Typhoon 23: June 1999

The Whole Magazine

I�m teased because I�m fat,
Said the tiger to the crow,
I need to lose some weight,
But how, I do not know.

The crow laughed at the creature,
You�re right you�re quite obese,
To lose some weight from your behind,
You should try chasing some geese.

That really wouldn�t work,
Said the tiger in dismay,
For I like to eat plump geese,
And I�d get fatter every day.

You can now have surgery,
Lipo-suction it is named.
Alas I can�t afford it,
I�m terribly ashamed.

You could try doing some push-ups,
To get a little fitter,
Then the animals who tease you so,
Might not be so bitter.

They really do not work
The plans that you devise,
Because you see a tiger,
Is not built for this exercise.

You haven�t helped at all,
You�re really not that clever,
I guess I�m going to have to be,
As fat as this forever.

What do you want me to do?
Say abracadabra make this fat beast fit,
And then with a flash and a cloud of smoke,
He was slim, yes every last bit.

Patrick Gatherer


In Fear of the Snake
There�s a place that I know,
But I�ve never dared go.
In fear of the snake.
A wondrous beast twenty feet in length,
Its body possessing miraculous strength.

I�d love to go there,
But never would dare.
For fear of the snake
A venomous reptile which knows no fear,
And has never been known to shed a tear.

So let�s never go to the place that I know,
In fear of the snake.

Meghan Kirland (Year 7 Poetry: Winner)


Tango

In a swirl of blue gingham and yah ta-tah�s she went down the street, in grand sweeping motions and spinning with flourish - it was a passionate tango to all those who saw. The old man gripped his black-jack and glanced at me - �What the hell is she doing?�
She halted abruptly and I reached to take her arm - but a sudden back and forth whip of the head, a kick of the leg and she was dancing again.
�I think she�s doing... the tango?� I watched in uncertainty: first day on the job, under my father�s scrutiny and I�ve got to deal with this.
The old man was taking me on an evening patrol, showing me through the slums: �You�ve got to watch out for these no-good-marauding-jungle-dancing-crumb-snatching coloured folks,� he said, striding down the street with a mastered swagger. Rounding the corner, we saw a black woman sat on the front stoop, shelling butter beans and unabashedly swigging a bottle of Madeira. She paid no attention to us and continued to watch the setting sun - the raw hues that streaked the sky, fast fading into soft light that filtered the air and mingled with the fragrant trees. Gazing at the blurred contours of the distant hills, humming, and shelling the beans with deft fingers, she was oblivious to my father�s fixed glare. He approached her, clearing his throat with authority.
�Where�s that wine from?�
She studied him amusedly. �The grapes of Madeira Island.�
His nostrils flared at the audacity of her reply - and I watched his moustache twitch as I have a million times as a kid. The yellow - now white - hairs bristling together, always a sign that I had it coming. He�s broken my rib, busted my eye, split my lip; sometimes he�d get out the belt. Stinging welts down my legs and I�d have to wear pants for weeks.
�...I imagine it�s real beautiful there, black grapes growing all ripe and juicy in the vineyards, planted in hills as deep as volcanoes...�
I found myself listening with interest. Her voice had a comforting musicality, light and rich, like rain falling on earth. He interrupted her musings.
�Don�t sass me nigger. You coloured don�t often drink fine wine. I figure you�ve lifted that off some rich folks - what�s your name?� He ominously flipped open a little book and took out a pen.
�Sadie Jefferson.�
�Jefferson eh? Name sounds familiar, you got any relatives in jail?�
�We�re honest people,� she said, simply. �...But the Jeffersons do have one weakness... we can�t resist a good tango. You ever tango before?�
I saw his lip twitch with a rhythmic tic. �Sir, I don�t think this young woman has done anything wrong - let�s just finish up with this neighbourhood.�
�Kid, you ain�t never gonna make a high rank like me if you gonna weasel your way out of duty like this. You may be my flesh and blood but I ain�t giving credit to a spineless idiot with no sense of duty.�
I wanted to say it wasn�t about courage or duty. It was about him being a mean sonovabitch; it was about him looking to take away someone�s dignity; it was about him and the way he pushed the air out all around him, and sort of took it all up whenever he walked into a place. But I kept my mouth shut, just standing there, feeling the anger, the heat on the inside of my skin.
He turned to me and said, �Let�s take this drunken bitch down to the station.�
She looked at me for the first time, and I felt embarrassed - I wanted to melt into sky, cling to the earth, get away from this, from my father. I nodded my head, and she understood that there was no point arguing.
The old man was impatient. �Move it along nigger woman - why don�t you tango there for us?�
She threw her head back and laughed, long deep laughter that loosened my body, and she stood up, gingerly placing the beans and wine under the porch. We stood still, watching her - my father glowering, his moustache still twitching. I imagined it jumping right off his face, ripping his skin off with it. I studied her, her calmness, her wonderful unfazed attitude toward the old man�s hostility. Neither of us expected her next move. At first I thought she was trying to run away - but then her movements were too slow, too graceful - and I saw she was dancing. It started slowly, her eyes closed, completely absorbed in it, and then I could almost hear the music kick in as she was parading down the avenue. Beneath the arch of oaks dripping with Spanish moss she was a slight figure under the shadow of the trees. She stirred the sleepy twilight air of the evening and infused it with passion and rhythm.
I suppressed an urge to applaud her - and waited for my father�s reaction. He was shocked at first, and this quickly metamorphosed into anger.
�She�s crazier than I thought,� he muttered.
We walked to the station behind her, and she tangoed the whole way, never missing a step. I don�t know why the old man didn�t stop her. Maybe some part of him inside enjoyed it, enjoyed this candid display of enthusiasm and courage and beauty. Maybe some part of him feels regret, feels guilt. But it is too late for him, he�s too brittle to try and bend another way. When we arrived at the station she was put in a cell.
I didn�t sleep that night. I could barely lie still, thinking about all the shit he has put me through. I wanted to fly at him, to lash out, spitting and slashing, leaving marks dark and deep. He always said he�d helped me to build character - but never have I felt more hollow - more like just a piece of clay for him to squash between his fat fingers.
The next morning I got up - determined to release Sadie Jefferson. My father had already left the house, unlike normally when he would lecture me over breakfast. With a mouthful of greasy sausage, egg yolk on the edge of his lips, he�d talk and chew, telling me why his views on society, politics and me, were completely, without a doubt, correct. Then with a self-satisfied gulp of his bloody Mary and a loud belch, he�d throw his napkin down and leave. I have his routine memorised. I sit there wishing he would choke. All I can do it sit there and think - just die already, you don�t even know me.
That morning, I had a strange feeling that he had purposely left early, something that he had to do, and I rushed down to the station. Instinct told me to check her cell - but Sadie was not in there. I entered his office- �Where is she?!�
�Don�t you ever burst into my office - �
He stopped short, seeing the hostility in my face.
He got up and in two brisk strides he was next to me, and his fist came up hard and fast and he winded me. I gasped and knelt down, trying to catch a breath.
�That�s better.� And he threw a file at his feet next to me, and walked out of the office.
I opened it. It was a scheduled session at the courthouse: a summons to convict Sadie Jefferson of having a mental disorder, not fit to be in society and suggesting she be immediately transferred to an asylum in a nearby county. I sat in shock: the session was going on at that very moment. That sonovabitch knows she�s not insane, I thought; he is doing it out of pure spite and cruelty - he�s the psychotic one. I crumpled it up and went to find him.
He was sat outside the station doorway, having a cigarette.
�What the hell is this?�
I threw the crumpled paper in his lap.
�That crazy niggerwoman deserves to be locked away somewhere. She ain�t right in the head, son. Did you see the way she danced down the street last night? It�s a danger to society to have kooks like that running around. It�s my god-given duty to do what�s right.�
�Your God-given duty?� I almost smiled at his self righteous crap.
�You�re just a sick old bastard.� I muttered it, hoping he could hear.
He was silent. I glanced sideways and tensed, watching to see if he would move for me again. He took a knife out of his pocket and began cleaning his fingernails. I had visions of my taking that knife and stabbing him to pieces, ripping through his flesh as he ripped through mine everyday. I felt hot tears rising and turned away from him.
�If you walk away, you�re even more pathetic then I thought you were.�
Just then a light rain began to fall, the small cool drops pattering and soaking into the rich dark earth. I felt like I should have been enraged, that I should have rushed at him and given back every bruise, every smash of the fist. He sat wiping the rain from his face, and I looked at his hands. Wrinkled and leathery, and trembling ever so slightly. Suddenly, I felt sad watching him, this bitter, violent old man. I don�t want to be like him.
�You never even knew me, dad.�
I threw my badge on the ground.
I wandered around that night, up and down the avenues, feeling lost yet free. Passing a new stand I saw the evening paper, hot off the press, and was elated by what it said.

TANGO IS NO SIGN OF INSANITY, Lunacy Commission declares.

I walked down a familiar looking street and saw Sadie again, sat on the front stoop; she saw me from afar and grinned.
�It was such a fine evening, I was wondering - would you care to dance?�
She smiled and plucked a rose from a nearby bush, setting it between her teeth. And it was a passionate tango to all those who saw.

Ying Yue Li (Year 12 Fiction: Winner)


Slavery

When I open my eyes,
Every morning I pray,
I�m not looking forward
To the rest of the day,
The Massa is mean,
And so is the word, slavery.

I work like a dog,
In the fields full of hay,
Massa has a whip
To make us obey,
The whip is cruel,
And so is the word, slavery.

Before I �come sleepy
At night, I say,
�God, please make
me free one day,�
the world is ruthless,
and so is the word, slavery.

My life is a mess,
What bein� a slave,
I�ve not any hope,
No way of escape,
The fear is the worst,
And so is the word, slavery.

Manvi Rai


Into the Water

I�m afraid of the sea now. Had you told me that I would be one day, I would have very likely laughed it off and laughed at you. I was the water baby, the fish in the water, the natural swimmer of the family.
Finally, the end of the very last day of school came and everyone was feeling just great. Wouldn�t you if you knew that two whole months of holiday were ahead of you! On the way home I decided that all I would do for the first couple of weeks was to turn myself into a couch potato. You know the drill: tons of junk food, gallons of soft drinks and endless hours of TV programmes without homework deadlines and bedtimes.
But wasn�t I in for a surprise! When I got home I was told that we were heading for the beaches of Hawaii where we would meet with my cousins. I was absolutely thrilled! I had heard all about Hawaii and its endless, white sand beaches, a paradise for scuba-diving, turtle-tagging, snorkeling, wave-surfing, windsurfing and water-skiing, to name but a few water activities.
After a long and boring plane trip we reached my water-dreamland - not that I could see much of it, jet-lagged as I was. The next morning, my cousin and I were allowed to go freely and do as we pleased after breakfast. We straightaway went to the water sports hut on the beach, booked two windsurfing boards, slipped the life-jackets on and headed for the sea. I was having the time of my life. Everything was just perfect, from the wind force to the water temperature - until I heard my cousin scream. She was heading towards reefs and just did not seem to be able to turn away. I immediately decided to go over and try to help her but in my rush I stumbled, slipped and fell off. Somehow I could not manage to climb back up onto the board, no matter how hard I was trying. The waves were pushing me towards the reef. It was hopeless. Within seconds, I was thrown among the reefs and forced to let go of my board.
Over and over, I tried to swim away but vicious under-currents kept pulling me back and throwing me onto the reefs. The experience was terrifying. I was becoming exhausted. My whole body was painful and my years of swimming training seemed totally wasted.
Meanwhile, my cousin had managed to reach the shore and alert the lifeguards. Just as I realised that I would not be able to struggle much longer, I felt myself being pulled up to the safety of a speedboat.
I woke up some hours later to a very sore body. Except for the parts protected by my lifejacket, which I had been wearing, I was covered from head to toe with cuts, scratches, bruises and bumps. In the end, I did turn into a couch potato that summer!

Sebastian Stones


Black and White

�There�s nothing whiter than an insurance agent�s shirt when he starts out on his morning rounds,� my Fourth Aunt, now long gone, was fond of saying.
�Or blacker than his heart when he examines the fine print of your claim,� Sixth Uncle, her husband, would chime in right on cue.
Both would chuckle, their faces creasing into a mass of wrinkles and sparkling eyes as they relived old victories.
What triggered their merriment? Well, one must go back more than forty years. Uncle and Auntie were farmers in Sai Kung District in the early �50s. This was a time when Sai Kung town was little more than a fishing village with its own fleet and Hiram�s Highway was still a jeep track.
They had a farm then in Tui Min Hoi, just across from the town. There were no housing estates in those days and Gurkhas were still running penetration patrols into the hills of the district, which ran up around Starling Inlet to the border at Sha Tau Kok. The Sai Kung villagers were a tough old bunch who had fought the Japanese and largely kept their independence from the British Administration. Nonetheless, they knew a bit about the world and were receptive to the odd new idea.
Enter one Catalyst Wong, insurance agent supreme. Self-named as being a man who could really make things happen. Venturing into the great unknown, as Sai Kung was to a city dweller in those far off days, young Wong went door-to-door selling buildings� and contents� insurance to one farmer after another. His major selling point was to assure all his clients that the insurance company was really just like a charitable tong or tso which would pay out a claim immediately on application. �It�s all here, in black and white,� he would cry enthusiastically. �Have no fear, just sign or plonk your thumbprint on the dotted line.�
Such was the persuasive power of young Wong�s sales technique that, before long, he became known as �Mr. Black and White�. But, as the English say, the proof of the pudding is in the eating. Round about �53 there was a bad typhoon which struck Tui Min Hoi particularly hard, flattening many of the agricultural dwellings.
Uncle promptly called up �Mr. Black and White�, who arrived with a loss adjuster to survey the disaster scene. Both were sympathetic to the point of unctuousness but pointed out, repeatedly, that �pre-existing defects and lack of regular maintenance void the policy.� Reference was made to extremely fine print on the back of an annex to the policy which appeared to exclude every cause known to man or god.
�Of course,� crowed the young Wong triumphantly, �your third party cover is still available and your no claims bonus intact. Was any third party injured?� Uncle and Auntie both shook their head disconsolately. His point made, Mr. Black and White moved to leave.
Now the kitchen of the old village house was a bit untidy, with several doors, and he mistook the exit. Instead of coming out into the vegetable patch, he entered the refuse disposal room by mistake. Here dwelt Ah Choi, a 200-cattie sow of uncertain character and formidable temper.
In a trice, young Wong came screaming out pursued by Ah Choi in a fit of pique. This time, he chose correctly and man and pig raced away at a pace which many a race horse owner would envy.
To cut short a tale of woe, the odd couple cut a swathe of destruction through Tui Min Hoi. Wong thought the pig was mad. Villagers thought them both so. Doors were slammed in their faces until fate led them to a tea shack down by the waterfront, where the Rural Committee had assembled to discuss arrangements for the forthcoming Tin Hau Festival. Man and pig collided with hot tea and steaming dim sum cages in a most satisfactory manner. Practically everyone was scalded or singed and young Wong barely escaped with his life.
In fact, he owed it entirely to Auntie who, arriving breathless, explained to the fuming Rural Committee members that they were covered by third party indemnity and would be compensated. There it was, �in black and white�. Young Wong was obliged to fill out claim forms and approve them on the spot, together with a handsome ex-gratia payment to Uncle and Auntie for causing injury to valuable livestock.
After this, no more was seen of Mr. Black and White but his legend lives on and his reputation is assured as the man who made known the benefits of third party insurance to the benighted villagers of Sai Kung. A true pioneer in his own way.

Edmund Dowding


Things That I Am Living For

(Dreams that I breathe in)

I miss those children�s smiles
In the middle of mountain ranges
Shining sun, blue skies, warm atmosphere
Fragrant rice fields and my own awakening
Heart, ears and eyes

At peace now greed and desire gone
Everything is calm
My sanctuary spreads out in front of me

From a long time friendship, compassion or a sense of guilt ....
No need to ponder from where love comes for here it begins

Yet the smell of crying days and hating nights
A heavy heart like death lingers near
And loudest silence still heard

Be free here .....
So far from being a prisoner of the past
With a carefully folded paper-airplane between my fingers
A smiling child runs as if flying
On dusty roads names are jotted down with a wooden-stick
Wondering if one can remember all those faces and
Names that passed by

Memories sleep in the earliest mornings
Thinking of those children�s smiles is the only thing that remains
Immeasurable joy follows
Calling their names is like a saying a little prayer
I breathe in the pure dew from golden rice fields
And whistle out a song
Bees as large as my thumbs winging around my ears
And tickling my neck
I giggle like a child and try to reach up
To blank clouds in the finest skies
I will open up my arms up to heaven
And face up to it
And I will be shouting
�Here I am ... Still breathing ...
And these are the things that I breathe in.....�

Young-eun Yoo (Year 11 Poetry: Winner)


The Meaning of Life

In a lonely village, which most people did not know of, or had even heard of, there should have been a paradise. It should have been a village which was nurtured in the embrace of nature - a village where cloudless blue skies and endless green fields were not uncommon sights. Yet the discovery of coal there had forever changed the fate of the village and its people. The discovery of coal had led to pollution, disease, and suffering. It had taken away nature�s paradise and exchanged it for a bitter coal mine, a place where almost every single man, woman and child of the village worked arduously under inhumane conditions.
The sky was still dark and the stars had long been blocked out by the thick layer of coal dust. It was the beginning of another day in endless labour. On a road of cobblestones walked a girl. She could not yet make out the black ground in front of her, or even the flat limitless horizon in the distance. The bitter north wind blew in great gusts like a storm at sea. It swept over miles of marshes and bare earth, carrying along with it the cold and darkness. This land had once brought joy and harvest to the people, but now there was nothing left. The cobbled road just ran on and on, through a sea of swirling black shadows. While she walked on the road, she could see the village where she had been born and lived for her whole life. She could sense the limitless spaces around her that bore all the untold sufferings of the people. Her coffee brown hair that had been tied back in a bun had been whipped open by the gale which had lashed itself into a fury and seemed to be blowing death and destruction to the whole world. The girl, perhaps about fifteen or sixteen, wore a pair of miner�s trousers and a coarse linen jacket. A blue cap had been pulled over her head to keep her hair in place, but unfortunately it was not very useful, for it was much too big. It was difficult to tie her hair in place again, because the icy wind had made her hands numb and useless. She, like all the other people, had suffered the same ill fate of working in the coal mine. But soon her fate would be changed forever.
Soon, she could make out a dim crimson flame in the distance. She knew she had arrived at the coal mine because it always had a fire burning as a signal light for the workers. The monstrous coal mine had swallowed and gulped down so many men and soaked up their flesh and blood. She was deafened by the cacophony of rumbling carts and cages, hammer blows and high- pitched ringing of bells. As she walked closer and closer, she could see the loading and unloading of cages that sent people into the fathomless coal pits.
The girl picked up her lamp at the entrance of the coal pit and clipped it to her belt. She stepped into the cage and within a few seconds it had dropped her to the bottom of the pit, where she stepped off and began her day of work. She could barely make out the dark shapes with the faint glimmer of her lamp, but she did not need to, for she knew every bulging rock and every bump off by heart. The shafts got colder and wetter as she went further and further down. She often stepped into pools of water and churned up disgusting layers of mud. The girl followed the other people and disappeared into the shafts. Her job was to pull along tubs full of coal along the shafts. This job was only done by children because they were a form of cheap labour and were small and agile and able to crawl along narrow shafts. The girl was already considered very old for the job. The air got warmer as the shafts got narrower and the ventilation got worse. The heat increased and the air became suffocating, as if it was as heavy as lead.
Marie, as the girl was called, like all other children of the village toiled almost fourteen hours a day dragging along tubs full of coal in stifling air. Their bones creaked and their eyes were blinded by sweat. They crouched down in a cramped position, not able to lift their heads or stretch their bodies. And so they worked on and on until almost midnight. When they went home, they were all extremely tired and hungry. But all that did not matter to Marie anymore, because she was to be married to the owner of the coal mine who was a member of the despised bourgeoisie class. The only reason she chose to marry him was because he threatened to put her father in jail because of the debts he owed him. He had said that if Marie married him, he would forget about the debts. And so she agreed, for the sake of her father. She hated this man with her whole heart and she knew that she would have died from shame. The villagers would have blamed her for marrying someone of the bourgeoisie class to become rich herself.
And so the wedding day arrived. There Marie stood, smothered in a white dress and veil. From the stained glass windows translucent rays cast into the comers of the church. There were no guests invited - only the village priest. Shaking in hate, shame and despair, she destroyed her own life by marrying the one man that people had hated so much. This man was indescribably ugly. His hair was a tar black and his nose was crooked. On his face, pitted with smallpox and outlined with dirty moles, he had a pair of beady eyes and a constantly twitching mouth. He was almost thirty years older than Marie and had been looking for a wife for years. Now he finally married Marie, not out of love, but to use as a slave, for he could make her work in the coal mine without paying her any wages. Slowly, they walked out of the church and into the crowd that insulted and spat at them. Marie hung her head down shamefully and silently accepted all the villagers� insults, but she did not blame them. How would they know of her pains and troubles?
Almost three months had passed now, in which Marie had been constantly beaten, abused and locked up by her husband. But she had endured everything until a week before, when her only remaining relative, her beloved father, had passed away. She had cried her eyes out and refused all food for three days. She blamed herself for not being able to save her father, but despite all this, her husband began to neglect her even more. What was more was that he always beat her in the back or stomach where it was not visible to other people. On top of all this, the coal mine had just collapsed a month before. It had left fifty dead and the rest jobless and starving. But her husband remained completely unsympathetic and refused to give any of the villagers their wages. Everyone raged in fury and started banging on his door, threatening to burn his house down. Marie could hear the shouts of anger and the cries of pain. She could see that the people�s eyes were full of suffering and their faces were full of wrinkles worn by worry and insecurity. Marie was furious as well, and had tried to steal bread to give to the villagers, but every time her husband found out, and beat her half to death. As everyone�s rage reached boiling point, Marie wanted more and more to kill her husband - and finally it happened.
Night had fallen. Marie sat waiting for her husband, her eyes filled with hatred and wrath. Slowly, the door creaked open - the moment that she had anticipated had arrived. Marie shrunk back into the shadows of the room and saw her husband appear. He seemed huge and dark against the background of the soft illuminating light coming from the oil lamp. He was swaying on his feet and she could smell the scent of whisky on his breath. Evidently, he was drunk. Marie edged her way stealthily towards her husband and felt for the knife she had laid on the table. She gripped the knife and lifted her arm. Just as she was about to aim the knife at her husband, she hesitated and dropped it. The knife made a sharp ringing sound as it dropped on the floor, which made her husband turn and stumble towards her. He leapt forward and grabbed hold of her arm. His teeth were barred as if he was snarling at her. Suddenly, she hesitated no longer. Picking up the knife on the floor she raised her arm and with one blow she plunged it into her husband�s chest. It was only then that she realised what she had done. Her husband�s head hit the floor with a thud and his shirt was stained with blood. She trembled as she retreated into the corner of the room. What had she done? Killed a living soul, a human being? She crouched in the dark corner, weeping silently and constantly praying for God to forgive her unforgivable crime. Now and then she lifted the hem of her dress and wiped her eyes. But then, she lifted her head and remembered why she had killed her husband in the first place - to help the starving villagers. And that was exactly what she was going to do. So finding the key to her husband�s safe, she opened it and dragged out all the money - the money that had been made so mercilessly from the sweat and blood of the villagers. Now everyone would get what rightfully belonged to them.
With her hands still trembling, she hurried down the cobbled road. It was inexplicably quiet. Everything around seemed frozen in the deep sleep of the night. She could see almost nothing. Running faster and faster she reached the gloomy houses of the people. At every house she knocked on the door and shouted to the people to tell them that the cruel owner of the coal mine was finally dead! Now they would be able to claim back their wages. Her brave voice echoed through the night, passing each and every house. Her words could be heard everywhere - they were words that would echo forever. Then, as she knew that her job was done, she stood still, content for a moment, and then walked off - off to the police station to admit to her crimes.
A month passed. Everyone in the village had found out what had happened to her. They no longer insulted or humiliated her: instead, they treated her as a heroine.
It was the day that Marie was to be hanged. A warm rain, as gentle as beads, fell as she was led out to the gallows. The rain got heavier, and the raindrops fell like bullets onto the ground. Marie watched the other criminals being hanged one by one, but when it came to her turn, the rope broke. She lowered her head and prepared for her death when she heard a cry, a familiar cry. Suddenly, another voice sounded out, and another, soon the whole crowd was shouting. Marie lifted her head and realised that everyone from her village had come. They were shouting at the guards to let her go. She saw in the crowd all the people she had known since childhood, all the people who had loved and cared for her. It took a long time for the men to get the ropes ready again.
Just as she was about to be blindfolded and hanged the villagers started to storm onto the wooden stand she was standing on. Suddenly, Marie yelled out, �Wait!� The whole crowd was silenced and waited for her to speak. �My people,� she called out. �Please, everyone, you do not need to stop me from being hanged. I killed a human being and so I in turn must be punished. Yet I do not regret a single thing that I have done. Everyone must find a meaning of life; everyone must do something worth while in their life. My happiness and contentment cannot be described simply by words, for I know that although you all have only received the least of what you should deserve, it is the beginning of hope. And that, my people, is the meaning of my life - to give everyone back what rightfully belongs to them and to teach them that they should not be oppressed by other people. It does not matter if I die, as long as the meaning of my life lives.� Those were her final words. Two men blindfolded her and fastened her neck to the coarse rope. She looked round one more time and before she died she felt her life being pulled out of her body by the rope. When they took her body down, a faint smile still played upon her lips. Her deep blue eyes were still open, as if she was yearning to see the temporary, if not permanent, happiness she had brought to the people.
When spring arrived the memory of the coal mine had vanished from the village.
The village�s paradise was returning. Although the villagers were still poor and struggling, all around there were signs of hope. Many people had started to grow crops again. The birds began twittering again and fresh breezes began to sweep over the frozen landscape as if they were giving it life. The sound of rushing water became audible across the once silent and lonely land. Where the monstrous coal mine that had claimed so many lives used to be, there were now only dewy green grasses rippling under the sun and bright yellow daffodils nodding their heads. What Marie gave the people was not simply their wages. She had given them the most important thing: she had taught them to claim what belonged to them and to stand up against the oppression that had made them suffer so much. Marie had given them the true meaning of life.

LiXia (Year 8 Fiction: Winner)

Sydney

If you�re looking for a fortnight of entertainment overseas, I think you should go to Sydney. Located near the south-eastern coast of Australia, Sydney is a tourist�s dream.

Sydney is just about the most scenic place in the world. Anywhere in Sydney, urban or rural, is filled with culture of all sorts. As I must stress again, Sydney is full of beauty.

Darling Harbour is about the best place to start with. In the sparkling sapphire sea lie tiny, white yachts, gently swaying in the mild breeze. You may be surrounded by the noise of clowns, jugglers, etc., but the sight of the harbour is very tranquil and serene.

This changes during a day in July or August. On that particular day the annual Sydney - Darwin Boat Race will be held. Hundreds of boats, big and small, rusty and spotless, seaworthy and not quite so, will gather under the magnificent Sydney Harbour Bridge. This is an ideal time to visit Darling Harbour.

Thirty minutes away is the Lane Cove National Park. There, you can row a boat down a calm stream, watching a giant ferry sail past you with tourists on board waving and shouting �Hello!� as you go by. You can, of course, board the ferry. Both means of transport will enable you to admire the horses running in the fields. You may get a chance to feed a wallaby or an emu towards the end, too. There are also native trees surrounding the whole park.

There are also ducks in the stream, which you can have the pleasure of feeding; or you may chase them away. There are swings and slides for the kids, and there is also a field of horses, open to the public. You can have a picnic there or ride the tame horses.

One and a half hours away from the centre of Sydney are the Blue Mountains. From there, you can walk down into a rainforest and see the birds and insects. You can see the flourishing plants envelop you as you walk deeper into the forest, with only the occasional streak of sunlight. Then, walk precariously along the edge of a cliff to the mountain top, where you can see the rainforest, the cliff, and all the other mountains. On a clear day, you can even see Sydney!

Near that are the Jenolan Caves. A dark, seemingly spooky place, it is a very beautiful, charming area. There are countless stalagmites and stalactites sprouting from the ground and hanging from the ceiling. The rocks seem to take on a rainbow colour and looks splendid indeed. There is also a pool of water in the cave, and this bubbles ferociously.

Ninety minutes to the north lies Old Sydney Town. This is a famous tourist attraction which even locals like to go to. Old Sydney Town is a theme park based on what Sydney looked like during the 1800�s. There, you can see real cannons being fired, a real guillotine, people being whipped and native animals, such as the kangaroo, the koala, the emu, the wallaby, etc.

Nearby is the Entrance. Why this is called the Entrance I don�t have a clue, but I remember the name very well. This is probably because the Entrance is a lovely place. There are countless pelicans roaming freely around the streets, which you can feed with salmon from one of the many fishmongers. There are also many cultural activities which take place there, and the whole place is generally happy and bright.

Shopping is another feature of Sydney. There are plenty of shops and malls around, but by far the biggest is the Westfield shopping complex in Parramatta. In fact, it is the largest in the Southern Hemisphere.

The complex is big enough for you to shop for ten days and never get bored - at least. There are all sorts of books, food, clothing and other bits and pieces sold there.

In the centre of Sydney is the Queen Victoria Building. An old, grand building, it houses over 100 shops and a food court. I recommend you to take the lift. The lift is an old one, but very well kept. I think you should go there in the morning. After that it gets very noisy.

Near the QVB is Paddy�s Market. Open two days a week (according to the season), it is a market full of cheap bargains. It is badly illuminated but still, it is a place worth visiting.

The Rocks is a place where James Cook first landed. It is a good shopping area, and is filled with culture. A wax museum is there too, and the scenery is splendid.

In Darling Harbour many cultural activities take place. Segaworld is also there. In Segaworld there are many rides and games. The decorations are splendid and a fake guillotine is placed in there.

There is the Sydney Harbour Casino near Pyrmont Bay, Darling Harbour. I do not know the details, but it seems as if the food there is excellent, especially the buffet.

Speaking of food, the best place for the family to dine is on top of Sydney, at the top of Sydney Tower. The tower spins at the top, and you can literally see the whole of Sydney on a clear day, at sunset.

Another place for the family to go is the Coca Cola Museum in Circular Quay. There, you can taste all types of Fanta, Sprite or Coke ever invented. My favourite is the Bubble Gum Fanta. After tasting, you can see the history of Coca Cola, and at the end there is a small souvenir shop.

The whole family can enjoy a day at Sydney Wonderland. There are many rides. There are games and a mini-zoo, where you can ride a camel, an elephant or a pony.

If, by chance, it rains, then you could go to the Sydney Entertainment Centre or the Opera House to watch a performance or an opera. There are constantly Disney shows and circuses too.

On a rainy day you could visit the Powerhouse Museum, which is near Chinatown, and is very much like the Hong Kong Science Museum and the Space Museum. Near that is the Sydney Observatory, which is a place full of fun activities and games, all free. My advice is to go there on a sunny day.

On a sunny day you could also go to Bondi Beach. Not really a shopper�s heaven or a beach lover�s palace, but still worth going to. The surf is great and, guess what? NO SHARKS!

Manly Beach is more of a real beach. There aren�t too many people, probably since you need to take a ship there. There is the Manly Aquarium, and the Aquarium is filled with all sorts of rare and unusual fish.

An animal lover would love Taronga Zoo. A short boat ride away from Circular Quay, the place is full of unusual animals and native Australian animals. You might even get a chance to hug them!

A fortnight will probably be enough to glance at Sydney�s attractions. Sydney is simply so wonderful to visit. Sydney is simply magnificent.

Loren Lam (Year 7 Non-fiction: Winner)


Charge of the Maths Brigade

Half an hour, half an hour,
Half an hour onward,
All in the valley of Trig
Wrote the one hundred.
�Forward, the Maths Brigade!
Aim for an �A�!� he said:
Into the valley of Trig
Wrote the one hundred.

�Forward the Maths Brigade!�
Was there a little dismay?
Not tho� the students knew
To full marks there was no way
Their�s not to sob and cry
Their�s not to question pi
Their�s but to make a try
Into the valley of Trig
Wrote the one hundred.

Tan(n) to right of them,
Tan(n) to left of them,
Tan(n) in front of them,
They puzzl�d and blunder�d;
Storm�d at with x and y
Boldly raised to the �i�
Into the jaws of Trig
Into the mouth of Pi
Wrote the half-dozen

Flash�d all their pen-tips bare,
Flash�d as they found the square
Cubing a number there,
Charging a maths test, while
All the school wonder�d:
Plunged into complex sums
Tired, o�erused brains so numb
Complex and integer
Reel�d as an answer comes
Work�d out and Solv�ed
Then they finished, but not,
Not the one hundred.

Tan(n) to right of them,
Tan(n) to left of them,
Tan(n) behind them
Puzzl�d and blunder�d;
Storm�d at with x and y
Many a breakdown nigh
They who had made a try
Came thro� the jaws of Trig
Back from the mouth of Pi
All that was left of them,
Left of one hundred.

Whose hand should not be shook?
O that mad test they took!
While all the school wonder�d
Honour the test they took!
What heroes they now look,
Noble one hundred!

Alex, Lord Tennysum (Alias Alex Panayotopoulos)


Bubble-Gum

Ashley pressed her sweaty palms together. The sun beat down on the dirt path, making her t- shirt drip and her feet squelch in her sneakers.
�There you are! I�ve been looking all over for you! Are we going in or not?� She spun around. There was Lily, loudly cracking her gum and beaming at Ashley.
�Yeah, I guess so...� she replied. Her glance wandered to the 7 Eleven window where the bright fluorescent lights illuminated the store.
�Look, if you don�t want to do this, I...� Lily began.
�No, it�s okay. But you have to go in first.� She wondered how Lily could be so relaxed, so casual about the whole thing. Before she could dwell anymore on the thought, however, Lily grabbed her arm and dragged her towards the shop. After a few feet, Ashley�s legs began to behave themselves and she was able to walk slowly, if not calmly, into the 7 Eleven.
The glass doors slid open in front of Lily as she pulled her friend past the bubble gum machines and into the air-conditioned store.
�I told you, if you want to chicken out, it�s fine with me. It just means that I get the whole pack.�
�No, no, it�s okay....really, it is.� Ashley was really about to wet her pants, but she couldn�t tell that to Lily.
�Fine. You get the gum and I�ll make sure no-one�s looking.�
�But......� Before Ashley could say anything, the other girl had marched off, leaving her in the middle of the toiletries aisle. She looked around, remembering the numerous times she had been there before. Why was it so different now? Her palms began to get itchy and the air-con started to chill her, making it even more difficult to think straight. It�s just a pack of gum she assured herself They can�t send me to jail for that, right? Already, she had made her way to the candy section, and was trying to look innocent while rifling through a box of Bubble Yum. Finally she thought, pulling out a piece of strawberry. I wonder if Lily�s still here? If she�s gone, I�ll just eat the whole pack. It�ll serve her right for making me get it.
Stuffing the pink wrapper into her pocket, she slowly made her way towards the checkout counter. An overweight woman with brown, stringy hair sat on the stool, reading Martha Stewart Living. As Ashley approached, she saw the woman bore a tag saying �Hi, I�m Beth and I�ll be happy to serve you�. On it were three smiley-face stickers, faded and beginning to peel off.
�Hi, honey,� the clerk said, lifting her face from the magazine. �Anything I can help you with?� Ashley began to sweat. Where was Lily? What was she supposed to do?
�Ummm, yeah, well I was looking for some pens, but it doesn�t....� Already she was inching towards the door, ready to make a dash for it as soon as the woman attacked.
�We�ve got pens,� she said, motioning to a rack of biros near the end of the aisle. �You need them for school or do you want some of those fancy ones the kids like nowadays? The pens we�ve got...�
�No, really, it�s okay. I left my money at home anyway...�
Just then, Lily walked in. Without giving a glance at Beth, she motioned to me and said, �Come on - are you finished yet? My dad�s picking us up soon.�
Although Beth didn�t notice, she shot me a questioning look and I winked back. We both made a bee-line for the door and only stopped when we had gotten outside. I pulled the gum out of my pocket and handed it to Lily, who in turn ripped open the packet. She pulled out a stick and unwrapped it , then shrieked with alarm, �You dummy! I told you to get grape!�

Kate Riley


Don�t Blame the Trenchcoats

Don�t blame the guns. Don�t blame the trench coats. Blame the children, the victims, the mainstream. Blame
teachers, parents, and principals. Blame society.
The recent tragedy in Colorado seems to be a simple case in which two crazed kids opened fire on their classmates, who are now being held as heroes and �martyrs�. All blame was immediately put upon the gunmen, and the whole case was deemed a mystery, with no motive or cause. But there was a motive. There was a reason for 17 year old Klebold and 18 year old Harris to go on their murderous rampage, and that reason was that they were outcasts, and were tormented daily by their peers.
I would first like to make clear that in no way do I approve of killing people, no matter what reason there is. There is never any excuse to take the life of another human being. This I will never agree with. I think that what happened on the 20th of April was disgusting, and I hope that nothing of the sort ever arises again. It will happen again, though, for the simple reason that as a society we do not learn from out mistakes. We feel pain at tragic events, and then forget without putting in place any measures to prevent another catastrophe and further suffering.
Children are nasty, mean, and cold people. They will tease and harass anyone who happens to live slightly differently, or a person who strives to hold onto their individuality. Schools are suited to shallow, good looking people who think solely about clothes, the results of the recent football game, and members of the opposite sex. To be accepted as popular one must adapt the group mind that is possessed by the �in� group. One must think as the group thinks, say what the group says, and act as the group acts. In other words, one must forfeit all individualism and alternative thought. There are a few children, however, who see more in life. They decide to rebel against the mainstream, and for this they are often abused and tormented.
Harris and Klebold decided to rebel, as did the other members of the Trench Coat Mafia. Not all of their members were Hitler-loving black-hating racists. There were some who just wanted to be different, and be individuals. All were discriminated against, though, and because of this, Harris and Klebold wrongly decided to slaughter as many of their enemies as possible to punish them. Instead of conforming to the pathetic mold of the popularity, which is favoured by teachers and peers, and is shallow and meaningless, they decided to kill. To them, it was more important to kill than give in to the pressures of the people they hated. And that�s what they did.
The shooting was not a crime with no motive, and Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold cannot be the only ones held accountable for the deaths of the 13 people shot. The cruel children at their school can be blamed for pushing them to it. Their teachers, parents, deans and principals can be blamed for not noticing telltale signs of a problem. Again, the teachers and principals can be blamed a great deal for not bringing to order the harsh children who drove the boys to their final act. Suffering was not only experienced by the victims of the shooting and their friends and relatives, but was also felt for many years as a result of constant bullying by Eric Harris and Dylan Klebold. The victims were not innocent. Over the years, many of them may have pushed the gunmen to the shooting.
In much of society, objects that are reminders of the tragedy have been banned. People have been refused entry to schools for the simple act of wearing a trench coat, even where they may have been wearing one for years. Gothic teens, often highly intelligent and sensitive, have been looked down upon since the shooting, and have been subjected to random abuse from strangers and peers. This shows society�s stupidity in not learning from their previous mistakes of pushing �outcasts� to perform desperate acts with fatal consequences. Many people have been suspended and forced to attend counselling sessions after expressing their understanding of why Harris and Klebold shot their classmates, similar to what I am doing as I write this. Schools are refusing the rights of their students� free thought and speech, comparable to the thought control and restrictions in George Orwell�s �1984�. They are being discouraged from thinking as individuals and encouraged to conform to the model set down by the popular groups of the school. Individualism is slowly, bit by bit, being made unlawful in schools. Even in our school, although not related to the recent happenings in Colorado, students are made to dye their bleached or dyed hair back to normal, and wear clothes that are considered closer to what is acceptable by society.
Banning trench coats and all other forms of individuality, including free thought and speech, is not the answer to preventing any further school shootings. The answer is in teaching all students to be individuals, and not to stick by the rigid cast set down by popularity. If everyone has a small amount of individuality, then gradually society will learn to accept others as they are. Toleration, acceptance, and compassion.

Sam Graham (Year 10 Non-fiction: Winner)


Finding Me

I�m opening the door,
Letting the light flood in,
Finding holes that are empty
That cast no shadows.

I�m dropping my armour,
Watching it fall,
Admiring the weight
And the familiarity within.

I�m turning the leaf,
Seeing the other side,
Examining its faults,
Committing it to memory.

I�m cracking the egg,
Watching the insides
Become the outside,
Observing old turn to new.

I�m shedding my skin,
Sliding out like a snake,
Changing like a butterfly,
Appearing unspoiled.

I�m finding myself
New under old layers,
Fresh from the years,
Sparkling with life.

Mikala Tai


Our Saviour

She is a godsend. She is womanhood personified. She has been a teacher, a mother, a sister and a role model for girls across the world. She is the embodiment of grace, beauty and intelligence. She is a dynamic and independent woman. She transcends borders, traditions and time. She sets the standard for racial harmony. She is Barbie.

The one woman who has been able to educate our young about equality, hard work and health is made of plastic. In these trying times of death and desecration to whom do young girls look for their moral and ideological upbringing? For centuries women have been trying to find their place in society. Today women know their place and understand their duties and roles in our society. It is not because of the suffragettes or any other women�s movements. It is because of Barbie. Barbie has created an image for women to aspire to and a lifestyle to emulate. She�s hip, she�s hot, she�s eternally young and she has a great time.

Barbie has a job, she has friends, she has pool-parties and she even makes her own ice cream. If every woman could do that, the world would be a better place. Barbie reminds women that they are living in the nearly 21st Century. Women today have choices that have never been available to them before. Barbie�s accessories transform her into an astronaut, or into a business woman and serve to open every woman�s eyes to the myriad opportunities which are now available to them. Barbie is on the leading edge of feminism.

Barbie�s hour-glass figure is a model of timeless beauty. Is that such a bad goal for young women? She is healthy and vivacious. She has the ideal body. Those who criticise Barbie for her appearance in fact, advocate laziness. Since they can�t be bothered to be slim and make themselves attractive, they attack women who are. Do we want to encourage women to become obese and unhealthy by making them play with the Body Shop�s new �voluptuous� Ruby doll? As a result of their own sloth, Ruby doll advocates have ignited a revolt against beauty and health. They are trying to make people believe that bigger is better. Being slim is not only attractive, it is also healthy. Barbie can thus be seen as a symbol of health.

Barbie is not dependent on men. She has her own job, her own house and her own car. Her boyfriend Ken comes and goes but she is very much her own ruler. In contrast to the traditional male-dominated society, in Barbie�s world Ken is a side-figure who was created specifically to be her boyfriend. At a time when feminists are promoting the �liberation� of women Barbie is already setting the example for young girls to follow.

Barbie is also on the leading edge of racial tolerance. She truly does transcend traditions and borders. There are more than six Barbies that have different ethnic origins. Each time she appears as a different racial type, she promotes the culture of her origins. The 1997 Hong Kong Handover edition Barbie wears a traditional Chinese Cheong Sam. Barbie is a symbol of the �global village�. She appears as Native American, Chinese, African, Indian and a variety of other ethnic groups. As America woke up to the dawn of desegregation and racial tensions were still high, Mattel was the only company that dared to be different. Promoting racial harmony, Mattel came out with its newest doll: Barbie�s best friend, who is African American.

These are difficult times. Who will guide us from the depths of despair, along the perilous path to prosperity? Barbie will lead us to health, Barbie will lead us towards unity, Barbie will lead us to equality and Barbie will lead us towards hope.

Ateesh Chanda (Year 12 Non-fiction: Winner)


One Last Thing

One last thing I�d like to know,
Where did you go?
My eyes,
Like glistening sun
In water,
Shed fresh rain
From heaven.
Did you dare
Go there?
Warm days
Now just a phrase
Speak in my mind
Like pasts behind.
One last kiss
From afar,
Shadows my lips
Like old past-time scars.
My only hope
Still flutters
In my bone-caged brain.
What is it?
That I�ll never know.
One last think I�d like to know
Where did you go?

Pascale Ng (Year 10 Poetry: Winner)


Two Dragons

Pete was mixing a scotch and soda for an elderly American lady when someone he thought he recognized walked in. He could not see him properly at first, as the crowd obscured his view. But he could see that he was tall, forty-something with a graying beard and round-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a brown waterproof jacket.
When the scotch and soda was ready, the lady took it graciously. Pete then watched the man as he shuffled sideways through the crowd and over to the bar. It was then that he could put a name to the face. It was Mr. Lewis, his old teacher.
�Mr. Lewis - what a pleasant surprise!� said Pete with a smile. �What a small world it is. So how are things at school? It must�ve changed over three years. Something to drink?�
Mr. Lewis looked grim. He didn�t reply immediately. Instead he sighed deeply, and said: �I knew you would be here Peter. I found out where you work by calling your mother. I have something important to discuss.�
Pete was intrigued. It would have to be important for Mr. Lewis to have bothered calling his mother, then coming all the way down to Wan Chai. It was an hour�s drive from Mr. Lewis� home in Sai Kung. And Pete knew that Mr. Lewis didn�t make a trip like that unless he really needed to.
�Fire away, then. I�m all ears,� said Pete, wiping down the bar.
�I can�t talk about it here. It�s a bit of a sensitive matter.� He had a tense, hunted look on his face, and was leaning right forward across the bar so that he would be audible to Pete, but not too conspicuous. �It�s about your friend Percy.�
Pete looked confused. �Do you mean...Percy Tang?�
�Yes. But keep your voice down when you say that name, Pete. It�s become a bit of a taboo in some areas of society.�
�Sorry Mr. Lewis. What�s he been up to?� Pete asked, a frown creasing his pleasant, open face. �I know we were good mates at school - but I haven�t seen him since the Leaver�s Party. He went to university in Vienna to do a degree in Fine Art, and I haven�t heard from him since.�
�I really can�t talk about it here, Pete,� said Mr. Lewis softly. He reached inside his jacket and produced a small envelope from an inner pocket. �Take this and read it at home,� he said, discreetly sliding the envelope across the bar. �Then give me a call.�
With that, Mr. Lewis pulled his way back through the crowd and out the door. Pete looked down at the envelope before tucking it into his trouser pocket. He couldn�t wait to open it.

****

Pete�s shift officially ended at four, but before he left he had to count the money in the till, and then wait for Frank and the morning crew to take over. Two waiters and three waitresses operated the same hours as Pete. The morning crew had less waiting staff, but a couple more kitchen assistants to help Frank with the Sunday breakfasts usually arrived around six. The little kitchen was only really put to use on Sunday mornings, because at other times it was just used for storage. Frank and his assistants had gained the bar the reputation of serving the best breakfast in town.
When Frank arrived, there were still a few people in the bar. A Swedish couple, perhaps jet- lagged from a recent flight, sat at a table in the corner with a bottle of red wine. There were several drunkards, all young westerners, slumped across the tables and sliding to the floor. With his jacket over his shoulder, Pete surveyed the scene.
�I�ll leave you the task of kicking them out, Frank,� he said as he left.
Pete walked quickly home. He hadn�t forgotten the envelope, tucked into his trouser pocket.
It had been raining, and murky puddles lined the shallow concrete ditch between the curb and the tarmac. There were still cars on the road, and more often than not they shot through these puddles, dissecting them into a dirty spray that drenched any unfortunate passer-by from the knee downwards.
As he walked home, Pete looked up at the many neon signs hanging right over the road. They displayed names like �Hot Lips Bar� and �The Neptune�. And their garish light - red, green and orange - created curious reflections on the ripples of disturbed puddles.
Pete unlocked his front door and immediately walked over to the sofa. He sat down with a thump, and after gathering his thoughts he reached for the envelope. On the front, his name was written in blue biro.
After ripping it open, he discovered a single sheet of file paper, folded perfectly to fit the envelope. He pulled it out, unfolded it, and then began to read:

Peter,

The police, or rather the newly-formed Anti-Triad Operations Bureau, has been in contact with the headmaster of the school, regarding Percy Tang. They believe that he is now heavily involved with the operations conducted by his father, the infamous Tai Lo, Mr. Tang Man Kit.

They tell us that it is even possible that his father has put him in control of the new branches of their gang in Vienna and other Austrian cities, Zurich, Lucerne, Venice and unknown locations in Slovenia. It is estimated that their sect, now apparently known as Yi Loon, Two Dragons, has membership numbering in the thousands, perhaps ten thousand or more. They already have strongholds in Auckland, Sydney, San Francisco, New York, Vancouver, Toronto, London, Manchester, Paris and many Asian cities - as well as their base here in Hong Kong. They direct all kinds of organised crime, including smuggling of drugs, cars and other goods, but the nature of their criminal operations varies according to the city or country where the base is located.

The reason that I am contacting you about this is that the A.T.O.B. is looking for someone who knew Percy well, as Mr. Tang Senior is apparently almost invisible outside his own circle. Although they don�t like to ask for direct help from the public, they believe that the only way to crack the Yi Loon gang is through Percy. So they contacted the school, as they know that Percy had attended it. And the headmaster asked me to get in touch with you - as I taught both you and Percy in your last year, three years ago. I know that you will probably be the best chance for this operation, as you seemed to spend more time with Percy than anyone else. Please call me and let me know where you stand. Then we can contact the A.T.O.B. The A.T.O.B. stipulated that I must get word to you in a most inconspicuous manner, and this is rather a lot of information for a phone call, so I decided to write it down. And naturally, you MUST NOT tell ANYONE about what�s going on. My phone number is written below. Please memorize it, and then destroy this letter.

Best regards,

John Lewis

Pete re-read the letter before carefully folding it along the creases and slipping it back into its envelope. Poor old Lewis, he thought. How wrong could someone be. He had always thought Pete was such a loser, failing all his exams and ending up working in a bar. He had never understood why Pete and Percy, brilliant A* Percy, should be such good friends. Lewis was a decent old guy, Pete thought, but he didn�t know anything about friendship or loyalty. Now Lewis had made a big mistake.
Pity it would have to end this way.
Pete kicked off his shoes and went through to his bedroom. There, in front of the mirror, he slowly took off his shirt. It was the best design Percy had ever done, he thought, as he looked at the tattoo on his chest. He remembered the night, after the Leavers� Party, when they had gone down to Wan Chai to get it done. Two dragons, intertwined, from his collarbone to his navel.
Slowly, he reached for his mobile phone...

Chris Wilkins (Year 10 Fiction: Winner)


Sitting on an Unwashed Cloud

Sitting on an unwashed cloud, your hair is matted and mussed, Dusty wings have been cast aside and harp strings have gone to rust; There�s dirt beneath the fingernails and a glazed look in your eyes, You sit like a burned-out acid freak and stare across the skies. Search the heavens with haunted eyes �cause your mind still walks through pain, Your thoughts are down in that netherworld, in that burning fiery rain. Crawl down through a manhole, to a stench you know quite well, �Neath the sewers of the street you touch the shores of hell; Scale the crusted, rusted gates and past the snarling hounds, Float the putrid river Styx, still down and further down; See the lost souls sitting in that sickly yellow light, Left for all eternity to ponder on their plight. Slowly turn on a white-hot spit Crackle of skin as flesh is split, Sulphur fills the nostrils, walls are dripping with slime and mud; A hairy imp with a pointed stick bastes you in your blood. Eye balls boil inside the skull and the throat�s too charred to scream, Sleep the sleep of the burning dead and dream unspeakable dreams.

Ying Yue Li


Satanism

The reason I chose to write about this religion is because I feel that the way society has always treated it is unfair.
You may find it awkward how I classify Satanism as a religion, but that�s what it really is. Satanism has all the aspects of a religion according to the definition printed under the word �religion� in the Oxford Dictionary. Satanists believe in a God and follow a system of faith and worship.
As the Christians have their Ten Commandments, Satanists also have their Ten Satanic Rules of the Earth:

* Do not give opinion or advice unless you are asked.
* Do not tell your troubles to others unless you are sure they want to hear them.
* When in another�s lair, show him respect or else do not go there.
* If a guest in your lair annoys you, treat him cruelly and without mercy.
* Do not make sexual advances unless you are given the mating signal.
* Do not take that which does not belong to you unless it is a burden to the other person and he cries to be relieved.
* Acknowledge the power of magic if you have employed it successfully to obtain your desires.
* If you deny the power of magic after having called upon it with success, you will lose all you have obtained.
* Do not complain about anything to which you need not subject yourself.
* Do not harm little children.
* When walking into open territory, bother no one. If someone bothers you, ask him to stop. If he does not stop destroy him.

Many members of society do not consider themselves as racist just because they use the words African-American instead of �Niggers�, Chinese instead of �Chinks�, and Native-Americans instead of �Savages�. Yet, I bet that if you went and told these same people that you were a Satanist they would keep their family and themselves as far away from you as possible. In their ignorance because they�d think that you went around town sacrificing children and animals, and drinking blood. I cannot stress enough how untrue that is!
The ninth and tenth rules of Satanism state that you should not harm children or animals (unless you need the animals for food, or are under attack by them). This is no worse than the hunters who shoot animals for sport, or the �normal� person who follows a meat diet. And secondly, drinking blood? They are Satanists not vampires! Surely they don�t honestly believe that they are blood-sucking immortals now do you? Now vampires do exist - but not as the vicious, fanged, neck-biting, black-cape-wearing people that everyone seems to think they are. They are merely a group of people who worship the ancient religion. Even if they did drink blood, they�d only drink as much as the next person i.e. the people who eat their steaks rare, the British who eat �Black Pudding�, the Chinese who eat solidified chickens� blood, the Vietnamese who drink snakes� blood and the Scottish who eat �Haggis�.
Satanists can be and are like any other �normal� person out there. The author and creator of the �Sherlock Holmes� books - Sir Arthur Conan Doyle - was a Satanist. Notice the SIR at the beginning of his name. Would he have been knighted if he had committed any one of those crimes? I�d think most probably NOT.
Christianity is considered as one of the main religions of the world and, because of this, many non-Christians start to follow their beliefs in heaven and hell, Christmas, Easter and so on. And many imagine Satan as the stereotype of a red-coloured demon with two horns on its head, carrying a pitchfork, and existing as the ruler of hell under the name, as he is known to many, of The Prince of Darkness. Has anyone got any solid evidence whatsoever to prove this? The answer is no. Why can�t society just treat and think of Satan as a �being of higher consciousness�, as Satanists do?
The followers of Satanism don�t believe in God, heaven or hell. They try and face reality instead of looking up to a God that may not even exist. Do they look up to their God - Satan? The truth of the matter is no: they don�t believe in him but they believe that there is a higher state of consciousness somewhere in the world that exists as Satan. The majority of Satanists don�t join the religion to worship Satan; they tend to join as a rejection of Christianity - which is why Satan has also been named the Anti-Christ. They just want to stand up for their rights because they agree with the idea of the real Satanist religion.
Without doubt the worst rule from the Ten Satanic Rules of the Earth is number ten, which says �destroy him�. That may sound evil and unjust but it doesn�t necessarily mean you have to kill the person, because you can emotionally or mentally destroy someone by driving him or her insane. But aren�t these rules reasonable? Aren�t they vastly different to how you�d expect them to be? If you believe these rules to be false, they aren�t. They have been copied word for word from the Satanic Bible.
Now I must admit that there are Satanist cults, and I won�t hide the fact that they have horrific rituals; but there are Christian cults too, which can be much worse. Just as mainstream Christianity such as the Roman Catholics, the Methodists, and the Protestants are all right, so is mainstream Satanism. But there are Christian cults that stretch the truth far from what the original idea was, just like Satanic cults. The Jesus Army is a Christian cult who do not allow their children to play with toys as the elders of the group (the supposed wise people of the cult) claim that toys are a work of Satan, as with television and other forms of entertainment. Do you see Roman Catholic children with toys? Yes, and this is my point. The Jesus Army and Roman Catholicism are nothing alike, as with mainstream Satanism and all the Satanist cults.
With the Christian cults, their excuse for their behaviour always has to do with something negative about Satan. For example: - toys are the work of the devil, TV is the work of the devil, and �you are the son of Satan and so therefore you must accept a harsh punishment�. Why all this criticism towards Satan? Surely toys weren�t his invention - just imagine, Satan sitting in his lair creating the next Play-stations and cyber-pets.
In our culture we must learn to stop criticising the beliefs of others. There has been a decrease in racism over the years, there has been less injustice towards the African-Americans - slavery has been abolished and laws have been set up protecting them and awarding them equality; the Chinese are being more readily accepted into more and more societies and the Nazis have stopped persecuting the Jews.
I just hope that someday people will stop criticising Satanists and their religion, and try to understand them rather than listening to stereotypes and keeping their distance.
Over a long and slow process it could be achieved. Then we would be a step further out of injustice and prejudice, and a step further into equality.

Cheryl Lee


The Prince Who Lived in a Suitcase

Once a pond a dime, I knew a prince. He lived in my building on the sixty third floor. I lived on the nineteenth. I met him on the lift one day, on the way to school. He was tall and dark, but too skinny to be called handsome.
�Hello, my name is Jay.�
�My name�s Traksalovasink. Prince Traksalovasink to be exact,� he proclaimed proudly.
That was my first conversation with him, if you can call it that. His face was chiselled. He had smooth tanned skin, black bushy hair and a square jaw. He had a rather strange dress code for a prince. He wore faded jeans cut off at the knees and a Hawaiian shirt with paint splotches (or was it jam?). He also wore flip-flops. But I just assumed that princes dressed like that, although I was rather disappointed. I expected princes to be gallant figures (who had brown hair) with swords on galloping steeds. After all, I was seven.
I asked what kind of kingdom he had. He said he owned the kingdom of suitcases and that he lived in one himself. His lady lived in a carpet-bag. I didn�t believe him. I was seven, but I wasn�t that daft. He told me to come over after school.
I took the lift but there was no button for the sixty third floor. I had to walk up the stairs from the sixty-second floor.
�Hello!� a voice cried.
�Who is that?�
�Over he-umph-ooh!�
�In the suitcase?�
�Yes, can you open it for me?�
I opened it and the prince tumbled out - just like that! He was rather messed up and one of his shoes was missing.
�It�s my wife,� he sighed.
�The carpet-bag?�
�No, no, no, no. The carpet bag is just her way of travelling between the two worlds.�
Even though there was no one around he leaned closer to me and starting whispering.
�You see, every person who believes in magic can enter my world through their favourite bag.�
As soon as I got home I got my Mickey Mouse travelling bag and somehow, squished myself in. It was really stuffy at first, but it gradually became cooler. Soon I found myself in a meadow. With my prince, of course. Standing over us was a lady shaking a hazel stick. She looked pretty mad. Her chestnut curls were everywhere. She had a tiny blue crown on her head. All her clothes held a tint of blue.
�I won�t have my husband bounding around to suit his every whim in those disgraceful clothes!�
�Calm down, we have a guest.�
�I told you not to bring any humans or any other souvenirs.�
The prince winked at me and mouthed, �Just a moment�. Soon enough the princess returned and looked me over. I supposed she decided that I was all right. She took me to her palace, introduced me to her in-laws, gave me dancing lessons and took me horse riding.
We did some gricking as well. Gricking was quite an unusual sport. Everyone, including the king and queen, had to wear sneakers.
The servants made a 100m strip of mud. First all the contestants ran after a mechanical rabbit for 300 meters (The posh ladies tripped because they refused to change and wore fancy dresses), ran for the dirty strip and rolled in the mud for the 100m stretch to reach the finish line. Nobody got safely to the finish line. Everyone was a mess. After a dip in the lake the day ended with jokes, food and dancing.
It was getting rather late and I decided that I�d better go home. The prince guided me to a pond. I dived down to the bottom and found myself in my bag again. I felt awfully cramped.
After that I went to the kingdom of suitcases quite frequently. I had many wonderful adventures. I met the Glass Suitcase who sat on a wall and advised her to scatter around some mattresses. I saw the Great Pile of Duffel Bags and went to the Name Tag Studios. I also helped get rid of the Cut, Snip and Crush Factory.
But as the years went by, my visits grew further and further apart. The prince�s suitcase was taken away by garbage men. We moved away. Then one day I stopped going or even thinking about my friends altogether. The day I turned thirteen, I stopped believing in magic. Once I tried to get into my bag, when I was thirteen. It didn�t work. This year, for old time�s sake, I went to my old building. I pressed the 62 floor and got off. I looked for the well-worn familiar steps but there were none. I asked the security. There never had been a 63rd floor.
But I have a photo. A photo taken at the entrance of their flat in the building. And I can just make out the sign on the door; �63C�.

Jay Kim


The Dream Child

And as she slowly falls asleep
She is taken
Into her dream world...

Her eyes are the stars
Her soul, the wind
And she watches him

The dream child
The cloud chaser
The bearded myth

With such grace he flies
Into the clear night sky
His breath mists the chilly air

Starlight spins down his spiralled horn
The frost chases his silver neck
His gold mane ripples in the wind

Speed sparks leap,
From hoof to hoof
As he dances across the moon

And ocean waves rise
Rise, to catch the tip
Of his gold coloured tail

He splashes up silver surf
And his hooves fling up sand,
As he canters across the deserted beach

His delicate purple hooves glow, in the moonlight
His nostrils are flared
And his ears are pricked

But, as the dawn draws near
And the child begins to wake
His eyes grow weary

As the sun rises on the beach
He settles down,
To sleep the day away

And wait for the next night�s dream...

Emily Healy


Variations

Sometimes, I think, we are, because God is,
Not �cogito, ergo sum�.
Denying choice and truth that�s mine, not His,
Of ideas, whose time has come.

Thinking is identical with being,
I thought, therefore, I believed.
Quite forgot that looking can be seeing,
I doubted - and was deceived.

Or was it, merely, that I thought to think?
Confused �you ought� with �I can�;
Swept crumbs of reason underneath the sink,
Poised to be a thinking man.

But thoughtlessly condoning thoughtfulness,
Binding foot to fit the shoe,
I married false belief to real distress,
Since I did not think it through.

Edmund Dowding


The Decision

�Would Ben Taylor and Steven Carter please report to the principal�s office immediately!� The principal�s secretary�s voice boomed on the large speaker in the top corner of our classroom.
�Okay, you two. Off to his office at once!� our history teacher, Mrs. Bishop, said to me and Ben.
�Hope you haven�t done anything bad!� she teased.
This brought a few giggles from our class. I walked slowly to the door of our classroom, with Ben just behind me, and turned the doorknob. I looked back at my class. I could see lots of people whispering to each other, no doubt about us. I stepped into the hallway, shutting the door behind me and Ben. We walked in silence down the long corridor filled with lockers. I heard footsteps behind me and when I looked back, I saw David Kerr walking a few metres behind me. Now I knew for sure what this was about and I knew what I had to do. I thought back to how this had all started....

It was a Friday afternoon. I had maths as my last lesson and it was going awfully slowly. Mr. Clark, my maths teacher, was writing on the board about multiplying fractions. I did not understand a word of what he was saying so I didn�t bother listening. If there was one thing I hated about school most, it was maths. This was probably because I never understood it and did not enjoy it at all. I looked at the clock on the wall. Two thirty!? That meant that there was another forty minutes of maths. I sunk my head into my hands and started to think about the week end. My thought was interrupted by a voice. �Is there a problem Mr. Carter?� It was Mr. Clark.
�Oh no!� I said.
�Well then, you will probably be able to answer the question on the board,� Mr. Clark said. I looked at the board and seeing what was on it, I sat there with my mouth open in silence. After about ten seconds in this pose, the whole class burst out laughing and even Mr. Clark couldn�t stop a grin forming on his face. �Maybe someone could help Mr. Carter here with this question,� Mr. Clark said. Numerous hands shot up and Mr. Clark chose one of them. �The answer is ten over sixteen,� Stephanie Mitchell replied with a huge grin on her face. Stephanie was a teacher�s pet. She would always be the one who would take this paper down to another teacher and get that teacher some coffee. I quite genuinely hated her. Mr. Clark carried on talking and I tried to pay attention for the rest of the lesson and I think that I learnt more in that one lesson than I had for two months. I was quite proud of myself.
The bell for home-time rang loudly above my head and along with the other twenty-eight members of my class, I started packing up my bag to go home, at a tremendous rate. It was a Friday and we wanted to get home for the week-end. Mr. Clark was trying to tell us our homework for the week-end but it was only getting through to some people. �Goodbye class!� Mr. Clark said to us but this was more or less drowned out by the commotion of us trying to rush out the door. In the end, we all made it to the hallway without being harmed, surprisingly. As usual, we rushed out of school into the grass playground along with the other nine-hundred and seventy students attending the school.
I saw Ben walking alone and I caught up with him. �Hey, Ben!� I shouted and he turned around.
�Oh, hi Steve. How�s it goin�?� he said. Ben and I have been best friends for years and we�ve been through a lot together.
�Fine I guess,� I replied. I waited till we walked past David Kerr and his two mates before I whispered, �Actually, I�m not that fine. I got beaten up by David and his two mates again.�
�Oh, man, not again! They�re always picking on you,� Ben said with sympathy. David Kerr is more or less the school bully and generally in the recent weeks he has been picking on me. �How�s your day been?� I asked Ben, trying to change the subject.
�You know you should do something about this,� Ben said, ignoring me.
�Yeah, I know but I mean if I tell anyone, that will just make him pick on me even more.�
�I suppose.� We walked in silence for the next couple of minutes and we were walking beside a road. After a while, Ben spoke up, �What are you doing this Saturday?� he asked.
�Nothing much,� I replied.
�Well do you want to come over some time?�
�Sure, that would be cool,� I said, cheering up a bit.
�Nice car!� Ben said, turning my attention to the road. Driving toward us at a fast speed was a silver Mercedes Benz which looked brand new. I only had a few seconds to admire the sight for, before I knew it, Ben had grabbed hold of my school bag and heaved me toward the road, right into the path of the car! Usually he would pull back on the bag pulling me back to safety and give me a great shock, but this time, it all went horribly wrong. As he pulled the bag back, my arms slipped out of the straps and I kept on falling forward, with the car still rushing towards me. The next second was filled with the realization that I was in trouble then the fear of being badly hurt or even.....dead! The car�s radiator hit me with tremendous force as I felt an excruciating pain in my ribs. The next part seemed to go in slow motion as I flew several feet through the air and saw the ground rushing towards me. For a brief moment, I felt a sharp pain in my left arm, and then I blacked out.

When I woke up, I was in a bed with lots of people surrounding me. Most of them were doctors and nurses but I recognised my parents and my little sister. Also, I noticed my arm was in a cast. �He�s awake!� my mum said with joy and reached down to hug me. Everyone was extremely happy to see me awaken and made a big fuss over me for the next couple of minutes. �What happened to me?� I asked, a bit confused.
Everyone had an even more confused look. �We thought you could tell us that,� my dad replied.
�Well I remember finishing school on Friday, but I don�t remember anything after that,� I said, getting more confused. �Well someone made a �999� call and an ambulance found you lying on the road. It seems you were hit by a car,� one of the many doctors said.
�I honestly don�t remember.�
After about an hour of waiting around and taking some tests, a detective came in. He said his name was Detective Wilcox. �We think that someone might have pushed you, Steven,� he said. I listened in horror. Somebody pushed me? �We found two sets of fingerprints. One belonging to Ben Taylor which were on your bag, so we think that they are irrelevant, but we also found another set of fingerprints, belonging to David Kerr. These were on the back of your shirt so he is our prime suspect. I trust you know both of them. Don�t worry though. The punishment would probably just be expulsion, not going to jail. But are you sure you don�t remember what happened?�
�Yes. I�m sure,� I said.
�Well if you do remember anything, call me at this number.� With this, he handed me a card.
�Okay, thank you officer,� my mum said, and with this, the detective left.
Later that day, the doctors said I was well enough to leave and that afternoon, I went home with my family. It was Sunday and it was good to be back home. I stayed home and didn�t go to Ben�s house, though I phoned him and told him that I was okay. That night I had a delicious dinner of roast beef and went to bed. That night, I had dreams about the day before and walking down a road with someone and being pushed onto the road in front of a car. All these pictures were vague and I could not make out a face. The memory played back again and again, each time adding more. It was terrible. Then I saw it. A face. One which I recognised. It was......it was Ben�s face!
�Steven, time to get up for school!� my mum shouted to me from somewhere downstairs in the house. This woke me instantly. I stretched and reluctantly got out of bed. I still remembered what had happened last night. I had to do something about it. I got changed and brushed my teeth. I didn�t feel like breakfast that morning. �Are you all right honey?� my mum asked as I entered the kitchen
�Yeah, I�m fine mum,� I said and smiled.
The bell rang for short break. The kids at my school all piled into the playground and started playing games or just hanging out with their friends. I saw Ben talking with some guys so I ran over to him, �Hey Ben!� I shouted.
�Steve! Are you okay man?�
�Yeah, I�m fine. Listen Ben. Can I talk with you in private?�
�Sure.� We walked over to a corner of the playground where we stopped.
�Do you know what happened to me on Friday?� I asked him.
�Yeah. I saw David Kerr push you onto the road. I�m the only eye-witness there is. The car was a hit and run,� he said.
�You were the only eye witness,� I said. �I know that you pushed me and people are going to find out.�
Ben looked at me in horror. None of us made a move until he said, �You know if you say that David did it, this would all blow over. Think about it. All the evidence is pointing to him and you hate him anyway. If you tell on me then this whole situation would get very complicated.� He let this sink in. I thought about this. Everything he said was true. This would be an easy way out. But how could I do that? As much as I hated David Kerr, it was evil. �C�mon man, do it for me!� Steve urged, and with this, he walked off. I just stood there, not knowing what to do. The bell ran for the end of break. It was history next.
So here I am walking to the principal�s office. We three enter the waiting room and the secretary tells us to go right in. In there is Mr. Coomb, our principal and Detective Wilcox. �Take a seat,� he tells all of us. I sit down and wait.
�Do you remember anything?� the detective asks me.
I don�t know what to do. So I just let the word out - �Yes.�
�What?� he asks eagerly.
�I was pushed,� I say.
�By whom?� he asks. Ben glares at me. Everyone is looking at me now. One word will decide someone�s fate and I�ve made a decision.
�David.�


Michael Sherry (Year 7 Fiction: Winner)


Creed

�Now let us declare our faith.�

And accordingly they stood, I with them, but somehow
I found myself without a green leather-bound missal;
To guide me, no type-written print to bring words to my mouth.
And as their chant rose towards the spires,
I found myself
Silent.

I groped in that dark void for the
Familiar words, but was lost:
Not tormented by satyrs
With visible horns and pointed tails
Which would have been strangely comforting -
Identifiable evil -
But simply alone in an
Indistinct nondescript fog.

For I wanted to join in their declarations,
But their words were not mine
And were not to be found.
And God forbid that my words should be different
To the rest - a faulty prayer,
Misdirected post as such,
Words of worship arriving
At the incorrect address.

But then there was light:
All was unclear
But it was clear that all was unclear
And that was clarity in itself. No longer
Bound by words that were not mine,
Loosely tethered to convention,
God, Religion and capitalisations.
I was not lost but free, separate,
And the distance I had gained was my own.
The footprints that marked the sand were mine,
Not those of one who had carried me.
My own feet had run and the direction was right
And so I believe.

For I was not without faith
But with the words to declare it.

Jenny Sherry


My Grandpa

Norman Reid, my grandpa, was born in Wangaratta (Australia) on the Twentieth of February 1919 and spent his early years in the county town of Myrtleford. When he was six years old, he moved to Melbourne, capital of Victoria. His parents were Olive and Raymond Reid. He had two brothers, Kenny and John. Norman was the eldest, followed by Kenny (five years younger) and the youngest was John (ten years younger). Papa went to Moreland High School and decided that he wanted to be a motor mechanic like his Dad. When he finished school, he trained at Austin�s where his father was boss and at night, he studied mechanical engineering at Melbourne Technical College. World War II broke out and he joined the army at the age of twenty. He fought in the middle east in the Ninth Division Cavalry which meant he was in a tank on the 17th of July 1942, at El Alamein.

The enemy hit his tank and his life was thought to be over. He was critically injured and today he has scars on his face and chest. Luckily for all of us, he survived and returned to Melbourne to marry my Nana. He loved to build and race cars and motor bikes. He was famous for breaking the record times. My Mum remembers he was not too popular in the �quiet� neighbourhood that she grew up in. This was because he liked to test drive his cars/motor bikes early on Sunday mornings! He knew everything about cars so he was hired by an insurance company as Chief Engineer in the loss assessment area. He did this until he retired at the age of sixty five.

So many things make my Grandpa special. He is a good artist and loves to improvise. He painted Ayers Rock and put me on top as the ghost of Ooleroo. When I was four, I insisted we had a Robin Hood birthday party for him at our house and that everyone dressed up as a character from Robin Hood. He agreed and came as Friar Tuck.

He is kind. gentle, generous and very unselfish. He sent me ginger bread men that I can�t get in Hong Kong, hot dogs and a CD of a percussionist, Evelyn Glennie, just recently. He paints all his cards for birthdays, Christmas and for no reason at all. After he sent me the hot dogs, he sent me a card of a sausage with wings and a tail. When I was little, he made me big cards out of twenty dollar notes. When I was three, he had a picture of me holding a fishing rod and standing next to a $20 note folded like a fish.

For my fourth birthday, I was flying into Bali as Superman with a $20 cape around my neck. Whenever I go to Australia, I look forward to Sunday�s at his place because he is an excellent cook! He can fix anything! He can crack any kind of puzzle and he makes a lot of good things for me. He made Duplo towers with me when I was little, a bridge for my Robin Hood characters, a raft and a jousting fence for my knights and much more. When I turned six he dubbed me Sir Oliver of Mooltan, the bravest knight of them all. He designed me a shield, a flag, a ship and painted a T-shirt. Every week he wrote a new adventure about me leading my army into battle.... always winning, of course. My colours were his regiment colours: brown, red and green, meaning �Through mud and blood to the green fields beyond�.

He loves to read. His favourite book is Omar Khayam. He loves jazz music and and all types of sport.

Last but not least.... I love my Grandfather and am very proud to be named after him (Oliver Norman Blake).

Oliver Blake


The Match

Howzat!
He�s out,
I am in,
I leave the pavilion,
Shaking,
The applause of the crowd behind me,
With my bat under my arm,
And my pads brushing against each other,
I try to focus,
Try to concentrate,
With a thousand pairs of fiery eyes,
Burning through me,
A quick thumbs up from my partner,
I take my stance,
Praying that I survive the first ball,
The bowler runs up,
And lets loose on me,
I hear a shattering,
It is my stumps,
The appeal goes up,
I am out,
I return to the pavilion,
With a thousand pairs of fiery eyes,
Burning through me.

Mark Barnett (Year 9 Poetry: Winner)


The Mother of the World

Mother Teresa�s work is not as easy as it seems. Behind her smile lies a person fighting to keep people alive with the medicine of love.
Mother Teresa is a woman known for her never-ending courage and hope. Her name was often mentioned throughout my childhood and, even though my parents were not religious, she was always referred to as �the angel.� I never imagined an opportunity to talk to her let alone see her, so I grew up without ever considering the idea. It wasn�t until I learnt of some of the horrible hardships she had experienced throughout her life, that I finally decided to really get to know this person who does so much for so little. And on the tenth of September 1996, I received a call accepting my request to interview Mother Teresa in Calcutta.
Half way up the drive to the House of Hope, my heart skipped a beat. I couldn�t believe it: I was here to interview the famous Mother Teresa, my childhood idol. As I approached the shabby, cracked building, threading my way through over-grown weeds in a blanket of heat, I wondered how she goes on in these conditions?
Arriving at the front door, I knocked on it and began to take in the views of my surroundings when it was suddenly flung open. I was greeted by an elderly nun who welcomed me with a huge grin. She turned away from me for a moment shouting something in Hindi, then turned back to me, grabbed my hand and pulled me inside.
When my eyes adjusted to the light the whole situation looked chaotic. People were running around yelling this or that, bodies — alive or dead? — lay all over the floor and the stench was indescribable. But with the ringing of a bell the whole place fell silent, a voice called out orders and prayers from the bible, and then once more people continued to move about, but this time in silence.
I realised by then that the voice had been that of Mother Teresa. I was ushered further into the room and suddenly there she was, my heroine, my idol. She stood right across from me with eyes full of hope and an expression full of love. She beckoned to me and led me in silence over to a room. On the way, she stopped every now and then to pat the hands of her �children�.
Inside the room she turned to me and said, �welcome to my sanctuary.� She turned away for a moment. I could see she was in silent prayer. She turned back and blessed me.
This was the most powerfully emotional way to start an interview in all of my twenty-year career as a journalist!
We sat down. Mother Teresa�s secretary had given me thirty minutes. I began to ask her about her life, and was surprised when she remained silent; she seemed to be in a trance. I stopped my question in mid-point and softly called her name. At the mention of her name she began to speak.
� My child,� she said, �the only way to know me is to look around my house of hope and see with eyes of love.� What was that meant to mean, I asked myself but my thoughts were interrupted with the continuation of her answer, � You see, many choose to ask instead of to seek, many choose to argue without trying to make peace, and my life is like that... I�ll never forget that man...� And with that astonishing statement her voiced trailed off.
I opened my mouth to ask about that �man�, but Mother Teresa didn�t seem finished yet.
�It was that day, that man, dogs...how could they?� I was starting to become very confused and then the answer struck me like a knife. Of course — she was talking about the man she had seen many years before, in the beggar streets of Calcutta, too sick to get away from dogs that were beginning to eat him alive. Up to that moment, I had never really allowed myself to believe that this could be a true story and not a myth. I now understood, from Mother Teresa�s pained expression even after all these years, that it was a true story, that it was that pitiful man who made her decide to create the house of hope.
Mother Teresa patted my hand, knowing that I understood, and beckoned me to follow her. Stepping carefully around the bodies of her �children� she led me around the rooms of the building, and whispered, �did you know that I�m the third cousin of Mahatma Gandhi?� into my ear.
I was astounded. What a family: two world-famous peace makers. �Really!� I replied. What else could I have said?
I was just on the verge of getting over the shock when she then whispered, �And his third cousin is Nelson Mandela.� Now that was a little too much to handle: it was just beyond my disbelief... three peace makers in the family? I was dumb struck.
But a few seconds later I clicked back into reality, hearing laughter echo through the room, Mother Teresa faced me and said, �You did know that I was joking, yes?� Her expression was warm, with some hint of the lively young girl who first came to these alleys so many years ago emerging from behind the deep wrinkles on that famous face.
I told her that I hadn�t appreciated she was playing one of her trade-mark jokes on me. She listened, patted my hand again, and said, �You are a funny girl, but I like you, my child.�
For the rest of the time I was there I didn�t ask Mother Teresa any more questions about her life, that already so-famous life. I decided to follow her advice, and seek the answers through her �sanctuary� and her �children.�
Just watching her talk and calm patients — some in terrible pain from cancer or leprosy — filled my heart with warmth and appreciation for what I (an ordinary person) have in life.
Her actions made me realise that hope is what counts, not the money you have or the number of cars or houses.
She said very few words, in her rounds of the sick and the dying. Yet the glow of appreciation, of respect, of love made me realise that if you give a little, it goes a long, long way. And that you should give without expecting anything back.
Mother Teresa — the angel of Calcutta — made me realise that life is more precious than it seems and that in order to find answers you have to seek within yourself and others.
Mother Teresa�s sanctuary, in a city boiling with pain and apparent hopelessness, became my house of hope as well. This is the touch of Mother Teresa.

Andrea Tull (Year 11 Non-fiction: Winner)


The Man and the Monkey

He walked slowly; deliberately. With him he had a caged monkey. He swung the cage back and forth as he walked along the cobbled streets. Back and forth, back and forth. And he smiled, serenely. People passing stopped to stare at the man for he was rather odd. He wore baggy overalls, an old bowling hat and some ancient leather shoes. But it wasn�t only his clothes.. it was him. He had eyes that were as black as slate and they looked upon you with knowledge. His mouth was wide and it was filled with gold-plated teeth, making for a glistening grin. With its carefully painted features it was a face that looked as if it had been sculpted by some surreal artist. He was unusual.

He stopped abruptly, upsetting his normal pace and making onlookers even more fascinated. He placed the monkey on the sidewalk and sat down beside it. Still smiling, he opened the cage and the monkey leapt out. People were suddenly drawn to him like a magnet. The children pulled at their mothers� hands, straining to get closer to the man with the little monkey. He beckoned them closer with his hands and allowed them to feel the monkey but as he did so he never said a word. He just smiled.

Gradually mothers whisked their children away as the afternoon sun became a heavy blanket over the town.... but the man still sat there stroking the monkey and letting onlookers admire his gentle touch that the monkey seemed to enjoy so much. People were obviously bewildered and couldn�t stop staring at his slender hands, his continuous smile, electric eyes and, of course, his monkey. One man bent down and placed a five dollar bill into the monkey�s cage. The man nodded and smiled his appreciation. As soon as that man had moved from the crowd the monkey immediately jumped up and dragged the note from the cage and hopped back to his master. The man took the money from the monkey. He smoothed it out on the ground, making sure all the creases had gone, like a child who had kept his Easter egg paper. The man then rolled it up... carefully, neatly. The spectators watched with great interest at the habits of this small, queer man. When he finished rolling up the note he gave it back to the monkey who leapt into the now fifteen-strong audience.

As the monkey wandered through the crowd, he would circle people twice and look them over three times. The person being looked at would nervously laugh and wait until the monkey moved on. The monkey took an instant liking to a small red headed boy who was thin with empty eyes. The others in the crowd had not ventured close to the child as he was dirty, but his eyes danced as he watched the little monkey circle him... It was almost as if no one ever took notice of him. The monkey jumped onto the boy and he squealed with delight. The monkey sat on his shoulder, running his paw through the boy�s hair. The boy�s small bony face lit up as the crowd�s attention started to focus on him. People of all ages were looking at him and smiling. He felt happy.

The funny man was still sitting smiling. Even though the attention had moved from him to the boy, he still smiled. The monkey dropped the rolled up note into the boy�s front pocket as he hopped back to his owner, making the boy shriek with elation. The crowd that had swelled in the cool dusk light turned its attention back to the old man who sat cradling the monkey. The monkey was jabbering away and the man beamed around at the inquisitive spectators drawn to the odd couple. As the day moved, the man had not altered his plastered smile. It seemed that even if the sun hadn�t risen that day, he would still be smiling. He wasn�t from the area. He looked as if he had just stepped out of some long lost fairy tale: he was the aged good wizard. The children who gathered around him seemed to sense his aura and found him most intriguing.

As the crowd grew hungry, it started dispersing in various directions. Soon only five or six people still watched with fascination his amazingly crafted hands. His hands would glide all around the monkey and stroke it in a calming, pleasing way. Eventually those people drifted away and for a while the man sat still with the monkey asleep in his lap. He gazed out at the people who all seemed so busy. Women in black ran to get on the bus, men who strolled along with their brief cases as if they owned the world, children impatiently whining about when they would get home and teenagers who ambled across the streets in large groups shouting and laughing.

The man sighed. With his graceful hands he tenderly placed the monkey back into his cage. He got up slowly and carefully lifted the cage so as not to awaken the monkey. He walked slowly, deliberately, a man with his caged monkey. He swung the cage back and forth as he walked along the cobbled streets. Back and forth, back and forth. And he smiled, serenely.


Mikala Tai (Year 11 Fiction: Winner)


The Earth�s Pain

I am eaten away by the teeth of the sea.
The stars shoot down their shafts at me.
The sand of life stares up at me.
I am scalded by the tears of a city.
I am soiled by the waste of humanity.
People pit and scar me digging into my wrinkles and creases,
Gouging at my life source, taking what I hold dear
Taking away deep memories embedded in rock,
Memories of happiness and gaiety.

The sun soars through the sky
Sending golden spears streaking down
Rising, falling, each day bringing us closer to destruction.
I am destroyed, abused, killed and a shell.
You once knew me as a messenger to a paradise
But now I am a disciple of misery.
I am ancient, cold, hard and sad
For the earth is eaten away by the greed of man.

I am...
The Cliff.

Daniel Armour


Permanence

The minarets stretch to the heavens,
The world�s first skyscrapers.
A once stately building
Where a king held court.

Covered with a swirl of silken colours,
Filled with voices
The sounds of people
Eating, living, dying.

And so it grew
A symbol of the ruler�s might,
A warning to his enemies
An offering to his Gods.

Tree roots eat at the foundations
Nature�s gnarled hand reclaims it
Covering the intricate engravings
Now swept by solitude and shadow.

A once proud potentate, reduced to dust.

Priya Bindra


Hope

She sits, gazing out of the window.
Low watery wintry sunlight floating in.
Waiting for him to come home.
Depressed, distant and disinterested.
Empty chair, no-one in it,
Always sitting there, opposite her
Never to be filled.
Clock ticking, slowly, loudly.
Just sitting and watching.

Balmy night, calm and still.
Her decision made, her spirits soar.
To fly away, to move on,
Time to leave,
Hopes to start afresh,
Tomorrow beckons,
A new day, a new beginning.

Katherine Bedwell


Passing

And then it was that I was not -
Heart ceased to beat, I ceased to be.
The joy that I had lived nought but
A fragment of eternity.

But memories of others brought
A kind of immortality -
Familiar recollections what
Was left of that which had been me.

Jenny Sherry


Sforzando

�Alexi? I don�t hear anything!�

A small, pasty boy, with a last starving look at the children outside, reluctantly lowered himself from the barred window sill and shuffled back to his carelessly discarded violin, which lay on the bed.

As he picked up the instrument, a shudder racked his body at the feeling of the tensed, thin strings beneath his fingers. The bow was lifted as though it were massive, and laboriously, he began to play.

With the Grieg that sighed into the room, one would be shocked to find that the producer was in fact, a nine year old child. The music swirled before diffusing through the cold apartment, warming the corners it touched. In the kitchen his mother stopped slicing the carrots and closed her eyes, allowing the semiquavers to tickle her face into a smile. Yet in his room, the tiny musician�s face was transfixed in a scowl, his little eyebrows furrowed to the extent that they were almost one.

The sweet passion conveyed in the melody was totally beyond Alexi�s control. He wanted fury and rage and hatred and injustice to come screeching out harshly, and yet his arms would not let it happen. It was as if some supernatural puppeteer had taken control of him, and was channelling through his fragile body. The bittersweet melody was enough to make one cry, and Alexi did. But not because of the music.

�Oh Nola! He�s incredible! You must be so proud. I mean, to be able to play like that - and at his age? Incredible!�

�I never thought I�d witness a miracle - and yet, after today.....�

�Excellent performance - astounding, darling.�

Nola pushed her way through the usual crowd of gushing admirers and let herself into Alexi�s changing room. As she closed the door behind her, the humble smile of appreciation vanished from her face, and was replaced with a blank stare.

�What was that?�

Alexi cowered in the chair, and tried desperately to become one with the peeling wall.

�You weren�t concentrating enough - mistakes everywhere! Even before you�d reached the second movement! How on earth do you expect to get anywhere playing like that? And stop crying - you�ll mess up your new shirt.�

�Sorry Mama.�

�You did it on purpose, didn�t you? You did it so that people won�t come and listen to you again, so you can stop practising. Well, forget it! It�s not going to work. In fact, as punishment, I want you to practise an extra hour every day from now on. I never want to hear you play like that again. Ever! You understand? Do you think I bought you this violin for nothing? It cost me almost three months� wages!�

�Yes Mama.�

Nola sighed, and sat down next to her son on the bed.

�God has given you a very special gift, Alexi. He made you different from everyone else. You are a very, very special boy, Alexi. I love you, and don�t want to see this gift go to waste. It would be a sin. God would not forgive you for that Alexi.�

As Nola rose and left the room, the all too familiar silent tears started to sting Alexi�s cheeks. He absent-mindedly picked up his bow and slowly, one by one, started to snap the delicate horse hair strings off, until he realised what he was doing and quickly swept the pile down the side of the bed. Struggling with his frustration, Alexi tensed to try and stop the tears – �Normal boys of my age don�t cry,� he thought to himself. But after all, he was different – special...

Standing behind the partially closed door, Nola stopped and turned back to see her little boy. Peering through the crack, she felt like a criminal, stealing Alexi�s secrets and spying into his world. Her heart ached as the tears started to fall from his eyes. She hadn�t meant to upset him, but why didn�t he understand? Couldn�t he see that she only wanted the best for him? Why did he continually insist on abusing his talent – treat it as if it were a curse? If it were such a thing, how she wished that she had been cursed as a child – or even now. To be able to produce something so beautiful with so little effort – to be able to arouse the deepest emotions by simply moving your arms. What a thrill that must be! Feeling her own tears well, and not wanting them to spill where she could be seen, she carefully shut the door, making sure that she turned the handle gently so as not to make a sound.

�No, I�m sorry - thank-you very much for the invitation Silvie, but Alexi has to stay home and practise today. Maybe some other time. Apologise to Richard for him - next week perhaps.�

�Practise!� she mouthed, ushering Alexi away with a wave of her hand.

With a jaded stare, he turned and left his mother to hang up the receiver. A minute later, Vivaldi�s �Winter� chilled the house. Nola sat back in her arm chair with a satisfied smile and rocked gently to the furious melody. �Next week,� Nola thought to herself. �I guess he needs some time with his friends.� And with that, in a decisive act of generosity, she picked up the receiver and rang Silvie back.

When Alexi was told about his play date, he couldn�t help but grin ridiculously at the news. He hadn�t been allowed to play with friends for a long time now - mainly due to his concert schedule, so this was a totally unexpected surprise. He dashed upstairs and struggled to slip his shoes on, realising that he�d have to undo the laces in order to do so. �Hurry� he thought to himself. There was so little time left in the day already. Tying shoes wasted precious free minutes. He flew down the staircase, and dared even to give a little impatient tug as his mother seized his hand. Richie�s house! He hadn�t been there in ages. There was a wonderfully big back garden with a slide and a swing, and he had the best toys! And best of all, Richie didn�t know a thing about music.


�So, what d�ya wanna do?�
Alexi shrugged his shoulders - �I dunno.�

�We could go and see my horse - maybe mum will let us go for a ride.�

�I don�t like horses,� came the rapid reply.

�How �bout playing back garden?�

Alexi smiled and jumped up, and the two boys - without having to say a word - immediately started running, with the mutual agreement to a race, in that mystical way that children can do in utter silence. Laughing, they screeched past Silvie - curled up quite peacefully in the living room. She smiled at the boys as they fought over who got the higher swing. Such a shame that he doesn�t come over more often she thought to herself, but she dared not do anything about it.


Pull back, legs tucked, push out, legs straight. Again and again, Alexi pumped his arms - with the inexplicable need to get as high as he could. �You�re not getting high enough� a voice said in his head. �Go higher Alexi - you�re not trying hard enough.� So harder he pulled and higher he flew, but it just didn�t seem good enough. It was as if his metronome would not accelerate to a faster tempo! Frustrated with his baffling compulsion he started to reach dizzying angles - where he was almost horizontal to the ground.

�Hey Alexi - look what I can do!�

A red blur flashed past him on his right as he swung forward. He strained his neck to turn and see what had happened. A grinning Richie stood triumphantly a few feet in front of his swaying seat, hands on his hips and the king of the playground.

�Can�t you hurt yourself doing that?� Alexi inquired.

�Yeah - but only if you want to, silly. It�s really fun - try it!�

Alexi pumped higher still.

�In a minute maybe.�


�Where is he!? Where is my boy? What have you done to him. Oh my God, oh my poor child.�

Nola�s heart dropped into her stomach when she had heard the news. She had arrived just a moment after the ambulance itself drove in.

�Nola, Alexi has had a bad fall - don�t worry. He�s not going to die or anything near that serious, but he�s quite badly injured. You�d best go to the hospital right away.� Silvie�s hesitant and masked words ran through her head over and over, echoing against the caverns of her imagination – conjuring up frightful, gruesome images.

As she burst through the emergency ward doors, she was almost immediately grabbed by the arm and forcibly guided to the exit again: �I�m sorry Madam, you are not allowed in here – this is the emergency room. I must ask you to leave at once.�

Emergency room. Even when said in the patronizing manner one would address a three year-old with, the words still managed to strike a discord of terror within her.

�I�m his mother for God�s sake,� she managed to cry in her hysteria, as she wrenched her arm from the nurse�s grasp.

Pushing open the doors of the theatre again, Nola set eyes upon her son. A strangled gasp – barely audible, escaped from Nola�s lips. Lying on the solid slab of metal - his face the same colour as the starched sheets that covered him, Alexi was being attended to by several doctors. His left arm was distorted into a peculiar �V� shape - the white bone clearly exposed. Somehow his fragile limb had managed to reverse itself so that it was bent backwards upon the elbow joint. The hushed murmurs of the doctors were too much for Nola.

�What happened to my child?� she whispered, with jaw and fists tightly clenched in an effort to regain some control.

A hand was placed gently of her shoulder and she spun around to confront her consoler.

�I am so sorry, Nola!� Silvie said. �I was watching them play - but they had done it so many times - I didn�t know he would fall. I mean, the swing isn�t that high off the ground, and Richie jumps off it all the time. I think Alexi was just trying to copy him, and he managed it fine - several times! But then after his third jump, it looked as if he just refused to put out his feet to land - and he jumped so early. I was sure he knew what he was doing - I can�t understand it. Oh Nola, I am so sorry!�

Turning to face her child again, she watched, stunned, as the doctors hurriedly, and yet far too calmly tried desperately to mend her broken son.

�Alexi, can you hear me? Alexi, I�d like you to move your fingers, can you do that for me? Alexi, try hard, please. Alexi?��No movement in the left arm doctor.�

With a soft thud, Alexi�s mother fainted onto the sterile tiles.

Lying on the operating table, Alexi watched his mother with vacant eyes. A light waltz drifted through his head, and he swirled with it – finding that the giddy feeling that accompanied it was strangely pleasant. He lips curled into a curious grin as he marvelled again at how little it hurt. Fear had prevented him from landing too hard the first few times, but had he known it would be this easy, he would have managed it in one jump.

Ellen Sherry


Play it Again

Each day you take to your strings and play
Finding refuge in the only way you know
No matter how beautiful
Frustration is all I hear

Eyes that look with an infinite sadness
Trying to see the strokes like they once did
Each note a memory
Each note more deafening than the last

I find it hard, to see what I should
Your scowl the perfect mask
To an elusive yet tender soul
But sometimes, I get a glimpse of the truth

I see a man whose love is so much like the sea
That it chokes his words and drowns those closest to him
I see a man whose hands will always be bound
By pain, by pride, by fear

Make me understand
How the stories you tell hold a meaning beyond all doubt
How your vision is clearer than mine could ever be
Why your life is so much more
Than the aimless drifting and dispersing of smoke off a filtered cigarette.

Please, wait for me
Because each beat brings me closer
And with each tear pain falls further behind
Just wait
I will follow the sound of your music through the mist
For it is a sweet, sweet sound
And I am eager to meet the man who plays it.

Angela Sebastian (Year 13 Poetry: Winner)


The Right Decision

�I�m sorry, I really am.�
�Yeah ok,� said John.�
�Are you gonna be ok?� I said.
�Well, yeah I guess. But why do you want it this way? �
He had asked the question I dreaded.
�I don�t know,� was all I could manage. I felt as though I was being pushed under the giant waves of a stormy ocean and if I didn�t surface soon, I was going to suffocate from the lack of oxygen and space.
�Because it�s what I want. I�m sorry. I truly don�t mean to hurt you,� I said. My voice sounded like it would crack like a piece of sharp, clear glass.
�Are you sure this is what you want? It�s not the kind of thing you can really change your mind about.�
�Yeah, I know. I�m sorry, it�s just - � I felt like I was in a box and all the sides were closing in on me. I could feel the warm, wet air being pushed against me.
�It�s just what?� he asked. I sensed the tension in his voice rising. I had to give him a reason, but how could I when I couldn�t even find one for myself? All I knew was that I had to do it and I did. A sense of relief hit me when I thought, �I had done it.� I had told him.
But how was I to explain this to him? It had been a mistake. I had to make this decision. I knew it was not what he wanted, but it was my decision.
�I�m sorry, I just had to do it - tell you, I mean.� I tried to sound confident, as though I was sure.
�You expect me to accept that?�
�I�m sorry.�
�Yeah I know you�re sorry. You�ve said it a hundred times! But being sorry won�t solve anything.�
�I know.� I felt like I was gonna break down into tears. I prayed that he would hang up or someone at the party would need the phone.
�I really hate doing this to you.�
�Then why do it?� he said hastily. I began to cry. Kirsty mouthed, �It�s all right,� and handed me a drink. I gulped it down holding on to the back of a chair. I felt dizzy. I hoped he wouldn�t hear me crying.
�Sorry, that was out of line,� he said.
�No, I deserved it.� After a silence that seemed to last a life time I managed to stammer out, �Look, do you think we can be friends?�
�I don�t know.� I had to get off the phone. The silence felt like it was piercing me.
�Look I got to go. I�ll talk to you soon. OK? I�m really sorry.�
�Yeah sure.�
�You gonna be OK?� I asked.
�Yeah, don�t worry about me. You�ve got bigger problems.�
�Yeah. OK, thanks. Bye,� and he put down the phone. I felt like I would be ill. I walked through the door and into the party. The loud music banged against my head and the smoke stung my eyes.
�I need a drink.�
�Here finish mine. It�ll be ok,� said Kirsty.
�Thanks, do you think it was the right thing to do?� I asked. Kirsty�s eyes were already red from the alcohol and I could see she was about to be ill. She turned around and ran through the doors and into the bathroom. I went after her. As I entered the bathroom I could see that it had already been used. Tissues and cups lay strewn on the floor and puddles of water, which had formed in funny shapes, took up most of the space.
When Kirsty was done, Lizzie and I took her into the bedroom. She lay down and passed out. I went back out into the party. It was dark and warm. I could feel someone brush past me. I moved for the closest chair and sat down. As soon as I shut my eyes Lizzie came over and sat next to me.
�Kirsty wants you.�
�OK - I�m coming.� As I got up, a wave of heat and exhaustion hit me. I tripped and fell. Lizzie pulled me up and helped me into the bedroom.
Kirsty was lying on the floor, amongst heaps of clothes, bags and magazines.
�Heya. What�s the matter?� I said. Kirsty looked up at me.
�I�m sorry, you�re probably having the worst night of your life,� she said. I laughed.
�I�ll be fine.� The idea that some time in the near future I might be looking back on this night, remembering every little detail, made me shudder.
�Well, for what it�s worth, I reckon you did what you had to do. It would have been wrong if you hadn�t told him. It was your decision. I think you made the right one.�
�Thanks. Well I�d better take you home now.� I helped Kirsty stand up and walk to the elevator.
In the taxi I had time to think. I felt terrible. I felt guilty. But why should I? I was the one who was going have to live with the decision I had made. Yet, I knew I had just lost someone who should have been a part of my life. Was it the right decision? How can I ever speak to him again? All I know was that it was my decision. I had to make it. I was going to keep this baby.

Alice R Rogers


Whose Children Are We?

They said it would be fun.
They said it would be great.

Memories ......

Memories of long hard days.
The scorching sun.

They told us a pack of lies.
We were used as bait.

Hours working in the fields
Waiting for the day to end.
The Australian sun refused to set
And kept us all awake.

Our dreams were never realised
Our nightmares came true,
Awful memories lurk in the recesses of our minds
Blinding the good thoughts we may have.

All taken from me ..... my parents, my country, my life.

How could England export her children like toys
To be dumped and discarded.

Stinging eyes
Lonely cries.

Whose children are we?

Mala Ramchandani


Toilet Transport

It is asinine how people never think of other kinds of transport apart from buses and taxis and cars. I mean, everyday we go to different places in Hong Kong in the same old malodorous vehicles. We are all impossibly obnoxious about travelling on bicycles and much too lazy to walk.

If someone had imagination, surely they would come across the concept of toilet transport!
It only takes a drop of absolute wisdom and some creative thought to arrive at the new way of reaching another zone in Hong Kong. It would be as simple as using the mass transit railway nowadays�except toilet transport won�t even need to involve buying a ticket because the toilet stations are in our very own homes!

This is how it works: Builders enlarge the size of the pipes, line them with fluffy cushions and carpet, and divide the pipe into two with a glass panel. One side of the pipe is for passengers and the other is for our waste products. The glass panel will obviously be innocuous and leak proof (for you people already �grossed� out, out there!).

Along the side of the passenger pipe are buttons that are easy to grab hold of. These buttons are connected to toilet openings so when the passenger grabs the button, he or she is thrown to a smaller and less cushioned tunnel that will bring them to the entrance of a toilet station.

Should I run through all that again?

So the traveller clambers into a toilet (preferably not public), reaches their hand out for the flush and zoom...into a tunnel! They would then be led into another tunnel like a pitch-black roller- coaster, and within seconds be out in the public tunnel whizzing through efficiently. When they need to stop, out swings their hand and gropes for the button and bang...into a toilet of their destination.

For the first trip, the passenger will have zilch idea on when to get off. So, just like the Mass Transit Railway the pipes will be colour-coded. For example, Causeway Bay might be light blue, or Central would be green.

Obviously, before the passenger gingerly steps into the toilet bowl they will have to purchase a map of the pipe surrounding Hong Kong from their Toilet Company.

When they want to go home, they step into a toilet and switch the flush to �back� position and within seconds, they�ll be rolling smoothly home.

I am immensely proud of such a prodigious idea. After all, I�m only twelve and already I have thought of something only a professor who graduated from the Genius School of Geniuses could have thought of.

Of course, the idea still needs building on (and perhaps some trial runs). There are still some flaws, for example, how will the traveller fit into the toilet bowl if they are overweight? Or how can the traveller stay dry before travelling?

To end this short notice and stop myself from boasting anymore, I shall say this idea is scientifically educational as well as futuristic and imaginative. As Hong Kong Telecom says, �What can be imagined, can be achieved�.

Helen Lok (Year 8 Non-fiction: Winner)


Lost Paradise

The loud music was too much for me, the forced beat pumping into the back of my head. I bought my diet coke and left straight away. I needed quiet, the beach, the sand and the cool salty wind, my heaven in hell. I'm a bit of a romantic, see.
As I lay on the deserted beach watching the sea gulls, I thought I saw movement on the rocks out of the corner of my eye. The rocks were always so still and dead, so I put on my new sarong, picked up my MD and walked along the shore. As I peered through searching eyes, I saw what looked like a human head appear above the rock. I was curious, as usual. I just had to know. I climbed the rocks and scanned the cliff face: nothing. But then I saw a flicker of light from somewhere. I'd been to the rocks before, but never this far in. Before, the rocks had always looked so dull, but now it was as if they possessed a million hidden secrets.
That night at my Gran's holiday house, the more I thought about it, the more I was determined I'd seen something. So far, I was having a relaxing, yet boring holiday. The town I was staying in with my Gran was OAP heaven. I was yearning for a bit of excitement! Although I loved the beach I was jumping inside at the thought of something new. Full of wonder I packed a rucksack, ready for an early morning departure, of "exploring gear", including of course my precious MD.
As I walked along towards the rocks the next morning I started to have doubts as to whether I'd actually seen something or was just playing along with my imagination. There was also the possibility that I had just seen a cat or something, or a lone walker. But there was no walk along those rocks, just a dead end. And on the spur of the moment, it had all seemed so mysterious.
Climbing far into the mountainous rocks the sun was growing higher in the sky and I wished I had a hat. About eleven o'clock I noticed I'd come about as far in as I could. I glanced across a tiny beach and headed towards what looked like a pile of wood for a rest. But as I approached the object I gasped: I knew it was what I'd seen moving around the rocks.
The battered body was lying face down, as black as the night. As I turned it over the dead face stared up at me, as shrivelled as if it had never come in contact with the sun before. My heart skipped a beat as I realized what I was doing. I leaped away, screaming violently and falling, crawling along the ground. I felt a shadow fall over me and turned over. I stared up in to the half blocked sun, and the pale face of a young black man, completely naked, petrified.
For a while we just stared at each other, lost in a daze. He looked me up and down, finishing with a long hard stare at my Nikes. He yelled something in what must have been an Aboriginal tribal language. I'd never seen an aboriginal with such pale, haunting skin: black yet dusty. He ran across to the body of the young boy - perhaps a brother or a dear friend, for he started weeping bitterly: a cry so filled with harshness that I felt the passion of it. For minutes the man spluttered wholeheartedly until he finally collapsed and his whole body relaxed over the boy's. I watched at a distance, thoughts rushing through my mind like a waterfall. With strong but somehow gentle arms he scooped the limp body up and looked at me with blood-shot eyes.
He span around and ran towards the rock face. There was an opening there: I hadn't noticed it before. It seemed like a cave or hole in the rock. The man disappeared into the hole with the boy in his arms. Where were they going? I ran after them and slipped into the gap. The passageway in the rock was long and damp. I could just see the man ahead of me and I crouched low and scuttled after them. Deeper and deeper into the heart of the maze we ran. I was sure he hadn't seen me. I began to worry that the cave would never end, that I'd be running forever, following, chasing the strange young man to the core of the earth.
It seemed to get lighter and I though we must be coming to an opening. Suddenly, there was a flow of water beneath my feet: a small cave stream, clean and fresh. Turning the next corner I realized why the cave had been getting lighter: the walls and ceilings were covered in brightly shining glow-worms. It was amazing, like nothing I'd ever seen before, I wondered if the lights ever went out. In my magical daze I didn't realize that the man had turned round and blocked the entrance to the next passageway. As I still thought he did not know I was following him, it was quite a shock. I gasped at his cold stare. He grabbed my arm and pulled me close to him, the dead body still in his arms. Whispering something, he put his finger to his lips and I could feel his warm breath on my face. I was to stay quiet; I understood that much of his muttering and signalling. He lead me through the next passageway and then, as we began to enter the next cave, he ducked me behind a rock and signalled me to stay there. I peered over the top of the rock and was started as I heard a yell and saw a couple of men and women run towards where I was crouching. But they were not running to me - rather, to the man. One of them took the dead child from his arms and the other embraced him lovingly, except for one, who looked at him coldly, as if he were a traitor. Perhaps he was...
They all looked aboriginal in face but their skin, like the other man's, was pale: un-sun-kissed, in a manner of speaking. As they walked away the man glanced back at me: his eyes told me to stay there. I didn't. I crept in further to see where they were going.
The cave was huge, about the size of the mall back home. The walls and ceiling were again lit up by glowworms. A stream ran through the center of the dome, oh so clear. There were small delicate looking huts and clay structures, decorated with the most beautiful aboriginal paintings of detailed patterns, people and animals. Women cooked outside the huts or bathed and washed in the stream. Men worked, making things and clearing seaweed out of the water. Children laughed and played at their own innocent games on the far rocks and near where I was crouching low now, with stunned eyes. As the tribe began to notice the Man and the few who had greeted him, they all fell silent. It was a relieved silence, a silence that showed expectation. All in one rush there was talking, singing, weeping and even dancing. The body was laid down on the ground and a slow murmuring began. It turned into a loud chant as the tribe began to move around the body. A tribe of flesh blood, an untouched paradise. These people were as innocent as their children: they had no knowledge, or maybe they did.
As if lightning had struck them the people grew frustrated, a child caught my gaze and screamed, running at me, yelling. Everyone turned round and the man I had followed began shouting something over and over. I ran, panting and coughing through the passageways. I was trapped: I had no idea how to get out of the maze. I could hear the slapping of bare feet against the rock behind me.
Then, unexpectedly, I felt the sun hit me as I burst out of the rock and onto the hot sand of the deserted beach. The waves lapped against the shore and the wind whistled against the cliffs. I breathed in the fresh air and realized how putrid the air inside the caves had been. I looked puzzled at the sun: it hadn't seemed to move. I checked my watch: 11 o'clock. Had any time gone past when I'd been in the cave? It appeared not. I wondered if it was a dream, or perhaps there really was a hidden kingdom below the surface of the earth. I somehow knew I'd never know, and that it should remain a secret until now.

Lydia Heavyside (Year 9 Fiction: Winner)

Miranda

Zephyr quick upon the waves,
Breathes soft across the sea;
Glides in guise of ocean nymph
And silk transparency -
Billows past the briny grass,
That quivers solemnly.

A maiden stands below the sands
Where shallow waters whirl;
Where magic breeds tempestuous,
And sleeping rag-worms curl.
In ebbing tide she will abide
To watch the clouds unfurl.

Eyes which lift to grey horizons,
Bright with lucid dreams -
She cannot speak the figments
That from her fancy teems.
She merely sighs, and asks the skies
To tell her what it means.

Wonder full she watches,
As she wonderful appears:
Sylphlike thing that tilts her head
To silent songs she hears;
And all the while, her lips in smile,
She wets her cheeks with tears.

A dozen years, four thousand days
Have lingered in this idle way.
This spellbound isle stays the same,
As it has been since she came -
Now she longs for other faces
Telling tales of far off places.
Exiled from a braver world
With mortal creatures rife,
It dazes here to think to live
An ordinary life,
Far away from restless sprites,
From ghoul and faerie haunted nights
Away from where dwells witch�s spawn,
Where dryads dance to greet the dawn.

Dear heart, wait a while more -
The time grows ever shorter.
By his art your father sees
How fortune keeps his daughter.
Prosper and love, my happy dove
In lands beyond this water.

Alethea Dean


All is Not What it Seems

The wind blew cold as Chloe stood at the foot of Montgomly Manor. Gusts of wind encircled her, blowing her hair to and fro. A tingle travelled up her spine as she stared up at the gloomy old house. The carriage that had delivered her here to Montgomly Manor from London had long gone back along the narrow strip of road.

She stared out along the road just in time to see the faint outline of the carriage disappear through the huge wrought iron gates and out of her life. She strode up the long marble stairs to about a foot from the door. Chloe stood rooted to the spot. Her eyes travelled up the lonely, old house. For some reason she had a very strange feeling about this house. Chloe was about to take another look at the desolate house when the giant oak door creaked and then slowly opened. A lady stood in the doorway. She had a hard, serious face, with frosty slate-coloured eyes, thin, pale lips and white streaked hair that was mounted on her head in a tight neat bun. A long plaid dress exaggerated her elegant features.

�Walk this way.� She motioned through the doorway to a large beautiful room. Green and blue tapestries hung from the wails leading up to a grand marble staircase. �I am Lady Montgomley ... your aunt,� the lady announced in a voice that did not contain any emotion. �Your room is on the second floor,� she continued. �You may go anywhere in the manor except the nursery, on the floor below your room, do you understand?�

Chloe was about to ask why but was stopped when her aunt, without a word started walking up the stairs. By the time they reached the first floor Chloe�s arms began to ache. The second floor was as elegant as the entrance area. Portraits of animals and bright oriental lamps led the way along the narrow corridor. It was so beautiful Chloe could hardly believe it was real. Her aunt stopped at the second last door on the landing and removed a set of jingling keys from her pocket. Finally the door was opened and Chloe was led inside. The room, like the other parts of the manor that Chloe had seen, was beautiful, like something out of a picture book.

Chloe was still gazing gleefully at her room when she heard the door close. She spun around to see the door only left slightly open and the sound of crisp footsteps fade off into the distance. Chloe raised her suitcase onto the bed, opened it, and began examining her belongings. Among them lay Elise. Elise had been her mother�s doll. Chloe had never known her mother as she had died giving birth and Chloe�s father had also passed away from typhoid when she was three. Since then she had lived with uncles, aunts, anyone who would take her in.

She placed Elise next to a clock on her bedside cabinet. It was a very old clock, she thought. Working? It must be working. She looked at it carefully. Quarter past four. Chloe suddenly felt a tidal wave of sadness overcome her. She closed her eyes and focused on her parents, but no matter how she tried she could not reminisce a picture of them. Chloe sadly slumped back onto her bed. It was no use: they were gone and they were not coming back. Chloe tearfully stared at the clock. She closed her eyes and felt herself drifting into a deep, restless sleep. At ten o�clock the clock on her bedside cabinet began to chime. Her eyes flickered open and, not noticing how dry her mouth felt or the mangled position she lay in, she forced herself out of bed and wandered sleepily out into the hall.

All the lamps had been blown out except the last two on the landing. Their flickering light mesmerised Chloe, who continued to wander aimlessly towards them. As she neared the lamps, a thick fog overwhelmed the narrow corridor, seeping out from the walls and floorboards. Chloe stared out into the hazy, blurred expanse. It smelled of smoke and ashes, Chloe concluded, as she inhaled the misty air. As she reached the end of the corridor the mist suddenly dispersed, fleeing back into the walls from which it seemed to have come and within what seemed a blink of an eye it was clear again. Chloe continued down a short flight of stairs.

At the bottom she gazed out along a narrow corridor. All the lamps were lit on this floor and flickered in the most eerie way as if leading her along.

It looked as though no-one had been in this part of the house for many years. White drapes covered the various items she encountered on her way. On a wall a draped portrait hung: she pulled the sheet off cautiously. It was covered in a thick layer of dust. She rubbed it hard with the drape to reveal the picture of a little boy: she particularly noticed the face of a boy. Tears were streaming down his face, which had a look of sheer horror on it. Shivering Chloe, returned the painting to the wall and replaced the drape. She found herself wondering who was the boy? and why did he look so terrified and alone?

Suddenly the lamps went dim. Chloe spun around and began to dash along the dark corridor. To her absolute horror, Chloe thought she heard footsteps following her. It was a sound that brought her heart into her mouth - the rapid thud of footsteps. Chloe froze and looked quickly behind her. But there was nothing there. She ran harder into the darkness but the footsteps pursued her. Ghostly, heavy footsteps, creaking along the floorboards. She looked behind her: again, nothing. But the footsteps continued to grow louder and louder, and Chloe knew they must be getting closer. Chloe could now heard them at their loudest. Sweat poured down her forehead and her heart was thudding so hard she could no longer hear it. She dashed up the short flight of stairs, the sound of the footsteps still ringing in her ears. All of a sudden the footsteps stopped. Chloe looked around their was now an eerie silence along the hall. Still unsure, she walked hastily the rest of the way. Chloe was half way along the landing when she felt something slithery against her legs. She looked down and could hardly contain a scream. Tens, hundreds, thousands of snakes, slithering everywhere! Three started up her leg, hissing and spitting fiercely. One had coiled itself all the way up her leg. More and more began to appear, slithering out of the floorboards, worming their way through the windows. All the doors began to open: piles of snakes emerged all hissing hungrily.

At this point Chloe staggered back. Snakes had reached as far up as her chest. They pinned her down against a wall and then the weight of them got too much for her as she slid down onto the floor. Within seconds Chloe was so covered in snakes that they were crushing and suffocating her. Chloe could almost feel the life being drained from her as she lay motionless on the floor. Then out of nowhere the sun began to rise. This terrified the snakes and they fled the moment they saw the light. Within what seemed a minute Chloe was alone. She staggered to her feet and headed towards her room. Opening the door to her room, she slid cautiously into bed.

The night was now over and she had a new day to face.

Rachael Kwan


Ridges

On top of the world,
My spirit runs free,
Through sinking clouds.

The wind,
Swoops through me.
Carrying me high,
High above the earth.

The sea calls to me,
White sails float through the glistening water,
Like shooting stars on a summer�s eve.
The sparkling sea,
Softens the shadowy rocks.
The shadowy rocks,
Sink against the scorched hillside.
The scorched hillside,
Saddens the sunburnt sky.

Diana Cowland (Year 8 Poetry: Winner)


My City

Dark
Decaying
Cold
Concrete
Hard smooth pavement.
Grey lurking
Roaches darting
Blinding flash of lights
Angry swarming crowds envelope me
Lost in an ocean of struggling bodies - all in their own world
And me in mine
but not.
Me,
Watching other lives hurry, scurry past
Standing on an island of stillness
Suddenly suffocating,
Pushing through till I hit land.
Some stairs going up to more people�s lives,
But people free, for now.
Stale cigarettes and piss linger with fumes belching from buses.
The swelling,
Now distant roar of the masses swills around my ears.
Occasional screeches,
and streams,
Of cantonese
breathing the humming cloud of city sounds.
Hong Kong:
The insomniac.

P. J. Vesey


The Field

The sun�s light casts a soft, warm glow,
.. the patched and pale green fields
Like an enchanting mist of yellow haze,
Leaking through the fluttering leaves,
To where the poppies dance.

The pure red colour stirs my mind,
And the nightmare plays once more.
A gun shot splits the silent air,
A ripple in the peace.
A noise that whirls back and forth in time.
An image that will forever haunt me.
I could even feel the soil under my well worn boots,
As I trudged my way through a sea of bodies.
Gurgled cries came from around me,
Echoing in my head, mixing with the pounding of my heart.
Looking around I see decaying flesh,
Skin peeling, rusting off the bones.
That foul smell squeezing around my thoughts,
Those memories choking,
Suffocating,
Eating my mind.
The blood gushing, blanketing the ground.
Seeping, trickling into the dirt and staining the grass.
But most of all the flowers as if pouring his soul into them
Reaching for the heavens in another way.
Soaked with blood but haven�t stopped growing,
These flowers, these poppies, keep on growing,
Reaching for the sun.

Leah Clough


Jaguar

There is a Jaguar in me,
With a coat as dark as the night
And a tail like a slithering snake.
It roars like a broken machine.
It quickly, swiftly soars
Through the jungle
Like the wind.
It lives in my legs
And makes them soar, too.
I am powerful.

Lewis Fung