QV1

Quills

Volume I

Published 2019
Kalamunda Senior High School

Thank you to the English Department and the dedicated writers
of The Cotherstone Press for their support of this project.

2

Table of Contents

FOREWORD...............................................................................................................
.................................................................................6

SUNSET......................................................................................................................
By Sarah Huege de Serville .................................8

CHASING EMPTY FOOTSTEPS ................................................................................
By Georgia Luderman .......................................10

OUR WORLD ............................................................................................................
By Hannah Darby ..............................................13

MY LAST WILL .........................................................................................................
By Chae Elkington .............................................17

CITY UNDER WATER ..............................................................................................
By Jorgia Watson................................................20

SHAKESPEARE’S SONNET 140 ................................................................................
By Sophie Ries ....................................................33

BELOW THE PROSPERING WILLOW SHE RESTS ..................................................
By Kaiya Mouritz ...............................................34

3

IMAGINATION OR REALITY?.....................................................................................
By Leah Kuckelkorn..........................................38

BUTTERSCOTCH ..........................................................................................................
By Madeline McMenamin.................................40

WHAT MAKES A MONSTER? .....................................................................................
Name Withheld ..................................................45

EVERY SUNDAY AFTERNOON..................................................................................
By Maddy Duff...................................................49

THE REAL LIFE NIGHTMARE ...................................................................................
By Sophia Korlatt...............................................53

THE ANZAC SPIRIT..................................................................................................
By Morgan Taylor ..............................................56

THE KOI POND ..........................................................................................................
By Naomi Taylor................................................59

MAGICIANS..................................................................................................................
By Sharlini Hollier..............................................64

A MODERN AUSTRALIAN IDENTITY .......................................................................
By Shelly Dewrance ...........................................77

4

THE DAY WE MET HIM .........................................................................................
By Olivia Trimboli .............................................81

HANGMAN’S TREE ...................................................................................................
By Sophie Catchpole..........................................85

MISCONCEPTION .....................................................................................................
By Lucie Stirk-Wasley........................................98

GHOSTLY ..................................................................................................................
By Sophie Ries ................................................. 100

NEW YEAR’S PRETENCE.........................................................................................
By Sarah Huege de Serville ............................ 118

THE MEMORY MACHINE........................................................................................
By Travis Otley................................................ 123

THE NEW LIFE OF AN OLD GOD .........................................................................
By Lucie Stirk-Wasley..................................... 127

5

Foreword

_
Inspired by the passion of our students for creative writing, the
Quills anthology presents the opportunity to write for an
authentic audience with purpose. This collection celebrates the
work of students from Year 7 through to Year 12, reflected in a
variety of poetry and prose.
For this inaugural edition, students were asked to respond to the
theme of change and incorporate their interpretation of this
theme in their work. The selected writing showcases a broad
spectrum of student writing; the ability of individuals to explore
perspective and voice, consider their own experiences, and that
of those around them. In some cases, they have critically looked
at the world and allowed their words to be shaped by a mixture
of truth and creativity. Others reflect on serious social issues
experienced by youth including family relationships, suicide, and
racism. We also see students navigating a range of different
genres, considering both the supernatural and surreal.

Congratulations to all our published authors.

Sarah Adams
Editor | Quills Anthology

6

One must be careful with books, and what is inside of them.
For words have the power to change us.

~ Cassandra Clare

7

Sunset

By Sarah Huege de Serville

A clean glass.
Thin. Sharp. Extravagant
as it fractures the simple white of the sun
to a thousand bursts of an
unimaginable stream of something new.
Changing.
One would dare not explain
but could try. And fail
as something so great could envelop them.

To the right,
a tree.
A bare silhouette.
A fragment of the life that's there,
yet it spells more.
Marbled colours behind speak for it
as it whispers power.

8

Small stones and sand.
A thousand years know these same stones and sand.
A mere second is spoken to a person.
An ant.
A bird.
And the past is a friend.
A shadow.
Constant.

By what great cause we stand
as privileged creatures on this piece,
unknowing yet desiring,
it is well to listen to the silent song
that even the all-wise breeze stills to listen to.

9

Chasing Empty Footsteps

By Georgia Luderman

Emilia held up the black and white photo, one eye squeezed shut,
as she angled it left, then a bit right and then just a touch more.
“Ah, perfect!” she exclaimed.
The lines of the bricks on the pillars aligned seamlessly into the
achromatic photo. The signs and cables above the heads of the
passers-by lining the walls of the old, weathered buildings weren’t
so kind. Her smiling parents, covered in woolly scarves and hats,
their boots coated in mud, seemed to stand in front of her, their
arms outstretched, reaching for her.
She smiled back and let the cool, winter air flood her lungs and
dry out her mouth, exhaling a cool cloud of mist.
“I bet mum and dad met right here.”
Smiling to herself, she looked onwards, up the streets, between
the people adorned in scarves and heavy coats, through the
twisted cables in the sky. Everything sparkled with rain.
“It’s perfect.” Tears welled in her eyes.
She leant down, picked up her bags and her heavy heart and set
off on the muddy street. She hadn’t taken more than a handful of

10

steps when a cruel, icy wind, one that felt as if Jack Frost himself
was laughing in her ear, swept the picture from her hand.

She gasped, chasing it down the street. The wind carried it higher
and higher. Spinning it mercilessly out of her grasp.

“Sorry!” she yelled, forcing her way through the crowds, her
heavy bag bouncing on her back and into people’s shoulders,
chests, and faces.

The photo drifted further and further. She screamed after it.
Thrusting her arms into the air. She leapt into the sky. Her bag
refused to follow and gravity puller her into the mud and the dirt.
She fought it off with all of her strength, shrugging off her
backpack as she continued after the photo.

Her head snapped towards a motorcycle as it sped past her and
parked. She ran over, throwing the rider out of the seat. Keys still
in the ignition, she sped off. “I’m so sorry. I’ll bring it back – I
promise!”

Emilia watches as the faces of her parents taunted her. “Come
with us Emily dear. It’ll be so much fun!”

“I’m so sorry. I was so busy. Time didn’t seem so short. I’m
sorry. I’m here now.” She choked, her heart swelling in her
throat, tears causing her vision to bleed.

BOOM! CRASH!

11

The motorcycle toppled over, throwing Emilia to the ground.
She looked up, through cuts, bruises and blood, people crowding
around her. The photo was long gone now.
It had been for a while.

12

Our World

By Hannah Darby

It’s happening again. Those mockingly slanted eyes, staring at me
with distaste. It makes my toes curl with anxiety. Their mouths
slapping up and down, shouting insecurities at the air. Every
afternoon they connect paths, just to see me, to make fun of me.
Tim is very fond of showing his vulgar and racist thoughts. He
doesn’t hide his mean and cruel words behind kindness, no; he
unleashes it all with tremendous force.

“Careful guys, if you cross paths with Black Tabby, ah those
nasty feline eyes of hers will haunt you.”

He walks in time with me, his snarling snarking friends follow his
leadership. I feel a slight tug at my hair and yelp. What’s more, I
was suddenly falling through the air. Someone had tripped me.

“See this? It’s so thick and weird, it’s disgusting. I bet the Abo
doesn’t even wash every night.”

I took that to mind, of how wrong he was. Mum is the one who
brushes my hair every morning, saying it’s so beautiful and clean.

13

“Ah, but boys, this skin is another story altogether.”

He roughly yanks my arm, his nails digging deep into my skin. I
wince but to my surprise, I hadn’t bled with the pure strength
and anger he had in his hold.

“It’s so dark and black, looks exactly like a shadow. Ha! That’s a
laugh, right, guys?”

Disgustingly, they all agreed. Their words bitter to no end. It hurt
so much that they were disrespecting my family. It’s infuriating.
Though I don’t do anything anymore. The last time I did, I was
thrown into the Bowen River. I remember every detail. The
sensation of drowning, the screams and the smirking faces of the
ones who threw me. I recall my mum’s shocked face when she
saw my soaked attire that afternoon. My only excuse was
sprinklers. Only I knew what I go through…

I can’t escape them, they are everywhere. Those despicable eyes
raking my figure, burning it with their fierce gaze. At lunch or
recess, I often hide from them. In secret, I’d ask the kind
librarian if I could stay and read. Not once has she let me down.
I was never alone while reading, there was a student in my year

14

there too. Every time, she would borrow the same book, The
Cage, and sit by the window. Despite all her visits, not once
have we spoken. Not even eye contact, just silent company, with
no conversation.

I’m brought back to Tim’s strong hand, landing on my shoulder.
Stopping me from continuing my walk. I raise my head, my fizzy
brown locks sliding off my bag strap. What suddenly happened
was unimaginable, it stopped my heart that had accelerated
moments before. From the corner of my eye, a white glint of
something silver startled me. I undoubtedly knew what it was.
Fear spread through my blood as I stared into his blue orbs. He
brought a knife this time.

He intended to hurt me. Before I could think I slammed my
palms into his chest, shoving myself away from him. My bag
slipped and fell to the floor. Knowing this, I tried to grab it but
stopped when he took hold of one of the straps. Tim, still
watching me, brings the knife into view, freezing me in a
paralysed state. I watched him as he brought the weapon to the
bag strap. Slowly, he tears the material with the silver metal, the
straps half falls to the floor. Almost in slow motion, like the
world had stopped to torment me. As if I had just realised my
situation, do I begin to let tears fall? This time, he will hurt me.

15

This time he might…

I wasn’t able to process any more words as a ball flew past me
and hit Tim in the face. He stumbled and grunted in pain. I turn
to see the library student with her arms on her knees as she took
short breaths. Noticing me, she walks over and glares at Tim
while stepping to my side.

“If I see your face again anywhere near her, I will call the police.
You may be a kid, but It’s not a game anymore. Cut the crap and
get some sense into that thick head of yours and leave her the
hell alone!”

If only then and there I was not frozen in place, I would have
lunged at her and squeezed her. She’s the first person to help me,
the first person to see my world. Without being told twice, Tim
scurries off with his crew, dropping the knife and bag to the
floor with a tremble. I turn to my saviour with a tear-stained face.
Wiping my cheeks, I try to smile at her.

“Thank you.”

16

My Last Will

By Chae Elkington

There she lay lifeless…
…there she lay dead.

How did it happen? Why did it happen? I swiftly, but carefully
floated towards her. I hovered above her lifeless body. ‘I’m
sorry.’ I whispered. Then I drifted off, into the night's deepest
and darkest fissures.

I have been dead for about, let me think about this, 200 years
now? I don’t even remember how, when, and why I died. Maybe
I died like the way that little girl died. Who knows? I, for one,
certainly don’t know. I kept floating until I reached the gate of
the cemetery, it was rusty and looked like it had been standing
for millions of years now, and, of course, I didn’t open the door,
I just casually floated through it. Then I was in the cemetery, the
one place you would not want to be at in the dead of the night,
but now, it’s where I live and where I belong.
The sun was rising above the silent, eerie -and some abandoned-
buildings. I seeped through the ground, past my coffin and there

17

lay my shrivelled-up corpse. I never knew what I looked like. All
I know is that my name is, Henry, I think? I don’t know, but it
was very briefly written on a pebble that was placed in the dirt
above my grave. I only found it 10 years ago.

It was daybreak. The sun sizzled on the surface ground, its rays
seeped through every possible sliver and shone through the
cracks in my coffin, the light pierced right through me. I opened
my eyes and heard sirens wailing and people chattering. Were
they complaining about the girl? I wasn’t sure, but, alas, I wish to
be human again! The taste of pumpkin soup and freshly brewed
tea! And the clothes that were always so tight that my top neck
button would fly off! And I would always play cards and hang
out with my friends! Oh, I wish to be human again! I kept
thinking until the night crept to the world up above.

I realised it was night and tried to emerge from the soil to
explore the surface world. But I couldn’t, I simply couldn’t float
through dirt like I could before, I was stuck! Like I was buried
alive! So, I dug and dug until I reached the surface world. I was
fascinated that I didn’t have to inhale the transparent gas that was
essential to human life. I looked around, everything was pitch

18

black, I wondered why I wasn’t producing my normal eerie light.
Then I saw my fellow neighbours float through the dirt.
“Hey! Dorothy! What has happened to me?” I said, or at least
tried to say. All that was coming out of my mouth was clutters of
blood and deep groaning noises. Dorothy stared at me with her
sad, soulless eyes. Then I looked at my hands. My hands? I had
feet as well! Was I human again?
No.
I was undead.

19

City Under Water

By Jorgia Watson

India, 1975 October 1st.

The streets through the markets were bustling with life, there was
loud chatter and bursts of colours everywhere, on the sweltering
night. I was walking through on my way to my favourite little
ancient remedy shop. I was walking along when I noticed two
men in black suits across the street looking at me, they stood out
in a place like this. I turned away and continued to the little store,
but I kept glancing over my shoulder, they followed me. I kept
walking to the store, it was tucked away down a dark and narrow
ally way just after the end of the markets, I turned down it. So,
did they. I walked into the store, I had come to know the little
old lady, who always wore a dark purple and blue Kurta tunic,
that ran the store quite well, I spoke to her in the native language,
“Hello.”
“Hello, dear one. How are you today?”
“I am good, thank you. How are you?”
“I am fine dear one, what can I help you with today?”
“Just more for the headache, please and can I use the up-stairs
route?” she sighed.
“Someone chasing you again?”

20

“Yeah.”
“Who?” She asked. I would normally tell her who I am being
chased by because it is usually the same people, police. “I don’t
know.” I replied, “I don’t like not knowing.” She walked around
the counter and went to a shelf in the corner of the room and
picked up a bottle. “Here,” she said, “this should help, my dear.”
“Thank you, how much?”
“For you. One-hundred and fifteen rupees.” I handed her the
money when I saw one of the men come to the door, where was
the other one? “Good luck, my dear Kelsey.” I rushed towards
the back of the store to where the dodgy wooden stairs were, I
ran up them. I stopped when I got to the top and looked down
to the bottom to see if the man was following me, thank god he
was not, I didn’t feel like fighting today. I turned left towards a
window that was covered in dust and cobwebs, I opened it just
enough to fit through. I climbed out of it and onto a little ledge
that would not hold me for long. Beneath my feet was the
narrow alleyway I had walked down to enter the store, so I
leaned over the small gap between the window ledge I was
standing on the one jutting out from the building opposite me,
and I tore the newspaper that was acting as the window glass. I
heard thumping footsteps coming up the stairs, so I quickly
stepped to the other side and jumped through the window. I
passed two kids on the floor playing a game and a mother who

21

was cooking dinner, they looked at me with strange expressions
as I rushed past and down the stairs into a little café. I looked
around the café, there were two other people sitting at a table
and then two more walked in. It was one of the men in the black
suits that was sitting and the other man in the black suit was the
one who walked in the man next to him wore a grey suit and the
final guy, who was sitting, wore khaki pants and a tight black t-
shirt, that was enough to tell me he wasn’t with the men in suits,
he had been brought here by them. The two men in suits sat
down at the table, “Well, sit down.” The man in grey said, he had
an American accent that matched his horrible tan. “We’re not
here to arrest you, like everyone else.” The man in pants and t-
shirt then turned around and faced me with piercing blue eyes
and blonde sandy hair, he was striking that was for sure, he also
had a tan, but it was not horribly fake, like the man in the grey
suit was. I walked over to the seat next to the man in the black
shirt, sat down and crossed my arms over my chest. “Then what
are you here for?” I questioned.
“The war has just ended, you should be partying not hiding.”
“I’m not a party girl.”
“Well then, miss Montgomery you worked for the British
Intelligence, correct?” I nodded. “Now, what exactly did you do
for MI6, as it is more commonly known?” I remained silent and
he nodded. “You were an assas-“

22

“Who are you?” I cut him off from his sentence.
He looked at me with curious eyes. “We were hoping that you
would help us.”
“Help you? With what?”
“An expedition.”
“An expedition to where?” I quizzed.
“To an island.”
“Which island.”
“This island, we think, has not been yet discovered, is in the
middle of the Atlantic Ocean.”
The man next to me in the black shirt, who hadn’t spoken a
word broke his silence, in an Australian accent. “So, why do you
need people like us?” He turned to me. “No offence, you don’t
look like much of a scientist.” I turned around to face him.
“Really? What made you think that because it can’t be the fact, I
have a PhD in biological sciences.” He looked back shocked.
“You just climbed through a window and jumped into another
building how did you get here with a PhD in science?” He asked
me.
“It’s complicated and I have another degree in national security
and a minor in mathematics.” I turned to the man in the grey
suit. “And who are you?”
“I am Fredrick Worthington, I graduated from Princeton
University, America and I currently work for the Environmental

23

Services. We need you two, to help guide us around the island.”
He turned to the man next to me. “Mr. Johansson, you are an
excellent adventurer, aren’t you game?” Mr. Johansson, the guy
in the black shirts name, shifted in his seat, sitting up straighter
and clearing his throat, “Let me start by listing the things that
could possibly go wrong with your little escapade,” he paused
and took a breath. “Right, let’s see, there’s the fact that the island
could be unstable, disease in the air, in the water, in flies and
mosquitoes and what about everything that might eat you?”
“Wait, you said just discovered. How did you discover it?” I
questioned.
“A ship, full of American soldiers went down near this spot
coming home from over the Atlantic Ocean.”
“What’s the catch with this island? Why has it not been
discovered before?” Mr. Johansson asked.
“Some people do not think it’s there.”
“Why?” I asked.
“It’s surrounded.”
“By what?”
“Storms, hurricanes, tsunamis.”
“Ok,” Mr. Johansson spoke, “let’s add all of that to the list of
things that could kill us.” Professor Worthington glared at the
man, annoyed. “Let’s not. Now, of course, you won’t be alone.
There will be a team of eight scientists, including myself, and

24

twelve army soldiers.”
Mr. Johansson piped up again. “Why do you need soldiers?”
“If you are willing, there will be a ship, the USS Angelica, leaving
from Mersin.” Mr. Worthington avoided the question, but that
did not matter to me. I was not going and apparently, neither was
Mr. Johansson as he immediately declared after Mr. Worthington
finished, “no.”
“There will be a hefty sum of money waiting for you if you
return.”
“If?” I must have sounded mortified as Mr. Worthington quickly
rushed to reassure me by switching his words around. “When,”
he emphasised. “You return.”
“How much?” I asked angrily.
“Sixty-thousand United States dollars.”
“No.” Mr. Johansson said, “double it.” Mr. Worthington was not
pleased by his response to that amount of money, but we were
just about to walk into almost certain death. Mr. Worthington
thought hard for a minute, but apparently decided that we must
be extremely important for this expedition as he said, “Fine, one-
hundred-thousand dollars, each, in cash if you meet us in twenty
days at Mersin port, Turkey.” He then stood up to leave, but
before he walked away from the table he asked, “deal.”
He took his time to stare at each of us in the eye, and then we
both said, “deal.” Mr. Worthington nodded and walk to the door,

25

but I called out, “wait!”
He turned back around. “Yes, Miss Montgomery?”
“You didn’t answer the question.”
He looked confused. “What question?”
“Why do you need soldiers?”
“Safety precautions.”

Turkey, 1975 October 20th.

It had taken me twenty days by train, to get from northern India
to Turkey, Mr. Worthing must have known that it would take
exactly that to arrive here. The trip was dangerous, but I made it
for the departure on-time. My ride to this mysterious island was
an army ship, the ‘USS Angelica,’ that was massive. It had a
helicopter landing strip taking up most of the boat’s deck, then at
the back sticking out from the ship was the control room. I
walked up on to the ships deck with my duffle bag slung over my
shoulder, when I heard my name being called, “Miss
Montgomery, miss!” I turned around to see a soldier jogging
towards me.
“Miss Montgomery. Officer Barnes, mam. Welcome to the USS
Angelica, I’m here to escort you to your bunk.”
“Hi, ok.”
“So, Miss Montgomery, what’s your area of expertise? Why did

26

they want you on this expedition?” The ship was loud and there
were people everywhere getting ready for departure, so we were
both slightly shouting at each other.
“I have a major in biological sciences, a degree in national
security and a minor in mathematics and I use to work for MI6.
And please, my name is Kelsey.”
“Well, Kelsey, what did you do for MI6?”
“Classified.”
“Classified?” He gestured for me to continue.
“Yes, I am not eligible to talk to anyone about my days there.”
“So, you’re a spy?” He sounded shocked.
“Yes, a spy. Is there a problem?” He shook his head violently.
“No problem at all, miss.” We walked the rest of the way down
to the bunk in silence, it was a few levels down. When we
arrived, officer Barnes looked at his watch, “Sorry miss, no time
to unpack, there’s a meeting for all those going to the island in
ten minutes.” I placed my duffle bag down onto the bunk, “Ok,
show me the way.”

We made our way to a boardroom, we walked in and all seats
were taken up by soldiers and scientists, so I leant up against a
wall and waited for the meeting to start. The room flitted with
chatter as we all waited on Professor Worthington and the
general. When they finally walked in, they set up a projector,
pulled down the screen, closed the door and turned the lights off,

27

everyone went silent. The general started off by saying, “Soldiers
and scientists and spies, listen up. In twenty-four-hundred-hours
we will reach the point where this ship, as strong as she is, can go
no further to the island so, the select few will take up the
helicopters and take off through the storm, get safely to the
island, the scientist will land and do whatever they do, while us
soldiers do a flying perimeter. Now, this operation will not be led
by me or a scientist, this operation will be led by explorer or
adventurer Alec Johansson,” I looked around for the man but he
was not here, “who is not here, for some reason, anyway, and,
uh, government official, of sorts, Miss Kelsey Montgomery.”
Everyone looked around to me somewhat baffled and surprised.
“Now, in more detail, there will be four to one helicopter, you
will be assigned a helicopter. When we get to this island,
choppers one and two will fly over the island for an aerial view,
while choppers three, four, five and six will land at the south side
of the island the scientist do their thing and the rest of you
soldiers will set up a base, any questions?” No one raised their
hands, “good. Now may I ask professor Worthington to brief
you on the science part of his expedition.” The general stepped
away and the professor stepped to and I heard the door open
and close so, I looked behind me to see Alec walking in and to
stand behind me slightly to the right, no one else seemed to
notice. “Ok, now my team of scientist, you will be in helicopters

28

four and five, from when we fly over from the north of the
island we will be dropping these devices that will trigger seismic
waves so we can determine what is under our island –“
Alec interrupted, “What devices could trigger seismic waves
without causing an explosion or an earthquake?” Everyone
turned to look at Alec, but I kept my eyes on the professor who
was now looking slightly nervous about the answer that would
follow. “Well, um.” He was very flustered.
“So, we are going to drop bombs on to this island?”
I spoke up, “Did it ever occur to you that there might be a
civilisation living on this island?”
“Well yes, but – “He was cut off again by Alec.
“But what? You could wipe out a whole civilisation.”
I interjected, “What if there was a whole new species of flora and
fauna on this island? I’m pretty sure your ecologist wouldn’t be
very happy if you destroyed them.”
“It-it-it’s scientific equipment to, to, test the stability of the I-
island.” He was stuttering, a deform in speech often meant a lie.
There was a silence before the general interrupted, “Ok, if you
have any questions about the ‘scientific equipment’ see the
professor afterwards. Please continue, professor.” He did and I
listened for any other information on the bombs but there was
none, and I couldn’t be bothered asking more questions about

29

them. When the briefing ended, I walked out back to my bunk
and waited for the announcement for dinner.

Pacific Ocean, USS Angelica Dining Hall, 50,877.5
Kilometres to Destination, 1975 October 20th.

It had been two hours waiting in my bunk before the dinner
announcement, I was now walking to the dining hall when my
name was called, “Miss Montgomery.” I turned to the person
coming out of their bunk, it was Alec Johansson. “Mr.
Johansson, how may I help you?” He jogged to catch up with
me, then we started trekking down the halls. “Please, call me
Alec.” He put out his hand for me to shake, “Kelsey.” I stated.
“Nice to meet you, Kelsey. I was wondering if you wanted to do
a bit more digging into this science experiment after dinner?”
“I think I would like to do a bit more digging into this science
experiment,” I answered him. We continued to walk the halls
until we reached the dining hall, then we cued up in the long line
for food, then sat down at two empty seats and we talked. “So,
what exactly do you do for the government?” Alec asked.
“I was a spy for MI6. Yeah, I assassinated people and stole
artefacts and information for them.” I answered.
“How many kills?”
Kelsey hesitated, but decided she could trust this man, “thirty-six,

30

what about you? What do you do for a living?”
“I am an explorer; I do many things in that field.”
“What things?”
“I worked for the army to find a group of men lost in the jungle
once. I do a bit of archaeology, been to the pyramids and
whatnot.”
“Cool, very cool.”
He sighed, “I killed someone once to,” I looked up from my
dinner, ‘Alec wants me to trust him’ I thought. “Because they
were dying,” he continued. “One of the men lost in the jungle,
uh, had malaria, he asked me to do it. Even though he asked me
I still feel terrible, how do you deal with that guilt?”
“There is no guilt. I used to kill for my country, to protect its
people. I’m doing my service to my country, nothing to feel
guilty about.” I replied, “and I was trained that way.”
“Trained that way?” Question not a statement.
I looked at him dead in the eye, “Yeah, trained for it.”
He nodded at my words, “Yeah of course,” he put his spoon
down in his bowl and this time looked me in the eye, “should
have guessed that.” We moved on to other topics and when we
were both done, we put our trays of empty bowls up and walked
back down to the bunks. We stopped as we arrived at his door,
“So, when should we check out those bombs?” He asked.
“Meet me outside my bunk, three-oh-six, at twenty-two-hundred-

31

hours. Bring a torch.”
“Ok, see you then.”
I nodded and walked off and as I rounded the corner, I could see
Alec watching me leave.

32

Shakespeare’s Sonnet 140

By Sophie Ries

You are blind to my pain, isn’t it clear?
That you cause my suffering, hear my plea.
You choke me with your words and leave me here,
Alone my tell-tale passion consumes me.
If action tells of love and action love speech,
Through speech you could end my cruel suffering.
With sweet lies my heart could be besieged.
Instead of leaving me here buffering,
Even then if passion is forbidden.
Better it would be for both you and I.
If you be the one to leave me ridden,
Instead of this careless world that spouts lies.
So, with undying love I wish to say,
The word has reason to keep us at bay.

33

Below the Prospering Willow She Rests

By Kaiya Mouritz

below a prospering willow she rests
Her dark wrinkles caressed by wispy hair
she ponders on her history, the lost and unknown
brought on by the tide of the corsair

the heartfelt touch of mother
the warm heat radiating from fire
all lost and tangled within misery
constrained to the British’s attire

she remembers the cold confinement
the shared room of fears
the bleached walls that trapped her
at the fault of the white pioneers

34

the cold wrought iron she slept on
burned into her skin like a brand
the insipid food dulled her tongue
she was a subject at authority’s command

soon she reached her coming of age
she became the subject of authority desire
Her body, mind and spirit diminished
as her body compulsorily inclined to the colonial empire

Her body now shielded in bruises
the physical pain entwined into her heart
the spirit residing in her faded
the dismay she still feels, on the gubba’s behalf

35

Her life was made to torment her
Her chest felt constant weight
Her mind swirled like dust clouds
for her heart lurched at the sight of the white saints

but life continued, hardships still followed
for a job was tough to come by
and a home felt not her own
for the white conquest still occupy

She felt the cold hard stares at her stomach
as new life bloomed within
the whispers of poor motherhood
for the white believed she was a sin

36

the trauma of losing your own daughter
in a society riled on prejudice and hate
to a society so empty and ashamed
to have the English navigate their fate

to experience loss of heritage now family
to experience your child be taken away
to dread your child relives her mother’s horrors
for the criminals to lead her mind into disarray

the dying banksia by her side
Her eyes the pool’s rippled reflection
Her people’s history is something still in tatters
60 thousand years lost by white intervention

37

Imagination or Reality?

By Leah Kuckelkorn

Darkness, fear, blood, images were flashing too fast for my brain
to comprehend, my room was turning, my world is spinning. It
was all happening too fast for me. I’m running, mum’s crying, my
Dad as a ghost of himself. I bang on the door of my room to
break free….

I wake up with a jolt. Sweat dripping down my forehead, my
dark hair pressed against my neck, my lungs choking on the
stagnant air. I look around, no blood on the walls, no dead
bodies on the ground. I keep having those nightmares. Every
single night for exactly 2 weeks now. I hastily get out of bed to
check if my door was locked. No. It effortlessly swung open. My
breath began to cease.

It has been two weeks since the death of my Dad, me, my Mum
and my sister went shopping for my Dad, it was his birthday the
very next day. Dad was left at home. But when we got home, he
was gone. Lifeless on our carpet. It was as if someone knew we
wouldn’t be there. When we found him, the room was tense. The
air had an almost stagnant feel. But it wasn’t until I looked up
that I saw her, in tattered clothes, covered in parched blood. I
couldn’t identify her face. But before I could blink, she vanished

38

into the air. My family was ruined that night. But strangely
enough, I still feel his presence. But, not in a good way. It feels
like he’s taunting me in my dreams by sending demons upon me.
Demons, the unruly, ghostly, draping figures made out of pure
sorrow that reside in my room. Their ghostly, hollow eyes filled
with no emotion other than hatred and despise. Although they
might sound intimidating, really, they won’t harm you, or so I
believed. Pain, claws, ghostly breath going down my spine. Red
lights were flashing, red flags were everywhere, a knife in her
hand. Her dark eyes black with emptiness and lust. and in the
middle of it all, was Dad. I couldn’t stand it anymore. I had to
break free. But how? “Why do you hate me?!” I screamed in tears
while choking on my own breath. My Dad just looked at me with
a forbidding look as he turned to dissipate. “Nooooo, Please! I’ll do
anything!” But he was gone.

And with a jolt I wake up again. But this time in a different
room. A different time. I was alone, standing in torn clothes
caked with dry blood. I was alone, but with company. The black
figures of my imagination begin to close in on me. Pure terror
spreading through me like a rapid. I hear footsteps approach the
door. Footsteps that could’ve only belonged to my mother and
sister. In my hand a knife. At my feet……

Lies my Dad.

39

Butterscotch

By Madeline McMenamin

The day we met the sky was whirling in pinks and oranges. There
wasn’t a single cloud in the sky that afternoon. The pavement
along the shop fronts had been set alight with the blush of the
sky as everything was settling down for the night. I walked along,
a young man, alone, on a warm summers evening. I stopped to
cross the road when a gush of wind called me back with the
sweetest smell of butterscotch. I followed my nose and he led me
to you, and your butterscotch shop. Your hair was a brown
whirlwind, coiled like waves, an untameable mess. Your eyes
shone a shade of amber, they looked like the flicker of fire. Your
lips an elegant marmalade, evenly spread. I had never seen the
colour yellow the way I saw it on you, that very first time, in that
dress.

As I stuttered and failed to catch the breath you had stolen, you
let out a loud roar of laughter followed by a sarcastic “Lost your
tongue?” In an act of defiance without thinking I stuck out my
tongue, which to your dismay was still there. We broke into
another fit of laughter. You asked if I was there to buy anything
or just stand around sticking out my tongue. I bought the finest

40

butterscotch you had. Handing me my receipt I attempted to
swallow my pride, a grown man, dead scared of the most
beautiful woman I ever laid my hazel eyes upon. I tried to
articulate the perfect way to ask you to the pictures. Although
before a second breath was able to escape, you flashed your
marmalade smile a final time before turning around. In an act of
desperation, I wrote on the back of the receipt “6 pm, downtown
pictures – Chester (tongue)” in case you were to forget who I
was. I had turned, walking out of the shop and leaving the smell
of butterscotch and the eyes of fire behind me, when I heard a
“Tongue! I finish in ten how about you take me on a walk instead.” My
heart raced, my body conspired against me, and I couldn’t let out
a single sound nor movement. I eventually gave a soft nod and
waited outside upon the stairs. The wind outside now felt like ice,
the city lights across the river blared and the sound of the nearby
rustle of cars dissolved into the night.

When we began to walk, the sky was the hue of freshly laid
pebbles scattered across the ground. You took me to a place far
from the blare of the city lights, far from the sound of cars, a
cliff. Overlooking the crystal blue ocean. One touch would cause
ripples for miles and miles. The stars shining, bright, safety, far
from the pollution of the lights. There was not a person in sight;

41

the grass smelled freshly cut and appeared like dormant emeralds.
The oaten rocks resembled the colour of your skin. We sat at the
edge, feet dangling. The feeling of freedom pulsed through our
blood.

The day we were to be married was exactly 678 days from our
first meeting. The sky was the liveliest of blues, the clouds
formed one straight line, perfectly arched, perfectly white. On
that day your untameable hair had somehow been wrangled into
a bun sitting at the bottom of your neck, a few curls escaping,
that you tucked behind your ears like secrets. Your eyes glistened
in their normal amber; the flicker of their fire danced. Your lips
painted in the colour of red wine. You wore a pearl white dress,
with a sweetheart neckline and a bodice that hugged you like it
was a part of your body. You looked like a true princess. That
day was the brightest of roses.

The day we finished building our house that sat upon the cliff,
we sat upon for the first time. The sky was awash with sweet
cinnamon. Today your coiled hair sat upon the top of your head
in a bun, a golden headband wrapping around your forehead.
When you understood you would live overlooking the same
freshly cut emerald grass, the same sparkling sky, the same

42

untouchable crystal ocean, your eyes came alive. They sparkled. I
could almost feel the heat coming from the flames inside them.
Your lips today looked like the halves of freshly cut peaches, just
as plump, just a full.

Then things changed. On the hardest day, the sky was in a soft
sprinkle, dyed by tones of loose change. Today your hair hadn’t
been touched and pressed up against the window as you rested
your head, legs curled up onto the seat. Your eyes were burnt out
and the fire had subsided, too tired to fight. Your lips were
cracked, flaked like shavings of coconuts and a dull shade of
cotton. Today was the day we found out that you could not give
the gift of life. The car ride home was painted with fog. I heard
your soft sniffles and the moment when the first teardrop broke
free. Many more followed in an unbroken stream.

The day you died; the sky was as dark as midnight. The air felt
like ice. I didn’t feel at home. Your hair was the same whirlwind,
coiled like waves, an untameable mess as it was the first day I saw
you. This time however the brown had faded beautifully into
silver. Your eyes were closed, but I imagined them the same
shade of amber with the same flicker of fire. Your lips today
were still marmalade although more tender, more like glass. As I

43

looked to the ocean, a dark gloomy shadow of a cloud came
stretching over us. I looked down at you, towards my
butterscotch, as you breathed your last breath and the cloud
rolled over us. It picked you up and carried you deep into the
ocean with it. I was left with just the body that held you. All
colours disappeared, everything faded to grey.
Was a world without your colours a world worth belonging to?

44

What Makes a Monster?

Name Withheld

It’s 1988 and the air is hot and heavy. You are outside playing
with your first ever-niece and your mother is watching you from
the shade of the veranda your father built with his own
hardworking hands just a few years before. You laugh at your
little niece as she toddles towards on her chubby, baby legs and
tugs on your slightly-too-big t-shirt indicating she wants to be
picked up. Your mother keeps a careful watch on the two of you,
her eyes full of adoration and her heart warm. She loves you
more than you will ever know. You’re the youngest out of her
four children and the only son to carry on the family name. She
knows that it is wrong to have favourites, but you are definitely
hers. You’re only 17 and your haircut is too short for your face.
You still have so much life left to live, so much growing left to
do, so much messing up to begin, and through it all, she will
continue to love you.
And through it all, you will continue to not know.

She says something to you in Sicilian about needing to come
inside because it’s too sunny. You roll your eyes at her and stay

45

outside anyway because you’re naive and you’re careless and what
does a little sunburn matter anyway?

It’s 1997 and you’re no longer at your house on Livingstone
Street. You are still in Australia and so the air still is hot and
heavy, mixed with the smell of marijuana and sweat. The music
from whatever band is playing at the festival you’re at is loud and
wild and you can feel people watching you as you slowly get
down on one knee and pick up a soda can ring from the floor.
Samantha, your girlfriend looks at you as you pick it up and her
blonde hair falls in her face and she smiles her goofy smile and
suddenly you can’t help yourself. You propose, right then and
there with that stupid soda ring and she laughs at you and calls
you an idiot whilst simultaneously looking at you with eyes full of
so much love and so much hope that it makes your head spin.
You stand up and kiss her and you feel more alive than you ever
have. You are both so young and free and the music plays on.
The rest of the festival-goers dance; life could not be any sweeter.

The 18th of July 2002, its 5:22 am and your long, thick, matted
hair is tied up behind you in an elastic band. It’s sticking to your
neck because you’re sweating. Why the hell is it this hot in July?
The hospital room you’re in is small and you feel so big and out
of place surrounded by all these tiny women in nursing uniforms.

46

The laces of your one black and one red converse shoes are
undone and you’re sitting on a chair and holding your new-born
daughter. The first thing said after she was born was from
Samantha looking at her, and then looking at you, saying
“Anthony I can’t believe it, we have a little wog baby” as she
smoothed the mop of dark hair on her tiny head. The baby is so
small compared to you and you’re scared if you hold her too
tight you might crush her but at the same time, all you want to do
is cradle her and never let her go. She looks up at you, her eyes
are big and full of innocence and wonder and you don’t think
you’ve ever felt such strong emotion in your entire life. You’re
not usually the type to make promises you can’t keep but, in that
moment, tell yourself that no matter what you will always love
and always look after your little girl.

It’s 2019 and it’s funny how things change. You look in a mirror
with bloodshot eyes and in a rare moment of introspection, you
wonder how things ever managed to fall apart this devastatingly.
It’s hysterical to think that you haven’t seen your daughter or her
mother in over 12 years and you haven’t talked to your parents in
about the same. You blame them for your lack of contact, for
giving up on you, even after you pushed them away and hurt
them over and over again. They should have tried harder. They

47

should have been there for you. They should have stayed even if
you were the one that walked away. You tell this to yourself, your
friends and anyone else that will listen everyday but deep down
you know it’s not true. They tried so hard for you - with blood
and tears and broken English. They did everything they possibly
could and if you gave them the opportunity they still would.
But you don’t.
You never do.
In your head, you write them letters telling them you love them
and that you’re sorry and, in your head, they forgive you and
suddenly the past is erased, and everything is okay again. But
you’re a coward and you’d never have the courage to really do it.
You’re no longer a man with so much life left to live with all the
people that love you. You’re someone with hands that forget
what they’re for when they’re not shaking. You remember
someone asking once what made a man a monster and at the
time you didn’t understand the question at all. However now,
looking in the mirror at the person you’ve become, you realise
that the answer is one of the only things you’re certain of.

48

Every Sunday Afternoon

By Maddy Duff

Every Sunday afternoon, your home becomes filled with the rich
aroma of home-grown oranges. You watch as your mother stirs
the pot, carefully, peacefully, as she stares into the serenity of the
native grasses outside.

Your tiny body is content; safe; but your development yearns for
an adventure, the uncertainty, and adrenaline of being alone with
no adults. You and Mikey stare at each other across the small
wooden dining table. You are both fidgety; restless; bored.
Mikey swings his legs. The sound of the rickety chair becomes
rhythmic. It loops. Endlessly. You look back to your mother.
Torn between the safety of her presence and the desire to
adventure with Mikey. You finally give in.

You slide down from the tall, brown chair and your feet create a
musical ‘patter’ as they hit the floor and you step forward. The
floor is creaky, but in the warmest, most desirable way possible.
Your childhood home forever a cosy little gem; a safe place.

49

“Mum, can I please go to the big hill?”

Your mother glances outside, up to the clock and then gives you
a sceptical glance. Your mother’s eyes were always so inviting
and kind, even when you were cheeky or misbehaving.

“You need to be back well and truly before 6,” she says with a
firm, yet nurturing tone. She kneels to one knee, “And what do
you need to remember?” She speaks softly and holds your hand.

“I always need to be able to see our house,” you say rhythmically,
like a song; like you’ve said it hundreds of times before.
“Off you go,” she says with a nurturing smile. “Back by 6.”
Your mother always spoke so gently, so even the slightest
variation in tone was detectable. You know she’s not playing
around. You look back at Mikey. You both grin excitedly.

Mikey leaps out of the chair at once and races to the back door.
Dad isn’t home yet, and so you both burst outside letting the
door slam behind you. You can hear a distant, “Hey!” from the
kitchen as your mother reacts, unimpressed.

50