Summer2023

Highlight 1 – Written by Tom Wallwork – Hayden’s Darlot ton

With all boys competing hard there were so many great highlights to choose from. Tenacious tweeners in the tennis, sizzling smashes in the volleyball and even a bizarre moment in the 3rds cricket match where 1st gamer Ollie Macnamara in an absolute certain runout opportunity hit the stumps with ball in hand but not hard enough to dislodge the bails, resulting in a not-out for the astounded Aquinas batsman.  This incredible act saw Ollie christened with the nickname ‘Stumps’ by the rest of the team. However, this moment couldn’t edge out – pardon the pun – what occurred in the 1sts cricket last Saturday.

Let’s set the scene. A Darlot ton, something all Scotch 1sts cricketers dream of. After Captain Hayden Henschel won the toss and elected to bat, Scotch lost an early wicket which brought Hayden to the crease. Anxious to get off the mark, with Aquinas boys chirping in his ear, Hayden hit one uppishly towards point, but to Aquinas’s disgust and Scotch’s pleasure he was dropped on 0. And, boy oh boy, would they pay. Hayden quickly got off the mark with a 2 and then unleashed a series of imperious strokes peppering the boundaries on Memo Oval.  Hayden eased to 50 and then really flashed the blade in a swashbuckling performance – the standout a huge 6 over midwicket. The nervous 90s saw a series of singles taken and on 99 Hayden was just one run away from his second Darlot ton. With a classy nudge into the leg side Hayden brought up the 100. To quote Anthony Hudson from the 2006 Grand Final, “Who would have thought the sequel would be just as good as the original.” A real Captain’s knock that, in the end, fell short of 150, but there’s always next week.

Highlight 2 – sent in by Noah Cooper- Johnny Gattorna’s catch – written by Henry Feutrill

With every week at Scotch, there are always going to be some amazing moments and some low lights. This week was no different. Special mention to Angus King who made 95 in the 1sts cricket this week hitting about an 80 metre six while he was at it. Also, in the 1st cricket Sebastian Carmichael, a Year 10, managed to back up 4 wickets in his 1sts debut last round with another 5 this round. Great bowling.

However, the highlight of the round has to go to Johnny Gattorna in the 9As cricket last Friday. On a long Friday afternoon on a sticky Wesley cricket pitch, the Scotch boys were having a tough time out there in the field. After 3… mediocre balls, what seemed like a relatively stock standard over already had six runs coming off it. The Scotch boys needed a spark. Enter Johnny Gattorna. As a half volley outside Off is bowled, everyone was expecting more runs. But not Johnny. A thick outside edge catches everyone by surprise. But not Johnny. He leaps to his left, as he taps it up and falls to the ground, the Scotch boys groan thinking it’s over. But not Johnny; he sticks out his right paw with the caught ball in his hand. To paraphrase Michael Slater “Wesley chips it, Scotch takes it. That is a blinder from Johnny Gattorna and another game changer for Scotch.”

Highlight 3 – Bill Eastman – Saving tennis match – Sent in by Jack Cook Written by Henry Feutrill

After a disappointing loss last week, the Scotch boys had moved to 1-4 in the season. This was a must win affair. With one set left to play, the game was still undecided. Lose the set, Hale wins, win the set, Scotch wins. Enter Bill Eastman. He knew what he needed to do. The problem was Bill was already down 5-4 40-15. Now if you don’t know tennis let me translate- utter shambles. If Bill lost one more point, he was done. One missed shot and Scotch move to a 1-5 record in Tennis. In a massive 20 shot rally Bill is fighting for survival. To quote Jack Cook “Bill was scrambling more than my eggs that morning.” At the 10th shot Bill hits a forehand slice that has Mr Bradley ready to lose it, but it lands safely. Eventually, Bill hits an impeccable forehand winner on the 20th shot. But it still wasn’t over. After three more impeccable rallies all in Bill’s favour, somehow, he managed to tie it up to make it 5-5. After holding his serve Bill is now up 6-5. Only one more set to win. Bill turns into prime Roger Federer, Rafael Nadal and Djocovic all at the same time. Hitting fast pace shot left and right, Bill hits a pearler forehand winner to go up 40-30. One more point for victory. The Hale player serves, the stadium holds its breath; it’s a fault. The entire team prays for an early Christmas gift of a double fault. It doesn’t happen. Bill isn’t fazed and unleashes a forehand at the body that the Hale player can’t deal with. Bill had done it. Won the game for Scotch. “The miracle on grass”-courts.

Highlight 4 – sent in by Alex Jackson – Written by Henry Feutrill – Will Parker’s basketball standout shooting performance.

This week saw some amazing highlights. First, the fourth’s cricket team named “mediocre fourths” set up their season very nicely with their first win in months – helped by self-proclaimed “captain” Lachie Young, who provided 32 fizzy drinks and 0 runs. The tennis teams also seemed unstoppable not losing one game on the weekend. While the 1sts cricket saw plenty of great innings including more runs from Josh Griffin who got 70 odd as well as Hayden Henschel who also made around 70. In the 1sts basketball Alex Jackson caught fire with four nice 3 pointers; however, the highlight of the round must go to another 1st’s 6 basketballer… Will Parker.

While Lebron may have got the all-time scoring record in the NBA this week, this certainly wasn’t the most important basketball achievement. This comes from none other than Will Parker. Now, Will had been working incredibly hard to make it into the 1sts team. Week after week Will was getting buckets in the 2s and was waiting and waiting for a chance to prove himself in the 1sts. Well… his chance was last week against Guildford. All the boys wanted him to perform… and he did. Helping Scotch to a very nice 20-0 run to start the game, Will splashed a very nice 3 in the first quarter. But he wasn’t done there. This was only the start of the best basketball debut in Scotch history. In the 2nds quarter Will caught fire even more. CORNER 3… BANG. Quick pass back out to Will. Bang another 3 pointer. Will was on three 3 pointers. But he wasn’t done there. Alex puts up a 3 won’t go rebound mark back out to Will his 3-pointer bang. That was four 3s for Will. But he wasn’t done there. Another 3 saw Will produce an incredible five debut 3 pointers. An incredible achievement Will.

Before the arrival the days were fine,
Before the cruelty, before the new design,
We could freely do our cultural dance,
Our painted bodies, stripes on stripes,
Our feet sliding through the iron rich sand,
Gliding through like the Australian Roo,
Our Corroborees, our special traditions.

Yet as they arrived it was like we had a type of condition,
This was our land, but was forcefully taken,
We treated it well, but all was mistaken,
We did nothing at all, yet put into labour,
Like we had no voice, none at all, so disgraceful, so unfair.

Fighting back was not an option,
Extremely baffling, extremely wrong,
As First Nations people, we respected the land,
Yet the British, clearly, did not understand.
Clearly unfair, taking our cultural nation,
So one-sided, due to no communication.

Run! Run! Get there! He feels his lungs hurt as he gasps for air. It’s hot, dry, dusty. He sprints, willing himself on. Tired legs scream. He ignores them. Must keep going. His hand touches leather. Not even a hand, a finger. Then he slams into something solid, unmoving. He’s knocked to the ground, hard. He tries to breathe but the shallow, short breaths give him no respite. He groans and rolls over, looking up at the bright blue sky. It’s an endless blue dome, unbroken by clouds. The scorching sun’s rays burn down on him. He closes his eyes, takes stock of his injuries. Nothing that can’t be pushed down, saved for later when he has time to recover. He hears the loud screech of rainbow lorikeets, squabbling over nectar in the bottlebrush nearby. The deafening drone of cicadas calling for a mate. He feels a hand on his shoulder. Someone pulls him to his feet. He wipes the dirt from his eyes. Spits out the grit. Takes another breath. Gathers himself and pushes on.

He loves this game. Loves the thrill of the chase, the contest for the ball. Arms pumping and legs flying behind him as he races across the paddock, the kind of freedom you only feel in dreams. His father played this game. Taught him how to handball. Showed him how to take an overhead mark and kick a torpie. Taught him what it meant to be in a team. To be part of something bigger than yourself. Playing a role and working towards a common objective.

It’s a physical game, full of hip and shoulders, pushes in the back. There are elbows crushing ribs and bone-jarring tackles. He endures all this, welcomes it almost. It’s part of the game.

He squints in the midday sun and sees the yellow ball soaring in the blue sky. He watches it float over his head. He turns and chases it. It was just him and the ball. Until it wasn’t. He feels a presence. A dark shadow advancing. He tries to avoid the inevitable collision. Too late. Crunch. He feels the baked earth beneath him. Not much grass really. He’s dazed and he shakes his head to clear his vision, still lying flat on his back and clutching his ribs. Everywhere aches. He tries to move, but can’t. The umpire’s shrill whistle cuts through the ringing in his ear like a squawking canary, awarding him a free kick. He climbs to his knees, deprived of oxygen. Finally, up to his feet. He takes the ball and walks back off his mark. Turns around. The siren sounds. Silence. His heartbeat echoes in his ears. The ball beneath his fingers. He looks toward the goals. Then he hears it.

Those words. Those same familiar words that have haunted him throughout his life. You never get used to them. Like gut punches each one. Never build up a tolerance. Only words, people say. Names can never hurt you. And yet, what is this feeling if not pain? This feeling that you are somehow less of a person. Inadequate. Part of a team but never fully accepted. Words that are thrown about carelessly, thoughtlessly.  Said without considering the hurt caused. Or then again, perhaps that was their intention all along. He takes three deep, shaky breaths, trying to push these words out of his focus. He walks, then jogs and drops the ball on his left boot towards the four tall sticks. His kick is off, across the face. He drops his head. Smirks are seen and jeers are heard, humiliation felt deeply burning in the pit of his stomach. Failure.

Three quarter time. In the huddle. He watches the coach’s mouth move as he delivers his speech. Sees his eyes blaze and his spit flying. Barking orders and offering encouragement. He hears none of it. Shame eats away at him. Why is he even here? He feels unworthy. His head is full of doubt.  When will he be seen as an equal? When will he be seen for who he is? He feels his passion for the game diminishing. He hears his voice in the smattering of people along the boundary, he locks eyes with his father. Was there a small nod? Deep eyes, old beyond his years. A look passes between. An unspoken understanding. Old as time. A shared pain. A connection. A belonging. An understanding. Family. A swell of emotion like a tsunami hits. It’s almost physical.

The game continues, final quarter. He feels his heart quicken as the whistle blows. He loves this game, the great outdoors, the bright blue ceiling. The red dirt in his boots. The deep ache of his muscles as he pushes his body to the edge. The exhaustion and exhilaration in equal measures. He breathes in deeply, tasting the heat. Feeling the dampness of his jumper sticking to his back. The umpire bounces the canary yellow ball in the centre… He is ready.

Words pain me in writing this.
The one I felt was the one, flew away.
A red rose in a field of blue.
The good in the bad day.
She’s the one that got away.

Your beauty so bright.
The thought of you keeps me up at night.

But your beauty means deceit,
Thorns.
I was willingly blind.

It’s impossible to have it all.
That is true.
It will continue to be this way forever.
We danced for the last time; say it isn’t so.

Now, across the world.
A red rose in a field of snow.
To be truthful,
I loved you.
You said the same.
Now I only feel disdain.

You went like a lonely cloud in the sky.
You float in my thoughts.
I still cherish you, to this day.
To this day, she’s the one that went away.

I wandered through the sanctioned corridors, sensing the shelves close in around me, forming walls, a dark, black tunnel, suffocating me with the dust and dirt in the air I could all too well see, coating all surfaces in a thick layer of black grime. The sense of decay here was ever-present. Looking at all the dust and dirt particles floating in front of me, they seemed to never settle, or even move, as if they have remained in stasis. Forever.

“Hello?” I exclaimed, hoping for even the slightest response from someone. Anyone.

But all I heard was my voice reverberating off the walls, and then an eerie silence, complemented by the sharp and cold gusts of wind that echoed throughout the aisles, and the silent creaking of the shelves around me, all housing something shrouded in dust. A few minutes later, however, I started to hear a noise. It sounded quiet and human in nature. Curious, I started towards this noise, making sure to avoid what seemed like rubble littered all over the floor, impeding my path.

Eventually, I found the source of the noise. It looked like a human, quietly reading something in a monotone voice, as if it didn’t want to disturb anything around it. I quickly sneaked to a shelf nearby to observe this interesting character. Despite the darkness, I managed to see the titles of the books that it had read, works such as The Communist Manifesto and The Complete Works of William Shakespeare. I counted myself lucky that I could make that out, as there were few people left who could still read. These books were all tossed onto the ground, left to be consumed by the darkness and forgotten. I listened for a while and heard the distorted THUD that was accentuated and echoed by the vastness of this labyrinth every time this figure tossed a book onto the floor after reading it, like clockwork, and the silent outcry of the shelves at every book taken from them.

Suddenly, I saw a book come screaming towards my face. BAM. “Ow!” I screamed, my nose now bleeding profusely, dripping red blood everywhere, even onto the books, not that it made any difference to the state that they were in anyway. I realised that I had been discovered. The figure knew I was here, and instead of turning its body to face me, it instead turned just its head, extremely slowly, as if it was on a swivel, revealing a crooked smile, warped after years of disuse. Its malevolent red eyes glared into my soul, lighting up the black shelves with a sickly red glow.

“Hello- may I- service today?” A distorted, crackling noise emerged from the figure.

In shock, I stumbled back, accidentally knocking over what felt like dry small skulls from the shelves, making loud hollow clunking sounds as they thudded onto the floor, devoid of all life. It was trying to be friendly, but failing miserably. It must not have had much human interaction. The figure seemed to be staring at me. Unmoving.

“Who-What are you?” I asked, startled. I was met with an uncomforting, deafening silence.

Despite the figure’s creepily nonchalant demeanour, accompanied with its inhuman posture and glowing red eyes that tracked me, I cautiously reached out. I felt the cold touch of steel and the rough feeling of rust. It was evident that this was a machine that has stood the test of time, like everything else in this place, and firmly attached to what seemed like a small, rusted railroad that snaked around the shelves, leaving this robot bound in the confines of this labyrinth. The robot seemed to be an old, antique model of the TX8100 with a rusted arm, and the other one missing with a tangled mess of wires hanging out in its place. Little was known about the TX8100. It seemed to be a lone sentry patrolling something that was forgotten long ago.

“Hello? What are you doing here?” I asked, backing away behind a shelf, guaranteeing to not get hit by another book to the face.

“Hell- I am th- TX8100. I wa- designated he- to protec- and safeguard this plac-.” The robot replied disjointedly, as it slowly adjusted its head and body to a human-like composure.

I thought humorously to myself how hypocritical that statement was, and how the robot casually threw these books away to rot on the floor with the dust and dirt without a care in the world. It had clearly been warped throughout time. What I found even more curious, however, was that the meta-net said that this was an ancient catacomb, but there were books here, and a robot too. Kneeling, I picked up what seemed like a dry foxed manuscript, with uncut, unopened edges, that seemed to have been marinating in this decay for eternity. It had the title The Canterbury Tales. Being a historian, I would have thought that I knew what this book was, but I did not. Perplexed, I put the manuscript back in its rightful place on the shelves. Although I heard nothing, I almost felt a chorus of approval resound from the shelves around me.

“Hey, robot, I seem to have lost my way. Do you by chance know the way out of this maze?” I asked, not at all expecting a valid reply due to the condition it was in.

The robot’s eyes rekindled, as if it finally had a purpose. “Yes, I kno- a way. Follo- me please.”

Unexpectedly overjoyed with the robot’s promising reply, I followed it for what seemed like hours in this dark maze, as it smoothly snaked throughout the shelves with a natural demeanour, as if it knew this place like the back of its hand, if it had one that is, with each corridor, shelf and book looking identical to the last, unchanged. Finally, I reached the exit, which was a small staircase, leading to the surface. As I left, I saw a small, rusted sign inscribed with the word “Library”, and I suddenly realised what this place must have been. I thanked the robot which was still finding refuge in the darkness, avoiding the light, and I told myself from that day on that I would never return. Some things left in the past are better left forgotten, as humanity steels itself for the future. Besides, I didn’t want to get another book hurled at me.

I look around me, the weary trees, and the wailing wind.
The whispering clouds above weep their crystals of life throughout the land.
But there are some things the rain can’t give life to.

I look around me, so many littered bodies filling my eyes with red.
Why do I need to wish this isn’t real and that I’ll wake up in my bed?
I search for the thing I lost when I signed up for this war,
The key that opens the door,
To innocence.

I used to feed the birds with bread,
But now I feed them with the dead.
What did they do to me?
I signed up as a boy,
I signed out as a trained killer,
This war did more,
Than kill twenty million,
It ruined forty million more.
But try as I might,
I know that each soldier will never regain,
Innocence.

Bat, ball, stumps… let’s go! I walk down the steep, rocky hill leading down from our rusty but sturdy 1950s holiday shack in Augusta. My periphery catches one of my mates, fiery Tom, the fierce but inconsistent fast bowler from North Fremantle. If I had to compare him to a current Aussie bowler, he would be the Pat Cummins of the team, although maybe a bit more intense. On the other side of me, striding purposefully down the hill, is the young and upcoming deadly spin bowler, Nifty Nico from Swanbourne. I would describe him as a Shane Warne but with less of his repertoire. The sheer confidence and trash talk emanating from these two lads suggests that I am up for a very competitive game of backyard cricket.

As I take my first steps on the recently mowed, home-grown pitch, full of bamboozling lumps, bumps and holes the size of craters, the brisk sea breeze sweeps up my back causing back tingles and finger twinkles.

I realise my time has come as I take guard and stare straight into Tom’s intense eyes charging down the pitch towards me. Added to this, I can hear Nifty’s aggressive whispers from behind the stumps … “Oh Harry don’t get out … You’re gone. No big score for you today mate!” he chuckles.

“Just get the job done,” I say to myself while I raise my bat, gripping the handle as tightly as I can.

“Ooooh!” shouts Nico as the first delivery whizzes straight past leg stump.

“Thankfully, not another golden duck,” as I remember last night’s poor performance.

“You got lucky there, Haz,” said Nico from behind the stumps.

“Harry, you’re meant to hit the ball not the air,” shouts Tom as he returns to his mark.

The pressure and trash talk are really getting into my head now and the goose bumps and sweaty palms are building. I grit my teeth and give myself a motivational couple of words as Tom starts his extra-long run up, “Come on Harry, Come on!”.

“Oh, Ahh, howzat!” shout Nico and Tom as the next couple of deliveries narrowly miss the stumps. I try to calm my nerves, telling myself to re-focus.

“Bang! That’s the one!” I celebrate as the ball sails over the fence for six. Bang, Bang, Bang! I am on a roll now with a couple of fours added to the tally. It is a decent start but from previous games with Fiery and Nifty I know I need a few more boundaries to be in a strong position.

Nico charges in for his first bowl of the day. The ball is fizzing and swinging into my leg stump as the sea breeze hits it.  I wind up to smash it for six as the ball hits one of the many divots in the pitch and finds its way to middle stump. I stand frozen in my defeated stance. I can’t believe it. I stare helplessly at the bails lying uncomfortably on the ground. I look up to see Nico and Tom celebrating like there was no tomorrow.

I take a deep breath and realise that I now must bowl and wicket keep like Dennis Lillee and Adam Gilchrist.

It’s game on!

Social, a human behaviour
Media, a global conversation
So why
through this never-ending spiral
Do we want everything we have and know
to go viral?

From cat videos to sport fails
to singles only a kilometre away
We dedicate our lives to this spotlight
Wasting away the Day.

Book with a face
instant gram
now I have a weird ad
wonder if it’s a scam.

Now it’s live
from across the globe
testing our patience
just like a probe.

to the dark web
and new different disguise
I’m a new person
Humanity slowly dies.

Social Media
Never ending spiral
So why does everything
Have to go viral?

The sound of firecrackers blasted erratically in the dark sky. The streetlights were replaced with blood-red lanterns which danced in the cool midnight breeze while stereotypical Chinese music could be heard throughout the street. “Let’s light a firework Ming Jian shu-shu!” shouted the little dragon known as my little cousin Kuan Jay.
“You got it!” I shouted back in approval. I swiftly grabbed the lighter out of my pocket while he handed me the last firework we had. I ignited it and we both raced as far back as possible. The sparks spontaneously scattered along the road and the scared, yet excited, Kuan Jay hid behind me as if I was his big brother. A few seconds went by… Phew! The firework launched itself into the air scattering its luminous pellets in the midnight sky. We looked at each other and laughed in unison after a successful launch.
“We should buy another one and launch it!” he shouted excitedly.
“It’s getting late, Kuan Jay,” I replied to him in a disappointed voice. “We’re also low on Auntie and Uncle’s Hong Bao money and the cheapest explosive is fifty ringgits.”
“Aw man… You’re going to make me Milo when we get back though!” shouted little Kuan Jay, clearly excited to have a sugary drink in the middle of the night. A smirk grew on my face, and we began to pick up the debris from our hard day of work.

We started walking back to our aunt’s house in the humid yet cool night. I tugged on a million-tonne trash bag while the little dragon tugged onto me like a sloth, clinging onto my arm as we walked back. On the way, we talked endlessly about the things we liked: video games and comics and anime and badminton and the list just goes on and on. However, he said one thing that really stuck to me. “Do you miss me while you’re in Australia shu-shu?”

I was silent for a second. He would always ask me this question when I visited him over the holidays but regardless, he would still ask it.

“Of course, I miss you Kuan Jay… You’re the closest thing I have to a brother.”

We finally made it back to our aunt’s house after a long and perilous trek. Kuan Jay’s energy was once again recharged as he dashed like a cheetah into the house. I laughed at his excitement and left the trash outside the house. I then went in and there I was greeted by chaos. There were people sleeping and snoring on the couches, there were adults playing Blackjack and Mahjong while uncontrollably drinking cans of Guinness, there were children sitting at every corner with their headphones plugged into their tablets to try to avoid a possible conversation. It was chaotic. Very, very chaotic.

“Oi, Ming Jian, come try this apple juice. It’s very yummy,” said one of them.
“Hey, Ming Jian, you should play Blackjack with us!” yelled another.
I raced to the kitchen as fast as possible so that I could evade my drunk relatives. I finally made it to the kitchen where Kuan Jay bounced up and down, clearly excited for a cup of Milo. I took out the ingredients from the pantry and started to create this magnificent drink. The smell of sweetened milk whiffed through the air while the aroma of chocolate danced at the tip of our nostrils. “One cup of Milo for you good sir,” I said in a childish voice while trying to imitate a server from a fancy restaurant. He laughed hysterically at my attempt, and we concluded the night by watching our favourite show together.

The time was two in the morning. My eyes were half open while Kuan Jay’s little head rested on my shoulder, clearly asleep. It was peaceful, just the two of us enjoying our last night together on Chinese New Year.
However, our peace was broken when a familiar voice was heard from another room. “Ming Jian! It’s time to go!” It was my mom. “We have a flight to catch tomorrow! You need some energy!”Kuan Jay’s eyes started to open, slowly and gently. “Why are you leaving so soon Ming Jian shu-shu?” he whispered.“I must go back home now. School is starting next week, and I must be refreshed,” I replied in a disappointed tone.“But I want you to stay…” Tears started flowing down his tiny cheeks and sobs could be heard under his breath.

I took a deep breath in and kneeled in front of him. And in the most genuine voice I could conjure, I started speaking. “We are brothers, even though we’re cousins. No matter how far away we are from each other, we’ll be together. Together in our hearts.”

The sun shines dimly,
Peering at the world below,
Golden rays reach out through the clouds,
Like God has touched the Earth.
Sunlight reflects off the glassy river,
A warm breeze glides over my face.
A swan drifts past,
Nesting on the rocks.
The winding of a fishing rod,
The hum of two parents chatting,
The smell of fish and chips,
The whirr of a bike passing,
The touch of the cool jetty,
The speaker plays music,
Friends sharing stories,
Telling jokes,
Laughter.
On the safety of her beach towel,
Dolphins splash as,
The sky flashes orange,
Illuminating the clouds,
She glows in the dimming light,
We watch the sunset.
Kids shout and play,
This is the end to the perfect day,
Bliss.
The world is a such beautiful place,
I wonder when the grin will leave my face.

The bitter wind stirred up clouds of dust on the street, rubbish dancing across the road as soldier’s boots clicked on the cobblestone pavement in unison. The dirty, unkempt streets of Warsaw mirrored the residents’ feelings of despair and hopelessness. David, walking alone with his head down, swimming in his own thoughts, picked up a passing newspaper off the ground and read the front page:

NAZIS PUSH IN BRITAIN – ISLANDS BOMBED.

The paper was dated Monday the 13^th of November, 1939. David frowned at the paper with disgust, but hurriedly regained his composure and walked back to his small apartment block, his hooked nose pink in the cold air. Hurrying up to his flat, he unlocked the door, slipped inside, and locked it shut behind him. Taking off his identification sleeve, he collapsed into a lumpy armchair, wearily closed his eyes, and waited for his wife, Hannah, to return home from bartering at the markets.

It was much later when David awoke, the cold air clawing under the gaps in the door and invading his dingy apartment. It was pitch black outside, and the only light on was the lamp next to the armchair. He shuffled into the kitchen and made a hot tea to nurse some warmth back into his hands.

He tiredly ran a hand through his greasy black hair and kneaded his eyes with his fist to wake himself up. It was only then when a sudden realisation hit him, the blood in his body instantly replaced by ice. Curfew was hours ago, yet Hannah hadn’t returned home. Now completely awake, frenzied thoughts sped through his mind like automobiles down a cobblestone road, each more ludicrous than the last. Did she simply get lost? Had the Nazis taken her? Had she been killed?

The growl of a tank rolling through the street below pulled David from his panic back to reality. He knew there was only one option – to go and look for his wife. His cold panic was replaced by a burning fear of leaving his house after curfew, but he knew that he had no choice. Rugging up in his thickest coat, he slipped quietly out of his front door, leaving his identification sleeve on the table. Venturing out onto the street, David brushed past a propaganda poster with the corner unstuck. It read: Die Juden Untergraben Unser Land – Wir Können Ihnen Nicht Vertrauen! (The Jews are undermining our country – we cannot trust them.)

The streets were eerily quiet, though he heard shouting and the hum of construction equipment in the distance. Slinking in the shadows between dim streetlights, he slowly made his way toward the commotion, gripped by both intrigue and a desire to find his wife. The acidic cold stung any exposed skin, his breath clouding in great plumes in front of his face.

David’s heart stopped as he heard the roar of a car right around the corner from where he was. Like a deer in headlights, he had nowhere to go. Looking around frantically, he found a small divot in the pavement and dove facedown into it, his face covered with mud and filth from the street. Blood thumped around his body like there was a drummer playing a beat on his heart, and he froze in place. The car rolled past slowly, a barking conversation between two German officials piercing the quiet of the night. The conversation suddenly stopped, and David heard the car door swing open and a pair of boots thud onto the ground. Not daring to look up, he heard the boots grow louder and louder, finally stopping right next to him. A thick hand grabbed his collar and hoisted him up to his feet, his vision blinded by a bright. He heard one of them grunt “Jew” to the other, and the last thing he remembered was a fist smashing into his face, shattering his nose.

A bucket of ice-cold water straight to his face jerked David awake, though taking in his surroundings he wished he had stayed asleep. He was crammed into a decrepit courtyard with hundreds of other people, a melancholy cloud of hopelessness enveloping them all. German guards encircled them with automatic rifles, daring anyone to step out of line. It was only now that David noticed a similarity between everyone in the courtyard – they all wore the Jewish identification armband.

Suddenly, an official looking German officer stood up and shouted: “Get up Jews, it’s time to settle into your new homes.” Laughing cheerily, the guards shepherded all the Jewish people onto their feet and through a barbed-wire gate into a crowded block of shabby apartment blocks. David noticed two Jewish men conversing in hushed tones, before they suddenly broke out from the crowd of people and sprinted away toward freedom. The guards broke out into open fire without hesitation, and the men barely made it 20 metres before they were hit, falling face first onto the street, their blood gushing into the cracks in the cobblestone.

Nobody else dared to make a run for their freedom, and a sudden discovery made their situation even more bleak. German soldiers were building brick walls between the streets of their block, creating a border to blockade them in. “We’re not people anymore,” David thought to himself, “We’re animals.” Looking at the people around him, David noticed someone who made his heart leap with happiness, even as it sunk in that he was trapped in a Jewish ghetto. He saw Hannah. A radiant smile broke out from both their faces, and they fought through the crowd to get to each other.

Tightly embracing her in his arms, David never wanted to let go of her. With Hannah in his arms, nothing else mattered. They were together again.

Life goes on at the tick of the hand,
Hourglass flipped over with the flow of the sand,
All I see forth is but a desert each day,
By the spread of a virus that consumed all in its way.

At the drop of a hat, humanity suffered change,
And chaos zapped through to all in its range,
Faces now static with the emotion of shock,
As panic bolted to the motion of the clock.

Jealousy and greed erupted as quick as a flash,
Rage has exploded reducing savages to clash,
However, nature sprouted forth amidst the blanket of flames,
As resources became scarce with each person laying claims.

The wind of change rises and sweeps each corner of Earth,
Reaching even the edges of the tranquil city of Perth,
A breeze gently lingered, reverting the actions of man,
And chased out all haze at the stroke of a fan.

The stream once stopped, has now continued to flow,
Of azure and green, it fills the land as they grow,
A reflection of what was but decades ago,
A future has surfaced as an ending plateau.

We reap what we sow for the damages we’ve done,
To amend our mistakes, for the sake of our young.

The scorching hot South African sun beat down upon the marketgoers, the cloudless sky providing no hope for relief. Aadan, his meagre clothing not enough to protect him from the sun, felt his skin bubbling in the scalding heat. He hurried through the busy crowd trying not to be noticed by the numerous imperial soldiers, the Union Jack proudly displayed on their breast. He kicked up dirt in his passage the red dust adding to the colourful display of tapestries strewn about haphazardly, shop owners hawking their wares. One in particular was louder than others. “THREE TAPESTRIES FOR TWO STERLING,” he hollered attracting the notice of a nearby imperial soldier who strode over plump and proud, his bulging stomach hanging over the confines of his belt. The crowd deviated around him providing a clear passageway towards the shop-owner. The soldier snatched a pineapple from the shop-owner who, thinking he was some common thief, slapped the hand holding the pineapple, realising his mistake too late.

CRACK!

The soldier retaliated, blood spattering onto the ground in front of Aadan, the shopkeeper’s face spurting scarlet. Aadan recoiled in horror and shocked to his core he raced through the tight confines of the street desperate to escape. Finally, he slowed down reaching the lightly wooded grasslands and arid shrublands that characterised his family’s farmlands. He took comfort in the bleak landscape; it was home. Aadan picked up his pace, eager to be among the comfort and safety of his family. His sandalled feet trod upon the dirt path tracing familiar tracks and consciously he slowed his breathing as he was safe, and he began to calm down.

That is until he heard the screams. He stopped in his tracks. “YOU CAN’T DO THIS!” It was an unnatural sound with the pain and grief obvious. He began to run. The screaming became louder the closer he came to home. He was sprinting now, the shrublands passing by in a blur. He was close now, his feet drumming on the earth and there he saw it – empty man-sized cages mounted atop a wagon tied to a set of horses. His worst nightmare had come true.

He rounded the final bend and saw the soldiers, dressed in scarlet standing guard outside the front of the house. He dove into the bushes before they noticed him. Burying his head into his hands he wept silently; there was nothing he could do, and he knew it. His grief quickly turned into anger and daringly he exited the confines of the bushes so he could see better what was going on.

Their home had been ransacked, grain stores and meagre possessions strewn about the outside of the hut. His anger burned out turning into a puddle of fear. The soldiers standing guard cast their beady eyes lazily about the surrounding landscape. “That was a bit of fun,” one exclaimed to the other. They looked at each other and laughed exposing yellow teeth rotten to the core. It was unnaturally silent within the hut, the occasional heavy footstep the only sound that broke the silence.

Suddenly, there was a burst of action as four soldiers came out dragging both of Aadan’s brothers, Faraji and Yusuuf, by the scruff of their necks. Their gazes were downcast, and both looked broken. As they passed, Aadan dove back into the bushes making fleeting eye contact with Yusuuf.  He held his gaze for as long as he could knowing full well this would likely be the last time he ever saw him. The realisation of this rocked him to his core. “These two will fetch a hefty price I reckon,” one of the soldiers commented excitedly. “Look at the arms on them – like tree trunks.”

His parents were ushered out of the house by the remaining soldier and were made to watch as he set the house on fire. The flames crackled mournfully and enveloped the house. Aadan could only watch as the only home he had ever known was reduced to a pile of ashes.

Aadan didn’t move until he was sure the soldiers had left. He crawled out of the bush stumbling towards his parents both of whom looked broken with their gazes roaming the landscape blankly. They were hurt and bleeding from numerous gashes. They salvaged what they could from the wreckage but their grain stores, their source of food and livelihood had been completely destroyed by the fire.

Night came on quickly and Aadan and his parents, with no friends or family nearby, settled under a Baobab tree, it’s large thick trunk seemingly reaching upwards to the depths of the night sky. His mother embraced him on the dirt floor. She was warm, and Aadan moved closer, burying his head into her arms and hiding from the ever-watchful ever-hungry gaze of the beast that was British colonialism.

Kindness opens the gate for other people to come.
Be kind and helpful throughout all moments.
Being kind spreads like dominoes, so try to be pure in heart.
Being loved is much better.
Be as loving, happy and nice to other people as you can.
Small deeds of kindness are stowed away in the heart,
Like bags of lavender in a drawer sweeten everything around them,
Don’t judge if you witness someone making a mistake.
Everyone is a bright and sunny ray,
When you show kindness to them, they will appreciate you forever – as it were a smile,
Try to be compassionate and gentle; constantly follow your heart,
Like your heart is your instinct,
Use your eyes like magnifying glasses to try to see things simply and plainly.
Perform with compassion, patience and generosity,
To prevent harming people in this world.
The sun will shine down on you if you do this.
The act of kindness is like a pebble tossed into a pond.
Never consider a kind word wasted.
They’ll someday flip the script on us.

Chopin. Mozart. Beethoven. Some believe they were gifted; they were lucky. Sitting here, just like me, with hands brushing on milky white ivory keys. Time tick, tick, ticking away; finding that one-in-a-million melody. They just happened to find the combination. They just happened to be struck by inspiration. Why can’t I?

I focus and I play.

Trying to mold artificial feelings into my work.

These sounds so natural, vibrating through the wood of my piano.

Yet, I can’t piece it together.

It’s not working.

I’m interrupted as radio static buzzes through my apartment. I briefly get up from my piano, treading through the masses of dirty clothes and a cacophony of dead ideas scribbled upon pages of manuscript. A symphony gone wrong there and a pair of black shorts I meant to clean weeks ago. This is my library, an archive of broken dreams and fragmented thoughts. After silencing the radio, I browse my barren cupboard for something to eat, settling on a half-eaten sandwich from yesterday. Good enough, I think to myself.

I eat, sitting on the rickety chair, my piano keeping me company. It’s falling apart and old but more beautiful to me than anything else. I flick through pages upon pages of past work; nothing but the sound of crisp paper scraping the wood. Terrible. Terrible. Terrible. I find the silence valuable, both in my music and in life. Silence begs for you to make sound, to make something to tap a key on the piano and hear it give birth to a resonant tone. A few more tap, tap, taps and eventually you’ll have a melody.

There is a knock on the door.

It’s not always silent. Sometimes I peer through the hazy window as I play. People bustling in the streets. The sky as black as tar sick with clouds of misery. Unnatural sounds of brass horns and thundering drums of noise. Dissonant sounds. Never a melody of sweet sounds of birds or crickets chirping. Not a single tree in sight. A concrete city of concrete people apathetic to the music around them. These people only see and hear in a canvas of black and grey. But I, despite this blissful ignorance, continue to create. To show them. To find a melody to make sense of this twisted world and open their eyes. So that they may hear songbirds singing and see the blue of the oceans and the green in the trees.

I can imagine the greats before me, true pioneers in the art of music. Excavators of wonderous melodies pulled from the earth. I can picture them. Their stern, cold, calculating faces as they form macabre marches, nocturnes and sonatas. Their fingers prancing around black keys puppeteered by an invisible hand of fate. Their melodies so dark, so dominant. They can express an entire lifetime in a few minutes. If only I could do such a thing…

The knocking becomes impatient.

I get so lost in my work that I push other people away, like an invisible field of solitude. I haven’t seen my family for years. Perhaps that’s why I moved away, to get away from distractions. My mother and father always wanted me to live their life. To go to university, to get a job, to find someone. But I’m fine, I don’t need them. I was never destined to travel a path of mediocrity, to become like the concrete people I see below me. However, parts of them are always here. I can hear their thoughts.

“You need to go to…”

“Please listen to…”

“You’re not cut out to be a…”

Focus is something that I can only achieve alone, and I can feel it, I’m getting closer. I paint down notes upon multitudes of manuscript. My symphony slowly forming as I hammer my hands on the white ivory keys. I can feel it. I can touch it. I can grasp it…

The knocking is persistent. “Oi! Your rent’s three months overdue and if you don’t stop playing that stupid thing and come answer the goddam door right now, I’ll cave it in myself!” shouts a gruff voice from the direction of my door.

“You ruined it!” I yell in extreme exasperation. “You don’t know the consequences of what you have done!”

I get up from the piano ready to give this person a piece of my mind. This moment is so laughable, absurd even. They must be delusional. Me, a great, successful composer paying rent to some simpleton? Ridiculous. They have no right to interrupt me at the peak of my work. I angrily swing open my door, seeing a stocky, well-built man in his forties.

“Pay up,” he demands, motioning to his palm expectantly.

“Pay what?” I ask, “Can’t you clearly see? I’m in the middle of a masterpiece here. Clearly a person of my calibre doesn’t pay rent.”

Seemingly annoyed, the man suddenly pulls me by the collar of my shirt. He holds me close, his intimidating gaze shattering any confidence I held before. “Look around you mate. What kind of person do you think you are? Your apartment is a living cesspool of trash. Your windows are broken. Your piano falling apart. There is no masterpiece here.” he explains. “Pay your rent by tomorrow or I don’t even want to see you here.”

He kicks me to the floor, slamming the door behind him as my body slides through the countless papers. I regain my composure and reassume my position at my piano. He’s wrong, they all are. I will complete my masterpiece.

A flower yet to be
Rejected from the sun
Supressed from all around
From us, its beauty shun.

A light in the dark
Prevented like the flu
Pressured into place
A perpetual sea of blue.

Seeds within a field
Machines instil reform
Cracks throughout a system
From there difference is born.

Forced into grid
From off the track we see
An uncharted field
A flower yet to be.

My musical life started on Day 2. The Saturday. My family drove across the island to the festival where we psyched ourselves up, ready for two days of ultra-loud music, awful dancing and singing along to songs that would stick with me for years.

For half an hour, we tried relaxing at the harbourfront, but were ready for the excitement. People queued up in lines that make malls look like national parks, staring at their tickets in buzzing silence, determined to enter the biggest festival of the year.

At around 1, it was our turn. We walked in and felt dwarfed by the sheer variety presented at the venue. Food? Try one of the 250 trucks and stalls. Impatient toddlers? Acorn Stage. Kids shows and famous TV stars throwing parties for 5-year-olds. But music? There was music everywhere. That day, we registered at 15 different concerts. Popping in and out of the silent disco left a drop ringing in our ears, our feet stepping along to an entrancing drumbeat, and us jumping along giddily to the next show.

We hopped cheerfully to the unfortunately named Yourmum stage where we saw enough RedBull ads to make us feel the sugar crash in real time. Fortunately, when our families wandered past centre stage, Stormzy was blasting a driving bassline that reeled us in to vulgar, destructively loud and rapturous music. Our bodies flowed into his numbing precision and grimy poetry in eager anticipation of the Prodigy.

By 9 we could hardly stay awake, but the speakers jolted us into alacrity as they whined with a devastating riff that reeled everyone towards the stage. It echoed for an eternity until the Prodigy emerged with extravagant Roman grandeur. The concert’s atmosphere frothed with euphoric splashes of red light beaming between busy feet dressed in either knockoff Adidas or the latest Jordan 1’s, adrenaline rushes that filled you with spikes of ecstasy, and overwhelming surges of emotion that linger mindlessly to this day. Breakdowns left us with a vapid sense of rage masquerading as the fun we were having, released with our grotesque, raw headbanging. It’s hard to forget your first concert when it produces memories like that.

Day 3. Sunday. Trippy psychedelia at the harbour, funk fresher than a new can of lemonade, and waves of alternating melancholy and beautiful indie music a la Neutral Milk Hotel laid the foundations for the spotlight, where late at night, artists burst eardrums as fans jumped from show to show. I lived each one of them up, singing along to some of 8-year-old-me’s favourite songs. Tired out, we searched for an ultimate thrill to finish off the weekend. MØ had an ephemeral aurora atop the stage, cheering “All we need is somebody to lean on.” Its echoes sounded out, captivating passers-by, travelling past the crowd, but ringing in my ears. I was gleefully dancing at the time, but in retrospect I see it was ethereal like nothing I’d experienced. This festival brought a truckload of miscellaneous emotions, some so distant from each other that the moment felt eerily transcendent, and the serendipity I felt when I hear the song highlights that music is something that will stay with you forever. In its uncanny tranquillity, how strange it was to feel anything at all.

Light bleeds through thin sheets in which I read.
Morning breeze glazes the paved concrete in which I stand,
Encapsulated, controlled, page condescending.
Rush hour there goes whistle to conductor.
Clack, Clack.
Like the line that my mind keeps repeating.
I continue reading.
Life doesn’t stop.
So, take a seat and listen.
But they don’t the train, the people.
A smell that keeps reoccurring, encapsulating fumes.
Edging those to their eventual tombs.
Smell is scraping, shaping the way I feel.
Feeling, befuddled.
Train keeps continuing.

Man’s nature is not essentially evil. Brute nature has been known to yield to the influence of love. You must never despair of human nature. – Mahamat Gandhi

I traverse the streets of Midnight alone; my name is Jon Walker. I have experienced every act of the human experience on these desolate streets. At night I wander these walkways in my mind, unrelentingly, much like the acts which plague this city.

I have been a detective on the force for eight years. Many a man has risen to the challenge which this city – Midnight – presents. Like a hydra with its endless heads, we oppose those who do evil yet more replace the ones that have fallen. But I refuse to give up, I wake up every day knowing the mountain I must climb and continue to traverse its rocky and unforgiving terrain as I believe in our compassion, I believe that goodness will always shine through the ever-growing shadow of darkness which shrouds my city.

Today, I must follow up a lead on the death of a child. So once again, I am reminded of the human ability to be evil. Yet I have grown used to this feeling; like the hardened hands of a weathered man I dive into the complexities and emotions these things entail, adding to my own collection of torn callouses.

I arrive outside the crumbling establishment in question just on the fringe of the CBD and analyse the broken windows, the peeling beige paint with an endless array of cracks, marks, and scratches.

I am reminded that this is someone’s home.

The gloomy weather clouds the skies above as I step onto the wet pavement, and I am immediately confronted by an omniscient feeling of death that consumes the entire building. Evil has been here. I walk forward opening the door invited by the metallic smell of fresh blood. Suddenly I hear a piercing scream, “Ahhhhughh.” I rush through the hallway to the living room that sits at the front of the house, where I am presented with the image of a woman sitting on a table wrapped in a blanket with an officer questioning her. She is inconsolable, screaming at the officer, demanding answers as tears stream from her face. She collapses in a flurry of exhaustion and emotion.

Hours pass and I am now at the precinct sitting in the interrogation room across the table from this now shell of a woman. She was a single mother working 9-5 trying her best to provide for her child.  I start my line of questioning, “What happened Ms Robinson?”

She mumbles, “u…it’s.. Idk.. I feel.. I was somewhere.”

“Ok Ms Robinson,” I respond, “tell me the order of events as you remember them.”

“Ok.. I was.. I was working at the diner.. And uh.. I remember I had told my mother it was ok to leave.”

“So, what did you do from there?”

“I opened the door and… oh my god, it was everywhere. I screamed for him! Where was he? Why did they have to take him from me?”

I said calmly, “That’s all-right Mrs. Robinson that’s enough for now.”

That would be all I could get from her.

I sit in the cold room with the damp smell of wet plaster filling my nose with every breath, the single overhead light illuminating nothing. The table helps outline the rough contours of my face in the reflective glass and in this moment, I ask myself…how is it just? This is not fair for a woman struggling through the hardships of this world, to be confronted with losing everything she has worked so hard to provide for and, furthermore, what had happened to the child’s body? As I drown in my void of contemplation, a uniform enters the room informing me that forensics had pulled prints from the scene.

I am handed the report, my eyes scan the countless lines of unnecessary process until I find a confronting discovery within this visceral document. There was only a single set of prints at the scene… The grandmother’s.

We had been so focused on the mother and her loss; we were blind to the culprits who could have performed such a heinous act. The person who had provided this young mother with life was the one who took the very thing she lived for. I rush to my car and begin on a path to the last known location of the grandmother tailed by a Uni car. A red haze of anger clouds my vision, as my mind is consumed with emotions of distress.

I explode out of my car door onto the damp road, my gaze shifting to the front of the decrepit apartment complex before me. Floor 3, Apartment 26. I open the door of the crumbling building and sprint up the stairs. I find myself considering the possibilities of which I am about to be confronted with… Finally, I reach the door of the grandmother’s apartment. I burst into the room kicking down the door with such force that its wooden hinges splinter. I go to shout commands, but I am stopped….

I am then presented with the image of the grandmother lying in her chair lifeless with blood seeping from her wrists like hot magma from the pits of a volcano. I walk forward as I watch her lifeforce drain from her body. Then, nothing. The last piece of her soul had gone from her eyes as she slumps in her chair.

My anger could no longer be contained, and I throw my fist into the mirror beside me. Shattering it into a thousand pieces, I scream with this unyielding rage that had been bubbling inside me, my throbbing hand, blood oozing from my knuckles. I slide down the wall. My head slumps down and I sit in a pool of glass and my own blood angry at this world.

As I sit there on that floor, I then hear a noise, a ruffling, coming from the closet of the grandmother’s apartment. I lift my head, wipe the glass from my legs and proceed to investigate. What I find when I slide that creaking door, is the singular reminder of my hope in this world.

Suddenly my eyes are blessed by the sight of the child resting in a cardboard box, completely unaware of the situation it has just experienced.

The child was returned to its mother. To this day I don’t know what possessed that woman to take her daughter’s child, I don’t know why she kept it alive. And I don’t know why she did what she did to herself.

This world is strange and dark; human nature is one that cannot always be explained or understood. But I will always have hope and I will always fight for good because there are people that deserve to be believed in. Regardless of what Midnight presents me, I will be there to challenge the dark…