BELOW EARTH
CREATIVE
WRITING & ART ANTHOLOGY
ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF COUNTRY
Below Earth has been conceptualised, created and collated on lands of the Wurundjeri Woi-wurrung people of the Kulin Nation, as well as the lands of the Boonwurrung, Yorta Yorta and Dja Dja Wurrung peoples, on whose lands the University also operates. We acknowledge the living traditions of First Nations art and storytelling which have been shared here since time immemorial, and how Aboriginal creativity and expression, in its myriad forms, has resisted the colonial base of so-called Australia.
Dhoombak Goobgoowana: A History of Indigenous Australia and the University of Melbourne was published earlier this year: the first volume of a sustained truth-telling initiative for the University of Melbourne. As students at this University, we acknowledge that our creative output is imbricated in this ongoing history. Art is political.
At the time of Below Earth’s publication, Treaty talks have just commenced between the First Peoples’ Assembly and the State of Victoria. We pay our respects to the persistent legacies of First Nations activism which have realised this milestone. Sovereignty was never ceded. It always was, always will be Aboriginal land.
VOLUME 1
Below Earth is a new creative competition hosted as a collaboration by the Media Department and the Creative Literature And Writing Society (CLAWS) of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). It aims to showcase the best creative work UniMelb students have to offer in the fields of writing, art, photography, music and multimedia.
The competition has 2 major objectives: to spotlight student artists and artworks in a competitive setting; and to build a community of passionate creatives
Cover
Ashlea Banon
Editors
Angus Clark, Farrell Adi, Gunjan Ahluwalia, Jessica Fanwong, Marcie Di Bartolomeo
Editorial Assistant
Felicity Smith, Hallie Vermeend
Illustration Team
Ashlea Banon, Chiaki Chng, Harriet Chard, Letian (Lydia) Tian, Maria Vinchery Arias, Michelle Yu
Marketing Team
Crystal Lim, Manon Salit
Events Team
Bronte Lemaire, Disha Mehta, Sakura Kojima
Shortlists
Aditi Acharla, Amelia Andrighetto, A. M. Bueman, Anya Paranya, Billie Raffety, Dom Lepore, Eleanore Arnold-Moore, Eleanor Nguyen, Elysha English, Grace Hamilton, Guanhua Huang, Isaac Thatcher, Jayden Alexander, Jesse Allen, Jill Holtzclaw, Kyle Stutz, Ky Thorson, LEOO, Lily Davidson, Loay Mudarris, Lucy Brownlie, Maleea Heggarty, Michelle Yu, Monika Falkowska, Nadine Michelle Reichardt, Olivia Di Grazia, Orchid Lane, Pluto Cotter, Priyanka, Ria Chockalingam, RozenGarten, Sijia Huang, Sophia, Taylor McGuinness, Sophie He, The Wallpaper, Tim Loveday, Weiying (Irene) Lu, whoTFiseal, Yiyang Cao
Winners
General Categories
Amelia Andrighetto (Photography), Anya Paranya (Non-Fiction), Isaac Thatcher (Poetry), Jayden Alexander (Experimental), Maleea Heggarty (Art), Sophia (Prose), whoTFiseal (Music)
Featured Artist Categories
Billie Raffety (Emerging), Jayden Alexander (International), Jill Holtzclaw (Women/ Non-Binary), Pluto Cotter (Queer), Sophie He (People of Colour)
©2024 University of Melbourne Student Union. Published by the General Secretary of UMSU, Kevin Li. The copyright of materials published in Below Earth remains with the individual writers and artists and shall not be reproduced without their permission. The UMSU Media department and Creative Literature and Writing Society (CLAWS) under UMSU Clubs and Societies reserve the right to republish these works in any format.
NOSTALGIA: CONTEMPLATIONS OF A BIRTHDAY. Loneliness
A letter to my past anorexic self
The Wounds of False Accusation: A Personal Reflection
Oh, How I Missed My Organisms
Blue Depths Crimson Bloom
Loopy Tree in a Cloudy Sky Foolish Bird
Self-Portrait of a Teenage Girl
This is a Good Thing
The Spring and I spring
Somewhere in “South Australia”
Paper planes yes, yes (the poem as a line of worms emerging out after rain)
Logographic Ekphrastic
As I Roved Out
EDITORIAL
Angus Clark:
Bonjour, creatives! As one of the BE team, I am so proud of what we have accomplished, and of the writing you the students have shared! This anthology is an impressive collection of young writers, experimentalists, visual artists and musicians made possible by engaged university students. For many creatives, this may be your first published work(s). Good. Now get out there and market yourself. As the co-founder of The Provocative Inklings, let me say that university is a training ground for ideas and talent, and not where they should be hidden and exclusively applied. That would be the real world where your creativity and innovation is desperately required.
Jessica Fanwong:
When the five of us first got together to discuss about the possibility of running a creative competition earlier in the year, we did not imagine it would turn out as successful and rewarding as it did. We had two big goals: to spotlight student artists and to build a community of creatives. We ended up with a 7 category competition with 12 events in between – and anthology infused with the talent and passion of students artists, many of whom are getting published for the first time. Huge congratualtions to all winners and entrants of the Below Earth competition, and massive thank you to all contributors, team members, volunteers and friends who helped make our inaugural competition happen!
Marcie Di Bartolomeo:
Below Earth started off as an ambitious idea—a desire to bring together passionate creatives and foster a thriving creative community. With only a bold vision and a shoe-string budget to spread across multiple events and an anthology, we managed to see it through to the end. This success is thanks in no small part to the dedicated group of keen beans who joined us on this exciting and chaotic journey. Together, we’ve proved that even with the odds against us, it’s possible to create something magical—experiences and memories that will last a lifetime. I am overjoyed to see it all come together and witness Below Earth become something that amplifies so many new voices. I hope you enjoy all the pieces in this anthology—they are the heartfelt creations of passionate keen beans eager to share their work with the world.
Farrell Adi:
A person has a great creative idea, but how they are able to express it? A person might think about great narratives, large or small. They might think about making music, and even played it for themselves at a corner of their room. They might also think about an art piece, hung on an unseen wall in the same room. A person might think about all of this, yet where is the opportunity to express them? That is where BE fit in, as that additional opportunity for aspiring creatives. I consider myself both fortunate and grateful to see its first launch.
MY DOG DIES AND I AM ON A TRAIN TO THE CITY
by Isaac Thatcher
Content Warnings: mentions of death.
Moon and expectation are at their lowest: blue midday melts August frost from windows while grass glows uncancerous green. I am carried in a current’s carriage while a dog lays on a steel bench, dying.
My bones leak all their marrow onto grime-painted train floor, corners mottled like paper chewed at the edges. The hollow-boned compartment pulls me onward, away from worn needle canines and into an open jaw lined with tall flat teeth. Heaviness lost, gravity forgets me. She has another priority.
Empty rattling: a bump in train tracks disturbs a crushed aluminium can. I hold it to my temple, a fluted metal seashell filtering the ocean-rush of my own blood. I sense I have left something behind.
I am distilled in a brine of turpentine, early echoes peeling away and sinking to the sea floor. With this dies their potency, dies an imprint of twelve-year-old indignance seen through sheepdog eyes. Distance tugs my sleeve, winds me tighter on a one-way wheel. I am slowly thinning out. I think I was meant to be softer.
A last breath is squeezed from shrunken ribs as, all the while, heavy wheels death rattle below. It appears the brakes have broken, that I am only ever drifting further from the shore. Vestiges of childhood crumble constantly: paint chips flaking all the time. I am afraid of the day it’s all stripped clean. This one knew my name.
Illustration by Michelle Yu
The Hyena Story
by Sophia
My great-grandfather, in Syria, was once chased by a hyena.
It was a spring evening. Spring, Printemps, when things appear, when they bloom, when they grow. He was walking back home on a summer evening, when out of nowhere she appeared, ran in his direction and tried to attack him, scaring him to death. He eventually escaped, telling this story to his son, who then told it to his own son, who then told it to me. The ‘hyena story’, passed down from generation to generation, is part of the family now.
I once read that fears are transmitted through genetics, as shown by an experiment involving some traumatised rats. In this case, baby rats were terrified to eat sugar even though it had never hurt them because their father, long before they were born, had received an electric shock every time he tasted it.
We all have hyenas in our families. Even in our heads.
Some of us only have one, some others have a huge tribe. Mine is called Pioupiou (Peep-peep in English). I chose her name when I was 5, because she kept flying away every time I tried to catch her and calm her down. She’s very sensitive. But she’s also very smart and unpredictable. Sometimes I could see her peeking from her cave, her big eyes piercing my soul. She was always reflecting on how to make as big an entrance as possible, so that I couldn’t stop her. It’s like a game for her. She’s quite neglected, her brown fur is covered in dust, and she’s always had a sly smile plastered on her face. At first, her fierce attitude didn’t bother me. Whenever she wanted to play, I wasn’t in the mood, and she had to step back. But one day I turned 12, entered middle school, discovered shame, racism and bullying. War also exploded in Syria. From then on, we played a lot. And every time, she won.
At this point, I just wanted Pioupiou to disappear. Every day, I was on the lookout, watching for the slightest sign that she was coming. Cold sweats, shivers down my spine, freezing hands, racing heart: that’s her. Soon after, sounds blend, my vision blurs, noise deafens me: I lose my bearings. I trap myself in my own mind. That’s what she wants. That’s where she’s strongest. She’s pulling the strings. Big eyes piercing me, sly smile mocking me, she watches me drown under the weight of thoughts: I hate her.
One day, I came across a quote on the internet:
‘Le meilleur moyen de vaincre ses peurs, c’est de les affronter.’
But how could I face Pioupiou? I wasn’t brave enough.
A picture of Medusa accompanied the quote, and I felt like I had her curse. I was too scared to look at myself, fearing what I might see, what I might find, who I might be.
Adolescence is marked by an exploration of identity, and like everyone else, I was in search of mine. Who are you? Where do you fit in? People around seem to know, but you don’t. The mirror is your enemy. You don’t want to petrify yourself by finding answers you don’t like.
That’s why, when Pioupiou appeared again, I ignored her. I tried to make her feel so useless and unwanted that she would disappear forever. In this fight-or-flight situation, I chose to flee. She showed up a few times, asking for my attention, but I always chose to neglect her. And one day, she simply disappeared. I was happy. I thought I had won.
But running away from yourself is a race you’ll never win.
At this time, I was so used to Pioupiou’s presence that I didn’t consider she could be there for a reason. While being fearless is commonly seen as a virtue, I learned that true fearlessness is an effect of a rare disease. By calcifying the amygdala – the brain area related to fear – it eliminates fear emotion and puts people in great danger. Shouldn’t we be afraid to jump from a roof? Isn’t it madness to lie down on a railway?
Fear protects us. It isn’t the enemy.
The freedom, the exaltation of not seeing Pioupiou quickly turned into a ticking time bomb, leading me nowhere. The quietness of my life suddenly felt like an infinite desert under an oppressive atmosphere, strangling me, slowly killing me. I forgot who I was, where I came from. I forgot about the ‘hyena story’, about my family. I fell into a suffocating silence, a gruelling routine, a deadly monotony. It lasted for years.
One day, not so long ago, something magic happened when I went to the zoo.
‘Tu sais, j’ai appris que certaines peurs ne disparaissent jamais. Elles font partie de notre génétique’, said my friend, a biology student. I looked at her. She pointed somewhere.
‘Il y a une hyène, juste là.’
That’s when it hit me: Pioupiou was part of me. She wasn’t gone, she was hidden somewhere. All I did was only silence her. But silencing my hyena meant silencing my family, silencing me. And it’s a well-known fact: silence kills. I wasn’t a murderer.
So, after 10 years, I went back to Syria, searching for my identity all over again. I could see Pioupiou’s shadow looming in the recesses of my mind. I was scared of her coming back, of the burning pain she would cause in my chest, of all the dark thoughts she would create in my head. But at the same time, I was afraid of silence. Because silence isolates, silence hides, silence allows crimes to perpetuate. And I’m not a murderer.
One day, she finally came back. She didn’t play. She waited, observed, her big round eyes scanning the place. I think she was lost. She was there, but she didn’t know if she should be. She was trying to understand, looking at me. So I slowly got up and sat next to her. ‘Reste avec moi,’ I said. ‘J’aime ta compagnie.’ We’re not murderers.
Today is spring again, and I’m staring at the clear, dark sky through my window. Pioupiou is here. Everyday. She’s my companion, my friend. We do play together sometimes, but she’s having more difficulty winning over me. Tonight, she’s leading: my thoughts keep getting heavier and the guilt they carry, stronger. Will she win?
It's 00:38.
I should be sleeping, or studying, or maybe talking with my family. Do something useful. Something to move forward, something to be happy about, something to live for. Again, I'm not doing any of that. I'm wasting my time.
00:40.
Two minutes. Lost. The sky is watching me, time is hurrying me, the trees are shivering with disappointment and the birds are judging me. They stare down from their branches, chirping one by one, screaming in my face how irresponsible I am. If I’m alive, it’s to live. Their shrill cries tear the heavy silence that hangs over the city. The city. The world. Moving, evolving, changing. And me, just being here.
I take a deep breath. Pioupiou, tell me: is that enough?
[Verse 1]
I can’t see anything in my closet that makes me feel like I could be anything more than what people see.
and I keep
[Pre-Chorus]
pushin’, dishonest, need a paycheck to deposit. Had enough of this negativity. and I keep
Lookin’ under rocks and coming up with nothing; went from lonesome to just lonely.
so I
[Chorus]
Grocery shop at a bitch on lygon. Anybody seen where anybody mind gone? I’m insane, but I’m still pretty.
and I’m
Rottin’ in bed but at least I’m sober. Cryin’ at night but atleast I’m older. Riding my bike like I’m so pretty.
pretty. pretty. Pretty, I’m so pretty. pretty. pretty. pretty. pretty. Pretty.
I’m so pretty. pretty. pretty.
[Verse 1]
I can’t be everything That I want to, some things are too obtuse. I can’t believe what you told me wasn’t true I wish I had someone to lie to.
I keep
Lookin’ for answers, got a banknote from santa, Got, standards way above the bar. So I waltz ‘round the city, makeup, I’m pretty, like, What the fuck is wrong with me?
so I
[Chorus]
Grocery shop at a bitch on lygon. Anybody seen where anybody mind gone? I’m insane, but I’m still pretty.
and I’m
Rottin’ in bed but at least I’m sober. Cryin’ at night but atleast I’m older. Riding my bike like I’m so pretty.
pretty. pretty. Pretty, I’m so pretty. pretty. pretty. pretty. pretty. Pretty. I’m so pretty. pretty. pretty.
and I’m
[Post-Chorus]
Rottin’ in bed but at least I’m sober. Thinkin’ at night: one day it’s over. Why is my mind so busy?
And I look to the sky like it could answer. Thankful enough cause it ain’t cancer. Riding the line, I’m gettin’ dizzy.
Dizzy, Why am I so dizzy? If I could die anytime, Why am I so busy? busy. busy.
Designed by Jessica Fanwong
Winner
A Dance with the Phoenix
by Anya Paranya
Samos, the Greek island where Pythagoras was born, wasn't just another stop on my Greek island-hopping adventure – it turned into an unexpected love story. I’d already ticked off the iconic Santorini, the laidback Ikaria, the party paradise Mykonos, and the historic Athens, but Samos was different. It had this amazing blend of ancient history and modern-day charm that totally hooked me.
One sunny spring day, my curiosity got the better of me and I found myself venturing deep into the Eupalinos Tunnel, an ancient engineering wonder that even Elon Musk would be impressed by. Picture this: a 1,036-metre-long tunnel, hand-carved through solid rock over 2,500 years ago! The ghostly shadows and the steady drip of water made me feel like I'd stepped back in time. “This is insane,” I whispered to myself, my voice echoing in the cavernous space. It was a powerful reminder of human ingenuity, even with limited technology–a lesson I wouldn't forget.
Back in the sunshine, my adventure continued. I visited the Heraion, the ancient sanctuary dedicated to Hera, wife of Zeus. The towering columns and crumbling walls seemed to whisper stories of rituals and bustling markets from another era. I wandered through olive groves and vineyards, the scent of wildflowers and the hum of bees filling the air. It was a sensory overload in the best possible way.
One evening, I stumbled upon a lively village festival, a celebration of spring’s arrival. The air was alive with laughter, music, and the mouthwatering aroma of souvlakis. I couldn’t resist joining the locals, dancing to the upbeat traditional music and sharing stories over glasses of sweet, resin-flavoured wine.
“Where are you from?” a friendly local named Nikos asked, handing me a glass of wine.
“Thailand,” I replied, raising my glass. “What are we celebrating?”
“It’s our annual Easter celebration,” Nikos explained with a smile. “We gather to celebrate the resurrection and enjoy a feast with family and friends.”
The night was pure magic – a blur of laughter, dancing, and new friendships. Under the twinkling stars and a glowing moon, it felt like time had stopped, and the world's worries had faded away.
The next morning, feeling adventurous (or maybe a little hungover), I set off on a hike to the summit of Mount Kerkis, the highest point on Samos. The trail wound through dense forests of pine and cypress, offering breathtaking views of the island and the shimmering Aegean Sea. It was a challenging climb, but the stunning scenery and the thrill of reaching the top made it all worthwhile. Standing at the summit, wind in my hair and the scent of pine filling my lungs, I was overwhelmed by a sense of triumph and the sheer power and beauty of nature.
But my idyllic journey was about to take a drastic turn. A wildfire erupted on the island, sweeping through the landscape with terrifying speed. The paradise I had fallen in love with was transformed into a scene of chaos and fear. The clear blue sky turned black with smoke, and panic filled the air as people scrambled for safety.
Amidst the terror, something truly inspiring happened. The people of Samos, both locals and tourists, united against the common threat. Strangers risked their lives to fight the flames, offering shelter to those who had lost everything, and sharing what little they had left.
“Thank you for helping,” said Maria, a local woman, as we passed buckets of water along the line.
“We’re all in this together,” I replied, feeling a deep connection to the community.
Although the fire left scars, it couldn’t extinguish the spirit of the island or its people. As the charred earth began to sprout new life, the resilience of Samos mirrored the renewal of spring. Olive groves slowly regenerated, wildflowers bloomed again, and the air was once more filled with the promise of new beginnings.
Samos may have surprised me with fire, but it also showed me the incredible strength of the human spirit and the power of unity in the face of adversity. It’s a lesson I’ll carry with me, always.
P.S. While the wildfire described in this piece is not based on personal experience, it was inspired by my travels in Greece and the resilience of the people I met there.
Heaven Must Be There
Maleea Heggarty
Pambula Beach
Amelia Andrighetto
Rectangular
by Jayden Alexander
I.
I am a straight (trans) man. I look at the posters plastered. Photos placed. Pretty girl. Pretty Doll. Beautiful angel. Apple of my eye. Object. I cannot object. (Not object.) Abject objectification. No.
I plaster my wall. Poster girl. I plaster my desk. Photographed girl. I plaster my life. Pink. Girl.
I overcompensate my masculinity. Toxic patriarchy. I undercompensate my masculinity. Queer. Gay. Girl. (I am a straight man.)
Where does expression end and oppression begin – Masculinity is not inherently Misogyny. Short trimmed rectangular hair. Hoodie. Jeans. Rectangular body. Sneakers – Jordans (I know what basketball is). Rectangular voice. Masculinity is a rectangle.
Speak to women not over them. Sit down. Man Up. No. no. It means No. Not Yes – No.
See? Not. Misogynistic.
I do not know how to be a man. This rectangle is empty. What kind of man, kind of man are you?
I know I am one. Do you?
I am terrified of men. The lines of patriarchy built long before I was born have managed to trip me all the same.
I tense—
Is my father a reflection of the patriarchy or is the patriarchy a reflection of my father? If I was more of a rectangle, would I be terrified? I do not want to be terrified. Will I ever stop being terrified? (Rectangles do not fear other rectangles.)
Most rectangles grew up as a rectangle. You learned how to shape your face to be more or less rectangular from other rectangles – the world is as you see fit. You grew up being
comfortable with other rectangles, not terrified. You walk like a rectangle– wherever you wish to, the world will give way to your whims. You talk like a rectangle– you cannot be wrong, you cannot be spoken over. You act like a rectangle, in a world made for rectangles. You are forgiven, where I would have been punished. (It is not rectangular behaviour to cause harm to the environment and others in it – emotional, psychological, physical.)
I am still learning how to be a rectangle. Though I'm not sure if that's the kind of rectangle I want to be. Is it rectangular to take without asking, to grab, to occupy as your God-given right?
II.
I do not know how to be a straight man. I shout from the rooftops– I love women. Who doesn’t. It is easy to love women. I knew when I was nine, when my parents made me sit down to watch Journey to the West: Conquering the Demons. I was terrified, but I continued watching anyway, my eyes glued to the screen, staring at the pretty lady I knew when I was eleven, when she sat at the desk in front of me, turned around, and asked me for a pencil, that she would forever haunt my what-ifs.
I knew when I was fifteen, when I watched Captain Marvel with a group of friends, that I would never be able to forget the frame that flashed past my eyes. From the moment I was raised in an all-girls school, raised by my grandmother, my mother, the women in my life.
(I was written by a woman.)
It brings me comfort. It brings me peace. It feels right.
Yet, there are moments I cannot explain. What is that twinge in my heart seeing menunspecific men I cannot bring myself to name. (Do I wish to be them or to be with them.) Jealousy. (Of whom?) It makes me want to spill my guts out. It makes me feel feminine. (I am a rectangle.)
I do not want to be with a man in the same way I want to be with a woman. I’ve taken the roundabout way of arriving at a nuclear family. I would marry a woman. (Would I marry a man? Can I?) I cannot love a man the same way I love women. (Love is a strong word. It cannot exist twice in one rectangle.)
Women are Eros. Men are Ludus.
I cannot live with you –It would be Life –And Life is over there –Behind the Shelf
I wish to be over there one day. She gives me Life.
With her, I need not confront my masculinity. (I will always be more rectangular.) With her, I can be vulnerable. (But still a rectangle.) I can curl up in her embrace. I can cook and bake and sew and crochet. (I would still be a rectangle.)
With him, I can never be vulnerable. He will not understand, nor feign his understanding. (Rectangles need to be extremely rectangular in front of other rectangles to prove they are a rectangle.) I do not wish to curl up in his embrace. Can I cook and bake and sew and crochet?
I was told I cannot be a rectangle because I am vulnerable. Because I cry when I’m sad, laugh when I’m happy, scream when I’m mad. ______Rectangles can have emotions.______
III.
I am still learning how to be a rectangle. I cannot simultaneously be a rectangle and a notrectangle.
(Am I rectangular enough or am I not? Pick one. Please.) Yet, by those who perceive me to be a rectangle, I am blamed for the behaviour of rectangles – things I would never do because I have been on the other end. Do I apologise? Do I thank them for viewing me as a rectangle?
I have spent and will continue to spend time trying to be more rectangular. If not perceived as a rectangle, I am not treated as a rectangle. I want to be perceived as a rectangle without having to declare it. (Other rectangles do not have to declare it.) The act of declaration itself makes me less of a rectangle.
I do not wish to be put in a box but I am a rectangle. Sometimes a brick wall, other times a block, but always rectangular. Tldr; I am a straight man.
Object
I gaze upon her as artwork. Gorgeous. Captivating. Enchanting beauty.
Can a gaze be respectful admiration? Or am I bound to repeat the rectangular behaviour of objectification?
I want to be a rectangle. But I want to keep my empathy. (It is not mutually exclusive.)
Pink
Nothing in my closet is pink. Flowery, perfumed, feminine pink. (Why is this colour feminine?)
Can't I wear it because it is a nice colour? Do I have to want to make a statement? It's just a colour. (Is it?)
Pink post-its, thumbtacks, highlighters, plushies, flags. But I cannot bring myself to own pink clothes.
Toys separated into colour schemes. Dolls. Dresses. Pots. Pans. Cars. Trucks. Dinosaurs. Guns. (Pink. Purple. Girl. Girl. Blue. Green. boy. Boy.)
The trans flag too, is separated. Two blue stripes enveloping pink. White in the middle, a canvased no man's land. (Do I have to pick a side?)
No.
I want to wear pink in the same way Gatsby wore pink. Flamboyant.
Tense
I tense when he chooses to put his arm on the seat next to mine. I tense when he colonises my personal space. I tense when he shouts over me.
Do not tense if you want to be perceived as a rectangle. (He would not do these things if he saw a rectangle.)
Do I tense out of fear? Or because its what I have been taught? Unlearn
Can I?
Can I sit here? Can I get you a drink? Can I have your number? Can I hug you? Can I ask you out? Can I hold your hand? Can I kiss you? Can I be your boyfriend rectangle? (Yes. Yes. Yes. No. Yes. Yes. Yes. Maybe. I don’t know.)
Can I always ask? Of course I can.
Why can’t you?
nine
I remember watching the movie as a kid, probably on the floor, with the curtains drawn. The opening scene of a fish monster eating a child, terrified that I was going to be that child. I remember how ugly the monster was. The slimy, wet sounds. Its groans. The child's cries and wails. The onlookers, unable to do anything. The grip the monster had on the child. No matter how much struggling and attempts to sever the monster, it just held on. It was later revealed that the monster was itself a victim, though I don't think I felt much sympathy for it.
I've since watched the movie twice, always skipping the first few minutes. Though, every time I watch it, the nightmares seem to return. Sometimes I was the child, then I was an observer, and then I was the monster. (If dreams were a reflection of reality, I think it was because I felt helpless. Sometimes fearful, sometimes in disbelief, other times, just rage.)
I am a rectangle. Why do I have to prove it?
eleven
I first spoke to her in a maths class I think. At some point, we were tablemates. Instead of listening in class, we'd doodle on each other's notes and textbooks. She drew a butterfly once. think I kept it for a while. At another point, she sat in front of me. I remember using her as a shield to sleep or use my phone. (At some point we were the same height.)
I no longer remember her voice. But I remember her birthday. (What does that say about me?)
What if I meet her again? Will she even recognise me? What would I even say? (What can I even say?)
The last time we spoke, she asked if I went by a different name. (I do.)
I am a rectangle. Maybe I knew that then. I remember once sounding like a boy because I had a sore throat. I went around asking everyone if they thought so too. I think I was happy? (Does not having the words to describe an emotion make it any less valid?) Today, I would’ve called it gender euphoria.
fifteen
I remember watching the movie with friends, in the height of the marvel craze. The film wasn’t particularly revolutionary, or memorable.
Plot, plot, fight, plot, fight, twist. (Empowerment.)
I remember how upset people were about Brie Larson being casted, how upset they still are.
“I do not need a 40-year-old white dude to tell me what didn’t work for him about A Wrinkle in Time. It wasn’t made for him.”
It is not rectangular to spread malicious rumours, be misogynistic, yet objectify her in the same breath.
(Bringing down women to prove you are a rectangle only reveals the cracks in the rectangle.) I am a rectangle. I have nothing to prove to you.
vulnerable
I do not know how to be vulnerable. Instead I bottled emotions until the rectangle imploded. I was never taught vulnerability. There was neither the time nor space for it.
Writing is vulnerable. But it is also cathartic.
It is raw emotions and thoughts. It is me and it is not me. It is what is inside the rectangle, it is the rectangle.
There are still things I cannot bring myself to write. But I am aware of their existence. In choosing to keep them, I choose my vulnerabilities.
I am learning to be vulnerable. To not hide behind metaphors and sugar-coated words.
Writing is vulnerable. But I cannot write a poem every time I'm upset. boy boy. (derogatory) Still building blocks. Boyish boy. Grow up.
Where is my fucking childhood. (Rectangles do not rage.) All that was swallowed by dysphoria. (I grieve for the boy that never was.)
Man. Building walls. (Your walls need not be that high.) Manly Effeminate man. Wifebeater. Wife Beater.
I fluctuate between experiencing a childhood I never had, and being the man my father the patriarchy never was.
boy. M a n. boy. man. B o y. Man. B o O y. Man. MAN. Man. BOY. man. boy.
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(“Love is love” in morse code, as rectangles and dashes)
Wound
by Eleanore Arnold-Moore
Content Warnings: discussion of injury and bodily harm, chronic, physical and mental illness, problems with the medical system and allusions to ableism.
Born in the wrong hemisphere, I was two: weeks overdue, years when I cracked my skull. Body stopwatch geared for catastrophe late strobing in penalty and chastening, I’m now early to being early. College level reading in prep –doctors still talk down to me and the sore I writhed out of to meet them.
The weeks of curling into nothing winding me up for a waiting room, a mask of humility, a clockwork-toy walk past the fishbowl and scale –my mechanics failing immeasurably.
Bed spring of wisdom jutting into me helices, with muscles, tightening or unravelling. Three times they spiralled
for a spirochete as my un-shaping, more times they implied the tension was all in my head cause they couldn’t find the source of my ticking.
Maybe it’s the wiring?
Metal warping only mentally, hypochondriac strung too high, you’ve mistaken unease for pathology. Myself shed with myelin sheath? Awakening to the tail end of atrophy between my teeth. In bed coiled defensively, injury screaming guilty inside the snake of me. Physicality corkscrewing with psychology, double helix of ailment and anxiety, the font of un-healing, birthed with me. I may never unravel this wound.
Illustration by Ashlea Banon
The Spring and I
These warmer months
by Pluto Cotter
Content Warnings: references to dysphoria.
Plague me with fear. I can no longer hide within the layers of clothes That conceal my femininity.
The spring and I –We are not friends.
She wraps me in her warmth, I bath in her blooming colours.
But She ruins me. Gives me a faux joy That forces me to risk so much.
The Spring, She pushes me out
Of my box of comfort Of baggy tops, and comfy jackets.
I wear t-shirts
To avoid overheating I bind less often
To not construct my breathing
The spring
She outs me
As everything they didn’t know
She tells the world my secrets.
She yells to the world
This is not
A real man
But a phony.
The spring is A bitch,
Hidden in blooming beauty, Desperate to destroy me.
Illustration by Maria Vinchery Arias
The Other House
by Tim Loveday
Content Warnings: allusions to substance abuse and violence; derogative and sexist language.
It’s the kitchen table I tell my mum about— the curious collective of friends Beau’s mum has. Harbourer of phonebooks full of male companions; a-gold-coin-clinking-into-a-phonebooth away from a household packed with compatriots & confidants— none of whom seem to like the look of me. Boy who
is two sizes too big for my unspectacular ten. Boy who can never find the right shoes to fit him. Boy who has grown too quickly to resemble them.
They are always watching me. These men who weigh their heavy elbows upon the Laminex. These men who shake like the plumbing. Their eyes darken; I am a threat, an object. A beat-down motor. The last fizzled match. The glint of a switchblade at an impossible hour.
My mother drives, listens. Stops at the harmony & switches off the radio. Next week, it’ll be another day, another time. I can tell by her silence—what lays beneath its absence. Does she know that I’ve caught a glimpse? What to make of low-fiving slowly? Spittle sighs & red bands around biceps? Later: slung bodies tetrised across a couch? The rattling of drawers after lights out?
Not that any of this scares me. Least not like the men when they first arrive—they are present then, totalising. Those men with their dragon tattoos & Koi fish fading
up their forearms. Those men who wear grease stains like badges, whose teeth are the same yellow as their fingers tips. The grey tuffs on their chins, grass coming out of potato sacks. There is earth under their finger nails.
It is the kitchen table where they wait in those afternoons when Beau & I slip out into the backyard, harmless as the weapons we build out of lego-bricks. Harmless as Optimus & the robot aliens whose sound effects of metals changing shape rapidly, of speeding Ferraris & road trains, of smack-bang! into the sides of skyscrapers. Of hydraulics & titanium. Lay dormant in our stomachs, below earth, until that moment of impact, of clashing.
Weeks later, when my inevitable request comes, mum, can I go round to Beau’s house? & mum replies not today, like I know she will—I harangue her, desperate for answers. Desperate to know: What’s wrong with Beau’s mum?
Mum sighs, grips the wheel just that little bit tighter. A gesture that makes me aware of how swollen this truth must be. A nod to a street corner. The suburb Easty. That school my mother refuses to enrol me in, despite living in its jurisdiction. What remains unexcavated in the yard over. This is the other neighbourhood,
my parents talk about. The other neighbours. Those people.
In the school ground the next day, I tell Beau what I know. Use all the words I have learnt from my brothers. Skank, junky, whore. Same words that would cave a hole in my chest were they pointed at my mother. His eyes downcast, I can see the coin -count of his fingers. The flicker. The twitch. He is calling on his fists. Rallying them. A transformation of not-quite titanium. That self that lives forever on the peripheries. He swings—
I dodge & get out of there.
Illustration by Gunjan Ahluwalia
spring day
by Jill Holtzclaw
lately my life has felt like a spring day in california the voices in my head resemble the birds that sing in the morning they all have something different to say and it’s all at the same time you never know where it’s coming from, the lyrics melding together even the most beautiful songs get drowned out
lately my life has felt like a spring day in california the weather can’t seem to decide what it wants to be days may start with sunshine and end with the streets flooded even on the “nice” days, the sunlight burns my skin the shade offers no sanctuary. in it, i feel like i’m going to freeze and when it rains it seems as though it’ll never stop i feel like i’ll never get any reprieve from the storm that rages on the wind pushes against me with more force than i have to fight back my clothes remain soaked even after i find shelter
lately my life has felt like a spring day in california the flowers are blooming in larger numbers than ever before but the smells are too overwhelming, they follow me everywhere their pollen fills the air, coating every car in orange dust my nose is stuffed and my eyes itch whenever i pass a plant i have to take allergy meds every morning, just to catch my breath
lately my life has felt like a spring day in california because everyone seems to love this time of year they say it has perfect weather, perfect flowers, perfect everything but i feel like it’s all moving on without me the school year is ending, graduation is soon everyone around me is moving into summer with no problem lately my life has felt like a spring day but i’m still stuck in the fall
Illustration by Michelle Yu
Somewhere in “South Australia”
by Elysha English
First you may see the willow tree scraping spiralling leaves across a corrugated iron-roof in the night—below hundreds more stars than you could find in the city. Step on to the lawn—in this far but quiet hour—hear the smell of eucalyptus bordering the beginning of the bush. And the gentle hush of the tide languidly crawling up towards the stretch of shrubbery—soothing the sodden driftwood on the shore before retreating to the blue boat so cockles can be collected once the sun returns—with the sound of shell hitting the bottom of plastic buckets. You could watch the re-emergence over yonder—sitting on the log felled below the sister willow—you might even feel our names if the termites haven’t yet burrowed down to the rind. Or watch the birds fly from beach to bush from the blue-and-green swing-set or the grass growing under rusted-trampoline-springs—like we once did. Always so much time to lay and laze—unaware of—in our youthful ignorance—the significance of a wood-fed-stove built over Adjuhdura land—gutted for our television cabinet—the green house we painted blue probably bull-dozed by now. You may only see a patch of dead grass where we once slept under the willows’ whispered comforts—now just a longer path from bush to ocean—to stomp through in second-hand gum-boots. Am I allowed to mourn something that should never have belonged to me.
Connemara Marble
by Taylor McGuinness
The roofed leaves only shelter for so long before their rain falls through pines, for one cannot escape the overcast, nor the inevitable.
To sit cradled in the branches of your arm, perched upon the moss of your lap
As the Easter lily unfurls is the highest blessing. For what is religion compared to the nape of your neck?
I cannot think of anything closer to godliness, than you.
When the horizon bursts with colours of rebellion, to kneel to His sword is to fall on one’s own.
Do you think Joan felt the flames of their ignorance and still heard His voice amidst it all?
As red rust boiled inside her mouth with merciful pleas, do you think He heard? And do you think He cared?
to adore to despise to resist to fight to honour love fate Him death is a curse is a blessing as our hourglass will shatter from the damning uncontrollable lusty darkness hatred vengeance pain we yield we conceal we tear we ignore we bare
I would bare grazes upon my knees traversing with doe, just to fawn at your feet as your awakened aisling. Give me your satin sheets, the ones that catch your dreams. So your skin’s constellations are not a memory, and are held in me.
Connemara marble Claddaghs wilt not like petals above, where stones are all that stand against time.
When what’s left are roots clinging to verdant earth, I will become one with stones, your hardened heart cast away into the emerald gilded lakes.
Look to the sky, but hear no voice Because there is nothing there.
To look inwards is to rage to know
I look to you and find Starlit honeysuckle of life Uplifted before ailed eyes.
Illustration by Gunjan Ahluwalia
e l e v e n_ n y e a rs
by Michelle Yu Poetry
I shed a single tear and that was all my heart could give me. On this day. Which marked 10 years? no How many years is it?
14. years since I had left home. home is the longing sense of belonging is elusive she said. That is correct. If someone so far ahead of me. Cannot find it. How can I ? is it better? To miss home. Or feel like nowhere. is home. Is it better to yearn want something with every fibre of your being? And never get it. Unless you pack up and leave for where you were born. 2000 miles away what I long for is not just a country but a time period a day .when when my body was something else. When. I was someone else. when a life of possibility And joy.
unbroken Joy lay before me the dogs here bark like they did back then. The trains sound the same, air brakes, magnetic lines even the click click of high heels and Sandals on the cement floor is the same but somehow it feels like it isn’t. But it is because my brain. knows. my heart. admitted somewhere beyond my ears and consciousness. That I’ll never return. Because I’ll never return. Because I can’t. It is not just a country. It’s a time period A Neighborhood friendship body a body which I never knew I had
Till I lost. a single tear is all my heart would give me. I do not cry. anymore. for my country but rather for sense of home unbroken Joy and unbroken happiness there are more years left in my life. Than. I have lived. but no body left to live it the only number of happy years that I ever had 11. And there is no one. To cry for me. except myself because tonight I am alone. this sky is The Color of the evening of my childhood? The grass is as green as I ever remembered it. and the air as cold and fresh as it was after it rained but here the night will only get colder. the streets – Silence in a place Where I can no longer reach? or remember… the key has been lost. the door forgotten | the joy misplaced crumbling knees didn’t stop me yet – there, I ran somewhere there my wandering feet are still pounding the concrete Pavements of the streets.
Illustration by Gunjan Ahluwalia
Kissing Bri-Nylon
by Ky Thorson
Content Warnings: references to abortion and suicide
I kissed you in the autumnal shadows of the cloisters. It was very collegian you said. I wore the maroon Bri-Nylon sweater for the first time and you made me turn around while you read the tag. You loaned me a Didion book which I still haven’t returned. And you taught me how to eat oranges in the shower. I thought of her while I was with you though. I still remember how you laughed when you said you’d never heard of Bri-Nylon.
I kept that little golden heart embossed with fake diamonds that you slotted in my wallet to remind me of you and remind others I was yours. I keep it on my bedside table now. I think of you now and then. About how kind you were, but we were temporary tonics, salves for the summer. I told you about her and we cried together. You bought me jeans that you said would match the Bri-Nylon sweater I picked out at the Salvation Army and you carried my child for a month. You swallowed too many sleeping pills the night before I left. You said it wasn’t my fault. Remember when we took those dexamphetamines and stayed up all night in the warm glow of the salt lamp and watched my brother leave for work at 5 a.m.? You’d be almost due now.
We drank sweet sickly wine in the afternoon and went swimming naked in the pool in the night. We forgot towels and it was cold so I gave you my sweater. We had wet chlorinated sex in the back of the car in a church carpark and the whole time I could see the statue of Mother Mary lit up by the red taillights through the dripping condensation on the windows. I needed you to help me forget the girl who gave me the golden heart. She wasn’t even her and she tore what was left of me out. Then I hurt you. I kissed you and promised I’d come back but I didn’t.
I don’t remember you coming up to me but we talked all night. I didn’t even buy you a drink. You touched the sweater and said it looked old. I said vintage and you cringed, like it was a bad taste in your mouth. I stopped wearing it for you. Just as it started to get cold. We went on a date and we ran into her sister. You asked who she was and I said an old friend. I kissed you on the way down in the rickety elevator and you asked if she was really a friend. We went to the park and watched the possums in love. After that I didn’t see you again.
I wrote about you in my diary. I forgot I did until the other day. I called you beautiful. I saw the way you played with your dark hair, curling it around your finger. You said you liked me. I couldn’t say it back. I was still in love with her. We yelled at each other outside the library in the icy rain and I called you her name accidentally and you emptied your waterbottle on me. But the Bri-Nylon shrugged off the water. And now we are distant frosty friends.
I hadn’t seen you for a long time when I saw you in the gardens, the bare trees branches hanging limply like icicles. You said my sweater was nice, that maroon looked good on me. You said you missed me and I said I missed you too. You hugged me and the sweater was imprinted with your scent. You said goodbye. And I stopped wearing the Bri-Nylon sweater.
She found the sweater in the back of wardrobe and asked why I didn’t wear it. She sparkled amidst the dust motes of the afternoon sun. She said she liked it. And like the winter had become spring, she became her.
Illustration by Letian (Lydia) Tian
The Winter of My Discontent
by Ky Thorson
Content Warnings: references to mental illness, depression and suicidal ideation. Mentions of blood.
I cannot differentiate between dreams and what’s real anymore.
I have a horrible rancid cough and my stomach churns every morning. I think it’s cancer.
I only eat mandarins bought from markets and I’ve stopped cleaning my glasses.
The winter wind seeps in through my window and bleeds into every jumper I own. I cannot get warm.
There is a pile of books that I will not read.
And I smoke blues not golds now, which I think is the biggest development.
I wake a thousand times before I properly awaken. The leftovers of my dreams; the conversations, journeys and lives lived in my sleep, continue to play on my eyelids. I would do anything to stay fixed in those precious seconds forever. But something always stirs me. A truck on the highway. The grey midday sun through the blind. A pain in my back. I curl my cold toes and eagerly reknot my stomach and see if she has messaged me. I sleep heavy sick sleep, dreaming of mandarins and grassy hills.
The peeling of mandarins has become a sacrament. Penetrating the casing with my thumb, degloving the skin, pulling out the sinewy core, feeling the mist on my cheek, smelling the sweet spray, savouring the juicy segments. I prefer mandarins to oranges, the flesh doesn’t get stuck in your teeth and you don’t spend all day trying to fish it out of the gaps. I don’t eat much else. And I can’t stand apples, they make me sick.
I vomited blood last week. Once or twice, maybe three times. Always in the dead of night. Big thick globules of bright red blood. It was surprising how red it was framed against the white ceramic toilet bowl. It almost didn’t look real. Just like my shimmering reflection in the water didn’t look real. After, I could feel the raw burning of my chewed up trachea. I have been sick every day for weeks, months. I can count all my ribs again like when I was a child, my cheeks have become sunken craters and I sleep a lot, more than I am awake. For the few hours I am awake, there is a constant cold knot knifing my insides.
I haven’t spoken a word all day. My voice is unused. I smoked on the balcony and it started to rain so I went back inside. She messaged me while I was outside. I treasure her texts like a seedless mandarin. The seeds are bitter and rough and shock my teeth when I bite down on them but her messages soften me, they make me breathe lightly, easing the persistent faint feeling that grips me.
I pretend to leave the apartment. I tell people I do. I create long lists of made up events, interactions. Meaningless happenings that transpire in a normal day. I don’t tell them that I stay sick and alone in the apartment. Cooped up in my room. Cold in a cocoon of my own discontent. I want to leave. I want to do so many things. To go places. Away from the four walls enclosing me. Anywhere else would be better. I dream of some other place, of getting on a train and snaking into the City for my prodigal return. That reminds me I have to buy a new Myki. University starts again soon.
The mandarins spill out of the mesh bag and onto the bench like soft orange eggs. I grab one and return with my prize to the soft warmth of my bed. Breakfast. Or dinner. It doesn’t matter. I open the blind and watch the cars crawling on the dark highway. It depresses me in the morning, the gridlocked rows of red taillights, heaters blasting against the cold, exhausts spewing columns of noxious fumes. But at night it is peaceful. I can hear the cars now, it is raining and they drive gently on the shiny road illuminated by the orange lights of the highway.
I pick out old books like White Nights and Swann’s Way. I dog ear the pages. I’ll never come back to them but it makes me feel like I did something today. I watch the sentences until they change into strange swirling pictographs and their meaning becomes indecipherable. It is these pages I mark. I continue until my eyes close for twenty seconds at a time, willing sleep. I close the book, letting it rest on my chest. Sometimes I sleep with them. But sleeping with things, just like people, is never as nice as sleeping cleanly and alone.
Sometimes, on warm summer mornings, I would go running. To nowhere. And from nothing. I’d run until my lungs were sore and my knees wanted to give out and I could hardly see straight with
all the blood pumping in my head. I would jump in the Bay, the cool water prickling my skin until it was red and shocked, the seawater slowing my pounding heart. I’d trudge home with sand and salt between my toes, impatient for a hot shower and bacon and eggs. I don’t run much anymore. My glasses are dirty again. No matter how much I clean them I cannot remove the smudges and stains. I could put my contact lenses in but I am not going out today. I can’t remember the last time I wore my contact lenses; I’ve almost forgotten how to put them in. I lay in bed and watch the highway through a blurred hazy prism. I wait for something. I might read some Steinbeck or lay in wait until she messages me. My sheets smell of her and it makes me sick.
Rain spatters the window but the sun is out. Contradictions tear at my soul. And my feet are cold. Even with socks on. I burrow under the covers, rubbing my toes together. My fingers are frozen, I cannot type properly. The cold creeps in through the glass. I must have left the blind half open last night. I was reading or maybe I was thinking. I hate thinking. It is all I do. Listening to the endless radio station in my head. Telling me that everything I do and feel has been done and felt before. Every pain diagnosed and accompanied by pills and appointments and books and DSMs. This does not ease my agony. Nothing I do is original. I am a caricature of a sick person. A sick unoriginal portrait. I am pathetic. And cold. I wish I could microwave myself. I would be warm then.
I cough and can feel my lungs squeeze under the pressure. I vomited blood again yesterday. It slid out of me leaving bloody tributaries on the toilet bowl, as if a stampede of snails had trailed down into the water. It’s a windy day and must’ve been a windy night. That was why I had such terrible dreams. My clothes will dry well today.
She has stopped messaging me. My days are empty. I have stopped vomiting though. And I am eating two minute noodles with renewed hunger. I have never tasted anything so good as two minute chicken noodles.
I sit on a bench in the park and pretend to read while I watch people pass through. It is warmer now. The trees have little green shoots on them. A fairywren flits from branch to branch, its little blue tail moving from side to side. It will soon be spring. I can’t even see my apartment from here. And I feel okay.
Illustration by Chiaki Chng
SEASONAL SHIFTS
by Aditi Acharla
Content Warnings: mentions of violence, blood, slight body horror imagery.
A chance in the spring air–hefty–the thousand lives on mine. Sprigs of blossom outline my face, loose petals dissolve onto my skin. The colour green feels like a draw in a game, the fine balance between acid and land, colouring time. Chances in summer feel like death. Bodies bubbling where they shouldn’t–boils on the neck. Popping. Boils on the shoulder, blistering.
This is quieter; spring. White moons brush my lips and tug away from my grasp. A land of sleep fragranced with light. It opens up as one wilts.
I feel like the smallest person during spring. Bound behind infinity. Sick and fresh–orange buds spilling out of my pink mouth. Spring makes me a lamb. And I never grow old. Once losing colour, blue fading to black now merging to the sky. Starry, holding all lost in its cosmos. Carrying back to the roots of the earth. Shedding skin to give some hope. Abundance turns miniscule. Into a seed, it seeps down. Absence into company. Open space, open field. Heavy life.
Summer is where language is lost. It is knotted against-inside the throat, it never comes out with coherence. Summer is where opium mumbles and hymnal chants are suspended in the air, hung like telephone wires. Spring is where love is. Solitaire. Connection.
I abstain from consumption. The seeds will grow. I await the winter.
Illustration by Harriet Chard
HOW TO FIX YOUR BATHROOM SINK
by Isaac Thatcher
It starts with a tap singing drip, drip, drip. The morning is young. Fresh light streams in through the frosted window, warming whatever it touches. You step into it and sigh. There is a sacred quality to these mornings; they glisten with the gossamer only the light of a new day can bring.
You twist the tap anti-clockwise. The tap still sings—drip, drip, drip. You twist harder.
Drip. Drip. Drip.
A curse, internal. You do not know how to change a washer. Phone torch on, you bend, craning your head down into the basin and twisting––trying to get a glimpse of the apparent damage. You have no idea. Limited to the use of your peripheral vision, the underside of the tap looks like nothing at all.
Outside, you hear the tell-tale patter of rain. Slow enough at first that it seems as though it taunts you; then, tired of the game, it falls faster and faster until it beats upon the roof like a drum, holding up the melody— drip, drip, drip.
The sun does not spook. Instead, it sets the rain alight: a sun shower.
Droplets splatter your temple as you squint at the washer. Everything is laughing at you: the tap; the very water itself; he, who would have known how to fix this, is laughing; so too the rain.
Plug it up, you think. You, spanner in hand, are going to fix this. Your phone is open to some do-it-yourself webpage beside you, and your resolve, egged on by the taunting pitter-patter above, rears its head.
Twist and twist and a clatter. It all falls to pieces in your hands. So simple, so easy.
From here, the problem is easier to see. The washer, a crisscross of wires, has slowly worn away. A hole sits in the middle where it should all join together. Your hand shakes as you try to fit thespanner to the underside of the tap, and you twist and twist and twist, but nothing happens this time.
Twist and twist and twist and crack. Something is broken.
You can take it all apart, dissect it with a distanced disinterest, but the core issue remains—you do not know how to change a washer.
The rain continues. It laughs at you, drip-drip-drip. You throw the tap against the wall. You cannot change a washer.
First you say fuck in your head, then you say it aloud. Again and again, louder and louder. It takes a long time for the word to lose its meaning.
The pressure behind your eyes has been building for months, and it will not release. Sometimes, it feels like your eyes are threatening to burst. You can feel it, but not on the surface. It hurts somewhere blunter, duller, deeper. Perhaps, you think, for your bathroom sink, this feeling is business as usual. It has been blocked up for so long—of course it would leak! It has only just learned how to weep.
If you were not afraid of fire, perhaps you could burn it away. Watch the water vapour stream from your eyes, your mouth, and disappear into the air, ready to become something new. You want to become something new.
Ah, if only you could become something new.
The rain continues to fall, but with a change in tempo; the rhythm slows to a gentle waltz. The sink, with no tap to catch it, bubbles, and you realise from somewhere far away that you did not shut off the water. The bubbling is not violent, and it is almost drowned out by the rain in its dance of threes.
How could you have thought the sky was taunting you? She loves you; the earth has been under her stewardship since long before you were born. Her child, she weeps for what you do not have.
You sit against the wall, hanging spider plant foliage brushing the top of your head, and try to feel it all. The broken tap sits beside you, keeping you company. The sink bubbles, the rain falls, and you wish it were so easy.
Though the tears do not come, they mourn in your stead. The sink, the walls, the leak in the roof. And the rain.
Flower Beds
by RozenGarten
Today is a good day to wear your denim overalls with brass clips that have a subtle daisy engraving on them. It is also way too perfect for wearing it with a white turtleneck and your favourite straw sunhat with a long blue ribbon embroidered with rose vines, handcrafted by yours truly two summers ago with the help of Rosy the hatter who owns a hat boutique two blocks away. It is also luckily not too cold, allowing you to bask your feet in the rooftop sunset.
But anyways, okay… let’s try this again… Some years ago, you spent two years of your life pretending that you were invincible, making everyone around you bend to your will, making sure you had much sway in every decision anyone were to make. But you need to understand, these people meant so much to you. You relied on them everyday to keep you going. You were like, inseparable family, and if your ties were to be broken you honestly wouldn’t know how to move forward. But alas, you did not realise that your methods did more harm than good, as a matter of fact you think in the long run there pretty much wasn’t any good that came out of it. It’s like growing a bed of flowers. What you did was that you tried to micromanage every single variable of growth into your idea of the most efficient flower growth. The flowers grew, but they never really bloomed to their full potential. If you ever stopped this charade of maximising flower growth, the flowers would devolve into chaos and grow out-of-proportion, and your expectations would be devastated. You would inhibit malice against the flowers for falling out-of-line from what you expected them to do. But, as you may have noticed, the paradox is that if you just give the bed of flowers their necessities and let them grow and spread chaotically on their own you would have basically achieved your goal of growing a healthy flower bed. Your mistake was that you had an unrealistic expectation of what a healthy bed of flowers should look like, and maintaining that image of your ideal bed of flowers caused only suffering.
In short, there was your ideal perception of healthy relationships with everyone around you, and in order to maintain that ideal you had to enact some measures that definitely, inadvertently or not, had hurt someone greatly. Which is why-
“Hey.” Tim says, “You spacing out again?”.
You startle and come back to your senses.
“I guess.” you reply, “Aren’t the flower beds pretty?”
There is a pause as Tim surveys the garden. Scattered are all sorts of flowers of all colours. It is spring and these flowers are in full bloom. They and the foliage conquer every box, crevice, and wall. And each flower bed can barely contain the amount of flowers growing in them, almost like they’re about to explode any second.
“It’s a mess." Tim answers.
“Well… yeah you’re right, but that’s the natural order of things is it not?" you reply. “This here is the most fulfilling way to grow a garden. The sheer size and biodiversity this place… there is no better way to grow a healthy garden.”
“Health and beauty amidst all the chaos?" he asks.
“No," you reply, “Health and beauty from all this chaos. They’re not opposites, they’re the same thing.”
you take a moment to bask in the beauty.
“Look, I appreciate your gardening skills and understand this passion of yours, but I hope you understand when I say I’m worried about the structural integrity of this building… and not to mention any critters that may pop up." he says with his authoritative voice.
“Look.” you reply, “If your only purpose here is to nag you about the state of our garden then you’re better off convincing a wall.”
Tim sighs.
“Hey, if this old ass building crumbles to bits I’m not taking responsibility.” Tim claps back.
“Just fuck off already Tim.” you reply.
“I hope you like insects.” Tim counters.
You stare back at him in silence as you actively try to show him how disappointed you are in him for saying such idiotic things. It is not long before he then shrugs and walks back through the door into the stairwell.
Honestly, what kind of idiot thinks a rooftop flower garden can somehow pick apart the foundation of a two-story building?
Anyways as you were saying, because you had those unrealistic expectations of the relationships you had with the people around you you ended up hurting basically all of them in trying to keep up your imagined status quo. Which is why you feel like you should really make it up to them, somehow… you know it’s been super long since the events of those two years, but you can’t ever seem to stop thinking about all the things that happened no matter how hard you try to ignore them.
So you need to do something, you need to go back to those people you hurt and do something to bring some sort of closure. You don’t expect any forgiveness, any reconciliation, nor do you expect all of them to even pay any heed towards you. But regardless, you are still going to try because if you don’t, there seems to be something growing deep within you, and you are afraid to ignore its growth any longer.
“Thank you.” you say to your flower beds, “-for showing me the true nature of life, the beauty in the chaos that brings the everlasting sustainable growth of everything in this world.”.
You go back in the stairwell and make your way to your flat. You walk past the shoe rack whilst actively trying to avoid looking at the giant mirror across it. You make your way across the living room to the coffee table at which you grab a random piece of paper and a pen nearby and sit on the floor. Your eyes stare blankly at the sheet of paper and vivid dreams start coming upon you. There is a cursed nostalgia for the darker times as you analyse the so many encounters you had in those two years free of any emotional reaction. You recall the frilly blouse this one girl was wearing when you told her that you loved her and she cried, happily, and clung to you non-stop for minutes like a dog that hasn’t seen its owner in months. You recall vividly the the smile on this one boy’s face when you told him you were always going to be there for him for everything and anything. And you can recall the seven big “THANK YOU”s your younger sister messaged you after you told her that you were going to convince her boyfriend to stop ignoring her and to let him know that she was willing to reconcile with him. And you can recall quite a few more things you did off the top of your head, but one thing stands out to you more than the rest and everything you mentioned earlier. It physically pains your stomach to let images of it appear in your head, but you can recall vividly the horrible things you’ve done to a boy named Matthew… You don’t want to think it out loud, because if you do, your consciousness will walk off on you.
But you know one thing, you must do something to try and reconcile a little bit with Matthew to bring at least some closure to yourself. You had hurt him a lot, and out of everyone you feel like he’s the one that deserved being hurt the least. Matthew knew how to truly love someone and show it. He had a pure and valiant heart, and you are gravely disappointed in yourself for choosing to punish him for it.
Dear Spring (Here I Am)
by Orchid Lane
Content Warnings: depictions of toxic relationships/abuse and moderate swearing.
I remember saying that to you, a few years back. I can picture the scene like the back of my hand. I’m pretty sure it tattooed itself on my eyelids so I can see it in my sleep.
I was watching you and just, admiring how the flowers of the garden framed your silhouette. I think we were maybe a few months in. Back when the world still looked slightly pink. The red of the carnations brought out your pretty button nose and doe eyes. Your dark, inky curls fanned out across the picnic blanket and the shards that lodged themselves into my bones dulled each time I carded my hand through it.
We had a crisp breeze and a view of children playing ball at the bottom of the hill. The evergreen leaves were falling from the sycamore tree into empty plates and for some reason, the sky was so blue that day too. We really were a picture. It was like we walked out of a Monet. Fingers interlocked together, you traced the moles on my skin like if you stared hard enough, you could find a constellation in them.
“Hopefully I’ll always make you feel that way,” you said. A peal of laughter drifted through the air as you lifted yourself off the blanket and tenderly cupped my face.
And you were right. I’m not sure if I hate that you were or if I hate myself for not listening. Either way, I don’t think I’ll ever forget the way you made me feel. Not until the day I die. You felt like spring. Tender, warm and sweet. I loved you. I still love you. I love you and I forgive you for every sin and every crime. I just love you that much.
Now, tell me. Is that what you want me to say? Huh? Is that what you want me to tell the world?
If so, fuck you. Fuck you truly.
Because we were never spring. No, we barrelled straight through that. We landed in summer and we burned. Oh, we burned. We burned slowly and painfully because this is not a love letter. It’s a fucking hit piece.
“The world always seems softer when I was with you.”
About time, I reckon. Your image is still so squeaky clean and it makes me sick. After all, spring is only so beloved because people choose only to see the falling cherry blossoms. They see the sprawling greenery, the mild weather and the gentle breezes. Not the skyrocketing allergy deaths or the people suffocating in their own homes. A miracle of marketing really. Like how they only saw the pretty pictures of you kissing me in high rise bars, not the pinch you gave me under the table every time I didn’t pose right.
Not to mention how you love to say to your friends that we would always have these long torrential fights. Ones where we were equally bad to each other because we were on even ground. You would win because you’re ‘oh so rational’ and I would storm off in a huff because god forbid. But we weren’t. It would be a gross understatement to even say that we fought. It was more like you yelled at me and I fell in line. After all, what could I do? I couldn’t tell a soul. The crowd always hates bad press.
“She airs out dirty laundry.” they would titter under their breath “Always dramatic that one.”
So I smiled for you. I smiled and I laughed until my cheeks hurt and my lips split and bled at the sides. It would be an erasure of history if you ever claim otherwise. I took the blows and I dealt with it and maybe if we actually fought, I wouldn’t be so bitter about it. But they were control burns, weren’t they? A form of land management. Light it up so there’s no trouble when the weather gets warmer. Beat the dog with the stick until all it could do was obey and cower. Have its spirit spill itself into your open palms and seep into your pores until there’s nothing left. Burn it slowly. Burn it painfully so it doesn’t even realise that it has nothing left.
But credit where credit is due, it was effective, even if the plan took an utter lack of a moral compass to execute. This dog can’t look at red carnations now without wanting to chuck in a bucket (thank you by the way. Pollen always flared up my allergies). It looks over its shoulder, goes into fight or flight before it takes any action, and jumps if people raise their voices too loud. The dog now lies in bed awake, thinking and dwelling until the sun comes up.
But then, I realised that I know you now. I know spring and all the gnarled parts it keeps hidden in stuffy walls and soft soil. I know your secrets and there’s no leash to stop the bitch from barking. So here I am, airing out the dirty laundry, just like your friends said, so the next time you kiss someone in a high rise bar, you have no idea if they have read this or not. I wrote this so you can live in anxiety, waiting for the day they connect the dots and realise spring isn’t as beautiful as they thought it was. This won’t be something they will be able to get past. Then, they’ll realise that no one will be able to fix you. Because if you could have done it for anyone, you could have done it for me, surely. You said you would burn the world for me.
You know, the tree that we were picnicking under died today. As it should. The groundskeeper said it was diseased. It's funny. For your namesake, you have never been good at the entire ‘keeping life around you happy’ thing. I took care of all your plants because everything that you touched died. Your fish kept changing colours and I never met one of your friends more than once despite being with you for a better part of three years. And to put the cherry on top, I left because I wanted to hang onto the husk of my soul before it was too late. But in my opinion, you’re also too controlled to be summer. Because summer, for all the destruction it causes is unashamedly itself from day one, but I digress.
Maybe one day, I’ll meet a gentler season, someone who reminds me of autumn. Or maybe I’ll find someone who is willing to huddle up with me and drink hot chocolate in the winter. But if it wasn’t clear enough, I’m never coming back to you, so stop leaving notes at my door like it’s 1989. I hate you and I hope spring burns with you. Here’s to moving on.
From, Orchid Lane
P.S. Mr Smith. Mr Psych Guy. My guy. If you’re reading this before I send it, thanks. This was very therapeutic. 10/10. Helped a lot :D
Illustration by Harriet Chard
Beech Forest
by Jesse Allen
Content Warnings: references to genocide and war crimes, suicide, political extremism
Even an hour later, when he has ample time to think on the train ride from Leipzig to Weimar, the strange scene does not enter his thoughts. The brief window of daylight not yet begun, body in motion, mind lingering in dreams yet to evaporate. Down two rickety flights, gloved hand always on the guardrail (trust but verify), past the decrepit vending machine and wooden planks in the ground floor hallway. Red and blue lights, four Polizisten milling around the doorway out onto Hamburger Straße. “Guten Morgen,” a blonde woman in her late thirties–kind eyes, taut smile–and he returns the greeting mechanically, slipping past en route to the Hauptbahnhof. Outside the greys, whites, blacks, browns of the winter landscape blur together as the train speeds on.
Sunday morning, late January: the winding streets of the Altstadt all but empty. Perhaps it’s the sunlight–anaemic, strained through low cloud–which lends the city a softly-spoken character. He is glad to have come by himself, relishes the simple pleasure of wandering. After a few stops–museum, library, gift shop–he finds his way to the bus station. A few minutes later, the number 6 stutters to a halt. Three other passengers: a father and son pairing (he guesses), and an older lady travelling alone. An unspoken intuition that they all share the same destination; a tacit understanding that none of them will disturb the near silence of this peculiar pilgrimage.
Buchenwald, beech forest. But the name evokes no woodland idyll, not anymore. Between July 1937 and April 1945, this was the site of one of the largest concentration camps within the borders of Germany. Some 250,000 people from all across Europe were interned here. At least 56,000 never left. The bus slowly comes to a stop, wheels straining through mud and ice. One by one, the passengers file out. The man at the information desk informs him that the documentary plays on the hour; he has about 45 minutes until the next screening.
Once again, his feet carry him, but his mind is elsewhere, as he steps outside. Thoughts and impressions swirling, whisking themselves away before he can pin them down. He traipses amidst the ruins of unfathomable injustice, inhaling and exhaling the miasma of past horrors while snow gathers on his clothing. The maps and signs scattered across the complex are written in four languages: German, English, French, Russian. Where are the words to tell of what was done here? There are photos of prisoners, herded together like animals; others where they are solitary and emaciated: eyes vacant and ribs protruding. But it is the sound of the place he tries hardest to conjure in his mind. Four languages–and many others besides–all scraping against one another: howls of imprecation, wails of anguish, in this hellish Babel echoing across the decades (the rest is silence).
Hounded by the vicious winds, he takes shelter in a long, white-washed building. Treads cautiously through echoey hallways. Reads stories printed on lime-green obelisks: a handful from the multitude (the death of one is a tragedy, the death of millions is a statistic). Among the many who perished, there are a few who returned to their homelands. So viel Freude, so viel Trauer, one wrote in his diary, free perhaps only in body: so much joy, so much sorrow.
The father and son are already seated when he reaches the cinema. They exchange a barely perceptible nod as the film starts. The story of the camp is told by its survivors. Hunger, cruelty, disease–the battle to endure, to scavenge thin scraps of hope. And everything he sees happened on the very soil now bearing his boot prints. Residents from the nearby city, herded in by the Americans after liberation: to see what they did not–would not–see (through my most grievous fault). Enttäuschung: disillusionment and disappointment, to have the façade brutally torn away and to be left profoundly dismayed by the reality it had concealed. And for this, a mea culpa in the form of an oath to posterity: nie wieder, never again. That is the banner under which thousands of protestors are gathering all over the country, rallying in the name of this grave duty to the past. Standing against those who would deny it, who would paint those darkest of days golden. Wie konnte das passieren? is a backwards-looking question. Wie könnte das passieren? instead looks to the future. They both ask: how could this happen? These queries occupy him during the entire journey back. The world outside makes no impression.
It isn’t late as he unlocks the front door, but already the sun has retreated. A quote from Goethe, painted in stark white capitals on a rust-coloured wall, comes back to him. Wir bekennen uns zu dem Geschlecht, das aus dem Dunkeln in das Helle strebt. Striving to escape the darkness and to reach the light; optimistic words which seem to belong to a distant age. There are four of them in the apartment, but he’s relieved to only find H. in. Theirs is a modus vivendi built on few words; he had been dreading facing the well-meaning questions that would doubtless spring from the others. He mentions Weimar, and then Buchenwald. “Jesus,” comes the hushed response. Shorter even than the shortest verse, and punctuated by a heavy stillness.
A minute goes by before H. recounts the strange happenings on Hamburger Straße that day. Everyone had been interviewed by the Polizisten; probably the same ones he had walked by without a second glance. The night before, a person in their building–not someone any of them knew, but a life lived in parallel under the same roof–had taken their life. Something to do with the political situation, apparently. Much later the improbability of his roommate knowing this will strike him. Had someone said something, or was he simply filling in the blanks? But in the moment, it isn’t too hard to believe. He’s already heard stories of people leaving the country, no longer feeling safe in this so-called Heimat. Was this another effort to flee an unbearable reality–someone hunted by the spectre of history, threatening to repeat itself? He wonders if there is more to be feared in the past or in the present. Contemplates a deceptively simple question: how could this happen?
Bibliography
“Facts and Figures on Buchenwald Concentration Camp.” Buchenwald Memorial, accessed 7 Jul. 2024, https://www.buchenwald.de/en/geschichte/chronologie/konzentrationslager/Zahlen-undFakten
Illustration by Harriet Chard
Reforging Shattered Dreams: The Future, Technology, and Us
by Guanhua Huang
At the end of December 2023, I had just completed my undergraduate studies. After a year of studying abroad, I returned to Wuxi, the home where I had spent twenty years of my life.
As the plane was about to land at Shanghai Pudong Airport, I looked through the window and saw the city's lights sparkling in the boundless darkness, illuminating the lost glories of the world. Strangely, this journey home did not excite me. Instead, a complex mix of emotions wove into my heart, refusing to dissipate.
I recalled how a year ago, I had said goodbye to my parents with great hope, how I boarded the plane in an empty city, stepping out into the world with boundless dreams for the future, and the fervent resolve of “I will not return until I make a name for myself.” I remembered the words spoken by a stranger couple on the plane to Australia, and how those words warmed my heart, soaked in confusion and loneliness, on that winter night a year ago. Who would have thought that a year later, I would awaken from the dream— realizing that mere romantic ideals are far from enough, and even concrete goals might just be an illusion. I stand at the juncture of an era, my pursuits shattering and rebuilding repeatedly, an experience my parents have never encountered.
We are facing an unprecedented era: it is changing at an extraordinary speed, with increasing uncertainty and complexity. This world is inexorably turning into a global village. Perhaps a policy passed by the U.S. Congress will affect Melbourne’s housing prices six months later; perhaps the fluctuations of the Shanghai Stock Index will, to some extent, impact the wages of Indian workers. Many technologies—like engineering design—are increasingly becoming outsourceable industries, a form of currency that circulates globally— technological barriers are crumbling. This is a unique, harsh era, yet also an adventurer's paradise, testing every modern person's tolerance for pain. Failure, I am certain, will be the most familiar friend in anyone's future life! During my year in Australia, I conversed with Christians, poor local students, parliamentarians, workers, engineers, and fellow international students. By comparing Eastern and Western societies, I hoped to gain a better understanding of our current predicament. Of course, my observations are bound to be partial and subjective; no one can truly grasp our ever-changing living environment today. However, the correctness of thoughts is not what matters; what is crucial is to maintain an awareness of thinking. Therefore, this article merely records some perspectives I have on observing the world at this stage, rather than offering a conclusive judgment.
Humans are interesting creatures, always striving for the unattainable. When a stable life is within reach, people rush into the unknown, and now, when everything becomes uncertain, they long for the nine-tofive days.
The essence of the traditional industrial economy is supported by cheap labor, creating conditions for large-scale investment and production. During this stage, accompanied by the huge consumption demand brought about by urbanization, investors could quickly recoup funds to invest in new projects, while also providing white-collar and gold-collar workers with guaranteed incomes. This is why, for many years, we have considered going to university as a crucial way to change our lives. However, now, whether in our country or in the West, the "Lewis Turning Point" has arrived—with the gradual saturation of urbanization and the rapid rise in labor costs, the industrial economy is facing unprecedented difficulties, and university graduates inclined toward theoretical study are even more underemployed. At the same time, the rise of AI means that technology itself is no longer the issue, as machines can achieve visible goals more efficiently and accurately than humans. Therefore, the current problem is not a lack of production capacity but rather overcapacity. Thus, the traditional industrial economy is giving way to a new economic model—the "networked economy."
The so-called "networked economy" can be seen as a breakout of the old economic system under the trend of globalization. Today, excess technology can be exported like products to areas with insufficient production capacity, and production lines are gradually shifting to countries with cheaper labor. The goal of the "networked economy" is to rebalance supply and demand while reducing production costs. For countries exporting traditional industries and technologies, upgrading and transforming themselves is necessary, or the economic gap will be hard to fill. New technologies, such as artificial intelligence and automation, precisely make this transformation possible. However, technology can only enhance efficiency and accuracy but cannot grasp the “art of possibility”—programming can make you more efficient in achieving goals, but it cannot help you set goals. In other words, in the future, artificial intelligence will handle definite tasks, while we are responsible for exploration and failure. Yes, the more definite something is, the more dangerous it is; the more elusive, the more it can bring us surprises in our despair.
Like many international students, I once seriously considered whether I wanted to stay in Australia after graduation or return home. Now, in the perspective of globalization, this is no longer a question. I might work in Australia, or perhaps in New Zealand, Singapore, or Canada. I might build railways in Indonesia, repair the Earth in Heilongjiang, construct public housing in Western Australia, or design passive houses for Indians. In short, I am willing to leave room for change and give fate a chance. I am ready to become a “citizen of the world”—since “stability” is increasingly difficult, I will embrace “uncertainty” with great enthusiasm. This way, I will feel fortunate to live in today’s world, rather than longing to return to my parents’ era.
From Persistence to Compromise
I remember a friend once told me years ago, “You can believe in anything, just don’t believe too much in human nature.”
Indeed, what principles are unshakable? If there are any, it is because the consequences are unbearable. Most people are neither purely good nor purely evil at birth but carry potential for both "goodness" and "evil." In specific environments, the goodness in human nature develops, while in other environments, the evil develops. When a person's goodness suppresses evil, they appear "good," and vice versa, they appear "evil." Therefore, in this world, there are no inherently noble people; some are just luckier than others. When the pressure one endures reaches a certain threshold, and abandoning a principle does not incur substantial punishment, even the kindest person is not worth trusting. During my study abroad, I trusted human nature multiple times, only to find out I was wrong each time—but for those who hurt me, I bear no grudge; perhaps they merely wanted to buy a loaf of bread or pay next week’s rent. What I mean is, every person and organization around us is likely seeking and establishing the most beneficial survival model for themselves, then extracting so-called values from this model to occupy the moral high ground. When this model no longer aligns with their goals, any change is possible, including the entire value system and its interpretations. Any promise of morality or responsibility without discipline and punishment is mere words, disappearing quickly once the expiration date passes. It is not that I doubt their sincerity at the time of the promise; I just doubt they overestimated their willpower in the face of suffering.
In short, today’s people adapt to change and seek survival through compromise. Beliefs seem so untrustworthy, separations and reunions can be so casual, and a smile indeed can erase all grievances. A few minutes of clinking glasses can lead to principled concessions by both parties. In the future, the tugof-war and balance of too many forces will only make various compromises more frequent and easier. It is indeed the law of the jungle, I understand.
From Diversity to Uniformity
The core idea expressed by “When the king likes slender waists, many in the palace starve themselves” is “involution.”
Under the myriad lights and neon flashes, the human civilization in my eyes is turning into a vast cage. This cage is the solidified evaluation system. Humans unhesitatingly moved in, self-torturing and self-pampering. From the moment we are born, each of us is forced to practice running faster on a track arranged by the outside world, while those born unable to run fast can only accept becoming sacrifices, as structuralization excludes other possibilities. Indeed, the loss of individuality is drastically compressing the living space of each individual. As the social systems of mainstream countries improve, structural problems are becoming increasingly apparent in today’s world—we find it hard to appreciate the beauty of diversity, yet are also tired of fixed beauty, resulting in competition becoming a fixed game, leaving only homogenous rivalries. I know well that this game has only helpless losers and mediocre winners, offering nothing beyond “pain” and “boredom.” However, how many people in this world truly want to live their only life as a rose: beautiful and hollow—you cannot tell two rose flowers apart; you only know they are called roses—this beauty is a suppression of humanity, soulless. A century ago, Camus used his existentialist and absurdist philosophy to fully describe this.
I really do not want to play this zero-sum boring game, so I strive to break free from the constraints of established values and rebuild my own life principles, where my true freedom lies. For instance, I have independent standards for appearance, wealth, education, occupation, and marriage. In the future, I will make decisions based on my values rather than those of the majority, for no one else can take responsibility for my life. I will never go with the flow in this life, as I do not want to scatter money into the sky while wearing chains, telling the world how well I am living.
From Collectivism to Individualism
In this era, many people know a lot of others but have few friends. We have many acquaintances we call “brothers,” yet deep in the night, we don’t know whom to call to share our troubling thoughts. Though we live in cities, it feels like we’re on isolated islands—knowing more people but understanding fewer. In “The Little Prince,” the fox tells the little prince that whatever humans need, they buy from shops, but shops don’t sell friends, so humans no longer make friends.
The root cause is “involution.”
When society’s evaluation system becomes singular and flat, the winner-loser mentality is easily triggered. When we’re unaccustomed to appreciating the diverse beauty of others, we often apply the same lack of appreciation to ourselves. When we realize we lag behind others in certain aspects by world standards, shame and inferiority grow—after all, we’ve been deprived of the right to change tracks. Over time, this trauma triggers self-protection, developing into depression, NPD (Narcissistic Personality Disorder), PPD (Paranoid Personality Disorder), or similar traits. Gradually, people instinctively lock their hearts and subconsciously believe others do thesame. When we always wear masks to look at others, how can we expect them to open their hearts to us?
These subtle psychological changes in modern people rapidly transform our society from collectivism to individualism. Connections between people are severely weakened because everyone tends to focus on people and things that directly impact them. Who cares about others’ well-being? The driving force behind all this is the psychological changes we refuse to face—our fear of social evaluation and competition, our uncertainty about our self-worth, our lack of love, and the growth of narcissism.
On people’s faces, I gradually see neither smiles nor tears, neither care nor hatred. Instead, there is indifference.
Conclusion
The people I see today are both united and indifferent, optimistic and hopeless, kind and selfish, free and shackled. A grain of sand in the era is a mountain on an individual. Whose fate isn’t like a leaf helplessly swirling in the wind? After all the trials, what remains is a freedom forgotten by the world. This is 2024 —I will remember— what will the world be like ten years from now?
July 11, 2024
Illustration by Chiaki Chng
Paper planes
by Jayden Alexander
Do you remember when paper planes used to be made of scrap paper and soaring ambitions? Or when they became maths equations — ‘If paper planes collided in 2015, how long would it take until they collided again?’ Now they are made of bourbon and broken dreams. They told me that paper planes were disposable, that they are ‘fun while they’re still in the air’, then tell me why I’ve spent the last 7 years of my life glancing out of every window to see if the planes ever flew back.
‘ ’ or first love is often associated with innocence and naivety — the belief that paper planes could fly forever. With them, there was no need for a diamond ring or ninety-nine roses, only a simple piece of paper, and yet it fulfilled your wildest dreams. You’d always decorate planes with doodles of butterflies formed from X’s and O’s and tic tac toe to check off all the boxes, the extra lines allowing the plane to flutter further. Everytime you drew out all the possible futures that you could explore, hoping that the canvas never failing to take flight was an indication that your dreams could too. All the nights you spent wondering where all those planes went once they flew out of the classroom window, all the lives they lived, sights and smells, the endless possibilities.
But paper is also fragile, the tears of the years disintegrating all the markings and indentations. Distinct, red X’s and O’s demarcated your possibilities. Once upon a time, paper flew in the direction you threw it, you decided how high it could go, how far it would glide — now, it dictated where you would go, how well you would do in life. Was it too late now to return to the windowsill? And so, planes departed. Their contrails haunted your horizons even as the environment around you changed. Then you’d spend the rest of your youth chasing shadows of ingénue planes across the backdrop of a million skylines only to realise it was never yours to find. Maybe one day it would come flying back to you.
So you spend the next few years of your life making new planes, different designs to make sure they’d fly higher, further, faster. They would fly, they would crash, they would burn. Then you’d make another, to fly slower, longer, closer. They would fly, they would crash, they would burn. You bought all sorts of paper — parchment, origami, inkjet, recycled. They would fly, crash, burn. You tried all sorts of techniques. They would fly, crash, burn. Again and again, you folded, each line harsher than the last. Fly. Crash. Burn. The only souvenirs were paper-thin scars where there were once drawn stars, a thousand times over yet you didn’t understand why you couldn’t find the adrenaline you once felt with the first plane. They would fly, they would crash, they would burn. And you had let them.
Then you left on planes yourself, vowing to never make another origami aircraft again. They were too childish, taunting you with your lost innocence. Besides, there were more serious, pragmatic things to attend to. Boarding yet another flight — back to the airport you first departed from, constant gusts of cold air piercing your eyes, as you look for your seat somewhere in economy. You heaved the luggage upwards, filled with souvenirs for school friends you hadn’t seen since you graduated — silently lamenting not having checked in your luggage to save the expense. As soon as the hull of metal was in the air, the clicks of letters on your keyboard joined the symphony of others as you finished up the report you had to do — it was definitely below your paygrade, but you wanted to keep your job. The flight dragged on and black coffee blended into vodka, melding the words on your document. When you did lift your eyes, it was only for the bland in-flight meal — grilled chicken salad, dry as a bone and frankly over-salted, but it would have to do. Then the lights dimmed, the bright glow of your laptop now an offence to the sleeping passenger next to you, so you decided to turn in for the night. Awaking as the plane hit the tarmac, the familiar sight of the control tower drawing back memories of a long-forgotten childhood warmed your heart for that split second in time before the splitting headache, jet lag, aching back and ringing ears snapped you back to reality. You were home.
And one night, in the middle of September — perhaps you were drunk, discontented with the world, or a mixture of both — you went back to the windowsill. Subconsciously, almost instinctively, you picked up a piece of paper and started folding. It felt like second nature, though you were too inebriated to understand what you were doing until you were done. One fold down the middle, two corners, form a triangle, then halve it and finally collapse the wings. There. On the desk by your windowsill, sat a simple paper plane, made from some advert you had gotten from the mail earlier. The image sobered you up as memories of all the times you had seen your designs take off from this windowsill flooded your mind. Yet this felt different. In the dim glow of your nightlight that surprisingly still worked, the shadow of a hand picked up the plane, releasing it into the darkness, beyond the four walls of your room. Like clockwork, the paper plane took off into the night, carrying the crumpled, creased and crimped lines, scribbles of regrets and remorses. It flew, it climbed and it disappeared into the glow of the horizon. He finally felt content flying parallel to the plane who once told him to believe that he could soar
Illustration by Ashlea Banon
NOSTALGIA: CONTEMPLATIONS OF A BIRTHDAY.
by Aditi Acharla
Content Warnings: depictions of body imagery.
Each year, as September arrives, the presence of my age looms overhead and with it–bundled up in its arms–the boxes of memories of spring. My birthday in the centre of it all. Letters and photographs and flickers of my childhood rush up to me in the very moment I find myself beginning to slip into another age. Swarmed by a tornado, I cling onto some semblance of the past. Three, four, five years back. In most cards I received on my birthday, it always talked about me being a ‘constant’ in the lives of my friends. All coming to a peak on my 18th. Solidifying the slithering cracks that dared to open up, the wave of nausea that comes with celebrating a birthday. We were all growing old. Growing older and graduating; we were all going to leave the permanence. How much remains of being a ‘constant?’
Sometimes, you invite people to your birthday party despite not being as close to them as you are to others and yet, it is like a clockwork event–the ones you sporadically see at parties. Those frequent appearances were consistent in key, I believed that solidified a place in their life albeit murky. In my mind these parties got closer and closer in friendship until I knew exactly when I’d see them next. Almost as much as my close friends or family, I would start attaching onto the silhouette of them. They were in some way, a dear friend like the rest. A shot at beginning a persona again, trading in stories, sharing with them portions of your life as their place became embedded, even if for a few hours. I always had a memory of regularity. No matter how distant or how lost we were from each other.
Those that I’d never see again. Still, I’d have their books and music. When I see them listening to my Spotify playlists as a connection to me or any songs I was pleadingly recommending to them. The novels they’ve gifted me overflowing in my cramped, brown bookshelf with ones I desperately need to get rid of. I’ll still have their words which I commit to memory, write down and keep thinking of in my mind. My head is clustered with their phrases, bearing constellations in the dark expanse.
I am nothing if not nostalgic and sentimental. I have an entire bag crammed with letters and old birthday cards from when I was nine onwards. A letter from a girl who I’d come to love on reasons to not end my life, from my year 5 teacher of what sort of student I was, of old scripts the girls and I made at my birthday party in a few seconds to read aloud and guess. I am composed of everyone and everything that makes them real, embedding me into life in the process.
It is almost vampiristic, the way I am-in behaviour and spirit. Nostalgia sucks me dry, I suckle that off other people, using them as a carrier for my feelings of sentimentality to be remembered in the future. Love is what separates them; I love my friends and the others bring me nostalgia through a careless air. I have the urge to sink my teeth into anything I lay my eyes on and know that one day, months away, I will look back to this moment: the clatter of plates and spilt food beside it on linen white cloth, of the sun beaming through a light grey cloud onto a tree pittering out cherry blossom leaves, the wrench of a gut coiling on the bathroom floor, head pressed to the tiles, bile threatening to encircle and tears frozenly clogged, the itch of a scarf against spilling hair next to a taller man. Even other’s memories I store as mine. When I see them, or hear them or read them in recital. Which is why I tell my friends when we are sitting in dim red light, on a table littered with chocolate spooled ramekins and sweet potato salad, that I’d give anything to remember everything. A lot of them refuse, if not all of them at the chance. I shrug and maintain my position. The urge to consume everything, to become whole with what once was lost.
During my nostalgic periods when I get entirely overwhelmed by its lethargic, shimmering feeling, it becomes difficult for me to slip out of it with ease. Instead it seeps into my interactions and the way I carry myself. It becomes a recycling of the past that I take to the present, over and over again without pause. It becomes hard to live through the summer; I watch my own self through an outside pane, transparent yet tinted with what has happened, unable to stop my body from its repetition of the years. I watch my mistakes dissolve into sugar and swallowed for more room. I pass the shell of me in the hallways of my home and hold its hand for a fraction of the old feeling. It electrifies.
I remember pieces of my childhood in grain-coarse, distant, bokeh and warped. They become moulded into hyper realistic dreams I have had since I was small that continue on to this day: what is real, what is fantastical, what is both and the ones that have not run parallel but ruptured itself for a touch? I find myself getting nostalgic for my dreams. Ones so unattainable because they are trapped in a scape unknown to here. Gothicism fuelled reality; shadows overgrowing into the moonlight, a headless goodbye into an embrace, glimmering pools with shooters overhead, eternal flooding.
More likely than the hard stuff, I get nostalgic for tenderness that may or may not have existed and simply been created through my subconscious. The limp hand in a photograph that points to Christmas house lights. The photo with her face against my cheek, near my molealmost as if she’s kissing it better. Flowers draped over my skirt. Spring warming my skin without violence. When I remember certain romances, these memories turn static-acupuncture. But my mind replays and replays everything for a semblance of feeling. I believe I won’t ever get it again in the future. I don’t think anyone could ever see right through me. Because I have never been anything but suffocating of my own self.
But if you see right through me, see past the nostalgia that has made familiar against my ribs, weeds tangling bone. My skeleton is made of fragmentations; are you happy with your body? Could you do more? I push it to the limits, my mental capacity brimming with my history and it overflows into the physical. I get sicker frequently. I get sadder more. My head throbs and is pulled apart like elastic. My eyes narrow as haze covers the corners. I go pink and my lips burn into blue. I ache all the way from my legs to my neck. I need to bite something. I dissect it as easily as I would dissect a heart. We look odd. We are truly so weak and puny no matter the muscle. We are hollowed out and carved to fill ourselves with memories.
Illustration by Maria Vinchery Arias
Loneliness
by Guanhua Huang
At the kindergarten graduation ceremony, the children dressed in beautiful and elegant clothes, lined up, chattering non-stop. In their minds, there were only simple farewells and reunions; they only knew that their closest companions would leave them after graduation.
Decades later, they will understand that beneath all the encounters, separations, and reunions in life, there is an eternal “unchangeability.” All emotions, whether joy, pain, or helplessness, impact our souls in a constant manner. This “eternity” is called loneliness, and loneliness is precisely the underlying tone of humanity that is hardest to articulate.
People come into this world alone, experiencing the impermanence of the world, the vicissitudes of life, and eventually, in an instant, let go of everything and turn away alone. In this process, from the tearing “pain” to the sorrow of parting and death, to the lingering “reluctance,” which experience can someone accompany you to feel? The one who fully experiences life, isn’t it yourself? Can anyone teach you how to stand up with dignity after falling? Is there a second person who will shed tears when looking back at your past life?
People are born into this world with loneliness, which is then numbed by all the noise, embraces, and struggles. But loneliness always quietly acts in the depths of the heart. Until the moment all the noise stops, loneliness takes over the entire soul.
Let us reflect on loneliness!
Euclid said that two parallel lines in the same plane never intersect.
Let’s try to view this vast world as these two parallel lines. One line represents positivity, embodying all discipline and creed, justice and law, ethics and morality, while everything that happens on the other line is negativity and loneliness.
We live in the world of positivity, striving for immortality, singing praises of justice. Thus, without a doubt, the line representing positivity dominates the world. It governs all beauty, all morality, all love. It is so fascinating, vibrant, carrying all civilization and history. It races forward with supreme authority toward a great and sacred direction, infinitely extending on its predeterminedtrack. This world belongs to positivity. Positivity symbolizes eternity, symbolizes highly organized and disciplined order. However, if someone lives on the other line, then they must be lonely.
Once, I naively thought that loneliness was simply being alone, and a lonely person just needed a friend or a word of concern.
But I was wrong.
As I grew up, I gradually discovered a kind of loneliness that is absolute and profound. A kind of loneliness that does not depend on the number of friends or whether it’s noisy or quiet, but lies in the unspoken for the entire life.
In the high school classroom, all the students are neatly dressed in uniforms, with their heads down, writing vigorously. It is certain that not all of them will get into their desired universities, nor will their lives be smooth sailing. Many will have to struggle in the face of a tough life. However, it is equally certain that most of them are harboring dreams, steadfastly believing in the ten-thousand-hour rule, determined to change their lives.
We can repeatedly criticize the education system. We can say that eighteen is the age for young people to run, and children’s creativity, individuality, and interest in knowledge should be nurtured in a free and open environment. But we have to accept a cruel reality: exams are the only way out for the vast majority. It is not uncommon to see that most students are not choosing between the college entrance exam and studying abroad, but between studying and working.
In the late night, under the dim desk lamp, countless students are preparing for the college entrance exam. They all believe in a distant “dream,” gritting their teeth and making the final sprint because they have no choice.
Can this kind of loneliness be cured by companionship?
Similarly, I know countless individuals like Oskar in “The Tin Drum” who fight for themselves in this unjust world. I also know that Che Guevara delivered anti-imperialist speeches at the United Nations, embracing negativity while the whole world moved towards positivity. I see that in every country and every system, there are always pure idealists who insist that one plus one equals two. I can imagine the scene of an elderly craftsman meticulously carving under the dim light...
Do you really think they are “outliers”? Do you really think that as long as they join the crowd, they will no longer be “lonely”?
When I climbed to the top of the mountain, walked into the empty temple, and burned incense alone, praying for blessings, can you explain why I was moved to tears when I looked up at the Buddha’s peaceful eyes? Who can cure this kind of loneliness?
According to Euclid’s theory, two parallel lines never intersect, each extending infinitely on its predetermined track. But how can you be sure that the students struggling for the college entrance exam, the migrant workers working day and night in another province, and the forever unrecognized lagging students have no connection with this positivity world? Or can it be that professors and entrepreneurs who are in high spirits have never felt lonely? If the answer is no, how can we think that loneliness belongs to the “minority”? How can we be oblivious to the loneliness of others? Haven’t we all been lonely? Haven’t we all come from that line representing negativity? Isn’t it true that when you came into this world, you didn’t already represent the “majority”?
It seems that Euclid is not always correct. I live in the world of positivity, but I will not forget that I come from another line, a line representing silence and loneliness, a line without a voice, and inevitably, I will return to that line.
When you were a baby, you fell; that feeling is called loneliness. From then on, you started thinking, feeling, and then experiencing the most painful wounds, the most poignant pains. But please believe, this world is not wrong. When you withstand loneliness and possess a certain kind of courage, everyone will cheer and embrace you. This world will return a piece of blue sky and love to you.
But the road can only be walked alone in the end.
Illustration by Ashlea Banon
A letter to my past anorexic self
by Michelle Yu
Content Warnings: references to eating disorder – anorexia; brain damage; incontinence.
It has been 11 years, now. Your future self is still not well.
They are still fat.
But with the bones of an anorexic.
And with the feet and knees of someone who has exercised themselves to injury.
And the incontinent pelvic floor of someone whose every muscle has wasted away.
I am not sure how much of their brain is left. I hope not too much was lost, but I am not sure.
There is not much to be said, really.
It wasn’t worth it.
Your skinniness didn’t last too long.
There are people skinnier than you who didn’t lose their bones, bladder, and brain, in the process.
Bits of you which you’ll never get back.
Bits of you which got broken down and lost, when your body was starving for energy.
Bits that you’ll never get back.
Quite significant parts, really.
Imagine how smart you used to be. I shudder to think of what was lost.
Illustration by Letian (Lydia) Tian
What a pity, really. A waste. Of who you could have been.
Life wouldn’t be so difficult for you, now, if you hadn’t done that. Both mentally and physically.
I wonder who you would have been, if you had not taken that route, so many years ago?
Your parents are still much the same. Your brother, a little more involved in “bringing you up” and “disciplining” you. And somehow, that is worse.
Dear anorexic child,
Your future self longs for a better life.
A better time.
But there is still time to be lived.
Try and stay in one piece.
I know it will be hard.
Because of damaged parts which will never heal.
Softened bone which will never anneal.
It could be worse.
It could be worse.
It could be worse.
Enjoy life, little darling. They say life is short. It is.
For you, a little shorter than most.
It will be a short time, so make it a good time.
Please.
The Wounds of False Accusation: A Personal Reflection
by Nadine Michelle Reichardt
Some stories are so painful that they leave scars long after the events themselves have passed. These scars may not be visible, but they exist in the mind and soul, reminders of a time when trust, dignity, and humanity were stripped away. My time at Seed Heritage was supposed to be a period of growth and opportunity, a job as I pursued my studies. Instead, it became a nightmare of bullying, racial abuse, and false accusations that shattered me.
The events I endured sound like they were pulled straight from the pages of a crime novel, yet they are all too real. I still remember the moment it all began, an ordinary day at work that spiraled into something dark and twisted. The air was tense with the usual stress of retail, but beneath that, there was something more—a malevolence that I couldn’t yet name.
It started with a lie.
“Just say she pushed you behind the counter? I’ll just say I saw it.” Was the first conspiracy and lie they told.
These words, casually spoken by a colleague, sent a jolt of fear through me. They were the first indication that I was the target of something sinister. I hadn’t pushed anyone. In fact, I hadn’t done anything wrong. But that didn’t matter. In the toxic environment of Seed Heritage, where rumors spread like wildfire and the truth was easily twisted, this lie would become the foundation for a campaign of bullying that would haunt me for years.
The lie was simple, but its consequences were devastating. As the days passed, the lie grew, twisting and turning into something unrecognizable. Soon, I was being accused of all manner of things—things that I hadn’t done, things that hadn’t even happened. The lies were like a virus, spreading from person to person, infecting them with doubt and suspicion.
And the worst part? No one cared to ask me what really happened.
The more the lies spread, the more isolated I became. My colleagues, once friendly and supportive, began to turn against me. They whispered behind my back, avoided me, and ganged up on me whenever they could. I was no longer a person in their eyes—I was a target, an object of scorn and ridicule.
“The Police have said it is her and approached her and given her warnings,” one of them hollered one day, her voice dripping with venom. The words were a blow to my already fragile sense of security. Victoria Police had said no such thing, but that didn’t matter. The lie was out there, and that was enough to make it real in the minds of those who wanted to believe it.
I still don’t know why they targeted me. Perhaps it was my race—after all, as one of them so cruelly put it, “Nobody will believe a brown girl like you over a white girl like me.”
I had always known that racism existed, but experiencing it firsthand was something else entirely. It was a cold, suffocating feeling, as though the very air around me had turned against me. My every action, every word, was scrutinized and twisted until it fit the narrative they had created.
You might think that an organization like Seed Heritage would have some sort of process in place to deal with situations like this, that they would at least give me a chance to respond to the accusations. But no. Instead, they jumped aboard, eager to accuse the “brown girl” and wash their hands of the situation.
There was no investigation, no opportunity for me to defend myself. I was guilty from the moment the accusations were made. In their eyes, I was nothing more than a problem to be dealt with, a stain on their pristine image that needed to be removed.
The injustice of it all was almost too much to bear. I had done nothing wrong, yet I was being punished as though I were a criminal. The lies and the bullying were bad enough, but the knowledge that the organization I worked for was complicit in it all made it even worse.
In many ways, I felt like the characters in the novels I had studied in my literature classes. I was like Edmond Dantès in The Count of Monte Cristo, falsely accused and betrayed by those I had trusted. I was like the unnamed narrator in The Yellow Wallpaper, slowly losing my grip on reality as I was confined and controlled by forces beyond my control. And I was like Briony Tallis in Atonement, watching as a lie I had no part in destroyed lives, including my own.
These stories had always seemed so distant, so far removed from my own life. But now, they were all too real. The themes of betrayal, isolation, and injustice that ran through those novels were no longer just words on a page—they were my reality.
As the days turned into weeks, and the weeks into months, I began to lose hope. I was exhausted, both physically and mentally. The constant stress of living under the weight of these false accusations took its toll. I couldn’t sleep, couldn’t eat, couldn’t think of anything other than the nightmare I was living.
I tried to speak up, to defend myself, but my words fell on deaf ears. No one wanted to hear my side of the story. They had already made up their minds about me, and nothing I could say would change that.
The loneliness was the worst part. I had always prided myself on my independence, but this was different. This wasn’t the solitude of someone who enjoys their own company—this was the crushing isolation of someone who has been cast out, abandoned by those who should have been there to support them.
I felt as though I were invisible, as though I didn’t matter. I was trapped in a nightmare that I couldn’t wake up from, surrounded by people who were determined to see me fail.
But despite everything, I refused to give up. There was a part of me, deep down, that knew I was stronger than this. I had survived so much already—racism, discrimination, bullying—and I would survive this too.
It wasn’t easy. Every day was a battle, and there were times when I wanted to just walk away, to leave it all behind and never look back. But I knew that if I did that, if I allowed them to break me, they would win. And I couldn’t let that happen.
So I fought back, in the only way I knew how—by holding on to my dignity, by refusing to let their lies define me. I reminded myself of who I was, of the things I had accomplished, of the strength that had carried me through so much already.
And slowly, painfully, I began to rebuild my life. I found new opportunities, new people who believed in me and supported me. I began to heal, to put the pieces of myself back together.
The scars are still there, and they always will be. But they no longer define me. They are a part of my story, but they are not the whole story. I am more than what happened to me. I am more than the lies and the bullying and the racial abuse.
I am a survivor. And that is something no one can take away from me.
As I look back on my time at Seed Heritage, I realize that, in some ways, it made me stronger. It taught me the value of resilience, of standing up for myself even when no one else would. It
showed me the importance of self-belief, of knowing my worth even when others tried to tear me down.
But most importantly, it reminded me that I am not alone. There are so many others out there who have been through similar experiences, who have been bullied and falsely accused, who have faced racism and discrimination. And together, we are stronger. Together, we can support each other, lift each other up, and create a world where no one has to go through what I did.
The pain of those days still lingers, but it no longer controls me. I have reclaimed my life, my identity, and my dignity. And I will continue to fight, not just for myself, but for everyone who has ever been made to feel less than they are.
“It is closed” Seed Heritage said after they falsely accused the “brown girl”.
The Bees and the Bourgeoisies
by Eleanor Nguyen
Some may not see the similarities between the 18th century French Revolution and the honeybee’s colonial structure — mostly because one is a socio-political movement and the other is a hierarchy — however, with some thought, the parallels are undeniable.
Contrary to popular belief, bees are entirely capable of overthrowing their queen. Drifting honeybees even rob other hives blind or call in the cavalry for a full-on aviary war. The French Revolution, on the other hand, despite being regarded as a major point of democratic influence in the Western world, was terribly managed. So bad, in fact, that they started two wars, created three oppressive regimes, killed 15,000 of their own people and ended up back where they started anyway.
First, the basics: bee colonies contain a three-tiered caste structure. At the top is the Queen: head of the hive and mother of all within. Next, the Drones: male bees born purely to reproduce with the Queen and literally nothing else. Finally, the Worker Bees: every other female in the hive, doing all the work, all the time.
Now, 18th century France didn’t have a caste system, but it had a class system. The King, of course: Louis XVI, who didn’t single-handedly birth the entire French populous, but he was their ruler. Below him, the Bourgeoisies: the aristocracy, that don’t exist solely to sleep with the king — although they had an indefinitely higher chance than the working class — but they did contribute very little to their nation. And last, but not least — there were still slaves — the Peasants: labourers toiling away for king, country and the ever-increasing tax rate.
The onus of a beehive revolution lies with the drones, similarly, the bourgeoisie can be blamed for a large portion of the French Revolution. When the Queen bee starts producing infertile drones the whole hive begins to ask: If the drones can’t reproduce, what can they do? Answer: literally nothing. Worker bees are, understandably, not happy with this. In France, 1787, taxing the bourgeoisie was suggested — because, financially, the top 10% held 90% of all the wealth in the country and the peasants held, comparatively, jack shit— and thoroughly rejected. The heavily taxed working class were, also understandably, not happy with this.
This is where they diverge. See, the French made the egregious mistake of actually trying to use politics and peaceful protest to petition for systematic reform. In return they got to rename themselves ‘the National Assembly’ while King Louis XVI went to find the royal backstabbing knife. But Bees? Bees don’t fuck around. They go directly to the nursery and take out the infertile drones before they become a problem. Violence isn’t always the answer, but it’s certainly efficient. Then, 1789, amid ‘The Great Fear’ the French populous finally got with the program and violently stormed the Bastille prison, a symbol of royal tyranny. King Louis remained bravely, if stupidly, unintimidated. So, two months later, they stormed his palace in Versailles. Unfortunately, unlike bees, who favour the ‘murder their children, cut off the exits, sneak into their chambers and kill them in their sleep’ approach, the French did not have the forethought for either infanticide or blocking the exits, so the whole royal family managed to flee to Paris.
Then the whole country sat staring at each other for a couple years, waiting to see who would blink first. Plot twist, it was neither of them, because in 1792 France declared war on both Austria and Prussia at the same time. That war lasted seven years and three entirely different regimes, because they are incapable of doing anything the easy way.
Bees know their purpose in life from conception and follow it with a cult-like devotion — ripping their own guts out just to sting something once — when bees make goals, they follow through. The French don’t have that dedication, frequently falling short of the finish line — completing that revolution, fixing their economy, generally antagonising Britain — but they are undeniably good at multitasking. Case in point, five months after staring revolutionary wars, they created the National Convention and somehow managed to abolish the monarchy. It only took them four months to remember to execute Louis XVI.
This could have been the end of it (revolutionary wars aside) if they had simply submerged the kings’ children in royal jelly until they emerged into adulthood and the strongest one instinctually ate all their siblings to become the heir apparent — the tried-and-true bee style of succession. Instead, they appointed Maximilien Robespierre as the head of the Jacobins party lead political group, The Committee of Public Safety. Bad move on the peasants’ part, but really, what were they expecting when their governments acronym was literally ‘The COPS’?
Robespierre was a fairly good leader; he spoke in defence of minority groups, he was (initially) against senseless violence, he led the country during a period of great instability. He did, near the end, make the slight faux pas of grabbing a guillotine and executing 1,376 French citizens in the span of six weeks.
Not exactly ideal, so the National Convention remembered it existed and rendezvoused, deciding that karma was real and beheading Robespierre, putting a new council-style parliament in place.
A coup d'état within the hive is a clean, precise and unforgiving. Within ten days there’s infanticide, the queen gets assassinated in her own château, those that cannot work are killed and the turnover is so efficient that the hive doesn’t even stutter in production. It’s an unrelenting dogeat-dog — or, more accurately, bee-eat-bee — system.
The French were not as pragmatic. The new government, ’The Directory’ may sound like a stereotypical evil empire name but was actually just incompetent (at first). See, despite two changes in upper-management, France still had that little problem of the massive war they started and even Russia kidnapping Poland on stage right would not distracting Austria from the main scene. France reached a tenuous peace in 1795 using some sly politics (read: bullying the Dutch, sharing a brief nod with Spain and bluffing an accord with Prussia) while Austria sidled up to Britain to ask for money and finally decided to just sacrifice Poland (as always) to Russia for the benefits. Austria undoubtably managed to get more allies, but this was partially because the Directory was spending all its time beating back insurgence with a stick. For some reason, the French populous seemed to have authority issues.
The good thing about worker bees and hive society is that no matter the cyclic nature of their revolutions; only ever leading from one absolutist totalitarian dictator to another — no hope of reform, only insurmountable caste divides, generations of exoskeleton-breaking labour and another routine usurping on the horizon — worker bees never question their queens right to rule. The French, however, are never satisfied with their situation and continuously complicate it in the most unadvisable way possible.
For instance, instead of stabilising their country — after two back-to-back revolutions and a barely achieved stalemate with the rest of Europe — the Directory decided that the solution to civil unrest was to immediately fight Italy and Germany in 1796: both countries previously neutral to what’s colloquially called the late 18th century European cluster-fuck: not to be confused with the early 19th century European cluster-fuck — more formally known as the Napoleonic wars — which is completely different.
This is about when they decided to have their third revolution in ten years.
1797, the Directory somehow stumbled out of incompetency and face-planted directly into another dictatorship. The French, experienced enough now to have contingencies, made Napoleon Bonaparte come back and deal with it. Then instated a new government called the Consulate, which sounds like another evil empire, because it was. Now, the fun part: propaganda, war (again), chemical brainwashing and more child murder. In case it wasn’t obvious, half of that is about bees.
Queen bees work hard to maintain order within the hive; through releasing the right hormones to trigger evolved neural pathways for collective camaraderie, but mostly the good old stick and carrot method of social control. The stick: a worker bee lays an egg, the queen eats it; worker bees are smaller, so minor starvation from childhood prevents the birth of another queen. The carrot: serving the queen, their mother, gives them the highest chance of continuing their gene pool (because they can’t have kids).
Napoleon, lacking this particular repertoire, got creative. 1800, he finished off Austria, brokered peace with Europe, returned to France as a war hero and promptly used his popularity to become consulate for life, then realised his democratic facade wouldn’t hold under undistracted scrutiny. So, 1803, go big or go home, he started a 12 year war with Britain and Russia, bolstering his reputation with a metric ton of propaganda, media censorship and even his own elite police force to shush his dissenters. Then 1804, he straight up crowned himself emperor — as in physically crowned himself — then king of Italy the next year, just to double down. He even chucked a couple crowns at his family while he conquered half of Europe. Then, during the 1810s, the rest of Europe finally got their shit together and allied, proceeding to absolutely dog-pile France. Napoleon was forced to abdicate in 1814, and a year later, sovereignty was restored to King Louis XVIII.
There it is, a beehive revolution takes ten days, minimal deaths and the hive remained fully functional all throughout. The French Revolution took between 10-25 years to become semifunctional, two wars, a purge, a continuous state of economic crisis and Louis XVIII ended up as king anyway. Same results, but one of them was much more concise than the other. Still, while the French may lack efficiency, they certainly make up for it in theatrics.
Illustration by Michelle Yu
Designed by Jessica Fanwong
Oh, How I Missed My Organisms
Ria Chockalingam
Blue Depths
Grace Hamilton
Crimson Bloom
Grace Hamilton
Loopy Tree in a Cloudy Sky
Grace Hamilton
Foolish Bird
Lucy Brownlie
Self-Portrait of a Teenage Girl Amelia Andrighetto
This is a Good Thing
Dom Lepore
Elgin St
Amelia Andrighetto
Golden
Weiying (Irene) Lu
The Flower Chase Monika Falkowska
Pink Through the Window
Monika Falkowska
Stranded
Kyle Stutz
Spotted Weiying (Irene) Lu
The Voice in My Head
Priyanka
Experimental Runner-Up
knot
by Lily Davidson
it matters what matters we use to think other matters with; it matters what stories we tell to tell other stories with; it matters what knots knot knots, what thoughts think thoughts, what descriptions describe descriptions, what ties tie ties. it matters what stories make worlds, what worlds make stories.[1]
she knows the knots that matter to tease and untether –she knows that swimming laps in spring is spiritual practise. she knows some chemical reaction between late november sun chlorinesweatwarmwater is a magic charm rendering city people on the bleachers brown shimmering gods and angels. it’s a place to grow wings briefly before the light blinks behind a cloud and the spell is broken. she knows it matters to let it all move her and move through her. let hot wind funnelled through the alley blow her out to summer’s night. if she fights the clay into shape it will break – learnt the hard way. she knows despite the clutter no matter thecloudtheclaytheday her jasmine vine will keep reaching and twisting towards its pocket in the sky if she can just remember to water it. it matters to track the solstice to bend her face moonwards and stir stars with a fingertip by the dock at twilight and take note of where the ladybirds fly with the hope of following them. she knows to write her dreams in a bound book because this reveals knots for what they truly are – incantations. she knows in the lonely night far from lutruwita to place her ear to the cowrie by her bed to remember that rattle of softwattlebirdsong in her lungs and feel kelpstidaldance stirring her stomach. she knows it matters to pass briefly through brightly lit indoor spaces – malls medical receptions – they suck this sacred alchemy out of blinded bodies. she knows it matters to cook lavish meals for her friends and send them home with little gifts tied in twine which wink it can be our secret that you’re an angel undercover. and in the instance she’d like to be busy she finds it best to do so with beauty. to wake before the sun and take the breaks while they’re even to roll and wave like a seal in her forgiving rime playground. to lie on the lawn – any lawn at all – and eavesdrop on the lilting conversations of birds to find tiny blooms from under street trees to dry in empty wine bottles and arrange around the house. to do evenings by candlelight to print the film photographs and paste them down for her children to pour over for hours like she did.
she knows to take the plate of cheese and honey to the patio and let it drip saccharinesweet down her chin under the wide sky to go to galleries without anything else to do but be carried. to close her eyes and dance at the very front all the way from her lips to fingertips and grab
those miraculous forest sprites sent from heaven to twirl in a circle and chant. yes – it matters to take her shoes off and stamp her soles bare on the loam and let herself fall about with cramps afterwards to wash her figure until it’s silver in creekwater and warm her blood on skinsoft stones and take her time dressing under cool morning light in the faded silk slip to braid wattle into her sprite’s hair and perfume it with gum and thread through the finest leatherwood blossoms.
she knows how to kiss and be kissed – one of life’s larger knots for it knits bodies together. she knows to have at least one crush at all times and to keep a list of them with little notes to help her sleep. his shoulders and nailbeds and that one perfectwonkytooth catching on his lip and how his cold salted body dripped pure blue in her bellybutton when he smothered her in their secret ocean kiss – he was always dripping sweat or salt water. when he crouched with her to name the fragile shapes of wildflowers resting low and bright – look here see this is midsummer boronia – his eyes setting her skin alight across the raucous table. astounded that everyone on the planet could be so oblivious to the spell cast under their noses. angels undercover.
she knows it matters to draw the map with a blackbiro pen from all the places his fingers grazed. it matters to remember each freckle and where they constellated and his lollylips blooming with red poppies. how he drove far too fast around those awful bends – him with a hand on her goosebumpthigh and her with a hand out the window praying to passing satellites. how he could have killed her those headlit nights but he didn’t he didn’t. she got to live to scream under toohot water and sob from the hardwood floor to her unsaintly boy and laugh with him as they ran from all those houses aglow with voices. she didn’t know then it would all pass or when. she knows now that most everything passes. she shatters under the vast weight of love wherever it finds her and this a gloriousterrifying knot that matters.
she knows it matters to know when to forget him and there is a precise and verywellrehearsed formula for this – timewritespacetimereadtimewritetimespace and set in the fridge for approximately three years. she knows that poetry teases out the present and lifts her out of human form to become another particle drifting through the cosmos. she reads what brings her heart back to the rhythm of the falling tide again then again and againagain. the dogear copy of maggie nelson’s bluets the bookmarked link to molly bloom’s soliloquy – that long kiss I near lost my breath yes he said was a flower of the mountain yes so we are flowers all a woman’s body yes that was one true thing he said in his life and the sun shines for you today yes[2] – and elegy facing crochet holes and knit slubs with a running stitch. they stitch the holes in her whole again.
when the poetry recipe fails and setting herself on fire begins to seem more painless she knows it’s time to move like wild lions are on her heels. to take that back track weaving around the old larapuna bay by the thrumming beat in her ears her only task to breathe and to remember how stark and overflowing this place is and how brutally she can exist on it allatonce. laughtersighingstretchingscreaming beautyandbloodandpain live in the same place. she knows there’s little under the skin without words and little to write on the lesser the love. she’s learning
to know to say it all out loud – it doesn’t matter when – the earth will hold it any which way. she knows it matters to remember about her body which is otherwise easily forgotten in the city –she knows all about taking the freeway to the coast. that way she can inhale past her ribs again and see small things like fallen butterfly wings on the pavement again. the best place for stretching out knots is on the sand due to and including spacesaltandspine.
she knows it matters to wear the gold spun a century ago and passed over many ageing matriarch knuckles. she knows to eat when she’s hungry and stop when she’s full and call her grandmother and wonder ma how are the chrysanthemums and agapanthus holding up this time of year and unstitch the shame of adolescence by grabbing for her mother’s hand on the street. this is the hand which knits to her with the weathertrodden convicts whose undernails were once soiled from digging for potatoes and working over dense bush.
the same soil is under her grandmother’s hotpink nails – from tending that agapanthus now – bark peels to flesh as these hands peel the carrots over the sink and unwrap the sandwiches from their baking paper and presspurselipped bleach into stain. under her mother’s trimmedshortandneat are a thousand tiny strikes of lightning which tap power onto that poor enduring keyboard in the upstairs room.
lutruwitan women’s hands twist and knot like the branches of a gum in its grasp to sky stripped dry and white by the long frost which settles on the grass and the heat which can rise from the pavement to whip the heads off treetops.
these hands are the leathered claws of a wattlebird and they are the hands that likely once grabbed a fateful loaf of bread which clutched tight to the sides of that ship that rose and fell through open ocean swell. that killed to rob and cleared this lush land to dig desperately for potatoes. they are taking hands. hands that she uses now to write on fine paper and hold her strongblacktea and that she lathers with warm oil each night while shells rain on the masses of children she doesn’t know but knows she loves and can’t quite seem to touch no matter how far she stretches. taking hands. just as her forefather’s forefingers once traced the trigger held to othered temples on this country she dares to know as home.
she doesn’t know how far back this moleonthebackofherhand goes but she knows words can rip white grips down from their selfappointed thrones and reveal them for the knot they are –dangerous exhales of a land gasping for breath.
she knows it matters not to exfoliate too often and to wash her linens often and when those fairy friends open up their chanting circle by the bonfire – yes. always yes yes yes. it matters that she doesn’t kill the critter who found herself lost and afraid in her fruit bowl instead to gently place a tissue under tinystickyfeet and crack the window to let her free.
she knows now that people who go out of their way to swat the bee and send the animal to huddle out in a lonely kennel during winter’s darkest chill don’t want to see the knots.
she knows that wild beings are composed of the most untainted magic this planet could cast. she knows they spin sheerspiderwebs which knit them all together and to know their secret lovecodes would be an intrusion.
she knows that resting her ear to the heartbeat of her elderly dog and feel his level snores through warmfur is up there with swimming laps in spring as spiritual practice.
she knows to otherwise leave wild ones be – they don’t need witnessing like she seems to.
she tucks her phone away when dolphins rise to surf the bow’s wake. she sidesteps the ant’s tower teeming with motion. she listens carefully for divine messages from sea eagles when they circle she squints to the sun blinking out on the horizon yes she tries to remember the mattering of looking up yes upupup outoutout there’s that knot.
[1]
[2]
(Harraway, 2016)
(Joyce, 2008)
Breathing
A. M. Bueman
Illusory Ruins
Sijia Huang
yes, yes (the poem as a line of worms emerging out after rain)
by Yiyang Cao
Content Warnings: references to animal cruelty, allusions to violence, disturbing imagery of worms.
being with you is like being in an open room. avant-garde and then there’s grandma’s persian carpet to lie on, bury my face into it, dry musk and old dust and when you tell me it’s probably disgusting and stepped on i’ll tell you that when you’re in love such things are still gross but wonderfully so.
i’ve never been wrong in my life. even the things that they said i’d grow out of once old remain true and constant– throwing up at the thoughts of weddings, stomach turning heterosexuality and all its pessimisms. so you must believe me when i say that what i feel for you is convulsion, waves and waves like a life long contracting compulsion
the first tide: i want to live in a big house with you, see you twice a day at brunch and dinner. and fall asleep half the nights at the foot of your bed to wake up with a crick in my neck and lines embedded in my face. but the second, rolling in wants to never see you, not for years until i fling myself off the stage at graduation, fall into you and break both our legs
let’s step back from the sea now, and walk head first into the green. i want to wake you up with monaco kisses, bisous! one cheek and then the next. two small animals perched together, short lived lives and their correspondingly furtive gestures.
if you had a great big bushy squirrel tail the height of your body, i’d have no choice but to cling to it and not let go. use it to sweep crumbs off the floor, maybe even torment you like a cat, poking and pulling when you weren’t looking just to test all the nerves.
and if you were a worm? well i sleep segregated in my own bed. dirty clothes to the left and myself on the edge. boats crash on the shore and forests slip slide into erosion outside, while i find myself dreaming about huge worms, thickly swollen to the point of medical concern, their segmented tubules the size of an arm and a wrist. almost cut in half, bisected.
dreaming that it was my fault, that i’d taken the knife and potato masher to their pink bodies, dream logic. and the worms eat each other and the worms are in half and the halves are wriggling and they devour each other, almost sexual. pink mouth opening with nothing inside, no teeth, to swallow the other down. ouroboros in your backyard. two writhing mud angels in the dirt
i guess if you were a worm the size of a human you’d be horrendous and liable to get killed. it’s alright. i’d buy that same big house from earlier, only build up walls around it so you could slide out into the wet grass when it rained and be free from footsteps, nevermind that you’d be big enough to scare away even the cruelest of children.
Logographic Ekphrastic
by Sophie He
Indexed, radical, 108. A vessel settled low...
Low life triplicated, lie low
Above, squirming: smack sweat shine
Thorax bulge round pack ‘round thin wet spine, flicked tail, or skenetic juices?
I see you there, roided sinew taut your brutish thew
Hot-headed haughty
Ready to...
Anticipation...
Plump ground drop
Wet dark plop
Teeth drags flesh to fuck on top.
Evil summer.
The noxious five on the five-five. When the sun hangs high like a toxic eye, Radiating.
As I Roved Out
by Billie Raffety
City banshees, screaming engines fade behind tire tracks, forgotten to wet roads. White knuckled, droopy-lidded lane drifters, pathfinding, single focused for rest. My fingers nestled in the crook of your palm, tracing circles. You were lit by distant break lights, an expression of quiet stubbornness, softly rejecting my offers to drive, you sifted what wake you had left.
We slept on a bundle over seats folded down, parked just off the highway, somewhere past Albury, intertwined. It was pissing down, and it persisted through those early morning hours and into dawn.
I woke to the gloss of soft morning light, the skin of your back, a gentle rise and fall, your smell now familiar. The windscreen was obscured by bags and books and a box of your photographs, the windows wet and cloudy from our sleep. You kicked the boot open, still half dreaming, and sprawled naked in the new breeze, sweet daylight bush smells breathing life into the stale air. I shuffled over the twisting of blankets and reached under the car for boots and the woolly green socks stuffed inside.
We were parked on a scruffy patch of swaying grasses and bracken fern, their damp paws scratched at my thighs as I squatted at the roots of a stringybark tree and you whistled Dirty Old Town as you pissed.
Woolly headed, neck craned towards the sky, dark eyebrows furrowed, eyes focused. I slipped into the driver’s seat and rolled onto the grey, carving north through an isle of eucalyptus and rolling yellow fields.
The silence was sweet, both of us tired, sore, still swimming in the warmth of sleep.
Your phone rang as we passed the signs for Gundagai, and over the speaker, she spoke calmly to you. Her voice was low, your conversation excited and pausing, the moments of space filling with the laboured sound of her breath. Your best friend.
The breaks in conversation increased and the breath progressed into deep, bottomless howls. You stared straight ahead at white lines on the freeway. I squished your hand tight in mine and you smiled over at me, nodding keenly as you spoke over the crackled wailing.
you’re made for this... we’ll see you soon… I love you.
I loved you. And with loving you came a love for her. To me, she was the closest of strangers.
With the news of his coming, the pressure swelled, a cry forcing itself through the corners of my eyes with a surge of salt and severed breath, there was no stifling. Engine purring, full throttle, a hurried push to match his effort.
Standing at a Shell outside of Goulburn, a moment suspended, hosted by petrol fumes and the sweet Tamil man with the long eyelashes and crooked smile. He sold me a traveller pie for a fiver and our tank of fuel, you waved past him with a grin and a brief salute, a packet of Nurofen tucked beneath your sleeve. I slumped in the passenger seat, unzipped my boots and peeled back my pastry’s crinkly sheath, met with grey gristle and sauce thirst.
You drove the limit and you made me laugh, the hours passing smooth, our green borders gradually squaring to grey. We joined the purring snake of traffic on Parramatta road, dusk falling over the wall of blinking orange and red.
Tucked away on a dark street in Redfern, you parked beside a row of handsome terrace houses, their satin coat of ivy, wet. Shedding from my filthy nest, I rustled through the pile of clothes and crumbs, you slipped your hands beneath my shirt and held me below the blinking of a streetlight. I closed my eyes and leaned into you, pacified, your breath warm on the nape of my neck.
I watched you from the curb, leaning against the bonnet, legs crossed, head cocked, nodding to a man’s voice scratching over the phone. You reached down and took my hand, tracing spirals onto my open palm.
sounds like she’s pretty deep in the portal now… I reckon we should stay in Sydney tonight and drive up to you tomorrow… yep, yeah… fuckin’ full on… beauty! see you both soon.
We spent that night wandering through damp alleyways, illuminated by porchlights and windows, witnesses to the lamplit loungerooms and lonely kitchens. We slipped through the quiet moments, a tender observation into the evenings of strangers, transient visitors passing with no ill intention, no intention at all, passing through, completely unnoticed.
My stomach coiled and tightened as I walked beside you, my potent web of feeling unravelling in a mess. Crumpling into the elbow of a damp curb, I choked back tears. I had only known her through your photographs, your best friend of ten years. We had planned to connect and to laugh and to dance, celebrating the final weeks of her pregnancy with a short visit before the birth. The timeline had accelerated, the news of which sitting heavier within me than I ever thought it could.
The bitter wind drew me inward. It was an unknown, I was walking blindly into the most tender of spaces with nothing but the guide of your confirmation. Paralysed by the fear of intrusion, I was afraid to misstep, to hinder her first moments of motherhood. You sat down beside me, rested your hand upon my leg and listened.
My presence there felt unwarranted, alien even, I would be a stranger mounted to the wall, a needle piercing through me, the thread spindling into the stitches that would sew them from pair, into parents.
All this thought, I was shining it upon myself, wrestling with its significance and insignificance. You nodded, in the attentive way you always do, your eyes a blue shadow beneath the dimly lit streetlamp. It was important for you to be there, you said, important to witness and photograph these moments with her, something you had spoken of together for years.
she’s always wanted to be a mother.
Ushered by the tail of our conversation we fell back upon the tangled blankets that sprawled within our rolling shelter, parked askew in a puddle, into stirring sleep. Our days of travel blended, separated only by time spent awake and time spent half bent and half dreamt. We woke in the morning to the news of his arrival and pushed through the final stretch to Newcastle.
We unfurled, fernlike, from the confines of our seatbelts and leapt out onto the grass. You showed me the place where you had lived in your van in the months before we met, on a winding road looking over the lighthouse, perched over the yellow dunes, I heard you remember.
it was bluddy great! I’d park up on Fort Drive, up on the hill, and every morning the sun would rise in the East over the ocean. I’d wake up to the light, peel back my curtain, watch for a minute or two, and fall back asleep.
The drive felt smeared into my skin, days of sitting and silence and stewing had twisted into a stubborn nausea. I kneeled on the sand and looked out onto the waves, they crashed wildly under the autumn sun. In the distance, three coal ships hung fixed upon the horizon. You shed your jersey, scarf and pants, face a feral grin, and ran naked into the spray. I followed, submerging with a dive deep into the curling underbelly, my body loosening with the pulling of the water. Sparked by the cold snap, my aches began to unpick. Purging, I exhaled them and watched through the stinging salt as they gurgled to the water’s surface. For a moment alone, I drifted there above the seabed.
We met again, and sat beneath the lighthouse, skin taut and lips blue. It was late afternoon and the light fell softly from a grey sky. Repelled, I resisted the passenger seat, afraid to spoil my freshness, and drove along winding roads into the folds of suburbia. Overlooking Lake Macquarie, we parked beside their home, its four walls holding her as she had fought to welcome in her son, we stood outside with armfuls of dinner things, our tired faces amber from the dim window glow.
We met her partner at the door and he welcomed us into a bungalow, warm and dimly lit. You embraced each other, introducing me and smiling at the circumstances, a tall man with a kind face and sandy hair. I hugged him too.
The room smelt of sandalwood, a candle crackling upon a dining table, messages of affirmation and support pinned to the wall above it.
Upon ochre linen, a woman rested still, her dark hair draping over bare skin.
She looked up at you and smiled as you laid down beside her, your arm outstretched tenderly over her belly.
The room was thick with the smell of him, if apricots and almonds could be churned into cream, that would be his scent. A scent so intoxicating it pushed itself through me and the cry returned again, running its course in silent awe, the feeling potent and distinctly sharp.
Enclosing her naked breast curled the tiny body of her infant son, petal skin creasing with the rise and fall of her breath. I acknowledged then, that I did not have a place there, not really. But how beautiful it was to be welcomed in and to see you, my partner, together with this baby. We met him quietly. The din of a world drowned out by the tender silence, reverence spoken through the glint of an eye. The air we shared, completely new to him.
Photographed by Jessica Fanwong
