Term 4 World of Ideas

This term, our Year 9s have focused on two work units: micro-fiction and Comedy. 

Micro-fiction was their exploration of literary techniques that would support them in crafting their texts and positioning them as future poets, writers, or communication experts. They achieved this through a series of text type explorations ranging from six-word stories to longer three-hundred-word narratives. This challenged our burgeoning writers to be economical with their ideas to meet the word count and pushed them to use figurative ways of creating meaning for a reader. Please enjoy perusing some of the selections below:

Phoenix Keech Short Story

Lucinda Buckle Short Story: I am real. 

Weekdays are quiet at the art gallery. Wooden floorboards echoing footsteps, art left lonely without viewers. I walk slowly, unfazed, without purpose, my jacket keeping me warm. I pass modern art, stopping at what I find pretty, interesting, complex.

Entering the surrealist room, I stop to read; a Dali quote “You must seat yourself in a bony armchair…with your head tilted back and resting on the stretched leather back. Your two hands must hang beyond the arms of the chair, to which your own must be soldered in a supineness of complete relaxation…to descend into the subconscious.”

Is this not enough? I think arms tightly squeezed over my chest as I continue to walk. Is it not enough to be thinking consciously; something fathomable, something real? Must I always search for the deeper meaning in my mind? A meaning hidden behind mathematical equations and how to cook an egg?

So, I stop at the art, and instead of thinking how the curves of the paint brush make me feel, the effect, the hidden metaphor, I think of the beauty of this green. How it looks like fresh blades of grass, standing tall in sunlight.

But, in thinking that I didn't quite feel like myself.

So instead, I think of what being myself means. That if eyes were behind this artwork, they would see an intense, pretentious, philosophical me. Whereas my mother, she would see me as the strong little girl, curled like a cat in her lap. Whereas my friends would see me as the one who’s willing to fight, to laugh, to talk shit. Whereas I would see myself as….

Well, I’m not quite sure.

If you think about it, in the same way the colour of this green paint has changed to look more like the green of empty, well-lit beer bottles, the idea of ‘self’ is forever changing. Manipulated by everything.

My dad said once to me—as we watched a little girl in school uniform skip home from school, hand pulling her little brother along— “look how happy that little girl is”. To which I replied, “back when school was fun,”. At that he laughed, “Little does she know psychological trauma lurks around every corner.” Both of us laughing this time.

Why that was funny, was because it was true. Maybe, anything can change who you are. That when my grandpa screamed at me in the car for not wanting to go to swimming lessons, I changed a little bit. I change when I meet new people. I change when I decorate my Christmas tree differently every year. I change when I write. 

That maybe, all this scientific research on innate knowledge, is all false. That when I came out, headfirst, onto the hospital bed, my brain was actually a clean slate. Empty as a week-old Nutella jar; scraped clean. From then on, every little word uttered, colour seen, scent smelt, has altered who I am and, potentially, who I will be.

Thinking that, really makes me quite sad.

It makes me sad the fact that although I am a unique blend of the universe, none of that is solely my own. The level of control I have over myself, who I am to myself, who myself is to you, is limited to even more than the clothes I wear and the facial expressions I make (is not very much at all).

I tighten the scrunch of my fingers around my jacket and continue to walk, picking up the pace, speeding through dense, famous pieces of art. 

So maybe, nothing is authentically seen. 

Ever.

Statement of intention:

This piece ‘I am real’ follows a person and their thoughts when walking through an art gallery. The short story plays with concepts of reality, what it means to be real, and the authenticity of existing. The story also experiments with philosophy being prevalent in one’s life. This idea is relative to religion, in that many people rely on theories in order to shape their behaviour and how they feel about the world they live in. The use of simple, explorative language such as ‘Maybe’ and the sentence ‘Well, I’m not quite sure’ enforces an unsure tone. This feels honest, allowing the reader to comfortably reflect on their own thoughts and approach the ideas discussed more openly. Overall, this short story provides a personal and in depth look into one’s own reality, asking the question; what do you think is real?

Rose Gerner Six-Word Story

‘I love you’, he said. ‘But-’

Statement of Intention

This was a short piece, aimed to cover the simple concept of the right person, but wrong time trope. By leaving the end open, and with an unfinished sentence, I aimed to highlight the feeling of everything stopping, and the character not really hearing the rest of the explanation because of how upset they are.

Domi Spataro Choose Your Own Adventure