I recreated the Staglag Luft III. This map shows how they planned their escape and how it was designed.Their were a lot of traps and alarms so the guard knows if anyone is trying to escape. Unlike other prisons they did not have concrete but soil and they were treated very nicely. They were fed and got to write letters and receive letter from and to their family’s.
I designed this Car Sticker to let the people driving behind me know that we need to support people to stay away from distractions that could hurt them or others.
It was seven minutes past midnight when I saw the dog. Lying on the grass, eyes closed looking as if he had been running in a dream chasing a cat. I opened the gate to Mrs Shears house, two houses to the left on the opposite side of the road. It was dark and a little cold but I managed to keep warm. The sight of the dog became clearer and clearer. There I stood, looking at the dog I once loved, lying on the grass with a pitch fork stabbed right through the middle. The fork stabbed all the way through to the ground, standing up straight, not falling down. His name was Wellington. He was a poodle, not small but one of the big ones that liked to run around. I took the pitchfork out of him and carried him in my arms for a few seconds. Hearing a door slam I turn around. Mrs Shears is running while screaming“What have you done to my dog?” I laid him down on the grass. I did not like all the screaming so I bent down, covered my ears with my hands and touched my forehead on the wet cool grass. I liked it because it was calming and nice to feel.
The police arrived. A policeman and a policewoman. The policewoman had a hole in her tights near her ankle, in the middle was a tiny scratch. She put her arms around Mrs Shears and comforted her walking her back into her house. The policeman had black shiny shoes with a leaf hanging from the bottom. I like the police because of their uniform and the numbers they wear. He bent down and asked me questions. I lifted up my head and looked up at him. I did not like all these questions toppling up in my head like a skyscraper going higher and higher. I knelt back down with my hands over my ears and my forehead pressing upon the ground. He must have been annoyed because he picked me up and pulled me to my feet. The way he touched me was not respectful, I did not like it so I hit him. The policeman was shocked by my attitude so he put me in the car and walked to speak to the policewoman at Mrs Shears House.
They took me to the Police Station then started to ask me questions like what my Dads phone number was. After a few minutes a policeman handed me a piece of paper saying that it was just a caution, it would be on my record. He asked if I understood and I said “Yes” .We started walking outside when I saw my Dads Car.
To me, the Church is the living Body of Christ, where through Baptism we are united as one family in faith, called to grow together in love, service, and communion.
For this Matariki we have created a poem on either one, two or all of the stars. My star for my poem is Pohutukawa; the star for those who have passed on. For me, I wanted to make my poem about all my Grandparents as they are not in this life anymore. I hope that this Matariki we will all pray for those who have passed on and to continue to live in our memory as we grow older.
Thoughts crowd my mind as I walk through the ruins — buildings crumbled to dust, bodies stilled in the silence of death. If only I had come sooner. Maybe then… Elizabeth would still be alive. But now she’s gone.
Blood trickles from my hands, warm and useless. Around me, mothers scream for children they can’t find, tears carving lines down soot-streaked faces. Fire swallows what’s left of home, while broken men carry the broken-hearted.
Every step feels like a boulder crushing my feet. I trip. I fall. Dust fills my lungs. I think of Jesus, bent beneath his cross. My cross is grief — and I am crumbling beneath it.
I want to cry out, to shatter the sky with my voice. But my heart grips the sound, holds it captive.
All I can do is ache. And fall. Again.
On April the 11th last term, we had the opportunity to perform the Stations of the Cross for the entire school. At first, it took some time for us to settle into our roles and fully understand what was required, but with dedication and practice, we grew more confident and prepared. Another student and I were in charge of narrating each station. It was nerve-wracking at the beginning, but as we rehearsed, our confidence steadily grew.
When the day of the performance arrived, we made sure our costumes were tidy and well-prepared—we wanted to show respect for the story we were telling. Although we all felt a bit nervous, everyone gave their best effort and delivered a strong performance.
The Stations of the Cross depictes Jesus’ final journey to the crucifixion, and bringing that powerful story to life through our play was a truly meaningful and memorable experience.
