Highschoolers of The World Unite

What does it mean to tell a story? To explore the worlds of political upheaval and history. The imagined realities of craftsmen and artists. To relate oneself to the past and future. Experiences of known and unknown worlds. The familiarity of home, your favourite t-shirt, signature scent, the identical pork crackling eaten every Christmas. Then to imagine the worlds and lives outside your peripheral vision, works of speculation, Orwell, Huxley, Atwood, Niccol, or perhaps the historical, Trotsky, Gramsci, Marx. 

​

What does it mean to be powerful? We tell the stories of the Oppressors, imagine their power, solidify their expressions in gold and stone. The expressions of tyrants marked with the artist’s print. Shelley imagined, 

“Half sunk a shattered visage lies, whose frown,

And wrinkled lip, and sneer of cold command“.

​

Hussein, Leopold, Netanyahu. What are the untold stories? The solidity that fell, the bloody fingertips which shattered. Millions of hands pushing. Power. Gold engulfed in rippled sand. Darwish wrote,

“But if I become hungry 

The occupiers flesh will be my food

Beware…“ 

The mark of everyday people, of students, the stories untold, shadowed by the mark of the rulers. But what stories remain when power subsides? 

“Of that colossal wreck, boundless and bare. 

The lone and level sands stretch far away.”

​

The melodic crackle of Midnight Oil, “oh the power and the passion”. We have that strength. In imagined worlds of power and destruction the narratives of students are left absent. That is why I chant clear and keen, “Highschoolers of the world unite“. Whether carved in stone or whispered, claim the power and the stories.

​

- Eva Sutherland

A white, blank room. An old, wooden table on which a vase stood. Its golden criss cross patterns seemed to slither its way up to a single red rose which was delicately placed inside it. A large iron door stood unmoving in the corner of the room, casting a long menacing shadow. A ringing silence hung in the air.

BEEP

The silence was broken and a small light above the door pulsated a pale green. 

CLICK

The door slowly creaked open, allowing two men to walk steadily into the room. The black veils which concealed their faces swirled around their necks as they put one foot in front of the other. They circled the rose whilst the room emitted a low hum. The rose bent and wilted like an ice cream melting in the warm summer sun. As the first petal started to fall, the humm ceased. The two men halted and swiftly angled their necks to the ceiling. 

BEEP
A guttural scream penetrated into the room.

“LET MAE GOW!” A man yelled, his voice trembling. He was flung into the desolate room with his white shirt askew and spoiled with blood. 

“You shall not speak until you are spoken too, half-breed.” The two men said hoarsely in unison. The man picked himself up whilst he whirled and fixated his eyes on the iron door. He slowly started to hobble towards it, hand in front of his face, ready to grab, freedom almost at his fingertips. 

“JACOB!” The men screamed. The room buzzed and hummed. He stopped in his tracks. His muscles tensed and limb by limb his body moved itself into a straight line, hands twisted behind his back. Jacob, that’s the man’s name. Just one of the many more half-breeds trapped in this place. Dead or alive. 

“I… Agh… Pain,” Jacob whispered. The two men walked up behind him and pushed Jacob down to the ground like a little tin soldier. With their veils caressing their necks, they lowered their faces to the ground where he lay and gradually they put their fingers to their lips. The hum and buzz of the room stopped. Jacob’s body relaxed and his hands fell to the floor. His eyelids drooped and closed as the two men turned on their heels and stepped out of the room letting the large iron door close behind them. 

***

Humm. Buzzz. Humm. Buzzz. 

Tha boat es goin down!

Humm. Buzz. Humm. Buzzz. 

Tha wata es comin. Boat leaking!! HELP!!!

Humm. Buzzz. Humm. Buzzz. 

Wha es that! It… A read Petael?!

​

A single rose petal ripped off its stem and glided gently down to the polished, white floor. Jacob’s eyelids flung open. He screamed. He sat up on the hard, cold floor and pulled up his blue jeans to reveal his skin pulsating and stretching.  

Buzz. Humm. Buzz. Humm.

“Wha aer yo dooin!” He screamed. The Hum and Buzz of the room crescendoed while the flower slowly continued to wilt. 

Another petal sank to the floor. 

He screamed once more as his right arm went limp, his skin warping and stretching. In agony, he fell to the floor. His vision blurred as his eyes locked on to the red blob of petals. Jacob crawled over to the old wooden table as the third petal fell. 

His stomach gurgled and rumbled as the buzzing rang in his ears. He once again passed out, closing his eyes and resting his head on the marble floor. 

***

HUMMM. BUZZZ. HUMM. BUZZZ. 

Your Visa! Where is your VISA!

HUMMM. BUZZ. HUMMM. BUZZZ.

Wha aer yo talking abou- 

That's it. Take him away.

HUMM. BUZZZ. HUMMM. BUZZZ. 

Admiral, do you think it’s the right- 

Are you questioning my judgement, Commander?

***

The petals lay in a heap, leaving only a brown dried stem of a rose in the vase. Jacob lay on the floor, eyelids open with his eyes looking at the back of his head. A pool of vomit encircled him. A clicking sound filled the room. A camera fixed into the ceiling looked down at the body in horrified stillness. 

***

A white, blank room. Jacob’s body. An old, wooden table on which a vase stood. Its golden criss cross patterns seemed to slither its way up to a dried out stem delicately placed inside it. Apart from the table and the vase, a large iron door was placed in the corner of the room. Casting a long, menacing shadow. That was all on the bright screen of the TV. A man sat behind the screen. Staring. A knot started to tie in his chest, a tear trickled down his cheek. 

“Steve? You alright?” a man’s voice said behind him.

​

- James Hillier