Mullauna Motif Writing Competition

Each year, the junior levels craft a piece of creative writing in response to our Mullauna Motif. 

This year the Mullauna Motif is ‘SPARK’.

Students then compose a piece that involves this key element.

On the Open Night, there is a competition across teacher selected entries from Years 7, 8 and 9. This competition is to ascertain the very best piece and the public is asked to vote on their favourite story on Open Night.

We have included the three Year 7 finalists in this edition. Congratulations to making it to the finals:

Evie H

Maddy M

Grace H

Flying Free           Evie, 7F

I used to look forward to my 15th birthday. Now I dread it. Ever since Mina vanished. Three years ago on the dot.

 But just like wishing for something never makes it happen any faster, wishing for time to stop never works either. Time doesn’t stop for anyone.

Today is my 15th birthday. Here I am, at the ceremony of sparks. And I am terrified.

I live in the kingdom of Ersain, right next to the grand palace. Ersain is the only place I know of with magic. This comes in the form of a purple bonfire, that, on your 15th birthday, bestows a single spark upon you. This spark carries the ability to shapeshift. My mother can turn into a falcon, my father a wild horse. No-one knows what my big sister Mina can turn into. But when she received her spark, I do remember some things: a flash of scales. A rush of wings. And my brave big sister looking more terrified than anyone I had ever seen. Then she vanished. It almost looked like… but no. Only the royals can turn into dragons. Only the royals are allowed to.

And now, three years later, it’s my turn to receive my spark. I’m standing in front of the bonfire with the crown prince beside me to perform the honours. The prince bellows,

 ‘Do you accept this spark that will define your life? Do you accept the greatness it offers?’ I feel like my heart is thumping out a message in morse code: N-O! But I can’t say that. No-one has ever turned down a spark. 

‘Yes,’ I whisper, and a single spark lifts out of the fire and lands in my chest. Then chaos. 

I feel my shoulder blades lengthening, my fingernails stretching into sharp points; my face grows longer and spikes rip along my spine. A new heat in my belly rises through my throat and tears out of my mouth as I surge into the sky! There’s a horrified expression on the prince’s face as he, too, morphs and rises into the air. He spews flame at me and I brace for death, but all I feel is a warm breeze. 

I flee as fast as my new wings will let me. As I make my escape I catch my reflection in a lake below: my fears have come true. I am a dragon. I momentarily let down my guard just long enough for the prince to catch up. He tears at my wing. I plummet into the water and the world fades to black.

Hours later, I wake on shore. I look down at my hands- and they are no longer talons, but HANDS!!!  I feel a rush of joy, but that feels like barely a drop compared to the tsunami of bliss I feel next. 

For I hear a voice I have not heard in a long time. ‘You’re awake! Oh, Sora, I thought for sure you were dead. You… know who I am, right? I suppose you might not recognise me after three years. It’s your big sister. Mina.’

Bushfire                       Maddy, 7F

It was already too late when the lightning struck the brittle bushland. It sounded like the land breaking its own bones, as a single spark flew into a dry shrub, knowing it would not die alone.

A fizz echoes loudly around me. I expand rapidly, alongside a thick, grey, choking haze, billowing in my support. The wind drags me, guiding me along into the unknown. Parts of me slowly disband behind, splitting into smaller selves, circling dead bushes, climbing tall trees, resulting in a blaze of red. I do what fire has always done here. Clear, reshape, remind the land of change.

I’m controlled by the wind’s directions, further through the dry Australian bush. As I grow, the wind herds me, ordering me to not go any further. But I long to explore. The hunger for destruction fills my mind. Hunger comes easily; hunger always does.

I devour fences, sheds, fallen logs, leaving no memory of them, of anything at all. My flames inhale everything in tinder-dry conditions, as I crackle and embrace the mighty roar of rushing wind, blocking out the sound of decaying trees giving up in the distance.

The tips of my base crawl along the shrivelled leaves and abandoned branches as bright insects in yellow uniforms begin cutting lines in my path. Their hoses hiss like angry snakes, shooting cold rain where my toe tips stand. And for the first time I feel resistance. Black magic that dulls my glow, fraying my edges. I fight back, spitting embers at their boots, creating hackles with my burning hair. The sky darkens as one by one they retreat to their bright red monsters.

Suddenly a sizzle injects inside me. Rain. The first few drops feel like questions. Soft, tentative. They hiss when they touch me, not quite strong enough to take me down. A larger drop spikes me like a sharp tooth pushing through a gum. I continue my journey, as more and more sharp, painful like raindrops pierce me as I go on. Still spreading destruction. 

The rain becomes heavier as the pain becomes unbearable. I reach for fuel, any source of dry land, only to find it damp, uncooperative, against my schemes. I slowly shrink at the pace of when I grew. My path has been extinguished, as if nothing happened, yet the scars on the land still displays everything.

In my final moments I look at my surroundings. Blackened trees, shrivelled bush, destroyed homes. I took part in destroying each thing, to ruin each thing, each beautiful thing. Gone. I stare at the cleared, shimmering, night sky and wonder if I might ever walk this path again. Maybe one day. With another, bright, spark.

I do not die angry. I now rest knowing this place understood me. I had made it unrecognizable to everyone, but I had also made new space. And as the rain settled in, the earth began, already, to plan what to grow next.

Small Sparks          Grace 8D

I cannot deal with the smell of hospitals anymore. I have been here so many times over the past couple of months it feels like I live here. Doctors and nurses buzz around me like a swarm of bees as we sit anxiously waiting to hear how Mum is going. “Mitchell family?” calls a young nurse holding a clipboard. Dad, Zoey and I all spring to our feet. “That’s us.” Dad says. “Follow me,” answers the nurse, leading the way through a long white hallway, and guided us into a small room. Dad thanks her as we sit down on chairs at a desk across from her. “I know this has been a difficult time,” the doctor says in a gentle voice, “she’s has been improving, but we’ve had some complications. We’ll need to keep her here for a while longer and change her treatment. ”Zoey grabs my hand underneath the table, and I squeeze it. “Hey, at least Mum doesn’t have to eat my cooking yet, that’d definitely make her worse.” I tease. My sister Zoey lets out a tiny laugh, and Dad even smiles a little. The drive home was painfully quiet. When we pull into the driveway, instead of going inside, I tell Dad I am going to go to the basketball courts. “Alright,” he says, “just be back before dinner.” “Okay.” I answer, looking down at the watch sitting snuggly on my wrist. It reads 5 PM. Plenty of time. I run into my bedroom, pick up a basketball, and go across the road to the basketball court. I dribble the ball a couple of times and take a shot. It sails through the hoop. “Nice one.” Someone says behind me. I turn to see a boy about my age watching. “Thanks,” I reply, spinning the ball in my hands. “I’m Liam, what’s your name?” He asks. “Greg.” “You play?” he asks. “Yeah, school team and outside of school.” We end up just shooting hoops for a while. I don’t tell him everything, and he doesn’t push me for information either. We just pass the ball and joke when each other miss a goal. Over the next couple of weeks, Mum stays in hospital, and I visit her most days after school, telling her about basketball, school, and Liam. She smiles and tells me to keep going, even though I know she’s tired. One afternoon, the doctor calls us in again. This time, her smile is genuine. “The new treatment is working,” she says. “She’s responding well.”Relief rushes through me so fast I almost don’t know what to do with it. Zoey hugs Dad, and I just stand there grinning. Things aren’t magically perfect, but they are finally moving in the right direction. That evening, I meet Liam at the courts as the sun sets, casting an orange glow. I take a shot from the three-point line — swoosh. “Lucky,” Liam says. “Nah,” I reply, passing him the ball, “just didn’t give up.” As we keep playing, I realise the past few months have been hard, but small moments helped me keep going, little sparks reminding me there’s still hope ahead.