With an ear splitting bang and a ground shattering blow, yet another bomb was hurled our way by the Germans.  We flinched every time, wanting to dive for cover but knowing that remaining brave was the best decision for the rest of the company. We rely on each other for the support that we need even though internally we are breaking down. This is the worst situation to be in, that is, fighting for your country with minimal training. I don’t even think we should be out here fighting. We are too inexperienced, everyone knows their fate; we knew our fate before we signed up but it’s not a choice anymore.

I am Private Thomas Peaceful and I am a soldier in the British Army. I have a family; I am a son, a husband and a father. I never wanted to join the army, but it’s not about what I want anymore. It’s about the safety of my generation and the future generation, I just wish I could help without being this close to death every day. I guess you could say that I’m a wimp, I live in the countryside, on a farm, all I have ever known is within a few miles of my home. Now I’m here, navigating my way around the French countryside with people I’d never met and never considered that I would meet until a few weeks ago. Yes, it’s only been a few weeks that we have been in training together, not long at all, not even long enough for me to remember everyone’s name, but that isn’t what I’m here for. I’m here to fight and I’m here to defend my country with my life.

To: Lady down the street
From: anonymous
Subject: Your ‘beloved’ dog

Hi neighbour,
I am emailing you on behalf of the street regarding your dog. I have noticed your pet greyhound has escaped quite a few times. I did some research and this is in fact because you never spend any time with your dog. Your dog is trapped in your backyard 24 hours a day, 7 days a week. I often wonder what your dog is doing when I am painting at home and that has influenced me to paint how your dog feels from my perspective. Out of spite, I also painted you in your dog’s position. Please, as a resident of our street, walk your dog at least once a day. Your dog, health and well-being will all thank you for it.

noun

a domesticated carnivorous mammal that typically has a long snout, an acute sense of smell, non-retractile claws, and a barking, howling, or whining voice.

Human;noun

a human being.

Slave' noun (especially in the past) a person who is the legal property of another

and is forced to obey them.

At school, he was given a task. Draw somebody you admire. He sat there and thought until the recess bell went, then he ran outside and forgot all about it. When he got home he ask his mother what he should do.

‘Whatever you do, don’t paint that Grandfather of yours. The darn psycho.’

‘Yes! What a great idea, I’ll draw grandpa. Thanks Mum.’

He ran off down the hallway, into his room and he sat down to draw his grandfather. The teacher specifically said to draw in pencil, but he liked texter, so he pulled out his favourite orange marker. He drew his grandfather’s wrinkled forehead meeting his bushy, unmaintained eyebrows. He shaped his bristle covered chin, and added a few extra chins underneath. He coloured in his eyes, blue, that were nestled under layers upon layers of skin. He then added is grey hair, which was always parted down the middle, perfectly straight, swaying.

The next day, he ran to school, picture in hand. He was proud of this piece. It really represented his grandfather’s face. Down the bottom corner, he drew the symbol that was on front of his grandfather’s house. He lived in a great big mansion. There were hundreds of rooms, lining endless corridors. There were lots of servants running around all the time, delivering food on trays and forcing his grandpa to swallow lots of ‘tic-tac’s’.

The teacher asked him who he drew.

I think it’s my subconscious attempting to make me realise the guilt they want me to feel. The guilt of not being out there, fending off those ‘jerry assholes’ myself. But that’s the intended purpose right? It is propaganda after all. I’m an academic, I can identify when I’m being manipulated. The images placed up around town square are meant to make us all feel sinful, like anyone who lays eyes on this artwork is failing their country and abandoning their countrymen as they lay mortal as the barrage of violence continued around them.

But at the end of the day, I haven’t been conscripted. They can’t make me go to war. Sure, they can condemn my inaction, persecute me for picking up a book instead of a riffle. But I’m smart enough and mature enough to make my own decisions, and right now I’m deciding to not voluntarily set myself up to die, simply because the government is putting up posters to make me feel guilty.

I try to fly under the radar, avoid being spoken to by my fellow pupils. But when you are the only German teenager in an Australian school during World War 2, you are not exactly the most popular person. My dad got transferred over here for work last month, he is a Nazi sympathizer.

Many of the other kids keep looking at me. I sit by myself at lunch, because no one wants to befriend that weird German kid whose dad is working for Adolf Hitler.

My mum encourages me to keep going to school, no matter how much I don't want to, but she doesn't know how alone I feel. It's difficult to tell her that because of my nationality, I don't want to continue going to School.

That day I went home from school, and dad asked how it was, I put on a brave face and smiled.. 'It was great dad'.

That same night, I heard mum and dad talking in the kitchen. Dad starting crying, and all I could hear was my comforting him. "It'll all be okay Anslem, life can't be like this forever". Apparently dad turned up at work and all of his stuff had been trashed, and across his door was written "Schwein" (pig).

That day my heart broke, at that moment, I knew I wasn't the only one who felt alone.

The sound of guns firing from what seems to be coming from every angle.

It’s a hard morning.

This is a hard day for all of us and especially for the horses. Lugging large cannons over this step rocky, hilly landscape almost seems to be like what could be the death of us. We’re extremely exposed to the war going on around us and yet we still manage to hold ourselves together and hike over the landscape. If we didn’t keep going then we would be letting the others down and I never want to be the reason as to why someone else’s life has been taken or risked any more than what it already is.

We are the 1^st Australian Divisional Artillery and we are going into action.

Weapons down and nothing left to protect them. Their faces in mortal shock and hoping that this will be over before they know it.

They flinched at every small move they made towards us and at us. Nerve stricken and unable to move. Our legs stuck to the ground, fear running down the back of the spine and tingling with terror.

She caught him looking at her sometimes. In the Waltz, she could smell his cologne drifting across the room, her thoughts ran wild, but at the end of the day she went home alone. 

He stopped coming to dance classes in October, war had been going on for 6 months now he had been forced to enlist. She had no thoughts, he was gone and she was never going to see him again.

Years later war had ended. Her fate destined her to end up alone. They ended up recovering his lettersshe found out he had a diary and he used to write about her.

So quickly I saw Mother Earth becoming an object. Something that
can simply be owned by a man and his slaves. She was always so kind to us, and
now I watch her in pain. Writhing. Begging to be freed once. I feel her pain. The
air thickens and no longer is a breath drawn easily, it now feels as if Mother
Earth is clawing at my lungs and begging me for help. Around me I see stumps of
things that were once beautiful. They were axed with shiny jagged metal. The sky
is dark and my heart aches. The white men have built cages around us. Fences,
the white men call them. They were made from the trunks of our once tall
standing trees. They use them to fence us in and define specific areas of the
land which is not theirs, but they believe it is. It should be nobodies. They have
ruined and claimed so much in their short time here, we lived here for hundreds
of years and the land thrived, the white men come and the land looks dead. They
stole our children many a time and tell us to walk like them, to talk like them
and to be like them. They don’t believe in Mother Earth’s spirit. Surely they
can feel her begging them to heal her. Sometimes I like to go for a walk. They never
let us go very far, never out of their sight. We like to just watch out on the
camp that we once shared and they now run. They don’t know how happy we were. They
don’t know what we once had. Soon enough we wont know. I wont allow myself to
forget what was once my reality.

A Bush Burial.  

I miss you already. Two days have passed and your memory is already fading. Your smile, your voice and your courageous spirit. Those days spent on the farm, rounding up the animals and tending to the crops. You were always willing to participate - your assistance was always appreciated though, know that. You were an imperative part of this family. Your sudden death leaves a dark void in our hearts and souls. This world took you too soon. This land, in its great beauty, took something from us that can never be replaced. My son, I was a fool to believe in this land so intently, with so much hope for us. For all of us. This voyage was supposed to be prosperous, to provide you all with a rich and opportunistic future. We never intended this. To bring you back would call for the power of God himself – to beg and plead for mercy, to admit to our mistakes and realise the full extent of our greed. Know, son that I will never forgive myself. For my trust in this perilous venture, I apologise. To your mother, which through my own carelessness, I stole you from her arms. Your distraught sister, once just as brave as you, yourself, now distant and untrusting. I can’t accept your fate, but we can live in your honour. Your belief drove this journey, and your sprit will thrive on.

feel to it. Drifting through the clouds at a height that nobody can reach you really makes you wonder and question why people are destined to live on the ground. Flying was always something I loved, but a war like this has changed everything.

Black smoke from explosions below ruin the once amazing view. People who look like ants are running away from the destruction occurring. Multiple fires are raging around the towns below, burning high and bright, lighting up the darkened smoke.

Ahead I see the enemy’s aeroplane flying straight towards our plane. If I don’t shoot, we’ll die and we’ll lose the war. If I do, and my shot hits the target, I will have killed another innocent man defending his country. One man dying can save thousands, but then again I will have blood on my hands. This man could have a family, a wife, children, but I do to, and I will do what I can to help my own. I have to fire.

Without another moment to spare I fire at the advancing aeroplane who has already started attacking but has missed by a long shot. He must be new.

The bullets hit directly on the wing, sending the plane spiralling down to the ground while I continue to drift on through the white fluffy clouds. Clouds that look so innocent can just be the cover up for a mass amount of destruction.

Reality is what happens to nobody but me.

I don’t remember when papa told us he was going to war, but I know now that I shouldn’t have let him. Mum was inconsolable, she just locked herself in her room and hadn’t even eaten in days. It was hard on her, papa was the love of her life she had given up a privileged life to be with him. Now she was alone a widow with no income and three daughters. Maria my eldest sister didn’t say much after the telegram came but I saw what she did, she smiled. She always hated papa he refused to let her marry Felix but now she can. Papa hated Felix I mean we all do, he twice her age and has been married at least four times with all of them ending badly. Amelia my second sister looked after us always checking up on us, always making sure we are okay. I don’t think we could cope without her, she cooks, she cleans and makes the funeral arrangements. Then there’s me the younger child, I didn’t know what to do when I heard the news I didn’t believe them.  I just shut down, stopped thinking, stopped talking I just stopped. It’s funny if I think about it we all went through the same event and we are now all looking at the coffin and I know we are all reacting differently. I can’t even look at it I refuse to see the proof. I know that he’s there under the flag in a box that he will spend eternity in and I know that he is gone and that it’s too late now to stop him going to the war.  

I found her diary lying on the park bench. It was in good condition. I started flicking through it and found that she has written something for every day up until last Friday. I guess that’s when she left it on the park bench. Her writing is very simplistic and it seems like she never wants to go into detail. It feels wrong that I took this lady’s diary home but there’s something about the way she writes that intrigues me.

Although I have deprived her of the precious diary, it will be useful to me. I plan on using it for my art class where we have to create a piece revolving around the theme ‘perspective’. I’m thinking that I could create something very interesting if I just draw what I envision this lady to look like. I try to get a sense of who she is by studying her diary more and more. It’s hard to figure out what she likes and dislikes due to her diary entry’s being merely recaps of her days. Although, I did find something. I found that she has wrote about her dog more than anything else so I assume that she is a fan of it.

*Two weeks later

I have finished my piece. The lady’s mature writing suggested to me that she was older so I drew her in an olden day way. I left the piece black and white and incorporated her beloved dog like many of the olden day photographs. As I couldn’t find out much about her appearance throughout her diary, I left her features to remain a mystery. This is what I came up with

Painted by Peter Daverington.

America's West Homes. Las Vegas’ #1 homebuilder, 30 years of building excellence. The best built new homes in Western America. Live in the thriving metropolitan city in Nevada. Population: 2 million. The Entertainment Capital of the World.

The drive to our new home was excruciatingly long. Our new home in Stonebridge is 4,000 sq. ft. The Grand Canyon in view. Our dream home, in an amazing location. The grand living room, spacious dining room, gourmet kitchen, large game room , master bathroom and did I mention the infinity swimming pool in our backyard? Close to Vegas City and my new school which I will be soon attending, Lake Mead Christian Private Academy. Some people may think that the new manufacture of homes in America’s West is “destroying nature”, but the logging happened well before we arrived. It was inevitable. Why should our new home affect anybody else? We can't all be expected to live like tree hugging hippies.

The ‘white people’ don’t understand how they are making us feel. They don’t understand our way of life. It was so beautiful before they came, the land spoke to us and the trees were family. Life was free, we had fun and lived without care. We didn’t have to worry about fights or death or doing the wrong thing, like crossing the boundary line that separates us from them. They have taken over our land, destroying our home. They don’t understand our way of life, the concept that not everyone lives like they do, in a home with school. It really hurts, they have taken away the one thing we love more than anything in the world – our home. I don’t think that it is fair that they can just come to our land and shut us out and build cities when it wasn’t even theirs in the first place. What makes them any more special to us that they can take over our way of life? This is what I think about all the time now, watching from our fenced off hill, over what they have now named ‘Geelong’ a monstrous city next to the ocean, full of foreign things that we don’t understand.

Norman Lindsay - “Quick!” 1918

It was 1918, I had been in Europe fighting at the Western Front for four years now. I had survived everything this war had thrown at me, until now. For the past four years my reality had been fighting, digging trenches and constantly being surrounded by mud. Every day I woke up surrounded by other men in the same position as me, we were all cold and we were all missing home we had all come from different places but here in the middle of war we all had the same reality.

On this day I had been instructed to go on patrol across the front line we were too see what was happening and to report back of anything that could create immediate danger for us. We were patrolling the streets when we saw a group of German soldiers coming towards us, there must have been ten of them at least. I could feel my heart starting to race. Everything seemed to go in slow motion all of us were just as scared as each other.

The German soldiers were approaching us and it was clear that we were outnumbered, they started to shout out too us in an aggressive tone, I was so scared. I was a man at war representing my country in a battle most of the time I felt strong and proud of myself but right now I had never felt so small and weak in my life. As the Germans got closer they got out their weapons they had shot down three of our men already, was I next? Its funny looking back at that day, I was lucky I had gotten

away, I had survived. Although we all came from different places and had different pasts on that day when we were faced with death we suddenly all had the same reality. So maybe reality doesn’t just occur to me, sometimes when people are in situations together they are faced with the same reality just different outcomes.

The world is a beautiful place to be born into, if you don’t mind happiness not always being so very much fun. If you don’t mind a touch of hell now and then just when everything is fine, because even in heaven they don’t sing all the time.

The world is a beautiful place to be born into, if you don’t mind some people dying all the time, or maybe only starving some of the time which isn't half bad if it isn't you.

Oh the world is a beautiful place to be born into, if you don’t much mind a few dead minds in the higher places. Or a bomb or two now and then in your upturned faces. Or such other improprieties as our Name Brand society is prey to, with its men of distinction and its men of extinction and its priests and other patrolmen and its various segregation and congressional investigations and other constipation's that our fool flesh is heir to.