Blueprint AHS Sudent Magazine_Issue 1

Issue #1 November 2015
LATEST REVIEWS:
BOOKS, MOVIES
& MORE
News that doesn’t always
make
make the headlines
A philosophical view on the English
language – what’s yours?
What to expect in
the month of November
Exclusive memories
of Mr. David Place unlocked
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Extraordinary author David Foster Wallace once
declared that good writing is ‘what it means to be a
human being.’ What begins as mere words on a page
quickly develops the power to transport us into
exciting new worlds, capturing that incredible thrill and
excitement of what it means to be alive. Blueprint was
born from the desire to showcase this student writing –
the very kind that explores life and the creative arts in a
kaleidoscope of wild and wonderful ways.
Every day the narrow corridors of Adelaide High School
are swarming with students who have exceptional talent
and creativity. This magazine intends to be a place where
such budding artists and wordsmiths can have the
opportunity to publish their amazing artwork and wonderful
writing for everyone to see. Our first issue of Blueprint
features a range of captivating feature articles, short
stories, and reviews written by students who have voices
that deserve to be heard. On behalf of the enthusiastic
editorial team, we hope you very much enjoy the first
‘chapter’ of what is destined to be an exciting journey to
come.
Mr Scott Macleod
EDITORIAL TEAM
Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod
Managing Editor: Alana Goldschmidt
Editors: Livia Schirru, Mhyles Hintural,
Ben Anderson, Miriam Boruch, Sarah
Endlich
Sub-Editors: Grace Molchanoff,
Arabella Wauchope, Karan Loomba,
Aasma Chougle, Michelle Neumann
CALL FOR
CONTRIBUTORS
Calling all writers, artists, and creative types! We want your
talented work for our second issue of Blueprint.
We are especially keen on your best:
Fiction writing including (but not limited to) short narratives and stories, recounts,
poetry, film and drama short scripts (no longer than 1,000 words each)
Short reviews of anything linked with the creative arts. This can include films, television
shows, music albums, live concerts, theatre productions, and art exhibitions (no longer
than 250 words each)
Non-Fiction writing of anything related to the school, local community, or creative
arts. This can include food and travel writing, ‘How To’ articles, or any other topic
relevant to the student readership (no longer than 1,000 words each)
Artwork, graphic design, or illustrations
Please email or submit contributions to Mr. Macleod (email:
[email protected] or office – Room 42 /
classroom – 124). Alternatively, if you have any ideas for
writing or artwork that you would like to contribute to the
magazine, please contact one of the super helpful magazine
editors listed above.
What’s happening?
NOVEMBER
National Novel Writing
Month
NOV
World Vegan Day
1 NOV
Walk to Work Day
6 NOV
National Sunnies Day
7 NOV
Remembrance Day
11 NOV
World Kindness Day
13 NOV
World Diabetes Day
14 NOV
World Toilet Day
19 NOV
World Philosophy Day
20 NOV
World Television Day
21 NOV
23 NOV
White Ribbon Day
25 NOV
Buy Nothing Day
30 NOV
Thanksgiving Day
26 NOV
National Listening Day
National Square
Dancing Day
29 NOV
NEWS
WRITTEN BY | Arabella Wauchope
THE RECENT
“Tony Abbott
breaks a
marble table”
1
2
3
4
5
6
OLD AND
NIGHTMARISH
Tony Abbott breaks a marble table, which would require tools of considerable force given he
was axed by his own party.
In the Northern Territory, a man who had stolen a car left his phone inside after having his fun and
dumping it, which resulted in his arrest.
Also in the Northern Territory, an experienced angler was stabbed by a fish whilst reeling it in. He
brought the rod back too quickly, and consequently the fish landing in his face and piercing him
with its barb.
An Australian man who was obsessed with his parrots cut of his ear to look more like them. This
‘complemented’ his tattooed eyelids to create the complete look.
In America, police arrested a man who was licking a toad and ignored repeated requests to stop.
In Tasmania 1913, an octopus was thought to be a ‘man eater’ after it was caught and a man’s
shirt was found in its stomach.
HOW TO:
Sarah Endlich
BITS AND PIECES
CHECKBOX
AS HIGH SCHOOL
students deal with a hectic social, work,
and school life, it frequently can become
difficult to find the time to study without
being distracted. Thereby, we have collected
your pieces of advice (some helpful, some
just plain weird!) to help you in your studying
and ability to stay motivated. By students,
for students!
Why is studying necessary in the first place?
This is the key thing to remember while
studying and getting the motivation to do
so. Keep in mind that your study goes
towards your future – whatever you choose
for that to be. Do it now, and envision what
you want to do with your life. It is yours to
do with as you please. Your study is the
method which gets you there. Many students
have said that if you don’t study, you will not
be able to reach that desired future. While
that may sound extreme, this potentially may
instil the fear required to motivate you to
study. Just something to think about next
time you’re scrolling through your latest
social media feed.
Which brings us to our next tip; for the
duration of your study, make sure to put the
phone away and devote your whole focus to
studying effectively. Maybe construct a
pattern of half-an-hour to solid study, and
then take a five-minute break for phone
usage? Do something that works for you,
just set parameters and stick to them. If you
like rewards, buy yourself some chocolate (or
something healthy if you’re into that) after
finishing an assignment, project, or simply a
productive night of homework.
4
THE EPITOME OF
LANGUAGE
If aliens from outer space were to come and study life on Earth, they would be
gobsmacked by the intelligence and culture knowledge that sets the human race
apart from any other species on the planet. Then why is it that this breed of
hominids insists on wearing clothes and spending most of its day under the
scrutiny of bright electronic devices?
WRITTEN BY Ben Anderson
LANGUAGE
is the backbone of human knowledge, as
well as technological and cultural
development. With language, we can
demonstrate the extraordinary power of
communication and storytelling, which
allows us the capacity to express even
the most complex of ideas and
thoughts. From haunting poetry to
inspiring speeches, language provides
the opportunity to inform, persuade, and
provoke genuine emotional responses.
Allowing us to share ideas, it fuels
ingenuity and allows our race to
continue to advance technologically (for
better or worse!) Remarkably, over 7000
languages are spoken across the world
today.
Any alien might now be asking how we
evolved to use such highly complex
systems of communication. Yet, this is
a biological step that still largely remains
a mystery. As a topic studied for
centuries, there have been many
theories and observations that bring us
closer to understanding how we came
to be the loud and opinionated species
that we are today.
One theory postulates that the use of
language was an evolutionary adaptation
and used as a tool to survive. As
evolutionary linguist Michael Tomasello
states in Stephen Fry’s Fry’s Planet
Word, ‘I think the initial step was that we
ended up having to collaborate in order
to produce food. Something in the
ecology changed, which meant we had
to put our heads together to be able to
acquire food.’
Was language a result of natural
selection’s vigour? So believe
psychologists, Steven Pinker and Paul
Bloom, which they explore in their paper,
‘Natural Language and Natural Selection’,
hypothesising that primitive signs and
sounds evolved into the language we
use today through Darwinian evolution.
Another interesting theory posed by the
linguist Noam Chomsky suggests
language was a ‘Spandrel’: a by-product
of another evolutionary adaptation. His
theory, which is heavily criticised by
Pinker and Bloom, theorises that an
enlargement in the human brain over
time made it possible for language to
develop.
Language and tool making also appear
to go hand-in-hand. Homo Halibis is one
of the earliest primates known to use
tools, some 2.3 million years ago. We
know that the temporal, occipital, and
parietal lobes of the Homo Halibis brain
were connected. This area where the
lobes meet is known as Wernicke's area,
and is used in language production. On
top of this, an experiment carried out by
a group at the University of California
suggests language may have aided our
ancestors in tool creation.
Although much time and thought has
been put into answering this
frustratingly hard question, it seems that
no one can confidently explain, let alone
agree, how language has evolved.
Similarly, we may never truly know what
our ancestors used to gossip about.
Yet, we need only look at our closest
relatives, the chimpanzee, to see what
our lives might have been like with the
absence of language.
“WE NEED ONLY LOOK AT OUR
CLOSEST RELATIVES, THE
CHIMPANZEE, TO SEE WHAT OUR
LIVES MIGHT HAVE BEEN LIKE WITH
THE ABSENCE OF LANGUAGE.”
WRITTEN BY Alana Goldschmidt
Breathing heavy, face warm. The adolescence
of my youth is apparent, as I lay asleep curled
against the warmth of a soft white blanket,
innocently oblivious to the ongoing decay of
my sanity.
I always believed I was cheated out of a
childhood, deprived of the prerequisites to
be normal. The dysfunctionality of my family
was something I could never escape from, as
it haunted me like a dark shadow. My father,
the manipulator. He ignorantly assumed that
the loud voices of black and purple violence
wouldn’t corrode my mentality, but he was
wrong. My sister, the pillar of wreckage,
corrupted by the people she called ‘friends’.
She was driven to consort with the liquor and
smoke of death, before finally attempting it
for herself. It was only a matter of time
before I was tainted by the serious
flaws of my family, as my
personality was overwhelmed by
total paranoia.
The harsh sunlight brought
with it anatomical changes,
causing my heart rate to
quicken and stomach churn. It
would feel like I was dying and I
would never know when it was
going to happen. To me, the
importance was in avoiding, what if
I embarrassed myself or couldn’t escape
because of those feelings? Thoughts like
these infiltrated my brain until they grew so
believable that I gave in, lying to prevent
feeling the sun on my skin. Eventually, I
resigned myself to the fact that I couldn’t
part with my sanctuary. My home had
become my permanent escape.
The clocks in the house melted together and
rolled into months, as I grew tired of my own
skin, much like my breath grew stale. When
the windows were open, I avoided them; I
had become too accustomed to the
familiarity of home that the fresh air caused
my stomach to crawl. It would penetrate my
nostrils and make me retreat, leaving a sick
feeling of fear. I labelled days as ‘good’ or
‘bad’, ‘light or dark’, and sometimes I felt
excited at the possibility of normalcy, while
other times I would fall back, leaking through
the gaps of the wooden floor and hiding
from the sun. I befriended the dark stuffiness
beneath my duvet and would lie there for
hours, transitioning from the callousness of
the real world into the fictional lives of
others.
Her voice is louder and angrier now, and with
each syllable, I crawled further, finding myself
in the dark corner beneath the bed and
tasting salt on my lips.
By this time, the prospect of leaving the
house was only a situation that appeared in
my nightmares. So when my mother returned
home one day, with a sad yet determined
look in her eyes, did my dreams become a
reality.
I couldn’t understand what my mother said
after this, all I know was that I curled up,
thinking I could become invisible if I
compacted all the particles of my being
into nothing. But then I felt the strength of
muscles swiftly stretch me out again, first
binding my hands, then my legs, and finally
my mouth. I struggled to breathe as I was
dragged through the wall, silence heavy in
my ears. My closed eyes adjusted to the all
too familiar darkness, just before the light
embraced the window like an old friend.
‘We’re going for a walk.’
In that moment I immediately recoiled,
praying that I could advance time and evade
the inevitability of having to face what I had
been avoiding for so long. It was as though I
was caught between two paths, and with
much disappointment I chose the easy way.
Attempting to remain calm, I bantered back
with a polite ‘no thank you’ and then like a
little girl fled, coming to rest behind my
bedroom door, similar to a game of hideand-seek on a sunny day, but with very real
consequences. I could hear my mother’s
disappointed voice from the other room, and
it was with a heavy heart that I ignored her.
She didn’t understand, she thought I had a
choice, but all that mattered was protecting
myself. I was selfish.
‘No, no, no, no…’ I muttered quietly.
‘NO, I don’t want to go. NO, NO, NO!’
My hands tense and strongly
intertwine, as my fingers constrict
the pressure points of my palms.
A sense of tightness has come
over the small, clinical room, as
though the air has been seeped
by the ceiling’s ventilation. The
walls are cloud white, while a
sad, limp plant sits lonely in the
corner, and I detect a smell of
packet tea. My body wants to take
flight, but my mind resists, as I feel
control burden me, like a puppet holding
their own strings. I continue to glance at
the clock over my shoulder while she sits
directly in front of me, posture straight
and pen poised.
‘Why are you here?’ her voice is casual
and I appreciate her efforts to downplay
the situation.
‘I think I have agoraphobia.’ I reply, in the
quiet voice of a small child.
‘Agoraphobia?’
‘Yes.’
My breath suddenly catches and just like
that I smile with the irony of happiness
6
WRITTEN BY Miriam Boruch
I shut my eyes. It’s too much. The three coats
of mascara drag my eyelids down and I feel
my body slump against the wall. The breath
is pulled from the deepest part of my body
and I can feel my muscles tensing, like they
want my mind to be strong. I clench my
hands together and dig my nails into the
sides of my hands. I can feel the skin split
beneath. I manicured them well. The red
hasn’t chipped away for one week, and the
strengthening polish has made it impossible
to chew through my distal edges. My dress
rides up my legs as I slowly slide down to the
floor. I don’t bother to fix it. There is no one
watching me. It hurts to bring my knees to
my chest. I use my arms to pick up my
bruised legs and pull them
in tight. Whilst the pain has
not gone away, I am
comfortable, even if I am
sitting on the floor of a
toilet cubicle.
My high heels feel like
six-inch bricks on my
feet. The soles are hard
as rock and they only
weigh me down. If
there is one thing my
husband can’t do, it is buy shoes
for his wife. I undo the straps
and kick them off. I allow the bones in my
feet to realign as I stretch them out, not
worrying about the grime on the floor that
my dress protects me from. His tailor sure
knows how to dress a woman. I am not that
woman. Before I met him, I wore clothes with
class. My mother knew how to make
beautiful silhouettes and I knew how
important it was to leave some things to the
imagination. It’s very clear he could never
write children’s books, his imagination is
terrible. He only sees what’s in front of him. I
hang off his arm in the kinds of dresses that
would make a hooker blush. Tonight is
different. Tonight he has something to hide.
My legs. A first. He still had the dress made
so he could keep his eyes on me all night.
Floor-length red silk that accentuates my
curves in all the right places, no matter how
wrong it feels to wear. It’s simple. It works
for him. I bring in the businessmen he makes
promises to. I wish I could tell them all, “If you
know my husband, you’d know he doesn’t
keep his promises.”
finger, a foreign object to my hand. I stop
myself from ripping it off my finger and
throwing it down the toilet.
But who would listen?
I take this opportune moment to drift away,
but not to fall asleep. If I do that, I won’t ever
want to wake up. Outside the bathroom I can
hear the dull, faded waltz the string quartet is
playing. The thuds of affluent, sophisticated
couples echoes throughout the bathroom as
they attempt to dance the night away. It
pisses me off that I am the only person who
had the courage to hide in a bathroom. I run
my fingers along the bruises on my legs, but
I don’t flinch from the pain.
I feel the gold bracelet my mother gave me
around my wrist, the last present from her
before she passed away. I remember the
days when this was the most valuable thing I
owned. Now that I know the meaning of
wealth, it still is. The last present from my
father was a suitcase and a shove out the
front door. They say you’ll marry a man like
your father. I only wish my husband would
shove me out the front door. No matter what
he has bought me, he has never paid my
lowest fee. Respect. I smash my fist into the
cubicle door but I can’t feel the pain. I let out
a dry sob, but I will not allow myself the
luxury of tears. God forbid he’ll see my
mascara running. I know I can’t break, not yet
anyway. I will not walk away. I will not walk
away, because the closer I am to him, the
sweeter my revenge will taste. I press my
back against the wall and fight the scream
inside me. I fight and I fight until I forget. My
wedding ring feels too tight around my
Blood diamonds don’t mean anything unless
they look good on you.
I stop. I breathe. I open my eyes. The crimson
red silk of my gown compliments the blood
from the splits on my hands. The bruises on
my legs still hurt, but the gown conceals
them enough for me to forget them and
focus on the blood. Giving my feet one last
stretch, I take my red stilettos and strap
them back on. I pick up my silk, red purse and
shakily stand up. I check
the back of my dress
for grime, but I see
none. I guess I only
felt it. I take one long
look around the
cubicle, then take a
deep breath and
unlock the door. I step
out into the bathroom
and look into the
mirror. I am the
woman women
torture themselves to
be, except I don’t rely on myself to
be tortured.
I fix up a few loose strands of auburn hair and
look at my face. My red lipstick has faded
and my eyes look like bottomless pits
surrounded by glitter and black. I pull out my
lipstick and apply yet another perfect coat.
Before walking back to my husband and the
adoring crowd of sleazy men and jealous
women, I apply another three coats of
mascara.
God forbid he’ll see it running.
7
WRITTEN BY Arabella Wauchope
WRITTEN BY Veronica Halbryt
There was something different about them.
They graced the earth with elegance, they
shone through darkness. She had always
admired their peculiar sophistication, their
unearthly beauty. They were regarded as
pests, thrown away like trash until only a
handful were left. She had always watched
them as they scattered through the streets,
guided only by the light of the moon.
Through her small bedroom window, she’d
watched the handsome men dance among
the beautiful women, dressed in silk, their
laughter carried softly by the wind. She had
always watched, until all there was left was
the moon and the stars.
The whispered rumours had become loud
shouts of mockery. Echoing through the
hollowed out rooms, the hate left heartless
mouths and landed on deaf ears. Faint
screams and incoherent words drifted over
the ashes, the village lay helplessly, the
flames still burning with rage. We were
the leftovers, like rats we came out in
the night, gathering what we could.
Some fled, leaving behind empty
homes and broken families. They
formed packs outside the borders.
They sought out warmth, a
sympathetic hand, yet they were
greeted with mockery and eyes
filled with hate. Spat at, slapped
and kicked, they crawled back to
the gates, where we stood in
formation, simply staring. Their
hope shone in their eyes, their
helplessness shouted at us. We
stared. The border was warmer than
inside. The moon shone on my back, its
serenity brought me peace, its purity a
sense of relief. No one comes in, no one goes
out. It was a waste land out there, full of
broken souls and mindless people. They
threw out the joy that kept us together,
ruined the fairies.
‘1487, keep your eyes on the fence’ the
sergeant’s voice whispered in my ear,
reminding me that my name was forgotten.
Numbers – we had become numbers. Our
names were lost, forgotten. It felt foreign
letting a name roll off your tongue; when I
was in the privacy of my quarters, I would sit
in the darkness and let my name fall off my
lips. Duty was over, and as I walked away, my
spot on the border was replaced. It was the
27th. The damned population had grown, and
our checks were becoming frequent. Houses
were raided, homes destroyed, schools were
searched. Those who were found, the ones
with names and no numbers, were taken
away. The 27th, a mandatory check-up, the
one where they ticked off your number, the
one where they took away your memories.
The Intelligence lived in the large white
house, their glass walls showing only what
they want you to see. With its tall ceilings,
glass walls, and tiled floors, its perfection
yelled at us as we filed through the front
door.
painstakingly white suit, yelled out, yet he
was never heard. We moved easily in and out
of rooms that reminisced closets. A tracker
was installed in the top of the right arm, a
blood test, and then they erased your
memories. They were replaced with basic
knowledge, installing rules and protocols.
Then a test for intelligence. It never changed.
I saw those who didn’t pass, pushed back out
the front door, screaming as they took them
to the gates. Never to be seen again. They
didn’t survive a day over the border.
Quarters were always the same. The last raid
had left us with stolen property, broken walls.
Entire buildings had fallen, the flames
continued to flicker in the mountains. The
raids happened more then we could keep up
with. We built our walls back up, then they
fell back down. Damned didn’t understand,
they weren’t like the rest of us. They fought
to live. They fought to keep their name. My
rations sat on the counter, and I stared at the
plain box of simple food as it sat upon the
rubble. Leaders told us the damned were the
enemy, the ones who needed to be
destroyed. As a guard, I was forced to
watch them plead for mercy.
He knelt in front of me, his knees
sinking into the snow. Eyes stared up
at me, helpless. They silently begged
me to let him go, let him to roam free
on the other side of the border. I stood
and waited for my command, ignoring
as best I could his quite sobbing.
Artificial
people, sophisticated and cold. They looked
like us, the spoke like us, yet there was no
warmth in their touch, no beat in their chest.
Rulers who didn’t bother with names, just
numbers. The announcer was loud, his voice
echoed throughout the room. I pitied him. A
speaker never moved, never showed any
expression. He looked at the sea of empty
people, but he never saw us. He stood in that
‘This man, known as Theo, has been
found guilty of the following crimes: treason
of the first degree, stealing of the second,
and being unregistered, a damned. These
crimes have been found punishable by death.’
Saying his name brought me a sense of
satisfaction; this man won’t die like the rest
of us, he won’t die a number, he will die as
himself, he will die as Theo. That to me was
something great. Killing him was harder than
killing nameless soldiers, a faceless target
didn’t bring the guilt that slicing his throat
open brought me. His lifeless body thumped
to the ground, and I stood over him, silent
and unwavering. This was what my life had
become. I was a murderer and I just killed my
9
brother. The day had become a fast-paced
race of the fittest. I trained. I ate. I trained. I
stood on duty. Everything reminded me of
him, of his perfection, of his courage, yet at
the same time, it was a distraction.
‘1487, I think congratulations are in order.
Your first kill and not the slightest bit of
hesitation.’ The leader smiled down at me, his
mock happiness looked almost human but I
knew they were all proud. Murders were like
kings to them.
Just doing what I am trained to do.’ My
reply was short, in hopes of ending the
conversation.
‘Doing it well is what I intended to say.’
He moved away and into the crowd that
surrounded the house. He was right – I was
doing it well. Killing my brother was a
challenge they set up for me, my success
brought them utmost joy, and I realised I
had now just become one of them.
Light sparked through the darkness of the
night, like a blazing flame it seemed to
move closer to where I stood, feet planted
on the border. It stung my eyes, burned me
through my thick black jacket. It came
from the over side, not a fire like the ones
before a raid, but a gorgeous light. Bright
and unwavering, it seemed to grow, burn
with passion. It was a blaze, a bright yellow
followed by the soft hues of orange.
Strokes of red mixed themselves into the
colour. The realisation came to me when
the light moved up, higher into the sky.
The sun was back and with it the fairies.
WRITTEN BY Arabella Wauchope
10
Michelle Neumann
I don’t know why I told her; maybe I had felt a
sudden inclination to share my confusing and
jumbled up feelings with some living soul
other than myself. Perhaps keeping a diary
and writing and locking up my thoughts
before I went to bed wasn’t enough. My
psychiatrist had been right. I did need to talk,
just not with her. She had been trying
relentlessly to get the slightest insight into
my mind. I was forced to go and visit her
once a week. I don’t know what help my
parents thought it would be. That somehow I
would share my innermost thoughts and
feelings with an individual I did not know a
single thing about, except that her name was
A. Fulton. How could they expect me to
share all this when I didn’t even feel
comfortable sharing it with them?
Judging by the troubled and almost
enervating glance Dr A. Fulton directed
towards me, I quickly realised the seriousness
of the situation. My abnormally serene
parents were standing quietly in the
uppermost corner of the small New York
office. They were shooting nervous glances
at each other after repeatedly looking down
at their hands. My mother had cupped her
frail fingers around what seemed to be a
used ball of tissue. Every now and then
she would raise the ball of torn paper to
her nose, which I now observed
was quite runny. Her puffed up red
eyes suggested that she had been
crying. My father looked no
better. Although he had bravely
tried to conceal any signs of
sadness, upon close inspection, a small
lingering redness still appeared around his
facial features. Although at first glance there
seemed to be no difference in the bleach
psychiatric office I was accustomed to, I
soon noted a few trivial distinctions. Dr
Fulton’s beloved grey lamp, which always
stood in the most endearing corner of the
darkly painted office, had suddenly vanished.
Whilst the indistinguishably inadequate taste
in colour and room design was undoubtedly
questionable, the lamp had made this
chamber of hidden thoughts slightly
adaptable to fit its daytime disguise of an
office. Without the radiant guidance of my
beloved lamp there seemed to be no
possible escape from the darkness to come.
‘Now we all know that you’ve been
through a lot Lauren,’ Fulton ushered in a clear
and even tone, ‘But we have come to an
agreement with your parents that your
unhealthy lifestyle and habits need to stop.’
After ushering this, she took a deep breath
while taking a scrutinising glance at my face.
Over years of consolidation and a broad
understanding of the collective mindset of
social workers and psychiatrists, I had learnt
to control my facial gestures to a small
twitch. I was desperately hoping that my
expertise would withstand Dr Fulton’s
penetrating gaze. I seemingly succeeded, as
she continued her practiced talk austerely.
‘We all know that you have a difficult
time associating with other adolescents of
your age.’ This assessment was met by silent
nods from the observatory corner. ‘We,’
which was dramatically emphasised by
Fulton, ‘have decided what would be best for
you at this stage is to return to school.’
amount of nights worrying about what
effect their suggestion would have on me. I
am not a cruel person. Although my actions
over the last few months have had a severely
negative effect on my parents, I did not
mean to directly, or indirectly, cause them
any pain.
‘We don't want to necessarily push this
onto you,’ Fulton said in a sweet rosy voice,
which I had often heard her use with a curly
haired fifth grader ‘but judging by the
progress we are making this is the right
thing to do.’ She looked at me expectantly,
begging me to offer some kind of body
language that agreed with what she was
saying.
‘As you know we are trying to stop this
event from affecting your whole life,
specifically preventing you from attaining a
post-traumatic stress disorder.’ At this stage
she took a deep breath. ‘Returning to school
could really help you. We know that you may
not want to at this stage of your life, but
returning to school is a big step toward
overcoming past incidents.’
My father looked up suddenly, meeting my
wandering gaze.
‘Lauren,’ he said in a confident and
steady voice, ‘We’re only going to request
you to go back to school for two
to three weeks at this stage, but
your mother and I want you to
return to school fully next year.’
Disturbingly synchronised, my parents both
glanced up from their hesitant fiddling to
observe my reaction. It was to this most
stimulant situation that I contemplated two
ways to react: one that would undoubtedly
please my parents, while the second would
most accurately reflect what I felt inside at
this most rigorous point. My first choice,
which would patently please my parents, was
to quietly agree with the completely
inadequate idea that Fulton had proposed.
Although I passionately disagreed with their
inconsiderate proposal, I knew that my
parents must have endured a discerning
Just as my father was about to expand
on the most ‘perfect’ school he and my
mother had inspected, Fulton felt obliged to
interrupt him.
‘You’re starting school next Monday,
Lauren,’ Dr Fulton declared, giving me a wide
smile with her decaying front tooth.
The last trickle of hope in defying their order
was quickly disappearing, such as the health
had from her tooth. The last light of my own
will.
11
Ivan Bucalo
2006
Cormac McCarthy
Alfred A. Knopf
287
THE ROAD
is set in a reality where a man and his son are
crucibles for anything that is good and pure
in the world. A cataclysmic event has left
ash, ruin, and the occasional band of travelling
marauders in its wake. Our two protagonists
travel across a highway, hoping to find
others who likewise, are ‘carrying the fire’, in
the father’s words.
McCarthy simplifies the English language to
the point where you will not find any speech
marks or traditional punctuation, besides the
occasional comma and full stop. The
minimalistic writing reflects the novel’s
central premise, in which a society devoid of
luxuries only bears necessities. Much of the
novel is devoted to the humdrum of their
post-apocalyptic lives, but we also witness
situations in which the horror of their reality
is exposed. In these moments, the father
does all he can to preserve his son’s
innocence. This beautiful relationship is at the
centre of The Road, and it is interesting to
see the way in which McCarthy can
simultaneously show us the best and worst
of humanity in so few pages.
Throughout the novel, the reader learns a lot
about humanity. There is depression, there is
cruelty, and in the midst of it all, there is
hope. I wouldn’t call The Road enjoyable in
the way that I’d call a regular novel or film
enjoyable – but there is no denying that it
has left me with something that’s hard to put
into words. It’s worth reading for this reason
alone.

The fantasy begins when a young man,
Thomas Hunter, finds himself alternating
between two worlds whenever he falls
asleep. As he drifts between reality and this
new world, questions arise as to which one is
his ‘real home’ and where he is needed most.
The storyline, although seemingly slow at
times, takes the reader on a rollercoaster
through the realm of light and darkness,
peeling back the layers of truth within the
world and discovering the source of love.
With the reality of a terrorist bioweapon in
one world, and the threats of attack from a
zombie-like tribe in the other, Thomas is
compelled to make unimaginable decisions.
The Circle series may be extremely
Grace Molchanoff
2004-9
Ted Dekker
Thomas Nelson
fantasised and unrealistic, but the truths
within the book are much more relevant to
the world than one would initially believe. The
series boasts the fact that it can be read
beginning from the first book or the last,
although, personally, I would definitely begin
with the first. In the series, the reader learns
much about love, light, and darkness, and
how they are all linked in a somewhat twisted
world. A series that I would describe as a
cross between Narnia and The Matrix, Ted
Dekker’s The Circle is definitely worth a read!
TED DEKKER’S
renowned series The Circle is a tale of the
epic battle between good and evil, where
light shines through darkness and the actions
of one man impacts two worlds. The series is
composed of four books: Black, Red, White,
and Green – all of which made it to the New
York Times Bestseller List.

12
2015
Baltasar Kormákurmac
Jason Clarke, Josh Brolin,
Sam Worthington, Jake
Gyllenhaal
121 mins
‘EVEREST
is another beast altogether’, states character
Scott Fischer (Jake Gyllenhaal). This is a fact
that nobody can deny. Both the mountain
peak and this film adaptation are absolutely
incredible. In this film, nine enthusiastic
voyagers, hungry for a breathtaking
experience, decide to climb the highest point
on earth, Mt. Everest. Unaware of the mighty
demons they will ultimately encounter on the
treacherous cliffs, they must survive in the
face of adversity. Directed by Baltasar
Kormakur, the script was adapted by William
Nicholson and Simon Beaufoy, the film
explores the devastation caused by the
traumatic calamity that occurred in 1996. It is
an act of commendation to those who
survived the storms and avalanches, as well
as a tribute to the exuberant hearts who
were unable to make it out of the ranges.
Everest is an extremely enthralling and
fascinating cinematic experience. With a
great cast, the film really raises the bar for all
others in the adventure genre. From the
stunning cinematography to the engaging
dialogue, the film delivers a satisfying and
thrilling experience! Everest kicks off with an
intense conversation between Fischer and his
wife regarding his upcoming expedition.
Fischer is soon joined by Beck Weathers
(Josh Brolin) and other crew members to
begin their excursion in the small cabin of
Lulka.
The brilliance of Everest lies in all of its
aspects – the dialogue, storyline,
cinematography, direction, special effects,
and editing. Though there are tragic
moments, ‘quest explorers’ will surely love
this film. With a heart touching story, Everest
truly stands on top of my list of favourite
films for 2015.

The film has already been a massive hit since
its release in early September this year. The
performances by all the actors were superb,
and the film couldn’t have been possible
without the excellent cinematography of
Salvatore Totino. Low camera angles
impressively illustrated the characters on the
mountains, in particular conveying the sheer
magnitude. This is particularly evident where
Weathers was on the balcony under a shelter
of the peak, the camera angles shifted from
one end to the other in no time. This
compelled the audience to witness his pain
from frostbite, which lead to his restless and
agonizing movements. The 360◦ camera
spins to illustrate vertigo caused by the
storm in the bitter bodies of the adventurers
were also outstanding.
13
Mr. David Place
WRITTEN BY Mhyles
Hintural
EVER WONDERED
what school was like for teachers? Or what
kind of students our teachers were? To
answer some of these questions, I
conducted what proved to be a very
entertaining interview with Mr. Place, a
decade long teacher of English and History
at Adelaide High School. Here is how it
went down.
Which school did you
attend as a high school
student?
I went to an all-boys private catholic school.
What kind of student
were you?
I was a good student but not a fantastic
one. I tried hard but I wasn’t all that good. I
was an average student who played too
much sport. To be honest, I was not really
rebellious. However, we all got the strap and
the cane.
What were you obsessed
with in high school?
Girls, football, and cricket.
What was your least and
favourite subject?
I hated Maths because I was never any good
at it. On the other hand, my favourite
subjects were English and History because I
have always loved people telling me stories.
What was your most
embarrassing moment in
high school?
I had quite a few embarrassing moments in
high school.
I was in my class and my teacher had a
glass eye. It was a big class and he was
yelling at me because I was always talking in
class. When I looked up, I stared at his glass
eye, which was pointing at someone else.
And then, I realised that he was talking to
me. That same teacher’s nickname was
Budgie because his eyes were always going
“GIRLS, FOOTBALL,
& CRICKET.”
in different directions. The embarrassing
part happened when my father went to the
parent teacher interviews and called him Mr.
Budgie, not by his real name.
he’d been fraudulent in his tax returns. We
then wrote fake notes and went back into
class. As soon as we walked in, we asked
him, ‘Excuse me Sir have you lodged your
tax?’
Do you have any other
memorable stories?
I remember a boy in my year broke his
writing hand on purpose so that he wouldn't
have to do the exam. We all dobbed on him
so they made him do the exam with his
other hand.
We snuck out of class one day and we ran
down to the nearest deli. We had a double
lesson and we decided to ring our Maths
teacher telling him that the tax department
wanted to urgently talk to him and that the
Australian Government were now
investigating his monetary transactions as
14
For those of you out there who severely love pancakes (so… all of you), we have a
HEALTHY PANCAKE RECIPE that only requires TWO INGREDIENTS! Two! Guys, I’m
serious, these pancakes are so good, and so easy to make that you have to try them.
If you do not own a blender,
cut the banana into small
pieces and smash in a bowl
with a fork. Crack the two
eggs into the bowl and
whisk, then follow through
steps 5-11.
So, what is in the magical little babies?
Miriam Boruch
1 ripe banana
2 eggs
Now, for the method on how to make pancakes (not a banana omelet):
1.
Peel the banana and cut into pieces (size does not matter).
2.
Place in a blender.
3.
Crack the two eggs into the blender.
4.
BLEND THAT BABY!
5.
Heat a pan on medium heat and put a little cooking oil of your choice in.
6.
Make sure the oil is spread evenly across the pan
7.
Slowly and carefully pour your blended banana baby batter into the pan, making perfect little pancakes.
8.
Wait until bubbles appear on top and then FLIP!
9.
Be careful, as these have a tendency to stick to the pan, so make sure you don’t mangle them!
10. Place them on a plate and do whatever you want with them (eat them, use them as a pillow, make a hat with them, squish
your feet in them… your choice!)
11.
Really though, you should probably eat them because they taste awesome.
15
The hype of a new restaurant is not
difficult to come by in Adelaide. After
all, this is a city populated by ‘trendy’
subculture cafes, weekend markets, and
a number of free-standing cheap-eats
nestled against the bustle of Rundle Mall.
So when a new Italian place pops up,
owned and endorsed by celebrity chef,
Jamie Oliver no less, we’re bound to get
excited. Having opened nearly a year
ago, the franchise has really been the
gift that keeps on giving. But is this
highfaluting enthusiasm
really all worth it?
WRITTEN BY Alana
Goldschmidt
STANDING
tall amid the humming corners of North
Terrace and King William Street, Jamie’s
Italian definitely emanates a sense of
affluence. The restaurant is located at
the old Westpac Bank premises, which
proves to be a definite marketing point.
Impossible to ignore, the exterior and
interior are equally impressive, boasting
a voluminous ceiling height, art-deco
chandeliers, various marble features, and
large arch windows that throw the main
floor into a dance of light and shadow.
Even the bathrooms are well-designed,
their style reflecting the original bank
vaults of the building. Being lunchtime
when I dined, the restaurant was clearly
busy, however, patrons seemed to buzz
with energy, seated at either long,
welcoming tables or intimate booths.
Many staff dotted the floor, each
assigned to a different table, while food
from the open kitchen seemed to reach
customers at a furious pace.
Disappointingly, Jamie’s Italian menu
seemed somewhat predictable, housing
the well-known Italian staples as well as a
scattering of contemporary Australian
influences. There was also a lack of
South Australian produce promoted
throughout the dishes, which I found a
little disheartening, especially
considering Jamie Oliver’s advocation of
seasonal and sustainable food. On the
other hand, the drinks list was
remarkably unique, sporting a variety of
alcoholic and non-alcoholic options, as
well as bohemian style cordials filled
with fancy trimmings of elderflower and
lemongrass. For me though, the
Homemade Lemonade & Lime Bitters
was just what I needed, light and
enjoyable and not too heavy on the
gomme syrup.
For starters, my table ordered several of
the Italian Bread Selection, an assortment
of focaccia, ciabatta, grissini, and pane
carasau. Considering its low price, the
quality was definitely a standout. Drawn
to the richest and creamiest pasta on
the menu, for main, I ordered the Leek
and Pancetta Rigatoni Carbonara. From a
presentation perspective, both the leeks
and pancetta added interest to what
would have otherwise been a bland
colour palette. The sweetness from the
leeks balanced the consistency of the
sauce, and although the dish wasn’t
overly seasoned, the saltiness from the
pancetta proved adequate enough.
The desert menu was also quite
extensive, however, I could not ignore
the callings of their most popular desert,
Epic Brownie, a warm fudge-like cake
paired with amaretto ice-cream and
topped with caramelised amaretti
popcorn. Maybe the term ‘epic’ was a
touch pretentious, but I must say, the
dish played well with different textures
and temperatures.
Jamie Oliver certainly maintains an
exuberant reputation amongst the food
community, bound and determined to
promote his mentality of ‘great food,
great value, beautiful surroundings’ when
dining at his restaurant. However,
considering the enormity of the Jamie’s
Italian franchise, I couldn’t help but feel
the overall experience was rather
generic, a little impersonal, and very
label-driven. Nevertheless, the aim for
authenticity is there, and for that, I
commend him.
THE VERDICT
Jamie’s Italian provides a pleasant dining
experience that is heighted by its
diverse menu and vibrant atmosphere,
yet sadly hindered through its overly
commercialistic approach.
 Good
16