The Raven

Senior School

Autumn2020

A Dance, A Light

Matt Kerfoot, Year 12

A light can be seen warm and bright
the sun’s swoon over new wed life,
the dance lethargic, what delight!
a mottled mass of man and wife;
Men in green suits, women glitter in jade,
the green leaves of the oak begin to fade

A light can be seen more subdued
from suits and gowns a rustic red,
the dance with curt rhythm alludes
to dissonance starting to spread;
A harsh sigh imminent on the cool breeze,
the bliss of fleeting marriage begins to freeze

A light can be seen cold, austere
the moon casts its long lonely glare,
forlorn the dance, but can you hear?
The final rhythm of despair;
The marriage of leaves to life, divorced
as the schemes of nature take their course

The oak once full of life now seen
without the suits and gowns of green,
stripped bare to brown and bone we see
the light now gone from the oak tree;
a longing for the light, all that is left
of the life in the oak, the dance now bereft.

Belong

Xander Aakermann, Year 12

Feeling the coarse, cold sand beneath my feet, I take my first step towards the unknown. The only place where I feel a sense of belonging yet I am still to uncover all of the hidden secrets that it possesses. I take my second step, my feet now numb to the cold as I am bombarded by the strong wind, cold as ice, piercing my body like knives. I am reminded of my first time here, when I was just six years old, an escape from the judgement and business of society, a place where I can relax and enjoy the tranquility found in the battle with mother nature.

Now, 13 years later I take my third step towards the endless expanse of blue. I can hear the sound of the waves crashing down like an eruption from a volcano. In this step I reach the point of no return, my feet no longer feel the cold emanating from the sand, I no longer feel the knives being plunged into my body from the wind, A subtle warmth spreads throughout my body, starting in my chest and moving up to my head and down my arms and legs. It’s protecting me from the large-scale assault that is being launched on me by the cold, that sense of belonging, empowering my body to fight back. I take another step, the path I always take, towards the shelter of my cave.

As I crouch to avoid the overhanging roof of the cave I can hear the water rolling up and down on the other side of the wall of the cave, a gentle – slip, slop, slip, slop as the flow of the water is pushed up the wall, but with nowhere to go it is suspended in midair before it begins the slow descent back down towards the water, like a skydiver out of a plane. Sheltered from the harsh winds I place my surfboard down gently on the jagged floor of the cave, careful not to scratch or dent my vessel of opportunity. As I plunge my hand into my backpack and retrieve the wax for my board, I can hear in the distance the strangled cry of a seagull, a cry of desperation, as I see it fighting a losing battle against the strong relentless wind. I remove my wax from the Ziplock bag in which it is housed and feel the stickiness of the wax as it joins to my hand like glue. I begin to run the edge of the wax along my board, starting at the top and working my way down. I feel all the bumps of dried crumbly wax that have remained from my previous ventures to my place of tranquility.

I emerge from my cave ready for battle, my wetsuit encasing my body, like a second layer of skin. My board under my right arm, poised like a soldier would hold a rifle. I begin my march towards the assault that the endless blue expanse is launching on the beach, my beach. I had heard veterans speak of their experiences at war. How they had never felt more at home than when they were charging towards the unknown enemy and, in this moment, I understood what they meant. I begin my charge. All my energy being expended as I run towards my enemy. I take my last step and leap towards the dark blue surface, quickly bringing my board up beneath my chest, my shield against the onslaught. As I am suspended in the air waiting for gravity to send me crashing onto the soft water below I realise I have won the battle. My willingness to journey into the unknown has meant the restoration of peace to my home away from home.

I crash into the ocean, like an explosion from a bomb, no longer scared of the secrets it possesses. The towering waves no longer frighten me, I am home. The deepness and unknown no longer frighten me, I am home. The feeling of hopelessness no longer controls me, I am home. As I paddle further out towards the break of the waves I turn around and survey the land I am leaving, to me its beauty is unparalleled. The way it encompasses the shoreline and spreads for miles down. The isolation that it provides for me and escape from my problems that no other place has ever been able to provide for me. As a smile spreads across my face I think to myself, a place where I belong…

Little Steps

Lewis Castleden, Year 11

Little steps are what he took
A sense of guilt, easily shook
A black coat-worker, traversed to toil
Avoiding the growl, provoked by oil
Tall, lifeless, structures,
looming so high
No vibrance to be seen
By the common passer-by
A single blade of green,
Rebelling the pave
Despite its fallen comrade’s
Unwillingly met grave.
Vivid landscapes exchanged
With hard, grey concrete
Though the Revolution boastful,
Veiled harm falls discrete
Tile by tile, vibrant to bare
Dark tinting of all
Inclusive of air
This change provokes
From change to none
Prying the pavement, not easily done.

Final Breath

Ethan Lamb, Year 12

I feel a tug at my soul, waking me from my deep slumber. A voice in my mind draws me forward, out of the depths of my dreams and into the land of the living. Like a zombie, I drift over to the other side of my simple room, wishing that I could fall back to sleep for eternity. My soul grows ever restless.

Looking in the mirror, I see a smartly dressed man in his middle age, gold Rolex shining on his wrist and light blue designer suit separating him from his dull surroundings. A pin on his chest states his name to be Martin Giddeon, my name. I head for the street; however the same tug pulls me from the garage and down into the subway. It’s been so long since I travelled with the masses, using public transport. It feels strange, knowing how much more powerful I am than these people, and yet they pay me no heed, as if I am an apparition. As I reach my station, I move to pass out the doors when the tug pulls me back. My leg doesn’t move as I tell it to. My arms stop swinging and take a hold of the handrail as the train pulls away.

The rest of the train ride feels like a blur. Station names flash past. I’ve never heard of some of these. York Street, Boston Avenue, 6th Street, 12th Street. My stupor only clears as we enter the countryside, speeding away from Manhattan and towards my childhood town, a small town in the middle of Texas. The train to Goldenmouth is a long one, and my life is a blur. The tug grows ever stronger as we near the final station, and as I step off the rails, I’m inexplicably drawn to the first store I see. People I haven’t seen in years silently stalk the long halls of Walmart, ignoring me as they pass by like wraiths hunting their prey.

“Excuse me, kind Sir,” I ask the clerk at the checkout. “Would you happen to know where I could find the Giddeon Family?”
No response. He checks my items through, a small bottle of water and a pack of gum, but rather than finishing the order he starts checking through the items of the person behind me. I go to speak to him but again the tug takes control, carrying me to my unknown destination like a spirit on the wind.

The tug carries me towards a large house. Although the architecture looks to be classical or romantic, this building is brand new, seemingly only finished today as the man out the front welcomes people to the open home. I stare at him, a man I haven’t seen in twenty years, and even through the proud stance and beaming face I can see that deep sadness has aged my father far more than the time I haven’t seen him. He glances towards me, and his face lights like daylight breaking through the clouds. Hope fills his wrinkled eyes and for a small moment he looks forty again. Alas, it’s only a moment, as he turns away from me and walks into the house, forgetting he ever saw me. I reach for him, his pain leaving me empty, but again the tug pulls me away.

I walk through the white paved streets of Goldenmouth as the sun starts to set. The streets are deserted, empty and soulless like a ghost town. And yet, even with no culture or music, the streets are transformed into a work of art, wonderous purples and oranges spilling from the sky to paint the white pavement like a canvas. I’m shocked at the pure serenity of the moment, the most wonderful and pure aspects of nature and man forming a sudden symbiosis, as we should have lived. I feel tears of joy fill my soul, and I cry, the most joyous I’ve ever felt even as the tug pulls me to my final destination.

I feel a sense of finality as I near the cemetery; whatever this tug is, it’s almost over. The moment I step through the rusted gates the tug disappears, leaving me feeling empty, afraid, alone in a place of death. I feel blind now, not knowing what I’m meant to do, where I’m meant to go. Looking for solace, I search for my mother’s grave. Even as so many years have passed, I easily find my way there, muscle memory returning from the thousands of times I’d been here in my youth. Where I expect to find one grave, however, I find two. The first, Marriana Giddeon, my mother. I look at the second gravestone. Rather than the trepidation I expected, I feel a warmth inside me. I no longer feel alone or insignificant. This is where I belong, finally I can rest. I smile at the tombstone reading one last time the text “In loving memory of Martin Giddeon.”

Ples go lo where (translates to “where did the village go” in pidgin Papua New Guinean)

Elliott Mitchell, Year 11

This underworld through which we drive
Our sense heightened and windows sealed
Battered national battling to survive
On every face pain concealed

Behind closed doors the echoes linger
Wails of pain, wails of hunger
Wails all night just like a singer
They won’t see God till much longer

Littered shacks too mangled shacks
Children bound to this concrete jungle
Enlisted into an army selling pencil packs
Resident aliens in their altered jungle

We pull into our barbed palace
Lying inside through bars struggle flows
Images plague minds forging a callus
Flashbacks pervade guns out only inches from her nose.

New Age of Death

Hugo Ventouras, Year 11

I remember the first time I saw humans get the closest they’ve ever been to achieving the end of everything. Sixteenth of July, or as it’s known to them, “the Trinity test”. That was the day I saw it rip into the desert and produce a blemish on the earth. I saw the looks of joy and malice on the humans who birthed the abomination, how pleased with themselves they were as they took on the self-appointed role of gods. I knew the worst part was that he wouldn’t do anything to stop them from destroying themselves.

‘kālo’smi lokakṣayakṛtpravṛddho lokānsamāhartumiha pravṛttaḥ’. The verse from the Hindu scripture repeated itself in my head as I walked through the chaos that the human creation produced. There was nothing left, no birds, no plants, no life. Just total annihilation. It was as if I was on another world, another plane of reality where all that remained was death and decay. It was on that day that I knew I would soon be guiding many hands to the rest of their non-life.

I followed these humans and their little experiments for quite some time. I watched as they carried it on their warship to make more and more weapons, which appeared to be the only thing they knew how to do. I watched that same warship crumble and sink thanks to more humans unleashing the weapons of war.

I helped many men find their resolve that day. Some were quiet, few cried and most of them were too delirious to know what waited for them. They didn’t deserve to die like that, floating in the water poisoned by the salt before sinking into my arms or being ripped apart by the predators who lay beneath the waves. It was a depressing thought to acknowledge, but I knew most of them were dead as soon as they hit the water.

I continued to follow the humans and the development of what they called “the nuclear solution” for many days. For the first time in my dreadful existence, watching humans rip each other apart likes dogs, I was scared. I was scared for the future; I was scared for the humans and I was scared of how much of me this chaos would bring. I knew that this would be the start of something more terrifying, something more catastrophic than anything that I’d seen before.

It was a day before the devices were to be dropped. I didn’t do much on that day, rather I tried awaiting the destruction the humans would bring. I tried for the longest to bury the thought in my head. ‘It’ll be just like all the other times,’ I tried to tell myself, ‘I’ll just have to carry many more of them’. I tried to tell myself that it was all I’ve ever done, that I should be used to it by now. It was pointless.

When darkness fell, I walked unseen among the humans on the other side of the world. The place humans called Hiroshima. It was a peaceful place. The evening breeze slowly drifted in as a sweet smell filled the air. Tree leaves floated calmly to the ground, painting the streets with a beautiful pattern. I saw a lot of things in this place. I saw soldiers laughing maniacally and whipping people in chains. I saw soldiers hugging and crying with their children. I saw people dance and laugh like it was a new day. I saw mothers put their children to sleep with a soft, soothing story.

For the first time in years I felt something. It was like a knife wound in my gut. I remembered everyone I carried to their beyond and their thoughts throughout. The feeling grew worse as hands started to shake. I remembered the humans who were sunken before any war. I remembered how cold, how scared they were and how calmly they slept in my arms afterwards. The feeling was unbearable now as they fell to the ground. I remembered the young boys in this war and the one before, how happy they were to fight and how scared they were to die. I tried to think of other things, the better side of things, but it was no use. Then I remembered them. Running in the street, laughing and chatting away like the world wasn’t a miserable place. Liesel and Rudy, the two who showed me the tragedy of human conflict. Good Gods Rudy. For the first time in years I felt more than just sadness and tragedy. And for the first time in a very long time I cried.

I’ll remember that day for the rest of existence. August 6th, 1945. The day a new age dawned. I watched as the humans prepared their planes and flew to foreign territory. I watched children laughing and playing while making their way to school. I watched as people made drinks and talked while calmly watching the sunrise. I focused on the colour of the sky before the chaos. The gentle breeze lightly pushed tree branches back and forth as the colour of the sun rose from warm amber to a scalding bright yellow.

Then it happened.

It wasn’t a volatile explosion like other human weapons. It was more like an instant light that engulfed everything in its path. Every man, every woman, every child. All swept up in a tsunami of sound and light that tore through everything. As soon as it touched the humans, there was nothing. They could barely even react to it as it ripped the skin from their bone and smothered them to dust. When the light settled, I found what remained. Nothing. There wasn’t a single building that was left standing. The humans who did survive the attack were barely human at all, they shambled about, screaming and crying while their skin cracked and melted. I had never seen something so cruel and so utterly horrifying till that day. I couldn’t even see the sky that day to distract myself.

They did it again not long after. Their war ended that day at a cost that was too great to pay back. I watched the same thing over again. Humans crying and screaming from the pain of their injuries and the pain of being the ones to survive the destruction.  ‘kālo’smi lokakṣayakṛtpravṛddho lokānsamāhartumiha pravṛttaḥ’. I remembered what that phrase meant that day and what it meant for humanity.

“I am become Death, the destroyer of worlds”.

Summer’s Song

Ben Edgar, Year 11

What has become of this, our summer’s song?
These timeless valleys and those green’d hills
That once stood beneath the flickering light;
Those stars that filled the skies which have been hid.
When will we see again this natural sight?
The noise of metropolis expands its stage
To crowd that pure and faultless melody
I question, ‘Why has it been taken away?’
So, life is drained to fill the famished gut
Of Man who salvages and ravages riches
Between and betwixt this, the other side
Where mirrors are wound, there can he be found
By what actions can repent our doings
Could that then calm God’s distempered viewings?

Blurring

Patrick Eastough, Year 12

The distant hum of the rave, it seems to linger as the sun begins to rise. The everlasting thumping, the symphony of the rave harmonising with my heart. The constant beating, the ringing in my ears.

I’m feeling.

This sanguine feeling, such as the rave of the night, lingers within me, threatening to leave.

I slowly rise from my seat, a park bench set upon the crest of Glumsbery Hill overlooking the sea as if it’s a place derived from heaven itself. I make my way along the beach, kicking seaweed and throwing shells. I always end up here.

I felt as though I was Peter Pan, flying to Neverland upon which I can live my fantasies, always playing, stimulated. As if possessed by the heart and soul of a child, I look for my next ‘fun’ activity to which I can be … occupied. My eyes were dreary from the night before, not sleeping a wink can make me tired, but that’s the way I like it. When I’m awake, it’s as though I’m dreaming, the pain experienced through the monotonous day has dulled to a low throb. I can satisfy myself at night, it’s the days I worry about. Scurrying from a coffee shop dealing out free samples of the newly advertised macarons, to the shopping centre where there’s a fascinating play on about these big, deformed, colourful children called the Teletubbies.

It’s just the little things in life.

The nights become a blur of strobe lights; their pulsing images burned into my eyes. I’m mesmerised, like a moth to the flame, I become trapped in my own desire.

Sometimes I miss her; she was a dream that entered my life. Her caring touch, the careful caress of her deep auburn hair, like running thin blood through my fingers.

She was my everything.

Now she is my cause for nothing.

It was as if though she had stolen all but my material possessions. No notice, no goodbye.
It was catch later alligator, not even in a while you loser.
She left me in the darkness, while I slept, under the cover of night she took my innocence and threw it into the depths of a dark abyss that swallowed the only love I had ever felt for anyone in my life.

Although I can’t blame her, she might have dropped hints a couple of months, or weeks earlier.

“You know, you’ve changed a lot since we’ve been together,” she said exasperated.
“Really? How so?” I exclaimed.
“I don’t know, you’ve grown………complacent.”
“That’s wack,” I lazily said.

I fill nights with parties, raves, nightclubs.

I brace myself for the days.

I find myself looking over the ocean every morning, in the same spot, sitting on the bench that rests upon the crest of Glumsbery Hill. It’s my little slice of heaven, but in actuality it feels as though I’m staring into heaven from limbo. Trapped in this routine, filling the nights with noise, keeping the thoughts away in the day. Never sleeping, for why would I succumb to the very action that took away my everything?

Why would I sleep?
I do not want to wake up to find that everything I had ever loved gone, again.
So, I fill my nights with the music, and my days with nonsensical wandering.

There is only one constant in my life, the crest of Glumsbery Hill.
The dates of the year become a blur, days become weeks, weeks become months.
It’s been four months since she left me, and I’ve haven’t managed to sleep.
When I do fall asleep, I end up waking up after an hour, scuttling everywhere wondering where she has gone, waiting for the darkness of the abyss to return her to me.

But it never does.

I find myself wandering. Wandering back to the crest of Glumsbery Hill, where my heart realigns with the thoughts rushing through my head.

Time stops.
The waves crash upon the rocks, my breathing steadies me with the slow pounding of the waves.
There’s silence. There’s peace.
All my thoughts dissipate, my soul is cleansed by the purple hue of the sky.
The golden tinge of the clouds begins to form.
The violet ever garden of the sky gives way to the sun.

Then the sun begins to rise, and as it does, an auburn colour radiates through the clouds.

And as such, I begin my day of wandering, looking for the next stimulant, looking for anything to keep me away from this awful existence.

Why can’t I be the one who slipped away?

How is it fair that she gets to feel as though it’s fine to leave your love in the middle of the night, where they are most vulnerable, and I get stuck with these feelings of paranoia?
Where every sleeping moment triggers the feeling of loneliness, that something I love, not that there is anything to love in this world, will leave me in the dark of night.
Why must the void encompass all? For not only did it take my love away from me, but it took my innocence as well.

And so, I sit upon the crest of Glumsbery Hill, and look upon the ocean. Reminiscing the days where my hands were filled with auburn hair.

The Life I Stumbled Upon

Digby Cleland, Year 12

Never had I seen the country and never did I want to leave it.

I was lost and then suddenly it felt as if I was found, as if I was where I was meant to be all along. I grew up in the city in big sky-rise apartments with views that stretched for miles, but which were blocked by the thick smog that covered the city. Life in the apartments was boring. There were other kids who lived in the apartment block and many of them I knew very well. They were good kids and I liked them, but I never hung out with them much. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t have the time or I could never be bothered. It was more that I didn’t fit in with them.

I was a constant at my neighbour Tim’s place when I was younger, always going across to talk and play with him. But even by the age of eight, he was hooked, his face glued to his computer screen and it was as if it were stuck there for eternity not once moving. Shouting at the screen as he became frustrated with the game he was playing, and the other people he was playing it with. I would sit and watch for a couple of minutes, but I was never tempted to play it. I would often find myself perched up against the window, staring out, wondering what was out there.

The apartments were too convenient for on the ground floor there was a whole shopping centre and just one block away was the school which I attended. As much as I was not like the kids in the apartment, I was even further misaligned from them at school. They all roamed the school with their Avengers backpacks and merchandise from their favourite games such as Call of Duty. They would play make-believe scenes from these games during lunch break and I would watch on from the safety of the lockers. One would often call out to me, “Hey Matt, come and play; this is fun.” And then they would all chime in, “Come on Matt!” and I felt as if I had no other choice but to join them. They could see that I was never having much fun sitting by myself but when playing with them it was another whole level of boredom with mindless games. I was not boring, but truth be said, I had no sense of fiction. I was a realist, and at a young age, I seemed to be the only one.

After school and on weekends, I would sit in my room, staring out the window as I read my books, most of which were scientific, or at least all were non-fiction. I would wonder what was out there, beyond the thick smog, which limited my vision to only a few hundred metres, all of which was covered in buildings, not an ounce of greenery to be seen.

But it was early 2020 when I turned 17 that things began to change. A coronavirus had hit the world, which hadn’t affected me much as I spent most of my time indoors anyway, but for others it was having crippling effects. People were losing their jobs, there was little food to be found, and there was great hysteria. Not only had there been less people on the streets, but there had been fewer people at work, and less production from the large factories in my area. I had noticed that the smog had been clearing, but it was still thick enough that I could see very little, maybe only allowing me to see a hundred metres farther.

But it was on that Saturday of March 28, a week after the country had been brought to a complete standstill, as movement throughout had all but been banned, that I woke up from my deep sleep, and looked across at my alarm clock, which was awkwardly positioned on my bedside table. The rays of the sun beamed into my room, warming it to a comfortable temperature. But it was odd as this had never happened before. I had never had any morning sunshine invade the privacy of my east facing bedroom on the 42nd floor of the Skyren apartment block. The red numbers of my alarm clock gleamed at me. It was only 6.45. I had never woken before 7.30, and it was always my alarm clock that woke me. I ripped the sheets off my bed, and jumped out with a spring in my step. I ran over to the window and looked out, my face planted on the glass screen.

It tasted quite salty, the tear that had run down my cheek and into my mouth. My eyes had begun to water, as I stared out into the abyss which I had never before so much as laid eyes on. It was not an abyss though; it was beautiful. Luscious green filled the horizon like I had never seen before. The smog had disappeared and for the first time in my life I could see what lay beyond it. It felt as if my heart was beating out of my chest. This was never a feeling I had experienced before, even when I laid eyes on the most beautiful woman I had ever seen. This was different. It was a sense of euphoria, of something new. I ran out of my room, to the kitchen, where my sister was making breakfast as she listened to deathly tunes of gothic music. She paused when she saw me. “What is with you? I have never seen so much as a glimmer of excitement in your eye since we moved here and now your smile extends from ear to ear.” She was most definitely shocked that I was smiling, for not one moment of my existence in this apartment building had I been happy. I rarely got to go outdoors, and I was not a kid to play video games.
“I have seen it, my calling,” I replied.
She looked confused; rightfully so. I was acting like a kid who had just consumed a whole packet of lollies. I was energetic, almost bouncing off the walls with excitement. “What is it?”
I continued, “Beyond the buildings, the greenery that lies further out.” She was like a stunned mullet. She had no idea what I was talking about.

She had always managed to find her own sense of adventure in this concrete jungle, but she was five years older than me and could drive a car, which always gave her an advantage. I ran back to my room and pointed out the window, her gaze following my finger and she too saw it. Almost as stunned as I had been, I watched as her jaw dropped in disbelief. Neither had she seen anything so beautiful in her life. “Pack your stuff,” she said, barely able to say the words, filled with complete joy and amazement, her mouth remaining open in awe like one of those festival clowns. I did not hesitate. I threw as much as I could into the biggest bag I had, and zipped it shut, just about busting the zips with the amount of items that were in my bag.

I ran out of my room, knocking my bag clumsily on the door as I left. My sister forced her last mouthfuls of cereal down her throat and grabbed her car keys. I had seldom seen her in the past months and I knew even less about her car. But that did not matter as we rushed towards the lift and went down to the basement where her car resided. The elevator ride was long, and silent, but it was not an awkward silence, it was more one which was in awe of what we had just witnessed. The lift, after what seemed like an eternity, finally opened its doors and my sister rushed out of them towards her car. I followed suit. She snatched my bag from me as I approached the car and threw it into the boot. I opened the passenger door to the car and just about as soon as I hopped in, I fell asleep. The excitement had taken the energy out of me, and I was out like a lightbulb.

I felt something touching my shoulder and then it was shaking at me and then it was shouting. I jumped back in my seat, suddenly woken by my sister. I looked at her and then followed her pointing finger out the front window of the car. We were parked in a field on what seemed to be a farm, something which I had only as much read about. There were four legged animals walking around eating the grass. They were white and fluffy.

There may have been a complete lockdown because of the coronavirus, but that had not stopped us from driving out here. Where there is a want, there is a will and my sister had seen the look on my face when I had first looked out from my window into what I now knew was the countryside, where I now stood.

It seems unfathomable, but I had a real sense of déjà vu in this place, for what reason I do not know. But it felt like I belonged here, even though I had only been here for a matter of minutes. I had never been satisfied by my existence in the city. Nothing there had seemed to interest me.

My train of thought was derailed as I heard a voice behind me and I jumped back startled. I turned around slowly, nervously. Standing in front of me was a tall man, wearing denim jeans and a flannelette shirt. He looked at me. “You must be Matt. I was told about you when you were born. Didn’t think it would take you this long to make your way out here. Anyway, follow me. I’m sure it feels good to be home?”

I was confused. Was this where I belonged? I followed along, eager to find out what was in store for me.

Sea of Dust

Sam Wolf, Year 12

And in that moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came. It tapped away on the roof and the silent fields.

However, earlier that day it had been different.

I woke hours ago, but there was no rush to get anything done. What more could I do? I could feed the sheep, but they’d already been overfed. All they needed was water, and water I could not give them. I had exhausted every last drop from the well, the dam and anything I could find, but it wasn’t enough. They couldn’t last much longer and, honestly, neither could I.

Even as I pulled my socks on they scratched away at my dry feet, and my shirt stunk of day-old sweat. I only do one load of washing a week, because it’d be a waste of water. It’s so expensive now, I’ve no other choice. It’s not like I was making any money from my sheep anymore. I pulled my worn and dishevelled boots on and put on my broad, dusty hat. Each step toward the veranda creaked in the old house. The sounds of the house provoked memories. It hurt to live here; this place brought back too many memories of Amy. We’d come within a week of getting married and then she just up and left. She “couldn’t live out here, in the middle of nowhere,” apparently, and away she went with some bigshot businessman from the city.

The fly screen door flung open with a small nudge from the tip of my right boot and it crashed loudly into the house. I stood out on the deck looking over what was left; not much. From the top of the hill, I could see almost everything, except for the old dam where the sheep spent their time. There was a sea of dust before me, and at the bottom of the valley was the old fig tree I’d proposed to Amy under. It was now a flimsy skeleton of branches, strewn with patches of dry leaves. It was all once mile upon mile of luscious green pasture. An array of native birds used to socialise in the trees around the house, chirping all day. Even the birds were gone, which left a lifeless silence for miles. On the horizon, clouds hung over the land, tormenting me.

I started up the rickety old ute. It groaned as it struggled to turn over. I’d had to sell the Landcruiser to pay for bringing in as much water as I could, but that only lasted a few weeks. I had to check on the sheep. The sheep that once numbered 4,000 were now down to a few hundred, and if I lost these, there was no hope for this place, let alone me.

The ute reached the base of the hill, on the other side the sheep would usually lie. They somehow clung onto hope by sitting near the dam, expecting it to magically fill up. Poor things. I don’t know how much longer they could last. It could be days, a day, or they could all be dead already. I was about to find out.

I stepped down from the old red ute and landed on crusty dead grass that crunched like broken glass under me. I was nervous for what I would find and began sweating. I didn’t know if it was fear, heat or both. I lunged my way up the hillside, pushing off my knees for support. The hill began to level out and I finally got to see.

First it was the smell. I knew what it meant, but I didn’t want it to mean that. I looked around. The ground around the dried-up lake was smothered by dirty white sheep. There were hundreds but none made a sound. At least a hundred would be dead. None ran away in fright. I could see the rise and fall of breath in many of them, but that was all. I’d failed. They wouldn’t last another three days.

The drive back to the house was the worst hour of my life. As the ute rattled along the track I struggled to see through my tears. I can’t even remember having my eyes open for it. I drove slowly, wailing and crying. I crawled out of the car and left it running. What would it matter? I stumbled up the steps and flung the door open. It crashed into the house, harder this time, and broke off the door’s top hinge. I stumbled through the house and fell face down onto my bed. I lay on those sweaty sheets for hours until the cool of night began to flow through the front door and push away the day. I hadn’t stopped crying.

Hours more passed, until I eventually reached under the bed and fumbled my arm around in the dark until it found what it was looking for. The stainless steel was cold in my hand, and the wooden stock was menacing. I was crying loudly now and trembling like nothing else. It was my only choice. A thousand memories rushed through my head.

CRACK. A terrible deafening sound split the sky and shook the house. Then there was a moment of silence. But I was still here. The sound had been lightning, and in that moment, like a swift intake of breath, the rain came. It tapped away on the roof and the silent fields.

I burst into tears, and I cried for hours. It rained for days.

The Plague

Tom Westcott, Year 11

With grief and fear She gazes on,
As trees are slayed, and rivers die,
As diesel and dirt congeal upon,
The fields where flowers used to lie,

Her coastlines seem less gracious now,
Adorned with plastic; little else remains,
The cattle’s bray, the cat’s meow,
Appear less grand behind the chains,

And still the apes go on and on,
At raping Her for gold and jewels,
To praise their God from dusk ’till dawn,
Man’s mighty machine maketh mules,

If the plague persists, She must bring down,
A plague of Her own; of blood and crown.

Alone

Sebastian Wright, Year 12

I looked once more at the NO TRESPASSERS sign, painstakingly lettered and asked myself: By whose order? Why this point and not another? And, with increasing urgency and impatience: What would happen if I crossed that line?

It seemed so intentionally placed. A wayward sign of warning holding fast against the harsh surroundings. Yet when I looked back along the trail or tried to squint my eyes to possibly see far enough onwards nothing peculiar or unorthodox sprang to my attention. The hour was growing late, heavy oranges now painting a foreboding display between what small gaps lay between the creaking trees. I knew that no matter how fast I ran back I would find no solace nor protection before nightfall. Who knew what ungodly abominations would rise as the sun took its last peek over the rising horizon. Some innate urge told me that I should listen to the sign; an overwhelming cold dampness overcame me at the mere thought of taking a single step over the metaphorical line. Yet somehow a gentle breeze beckoned me to continue, pushing me ever so slightly past that awful line.

“I don’t want to do it!” I yelled. “I wish to go back and forget all that has come to now and all that now has become.” My voice seemed to echo onwards forever through the forest, yet I knew no human ears would ever register the sound. Birds fluttered away singing a hellish cacophony of shrieks. The very trees seeming to bend and groan twistedly towards me. I then heard a faint rustling of dry leaves, uncomfortably close to my current position. Those orange pigments in the sky then faded and blackened, the sun no longer able to protect me from these eldritch things I sensed around me. It was then that I heard another rustle, and another. They were all around me yet the only glimpse I could see were shadowed forms rushing past, faster than any mortal eye could track. Yet never crossing the path.

The boughs of the trees creaked and snapped, twisting vines and branches reaching for me. Rough bark began to scrape against the skin of my arms, unnatural thorns digging deep into my flesh and being dragged with inhuman strength. I was being pulled slowly by the trees towards the still untouched sign, my feet flailing uselessly through the loose dirt vainly attempting to find any form of purchase. With some bout of courage or foolishness I yanked my arm free. A crimson mist filled the air as I could taste the iron coalescing in my mouth. Loose skin and sagging flesh hung loosely from my damaged arm. I then looked before me and saw the most horrific sight. The trees were closing off the path, removing the very boundary that kept away those, things! The rustling then suddenly stopped, bushes and branches lying at my feet and the foreboding sign just a few paces back from me. Sets of eyes then began to open from within the darkness of the underbrush. One after the other. Red, swirling, malignant eyes. Horrible eyes that did not seem of this earth, that seemed to bore heavily into my darkest fears, fishing for any nightmares within my mind to bring forth.

They edged forward. Unsightly jittering movements of black creatures bent on all fours. Another step forward. Almost human and strangely childlike yet with devilish malformations of basic bone structure. Another step, long silvery claws from their seven fingered hands sunk easily into the soft and viscous liquid, yellow-green and bubbling drooled out of their gaping toothy maws. Edging close now. Any rational thought or action would have been to run, to turn around and never look back. Sprint away and never stop until I found somewhere safe or the sun came up. Yet my muscles froze, unwilling to cross the barrier made by the sign, even if it meant succumbing to these foul creatures.

They sprang at me. Digging claws into my chest as I was forcefully pushed back. My foot lay behind the sign and then everything faded to blackness. When I came to, I saw a human standing unknowing before the sign. A red tint clouded my vision as my seven claws sank into the tree in anticipation.

“waiting is a losing man’s game”

Fraser Webb, Year 12

Upon my desk, a box reads
“Coloured Pencils.”
I can’t believe a company can get away
With calling black and grey
Coloured pencils!

Maybe they were once upon a time.
Maybe it was when you were still around.
I’m sure I saw all kinds of colours, lime,
And even your favourite kind of yellow.
I kept it close to my heart. I promise I did.

But nowadays they don’t seem so bright.
In fact, that bright yellow is gone.
I can’t seem to find it among these black and white pencils.
I’m sure I had it here. I kept it close to my heart all this time.
I made sure it was sharp all the time.

But I guess after all this time,
It’s normal for coloured pencils to lose
Such bright colour, and such sharpness.
I guess it’s my fault for keeping it so sharp.
After all. Sharp pencils are bound to break.

Night Terrors

Taye Barlow, Year 11

The propeller keeps us afloat in an Autumn sky. The constant shudder of the engine acts as a metronome for our chirpy self-assembled crew choir. We sing our favourite church classics, belting out each one with an intensity that would match the Führer’s speeches.

“Rock of ages, cleft for me
Let me hide myself in Thee…”

Little things like this distract us from the thoughts of impending doom. The odds are against us RAF. Fly and die. Charred, bubbling skin burned beyond recognition, limbs twisted and disfigured, twenty thousand feet above the ground; a fireball of metal and flesh soaring through a navy sky. This is how most of us end up.

The night cloaks our approach to fascist soil. The lustre of the hull glistens like the stars in the moonlight; which are decoys to our squadron. Gliding like a shiver of sharks through a sea of twinkling lights and navy-blue water. The endless fields of bodies are our ocean bed. In Nazi Germany twelve planes reflect the void of darkness.

“Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound
That saved a wretch like me…”

The singing also diverts our consciousness away from the innocent families conversing over dinner, talking about their day, telling stories by the fire, but those stories are going to be cut short. Never to think another thought. Never to tell another joke. Never to find love or continue loving. Obliterated by an unseen enemy soaring above. We attempt to suffocate the guilt with light-hearted carols, but it always manages to crawl out. Grasping and clawing at your oesophagus. My rear-end gunner, almost with seemingly telepathic ability reminds me, “Who would you rather, us or them?”

A crackle from the radio alerts us that we are entering German territory. The singing halts. The sickening silence deafens us. I sit at the helm with a tight grip on the controller making my knuckles white. As straight as an alert meerkat, I sit upright scanning excessively for hostile activity. Every sense is overloaded, the rough leather of the seat grips to my grease-infused uniform. The shaking of the aircraft reverberates through my bones into my skull. I can sense the amatol, eager to decimate ‘Nazi Scum’.

A flicker of light in the distance; Molching. No different to any small town in Allied possession but for one distinguishing factor. It is a home of German filth. As we approach the classic sharp spires of the churches come into view. The apartments materialise. Grid of streets take shape. I loom above the sleeping Germans.

A brief bark from the radio signals that we are ready to deliver devastation to the unfortunate Germans of Molching. Hesitation is a murderer of men. A split second can determine whether you live or die. A moment of remorse for the enemy can result in your own demise. I do not hesitate. The world blurs. Mechanical Release of the payload. Whistling of death. My eyes are transfixed by the orange and yellow lights. Like a pyromaniac, I cannot look away. The blaze and the crumpled buildings make a Hell on Earth. Bodies buried, boiling, burning under the crumpled buildings. Plumes of smoke emerge from the scorching town like the souls of the deceased residents. It’s us or them.

Two makeshift goals between garbage cans, children grunting as they compete viciously for the dusty football. Ragged shoes gripping on the rough asphalt. Mothers calling their muddy kids in for lunch and scolding them for being dirty. Fathers wiping the dirt off their child’s youthful face. DEAD.

Dreams torched to embers. Life erased from Earth. The plane begrudgingly wheels around. I feel absent from my body, my hands so far away. Bodies crammed into graves with no names. Bodies unrecognisable. Did I really do all of that? One action, hundreds of lives. The crew sits in silence, no singing now. A squadron alone in a German sky.

The sun rises in all its magnificence making the sky alive. The dead of Molching, a distant memory. Lush green, rolling hills are illuminated by the pink and red light of the morn. The clouds are dancing in the brilliant rays. Compete to collect the beams as they sway in synchronisation with the cruising clouds. In Nazi Germany twelve planes reflect the glory of the sun. How can such beauty come from such devastation?

I want to live/ I want to die.

Will Partridge, Year 12

i stood at the gate of the kingdom
contemplating how such beauty,
and such power could exist.
the doormat of the almighty,
the boundary of life.
i never considered i could be standing here.

i was born into the elite.
those who thought that nature
was just a tool. who never saw
real beauty
surrounding them.
they brought me up on French
and Latin.
amidst cries of “you are the music
while the music lasts” and
“wild is the music
of autumnal winds”
ironically i never found a
particular fondness for music.
as i came of age
the purple winds blew in from the east.
pushing,
forcing me into servitude.
i never found a sense of life,
serving others. the periphery
beckoned. and i came begging.

my journey began
in a slum of fruit flies
and machinery.
the shamans painted me in shades
of isolation and regret.
a group of Swedes put me on a train
headed for the end of the world.
where vibrancy trumped business, and
where beauty trumped net worth.
a billionaire’s freighter glided
through god’s tantrum.
maybe net worth is inescapable.
the great plains blew me westward.
a breeze from the ocean; a gentle
reminder of past torments.
a healer in a hut built of straw pierced
my septum with a needle crafted from bone.
she told me “listen intently,
to the stories of others.”
i spent only a brief time in churches,
more in monasteries. the ancient fortresses
of the old gods stood opposing us.
heretics screamed in ancient tongues,
as Americans and Europeans lectured
about the power of god.
i never felt inclined to listen.
modern inquisitors gave me sideways glances.
and then the fog rolled in.
i felt it clamouring and hollering,
sometimes screaming murder.
fear becomes real once you can’t see
your hand in front of your face.
once all you hear is hissing
and moaning.
once all you feel is a cool brushing,
from something not there.
when your life becomes
redundant. your heart could stop
and you wouldn’t even be able to tell.

by the time i reached Douala,
i felt the world surrounding me,
like that fog had done many months before.
i turned around and saw life, yet looked ahead towards
clarity.
the rolling, discursive waves reminded me
of my great great great grandfather,
that colonial emperor.
as the captain welcomed me to my quarters i considered for a moment
what my father would think of this journey.
would he think me childish?
would he respect my resolve?
would he notice i was gone?

Rio de Janeiro welcomed me with discotheque
And flashing lights
which made the sky vibrate
in tones of green, red and blue.
the clubs spewed tourists
and the streets spewed sewage.
i was lured into the amazon
by shamans wearing braided hair
and angelic white robes
peddling mysteries.
i learnt the ancient recipes for enlightenment
and mind bending. life sought me out
over shrubbery and under sky,
through the leafy mazes.
arrows dipped in magic led me to the village
lined with skulls. this is not the land
of trash and power. this is the earth
of greenery and life. 

it was snow that dragged me from the Amazon.
a Chilean monk brought me to his home in Valparaiso,
and his brother whispered stories
of gods and monsters, as we journeyed
to the Andes. his log cabin in the mountains became home
for a month or two. the stone monsters
and frozen embrace helped me learn to feel.
time slowed and senses evaporated. unity
and harmony between human and nature.
motion. motion became my universe.
“without motion” the brother taught “we
and everything we know… are dead.”
when the snow had melted that summer
the motion had fallen still in my mother.

the rolling hills of the English countryside reminded
me of the serenity of the Atlantic. as i sat drinking tea
on my father’s grand terrace, watching
the irreverent sway of his trees and creeks i reflected
on the words of a Sudanese nun. “nothing is an accident”
she mused. “everything is carefully considered.
and coldly calculated.” the funeral was plain.
my father’s villainous business colleagues scoffed
at my long hair
and pierced nose.
i flew out the next day.
the laidback lifestyle of the Spanish
and liberal attitudes in Denmark
spoke to me like an angel on my shoulder.
a distant relation took me to Tomorrowland;
where a young Slovenian told me
“never let the past define you.
for tomorrow is a mystery.
who knows where it could take you.”
the train out of Belgium
like a sniffer dog led me
to Paris;
the city of romance
and of incandescence.

the modern world acted differently to the natural.
it has a different motion.
i next travelled through Asia,
with a friend from university.
she and i were in a Japanese village,
with winter knocking at the walled gates
when a Shinto priest lectured “our lives
are made possible by others,
both humans and nature. we do not live
in isolation.” it made me think
of my father. alone in his office
of mahogany and scotch.

Siam taught me to love.

freedom could be found
down every other street then.
i loved that. it was like a paradise lost.
like heaven could exist.
it restored my faith in god.
it destroyed my faith in humanity.
the earth which i had treasured
became a waste land. and i
a pawn. in some vile game.

it took me several months to realise
my journey was past, due to end.

i then decided it was time to return home.
as much as i hated it, i was broken hearted.
i had shut my love out.

i took the piercing out.
i cut my hair short.
i returned to bitter servitude.
until i became motionless.

and now here i stand.
looking at these gates.