This is a random story I wrote one night. Kinda futuresque, I guess. Wouldn’t mind some feedback.


They were coming. I skidded to a halt, and, took a sharp right, hoping to lose my pursuers amongst the complex maze of ruined Paris. An old sign said ‘Rue de Liberte’. Excellent. Freedom Street, as rendered in the common tongue. A fitting place for a final stand. The men swept onto either side of the street. They were dressed purely in black, and had large wolf-like hounds salivating next to them.  I pulled out a pager. The message was composed already. It was a missive from the Queen to Dorothea Mackellar, a senior spy. I pressed send even as the bullets ripped into my body.


Silence. For who knows how long. Then voices. “Still creeps me out when she does that”. A different voice “I think she’s fine. Nothing different this time”. And then a more authoritative voice “I just hope she has some answers.”  I opened my eyes, and saw a white clinical lab, as understanding flooded through me. That was the worst part. It wasn’t helping the government. It was not knowing that you aren’t going to die, and then having to feel all the emotions when you die in the memory. I dropped Sarah Watson’s gloves, and sighed.


Bu before I could recover properly, I was pushed into a sitting positions, and the authoritative voice asked concisely “Who was the message sent to?”. Hating myself, I answered. “Dorothea Mackellar. She’s one of the Queen’s.” The voice said nothing, and I heard to sound of leaving footsteps, and knew that wherever Dorothea was, she would soon be dead.


No-one really knows why I can feel people’s memories from their clothing. I never liked it, and when I was a child, it would happen sporadically, leaving me terrified. When the Government found out, I was taken, and nurtured into a weapon. Countless Queen’s Operatives had been assassinated on my watch. I had no control. Except on one little thing. The machines they had rigged me up with told them if I was lying, as I had found to my detriment. But on the other hand, I only had to answer their questions. No elaboration, no initiative in helping my captors. So I didn’t tell them what was in the missive that was sent. I didn’t tell them that the Queen knew about me. I didn’t tell them that they were coming for me.


Three more memory intrusions passed, each spanning between 3 days and 3 weeks length, but taking place in an instant in the present.. Two dead rebels, and eight compromised safe houses. It was highly unpleasant, especially when I was reliving the last moments of a women who killed herself by throwing herself into a meat grinder. But I endured, waiting for something, anything, to happen.


One day the authoritative voice returned, personally bringing my newest assignment. I couldn’t see his face, but saw his hands, mottled blue with veins, as he pressed a boot into my hands. “That’s all we have left of him.” I gulped, and reluctantly delved my mind through the shoe…


It was midday. The sun was shining bright and strong against my back. I entered the mall, assaulted by the cold air. I stopped and sat on a bench. I had no other way. The itinerary of the President had to be sent to the Queen’s agents, or they would lose a valuable opportunity. Wireless Internet Communication was blocked. In-person delivery was ludicrous. All that was left was the post. I walked into the post office, through the metal detectors. The plastic explosive on my chest did not raise the alarm. I waited until the workers were distracted, and then stealthily walked into the processing centre. It was huge, but I knew where I was going. I walked to the far end of the hall, where the mail was kept for delivery. I entered, and slid the envelope into the mounds of mail waiting. Everything had been checked by the censors, so there was no reason to check it again, no reason for anyone other than the recipient to open that envelope. I walked out, but a clerk saw me, and shouted. I ran towards him, but –


I opened my eyes, and took a deep breath, only to wish I hadn’t. The air was full of acrid smoke, and there was a fire burning in my peripheral visions. Shaking, I saw that the boot had been knocked out of my hand, and was lying on the ground. I stood up, and saw that the place was coming down. The booms in the difference were obviously bombs, as I had felt their impacts in previous memories. As I took stock of my surroundings, someone grabbed my hand. I was a sallow man with drooping eyelids, the rest of his face concealed by a scarf to protect him from the smoke. The hand that grabbed mine was the same that had given me the boot – mottled blue with veins.


I pushed as hard as I could, and the man slammed into the wall. But he wouldn’t relinquish his grip. I tried a different tactic, and pulled him towards one of the fires, and with a twist, dropped him in it. This time he let go, as he threw off his suit jacket and scarf and tried to beat the fire from his clothes. I considered attacking him, but I was more interested in survival, rather than vengeance. I grabbed the singed scarf, and wrapped it around my mouth to protect from the smoke. After what could have been minutes, or days, I came to find a van, with a rugged old man standing next to it, screaming at me to come, hurry up, we needed to escape.


It took two days for my recuperation from my burns. But after that, someone walked in. The rugged man walked in, flanked by two guards. He was holding the ruined scarf. “Whose was this?”, he asked gruffly. I took the scarf from him, and smiled. “Let’s find out.”


I walked down the metal staircase. People got out of my way, as they should. I reached my office, just one of the floors on the building. “Sorry, sir” muttered young assistants as they got out of my way. My secretary stood up as I passed. “Welcome, Mr. President.”




Sameer Sharma


Someday i will live again,

Someday i will breathe,

Someday i will see my daughter again,

Someday i will proceed,

Someday i will grasp my wife,

Someday i will see the light,

That will take me back to my memories,

Of you and me, oh i need.

Someday i will live again,

Someday i will breathe.

I wrote this poem last year,for english. I’d love to hear from any feedback, thanks.

Some Resources For Writers

Some time ago, when I first started writing, I began with websites like, strange and odd as this may seem, and Both sites may seem strange to go to, and odd to recommend, but both are highly useful in their own rights. is great for writers who aren’t confident in their imaginative talents and their ability to come up with drawn out, cohesive plots. It’s useful because you can pick almost any TV Show, movie or book that you like and find an area for it, where you can create stories based on already invented characters, settings and general storylines. I myself have written for Harry Potter, Castle and other communities. If you like the TV Show Castle, which airs on Channel Seven in Australia, I highly recommend the Castle community on (shorthand for The community is great, and very helpful to new authors.

If any of you want to sign up here, or get into contact with some of the better authors, or even get into contact with me on this site, you can let me know, and I can recommend some great starting points and some great people to get into touch with.

The other site I mentioned earlier is, or This site is great for authors who are confident in their ability to create a plot, but who don’t want to enter competitions with somewhat faceless judges. I’m less familiar with, as I’ve been using it less, but I can tell that the community across the whole site, which is divided into genre categories, is welcoming, nice and helpful.

Both sites have a reviewing mechanism, whereby people who come across your story can leave productive reviews. I found this to be really helpful when I was beginning as a writer, and some of the best advice that I’ve been given has been by the people in those communities, who are fantastic. 

Ms Sheko asked me to talk about this next meeting, after I raise it on the facebook page. 

On a final note, and with a shameless plug, please read the first chapter of my story White, which is on this blog.



p.s: If you want to get into contact with me, the easiest way is to email me at:

White (new story)

Author’s Note: 

This is something I just started writing a couple of days ago, and I wanted to see what you guys thought. This is the first chapter of what will become an extended work of fiction. Already working on the second chapter.



Chapter 1: Everyday

With a sweaty brow, a startled James woke with ruffled hair and a pant on his lips. Breathing in heavily, he groped in the blind darkness for the bottle of water that always sat between him and as his bedside table. Taking a long sip, he plopped back down onto the pillow and snuggled back into his doona. The first morning light had yet to shine through his window, but tweeting birds were the sure sign that dawn was near. He debated whether to stay awake or simply go back to sleep.

Unfortunately, his resolution to sleep through a school day yet to eventuate, owing, as these things usually did, to his mother. And this morning was no different. At the right time, seven in the morning, she knocked on his door.

“Wake up! It’s seven!” she called. And soggily, and with little to no stretching and a half a dozen muscle knots and pains, he would get up and leave the comfort of his soft doona to venture into the far rougher world.

The same as every other morning, and unfortunately, the same as every coming morning, James would first go have a morning shower. A person of terrible habit, drilled into him as a necessity by his mother, a woman who blankly appalled chaos of any kind or description, James’ morning routine was similarly identical every day. He would get up, have his morning shower, allow the water to run to down his back and so forth, those nice little relaxing things about showers would be enjoyed, and then, much like leaving his comfortable bed, he would leave his relaxing shower.

He seemed destined to leave his comforts and venture into a world filled with chaos, disorder and unknown things, uncontrollable things.

After his shower, he moved to his breakfast, enjoying his two pieces of toast and one cup of yoghurt, but not nearly as much as his shower or his bed before his shower. Enjoyment seemed to decrease as he came closer to the real world, the one outside his window that he rarely looked through.

“Packed your bag?” his mother asked him, sitting down beside him. She asked him every day, this same question, and every day, the answer was exactly the same as it would be today, and tomorrow, and the day after tomorrow and so forth.

“Yes, mom,” he said, as he always did. And with that much repeated sentence, he finished his toast, got up, grabbed his bag and left, his mother still slowly eating her food.

The air wasn’t warm, and it wasn’t cold. It wasn’t raining, nor was it sunny. Typical weather for this time of year. It never rained but it never got warmer than twenty degrees. It was hard to be happy when the weather was depressed, he thought. If nature itself is depressed, it’s difficult to try and see the good in things.

Wisdom was leaving the world, he thought. The time when independent thought was valued was leaving the world, and it was becoming just as monotonously boring and uninterested in anything but itself as it was when everybody wore grey suits, that had fraying cuffs, and worked in factories and went to the pub down the street every other night. The world was becoming polluted by inelegant simplicity and people had lost the depth that they once had had, he thought. The world was rather like that story about that man who aged backwards, he thought. Instead of growing more mature as time passes, as one goes from a baby to a child, to a teenager to an adult, gaining in wisdom with each step, the world was reversing this process. The times of genius had long been forgotten and the premium was now on the ability to look intelligent, rather than actually being intelligent.

The world was becoming as dull and grey and boring, as the sky. That was why nature was depressed, he thought, because there was nothing really to be not depressed about.

So James walked down the road he walked down, every day, every morning, to the train station that he caught his train on. Of course, this train station was small, as was everything else in his life, and trains were always late and strange and old and otherwise useless, and much as depressing as poor old Mother Nature.

But he had to catch these trains, he thought, because there wasn’t any other train station nearby, and there wasn’t another way to get to his school, which he also had to go to. So he went to his decrepit train station and waited under grey sky for a train that was going to five minutes late. Luckily, he planned ahead, and came three minutes late himself. This was the trick, he knew, to know that the trains were going to come late and plan accordingly.

James stood on that train for twenty minutes, constantly lamenting the fact that he wasn’t quite at his probationary license. Standing in a miserable train, humid as Thailand in the rainy season, and being jammed next to four other people, because, inevitably, at least two people boarded the train at every one of the ten stops between his station and his destination, was, much like the train, miserable.

So he stood there and lamented the fact that he couldn’t drive himself to school in his own car, and begged for the next two months to pass by faster. Rather predictably, the train arrived at his destination some ten minutes later than it should have. This was a rather strange phenomenon, James thought, because the train was only five minutes late when he had boarded, and somehow, in the space of ten ordinary stations, time seemed to have disappeared. Curious. Really rather curious.

He walked down the pathway, as narrow as it was, through the larger buildings that stood before his school. He ducked into a smallish alleyway, damp with puddles from the night rain and rank with the stink of bins that had been left out, only to be emptied and refilled to half with water. But he continued down this path, because not far into the alleyway was a gem. A little coffee ship with nice baristas and homely music, and the most delicious cappuccino he had ever tasted. The muffins were good too, but the coffee was considerably more important.

Strangely, he couldn’t understand why. Why the coffee was more important, that is. There was just some kind of want for coffee, but it was a good want in his mind so he didn’t complain and simply kept buying this brilliant cappuccino from this nice coffee shop.

He walked in, and the barista turned up to face him.

“Hey James,” she said. She said this almost every day. “How was that party on the weekend?”

That was reserved for every second Monday.

“Good. It was decent. Yourself? What do artsy uni students like yourself do?” he asked. It was their thing. They would talk about their days, while gave her five dollars for the coffee and the muffin.

“The same thing artsy uni students have done for years and years,” she replied, handing him the muffin.

“Oh and what’s that?” he asked. The machine made strange sounds, like a dog trying to make a mechanical whizzing sound, only, the dog was being strangled at the time.

“Get stoned,” she replied.

And that was the end of their conversation. James picked up his coffee, smiled, told her to have a nice day, and then walked out the door. Tomorrow morning, he’d walk back in, and conversations would resume.

Good Lady of Mine

I love you so much, good lady of mine,

Come now, join me at our bed,

Pray, come with me, cross that silver line.


Oh how it thrills me to watch you dine,

It is my growing lust that you have now fed,

I love you so much, good lady of mine.


My love, it wraps my heart like twine,

But ware! You are fast beginning to tread,

The treacherous nature of that dangerous line.


I guess, as a woman, you really are fine,

To mere shallow attraction, I am now being led,

I love you so much, good lady of mine.


With a closer look, you are losing your shine,

I start to see you in a rich ruby red,

I stand, yet again, at the edge of that final line.


This time you will not rest under oak, but pine,

And like all the lovers, all surely dead,

I love you so much, good lady of mine,

But like all the others, you sadly crossed the line.


wrote this villanelle for an assignment awhile ago. It’s about serial killers.

Yang Shen-10F

Three Problems Associated With Working at a Fast Food Restaurant

When the summer holidays began at the end of last year, I decided I wouldn’t sit on my ass for six weeks straight as I usually do, and got a job at a KFC restaurant. For almost five months, I was truly one with the chicken, but at some point a few weeks ago I realised I simply couldn’t be bothered working, sent in my two-week notice of resignation, and returned to my lazy ways.  I bade farewell to my co-workers and, with Golden Gaytime Krusher TM and Popcorn Chicken SnackboxTM in hand, I ambled my way out of the store for the last time. For those of you who are considering getting a job at such a place, here’s some cautionary advice, for not everything at KFC is delicious…

The Accents

Here’s an example of a conversation one will experience at least once while working at the front:

Me: Hi! Welcome to KFC. What can I get you?

Fellow of South-Western Asian descent: ultimootbugameelwitcolslowinsteadofpotatoogrovy

Me: Uh… what was that?

Fellow of South-Western Asian descent: ultimootbugameelwitcolslowinsteadofpotatoogrovy

Me: Uh… say again?

Fellow of South-Western Asian descent: Ultimootbugameelwitcolslowinsteadofpotatoogrovy!!

Me: OK… I’ll just get my manager…

Manager: Hi! Welcome to KFC. What can I get you?

Not being racist or anything (I’m totally being racist) but I have had customers that make Apu from The Simpsons seem as eloquent as The Queen of England. Be prepared for some tricky Asian and European accents, or you will be left dumbstruck with a frustrated customer.

The Dumpster

Changing bins isn’t so bad, right? You take out and tie up the plastic bag in use, replace it with a new one and chuck it in the dumpster at the back. However, the seconds spent in the general vicinity of this dumpster are the most putrid  and nose-torturing seconds of one’s life. At the bottom of this dumpster is a formless and hideous sludge, one that cannot be cleaned, for no one dares to try. If you wish to return to the restaurant with your senses intact, you must hold your breath and get rid of that plastic bag in as little time as humanely possible.

The Music

While the dumpster may scar ones sense of smell, nothing can compare to the curse that KFC will wreak upon your eardrums. To keep up a “pleasant” atmosphere, the songs that are ‘super hot on the charts’ are played, and after many repeat-listenings, it can lead one into a state of utter despair. All those hours spent building up a fine taste in music; a repertoire consisting of GOOD musicians such as (INSERT FAVOURITE BANDS HERE), can feel like they are for naught, for the dreadful blight that is mainstream pop pulverises all the Eudaimonia once possessed due to enjoyable music. This playlist of songs is comprised of mostly computerised, sexualised and poorly-grammaticised drivel, with very few exceptions. It is, in this not-very-humble writer’s opinion, the worst part of working at a fast-food restaurant. Of course if you listen to mainstream pop music, it wouldn’t bother you so much, but then again; why would you be reading this?

Continue reading Three Problems Associated With Working at a Fast Food Restaurant


Me meeting you was surely propitious.

At first sight, my heart is desire-stricken

Your perfection is kind of suspicious


When I near, you seem to beckon, surreptitious,

Your overpowering presence forces my heart to quicken,

Me meeting you was surely propitious.


You aren’t prone, like some, to being capricious,

Before, meeting you was just pointless ambition,

You being here is kind of suspicious.


When you’re in here, I find it’s auspicious

That the mercury on those thermometers thicken,

Me meeting you was surely propitious.


Your succulent flesh would surely be delicious

I want to devour you, irresistible chicken

I don’t believe that would be at all suspicious


But although, for sure, you are very nutritious

Eating you has caused me to sicken

Me meeting you was surely propitious.

But, I guess now, it’s slightly suspicious


Some villanelle I wrote. It’s about chickens.

-Kevin Tang 10F

If The World Was Up To You

If The World Was Up To You

If the world was a blank canvas

And you were its artist

Whatever would you do

If the world was up to you?


Would the sky be a watermelon pink

And streaked with golden rainbows?

Would the air smell like peppermint

Or maybe a cup of cocoa?


Would the rivers flow with laughter?

Would trees talk and drink champagne?

Would angels chase after

The pitter-patter of the rain?


Will the mountains be like fountains

Of overflowing music?

Would flowers look like painted porcelain

Or paper with acrylic?


By Ryan Teo 10M


The man from Brazil

A silly piece of poetry I did a while back. It’s alright, nothing super. Give it a read?


There was a man from Brazil

Who went to a country called Glenville

He lived in this nice big flat

Which he bought at the drop of a hat!

He woke up each day

And ate at a buffet

Dancing up and down

He then complained with a frown

He exclaimed in fright

For what he saw felt like a bite

His things had been taken

As well as all his bacon

His abode had been ransacked

But he tried to look at it abstract

They were missing, his watch and his phone

He would now need to get a loan

There was a man from Brazil

Who fled from a country called Glenville

Now, all his friends gape

As he tells all, of his narrow escape