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Students’ Writing Selected for Re-Draft 2020

Various —

During the final term of school this year, five Logan Park students were selected to have their pieces of writing published in next year’s publication of the coveted publication of Re-Draft. This will be the 19th book in the Re-Draft series.

The publication, Re-Draft, is the nationally acclaimed collection of the winning entries of the ever popular Re-Draft Creative Writing Competition, entered by hundreds of teens across the nation.

This year four senior students and one junior student have won a total of seven pieces of writing to be published in next year’s edition of Re-Draft, titled HYPNOPOMPIA - THE THOUGHTS OF DAWNING MINDS. With much excitement we congratulate Linea Simons, Rosa Miller, Melicen Barber, Sophie Bradfield, and Shima Jack.


By Rosa Miller Yr 13


and honey

and thyme

this is what

the rain smells like

tinged with the acrid smell

of something


it’s the acid

the lemonhoneythyme surrounds you

the softest embrace

like charcoal



against granules of watercolour paper

scotch mist

southern highlands

the rain treads the earth lightly

The Dictionary Was Wrong

By Linea Simons Yr 13



  1. You give birth to islands, formidable mountain ranges. Your anger encompasses all, roaring thunder crashing on rocks

  2. Glittering shards of glass in the sun, smooth and deadly in turn. Water rolling off the shoulders of Neptune, riding sea-foam horses

  3. Cavernous depths, blue-black. Tendrils of cold, lacing up your legs. You feel its pull in your soul. Down, down, to be queen of the deep



  1. God of the day, harsh brightness, gentle warmth. Heat radiating off of blacktop pavement

  2. The tip of the Great Pyramid concentrates your light. Ancient Egyptians hail your chariot.

  3. Though splendid in your coming and going, mere mortals dare not look you in the eye for fear of the truth.

Big Hand

By Sophie Bradfield Yr 11

Big Hand and I are running away

Now, tonight, while the twilight clasps the trees

I will carry a small backpack

Big Hand has a large one, the kind people use when they hike for weeks

We will carry sleeping bags and coats

Books of poetry and CD’s about Carolina summers

Big Hand will carry me, a thumb gentle around my waist

As I sleep and he walks

We do not know where we are running to, Big Hand and I

Maybe the hard streets of Harlem

Where jump ropes slap a beat to a song

Far darker than they realise

Maybe a cottage in the forests of Oregon

Where 7 small men lived, many years ago

I will clean and cook, while Big Hand gardens and hunts

At night we will wash the dirt from his fingers

In a bowl of soapy warm water

When Big Hand’s mind gets restless

I will do as I always do

My arms will reach around him, fingertips never quite touching

His chin will rest on the top of my head and I will feel the buzz of his thoughts

My toes will brush the tops of his feet

And like I once did with my father, as a child

Big Hand and I dance.

We sway through the trees, making no ground but travelling miles

He will feel the love in my heart, beating against one of his lowest ribs

Big Hand has music in his head always.

We dance to that.

Caught in a Corset

By Sophie Bradfield Yr 11

Lace, lace

Pull, pull

Remove a rib, feel its curve

An hourglass, a girl, a clasp, a ribbon

The men stare and the women envy

Because my waist has been curved

And I have never been free

A hand, another

The fingers touch

“Very good,” They say

“But it hurts,” I pray

Tonight, I lay

My breath shallow, my heartbeat weak

The whalebone comes from the deep ocean

Sometimes I hear the song

It calls, wails, mutters in my ear

As my head grows light and coarse and rough and silky

And my waist becomes less

Caught, in such a way

That I will never be free

Hungry Storm, Angry Ocean

By Melicen Barber Yr 11

It is the 10th of April, 1968, and the souls on my back are laden with salt, knitted together into a thick, wet rug. The sky is a knotted mess of seasick clouds and heaving wind, tangled and twisted and contorting the sky into pools of grey. There are bodies in the water. There are bodies in the water and they look like stray driftwood, and in a few hours they will end up washing up on the beach all the same.

Captain Robertson of the TEV. Wahine is perfumed with fear and sweat as another wave slams itself against the starboard of the ship. His spine moulds around the back of his seat like an arching serpent, writhing and wreathing and uncomfortable in its skin. I can taste his guilt. It is bitter and corrosive and it crawls in his mouth. I stand with him and we watch passengers fill the lifeboats; they are sardines, and the storm claws at them like a hungry cat.

This boat will sink. This boat will sink and there is nothing I can do with my fingers made of spiders legs. There is nothing I can do with my skin that peels away like old wallpaper, no comforting words that could fall from a mouth like a tear through rotted fabric. I can only wince as I grasp at the souls that lap against hard metal, barely afloat in the ocean’s shaking hands.

I watch a woman jump overboard and into a patch of rocks, stray teeth protruding from the harbour’s frothy mouth. I watch an old man suffocate around his life jacket, and go to unwind him from scratching, grasping, groping plastic. I watch a mother wrap icicle fingers around a small cold body. I watch. I watch. I watch.

The hurricane has fed well.

It Had Been Six Years

By Melicen Barber Yr 11

'I don't like it.'

'Oh, uh, okay. That's fine, it's not for everyone.'

The room quietens, awkward and uncomfortable from the obvious disappointment in your voice. Her face contorts to the anxious drum of fingers.

'No, it— it's just that your old room was nicer.'

She trails her cuticles along the surface of the walls and pulls away, as if the patterned paper is corrosive. Every second you look at her makes you want to choke.

'I'll grab my things and then we can go.'

Silence. No protest, her mouth is empty and her expression is stagnant.

She releases the breath she had been holding. 'Okay.'

The sky is a black abyss and every car that drives past is a supernova, music pulsing and headlights exploding so brightly they make your head hurt. You shouldn’t be outside. You are aware of this. Your backpack is stuffed with clothes and granola and guilt and you don’t know what’s heaviest. Her footsteps go soft as she reaches the end of the driveway, and a childish amount of pride washes over her face as she gestures wildly at the vehicle in front of her. You do not reciprocate.

'That’s your mother’s car.'

The hanging silence is graced with a laugh, and you are eternally grateful for the sudden bubbling colours. 'I’m impressed you remember it. If you’re nice I’ll let you ride shotgun.' She’s serious. Your skin itches with hot ice, and you know she can taste your apprehension. Her pride quickly turns into petulance. 'Come on, she won't even miss this hunk o ́plastic. She’s wanted a new car for years, all I’m really doing is giving her motivation to get one.'

You have no control over your legs as they awkwardly stumble down the driveway, no feeling in your fingers as you haplessly grope for the door handle.

'Is this – is this even legal? Do you have your full licence?' She raises an eyebrow at your stupid question.

'Just get in the car'

'Do you at least know where you’re taking us?'

She watches your hands as they search for purpose in your lap. Her arms are painted with light, brushed with thin orange stripes which wash off as quickly as they reapply themselves afterwards.


How helpful. She never was talkative when you needed her to be.

'Are you gonna tell me? Or…'

Her cue is stolen by the sudden appearance of rain, melting syrup down the windshield. You almost expect it to clog the engine, honey and maple fuming toxic through a mechanical mayhem of pipes, as if adjusting the air conditioning will result in a tidal wave of liquid gold to litter leather lined seats, and adorn them with a coating of flowing sugar and –

'The beach.'

Her response is enough to cause whiplash. 'We’re going to the beach.'

The sand is frozen and the air is salt in your eyes and vinegar down your throat. You cough. She doesn’t. The ocean is black and empty. Waves of squid ink and boysenberry juice foam around your ankles.

'It’s like my feet are wrapped in a big frothy scarf.'

She turns. A disembodied voice comes from somewhere inside her damp silhouette. 'Ew, frothy. Way to choose the grossest adjective out there.'

'Wow. Okay. My apologies, Madam Eloquent, I’ll choose prettier words next time.'

She replies with an amused exhale, a soft noise which is quickly eaten by the wind. You watch her weave moonlight around her fingers. It rolls like liquid mercury waiting to dissolve her fingertips and pool in the dips of her palms.

'Why did you agree to come with me?'

You blink and your eyelids are an old ornate rug. 'What?'

She sighs and the wind retaliates. 'I call you in the middle of the night, after God knows how many years –'

Six. It had been six years.

'And ask if you want to run away with me. Just like that. Out of the blue. What kind of sane person says yes to something like that?'

The water isn’t cold any more. It dances respectfully around your shins, though you wish it were wrapped tightly around your neck, dragging you deep enough for your lungs to explode into shrapnel. You wish it were buried in your ears, winding along endless canals until the sound of crashing waves is nothing but a shallow puddle of fuzz, a droning hum of static. But it stays stubborn around your legs, leaving you standing with a numb tongue and stationary syllables.

'You’ve always been able to convince me into doing stupid things.'

Her response is a laugh, as shrill and emotionless as the gusts of salty frost.

'This is beyond stupid.'

Her words are soft and full of hurt. You almost miss them as they’re swept submissively against the strengthening gale.

'Well I can’t let you do it alone then, can I?'

She smiles, and you can’t help but smile too. There’s sand between your teeth, your tongue is coated with bitter grit, and your hair has never been so thick with sea foam and rain, but you couldn’t make yourself regret this if you tried.

'Let’s get back to the car. This wind sucks.'

You reach for her hand as you walk back up the dunes, and pray to whatever god is out there that she’s reaching for yours too.

Roses are Dead

By Shima Jack Yr 10

Let me go?

Now why would you do that

My shimmering surfaces appeal to you

You've told me this before

That I make you want

to pluck me like a rose and

Place me in a glass vase

On your kitchen table

In a slice of sunlight

And look at me

Don't I want that?

I'd look so pretty

And all the roses outside would look

In the windows

And their petals would fall off with


My smile tastes sour

What will happen when

I wilt

Turn brown on my edges

Will you still want to look at me then?

Or will you toss me out with

The used coffee grounds

And the broken eggshells

To decompose in the damp

Thinking of you


I know

That everything is only good once


I know

If you loved me

You would