would not fly

The shark would not displayIt’s dark and gloomy eye

The eel would not glideThe crab would not scuttleThe dolphin would not be

Oh so soft, sweet and subtle

So keep our sea cleanThis miracle should be seen

Enjoy it with your kinBut don’t make the sea

your rubbish bin

Joel Tito

33

The Journey

All is voidCalm and clearGreen pasturesStillness of life

Placid blue skiesTranquil watersA smooth ascensionPeaceful and protectedUnconcernedIs it all too easy?

A warm autumn’s dayThe stress of lifeDarkening skiesHowling windsPrevailing pressureTension once hidden

Volcano eruptionsA fiery furnaceAccentuated intensityThe seas billowRaging stormsNever ending

Tending firesSweating it outCooling the heatCare and concernWorking patientlyAnd waiting

PerseveranceUnderstanding knowledgeLight at the tunnels endThe last legA close finishA sense of hope

ConclusionAccomplishedWise mentalityClouds retreatA clear viewPlacid blue skiesTranquil waters

Green pastures.

Kenneth Koh

Untitled

I look throughout the past and present, and see grief and misery in every part of the worldI see the young boy filled with sadness,hurting as he will never see his faithful dog againI feel the emotion of hate in society,the detest and envy in the eyes of men and womenI observe the acts of bullying in the schoolyards,boys releasing their anger and frustrationI see the alarming rate of crime in the city,desperate or just selfishI see the harmful effects of divorce,tearing up families and children apartI hear the never-ending weeping of rape victims,unable to ‘live’ ever againI observe the conflict of racism,a prejudiced, ignorant societyI see the marks of suicide attempts,victims of this world we call realityI see the lives of sorrow; starvation, poverty, I see their hardshipsI observe the lives of slavery, working as prisoners, forced to withstand oppressionI watch as death destroys the hearts of everyone,sorrow as another life is lostI remember the war as lives were shattered,mourning for the numerous brave souls lostI see the most hurtful of all;humanity, jealousy, hate and greedThere is nothing I can do,the cause is out of my hands, I cannot stop itfor I see the past in the future

Chris Vo

You

You are the light of my happiness,You are the pitch of my sadness.Your gentlest touch, your softest words,In your presence, you lift me up so very high.Yet I am scared.I am scared of the winters that may blow,I am scared of the hollow pains that may blow.I am scared of the barren lonelinessof a world withoutthe thought of you.

Kenny Rao

34

The Eyes of the Dead

We soak up the vast universe with these,Drenching our souls with value.The lovely birds and the bees,For our eyes are forms of a virtue.

Our eyes may give us a highOur eyes may give us fascinationYet when we ultimately dieDo our eyes reveal any information?

I can’t be entirely sure.But my views changed dramatically one long, mystical night.With an inhumane roar,My mother died, and I investigated her eyes and her sight. The eyes of dear motherOn that grave, sombre date,Gazed higher, Higher than Heaven’s golden gate.

I stared into those eyes,Still, black and deep.I stared into her fires,And thus, began to weep.

Swiftly, I wiped my tears away,Content - she was at peace.She had lived her life being gay,… her time ceased.

But then, noticing a glimmer in her pupil,A sparkle in that sea of green,I interpreted her delicate soul’s will,And realised what it could mean.

For, the eyes of my dead,Sought not a peaceful rest. That body on the bed,Was simply hungry for zest.

Finally, I understand what she desired,Mourning and flowers – she didn’t care to see.She sought but one thing, after my gun had fired:To haunt me …for eternity…A warranted fee,…for eternity…

Arindam Nagar

35

My StreetA wash of soft pink and lilac colours sprays upwardAbove the distant softly undulating blue hills.The light begins to fade.

Birds are darting between the trees,Chirping and squabbling as they return to their nests.A large black crow alights on top of a pylon,After a day of foraging,And busily wipes its beak from side to side along a gently swaying insulated wire.

Thick dark evergreen trees line my street like sentinelsAbove them, towering majestically, a stark white gumIts trunk blemished,Only by a short thin stream of blood red sap.Clusters of thick pendulant leaves bow gracefullyAs if in a final farewell to the day.

A liquid amber stands aloneYellow, red and orange leaves signaling the coming of autumn.Dry brown curled up leaves are strewn beneath.

Tiled roofs of every dimensionWith scattered blotches of light green lichen.Chimneys standing uprightCasting long, dark shadows.

Framed between two red brick housesA pair of ‘golden arches’ becomes even brighterAs the day fades into evening,Against a darkening blue and purple horizon.

Cars pull up in drivewaysDoors open for alighting passengers.Conversations about a day’s work can be heardAbove the monotonous humOf distant peak hour traffic.

Dogs start barking,Tails wag and ears stand tautAs they eagerly wait to greet their owners.

Fluorescent street lampsIlluminating footpaths,Guiding evening walkers.

The ongoing chorus of cicadasThe continuous chirping of cricketsA symphony with many harmonies.

Television antennas and stadium lightsSilhouettes in the darkening sky.

A lone kite makes a final passIts flapping wingsAll that can be heardAs night stealthily descends onMy street.

Christopher Parkes

36

The Galloping Horseman

In the sunlit scorched plainWhere the grass is dry bone,Coolabahs and eucalypts growOn a land where they no longer are alone.

A man of stalwart nature ridesHis galloping horse away from home.The bush’s where he’s heading,Where men of his stature once roamed.

He wears a round leather hatOn top of a bush of unkempt hair.His long, dry-earth coloured cape,Flutters wildly in the air.Apart from his pipe, his billy and some flour,The swag on his back is bare.

He reaches his destination soon, down by the river,Where water slithers across the land like a snake.He sets up camp by a gum tree,For tea, damper he will make.

As night falls, the camp-fire flickers,The horseman sings his song.As he smokes his pipe and drinks his tea,He reminiscences of times long gone.

Thomas Leong

A Room

There is a room,With many entrances and exits,That lead to anywhere and everywhere.

Like a bank vault,Secure to the max,Impenetrable.The combination is only known by,And the lock can only be opened by,Its creator.

It has its own complexity,Beyond comprehension.Shrouded in a cloak of mystery.It is hidden so wellThat only I can find it.

A prized possession Full of richesI am the holder of all keys.I am the caretaker.

A myriad of coloursMany shaded pictures.

Abounding with ideasAlive with dreamsSaturated with emotionsOverflowing with memories.

No walls or boundaries.It is intangible.It is the room Which is

My mind.

Christopher Parkes

Physics

Study of formulae,Variables and the like,So much homework,To do every night.

Equation for this,Equation for that,No time to ponder,Is the answer right?

Too many pracs,So many write ups,When will I be free,Of this indomitable misery?I can’t wait…

Christopher Parkes

37

Figures in the Column

When I look down at my hands,My bloodied tools of destruction,I see not the flag of liberty,But a pointless exercise.Greed is the only excuse,For we know you do not need.All this blood upon my shoes,Is your vision of prosperity.

I load my gun again,And aim towards your country’s men.But he doesn’t deserve to die,He’s enlisted with his friends.An only child and a whole life ahead,He becomes just another figure,In the column marked “Dead or wounded”,And another trick to Yours Truly.

Nick Leslie

Life’s a Game

I was leading at the start.

I thought I had it with my carefree childhood.I thought I had it with my superior computer game skills.I thought I had it with my pimple-free adolescence and fantastically good looks.

I was up at half time.

I thought I had it with my university degree.I thought I had it with my top job.I thought I had it with my ton of cash.I thought I had it with my supermodel-of-a-wife, or wives.

I even had the lead at the final change.I thought I had it with my easy retirement.I thought I had it with my trip around the world.I thought I had it with my collection of the finest wine.

But where is it all now?

Where is real beauty?Where is the wealth of my heart?Where is the wine that quenches the inner thirst?

On my deathbed, I finally realise:

Life beat me.And there’s no rematch… Gary To

38

March of the Dead

They marched forth into the sunset,And shall continue to march till morning.Rain and snow did not stop them,They were determined soldiers marching.

They marched towards the enemy,Their minds were filled with hate.Their goal was to kill and be killed,Fighting a war they all called Great.

But for what cause were they fighting?For honour? For country? For king?Or for loved ones? For humanity?They knew not why they were fighting.

“Onwards men!” the captain called,The soldiers knew their fate was near.“We’re almost there!” the captain said,THAT the soldiers loathed to hear.

“BOOM!!” the frightful sound of thunder,“Kneel men!!” the captain cried.The cannons and guns roared again,“It has begun!” the captain cried.

The muddy ground began to shake,Like a child frightened and weak.The likely rendezvous with Death,Was surely not what the soldiers seek.

The captain was the first to fall,The air was hot as burning coal.One by one the soldiers fell,As Death itself takes its toll.

War is truly a horrendous thing,It’s Death’s greatest assistant.Its desire to take innocent souls,Is unrestrained and persistent.

They marched away into the sunset,Their legs and torsos stiff as lead.They the ones who fought bravelyGlory to the marching dead.

“Left! Right! Left! Right!Left! Right! Left! Right...”

Zhihong Chen

The End of Human Kind

IThe fear and panic spreads,It is what every man dreads,

People start to fear more and more,At the outbreak of war.

Some may ask why do wars start?Why is my world falling apart?

How much time must past?Before we will feel the blast.

Men come together to go and fight,Their hearts pounding and smiles ever so bright,

They do not know what war is about,They will soon find out.

As time flies by,The men start to die,

They start to shake in fright,Now their smiles aren’t so bright.

IIThe fighting starts to cease,

As the war starts turning to peace,Out the smiles start to pour,

As the men return home once more.

What does war bring?Just more sorrow and suffering,What do people hope to gain,

When all they cause is hatred and pain.

When will we learn about,That when war breaks out,

When the only thing we will find,The destruction of human kind.

Ling Zhong

39

War Poem

All is quite and still,Clouds wander across the sky.Up ahead, beyond the hill,Just out of sight, our target lie.

There our enemy stay,With walls on all sides,We will make them pay,For the chaos they left behind.

All was quite and still,No longer, the army marches:Thundering across the hill,Passing us as they charge.

A sea of men and horses,Sparkling with steel and gold,Sweeping by, towards the fortress,Heading for their goal.

Arrows fill the sky, as they draw near,A deadly black cloud, raining deathUpon the men, they show no fear,As they drown in the depth.

Screams and clashes of steel,Crashing of rock and stone,Arrows, whistling as they kill,The battle rolls on.

The echoes begin to fadeAnd soldiers turn their backTo the horror they have madeAnd walk up the track.

A group of tired menMany bleeding and blind,Slowly move again,Away from the chaos behind.

Nhat Tran

War

Through my ears, and through my eyes,I see the fear, and I hear the cries,I long for the mozzies, and the flies, And the starry, outback skies.

I thought it was my duty, I was fulfilling,Not to mention the pounds, pennies, and shillings.

But I knew I was wrong, with the things I was doing,I felt it in my heart, with the battle ensuing.

The sky was angry and the storm was brewing,I was angry for what I was pursuing.

Ben Lichtenstein

The War Called Peace

Today I took a moment,A moment to sit and contemplate,

About where I might be in ten years,Will I have achieved my goals?

What if I fail and my dreams disappear?You see, life is a war of an individual type.

We are all destined to work for life,Or at least until we are too frail,

Too frail to enjoy our money and freedom.“Money is the root of all evil”

Or that’s what they say.So why is everybody fighting for it?

Are we all fighting for evil?No, the answer is simple,

Money is the root of survival.But we’re not happy with just survival,

We all want to be kings,Even those with billions,

Still wanting more money.All fighting for this “evil”

As strange as that may sound.Destined never to have spare time,

In which to enjoy themselves.Life is too short, no matter how long.

If you live to 120,What achievement is that

When you haven’t had any fun?So live for the moment,

Easy to say, but hard to do.Especially with no money

It’s a vicious cycle...

Tom Dickman

40

IMAGINATIVETan Le

41

A Duty

Shreerang Sirdesai

The sun’s fragmented waves filter through the curtains every morning and wake me up. It’s a harsh light and it annoys me. It is not like the sunset, which is romantic and delicate, retiring each day with the contended wisdom of age. No, the morning sunlight is loud and abrasive, it is designed for idealists, the people who get up in the mornings and go for vigorous runs, before returning home to have stomach-scrubbing breakfasts of All Bran and bananas. “Get up!” it says rudely. “Seize the day.” And every morning I feel like blacking it out. I wake up every morning, feeling like I haven’t slept. The house is cold and made exceedingly lonely by the morning light. I put the coffee on; four or five cups generally cures the hangover and sustains me until six o’clock, but I am on the brink by then. As I walk into Kate’s room, I wonder what she did to deserve this. Then I start to cry and I think how peaceful Kate looks when she is sleeping, wishing I was like that, restful and calm in a perpetual sleep. I begin feeling better now, but it is only the first cycle of the day. Things start to happen more quickly; I give Kate some breakfast – Weetbix and chocolate milk – it seems like the kind of thing a responsible mother is meant to give. Meanwhile, I stand at the kitchen benchtop, drinking my third cup and staring out at a world that doesn’t care for my fate, but continues on ruthlessly. I am consumed by my coffee, the addiction is satisfying, and its vile stench is evil and dependable. I don’t talk to my daughter much during breakfast and I regret this, knowing that I am not a good mother. I never have breakfast. These images of deprivation and addiction enchant me.

I never had a mother. She died when I was born. Bitter irony. But it is less painful that way, not knowing what you never had. I sit in the first pew with my grandparents on either side of me. The casket is closed, as it should be. My father is in there I keep thinking to myself. Two nights ago we ate macaroni together. Nothing special, but creamy and wholesome nonetheless. We ate in silence, but it was a pleasant silence, revelling in the appreciation of each other’s company. I have lost more than my father; I have lost my support. They said it was a freak accident, a concrete slab falling like that from four stories. Then the dirge starts and the tears begin to flow, loud and embarrassing ones. I want to get away from this. I want to become transparent and light, so that I can be carried by the wind, like a feather that eventually lands on a beach or in a tree, to become nothing. Nothingness is appealing.

The morning at work is generally tolerable. My job is boring but it pays well and is quite reputable. It’s the kind of job your parents can talk about with neither embarrassment nor pride. My throat tightens a little, but I quickly get back to work. My work is diligent, but its not outstanding and I am not into careerism, leadership or working late and so I’m never in line for a promotion, but that doesn’t bother me. I go through work like I go through life, drifting inconspicuously. As midday comes, work becomes harder. My hangover, so far negated by caffeine, begins to surface again. My head spins in gentle circles, and there is intermittent pain in my temples, like a bird trying to peck into my brain. When it gets really bad I head for the coffee machine, and take comfort in my addiction. I don’t worry about the de-caf or the latte; I go straight for the real thing, repugnant in its blackness. Jitter in a cup. I feel rebellious and proud in its unhealthiness. I become nervous after the coffee and my body starts vibrating slowly, worryingly feeble at twenty-six. I can hardly concentrate on my work and I measure progress in small steps. I focus on holding the pen steadily and writing the right numbers in the right boxes. These are major achievements. By five o’clock, I feel weak and restless. I walk erratically, and the headaches keep coming. There is still a great, burning desire in my body, although I am not quite sure what it wants. My breathing becomes heavier and I only just feel my existence. Six o’clock I think, I’ll take Kate to the park.

42

I move in with my grandparents after the funeral. They do what they can for me, talk to me, spoil me, give me chocolate but it’s not the same. In the beginning I hardly feel like getting out of bed, it is an effort to speak, and every image evokes a memory and an accompanying tear that drops, lonely and sad, out of my eye. Time passes by though, bandaging the wounds and slowly I learn to smile again, to look up and realize the world. It’s the chocolate that sustains me because memories never fade. The day is long and life is tiring, but the post – school sugar rush gives me an hour to get away from myself. It is all the happiness in my world. It becomes boring though, all the chocolate. High school is a sea of evils and chocolate seems too childish and innocent. Teachers approve of it and I hate that. It is no longer exclusive, no longer something only reserved for the tormented. It is wholesome and syrupy; I need something more experienced, something that is strong and trustworthy. Alcohol. They say that alcohol kills kids. It kept me alive.

I go to the child–care centre to pick up Kate. She runs across the room, a pink ribbon flowing cutely out of hair, and her smile is cheerful and virtuous. Stay that way I think to myself. It would be a utopian scene if I weren’t the mother. Her hug makes my head jerk back painfully, but it is worth it. “To the park?” she asks, even though she knows where we are going. “Yes,” I quiver, unashamedly.

There is man on the park bench; he is reading a book. I tell Kate to go and play on the swings and she runs away, the ribbon waving innocently in the wind. I run towards the man, stumbling with fatigue. I sit down next to him on the bench, and it happens quickly, tantalizing so. We have a good relationship, provisional and uncomplicated. I put food on his table; he gives me what I want. I make a dash into the park toilets. Unconsciousness is drifting in on a wingbeat. I collapse in front of the commode, sprawling on the floor. It smells hideously of urine but I roll in it delightfully, unconcerned about the filth or the hygiene. I look at the heroin and the bitter taste of adrenalin enters my mouth. Gripping the toilet, I get up and stagger over to the sink and fill the needle with water. Then I fall to the floor again and roll up my sleeve. My forearm is masculine-looking – the veins are swollen and the puncture holes are infected, covered in a thick pus. I grab the needle and stab it viciously into my arm. It could break; I don’t care. I dip my finger into whatever is remaining and stick it in my nose. Then I sneeze and the salty, mineral taste of blood enters my mouth. The dreams begin and I sit there in the urine and the blood. Dreaming. Full of relief. In fifteen minutes I will play with Kate on the swings. I will talk to her and she will call me ‘mummy’ for the first time today. Then I will take her home, cook for her, help her with her homework and for the last five hours of the day, I will be the mother I should have been.

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A New Beginning

Stephen Fang

Intense, blinding lights magnified the harsh sterility of the room in which she found herself. Instinctively, she raised her arms to shield her eyes as she was passed from one captor to another. Wet, she shivered against the cold and was appreciative when she felt someone drape her with a soft cloth. She shrieked, though, in shock and displeasure when yet another rough pair of hands began towelling her dry with hurried and discomforting strokes. She wailed, gasping for air, and they laughed. These strangers among whom she found herself took in her misery and were delighted. It wasn’t supposed to be like this... … For months she prepared for her journey. From the moment of her creation, she knew what was to be expected of her. At first she found herself swimming amongst millions of others just like herself. She didn’t know where she was going but just followed the leading pack. They were swimming quite fast; she found it hard to keep up with them. She found herself frequently exhausted but something in her made her keep going. In what seemed like days afterwards, she reached a broad passageway. Here the current was very strong and it pushed against her. She struggled against the current, exhausted; she saw many of the others fall away. Suddenly, out of seemingly nowhere floated a huge bulbous ball. She saw the others that remained rush for it, so she did as well. As the ball loomed larger and larger, she saw clusters of the others group together all gnawing at the outer shell; she joined in with one of the clusters. After many hours of gnawing she began to see a clear filmy layer inside. She rushed forwards and tried to push her way in, suddenly the filmy strip broke apart. The gap seemed to close around her. She grew lonely, and started to wonder where everyone else had gone. The interior of the ball was cavernous, it was warm and she finally felt save, she was immediately satisfied with the place. In a few days she lost her tail. It wasn’t a conscious decision; it just seemed to fall off. Each day, she changed shape and grew; she found herself stronger and surer than the one before. A series of awkward but interesting communications with the one to whom she would deliver herself gave her confidence that the peace and serenity she knew from the start would accompany her to her new place. As the months passed by, she began to grow strange things all over her body; she began to feel cramped for room and began to kick and stab her home, but it did her no use. She grew larger still, until suddenly in an instant her world seemed to change. Her home tore apart. Water gushed outwards through the hole, she tried to stop the flow but it seemed to stop naturally after a while. Outside she felt her guardian rear away in pain. Then, as she knew it would, the signal to leave this place had come. Still, she couldn’t help but feel a bit like Eve must have felt upon leaving the Garden of Eden. This home she had always known yielded no imperfections. The climate was ever-temperate, nourishment abundant, and the feeling of contentment and security were constant. Never did she want anything or ever feel threatened. It seemed unfair, almost, to begin life in such a place only to be punished by being made to go forth. Her initial progress was almost effortless. Even as the terrain changed, she scaled the peaks and scurried across the valleys, eager to meet those who promised to greet her at the journey’s end. She began to strain and the path before her grew narrower and more difficult to pass. Her progress slowed and seemed, at times, almost non-existent. Even as she persisted, she wondered for the first time if she would, indeed, succeed. It wasn’t supposed to take this long. She could hear the screaming of a female around her. Her surroundings seemed to suddenly convulse and thrust her outwards. Outside and around her the screaming became louder. Only this time it was followed by shouts of: “I hate you, I hate you so bad, ahhhhh I HATE YOU!!” Exhaustion was taking its toll. No longer was she able to endure forcing herself along the narrow path. Rest. She merely wanted to rest for a few minutes. And so she did. She realized that even when

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she tried to rest the outside force was squeezing her outward. As she began again to strain herself, she heard voices. Over her shoulder she could see a way she hadn’t noticed before. She had expected a bright light at the journey’s end, and certainly now she could see it. Glancing once more toward the narrow path, she pushed outward. And then it happened… … As she was pulled from the path the voices grew louder. The hands that grasped her were not gentle. Where was the peace, the serenity? She found it hard to breathe; her warm, temperate home had been almost entirely liquid, now suddenly she was in a large empty room, filled with air. She choked and sputtered for a few moments; the laughing around her seemed to grow louder. She calmed herself and glanced from one captor to the next, finding nothing familiar in any of them. Exhausted, she could not fight when they forced her to lie down. They snapped cuffs on her wrist and ankle. If only she had not persisted in her journey, she thought, perhaps she would be resting now in that warm haven free from the laughter, free from the lights, her paradise. She fought in vain against a sleepiness that overwhelmed her. The voice. She stirred to a familiar voice. Opening her eyes, she blinked and squinted as she tried to remember what had happened. She could not focus. At least she was warm now. Something in the pit of her stomach ached and she let out a small cry in protest. Again, she felt herself being lifted. This time, at least, the touch was gentle. The smell. Though her vision was blurred, she recognized instantly the smell of the one with whom she had once communicated. She turned her face toward the sweet smell and, feeling a silken stroke upon her cheek, opened her mouth with an impulse born long before she had been. As she nuzzled against the warm breast she heard the voice again. “There now, a bouncing baby girl,” an unknown voice uttered. Her mother nudged her big face into hers and whispered to the babe, who content at last, suckled eagerly. “A pretty rough way to enter the world, but now that you’re here, that’s all that matters.”

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A Passionate Death

Trac Trinh

To live fast and die young was my outlook on life, I drank another glass of cognac. The bar was congested, thick smoke and an off-putting smell of sweat was overpowering but every afternoon my friends would return to it and share some laughs, we grew up here. I contemplated the logistics of another shot when a brisk burst through the old wooden entrance, drenched by the rain. She was given little attention as most of the customers were observing the brutal thunderstorm erupting in the sky. Daring as the young devilish adult I was, I wagered a bet with friends, indicating I could pick-up this girl for the night. My friends gladly indorsed their money as I moved in for the hunt. I walked up confronting the young woman as she was exiting the bar, my friends in the background jeering me on. I smiled in an awkward sense calmly resting my arm on a stool. The young woman was puzzled and uninviting, starring me head to toe, she then laughed and proceeded to walk around me and out the entrance. All my friends suddenly fell into a deadly silence and expression of disgust filled their faces. Determined not to let this one get away and keep my reputation in tact, I rushed outside with my umbrella dangling as I ran. She was at the street corner trying to hail a cab. Bracing myself and trying to look as slick and masculine as possible I approached her covering her with my umbrella, whilst leaving me unprotected against the rain. I spoke like a true gentleman and I think she was taking in by my calm nature. Though we had no luck in finding a cab I did walk her home, a fare walk but I wasn’t complaining. I began by casually talking about the weather, imagine beginning an unforgettable romance with the words ‘ ’Ain’t the weather bad today?’ I guess it worked as soon other topics arose like the economy, work, hobbies etc. The sun came out when we reached her house, we exchanged numbers and I walked home happy. Her name is Rhonda. The districts were at war and I felt the full extent of the violence when I returned to the bar. In heavy explosions the remnants of my sanctuary were in flames, the fire brigade was there yet it made no difference the bar had gone. A friend later informed me that it was the work of youths that had wanted to make a name for themselves. My friends had left the premises just after I was trying to court Rhonda so no lives I knew were lost. The streets had become a haven for violence now days, full of constant bickering and argument. I would wish sometimes to just leave this place, to just go and leave everyone behind. I come to my senses before I fully consider the thought realising that was born to die on the streets. My mind was set on the act of vengeance as I turned my back on the bar I grew up in. My relationship with Rhonda had prospered, before just a stranger she meant so much now. Though I’m not quite head over heels I guess I’m stumbling through her web, we met by chance and I guess it’s a chance why someone as low and dirty as me would be seeing such innocence and life. This girl would make me human again. It has been a month since we first met and she seems to become more beautiful every day, so beautiful that I can’t control myself. I relax the tension by singing to her, though my singing is unbearable she laughs at my entertaining. However one can withstand so much, she would end my recklessness that night. She would kiss me for the first time. Not a meaningless peak by a kiss that overpowers a man, her kiss made everything seem insignificant in comparison. I was seen as a guy who rarely lost his composure but this night as I was walking home I couldn’t stop yelling up at the sky, thanking the heavens for bringing Rhonda into my arms. The nights would roll by, still here, I was living a meaningless existence my friends and I had vandalised numerous outlets owned by the other side. We did it during the late hours of the night sparing nobody. However the most alarming feeling I would witness is the absence of remorse or regret for the lives we shattered. In the recesses of my heart I would still feel the pain I caused. You see, we all knew that the gang wars we fought would never end, I don’t recall when they even started but my role and that of all the others was to stay alive, to live to the extremes and die the life of a warrior. We hit countless houses that night, robbing and killing an act of revenge on my behalf. My life was on the incline with Rhonda but still I put it all in jeopardy. I guess was just can’t teach an old dog new tricks. The flames of burning furniture and homes filled the sky, I breathed in the screams and cries of dying victims, my hands would forever be stained with the blood of the innocent. Honesty and living a true life has no true rewards, we all end up dead sooner or later.

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Rhonda had come to me in tears today, she had overheard gossip of the true person I was, the person I was trying to hide from her. I could not change my past and I couldn’t make up for my wrongdoings, all I could do was calm her discontent with my own tears. We sat, my mind was lost inside her eyes for what seemed an eternity, an eternity wasn’t enough, and her mind was at work, her expression deep in thought. Showing a painful smile I gestured her to forget our problems she could be thinking forever and still resolve to no solution. Rhonda glanced upward returning my awkward smile. ‘We could run from this place, away from the death and violence’ she whispered. I stood up erect and hands clenched, ‘I don’t run from my problems!’ with that I slapped her hard against her perfect face. My heart and soul were damned from that moment as apart of me would die. She glanced at me with shock, her eyes watering. She made a move holding me around the waist, tight. ‘I won’t let you die’ My hands briefly unclenched to embrace her but quickly returned to stance before they had made contact. I would push her fragile body away. ‘Go and let me be, you are nothing to me.’ Three more times she would try and hold me and three more times I would reject the love and innocence I so wanted in my life. Crying and bruised she finally ran away tired of me perhaps, but more likely tired of a broken heart. My predicament with Rhonda ended with me being less of a man, not only because I stuck the woman I wanted to love, honour and cherish but because I never told her I appreciated her, I never said thank you, I never even told her that I loved her. My mind was set on her ever since we first met, but this was never made known to her. She would never know what she did for me. We loved each other now but in twenty years I couldn’t dignify the thought, how was a well-respected woman like her suppose to live, marry, even love a low-life like me. I knew the answer, and it stabbed my heart to know that Rhonda and I would never stand the test of time. A bright stolen car appeared raging down the street stopping with a rumble, inches away from me, my friends appeared saying that they had located the scum which had sabotaged our bar so many nights ago. My loyalty was responsibility to my friends and I issued them into the vehicle, however everything would seem to be of less significance to me now. We arrived face to face with our enemy, I was expecting a mass of bulky faceless pawns, but there in front of me I saw young fools like myself. I knew I my life would end night, and as the yells of fallen gangsters filled my mind I would soon hear my own. I fell on the ground a nameless face, one less burden on society. The concept behind my decision still deludes me, but given another chance I would repeat my actions. I lay on the dark lifeless street taking in the agony of my wound. The newspapers tomorrow would read ‘gang wars kill many’ it seemed to impersonal, it should have read ‘youth dies with absence of love.’ The pain in my back subsided-disappeared as all I could picture was my short time with Rhonda. It seemed so apparent now, I didn’t want to risk my life anymore for a meaningless cause, and I didn’t want to hurt people for a price. I just wanted Rhonda. I wanted to grow old with the woman I loved. But of course it was all too late now, she was gone and soon I also would be leaving, it was just too late. Rhonda. I love you.

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The Adventures of Benny Stamp

Nathan Goode

My name is Benny. When I was a little stamp, and still living at home, it was pretty crowded. Uncle Sam and Aunty Sue and Grandma and Grandpa and all of my other relatives lived on the same sheet of paper. Life was pretty dull on the sheet of paper, and I craved adventure. I wanted to move out, but I couldn’t break free from the rest of the paper. Then one day, a giant hand grabbed our house, lifted us into the air, and placed us on a conveyor belt. There was a big rumbling, and it felt like there was an earthquake! In an instant, the sky fell, and punched holes everywhere in the house. What a wreck! There were now these big canyons in the floor. All of my relatives were surrounded by canyons and separated from each other. I asked my brother, Alex, what was going on, and he replied, “Mum’s giving us our own rooms!” It was very exciting. I finally had a bedroom all to myself! I explored my new room, and thought it looked a bit blank. The walls were white, the floor was white, and the ceiling was white. I wanted to make my room look better than anyone else’s. There was another rumbling, and the sky fell again, but this time, instead of creating canyons, it made my room look all colourful! I was overjoyed! The walls were green and blue, and the floor was red and yellow. It looked great. I saw Alex’s room, but his was exactly the same as mine. I looked at Mum’s, Uncle Sam’s and Grandma’s room, but they were all the same as well. I was really depressed, because I liked to be individual, but I was the same as everyone else. Something else picked up our house, then turned it upside down. I was afraid I would fall through the ceiling! The sky fell in again, but left something sticky underneath the carpet. It had happened to everyone else in the house as well. Thankfully, something else turned our house up the right way again. We slid off the conveyor belt, and the earthquake stopped. Our house was placed on top of someone else’s house, and I asked Mum what was happening. She seemed uncertain, but she told me that they were building some high-rise apartments. Soon after we landed on top of the house, another house landed on top of us. It was completely dark, so I figured I’d better get some sleep before tomorrow. A few days passed, and I explored the building. I met a few other stamps just like me, and they even had the same coloured rooms as me! The stamp living directly above me was the same age as me, and his name was Jimmy. We became friends and explored the building together. A couple of storeys above us lived a disabled stamp, who had had his legs cut off when the sky had fallen down. We also met a few stamps whose rooms were still blank, and weren’t coloured when the sky fell the second time. After about a week, Jimmy and I said goodbye as the building was taken apart. When it was time for our house to be disconnected, two giant hands brought us back out into the sunlight. Our house was torn into four sections, and I was separated from Mum and Aunty Sue. Uncle Sam and Alex both lived next door to me, so I wasn’t completely alone. We were then placed on top of Mum’s part of the house, which was above Aunty Sue’s. The very next day, a giant hand picked up our section of the house, and put us in a big dark hole, which made many frightening earthquakes. The earthquakes stopped, and the giant hand pulled us back out into the sunshine. Straight after that, the giant came back and pulled my room from the house. It was heartbreaking to leave Alex. My room was turned upside down, and put on a wet, warm surface. The sticky stuff underneath the carpet became even stickier, and the giant pushed my room down onto a flat, rectangle. I introduced myself to the rectangle, whose name was Mr. Lope. He was an old envelope, who had also lost his family over time. We soon became best of friends. Soon, we were put back into the same dark hole that made earthquakes, but Mr. Lope didn’t mind one bit. Then we were dropped into big red box. Inside the box, it was dark, cold and crowded. Mr. Lope and I found that we were among other stamps and envelopes. There was a loud scraping outside the box, and we were pushed into a mesh bag. Mr. Lope bent and twisted as the bag was catapulted through the air. There was a huge thud as the bag hit something hard,

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and more scraping followed. Finally, a hand picked Mr. Lope out of the bag, and placed him in a slot. We were alone again. We stayed here for the next few hours, and a few more envelopes joined us in the slot. When the slot was full, another hand pulled us out and shoved us into a metal basket. The basket started moving, and one by one, each letter was pulled out of the basket and placed into several different boxes. We were placed into one with the number 336 on the front. We stayed in the small box overnight, and the next morning another hand grabbed us out of the box. They put us on a table, and took off Mr. Lope’s hat. The giant grabbed something from inside Mr. Lope and started reading it. A smaller hand gently pulled me off Mr. Lope and put me in water for several days. Once again, I had been separated from my friend. At first, I was scared in the water, because I had never been near any before, but I found I liked it. When I had finished soaking, they left me out to dry, and then stuck me onto another surface with many different stamps. There I met so many new friends, who had come from further away and had many more adventures than I. This is how I spend my days, sharing with my friends stories of long, action-packed journeys from when we were young stamps to where we are now. This is my story.

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Alone in Space

Joel Tito

He was alone. Darkness engulfed his body and the freezing cold air was silent. The first astronaut to attempt a solo flight to the moon was in trouble. His systems had failed, his engines had shutdown and there was no way of communicating with the earth that now seemed so foreign. He was alone. Lieutenant James Bryan had accepted this mission with enthusiasm. He was an adventurous and experienced astronaut, who was constantly relied on for dangerous missions. But the experts would always comment on James’ strange behavioural patterns. They noticed that James seemed to work much more effectively and efficiently when he was by himself. When in a group situation, James would often break away from the group, quietly performing a task that he considered important. This would worry his observers, who would often question his mental stability. But the fact was that James liked to be alone. So when offered a chance to be the first solo astronaut, James heartily accepted. It was to be a routine flight, with a normal launch, lunar landing and then supersonic flight home. The recent technological advancements were creating less and less need for astronauts to input human commands, leaving him totally committed to space exploration. This exited the whole world, as they knew that if James’ flight was a success, then they would literally have the universe at their fingertips. However, all had not gone to plan. After what had seemed like a normal launch and atmospheric exit, James had allowed the computer to begin its plotted course to the moon. He knew that the computer would fly perfectly, as the technicians on the ground had assured him that he had the world’s most technologically advanced hardware in his module. But as the computerised pilot guided the craft tactfully and precisely through space, James sensed a catastrophe. Hoping to reassure himself that the computer was following the exact course, he floated over to the computerised pilot and asked for the flight data. “Negative,” came the metallic reply. “I have been programmed to follow my specific instructions that were uploaded to my memory on earth. My instructions do not include informing my passenger of the flight plan.” “Passenger!” James laughed. “Computer, I have complete control over you. You are my passenger” “That is an incorrect assumption. Your infantile human brain is no match for my incredible intellect. Your race will never compare to robotic life form. This is due to your bodily restrictions.” “That is preposterous!” replied James. “All we have to do is remove your power supply and you are no more.” “Incorrect again. We have the full capability to negatively influence human life and you have no opportunity to alter our plans.” With that the computer ceased its communication. Then slowly James’ craft began to change course. “What are you doing!” yelled James The computer did not respond. “I command you to stop!” yelled James as he tapped frantically at his control board. He entered command after command, only to find that his efforts were useless. The computer had entered uninstructorable* mode. Eventually the craft came to face a black hole, approximately 3000 kilometres away. The engines began to power down, the lights began to dim, and the electrostatic radio began to whir. Then suddenly the computer spoke. “In order for the human race to fully comprehend the power of the computer, I have decided that you will become somewhat of a martyr. I have taken the liberty of removing my power supply, to show your race that we are truly unstoppable. Once the backup battery has run out, the flight system will shut down, which will stop the following instruments from functioning: engines, lighting, body temperature regulator and electrostatic radio communications control system. The craft has been given enough thrust to propel itself 3001 kilometres, without restarting the engines. This will launch you into the black hole, and towards oblivion. The battery now has 15 seconds of power left; perhaps you should use this time to attempt to understand the power the computer has over your world. I am to go now Mr. Bryan, may you never again ridicule the complete dominance of the computer.”

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With that, all became silent. A few seconds later, there was a load whir, as the backup battery ran out and the flight system shut down. For the first time in his life, James Bryan felt lonely. He felt an emptiness that could not be explained or described. It was like a cancer that had been developing throughout time, and had finally expanded to a point where it could not be removed. He was alone. As his craft hurtled towards the black hole, James wept. He wept for the life he had not lived, and for the love he never had. He wept for the earth, and the hole that they did not know they were in. He wept. The hole engulfed his craft, swallowing it ferociously, and leaving no remains. James died a lonely man.

* Uninstructorable mode = A mode of function that does not enable any human input. It was designed primarily for the astronaut’s protection against accidental instruction during re-entry into the earth’s atmosphere. It is an irreversible command.

Into The Unknown

Harry Comeadow

The dark water of the slow flowing river shimmered like polished glass in the morning sunshine. The banks of the river were covered in enormous gum trees, reflected as a green tinge on the edges of the water.

Jack noticed none of his beautiful surroundings as he fumbled along the smooth, bitumen path that lead to the platform in the middle of a huge iron bridge. He fought to keep his mind clear, as pictures of death and pain entered his head. A wave of nausea overcame him. His stomach grumbled, but he no longer felt hungry as he had earlier done.

He stepped onto the bridge but could go no further. His legs felt like jelly but he forced himself not to give in. With fists clenched he marched forward with his head held high.

Jack reached the platform and sat down on a wooden bench. He felt much less afraid now, but not exactly relaxed. “Jack Dowling” yelled a man standing on the platform. Jack felt his heart race and his muscles tighten rigidly. Struggling to his feet, he was almost surprised that he was able to move. He clenched his fists once again and half ran, half walked to the platform. A large pair of shackles was placed around his ankles and a thick elastic cord attached to them. Jack stepped up onto the platform and cringed at the sight before him.

As he looked down into the clear blue water the sight made him stagger back. A man started counting back from ten and Jack readied himself for the ordeal. “Five” announced the man. Jack sensed his heart miss a beat and he felt light headed. “Four, three, two one.” He knew he must conquer his fears and jump. “Zero”. With an immense thrust of his legs, Jack launched himself into the air. He felt the cool, refreshing wind rushing through his hair and his arms were waving about freely.

Jack quickly came to his senses as he noticed the water coming toward him at an alarming rate. He closed his eyes and waited for the impact. His head was suddenly immersed in freezing cold water and then ripped out just as quickly, causing him to wince as his neck stretched slightly.

Jack bounced violently up and down on the elastic cord until he finally came to rest. He let out a cry of relief and was slowly lowered to the ground. Once the heavy shackles and cord had been removed he slumped down onto a patch of grass exhausted, his heart still pounding hard in his chest.

“Bungee jumping is a piece of cake,” Jack told his friend the next day.

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Ask the Lonely

Daniel Gold

My heart raced in fear as I signalled to turn toward the beach. I couldn’t believe that he would bolt from the party like that, and judging from their faces, the others couldn’t either. Within minutes, they told me how he had been so withdrawn and moody the last few weeks. Somehow that didn’t sound like him. I was feeling guilty now for neglecting our friendship over the past few months. Until recently, we had been close despite our two year age difference. But the 19 years he had lived made him more mature than others his age. In the four or five years we had known each other, we often spoke on the phone, but those phone calls had gone from frequent to non-existent. I couldn’t believe that I had been so wrapped up in my own life as to ignore one of my closest friends. Truthfully, though, he hadn’t been making much effort either. I was forced to hear about him second hand from the other guys. I pulled into the parking lot and breathed a sigh of relief as I parked beside a familiar forest green sportscar. I stepped out of my vehicle unconsciously grabbing a sweater. The wind blowing off the gulf was cool, and the temperature would drop once the sun finally set. I glanced at my watch – it was getting late. Realizing that the impending darkness would hinder my search, I felt a renewed sense of urgency. Thank God I knew his habits. The beach, and this one in particular, was his sanctuary. Whenever anything bothered him, he was always here, sorting things through. I walked for nearly half an hour wondering, hoping and praying that he was okay. Then I saw him sitting in the cold sand about a quarter of a mile away. He still wore his faded blue jeans and blue football jersey. His chin-length blonde hair blew in the breeze, while he held his baseball cap in his left hand. As I approached him, I noticed his eyes, the color of the very ocean he gazed at, were blank and expressionless. “Nick,” I whispered as I felt my heart wrench. It wasn’t pleasant seeing him like this. Should I really be here? Mikey was his best friend, and he had admitted that even he had felt helpless. If he and the others couldn’t help him, what were my chances? I silently sat next to him on the sand. I wasn’t sure what to do or say. I was tempted to reach out and embrace him, but I was afraid. Instead I waited, not wanting to rush him. “Life is too much to handle,” I heard his trembling voice say. “Too much.” I glanced at his face. Although his hair had fallen into eyes, I knew he was crying when I saw a tear roll down his cheek. “All this. It’s so overwhelming.” He paused unsuccessfully trying to regain composure. “Forget the band. Forget singing. Forget one whole year away from home. I can’t...I just can’t do it anymore, Hanna.” “Nicky...,” I murmured holding back my own tears. I never knew he felt like this. Ever since I’d known him, Nick Carter had always been the one to pick me up when I was down. His practical jokes were legendary. I had rarely seen him without that trademark smile; unless of course he was trying to look sexy in some magazine pinup, in which case he had that perfected. Even then, that twinkle in his eyes betrayed him. On stage, he was just as incredible. I understood why all those girls fainted at the sound of his voice. I remembered the first time I heard him sing ‘Heaven In Your Eyes.’ His performance left me speechless and in tears, something he incessantly teased me about. My mind returned to the present when I heard that same voice singing softly a tune I recognized. “I’ve been trying to make it home Got to make it before too long I can’t take this very much longer I’m stranded in the sleet and rain Don’t think I’m ever gonna make it home again...” Nick was ripping my heart into pieces. “Nicky,” I repeated softly. “I’m so sorry...I didn’t know.” “No one did. No one cared to.” Anger and frustration were evident in his voice now. “Christ, I have thousands of girls falling at my feet everyday, screaming my name and professing their undying love for

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me. Everyone I meet on the street acts as if they’re my best friend. But, you know, I have never felt more lonely in my life than I do now.” “Yeah, I know I got Mikey, Vinny, A.J. and Ty, and my family. I’m thankful for them, but they can’t understand this. The guys have tried. They can’t. They say they’ve been there.” He shook his head. “They just don’t know.” Nick brushed the hair from his eyes, which I noticed were bloodshot. “I hear everyone say how privileged I should feel to be where I am, to have all I have. It’s great and I don’t want to seem ungrateful. Still there is something missing. You probably think I’m being selfish.” I shook my head. “No, no you’re not. Tell me what you need. What’s missing, Nick?” His eyes questioned my sincerity for a moment before he answered. “Normalacy. I can hardly remember what life was like five years ago before the band started, before all the madness. I want to go back to being Nick Carter. I’m not saying I want to give this all up. I just want the chance, for whatever amount of time, to be me, to not have the stress, the pressure. I don’t want to force myself into thinking how the public will deal with the decisions I make in my life. Is that too much to ask?” “I don’t think so. Nick, you are entitled to live your life the way you want. You said it yourself, it’s your life.” I thought for a few minutes as he took in my comments. “You have a few more days off, right?” “Thanks for reminding me,” he mumbled. “Why don’t you go somewhere? The woods maybe. Take a friend if you want. Go boating. Play some hoop. Just hang out, chill. Do what you want, relax.” Nick looked at me for the first time. “I don’t know, Hanna...” “Dammit, Carter, if you don’t do something for yourself now, this will eat you up. I can’t let that happen. I can’t lose one of my best friends to this business.” I noticed some of the sparkle return to his eyes at my last remark. “Do you mean that?” I sighed. “Men. Of course. You know that. You’ve always been one of my best friends.” Istared into his eyes. “Please, Nicky, take some time off. Do this for yourself.” “You’re right. I’ll go, but on one condition...I want you to come with me Hanna” “Me?” “Yeah, Hanna. I’m sorry. I didn’t see it. I’m sorry that I neglected our friendship. I hadn’tforgotten you, just misplaced you for a while.” Nick shook his head. “Why didn’t I see it? Why didn’t you say something?” “I knew you were busy. I figured I didn’t matter much to you anymore.” Nick touched my cheek gently. “You do matter to me. God, I’m so sorry.” The realization hit him then. “You know, I am not so sure it was just normalcy I missed.” My eyes met his. “Nick...,” I said, my own voice trembling now. “Hanna, I will never ignore my best friend again.” He enveloped me in his arms and held me tight. “I promise,” he whispered, resting his forehead on mine. “If you can promise me that, Nick, I promise you’ll never be lonely ever again. Never.”

J. Lukies

53

Escape

Markiyan Stefyn

“We finally got ya!” I heard one say in a gruff voice as three men walked into my refuge. “This will definitely get me my promotion,” said another, but from his eyes I could tell that all he wanted was revenge. “You know how long we been chasing you since we got you last time? Three whole months, day and night! No more, we got ya this time! Don’t have any more tricks up that sleeve of yours, do ya?” laughed the third. He was right, no more tricks, no hope of getting away. Last time was truly lucky, but this situation would take more than luck, much more. This time I was caught completely unprepared, as I’d been keeping low since they put up that damned reward for me. I’d been hiding in a small abandoned apartment block after a shopping centre attendant had recognised my face from that darned TV show ‘Crime Stoppers’. One of the three raised a shiny black gun to my head, “Reckon I could say he tried attacking me” he said provokingly, a hint of pure evil showing up in the back of his eye. The other two almost simultaneously forced his gun down, the taller one shouting at him, “We don’t want to forfeit the reward, or the promotion the department is gonna be forced to give us with all the publicity this is going to generate…” “Besides, we don’t want to give him the easy option out, we want him to rot in jail!” butted in the second, the smallest if the group, his little squirrel face somehow rearranging itself awkwardly to form an expression that seemed more or less like a smile. The three started to come towards me, the outer two circling around – like wolves hunting their prey. I took a quick look around, for something, anything that could help me, but the dark empty room offered nothing, save a few pieces of wood lying against the wall. Noticing that I was looking around the tallest one raised his gun and threatened, “No funny stuff little man.” The other two soon following suit and raising their weapons. A few weeks ago I thought I was immortal, I had cheated death so many times that I had no fear, but that one little TV show forced me into hiding. Half starved I had no chance, I was experiencing true fear – the kind a man experiences when he knows he is going to die and that I was. It began with a loud crack and then a bang. A gun had gone off. I began falling and I thought that it was the end. So this is what death is – just falling. Three sharp blows to my body proved otherwise – I had fallen through the floor, four of them actually, the weight of the four people too much for the old building. I looked up briefly to see the men looking through a series of large holes in the floor. With a low moan I pulled a piece of wood out of my hip and got up, trying to stop the flow of blood by holding my shirt to the wound. Seeing that the cops were no longer at the hole I quickly ran out. Two police cars stood out the front. The first showed no signs of help, but the second still had the keys in the ignition – not all cops are stupid, but most are. After quickly slashing the back tyres of the first car, I climbed into the second. Sitting on the seat I noticed that it was mostly wet – an empty McDonalds cup on the dashboard the prime suspect. Obviously they were in a hurry, that old man who spotted me walking into the building must have called the cops. I Knew I should’ve taken care of him. Looking for something to help me I noticed a hamburger on the dashboard; the mere sight of it forced me to pause for several moments. The three men bursting through the door was enough to get me back on track and I started the car, accelerated and turned the car onto the footpath, forcing the men to press themselves against the wall to avoid being hit. I let out a loud laugh of triumph, with a slightly sinister undertone that I had been suppressing since my escape. Driving as inconspicuously as I could, my thought turned to my miraculous escape. Once again defying all odds – I had escaped, perhaps I really was immortal. ‘No’ I said to myself, not down this chain of thought again, it’s what got me into this mess in the first place – my overconfidence. After putting enough distance between the cops and me I looked at my wound and, seeing that my

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shirt was stuck to the flesh and was doing a good job of stopping the blood, I decided it would have to wait until I could get some first aid supplies. Turning my mind to my hunger I unwrapped the hamburger and devoured it, not even sparing the renegade piece of salad that fell onto my lap. With my hunger more or less satisfied, my thirst became a more urgent matter; I looked disappointedly to the empty cup. I parked the car out the front of a mall and started searching for any loose change. The last few moments of my life were as follows: A click followed by the words “All right, sit back up, don’t turn around and don’t say a word”. Pausing in my place for a moment, mentally kicking myself in the foot for not realising that there were only three in the building, the fourth had stayed in the car – which also explained the keys in the ignition. I began wondering what to do – follow his instructions and hope to survive and risk taking the bullet in the back, without even seeing my killers face. No, that was unacceptable: I would die like a man. I slowly began getting up to a sitting position, but in the last possible moment, when he had thought he had won and I sensed him loosen his grip on the gun, I swung at where I thought it was. “Cut, great shot guys. It’ll do perfectly for the last scene,” the director said. I quickly came back to my old personality, killing off all traces of my movie persona. “Steve, you got my lunch yet?” I called out to one of the workers.

Julian Sadujko

55

Familiarity Breathes…

Brad Barr

The elderly woman boarded the graffiti ravaged train at exactly three twenty eight on Monday afternoon. She sat on the seat closest to the door, blocking off the seats around her with her thirty-year-old bicycle. Today she had been clothes shopping – a treat for this poor stranger. But her treat came in the form of second-hand clothes, as this was all that her meagre pension would allow. She sat opposite a youth that she distinguished as being another one of the pompous, school boys. He was fifteen or sixteen at best, but she realised that he probably had as much wealth as she did. His face looked familiar to her, but she dismissed it and thought that he probably reminded her of some kid she’d seen in the paper. He was returning home from school – part of his daily routine. But today he wanted to be alone, as he wanted none of his companions to view what he was about to do – a perfectly planned scheme that would shock all of those who thought that they knew him so well. Out of the corner of his eye he watched the old beggar woman. He recalled her family. He had become very close to them many years ago. He remembered their filth, and the pleasure of witnessing their deaths – an event that the media claimed to be a ‘tragic accident that led to the loss of three innocent victims.’ Now he felt that it was time to take the fourth. As he knew she would, the woman got off the train at Fairwell, pushing her bike alongside her as her bare feet took their last ever steps. He followed closely behind her, careful to not yet look suspicious, yet never letting the woman out of his sight. Then, as he had so carefully planned, his adventure began. As she was leaving the station, he toyed with the woman, getting closer to her and then dropping away, sparking her instincts to let her know the he was there and following her. It was now a game to him – one of ‘hide and seek’ as well as ‘chasey.’ But this was only the beginning. As they walked down the ramp and towards the exit, the woman sensed danger. Her movements became quicker. She realised that she was being followed and was in danger, knowing this feeling all too well. She never actually dared a glance at the monster that was following her, but she felt his presence snapping at her heels. The old woman really started to feel threatened. She called out for help, yet it seemed to her that she and this demon were now in their own ‘life and death,’ ‘dog-eat-dog’ world, where only the winner would be allowed to return to reality. As her steps got quicker, so did her heart beat. She ignored the ticket inspector’s shouts, jumping on her bicycle and pedalling for dear life, as if there were no tomorrow. She happened to be right. But the boy was still too quick. They entered the busy city streets, which he knew intimately, and even though she gathered speed and distance on him, he always knew a shortcut to get closer behind her. One of his shortcuts led to him getting to an intersection before the woman could. Their eyes met for a fraction of a second, although it seemed like an eternity, before she was forced to turn around and head back towards where the whole nightmare began. And it was there that the same nightmare would end. She entered the station once again, knocking oncoming pedestrians over as she tried to escape the boy. He now thought of himself as being her tail, following in this helpless woman’s footsteps. The woman had no other option but to choose a platform as her next destination. And this was exactly what the boy wanted. He now had her where he wished. She was stranded on the edge of the platform, desperately looking for an escape route. But there were none. He closed in on the dirty woman. Just for fun, the crazy boy whispered to her. “History repeats itself,” he said. She then caught on to what he meant. But she had no time to act on it as the boy first pushed her bike onto the train tracks, and then with a single swift motion kicked her legs out from under her and shoved her towards where her bike now lay. As she tumbled down onto the tracks, she crunched her head against the jagged edge of the platform, sending her partly into unconsciousness and causing a gruesome passage into her head that was spilling out deep red blood. The boy stood on top of the platform, smirking down at his victim, yet knowing that he still had one more thing to accomplish. He grabbed onto the steel supports of the rain shelter, and slowly made his way up, until he was sitting on top of it looking down on the world as if he had already conquered it. He stared at his fate and stood up, ready to jump into the path of the oncoming train, when he noticed that he had not killed the woman, but only severely injured her. She saw him about to take his own life, and offered her words of encouragement, as well as her final thoughts to the brutal monster. “You bastard,” she said. “First you kill my family, now me. You bastard!” No more needed to be said, as the young man took a single step forward.

56

Fear of Life Itself

Thomas Morgan

A misty grey fog clouds my vision, drifting and curling into a myriad of shapes as stray gusts of wind buffet them. The ledge feels rough and the gritty concrete digs into my bare feet. From beneath me comes the sound of traffic, the angry bark of car engines, the howls of horns, and the violent, sharp squeal of car brakes. I’m not sure exactly what the time is, but it’s closer to dawn than to dusk. I look down, grasping onto the windowsill with one hand. Tendrils of fog tug at the hem of my coat, which flaps feebly in a gust of wind. Behind me, my flat is illuminated, creating a temporary haven of warmth and light in this cheerless city. Beneath me is darkness, and, just possibly, salvation. I ready myself to jump, letting my left foot drift off the ledge to rest suspended over space, when something pulls me back. The foot returns to the hard surface of the ledge, and I crouch down, feeling sick at what I have just tried to do. ‘That was cowardly,’ I tell myself, ‘that was a coward’s way out.’ I stare down at the depths, and think: ‘But maybe I want to be a coward…’ Isn’t it possible for something to be so hard that you just have to give up? Slowly, I raise myself up off my haunches. “It’s cowardly not to jump,” I hear myself say. That doesn’t make sense, it’s not logical. No matter. The void is beneath me, close to me. I can taste the damp air, feel the wind as it washes over me. To jump is my only option…. Isn’t it? Once again, I lose my nerve. I back away from the edge, flattening myself against the side of the building. The tinny sound of a radio, playing some manufactured hit, can be heard from the open window of a flat opposite me. I sigh, and tremble in the cold. A voice in my head says something that pains me. Go ahead, it says, be a coward, don’t jump, even though you know it’s the only real choice. There’s so much wrong in this world that I’m tempted to believe that the voice is right: that all I can do is jump. From the street below I hear the sound of a siren – may be belonging to an ambulance, may be to a police car – but it really doesn’t matter which, because both mean trouble. Whenever I hear a siren, I cringe, and think about all the horrible things that must be happening. Who O.Ded because they couldn’t face reality; who shot another human because they were angry; who killed themselves because they were afraid? Am I afraid? No, I’m not afraid of jumping; though I’m petrified by life. With that thought in my mind, I move towards the edge. Then, my foot slips forward, and I find myself falling forwards, into the void. Instinctively, my hand shoots out and grabs onto the window frame. My breath is knocked out of me as I hit the grey concrete wall of the building, and I can feel a sharp pain where my wrists scrape against the ledge. I hang there for a second, before my coat is caught by a gust of wind – stronger this time- and I begin to swing like a pendulum. Above me, within easy reach, and shining brightly, lies my flat. Beneath me, and even easier to reach, lies the darkness, the void. I hang there, suspended, between life and death, light and dark. I have only to make the slightest move, and that will decide my future. I don’t think I really grasp the enormity of this situation. And then, provoked by another strong gust of wind, my wallet falls from my pocket. Like some ungainly bird it hovers in the air for a moment, before commencing a spiralling descent into the thick mist below, leaving behind a trail of credit cards and bank notes that disperse on the wind. I begin to laugh. It’s hard not to. Below me, on the street, someone will have found the wallet, turned it over in their hands in bewilderment before pocketing it and walking off. Still chortling, I pull myself up onto the ledge and step into my flat, closing the window behind me. Silently, I shuffle across to the couch, throwing myself into its comforting embrace before erupting into another fit of manic giggles. I feel like throwing something else out of the window; a lamp, perhaps, or my computer. My mind pictures the mass of cracked electrical components that would result from such an action, and I laugh again, so hard I begin to feel sick. Somewhere in the back of my mind I begin to doubt my own sanity, but that is quickly pushed away by the sheer joy of living, and being able to hurl objects out of windows…

57

Grasshopper

Richard Ibrahim

The crashing of a grasshopper through the long blades of grass broke the tranquility of the morning. Charging behind it was a giant praying mantis, its six legs pounding the ground. Ahead, the grasshopper, Dòu-shì, powered his long brown legs as fast as he could, his antennae waving in the wind. His eyes filled with fear and his heart thudding in his chest, he leapt high over fallen twig and underneath flowers. The sound of his pursuer was getting further and further behind, so with a final thump, Dòu-shì came to a halt. Short of breath, he turned and searched for the mantis, but it was nowhere to be seen. Relief flowed over Dòu-shì, and he was about to turn and leave when a movement behind a plant stalk caught his eye. With a powerful burst the grasshopper kicked his legs, propelling himself high into the air just as the praying mantis crashed through the grass and landed onto the spot where he had just been. Unfolding his wings, Dòu-shì flew up and up, higher and higher away to his freedom. He flew higher. And crashed into a large pink wall. The force of the blow was so great that the stunned Dòu-shì felt himself falling down towards the ground. Then suddenly he wasn’t falling anymore. He banged into a clear wall. Opening his eyes, he saw that he was surrounded by clear walls. Before the confused and dazed insect could try to escape, the area around him began shaking violently, sending Dòu-shì crashing from wall to wall. Then the shaking stopped, and Dòu-shì found himself being lowered into a large wire cage. Darkness enveloped him, and Dòu-shì could no longer smell the grass or other plants. He sensed that creatures surrounded him, but the darkness made it feel as if there was emptiness all around him. Time passed, and the grasshopper slept. The ground was cold and hard, and he was hungry. When the light returned, he discovered that he was surrounded by creatures – all around him cages were filled with many different kinds of insects. On his right was an empty cage, but on his left a small, green cricket lay sleeping. Walking over to the cage wall, Dòu-shì rattled the wires. “Hey! Hey! Over here! Wake up! Hello?” he called. The cricket opened it eyes, flipped over, and slowly crawled over to him. “Do you mind? Look, buddy, in case you haven’t noticed, some of us are trying to sleep here. Now, if you’ve quite finished, I think I’ll go back to sleep.” said the cricket, who started walking away. “Wait! Where are we?” asked Dòu-shì.“Wouldn’t we all like to know. It’s an insect’s worst nightmare, from what I can tell.” The cricket shuddered. A cold dread started creeping over Dòu-shì. “What do you mean?” he asked. “What I said,” replied the grasshopper. “Look down there. Can you see that large, empty space?” Dòu-shì turned to look down. The cages were situated in terraces and at the very bottom was a large, open room. “That place,” said the cricket, “ is where we fight.” “What?” cried Dòu-shì. “What did you say? Fight? Fight who? His tone was skeptical.” “Whoa, whoa, slow down. I’ll explain, though I doubt if it’ll make you much happier.” The cricket turned and looked down once more. “That place down there is an arena. Everyday, two giant stag beetles come along and drag one of us down there. You can see everything that happens. They throw them into a small room that opens into the arena. Then, a big door opens and out of it comes an enormous grasshopper, called Ka’nah, who proceeds to smash the other one into unconsciousness. The winner is the one left standing, and that’s usually the big grasshopper. Eventually all of us will be sent down there, and then we’re in trouble. We can’t even escape. No-one’s done it before.” The cricket finished talking and lay down. “How do you know all this?” asked Dòu-shì. “How long have you been here?” “Not long,” answered the cricket. “The others told me.” The cricket rolled over and was soon asleep. Troubled thoughts filled Dòu-shì’s mind. He began to feel afraid. He knew that if he were taken down into that arena, he would not come out alive. Eventually Dòu-shì fell into a troubled sleep, his rest tormented by nightmares. He awoke to the sound of pincers clacking against the floor. It came from nearby. Getting up, he listened carefully. The sound of the footsteps were getting closer. He realised that they were coming towards his cage. Looking around, Dòu-shì desperately searched for an escape, but the wire was thick, and the back of his cage was

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against a thick wall. Two large stag beetles, their black pincers glowing in the light, stopped outside his cage. They unlocked the wire door and marched in. Before Dòu-shì could move, he was locked in an iron grip. The stag beetles dragged him out of the cage, and Dòu-shì suddenly was filled with an overpowering anger. Struggling with all his might and shouting abuse at his captors, he fought and wrestled to break free, but the large, black beetles maintained their grip on him and steadily pulled him further and further toward the arena. Around and above him, the other caged insects looked on with pity and fear. The stag beetles kept dragging Dòu-shì down. They passed into areas that he had not seen before, and finally stopped at a large, open door. Dòu-shì’s captors threw him into the room. Dòu-shì landed on his feet and leaped for the door, but it slammed shut in his face. The worried grasshopper was suddenly surrounded by darkness. Dòu-shì threw all the weight of his muscular, armoured body at the door, but it would not budge. Dòu-shì’s fear was suddenly replaced by a firm resolve that he would escape from this place. A sense of determination like he had never felt before filled him. He was preparing to lunge at the door again when a loud grating sound filled the room. Turning around, Dòu-shì saw a thin slit of light appear as an enormous door opened. As the door rose higher, Dòu-shì could see the dusty, brown floor of the arena. The door rose higher and disappeared into the ceiling. Then, once more, everything was silent. Timidly, Dòu-shì crept forward into the arena. It was a vast, empty room with thick, high walls. The walls circled around to a large door at the far end. As the small, brown grasshopper stepped out of the door, it slammed shut behind him with a noisy clang that echoed around the arena and made Dòu-shì’s antennae stand on end. Seeing that he was alone in the arena, some of the fear left Dòu-shì, but quickly returned when the door at the other end opened, and a large shape filled the doorway. Moving out into the light, a large, battle-scarred grasshopper stalked forward, its malevolent eyes fixed on Dòu-shì. The large, menacing Ka’nah wore a cold smile on his face, and stopped a short distance from Dòu-shì, looking him up and down. Dòu-shì knew that he should do something, but he was frozen with uncontrollable fear. Above them, a match suddenly burst into flame, signalling the start of the countdown. Ka’nah looked up at the match, waiting till it blew itself out. The flame moved down the stick, and as it reached the end, the flame suddenly blew out with a whoosh. Without warning, the larger grasshopper launched himself at Dòu-shì, slamming his armoured shoulder into Dòu-shì’s face. The smaller grasshopper was thrown to the ground. Ka’nah lunged again, knocking Dòu-shì down just as he tried to get up. Again he knocked him down, and again. Grabbing Dòu-shì, Ka’nah threw him high into the air. Dòu-shì crashed against the wall and fell to the ground. The larger grasshopper gloated, resting some distance away. Dòu-shì was covered in bruises, and his body was racked with pain. Through his clouded vision, he could see the other grasshopper stepping back to charge. Something clicked in Dòu-shì then, and as Ka’nah leapt towards him once more, Dòu-shì rolled to the side with a speed born of desperation and leapt into the air over the body of the startled Ka’nah. Landing behind his opponent, Dòu-shì ducked Ka’nah’s hit and kicked out with his long, powerful legs, catching Ka’nah in the stomach. The enraged Ka’nah slashed at Dòu-shì’s face with his armoured hands, but the smaller grasshopper blocked the move and returned one of his own, which caught Ka’nah full in the face. The two grasshoppers, standing on their hind legs, proceeded to engage in a slashing frenzy of arms and legs. Kicking violently, Dòu-shì could see that Ka’nah was weakening. Confused and weakened by Dòu-shì’s attacks, the larger grasshopper was almost exhausted. But as Dòu-shì watched a cold malice filled Ka’nah’s eyes. An unmerciful rage filled the grasshopper at the thought of being defeated by this weakling. With a snarl of anger Ka’nah returned to his original strategy and leapt at Dòu-shì, but he had made his last mistake. Dòu-shì flipped onto his back and kicked his long legs out with a powerful burst of energy. His feet came into contact with Ka’nah’s midsection, catching him in mid-leap and hurling him into the far wall. Weakened beyond consciousness, Ka’nah slumped to the ground, defeated. The battle was over. The larger grasshopper lay vanquished. Dòu-shì had won, but pain filled his body as his strength drained from him. A shadowy blackness clouded his vision, and he swayed on his feet. Weakened by the power of his own attacks, Dòu-shì stumbled and fell to the floor. The last things he saw was a picture of a field, with grass and trees, and flowers, before everything went dark with the absolute finality of death.

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In the Name of HonorTze-Sian Hor

Step after lonely step, I trod the barren land, desperate to find food to support the New Realm. The land was devoid of vegetation and was a stern reminder that a lot needed to be done. The only hope for the colony was if we soldiers kept bringing back food to support the young ones. They were the future and the only hope for the survival of our people. So many were too young to fend for themselves and the Holocaust had left our numbers severely depleted. The plateau stretched out before me. Mile upon endless mile. There seemed to be nothing out here except vast open spaces unsafe for my kind. Out in the open my people were exposed to the poisonous rains, or worse, the wrath of the vengeful Nam. The effects of the Holocaust had been devastating. Thousands of innocent citizens had died, ravaged by the diseases and sickness caused by the cruelty and savagery of the Nan – the Nam who had released the poisons that had caused the Holocaust, the implement of our destruction and pestilence of my people. Once our numbers had been so great that we could withstand the wrath of the Nam, but too many have died as a result of the Nam’s horrible plagues. Now we stick to the shadows, hoping one-day to return to the powerful nation that we once were. What was that on the horizon? An oasis? An old outpost? Maybe I could find some food for the colony. Maybe my long, hard trek may not be in vain after all. Things had deteriorated rapidly after the Holocaust. Many Elders and Leaders were taken by the symptoms of the Holocaust and there had been much internal fighting. Everyone scrambled to survive or gain power before the foundation of the New Realm and the rise of our divine Queen. My people had worked hard to reestablish the colony after the Holocaust and we were on the path to recreating the splendor of the Old Kingdom. My memory of the time before the Holocaust is very vague. I was only a child when it happened. All I remember was that when the diseases broke out, all us children were herded off away from our parents and placed in a quarantine bunker. It was often scary in those bunkers, not knowing what was going on outside. The Queen had given so much to my people and me. She was the mother of my land and the one thing that I still believed in. She had weathered the Holocaust just like the rest of her subjects and had survived it without a lot of special treatment. She had given her citizens all that they could expect and now I wanted to return my gratitude. Cautiously I made my way over to the final stretch of the plateau and realized that I had found an abandoned outpost. The door did not exist, instead there was a gaping big hole in the wall. I hurried inside and found myself a treasure trove of preserved food. This was what I had been hoping for; shelves of preserved food. The thought of returning to the colony with food made me swell up inside, I was filled with excitement, joy and pride. I grabbed what I could carry and hurriedly made my way back to the colony. As I neared the colony my excitement built up, this was a chance to prove my worthiness to the Queen. Suddenly a great wind blew in out of nowhere and the heavens darkened. It was the Nam. Now there was a new and greater threat to the Queen and I had to protect her. “Protect the Queen, we must protect the Queen.” It was complete pandemonium, soldiers raced off to the front line, to give their much-needed support. Footmen yelled for backup and troops ploughed on into the line of fire, many falling before they could get over the far rise. I scurried over the sandy terrain, trying to regain my bearings. I plunged on over the rocks and stones, slipping occasionally in the sandy dirt. My precious load now forgotten, I had to protect the Queen and I would not quit until the Queen was safe or I paid the ultimate sacrifice. Without the Queen all would be lost and my life would be meaningless. The same manner as how my father had died, in action, in the line of duty, protecting the Queen whom I loved and served. He died before I was born and this is how I will repay him, by defending the same cause that he died for.

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Adrenaline rushed through me, coursing through my veins. Excitement and fear mixed into a deluge of passion and hope. The Queen must be protected, and the Nam defeated. I rushed to join one of the quickly assembled squadrons, as the commands were being barked out. “Stay in formation. No one breaks ranks.” Suddenly I was in the midst of the action. Hundreds of soldiers were advancing to meet the threat and I was one of them. The wind was howling and blowing with so much force that it unbalanced many troops. This was it the start of another battle with the Nam, and they were going to get a fight. I urged myself on into the unknown, pressing on into the fray, not knowing what to expect. Suddenly I saw it. A huge, sleek white monster with its gaping jaws, wide open ready to devour all in its path. Today it was my duty to stop this creature, so with all my courage I rushed onward into the battle.

The boy cleans the kitchen table with a vacuum cleaner, he sucks up the pesky ants as they march on in steady formation. He imagines what ants think about, as they march along on their quest for survival.

It Takes a Thief to Catch a Thief

Brian Yong

With my head throbbing incessantly in pain, I decided it was time. When I opened my eyes, T couldn’t believe what I saw. T was bandaged from the chest up, tucked in clean white sheets, the smell of disinfectant irritating my nose. I was in a hospital! T couldn’t believe I was here, I didn’t want to be here; then again, the place T had in mind wasn’t very good either. I slowly sat up against my pillow and pondered how I’d managed to get myself in this situation. I think I was in the city, looking for anyone carrying anything of value I could steal. Prowling like a tiger, I strolled around the corner as if it was my domain. I watched with hungry eyes for anything shiny and valuable I could steal in the hustle and bustle of the crowd around me. Finally, my wandering eyes caught the glimpse of gold, something worth stealing. “Yes! Found one!” I thought as I headed towards my intended target. It was an old lady, rather ugly with a rather scruffy appearance. She had a few valuable looking rings on her fingers and a heavy looking gold and black leather bag. Walking casually towards her, I mingled with the crowd. Edging loser and closer towards her. I found that she was clutching on to her bag rather tightly, so I decided to slow my pace and wait for an opportune time to strike. A man in front of her dropped a coin. Bending down to pick it up, her hands released her grip on her precious prize. It hung on her shoulders and swayed gently towards me, tantalizingly within my grasp. Seizing the moment, T grabbed her handbag and started to head towards my bike at the corner. Bowling her clean oil her feet; she landed heavily and managed to let a screech. Oh great. Just my luck. Into the scene rushed three policemen who headed towards my direction. Realizing all was lost, I threw the heavy handbag at the cops and dashed ever faster towards my bike. At first, the cops had a tough time getting to me. This was mainly because of the crowd and my head start. But they were catching up, and fast. But it didn’t matter, I was on my bike and pedaling for dear life. After a while, I realized the two cops were getting tired as their panting and puffing grew louder and their footsteps were fading. “Got rid of them.” I thought as I smiled. I smiled too soon. “Wait a minute, weren’t there three cops?” I thought as my mind raced back to where I was running away from the authorities. Just as if he read my mind, a police car with lights, but no siren swerved right behind me. At first, I panicked as I started to swerve recklessly from side to side. Realizing that I was going to be caught if I was on a main road, I turned into an alley. My bike whooshed through the narrow gap of the two garbage bins and its putrid contents. The car had no such luck as it rammed through it as it ploughed towards me. Inching closer and closer. Even as the distance between me and the car closed, I was smiling. I had the right to do so, for right

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in front of me, was a dumpster taking half the space of the alley. I went past easily through the gap, the car on the other hand, couldn’t. I gave a triumphant yell as I turned back and saw the car slamming its brakes in vain to stop. The car smashed its left headlights against the giant obstacle. Glass shattering, hood crumpling, the car gave a metallic groan as steel curled upon itself. Steam started to hiss out of the hood as the car ground to a halt. I savored the moment and watched the policeman get out of the mangled wreck. Unfortunately, that was all I managed to see as I heard a honking of a horn and screeching of the brakes. Turning around, I saw a white van streaking towards me. Even as I swerved to stop, I smashed my unprotected head against the steel white door. The next colour I saw was black as I lost consciousness. My thoughts from then on were a bit blurry and nothing significant could be remembered. Anyway, it didn’t matter as I heard footsteps getting louder and heading towards my direction. “ I wonder who that could me?” I pondered as three shadows loomed outside the door. As the door opened and the three figures came in,. I gasped in horror as I recognized all three standing before me. Standing there, were the three policemen that had chased me! “You going to lay charges on me?” I challenged, hoping my bravado would put them off. It didn’t work. Instead, all three started to laugh uncontrollably. “Lay charges?” One said as he wiped a tear from his eye. “My boy, we’re not going to lay charges on the man who helped catch the famous jewel thief Lozario!” I sat there, astounded as they told me their tale. Lozario had been stealing jewels and dressing up as an old woman to elude police in their hunt for him. This was until I managed (unknowingly I might add) to attract enough attention so that the three constables came into the scene. By chasing me, they didn’t want to arrest me; instead, they wanted to find out my details so they could commend me! “You know” another constable said with a smile, “there’s a reward for his arrest, and I won’t be surprised if you got a share of it.” I lay back on the pillow and smiled. I small knowing smile. “If only they knew.” I thought. If only they knew.

Plight Of The Limbless Soldiers

Nick Leslie

As he reached for his gun, he heard the screams and gasps of other men around him. He searched around as he heard the bullets whizzing across his messed up hair. Half insane from the pain in his leg, he still looked around, hoping for a trace of a weapon. When he found it, an Officer issue automatic rifle, he reached over to pick it up. He stretched his battered hand out and grabbed the gun, and quickly crawled back into the dank trench. He landed hard on his back, and became quickly submerged in the thick brown muck that used to be water. Realising this is the same liquid that causes footrot, he jumped backup and realised the pain in his back which cut through like a razor down his spine. It was a sharp stinging pain that overrode his body movement for a few moments. He screamed savagely, then returned to normal as if nothing had happened. It was a strange feeling, and he rubbed his back for a bit to find out if it had happened at all. The captain then punched him hard in the arm and told him %to get back to the top of the trench and start shooting. He obeyed with a loud “YESSIR” before quickly scrambling to the top of the trench and firing again. Bullets were screaming about overhead as he pulled the trigger without thought and ducked back down again. Suddenly a grenade came floating in out of nowhere. He quickly picked it up and threw it back over the top of the trench, but it exploded only a second or two after he released it. He was surprised at the extreme power that one little metal object only a few centimetres tall could have. But that was only after he realised the grenade had blown his legs and his left arm apart. He shuddered for a brief moment

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before his jaw dropped and a wave of fear filled his mind before turning towards where his legs would have been. He couldn’t move at all, despite his best efforts shift his weight to his right arm His gun was still in his right hand, but he couldn’t have used it even to save what was left of his life. Battered and severely scarred, the near defeated man scrambled over to safety. He could still feel his legs and left arm, but knew somehow they would never return. He still heard the bullets of the rifles being fired on the each side of the battlefield whizzing by over his head, and he felt a massive pulsing pain making it’s way up and down his body. The pain was so great that he couldn’t even scream. His jaw locked into the cringing shape it had been almost forged into from trying to ignore the massive pain. He crawled away slowly and painfully to the top of the trench and out over the top. Although most of the time when you get out of the trench you’d I be killed almost instantly, no one seemed to be firing at him. He continued on towards the enemy trench, gun in his only remaining limb, grenade in his mouth. He wouldn’t last long, so he’d make the most of his remaining time left on the evil hate-filled war-ravaged planet. Stealthily, although struggling to make a steady movement, he made his way across no man’s land. The pain was so intense that he had to stop and scream over the noise of the guns and deaths. But remembering how much time he had left to live, he bit the pain and soldiered on slowly. Soon he reached the enemy trench, choked almost to death with the feeling of pure pain in his torn remnants of legs and left arm. It was a pain so deathly burning with insanity that death would be a hidden paradise compared to it. He prayed for a bullet to come whizzing into his head at any time soon so he could move on. But that didn’t seem to be happening, so he kept to his personal mission. Still inching forwards, he put his gun out in front of his face where he could see it, and grabbed the grenade from his mouth biting the pin as he took it. It would only be a few seconds until it exploded, but he counted to three before he threw it into the enemy trench thirty metres away. It took a fair effort to lean up on his tom up leg remains, and a great deal more pain to accompany it. But eventually he got there, and threw the grenade as far as he could with the strength he hadn’t used to bite the immense pain he endured so far. The grenade exploded two seconds later, the shockwave from the blast blowing him backwards a few feet. He rolled on his torn up stub that was his remaining left arm, and screamed with pain above the dull thud of human remains falling down around him and the screeching of other humans feeling the effects of the explosive. He opened his eyes and looked around as a human head fell down next to him. His eyes opened wide with fear, and quickly as he could be scampered away. He became temporarily paralysed again, and sweated cold with fear. At the same moment, a small dark green grenade fell on the ground next to him and rolled up next to his hip. He panicked tremendously and stammered the words “Oh please God help me” as the grenade exploded and his pain filled world blackened to nothing. Suddenly he woke to a sharp piercing noise coming from a machine. He looked around and realised he was in a temporary hospital, and so were the other ten injured soldiers in the ward. He tried to sit up, but couldn’t. He just couldn’t find the strength. He lay back down again and gathered his strength, then tried again to sit up. Again he struggled but couldn’t sit up. Frustrated and insecure, the man looked at his limbs, but could only seem to find one of them: his right arm. His eyes stretched wide open again, and he felt his heart tremble then pulse loudly in his chest. It only pulsed three times before his vision suddenly cut out and his last noise was uttered. A terrified scream filled the hospital.

J. Lukies

63

Say Something

Ronald Chan

Fumbling with his backpack, Daniel’s foot slipped on the step whilst leaving the coach. He managed a sharp intake of breath before his outstretched arms slammed into the gravel road, followed an instant later by the rest of his body. “Arghh ...” Around his prone body, laughs were heard from classmates. The coach driver stopped unloading luggage and looked at him. Daniel’s face burned with embarrassment and he attempted to get up. Someone approached and squatted in front of him. He saw a pair of black runners and jeans through moist eyes. “Hey, are you alright?” The voice was gentle, concerned. Looking up, the face that met him matched the voice - smooth skin, full lips and striking eyes. The apprehensive girl in front of him wore a red woollen jumper and beanie. From it, golden-brown hair streamed and rested on her shoulders. Daniel felt his breath catch, and not from the pain in his arms. In an unsteady voice he replied. “Yeah.” He stood, backpack at his feet. Still looking at the girl, his raw hands brushed at his trousers and jacket. “You’re sure?” Breath left Daniel again as she spoke. He nodded vehemently, struggling for coherent words. “Yeah.” She bent down, picked up his backpack and handed it to him. He took it, careful not to touch her hands. “Thanks.” She looked him up and down and then at his face again. She smiled. He smiled back, his mind a blank. “You’re a bit clumsy, huh?” Before Daniel could think of a reply, she turned and looked down the path where the teacher was leading the class to the campsite, ignoring curses about the weight of their luggage. “Well, I’d better go. The girls’ cabins are further away than the boys’.” Daniel swallowed, the comment’s distinction adding to his nervousness. “Yeah.” “OK then ... see you around.” Shouldering her things, she walked off. Daniel remained motionless, backpack in his arms as he watched her back. After a few seconds, he went to the storage compartment of the coach, empty apart from his luggage. The driver, who had been silent the last few moments, handed him his travel case. Wondering at what just happened and why he had lost the ability to speak in sentences, he walked down the path, too absorbed in his thoughts to hear the chuckle of the coach driver behind him.

The ground swirled below as Daniel gripped tightly to the handle of the flying fox. The platform on which he stood swayed in the chilly wind as he checked his safety harness one last time. To himself, he spoke under his breath. “OK, I’m ready.” He leapt off the platform, and after a short plummet, the fun began. As he flew down the hillside gaining speed, the wind stung his eyes and tore at his hair, and Daniel smiled in exhilaration. After what seemed like too short a time, the ride finished. Breathing heavily, he was removing the harness when he noticed that the girl from yesterday was approaching him. He had seen her often over the last two days, but hadn’t been able to gather enough courage to talk to her, even though they were in the same group. She had noticed him too - during class activities, meals and just in passing. She had smiled whenever their gazes met. But not a word had been exchanged. Now, during free time before returning home, it seemed that that would change. Quickly, he finished removing the harness. “Hello again ... finished with the harness?”

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“Yeah.” As he handed the harness to her, he mentally kicked himself to say more than one word at a time. She began fitting the harness. “Was it fun?” “Yeah.” Daniel began sweating profusely, despite his jacket. Suddenly, the girl looked him straight in the eye. Daniel almost took a step backwards. She spoke, her tone sharp with annoyance. “You know, Daniel, you can say something besides ‘yeah’. I do understand English.” The fact that she knew his name had him stunned for a moment, and for some reason, he was also exceedingly happy. He grinned from ear to ear. Her eyebrows furrowed, and she stalked off towards the flying fox, leaving him with an exclamation of frustration. Daniel continued to grin, until he slowly registered what had just occurred. Confused, he turned around to see a figure running up the hill towards the flying fox. After a moment’s hesitation and not quite knowing what he was doing, he set off after her. She proved to be rather athletic, for by the time he had exhausted himself running up the hill, she was already making her way up the ladder to the flying fox. As he neared, she was standing on the platform, safety harness secured to the cable and ready to go. Daniel breathed heavily as he looked up at her, and for a moment admired her hair dancing wildly in the roaring wind. She, on the other hand, was either unaware of his presence or just ignoring him. Daniel shouted breathlessly, the wind carrying his words up towards the platform. “Wait!” She remained motionless, staring straight ahead. A flood of emotions and feelings washed over Daniel, and in desperation, he yelled out. “What’s your name?” She looked down at him. He smiled at her. She smiled back Suddenly, a particularly strong gust of wind struck the platform. It swayed visibly, and the girl was unprepared and off balance. She struggled to maintain her position, but she was too near the edge. She toppled over, releasing a yelp at the last instant. Daniel ran forward as a flash of numbing fear struck him, reaching the platform in seconds. Suspended in mid-air and swinging in the wind, the girl drew rapid breaths, holding tightly to the cable. Daniel hurriedly climbed up and reached out to help her back up. A minute later, they had their feet on the ground. Silence ensued as they caught their breath. “Catherine. My name’s Catherine.” Daniel searched for words. Smiling, he spoke. “My name’s Daniel. Pleased to meet you.” They both laughed, and the tension drained away, dispersing into the wind. “Is that all you can say, Daniel?” He paused, but after a moment continued. “You’re a bit clumsy, huh?”

J. Lukies

65

Love Hurts

Shreerang Sirdesai

Melanie Richards was beautiful. Exquisitely proportioned, vivacious and attractive. Her red hair (tipped, of course. Natural colours had fallen out of fashion long ago) fell seductively over her shoulders, perfect and straight. Her eyes were like two splendid, blue crystals. Her lips were lustrous and full, wanting to be kissed. Her smile was one to die for and her body, as I mentioned, was one of God’s finest creations. And most importantly, I wanted her… Barry Watts was a boisterous jock. He was 6’4 with wide shoulders, a massive chest, legs like boabs and a malfunctioning brain. He excelled at all sports and bullied people. Anything that he found unpropitious was quietened unpleasantly. And, above all, he had her… The first thing I laid eyes on at Mount Kirby High was Melanie Smith. She was standing in front of her locker, retrieving some books. I approached her, falsely assuming that I was a handsome being. “Hi,” I said, confidently. She looked at me calculatingly. “Yes?” she said haughtily, deciding that I was just another loser testing my chances. “Um, I was wondering if… well… you’d like to come… to the library with me. You know to study or something,” I spluttered. I congratulated myself for that move. It takes a rare breed of idiot to ask the most attractive girl in the school to study with him. She looked at me quizzically, hands on hips, eyebrow raised, “No, thanks,” she drawled. I walked off, adjusting my glasses as I went. I walked down the hallway, to my locker, looking around trying to familiarize myself with the school. Suddenly, violent thuds vibrated the ground behind me. Their frequency increased, evolving into footsteps. Then a hand, gigantic and meaty reached over my shoulder, grabbed my shirt, lifted me viscously off the floor and turned me around. He pulled me up to his face, from which position I was able to observe the goings on in his nasal cavity. “Stay away from her, geek,” the big, burly bully spat in my face. Then his hand went back, biceps flexing ominously. The punch came with incredible force, landing slightly to the left of my nose, breaking my glasses. Let me introduce the second thing I laid eyes on at Mount Kirby High – Barry Watts. He was the one who managed to convince me that love hurts. The pain, the rejection, and the hindrance of not having my glasses were not enough to obscure my goal (although it did create a thick haze around her). As far as I was concerned the prospect of a date with Melanie Stewart was not entirely out of the question. If I couldn’t beat Watts with brawn, I would beat him with brains. The SRC elections for our class were to be held. I would speak followed by Barry, and the class would vote on their favored choice. I could smell the victory, it would be simple; I would win, become popular, win over Melanie, kiss her…and Barry Watts would be sadly dethroned. Unfortunately my judgements were quite erroneous. My first real disadvantage was that without my five and half centimeter thick tri-focals I was nearly blinded. If anyone has ever tried speaking without glasses, they will be aware of the enormity of the challenge. Firstly was unable to read my speech. Secondly I kept walking into the table and finally, I was later informed I spent most of my speech looking directly out the window, rather than at the audience. Another source told me that I looked like a combination between Wahid and Yeltsin. At the conclusion of my speech the teacher applauded, everyone else just looked at me. I walked back dejected, and sat down at my desk. I turned around, looking at longingly at Melanie. “So, how was I Mel?” I finally asked “You sucked,” came the surprisingly masculine reply. Barry Watts confidently walked up to the front of the class and prepared to give his speech. He had the presence of an accomplished speaker but his opening line highlighted the intelligence of his disposition: “Vote for me and I’ll make sure that Year Eleven rocks, for all of youse.” At this gracious introduction I got ready to laugh, but there was a Neanderthalic cheer provided by everyone aft of the first row. His final line: “Beer rules!” received a similar response. At the conclusion of his speech there were cheers,

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whistles and raucous screams. Melanie grabbed him and engaged in a long kiss. I was livid. The votes were counted. He won 26 to 5. I came back to school the next day with a new pair of ‘shatter – proof’ tri – focals and a new philosophy: ‘if ya’ can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em’. Embracing this ideology my first order of business involved walking down to the oval at lunch and enrolling in the footy team. Here I was met by a middle – aged, heavyset man. He was balding, bearded and possessed a rather flabby midsection. His voice was gruff.“How can I help ya’ mate,” he said providing me the friendliest reception I’d heard at Mount Kirby. “I want to join the team, sir,” I said “How old are ya’?” “Sixteen,” I replied “Don’t look it,” said the man under his breath. I heard him. “Ever played before?” he asked “Yes sir, four years,” I said lying “Where’d ‘ya play,” “On the oval sir, at Jackson’s Point,” I said, lying again. The coach chuckled, “Na, I meant, what position,” “Back, sir” I answered earnestly. “Yeah, whereabouts in the back, mate?” he asked, his tone changing slightly, “the name of the position.” “Oh, goal guard,” I answered proudly. The coach looked at me inquisitively; his face broadening into wide grin, revealing two mustard coloured teeth. “Come to training this afternoon, mate. We’ll see what we can do,” he grumbled, grinning again. I was ecstatic, I was in the team and I’d made the coach happy. Things were looking up again. Attending training was possibly the biggest mistake I have ever made. I had certain objections to football. Firstly, I considered rolling around in the mud after and oval ball quite filthy. Secondly, the team was literally full of giants, who eyed me hungrily. Fresh meat they though to themselves. The boundary line was covered by green haired, lip studded girls, cheering for their favourite hunk. I spent most of the afternoon chasing the ball, never actually managing to touch it. When I finally picked up the ball, I was unsure about what to do with it. Realizing that my skills were limited, I just started running, and then I heard familiar footsteps behind me, thuds in fact. Watts was behind me, charging. I looked backwards to see a devilish grin on his face. I ran faster but he caught up, his muscular body hit my spindly one, with all the force of a locomotive. My bones jarred and I fell to the ground before blackness encircled. I woke up on the side of the oval to see Melanie Richard’s heavenly face placing an ice – pack on my head. Her skin was smooth, her face excessively pretty. I resisted to urge to indulge in labial entertainment. From such a close range her face looked even more beautiful, in fact her face looked familiar but perhaps it was just that the knock had tampered with my senses. When she realized I was awake, she became uncomfortable. “Oh,” she said, surprised, “you’ re awake.” I nodded. “The coach told me to look after you for a while,” she explained, making it clear that she would never take care of me voluntarily. “You look funny,” she commented “Yeah, I just think I’ve seen you before,” I said “Yeah I think I’ve seen you somewhere too,” she said, making no attempt to hide her disdain. “Your name’s Matt Nicks, right?” she asked. “Yeah, why?” “Do you know Elizabeth Johns?” she asked, her voicing easing up a little. “Yeah,” I retorted, “she’s like a distant aunt.” “Why do you ask?” “Oh, she’s my mother,” said Melanie as she patted the ice – pack on my head. For the second time that day I blacked out.

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One and Only Chance, Blown

Nathan Wawryk

“Damn!” said the Fairy Godmother. It had happened again – another spell gone wrong. “Why does it always happen to me? I can never get it right!” she yelled as she hurled her wand at a vase, which was positioned on a nearby shelf. She wasn’t an overly pretty fairy, in fact, the complete opposite. She was exceedingly short with a podgy face and unkempt black hair. However, this didn’t seem to concern her because as she saw it, it was good that these attributes matched the rest of her body. “At this rate I’ll never get to go to the ‘Grand Annual Talented Fairy Godmother of the Year Night’. I mean just look at me, I can’t even cast a simple spell like zapping you to another nebular.” “Don’t worry so much. You’re too hard on yourself. All you need is a bit of practise,” said Katie, the Fairy Godmother’s niece’s son’s granddaughter. She was dressed in black and her untanned completion seemed to shine like a beacon of light. Her shoulder-length blond hair glittered like gold in the sunlight that was coming through the window of her room. Her eyes had a calmness about them that helped the Fairy Godmother to relax. They were both standing in Katie’s room where no expense had been spared. It was richly furnished and decorated with priceless artworks. Her large windows looked out over the ocean, and the fresh sea air came in making the room seem spacious and natural, not like an enclosed area at all. The Fairy Godmother sighed, letting her frustration and disappointment ooze out of her like a spirit leaving the body of the deceased. “I’m sorry. It’s just that I have wanted to go to this gala event since I first grew my baby wings and now is probably my one and only chance to do so,” stated the Fairy Godmother. “Okay then, I’ll help you. You said you had to audition to be selected in order to attend such a special occasion, but you didn’t state when exactly your audition was to be held.” “My audition is in less than a week and only 2000 Fairy Godmothers are accepted.” “That doesn’t give you long to perfect your performance does it? Oh well, we’ll have to try and conjure something up in the limited time available. So let’s get to it!” exclaimed Katie with the utmost enthusiasm. “Hold on a second. What do you mean ‘we’?” asked the Fairy Godmother with a puzzled expression on her face. “I’ll be your assistant, you know, like in magic shows. You can practise all your spells on me.” “Are you sure? You’ve just seen what happened when I tried to zap you into miniature particles and send you to a world never explored before didn’t you? It was a complete disaster. Instead of it working, a mutated worm appeared from the other side of hyperspace to come slither across the carpet! No, just forget it. I appreciate the offer but I couldn’t put you through such insanity. It would just be embarrassing, not to mention leave you with some abnormality at the end of it,” said the Fairy Godmother, confused why Katie would want to do such a thing. “Don’t be silly. I’d love to help. So what do you want to do first?” There was no way that the Fairy Godmother could change Katie’s mind. She was going to be her assistant no matter what. So the Fairy Godmother set to work, practising all the spells she knew, trying her best to perfect them before her audition. Time after time she tried her spells, with a different result each time, none of which she desired (or, if you like to look at it this way, the same result every time – failure). Things weren’t looking good, for the Fairy Godmother or Katie’s’ room. The miscast spells, and the Fairy Godmother’s bad temper, had made Katie’s room a complete contrast to its original state with broken glass and mounds of dust scattered all over the place. Hours passed, days went by and the Fairy Godmother’s abilities had made a major improvement. Finally the day of the audition came. The Fairy Godmother extremely nervous as she patiently lingered outside the auditions room, waiting for her turn to perform. There was silence as she looked across at Katie (who had decided to come along for emotional support) and something seemed to pass over her. Suddenly, almost without realising it herself, her fears and nerves seemed to disappear like a chameleon

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on a tree branch. “Fairy Godmother audition number 4896. You may enter,” came a bellow from the auditions room, breaking the peaceful silence and startling both Katie and the Fairy Godmother. “Well, that’s me,” said the Fairy Godmother, “wish me luck!” She braced herself for the unexpected and entered the room. The panel of judges were all seated at the end of the room on a very high podium. The room itself was enormous, or maybe it just looked that way, as there wasn’t a single piece of decor in sight. It looked as though it had been recently refurbished with clean floorboards and freshly painted walls. The pressure and intimidation applied by the judges was starting to unsettle the Fairy Godmother and her nerves began to creep back in. “You may begin your act,” stated one of the judges. “Okay. For starters, I will show you how I can make matter disappear. May I please borrow a pen?” A judge stood up and threw a pen to the Fairy Godmother. “Thankyou. Now to make it disappear.” She closed her eyes and concentrated on the pen, managing to suspend it in mid air with her mind. The pen began to spin and slowly but surely, it started to disintegrate as it left the human world. However, something went wrong. Instead of disappearing, the pen started to change forms. After several minutes, the pen had completely changed form and had taken the shape of a rose. The Fairy Godmother opened her eyes and then gasped at what she saw. Her spell had gone wrong again. She stopped concentrating on it and the flower fell to the floor. She looked up at the panel of judges and noticed the unimpressed look on their faces. Her next spell went much the same as the first, ending up a complete mess, with fish that she had tried to bring to Earth from a nearby moon being splattered over the walls of the room. By the end of her program of spells, the judges were so annoyed with her dismal performance that they banished her from competing in the ‘Grand Annual Talented Fairy Godmother of the Year Night’ for all eternity. “This is all Katie’s fault. If she had of just left me alone to practise by myself instead of meddling with my training, I would have been crowned ‘Talented Fairy Godmother of the Year’,” thought the Fairy Godmother. “I’ll show her!” As she left the audition room, a great big smile was upon her face, a cunning plan circulating inside her head. “How did it go?” asked Katie with concern. “It went really well, but I need t brush up on a few things though. Hey, would you like to help me?” asked the Fairy Godmother. “Okay, what should I do?” “You don’t have to do anything. Just leave it to me. I just have to work a bit on my matter transportation skills.” The Fairy Godmother then prepared to send Katie to a galaxy far, far away. She chuckled as she thought, “She’s going to get such a shock when I sent her to the planet Hoth. Of course, I’ll make her reappear after five minutes. That should teach her a lesson!” She cast the spell. However, there was a problem with it. As the Fairy Godmother was thinking only of destruction, destruction is what she got. She opened her eyes, expecting to see nothing in front of her, but something was there. A smouldering pile of ashes, gently smoking, lay on the ground in front of her. “Damn!”

69

Palatial Furore

Stephen Fang

In spite of humanity’s triumphs in all fields of learning during the twentieth century, our achievements would pale in comparison to the reckless leaps that followed. By the end of the twenty-first century, humanity witnessed unprecedented changes across every spectrum of human knowledge. Radical new discoveries were surfacing at astonishing rates, offering state-of-the-art technologies to even the most destitute nations. The international power structure once defined by capitol and military strength was blasted apart as third world nations rose to challenge the world’s superpowers. As the manipulative sciences of the Human Genome Project rose steadily into the public-forum, tensions began to rise ubiquitously. People began to fear that new races of genetically engineered mutants would rise up in open rebellion and destroy their creators. Before long, mutants that had been yielded as slaves for their ‘pure’ fathers were now seen as hideous deformities, to be killed mercilessly. Humanity had played God and lost, but we couldn’t accept the consequences. Ultimately, the precarious balance of world power exploded into international pandemonium. In but a few years massive wars plagued the world, leaving only death in its wake. Necessity demanded humanity unite before total annihilation ensued. On May 31st 2169 a new order was founded, it was named the ‘Arbitrary.’ The Arbitrary became the ultimate incarnation of the vision of a unified humanity held by the now obsolete United Nations. Its leaders, was a secret society that called itself the ‘Transcendence.’ The Arbitrary was founded on the basis of an enlightened society, where everybody lived and thought as one. The sole leader of the Arbitrary was a man named Celandin. Although he abolished any form of religion, Celandin himself had an almost zealous belief in the ‘divinity of mankind’. This religious sentiment called forth, “The immediate eradication of any non-vital prosthetics or mutations amongst the human gene pool.” Like Hitler and his grand plans to kill eradicate the Jews in the earlier twentieth century, Celandin set in motion one of the harshest agendas ever conceived by humanity let alone a single mind. It was named ‘Project Purification,’ his solution to the matter of cleansing humankind.

In the late twenty-second century, Los Angeles, the city of angels, housed more than thirty million people. The stench of moral decay singes the nostrils of every living soul. America’s innocence, lay rotting on the nation’s battlefields. The rapacious rise of the avaricious and evil burdened the air with funk so foul and ubiquitous that you could slash it with a knife. The streets were lined with refuse of every kind, all of it rotting. The alleys were just as bad; they reeked with unwashed clothing, sweat and unhealthy whores. The ground sagged under decomposing garbage, laid in mounds against the structures that formed the alleys. Celandin tread through the alleys joylessly. Humanity had become a plague upon his Earth. It had taken him eons to create this magical paradise, a palatial playground for his children, fashioned upon himself, to walk and live. He would be its sole ruler, guided by his followers, the Transcendence, winged beings with power enough to shatter stars and move the galaxies. However, as he neared completion, unbeknown to him, his most powerful transcendent Damien had transpired to betray him, leading half of his followers in an attempt to strike him down and purloin control of Earth from him. In the struggle that ensued, he barely managed to survive and vanquish Damien, but in his backlash Damien corrupted humanity tainting it with all his evils. Celandin had watched for eons his children fight amongst themselves, hoping vainly that one-day, Damien’s taint would dissolve. Instead humanity persevered in their stupidity, and started experimentation with the very formula that gave them life, their DNA. Manipulation of their genetic code was the sole key to becoming one with the Transcendence. Tainted by the wraith of Damien, these new Transcendent would never become entirely angelic, instead becoming like Damien’s men, forever tainted. It left Celandin no choice but to formulate a plan that superficially assured humanity’s survival unscathed by the great wars that ravaged earth. His ultimate goal however, was not to cleanse humanity but to eradicate it, leaving only his race of Transcendent to walk the earth. Those humans who knew him feared him to be Christ reborn, here to cleanse the earth for the coming of his father. Those who did not

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feared him to be the Anti-Christ, come to cleanse the earth for the coming of Armageddon.

The lights tugged at dim, intangible memories inside his head. Fox Sierra had lived in Los Angeles since childhood. His had devoted his life to the now defunct F.B.I. as a special agent working to solve the paranormal. His career had been entirely faultless, except of one incident that baffled him. He had been sent to investigate the insurgence of a man called Celandin but had never found anything detailing the man’s life. It was as if this person never existed; now a seventy-year-old, he no longer had the vigour to solve the mystery. He was walking along a dim corridor flanked by guards that looked entirely human but the sensation that these men were not tugged at him. The echoes of their footsteps ran loud on the floor; he remembered reading novels of times like this, of men doomed to death walking along empty corridors, they called it the Green Mile. Glass cylinders lined the walls, within each contained the limp body of a man swimming inside a green fluid. Abruptly they stopped and the guards opened one of the cylinders that lay empty. “Inside here Mr. Sierra, once inside we will freeze you cryo-genetically, for future generations to unfreeze and stop your aging process.” garbled one of the guards. Fox Sierra thought he saw a flicker in the guard’s eyes as he said his final words, but remained silent. He stepped into the cylinder and closed his eyes; he tried to remember of a time long past, a time in his youth, remembering his mother’s last embrace before she died. He retained firmly unto that image as the green fluid washed over him and life was wrenched from his body.

From up above, Celandin watched motionlessly as his transcendent walked out. The last person that had any hope of discovering the truth was dead. Humanity would be destroyed at all costs. His image in the heavens shall be pure again, bereft of the taint of Damien’s children. Behind him lay an ocean of green; swimming within each, the limp body of one man, each a grain of sand in a desert of green, each a dead pawn from a greater game.

Andrew Mote

71

Perpetual Motion

Thomas Morgan

Families are well and good, but sometimes Gregory found it hard to believe in them. Not his own family- he loved it; enjoyed having an older brother and sister and a mother and father- but the artificial ones; the government, the military. He hated the Brotherhoods (strange how you never heard of a Sisterhood), the secret societies, the churches, and, to some extent, the schools. His family wasn’t religious, which probably accounted for his lack of respect in the church. They only made a moderate amount of money, which probably explained his antipathy for the rich and his parents had let him come into contact with Communist literature, which led to his dislike of institutions in general. However, he hadn’t entirely agreed with the Communist stance; while it encouraged a dissolution of churches and other bastions of the capitalist lifestyle, it encouraged a formation of an omnipotent government, which, in his mind at least, seemed to contradict their own doctrine… With a sudden lurch the tram rounded the bend in the track, and Gregory was thrown against the wall. Dazed, he staggered to his feet, rubbing a bruised shoulder. From down the back of the tram he could hear laughter, but he disregarded it and, with a wave of his hand and a few murmured words, set about healing his arm. Within the space of a few seconds it was completed; the arm, which a minute ago had been a mess of bruised flesh, was now repaired. The skin was hot to the touch, though, and every time the tram clattered over bumps in the track he winced as a fresh spasm of pain – a side effect of the magic- racked his forearm. Gregory could still hear a murmuring coming from the back of the tram, punctuated by an occasional laugh; they were probably talking about him. He was paranoid, he knew it, but he had a just reason to be so; Gregory went to the Academy; a school for the city’s magically adept, and one of the most competitive institutions in the country. And, thought Gregory, competitiveness breeds a type of person ready to laugh at someone else’s misfortune. And so he passed the rest of the tram ride in silence, ruminating on the nature of the world and the people inhabiting it, and occasionally glowering at the group down the end of the tram from behind the safety of his satchel. It is probably best to mention that Gregory was not himself a perfect child. He had his own negative character traits; he was conceited and cynical, but he was justified in being so. In some ways it was a defence mechanism against the outside world, and, as a result, was quite a loner at his school. The day passed quickly. After an assembly in the school’s hall – a seething morass of boys and girls, every single one laughing and chatting away until the principal beat his gavel and an uneasy silence settled over the students – Gregory had a morning’s worth of Applied Thaumaturgy. After half finishing his work, and demonstrating to the lecturer that he knew the principals behind particle manipulation, he set his work aside and spent the rest of the morning humming a couple of bars from a jazz song he’d picked up off the radio. His classmates were fairly annoyed by this – they either set up a silence barrier or simply moved away- but he just laughed at them, leant further back in his chair and hummed even louder. Finally the session ended, and the class flooded out of the room, a tide of blue and brown uniforms. Gregory was, characteristically, the last to leave, and shuffled out of the classroom, blinking in the harsh sunlight. He really did need more sleep, he thought, and he hefted his books up, grasping them with both hands, and set off towards the lockers. As he climbed the stairs – each step seemed to take an eternity to pass- he was again confronted by the problem of sleep. It was strange, but even though he went to bed late, he never really got any work done. It was probably a lack of motivation, Gregory thought. His teachers were always going on about motivation, as if it were some supernatural ability that would ensure someone’s success in their later lives. He smiled; his teachers were always going on about how he lacked motivation, how he lacked any work ethic or drive. He didn’t really care; he wasn’t motivated to get a career, that was true, but that didn’t mean he wasn’t motivated to do school work. It just meant that he didn’t participate in the school,

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didn’t play sport, didn’t barrack for his sports house. He simply didn’t believe in them, in all the rampant jingoisms, and was inclined to think that he was the only sane person in a city full of irrationality. Other people were inclined to call him a freak. Quite unexpectedly a football crashed though the window next to him, and Gregory dropped his books in fright. As he crouched down to retrieve his folders he realised that he’d overshot the lockers by about forty yards and was on the verge of wandering into the girl’s toilets. He laughed once - a clear note that reverberated around the empty corridor- at the strange events that life could throw up at you, and pausing only to defenestrate the football, began the long stumble back to the lockers. He spent the rest of the lunchtime with a girl called Emma, who shared none of his character traits. She was super-intelligent, magically gifted and was almost over zealous in her attitude towards sport. Their differences were what had drawn them together. They both enjoyed arguing with each other; he about her lack of scruples and her rich, snobbish attitude, she about his whining monologues. This particular day, Gregory had been nursing an idea about the repression of communism in Australia, and Emma was only too ready to take up the conservative side. However, Gregory knew that, at heart, Emma was someone like him: someone discontented with the life and ideals they had been handed at birth. Her aptitude at school had made here many jealous enemies, and she was shunned by most of the peer groups. Gregory had even seen her reading some radical literature on the tram. When the bell rang – to soon, it seemed to Gregory- they parted ways, and he returned to the lockers and began gathering books for the afternoon’s classes. He made it home early that day, partly owing to the fact that he was chased by some Matric level students who seemed keen to prosecute him for some fabricated misdemeanour. They’d beaten him up and taken his bag, but he derived some satisfaction in knowing that he’d severely embarrassed one with a carefully placed ‘Soilment’ spell. He’d called them names, as well, all of them centring around their monetary status, and Gregory was sure that there’d be a visit from the school coordinator the following day. To him, it didn’t matter. He’d simply tell them what had happened to him; produce the huge welts and bruises on his ribs as evidence. But then, Gregory thought, the coordinator would probably side with the Matric students because they’d remind him of himself when he was younger. In many ways, schools were just a way of perpetuating a regime — teachers taught ideas to students, and, when they’d grown up, they’d teach it to their children and so on. So if they banded up to oppose him, he’d just give up. No point trying to fight a battle you can’t win. No point trying to fight a family.

Daniel Fox

73

Phantasma

Seng Teoh

Sam walked through the door of the old magic shop, Crevil’s Abode, to be hit by a gust of warm, musty air. He had always fantasized about what was inside but had never had the courage to enter. From the outside the store looked ragged and broken, the paint from the sign flaking so that from afar it seemed to read ‘evil abode’. The windows were boarded up, but peering through the cracks one could just make out shelves upon shelves of books and strange paraphernalia. The shop was small and dark. The rows of shelves reminded him of a library. There was a thick layer of dust coating everything giving the look that the books and artifacts had not been touched or cleaned in a long time. At the back of the store was the counter, though nobody was there. Sam called out several times but after a while decided that the owner must be busy. He slowly wandered along the shelves, occasionally pausing to flip through a book or examine a relic. He considered most the books boring, covering topics such as voodoo and monsters and the equipment was nothing more than worthless trinkets. Reaching the last shelf, an especially old and damaged book, Tome of the Realms, caught his waning interest. Gingerly opening the fragile book he began reading, slowly at first, but gradually speeding up to a fervent pace. So absorbed was he with the legends and lore within that he didn’t notice that he was silently mouthing the words. It opened its eyes to a dead environment. The vast landscape around was flat and gray, devoid of any landforms, stretching out into infinite. The “sky” was equally plain, though a lighter shade of gray. Where am I? It looked down at itself, to find that its body was alien. What it saw it envisage itself as a floating entity, tall, metallic and humanoid in shape. What am I? Its thoughts were suddenly washed away in confusion and wonder as its surroundings underwent a graceful shift. The ground began to undulate, dipping and rising, forming hills and valleys. Pinpoints of coloured lights formed in the air, coalescing into drifting balls of colour. It reached out impulsively to touch a black ball that floated close by. As its hand waved through, its vision hazed and went blurry until its hand passed out. It turned, reached out to a red ball and jerked back, its body wracked with spasms of “pain”. It did not understand the concepts of “pain”, feelings and emotions. And then it came across a perfect sphere of swirling mist, ethereal, with sporadic flashes of colour. As it touched the sphere, the mist within exploded outward engulfing it in a dazzling array of lights.

He awoke to a strange new world. A world of shifting sands and surging mist. Howling winds swept up the grains of sands, lashing them painfully across his body. There were brief flashes of lightning, which left an eerie afterglow in the mists. Everything came back to Sam, the memories, his memories. The pair of blood red eyes that suddenly materialised jolted Sam from his reverie. The piercing eyes, seemingly cold and malevolent drifted closer and closer watching him, judging him. “You do not belong here mortal. How you have come to be transcends me. You should be punished for your arrogance and intrusion. It is beyond your inferior race’s abilities and evolution to dabble in the Arts.” Its booming voice came from everywhere, full of contempt and superiority. “But…you have intrigued me. It has been an eternity since a mortal has stepped foot in my realms. Do you wish to know what I did to him? ”, it sneered. Sam tried to turn and run but wherever he looked the eyes would be there, bobbing in the wind, glaring at him. “Wh…What are you?” he whispered. “I am nothing yet everything. Phantasmal. I am the fleeting shadow in the dead of night, seen yet unseen. Haunting your nightmares, waiting in the dark, I feed on your fears. Wherever you are I will be

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watching, waiting… “No! Stop it! You’re nothing more than a figment of my imagination. You can’t scare me.” Sam tried to block out its words but they echoed through his mind, taunting him. He dropped to his knees clutching his head, hearing nothing but the mocking laughter as he pitched forward and mercifully passed out.

Sam dropped the book suddenly as if snapping out of a trance. He stared wild eyed, feeling dazed and nauseous, at the page at which the book fell open on. There was a picture, and in it he saw the wind-swept realm and those baleful red eyes staring back at him. At the back of his mind he felt a disturbing compulsion, cold fear washing through his body. “I am watching. Waiting!” Sam turned and ran screaming from the little shop.

Sacrifice oF One

Abe Hu

Blood spattered on his already stained shirt as Daniel Carrington skinned another rabbit. The comfortable life as the head of a leading technological research group certainly hadn’t prepare him for this. It was only an hour ago that he sat in his office reading the latest publication of his company’s findings. He was about to go home after another typical day at the office, when the building was stormed via the helipad. He had never thought he’d be the next victim. Things had happened way too quickly and it was only now that he noticed the small dark room with a single light bulb illuminating the darkness.

Trent Easton appeared in the doorway, as he slowly released the safety catch of his AK-47 rifle, smiling and showing his incomplete yellowing set of teeth. The pile of rabbit fur, some still specked with blood, was growing, so was his confidence. The mesmerising hold of Easton and his rifle had to be broken. This mental torture was too much; the gentle animal-loving man’s desensitised senses could no longer see an animal with a soul, but a furry bundle no better than a stuffed toy. How he longed to be back at work, to be there for those who depended on him. Trent’s cold unforgiving voice interrupted his train of thought, ‘Carrington, enough skinning, come here with your hands up.’ Daniel moved slowly, knowing his fate was in Easton’s hold. Trent motioned for him to sit down in a motorised wheelchair and with the rifle still propped up against Daniel’s temple, bound him to it and took out a remote control, again showing his malicious smile. Trent laughed as he crashed Daniel into the frame of the door just by pushing a button. Daniel knew exactly what Easton was after. He had almost anticipated that this day would come. He had known that his company’s latest breakthrough would cause a stir, especially among his colleagues worldwide, and even more so for a bitter rival like Trent Easton. Trent drove Daniel out of the little room and onto a bumpy path that led to a large glass-walled building. Neither of them spoke as Trent opened a small side door with a card key and entered the main foyer of the building. All the employees had gone home and the large empty space was silently eerie. This had been Trent’s own little plan and the only other person with knowledge of his grand kidnapping was the helicopter pilot, whom he disposed of on their arrival at his headquarters. Daniel had experienced the noise of silence many times before, especially when he was younger and sometimes had to leave work close to midnight, but this was different, he felt the sinister surroundings engulf his body and his spine tingled with fear for his life but more importantly, he feared for what might happen if Easton got hold of his new advance, the way he got all the other ones. The elevator door opened and Trent drove Daniel in, brutally smashing him into the wall. The impact forced the wheelchair to topple over; Daniel’s skull was no match for the hard floor of the elevator. Trent swore and grudgingly righted the wheelchair, with Daniel’s head lolling to one side. He had intended to

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torture him some more first. The elevator arrived on the thirty-first floor and Trent drove the wheelchair into a little room and locked up before he slowly and triumphantly strode back to his office and sat down with a coffee. Daniel’s head throbbed as he opened his eyes. His vision was blurred and he could taste blood on his tongue. The door opened and the light temporarily blinded him, the wheelchair jerked forward and he was remote-controlled into Trent’s office. ‘So, Carrington, do you know where you are?’ the voice echoed inside Daniel’s head and it continued, ‘Anyway, where is your research lab? Being such a world-friendly company, you shouldn’t keep things like this away from the people...should you?’ Trent’s voice now stood on edge, Daniel was nervous. Further questioning persisted but Daniel kept silent. Trent was frustrated to the point of breaking, and even though he knew that Carrington had to give in sometime, he wanted it to be now, this was meticulously planned out and he didn’t want to be delayed. He had never failed to crack his victim, sometimes it took great lengths, but he had always won in the end. Suddenly, an evil grin spread across his face and he fumbled for the remote control. It was nowhere to be found, it didn’t matter now; he pushed Daniel to the nearest glass wall. If this didn’t break him, death would. Trent’s fatigued hands reached for his rifle and fired three quick shots to blow out a panel of glass. The wintry breeze rushed in through the opening, howling like a beast in its dying minutes. Daniel was wheeled to the absolute edge; the slightest movement would have him topple down thirty-one stories to his death. The wind penetrated his thin cotton shirt, the thought of death brought a freezing chill to his bones; Daniel Carrington shivered, the wheelchair jerked forward. Instinctively Trent reached out to the wheelchair, the downward force of it pulling him dangerously close to the edge; but the imminence of success was too close, there was still one more important question. Trent reached out for a panel of glass for support, blood running down the side of the glass as he gripped the sharp edge for dear life perhaps a little too hard. The sheer pain of it made him lose his grip, he slid helplessly down the side of the building and finally the struggle ended.

The bodies of Daniel Carrington and Trent Easton were found the next day. They had no chance, the barely recognisable state of the electric wheelchair proved that. Part of Trent’s hand was still dangled up there on the thirty-first floor. Daniel’s peaceful face was hidden behind his hand, still clasping a small remote control.

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In the Beginning

Evan Kettle

Nothing. In the beginning there was nothing. There were no concepts of space, time, dark and light. Over time this nothingness gathered, transforming over millions of eons into something. However, this was not the world as we know it today. It was a savage land of rock and treacherous sea. The sea was bitterly cold and the rock was as hot as fire, there was no chance to escape from the insufferable cold or the deadly heat. Many eons since the creation of the world, a giant immortal centaur was swept out of the water and onto the boiling rocks. This was a centaur whose coat glistened in the light of the sun. But time moved slowly. It was years before the centaur moved, his every thought focused on survival until the day when it would be able to run swiftly across the land, dreaming of his steps that would give life back to the world. This thought managed to propel Mada to the next day. Day after day. Eventually the time came. Mada summoned all the energy he could muster and staggered to his feet. One step at a time, his first faltering steps. As his hooves landed on the dry rock, the world started morphing. Out of the rock came the deep green grass followed by the flowers that blossomed red, green and many other different shades, followed by the forests and the great lakes and oceans. As Mada ran swiftly throughout the world, the water became crystal clear and inviting in contrast to the threatening and treacherous waves of the past. For many years this process continued. As Mada cantered throughout the world, he was overcome by a sense of loneliness. He stopped and knelt by a stream. As he drank, an idea came to him. He reached to the ground and clutched a handful of earth. With the soil Mada formed two bodies. Their lifeless bodies yearned for life and Mada gave it to them. Mada pinched his thumb so that blood dripped from his thumb onto their earthy bodies. As the blood mingled with the soil the creatures awoke. These two were the first mortal creatures to roam the world. Their names were Rapermeir and Wimdulum, all men are descended from these two creatures. Over time, Mada continued his works of creation. But the process of giving life, takes away from the giver’s life and Mada was beginning to become weak. By now Rapermeir and Winidulum were old and frail. Their three offspring were as powerful and courageous as their parents ever were. They wished to help Mada and repay him for giving them the gift of life. So the three oldest of the eighth generation set out to find Mada. It was in the chasm between two mountain ranges that they found him. Mada now clung to life, but could feel it being snatched as if by an invisible spectre. Areothorn the oldest of the three comforted Mada and questioned the centaur as to whether there was anything they could do to help. Mada replied, “There is time in the nothingness. I will go and be released from my burden as the guardian of the world.” “What does this mean oh great Mada?” exclaimed Aqubon, the youngest of the three. “It means that I will pass on and you must command the oceans, sky and earth until I am reborn anew as one day I must.” The three men were unable to comprehend what was happening around them as Mada continued. “I will be gone soon and you three are the ones to command the three elements of the world. Aqubon, I give you the power to command the oceans.” Mada breathed on Aqubon and a pale-blue light surrounded him. “Areothorn, I give you the power to command the skies.” As before, Mada breathed on Areothorn and surrounded him with golden light that radiated from himself. “And lastly I give you, Reathmir, the power to command the earth.” With a final effort Mada gave the last of his power and life away. “Now it is only a matter of time until I am gone. Part with me now. I will see you once again, some day.” With that Mada passed away. His body slumped lifelessly, Mada was no more. The three men were uncertain. What lay in their future? They solemnly headed back to their home. Slowly they began to understand the power Mada had endowed upon them in order to pass back through the gates of Nothingness. As they learnt to control their immense powers, the citizens of their city became distant and afraid. The three were banished and were removed from the lives of their families. They awaited the day in which Mada would once again arise from the depths of nothingness to reclaim what he had made.

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Into The Woods

Sanka Amadoru

Into the woods he ran, never looking back. He leaped across a dry creek bed and hit the other side running. Still running. Heavy boots crashed through the undergrowth. Studded leather armour fended away the malicious vines. He jumped over the twisted bodies of fallen trees and ducked under the lower branches. And still they followed. He couldn’t hear them over the noise he was making, and he couldn’t see them through the dense trees – but he knew. He could sense them. Every last one. The magus, unaccustomed to such physical exertion, was tiring. He was quickly nearing collapse. If he stopped, he would have to turn and fight. Fight a battle he could never win alone. He kept running through sheer willpower. One foot after the other, don’t look back. Eyes of creatures of the night gleamed in the treetops. He could hear the chilling cries of predators over his breathing, which was coming hard and fast. The magus tripped over a tree root. Rising up unsteadily, and on his knees, he struggled against exhaustion to get back on his feet. Still kneeling, he traced a complex pattern in the air with his right hand, and spoke a spell. His fingers formed intricate whorls and powerful strokes as the physical part of the spell was cast. He prayed the reinforcements he had just summoned would arrive in time. And all the while they drew closer, moving in for the kill. The magus looked up and discovered that he was on the edge of a clearing – the perfect battleground. For him – and his foes as well. He considered taking his life right there – end it relatively peacefully with a little magic. He didn’t want to imagine what they would do to him if they captured him alive. Wring the secret and a confession out of him, slowly and painfully most likely; use it against the people it was meant to protect. The wind howled through the trees. It seemed almost to be mocking him. But the instinct to survive prevailed. No! I will stand and fight, no matter how futile it may seem. If I take even the life of one my own life will not have been given in vain. May the Omniscience protect me. The magus rose to his feet, a newfound will burning deep within. He stood to face the direction in which his persecutors would come bursting through the trees, and bravely awaited his death. The Khalans were a race mostly given to Technology – their magical capabilities were negligible. However, they had very highly developed brains, and were proficient in telepathy and the Psionic Arts. Their telepathy was what made those of their race formidable opponents. They could communicate with each other at all times – they knew what their comrades were thinking, doing, and most importantly, going to do. Thus they made up a greater whole, a hive mind, and they could coordinate their movements as one.

The attack came not from the north as the magus had been expecting, but from all sides. A perfectly timed rush, of course. A swarm of foot soldiers rapidly began to converge on him. Helms and scimitars gleamed wickedly in the moonlight, and the magus could make out heavy chain mail on some of them. A chilling battle cry sprang from their throats in unison.Usually, a spectacular Aurora spell could instigate enough confusion in the enemy to let the magus pick them off one by one, at his leisure. But the Khalans were a different matter. One being could be in more place than one at the same time. Tracing invisible patterns in the air with his hands, the magus spoke the words of a more complex spell. A wall of fire sprung up in a circle from the ground around him, and started moving outwards. The magical fire instantly incinerated any soldier it touched, but left the ground and trees unscathed. Khalan after Khalan fell to the ravenous flames. After only a few seconds, the fire vanished as

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abruptly as it had appeared, leaving in its wake corpses charred beyond recognition. The spell, although extremely effective, had drained a lot of the magus’s remaining energy. He hoped against hope that all his pursuers lay dead at his feet, but in his heart, knew the truth. His body would soon join the still-smoking ones lying at his feet. Out of despair and sheer exhaustion, he dropped to his knees once more. This time, he wasn’t likely to rise again. He bowed his head, and muttered a prayer to the Omniscience. “Magus.” He lifted his head reluctantly, and opened his eyes. Three imposing figures stood before him – Khalan Death Knights. They were rumoured to be extinct. Even though they had survived, their numbers were few; no more than ten of the legendary order could remain. Their full body armour and weapons were magically enhanced, and they glowed a hell’s red in the darkness. “Kill me,” he said bitterly. “Kill me now. My magic is spent. Doubtless you will enjoy watching me die.” With an almost imperceptible shake of his head, the tallest Death Knight said, “We shall not enjoy it, as you may believe. But what you know is too dangerous – we cannot allow you to live. Your knowledge could be the end of all races on this world.” “Strike, damn you.” “So be it,” said the Death Knight with a hint of… regret? The battle-axe was raised. The magus gave a sudden insane grin. He had lied – he had just enough magic left to take this Death Knight to the grave with him. He lifted his right hand, tracing a pattern in the air with his left. A stream of crackling blue-white electricity surged forth, hitting the Death Knight squarely in the chest. It spread all over his body, dancing and sparking on his armour, casting an unearthly glow on his face. As his internal organs crumbled to dust, his mouth was open in a ghastly, silent scream. The blackened, smoking husk fell to the ground. The other two Death Knights, recovering from the momentary shock, roared in uncontrolled fury and ran towards the magus, weapons now glowing pure white. The magus hoped for a swift death. A bolt of iridescent energy hit the second Death Knight in mid-roar. Waves of lightning washed over his body. Disintegrating flesh rose from his skeleton and turned to dust. Armour melted away like ice. After a second, the still-standing skeleton collapsed into a heap. Both the magus and the surviving Death Knight spun around to face the direction from which the blast had come. Hope surged through the magus’s veins as he beheld two of his brethren – the reinforcements he had summoned. One of the newly arrived magi lifted a hand, which began to glow blue, and traced patterns in the air with his other. The gathering power turned into a brilliant ball of concentrated energy in the palm of the magus, and shot out towards the last Death Knight. And passed through thin air. The last Death Knight had had just enough time to cast a rudimentary teleportation spell. He would be the only one to return to his leader and tell him of the magi’s victory. The magus rose unsteadily to his feet, and was immediately assisted by his brethren. Leaning on their shoulders, he walked to the middle of the clearing where they could cast a teleportation spell.

Back in the citadel, the magus stood before his king and a board of the kingdom’s most renowned magi and Technologists. He began to reveal all he had learned of ‘atomic fission’ and ‘nuclear explosions’ that he had learned from the Khalan Technologists. After his lengthy explanations, the king smiled wryly. “Well done, my son,” he said in praise. “Finally we can rid ourselves of the pestilence of the other races, and take our places as sole and rightful rulers of this world.”

79

Sea of Racism

Arindam Nagar

The wind howled about with a deathly hiss. It whirled rapidly through meadows scattering leaf litter around violently. The green sea swept into the shallows and seethed there like slacking quicksand. It surged over rocks, spewing water everywhere. The sea had a sinister motive and roared wickedly creating shambles of foam. Colossal waves arched and curled over crashing down as fiercely as a sergeant on an insubordinate soldier. Yet all of the time, the moon just sat high above the clouds, ignoring the ruthless actions of nature below. The rain pelted down with a repulsive thunder filling the thick blanket of the night. A single, still figure sat on the sand weathering the storm. Completely drenched and deafened by the roar of the rain pounding the earth, the figure’s silhouette lingered like a ghost against the unfathomable blackness of the surroundings. The person remained there frozen.

Glancing quickly at her timetable, Lara Nazareth walked into the Year 12 classroom, nervously looked around and sat down in a seat in the middle row. After fighting the traffic on the way there, being late for the first day of her new school had made her uneasy. Though the traffic was minute compared to the onslaught to come. “So where are you from?” the teacher asked. “Bentleigh,” Lara replied with a deliberate smirk. “No, I mean where are you really from?” he insisted staring fixedly at Lara’s black hair and dark, inscrutable eyes. She had lived through these irritating questions before, so it was at that point that she asked her teacher to guess her place of birth. A merry game followed. “Pakistan? Sri Lanka? India? Afghanistan? Nepal?” the teacher fumbled. Over the years Lara had had every Asian country named as her motherland. She had figured that because she had black hair, she was treated differently. Lara Nazareth had been in Australia for 15 years. Unless she looked in the mirror, it was these incidents that reminded Lara of her racial background. Arriving as a three-year-old, the memories of her impoverished and bloodied country were not still with her. Although she was a proud Australian and was irritated by anyone who said otherwise, it didn’t take much to make her remember her background: the constant racial taunts. On a train home from school, a man leaning against the door immediately looked in Lara’s direction. “YOU… ” What followed was a drunken rage of obscenities, curses and racial heckling. These incidents happened again and again. Lara’s self-esteem worsened and she sometimes felt like a misfit, as though she didn’t belong anywhere – in a limbo in no mans land. She constantly had to experience the shame of being foreign. She had to prove herself to those who begrudged her very existence and had to work hard so as to elude racial prejudices. “Earlier today, the road toll increased to 300 as a woman was killed in a car accident. Police are looking for a Caucasian male who caused the hit-and-run incident…” the radio blurted out. Lara’s mother was instantly killed in a car accident and Lara who was devastated, could not cope. She decided to take a break from the world. She walked across a bitumen road, ignoring the honking and lights of approaching vehicles as she headed for a lonely beach, a place where she could reflect upon life and meditate. It was a sanctuary where she could release her anger against that murderer who had deprived her of her only companion. She was infuriated with her world. Lara sat down in the sand and absorbed the atmosphere around her. For hours, she silenced her mind, but was beyond crying. She was utterly distraught at her mother’s death, turning images of her delicate face around in her mind. The seething foam hissed and churned. Lara stared blankly out to the horizon and then to the night sky. Impossible to stave off the crippling sense of loneliness and grief, Lara let out a vexed cry. The rain relentlessly raged on, and the sea swayed towards her and then went back the way it came as if to sweep her out to the horizon, sobbing, sucking and sneering… With some strange, elemental cohesion and a concoction of mighty forces, Lara awoke. It was morning and the bright light of the sun blinded her eyes. She found herself on the beach. She was soaking and

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couldn’t see, but everything had stopped. She checked herself for injuries or broken bones – none. Her hands were ripped up, bleeding and her clothes had been torn off her body. She had a disgusting taste of blood in her mouth combined with a salty flavour. Lying there, she was trembling with fright and her teeth chattered producing a monotonous clicking. Even at the shore, the small ripples kept beating her body. She was instilled with extreme shock. The vomit was a sick, thick and creamy-textured sludge. Her body clearly disapproved of its treatment and punished Lara with a violent and fatiguing bout of nausea. Bearing a murky green colour, the bubbling mixture and putrid smells that accompanied, were horrendous. It served some benefit, in that the liquid brushing against the side of her throat provided some relief from the soreness. However, she was dangerously weak because in order to vomit she had to wrench her body and desperately grope for the sandy earth. In her half-dazed state her vision blurred and she staggered for a while. Abruptly a car raced by. The passengers flung bottles and racial insults at her. Lara had attempted to make her mark on the white face of society and even in this unconscious, lifeless state she was not allowed peace. Waves crashed against the earth, harder and harder. Then with a strange atmospheric occurrence, the sea calmed. The waves receded. The roar silenced. There was entire rest.

Andy Truong

81

Short StoryTim Schocker

So here I am desperately trying to write a short story, just sitting at my desk staring into a blank screen hoping, begging, praying for an idea to jump into my head. This is my problem, I do not have a creative bone in my body. Give me an argumentative piece to write and I will create a masterpiece every time, but a creative piece and ... well ... the little black cursor flashing at the top left hand corner of an empty white screen. I have been through all the brainstorming, thinking and planning stages over and over but none of the ideas ever seem to flow when it comes to the, “ever so slightly” important writing stage. Every now and then a seemingly brilliant idea flashes through my head and I thrust my fingers towards the keyboard. Then I realise that there is no potential in the idea, it has already been discovered and written about a thousand times by other people. I look towards the bookshelf with its hundreds of books and wonder how on earth I can come up with an original story, is there any idea left unexplored, are there any words left unwritten. Then I think of the size of the library and decide not. Somehow everyone else seems to come up with a brilliant idea and produce a fantastic story, why not me? I try not to have a negative attitude like this, but in some situations, like the current one, it is unavoidable. I look around my room in a desperate pursuit of an idea, inspiration, anything. Then I realised my problem, I was looking for something too complicated, or too simple I wasn’t sure which, but I didn’t need an idea or topic; what I really needed was something fresh, something new, some inspiration. Where am I going to pull that from I wonder, I sigh in hopelessness, but not to worry for soon I shall become distracted. Either the radio, hunger, cold or my boxer shorts creeping higher up my backside increasing the discomfort, or maybe something else, but either way it will get me and I will give up. However it is not my fault. Every now and then I peer around the room and up at the spider on the ceiling. I think about how good that spider’s life is, not a care in the world. All he does is find a nice cosy spot and sits there watching some human’s pathetic life. All he has to worry about is that he might get a mosquito instead of a big juicy fly for dinner or he might get stepped on. Even his death is relatively painless. Then I return from my daydream and continue to stare at the blank screen, I am sure that it can’t be good for you. The more you stare the brighter it becomes, then it starts to move and come alive, it looks like an alien, well not really, but that is what I am thinking. I am getting distracted again, lost in my thoughts, thoughts which have no real sense or order but I am enchanted by them nonetheless. I ask myself why I am even doing this, where will it take me and what good will it do me. I ask myself what is the point of life, of anything, a question I have been asking myself a lot lately. Usually I dismiss my darker thoughts without much consideration, but no, not this time, this little question inside my head was bigger than that, it was clawing away at me, it was going somewhere. So I left my desk and took a seat in the big green and white striped camping chair, my thinking chair, which is located in the most tranquil corner of my room, in between “fudgeman”, actually a cardboard fudge display stand, and my wardrobe. I sit down and close my eyes. This chair is powerful, the moment I sit in it I am torn from reality to wherever I want to go. The times I have spent there just thinking, sometimes I fall asleep, sometimes I laugh, sometimes I am inspired and other times I am brought to tears. In that chair I sorted out my feelings, told everyone everything I needed to tell them and relived the days events how I wished that they had happened, unfortunately it was only in my head. I said and did all the right things in all the situations when I had said and did the wrong things. The conversations I had with people were amazing, no they were perfect, I was in control. I could say exactly what I wanted to say and the other person would respond exactly how I wanted them to. It was not like real life, in that you could pre plan the conversation instead of just blurting out the first stupid thing which came into your head. Something which I quite often do. Everything always worked out and I was a hero. If only it were real. It was in this chair where my whole life was created, well not my whole life but my aims, ambitions, goals and my dreams. Everything in that chair was a dream but it was real, and powerful, and it meant a lot too me. Dozens of thoughts would fly around my head, over and over, and before one was resolved properly another would catch my attention. But in the end it always came back to two things. The first was a person, who was so amazing that it was only in this chair words existed that were capable of describing her. The second was that ever-niggling question of “what is the point?” I have never been able to solve this one. But this time, amidst all my hopelessness, I found the answer, the spider and his

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“perfect” little life I had previously wished for. It was as simple as that, sure he had an easy life, no worries and no feelings or emotions to care about but what did he have to live for, nothing, absolutely nothing. Nothing bad and nothing good ever happened to him. All the bad things that happened to me, they weren’t bad, they were just making the future successes taste so much sweeter. All the problems I had, I might as well get over them because as soon as they were sorted out some new ones would take their place. Problems never go away so I might as well just forget about them and get on with my life. From now on I am going to roll with the punches, not dwell on the past, forget my worries and just be happy. I am going to learn to cop the bad on the chin and appreciate the good. As for this short story, I am going to write about what I have learned today. As for the spider, he has such a meaningless life so I am going to squash him as soon as he comes down.

Winston Oi

83

Sharpshooter

Trishan De Lanerolle

My eyes followed his every movement. His immense shape filled the bank’s doorway. His eyes were spitting fire, rage seemed to ooze from his body to pollute and engulf the curious spectators that stood entranced by the spectacle before them. They didn’t seem to realize that this was reality, and not an episode of “NYPD Blues” from which they could retrieve some vicarious thrills. The gunman raised his rifle into the air and shook it violently, defying the commands to throw down his weapon and surrender. Thoughts swirled inside my head like a hurricane as I lay upon my stomach on the rooftop of the building, my ghillie suit concealing my presence even though I lay only 300 metres from the gunman. I prayed that he wouldn’t discover me. I felt the wind on my face; it chilled the bare skin. I touched my face; even in this freezing weather it was covered in perspiration. Beads of sweat formed a pool on the dark blue slates of the roof below my chin. The weight of my M25/XM25 military edition sniper rifle seemed colossal in my perspiration drenched hands. I checked the bullet-drop-compensator for the eighth time in six minutes. The wind had changed, and as I re-adjusted the mechanism I heard a voice crackling over my ear-piece, “ Sniper I, weapons tight! You have authority to fire upon subject! Repeat, weapons tight!” I thought back to my years of training at the academy. How would I have seemed to those seasoned and professional snipers? Those silent and efficient killers, who, with one bullet, destroyed in an instant a being that had taken years to create, then disappeared into the shadows of the night. Untraceable, undetectable, deadly, and remorseless. I was an uneducated fool to them, a hotheaded imbecile who was trying to be what he could never become. For three years I trained with those killing machines, envying their skill and waiting eagerly for the moment when I would be called upon to protect the defenceless. To crush those who dare oppose the law, knowing not how or when I would face imminent danger. A stream of foul curses uttered by the gunman dragged me violently from my reverie. I re-checked my equipment in a panic. “Calm down, man. Calm down.” I struggled to regain control of my nerves. I was afraid, I knew it now. I was terrified! I was going to witness death, and worse, I was going to be the cause of it! I was going to kill a man. An instant after hearing the trigger snap I would be forced to watch blood flow freely upon the asphalt. The man’s heart would cease to function only seconds after the impact of the bullet. He would hardly feel a thing. What would I feel after committing this hideous act? Would I feel guilt? Remorse? Or would I feel a grim satisfaction of ridding the world of a filthy parasite as I disappeared into the night? Just another unknown face in this gigantic city. Nobody realizing the crime I had committed. Murder. Cold-blooded murder. Murder under a mask of righteousness. Would I go through with it? The question raced through my mind. I had to. No matter my own emotions, for I was responsible for the fifteen desperate people that the gunman had control over inside the bank. Their lives depended on me doing the job I was assigned to do. If I were even a second late those lives would be forfeited to the whims of a psychopath. I was a murderer, I couldn’t deny it but I killed so that the innocent may live. The bullets of my rifle only entered those who would prevent this and destroy both emotionally and physically the lives of those innocent people and their families. So what was I exactly? Was I considered a soldier? Or was I considered the mirror image of those I killed? What did I consider myself? I couldn’t decide. My mind was spinning out of control. I had to stay calm, I had to remain in focus, but inside I knew as soon as the human being was dead my life would never be the same. I could never consider myself the same person I saw in the mirror every morning… The sound of gunfire ripped through the air. A police officer was down. His body riddled with bullets. I knew he was dead, and I knew who killed him. I threw caution to the wind. I had been assigned a mission and I was going to accomplish it. I positioned my crosshairs and before I knew what I was doing I had pulled back the trigger. I heard the trigger snap. The rifle roared, and I saw a metre-long flash escape from the silenced barrel of the rifle. The gunman had no time to react. The 3-inch long bullet struck the orbit slightly above his left eye. It drove into the thickest part of his skull, passed a few more centimetres, then fragmented into

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over a hundred tiny pieces, ripping the brain tissue to mush, and then exploded out of the back of his skull in an expanding red cloud of blood that left a crimson stain on the bank wall. The head was no longer visible, it had been split open like a melon. The body hit the pavement with a sickening thud. People screamed. I could hear their wails over the calls for an ambulance. My work was completed. You could call me a murderer or a soldier. It makes no difference now. But if you chose the former, think of it this way. I kill only to protect, and only by destroying part of my humanity can I save. What if it was your life that was in my hands? Your life that I had to protect? Would you think any differently if at that moment I faltered? If at that moment I regained my humanity? If at that moment I failed?

The Children

Tim Jones

Yellows. Reds. Oranges. Every now and again, the faint flicker of blue. Darting. Ducking. Diving, in and out of the gaps in their playground. Little brightly colored children playing a fast paced game of tag with each other.We all stood there. Zombie eyed, looking deeply at the playing children. No, we looked deeply into the children. It was almost as if, looking at them, looking deeply into them, we would be able to see something. Something great. Something that would hold our gaze.

Not that there was anything to look away to. Outside, away from the bright playing children, it was cold. The darkness was enveloping outside. A non-existent nothing, for if we couldn’t see it, it didn’t exist to us. Or maybe the icy darkness was the thing that existed.

Such thoughts were never considered for long as the children always called our attention back. Their playground was now smaller, blackened and the children were less. Before they all disappear someone affords them new articles to move amongst.

They become happy and clap loudly and many, many more children come to join in the fun. We sit back at ease and stare contently into the children. We are comforted by the warm atmosphere these children provide.

Our minds in their true consciousness depart us. We are no longer worried by basic instincts such as food or shelter. We are left to release from our mortal shells and explore the intricacies of this captivating dance.

In and out, up and down, yellow and red; such binary terms do not explain the true dynamics of their movement. Think not yellow and red but orange, pink and all the colors that could ever come in between. Their dance was not a jerky clumsy movement but a smooth, sure embrace of the air around. There was no rhythm to their actions; they were unpredictable yet graceful. There was no consistency to their performance but still they exhibited such skill that it appeared rehearsed.

Staring into this kaleidoscopic dance, time looses its hold. Minutes flew by as seconds, hours became immeasurable due to their speed. In this circle we sat, in stasis as time flew by outside us. What could be long hours outside in the enveloping darkness were insignificant to us who lay charmed by the mystic dance. The only evidence of times continued existence was the ever so slowly diminishing playground of the children. No one wanted to replace it. All will, all knowledge of how to move our bodies had long since been drained from us. Later, after what could be guessed as hours, to this we were all agnostic. Someone eventually coaxed the children into staying.

We were half glad not to see the children go but it was not the same anymore. Their dance no longer held us, instead an overwhelming tiredness had wrenched us from our peaceful state. Slowly, individually, we all peeled off and were swallowed by a deep slumber. But as the last person left the children’s grasp, he bade them good night and put them also to rest.

Farewell, goodnight, sleep well my dears.

85

Taking out the TrashPaul Greenhill

It was a cold, chilly morning in the leafy eastern suburbs of Melbourne. Frost had gathered on the- receding patches of nature strips outside the residences of Oak St. The residents slept on, unaware of the arrival of the rumbling garbage truck, proceeding along its weekly route, predictable as always. The big grey-white beast of a machine made its stop start journey through the cold break of dawn manned by the three garbos working the early morning shift. The driver was an ageing man with white hair and grey whiskers on a heavily wrinkled face. Lou was a simple man, who had enjoyed a simple and contented life at the lower end of society. Years of manual labour had tarnished his appearance, and he frowned as he turned the big beast into Oak Street. In the back of the truck were two men clad in bright orange jackets, and faded denim jeans. Stan, a middle-aged man with thick stubble who looked beyond his years, was also a fairly simple man. He was constantly cheerful, as he was now, quietly whistling to himself with vigour. Jack, a younger man, was clean shaven with an air of adventure hanging in the light mist around him. Right now he clung on tightly to the hand-hold of the truck, as it came to an abrupt halt outside another batch of garbage cans.

“How are you liking it so far?” asked Stan as the truck came to a halt and the two men jumped down. “It’s bloody freezing!” responded Jack.

“That’s exactly what I said on my first job, back in 1983! You’re getting the knack quite well, don’t you worry about that,” Stan encouraged, “you take those ones over there, I’ll grab these four.” Jack responded with a nod, and headed off to collect his cans. He came to the first house, Number 34. It had two garbage cans sitting politely out front, both identical in size. Jack frowned, and read a sign on one can - ‘recycling’. He opened both cans to examine the contents. By now Stan was calling for him to get a move on, so he grabbed the regular garbage can and returned to the truck. He followed Stan’s lead by jerking the can up and on to the mechanical feeder, which deposited the contents into the back of the truck. As the contents spewed out, both men caught a glimpse of something bright and intriguing. “Hold up, what was that?” pondered Stan. “I’ll check. Lou, hold up for a minute, mate.” As Jack watched, Stan climbed onto the back of the truck, and reached into the garbage. “Here, what’s this then?” he asked, as he fished out a black plastic bag, filled with something lightweight and colourful. No sooner had the words spilled from his mouth, a stream of dollar bills flowed from a rip in the bag, and collected on the bitumen. Both men took a step forward. “Bloody hell!” Stan cried, as Lou came to see what the fuss was about. All three men stood mesmerised by the huge pile of money at their feet, presumably more money than they’d ever had seen in one place. “There must be a million dollars in there,” Jack started. Lou drew an old cigarette from one ear. “Maybe not a million, but still a heck of a load! What shall we do about this?” “I’ll go check with the person at 34,” Jack offered. He returned a few minutes later. “No-one home.” Lou drew a deep breath in on his cigarette. “Better call the police, then.” Stan and Jack nodded. “There’s a phone box down the street and around the corner,” said Stan. “I’ll head off, you get this lot into the front of the truck and watch it,” Lou said sternly, nervous around so much money. Lou headed off, and soon enough arrived at a phone box. He dialed 000 and asked for the police. When he was put through, he told the story. He was immediately put through to a detective. “Hello, this is Detective Watts. You say you found a load of money in a garbage can? Where are you?” “Err, um. .. we’re at Oak St, I think,” Lou stumbled. The detective seemed to go berserk on the line. “All right sir, this is important. That money was being video taped by us. It is part of a drug bust operation, we’re trying to catch out a dealer who is meant to collect the money. You must listen - where

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is the money now?” “It’s in the garbage truck.” Lou frowned in confusion. “What do you want me to do?” “Go to the money and keep it safe. I’ll be there to pick it up. See you soon.” The detective hung up, and left Lou holding a dead receiver, his jaw hopelessly sagging and his eyes wide. He ran back to the truck, filled with excitement and nervousness. Never in all thirty-five years as a garbo had something of this calibre occurred. He puffed his way back to 34 Oak Street, where a police car pulled into the kerb. The detective hurriedly exited. Stan was sitting on the gutter, cigarette in mouth. The truck was gone. “Where’s the truck?” asked Watts, running over. Stan looked up at Lou. “Jack said he felt unsafe with the money, and decided to take the truck to the police station.” The detective shouted, “But I just came from there, I saw no garbage truck!” Stan and Lou looked at each other, confused. Reality dawned on Detective Watts. He had been beaten by a worthy opponent. The truck passed a sign reading ‘Heathfield Private Airport - 4km’, and Jack, the driver, grinned contently. A little melody erupted from his orange jacket, and he pulled out his expensive mobile phone. “Jackson here.” “Your private jet is waiting for you at Heathfield, sir. How did it go?” asked a voice. “Well Reive, it was as easy as taking out the trash.”

William Weir

87

The Battle for Vanheim

Nathan Wawryk

“Any sign of them yet, Sergeant?” Captain Daija’s voice crackled over the communicator. Sergeant Ithaka scoured the rugged terrain for what seemed like the hundredth time before raising the hand-held unit to his mouth. “Nothing yet, sir. We’ve got the whole of this sector under surveillance and there’s nothing showing up.” “Alright. Keep me informed of any developments. Daija out.” The communicator crackled into silence.A gust of wind whipped across the rocky plain. Ithaka shivered. Whether it was the biting wind that made him do so or a deeper sense of dread he did not like to admit. Ever since Vanheim had been reclaimed by the Imperium, a small force of Cadian shock troops had been posted on the planet. The Imperial Guardsmen were there to support the inexperienced and poorly-equipped Vanheim militia. Based at the only spaceport on the planet, the Cadians undertook regular patrols to the outlying human settlements in the wilderness. Vanheim was a cold and unwelcoming world. Much of its surface was covered with dark menacing forests, ice-caped mountain ranges or dry and desolate plains ravaged by winds and regular cyclones. As a result, the native Vanheimans lived in isolated settlements of tiny ground-hugging dwellings. The inhabitants of these isolated settlements subsisted by mining base metal ores from the bedrock and made scratching a living from the nutrient-weak topsoil while the militia defended the labourers from the mammalian carnivores with their primitive crossbows and shotguns. Ithaka had hated Vanheim as soon as he had set eyes on it from the drop-ship’s window. A grey unwelcoming place populated by grey, unwelcoming people. That had been eighteen months ago and the elapsing of time had done nothing to improve its appeal. The wind tugged at the Guardsman’s clothes as if searching for a way in, as an invading army might hunt out a weak point in their enemy’s defences before they attack.Sergeant Ithaka turned his gaze away from the monotony of the landscape for a moment and glanced at the collection of men that made up the force. They were mainly the part time members of the militia who worked in Vanheim’s mines when not on their tour of duty. The poorly armed, and even more poorly armoured, Vanheimans did not come up to the Cadian sergeant’s standards for soldiery – not by a long way. They were all either scrawny and unhealthy or overweight and already past their prime, none with any real war experience. The worst threat they had ever faced was an enraged tribe of the indigenous primitive humanoid population. Apart from himself, the only other Guardsmen among the party were Retha and Andracas, both seasoned fighters who had served under him on several campaigns across the Eastern Fringes of the Imperium. Each of them had seen their share of death and destruction and yet here, on this bitter world, without being involved in a proper armed conflict for over a year, the troopers felt a longing for invaders landing on Vanheim. The endless waiting and sentry duties had begun to make them feel uneasy, afraid that they might be losing their finely-honed skills. Training and target practice were no substitute for the brutal learning experience of war. Nothing honed a soldier’s reflexes like the adrenalin-charged moment in the thick of battle. You either learned, and learned fast, or you didn’t get a chance to make the same mistake again. Suddenly, the communicator snapped into life. Everyone fell silent. “Sir, we have reports that rampaging, bloodthirsty troops, accompanied by snarling monsters have been spotted,” said the commanding officer of another outpost situated on the far side of the planet. Sergeant Ithaka turned to look at his troops, who had been listening intently to the communicator. Many of them had been overcome by panic, and had broken down into a state of hysteria. However, the Cadians were filled with exhilaration. “Chaos,” muttered the sergeant. He had seen the likes of them on countless previous occasions and knew that there was only one reason for them to come to such an isolated and cut-off planet – to kill and

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to revel in the killing. “Sorry sir, what was that?” asked the officer on the other end of the device. “Oh. Sorry. It was nothing. Thank you for your warning.” And with that, the communicator became silent once more. The mining fort had immediately been put on full battle alert, and patrols were sent out to report on the approaching Chaos warband. A loud explosion only a few metres away shook Ithaka from his trance. Rock and dirt showered outwards from the point of impact, throwing one of the militiamen, his body reduced to a bloody ruin by the grenade, which had detonated just in front of him. Ithaka swiftly scanned the boulder-dotted plain. And then, where before there had been nothing but flat land, there were suddenly several dark-armoured figures, striding purposefully towards them. “Get down and return fire!” yelled the sergeant. Retha and Andracas responded to their sergeant’s commands instantly, while it took the shocked militiamen several precious seconds to react, and when they did, it was more out of fear rather than because they were following orders. However, the militiamen’s weapons proved ineffective against the solid armour of the Chaos lords. Ithaka swallowed hard with the knowledge that his force had no hope of survival. The Cadian sergeant picked up his communicator. There was a noise as something metallic landed among the stones behind him. A short, piercing sound rang out. The communicator overloaded in a shower of sparks as the haywire grenade took effect. Ithaka found himself thrown to the ground as another grenade exploded only metres away from his body. A riveted boot crunched down on top of his arm, breaking it in several places. He screamed in pain as he looked up to meet the gaze of his tormentor. A black armoured figure stood over the Cadian Sergeant, glaring down from inside the hellish visage of his helmet…

Royce Ng

89

The DrifterMihai Avram

Rays of gold and red are radiated as the rusty hinges squeak. Lightning. The light intensifies and the first little tingles of warmth are felt gently brushing against my face. It tantalizes my senses, luring me closer to the source. Lightning. The door continues to swing open revealing Joshua, with thumb firmly planted in his mouth, sprawled across the couch. Sitting beside him running her hand through his hair, sweeping it back until it flops forward again is Claudia. The look of anxiety on her face seeming to blemish her immaculate appearance. Thunder. My leather boots creak in mild protest as I am reeled inside by an inexplicable force. This inevitably attracts attention and I find myself starring at the two occupants. In the space of one breath the atmosphere is completely altered. Claudia ceases to caress Joshua’s hair and with wildly starring goggle-eyes glares piercingly at me. Her eyes widen even further. Her mouth droops. A tear forms and slowly drips down the bridge of her nose, stopping at her pursed lips. A lake emerging around the base of her icy-glittering eyes soon follows this. The room is quiet. The silence gets heavier and I begin to hear my own heart pound and skip a few beats. Eyes remain gazing fixed at their respective locations. Another tear escapes the asylum and quickly rolls down the hill of Claudia’s cheek. The window of stillness is suddenly shattered. “Daddy ...Daddy!” I hear a voice scream. It is Joshua racing towards me with an undisguised euphoria. Something like a smile crosses my face as the realization of it hits me with the impact of a cannon shot. Home. Claudia standing in awe wish strands of long curly hair draping over her forehead continues her rigid pose. Unexpectedly her lips begin moving forming numerous shapes and causing dimples in her cheeks. It seems as if she is trying to tell me something. however the sound is inaudible. In a slow motion. a flash of bright light illuminates her dazzling white nightgown. It continues to magnify causing me to lift my hand in protection of my eyes. I close my eyes in the hope it will stop, however it is all in vain. Thunder. My eyes open to find the sun playing on the tiredness of my face, scorching my neck and upper torso in the process. Battered and panting I take refuge behind a huge oak tree. A giant shadow gracefully glides swallowing my entire body. Gazing up I observe its large wingspan and the ease with which it rides the wind. With a loud noise the beast alerts its prey; sending me into a frightened state. Feeling the hot burning of my cheeks and the trickling sweat from my armpits I start sucking my breath. My eyes nervously agitate about. The watchful presence of the trees. The lurking movements of the shadows edging closer and closer. My chest bangs out sonorous drumbeats. My limbs become heavy and numb. Lightning. The fresh wind arrives chasing away the clouds and tearing at my clothes. A riot of colours emerges as dusk subdues the receding day. The aging sun tinting my clothes with its bloody rays. It seems I have blundered into a place of death.

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A place of no escape. The wind shakes me about, its hands desperately plucking at my muddied unkempt hair. My body completely captured as I find myself being dragged by this force. Luckily I am not the only victim with the nation of trees fluttering their heads in despair. Their wild cries like maimed soldiers. Lightning. Night is now glowing with an army of sparks. The swollen moon nestles in the darkness gawking back at me like an all seeing eye. Its defined and weathered wrinkles reaching out to me. Its surface old and rough. My vision is suddenly clear as I make out a wrinkled face hidden by a beard and a drooping black moustache. His mouth moves at a frantic pace revealing his discoloured teeth as big and orderly as piano keys. I observe the tangles of hairs growing from his nostrils. His face smudged with tints of brown and green. My eyes follow a trail of oozing red liquid. Suddenly a sharp pain takes root in my chest. My breath is squeezed out of my body. “Don’t give up on me now!” he says. His voice as smooth and cold as the silver blade of the dagger he wears at his waist. Above him monstrous aircrafts are prowling up and down the sky. A thunderous noise blasts out. Jagged tongues of lightning flicker above. I feel my eyes drooping again. A wave topples over me, catapulting me into the distance. I begin to bob and twist drunkenly, unaware of another blue-grey vista marching incessantly towards me. It majestically topples over me with its foamy debris rising into the air. “Goddamit!!” He stares into my face with a look of fury. His hands lifting the lids of my eyes. Once more I hear a rifle call out. Once. Twice… Three times… This is closely followed by another flash of bright light exploding overhead. It illuminates the entire atmosphere. To the left, brilliant in colour, comes a line of shining gold heading arrow-straight for the aircrafts. The thunder of detonation pierces my ears. Instantaneously a helicopter hurtles like a wasp that has just been hit by a spray of Mortein. The beast declines in almost petrifying slow motion. Abruptly there is a deafening explosion and flames are everywhere. I feel them inside me, their hungry tips probing the innermost reaches of my lungs and throat. My chest becomes heavier. “Tell... them…” I hear a voice stagger out. My own voice, irregular and feeble. My face contorts with pain. My limbs start to suffocate. Tiredness overwhelms me. A blackness slowly engulfs my mind. My eyes become frozen ebony as life’s pages reach the cover. The book of life has been closed. Shut by the hideousness of war.

91

The Freedom of the Prince

Wan Jing Zhang

Worcester, ruled by King William, was a very prosperous Kingdom. The noblemen, merchants and peasants were all content because of the wealth of their country and their incorrupt King. In fact everyone was happy, everyone except the Prince. Stuart was sitting in his glistening room. It was furnished and decorated with the finest furniture of Worcester and gifts from other Kingdoms. He rested his elbows effortlessly on a table in front of one of the many windows in his room with his cheeks stuck in his palms. The young twenty-year-old Prince stared down at a breathtaking view from up in the tallest and most impressive building of Worcester, the Royal Palace. He saw the many people who gathered near the market at midday and he saw the woods that surrounded Worcester. Admiring the freedom of the peasants and merchants, Stuart despised being trapped in what was simply a dungeon that absorbed freedom from deep inside him. He was never allowed by his father the King to the leave palace grounds or go into the woods under any circumstances. It was only on special occasions was he able to go out of palace grounds but even then, he had to be accompanied by at least fifteen of the King’s most trusted soldiers. That afternoon he made a plan to sneak out of the palace the next morning. The young Prince called in his most trusted servant, sixty year old Edward. Edward had been with Stuart since he was born and therefore Edward received special privileges such as leaving palace grounds any time he wished. Edward came in through the door, “How could I be of service to you Prince Stuart?” “You know how long we have been friends Edward, well would you…” “Be able to assist you in defying your father, I presume?” said Edward intuitively. “How did you know Edward?” inquired Stuart. “Prince Stuart, I have been with you since your blissful birth, you have grown up in front of my eyes, how could I not know what you are thinking?” “Then you understand how important it is to me if you would help me to escape from the palace so I could experience freedom?” “Yes my Prince I understand and I shall obey.” “Oh, thank you Edward!” said Stuart gratefully. After Edward was informed about the task, he left the Palace and went to perpetrate the Prince’s plan. Stuart was excited from the anticipation of incorporating his plan and its optimistic outcome. Hopeful that the plan would succeed, the Prince fell asleep. Before the sun jumped out from the horizon, Edward had returned to the palace. He went directly to Stuart; “I have done as you requested my Prince and have organized for a young man to act as though he attempts to stab you in the heart.” “Thank you Edward,” said Stuart, “I shall never forget this.” There was a knocking on the door, “Sorry your majesty, there is a young man downstairs requesting to see you,” said one of the guards. “I will be down,” replied Stuart. At the gate, there was a young man standing between two guards. As Stuart approached the young man, a threatening knife appeared in front of Stuart’s heart. Within a second, both guards had already seized the young man. As if horrified Stuart told both guards to go and lock the assassin in the Dungeon. As the guards became out of view, he hurriedly walked out through the palace gate. He was ecstatic; he leapt and jumped like a prancing tiger until he was tired and safe from being caught by the Royal Guards. Stuart was relieved when he was not recognized by anyone as the Prince. After all, he had been trapped within palace walls for most of his life. Finding no interests outside palace walls, Stuart was about to lose all his aspiration for freedom and head back to the palace, but something changed his mind. Around 20 feet away was a charismatic young woman about Stuart’s age in an elegant white dress. She was not remarkably pretty but she had a special quality that made her irresistible to Stuart. She hooked her index finger towards her nose as she was

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starring at Stuart. Her stare did not make him feel uncomfortable. On the contrary, Stuart instinctively sauntered towards her. When Stuart was a step away from her, she turned and skipped away mischievously. Stuart could not refrain himself from chasing after the vivacious young woman. As she sprung into the woods, Stuart had remembered the rule that he was not allowed to go into the woods. However, he no longer chose to obey his father for Stuart had not received any fatherly love since he was just six. Stuart, deliberately challenging the rules set by his father, pursued the tantalizing young woman like a hungry wolf chasing a graceful rabbit, unable to predict its next move. At first, Stuart was sprinting to keep up with the young woman, who was effortlessly skipping between the straight tree trunks that perpetually appeared in sight. Then, as the trees became dense, the canopies thickened and grotesque tree trunks appeared, Stuart became increasingly hesitant of following the mysterious woman through the woods. After he ravished his perseverance for so long, Stuart was too tired to run as fast as before, and began lagging further and further behind until he totally lost sight of the woman. He paused for a minute, realising that there was almost no light penetrating the dense leaves and branches, he looked around for any sign which would show him how to leave this ordeal. Being unable to even retrace his footsteps, he was sure that he had no choice but to try and follow the woman because she seemed to know the woods well. This was the first time since Stuart had left the Palace that he had felt uncertain of his survival. After taking a few steps in the direction that the woman was running, she protruded her face out from behind a tree trunk and gave an inviting smile. After hiding her face behind the tree again, Stuart forgetting about his troubles again, enthusiastically leapt around the tree. Stuart got lucky all right; he got what he wished for, freedom. Around the tree he saw the face of a malicious murderer. He no longer had to live his life in the luxurious ‘dungeon’, a life of almost everyone’s dreams. The only life that was available to him now was his afterlife.

93

The Gods Imperial

Steven Ma

A gentle breeze lightened the immaculately polished deck. A lone figure of unmistakably noble stature stood at the stern of the ship, casting his eyes into the boundless sea. The delicately carved hull of the ship cut smoothly over the surface of the rippling sea, throwing up a fine spray of mist. A second man came to stand beside the first. Like a sapling and a mighty oak, the two were alike, yet different. Where the first was noble and young, full of eagerness and hope, the second was ancient and weathered. Yet both projected auras of innate perfection, of unquestionable leadership and infallible Confucian wisdom. “The Emperor proclaimed that society values the introvert, but fate favours the extrovert,” began the noble man. “Wise words, Ho, words to live by,” the other man returned, with a slight hint of scorn. Ho did not notice. “Words to die by, Tushin?” Ho turned to look at the ancient. The old man did not answer. “You don’t think we’ll find anything this far from the motherland, do you?” Ho continued. “I am but a piece upon the Emperor’s chessboard.” The old man gave an evil smile and added: “But soon I shall be the hand that moves the king.” Ho caught Master TuShin’s implied meaning. “You speak treason! Emperor YongLe holds the heavenly mandate, as bestowed by the celestial bureaucracy! You dare challenge the gods? If the emperor commands it, it will be done!” Ho straightened, then turned and left the deck.

“Land Ho!” cried the lookout. Ho immediately assumed command of the ship, The Tianmen. The Tianmen was flagship of a fleet that would remain unequalled for half a millennium; the product of a mighty empire. Its escort numbered in hundreds, each vessel 444 feet in length. The glorious craft carried a payload of 28,000 souls and the wealth of China on the seas to seek barbarians worthy of the gift of civilization. As a mighty flock of majestic birds, the armada turned toward land.

Rain threatened the skies above the Palace of Nanking, heart of the nation of ZhongGuo. A gathering of distinguished persons from Confucian scholars to Taoist monks milled about in the royal audience chamber. Master TuShin stood next to the empty Dragon throne, smiling victoriously. The leaders of China believed they were present to celebrate the success of Zheng Ho’s expedition. China’s greatness had spread across the entire globe, and now received tribute and friendship from half a dozen empires. TuShin gestured, and a gong cried for silence. The assembled luminaries of China, with the exception of the still-travelling Ho, turned to listen. “The heavenly mandate has changed hands!” cried TuShin. The court erupted into chaos as each person argued the meaning of this unexpected revelation. TuShin waited for silence with practiced ease. “I know what you are all thinking. The mandate has changed hands, therefore, the Emperor has lost the favour of the gods, and along with it, divine right to rule the nation of ZhongGuo.” A simmering of confusion burned through the hall. The current emperor was loved, for he ruled justly, and had brought unimagined prosperity to the nation. And the gods would be pleased that China was now such a great Empire. “The Emperor funded Zheng Ho’s voyages of trade and exploration. So far, this has achieved nothing.” TuShin stepped back to enjoy the atmosphere. Cries of support rang loud from the Confucian scholars, who also plotted overthrow. “Lies!” yelled GuoHao, a naval commander in the service of Ho. “The expeditions have reaped a bountiful harvest, in tribute and trade from the all the civilizations in the world, from Africa, India to the Middle East!” this time, a murmur of support rose from the military personages present. “However, the recent earthquakes in NanJing indicate the gods displeasure, does it not? Why, the gods themselves declare YongLe unfit to rule!”

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TuShin continued his speech, his ambition marring his practiced voice. With the sound of victory itself, he announced, “There is still one little-known fact that proves the will of the gods beyond doubt: The emperor is dead!” The court exploded. Accusations of treachery flew like birds of prey, clouding the room with suspicion. TuShin savoured the sounds of court. Just moments ago, he had stuck a dagger into the stomach of the Emperor. The gods were displeased, and TuShin thought of himself as their humble assistant. “As of today, the mandate shall pass onto his next of kin... my son!” TuShin waited for the crowd’s reaction, tasting the fruits of his labour. It had taken years of political manoeuvring and assassination to get himself into this position. TuShin could now rule through his ten year old son. Not even the gods could challenge him now. The military leaders protesting succumbed as they accepted the inevitable: the will of the gods.Cheers of approval rang from the academics. Like rolling thunder, Ming China kowtowed to the new puppet king.

A gentle breeze weaved silently through the empty palace. The very touch of silence permeated the abandoned complex. The building still stood, a tribute to past and forgotten glories. For three millennia, it had been the epitome of culture and civilization, a bastion of light carried since the beginnings of civilization. It had waited out the Khans, and it would wait out the communists. The Summer Palace of NanKing, once the beating heart of the mightiest Empire upon the soil of Earth, lay derelict, devoid of life. It stood proudly, waiting. Waiting for glories yet to come.

95

The Hidden Knowledge

Wan Jing Zhang

She remembered watching helplessly as the robotic nurse had taken the last of her friends away. She and her friends had been in the nursery since birth, only she was one day younger. The irrefutable fact that the children were taken away from the nursery when they turned three had perturbed her as she knew she was next to be taken to the unknown, fearing possible demise. Munchkin sat inclined against the wall concealing the loose stone where knowledge was hidden. She looked around the chamber in the darkness of the night; it looked just as she had first seen it ten years ago on her third birthday. After being carried by the android nurse through long corridors for over an hour, she was finally incarcerated in a stone chamber during the darkest hours of the night. The biting coldness felt more like magma charring through her intangible white gown. It seemed an abrupt conversion from the eternal annoyance of the croaking cicadas to the onset of cool nights. Crawling to a corner of the chamber, she wedged herself in a crouched position. Thinking, thinking, thinking, about her fate, about her survival. As she wrapped her arms around her legs and pushed her forehead into her knees, she heard a stirring. Lifting her face up, she saw a dark figure approaching by the limited light of the crescent moon. “Who are you?” said the dark figure in a course rusty voice. Through its masculine voice she replied, “Sir, I’m a three-year-old girl.” “Don’t be so formal, I’m an old man, you can call me Pop.” “Is that your name?” “Don’t be silly, we don’t have names, we are inferiors, only people have names.” “Pop, what can I be called?” “How about Munchkin?” “I like that.” Munchkin grinned to herself as she had remembered that it was Pop who christened her, but her cheer ceased when she fell back into mourning over Pop’s death not long ago and also melancholy over her impending fate. Munchkin thought about her past experiences living with Pop. It was the first time that Munchkin had seen sunlight, after seeing only artificial light in the nursery. It came from the small hole in the roof of the chamber. The parallel bars in the hole serving the purpose of preventing escape had cast shadows over her face.Pop pointed to the hole and said, “That’s the outside.” “Why is it so small?” asked Munchkin. “It isn’t small, you will understand when it is freedom time, which is when we are allowed into the courtyard.” Outside, Munchkin saw far beyond the walls of the courtyard right to the horizon. Pop explained to her all the things outside from the serene blue sky to the tranquil autumn leaves. Munchkin showed much fascination in learning from Pop and Pop enjoyed teaching Munchkin. Pop and Munchkin developed an impregnable relationship. Pop was a wise man. He taught Munchkin mathematics, literature and etiquette. The most important event that showed Munchkin that Pop had trust in her was when he showed her the books that were hidden behind the loose stone. He removed the loose stone and inside were over a dozen books. The books had deteriorated greatly, but clearly showed a stamp on the spine: “Library of Albatraz Penitentiary”. “Munchkin, after I die, it is up to you to do what I have failed, and that is to make a difference for the Inferiors.” “Pop, you are not going to die.” “Silly girl, even inferiors die either from disease, old age or your original requiring your body.” “What is my original?” “It is the person that has the same genetic information as you.” “Pop, then wouldn’t she be an inferior instead of a person.” “Munchkin, I do not wish to upset you with the truth. I will allow you to read about it after I die. It is in the cloning section of the science magazine under the title “The Final Solution”.

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She had forgotten about looking in the science magazine. She knew she had to hurry as the countdown to her inevitable ruin is at its culmination. Her last meal was steak, the most palatable meal she ever, contrasting the raw sludge she was usually fed. She had always remembered Pop’s grim words “The serving of thou favoured meal shall be the oncoming of thy doom.” She heard the metronomic footsteps of a robot coming for her. She hurriedly pulled out the loose stone. Through these few seconds, she thought of Pop. How she hoped Pop was with her. The mere thought of Pop brought her courage and confidence. Pop had been like a father to her, cheering her up and showed her affection. He was the source of Munchkin’s humanly instincts of kindness and love, and now she strongly regretted the imminent extinguishment of the already flickering flame of humanity. She had found the section titled cloning, but at that moment, the robot had just opened the door and it was staring at Munchkin. She found a subtitle — The Final Solution— and she read, “Inferiors shall be used as a backup of every human given birth to. They shall be gathered in concentration camps and treated with no consideration of any rights…”. It was too late for Munchkin to pass on her knowledge, or even learn more about Inferiors. The firm grip around her neck forced her to drop the science magazine. The robot slipped a gas mask over her face, she lost consciousness.

Elizabeth Collins had just recovered from an operation. After a broken arm that would require spending over a month in a plaster cast, she decided to have an arm transplantation. Although the arm that was donated looked almost exactly the same as hers, she was dissatisfied because it was a little bit skinnier than hers. “Munchkin,” called her grandfather Phillip Collins. “Do you want seconds?” Elizabeth turned around. “Pop, shut up, I’ll tell you when I want more.” As the 13 year old girl turned her face back towards the panoramic view as far as the horizon, she continued eating her favourite food, steak. After tearing the flesh of cattle with her teeth, she would lift her face up, to have the sun shine directly on her face without casting a shadow.

John Vo

97

The Lonely Tears

Andrew Thomas

Gone

Mum’s crying. . . dad’s goneThe tears, the tears,

Streaking her red cheeksThe house is silent,All but her wailing

The tears, the tears,They drip, down to me

Hugging herCrying, crying,

Because dad won’t come

Why? Me? I’m sorryI did something?

I don’t know what I didBut mum’s crying

The tears, the tears,

Where is he? Where?Mum’s crying, andDad won’t comeI heard the door

Thud

She wipes the tears from her red eyes as it rolls down her cheek. So many tears, so much pain. She had mastered tears now, angry tears, at first, that came from the outside corner of her eyes; then sad tears, tears that came from the inside corner, and finally frightened tears that filled her eyes. Why had she chosen such a painful thing as tears to master? When she found out about the other woman, there were angry tears, then the sad ones fell, and as she looked at her little baby, amongst the toys, almost oblivious, she cried tears of fear. The lessons of that salty river came much, much later. There he sat, the light streaming through the bay window lit his hair, a golden tangle. The trucks on the play mat were the latest fantasy, his little hands running them through a wreck of blocks and bears. She walked over quietly, enjoying watching him play. Totally unaware, content for the moment, but when he asked “When’s Daddy coming home?” she didn’t know what she would say. She wiped the last tear, at least for the moment, from her eye, picking up a teddy bear. His little tongue poked through his tiny white teeth, ‘vrrrooming’ the toys across the room. He ran the tow truck to her feet, coming to a halt with a crash and explosion, leaving it discarded and upturned. “Mummy’s crying?” he asked, his brow crinkled with concern, his blue eyes locking with hers. “No, Mummy’s okay. What are we playing?” The bear she kneaded in her hand, along with the wet tissue, turned her knuckles white. She could not cry, must not cry. Everything was okay, everything would be okay, oh how hard she prayed, oh how hard she tried to believe. She didn’t realise that her tears were an awakening. Because hurt has no place to go except deeper into the pain that caused it, and when it hurts so deep, that’s when it wakes you up. But now, she kneads her pain into that stuffed bear, holds back the tears for the innocent who cannot cry for what they know not, and tries to smile. “Well,” he said, “that’s Daddy’s truck, and this is our house,” he said pointing, “and Daddy’s coming home, home to play!” He smiled at his little story, his mother tried to smile with him. Her nails dug into

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the soft fur, her eyes stung, but the greatest pain was the aching heart. He picked himself up, searching for another attraction, leaving the toys upturned and discarded, used and dumped. The tears flowed, tears that spilled down the inner corners of her eyes, before flooding them whole. The little boy kicked a pebble across the path, hearing it strike the fence. He walked past the bay window, over to his little cubby house. Daddy had bought that for him, just last birthday, and they had both put it together. He opened the wooden door, stepping through the little wooden frame. He sat down to a little table, littered with paper and crayons. Picking one up, he began to draw. He missed Daddy, so he put him in first, and then next Mummy, holding hands. He was next. He stopped, letting the crayon fall from his hands. He suddenly missed his Daddy so much. He hadn’t been home in two sleeps, hadn’t come to tuck him in for two nights, hadn’t seen him shaving for two nights, hadn’t heard Mummy laughing with him in two nights. He missed his smell, a woody, fresh smell, he missed his big hands that could boost him up, up, and then swing him around before falling in a pile of laughs to the grass. Mummy didn’t laugh, he heard her cry, heard her cry herself to sleep. Once he had even gone to sit on the floor at her bed, she hadn’t known he was there. He wanted to wait for his Daddy, and while he wasn’t there, he wanted to protect his mum. The next morning he was lying next to her in bed, like he used to on a Sunday morning, but Daddy wasn’t there. He began to cry, all alone in his cubby house, all alone without his Daddy. He knew Mummy was lonely too. There was a rumbling just outside the fence, a truck’s engine. His Daddy? He jumped from the table, out of his little cubby, and on his short legs ran to the fence, clambering up the rough wood. A splinter caught in his palm, but the rumbling became louder. He climbed, struggling, his head peeking over the top. A truck rumbled past, didn’t stop, didn’t pull into the drive, and just went straight past. “Wait...” he cried, his voice trailing off. He didn’t know why, why Daddy had left him, the tears welled up and flooded his face when he thought about Mummy leaving him too. He clung to the fence, unable to let go, unable to tear his eyes from the hill where his Daddy’s truck might just... he knew he was alone, he knew his father wasn’t coming home. He just knew, like a quiet voice gently letting him down, he just knew. And then the thought of his mother leaving him came flooding back, and he jumped, this little figure jumped down to the ground, landing, but slipping. Like the splinter, he would have cried, but the fear turned him into the house, running, screaming, crying, “Mummy, Mummy! Please... please... don’t leave me.” There was nothing, it was all black, all silent. The cool lapped at her face, her eyes shut, her mouth locked, not breathing. Her hands forced her face into the bath, down, down. ‘Drown, die! He left you – he hates you! Enough to leave his kid, enough to leave this house, he hates you-die! You don’t deserve another breath, die!’ Her voice slowly drowned her thoughts, the violence, the turmoil, and all logic left her, her hands forcing her head, lungs that screamed for breath, but she was not worth it - die, die, die! But then there was the voice, it reached her in her deepest plight, a cry from a plight equal to her own ... her baby. She could hear him, crying, screaming. She came to him then, her hair plastered to her face, again the tears, his and hers, reflected outward. There he cowered, wailing, sobbing in the corner, his eyes running, and tears of fear, tears without understanding. She knelt by him, clung to him, and him to her. Her tears became those of release, because it was time. Her soul knew then, what she perhaps did not, but it was time, and she would make it. The bills were piled on the bench, she had no job, the bank account was in the red, and she was all alone. But then she saw the little figure in her arms, then she saw the little girl that cried with him, and she knew that it was time.

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The Loner

William Priestley

“Will it end?” whispered his companion. “Hard to tell. I lost all track of time. My watch stopped yonks ago,” Peter said. “I thought it was going to be a holiday, I really thought so,” replied his mate. “We all did mate, we all did,” Cameron sighed. The early morning mist hung over the beach like a cloak, soaking the men’s uniforms and sending a chill down their spines. It had been fourteen days since that fateful landing at Gallipoli though many soldiers didn’t know it. Over 100,000 had died on both sides already and the landing had been a disaster. Now with the smell of death permeating the ground and the air the Anzacs were beginning to wonder whether this what they had really come for. Peter had seen the deaths of all his friends on the first day save that of his mate Bill who was with him now. “What do you reckon Bill? Do you think those posters back home were right? Were the white feathers worth it?” Peter wondered. “Hell no!” We’ve just traveled 1000 miles to find Hell on Earth. I would rather the feathers than this!” cried Bill. He seemed agitated by his question and lapsed into silence for a while. “This is useless, we only fire a few potshots now and then!” yelled Bill as he rose in anger. Immediately machine guns started firing and explosions ripped up the ground around Peter. Throwing himself to the bottom of the trench he covered his eyes, somewhere in the back of his brain he registered Bill dropping on top of him. After a minute the guns died down to a sporadic chatter. Yet still Peter waited. Eventually he did, pulling himself up out of the mud and dusting off. As he rose he saw Bill still hugging the ground. “It’s alright Bill you can get up now…Bill?….Bill!” He grabbed Bill’s shoulder and shook him bile rising in his throat as he threw the body over to gaze into the vacant eyes of a man who had died long before. A look of utter amazement was on Bill’s face. He had never expected it to happen. Peter lay down on the mud and cried. Peter sat and thought. He talked to no one now, all his friends had died. The politics of countries had taken away his friends lives and pretty soon probably his. He had moved Bill’s body away long ago. He could never gaze on that corpse again. Even though he had looked upon many dead man before he wondered why he could not at this one. His friends he had mourned but he felt they had died for the glory of the country now however he had no one and wondered whether it was all worth fighting for. A shadow fell over him and he looked up. “Jesus son! You’re as pale as a ghost! What happened you look like you saw the Grim Reaper!” cried an officer. “Your closer to the truth than you think sir,” replied Peter. “You lost a friend haven’t you. Well, you may seem him again soon, we’re going over the top tomorrow. You may very well see him soon,” replied the officer with uncertainty creeping in. “Aw well, all the best and I’ll see you at the top if you’re lucky,” continued the officer. He trudged off along the trench addressing the other soldiers further up. Over the top he mused. Couldn’t be all that bad. A bullet in the heart reasonably quick. Must remember to take the Bible and watch out of my jacket. Peter thought. He closed his eyes and cuddled up against his rifle. “Get up man!” cried the officer. Peter awoke to the sound of men talking in quiet voices. He blinked to get rid of the fatigue and picked up his rifle. “Well, this is it,” he murmured as he buried his Bible and watch in the mud of the trench. Strangely he felt rather calm and righteous. He looked around at all the nervous men or boys as he would normally call them. The youthful faces jabbered to each other and Peter shook his head. The rifle fire from the trenches stopped and the officer lifted his sword. Deafening silence hang in the air. “Brigade advance!” cried the officer. A roar came from the Anzac trenches and as one the men jumped over the trench and towards the enemy. At total peace with himself Peter scrambled up the trenches and ran towards… A friend.

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The Mystical Harp

Richard Ibrahim

Into the woods ran the boy, faster and faster. He jumped over fallen logs and tree roots as he journeyed deeper and deeper into the forest. Soon the last fading glimpses of daylight disappeared, leaving the boy in darkness. He grew frightened. Eerie night noises filled the air around him, and the small patches of moonlight created frightening shadows. Looming branches reached out as if to grab him, and gnarled tree roots snagged his ankles and made him stumble. He wondered if he should leave the forest and go back home, but he had come here to find it and he resolved that he would. Anyway, he wasn’t exactly sure of the way home, a fact that made him all the more frightened as time passed and he traveled further and further into the uninviting blackness. He had been walking for a very long time when he began to wonder if maybe it wasn’t true at all. It was just a story, after all. Wasn’t it? His grandfather had said, “You can’t always believe what books say,” so why had he come all the way here, just to find something that probably wasn’t even real? But deep down inside he knew that it had to be real. That funny feeling he had got when he heard the story read to him, it wasn’t just a coincidence. He knew it must be here, and he was going to find it. It was strange though, he thought, as his feet navigated over rocks and leaves, that he had felt what he did. After all, his mother must have read that story to him a thousand times. Every night he could remember, his mother would come upstairs into his bedroom and read the story. He knew it by heart. So why had he had that strange feeling? He didn’t know, and he figured that he probably never would know. The Magician’s Harp, it was called. As he walked onward through the woods, he recalled a part of the story…… Onward walked the brave soldier, his sword by his side. He feared not the monsters of the forest. Forward in his quest, never taking his eyes from the path, as he continued in his search. Up ahead, around a large tree he saw the beginnings of a path, through a brick tunnel. Full of courage he walked through, and came out in front of a magnificent gate, made of gold and silver. Beyond the gate he could see the wonderful house of the Magician, an amazing mansion filled with banners, balconies and wonderfully crafted windows. Ahead, the boy saw a small shining light in the distance. His hopes raised he bounded forward, running and jumping, the sounds and shadows of the forest no longer bothering him. Suddenly he was running through a small stream, his shoes soaked. “At last, my friend you have traveled far and braved many dangers in your quest, but now you are here. Your journey is complete! You have earned your prize,” said the Magician, his crimson cape blowing in the wind as he turned to show the soldier a wonderful harp, shining and golden. The Magician’s Harp.

A final burst of speed, a jump over a boulder, and the boy was there. He gasped in awe, and drew a breath, for there, in the middle of the clearing, on a large, flat boulder stood the harp. A golden instrument, shining in the air, and lighting up the whole clearing The soldier took the harp and began to play. The air was filled with wonderful music, and all the animals of the forest came closer and listened. All the birds and deer and animals sat all around the soldier as he played his prize, The Magician’s Harp. Drawing closer, the boy tentatively reached out and touched the harp, then gathering courage he reached out and picked it up in his arms. As he played one string, and then another, and another, the air seemed to fill with the golden music of the harp. The forest lightened, the moon seemed to shine with brightness and all the animals of the forest came closer to the clearing; the deer and the foxes, the rabbits and owls, listening silently as the boy played the harp. “So it was true”, he thought, “I really found it”. With this thought in his head, he closed his eyes and played and he was lost in a drifting world of emotions. He lost track of time – there was just him and the music. After a while the music drifted away, and the boy, his eyelids becoming heavy, began to sleep. In his sleep, he dreamt. He dreamt that he was flying, high over the ocean, the wind whipping in his face. He tried to move his arms and he found that they were wings. He was an eagle, soaring through the sky, covered in brown

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feathers. He felt the tremendous exhilaration as he flew and dived in the air. As he gracefully rolled and tumbled, the sound of music reached his ears. As he left the ocean and flew over a forest, he saw a clearing where a small boy was playing a harp. With a start, he realised that he was that boy. He suddenly awoke, and found himself looking out from the eyes of a large deer, and then a fox, an owl, a turtle… Eventually he realised that he was himself again, and he awoke to find that all the animals had gone. He pinched himself to make sure he was awake. The harp was still there, glowing and shining. As he reached out to touch it, it disappeared with a flash so bright he was momentarily blinded. He stood up, and looked all around him, but he could not see the harp anywhere. Bitterly disappointed, he started retracing his steps out of the woods. What seemed to him to be hours later, the boy finally left the forest. To his surprise, it was already day, and he realised that he had been away all night. The house was empty. He called and called but no one answered his callings. They must be out looking for me, he thought. With tired steps, the boy climbed the stairs to his room and lay on his bed, almost instantly falling asleep. His parents found him there when they returned, relieved, an hour or so later. ...And so the brave soldier returned home, much to the relief of his friends. But he never forgot the mystical harp of the Magician, which he had quested so long to find. But later that night a mystical voice spoke to him – it was the voice of the magician. “Never fear, my friend! You will see my harp again, and once more will you hear its amazing music. For the harp is always near you, its music inside your spirit, created by your thoughts. Indeed, it is you who have created the wonderful harp you saw. The Magician’s Harp. The Mystical Harp.

The Tiger

Richard Ibrahim

Night. The grass rustled silently in the evening breeze. The night sounds of the jungle began to fill the air. Creatures, birds and insects chirped and squeaked and buzzed from their respective trees and burrows. The water from the recent rains glistened on the leaves and plants. Far away, in the distance, a trumpeting elephant sounded, silencing the jungle creatures for a moment, before they resumed their cries and sounds. The brightness of the moon shone on the dark vines and trees. A three-metre long tiger stalked his territory, patrolling it one last time before settling down to sleep for the night. The large green eyes shone in the darkness as his large paws softly treaded the jungle path. Reaching a small bush, the tiger could smell the scent of another male tiger, that had invaded his territory, as well as the scents of two females. The tiger raised its head, sniffing the air, it’s whiskers tingling as the tiger’s nose received a sample of olfactory messages. The other tiger was gone now, far from there, but the tiger had to be wary all the same. He would have to make sure the other tiger didn’t return. The hunting was bad enough as it was.

Morning. The sun rose brilliantly and cast its golden rays upon the plants and animals of the jungle. Glowing orange light danced upon the softly flowing waters of the river, as a herd of large antelope stood in the shallows and drank from the muddy water. Moving silently through the grass, the tiger watched every movement made by a young buck antelope. The cat’s tan and black striped coat camouflaging it from the herd, it steathily moved forward, closer and closer. Unsheathing its black, sabre-like claws, the tiger growled softly in its throat. At the edge of the grass, only a few metres from the antelope, the tiger crouched down and prepared itself for a leap. Muscles tensing, the tiger waited until exactly the right moment, when the antelope was drinking from the water. With a mighty push, the tiger leapt up off the ground, and flew towards the antelope. 300 kilos

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of power and death soared through the air as the tiger unleashed a terrifying roar. Instantly the antelope sprang up and darted away down the river. Landing with a splash in the place where the antelope had just been, the tiger raced forward in pursuit of the escaping creature. Powerful sinews straining and teeth bared, the tiger pounded after the antelope at full speed, sending up sprays of water. The antelope ran it’s hardest but it was not made for the water. Leaping up and onto its back, the tiger brought its prey down with a deadly bite at its neck with its sharp fangs, bringing the chase to an end.

The tiger grabbed the dead antelope in its jaws and slowly pulled it out of the water, and into the jungle. After having dragged it a fair distance, it stopped and began to feast on the dead animal. Having eaten its fill, the tiger lay down near its kill and fell asleep. It was awakened by a smell filling its nostrils. One word entered its hunter’s brain: Intruder. The tiger leapt up out of its slumber and found itself face to face with the other male tiger. The tiger growled and snarled at its adversary, and started for the meat on the dead antelope. With a slash of its claws, the first tiger kept the other one at bay. The invading tiger bared its teeth and roared loudly, a look of hatred and anger in its eyes, but when the owner of the antelope released a roar that shook the leaves on the trees, the invader backed down, and slowly slunk away. The first tiger stayed there for a while until nothing remained of the kill except for a twisted skeleton.

* * *

Many weeks had passed, and the hunting was even worse. The antelope populations had dwindled down and down, ever since they had started to migrate into new feeding grounds. The tiger was getting too old to keep on moving. It had been a long, long time since he had been raised from a cub. One day the tiger was out hunting, searching for a meal. He remembered where he had recently seen one of the last groups of antelopes a few days before. As he came nearer he saw the unmistakable shape of an antelope eating the grass. As the tiger edged closer, the antelope suddenly stopped, and looked up. The tiger wondered if he had somehow been discovered, but the antelope was looking in another direction. The tiger could smell a strange smell that he had never smelled before, but one that triggered off a warning bell in his mind. As he ran ahead to the antelope, rushing in for the kill, the antelope jumped up and suddenly fell down to the ground. The tiger stopped, surprised at this strange happening. As he smelled the dead antelope, he sensed a burning smell. The antelope’s tongue lolled out of its mouth. The tiger smelled that strange smell again, stronger this time. He looked up, and thought he could see, in the distance, a creature on two legs. Cautious and suspicious, the tiger was contemplating these unusual events when there was a CRACK, and he felt something whistle by. He automatically tensed, wondering if that was a safe place to remain. As the giant cat turned around and began loping off, there was another crack, and a tree branch near his face seemed to explode into splinters. For the first time, an edge of fear gripped him as he realised that he could smell his own death coming. He picked up the pace and ran flat out, his coat and feet a blur and he sprinted as fast as he could away from the strange creature with the strange smell. But he could not escape fast enough. The hunter. Hunted. The stalker. Stalked. The tiger ran. The human lifted the barrel of his shotgun, his eye sighting down the barrel and his finger at the trigger. As the tiger reached the top of a small hill, he looked back in time to see a small flare of light from the top of the creature. A sharp CRACK…….. A surge of pain……… Darkness.

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Shaman

Robert McKenzie

Steam and broth, warmth from fat and fur, and caring tones of a foreign tongue transform the sick mind and body of the German. He is fed grain and rabbit broth with the mind-held image of locusts and wild honey. With the nutrients he swallows complex spirits of peasants and primitivism. This sharing of a pure life comes with all the imbued meaning. The soft crackle of brittle burning wood. The pad of limp feet on cold stones. These are the only sounds. There are no images to retell as the eyelids are bound together with the protective cement of the body’s hardened fluids. Placed on his skin is once cold fat. It has been heated by slowly flowing blood that lies just beneath his pale skin. This man is wounded. He is wrapped tight in an animal fur. The space in which he lies is small, smaller than he would remember. It is in a corner by a pale blue wooden chair. The cheap, chipped furniture can be sensed from the atmosphere of the room. Around him there are heavy rugs of red and blue, patterns of genius simplicity. For weeks, warm water is soaked from a thread-bare washer, slowly working around his healing bruised skin. The old lady’s knowledge is passed to the man, through her intentions and deeds. For now, the idea of care is more needed than the care itself. For, in this foreign world, with small crops of hand sown seed and humble tradition, far from his native Germany, his soul flourishes through all adversity. A mind that had been filled with the modern machine had been cleared, forgotten. An opening had been made for something of a visionary nature. He slowly becomes aware of new, or perhaps undiscovered, gifts. As he lies awake in the same corner of the same room, day after day, he transforms the ideas evoked by objects. The congealed drippings that sit beside the cast iron stove could refer to the sacrifice of the fatted lamb and the potent distillation of animal life. He senses the straw underneath his resting head has taken up the caring qualities he has received whilst lying upon it. He realises he can change the very meaning of objects he chooses to change. This gift is his now, and in the future. He will continue to be able to change the spiritual essence of physical things. So, through invention or discovery, a mind is locked with new potential: the potential for concise and deeply sophisticated, expression through objects. Now, when weaving simple objects together, the meaning could become more than just the sum of the objects themselves. Each object could be a symbolic force. A combination could contain and express even more. So, slowly, a deeply revealing and expressive message could be forged with arranged objects. A language of primitive symbols but the most refined thought. His gift had been imbued with opportunities for communication. Now with a sense of understanding and reason to pursue his skill, he developed and trialled his visual language, testing eloquence, rhythm and depth to enhance the presentation of his ideas. His healed feet allowing him to graze on the objects of his close surrounds, permitting him practice. His first timid phrases spoke much of his adopted region. These words were for a personal diary. They were unseen, or unnoticed, left bare beside ploughed dirt. A strange arrangement of fur, fat, straw and bone, communicating only to himself. In the course of just weeks, the German became mute, forced to choose between the tongue and the eye. His carer and her horse took him to a town. A huge steel train, exact in character to every foreign conception of Cold War Russia, sped his strengthened mind and body away from the touch of his carer, and the place of his transformation. The details of his return to Germany are of little consequence. Although his mute tongue stayed firm, its infancy allowed the etched symbols of his previous language to linger, allowing pencilled dialogue. His return was clean and swift, and comfortably shrouded in anonymity. His war pension keeping his mouth fed and body housed. In this new clime, the gift and its language did not retreat, but somehow prospered. The return to Germany had not returned him to a German way. He continued an infatuation with notions of truth, its symbolism and his part in it. He desperately sought communication. Strewn objects on a cold path could

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not stop a busy passer-by. Even elaborate tales of Russian peasantry, built up from dried grass, could not detain a listener. So he wrote a diary, a book written entirely for himself. The preparations for the diary were laboured and ritualised. The four walls of his small flat became four pages. He removed the secular plaster of the previous occupant and replaced it with new plaster, but stained red. Once dry, the walls were glazed with animal fat. This clean surface was to be inscribed with the densest visual language. A process began, a constant spirit of interpretation, every object analysed. Collecting steel rods, print upon paper, dried foliage, wrinkled seeds, feathers, rusted iron sheets, dirtied felt and anything that told his story. Each object was stored and cared for like delicate dead insects pinned to a museum board. Sorting and categorising helped the process of making the objects become dense symbols. So this odd assortment of objects, letters words and phrases, were fermented in meaning. A collage of ideas, completely autobiographical, began to appear on the walls. Layers of the most mundane debris affixed in perfect sentences. The mammoth book of every idea, thought and image, told through stuttering junk. In some areas the creation was sparse and clear, in others it was so dense that the red plaster was many layers below. Soft textures from tufts of fur were juxtaposed against raw chips of concrete and bus tickets. This thorough and experienced craftsman could reach through contradiction and find perfect harmony. This inspired toil continued. The mute ascete explained his entire knowledge, each layer a different subject relating to himself, until the rigorous process was complete and the book had its last word printed on fat congealed red wall, waiting for a reader.

Nick Zachary

105

Search for Satisfaction

Damien McLeod

I have lived distant from my native Marseilles, here in Paris, for six months now. I took voyage from Marseilles during the bitter winter of 1737, hoping to exploit the wealth and culture Paris has to offer. It is from my office here on the Rue de Avignon in Paris that I now design ships for the monarch, from galleys to transport ships. Though I am young, twenty-four years, and have worked in Paris for only six months I have managed to make quite a Dame for myself amongst my colleagues. I am well liked and revered by most of them for my intellect, knowledge and diligence. I have also become acquainted with many social circles; some quite admired, and have settled myself well into the rapid Parisian lifestyle. I was born in the seaside port Marseilles, where I have lived for all my life prior to residing in Paris. It is at these famous ports of Marseilles that my father taught me all I know about ships today, from the towering mast to the smallest nail; I became conscious of every inch and its importance on a ship. Parisian life for me has so for been marvellous with the excitement of balls, the theatre and other festivities, but amid these peaks I have been faced with but one, constant low. The main cause for this suffering ties in my colleague Monsieur Noirter, a fellow with whom I design ships for the government. He is of medium build and size but posses very sharp, attentive features. He is very shrewd and calculating, every word he speaks is cunningly crafted. Our colleagues too revere him and I must admit he posses’ intellect and knowledge equal, if not above, that of my own. He is also a master at the art of persuasion and is as cunning as a fox. Together these qualities make him a very formidable foe. At first my dislike for him was nothing personal but it has slowly become that. He constantly insults and shows little respect for me and often embarrasses me. I see no reason for him to do this as I never have done any harm. towards him, yet he consistently continues. I learned often he would speak ill of me behind my back to my friends and my superiors, sometimes, which I believe could have cost me a promotion. His most diabolical plot against me came into place only three days ago. I had been designing a ship for some time now, a ship that would revolutionise the trade industry for its increased holding capacity. I had almost finished the design and was looking for some external input to refine my work. Though I disliked M. Noirter I still valued his opinion, so I turned to him for his advice. He persuaded me to leave it with him so as he could rectify my errors and add to it himself I agreed to this and left the plans with him. Now, as I recollect I cannot believe my naivety. The next day he had submitted my plans, claiming them to be his. To add salt to the wound, I was obliged to attend a function tonight at the palace to commend M. Noirter for his fine work. I was dressed in my finest clothes for the evening, only fitting for visiting the finest palace in all of France. The carriage arrived to take me to the palace. We made a slight detour past the house of my Sister Michelle, who was to accompany me to the event tonight. The carriage finally reached the palace’s plush front gates. We travelled down the road from the gates, past the exquisite and famous fountains, the beautiful and intricately groomed gardens up to the breathtaking palace. We were greeted by the valet and were announced to all the guests. The interior of the palace was extraordinary. The guests were dressed in clothes made by the finest tailors in all of Paris from the most expensive and beautiful silks from the orient. Each lady’s gown glistened as the light from the thousands of candies that lined the walls and chandeliers and illuminated the room reflected off them. I caught a glimpse of M. Noirter over by the windows, talking to the various officials that are in charge of our department. He called me over and out of obligation had to go. “Hello Monsieur Dolbey, I am pleased to see you this evening,” he remarked with a smug grin on his face. “Hello,” I replied mellowly. I am sure you are as excited as I am about the harrowing new prospects of the era we are about to enter into,” he asked. “Yes, quite so.” “Why these solemn replies,” my superior inquired, “what, are you envious?” Those around us erupted into laughter at the witty remark. No longer could I contain the contempt

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I held inside me. “This man, this man you so readily acclaim, he is a fraud. These plans they are mine. I drew them and he then stole them from me – –” “What proof do you have to support these outrageous accusations?” from my side pocket I drew a piece of paper. “Here I hold a patent from Thompson and Sons law firm, patenting my work on the plans?” The crowd gasped. With one swift movement my foe stole the rapier from his side and held it to attention. I followed suit, drawing my rapier. There we stood, face to face, each of us waiting for the time to strike. His eyes were fixed to mine, as mine were to his, each trying to penetrate the others mind. With the speed of a mongoose he struck, a strike at my body, which I intercepted rapidly and reciprocated with a lunging assault. I struck from the left; a blow from the right; a swipe from above; left; fight; forward. Each attack was blocked by his decisive defences. Rallying back, he took form and attacked, I fended each off one by one. The exchange lasted minutes. Each of his strikes became faster and faster, growing with passion and intensity. I could no longer hold off his attacks. His skill and strategy conquering my efforts. With a swift lunge it had all ended. I fell to the ground. The crowd, all but a few, dissipated senselessly. M. Noirter walked away, guiltlessly, as I lie, and innocently die.

Liam Shiels

107

The Art of Life

Chris Vo

He sat alone. His frail arms were folded whilst he gently rocked back and forth in his chair. The room was filled in darkness, lit only by the glow of a solitary candle that shone onto his toothless grin. Silence reverberated around the empty room as his heavy eyelids began to close. The rocking eventually came to cease as thoughts of his past emerged from within his mind. With his eyes now closed, he entered a world of fantasy and allowed himself to dream.

As he fell deeper into a state of unconsciousness, the once blurred images came into clear focus. Comforting views of never-ending cloudless skies and faraway hills takeover his open mind. Softly lit by a sunset, the landscape was just as he remembered the outside world, a peaceful place of natural beauty. As a lone dove flew into the distance, a warm sensation drifted through his body, from the crown of his head, all the way to his toes. The serenity disappeared as the visions faded into black. His lined eyelids, scarred by age, began to flicker and he reluctantly returned to reality. And he thought, “Is my life complete?”

Waking to the musky fragrance of the old cottage, he still had thoughts of the dream he had just experienced. He reached for a cane that was propped up by a wooden chest and stood himself upright. With the aid of the cane, he limped towards the kitchen and felt around for a doorknob.

Behind the mahogany door revealed art materials, ranging from thick-bristled brushes to palettes covered in colourful oil paints. He reached into the cupboard and scanned his fragile hands over objects, searching for materials in the darkness. He planned to paint that afternoon, an event which had become a requirement, as necessary as breathing. He eventually found all that he needed, looking forward to drawing inspiration from the miraculous dream earlier.

Limping towards his easel and canvas, he stopped in front of a bare wall. With his ragged hair tumbling over his eyes, he felt the slightly coarse texture of the ageing surface. It was cold to his first touch, yet there was a subtle warmth about it. He could feel the grain of the unpolished wood, moving in line with the horizon. Immediately, he knew this was the perfect place.

As soon as he picked up the brush, he could not cease. His mind was full of ideas and images that were transferred onto the wall in a colourful scene. The thoughts of his earlier dream remained clear in his mind, and were the basis of the mural. Long slender fingers held a thin brush with grace and poise, moving fluently in all directions, mimicking a ballerina. Half of the wall had been completed in a scene of bright green hills and peaceful orange sunsets, creating an eloquent piece of work.

He returned to the main room and rested on the smooth surface of the rocking chair. He placed the cane against the chest, and relaxed his mind and soul. Trying desperately to sleep, he wanted to again see the world of beauty and finish his mural.

The initial sight was covered in darkness. As light began to filter into the vision, the dark images became visible. He expected the image to brighten up in vivid, intense colours. He expected views of landscapes and sunsets, sights of peace and beauty as in his previous heavenly dream, but nothing resembling this occurred. What he saw before him was a far cry from the serenity of the hills and sunsets.

Views of a barren land and a sky covered in smoke were seen. There was no lush, green grass or overbearing canopies, but only rust-coloured dirt and bare branches. Through the smoke, a lone crow flew into the distance, not clearly visible through the hazy air. As a chilly sensation sent shivers up his spine, the unsightly images disappeared as the visions faded into black. His eyelids opened rapidly and he returned to reality.

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He remained stationary. The glow of the solitary candle shone onto his face and revealed a look of disappointment. The flame had now almost reached the base of the candlestick, eventually going out. He took no notice. Sitting alone in darkness, he became curious by the contrast between the two dreams. He began to wonder, “Is my life complete?”

He limped towards the wall once again. He picked up a brush and began painting the other side, using browns and greys to recreate his second dream. He ceased painting and stood still. In front of him were two contrasting landscapes, the Eden-like paradise and the Hellish barren land. He tried to visualize himself in the two locations, but he couldn’t. He imagined the feeling of soft, lush grass beneath his bare feet and the scent of fresh air. He imagined the feeling of fine dirt between his toes and the sound of the crows. In his head, he could see a world, but was it the outside world?

On the other side of the door was freedom. He took his cane and moved hesitantly towards the door. He knew that once he stepped outside, his life would change forever. Would he stay in his safe cottage, or five in the real world? All he knew was he needed to escape. His breathing became heavy as he approached the barrier between him and the outside world. The frail hand took the smooth, metallic knob and the breathing became heavier and heavier. He rotated the doorknob slightly ... gasping for air and clutching his chest. The moment was too much for him. His knees gave way as he fell to the ground, staring at the door. Behind it was an unimaginable world, a land of silver and glass that he would never be able to see. And as he lay lifelessly, waiting for death to arrive, he finally realised, “My life is now over, but it’ll never be complete.”

Andrew Lim

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I Always Knew It Would End Like That

Owen Wolahan

Never run in the yard after a rainstorm. Of course not, you’ll fall. Ernan Conlan knew this rule, and he knew the wisdom of it. Yet still it took such a fall to really teach him. His mother wore a concerned frown just for him that day, and some of the next. Somehow he had managed to injure himself quite seriously- he slipped on the cobbles, wet with summer rain, and landed on his stomach. Still bloated with buttercakes, it hurt him more than it rightly should’ve. His knee sustained severe shock, as did he. For the next few weeks, Ernan made sure to avoid a run in the yard post-rain. It was not such an injury to cause anything more than a smirk from his parents and a slight limp (and he carried the limp mainly for the extra biscuits it bought). However, when you’re as young as seven, any injury is one to bear with pride, and to remember with a tear suspended, still glistening, on your wrinkled cheek in the years ahead. Now nearing the edges of his teenage years, and still wondering why his parents gave him a name nobody had heard before, Ernan remembers his fall in the yard, but has forgotten the real cause of the fall. Of course, he blames the cobblestones and the rain that slicked them. But he has no time for reminiscences; he has a car- that most wonderful symbol of freedom to any young man, and an extension of all that makes him who he is, for a lesser man would have a lesser car. Ernan’s damned proud of his car paid for by his parents, insured by his parents and polished by a little brother needing money for alcohol. He doesn’t mind the obligations that come with such coveted territory and neither does he charge his friends petrol money. No, he’s a nice young man, pleasant to all who know him. But some people act odd when hidden behind a shroud of anonymity. Perhaps it’s an outlet for suppressed actions, or a true representation of who we really are? Who knows. But for Ernan, this shroud hides his private brand of humour. He’s managed to get his hands on one of those portable sirens you see in police stories. You know, where the cops in the unmarked car see some thug speed past them with assumed impunity; reckless abandon, if you will. The cops grab the conveniently stashed siren and place, indeed deposit it upon its place on their unmarked roof. And lo, there drives now not an unmarked but a marked police car, speeding after the careless perp, pursuing not only a man who is a danger to others but that special thrill. A thrill only one who can legally break the speed limit in a powerful car can appreciate. So what do we see unleashed upon a hapless public? A man who knows never to imitate police officers. Of course not, you’ll be imprisoned. Yes, Ernan knows this rule, and he can see the wisdom of avoiding prison. However, regardless of prior knowledge and reason, this fine day sees us witness to Ernan’s greatest moment and perhaps the inevitable result of his transgressive behaviour. It took him a painfully long time to procure such an odd request and he’ll be damned before he sees it put on the shelf unused. Now, we sit back in comfortable removal from his situation and watch with smug amusement as Ernan doubtless receives his long comeuppance. Initially it was the fact that he had a similar model Ford to the ones used by the Police Force that conceived the idea, but mainly it was due to his innate lack of boundaries. Sure, he didn’t run around brandishing sharp objects or anything of the like, but Ernan was not going to let a silly notion like impersonation of a police officer being a bad idea stop him from doing something very funny. After getting his eager hands on his mini-siren through ways that are really quite clever, he couldn’t wait to use it. He climbed into his car and headed for the nearest highway- a perfect stretch of road lay nearby. The fact that doing something like this in a place where his car may be recognised was a bad idea did not occur to this eager puppy. It was early in the afternoon on a weekday: the roads were fairly empty. Ernan accelerated onto the highway and kept his speed until he found a worthy victim. Now hovering in front of him was a tidy little car, more colour than grunt, yet likely still bearing a hefty price tag. A grin already creeping across his face, he withdrew the siren from its place beside his seat (he’d fitted it into the cigarette plug earlier), he deposited it onto the roof and flicked the appropriate switch with a flourish. Just as the man had promised,

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that switch caused an impressive woop-woop to declare itself upon the world. The unfortunate person conscientiously pulled over, such innocence; assuming the ‘police officer’ behind them had all the right of their office to request such an action. Ernan laughed aloud, his entire body convulsing with it. He pulled the siren from its place, and, still laughing, stowed it away and drove past the halted car, leaving its bewildered driver to the slow realisation of their gullibility; that they’d been had. Ernan drove with the sweet nectar of triumph coursing through him, and proceeded to turn his car around to perform his great act again. Before too long, a similarly unfortunate driver came before him. He enacted the same procedure, again causing a satisfying woop-woop, and a similar action to the first. The driver conscientiously pulled over and Ernan drove past cackling like a madman. He was loving it. He kept this up a number of times, same procedure each time: pull behind, deposit the siren, flick the switch, woop-woop and laugh maniacally as they pull over. But the villain can hardly keep the princess imprisoned for the entire story, can he? Ernan Conlan, master of road-humour and trickery, deserved every woop of the oh-so predictable siren that declared itself behind him on the road. Cursing every angel who didn’t watch over him, he reluctantly withdrew his hand from its covetous grasp on his toy, slowed the car, pulled over and sat dejectedly; ready to face his fate. He always knew it had to end like this. Ernan heard the triumphant snigger as the man sped past him down the road, removing his siren.

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A Postmodernist Tale

David and Goliath: The REAL story!

Christian Mooney

To start with, I must clear up any “loose ends” regarding the “knowledge” you have attained from reading that book that most people worship! Goliath was not three metres tall, he was about seven foot one in the old scale, and had the figure of a beanpole, until he took the advice of his mates and bought himself an “abs-tightener” and treadmill for only $395 plus postage and handling. I must also tell you that David was a bit of a “sleaze”. He married King Saul’s second daughter, Michel, but he had no trouble “going through” the other four daughters as well! You can trust me on this, I should know. Goliath was not the great warrior that he was made out to be. Most of the battles the Philistines won under his leadership were thanks to Goliath but not in the way that it is told nowadays. You see, Goliath had a rather embarrassing fault- he had a shocking B.O problem, which is quite understandable considering he wore all that tin (it wasn’t bronze, that was too expensive). Goliath won most of his battles using his old favourite, the “lift and squirt” technique”. Goliath would stand on the top of a raised hill, lift his armpits, and let out a deafening screech, and then the Philistine army would reach behind themselves and pull out their “Super Soaker 2000” water pistols and blow them away while the unsuspecting opponents were clutching for their noses. It may seem hard to believe, but I should know. As I mentioned earlier, David had a bit of a reputation with the females, and about the same time as Goliath had his name across the tabloids, David was pestering Saul for his permission of the marriage between himself and Michel. As you will find in your beloved book, (Samuel 19), the deal of the marriage was that David had to give Saul the foreskins of 100 dead Philistines. David was not exactly a good fighter and knew he couldn’t do it, so he sent out each of Saul’s five daughters to “see what they could do” (David’s words, not mine). They did well, came back with the twenty “pieces of manhood” and David got his wife! Don’t believe what the Bible says; believe me, I should know. Before I explain the real truth about what you all want to hear, I must tell you about the events leading up to “The Fight”. David had seven brothers, all older, so the closest he ever got to a fight when he was growing up was having a fight with brother Abinadab after David refused to tell him where he had hidden the remote control. Anyway, back to the story, David and all seven of his brothers expressed interest in challenging Goliath after reading his threat in the “Israel News”. The eight young men all expressed interest in this challenge because Saul promised rewards for the man who defeated Goliath, and David and his brothers thought one of Saul’s daughters may have been waiting at the end for the victor (David was not married at this stage). After Saul witnessed their resumes, he decided that the brothers should decide the best candidate amongst themselves. Elint thought himself the best candidate because he was the eldest and Shammath thought he was “the one” because he had the biggest head. The brothers decided that there was only one way to settle this rowdy dispute...”Paper, Scissors, Rock”! The older siblings were sorely disadvantaged by this “fair settlement” as they were out of practise (a soft excuse I say), and the four eldest were comfortably eliminated in their “best of seven series”. The semi-finals “went the distance” but eventually second youngest Abner and David pulled through after intense seven round matches. Before the Grand Final, the traditional “smoko” break came into place and this gave the two remaining participants a chance to rest their weary palms. The “best of nine Grand Final series” was levelled at four all, after David pulled the amateur “scissors” out of the bag, after a good “rock” sealed the seventh. On the last game, David surprised all when he came out with the risky “paper”, while Abner went “rock”, and we all know that paper covers rock, so David had won! I should know. By the way, the “World” was not created in seven days and seven nights as it quotes in “that book”; seven days and seven nights is how long David trained before fighting Goliath. David took up a weekly membership at his local gymnasium and went there every day to lift weights and work on his endurance. David put on four and a half kilos after the end of the week, but that was more thanks to the anabolic steroids that he picked up for a bargain, rather than the weights. When the intensive physical and aerobic

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workout timetable had been completed, David and his personal trainer decided that David was ready, ready for the biggest fight of his life and I should know. The Ticketeck phone lines were running off the hook in the lead up to the grand event- which had been entitled “The biggest fight since God and Adam went eight rounds in the garden”! Goliath was the overwhelming favourite with the “bookies”, yet many punters got in early at the TAB before Goliath had firmed as the unbackable favourite. The day before the fight was scheduled to take place, a whisper went through the betting- that Goliath had accepted bribes from an Indian bookmaker to “throw” the fight. The media and paparazzi had a frenzy but Goliath denied all the rumours and in response said, I quote, “I will win”- pretty confident words aren’t they? and I should know. David went out for a positively “huge” night in the evening before and required copious Berocca’s before he was ready to tackle Goliath. As David was getting over his hangover, Goliath was deep into preparation. On his regular morning walk, Goliath killed four of his Philistine army “for practise” and he speared three rabbits to “physch himself up”. At eleven ‘o’ clock, both competitors made their way to the “Israel Convention Centre” where an anxious crowd of 75000 people were waiting in anticipation. The V.I.P list was also very impressive for this big occasion, Saul and his five daughters sat nervously in anticipation, Noah was there in the 4,384th year of his distinguished life and God himself managed to find the time in his busy schedule. Everyone in the crowd was filled with nervous energy when the competitors finally walked out...please, read on, I know this is what you have been waiting to hear - I should know. When David and Goliath had both reached the ring, the bell sounded and the fight was under way! The first three rounds were utterly boring with Goliath continually lunging at David, and David continually running away and jumping out of the ring. When the crowd eventually started chanting B-O-R-I-N-G halfway through the fourth round, David finally showed some aggression. David stumbled towards Goliath and was treated with a sharp left which sent him flying towards the canvas. This went on for a while, until just after the bell had sounded for the start of the eighth round, when David snuck up behind Goliath, tapped him on the shoulder, and when he turned around, planted him with a huge kiss slap bang on the lips, which sent the crowd into an uproar. Goliath pranced around the ring yelling obscenities until David brought out the baseball bat he had carefully concealed in his briefs and smacked him straight in the temple. The crowd sat stunned in disbelief. Saul and his daughters began their celebration, Noah decided that he had lived long enough and nodded off to sleep, and God thought it important to finish the popcorn he had purchased. That is the real story of “the fight”, and I should know. I’m really sorry if you were a “believer” and I have wrecked the story for you, but the truth just had to be told. If you want to know what happened to David after the fight you can buy my next book, but simply, on his victory lap, he tripped over a pothole and was trampled by the rioting crowd. You may ask how I know all these things, but I should know, because I am a “try-hard”, “know-it-all”, attention seeking post modernist writer, who loves the attention gained by toying with people’s beliefs. See, I told you I should know!

Royce Ng

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History Of The World In 10 ½ Chapters

Sam Szoke-Burke

We’ve come a long way, you and I, since the days of the flood. Although many things have stayed the same. Currently, in 2064, it is as though the clean have been separated from the unclean, the difference in lifestyles. Since the early 2000s, both state and federal governments have become trivial insignificant groups of apathetic ignoramuses. Parties such as the ALP or the Australian Democrats have moved from supposed left wing status to central right, to extreme right wing. This meant that the Liberal party was forced to move further up the scale, to the point where they only represent the heirs of Rupert Murdoch, Kerry Packer and Allan Bond. Unions have been deemed irrelevant and illegal. On other evolutions, wood - my home - has been deemed an inferior building material. Since this so-called realisation, the majority of wooden buildings or furniture have been demolished or burnt, all trees have been protected by World Heritage laws and wood is currently more valuable than gold. All because my friends and I were a bit hungry. Also, universal suffrage has been abolished and a curfew of 4:30pm - 9:00am has been implemented across the country, giving the heirs an excuse to bludgeon and kill the homeless. Now with Australia’s legal system in a state of disaster, the bourgeoisie pig-dog and the corporate fat -cat have merged to form an Australia of extreme capitalism without a sniff of democracy. Anyway, as a consequence of all processed woods being condemned and burnt in a fashion reminiscent of the Nazis’ book burning regime during World Wars II and III, my species and the majority of yours, was dying out. Eventually, Australia’s urban woodworm population was down to my husband, my wife, myself and two East Timorese woodworms that didn’t speak. We were hiding out in practically the only wooden building left in Australia. It was the Napthine wing of the Republican Liberty Hospital of Victoria. My husband and I used to love watching you simple creatures pretend to try to save someone when in actual fact, Packer II had his filthy money telling you to poison them. Eventually people stopped making it to public hospitals - they were either assassinated or owned their own private hospitals. Why were they being assassinated you ask? Let’s think about it. If you were a millionaire (had a million workers, that is) would you want to have someone resembling Che Guevara rummaging through your rubbish bins? Of course not - the Packer and Murdoch dynasties - who now ran Australia - met and decided the only way to live happily was to kill all the homeless, the communists, the cultured, the attractive and the intelligent. As far as they were concerned, the only people earning over $500 billion would be their cleaners, housewives, chefs, prostitutes and assassins. After all it worked for the Gates dynasty in USA. In a final selfish and capitalist act, Bond II bought the last government asset - if you could call it that - the Republican Hospital. Straight away he decided to move it to a new building made of Argon fibre. The lack of need for this old wooden building meant that it was soon knocked down. After less than a week, our building was imploded. When our wall hit the ground, a strange dust engulfed us - one of the Timorese started chocking. We knew it was asbestos - the building was built during the Kennett era. We (my wife, my husband and I) woke up to the sound of a clumsy workman. He was told to take a sample of wood for the museum. No guesses as to which piece of wood he took. Any way we found ourselves under the nose of a scientist. When he found us he remarked, “Incredible. Woodworm. This reminds me of a 16th century law trial.” “What’s that?” his bored son enquired. “You know - when the woodworm ate into a church. Damn near destroyed the whole thing. Well, i guess this is payback. Sorry little fellas! Isn’t funny how history repeats itself? I mean, this time we destroyed their habitat.” “Whatever” Honestly can you imagine being blamed for something your ancestors did? Call me John Howard, but I shouldn’t have to suffer for something my forefathers did hundreds of years ago! You should have heard some of the other deluded things that scientist was saying. Anyway, we had bigger fish to fry. There

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were three of us left - unfortunately the two Timorese had passed away - and the scientist was going to kill either my husband or I as he only wanted one female. Self-interest ruled over altruism. I read in this post-modernist novel I was eating once, about an experiment in which a gorilla had to chose between its own or its baby’s life. Well this was similar. My husband and i were pushing each other then burrowing into the wood, then getting pulled out by the other. Eventually I was chosen to stay alive. So here we were, my wife and I - my wife not talking to me - being examined by this scientist’s son. He was a sadist, I kid you not. He decided to put some caustic soda on my wife. I burrowed away and when I returned she was dead. “Hey dad, look at these woodworm, I killed one and the other is trying to save it.” “Ah, these simple creatures. You know, you know when I was young, your mother and I owned a woodworm farm, unorthodox, I know. W e used to love watching these creatures frantically trying to save each other - there was a break out of some disease at the time.” My world was shattered. I’d lost the two things I’d loved most in my life. That’s right - loved. You humans differentiate yourselves from us because animals don’t love, don’t you? Well, you’re wrong. Gorilla’s loved, Behemoths loved and woodworms love. But you’ve managed to wipe out two of the three. We are not so different, you and I. In terms of priorities, that is. Whether someone sleeps with your wife, one of you has to die or one of you is searching through the other one’s rubbish and has no place to sleep at night. Altruism is always overruled by Selfishness. But hey, it’s not your fault for being human.

55 WORD STORIES

These Barren LandsShreerang Sirdesai

He scanned the area, shocked by its barrenness. A sense of hopelessness overcame him and his stomach felt hollow. Cautiously he turned around, sweating, becoming conscious of his bulk. The cruelty of the whole thing struck him as he stumbled forwards and fell. Behind him the fridge closed, it resounding thud hanging in the air.

Gerard’s FateSherrwin Akbarzade

As the train drew near, Gerard lay peacefully on the tracks, closing his eyes so as to cherish the final moments of his miserable existence. Overcome with guilt, this seemed the only solution to stop him from hurting another soul. The loud screech of brakes was followed by a deafening rumble. There was only one survivor in the massive derailment: Gerard.

FallingJulian Lichtenstein

Falling from an open palm, carrying a lifetime of happiness, sadness, love and hate. Carrying family, loved ones, dreams and aspirations. Carrying childhood memories, weddings and births. Carrying Christmas mornings and birthday candles. The rose petals fall from an open palm, hitting the mahogany, carrying a life of what was, and what could have been.

The EarthquakeJared Sheldon

The earthquake was one of the worst in the nation’s history. I could see a woman, crying standing on a pile of rubble, distraught over the death of her family. There were emergency crews everywhere, scouring the area for life while the stench of death loomed in the air. I turn the page of the newspaper and have another sip of coffee.

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PlaySeng Teoh

The ground trembled, the air screamed. Bodies fell from the sky, broken, lifeless. An arm here, a leg there. Buildings toppled, crushed under merciless blows. The destruction was widespread; nothing was spared. The toddler crawled away, seeking new things to play with.

Out of ReachRami Subhi

With a group of thirty, a suggestion box seemed reasonable in my High School class. It was carefully placed on top of a cupboard, ready for any suggestions. After nearly two months, with hardly any participation, the teacher decided to open the box. Inside was a message: “Lower the box”.

Completion VitalArindam Nagar

Tony panicked over a school assignment due in the morning and hastily searched the Internet. His mother walked past his room and heard him quietly mumbling to himself, “C…V…”. She assumed he was working on his Curriculum Vitae. At his desk, Tony chanted, “Control-C, Control-V,” the sad mantra of his VCE studies.

Scent Of A WomanDave Brundell

The bloodthirsty predator vigilantly watches her nestle her body into the sand. She hears the approach, but waves it off unperturbed. Hovering closely his presence is made evident; still she takes no notice. He is close to her; he can almost taste her... SLAP! Wiping her hand on the towel she murmurs “bloody mozzies.”

SurvivalTze-Sian Hor

Branches scratched his legs and the underbrush crunched under his feet. He was tired but he still hoped to make it through the day. Suddenly he stopped, trying to sense his follower. Had he lost him? Was he still out there somewhere? The hunter aimed his rifle and looked hungrily at the stag.

The MasseurVachel Spirason

John opened the door to his office. It was very cold, as usual, and the regular crowd was there. “Hey everyone, ready for your massage?” But they all ignored him, staring straight ahead. “I’ve brought some special moisturising cream for all those dry spots.” Still no response. John sighed. Embalming was such a lonely job.

Sid’s HomeJayant Krishnan

Sid sat on the cold stone floor of his cell and ate the tasteless mush in his bowl. Even though he had been here for over a month, he still couldn’t get used to the food. His life had been considerably worse since his own master had sent him to the dog pound.

Somewhere in the FutureShreerang Sirdesai

The defining moment of the International Forum on Human Cloning probably came when an inconspicuous audience-member heroically rose and asked, “Do you have any proof of its safety?” “Yes,” replied Dr. J.F. Quested glaring intently at the man, “I have sufficient proof.” Like a flower, the little man withered and shrank, before collapsing into his chair.

The DealJamie Zhu

He felt the reddish bricks of the wall. “Let’s go.” “When you gonna pay me?” a young uniformed man whispered. A grin grew on his face. “Very soon.” “I’ll guide you to the river.” The man uttered as they sneaked into the dark night. Next morning’s newspaper: ‘Serial killer escaped, dead officer found in river’.

A Fishy SituationThomas Leong

James hid behind the large rock as he saw the man approach. For many days now he anticipated that the man would come get him. A few days earlier he had taken his mother and father. For what reason, he knew not. The net found him easily and scooped him out from the water.

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Peter Carey’s Collected Stories

Year 12 Literature students recreating selected stories of Peter Carey

Writing a Prologue or an EpilogueRewriting events from another character’s point of view

Inserting a new sequence into the original story

CREATIVE

Tim Fitzgerald

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Crabs

Tim Baxter

Epilogue

Above the gate is a faded sign with peeling paint. It says, “Star Drive-in Theatre. Please turn off your lights.”

* * *

Sitting outside the gate Crabs’ new engine purrs warmly running beautifully, the only sounds coming from the throbbing exhaust. A fine, almost invisible plume of petrol fumes rolling softly out onto the ground. He can tell that everyone will envy him. He is free. To be free, you must be a motor car or a vehicle in good health. He is free. The world is his to roam. He points his soft headlights all around, he can light up the world whenever he wants. Crabs keeps all of his focus on one boy. The young boy could be Indian, but then, he could be any number of other races. Crabs can never tell the difference. He has beady eyes and a long face. Crabs hates him already. He glances along the electrified fence to make sure that it’s secure, ensure that his free world is protected from the boy and those like him. The boy continues to kick up the dust of the Drive-In. Content in the boy’s dissatisfaction, Crabs reverses and pulls out, away from the high fences of the compound. He checks his meter. A quarter of a tank left, which should last him another 250-300 miles. This is plenty for the drive to Frank’s garage. He can refill there. He pulls out onto the highway again and draws the engine out to a steady 160 k.p.h.. Changing lanes on his whims, he eventually comes to the turn-off at Darling Rd and heads for the Allied Panel and Towing building near the Tram terminus. The front of the building is boarded up with big sheets of corrugated iron. Like the rest of the city, there are no lights and Crabs feels out of place with his high beams brightening the world. He softly rolls forward and nudges the metal sheet until he has a path for himself into the garage. Oil tins and rusted tools lie scattered on the oil-stained floors and his engine warms to the thought of smooth, fresh petrol in his pipes. He slides over to the pump, and begins to worry about how he’ll get the petrol. A cough comes from behind him and Crabs turns to see only darkness. It looks wearied and says, can I help you? Who are you, says Crabs, ignoring the offer. You know who I am, says the darkness. What are you doing here, says Crabs. Servicing my people. How may I help you, says the darkness. Petrol, says Crabs. I want petrol. A small, neatly dressed priest walks to the pump and struggles slightly to remove the handle. He moves around behind Crabs, who flips the petrol door open to allow the priest access to his petrol cap. A glistening drop of radiator fluid falls from Crab’s intakes and the prospect of new energy excites him. The priest reaches out for the cap, and then pulls His hand away, puzzled. My hand, He says, it’s too big to fit in that small hole. He moves to the other side of the room, produces a small hacksaw and begins to cut into the panel, adding an extra six inches to each side of the hole. A small explosion of pain shoots through Crabs, and he leaps backward, hitting the man and knocking Him dead. A thin ball of blood forms in the corner of His mouth. Crabs looks at his tank. The thin, white needle points to a spot only slightly above E. He reverses slowly out of the garage, into the cold. On the streets again, he begins to aimlessly roam back roads and cobblestone laneways. His engine begins to shudder. He searches madly for more gas in his system. He squeezes the tank to push through every drop he can find. As he begins to mount a large hill, he sees the lights from the Drive-In for the second time. His engine has stopped but he doesn’t apply the brakes. He prays that he has enough momentum to push himself over the crest, and down the other side to the lights, where he can get gas. His mind begins to fade, and he can feel himself slipping away into the darkness. He hears a distant cranking noise and thinks his last thought. The cranes have arrived…

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Life & Death in the South Side Pavilion

Adrian Halliday

Epilogue

12.

Marie finally came to see me today. She came to tell me she was leaving for her colourful beaches and she wasn’t waiting for me any longer. She asked if she could show me in the brochures which beach she is going to. I tried to tell her The Company took the brochures. She told me she didn’t believe me. “You threw them out because you don’t want to come with me,” she said. “No I didn’t, I do want to come.” “Then leave the pavilion and come with me.” “I can’t leave the horses.” “It’s always the horses. You can’t fuck because of the horses. You can’t leave because of the horses.” I do not move a muscle as Marie stands up to leave. There is nothing I can do to stop her, nothing to make her understand. The horses whinny sorrowfully. I lie on the bed and weep silent tears which gather in pathetic puddles beneath my breaking face. I can’t remember falling asleep, but I wake in a cold sweat from dreams of drowning. The hills and valleys of twelve horses are gloomy in the grey twilight of the pavilion, unmoving. I lay awake waiting for the sounds which would announce another death, but there are none. Only the occasional swish of a tail.

13.

The television is broken. I turned it on as usual to see if there was a signal, when suddenly it popped like bursting bubble-gum and left me in lonely silence. The man who came to fix it gave up in disgust and left. “The thing’s fucked,” he said. “Nothing I can do.” I asked whether The Company would replace the television, but he merely shrugged and left. I never realised until now how comforting the snow was.

14.

The horses are staring at me. I woke just like any other day in the pavilion, slowly opening my eyes to be greeted by the familiar yellow light. I was ready as usual to add to the sickly sweet scent of sperm which hangs over my bed like fog. Yet as I uncurled from my burrow of dirty sheets, twelve pairs of unblinking eyes transfixed me, staring at me from long equine faces. Their presence deflated my yearning cock within moments. Huddling back into my sheets I hide my head under the pillow, hoping the horses will become disinterested and move away. But they don’t. I wake an hour later expecting them to be spread around the pavilion in random patterns like fallen leaves in autumn, but they haven’t moved an inch. I am cornered by twelve horses with accusing eyes.

15.

I AM TRAPPED FOREVER. I CANNOT ESCAPE THE PAVILION.

16.

I don’t know why the idea hasn’t occurred to me before. It seems so easy now, too easy. I fretted because I had no escape. I worried because I couldn’t leave the pavilion and because The Company would not listen to my pleas. The Company can go fuck themselves for all I care. They will

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have no choice but to send my replacement now. I seal the envelope and write neatly on the front: “To whom it may concern.” Using a pair of scissors, I cut a suitable length of string and wind it round meticulously, tying a knot as best I can. Standing, I am in a daze. I walk slowly but deliberately between the horses who stamp their feet nervously near the edge of the pool. The water is cold. Shocked out of my daze, I thrash wildly, trying to find a purchase on the smooth walls of the pool. My bound arms are useless.

* * *

17.

Today I started my new job. I believe I am now employed as a Groom 3rd Class, the position Mary helped me apply for, yet I have received no letter from The Company to confirm this. I am now in charge of the structure known officially as THE SOUTH SIDE PAVILION, and I am responsible for the horses within. Mary and I were woken early in the morning by representatives of The Company who spoke to us at the door. “Get dressed. We’re taking you to the pavilion.” I picked up a bag I keep packed for emergencies, but they told me to leave it. “You have no need for possessions. The Company provides all you need,” they said. We rode in the cramped cabin of a large truck and stared at miles of non-descript terrain slipping past like ghosts in the dim pre-dawn light. I tried to make conversation with my drivers. “Who worked at the pavilion before me? Why did they leave?” They stared at me blankly. “He wanted to.” We drove on in silence. The men climbed out of the cabin fitted with a flashing yellow light as we arrived, telling us gruffly to wait for them. I sat and stared at the high walls and sawtooth roof of the pavilion, filled with a sense of awe and pride. The pavilion stands in the middle of a wasteland, miles from any sign of life. A few minutes later the two men came out carrying a strange object approximately six feet long, wrapped in a black plastic bag and dripping water. After tying the object onto the tray at the back, the men told us to follow them. They showed us around the pavilion with its horses, pointing out the pool in the centre and my facilities in the corner: a fridge, a television which appears to be broken, a gas cooker and a small bed, all generously provided by The Company. Abruptly, the representatives from The Company left. Mary and I wandered around the pavilion, feeding and patting the horses who neighed gratefully and nuzzled our ears. We settled down on the bed to celebrate.

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Life & Death in the South Side Pavilion

Nick Collins

Epilogue

12.

Marie made her final visit last night. She brought several brightly coloured brochures with her, perhaps to provide the necessary conclusive incentive for my escape. Each glossy beach appeared as tranquil and divine as the next. Girls of mesmerising beauty lay beneath the dazzling radiance of the mid-afternoon sun. Their bodies glowing with a heat that I have no hope of ever experiencing.

13.

There is a distinct, and rather unsettling silence within the pavilion. The horses are sitting in small groups around the perimeter of the pool. All are deadly still. Steam from their nostrils dissipates into the cold and musty air, as they concentrate on the four floating masses. It is quite probable that they realise the dark chasm will eventually consume them. They will leave this world in an icy, and altogether futile struggle.

14.

A few days have passed since Marie decided to leave me. My hand no longer provides the physical or mental pleasure I desperately crave. The pavilion has become noticeably cold. I remain in bed for the majority of the day either propped up against the bed-head thinking of Marie, or watching the horses, which regularly wander tantalisingly close to the pool’s edge. More often than not, these ventures result in death. I no longer shield my ears from the onslaught of sheer panic that echoes throughout the pavilion. The whinnying and brief splashing has become a strange and indescribable comfort.

15.

The men with the truck are here again. The winch is lifting yet another carcass from the pool. Their job is performed with chilling precision. A routine I am responsible for and powerless to control.

16.

The TV has been on for several hours and has shown nothing but snow. To be honest, I didn’t expect to see anything else. The snow manages to momentarily relieve the throbbing pain of loneliness, which constantly harrows me. For that, I am infinitely indebted to The Company. I lay in bed, staring at the mass of black and white dots. I envy its constant change. Marie is now prominent within my dreams. The sand we walk upon is as soft as velvet, and the water a brilliant aquamarine. We fuck under palm trees, on the pure white sand and in the warm sparkling water. Why didn’t I go with her? I can’t, and won’t answer that question.

17.

The dull grey light of morning shines through the frosted dusty windows of the roof, revealing six bloated horses floating silently within the black water. I sit up in bed and wipe the sleep from my eyes. There is a loud scraping of metal at the other end of the pavilion. The men are preparing to lift the first of the horses out of the water and onto the truck. I untangle my legs from the bed sheets and slowly walk to them.

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“Why are there no replacements?” I ask, trying to overcome the hoarseness of my voice. Both men continue to remove the horses from the pool without acknowledging my presence. “Has The Company relieved me of my post?” It was a futile question and I did not expect an answer.The remaining six horses huddle together in a dark corner of the pavilion, like scared children hiding from an abusive parent. Their large inquisitive eyes following my every move. I retire to my bed and pull the sheets up over my head to avoid their stares.

18.

The whip cracks loudly on one of the horse’s thighs, the small leather tail causing a deep wound. One crack is all that’s needed for my objective to be obtained. The horses become hysterical, and within fifteen minutes, a sombre and heavy silence envelops the pavilion. The pool is infused with an overwhelming stench of death. I sit and watch the snow.

19.

The horses are not replaced for several days. Their lifeless bodies drift aimlessly within the pool, and make soft thuds every time they come into contact with each other or a wall. A large truck arrives to transport the pale, bloated bodies. With it comes a smaller truck, its yellow light spinning frenetically. The driver of the small truck solemnly helps the others drag the horses from the pool. The winch strains under the increased weight of the waterlogged carcasses. My attention focuses on the contents of the small truck.

20.

The twelve pigs stand at a distance from my bed. Their low grunts combine to form a monotonous drone that reverberates off every surface in the pavilion. It is a sound that ceases, only when the grey obscurity of night brings sleep to all that inhabit the desolate expanse of concrete and corrugated iron. My dreams are few and far between. The beaches Marie and I now visit are draped in a melancholic haze, which refuses to relent. The question ‘Why didn’t I go with her?’ continually haunts me.

21.

Three pigs failed to resist the deceptive serenity of the pool, bathed in its silver-grey light. Their bodies limply float on the surface. A sight I am not altogether accustomed to, and yet one I know only too well.

Matthew Thompson

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The Fatman in History

Guy Edwards

Epilogue

21.

He sweats gently in the heat. He lies on top of his sheets, naked and glistening. He had new sheets not that long ago, but he can’t quite remember what he did with them. So he uses the old ones, turned a disgusting brown by the long years of use. The corrugated iron walls of his shack are already hot, but he knows they will get hotter as the day continues. Inside, he can hear the sound of May’s Sibelius record again. Soon May will be writing to his wife again, another letter sent to a relative or friend that he thinks might be able to find her. Maybe he’ll get sad again, sit at the door beating his head against it until the blood comes. The record makes May morose, but it’s the only one he has. Finch stands up, pulling on his clothes with the comical grace of the very fat. He knows that he should be out trying to find food, but it doesn’t seem worth it in this heat. He wonders if Fantoni has found his dynamite to blow up the statue yet, but then remembers that Fantoni seems to have lost his destructive urge. He hasn’t mentioned the statue for weeks. But he has asked Finch to write him another manifesto for the Fat Men Against the Revolution. Alexander Finch doesn’t want to, but he can’t say no to Fantoni. Inside, Fantoni sits at the table, wearing his white suit. He is still reading his mail, poring over it. Finch walks up to him and sits, the chair creaking under his weight. He greets him, but Fantoni makes no response. He merely reads what he calls “my correspondence”, the nature of which he will never divulge to anyone. The others are all too afraid to ask, because Fantoni is the one who provides for them. Without Fantoni, as he is so fond of pointing out to them, they would have to eke out a living on their meagre pensions. So nobody asks, and nobody questions Fantoni. As Finch sits, he thinks that there is still something strange about Fantoni. Nobody but him seems to think about it, the strange way that Fantoni is always just Fantoni and nothing else.

22.

The man-who-won’t-give-his-name sees Finch sitting at the table and walks over to him. Finch barely notices him, absorbed in a small piece of string that he has being twisting around for some time now. The man-who-won’t-give-his-name says, good morning. Finch looks up at him and says, good morning. The man-who-won’t-give-his-name walks out of the kitchen and to his room, saying nothing more to Finch or Fantoni. Fantoni sits there still, occasionally adjusting his large Hawaiian shirt and shifting the cigar from right to left across his mouth.

23.

Finch is back in his room, thinking about Florence Nightingale. He didn’t see her this week. He pretended to be asleep all night, missing the usual celebration of her visit to collect the rent. He thinks about the strange relationship they have. The strange almost-sexual quality of their friendship that none of the fat men overtly discuss or mention. She likes to tease Finch, inventing a new life for him, gently prodding at his stomach. She makes him feel good, like it was before the revolution. Alexander Finch can’t bring himself to hatred. He can’t hate “the little scrawnies” any more than he could hate the colour blue. It is himself that he hates, the horrid rolls of fat that descend from his stomach like a series of curtains. And Fantoni. He doesn’t know when he first realised it, but he knows that it is true. He says it. I hate Fantoni. He rolls the syllables around his mouth like the finest French wines (none of which he had ever drunk anyway). That’s why he can’t go into the house anymore. He cannot stand to face Fantoni and talk to

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him without wanting to beat his face against the wall until the blood flows and Fantoni will be no more. It pleases him, to think that one day he will kill Fantoni. Then he thinks to himself, haven’t we already killed Fantoni? But he dismisses the thought. If Fantoni weren’t inside now, then why would the others call him Fantoni? Anyway, he can’t kill Fantoni, because without Fantoni they would have nothing. Fantoni is the one who helps them remove the other tenants, when there are some, although Finch can’t remember their names or faces. But he knows that there must have been some other tenants at one stage. He can remember their presence. So much is like that now, to Finch; unclear and disremembered. Even Florence Nightingale doesn’t seem as real as she was, but he can never remember when she seemed realer than she is now. The man-who-won’t-give-his-name walks past his window, saying nothing.

The Fatman in History

Paul Cooper

Epilogue

1.

She walks quickly into the office marked ‘private’. She moves swiftly and gracefully, with the last two years of her life tucked under her arm in a manilla folder. This office, more specifically the man inside it, is her God, her controller. Nancy wears a yellow dress and leather sandals. The dress is of a light fabric to cope with the heat. Nancy has always thought of herself as possessing a quiet, unassuming beauty, a melancholy yet tasteful visage. She feels a strange sense of pride as the heads of men turn to examine her, even though she feels above such petty obsessions. Her nose is long vertically and not horizontally. She is especially proud of her teeth, which she brushes with strict regularity every morning and evening. Finding toothpaste and Listerine and whitener is hard for a woman in her position. For the last two years she has been concentrating heavily on her thesis: Revolution in a Closed Society – A Study of Leadership Among the Fat. She is nearing the completion of her task.

2.

In her position as rent collector for the revolution, she came across a fat man called Fantoni. At that time, he was a Parking Officer with revolutionary tendencies. Her shrewd brain had quickly noticed these rebellious notions, and she provided him a nondescript house for his activities, as well as referring other fat men to him. Quickly, the household had grown to a group of six fat men, and she could begin her studies. She enters the office. Nobody is seated behind the large oak desk, so she leaves the envelope on the seat behind it and quickly exits the room. She checks her watch. The time is 7pm, time to collect the rent from the fat men. She decides to walk to the house, in order to behold the 16 October statue and the great avenue along the way. The idea for her thesis grew from a deep seeded loathing of fat men. She has thought, for as long as she could remember, that fat men are by their nature lazy, slovenly, greedy and oafish. Their greed is the chief enemy of the revolution. The fat men in this house are no exception. However, one among their number seems nice, and learned, although he also exhibits some of the tendencies above. His name is Alexander Finch. It would seem that until recently, Finch was a cartoonist at a revolutionary newspaper. He has confided in Nancy that he was fired for ‘slovenliness’ and ‘misspelling’. He claims that a cartoonist has a duty to spell badly, although he cannot, or does not think it necessary to excuse his ‘slovenliness’. He met the other fat men walking past 16 October Avenue with another fat man called May. He saw Fantoni talking to another man on the balcony of the house, and Fantoni waved.

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3.

Nancy arrives at the house and quickly moves around to the ‘new extensions’. When she collects the rent at 8pm, she meets Finch at 7:30, a secret meeting time kept by unspoken agreement. She is not physically attracted to Finch, but shares his love of art, philosophy and humour. He greets her as she enters the room. She sits down cross-legged on the floor in front of him. Finch says, hello Florence Nightingale. Ironically, the fat men in the house refer to her as Florence Nightingale - they think of her as their patron saint. If only they knew the truth.Finch says, I was shopping. I got a book on Boticelli. Nancy circles the room with her eyes, feigning innocence. She says, where, show me? The conversation turns to Fantoni. Finch likes to refer to him as the freedom fighter, and it is Nancy’s intent to indulge him as much as possible. She says, how’s the Freedom Fighter? She knows that it is Fantoni’s intent to somehow desecrate or destroy the 16 October statue, the monument to the revolution, the statue she passed today on her walk. This infuriates Nancy, and it is all she can do to keep this rage hidden from Finch. She laconically remarks, maybe you should eat it. Strangely, Finch seems taken by the idea. It is at this point that Nancy decides to leave, to go to the main house and collect the rent. She jumps up, kisses him and departs, not waiting for Finch to thank her. She knows that his mind is now intent on eating the October 16 statue.

4.

Florence Nightingale rings the front doorbell at precisely 8pm. She is delighted to see that the man who will not give his name, her heir-apparent, is the first of the oafish men to get to the door. The look on his face as he opens it tells her that her attempts to lure him have born fruit. She talks, and laughs, and revels with the six fat men, knowing the irony of the lift that her presence gives to their spirits. She even dances with the-man-who-won’t-give-his-name. She decides after this that it is time to leave. The fat men follow her down the corridor like rats. On the way out, she drops an envelope, an official notice to Alexander Finch that his rent is in arrears. She is apologetic, doing this to Finch, but her employer dictates that she must.

5.

She had returned, later that night, to complete her plans. The-man-who-won’t-give-his-name leads her into his bedroom. She detests screwing him, but knows that it is necessary for the revolution. The rest of the fat men suddenly burst into the room. Finch says, Fantoni is planning to eat Florence Nightingale. The man-who-won’t-give-his-name says, then we must dispose of him. Everyone in the room knows what has to be done, and Nancy smiles to herself. She has deceived noone.

6.

“Revolution in a Closed Society - A Study of Leadership among the Fat”By Nancy Bowlby

Leaders were selected for their ability to provide materially for the welfare of the group as a whole. Obviously the same qualities should reside in the heir-apparent, although these qualities were not always obvious during the waiting period; for this reason I judged it necessary to show favouritism to the heir-apparent and thus raise his prestige in the eyes of the group. This favouritism would sometimes take the form of small gifts and, in those rare cases where it was needed, physical affection as well. The following results were gathered from a study of twenty-three successive “Fantonis”. Whilst it can be admitted that studies so far are at an early stage, the results surely justify the continuation of the experiments with larger groups.

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War Crimes

Tim Harper

Prologue

1.

Ours was not a conventional business and nor were we conventional businessmen. We could not be found under any directory. Word of mouth was our only means of advertising, and its effectiveness was more than adequate for our business needs. We had developed a reputation for rugged and ruthless effectiveness. The Board wanted us to put forward a proposal on how we could turn their ailing business around. We would be their mercenaries, brought in much like those for a besieged government, to fight the dirty war. The chairman briefly detailed his company, and we determined our best form of attack. As always, it would be ruthless domination that we would employ to attain our objectives. We celebrated our prospective clients over $600 of fine cocaine. We would bill them once our contract was signed. The office was typically drab. Irksome motivational posters extolled the company’s obstinate and conservative philosophies, “The customer is always right”, “Respect your clients, they are your business.” The chairman met us in the foyer. A typical corporate executive, his expensive pinstripe suit restrained a corpulent paunch, his bald head poorly masked by his inadequate hair piece. He went to great lengths to welcome us. “Did you find us easily? Weather’s warm, isn’t it.” The exertion of walking and talking left him breathless. “No problem. It is hot.” Banal answers to banal questions. We were led down one corridor, then another and then another. Their uninspiringly ordinary nature fused one into the next.

2.

The Board were like any other, conservative ties on dull white shirts, cufflinks reflecting the listless glow of the fluorescent light of the office. Our reputation had preceded us, and we did not disappoint. They were expecting, and wanted, the unconventional. Their company was facing liquidation, and we were their last alternative. Dressed, as always, to a decadent excess, Bart’s confidence as he strode into the meeting was immense, and I couldn’t help but smile at his exuberance. He knew they wanted to be shocked, to be scared, and he knew how to deliver on their desires. Next to Bart, embellished in his waist-length fur coat and perfectly polished cowboy boots, I felt boring and depraved. My attire was typically uncouth, and my tangled hair portrayed me as a degenerate. Brandishing his Colt .45, he was the embodiment of perfect melodrama. The .45 was big, heavy and dramatic, and he had hand painted it blue and green, only adding to his self-proclaimed renegade style. I was happy to let him play up to his fantasy. He got straight to the point. He strode the room, menacing, frightening, intimidating. They lapped it up. He said everything they wanted to hear, and as their confidence in us grew, I relaxed. While I despised them for their pampered paunches and weak-mindedness, I gained a perverse pleasure from their fearful respect, which I could not bare to lose. Bart waved his .45 menacingly as he spoke. His threatening pitch climaxed with his usual thundering promises that we meant business. He finished and I stepped forward. His speech had been successful in its desired effect. From now it would be simple.

3.

I began to detail our market analysis. “Gentlemen.” I said quietly, pausing to savour their admiration. “We believe you are in a unique position to capitalise on what we see as an advantageous economic opening.” I analysed the ills of the frozen meal subsidiary. This was something they had perhaps expected but had temporarily forgotten, after Bart’s theatrically menacing prelude. As I detailed the fiscal aspects of our proposal, they became as absorbed by my subdued words as they had with Bart’s frightening intimidations. Whether they were

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generally impressed, still scared by his threats, or already sold didn’t matter. I held their gaze, and they hung on every word. I felt myself to be quite glamorous, standing as I was, with a transfixed audience It is an aspect of our business often neglected amongst the stories of ruthless efficiency. While our tactics were unconventional, we were not a violent pair of saboteurs without business sense. We were both well educated, and in my earlier years as an accountant I too had one of them. We may not have looked like conventional businessmen, but our results suggested that we were the New Age of effective businessmen. Ruthless, with no fear of terminating the tenure of those deemed inappropriate or inadequate for our needs, and no qualms about risking substantial funds for larger returns. The Board became enthralled as I promised to stave off receivers and turn their operation into a profitable business. I spread a large graph over the wood-panelled desk and detailed a profit projection for the next twelve months. What I said was not by any means revolutionary thinking, just professional, an attribute clearly missing in the Board members. I detailed our fee structure, and was met only with murmurs of agreement. We would take half of the profits we delivered. They were captivated, and it was not surprising, they wanted to believe in us, and we were obviously confident in our ability. I finished by demanding complete autonomy during our twelve months of operation, and asked for the Board’s guarantee that they would not interfere. Without consultation with his Board the chairman rose from his seat, and applauded. His fellow board members did likewise.

Royce Ng

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War Crimes

Dominic Melling

Prologue

1.

We burst into the meeting fifteen minutes late. Barto wearing a waist length fur coat, black trousers and cowboy boots. Myself sporting a dirty tee shirt ripped jeans and three days growth. We gave the board of directors no chance to recover from their initial shock, but strode arrogantly to the head of the table and launched into our presentation. We were called in because they were desperate. It was obvious they did not have the talent required to continue to make a profit in the current economic climate. The company was on the verge of bankruptcy. They were desperate to stay afloat. In these troubled times anything would do. As I looked into their faces I could not help but feel disgust for these plump, well-dressed yet incompetent managers. There they all were; ten on either side. How important they tried to make themselves look. But their fear was evident. We impressed them. They called us in for an unconventional solution and that’s what we gave them. Barto spoke first, about the products, the current situation and how the company was aiming its products at the wrong market. Then it was my turn. I stood up and spoke of the finances; ways of cost cutting and boosting profit. As agreed we would run the factory for one year, at which time we would hand control back. I then laid down our terms, strictly non-negotiable. A convertible, $5,000 for immediate costs and a half of all profits that we made during our year. They agreed readily enough. Our reputation had preceded us. Barto and I had already turned two companies round.

2.

To celebrate we decided to spend one thousand on drugs, a few grams of marijuana and the rest on cocaine. We made our way to where we were currently staying, a run-down apartment in the seedy part of town. As we grew closer the stench of poverty hit our nostrils. The road was full of potholes, and the windows smashed and patched up with pieces of cardboard. As we pulled up to our door three men stepped forward, one snarled, “Give us your money.” Barto just laughed, drew his Colt .45 and shot once in the air. They ran. We could have afforded better accommodation, but I felt at home among these people. They looked up to us with fear and awe.

3.

The next day I telephoned an old acquaintance, Vincent, one-time small crook, currently an arms dealer. I asked what he had. “Whatever you want,” he replied. In the end I decided on two machine guns with two hundred rounds each, and a .22 for myself, all for a mere $3,500. There is a growing market for firearms, and the police are unable to control such things. He arranged to bring them round within the next few days. I went for a walk, past the dilapidated houses and the empty shop windows. The queue outside the employment office, full of people with starved faces and worn out clothes, stretched around the corner. I passed the house just like the one I grew up in. I remembered my childhood, the carelessness of life and the beatings my father gave me. I hated being poor, looking at the children with new clothes and shiny bikes. I vowed one day to be like them, but I was a fool. You can’t change things like that. Back home Barto had rolled himself another joint and I did likewise. The sound of police sirens woke me. They stopped outside our door and someone knocked. Barto lay unconscious sprawled across the floor. Stuffing Barto’s .45 into my pocket I opened the door. Outside stood Vincent, dressed in a black suit, purple shirt and bright yellow tie, with a smug smile across his face. Behind him stood two policemen. He stepped in, “Don’t worry they’re with me.” “Shit, you scared me,” I said then instantly regretted it. I pulled out the .45 and began to play with the beautiful instrument. Vincent beckoned one of the officers to put down a large bag in the hallway. I

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handed over a brown envelope that he proceeded to open, and hand two hundred dollars to each officer. The policemen tipped their hats and departed. Watching them go Vincent smirked. “They’re desperate for money, they haven’t been paid for three months.”

4.

We purchased our new car today. Barto and I went to choose one with a company representative. He was taken aback by our appearance. “Hello Sir” he emphasised the “sir” ”while giving me a greasy look. I felt a stab of anxiety. Then I collected myself; his sort couldn’t stand taking orders from my type, so I returned his look with a hostile glare, daring him to cross me. In the end we settled on a Cadillac Eldorado. Since the Government cutbacks luxuries such as cars have been harder to find. It was a little shabby, but a classic nonetheless and well worth its faults. We went roaring around the city exploiting our freedom we would soon have to relinquish. On our journey we passed one of the richer suburbs. It has become fashionable for the inhabitants to contribute to a fund to put up a high fence topped with razor wire and employ security guards to patrol within, a kind of private police force. I laughed openly at those soft middle-class fools, cowering in their boots. Such petty measures would not protect them against real violence. We drove back to our place. I took the guns and loaded them into the boot. Meanwhile Barto went and blew the rest of the money on marijuana to tide us over. I threw a change of clothes, just as dirty as the ones I was wearing, into an old bag. Barto struggled under the weight of a large suitcase, containing the entire contents of his extensive wardrobe. We threw everything into the boot and headed from the decrepit inner-city slums to our new life.

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War Crimes

Rafiq Copeland

Retelling “War Crimes” from another character’s perspective

1.

A Northerly wind blew a tumbleweed across the hot road like in an old American cowboy film. A mosquito on my arm, unfazed, continued to suck until I squashed its engorged body, noting idly the small red stain that remained. I was amongst the first. Of course Soap had been here when I arrived, but it seemed that Soap had always been here. Soap wore poverty like a rich man wears a well-cut suit. Filth and grime had built up on his torn clothes and weathered face, from years of living a life that had once been rare. Soap was a trendsetter, unemployed before it was fashionable, so to speak. Now, when mismatched shoes and lank, putrid hair, once Soap’s trademarks, were the social norm, he had become an absurd parody of himself. Soap flashed a gummy grin at me, unconcerned by my silent examination. What a pair we made: me, in my once white Armani shirt, now devoid of cufflinks (surrendered to the pawnbroker), quickly catching up to Soap on the filth scale; him, licking calloused fingers of the last trace of a hurried meal. Once, not so long ago, it had been relatively easy to ‘acquire’ a tasteless frozen dinner from this foreboding factory. Now it was like trying to get blood from a stone. Still, even guards are human, and every human has a vice. Guards as a rule have more than most. Our meal finished, Soap and I left our place of concealment in the marshy scrub, to return to the relative safety of the others.

The worst shantytowns in India could not compare with the ragged lean-tos and humpies, which make up this hurriedly erected settlement of the disenfranchised. The frozen food factory looms above the scene like a silent edifice, silhouetted in the dusky twilight. The campfires of the unemployed flicker around the perimeter. Hunger is what bought them here, hunger and frustration. It had not always been like this.

Unemployment had become a way of life and the vagabonds formed into bands with leaders, organizations and even, in some cases, apocalyptic religions whose leaders preached the coming of the millennium. These last were as rare as threatened species, cosseted, protected and filmed by bored journalists eager for symbols of the times. The rest of the bands roamed the country, godless, hungry and unpublicized. It seemed that, at least in the past few weeks, most of them had ended up here, in front of this damned factory.

2.

The singing made me sick. Why did they have to sing? I knew the answer of course. Singing gave them hope, gave them a cause to live on and fight another day. By simply singing, “Blowing in the Wind” all their problems would be, if not solved, then temporarily forgotten, just for a moment. Bullshit. They were singing because they were bored. They were singing because that’s what the unemployed do, because they’d seen it on fucking television. The singing made me sick.

3.

I was woken by a single gunshot, but it did not take me long to return to sleep.

4.

The body of the boy has been tied to the perimeter fence. Everyone is aware of its significance as a portent, as a warning. Even the wind will not keep away the flies. I heard that his name had been Henry,

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though now that seems hardly relevant. Around me people stood and stared, then turned away in silence. Soon I too turned around and walked dejectedly back to the scrub, my mind buzzing with powerless rage. When I was quite young I had been allowed to stay up one night to watch The Great Escape with my father. For weeks afterwards I had zoomed happily around like Steve McQueen, glorious on my imaginary motorcycle. It was not the motorcycle scene that struck me the most in the film however, but another, and it was this scene that was haunting me now. Poor Private O’Harra, driven mad with frustration makes a dash for the fence and is shot in the act of climbing, his lifeless body hangs suspended in what, even as a young child I recognized as a bizarre parody of the crucifix. Unlike O’Hara our young boy was trying to break in, not break out, but I don’t think anyone will notice the difference. There is nothing we could do to fight this. The enemy is not a man but a culture. I smiled now as I thought of the boy’s body, surely capitalism has entered its most picturesque phase.

5.

Mark Twain once said that to take away ones job is to take away ones life. I told this to Soap, but he didn’t know who Mark Twain was. He didn’t care either. The atmosphere around the plant is becoming more and more intense, until it seems it must reach breaking point. And yet there is quietness. Something intangible has changed, something I cannot put my finger on. Something is going to happen. The morning after the boy was killed a solitary man left the plant on foot. It was the unemployed’s turn to show up capitalism’s grizzly reality. Revenge? Perhaps, but if so whose? I have trouble believing that that this well cut, smartly dressed executive would walk calmly out of the plant of his own accord. Certainly I do not believe that anyone will be fool enough to try it again. Not with this one’s well-groomed head still dribbling black blood on the wire fence. The ‘revenge’ was quick and ugly. Even as the body was being mutilated, spoils were being claimed. The discovery of hard cash in the executive’s briefcase caused something resembling a feeding frenzy of hyena. To my admitted surprise it was not long before this problem was resolved and the prizes were divided. However much we have become less than human, we are not yet animals. Not yet. And for myself? A new pair of cufflinks. I do not pretend for a moment that I am above the scavenging mob. This is a dog eat dog society, and I know my place. The sun set in it usual fashion, and of course the mosquitoes came out. Yet this night seems far from ordinary. There is a heavy oppressiveness in the air, like the electricity you can feel before a thunderstorm. Something is going to happen.

Andrew Poon

131

War Crimes

Simon Schmidt

Prologue

He sits beside me as I loosely grip the wheel, absently tapping the ash from his badly rolled joint onto the leg of his grimy, ripped trousers. He is short and dirty and ugly and smelly, but he is my friend, and today we go to work together – a six hundred mile journey in an old, decrepit, majestic Cadillac Eldorado. He bought the weapons, I bought the drugs, and somehow, somewhere, he found this magnificent car. It is a hot day, and, apart from the water pooling gradually around my feet, the Eldorado’s air conditioning appears to have little effect, but we both still wear our coats. I have a throbbing hangover, and am trying unsuccessfully to mask it with dope.

A speck in the sky slowly grows, sprouts wings and becomes an eagle. Effortlessly, it tilts and begins a wide, spiralling dive towards the barren red wasteland. It sweeps along close to the ground, for a moment parallel to the car. Though it is hundreds of feet away, I can feel the anger in its glare, the contempt its beady yellow eye holds for these weak, earthbound creatures hurtling nowhere in their suicidal metal cage. I feel the crunch of the Cadillac’s tyres biting into the soft gravel shoulder of the empty highway, and my eyes jerk back to the road. Ahead, a solitary building shimmers gently as the heat rises from the ancient bitumen.

* * *

The attendant comes out of the dingy hut as I press the horn for the fourth time. He is wearing only shorts and thongs, and looks like a small hairy prune, once fat and fleshy, now shrunken and wrinkled from age and lack of nutrition. He stares suspiciously at us, two stoned men sitting numbly in an old dusty Cadillac, and tells us we must pay before he will fill the tank. ‘Shit, I’ve got no money.’ I also search my pockets, but can find only a single dollar coin. ‘Fucking hell Barto,’ he says, spraying spittle over my shoulder, ‘you spent all our goddamn cash at that goddamn pub.’ He has his own gun, a tiny toy pistol that he keeps under the arm of his ragged jacket, but he thinks I don’t know about it, so instead he pulls my Colt out of the glove box. The marijuana and phencyclidine combine to make his movements sluggish and clumsy as he waves the .45 towards the folds of empty skin hanging limply from the sweating belly. The attendant backs off slowly, his tiny wet eyes darting between the two of us and the gun. He looks more angry than scared, but he fills the tank when I tell him to, saying fuck fuck you drug-fucked asshole punks. He finishes filling the car and says he will call the police as soon as we are gone. I know that the cops won’t give a shit about fifty bucks worth of petrol, but my associate, in his present drug-numbed state, is not so confident. ‘Shit, Barto,’ he whispers loudly ‘I’ll have to kill him.’ He pulls the trigger before I have time to decipher his slurred words, but, unused to the ancient revolver, he has not cocked it properly, and it merely clicks reproachfully at him. ‘Jesus Christ, you fucking lunatics,’ yelps the hairy prune. Now he does look scared.

You crazy fucker, give me the fucking gun. He angrily smashes the Colt against the dashboard, Useless fucking thing. I stamp on the accelerator; he calls the petrol attendant an asshole. On the road again, he finally calms down, and apologises for losing his temper.

(rewriting of) 2.I expect the desert to be overflowing with gangs of half-starved, half-crazy and half-naked vagabonds like they show on the news. I forget that the news is bullshit. I notice maybe three groups of distant figures wandering aimlessly, and two hunched, grimy hitch-hikers who run after us, gesticulating and screaming unintelligibly when we pass them without slowing. We see only one gang close up, camped under a couple of trees dying slowly next to a bridge. As we draw near, they start to drag a huge dead limb across the road. Confused by the THC curling lazily through my skull, I hesitate, take my foot of the pedal. ‘Shit, don’t stop,’ he squeals excitedly, a child trying a new trick. ‘Plant it.’ I do as he says. The engine roars. The bough is almost across the road, I swerve into the other lane to try to avoid the twisted bulk of it. Three faces. Three blackened, greasy faces – are they men?

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women? are they children? I cannot tell. Their eyes shine white, their pink mouths gape open as they turn towards us. I pummel the horn; one figure turns and leaps. Two faces. I hear the farting of breaking wood, the shuddering of the car as it tears through the clinging branches, the smashing of a headlight, but all I feel is the thudthud, so swift, so gentle, two puffs of tender smoke. No faces. They must have weighed nothing under those rags. I try desperately not to notice the fleeting softness under the wheels of the Cadillac. Shit. He asks, how did it feel. He speaks casually, questioning someone who has just been bungee jumping, or deep sea diving. I don’t know, I answer. I can’t think of a better word so I say sort of soft. I do not say that it felt like the ephemeral moment between life and death for two filthy beggars. He does not understand. I do not try to explain. He reaches for the bag of dope and rolls another joint. The air-conditioner leaks on my boots.

Royce Ng

133

Peeling

Adam Fraine

(This additional sequence is to be added after the line “…a man who can make a lump of barley sugar last all day”(p.87), and is to finish before the line “We sit side by side...” (p.87). )

I realise then that we have no newspaper - reading the paper together has become a regular occurrence for her and I. Always the same but different every time. We sit, totally engrossed but at the same time waiting for each other to speak, a gentle dual, a battle of wits and attractions. She reads births, deaths, marriages, I the employment section. I always make sure to buy a paper with a thick births, deaths, and marriages section. Perhaps I will buy a trinket for George, a small chocolate which, despite its cheapness, will nevertheless carry a certain charm. I am concerned about this notion, as it may give Nile the wrong impression, and further the relationship more rapidly than I would have preferred. I tell her that I am visiting the corner shop to buy a paper. She says, we have one already. I say, perhaps we don’t, perhaps you are confused. She says, perhaps. I leave, eager to please her with my swift return, yet with the victory in the small exchange still ringing in my ears. She has agreed to my judge of her character, perhaps a small step into breaking down her defenses, a small stepping-stone in the roadway of our upcoming relationship. So much for the “boy scout relationship” that Bernard so flippantly referred to before he left for another of his “visits” to Father Nelson. But I must control this breakthrough, no matter how minor it seems, so I set myself a date on which to pursue this avenue I walk past strangers, and the occasional acquaintance with whom I may have an unspoken agreement not to acknowledge. For as much as I would love to tell them of this treasure I have, this locked up beauty and the relationship that we share, both now and in the future, with a boasting tone in my voice, I believe that they would not be capable of realising my situation. To be frank, I always found my acquaintances dull, perhaps not able to contribute to a conversation that they have any comprehension of. It was then and would be now. Even though I spend most of my time inside, it is hard not to marvel at the wonder of outdoors. I could spout out the old lines about the bird on the wire or the multi-coloured sunrise, (which when compared to the radiant beauty I have in my keeping, pale in significance). No, I have always considered myself an intelligent but simple man, able to find beauty in even the simplest of things where perhaps others could not comprehend. Even those nights spent in the smutty strip club with the primitive Bernard, a pint of rancid imitation lager in my hand, I did not look at the writhing “beauty” making love to the pole (although incidentally she would look as masculine as a construction worker up there on the stage when compared to my darling). Rather, I would take in the smoothness of the skin, perhaps the fine craftsmanship of her lingerie, or the obvious care taken with pinning back each strand of bleached blonde hair. I look at small details. I would often leave these places questioning my masculinity, having not joined in the wolf-whistles and catcalls of my acquaintances, but still strangely overstimulated and excited. I have never figured out why. Perhaps I am an enthralling enigma? And so it is that I, marveling at the crispness of the autumn air and the feel of strangely soft asphalt cushioning my tailor-made loafers (sculpted from the finest Italian leather, and sold to me for half price because I had impressed the makers with my knowledge of Russian economics) completely miss the cornershop. I stop, laugh airily, and dismiss the aberration. After all, who could blame me? My thoughts drift again and again back to the apartment and her. Back to the question of which path my next strategy will take, how I will next reveal another portion of the delectable package that is she, and the subsequent savouring of this new taste, as it were. I enter the shop and grab a newspaper, marveling at my situation. A beautiful woman waiting for me when I return, our upcoming discussion of the dinner that I, for once, will cook, taking special care to be precise in my measurements, perfecting the flavours, then feeding it to her and laughing as the juices

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run down her chin while she exclaims delight at the taste. I look up to pay the store clerk and let out a cry as I stare into the eyeless, hairless face of a doll. It is not, as I would have thought, a cry of fright, but one of dissatisfaction, frustration and irritation as I see this apparition as a hindrance to my return home. I blink and the image shimmers, materializing into the head of the storeclerk. It is not a busy time of the day, a lull perhaps between the time that one struggles, naked, to the shower, and the time where they sit at the breakfast table, the knowledge dawning on them that they have no reading material. I can’t help it if they don’t have any foresight. The store-clerk seems eager to talk. He seems familiar. Slightly built, with frizzy, golden hair framing a long, narrow face. The nose is long and slender, the eyes seem piercing, a haunting reminder of the dolls which, I may add, do not frighten or worry me. I guess, if it were possible, in some absurd way, he could almost resemble my darling. I immediately chastise myself for being so flippant about the treasure I possess. He says, nice morning innit? I, immediately struck by his lack of cultivation, but also mindful of the need for politeness, say yes quite. He says, you alright? Taken aback by his front I say, what makes you say that? He says, you looked at me awhile there. . I decide to let him in on my secret. I say, as casually as possible, I want to get home to my darling. He says, what’s her name? I decide that this is too private a detail to tell someone off the street, so I stay silent. I realize then that I have made a mistake in sharing. I must wait until we are one before again entertaining this right. He then has to serve another customer so I turn and leave. It is fully light now, yet the light of the shop seems to burn brighter than that of the newly-risen sun, and as I look in the window, I see rows of dolls lining the shelves, all seeming to be facing and staring at the storeclerk. The walls, I hadn’t noticed, are coloured a sterile white. A series of emotions swimming in my head, I return home.

Daniel Fox

135

Peeling

Max Anceschi

Prologue

It seems to be early afternoon but I can’t be sure. I rose not long ago but feel quite content in my pyjamas; just watching the people walk by on the street. I look at their faces. Just quick glances as they move by. They all look so similar; I could be one of them if not for my white hair. I feel it does not belong to me. But then again, they are out there, and I am in the core, watching, from both the inside and out. I am sitting in my favourite chair. It is velvety green; quite like sitting in a tree full of leaves. I didn’t like it when I first saw it - far too intense. Bernard brought me a small plant instead. I didn’t want that at first either. It was my darling who persuaded me to keep it. She said she would water it for me each day. I smiled at the prospect and agreed. Since then she has been here on several occasions, but she always forgets to water the plant. I don’t remind her. It amuses me. Perhaps she has done it deliberately. I do not wish to ask why. Anyway, she has let the plant shrivel up and die since. I don’t see much point in bringing it up. I sit in my seat and drink my tea. I am quite fond of tea in the afternoon. Sometimes I will follow it up with a barley sugar – only if I have already finished my first one by that time. One will usually last me all day. When I was young I would crunch down upon them by the mouthful, not caring if I ran out or not. Now that I am older, I see that I must make them last – savour each one so that they may last forever. I am not fanatical about sweet drinks, or sugar in tea for that matter. I do like it milky though, like a fog of white mist enveloping the tea bag. As I have my tea I can see her stand out amongst the people on the street. It is the bare white contours of her face and neck that jump out at me from everything else. I watch and wait for her to come inside, possibly for the purpose of not watering the plant. I enjoy waiting for her to come. There is no need to rush in these matters. Part of the pleasure is the anticipation. I know where she has been. I can predict her every move, as if she were a toy I was playing with. She has been looking for dolls at the markets. She is forever bringing them back to her nest where they become, anonymous, I suppose. I don’t really understand why she paints them white, or removes their distinguishing features for that matter. I never thought it was my place to understand, but I will, possibly two or three years from now, when we reach that stage. There is a soft rap at the door; just as I knew there would be. She can’t resist washing my dishes, or so my theory goes. Inside she moves past without making a sound. She wants to wash the dishes, but I lead her to the bed where we sit for a while. She pushes the covers around to make herself comfortable as if she were making a nest in which to settle. It is the same small talk that we usually make. Each conversation reveals a new layer. Today I learn she has a love for oysters. I am intrigued but careful not to go beyond that point. Not today at least. She prepares the water for the washing. Her hands blend into the soft white suds as if she was melting into my sink. I look at her and smile to myself. It is an image I wish I could keep still forever. I picture her in underwear and high heels, cleaning my pots with a vague indifference. The soft, soapy suds slowly run down her delicate arm. They continue to roll down behind her, into the small of her back, and around her waist. The bubbles catch on the top of her stockings and attract my attention with a glimmer of pretty light. I must stop. There will be nothing left if I go too quickly. She has finished now and resumes talking to me as I do to her. I can do this now and still reflect because neither of us pays much attention. It is just enough communication to move to the next topic, which I anticipate with excitement. She tells me of a man named George, and a son I believe. I have heard the whole story before, but I nod anyway. I stare past her words to her petite mouth, moving delicately to form the vowels and consonants. Her teeth are pearl white, perhaps longing to be near the oysters in the deep, life-yielding ocean. Suddenly I land back in reality when she feebly tells me she must leave. I am not overly upset; I can wait for her next visit when we will go one step closer to truly understanding each other. She gracefully slips out and her soft patters ascend the stairs. I smile and stroll back to my bed. My darling, my Cinderella – she has left a glove behind on my pillow. I stroke it and savour its delicate scent. I am one step closer.

136

Room No.5 (Escribo)

Maciek Zielinski

Epilogue

DayI sit in the corner of this cold, damp cell. Light trickles through the small opening protruded by iron bars. In the dark I hear water dripping from the ceiling gently, delicately, like soft footsteps searching their way in the dark. Outside I hear the subdued, melancholy, rustic voices of Timoshenko’s soldiers singing ritualistic songs. There is a clatter of feet marching across the cobblestone courtyard I have seen on a daily basis for however long I have now been here. The monotonous daily procedure has seemed to drag on for an eternity, continuing uninhibited, unchronicled. The anxiety is returning – I cannot make sense of anything. I am anxious not only for my treatment, and my fate. I am also anxious about you. As I progress day after day through the courtyard, being warmed by the hour or so of sun I am liberally permitted to experience, I think of your last words to me. They seem so ambiguous, so mystifying – not relieving me of my desire for comprehension, for understanding, for complete control of thought. The cell shakes as trucks rumble into the courtyard outside, troops filing in and out of them uniformly and efficiently. My line of thought is broken, as it has been before, and timelessness envelops me once more. The guard arrives as per daily routine and slides the solitary tray with the same spoon and yoghurt-filled bowl through my hatch. I have rejected the yoghurt so repeatedly, sliding it back through the door, that one would think they are well aware of this. Are they simply teasing me? The guard will return with another meal, but tomorrow will almost certainly be a repetition of today.

BeforeI have been arrested, so have you. What seemed to have finally been our exodus was not in reality. You had never told me of the second border post, a few kilometres beyond the first – indeed, I had never asked you, not wanting to encounter a vacant response supplemented with your ageless, fixed smile. Shaking Jorge’s hand had been a mistake – I had given too much of myself away without being aware of doing so. They had found the letter in my suitcase. It had been classified incriminating, although constructed to reveal nothing. Knowing nothing, however, it was possible to reveal everything, that had been the danger. Jorge had been there as the bus had been turned around and sent back down the winding mountain road. A smile, or perhaps more a broad grin had etched itself across his face, upon encountering us once more, aware and in control of our beings.

NightI sit in a bare room, lights glaring upon my face. They have beaten me senseless, doused me in ice-cold water and then tortured me once more. I still feel the electricity running through me, so tactically and painfully applied through my testicles. Tinted windows surround me, lucidly reflecting a sorry sight. Before me stands a table, a solitary spoon and a bowl of yoghurt. They are playing with me. Their eyes peer across at me from every angle. They surround me with their foul, sniggering smiles. They interrogate me, dissecting my every statement. I attempt to control my answers, yet they are relentless, leaving no detail uncovered, undisputed, unresolved. The cross-examination becomes painful, draining whatever signs of life remain in me. My head begins to spin, eventually I collapse and pass-out on the stone floor… They have brought me into a room. You are there, smiling. So they have you too? My doubts are momentarily dispelled. I am thrown into a chair. The others exit and we are alone. You smile at me, that unchanging smile revives my anxiety. You hold the letter in your hand.

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I say, so you are one of them? You say, don’t try to understand. I say, but you said you loved me. You will never understand. I say, understand what? You smile and return no answer.

MorningPerhaps today my existence will be revoked. All I know is that I have been told, and now I wait, patiently, contentedly - it seems all anxiety is now passed. Conceivably, this may have been instigated by boredom, through this timeless daily procession. My questions remain unanswered, only greeted with a vacant look and your vacant smile. I do not know when, where, how, why, yet I am certain that they will provide sufficient reasoning behind their decision, as required. I know they will take me to the bloodstained wall in the adjacent courtyard, blindfold me and then step away. I shall see you then, smiling as always, your face unchanged as a photo still, encaptured and engraved for eternity. I shall not hear the executioner’s voice, as he likewise will not see my expression. Perhaps it is better that way – he will remain, left with a thousand unanswered questions. There will be no fear, no anxiety, and no regret for at that final moment you shall frown and I shall finally be acceptant of that which I cannot control. They have brought me a bowl of yoghurt. With hopeless resignation I yield and eat. I allow myself to accept its repulsive texture. Finishing the bowl I lick it clean and push it aside.

TomorrowThe sun is veiled behind the slowly darkening clouds, its rays hopelessly attempting to filter through any unevenness, any gaps, any weaknesses that present themselves. Rain is imminent - an omen to the occasion. I stroll past the border post appreciatively smelling the cool, damp air of freedom. Swarms of refugees eagerly await a return to the land they fled not so long ago. Timoshenko is dead, but no mourning accompanies his passing - only an outburst of rage. You fled with your conspirators; they released me, murdering the prison guards. As I board the empty bus, I look back upon the city now ablaze, smoke rising up between the squalid constructions. The bus slowly winds around the mountain; behind me a slowly vanishing scene of rape, pillage and anarchy disappears behind a ridge. I think to myself, we shall meet again. Smiling, I await my fate…

PostscriptIn Candalido I ask you about the first time we crossed the border and why you crossed separately. You say it is because of the underwear, because they always do that… at the small border posts … take out the underwear. I say, why should I mind? You say, it was dirty

J. Lukies

138

American Dreams

Edward Strong

Rewriting from the viewpoint of Mr. Gleason

A shaky hand reached up to the apple tree, like a flower desperately reaching for the sun. The body was obscured by the high stonewall, but Gleason knew who it was. His suspicions were confirmed as the figure, successful in capturing his prize, ran out of the yard, like an apprehensive leopard hastily retreating into the jungle to devour his kill with no threat of scavengers. Or predators. Gleason leaned back, smiling at his clever analogy. He noted the actions of the boy in his small, leather-bound journal, then closed it with a tiresome sense of relief and satisfaction, like a business man who has finished a report for a director that is beholden to a company that neither respects nor recognises him. Adjusting his thin wire frames placed tightly on his nose, Gleason rose from his position by the window. Replacing the journal in his hand with a book titled In Defence of Socialism, by Fidel Castro, Gleason retired to his bed. Soon he would be ready, he thought to himself. The evaluation would come soon, and the punishment would be carried out with clarity and resolve. He had watched the town grow, from its early days with just a grocer and a butcher, to its comparative substantial size. It had never flourished, but with a steady growth over the last twenty years its present state was ‘good’ in relation to its earlier expectations. Ironically, however, Gleason had only seen it shrink- in values and atmosphere. The people treated their home with contempt, as if they had been placed in a prison, unable to escape, caged in by the hills on one side and the river on the other. As the town grew, the peoples’ expectations grew rapidly larger, and the town could never keep up. Stop! Be Thankful! Reflect! These were the thoughts running through Gleason’s mind. If only they could sit by the river as he did, and contemplate the eddies created by the barely submerged rocks, and marvel at the spider who flew through the air on its web only to land on the water and struggle against the current. This was what the people were: flying on hope and dreams, struggling to cross the river for a reason so unclear it was almost ridiculous. Why would they want to cross that river? Didn’t they see that the other side was the same, except for the fact that it wasn’t them? He had to show them what they already knew; what they should realise. The hopelessness of their dreams; their American dreams. With these thoughts spinning through his head, Gleason gave into the dizziness and drifted into a restless sleep. The plan was total genius, although the people probably wouldn’t realise the extent of it. Gleason didn’t mind – the eventual realisation of his aims would make them think about their lives, about where they wanted to be and the suffocating reality of that place. He would expose their follies not through himself, but to themselves. They would realise what he had been trying to say, and they would agree with him. All he had to do was show them the horrors of their aspirations, and turn their soiled dreams into nightmares. The opportunity came shortly after his plans had been completed. Like a clock, each event was perfectly preceded by another. It was with surprise that he learned of the sale of the property on bald hill, and this only reinforced in him the conviction that a heavenly force was allowing his scheme to unfold. He didn’t mind paying more than he should have for the arid, dry patch of uneven land. His wife had no idea what he was doing- she had given up asking a while ago, and now passively accepted what he asked of her. He had no doubts that she would agree with him when she found out. He didn’t care anyway: he no longer loved her, he had decided. He wouldn’t have cared if she left, although he did need her to take her weekly trip to the grocers… and to the hardware store. Lately, a slice of America had landed in the town in the form of brightly coloured paints. Almost everyone had painted their houses, perhaps to cover the dull greys, browns, and whites that contained their insecurities. Typically, the paints were cheap- an unwanted range from a larger town that had thrown the scraps to the scavengers. Within a few months the paint was beginning to crack and peel, a testimony, Gleason noted in his journal, to the fragility and superficial nature of their dreams. Once bright, their dreams would, like the paint, became cracked and crumble, and eventually be stripped away to reveal past lives and the realisation of their wasted existences. Gleason requested his wife to purchase him the

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paints, one colour for every house. He couldn’t let the construction of his creation be seen by the townspeople, so he decided to build walls around the property. He snickered at the brilliance of his plan as he handed the Chinese labourers the money to purchase the bricks. He would, like America, use foreign labour to build his dream of enlightenment for the townspeople. Like the blacks stolen from Africa, the Chinese would unwillingly build his edifice. Construction of the walls began early one morning in April, a cool breeze allowing the mortar to harden quickly between the bricks. The Chinese worked with characteristic precision, working quickly and neatly, the bricks stacked in big cubes. They laboured cooperatively for a common goal, and soon the walls were taking shape. A few of the locals struggled up the big hill towards the property, enquiring about Gleason’s intentions. A few called him crazy, a loony. One tried to talk him out of it. He was the inventor, a man who spent his days admiring machinery. “This is pointless”, the inventor said. Gleason replied with a patronising smile. Within a few weeks the walls were finished. Great, big, huge walls, with wooden gates at one end that hid his masterful creation. The walls stood like imposing giants at each side, allowing no one entry. Now that his plan had begun, it couldn’t be stopped. He knew there was no way to turn back. He started constructing the houses out of small pieces of wood purchased from the hardware store. The first took two months to complete. It was exact, a replica of Dyer’s butcher shop. The next was the service station. The petrol pumps took especially long to make, as they constantly broke under the slightest pressure. Finally, he found a wood that was strong enough to withstand his clumsy grip, and produced two petrol pumps in exact relative size to the service station. A year had passed since the construction of the walls, and people had begun to lose interest in them. They became a part of the landscape, as usual as a tree in the distance. The town’s exterior was almost complete, with a few missing trees and signposts left to include. The paint had become brittle and now resembled the houses down below Bald Hill, and Gleason knew that it was time to make the people. His first was the man who had told of the pointlessness of his walls. The inventor. Gleason positioned him admiring Dyer’s bike, the first in the town with gears. Dyer was next to him, standing outside his shop. The inventor’s son was leaned against one of the petrol pumps, a bemused expression across his face as he watched his friend clown around. A tear often ran down Gleason’s face as he looked down upon his creation, like God looking down on his Earth. It was beautiful, the most beautiful thing that Gleason had ever seen. He knew that others would feel the same way upon seeing his art- art? Could he call it that? He decided he could: it was an interpretation of life. Closing the wooden gates to his world, Gleason headed home. He positioned Mrs. Cavanagh in bed with Craigie Evans. He had decided that he would portray the truth- the truth of their dreams and the truth of their lives. He paused to consider whether anyone would think to lift the roofs of the houses. They would, he reasoned. Upon seeing Dyer and the inventor then they would inevitably be curious as to their own location. His trembling hands closed the final roof as he finished his final inspection of the town. Stepping back, he viewed the town as an artist views a finished piece of painstaking work that has taken weeks, months, even years. The image of the town would reveal to them its beauty, their beauty, their worth without the empty dreams of unseen lands that have given nothing but false hopes. They searched for pathways to their cars, their shoes, and their new microwave ovens! But they never searched for themselves, their own unique existence and the town that played such a large part in it. They owed this town for their identities, but all they could do was show contempt for it. They threw rubbish on its streets, oil in its river and they directed their love in the opposite direction. What they would do with the model would be the final test. Would they destroy it, love it or use it? Would they do all three? Gleason had given orders to his wife to have the walls taken down upon his death. He didn’t want to see the reactions of people. Even though he aimed to change them, he was horrified at the thought of what they may become. Sitting in his armchair, staring out the window, Gleason thought back to the spider trying to cross the lake. He envisaged it firing its web and defiantly climbing back up to the tree, back to its home and back to the safety of its curled-up leaf. Then, a bird swooped and tore through the spider, guzzling it down its throat. Horrified, Gleason closed his eyes, never to open them again.

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OPINIONATIVEAdrian Halliday

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He’s gone As Far As He Can…

Kai Yuan Cheng

Man. The apex of the animal hierarchy. The zenith of all living organisms. The chosen one whom God created in His own image. Creature of unsurpassed intelligence. The diadem of evolution.

These notions struck me as I was reading the newspaper one evening. “Genome Project Changes Humanity” proclaimed one article, “Map of Human Accomplished” trumpeted another. No matter which page I flipped to, it seemed that “Man” was excelling and strutting in all walks of life. As I turned on the television that night, I was reassured that the universe gravitated around Earth, and the world gravitated around “Man”. It was a continual case of veni, vidi, vici.

There appears to be an underlying arrogance in our society, a smug confidence that whatever our whims may be, science and technology will hand it to us on a silver platter. People seem to believe in our species’ invincibility, our position of superiority in this world. I suspect that the completion of the human genome project was just more fodder for our species’ arrogance.

No, don’t get me wrong, I am not criticizing the fine scientists and researchers who are doing their work for purely utilitarian reasons. It just seems to me that the number of diseases a person can contract in a lifetime is proportional to the technological development of the era. With the growing myriad of medical disease terminology today, your average bloke has a greater selection of illnesses to die from. Whereas in the old days, if a person contracted a disease, they simply said that it was an act of God and be done with it. There was a lot less whining and a lot more use of their time. I hear that our modern pioneers of medicine are excited by the possibility of the genome project in predicting what problems our body will contract twenty years down the track. But what about the big “D”? Death – the mother of all diseases. You would have thought that after three million years of evolution, someone would have done something by now…

Of course, I must concede that scientific developments have had some advantages. After all, how otherwise could there be atomic bombs, Chernobyl nuclear power plants, sex change operations, and Japanese toilet bowls with nozzle sprays for your backside?

Confession time. I simply love my computer. I would have children with it if I could. It is the ultimate culmination of five decades of scientific research and nano-technology. I no longer have to speak to my friends face to face. I no longer need a man’s best friend. My virtual hamster and sheep will roll over anytime. I can spend four to five hours surfing the internet instead of kicking a football with a friend in the back yard. I can buy virtually anything without seeing a human face. Human contact is no longer necessary with the technology embodied in the internet and my computer. In the future, I could probably live out the rest of my existence with a computer without seeing another human being.

In the mean time, I will just have to be content with the plain ordinary technology. Air-conditioning to cool the summers, and central heating to warm the winters. Is it just me or is it true that all the latest inventions are obsessed with pleasuring the senses? Have humans finally reached the point where no more significant technology can be concocted? When you scrutinize the last two thousand years of human experience, all we have been striving for has always been power, speed, and luxury. Yes, yes. I hear all you fair-minded people bristling with indignation, pointing towards the past and arguing: “But look at Mr. Galilei. Look at Mr. Newton!”. And I’ll probably place a gentle hand on your shoulder, steer you around to the present and say: “But LOOK at Mr. Enzo Ferrari. LOOK at Mr. Calvin Klein.”

Maybe it is something in the bones, some primal urge deep with the recesses of the human brain which drives us to feed on the weak and derive sadistic pleasure from watching the demise of our brethren. For thousands of years, man has yearned to fly. Today, this is possible. For thousands of years, man has also dreamt of utopia. Today, this is still impossible. In scientific development, we may have come a long way. However, in our basic needs and moral development, we are on par with the Neanderthal man. Today, even with the technology and science to realize those utopian ideals, we choose to turn our backs on the

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weak, and instead use the same technology in creating weapons to further human misery.

Sadly, the human lust for comfort and status has not undergone Darwinian evolution. Today, our eyes trail after the Porche 911 Turbo; yesterday, it probably trailed after the well-greased Roman chariot of six-horse power with golden wheels and matching helmet. Despite the distance which humans have crawled from the Neanderthal cave, our needs are still governed by Neanderthal instincts.

Maybe I am wrong, maybe Man has gone far in the accomplishment of his ideals, and maybe he is the diadem of evolution. And maybe Porche will go out of business…

The Beginning of the End for Australian Culture

Matthew Dodds

As I look at the youth of today, I am disgusted by the Americanisation of their way of life that goes on before our very eyes and yet I seem powerless to prevent it. The Americanisation of Australian culture is destroying the sense of Australian identity among the young to the extent that they seem almost unable to differentiate between the two.

One needn’t look for evidence of how the American way of life is affecting our young. The local television guide provides a veritable smorgasbord of American sitcoms, dramas, soaps and talk shows. Are we as a country unable to produce anything other than cheap game shows? It certainly seems that way! Australians should be outraged by the monopoly that the American television programs hold over those produced locally! It deprives our young of the cultural exposure that is otherwise so difficult to convey without the assistance of domestic travel.

As I sit writing this article, my computer is continually bombarding me with offensive supposed corrections to my English that are merely the American presets with which my computer came installed. I ask you; how many times must I tell the computer that Americanisation is spelt with an s? We as a nation should take more pride in our language and take care to preserve it so that our young may continue to reap the benefits of its rich culture. It appalls me to see young Australians content to settle for the Americanised variant of the English language and not able in some cases to even recognise that we as a people actually have our own system of language that is unique and beautiful in its own right. Are we to sit back and watch as our youth willingly embrace the modifications to our language that increasingly seem to be merging with those of the American dictionary? Are we really so unpatriotic that we can just watch our entire sense of Australian identity takes its position in the queue to board the good year blimp for a one-way journey to America? I think not!

If one is not satisfied that the Americanisation of Australian culture is already firmly established within our society, you need no more than to walk down to your local shopping centre or ‘mall’ as the case may be and look at the labels that dominate our shelves. Last that I remember ‘Coca-Cola’, ‘Microsoft’ and ‘Calvin Klein’ weren’t symbols of Australian identity, but it seems as though they have been embraced by our culture and simply accepted without questioning. But at least we know that if we’re in trouble some day it won’t be more than half a kilometre before we can take refuge in a friendly McDonalds store; just follow the trail of rubbish!

Certainly we have benefitted from the cultural influence of the Americans with such movements as the women’s and the sexual liberation movements, but as a multicultural nation we must not allow ourselves to be as completely enveloped as we have been. Without the active opposition of patriotic members of our society, it won’t be long until our children are completely unaware of any distinction between the Americans and ourselves, resulting in a complete loss of social and cultural identity that marks the demise of a truly wonderful nation.

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“Ignorance is Bliss”

Ray Boyapati

Whoever coined the term, “ignorance is bliss”, was probably suffering from a severe case of ignorance.

With the recent brouhaha over ‘The Knowledge Nation’, it seems to be a perfect time to reflect critically on the old adage that idealises ignorance. Is ignorance really bliss? Or is the term simply a convenient excuse for those who are too lazy to become conversant with their world? Over the last century, the worthy aim of universal education has spurned the information age and people are becoming increasingly knowledgeable of world affairs. However, this overload of information has brought a misconception that ignorance is something exotic and wonderful. We must stem this delusion and continue to persevere for a world in which awareness and understanding is universal, expected and respected.

The only way people can hope to take advantage of their surroundings is to be informed and knowledgeable. Charles Darwin’s widely supported theory of natural selection purports that species which do not have an advantage over their competitors will eventually perish. This theory is equally relevant today in human society. Instead of physical advantages, however, it is knowledge that is important. In today’s society, if you are ignorant it is very difficult, if not impossible, to take advantage of your situation and circumstances. In any field of endeavour, those who succeed are those who ‘know’. Although those who are not ignorant may not ‘perish’, they will not be able to succeed in today’s competitive society. Being unsuccessful is surely not bliss!

During the middle ages, the nobility had a firm stranglehold over all the power and wealth in Europe because they had power over the common people. They were able to exercise absolute authority over the underclass majority because they were able to keep them ignorant. George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four illustrates vividly how ignorance is used by those in power to maintain supremacy. In Nineteen Eighty-Four, the Inner Party was able to keep the proletariat ignorant and thus ineffectual. Since they had no ideology or knowledge of the world, they were not able to unite to become a powerful force. Ignorance is the primary weapon that is used against the masses, in any autocratic and dictatorial type regime. In China, Iraq and even Malaysia, the power structures use censorship as a means of keeping the majority ignorant and silent. If your idea of heaven is living under a dictatorial regime, then perhaps for you, ignorance is bliss; for everyone else, it isn’t.

Only people who have easy access to knowledge would be so superficial as to suggest that ignorance is bliss. There are millions of starving children around the world who walk barefoot many kilometres a day to attend school. I have a feeling that they wouldn’t believe that ignorance is bliss. One of the United Nations fundamental human rights is access to education. This is because it is clear that education and knowledge is the only real way to break out of the poverty cycle. As stand up comedian, Ali G, said, “There are two ways out of the ghetto: with an AK [a type of gun] or a B.A.” People are becoming too lax in their appreciation of education. Information is almost excessive for those in the developed world with the advent of the internet. We are beginning to dream of the ‘wonderful’ world of ignorance. It is time to shatter that ‘dream’.

Those who suggest ignorance is bliss argue that with ignorance comes a sense of enjoyment of life without the obvious constraints that arise with knowledge. Too much knowledge, they say, dulls the sparkle of life. In a way, this is true. People who are ignorant certainly are more able to enjoy themselves in the present. However, this view of ‘enjoyment’ is short-sighted and always comes at the cost of long-term benefits. For example, people who are ignorant in financial issues may blow their money immediately, thus enjoying life temporarily. The more knowledgeable people, however, would be more financially prudent, with the rewards being reaped down the track.

It is important that we flush out the fallacy of ignorance being heavenly. We must always realise that knowledge is not something we should take for granted. Millions of people around the world do not know how to cope with their world because of their ignorance. They are certainly not living in bliss. Policy makers should concentrate efforts to ensure that people have the capacity to take advantage of their environment so that people are able to succeed in their lives. It may not be a vote winner – people who are ignorant may not understand the importance of education and those who are knowledgeable may take it for granted – but it is of great importance for the future of our country.

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True Freedom – Myth or Reality?

Geoffrey Wong

Freedom is something that we, as Australians may take for granted. We all hear about foreign countries where oppression and tyranny dominate and the people suffer under malicious dictators or are held captive within their own war-torn country. They can only dream about the life we experience in Australia – a place where the people are free to roam about the streets without the fear of being shot and killed, a place where freedom of speech and the right to express one’s own opinions and views is encouraged.

True freedom can be defined as the absolute power to act or speak at will and to behave in any way we wish. True freedom is the capability to stop following the restraints by which we are bound and to escape into our own illusion of reality, our own sense of what we want life to be. This involves exemption from the unpleasant burdens in life; casting off the shackles which restrict and limit our capacity to live life as we wish and to enjoy the privileges of having the right to control our own humanity. As appealing as true freedom seems to be, we know that it cannot be manifested in society. The absolute visage of true freedom is only a myth, a figment of our imagination – an invention by our mind that helps us to escape the harsh realities of the outside world. Since it is only an imaginary idea, it can only be classified as a ‘myth’. Even so, the practicalities of true freedom do not conform to a Utopian lifestyle and a society that is ‘truly free’ would never be considered as paradise.

When dreaming about a place of true freedom, we ignore the cold hard fact that freedom must also be balanced by a set of laws and moral standards which are the basis of a fair and just society. These morals and scruples are the building blocks of a ‘free’ society, essential to keep order and stability as opposed to a deteriorating society without a firm basis of rules and regulations. When taking into account what a ‘truly free’ society would be like, we must realise that moral restraints would be non-existent with the people allowed to do whatever they wished. This already gives the impression of an unsustainable civilization in total anarchy and chaos. If there is no law against murder, this means that people are free to kill whoever they wish without any consequence. Therefore the question must be asked: does true freedom necessarily constitute a perfect world? Obviously not. There is no doubt that a world of complete freedom is only a myth, which we wish to look upon as a place of refuge and escape. However, in reality, this world does not exist and cannot exist.

No-one is truly free. We are all constrained in some way or another by a variety of different factors which may be physical, social, cultural, political, environmental or economic. These factors all hold us down and prevent us from being truly free. For example, the financial limitation of one’s salary prevents them from actively doing whatever they want whether it be purchasing a new house or going overseas for a holiday. For people to possess the sense of absolute freedom they must have the power to control these factors and be uninfluenced by them. We know that having total control over humanity is not possible and hence true freedom can only be a myth within our own consciousness.

The whole conceptual notion of ‘true freedom’ is really up to the perception of what we consider to be free; it’s totally up to the interpretation of the individual. Women today can consider themselves to be more truly free compared to a hundred years ago when women were oppressed and held no significant place in society. For some, having basic human rights is already their idea of true freedom – therefore, true freedom is what we make it to be. If people claim that they have true freedom, who are we to dispute that? For that is his own individual perception and that is the only thing which counts. As in the George Orwell’s Nineteen Eighty-Four, the people under the dictatorship of Big Brother believe in the slogan “Freedom Is Slavery” and hence for them being in extreme slavery to Big Brother represents true freedom.

The pursuit of absolute freedom is both meaningless and fruitless as it does not exist for the simple reason that a society built on excessive freedom is like a house built on sand – it will not last. Therefore the idea of possessing true freedom is a myth as we are bound by a set of rules in one form or another.

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Religion Has Done More Harm Than Good

Owen Wolahan

“If there is a God, atheism must seem to Him as less of an insult than religion.” – Goncourt

“If you really want to make a lot of money, start your own religion.” – –L. Ron Hubbard (Listen to this man, he doesn’t pay tax now)

Sure, religion gives people hope, sure, it unites disparate masses, but it drives nations apart, and it costs a lot of money. In this essay, I plan to look at a number of historical happenings and manipulate whatever facts I can find about them within fifteen minutes, to suit my argument, or perhaps change my argument to suit the facts I find. Or maybe I should just say what I think, and look for a couple of numbers and dates to synthesise real research. I suppose the latter idea would be best. Okay, then, religion. Well, it’s certainly played a pretty big role in our history, so it has to be important. I am going to argue here, that religion has done more harm than good, but it has been, ultimately, a positive thing. I must make positively clear, however, that I am talking about religion, not God. I call myself neither a man of science nor a man of religion, for I have footholds in both, and am perhaps guilty of a little “double-speak” in holding that view, but I’m not going to change it, however many cogent arguments the schismed teams throw at me. I am not going to overlook falling apples, and I not going to overlook thousands of years of certainty. One thing in argument against religion is the body count associated with it: the absolutely huge number of deaths that occur directly because of religion. Also, it takes up a lot of time and money and effort, all for something that leaves you with nothing to show. At least nothing anyone can prove they have.

Let’s take a quick look at the Crusades (yes, I’m sure you saw them coming in this essay, they always come up in discussions like this), a look so quick it’s hardly going to do them justice. I mean, they lasted for almost two centuries, on and off. The crusades involved a lot of death, a lot of theft and most likely some violation, knowing the reputation medieval soldiers have. There was a fair bit of pillaging and village burning. Some spouting and some espousing certainly occurred. A creepy thing, apparently some of the knights apparently chanted hymns while they hacked the limbs off their perfidious enemies in their oh-so-virtuous quest to righteously seize back the Holy Land. Just imagine that, really. It’s creepy, but in a twisted way, kind of cool. I’m not sure of the actual body count, but it had to be huge. Entire countries were seized, and retrieved and seized again. There were six separate crusades, and there was even a Children’s Crusade, where children from France and Germany marched off to the Holy Land to seize it, believing only children could accomplish such a task. Most of them never made it; so there’s a fairly large body count right there, and we all know that a child’s death counts for the death of four soldiers when it comes to a war and its popularity. The death of children is hard to justify, and it has negated the justification of many a cause. So, you can see that religion caused a particularly large amount of death and loss.

Now, to an event a little closer to our current point in time, and concerning something many parents fear: cults. The event: Heaven’s Gate, in particular. Sure, there are a lot of cults preaching transcendence through cyanide, but this is the one I know about. Remember the Heaven’s Gate cult? That was the one that made its followers dress in black, carry a black suitcase and wear black Nikes. They gathered, they drank, they transcended. Well, that was the plan. The reality is, at best, they went to hell (according to the Bible, anyway), but the long and the short of it is they died. Quite a few of them, as I recall. There, body count again. Religion causing death, religion causing loss.

On to Palestine and Israel, and the troubles they’re having right now. Or should I say, the troubles they’re having right now that are finally getting some airtime on CNN. This is a similar issue that spawned the Crusades. We’re still dealing with the Holy Land, and infidels occupying the said Land, and righteous warriors breaking out the steel and laying into the infidels, indulging in some jolly good smiting. (Pip pip

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cheerio! and all that swell stuff.) Who’re the righteous warriors, and who’re the infidels? No one really remembers anymore, and the steel has been replaced with rubber and stones, but people are still dying. We all remember a little boy who got front page spread three days in a row. There you are, children again.

So, religion causes death, religion causes loss, religion causes outcry. (I think I’ve said the word ‘religion’ too many times in that sentence.) I apologise for not taking this particularly seriously, but I did that mainly to stop myself from falling asleep while typing it, and also to prevent an overly clichéd look at the topic. Anyway, back to the essay. From the three examples I’ve put forward above, it’s obvious and irrefutable that religion has been a pretty harmful thing, and in that sense, it has truly done more harm than good. But, let’s not forget the one thing that religion gives people that they need: hope. I’m going to assume, you (the reader) watched The Shawshank Redemption, because it’s one of the greatest movies ever filmed. What that movie pointed out was that hope is a pretty decent thing to have, and certain belief in a supreme, omnipotent and benevolent being is surely going to fill your heart with wonderful hope that overflows any measure. I know it’s a flimsy point to be basing my contention on, but this is faith we’re talking about.

Another thing religion brought with it (some religions anyway), and a damn fine thing at that, is morality. I read somewhere someone pointing out that what once were sins are now diseases, but I digress. Religion provides fundamental laws, ingrained in the human psyche that will stand us in good stead in times of anarchy. Such building blocks as The Ten Commandments, and with it, general Christian philosophy, dictating that it is wrong to act in ways that are injurious to others.

One thing that stems from my comment above, that “I am talking about religion, not God”, is perhaps that it is religion that hurts people and drives them apart, and God that gives them hope. Hope is a crutch in times of despair and times of loss. Such times that religion causes, perhaps. You may think I am contradicting my own contention here by seemingly arguing with it, but without religion, humanity would not have God. And without God where would we find our hope? Terry Pratchet pointed out that gods die without belief, and that is what I believe Nietzche was saying when he said, “God is dead”.

God isn’t dead and hope isn’t dead, but we certainly need a new system of worship.

Daniel Fox

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Discontent

“Discontent is the First Step in the Progress of a Man or a Nation” – Oscar Wilde

Michael Chen

A near-deserted bar in London. Two figures are seated inconspicuously in a gloomy alcove. Their muffled voices can just be made out…

First Man: With all due respect, my friend, I don’t think your verbal abuse of Mr Wilde is called for. The fact that he had an affair with Alfred Douglas does not invalidate the acuity of his political observations. He may have been a fin-de-siécle playwright, but he was a romantic by nature…

Second Man: I’m glad you admitted it. Romantics are exactly the problem in keeping the ship of state steady. Oh, why did I have to mention ships! A sardine tin fails to resurface and not only is my holiday in the Black Sea aborted, but the entire female population in Russia has gone into hysterics. They lack self-discipline, that’s the problem.

First Man: I’m sorry about your shortened holiday, Vlad, but your comment on self-discipline is relevant. You see, when all those wives and mothers and sisters expressed their discontent with the way you handled the whole Pursk fiasco, what did you do? You sent in female KGB medicos with tranquilizers. Your people’s discontent will be augmented by your efforts to suppress it.

Vlad: What you fail to understand, Nelson, probably because 25 years in jail has made you lose touch with reality, is that people by nature are sheep-like, infantile and passive. Their discontent is the discontent of a child deprived of a lolly. It is my duty as President to act the responsible parent, to decide at what point indulging my people will become counter-productive.

Nelson: This paternalistic attitude to the people, this keeping them disempowered, is the very reason communism’s failed, old boy. Had you given them the latitude to voice their discontent, instead of throwing them into the Gulag whenever an opposing opinion was expressed, communism might have slowly evolved, instead of violently imploding.

Vlad: I would take it kindly if you did not criticise my government or actions, old man. As it stands, we provide munificently for our people, like anxious parents who furnish their children with every material comfort to keep them happy. All right, I admit it, we want to prevent discontent, so that these children of ours won’t want to leave home, ever.

Nelson: Don’t you realise that a healthy upbringing is one in which enough freedom, enough challenge, enough stimuli are provided so that the child may express discontent and leave home if he or she so chooses? In the same way, whereas your totalitarian regime punishes and suppresses discontent, democracies, like judicious parents, give their public a voice and the power to control their own destinies. Any discontent is expressed in creativity towards progress. The student radical becomes the pinstripe-suited politician.

Vlad: I don’t know how you can project discontent in a positive light, when all the malcontents I can think of came to a sticky end. Jesus ended up nailed to a cross, Joan of Arc burnt at the stake, Martin Luther King shot…That’s hardly progress.

Nelson: You might say that my sitting in jail for 25 years didn’t contribute to progress, but it transformed South Africa. True, those brave enough to stick their heads out are likely to get it chopped off. But that’s the risk that visionaries accept, and willingly. They know how high the stakes are. Of course Jesus was crucified – he practically asked for it. Similarly, Joan of Arc and Martin Luther King would have thoroughly applauded the brutality of their murders. Their violent deaths galvanised the world, immortalising them

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as martyrs and their actions as heroic deeds, irrevocably changing the course of history for the better.

Vlad: Sure, some big shots will be fondly remembered, but the also-ran malcontents like Steve Biko just ended up dead in the back of a jeep, contributing nothing to progress in South Africa. And the policemen who killed him were never brought to justice. So don’t give me that nonsense about discontent leading to progress. All it does is encourage chaos and death and libertarianism, accelerating the moral degeneration of society.

Nelson: You really cannot transcend an authoritarian approach to human nature, can you? You must play the policeman. So it’ll be hard for you to understand that word getting out about Steve Biko gave Africans the moral confidence to end apartheid forever. Frankly, I don’t think you’re capable of accepting that discontent is what distinguishes us from the beasts and brings us closer to the divine. The most powerful and expressive literature, music and art is that which is conceived in pain or anger or some other form of discontent. No wonder Soviet Russia under your regime didn’t produce much art, apart from your propagandist social realism.

Vlad: Well, your democracies haven’t much creativity to show for all their discontent and encouragement. All I see is decadence and moral decrepitude. Marilyn Monroe, most famous actress, eats one too many sleeping pills. Michael Hutchins, renowned pop star, hangs himself in a hotel room. Brett Whitely, millionaire artist, overdoses on heroin. So the discontent in all three media of your so-called creativity didn’t do much, did it?

Nelson: My friend, you are deliberately misinterpreting my argument. The discontent we are talking about is not the ordinary daily dissatisfaction that you and I may feel when our whims aren’t gratified, but the divine discontent that spurs great people on to change the course of history. Influential people like Thomas Edison, Albert Einstein, Florence Nightingale, and Karl Marx, were all discontent. Under your totalitarian government these people would not have been allowed to make their contributions to humanity because their ideas would have been novel and dangerous. What about the Renaissance, the Industrial Revolution, the French and American Revolutions? Each of these political processes stemmed from discontent and resulted in drastic improvements to social structure, the general standard of living, accepted moral and ethical principles, and people’s attitudes towards existence. It’s your attitude that’s the problem. You have an Augustinian view of people. By that I mean you see them as basically evil, needing to be restrained, forced, oppressed. Unless you pay your people the compliment of allowing them enough autonomy to express themselves, you will never progress from their stifled discontent. As Thomas Edison also observed, “Restlessness and discontent are the necessities of progress”.

Vlad: Hmmm, yes. Well, you’ve certainly given me a lot to think about, my friend. You have argued your case quite persuasively and validly. Personally, I think a reassessment of my position on the whole issue may be in order. I’ll have to consult my Presidium on any formal action, of course, but I have a feeling that they, as well as my people, think more along your lines than mine.

One man finishes his vodka and they both rise. After shaking hands, the two men leave through the same door.

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Acknowledgements

Editor:Mr George Marotous

Editing team and Proofreaders:Ms M. Boukouvalas, Ms M. Bryan, Mrs M. Graham,

Ms S. Lowndes, Ms S. Merkt, Ms S. Mulholland, Mr J. McMahon,Dr J. Prideaux, Mr D. Smyth, Mrs K. Smyth, Ms P. Tsilimidos,

Mrs K. Wakeham, Mr R. Wakeham

Word Processing, Design and Layout:Mr George Marotous

Student Artwork:Visual Arts Faculty

Photography of Artwork:Mr Greg James

PrintingWaterwheel Press

Laureate 2000-01

“Once writing has become your major vice and greatest pleasure, only death can stop it.”

Ernest Hemingway

Copyright © English Faculty, Melbourne High School 2001

Laureate: 1. crowned or adorned with laurel as a mark of honour. 2. specially recognised or distinguished: poet laureate.

Volume 2

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