the creative issue 2018
creative issue
We asked you to put down those text books and pick up those pens (and paint and cameras and keyboards) to create something special. We can happily say that we bring you just that! Inside these pages are just some of the amazing submissions we received for the Creative Competition. Enjoy!
thank you!
Here’s to you, the Creatives! Empire Times is proud to support the endless creativity and expression of Flinders University students! We at Empire Times would like to thank Emma Hough-Hobbs, a dear friend and former contributor for the cover, and Shreya Rajeevan for the back cover image. Extra special thanks to Jess Nicole who designed the layout for this issue. Most importantly, thank you to every person who sent us their work! We are so glad to witness and encourage the incredible creative talent here at Flinders and sincerely hope to work with you all in the future!
Runner up
POETRY
MOTHER by Georgina Banfield
1st place
EVENINGS IN PARKS by Elizabeth Middleton
Runner up
PLACES OF WONDER by Richard Falkner
1st place
MAIKOS IN KYOTO by Danielle Yap
Runner up
ANTHROPOID by Nathan Solly
VISUAL ART
DEAD MEAT by Marina Deller-Evans
PHOTOGRAPHY
FICTION
1st place
1st place
PORTRAIT FOR KAT by Courtney Egan
Runner up
DREAMSCAPE by Loretta O’Connor
contents
2 8 13 14
DEAD MEAT
Fiction by Marina Deller-Evans
MOTHER
Fiction by Georgina Banfield
MAIKOS IN KYOTO Photography by Danielle Yap
EVENINGS IN PARKS Poetry by Elizabeth Middleton
16 17
ANTHROPOID Photography by Nathan Solly
PLACES OF WONDER Poetry by Richard Falkner
18 19 20
PORTRAIT FOR KAT Visual Art by Courtney Egan
DREAMSCAPE Visual Art by Loretta O’Connor
<DIGITISED.>
Fiction by Shevaun Rutherford
26 28
PIPE DREAM
Poetry by Loretta O’Connor
SUMMER NOSTALGIA Poetry by Carly Pearse
29
PHOTOGRAPHY by Caleb Pattinson by Danielle Wong
1
creative issue first place
fiction
D E A D M E A T by Marina Deller-Evans
By the time he leaves the slaughterhouse, the trees are glowing – alight by the evening sun. He inevitably squints for the whole drive home. His bones ache. The red dust that roars up behind his car as he drives settles anywhere and everywhere. It is a permanent fixture beneath his nails. It’s a part of him now. He doesn’t like the car drive home, the morning drive is much nicer. For one thing, on the morning stretch he can listen to the chatty local broadcaster, bright and bubbly. He can juggle his breakfast while steering. He can bring his coffee in a thermos and sometimes even manage a crisp apple or a sandwich before the day’s events turn his stomach to knots. He can savour the simplicity of it all. At the start of the day, the thin, scraggly concrete which stretches in a mostly straight line is peaceful. The kangaroos who sometimes gather by the roadside are inquisitive. The sky is calm, the sun mild. He is calm and mild. Not so for the rest of the day – the rest of the day he skins animals. He pulls skin from flesh
”
creative issue first place
fiction
The dirty workers eat in a different room from the clean; a large, lifeless thing of a space. Yellowing-grey walls, metal benches and tables bolted to the floor. He thinks it looks more like a prison than any kind of rest area. But there, they rest. and flesh from bone. In his worn hands, whole creatures, whole beings, become a product. In the schoolyard he and his friends used to say, ‘You’re dead meat.’ They’d chase after one other with sticks, laughing. Some of those school-friends ended up here too, on the ‘dirty’ side with him. They don’t laugh too much anymore. The ‘dirty’ side of the slaughterhouse is the undesirable part of an undesirable system neatly divided in two: before killing, and after. Clean, and dirty. Live animals, dead meat. One half of the building is walled off from the rest. The clean side where the cows enter, where they are muscled into neat lines, where they are walked to their death – it is out of sight from the dirty workers. And the dirty workers are out of sight of the clean. The machinery between the two sides sends him gifts; beasts with hollow eyes,
”
slack mouths. Beasts who are now nothing but heavy slabs of meat. But still – he looks at the eyes and mouths. He can’t help it. It is his job to skin the animals, it is not his job to kill them. The system is there – the wall between the dirty and the clean – to make sure they do not feel that any one of them have killed, have taken a soul. It’s meant to send them home with clear consciences. It doesn’t. Especially not for the dirty workers. The dirty workers eat in a different room from the clean; a large, lifeless thing of a space. Yellowinggrey walls, metal benches and tables bolted to the floor. He thinks it looks more like a prison than any kind of rest area. But there, they rest. They pick at their food and chat about what little they have going on outside that place. He talks of his wife’s cooking, of the veggie patch she is nurturing in their garden. He chats about sport and the latest movies. He never mentions his
3
creative issue first place
daughters – he doesn’t want their names within the walls. To this place, they don’t exist. To them, this place doesn’t exist. He wants to keep it that way. At days end, the assembly line and workers alike creak to a halt. The workers rinse themselves in showers which spit tepid water. Their parts as cogs in a machine complete until tomorrow, they trudge to their cars. *** He drives with the sun in his eyes, and the red dust on his tail. Pulling in to his house, he allows a moment to drink it in – home. Splintering beige porch beams support a deep green tin roof. Faded red bricks yawn from one end to the other, only interrupted by a window or two. The steps to the door are little concrete rounds surrounded by pebbles. The concrete rounds are painted in smatterings of bright colours; a project for the girls to decorate when they moved in. He treads lightly. He arrives at the door, droopy eyed and slack. Dirty. He musters the energy to bring the key to the lock. Pauses before he pushes at the wood. Takes a deep breath. They can’t smell the death on him – they never do. How could they? They’ve never known it. The dog is always wary of him
fiction
when he arrives home, before he showers, but the girls are unaware. They rush to him, wrap their arms around each of his legs and jump up and down. He shuffles slowly for fear of toppling, and looks up to see his wife in the doorway to the kitchen. He smiles ruefully at her and she winks, waves her wooden spoon at him, and turns back to their dinner. She’s making something spicy, something sweet. The warmth, the scent, envelops the tiny house. ‘Papa! Papa!’ the girls chant, grinning upwards at him from around his ankles. ‘Okay, enough, get on up, let me look at you,’ he gently pulls them from him. They straighten up, the smaller one stands on her tippy toes. Though they have matching coal-black hair and midnight eyes, and wear similar overalls and strappy sandals, there is two years between them. The youngest is trying to make up the height. They look to him expectantly. ‘You’ve both got taller,’ he announces. ‘But you said that yesterday –’ the taller one grumbles, ‘I’ve definitely grown more than
creative issue first place
fiction
anyone else, even in my whole school!’ the smaller one says, barely containing her pride.
dog opens one eye suspiciously, she knows she’s not meant to be on the bed.
‘Still – I think you’ve both grown. I’ll measure you after dinner, first Papa is having a shower, and then dinner.’
‘Don’t worry, I won’t tell’ he whispers and scruffs between her ears as he heads for the shower.
They follow him to the door of the bedroom where he closes it almost all the way, sticks his nose out (it never fails to make them giggle) and says, ‘Go help your mother.’
He’s showered once already at work, but the spluttering water and grimy tiles of the dirty-work quarters are not enough. This second shower is his ritual. He washes away as much of the day as he can – the sweat along the back of his neck and under his arms, the blood from around his wrists and between his fingers. Though he wears gloves and a special suit and showers twice, blood is stubborn – it finds its way to wherever it can and clings, rust on his brown skin. He scrubs himself raw. When he emerges, it’s like having a new
He closes the door all the way, and hears them scurry to the kitchen. Down the hall he hears his wife, ‘Goodness me, two willing helpers? Well, stir this pot here if you can – carefully! And help butter this, please…’ The dog is on their bed, curled up in a little ball like a cat. The
Though he wears gloves and a special suit and showers twice, blood is stubborn – it finds its way to wherever it can and clings
5
creative issue first place
fiction
skin. He is reborn. He is clean.
amazing feast,’ he smiles.
Once he is dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, he makes his way to the kitchen. His wife sprinkles herbs over a steaming potato dish, he gathers the cutlery and plates and takes them to the lounge room. Beside their little round table is a plush sofa where the girls are seated watching TV. They are surrounded by pillows, wordless, watching a cartoon which hums away quietly. A rare moment of peace between them.
The girls scramble to the table, the older one tucks her napkin into her collar and holds her knife and fork – in the wrong hands. He gently swaps them around for her. They tuck in. They talk about the veggie patch, the girls’ upcoming dance at school, Mr Singh from across the road and his new car. When dinner is finished, his wife asks the girls to help with the washing up.
His wife walks in and out with bits and pieces for the table: a pan of spiced meats dotted with pomegranate and herbs, the potatoes, homemade yoghurt. She turns to him, ‘Can you help me grab the rest please, love?’ He pulls her in for a quick kiss hello, and obliges, moving to the kitchen to grab a pile of hot bread rolls. ‘Alright, girls, dinner!’ his wife clicks off the TV and dismayed groans ensue. She sits at the table and tucks her dark hair behind her ears. ‘Now, now. Gonna come sit up here with Papa? Look at this
‘But I don’t want to,’ The older one sighs. The little one’s eyes light up, and she gives a sly smile, ‘We’ll help if Papa tells us about work.’ His wife looks at him and raises her eyebrows. He nods. ‘Alright, alright. Today was a particularly good day…’ ‘Yeah?’ ‘Get up on the stools, I’ll wash while you girls dry. I’ll tell you while we go.’ They dart up to the sink. Their mother hands them tea-towels and retreats to the lounge to read. The dog skulks out from the bedroom and rests by her feet.
creative issue first place
‘Today at work… I helped a fairy find her lost sister,’ he begins. ‘No way!’ ‘Yes way. She was only this small,’ he puts down a plate for a moment to hold his fingers a few inches apart, ‘and she had a dress made of soft leaves.’ ‘Wow… what did her sister look like?’ ‘Well I didn’t see the sister until we found her, of course. First, the little fairy told me that her sister had been wandering in the woods and encountered a mean witch!’ ‘A witch? With a big nose and a cat?’ ‘Yes, an old lady with a very big nose, and a very snarly cat. She had tricked the fairy’s sister into coming into her home, and being her cook and cleaner forevermore…’
fiction
so small… I ate them all!’ He laughed a full, belly laugh and cuddled the girls close to him. *** After the girls bathe and he and his wife watched twenty minutes of the tinny TV at the end of their bed, the house settles for sleep. His wife kisses him, her hand behind his neck. She tastes of sweet, minty toothpaste. He closes his eyes. Breathes in the mild scents of their room: freshly washed clothes, bedding, his wife’s hair, the warmth of her skin. He pulls her closer. He holds the moment in his mind, holds it gently with cupped hands. He is swept into sleep.
He made the story up as he went along, as he always did. When he washed the last few plates he wrapped it up, ‘Then the fairy and her sister invited me over for tea to say thank you. I wanted to bring you back some cakes, but they were
7
creative issue runner up
fiction
MOTHER
by Georgina Banfield
Christie wrenched one of her mother’s white roses out of the thicket below her crumbling window frame. She placed it in a brown paper bag that her younger sisters used to put their lunch in. That was back when they had enough money for them to eat more than one meal a day. She wrapped her old, thin coat around her malnourished body. A mink coat would have been nicer – like the one her boss’ wife owned. The Depression hit hard and there was no chance she could afford one. She couldn’t have afforded one before the world went into recession. With the paltry sum she earned cleaning, she couldn’t even pay for her younger sibling’s lunch. Not to mention their frayed shoes, outgrown clothes and house repairs. The Depression had taken its victims and left only the women. Her father had tramped the Hungry Mile from Darling Harbour to Miller’s Point, only furthering the famished pit in his stomach. Her brother picked up where he left off. Eight — now seven — mouths to
feed and only £4 between them. Christie walked past the workman’s terraces, the ones which lay dilapidated and crumbling with each battering of the sea breeze. Balmain was never the working man’s paradise. It was a shit stain on the trousers of Sydney. The lamppost emitted a dim light to guide home weary workers. A dock worker stumbled down the road, singing a shanty to himself. He swayed towards her, his arms banging against the lamppost. Grabbing onto the post, he locked eyes with her. His shadow loomed over Christie as he staggered. His breath smelt of cheap beer from the Cricketer’s Arms. It materialised in the form of fog in the cold. She slipped her father’s rusty pocket knife between her knuckles. With a shaking hand, Christie held it up. It didn’t stop him from moving closer. The stench of booze seeped from his pores. The dim light refracted off the knife’s blade, forcing the man
creative issue runner up
backwards. He stumbled into the gutter and walked away giving her a wide berth. ‘Bitch,’ he murmured at her, spitting on the ground. He limped away, wiping at his mouth. She approached the abandoned Catholic Church which sat adjacent to the graveyard. The one her parents lay in. The cold bit at her hands like needles pricking her skin, stabbing deep down into the very marrow of her bones. It whipped at her face, stinging her chapped lips. The crucifix around her neck burnt against her exposed skin. She sighed. There was no point in religion when everyone seemed to suffer. She ripped her necklace off and threw it into the abyss of the graveyard. It wasn’t worth anything anymore. It wouldn’t save her from starving. The pawn shop refused to take it. They had too many already. Two doors down stood the Order of the Odd Fellows Hall, next to the abandoned lolly shop. The large, wooden door loomed over her. Both of her frail hands struggled to push it open. Candlelight flickered, threatening to blow out with the opening of the door. The flames illuminated the dark brick building, providing a faint light. It cast a light on the paintings, giving the interior a wine-red colouring. Bone coloured bricks seemed to close in on her as she entered.
fiction
Christie made her way to the row of chairs and sat next to Mrs Grayson. She too came religiously to the meetings. Sitting in the third row, hands folded on her red prayer book. One day Johnny will come back, she kept repeating. Johnny hadn’t. He had remained dead on a hillside at Gallipoli. Taking the older woman by the hand, the two of them went up to the solitary man standing by a table. A frayed bowler hat covered his eyes and a large black overcoat concealed his body. Christie took the paper bag out of her pocket. She offered it to him. He took it silently, his torso turning to place it on the metal tray. It sat atop of the wooden table, covered with a multitude of bags. Dying petals peeked out from them: roses, rue, rosemary and lavender. Mrs Grayson gave the man her bag. It rustled as he put it down. The red petal of a dying poppy fell onto the floor. The women’s heels clicked against the wooden floor as they made their way back to the hard, wooden chairs. The floor creaked with each step. Termites scurried out of the floorboards, only to be crushed by their scuffed shoes. At least they died with their stomachs full. They sat stiffly in the chairs. Swinging her leg back, a splinter
9
creative issue runner up
caught Christie’s thigh. It caused a run in her stockings. It didn’t matter, she could fix with black eyeliner. Something her mother told her before her father died and she remained incapacitated on her bed with grief. Just another mouth to feed. The women waited for the medium to arrive. Mrs Grayson muttered hymns under her breath. She swayed in a trancelike state. ‘Draw nigh and take the Body of the Lord,and drink the holy blood for you outpoured.’ A twinge of guilt panged in Christie’s stomach. Bile rose in her throat. Chattering voices rose into the air and echoed off the walls. The paintings looked down on them; the red of Jesus’ blood dripped from his nailed hands and feet; the flood of Noah with a lion and a lamb looking out onto the endless expanse of water. They felt out of place. Wrong. As if to remind them that they were sitting in a den of sinners and engaging in mysticism. Something a good Christian would never do. Although Christie had lost the title of a good Christian around six months ago. The door flew open, slamming against the brick wall. The medium swept into the room like a spectre. She glided onto the stage, which was usually inhabited by the
fiction
Freemasons, sequestered in their secret conclaves. The medium took a long, focused look at the table of paper bags, taking in each and every one. Red long nails curled like talons as she selected Mrs Grayson’s paper bag. Her inky black hair contrasted her dove white skin. Her raven black dress was boxy and concealed any womanly curves. She tore the paper bag down the middle exposing the poppy. She took a breath and held it up to her eyes. ‘Do you have anything you wish to say tonight?’ Her soft, breathy voice wafted into the air. Silence. The room held their breath in anticipation, waiting for an answer. She shook her head
Bile rose in Chattering into the air off the wall
creative issue runner up
and put it down. The middle-aged woman sighed. Johnny didn’t have anything to say tonight. She turned to Christie for comfort, holding onto her hand tightly, much like Christie had turned to her when her father died. She picked up Christie’s white rose. Decay now framed its edges. A petal had fallen off and the stem had snapped. She released it. It fell to the floor as the woman convulsed. Despite seeing her thin body jerk and shake before, it never failed to make Christie shake with excitement and anxiety. The woman gagged and grasped her throat, gasping for air before straightening up as though it had never happened.
n her throat. voices rose and echoed ls.
fiction
She stared at Christie with her dull brown eyes. There was nothing behind them except exasperation. ‘My daughter.’ Her voice dropped multiple octaves. Her mother. She had prayed to receive a message from her father. For him to tell her that she had disposed of waste well and was providing sufficiently for her younger siblings. Instead, her mother’s voice came from the medium. She spoke in her deep and disappointed tone that Christie had not come to miss. She had done the right thing she assured herself. She had done what needed to be done. Her body was held in place like she had been bound by heavy chains around her torso. She was transfixed. Every bone in her body screamed at her to look at the woman possessed by her mother’s spirit. Christie’s head jerked up, uncontrolled by her own will. Cold fingers poked and prodded her cheeks. Her eyes remained clenched as she twisted her head to the left, struggling to evade the ghostly fingers which reached out for her. Christie stared at the paintings to avoid looking at the medium. Instead of Jesus’ tortured body, there was Jezebel being ripped
11
creative issue runner up
apart by the dogs. Instead of Noah saving the animals from the flood her focus was drawn to the bodies floating in the water, their faces screaming for help but to no avail. ‘My daughter, look at me!’ the medium cried. Something grabbed her jaw and forced her to look. A sob was torn from her lips, much like her mother’s final breath as she struggled against the weight of the pillow. Her arms lashed out, striking at the figure who knelt down, their knee on her sternum. Christie’s breaths came out in gasps like she was being suffocated. She reached a hand up to her throat, trying to pry the invisible hands off her. Christie
fiction
felt the blood rush to her cheeks. Her eyes began to water and black spots danced before her eyes. They let go. ‘I gave you life, Christina. Why did you take away mine?’
creative issue first place
photography
MAIKOS IN KYOTO by Danielle Yap
13
EVENINGS IN PARKS Keep out of the dark. Stay in well-lit places. Be attentive. Mobile. Aware of our surroundings. Do this in the name of safety. Our safety… Or Our genders survival? I wonder. Would it be too much to ask for self-control? For respect. Would it be too much to acknowledge that this survival depends on two variables? An X and a Y. Chromosomes. Then again stay home. It’s safer there. For them, The independent variables. Yes. But for us Dependent on them…. It is not. Violence of a Domestic kind awaits instead. Victim When will the blaming stop.
creative issue first place
poetry
A date A time A year A society A world away, When we are not worlds apart. What parameters will they place on us then? We will not dress in red. Or be “Of” Anything Praise be We are not maids to their gender, But we continue to serve. To cook, To clean. Instead of this narrative We must bang the pots, And makes some god awful noise. We must walk in the dark, Run if we have to… We will not stay home. POST TENEBRAS LUX Ladies Women XX NON DESISTAS NON EXIERIS Continue to walk through parks.
by Elizabeth Middleton
15
creative issue runner up
ANTHROPOID by Nathan Solly
photography
creative issue runner up
poetry
PLACES OF WONDER by Richard Falkner
No matter where you go You can find them. If you are prepared to look, Slightly indirectly. Before you realise You will be In a place of wonder. No matter how you go You can feel them. The breath-taking beauty Of their surrounds. Hear the sounds and Rhythms of the life-forces That dwell within their bounds. No matter where you go You can touch them. Reach out and brush leaves With the back of your hand. Smell the resins, pollens and dung. Life abounds to encircle the senses In places of wonder.
17
creative issue first place
PORTRAIT FOR KAT by Courtney Egan
visual art
VISUA ART
creative issue runner up
visual art
DREAMSCAPE by Loretta Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Connor
AL 19
creative issue
fiction
<DIGITI by Shevaun Rutherford
creative issue
SED.> The ship had been drifting for hundreds of thousands of years. It was a little thing. Solar panels to fuel its movement. An immense computer made from a glass slab, with delicate patterns etched into it, and lasers to read the information stored within. There was no air, no food, no water or medicine, or any other life support systems on the ship, yet it boasted a crew of 40 members.
HWCJ8924 was tapping into sensors on the ships exterior, perceiving their gradual movement through the void, hearing clicks of radiation the hardware picked up. It was the closest thing to bodily sensation they had felt since they were alive. Simultaneously, they were analysing French and German reports on the theoretical nature of Trappist-1, the solar system their ship arched towards. Another component of the super computer was engaging with another crew member, DSPN3861, in a simulation of go, on a 213 by 213 grid, just to pass the time.
fiction
body. The heads swayed in the breeze, appearing to dance across the greying sky. She gripped the scratchy straws underneath her fingertips. A voice drifted on the wind billowing through the grass. She sat up. Before her was a single dirt road, snaking through the fields, lined with utility poles weighed down by thick locks of wire. Behind her, her mother Rosa was waving her over, a speck in the distance. She scrambled to her feet and began over. ‘Quickly! Your aunt will be here soon!’ Rosa yelled, before disappearing towards the house. Anne jogged through the long blades. Max was sitting on the back porch, throwing his ball out to the sheepdog, giggling as it returned the ball to him in its slobbering mouth. Rosa stood by the flyscreen door. ‘You better go change.’ ‘I will, Rosa,’ she said, stepping inside. ‘Need a hand?’ Rosa asked her son.
And yet another corner of their synthetic mind managed to drift in vacant daydreaming, back to a time when they were known as Anne Church.
‘Yes, please,’ said Max, his words slurring. Rosa lifted him into his wheelchair, a worn amalgamation of a bicycle and a dining chair.
***
Anne went to Max’s room after she had changed to show Rosa her dress. She nodded. ‘You look nice.’ Max finished tying his shoes with stiff hands. Rosa was
Anne lay in a bed of tall yellow wheat, blades bending and curling around her
21
creative issue
helping him with his dress jacket when the knocking came at the door. All were still for a moment before heavy knocking shook the house once more. ‘Quick, quick!’ Rosa frantically straightened the kids’ hair before hurrying them into the living room. Rosa held Max’s hands as he unsteadily raised from his wheelchair and dropped down onto the squeaky couch. She rocketed the wheelchair into a closet and locked the door shut with a key she shoved into her pocket. Dorian, Anne’s father, rushed past the living room and opened the front door, his brow gleaming with sweat. Two servants of the dead stood at the door, their faces hidden within their black cowls. Anne’s aunt would not be arriving in person. It was possible for the dead to be uploaded into the body of a clone, but that was declared illegal decades ago, activists arguing that replacing clones’ minds was equivalent to murder. The servants walked in wordlessly, began preparing for the communication. The family shared glances at one another. Those standing sat on the couch beside Max. Lay folk were unaccustomed to interacting with servants of the dead, and servants of the dead with the living. They were the few people who became educated during their lifetime, whose job was to be the dead’s hands, maintaining their hardware, performing updates.
fiction
Direct communication with the lay folk and the dead was extremely uncommon. It was beginning to darken outside, but the servants drew the curtains shut anyhow. The holographic screen would perform better in perfect darkness. The servants receded to the corners of the room. Everyone was still. There was flicker of blue light as the hologram activated. An image of a person waving appeared in the room’s centre. The screen flicked to more welcoming images, a mother waving a child’s hand, a crowd seeing a ship off, their cheers emitting from the speakers. Dorian smiled, his eyes glistening. ‘Hello, Mercedes,’ he welcomed his late sister. Suddenly the pale blue light emitting from the screen flashed red. The hologram switched to a closeup of a dog’s growling mouth, its barking playing on the speakers at full volume. The words overlaying the growls were composed of a mismatch of voices, grabbed from countless libraries of recordings. <Mercedes Church is dead! I am LVCJ7152! The names of the living are senseless. The concept of gender they imply is a waste of time!> Anne bowed her head lower. Dorian was stunned to silence. The room
creative issue
fiction
remained tense, red, but gradually softened to a cooler hue. <My apologies. You will understand when you are dead.> Dorian let out a nervous laugh. He stuttered, ‘You must admit this is unusual. I thought, maybe… What do we owe for your miraculous presence?’ <This family has always struggled to pull its weight. Has your toil been successful? Do you think you are doing enough to deserve the preservation of your minds?> ‘We’ve been successful enough,’ said a defensive Rosa. ‘We’ve been working our lives away.’ ‘And may we ask how you have been spending your time?’ sputtered Dorian, face upturned in a fearful smile. <At this very second, I am composing a symphony taking advantage of the entire aural spectrum, overcoming the limited comprehension of the ears of the living.> Unintelligible music sheets flashed across the hologram, notes being added as they watched. ‘Oh?’ Dorian lilted. <But enough.> The sheets were swept offscreen. <I have not become acquainted with your offspring.> Rosa gestured to her daughter beside her. ‘This is Anne, and our son Max. They’re both very hard workers.’
23
creative issue
<The older one looks strong. The other one, come closer to the camera.> Anne tensed. ‘Rosa, I can help him-’ Rosa was staring straight ahead, paralysed. Dorian’s head buried into his hands. ‘It’s okay, Anne.’ Max piped up for the first time since the servants entered their home. He turned to the screen boldly and began to rise from his seat. He stood, then stuck out a shaky leg. He stepped forward unevenly, his torso jerking to keep himself balanced. ‘I’m sorry I can’t go faster, Aunt Mercedes. There was a farming accident. I can’t walk very far by myself.’ The servants of the dead dropped their professionality, hoods snapping to the boy. Static erupted from the speakers. The hologram lit the room with red spears. Lights around the house grew, burned a bright white light. The sound of shattering globes accompanied the darkness that fell over the house. *** Anne untangled from the mess of wires that scanned her brain each night. If one was to die unexpectedly, you would want the digitisation of your mind, your memories to be as recent of a file as possible.
fiction
Slipping on a plain dress, she walked out to the corridor, but stopped dead when she heard the conversation in the front doorway. She hid behind a wall. ‘You can’t do this!’ Dorian’s voice flamed. ‘You dare prevent his freedom, his enlightenment from his broken body?’ the voice was low, slick. Anne’s heart jumped in her chest. It was one of the servants. They had been hanging around the pastures ever since they left with LVCJ7152. ‘You know digitized minds cannot be activated until the individual is deceased. We can’t have two versions of the same person about. And there is no purpose for him in society while he is living.’ ‘What about his brain injury? He’s got no goddamn purpose living or dead! Leave him be!’ The servant scoffed. ‘But of course, his injury will be corrected digitally.’ The floorboards creaked as Dorian stepped back. ‘You can’t. You can’t! That’s tampering! It’s illegal!’ Just then there was a scream. Anne leapt out from behind the wall, suddenly uncaring if Dorian saw her. She sprinted to the back door. Rosa was on her knees, sputtering incoherently. Anne looked out the door through which she stared. ‘Max!’ Anne found her legs sprinting
creative issue
through the long grass, the blades trying to trip her up, pull her back home. The second servant lofted Max over his shoulder. ‘Anne!’ was the last word she heard. ‘Max!’ She kept on running, even after the servants had loaded him into their vehicle and disappeared on the horizon. *** HWCJ8924 wondered if remembering their life, simulating it within their mechanic mind, digitising their memories, had removed all of semblance of their original self. They finished reading the Trappist-1 reports, played the final move in their game of go, vanquishing DSPN3861, and now turned their full attention to the void beyond the ship. The hull’s cameras spotted the seven terrestrial exoplanets, harmonically orbiting their dwarf star, Trappist-1. The ship was upon its destination. HWCJ8924 felt the interference glitch through their systems. The other crew members dropped their tasks, focussed all their power on removing the foreign entities from their computers. HWCJ8924 found themselves stunned to inaction. They watched the feed interrupting their cameras.
fiction
A being, all hairless flesh stared back into their systems, bony protrusions erupting from a pink orifice. Wide wet orbs stared, amazed. *** Bubbles floated up through the liquid, past their vision. Not a camera’s vision but eyesight. HWCJ8924 clenched the body they found themselves within. From inside the fluid tank the figures before them were indistinguishable blurs. They reached up to their aching head. The Trappist-1 locals must have put them in this body, their expansive mind struggling with the small storage space provided. They analysed their appendages. They were human hands. Understandable enough. The locals must have uncovered the DNA encoded into their supercomputers. Upon closer inspection, however, HWCJ8924 noticed familiar scars, palms calloused from farm work. They reeled. Had they managed to decode their epigenetics too? Or had they peered into their memories, laid every cut and graze on this body manually? HWCJ8924 wasn’t sure how they did it but they knew one thing. They beat on the tank walls. The figures turned, alarmed. If only they could get this technology to Max, hundreds of thousands of years away.
25
P I P E
E
creative issue
poetry
D R E A M I was afraid of buses and getting lost, I was afraid of breathing in too much car exhaust. When I thought that I had tamed the beast, It turned on me and had a feast. It morphed, and changed and grew another head And I began to wish that I was dead. No longer had I a fear of death, I wanted the car exhaust to take away my breath. I whimpered, groaned and longed to expire But the voice, it challenged me and called me a liar: That I didn’t really want to die and if I did I wouldn’t be dreaming of summers spent in Madrid.
by Loretta O’Connor
27
creative issue
poetry
SUMMER
NOSTALGIA
Summers ago,
When we were still young, As children we squabbled, And as friends we moved on. But as time sped by, And the seasons moved on, Cupid’s love-keen eye, You happened upon. Still so young and so hopeful, So easily wooed, And without any warning, Her love you pursued. And as high as you were, On those love-struck wings, You couldn’t have realised, What sorrow it brings.
by Carly Pearse
You were my brother, My friend and my foe, But you left me alone, With nowhere to go. Our mother cried, Tears of ocean blue, And father never gave up, Because we’ve always loved you. And now summer is back, And what horrid nostalgia it brings, To never laugh with you again, You have broken my wings.
creative issue
photography
by Caleb Pattinson
LIGHT THE WAY HOME by Danielle Wong
29