Poem: “Letter of Resignation”

I don’t miss you.

I don’t miss you
The way I used to.
I don’t miss you at all.

I’ll take the buses
To where I saw you
Every day, where you’ve left
Not a trace.

I’ll play the songs
You sung to me
And hear only emptiness.

I’ll search for what
I buried to find there’s
Nothing left in the ground
But corpses.

I’ll look up at the sky
And see stars that don’t burn
For anything at all.

I don’t miss you.
I can’t miss what was never there.

Running – Chapter 2

Her legs hurt. They burned like a fire that refused to go out. Her feet were weights secured to the two narrow pieces of string that were her legs. She was too afraid to look back, if she did she was sure that she would stop. Stop to look at the monstrosities coming towards her. Stare in horror as cold, dead hands reached for her and grabbed her. The thought of them gaining ground on her kept her positively terrified, so she ran. That’s all she knew how to do. That’s all she could do. The darkness threatened to overtake her, to devour her torch and leave her in darkness. The torch was fighting desperately in a battle against the dark, and it was losing. As she ran along, she shook her torch with the sheer force of moving forward, bouncing the small light ray she relied on against the sewer walls around her. The cobbled floor beneath glinted at her. She did not dare step near the edge of the narrow platform which separated her from the sewer water, she did not want to know what hell lurked there. How long had she been running for? A few minutes? An hour? It was impossible to tell. All she knew was that she was getting tired, fast. She wouldn’t be lasting much longer. Her hope faded, and she started slowing down, getting herself ready for the horrors behind her.

A light appeared. At the end of the tunnel, it was barely visible because of the distance, but it was just visible. Her eyes lit up brighter than her meagre light source and she put on an extra burst of speed, using the last of her energy for the final stretch. She panted, her chest heaved, her body begging for her to stop moving. The light grew brighter and larger as she got closer, and she caught her first glimpses of the sun…


“Damn it…” mumbled Zach. “Another wasted hour.”

A lone figure stumbled out of a small house, kicking a nearby stone as he passed by it.  The stone half rolled, half bounced along the pavement, finally stopping at a garbage bin further along the street. He swung his bloodied baseball bat over his shoulder for the umpteenth time. “Did the people here discover some new way to gain sustenance or has food just gone out of fashion…” he mumbled to himself. He ambled along the road, ignoring the dried blood all over the walls of the houses around him.

The sky was a pale, cloudless blue. The sun was unrelenting, trying it’s hardest to send more unbearable heat his way. If the infected didn’t kill him, the late Summer would. It was hot, humid and Zach was sweating more water than a running tap. He reached the stone and kicked it again, sending it skittering over the cracked tar of the road. It bounced and stopped at the edge of the pavement, startling a nearby crow. Zach watched it spasm its wings and flap its way to the top of the house next to him. It turned to eye him with a dark, spiteful glare. He chuckled and kept walking.

These days, the loud caws of nearby crows were the only traces of life that made him sure he wasn’t the last living organism on Earth. He hadn’t laid eyes on a person in a little while. A normal person anyway. He found solace in kicking stones following them, looting houses along the way. This was his new way of life, and hell did he like it. Call it what you will, but he called it adventure, albeit with the risk of a painful and horrible death. At least it was better than the life he had been living before this mess.

He reached his stone again but hesitated in kicking it. He realised he was at the bottom of a slope, and kicking the stone wouldn’t get it over the slope. The uphill road obscured any vision he had ahead of him, so he had to get over it, but he wanted to keep his stone. Rolling the mental dilemma in his head, he realised something. Using the tip of his worn out runners, Zach flicked the stone up in front of him, and swung with all his might with the bat in this hands. The stone soared over the hill, setting him running after it. He reached the top of the uphill climb and was astonished at what he saw.

The line of houses that he had been walking alongside ended abruptly at the end of the street. He had the choice of either going left or right, or straight. What troubled him was what lay ahead of him. The ground ended where he stood and dropped steeply, curving a few meters down and finally coming to rest horizontally. The slope repeated on the other side. Poking out of the slope at the other side was a large opening, looking like the cross section of a pipe. A large grate hung on its side on the pipe-like opening, sprinkled with rust and peppered with dents, as if it had been recently been driven into several times. The inside was cut off by darkness, but the occasional glint of water flashed at Zach’s eyes. He squinted his eyes and raised his hand to the sun to block off the light, managing to see a small flow of water dripping out of the pipe and into the large space before him. He saw something poking out of the water just beside the pipe, and for a moment he caught the flash of something golden…

The Matrix – Remade

Just a thing we were doing in the meeting


Jason woke up feeling suffocated, before realising he was submerged. Panic surged through him as he swam upwards to the small bit of light that he could see. His head almost broke the surface before he was painfully yanked downwards. He frantically flailed his arms and realised a series of cables trapped him, and a large metal chord seemed to have attached itself to his chest. He kicked away the cables, rapidly running out of air, at the same time trying to yank the chord off his chest. Pain surged through his body as the chord disconnected with a sickening pop that left an angry red scar. Now free, and almost out of oxygen, Jason kicked his way tot he surface. He broke the surface panting heavily, holding onto a steel beam above him. Finally able to observe his surroundings, Jason saw that he was in a glass, egg-shaped capsule filled with water, a narrow slit between the roof and the capsule.

Matrix, Truth, Reality, Identity, Morpheus and me

Reagan showed us a couple of clips from the matrix. I decided to put myself in Neo’s shoes.

Morpheus stared at me. “The red pill, or the blue pill, Alex.”
I stared at Morpheus. “Is there a purple pill?”
“A purple pill?”
“Yeah, a purple pill.” I said. “I’m allergic to red dye. Or a green one, I’m not that fussy.”
“So you want the red pill?” Morpheus asked.
“I want to not have an anaphylactic shock.” I replied.
“This world isn’t real, Alex. You won’t get an anaphylactic shock.” Morpheus asked.
“The world isn’t real, Morpheus, so why don’t I shoot myself in the head?”
“It’s not the same.” Morpheus said.
“It’s exactly the same.” I said, unimpressed.
“Take the bloody pill, Alex.” Morpheus said.
“Take the bloody gun, Morpheus.”


By Alex Joshi 10D

Get Smoking Signals

Letter to the editor I wrote last year. This was published in the ‘Comment’ section of The Age- October 12, 2015

Some background context – There was another letter sent by someone else blaming our past for glorifying smoking. This is in response to it.

I saw a woman aged no more than 30 outside South Yarra railway station blow the kindness and generosity of others on a packet of cigarettes. Television ads show graphic images of the effects of smoking, such as tar-infected lungs. Cigarette packets also add to this with gruesome images of cancer and death. Smokers are shied away from and treated as outcasts. And with the price of cigarettes higher than ever, why do our youth still take up smoking? We must stop looking at our past glorification of smoking (Letters, 9/10), a slow suicide, and develop more effective ways of discouragement and help people to quit.

Jason Li MHS 11N

Crossing the Line

Hi readers, the following is a story I wrote for an English task at my last school. Attached is a statement of intention. It’s a long read but I hope you enjoy!

My name is Aryan Muhammad and four years ago, I crossed the line.
I was born in the summer of ’00 in Dhaka, Bangladesh. I now live in Melbourne, Australia, and attend Palacent Boys College. My mother died when I was born and my dad is in Dhaka jail over alleged terrorism charges. I live with foster parents and my thirteen biological elder brothers. Times are always tough, with our financial and social status within the thriving community. Being a Muslim has exposed me to constant racism, both in and out of school.
When I first attended Palacent Boys College, I was asked to give an introduction about myself to the class. I am an honest person, and the thought of a cover story to shadow the ugly truth was not the right thing to do, so I explained to them how I came to be.
“When I was born, in Dhaka National Hospital, my mother died a few hours after giving birth to me. I was brought up for eleven years under the gifted guidance of my father, who taught me all moral responsibilities in life. I attended a small primary school, and we were a tight-knit pack who helped each other out. In 2011, my father was falsely framed for working for a terror organisation. What was worse was that the person who framed him had been a family friend of ours ever since I was born. My father was sent to a maximum-security jail for life. The police took me and my thirteen elder brothers to foster parents, people from the other side of town we’d never heard from or come across. They decided, against my siblings’ wishes, to immigrate to Australia. We rented an apartment with the help of a bank loan, and with the last pennies in our pockets, paid for education here at this school.”
The class was, quite frankly, shocked. In Bangladesh, we were always nice to each other, and empathised in each other’s problems. I quickly grew to learn that in a large place like Melbourne, this was not the case. What I had expected was some verbal gratitude, what I received was physical harassment. Within the first three hours of being at school, I had earned at least three nicknames for each class. People called me a terrorist, orphan, and all sorts of other scandalous sobriquets. No-one was appreciative of my background, they thought I was a shady nobody who would grow to be homeless. Even the teachers’ demeanour became politically incorrect towards me. They would ask me questions like, “Do you support the fact that girls are not allowed an education in Afghanistan?”
But, despite the constant struggles, I remained strong.
I remained hopeful, and mentally powerful.
Although I did not expect this sort of reaction to my past, I embraced it and took it as a notion that would be able to build my personality into something that I would be known for. Everything the school threw at me, I knew that they were wrong. I knew that being a Muslim was not an indication that I was a terrorist, but a humble, frivolous character whose values shone out in defining me.
Soon, the whole community knew about me, and the taunting and heartbreaking comments I received spread like a wildfire outside of school. When I joined the cross-country team, even my opponents from other schools would tease me before, after and even during the race. Whilst I was running, they’d push past me with intended aggression and scream out words of utter brutality. The feeling was is if I was being shot at by an archer or a gunman.
But through thick and through thin, I did not break.
I did not crumble into darkness and leave an imprinted image stating a message of cowardice and pusillanimity.
Some nights, I tried to consult my brothers on how they deal with the situation, hoping that their cultivated knowledge would be able to set me a direct path and approach to the long-term situation. They would offer their best condolences, but did not have a strong message that stood out from mere sympathy. Though I did not blame them. They too, were facing troubles at school, and there was simply not enough time to deal with the situation. My foster parents were working hard to keep us happy and healthy, and it was for that reason I decided not to pursue to subject with them, worried that they already had plenty of things to think about.
Despite always being the centre of victimisation, I was able to make one trustworthy companion. His name was Jared Samuels, a Christian boy who stood up for what I believed in. He and I would play handball during the school breaks, and talk together in class. He told me that he believed my father was innocent. I was rather intrigued by this thought and asked him why, without any materialistic evidence, he believed me so much. He said he was inspired by my introductory talk at the front of class, and praised my courage for standing up for what I thought was right, despite being put up against so many people. This made me feel joyful. But it was what he said next that made my heart leap.
“My father is a lawyer. I’ve told him about your dad. He said he is willing to help. Would you like to come over to my place this afternoon so we can talk about it?”
I was more flustered than anything else, but after a few seconds, I realised this was the perfect opportunity to solve everything. I agreed to his invitation, and before I knew it, school had finished and I was sitting at the desk of Mr Samuels.
Mr Samuels was a very smart man, both metaphorically and literally. He told me it was a huge bonus for him because he’d been looking for a big case for four and a half months. I told him it was going to be hard to free my father of a crime he didn’t commit, because a lot of authorities and officials in Bangladesh are corrupt, and do anything for money, be it right or wrong. He replied sheerly with confidence, doubtless certainty to get there in the end. I must say I was pleasantly surprised with the sudden invite of help, and also the respectful hospitality I received upon entering the Samuels’ house. Jared’s mother had been quick to offer me drinks and snacks, and also gave me her benignancy in relation to the issue.
From then on, at least three times a week I would visit the Samuels’ house, and each time Jared’s father and I would work one step closer to freeing my wrongfully convicted father. Their home became a place of hope and blissfulness, it was almost like a second dwelling to my own house. After Jared’s father and I would discuss all the legal matters, Jared would come into the room and we would spend quality time together. We would discuss the latest video games, sport news and academia for school. And each time I left their house to return to my own home, a dawn of light would reflect in my new-found smile, and the message carved into my eyes was of optimism and prosperity, knowing that someday, justice would be served. Not only would my father be set free, but the modern-world issue of racism would be solved, and people would truthfully execute their moral values.
We are all human beings. No religion, nationality or skin tone is superior or inferior to another. The innovation-inspired positivity of today’s world is overshadowed by its issues. Racism is something that can be permanently halted if all of us make the effort. No spiritual belief is incorrect. We all look upon them through different eyes, through a different perspective. No-one should have the right to disenable anything you say or do based on your race. Whatever religion you are, whatever skin complexion you have, whatever your nationality is, it is important that you are proud of it.

Statement of Intention
I chose to change the story but convey the same message of the memoir, ‘Crossing the Line’, written by Bronwyn Bancroft. The story is about a girl whose father was Aboriginal and mother was a white settler. Throughout her life, she experienced racism, and wrote about how being a ‘tweener’, meaning cross between a black person and a white person forced her into a corner of victimisation and disgrace and hatred. Contrarily to how she was approached, she adored the fact that she had Aboriginal descent, and spoke from the heart about places she loved spending time at, such as the lake, where she could swim to her heart’s content, forgetting about the harsh realities she faced in her life. The message of the text was that she was persistent and proud of her heritage, and refused to believe that she was an outcast.
What I did with this story was modernised it, keeping the previously mentioned message of the story constant, but exploring the problems of today’s world, covering topics such as being the ‘new kid’ in school to going as far as the problem of terrorism today.
The story is told from the perspective of a Bangladeshi emigrant, whose father is in prison over terror allegations and mother is dead. He is a constant bullying victim at school, and his teachers are of no help to him. But, just like in ‘Crossing the Line’, he remains mentally positive and strong, and works with his lawyer and best friend to free his father, who was falsely accused, and be the symbolic ambassador in racism.
The story does not finish on whether the emigrant’s father was eventually freed or not, this is because it distracts the reader from the main message of the story.
Overall, the message conveyed is in strong relation to identity; both Aboriginal and modernised. It is a battle that seems impossible to win, but through the practice of displaying values, is victorious from the former victim.

The Music in Me

Hi readers, I wrote this piece in 2015 and it was one of many stories in an anthology made by young writers from all around Melbourne. The prompt was ‘The Music in Me’. Hope you enjoy!

Ever since I was little, I wanted to be in a solo concert, just like a famous musical artist. I wanted the whole world to hear me, and I wanted them to love me for my music.
Now I am thirty-two years old, and have lived with the part that completes me for all my life. One could truthfully label my presence as an anachronism. The insignificance of my being is such that I fear I have become an old and cynical wreck. Despite this, I have a sliver of hope that one day, my musical talent will be revealed to the world. They will hear the notes I emit and be overcome with emotion and glorification.
But time is running out.
Cedric Ellis was what society would label a typical teenager with big dreams. He was unemployed, but hoped to make a lot of money and support his family. What one would notice about Cedric, however, was his devotion to playing the flute. Every night, after he studied, whilst most kids would be watching sitcoms on television, Cedric would be alone in his bedroom, and for two hours, make the merriest tunes. He had so much skill and talent, and hoped to play in a concert one day.
But that was all ten years ago. Now Cedric lives alone, unemployed, and a drunk. He can’t afford the rent for his apartment, and will be kicked out soon. Surviving on booze, he has just the faintest shred of sanity left in him. His flute is packed away in a corner of his room, untouched for years. Sometimes when he is sober, he imagines his childhood dream coming to life. He imagines a phone call saying he’s been invited to perform. But that never really happens. He still has some hope.
But time is running out.
I hear him. He is yawning and getting out of his chair. Hopefully it is for a good reason. The room stinks of stale alcohol. The unclean floor embraces broken bottles, proving its durability undoubtedly. I hear his breath as he continues to approach me. I watch every movement, listen to every sound.
I picture a stage in the middle of the city. I see queues of people who want to see me in action. I hear ticket sellers making cries of order and stability. There is much noise, the sound of hundreds of thousands of people verbally previewing with their companions what they are about to witness.

Suddenly, I am brought back into reality by the sound of his vacuum cleaner. And the broken bottles all feel the wrath of the Hoover, disappearing in one swift action. And then I feel a feeling I have not felt in so many years.
I am levitated.
There is still hope.
Cedric Ellis has had it with his life. He is bored, and feels absolutely purposeless. He decides he wants to recreate his life, and he wants to lead a better one, one not overtaken by booze. He starts off very basically, cleaning the apartment and tidying the mess up. He looks at his flute; the item he practically dedicated his life to when he was a small child. Cedric slowly picks it up, marvelling its unique composition.
And slowly, with much care, he puts it to his mouth and plays. The sound that proceeds cannot be verbally described. You would have to hear it to comprehend its legitimacy. While Cedric played, a flood of memories rushed into his brain, theming his powerful love and devotion to making music.
Then he vividly imagines himself on stage to hundreds of thousands, a stage filled with just him and his flute, and he plays. He plays just as he did a moment ago, only this time to the tremendously sizeable crowd. They are enchanted by his talent.
He is brought back into reality by the swoosh of the Hoover. He is brought back into the reality of his sad, lonely, meaningless life. Then he realises;
There is still hope.
Everything looks clean. Everything looks organised. Are we expecting someone? Surely not. The stink of stale alcohol is no longer present in this tidy apartment. No-one could enter and guess that the tenant was a sullen drunk.
Now he has me physically engrossed by a case, and I feel and hear him confidently striding out of the apartment, holding me ever so close. What has happened? Have we been kicked out for not paying the bills? He thinks that the owners are kind enough to let us stay. I feel a surge of panic overwhelm me. My emotions are continual and various. I don’t know what to think. I don’t know what to do.
I feel the case unzipping and I am temporarily blinded by the sunlight. I see a crowd. We are out on the street. Many people have gathered.
And for the second time in a decade, he releases the music in me.
Cedric Ellis walks out onto the street. He unzips the flute case. There are lots of people watching his every move.
He realises that wanting to play on a stage is wanting fame and recognition. He realises that playing in front of hundreds of thousands has the same effect as playing in front of just a couple of score. The feeling he hopes to derive, a feeling of happiness, can be achieved in what he is about to do, and doesn’t require the misleading bells and whistles of popularity.
But what about making a mistake? What if he plays the wrong notes? Cedric has to trust himself. Only he can make this work and only he can make this fail.
For the second time in a decade, the flute is called to action.
And for the second time in a decade, the flute releases the music in Cedric Ellis.

My Writing Piece

Hey readers, I am Darsh and the following is a story I penned together that was the winning entry of a writing competition at my last school. Hope you enjoy!

P.S.: If anyone could come up with a good title for this, I would really appreciate it.

Ever since I made the decision to label myself as a victim of depression, the consequences have followed. As I tragically hung up my working boots at the ripe old age of twenty-four, I spent days sitting at a table, brooding over life. I was a self-declared cynical wreck, purposeless in the circle of life.
It was on a routine day when I was seated, muttering obscenities to myself when the phone rang all the way on the other side of the house. Curiosity combined with well-built legs forced me to answer the call. It was from mother, who was having a stupendous time with father on a cruise in Fiji. I was rather shocked, as I thought my parents would make absolutely no effort to communicate with me for the rest of my platitudinous life.
“Hello”, I sputtered, hoping a climax would take place. “Russell. I’ve got some very disappointing news for you.” Sounded like a glimpse of excitement in my life. “Your father was found dead this morning in the hotel.” Never mind that. I had never been particularly close with my parents. My family was not the sort who would really care if a relative broke their skull, death was just a tinge further. Unsure how to react, I hung up. If my father had been ‘found dead’, then there would be an investigation.
I had been sitting at that same dining table on the same chair, watching the same things happen every day. Maybe this was an opportunity for adventure. Thinking this instigated a string of emotions around my head.
But I couldn’t even walk out of the house without activating hundreds of pain sensors inside me. The thought of my parents being near me was startling, let alone with my intentions to get closer. But then again, what if I braved those obstacles? What if I battled through the constant limitations of depression and proved that I was good at something other than drinking five beers a day?
Unable to compose myself, I sighed, exposing my discombobulation to all the other inanimate objects.
Rational and irrational thoughts crossed my mind and filled me with uncertainty and grief as I rose. I grimaced when I heard the phone ring for the second time in two days, yet again, all the way on the other side of the house. Despite recent contemplation over the latest death in my family, I made a rather venturesome decision not to answer the call. Instead, I elected to hear the voicemail, for I didn’t want to have to speak with her, for it would be like riding a bike controlled by the Devil.
“Hello, Russell,” I could hear muffled sobs amidst the verbalisations on the other side of the phone. “It’s confirmed that your father received multiple stab wounds. I think it would be best if you came here- we don’t have enough money to return to England and conduct a funeral. I have sent you a package with the money. Please come as soon as possible.” Father had been stabbed?
The one crucial fact that sunk into my sensitive brain when I realised it was that regardless of whether I wanted to or not, I would have to go. For although I was not deeply connected with my parents, there was still an underlying respect I held for them, as a patriot feels for his country.
Well, Fiji, here I come.

I arrived in Fiji a week later. Getting this far was not a simple task. My fragile mind had been an obstacle that almost prevented me from making the journey. I had somehow managed to stir up the courage and propel myself to this new land, this land that my father had been killed in.
When I arrived at the hotel, I was careful to choose my footsteps wisely, as I had already been given a few taut looks by the ‘foreigners’.
I saw mother crying and talking to one of the hotel managers. Then another man appeared at the scene and ushered her away for a private consultation. I supposed it was all part of the traditional ritual carried out by the local authorities, but I was disproved in a matter of seconds she approached me.
Her eyes were swollen from sleepless nights of futile desperation, and her slumped gait debilitated me.
“Rrrussell, did you see that man I was talking to?” she stammered. “He told me the hotel manager killed Derek.”
“Why?” I inquired.
“Taito, the hotel manager, is responsible because he was in charge of the security cameras. Jurna, the man I was speaking to said that Derek and Taito were arguing about the hotel bills before a brawl occurred. It’s alleged that Taito threw a punch at father, before security interjected. Obviously, he made his decisive move at the best time, in the middle of the night when he was sleeping. I can’t believe I fell for the temptation to sneak out for another glass of wine. I’m so sorry Russell. It’s the worst thing I could have done and yet I did it.” That’s a blow to the heart.
“No”, I replied, “it’s okay. You are not to blame for this. We can inform the police and see Taito behind bars.” Mother only offered a half-contented smile and walked away.
As I clandestinely approached Taito, a plan formed in my mind. You read that correctly. I made the plan as I walked to him, not beforehand. Grabbing a rock, from a safe distance, I hurled it at Taito. It struck him on the thigh, and he fell, but only for a few minutes, I guessed. I then strode up to Jurna, ferocity in my eyes. I wanted answers, and I was going to get them.
Jurna appeared a curt man of small stature, and his face became uneasy due to my intimidating posture. “How do you know Taito killed Derek? Who are you? Why does mother trust you?” I blurted these questions, spitting venom.
I didn’t care about depression anymore. It was over. I was living in a bubble of tragic grief and mortification, and that bubble had now snapped. Not popped, snapped. I had snapped. My tolerance with life had SNAPPED.
These thoughts overwhelmed me as I demanded the truth from Jurna. I wanted a response. And I got one.
The cold barrel of a pistol pressed against my neck, making the hairs on my head stand up. It wasn’t the gun that surprised me, it was its wielder.


“I’m terribly sorry for all of this. I had to do it. He was crazy. He was obsessed with money. I needed to get rid of him.” Her voice was changed from a calm and soothing one to the repulsive tone of a cruel woman who had committed murder.
“Why?” my own voice was mixed, as I failed in playing the calm, unwavering hero.
“Father earnt a million pounds in a lottery via work. He told me, and I already had Jurna. So I planned this holiday cruise to set him up. Now we can take his money and live together in a mansion somewhere pretty. You and your fickle mental sickness forced me to end you.”
Boom. Another blow to the heart. Jurna was having an affair? With my mum?
I must stay calm, I told myself.
Before I could, though, I heard a gunshot.
I woke to the smell of the salty beach, and the sound of gentle waves swooshing against the tanned shore.
“Russell, it’s me, Taito. Are you okay? Don’t worry about your mother. She’s dead. She chose to crack her head against the over jail time. Russell, I know she was your mother, but she was a threat to everyone. Don’t worry.” Not the most appealing thing to hear when you’ve been shot at, but never mind that. Wait, shot at? Why can’t I feel any wound? I took the regretful turn to my right, seeing the last of mother’s body. A bloody head covered her once-sweet smile, and eyes of perpetual wisdom came to a permanent halt as the truth dawned upon me. Taito had saved me with the gunshot I had heard, for it was from his gun the bullet was fired. And whilst my life had been saved, I had lost my familiarity with it. What has become of me?
It was with Taito’s pat of determination and strength that I aroused from a period of negative contemplation and despondency as I realised that I was yet to reach my potential. Fate had taken a loved one away from me to show me that I was capable of so, so much more, but I had learnt my lesson. Fighting this battle wasn’t easy, but it showed me that I had to start again. Understanding and contemplating over morals and values had allowed me to reveal to my true self to me and others around me.

I was a changed man.
I was a new man.


Quick, someone approaches. Hide it. Conceal it.
That was close, remember why you’re doing this, remember what he did to your father. The screams and the splatter, oozing redwater over the chalk white floors. Never forget. Never forgive. His empire built on suffering souls, screams drowned out in the quest for progress. But you don’t forget, you never forget. Every time your vision fills with his coal powered dragons, roaring through the streets, blowing their grey flames over the lost and the helpless, the hate resurfaces. Murderer. Murderer!

No more.

His day has come, no longer will he live in the hall of heroes, like a wolf among sheep. No longer will the demons of hate starve in their hellholes, the hand of fate points its writhing finger. Judgement day has come for Aloyious White.

The decadent slug oozes from its foul den. Ready your weapon, the thieve’s-silver barrel weighing down on your fingers. Weighing down like the scales of judgement tipped against this murderer and his empire built on suffering. Never forget.

One clean shot through the head. No. Death would be the mercy of a mother’s love. Make him suffer. Suffer like the enslaved, the poor, the poisoned, those poisoned by sin, those men who have no home but hell. Men like Aloyious White. Men who act as if they had the slightest chance to earn God’s favour, but prey on the weak like a catcher in the night, its beady eyes stalking, its intense fixation on the hunt.

But no.

Even a wolf belongs in a pack, a place of acceptance. Even you, once had a father, a sense of belonging. But it was taken. So take it back now. That’s it… feel the trigger in your fingers, like your father’s touch.


Thud. Such is the frailty of life, a billionaire gone, a company fallen like the Kingdom of Babylon or the Empire of Rome. Never forget, that when the fog clears, even a blind man can see the truth.

Well… fancy meeting you here. You’ve gotten yourself into a ripe mess. My fault? No. All this falling apart is on you.


Perhaps your delusion has clouded your thoughts so badly that even simple truths fail to be perceived. Not unlike your father, whose only source of comfort was the bottle and the bongs. Even when Aloyious offered to pay for his rehabilitation did he not relent. Perhaps the sight of seeing him passed out lifeless in a puddle of his own heroin-laced vomit shut down your ability to rationalise. Never forget that like a coin, there are two sides to every story.

Aloyious was a good man, not unlike the saints of old. The values of honesty and charity carried him through his life, his noble deeds bringing hope to an otherwise bleak world. Now he has gone to the true hall of heroes, a hallowed place not even the highest of demons could reach. Let their hatred starve, there is a reason they prowl in their sootblack pits.

Were you so blind to the fireflies illuminating the cold emptiness in the absence of the sun? Or the lime pioneers rising majestically from the devastation of an arsonist’s red hot passion. Hope exists where all seems dark and Aloyious was that hope for the masses of powerless. In a world ruled by capitalism, who dares to stand for equality? Who risks their status, family and reputation for the crowds of the faceless? Who in their right mind chooses them over me? What motivated this man to be different? We may never know.
Spring follows every winter, like the youngmen follow the pungent aroma of pastry. Time is the mistress of all and in a few lonely moments all that will be left of a great man are his ashes, finally floating free in the world he so longed to better. Except, he has left something lasting-his legacy. The legacy of a single rose in a field of weeds. Never forget. What will your legacy be? Murdering a righteous man and wasting away in a padded cell? Today the world mourns the passing of a hero, tonight they sleep knowing he has gone off to a better place.

Bernard Tso 9L