We all know that when we talk about Australia, we’ll bring up places like the Sydney Opera House, the Twelve Apostles, Melbourne City Centre, the massive Uluru rock, and the stunningly beautiful Great Barrier Reef. These five national icons attract the lion’s share of its millions of tourists, and have graced the faces of about an equally large number of postcards sold each year.
Creative Hall
Hands
Written by Rachel Goh
Five fingers
on each hand
make ten
yet, still,
they
fall short
of reaching
the cookie jar on the topmost shelf
the eraser in the nook between wall and desk
and
the hands extended to you
over the railing
your eyes say you’re tired
you’ve had enough
you want to let go
and
the wind tugs at your feet
tantalising,
promising
an eternal rest
yet, still,
these hands,
five fingers on each making ten,
seize and,
cling
on to that lifeline
you stretch a hand up
ten fingers,
five on each,
fall short
in the end
Alive
Alive
Written by: Mugilaa Selvaraja
When the hollow depth within you
Bursts into millions of flames
You’re awakened by your being
A heart thumping so fast
You feel alive
Gasping for breath
To know nothing can be
A better feeling than this
Here and now
Alive
The carte blanche present
In your very hands
ECHO: Stories from 2018
For our last article of 2018, ECHO has decided at the suggestion of one of our writers, Natasha, to compile a series of passages from …
Rainbow Colours; monochrome skins
Poems by Rachel G. and Koh Ze-Wen
Rainbow Colours
Rachel G.
Red is –
the flush of your cheeks
the autumn leaf in your hair
the smudge of lipstick on your lips
Orange is –
the colour of the sunset against your skin
the fruit you love so
the fence of your father’s house
Yellow is –
the shade of your favourite sweater
the sunray warming your skin
the canary you watch take flight into the skies
Green is –
the colour your eyes used to be
before white it turned
Blue is –
the sky of
the day we last spent together
the colour of your hands
when all is said and done
and you’ve gone cold
Indigo is –
the bruise on your cheek
the smeared mascara
on your tear-stained face
Violet is –
the mark on your neck
tattooed fingerprints
monochrome skins
Koh Ze-Wen
there is no teenage emotion
that is quite the shade, or
temperament, of
shame.
anger, and its cuts – trendy;
grief and its roots, in your lungs –
easy to romanticise, that kind of
suffering.
but shame
is ugly, sits
in your skin, acid
in your stomach, sizzling.
for a teenager, no label
is worse than
try-hard.
cringeworthy.
no scald quite like
caring when nobody else does.
we wear apathy like armour.
monochrome skins, shifting
to conceal
what is embarrassing.
(our hearts)
Ethics in the Sports Industry
Ethics is defined as the set of moral principles that govern a person’s behavior or the running of an activity. Unsportsmanlike conduct, similarly, is a term defined as an offence in sports that violates the sport’s generally accepted rules of sportsmanship and participant conduct. Throughout history, there have been instances when the behaviours of certain sportsmen and athletes have been questioned.
60 Seconds
Written by: Natasha Effendy
the night is young,
but it ages too quick
under my fingers.
i feel his breath
blossom within the radius
of my flushed skin
as his facial features near mine…
my body and nerves stiffen,
ready for what’s to come next.
he steps in;
he dares to move in
with the crevices of his
rosebud lips that remind me of
springtime
in the middle of this winter;
they touch mine,
and my emotions implode.
honey.
that’s all what i could think about
because that sweet, slow taste
hangs reminiscent
upon my own tongue
and feelings
which inevitably begs for more.
one minute.
that’s all it took
for my world to wake up
from a darkness
that settled in my chest –
my night brightens.
i feel the fireflies and
Christmas lights
switch on;
resurrecting the old flame
i used to smother
until now.
Untitled (due to the sheer indecisiveness of an overthinker)
There I was, standing in front of a bookshelf in a bookstore of a mall on what seemed to be a lazy Sunday afternoon, as the store workers were either idly meddling with their little oblong screens as they stared into it with droopy eyes, or simply deep within the dreams of an afternoon nap, drool seeping its way down the side of their mouths. The store itself wasn’t crowded; a couple of children with their parents – worn, exhausted and withering like ghastly undead cadavers (which is unsurprising considering they were very likely soaked in a midlife crisis), browsing the stationery section or in a panic looking for materials for a last minute school project; and a few others, like me, trapped in ‘decision-making purgatory’ within the aisles of the endless labyrinth of bookshelves.
Awake & Alive
There, standing behind my father, steadfast in her beauty and in her support of my father alike, is my mother. It’s not her that I’m taken aback by, it’s the boy next to her. He’s the spitting image of Mr Boyd, this boy, with the same obsidian eyes and platinum blonde hair. He smiles directly at the corner, cool and close-lipped.
“That – that’s me,” I say.
Engraved Ink; Unuttered Rage
Engraved Ink
At the end when the heartbeat stops
And the lifeline leaves the chest
I would have remembered to have left behind the words
Delicately penned
To wonder the soul yet to read my lines
Would have deciphered my mind
A writing dedicated to writers written by: Mugilaa Selvaraja