The Raven

Senior School

Autumn2018

Stranger Things

Giordi Caceres, Year 12

They thought he’d forget. But he remembered. Everything. Everything. He described what happened on that cold winter night.

Sargent Sasha had said, “It was edging 7:30pm and the sun had sunk into the earth, revealing an eerie darkness across the forest. There was an ominous silence that night with the occasional howl marking each moment. The next part of the man’s story was even more terrifying. He described himself deep in the woods when he saw it. Its eyes were incandescent, glowing red with a piercing macabre stare. He then went on to describe its approach. It had an obnoxious body, with claw marks from its previous prey putting up a fight. It had minimal hair, not enough to protect it from the harsh winter weather. It approached him dangerously with each step entrenching itself into the heavy snow, breaking branches with its body weight. The man tried to stand intrepidly but his joints told a different story, uncontrollably shaking from what was yet to come. As the beast was approaching it stood up tall on its two legs and dashed towards the man.

Immediately the man, fearing for his life, made a quick dash back to the car as his forehead dripped with sweat as he desperately puffed for his next breath of air. All around him the setting of the trees and rocks blurred into a mixture of just green and grey. He could hear the impending growl of the beast behind him. In a split decision the man desperately changed direction, confused as to how far away he was from his car, guided only by the distinct sounds of tracks. The man took a quick glimpse behind him to find nothing but the emptiness of the woods, but something wasn’t right. With this in mind, however, the man continued to sprint for his life increasing his proximity to the road. The man’s alacrity to reach the road decreased his caution for the various unstable rocks below him, resulting in his body being thrown six feet in length onto the hard gravel of the road. His body lay flat on the road with small gashes from the pavement. The man looked terrifyingly towards the woods from which he had just escaped. The figure lay completely still blending in with his environment, searching the road for its prey. During this, a truck came to an abrupt stop in front of him, its headlights blinding him in the process. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the beast flee, leaving only flakes of skin and a heinous odour.” Sargent Sasha came to an abrupt stop.

“That’s all he told me, General,” she replied.

“Good, Sargent Sasha,” Thompson replied. “Now that we know where it is and how it hunts we can kill it.”

“And what about him, Sir?” she asked.

“Who?”

“The man who encountered the beast. He knows too much. Should we kill him?”

“Yes,” replied General Thompson.

For all he knew the hunt was on. General Thompson then steadily stood up and approached the window which had a clear view of the forest, whispering to himself, “You will die, you swine.”

His eyes glowed red. After all, his brother had died.

Trench Foot

Harry Penrose, Year 12

The pamphlet stirred lifelessly, stuck down by the grime and muck of the trench, THIS IS TRENCH FOOT, it proclaimed in bold black letters. KEEP FEET DRY AND CLE–, the second half had melted away in a stagnant runnel of black trench water. It was hard to imagine anything dry in the vast swampy mire that made up the trenches of the Somme, and clean hadn’t existed for this soldier for months.

This soldier unzipped his trousers, and let loose on the pamphlet, the steady stream punctuating the pregnant silence which hung over the trenches, as heavy as mustard gas. Soldiers, boys, and cripples were preparing in the early morning light, a hundred noises ran down the trench like rats, the intermittent clunk of Lee–Enfield’s being holstered, the terse whispers between huddled groups, the steady stream… This soldier finished his task and fell in line with the rest of the soldiers, boys, and cripples.

Two officers paraded down the line. Even they, in their resplendent greens and khakis couldn’t quite manoeuvre around the trench without picking up some of the grime. The look on the superior’s face was of poorly hid disdain, whereas the other officer, the one this soldier hadn’t seen before did nothing to hide his disgust, going so far as to squeal as he stepped into a cunningly deep puddle. “These, Albert, are the men,” said the first officer gesturing to the soldiers, “Strapping young lads, if I don’t say so myself.” The manic appraisal of the ‘strapping young lads’ did nothing to raise the spirit of the men, who stared despondently past the officer. “The Backbone of the Royal British Army, indeed,” muttered Albert.

“That’s the spirit old boy. Now lads, a telegraph came down from command just yesterday, and you fine men, have been tasked with leading the charge to victory. With any luck, you should all be home by Christmas,” announced the officer, “However bit of a sticky-wicket I’m afraid, myself and Officer Henderson are desperate to join you on your fierce assault, however we are needed for important ahh…” there was a brief pause, “morale related operatives. Lest the German swine take the upper hand. You fine soldiers will begin your assault at 0800 hours, so pip, pip.”

There was no reaction, the 18th Company had been leading the charge to victory for up to five months now, of course, faces had changed, but the men hadn’t. Where one man went missing another would melt into his place, leaving behind their old lives, to take up grey anonymity with the rest of the troops. The fresher recruits brought pictures of their fiancées and family with them and wrote messages back home on the backs of newspapers, but eventually these soldiers stopped, one way or another, bringing out the photos in the morning, till eventually, these treasured mementos ended up as kindling or worse. This soldier was not a fresh recruit, his portraits had been burnt, after a month, a record at the time, but now the fire burnt more fiercely and few lasted more than a couple of weeks.

Like the photographs, prayers had all but ceased. One poor soul’s, unlike the rest whose hope had died bitter deaths, hope snapped and now he did nothing but pray. Sitting in his little corner he would ramble away at verses snatched from all over the holy texts. Even in his sleep you could hear the steady consistent murmurings of distorted verse. The rest of the soldiers let him be, they didn’t like being reminded of God in this place. Any other nuisance in the trench was quickly beat out of people, yet the men couldn’t bear to approach him.

This soldier figured the war must be changing as assaults had gone from fortnightly to weekly to every second day. Perhaps the officers had simply grown tired of the endless crusade of failed assaults and missives from command. Perhaps the officers hoped if enough bodies were thrown against the Maschinengewehr Machine gun lines of the Germans, at a rate 400, 7.92mm rounds a minute, the Germans would simply run out of bullets before the officers ran out of men. The officers relished small victories often claiming tactical superiority. They had rejoiced when a part of a trench had collapsed widening it by a few feet, a distance that one of them called a significant advance on the enemy, a missive which earnt the officer a bottle of the army’s finest, at his next meal; a fact which did not go missing on the soldiers.

They were preparing now, ladders were being layered up against sandbags and pushed down into the mud, guns armed and reloaded. On the edge of hearing the slow moan of a hundred men permeated the trench, the collective last gasp shared in one breath by the entire company – soldiers, boys and cripples, drowning in the muck and grime and runnels of filthy black trench water. The officers lounged up against a rampart, one was smoking, two pairs of vulture eyes surveying, greedily.

“Ladders men!” barked Albert, as a hundred shaky hands reached for absolution, grasping the coarse wood like wild animals in flood.

“Feet up!”

The soldier praying had stopped now.

This soldier stood up, the trench wall just above his head, a waft of fresh air drifted lazily past his face and for a moment he could feel the warmth of the sun on his back.

The officer put a whistle to his lips, smiled grimly at Albert and blew.

 

The Dam on the Hill

Harry Dean, Year 7

The road to my mother’s house was confusing and forgotten. An endless abyss lay at every corner trying to suck you down like a black hole. The wind wailed in the trees, then pricked at my neck through the open window of my car. When I finally decided to close the window, a final gust of bitter air exploded into the car putting me off balance and almost sending me out of control and into the trees. The trees around here weren’t normal, they wove around each other, reaching angrily out for the road, just brushing the wing mirrors of my dad’s old American truck. “It’s built for these things,” he used to say as we cruised the open plains. As I passed, the trees got thicker and created a wooden mesh, imprisoning me.

12:32 was displayed on the dashboard and I aimed to get there for mid-afternoon. I hadn’t seen my mum for over four years and nobody I knew had heard from her since it happened. Nobody knew it was going to stay that way for such a long time. My mum got divorced from my dad when I was 21 and she had left me a message indicating the location of her new home  when she moved there recently, but I never could of imagined this…. a forgotten forest. I wish I could have got to her sooner.

I glimpsed down at the satnav on my phone and realised that I had missed the turn off about a kilometre ago, which got me thinking. I didn’t remember seeing a turn off at all; however, I went along with the map and kept checking as I drove. This time around, the trees were a completely different colour and less tangled and less interwoven as if they had changed as I passed. The bark of the trees was orange and the leaves a bright green letting the light shine through and making the birds in the trees look ethereal against their majestic background. Eventually, the turning was highlighted with a bright yellow sign. All of this seemed very weird but I took the turning and  the trees morphed back into their gloomy state once I had passed. I didn’t like it that way.

As I travelled further down the drive, the road switched to a rough dirt track and the car’s suspension buckled as it struggled to stay upright. On the horizon a dark, distorted image took shape. The shape became sharper until an old derelict house stood in the middle of the clearing. I parked my car but didn’t get out.

Eventually, I willed the courage to open the door and approach the front of the house. I ran my fingertips down the cracks in the wood as I made my way around to the front door. As I touched the house it seemed to come alive, like it had been prodded by a stick and all its  faults healed. I made my way up to the front door and just as I was about to knock, an ear-piercing crash came from down the road. I must have jumped ten feet high. A baby blue mini came crashing down the gravel drive. It was my sister, with a terrified look on her face. A stranger was sitting next to her. I remembered that she had said that she was going to bring an exchange student from Italy who had been staying with her for the last couple of weeks. She was becoming worried as he had been acting weirdly and was making her feel very uncomfortable. It was a mistake bringing him.

My sister jumped quickly out of her car and raced towards the house, hugging me before knocking on the door like a woodpecker. The house seemed to creak every ten knocks and it seemed like an eternity before the door swung open and revealed a squished small face smiling up at us. My sister and I instantly leaped to give our mother a hug and she flung her arms around us. I could feel the tears rolling down her cheeks and I started to tear up. We brought our bags into the house and we chose our bedrooms and unpacked. We gathered on the balcony and looked out over the valley and my mum talked to us and told us about the place, the valley and the big dam at the top of the hill. It was midnight before we went to bed.

There were three spare bedrooms in the house and then one master which had the most amazing view. It overlooked the whole valley and there was a telescope on the balcony. In the morning we watched the sun rise over the dam at the top of the hill. As I returned to my room to get dressed there was a loud thumping noise coming from the room next to me and suddenly the door swung open and the exchange student appeared with a large bag on his back. He declared that he was going to hike up to the dam. As I went with him to let him out, I noticed there was a black wire sticking out of his  bag and there was a flicker of red. I ignored that little disturbing fact and went back in to have breakfast. That’s when it all started to go downhill.

There were scrambled eggs, salmon and pine nuts for breakfast, mum’s special dish. She served it up on sea blue plates and afterwards we all returned to the balcony where we had been last night. We talked all about what had happened over the years and as we chatted, we overheard a loud bang and started to wonder if the exchange student was alright. And then we felt it. We started to panic. The walls were exploding with dust and the floor started to part. We leapt for cover and a rush of water decimated the old house, sending pieces of it in all directions. I was flushed into the inside of a hollow tree and the couch that I had been sitting on trapped me inside and I was knocked unconscious.  The last thing I remembered was hearing a faint voice saying, “Rivers Cave” and then it was gone.

Later that day, the search and rescue team found me in the tree and brought me back to consciousness and asked me if I knew where anyone else was, but I didn’t. I was walking around the debris and I noticed an old map of the valley lying on the floor. I decided to take it with me and then the rescue team urged me into the ambulance. On the way to the hospital I examined the map and saw that there was a spot on the map marked ‘Rivers Cave, EMERGENCY’ and I remembered the voice and the boom I heard up in the valley and the fuse and red stick that was sticking out of the exchange student’s bag.  It all started to make sense…

Australia’s Recipe for Environmental Disaster

Jolyon Harrison-Murray, Year 9

Imagine a world where all you could show your kids were pictures of kangaroos or the newly developed apartment block, where you once played tag. This frightful scenario is what the world would resemble if Australia’s moral compass on environmental care is adopted globally. The main issues associated with Australia’s fundamentally flawed environmental agenda can be sorted into three areas of concern. These include: Australia’s appalling high extinction rate, the lack of investment by the government into environmentally friendly alternatives and the shocking deforestation crisis. Australia’s environmental ideas would wreak catastrophe if replicated globally.

Many of us remember the days we would rouse to the call of a white-tailed black cockatoo, but these days this seems etched into history, due to a massive biodiversity loss. A biodiversity loss that has left us with an eerily quiet environment.

Australia is struggling tragically with the extinction of animals.  Australia is one of seven countries responsible for half of the world’s biodiversity loss. According to the ABC study only Indonesia, a developing country, is a larger contributor out of these seven countries. Australia now has a staggering 971 threatened or extinct animals which if replicated globally would decimate food chains, devastate ecosystems and destroy our future.

Every night while you sleep 75 million native animals are slaughtered by feral cats. Invasive species are a significant issue in Australia but very little is done to prevent or contain their spread. Going on holiday and seeing totally new animals is a phenomenon we all value, but this is lost under Australia’s moral compass due to invasive species. Australia’s lazy attitudes have influenced extinction numbers directly and would do so elsewhere if this way of functioning was taken up globally.

Would you invest in something that defines who you are? For most the answer would be yes, which prompts us to ask why we don’t invest more into our wildlife. Australia is a developed country that invests very little money into its environment. If other countries followed suit with the phenomenally puny amount of money, it would be like sentencing the world’s wildlife to be hung, drawn and quartered. The lack of money to support our native species has resulted in major gaps in our knowledge and monitoring systems.

I hope you can appreciate how even a small donation by you can make a difference in these challenging times.

While most advanced nations recognise the need to fund protection of natural land, Australia still persists with urban sprawl and expansion. While most advanced nations recognise the need to spend money on renewable sources of energy, Australia ignorantly continues to drill for oil and gas. Australia would only hinder other country’s development if they had to abide by our standards. We are centuries behind other counties in technological advances and moral ideas which are consequently harshly impacting our wildlife.

In the time it will take you to read this text an MCG-sized area of forest will have been cleared in Queensland alone, according to ‘The Wilderness Society’. Australia has authorised massive deforestation resulting in high biodiversity loss.

I can remember when my uncle was given notice that the forest area behind his East Perth estate was to be cleared for housing redevelopment. Some of my favourite memories are walking through the trees while little mammals scurried beneath. This experience made me realize that we have to do something about deforestation as it threatens our survival and will threaten others. We must stop bulldozers urgently because climate change demands we find a more sustainable solution.

Australia has destroyed forty percent of its forests which would translate to approximately half of every forest worldwide being cut down if our practices were replicated globally.

This deforestation is primarily a result of severe law-weakening by state governments. The deforestation crisis is already troublesome, but Australia’s moral compass makes it a lot more dire.

Australia’s environmental beliefs could inflict devastation on the rest of the world if replicated globally. The substantive proof that Australia leads extinction levels, supplies minimal sustainability funds and endorses brutal deforestation should convince you of the danger of the idea. Adopting our standards globally poses significant potential harm when what we need to do is help change Australia’s environmental downward spiral and avoid deadly implications.

The Quiet Cottage

Josh Hook, Year 12

He sat there peacefully, deep in thought, as he began to stroke the brittle white hairs of his beard against his cheek. His hands were wrinkled and cracked and tired from countless years of working at the mill. Beside him sat his dog. His friend. And his faithful companion. She too, sat there peacefully, letting out the air slowly, causing her chest to rise and fall in a melodic fashion. Her hair was thick and white and matched that of the bearded man in an intriguing way. She had always been by his side keeping him company, even more in the years since his wife, Margaret, passed away.

The man sat in his rocking chair, in the corner of the living room. A soft breeze accompanied by the lustful smell of the forest air flowed through the adjacent window that had been left cracked open. The cottage was small, but welcoming and consisted of three connected rooms made from dark oak timber and clay bricks. It was a cool and overcast day in January, setting a dull tone shadowing over the cottage that sat lonely in a clearing amongst the thick undergrowth of the forest.

Several minutes passed, as the elderly man began to drift off. A faint growl sounded in the far distance, but the man had already dozed off. The dog, however, who remained outstretched on the floorboards beneath the man’s feet heard the noise, this time noticeably louder and seemingly closer. Her ears shot up in alert, trying to comprehend the meaning behind the peculiar sound. But it was different to anything she had heard before and called for her investigation.

The growl sounded again, and the dog stood up onto all fours, senses heightened, prepared. Intrigued by the sound, she began to move, slowly pacing towards the back door with intent and desire in her eyes. The floorboards scratched beneath the dog’s toenails as they dragged across the floor. The dog reached the back door and nudged it open with her nose. The door swung outwards with ease, revealing a thick and lush forest in every direction, and towering metres above the cottage. The overcast day had blocked any sunlight from penetrating through the canopy of the main tree line, keeping the forest floor damp and dimly lit. An awkward and unsettling quietness fell across the cottage as the dog stepped off the back porch and moved in the direction of the sound. It wasn’t long before the dog was gone, deep into the forest. Oblivious of the dangers and guided by her senses, she disappeared behind the thick undergrowth.

By the time the man awoke from his nap it was dark. Hours must have passed by the time he regained consciousness, but without his companion at his side; there was a clear and uneasy sense that something was wrong. The wind had picked up, now causing the back door, which had been left ajar, to open and close forcefully against the wooden bracket. The man rose from his seat and whistled loudly through his fingers. However, he got no response. Just the eerie echo of his whistle ricocheting off the tree line and cottage walls.

The man peered through the open window in his living room, and that was when he saw a pair of eyes. Not the loving, pale eyes of his dog, but a menacing red that glowed intently into his eyes, coming straight from the edge of the forest.

In Memory Of

Harry Foley, Year 12

They thought he’d forget. But he remembered. Everything. Did they even know that it was him? That was all irrelevant now, as he made his way to his next post – right outside their door, just as planned. From the stone-cold look on his face, there was no way to know that he was the same boy who, all those years ago, woke up to the crack of a pistol and the stinging smell of gunpowder invading his nostrils. But this appearance was a façade, for a fire burned within him. A fire that had been blazing, raging, ever since the day they chose his house, his family. That was in the past, and this is now, but the feeling of déjà vu lingered in the back of his mind. It was Home.

He turned around to face the door. The same dark oak door he stared at for hours, pretending to have perished. The same heavy dark oak door that he used to struggle to push open, but on that night was thrown effortlessly into the wall, the hinges creaking and squealing as if they were in some hellish choir. And they would sing again tonight, but for a different victim.

As he reached for the shining brass handle, the handle that they twisted and turned on that night, seconds before pulling out their instruments of murder, there was movement below. But it was far too late; they could not stop what was about to take place. This unassuming brass handle, polished to perfection, was never intended to be a gateway to death. Unfortunately.

The heavy door was light tonight and moved with no difficulty. He was focused like a predator locking on his prey. There was only one way this would end, and the sequence of events had begun. He stepped through the solid doorway and entered the old room. It stank of moth balls and deodorant, which fit well with the off-white walls and the unmade double bed. But he did not take notice of this, for he had a job to do. His emotionless face was the only thing they could focus on, and in that moment they knew. Their eyes widened as they recalled the memories of that night. For they too had stood in that solid oak doorway. They too had cracked open the door, releasing a cacophony of creaks. They too had arrived all those years ago with a sole intention. Slaughter.

As he removed the concealed murder weapon from his pants, they knew who he was. With a mixed visage of remorse and acceptance, they did not fight, for there was nothing they could do. They nearly smiled, for their son was not present and he did not have to hear the crack of the pistol or smell the stinging aroma of burning gunpowder.

The remorse on their face was not for them though. They had lived a good life, a full life. This melancholic expression was for him. He had lived a worried life, consumed by dreams of vendetta. For his sake, they wished he’d forget. But he remembered. Everything.

An Unlikely Passion

Harry Frodsham, Year 9

Ugh. Today was the annual Science Day. Many people, like me, weren’t exactly keen on Science, and we didn’t try much to like it. As my day started with the usual routine of waking up, eating breakfast and going to school, I walked down the main street leading to our school, and –

Crash! Around the corner came a red-headed girl, straight into me. I fell onto my back, hands sprawled over my head. “Ouch. Just what I needed,” I complained.

“Sorry!” said the girl, who didn’t seem familiar to me.

“That’s fine. Could have been worse.”

Well, until I realised my Science model was inside my bag. Which I fell on.

As I unzipped my bag the girl awkwardly introduced herself. “M-m-my name’s Naomi,” she said.

“Hi Naomi, mine’s James. Have you done something for the Science Day?”

“Yeah,” she replied. “I did a study of all the plants and animals in my garden!”

As she said this, I pulled out my model of the solar system to discover the Kuiper Belt had been torn in half and Saturn’s rings had snapped. Venus, Jupiter, Mars and Neptune had caved in.

“Oh! I’m so sorry! At least let me help you fix it.”

“It’s fine, honestly, I can fix this in minutes.”

“No! I know you couldn’t. Let’s be realistic; you have until 8:30 to complete it and it’s … 7:45.”

“Fine. Let’s go to the library then.”

I could already tell Naomi was a “Science nerd”. She even helped me add more to my model! I had to find a way to thank her.

“Thank you so much for helping me. I mean it. Without you, I wouldn’t have been able to finish it. Is there anything I can do to help you or even repay you?”

“Well …There is one thing. Do you like Science?”

“Yeah, kinda …” I lied. I immediately regretted what I had just said.

“Great! Why don’t you join the Science Club! I mean, there’s only a couple of us in it, and you’ll meet new friends!”

She was right. I didn’t have many friends at school. It would be fun, I guess.

I ended up joining the club. To be honest, I would be lying if I told you I didn’t like it. I met new friends and found a new passion.

A passion for Science. Of all things I could have liked, I liked Science. I didn’t realise how enjoyable it was. And why did I discover this?

Because some awkward girl ran into me on the way to school.

No Place Like Home

Harry Hansom, Year 9

“We have to push through!!” Monster waves smash into the side of the fishing boat. The wind is howling like the eternal vastness of a desert under the light of the moon. Fishermen lie dazed and confused on the deck, while the captain struggles to guide through the storm.

SMASH! A puncture in the boat’s hull sends men scurrying to patch it up, but many are thrown back against the bombardment of flowing water. All hope is lost for the fishing boat and its crew. The men begin to say their prayers, and think of their family and loved ones. The ship’s hull has reached its full capacity of water and is losing structural integrity, nor does the radar seem to send data of S.O.S. So they give up. They give up bailing, they give up hanging on, and they give up the human spirit of fighting for survival.

Through the mist of chaos a sailor spots a speck, a speck of light going through the darkest of times with nothing to find but treacherous seas. That light was the beacon of hope. They found hope, hope that they would see their families again, and hope they would survive. Suddenly the storm halted; no waves, no wind, no darkness.

They emerge with tears of joy and yells of happiness. The suffering would continue no more and the light of good fortune shines into the heart of them all. The boats trot back to shore and they are made welcome by people with aid and good means. They found what they had been looking for; they found home and hope.

An Echoing Shell

Benji Steinberg, Year 11

I swayed in the wind.
Even when it stilled,
There I was:
Beside the Lake and Tree.
This place reminded me of your face.
Those fine eyelash leaves,
The curved lip of a bough.
The lake’s surface, troubled by
The fall of a slim limb.
The ripples like a creased forehead.

I saw you frowning and when you cried.
You, with two softened eyes,
Are nothing but a trace here.

Here is almost emptied of you.
People who are lucky can wander
Through places beneath the sun,
And gaze upon
The beautiful
When there is nothing beautiful
Nothing truthful.
But rather,
An echoing shell.

The Perfume of War

Luke Beeson, Year 12

The sea, a colour of herring red, the sky, a deep grey. The smell of petrichor the only thing familiar to me in this foreign land. The sweet fume that arises from soft earth after rain. The faint buzz of aircraft and shudder beneath from distant explosions. Men, seated, staring, silence. Many beside their mates fallen. Their tears masked by the soft drizzle of rain. Walking. Boot sinking underfoot. The ground misplaced from the bombs of the hours before. As I reach the water’s edge, that petrichor is masked by the smell of blood, rotting limbs and sulphur. The smell of death they call it.  That smell that rises after two sides meet, two sides of scared, mostly hopeless men, meet. From looking at the ground, men of both sides lay here, most of whom unrecognisable, for the mist of shrapnel and wall of bullet heads left many for the worse. The odd piercing scream of realisation rings. The sound of stony shores met by the crash of the ocean, a sound track for this horror movie that the trailer preview told us nothing about. As if seals, backpacks bob, those men’s livelihood, ultimately their murder, dragging them to the shallows of the French sea.

The Federer Experience

Will Lewis, Year 10

Applause, hesitation, silence; the sounds that follow only the greatest tennis player to have ever lived, and I was standing right next to him.

Federer was down 7-6 in the first set. He wasn’t at his best but neither was Zverev, the unruly German brat. That’s at least what I thought of him. It was a change of ends; we had just started our 50-minute shift and Federer was in no mood to mess around. “Drink,” he mumbles. Shoot, I misheard him. I lean in scared to death as if he has the power to order my execution right then and there, “Sorry?”

Silence.

Fed wipes his face clean of sweat and looks up at me making direct eye contact. This is now my fourth year as a ball kid for the Hopman Cup and only Hewitt has looked directly at me before like this. Unlike Hewitt, Federer looked angry, his temple throbbed as it filled with rage. This wouldn’t be ending well for me.

Surprisingly, he kept silent and just kept staring. I had to take action whether it was right or wrong. Do I grab the racquet, the towel, his personal drink, cold water, tap water? So many choices, only one would see me get out of this with some form of dignity. The others would surely lead to my unceremonial expulsion from the court. I walked to the fridge both nervous and afraid. The break was nearly over and Federer was still waiting for me.

I opened the bright-blue typical home appliance; a sudden gush of ice-cold air hit my face, disorienting me for just a moment, “Eyy!” I looked up; it only took but a few hundredths of a second for my eyes to direct their full focus towards the water bottle headed on a course aimed directly at my face.

My left eye tilted to the right of the incoming bottle. It was Fed who had taken the shot at me. His devilish grin stunned me. My hands reached out… fortunately, the bottle landed somewhat softly in my hands. Some crowd members saw my ‘half-time act’ and cheered me on.

Wasn’t Fed supposed to be the ‘nice guy’; was this some kind of joke to him? I was under enough stress as it was before he had me catching unorthodox flying objects.

I decided to grab the ice-cold Mount Franklin water bottle and deliver it to the hands of the Swiss-Maestro. I began to walk back to my post when I heard a faint, “Thanks”. It was so discreet that not even the umpire (who should be at full attention) bothered to turn his head; but I noticed. Never before had someone brought such a punishable task upon me but neither has any tennis star bothered to use over 100 lip, tongue, cheek, throat and jaw muscles all for me.

“Time,” called the umpire. Everything started to feel real, this was the biggest Hopman Cup turnout in history. Over 14,000 faces, some of which, the most recognisable people in Perth, were staring right in my direction.

Discrimination Against Aboriginal People Today

Tom Westcott, Year 9

Most people today would say that Australia is a virtuous place. that everyone here is treated equally, that the country sets a moral compass that the world should adopt. Unfortunately, this is not the case. Australia’s moral compass is tainted with the past and present horrendous treatment of Australia’s first people, the Aboriginals. Events such as the colonial massacres of Aboriginals in the 1800s, the stolen generation practice in the early 1900s and the mistreatment and discrimination of Aboriginals today, highlight how stained Australia’s moral compass is, and how it would be foolhardy indeed for other countries to adopt it.

The mistreatment of Aboriginals can be traced back to the first colonisation by white settlers in Tasmania. The settlers treated the Aboriginals like animals and abused them as such. Consequently, animosity erupted between the Aboriginals who were just trying to protect their home and the invasive, destructive white settlers, who were trying to take it from them, in the form of the ‘Black War’. This was a very one-sided war that almost lead to the extinction of Aboriginals in Tasmania. During these years, between 1804 – 1830, over one hundred and seventy massacres of Aboriginals occurred, each resulting in over six deaths. The Aboriginals, with only their spears for protection, were effectively defenceless against the settlers’ advanced cannons and guns.

The worst part of the whole event was the settlers’ mentality. Even an Australian Federationist and Politician Harold Finch-Hatton thought, “that whether the blacks deserve any mercy at the hands of the pioneering squatters is an open question, but that they get none is certain. They are a doomed race, and before many years they will be completely wiped out of the land.” This period affected Australia’s moral compass deeply. The abhorrent massacres of helpless Aboriginals is inexcusable, as it is a stain on Australia’s reputation as a virtuous, morally bound society.

One of the darkest patches of Australia’s history occurred between 1910 and 1970, in places such as the Cherboug Aboriginal Reserve in Queensland. Aboriginal children were removed from their families and placed there because of various government policies which were put in place to teach the ‘savage’ Aboriginals western morals and ethics. One of these children was Uncle Doug who grew up on Cherboug Reserve in the 1930s. He recounted how every morning, “You had to turn and salute the (Australian) flag. I never saluted one day and got three weeks in goal for not doing it… Three weeks, straight off, locked up, bread and water.” Even when Doug was allowed into town, he was still discriminated against as he was forced to walk on the opposite side of the street to white people. Doug was not offered any education whatsoever, of neither modern western disciplines nor Aboriginal culture.

Doug was one of a plethora of Aboriginal children to be taken from their families because of government policies. These children were named the ‘stolen generation’. By today’s standards this government act was immoral, unethical and despicable and a clear reason as to why the rest of the world should not adopt Australia’s moral compass as their own.

But, I hear you say, both of these events happened a long time ago. Surely Australia is equal now? But again, this is unfortunately not the case. A 2014 study by Beyond Blue, a non-profit organisation that deals with depression and anxiety, shows just how many people shun and passively discriminate against Aboriginals today. The survey gathered results from over 1000 non-Indigenous middle-aged people from all around Australia and revealed some shocking statistics. It showed that one in five people would avoid Aboriginals, distrust Aboriginals and wish them to behave more like ‘other’ Australians. One in five said that they would discriminate against Aboriginals behind their back. One in five would watch Aboriginals in retail shops with a suspicious eye. One in five would even move seats on public transport if an Aboriginal sat next to them. And finally, worst of all, one in ten people ‘would not hire an Aboriginal Australian for a job, even if that person appeared to be an otherwise perfect candidate’.

These are clearly terrible results. How can we stand tall as a society that shuns and discriminates against the rightful owners of our land? We are discriminating against Aboriginals based on the warped stereotypes that we label them with, even though they have done nothing wrong. This mistreatment simply cannot stand, and it is most certainly an obvious reason why Australia’s moral compass should not be adopted or imitated by the rest of the world.

It is clear to see how badly Aboriginals have been mistreated in both the past and present. It began with the 19th century colonial massacres that resulted in literally tens of thousands of deaths of defenceless Aboriginals. Then the Australian government decided to steal a whole generation of children in the 20th Century, which effectively isolated these young Aboriginals from their homes, loved ones and ancient traditional culture. And even on top of that, the discrimination continues today, as people still avoid, distrust and discriminate against these innocent people. If countries were to adopt Australia’s so clearly flawed moral compass, hundreds of ancient people and cultures would be subject to the terrible mistreatment Aboriginals have suffered in the past and continue to suffer today.

Dear Donald Trump

Ned Gaffey, Year 9

I am writing to you today to inform you on the lack of gun control laws in America. I am looking at the specific law in which is stated “Guns are allowed to be obtained legally for self-protection reasons”. I strongly believe that this rule needs to be changed because it increases homicides, the public disagree with it and arming the community doesn’t stop homicides. If you follow Australia’s footsteps in not allowing guns for these reasons then the whole of the US won’t experience these negative impacts.

It has been proven that guns increase the number of homicides. Studies have shown that states with the highest rates of guns per person have a lot more homicides than states with low amounts of ownership. Per 100 people in America, there are 101 guns compared to Australia’s 24.1 guns per 100 people. As a result of this Australia has significantly fewer homicides (0.5 a day) than America (30 a day). Australia’s laws changed after 1996 when a mass shooting occurred in Tasmania killing 36 people. We instantly put a stop to certain types of guns as we didn’t want any more shootings. Since then there have been no mass shootings in Australia and the gun homicide rate dropped 60% in the first 10 years of the laws. If America did exactly what we Australians did, then you would save thirty lives a day. Change the rule for the better!

Small tolls, votes and surveys on the community level shows that people are not satisfied with the current gun laws and feel they need to be stricter. Counting up all votes show that 53% of people are dissatisfied with the current gun laws and feel they need to be stricter, 30% are satisfied and 8% are dissatisfied and think they should be less strict. The public are expressing thoughts and you’re not reacting to it. If you make a national vote on this topic and more people are satisfied than aren’t, so be it, but if they are dissatisfied, react to it. It will improve your country.

The expectation of someone being saved by their killing machine isn’t reality, the reality is that only 1.6% of shootings has been defended by a gun. In other words, it has only happened four times since 1980. This is not good enough and doesn’t make up for the number of homicides caused in the first place. In a way this backfired with, out of the 63 mass shootings, 49 of the guns used were obtained legally. It’s like being stabbed with your own sword. You need to change something because it is not right that you can purchase the most used weapon to kill for the price of a cheap phone. Either you start training the community up which will cost a lot of money or swap the whole idea of being able to purchase killing machines for self-protection reasons, just as in Australia. What can go wrong? Four other countries have done it and, it has all ended in the same positive ending.

I hoped you will make your mind up for the US population’s sake, follow Australia’s footsteps and save 30,000 people a year from homicides. You’re saying they are used for self-protection, but all they are doing is self- harming, harming others and creating mass shootings, not to mention the fact that the public want it and self-protection is not a reason. There are so many negatives and few positives so that no one understands the point of the rule. Follow Australia’s footsteps for the sake of the people. Make America great again.

Yours sincerely
Ned Gaffey