Grok Issue #4 2013

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ISSUE #4 2013 CONTACTS Editorial - 9266 2806 Advertising - 9266 2908 Email - grok@guild.curtin.edu.au

EDITOR - Scott Donaldson LAYOUT - Rozanna Johnson Cover - Photography - Grace Robinson - retouching - Vanessa Gurung

Grok exists for entertainment purposes only. The views expressed therein are not necessarily that of Curtin Student Guild.

CONTRIBUTORS Grok would not exist were it not for the generous donation of time and effort from it’s contributors, to whom we are eternally grateful. (in no particular order)

Daniel Juckes Ciaran Johns Sarah Fuller Jon Solmundson Jessica McGovern Anthony Pyle Athina Mallis Anika Rodgers Stephanie Lyon

GROK #4 2013

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Jarod Rhine-Davis Chloe Macri Courtney Joy Pascoe Danielle Le Messuier Philip Turner Connor White Michael MacKenzie

GROK

GUILD EXEC PRESIDENT p: (08) 9266 2934 e: president@ EDUCATION VICE PRESIDENT p: (08) 9266 2920 e: educationvp@ ACTIVITIES VICE PRESIDENT p: (08) 9266 4578 e: activitiesvp@ GENERAL SECRETARY p: (08) 9266 2918 e: generalsec@

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Here it is: the fourth and final issue of Grok for 2013.

I could mark this occasion by spending my editorial expressing my sincerest thanks to those who helped make the magazine as groovy as it possibly could have been and how humbling it was to read the work of students who really should already be writing for TIME, Wired, or Better Homes and Gardens Magazine, but I won’t, because I have something vaguely interesting to talk about.

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Some of us, even though we do have political views, prefer silence.

Silence during election periods, silence in the library, The Silence as preferred Doctor Who villain, and “silence” as the theme of our final Grok. For true, really.

Ed.

GROK #4 2013

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GROK MAGAZINE

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The point is, I’m in a library and I’m trying to do some stuff and this guy won’t shut up. And his loud rudeness is part of this cacophony of loud rudeness that characterises the election season. Right now everybody reckons they’re experts in politics, that their opinions matter, that everybody surrounding them needs to know which party they support, and that they’re going to head down to the library to prevent Scott from being able to concentrate on anything ever because they disagree with the pie charts and bar graphs.

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Or maybe, again, that’s not true at all. Maybe he has a nervous tic or something. I don’t know.

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So then, once he’s done with that, he starts on the actual cover story (again), and begins an outpouring of tuts, tisks, harumphs, kuhs, and pffs. I think that maybe he wants somebody to talk to about this. That may be the only reason he’s making these noises is so he can attract my attention and assault me with his political outlook, because I’m a young person, with a stupid/non-existent political outlook. Or maybe he just wants a reasonable discussion about politics (pretty sure “political discussion” and “reasonable discussion” are mutually exclusive, but I’ll save that for another day), but that’s probably not the case because every time he makes a sound I look at him and he’s almost already looking (read: glaring) at me and his mouth is doing some weird Clint Eastwood twitch, as if to say: “yo’ opinion be so wrong, fo’ real.”

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Across from me, at a table, in a library, is an short, old and bony man reading The Australian. Or, rather, he is reading the front page of The Australian. He has been reading this page for a long time – I wonder if perhaps he is dead, and the noises he is making are really just characterised by various gases finally freeing themselves from his digestive and respiratory systems. But no, they’re not, because now he’s whispering something: statistics, those ones on the left column, accompanied by those primary-coloured pie charts citing changes in the political opinions of all Australian citizens except me and everyone I know or have ever known, are being read out, slowly, in a hissed monotone. He is angry at the statistics because, presumably, the numbers are not the numbers that he wants the numbers to be.

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Contents

Hi all, Welcome to the last edition of Grok for the year!

This year has been one of expanding services and activities, more clubs, the development and improvement of student spaces, and an increased Guild presence on campus. It’s been a year of ups and downs, with all of the positives listed above, as well as the disastrous education cuts.

Despite what the naysayers might say, Curtin students are some of the best informed regarding the education cuts of any student body in the country. The anti-cuts campaign has also meant that we have had an increase in students contacting Guild reps over a variety of issues, from class sizes and library services to equity issues. It’s important that students know to come to the Guild for information and support with any issues that they face on campus.

By the time this is printed we will know the federal election results.

The $2.3 billion due to be taken out of higher education by Labor is also supported by the Libs.

With all of Abbott’s talk of “savings” it’s unimaginable that university students and staff are not going to face more cuts in the coming period. Whatever the results, we will need to continue to stand up for more funding and education for all.

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18 20 23 24 26 29 31 34 37 40 41 44 45 46 47

editorial / contacts your guild pres your vps your faculty reps/clubs Guild news / the goon bag guild equity departments psa: beware the were-rabbits so you want to pursue a career in espionage

A truth teller’s true guide to telling the truth a liar’s guide to being a lying liar Student assist: From the vaults of the csg files ordination and subordination loose cannon money, money, money long live the kings who am i? fun disillusionment expo ‘13 short story: our little talks short story: redshift short story: does not fly well short story: letters to santa short story: the old house on the block the sweet side of sugar album reviews book / board game reviews game reviews

On another note, I want to use this report as a tribute to my dear friend, Amber Maxwell, who I have known and worked alongside for a number of years. She was a well-known activist in the Equal Love WA campaign for same-sex marriage rights, but she was also a socialist who was committed to supporting workers, unions, students, refugees and much more. She recently took her own life at only 20 years of age. I think there is no other way to understand it; she was a victim of systemic discrimination and a society that wouldn’t accept her. It is such a tragedy, and for anyone that knew Amber she was strong, passionate and determined. The tributes that have come out since from across the country show that she made an impact far greater than she would have imagined.

Her death is a cruel reminder of the way that systemic discrimination, and lack of services and support can be a life or death question. Homophobia and transphobia kills. Although we have come far in some ways, there is still so much further to go. Amber will be greatly missed, but not forgotten.

Unfortunately this is a very sad note to end on, but I can’t finish up without saying a big thank you to all of the students that I have had the opportunity to meet and work with this year. It’s been a pleasure!

3 - editorial

Jess McLeod

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GUILD PRESIDENT / CONTENTS

Well hell, 2013, where in God’s name did you go? Yep that’s right this is my last Grok column for my year as AVP. That is a scary, scary thought for many reasons, but namely the following:

your time at university.

I’ll be unemployed (Well let’s just start with the obvious, okay?)

I plan on applying for a couple of graduate positions but if I don’t get them I’m not going to freak out. I’m just going to go work overseas and do some travelling, get some more ‘life experience’. Do whatever feels right to you.

I can no longer use my job as an excuse for going out - my parents are constantly on at me about how often I go out (which they base entirely on Facebook posts/pictures). This past year I’ve been able to lawyer the shit out of them by saying that’s how I managed to get this job. A classic “Mum I met people through going out and being social and then those people voted me in” has managed to get me off the hook for this year. But that all ends when this job ends. Dammit.

It means I’ve finished my last semester at uni as well - and this is friggin’ terrifying. Coz lets face it, as much as we whine about how financially hard up we are (which we truly are) we still have a pretty good life. For the most part my typical week at uni meant work two days of the week, classes for two afternoons and maybe one morning and lots and lots of fun in between. I’ll miss it.

If you’re like me and about to graduate it is a terrifying time. Suddenly when people ask you what you’re doing you’re meant to be on a career path. People don’t seem to understand if you don’t immediately go into your study field. All of a sudden fitting in so much travel isn’t impressive, it’s worrying.

Well I say, don’t buy into that crap.

And if you’re not about to graduate…well ain’t you lucky! You get to live up the uni life some more. Appreciate it and completely immerse yourself in it. Take advantage of the academic help offered and attend classes, after all you’re paying for it. Don’t just leave once class is done, get involved socially on campus. Join or start a club, go to Guild events, play sport on campus and you will make amazing friends and memories.

That’s the last little piece of advice from me anyway. Have a great summer break everyone!

Cheers,

And I guess this brings me in to the main point of my last column: enjoy and appreciate

Shauna

So far this semester I have been spending a great deal of my time building for the National Student Protest and meeting with students to talk about the issues they are facing.

Curtin students get on the bus and make their way into the city to meet students from UWA, ECU, Murdoch and even Notre Dame. The Curtin contingent arrived late but was easily the largest section of the rally. We joined our fellow students chanting and singing which brought a defiant atmosphere into the crowd.

Since the building work began for the August 20th National Student Protest people have been contacting me over the different problems in their classrooms. Please keep it coming. Get in contact if you have any issues of overcrowding, trouble getting feedback, problems with extensions, if you have experienced discrimination or if you have any other issues or queries. I will do my best to help you solve the problem or help you find someone who can help.

The protest itself saw a lively contingent of

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VICE PRESIDENTS

The rally marched up Murray Street Mall and down Hay Street Mall with shoppers and pedestrians stopping to watch and to join our chants. The protest ended with a performance by Still Water Giants.

Overall the rally was lively and boisterous. It demonstrated a clear message that we have not backed down and that we will continue to stand up against the government’s cuts to our education.

Humanities Fac Rep - Cameron Thorn Hey there Humanities. So it’s Grok 4/4 and that means no more Star Wars puns, guess you’re looking in Alderaan places. This year has been a great opportunity to really see how diverse the Humanities is and how passionate the students are about their subject areas. I can say that the Humanities is the greatest faculty at Curtin, simply because no one else can explain what we actually do.

I would like to shout out to the clubs that add to the humanities experience, particularly TAP, CAC, CIAA, TPSA, and SESA as they only started this year. Without our clubs, our student experience at Curtin wouldn’t nearly be as interesting as it could be. I would still love to see more clubs start up in the Humanities – particularly a Photography Club and a Journalism Club – even a Bacon Appreciation Society would be amazeballs.

The biggest achievement of the year for me has been Art Fair. We are such a diverse and highly creative student body. Art Fair is a way for students to display their creativity and make a few dollars too. It was great to kick it off the ground this year and hopefully it will continue to grow over the coming years to become a cornerstone of the Arts at Curtin.

Thank you so much to all those who assisted in started this new piece of culture.

But the year isn’t over yet - there is still the NCAP exhibition at the end of the year, and I’m looking forward to seeing all of the new entrants. Also, remember to come and see me and my Big Blue Couch at any other time during the semester. Doors close at midnight on November 30, so don’t miss out.

Remember, your time at Uni is what you make of it. You can sit in your class, playing LOL and never talk to a single human being.

That is definitely an option, but remember that you are paying at least $2,500 per

As I sit here attempting to find something to write about, I’ve come to the realisation that this is actually my last column for Grok as Gen Sec. The distressing thing about this is that I had originally intended for each of my instalments to be insane festivals of wordplay, but it hasn’t really punned out that way.

Staring out the window at this phenomenal late August day, I could write about that goto topic for all those who have nothing to say, the weather – and it is truly a marvellous day outside. Glad I hung out my washing today!

But, this being the last column, whatever I write I suppose I should definitely be at least a little corny.

semester. Make sure that you make the most of every opportunity you get at Uni: attend that guest lecture, go to the extra workshop, take a tour of the library, turn to the person next to you and say hi. Make your time at Curtin what you want it to be, don’t settle for anything less.

Humanities, you have been a 10/10 would do again.

Peace XXX

aiesec global village with aiesec curtin Travel the World on Campus.

If you have ever wanted to get a taste of life in another country, or if you just like a bit of multicultural fun, let us present AIESEC Curtin’s biggest on-campus event – Global Village!

What is it?

Science and Engineering - Fletcher Pym Dear All My last note for the year! Where did all the time go? I can’t help but wonder if I learnt anything so far this year. I’m not sure my first semester results suggest I did either. I trust you all got the grade you wanted and I hope this semester will be even better!

Don’t forget to keep speaking up at university for things you want to see happen not only in our awesome faculty but the university as a whole. Heaps of things are changing at Curtin and I think most are for the better and will make our experience as students better.

Our job as students is to make sure we let the staff know what is not working, but also let them know when they are doing great work. Most of our staff dedicate their careers to making sure we have the best education possible. Make sure you thank them for their hard work and dedication!

Best of luck for the coming semester, keep posting hilarious things you see on campus to Overheard and I’m sure I will see you all next year.

Global Village is a festival which celebrates foreign culture and exchange, featuring four stalls which each represent a different country: Italy, Poland, China and Taiwan. Expect activities, games, prizes and multicultural fun as you wander around Sir Charles Court Promenade, through scattered stalls stretching from outside buildings 101 to 108.

Our PASSPORTS will be distributed at the event – complete an activity at each stall to be eligible for our FREE show-bags packed full of goodies!

When is it?

Wed 11th September, from 11am to 3pm.

Sir Charles Court Promenade

Why should I go?

With our AIESEC exchanges, discounts, vouchers and food-prizes up for offer, why wouldn’t you?

If you’ve ever thought about international travel, if you’re interested in broadening your horizons, or if you’re just up for a bit of fun, save the date and come along! Global Village is all about the experience – make sure you don’t miss out!

All the best Fletcher Pym

It has been a rollercoaster of a year. When I started the job in December last year, everyone would say to me, “So, how’d you cop the boring job?” This had me a little worried, but the concerns were really unfounded.

I should note before I continue that I’m only 20 (December birthday), so the following couple of ‘firsts’ is maybe not as shameful as it seems.

From my first ever toga, to my first protest march, to my first proper beard, working at the Guild has been a year of eye opening experiences. Even the office side of things will be invaluable later in life. Certainly I can add some legitimacy to the claim on my CV that I know how to use Excel!

Ultimately, any job is what you make of it. You can sit in a boring, non-descript room and do only what your job description says, or you can hang a Thunderbirds Are Go! poster on the wall and remind people to make a wish at 11:11 GROK #4 2013

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faculty reps/clubs

(both of which actually happened - truly, we got a badass over here).

To all those running in the upcoming Guild election – good luck. For those who are elected, don’t hold back. Get involved in everything you can. There are so many fantastic opportunities to be had at the Guild, and you will form friendships that could last a lifetime. You get out what you put in – so, again, don’t hold back.

The time I have spent in and around the Guild in 2013 has been unforgettable (even if the End of Sem 1 Bash is a little hazy) – fortunately, as this goes to print I still have about three months to go, so it’s not quite goodbye just yet. To everyone at the Guild I’ve met this year, thanks so much for an amazing time. Let’s make the last three months extra special.

See you at End of Sem for some GenSexy Times!

Come out, come out, wherever you are

We are of course talking to the new VC. I mean, Jeanette announced her retirement in February and actually left the position in August. Are they being masterly suspenseful or just having a laugh? Hmm, I wonder. Anyway, hurry up and pick the new VC already!

Curtin has low graduate success rates apparently…

But the same study also said Notre Dame was the best West Australian university overall so

I’m not sure if we should take it for gospel.

The Good Universities Guide 2014 gave UWA, Murdoch and Notre Dame 4 out of 5 stars for graduates getting a job while ECU and Curtin received one star each. Actually I take the first part back, because we’ve been ranked the same as ECU in something. Legit or not that is a reason to be very, very worried.

No med school?

Try to stop us

MWAHAUni Games is HAHAHA just around the corner!

Ah, Uni Games. A fantastic excuse to travel to somewhere else in Australia to get shitfaced with your mates and desecrate the name of your university under the guise of playing sport. It’s one of those things that just makes university what it is. This year Curtin is sending one of their biggest ever teams to the Gold Coast to compete. Will we win much?

Probably not if the past is anything to go by.

However, we have had a particularly good year at TSWA so there is still hope. Go Curtin!

So back in the day (circa 2006), every Grok edition used to include a short segment filled with goon facts and trivia.

It was written by a gentlemen whose nickname was, in fact, Gooner. While the Guild no longer has any staff with such a nickname, the general consensus is that goon is just as relevant to students as ever.

And so, the 2013 edition of Grok is proud to bring back ‘The Goon Bag.’

So the Premier is officially on our side of the sand box. He feels like everyone else is being a big bully. Amen brother. It’s not that we particularly need a medical school or anything, it’s just that big thing of when someone says we can’t have one…

#16

Water bags - There’s nothing quite like a cheap student weekend away camping. Goon is regularly on the menu but did you ever think of using it as a water bag after? Just make sure you rinse it really, really well first.

#17

Shower - So we’re on a bit of a camping theme here but fill the empty bag up with water and leave it out in the sun. Hang it up and press the tap. Voila! Brilliant. Could also be handy for those secluded beaches without showers.

#18 Goon bag missiles - Back in June a new car was written off after a full goon bag was chucked out the window of another moving vehicle. The bag hit the grille, triggering the airbags and cracking the windscreen. It’s true: you can Google that shit. All I take from this is that someone threw a full goon bag out the window. What were they thinking?

GROK #4 2013

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GUILD NEWS

queer department Khyl Hardy - Queer Officer Hi all!

It has been a pretty big few weeks since my last report. Here’s the latest Queer students, alongside other disadvantaged sections of the student body, are disproportionately affected by the Education Cuts. As the National Union of Students Queer Department wrote not long after the cuts were announced: “These changes will hit students from the queer community hard. It puts unnecessary pressure on many young queer people who already have to deal with homophobia and its effects on their lives (including from the government). Many queer students are on

women’s department juliette rose - women’s Officer Hello Women at Curtin, I am writing to you to share some thoughts about gender equality. You may be passionate about gender equality but not know where to begin, you may believe the movement is largely over, you may be interested but unwilling to associate yourself with something that is publicly derided or you may simply have other things that you care more about in your life.

If you are in camp A, take note of the contact details below.

If you are camp B person, it is true that our progress has been great in the past fifty years and an incredible distance has been traversed in the last hundred or so. It was only one hundred and twelve years ago that Australian women were denied the vote. I find that amazing. The restrictions on Aboriginal women being able to vote were only completely lifted in 1962! We now have this basic, fundamental right as well as the right to education, to divorce, to report domestic abuse, to work in the great majority of professions and to have children when we want.

It is clear to see the difference between our lives now and those at a time when rape was not legally recognised, domestic abuse was not reported or talked about and being effectively unable to work or own property meant that women were forced into dependency and powerlessness. We can make these comparisons because they are real experiences, however, so we cannot compare our current situation with a world of complete gender equality. We have no way of knowing how different our lives could be so must begin to see this using our imaginations.

Many advances can be quantified but it is the unquantifiable results of these that are of the greatest import in our lives. For instance, can you imagine what it would feel like to be given the respect that you deserve? And how can you know the nature of a feeling you have never experienced? You can start by taking current circumstances and imagine their opposite or absence/presence.

Centrelink’s welfare payments because an independent income helps them to live away from hostile and homophobic home environments. Homelessness is a known sideeffect of being queer. It is already hard enough for queer students to prove to Centrelink that they cannot live at home; being queer and having homophobic parents is not enough.

If your parents say you can live with them if you promise to be straight, Centrelink will tell you to go back home. Students who manage despite this to prove that they really cannot live at home then suffer from the unreasonable pressure of being forced to live away from home on a payment that is well below the poverty line. To put them into more debt than those who have the fortune to avoid such problems is deplorable.”

This is just one example. queer students,

So what would it be like to live in a world in which the sexualised images of women that cover every commercial space and saturate the media are replaced with celebrations of femininity: images of women who are respected for their contributions, of motherhood, female archetypes or mythical figures?

What would it feel like to live in a world in which there was a gender balance in influential positions and each gender was able to interact, lead and represent in the way that they felt was best?

What would it be like to live in a world where media representations aimed for accuracy rather than stereotypes that trivialise our abilities and concerns?

When I imagine this world, I feel more at home. I think things would make more sense to me. Could women a hundred years ago have imagined today’s society? They fought regardless and it was only this that makes our present society possible. It is possible to have an effect wherever you go and there are many ways to make an impact. Tell your story. Talk to people. Change is inevitable so let’s make it change you want to see.

Camp C people! Ugly terms like ‘feminazi’ and ‘man hater’ are persuasive. Being persuaded, however, means we are kept powerless, just as all stereotypes are designed to keep those they target powerless. Is it important to listen to people who want to deride you for their own interests or because of a lazy lack of care to find out the truth? Or is it more important to realise that the only way those disinterested people are going to care is through the tide of social pressure that is created in the interests of equality? There is no one feminist creed.

You can take or make yours whatever suits you best. My advice is to stop listening to ideas that don’t deserve your attention or even have a shot at re-educating when you come across them.

And for the people of camp D, I understand.

Society demands so much of us that any free time is best spent with friends. We are conditioned to believe in ourselves as discrete, autonomous entities and pressured to find our trajectory towards success. This is a product of our individualist society which prevents us from realising the extent of our inextricability

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EQUITY DEPARTMENTS

indigenous students, women, international students, and students from low-socioeconomic backgrounds are already under serious pressure in our increasingly user-pays university system. We will be hit hard by the latest cuts.

That’s why it was so incredible to see the success of the two National Days of Action (country-wide protests by students) organised by the National Union of Students and some of us in the Guild. These protests have already shifted the terrain of the debate. It is these protests - coupled with a revival of student activism- which will, in the long run, make a serious difference. Having been involved in the same-sex marriage rights campaign for three years now, I have seen the massive impact the regular protests have had in even that space of time around that issue.

with the societal forces around us and makes collective action less likely. It seems easy to ignore these forces and focus on making our lives as good as they can be within given conditions but to have a purpose beyond your own and to fight for something larger connects you to the world and history. It’s a great feeling, one that unites people and opens new ways to view life.

The reason we are able to go to university is because of those before us who have suffered derision and opposition in order to give this to us. It is a shame to let it go to waste.

I know there are other positions but I only have so many words. I only ask that you begin to consider other positions.

So what would you prefer? A world in which females have equal pay, conditions and promotion opportunities? In which childcare was an equal responsibility? In which the female voice was heard in equal measure? Or a world in which females weren’t constantly spoken of in terms of the way they look?

You are not a lone person. You are part of a collective. Attend an event. Join a group. Add your name to the list of women who support the feminist cause. On a personal level, the next time a guy interrupts you when you are speaking, tell him. Perhaps, at some other time, suggest that competing is not the only way of interacting with the world. Invite sharing. Males are subject to the patriarchal culture too. But it’s up to you what your impact is and how you choose to make it.

And remember, the more you understand yourself, the less you judge yourself unfairly, the less you judge others and the less others judgements affect you.

So don’t let anyone tell you who to be or what to do… including society!

Thank you for reading.

Sincerely, Juliette Rose

Women’s Officer - Building 106F women@guild.curtin.edu.au julietrose17.wordpress.com

Work & play in the USA cent e r r o t e studen ow you hav e m i t ll n As a fu te did you k nity to head tu a gradu usive oppor work? l an exc the States to over to ies and e s s u A ble to o do a wid a l i a v t ya S of It’s onl d allows you ere in the U n h Kiwis a f jobs anyw s. o h range to 12 mont r p year o p A for u a g king a ates after a t y c u fan the St So if yo g a year in IEP. Come d in o t to fin spend duate talk t h g i n fo a you gr our FREE in to along e: r ber m out mo e v o ed 6 N ing 104 W , m p 6:30 ravel, Build tly WA 6102 STA T ersity, Ben Univ n i t r u m.au C o c . p e ews@i n o t P RSV

www.iep.com.au 03 9329 3866

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re the rabbits

stephanie lyon

Soft, fluffy, and rather cuddly, you may have noticed that these pointy eared mammals with the cotton ball tails, which we fondly call rabbits or bunnies, have appeared on campus this semester.

If you haven’t seen one in the flesh you’re bound to have seen our daring students posting updates of their whereabouts on Overheard at Curtin. I first assumed they had escaped from a local resident’s hutch, or was the wild having outsmarted the rabbit proof fence. But then I did some research and discovered the frightening truth.

Our fluffy visitors do not go by the name of Bugs, Peter, Rodger, Brer or Thumper. Nor will they willingly take on the job of being pulled out of a magician’s hat. You can forget about chocolate eggs (uhh…those are not chocolate), for our rabbits are not the selfless kind. There is nothing lucky about the foot of one of these rabbits. In fact, they are even more dangerous than both the pink Duracell bunnies on steroids and Wonderland’s White Rabbit combined. These are were-rabbits, and unlike the giant and G-Rated veggie-stealing rabbit from Wallace and Gromit, these are the real deal…

True, they may look like your placid household pet rabbits now, but wait until nightfall - the moon does not need to be full to make these bunnies go crazy.

Their eyes turn a bright red, their gaze becomes vacant. Buck teeth and claws sharpen to razorblades, causing them to frantically scratch and gnaw on whatever they can find (including human flesh). They shiver and squeak at the moon, full of enough energy to fill ten cans of Mother.

After the transformation, they gather around the guild precinct and the area surrounding the library – they know where we are. They do, however, prefer the lawns and gardens surrounding the Curtin Tav, because even in their savage were-rabbit state, we’re none the wiser after a few drinks. So heavy-drinkers beware: you’ll be among the first to be recruited into their army. Best to stick around the library during the late hours, then: the piercing sound of the fire alarm is one of their few weaknesses.

All it takes is one bite or scratch from a were-rabbit and you’re one of them, forced to spend the rest of your life as a fluffy lord of the night. And this may very well be the reason why students have been disappearing from our lectures and tutorials since the first week of semester. I suspect they have become victims to the adorable charms of these little were-rabbits.

While the sight of these little dudes may inspire us to try out our culinary skills perfecting rabbit stew or rabbit pie, (as many of you will agree, eating rabbit certainly deserves a place on the bucket list), I still have to ask: is the risk of infection worth it? We don’t yet know for certain if there are any severe consequences to ingesting the meat of a were-rabbit, but there is the possibility that these poor innocent bunnies have been genetically modified and planted on our campus. We strongly suspect that students of one of our rival universities are behind this irresponsible prank, but so far none of our calls have been answered.

We are working with our pharmacy students to find a cure to this dreadful infection, but in the meantime, how do we keep ourselves safe on campus, especially without silver bullets at our disposal? First of all, carrots and lettuce are useless at distracting them, and will only rile them up. I strongly suggest sticking to the well-lit pathways around campus after dark, and wear silver jewellery, as this will act as a deterrent due to its toxicity to were-creatures. If you see a rabbit on campus, walk the other way, but warn other students of the dangers if possible, as our lecturers would prefer to see their students in their classes rather than hopping around campus on a quest for human flesh.

Who will win this serious game of Humans Vs Were-Rabbits? Only time will tell.

update: At the time of going to print, it appears the threat has been minimised after reports that the head were-rabbit has had a nasty run in with a motor vehicle. Grok reminds its readers to remain vigilant however, and be on the lookout for a new threat; demon ducklings.

Rest in peace Bunny.

GROK #4 2013

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So You Want to Pursue a Career in Espionage Ciaran Johns

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So you’ve seen every Mission Impossible film and think you know everything there is to know about the spy business?

Maybe your parents are spies and you want to follow in their footsteps? Or maybe you just want to help people? Whatever your reasons, you have decided to get started on the tricky path to becoming a secret agent, and we just want to say, congratulations. If you’re considering it, you’re already halfway to fulfilling your dream! But be warned, being a spy has its disadvantages. Arrest, death, and bullet wounds are some of the occupational hazards you are likely to come up against as a spy. However, despite its shortcomings, espionage can be a valuable career that will provide you with a rewarding experience. As a great spy once said, “You’re a woman of many parts, Pussy.”

Before you begin working in espionage you have to ask yourself some important questions.

Do you want to work in the public or private sector? Will you specialise in assassinations or are you more into reconnaissance? What career plan best suits your lifestyle?

Modern-day espionage is nowhere near as glamorous as the Bond franchise makes it look. It is not the non-stop thrill-ride it’s cut out to be. You will find yourself waiting around for something to happen. You may be spending years in an enemy country, simply gathering intelligence. Furthermore, you may be out of work for a while, simply waiting for an assignment. Even this can prove difficult, as many secret agents fail to achieve the basic ‘DON’T GET CAUGHT’ criterion, even though it’s Espionage 101. We need only look as far

back as 2010 to see Russian secret agents getting caught in the US. You need to get the simple things (such as maintaining your façade) down pat before you can infiltrate bases and shoot the bad guys with your cool secret agent guns. On that note, it is important to be proactive in your search for assignments; jobs are only given to the keen.

Paperwork is also a large part of the job. While shows like Archer make it look like the office team is solely responsible for the business side of things, the real world is far more complex. A secret agent needs to sign a large number of documents just to be allowed to catch a plane somewhere. Getting spy-level privileges involves a lot of character witness files and interviews before you’re allowed to cause any sort of collateral damage. Mission reports are also required by law, regardless of whether you succeeded or failed to carry out your assignment. While this seems like a small part of the job, incomplete paperwork can not only make you look bad, but your agency as well. In 2008, ASIO got in trouble with their Inspector General of Intelligence for how the agency handled its paperwork. The media storm that followed caused a heavy review of the agency’s record-keeping problems, and claims of corruption were bandied about.

Flirting with office staff, your director, or other secret agents is strictly forbidden in most spy agencies. Sexual harassment is taken very seriously, and you will lose your job over it. And yes, jokes to this effect were made in Goldeneye, but just to reiterate, you WILL lose your job over sexual harassment. You are more than welcome to sleep around, but do it on your own time. However, Honeypot missions are very real and have proven useful in gathering information. If required to do so, you will have to seduce your enemy, but only under orders.

Laser torture instruments. They will not hesitate to use them on you if you’re caught.

A secret agent needs to know how to think on their feet. You never know what you’ll be up against. Cyber-spying, dead drops and false flag operations all occur in the realm of espionage, and you must be adept at handling them. One day you’ll be fighting trained sharks in an underwater environment, the next you’ll be delivering the Queen of Tunisia’s baby. So while the movies tend to leave out all the boring details of your work, don’t be surprised if you end up having to use a Bond-esque intellect to get yourself out of a sticky situation.

So by now you may be feeling a little let down that you won’t get to have as much sex as you’d originally hoped, and you can’t eat in a fancy restaurant without permission from the director - but you’ll be glad to hear the real appeal of the Bond films, as well as many other spy flicks, is in fact a reality. Gadgets are a real part of your job. You may be disappointed to hear that items such as a car ejector seat are considered impractical and you may not be given one, but the gadgets you will be handling will actually help you accomplish your mission.

You will be given absolutely cutting edge technology, which will assist you when you are in a tight spot. On a surveillance mission?

Hidden cameras in your pen and tie will be of great use. Need to take an enemy down in heavy rain? Your dart gun umbrella will come in handy. While gadgets are not the be all and end all of spy work, your life will be made considerably easier by them, provided you are well trained in their use.

On the other hand, you may occasionally find yourself in some very Bond-like situations.

Some enemies have torture instruments.

So now that you have more information on the wonderful world of espionage, it is up to you to decide whether you will go forth and fulfill your dreams. While it may not be all it is cracked up to be, hopefully you will find happiness in the industry and lead a long illustrious career.

Pros

For more information

• Earn your Certificate IV in Advanced Hand-to-Hand Combat

• Opportunities for travel • Room for promotion • Exciting work outside an office environment

email us at: currentstudents@health.curtin.edu.au

• Have held a License to Kill for a minimum of two years

cons

• Maintain a positive, can-do attitude!

• High chance of death and/or torture • Irregular hours • Insecure employment

Prerequisites Before working in espionage, you must:

GROK #4 2013

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A Truth Teller’s True Guide to Telling the Truth Anthony Pyle

Wouldn’t the world be amazing if we all told the truth? “Yes, you look fat in that dress, and no, I don’t love you.” Easy, isn’t it?

that as long as you turn yourself in after the truth has been told and proven, then no harm was really done.

There

Before stage three can be completed though, there is somewhat of a step two-point-five. This stage involves some sort of training montage, either through practice as a computer hacker, or months of training at the gym so you can break into high security vaults with information hidden inside. Imagine yourself as a combination of Bane from the Dark Knight Rises and Edward Snowden – your new persona will be ready to tell truths the world over.

are many things you can do to tell the absolute truth, and the first is to stop lying. Simple enough, but the little white lies are our gateway drug to falsifying evidence and conjuring false testimonies. The main concern with absolute truth is that we are often compelled to lie shortly after telling it, especially if it is received badly. An example of such an act may come when asked about one’s personal attributes, physical or otherwise. “What do you think about my [insert topic]?” is often the first invitation for us to take our first steps onto a frozen lake, and most smart explorers of the wasteland of truth-telling know not to cross the ice. But let’s say you want to risk it: the first thing to do is to stick to your guns, and don’t retreat. You may end up losing copious amounts of family and friends, but at least you’ll be the most truthful hermit around.

If you’ve managed to hold strong with your truthtelling past the first stage, then you’re doing well.

The next stage is the convincing truth. While all truths should be intrinsically trustworthy, it is not always the case that your truths will be believed.

Try to be upfront as possible with your facts, and carry materials around that will help prove your point. If it’s spreadsheets of financial figures or pictures of a politician cheating on his wife, you need proof to back up your claim.

The next stage of truth-telling is gathering evidence.

Sometimes this is as easy as using your favourite search engine to find information on whatever it is you need to tell a truth about. Obviously if you want to get correct information you should probably use Google, but Bing or Yahoo are still kind of acceptable if you’re into pitying the little guy. But back to the matter at hand – if the information can’t be obtained by trawling through online searches then you might need something more. Often this may lead to criminal activity, and while I don’t often promote breaking any laws, I think a truthful person like yourself would realise

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Once you’ve entrenched truth into your life and sacrificed your corrupted upbringing, the final step is to change your identity. You must become a symbol for truth. With a large embroidered “T” on your $5 K-Mart t-shirt, you are now known only as ‘The Truth’. A hero of justice and honesty, you will go around telling people the most brutal, heart breaking and sometimes quizzical truths.

Whenever somebody asks “does my bum look big in this?” you will be there. Whenever a Save the Children clipboard-wielder assaults a weakminded twenty-something outside a shopping centre, you will be there. And whenever a Liberal is asked to explain their environmental policy in light detail, you will be there. (Of course, your true identity will almost certainly come to the surface when someone asks you at a party what you do in your spare time, and crippled by your new senses, you will tell them everything.)

These steps really only approach one form of truth telling, though. You could of course just follow your moral compass and trust that it is good enough without some kind of Bruce Wayne-to-Batman transformation. Once you take off the mask, you’ll realise that telling the truth actually saves a lot of brain space too. Imagine what that space would be

better used for: you could remember a variety of fun facts to tell people at parties as ice breakers, or you know, you could tell everyone you are a base jumping mountain climber, whatever works best for you.

A Liar’s Guide to Being a Lying Liar athina mallis

We’ve all done it: you probably did it last night to your girlfriend, or to a guy in a nightclub, or maybe to a stranger on the street. We’ve all lied, we all lie, and we’re all going to keep lying.

Sure, lying is frowned upon by society but lets be realistic here: I’m sure lying has saved your ass, someone else’s ass, or just ass in general. So in many instances lying is not as bad as it seems, especially if there are good intentions for the lie!

Some people, like lawyers, are great at doing this because it’s their job. And others not so much I think it’s those who’ve been raised under some sort of religious doctrine citing lying as a sin and a reason to feel guilty. However, I know some kids who lie constantly and their parents are religious totalitarians. They are the true poker-faced professionals, holding a bible in one hand and a joint in the other, with several other joints hidden in the bible, for later.

Lying is talent within itself. Most people could probably tell a white lie, for example, saying you brushed your teeth when you didn’t. However, it takes an absolute lying genius/con-man (depending on your outlook on life) to tell a huge lie to many people and absolutely convince them all of something that isn’t even slightly true. For those who are not blessed with the lying gift here are a few pointers to help you on your way.

DON’T SMILE Probably one of the best tips to getting away with any lie is not to smile. You need to keep a poker face so the people you’re talking to know you have some sort of seriousness in your story, when lets face it, you’re full of shit. Maybe when telling someone your fibs think of something depressing (dead puppies, unnecessary famine, getting married in Bali, etc) so not even a smirk comes across your face.

A LITTLE BIT OF THE TRUTH One of the main reasons people believe lies is because they’re an alternate version of the truth.

So when you lie to someone you have to put in a bit of information that would seem relevant to what you were doing or something relevant to your personality.

USING MATES AS BACK-UPS Sometimes it is good to have a few people placed in your lie so they can back up your story and make it seem plausible, because making up imaginary characters will probably get you caught in an instant. Let one or two close friends know what devilish scheme you’re up to and they can have your back when it seems no one believes you.

BEING EXTRAVAGANT Depending on your personality, being over the top and extravagant can be more of a helping hand than a hindrance. If you are a flamboyant drama queen then being over the top is like breathing and blinking to you, and more-or-less expected by those who are used to your dramatics. However, if you are a quiet soul who would rather watch Gossip Girl then relive it on a daily basis, I suggest you don’t use this tactic because you will get caught out as soon as you speak.

DON’T ASK DON’T TELL THEORY If you’re one of those people in your friendship circles that somehow ends up in outrageous situations when drinking, or often do dirty, unspeakable things for ten dollars you could probably use the ‘don’t ask, don’t tell’ theory. So if you’ve done something behind someone’s back or need to lie about something when someone asks you a question, just say “Don’t ask,” and they will probably get the hint you’re either being super suss and have obviously done something they wouldn’t approve of or you’re just being your usual self.

IF ALL ELSE FAILS – RUN AWAY. Your lying abilities have failed and everyone hates you, good job. I suggest you pack your bags, quit your job, and deactivate your Facebook account (but not your Instagram because bitches love photography - just something to keep in mind).

You’ve been caught out and now it’s time to start a new life as a farmer in the Scandinavian mountains where all the other failed liars have gone.

There you have it, a handy list of tips on how to lie.

May your lies be believes and may you not end up in Scandinavia.

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For more information or advice:

Contact Student Assist call Reception on 9266 2900 or 1800 063 865 for country callers. email: reception@guild.curtin.edu.au

Throughout its history, Student Assist has taken on a diverse range of bizarre cases. These cases were recently uncovered when we were clearing out ‘The Vault’...

Let it be known that the truth is out there!

Campus Case study 5874: Zombie Survival on found Description: CSG investigators have the in ne decli a of rts increased repo zombie population on campus. s Investigation findings: Investigator due was ies zomb of ne decli the have found Nerf to their being terminated (not from se). attacks, but terminated from their cour med that During interrogations, zombies clai ival war games were the only means of surv up and had no time to attend classes, keep s. exam for y stud or nts, with assessme al Verdict: Zombies were allowed to appe stated termination based on regulations as ent in section 29 of the Assessment & Stud al Progression Manual. Each zombie’s appe is is assessed individually and outcome inconclusive at time of this report.

The Truth is Out There: antee • Balance all zombie duties to guar survival • Threats of Nerf attacks are not validated as reasons for prolonged existence in the course; hard work and sacrifice are the key elements for survival.

• Contact support for zombies, e.g.

Student Assist/Zombie Assist

GROK #4 2013

Case Study 4230: The Mysterious Ringing Description: CSG investigators were alerted to a penalty in relation to a mysterious ringing whilst in an examination room.

Investigation findings: Upon interrogation, suspect claimed that they were not in possession of said ‘ringing mobile’. Eye witness testimony reported ringing came whilst suspect was in toilet booth. Suspect argued that there was no intention of misuse of the ‘ringing mobile’ and should be declared innocent of all charges.

Verdict: Suspect was given penalty and found guilty of charges based on regulations as stated in section 18.3 of the Assessment & Student Progression Manual.

‘Ringing mobile’ is deemed as ‘Unauthorised Material’ as quoted in section 18.3 of the Assessment & Student Progression Manual.

The Truth is Out There: • Follow and pay attention to all instructions given • Make sure no ‘unauthorised material’ is left on your person!

• Tell mum to stop bothering you whilst in an examination - you will clean your room after!

16 STUDENT ASSIST

Case Study 2968: New life form discovered Description: Reports of new life form discovered in scholar housing and conflicting methods of preserva tion have emerged.

Investigation findings: Tenant occupying scholar housing claims new life form evolved after mid semester bash congregation. Landlord claims new life form must pay rent under contract agre ement.

Verdict: Definition of ‘all life forms’ under contract rules states only tenant can claim habitat and all other ‘lif e forms’ must find own habitat or new cont ract must be negotiated with Landlord as stated in Residential Tenancies Act. The Truth is Out There: • See Student Assist for habi tat clarification • Make sure no new life forms invade your habitat. If they do, make sure they act in peace. You are responsi ble for their behavior in and around your place • Ensure all life forms leav e after all party encounters!

I was twenty-one the first time I was excommunicated. The second time was at my own request.

You may ask, why a second time? Getting excommunicated not just once, but twice, implies I saw the error of my ways – albeit temporarily – and returned to the fold appropriately contrite and willing to subjugate myself to the will of man/God. This is far from the truth.

You see, my sin against man/God, was the most heinous of sins. Fornication. Don’t you just love that word? It’s so biblical. According to my Macquarie dictionary, fornication is “voluntary sexual intercourse between unmarried persons”, though personally I find the online Urban Dictionary definition more appealing: “Fornication; see ‘fuck’.”

But as exciting a topic as fornication is, the moral of my story really has nothing to do with fornicating, and everything to do with being fucked. Over, that is.

You see, I had gradually begun to suspect I

was an accessory to a global movement that sought to oppress women. At the tender age of fourteen I had asked my Sunday school teacher why it was that only men held the priesthood. Why were they in charge of everything? I even adopted a phrase I rather liked that I had picked up while eavesdropping on a conversation between my mother and her friend: “It’s all just one big boys club.”

men’s business of great import was conducted every Sabbath. In the centre of the room was a large conference table at the head of which sat the bishop, his two counsellors and the scribe, also male. I was given the chance to acknowledge and repent of my sin, evidence of which could be demonstrated by my agreeing to wed my co-fornicator on a date determined for me approximately one month later.

I asked lots of questions over the following years. By some I was branded a rebel, which I took great offence to considering I wasn’t the one sneaking out for a smoke in the adjacent park between services. Nor did I ever drink alcohol or smoke pot in secret like my good little church-going friends who were seen as the epitome of youthful innocence and righteousness.

I informed this group of men that I wasn’t there to defend my actions or repent of any wrong doing. In fact I was not in the habit of doing wrong. Surely if I were doing something I thought to be wrong I would stop doing it?

No. I was there to state that my membership of the church was dependent on my support of a set of beliefs and rules. Unfortunately I didn’t support them and so it seemed to me that excommunication was the right course of action, in fact, the only course of action if they were to uphold their own beliefs.

No, I just had questions. I was trouble.

It was my experience of excommunication that confirmed my suspicions that Christianity was patriarchal, engendered, and thus flawed.

I attended my church court willingly. I entered a large conference room – the inner sanctum of the grand poobah’s – where mysterious GROK #4 2013

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But what of my co-fornicator? He felt terrible, ashamed, burdened with sin. I’m sure the bishop was greatly relieved to hear this. To call a church court for my boyfriend, himself a holder of a priesthood title, would have

required not only the bishopric in attendance, but an additional twelve men to decide his fate.

Much easier to get rid of a woman.

For many years I supported the feminist argument that as spiritual and intellectual equals, women have the right to hold leadership positions in religion. Why would any self-respecting feminist think otherwise?

But over the years as I have watched the argument unfold in the media and seen various faiths adopt the practice of female ordination, my own thoughts have shifted. The more the general populace accepted women clergy, the less comfortable I became with it. It seemed there was something missing in the argument, but I could never quite put my finger on it.

Mary Daly, radical feminist philosopher, academic, and theologian puts it nicely; “Tokenism does not change stereotypes of social systems but works to preserve them, since it dulls the revolutionary impulse.”

Tokenism. We’re getting close.

Sure, female clergy appeared to me a token gesture, but I still wasn’t satisfied that this was the missing argument.

While taking a unit in Anthropology at UWA I learned to define religion as a cultural system, one made up of symbols and practices that served to shape the deepest values of society.

It occurred to me that symbols and practices were more than a set of definitive morals. It was bigger than that. Deeper. More pervasive.

Something so big was standing right in front of me that I had missed it entirely, even I had come to accept it as the cultural norm: man/ God. Many of us feminist types like to throw in the idea that God is a woman. Alanis Morrisette portrayed woman/God in the movie Dogma; Emily Watson in a much more oblique sense in Breaking Waves. But in general, two thousand years of cultural manipulation has entrenched the idea that God is male, and as such the entire male species has become representative of higher power on a global scale. We are much more ready to accept Morgan Freeman as God than, say, Jodie Foster. Even the God-fearing members of The Klan might be challenged in this regard: black man, white woman, which is the lesser of the two evils?

To quote Mary Daly again from her book Beyond God the Father, “’God’s plan’ is often a front for men’s plans and a cover for inadequacy, ignorance, and evil.”

I realised God’s very existence as male legitimised a world in which I as a women existed only as a vessel for male progeny.

We are getting closer to the missing argument, but before I get there I think a quick run-down of the main arguments for and against female ordination is in order.

Author and theologian father Dwight Logenecker claims that feminists have only put forward three very broad arguments, none of which come even remotely close to the academic theological musings he himself is capable of: Utilitarianism: that she is capable of carrying out the required tasks of the clergy and can do them well, so she is useful, particularly when it comes to understanding the needs of the female laity.

Sentimentalism: ahhhh, women, so sensitive, so emotional, so in tune with matters of the heart. Women have natural empathy, are gentle and kind, so she is suited to the job.

that come to us from the natural order we do so at our peril, for they were put there by the creator himself for our good and the good of the whole human race.”

Civil Rights: men and women are equal, end of discussion.

So here is where my missing argument comes in, in its own convoluted way.

Of course there are in fact some theological arguments for the ordination of women – women can muse academically too – but they all come down to interpretation of both historical practices and religious texts.

I’ve organised these into three theological arguments just to prove to Father Logenecker I have a brain and I’m not afraid to use it.

If – as written by Paul in Galatians – Christ stated that men and women are equal in his eyes and therefore in the eyes of God, then it seems pretty likely that Christ was not as misogynistic as his post-enlightenment followers would have us believe

Firstly, and as already covered, cultural bias.

That is to say cultural systems engendered by patriarchy have caused power in women to be seen as inferior, unclean, and dangerous. As women we are by our very nature, and by virtue of our sister Eve, considered evil. This view is archaic and it’s time to let it go.

What Christ taught and what Christianity teaches is not one and the same. Regardless of what Christ thought about the spiritual enlightenment of humanity as a whole, somewhere along the line things changed.

One only has to look at the pomp and ceremony associated with Catholicism and other such older forms of Christianity to know that something got lost in translation. Poor old Jesus would be rolling over in his ossuary box if he knew the atrocities associated with his name today. If he saw the expensive garments, the ridiculous phallic hats, the big fat precious gem stones begging to be kissed.

Secondly, there’s this thing called latent tradition, which is defined by Pope Benedict XVI (AKA Joseph Ratzinger) as the gospel which was not written but was taught by word of mouth and “simply entrusted to the hearts of the faithful”. This “gospel of the heart” at one time As a woman I reject the token gesture of female openly accepted the idea that women were ordained as priests. ordination for I reject the patriarchal intuition of Mary was perhaps the one most Christianity as a whole. What woman in her right mind accepted in this role and was often would aspire to walking around with a big embroidered referred to as a priest until the penis on her head? As Daly said much better than I, church forbade the reference in 1922. the church as we know it was created by men for men;

to cover up their inadequacies, to maintain a sense of Lastly, Jesus did not specify that priesthood was a male domain. power and control.

According to the very book Christianity is founded on, we all become like So why is it than men feel such inadequacy?

Christ through baptism. “There is neither Jew Well, that I cannot answer. Perhaps it is nor Greek, there is neither bond nor free, there their disconnection from the workings of is neither male nor female: for ye are all one in the universe. That we as women, share the Christ Jesus.” (Galatians. 3:28) creation. Our cycles, deemed unclean, in sync with the cycle of the earth, our bodies capable This passage, taken from the King James of bringing forth and sustaining life.

Version implies that through baptism women have just as much right as men to hold the priesthood. The idea that Jesus actually empowered women as priests is a really important clue in my quest for the missing argument, so I’ll come back to it later.

Of course, as any experienced bible basher would know, for every scripture quoted in support of a cause, there is another than can refute it: “I do not permit a woman to have authority over a man in church.” (I Timothy.

2:12)

The second time I was excommunicated it was at my own request. To participate would be to deny my creation, my ordination would be nothing more than a new form of subordination, and to the subordination of women, this woman says no!

List of Sources:

In some weird convoluted way, the general consensus theologians pose against ordaining women is that man is alter christus, as in, he plays the role of Christ because like Christ, he is a man - this is known as redemptive sacrifice.

Logenecker, Dwight. “Why Women Cannot Be Priests.” Patheos. 26 March 2012. Web. 30 May 2013.

Women have their own redemptive sacrifice, basically that they are women, and thus mothers, which despite some women’s choice not to be, is still considered a non-negotiable thing, because men can’t bear children. Ergo, it is as impossible for a woman to be a priest as much as it is impossible for a man to be a mother. This, according to Father Logenecker, is all about the natural order of things.

Daly, Mary. Beyond God the Father. Boston.

MA: Beacon Press, 1973. Print.

“When we play about with these core truths GROK #4 2013

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Christ, Carol. P. “Why women, men and other living things still need the Goddess: remembering and reflecting 35 years later.”

Feminist Theology. 20:3 (2012) Sagepub.com.

Web. 30 May 2013

Ratzinger, Joseph. “On the Interpretation of the Tridentine Decree on Tradition.” Ed. K. Rahner and J. Ratzinger. Revelation and Tradition. London, Burns & Oates, 1966. Print.

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The Swan River is choppy, tiny triangles of dark water peaking and disappearing back into black. The city noises, of building and breaking down, stretch towards the Barrack Street Jetty.

James Hopes was there before me. I saw his back, boulder-shaped on the bench, surrounded by ducks and seagulls and pelicans, all ripping chunks of the bread he was throwing at his feet. The bench was close to the water. As I approached him he stood quickly, scattering the birds and bread in noise and colour; we were splattered with flecks of the Swan River. He grinned and we introduced ourselves. Hopes has a soft, Berninger baritone, and thin hands for a fat man. He wore a bright silver ring and a moustache.

We were there to talk stories, tall ones at that.

Hopes is a once well-established academic.

He has been widely published but is currently without a university to work from. Throughout our conversation he offered various different reasons for his current state of unemployment: government cuts, interdepartmental jealousy, timidity on the part of the institutions he has represented, and student complaints, all the while ignoring the obvious. He is a pleasant man to talk to, all loquacious and mocking like an ocker Tristram Shandy, homely and a little rough. His conversation varied wildly – one moment he was talking about books, about the smell and sight of the things and how important they are to him: “I read but one book per year these days, and that is a good and honest output. I select it very carefully, culling a thousand others before I crack it open. On it, I write 12 volumes, minimum, and then at least the world knows that I have earned whatsoever it is that I have learned.” The next minute he’s chatting about the most recent Western derby: “Pavlich was a fool, the man is supposed to be smart, the club captain, and now his sharpness and impact during any potential finals campaign is diminished by one impulsive decision.” But despite this variety he always came back to ships and the sea, and the treasures held in both.

I asked him, for a while, about his family, about his home or his hobbies, but nothing seemed to stick. He kept talking and pushing the agenda. It was unlike any interview I’ve ever conducted: I kept trying to pull him back but he kept talking and talking and, to be honest,

it was nice to listen. He was reluctant to talk about the ship, the Ridderschap, no matter how often I asked. That could be one of the reasons he spoke so much: was he trying to stop me getting to the point, the point that we agreed on, finally, after a few weeks of emails and phone conversations?

James Hopes is a famous West Australian, but you may not have heard of him under that name. His academic papers were written and published under the moniker ‘J. Hopes-Brown’, and his novels, national bestsellers in the early 1990s, were written by ‘Bram Jonson’. But, the truth is, Hopes is known as one of the great fraudsters in Australian academic history, certainly in archaeology, and definitely in maritime archaeology.

In 1981 James Hopes left his office at the University of Western Australia, taking a research grant and a campervan north. He had just completed a doctoral-thesis on the preservation of artefacts left behind in the shipwrecks of the Dutch East-India Trading Company, the VOC. The bones of early European incursions in Australia speckle the WA coast. Ships like Batavia, Vergulde Draeck, and Zuytdorp have captured the imagination for centuries with their tragedies, heroes, and, of course, the lure of buried treasure. “I remember finding my first coin under the sand,” said Hopes, in a rare moment of reflection, “I still have it, it was only a few years old then, but now it’s quite ancient, a 1954 Australian penny.

I used a homemade metal detector built from bits of an AM radio. My parents weren’t too happy about that!”

Hopes was respected. His research had been diligent, and his thesis would have, and still does have, an important effect on the techniques used in preservation. He showed how cannonballs, coin, ballast, even timber which has lain for centuries under water, could be recovered and protected. His techniques were lauded worldwide; Hopes was awarded an honorary degree from the University of Utrecht for his contribution to VOC research.

There are photographs of Hopes loading up his van for the road trip. He looks excited. He’s younger and tanned, and the piles of luggage that fill every gap and poke precariously through windows and from the roof, tied under a spider-web of occy straps, show that he is planning a long excursion. Painted onto the driver’s door in thick black is ‘Verroesten Draeck’, the Rusted Dragon. “The best years of my life!” he almost shouts across the river, scaring the ducks.

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It took a long time for Hopes to get as far north as he was going, and that wasn’t just because he was going a long way. He made numerous stops, all documented in papers he wrote about various wreck sites. Hopes referred to this as his “Grand Tour of the VOC in WA.” He bush-bashed, SCUBA dived, made friends (and enemies) and visited all the sites he had dreamed about for years. His time on the road hardened him, made him capable and able to fend for himself. He learnt how to survive in the bush on his own, so that when he reached the 80 Mile Beach he was able to live there comfortably for the best part of a decade.

This is a deserted part of the WA coastline.

There’s not a lot going on between Port Headland and Broome, and what there is is sand and sea. I don’t know when Hopes decided to do what they say he did, and if he did I don’t know why. Maybe there was something in the water once, something lost to time and waves, and he just couldn’t prove it.

I don’t think he set out in 1981 to trick people.

But if he did it worked.

It would not be surprising to find a shipwreck on (or off) the 80 Mile Beach: it has played host to some strange events. There have been nuclear detonations off the coast, cyclones, and the beach is home to birthing turtles and throngs of jelly fish. Once you could find pearls there, and in the 1920s an expedition to the beach helped to prove Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity. It has a long Indigenous history and was peppered by European exploration, but not in much detail: for a long time it was called 90 Mile Beach (until somebody decided to measure it).

And so came James Hopes. It was 1983 when he reached the beach and pitched his tents.

He took no photos of his time up north, but told me about the “tremendous winds that shook the tents,” and “the vast, detailed operation” he engineered. This was, of course, in passing.

In between discourses on the new Queen Elizabeth Quay and the news that the Catholic Church is offering indulgences for those who actively follow the Pope’s Twitter account, actually. We can only imagine what he had up there, but to do it would have required some set up. He desalinated his own water, lived off turtle and fish and whatever unlucky marsupials crossed his path; he had books and blankets, and made his own sunscreen using traditional methods. And, for three years, he banged together the bones of a Dutch ship. He had taught himself the Dutch way, something that still confounds many shipwrights in the

21st century. The experts say he built a wreck.

He built it and put it in the ocean, and there is no other possible explanation. His hammer rang for years and miles and no one heard until he wrote a paper claiming the existence of the wreck he had just spent three years and (what must have been) thousands of dollars building. That is the now accepted explanation surrounding the events of the “rediscovery” of the Ridderschap Van Holland. Hopes, to this day, maintains the veracity of the “wreck” found at 80 Mile.

This was new territory for the VOC. North of Flying Foam Pass at Dampier and even past Port Headland, there are no records of any wrecked East-Indiamen. But there are ships that have never been found, and that never reached Batavia.

Hopes’s famous paper, “A New Wreck: The Discovery of the Ridderschap Van Holland at 80 Mile Beach”, was published in Maritime Archaeology, in 1992, to great fanfare. What it produced was a veritable gold rush, as the cargos of the VOC were notoriously wealthy.

Archaeologists, treasure hunters, international media, and tourists all flocked to the 80 Mile Beach, filling the small camping ground and surrounding Hopes, breaking forever his splendid isolation and plying him with questions, all of which he was able to answer. Except, of course, the question of the treasure. For months, years, the blip-blip blip-blip of metal detectors rang through the waving heat of the long beach. Not a single coin was found. And yet from the sea Hopes was able to produce bits of hull, piles and piles of ballast, cannon and cannonballs, belt buckles and pipes, all the fodder of a wreck site. But not a single coin. In his paper Hopes speculated numerous reasons for why no treasure was found at 80 Mile, “… a wreck along this long coast would have been a slow one, a slow sinking, so the treasure could have been saved, and taken up in long boats … the gold was the first thing salvaged … there is a particular current at this beach that could have separated the wreck into different parts …”

His most speculative idea is that the gold was never on board in the first place, and that Sir James Couper, a VOC official on the doomed ship, had swapped the gold for ballast before the ship left Cape Town in 1694. This is the theory that drove his most famous novel, The Glittering Sand.

survived the years, covered by a bank of sand, but from extrapolated data and the evidence stamped on the guns Hopes’ hypothesis seemed to fit. But why would the VOC be so far north? And how had the ship avoided discovery for so long? The WA coast is notoriously long and difficult, that’s what Hopes said. He said he was lucky, that his work had led him to this spot, that he “followed the currents, my man.

I followed the coast. When you work around wrecks as much as I do, you get to know what to look for, how to look for it. It was lucky, yes, but it was also the result of years of work!” And then onto something else entirely different, still feeding the birds that would creep close to our feet, snatch some crust, and flap away.

There are now no reputable maritime archaeologists who agree that Hopes found the actual remains of the Ridderschap Van Holland at 80 Mile Beach.

The dimensions of the ship found off the coast at 80 Mile match exactly what is known of the Ridderschap Van Holland. Only 7 metres of hull

Peta Lorn, from The Maritime Museum in Fremantle, seemed exasperated when I asked her about Hopes. “He’s a liar,” she said, “He’s smart and wily and he managed to fool us all for a few years.” It was Lorn who found the evidence that uncovered Hopes’s fraud.

She was working on a thesis comparing the cannons on the Ridderschap Van Holland with the earlier wreck of the Batavia, when she noticed that the smelting techniques were different. There were differences in all major aspects of the wreck sites, from the way the ballast was dispersed to the types of materials used in the ship building process. It’s also clear from subsequent investigation that Hopes was doing more than just archaeological work at his campsite. He was building, forging, and shaping: there is evidence of smelting. He was doing something that was not just what he said he was, but nobody knows exactly what, and Hopes isn’t telling. “There’s nothing to say. I was there for years, I loved the beach, and I felt in my bones that something must have been there. I just kept looking. All the stuff they say I did, and there’s a lot, I couldn’t have done. No one could. All I wanted to do was find the ship and see her secrets.”

If anyone had the skills to do what is alleged of Hopes, what he has been disgraced over, what

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he has gone to jail for, it would be him. He has an intimate knowledge of shipbuilding and the VOC and he had all the time and space in the world. Hopes spent much of his youth locked in the family garage trying to recreate the mishmashed skeletons of the great Dutch ships in the Age of Sail. There are half-built models still visible from the main road that passes by his parents’ property near Point Peron. He had all the necessary tools, yet his conviction for fraud was overturned after an appeal to the High Court: he represented himself, and showed that all the evidence built against him was speculation.

Hopes is an enigma: he skipped our topic every time I raised it, but raised it when he wanted to.

He argued, in his defence, “If I wanted to fake a shipwreck, why would I fake such a peculiar one?” There were no gold coins anywhere on the beach or in the water all along that part of the coast. No bullion, no gleaming silver, no ingots or precious stones.

It’s a mystery what James Hopes actually did in the years he spent at 80 Mile Beach. The whole episode, from the late 1600s when the Ridderschap Van Holland disappeared off what would be Western Australia to the broad shouldered man wandering back into the city, is bizarre. In the hour or two we spent chatting on a bench by the river he revealed next to nothing about himself, but talked and talked, and not once about the weather. When he had had enough conversation he found a way to say goodbye, and left me with the birds. In the days following the interview I tried a few times to call him, just to clarify some points (all the points), but he didn’t answer his phone or return my emails. I don’t know his address, or even if he has one; I don’t know where he works, and the parents who led me to him are no longer answering their phone or door.

I wanted to tell the story of a fraud, but at the end of the whole process of researching and interviewing and writing it’s less clear than ever that any fraud was actually committed.

Hopes got to me. I’ve read all the papers and clippings and seen all the evidence.

I’ve spoken to people who’ve seen what he did at the beach, or what they think he did, but after speaking to the man I, well, I like him. And I think I believe him.

But what does that mean?

Money Money Money.

Chloe Macri

I need to clear some things up, because I’m sick of living in such a naïve society. Trusting blindly in the ‘goodness’ of society can often result in a disappointing surprise for both the young, and the young at heart. Things just aren’t like what they were back in the good old days, and although the majority of us would like to believe there is good, and things are genuine, we are just being deluded. Harsh, yet truthful.

So I’ve kindly taken to address a few things people already know but sometimes would like to pretend otherwise.

Truth. Big companies don’t really care about your feelings. McDonald’s don’t give a shit if

Truth. The rate of obesity in Australia is catapulting into something not short of ridiculous. Seriously. By 2025, 80% of all Aussies, tall or short, young or old, fat or skinny, will be overweight or obese. So not fat or skinny, then. Just fat. This is gonna cost a shit tonne of money for everyone, no matter fat or skinny. Portion sizes will increase, illnesses will increase, hospital waiting periods will increase, people will increase, problems will increase, cost of health will increase, money will decrease. Our money, that is. Because we’ll be too busy paying for all that other stuff, like food and medicine and miniature goats.

Only the necessities.

Truth. People are ruthless. Have a great idea?

your kids are fat. Or getting bullied. As long as he has a huge collection of plastic toys that even the salvos won’t take, they’re not bothering about his clogged arteries. Kmart, Big W, Target, they just want your money. Not your community feel, your happy customer stories, or your satisfied smiles. Bitch please, they’re not even 50% happy themselves. If the money’s not rolling in, they’ll cut you in your sleep.

Making money? Being successful? Don’t tell anyone. As much as you want to believe it, your fellow compadros will throw you under the bus if it comes down to you and a full vault at Gringotts. Don’t believe me? See for yourself, because the Zuckerburg friendship-slayer is inside all of us, just waiting to pounce. Keep your friends close, but not close enough to see your fortunes, or they may just break into your vault and steal a horcrux.

Truth. Everybody’s in it to win it.

Truth. Real life is not as easy as The Sims. You can’t just force error on people that annoy you, or fast-forward through awkward situations.

There’s no love potion around to make yourself a sex god and you can’t get rich by [kaching] or [motherlode]. Trust me I’ve tried. Reality is much harder. And sometimes much more confronting. You’re not a sex god. Sorry.

Everyone wants the moolah. The bounty, the cashola, the treasure, whatever. People get grumpy, saddened, frustrated, when they are beaten to the prizes. They work long and hard for nothing but a bit of plastic paper with a face on it.

Truth. Sports stars and movie stars make the most money. Nurses and teachers make shit money. Fire-fighters make even less; some of them volunteer. Stay at home mums make none; some of them volunteer too. Unless you’re a stay at home mum in a movie. Then you’d rake in the handsome husband and some serious cash. But if you’re reading this then you’re probably not likely to be raking in anything, because you’re living in reality, not a movie.

Truth. Nobody wants to be alone. This

is why we invented online dating, escorts, and Xbox Live. All the same thing really. Some are more philosophical and some are more physical. But at the end of the day, they still cost money. So the sad, rude, future of singleton mankind will have to pay for whatever he wants, COD or no COD.

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Truth. Money doesn’t grow on trees. Unless they’re exclusive mini bonsais, or part of renowned vineyards or renowned cannabis plantations. And given that most of us don’t own any of those, there’s really no hope for us. In our life we’re gonna work 9-5 for the big companies, pay ridiculous and never-ending uni fees, get grumpy about working for the big companies, be jealous of movie stars making big money, hear about sports stars spending their big money on drugs, wish we had drugs to make big money, buy an Xbox 360 to accompany us during lonely nights, buy a mini goat to make up for the increasing obesity levels, get a good money-making idea that isn’t illegal, keep that idea a secret but eventually forget said idea, and play a lot of The Sims.

Because let’s face it, we’re only hoping to rake in the money. And the handsome husband.

long live

the kings

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FEATURE

Citizens of North Korea - those who call the hermit kingdom their home – are exposed to a lot of lies via state-controlled media.

As a result, their views are somewhat...different to ours. For example, for the most part we don’t consider Americans to be evil cannibals, nor do we feel that getting shipped off to a concentration camp is normal. The best lies that circulate about the country, however, are the ones that concern its leaders.

Did you know that Kim Jong-il, head of the Democratic People’s Republic of Korea from 1994 to 2011, was born on the sacred Mt Paektu and that his birth caused the seasons to change and rainbows to cover the skies? Because everyone in Pyongyang does.

As expected of someone with such supernatural beginnings, Kim Jong-il was naturally talented at everything he put his mind to. He apparently broke a golfing world record the first time he ever held a club, scoring eleven holes in one. This was verified by his team of bodyguards – a very impartial bunch indeed.

According to a North Korean communist party newspaper, he was even able to effortlessly change the landscape of global fashion, and his oh-so-trendy suits are worn by the most stylish among us. Could you be any better, Kim Jong?

As it turns out, yes. The man was so perfect that he didn’t even poop. This interesting and probably false tid-bit was published in his biography on the official North Korean website, but was later removed.

Jong-il was hardly the first person in history to have a legendary cult of personality built around him, though. Really it was his father and North Korea’s “greatest” ruler, Kim IlSung, who started the trend of turning leaders into legend.

Il-Sung is considered “Eternal President of the Republic” despite his death two decades ago.

There are over 500 statues in his honour all over the country. Considering his regime may have been responsible for the death of roughly one million people, a lot of lies would need to be perpetuated for him to be so loved and revered. So how was this achieved?

Primary schools had rooms dedicated solely to learning about Kim Il-Sung. They were told that he and he alone was responsible for ending Japanese occupation. It was said to students that all the basic necessities of food, clothing, etc., were all provided to them by Il-Sung.

During the time of his reign, foreign visitors to the DPRK observed that nearly all forms of art were created in dedication to him, and most popular songs were about him.

Historians have also noted that some citizens even believed he could control the weather with his mood and, even better, had CREATED THE UNIVERSE. If this guy is allegedly responsible for all that is good in the world, you can see why he was worshipped as a hero by his people (and also the tiny part whereby disagreeing with the government pretty much meant you were dead).

You may have thought the myths surrounding Jong-Il were crazy but really all his supposed greatness just trickled down from his father’s god-like reputation. It would seem logical that Jong-il’s son and the country’s current ruler, Jong-un, wouldn’t have as many impossible falsehoods spread about him as his father or grandfather had.

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Kim Jong-un is actually his father’s third son but his eldest brother fell out of the family’s favour when he was caught trying to enter Japan on a fake passport to visit Tokyo Disneyland. The next eldest was passed over for leadership as he was considered too feminine by his father.

Jong-un, on the other hand, was described by the family’s personal chef as a big drinker who never admitted defeat, both apparently necessary qualities if one is to rule a country.

There hasn’t been much time to build a cult of personality for Kim Jong-un (he’s only been Supreme Leader for just under two years), but don’t worry, the government is working on it.

He has never had any military training or served in the army, but he is known as the “Respected General”. Since succeeding his father he has been referred to as “the shining sun,” which is a pretty lame achievement considering his granddad could control the weather and his dad was such a great sportsman. To cement his new reputation someone carved a sign into a hillside that is visible from space that reads “Long Live General Kim Jong-un, the Shining Sun!”

Although they appear to exist solely for our entertainment, keep in mind that the actions of the Kim dictators have very real consequences for the people they rule. The citizens of the DPRK - whether they believe their rulers or not - are faced with incredible hardships, and that’s no laughing matter. So always remember: Kim Jong-il’s ability to provide decent living conditions for his people was nowhere near his ability to beat Tiger Woods.

Who am I? jarod rhine-davis

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“Who am I?” The easiest question in the world, right? I am me. I am everything I see. I am everything I hear. I am everything.

But what does it really mean?

What is your identity? Is it who you love? Is it who will remember you when you’re gone?

Are you merely a collection of things you’ve done? Will all you ever were be summed up in a one sentence reference in the biography of a famous relative? Or an entire Wikipedia page? Or through the joy that your works give future generations? Are you where you went to school? Are you how many A’s you got?

How many clubs you joined? Your favourite TV shows?

No. Your skills. Your abilities. Your personality.

This is You, more than that other stuff ever will be. In one of Tim Minchin’s songs, he says “I will judge you for no reason…except your deeds.” For example, you may like The Simpsons. But what does that say about you?

How has The Simpsons affected the way you behave? Rather than a “Simpsons fan,” you may be a “smart-talking person with a keen eye for social satire.”

But even then, that doesn’t really get to the nuts and bolts of the issue. Who ARE you?

We are our own brand. We are a product that we sell to others every day to get further in life.

What are the aspects of a brand? A logo? A slogan? Symbols? Packaging? Associations?

Think about yourself in those terms. How have you chosen to brand yourself?

What’s in a name? Is a name your identity?

It’s certainly important to a brand. Why do I get so annoyed when people spell my name wrong? Is it a personal attack? Is it because everything attributed to “Jarod Rhine-Davis” in documents is mine? And everything that isn’t, isn’t? Or is your name merely a glorified grunt uttered by someone who wants to get your attention? Does it say anything about who you really are? As they say, “a rose by any other name would smell as sweet.”

Some people think surnames are extremely important, and fight hard to keep them in their name. Maybe it’s just me, but I personally don’t

see how a word (perhaps your great-greatgrandfather’s surname?), that represents merely a 16th of your ancestry, has the ability to represent your entire identity. It seems unjust.

Why should you be defined by anyone else anyway, regardless of whether or not you’re related to them? You are your own person and your expectations or goals in life can’t have been chosen before you were born.

How do you know who someone ‘really’ is?

People are always acting. I remember my Drama teacher used to tell me that in the classroom she played the role of teacher.

Who you are changes dramatically depending on who you’re talking to – and what the situation is in general. Perhaps that’s what makes Facebook so terrifying to me. You write something to your best friend, and then forget you’re also Facebook friends with your boss.

Is your internet identity the same as your ‘real’ identity? For me, I was quite shy in primary school, and then I found doing Drama really helped me to come out of my shell. And then through Facebook I started to create a persona, which I eventually started to mimic in real life. I wonder what that says about me?

What if everything you know about yourself – everything you think you are – disappears in an instant?

Recently something happened in my life that blew my mind. It made me reassess everything.

It affected the way I acted. The way I felt. The way I thought about life. About who I was, and how others saw me. About who I thought I was.

About whether I am a good person.

And it made me realise the sad, scary truth that we never ‘really’ know what others think about us.

If you are walking down the street and someone looks at you funnily, is it because they are checking you out? Or because they are secretly laughing at the fact your fly is undone? You may never know the answer.

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But that judgement might stick with them forever. It may remain unaddressed, and they may extrapolate from that initial encounter further judgements about your character. And you have no way of defending yourself from something like this.

In an episode of Extras, one of the characters says to a black woman (who works in a different department of the production team), something along the lines of: “this is our truck. You can’t use it. Yours is over there.”

An onlooker immediately thought she was a racist, shaping their judgement of her identity completely. And there was be nothing she could do about it. Hearing facts without understanding their larger context has the power to destroy.

Perhaps someone has held a grudge against you for 20 years for something you don’t even remember/didn’t know happened. And every time they see you, they hate you because they know you never apologised. But perhaps from your perspective you weren’t doing anything bad. I know if I knowingly do something bad I feel awful about it, but what if I do something bad and don’t even realise it?

Is a joke really a joke? What if a harmless joke was seen as not-quite-so harmless by the other person? What if I forgot to add the “:P” to a comment said in Facebook chat, and the other person got really insulted by it and never told me? It can happen so easily. It’s terrifying.

Assumptions. Extrapolation. We see what we choose to see. Does intent matter at all or is it just how the action is perceived? One action,one glance, one phrase, can mean so many different things. But in those cases most people have already made up their minds.

Facial expressions. Sometimes we tend to view events as a fly on the wall. Observing.

Not being. But we forget that no matter how hard we try, we are still a part of the scene. We may pull faces, just like an audience member at home watching TV. Not thinking about them and what they may mean. Yet we forget they can so easy be misinterpreted. Merely observing a scene can be seen as stalking or perversion through someone else’s eyes.

Something so sinister. Purely unintentional.

Am I 19? Male? Caucasian? Australian? Gay? Single? Jewish? An Atheist?

Sure. I’m all those things.

But who am I?

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Fun + Disillusionment Expo ‘13 Jon Solmundson

The peculiar series of events that landed me in Melbourne this July were not things I had anticipated. Last time I

checked, when someone jokingly says, “Oh yeah, we should totally book those tickets right away,” the automatic response is to not then do exactly that. But, then again, I was never very good with sarcasm.

So, through a convoluted series of communication errors and drop-outs I ended up attending Penny Arcade Expo (PAX) 2013 with: a guy I met on the internet, his hippy friends, and the most intense Young Liberal I have ever met. Needless to say, it was an interesting expedition.

The Show in Review To objectively analyse the show, it was cramped and overcrowded, but exciting nonetheless. The small venue (a collection of tents stemming off from the expo hall of the Melbourne showgrounds) left much to be desired, with panels filling up hours before they were due to start.

This led to a rather strange turn of events wherein the Rooster Teeth panel was already full before the Penny Arcade panel (you know, those guys who run the whole show) had even started. Both of them were scheduled for the same theatre, so the two lines blocked most of the walkway and if you wanted to line up for Penny Arcade you had the unenviable task of trying to figure out where one line stopped and the next began - without being killed for ‘pushing in’. And after this quest you were still in for an hour-and-a-half wait.

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This was at its worst when the show opened.

The entry line stretched far enough that by the time we got there at 9:45 (the grounds opened at 10:00), we weren’t inside to catch Ron Gilbert’s opening address at 10:30.

Otherwise, the show progressed relatively smoothly. By the Sunday the volunteers had become a little overzealous with their line limiting, which meant you could actually drop by the main theatre and catch whatever you wanted by showing up five minutes late.

Overall it was clearly a sort of test-show, and the organisers happily admitted to picking a small venue intentionally, in order to minimise risk. They were, however, also pleased to announce that the event would be annualised, becoming a proper branch of PAX in its own right - rather than a one-off experiment.

Best Laid Plans It might be worth noting that when I arrived, I did so with a bag of recording equipment, notepads and hard drives - fully anticipating intense coverage of the event for whoever would publish it. Given that this issue is permeated by half-truths and deception I would love to say that I was successful in that endeavour, and that you’ll be seeing my work across the press in the future. And I will, because I guess it’s not technically untrue to say that you may see my work in the future – it is infinite, after all.

But while my efforts may have been in vain, PAX provided the most baffling social melting pot I’ve seen for a long while. For those of you who don’t know, it’s essentially a public tradeshow for games. People gather together to check out what’s coming in the next few years, and see what’s popular. These are people who think games are important enough to dedicate a whole weekend. They don’t just think of games as toys, or idle pastimes. For these people, games are their culture.

Games become the most important thing in the world when there are enough of these people in one space.

Group Deceit So for an entire weekend this strange illusion of importance permeates the mess of 30,000-ish people. For one three-day block people stand in awe around the cold glow of light-emitting diodes, and wonder at the glory to come.

Caught in the huddle it’s easy to fall into the soft, insulating warmth of a thousand people who share your interests and passions.

It’s something like being one of those little green aliens from Toy Story - all worshipping The Claw and the enlightenment it brings.

Those people from outside might think you’re crazy, but here - inside the glass box with all the other little green people - you’re free to stare at The Claw in wonder, and muse at what prophecy it might show today.

Everyone just becomes okay with everything.

As much as it’s moving into the mainstream, ‘gaming’ is still bundled with a set of stereotypes which some would call unconducive to social success. When you see grown adults publicly acting out their petty arguments in costumed character it’s easy to cringe, and you do - at first. But then you realise that nobody else really has a problem with it.

The interesting part of this culture was that it

didn’t migrate outside of the show. Costumed PAX-goers did not terrorise the bars of Melbourne in full garb - though plenty of them were out and about. People acted with all the constraints you’d normally observe when going out on a Friday night. The next morning they’d be back to hyperventilating fandom, but there was a clear distinction between the two environments.

Dropping all the weight of etiquette and social conditioning is strange, but a necessary part of the process when you’re gathering 30,000 adults together to talk about games. It’s so inherently ridiculous that you can’t help but join everybody else.

Self Deceit It’s something that took a while to realise.

Between the big ‘Welcome Home’ banner, the meticulously hand-crafted costumes and the communal grumbling about the Sennheiser ‘booth babes’, the show prospers not on the games industry, not even on the games themselves really, but on the crazy people who pay irresponsible amounts of money to trek out to Melbourne and hang out with other, equally crazy people.

So it was amongst this madness that I constructed my own deceit of importance.

My friends (save the aforementioned Young Liberal) had all prepared full costumes for the second day. I hadn’t, as there were serious interviews to get to - professional conduct requires a certain dress code. Acknowledging our rather different objectives, we parted ways for the day.

But in truth I was barely taking out the microphone. People (including myself) clam up when recorded, I found it much more productive to just make friends and contacts - people I could talk to when I actually had a story to write. It was at this point that I got a call.

“Dude, everyone left me behind.”

“What happened?”

“I can’t walk ten meters without being stopped for a photo, they wanted to go do stuff so they left me behind... You brought batteries right?”

“Yeah.”

“I need six AAA’s, c’mon man, you have to help me out here.”

As I made my way to him I rummaged through the bag, sifting through the paper, pens and business cards - one packet left - four AAA’s.

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I realised there was only one other practical option. Reluctantly I squeezed open the back of the recorder, grabbing the two in there.

The little red light faded away, accepting my lacklustre journalistic performance with more ease than I ever did.

Finding a monstrosity like the costume he’d created was not hard. It was only made easier by the fact he was a little over two meters tall without the giant helmet that accompanied his Hessian sack and cape. I found him in pretty dire straights. Speaker wire hung from his holes, ribbons that covered his arms had bunched up at the wrists, his head was on crooked.

Caught up in the hubbub it was easy to convince yourself that this hilarious train wreck of a costume was of dire importance, and the constant maintenance it required was deeply fulfilling. Anyone with some batteries and no qualms constantly rewiring the tangled electrical cable tucked in the front of a friends pants could have done it. But there was no one who possessed those particular qualities (and lets be honest, those AAA’s), save for myself.

So for the rest of the day, I spent my time performing repairs, swapping out batteries on my comrade’s costume and ducking out of photos. The light-up, speaker-adorned scarecrow was let down only by the fact his stilts were missing a few bolts, meaning that he only stood half a meter above the crowd, rather than the two meters he was hoping for.

But people loved him.

And at no point did I have more fun than when maintaining that haggard scarecrow.

Unintentional Deceit Attempting to explain PAX to my relatives afterwards was something akin to negotiating a complex business deal in an unfamiliar language. It’s not impossible, the words you’re reaching for exist, but it’s difficult to put them together in a fashion that would make sense to the receiver. Conveying the experience is difficult, so you settle for simple objectivity.

“It’s like a... sort of conference... for games.”

“Seems like an awful long way to go just for that.”

“Yeah... it is.”

Agreement ends up a much easier compromise than trying to explain yourself.

Our little talks “The stairs creak as you sleep, it’s keeping me awake.

It’s the house telling you to close your eyes.”

– Of Monsters and Men

For a long time, Olivia had known that night didn’t fall. It wasn’t sudden, but slow and creeping. The night was made up of a million dark pixels that shivered across the sky like grains of sand on a breezy beach. On that particular night, it was overcast, and ninetyfive percent grey.

The buzzing wasn’t the worst of it. It was everything from the dryer tumbling in the laundry to the neighbour’s television repeating episodes of the original Doctor Who series.

Sometimes it was the doof doof doof of a party three streets away. That was just unnecessary.

Night for other people fell, all of a sudden.

The gradual change went by unnoticed until complete darkness was registered. For Olivia, it drifted leisurely over the roofs of her coastal suburb. She waited for it over dinner, and paused just a moment when the first pixels flickered into life.

On her right, Mo inhaled and exhaled. Slow at first, then heavy. Olivia gave up elbowing his ribs after three quarters of an hour. He stirred, rolled over, and slept on. At least he didn’t snore.

“You just need to relax, Liv,” Mo said. “Just close your eyes and switch off.”

But she never switched off. One day, perhaps her battery would run down, and she might not wake at all, but for the moment she lingered in full awareness while others fell into blissful sleep.

Olivia had a lot of time to think about the night, and to know it was loud. Silence was loud. That high-pitched buzzing when nothing moves. The night was never silent for precisely this reason.

She sat up and propped her back against the pillows. A small list of sounds arranged themselves, from least disturbing to most disturbing: distant vehicles on the main road, infrequent yapping of the Maltese puppy two doors down, Mo’s breathing, and creaking stairs. All things she was supposed to tune out, apparently.

Olivia slipped out of bed and padded quietly to the corridor. Everything in the night had its own sound. The wooden beams supporting the soaring ceiling creaked; the refrigerator hummed; the television emitted a faint, piercing note.

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Outside, the pool filter chugged relentlessly.

The cover was off. Mo had asked her to pull it on for the night, but she ignored him. She wanted the water visible, and didn’t want to wake him with the noise of removing it.

The pool was calm. Mo had put too much chlorine in it and attempted to balance it out with salt. He did this every time, even though the result was always just an assaulting smell, but it distracted her.

She’d tried that, for a couple of weeks. An array of smells. There were vanilla candles, potpourri, lavender tinder boxes under her pillow; even potent flowers. But no matter how strong or enticing the smell, none relaxed her enough to induce sleep.

Olivia sunk to the ground and hugged her legs to her chest. She rested her chin on her knees and sighed. Wide awake, the pool distracted her completely. As soon as she closed her eyes, the illusion of peace unravelled; the ticking pool cleaner, the cars, the yapping dog, crickets, even the memory of Mo’s breathing.

They all came spilling back in.

-------------------------------------------------For the first couple of months, Olivia didn’t quietly retreat into the backyard and sit aimlessly as the pool reflected the handful of stars peeking between the clouds. It was more along the lines of lying awake in bed for hours at a time. Until she snapped.

another twenty minutes of being more awake than she had ever been in her life.

One night, when she was absolutely sure there were no interesting cracks in the ceiling, she bit her tongue until it bled. Mo was sleeping more soundly than usual; all she could do was listen. She couldn’t call it calm, but his peacefulness gave her the strong desire not to lose control. Instead, she went downstairs.

The oven flashed a digital three twenty-two when Mo found her. “I heard you leave, but you didn’t come back.”

“I felt like scrambled eggs.”

“So I see.” Mo perched at the kitchen bench.

His eyes were bloodshot. “Was I breathing too loudly?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry.”

“I know.”

He massaged the back of his neck. “Maybe you could get earplugs?”

“I tried that. It makes the blood pound in my ears.” Olivia whisked a fork through her thickening eggs. They sizzled gently. She knew they were going to stick to the frying pan, no matter how much butter she bathed it in.

“Is this going to be a thing?” Mo gestured at the kitchen.

“I can’t do it, I can’t – I can’t…”

“What’s that?”

Outside, throbbing music increased with every passing second. Inside, Mo stirred.

“Liv? What’s the matter, love?” He sat up, blinking.

“Midnight meals.”

“I can’t, I just can’t.” She twisted large clumps of her hair, and then teased it out again. She rocked back and forth against the cupboard door, bare toes curling into the beige carpet.

“Good, I’m not hungry.” He stood up. “That’s not what I meant. I just…I don’t know. You need to sleep. I wish you’d see someone. A doctor.”

“Can’t what?”

“I don’t need a doctor.” Olivia focused on the eggs. They were starting to brown but it was almost impossible to overcook them. She kept whisking. “I don’t want pills. You wouldn’t try to dump me on someone else if you cared.”

“Sleep!”

“You won’t down there,” Mo said. He knuckled his eyes, freeing them of sleep as they adjusted to the lack of light. He suppressed a yawn. “Come back to bed.”

“But I can’t sleep,” Olivia insisted.

“You aren’t trying.”

“I have been trying, for hours. For hours. It’s nearly two in the morning and I haven’t slept at all.” The grip on her hair tightened as another anonymous, pounding tune belted outside the window.

Mo just sat there, at a loss.

All nights were like these at first. She started out relatively relaxed until she couldn’t roll over to look at the digital clock flashing away

“You don’t have to eat any. I only made enough for me.”

She flinched but didn’t stop whisking. Mo went grey. His voice was low, somewhere between hurt and exasperated. “Of course I care. But I can’t do anything about it, Liv. You won’t listen and you won’t help yourself.”

“What can I possibly do?”

“Stay here, cook,” he said. “I’ll sleep on the lounge tomorrow.”

Olivia faltered. The eggs sizzled. “You’re going to leave me by myself?”

“Yes.” Mo massaged his temples. “It keeps me up, too, you doing things like this,” he added.

The following night he left with a pillow in one

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32 SHORT STORY

hand and a purple quilt in the other. The door was left ajar, and although she knew it was childish, Olivia wasted no time in slamming it after him. That was the last time they spoke for two days.

-----------------------------------------------On the day she lost her job, Olivia stopped as she opened the front door. Something was different. She could sense it, even in her sleepdeprived state. Even after some of the worst daylight hours she ever had the misfortune of living through; a crowded train, a bitter office conversation, and another, more desolate train.

The pool glistened brightly as the clouds drifted inland to reveal the naked, navy sky.

It was peaceful. Underwater was loud. Like silence, but heavier. Olivia had once held her breath underwater for just over a minute, and spent every second listening to the water in her ears. She felt her chest tighten and her lungs crumple.

She had seen herself do it so many times before. Dip that first toe into the water, and then the next. Slowly, she submerged her entire body; she was wearing the Eeyore pyjamas Mo bought her on her twenty-third birthday. Her hair streamed out behind her in a wild, wet frenzy and her lips went blue.

It was freezing, but she surrendered to the water that tasted too much like salt and made her cough. A car drove past the front of the house, but by then she could only hear a muffled impression of the world above; she was cross-legged at the bottom of the pool, weighed down by flannelette pyjamas and anxiety. Her eyes stung with chlorine, but she didn’t want to shut them.

“Liv?” She started inwardly. Mo held the pool gate open, gooseflesh rising on his forearms. Olivia was up to her knees on the pool’s penultimate step. Her arms were wrapped protectively around her waist.

“Go back to sleep, sweetheart,” she breathed.

She shivered violently.

Mo could have cried, but instead he grabbed a towel depicting African animals on a savannah and draped it over Olivia’s shoulders. He shepherded her out of the pool and held her close. It took a few minutes for her to realise she was sobbing into his shirt. He rubbed her back and buried his face in her golden hair.

“I’ll never hear her,” she said into him. “I can hear everything, but I can never hear her heartbeat again.”

“Don’t go, don’t stop talking,” was all Mo said.

While the sun was up, sound was less problematic. It was everywhere. Nothing was soundless, but it didn’t bother her. Daytime didn’t have that incessant buzzing. Despite this, she realised quickly what had changed in her absence.

There was no ticking clock in the corridor.

Frowning, Olivia investigated the rest of the house. The television was unplugged from the wall; the fridge was tucked away in the garage; the alarm clock had vanished from Mo’s bedside table; the tap in the en suite was fastened so tightly Olivia could hardly get it to turn on, let alone make it drip.

“What do you think?”

Mo’s reflection appeared in the bathroom mirror, leaning reversed against the doorframe.

Olivia shook her head. That was all she could manage.

“I know it probably won’t help, but I do care,” he said. “I miss your smile. I miss our little talks.”

She said nothing.

“Is it alright if I sleep upstairs again?”

Olivia chewed her lip, but her eyes smiled.

---------------------------------------------------

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Night still crept; a dark, claustrophobic cloth cast over the world, and no one but Olivia noticed. The night was still loud, the loudest silence. But she slept, at least sooner or later, with her head pressed firmly against Mo’s bare chest. She slept thinking of the tiny life blossoming inside her, anxious it would go out like the last time. But then she drifted off to the reassuring rhythm of Mo’s heartbeat.

his cold limbs. He enjoyed engaging Cameo’s Banter Programme.

“I had forgotten you were still aboard, to be honest,” Cameo quipped. She read his life signs on a recessed wall display that flickered too fast for human eyes to follow.

“Why am I in the medi-centre?”

“There were complications with your revival,” she said.

“I feel like I’ve recovered from an autopsy.

What’s the prognosis, Doctor? Will I live?”

“Welcome back, Cameo said.

An alarm screamed at Longren as he cycled through the last stages of revival. The process was never pleasant.

This was far worse. His body

convulsed in the confines of his cryo-casket.

His lungs crumpled like collapsed paper bags.

Harsh overhead lights stabbed needles into his eyes. The medi-centre spun. He lost focus.

A familiar voice babbled, that of Cameo, the ship’s central computer. He strained to filter out the static. What was it saying? Something about an emergency? He tried to move but the pain was too much. Nausea overwhelmed him. He knew he was in trouble. Panic hit him.

A merciful jab against the left side of his neck induced another black-out.

Commander

Longren,”

Longren opened his eyes. He almost felt human, but vestiges of trauma clung to his memory. The medi-centre drifted into focus through the transparent dome that covered him. He could breathe without assistance.

He recognised the scent of clean alpine air. It triggered happy childhood memories.

Cameo leant over him. It wore the guise of an attractive human female in medical garb. She studied his face with a frown and nodded, as if she had made an important decision.

The seal of his cryo-casket released with a whoosh of pressurised gases. The dome cover retracted without a sound into the wall.

The life-support tubes snapped free and withdrew from his body. He shivered. The medi-centre lighting mimicked the arrival of a new dawn.

“That was fun,” Longren said through clenched teeth. “Miss me?” Cramps wracked

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Cameo continued to appraise his condition. “I think you’ll actually make it,” she said. “This time.”

“Glad to hear it. By the way, is that perfume?”

“Your favourite. To stimulate your recovery.”

“You could wake a dead man with that.”

“I did. Several times.” Cameo flashed a sunbright smile.

“Would you mind not doing that?”

“I am merely imitating appropriate human behaviour.”

“No, not that. I mean your appearance. You look like my wife. It’s…too close.”

“I beg your pardon, I didn’t mean to offend you, Commander. I thought a familiar face would stimulate your recovery.” Cameo effected an androgynous appearance.

“I appreciate your concern, Cameo. It’s so… human of you.”

“I will take that as a compliment, Commander.”

“Good. How long have I been under, anyway?”

“One hundred and twelve years.”

“Just a nap, then,” Longren said. He stretched his arms and yawned. “So, what’s the emergency? You lonely or something?”

“Not quite. Your presence is required at Central Control.”

“Hmm. Care to elaborate?”

“Commander, I believe we have an emergency that requires your intervention, as per standard company policy.”

“Cut to the chase, Cameo.”

“The Pathfinder is in the final stages of unauthorized deceleration.”

“Huh? What’s going on?” Longren rubbed sleep from his eyes.

“An unknown external source is remotely manipulating The Pathfinder’s main drive and braking thrusters. I’ve discovered that an energy beam is responsible, but so far I’ve been unable to neutralize or counter its effects.

It would seem that we have encountered intelligence.”

“Out here, between galaxies? Not likely,” Longren said. He struggled for balance as he freed himself from the cryo-casket. It had tilted upright to expedite his release. He rubbed his stiff neck and winced at the effort of supporting his own weight. Cameo handed him a pair of coveralls and helped him dress.

The coverall adjusted for his dimensions and began to monitor his life-signs via a builtin display in the left forearm sleeve. His vital signs cycled through red, paused on amber, and then crawled into green. Just.

“And the source of this energy beam?”

Longren asked.

“We’ve been shadowed by an unknown object for the past three months. I’ve been monitoring its progress. It’s remained astern at a consistent distance of three hundred thousand kilometres.”

“Isn’t that the limit of our long range sensors?”

“Yes. It knew exactly where to position itself.

At that distance it posed no threat.”

“And now?”

“Now the threat is real.”

“I won’t need that.”

An automated wheelchair rolled up and parked beside Longren. He took two steps away from it and collapsed.

up at his approach. Central Control was fully functional and temperature adjusted upon his arrival. The wheelchair released him. He rose and took several tentative steps. His legs held up. Cameo handed him a fresh cup of black, Jamaican coffee.

mulled over the possibilities.

“Your favourite, I believe.”

“Coincidence?”

“Thanks. You’re a lifesaver,” Longren said between sips.

“I doubt it.”

Cameo smiled.

Not much of Central Control’s layout had changed since departure. Longren opened the forward view ports and set the tint to accommodate his eyes. A riot of stars hung in a spiral before him: the Andromeda galaxy. He studied the impressive spiral – a destination still hundreds of years distant. He examined The Pathfinder’s status. All primary systems seemed to be normal, except for the over-ridden deceleration protocols, indicated by banks of flashing red lights.

“Can you give me a visual?” Longren enquired.

A shape flickered into life on the screen before him. It looked indistinct. “What do we know about it?”

“Long range scans cannot measure the object accurately as it appears to be continually fluctuating in size and mass. Propulsion source is unknown. Intelligent control is highly probable.”

“Oh? How did you determine that?”

“I executed a series of slight changes of course and speed which were mimicked exactly,” Cameo replied.

Longren eased himself into a couch that adjusted to suit his contour profile. He sipped his coffee while he absorbed the information.

“What could their intention be, I wonder?”

“Unknown, at this stage.”

“You’re sure they’re responsible?”

“Wake the crew,” Longren ordered.

“The crew activation protocols have been disabled, Commander, and cannot be overridden, despite my best efforts.”

“Maybe I should return to my casket,” Longren said.

“It has just been disabled. I shall attempt a diagnostic.”

“Don’t bother,” Longren muttered. “Something tells me—” “Verified. Outside interference is the cause and cannot be overridden.”

“Great,” he muttered. “So now we just wait?”

“Evidently. Commander, there’s one more thing.”

“There’s more?”

“Yes. I did not awaken you from stasis.”

Longren stared at Cameo, speechless.

Longren wandered through rows of cryocaskets, each identified by name plaques. He stopped beside one casket and looked down at the recumbent female within. He placed his hand on the dome surface and sighed.

“Honey, it’s me again,” he murmured. “Sorry, but it’s not good. The Pathfinder’s just about come to a dead stop and that mystery ship I told you about is closing in. Our shields are useless, no hand weapons function, and Cameo thinks we’re about to be boarded. If that isn’t bad enough, I still can’t even wake any of the crew, launch a lifeboat or a distress beacon. I sure could use your help.”

Longren moved on to the next pair of cryocaskets and hovered over the faces of two children in silence. He placed a tender kiss on each of their clear dome lids.

“Absolutely. Deceleration of The Pathfinder was actuated by a signal emanating from the mystery object one month ago, which I have been unable to override.”

“Sweet dreams,” he said.

“Tampering with The Pathfinder’s main drive could be construed as a belligerent act, but I suppose it depends on point of view. Perhaps this is the only way to attract our attention?

Have you tried communicating with the object, assuming it’s a vessel?”

The Pathfinder hung motionless in space.

The sleek mystery vessel edged alongside.

Longren took in every detail from an observation bubble. The alien ship’s design intrigued him. A small shuttle pulled away from it and drew near. He still had no idea what was going on. Communication silence continued.

He made his way to the transport hanger as the shuttle let itself in and docked. Cameo waited for him by the main quarantine airlock.

She frowned at his approach.

“Yes. I am automatically broadcasting standard universal greetings on all known wavelengths.

So far there has been no response. We will cease forward momentum in thirteen days.”

“Let’s raise our primary defence shield as a signal.”

“Didn’t work, huh?” Longren said.

“I don’t understand. My airlock security codes are being overridden.”

“Yes, you will,” Cameo said.

“The defence shield has been active at full strength for the past twenty-four hours.

Incidentally, it has had no effect on the beam.

The Pathfinder continues to decelerate.”

The wheelchair scooped Longren up and shot out the open medi-centre door with him.

“Okay. Disengage the shield for now. Hmm, we seem to be at their mercy,” Longren concluded.

“I was wrong.”

“See you in Central Control─” the door snapped shut.

“The primary defence shield is disengaged,” Cameo confirmed.

“I conclude their technology is superior.”

Longren clung to the wheelchair as it sped through a labyrinth of dim corridors that lit

Longren scowled. Something out there wants our attention. But why? Are we in danger? He GROK #4 2013

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“I thought you said nothing could get past that.”

“Hardly surprising, though.”

“But not their manners. What can you tell me about these intruders?”

“Correction. I can only detect a single intruder,”

Cameo said. “Now, that’s interesting …”

ship.”

“What?”

“You’re joking.”

“It’s human.”

“Afraid not.”

“Human? Are you sure?”

“What about my mission?”

“See for yourself.”

“Cancelled, effective immediately.”

The airlock opened. A short, stocky man stepped out. He appeared to be in his midthirties, and confident. Make that smug.

Snappy dresser. Yep, human all right. Longren was stunned to find the familiar Company logo badge on the visitor’s jacket, affixed to his left lapel.

“Just like that?”

“Good man. That’s the spirit. Well, enough chit-chat. I’ve got to be going. I’ve got a galaxy to grab. Thanks for the coffee.”

“One moment, Mr Swink. You are being hailed by your vessel,” Cameo said.

Swink tapped his portable com-link and frowned at the static.

“Yep. Just like that. Consider this a little social call, Longren, seeing I was in the neighbourhood, anyway. I could have just as easily passed you by and let you find out the hard way.”

“Here, use ours,” Longren said. He nodded at Cameo.

“What are you talking about?”

“Swink here. Is that you, Whipple? What’s up?”

“Yes, sir. Whipple here, sir. We’re experiencing problems with Bold Venture.”

“I don’t get it.”

“Andromeda. By the time this crate of yours gets there you’ll have nowhere to colonise.

Company projections estimate every available solar system will be claimed and established by us within fifty years. You’ll still be in deep freeze with hundreds of years to go before you arrive. Our shareholders don’t need that kind of embarrassment. You understand?”

“In a word: Tech.”

“I understand, all right. We’re being shafted.”

“What’s causing this?” Swink cut in.

“Tech? Like interfering with The Pathfinder’s mission and botching my revival?”

“Call it what you want. You can’t stop progress, Longren. We’re running a business, right?”

“No idea, sir. One moment … Jesus Christ!”

“Yep. A message from the future. To show how irrelevant you are, now. And I didn’t botch your revival. My ship’s computer revived you, commensurate with your current company value.”

“So what am I supposed to do now?”

“An enormous ship has just materialised off our starboard bow.”

“Longren, you got a minute, pal?”

“So, why the silent act for all this time?”

“A message, Longren.”

Longren read the Company business card.

Gil Swink, Field Manager, Andromeda galaxy.

Swink’s eyes glittered as he admired the spiral beyond the lounge windows.

“As I was saying, Longren, we’ve come a long way since you set out. It’s a whole new world out there, so to speak.”

“Such as?”

“You name it. Tech has gone berserk back on Earth. We’re making breakthroughs every day.”

“We?” “The Company. It’s totally reinvented itself.

You wouldn’t recognise it anymore.”

“More coffee, Mr Swink?” Cameo asked.

Swink nodded and held out his cup.

“Take this clunker, for example. I’ve never even seen such an antique before. You’re an autonomous Triple C Delta Nova model, right?”

“Correct,” Cameo said.

“Wow. One of our first models. Museum status.

Honey, a million upgrades wouldn’t get you up to speed, now.”

“Upgrades?” Longren said. “Is that why you’re here?”

Swink laughed. “Not exactly.”

“It doesn’t really matter to us. We’ve written you off as a loss. Tax deductible, too.”

“Such as?”

“Such as sudden ship-wide power failures.

Our main drive has deactivated itself without warning, too. We’re beginning to drift. The central computer is down”

“What?”

“Confirmed,” Cameo said.

“The Company is going to sacrifice us?”

Swink rubbed his chin.

“Yep. Far as we’re concerned, this mission’s a dead end. History.”

“Mr Swink, we are being hailed, sir. They would like a quick word with you.”

“What about all this equipment?”

“Sounds familiar,” Longren said.

“Defunct Tech. Useless scrap.”

“More coffee, Mr Swink?” Cameo asked.

“The crew?”

“Expendable.”

“How can you say that?”

“Because we’ve got plenty more where they came from. Better trained, too. Much better.”

“But I’m responsible for their welfare.”

“My heart bleeds for you. Really.” Swink sipped his coffee.

“This isn’t happening.”

“You want my advice, Longren? Crawl back into your casket and chill. It’s back online, as they say, for your convenience.”

“Confirmed,” Cameo said.

Longren shook his head.

“You know there’s no other destination for us, Swink.”

“Exactly. Oh, by the way, in case you get any bright ideas about turning back, I’ve disabled your main drive. You aren’t going anywhere now. Get it?”

“Marooned?”

“You could say I’m here to clean up loose ends.”

“Afraid so. As I’ve said, this mission’s become an embarrassment and a liability. We need to brush you under the carpet, so to speak.

Housekeeping. You know how it is.”

“I don’t understand. Cameo?”

“Yeah. I do now.”

“What then?”

“Please respond, Mr Swink,” a voice boomed from the hidden lounge speakers. “Bold Venture to Swink, please respond, Mr Swink”

“You.” Swink smiled. “That clunker, this whole

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Does Not Fly Well Danielle Le Messurier

Amelia Walker had never been a big flier. She felt this was due, in part, to having a long and boring history of anxiety that ran in her family. First her

doctor told her she had claustrophobia, until she told him that she liked riding in lifts. Then it was acrophobia, until she said that she had been bungee jumping. She tried to tell him it was aerophobia, but he insisted that such a condition didn’t exist. It was a fact that her friends never ceased to find hilariously ironic.

Etymology was a bitch.

Amelia Earhart, on the contrary, pioneered the way for female aviation. She was a pretty cool chick. How many women do you know that flew solo across the Atlantic Ocean? None? Well, that’s probably because Amelia Earhart was the first. She was a member of the National Women’s Party. She was smart, beautiful, highly successful and the poster girl for both men and women, young and old. She was the American heroine, winning medals and money and the adoration of the entire country, plus some. Hooray for feminism.

She would never confess this irrational fear to her boss. What sort of young, beautiful woman in the prime of her life wouldn’t jump at the chance to get paid for travel writing? She was living the dream. Perhaps not at this very second, thirty-thousand feet above ground level, but for the most part. While exploring places was the best part of her job, the process of physically arriving there with both her mental and physical self intact proved challenging.

Amelia knew that she was blessed, but right now she didn’t feel it.

Another stiff gin would help with that.

Amelia Earhart died flying.

Whether it came down to superstition or just an unshakeable feeling of unease, Amelia Walker couldn’t say. She did, however, know that this was the principle reason why she felt flying was detrimental to her health.

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From her experience, it was the take-off and landing that aerophobes hated the most. For Amelia, it was the turbulence.

Her stomach plummeted as the mechanical bird shook so violently it made her teeth gnash inside her head. Or was she just grinding them again? Next came the bag, her little paper saviour, as it caught the half-digested remnants of both breakfast and lunch. Her stomach cramped and her throat felt parched. The bag was liquid-full and the soggy warmth stuck to her fingers. She would have gladly sold her soul for a bin. The best she could do was to tie it at the top and rest it precariously in the back-seat pocket where it sat, judging her. (So much for the friendship.) She tried some water in slow sips. One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Missisi ― she tore open the bag as bile came flying back up.

And what was that god-awful noise? It was a persistent rattle, the sound of jingling keys. Her fellow victims were indifferent. Most didn’t even bother to look up from the contents of their trashy magazines. She felt bad for Fatty next to her, who was clearly having the time of his life.

His plump face was a delicate shade of green as he sat as far away from her in the seat as his ample flesh would allow. Amelia tried to heave quietly. This ended in failure as the bile took a divergent passageway through her nostrils. If Fatty could change his seat from the vomiting lady to the crying baby, Amelia was sure he would have picked the latter. She clung to her soggy bag, retching like a teenager on double blacks.

She flagged down the flight attendant for another gin. The woman had red-hair and a serious case of cake-face. The makeup looked so thick Amelia imagined it was possible to cut it with a knife; slicing through layer upon layer of synthetic dirt without ever touching skin. CakeFace gave her a searching look, translating as I’m-not-so-sure-you-should-be-having-that before bringing the miniature bottle with a saccharine smile. Amelia drank the gin straight.

For a second, she was relieved from her motion sickness nightmare as the scent of Juniper and citrus wafted, Heaven-sent, into her nasal cavity. And then it was over too soon and she was assaulted with the acrid smell of wet vomit, dry vomit and somebody else’s vomit. She put on her headset and zoned in on the Z-grade comedy that was previewing. Fatty broke into arm-rest-thumping laughter, oblivious to the violent squeaking of his seat.

Amelia turned up the volume until Adam Sandler’s lisping southern accent was thick in her eardrum. “My Momma says alligators are ornery because they got all them teeth and no

toothbrush!” Jesus Christ. She still had at least four hours of the flight left. Four whole hours left of watching mindless filth, of being locked in a tin cage and having a small rope knotted in her stomach. She needed air, even if it was circulated. Amelia ripped off her headset and nudged Fatty. He looked irritated and pointed to the screen, just in case she hadn’t known he was watching the movie.

“I need to use the bathroom,” she said.

Fatty squeezed himself out of the seat with the grace and poise of an elephant in a cubbyhouse.

His face was a tomato by the time she squirmed past him and went for a walk down the aisle.

She flexed her legs and feet as she went: it was better to be proactive when it came to deepvein thrombosis. Amelia found herself following the sound of the rattling, tracing it to the back of the plane. It was the handle of the emergency exit, slightly loose, banging against the door.

It was loud, but not nearly as loud as the staccato-beat that pulsed in her neck.

“Excuse me,” she called, waving to Cake-Face.

Cake-Face’s smile was beatific. The whiteness of her teeth made for an astounding contrast with the carrot-like quality of her face, like abstract art.

“Yes, ma’am?”

“I think the handle is loose.”

Cake-Face stared at Amelia, stared at the door, and looked back.

“We take every precaution to ensure every passenger’s safety, ma’am. You are our number one priority,” she said, still smiling. It was the kind of smile that you could boil and crystallize.

“Can’t you just check? I don’t think it’s supposed to sound like that,” said Amelia.

Cake-Face reluctantly gave the handle a shake.

The rattle stopped.

“Thank you so much, I appreciate it.”

“Always happy to be of service, ma’am.”

Amelia made her way back to the seat (once more having to shift Fatty) and closed her eyes.

She wondered what Amelia Earhart would have done in a situation like this. She pictures a black and white movie scene of a woman in a cap and bug-eye goggles, mid-air, balancing on the rusty wing of a propeller driven plane.

The woman tinkers away with her screws and spanner, utterly fearless of the ten-thousand foot drop into the desert. A sudden gust of wind causes her to momentarily lose her footing, but she recovers, like a true queen of aviation. The light plane, however, nose-dives towards the ground. The woman tries to pull up, up, up and snaps the steering wheel with her effort. The

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plane hits the ground and there’s an explosion.

It’s raining blood and entrails, limbs flying Rattle, rattle, BANG, rattle, rattle.

The return of the rattle jerked Amelia from her daydream. You have got to be fucking kidding me. Amelia pressed the call button. Cake-Face materialized after a few minutes. Incredibly, she was still smiling but seemed to be suffering a partial right-corner lip twitch at this exertion.

“Hello again, ma’am. What seems to be the problem?”

“The noise, it’s back.”

Cake-Face considered this, nodding to herself.

She pulled out a clipboard and rustled through pages, licking one flawlessly polished shellac index-finger as she went.

“It’s Ms. Walker, right?”

Amelia paused.

“That’s- that’s correct.”

“We have you down as a registered D.N.F.W,” said Cake-Face.

“I’m sorry- a what?”

Cake-Face bent down and whispered.

“A ‘Does Not Fly Well’.”

Amelia thought it sounded like something out of a playgroup. All they needed to do was add ‘with others’ on the end and she was one smack away from being locked up in a crib.

“I don’t understand,” she said.

“We kept a record from last year’s … altercation.”

Altercation was a mild choice of word for what ensued in her last flight out of New York. Amelia had specifically requested a seat close to the emergency exit. They had messed up her booking and sat her at the front of the plane.

She had screamed at them, with everyone on board, about how the people at the front were always the first to die in a plane crash.

Amelia had been so worked up that she hurled a full juice-box at one of the male attendants.

Apparently he wound up with a black eye.

“That should be on a private record.” Her face felt hot.

“All the information is one hundred per cent confidential, ma’am. There’s no need to be concerned.”

Cake-Face turned to leave. Amelia caught her sleeve.

“I’m telling you, that door is going to break,” she said, her voice shooting up an octave.

“My fellow colleagues have assured me that the door is in sound working order,” said Cake-Face, gently prying Amelia’s fingers

from her shirt. “We’re awfully sorry for the inconvenience, it must be very distressing.

How about I bring you over some earplugs and another gin to help you sleep, hmm?”

Amelia couldn’t argue with that. She felt Fatty’s beady little eyes boring into the side of her head, paying testament to her public humiliation. At least she was more entertaining than Adam Sandler. He wore a big-fat grin on his big-fat face.

“Looks like someone doesn’t fly so well,” he smirked.

“Gee, what gave it away?”

“It was pretty hard to tell between the vomiting and harassing the hostie,” he said, chortling to himself.

“I wasn’t harassing that woman,” Amelia said, “and you should mind your own business.”

her haste to get out of the seat and his sickening fatalist fantasy. The cabin was spinning. Did that lunch have any chicken in it? Surely salmonella can’t be contracted that quickly. Was that her third gin or fourth? Amelia thought it was her third, but couldn’t say for sure. Maybe she was coming down with something. Some stupid kid had sprayed his germs all over her in the mall the other day. There should be a retractable leash for disease-ridden children.

plane, pulling shut the curtains that opened to business class.

The handle was still rattling, but quieter now.

She looked around suspiciously before giving the door a tentative push. She then shook it, like Cake-Face had. Screws fell from the handle, rolling all over the floor. Amelia dropped to the carpet, scurrying after them. She slipped them into her pocket and had to restrain herself from running back to the seat. She stood over Fatty.

At that precise moment, within a fraction of a millisecond, a short circuit took place outside the centre wing fuel tank. This allowed excessive voltage to enter the tank, which held a highly combustible mixture of fuel and air.

The explosion that followed ripped the plane open from the middle. Shrapnel spewed forth from its innards, whizzing about the cabin and shining deadly in the sunlight. The path of destruction followed no map. The infants were the first to go; plucked from their mother’s arms and sucked into the gaping blue void where the floor had been seconds ago. Oxygen masks fell like feathers. An elderly couple snatched them up and went into whatever emergency brace position they remembered. A child cried in the seat next to them, unheard above the roar of two 1,100 horsepower jet engines failing.

Cabin baggage made a wild dash for freedom.

Flames licked the sides of the plane, devouring everything save for the metal exoskeleton.

“Sure was what it looked like.”

“You need to get an attendant to see that door and you need to do it right now.”

“Do you hear that?” Amelia said, motioning to the back of the plane.

Fatty looked at her with a mixed expression of sympathetic loathing.

He paused, listening.

“Lady, you need to calm down,” he said, using an unnecessary amount of hand gestures, “I don’t want no trouble.”

“Yeah, I hear it,” Fatty said.

“It’s the emergency exit handle: it’s loose.”

“Eh.” He shrugged.

“The handle is loose,” said Amelia, concerned he hadn’t heard her right.

He ignored her, feigning a complete absorption into the screen.

“Hello?” She waved her hand in front of his face.

“Do I look like I give a shit?”

He really didn’t.

“We could all die.”

“Yeah and I could’ve died on my way to the airport this morning. Or maybe I’ll die on my way home tonight. Look, lady, I been in plenty of cars and plenty of dark alleys and plenty of planes and I ain’t dead yet. You can’t pick when you’re gonna’ go, you just gotta’ roll with it.”

Amelia stared blankly at Fatty.

“Excuse me, I need to use the bathroom again.”

She half climbed over the top of him this time in

Clearly, he’d never been instructed on what not to say to someone who’s about to lose their shit.

“I’m not fucking with you! The fucking door is broken!” She screamed.

His fat hand shot up to the call button faster than she would have believed possible. CakeFace hurried over, a dirty apparition of Revlon on Maybelline. Amelia took a step back and put some space between her and Fatty.

“What’s the problem, sir?” Cake-Face inquired.

“She’s the problem!” Fatty said, pointing a stumpy finger at Amelia. “She’s harassing me.”

Cake-Face stared at Amelia, stared at Fatty, and then smiled back to Amelia.

“Ma’am, will you walk with me?”

“No, you don’t understand,” Amelia pressed, racing, “the door is broken. I tried to fix it because it was rattling, like you did, but I just made it worse and I think it’s going to break.

Look-” she held out the screws, hands shaking, “it’s fucked. We’re all fucked.”

Cake-Face stopped smiling.

“Ma’am, you need to come with me right now.”

“I was trying to fix it! I tried to tell you, but you didn’t believe me because of the D.N. whatever the hell it was that you put on my record. I swear to god, you have to believe me.”

Cake-Face furiously whispered to another attendant who then ran to the front of the

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“This is bullshit,” Amelia said, pointing at CakeFace, “You claim to take your jobs seriously with all that ‘keeping your seatbelts fastened’ crap. You give your shitty demonstrations and blow your little whistles and prance around like the bitches on heat that you are. Shit, you take more interest in fucking Revlon than you do in safety-”

Amelia wasn’t sure in what order the events happened next. The plane lurched to one side and she was tossed like salad out of her seat. At some point, Cake-Face was sucked, screaming, from the cabin. At some point, Fatty shat himself. At some point, she felt the absurd satisfaction of being (almost) right.

At some point, she even enjoyed flying.

Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,

I am 5 now and Mummy says that I can write to you and ask for anything I want for Christmas I won’t be greedy because you need lots of toys for all the other kids as well. Santa could you bring me my own Barbie just like Chloe because Mummy says I’m not allowed to play with Chloe’s toys because they’re not mine even when Chloe doesn’t mind! If I am REALLY REALLY good maybe you could even bring me the dream house the one with the fireplace. It’s ok if you can’t just the Barbie would be perfect!

I left you milk and cookies cause Mummy told me how much you love them!

Karate may not have been a bad idea. Chloe doesn’t pick on me as much and even Ricky is much nicer to me. Mum and Dad, this year I would love an Ipod. One of those small ones I can carry anywhere. I’ll be able to listen to all my own music whenever I want, even in the car. And I won’t need to have my music up so loud anymore. I pinky swear I won’t use it at the dinner table or be rude.

to me. Chris keeps calling me a fag. Gross! I didn’t even know what one was till Mum told me. Not even the girls will hang out with me anymore, not even Josey. I miss Stacey. I miss having friends. A friend. Anyone. I just want somewhere to fit in. To belong.

Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,

I don’t want anything this year, please just make Dad and Chloe come home.

Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,

Thank you so much for Jessie. Someone that really gets me, just makes this world that much easier to live with. No one else ever sees me.

Just please don’t take Jessie away.

Silly Santa you got me a GI Joe by mistake.

It’s ok though I am six now and Mummy says I am too old for dolls even if Chloe still has hers.

This year for Christmas if I am really really good could you get me a bike! Stacey across the road has a bike and it’s so cool! It’s pink and has streamers on the handlebars to make it go real fast! And a basket on the front so she can carry stuff. I’d love a bike just like hers.

Mum, last week I heard the most beautiful music ever. It must of been God’s music. Miss Grace was playing it on a cello. It was sooo beautiful and sad and happy all at the same time. Could I please get one? or maybe just lessons if it’s too much. I sooo want to learn to make something so magical as that music! I’ll be really good I promise and I’ll practice all the time!

Dear Santa, Thank you for the bike Santa even if it was blue. Sorry mum says I shouldn’t complain about gifts. It was really good! And goes real fast! Even Ricky likes it. This year you shouldn’t give Chloe anything. You should give her a big lump of coal for telling lies because she told me you’re not real! If you’re not real where would presents come from and who eats all the cookies? This year I would like a new big sister!

Well, Mum, I’ve had lots of A’s this year and worked really hard for them. I’ve been really good all year and not got into trouble much at all. So this year, how about an iPhone? I’ll be able to call to ask if I can go over to Josey’s house after school. And if I get lost or anything I can call for help. They have this app now where you can find out where I am if you’re worried.

I’ll be really careful with it and look after it. I promise I won’t use it in class.

Dear Santa,

Dear Santa,

I know you’re really Mum and Dad! So Mum and Dad I’ve been thinking real hard about what you always say about playing sport. Stacey has been doing ballet and it looks real fun. I would love to be able spin around and dance just like her. She looks beautiful, just like a swan. So Mum and Dad? Ballet lessons? Pleeeeeease

I’m 13 now, I know you’re not real, and I am too old to write to mum for presents. Sometimes though writing to you just makes things a little less shit inside. Anyway, maybe one day you or God or something just might answer.

I wish I was invisible. I don’t want to stand out anymore. My body feels wrong. I’m just not like the other boys. They keep being mean

Dear Santa,

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Dear Santa, Nevermind

Dear Santa, I can’t do it anymore. This body. This life. It’s all a fucking lie

Dear Santa, I want a fucking new family! Ok everyone but Chloe, she’s cool. Everyone else just doesn’t get it. They don’t see me. They want me to be their perfect fucking SON. They keep telling me: ‘God loves me just the way I am’, ‘the way he made me’. Bullshit. This IS the way I AM. This IS the way HE MADE ME. So God made me broken and he can go fuck himself. I am not going to live this lie anymore; in this fucking body! This whole family is fucked. Fuck U 2!

Dear Santa, Don’t worry about me this year, the Barbie was perfect!

The old white house shudders in the winter storm. Thunder roars as lightning flashes in the night sky. The gale force winds shake the windows in their frames.

The floorboards creak beneath our feet.

In vacant rooms shadows dance on walls, like coloured lights at the disco where we used to dance. The naked branches of swampland trees tap against the window.

Footsteps approach from down the hall.

I awake with a jump and gasp for air, my eyes full of tears. The digital alarm clock beside my bed reads 3am. Flicking on the bedside lamp, I sit up, leaning against the head board of the queen size bed where I sleep alone. The calendar is on June, marking ten years since the day my life forked in this direction. I kick back the covers on the bed. I want to move on, but how can I? The nightmares still occur at least once a week. I get out of bed, walk over to the window and push back the curtains. The concrete jungle of suburbia lies below, dead at

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this hour. This is what freedom is meant to look like, but I don’t feel free. Coldness consumes me and I step back toward the bed where I pull the covers up to my neck. I’ve been through intense trauma counselling, not that any of it helped, when no shrink wants to believe in the paranormal. I even spent the end of my teenage years and early adulthood in a mental asylum because the jury decided I was guilty of my best friend Tasha’s murder, my lawyer argued I was mentally ill.

I lay in bed awake until the first beams of sunlight enter my window. I get dressed and leave the apartment. I sit behind the steering wheel of my car and listen to a top forty music station. I can’t recall when popular music turned into the music of the clubbing scene. Where was the rock and roll, the music with real meaning and protest? I turn the radio off in disgust and drive on in silence as I approach the neighbourhood where I spent my childhood. I have not been here in ten years. Since the police, finding no evidence of another bystander at the scene, knocked on my mother’s front door and dragged me away, screaming hysterically and crying out my innocence.

“Do you mind if I take a couple of rose buds from your garden?” I ask. “They’re beautiful!”

I pass the primary school where I first became friends with Tasha in grade one, now surrounded by a prison like iron fence. The grass at the front of the school grounds, where we played “what’s the time mister wolf?” has been dug out and replaced with a car park. The back oval of the high school, where Tasha and I talked for an hour past the last siren of the day is still the same. I pass my childhood home, the front yard now overflowing with rose bushes.

The colours are even more beautiful than I remember. I reach the corner and hesitate for a moment before I reverse to pause across from the house. I’m struck by indecision. My mother had told me I was dead to her, in the only letter she had sent me, not long after my arrest. I cautiously step out of the car and wander over to the rose garden where the sweet but dangerous scent fills me with happy childhood memories. I inhale it deeply. I gather my composure before I knock on the front door, fidgeting. An unfamiliar woman answers, a toddler trailing behind her.

I pass by the two storey house where Tasha used to live. A young mother steps out with a baby in her arms. I know Tasha’s family wouldn’t have been able to stay there with her memory surrounding them. Tasha was one of those people who found her way into your heart and mind with no effort, so happy and bubbly. I was only popular because everyone wanted to be her friend and she refused to break her friendship with me. Funny how she would probably still be here if it wasn’t for our friendship. It had been my idea to go to the old white house by the swamp that night.

She didn’t want to. I insisted on going inside the creepy white house whether she was with me or not. She only tagged along because she didn’t want me to go on my own. I should have listened to her.

“Sorry to disturb you, I must be looking for the previous owners of your house,” I apologise turning to leave.

“Who were you looking for?” the woman asks sympathetically.

“Just my mother,” my voice cracks.

“Oh dear,” she looks down at her toddler and back at me. “I could give you the realtors’ number for you, we only moved in a few months backs, he may know something,” the woman offers kindly.

“That would be awesome, thank you,” I smile awkwardly.

The woman disappears into another room, the toddler running after her. Within moments she returns with a phone number, written on bright pink floral paper.

“Help yourself,” the woman replies.

“Thanks, have a good day” I say, as I head over to the rose bush.

“You too, best of luck with your search,” she replies closing the door behind her.

As I walk back to the car smelling the roses, memories overwhelm me. I remember falling off my bike and landing in the rose bushes when was I first learning. Mum was there to pick me up. I remember my mother cutting perfect flowers from the bushes for me to take to my primary school teachers.

Finally I stop across the road from the old white house, to find it no longer stands. The only evidence of its past is the lonely cement foundation. I sit, staring at the empty space for a few minutes, emotions flooding me. I slowly get out of my car and close the door behind me, cautiously approaching where the house once stood. The kookaburras laugh raucously. Well I’m glad they can see a joke in the situation. Frogs croak and cicadas chirp as I make my way forward. The sun disappears and grey clouds roll in, making it appear much later than it really is. I freeze where the room in which Tasha had lost her life once stood. A strong gust of wind lifts leaves from the ground swirling them around me. I close my eyes, calling out to past memories to show me the truth.

Footsteps approach from down the hall, followed by the hysteric giggles of a little girl.

An owl hoots in the distance. Tasha and I back up toward the open window. I see the shadow of a little girl in the doorway. The window slams shut. Tasha and I scream in unison. The lights

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flicker on and off. A coldness sweeps through the room. Papers lift from the floor caught in a whirlwind. I catch a glimpse of my worst nightmare. Blonde hair and a frowning face.

Her white dress once beautiful clings to her in tatters. A gold heart shaped locket identical to the one I wear around my own neck dangles over her chest. The moonlight reflects off her opaque skin like a diamond in the sunlight.

“Play with me,” she whispers.

“Play with me.”

She lunges at Tasha. Tasha freezes as the ghost grabs her by the throat. My feet feel like jelly and I freeze in my place. I know I’m next. I try not to look as Tasha’s eyes bulge from her head.

“Help me Kat, Help me,” Tasha chokes.

The ghost rips out Tasha’s heart and places it beside her limp body. Tears stream down my face.

“Tasha, no not Tasha,” I scream.

The ghost girl looks at me with a cheeky grin.

“Murder in the Dark,” she giggles. “Let’s play murder in the dark.”

I run over to Tasha unable to face the truth. I place her head in my lap. I put pressure on her chest and try to stop the bleeding. It’s no use of course she’s dead. The little girl floats over and grabs Tasha’s heart.

“Stupid girl, the life force is mine again for tonight,” she laughs hysterically.

I let go of Tasha. My hands are the crimson red of blood. The ghost puts Tasha’s heart in her chest. A bright light blinds me before I see a little girl in the flesh.

“Come on, murder in the dark,” she insists as I rise to my feet and run.

“Wait for me, you’re the next victim,” she calls from behind me.

I open my eyes to the blinding rays of sunlight and cover them with my arm. The cement surface is hard underneath me. The back of my head throbs, my knees and elbows sting.

I slowly sit up and realise not only am at the cement slab, all that is left of the creepy old white house. I am sitting in the exact position where Tasha died. I touch the back of my head and feel a small bump under my fingertips, my knees and elbows grazed. Tears fill my eyes as I get to my feet.

“I’m sorry Tasha, I’m so sorry,” I cry as I run back to my car.

I take my mobile phone from the console and

the floral piece of notepaper from the front passenger seat. I punch in the phone number and, unsure I backspace it. I punch in the number again and this time I dial it. Something was going right for me today. The woman gave me my mother’s new address perhaps more easily than she should have considering it was private information I requested. In her defence, I did say I was the house’s new occupant, quoting the address and the landline phone number, under the pretence we had received her mail and wished to send it on.

I pull up on the verge of the address the realtor gave me. I hide behind my road map and discreetly look at the house. It is much smaller than the old one, a little more modern too. The grass is greener and she still has her signature roses though these are in pots near the front door. Some things never change I guess. I throw down the map book and jump out of the car. I hurry to the door and ring the bell before I can lose my nerve. I can hear the daytime soap operas on the television so I know she is home.

Moments later she returns with a steaming mug of cocoa and hands it to me.

to take any of them,” Mum offers, changing the subject.

“Just the way you like it,” she smiles.

I nod my head she leads me to a room with a single bed filled with boxes. I grab the first box and begin to sort through it. I find Cuddles the teddy bear who I hugged every night as a child.

A photograph of my father and I, not long after I was born and a few of my old sketchbooks filled with both happy and morbid sketches. My mother sits beside me, and does not speak.

She just watches me, deep in thought. The doorbell rings and I watch her disappear to answer it. I hear muffled voices and this time I hear three sets of footsteps in the hallway. I look up to see my mother in the doorway with two men in white coats behind her.

“Thanks,” I say, placing the mug on the coffee table.

“I didn’t kill her mum, the ghost ripped out her heart, you gotta believe me,” I beg.

“I want to believe you, but I can’t ignore the evidence. Tasha was choked to death, her heart was still inside her chest,” she insists.

“I’m sorry I came to see you,” I exclaim shuffling forward in my seat ready to stand and leave.

“No, I’m happy to see you, I should never have abandoned you, I was just scared,” she explains.

“Scared of what?” I ask staring her in the eyes.

“I don’t know, that you were going to kill me too, like your father tried to do many times” tears fill her eyes.

“My father.. what?” I ask in surprise.

“No, I am not going back there,” I cry.

“Kat you’re sick, I promise I will come and see you this time,” my mother pleads.

“I’m not sick,” I scream and turn back to the boxes.

“You are not rehabilitated enough to be out yet, you can’t just get up and leave,” one of the men in white coats jumps in.

“Oh yes I can,” I stand and attempt to push past them.

The men in white coats block the doorway. A shiny, golden heart shaped locket in the bottom of the empty box catches my eye. The very locket I wore on the dreadful night ten years ago. I hesitantly reach into the box and touch it.

I push Tasha against the wall.

“Play with me” I whisper “Play with me.”

I grab hold of Tasha’s throat.

“Stop Kat, Stop,” Tasha chokes.

“Kat,” she exclaims.

“I’m sorry mum, please forgive me,” I plead.

My mother pulls me into the house and sits me on the sofa, while she remains standing.

“It’s okay love, you couldn’t help it you were... are sick,” mum replies. Leaving me in front of the television she exits the room.

“I’m not sick, I feel fine,” I yell after her.

“He didn’t leave us when you were a toddler, I took you and fled. He was sick too, it’s in your genes,” she sobs.

“I am not sick, I did not kill her.”

“I know sweetheart, you believe that,” she spoke with sarcasm.

“It wasn’t me, it was the ghost,” my voice rises.

“I still have most of your belongings, if you want

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The Sweet Side of Sugar Anika Rodgers

Have you heard? Apparently sugar is bad for you. Sweet is no longer in fashion

and everyone is going sugar free. Well, I have to say I disagree with the ‘Sugar Free’ movement taking place at the moment - I believe you can have your cake and eat it too!

Ok, let me clarify what I mean before you go out and get a massive sugar high from eating a tonne of lollies, cakes, and cookies. While I don’t believe sugar is bad for you, I do believe you need to eat the right types and you should try to use natural sources to sweeten up your day instead of processed or artificial sugars.

It doesn’t mean you can’t have chocolate, lollies or cake, but I would recommend only eating these occasionally because refined sugar spikes your blood sugar levels too quickly, causing that all too familiar bout of hyperactivity followed by a deadening energy slump.

I think it’s a bit of a self-deception to think cutting out sugar will solve all your problems.

The body requires glucose (blood sugar) to create energy and promote normal brain function. The brain is a big consumer of glucose, and that’s why it’s important not to skip breakfast otherwise your low blood sugar will cause you to be foggy in the morning.

Types of Sugars Artificial Sweeteners/Sugars (Aspartame, Sucralose, Saccharin) – Man-made and full of chemicals. Artificial sugars are neurotoxic (they damage brain cells), they cause irritable bowel problems, and they create inflammation in the body. I recommend avoiding these altogether!

Sucrose (table sugar/refined sugar) – Made from refining cane sugar using a chemicalintensive process. White sugar doesn’t have any nutritional value and it raises your blood sugar levels really quickly. Diabetics need to stay clear of sucrose.

Raw Sugar – Dehydrated sugar cane juice and contains more natural impurities than table sugar but it’s still processed.

Agave Syrup –

Derived from the succulent agave plant grown in South America. This sugar has a low glycemic index, so it won’t cause blood sugar to rise quickly, and it also has anti-bacterial properties - the Aztecs used Agave Syrup to treat wounds.

Stevia –

A natural sweetener made from the leaves of the stevia plant. It’s extremely sweet and contains no calories. Wooo-hooo!

Xylitol – A natural sweetener derived from fruits and vegetables with a GI of just seven (table sure has a GI of 100). It doesn’t have a nasty after taste and it’s also tooth friendly. It reduces bacterial growth in the mouth and can boost the immune system. One of my favourite sugar substitutes.

Fructose – Found naturally in fruits and honey.

Fructose is sweeter than sucrose but has slightly less calories per gram. I love using honey in my tea/coffee instead of sugar, but, like all sugars, use in moderation.

Why the body needs glucose Both the body and the brain require glucose to function properly. The brain uses glucose for concentration and the body uses it to create

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energy in the cells. Ergo, if we don’t consume enough glucose we become tired and grumpy.

The body breaks down sugar into its simplest form, known as glucose or blood sugar. The time it takes to access the glucose from the food determines the GI of the food eaten. If there is a high sugar content from processed/ refined foods then the body gets too much glucose and the blood sugar levels rise too quickly causing an increase of energy followed by a sugar come down. These high GI foods include white bread, white pasta, white rice, and white sugar. To get a slow release of sugar into the bloodstream we need to eat low GI foods such as whole grains, vegetables, nuts, and seeds.

Insulin then transports the glucose to your cells so it can be used as fuel. Excess glucose is stored as fat, so it’s important to eat enough sugar to fuel your body for the day, and not for the week.

The World Health Organisation recommends that your added sugar intake shouldn’t be more 10% of your daily calorie total. For an adult weighing 60kgs that would be no more than 60grams of added sugar a day. Natural sugars are the best and to put it into perspective an average sized apple supplies approximately 10grams of sugar (fructose).

While it’s advisable to watch your sugar intake and not go cray-cray on the fruit intake (lets just say 20 oranges a day is way too much), I wouldn’t get obsessive about calorie counting though because it just sends you bananas (pun intended).

ALBUM REVIEWS

The methamphetaqueens - the girls ep REVIEWED BY michael mckenzie Noise punk band, The Methamphetaqueens, are a four piece act with two drummers - or, a power trio with a bit more power. Their debut release, The Girls EP is an energetic thirteen and a half minutes of front man DM yelling about, well, girls. The first track opens up with the line, “I came here ‘cause I thought there’d be girls here”, which basically sets the tone somewhere between self-efacing irony and total unashamed honesty. In this sense, the EP could easily come across as disingenuous if there were even a moment of hesitation in the vocals. Luckily, it retains the spirit of an oldfashioned punk record in that it doesn’t give a shit - every line is carried from start to finish.

The influences of The Girls EP are obvious but varied; causing the final product to resemble a sort of Frankenstein Jack White/Wavves cross-over. The record is held tightly together by the percussion section which drives each and every beat firmly into the mix. The vocals and drums can compete with each other a little, but with mostly positive results. The biggest shift in feel is the out-of-nowhere ‘First World Blues’, a less noisy track which feels like a call-back to Plastic Ono Band era John Lennon. This debut is certainly young in many ways, but there’s a lot of subtle humour and sophistication below its surface. With album two on the way, it’ll be very interesting to see where they go next.

alunageorge - body music

the fans of EDM, and now another duo has stepped up: AlunaGeorge. The duo, consisting of vocalist Aluna Francis and producer George Reid, have been around since 2011 and have released singles such as ‘Your Drums, Your Love’. It seems as if the collaboration of singer and producer has become a popular way to make music, with other bands such as Horrorshow using this method. Their sound is pop, RnB and EDM mixed together so think Katy B meets Kelis meets Aston Shuffle - ‘Lost & Found’ is a perfect example of this genre mashup. In ‘This Is How We Do It’ AlunaGeorge take a classic 90’s hit by Montell Jordan and gives it a electronica twist thereby modernising the track. If you want a pop album that is a little bit off the mainstream track get your mitts on this.

cloud control - dream cave REVIEWED BY jon solmundson Rolling off the critical success of Bliss Release, Cloud Control’s second album is a strong progression of sound that perhaps spent a touch too long in the oven.

Listeners will find that the title is quite apt - the resonant guitar tones produced from recording in an actual cave take prime position in the album’s sound. While otherworldly, it does come off as a little heavy on the reverb, especially in the opening track. This unfortunately starts the album on an off foot.

jay z - magna carta holy grail REVIEWED BY athina mallis Ladies and Gentlemen, Mr Shawn Carter is back with his 15th studio album and by the looks of the title, it seems he is expecting it to be as big as a religious artifact or historic document. Given the amount of power Jay-Z has, this could/will happen. Thankfully, Jay-Z isn’t as experimental as his well-known buddy, Kanye West, and sticks with what he is known for best: good ol’ hip-hop. MCHG takes us back to some of Jay-Z’s older records such as The Black Album. ‘Somewhereinamerica’ is his view of America in the 21st century and even references Miley Cyrus’s “twerking” - it’s hard to tell whether or not it’s insulting but then again I have never heard anybody compliment Miley Cyrus before. The beginning of the first verse of ‘Tom Ford’ sounds like M.I.A’s ‘Bad Girls’, but why would he do that? Coincidence?

Maybe. All the tracks on this record have a smooth delivery and no word seems out of place or unnecessary. On one of the tracks you might even hear Beyoncé belt out a line, or five. If you are a die-hard Jay-Z fan then you’ve probably already listened to this but if you haven’t, take a listen and you’ll be begging for more.

REVIEWED BY athina mallis 2013 is the year for UK artists: Disclosure has had a stellar year, Chvrches has wowed GROK #4 2013

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It doesn’t take long to correct itself however, with the radio-friendy melodies and vague lyrics of ‘Dojo Rising’ more comfortable on the ear. The title having no clear relation to the track’s assertion to “get lit” is confusing especially for the album’s only single - and the rest of the lyrics do little to assist interpretation, but it keeps a steady beat so you’re never completely lost.

The same cannot be said for the rest of the album, which is a mixed bag of decent melodies wrapped in overproduced instrumentation and totally zany musical journeys, which I feel I lack the hallucinogens to properly enjoy.

Overall it’s a push towards a more unique sound for Cloud Control, though at times Dream Cave feels like it’s lacking the rawness and sincerity of their previous work in exchange for a bit of art wank.

book / board game REVIEWS boss monster

Brotherwise Games’ debut effort hides none of its inspiration; the box art really toes the line of copyright infringement with its highly derivative NES-style layout. By chance or design this proves to be oddly utilitarian - if you’re into Boss Monster’s style enough to get the joke, chances are you’re probably part of the crowd that’s going to enjoy it. If the throwback falls flat on you, it’s likely a large part of the game’s appeal will too.

This formula is complicated by spell cards, bonuses for placing rooms in specific orders and the abilities of your particular Boss - but it never gets overwhelming.

Unfortunately the instruction manual somehow makes this astronomically more complicated.

While not a deal breaker, it’s telling of Brotherwise’s early stage that their instructions make what is a relatively simple game harder to understand than it actually is.

Calling itself a ‘Dungeon Building Card Game’, Boss Monster offers players a plethora of tyrants to choose from and tasks them with slaying the local town’s population of heroes.

The mechanics are simple enough: players get dealt cards with which they may construct five rooms, each dealing damage to heroes. Deal enough damage and you kill the hero. Kill ten heroes and you win.

A selection of 15 different Bosses keeps the game fresh for a good length of time, and the mechanics are solid - if not particularly deep

- brotherwise games reviewed by jon solmundson

The rise of independent tabletop games has been a long time coming. It’s not quite at at boiling point, but we’re finally starting to see it reach out of America - bringing with it games that build a foundation on concept rather than mechanics. With its shameless pixel art and revelry in retro gaming, Boss Monster very clearly belongs in this category.

However, the true genius of Boss Monster is the simultaneous turns. Players act at the same time, turn resolution taking place in a specific order only where applicable. This keeps the game fast and frantic, and the box’s promise of 30 minute games accurate.

or engaging. However, much like Munchkin, Boss Monster leans pretty heavily on parody of its source material. If you’re not a fan of retro games or tabletop role-playing, Boss Monster might not click with you, but it’s a decent time for those wanting something a little deeper than Uno without a huge time investment.

the local wildlife - robert drewe

reviewed by daniel juckes Robert Drewe’s latest book is a collection of very small true stories.

They are memoirettes, mostly funny, always lucid, and written in relaxed, accessible prose, drawn from his life and experience in northern New South Wales.

The Local Wildlife is a book to pick up and put down, to read in short, sharp bursts, and, strangely, to relax with.

It’s full of interesting facts about ants or crows or bananas, and feels a bit like the literary equivalent of going for a walk in the bush.

The best bits are the people found within the pages. I approached the book expecting stories of flora and fauna, but the eccentricity of the Northern Rivers folk outweighs that of the animals (which are still, definitely, on the far side of peculiar). The warring dog owners of Macadamia Lane; Brendan and his Belorussian bride; the hippies; the snakemen; the neighbours; they’re all bizarre and crazy and their stories are so personal. Whilst mostly all are stories

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of Australian creatures, each one seems to expose something of the strange mindset compelling people to live on that bizarre, hazardous edge of our continent.

The length of the stories sometimes makes their conclusions seem glib.

There are some lovely home truths about the Australian outlook that get lost in the punch line Drewe tries to end every essay with. A bit more depth and time could have changed the feel of the book, making it a meditation rather than an entertainment. But this is a collection of columns, and that probably explains that. It’s very entertaining, and a very easy way to lose a few hours, whether all at once or in cumulative visits to the bathroom.

game REVIEWS new super luigi u available on Wii u

reviewED by connor white Mario games have been around for quite a while now, and as such, players approach them with certain expectations. The simplistic nature facilitates a pick-up-and-play atmosphere that is good for a “junk food” session, and New Super Luigi U isn’t in any different in this regard. In fact, it goes harder in that direction than most other Mario titles.

mario & luigi: dream team bros. available on 3ds

reviewED by connor white A Mario RPG on the 3DS has finally arrived.

Dream Team Bros. sees Peach getting kidnapped once again on what is basically the set of Spy Kids 2. Utilising the power of the dream world, Mario and Luigi have to rescue Peach and set things right in the Kingdom of Pi’illo.

Being the year of Luigi, the game takes advantage of his character, as his dreams are the conduit that allows Mario to access the dream world. Here, Luigi’s subconscious can manipulate the environment, such as using a tree to fling Mario upwards or blowing blocks from the background to the foreground. These parts are alright.

I wish the dream world was more vibrant, though, or at least more indicative of whatever goes on in Luigi’s head. While the mix of 2D character models with 3D environments creates the most brilliant use of 3D technology seen on the system yet, the actual art direction is not nearly as vibrant as it should have been. Same goes for the humour, which is too predictable and juvenile to still be funny four games in.

The combat is mixed bag. While the mixture of action commands and quick-time events with strategy is still something not emulated outside of the Mario and Luigi RPG series, playing this game makes it evident as to why. Although the quick-time heightens the connection between the player and the game, the strategy aspect is so lacklustre and banal that it gets long in the tooth very quickly. Boss battles are especially bad, as with a limited array of attacks, affairs often come down to nothing but a war of attrition.

The art direction and world really let the game down. One would think that a game based on dreams, the places where imagination is limitless, would see many new sights to behold. Sadly, Dream Team Bros. is less Inception and more Nightmare On Elm Street: The Dream Child. If you must have a portable RPG, it’s passable, but I think even this series, which used to be a real diamond in the rough, needs an overhaul.

The time limit actually matters now, as levels are very short and require fast traversal, making precision key. Mastering the basic mechanics of jumping and timing is very important, but also fun. If all you’re looking for is a level pack of short but sweet Mario levels, the lower price tag might make this worth picking up.

Me? I’m getting too jaded to believe the pure lack of effort in creating a world is enough to give Nintendo a pass. Just from looking at the back of the box, you can tell how iterative it is.

They don’t bother to explain new features, only opting to explain that, yes, the time limits are shorter now.

I’m at that level where I can say that I remember when these games were actual adventures.

I realise I shouldn’t get so bent out of shape over it, but when the opening cinematic is literally the same one as the previous game, just without Mario, what am I expected to say?

And this is all especially frustrating because I know that Nintendo can do better if they want to. 3D Land was great, holding that mix of old and new that I play these games for. But if they don’t want to try any more on account of holding the IP of the most popular video game franchise, then I fail to see why I should support this method a n y m o r e , especially since Rayman Legends isn’t far away.

animal crossing: new leaf

‘public work projects’ are mostly aesthetic, but provide another interesting money-sink for keen players.

reviewED by jon solmundson

On that point, players coming from previous Animal Crossing games may notice cash is a little easier to come by, on account of a new island with a much higher proportion of valuable fish and bugs to catch. This is a welcome acceleration of pace for impatient players.

available on 3ds

To those who’ve never played it, Animal Crossing seems like a crazy person’s idea of fun. It is, at its core, little more than an adorable debt simulator. Wake up, collect fruit, catch bugs, sell fruit and bugs, repay home loan, buy furniture, sleep. Probably 90 percent of the game is this same loop repeated ad infinitum. But, for those willing to give it a look, the remaining 10 per-cent is pretty special.

Animal Crossing’s unique trick is what could be called ‘schedule-based-gameplay’. The world in the game marches on, whether you’re tending to it or not. People will move in and out of town, s h o p s only open b e t we e n c e r t a i n hours and the town will hold weekly events. While the calendartracking is impressive it does mean that if you don’t have time for Animal Crossing, it doesn’t really have time for you. A difficult bargain for those with real-world obligations.

To those responsibilities, New Leaf adds the duties of being town mayor, offering a greater degree of control for players over new structures and town behaviour. Opening hours for shops can be extended, allowing for players to actually interact with their town after early evening - a boon for people who have to work at decent hours of the day. The new GROK #4 2013

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New Leaf also puts the 3DS hardware to great effect, emphasising the spherical horizon which serves as New Leaf’s distinctive visual flair. While the textures aren’t exactly pushing the limits of graphical fidelity, a soft pastel colour palette only adds more charm to the already painfully cute denizens.

Much of that charm comes from the surprisingly well written townsfolk. Tom Nook, the real estate agent who you remain constantly indebted to is a perplexing mix of genuine and con-artist. Resetti’s psycopathic lectures about the value of saving before turning off the power remain gruelling enough to convince you to never do it twice. You’ll come to know all your townsfolk like this. Even when they hate you, you can’t help but love them.

And it all stays fresh thanks to an astronomical amount of unique content. You’ll keep seeing new dialogue dozens of hours in. Wildlife is seasonal, and surprise events are common.

Animal Crossing remains fuelled by the joy of discovery.

New Leaf, offers only a mild update from it’s predecessors, but it’s certainly the most definitive Animal Crossing experience. While the game’s social potential is shackled by Nintendo’s archaic internet policies the franchise maintains it’s place as the cutest economics lesson you’ll ever have.

Big weekend.

Pulled an all nighter.

Can’t get into it.

Whatever the deal is, nothing can kick-start your day like the full flavour and irresistible aroma of a SuperBarista Coffee by Braziliano.

Available from Curtin Student Guild Catering outlets across campus.