Book Week is an annual national event organised by the Children’s Book Council of Australia (CBCA), that celebrates children’s literature and the power of stories. As English Captains, we saw Book Week as a wonderful opportunity to bring our school community together through a shared love of reading and writing.

We wanted to make Book Week engaging and accessible for a secondary school audience and, in doing so, we were eager to enable students to develop their own writing skills. This involved running an internal writing competition, with students encouraged to share their pieces inspired by the CBCA theme ‘A Symphony of Stories’. It was wonderful to see so many students get involved and showcase a love of storytelling through their unique narrative voices. We judged students on their creativity, use of literary devices, clarity and structure, and unique authorial expression. With so many impressive entries, it was difficult to decide a winner, but congratulations goes to Kira Braukmann, who produced a beautiful piece about finding light in times of darkness. You can read Kira’s work, as well as our second and third place winners - Elly Best and Edward Spence - in this newsletter. All of our entrants were celebrated at our awards ceremony, with the winners receiving generous prizes.

We were also passionate about making Book Week a fun and nostalgic event for all, and this meant organising a Book Character Dress Up Day. We had teachers and students from across all year levels dress up as their favourite characters. It was wonderful to see everyone come together for a vibrant and energetic fashion parade in the library - something that we look forward to continuing in the future at Dromana. To conclude the week of festivities, we had teams battle against one another in a classic book-themed trivia. This was an amazing way to end a week full of literary fun.

Thank you to everyone who got involved and supported our first ever Dromana College Book Week Festival. We cannot wait to uphold this tradition in the coming years.

Camryn Small - Yr 11 Student Leader

1st Place: Kira Brauckmann

A Symphony of Stories All I can comprehend is the mist covering the path ahead. The desolation that ponders inside my afflicted body. The woman next to me rubs her thumb around my palm, trying to calm the nerves spreading through me. She tugs gently on my arm and guides me through the fog. I don’t see the end to the lament; I just trail behind her, emotionless. I hear her gently knocking on a wooden door. Is that the family I am now destined to? The carers of my future, the replacement of my own family? I wasn’t always like this; it was only since Putin sent the first bomb into our country, creating immense despair and destruction. That was when it all changed, and me and my family entered the grey mist. The three figures speak in a language I don’t understand. The woman said I was in Germany, but I never thought Germany was so grey. I allow my blond hair to droop over my eyes, hunching my shoulders forward; still, they see me through all the greyness. They open the door a little wider and the woman holding my hand whispers in Ukrainian, “Find your song, Svitlana, it is in you somewhere, let it out and remember to breathe.” She drops my hand and follows a path out of the grey. The next thing I can remember is the sound of a drone exploding from the sky. I tense with sheer terror. Through the greyness a blast of lightning entangles itself around me. I give a cry and run inside my new home, pulling the nearest blanket over my head, desperately shaking. Finally I lay still, heaving with anguish. The two figures rush next to me, whispering something in German, something that sounds like, “Es waren nur die Autos.”* I lift the blanket from my head and watch their expressions. Their faces are lined with soft compassion. The woman looks at her husband and speaks with a tone of long lost memories. He nods, watching as I pull the blanket back over my head. I feel him pick me up, lifting me onto the sofa. I curl into the blankets and force myself to fall asleep. As clarity forms in my mind, the grey fog begins to silently encase itself around me. The bleakness churning around my fractured soul drags me to the descending depth in a realm of stifling anxieties. I press my palms into my cold cheeks. What was to become of me? Small tears slide down my cheeks, weighted down with a heavy lead of emotions. I squeeze my eyes shut, hoping the silent darkness will take hold again. A soft hand moves the blanket from my shoulders, stirring me back to reality. “Schau mal Svitlana.”** His voice is low, but smooth. A cascade of calmness. Warmth. I open my eyes, feeling the grey fog loosening its tight hold. The apricity of the sun shines through the windows, highlighting a lone object in the corner of the room. Its antique vibe hangs low in the air. I push the blanket further off my body, and stagger upwards, feeling my balance tip. I control myself, slowly edging towards the lone object. A current of emotions sweeps over me, the object looks back at me. It seems so old. I pull the seat forward and sit down. The keys are stained yellow from age. I press a note inwards and feel the reverberation cease down my spine. I play the low note again, feeling the darkness inside of me move. I take in a breath. The piano seems to hold a story; maybe of many generations. I wipe away the tears and whisper, “you deserve another story,” and I lay my hands down on the waiting keys. For a moment I allow the emotions to open up, waiting for the grey fog to soften its edges. No song played before would work; those emotions have already been felt, been played to the outside world. Something in my mind shifts, and I press the lowest key down. The darkness around me flourishes. I feel the pain from my very soul opening up; I quiver, feeling my emotions overpower my strength and the grey fog closing in. Each jagged end of the emotion leaves stricken blows, pouring a side of hatred and fear out of myself. I close my eyes and press against the dolour. I feel the keys in stride of my emotions, almost guiding them into line. The grey fog starts to loosen again and the emotions sway into a controllable rhythm. The harshness begins to relieve, opening and spilling into the world with a language that communicates the purest of emotions. Remembering doesn’t feel hard, it feels right. The darkness begins to fade; the anger and the fear controlled in the rhythm of the keys. My hands begin to move up the keyboard, allowing the lighter tones to move in between of the lingering murk. They feel sweet, tangible and soft. I play on, watching the scene unfold. The softness of lighter tones smother the harsh edges from the darkness not yet reined in. Then I remember. I remember the softness of mums’ hands as she cradled me to sleep when I was scared. I remember dad’s soft laugh when I told him a joke after school,” I remember. I remember the pain and the ache, but also the bright stars and the sweet bitterness of love. As I continue to play, the grey fog slowly evaporates. A shining light starts to build in front, forming a path I could not see before. My fingers reach the last key and I stop and turn around, seeing two figures standing in the doorway. “Das ist meine Symphonie.”***

2nd Place: Edward Spence

Tear of a Blind EyeWaiting. Why is he making me do this. Waiting. A quiet knocking. The door slides open. “Who is it?” I said. “It’s me.” The voice from before. That new teacher. “Do you know why you’re here?” “No idea. What’s your name?” Why was he here. What could he possibly think could solve ‘the problem’. “I’m Mr James. I have been briefed on your… situation. If it helps, I have a degree in psychology. I have an idea that could help you, but you’re going to have to trust me.” For some reason I have a feeling that this really matters to him. If it’s a reasonable idea I would try, only because he seems nice. “I’ve invited some people to join us. I understand that you play the violin.” What did that have to do with anything? What was he getting at. “Have you got it with you?” Always. How did he know. I tapped the case from behind my chair. He couldn’t have seen it. How much did he know. “Now I’ve invited some people in. Is that ok?” I nodded. The door slides open again. “Can you kids please set up. I just need to finish talking to Mr William here.” How did he know my full name? “Ok, so before you get mad at me, you don’t need to get to know these people. I’m just going to ask you to jam a bit with them.” Ah, that’s what they were doing. “I’m going to leave you to it. Just give it a chance.” The door slides again. I do what he asks. I get out my violin. It’s already in perfect tuning. “Key of Fm. Follow along.” I say, fully expecting protests, but as I started, I heard a gentle drumbeat following the melody. Then a smoothing bass fill. Piano. I kept playing, adding flourishes here and there, and it came together. The drums started to build. The music kept flowing, growing, equalised and together in harmony. I was lost in the music, but then it ended. The silence hung in the room. I cleared my throat. “My names Will.” I stammered. I felt like hanging my head, the feeling of companionship the music brought gone. I hung my head, my hands tightening around my instrument. A sound from the drumkit. “I’m Nell. You were amazing Will.” The feminine voice from the drumkit said, slightly awed. I felt the blood rush to my face, surprised. “I’m Bronte. And they’re selling themselves short. I don’t know a better drummer than Nell.” That was the sound from the bass amp. I noticed the neutral pronoun, but next was a voice that went straight to my heart. “Will. I am so sorry for what I’ve done.” Right then and there I picked up the case and left. “I never meant for it to happen. I’m sorry.” He called. It didn’t matter. This had been a bad idea. Why was I even at school after hours. Footsteps coming from behind. “We need to talk about this.” I ignored him. I would not talk to him. What was Mr James thinking. Did he not know? Of course he did. Everyone did. He made sure of that.Another voice. This time it was Bronte. She was alone now. “Please just come back. I want to talk to you.” I stopped. What was there to talk about. She knows what he did. Everyone does. “I know what he said. It was wrong. But you know what, I don’t care.” She wasn’t lying. I could hear it in her voice. “Just let me tell you something. I know how it feels. The paranoia. I didn’t go to this school until one week ago. My teacher let slip that my father died and the next day the entire school had heard. The pressure just got worse. My friends left. I stopped going to school. It took a week. I understand.” I was shocked. “I’m sorry.” It was all I could say. “Don’t be. I just want you to know I understand.” I nod. “If you want to keep walking you can go but I think Nell wants to talk to you first.” Really? Nell? I follow her back down the corridor. There was nothing else to do. I can only imagine what she had been with. But you can. Whispered the voice in my head. I walked on. “Hey.” There was Nell. Bronte kept walking. “I won’t claim to know what you’ve been through. Nor Bronte. But just, if you need someone to talk to, I’ll be here.” She, wait. “What are your preferred pronouns?” The question just slipped out. “Oh, sorry. I’m non-binary. They, them.” Now I was blushing. “Should we walk back to the room now?” Gosh, did I say the right thing? Was that to abrupt? “Oh of course. It’s this way.” They sounded a bit embarrassed. We started walking.“Are you sure you’re ready to talk to him?” Damm it why did they make all the right points. I wasn’t. Not even close. But I was closer than ever. “Did he ever tell anyone why he told everyone? You know, that I was trans?” There could not have been a more awkward silence. But I had to know. “Actually he did. He told us when we were waiting for Mr James to let us in. It turns out that he had been bullied for the weeks before you told him. It took a month for him to tell.” I gasped. What. “Why didn’t he tell me. I … I hated him for it. He was my best friend. He … didn’t tell me.” Nell headed into a room. This was to much. Even when I punched him, he just took it. Inside it was dead silent. When I stepped through the door, my blind eyes burst into tears. I was surrounded by new friends and old. A symphony of stories.

3rd Place: Elly Best

Today marks the two years I’ve been alone. Trapped in my own thoughts without anyone to silence the voice inside my head. I no longer see my father, and Mum isn’t really someone to talk to about anything. I have learnt to focus on college and my own future – away from everything I’ve chosen to leave in the past.It is 8:54am on a Friday. Listening to music in my headphones, I am sitting in the school library trying to cram so much information into my brain it feels as if I’m going to explode. School used to be fun, I used to have friends. I think their interests grew in different directions than mine. People can grow apart, it seems. The bell rings, marking the start of first period; as I place my laptop back in my bag, I notice something I didn’t know was there.There is a letter tucked carefully inside my bag. Curiosity struck me like lightning, my mind spiralling with possibilities – who? Since when? I come back to reality. I need to get to my Literature class.*I sit at the desk, surrounded by people I’ve known for years, yet they don’t know my name anymore. I wonder who actually does. I know I should wait until I have a moment out of class to read this strange piece of writing I am now in possession of, but the storm of questions raging in my mind got the better of me. Peeling the seal off the envelope, my chest tightened. ‘Who would even write to me anyway? What if it’s just people joking around like they usually do?’A small flicker of hope remains, will I make a friend? Maybe something more than that? I begin reading the words on the page:To Dear Evelyn,We’ve never spoken, yet simply watching the concentration on your face leaves me feeling as if I know you already. You are probably reading this and thinking it’s just from some of the girls who bullied you, but I don’t know how to convince you it’s not without revealing to you who I am. You probably won’t know me by name anyway. I think loneliness recognizes loneliness.We should get to know each other, I have a feeling you and I will get along splendidly. My name’s Adrian, by the way. XoxoI know exactly who Adrian is. Although I’ve never spoken a word to him, I’ve liked him since middle school. No one knows that though, so this could be real.I am astonished. Do I write back? Should I talk to him? What in the world am I wanting from this?I admit it. I do sort of hope that maybe, just maybe he wrote to me because he sees me as more than a friend. I doubt it though, no one even likes me enough to make eye contact most of the time.The bell rings again. Only four more classes to go, and then I finally get a break for two days – the weekend. I walk back to the library.Walking through the library doors, I see him. Adrian is sitting on the second table from the back, where I normally sit. I fight the instinct to blush… he’s looking over at me, I think he knows I got his letter. My stomach whirls. I am swept up in a mixture of nerves and excitement. He is the first person who’s looked at me in months. I know what I want to do, it’s just whether I have the courage to do it or not. Should I sit next to him? I think I will. But maybe I shouldn’t. But… okay I’m just going to do it.As I sit down at the table, we make eye contact for the second time. “Hello”, he says in a confident yet shy tone. Adrian has never been known as ‘popular’ or ‘cool’, but he is truly himself and doesn’t let anyone change that; I sort of admire him for it. “Hello, how was class?” I reply, voice shaking with nerves. We spoke about music we like, stories we want to write, and even the teachers we both find unbearable; before long, I started to feel like I had a new friend. He likes music and is a writer; imaginary fireworks were going off when he said this, because those are my two favourite things as well. That was the first lunch break I’ve spoken to someone in years, and it felt sort of terrifying, yet significantly relieving at the same time.Days passed, Adrian and I began speaking more and more whenever we could. I noticed I don’t like him the way I did in middle school, and he was just looking for a friend by writing that letter to me, but I think this is happening the way it should be. We meet up in the library whenever we are both free, he helps me with my writing and I help him with his.For the first time in years, the library didn’t seem so quiet. Adrian and I joke about our friendship as being fate.Like how two notes on the piano played together sound better than one, two people can come together and become a part of each other’s story. People can grow apart, but they can also grow together.

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