By: Isaac Lim

The iron-forged steel handle was cool to the touch, worn out from the stream of regular customers opening and closing the gateways to heaven. Patterns and engravings faded away to display the bronze that laid beneath it. The tinkle of bells and the exotic smell of freshly brewed coffee were the first things I noticed. The gentle crackling of the coffee beans was a tune I would never get tired of listening to. As I settled into a seat next to the view of the outside world, the café took on a different colour. The waiter hastily scribbled down my order as the sickeningly sweet scent of pastry wafted over to where I was seated. Protesting, my stomach growled louder than the proud lions of the Savannah.

The constant humming of machinery was hypnotizing; it was simply enchanting. The crushing of coffee beans by the gleaming silver contraption was like the crackling of wood in a fireplace. Humanity has just grown so much since the Industrial Revolution; back in the days of old, we crushed beans with our hands, but now we have chrome-plated automatons to do all the hard work for us. Looking around, there were  so many things to take in: the waiters in their black and white uniforms, greeting and seeing off every customer whilst dishing out servings of coffee and meals to those sitting at tables; to my left, businessmen discussing plans to upgrade the parking lot next door; a couple arm in arm, sharing a cup of coffee and a slice of cake. Possibly a date. Their laughter floated  across the room and seemed to lighten what I thought was a heavy and serious atmosphere with all the business discussions happening next to me. They made me wonder if my friend would be accepting of my proposal to move our relationship forwards, to be like them.

Turning away from the sights and sounds of the café, I began to imagine where she was and what she was doing. She was supposed to be here 10 minutes ago, but she is like a mythical creature, ever elusive - yet something about her was magical. Perhaps she was putting on makeup; her face was a canvas for the wonders her hands could work - each stroke of the brush accentuating a different part of her face. Perhaps she was picking out an outfit; an azure-blue dress which gleams and shines in the light like ripples underwater on the brightest summer day. Or maybe she wanted to go for something different today: a dress stained the crimson colour of blood, darker and more mysterious, completely contrasting the cobalt irises she possessed. Either way, I doubted she would have any problem silencing the room with just a glance. I looked down at the seat next to me at my weapons of persuasion: an exquisitely packaged box of Belgian dark chocolates, just the way she likes them, and a bouquet of roses, freshly picked and arranged by the most famous florist in the city.

After all, it was Valentine’s Day. The chimes of the door lifted my head up and there she was…

by Gabby Uy, Year 10

As any bookworm knows, finding your newest escape from reality isn't always easy; you’ve read John Green more times than you can count and your copy of The Hunger Games has more dog ear than cover. Come on, put Harry Potter down already - here are five more under-the-radar books you absolutely have to read.

1. More Than This by Patrick Ness

Patrick Ness may have won his Carnegie Medal for A Monster Calls but this book is arguably just as deserving of an award. It begins with the “death” of the protagonist, who later wakes up perfectly healthy in a post-apocalyptic world with no memory of his past. If you like existential crises, science fiction and having your brains twisted into pretzels, then this is definitely the book for you. Seriously. My copy has dents from being dropped out of shock multiple times. 

2. Tales of the Peculiar by Ransom Riggs

By now, you’ve probably seen or read Miss Peregrine’s Home for Peculiar Children, but even some of the most ardent fans of the series I know haven’t heard of the more elusive companion book released just this September. Tales of the Peculiar is a compilation of (usually gruesome) folktales about peculiars, who are sort of like the mutants in X-Men for those of you who haven’t read the series yet (shame on you). None of the stories are based off of any existing fairytales, which is what makes them so refreshing. This book is a perfect way to join the ever-growing fandom (and trust me, you want to). 

3. It’s Kind of a Funny Story by Ned Vizzini 

Centred around the life of stressed overachiever Craig Gilner, It’s Kind of A Funny Story perfectly encapsulates the pressure to “succeed": to get ‘The Right Grades,’ to get into ‘The Right College,’ to get ‘The Right Job.’ While it does have some heavier topics, it balances these out with a hilariously self-deprecating tones - to quote Teen Vogue, this is “A book about depression that’s not the least bit depressing.”

4. Horrorstör by Grady Hendrix

Horrorstör - a traditional haunted house story set in not a creaky old mansion but a furniture superstore - may be the lightest read on this list but it’s also one of the most original. Three employees volunteer to work a nine-hour night shift at the local Orsk branch, which presents the staff with broken bookshelves and smashed wardrobes every morning even though security cameras reveal nothing. As the name suggests, the novel is terrifying, despite the fact that it’s disguised as an innocent furniture catalog. Let’s just say that after reading this, you'll never want to step into Ikea at night again. It's a must-read if you like gore, dry humour, mystery and gore. Did I mention gore? 

5. Asylum by Madeleine Roux

Sleep will be lost - enter at your own risk! The Asylum series follows the story of Daniel Crawford who joins a summer programme at a college which was once known as Brookline Sanatorium, an asylum for the criminally insane. Brookline is strangely reminiscent of a more macabre Hogwarts: both have colourful histories, hidden secrets and of course, the occasional serial killer. The dialogue is amazingly witty and to top it all off, the novel is full of haunting (sorry not sorry) vintage photos. This is my personal favourite on this list and I would certainly recommend it for any of you horror movie junkies out there. 

Hopefully your shelves won’t seem so basic now. Happy reading! 

By Liezl Bitas, Year 12

In that very moment, I was terrified. It was ten to midnight and I kept wondering: where was he? I rang his phone about a dozen times, with varying intervals, wishing, praying he was okay. But there was no answer.
        Silence. The subscriber cannot be reached, please try again later.
        The fingers beneath my phone stiffened with cold. My blood wasn’t flowing through those veins; my brain couldn’t get a hold of those nerve endings. I felt numb. Under my chest, my heart didn’t pump. It swelled with worry, with confusion, with—I don’t know—uncertainty. It made my ribs feel as if they were unbuckling from their place, loosening their grip on my spine and giving way for my lungs to burst. I didn’t realize quickly enough that I had been holding my breath… no, not up until I felt my throat begging and my head throbbing.
        Above me was the sterile light from an old fluorescent bulb hanging solely on the makeshift metal roof of the bus stop. I had been waiting for him. With wobbly knees, I stand up from the cold seat and reach out my phone to the dark sky beyond in hopes to get something, an answer, a voice, anything. Hell, even just the sound of the line ringing.
        Nothing. Still silence and the monotonous tune of a female voice, echoing The subscriber cannot be reached, please try again later. It almost seemed to be inundating my soul with worry, almost asking me to drop to my knees and sob. Where was he?
        Unsteady, I dropped back into my seat, shakily dialing and dialing and dialing. Why wouldn’t he answer? Was his phone not working? Was the connection unstable? Was he in trouble? Was he…Was he—no. I pushed the thoughts away and pressed the speaker of my phone right into the left side of my face. My lips were chapped with the cold, and my nose and fingers were red with pain, the heat from my phone gave warmth to me. If only he would answer.
        My watch read a quarter to one in the morning. It had almost been an hour and a half since I’d started calling, forty minutes before I started having terrifying thoughts, and two hours since he was supposed to be here. Occasionally, a few headlights would shine the damp road, making it gleam, and would give me false hope that he was there. But in these hours, only a few trucks and drunk drivers would zoom past me.
        Another ten minutes in, an old man asked me, “Miss, might you have the time?” and I told him. Another half-hour, I rang his phone again, to get nothing more than the same emptiness. Five minutes after, I shoved my shaking hands under my legs to keep them warm. But in the next ten minutes, I’ve resolved that my worry should be welcomed and made into action. Where was he?
        The available battery capacity of my phone had dwindled to less than ten per cent, making my teeth grind. I dialed 911, but quickly regretted it as soon as I let it ring once, and ended the call. I figured, by making things worse in my head, I could make things worse in reality. Instead, I called my sister who lived at least two and a half hours away to come pick me up. I heard a click from the other end of the line.
        “Hello?” she said, yawning. “It’s almost two a..m. What are you doing up?”
    I explain the situation to her, making sure that my voice was steady and my feet were grounded. Panicking only exacerbates the predicament.
        “Be right there,” she said quickly this time, final and controlled. She was coming for me and that was one last thing to worry about.
        But the ache deep in my chest did not lift. Where was he? If he was okay, then we was okay. But if he wasn’t? I couldn’t fathom the possibility of me not being able to do anything, and that was exactly the position I was in. I was cold, but damp altogether, alone in a bus stop in the middle of nowhere with a dying phone. I put it to use, dialing three numbers. 911. After they ask what my problem might be, I told them to look for him, to track his phone with a GPS or find his car.
        I stared into the other side of the road. How I wondered how much I wanted nothing more than to be seated shotgun in the car, riding home safely by now. But all I saw was the dark and an empty sidewalk.
        I clicked my phone on, bringing the screen to life. Its glow was at a minimum, looking as exhausted as I am. Less than five per cent.
        It came to a point where I just rang and rang and rang, getting nothing more than silence, quickly followed by a The subscriber cannot be reached, please try again later. I did this at least six times, to the extent that my hopes were low.
        The battery was dwindling faster than I had ever experienced.
        If it died, then he wouldn’t be able to call me.
        If it died, then I wouldn’t be able to call him.
        If it died, 911 would not be able to tell me if they found him or if they didn’t.
        If it died, my sister would only get a hold of me by past two.
        If it died, and he was in an accident, I wouldn’t know.
        If it died, it would take more than the screen’s temporary blackness to its grave.
        I dialed once. Silence. The subscriber cannot be reached, please try—Twice. Nothing. The subscriber cannot be—-Thrice. The subscr—-No. The sub—No! The—-Stop. I had to stop.
        One percent. My hopes were low. Where was he? I looked up at the moon, mocking me with its glow. It’s in the dead of night and I can’t do anything.
        I held my phone tightly, knowing I had it only for a little while more. Where was he? Where was he? Where was he?
        After dialing thrice more, I got what I begged for.
        Ring, ring, ring…
        A ring. My heart fluttered with hope.
        Ring, ring, ring…
        It sang a melody beneath my chest.
        Ring, ring, ring…
        I never wanted to hear silence again—never, never again.
        Ring, ring, ring…
    Just wait. You can wait just a little more.
    Ring, ring…
    Please. Answer.
    Ring, ring, ring, ring, ring, ring…
    It had been too long. He wasn’t coming.
    The subscriber cannot be reached.

THE END.

Words by: Anonymous


He had an impressive string of expletives for someone who should've seen it coming.

Honestly.

It was right there. How could he have missed it completely?

Stupidity aside, it didn't change the fact that he'd ran unconsciously, carelessly—painfully into a pole.

His forehead banged on steel, loud and clear. Hard-core Metallica, he'd joke. He could already feel the rising bruise, as red as his hair and as big as any flashing sign labelling him in an 'IDIOT.'

The throbbing didn't bother him; he was too busy drowning in humiliation, the memory so achingly fresh in his mind and the trauma almost bringing him to his knees.

Someone was laughing.  He could hear the howling laughter behind him. Oh, he could just picture it now: a wide smile, crinkled nose, arms around the stomach, eyes squeezed shut, tears forming—

Slam.

"Ow," he heard them moan.

He was laughing before he even turned around.

.

.

.

.

.

.

.

They went out for coffee the next morning.

Read the entire series here inside Winston's newest issue!! 

A three-part series of 100-word short stories for the day of chocolates, roses, and cheesy Hallmark cards. As we, in Winston like to say, "It's never too late for Valentines day!"

Words by: Anonymous 

“A date?” She asked.

He nodded.

.

.

.

.

.

They ditched the hot chocolate and twinkling lights, the cheap sweets in tin hearts, the bouquets streamed over tables and breathless professions of affection across the table; the sounds of unchecked adoration bounced off the café’s walls, filling the room.

They traded it all for watery eyes, tangled, unkempt hair and wind-slapped cheeks as they raced the waking lamps down the street, addicted to the rush of exhilaration that sent a jolt through their veins. Vulnerable to infectious smiles, their hearts drummed frantic rhythms, the purest indicator of living. With this, they knew that there was nothing more concrete than the realness of their palms pressed and their fingers weaved together.

Love's aroma filled the air, radiating from their bodies. It was a familiar scent. And they drank it in, spoiling their lungs with such saccharine bliss. It was right. Tonight, tomorrow, forever: together, they thought they were invincible.

And what the hell, that’s all that mattered.

Read the entire series here inside Winston's newest issue!! 

A three-part series of 100-word short stories for the day of chocolates, roses, and cheesy Hallmark cards. As we, in Winston like to say, "It's never too late for Valentines day!"

Words by: Anonymous 

She didn't know where she was going with this.

There was a pen twirling in her hand and a blank-faced page staring up at her, expectant. But all she could do was slump against her chair and stare back at the sheet, apologetic and helpless.

With the sudden tick of the clock's hands, she clicked into place. Guiding her hand, she traced an image of a mess of brown curls from memory, a lopsided slant of amusement, a crinkled nose, painted with the faintest of freckles. She charted lines—a fusion of sharp and smooth—but knew her own hands couldn't replicate the masterpiece that already existed.

Time had snuck away but left her with the companionship of preoccupation.

Her phone buzzed: "Did you know: that when you think about someone a lot, it's because they're thinking of you."

"False." She sent.

But she couldn't bite down her growing smile.

Read the entire series here inside Winston's newest issue!!