Student Showcase

A Hopeful New Year

Editorial by Eamon Madden

 

Coronavirus….. COVID-19….. The Pandemic….. inconceivable a little over a year ago….. and pretty much all we’ve been able to talk about since then. 

 

Despite the extreme impact on all levels of life caused by the virus, last year’s, shall we say, uniqueness, led to unprecedented levels of creativity worldwide, with our College being no exception. Practically, we solved the frustrating school shutdown through the power of Zoom (with more than a few hiccups) and quickly put in place brand new ways to learn remotely that have unexpectedly increased the resilience of our academic system.

 

Aside from this, though, the creative efforts of students increased tenfold last year, likely spurred on by the free time and inspiration that the virus graciously gifted us. Both Dan Cusack’s (Year 9) and Will Curr’s (Year 12) short stories show signs of such inspiration: Reaped is a gripping tale of an old man’s literal battle with death; Dundee features a bushfire-riddled, post-apocalyptic Australia that is unnervingly close to home after last year’s Black Summer. Indeed, themes of death, despair and apocalypse were all too common amongst submissions made by our boys to writing competitions like the IEUA and Roly Sussex Literary Awards, with Will’s Dundee winning a Highly Commended in the latter. Not only has the pandemic flipped the world on its’ head, it has also caused drastic changes in our perspectives, with social issues like aged care and climate concerns becoming more relevant than ever in 2020.  

 

More importantly though, a prevailing theme of hope seems to rise above the melancholic narratives and settings of these stories – Dundee’s main character battles with, and triumphs over, his own depressive mental cloud, whilst Reaped hits the reader with a darkly funny twist at its close (no spoilers). In fact, the arts of 2020 – whether in popular music or innovative, online exhibitions – for the most part, centre around a desperate hope for a brighter, more uniting future. 

 

Of course, we could go on and on about the innumerable tragedies of last year. Unprecedented bushfires, or police brutality, or the largest pandemic since the Black Death aren’t going to just magically disappear in this new year. Fixing these things is going to take effort and time and dedication from every single one of us. But it’s possible, isn’t it? So, here’s to 2021 – a year of hope.


I believe a regular student section for the newsletter has been long overdue, and it’s exciting that it’s finally happening! If you boys have any suggestions or comments or have something you’d like to write about, please feel free to email either myself (21maddene@marash.qld.edu.au) or Ms Stevens (stevensm@marash.qld.edu.au) – it’d be greatly appreciated!  


Dundee

Written by Will Curr

 

The darkness was all-consuming.  A cloud of black ash lingered above the van, letting in only glimmers of deep red sunlight, like starlight poking holes through the night sky. In the distance, savage beasts burned on and on and on.  It was as if they appeared from thin air, blackening everything they touched.  As the road curved towards the flames, their devil-like limbs became visible, climbing higher and higher onto the un-suspecting trees, eventually strangling them to a horrible death.  The fires didn’t leave much, but the magnificent aroma of burning eucalypts was very welcome in this dry, dead land.

 

The darkness, however, didn’t just exist on the outside. It slowly invaded my mind, eventually enveloping the precious pink flesh of my brain.  It seemed to be all I knew.  When she died, all my hope seemed to die with her.  Without a sense of purpose, my mindless body just kept driving West, to the red, rocky desert where the flames had nothing to burn. But only God knew if I would get there before the darkness of my mind took control and killed me.

 

As the road took me over a small hill, I was met with a horrific sight. A blue gum stood tall; the bonnet of a car crushed against its enormous trunk.  The ash was waiting for me as I opened the door.  I pulled up my bandana, but it did little to stop the burning sensation in my throat.  As I came up alongside the Commodore and peered through the window, the slow rise and fall of a man’s chest came into view.  Though blood dripped from the gashes spread across his head and body, his lungs still managed the burden of life.  I raced back to my van, immediately reaching for the gauze and half-empty rum bottle in the glovebox.  With everything I had, I pulled him out of the car and lay him carefully on the cracked bitumen.  As I did so, a faint sound emerged from his mouth.  I leaned in closer, but it was gone by the time I got there.  My whole body seized up when I noticed the dark-green clothing that the man was wearing.  He was a prisoner.

 

Escaped or set free, this man was probably dangerous. No-one would know if I just left him here to die, nor would anyone care.  I kicked myself immediately for thinking that.  Leaving him to die would be more criminal than anything he ever did.  He was still a human, now one of the rarest creatures left roaming this land.  Whatever he did was forgiven by the burning that tore apart our world. We needed to remain together. So I began to work my unpractised first-aid skills.  The rum on the wounds would clean them, but it wasn’t ideal. With each drop on the poor man’s skin, I winced as if I was the one dying.  I pray to God he couldn’t feel it; the alcohol would’ve been like acid on his bloody gashes.  With the limited bandage I had, I managed to cover each of his red-raw wounds. As I lay him down on the reclined passenger seat, the faint whisper emerged from his mouth again. This time, however, it was far more audible than the last.

 

“Dundee,” he breathed croakily.

 

“What on Earth is Dundee?” I thought to myself.

 

Then a lightbulb flickered above.  My grandparents died when I was very young, but that didn’t stop me from remembering where they lived and died.  I reached under my seat and pulled out a dusty copy of the NSW street directory.  I flicked to the index, and after a bit of searching, I found it.  As directed, I flicked to page 239, and there it was.  In the smallest print on the page was Dundee, and it was not far away at all.

 

With a destination in mind, some of the darkness had cleared from my head.  The monster still wreaked havoc in the distance.  Its wild limbs still lapped up the fuel from the trees.  The land was still bone dry, but the slightest glimmer of hope still managed to shine through.  But it didn’t last long. 

 

There it was, lit up by the faint glow given off by the flames that burned in the distance, a small, aluminium sign; behind it a scene of devastation. 

 

“Dundee,” the sign read. 

 

Smoke still rose from the piles of timber and ash that lay alongside the road.  Embers still lay peacefully burning on the front yard of what was once somebody’s home. The beast had been through, and there was nothing they could’ve done to stop it.  Leaving footprints in the ruins of a community made the darkness of my mind worsen to extreme anger.  I picked up a stone, and with a mighty scream, hurled it against a brick fireplace. It still stood tall.  The slam of a car door caused my head to whip around.

 

The man limped down the street, his focus set straight ahead of him.  He then turned to his left and stopped, staring at the ashes that lay before him. After a few moments, he collapsed to the ground with his head in his hands.  I began to walk slowly towards him, ready to call out, when a voice from behind me stole that thought.

 

“Jimmy?” it called hopefully.

 

I turned and locked eyes with a woman; her wild eyes were unsettling.  Frizzy, greying hair sprouted from the ashen roots of her scalp.  She looked more frightened than anyone I’d ever seen, but then again she probably thought the same about me.   With a shaking hand, I pointed to the body across the road.  As the woman followed my finger, the man raised his head, and his mouth turned to a wide grin.  She ran to him, and collapsed alongside him, crying with absolute joy.  They both turned to look at me, tears still filled their eyes. They nodded their heads, and I nodded back.

 

The darkness retreated.


REAPED

Written by Daniel Cusack

 

It was two in the morning when Death decided to pay him a visit.

 

Daryl O’Brien was sitting in his bed, dreaming dying dreams, when he heard a sudden knock outside on his bedroom door.

 

At first, he thought it was those rascal kids, giving him nothing but trouble back at his old home. Then he realised that he wasn’t at his old home anymore, which made him sad. He was at a hospital, and he probably wasn’t going to go to his old home again. He probably wasn’t going to go anywhere after tonight. Except one place, Daryl knew that for sure: a better place.

 

The knocking started up again, and Daryl knew it wasn’t that gang of misfits. They weren’t that persistent. 

 

What if it was a nurse? Daryl thought. What if it was Mary Macklin, bless her soul? Another kind-hearted woman, helping out an old geezer like me.  

 

But Daryl knew that wasn’t true. Her face at his daily body check-up said it all, a face that was fate for Daryl this morning. Grim. Sad. And dead. Very dead.

 

The knocking continued, never swaying out of tempo, never skipping a beat. Daryl sighed. Macklin clearly ordered him not to leave the bed, but he knew the sound was never going to stop, and he didn’t want noise in his head while he was lying in his deathbed. It was quite annoying actually.

 

He sat up, adjusting his shoes in his feet, and slowly crept over to the door. His old age was a painful reminder of his many years in solitude, and how everyday his heart beat slower, or his bones felt weaker, or how his stairs felt harder to climb, until he had to install one of those chair risers. Pathetic. 

 

He reached the door, and with one of his bony hands, Daryl grabbed for the doorknob, twisted it, and pulled it open.

 

A man stood at the doorway, a black cloak draped over him, his head hidden behind his shadowed hood. A sense of coldness washed over Daryl, and when the figure pulled back his hood, he screamed. A skull was at the place where the head should have been, as it grinned an evil grin beneath its pale white face. The skeleton brought up his bony hand, showing a large metallic scythe clutched between his skeletal fingers. Purple symbols were etched into the wood, while shadows were whispering around the blade - the sharp part.

 

The creature swung the scythe up, and Daryl’s instincts kicked in, pushing the door closed before it came in for the kill. The noise of wood against metal scraped against 

 

Daryl’s ears as he fell back onto his bed. 

 

The Grim Reaper. That was the Grim Reaper. Daryl’s mind was spinning. Also known as Death, the Grim Reaper, or whatever you want to call it, comes to the victim at night and, well, ‘reaps’ their souls to Hell. Every child in France from the 1300s would at least have heard the story once, this mysterious monster taking people’s life. Daryl thought it was just a bedtime story for naughty little boys and girls - he didn’t know it was real.

 

The hacking on the door stopped, and silence seeped throughout the room. Daryl drew in shaky breath. Was he gone?

 

And then, in the glimmer of the morning Sun, Daryl saw a ghostly hand pass through the door. And another hand. And a foot, and another foot, until the Reaper passed through the door like it was nothing. Then the image solidified, marking the blade seem so much sharper. Daryl gulped.

 

He looked around the room. Normally, there aren’t really any good hiding spaces to go into when you’re in a cramped hospital room, and it’s a little unfair when the finder is looking directly at you. A finder with a sharp blade who likes to kill people. So, Daryl was basically screwed.

 

And what was it doing, Daryl thought, staring into its cold, murderous eye sockets. Why is it just waiting there, like it wants to make me cower - yeah, that’s probably it.

 

‘Look,” Daryl said trying a different tactic. He hoped it didn’t realise the sweat he was producing or how fast his heart was beating. “Let’s just call it a day, huh. You must be really tired from all that work, uhh… reaping people’s souls, am I right?”

 

The skeleton tilted its head sideways and took a step forward. No mercy.

 

Daryl frantically stepped backwards, tripping over a hospital chair. “Wait! Let’s just see if we can -”

 

The doors suddenly burst open, and two hospital nurses burst into the room.

 

“What is going on Daryl?” Macklin said. “We heard you screaming from -”

 

“HELP ME!” Daryl went back to his old plan. “THERE’S THE GRIM REAPER AND HE’S GOING TO KILL ME!”

 

The Reaper just stood there, listening to the conversation.

 

Macklin came forward, walking through Death like it wasn’t even there. “Daryl! What are you playing at!”

 

And then the truth hit Daryl like a ton of bricks. They couldn’t see it. They couldn’t. Only the victim who was going to die could see it. Damn you myths, Daryl thought.

 

The Reaper stared at him, an evil grin on its face. It was playing with him. And now his time was up. 

 

Death walked forward, and Daryl had nowhere to hide… but he did have a place to run. He crouched against the wall, slowly pulling up the window. With a ragged breath, he jumped onto the sill, looking down at the early morning traffic of Paris. 

 

“DARYL!” Macklin screamed. “WHAT THE HELL DO YOU THINK YOU’RE DOING?”

 

Daryl knew it. He was insane. Jumping out of a thirty-two-storey building was suicide. But staying in that room would kill him as well.

 

Better late than never, Daryl thought, and jumped out from the sill. 

 

Wind whipped against his face as he plummeted to the ground. It was all such a blur. People looked up at him with concerned faces. If only they knew what was in that hospital room. Oh wait, what was behind him.

 

Death had jumped out as well, shadows streaking behind his back, scythe in hand. Daryl cursed. 

 

He was close to the ground, but Death was even closer, scythe in hand as it 

swung

         it 

                                           back,

ready

                                                                to

                                                                                                                             kill

          plummeting

                                                Daryl

                                                                                 down

ground

                                                                                                                           hard

 

and then with an ounce of strength, Daryl flicked his hand, knocking the scythe out of the Reaper’s hand, as it skittered across the ground.

 

Daryl was also on the ground. He hit the ground but didn’t feel it. Because he wasn’t dead. Sure, his back was killing him, and he made a big crater where he landed, but he wasn’t dead. The scythe hadn’t pierced him… yet.

 

It lay next to him, and he picked it up, feeling the power surge through him. He saw the Reaper crumpled against the pavement, and with a zap from its hands, shadows pierced through Daryl’s heart and other vital organs. He could feel the blood dripping out of him.

 

But Daryl didn’t care. He was the master of death. He was the one with the scythe. He gently pressed the metal against its skull, and the Reaper started to combust, until it was just a pile of bones on a dark cape.

 

Daryl smiled. He killed Death. He killed Death with death. He let out a loose laugh. Pedestrians stared at him with unease, but Daryl didn’t care. He escaped, he was happy, and he was alive. Everything was going to be A O.K!

 

And then there was a squeal of brakes, and Daryl looked up to see two cars smash into each other. There was a small explosion of fire, and smoke danced around his vision.

 

But through the smoke and chaos of shouting, Daryl saw two figures stand up. They didn’t die. They didn’t even have a scratch. 

 

Daryl looked back at his scythe and sighed. It’s going to be a long day.