The Raven

Senior School

Summer2018

The Sixth Day

Campbell McCraken, Year 12

From the moment I was born, I was destined for greatness, every one of my cells acutely optimised for perfection. ‘A marvel of genetic engineering,’ as they say, but who isn’t these days? Why wouldn’t they be, when their parents can simply trade in God’s dice for a perfect child without even the need for a second mortgage. Growing up, I was constantly reminded of the future I would be a part of; a world without infections and diseases, without famine or drought. This was indeed the future, but of a different variety. When the world’s top geneticists cracked the code of the human genome after decades of studies, it seemed like the start of a global apostasy the likes of which the world had never seen. The first of those treated were seen as gods among men; living longer, jumping higher and thinking faster than any human before them… That was a long time ago.

There are no gods anymore, only a society oversaturated with the promise of a better tomorrow. Humanity’s been watered down to the point where purchasing the latest in physical and mental ability is a standardised part of any birth. Though people aren’t born, not anymore. No, people are produced, a true by-product of the capitalist experience, no longer able to be separated from their materialistic lives. I was given the name Chase Beck, two words that would be associated with all facets of existence for the remainder of my life. But there is no Chase Beck, nor is there a humanity for him to be a part of … Humans fail. These days, the only thing holding people back is the mile-high barrier walling off the city that the government calls protection. They try to construct this façade of a utopia, convince us of our purpose, but I’ve never known who I am, only who I’m supposed to be. I suppose it’s this same line of thought that convinced some guy to place a bullet in my parent’s heads, not that it makes a difference. All I know is that I don’t belong here and that my only way out is via that truck rounding the corner of Graham and Stephan.

From the ditch I’m hiding in, I could only just make out the faint hum of the truck pulling up in front of my neighbour’s house, ready to collect their garbage. This early in the morning, I know there isn’t much chance of being spotted, especially considering people haven’t been allowed to drive for 13 years, but I’m not going to roll those dice. Desertion is an offence punishable by death, a fate I’m yet to be ready for. As I hear the subtle screech of the brake disks sliding together, I make my move. By the time the truck takes off I’m already positioned under the collection unit. I look back over the suburban housing and towards the towering jungle of concrete and disillusionment, lit only by the aspirations attached to the rising sun. It’s in moments like these that the drawbacks of genetic perfection really come to the forefront, practically being able to identify someone’s favourite colour by the stench of their waste. Within seconds, however, the truck was moving, soon drowning out the obstruction of any senses other than thought.

They used to say that ‘only the best knew how to fall’ … They don’t say that anymore. I certainly don’t know, never so much as touching an eraser throughout my schooling career. Not that this evoked any sense of pride or emotion within my parents, or at least not visually. I suppose that was intrinsically linked to the dice, at this point all but forgotten. In this life, though people may be spared the burden of failure; they instead suffer under a far worse fate, the burden of perfection.

The wall stretches above me, dark, its features indistinguishable from nothingness. The truck starts to pull to a stop mere metres from it, in front of a circular opening. It thrusts forward a vertical palm while daring me to go through. While I can assume this is the ultimate fate of the city’s rubbish, what I can’t anticipate is what that denotes. As the back of the truck inches towards the hole one small agonizing step at a time, every aspect of my mind is urging me to stop, to rethink my choices, to return to my normal life. What life? No, this is what needs to happen. This is my fate. My mind’s gotten me far enough, but now it’s time for human instinct to take over. In fact, the closer I get, the more I’m convinced that maybe I’m not leaving, maybe I’m going home.

Without warning the storage unit I’m situated in breaks free from its restraints, throwing me to the back wall. In this moment, I become acutely aware of an almost rhythmic pulse, vibrating through my body. It explodes through my legs and up my spine like a wave, synching with my heartbeat. The more they synch, the more this sensation starts to leak into my other senses, overriding any sense of external thought. I’m inside the tube now, slowly moving through, the pressure of the air overwhelming. It compresses my lungs, forcing my body to occupy as little space as possible. Soon there’s no air, but the pressure hasn’t gone. I tuck my legs into my chest and lie on the now clear ground. The rhythmic pulse so sensually profound that it eliminated any sense of orientation. Soon, the pulse separates from my heartbeat, the pressure growing stronger by the second. I feel my bones flatten. Everything is pain. Everything is … okay.

The sensation’s stopped, my senses freed. I let out an auditory yell, the tension rushing from my body. My eyes flutter open and I’m bombarded with an overwhelming light. My chest pounds harder than ever before, my abdomen a balloon, attached to an air pump working overtime. Slowly, the intensity of light drops, revealing a broken world. The light keeps dropping, however, lower than it’s ever gone. The blue sky is replaced with clouds of smog, and acidic rain, the concrete jungle now a splattering of broken homes. People crowded around the pile of rubbish I now lie on, scavenging what they can, more disease than I’ve ever seen. This is indeed the future. A future fuelled by the worst in human nature. A future where those unable to keep up with the world are left to rot as a ‘lower class’ of human. This truly is the death of humanity.

Thunder

Ben Skelton, Year 12

Faster. Harder. I willed my legs into motion, egging them on to carry me to safety. I pumped my arms, shifting my rifle into one hand. Bullets tore past me, on either side, and I heard the shrieks of my comrades and the thud of the bodies as they collapsed to the ground. But I couldn’t turn back, couldn’t turn back as I would be struck down by the force of the German empire.

My feet found soft ground and slowed with every step as I lost momentum. Heavy rain had muddied the battlefield and now it continued to pour down, rapping off our helmets like the roof at home. Black clouds loomed above observing the battle from a distance while crackling thunder threatened to strike us down. Up ahead I could see a trench, a hole in the ground to prevent imminent death, a breeding ground for disease and parasites but well worth it.

I pushed on harder, cheeks inflating and deflating rapidly, chest cramping. Risking glances sideways I was reassured by the sight of friendly soldiers alongside.

“Hurry!” our sergeant yelled.

But it fell on deafened ears; we didn’t need to be told. I dove into the trench under the fire of further bullets whizzing past. Colliding into the side wall I collapsed into the corner, winded as my chest puffed in and out. I heard others jump in next to me, my eyes too blurry from the mud down my face.

“Ready yourself soldier,” the sergeant demanded.

“Yes, Sir.” I understood there were no breaks on the battlefield. Wiping my eyes with my grimy shaking hand, I was overwhelmed with the number of comrades who had made it to the trench. Maybe we had a chance.

Rain continued to splatter down and bullets continued to soar overhead as the sergeant began his plan.

“Ok, just outside these trench walls there is a German outpost with four belt fed machine guns. This is tearing us to shreds. Now are you going to let our fellow Englishman be ripped apart and separated from his family?”

“No!” we collectively cheered.

“Let’s get these suckers!” The sergeant yelled, shaking his gun in the air like a crazed barbarian, eyes burning like fireballs with hate.

The group cheered excitedly, knowing already the hell that would follow. We readied our guns, checking ammunition and firing pins. We charged. Reaching over the trench walls I grasped for a hold in the soggy mud. I heaved and dug my feet into the trench wall to climb out; many men had already succeeded. Yelling and cheering sang out from the men as they got to their feet, hoisted their guns to their hips to shoot and began to charge.

Then the cheers went silent and were replaced by screams as the gunfire intensified. Bodies we flung backward, limbs were dismembered and bullets filled the air. Dazed in the drastic change of mood I remembered standing for a moment until I felt a searing pain in my thigh and was blown off my feet. Desperate for cover I rolled myself over next to a perished soldier. Lathered in mud and covered in cuts I shivered uncontrollably next to the body, feeling it jolt as gun fire further rained down.
How many had died? How many had lived might be a simpler question. I peeked over the body and further witnessed a massacre of friendly soldiers under the cascade of machine gun fire. We were stuck, however many of us were left, trapped cowering in cover under the relentless gun fire, a wall of bullets standing in our way.

“Soldier,” I heard a voice weakly mutter.

I rolled onto my side and saw the sergeant leaning up against a blackened, charred tree, clutching at his side, jaw clenched. “We’re finished here,” he exclaimed, “There’s no hope.”

“I disagree, Sir. There has to be some of us left.”

“No,” he shook his head in defeat, “the guns did just what I said they would; they tore us to shreds.”

A hole in the clouds seemed to open up and a taste of sunlight gleamed through. A sign, a message that there was hope. I looked at my injured leg and pressed my thumb against the wound, gritting my teeth. It would have to do.

Sensing my preparation, the sergeant yelled, “No, don’t. Wait for help!”

“We are all that’s left.”

Blinded with hope and rage I lifted myself up, hopping onto one leg and charged. Immediately I felt another round sink into my body, my stomach this time, and I stumbled. Another collided with my shoulder and I stumbled to the ground next to the sergeant’s tree.

“This is it,” he said.

We cocked back our guns and waited for the enemy soldiers to close in, a hail of bullets preceding them.

Hotel Bone

Jordan Bowling, Year 12

“Aah!” Levi turned the wheel, feeling it shudder as the car crept onto the red dirt by the side of the road. He put his foot on the brake, and the car hiccupped twice before coming to a halt. He could see thin tendrils of smoke seeping around the edges of the bonnet, twisting itself into stringy white knots before being swept away.

Levi unlatched the bonnet of his Ford Falcon, and it sprung open with a hiss. He coughed and staggered back from the plume of smoke that had enveloped his face. Through watery eyes he saw the grimy grey parts of the engine, sprawled around – at least from Levi’s perspective – with no particular order or structure as to which way they fitted in. It’s like one of those 3D jigsaw puzzles, Levi thought, except someone’s just jammed all of the pieces back into the box as quickly as they could. He tried to recall the many hours Father had made him spend helping him tinker around on his Chevy; but, all he could remember was the enormous spider web that draped over the outside of the garage’s grimy window, and the fat, yellow spider that sat in the middle of it. He would often marvel at how fat it got over the course of that summer; Father said, after swatting his head with a rolled up newspaper (he had neglected to bring him his screwdriver for the third time) that it was an orb spider. Levi awoke one morning, eager to see how fat the newly christened ‘Mr Squiggles’ had gotten, only to find the window clean and the enormous web gone. He ran into the kitchen, shouting
“He’s gone! He’s gone!” earning a glare from Father over the top of his newspaper and a “Ssh!” from Mother.

“I’m sorry sweetie, but Mr Squiggles had to go – see, he was getting very fat because he was about to have his babies – and then what would we do? We wouldn’t want you to get bitten now, would we? Hmm? Oh, don’t look so sad. Cheer up. I’m sure you’ll find another spider even better than Mr Squiggles.”
“Your mother’s right,” Father said through puffs of his cigarette. “They’re a nuisance, anyhow.”
“Oh dear, I wish you wouldn’t do that inside. It makes the whole house smell.”
Father nestled deeper into the paper.

Levi saw that one of the metal components surrounding the motor had a crack in it, and was warped in a weird position. He ran his hand over the crack, and felt the sharp edge of the metal pierce the soft skin of his finger. Whilst sucking the wound, a dark silhouette by the side of the road caught his eye, shimmering through the heat. After failing to start his car up again, Levi resolved that the best thing to do would be to head towards this silhouette on the horizon.

***

The lobby was bathed in a deep orange glow, the sun setting outside its two main windows. It would have been fairly pleasant, were it not for the fact that the glow was caused by the thick layer of red dust that caked up the window and its ivory windowsill, rather than by the sun itself. Draped across a bone table in the corner was a slowly heaving mass of black and green, its movements sending ripples through a small pool of liquid, causing it to drip onto the red dust below. The droplets made maroon, beetle-sized craters in the red earth. In the other corner of the lobby a white bone staircase sprouted from the ground, leading to the upper floors. A blue napkin slid back and forth across a white bar top, the words ‘HAPPY BIRTHDAY!’ printed squarely in its centre in big, blocky, yellow writing. The white surface of the countertop was polished and gleaming, but spoonfuls of grime and other gunk lay stagnant in the many scratches and deep gashes that scored the bone surface. An old woman clutched the napkin tightly in her clawed hand, spitting occasionally on the pearly white countertop and furiously scrubbing at it.

After some grunting, Levi fell through the bone front door into the lobby, landing on the red earth floor. The bright setting sun shone through the doors, illuminating the entire spectacle; every individual grain of red dust was visible as it flew into the air, drifting in the currents and slowly floating down again to weave itself back into the dusty carpet.
Levi scrambled to his feet and brushed his now red clothes, trying to retain some dignity, and acknowledged the old woman (who was now completely still) with a nod.

“Good evening. Erm – sorry about that.”

The old woman did not move, but tracked Levi with her eyes as he meandered across the lobby towards her. He took a seat at the bar, resting his arms on its white, polished bone surface. The woman, however, did not stop looking at him; she kept her hard stare on him. Levi fidgeted under the pressure of her gaze – he felt as if she was boring a hole into his head. He thrust his hands into his pockets to keep them occupied. When he did so, the lady gave a slight nod, almost as if to say thank you, and resumed her polishing of the counter. Out of the corner of his eye, Levi could feel another set of eyes; this time they were not confronting, but curious, and a wealthy emerald in colour.

Levi returned his attention to the woman, and asked, “Excuse me – sorry to, uh, interrupt – but would you happen to know anything about car engines?”

The woman stopped her frantic scrubbing, and looked at Levi. She nodded in the direction of the emerald eyes. Levi turned to look directly at them, and saw the outline of a tall figure begin to emerge from the bone table; blacks and greens rippled across the it as it straightened. The figure was a man, his arms, hands, chest, neck, legs, feet and bald head adorned with countless tattoos. Emerald Eyes walked forward, towering over Levi, inquisitive eyes scanning his face.

Levi jumped as the man spoke. His lips carefully moulded each word -“I dabble.”

***

The following morning Levi set off in a good mood; he had had a small, but pleasant breakfast of Weet-Bix, and the Falcon was purring softly under his fingertips. Through his rear-view mirror he could just see the outline of his silhouette, shimmering by the side of the road, and a faint emerald wink against the morning horizon.

Wladislaw it’s Over

Bailey Flecker, Year 12

“Wladislaw, it’s…it’s over,” Viktor trembled in fear. The barricade had buckled and a swathe of people had begun pouring in like a tsunami. The people were propelled by an ingrained sense of freedom and righteousness that no physical barrier could hold. The grand House of the Nation was on the precipice of being pushed over by its own people. “It’s over when we have no breath left to give,” I proclaimed in the fiercest tone I could muster. Only last month had the people ousted the benevolent President Rostov and allowed me to take over the Hungarian parliament. However, the hideous human hordes had returned, determined on spilling the blood of anyone in red. A deafening boom rang through the streets as we looked out the window in dismay, witnessing the central statue of our deific leader Stalin crash to the ground, being met with thunderous applause. All I wanted to do was massacre the horde, even more than I did the Nazis in 1945, but I was only one man against a city. After eight years of communist control, Budapest was now falling back into the hands of the people. It took less than a week after Stalin’s death for the people to rise up against the nation we had built for them. The parliament where I stand now is the beating heart of Hungary and until it stops beating, we will fight to protect its strength. Communism will prevail to save these people from the capitalistic pigs of the West, even if they no longer deserve its gifts.

Earlier in the morning only two bold activists had dared to stand in defiance of my supposedly totalitarian regime, quickly dealt with by the chilling accuracy of the guardsman’s bullet. The noise of the typically bustling streets faded into silence as the activists hit the ground, breathless. I returned to the daily paperwork that tortured my soul with the significance of the activists already lost on me. However, four more men from a worksite rose in defiance, before several staccato shots rang out and they too slumped to the ground. Then a further twenty people took up arms and marched on the parliament. This time it was not lost on me. If the people were bold enough to keep standing up as those before them fell down, losing control of the city would become the least of my worries.

I began to assign the Rendorseg to protect the boundaries of the parliament and all major landmarks such as the Danube River. Further shooting broke the silence. No activists took the bullet this time but it was Corporal Donetsk who fell. Now the threat was real. Armed and angry activists grew in numbers exponentially dwarfing the size of the Rendorseg. The Danube River had begun to run blood-red from the fallen men on both sides of the conflict. The strongest fear I had felt in a decade began to creep into my psyche. Too many people to count had begun an armed march of fury towards the main square in which my new parliament lay. As far as I could tell, every able-bodied man, woman and child in the entirety of Budapest had rallied.

By 10:00am my security team had lost control of the city with the demands of the people sent to me with the Soviets stars of the Commissioner Stoletov attached in an aggressive act of hatred. The soldiers who had saved the Hungarians from fascism now hung high across the porches of Budapest. The crowd of people had swelled to hundreds of thousands furiously chanting, “Down with Wladislaw’s Communist nepotism, rise to freedom of the people!” The parliament had dissolved into a state of utter panic, selfishly obsessed with the safety of their own lives without any consideration of Hungary’s future.

I snapped up the phone and furiously dialed Moscow. “Mr Khrushchev, Budapest has fallen to the people. Aggressive military action against the rioters has now become a necessity in order to protect this regime,” I proclaimed with stone-cold calmness. The hustling madness of government ceased for a moment in dreaded anticipation of the new Soviet leader’s response. The next few moments felt like an eternity before Khrushchev replied harshly, “The 5th infantry division is to the north of Budapest poised to strike with orders to kill remonstrators on sight.” The line was cut and battle lines within parliament were drawn. The proud politicians were reduced to mad dogs brawling as they were split in two, half in defense of the Hungarian people and the rest in loyalty to Moscow. The parliament building was laid to ruin by its own members before the rioters had even entered. The members of the Hungarian Workers Party rose from this brawl as the only survivors.

I personally took the bodies of the Hungarian ‘protectors’ and threw them where they belonged at the base of the massing hordes. Once again there was a moment of silence from the crowd but in the distance the dark red remnant of a burning communist flag floated through the crowd and landed at the base of the building. This sight emboldened the recently shocked crowd, giving it the fierce strength to overcome the shrieking fear of the Soviet troops as they marched closer. The pitiful barricades set up to defend the parliament were trampled by a force 300,000 strong and at this moment I knew, just like Viktor, that it was over. I donned my General’s uniform, pinned on my medals and flung the communist flag over my shoulder in preparation for the incoming hordes. The glossy wooden door that had defended Hungarian democracy for decades buckled and splintered as it crashed open. At least fifty well-built men armed to the teeth, faces contorted by rage and fury, were immediately visible to me. The head of this pack walked forth and declared, “Igor Wladislaw, for your crimes against the people of Hungary we sentence you to death.”
With absolute malice and spite, I responded, “I do not recognise your authority here…” as I fired the first of my two remaining bullets square into this man’s forehead. The one bullet I had left was not for another terrorist, but for myself. I refused to grant these traitors the satisfaction of a public execution and the shock at the fall of their leader gave me the chance to consume every detail of the room before pulling the trigger.

The Importance of Being Young

Hugh Edwards, Year 12

  1. Vigilance

A party, 5th Avenue, Stella’s 17th.  I had never been drunk in my life. I always believed that it was idiotic to poison your mind just for one night so you can ‘socialise’. Waves of people entered with their stench of alcohol and body odour; they were staggering in and almost falling over like clumsy penguins. With the party music thumping, the girls were dancing to Nelly* and Katy* (or what I call ‘white girl music’), hearts were forming and breaking, crying, fighting, smoking, drinking; everything is always vague and nothing can be remembered. The smell of sweat was sturdy as I began to pass through the malicious dance floor. Arms and legs were thrown from side to side as I tried to navigate this grim maze. Strangers confronted me as if I had known them my whole life, their eyes dilated and faces red as they attempted to hug me and say, “Hey! You’re that guy!” I tried avoiding these people as much as possible when I came to events like this as there was only one person I wanted to talk to.

  1. Love

But that night, this person was busy, busy with someone else, as always. As I escaped the chaos, I saw her, in the arms of another man. Bigger, stronger, taller, handsomer, all that I wanted to be. All I could hear was our late-night calls, her childish laugh and the distinct smell of her favourite rose perfume. I stood by pretending not to notice as I continued to judge every other neanderthal at this party. After the man was done with his prey he left to stalk his next.

  1. Jealousy

I hated seeing this, as much as she hated me. I just wanted to talk to her. Try to remember those moments we used to have. She turned to her phone as she stayed waiting. I walked to her cautiously; it had been four months since we last talked. We locked eyes. For a moment, everything was better. It felt like we were together again. How naïve of me that was.

  1. Grief

“I’m glad to see you again,” I said reluctantly, “It’s been a while.” It was silent, again. I stared closely into her eyes. It wasn’t the same girl I was talking to. She was cold, different. I could smell her rose perfume but I could no longer hear our late-night calls and her childish laughter. She was so close, yet so far away from my reach. I didn’t know at the time that she was already behind me. Silence. She turned back to her phone hoping I would leave. “Please talk to me,” I stepped closer, “I don’t have anything to believe in,” I begged.

“What is there to believe in? You made me feel worthless.” She began to tear up. She looked at me as the eyeliner from her eyes began to drip like black blood. She was wearing her favourite dress, black and tight, a big hit for the boys. “If I did that to you, you would never speak to me ever again!” she yelled.

“I need you to see that you are the reaso-”

“No, just stop!” she paused, “You don’t get that what you did was wrong.”

“I need you right now, can you please listen to me?”

“Well I’m sorry, I can’t.”

  1. Contempt

She stormed off wiping her eyes from the tears and memories we had created. I had made a monster out of a girl. She enjoyed every moment of this suffering. Watching, waiting, wondering in contempt of this creature. `There was nothing else I could do, there was nothing to believe in anymore.

  1. Happiness

The sound of the music and screams of the girls and boys had returned. I had forgotten I was here.  The music was louder now, still Nelly* and Katy*. The green lights of the dance floor were blinding, although I hated dancing with a bunch of drunken buffoons, these green lights attracted me towards this floor. The fragrance of girl’s perfume and the beat of the music welcomed me onto the floor. I could let go of everything as I began to let my body become lose to the beat of the music. I had forgotten about all the other people in my life. I soon found liquor in my hand and I had let myself go. Caught up in the past I realised I was missing out on the future and that we will never be as young as we are tonight.

I was becoming like every other person I had previously judged.  Before I hated it, now a gateway to carry me out of the past and into the future as I am consumed within a young world of Vigilance, Love, Jealousy, Grief, Contempt and Happiness.

Nelly* and Katy*: Produce songs often about the importance of being young.

They Thought I’d Forget

Brent Morton, Year 12

They thought I’d forget. The thought kept running through my head. But I remembered. Everything.

I perched on the edge of the hospital bed, holding an icepack to the side of my head, where the bruises were worst. Light was streaming in through the large glass windows, and the smell of cleaning chemicals was thick in the air. There was a soft click as the door opened, and a man walked in.

“Detective Peter Johnston,” he introduced himself as he walked up and shook my hand firmly. “Now, do you want to walk me through what happened on Tuesday night?”

I nodded and began.

It was about 8.30pm, two nights ago, on Tuesday. It was only early November, but there was already a real summer heat in the air. The sun had long gone down, but there was a warm haze lifting off the concrete paths and buildings. The night sky was clear, only the full moon and half a dozen stars disturbed it.

I took another sip of Coke from my cup, hearing the slurp as the straw found nothing to suck up. I bundled the wrapper from my MacDonald’s burger inside the empty cup and continued walking home.

I walked for another block, before I came across a small office building and a bustling Chinese restaurant next to it. I heard a door open, the rattle of a bag of trash and then a door shut. I stopped and peered down the dark alley between the office building and the restaurant. The walls seemed tall in the narrow space, and they were spotted with graffiti and old posters. The ground was caked with grease and dirt, and there was an old dumpster next to the door that led into the back of the restaurant.

Suddenly came the rattle of a glass bottle from farther down the alley. I stopped, and looked down. At the end, the alley took a right turn, behind the Chinese restaurant. I slowly took another step, listening intently for any sound. I heard a grunt, then a thud as something hit the concrete. I took a few more steps. There was the rattle and then smash as more glass bottles fell, some of them breaking. I took a few more steps.

Hesitantly, I peeked out around the corner. There were four guys, one of them on the ground, the other three around him. The one on the ground had brown hair, thinning on top and ruffled up, and he was wearing a white collared shirt, smudged with grime and a loose tie like it had been grabbed and pulled. The three men were all muscled with black tank-tops, tattoos covering their arms.

I quickly pulled out my phone and called triple O. The line quickly picked up.

“OOO, what is your emergency?”

“Someone is getting beaten up here.”

“Okay, where are you?”

“In an alley off King Street. Next to a Chinese restaurant,” I whispered into the phone.

One of the tattooed men walked toward the man and kicked him in the guts, while the other two pawed through his wallet. The man on the ground clutched his stomach, and then looked up. For a moment, his barely open eyes met mine. Unluckily, the tattooed man who had kicked him also looked my way.

“Hey!” he yelled, and all three of them started running my way.

I took a step back, still hearing the faint ‘hello’ from my phone as the operator tried to talk to me. Suddenly I was lying on my back as I tripped on a bottle underneath my feet. There was a terrible crack as my phone fell to the ground, the screen shattering. I scrambled to my feet, hearing the thump of feet on concrete behind me.

Suddenly, I felt the full force of a fist to the back of the head, and fell to the ground. I felt myself being lifted face to face with a man. He smiled, showing off his crooked teeth, as his fist smashed into my gut. Tears welled in my eyes as blow after blow landed on my face, head, gut, chest. I lost all feeling in my body and I fell to the ground.

The wail of sirens filled my ears, and the beating stopped. They started moving away, but one of them hesitated, before saying, “He won’t remember”. I groaned and then everything faded to black.

Blue Man

Max Hollingsworth, Year 12

The world sped up in ten-dollar blue as I stood lost in a sad bandana. That sweet navy trickled down his arms and legs, consuming his entire being, and the frail hissing of the train would not disturb him. The distance between us was no match for the irate snarls of Kanye over an evangelical sample of Otis Redding, blasting from that Walkman like a new-age gospel choir. It was one of my favourite songs as a child; at the time it seemed pretty cool.

My eyes laid upon those vomit-stained seats, turning those pants from oceans into swamps, as his head looked down shut off from the world around him. That familiar screaming of the brakes could be heard all throughout the carriage as we slowed down and pulled into Swanbourne Station. The sun beamed down on the red bricks outside the train, and the private school boys leapt out of those steaming metal seats and piled onto the train. They walked through the sliding doors staring at him, blue on blue, and quickly fled to other carriages, retreating to their mates. Our peaceful empty carriage was now disturbed by polite society, and our once Edenic utopia plunged into chaos.

‘God, these trains are awful. I can’t believe I paid eighty cents for this rubbish,’ grumbled a young man in a suit. Dresses and ties flowed through the door and sat down, leaving the blue man a wide berth. A void separated him from the rest of civilisation. A carriage full of judgemental eyes pricked the blue man like the irritating thorns of a rose bush, gazing not in awe but in disgust at the blue man’s appearance. His head raised revealing matching ten-dollar eyes and a waxy handlebar moustache. I gazed in awe as it curled so flawlessly. A face dripping with black ink, symbols and signs of his history each with a meaning of their own. This arcane tar chilled the ocean of his eyes, sinister and cold as they peered into mine, and that strange moustache flipped from funny to fearsome as he grinned menacingly. I realised now he was seated in the disabled section, a blue stain upon the conventions of common decency.

‘Look at those tear-drop tattoos… Doesn’t that mean he’s killed someone?’ This I overheard from the girl in the floral dress whispering to her tank-top boyfriend, as I saw his muscles tense. At this a pair of twin rivers erupted on my palms, drenching my jeans as I tried to wipe away the sweat. His eyes lingered on my frail body and I swear he could taste my sudden fear. The antagonistic hissing of the train resumed as it began to lurch forward, but the blue man did not avert his gaze. He tapped his fingers as he plotted my death. Peering into my soul, those blue eyes stabbed at me like icicles, or the knife he must have in his pocket. I could almost see him stroking it, preparing for when I leave the train and it can tear me apart. Those blue clothes were the colour of his gang and he must have a gun on him. What if he opens fire? I’ll slide under the train seats and follow his commands. If those doors slide open I’m skinny enough that I can quickly slip through them. I don’t have much money on me so hopefully I’m worthless to him. I’m also far too weak to be a threat. It’ll be ok, don’t worry.

At that very moment the metallic screeching of the rails snapped me out of my anxious trance. I realised now the blue man had shifted his gaze away from me, as my attention moved to the wheelchair-bound man coming through the door. His tired old wheelchair wheezed as it rolled through the doors and into the now-packed carriage. People jumped back forging a wide berth between the wheelchair-bound man and them, a void of isolation as his wheelchair cried with its attempts to make its way through the carriage. Their eyes tore at him up and down, inevitably resting on his amputated legs hidden in the shroud of his short, tied pants. The wheelchair trundled its way to the apparent safety of the blue disability seating.

Already sitting in the disabled seating, the blue man preyed on his target with a menacing eye. The wheelchair struggled over, a bleeding seal in a vast ocean. The blue man began to lurk toward his prey, a shark gliding through the veil of the deep blue, fueled on the scent of his prey’s blood. He grabbed the wheelchair.

The blue man guided him through the carriage of not so polite society. Deflecting those judgmental eyes that cut him down. He cradled the amputee out of the wheel chair, a sapphire guardian angel. The blue man aided him into his sanctuary where the blue man once rested, blue on blue. The men began speaking, a pair so blue, so isolated from a world they called their own. The crackle of the intercom, “Next station Karakatta,” pulled me out of my trance of appreciation. I waited at those sliding doors I once planned to escape the blue man’s attack, gazing in admiration of his fortitude.

That Fateful Night

Nick Price, Year 12

Outside, the sky was beginning to lighten, as I sat on an old chair, my mind adrift, barely noticing as the toast began to burn and the coffee began to cool. Dawn was sweeping over the street outside the ‘Luxury Motel’, illuminating a garbage filled street, characterised by dilapidated old buildings and run-down housing estates. A car alarm began to sound, punctuating the dirty ai,; the high-pitched squeal nothing compared to the reverberations going on inside my head. Sleep had been impossible; I had yet to find a human being that could sleep before a day at court. I certainly hadn’t before my last outing at court, and that was only to decide the future of my material assets. Today was immeasurably more serious; today the seven jurors and one old judge would decide the future of my most prized assets, my beautiful young children.

I sighed, leaning forward on my sweaty, damp legs, my mind becoming ever more lost in a web of utter tiredness and stress. I could feel myself leaving the present, my mind casting itself back for what must have been the thousandth time to the sequence of events, that had led to a happy, married man’s life deteriorating so badly to the point of near complete dejection, in a random motel, in the middle of a rundown street. Oh, I yearned for the old days, before the day that changed my life, the decision, the moment of weakness that would go on to ruin the very foundations of my life. It was on that day, that I succumbed to deep, dirty desires that I hadn’t known had existed. I vividly remember walking into work that morning, and noticing for the first time a beautiful young female worker, who stood out amid layers of bland paperwork and black and white sheets, like a rainbow amid dark, oppressive clouds. She was so beautiful, the way that her blonde hair shone like a beacon of light, drawing me towards her irresistible cheekbones and lovely blue eyes. And that was before I heard her voice, magical and spellbinding, slowly luring me against my will towards my own personal destruction, like the music of the sirens that had led ancient Greek sailors to their doom all those years ago.  It was on that fateful night that this evil, beautiful siren had called to me. “Tom,” she had said in her spellbinding voice. What ensued that night was both the best and worst experience of my life; passionate, romantic and exhilarating, but also insidious, immoral and irrevocably calamitous. A night that I would never truly recover from.

The beep of my alarm clock, startled me from my half-crazed reverie. It was now 7:30 am, two hours from the court case that would either give me something to cling on to or obliterate the last vestiges of life and passion from a broken and defeated man. Life had defeated me, my own temptations and longings had ruined me, and I was exposed, ready to be feasted upon by the minions of death and decay. I stumbled wearily to the bathroom, my mind scrambled and broken, swaying from side to side like a crazed alcoholic. Without any conscious intent the bathroom light was switched on revealing, in the cracked, stained mirror, an equally cracked and broken man, unshaven with patches of dry, cracking skin and broody sleep-ringed eyes. Tears were frozen on my face, etched deep inside of wrinkles that had been an ever-present feature since that fateful night. I knew I had to get ready, to put on a cultivated façade before the court, to replicate the smartly dressed, respectable accountant that I once was for the broken, dirty and disgusting man I am now.

The warm water gushed over my head, nourishing my bruised and scarred body, bringing me back to a time where comfort was plentiful and life was worth living. Back to the life on Pine Tree Avenue, with a happy family, friendly neighbours and meaningful work. Back to hugs in the morning, daily homework checks and family meals in front of the T.V, back to a time of bliss and happiness. In the past that sort of life had seemed mundane and mediocre, now it seemed like heaven, something to be cherished. For now, I was in hell, both physically and metaphorically, living a life devoid of joy, laughter and purpose. And this was all my doing, the weakness inside of me so brutally exposed by the events on that fateful night, which had forever, irrevocably torn my family, work and life away from me.

The water suddenly went cold, the electricity in the ‘Luxury Motel’ failing and I stumbled out of the shower, muscles aching, my neck as rigid and immovable as a fortified steel beam. I found my best suit and tried in vain to tie my black and white crossed tie for ten minutes, my motor memory incapable of doing something which I had done every day for ten years, up to that fateful night. It was like I was no longer worthy enough to be a respectable gentleman; that the terrible thing I did had condemned me to a life of mediocrity and shame. But still I had to push on, while there was still some hope, however slim, that there might still be something left of real value to me. My children were now everything to me, the last remaining hope and happiness in my life. Without them the light in my life would be extinguished and the sun would never again shine. The still, stuffy air was punctuated by a formal distinctive knock.

“Tom, it’s time,” remarked my family lawyer, the man who carried my last remaining hopes and dreams. “The car’s parked outside and we’re leaving in ten minutes.”

So, it was time, time to throw myself at the mercy of the legal system, hoping against all wisdom and logic, that the one judge and seven jurors would find in favour of a man who had torn his family apart, who had violated the very sanctuary of marriage, who had committed such a horrendous and despicable deed. The chances of winning the court case were so slim, but I had to try, otherwise I would lose the very last source of happiness, meaning and purpose in my life. If I lost my children, I may as well not walk back through the door.

For King and Country

Bill Wiese, Year 12

For King and Country, that was the cry of 1899, as men left their families to fight the Dutch Boers on foreign soil. And who wouldn’t leave their family for this glorious war, this great adventure to serve the King and the Commonwealth? In the hopes and dreams of the young men that would set off on it, it would be a glorious war over months spreading the British Empire further through South Africa. In total around thirty thousand Australians would take part in the war from the various Australian colonies.

In the port of Brisbane as the frigates began to depart for South Africa Robert and his family gathered before his departure on this great adventure for his country. It would be a glorious and short war, those who went and fought for their country would be showered with praise while those who stayed behind would show their lack of masculinity and courage. This was proving much harder to tell to his young son George who he had taken with him to wave goodbye, as he sailed out of the harbour to join a cavalry division. As George sobbed against his mother Mary’s leg he tried to console his young son saying, “I will not be away for long. I’ll probably be back by Christmas to see you and I’ll come back with some souvenirs from Africa. Won’t that be great, George? You’ll have presents from Africa and all your friends will be jealous.”
Despite his attempted bribe George only continued to sob into Mary’s leg, turning away from his father as George looked helplessly at his wife, wondering how he could console his child. Mary met his eyes and said, “He just wants his father not to leave, he’s only six years old for god’s sake, you don’t really need to go do you?”

“Of course I do,” replied Robert. “Who could look at me the same if I stayed while others served their country?”

“I could,” replied Mary quietly.
Looking at her sharply Robert exclaimed, “How would I not seem like less of a man to you, a coward when others are serving their country?”

“You would be staying with your family, your young son,” said Mary. “What if something happens to you? How will I tell him?” pointing towards George still tightly hugging her legs.

“Stop fretting, nothing will happen to me. The British Army is the strongest in the world,” said Robert stepping backward. “One day he’ll understand that I did what I had to do and returned a hero for him and our country. One day he too will most likely go off and serve the Empire in some glorious adventure.”

“And if you don’t come home, what then?” exclaimed Mary “He’ll have to grow up without a father figure and I won’t be able to find work as no one will hire a widow.”

“You’re worrying over spilled milk and the milk hasn’t even been spilled yet.” Laughing at his own joke, in a more serious tone, Robert continued, “Besides with the commission from the Army we’ll be able to leave the city and buy a farm, just like we’ve always talked about. It will be good for George to be out of the city.”

“That would be wonderful,” murmured Mary.

“Right that’s settled,” said Robert quickly. Looking around the docks he saw similar scenes to the one he had just experienced occurring all around him, families tearfully breaking up or arguing. On the docks bags of grain were being loaded into ships as supplies for the war while lines of horses were brought onto ships for the cavalry that would be Australia’s primary contribution to the war. Looking closer at the dock he saw men with checklists loading men onto the ships, like livestock shipped off to war.

As bells began to toll, signifying that the fleet would leave harbour soon with the falling tide, Robert turned back to his small family to bid them farewell. “Remember that I will be back in a couple months, with victory for Australia and gifts for the two of you.” Robert reached down and picked up his son and lifted him up into a hug against his chest. After putting him back down and patting him on his head he said, “Now you be good for your mother and look after her; you’re the man of the family now.” After feeling that he has successfully consoled his young son he looked at Mary and kissed her before looking into her eyes and saying, “Remember, I’ll be back in a few months with the money we need.” After kissing her again he continued, “Remember that I love you and will return to be with you once we win in Africa. I shall return home for you.”
Looking sadly at Robert, Mary replied, “I love you too, Robert.”
As Robert walked onto the ship and the fleet sailed into the sunset, Mary felt a sinking feeling about the chance of Robert ever returning and she was correct. She was never able to see her husband again.

With only a limited widow’s pension to support her, she was never able to fulfil their family’s dream of buying a farm. Instead she worked odd jobs to support her family. Bereft of a proper father figure George was an uncontrollable child and grew into an unstable man unable to hold a solid job. Fifteen years later when the Great War came, George left for the war. Following in his father’s footsteps he too met his fate on the battlefields of some foreign Empire’s war.

For King and Country.

Waiting for the Good Man

Joshua Dyson, Year 12

She was dressed in black – head to toe – except for the long green hair that flowed down her back. Consumed by the darkness that enveloped the city. It was the equinox of the Scandinavian winter, the heart of darkness in Gothenburg. December, the month of festivities and Yuletide celebrations, seemed to become colder by the minute. Eva could feel the icy chill of the arctic winter wind through her black ripped windcheater and her torn black jeans. As the rain started to fall, her long hair that resembled seaweed protected her neck from getting wet. She thought back to the long days of the previous summer…

Only six months ago she had been walking through her childhood park, Slottskogen. It was the height of the Swedish summer, the day before Midsummer and she could feel the glorious warm summer sun shining down on her back. They had alighted from the train at Linnéplatsen and strolled carelessly towards the east side of Slottskogen near the Gothenburg Natural History Museum. Her companion was a tall broad-shouldered man with thick brown hair and a rough beard. He was dressed in a dark blue t-shirt with grey-washed jeans like a Calvin Klein model. His name was Anders and she thought she loved him. Walking hand in hand through the park Eva looked around at the other people nearby, happy families, parents playing soccer with their kids, children eating ice-creams at a picnic table. Eva glanced at Anders, who looked at her with his signature reserved smile. “Thank goodness Summer is finally here,” she said, “I’m so looking forward to Midsummer tomorrow.”

Anders looked up at the blue cloudless sky, gazed around the park and then focused his attention back to Eva and remarked nonchalantly, “Yeah, finally. Summer always seems so short here in Gothenburg.”

Eva looked back at his big blue eyes, which were the colour of the North Sea, and smiled back at him. “I like watching all the children play in the park and run around, it reminds me of my childhood.”.

Anders just stared awkwardly back at her, unsure of what to say.

And that was six months ago. Jogging through the ice-cold rain back towards her apartment, Eva could feel her chest tighten. The rain which pelted down even more, now soaked her jacket and shoes. She was exhausted, all this running; what was she running from? Past fears? Mistakes? She was her own woman now and she knew that she didn’t need him. It was almost six months to the day and yet she still longed to be with him. Her thoughts were consumed with the memories of the long summer days spent together. She had decided that tonight would mark the beginning of a new chapter for her – forgiveness.

After what seemed like an eternity of running through the ice-cold rain she finally made it to the door of her apartment complex. She pushed open the door and started to walk up the winding stairwell to the fifth floor.

It was the night of Midsummer and after a day of celebrations spent with Anders and her own family they had both come home to Eva’s apartment on Pilagatan Road, exhausted but joyful. As Eva relaxed on the IKEA sofa Anders sat across from her in the armchair. The apartment was as quiet as the Saab car factory outside the city. A few more seconds passed and Eva broke the silence. She casually asked, “Were you serious about what you said at the park yesterday, about starting a family? It’s just that it seems a bit early, I mean we’re not even married yet.”

Anders replied, “I don’t know…. I guess I was just thinking aloud”. He paused and to Eva it seemed like time stood still. She will never forget how she felt at that moment – scared yet also hopeful. Anders then turned and said to her gravely, “Eva, there’s something I need to say to you.”

“Yes,” Eva replied.

“Eva,” Anders paused again then continued, “You are an amazing person, but I just don’t think that I’m the right person for you”.

Eva looked at him in disbelief, “Of course you are,” she blurted out, “This is us! We’re going to start our own family and everything”.

Anders remained calm and then continued, “Look Eva, I know we’ve been together for one and a half years now but… my heart is telling me that something isn’t right. I’m sorry, Eva.” Anders confessed and hung his head in shame.

Eva was stunned; just yesterday it seemed like they were going to spend the rest of their lives together. ‘What changed?’ she thought. “Why!” Eva cried out, “What have I done?” she yelled.

Anders looked at her with trepidation in his eyes, “Look, Eva, I know this is a lot to take in, but I can’t control how I feel”.

Eva screamed, “We were going to have kids and be married and now this!!”

“Sorry Eva, but this is goodbye, I have to go now.” he said calmly.

Anders slowly arose from the armchair and walked to the bedroom to get his already packed bag.

Eva knew that she should have asked him why he’d packed his things earlier that morning. She thought it was another work trip to Malmö or a boys’ trip he had planned with his colleagues to Kungshamn. How did this happen? What had she done? Should she have shown more enthusiasm about wanting to have kids? She wondered if maybe she wasn’t clear enough. As the last of her thoughts filled her mind the front door of the apartment closed with a slam. On the dining table lay a bottle of pinot noir, the one which they were drinking just two hours ago whilst celebrating Midsummer at her parents’ house. Now like the bottle of wine, Eva was all alone and empty in the apartment.

As Eva bounded up the last of the stairs to her apartment door, she was filled with a determination to set things right and make amends. “This will not consume me any longer,” she thought. Eva reached the apartment door out of breath and with her mind made up – there was no going back from here. Eva took a few deep breaths and then turned the key in the door. The lock opened with a click. She opened the door and there with the empty bottle of pinot noir in his hands was Anders, smiling and content. Unfinished business, she thought, forgive and forget, as she walked into the room.

The Loyally Oppressed

Alex Comstock, Year 12

“Alert, Squad 42B. Rebel activity reported at the south-east gate.  Get down there ASAP. Over.”  The voice came ringing through Brick’s helmet with a sharp audacity, cutting through the group’s silence like a Siloca Fabrics coat.  Brick tapped the commlink on the side of her helmet, “Roger that command.  We’ll be there.  ETA two minutes.”

Brick motioned to her squad and the entire group surged forward unanimously, akin to a forceful and deadly wave.  It would soon be Squad 42B’s second anniversary.  The group knew what they were doing.

As the group rode through the back alleys and narrow streets, Brick got a chance to see first-hand how much worse the slums had gotten in the last few days.  There were people lying motionless in the streets; whether they were dead or simply tired of life, Brick did not know.  The faint wailing of a starving child could be heard several blocks away.  Not even the bucket helmets they wore, which dulled their senses at the cost of protection, could mask the sound of crying children. Brick may have been one of the least brain-smart soldiers in the army.  It is how she earned her nickname after all: thick as a brick.  But she didn’t need to be intelligent to know the citizens she once vowed to protect were dying.  And the army was doing nothing about it.

Squad 42B made it to the south-east gate in good time.  The vast shadow of the Siloca tower shielded their portion of the city from the harsh rays of the sun; one of the few benefits of that ghastly structure.  Brick motioned to one of the soldiers guarding the gates.  He jogged over to her.  “Trooper.  Report.”  Brick demanded.  “Another group of immigrants, Ma’am.  Seeking to enter the city.”

“They know the rules,” Brick stated, “The city gates are closed to all who cannot pay the entrance fee.  They must seek help elsewhere.”  Brick attempted the hide the disdain in her voice, but her tone failed her.

“Yes, we know the rules, Ma’am,” the emotionless soldier replied.  “Problem is; they have heavy artillery.  They’re threatening to fire if we don’t let them in.”

“Understood, soldier.  Dismissed.”  Brick returned to her squad.  “Alright Squad, I want all of you positioned atop the wall.  Safety off, but hold your fire until I command.  I’m going out to negotiate with them.”

“Copy that, Commander,” her lieutenant replied.  His helmet hid the doubt in his voice but Brick was sure it was there.

“Good luck, Squad.”  With that, Brick marched with an air of determination towards the gate.  By the time she reached it, the hulking gears had begun to whine and the behemoth of a door began to grind open.  Brick waited until it rose to meet her head, then marched into the desert to meet her negotiators.

The trooper had made an understatement when he mentioned ‘heavy artillery’.  A mile-long line of tanks, trucks and soldiers now stood facing her, the largest single army Brick had ever seen.  This was not good.  Brick strode towards the front of the group where she saw three distinct figures standing apart from the rest.  As she got closer, she managed to determine that the one in the centre, the leader, was an elder.  He was in his sixties.

“Halt! Soldier!” the man said, “Take your helmet off!”

“It’s against regulations,” Brick responded.

“Take the helmet off, or we fire!” the man responded.

Brick sighed and gently began to slide the bucket off her head. She let it drop gently into the sand, avoiding any sudden movements that might startle the militia.  With the commlink to the High Command severed, she strode to meet the group.

The old man wasted no time in starting, “Soldier, you have the chance to save a lot of lives today.  We’re here to take the city from the clutches of the Siloca Corporation.  You need not die for this.”

Brick tilted her head.  The man continued, “You contribute to Siloca’s wall, soldier. A wall of oppression and injustice.  If you stop supporting the wall, it becomes far weaker.  Far less powerful.  If you let down your arms and give us access to the city, the death toll will be far lower.”

“People will die if I let you in.”

“More will die if you don’t!” the man snapped back.  “It’s your choice how many people you want to live.  What’s more important to you?  Your loyalty to your masters, your dictators?  Or your loyalty to your fellow civilians?  It’s your choice, soldier.  Let us take control of the city, and save your people.  Or try to stop us, and die with them.”

Carnivalesque

Alex Omari, Year 12

The line for the annual Oklahoma State Carnival spanned over seven blocks. Thousands of excited children, teenagers and adults spent days queuing for the highly anticipated re-opening of the carnival. The vivid and colourful lights of the endless games and rides polluted the skyline and the intense, joyous music of each stand could be heard for miles.

It was finally time. Fizbo the clown arose from the array of blinding led lights and spoke the three words that brought a feeling of ecstasy to the minds of the thousands of anxious and joy-filled fans.

“We! Are! Open!” Before anyone had time to think, the polished chrome gold gates swung open and the thousands of carnival goers flooded through the narrow 30 foot opening in the fence like a school of fish swimming through the ocean.

Even before the fanatical fans had the opportunity to travel more than 60 feet into the carnival, they were met with an abundance of arcade and novelty games that promised big prizes. The overwhelming smell of oil fried churros, donuts and the sweet smell of candy floss filled the entire carnival and could make any full stomach rumble with hunger. Once the carnival goers made it passed the entrance of the carnival, they were met with screams of excitement as the newest carnival attraction was centralised in the middle of the fair.

‘The Inferno’ stood at a towering 100 feet and had a top speed of 80km/h. Only the most daring thrill-seekers dared to enter the line for the rollercoaster that sent shivers down the spine of anybody who dared to even look at it.

***

The Oklahoma State Carnival grounds had been closed for over seven years now. Nobody ever spoke of its existence anymore. What once had been the one thing that consistently brought joy and happiness to the eyes of thousands, now sat like a cancerous lump on the outskirts of the industrial district of Oklahoma.

No person dared to enter the gates of the decaying carnival grounds anymore. At least, no sane person dared to. The grounds were infested with weeds and the rotting corpses of wild animals that had been mysteriously slain and left to rot, by what the people of the town had named ‘The Thing’.

The only man to ever walk into those gates in the last six years and ten months, was named Dodge.

Dodge described the inside of the decaying site as a, “Ghostly, horrendous, haunted piece of land that belongs to the devil”.

Dodge documented his journey through the abandoned and decrepit carnival land. The day before he was due to feature on Good Morning America he and his footage mysteriously disappeared. The only possession of Dodge that was left was his Journal that was hidden in a safe under the floor boards of his ranch.

The records in his Journal depict the only descriptions of the haunted land to this day.

In his Journal, Dodge analysed the visually terrifying aspects of the carnival grounds. He depicted the howling winds that seemed to pass in phases and depicted the sounds and screams of children. He portrayed the over-population of black ravens that sat perched in groups of six on every corner. The abandoned carnival grounds were now the only place in Oklahoma that a black raven had been spotted in over 50 years.

Since the disappearance of Dodge no one has dared to enter the ghostly remains of the weed and corpse infested old Oklahoma carnival grounds.