OUR TEAM
___________
Snowy Frankland EDITOR
Matt Weismantel ART DIRECTOR
Libby Lawler DESIGNER
SPECIAL THANKS
______________ Dr. Emma Doolan PROJECT MENTOR
ISBN 978-0-6486911-0-5 Printed by Lismore City Printery First Printing, 2021 www.flunkmagazine.com flunkmagazine@gmail.com Copyright © 2021 by Flunk Magazine All rights reserved. This magazine or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of a Flunk representative.
Lismore and External Students Association SPONSOR
TABLE OF CONTENTS
______________________ 02
Our Team
04
From The Editor
06 10 16 20 26 30 36 40 46 50 52 56
The Windmill
Short Story by Benjamin Wild
Emily Imeson Feature Article
The Gate
Short Story by Jennifer Pritchard
No Frills Twins
FLUNK Interview
The Painting
Short Story by Nell Tynan
Jai Darby Walker
Artwork Collection
The Hunt for Red November
Creative Non-Fiction by Lachlan Webb
Outback Isolation
Photography by Jack Marr
The Girl Inside
Short Story by Elspeth Findlay
Riptide
Poetry by Kellie Felfoldi
Me and the Sea
Short Story by Shell-sea Ellem
Call for Submissions
FLUNK MAGAZINE
universities across Australia. We also want to start paying the contributors of each issue, because students deserve to be compensated for their creative work. It has always been our goal to find and publish as many incredible students as possible, and hopefully we can continue to do that.
From The Editor ____________ The motivation behind Flunk Magazine is to establish a creative publication that features the talented students of Southern Cross University. Every issue, we strive to combine literature with visual art in a way that brings out the best of both. For this issue, our Art Director Matt Weismantel created a custom artwork to accompany every short story, and our Designer Libby Lawler created the hand-drawn illustrations. To celebrate our first printed edition, we decided to run with a theme: Rural and Outback Australia. With international travel still a thing of the past, now is the perfect time to explore the short stories, poetry, photography, and visual art inspired by the more remote places on the continent. We are very proud of this collection of work, and all of the amazing contributors who have made it possible. In terms of future goals, Flunk Magazine wants to expand its reach and collaborate with more
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Now, we need to thank all of the people who have made this publication possible. Our Art Director Matt and our Designer Libby produced all of the visual elements for this printed edition, which have come together to create something special and true to our style. We also need to thank our mentor Dr. Emma Doolan, who has answered any questions we’ve had since our inception in 2018. A huge thank you also goes out to LEXSA, who have funded this magazine from day one, and continue to support our crazy goals. Lastly, a huge thank you to all of the students who continue to submit their creative work to us. We wouldn’t be here without all of the unique, quirky people pursuing their creative goals. Snowy Frankland EDITOR
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Flunk Magazine is a publication produced by Southern Cross University students to showcase exemplary creative work including literature, visual art, and digital media.
Photo credit: Jack Marr, see more p. 40
SHORT STORY
The Windmill BY BENJAMIN WILD
I finally met God today. He rang a few days ahead to see if we were still on. When I answered the phone, he didn’t say who he was, he just said he was gonna come fix the mill. “Ah,” I said, “it’s God, without whom we have no water,” and he just laughed down the line. Dad had told me about God, but I expected him to look a bit different. He was seventy-something with white sideburns and thick, dark eyebrows that framed the top of his glasses and shaded his sunken blue eyes. His six-day handshake could’ve shaped the world, and he wore a broad, grey hat. “Let’s get into it,” he said, nodding towards the old 26-foot windmill with its worn-out buckets and farmer’s heartbeat. The sun was already chewing our necks and biting at the back of our hands. God pulled his truck up in the shadow of the mill, and the 16-foot Wheel of Life whizzed above us in the strong breeze, plumbing the bore and the Great Artesian lifeblood 1000 feet below; without which this whole country would simply pack it in and die.
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God got straight to it winding out a great length of hemp rope and running it through a pair of old pulley blocks. No sooner had I unbolted a few struts to open up access to the Farmer’s Tabernacle, and wound the Comet’s tail out of the wind, and God was up the mill tying off the great Wheel of Life and pulling up the block and tackle. Little spurts of the earth’s clear blood dripped and splashed out the top of the borehole, and a small bog-eyed brown frog leapt into a wet cow print deep as a coffee mug. “Right, you’re in charge of putting things away, and don’t bloody drop anything!” Then it was all a blur of spanners and shifters and Stillsons and hessian bags and chains and nuts and bolts and grease and big old chain Stillsons and a whopping, great cast-iron jaw vice for biting into the 30-foot lengths of pipe that we were now hauling out of the cool earth’s buried veins by block and truck and tackle, with the devilish hot wind whipping dust up all the while and coming down on us with the promise of a deeper drought. “What do you make of that Adani coalmine stuff then?” he coo-eed from the toolbox. “Well, if it was us farmers asking for a billion dollars and free water,” I said, “you know they’d tell us to go to buggery.” “Yeah,” he said, “those mongrels are as corrupt as the day is long.” “You know on a clear day in Canberra you can actually see the lobbyists hanging out of the politicians' arses?” “Ha! Well I don’t even watch the TV,” he replied, “I’ve got a really good video collection. I like to recite a bit too y’ know? Lawson and Banjo. I reckon that Lawson was a whinger ... I do listen to the FM sometimes, the Bush Telegraph, but once they start carryin’ on, it goes off. Never mind that I’ve got a doctorate in psychology but choose to fix windmills,” he winked. “It’s all rubbish.” Then it was “Pass me this and pass me that. Tie that off. Grab that rope. Look up and live, boy. Where’s that shifter? Scurry up will ya? Centre that bloody pipe. Cut! Hold that. Don’t move it, I’m the boss! Good work, boy. Back down here. 8
Wind that vice off. Hook that block on. Pull her up. Move that bloody rope off. Cut! Lock that vice on. Quickly. Up you go again. Unhook her. Hold! I said bloody hold! Right, now let her go. Good! Back down here darling.” Then God called smoko, and we chewed the fat some more. “What d’ya think of all that coal seam gas stuff?” I asked. “Piss em off! We don’t need it! Y’know bores out here have dropped 10 metres in recent years— not feet—metres! I’ve told em they need to stop it cos cities like Dubbo will just dry up altogether, and what do you suppose has happened to the rest of the state by then?” “Do you believe in ghost towns?” He let out a laugh. Then it was back to work pulling the last length of pipe up and removing the pump from the foot. When God uncoupled the pump and exposed the worn-out buckets you could see why the tanks were starved for water and the mill was drawing so poorly. “Well, well, well,” he said, “I think we can fix this up. Luckily, I’ve bought some spares. Made in Australia, even. That’s how bloody old they are,” he winked. God fiddled about at his workbench and replaced the buckets, cutting the lips back a bit with his pocket knife to draw more suction, then it was time to do the whole exercise in reverse. By the time we’d put the pump and four lengths back down the bore hole and into the cool, dark earth with its Great Artesian Waters and locked the neck off with the jaws of that huge vice, God called lunch. We washed our hands in an old tin bucket and poured hot, black tea. God was eating beans out of a can. Then he was eating peas out of a can. Then he ate chili tuna out of a can. Said he didn’t go in for bread. We talked a bit more about the state of the world, and Australia.
SHORT STORY
“I don’t think we were ever chimps,” said God, “but man’s the worst kind of animal we’ve got; man’s inhumanity to man...” And with this the day grew fouler still, and though we nearly had it licked, the wind changed. God grabbed the big, old chain Stillsons and got to wringing the neck on the top pipe to fit the head back on, loudly reciting Banjo as he went, like he was taunting the wind itself.
“Now the stock have started dying, for the Lord has sent a drought, But we’re sick of prayers and Providence – we’re going to do without, With the derricks up above us and the solid earth below, We are waiting at the lever for the word to let her go. Sinking down, deeper down, Oh, we’ll sink it deeper down: As the drill is plugging downward at a thousand feet of level, If the Lord won’t send us water, oh, we’ll get it from the devil; Yes, we’ll get it from the devil deeper down.” * While up the mill I looked anxiously out across the dry land. Cows and calves were hunkered down under wilga trees; apostlebirds shrieked alarm in an old eumung; tumbleweed migrated across the brittle fields of golden wheat stubble; a young carcass sunk into a carpet of maggots; a whiff of smoke blew in from Nyngan afar; a drunken crow cartwheeled in the hot wind; the whole sky was washed blue-brown, with high, white smears of cirrus cloud, and an enormous, red storm-front of dust billowed like a land cloud, up and across the horizon towards us.
“Don’t look now!” I called. “Well, now we can bless the drums of war!” cried God. “The Indonesians are coming!” and he winked. “Pass me the rod and we’ll see if she lives,” and we reattached the rod that links the mill to the bore pipe and the pump 1000-feet below. The air by now was hot and dry like the breath from Hell’s own oven, and I scurried to pack things up, winding the hemp rope off the blocks and onto its wheel, putting the shifters, spanners, Stillsons, slings, chain, hammers and grease pot back—then the Almighty Vice itself—while God flew up the mill again and untied the Wheel of Life from its hitch. As he cleared the landing and found the ladder, he called to let her go, and I turned her on, unwinding the winch that had the tail pulled aside to let the Wheel of Life face into the Devil’s hot wind. The mill trotted to a canter, then a steady run. “LET HER GO!” yelled God, and I let the reigns slip into a gallop, and lo! The water poured as the pump gulped up and down in the black depths of the Great Artesian! And God above let out a great, gleeful laugh and cried:
“If the Lord won’t send us water, oh, we’ll get it from the devil; Yes, we’ll get it from the devil deeper down!” _________________________________ Benjamin Wild is a poet from Warren in central NSW. He graduated with a Bachelor of Occupational Therapy in 2018. He has been published in numerous journals, including RM Williams Outback Magazine, The Australian Poetry Journal, and three times in L’Allure des Mots.
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FEATURE ARTICLE
Y L I EM N O S E IM After spending the last three years as a travelling artist, Southern Cross University graduate Emily Imeson has returned to the Lismore Campus to undertake her Honours in Visual Arts. Emily was awarded a Brett Whitley Traveling Scholarship in 2020, and presented her seventh solo exhibition Ancient River, River Red, at the Saint Cloche Gallery in Sydney, January this year. “I have big goals for my practice,” Emily said.
I want to find ways to be relevant, to continue my art in a smart and ethical way ... to extend my practice both technically and thematically. Emily said that her time spent as a travelling artist cultivated work ethic, and the practical side of her craft. By coming back to University, she hopes to “connect with other intellectual art practitioners” to help figure out what she wants to say in her art.
“I don’t know if you need University, but you need fellow thinkers. It’s all about knowledge.” Just one area that Emily wants to explore is the “colonisation that is hanging over Australia, that uncertain ground [which] as a landscape artist is something that cannot be avoided.” “I would love to find ways to navigate it through my art,” Emily said, “although there are many other issues I’m investigating–mainly the deep ecological co-existence of all matter on this planet...”
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This is something Emily has become increasingly mindful of, especially while traveling through central Australia. “Living out of my car was excellent for reducing to the necessities,” Emily said. “If something doesn’t have a purpose, you don’t have it. There’s no extras. Your mind is free. You can focus on living and being happy.” For her latest exhibition Ancient River, River Red, Emily spent most of her time painting around Mparntwe, Alice Springs. “Arrernte Country is seriously breathtaking. It’s a special place with such a strong energy. I didn’t even brush the surface of it,” Emily said.
I can’t go to a place and make something unless I spend some time there ... learn the place, learn the landscape ... I need to sit and observe it first. Emily’s latest exhibition was very well received: “A lot of people were able to connect, live a fantasy through seeing the artwork, which is escapism in a sense, but escapism is beautiful.” Emily plans to spend 2021 in a post graduate studio at the Lismore campus, furthering her knowledge and craft by creating a new collection of work that engages with questions of painting, landscape, identity, and personal psychology. You can check out Emily on Instagram: @emilyimeson 14
FEATURE ARTICLE
"I developed ‘Ancient River, River Red’ during spring, 2020, in Tyweltherreme (Ruby Gap), Tjoritja (West McDonnell Ranges), Wurre (Rainbow Valley) and Finke Gorge National Park. Dry creek beds guarded by River Reds, and accompanied by rolling orange sand dunes, pink clay pans, colourful, boisterous birds, sunbaked reptiles, humble Desert Oaks, and opportunistic wildflowers, all led me to oasis camps. I worked on days that were too hot to think, contrasted by days of cold winds and constant rain. Painting ‘en plein air’ was guided by the flux of this time-honoured place. I learnt to listen to the land, adopt the patience, humility and adaptability required to yield to nature’s course." 15
dsgn magazine
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SHORT STORY
The Gate BY JENNIFER PRITCHARD The chain around her wrist pinched when she tugged, but it held securely, which was both frightening and satisfying. Eleven-year-old Lani had used padlocks and chains since she was old enough to jump from her dad’s farm ute to open and close the gates, but this was the first time she’d used padlocks on herself. The sun hadn’t yet climbed over the distant, dusty horizon when she’d chained her wrist, and her pony’s foreleg, to the front gate of her dad’s farm. Lani’s pony, Nelson, snuffled impatiently and rattled the chains. Lani worried her last-minute decision to include him in her protest was a mistake, but too late now. Earlier, she’d driven the rusting old ute nearly two kilometres to the front gate. Peering up into the rear-view mirror from the sagging front seat, she’d seen Nelson trotting behind like a faithful dog. Now they were in this together. Somewhere around the middle of that still-dark track to the front gate she’d thrown the keys to the open padlocks out the window. Now here she was, with the sun’s rising rays reaching out for her, bringing closer the daybreak and her time of protest. * Lani’s dad, Robert, bumped and jolted west in the Toyota along a rarely used stock track, taking a roundabout route to check the Number Three Bore. It was nearly 6 am. Lani would soon be up feeding the horses. The bloody Sampson company was starting this morning, their first test drill. He’d already driven past the fenced compound they’d bolted together, locking him out from part of his own land. It had been a long two years of what the Sampson community engagement officer called consultation, but which was, in reality, just a series
of deadlines he was forced to meet; dates he needed to sign papers, supply documents, have meetings, attend mediation, attend arbitration. On and on. After two years, he understood the process. He owned the land, but the government owned the resources beneath. There seemed to be nothing he could do to stop the exploration work going ahead today, or any day. There was no point locking his gate as others were talking about doing. In the end he barely looked at the compensation cheque before slipping it into the desk drawer. Some of his mates were disappointed in him, for folding. For taking the cheque. For selling out. He was not completely alone though; others folded too. The regular Friday night social pool competition at the Great Western Hotel in Talnurra hadn’t been held in months due to the escalating tension. The friendly competition disintegrated. Property owners either supporting or opposing locking their gates against the exploration work faced off over the pool tables. Crossing a small dry gully, Robert glanced left, but the Toyota’s passenger seat was empty today. He’d expected to see the shadow of his late father sitting there again. His father spent so much of his last years alive sitting in that seat. He’d started reappearing there, soon after the negotiations with the Sampson company started, soon after Robert’s wife, Leslie, had left. And if Robert were honest with himself, soon after he’d started wedging a bottle of Jim Beam wrapped in an old Driza-Bone coat under the Toyota’s front seat. Robert’s father would rage about the exploration work that would stretch across so many fertile properties, and the risks to the groundwater below. He’d slap his hand on the dashboard and start every second sentence with, "I tell ya..." just 17
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like he did when he was alive. Robert, glancing in the rear-view mirror as he drove, noticed dust blooming far behind him, on the road from town. It would be the small convoy of Sampson vehicles arriving from Talnurra, like a procession of dispassionate cousins to a funeral. Soon they’d be coming through his front gate. * Nelson flicked his tail against the first sticky flies of the morning. Lani sat huddled in the centre of the driveway, watching the vehicles approach. As they drew to a stop, dust from the tyres billowed forward, engulfing her. She buried her face in the crease of her elbow and heard doors slam. Peeking under her arm, a pair of large steel-capped boots was all she could see. “Kid, what are you doing?” Lani didn’t lift her head or answer, but Nelson gave a fretful snort, and with bulging eyes swung to face the strangers. * Robert hadn’t seen his wife in nearly six months. They’d disagreed about the Sampson exploration work. To Lesley, it was another income stream for the property, money for kitchen renovations. Money was much needed after years of the dry. After eighteen months of disagreements, Lesley announced she was taking a break. She was now staying with her parents at their vineyard a half-day’s drive away, presumably helping in the family restaurant, which was where Robert first met her years ago. Lani refused to go with her mum, saying she wanted to finish her school year and stay with her horses. Although not ideal, this seemed reasonable at the time, but Robert knew he’d been more capable of caring for Lani six months ago. Lani was now the one caring for him. Before leaving, Lesley sadly asked, “Why are you so stubborn? They might not even find anything.” But Robert could only picture damage from the drilling, chemicals pumped deep into his country. His bores running dry, vomiting muddy sludge into the cattle troughs. He’d seen overseas footage on the internet of creek beds on fire, flames flaring straight from bores. He’d heard stories from other properties about workers driving fast on farm tracks at night, hitting cattle and horses. This was risking 18
his livelihood, the land he was trying so hard to replenish, and the precious water flowing beneath. Although the lack of rainfall first started biting three years ago, he was slowly introducing new farming ideas, linking green corridors which skirted his grazing country, planning to establish reed beds in creeks to slow the water flow and filter it. He was even reintroducing some of the native grasses and tough, stunted gum species his grandfather struggled so hard to clear. If only the drought would break. When Robert finally pulled up at the Number Three bore, the pump was silent. It should be humming, gently pushing water to the cattle across the fence line. He stayed in the vehicle, watching the morning take hold. The scraggly eucalypts, rock outcrops and grassy tussocks all losing their soft focus in the growing glare that promised another hot October day. A few kangaroos, startled by his arrival, lowered their heads and returned to grazing. The rounded curves of their haunches were just visible above the low scrubby grasses which, so far, clung to life despite the drought. * “Where’s your Dad? We’ve got work to do.” It was the Sampson community guy. He’d been to the house many times, talking to her parents when Lani was doing schoolwork in her room. He always sounded fake-friendly, like he was trying too hard. Lani couldn’t remember his name, but she remembered the fights her parents had each time after he left. “He’d be in the shed, or maybe out at one of the bores. I don’t know. He doesn’t really talk to me.” “Does he know you’re here?” “Like I said, we don’t talk much.” A few other workers stepped from the vehicles, stretching, curious. The community guy looked left and right along the fence line. Five formidable strands of barbed wire stretched between horizons, a barrier between him and the work for the day. This gate was the only access. Attached to the gatepost, but now hanging limply by one corner, a laminated “Lock the Gate” notice fluttered, taunting him. He stared at the padlocks on Lani and the horse. “Where are the keys?”
SHORT STORY
Lani shrugged. “Look, I’ve got work to do. You need to get off the gate!” Today he didn’t sound fake-friendly, he sounded furious. Nelson, backed against the gate and surrounded by a group of strangers, began to tremble and sweat. When one of the workers stepped forward to test the chain around Lani’s wrist, the pony lunged, lashing out at the nearest man and almost trampling Lani. The metal gate rattled at the hinges and the man jumped back. “Leave it,” the community guy ordered, “or someone will get hurt. We’ll go to the next property. I’ll sort this out later this afternoon when I get some phone range.” * Robert, instead of grabbing the toolbox from the ute’s tray to fix the pump, reached for his empty thermos, half filled it with bourbon, and wandered falteringly toward the dusty tangle of trees lining the creek bank. A squawking curtain of yellow and white corellas lifted from a copse of she-oaks in annoyance. Thermos in hand, he settled on a smooth flat river stone in the dappled shade, chugging from the thermos which warmed his stomach. His light-blue eyes, as faded as the ancient river stones on which he sat, scanned the horizon for the dust of the arriving vehicles. Surely, they’d have passed through his gate by now? The creek was almost dry, just a few crusty pools of water in the deepest depressions, but far below, from a branch of the artesian basin, water flowed clear, cold, and fresh. Although Robert tapped this water to use, he valued it. Barely a day passed without him feeling thankful for it. But only two bores could be sunk deep enough to reach it. Like the surrounding properties, his farm was so dry, suffering. His plans for property improvements had been on hold for so long. The warm bourbon buzz spread through him and his breath came easy and gentle. The paddocks are rotated now, rested ... the farm needs less water now than it ever has ... it will rain soon ... the grasses will re-establish ... the drought will break soon. It will be ok ... if only it would rain. Then his in-breath caught as the warm bourbon glow was sliced through with white hot pain, crashing through his chest and down his arm. The thermos
clattered to the stony creek bed. He lurched forward, clutching at nothing, mouth gasping, and fell face down on the flat river stones which were absorbing the sun’s gathering heat. As he lay still in the dry creek bed, his ragged breathing began to slow. The corellas resettled to wait out another hot day, and much higher a wedgetail eagle circled slowly and missed nothing. * Hours later, Robert’s eyelids twitched as his mind wandered through semi-consciousness. He felt the sun striking his shoulders, the air sucking the moisture from his lips like he was standing at a just-opened oven door. His hands scrabbled beneath the smaller stones, searching for pockets of cool relief. He remembered swimming here at the creek as a kid and seeing platypus, paddling with Lani, camping overnight. Memories of water, here. And water far below, water bubbling fresh and cold, filtered through the sand for hundreds of years. Visions of the Sampson drill filled his mind, piercing the watercourses beneath his land. Fracking it, fucking it. Fumes and fire erupting from cracks in the ground. He flinched and cried out. He saw in the future more and more of his country fenced off, damaged and dying, the worker ants in hardhats crawling over his land’s final carcass. Like the eagle, Robert’s mind soared over his land, the paddocks, creek beds, ridges and rocky outcrops. He remembered it, knew it, and needed to protect it. He saw every detail. He saw the tracks and trails, the dividing fences, the boundaries, the cattle grids, the gates, the front gate. He heard his father ranting at him to lock the gate. Why hadn’t he locked the gate today? And that’s when he knew. Lani. She’ll be at the gate. He rolled over and struggled to his knees, hands bleeding, tongue fat, dry, and choking. With his head almost cleaved in two by pain he hoisted himself that first step toward the heat-hazed outline of the Toyota. The gate, gotta get to the gate. _________________________________ Jennifer Pritchard is a student of Southern Cross University and is completing a Bachelor of Arts majoring in Writing. She grew up in regional NSW and has an interest in nature and the environment. 19
INTERVIEW
When did you first realise music could be your
career?
We never expected or planned for this. Since we were kids singing and songwriting always brought us a lot of joy but we always thought a career in music would be out of reach for us due to being from a small country town and not truly recognising our own potential. It was in 2012 at the age of 17 that we started posting singing videos to Youtube for our grandma overseas. To our amazement, out of nowhere people from all countries started listening, engaging and supporting! We still feel undeserving but we know this is what we want to pursue and we’ve never looked back!
How would you describe your style of music? We’re proud with a “pop” label but we’d describe it more as “meaningful pop” (most of the time). Writing music is a space we explore and process some of the hard things we go through in life. We love pop because you can take some pretty intense topics and wrap it up in contagious melodies that are inclusive for all people to enjoy.
What does the song
writing
process typically look like
for you guys? Who does what?
It’s often that our creative ideas come when we’re on a walk/stroll (together or alone)–it's this time
without distraction where feelings and thoughts become most clear … and then organically it turns into a song! We’re pretty lucky to have different creative strengths to one another which makes our collaboration optimal and non-conflicting! With Vanessa having a flare for melody and Arna for lyrics, it’s the perfect team! Sometimes we begin by building from Vanessa’s melody or building a melody around Arna’s lyrics–but either order we build something together effortlessly. We’re never stepping on each others toes and always in tune with the direction it’s heading. Collaborations can be very slow and hindering if you’re not on the same page!
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Have
you
ever
experienced
writers’ block, and if so, how have you overcome it?
Yes, absolutely! It’s very normal and we don’t think artists should beat themselves up about it. Creative inspiration isn’t mechanical, it has a mind of its own, it’s unpredictable and it’ll come when it wants to. There was a period of about 2 years in which we could no longer write a song solely on the guitar. We had spent so much time in the studio with electronic producers that we became so use to it and felt like we lost touch with our original approach to songwriting. It really upset us at the time. However, once we broke this dry spell with a song we FINALLY wrote using an acoustic guitar (called "Just Enough", which can be found on Youtube) we let go of that self doubt and fear and just WENT AT IT, again and again and again. The power is in you. A helpful recommendation we can give for writers blocks is "prompts", such as opening a dictionary, landing on a word and building around it. There’s definitely ways you can spice it up and make it fun!
Musical influences? We love a good pop artist with solid melodies, killer vocals and production! Some of our favourites include Robyn, Maggie Rogers, Christina and the Queens, London Grammar, Gordi, Charlie CXC and Allie X.
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How do you always seem to make such incredible
videos?
music
Well firstly, thank you for the compliment! That’s amazing to hear because most of them were done independently without a budget! We’re always very involved in our music videos–if you take charge you’re more likely to get a result you’re happy with. We like to
INTERVIEW
headlining
What was it like your first show at Lismore City Hall? be pretty spontaneous with our approach to shooting music videos to allow new ideas to flow in the moment. Creativity is often a leap of faith and there’s something beneficial in being open instead of rigid with the process. For almost all of our videos we’ve given “beginners” a go as we can see potential outside of status. We find that newbies often have a genuine excitement, passion, and energy for the project and we buzz off that!
What
is
your
formula
fabulous outfit?
for
It was a huge and humbling moment!! We can’t think of a better place for our first headline show than the hometown that nurtured us from the very beginning and continues to this day. Due to covid it was a long time since we played a live show and we honestly weren’t expecting anyone besides family to come see us. We were moved to tears by the room filled with love and support and people that even knew our lyrics! Our headline show in Lismore was such a special moment and has left a mark on us.
a
To be honest our formula is to have no formula! We honestly don’t really overthink our outfits, we kind of just chuck things together quickly! We don’t think that fashion always needs deep thought or planning. We’re very spontaneous, last minute people–often grabbing outfits in a rush before a shoot! Maybe it’s just luck that it usually “works”! For this reason we sometimes find it funny that people think our fashion is fabulous!
Fashion influences? Oh gosh! We’re very eclectic with our taste– everything from Madonna, Grace Jones and The Spice Girls ... to street fashion, recycled and runway! Taking inspiration from everything breeds something new and there’s no need for rules in fashion! You’re totally allowed to dig many sub-genres, you don’t have to box yourself in!
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What is your biggest, craziest, goal? We always find this question hard to answer. It might sound lame or modest, but getting joy out of what we create and bringing joy to those consuming it is the goal. Perhaps we’re a bit too down to earth…
What makes your new single “Big Heart” one of your most vulnerable songs to date? What was it like to collaborate with Lupa J and Sam Phay on its production? In this song we open up about something we’ve never been public about before– our sexualities. We held off, not due to shame, but because it was a hard and confusing journey to figure out. When it feels like everyone else has it all figured out it can be very alienating... That’s why we think it’s important to be authentic with our music because others may be desperate to relate. It was a wonderful and wholesome experience collaborating with Lupa J and Sam Phay on this song. We knew this collaborative choice was right because they’re both good friends of ours, and therefore were people we could trust to be vulnerable with–and, they’re both artistically brilliant. It was probably one of the easiest and funnest sessions we’ve ever done!
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INTERVIEW
Sydney vs. the Northern Rivers? Well ... that’s like comparing cookies and brownies. When you love both how can you choose? We feel so lucky to have two wonderful places that feel like home! (The op shops of Lismore take the prize though). At this stage in our life Sydney has been pivotal in helping us come out of our shells socially and personally, and we’ve managed to build a strong network of friends which we’ve never really had before. But even more significantly, Lismore was so vital in sculpturing the kind of people we are and supporting our pursuits. Growing up in Lismore (“Lovemore”) definitely planted free self-expression, authenticity and open-mindedness in us. We’ve always felt celebrated for exactly who we are in the Northern Rivers and we’re grateful to carry that with us out into the wider world.
You can check out the No Frills Twins on Instagram: @nofrillstwins
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The Painting BY NELL TYNAN
A bubble, tiny and smooth, floated down the tube, around the loop, and up to Jay’s bed. When it reached the bandage wrapping his arm there was no hesitation; it flowed beneath the gauze, beneath the sticky bits of strapping, and into his vein. Jay waited. Would his pulse blimp? His vein bulge? Would he see the bubble drift up his arm? There was nothing. The bag of fluid kept running, his arm felt the same, and the white walls continued to stare. * That night, when Jay crept along the hall away from the tubes, away from the nurses with their evening gossip, there was a prickle in his chest. The bubble? It didn’t hurt or annoy; it was just there. A soft something under his ribs. At the end of the hall, Jay pushed open the heavy door to the visitor’s lounge. Light barged through the doorway, dominating the room's dimmed fluorescents. Steam belched from the fat urn left on the sink. Above it sat the shiny hand-washing poster that accompanied every sink Jay passed in the hospital. Be a Germ-Buster! Wash your way to Health! A smell of disinfectant floated over the four grey armchairs, adding its weight to the scatter of pamphlets spread across the coffee table.
Germs and the Cystic Fibrosis Patient Give Space to Cystic Fibrosis Stay Clean and Breathe The door swung shut, axing the light from the hall behind. Jay walked through the dimness to the large painting hanging on the back wall. The painting, with its frame of chipped, gold paint, and its pioneer bush scene, was deemed unsuitable for the CF ward. But to Jay it was a respite from the antiseptic bossiness of the place. He enjoyed the simplicity of the old man’s camp, the canvas tent, the small fire with the boiling pot, and the rust-coloured dog with the crooked ear. Jay moved to the side of the painting and looked back over his shoulder. Light from the hall shone through the door’s window like a square moon. As though something as wondrous as the moon was not immune to manipulation by the science of hospitals. The urn gave another belch of steam. The cushions on the four empty chairs were arranged in a scowl. The pamphlets blasted their warnings in large, bold print. Jay ignored them all, took hold of the chipped gold frame, lifted his foot, and climbed on in. He moved quietly through the scrub and settled into his usual position behind the tangle of wattles. He watched the old man drop a broken branch onto the fire. Smoke swirled around the addition, sparks hissed. The old man took his plate and sat down against his rock, shaped perfectly to fit his back. The dog didn’t move. She hadn’t looked at Jay for days now. 27
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Tufts of yellow, held proud by the wattles, nudged at Jay’s cheek. He brushed them away, careful to stay hidden. The rust-coloured dog flicked her half-bent ear towards him. “Pull up a pew.” The old man’s eyes stayed with the fire. His hat, stained and tattered, tipped towards a log fuzzy with bark. “There’s a log there. It won’t mind if a lad like you sits on it.” His clothes were covered in grime and his boots were messed in dried mud. Jay should leave. He should climb out, wash, and go back to his room. Instead, he moved out from the tangled wattles towards the clearing. Small twigs snapped as he passed. The dog lifted her head and thumped her tail to the dirt. “Reckon there’s a change about.” The old man kept his words to the smoke twirling around the unburnt branch. Jay sat on the log and looked for clouds full of rain, or trees full of wind. But there were neither, just stars and still leaves. A tree stump behind acted as a backrest. His back touched the grey bark with tight muscles, causing his shoulders to crowd his neck. “Want some tucker?” Flavours crept from the blackened pot and danced around the camp. Jay’s stomach squeaked yes but his head shook no. “Good stew—wallaby.” A knobbly finger pointed to a spare tin plate on a rock nearby. A beetle bumped against the tin before buzzing off to chase the smoke. “Help yourself.” Jay sat with the crackle of the fire. Flavours flicked and taunted his nose. His stomach twisted. He jumped up, grabbed the plate, and scraping the side of the pot, splashed out spoonfuls of stew. He ate with a rush, the gravy blotting his chin, smearing his arms. With his belly full he stood, nodded to the old man, and left. Out of the frame, he went straight to the sink and ran the water hard over his hands, being careful of the bandage-wrapped cannula. He used extra soap squirts to scrub the gravy from his arms. He grabbed a second paper towel to make sure no specks of dirt were staining his legs. When he was sure he was clean, he left the lounge to the wheeze of the urn, and crept back 28
along the hall to his room with its tubes and crisp, white bed. * The next day the doctor came by in her antiseptic perfume and facemask. Tapping her pen to his chart, she asked how he felt. Jay told her about the prickle in his chest. The pen stopped tapping. The doctor checked the small tubes shooting empty slithers of oxygen up his nostrils. She placed the cold disc of her stethoscope against the skin over his ribs. Nothing untoward. But, to be on the safe side she’d order more medication. She stopped by the door, removed her disposable gloves, and pumped the sanitizer twice onto her hands before leaving. The nurses, in their crinkled gowns, brought his afternoon medication with an extra tablet in the little plastic cup. It was small and blue with three tiny circles in the centre, like two eyes and an open mouth. When Jay climbed into the picture that night, and the one after, and all the ones to follow, he didn’t bother to hide. He walked straight through the scrub, past the wattles and their tufts of yellow, and up to the camp. He sat on his log and waited until the old man offered him a plate. The dog thumped its tail, sending up little puffs of dust. The old man prattled on about the stew, about the dog, and about the change. Always the change, and always the when of it. * Days went past and the prickle stayed. The masked doctor stopped listening to his chest, but still removed her gloves to pump two globs of sanitizer onto her hands before leaving. The fluids still flowed into his arm, the nasal tubes still pumped empty oxygen slithers, and his tablets still came in little cups. It was after a week of stews, on a starry, cold night, that the dog came over and sat by Jay. He tried to shoo it away, but the dog just sat there, one rusty ear half-bent over.
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“Reckon Bess here thinks you waste too much stew on that chin of yours.” The old man handed Jay his plate. The more Jay tried not to spill his food the more it dribbled on his chin, arms, and legs. When he’d finished the dog reached her nose forward and licked Jay’s leg. His leg hairs crested into a miniature wave of saliva. She went to his arm next, where a blob of gravy sat beside the dirty yellow of a fading bruise. Her tongue was full of slop, her breath strong. Jay got up, retched, and ran. * The next day when the doctor came, her pen stopped mid tap. While the eyes above her mask were focussed on his chart, Jay secretly wiped his chin, checking for stew. He sniffed his arm for dog. “Interesting.” The doctor put a stethoscope to her ears, the disc to Jay’s chest. When she finished listening she said, “We might be getting somewhere.” She stopped by the sanitizer on her way out. * That night, Jay balked before climbing back into the painting. What if the dog came close? What if it licked again? But something the old man said played in Jay’s head. It was about the change, about it coming from the inside, even though it seemed triggered by the outside. He said it was because what you go towards causes “it” to come towards you. Jay wasn’t sure about that, cause there was no part of him that wanted to go anywhere near that dog. But his stomach twisted, he could already taste the stew. As soon as he sat on the log, the dog was back beside him. The old man was quiet. Jay tucked his legs tight so they wouldn’t touch the dog. When he finished his stew he asked about the change. This time the old man just smiled and said, “It happens.” Jay went to leave, but as he leant forward, Bess’ tongue met his chin. He couldn’t help but gag. Bess moved to a lump of gravy smeared on the bump of his collarbone, her tongue slippery.
Jay gagged again. Bess backed off a little and sat looking at him. The prickle in his chest sharpened. It was too much; Jay needed to leave. Again, Bess reached forward and licked his face. He whipped the back of his hand across his cheek to clean it. Bess moved quickly. She licked his elbow, his shoulder, his neck. Jay lifted his chin high out of her reach. He put his hands to her neck, to stop her. To push her away. His chest pounded. The prickle stabbed. He must get out, get washed. But his hands refused to listen. His fingers wouldn’t push. Instead, they curled into Bess’ fur. Her softness. Her warmth. His arms tightened. Pulled her closer until her whole dirt-and-germ-filled body covered his. While fear thudded, and warnings from doctors and posters swirled, all he could feel was the weight of the dog. Her paws resting on his shoulders, her tail sweeping back and forwards over his hospital gown, and her tongue, soft and careful, kissing the salty trickles on his cheek. * In the days that followed, as the doctor scratched her head and tapped his chart, Jay’s tubes were removed. His medications were reduced and “discharge” was scrawled across his record. The prickle in his chest faded to a faint buzz, one the doctor failed to hear. Jay packed his things to leave. He carried his small suitcase along the hall past the nurses at their station. The doctor stood with them, admiring the new wall hanging for the visitor’s lounge. A print of sharp geometric lines, all shaded parallels in severe reds and final blacks. “Much more modern; fits well with what we’re doing here.” The doctor said. “That old bush painting gave out the wrong message.” Jay’s hand reached into his pocket, ferreted for a bit, and then clutched tight to a clump of hair from the rust-coloured dog. _________________________________ A student of creative writing at Southern Cross University, Nell has received some competition success with her short fiction, while her non-fiction has appeared in gardening magazines. 29
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ARTWORK
Jai Darby Walker ____________
Jai is a self-taught artist from the Bundjalung Nation in the Northern Rivers. He works in many different mediums including painting, drawing, and pyrography. Jai has been featured in many group exhibitions in locations ranging from Coffs Harbour, Casino, and the Gold Coast. Jai is also a member of the Boomalli co-op in Leichhardt, Sydney, who regularly invite him to produce new works for upcoming exhibitions. You can check out Jai on Instagram: @darbwalkz_80
"Council" Scratch card. Scratch tool/pin.
The men are holding council. The eldest and highest elder addresses the others. 31
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How would you describe your style?
"Green eye" Acrylics. Charcoal/charcoal pencil on canvas.
I used to try describing my style as portrayals of aspects of traditional culture: daily life and protocols in a contemporary style. I still do a bit of that. My style nearly always includes people or figures. I feature people a lot because the people aren't just part of the culture, they are also the culture itself. I believe they create themselves to life, through me.
The man on the right has one green eye. He's caught the affection of the married woman in the middle. The husband on the left eyes him off. 32
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The young man stares longingly at the young women he is forbidden to have. His tribal sister.
"Taboo" Acrylics on canvas.
Are you self-taught? I would say yes, as would others who know me. I pretty much picked up what I could from school. Practice, boredom, and life were great teachers. I took a couple of TAFE courses that expanded my creativity a little and brought out what was already there. I took what sang to me and have been that way ever since.
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"Ancestor" Oil Stick.
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These were my first exercises in oil painting and learning. Purely painted from the spirit.
What are your preferred mediums for making art? I began with paint, mainly acrylics, but also coloured pencils/charcoal. I gradually leaned back towards drawing after my painting style began to mirror it. I then realised I could have just been drawing on canvas the whole time. These days, I tend to combine the two mediums and use what suits the piece, or what the piece determines it should be. I have an attraction towards pyrography, or woodburning as we call it. I also like traditional styles of carving and "artefact" making.
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Where do you draw inspiration from? Inspiration comes from many sources. Comes in many forms. Sometimes it isn't inspiration, it's something that has to be done. It’s the culture that lies within my blood. That is my blood. The spirit that exists under my skin. The instinct that comes from thousands of years of grandfathers before me. The memories of our people that live behind my eyes. To tell the stories of the people who couldn't tell them.
"Family scene" Acrylics on canvas.
A family wanders up high looking which way they'll be headed for food.
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The Hunt For Red November BY LACHLAN WEBB
We packed the car and headed off around midday for the small, iron ore mining town of Pannawonica, situated about 450 kilometres south of Port Hedland in the untamed Pilbara region of Western Australia. Dave had arranged for the two of us to eat dinner that evening at the miners’ mess hall, and from there, it would only be a short distance to our first track. We wanted to officially begin the hunt just before dusk and considered the first hour after sundown as the optimal time to spot our species. I still vividly remember the time of sunset in Pannawonica on that evening, the 1st of November 2011: 6.25 pm. * The mood over dinner was an anxious one; neither of us said much. We were now only minutes from embarking on a snake hunting expedition we had been planning for months. Our target species was the Pilbara Death Adder, scientifically referred to as Acanthophis wellsi or more commonly referred to by herpetologists and reptile enthusiasts as wellsi. The task was made more challenging by the fact we required at least one female to partner the males already in our respective collections, with the intention of establishing a captive population. Soon we would be in the thick of the 36
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Australian bush at night. Our only contact with civilisation would be in the form of UHF radio, and we were in the heart of snake country, hunting for a dangerously venomous and potentially deadly animal in its own surroundings. Towards the end of my meal, Dave abruptly said, “I will meet you at the car. See you soon.” Five minutes later, I made my way out to the car to find Dave pulling everything out of it. He looked concerned and a touch frantic. I was not game to speak. As I approached the car, he asked, “Are you confident using a bag-pinning catching technique?” I immediately knew what this meant: we must have forgotten the snake hooks. I had used this technique previously with venomous snakes, but only sparingly, as it significantly increases the risk of a bite. Using this technique means every move
by the catcher must be precise and resolute. I knew, however, we did not have much choice, so I hesitantly answered, “I guess so.” Fortunately, we soon found the hooks underneath the driver’s seat of the car. We collected our thoughts and headed to the first location of our hunt. En route, as the sun was preparing to set over the Indian Ocean, and the vehicle’s temperature gauge gave a reading of 35 degrees, the rich colours of the landscape intensified. The scenery consisted of jagged escarpments, spinose, spinifex-covered hills, and rugged rocky outcrops that protruded sharply from the red earth. We passed a watercourse where along its banks stood a congregation of native eucalypts guarding their provider. Intermittently, colourful patches of various wildflowers were in bloom, the desert pea standing out from the rest. It was ancient and 37
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tenacious country. We reached our destination right on time, just after 6 pm. Weather conditions for this time of year could not have been better. It was not long into the hunt when Dave shouted, “Wellsi!” I jumped from the car, armed with my hook and catching bag, and confronted the snake. It was a male, and he was aggressive, striking at me on several occasions. But, by the time Dave arrived, I had successfully managed to bag the animal. We were jubilant and hurried back to the vehicle to resume the hunt. There we were, about one hour into our mission, crouched forward in the front seats of the car looking attentively through the windscreen, as spotlighting these snakes on the reddish-coloured dirt tracks of the Pilbara can be challenging. Suddenly, the second wellsi of the night appeared! As I approached the animal, it lunged at me and took off. It was headed for the shelter of a large spinifex clump. Every attempt to hook the creature failed, and it struck and lashed out violently. I knew if I did not do something fast, we would lose it in the clump of spinifex. I threw the scrunched-up pillowslip I was holding in my left hand firmly down onto the animal in the hope that it would calm down. Thankfully, it worked. We knew the snake was, for the moment, feeling protected beneath the pillowcase. Dave hurried back to the Toyota for another bag. When the bag covering the serpent was lifted, it chose to fight instead of fleeing. It furiously and repeatedly struck at me and the hook. On one occasion, it bit the hook and, while only for a second, you could hear the awful sound of fangs on steel. The snake was pugnacious and savage, literally throwing itself at us as it used every move in its repertoire to avoid capture. Finally, I managed to hook the belligerent beast long enough to get it in the bag. Once the snake was safe and feeling settled in the security of the bag, I could not help but notice a lonely droplet of venom, innocently but self-assuredly gliding down the shaft of the hook. We both hoped this specimen would be the most volatile we would come across. We were not even 38
sure if it was worth the trouble as it, too, was a male. The hunt continued for about another hour but proved unsuccessful by way of any more wellsi, so we decided to move to a different location, approximately half an hour’s drive away. * This time we were on foot. We left the Toyota behind and penetrated deep into the bush. Our only possessions were backpacks, snake hooks, catching bags, headlamps, hand-held torches, water bottles, a compass, a knife, and a first-aid kit. The search on foot proved to be the most unnerving; it was an incredibly eerie feeling walking this environment at night. We were making our way through a section of moderately dense poverty bush and sharp, knee-high spinifex, leaving faint footprints in the sand behind us where we had cautiously placed our feet. There were prevalent termite mounds encircled by vegetation; they were proudly scattered throughout the area, in an almost boastful manner, demonstrating their inhabitants’ remarkable architectural abilities. Without warning, a protracted, blood-curdling scream punctured the silence. Both of us immediately froze, and stared intently at one another while we listened to these spine-chilling sounds… Dave broke our silence. “Feral cat?” he asked, prompting a response by raising his eyebrows while slightly lifting his head. “I think so,” I said. “But I’m surprised at the intensity of the screams.” The more we heard, the more we were convinced, as we could decipher two tones creating this terrifying ruckus. It is not uncommon for feral cats to make these unbelievably loud, sinister noises when fighting, particularly over a kill or rotting carcass. It was evident that life out here was as resilient as the landscape itself. We recommenced the hunt and, just after the frightening screams ceased, my attention was strangely drawn to a crisp, lustrous reflection being displayed on my Casio G-Shock watch face. I then looked up to see a modest, waxing crescent
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moon graciously settled in the sky accompanied by a myriad of radiant stars. It was ironic how such a delicate night’s sky gently lit up the harsh, unforgiving wilderness of the land below it. Dave must have seen me looking in awe at the sight above us and stopped to join me. “Ya don’t get a view like that in the city, huh?” Dave declared, straightening his back to extend his chest, while deeply inhaling some of the fresh, untainted air. “Nope… It gives you a feeling of insignificance.” “Yep, it sure does,” he said, before turning away and continuing the hunt. “C’mon mate, we’d better keep moving.” I rather quickly and easily regathered my focus on the task at hand. It had now been over three hours since our last sighting. It was late; time was progressing fast, and the seconds passing were steadily stealing our optimism. You could sense the disappointment beginning to set in, poorly concealed by both of us. Just when hope had all but vanished, we simultaneously shouted, “Wellsi!” It was a spectacular animal and a female no less! She was huge and did not seem the slightest bit intimidated by our presence.
Nonchalantly, she elegantly carried on like we were not even there. We just admired her beauty while she confidently cruised the country beneath her. Her colours were so vibrant; so dense, yet so rich. Her disposition, size, sex, colour, condition and markings made her a highly desirable specimen. As I gently picked her up and placed her inside the pillowslip, without difficulty as she was so relaxed, Dave made the comment, “She is stunning! Her red and black colouration is bloody magical. A snake such as this needs a name.” We headed back to the Toyota Landcruiser, ecstatic. The hunt had been a resounding success, and we could not have hoped for a more triumphant night. Thereafter, we began the journey home to Port Hedland, and the mood was one of real achievement. At one point, I thought to myself for a minute or so, and said, “Dave, regarding the name…” “What do ya reckon?” he replied. “What about Red November?” He smiled. “Red November it is.” _________________________________ Lachlan Webb is completing a Bachelor of Arts/Bachelor of Education majoring in Modern History, English, and Aboriginal Studies at Southern Cross University. He passionately acknowledges the power of the written word, and while he has an aversion to writing about himself in the third person, he can, on occasions, be persuaded to do so.
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Outback Isolation BY JACK MARR
____________ Jack Marr is a second year Civil Engineering Student at Southern Cross University and a multi-award-winning nature and landscape photographer based in the Northern Rivers of New South Wales, growing up in the small rural village of Bexhill.
All images can be viewed on his Instagram page and purchased on his website. Instagram: @jackmarrr Website: jackmarr.com.au
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The Girl Inside BY ELSPETH FINDLAY "If you bring forth what is within you, what you bring forth will save you. If you do not bring forth what is within you, what you do not bring forth will destroy you."
– Gospel of Thomas
It gets harder every year to relax. They’re always over before I recover. Before the sludge of the nine-to-five clears. Before I even begin to recollect myself. Holidays somehow slip away now, like life on planet earth. The thought of extinction is somehow beguiling–mustn’t think that. Tears threaten to spill behind the giant sunnies, so I squeeze the wheel and squint harder at the black ribbon unfurling away across the Nullarbor Plain into a hazy horizon. I’m fighting off driver’s torpor, need some coffee and wish for once I had someone with me. Maybe I’ll stop and get my thermos out–but maybe I won’t, because it’s a long time since I passed anyone. There’s that niggle of fear about lonely roads and predators that might be patrolling. Better wait ‘til I reach a Roadhouse, safe there. As if my wish for company were instantly granted, a figure seems to materialize out of the grey scrub that straggles here and there beside the road. I slow down, maybe I’ve nodded off and I’m dreaming her. I sit up, shake my head, but she’s still coming up on the passenger side. As she gets closer I watch her cock her thumb, watch the leisurely sway of her walk, the long mane of chestnut hair catching sunlight, just lifting a little in the breeze. She’s familiar. There’s a spark of intuition, a shivery frisson of fear, but I’m upset, overtired; I let it go, because it’s such a comfort to see another woman in all this emptiness. 46
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Gravel crackles as I pull over. She bends down to the passenger side: peeling nose scattered with freckles, slightly elfin slant where her cheekbones run up past her eyes, her long fingers draped over the windowsill. The familiarity is so palpable I have to stop myself reaching out to touch her. “Where are you going,” I ask. “Your way,” she points vaguely ahead. “Hop in then.” My voice has gone high, chirpy. She’s tall and has to fold herself onto the bench seat of my vintage HR. She arranges her long foal’s legs underneath her. She’s wearing blue jeans with worn-out sandals covering her calloused feet. Then for a moment she turns, regarding me with pale-blue eyes. It’s like looking into mirrors. I want to dispense with formalities and take her in my arms. Instead I say, lamely, “don't we know each other?” Stupid cliché, she looks out the window, murmurs something I
don’t catch. Automatically I start the car and we motor off up the road. Mostly she's watching the horizon but increasingly I feel her eyes on me. Probably thinks I’m some kind of hipster hag with my designer jeans and vintage car. “So, where you going?” I try again. “Nowhere interesting, yet.” I’m getting irritated now, that feeling of apprehension growing, pricking at me. There’s something weird, even dangerous that I can’t grasp. I glance over and there it is, an ice pick stare, fixed and furious. Fear stabs me as she arcs up, filling the cab with rage, hitting the seat with her fists and mimicking: “Don’t we know each other? Where are you going? Same old bullshit! You know exactly who I am, but you don’t want to know, you tuned out years ago zombie woman!” The accusation burns out of that pale 47
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contorted face and I can’t look away. I throw up my arm as she launches herself at me, grabbing the wheel and pulling it hard around. The car lurches sideways across the bitumen, down over the shoulder, gravel showers up past the windows, then screeches and grinds into paneling as the car rolls and ploughs over it. My seat belt gouges across my chest and shoulder, my head rolls wildly, ricocheting off the seat. I see her, a belt-less crash dummy bouncing off the cab ceiling. Her body becomes a ragged missile, mashing into me. Now we are one, melding together against the driver’s door, then she is torn away by centrifugal force. Everything slows and melts, I remember a joy ride called The Wild Mouse: it’s her memory, our memory. How can I be thinking this in the middle of a car crash? There is a shrieking metal soundtrack, cymbals of smashed glass crash and diminish as the car settles on its blown-out tires. My head lolls, neck feels broken, everything numb. I want this crazy dream to stop, but her mouth is against my ear, she's leaning in through my window. “See what I can do?” she hisses. Reflexively I unclench the seat belt, drag myself across to the other door and push desperately on the handle, but it won’t give. Fear makes me strong. I ram the door with my shoulder, and as it flies open I spill headfirst out into the dust, or some of me does. With my arms guarding my face, I manage a half-roll onto my back, but my legs are still stuck, twisted on the floor of the cab. My vision clears and there she is, silhouetted against the sky staring down at me. There’s a vast silence except for the wind sighing across the Nullarbor Plain. Like the silence that has fallen between me and the girl I used to be. “You could’ve killed us,” I cry. “Better dead than dead-alive,” she cuts in. She comes around behind me, so I can’t see her, and I tense for what might happen, but she only wraps her long, freckled arms around my chest and hauls me out of the car. It hurts as she props me against the back wheel, and maybe I should stay afraid, but I love her touch, I’m comforted by it. I try to take her hand, but she quickly pulls away. She reaches into the wrecked car, dragging out my old briefcase from behind the seat. 48
She rips it open with strong hands, her voice becoming a sarcastic sing-song. “What’s in here, then? Oh, how interesting: briefs, policy documents, protocols, letters to clients, and here’s some certificates! Wow, haven’t we done well for the mining industry?” She explodes. “Lawyer lady, how could you sell us out to that corporate parasite?” I try to reach towards the case, but she skips away, pulling out one fat sheaf of paper after another, tearing the pages apart and throwing them away. They drift around me and flutter like sterile moths into the scrub. She strides back and squats in front of me. “Where’s our heart work? Make any poems lately, or stories, what about the novel? What did you actually create in your precious holidays?” Her hair is like a curtain of red copper tangling and whipping around her. My hair, before I pinned it into neat submission. She’s in my face, snarling. “We lived on almost nothing, but we shared spaces and belongings, we worked with our friends, remember friends? We were doing great, anthology out, publishers interested, reciting work at those slams! People told us to keep going no matter what. We were alive, happy, before you pushed me under! What happened? Why are you always dragging us back to that luxury lockup you call a home, and that bullshit, boring job that pays for it?” I want to explain, but I realize there’s no point in going on about the hurt and disappointments that made me the fearful, grasping woman she’s attacking. She’s been inside me through it all. I’ve betrayed the vivid girl I once was. “Dead-alive” is what I used to call people who betrayed their soul, but I had no idea how easy it was to fall. Losing confidence, fed up with just getting by, settling for conventional jobs. I’ve put away all my principles, laid them in the same coffin as my sore heart, nailed down the lid with bitterness and skepticism. In return they give me money, compensation for years of compromise. Now I realize that every contract renewal I’ve signed has been a suicide pact, that the company was mining me, just as surely as it was drilling into Earth, destroying her, extracting her riches, leaving her crushed and polluted, pushing us both toward extinction. “We can do so much better than gradual
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suicide.” Her voice is gentle now. “So much heart work unfinished, so much beauty we can offer.” I look directly at her and make a promise with my eyes. This time she doesn’t withdraw, she comes straight back into me. * I push myself up, away from the shadow of the car. Bright light touches my dusty face as I rise; it’s painful, but a crowd of tiny finches chee-chee merrily through the spinifex, shitting on the scattered documents as they go. I’m smiling, then laughing, as I do a dance amid the snow of paper around the wreck, kicking at the emptied briefcase as I go by. Before I lock it up, I stuff the debris of my old life into the cab of the Holden.
Perhaps someone will torch it before it can be salvaged. A sacrificial fire in the timeless majesty of the Nullarbor. It’s just a scramble up the gravel onto the verge. The ribbon of road melts away into horizon, a shimmering blend of ochre earth and cerulean sky. I pull the last pins from my hair, feel it tumble out, feel the wind catching it. My body settles into a leisurely sway as I walk, my cocky right thumb at the ready. _________________________________ Dwelling in the Northern Rivers of NSW, Elspeth Findlay’s poetry and prose are published in the Northerly, Emergent Literary Journal, and Furiously Knocking. Elspeth is studying a Bachelor of Arts, majoring in Creative Writing.
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POETRY
Riptide BY KELLIE FELFOLDI
__________ soft pliable sand innocent and dormant victim of the sea rumbling waves rise a plane that never lifts off new wave drowns the last drowns the past to be drowned itself grinding down the sand from smooth stones to smoother sand floors cool not calm sand flies swarm salt stinging eyes driftwood bones batter rocks each wave reaching reaching further and higher grasping at the land until it grasps me soft pliable flesh foolishly fighting victim of the sea rumbling waves rise a plane that never lifts off new wave drowns the last drowns the past to be drowned itself grinding down the flesh from smooth skin to smoother bones cool not calm helicopters swarm salt no longer stinging eyes human bones batter rocks each wave reaching reaching further and higher grasping at the land until it grasps you
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SHORT STORY
Me and the Sea BY SHELL-SEA ELLEM
It’s seven on a Sunday morning, and Pete’s at it again on the mower. He is, mind you, the only one who actually bothers to mow the lawn in this dump of a town. But seven on a Sunday morning? Fuck, that’s not on! I kick off the doona and stagger over to the window. I try to jam the damn salt-rusted thing open to yell out some abuse, but then realise I’m still stark naked. I fling the curtains back and grab my dressing gown instead. I stiffly walk down the hall past the kids’ old rooms. Leaving the bathroom door wide open, I plonk myself down on the dunny. With my bare ass exposed to the freezing air, I slump over last week’s paper. I’m not much of a reader, but I’m the type who likes to take my sweet time on the loo, so I don’t mind sinking my teeth into The Telegraph all the while. I like to know what’s going on outside of this old town Cathos every now and again. The pipes clang and rattle in the rickety cottage as the dunny flushes, and bracing myself against the basin, I stare at myself in the streaky mirror. Same old dial, and despite the smudged mascara, I wink at myself and grin. “Doin’ orright for an old gal.” I’ve always unnerved blokes. Just a swing of the old hips and the lads around town still get a little jittery, though I’m getting worse for wear every day. I lean in close to the mirror to examine my drooping eyelids and my blotchy skin. My head pulses, and it feels like there’s a few bats in the attic. God, hangovers get worse with age. 53
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I turn the tap on, but it takes a little while for the pipes to kick into action. Eventually, they spurt some icy water into the basin. I splash my face then rub it fiercely with the hand towel. I look in the mirror once again. “God, what am I gonna do today?” My stomach growls, and I walk to the kitchen. The tiles are cold underfoot, and I mutter something about saving up to carpet the place. I open the fridge and stare at the guts of it for a while–full of beer and not a whole lot else. I figure that beer for brekky isn’t a great habit to get into. With nothing to eat and nothing to do (except for the backlog of washing piling up in the laundry), I decide to head to the beach. It’s about time I got outta the house. Been doing a lot of drinking by myself in the lounge room these last few weeks. I open the front door, and a gust of wind tears through the house. I pull my dressing gown tighter. I walk barefoot on the dewy grass to the old panel ute in the driveway. My brother, Jimmy, left it for me. It used to be red, but it’s faded now to the colour of a rotten peach. It’s a banged-up, leaky old beater, but I like it. If nothing else, it reminds me of him. It takes a few goes before the engine kicks into gear, and when it does, the exhaust spurts a whole lotta gritty smoke. I’ve got to wait a coupla moments for it to clear before I can see out the back window to reverse. It takes me three minutes to get to the beach, and two of those minutes are driving along a twenty-metre stretch of potholes. The council doesn’t invest much money into this town. We have always been a forgotten lot. I reverse the old beater into the north-end car park, wrap myself up in a coupla crusty towels, and sit on the tray. The onshore wind hits me with an onslaught of sand and the stench of seaweed. I squint my eyes into that bastard sun. The panelled tray isn’t particularly comfy, and when I lean back, the tray digs into my spine. I grab a few more towels and lay them over the tray to make it a little comfier. It’s not exactly pleasant sitting here, but I suppose it’s better than moping around the house all day. I reach into the front cabin and grab a tattered copy of The Old Man and the Sea from the dash. It’s got “C.P.S. Library” 54
stamped on the second page. I took it from the school library all those decades ago and never read it. I just found it in the back of my wardrobe the other day, amongst a few mothballs. I tell you what: your past is always lurking somewhere, whether it be in the back of your mind or the shadows of your wardrobe. So many people think you can just get up one day and run away from it all as though it’s of no consequence. But take it from me, your past is a part of you, and there’s no escaping it, no matter how fast or how far you run. I haven’t read much of the book, but it’s a thin one, not too many words. With no kids in the house anymore, no bloke and my brother buggered off to the city, I’ve got plenty of time on my hands. And fuck me, I’ve resorted to reading. I don’t really know what the story’s about. I kinda just read it without reading, if you know what I mean. I read a sentence, then another, then a chapter–and fuck, who knows what just happened! It just gives me space to think about my own story–not a very exciting one. I spent the whole shebang in the one bloody house. Back in the day, that was what every sitting Bob did. No one thought about leaving. It was a meat-and-potatoes kinda town, and back in the day, everyone was satisfied with what they were dished. If you were a bloke, you worked in the mines, and if you were a lady, you had a coupla kids. That was the way life worked. It was just us at Cathos. The only other people that came were the blow-in surfers from up and down the coast of a Sunday, and the lingerie ladies from outta town of a Wednesday and Friday night at the pub–though, occasionally, a Catho gal would make an appearance in her lingerie too. If a bloke blew all his wages on beer, the missus would put her dignity aside to put dinner on the table by flashing her titties. I never got that desperate. My bloke pissed off ten years ago, but I got myself a job making snittys in the pub kitchen. The bastard left me to raise the kids by myself on $20 an hour. It’s a quarter of the wage of the lingerie ladies, but a gal has to draw the line somewhere. Besides, it gets to be nippy work in the winter. Just about everyone from the old days is gone. Everyone, except bloody Pete with the lawn
SHORT STORY
mower. I think it was the church pastor who took off first, and my husband pissed off not too long after. Each for very different reasons, though: one for the "calling of the Lord" and the other for the big bucks and boobs elsewhere. The mines began to dry up a good decade ago, and there was a mass exodus amongst the old codgers for the coal, dosh, and titties in Kalgoorlie, except instead of crossing the Red Sea, they crossed the red earth. The young ones took off for the big city. My brother was amongst them. He went to Uni to study everything from engineering to Plato, Jimmy tells me. What hit me the hardest, though, was when my kids left. That was just a few weeks ago. Up until then, I was going okay. I was working my ass off tryna get dinner on the table and didn’t have time to think about much else. They always warned me that they’d leave. They told me that they’d applied for Uni, that they got accepted. But I never really listened. I didn’t want to believe them. Then a coupla weeks ago, I came home and they were gone. And I was left alone in this empty old house. I got a call from Jimmy a few days later saying they were with him. That they were starting Uni. And I shoulda been proud, shoulda replied with a “you fucking beauty!” But instead, I hung up and cried. All I felt was alone. Alone and abandoned. Do you know what it feels like to have every single person you have ever loved walk out on you and leave you behind? Do you know what it feels like to sit in the dark for hours listening to the fire hiss and seethe until you can’t stand it
no more, until you finally drink yourself to sleep? This whole fucking town has upped and left me behind. I look out at the sea, and it’s all wind-blown, churning all around with red algae. My hair whips back and forth across my face. Sometimes I wonder what Kalgoorlie would be like. All those thousands of kays away. Or Sydney. The brother rarely comes to visit, and the kids have only called once since leaving. They said it’s the duck’s nuts down there. Though they didn’t say it like that; they use smart words and that now, apparently. I get the feeling that they’re embarrassed by where they come from, embarrassed that their mother raised them with a wage from the pub in a potholed town. I think maybe they’re tryna leave their past behind. And I know this place ain’t nothing special. And sometimes I wonder myself what it’d be like to leave. Sometimes I wish I had the courage to just piss off too. But I dunno. I’ve got this deep gut feeling that it was always just meant to be me and the sea. _________________________________ Shell-sea Ellem was the kind of girl who read by torchlight under her doona after lights out. She still loves a good yarn and is now learning the art of spinning one. Currently she is working on a series of short stories inspired by Cathos, her local surf break. She is studying the Associate Degree of Creative Writing at Southern Cross University.
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