The Invitation in Newsprint

“Some stories don’t stay on the page—they climb inside you and refuse to leave.” — Rebecca Monk

The school grounds pulsed with the usual morning rhythm—clusters of students sprawled across benches and under trees, voices rising in an uneven tide of laughter, gossip, and last-minute homework confessions. The gravel crunched beneath Violet’s boots as she and Jasmine passed the front gate, slipping into the low, familiar chaos of another school day.

Birds called from the high wires above, their notes weaving between the chatter like punctuation. The scent of freshly mown grass mixed with the lingering mineral tang of red dust stirred by dozens of trudging feet. Beyond the main building, the flagpole clanged faintly in the breeze, metal tapping against metal—a sound that had underscored Violet’s mornings for years.

Near the entrance to the science block stood Mandy, Michelle, and Rebecca, gathered in their usual configuration—a loose triangle of elbows and sideways glances, laughter flashing between them like sparks. The sight of the Dallow sisters approaching made Mandy’s face light up instantly, her hand shooting into the air in a wave.

“Morning, Vi, Jazzy!” she called out, her voice carrying easily across the space. Her shoulder-length hair bounced with the same energy she seemed to breathe in and out. “You won’t believe what I heard this morning!”

Violet forced a smile as she approached, pushing aside the residual weight of the newspaper story still folded in her bag. “Hey, Mandy,” she replied, her tone light but not quite buoyant. “Alright, go on then—what did you hear?”

Mandy leaned in slightly, eyes wide with anticipation. “There’s a huge storm coming,” she said, lowering her voice like she was revealing a state secret. “Biggest one in years, according to Dad. He reckons it’s rolling in from the north-west—could be a real monster.”

Michelle groaned theatrically, crossing her arms over her chest. Her dark hair was clipped back in its usual no-nonsense braid, and she surveyed the sky with a sceptical squint. “Great. Just what we need—more excitement. As if living in the arse-end of nowhere wasn’t thrilling enough already.”

Rebecca, leaning one shoulder against the wall, raised an eyebrow and gave a small, amused huff. “Maybe it’ll give us a reason to go home early. I wouldn’t mind a day off from Mr Clarke’s endless droning about federation and the ‘spirit of the colonies.’”

That earned a chorus of chuckles. Even Violet couldn’t help the faint laugh that escaped her lips.

Still, even as her friends chattered and laughed around her, Violet remained attuned to something deeper—a low thrum beneath the surface of things, like a distant storm just beyond the range of hearing. It wasn’t just the talk of weather, or the strange weight of the morning air. It was something else. Something older. Something watching.

The newspaper headline burned against her back, its folded corners pressing insistently through the fabric of her bag. She knew she couldn’t keep it to herself—not entirely. Not anymore.

“Actually,” Violet said, clearing her throat and stepping in closer to the group, “there’s something else.”

She retrieved the folded paper from her backpack and held it out. The newsprint was already soft from handling, smudged slightly where her thumb had pressed too hard. “Have you heard about Sally Harlow?”

Mandy took the paper first, her expression shifting quickly from curiosity to surprise. Her eyes darted across the bold headline, then down to the photograph. “No way,” she breathed. “The explorer? She disappeared? When did this happen?”

“Couple of days ago, I think,” Violet replied, her voice quieter now. “But I feel like... I’ve seen her before. Somewhere. I just can’t place it. It’s like—” She hesitated, her gaze drifting toward the distant ridge that marked the edge of town. “Like there’s something important I’m forgetting.”

Michelle and Rebecca stepped in to peer over Mandy’s shoulder, their earlier jokes forgotten. The energy among the four girls shifted, taut with sudden interest.

“Do you think she’s still alive?” Michelle asked, her brow furrowing. “I mean, the Outback can be brutal. No water, no shelter—anything could’ve happened.”

Violet shook her head slightly, not in disagreement, but in uncertainty. “I don’t know. But it doesn’t feel like just a missing person story. There’s something about it... I can’t explain it. I feel like we need to know what happened. Like it’s tied to something bigger. Maybe even to us.”

Rebecca, usually the quietest of the group, spoke up, her voice slow and deliberate. “You know, my gran used to tell stories about people who vanished out there. Explorers, drovers, even whole camps. She said the land has moods—like it decides who stays and who doesn’t. That if you don’t respect it, the whole rainbow of colours opens up, and it can swallow you whole.”

Her words hung in the air, heavier than they should have been. A breeze stirred across the schoolyard, lifting dust and sending a lone gum leaf tumbling between their feet. Somewhere above them, a galah let out a sharp cry and wheeled away from the eaves.

Violet felt a shiver crawl up her spine. Rebecca’s voice—measured, almost clinical—had only confirmed what she hadn’t dared say aloud. The land takes what it wants.

She looked again at the photo of Sally Harlow—at the fire in the woman’s eyes, the determination etched into her sunworn skin. Whatever had happened to her, it wasn’t random. Violet was certain of it.

And deep down, she couldn’t shake the terrible sense that something had already begun.

A sudden clang of the school bell split the morning air, scattering birds from the rooftops and sending a ripple through the yard as students began funnelling toward A-quad. Conversations trailed off, laughter ebbed, and the four girls exchanged a glance—silent but charged. No words were needed. Each of them had felt it—that strange undercurrent just below the surface of the day.

They turned in unison, joining the slow-moving stream of students heading toward the central courtyard. A-quad, with its cracked concrete and weathered shelter awnings, was already filling with the familiar lines of homerooms. Students took their places in loosely ordered rows—Year 9s standing beside Year 11s, all grouped by roll call rather than age. Teachers milled about, clipboards in hand, corralling stragglers and quieting pockets of chatter.

The deputy headmaster stepped up onto the concrete plinth at the front of the quad, megaphone in hand. The brief ritual began—awards from the weekend’s netball finals, a reminder to return permission slips for the Girl Guides camp, and a stern word about uniform compliance. Applause scattered politely across the assembly, then faded.

The second bell rang.

“All right—homerooms now,” came the familiar dismissal, and with that, the four girls began to peel off in separate directions.

"See you at lunch," Michelle said quickly, adjusting the strap on her schoolbag as she turned toward the western corridor.

Rebecca offered a nod, already scanning the line of buildings for her assigned room. "Don’t forget," she murmured to Violet as she went. "Whatever’s starting... we stay sharp."

Mandy lingered a moment longer, eyes flicking sideways at Violet. She leaned in close, her voice barely rising above the scrape of chairs and footsteps on concrete. “We’ll talk more at lunch. Maybe we can start piecing this together.”

Violet nodded once, eyes steady. Her fingers brushed the edge of her bag where the newspaper lay folded and still. It no longer felt like a mere object. It felt like an invitation.

Then she, too, turned and made her way to her own homeroom.

Inside, the classroom was already filling with the rustle of pages and the creak of chairs. The teacher entered briskly, clipboard in hand, calling the roll and offering the standard reminders—return overdue library books, don’t forget hats for sport.

The room settled into the hush of silent reading.

Violet’s book remained unopened on her desk. Instead, her gaze drifted toward the window, where thick, grey clouds were beginning to gather low on the horizon. Their movement was slow and certain.

In her gut, she knew: this was only the beginning.

Of what, she couldn’t yet say.

But whatever had been set in motion… it wasn’t going to stop.