Smacking is distinct from child abuse

Article response
By Eeshan Jhingran

The issue of smacking a child is highly disputed amongst the general public. The debate on whether it is child abuse or not is a frequent topic over social media, and Q&As. One side argues that smacking a child harms their physical and mental growth. They argue that it should never be done and it is a human right abuse. However, the other side points out that parents know the difference between abuse and a simple smack. The pro-smacking side “bemoaned a lack of discipline,” they also said that it is like a circuit breaker that stops out-of-control behaviour. Both of these sides were shown in the opinion piece “Smacking is distinct from child abuse” by Cheryl Critchley, Herald Sun October 16th, 2009. Critchley’s contention dictates that parents who smack their children aren’t child abusers; they must enforce discipline, though Critchely herself doesn’t smack her children. Critchley does admit that it (smacking your child) is socially accepted. Throughout the article, she examines both views, but mostly the pro-smacking view, with many persuasive literary techniques such as expert opinion, anecdotal evidence, inclusive language, tone, repletion, loaded language and emotional language.
Critchley has used tone to show that it is ok to smack and positions her reader to be with her. Her arguments that incorporated tone included, ‘There is a hell of a difference between a tap on the bum with a hand or a wooden spoon and abuse.’ This has an emotional tone that forces the reader to realise ‘yes, there is a difference between abuse and smacking.’ She also used tone to level with a parent ‘sometimes it seems like the only way to get through to them.’ The tone in the second one had a hint of exasperation which all parents suffer when their child is being uncontrollable devil. This tone is very persuasive and makes readers who are anti-smackers open up to the other side of the argument. The other has cleverly used this technique to reinforce her contention.
The author has also used the opinion of the general public to show whether or not smacking a child is a suitable punishment that isn’t child abuse. Use of a famous TV presenter such as David Koch “He says it is wrong to do when emotional, but an out-of-control child might need a tap.” Koch is a very influential man and his statements, which support the contention of Critchley, would turn most heads of the general public in support of smacking. He also states that “smacking is very different to being abusive.” Apart from using the opinion of an influential person, Cheryl also stated “rightly or wrongly, more than 90% of Herald Sun readers yesterday agreed [that smacking is distinct from child abuse]. This statistic emphasizes the contention and further positions the reader to her side.
Cheryl has used inclusive language to say that the reader is a part of the issue. For instance, the writer said “If WE do smack, some accuse US of child abuse and being unable to control OUR kids.” And “if WE don’t, other see US as soft touches who let OUR kids rule the roost.” As one can see, Ms Critchley has continually used inclusive language to make her reader feel like they a part of the argument, basically her argument. The inclusive language was mostly used in the introduction and less later on, it was to hype the reader and make them feel like they are an integral part of the article. The rest of the article was used as examples and evidence to support her contention, but by this part, the reader is well and truly supporting her.
In conclusion, Ms Critchley has used informal language along with number of other techniques to persuade the reader and position them towards her contention and side of the argument. She has displayed both sides of the debate to make it seem fairer though she clamped down and barely showed much of the opposing side. Her use of anecdotes, tone, expert opinion inclusive, loaded and emotional language correctly positioned the reader in favour of her opinion.

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Angel’s cafe

By Eeshan Jhingran

Two men conversed softly over a coffee and muffins in “Angel’s Cafe.” The store was new, situated on Burke Street; ever since it’s inauguration it had been popular. People all over from Melbourne came here to drink; it was aimed for business people equipped with free Wi-Fi and printer; although the two men who were engaged in conversation in the small corner booth weren’t business men. They were friends, but one of them meant serious business. “So Tom, I’d better get going or else we won’t make it to work on time.” “Yeah, I haven’t seen you for a while, it’ll be nice to catch up with the rest tomorrow.” replied Tom whilst shaking the other man’s hand. Tom felt a slight prick but shrugged it off. As the men left the cafe, a little boy looked across the road and saw his father leaving with an old friend. The boy tugged his mother’s coat and told her to look and say ‘hi’ to dad and his friend, but by the time she turned around, the two men were already disappearing quickly walking down the steps to Parliament station. A few hours later, the little boy wrote into his journal all the events that had occurred that day including the incident of witnessing his father and who he had seen his father with that morning.
* * *
The next day, Tom walked out of his house at 11am for the last time. He took a train to Flinders Street station and from there, he took the 96 tram to Albert Park. He was happy; he was going there to meet his old friends, though he had met one at a cafe yesterday. A man in a black suit and a green cashmere scarf which covered a large part of his face eyed Tom coldly; a tear ran down his cheek and dripped off his chin onto the trams’ floor. As the tram came to a halt, both he and Tom tapped off with their Mykis. The man produced a small bottle from his suit breast pocket and unscrewed the lid. He bumped into Tom and a small amount of liquid splashed onto Tom’s left thumb, ‘sorry’ he mumbled; Tom made a quizzical look, the voice of the man sounded familiar, but it couldn’t be, he didn’t know who this was.
As both he and Tom put their Mykis back into their wallets, the man rushed forward and grabbed Tom’s wallet. He sped off, it took Tom a minute to realise that his wallet had just been snatched, but he recovered and ran after the snatcher. The snatcher jumped a fence and ran past Bob Jane stadium and into Albert Park. He was in a thick suit, not made for running, however, Tom was dressed casually and he had nothing holding him back from catching up. The snatcher quickly turned into a place where the pathways split into three and he then hid behind a tree. Tom caught up and stopped at the diverging paths. He took a deep breath and tried to guess which path the snatcher took. The snatcher seemed to be athletic, he had ran for at least three kilometres straight and Tom was out of breath. As he thought, he raised his left hand and rested the tip of his thumb on his lips. This was a tic of his, whenever he thought he did this. The thief in the suit watched from behind a tree, he was sweaty and tired from running too; but when he saw Tom raise his thumb, he smiled to himself. In a matter of seconds, Tom fell down onto the dirt footpath.
No-one was around, the man walked up to Tom like a concerned witness; he lifted Tom and pretended to help him by dragging his body towards the toilet block. However, it was pointless; Tom was nothing but a cadaver. The man produced a gun from his pocket and shot the dead man in the forehead. The man positioned the carcass upright, leaning on the wall. Then, he put the gun in Tom’s right hand and curled his motionless warm fingers around the grip and trigger. He left Tom’s motionless body on the floor of the men’s toilets, sitting against a wall in a pool of blood. The man took off his suit as he was wearing jeans and a t-shirt underneath. He threw the suit in a garbage bag and walked out of the toilet block smiling. He dumped the rubbish bag in a garbage bin on the roadside. Then he walked back into the park.
* * *
Three friends were waiting for an old friend named Tom; they had not seen their good friend for a few years and today was supposed to be their reunion. They were meant to meet at the shed near the lake at 12pm sadly they couldn’t find him. After hours of waiting, one of the friends, Oliver needed to go to the bathroom. Two minutes later, he came rushing back to his friends who were lazing around on a bench. “Tony! Jack! Call the police! I have found Tom!” The two were surprised and followed Oliver back to the Male toilet block. Leaning against the wall was a dead Tom, gun in his hand, bullet wound on his forehead and a pool of crimson blood bathing the dead man.
Police were quick to arrive at the scene. They were soon taking statements and had closed a portion of Albert Park. A well known police inspector Jameson and his partner detective Franky were examining the body and taking photos of the dead man. Grief-stricken Oliver, James and Tony were crying. “Sir, I think there has been some foul-play. This looks like a suicide but there are a few points that say otherwise.” exclaimed Franky.
“I believe your right Franky, but what are your reasons?” replied Inspector Jameson.
“Well sir, firstly this man has a gun in his hand and a bullet wound that matches where he would’ve shot, however, if he had put the gun to his head, then, there should be a burn mark on his forehead.” Franky reasoned. “Also, the examiners found traces of potassium-cyanide on his left thumb and lips. But, this isn’t it, the blood splattered on the floor are very small droplets, only 5cm wide. But, the other ones are 10-15cm wide. This indicates that when the man had been shot first, he had fallen onto the floor, but he was later sat upright and the droplets indicate this as they are wider in some areas. The greater the height from ground that a blood droplet falls, the wider it is. And these droplets have no consistency. Finally, he has no gun powder residue on him. If he had shot himself, there should be gun powder residue on his right hand and arm. So, it is safe to assume that this body has been either tampered with, or he was murdered.”
“Well done Franky, your skills are catching up to mine. But, have you thought ahead. If he was murdered, then who would the suspects be? According to the rigor mortis, he’s been dead for 6 hours, its 2pm now; he must have died at 8 am. We’ve sent officers to his house, I found an ID in his wallet, his name is Tom Curtis, age 34, business owner of a new cafe franchise called ‘Angel’s Cafe’, he has a wife and a 8 year old son. I don’t know why he was killed but I’ll find out for sure.” said Jameson.
“Ok sir, I haven’t thought of the suspects yet, but should we check the people who found him?” questioned Franky.
“Yes, that’d be wise.” sighed Jameson as he walked out of the toilet block.
The two police officers walked towards the saddened friends of Tom, they were still sitting on the bench. “Hello boys, I’m sorry about the unfortunate events, but, I’ll need to question you.

* * *
“We aren’t any close to finding the killer, even after questioning the man’s friends. They don’t seem to know if Tom had any enemies, probably because they haven’t met him for years.” said Jameson.
“But sir, didn’t you get an odd feeling from them. I’m not sure which one in particular, but I have a feeling that one of them could be the killer.” said Franky.
“No Franky, they were all at home at the estimated time of death. Tony was at his apartment in Ivanhoe at 8am, and Oliver and Jack were eating breakfast at a McDonalds in Blackburn, none of them could’ve killed Tom. However, Tony didn’t have a witness, but when Officer Hughes looked through the security footage of the apartment, it shows that Tony was still there at 8.” replied Jameson.
Jameson’s phone was ringing; he picked it up and listened. His jaw dropped. His officers had gone to Curtis’ home in Kew and they found out that Tom had only left the house at 11am. This meant that the rigor mortis was wrong. But, this wasn’t possible, rigor mortis was always correct. Jameson rushed out of the police station office and to the crime lab, Franky followed. Jameson took out the photos of the body; he looked at the pool of blood and grinned. “What sir? Have you figured out who the murderer is?” asked Franky. “Yes, I think so, but first, we’ll have to visit Tom’s home so that I can be absolutely sure.” replied Jameson.
* * *
Once again Tom’s family and his friends were gathered at the police station, Jameson began his deduction. “Tom Curtis, age 34. He was murdered quickly and painlessly, this was because the murderer was his friend! Isn’t that right Tony?” said Jameson. Tony was stunned; he was being stared down by the teary friends of the victim. He shook his head and said “What! That’s absurd, why would I kill Tom? He was one of my best friends? How dare you even suggest that! Do you have any proof?” Tony yelled back. Jameson laughed, “If I didn’t, I wouldn’t have called you here;” he said calmly, “Tom had gone out to see someone yesterday. This person was the murderer, I don’t know the exact reason why he was killed, but I can tell who did it and how. Yesterday, Tom had seen his old friend for the first time in years. He had talked to his friend at ‘Angel’s Cafe’ he had probably said to them what time he would leave the house tomorrow (meaning today). Then, when Tom left the house at 11am, this person had followed him on a train, in a disguise of course, this disguise was a scarf and a suit, and we found this in a garbage bag 500m from the toilet block. Then, he would’ve applied potassium-cyanide to Tom’s thumb, by bumping into him. After this, the murderer will have stolen something of Tom’s, forcing him to chase after him. Then, the man would have hidden behind something, and it appears that Tom had a tic to put his left thumb to his mouth. Is this right?” Tom’s wife and friends nodded in agreement. “Tom would have died after this because of the cyanide and then, the murder took him to the toilet block where he set it up to look like a suicide. The intense physical activity threw-off our way to check rigor-mortis. If someone does intense physical activity before death, then it will make the time of death to seem like a few hours before it actually happened. So, Tony knew this and he put it to his advantage and set up his alibi. Any objections Mr Murderer Tony?” said Jameson triumphantly.
“Yes, how can you just guess that I was the one Tom met?” said Tony spitefully. Jameson produced a small book out of his coat. Tony’s sons’ eyes widened, “that’s my diary!” he said. Jameson nodded and flipped to the page dated with yesterdays date. He read out a line, “Today, I saw Mr Tony and Dad leaving dad’s cafe.”
Tony sunk, he had been found out, he confessed to his crimes and said that he murdered Tom because Tom had stolen his idea for opening up a cafe on Burke Street. Tony was cuffed and spat on by Tom’s family and Oliver and Jack. He cried his eyes out as he was lead into a jail cell.

By Eeshan Jhingran |

Thief

By Eeshan Jhingran

After snatching the handbag from the tourist he dashed off swiftly. Pursued by the victim and witnesses alike, he panicked and climbed the flimsy drain pipe of a tall old building. Unfortunately, the drainpipe was rusted and barely stuck to the building; the added weight caused it to rip off the weakened walls. He was going to fall into the hands of law enforcement officials.
Raizel had always hated the law, although this notorious thief had never been caught by the police due to insufficient evidence. Raizel was a well-known criminal in this region and a warrant had already been issued. He was an active member of a non-violent crime ring who never harmed any civilians except robbing tourists. His boss was a gentle person who wouldn’t hurt a fly but his employees had been looting people for decades and stealthily escaping without a trace.
An angry mob of people stood below watching the drainpipe rip out of the wall knowing that at last, they had caught the elusive thief. Dust flew out of the wall as an old peeling cream paint showed the bricks underneath. The pipe was falling bit by bit, but Raizel dropped his pillage tearfully and jumped off to a balcony on the neighbouring edifice. The crowd let out a big sigh of disappointment. They had lost him as usual. Raizel jumped promptly to reach the door handle and walked into the small hotel room. Luckily for him, it was empty. He made his way through the foreigners’ cluttered room. He might had lost his previous loot but he wouldn’t miss this golden opportunity. Raizel combed through the attachés and suitcases, taking out anything that appeared valuable. After grabbing whatever he could possibly takes making an easy get-away, Raizel scurried to the rooftop of the motel. Roughly two kilometres away was his hideout which was a flashy mansion on the outskirts of the city. It was located right next to the rainforest and and appeared like a holiday home. If there was ever a police raid, the boss would open a secret tunnel and hide all his workers amongst the forest foliage. The big witty boss loved all the gang members like his own children. He found Raizel as a baby and cared for him, provided a criminal education together with food and shelter. Now, it was his turn to pay him back by following boss’s order. Raizel rushed to the mansion.
* * *
The boss welcomed Raizel cheerfully as he walked in with his loot. “Raizel”, Thank God your ok, I heard on the police scanner that they caught a thief! I was worried because you were the only one working this shift.” Raizel bowed and the boss stroked his fur. “Raizel, you’re not just a monkey. All of my workers are top professionals. But, you’re the best. Don’t ever get caught.”
The reason why no-one ever caught the bosses’ syndicate was very obvious and clear because they were all highly skilled professionals.

MACBETH CREATIVE RESPONSE – THE LAST HOUR: BOSTON BOMBING

Dzhokhar Ameniv lay bleeding to death, hiding under the canvas cover of a boat on a trailer in a suburban Boston driveway. The brother he had looked up to was dead, and he had shot himself in the neck in a frenzy of fear and guilt. He missed. Now he lay there, getting weaker by the minute.

He had experienced excitement so intense that his mouth went dry and his body tremored. He had planted bombs, escaped police, survived a shootout, a real shootout – like in the movies. He had killed. He was a solider of Islam engaged in holy war, about to become a martyr.

He had cried when his brother died under the wheels of his stolen SUV. He had cried great sobs of grief from the depths of his soul. He was lost, afraid, and never more alone.

The whole neighbourhood was eerily quiet due to the lockdown for the manhunt. The Great Satan the United States was sparing no expense in coming for him. The people had bolted themselves in their houses. The streets were deserted. There was no place to escape. He was public enemy number one. If he could hear a news bulletin, he would be on it. But this time he was the news. This was not an action scene on television. This was real life, where bullets were deafening and violently tore through the air threatening death. His own bullets had crashed into human flesh of policemen and left them bleeding. His brother’s body was mangled on the roadside. It did not look beautiful like in a heroic painting.

He had thought he was ready to die. They had enough bombs made to drive south and bomb Times Square as well. But they had not made it there. As he lay bleeding, he found that he wanted to live.

The bombs, the massacre, the murder of the police officer – the mere thought of the deeds that he had done made his body uncontrollably tremor with guilt and fear. His guilty conscious plagued him and made his body viciously quiver right down to his bare limbs.

As he lay bleeding profusely, he began to recollect and re-puzzle the blurry and disjointed events that had occurred earlier that day. It was a gloomy, overcast day when he and his brother, Tamerlan, were walking along the footpath beside the prestigious Boston Marathon. With lethal explosives concealed in a grey-livid coloured bag that he was grasping firmly, they trudged purposefully and stopped as they arrived at the last checkpoint before the finish line. They had walked nonchalantly in single file formation. The area that he had decided to execute the plot was exactly how he had envisaged it to be. They discreetly planted two charged explosives behind the array of national flags. “This is payback”, Dzhokhar murmured, as he and his brother walked away.

The un-ending gushing of blood continued to proliferate from his neck. He began to recall the frantic aftermath. A deafening explosion followed quickly by one other – a surge of uncontrollable excitement rippled through his body as he realized that he had finally became a solider of Islam who had sparked the beginning of a jihad. He had become the initiator of a holy war with the Great Satan the United States of America.

The two brothers easily distinguished from the crowd. While people were aimlessly running to a safe location, they were strolling indifferently away from the scene. Out of the corner of his eye, he felt a pair of eyes fixed upon him. His eyes averted to this source of unease and saw a policeman approaching him. As he was about to signal to his brother for them to run away, the policeman approached nearer and Dzhokhar recognized who he was immediately. It was Officer Sean Smith, Dzhokhar’s best and only friend in high school. Dzhokhar admired him greatly. He was the only person who understood Dzhokhar’s sentiments and feelings towards how this country has unjustly treated him. Sean was the only person who understood him.

“Dzhokhar! Tamerlan! What are you guys doing here strolling, hurry back home quickly!” Sean exclaimed. As he was hurrying past to help other people in the area, he noticed a round, steel object layered in tangled wires perched inside Dzhokhar’s bag out of the corner of his eye. It was the spare bomb that they had not yet implanted. Sean’s eyes widened and his mouth gaped in shock and disbelief. He took a few slow paces backwards, turned around, and bolted off shouting hoarsely in his radio device. Just as the officer was about to disclose the brother’s identities, a sharp, deafening crack followed by a bullet came whizzing past and pierced into the back of Sean’s head. Dzhokhar slipped the Desert Eagle pistol back into his pocket and walked away with Tamerlan closely behind.

Dzhokhar shook out of his thoughts and regained consciousness in the real world. The real world; where he sat hiding under the canvas of a boat on a trailer in a suburban Boston driveway. He looked down. His shirt was saturated with blood. He wanted to live. He wanted to erase everything that he had done that had caused everybody in Massachusetts to be in hot pursuit for him. He lay there in an uncontrollable tremor. He was afraid. Very afraid. He was afraid of being detained by police. He would have done anything to have not been taken in to the filthy hands of American authorities. He wanted to be assured that he could live the remainder of his life calmly, although he knew there was no chance of that happening as he was currently the most sought after man in the United States.

Suddenly, he saw ghosts of limbless and headless men and women in front of him. Dzhokhar howled in horrid fear at the dire sight. He saw dreadful visions of headless men and women with their legs blown off. As visions of dead or critically injured victims limped closer towards him, he would scream louder. He was in a deep hallucination. Unanticipatedly, the figures of his terrifying visions multiplied threefold and as a result an army of limbless and headless ghosts were pacing towards him in the boat. These visions were a source of anguish, guilt, regret and torture for him. He screamed even louder. He screamed louder every time the ghosts took one step closer towards him. He screamed louder in absolute fear and guilt every time he contemplated being found and caught by the American police. He screamed louder every time he thought about the lives of the innocent people he had destroyed. He screamed because he was afraid and screamed as if nobody in the world could hear him.

He was wrong. Powerful beams of torchlight shined upon the boat. His hallucinations abruptly ceased but realized that he was surrounded. He tried to summon his last bit of strength to attempt to make an escape; however the damage he had inflicted on his neck completely inhibited his movement. The canvas was lifted and a configuration of officers with their guns poised was standing outside. He was cornered, caught and completely surrounded by vengeful officers.

“You.” said one of the policemen, “You’re coming with us.”

Forget-Me-Not’s

Forget-me-nots for Forgetful Pops,

Forgotten himself forgets time each day.

Forgets the forgiving fires,

Wiping them away,

The fingers of the faded,

Flashbulb photographed,

Forgotten, fallen, families.

The final sound, gunfire,

The flare, 

Tumbling, falling, finally, with finality.

Fogged eyes.

Fossils now, fermenting. 

Finished.

Forget me not, ‘forgetful’ Pops

For I am the man you killed. 

 

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Introduction – Alexander Smith

Let me tell you a little bit about Alexander Smith. From the beginning to the end of his life, Alexander had nothing but groans. His parents groaned, his school teachers groaned and he groaned. But enough of him. His life was depressing and it’s making me depressed.

Instead, let me tell you a little bit about Rachel McJohnson. She is a nice girl, with a cute face and dazzling dimples. She was my first crush before she started dating that jerk, Andy Philstein. I bumped into her the other day and spilled my drink all over her. It wasn’t very nice and her boyfriend came over to tell me the next day. I still have the scars.

Allow me to introduce Andy Philstein, the jerk that I just mentioned. He’s generally on the short side with an ugly face to boot. He’s got a complex or something and really worked out. Now he has a general appearance of a gangster or a thug. I don’t really know him that well so I don’t have much to say. The last time I’ve heard of him was that he joined the army and disappeared a few months ago. Oh well.

Now, let me talk a bit about myself. I have short cropped hair, from a recent failed hair experiment, am fairly tall and possess a somewhat slim figure – or so I’ve heard. I tend to like girls and wouldn’t mind hanging around them and the girls don’t mind me too much. The other day, I was taking a walk in the park when a girl I knew ran into me. She must have been running really fast for the next thing I knew bam! she was sprawling on her back and so was I. I got up and asked if she was alright but she didn’t respond. I waited a few minutes but she refused to get up. So I left her and as far as I know, she is still lying on her back, white earphones plugged in and still listening to the same tune which echo and whisper secrets forever and forever into her ears till the end of time

– jygp, 2013