Above Water 2015 by Farrago Magazine

Above Water is the creative writing anthology produced by the Media and Creative Arts departments of the University of Melbourne Student Union. Above Water is open to all current University of Melbourne students. The editorial commitee blindly read all submissions and decided on a shortlist of 13 pieces. This shortlist was then sent to judges Elizabeth Flux, Zoe Dattner and Patrick Lenton who determined the prize winners of this year’s anthology.

© 2015 University of Melbourne Student Union. Published by the General Secretary of UMSU, Hana Dalton. The copyright of materials published in Above Water remains with the individual writers and artists and shall not be reproduced without their permission. The Creative Arts and Media departments of UMSU reserve the right to republish these works in any format. ISSN 1833–8879

Editorial Committee Maddy Cleeve Gerkens, Martin Ditmann, Lynley Eavis and Simon Farley

Editorial Assistant Ellen Cregan

Judging Committee Zoe Dattner, Elizabeth Flux and Patrick Lenton

Cover Artwork Dominic Shi Jie On

Internal Illustrations Nina Cheles, Dominic Shi Jie On and Reimena Yee

Layout Maddy Cleeve Gerkens and Lynley Eavis This publication was proudly supported and launched by the UMSU Creative Arts Officers, Bonnie Leigh-Dodds and Isabella Vadiveloo, as a part of Mudfest 2015.

Thank you to all those who submitted their creative works to this yearâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s Above Water competition. The high standard of entries made the job of choosing the shortlist all the more enjoyable and difficult. Thank you to our three brilliant and generous judges, Elizabeth Flux, Zoe Dattner and Patrick Lenton, for donating their time and expertise to this publication. Special thanks also to our editorial assistant, Ellen Cregan. Without her dedication and hard work this anthology could not have been made. Our utmost appreciation goes to Nigel Quirk of Printgraphics, whose endless patience, kindness and professional advice warms our lemur-shaped hearts. Finally, congratulations to all those shortlisted for Above Water 2015, to Dominic Shi Jie On for his incredible cover art and to Reimena Shi and Nina Cheles for their beautiful internal illustrations. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s been an honour to work with such talent, we hope you enjoy this 2015 anthology.

Contents 4. The Dog, Peter Kelly 8. Fish Teeth, Merry Hao Li 10. Lobster in Seven Parts, Jessica Yu 12. The Mechanics of Romance, Benjamin Karwen 18. Drought, Will Whiten 20. Boy Trouble, Jessica Yu 28. After a Birthday, Merry Hao Li 30. Train Journey, Merry Hao Li 32. Nikko, Ben Meurs 34. Love Story, Emma Hall 38. Five Anthropological Notes on the Chilli, Jessica Yu 40. Serviced, Alex Cameron 44. Neon Eyes, Will Whiten

Illustration by Reimena Yee

The Dog By Peter Kelly

t was a bright Saturday morning when Sean saw him for the first time. His curls were as golden as a beam of sunlight, looking as though it were combed custard. His sparkling eyes were as brown as the mud from a pig’s daydream. His sharp teeth were so radiant they were almost blinding. Charisma emanated from his spine like a fine mist. To say this creature was good-looking would be like calling Rod Stewart unsettling. The dog’s name was William, and he was here to stay. “What do you think?” his mother enthusiastically asked her son as she walked William around the living room. “Isn’t he the best?” Sean shrugged his shoulders, “Is it going to live in the house or what?” His father shot him a dirty look, “It’s a he. William is part of our family now, and you must respect that, young man.” “Aww man…” His mother cleared her throat, “I think we should we go down to the park to celebrate the newest addition to our family.” “I agree!” nodded Sean’s father, with a merry gleam in his eye. The parents dragged their son down to the local park, and threw Frisbees

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at him and William. William caught his Frisbees in the mouth and bowed his head humbly when Sean’s parents praised him. Sean’s Frisbees bounced off the side of his head. His parents scowled, and William smugly winked at Sean every time he missed a Frisbee. The fifteen-minute car ride home was defined by stony silence. Naturally, William was allowed to dominate the back seats. “Stop elbow-fighting!” chided Sean’s father. “Sean, at least try to set a good example for your brother. At least try.” After the park excursion, Sean needed to listen to a lot of Radiohead to come to terms with his parents’ new attitude. He wondered how Thom Yorke would handle this situation. Dinner was mincemeat and peas. William was there, dressed in one of Sean’s old school uniforms and sunglasses. Sean wondered how the legionnaire’s cap managed to stay on the mutt’s head. The dog was squatting on a high-chair and gnawing at an old bone. “Why don’t you eat your peas?” beamed Sean’s mother. “I’m not in the mood,” muttered Sean. Sean’s father pointed at William’s approach to the bone, “William doesn’t have any trouble having an appetite. Maybe you should try and be more like William.” Sean’s mother nodded, “He’s clever as well. After we dropped you off we went to church. William knew exactly when to sit, stand and shake hands. Now why can’t you be more like that?” Sean spooned some mince into his mouth. It didn’t taste great. “It sounds like you should get a new son!” Sean jabbed the air with a fork for emphasis. His parents laughed as one being, “We did!” Sean realised that this was the first time he had ever seen his parents truly happy. After the hilarity died out his mother continued the conversation, “Sean, we can’t let you stay in William’s room anymore.” She handed him a cardboard box. “You have until nine to pack your crap. We’ll let you sleep on the couch tonight, but you’ll need to find a new place in the morning.” William barked happily, muddying the tablecloth with his paw prints. Sean’s eyes narrowed. “I don’t see why we even waste food on you!” exclaimed his mother, snatching Sean’s plate away from him and giving it to the dog. “Yeah, give it to someone who appreciates it!” said his father, his face turning red. He held the plate up to the dog’s face. William grinned deliriously as his thick tongue wiped that piece of crockery clean. “Get out of my face, punk,” hissed the mother. “Kindly take your junk out of our real son’s room.” Wordlessly, Sean screeched his chair back and left the kitchen. It was disturbing how easy it was to fit fourteen years’ worth of stuff

The Dog

within one box. His treasured Godzilla poster was easy to fold, all his music could fit on one iPod and all his books were replaceable. His skateboard took up the most space. Sean lugged his box out to the living room, next to the couch. He saw his mother holding a sheet. “Thanks?” he said, reaching out to grab it. Quick as a ninja, she spread the sheet out on the couch. “This way you won’t get my couch dirty.” Sean heard barking from his room, and what sounded like a colossal jug of water being emptied. The sound stopped and started at uneven intervals. From the direction of his parents’ bedroom he could hear enthusiastic giggles and loud moans. It was going to be a long night.

Illustration by Reimena Yee

Illustration by Nina Cheles

Fish Teeth By Merry Hao Li

We are at a Chinese restaurant in Venice, sick of the menu turistico. Holographic electronic paintings hang before us – the water in the waterfalls moves treadmill-fashion in airbrushed glory. The fish comes in an oval dish covered in funeral shrouds of leek and peppers. Its mouth is open, the bottom jaw hanging limply. First a row of sharp, pointed teeth (I hold my index finger against what should have been fish canines, and it almost bleeds), then a mosaic of white mounds like river stones tiled on the President’s driveway. And I am reminded of the similarity between the French words for ‘fisherman’ and ‘sinner’ – pêcheur et pécheur, and how fishing is the earliest and most ultimate form of backstabbing.

Lobster in Seven Parts By Jessica Yu

1 with ripened fingers I unsheathe wan fruit from exoskeleton encrusted with acne red raw spanked by sun and unsucked salt of sea become coverlet for crustacean corpse 2 oil of its pot-boiled demise it anoints my hands I lick the varnish from myself 3 I snap the antennae gone beyond transmission and suck the flesh like new milk from a straw

4 I mock the crusher claw ventriloquise its monomovements with the lustful squelch of a Freddy Kruger kill Hot Sweet Dark Meat 5 the swimmerets flowerless stems planted in the abdomen I pluck before the bloom 6 I puppeteer the tail-fin fanned out demurely like a facial expression unflaunting itself behind a winning hand of cards 7 but the eyes with their caviar sheen they grab a hold of my pupils a stroke of warm colour grazes my cheek and from its brave talk my flesh is shucked

Illustration by Dominic Shi Jie On

The Mechanics of Romance By Benjamin Karwen

he engine rumbles my seat. We’ve parked two houses down from where I live, just in case my housemate decides spying is a good idea. The streetlight above us is out. Danni runs her hand through my hair. “Tonight was a lot of fun.” I smile at her. “Thank you for bringing me.” We have spent the few hours since her cousin’s 21st finished sitting together in the park, holding hands and watching the night go by. Neither of us drinks, but Danni refused to let me drive. She always drives. I’d had drunk aunts and uncles breathing heavily in my face all night. They’d all been so loud. “How do you know our Danielle?” We’re friends from uni, Danni had reminded me on multiple occasions. No hand-holding, no hugs, no flirtatious glances. “Aside from my brother, nobody in my family knows I’m a – y’know…” she had said. I agreed to lie, but only because I didn’t know what would happen for us if I didn’t. She can’t even use the word – how could she explain it to her relatives? “You’ll have to teach me how to do winged eyeliner like that. You look beautiful,” she says for the umpteenth time tonight.

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“You mentioned.” I stretch my lips into a smile. How long do I wait before heading inside? Is she waiting for me to say something? It’s late, and I really just want to be in bed, cuddled up to Muffin. “Can you believe we’ve been dating, hanging out – whatever you want to call this – for five months? It doesn’t feel like that long.” Her hand still runs through my hair. She swirls it around her finger into a makeshift ring, tugging gently. “No, it doesn’t.” My chest is a cavern of nothingness, except for a tiny pump working like a car engine running in second gear when it should probably be in fourth. “It’s gone so quick.” Danni sucks her lower lip between her teeth. Her exposed incisors catch what little light there is in the car, emitting a pearly glow. My lungs compress in on themselves, squeezing out the last of my air. Breathing is impossible. Danni’s eyes flicker between my eyes and my lips. I force heavy saliva down my throat, very aware of my dry lips. Danni’s lips widen into a deeper grin. She tucks my hair behind my ear and gently grips the side of my head, guiding me towards her. Her lips smash into mine. It’s wet and slimy, like a gummy bear soaked in strawberry lip-gloss is being shoved into my face. Somehow, my teeth hurt. “You okay?” Danni asks. I nod. Six months ago, she messaged me on a dating site. My profile was an extended rant about the plot holes in Harry Potter with very little actual information about myself. I did not put up a photo; I didn’t want anybody I knew in real life to find me. In the ‘sexuality’ drop-down menu, I had clicked on bisexual but I’m not entirely sure the ‘sexual’ part is accurate. Danni had filled out her profile like a normal person – her ‘About Me’ was actually a description of herself: she was studying, had a huge list of passions, and her initial message to me detailed an extensive knowledge of Harry. It was tough to fault. We messaged each other back and forth for a week before we shifted to texting. Another two weeks passed before we added each other on Facebook. After a month, we finally met. Our first date was in a café on Lygon Street, despite both of us living deep in the eastern suburbs. I didn’t want to answer any questions about who she was if anybody were to see us. Danni didn’t question it. Despite my insistence on splitting the bill, she paid for my coffee. We talked for four hours before she said goodbye and kissed me on the cheek; it was a strange sensation. For the entire train ride home, I thought about how warm and funny she is. Her jokes are never at anybody’s expense. That hasn’t changed. Danni smiles and leans back in. She massages my lips with hers. The back of my throat feels open and itchy, like something is just waiting to crawl

The Mechanics of Romance

out. Her tongue slides into my mouth, slippery and horrible – very different from having my own tongue in there. A hand scrapes the inside of my thigh, sliding higher. My muscles all coil in on themselves. I am nothing but tension. I grasp her wrist and shove it away. Danni stares at me, still half leant over the centre console. “Skye?” I avoid eye contact, because I know that will just make me cry. I am the worst human. But I love her. “Skye, talk to me,” she says. I’ve never heard her voice so soft. “I shouldn’t have done that. I’m sorry.” I shake my head. Tears spill, probably dragging mascara down my face with them. A hand reaches up to wipe them away. Danni plucks a tissue from her bra and dabs at my face, as though applying disinfectant to an open wound. “I hate this,” I say. “It’s okay,” she whispers. Through my tears, I see her blurred smile. A smile of support. Of heartbreak. Six weeks into our relationship, I invited Danni to my house for the first time. My housemate had gone to visit his parents in Ballarat for the weekend. I answered the door to a huge bunch of flowers and a strawberry cheesecake from The Cheesecake Shop – my favourite. “What’s all this for?” I asked. “Because you’re cute,” she grinned. “How has your day been?” She asks me that every day. A warmth spread through my stomach. My eyes creased, and my answer was filtered through happiness. For the first time in my life, I’d met somebody who actually cared for me. I put the arrangement in the centre of the dining table. Pink gerberas and purple lilies sat among thick green foliage. Thankfully it was a box arrangement: I didn’t own a vase. “They’re beautiful,” I said. “Where will I say I got them?” Danni pointed at the card. Congratulations on a successful thesis defence, it read. Love Mum and Dad. I hugged her. “Thank you.” Together we cooked chicken risotto for dinner, occasionally throwing small chunks of food at each other. While I stirred the rice, Danni stood behind me and put her hands on my hips. I didn’t react. After about a minute, she moved all of my hair over one of my shoulders and pressed her lips into my neck. I turned to look at her and she caught my lips with hers. “I’m sorry.” “Don’t be.” Only my sniffling lingers in the silence. Danni waits until I have stopped crying to speak again. “Is it something I’ve done? I mean, other than what just happened?”

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I breathe deeply, determined not to cry again. “No,” I say. “Nothing like that. It’s just –” How do I explain this? I don’t want to lose her, but I can’t string her along. That’s not fair. “– I don’t know that we’re the best match for each other.” Her expression is impossible to read. Her eyes penetrate mine. She doesn’t speak. “It’s not that I don’t love you,” I say. “Because I do. Very much. I love hanging out with you. I love all of our coupley things. But the physical stuff – I can’t do it. I just don’t feel anything like that. You’re beautiful, don’t get me wrong, but that’s not enough. I don’t know what’s wrong with me.” Every book I’ve ever read, every movie – they talk about the sparks that fly when you kiss somebody you love. They talk about the constant urge to taste them. The joy of physical connection. It’s just not my reality. And it’s not fair of me to drag Danni down with me. “I’m sorry,” Danni said. Reruns of Fawlty Towers flickered across the screen, but I wasn’t watching it. I wasn’t doing anything. “Don’t be. It’s fine.” “I feel awful. I just assumed you’d done it before. My bad.” I looked over at her. She was chewing on the inside of her cheek. “Seriously, don’t stress,” I said. “It’s a fair assumption.” I hadn’t done any research into the matter, but it seemed unlikely that many other 24-year-old PhD students would never have kissed anyone before. “But you hated it.” “I didn’t hate it. I just wasn’t expecting it.” To be fair, I didn’t particularly enjoy it. Not because it was Danni, but because the sensation was gross. Who decided that putting your saliva in somebody else’s mouth was the only way to show you cared for them? I slipped my fingers between hers and rested my head on her shoulder, silently cursing the romance narrative. On the carpet, Muffin purred. Danni’s expression softens into something like relief. Maybe incredulity. I can’t tell. She remains silent again, but this time I hold out. She has to give in. “Skye, listen to me very clearly,” she says. “We’ve been dating for five months. Five whole months. If I was dating you just so I could sleep with you, I’d have left a long time ago.” “But I won’t be able to keep you happy,” I say. My voice cracks, tears threatening to fill the crevices. “That won’t be enough. Relationships need to be about more than that. I don’t think this is me not being ready. I can’t picture myself being sexual. You deserve somebody who can.” There’s another long pause. How long have we been sitting in this car? “Why do you get to decide what I deserve? Why do you get to say that somebody who will give me an orgasm is inherently better than what we have?”

The Mechanics of Romance

I don’t know what to say. A car drives past with its high beams on. I raise a hand to shield my eyes. “I don’t know,” I say once it passes. “I guess it’s just what normal people want to do.” “Some normal people,” Danni says. She takes my hand in hers. “Other normal people just aren’t interested in sex. And that’s okay.” Her eyes are pointed directly at mine. “But you’re not one of those people,” I say. “You do want sex. So you shouldn’t be with me.” I drop eye contact. She breathes out. “I’m not going to lie; I would like to sleep with you. I think it’d be great. But I’d also like to get a dog with you. Or ride a hot-air balloon. I’m not going to break up with you because Muffin doesn’t get along with dogs. Or because you’re scared of heights. Besides, there are ways to orgasm on my own.” “It’s not really the same thing.” “But it is,” she says. There’s urgency in her voice. Almost pleading. “I don’t want to base our relationship on what activities we do together. I want to base it on what we feel. That’s what matters.” The tears flow freely. I lean across the console and hug Danni. She squeezes me back. “Can I come inside with you?” she breathes into my ear. “I’d really like to meet your roommate.” Dion doesn’t seem surprised when I introduce Danni as my girlfriend. He shakes her hand, asks her a few questions about herself, and then goes back into his study. He’s only productive between midnight and three a.m., he says. Danni sleeps in my bed. Our arms stay wrapped around each other. We remain fully clothed the entire time. The last words she says to me before she drifts off are, “I love you, Skye. That’s what matters.” She punctuates it with a kiss on my forehead. I’m warm and safe. Tomorrow we’re going to visit her parents. Together. That will be interesting.

Illustration by Nina Cheles

Drought By Will Whiten

He shares the porch with fat cicadas who hide in weatherboard cracks singing static The Brickfielder* rushes to him hot heavy with dust smearing rouge on the cheeks of the moon. Ploughs through wire fences rattling like the wheat sheaves used to. He feels the patter of soil against his own pockmarked jaw thick gusts plunge between swollen lips filling his empty veins the caverns beneath his ribs. Sleep comes force-fed pressing against his eyelids inflating his barren chest. In every dream he scales the porch to commune with the corrugated roof. Caressing the steel dunes, licking the rust valleys. His eyes twitch dusk reflections flashes of fractured earth.

* The Brickfielder is the name of a desert wind in South Australia

Illustration by Reimena Yee

Boy Trouble By Jessica Yu

abbit Girl builds a wall from my ear to her mouth with her hand and whispers: “Want to hear a secret?” My cousin looks like a rabbit. She has two creamy teeth peeping out from between her lips and when she giggles her shoulders shake like she’s about to cry. She has a typical JiaXing-girl face; long and white. Spotty, though. She should eat less sweetbread. Her body’s full of bones because when she was young she was your typical picky-eater-spoilt-brat-rich-kid-type. She was vain as hell about her cute little rabbity looks and if her mum took her grocery shopping she would literally find every rabbit-themed product in the supermarket and force her parents to buy it for her. Whenever I went over to her house it was crammed with rabbit-shaped soap, those White Rabbit milk-candies, embroidered rabbit hand towels (the boy-rabbits in dungarees and the girl-rabbits in pinafores), Easter Rabbits, Bugs Bunny BandAids – you get the picture. Luckily, she’s grown out of all those crazy games overrich kids play on their parents, now. She’s still Rabbit Girl to me, though. “You’re on, Rabbit Girl,” I whisper back.

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Our parents watch us like we’re two teenagers in a Western sitcom and I know what they’re thinking – Boys Again. Rabbit Girl’s getting real fidgety under the spotlights of her parent’s eyes so I put my hands on her waist and shoulders and waltz her to her bedroom. It’s a mess. Fake flowers and pastely sticky-notes everywhere. Her family uses the upper shelves of her wardrobe as a storage cupboard, too, so there are Mickey Mouse towels and plastic sheets bursting out of its flappy doors. We sit under her wood-laminate desk like old times and I offer her a milk-candy from my pocket. She says “No, thanks” and I ask her what the deal is. She shrugs and says: “What do you do when a boy hugs you?” “Why would he hug you?” “I was crying ’cos I got a really bad mark on my Mathematics test so he hugged me.” “Oh. Do you like him?” “No.” “Is he your friend?” “No; my Mathematics teacher.” “Your Mathematics teacher?” “Yeah. Well the first time he hugged me after class. And the second time he hugged me in his office.” “The second time.” I suck on my milk candy for a while before crushing it between my back teeth. “Did he do… other things?” I ask. “Well, the second time he hugged me because I was crying. I failed my Mathematics test and I was crying. Then he put his lips on my lips and you know… his tongue. Then he touched my legs and… other places.” “What did you do?” “I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. Well, after he touched my leg he kind of jumped like he’d scared himself. I just grabbed my book bag and pencil case and went out to lunch.” I try to squeeze her hands but she slides them away from me. “I already know,” my aunty says. It’s past 11pm but Aunty and Uncle and Mum and Dad are still sitting around the dining table. They’re picking at food they don’t really feel like. Red pumpkin seed shells lie in piles in front of my mum and uncle. Fried yam balls with sunflower seeds coating the outside and the promise of redbean paste on the inside sweat in their doggy-bags. My uncle’s picking the sunflower seeds off the yam balls and popping them into his mouth. He used to be one of the top chefs till he gave it up to open restaurants. He still gets a lot of free food from his chef-buddies. My uncle and dad are silent and very

Boy Trouble

still when I tell them what Rabbit Girl has said. My aunty and mum speak quietly, hoping they won’t wake Rabbit Girl up. There’s no point. I don’t think Rabbit Girl will get much sleep tonight, anyway. “You knew?” Mum asks. “I heard her telling her best friend, Shou Li, in her bedroom a few days ago. I was about to knock on her door to offer them both some cut fruit and I heard the whole conversation. I’ve been waiting for her to tell me.” Mum holds her hand to her forehead like she’s taking her own temperature. “What are you going to do when she tells you?” “Cut his penis off,” Aunty says. My dad is playing with his phone. He cares so much about Rabbit Girl that he’s pretending to be a douchebag so he doesn’t let himself go and cry. It still annoys me though. My uncle is silently stuffing his face with yam balls. “Seriously,” says Mum. “I want to talk with him face-to-face. He has a real evil look, you know. His eyes are like this.” My aunty pinches at her eyelid so only half her eye is open. You can see the tiny red cracks in it if you look up close. “And what are you going to say?” “I don’t know. He has a wife and daughter, you know? He’s only thirty-something. My daughter told me he was a really good teacher. Always nice as nice to her.” “I think you should talk to the principal.” “Oh, I will. I called up my friend who’s the principal of a school in Suzhou to get some advice on how to approach him. She asked me if I’d ever come across teachers like that back in my own school days. I told her I hadn’t and she told me she’d met three.” “Three.” “Yeah, one was her P.E. teacher in high school. When she fell off the balancing bar, he jumped right on top of her. She pushed him off and ran. She got away but never told anyone. After she graduated she heard of a girl a few years below her who had been raped by him. She can’t help but blame herself when she thinks of it. The second and third were university lecturers. They were just crazy, wouldn’t take no for an answer. She wasn’t raped but… there are other ways to make a woman feel like a girl, I guess.” “I’ve never met any teachers,” says Mum. “But I’ve been chased on the street at night. You get away but you don’t get to sleep,” I feel my facial features go untidy with surprise at this. I don’t want her to notice so I straighten them up in a hurry like I do with the furniture in my living room after mum calls and tells me she’s coming on over. Mum’s never told me anything like this. I wonder whether she was old or young, married or single when she was running from shadows on the street with hot, ragged breaths. I tell my own story – one I’d hidden in my heart for too long – without thinking: “At art school, there was this boy. He was the first friend I ever made

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after leaving high school. Chubby but kind of handsome and intelligent, I thought. He’d dropped out of all the best art schools in China. He used to ask me if he could give me an orgasm even after I told him I didn’t believe in sex before marriage. I was still a new Christian, then, you know. He’d say real creepy things like, “No orgasms allowed under God?” and tell me he was usually the first guy to give most of the girls he slept with an orgasm. Like they’d have thought that they’d experienced orgasms in the past and after sleeping with him, they’d say, “Ohhhh so that’s an orgasm.” The women laugh too loudly. Then they clap their hands over their lipsticky mouths and wonder aloud if they woke Rabbit Girl up. She has to get up at 5:00am to go to school tomorrow, my aunty says to herself. When I leave the table to go to bed, Dad is still swiping his finger across his phone-screen and Uncle tells me goodnight, with yam-balls stuck between his teeth. Rabbit Girl comes home from school with a surprise for us tonight. She told the principal herself. Went straight into her office. We pat her on the back like we used to when she was just a baby who needed us to help her burp. We tell her she’s brave and strong and smart. We don’t say it but we never expected it of her. She’s no Rabbit Girl anymore; she’s all of seventeen years old and able to speak woman to woman about these things. We forget how old she is, sometimes. She says the principal, Mrs. Pan poured her very good green tea in bone china crockery. She also gave her a packet of soda biscuits and cut and peeled a big apple for her. The apple peel came off in one beautiful, unbroken spiral. And then? We ask. And then? And then Rabbit Girl told her what had happened and was brave and did not cry. And Mrs. Pan pulled three tissues from a silky box on her desk and handed them to her anyway. Mrs. Pan didn’t say anything for a while. She poked at the mole on her neck absently with a pencil. And at last she said: “Is this all? I want you to have it all out now and not hear some other story circulating throughout the school next week.” “Yes. Yes, I think so, ma’am,” said Rabbit Girl. “Yes, this is all, or, no, this is not all there is? Be certain, if you please, girl.” “Yes, ma’am, this is all.” “Right. Does anyone else know about this matter?” “Yes ma’am. My cousin.” “Is your cousin a student at this school?” “No, ma’am. She is an art school drop out.” “Ha-ah!” Mrs. Pan laughed and Rabbit Girl was surprised to realize she was capable of making such a sound. “Alright, then. You may go. But see to it that no one else is informed of this matter. It is not one for prying eyes and pricking ears.” “No, ma’am,” said Rabbit Girl, remembering suddenly that she had told Shou Li before she had told her cousin. She can’t tell Mrs. Pan now, though, who

Boy Trouble

had risen and was holding the door open, using her shoe as a door-stopper. “Thank you.” “Thank you, ma’am,” said Rabbit Girl. In the morning, Aunty drives Rabbit Girl to school. I say goodbye to Rabbit Girl who holds a boiled egg in one hand and her book bag in another. She waves the boiled egg at me. I try to return her smile. After I shut the door, my dad tells me he has an idea. That’s how my dad is when something like this happens. He’s so silent it feels as if he doesn’t care at first. But by morning his mouth will be crammed full with ideas. He’s balder than a baby’s bum so you can imagine how funny he looks when shouting, which he always is – not out of anger, it’s just the way he speaks. “What idea?” I know he’ll tell me whether I want to hear it or not. “I want to open a school for teenage girls where I teach them how to twist a man’s balls when threatened.” “Summer or Winter School?” I ask as I peel a boiled egg for each of us. “Oh, this isn’t any old short-course you take on school holidays; it’s a full three-year degree with the option of going on to Honours if you make the top 15th percentile.” “I’m sure it’ll be a great success,” I say as I hand him his egg. You can see grey yolk underneath the white skin. A moon within a moon. Rabbit Girl tells me how she goes to Mathematics class and finds out that her teacher has gone on leave, unexpectedly and has been replaced by a substitute. An old fart who still thinks skivvies under polyester blend suits are a good idea. The chalkboard squeaks when he digs his pointer into it and he speaks slowly, as if the students are foreign or babies. Everyone is annoyed because finals are in a month and their Mathematics teacher was well-spoken, an easy marker overall and better dressed. Rabbit Girl is relieved; she was afraid the principal might tell her Mathematics teacher about her report but otherwise, leave him be. She had dreaded what might happened to her had that been the case. Shou Li passes her a note that says: “Did you tell? (I didn’t)” on it. Rabbit Girl writes back, “Yes. Told the principal. Looks like it worked.” The next note Rabbit Girl receives reads: “You’re a whore, he was a really good teacher,” on it but it’s not written in Shou Li’s sparkly blue gel pen but in a spidery black fine liner Rabbit Girl’s never seen before. And then Shou Li tells another girl who tells her boyfriend who tells the whole school and suddenly, Rabbit Girl receives notes like: “You rabbit-faced whore. You spoilt brat, you probably couldn’t take the fact that he was failing you cos you’re so brainless. So you threw a bratty tantrum and your mummy paid for him to be fixed.” Another note simply reads, “See you in hell, you liar.” Rabbit Girl runs home and cries with her tail between her legs.

Above Water

That night I wrap my body around Rabbit Girl’s like a blanket and she lets me. For a while I crush my head into her shoulder and we sleep. A few hours later, I wake up in that time in which you can hardly see through the dark but you walk into it anyway for some reason. I see fluorescent light cutting shadows across the hallway and follow it into the kitchen. There, I find my uncle, looking as if he hasn’t slept, stuffing his face with yam balls. For a moment, we are both silent, our eyes like peepholes through our skin. “Want one?” He asks. “I think I’ll be alright,” I say. Rabbit Girl finishes her final examinations over the Summer. She receives the table of her results on a thin piece of folded paper. She passes everything well enough but fails in Mathematics. She doesn’t cry, though. Who cares so long as she doesn’t have to repeat or become a taxi-driver? She’ll probably move to Beijing or Shanghai for university next year. The air will feel so clean and new for her even in the bad breath of those big cities. I’m happy for her but – I don’t know – there’s something else which troubles me. For Rabbit Girl, high school will fade into the dark, green leaves of her hometown. But next year there will be a new class of students studying for their final examinations. And at night when my eyes refuse to close, I can’t stop myself from thinking: what if one of them fails a test and falls behind all of the others?

Illustration by Reimena Yee

after a birthday By Merry Hao Li

there was no drawing of lines, no Judy Blume moments in front of a mirror. only the static of stockinged feet on carpet and pins-and-needles rain.

Train Journey By Merry Hao Li

In winter in Waiting Lounge 3 everyone has brought thermoses to fill from the public hot water tap. Queuing for water in a provincial train station is the surest sign of progress, along with suitcases skating across the floor, gliding between the footprints of old cleaning women in facemasks. When the red numbers tick over, we pass through the ticket gates like water through a sieve. Outside, the cold wind blows rural dust onto Hello Kittyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s face, a tawny blush. Conductors in billowing military-style coats knead us into place as they pace between painted lines. The train starts so smoothly it takes a moment to notice that we are being squeezed from the stationâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s steel bowels. Behind the concertina curtains, the men on the bottom bunk are playing cards. Every half hour they shuffle in single file to the space between the carriages, flicking cigarette ash and straddling the stainless steel tectonic plates.

In the canteen car I rest my elbows on a sheet of PVC slapped over a lacy tablecloth. The cutlery is also plastic-wrapped, with red print that flakes off like static-charged chili. A fat-fingered chef stands behind a swinging door, doling out his childhood in bowls of rice and vegetables: we eat while rising steam joins the mist of scaly mountains. All afternoon a woman with windburnt cheeks paces up and down the carriage, a pale-faced baby strapped to her back. She is listening to an English conversation tape, her lips silently tracing the strange syllables. She says there used to be hawkers selling food at each station, lining the platforms, a two-minute back-and-forth through the window. Knock, knock, her knuckles rap on the tempered glass. Later, we pass over a bridge built last year, the river ticking over below. At first glance the creased pieces of ice floating downwards look like enormous plastic bags, sedate as the man walking his bicycle up a hill. On either side there are fields and farmers small as knots of embroidery thread. Now, as we stop at a two-platform station, in the burning darkness a man stands on his concrete island behind a cart of bottled drinks and crisp packets. The train conductor salutes once more, his part of one great Mexican wave across the country. On the bunk below, someone shuffles the cards and begins to deal.

Illustration by Nina Cheles

Nikko By Ben Meurs

so much, yet not enough, you said this daily uniform of concrete. In the play of constriction, from the misery of capital rises a hope inflected from the east: dreams of Shinto shrines statues dressed in moss the oscillating quality of dusk over a sacred bridge over a misting river plump pale diners who eat in izakaya dens swill sake until merry and bathe in springs forever steaming

Illustration by Dominic Shi Jie On

Love Story By Emma Hall

woke up in the morning when my Bernese mountain dog, Humphrey, jumped on my side of the bed. His warm weight pressed against my back and I reached a hand out sleepily to stroke his ears. Harry stirred beside me, rolling onto his back, the filtered light through the thin curtains covering our bedroom window drifted over his bare chest. He smiled as I nestled my head into his shoulder and felt his lips brush my forehead. I’d never been so happy. We walked to the beach, holding hands through the empty streets that had no footpaths, Humphrey bounding ahead. The light was different here, sharper, stripped of the muting haze of the city. The sea was a dark steel blue under a heavy layer of cloud, and the sand was cold underfoot. Harry zipped up my wetsuit at the back, taking care not to pinch my skin. “We’ll be watching you,” he called to me as I waded out, feeling the creeping chill rising up my legs. Humphrey gazed at my retreating form from the shallows, bewildered, then quickly forgot me as Harry tossed a ball down the beach. Steeling myself, I dove under the water, the cold hitting my face

Above Water

and filling my nose and ears. Then I was swimming, the mechanical motion of stroke, kick, breathe, the world compressed to blurred blue and pockets of air floating past my eyes. Harry was there with my towel when I emerged twelve-hundred metres later, Humphrey drenched after being coaxed into the water. We warmed ourselves with coffee and raisin toast. We had moved to the coast to be together. From our rented beach shack I could hear the ocean before I fell asleep. We had filled the house with op-shop furniture and photos; a ten-year-old Harry squinted into the sun from a photo on the bookshelf that dominated the lounge room. We had no television, no washing machine; the oven didn’t work and so we knocked together meals on the stovetop. Humphrey explored the sprawling garden and chased bluetongues, but he was never quick enough to catch one. In the evenings, while I poured over the same old art books, Harry would read plays aloud, putting on different ridiculous voices for the characters and making me laugh until I cried with his Lady Plymdale. Every night we made love and I was engulfed by waves of pure joy. I couldn’t remember falling in love with him – it felt as old as the sun, this sparkling adoration, it had always existed, its end was inconceivable. We were struggling for money, as we’d known we would, but Harry worked on local building projects, and I had found a job in the town’s sole gallery, which was below their only bookstore in a small, underground space. Most of the paintings were landscapes by local artists, and I was surrounded by all shades of blue. It was cool and very quiet there, my days interrupted only by the occasional tourist, and often I would wander upstairs to take a book off the shelves and spend the day reading on my stool in the corner, taking care not to bend the spine or mark the pages before I secreted it back into the store. There was a strange pleasure to be found in being strangers to the town. I relished our anonymity, the fact that we could be anyone we wanted. The husband and wife who owned the restaurant we went to on Sunday nights – “date night”, Harry joked in a silly excitable voice – smiled at us, commented on what a sweet couple we made, and I felt a thrill run through me. We were a sweet couple, a perfect couple. We couldn’t have kids, but I wanted a baby. More and more I felt myself drawn to prams in public, relishing glimpses of tiny faces. When we’re settled, Harry promised me, then we’ll look into adoption, and I was so filled with love for him at that moment that I wondered if it were even possible that another human being could find a place in my heart.

Love Story

After work one Friday afternoon, I walked up the road to the grocery store to shop for dinner. Already I was noticing the changes that took place in the town every weekend – the sudden flux of weekenders made everyone a little less relaxed, the pace reluctantly picked up. I was walking by a café when a voice stopped me. “Anna?” I had grown unaccustomed to being addressed by any other voice than one I knew as well as my own. A woman had half risen from her seat at an outside table, coffee cup still clutched in her hand. “Hi!” she said, “Wow, fancy seeing you here!” I recognized her now; Wendy, who I’d been at school with. “Wendy, hi,” I attempted to cover my discomfit at this sudden intrusion. She had stood up completely now, taken a few steps towards me. “You’re down for the weekend?” “No, no, we– I live here now.” “Live here? How funny! Who with?” I glanced up the street, searching for escape. “Harry.” “Really? God, I can think of nothing worse than still living with my brother,” she said. “I suppose you’re saving money, but still, you must just be dying to have your own space.” I forced myself to smile. “No, actually,” I said. “We’re perfectly happy,” I made a show of checking my watch. “I need to get going, but it was nice seeing you.” She looked puzzled. “Yes, of course. See you.” I hurried down the street, feeling light-headed, my heart quivering. I forgot the groceries and almost ran home, desperate to immerse myself in a space that was ours and only ours. Humphrey sensed my distress and nuzzled into me as I collapsed onto the couch. Harry would be home soon. Harry would make everything fine, he would tell me it was okay, because it was okay, no one had the right to tell us otherwise. I whispered encouraging words as I shakily made myself tea. But it was useless, I knew.

Illustration by Reimena Yee

Five Anthropological Notes on the Chilli By Jessica Yu

1. Between the green quiff and razor rear its silicon sheen disguises bruisability. 2. With small knives and thumbnails, we find it rich with fertile coins. 3. If you stare you must prepare to be stung; it is an offense played in self-defence. 3. Some play sensual to tempt White Devils only to leave them panting with futile thirst. 4. Still others bully children into good behaviour more persuasively than the bamboo stick. 5. All refuse to speak the language of tourists they put foreign tongues back in their place.

1. ‘Gweilo’ is a Chinese-Cantonese word used to refer to those of Anglo-Saxon descent. It literally translates to ‘White Devil.’

Illustration by Nina Cheles

Serviced By Alex Cameron

combing silence disquieting dis quieting occasional rustling trees sound like Smithâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s packets 1931 Original flavour Australians love dis quieting half full of air full of planes coming home

going constant, holy buzz

de(compose) com(plete) (de)pression the cabin sounds like bees in a vacuum packing off again rattling rat telling my mum that the weather is really (fucking awful) lovely and

the food is (dead) exotic she will cry for days over run with pride (anguish) combing hair what is left, holy buzzzzzzzz

cut

I want to shave the skin from my arms the iron sight from my eyes just dis tract, glossy: â&#x20AC;&#x153;This is ______, her home ravaged by (me) give almsâ&#x20AC;? wishing I could busk instead rattling rotting

off lists: -i wish i was a busker -i wish could sleep -i wish i could yawn and

POP my fucking ears off planes (this plane) trot out pick-axe migraines when I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t

get

out

skull compacting lull of creased collar

lapel stripes Purple (bleeding) heart I canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t be there any more all I want is to hear a (her) glass voice sing ing as we sit on her bed 21 again only hearing about bullets from films.

Illustration by Nina Cheles

Neon Eyes By Will Whiten

he piece of shit Ford starts on the fourth attempt and you lurch over the asphalt through the city. It’s late but the streets are busy. Shift workers shuttle to jobs or back to sleepy houses. Solitary dogs and cats hug fence-lines, sniffing out trash and one another. And you, in your shitty car, look for her. The Ford warms to its task and you drift over the tyre tracks of others. They’re impressed temporarily into the damp streets, each erased by the car that follows. The parking space at Helen’s apartment is stamped with your Ford’s prints, like black zig-zag memoirs. If anyone was interested they could read the countless visits, hasty exits and stuttering failures in the rubber marks. You delve deeper. Out from the canines and incisors of office towers and apartment blocks. Into the root-canaled molars of factories and warehouses – low lying shells with their nerves extracted. You’d wrench whoever she is from the jaws altogether if you were brave enough, but you’re not and you don’t think that’s how it’s done anyway. Deeper still, and if you didn’t know this was the right way, you’d have turned back by now. This is no-man’s-land, an industrial zone that appears

Above Water

on the map in your glove compartment as a sickly, pastel-yellow arch. A buffer between the mouth and belly of the beast. The lamp posts are further apart here, sprouting up through quiet, cracked pavements. Each light from above cuts through your windshield and flashes over your lap. Then the half dark swallows your car whole, and everything seems still until you’re sliced again. The other drivers don’t seem to notice the smothering dark and violent light. It all averages out for them and they drive through. Comfortably dim. But there’s no comfort for you. The light shrieks, the dark strangles and there is nothing between. Ahead, a big neon sign rotates. Urban blossom. It introduces the petrol station and all-night diner below and the new world beyond. The sign is the start of the ‘Golden Mile’, both a welcome and warning. Enter at your pleasure. Enter at your peril. The neon reminds you of Helen’s eyes. Alert. Strobing. Ablaze. You were here with her once, but it was during the day when the neon hid in the sunlight. She’d bought cigarettes and smoked three as you drove, both of you searching for courage. You never found it, but she did. In the carpark of a disused warehouse, in front of a steel-roller door. You were about to ask her what she thought was behind it when you felt her ash-coated tongue choking the words. Her lizard tongue that flicks over your lips and into your mouth as if there are insects inside. She’d be home from work by now, reading in that huge bed that smothers your desire but can’t contain hers. It stretches from wall to wall, with scrunched up blankets like choppy waves. An ocean for two. Sometimes she reads erotic passages aloud to you, purring between sentences. Your face burns under her eyes and you sink further into the mattress with every line. It would be different tomorrow. There they are, true to the neon promise across the road. A group of four, leaning into the night, breathing clouds between their bright lips. They look confident and relaxed, like best friends on a night out. You wait at the lights and your Ford rumbles false bravado. Your breaths come hard, clouding the windshield till the girls become a blur, and your fingers are wrapped so tight around the steering wheel that they press back into your palms. Another temporary imprint. The tyre tracks, the fingerprints, the excitement. They will all be gone soon. The cars are lined up twenty or thirty deep across two lanes, waiting for the start of their ‘mile’. Stomachs and gas tanks full, men force their cars from beneath the neon into the packed lanes. Engines rev and dull thuds escape through the doors of those playing music. You’d hoped for something different. Quiet streets, polite enquiries, unseen indiscretion. You knew better, but you’d hoped all the same.

Neon Eyes

Green. Go. The dual lines of cars pour across the intersection and are funneled into a single lane. Your shitty Ford is pushed and pulled through the tangle, sucked in by the flow. Two cars have stopped in front of the four figures but you don’t pull over. Only an amateur would take the first corner. Another. Alone this time, smoking as she stares through the stream of cars. Hundreds of cars, hundreds of Johns. You’re either the only one, or one of a thousand. Everything or nothing. You imagine thousands of Helens. Apartment blocks and housing estates full of Helens. Each with stained, empty car parks and oceans for mattresses. All reading and waiting for the screech of a Ford. Biting their lizard tongues as they consume page after page, taking from the black print what they can’t from you. There is another girl on the next corner so you change down a gear. The lights turn amber and the car ahead makes a dash. You’re at the front of the queue. Pole position. You watch her through the cars that flash between you both. Like a stop motion film, each frame with her cut by one of a vehicle. She holds her hands as if in prayer, but up to her mouth, breathing through them. Clouds escape between her fingers and disintegrate. A truck barrels past and swallows her, but she bursts out the tailgate unaltered. The lights turn green and you already know you won’t stop. You drive past her, hands tight on the steering wheel, fingers pressed into your palms. Halfway between here and the next corner, between her and the next her, you pull over. You’re between lamp posts again, in the refuge of half light. You lean over the passenger seat, wind down the window and let the frigid air pour inside. Would Helen ever do this? No, she’s not ‘that sort’ of girl. But if she was, she’d be too impatient. She’d wave down cars, pull over cyclists, go door to door. Her neon eyes are always searching. Searching books, searching beneath the sea of blankets, searching your face. She can never find what she’s looking for and you’re not sure it’s even there. You watch her from the open window. Two streetlights fracture her from above. One catches the crown of her head and her bare shoulders – two pointed islands above a black dress. The dress swallows the same light, black and shrink-wrapped around her body, eclipsing her thighs. Her legs appear from the knees down, glistening and perched on long heels. She has turned to look your way and you realise that your lights are on. You see a leg stretch out from under the dress toward you, then another. Just as the neon summoned you, the red lights of the Ford call her. Like moths to flames. With lizards, tongues flicking, lying in wait behind. You turn the key in the ignition. The lights die and the dashboard fades. The Ford would sink into the night if it wasn’t for the other cars, each manoeuvring their flames through the ‘Golden Mile’. They flash past, taking turns to illuminate you. You feel exposed, naked in the cold air. The opposite to Helen’s smothering

Above Water

heat, but somehow the same. And throughout, drifting in with the cold air, you can hear the hard, measured clicks of her heels. This time you turn the key clockwise. The engine coughs and chokes and you try again. This time it gasps and you try again. And again, as the click of heels rises above the strangled engine. She leans through the open window. “Looking for company hun?” You’re not sure what you answer. You fumble around for words and mutter something about car trouble. She starts to talk, but you’re fixed on her face and only register a few words. Soothing words like relax, gentle, warm. They roll out of thin lips, below a sharp nose and empty eyes. She finishes talking and everything is still again. Her face is motionless, the Ford is silent and even the stream of cars seems to have paused. Seconds stretch and you have to dig your fingers deep into your palms to remind yourself to escape. Again, you clutch at words to excuse yourself, shrinking from the beautiful, brutal face with the glass eyes that absorb nothing and reflect everything. She steps back and watches you without seeing you through the open window. “Well, if you change your mind...” You wind up the window and try to focus on yourself in the rising glass. Your head, shoulders and torso emerge to shroud her body. You appear through her and she appears through you. Ghosts of two different worlds. Hers, invaded over and over. Yours, possessed by Helen, with her lizard tongue and neon eyes. The piece of shit Ford finally starts and you stutter out into the road. She turns back to her post as you pull a U-turn across two crawling lines of cars. Each has a solitary figure inside and each of these contemplates the solitary figure on heels, clicking toward her corner. You reach the intersection at the same time she does and she glances up, expressionless, remembering your car in order to better forget it. Your fingers hang loose over the steering wheel as you retrace the still damp streets. You drive slow and the streetlights strobe lazily through the windshield, like Helen blinking her bright but tired eyes. Maybe she’s asleep already. Maybe all the Helens are asleep, beside their worn books, beyond the empty car parks. You really had wanted it to be different tomorrow. Somewhere, between the neon sign and the neon eyes, you pull up behind a taxi. Through the exhaust trail you can make out a couple in the back seat, their arms clasped around one another’s shoulders. Somewhere, between the all and nothing, these people exist. The lights turn green and they turn towards wherever it is that these middle men and women go. You drive straight ahead. Back into the yawning jaws of the city.