My Rose

She was on one of her afternoon strolls, taking in the sun, salty sea air and the sky. Her beautiful yellow dress flapped around her in the light breeze as she walked amongst the casuarinas, when she spotted something strange. It was so small she would have missed it if it wasn’t right in front of her, but on one of the lowest branches of the tree there was a hint of something pink. When she looked closer she realised that it was a rosebud, still very small, but there nonetheless. Vered knew that roses didn’t grow on trees, especially not casuarinas, so she was very intrigued. She took out her phone to take a picture, but when Vered looked at the photo the rosebud wasn’t there. She took a few more photos to the same result, her curiosity growing by the second. Even though she was sure it wasn’t, she reached out with gentle fingers to touch the bud and check that it wasn’t just an illusion. Hurrying, Vered ran home and returned soon after with her sketchbook and pencils. Getting comfortable she leaned against the trunk of a tree and began to draw. She sat there quietly humming to herself as she sketched, deep in thought. By the time Vered had finished her drawing the sun was setting, and she reluctantly made her way back home. Promising she would return soon.

The next afternoon she went back to the tree and found the rose still growing, so once again she settled down and did another sketch. She continued doing this day after day as the rose grew and became even more beautiful. Carefully recording each detail in her drawings. It became all she thought about, but she kept it a secret.

One day, when Vered came to sketch the rose it had finally blossomed. It was so incredibly stunning, yet it made her so sad. As she finished her final sketch, Vered cupped the stunning pink rose delicately in her hands, a single tear sliding down her cheek, and inhaled the sweet smell of its perfume for the last time.

Later, when they found her body beside the casuarina, there lay a sketchbook beside it. Inside were dozens of intricate drawings of a rose in a tree, from bud to bloom, along with a note. This is what it read:

My Rose,

Beautiful petals,

Soft and delicate,

One hundred shades of pink.

Lovely perfume,

Sweet and light,

But heavy enough to drink.

But Rose,

My Rose,

Why are you growing on this tree?

You are an incredible wonder of nature,

But you will be the death of me.

As you grew on that tree,

You grew inside me,

Both are places you aren’t meant to be.

You drained my strength,

As you grew,

But there was nothing that I could do.

Because you had already taken root.

Dear P

I’m sorry that I didn’t tell you, but I didn’t want you to worry. It was inevitable, this flower couldn’t be uprooted, and if I had tried I would have only been cut by a thorn. At first I was confused, but I grew to understand and accept it. I don’t mind so much now. It would have happened eventually, although I would have preferred to have gotten more time to spend with you. I drew these pictures for you. These pictures that mean so many things. Don’t be scared. Don’t be sad. Plant a rose bush, and remember me with a smile.

 I will always love you.

-V

Louie Elliott 

Purpose

The water swirled around my waist as I waited. The water shimmering with starlight on that moonless night. I slipped down into the water and rose back up to float on my back. Gazing at twinkling sky, the water covering my ears muffling any possible sounds. Lying there, my face bathed in starlight, I waited. I waited, and waited, and wondered what I was waiting for. The sun didn’t rise, so I decided to search for it as I waited. Wading through the water I searched for the sun. Sorting through the stars and checking in every little crevice in the universe until I found it, cowering on the very edge of existence. Speaking calming words to it, I gently lifted the sun and held it close to me, then returned it to it’s station bringing light back to the world and purpose to its existence. Maybe that’s what I was waiting for, a purpose. As I continued to wait I thought about the purpose of all other things in existence, and why other things that didn’t exists didn’t exist and the purpose they would have if they had existed. I thought about the purpose of anything existing and how if nothing had ever existed it wouldn’t matter. I thought about purpose until I had thought about everything that there is to think about it, as well as everything there isn’t to think about and everything in between, above, below, inside out and upside down. I thought until I thought I could think no longer then I thought some more about thinking. And still I waited for my purpose. I thought and waited and thought about waiting as stars were born and died. As I watched the universe age and evolve I contemplated everything that should be different, everything that was wrong and right and how the universe could be improved. There I waited, until the end of time, until there was nothing left except me, my thoughts and potential. I took all that potential and created a new universe, one full of purpose. I used everything I had thought about over the lifetime of everything and nothing to create this new universe, and when everything else had been created, I recreated myself, to observe and contemplate this universe, to find its flaws and improve it the next time. That was my purpose, but I wouldn’t let myself know that.

Louie Elliott

don't say it unless you mean it ('cuz i don't wanna hear it)

punch drunk kisses
under mistletoe
I'm missin' the older days

stars are missin'
and the moon is gone
so let's dance the night away

sat by the sea
just you and me
watching the boats float by

but now the shores are gone
and when you come home
you can't look me in the eyes

don't come back to me
don't say pretty please

and when you're with him on your knees
you'll think of me

so, honey,
go jump off a cliff
'cuz our bridge is burning bright

you painted it with gasoline
and let it all come to light

I call you "baby", the neighbours call you "whore"
fingerprints of the life we had before

don't say you love me more


- Aria

The Smell of Rain

I’ve always loved the smell of rain. I feel so tranquil when I do. The whole world becomes peaceful and quiet. All other noise gets blocked out and distant and all I can hear is the pitta-patta of each drop.

The rain has been with me every day something amazing or horrifying has happened. It rained when I  was born. It rained when I got my first A in school. It rained when I got my dog Cyndie and it rained when she died. It rained when I got my first D in school. And it rained when I was diagnosed with stage 4 brain cancer just over 3 months ago.

I didn’t pay much attention to what anyone was saying on the day of my diagnosis. I was more focused on the rain. I understood that I didn’t have much longer to live, so I tried to savour that rain.

It’s been a while since I heard my sweet rain. The closest thing to it is when I hear my dad cry next to my hospital bed after he thinks I’ve gone to sleep. Pitta-patta pitta-patta. It echoes in my empty room.

He isn’t doing it now though. It’s nice. 

I start feeling funny though. Not like when Cyndie chased her little tail but when she wasn’t home after school and my dad sat me down and it started to rain. I felt funny.

I hear my dad scream for a Doctor. Though after that everything becomes distant and I hear my sweet rain. Slowly, everything starts fading. Even the rain. I stop... and I think for only a moment. Then I try to smell one last time.

I’ve always loved the smell of rain.

- TJ

Leaves

Twisting and falling,

Spiralling down,

Winter is coming,

The earth spins round.

Leaves turn to auburn,

Trees lose their bark,

Falling like copper,

Frozen and stark.

Winter arrives,

A frozen wasteland,

No tree shall thrive,

Still they stand grand.

Then a shoot springs,

Up from the ground,

With a triumphant ring,

New life is found.

Flowers are blooming,

Bright colours surround,

Summer is looming,

The world is spellbound.

The world keeps a turning,

Life goes on,

Leaves keep falling,

Ever moving along.

- Bella

tincture

tincture

/ˈtɪŋ(k)tʃə/

noun

1. a slight trace of something.

———

You taught me the colour of pink. It was when you bumped into me and knocked me to the ground.

“Are you ok?”

I didn't understand the blush spreading across your cheeks. Isn't blushing supposed to be cute? Isn't it supposed to be girly? 

I grabbed your hands. The feeling of your big hands against my petite ones was comforting, it was nice, it felt safe. Pink made me feel like there was a secret, a little something there that no one else could see, but it was still there. 

Pink is the cuteness.

Pink is the blush.

Pink is the smile.

Pink is the excitement of something new.

———

You showed me blue when I looked into your eyes, their icy colour sent shivers down my spine. I liked it.

Doesn't blue normally mean sadness, like tears, but aren't tears clear? It's like the sky that we all look up at. It's like water, but it has different meanings. What does blue really mean?

I saw your eyes, the fading shades of blue and yet happiness is what I felt.

Blue is the sky.

Blue is the water.

Blue is the emotion.

Blue is the butterflies you made me feel.

———

You taught me purple, and for once I wish you hadn't because the purple marks that littered your face were not happy.

Purple is a sad colour. It means the start of something new, something painful. It's like a beautiful field of lavender that could rot and become a field of the dead, black lavender. 

I don't want you to wilt, that's what everyone else wants, but not me.

Purple is the darkness.

Purple is the power.

Purple is the intense.

Purple is my determination to save you from them.

———

Yellow was after, the different splatters of paint covering your arms. You showed me your painting, its yellow tones standing out against the plain background. I smiled. It's pretty.

The picture can tell a thousand stories.

“It's not that good, I'm not like Van Gogh when it comes to colours.”

Didn't Van Gogh drink yellow paint to be happy? Yellow means the sun because doesn't yellow mean happiness? That you are filled with joy? And why does yellow only ever mean the same thing?

Yellow is the cheer.

Yellow is the encouragement.

Yellow is the motivation.

Yellow is the happiness you bring me, but can’t feel.

———

Next you taught me red. You showed me the pain of the dark colour seeping through your jumper sleeves,

The red was spreading across your wrist, colouring the lines of your hand. Red means love, but it can also mean anger.

“I’m ok.”

That's what you told me when I left class after you, But you weren't ok, the red kept flowing, colouring the small bandaid you had plastered across the cut. Red was toxic and contagious. 

Red was not a happy colour.

Red is the anger.

Red is the backlash.

Red is the suffering.

Red is the pain no one else can feel.

———

You taught me green next, the chartreuse pill casing disappearing with a single gulp. You told me you were ok, but the green pills said otherwise. I don't think I like green.

They say green means healthy, but if it does then why were you swallowing those awful things? 

“It helps me feel better.”

That's what you said, but I didn’t understand, I thought it was them. I thought they spread the inky purple colour, created the dark red stains on your sleeves. Maybe you didn’t need to be saved from them.

Green is the sinister

Green is the evil

Green is the regret

Green is the sickness that rules your mind.

———

I wish you never showed me white because the white flowers that sat on your casket were a reminder that I couldn't save you from the evil inside of you. 

White was the plain.

White was the emotionless.

White was the end.

White was the empty page at the end of our story.

———

Grey was the last thing you showed me. The monochromatic nature of the stone was abrasive, its dull colour hurting my eyes.

‘I wish I could have saved you.”

The glass shard that was placed there all those months ago reflects the light, creating all those colours and memories you left me with, but they weren’t full like they were with you, they were merely tincture, just like you.

Grey is the choice.

Grey is the decision.  

Grey is the solitude.  

Grey is the true end.

———

Technology

How are we behind the screens?

This modern age all we do is tap,

Tap, swipe, click and send

Technology controls us 

Anyday, everyday

What’s the weather?

Who died

How do I do this.

It is devoid of emotion

Imagination

Ingenuity

Look outside, see the rain

Why ask technology when you

Can see for yourself?

Everyone dies

Why care unless they matter 

To you.

Why ask your screen

Experiment, explore

Technology has its own world

It’s like a lens over ours

It shows and reflects what’s real

But it’s not as good as the real thing

This lens can lie

It can warp and shift

Technology can show us the world

From our room

But can you breath in the air?

Blink in the lights?

Hear the sounds of freedom?

Technology....it’s a trap

It tantalises us with things

Things we never knew 

Sparking curiosity 

But, the curiosity never follows

It’s answered immediately 

The trap is after the curiosity

Is sated

You don’t want to leave

You make the screen your home

Followers, friends, 

It traps you

To not knowing the difference

You are the wolf

Curiosity is a hunger

Technology’s answers

Are bait

The apps are traps

You thought you were the wolf

Strong, smart and wise

You were just a bunny

If I were you I’d run from the screens

If you don’t stop soon

They’ll haunt your dreams