The Raven

Senior School

Winter2018

Slave to the Man

Xavier Dry, Year 9

The police officer held Elizabeth in a vice grip.

“Please Officer,” yelped Elizabeth, “I have to get home to my loving husband.”

Elizabeth choked when she uttered those words, for she knew she was lying. Elizabeth could not stand the thought of returning back to that wretched household with that despicable man.

“I’m sorry Ma’am,” bellowed the police officer authoritatively, “You may not return to your husband; you are under arrest.”

Tears welled up in Elizabeth’s eyes. “How did I manage to end up in this predicament?” she thought to herself.

On the morning of Elizabeth’s arrest, she awoke at 6:30am to make her husband, Henry, a hearty breakfast. She made sure she included all his favourite food in that meal to satisfy all of her husband’s desires. Elizabeth was a fantastic wife. She cooked, she cleaned and she was compliant to her patriarch. However, Elizabeth was so much more than a pretty face, yet Henry failed to acknowledge this. She would always think to herself in a serious, albeit humorous way, pondering whether or not Henry would ever acknowledge the traits that she was most proud of; after all, women are now allowed to vote. After that fateful day when it was announced that women were now allowed to vote, Elizabeth thought that maybe, just maybe, Henry would treat her as an equal. Every day, Elizabeth now has less and less faith that her husband will ever see her as equal to him.

“Good morning, dear!” chirped Elizabeth, garnering no response from Henry. “I’ve made your favourite foods to give you enough energy to sustain you throughout the day.”

Once again Henry did not offer any sort of response. He dug his fork into his bacon and eggs, elevated it to his mouth, and bit down. Elizabeth always hated the way he ate his food, not closing his mouth and making incredibly obnoxious chewing noises. Despite all this, Elizabeth was able to suppress her thoughts and continue as this ‘dream wife’ to Henry.

“Done,” shouted Henry, startling Elizabeth a little bit. “Clean up after me, woman.”

Elizabeth clenched her fist, “Sure dear. Do you want anything else?”

Henry ignored this question, stood up and walked out the door to make his way to work.

Elizabeth sat at home all day with nothing but her thoughts to keep her company. She had already cleaned the house twice, washed all Henry’s clothes and prepared what she was going to make for dinner.

“It is 1925, why can’t he treat me like a human being?” thought Elizabeth.

This thought kept dwelling in her mind, plaguing every thought she had. She tried to distract herself by listening to some tunes on the radio, but all she could think about was how miserable she was. She could not believe how stupid she must have been to have ever loved this man.

“I can’t believe myself,” said Elizabeth to herself. “I have been stuck in this marriage for only five years now, and I already want to break free from these chains.”

Elizabeth was now almost shouting, as if she was arguing with someone. “Nothing is ever going to change that man. He will always be rude, he will always be disrespectful, he …. he ….” Elizabeth was now choking up. She had never expressed this much emotion in her life. She coughed up her last few words. “He will always be a pig.”

Elizabeth could not believe what she had just said. Did she really think this way of her husband? She sat back down in her chair and started sobbing to herself, hoping the time would pass more quickly.

The clock’s unforgettable bell started to chime. It was 5 o’clock and Henry would almost be home. Elizabeth leapt up from her seat so she could greet her husband at the door. As if this manoeuvre were rehearsed, when Elizabeth arrived at the door, so did Henry.

“Good afternoon dear! How was your day at work?” questioned Elizabeth, not expecting any sort of response.

Henry looked Elizabeth dead in the eye, tensed up his body and began to shout, “I had a horrible day at work! Your horrible breakfast gave me a stomach ache, you stupid woman! Learn how to cook or else there’s absolutely no reason for you to even exist! I’m the one who has to do everything around here! I am the reason that we even have a roof over our head! The least you can do is cook a good meal, yet you still manage to bugger up that simple task! All you are is a good-for-nothing stupid woman!”

Elizabeth was shocked. She had taken verbal abuse from her husband before, but nothing like this!

“I don’t know how to respond,” replied Elizabeth in a shaky voice. “You’ve never expressed this sort of discontent with me, but the fact that you had the nerve to even think that you do everything around here seems ludicrous to me.” Elizabeth wanted to stop talking right there and then. She was so scared of what her husband was capable of, but she had so much bottled up rage that she could not stop those lips of hers from moving. “You’ve treated me with so much disrespect over the last five years and, quite frankly, I am done with it. I have been subservient to you, fulfilling all your requests and desires, yet you have not reciprocated that at all.” Elizabeth took a step back, “Take a good look at my face, memorise all its features, because this is the last time you’ll ever see it.”

With that Elizabeth was out the door and walking down the street. She walked nearly a mile from her house until she was stopped by a policeman.

“Ma’am,” I’m afraid you’re going to have to stop walking right there,” said the officer.

Elizabeth realised she was out walking in the streets without the assistance of a male. The police officer took her by the arm and dragged her to the station. At this point, Elizabeth could not care that she was being arrested. She was already so fed up with this day and the life she led.

“Take me away, Sir,” she cackled. “Take me away from all this oppression and hatred. I’m not even acknowledged in my own house by my own husband. In prison, I’ll be amongst my equals, amongst people who are like me. In prison, I’ll no longer be a slave to the man.”

The Saviour

Ben Parker, Year 11

I glance out at the vibrant sea
The waves distinct and, oh, so proud,
I wish for someone here with me
Spirited gulls dance around the clouds.

I try my best to clear my mind
All I see are darkening scenes,
The cries from distant whales outlined
Provide me with a sense of being.

The fresh breeze hits my frowning face
But in one swift, elegant move
I forget all, light takes its place
The world jumps back into its groove.

Engulfed in the warm sand, I sit,
Peaceful volume enters my ears.
The mesmerizing sea it is
The solution to all my tears.

America: the land of fairness, freedom and limitless opportunity…

Nick Price, Year 12

On the counter in my small, rundown, dilapidated kitchen rests this morning’s edition of InfoWars; beckoning me with its bright colours, large font size and ‘ground-breaking news’. This is a paper I get delivered to my home every morning, alongside a carton of milk and The Wall Street Journal. It is what provides my first amusement for the day, like a spot-the-difference, except at a national, society-influencing level. Gosh, it amazes me how much vitriol certain newspapers can spit out, their ‘reports’ and ‘information’ like a dirty balloon devoid of all substance and ‘concreteness’. Today’s front-line headline ‘Muslims, the Ruin of America. The perpetrators of 9/11. They Must be Brought to Justice’.

Admittedly, the humour in recent times had gone out of my little game as it was no longer so easy to make light-hearted fun of newspaper headlines when they had actually begun to sink their xenophobic claws deep into the minds of the American people. Ripping out logic, reason and sympathy. Inserting irrationality, hatred and fear. But I guess that was inevitable, the allure of profits and capital, too hard to ignore for businesses simply exercising their right of freedom of expression under our first amendment. After all, which rational media outlet would pass up such a promising opportunity, just nine days after 9/11? The events of that day simply represented a commercial opportunity too good to ignore.

I tore my eyes away from the bright colours of InfoWars, poured myself some breakfast cereal and settled down on the couch, my butt resting uncomfortably on the rundown, ripped sofa. My hand reached for the remote and I flicked on the T.V. and was instantly confronted with Fox News and Friends, the daily morning breakfast show for Fox News. Today, the presenters were discussing the possibility of a Muslim conspiracy theory in the US and the role that a “lackadaisical, weak immigration policy” played in the horrific terrorist attacks on the 11th of September 2001. I sighed and shook my head in disgust; now even ‘respectable’ main-stream media outlets were portraying conservative, xenophobic garbage. Anyway, I didn’t have time to worry about such things, I had to get going to work. I placed my star and crescent necklace over my neck and opened my front door, ready to endure the inevitable abuse and hatred that would come my way.

The incessant groans and creaks of the apartment complex accompanied me as I made my way out into the street. It was raining outside, the clouds forming an oppressive barrier to any light, the freezing, rasping wind chilling me to the bone. As I passed by a middle-aged woman and her young daughter I called out “hello”, only to be ignored as the woman averted her gaze and shepherded her daughter away. My head bowed a little and the lines on my forehead deepened.

Across the street a scuffle broke out, two men screaming at each other, veins popping out of their skin, their faces purple with rage. I hurried past, head bowed low; now was not a time for a man of the Islamic faith to be seen. I would only accentuate the rage, fear and hatred.

Eventually I reached the building where I work, Davidson and Neil Accounting Firm, eager to escape the chilling wind and the dagger-like looks from ordinary, scared people. The elevator opened before me and I ascended to the second level, where the associates work, undertaking some of the less important, menial business of the firm. The work was low-paid, stressful and mundane, nevertheless it offered me some security; something a Muslim man desperately needed in these dangerous and volatile times.

At my desk, already waiting for me was my boss, Lucas Davidson himself. My heart sank, I knew exactly what this meant. It was always only going to be a matter of time. “Farhan, can I see you in my office please?” requested the boss and I followed him, pulse racing and heart pounding. When we reached his expansive, elaborate office, he closed the door behind us and I sat down across from him, sweat dripping from my forehead, heat resonating from my skin. I could only hope that I was wrong, that this man was a better human being than I thought he was.

“Farhan, the board has decided to make some cuts to our staff, in preparation for what we anticipate will be a downturn in the economic cycle,” remarked the boss in a dry, uncaring, monotonous voice. “I’m sorry, but I’m going to have to let you go. Please have your desk cleared by the end of the day.”

And that was it, the end of my time here, released from my job with so little care or compassion. I left the office, returned to my desk and bundled my few possessions into a wooden box and then exited the building, head bowed low, back hunched and tears streaming down my face.

It was still raining outside and now rain intermingled with tears began to gush down my face, like some kind of twisted, evil fountain. I reached the corner of the street and looked up and ahead of me, less than fifty metres away, were the same two people I had encountered earlier, except now they were joined by four other large, white, angry-looking men, each of them clutching a copy of InfoWars. My heart stopped, my stomach contracted and my limbs froze as the biggest of them all, a huge, muscly blonde-haired man turned and looked at me, eyes fixating on the star and crescent necklace around my neck. His face contorted and his fists clenched and with a loud, harsh booming voice full of menace he yelled to his companions, “There’s a filthy terrorist. He murdered my sister,” and then with a sadistic smile he looked straight into my eyes and said, “Now let’s murder him.”

And with that the men ran straight at me as I stood there, shell-shocked, unable to move, limbs locked rigidly into place. Then the fists started pounding and the kicks started whirling and it was all over in a matter of seconds, the men scattering, leaving me sprawled on the ground, ribs smashed, skull caved in and legs and arms broken in too many places to count. As I lay there, bleeding out and slowly drifting into unconsciousness, a copy of InfoWars floated by me and my eyes once more were drawn to the paper’s front-page headline; ‘Muslim’s, the Ruin of America. The Perpetrators of 9/11. They Must be Brought to Justice’.

Searching for Home

Oscar Clements, Year 9

A stiff, cool breeze sent shivers down Ahmad’s neck. His back ached and was stiff from carrying many of his family’s humble possessions towards their unknown destination. He took off his bag, placed it on the rough gravel path, and put another jacket on to make the weather slightly more bearable. This boy, his mother, and fifty other exhausted, starving escapees of civil war were putting their lives in the hands of people smugglers and illegally, dangerously migrating towards anywhere that would take them.

“Why do we have to come this way?” Ahmad asked his weary mother. “Why can’t we go on the main roads, or pay for a bus?”

“People don’t want us here,” his mother answered. “We have to hide, or else we get sent back home. This way, we can make it all the way to Germany.”

Ahmad heard a motor in the distance, from a big SUV. Everyone else heard it too, including the smugglers. Anxiety and nervousness spread throughout the group.

“Police! Police!” a woman shouted, as she saw the car from a rocky hill. A state of chaos descended as every person ran in every direction. The car drove towards Ahmad and a man hopped out.

“Come on, Mum, we need to get away or they’ll put us in jail like criminals!” Ahmad called over his shoulder, where he expected to see his mother. He looked around, but she was gone. Nowhere to be seen.

Ahmad ran for his life, sobbing and panicking like he never had before. He was now well and truly alone, something he hated. He looked for a place to hide. The landscape was sandy and rocky, and they were near the sea. The last border he remembered jumping across was between Greece and Turkey.

“Maybe there’ll be someone who speaks English,” he thought hopefully. “I can’t stay out here in the cold.”

He stamped over the prickly, olive coloured shrubs, ignoring the bleeding cuts on his leg. Eventually there was a path that led to a road that led to a small, rural village. He stayed out of sight, remembering what his mother said about what people thought of refugees. His throat was dry and his stomach had been empty for several days. His back still ached, and so did his head, as a result of dehydration. He needed food, water, and someone who would be willing to help him. He needed help, as soon as he could get it.

Ahmad came by a small, traditional house with a market garden out the back. He looked dazedly at the tomatoes, zucchinis, pumpkin, stone fruit, olives and other treats that he hadn’t had for a long time. He made the decision to knock on the door of the house and ask for help. If they spoke English, he could explain his situation. He could even ask if they could take him to the police and find his mother. He didn’t care about jail anymore, all he cared about was surviving and finding his mother.

Ahmad walked up the cobblestone path through the elegant gardens and knocked on the old wooden door. It was getting dark, probably just after dinner time by Ahmad’s estimation. He was confident that someone must be home. He knocked and after a few moments a stout, middle-aged woman wearing an apron appeared in front of him. She looked puzzled and said something that Ahmad couldn’t understand. “Excuse me, Ma’am,” Ahmad said politely, “Do you speak English?”

She quite clearly didn’t. Her expression turned from puzzlement to disgust as she seemed to realise he was a refugee. The woman called out for someone called Aristos, who turned out to be her husband. When the overweight, balding man appeared, the wife whispered something into his ear.

The husband turned to Ahmad with an ominous scowl on his face. “Young man,” h grumbled with a heavy accent. “Are you from Syria?”

“Yes,” Ahmad replied nervously.

“Are you looking for somewhere to stay?”

“Yes, Sir.”

“Get away from here. You are not welcome. Go sleep on the streets where scum like you belong! Your people come here illegally and bring your filthy ways into our villages and cities. Go away!”

Ahmad ran again. Instead of sobbing like he did earlier in the day, he was filled with anger and rage. He was angry that he was alone and unwanted in a scary place. He was angry that his mother had disappeared and he was angry at himself because he couldn’t find her. He was furious that, after all the pain and suffering his now-shattered family had endured, no one cared. No one would help. No one would understand.

He walked past a tomato plant and started ripping off dozens of fat, ripe tomatoes. He ate some, but he was mainly taking out his anger. He threw some at the house and stomped on the plant.

Ahmad found a shed with some bags of soil that he could lie down on. In the morning he would find someone who cared, someone who could help him. He could perhaps find the police who were holding his mother. She would hug him, and reassure him everything would be okay. Only a mother’s love would make him feel safe, secure and wanted again. In the morning, the world would shake off its grim façade and take Ahmad in again.

Will-less

Campbell McCracken, Year 12

The heavy metal doors slide shut behind Will Connors, the rhythmic tapping of their automatic weld lock the only sensory stimulus provided in an otherwise dark room. The serenity is cut short moments later, however, as the oppressive industrial lights kick into life. Will’s chest begins working like a malfunctioning air pump as the full gravity of his situation falls upon him. He is standing in what would be an entirely featureless and empty square room, if it weren’t for an array of systematically placed objects in the centre of it. On top of a large metallic table, there lies a modestly sized, egg-shaped machine, a small control panel, a plastic chair and a small collection of potato chip packets. In the centre of the control panel, a small display, with a timer set for nine hours eager to begin its countdown.

Will knows what he has to do. He’s sat through enough briefing meetings to put the sun to sleep, not that they weren’t warranted. This tissue sample analysis could be the key to unlocking a method to destroy cancer cells indefinitely, an understanding of which Will was made well clear, along with the instructions he has to follow. Start the machine, monitor closely, end after nine hours, and terminate the experiment should anything go wrong. Will timidly pulls up the chair towards the control panel, his arms and legs shaking, the deafening screeching sound the chair makes along the floor visibly contorting his face. In his best attempt to maintain composure, he turns around, wipes away any potential dust from the chair, and sits down. He locks eyes with the comically large green button to the left of the panel, reaching his hand out and seemingly reluctantly hovers it over the button.

Taking one last deep breath, Will drops his hand down towards the button, but not a moment after his sweaty hand makes physical contact with it, the machine roars to life. With a look of bewilderment washing over his face, Will lifts his hand off slowly, swearing to himself that he barely even touched it. Moments later his face returns to a relaxed state, however, most likely assuming an unprecedented sensitivity to the button, and lets out a sigh of relief while he calmly rubs his hand. After a few minutes of carefully studying the machine, the only real evidence of its activity a glowing red window in the front of it and a now subtle hum, he moves towards the snack table. He pours some chips into a conservatively sized bowl, and moves back towards his chair, doing his best to get comfortable and settle in for the long run.

Two hours have now passed, the machine still remaining seemingly unchanged, and Will’s trying his best to catch some sleep. Despite the continuous industrial lighting of the room, which seems to reflect off every possible object in the room straight into Will’s eyes, he is having a remarkably effortless time reaching a state of comfort. Now surrounded by almost half a dozen packets of chips, he even seems to be unresponsive towards the subtle increase in noise frequency emanating from the machine less than a metre in front of him.

Another two hours later, and Will jolts awake. Although obviously disoriented by his sudden awakening, he seems relatively unfazed regarding the intensity of light and noise in the room, both of which have almost doubled since he was last lucid. After taking a relaxed momentary glance inside the machine, Will stands up and begins to walk towards the snack table, clearly ready to help clean out the rest of the food, when he pauses mid-step. He lightly holds his hand over his mouth and stomach and begins to cough, at first softly, but slowly building in intensity. After about eight seconds of coughing, Will removes his hand from his mouth, displays a flash of concern over his face, and then proceeds to wipe his hand over the table, now stained red, and continues towards the snack bar.

Six hours have now passed, and Will is pacing around the room, examining each of the walls with a deep level of detail, almost as if he’s looking for some level of imperfection among the unending burnish. He has grown more visibly erratic over the course of the experiment, seemingly ready to start a full body work out, jogging even the smallest distances and doing the occasional push-up or squat. He snaps his head towards the control panel, staring as the numbers tick over to three hours remaining. The veins in his eyes have become significantly more pronounced, and he appears to have developed a habit of rubbing his hand every few seconds. A bellowing crack screams through the tiny box of a room and directly into Will’s ears, his muscles visibly tensing to an extreme state, even through his loose-fitting high-vis vest. Almost the moment the sound is heard Will is standing over the control panel, ready to act and staring into the machine, which has now turned an objectively off-putting shade of grey. With his eyes beginning to water eruptively and his whole body physically buckling, Will clutches at his chest, one hand maintaining its position above the large red button he knows as the emergency termination protocol. After only a few moments of hesitation, now coughing violently, Will slams on the button, and all noise cuts out just as rapidly as it started. Will falls back onto his chair, blood now running down his nose and out of his ears, eyes fixated on what was once the time display, but now simply reads: “EF:SD.” Will, now just as confused as he is in pain, looks down to see lumps growing all over his hand and moving up his arm towards his body. Slowly losing the ability to breathe, Will falls from the chair gasping for air, blood pouring from every orifice.

I unplug the monitor in front of me and close my eyes, unable to bear the sight any longer. I take a deep breath, reach down, and turn on the recording device resting next to my notepad. “Experiment 31-subject 3C: Experiment failure, sample deceased. Subject showed clear signs of physical change as a result of the treatment, all of which will be analysed for future testing. However, it ultimately provided the inverse of the intended effect, the cancer cells over-running his body in just over six hours.” I straighten myself and regain composure. “For now, we’ll clean up the area, reset the speaker and lights and prepare the next subject for testing.”

Alas, I Know My Time Has Come

Harry Pasich, Year 11

Oh, how I tremble when I see His face;
The Divine eye scorches my defiled grace,
Cursing and cutting this corrupted state
Whose hills are veiled with glittering slate.

All around me is ambition and wealth,
But now I see Justitia’s timeless blade
Weighing my conscience and baleful stealth
As I exploited those equally made.

Hark! The Ospreys with glory will sing
In their great trees, overseeing the spring
Shining and shaking, teeming with verve
Shading the ground! Ospreys observe!

And now my avarice has killed my soul,
Tainting the strength of my beloved bole.
Closer I’m sensing the workers’ great axe
Forcing the big birds to pay their due tax.

Alas, I know my time has come
Whilst I fly towards the sun.
Raging blaze, I feel the hearth,
Of the world beneath the earth.

Date Night

Alex Porter-Wilkinson, Year 12

I’m wet. Mushy, muggy and moist. Each sodden step on the water-enveloped pavements fills my feet with the joy of having to press up against a pair of waterlogged shoes and socks. A new suit I purchased a week ago crumpled, and my hair, which I painstakingly slaved over to match that of my four-year-old dating profile picture, ruined by the murkiness that swamps the air. However, the crisp aroma of wet grass leaving the wet ground, adjacent to the path I’m slogging across, is something to be noted. Outside isn’t my desired habitat, and typically talking to people isn’t either. It’s why I haven’t bothered to get a license. The reason why I’m out on such a fine evening is that I’m going on a date, with someone who is already waiting for me at an old American 1950s style restaurant, well at least I hope she is. Who am I kidding – I know she is! She hasn’t explicitly told me that she’s already there, but you’d be surprised about what a phone can tell about a person’s current state, even if the other person isn’t using it.

Her name is Jessica, but her friends call her Jess. Two teenage children, previously divorced, five foot eight, brown hair (not ideal), and rather curvaceous in the places I appreciate most. That’s what her profile says. In our ‘conversations’ she states she likes fun walks on sunlit beaches, time with family, and reading a decent book. Rather basic and not what I’m into, however the prospect of ‘long walks on water-filled pavements’ is appealing. Yet, now that I’m actually going to meet her in person, it’s far more intimidating. What nonsensical topic do I blabber on about? The wonderful weather that’s on at the moment? What I ate for lunch? Oh, what about what’s inside my wallet?

“Oh, hey Jess, want to see what’s inside my wallet?” I clumsily ask.

“Sure thing!” she answers with an eager tendency.

I return with “Well you see… I’ve got some cash, a credit card, a few coins and a 6-year-old expired train ticket! Care to open up your purse and give me a look?”

Eventful and exhilarating conversations to be studied and analysed by the brightest of minds. Who am I kidding, I’m done for. That conversation holds as much weight as one of my wet socks. Only the Lord could help me now and hold a charade for the time I need. I do have a list of what not to talk about though. This involves her children’s school and positioning, previous relations, such as the husband and the following suite of other nameless individuals, and mention of her blue, 2006, four-wheel drive Toyota Parado, with the promiscuously labelled number plate, ‘1PPB.694’. As long as I hold a dry conversation and don’t mention those things I should be fine and dandy.

Excellent. The blue, 2006, four-wheel drive Toyota Parado is parked around the corner from the restaurant, and with intel that I had previously gathered all the cars parked around it are owned by employees of the restaurant. Escaping light is beaten and put to sleep by the vast abyss of darkness that engulfs the surrounding area of the restaurant. The sound of the still air is broken by the serenity of patters of rain, that plays monotone to the monotonous steps that I use to inch closer to my target.

Approaching the frail glass pane that separates myself from the rest, I peer at the abundance of individuals trying to be someone for someone else, self-indulging over an overpriced meal. How bad can I possibly be? I’m clearly not the only one. The teenage doorman so kindly offers to open the door for me and each foot is gently grazed upon a worn-down welcome mat.

I see her in the midst of a crowd. Alone. Head down looking at her phone, unaware of what’s around. My breathing is prolonged and my thoughts become stagnant with what’s to come. A sweet sense of euphoria overcomes my senses and I am brought back to reality when the waiter asks me, “You must be Mr Robinson. Ms Connor is waiting for you over there at table 21.”

Politely, I state, “Thank you. I think I can make my own way over there.”

He nods and smiles, letting me on my way. I continue to near the woman. A detachment from reality envelopes my mind at the moment she glances up at me. She rushes to place her phone back into her bag and hastily pats down her hair and stands from her seat.

I smile.

“Hello Jess.”

Deception

Seb Chadwick, Year 12

They thought he would forget. But he remembered. Everything…. In the midday wind the swaying of Douglas fir muffled the chirping of the radio lashed to Eugene’s chest. A final push was planned on the mid-mountain estate of terror kingpin Anderson DeVillers for a data module stolen from the Americans, its significance unknown to Eugene and his squad. Long grass surrounded them as they crawled down a slight valley. At the end of the valley lay a hill overlooking DeVillers’ cabin, placed as in the movies at the edge of a sheer drop making it only accessible from three sides. Eugene’s leading man had already gone to scout out ahead. Three cars and an array of motorbikes lay at the entrance. A fiery sensation burned in Eugene’s stomach as this information came in. The odds were in favour of the enemy; a minimum of 15 people against a force of only four was unfavourable but the job had to be done. Judging by the size of the cabin that was displayed on a cheap projector back at base, it wasn’t going to be easy either, looking for a module the size of a tea saucepan. As the group approached the hill the fear grew.
“Any movement?” whispered Eugene to his second-in-command, Corporal Jonathan Snow.
“Two motorbikes and another car since we last spoke,” he replied with fear evident in his voice.
A large open stretch of gravel led to an unguarded front door. They would have to approach from a different angle – it was too open. Eugene’s men stalked in single file. They arrived at the left side of the house undetected. A hardwood door lay in their way. Eugene ordered Snow to place a charge on the door, just as they had in training. The explosion sent fragments of door flying everywhere, the sound setting off car alarms. It really had started now. Eugene was first to enter; checking corners and hallways, they found the floor empty.

The continued adrenaline rush was interrupted with instinctual fear; the enemy was somewhere, maybe watching them through gaps in floors or cameras at this very moment. The second floor led to heavy resistance. Eugene’s men with superior training, however, pulled through, with only Private Sunderland sustaining a graze from the splintering of wood as he was shot at. The fear that once gripped the squad had lessened; they had started the search for the data module, easy in a house full of bare cupboards and drawers. The fighting was almost anti-climactic for the highly experienced team, but they took it as just luck. The module was found by Corporal Snow; the pocket book-sized device lay under a mattress, poorly hidden in a rush by one of the unfortunate terrorists. The estate was left in a hurry.

The winding gravel road would lead them straight to a waiting truck. Heavy steps on the gravel road echoed between the trees. The squad arrived at the truck. Eugene went to open the door, but it was locked. Suddenly, as their heads were down, shots ripped the air around them. Snow and Sunderland were down on the ground, one dead, one struggling to breathe as he choked on blood. Eugene was hit; the pain was weak but increased with each beat as he crawled to his downed buddies. The last up, Private Auburn, stood with his hands up. As the unknown enemy walked from the tree-line, Auburn fell, shot in the head, a surrendered man. Eugene lay facing the attackers, their uniforms familiar, their badges familiar. One grabbed the module from his hip pocket as his vision died out.

Eugene awoke in the house of an unknown man. A bandage lay around his hip. They thought he’d forget. But he remembered. Everything. Even the name badges.

Sunset

Lewis Miller, Year 11

How young he is before he sets,
How natural, how true he seems.
Showing his journey’s hardly begun
Before torn down beneath the sea,
Left to burn with you and me.

And when he sets, he’s brightest yet,
He’s bright, he’s light, and effervescent.
Yet still dragged deep down below,
To join us in this gloomy glow;
To burn up all his childhood’s growth.

How cold, how dark, is childhood once ended?
A dreadful life to be led.
With dark and age comes reign and sight,
But is it worth the frozen bed?
How it is to live within your head?

But when adjusted to the night,
You can’t help but praise
The sight, the subtlety above,
Up in the night, and in the stars.

Fight for Racism

Will Hudson, Year 9

The bell rings for the end of the school day. It’s time. Everyone rushes to the boys’ locker block. The whole school is watching. Some of them are even holding signs. “Go Back to Where You Came From,” exclaims a white girl, nearer to the middle of the crowd. “You and me both,” I whisper under my breath. I walk towards Brenton. He looks mad, scarily mad. He stares me in the eye and walks closer. The crowd is starting to quieten now. He clenches his fists and grits his teeth. I do the same. He slowly brings back his right arm and I start to panic. He releases his right arm attack and it’s heading straight for my face.

It all started back in Chad, when my father got a call from work.
“I got a promotion. We’re moving to New York City!” shouted my father in sheer delight. My mum was crying and I was on the brink of tears but needed a moment for it to sink in; even Scruffy our pet dog was happy. It was the best feeling in the world. The following weeks were filled with excitement. A fresh start, that’s just what we needed. However, as the day of leaving closed in, I started to get nervous.
“My English isn’t great, and I don’t know anyone,” I expressed to my Mum.
“You’ll be fine – you make friends wherever you are,” replied my mum. She always knows exactly what to say.

On the flight to New York, we flew business class. My Dad must have been given a great pay rise. It’s an eight-hour flight so for the first seven hours I watched boxing matches (some even were live). In particular, I watched Mohammad Ali. He’s my hero, and I hope one day to be like him. I always tell my parents how I want to become a professional boxer. My father hates the idea. For the last hour of the flight I stared out the plane window. I stared into every shining light I could. “What an amazing place,” I thought to myself.

When we land, it was all smooth sailing. We hopped in a cab and arrived at our new house. It was huge! It had three bedrooms, a pool and a view of a weird statue of someone holding up a torch. I had a full three days before school started. I used this time to practise my English. I thought I was becoming better. My mum walked in and saw me practising. She helped me for a bit. She told me to really focus on the body language and movements.

I arrived at my new school. I couldn’t tell if some of these people belonged here because they were wearing different clothes (free dress maybe). My first class was Maths. We were learning about algebra. Our teacher gave us a spot test so that she could see where we were. I fancied myself doing well because I’d already learnt algebra. I finished with some time to spare. As the teacher read out the results I began to get nervous. “Anna: 68%, Brenton: 19%, Bernard: 100%.” I felt on top of the world. This sense of self accomplishment was what I thrived on; it was exactly the start to life in New York I was looking for.

My next class was English; the anxiety ticked back in. I sat next to a boy called Virat, who looked just as nervous as me. English quickly became a disaster. Words such as poetry, themes, essay and narratives were used. Both myself and Virat were lost. Saved by the bell, we went to our lunch break. During lunch I again sat next to Virat and he explained to me how this was his second semester here and his first one wasn’t great. He told me how a kid called Brenton was mean to him because of his skin colour, and wanted to fight him.

“There he is, over there,” whispered Virat. I looked towards the boy; he caught me staring at him. He pointed to himself and then to me. Then he symbolised a fight, a boxing fight. I don’t really understand, but I assumed he was referring to us watching the Mohammad Ali fight tonight. “Me, you, after school today. Meet me at the boys’ lockers.”
“After school today.” I thought – must be talking about the Ali fight. I gave him the thumbs up, followed by an enthusiastic, “See you there”. The cafeteria boomed with silence. You could cut the tension with a knife. Little did I know what I had just signed up for.

Science was my next class. I spotted that Virat was in the same class again, so I rushed over and took the seat next to him.
“You’ve got guts, kid,” exclaimed Virat.
“What do you mean?” I asked, slightly confused.
“You’ve got guts to actually fight Brenton,” replied Virat.
“I think you’re confused. I’m just meeting him at the locker area to watch the Ali fight,” I replied, restoring my heart beat.
“NO!” screamed Virat, who suddenly seemed upset. “Whether you know it yet or not, you have signed up for a fight with someone who intends on beating you dry. Just because you are black!” screamed Virat. My heart sank.
“Don’t show up,” said Virat, starting to calm down.
“If he’s a bully, then I’m showing up,” I said proudly.
“Good for you,” replied Virat. “Good luck.”

The next two classes were a blur. I couldn’t stop thinking about what I had got myself into. Brenton was a big boy, with shoulders as broad as the African Savannah. I wished I was back in Chad. Wherever I looked people were talking behind my back; I was being watched. Do I run? Should I take the easy way out? I can’t though; what I am about to give him he deserves. What he’s about to give me, I don’t deserve. Doubts crept in. Nerves crept in.
At the end of the school day, it was time. Everyone rushed to the boys’ locker room. The whole school was watching. Some people were even holding up signs.
“Go Back to Where You Came From!” exclaimed a white girl in the crowd.
“You and me both,” I whispered under my breath.

I walked towards Brenton; he looked mad, scary mad. He stared me in the eye and walked closer. The crowd started to quieten. He clenched his wrists and gritted his teeth. I did the same. He slowly brought back his right arm; panic set in. He released his right arm attack and it was heading straight for my face. I dodged it swiftly. Floated like a butterfly, stung like a bee. He tried again. Then I attempted an uppercut; he dodged. We exchanged attacks for minutes on end, the crowd booing and cheering. I noticed he was getting tired, more than I was. I capitalised. I swung my right arm wide; it swept in heading for his stupid face. He didn’t move; he was tired. My arm kept swinging and swinging. My mind went blank, my ears stopped hearing sound, all my might was focussed on my right arm.

Crack, goes Brenton’s jaw. “I’ve won!” I screamed. The crowd cheered.

From that point on, racism was non-existent at New York Senior High. As for me, I’m giving professional boxing a crack. My dad is okay with it because if it fails, I will become a Maths teacher, specialising in Algebra. Don’t worry, I’ll become a pro boxer, so that I can eliminate racism all over the world. Just like New York Senior High. The fight for racism begins.

Maple

Harry Gilchrist, Year 11

She had been found, the perfect creation
An expression, a glance, succinct in flow
Oh! How she evokes such tribulation
Beauty beheld in her lacking of woe

Bare to ground, a delicate touch her bloom
Wilderness and the moon her home from birth
The night’s stars misaligned her love for whom?
Like wings of nightingales, her love a firth

The ache of heart befalls before my soul
The arrow of the bow fails to console
Imprisoned by the chain that holds me down
To express my love to this holy crown

Hark! My love has been released from the pain
The maples do fall and caress her face
The wind settles and holds her high in vain
As my affection has now found its place.

The Controller

Max Hollingsworth, Year 12

Controller:176| Password: qwerty

05 / 06 / 2032 | 18:45 | Year of the Rat

/Open classroom_camera № [ ] = 9[C];

Status: Clean. No sign of intruders. No sign of students. Check again in 5 minutes.

/Open classroom_camera № [ ] = 12[D];

Status: Chair untucked. Notify cleaners. No sign of students. Check again in 2 minutes once cleaners are done.

{Wish the Controller Room was like those snowy white classrooms. Hubs for knowledge, growth and development. Instead we sit here in this melancholy machine, ancient men sitting in a grey sweatbox. The only colour we get to see is the huge golden stars on that blood-stained red flag. No ventilation, No sunlight and No hope. Iron chairs, steel floors trap us as we stare into our monitors scrutinizing the only hopes of preserving earth.}

/Open_recent student_behaviour-point_deductions

  1. 174637: Smoking Outside Designated Smoking Hours
  2. 200134: Smart A. Comment
  3. 134478: School Disturbance

/Open student _deduction № [ ] = 134478;

{134478  fell 3 points. The class exited room 9C at exactly 11.40 and the next class started at 11.45 I scanned classroom 14B at 11.45.15 to observe all the students in the classroom staring at 134478’s desk empty.}

/Code_red-reason [student missing № [ ] = 134478]

{The sirens in the Controller Room began to scream “code red” as the Controller Room plunged into chaos and neon lights. Systematic scanning had begun as “are they smoking” controllers began to search the prohibited student areas surrounding “have they run away” the school. Controllers were running up and down the room while “maybe they’re going to shoot up the school” yelling possible places 134478 could be. Whilst the other controllers were searching the prohibited areas trying to deduct the maximum number of points from 134478 for that increased pay check, I was searching inside the school to find 134478 crying in bathroom stall 38[D]. Authorities were notified and 134478 was apprehended restoring order to the Controller Room. However, 134478 had dropped their 90% average on their maths test leading them to seclude themselves in the toilets to cry, missing their class. As a result, I was forced to deduct 3 points off 134478’s student behaviour score. 134478 always reminded me of myself. As a student I was never happy with my grades and lost student behaviour scores for the most idiotic reasons –  the only reason I’m forced to work this rubbish job.}

/Open student _tracking № [ ] = 134478;

134478

Academic Year: 11

Location: RT Mart

Time: 18:50

{134478 was walking home down Second Ring Road after his tutoring session before going home. 134478 stopped to go into the RT Mart. Gosh I hate that place, the smell of bleached tiles and fake smiles surrounded by those harsh LED lights. The authentic RT Mart experience.}

/Open 134478 student_behaviour_score

Student behaviour score = 1106

Reasons for recent deductions

  • School Disturbance
  • Questioned teacher
  • Distracted 379994 with a joke

{134478 walked into the RT Mart browsing the shelves for a snack. Trudging through those white tiled floors, overly enthusiastic staff and depressed customers, to get any sustenance to get 134478 through till dinner. Scanning up and down those skyscraper shelves, 134478 came across the fruit and vegetable section. A natural haven in this packaged world. Dragon fruits, honeydews, bok choy, any fruit your heart desired littered the walls. 134478 eyes locked onto the beautiful plump wall of grapes. Each grape so genetically modified, overweight and fresh. 134478 squeezed each one with appreciation and salivation. 134478 was starving after a long day of school; the grapes were just screaming to be eaten. 134478 looked around to ensure nobody was watching him then 134478 gobbled one up popping it in his mouth. The juices filling his mouth with that refreshing taste, the exact kind of healthy snack that 134478 needed.}

{I sat there absorbed by my monitor. What had I just witnessed? 134478 had just stolen from the RT Mart. 134478 then proceeded to leave and walk home. If I turned 134478 in it would mean losing so many points; 134478 would end up cleaning the streets for the rest of his life. There used to be a time when students weren’t monitored 24/7. However, those days have been slowly enveloped by a chilling cloud of data, filled with the endless lines of code that transformed human behaviour into binaries of wrong or right. I remember before the surveillance I used to go to that exact RT Mart with my mother or father. I’d wade through those plastic smiles and colourful packagings to stare at those grapes. Young me would lick my lips at the sight of those purple balls of joy. I remember looking around until my parents were looking away and scoff a grape down before they could notice me. However now with the new 24/7 surveillance if you breath the wrong way you may risk changing your whole future as a result.}

/Terminate student _tracking № [ ] = 134478;

[Compulsory survey for afterhours tracking]

  • Reason for tracking; {Suspicion After Recent Activities During School Hours}

Any reasons for Student Behaviour Deductions Witnessed; {Negative}

Fool’s Game

Maurice Buren, Year 12

They thought he’d forget. But he remembered. Everything. As he marched down the street he struggled to fully grasp what he had just done. The roads were bleak and sombre, lined with a variety of shrivelled roses that in flakes would float away with the wind. Every building was shrouded in a ghostly blanket of mist, which was punctured by a gap in the clouds. What a lovely day, he thought. He took a brief glance at his hips. He was wearing a khaki coat, with a glorious orange lining. A high-end handbag hung tightly around his shoulder. Unclipping it, and careful not to damage anything, he slid out a sizeable mirror coated in gold and decorated with an array of pearls. With a bit of hesitation, he flipped it over and took a long, hard look.

It was a lady. She had long braided blonde hair that glistened in the moonlight. A neat patch of freckles ran across the bridge of her nose, accentuated by the round contour of her cheek. He couldn’t help but let out a chuckle. Hands within his pockets, he walked down the street, breathing a cloudy trail of mist that quickly dissipated.

As he approached the intersection he noticed two policemen chatting together, hands on their belts. He paused for a moment. He ogled them with a look of disgust, and with a surge of adrenaline he screamed, “God damn pigs!”

The policemen hastily snapped their heads in his direction. Their eyes seemed to gleam through the darkness. Sam made the decision to raise up his middle finger and flee, his heels clattering along the pavement, echoing throughout the deserted neighbourhood. He knew that nothing could happen to him, but a part of him felt remorse knowing that he was ruining the life of a young lady.

He gleefully swung around a lamp post, landing behind a putrid dumpster. He peered around the corner and saw the two men, baffled, hands on their heads. They struggled to activate their robotic canine unit. “What morons,” he sighed to himself. He leapt straight out onto the empty boulevard, arms flailing in the air and yelled, “Hey, idiots! Over here!”

Sam smirked at the sight of their struggle to remove their blasters from their belts. A luminous light-blue force field began to envelop them as they relentlessly charged towards him. But before they reached him he slammed the glowing microchips on his right arm.

Almost instantly he woke back up in his old copper cube, head resting under the Virt Net neutraliser and wrists tightly fastened to the arms of his chair. “Release,” he stated, as the straps slowly retreated back into their sockets. He ducked down out of the contraption.

“Hey, James! It worked!” he shouted with content. “Hey!” He became increasingly agitated with each time he banged on the walls of the room, partly because he wanted to rub it into their faces that he actually made it with himself completely intact. Their supplier warned them not to tamper with the device a few days earlier. But now Sam had the upper hand, or so he thought. His yelling abruptly became more desperate, as his banging turned into frantic clawing. But out in the corner of his eye he saw the device once again light up. So without much thought, he once again whacked his arm.

He woke up lying down on the pavement. This time he was frightened. He didn’t know where he had ended up. Out on the bush surrounding the tree, he saw the same two policemen, but with gigantic holes burnt straight through their faces. In a heartbeat, sirens blared out from each side of the intersection, with the fuzzy humming of the hovercrafts providing somewhat of a comfort for him.

“Emily Bergmann!” a metallic voice blurted from the vehicle in front of him. “You are under arrest for sedition and crimes against the State.” Sam sat silently on the path, rocking his head backwards as he came to a realisation. He had been outplayed.

Cloud Cuckoo Land

Alistair Watters, Year 11

I scramble up to the library shelf
It’s here, it’s here, I whisper to myself
But before I can get my book in hand,
Did the ground always look this much like sand?
Now I’m on a beach, the sun on my face
I’ll swim and dive and then watch the fish race
Now, retired and with so much to see
The world is my oyster, deep in the sea
Exploring every part of the world
Until my feet are deader than the quill
Now with the fish reflecting birds up high
It’s time to set sail, adventure is nigh
And flying above the seawater hills
A shearwater shouts stupendous shrills.

Now boarding a ship, and taking the captain
But I spared the rest, can you imagine?
But with no treasure there’s no life for me
That’s the code of the pirates of the sea.
The stairway to hell just started boarding
Pushed off the plank without any warning
Now in the ocean, sunburnt and cursing
I spot a strange ship, nearby and charting
Arms rapid and manic churning up sea
If I catch up, from this hell I’ll be free
My heart beating faster than an Irish reel
And just in time to grab the ship’s keel
I board the ship and hide in a crate
I wish I had here my loyal first mate
I’m an outlaw to my own retinue
Tune in next time when the story continues

But just when you think this poem is done
There is something I really must say
If you liked what you heard, you may be stunned
That this is nothing like the world today
The sweet shearwater flying overhead
Can’t navigate through smog, North, East or South
In cities it can’t even make a bed
Much less sing a song with smoke in its mouth

All these disasters and yet here I see
Absurd optimism making a stand
There’s nothing cheerful, nothing to source glee
At least, not outside of cloud cuckoo land.

The Mysterious Mystery of Jane Walters

Alasdair Orr, Year 7

Neglected. That is how I feel right now. From a young age, I, Bill Walters, have faced this feeling. When my father left my mother, when expelled from school and as an adult, kicked out of Greenvale Police Academy, a job I would kill for. And now, I’m stuck outside the very police station I was rejected from, waiting for answers about my missing wife, Jane Walters, who has recently disappeared. No wonder they’ve been taking so long, there is no proof or motivation for the case. Toby Reynolds is the chief of Greenvale Police and he used to be a great friend of mine. We grew up together here in Greenvale in England; however, we parted ways when he got into the police and I did not. That was something our friendship could not survive.

Raindrops shattered onto my thick, black coat like a spray of bullets from a machine gun. I had decided that I had had enough. I was sick and tired of the lazy police force, Sergeant Reynolds and this whole ruddy town doing nothing about my lost wife. Greenvale was never like this. It was always calm and peaceful until the fear of the harsh winter and Jane’s disappearance synced into people’s naïve minds. The lion in me finally stepped up and told me to take justice into my own hands. I will find my wife.

I trudged through the town in the pouring rain, drowning myself in puddles. Town locals were startled to see the shadow of a fairly overweight man wearing a top hat. They must recognize me from the newspaper. Not long ago, I made headlines being targeted by conspiracy theorists and Sergeant Reynolds himself saying I murdered my wife. I suppose I do look like a murderer, but why would I kill her? She was the best person I knew. I had ignored Jane when she started at the Academy. Beautiful, intelligent and successful – I was never going to be someone whose company she sought out. How I had misjudged her. She stood by me during my darkest time, when I thought my dismissal from the Academy would break us. Again, I’d underestimated her. She taught me to live again. She was the only good thing to happen to me in my life, and now she was gone.

After a few hours of endless, futile searching, I sat down on a park bench for a break. The rain had finally stopped but it was freezing cold and the sky was pitch-black. I was considering returning home; however, I still wanted to look at one more place, Reaper Hill. Reaper Hill was the name locals gave the old, abandoned church and graveyard on a hill that towers over this English town like the Christ Redeemer over Rio. Not long ago Sergeant Reynolds made this sight off-limits. I believe the personal vendetta Reynolds has against me is due to something else. It was time to find out.

On my way up Reaper Hill, I marched past “No Entry” signs with nothing but my low-battery torch. This place has been abandoned ever since a storm hit it back in the early 1800s, hence, a great place for hiding. I shone my light around the church. Nothing but dilapidated pictures. Just dark and plain. Through a shattered window, fog was spewing out like a poisonous gas through a vent. I decided to give up my search in the church and set my eyes on the graveyard. My torch started fluttering – it wasn’t going to last long. I shone the light over graves and tombstones, hoping for answers. Suddenly, I paused. I heard something. A footstep? Somebody was here, and they were approaching me.

The harsh wind was blowing louder and louder until I decided I had to leave. My heart was thumping as I quickly caught a glimpse of what was on the graves. Names of people from the 1600s. It was all meaningless. Wait. I had just seen something beyond imagining. From the corner of my eye, I saw my wife’s name and her exact birthday and when she went missing on a grave. I sighed with both fear and relief.

Was it over? I turned to my left only to see a tall, dark figure wearing a grey cloak and British police hat. Sergeant Reynolds? Before I could get a closer look, my torch stopped working. I was alone, with someone, in the pitch dark.

This new revelation sent shivers down my spine. In horror, I threw my dead torch at the figure and now I was forced to run for it. I sprinted through the endless abyss of the town for nearly an hour until I found it. My ramshackle house. I crashed onto my dirty couch. I thought to myself, I could expose Reynolds for the murder of Jane, I could take, I could take his position in the station and live happily ever after. I grinned as I slowly dozed off.

“POLICE, OPEN UP!” said somebody at the door. It was like an alarm for me since they visited me so often and early. I got up and answered to the vicious knocking. “What do you want?” I muttered.
Suddenly, a bunch of policemen emerged and handcuffed me. Sergeant Reynolds approached me with a bump on his head. He went up to my face and said, “Bill Walters, you are under arrest for the murder of your wife Jane Walters. You hid her body underneath a grave of her name at Reaper Hill. You would pretend you found the body, embarrass and humiliate me, then replace me in the police. You loved your wife very much, but not as much as my job.”

I was pushed into the police car, knowing I was to go to court. Though, I had the perfect alibi and defence. However, there was one small flaw in it all. Reynolds was correct.

Before the Storm

Nikolas Gajdatsy, Year 10

Mother Nature’s wrath cannot be stopped
As the last ray of light seeps into the bruised clouds
Rays of light from the beaten sun
Attempt to break through the thunderous clouds

As the wise old oak stands its ground
And the quivering grass is shocked
by the impending chaos which is looming
The gentle breeze, the fluffy clouds
Are bullied by the build-up of the storm

The light touch of rain on my skin
I know what the storm is about to bring
The eerie feeling, like just before a race
I can almost feel the thunder on my face

Heavy rains are with us now
The thunder and lightning hear it howl
Crashing and banging, rumbling and grumbling
Gone is the peace of the tranquil scene
Replaced by the moaning of the gale force winds

This is Mother Nature’s wrath; Hear it now!
In her attempt to return Nature to its original form
Just like it was, calm before the storm.

You’ll Miss It Once It’s Gone

Ben Skelton, Year 12

Picture your life without competition. Struggling? What you should be thinking of is life devoid of sporting fixtures, Sundays bland with the absence of proudly watching your child’s soccer game, an absence of cooking shows, singing contests, motivation in school, the will to work harder and earn – nope, nope, nope. What cooperation-promoting socialists, such as Tom Shadyac in his documentary I Am (2010), are advocating for is a society with citizens living life in a perfunctory and desultory manner. And what good does that do for our world?

While contemplating whether constant competition is good or bad for you or the societies you belong to, it is easy to imagine a perfect, but unrealistic, utopia where the world is somehow better off. But just because you can imagine living to a better standard, doesn’t mean it is achievable. Humans have lived in much more dire circumstances in history and it is development through competition that has led us to where we are now. This is why we should believe in competition. Equality and fairness are favourites among these unrealistic dreams, but have people ever been satisfied with being on the same level as everyone else?

Cooperative and socialist societies have existed in the past; I am of course referring to the oppressive regime that was the Soviet Union, proud of their communist policies. But while fairness and equality are promoted in these societies, are they really fair? Is it fair when your hard-earned dollars are taken by the government and redistributed to people who work much less? The system was as successful as the people who fell victim to its flaws, with citizens settling down into slumps of despair in a world where there was no reward in achieving anything. It is competition that is the incentive to progress, the motivator among people. Competition is what gets people out of bed every day. And it is competition that drives development.

Shadyac attempted to claim in his documentary that competition is an undesirable human behaviour because animals in the wild exhibited some form of cooperation. Despite his questionable conclusion that humans should be cooperative because animals are, drawing comparisons that tend to ignore centuries of human development, this is not where Shadyac goes significantly wrong. Cooperation is seen within animal species as they exist in unstable, chaotic environments where the possibilities of life and death are closely running parallels as they compete for survival against the will of their predators and the natural landscape. Certain species are cooperative because this is what they must do to survive against other species. Humans do not have this problem, we are not at risk of being mobbed by a pride of lions when we get our morning coffee, we are not in danger of being consumed ourselves when we eat our lunch. This differentiates the needs of the human race as we have ascended to the top of the food chain, making inter-species cooperation redundant for survival, instead being replaced by competition against one another for the best life possible.

So why talk about this issue? Because we need to keep progressing. More and more frequently capitalism is criticised for lacking empathy, and that we should shift to a more socialist approach. But this is not how we develop. Tried and tested for centuries, humans have competed against one another, pushing each other to the extremes of what is possible. Competition between the USA and Russia led to the human race developing the technology to leave the earth sending men to walk on the moon. Incredible. Although a sensitive issue, but war between nations competing for sovereignty has led to the development of medicines such as anaesthesia, and technologies such as using nuclear energy as a sustainable power source. Competition has always been the source of progress and discovery, and we need to recognise that and resist the temptation to blame global issues onto it. For every technology developed through competition eventually trickles down to all, and the world becomes better off than it was without it.

“I have been up against tough competition all my life. I wouldn’t know how to get along without it.” – Walt Disney.

What the late, highly successful, American entrepreneur is praising, is the pressure of competition, even attributing his achievement to its practice. Competition may be tough, but it is competition that can claim responsibility for the successes of the world, the factor driving development in those wanting to be the best, those wanting to create the best. And this benefits us all, some people may gain more than others, but the total gain is positive. Even when one person strikes it rich, outselling his competitors, the whole world benefits as the price of goods and services decreases, becoming more affordable for all, increasing the wellbeing of all. The populous may criticise this person’s capitalism, but aren’t they benefitting as well?

Picture your life with only cooperation. Your child comes home from school, walking across the dead front lawn, because the government-managed water corporation has run out of money through mismanagement; he holds out a marked test with no grade. You look up and down the page with palpable confusion. Did he pass? You look up from the paper to see a mirror of your own expression, your son has no idea either. You put your arm around him and turn to go inside, but there’s nothing there; what money you earned was taken by the government to give to others. You have lost all motivation. You don’t own anything anymore.

Why criticise what works? Competition creates progress.

Stop Being So Consumed by Consuming

Fletcher Houston, Year 12

Recently I had the pleasure of watching Tom Shadyac’s documentary I Am. The film was intriguing, interesting and entertaining. It shared many ideas and perspectives about the way we live; however, one of Shadyac’s perspectives in particular rang true. He believes that it is important to be a citizen first before a consumer. This made me think of how the majority of us in western society is a consumer before a citizen, and how having so many consumers in the world is leading to damaging impacts on the environment and people around the world. A citizen contributes to society and this person will go out of their way to address current issues facing our community. A consumer is someone who purchases goods and services to benefit themselves and large companies.

Our society, in particular western society, has lead us to believe that purchasing countless products and goods is ‘okay’. But, it simply isn’t. The fashion industry is a prime example of why being consumed by consuming is so detrimental to our society. Eileen Fisher, a leading retail designer and environmental award recipient, states that “the clothing industry is the second largest polluting industry in the world, behind the oil industry”. Furthermore, there are roughly 40 million garment workers in the world today, producing clothes in dirty and unsafe environments, just so that we can have a new outfit to wear this weekend.

I’m sure you’ve heard of ‘Black Friday’. A tremendous day where you can purchase that new TV you have always wanted for 10% cheaper. Sorry, I mean the TV you only found out existed a week ago and wanted because it’s a little bit thinner than the one you have now. In the US from 2006 to 2017 there have been ten deaths and 111 injuries on Black Friday in and around shopping malls because everyone was so focused on consuming rather than looking out for one another.

Consumerism in our society has lead us to believe that the goal in life is to obtain as much money as you can. This is leading people to pursue careers they don’t want to do for money, instead of pursuing careers they are passionate about. Don’t get me wrong, there are people out there who love their jobs; however, a recent Gallup poll in 2017 says that “85% of people around the world admit to hating their jobs”.

The problem in our society is that consumerism is so normalised. Our role models, famous actors and musicians, are always wearing new clothes or using new products. There are advertisements about new products every day and we are forced to keep up with the new trends or we will be left behind. This is causing large amounts of products to be purchased in short periods of time, leading to hyper-consumerism. This is causing products that are still in fine condition to be thrown out like rubbish because there is a new product that serves the same function but is slightly different. In the US, 99% of phones that are thrown in the bin are still in working condition. This is like the other day when I went out with my mate who I know had bought a pair of new Nike shoes, but when I saw him, he had another new pair of Nike shoes. I was confused as to why he had bought them and he said his favourite rapper had bought them and therefore he ‘needed’ them.

Being a citizen first is much more beneficial than being a consumer first. In today’s society we need people to be constantly contributing to our society and the wellbeing of our community. These people can then truly think about the issues and impacts consuming has on our society and hopefully fix them. And possibly put an end to this mindless consuming.

Maybe one day when you go out to purchase that new TV you’ll ask yourself, “Am I a citizen or a consumer?”

A Shadow to Sharks

Hugh Mitchell, Year 9

Tyrone’s feet echo as he walks down the polished concrete hallway. Faces flash by in all directions as students move to their next class. His eyes dart side to side like a deer’s encircled by lions. His head is bent down towards his feet, as they are placed one in front of the other. More faces move past, smiling, laughing, talking. Tyrone takes a deep stuttered breath. He starts to release his breath when there is a sudden jolt. Books and scrap papers fly. Tyrone looks over his shoulder as he picks up his books to see a boy hurrying away in the other direction.

Josh watches as Tyrone’s books take to the air. He lets out a loud laugh half-way through a chew on a week-old piece of gum. Spinning around, Josh gives directions for a bunch of his friends to look over towards the scene. Cries of laughter follow.

“What a loser.”

“Can’t he even hold on to his books?”

“Get a life.”

“What’s wrong with ’im?”

Josh continues to watch the scene unfold, a satisfied smirk on his face. Tyrone eventually manages to collect his belongings and speed-walks past Josh’s group.

Tyrone never liked coming to school. He hated the work and the boring never-ending lectures. But most of all he hated being isolated, marooned on his own island, as the sharks closed in each day. Every time Tyrone picked up the confidence to enter the shallow waters, it seemed that Josh and his gangbuster friends were there, ready to take another bite. Coming back after mid-term break was a nightmare, seeing as it had been a lovely few days of sunshine in California. He knew when he returned to school the sharks would again be hungry for a taste of blood. He wasn’t wrong.

Science class, last period before lunch. Tyrone watches as the clock at the top right corner of the room quickly ticks toward the lunchtime siren. All too soon he will be out of the classroom, and entering the unsafe territory of the corridor. The bell sounds and the other students are out the door in a blink of an eye. Out in to the corridor Tyrone is forced to walk towards his boring, blue locker. One turn left, two turns right and the lock pops open. In go the books and out comes the lunch. Tyrone starts to turn around when a hand comes thudding into his back. He is slammed against the locker as he sees his assaulter, none other than Josh. Kids crowd around laughing and holding up the newest iPhone, as Josh starts to land the blows on Tyrone. There is nothing he can do except hold up his arms, as the sharks start to tear him apart once again. Tyrone is left in a crumpled mess on the floor as the other students walk away laughing. The rest of the school day passes with Tyrone unperturbed. However, that night Tyrone can’t fall asleep, knowing that it will not be the end of his everlasting torment.

Over the next couple of weeks, events such as these continued. Tyrone cursed his luck for being born coloured and scrawny; cursed his life. But what was there to do, as he continually became more anxious and lost more and more sleep. More and more people seemed to join in with Josh. Word spread like a howling gale across the school, until the point he couldn’t go a single period without nasty words spoken behind his back. His grades started to slip. Tests came back as 30%, 20%, with the occasional 40% if he was lucky. His parents didn’t seem to care as long as he stayed out of their way.

Normal life seemed to move away from friends and family, changing to the console. He could be whoever he wanted to be there and do whatever he wanted to do, live however he wanted.

Tyrone never reached out for help, for he had nowhere to go. His brain was no longer functioning, as it chugged away on two hours sleep and a packet of chips most nights. Thought changed in Tyrone’s head.

The Lakewood Incident

James Cowan, Year 7

It was the 12th of December when the incident occurred. Nobody really knows what happened. There have been a dozen cover-ups and rumours but the truth, however, still remains a secret. This is what really happened all of those years ago. The year was 2005; it was a pretty good year. There was that new car everyone was into and that amazing film was released, not to mention it was the last day of school. The doors almost exploded from the students running through. The school itself wasn’t that big either. It was just your stereotypical public school, in a practically normal town. It was at that moment Lucas Johnson stumbled through the door. Now Lucas was a pretty average boy; in fact, he was below average. I mean his grades weren’t very high at all, not to mention his short stature. He was pretty lacking in everything, especially friends. He only had one: Samuel Will.

Sam quickly rushed out of the door holding some sort of toy. “Hey, Luke, you forgot something,” he exclaimed. It was his prized toy. Lucas thanked Sam; he didn’t say much. This was one of the reasons he didn’t have too many friends. Sam noticed a scratch upon Lucas’ face. “Barry again hah?” said Sam. Barry was your normal school bully. Large, strong and imposing; he and Lucas, you could say, had a … history. They continued along the old path. Out of nowhere waltzed in Barry.

“Hey little buddy, ready for round two?” Barry cackled. Sam (as always) tried to stand up for Lucas, but it was with little success. It was at that moment that Barry noticed something out of the corner of his eye – the toy. Within a matter of seconds, he grabbed it and threw it through the gate. The boys quickly rushed through after it only for Barry to lock the gate behind them. He scoffed as he walked away. They were trapped.

After numerous attempts of getting out they had little to no impact on the gate. There has to be another way, they thought. You see Lakewood has a lot of mysteries; first, there were the mysterious experiments and, second, there were the two missing kids. Cautiously the two walked into the dark forest. It had been what felt like hours yet the forest seemed to lead to nowhere. It was getting dark, fast. The trees loomed over the pair, their contorted limbs swayed in the freezing night breeze. Sam suggested to head back, but they were utterly lost.

There was no hope. It was getting darker and darker and, as the time went past, their bodies felt heavier and heavier, the feeling of gravity pulling them down step after step. Until … a sudden burst of light. Sam had already collapsed at this point. The demonic trees leaned back, almost avoiding the light. Lucas, while carrying Sam, used the last of his energy to get behind a tree. He wasn’t sure if he was alive or not but he couldn’t go on with Sam anymore. However, just as fast as the light appeared, it was gone.

He was alone. Lucas continued throughout the forest. He knew his goal – find the light, get out and get assistance. He muttered this, hoping it would motivate him to keep on going. The guilt was too much; he had to keep going, but what if something happened to Sam? He had to go back. His mind was tearing apart.

He had come so far, yet Lucas went back. There was nothing there. But in return he was presented with another flash of light, this time coming from behind, slowly getting fainter and fainter. He had to follow it. It was his only chance. A strange mist started to appear. He had noticed it before; however, as he followed the light, the fog seemed to become ever thicker. The heavenly light disappeared into a huge building. Lucas could hardly see through the immense fog emanating from inside it. Suddenly out of nowhere a man in a yellow hazmat suit appeared from inside the building holding a torch, followed by two men. A loud siren blared from the side of the building. It was deafening. The main scientist ordered the other one to go on patrol, like an officer with his soldiers. They knew Lucas was there. He ran for cover but he tripped in the moment. Out of his back pocket popped his favourite toy. It fell to the ground triggering its signature phrase “It’s hero time!” All three of the guards rushed to the scene, now with a fourth smaller person in the same styled suit running towards Lucas with great haste. The small one held Lucas as he collapsed in his arms.

It has been thirteen years since Lucas died. Since then it’s affected everyone: his family, his friends and even Barry. He died in the hospital; he developed some serious cancer from a gas leak. The people at the lab said it was a complete accident. Guess that’s why they were based in the woods in the first place. His parents tried suing but that brought them nowhere; he was their only child after all. How do I know this? You may ask …

The name is Will.

Samuel Will.