2021 Above Water [Vol. 17] by Farrago Magazine

ABOVE WATER Creative Writing & Art Anthology

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF COUNTRY The Above Water 2021 anthology was created across the lands of the Wurundjeri and Boon Wurrung peoples of the Kulin Nations. We pay our respects to the True Custodians of these lands and their elders, past and present. We also extend our respects to all First Nations students and staff in the University of Melbourne community. Sovereignty was never ceded. This always was, and always will be, Aboriginal land.

VOLUME 17 The Above Water anthology is the annual creative writing and art competition produced by the Media and Creative Arts departments of the University of Melbourne Student Union (UMSU). Above Water is a celebration of creativity and innovation by student artists. All current University of Melbourne, Victorian College of the Arts and Melbourne Conservatorium of Music students are welcome to submit visual art and written pieces. Submissions are then blinded and reviewed by the editorial team, who curate and present a short-list to a panel of external judges. This year, the short-list was judged by 2020 Above Water winner for Art Jean Baulch (they/them), UMSU Arts Programs Coordinator and Director of the George Paton Gallery Sandra Bridie (she/her), and award-winning writer and proud Wathaurong/ Ngarrindjeri man Glenn Shea (he/him).

Art by Torsten Strokirch

Cover Vivian Li Design Director Ailish Hallinan Design Team Birdy Carmen, Elmira, Zoe Eyles, Nina Hughes, Vivian Li, Aeva Milos, Anannya Musale, Jasmine Pierce, Chelsea Rozario, Rohith Sundaresa Prabhu, Torsten Strokirch and Katie Zhang Editorial Team Pavani Athukorala, Lauren Berry, Ailish Hallinan, Merryn Hughes and Vaishnavi Ravikrishna Editorial Assistant Helena Pantsis Judges Jean Baulch, Sandra Bridie and Glenn Shea Shortlisted Artists Sophie Ash, Alexandra Domineca Burns, Weiting Chen, Nicola De Rosbo-Davies, Olga Dziemidowicz, Lily Fforde, Tasha Gacutan, Maya Hall, Aeva Milos, Ruchi Umargamwala and Monica Yu Shortlisted Writers Tessa Bagshaw, Lotte Beckett, Samuel K. Bliss, Frankey Chung, Claudia Dean, James Gordon, Thea Guiry-Stewart, Maya Hall, Leah Macdonald, Helena Pantsis, Gaden Sousa and Poppy Willis Writing Winners Prose — Helena Pantsis, Losing Dogs Poetry —Frankey Chung, walks Art Winner Monica Yu, Dragons of the Sea Art Runner Up Aeva Milos, one hand

©2021 University of Melbourne Student Union. Published by the General Secretary of UMSU, Allen Xiao. The copyright of materials published in Above Water remains with the individual writers and artists and shall not be reproduced without their permission. The UMSU Media and UMSU Creative Arts departments reserve the right to republish these works in any format. ISSN 1833-8879

Art by Torsten Strokirch 02

CONTENTS WRITTEN

VISUAL

Losing Dogs Helena Pantsis

Dragons of the Sea Monica Yu

walks Frankey Chung

one hand Aeva Milos

A Defintive Ranking of Sheep Breeds Tessa Bagshaw

Rachel Lily Fforde

Untitled Maya Hall

Sailing across the starry night Weiting Chen

Weekend No. 2 Claudia Dean

Your Favourite Planet is a Lesbian Tasha Gacutan

Laughing Waters Samuel K. Bliss

untitled Maya Hall

The Usual Life of Charles McGill Gaden Sousa

A Delivery Monica Yu

Seafaring Poppy Willis

Boathouse on the Lake Ruchi Umargamwala

Bin Night Lotte Beckett

Tribute to Monet 2 Olga Dziemidowicz

401 North Rd Thea Guiry-Stewart

Cabernet Sauvignon Leah Macdonald

The Crossover James Gordon

‘A pink statue, lettuce, cucumber and an illegible poem for lunch today’ Sophie Ash Untitled Alexandra Domineca Burns

Thank You Above Water Team

nostalgia (parts i & ii) Nicola De Rosbo-Davies

WINNER

Losing Dogs By Helena Pantsis

WINNER

Dad owned greyhounds. Seven or eight of them at any one time, dogs of every coat and colour, lithe and sleek and treading air. We’d bond by the racetrack, throwing peanut shells under metal benches and stomping down hard on wet concrete. He was manic, hands trembling and teeth chattering, believing everything was a good omen and a lucky night. “I’ve got a good feeling tonight,” he’d say, and I’d feel it too, mainly because I was with him, and we felt so alive. I remember the races, standing by the side of the track and yelling, sputtering, flicking peanut induced sweats from the bones of our wrists. Dad had the money ready and in hand, making bets on the races in between the ones in which his own dogs ran. Sometimes he’d ask me to pick the numbers, and I’d pick five numbers from the air, feeling towards them using instinct or sheer magnetism, and he’d rough my hair and smile. “Who’s the favourite tonight, Gus?” he’d ask the man behind the counter, and he’d say something like “thirteen’s in with a good chance. He’s good with the dry conditions.” Then Dad’d look at me, and I’d look at him, and he’d ask “who’s coming dead last?” and Gus’d say something like “number five’s got a dodgy hip. Think she’ll be down easy.” Then dad’d press a golden coin into the palm of my hand, debossing the queen’s head by the soft of my skin, and he’d smile and say “alright, who’s got your bet?” But he’d already know, so he’d say “two dollars on Five to win for the kid here.” And I’d grin wide, holding close to Dad’s side and keeping eyes peeled for my underdog. I wasn’t allowed to touch Dad’s dogs. They were affection starved, and it made them tough and keen-eyed. Dad got his dogs from a backyard breeder. The mother greyhound was old then, lying on her side with her nipples ripe and her litter bounding, children ripped away to lead lives hard on their knees. They were deals under the table, discounted when we’d bundle and take home three or four at a time. I only saw the dogs as pups, keeping them at home for the weeks before we’d vaccinate them, then Dad’d have them taken to the trainer, and I’d never see them again but in flight. And they did fly, bounding across the grass and maintaining height by the curve of their outstretched backs, made mythical and unreal by their unceasing movement. My dog always at the back, charging and fighting to maintain speed. They were breathtaking, defying gravity as their legs became wings clapping in and downwards against each other and the earth. After the last race we’d stop by Chinatown, eating Yum Cha at the Flower Drum down Little Bourke Street. Dad loved the sesame prawns, and even though it was late and bedtime was hours ago, he’d let me have a pineapple fritter for dessert. He’d say “if we can’t treat ourselves then life’s just wasting time,” but Mum’d still get mad when he’d bring me back home past 1am. When they separated I only got to see the dogs once a month. They grew faster in broken time. And when the court-ordered psychologist asked who I wanted to live with after the divorce, I said “my dad,” but he had to move back in with Nan and Pop, which didn’t bode well for him in his fight for custody. Mum never held a grudge. I was young, she said, and didn’t understand the underdog never wins. But I knew that already, it’s why I kept my eyes always trained on the back of a crowd, and why I wanted the things I knew I couldn’t have.

Art by Vivian Li

WINNER

‘Dragons of the Sea’

By Monica Yu

WINNER

walks

By Frankey Chung

winter permit the morning mist a hug against the defenceless skin that wraps your insides into you build a fire, using printed copies of this page for your kindling— inhale these words

* spring collect a glass vial of morning rain add a blissful tear from each eye hold the vial upright in the midday sun observe yourself as you join the clouds

* summer recall your age

go outside: take the number of steps for your age

for every

step,

be yourself at that age

on reaching the present, continue ageing at the rate of your choosing

* autumn find a fallen aratama leaf do not touch it take d e e p b r e a t h s while gazing at it

WINNER

Art by Anannya Musale

Art Runner-Up

‘one hand’ By Aeva Milos

Art

‘Rachel’ By Lily Fforde

Poetry

A Definitive Ranking of Sheep Breeds By Tessa Bagshaw cont. over page....

Poetry

Art by Nina Hughes

Poetry Suffolk

I’m not afraid to say when it comes to Suffolks, I’m biased. These are the sheep I grew up with on my Nanna and Poppa’s farm. The rams typically have black feet and faces with a white fleece. An aesthetically pleasing sheep with lambs that are cute as hell. 8/10 I’ve only seen my Poppa cry once. He didn’t call it crying. He said he got misty.

Merino

If you’ve seen a sheep in a paddock, you’ve likely been looking at a Merino. It’s Ol’ faithful, the Honda of sheep. When I was in my school show team, I had a Merino. His name was Mr Snuffleupagus. Rest in peace Snuffy. 7/10 Poppa’s dad died when he was a baby. I hear his life in fragments. He doesn’t talk about his mum much.

Texel

If you look at this breed you can see something’s off. It is in fact, not a sheep; its a dog. Seriously look at its face. This dude is the embodiment of a wolf in sheep’s clothing and weirdly thick considering it’s floof is average at best. 2/10 Princess, the truth is, my mother was an alcoholic who married another alcoholic.

Finn Sheep

A relatively new breed on the scene. Triplets and quadruplets are rife with this one. Not always a good thing. I’ve seen more births lead to more ewes rejecting some of their lambs. Moderation people! 6/10 After she remarried, she had twin girls. Poppa was four, when he and my great uncle were sent to an orphanage. The first night he cried “What did I do wrong?” They never went home.

Polwarth

The floof alone on this sheep is tens across the board. If I hugged this sheep, I feel like I’d sink deep into a soft, warm place where I’d be safe forever. I want this sheep to be my mum. 10/10 When Poppa went to the sale yards, he’d bring Nanna back a black lamb.

Poetry Farmers didn’t like them. Their wool was hard to treat; harder to sell. Nanna raised the lamb and when its fleece was full and heavy, Poppa would shear it. Nanna sat with her spinning wheel and spun the staples into yarn.

Cheviot

This is a show sheep if ever I’ve seen one. Too prissy. You could tell me this is an alpaca and I’d believe you. I don’t trust it. 4/10 Mum was Poppa’s firstborn. When they brought her home, he’d awaken at all hours of the night gasping for breath. He’d slip out of bed and creep into Mum’s room. He’d peer into her cradle and stare at her. Helpless, vulnerable, weak. He’d watch her tiny chest rise and fall, certain if he broke his gaze, she’d die.

White Suffolk

A hardy sheep. Bred for Aussie conditions. 9/10 When all the grandkids were young, we’d help Poppa catch lambs for tailing. People ask if I think it’s cruel, I ask if they’ve ever seen a flystruck sheep? Tailing hurts for a short time, but the wound heals, and the sheep is protected. Flystrike is another beast. Flies bury their eggs in soiled wool or more often sheepskin. The maggots hatch and eat the sheep’s flesh. It’s my definition of cruel. They can survive it, but the sheep is never the same.

Art by Nina Hughes

Art

‘Sailing across the starry night’ By Weiting Chen

Poetry

untitled By Maya Hall i am trying to understand my own turmoil unwound withering a deer in light deathly i am vulnerable and cold despite the sheaths of green and yellow buttered foliage i am small my hands can hardly wrap around the dreams in my words or the sinews of smoke almost sorrowful when snuck in bright daylight i puppet a body i don’t belong to a body i found on the curb reading foolhardy ‘take me’ it wants what it wants i do not condone its wanting i do not consent so we split down the centre splinters discarded swept up at night i pray it comes home at a reasonable hour sometimes it does not but still i use the body sometimes i climb trees i run maybe i’ll even love someone but today i must have its racing heart its shaken digits and breath shallow and putrid if i could choose, i would have a different body a frog to jump, perhaps a dragonfly high a worm’s self-sufficiency but what do i know? my whole world was felt-out hands first – to learn what to stroke and what to grip and what to stay away from who am i to resent my body’s cravings for interdependency? i have no choice, but i love my world so surely i must love these bodies too

Art by Zoe Eyles

Poetry

Weekend No. 2 By Claudia Dean I I’m at the Queen Vic Markets and I’m eating a Nashi pear, slowly. Everybody is looking at a man in a business shirt who is looking at his shoes. In his clenched fist is a burst freezer bag and at his feet is a goldfish. It flips its tail, flicks its head. The man is panicking. The second aisle of the fruit and vege hall is a mess of confusion and shock and heavy silence and the smell of celery. The woman in front of the herbs is pushing bunches at people and offering two for one two for one but nobody cares for her dill. The men behind the potatoes nudge each other and scoff and laugh and one of them yells special deal today buy potato get fish free! and the Potato Men erupt in laughter and a child starts to cry. A teenaged boy steps forward with a Gatorade bottle half filled with water. Goldfish Man hurriedly bends to scoop up the fish. I draw my pear to my chest as the crowd leans forward. We all cheer when the fish is returned to the water, and then fall silent when it’s lifeless body bobs to the surface. II It’s three am and this house is so cold and my neighbour is watching me drink milk from the carton. I’m too tired to be embarrassed and so we stand frozen, eyes locked, as I chug chug chug. He is smoking out of his second-floor bedroom window and I am standing at the kitchen sink, mentally tracing the slow, slow journey of the cold from the tiles travelling up through my bones. The neighbour looks older than me and also a bit like my brother, who I should probably call. I finish the milk, wipe my mouth with my sleeve, and nod to the man in the window. He lifts his cigarette in goodbye. I wonder what he would imagine my voice to sound like. III I want to be floating on my back in a lake and for it to be summer and night time and for the moon to be full and above me. I want it to have rained last night, and for the air to still carry it’s smell. Sometimes I think about the sky at home but I have learnt to stop myself before I compare it to the sky here.

Art by Aeva Milos

Poetry

Laughing Waters Garambi Baan By Samuel K. Bliss A Bush Elegy At its widest a twenty something foot serpent trail which gurgles and spits just like the giggles of the little boy in it who slept for three days and two nights until doughy and bloated he floated ashore and kissed the yabbier’s feet. Unholy waters flavoured with plastic and piss baptise its latest convert in the image and waste of his maker who lies on the bank, unaware that their own has swallowed the river whole. This two legged catch with the face of a child could feed a family for a week but starve a heart for the time it takes to turn the gumtree into a shoebox casket with timber to spare for nailing a cross where the tree once watched. Or the time it takes to tie his shoes or to kiss goodnight those tiny blue lips one more time. Tumbling doll of underwater flesh relives the birthdays (three) and every pinch of the cheek or white bread ham sandwich, cut and squared. As those beloved waters and their famed sense of humour invade each bronchi, these memories pour back into the baptismal pool with each panicked mouthful, purifying a measly half litre with the sweetest breath. The gumtree watches solemnly, its fate well understood. The lucky kids say it floats their tinfoil boats and their mothers say it’s too cold and their husbands say there’s fish this big and the painter says it’s art and I say all of these things too but I have never heard it laugh.

Poetry

Art by Katie Zhang

Art

‘Your Favourite Planet is a Lesbian’ By Tasha Gacutan

Art

‘Untitled’ By Maya Hall

Prose

The Usual Life of Charles McGill By Gaden Sousa On the morning Charles McGill was born, the 28th of November 1945 to be precise he had no idea how truly ordinary his life would be. The extraordinary part of history was over for the time being. The war had just ended, and he was far too small and round and chubby to be part of anything extraordinary at the time. Instead, Charles McGill grew in the small country town of Uralla, hundreds of kilometres away from anything out of the ordinary. He was the son of two quietly loving parents: Barbara and Stephen, who lived in Australia, like so many others, because their ancestors were caught with a piece of bread that wasn’t theirs. Charles, or Charlie as his occa mates referred to him, grew up playin g in the fields of nearby farms, attending school in his polished black shoes, and walking into town once a week to help his mother with shopping. Uralla felt like a little English village, surrounded by farms. Of course, there was Mount Mutton, not a real mountain in the way that the Andes or the Himalayas were, more of a hill that poked its head up gently and then said, “Ah well that’s far enough”, where Charlie and his friends would run amuck on weekends, chasing dragons, and pretending to shoot rabbits. Charlie learned to ride horses at the horse school at the bright age of four. His mother, Barbara, wanted him to start earlier but Charlie had to first concur his fear of being trampled by the horses before he could master being atop one. The headmistress of the school would take Charlie into the stables to help her clean the horses down after riding, brushing them, feeding them, and loving them into noble steads. Charlie fell in love with the sweat of the horses that perfumed the stables, that sweet mixture of earth, straw and hard work tangled in his nose and fuelled his riding. When Charlie turned thirteen his father took him out the back of the farm, presented him a chicken and a knife and told him to ‘Be a man’. Charlie found he didn’t like that being a man equated to having to shove a cold, sharp blade into a warm living thing and never ate meat again. His father and him remained peaceful with the lingering wounds of betrayal that thankfully never quite boiled over or became anything more than leaving in a huff from dinner with each other. When Charlie turned fifteen, he started telling everyone that he’d be off soon to Sydney to study Arts, or Law, or Medicine and he’d be out of this no-good-for-nothingshit-filled-town. Charlie and his friends all did this, they, like many people from a small town, were under the assumption they could leave and never come back. That the pull of a town like Uralla, sweet, simple, kind, connected, wouldn’t stop him from eventually moving, which of course it did. When Charles finished school at 18, he became a cobbler and he cobbled until Nike, Timberland, Doc Martins, ADIDAS, and the lot made no more need for a cobbler. Then he became a leatherworker. He made saddles, he made jackets, he made shoes for those who asked. He loved the clean smell of leather, he loved the feeling as it softened under his hands and shaped itself into something new, something useful. In a town like Uralla, he was well known and well liked. He had beers every Friday with his mates at the little wooden tavern, that had served bushrangers and convicts long before Charles ever came round. This simple repetition gave Charles a long life. The ordinary day in day out of wake up before dawn, watch the sunset, feed the birds, water the garden, go to work, smile at people, work the leather, home before six, kept air in his lungs and purpose in his hands. Those hands slowly becoming more and more like the weathered leather that he worked. He never married. Of course, he had crushes, flings even! But his propensity for shyness, hanging in the corner of parties with a blushed red across his cheeks, meant that all the people who were interested eventually were taken or left. He had his birds though and his trusty strawberry border collie named Gary, who he went on walks with every day from six till seven. For the sixty years Charles never broke his routine once. cont. over page....

Art by Jasmine Pierce

Prose

And then one day Charles McGill came home to find that ‘The Shadow’ had moved into Charles’ front yard. It was only known round the town as ‘The Shadow’, no one could ever articulate anything more. It was taller than a two story house, making it stand out for a thirty kilometre radius. The only thing bigger than it was the not-really-Mount Mutton. ‘The Shadow’ had the consistency of slowly drying paint. Meaning that it oozed from standing to sitting to lying down. If you were to look at it just right and for long enough, provided it stayed still, you would almost take it for some piece of modern art. Modern art probably by an an artist called Sven who had short blonde hair that arced in a mohawk, black metal piercings on their eyebrows and talked in a way that made every syllable feel important. That was if ‘The Shadow’ had been an art installation about human’s relationship with depression. Instead, it was just a heavy mass that lived in Charles’ front yard. Something to do with the council I expect, Charles thought pleasantly to himself upon taking in the enormity of the great ‘Shadow’ before him. It is so often easier to accept life changing moment when you make them someone else’s problem. Charles went inside his house, ate his normal Thursday dinner of lamb chops and velvety mashed potatoes, took Gary for a walk and then came home, read for half an hour, and went to sleep. When Charles woke the next morning, after his shower and morning cup of coffee he walked his way into Tom’s Leatherworks and found, to his surprise that ‘The Shadow’ followed. It moved like molasses, not stepping through the town and down the streets, more bleeding, like a wound with pressure bandages. ‘The Shadow’ seeped after Charles and stood outside his work until he was done for the day and then it dribbled its way home after him. It never said a word or made a sound. It didn’t seem to have weight and left no footprints. It just simply moved from one place to the next, all after Charles McGill. Wherever it wandered, in its wake it would leave the faint smell of musk sticks. The towns people asked, “Why you?” “What is this thing?” “Is it here to destroy us?” “Why would it follow you!?” “Is it following you?” “Why doesn’t it have a face?” “What is it?” “Should we be scared?” “What’s so important about you?” To which Charles would reply, even-handedly without any sign of offence: “Not much” and “I don’t know, it isn’t bothering anyone”. There was even a brief media storm as reporters from all over NSW came to see ‘The Shadow’ but after days of camping out, watching it follow Charles around on his unchanging schedule, they eventually decided that nothing was out of the ordinary and the nation and even the townspeople seemed to forget that ‘The Shadow’ even existed in the first place. All writing it up to something in the water of Uralla. When Charles McGill died at the ripe old age of 78, he was out on his afternoon walk with Gary. Close to home he stooped low to water some succulents growing in an outdoor garden. He did so with the last of his water, not needing it to get him the last block home as it wasn’t too warm. When Charles stood up, he found that he didn’t and that he was in fact lying on the pavement, his water disappearing into the dried earth of the succulents. They would grow on his death bed and so Charles McGill passed of a heart attack in the late afternoon of October 3rd. ‘The Shadow’ watched him from above and in the twilight of his mind he could have sworn it smiled at him, like a father or a mother who was proud of what their child had done. Charles is buried in the cemetery. Friends visited for several years, ensuring that the tombstone was washed clean of dirt and new flowers were brought every month. Eventually everyone moved on, his friends passed too, becoming friends in the graveyard, standing next to him, or down the road. ‘The Shadow’ never left Charles’ side. It’s still sitting there today, looming beside the tombstone that reads: Here lies Charles McGill A hard worker and lover of leather Never worried, always loved. 1945 - 2023 ‘The Shadow’ can be seen, if you squint your eyes at sunset, picking petals from daffodils and lying them on the grave bed. The grave still smells faintly of musk sticks.

Poetry

Seafaring By Poppy Willis Set forth on the vicious sea Bow tipped forth, jutting into the ice bath begging us to keel Tidal wave threatening to swallow us whole Cabin untenanted by useless articles, instead brimming to the gunwale with bottles Tip the whisky forth, jutting into my mouth Misbegotten creatures Winter-wretched in the blue vault Heart full, thinking of home’s hearth which belies our empty bellies, forgoing the evening sup again Our lives are consecrated by the nautical gods Touching the divine with our fingers – icicles and useless, dipped in frostbitten air A maritime communion – we are endowed with snowflakes on our eyelashes Bearing the crystalline mark that will eventually fade, faces red and freezing Blinking tears away Our journey is only obstructed by unwillingness to be unwept, to walk the plank, to fall overboard, lost to moonshine madness A pelagic winter wandering turned into funeral rite We plunder the deep with our greed, drinking it up Mead-laden, bellies thawing Warmth sprouting not quite into our fingertips Eyes bursting with drops of salty liquid, now blurry, everything is blurry It is time for us to be drunk up Unrig our jib and let nature take its course And after the evening mull, leave the wind-jammed mast and sail Tip forth into white horses playing on the sea’s surface Cadaverous ship and wooden planks upon the rocks – our home, our sea sarcophagus

Art by Nina Hughes

Art

‘A Delivery’ By Monica Yu

Art

‘Boathouse on the Lake’ By Ruchi Umargamwala

Prose

Bin Night By Lotte Beckett

The ceiling felt squashed, sinking down towards the armchair in the brown room. It was the centre of gravitational pull in the house, each seashell and bookmark inching towards it. With an out breath, she too moved slightly towards it, a g&t in one hand and the Four Pillars bottle in the other, precariously balanced. She was compressed, but for her it was the floor, her yoga mat, the dirt. She willed them to meet her. Instead they ate her up and licked their lips afterwards. Each time she looked down the opening chords of a symphony began, and ended as she jerked her head to horizon level. Vertigo, she suspected, but wasn’t bothered to confirm or deny it. The doctors had said that being ‘grounded’ would bring her back to herself. But she was suffocated. Would her yoga class fee cover a therapy session too? Her organs felt messy. The vessel of her torso sailing through hard-edged waters. The diaphragm clearly not performing as it should. It was too empty, allowing blood to filter in from all sides and consume organs. The seashells rocked gently on the mantlepiece, mimicking her water breaking. There was a scraping inside her chambers, as though by a scalpel. Surely her breathing was coming from somewhere else then — the gin perhaps, compensating for an empty womb. No longer an out breath but a sigh of almost ecstasy as she reached the brown chair and let the weight of the ceiling sink her down. Some forces good, others scary and dense. This one was needy and moaning on her, and she liked it. A few sips later. She waved a goodbye to the picture frame on the mantlepiece. God she hated when people she loathed looked good in photos. Her arms sticky, moulding through a heavy air that felt like honey to the touch. A humidity rang out in the house like sirens, and she embodied an ant on the side of a jam jar. Precarious, knowing that the plunge below was sweet — too sweet to deserve. She was already too sweaty. She took another sip. Her arm slammed back down beside her. She had a particular relationship to Tuesdays. This Tuesday was bad. The issue, she’d decided, was that it was bin night. The bathroom bins couldn’t possibly be emptied. It wasn’t so much the neighbours she worried about, but how the stench would hit her nose. Would it bring back too much, too little, nothing at all. Trousers with bloodstains could be taken straight to the tip instead, if she drove? Shoved in the boot of her pick-up truck, out of sight, out of smell. She grinned, good idea you.

Prose

She’d been told she couldn’t, shouldn’t, wouldn’t drive, and that if she did, something bad would happen. Something bad has happened, she would reply, receiving sympathetic furrowed brows in response. Furrowed brows were performative. She wondered if scrubs were just costumes stolen from a high school theatre wardrobe. Last week she’d been sent home with four of his friends to accompany her. Apparently she needed that many people to make it in the front door and into her own bedroom. She likes the shells placed in height order, he’d said to the troops helping her upstairs. Are you all listening to what I’m saying? Like this. As they reached the bottom of the stairs, they all looked back as he transferred sea shells from a carry bag to the mantlepiece with the care of a new father. Got it, they replied in varying tones of unison, and headed upstairs with her in tow. Husband’s Little Helpers left the house. It was just him and her left, not a standoff, but a shift that made the house slanted. They were actors, on the upstage and downstage, but never on the same plane. Separated with urgency. “Why did you ask me to leave?” he said. “You smelt like hand sanitiser, and I wanted my room to smell like roses,” she replied. “I drove you home through peak hour traffic—” “I know. I was there.” Her hand rose to slap him. Damn it, too collapsible. Some famous author probably wrote that words were stronger than actions. Yeah, let’s go with that. “I felt like a fucking child,” she said. Swearing equals passion, right? A yummy fricative. “I could get up the stairs without help, and instead you recruited your mates to do it. It was pathetic,” she said. “They wouldn’t let me sign you out unless—” “Sometimes I wish everything could have happened here, not in a hospital bed,” she said. “I feel like I’ve watched years worth of home renovation programs. And I hate renovation shows,” she continued.

cont. over page....

Art by Chelsea Rozario

Prose

“You didn’t bring me anything I asked for. I wrote fucking poems about the revolting chocolate sludge they gave me to stop my brain from shutting off,” she said. This was prodding. Like a dirty stick to a campfire. A physical reaction would be appreciated please. A step forward, a scratching of the arm, a raised eyebrow would be enough to get her breathing back. She spoke to his bones, praying for movement. And, nothing. When does intimacy one day become forgotten the next. “It’s good to see you standing again,” he replied. With a smack of the face he left the house, wrapping his arms around his torso before he got in his car and fucked off for good. She’d been left in the centre of the brown room, swaying from foot to foot, ears fixated on the sound of his diesel engine. Now it was her brain that felt sticky. Still like honey, but textured, with some pearls thrown in that ricocheted from one side of her head to the other. She should not have asked him to leave with a yell and a scream reminiscent of hysteria. Ricochet. She shouldn’t have called him pathologically submissive, paralysed by confrontation. Ricochet. She should have begged him to stay, stay, take care of her and the height-ordered seashells. Ricochet. Her hand trembled against the glass as she thought about how much cereal they’d gone through together. How many bowls of cornflake-granola fusion they’d accidentally dribbled into when the laughter got too much. In any case, she’d forgotten what aisle of the supermarket the granola was in, and had switched to multigrain bread. She returned to the issue of the bins. How long would it take to empty all of them (well, not all) into the big bin and return to the g&t? Too long, she muttered. Too long, too long, too long, she could see her vowels stretched out before her like chewing gum. She’d always been a consonant girl, but she liked this performance. It needed an audience: the picture of him on the mantlepiece. That’ll do. She could see every crinkle of his wicked smile. She let it land in her gut like a raisin hitting teeth, a chewing motion, a melding of love and disgust. She found words with lots of oo sounds — too, you, threw, argue — and shot him with them. She wanted him to see it all: the jut of her hip bone, the air riding to and fro her stomach, and she wanted it all to be fast and hot. With everything in the room watching. Not good. Her hair brittle like tangled wire, caught on the screws of the wooden house. She sat back, felt the muscles of the chair contract into her. Safer? Not really. Must’ve reached the end of the gin bottle, she thought, feeling the last dregs of the glass claw down her throat and into her belly. She liked shots of gin more than vodka. It seemed more civilised, less high-schoolers-at-a-night-club. She wondered what that much alcohol could do to stomach lining, to a life force. Maybe she already knew. Was that a knock?

Prose

Time machines sounded dumb until you remembered what they could do. God how she wished it was 1606. England, maybe. Somewhere where her vocabulary would be more Shakespearean and less vulgar. How exciting to be in the Gunpowder Plot and not the tragedy in her stomach. Taking wicker sleds to execution felt more courageous than sitting in an armchair and drinking. The plotters were hanged, eviscerated, then beheaded. Not great, but at least all of London was watching from their windows. Thick velvet curtains lay across her house’s windows like skin. If she were beheaded, no-one would be able to peek in and stare in delight. Or disgust. She didn’t mind which What she knew for sure: there was cheese in the fridge, the gin was empty, somebody wanted to get in, she hadn’t signed the papers. What she didn’t know: where any pens were. If she could characterise the knock at the front door in literary terms: insistent, angry, petulant, aggressive Trying them on for size like a wedding ring, she liked petulant the best. But there were too many obstacles between her and the door. The bins mostly. She mimicked the rhythm of the knock on her glass — her clinking and his banging sounded like something out of new-wave. She wondered whether her trauma could incite a new-found musical ability. Stop knocking. Maybe she could become one of those depressed-but-brilliant piano players who played in underground bars in Berlin. Nah, plane flight was too long anyway, and what made her think she could ever play the fucking piano? She sent herself into vertigo again, head to the floor, then up again, then down. Surely company would be a nice thing again? Stop it. The centre of gravity had changed, he was pulling the house towards him. The door was shoved, it opened, she looked up. The photo on the mantlepiece was now 3D. The gin glass fell into her lap like a carcass, and he reached out to grab it.

Art by Chelsea Rozario

Art

‘Tribute to Monet 2’ By Olga Dziemidowicz

Art

‘A pink statue, lettuce, cucumber and an illegible poem for lunch today’ By Sophie Ash

Poetry

By Thea Guiry-Stewart

I wish upon a wheelie bin Fresh cut grass and the grumble of cars, Chipped brick, flecked paint, A spider on the windowsill. Squawk, squawk, yap and cry. Compost ambushed by flies. The cabbage moth got there first, again. And the kitchen is in need of a scrub. Kneel down to the scrabble board, And bow your head, No hierarchy but this, my friends. Sip your, cup stare at your lot, Stamina, luck, and biscuits. The little one nods first, Well-understood silence, A clatter in the sink and the lamp off, “Goodnight”, “Sleep well”, I’ll do the dishes in the morning.

Art

‘Untitled’ By Alexandra Domineca Burns

Prose

Cabernet Sauvignon By Leah Macdonald

Prose

As the plane was reaching the top of its ascent, my seatmate turned to me. “Visiting or returning?” she asked, smiling. “Visiting,” I told her. “A business trip. Although I have lived in London before. That was a few years ago now.” “Oh?” she said, but then the seatbelt lights dinged, and she stood up quickly. “Excuse me, sorry.” This was to the man on her other side, in the aisle seat. He tucked his legs in incrementally, not taking his eyes off the paperback in his hand while she squeezed past. The drink cart trundled to a stop next to him and the flight attendant smiled at him. “Anything to drink, sir?” The man detached his leisurely gaze from the book and lifted it to the cart next to him. “A red wine.” “Certainly.” She lowered his tray table and put a plastic cup and a miniature bottle of red wine on top, then moved to open it for him. He stopped her with a quick hand motion. “No, thank you.” He left the wine bottle where it was, unopened. I drifted in and out of sleep over the rest of the flight, but that deft hand movement with which he declined the attendant’s help, it stayed in my head for some reason. A firm but spare motion, relaxed and unhurried; it reminded me of him, not that this man looked anything like him. Still, there was something in that easy confidence, that total fearlessness. That was what drew me to him in the first place, I suppose, the very first time I met him. You were only nineteen then. You scrub at a spot on the table, an island-shaped coffee mark. The edges dissipate, it is swallowed and disappears. On busy nights like this the restaurant heaves with people. You drown in chatter, in high-pitched laughter. The sliding double doors sweep smoothly back and forth, new guests filtering in; the walls swell to accept them. A man beckons to you. You struggle to find a blank page in your notebook; he is already ordering the wine. His wife keeps her eyes on you the whole time, a shrewd, penetrating gaze. Their faces are lit from below by the soft candlelight. They are calm, polished, ethereal, and you are sweaty, skin flushed, and frantic. You have to gently shout at them to be heard over the din. You don’t know how the other staff manage to remain collected. They are as smooth as ice skaters, here pulling out a chair for a guest with a flourish, now releasing the cork from a wine bottle with a practiced, controlled gesture. He is one of them, movements as effortless as a ballet dancer. He is relaxed, brazen; he leans his elbows on the table while he takes an order. His sleeves are rolled up to his forearms; his muscles tense as he turns the corkscrew of the wine bottle. He catches your eye from across the room, and nods once. You are hiding from the scathing eyes of the guest in the kitchen when he comes in, scanning the dockets, catching sight of you. “You alright?” His accent is like many of the patrons, the specific class of English youth that the restaurant attracts, with voices somewhere between the tart, overcooked syllables of the Royal Family and the lazy, consonantdropping drawl of EastEnders, betraying their wealth while aggressively reminiscent of youth and carelessness. Your skin is feverishly hot. “Yes, fine, just - where can I get some water?” “Have mine,” he says, without hesitation. He hands you a pint glass, slippery with condensation. With one deft movement, he scoops up three plates and disappears. You bring the glass to your lips and drink. You learn later, from other servers, that he has not worked there that much longer than you, but you never would have guessed that from the way he inhabits the place, like it is his summer home. He is careless, unhurried, lingering at tables to chat, charming and informal. He is never fazed. Somehow it seems to

cont. over page....

Art by Rohith Sundaresa Prabhu

Prose

heighten you by contrast; you feel more frenetic in his presence, shivering, scattered. You hold the bowl of a wine glass too tightly and it shatters in your palm. The broken pieces litter the bar like a glass eggshell. “Shit!” “Oh shit!” He mimics you, laughing as he scoops up the pieces quickly, heedless of the sharp edges. “Don’t worry love, I’ll take care of it for you.” He smokes constantly, disappearing from the restaurant periodically and reappearing with the strong, acrid scent of nicotine attached to him. You don’t smoke but you like to sit in the smoking courtyard on your break and once you stumble upon him. “Hello,” he says when he sees you. He blows out a steady stream of smoke, purposeful. “You alright?” “Sure,” you say. He smokes for a few seconds in silence. “Fucking madhouse, isn’t it?” “Yeah.” “I bet it’s not like this where you’re from.” You laugh. “No. Only in London.” “Fucking right,” he agrees amiably. You hated the smell of smoke until it reminded you of him; now when you walk home, stepping over the neon puddles, the clouds of smoke have a different kind of allure, recalling that image of him blowing out the smoke while he stared you down, so powerfully attractive and repulsive all at once. It was beginning to get dark when I got to my hotel room. The taxi drive from Heathrow to the hotel had been almost an hour. It was unnervingly quiet in the room, the large windows black and anonymous. I had always loved hotel rooms, found them strangely fascinating in the way they were totally indistinguishable from each other, the oddly comforting sameness. They invited you to be anonymous, to be someone else, with the perpetual dimness, the impersonal bathrobes hanging disembodied in the wardrobe. I went to the windows, looked out at the ridged skyline. Even after three years away, even in twilight, London was suffocatingly familiar. I turned away, taking off my shoes first and then crouching at the minibar to examine its contents, miniature bottles bathed in lurid light. There was a collection of palm-sized spirits and a row of halfbottles of wine. I pulled out a Merlot carefully. It felt like a cricket bat in the palm of my hand, weighty, full of potential. The memory rushes back, sudden like a car crash. A smashed bottle of gin on the floor of the kitchen. It’s your birthday party, the year after you came back from London. The house is full; people loom before you like spectres in every room. You are watching your boyfriend light the candles on your cake, small flames coming to life under his cupped palms, and you are realising, with a cold, clinical certainty, that whatever is between you is coming to end, if there was even anything there to start with. That night you dream that he’s outside your window - not your boyfriend, but him - a shadow in the night, sitting on the edge of your bed, unsettling and alluring. His face feels familiar under your palm. You wake up with piercing remembrance of his lively gestures, the barely tempered unruliness, an unidentifiable feeling uncurling in your stomach. I still held the bottle of Merlot, as heavy as a secret in my hand. I screwed the cap off, brought it to my lips and sipped experimentally. The tartness infected my mouth, like a sour berry broken on my tongue. I walked through the maze of grimy streets without a particular destination in mind. But this area of town was so well-known to me that I felt my feet start to take over, slipping into the old habits of muscle memory, taking me past the retro cinema, the rowdy, overflowing pub. The neon glow of 24hour convenience stores melded imperfectly with the upscale boutique shops. I felt a displaced sense of homesickness for this area of London, a familiar rush of simultaneous lust and disgust.

Prose

I passed a Starbucks, closed for the night with the stools stacked upside down on the tables, turned a corner and suddenly the restaurant was in sight. Three years since I had set foot in there and yet it was so instantly and painfully familiar. I had a half-formed idea of going inside, was in fact realising that that had been my intention since I left the hotel, maybe even since I boarded the plane. I imagined greeting my old co-workers, perching at the bar with my expensive leather purse in my lap, drinking a gin and tonic and watching the activity with a nostalgic and partly disdainful eye. I wanted them to recognise me, and I wanted to be unrecognizable, irrevocably changed. I drew closer, standing opposite the restaurant. The windows glowed like pantomime scenes against the blackness of the night and I stood, watching like a theatregoer. The patrons at the tables, faces animated, alight, gesturing widely. The servers moving around smoothly, balancing plates. The bar at the back of the room, expensive bottles of whisky and gin catching the light. And him, selecting one carelessly, upending it neatly over a whisky glass, sliding it along the counter. He hadn’t changed. He hadn’t lost that vitality, that dynamic spark, laughing as he extended the credit card machine towards a faceless guest, delivering an order to the barback over his shoulder. He was as distant and careless as ever, closer than he had been in years and just as far away. I was not prepared for the visceral reaction that he evoked, the sickening magnetic compulsion that both drew me towards him and drove me away. I had expected this place to be alien, the relic of another life. I saw myself, for the first time, a distant reflection in the windows, silent and set apart. No, he hadn’t changed. I was no longer sure that I had. The pedestrian lights washed the street in a green glow. A couple swept by me, chattering spiritedly, heading towards the seductive clamour of voices that filtered out of the restaurant’s sliding door. I kept going, winding deeper into the maze of identical white terraced houses. He loomed like a shadow, walking with me, forever turned away, never accessible. He walked beside me, he always had. He was a constant figure, a ubiquitous presence. But he was distant, just out of reach. I was always one step behind. I was constantly looking for him in the tilted jaw of a stranger, the tenor of a bartender’s voice, the easy and deft gesture of a man accepting a bottle of wine on a plane. I turned into the first bar I recognised, a narrow and dim room squeezed behind a car shop. I took a seat at the bar and watched the bartender as he finished pouring a pair of cocktails and set them down before a couple with a practised flourish, removed, almost mechanical. “What can I get for you?” He turned his gaze to me, wiping his hands on a rag. His eyes were glassy, oversaturated; I searched them for a reflection, trying to see what he saw when he looked at me. But his stare was neutral, declining to take judgement. I felt, with keen certainty, that my face would slip from his mind as soon as he looked away. “Glass of house red, please.” He grabbed a bottle of Cabernet Sauvignon and poured a glass almost without looking, then turned his back as a man settled into a seat on the other side of the bar. I picked up the glass and drank without hesitation, braced for the inevitable sourness. The unmistakable acidic sting hit my tongue, but I tasted, underneath, something like sweetness.

Art

‘nostalgia (part i)’ By Nicola De Rosbo-Davies

Art

‘nostalgia (part ii)’ By Nicola De Rosbo-Davies

Prose

The Crossover By James Gordon Felicity was the producer of the documentary. Every Monday morning the whole street was expected to congregate in a conference room and she’d tell us the filming schedule for the week. She’d stand up the front with a PowerPoint behind her. Tacky graphics. Occasionally we’d need to learn a script. But most of the time it was expected we act naturally, just with watered down language to keep it family friendly. It’s difficult to pay attention in these meetings because it’s always so mundane – merely “administrative matters”, to quote Felicity. In other words, rather meaningless ramblings, while anything important is sent to us directly by email. To my knowledge, the Count gets an excel spreadsheet of the week’s numbers-ofthe-day every Sunday. Elmo gets sent the day’s letter at 8am every morning. We figure Felicity just likes the sound of her own voice. Naturally, I was expecting another soporific morning, but today was different. Again, Felicity was standing up the front. But she was smiling more than she usually does. “So”, she began, “we’ve very excited to announce that today we’re filming an official Star Wars crossover episode”. She was standing in front of a PowerPoint with the iconic Star Wars logo behind her. “Haven’t we already done this?”, Big Bird said, “those two robots visited us, right?” “No, this time it’s going to be a bit different. This time, one of you is going to have the honour of duelling Darth Vader in a lightsabre battle!” “Elmo doesn’t want to fight Darth Vader! That sounds scary” “Relax”, Bert said, “it’s not like they’ll be real lightsabres, eh-eh-eh-eh-eh” “No, I’m afraid they’ll be real”, Felicity said, “now I’m gonna hand out a brochure of FAQs for those of you who have any further questions” “Will there be cookies?” “So, what’s the deal?”, I asked, “are they just going to add the lightsabres in post?” “I feel like a stuck record here. No, they’ll be real, Oscar” “Do lightsabres taste like cookies?” “But you were obviously joking. Hang on, I’m sorry. I don’t get it” “Everything’s explained in the brochure” “Cookies?” “Wait. So, sorry. What? You mean one of us is about to die?”

Prose

“I wouldn’t have such a pessimistic attitude, Oscar. Who knows? One of you might whip out some cool moves and beat him” “Is this a financial thing?”, I asked, “because if you can’t afford to pay us all I’d rather just get fired” “Don’t be down, Oscar”, Big Bird said, “This could be an exciting opportunity for one of us” “Hooray! I love opportunities”, said Ernie “This is unbelievable”, I said “So which one of us is it? Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh” “We don’t know yet. We’ve sent a poll out to the children. They’re currently voting on which one of you they’d like to see ‘in battle’, so to speak” “And if we refuse?”, I said, “Oh my God”, the Count said, “you’re so uptight, ah-ah-ah” “What happens if we refuse?” “Well it’s Darth. If you don’t defend yourself he’ll just kill you”, and she laughed, “so anyway, that’s it for today– there’s only one item on the agenda, so rather a short meeting, all in all. Feel free to talk amongst yourselves. I’ll be back in about an hour with the results from the poll! Toodle-oo” “Can’t we go with you?”, I asked “Studio policy, I’m afraid. We don’t want any of you running away”. She strutted out of the room and shut the door. It beeped on her way out. “Wait a minute”, said Big Bird, “did she just say he’s going to kill one of us?” “Jesus fuck”, I said, “who the fuck does that bitch think she is?” “Hey now, don’t swear”, Ernie said, “Well who do you think it’s going to be?”, Big Bird asked “Let’s not speculate,” I said, “that’s just unhealthy” “Elmo wants it to be Oscar” “Oh fuck you, you used-tampon?!” “Jesus, not this again, you two”, said the Count “I’m just going to say from the outset, eh-eh-eh-eh-eh, that if the kids choose Ernie then I’m fighting with him. Us two stick together” “Aw, thanks, Bert! I’ll fight with you too if you’re chosen to die” “Elmo makes a good point”, Big Bird said, “the kids really don’t like Oscar if that reassures anyone” “Oh, fuck off !”, I said, “they literally use ‘Elmo’s Song’ to torture people on Guantanamo Bay” “Elmo thought we agreed not to bring that up” “Everyone quiet”, Cookie Monster said, “me know there lots of anxiety in room right now but we need to stay calm” “Ah-ah-ah, like you ever gave a crap about anyone but cookies”, the Count said “He’s right”, Big Bird said, “regardless of who’s chosen we all know it’s Cookie Monster who deserves to die” “One arsehole, ah-ah-ah”, the Count said, pointing at Cookie Monster, “Hey, me love cookies and friends the same. There isn’t quota on love!” “Okay, I think we’re being a tiny bit harsh on Cookie Monster”, I said, “why not the Count? He adds nothing to the show” “For the record, I do add things to the show, I add-” “Don’t say it” “-numbers. Ah-ah-ah!” “Look, erm, guys!”, Ernie said, “we really don’t need to be speculating about this. Nothing we say now will change who the kids vote for. If we’re truly spending our final moments with someone in this room, we should be sharing thoughts of love, not hatred” “He’s right”, Big Bird said, “we need to love, not hate” “That’s the way, Big Bird”, said Ernie cont. over page....

Art by Elmira

Prose “No, me can’t do this,”, Cookie Monster said, “two seconds ago Big Bird was verbally abusing me, and now he has audacity to act like moral high ground?!” “Hey, I was just agreeing with Ernie. I can apologise if you like?” “How about you just stop agreeing with what everyone says!” “It’s not my fault I don’t have a frontal lobe, Cookie Monster! I couldn’t think independently if I tried my absolute hardest. My bird anatomy has really fucked me” “Well how about me play you a little violin! Oh, wait? That’s right. Me don’t even have certified anatomy. How about you volunteer to fight Darth Vader, BB? Or are there now limits to what you do and don’t agree with?” “Well, it doesn’t work like that. I’m a bird, so I’m not submissive to any old command. I just flock” “Yeah, you flock alright. You flock, fuck, idiot” “Hey, I’m not an idiot – don’t call me that! The PC expression is differently brained” “Look, we’re thinking about this the wrong way”, I said, “nobody’s going to die as punishment for being annoying. Do we even know how this poll is phrased? Maybe the kids will be voting for their favourite character?” “Elmo still thinks Oscar should die!” “For Christ’s sake, Elmo. I know you hate me, but you really need to let it go” “Let it go?! Did anyone hear what he just said to Elmo?!” “Can you two please be quiet for once?”, Ernie said “She was Elmo’s only and true love!!”å “It’s been three decades, Elmo. Get over it. And can I just point out, she came after me. Not the other way around” “Elmo has an idea. Elmo thinks that maybe we can subvert whoever the children vote for and just make Oscar fight Darth regardless of what they say” “Me like this idea”, said Cookie Monster, “Whoa! What the hell, Cookie Monster?” “Me no longer the targeted one, so I like” “Are you serious?!” “Elmo thinks that we could swap puppeteers. Maybe we get Oscar to start controlling whoever the children choose, so it has their appearance, but it’s actually Oscar” “I don’t know”, said Ernie, “some philosophers don’t even believe our ‘puppeteers’ exist” “Ah-ah-ah! How are we going to develop the technology to swap puppeteers if we can’t even prove they exist?” “Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh, I don’t like this idea. If the kids choose Ernie to die, I do not want to make love to Oscar’s body, even if it’s Ernie inside” “Cookie Monster?! We went to school together! Why aren’t you saying anything?” “Me feel no shame! Me just not want to die” “Wait, is that true, Bert? You wouldn’t have sex with me if I looked different?” “Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh, well of course not, Ernie” “Wait, so how would you feel if I put on weight?” “Oh my God, don’t make this a thing, Ernie, eh-eh-eh-eh-eh. We’ve known Oscar for nearly our entire lives. You have to agree it’d be really weird” “Say, we still haven’t even figured out if anything like that is even possible”, said Big Bird, “maybe if we swap puppeteers our identity and consciousness won’t even change” “Elmo wants to know the current research on where our puppeteers are located so we can get Oscar killed” “Ah-ah-ah, there are two main schools of thoughts. Subism and intism. Subism believes they are underneath us controlling us with wires, while intism believes they’re literally inside of us, wearing our skin like a costume” “So does nobody think Cookie Monster is worthy of death after his total lack of sympathy for anyone but himself ?”, I said “Ah-ah-ah! We’ve known this since forever, Oscar. You’re the only one who defended him before” “Okay, I retract my defence” “Me ask what fresh hell?”

Prose “Elmo thinks we should maybe have a more formal voting process and still get Oscar killed” “Yes, yes! Me not fight Darth!” “I’d be happy if either of them died, ah-ah-ah! But before we do anything, we need to decide if we’re prescribing to subism or intism” “Eh-eh-eh-eh-eh, can we all please shut up and consider maybe we should swap puppeteers with Felicity! She’s the real villain, not any of us” “Felicity is different species”, I said, “it wouldn’t work” “Look, you guys”, said Ernie, “we’re all here talking as if there’s one of us who deserves to die! But do you really think anyone deserves to die?” “Yes, Elmo maintains Oscar deserves to die” “No, Ernie’s right,” I said, “an eye for an eye is bullshit. Let’s just get Cookie Monster killed and be done with it” “No”, said Ernie, “we need to stop pretending we have control and wait for the results” “I’m sorry”, I said, “but I really want to save my own skin if I’m the one chosen” “Your skin is literally the only thing that won’t be saved, Oscar”, said Ernie “And me will definitely die in this scenario? Well I refuse” “Ah-ah-ah! You can’t even decide if you’re an intist or a subist, Oscar! This technology is well beyond our capability” “We have to try!” “Can’t you all see how pointless this is?”, Ernie said “And what do you suppose we do then, you fucking genius?”, I asked “Let’s just sit, and wait for the kids to decide” “Oh, so now we’re just pompom-ball dildos in a line waiting to get fucked by kindergarteners” “Look, for these last few minutes, this conversation has been a toxic splurge-ball. I say we play Quietest for the Longest, for just a bit, and if it makes us feel better then I say we keep playing” “Oh, I love this game”, said Big Bird “Elmo thinks that’s the dumbest thing he’s ever-” “Starting-” “-heard” “-now” I spoke immediately. “I really think there’s a more mature way to discuss-” “Ba-ba” “So we’re just gonna bottle it all-” “Ba!” “But we can’t-” “Shut up, Oscar!”. Then, I finally shut up. Turns out, we were good at this game, but it was scarier when nobody talked. There certainly wasn’t love in the room either. I wondered then if it’d hurt to get killed, or if it’d be quick. We kept exchanging glances as it got closer to the hour. We spilt into some small talk, occasionally. We just wanted it to be less scary. But Ernie always had to dial it back. I don’t want to die, and I refuse to believe we have no control. I suppose we just have to wait.

Art by Elmira

THANKS After almost six months, three Naarm/Melbourne lockdowns and over one hundred submissions, we are proud to present Above Water vol. 17 and would like to thank the wonderful people who have helped bring this anthology to life. Firstly, thank you to all the student artists who submitted work. We had 130+ submissions and were completely blown away by the sheer talent and skill that filled our inbox. Though we could only include 21 artists in this year’s anthology, we want to thank you all for inspiring us with your stories, your courage and your creativity, and we wish you all the best for your future artistic endeavours. We would also like to thank Helena Pantsis, Above Water’s editorial assistant for 2021, who has worked behind the scenes, efficiently mediating submissions, and communicating with artists and judges to ensure a smooth curatorial process. Thank you for making order out of the frenzy and being so lovely to work with. Now, to the Above Water design team. Thank you for embellishing this anthology with powerful, evocative imagery. Your commitment, diligence, skill and talent has inspired us all, and we have felt so lucky to work with you. Particular thanks to Vivian Li for her work which adorns this year’s cover. We would also like to thank our wonderful judges —Jean, Sandie and Glenn — for their generous support of the student artist community at The University of Melbourne, VCA and MCM. Thank you for taking the time to review and appreciate the work of student artists and for sharing your perspectives and working together to come to your final decision in the midst of a pandemic. Your support has been invaluable and we have loved working with you. We also acknowledge the General Secretary, Students’ Council and the Creative Arts Committee of UMSU for their financial support and exceptional motion approvalling. Finally, thank you, dear reader, for exploring this year’s Above Water. Your support of student artists and student-led initiatives means the world. We hope that this celebration of student creativity has been a way to help you feel connected and inspired by the vibrant student community at The University of Melbourne, even while we are apart. We know it has for us — for that, we are immensely grateful. Much love, Ailish, Pavani, Lauren, Vaishnavi and Merryn UMSU Media & Creative Arts

Art by Torsten Strokirch

UMSU and the Media & Creative Arts Offices are located in the city of Melbourne, on the land of the Wurundjeri people of the Kulin Nation. We pay our respects to their elders—past, present and emerging—and acknowledge that the land we are on was stolen and sovereignty was never ceded.