Horror Story - Academy of Mary Immaculate

The works below are to be found in the magazine known as ‘The Mirror’ which is now anannual publication of the College.AdventureThere once was a man who loved adventureAdventure he would seekTravel far to foreign landsClimbing the highest peaks.Every year when he came backWith stories of great deedsThe villagers would gather roundAnd fulfill his every need.Then he’d tell his storiesOf dragons, lands and rooksWhile the villagers would listenAnd record his words in books.Then his woe beganWhen one year he did not come backThe villagers were greatly worriedMaybe he’d been attacked!Ten years passed, no sign of himThe villagers presumed him deadThe only thing that remained of himWere the books that people read.A messenger came that frightful dayTo tell them of some newsThe adventurer had fallen in loveWith a girl from the land of Pews.The villagers were greatly angeredHow dare he leave them blue?

For ten long years they’d been worried sickWhile he safely lived in Pew.The villagers did not believe in revengeBut ten years is a long time to waitThey packed their bags and toughest clothesBlinded by a fearful hate.The journey to Pew was perilousMany people diedFrom freezing bones and hunger;But the village turned a blind eye.Over mountains, rivers and desertsThrough a maze of treesFrom dawn till dusk hardly restingThrough scorching heat and freezeThey had an adventure of their ownA dangerous one at thatStarted with a hundred and lost more than halfBefore they reached Pews flats.Marching to his homeMerciless they wereThey didn’t care for anyoneAs long as they could hurt.They reached his lovely mansionThen quickly they would hideSpread around the complexWaiting until nigh.Then there was the timeWhen she came to water her plantsIf you could see her beautyYou’d want to sing and dance.

Her eyes were like blue diamondsTwinkling from withinHer lips a softish pinkDancing when she’d grin.Eyebrows of perfect shapeA tender button noseBeautiful slim bodyEars like the petals of a rose.The most amazing thing about herWas her waist length black hairIt shone with the moon’s reflectionAnd dangled without a care.Unfortunate for her thoughThe villagers couldn’t seeThe beauty of this ladyThey couldn’t let her be.They snatched up upon their shouldersThen quickly they set offBack the way that that they had comeWith their adventurer’s love.Once he learned of her disappearanceHe cried and wept all nightThen early in the morningHe learned of the villagers’ plight.He was certainly enragedBut luckily for themHe didn’t want revengeJust his beautiful gem.He set out straight away

Back to where he was bornTo retrieve the love of his lifeTo whom he was sworn.Through rain, hail and thunderRavenous hunger and snowThe adventurer felt no painOvertaken by sorrow.Wasps stung and his feet grew blisteredRain poured from aboveBut the adventurer didn’t feel any of theseSo strong was his love.Finally after a week long journeyThe adventurer reached his homeWhat he saw greatly shocked himThe entire village was alone.Once there had been a flourishing villageNow barely twenty people leftThe journey back and forth to PewHad gotten rid of the rest.Now into his cottage he could seeAll twenty five guarding his loveGuarding her fiercely, but when they saw himRefusing to give her up.He fell to his knees as he realizedHow much the villagers loved himHe asked them for their forgivenessConfessing all his sins.For the villagers had kidnapped his wifeJust for his attentionTo prove how much they loved him

They had no bad intentions.So together they made a dealAnd loved each other againThey’d live together in the villageRight until the end.Sabrina HennessyYear 7

How to be a BoganThe Bogan is an important part of the Australian culture, yet a dying breed. With the aid ofAustralian comedies such as ‘Kath and Kim’ and ‘The Castle’, which openly and cruellymock the bogan culture, bogan families are waking up to themselves and deserting theirheritage. The following article attempts to instruct those interested on just what a bogan is,and exactly how you too may become a bogan, to ensure that we preserve this rich part ofAustralian culture.Attire:First of all, you must always be able to recognise a bogan from their clothing. A typicalwardrobe should consist of tracksuit pants (tracky dacks) or loosely fitted jeans which providethat classy, most desired look went bent over. Another variation of this is the tight short shortsor tight footy shorts. ACDC t-shirts are a necessity, however, ensure that they are at least twosizes too small, to reveal as much body art (tatts) as possible (this can be achieved by simplypurchasing the cheapest shirt you can find, and washing several times). The right footwear isvital when perfecting your look. Only thongs (usually pronounced fongs), ratty work bootsand moccasins are acceptable. Don’t forget to accesorise with your favourite Collingwoodscarf and beanie to complete your look. However, if all else fails, pay a trip to the localfashion capital Werribee plaza, which should provide you with the perfect ensemble.Hygiene:Hygiene should be kept to an absolute minimum and may even become a fashion statement.Probably the most renowned trait of a bogan is their mouth jewelry or teeth. There should beat least two teeth missing. At least one of these should be visibly missing from the front of themouth. A spectrum of colours is recommended for that classic, timeless look. This lookgenerally achieved through lack of brushing and flossing for at least five years, yet some havefound that walking into a local Frankston establishment, wearing your favourite pink shirtmay aid in speeding up the process. Hair should rarely be washed and styles may include aclassic mullet, you may like a rats tail, or you may wish to adopt the popular peroxide blondelook and team it with dark brown, black or grey regrowth.Occupations:Only part time work is acceptable This may include jobs such as a garbage truck driver(known in the industry as a Garbologist). However, make sure a false name is used to ensuresocial security payments are kept regular, you don’t want to WORK for the dole.

Lingo:It’s all good and well to look like a bogan, but to really fit the mould, you must be able tosound like a bogan. Nicknames are an essential part of the culture. If you’re skinny, try Stix,or if you’re a redhead, try Bluey. Be original, and don’t forget to give your friends nicknamesas well. Similar to nicknames, you may wish to shorten the names of others. For instance,Sharon becomes Shazza. For everyday conversation, some common words you may wish touse are: youse (you) as in, ‘where are youse going?’ or ‘stuff youse’(as an insult); nuthin(nothing) as in, we are doing nuthin; sumthin (something), ‘we are doing sumthin’; anythink(anything), as in ‘I don’t want anythink’; wiv (with) ‘can I come with you?’; Dun (done) ‘Idun it already’; brang (brought) I brang it home; Seen, as in, ‘I seen it the other day’; arks(ask) ‘Can I arks you a question?’; and them, ‘I hate them people’. If it makes it any easier,just attempt to murder the English language on all occasions and you should be able to pulloff a fairly convincing bogan vocabulary.Relationships:Every bogan needs a missus (wife). She should be a good looking Sheila; a trophy wife. Somecommon bogan names include Sheryl, Shazza, Shirley and Sheila. Your missus should alwaysbe up with the latest fashions, this season, fake tan is a must, especially when paired with anice pair of tight short shorts or a mini skirt. Your Sheila should know how to pick up a goodbargain, and you may need her as a gifted shoplifter on those days when you’re short of cash.Pass Times:The most common bogan pass time is drinking. Drinks may include beer (particularly V.B )or pre-mixed drinks such as a ‘bundie and coke’. Many wish to pair this favourite pass timewith a packet of cigarettes or ‘ciggies’. A nice trip to the dogs (or greyhound races) is also adelightful way to spend you evening. Be sure to use any spare cash you might have onbacking a ‘sure fired winner’. You may wish to spend a night at the footy (most likely aCollingwood match) or perhaps you would like to treat your missus to a night out on the town,try a nice meal at McDonalds, however, if you really feel like celebrating, really lash out andtry the local Chinese restaurant. Of course, most of these pass times will inevitably lead to thepub, so ensure to become a regular at your local.The lifestyle of a bogan is a relaxed and enjoyable one. Hopefully, with these tips, you’ll beon your way to sampling the fruits of the bogan lifestyle, and soaking up all it has to offer.Bryony SinnottYear 10

A Clerical ErrorFather Mortis could not stand it. He could not abide its being there. It tormented him, mockedhim, leered at him, until he could stand it no longer. Infuriated, he tore towards the church’sonce pristine stone wall and ripped up by the roots the clover that had defaced it. There! Thechurch was once again flawless. As it should be.It was Saturday and the little village of Lestershire had queued up to go to confession. Thisact was done ritually; partly to cleanse the soul of a past week’s sins, but mostly to be seen.That was the way it was done in Lestershire, and that was the way Father Mortis accepted it.Indeed, confession in Lestershire was much like anywhere else, but that did not change hisfeelings towards it. The lies, the deceit. Husbands thinking of other women. Wives thinking ofother men; mere children already beginning to steal. It ate away at him; the total lack ofperfection chilled his very soul. He felt he could only ever discipline the town by imposingupon them prayers of penance that would rarely be said. All these details he fumed over as hecounted the week’s collection. Things were not as they should be. A penny, a button, somenotes and an almond. Surely it must have been dropped in by one of the children, hoping thatin the eyes of God it would be seen as a donation. “But not in mine,” he muttered, as hecrushed the brittle nut.Almonds. Almonds. Almonds! All through that night they haunted his slumber. He could tastethem, smell them. They filled his dreams until he woke. He knew then what they were tellinghim. The only way to cleanse this vile town, to be rid forever of the sins plaguing his mind.He chuckled a little, then set to work.“Lamb of God, you take away the sins of the world, grant us peace,” chanted the parishionersas they shuffled towards him. He looked at them carefully, distinguishing their features beforedaintily placing the wafery slivers on their tongues. How many times he did this he could nottell. At last the face he had been waiting for arrived before him. Smiling a little, Father Mortisblessed the man, placed a special wafer on the sinner’s tongue and watched him waddle away.This procedure was repeated for three more of the ‘unclean’. From that day forward, eachweek, he would place tainted communion wafers on the tongues of sinners. And each weekthey would grow sicker, yet never understanding why.The first to go was a Mr. Wilkins, dying of ‘undetermined causes.’ A man so twisted with thethoughts of other women that one night he forgot that he was married. He was not missed.Neither, in fact was Mr. Brahms, or Mrs. Pickering. This, Father Mortis thought, might finally

quench his thirst for vengeance. But no, no, there were others. Many others. Each time asinner was gone, Father Mortis was closer to the ultimate, immaculate perfection that he solonged for. He soon discarded any notions of innocence, repealed any thoughts of virtue,pulled asunder the very fabric of purity. No-one was clean, no-one! Until, at last, a wafermeant for one was given to another. The other being a child of only nine.Father Mortis held the funeral for the boy who had died of the ‘mysterious illness’ that hadplagued the town. He looked from the mother beyond her tears to the quietly sobbing fatherand then, once again, knew what to do.Alone, in the church, he sang the hymns and blessed the bread. He crossed himself and askedfor forgiveness. Then, as he had done to so many others, he placed the wafer, on his owntongue. This one, however, was not just sprinkled with cyanide. It was sodden with the dreadliquid. To ensure his own death, he drank what was left of the poison from the bottle, andwith his dying breath uttered the immortal words: “Thy will be done”.Joanne ByrneYear 10

On the outside looking in…On the outside, looking in, the water appeared bluer, brighter and more inviting than anythingI had ever seen. Golden rays of light reflected from the blue wash of waves into my stingingeyes. Looking down into the shallow blue murkiness of wash, you could never imagine whatthe ocean floor really contained. Another world entirely, with colours and shapes and life, thatI liked to dream I was a part of.It was those days that I remembered the most, sitting on the hot leather seats of the boatstaring down into the blue, watching the twisting, shimmering light that reflected as wetravelled to that little reef-clustered island. We would arrive at just the right moment, whenthe sea was clear and bright, when the waves slowly rolled into shore, when the tourists hadgone back to the Grand Silver Boat for their air-conditioned lunches. The ocean was ours forthe afternoon.I could never stand waiting for things, so watching my Dad carefully anchor the boat, or mymum apply the fifteenth layer of sunscreen, or properly fix our goggles and flippers, seemedto take hours. Finally I could run through the waves into the water. My sister would chaseafter me and quickly grasp my hand as we began to swim. I never liked this. However, I hadheard so many stories from the locals at the pub whose eyes would shine in delight at theopportunity to savour another tale of sea, whose sunburnt lips formed crooked smiles, as theyslammed their finished pots on the hard worn bench when they reached the most dangerouspoint in the story. Their gripping stories of sea snakes, crocodiles that had swam too far fromthe river, and of people who disappeared, reminded us not to set off by ourselves. So, holdingmy sister’s hand I would swim for hours looking down into the water, imagining that I fittedperfectly into this world.The colours of the reef like nothing I had seen before; they were brighter, more intense andcondensed together amongst the fish, the shells and the coral on the ocean floor. Youwouldn’t see these colours in a painting, in a photograph or even anywhere else on the earth.They were exclusive to this stretch of sea. I would follow the lazy fish that would swim justout of reach through mazes of coral until they disappeared in the depths of the blue, ormanaged to camouflage themselves perfectly in a spectacular clutter of colour. No piece ofthe ocean floor was the same. It would quickly change in depth and colours, until finally yourealised you had completely swam past it and were staring at an empty sand ocean floor.

The deception of the reef was perhaps what intrigued me the most. It was not something youcould hold, or take a piece of, even touch for a second. The coral draws you in closer andcloser. Its almost hypnotic soft sway with the ocean, its surreal textures and depth, and thearray of colours blinding amongst the bright blue wash of water. However, it was too lateonce your skin touched it, brushed against it, if for a second you grasped for that beauty. Thathypnotic coral could easily cut any skin that touched it, leaving behind a stinging line ofscratches that would soon infect if not dealt with quickly. As I would sit on the ledge of theboat watching my mum rub the sticky yellow ointment into my skin, I would always wonderhow something so inviting and so soft could sting so badly. How could it scratch into my skinand yet provide the fish with shelter and food. Perhaps I didn’t fit so perfectly in this world.The fish were always darting just out of reach taunting us with their patterned coats and frillyfins. Memory is the only thing that can preserve the colours of the coral and the patterned fish.Greed allows some to take the coral from the sea; yet again it is deceptive as the coral turnsinto a rough bone white structure, completely losing its original brilliance, leaving instead acold reminder that it is not something that can be taken, or should be taken.So many times when swimming with my sister, through the mazes of colour, you could seewhere a person from that Grand Silver Boat had thought that somehow they could fool the sea.That they could take a piece of it home, and show off the colours and the magic it displayed.They were foolish, they believed that somehow, in their brick veneered lounge room thecolours and feelings would come to life and colour their silver-grey existence. That perhapstheir cold pet shop bought fish, would dance amongst the coral, like others had in the reef.That perhaps this kind of magic can be manufactured. Yet the patches of coral near where thegreedy hand had snatched at this life would be left broken, half grey, an empty patch amongstthe clutter of life. And the captor of the coral is left with cold, white rock, that in no wayrepresents what was seen, what it was. This is the deception of the reef that perhaps intriguedme the most. It is only something that can be remembered, something that can be visited, andsomething that can be seen through the eye of memory.However, my memory of these afternoons is not perfect. In the excitement of a day swimmingoff a small tropical island, of being able to see below the blue reflected light into a world thatI hardly knew, I would forget the sunburn, the stinging cuts where my leg had brushed tooclose to the coral, the salt burning into my eyes, the uncomfortable flippers and goggles, thecoarse sand that would never be completely washed from our skin. And, worst of all, the tripback home where the boat would need to be put back onto the trailer and washed out. In mymemory of those afternoons, I would somehow forget those little annoyances and reminders,

until the next time I was once again promising myself that I would wear more sunscreen, orwould fix my goggle straps.The brilliance of these afternoons, the enjoyment and wonder I felt when visiting the reef,during my time living in Cairns is not something I will ever forget. It is a memory that I canonly preserve through flashes of colour that resemble what I saw beneath the waves of water.Looking into that water, I was an outsider, something that did not fit into the perfect worldthat had lain before me. Yet as I recall it, looking down into the blue, holding my sister’s hand,I was a part of that ocean. I was not a tourist who belonged in a Grand Silver Boat, whowished to take something from it, to hold that kind of beauty in a jar and call it mine. Instead Iobserved from above, taking in the colours, the patterns, the shapes, the salt, the stinging cuts,that blue ocean that will never be mirrored in a painting or in a photograph, and I store it inmy memory. My memory is not greedy for this part of ocean, it simply recalls these moments.Instead, it looks back upon our lazy afternoons swimming, as some of the happiest, mostfulfilling moments. Times when you realize that there is so much more to life than businesses,money, careers and all the rest that fits into the category of what a person should do.On the outside, looking in. That underwater world is something always preserved in mymemory.Sam SperlingYear 12