Kids of Dreams 2010

Dreams 2010
Kids of

A selection of poetry, prose and artwork by the students of St Joseph’s College

2 Kids of Dreams 2010

Acknowledgements
Editors Mrs Judy O’Connell, Head of Library and Information Services and Ms Kirsten Reim, with the staff of the Brother
Liguori Resources Centre; Art Editor, Ms Michelle Tinta, Visual Arts Coordinator, with Ms Lisa Gasparatto and the Visual Arts
Department; Mr Matthew Bentley, English Coordinator and Mr Ric Bombardiere, with the English Department; Ms Johanna
Parsons, Communications Manager.

Kids of Dreams 2010 3

Foreword
There is no doubt that Kids of Dreams is a the world through a variety of different lenses.
treasured publication in the Joeys community. What may be difficult to put into words in an
Within its cover are the spirit and energy of our everyday conversation, can be so brilliantly and
boys – so generously and courageously shared emotively communicated through a boy’s artwork
with the world. or creative writing. It takes audacity to share
one’s innermost thoughts and feelings, and it
I truly am honoured that the boys at St Joseph’s
takes courage to stand out from the crowd and be
offer us the opportunity to view, read and
different. I am so proud of every single boy whose
appreciate their artwork, poetry and prose. At
work is included in this publication for having the
times the works are deeply personal, expressing a
self-belief and confidence to create and to share.
boy’s innermost thoughts and emotions, and
other times the works are light hearted or Our lives are enriched by creativity, and it is my
whimsical. Some pieces are pure imagination, great wish that the boys of St Joseph’s will
delighting us with a boy’s inventive mind and continue to explore their creativity and exercise
extensive vision. Some are observations of the their imagination with great enthusiasm every
world around us, and provide commentary from a single day. To ignore this great gift would be a
boy’s own perspective. There are however, two profound loss, for both the boys themselves and
distinct elements that tie all the different pieces for the world around them.
in this publication together – they are heartfelt
Thank you to all the boys who have brought this
and they are unique.
year’s Kids of Dreams into existence. Sincere
Imagination and creativity are two of the most thanks must also go to Mrs Judy O’Connell and
powerful tools at our disposal – even in today’s Ms Kirsten Reim for their work as editors and
digitally-rich, technology driven world. They cost coordinators of poetry and prose, and Ms Michelle
nothing, yet have the power to bring great joy, Tinta for coordinating the artworks. These three
social change, inspiration and motivation. A staff have dedicated a great deal of time and
person with a vibrant imagination is limited by energy to this publication and it has truly been a
nothing and no one – he can move mountains, labour of love.
travel to undiscovered places, walk in another
American artist and communicator, George Lois
person’s shoes and explore both the future and
once said: “Creativity can solve almost any
the past.
problem. The creative act, the defeat of habit by
In short, he can dream. What a wonderful gift originality, overcomes everything.”
that is.
Kids of Dreams showcases the unbridled
One of the remarkable things about many of the creativity of youth. It is much more than a
boys at St Joseph’s – our ‘Kids of Dreams’ – is compilation of exceptional poetry, prose and art.
that they openly and enthusiastically embrace the It is the very essence of our boys, and, as such, it
opportunity to use their imagination to produce is a precious gift for us all.
works that are creative and insightful. By sharing
Mr Ross Tarlinton
their creative pieces, the boys allow others to see
Headmaster


Editorial
“The principle goal of education is to create men and brought with him a wealth of experience to
who are capable of doing new things, not simply this judging role.
of repeating what other generations have done -
Brian has provided wonderful insight and personal
men who are creative, inventive and discoverers.” reflections on the winning pieces of literature. We
Jean Piaget are delighted to have included his judge’s
comments in the back of this year’s publication. It
Kids of Dreams is an inspirational example of the
is of note that the writing of the students has
creative men formed by St Joseph’s College – the
garnered high praise from Brian, with such
staff, the experience, the life. Indeed, reading and
statements as
absorbing the pages of this year’s publication one
cannot help but be moved by the expression and “...it sings of deeper meaning, hidden in the
creativity of our students, our men. everyday; of the importance of silence and empty
space in the artistic process – and of the creative
In this, its twenty-first year of publication, Kids of
tension felt by every writer during that endless
Dreams has found a new resting place within the
moment between the conception and the
literary walls of the Brother Liguori Resources
execution.”
Centre. Having been carefully and generously
nurtured over the past twenty years by the English “The success or otherwise of a piece of writing is,
Department at the College, this is a significant as often as not, dependent on elements which
shift for the publication; however the staff of the are visceral rather than intellectual. It occurs
English Department remain the core of the book, when we are transported into the world of the
providing inspiration, support and opportunities story, when we cease to be ‘the reader’ and
for students to express themselves in words. become, instead, ‘the participant’.”

As with every edition of Kids of Dreams we have “Poetry, when it works best, is like a painting with
had the pleasure of receiving expert advice from a words. Images which evoke emotions, an entire
guest author. This year it was Mr Brian Caswell,
world wrought from small splashes of colour.
Image and emotion – a living canvas.”
who was also the ‘Writer in Residence’ at the
College in 2010. Brian has written extensively for “This is a very mature piece of writing, with
young adults, with a refreshing and honest voice, effective imagery and a strong use of thematic


motifs that merge in the final paragraph to show creativity. We speak with pride of the ways in
an oppressive present and an idyllic past…” which imagination transforms their capacity to
look within themselves to find that which is good,
Not afraid to talk about the darkest of all issues,
kind, and gentle. The importance of imagination in
this year’s writers cover themes ranging from
the lives of our students cannot be
injustice, war and belonging to love and loss.
underestimated. As Sir Ken Robinson has said
While some of these works may not be
“Imagination makes us human and is our main
comfortable to read, they are a unique expression
defence against inhumanity.” St Joseph’s College
of the voices of these young men. Other pieces
is an example of a place in which humanity is
have found inspiration in place and colour, and
being nourished.
quiet moments of thought.
Many thanks are given to all the contributors of
As always, artworks accompany the literature and
the works in the 2010 Kids of Dreams. It has
showcase yet another facet of the boys’ creativity.
been a privilege to read and learn about the boys
The quality of the art is testament to the insight
through their art, poetry and prose.
and creativity of the Art Department led by Ms
Michelle Tinta, and the ability of both herself and The one constant in a publication of this nature is
her team to help the students realise their artistic the appreciation we have for the “behind the
visions. Michelle Tinta’s generosity in time given scenes” specialists, our unsung heroes. Ms
to the publication ensures the exposure and Johanna Parsons has been tireless and patient,
appreciation of an interesting collection of art. supplying information and guidance; Mr Ric
Bombardiere has been a font of knowledge and
In all its forms creativity is to be admired, and
always a steadying hand; co-editor Mrs Judy
Kids of Dreams not only celebrates creativity, it is
O’Connell, without whom none of this would have
a means of unlocking it as well. Kids of Dreams
been possible, thank you; and finally the
is imagination in action, through control of
Headmaster, Mr Ross Tarlinton for trusting us
materials and command of ideas. Within its
with this most important task. It has been our
pages we see ways in which our boys discover
pleasure to hold it close to our hearts.
their own strengths, their passions and their
sensibilities. We marvel at their curiosity and Ms Kirsten Reim

Peter Distapan Year 11


Senior Prose: Winner

Signs
“...and with a sense of relief of coming out of his His polished shoes dragged against the carpet as
many ordeals and trials, he finally realised, with a he walked out of the store, nodding farewell to the
sigh. He sought no man or woman, only the owner. Finally, he reached the threshold where he
orchestra of aged gumtrees as they swayed and could take off the ill-fitting costume of a famous
danced in the wind. He sought home.” novelist and fling it across into a box. No need to
fold it or put it away neatly, it went in crumpled
As usual, a round of applause immediately filled
and dishevelled, locked in a box until the next
the space that his deep voice had suddenly
time he needed it. He’d grown out of his costumes
vacated. As usual, the previously subdued crowd
in recent years. They used to fit so well when he
was suddenly whipped into a frenzy, and a calm
could write for the pure love of it, when he didn’t
sea became a raging tempest fraught with peril in
have to throw on this charade to convince his
an instant. Groaning inwardly, he singled out the
fellow ‘high end’ authors he was one of them. He
first inquisitive face amidst the raging sea. Then
crossed the unmarked boundary into George Street
suddenly the raging tempest became a calm
and joined with his fellow pedestrians easily, pulling
harbour as everyone went quiet and the dreaded
on yet another costume so as to seamlessly join
question was asked: “Where do you get your
the bland fabric that made up the footpath. The
ideas?” He couldn’t honestly say but if he wanted
billboard couldn’t have hit him harder if it had
to keep this crowd interested he had to say
fallen on him; the idyllic outback setting contrasted
something. Mentally he shuffled through his notes
with the harsh steel and glass universe that he
and picked out the right one...
was a part of. Suddenly he was there. He could
see the relentless wave of fog rolling down off the
hills, swirling in the valley below. He could see his
father shout and swear as the water system
malfunctioned yet again. The roar of the motorbikes
as he and his brother raced through the valley,
the bush around them a mere green blur.
He’d left that life behind though, he’d found a
new home, a place to belong to. He had traded
the lush ferns for a desk, the barely working
motorbikes for a Camry and the leeches for a
publicist who was constantly after his money. He
couldn’t believe he was the only one experiencing
this. The footpath was overcrowded but he could
not have felt more alone if it were empty. Then he
realised that he was no longer in control of his
feet, his subconscious desire to go home (if it
was still home) battled with the more rational
desire to go to Town Hall Station and head back
to his apartment in Clovelly. The Decision was
Central Station vs. Town Hall Station. Home vs.
Life. His rational side prevailed but his
subconscious constantly nagged him, told him
this wasn’t really where he was meant to be, that
he was a country boy of blood and soil and didn’t
belong in a place of steel and publishing
Angus Laing Year 7


Declan Carroll Year 11

contracts. The others just thought of him as an immediately leapt up at him, vivid green hills
upstart, good to be an acquaintance of in order to covered in mist. He thought more closely about
raise their own status, but definitely not a mate the books he had written. He then realised the
nor a friend nor a confidant or anything of that truth, that the longing he had suppressed for so
manner. Another billboard rose up, blotting out long had found an escape route. Through his
the setting sun and bringing with it the smell of novels. They had all been written about his home,
freshly turned soil and the sound of the cows as his longing. The desire to return burned intensely
their anxious calls echoed around the valley. He within him, consuming him. To call it walking or
took in the mental vision, swirling it around, even a brisk stride would be an understatement.
tasting it, testing to see its reaction. As quickly as He sprinted, casting away the author’s costume
it had come it was gone, replaced by the sound of forever; he ran past Darling Harbour, he bolted
car horns echoing off the skyscrapers and the past the Dymocks store, past the publishing
smell of exhaust fumes. house and finally past his agent’s office. It
appeared before him, a neon sun lighting his way
Slowly and deliberately he turned himself from the
and bringing about a new dawn, only this sun read
direction of Central; he took small but meaningful
‘CountryLink’.
steps away from his daydream back into the life
he had written for himself in the city. The very life With three confident steps he crossed the
which had given him all he had. But what had he distance to the counter and asked for a ticket,
been given? The weight of his latest book in his “Where will you be travelling?” Then with a sense
backpack was something but was there anything of coming out of his many trials and ordeals, he
else? Taking a seat outside Town Hall he pulled it replied “Home.”
out and stared intently at the cover, willing it to
Marcus Eberl
reveal its worth. The scene on the cover
Year 12


What to Write...?
I don’t know what to write about,
but I have to write this poem.
I have to find some inspiration
but I really should be going.
I’ve got much better things to do
I could be playing sport.
But no, I have to be stuck inside
being forced to find a thought.
So maybe next time I come along
I’ll think of something to write.
But until then mate, you’ll have to see,
I’ve got plans for tonight.
Edmund Dwyer
Year 10

Declan Oorloff Year 12


Charles Cullen Year 11

My House
Walk through the gate… the path. You start walking along them moving
ever so slowly, your fingertips gently brushing up
Smell the variations of flower bushes, which are
against the top of the hedges.
made up of many hues. Let the smell of the
freshly mown grass diffuse to your nose as you Walk toward the pool…
stop to take in the moment. You move on, glad to
Enter the pool gate and slip off your shoes. Feel
be away from the rough cement of the silent road.
the release of all tension as you dip your toes
Walk up the front drive…. into the cool, calm, lapping water. You stand up
and move toward the house. You can see Mum
See the row of pine trees spreading out on either
cooking through the row of windows.
side. The wind assaults your face and you feel the
rhythm of the trees as they dance in the sunlight. Smell the aroma…
Keep walking and see the pile of firewood lined
As you walk through the glass double doors, the
up neatly at the entrance to the garden.
smell of warm soup makes your mouth water.
Walk down the garden path…. Your mum sees you and smiles. In that moment
you laugh, knowing that there is nowhere else you
You step from stone to stone and as you do, you
would rather be. You are home.
see the tiny trails of ants winding across them.
You move off the path and across a small Robert Webb
expanse of grass toward the hedges which line Year 7


Senior Prose: Highly Commended

Smile
I saw what I needed to see supernatural figurehead in such a punctilious
All white and beautiful manner. No, it was spite that lead me down this
I am growing tired of heavy handed words path. After the soporific ceremony I found myself
I am growing tired arguing the very premise of the tradition that was
church, and my family being raging Catholics
Tim Teppai – A chronicle. No. 300
obviously met this with hostility (also ironic). I, in
To open; I deliberated what my chronicles would spite of them, of all of them, of him, ran away
be about, monotony, perhaps dreams, and love. during church to conduct my own special
No, let me talk to you about emptiness and ceremony by myself. A farcical insult at first, I
incompleteness, my abstruse tale, my last soon found myself mesmerised by silence, by the
chronicle. reverence of it, the warmth of it, by how loud it
God; and my fleeting interest in him rang in my converted ears. I could not help but be
dragged down the path of religion, fuelled by my
I became a man of the faith when I was too young passion to change the perverse custom of it. I
to choose, where I found ironic meaning through joined my parish, all a mask for my real goal, to
my hate of the languorous task of “church” where take the faith out of the church, to inject it into
a person was supposed to be cleansed by others’ lives little by little. To make it as though
packing into a tense room with a bunch of other they could funnel this God fellow into their lives
people who had no interest in supporting a not just when they needed to, one hour a week,
but to always live with him in their heart. My love
for the church and love for the people increased
as the time flew on. I became the being of a
priest without the title, which for me was anything
but regrettable. For I had achieved something that
the confines of total devotion to my religion
forebode; love for a mortal human, a woman.
My family; a welcomed burden
I was a cynic, and I did not believe in love at first
sight, although I did believe in the quote, “I’ll
believe it when I see it”. I saw it - hell I was it;
love, complete and everlasting from the moment I
saw someone’s eyes, their smell, and their
overwhelming presence on me. This woman was
not outspoken; she was quiet and withheld, a trait
uncommon to my life and to my blood, which was
a completely different story and quite the contrast
to her obvious tranquillity. Perhaps this is where
my attraction’s monstrous birth grew from, like
Iago’s scheme; my love was deceiving and
unstoppable. My family however did not warm to
her like I had, they were Tongan Catholics and I
had brought an Aussie atheist into their house. As
it was before, white man (this case woman) had
entered their land and mated with their family, as
Angus Reynolds Year 7
modern correctness allowed and political


Angus Farram Year 9

correctness discouraged, they did not think this One second
relationship was normal. And even though the
I looked away from the dark stretching road for
road was long and uncomfortable, soon she and
one second and that was all it took. A sudden jolt
my family began to share acceptance, the
in the blackness and I panicked, just how my
acceptance of my family to allow this woman into
approach to life had been, panicked, quick and
their lives, and the acceptance of her to tolerate
thoughtless, and I knew it was hopeless the
the clear uncertainness of the whole situation.
moment I felt the wheels of my car break free
They would even begin to manifest a pretentious
from any control. They became free just like I had
love that would shine through some of the more
attempted to preach freedom, like I had always
hostile situations. Still, years went on and the
wanted to live, free from control, spontaneous
uneasiness of everything dissolved to nothing,
and careless. My freedom killed my wife.
only the warm love my family always had and the
new kindness my fiancée could provide. I had finally And so I asked myself
built up the temerity to ask the woman for her hand None of this should happen if you are under the
in marriage, and she, now convinced I was not a eye of God, how a perfectly seamless life could
total loser, accepted happily and it was to be. What become so imperfect, and cracks could appear for
she withheld from me surreptitiously was that for anyone to fall through without mercy, with no
one month already she had been impregnated prayer to hope on, no dreams to exist on, you
and was expecting a baby. She did not tell me walk a tightrope from the moment you join the
this when I proposed; and she never would. world. To me everything is transient; religion,
A man told me family, love. I could only find solace in the one
thing that I knew was constant, the one thing that
We had been driving; my eyes were heavy and she
I knew deep down that everyone could count on
was asleep. In fairness to myself and my God,
and that everyone could hope for as they entered
and to everything right in this world, I killed her as
this malevolent world. This one constant was
a result of my interminable love that I had for her.
simple.
It was irresistible not to watch her sleep against
my shoulder. We were alone on the road, it was We are all going to die.
raining so heavily that night I could not see Nicholas O’Connor
anything anyway. Perhaps what amazed me most Year 11
was how quickly my life could unfold to be so
spectacularly horrifying.


Dafar racked his brain for a clever idea to enter
Junior Prose: Winner the King’s chamber but he simply couldn’t think
of one. So he knocked on the door and stepped
A Close Call to the side. Immediately a squad of troops burst
out, but he was ready. Before they were even
The enchanted castle of King Krandel stood aware of his presence, he slipped through the
majestically atop the pinnacle of rock, overlooking door and locked them out.
the once lush valley below. The castle itself was a
Now, Dafar was face-to-face with the King. He
sight to behold. However the condition of the
looked grand with expensive clothes and many
surrounding landscape had deteriorated
advisers. As Dafar was taking in the surroundings,
immensely and therefore most of the common
the King’s personal guards caught him from
people living in the castle had moved out and
behind and began to drag him out. The last thing
become villagers. Only the King, his guards, his
Dafar saw before he was knocked out was the
advisers and his daughter remained.
King’s evil grin…
Although the King was respected amongst his
It was dark as Dafar regained consciousness but
guards, this view was not shared by the villagers
he could faintly see that he was contained in a
and every once in a while somebody would stand
little room with bars to one side. The floor was
up against him.
cold and hard and it was beginning to get
On a cold and windy night, the assassin Dafar uncomfortable, so he stood up. He trudged
successfully infiltrated the castle and confused around the cell trying to work out where he was.
the head guard but his mission wasn’t complete – The only light was coming from the end of the
he had to find the King. corridor. He slumped back down and leaned
He entered a long narrow corridor and was 20 against the wall, and waited.
metres from the end when he saw a group of Eventually Dafar saw the light flicker as someone
guards come his way. He turned to run. However, entered the corridor. They reached Dafar’s cell
to his dismay, another group of guards entered after what seemed hours. As the person spoke,
the corridor. Seconds went by as Dafar tried to Dafar immediately realised it was the Princess.
think of a way of escaping, but time was running She was in a rush and quickly pulled out a key
out and the guards were gaining ground. Dafar and opened the barred door. She planned to
was convinced he had no other option but to fight escape with Dafar.
until he noticed a small patch of wood where the
They dashed for the door and entered a long and
bricks of the wall should have been. He crept over
winding corridor. The Princess knew the place like
and noticed that it was hinged; attempted to push
the back of her hand and easily navigated through
it open, but it was locked.
the castle. They had their sights on the slowly
Immediately, a risky plan began to form in his closing drawbridge but they also had guards on
head but he was desperate and any second now their tail. They were running fast but as they
a guard would spot him. He slammed into the reached the drawbridge, the Princess tripped.
wooden “door” with all his strength and broke
Soon the drawbridge would completely close and
through. Dafar could hear the guards charging
there was no time to slow down. Dafar made a
down the corridor like a herd of elephants. He
split second decision and jumped from the
quickly covered the hole he’d made and turned to
drawbridge onto safe ground. But the Princess
survey his surroundings.
was still inside. As the drawbridge closed he
To his surprise, he faced two majestically painted swore to come back to save her (if she lived that
doors that appeared to stretch up to the roof. long)…
Outside he could hear the guards chattering away
Jack Fox
making false accusations about each other, but
Year 7
he decided to focus.


Senior Poetry: Winner

The Image of a Page
As I continued to read,
My mind became lost in the image of the page.
The tiny specks of dust were pressed onto the leaf.
Their elongated shadows danced over the print.
In step with the flickering flame of my lamp,
Bringing the pages to life in a way far less
tangible
than anything I could have written about.
I watched, transfixed,
without realising that I wasn’t reading anymore
and then came a revelation;
Andrew North Year 11 The page is an image,
Pointless without words,
yet I was looking at a profound beauty
achieved totally without them,
but what is a page without words?
A silence waiting to be filled with beautiful music
But then, how can so much be said without
words?
That same silence is what we are so afraid of;
the silence that begs not to be broken,
but it will be broken,
by the sheer force of the words
itching to be said,
or sung,
or typed.
Matthew Bartlett
Year 12

Benjamin Pedley Year 10


Love vs Pain
As I stand there in the rain
My heart knows only pain
the way we were
and how we are
tonight is a day that will always be a scar.
The way you kissed me
The way you danced
You filled my heart with such a love
You walked away
My hands empty and my mind confused.
You pulled me close, you gave me hell
Each word a killer under your spell
My mind was weak and let you in
The way you took me was soft and sweet
My love was given but none returned.
Andrew Deegan Year 9
My chest ripped open by your hand
My head was tricked unto your love
My blood now racing thick and fast
My legs are stuck to the ground
My knees now weak and my legs give in.
My heart is taken with a grin
The day I met you still my best
The time you gave me was the rest
My broken heart still sings your song
Even though my head says wrong.
The way I felt around you
And what I would have given for you
The time of day the time of night
Was only filled with your light.
When I was with you I could only fly
Then you broke my wings and left me to die.
Kain Macourt
Year 12

Conan Chu Year 7


Junior Poetry: Winner

The Colour of My Farm Cream
The akubra of the tired farmer
Red Working 15 hour days
The belly of a black snake, All this for his children to get a good education
With its lightning strikes White
Draws pain in an instance The pure cotton
Green On the almost dead stem
The colour of paddocks with young wheat Waiting to be plucked from its base
As it blows in the wind Black
Knowing that was our next pay The tyres on the tractors
Blue That worked so hard
The colour of glassy water Red
Gliding on its surface The blister on the hands
On dad’s old ski From stoping 1000 irrigation pipes
Yellow On a 35 degree day
The evening sunsets Orange
Each individually glamorous The morning sunrise
Each spectacular A new day
Brown Full of challenges
The dead grass all summer long Gold
The tumble weed The wheat crop ready to harvest
Slowly moving in the graceful wind Millions of grains pouring into the chaser bin
Blue The long hours the children played with BP the
Boots’ ears golden retriever
The old blue heeler Many colours make up places.
Sitting on the verandah waiting for the farmer These are mine.
Samuel Knight
Year 8

Aaron Curtis Year 10


Junior Prose: Highly Commended
I, the Hero...
I heard a pounding on the door, awakening me through his sentence, his eyes almost falling out
from my sleep. I lifted my head from the counter, of their sockets and his body stiffening. With that,
wiping the drool from my face. As I peered through he limply fell out of the plane.
my half open eyes, I saw a swarm of media
“Oh NO!” a reporter screamed, “I think he just
standing in front of the glass door. As I walked to
had a heart attack.”
the front I recognised one of the men as being
Darcy Tcenocc, Russia’s best and rudest actor. Then, all eyes fell on me, encouraging me to go
after him.
I opened the door saying curiously, “Ah, yeah?”
“Oh, come ON!” I exhaled. So I jumped out of the
“Obviously I’m here for some sky diving. Isn’t this
plane into the big blue cloudless sky. Although as
a sky diving company?” he said gruffly.
soon as I jumped I knew something was wrong. I
“Well,” I started to explain, “We are kinda closed.” had forgotten to put on my parachute!

Darcy replied rudely with, “I don’t care, just let me ‘Can’t do anything ‘bout that now can I?’ I thought
on the plane.” to myself. Wiping that thought clear I focused on
Darcy, flailing through the air, as if the sky was a
I was now getting frustrated: “Grrrrr! One, we are
bully. I caught up to Darcy using my free-falling
closed. Two, you need to run through the safety
skills and I grabbed on, prepared to pull Darcy’s
course. Three, you can’t take all the media with
parachute. As soon as I did though, I knew I
you.”
shouldn’t have.
This time Darcy walked past me and burst through
Because of the parachute’s pull, it hauled me
the door leading onto the tarmac, with the trail of
right into the oncoming path of a Boeing 747! All I
paparazzi following.
could do was hold on for dear life and pray that
“Well, this is gonna be a long day,” I said to myself. nothing would happen. I heard the roars of the
As I walked out onto the tarmac, I saw that Darcy engines passing over me, but I never felt any
was suited up and already on the plane. I ran up pain. I opened my eyes to see that Darcy and I
to the side door, and saw that the pilot had already were both intact, but unfortunately the plane had
started up the plane. I barged into the cockpit and ripped the parachute in half, sending Darcy and I
said to the pilot Steve, “What do you think you’re into a spiralling motion for what seemed like
doing?!! You can’t let this weirdo on the plane.” eternity until we crashed into the roof of a local
farmhouse.
The pilot replied, “But Max, he’s famous.”
I sat up in bed, my eyes adjusting to the very
With that Steve gunned the engines and the plane white room. I looked across to see Darcy lying in
hurtled off the mark at great speed. As I was a bed next to me, his legs covered in plaster. I
walking out of the cockpit I was thinking of all the then looked up to see a nurse hovering over the
stupid things Darcy could do - but when I saw him now-awake Darcy.
he was doing by far the stupidest.
“Ya know Mr Tcenocc, Max saved your life.”
Darcy was telling the media how experienced he
was in skydiving and that he was basically a pro. “I really don’t care,” replied the grumpy Darcy.
And you know what the hardest thing was? “This is going to be a long day,” I said to myself
Watching him! As soon as Darcy finished his as I slowly shut my eyes to lapse into another
sentence, the alarm went off, signalling that we sleep.
were ready to jump. I walked over to the now-open
Massimo Reginato
cabin door to get ready to jump, but Darcy pushed
Year 7
past me and turned around to the media and
said, “OK, here I...” Darcy stopped midway

Angus McGinness Year 12

Tiger Parker Year 10


Senior Prose: Commended

Attention!
“The desire to conform can lead to unexpected even got my mum to buy me the whole kit with
pitfalls.” mean-looking sword and full body armour. Cost
around two grand too. But of course, after a few
Cutting these trackies off at the knee was a bad
lessons I got bored – too many rules and
idea.
regulations.
The colourful peony packet caught my eye. Very
My favourite part was the sword. When I got tired
pretty. But nothing that looked like that here. My
of listening to techniques, I snuck off into the
hands are dirty, knees too. Damn trackies. Damn
coach’s office.
weeds. Why did she have to go send that email?
Oh well. Move to a better place, that’s what my Suddenly I was Aragon at the Battle of Pelennor
mate Jeff always says. Fields, slaying orcs on either side. I jumped up on
the desk, brandishing my weapon. I slashed at
So here I am: the pitfall of peonies. Fun. How
ferocious curtains and lashed out at a blood-
does a 16-year-old boy named Karol, (yeah, I
thirsty vase with my foot.
know) end up knee-deep in a sea of soil and
weeds, yearning to spot a hint of colour? Well it’s The shatter brought the coach running in.
all in the hope that I discover something I enjoy. A Surprisingly, I wasn’t invited back. So I did the
direction for my life even. sensible thing and sold the suit on eBay. After all,
I was short on cash. I managed to get three
Wondering where this all started? No doubt you
hundred bucks for it, and spent it all on energy
are, even I’m a little curious. Well I guess… Yeah,
drinks and fart bombs. Of course my mum was a
you could probably say it all started with the
tad annoyed when she realised the suit and the
Youtube video. This is how it was… I watch
money were gone. Actually annoyed is a vast
Channel V, I love music. Stupid statement, I mean
understatement. There was a lot of yelling and
who doesn’t? And all those rappers made it look
lecturing. I kept the sword.
easy – I thought why not? So I did. Had a
legitimate video and everything – well kinda After being furious with me for a while, my mum
legitimate… That video was the main problem started being really nice. I know! Weird… It was
actually. around this time that I met Jeff. I didn’t even
know what a psychiatrist was! He’s a real champ.
You see, I tend to get in trouble quite often.
He listens to me. And he’s patient and never gets
Something about not thinking things through
fed up or annoyed. And when we hang out there’s
before I act. And every time I do do something
no tension or anything. I felt I could tell him
wrong, I always get the same lecture: “Karol, what
everything, and I did. He suggested that getting a
are you going to do with your life? You have so
pet would be a great pastime for me, and would
much potential but…” umm… Well I never make
teach me a lot about responsibility and stuff. I
it that far before my mind strays to my next
thought about what he said and decided he was
escapade… Fencing was a good one. Not as in
right. So I introduced Fang to the family.
making fences. That’s not fun at all. But sword
fighting. Fang was an eight-foot python from some country
that doesn’t have enough vowels in its name. Of
With my gangster status and controversial
course my mum freaked out – again – but she got
rhymes, I practically painted a target on my head
used to it, as long as I didn’t feed him in front of
for rival gangs. I didn’t want to “fall victim to da
her. We got on great and everything was going
streets” – the world just wasn’t ready for another
smoothly – until I forgot to put the lid on Fang’s
Tupac incident. I needed to defend myself in case
cage. I heard the scream from next door late at
I got into a gang war, hence the fencing.
night and was filled with foreboding. A quick
I went to a couple of classes, enjoyed it a lot, and check on the snake cage confirmed my fears.


Muriel, my elderly neighbour, awoke
with the entire length of a sleek,
foreign serpent sliding through her
sheets. Then it was off to the zoo
for Fang.
The music video was probably what
topped it off. I mentioned it before:
the Youtube video? Yep, that’s the
one. I published my video on
Facebook. Great way to get
publicity, right? Yes… But not a
great idea if you have an aunty who
goes online religiously. Even worse
when she is a fanatical feminist.
She watched all 7 minutes and 38
seconds of obscene gestures and
sword-wielding. Then she sent that
email to my mum. Mum didn’t freak
out this time. She didn’t yell. She
just sighed.
Life’s looking up now. Jeff told me
that that wasn’t exactly what he
had in mind when I mentioned
considering a career in music. He
told me that he has something that
could help me if I wanted it. Ritalin
he called it. I’m starting tomorrow.
I’ve been really good lately too. I’m
out of seeds now so me and Mum
are gonna go up to the Pennant
Hills nursery to get some more.
She’s even letting me drive. Hang
on! That looks like a peony petal
right there. Maybe I’m not such a
bad gardener after all.
Joshua Peacocke Daniel Hughes Year 10
Year 12


Innocence Lost...
The scars of war are worn with scorn
By those who proliferate the pain
And leave the flesh so thrashed and torn
As blood and gore is washed away by rain
No way to count the millions dead
All victims of innocence and shame
They fell to disgraces born and bred
They prosper in their absurdity
The majority are victims of innocence
They massacre sons and daughters without
despair
As the population rapidly falls
Their lust for violence is never at a halt
To compel a child to kill his own
To think this is absurd and unknown
These children so lost and alone
Until they lose all sense of shame
They start to ponder as to why they shouldn’t do
the same
And the world is still unaware
Of this insane reality?
Surely not...
Or has this world lost its soul to an unknown
place of brutality
That’s blind to such torture and cruelty
Like a lion ripping into its prey
Anthony Ursino Year 9
It seems the world will be at war
Until that final rupture of light is shone throughout
the land
When Our Lord decides to share the score
Of the many people lost who lost it all
Then somewhere else in this land
Another world will begin
Will this land again increase in their absurdity?
Or will they recognise that all is sin?
Benjamin Rodgers
Year 10


Matthew Curtin Year 7

Brandon Wescott Year 12


Dumped
The boy was surfing when he spotted a beautiful
girl in a cerise bikini. To impress her, he set off
on a huge wave. Barrel, cutback. Floater,
absolutely nailing it, but then she caught his
attention and...dumped. Face drilled through the
sand, and when he resurfaced, she was laughing.
Michael Lawler
Year 10

Harrison Goodrick Year 10


Master of Puppets
Alone,
He sits.
The Master.
The one pulling all the strings,
From below and above us.
He manipulates us.
He crosses our hearts,
And hopes we die.
Die a sinful death.
Alone,
He sits.
Promising everything,
Returning nothing.
The Master
Promised only lies,
Only fibs of what could have been.
Collect you he will.
The Master will make puppets of all of you.
Pull your strings,
And destroy you from within.
Obey your Master,
You will.
Twisting your mind,
Taking your reason
You scream for help,
But all you hear is laughter,
Laughing at your cries.
Through the maze of your mind he will take your
sanity.
Through the chambers of your heart he will take
your soul.
Harry Tate Year 7
Through your body he will take you.
The Master
Will pump fear through your veins,
End your passion for life,
Pulling your strings till they snap.
Till you snap,
The Master
Will never be satisfied.
Intent on destroying you,
The Master never fails,
Never lets a good catch go.
Obey your Master,
You will.
Elliot Nash
Year 9


Flaming Stars I see a lamp at the damp camp
We’re concentrated into
It’s dark and peaceful, and then... The concentration camp.
Tanks rumble, tumble and trundle down the hill, We’re led to our beds
Flames flicker, But we’re not yet fed.
Guns chatter. Skin and bones smile at us in despair,
Screams fill the air. Stomachs so thin we can see their backbones.
Death and despair is what’s left behind. Death, death, death!
Who could do this? Who? Not you? Is all that is left.
We’re locked up, we’re scared,
We’re rounded up in a heap
We look to the sky.
Around me people are either dead,
The stars wink back
Dying or looking more dead than alive.
Knowing our fate.
We follow like zombies surrounded
Who could do this? Who? Not you?
By moving metal and men.
We’re kicked and cajoled up the ramp Dad’s taken away
Like animals. Kicking and screaming
On the trains we get squashed, “Have mercy,” he screams.
And squeezed into submission. “My kids,” he pleads.
No one fights back. It makes no difference
Who could do this? Who? Not you? No difference to the stony
Faced men.
The train chugs rhythmically
Swastika bright on that
We sink into ourselves.
Shining red stripe.
We think.
A smile crosses one’s
What is our crime?
Face “ha ha” says he
We’re David’s star chosen by God,
“Gassing for you,
Chosen to live,
You stupid old Jew.”
Now chosen to die.
Who could do this?
There’s nothing to do,
Who? Not you?
But await our destiny.
Who could do this? Who? Not you? James Maffey
Year 9

Dominic Egan Year 11


The Onlooker
I look without seeing
I touch without feeling
I listen without hearing
I move without thinking
I am alone
Around me the scene moves
Around me they jostle
Around me the flow takes me forward
I am anonymous
A thousand stories pass by without telling
A thousand conversations exclude me
A thousand texts are not reaching me
I am the onlooker
I am one of the masses
I am part of the flow
I am the unknown
I am but one thread of the colourful tapestry of
the crowd.
Hamish Elliot
Lachlan Rovers Year 7 Year 10

Benjamin Quinn Year 8


Anthony Ursino Year 9

William Canning Year 8


The Island Within I chose, and in my choice, I accepted the
consequences. In knowledge, I endure the pain.
Outside, the world rushed past. I bear the weight of humanity upon my shoulders.
Their ignorance borne within my being. I am the
Inside, the blinds drawn shut, my world remained
beacon, I am the salvation. In a sick sense,
silent, uncompromising. As it should be. The
anyway.
inhumane questions of life bothered me not; I had
no need to question why I was, and my purpose. You see, I understand.
I knew. I knew everything I needed to. Sometimes I wonder if they will, you will, one day.
“Robert?” I heard my father call. He was not happy. I hope for you, but my apathy only has such limits.
He called me again. I hid in my closet, surrounded Many do not, and they will suffer at the day of
by darkness. I could hear him coming closer, their demise. I know my God; the Bible is my word.
closer. He burst into my room and stormed to the They will repent, to a false god, and succumb to
closet. Wrenching it open, he yelled at me. an afterlife of misery and hopelessness; all they
have ever known will be a lie.
“I’ve told you before, a thousand times. Do not
touch it!” He grabbed me by my collar, and pulled “Angela?” I am ten years old. My sister teases
me closer to him. I could smell his hot, angry me. She hides in the dark, where I cannot see
breath. His eyes burned. her, where I am scared to look.
He raised his hand, and I closed my eyes. “Angela?” I call again. I can hear her laughing.
Life was nothing more than inadequate excuses She enjoys teasing me. I can hear my heart beat.
for humans to thieve, adulterate, fornicate and Why does she do this to me? Does she hate me?
murder. It was pathetic, the way living revolved for I walk to where I can hear muffled giggling. It is
some around the piteous requiem of a broken life. cruel, the way she taunts me. I want to run away,
Many complain, take it for granted. If they don’t but I know there is nowhere I can go.
want it, throw it away. It’s been done before. I peer into the darkness. We are outside, yet in
I sigh as I sit in my bedroom, the stale air around the corner of the backyard the trees create a
me comforting. I watch from a distance as a slight canopy, covering below in complete darkness. All
ray of infuriating sunlight breaches the protection matter of things, insects and feral animals, lurk in
of drawn curtains, and escapes into my world of the shadows. I creep closer, my heart beating,
darkness. From me it steals my sanctuary. Is louder and louder.
nowhere sacred? I scream.
Many would pity me. Many do. They look upon me Angela leaps out at me, a crouching animal,
as a dismal, wretched waste of life. I could have lunging at its prey. I turn, and as quickly as I can,
been great, I could have been anything. But yet, I I run away. I can hear her laughing. She doesn’t
chose. And my choice was final, satisfying. care, she hates me. I crawl under my bed, and
Who can steal happiness from a content man? cry. I can hear her calling for me, her sickly sweet
voice crooning. She scares me. I will not come out.
“She’s gone, Robert, and she isn’t coming back.
That’s all there is.” Seven years old, and my father I can still hear her laughing at me. I am alone. My
explains my mother’s death. I am not allowed to world is enshrouded in darkness. The only living
cry. If I sniff again, surely I will be dealt with. thing is the sound of my heart. A steady pitter-
patter. It reminds me that I still have to breathe.
Mother. Gone.
In the chaos of this world I feel like I drown. In
His words sink in. the sea of apnoea I struggle to keep alive.
I sit alone in my house. Each day I hear the Sometimes I allow my head to dip under the
wretched shuffling of feet, the constant murmur of water. I stop breathing. I stop, just to feel the
gagging conversation. Useless, suppressed struggle, mind over will, as my mind screams for
emotion; the dribbling euphemism of life. It was, air, yet my lips remain shut.
in its entirety, nonsense, yet none could see it. It The world is quiet then. The world is as it will be.
sickens me. In fact, I wretch.


There is no one who understands me. There is no through its cut veins. The earth dies a thousand
one who knows me. Anyone who speaks to me, deaths over.
attempts to engage me verbally, finds themselves
Is life really worth living, as we are born free? No
rejected, or gives up.
walls? I think not. It’s nice though, I must admit. I
I don’t need intercession. I don’t need prayers. would like to be delusional, and believe that the
world is a nice place. I would like to wake up, feel
I need them to listen. But they block their ears,
the sunlight on my face, see it stream through my
and drown out the truth, with their materialism
windows, and know that a new day has dawned. A
and false religions. They choose not to hear, for
new day, where everything starts again.
fear of repression, and fear of the unknown. Man
fears what he does not understand, it’s true. Out Even that is a lie.
there, beyond that cold door, they are ignorant, The sun doesn’t bring a new day. It brings new
and they choose not to listen. Their life is bliss, pain, and more copious lies. All simply lies. But
because they refuse to pull the blindfold of life humanity, cover your ears! Oh humanity, live your
from their eyes, and drown out the incessant worthless lives, gain empty meaning, and feel
voice in their ear, whispering their ploys, whispering content. The sun rises, and surely as it sets, for
the lies and deceit that consumes the world. then it doesn’t set, but reminds us of the pitiless
I will show them the light. I am not scared. I do existence you obtain. Enjoy your lies…
not shy away; hide in the corner as the rest of I heard the voice in my ear. Clear, crisp. It was
humanity does. I know, and so I do not fear. deep, scathing and mocking. Mordant. It
I hear a rapping at my door. I bark at them, and understood. It knew my pain; it knew the burden
there is silence. I hear the sound of sliding paper of saving humanity borne upon one’s shoulders. It
on carpet, and see half an envelope, peeping out was sharp and distinct, and spoke to me, and I
from the crack in the door. I will leave it, and it understood it. It did not speak English, it spoke in
will join my pile of outstanding notices. tongues, but somehow I understood. I knew what
it was saying, I knew what it wanted.
But wait.
I must satisfy it. He is right, and I must listen. I
This one seems different. Why is it so?
must obey.
I crawl to it, and careful, so the light doesn’t Today is the day. I know it. I smell it in the stale,
touch my skin, pick the envelope from the door. I foul air. The putrid stench fills my nostrils; fuels
open it, and a letter falls to the ground. my entirety. For too long I have swum in my own
Addressed to me. Signed: Angela. O Traitorous filth. It is time to open the door, flood my life with
Sister, what dost thou want? I laugh to myself, their false light. It is time for me to teach them.
deep and sardonic, sadistic. Almost. They must know.

She hates me, why should I bother? It matters They will shun me, society mock me, humanity
not, to me anyway. ridicule me. But that is the price I must be willing
to pay. I must not give up. They must hear. They
Her letter burns in the fire, still sealed. The
will hear me.
flames consume its threat. Fiery tongues lick the
paper, devouring its lies. The poison of her words I will be king. I will be praised, and worshipped. I
burns, untouched and unread. She will hurt no will be God.
one with her vile, depraved thoughts. No one The door creaks open and I hold my breath. My
cares for her opinions. dead heart beats, louder and louder, unlike
Hope and pain. In the dark, they look the same. anything I’ve heard in years.

Some believe we are born free. Are we really? Outside, the world is busy. Humanity searches for
Outside the sky cracks. A blinding light splits the meaning.
dark ceiling. The cacophonous roar echoes its The light shines in.
reply. The sky bleeds; pouring rain falls, and
Joshua Klarica
slices the earth. The blood of the earth seeps
Year 11


Senior Artwork: Winner

Jacob Carrick Year 12

Timothy Rice Year 8


Junior Prose: Commended

That Was Lucky
Blake was just a normal Year 7 kid with a normal With the sound of rushing air and a horn, Blake
life and normal hobbies. He loved to play footy, hopped off the bench and stood near the yellow
hang around with friends and a few of the girls. line. The train screeched to a halt and the doors
Every day after school Blake would catch the early swished open. Blake hopped on, found a seat,
train home, make a snack, do his homework and got his iPod out, stuck the earphones in his ears
go off with his mates. Friday was the best day of and listened to his favourite music. Blake wasn’t
the week because on Saturday he would play in a big rush because his stop was one of the last
footy and have the weekend hanging around with and besides, it was Friday, he had plenty of time.
mates. But first he had to get through the day…
The last of the travellers had just got off at the
“Blake! Start paying attention,” bellowed Mr Marks. previous stop and he was the only one left on his
carriage. He got his stuff together and stood up
“Yes sir, sorry sir,” Blake said.
ready to hop off at the next stop. The brakes
Blake isn’t the smartest in the class, but you screeched and the doors opened automatically
can’t blame him, it’s the last lesson of the day and he walked off. Blake thought he could hear
and Mr Marks just keeps going on and on and on, shouting from the stairs so he walked a bit
practically making Blake doze off. quicker to see what was going on. He turned the
“Right, I want you, for homework, to write a two- corner and smack! He ran straight into a guy with
page narra…” tattoos everywhere and hat pulled down, covering
most of his face. They both fell to the ground and
DING, DING!
Blake shook off this angry guy and got up.
It was the bell for the end of class, ‘Yes! Finally,
“Sorry, I didn’t see you there,” he said
the weekend,’ Blake thought.
apologetically. Then he turned around and saw a
“…narrative and it’s due on Monday,” Mr Marks briefcase open with a stash of cash, about a million
said, trying to be heard over the noise of the class. dollars in it. Blake turned back to see the guy
hurrying to get up and make a run for it, but Blake
“Class dismissed, oh and Blake, can I see you for
was facing the man and he had nowhere to go.
a moment?”
“Hey, move to the side, or else…” the man
“OOOHHH!” the class said in unison.
shouted reaching into his jacket.
“Now Blake you’re going to have to make more of
Blake looked around quickly, but there was no
an effort in my class, you seem to be falling
one to be seen. The station appeared to be
behind; I might have to call your parents, if I don’t
deserted, though he could hear noise not far
see an improvement.”
away. Blake moved to the side, but, at the same
“Oh. Please sir, I’ll try my hardest, just don’t ring time, tripped the guy.
my parents. They’ll be really annoyed with me.”
“STOP HIM,” a policeman suddenly shouted,
“Okay. Last chance. No improvement by next racing around the corner towards them, as the
week and I’m going to have to call your parents. guy fell over.
Okay?”
Blake stood there in awe, as the policeman dived
“Yes sir.” on the guy and handcuffed him in an instant. The
Blake left the room, got out his phone and texted guy appeared quite dazed and had lost his grip on
his mum to say he had to catch the later train the briefcase and it fell to the ground again,
because Mr Marks had kept him back. falling open. The policeman took one look at the
open briefcase and let out several loud breaths
* * * * *
and whistled under his breath.


He turned to Blake and said “Do you have any medal from the Prime Minister. Mr Marks didn’t
(breath), any idea who you just (breath), need to call Blake’s parents, because he ended
stopped?” with a lopsided grin on his face. up writing the best ever two-page narrative, about
“Aahhh, no sir…” Australia’s number 1 most wanted being caught
by a 13-year-old boy, giving Blake an A.
“You just stopped Australia’s number 1 most
wanted criminal, Jimmy ‘Trix’ Henderson. We’ve “That was lucky.”
been after this bloke for quite a while.” Jack Kenny
Blake was recognised for his great heroism with a Year 7

Andrew Deegan Year 9


Bull Ride
As he waits for his ride and brushes his resin
He studies his bull, a rank one called ‘Mezzin’
Both JB and Kody have won previously
He believes it’s his turn, a 91 they’ll see.
He hops on his bull and pulls up near side
Then he whispers to his bull “You’re gonna lose
all your pride.”
He wraps and bangs his hand as tight as can be
Holds up his free hand and yells “Let him buck
free!”
He explodes out to the left, then reverses right
His mates then start yelling “Cowboy up alright!”
He needs an 89 to pick up the cheque
But he loses his balance and hits the deck.
He moans and groans on what could have been
But he picks himself up ‘cause Calgary’s the
next scene. Kieran Hayward Year 7

Alex Newsome
Year 10

Christopher Kocx Year 9


Joseph Sammut Year 12

Charlie Hanigan Year 8


Christian Pang Year 8

Liam Callaghan Year 12 (detail)


Connor Mahon Year 9

Harrison Gould Year 10


I Heard a Cry…
It was one of those days where you felt as if you didn’t have my phone on me and there was
could do anything, well at least that’s what I nobody out and about around here at 7 o’clock in
thought it would be. Anyway, it started out with a the morning. I tried to find a nice thick branch
jog down to the local fish market. I saw Big Al and that would be able to pull Ellie up. I found a thick
Jimmy Gees then ran to the park. I got to the park and long branch that must have been played
and stopped at the bubbler to get some water. I around with by kids using them as swords. I
could hear screams in the distance. I wasn’t sure immediately ran back to Ellie as soon as I got the
if they were screams of laughter or screams of branch. She was still there holding on for dear life
pain so I went down to check. As I reached the with all that was left in the tank. I gestured the
place where I thought I could hear something, I branch in front of her but she wasn’t able to take
could see nobody – nothing but the green grass her hands off the branch she was already holding
and the trees that made up the terrain. Then I on to. I wasn’t sure what to do now so I started
heard a cry for help. I jumped onto my toes and to brainstorm. Then I thought of a plan to save
sprinted to the noise. There was a girl about my Ellie’s life.
age hanging off the side of a steep and
I firmly gripped the branch she was holding on to
dangerous cliff. I tried to calm her down and
and started to pull it back. I was determined to
asked her what her name was. She replied saying
save her life and I wasn’t going to give up that
“Ellie,” and I told her “My name is Nick.” I
easily. I didn’t know what happened next but
noticed that tears started to roll down her face
somehow I lifted up the branch and pulled her to
and knew instantly that she needed some help,
safety. If I can remember, the first thing I heard
fast. I tried grabbing her hand but it was no use. I
wasn’t “thank you” but the sound of my alarm
wasn’t regarded as being amongst the big jocks
clock buzzing at the same time it did every day at
at school but neither the nerd in the corner. I was
7:30 am. This meant it was time for school. I
still waiting on my growth spurt and hoping that
rushed downstairs, picked up a piece of toast,
some muscle power came with it.
clumped my bag over my shoulder and left out the
Her arms were getting tired and she couldn’t hold back door.
onto the soon-to-be-broken branch. I needed to do
James Goodman
something quick. The first thing that came to my
Year 7
mind was to call for help but it was no use as I

Henry Walsh Year 11


Christopher Kocx Year 9

Geoffrey Miller Year 8


Henry Birtwistle Year 10

The Terminal Stand up and just walk away.
I’ve passed through this swinging gate
Stamp, Countless times before
Welcome home. Always with the same ignorant eyes
Stamp, Burning into my back
Please step this way sir. Like fire pokers left in too long.
Stamp, They are completely oblivious
You haven’t filled this in miss. thinking always
Stamp, the next victim is them,
Hey you! What’s in the bag? it could only ever be a Yank.
I’ve been standing in this line Stamp, Stamp, BOOM!
for far too long. But it’s never really that soon
That continuous noise of Stamp,
Stamp, Stamp, Stamp, Ink on the page.
on that paperback book Stamp,
that tells them I’m on my way
either to watch out! Stamp,
Or let them through. Excuse me sir.
It’s judged by colour, Stamp,
by dress Please step this way.
and by voice, Where in this world
but never by fact. can I walk without a hassle?
Stamp, Titled something I’m not,
False accusations flung. questioned about something I haven’t done.
Stamp, These people will never learn.
I think that Arab man has a bomb! Stamp, Stamp, Stamp.
Stamp, Elliot Nash
Miss, I’m Indian thank you Year 9
Stamp,


Harry Spurr Year 8

Connor Berkery Year 7


Sprung Biology
A simple prank: a bucket, paint and a door. I Cerise and blue were very different organisms.
admired my creation. Little did I know, someone These two have been rivals since humanity
was behind me. He grinned, pushing the door evolved. Each doing their own job, one carrying
away. I was instantly covered in embarrassment. elements and the other supporting. Always going
Everyone was pointing and jeering. I only had one against each other from birth to death. But the
thing to say, “It’s not pink, it’s cerise!” moral is, the combination can make a difference.
Cerise blood, blue veins.
Robert Kwan
Year 10 Terence Wong
Year 10

Charles Smith Year 7


Harry Bateman Year 8

Gildardo O’Connell Year 11

Stephen Sia Year 7


Human A Dr Robertson taught me at a young age the
importance of vitamins, especially Vitamin D. In
I am A. I am the first cloned human being ever my second year of training I was taught about
created, the greatest creation in the history of photosynthesis, but I could never grasp the
mankind. I am 10 years old, and as a result of concept of the ‘sun’. I’ve never seen the sun, so
genetic engineering, I have an IQ of 165. I am Dr Robertson tells me Vitamin D is especially
four years into my training, and in three years I important.
will enter higher level training, where I will finally My training is the single most important aspect of
become Human A. my life. My training is from 9:00 in the morning
My daily life revolves around routine. My carers, until 5:00 in the afternoon. Dr Smith takes me for
Dr Robertson and Dr Smith, awake me at 6:30 cognitive training. I like Dr Smith. She is an
a.m. For half an hour, Dr Robertson, a middle- elderly woman, nearly 60 years old, and an
aged man with two young boys, conducts physical experienced and highly intelligent scientist. My
tests on me as I run on a treadmill. I don’t like Dr fourth year of training entails a number of topics:
Robertson. He brings his offspring sometimes, Complex Analysis; the Theory of Relativity;
and he treats them to things called ‘lollies’ and advanced Astrophysics; Spanish linguistics; and
wraps his arms tightly around them. At first I Modern American Culture. I can already speak
thought this hurts them, but they seem to enjoy French, English and Chinese fluently. By the time
it. I don’t get lollies. My ‘meals’, as Dr Robertson my training is complete, Dr Robertson tells me, I
calls them, are delivered to my room. They’re will be the first perfect human being.
certainly different to the meals Dr Robertson and *****
Dr Smith get. Mine aren’t colourful, nor are they
I’m now at age 15, and my higher-level training is
in different shapes or sizes. They’re in small
well underway. It is much more of a challenge
capsules, labelled Vitamin A, B1, B2 and so forth.
than my earlier training. My physical exercises
have now become truly strenuous. I am now
expected to run long distances, numerous
kilometres, without stopping or faltering. Dr
Robertson supervises this, and I am punished
with electric shocks if I fail to do this. I am also
being trained to lift extremely heavy weights. Dr
Robertson tells me that I must be at an optimum
physical state before I am 18. When I questioned
why humans must be like that, I received a strong
electric shock.
“You are not human,” he said. “Yet.”
My training with Dr Smith is also becoming much
more complex. Having learnt every unit of Physics,
Chemistry and Mathematics, my education in
Philosophy and Culture began this year. It is a
difficult concept to grasp, especially the idea of
creativity and expression, which I consider utterly
meaningless. Dr Smith is patient with my
deficiencies; however I have heard her express
concern to Dr Robertson about my inability to
understand these ideas. She tells me it is of the
highest importance that I understand these units.
It is relevant to my final year when I will be taught
a highly complex unit on something called
‘emotion’.
Daniel Needs Year 9


Marcus Britt Year 7

***** Love was the most difficult of all emotions. When
Dr Robertson taught me that human offspring
At the beginning of my final year, Dr Smith
were created as a result of the emotion ‘love’, I
expired. Due to the sudden nature of her passing,
asked if I was a result of ‘love’. I was confused,
it was decided not to replace her, but instead Dr
an emotion I had just recently grasped, when Dr
Robertson would conduct both my physical and
Robertson began to lacrimate, a sign of sadness,
cognitive training. Dr Robertson assured me that
I was taught. The session ended suddenly that
my final year of training would continue without
day, but I became ever closer to perfection.
interruption, and that I was well on my way to
becoming the first perfect human. The final step, *****
he said, was to understand the idea of emotion.
My final year is now over. I am now completely
With this, I struggled. I was uncertain if it was the educated in the fields of International Linguistics,
teaching methods of Dr Robertson or the Culture, Philosophy, Mathematics, and Sciences. I
concepts themselves, but I was incapable of am no longer known as A; but Human A. I am the
processing the emotions of ‘happiness’ or first omniscient creation, the very first perfect
‘sadness’. Every human being, Dr Robertson said, human being.
expressed these things, even those of the most
But, I am a creation of knowledge, not love.
inferior intelligence. I could not understand these
emotions, let alone express them, I said. I I am all knowing, but I cannot feel.
encountered the same difficulty as when Dr Smith My name is Human A, but I am not human.
taught me culture and creativity. These
I am artificial, a cheap imitation.
‘emotions’, I argued, had no purpose. Dr
Robertson taught me ‘fury’ when I debated the I am empty.
biological purpose of emotion. I still did not
I am nothing.
understand.
Maximilian Ford
This became even more difficult with more
Year 11
intricate emotions, ‘envy’, ‘disgust’ and ‘love’.


My Final Stand
My heart was racing.
My uniform was stained cerise.
I was the last of the A Squad.
I crept up on a young boy.
I steadied my rifle and fired.
There was a bang and then silence.
Finally he screamed,
“NO headshots in paintball!”
Sean Fagan
Year 9

Joshua Meads-Barlow Year 7

Morgan Thomas Year 10


Paul Grasso Year 12

Jack Karikios Year 11


Darkness
James dived in. The sound of water splashing
around. He got to the other end and dropped
his goggles at the bottom. When he tried to
swim down and get them his eyes were
stinging. Suddenly a cerise bag engrossed his
head, shooting fear through his body.
Everything went black…
Jack Foster
Year 8

Finlay Bryant Year 9

Jack Lyons Year 7


Senior Artwork: Highly Commended

Maximilian Heffernan Year 12


Isaac Ronthal Year 8

Jarryd Yun Year 7


Matthew Musgrave Year 12

James Quinn Year 10


The Last War It started twenty years ago, when the war began. I
knew nothing of the context, nothing of the
In the new era there was life, and there was provocation or what the outcome would be. The
death. It became a systematic process of torture only thing I could comprehend was my orders:
and pain. I once knew the soft touch of green clear, direct, without justification of the outcome;
pastures and cool streams; now, all I can think of the inevitability of certain death, instant
is steel and iron, fire and pollution. My wife was destruction summarised in one word – launch. We
killed, along with my only daughter, slowly, struck first, but for every action, regardless of
painfully, without humanity. In fact, in the new ferocity or bitterness, there is a reaction. The
era, there was hardly any humanity. There was no retaliation ripped through the sky, through the
innocence, no independence, only slavery and earth’s core. Thousands died, instantly killed by a
bitter sleep, the only refuge for a plagued mind. I wave of intense heat and fire. This process
had no dreams, just darkness. I have no hope, continued until there was nothing left but an earth
only vengeance, which I guess is similar to the glazed with charcoal and dust.
latter. I once had a dream, I was once a normal I walked the desolate streets, my lungs burning,
man in a regular society, but I guess, then too, I heart pumping, and anticipation flowing through
was controlled. I walked the desolate streets with my veins. Hatred circulated through me, my
a grim sense of anticipation for the future, a clothes were torn, my feet calloused and bloody. I
revolution, a new step in modern society. That held the rifle loosely in my clenched hands. I had
sense of quiet optimism has plagued me for the created this beast and it was my duty, my
last twenty years, since the beginning of the new responsibility, my patriotic duty to destroy it. I
era. It started with independence and ended in passed the remnants of homes and cars, streets
dictatorship. Science said it was impossible, that and suburbs of innocence and life. There was no
we had nothing to fear, but what the hell do we life, only the muffled sound of anti-aircraft fire
know about science, anything is possible; nobody rupturing the blood red skies. I was a survivor, a
who had any rational thoughts would even have hermit chained to a small bunker deep within the
anticipated it, but it happened, and now we will earth, but today I would die. I would truly be free.
suffer the consequence of human curiosity. Smoke cascaded into the air from what was once

Jojo Yeboah Year 7

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