Year 10 Literature

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Quarantine diaries

2020, the year of the plague. How would one react? Here's how one Literature student did.

BEHOLD the ever-expanding chamber (document) which shall unveil the fathomless enigma that is the mind of yours truly. The exact contents-to-be of such a momentous vessel of literary wonder are yet to be “set in stone” (as one who succumbs to the everyday, idiomatic English might say) as my mind is empty, yet full ”to bursting” with unexplored territory and indescribable potential.

“What?”, I hear you ask?

Well, the answer to such a question is unknown even to I, the sayer of the very words to which you respond, “what?”.

Enough, I say. Enough of this uncanny letter-choosing. Enough of this introduction, this seemingly purposeless, carefully selected yet meaningless expositional bombardment of symbolic squiggle-wiggles which, surely, carry meaning only to I. Meaning only to I, I do wonder if this is so. Oh? Do allow me to begin, to explain. No. This was my explanation, my explanation which I wrote for you - perhaps that makes it your explanation. Never mind all this. My time goes and I must catch it. I am crazed, but I do mean well.

* * * * * * * * * * *

Do you ever stop to think about how truly incredible it is that I am able to take these words and present them to you, and you are able to understand them and think about them. Words that you read can make you feel something. Think about that for a moment. Words you read, composed of nothing more than the very “squiggle-wiggles” of which I just spoke can cause your brain to make happy-chemical-things (highly scientific, I know) and I just think that is strange.

But I do not wish to talk about that variety of word-related wowness, I would like to talk about the fact that absolutely nothing means anything and that morality does not exist and an abundance of other things but TIME is my enemy this day and I shall continue this thought on another.

* * * * * * * * *

That last chunk of words was weird so I’m going to pretend it never happened. Instead, because I am idealess, I am going to talk about the things I have found from my years at primary school over the course of my time stuck at home. ‘Tis highly amusing, I assure you (this loosely relates to the idea of a “quarantine diary”, right? Probably…).

I begin with the thorough analysis of my school journal from when I was ~6 years old. Let us read an entry:

“my show and tell

today I brout my chicks for show and tell. their names are goldy atlantick and powder seal”

I would firstly just like to highlight the artistic lack of capital letters. My 6-year-old self was clearly a firm believer that capital letters disrupt the flow of a piece, and therefore deemed them unnecessary - this is not unlike Bernard Shaw’s opposition to the use of apostrophes, as demonstrated in his works such as “Pygmalion” (1912).

Secondly, Ethan writes that he “brout” his chicks, which is undoubtedly a deliberate misspelling of the word “brought” - this must have been written in an attempt to persuade the reader that all words should, realistically, be spelled phonetically as it would allow society to function with considerably increased efficiency and effectivity. This also raises the question, did 6 year old Ethan challenge the widely accepted pronunciation of the sequence of letters, “ou”? It would seem he did, as he argues it should be pronounced like the “ough” in “wrought” rather than the generally accepted “ou” in “our”. A linguistic visionary, he was indeed. Perhaps we, the readers, are expected to assume that “brort” or a similar variation of the word would be a more appropriate phonetic spelling, but the writer finalised his work with “brout” to indicate simply that we, as humans, are flawed creatures and are inherently ungainly from time to time and cannot be exempt from the expectation of occasional failure or clumsiness.

I, the writer of this first person analysis and the writer of the journalistic piece in question, am bewildered by the contents of this very journal entry. Sporton purports to believe that the names of the infant gallus gallus domesticus (commonly known by the mononym ‘chicken’) are “goldy”, “atlantick” and “powder seal”. Now, these written names must be simply an error; who would name a chicken “powder seal” or a misspelled “atlantic”? Such an outright folly is shameful, truly.

Let us move onto the next entry! Huzzah!

Sporton writes,

“8/2/11

Today I did Bluearth. I liked fruit saled I dident like the parashoot. I think it was ok”

After some thorough research, I am able to conclude that the “Bluearth” referred to by the writer of this piece is, in fact, a day at a children’s educational facility (school) dedicated entirely to ‘Bluearth’: a foundation dedicated to encouraging activity and movement in Australian children.

The six-year-old Shakespeare-to-be behind this piece seeks to instill in the mind of the reader that “fruit saled” (once more, the signature phonetic spelling) is the superior Bluearth activity with remarks such as, “I liked fruit saled” and that “parashoot” (English: ‘parachute’) is subpar by informing the reader that he plainly “dident like” it . Sporton demonstrates an overall neutral view of the day’s experiences when he writes that he “think[s] it was ok”.

AFTER A LONG SEARCH I HAVE FOUND AN EVEN HIGHER QUALITY BOOK. This one is titled “Literacy” whereas the first was “Journal”. Let us begin.

“9/2/2011

Dear Baby Bear,

I am sorry for eating your poridg and Breaking your chair and sleeping in your bed

from goldilocks

ps”

Undoubtedly, 6-year-old Ethan was rather adept indeed when it came to “literacy”, for he (and surely it was only him) was able to adapt his writing to be from the point of view of the one and only Goldilocks, a literary deity. Astounding work indeed. Astounding.

Perhaps the strangest thing about this particular piece is the misspelling of “porridge”, as I do in fact remember this personal dilemma I once fought within myself; I did not know the correct spelling of this word, and I, for some unholy reason, never thought to ask. Shocking. This also leads me to remember a strange habit I once took on in primary school: I would intentionally misspell words out of fear of being scolded for being too advanced in my writing. That’s right, I thought I was simply too clever. In fact, for the entirety of my schooling I have remembered this one day in particular, when I wrote about my weekend in my school journal and purposefully misspelled the words “little” and “fuel” (as “litle” and “feul”, I believe) in order to avoid being caught as a champion of spelling. However, once I approached my teacher, Ms Phealen, with my work I simply could not hide my true identity any longer and found myself, against my better judgement, against reason, telling my teacher that I knew. I told her that I knew how to spell “little” (but I didn’t tell her about my knowledge of the proper spelling of “fuel”; I wasn’t too sure about this whole process yet) and continued about my day. I remember the room, the atmosphere, the smell. Oh, how strange ‘tis to be alive.

This next piece is a monstrosity, I assure you:

“children arouns the world

Stockmen forgot this is a report neighbours people that symphony does not tell you biwe next door Lpaluit has many fish France has r16 wine made of grapes. USA is famus for basketball r14.”

I refuse to even attempt an analysis of this one because it is simply too grand for my now-simple mind. Probably a metaphor.

Now, this next piece is a bit scary. You may want to brace yourself for horrors. Well, I warned you.

A Spooky story plan 27/10/2011

One dark and stormy night a Witch put a spell on a pumpkin that made him talk. Then a cat came. He was a friend of the pumpkin. “Hello Cat said the pumpkin. “Look out cat there is a bat behind you

Chilling, that was. Chilling. The presence of a witch (with a capitalised ‘W’, even) is a clear, intentional foreshadowing of the upcoming horrors within Sporton’s A Spooky story. The pumpkin’s ability to speak, additionally, is an indicator of the otherworldly nature of the piece. Now, this is only a plan so I won’t assume I know all of the vital details but it seems the author wanted to leave the audience in shock, as the finishing line strikes fear into the reader’s heart with “look out cat there is a bat behind you”. A work of art, this piece is. Undeniably.

Here is what I assume was either inspiration for the piece, or cover art for the finished novel:

I am blessed to be in possession of such an inspirational inspiration.

Here is an unfinished piece: it had true potential, but unfortunately we will never see the end. Perhaps I should write it. I have an idea for next time!

One day a very clever dingo caught a wombat to make wombat stew. “Why dont you put mud in” said platypus. “What a

Now, I shall attempt to emulate the writer’s style, and finish a piece I started oh, so any years ago…

One day a very clever dingo caught a wombat to make wombat stew.

“Why don't you put mud in?” said platypus.

“What a grand idea, my dearest platypus! Full of them is your mind,” noted Dingo, spooning fresh river mud into the mix.

“Mind if I have a taste?” platypus asked shyly, visible feelings of guilt on his face for asking.

“Of course!” replied Dingo with his constant desire for approval. Oh, if only his mother had treated him right, “How’s it taste?” he asked. That was when the poison kicked in.

Ethan Sporton

2021 Poetry Slam Winner

A Broad Truth

By Genevieve Halford

The winter is a truthful season,

Barren and broad,

It has no layers left to hide behind,

It strips itself down to it’s core,

Bone

Is the most honest part of the body.

So how am I tricked so completely?

Even as Earth’s blood falls

Spread through the streets,

The crumpled red, yellow, brown,

I open my mouth and all I can sing is summer.

I sing.

I sing alone,

The birds are long gone.

They beckoned to me with bright eyes and outstretched wings,

Showing me the sky I could have

And yet my soles never left the dirt.

Planted,

Strong,

Aching,

I sing.

Even though every sweater I own has been pulled onto my bedroom floor,

I haven’t seen my carpet in years,

I hope it’s doing okay.

I have traded my bedroom for a cave,

A nest,

A womb,

Everything I could ever want is here,

I would never have to leave

I never have to leave

And yet.

I unfold myself from the friendly dark

And run outside

Just so I can stand

Planted,

Strong,

Aching,

And drink in the blue.

The rain hugs me close,

The wind, a greeting’s laughter,

“We know,” they say

“We know why you’re here,”

“Do you?”

Even now, through all these cycles,

Through all these winters and summer-times,

My answer is still this:

“I don’t have to.”

“I never have.”

And I sing.

Honourable Mentions:

Observe the Night Owl

by Ariel Golembo

Observe the night owl. The 20 percent of the population whose sleep schedules are neglected by the crushing weight of the nine-to-five

Ten percent more likely to die sooner

Higher rates of obesity, high blood pressure and cardiovascular disease

They are rarely seen in their natural habitat.

Yes, all teens are drowsy, we get it - I was an owl since I was born

So please acknowledge that some of us will be lethargic for the rest of our lives

You wake in the morning and there’s a cold fog in your husk-

Is it sleep debt from the night before or discomfort from the light?

You could return to slumber right now and no one could stop you

But then everyone will assume you’re lazy

So your brain wraps itself in its murky cocoon, while your soul sludges through the Acheron River. Your treadmill of a corpse receives an education.

Once the sun has set, you light a bulb in your head so you can see in the dark

Lamps spark up in the alleyways, the riveting corners of the mind

You start to recall

A curtain pulled back, your ripened skin

This is by far the tastiest slice of the day

Eyes clear, Mind whirring

Tired? Pfft- the fun has just begun

The city is bustling,

This is your home, and you’ve been aching to be here since daybreak

Yes, I know, it is a shame.

If only you could have had more time to relish your own house,

But unfortunately, dear customer, the city will shortly be demolished for the sake of your early awakening tomorrow.

You’ll soon be a rag doll once again manipulated by the strings of ‘conventional’ sleep schedules.

You do your best. You work as hard as you can with the resources you can get.

But it’s not enough is it? It’s never enough.

Your metropolis topples at your feet.

You rest in pieces, then rise at dawn as the working dead.

Do you remember the seasons

by Mateja Edwards

Green

Green

Golden

Brown

Red

Flutter

Soil

Brown

Bare

Green

Green

Green

Golden

Brown

Red

Flutter

Soil

Brown

Bare

Green

Green

Green

Golden

Brown

Red

Flutter

Soil

Brown

Bare, Smoke

Green

Green

Green, fire burn

Golden

Brown

Red

Flutter

Soil

Brown

Bare, engine

Green

Green, car

Green, fire burn, car

Golden, car

Brown, car

Red, car

Flutter, car

Soil, car

Brown, car

Bare, factory

Green, car

Green, car, factory

Green, fire burn, car, factory

Golden, car, factory

Brown, car, factory

Red, car, factory

Flutter, car factory

Soil, car, factory, cement

Brown, car, factory

Bare, burn, car, factory, cement

Green, car, factory

Green, car, factory, cement, destruction

Green, fire burn, car, factory, cement, destruction

Golden, car factory cement destruction

Brown car factory cement destruction

Red car factory cement destruction

Flutter car factory cement destruction

Soil, car factory cement destruction

Brown, car factory cement destruction

Bare , burn, car, factory cement destruction

Green, car factory cement destruction

car, factory, cement, destruction

fire burn, car, factory, cement, destruction

car factory cement destruction

car factory cement destruction

car factory cement destruction

car factory cement destruction

car factory cement destruction

car factory cement destruction

burn, car, factory cement destruction

car factory cement destruction

Do you remember the seasons?

So, I’ve got these glasses, right?

by Maya Bergman

So, I’ve got these glasses, right?

Found ‘em lying in a comic book bought second hand,

Pages cut through the centre make a shallow hole for the frames.

It’s not a lot of room, but these glasses, they’re paper thin.

Simple, stylish, sleek.

Super comfortable too! Haven't taken ‘em off since I found ‘em.

You barely even notice they're there.

Didn’t know I bought them till I was, like, halfway through?

Wasn't charged for them either.

So, I was halfway though, right?

The villain was just about to win, she had the hero trapped and everything, his sidekick in some far off land.

The hole started in the following page and a pair of glasses sat in the black and white frame still left in my hand.

I wasn't worried, though, I knew he’d escape, reunite with his sidekick,

I knew she’d get thrown in jail with all the other bad guys.

My friend already spoiled it.

He said the plot was too predictable, and the characters: “two-dimensional”.

Guess he's right about predictable, I know I can't say for sure,

He spoiled the ending before I even started

But he's wrong about the characters, I can tell you that.

Two is plenty of dimensions, more than enough for illustrations on some coffee-stained page.

He says it's “unrealistic”, that real people are more complex, with more than just one defining characteristic.

I think he's just being pretentious.

And I'm willing to bet he didn't even get free shades

The Waste Land II: A Game of Chess

by Liah Gizbar

After the torchlight red on sweaty faces

With his frosty silence in the gardens

Paper the agony in stony places

Of thunder of spring over distant mountains.

The glitter of her jewels rose to meet it

Reflecting the light upon the table

Usurped, lurked her strange synthetic perfumes

Urgent, powdered, or liquid - troubled, confused

And drowned the sense in odours, stirred by the air.

It’s almost time.

His such unusual degree collapsed

Political conflicts tonight exposed,

Her domed oblique upkeeps hypothesize

Unarmed adults negotiate returns,

Its lush beloved welfare metabolize

Demure unrests substantiate composts,

His stark imperial mystique attached,

Precarious delays congeal service,

Her prep ornate pluralities abate

Tyrannical defaults update retorts.

His deft occasional remark suggests,

Innate nutritionists negate concepts.

Their scorched agrarian unrest became

continual records upright aligned,

Their ribbed respectable complaints usurp

undreamed unrests antagonize kazoos.

His arms flail wildly, hastily

His tongue begging for air

Her eyes tell their white lies

But his fist won’t juxtapose to the damage she does

Hurry up please, it’s time

Do you remember it?

Jagged garden

Labored pancake.

Do you remember it?

Half stranger

Beg sister

¿Lo recuerdas?

Llévame a los lagos donde todos los poetas fueron a morir

¿Lo recuerdas?

Hurry up please, it’s time.

When will Autumn discern?

Find her stage to put on a show

When will Nole ascertain?

He is nothing if not for the mindless liquor upon his several arteries that scream in tremendous desperation

Hurry up please, it’s time

What was that? What will it be?

How did that song go again?

Will he ever learn? Will she ever see?

Non, je ne regrette rien.

Hurry up please, it’s time.

Autumn watches aimlessly towards the window and Nole will never comprehend the atrocity.

It's time. It’s time. It’s time.