Rotary Young Writers’ Competition

In Spring, English scholars entered the Rotary Young Writers’ competition. Judges commented that they were extremely impressed by the high standard of entries, and several of the scholars were highly commended. Congratulations to Charlie (Year 9) and Chiara (Year 10), who both won not only the local heat in their age categories but have both gone on to win the regional competition and have now been entered into the National Final. Well done all.

Renaissance Observed

With midnight feathers and weary travellers’ eyes, the echo of the raven’s call cascades into the now silenced, scarred, air, as she sits in judgment, witness to the rebuilding of a soul, the efforts of rebirth. 

Tired wings rest, as her heart yearns to tell them how, through their own struggles and pain, she has seen others inspired, a call to arms to fight their own fight; stronger, braver, for a story shared. 

Observing reaper of souls and emotional torture. How, after failures and defeats, do they not surrender to the cruel blade of fate that has mocked them and laughed so aggressively from the shadows?

Sitting within the skeleton of the wilting tree of tormented memories, the raven bears witness to the rebuilding of a soul, the efforts of rebirth, crawling their way out of darkness towards the beacons of light. They reconstruct themselves, flying out of gloom. They rise reborn and enlightened from the maleficent ashes of despair. 

Her eyes glint, as the now strong light that offers up hope to others, reflects from her knowing pearlescent eyes, proud that she has witnessed the rebirth of such a treasured soul. Their family protective and embracing, as they fill the void once filled with turpitude, with their own light. 

As empires have rebuilt and conquered before, now the raven spreads her wings and beats them hard, circling above and calling to all of her jubilation, harbinger to a rebirth. 

Charlie, Year 9

Conflict: Orchestral Arrangement

Cracks emerge in creeping corners like

Snakes upon a vine, a writing tone, a dissonant

Chord that worms into the mind of the orchestra crescendo

And shrieks in panic and yowls and stings and cries

And shudders into a nuclear climax that

Rips and burns and tears and rains

Down like acrid hellfire onto burst bleeding ears.


Silence rings 

A peal like tinnitus 

After the deluge.


The drum begins a steady beat

Shaking off rubble from rubbed-raw feet

A feeble melody, burbling, hooting crisp and spring

Broken flutes and mangled harps and shattered trumpets cling

To remains. They scratch into the soil

Together, a new harmony born from steep and toil.

Together, a new harmony born from steep and toil.

The conductor is dead.

So brass and string alike forge the path ahead.

To leave behind the splintered spikes.


We turn another page.

The timbre sweet and still.

A rising sun, a golden age, a resting stone, until


D.C.Al Fine

Chiara, Year 10