Secondary scene: St Peter's College

Growing artfully

Year 13


Baby Art

Non-existent we remain but a thought in time,

Until we become the love of two people who intertwine;

Artists who are in search of a muse,

Splattering colours mixing all the hues.

Who am I? Just a lump surrounded by darkness.

What am I? Unfulfilled potential, an empty canvas;

I bend and mould to your will,

Involuntarily sculpted. Why? For your thrill?

Crushed into your mould like a vice,

Everything predestined for me, I’m a device,

Clay, spinning me between your grasp, changing and mutating.

Clay, for displaying simply made for plating.

Am I destined only to be what you envisioned,

A trophy mounted on your wall, cleaned and positioned?

Child Art

My mind once dim, now day by day springing with new shades,

Reds, greens, blues, passion, envy, sadness, none of which fades.

You were the first to show me this expanded palette,

Telling me not to fear its intensity, that skill is a talent.

You said colours are supposed to mix and collide,

Into feelings I can’t even describe.

My face burns with painful red freckles,

Yet my heart screams to release watery blue speckles.

I’m no artist; I don’t know what is complementary,

So, I mix and make confusion and frustration, like it’s Elementary.

I resent you for not helping me understand art,

Though I resent myself more for not having the heart.

I don’t have your eye that you promised to give me,

I don’t have your touch that you give others freely.

Teen Art

Dim, dull and dreary, the sky seems to exhibit only melancholy hues,

As if in a black and white movie the world has lost its colours, only blues.

My eyes a swamp perpetually shrouded in mist,

Why doesn’t it clear, why can’t I simply just exist?

Why have I become blind to the beauty of the world?

I no longer smell potential, only desperation and sorrow all whirled,

Hysterically, I thrash paint on to my canvas, yet why am I still so plain?

Every frustrating attempt at creating a masterpiece is driving me insane.

Doubtful of my ability to create beauty,

I can’t see it, can’t touch it, I’m empty.

I blame you for making me this way, unable to craft.

I can’t produce something from nothing, not even a draft.

I know it’s my fault; I just don’t have your skill.

Or do I shift blame on to you, making my mind momentarily still?

Young Adult Art

The walls once suffocating now create stability,

I’ve learnt to look at raging waters and see painted tranquillity.

Head-on, I look unwaveringly toward agony,

No longer sorrowful or expecting to reach an artist’s epiphany.

Concerned about the future, will things ever get better?

Is this all? Are we doomed to self-destruction?

No, I won’t sit still while our world falls to ruin.

I’m not asking for perfection, which is but an illusion.

I want to paint smiles on the faces of all,

Support the weight of the world

On the verge of crumbling, about to fall,

But I will change the world.

My true art emerges,

When I paint and sculpt myself to make changes.



Year 10


She went unnoticed, which was sometimes a good thing. But right now, it really wasn’t.

No-one had realised she had disappeared; no-one had come looking. She tried to bang on her prison walls, but they closed and restricted her arms’ movement. All she could do was watch through the grate at the passing students, and for the first time in her life, found herself wanting a voice. She wanted to scream and shout, she wanted help, she wanted free.

Hours passed and the hall lights flickered off, leaving her in total darkness. A large tear rolled down her face. Would her parents wonder why their silent daughter wasn’t home? Would they cry? Or would they go as silent as she was?

Only one person knew of her whereabouts, the person who had locked her in her own tomb-like locker.

The girl with no voice wept.


Abstract expressions of the heart

Year 13 pupil Alexine Rivas says the title of this work, Yet she was trapped, relates to the hardships and anxiety that come with being trapped in a toxic relationship.

She chose to incorporate two different styles into this painting.

The more detailed images towards the outside signify reality, whereas the centre piece is less detailed because of abstract and indescribable feelings within the heart.

It is a contrast between the real world and the mind.


Innocence of childhood

Year 13


I miss myself.

I miss the me who was always curious,

who found wonder in the world, even if it was just

learning improper fractions

or my a e i o u’s.

I miss the me who had to be home before the sun went down,

who ran like my life depended on it,

even though I had asthma.

I miss the me who held my nose when I took medicine,

specifically the orange paracetamol that I swore was the same bottle for 10 years.

I miss the me who patiently (impatiently) waited for Mum to tuck me in,

or else I couldn’t (wouldn’t) sleep.

I miss the me who went to family events on Mum’s side,

who hoped that my cousins had showed up,

who dreaded the 20 "aunties" and babysitters who alternated between

"Remember me?" and "You were only this big ... "

I miss the me who thought a sip of Dad’s beer not only made me "cool",

but put me one step away from a trip to the hospital.

I miss the me who chased rainbows, hunted the Easter Bunny, slept for Santa,

pulled my teeth out just for a two-dollar coin.

I miss the me who wasn’t worried what others thought,

Who would wear barefoot, unbrushed hair and the colour palette of whichever

Disney princess was my favourite at the time.

I miss the me who wanted to be a princess when I grew up,

or an actor, or vet, or any other highly improbable career.

But that is exactly why I miss it.

I wasn’t thinking about whether I was good enough to be those things; I simply knew

what I wanted.

And that is more than I can say I know now.

I struggle to find wondering wonderful.

I set my own curfews.

I take medicine with a straight face.

My music tucks me in.

No-one reminds me about how much I’ve grown.

Sips are now mouthfuls.

As I look at rainbows, all I see are colours.

Santa doesn’t visit me any more.

I refuse to wear mismatched patterns in public.

And I don’t know what I want to be when I’m older.

I’m told to follow my heart,

but it’s not that easy.

The sky is no longer the limit.

I am.

I miss myself ...


Just your typical ‘Save the World’ kind of story

Year 9


Knock, knock, knock.

"Nope, not that tree," says Dr Wolfe.

As he moves around knocking on trees in search of the hollow entrance, I ready myself for the challenge to come.

"Ouch!" I exclaim as I cut myself with my freshly sharpened knife. "That hurt!"

"Toughen up then,"’ says Dr Wolfe.

I throw my knife at a tree-knot a couple of metres in front of me, but instead of a nicely satisfying thunk, there is more of a crack sound.

"Dr Wolfe!" I yell, peering into the newly-found plastic tree. "I think I found it."

"Good going! Let me have a look."

Suddenly a Gratual (a large wolf-like creature with sharp teeth, claws, and fur) jumps out of the hollow tree and grabs Dr Wolfe. It wrestles him to the floor, biting his legs, and obviously trying to cripple him.

I grab my knife and jump on to the dumb Gratual’s back, slit its dumb throat and throw its dumb bleeding corpse to the side.

"Are you all right?" I ask Dr Wolfe.

"Does it look like I’m all right?" he winces back.

"Not really," I reply, "but I’ll snap some branches off this tree so you can use them as crutches."

After a couple of minutes, Dr Wolfe is completely stable with a bit of cloth wrapped around his wound and some sticks in his hands, ready to fight what other horrors are waiting for us inside the phony tree.

"Well now," I say optimistically, "there’s nothing left to do but go inside and get brutally murdered."

We climb down the stump, Dr Wolfe needing extra help with his sore leg, and find a cobbled staircase badly lit by some gasoline-soaked flickering torches. In the musty quiet, I recognise the sound of an arrow being nocked electronically, then a light ping as it’s released from a crossbow. I leap forward to grab Dr Wolfe and pull him backwards, just as the arrow hits the rock wall near where he was standing.

"Shoot," I say, "That was close."

"Let’s just carry on," says Dr Wolfe gruffly. "No point wasting time on little things like that."

After a while, we reach a large white door with scratches around the outside and a small iron grate at head height.

"We’re going to have to blast it." The happy words come out of my mouth as I pull the small but powerful explosives from my jacket pocket.

"No need," says Dr Wolfe. "I’ll just pick the lock."

"All right then," I say, a little disappointed. "I’ll put these away then."

"Done," Dr Wolfe exclaims smugly. "Let’s go."

As he opens the door, I let out a loud breath in surprise of the interior of the room. The walls are all white, along with the roof and floor, and in the centre of the room there is a large pill-shaped object that is humming away merrily. Wires as thick as my arm wrap around its base and carry on through a small hole in the perfectly white, smooth wall.

"Wow," I gasp. "Do we get to destroy that behemoth of a machine?"

"There should be a self-destruct button somewhere," says Dr Wolfe. "They’d make something like that just in case of an emergency shutdown."

"Oh, right," I say flatly. I rummage around under the circuit board. "Here, found it!"

"Good work," says Dr Wolfe. "Tap it, would you?"

As I tap the button, a low buzzing fills my ears and then starts to consume my tapping arm. "Damn it," I say as I get turned to dust. So much for trying to save the world.