Home' Focus : 2014 College Yearbook Contents 68
MIDDLE SCHOOL CREATIONS
Creative Writing competition winners
Winner: Sophie Campbell – Together Until the Last Breath
Runner-up: Emma Hardwicke – Nature is a Beautiful Thing
Winner: Meg Crocker – Poetry
Runner-up: India Veevers – Eclipse
Winner: Abigail Maynard – Hearts
Runner-up: Annaliese Mackie – Selfie
Together Until the Last Breath
The stars swerved through the broken winds
and the racing sun was high.
The snow dappled willows
were hidden around the lakeside.
The moon offered shelter.
to my friends and me.
The sky offered us freedom,
freedom which we will never truly own.
The whispering oaks offered us protection,
protection that is rare to find.
Underneath the jewelled galaxies,
altogether, all combined,
we huddled side by side,
through the blackened night.
Out here in the open,
clouded by sight,
the wavering grass so fresh,
our eyes slowly melted,
until we lost the fight.
When I spoke about my heart,
I meant the mechanical device,
That pumps blood throughout my body,
And yet remains as cold as ice.
It cannot feel emotion,
Its lack of fear abounds,
It keeps me in constant motion,
Within my chest it pounds.
Some have called me heartless,
An evil spirit, a banshee, a witch,
But my replacement is always faultless,
Running smoothly, without a glitch.
So do not take me lightly, my friend,
For though my true heart is astray,
My replacement will work until the end,
And it shall forever remain that way.
Nature is a Beautiful Thing
Nature is a beautiful thing,
the lush green of ferns,
the bright aqua of the ocean
and the pale yellow specks of sand that form the desert.
Nature is a splendid thing,
the joyful melody of the nightingale,
the sweet bubbling of streams over the rocks,
the swish of a tree’s arms in the cool summer breeze.
Nature is a delicate thing,
but men have eradicated and ravaged,
consumed and wasted this form of beauty
and soon it will be gone for all eternity.
Year 6 poetry winner: Sophie Campbell
Year 8 poetry winner: Abigail Maynard
Year 8 poetry runner-up: Annaliese Mackie
Year 6 poetry runner-up - Emma Hardwicke
Year 6 short story winner: Peta Antypas
Year 6 short story runner-up: Tabitha Glanville
I’m Mr Ham, but most call me “The Brain”. Sadly it has nothing to do
with my organ being a delicacy among humans. It is the fact that I am such
a genius compared to my rather brainless and dim-witted race, the pigs...
When you think of my kind, you think of mannerless, uncivilised grots who get
enjoyment from rolling around in the mud all day. This may be very accurate
and quite true, but I can say that I am not one of them. I spend my days
researching and experimenting, trying to be the first animal prodigy, trying to
be the first ever living creature to create what man, animal, insect or pig has
never made before, a cloning machine...
This story begins on one chilly winter morning. The birds were tweeting,
the sun was peeping through the dense grey of the clouds, and I had just
woken up from a dream that would change my life forever. My eyes were
wide open, and my heart was pounding with excitement, beating like a drum.
I scampered off, flustered by the very hasty turn of events, to my laboratory
barn. There was a messy clutter of books and science equipment on the table,
but I, the clean freak and world-renowned perfectionist didn’t even notice the
rooms many flaws. My eyes were fixed on the cloning machine...
The dream had given me directions on what to do to make it work. But of
course, I, Mr Ham, the sensible and intelligent of my species, did not follow the
foolish tradition of psychic-reading and dream interpretation. Yet something
told me this was more than a superstition; this could be the gate to my fame
I tottered hesitantly over to my wonderful masterpiece, reaching my
trotters out ever-so-slowly, and pushing a bright red button my eyes had
surprisingly never crossed over before. I was thrown back to the barren
earth by an invisible force. A cloud of blackened smoke rose up to the sky
like a balloon, and fiery, electrical sparks sprayed from the masterpiece-like
fireworks. The cloning machine then abruptly stopped and stood still, a
stationary object, not alive nor dead, beckoning me, “Come on...Come closer...
It’s ok...I won’t hurt you!” Its calls became so unbearably loud in my head
that I relieved my temptation by scampering over and peering inside. Now
this was somewhat of a mistake, because as soon as I did this I could almost
hear the machine sniggering mischievously at me. I was blinded by a dazzling
light. An object...No a living creature, opaque and silhouetted stepped out
of the machine, this was not good. It’s sneering, toothless grin of pride, its
eyes, red and bloodshot, almost obscured me from the fact that this pig, this
monstrosity of an animal...was a clone of me.
Before I had a chance to even register its existence, it scampered off, faster
than a flash of lightening, towards the town square. I stood there like a statue,
dumbstruck by the crazy turn of events. Voices, argumentative calls from my
mind, rang in my ears, “Do this! Do that!” But for the first time in my life I shut
them out, there was no time to be my usual logical and philosophical self. I had
to act fast! I bolted out of my house, suddenly, abruptly coming face to face
with the demon. He was waiting for me. He smirked that malevolent smirk of
his, and said words that chilled my blood, “there’s only room for one Mr Ham
around here, and that’s me...”
I ran for dear life, terror-stricken by his words, up the volcanic mountain,
his petrifying face flashing in my mind like a flickering light. Who was this
creature? How could this happen? Countless questions darted around in
my mind, but I couldn’t answer any of them. I racked my brain for an idea, a
possible way I could stay alive. All of a sudden, (everything was happening so
abruptly today), a plan formed in my mind. It was stupid, yes, it was terribly
foolish. This was the type of thing those mannerless, uncivilised grots would
do, but maybe logic is useless with survival. I am embarrassed to admit their
smarts, but those pigs have “instinct”, and that’s what I needed. I ran, slicing
through the atmosphere, towards a large puddle of mud. I grimaced, hesitated,
but plunged myself in and covered myself, camouflaging my body, with the
putrid stinking mud.
I flinched with fear as I heard muffled footsteps. The evil mutant stomped
up the hill, unaware he was walking up the mountain of a volcano, unaware of
what was yet to come. “Little pig, little pig, let me come in!” he leered. I held
my breath, then exhaled, and fiercely kicked him with brutal force over the
edge of the cliff. I stood up from the ground and watched him fall to his death,
almost feeling guilty about the grin of victory planted on my dirt-stained face.
I shook myself off, forgetting that I am “the Brain”, the intelligent of my race,
and shrieked with happiness, “I won! I won!” I laughed. Just as I went to smash
the lethal cloning machine, a strip of freshly-cooked bacon flew from the
volcano. “Yummy!” I said to myself, licking my lips, before taking a bite.
I am going to tell you a story that will either make or break two people
very close to me. So I need to set down some... barriers.
This is a story of relatively similar loss between two people. About seventy
percent of it is based on actual happenings, the other thirty is changed names
and warped storylines. It must not be told outside these pages. I am a minor
twelve year old, and all I know is all I have been told.
But I have been trusted (gosh, I sound rather sinister, don’t I?) with a secret
and a memory. The memory is not a secret and the secret is not a memory,
though the keeper of the secret has specific memories consisting of it.
The wave and the grim reaper.
I saw a photo the other day. I remembered it, clear as if it were yesterday. It
was found by Tabitha. She asked me about it. “That’s Sister Cyril, I don’t know
who that is. Oh, and that’s a guy in... Grade six. I took the photo.” I name all the
people in the tiny orange Polaroid, but my eyes are locked to one pair. Staring
into the camera. The longer I stare, the more real his features seem. So real,
yet so... far away. “Who’s that?” Tabitha asks. Her finger points to the young,
curious face that my eyes desperately cling to. There’s only one way to do this.
And that’s to start from the beginning.
I was fifteen. My mates and I were all filing onto the muddy field for cricket
training. We all knew Smithy never liked it, but we never thought he would
just up and leave. “Hey Boys, usual routine, then we’ll get started” Steve says.
When we’ve finished, the rain has calmed. “OH, ANYTHING’S BETTER THAN
THIS!” Smithy yells. “I’m off. Come on, guys.” The field goes silent. “Oh, come
ON!” Smithy says, walking towards the bus stop.
“WAIT! SMITH! JUST... WAIT FOR US! WE’LL ALL GO AT THE END OF
TRAINING! COME ON, MATE! STAY!” I call, but he ignores me. Damn. I slam the
bat on the ground as Smithy calls down a bus, gets in, and lets it roll away...
After training, I go and work with dad in the house behind ours. After
about an hour, mum calls over the fence. “Brett! Sherrie just called, Smithy
hasn’t come home yet. Do you know where he is?” Every possibility runs
through my head; he’s hitchhiked up to Burnie to see his girlfriend, he’s
gone surfing for longer than usual, he’s gone home with Webby, all these
possibilities. But never the reality. “Brett? Hello?? Where did he go after
training?” Mum says, impatiently.
“He left at training. Took a bus up to turner’s beach, I think. I’m not sure
where he went after that.” It never really bothered me.
They find the surf board after 2 weeks.
And after 4 weeks, they find him.
After he’d taken the bus up to Turner’s Beach, he went surfing. I don’t
know what happened after that, no one knows. But the grim reaper made his
visit, and left behind a son, a brother, a mate. And a secret.
I sit on the sand, watching the waves roll past me. Lifeless, completely
gone. Emotions tumble and trip over each other inside me, burbling and
raging. Waiting to explode.
I wonder who he could’ve been.
Why? God, just... Why?
“I’m sorry mate,” I say to the wild, turbulent sea. “I’m sorry.”
Oh my, after that story we only have a few minutes left! Well, you’re lucky.
The next one’s quick and hits you right in the face like a cold hand, but leaves
The Prince and the Plague
The autumn coloured leaf falls, losing all grip on its home. I pick it up, my
hat falling over my eyes as I bend. I carry the leaf to the prince, and place it on
his lap. He picks it up and smiles. “Thankyou,” he says. I just smile. I am only
eighteen months old, but I know there is something powerful in that weak
body. This is the first time I’ve met my prince, but I can sense a love that is
there, and will be forever.
Every time we see him he’s worse, and like a nail chipping at porcelain, his
condition takes him away. Just eating at him. The plague doing its job. “Death
doesn’t care who it destroys” the radio confesses. After the prince has died,
my mum relives his life to me, one burst at a time. It takes a while, but slowly, I
piece together an idea.
And a person.
Akis was Mum’s friend for her whole life. They lived one and one half
lives – one for themselves, another that they shared. Through the years, they
grew together. They were best friends. They were closer than any boy or girl
in my grade would dare to be. After school, their bond remained. Akis carried
on with his family shop, while mum went to Art school. Akis used to finish his
shifts early, to go see my Nan at her house. He would just sit with her, and talk.
He did the same with my grandfather. Not as a go-between, but as a friend, a
peace-maker. No matter what his condition. A leader, not a follower.
Dad never saw the prince. It wasn’t a weak or heartless act, but he couldn’t
just stand there, in front of this frail, immobile man, with his wife, the prince’s
best friend whom he loved dearly. “I couldn’t just stand there like I had
everything.” Dad told me. This seemed more truthful than anything I’d ever
When his family went back to get The Prince’s things, they saw a leaf. It
was frail and tiny, all caved in at the sides. It was dead, but still there. Always
Mostly, it is loss that teaches us of the worth of things.
This is dedicated to the Coughlan family of North-West Tasmania, and the
Giomataris family of Hobart, Tasmania
Feel my breeze through your head,
looking for the love I once had,
until you thought of me no more
and screwed me up.
I am lying in a ball on the ground
and not the slightest love you gave me when I was written
has meaning anymore.
When someone walks past I run over to them
maybe they will grow to care and love me
but my hopes are quickly thrown away
like when you wrote me
as they step on me.
acting like I am a pile of dirt
My skin screams at me as I deflate
wanting the pain to go away
even less of the love you gave me when I was written
has meaning anymore.
Years and years have passed
yet here I am,
still as crinkled like the skin on your forehead
You want to pick me up
and make me feel loved don’t you?
I always wondered where
the unloved pieces of forgotten poetry ended up.
Now I know.
In a bin.
Without the slightest touch of love
since they first wrote us!
Dancing around each other
Lovers who rarely meet.
Her glowing white skin
His powerful streams of light.
“Don’t you wish we’d see each other more?” asked the Sun
“I suppose I do,” chimed back the Moon,
Her voice bouncing off the thousands of glimmering stars.
But the Sun knew:
It was part of nature,
Hardly ever will he see the Moon
And the Moon knew just that too.
Though did she know that when they’re together,
Millions gather to watch?
And did he know,
That when they reunite
Their faces can be seen on news, all over the world?
For when they hold hands
In the misty night sky
The white stars sing their prettiest songs.
The perfect timing,
We can watch the beauty.
The Moon and Sun smile down
Out of pure joy and happiness,
And the Earth smiles back.
Year 7 poetry winner: Meg Crocker
Year 7 poetry runner-up: India Veevers
It’s the world’s biggest epidemic
And it will infect you
You can’t hide
You can’t run
And you are not immune
No one is safe from the strains
All four corners of the globe
Not even the leader
Of the free world
There is one cure
It’s up to you
Don’t give in...
Winner: Peta Antypas – Bacon
Runner-up: Tabitha Glanville - Hello
Winner: Anneliese Gulliver – Light in the Darkness
Runner-up: Charlotte Rand – Reality
Winner: Sophia Evans – Storm
Runner-Up: Jeanmarie Els – The Little Boy
Links Archive Focus Magazine Spring 2014 Focus Magazine Summer 2014 Navigation Previous Page Next Page