Autumn2023

Take me back
to my little piece of bush.
Where the neighbours,
(who looked after me)
look at me,
leathered,
dreary and dusty,
leaning on rusted fences.
They watch me grab
runaway sheep,
chucking them into a ute,
that’s past its glory days,
its scraped, dented bonnet
burning away
my needless thoughts.

Take me away
from this dim
campus,
with high fences,
covered in trees,
that I find
naturally
in the little piece of bush.
Banksias,
Balgas,
and Blue Tongue,
taunting a prison
that I can leave.
I am instead,
trying to write
what home,
means to me.

I would look out over
that drought-ridden land,
on my dad’s fenced farm,
watching sandstorms,
fires and rain,
clouds and sunshine,
coming and going,
In the dreams I’ve forgotten.

I tried so hard
to capture the image of it.
I wrote.
Cooped up
in my four white walls,
cement ceiling,
window that overlooks
that teasing campus.
In a residence,
filled with people like me.
Desperate, to be relieved
of this duty,
the one of our families.

I want to belong
only to that
little piece of bush,
where neighbours
watch me,
leaning on rusted fences,
and open gates.

School, much like most of the human experience, is a theatrical playground for youth to create their own perfect, idealistic persona and, thereby, masking the true, most vulnerable aspects of what makes us human. Projecting oneself in such a way shields any, and all, detrimental repercussions to what I title a “favourable phoney”, someone who is liked due to their own falsehoods… yet we all fall victim in one way or another.

The school bell rings and Miss Goldfield, my overly enthusiastic teacher preaches, “That’s the bell everyone; have a fabulous day of learning and make sure to enjoy it!”

I like Miss Goldfield! She, at least to me, seems to genuinely take an interest in the well-being of each of her students. She can be a bit of a pain, but I commend her honesty.

As the first wave of eager footsteps leave class, and echo down the hallway, I make sure to take my time and leave last. In doing so I attempt to avoid him. ‘Him’ is Billy Hathaway, more commonly known as ‘Big Bill’, undoubtedly the most pretentious basket-case I’ve ever had the displeasure of meeting. I have the distinct pleasure of falling victim to his dastardly deceptions daily. I must admit his witty jokes do embody that intrinsic humorous factor, leaving me stricken in defeat more times than I care to admit.

I look left and right… the coast is clear.

Little did I know that rat was two steps ahead. He and his group of prepubescent goons cruise around the corner as I exit the classroom.

“Today my problems are gonna’ change, I’m not going to be humiliated anymore,” I murmur quietly under my breath.

I watch the group edge closer and closer, Billy leading their little but mighty crusade. I strut forward with the utmost confidence; positive nothing could rattle the weight of my ego partnered with the brilliance of my intellect.

I am ready.

As I pass by, Billy giddily points towards my southern region and says, “Hey loser, you’re flying a little low.”

I look down at my zipper and realise I, once again, have fallen victim to a practical joke. The group burst out laughing, passing sly remarks like; “stupid” and “dip-wit”. My social capital is in utter shambles, a surprisingly fitting demise to my once unwavering confidence.

The rest of the school day, now marred by my own shame and sadness, passes without my further acknowledgement.

I reflected much on the walk home. Today, like many that had come before it, felt like I was trapped in life, like some eternal treadmill, unrelenting and immune to mechanical defect.

At last, I’ve arrived, standing outside my poo-brown house seemingly as stained as my reputation. I walk inside and pass my withered mother, lounging around amidst her own filth. What a silly woman. She never really got me, the real me I mean.

She asks, “What’s wrong honey, another bad day at school?”

I ignore her futile attempts to console me as I slowly labour up the stairs, slamming my door shut, eyes still running profusely with the shame of my ignorance. She is a lovely person, really, and sometimes I’m nearly fully convinced – but then I remember her cooking; dry, tasteless, and sour, and at that point there’s no forgiving her.

In desperation for concrete answers, I scour the room for any solution. Searching through old comics, movies, books, anything that might point me in the right direction. At long-last, my eyes are blessed with the sight of Meditations – by Marcus Aurelius. I open the ancient novel, turning the pages sorrowfully, mournfully, as a steady ebb and flow of words leach to the forefront my mind. I can feel his wisdom imbuing my entire being with confidence:

“You have power over your mind – not outside events. Realise this, and you will find strength.”

These words, now branded to the pillars of my person, realising that one’s mindset is the number one factor influencing strength and success, will be my greatest asset. The principle of stoicism stuck out above the others; the ability to remain positive whilst honing the virtue of one’s character.

“That’s it,” I say, proudly. “I am stoic.”

The following day I awoke to the slightly muffled sizzling of a pan, echoing from the downstairs kitchen. My instinct was to sigh, deeply disgusted over the thought of Mother’s awful cooking. But Aurelius’ words repeated over and over in my mind, changing my thought process for the better. Today will be the day that I am stoic, therefore my first course of action is to conquer the faeces-like monstrosity that’s sizzling in that putrid pan. Despite my honest and true change of character, I also realise that part of being stoic is choosing your fights and this is not one I can win. So, I slip out the door and off I go to school.

I skip down the road full of glee. My new mindset paired with an empty, but healthy stomach, has created an amazing cumulation of readiness. Readiness for the day but also the rest of my life.

I say once more, “I am stoic.”

In search for food that won’t singe the feeling out of my taste buds, I find myself standing in the school canteen – possibly life’s most complex social arena, either making or breaking one’s popularity.

I reach out for the last, most delicious, thirst quenchingly scrumptious chocolate milk – sitting alone atop its throne of perfection, deep within the school fridge. Low and behold my nemesis spots the same drink. We both understand what’s at stake, either liberating victory or equally bitter defeat.

“Hey loser, you’ve dropped something,” Billy says in desperation.

I look down and realise that this primitive ape of a human has fooled me once more, yet despite this I am unfazed, still stretching for the last drink. I grasp it and realise the weight of my accomplishment.

“I won,” I say stubbornly. “Your provocations are futile young Billy, for I am a stoic.”

Billy and the rest of the spectators are silent for a moment, just like I had foreseen. Then they all begin laughing, harder than I’ve seen in many moons. This confuses me, for I am the victor.

“It’s pronounced stow-ic, not ‘stoike’, you nonce.”

I’m in the middle of the canteen and I’ve had enough.

We roll on
Beyond the bicker and the blister and the brash
Of scarred suburbia
Then, I will be home

Signposts of my past life linger
On this road

The car flashes
Past the Koji playground, where the kids play
Where the kid in me once played
Sibling squabbles, emergency loo stops
Boarding school bus trips, friends’ farms
And dozing off to the hum of the cricket

I grew up
On this road

Past the grazing country, a dose of honeyed fragrance
Purple hazy ranges that salute my homecoming
The canola, a bright yellow wave

This road will take me home

Home to the drum of the rain
Home to the warmth of the chilling wind
And the wild spray of the coast
Home to the hush

Tender love, sweet sadness
Reflected in the rear-view mirror
The car changed; friends changed; even we changed

But the road
Will never change

So, we roll on
Down the Great Southern cul-de-sac, closer
The red brick inches, closer
Our driveway crackles, we stop
Struck by the salty blast

I breathe

and I’m home.

On the 18^th of July 2022, the European Union and Azerbaijan signed a deal that increased Azerbaijani natural gas exports from 8 billion cubic metres to 20 billion cubic meters by 2027. This deal seeks to diversify EU gas imports away from Russia. However, Azerbaijan is no better an alternative as the nation is just as aggressive, unlawful and unethical as Russia. The EU should look to other nations to supply gas requirements as Azerbaijan is the aggressor in conflicts/disputes against Armenia and the Armenian population in Nagorno Karabakh, making it no better than Russia.

Firstly, ethical concerns have been raised against Azerbaijan regarding their abhorrent treatment of ethnic Armenians residing in Azerbaijan. Since Azerbaijan and Armenia gained independence in 1991, the Azerbaijani government has been constantly abusing the ethnic Armenian minority within Azerbaijan. This can best be seen with the Azerbaijani response to the declaration of independence by the overwhelmingly Armenian majority state of Nagorno Karabakh. The response, according to the ministry of foreign affairs of the republic of Armenia was that the Azerbaijani government “…organized massacres and ethnic cleansing of the Armenian population on the entire territory of Azerbaijan”. These racially motivated atrocities would cause widespread human suffering as well as being a factor for the beginning of the first Nagorno Karabakh war. Also, during the 1990s Azerbaijan forcefully displaced 300,000–500,000 Armenians from territories within Azerbaijan; these people would often have no place to go and would be destined to poverty. To conclude, Azerbaijan’s treatment of ethnic Armenians was poor at best and downright genocidal at worst.

Azerbaijan has also invaded Armenia. This occurred on the 27th of September 2020, beginning the second Nagorno Karabakh war. It was caused due to Azerbaijan wanting to take more control of Nagorno Karabakh, a region of ethnic Armenian majority, which, although technically a part of Azerbaijan, was in control of the Armenian military in order to protect said Armenians within Nagorno Karabakh. The war resulted in the deaths of 3,825 Armenian servicemen, and a further 187 missing. During this terrible war 100,000 Armenian civilians were displaced from their homes, 85 were killed, 165 injured, and a further 40 unlawfully captured. These appalling losses of both Armenian civilians and soldiers would result in widespread poverty and destruction of infostructure. As well as this, Armenian forces were forced to seed the territory that the Armenian military had controlled around Nagorno Karabakh. Therefore, it can be seen that Azerbaijan has invaded Armenia, undermining Armenia’s ability to defend its people and causing widespread suffering.

Azerbaijan has also committed multiple war crimes during the second Nagorno Karabakh War. During the war, a strategic bombing campaign was launched by Azerbaijan where ,in October, Human Rights Watch documented four incidents of Azerbaijan using cluster bombs against civilians. The use of cluster bombs is strictly against the Geneva Convention and therefore a war crime. This cruel act directly shows Azerbaijan’s willingness to defy international law in order to strengthen their own position. Furthermore, Human Rights Watch stated that, “Azerbaijani forces subjected numerous Armenian POWs to physical abuse and acts of humiliation.” These barbaric actions have been specifically committed against a discriminated peoples which shows how Azerbaijan is just as bloodthirsty and brutal as other ‘bad’ countries such as North Korea, Iran and Russia. To finish, Azerbaijan has been continually breaking the Geneva Conventions, treating both Armenian civilians and soldiers unethically without any moral care.

Those more ignorant may argue that the continual atrocities committed by Azerbaijan are due to the Nagorno Karabakh dispute not a natural hate of the Armenian population. However, this is simply false. The strongest piece of evidence to show Azerbaijan’s unethical behaviour based on cruelty and hate is the response to the Armenian genocide. This genocide that occurred during WW1 by the Ottoman Empire against the Armenians and this horrible event would claim the lives of up to 1.5 million ethnic Armenians. Yet Azerbaijan is one of the only two countries in the entire world that denies it ever existing, a false view that is akin to Germany denying the holocaust during the WW2.

To conclude, because of Azerbaijan’s significant mistreatment of ethnic Armenians, their continual war-making against Armenia, and Azerbaijan’s multiple breaches of the Geneva Conventions, Azerbaijan is an unethical and cruel nation that is comparable to Russia in terms of aggression and human rights’ abuses. Therefore, it can be clearly seen that the EU should look to other countries to supply their gas.

I can’t remember the last time I saw Mum smile. We’ve been stuck here for what feels like an eternity. Nothing’s getting better. I feel like it can’t. The clouds have been rolling over our camp for weeks, the rain’s been unrelentless. Emma, my sister, cries constantly, her piercing screams slicing through the continuous sound of rain hitting the corrugated iron above our heads. We have one blanket. At night we all have to cuddle up and try to get some sleep. I try to look after Emma while Mum rests. I can tell she needs it.

Mum looks haunted. Her eyes stare through my soul, emotionless, empty. I don’t think she’ll last much longer out here. She’s only holding on because we both know Emma needs her. Dad left a few weeks ago now. He told us he’d only be gone for a few days; he was going back into town to check for survivors.

I woke, suddenly, to the sound of a stick cracking right outside our hut. My heart pounded against the inside of my chest. Boom, boom, boom. Surely not now? After all these weeks of hiding they had found us. I slowly got up, careful not to wake Mum or Emma and crawled out under the sticks we had piled against our makeshift hut as camouflage. I pulled myself under, through the mud and caught a glimpse of a man hunched over our fire pit. He was dishevelled. His clothes hung off him, sopping wet and torn, the ends of his trousers covered in mud. I slid out a bit more, trying to catch a glimpse of his face. I couldn’t yet tell if he was an enemy or not. As I slid a stick fell beside me. It seemed to fall in slow motion. I froze.

“Charlie!” Dad exclaimed as he whipped around startled at the sound of the stick. I smiled. It must have been the first in months and it felt weird. I noticed it. I pulled myself out of the mud and we embraced. I couldn’t believe it. Dad was safe.

“There’s a community not far from here, a day’s walk maybe. It’s safe. They are leaving in a couple of days, staying on the move. Easier that way, you don’t get caught,” Dad whispered, quicker than he could get the words out of his mouth. “They’ve got room for us in their truck. Go wake your sister and mother up. We are leaving this horror hole.”
I ran around to where Mum and Emma were sleeping. I grinned. Finally, after all this time, we might be leaving. Finally, we had hope.

For as long as Keith could remember there was a divide in Mandem City. The educated and the uneducated. Those with, those without. It was almost a superpower. Easy to maintain, impossible to acquire. And of course, all the Uneducateds dreamed of was having it. The Educateds were so lucky, thought Keith. Luscious houses with green gardens, jobs in an office, food from restaurants and, of course, cars. Meanwhile Keith was forced to work using every last grain of strength in his body, day in, day out. And the work was horrid. Cleaning putrid toilets, washing dirty, grimy dishes and his least favourite: E-gen. There was this valuable resource called electricity that the Edus could not live without, or so they said, and two-fifths of the Uneds’ week was dedicated to producing it. How? By collectively turning the Wheel. All fossil fuels and nuclear energy sources had been exhausted in 2150, so the Edus decided to make 101 Uneds turn the Wheel, by sheer force, to create electricity. It was gruelling work. One hundred percent effort or die because if you weren’t fast enough to keep up with your spoke, you would be crushed by the one behind you. This was the life of an Uned.

It was an early Tuesday morning when Keith had a thought. The same thought he had had for the last twenty-eight years of his life. What is education? Sure, the Edus could read and write enough to make a small living – but surely there was more to it. The Edus were just like the Uneds – two arms and two legs, two eyes, a nose and the mouth – but they had a glow about them, something that set them apart, something that made them Edus. Keith stepped out the door of the flat he had been assigned and was nearly bowled over by a well-dressed Edu on an electric scooter. “Piece of rubbish,” spat the man as he zoomed off.

And something snapped inside Keith. No. No more. No more being treated like dirt, forced to work as a slave to facilitate the glorious life of the Edus. No more. Keith took a right turn – contrary to his habitual left – and started walking towards Parad, the Edu side of Mandem City. As he got closer and closer, the number of Edus giving him death stares became increasingly more apparent. Someone yelled, “Go back to where you come from, you filthy Uned!”
Another man shouted, “What are you doing here? Can’t you read a map? Oh wait, of course you can’t, you dumb fool.”
Others laughed, mocking Keith. But he knew they weren’t going to do anything. They had never experienced hard work in their lives, all they had to do was go to school until age eighteen and then go out and get a job. Keith knew what hard work was. He was reminded of it every day, from the moment he woke up, three hours before the Edus, to the moment he fell asleep.

Keith ignored the gawking from the Edus and marched deeper into Parad. Busy signs with figures that made no sense to him, buildings so shiny you could see your reflection gaze back at you and people so happy they were laughing – yes – laughing, flooded Keith’s senses. Wow. Just as Keith wondered what it would be like to live here, he felt a very familiar cold, hard, metallic feeling at the back of his head.
“Now how did a stinky Uned like you get so far up into Parad?” Officer Michael yelled as he pushed the Glock-9 harder into Keith’s cranium.

The young black Labrador slipped through the obscure gap in his owner’s razor wire fence. It had been another sleepless and hungry night for the young mutt and his canine instincts told him he should search for some food himself, as his master seldom brought him any. When he occasionally did receive supplements for his growing, yet slim physique, they were of a grey colour and smelled suspiciously like mashed up bland-tasting leftovers from the night prior.

As he wandered through the cold, grim and wet streets littered with soggy cardboard and newspaper, he wondered if things would, or even could, improve to the point where he wouldn’t have to sleep on a torn and beat-up mattress in the middle of the icy wind and rain, to the sound of physical and verbal quarrels every night, coming from inside his master’s decrepit bungalow.

This was not the life he envisioned he decided finally, as he cautiously approached the spot he had sat in, the train station, for the past two long months. He always came to this spot as he knew he was guaranteed a small meal from the old man running the hot-dog stand. However, today was different as there was no man at his stand of hot, juicy, rich meat in a bun, that he would magically produce from out of nowhere. Instead, there was a young girl, smartly dressed in an expensive coat, standing next to her even more smartly dressed parents. The girl soon noticed the skinny hound and instantly took to giving him affection beyond compare. The Labrador was reluctant and scared at first of what the girl would do to him, as she was human, as was his own neglectful master, but then he realised she was nothing like any human he had met before.

From that day forward, he never left the girl’s side, as she did his, and lived out the rest of his days in complete contrast to how they had begun.

The world that we live in is a beautiful and diverse place, with people from all walks of life, ethnicities and cultures. However, despite these differences, we all share a common humanity that should be celebrated, cherished and protected. Unfortunately, the reality is that racial injustice continues to persist in our society, and it is time that we stand up and demand change.

Racial injustice is an issue that humans have faced since the beginning of humanity. It represents all the forms of discrimination and inequality based on a person’s race or ethnicity. Wars are fought, humans are slaughtered and people tortured due to this ongoing crisis.

During the 1950s, in America, when Harper Lee published her book, To Kill a Mockingbird, racism was pervasive and institutionalised in American society. It was a time when racial segregation was legal in many states and therefore, Black Americans faced discrimination in education, employment, housing, and all other aspects of life. Ingrained racism is a pervasive social issue that violates human rights, whilst tearing and ripping apart the fabric of human compassion and respect for one another. Lee’s text was published during a period of Civil Rights Movements in America, at a time where many thought racial injustice would be put to bed for good. Sadly, seventy years later, many of the novel’s pertinent messages of racial equality and justice seem to have been forgotten. Now more than ever, racism needs to be addressed and people must be educated to recognise it and put a stop to it.

Despite the social perception of change, ironically, the reality is that racial justice and equality has started to regress. When the 13^th Amendment was passed in 1865, America celebrated the abolishment of slavery and centuries of oppression; neglecting, for the most part, to notice the details of the Amendment, and the way in which it ensured the brutal treatment of African-Americans. The amendment states,

“Neither slavery nor involuntary servitude, except as punishment for a crime whereof the party shall have been duly convicted…”

In other words, right from the start, the very law designed to abolish discrimination and slavery made sure to allow the continued discrimination and enslavement of certain people – namely, African-Americans who were in prison at the time, or those who would go to prison after the creation of the law, many of whom were wrongfully convicted or jailed without due legal process. Furthermore, legislation is continuously passed that actively places African-Americans behind bars at a far higher rate than other members of the population.

We don’t need to look as far back as the Jim Crow laws to see examples of the United States passing legislation for the purpose of segregating African-Americans from the rest of the population. With modern day minimum sentencing laws and their over-enforcement in regions with high African-American populations, this problem is actually worse now than it has ever been. In 2019, Non-White Americans represented 12% of the national population, however, comprised 33% of those incarcerated in America’s prisons. Not only does this overrepresentation strip many innocent African-Americans of years of their lives, family and friends, it perpetuates a cycle of systematic racism, ultimately culminating in intergenerational trauma, passed down for decades – trauma that ensures the next generation of African-American youths will again be trapped in the vortex of institutionalised racism.

The first step in addressing institutionalised racism is acknowledging its existence. We cannot ignore that in 2021 the overall income for Black Americans was 49% lower than their non-Black counterparts. We cannot ignore that 19.5% of Black Americans were living in poverty in 2020, while only 8.2% of White Americans struggled in the same way. We cannot ignore that this is a systematic issue that has been ingrained in our society for centuries. It is not enough to simply not be a racist yourself, you must actively work towards being anti-racist. This means calling out racism when we see it, educating ourselves on its history and impact, and actively working towards creating a more equitable and just society; a society that champions compassion and respect.

Racial injustice continues to persist in our society as a systematic and ingrained issue, and this centuries-old issue must be addressed with urgency. Acknowledging its existence, amplifying the voices of those who have, historically, been marginalised and the voices of those who still are. We must demand change from our leaders and institutions, from ourselves and from each other, and we must take crucial steps towards creating a more equitable society. It is our responsibility to exercise our freedom, and free will, and choose to work towards the transformation of our society into one that values freedom, compassion, love and respect, regardless of colour and creed. Together, we can realise the Dream and create a better future.

In the small village of Wedgelands lived a boy named Charlie. Wedgelands was in the heart of a lush, green forest, surrounded by calm, blue lakes and huge, towering oak trees. Wedgelands was like it was in the 1800s; everybody knew everybody and one Wedgelander would always stick up for another Wedgelander.

To Charlie, life seemed great. It was the middle of the summer holidays, and he spent his days helping his mom with work or playing football with his mates. He loved spending time with his dad, although his dad was always working, going out for weeks at a time, and coming back dusty, smelly and sad. Charlie was beginning to notice that each time his dad went away, his mum became more and more and more worried. For sometimes his mom would sit down, shaking, staring at the door, with tears in her eyes. But Charlie did not know why. While his dad was home, Charlie never got to spend much time with him, as all his dad did was sleep, or sit on the front porch, staring into the sky, with a bottle of whiskey.

Sometimes, planes would fly overhead, and the village would go into hiding; everyone would quickly run inside and jump under their tables or into the bathtub. But Charlie did not know why. When Charlie’s dad would come back, they would always go to a place where everyone wore black and they put big, wooden boxes, big enough to fit a human body in, into the ground. At this place, everyone was always very sad and there were always a few mothers or children crying or screaming out words that Charlie didn’t know the meaning of. But Charlie did not know why.

One beautiful summer’s day in Wedgelands Charlie had had enough. He wanted to know why his dad would leave for weeks at a time into the forest. Charlie wanted to know why he would always see big mushroom shaped clouds in the distance. Charlie wanted to know what the big bangs were that he constantly heard, day and night, and actually Charlie wanted to know why he was not allowed, never allowed, to go into the forest. Today was another day his dad was ‘working’, and his mum had been staring at the door for the last three hours.

Charlie strolled out through the back door, walked about 200 metres to the Wedgelands’ boundary, where the forest started. He stopped and stared at the big oak trees, which seemed to be watching over him and the village, providing protection. Then, Charlie went. He began walking through the thick forest, dodging spiderwebs and looking out for snakes. He kept walking and walking and walking. A few hours later, clouds covered overhead. It started raining and thundering, so he decided to turn back. He turned around, then turned around again. Charlie was lost, he didn’t know which way was back. Suddenly, someone came up behind him, smashed him on the back of the head and boom!

Charlie woke up, and it was sunny, not a cloud in the sky. He looked down and saw his mum and his dad sobbing, looking at him. Charlie was confused. Where was he? What were his parents doing? He knew one thing; he was not in Wedgelands. His parents then explained everything to him – he had been kidnapped into part of the war, and they were fleeing from the place where they had all been kept. Charlie had been knocked out for three days and his parents found him lying on the forest floor when they were fleeing from Wedgelands as it had been attacked. His parents explained to him that they were now in something called a concentration camp. For the next year or so Charlie had to get used to the usual beatings, the hard labour and the one meal a day. He missed Wedgelands and sometimes wondered what had happened to his friends his neighbours and his village.

“Mum, why is there a lock on the door to the study?” asked Sarah.
“As I told you before all of Dad’s private belongings are in there,” replied Mum.
Sarah sighed and continued to finish off her bland mash. She thought to herself, I wish he was still alive, he would have let me in there.
After dinner Sarah headed to her room to ponder. Although she wasn’t allowed to go to school, Sarah was a clever girl, she always had an urge to learn, which she thought she got from her dad. While she sat bored, waiting for life, the unknown killed her. She had to find out what was behind the secret study door.

The next day Sarah went off to work in the factory. She was lucky, only having to watch the conveyor belt. Other children had to work the machines or out in the fields. Some say a boy died while working, however the government assured everyone that it was a lie. Sarah was sick of her mundane tasks. She worked eight hours a day, for what purpose? Five metacoins, that’s just enough for a sandwich. She dreamt of a place called school that she remembers her dad talking about. However, the government said that school was not required, and knowledge was pointless; they described school as boring, tedious and stressful. Sarah didn’t see how her job was any different. Not having to use much brainpower at work, Sarah devised a plan to break into the study. She would leave work early to get home before her mum and use the key from the top shelf in the kitchen to open the lock. She was sceptical but thought it could work. This went against everything that she was told. Never step out of line, keep your head down, work hard and, finally, don’t ask questions. Everybody in society stuck to these rules like glue, except the government.

The closer it got to the time to leave, the more nervous Sarah got. Sweating palms, a tremble in the leg and many questions. What if they catch me leaving? Maybe Mum will be home early? The key in the kitchen might not be the right one. Second guessing only made Sarah more nervous. The number of things that could go wrong was enormous, however, the urge to find what was behind the door kept the fire alive.

The clock struck 11pm; it was time to move. The guards had gone to the cafeteria and workers started their shift. Amid all the movement, Sarah took the opportunity to slip out of sight. She made a run for the back entrance fifty metres down an open and echoey hallway. She made a swift move out the door onto the street. With only a few minutes before roll call, she had to get home quickly. On her way home she realised that it was all or nothing, there was no turning back now. She ran as fast as she could back home, roughly 15 minutes away.

She took a deep breath before entering her house; a search party was looking for her. She snapped back into it and grabbed a chair to stand on. Grasping the key she went over to the study and unlocked the door. There was nothing, just an old computer. On her way out, filled with disappointment, the screen lit up, all the knowledge in the world able to be spread with the click of a button.