Charlie and the Chocolate Factory
The sixth golden ticket

Nevaeh Guordo, the actress, was climbing up the wondrous and most beautiful fudge mountain ever created! On the way she was making fun of poor and innocent, young Charlie Bucket who’s eyes nearly flooded. Her dear parents, were so blind sighted, thinking that their precious daughter was Heaven on Earth. (That is why they named her Nevaeh) (Heaven spelt backwards). While they thought that their little, sweet angle is being so beautifully nice to the other kids, she was actually making Hot Chocolate, in other words she was melting the fudge! You might not know but Nevaeh has some anger issues, like a lot… one time she literally broke her bed room door!!! Her cheeks were the colour of steaming, hot lava, fresh from the volcano and her teeth clenched forcefully nearly breaking them and tightened her hands making her knuckles crack. When she realised what she had done, she was too late. She was stuck in the mud… wait no, in the chocolate fudge. Nevaeh thought in her, stubborn mind, if she eats all that delicious chocolate she would successfully get out of the chocolatey mess. To Nevaeh’s luck, she was completely wrong. The mountain started to rumble, and at the top of the very mountain, came out creamy and steamy Hot Chocolate splashing out of it. That made Nevaeh fly in the air and out of the factory gates.

 Written by Amber Fasavalu – 4 Violet

War

I was paying for fish
I wanted to make a special dish.
Then the war came
And I only have one more wish.

The one wish is to escape this place
To escape to a peaceful space.
The corrupted politicians, we thought would help us
But that’s just not the case.

I heard the bombs whistle in the air
I’m lucky to still have my hair.
Many people have walked the heaven stair
I might be forever in despair.

But never fear
For hope is here,
They might be listening
We may just have a new peer.

Charbel Francis – 5 Opal

Tiny Town

A wave of panic swept across my face as I rubbed my hands against the miniature walls for a possible exit. But the pocket-sized house seemed to have a mind of its own and instead the ground started to rumble. I gulped as I scanned the scene for a possible exit.

It all started, when I stumbled across a sign that was the size of an elephant. I studied the sign closely. It bellowed loud and clear that there was a show happening in the town square. Unfortunately, I was in such a hurry to get to that show that I didn’t bother to read the rest of the sign, and that little mistake ended up costing me a lot because on the bottom of the sign it read in bold letters… DANGER!

When I arrived, I took a seat in the back row so I got a good view of what was going on. Suddenly, the lights dimmed and a spotlight shone on a small sized figure as he boomed “I am Tiny the Great, and my first trick is the disappearing trick!” He then raised his hand and pointed at me, signalling me to come to him. I hesitated for a minute, but then I regretfully jogged down the stairs and climbed onto the stage. The odd man shoved me in a box and mumbled “disappear don’t reappear, go to a place far away from here!”

At the corner of my eye, I was sent down a colourful labyrinth before landing on stone floor with an enormous Thud! I was in a microscopic room with four tiny walls, a curtain and a door. The problem was that the door was too miniscule to fit through. Out of the blue, the ground started rumbling so I peeked through the tiny, little door and then I saw it, I saw my death… Me and the room I was in started falling!

I slid my head back through the door in panic and to my surprise I found a key! In finding this key, I finally had some hope, so I rubbed my hands against all the rigid walls thinking there would be a secret exit. “Jackpot!” I exclaimed as I dusted off the realistic looking fake walls. I expertly slid the key into the key hole and crashed my shoulder into the door until it opened, but I lost my balance and fell strait into the same spiralling, colourful, labyrinth. I found myself back in the box so I let out a sigh of relief but then I heard the same strange words that made me disappear so I raged. “Noooooo!”

~ Written by Mary Semaan (3 Beige)

Lecture on Wilfred Owen Poetry

Mrs S.A. Fisher. 2019

So why do we still connect to the poetry of Wilfred Owen?

Is there some moral bond where the ghosts call us from our murky violent history? Is Australia connected to the umbilical chord of England and Europe or is Owen’s poetry so viscerally powerful that it is timeless and the bondage of cartography and loyalty merely a feverish aside?

Surely, we are no longer fighting under the banner of colonial obligation where we must acknowledge how our youngest adventurers in slouch hats embarked upon a sea journey that took half our country men of the Southern lands into the bloodied graves of the Western Front.

We are fascinated to peruse slithers of faded photographs; the training camps of Giza where young men stood briefly on the sands of history. Forlorn and perplexed young men wedded now to the fate of war waiting in a foreign hemisphere of starlit skies. Here they would only momentarily see the sands of Pharaohs on Golden winged Chariots and Pyramids.  They soon would be heading to the slaughter fields of oblivion.

Why does Owen matter?  Is it that we feel obligated to recall the pity of their lost youth as we swim freely under a dazzling blue Australian sky.

A young English soldier that lived over 100 years ago in a world divisive with imperialism, full of bloated Kings and Kaisers, an impossible arms race, the technology of green gasses and the helplessness of bayonets against machine gun fire.

Owen matters because humanity matters. We see the great eye of the beholder and the collapse of ourselves into the existential madness of grief and loss.

Owen reminds us to live and to preserve. He reminds us that humanity should have purpose and truth that flesh and soul are one and that we must connect to the higher principles of love and the greatest ideals of men and women, that we must strive for peace at all costs.

Owen reminds us that never should we allow a young child, boy or girl, to feel morally obligated to blow humankind to smithereens.

We connect to this young poet who died at age 25, Wilfred Owen, because he is our loss of innocence, a man that never grew to flourish into the wild beauteous moments of his life. He is the discarded self that is left when we take away from our humanity too early.

The six poems for study Futility, The Next War, Strange Meetings, Anthem for Doomed Youth, Dulce Et Decorum Est, Insensibility.