Poetry

1st: Darcy Monteath

2nd: Fen McIntosh + Dali Lewis-Browne

3rd equal: Jacob Tichy and Jula-May Taylor

Highly Commended: Minami Uchida 

Creative Prose

1st: Harry Almey

2nd equal: Jimmy Muir, Bridie Wallace

3rd: Bryn Louchran

Highly Commended: Laura Cowles, Oscar Kennedy

Formal Writing

1st: Emma Bradfield

2nd: Bella Gasgoyne

3rd: Jimmy Muir

Highly Commended: Ava Agatsiotis, Minami Uchida

Poetry

Darcy Monteath - City-stickers

i. the liquor

I watch a half-stranger click his civic shut.

It’s a listless leap for the passenger now plastered to the pavement, washed and wasted on Castle Street (classic) tarmac slick with his mouth slime from a long night on the piss, and it’s only 4:00pm on a Tuesday.

Alright mate, I don’t judge.

Crimson in his eyes and blood in his teeth, he’s slapped on the ground like a skinned cat in a car wreck.

There’s nowhere nicer than the indigo evening flickering shut

as I gaze over his beer-brained body, gutters glittering glass shards and Guinness like bullet shells from a

-Shotgun!

-I can drive, lads.

-Found the fallen angel over here, cunts, WINGS AND ALL

Shit-talker raises a vodka redbull and hurls it with an ugly laugh.

Skinned Cat can’t escape the super-soaker and is a sticky and slimy sphynx slithering

into the backseat covered in red bull

and a probably fatal amount of liquor.

The party’s only starting, dressed in bottleneck green pissed at the sight of a froth-topped glass,

Driver has a cruiser and

at least Shotgun snagged his seat

I watch four half-strangers click a civic shut.

ii. the zoo

I hear a stranger drunk on overdrive

2022 and the Dunedin sound is a grunge monkey. The stranger is a hungry observer and I don’t know what I'm doing here.

Banana mics like metal inputs are plugged straight into his veins.

We’re at The Dog again,

and he’s barking and barking with headphones in a collar around his neck,

tongue dripping and drooling from the side of his mouth

head banging the floorboards and

drunk,

drunk,

drunk

he spits to the static like a slurry of snow and I listen. (Just).

- The Chillsss were ssshit. Thisss issthe real deal. We’ve progressed, man.

He’s waving a finger at the stage and won’t look me in the eye as long as we are strangers.

Anything I say would be drowned out so I let him sway to the monkeys playing their steel bananas like static, trying to create the next Loveless

but all they’re screaming is My Bloody Murder

and the hungry observer is ravenous.

I look around and this Dog House is filled with hunger and hunger and hunger and

I hear a zoo of strangers drunk on overdrive, blissfully concussed.

iii. the blood

I feel cold.

That is all. There’s a permanence in the weather here that freezes the blood cold, cold, cold. Blood from the cut, from the blow, from the bleeding nose. If you don’t see it, you hear it. If you don’t feel it, you taste it. Accept it.

I feel cold because I’ve been sitting at Bus Stop E for fifteen minutes more than I should have. Fifteen minutes late is early here, and so in my icy armour I sit as still as I can.

It’s my favourite pastime, to graze my eyes across my favourite strangers, face to face with a fight. There are two groups who lurk in a cloud of smoke outside the police station. Two groups who hate each other, who are guarding their stop and waiting for Bus 44 to take them away from the pigs.

The pig; hand on waist and long lean strides, a paradoxical caricature makes the mistake of existing.

- Oink oink here comes little miss piggy

Their laughter is hyenic, but the pig doesn’t notice a thing. He stands out of earshot, a cigarette between the gap in his teeth turning his tongue to ash.

The two groups split face to face and even I jolt out of my freeze to check for wild animals. It’s the second blow, after the smoke, and something brews a fury.

- That’s my uncle you’re talking about.

- Bullshit. You look nothing like him

- You calling me a fake?

Nephew pounces forward, nose to nose with Hyena with blood in his eyes and

third blow to the face

fourth to the gut

fifth and sixth and seventh and eighth and I lost count before the blood runs cold and the movement stops.

and the Pig uses his goddamn brain and lets himself be seen.

The bus is here. I’m still cold and I never see how it ends.

but I know, as brave as they are and as strong as they are,

they're spooked. I know.

In a few minutes, all I care about is my bus creaking against the ice of the valley,

sending me off to defrost against my fire,

out of the violence of the cold.

iiii. City-stuck

I say I see a stranger. I say I hear one. I say I feel. I say I say I say.

I say, the things I say have stayed in safe confinement.

I can say without fear of the world, without fear of losing, without fear of my words being shrunk into segments smaller than my fist.

But I’ve stayed here in this city for too long

and the blood is dry,

and the sky is still violet

and the bus is still late

and the drinks are warm now.

I’ve held this city’s hand one too many times. I know the cats, I know the zoo, I know the blood.

Now I know all my favourite strangers, so we’ve defied the point of strangeness.

I want to move away so I can feel the buzz of new faces,

flip the pillow to the cool side, and

sleep easy with no weight on the curve of my back to

drag me to a halt again.

I don’t want to be another city-sticker,

still stuck on the same side of the street as I was when I was six,

skimming the Ōpoho pavement with my knees and bleeding onto the concrete.

And I could cry as my mother runs up to me, arms out,

it was a killer’s scream till I moved closer,

and then it felt more like a caress.

So, I’ll move away.

From the cats, the zoo, the blood, the bodies.

I’ll move away, even if it kills me

And if it kills me, I'll come back.

Fen McIntosh + Dali Lewis-Browne

Yo soo last night me and my boys

were getting drinks at the pub and this

homeless man yanked on my vintage 1993

$200 jeans and stuck his grubby little hand out

as if he deserved something. I was rightfully

confused and I stood there staring at him for

exactly 3 minutes. After a while he started

getting hopeful and for some reason it really

pissed me off. So I kicked him. I had a wee

laugh about it with the boys after that one and

then he had this look in his eyes, so I kicked

him and I kicked him again. I started laughing

with the boys again but this time I was the only

one laughing. I was pissed off again that they

didn't get the funny joke so I took it out on him.

Dad would be proud. By the time I was finished

I found that the boys had left me. I guess I was

so caught up in my fun that I didn't notice. I

gave him one last fatal kick to the face and

headed home. When I got home I sadly

couldn't sit back and relax! I had to spend 3

hours cleaning up the mess off my tainted

shoes.

Jacob Tichy - Frigid aspiration

A poetry piece

Bleak cold eyes open abruptly

I'm startled by an obsolete and unknown intruder

It left footprints…...

It left the door in my mind open.

It's cold, the breeze from the open door.

There's a blizzard.

Every string intricately plucked by the internal harpist's nimble fingers begins to elegantly play.

I feel as if I'm being slowly blinded by the red strike of passion.

I can feel the internal insects crawl around in my skin.

I can feel my skin raise as if an icy wind swept past me,

What's happening to me?

Waves of vehement emotion start to wash over my body, the sensation of intense butterflies bringing me to my knees.

It's torture, it's hell, it's confrontational.

I can feel the sound of longing pulsate through my weakened body, all I want to do is burst into tears and scream yet I'm so entranced.

Who are you, intruder…..?

The intense pressure won’t end. It leaves me begging for guidance that I cannot reach for.

it feels as if I'm at the gates of an impenetrable fortress bashing against the door to be let in and I must give in to the enemy that awaits me.

I can feel the agonizing pain crush my heart as I lose all sense of reality in desire for just a moment. I can't let go I don’t want to give in.

To a moment of unanswered agonizing bliss.

I feel as if I've been tossed into the dead of a winter night,

Climbing the grand glacier of passion.

Only for nothing to be waiting for me above, but barren landscape.

I scream the lungs out of my struggling body watching the ghostly breath leave like a phantom.

I fall into the frigid snow and let the infinite glacial landscape absorb me.

I give up.

I just fall into a primordial slumber and let the snow fall.

The way the snow melts on my skin I just wish to melt into you

But the slumber leaves me undone.

I have to do it all over again.

You've left again.

Jula-May Taylor - Orange Tinted Glasses:

I wander around the store picking out glasses, seeing how they fit my face

Picking the frames which will from now frame the way I’ll see the world in a completely different way

The mountains in the distance a little closer, a little clearer

But does that make my blurry vision any less true?

While to some the world is blurry to others it may only be blue

Until we put the lenses in, how would we know that there is more than our own subjective view?

As day and night show the world in a different light

Somehow both perceptions are right

The world is both colourful and black and white

Both full of hope and fear

Both visible and unclear

And who's to say which view is right?

For all we know we could've been seeing the world through orange tinted glasses all our lives

Minami Uchida - a home 

twisted red wood bending and cracking and holding me

not noticing the dusted layer of the rail

or the crack that desperately climbs up

fingers stretch towards her doorway

summers where her door would grow from the heat

where we had to keep it open

where our bare feet got bitten by the sun

disks of music pull my head back

and forth

hips and legs all up in the air

trampolines and sound machines

her heart would tremble in agreement

the soft floor jumping up and down

lifting my tired bones that slept

listen

to the way she breathes -her walls creaking doors groaning footsteps and windows

and cup your hand against her back

and listen to the bones of her foundation shake

and the water running through her -

this is hers -not mine, not yours

her years of sounds

stacked up inside me, each layer a ring of saturn or an onion

each one making me cry

big salted tears -the ones i used to lick off my face when they reached my mouth

Creative Prose

Harry Almey - Survival

Are you sitting comfortably? Of course, you are. And I’m rather afraid, that’s the problem. How can you? How can you comfortably sit, watching Gianna as she strolls through Rome’s Piazza del Popolo, admiring the Basilica of Saint Maria del Popolo? It's like any other day for her, you might say. Her son loves looking around the place. But this is not a day like any other, and that is not a simple cloud in the sky. And you know that. You know something is about to go wrong.

The thunderous boom comes, heralding the flying of crunching marble. Gianna’s sight fills with naught but dust. Spectators watch her prone body, unable to know that she is trying to move, unable to see her pain. The dust gives way, and she looks around, finding no sight of her son. She wrenches and writhes in pain, throwing herself forward towards the bombed side-chapel. Gianna’s hands bear no pain as she savagely tears at the rubble, with blood seeping out of her nails. The onlookers perceive an animal. Instead, the simple truth is that she is a mother. She resolves, right then and there, that she will tear the rock apart like paper, rendering its total destruction. Her mind screams “If only I had the strength”. The outside world ceases to exist for her.

“Help! Help me!” she howls at speechless onlookers. “Help me! Help me move the rock! Come on you bastards! My boy! My son! My boy! My sweetpea, no!”

She dies in that moment, as far as she perceives things. Hours pass, or seconds? Her hearing waxes and wanes as the invisible voices clamour over the rubble. Laying there, limp and exhausted, her mind only registers the now unobscured beautiful blue sky. Blue had been his favourite colour. All she had was that.

“God, my God… Why have you forsaken me?

Safely, at the periphery of the urban square, is a man who stands utterly frozen. The man thinks to move, to help the child, the mother. He tells himself that he has to do something, anything. But no, Marco Pannella, the great humanitarian, shamefully renders himself impotent. A non-factor. He stands still.

Don’t judge too harshly, they can’t forget as you or I can. Death witnessed in person is predictably personal, just as a distant death creates the opposite effect. The first is evil, a lingering absence of someone, a ghost that haunts you. But you watch the news, don’t you? You and I, we both watch death on an unimaginable scale, and are we held down?

I begin and have no end. And I end all that begins. What am I?

“Answer: I am Death. And I have no meaning.”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Hello again. Can you hear me? Are you listening? Of course, you are. I know you are.

It gets boring sometimes, being Death. Just the same thing, day in, day out, one century to the next. With all the misery in this abhorrent universe, the heart simply decides it doesn't have the strength to keep on caring. And then you remember you have no heart. You’re an abstract object. And that spoils the fun.

And it's then that you need a distraction, and that’s where the real fun begins. Being abstract has perks after all. So join me, let me tell you a story, and provide a privileged insight into a man at war. Take and look into the mind of poor old Marco Pannella. Call it morbid curiosity.

On the backdrop of a sky stained with blood, Marco walks somberly, hands in pockets, up a hill. The green grass of life, usually so full of joy, is now dark and sooted. It crumbles to dust at his every step.

Three scarecrows meet him on the hill. They block him. This feels strangely like an arranged meeting. Something he’s put off. He can’t anymore, of course, not after what he’s seen.

As they mock him, Pannella holds in a sob. One scarecrow is small, a violin destroyed at its feet. It clutches its hay-strewn clothes and asks why Marco has let go of his hobby? Another is taller, clutching legal and pacifist texts tightly and defensively. Why has he let go of his ideas? The final is taller still, a cutting, fierce figure, bearing such absurd fashion sense. This one is easy to identify as a smiler: Smiling at the horror of the world, and at the mockery of his massive flowing scarf. But it did not smile now. None of them did.

Why has he let go of himself?

What could he have done to save that boy? Life as a bystander, he can bear that, if only in shame. But as an asset, willing or otherwise? No, that he cannot not abide. What is he, coward or killer? The question snaps at him, finding nothing to gnaw on. Guilt chokes him. All of the faces, all of them, he drowns in them. His eyes squeeze shut as he mutters “Romana said I have a future. Romana would not lie to me.”

Such is the weight of failure that continuing feels impossible. The temptation of joining the three spectators of his past in death looms high above him. Finally bookending his saga of life.

When you have lost yourself, what is the point?

“The horror! The horror!”

—-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Romana, friend of Marco Pannella, silently watches him. There he is, the enigmatic and hard-to-understand man. She struggles to fathom the seamlessness with which her friend had recovered. Once troubled, he now stands as a man transitioned into striding confidently over the mud of war. An inkling of a memory bubbles up: Of a time when she worried that mud of war would consume his mind.

Reality bursts the bubble. She realises where she is standing, what is happening, and the danger she is in. The war, which had failed to kill their minds asofor, never let up threatening to kill their bodies.

A squat Royalist soldier, who fought alongside them just a second ago to defend a makeshift hospital, now holds them at gunpoint. Marco and Romana’s hands both raise. She is afraid, and not just because of the soldier. No, instead she cranes her neck to look to Marco for support, and only finds a giddy smile of wanton abandon on his face.

Typical. Always at the cusp of the abyss, he never sees the edge. Now that makes her afraid.

“I can return to the last bastion of Royal dominion… with prisoners.” The soldier, Fausto, savours the words in his mouth. There is something childish in his cheer that Romana equal parts loathes and pities. The Monarchy is dead, who is he looking to for reward? She decides not to air these obvious problems, for fear of enraging the one with the gun. Marco, as always, shows no such restraint.

“Now come on, Fausto,” Pannella says, totally casual and at ease. “After everything we’ve been through? I even paid you a compliment-look, I said you were observant. There are wounded people here, at this hospital, that’ll need guidance. You could be their guide. Have a future.”

Marco’s raised hands move. The right gestures towards Fausto, while the other sneaks behind him. Anxious energy pulses through Romana. That hand stealthily dips into the large pockets of his coat, and slowly draws out a hammer. Her body freezes. She must not give this away.

“Impossible…” Fausto sags a bit as he speaks, the certainty of his aim lessening. All the while the tone of his voice betrays an uncertainty, which Romana picks up. Sensing a pause behind his words, she wonders if Fausto is truly considering the offer. No luck, Fausto snaps out of it, and begins to talk with sternness. “I will be observing standing military orders - To deliver political dissidents to military high command.” Romana silently notices how rehearsed it sounds, like a robot reciting something.

“Without admiring your victory first?” Marco’s words come bursting out of him with not inconsiderable urgency. “Fautso, surely you must honour the victory that brought you these prisoners.”

“Oh, of course!” The soldier’s back turns to the prisoners, who he assumes are defenceless. The awe with which he looks at that sunny view takes Romana. Fausto’s whole body looks as if a weight had just been relieved. With that, and the view, his grey awful uniform looks unnatural in the comparison. In the side of her vision, she sees Marco as he creeps across the mud.

“Now, I observe the sight of counter-intelligence General Giovanni de Lorenzo's glorious victory,” Faustio loudly proclaims, “Eyes forward, back straightened. Breath the air, Marco, the smell of victory-” The back of the Royalists' his head meets the hammer before he can finish. He crumples to the floor, and into unconsciousness.

The two move forward, and rest Fausto against a tree. Marco falls into deep thought. When Fausto comes to, will he remain steadfast to the Monarchy, and die with it? Or will he let his past go, drift away, lest it pull him to oblivion?

“Do you think they’ll accept him?” Romana's nervous voice brings him back to reality.

“Yes… why not? He just saved their lives. They’re good people, and Fausto needs a real community. A real chance for a future. I imagine he’ll have a splendid time. Once he gets over all this standing orders nonsense, of course. When he comes too, that is. We should probably be leaving, you know. I don’t want to see what mental hoops we’ll have to jump through to escape a second time.”

Romana saw Panella’s eyes fill up with bright and sparkly joy. She brushes off the question of why: It didn’t matter. All that matters is that Marco is happy, and Fausto has a chance for something new.

Indeed, it did not matter. When you’re Death, this abstract thing, you tend to see the bigger picture. And that’s always unsatisfying because you see the trends, and there are no twists anymore. Merely a coin toss. One can see only self-hate, the face of who he has failed, the other sees them and says “I may not remember your names… but I do remember you. And from now on, no one else will have to feel this pain! Not on my watch.” The joy of helping by the mere fact of existence, that kept Marco Pannella alive.

There is no meaning in Death. It is a lonely, pitiful thing, being me, let alone joining me. Therefore, while personal grief will always bring a pause to your step, keeping on moving is not a bad thing. It’s how you stay alive. Just so long as you remember who you were, and why you changed. Remember the scarecrows. That will keep me at bay. Survival, after all, and the footprints a continued existence leaves on others and the earth, that has plenty of meaning.

“A little lesson for those sitting comfortably at home.”

Jimmy Muir 

“Humans can’t live in the present, like animals do. Humans are always thinking about the future or the past. So it’s a veil of tears, man. I don’t know anything that’s going to benefit me now, except love. I just need an overwhelming amount of love. And a nap. Mostly a nap”

• Townes Van Zandt

The gum trees swayed in the muggy afternoon breeze. There was a storm a comin’. Ereclease Jovesun’s blood dribbled down his dress shirt. The thick, dark liquid stained the embroidered magnolia flowers, just above his heart. There was a storm a comin’. He reached up to his busted nose with busted fingers and gasped through his busted lips, realising that he was leaking quite profusely. There was a storm a comin’. Joseph was across from him, eyes wide with a locomotive-like fury. He was a big lad, broad and muscular, the baby of his family at the age of twenty-six. His face was a hot poker red, not uncommon for Joseph Carlyon. The Carlyon family had a history of violence in this part of the country, tormenting townsfolk and police alike from high up on their Pig-Eye Hill, a grand manor looking down onto the town of Warracknabeal. Joseph was their youngest, boastful and proud of his family’s foundation of guts and marrow.

Ereclease’s pony lay in the afternoon sun to the side of the dirt road, flies already circling the lengthy knife gash on her throat. The blood dribbled down our protagonist’s forearm as Joseph charged, aiming his bulked torso at Ereclease’s ribcage. Stepping out of the way instinctively, Ereclease moved closer to the fenced off sheep paddocks on the right of the path. Joseph’s associates, who could only be called lackeys, formed a semicircle around our hero.

“You ain’t getting out of this, farmhand,” a lackey informed him. Or something along those lines. Ereclease couldn’t hear him through the burning buzz of rage in his ears. The loss had finally hit him. Shadrach had been his family's pony for twenty years, and Ereclease was but a boy when they picked up the miniature yearling. He could feel this fury boiling deep in his throat.

“What’s that, you cod? Having a hard time finding your manhood?” spat another one of Joseph’s minions. “You’ve got to rip him up now, Joe. We don’t want the coppers on our tail if some passerby spies us ’n gets a runnin’.”

Joseph loosened his shoulders and started slowly walking, almost waddling, towards Ereclease. Ereclease’s eyes locked onto this mound of a man closing on him.

“I would tell you to run, but unless you think you could scale that bloody fence without ripping your arse on that barbed--” Shots rang out through the surrounding fields.

Whatever number of sheep had been near the fence bolted off in a flurry of cloven hooves and wool. Ereclease’s Colt revolver smoked as warm, foetid spring rain began to fall on the dirt road, where chunks of Joseph Carlyon’s face were splattered across the newly forming mud. Joseph’s former lackeys each looked a different shade of pale; the stench of pissed breeches hit the nose of anyone within twelve feet of the terrified men. Another three shots rang out, and screams of absolute agony followed immediately. Ereclease had blown off each man’s left kneecap. He still couldn’t hear them through the searing fury in his head. He had taken too much of this torment from the Carlyons, from his father’s barn being burnt to this death of his pony, Shadrach, his closest friend. Ereclease was not a violent young man, standing at an average height for his age. People underestimated his slim figure, not knowing that he had a wiry strength from constant work on the farm, his arms like twisted hempen ropes. But this was his breaking point. Watching these men writhe—men that had sat and watched the Carlyons break the hopes and wills of the people in this town. But now they were at His mercy. Ereclease felt like God, looking down on his dominion of pain. Although this was not a dominion of any kind, these were three pathetic, maimed men with a deep fear in their eyes, like wells filled with a dark ink. And yet, as he leant over to clench a roadside rock in his white-knuckled fist, Ereclease had no mercy for them.

He followed the Yarriam Creek, and buried the bodies by the edge of the murky depths. The billabong mud swallowed up the bludgeoned faces of the corpses, leaving no remnant of the bloodshed that occured that afternoon. After the last burial, Ereclease looked to the sky above, and felt the rain wash away the mud and blood from the lines of his face. He felt it wash away his sins. This rain was a great cleanse. He looked down at his calloused, farmed hands and busted fingers, dirt and other grime under his fingernails. His magnolia shirt was now drenched with rainwater and sweat, the bloodstains marked the spot just above where his heart used to be. Ereclease Jovesun decided at that moment to disappear, to leave behind his life, his love and his tattered body.

As he removed his clothing, he saw a jumbuck, a ram, standing at the end of a mud peninsula across the billabong from him and His bodies. He gave it a nod, believing that this was something larger than he could comprehend. A naked, raw Ereclease looked into the depths of the water, as if it had been calling forever, but he had never answered. He waded in. As he did, he found that he could not feel the surrounding water, and instead felt relief at a burden being lifted from his soul. When the water reached his chin, he felt at peace and took his last breath. He reminisced of all that had happened that day, exploring thoughts of what could have been. As the water reached his eyeline, he looked to the jumbuck, who nodded and turned away back into the bush. With that, Ereclease Jovesun was gone.

The billabong bubbled for a second and then lay flat. All was still. Peace was found through the falling rain.

Bridie Wallace - A Letter from a Robin

Every day the cheerful Mrs Blejan would make the same journey from her quaint cottage down through the lush green fields of the Irish countryside, and over the old cobblestone bridge whose stones were etched with letters of people's names, past and present. She would stand on this bridge for a mere moment and look down at the calm, rippling creek travelling into the distance. She would then carry on down through the village packed with medical trucks, stretchers, and men in uniforms, and down an array of steps to reach the train station. Each day she made her way through crowds of people and sat on the same old rickety bench beside the post office, and sat there peacefully as the chaos unfolded around her. Men in worn matted khaki uniforms emerged from the doors of the trains with bandaged limbs, crutches, some on stretchers. They all had widened, hopeful, teary eyes as they desperately searched to find their families and lovers. Mrs Blejan would remain seated with her hands placed neatly on her lap, gently holding the stalks of various flowers tied together by a milky blue ribbon. Underneath her hands lay an envelope that looked as worn out as the men. Every morning she would come in and wait and did so every year from 1945 until 1946 as more men were being sent home from the war due to injuries, and Mr Blejan could have been among them. She did this until finally, it was the end of the war, and there was the hope of Mr Blejan, as well as the men from other families in the village, returning home. The thought caused momentous flurries of excitement and relief amongst the people. But the overwhelming excitement was accompanied by a foreboding anxiety, as no family wanted to receive the fateful telegram telling them their loved one was lost in battle just before the war was to end and everyone was so close to returning home.

On the morning when the first group of soldiers were returning home in February 1946, the sky was filled with cool, swirling mist illuminated by the winter sunrise, and morning dew dotted the leaves and flowers which rested along the fields and the mud pathways. The scenery was delicate and peaceful looking. Mrs Blejan wandered down a mud path holding a bunch of flowers in her hand. She wore a pair of oversized gumboots, a large grey coat, and whistled an old folk melody as she walked. She noticed a chirpy little robin frolicking around the trees above her. Her eyes crinkled and a smile stretched across her face when she saw the orange flicker of the bird's little breast as it flew down closer to her as she continued to whistle on. The curious little robin let out little chucks and tut-tuts in tune with the melody of her whistling, and as it frolicked about her she soaked up its cheerful company. She stopped at the side of the path, bent down and picked a few daisies to add to her collection of flowers. As she stood back up, the robin let out a short sharp chirp and flapped away up high until its orange breast merged with the rich oranges and reds of the canopies on the trees. In the distance, an army vehicle carrying slumped over bodies slowly trodded down the old road towards the village. Some of the men were talking with each other, but others had their faces buried in their hands.

Mrs Blejan gripped the bunch of flowers tightly in her hand. Could one of the men be her husband? She quickly continued on with her journey down through the frost-covered fields, across the bridge, then down into the village. As she neared the outskirts of the village, she took a moment to inhale the fresh cool air into her lungs, and as she breathed out a swirl of her misty breath dispersed into the wind. She shook out her arms, adjusted her dress and coat and looked down and stood frozen as she saw a pair of muddy gumboots on her feet. “Oh feck, blasted shoes!” Huffing she quickly found a patch of grass to clean off the clumpy mud which covered the boots, then one step after another, she entered the chaos. As she walked nervously into the town square she searched the faces of the returned men, trying to find her husband, but the eyes that met hers were unfamiliar and distant. She made her way down the array of grand steps into the train station, walked along the platform and found the post office. As she entered the room she didn’t get a chance to speak before Mr Bryne, the employee, told her, “Still no news sorry ma’am, but don’t lose hope. Lots of the men ran out of paper weeks ago to write to their families.” She looked down at her worn, heavy gumboots, and let out a deep sigh, then she looked back up at the man behind the counter with a smile on her face. “Of course. You’re right. He will be home soon enough…Already saw the first lot.” The employee smiled back at her before turning to another customer. She left the room, strode out onto the busy pavement, and walked along the platform until she found her bench.

As her eyes searched for the men in uniforms scattered around the buzzing train station, her right leg was shaking from nerves. She shifted the bundle of flowers about in her hands and glanced quickly down to her left to see the worn letter waiting patiently in her coat pocket. She gazed up at the large round green clock which sat above the railway lines, watching the long hand tick, tick, tick around in a slow perpetual motion. Time seemed to be almost standing still. Suddenly she stood up, brushed her coat down with her free hand, and stood on the bench to grasp a new perspective. Women, children, and men rushed around the station through the crowds to greet their sons and husbands and fathers. Some ran straight into their arms and were held in a tight warm embrace, while others took their luggage and their arm so they could lean on them to walk. The clock kept slowly ticking on, and more men flooded into the station, eager to find the comfort they lacked away from their families. She hopped off of the bench and began to walk forwards through the crowds, turning her head around to see crowds of unfamiliar faces everywhere. The flowers in her hand began to slightly droop, like her hopes of seeing her husband today. Suddenly she caught sight of golden brown, wavy hair in the distance and looking down saw a silver ring on a man's finger, which caused her heart to skip a beat. Weaving through the spaces in between people, Mrs Blejan kept her eyes focused on the man with the golden windswept brown hair who just hauled a dirty molle over his shoulder. Her pace hastened as she attempted to catch up with the man who, from what she could see, had a striking resemblance to her husband.

The man disappeared in front of the next flood of people who strode into the walkway and blocked her path. She darted her head around to scan the room for an alternative path and found an opening, took a deep breath and jogged out onto a strip of grass behind the post office. Here she could sprint a metre or so to make it out to the streets, and hopefully catch up with the man. She caught a glimpse of an army uniform within a dispersing crowd, and the man's back came into view. He stood on the outskirts of the train station, and she watched him observe it all. His figure looked different, but that could be due to a change in posture. Maybe he was tired. It surely had to be him. His hair was the same golden brown she remembered, and the ring which fitted on his finger looked like his wedding ring. The rhythmic distant tunes of the church bell rang for 9 am, and she blinked a few times as she slipped out of her reverie. The man began to walk on and she let out an impatient huff. Her checks were splashed with a red blush, and her heart was now racing. She picked up her pace again and managed to catch up to him. “Excuse me,” she exclaimed in a calm voice; she didn’t know quite what to say. If she was sure it was him she might’ve spoken differently, but asking a simple question like this one, calmly, was a way she could talk to anyone. As the man began to turn around she flustered about fixing up her clothes, and took one sharp breath and bit her tongue. It just had to be him. When she looked up she saw the golden-brown hair and then traced her eyes down to the man's face. The eyes that met hers were of a burning hazel-brown colour, not the milky crystal blue of her husband. They were not as distant as the other men’s felt, but they were unfamiliar. “Pardon, ma’am?” Asked the man with curiosity in his voice. She quickly looked over the rest of him and held her eyes on the ring on his finger. It didn’t match hers. “Ma’am is there something I can do for you?” She shook her head in a desperate attempt of a reply, as her mind had grown so distant that any words floated out of her mouth as cool silent breath. Her heart had sunk so immensely she felt there wasn’t any air left in her lungs at all. She continued to stare at the ring silently. This man wasn’t her husband, and she felt foolish to get her hopes up like that. “Ma’am, are you quite alright?” Hearing the concern in his voice, she looked up to the face of the man, suddenly feeling rude. This man just got back from the war and was kindly waiting for a reply. She knew he deserved an answer so he could continue on his way home, so she managed to drag out the words, “I’m so very sorry to have bothered you, I thought you were someone else.” She then gave the man a slight smile, which he returned, and she turned and began to make her way back into the platform. She forced her head to stay up as she walked, all the while blinking small tears which had clouded her eyes. She stood back in the crowd of people looking at her bench from a distance, which waited for her inevitable return.

The morning sun which created a warm and hopeful illusion for the beginning of the day was disappearing behind the clouds when the church bells marked mid-day. Mrs Blejan was back on her bench sitting there once more, with an expressionless face; she just stared out into the distance. No longer were her eyes searching around the area for her husband, which was puzzling. She couldn’t have given up yet, it was only halfway through the first day. Mr Bryne saw her sitting on her bench out of the post office window when he was observing the abrupt change in the weather. The cool crystal blue skies were being flooded by swirls of heavy grey clouds which were bringing in a harsh wind. He noticed she looked quite literally frozen to the spot. He strode out of the shop keeping his eyes on her, and as he walked along the platform he felt a light drizzle delicately fall onto his clothing. Mrs Blejan still didn’t move. He thought this was very uncharacteristic of her; she was always alert and observing, and always noticed when the rain came. The town folk sometimes saw her hold up her palms to appreciate it coming to refresh the earth and bring growth and life to the flowers along the countryside. Once he came near her the rain had become quite heavy and water droplets fell from the petals of the flowers onto her dress.

“Ma’am,” he said softly, putting a hand on her shoulder. She remained staring forwards into the abyss. “Mrs Blejan,” he repeated. There were amplitudes of worry in his voice. Her mind seemed to be elsewhere entirely. He wondered if maybe she asked a soldier about Mr Blejan, and was told he was dead. But he didn’t know for certain what had happened. He just made sure to keep his hand on her shoulder. The rain set in and the two were both sodden with the cool water from the sky. He looked over to the other side of the station longingly as its benches were undercover. They both sat there in solidarity accompanied by the perpetual ticking from the clock until the station was practically empty. He thought about leaving numerous times, but he didn’t want her to be alone. But he expected the worst. She needed someone to be there with her. “Oh goodness, Mr Bryne, you’re still here,” he heard her voice and watched her straighten her shoulders and her eyes searched the empty station “h my what is the time?” Mr Bryne let out a sigh of relief that she was talking once more. “It’s nearly half-past three Mrs Blejan. You were getting wet and a kind woman leant me an umbrella so we could be sheltered.”

She looked at Mr Bryne, feeling so grateful for his comfort, and gave him a kind smile, “I don’t know how to thank you for your kindness, Mr Bryne. You didn’t have to stay with me this long. It looks like it hasn’t rained in the past while. I’m sure your family will be wondering where you are.” Mr Bryne looked at her reassuringly, “I was going to stay here later today anyway so it’s really no issue. How are you feeling?” Mrs Blejan let out a long heavy sigh, and ignoring the question she started, “He’s not going to come back is he?” Mr Bryne let out a quick sigh, as this meant Mr Blejan wasn’t yet gone; at least to his knowledge. He didn’t like seeing the cheerful and optimistic Mrs Blejan lose hope like this. “Today was only the first day, more soldiers will be arriving until Wednesday. There is still hope, Mrs Blejan. Can’t give up hope.” There was a brief pause before Mrs Blejan answered, “You know, a robin came to visit me on the way here this morning. It was quite a chirpy wee thing..very inquisitive.” He heard her chuckle quietly, and he stood up smiling “Robins are nice birds indeed...I must be off now, I hope to see you back here before Wednesday.” Mrs Blejan then got up, and handed the collection of flowers to Mr Bryne; they were still slightly damp, but still beautiful. Then she walked home, all the while thinking about the kindness she was shown; the good parts of her day.

For the following days, Mrs Blejan returned to the train station early in the morning and found her seat with quite a few small bouquets of flowers. Throughout the days she smiled warmly as she watched soldiers being welcomed home in warm embraces, and whenever Mr Bryne looked out the shop window, he saw her give away a flower or a whole bouquet to people passing by. The people gave her smiles and thanked her, and sometimes she would even be given a hug. At the end of each day, she went home empty-handed. On Wednesday morning when she arrived at the station she placed the fresh bunches of flowers on her lap and brought out the old envelope which was in her coat pocket. Her hands were trembling slightly as she brought it up to read the words on the front of the envelope, “To Mrs Blejan (Amy), my love.” Her thumb brushed over the ink which was etched smoothly into the paper and then flipped it over. She took a deep breath of air, and closed her eyes softly, then opened them as she exhaled her breath out into the air. A heavy weight which lingered in her heart all morning alleviated, and she opened the envelope to withdraw a letter from inside. At the top left corner of each piece of paper was a beautifully luminous hand-drawn flower and a little robin, which she stared at for a while constantly. Why on the day when the last group of soldiers were returning, did Mrs Blejan have her focus on the old worn letter she carried with her since last year instead of looking out for her husband? As she read the first page she got misty-eyed and droplets of tears weaved down her flushed cheek, but a warm smile crossed her face.

Out of the corner of her eye, she noticed a frail tired-looking soldier slowly limping past her. She immediately put the letter carefully in her pocket, wiped the tears from her eyes, and grabbed hold of a small bouquet of lotus, avas, and daffodil flowers tied together with a soft pink satin ribbon. She got up from the bench and walked over to him. “Excuse me, Sir,” she said as she reached him. He didn’t reply, so she took this as an opportunity to quickly spread out the flowers a little in an effort to make the bouquet look as nice as possible. “Excuse me,” she vocalised once more, and the older soldier stopped in his tracks. He turned and looked up at her with rheumy eyes scarred with a deep pain which rested in his tortured soul, and her left hand reached in her pocket to hold the letter as a sort of comfort. She knew this sorrowful looking man and her heart grew heavy once more. “Yes, what is it dear?” Her mind had drifted somewhere else before Mr Murphy replied to her “Oh, sorry” she exclaimed and brought up the bouquet and held it in front of him. “Welcome home, Mr Murphy, I’m so glad you’re back. I saw your family over by the main street.” Mr Murphy held out an arm and took the flowers delicately and brought them up to his nose. She watched as a tear fell down his cheek as he smelt the fresh sweet flowers, and she teared up once more. “Thank you, Mrs..Dear.” He reached out to hold her hand with his for a moment and both of their hearts smiled for a moment. “I…I heard the news about your husband…I am so sorry for your loss, dear. Mr Blejan was a great fella who had courage, resilience, and cared deeply for those he loved, and shared your love for the natural world.. Grateful that I knew him.” Mrs Blejan's breathing was shaky and her whole body was trembling. Not from shock, but because the kind words were like music to her ears; a songbird's melody. She felt his presence with her and knew that he was still going to be with her whether it be in a memory, or a laugh. “Thank you, Mr Murphy,” she said softly. The man gave her an empathetic look, “How long have you known?” Mr Murphy knew her since childhood and knew how she acted with fresh news, and this wasn’t it. “It took me a little bit to figure out, but I think I got a message on the first day that the troops were coming back that he wasn’t coming home.” He nodded as he understood, “I had some time to think about it a few days ago and that’s when I came to terms with it,” and she let go of his hand so he could go be with his family. She went back to her bench and sat back down to wait until she could give out the rest of the flowers.

Once all the flowers were given out, and the sun was growing tired and beginning to set, she left the empty station still reading over the letter. The sky was painted pinky orange which glowed across the countryside, and clouds were scarce as she walked back across the bridge and towards home. Frost scattered the paddocks and flowers along the pathway which glistened against the glow. Mrs Blejan smiled ear to ear, even though she felt a strange entanglement of feelings in her heart of grief, sorrow, and longing, she also had that of gratitude, and contentment. The letter from Mr Blejan comforted her heart as she heard his thoughts and feelings, and knew that he wanted her to continue to have hope for the future, and to live her life to its fullest. She could continue enjoying life. “Tut-tut,” she put the letter carefully back in her coat pocket and looked up to see the cheerful little robin frolicking energetically above her. “Hello there little one,” she said smiling and she began to gently whistle the melody of the old folk tune, as she felt comforted by the little bird's company. The little robin started to sing along with her as it followed her down the path toward her home.

Bryn Louchran - The Duck

“How fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks”

• Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night (1935)

Duck waddled towards the bipedal behemoth, who had spent the best part of half an hour sitting idly, tossing handfuls of seeds at the flurry of feathers gathered around his feet.

As the hail of seeds descended onto Duck’s back, his beady eyes scanned the park, watchful for the smaller bipedal imps that occasionally terrorized the pond. The brobdingnagian had once brought along two similar creatures but they were smaller, livelier, crueller, cackling insanely as they chased the paddling of his brethren, before being recalled by the colossus to play with the odd, bouncy sphere. It had been a few months since the last time Duck had been subjected to that unique form of torture but the scars where the feathers had been ripped out of his body by the two fiends remained.

Satisfied that the horrors were nowhere in sight, Duck turned his gaze to the giant before him.

Duck was an observant bird. He noticed that the food bringer had been coming more and more frequently as of late. It no longer cooed at the sight of white wings scrambling for seeds, or chased away curious beaks from their black rucksack. The hair on the head of the creature had long since turned white, the last embers of auburn hair that had flecked his hair when the visits had first started finally faded, and had managed to grow slim circles on its bottom half in the last few years.

The circles always confused Duck, whenever he saw them. The other behemoths still used their legs after all.

After brief consideration, Duck decided it didn’t matter.

The seeds were still brought. It didn’t matter to him how the years had ravaged the titanic creature. The pond still had water, the park was still green with grass and bushel, the routine that Duck had maintained for most of his life marched on unheeded. He and his paddling continue tottering through life irrespective of the happenings in the mountainous being’s life.

Duck scrounged the ground for the last remnants of seeds before swivelling his head to the humongous soul, quacking his thanks, and doddering his way back to the pond.

Duck didn’t look back as he began to swim through the pond, keeping an eye out for the delicious snails that hid beneath the surface of the water.

He had a routine to keep, after all.

……………………………………………………………………………………………………

The Man

“How fleeting are all human passions compared with the massive continuity of ducks”

• Dorothy L. Sayers, Gaudy Night (1935)

The Man maneuvered his bulky, electric wheelchair through the grass and bushes, wheels treading along the worn down path, before coming to a stop a short distance from the pond.

He waited patiently, watching the natural inhabitants stumble towards him, little white balls of feathers, quacking incessantly when they got to his feet.

He knew what they wanted.

It was one of the few things he could remember.

He threw the seeds that he had brought to the masses below him, the snowy mass scrambling to fill their beaks with as much food as they could. A small smile grew on the Man’s face, old, weary eyes crinkling with mirth.

The visits to the park were a good distraction from his deteriorating body, an opportunity to forget about the deep ache in his bones, and a welcome diversion from the slowly growing holes in his memory.

As his years of experience were lost to the ravenous maw of time, the ducks were a comfort. A routine, almost as old as himself, guided the man to his feathered friends, to his brief break from the troubles plaguing his long life. The debts, the surgeries, all the anguish vanished from his mind as he arrived at the pond.

When he was here, nothing mattered but him and the ducks.

Eventually, the feast he had provided wore thin, and his companions tottered back towards the pond, quacking as they went. The Man stayed silent, eyes tracking the ducks as they waddled away. A sudden pain in his legs made the Man grit his teeth. Faltering mind and failing body didn’t mix well, the pills he had been prescribed forgotten until the painful reminder.

He cursed his treacherous body, reluctantly piloting his wheelchair back up the worn down trail, away from his personal haven. 

Laura Cowles - Familiar

Statement of Intention

In my creative writing piece, titled ‘Familiar’ I wanted to create a piece of writing that feels authentic for the reader. I chose to touch on themes of nostalgia, mother and daughter love and change. I did this so the reader could relate to the narrator in some kind of way. I crafted this piece subtly and informally as a way to draw the reader in.

Familiar

I grew up near the centre of my town, with my mum and dad and older brother. We lived close enough to know everything that happened around but far enough to keep a level of privacy. There was nothing out of the ordinary with my family. We were the same as any other conventional family. Living off the wages of my dad, and my mum once my brother and I reached school age. I played with the right kids, the ones across the road and my mum’s friends' children. I didn’t experience the ‘naughty’ kids who did what they wanted, I experienced the good ones, the ones I needed to be like. And I was like them. I am still like them.

My mum brushed my auburn hair every night, pulling away the tangles as she spoke to me softly. I spoke back. In the morning, she would gently draw the curtains to let the sun naturally wake me up as she told me what was for breakfast. Eggs were my favourite, then jam on toast, then a sugary cereal, it was a constant changing favourite that she managed to keep up with. She would drop my brother and me off at school, give us each a kiss and hug goodbye, but I’d always get an extra squeeze.

The change came when I started at the local high school, it was no longer cool to like your mum or have her kiss you goodbye. I could understand this, and she did too. I would walk away from our car with my head held up, always fighting the urge to turn back. I had my good friends, my normal friends, my friends I’d known since I was 5. We knew the way to each other’s house like it was our own. We knew each other’s favourite song. And soon enough we’d know each other’s firsts.

My first was delayed. I was lagging behind. As my friends bragged about theirs, I found myself staring at their pink lips wondering how a boy got to kiss them. I knew I could try, but there was never the right time, or place, or boy. Soon, my friends stopped having firsts so I didn’t need to bother.

High school went by in a flash. I did my work. I got good grades. And I did an acceptable amount of extra curricular activities. I made my parents proud, just by doing better than my brother. I could go forward in any direction. My mum wanted me at university, my dad didn’t care as long as I was happy. I went to university.

I moved a couple of hour’s drive away, to a bigger city, with more people, more opportunities but less familiar love. There were no longer touches of love in every meal I ate. The noises of hundreds of other people woke me up in the morning. And my mum’s extra squeeze was left to my brother and dad.

My mum called me every night for the first month, telling me the latest news from home but always making sure I spoke back. My roommate would put her headphones on and read a book, something classical or romantic. She never seemed to mind my long calls and stifled tears. I was thankful for her kind eyes and our gentle murmurs before bed.

The lectures were filled with other young women, and only a few men, that’s just how it was. I interacted with everyone, as socialising was required by my mum. All my old friends had stayed in my hometown, I was jealous of them. Until I grew into a routine. I made friends with a few girls in my classes, we went out, I invited my roommate, she always came. I did the work, I helped others but I also had my first. It wasn’t like my friends made it out to be, there was no sloppy tongue or gross stubble, just me and her, in our room.

The year came to an end and I had passed all my papers with a B+ or higher. I drove home on the first day of summer, the windows down, allowing the wind to sift through my hair. I arrived late in the afternoon. I entered the suburb of my childhood, avoiding the frequent dips in the road. I pulled into our driveway and my mum rushed out. Our auburn hair entangled, along with our arms, tighter than ever before.

The house was the same, our neighbours were the same, my friends were the same. I basked in the familiarity of it all. However, I lay alone in my bedroom, with no murmurs, as my roommate was still two hours away. And I couldn’t laugh with my friends, as their words fell flat against mine. They still gossiped like we did in high school, about who’s dating who and if someone’s knocked up yet.

I chose not to think about the differences and instead focus on my family; my mum and dad still worked their nine to fives and my brother had picked up some work. They were happy, in a suburban middle class family kind of way, content with living in a town with only one supermarket and where everyone knew everyone’s business.

Oscar Kennedy - Forgetful Glance

The morning was bleak.

While waiting for the kettle to boil I did the crossword in the morning paper (22 across: What is a yacht with three parallel hulls?). While I was dismissing Catamaran as the answer, I got a text from Paul, asking if I’d like to go round to his for tea later. I quickly sent off a reply, saying that I’d like that very much. The click of the jug turning itself off rang out as I happily put “Trimaran” in the boxes.

I left my flat around 10, with Hamish (my pet Schnauzer). We walked by the artificial lake, which was made a few years ago by Three Oaks (The retirement village I live in), but I’m getting a tad sidetracked. I took Hamish for a walk down by the lake, I sat on a nicely constructed picnic table as Hamish (now off his leash) went around chasing the local mallards.

As I watched Hamish happily yap at and chase the local bird population, Doris came and had a seat next me. I had known Doris since before I came to Three Oaks. I think it was at the Edinburgh Fringe Festival in 1967 that we first met. Our eyes crossed over a pitcher of lemonade and ever since we’ve been on-and-off friends. We’d run into each other every couple years at the oddest times; such as when she was in hospital having given birth to her oldest, and I was getting a broken arm fixed up (roller skates have never been my cup of tea). Or the time our sons both entered the same Pigeon Racing competition, I won’t let her forget that it was my son that won, and she never fails to remind me that her son’s pigeon had been drugged (hogwash if you ask me).

Anyway, it was by happy coincidence that Doris and I both ended up in Three Oaks. So when Doris plonked herself down next to me, we naturally started having a good chinwag. We talked about how our children were doing (she doesn’t feel they visit enough either). Hamish sat with us as we discussed how Andrew & Charlie’s experiment of a second Bridge Club was doomed to fail. Hamish fell asleep around the time we started discussing Frank Herbert’s vegetable gardens.

Eventually Doris and I parted from the bench, with an arranged meeting for a spot of afternoon tea at the Seaview cafe at 3 on Friday. Hamish stretched and yawned as I got up to finish my walk around the other side of the lake.

After the walk Hamish and I popped into the Three Oaks tearoom, I fancied a cup of tea (and maybe even a slice of David’s raspberry tart!). I ended up sipping my tea while helping Harold with a jigsaw. (The tart had long since been demolished). I was looking at the picture on the box to see where the gnome I was holding had to fit. I guess my eyes aren’t as good as they once were, as what would’ve taken me a couple minutes in my youth, now took me quarter of an hour. But Harold’s always good for conversation, did you know that he used to be a police detective? He doesn’t stop going on about it, though when he’s telling a story for the first time they’re very interesting.

We were sitting there, slowly making progress on the jigsaw. But then Jared’s phone rang, Jared’s ringtone is Free Fallin’ by Tom Petty. Which is one of Hamish’s favourite songs. So he naturally jumped up from his place under the table and sent the jigsaw pieces flying everywhere. I hurriedly made apologies to Harold and everyone in the nearby area. There was a mixture of reactions, some of them were tittering disapprovingly, and the rest were all chuckling at Hamish’s bouncy nature. Harold & I cleaned up Hamish’s mess while he happily sat smiling and wagging his tail. I couldn’t bear to stay mad at his face for long, he’s truly just a bundle of joy. We departed, me with a solemn look on my face, and Hamish with an expression of pure undiluted happiness.

On the walk back to my flat I passed the graveyard. It's scary thinking that all of the people I see daily will eventually end up there. It’s an obvious reminder of the reason we all came to Three Oaks. That we don’t want to cause our relatives any strife when we eventually go, that a clean tidy end is why we came here. I try not to think about it too much. But with my flat being more towards the outskirts of Three Oaks, I do have to pass the graveyard when I’m going anywhere, and it’s hard not to have those kinds of thoughts.

But it’s hard just to let all that go, I mean we used to feel like we were making a difference in the world. Like we were the ones at the wheel of the car. But now we all feel like passengers, and not in the back like we were as kids. But in the passenger seat, looking out the windscreen at a world that’s left us as afterthoughts.

I mean, at first our kids couldn’t think of life without us, then went to resenting us, and then grew used to the fact that we’d co-inhabit the world. And now they’ve forgotten us. We all got a couple of visits in our first few years here at Three Oaks. But now all we’ll see are each other and the staff.

I want to feel like I’ve left something behind. Because, otherwise, what was the point?

Formal Writing

Emma Bradfield - A Little Life

Reading Response 1

Extended Text

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara

A Little Life by Hanya Yanagihara is a supposedly heart wrenching tale about a law school graduate, Jude, and his three friends, as they grow up after college. What is billed as a novel about the power of friendship quickly turns into a horrible play by play of every awful event Yanagihara could think to inflict on her main character. It is a well written novel, and achieves a sense of timelessness through omitting the mention of any contemporary events or media. This timelessness is key in focusing on the true center of the novel, which is the personal relationships Jude forms, and how they develop throughout his post-college life. But no matter how timeless and well written the novel is, it does not disguise the fact that it is full of graphic and often gratuitous descriptions of unspeakable trauma, with no promise of a happy ending in sight. That is the aspect of the book that I disliked the most - the lack of hope. If the purpose of media is to uplift and take us away from our day to day lives, A Little Life fails miserably in this goal