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• Exemplar Expression

Exemplar Expression

Each week this term Year 11 Imaginative scripts that have been identified as exemplar pieces of writing will be published in Woodchatta.  We have never done this before and the students did not write these pieces with the expectation that they would be published in our school newsletter, however we felt that these particular scripts were so powerful that we wanted to share them.

Everything looked so much more vibrant in the dark. Each circle of ground illuminated by its own personal streetlight created a patchwork of white and gold, while casting shadows over objects leaving more to be discovered. As the train I was on slowly crept to a halt, the aged view of Hornsby station shifted into focus. Although it wasn’t the oldest station it boasted cast iron features and maroon tiles reminiscent of the railway network’s prime days, but the feeling of being trapped in time was broken by the cold steel of the opal card machines. *Ba Ding* The sound of my exit broke the silence; my balance was only seven dollars. Money however was not much of an issue, as my dad was happy to throw cash at me as long as I was headed in the direction of the door. It never bothered him when I left, or where I went, just as long as I wasn’t in his greased back hair.

I can feel my bag hugging my shoulders, and as I make my way towards the right of the station, its contents rattles with the distinct sound of a vandal. I reach into my pocket and pull out my phone so it can project the familiar blue and green hues of google maps into my eyes. I’m only a few kilometres from my destination, so I begin the walk along the streets that support my every step. 

I don’t remember when the welcoming presence of the street lights receded from view, but their absence eased my pace to a slow crawl along the bitumen. The blue line on my phone that guided me had shrunk so minuscule to the point that I was able to slip my phone back into the worn pocket of my loose Canterbury trackpants. They, along with my jumper were that typical black that a night-time roamer like me would wear. I was okay with the cliché though, besides, it was necessary to remain discreet on a night like this one. 

Then it was in front of me. The black silhouette could only barely be made out amongst the deep blue tones of the early morning sky. I examined the length of its encompassing fence until I discovered a sturdy post that I could use to assist me over the chain-link wire. Jumping a fence isn’t too hard after a bit of practice, as long as you keep your centre of gravity close in. I’m aware of the universal acceptance that jumping a fence is seen as breaking into something. I beg to differ. To me, it’s as though I’m escaping something. All the experiences on the outside have been lived before, and by many souls. In here, I have escaped a reality where all is the same and found something unique.

I knew where I might be able to get inside the structure, and that was the looming doors that once allowed lorries load up and drive away with tons of road base or gravel. The old Hornsby quarry was closed in 2002 along with it’s refinery, leaving eighteen years for it to mature into a site worthy of exploring. I illuminate the building with my flashlight, the piece of cloth that covered the bulb does a good job of dimming the brightness. A flashlight at night is like a beacon of attention calling out to anyone willing to peruse my endeavours with a police call. To my right, the wide expanse of sheet metal that made up the doors reveal that entering this carcass of a structure will be more difficult than I had hoped. Four iron stakes pinned the doors closed, welded with the intent of hiding whatever wonders lay beyond. I begin desperately searching for an alternate entrance, and its not long before I find one. I’m thankful to the others like me who seek the same thing, as someone has peeled a small piece of tin sheeting exposing an entrance like the lid off a tuna can. Feet first, I force my body through the small opening into the cold and stale air that awaits me on the other side. 

Grasping my flashlight, I remove the fabric covering of the bulb and the cavernous internals of the warehouse fold out in front of my eyes. Conveyor belts run from every corner into ominous bins that once ground their contents into rubble. The whole assembly was an intricate spider web of gangways and machinery, which created a harmonising scene of nineteenth century industrialisation. My eyes dart around the eerie space looking for a blank piece of wall. A canvas. Its not too long before I find one that is an adequate size, I just have to climb a ladder tinged with rust to reach it. My hands grip the rails, and I take the first cautious step onto the bottom rung. The higher I climb the further I place my trust into the ladder, but after years of sitting content it still manages to place me onto to gangway. 

The bag slides off my back and I unzip the main pocket to reveal the purpose of being in this freeing place. Four spray paint cans that long to provide life to the bored surface of tin are removed from the bag, and the comforting hiss of escaping gasses begins. I don’t care if no one sees my art, that’s not why I do it. I’m not one of those daredevils who taints a highway billboard with an attention seeking signature, and nor do I long to be. When I do art its usually just a singular dressed up word, but it’s the simplicity of a singular word tied with a dry secluded place that makes me feel complete. 

The last few details are added just as early flares of the sun’s light branch their fingers through cracks in the roof. For the second time, I squeeze my body through the peeled back hole in the wall so my feet a firmly planted on the rough rye grass. This time there was no fence to jump. The sharp colours of blue and white cause my eyes to squint as they focus on the police car that had parked right next to the opening. Someone must have seen my flashlight. 

A relaxed figure leans on the hood of the car, and under tinted shades lies a face I know too well. “C’mon Nathan, hop in the back mate. I’ll save you the train ride home.”

by Charlie Jackson

Mr David Webster - English Coordinator