Empire Times 41.9 by FUSA Association

EMPIRE TIMES STUDENT MAG. ISSUE 9. VOL 41.

IT'S FREE!1

On the mall every Thursday 9.30am

EDITORIAL

“It doesn’t matter how slow you go as long as you don’t stop” -Confucius Wise words, Confucius, wise words indeed. We are nearing the end of term, noooooooooo! Issue 41.9 in your beautiful soft hands right now eeeek! But before we play the montage, take a moment to check out “A Letter to my Illness”, “Passing for Well” and “But Really, What Were They Wearing?”. Stunning, thought provoking and fantabulous! Okies, continue music plays.

montage/dramatic

Beyond feeling all nostalgic about this year coming to an end, I have started re-reading The Hunger Games in preperation for the Mocking Jay Part 1. Oh my golly gosh, you all have noooooooo idea how excited yet saddened I am to see the movie Finnick is all I’m really worried about. Not sure if I’ll be able to handle this movie! Anyways, we’ve had our Hunger Games moment, it’s time to go back to Confucious. Keep pushing to the end team, smash those assignments out at 2am in the morning, and cram for all the exams and tests the night before! You got this, I believe in you!

Hi all,

Hey guys and gals!

We have spoken to a bunch of student media nerds for this issue in order to get the goss on what it’s like working for a student publication elsewhere in Australia, the highlights and the challenges, and why student media is so god damn important. In speaking with six different publications, I have taken great solace in just how passionate and dedicated these editors are. So flick to the middle and have a read!

Hard to believe that the issue you’re holding in your hot little hands is the second to last one, eh?!

In other news, as Bethany has mentioned, the Emerging Writers’ Festival came to Adelaide for the first time ever (!!!) in early September which was extremely exciting. The ET editorial team and a bunch of contributors attended and spoke at the literary magazine launch. I also skipped and jumped to the ‘Mixtape Memoirs’ event at Hindley Street’s hipster Ancient World where writers, comic artists and musicians spoke, danced and sung their butts off to the theme of love and lust. A huge thanks to Raf for yet another incredible front cover. If anyone is thinking of doing Creative Arts (Digital Media), check his work out and it will more than likely convince you to enrol.

However keep in mind, do all of that after reading ET!

Kudos, as always, to all our contributors and readers.

Catcha laterz alligatorzzzzzz,

Jess

Things have been a little hectic round the ET office as we prepare for the end of 2014. We’re receiving some absolutely awesome content from you all, and are so excited to have been a part of helping students express their options and arts in the mag. Early last month we were involved in the EWF’s ‘Night of The Living Journals’ where we showed off our beautiful little mag, spoke about what ET is all about, and listened to some fab readings from other publications. We interviewed some fellow editors and writers, which you can find in the Vox Pop section. Make sure you all make time to relax as the year draws to a close. Too often students drive for the end of the year and literally study their brains out. Take time to breathe, guys! The year is nearly out, but it ain’t over yet! Hugs and high fives! Bethany

Jade

OH HELLO there. EDITORS: Jade Kelly, Bethany Lawrence & Jess Nicole.

empire.times@flinders.edu.au fb.com/empiretimesmag

Empire Times would like to acknowledge the Kaurna people who are the traditional custodians of the land Flinders University is situated on. We would also like to pay our respects to the elders past and present of the Kaurna nation and extend that respect to other Aboriginal peoples.

EMPIRE TIMES magazine is a publication of The Flinders University Student Association. For advertising information: stephanie.walker@ flinders.edu.au

THANK YOU to Michael Adams, Charles Chuang Chiam, Laura Telford, Emma Sachsse, Sarah Gates, Rohan Neagle, Ruby-Rose Niemann, Tim Walter, Miranda Richardson, Callum Mclean, Jacqui Lawson, Jack McEntee, Jo Schofield the sub-editors J.J Nestor (Features & Poetry/Prose), Shaun Hobby (Film & Crossword), the columnists Laura Telford (Politics), Kaisha Wyld (Feminism), the illustratorS Mel Pal (back cover), Madeleine Kartuz (Comic Artist), Rosemary Ellison and the cover artist Rafal Banasiak for their contributions, kindness and encouragement. The views expressed herein do not necessarily reflect the views of the editors or FUSA. All work within remains the property of the producers and may not be reproduced without their consent. Correction: We apologise for mispelling Jack McEntee’s name in his poem ‘I am a Pirate’ from Issue 8. We regret this error.

Index

Page

Contributor Spotlight

Mistress M

Politics

The Future Of Magazines

A Letter To My Illness

Nightmare Writing Gigs

Domestic Violence

Passing For Well

The Joy Of Working In Retail

Comic

VOX POP: Emerging Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Festival

National Student Publications: Q&A

Film

Music

Fiction

Art

Crossword

contributor spotlight

Michael Adams Tell us about yourself! I’m a twenty year old international studies student majoring in history. I’m unsure of what I want to do once I get my degree but right now I am just enjoying the university lifestyle. I have way too many interests that get in the way of Uni (or maybe Uni gets in the way of them), and I spend most of my time listening to records, playing sport, watching movies, reading, and writing. You write poetry for Empire Times, how did you become involved with poetry? When I was in high school, in year 10, we spent a term or so studying poetry for English and at that time I was having a pretty rough time with some personal problems. I read a few poems that just seemed to resonate with what I was going through and I started writing in my spare time and realised that it was something I really enjoyed. It just very quickly became a medium in which I could express myself in a creative and constructive manner rather than a destructive one. What is your all time favourite poem and why? The Raven by Edgar Allen Poe. Like anyone who saw it on one of the older Simpsons Halloween specials, it served as my introduction to poetry. I remember reading it when I started taking an interest in poetry and it was just beyond me how Edgar Allen Poe could evoke such strong emotions with his words. It seemed to me that every line and every verse had been perfectly crafted and every

word perfectly chosen. It made me realise more than I previously had before, the power that words can carry and really gave me a hunger to write myself. Best Flinders Moment? Best- After transferring from Behavioural Science into International Studies, getting my first honors recommendation was pretty cool. Sort of justified my decision to change courses and it was the point I started taking Uni a bit more seriously. One piece of advice you’d give to someone wanting to take over the world? Not that I spend my weekends plotting global domination but I would say it’s easier to rise to power when your subjects love you rather than fear you. Make sure the people love and respect you before you start introducing the idea of global domination into their minds. Most people don’t know that I ... Write poetry. It’s not something I keep hidden but it’s not exactly a topic that often pops up in day-to-day conversations. It seems less people take an interest in it these days or maybe just that less people are willing to admit they take an interest in it. For me, I have only ever written poetry to express myself and until recently I had no real impulse to share it with others. But once you find other people who enjoy poetry it is definitely something that you should share.

Letters to the Editors: Dear Empire Times, Just wanted to commend you on another fab issue released! I can only imagine the amount of hours and weeks that is put in whilst maintaining a load of study and to do it voluntarily too. Personally, my fave part is the VOX POP. I am such a nosey human being and it just opens my eyes to the vast type of people at Flinders, I love it! I have always wondered how people have been lucky enough to get printed in it. Before I graduate, one of my ultimate goals is to be featured in the VOX POP (on a good hair day too I’d hope). I just HAD to let you guys know that I am a very satisfied reader and acknowledge the hard word you all put in to publishing a really wonderful uni mag. ROUND OF APPLAUSE TO ALL OF YOU. Love and claps, Euginia Mirabel Du

~ An open letter to the FLO staff: Dear FLO staff, I recently had to see the FLO helpdesk at the library because I could not log into the computers at the library. I was told this was because my password wasn’t strong enough. To conform with the UltraSecure4000 (c) password policy, I was told, I had to include an uppercase letter in my password. Despite my objections, I set a new password, which was my old password but with one letter changed to uppercase. As I had predicted, I soon forgot to use my new password when logging in, but it took me a while to realise this, as, to my surprise, I was still able to log in with my old password. Upon further investigation I discovered your password system is actually case insensitive and I could log in with any upper/lowercase permutation of my password. At this point I would pose a number of questions to you, but I think they go without saying. Sincerely, Oscar Sadry

~ Feedback for the SEX issue (had to be capitals). Grey, grey, grey, with black writing made it a hard issue to read. I know there is a limited colour palette but dark grey with black writing was horrendous to read. Please avoid this in the future. Otherwise, a fun issue. Robbie

MISTRESS M

Being Single or Even Just Mostly Single or Singlish. Society, along with feeding us a bunch of crap about how we should all be looking and feeling, also seems to highly value us all “finding the one”. I have mentioned in passing that “finding the one” isn’t the be all and end of life, but I thought I might expand on this concept. You know what, let’s just start with the fact that you don’t necessarily even have to be having sex right now, or in the near future, or ever, if you don’t want or even if you want and can’t seem to manage it. Again we are bombarded with sexualised images these days and according to people like Gail Dines it is all pornography’s fault. I just think advertisers and magazine editors have no imagination when it comes to understanding the diversity of humanity, sexuality and human experience. And porn. For some people, their sexuality defines who they are and they feel the need to express it publicly but it doesn’t mean we all have to. I wrote a whole comedy show about mine! Just because someone is gay doesn’t mean they actually have to have sex to self-label. It isn’t the act that defines them. Just as if you are heterosexual you don’t have to have sex with a member of the opposite sex to know that. In fact, there are now paedophiles that know they are paedophiles who are deliberately choosing not to ever have sex with a child. Doesn’t change their sexuality but it does bring up some interesting issues. Okay, so for most of us, if you want to have sex, that is okay. However, if you are mentally unwell, going through some major trauma or generally not coping with life, now might not be the best time. Then again on the other hand, it might be just what you need. It is your call. I know I made lots of bad calls in the past but then again I learnt a lot and have some great stories to tell. When it comes to relationships though, there does seem to be this all pervasive pressure to find someone, to be in a couple, to avoid the “dangers” of being single, independent, not settling down and having too much fun and casual sex.

Don’t get me wrong, I think relationships can be fantastic. It just took me until I was 40 to find a really good one. And that was only after I had well and truly come to appreciate and love being single for all its good and bad points. There are lots of things to enjoy about having complete freedom and autonomy about what you do, where you go and who you spend time with. You can also be in whatever mood you want, whenever you want, without inflicting it on anyone else. If you need to be alone, you can, and without having to explain yourself. You are only responsible for you. Some people cite the fear of loneliness as a reason to stay in mediocre relationships but the feeling of loneliness you feel when you are home alone can be fixed by a call to a friend, leaving the house to go to your local café or checking in with an online dating site. When you feel lonely when you partner is in the same room as you, that is much harder to fix. Toxic relationships, even mediocre ones, are just not worth your time. A relationship, should you choose to have one, should be adding to your life, not detracting from it. Being single can be invigorating, empowering and a hell of a lot of fun. It is about your attitude towards it. Do not be constrained by society’s or rather the media’s pressure to be in a relationship or to be having sex. Do what is right for you, with whomever is right for you, whenever it is right for you. As always, love yourself, touch yourself and be good to each other. Yours, Mistress M.

What the Exchange?! Words by Laura Telford

I am in London. Well technically I am sitting in Dubai’s International Airport outside gate 19 awaiting my flight to London Gatwick, where for the next 6 months I will be learning all things British. You see, I am going on exchange to a small (read: 13 hectare university) in the country’s Midlands surrounded by lush forests and squirrels. I say squirrels as a sticking point because everyone I have told about going on exchange has either absolutely fallen in love with them (I am talking baby koala love) or hated them with a burning passion (I’m talking stepped on Lego and it’s my brother’s fault, level of hate!) Going on exchange, or even thinking about going on exchange can be daunting, so this is from someone who is living the dream… What possesses someone to go and study overseas? Friends, family, course requirements? A love affair with sitting in tiny places eating aeroplane food while 5 screaming children are doing with best to embarrass their parents? Ultimately someone decides to go on exchange for a number of reasons, the stars align and whether the experience will help their future career prospects or bar hop around the globe doing it at university means that you can experience new things while studying. Flinders have this amazing, fabulous program whereby you, in your current degree, can opt to go overseas and study for 6 months or a year depending on how keen you are to kill yourself working beforehand and/or apt you are at robbing banks! (For the record I am the first option!) The list of universities you can choose from is huge, and depending on where you go the optional extras are endless. I am going to Keele University between Birmingham and Manchester (which I am told is like saying between Victor Harbour and Adelaide CBD) in the town/village/area of Staffordshire, and to say that this is a long time coming would be a total understatement! The process started in July last year and I officially found out I was going on my birthday in May #bestbirthdaypresentever. You need to fill out enrolment forms, class/topic forms, financial forms, personal forms, write a personal statement and get academic references

preferably from people who a) like you and b) are lecturers in your major/degree. Travelling overseas usually also means that you can visit other countries (especially if you go to somewhere in Europe). I have so far had the opportunity to spend 2 days in Dubai before moving on to London and let me tell you, any reservations I had about staying in Dubai vanished when I went SNOW skiing in one of the hottest places in the world! As a politics major my decision was based around learning about the political system in Britain and the fact that their ties to the European Union meant I would be taught by teachers who are across not only local politics but international politics on a daily basis. That and the fact I can take a train to Paris or a plane to Denmark for less than $99AUD! Melbourne or Denmark… Melbourne or Denmark… Not only that, coming to the UK as a politics major right now, means I am right in the thick of it when Scotland have their independence referendum in less than two weeks! Not to mention all the fun stuff going on in Europe and at the United Nations. An exchange into an English-speaking country means that you can leave the confines of Flinders/ Adelaide/Australia and still remain in a semi controlled environment (unless you speak another language and if so, OMG SO JEALOUS!!) while adding “life experience” to the resume. Obviously exchange is not for everyone, with fabulous things comes sacrifice, of a social life pre exchange and while overseas you will inevitably miss out on milestones (watching the finale of the Bachelor, ANZAC girls AND QUESTION TIME!!). But most importantly, an exchange prepares you for real life. Life is hard, unexpected, amazing, devastating and challenging but it is how you deal with what is thrown at you, which is the vital thing. Being put into an environment which is different and unanticipated and not just surviving but thriving, means when you leave the hallowed halls of university life, reality will be just that tiny bit easier.

The Future of Magazines (and my career)

Early in high school, my best friend announced that she wanted to be a Magazine Editor. Her dream job would be running Girlfriend or Dolly, or something equally girlie and youthful. I think it kind of clicked for me then, but I didn't want to steal her aspirations. Besides, she was the one who collected each issue, referred to its contents with colour coded tabs and cut out images and fonts for the covers of her own exercise books. I just read the articles and admired the layouts. Over the years, it was something I forgot about. I started a Law/Arts degree, in an attempt to pursue as many career paths as possible simultaneously: no direction required. It was only after editing Empire Times in 2013—then moving onto other editorial positions—that I rediscovered a passion for magazines and realised that the real life job fits me perfectly. The thing is, once you tell people you want to work in publishing and editing— magazines, no less—you start getting the whole 'oh, so you don't plan on having a job?' Or my favourite 'but isn't print media dying/dead.' Maybe I'm just in denial, but I am cautiously optimistic about the future of magazines. Here's why: 1. Connection and Culture There is a difference in how we read print and onscreen content. Readers of print content take in more information and make a stronger connection. That's how I know it won't die off completely; although there will certainly be substantial changes in the industry. Readers engage with magazines. They trust and even rely on their favourite magazines. It's a way of connecting to people like you. Magazines feed into cultural and niche groups, whether your 'thing' is

Readers engage with magazines. They trust and even rely on their favourite magazines. Itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s a way of connecting to people like you.

knitting, fishing or celebrity gossip. They inform readers' knowledge of themselves, values and priorities. More than that, readers make a time commitment to their preferred magazines. According to Bauer Media's research in advertising driven magazines, readers generally view more than 90% of the pages and the average page is viewed about 2.5 times. Magazines start a meaningful dialogue, even if it's just within the magazine. Empire Times is the perfect example. It is a vehicle for student opinions and a way for students to see what others think. Controversial articles get people talking. Students have a medium for expressing displeasure or issue with the university, the government, companies and so on, from the taste of the coffee on campus to whether it is free trade (two heavily discussed and debated topics during my tenure as editor). People form personal connections with their magazines. Just take youth as an example: Bauer Media suggests that 91% of 15-24 year olds read magazines. Teenage girls, my preferred audience, fall in love with magazines, using it as a primary source of advice during puberty and a life stage of firsts. I'm sure you remember which ones you read in various stages of your life. For me it was Total Girl as a tween and Girlfriend as a teenager. As an early adult, it's currently Lip Magazine, Empire Times and Voiceworksâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;and I'm still searching for the perfect, general women's magazine that shares my values. Then, as a sidenote, advertisers will continue to use print magazines as long as that connection exists, especially as

advertisements become more editorial in nature. When I was a teenager, I would spend most (read: all) of my money on books. Which books, you ask? Well, books that I had a) borrowed from a library, read and loved b) been recommended by a trusted friend c) seen advertised in a magazine. And where there's money, there's a viable business. 2. Adaptability The magazines that fail will be the ones that refuse to adapt. But, as a whole, I'm not seeing a whole heap of that. In fact, even people not working in the industry are asking 'what's the future of publishing?' Because these questions and fears are being addressed, it is clear that the whole publishing industry is willing to change to survive. Magazines are especially suited to change. They usually have clearly defined audiences and, as periodicals, they can make minor or major changes as gradually or quickly as possible. Advertising and sponsorship is versatile and profitable to both parties across many forms. Redesigning, shaking up the content, using social media and video, interactivity... It is all within the realm of possibility.

paperback, hardback and e-books. Some e-readers already accommodate the more complicated fixed layout of magazines, including colour. There's also great scope for combinations of branded social media apps and website content. There is already an app called Layar that allows you to scan your phone over a page and view moving (or extra) content. So you can see an image on a page, then choose to watch the relevant video by holding your phone over the picture. With this as a preliminary design, there is obviously much potential in the crossover between print and digital content. Already competitions, letters to the editor and advice columns show that magazines do interactivity. Now, we'll see them forced to move that to another level. So, do I see magazines surviving? Do I think there will still be jobs in magazine publishing? Yes. Most resoundingly, yes. Although I may need a little more web and video knowledge before I take over the top job at Girlfriend. s

Words by Sarah Gates

Even as some magazines turn to purely online content, there are still so many options for experimentation and innovation. And as this technology is free or (at the very least) inexpensive, there is more scope for start-up magazines. So magazines that receive support can be crowd funded or accessed through print-on-demand services. In this sense, online technology is levelling the playing fieldâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;with more power to indie mags. It is multi-platform publishing that excites me. Already many book publishers produce

a letter to my illness. Dear Illness, Fuck off. Can you please just fuck right off? Illness, you are my everything. You are the bane of my existence, the darkness in the night, the ghost behind my shoulder, the lost relationships, the damaged goods, the devil, the shadow that follows me, and my will to live. Illness, you are uncompromising and unapologetic. You built a home within me, grew routes into the ground, festered, and will not shake for anything. I stamp my feet at you, not as the child who does so when they’re irritable because they’re overtired, but as the adult with every god damn right to be angry. You are a thief and have stolen my closest relationships because people are unforgiving and you control how I spend my time. You are unpredictable by seconds but consistent by day - I don’t know exactly when you will awaken but you always do. You deny the possibility of planning anything concrete in advance due to your consistent yet erratic demands to infiltrate. You have isolated me. You have taken away my health and have in turn placed limitations. You control whether I’ll be able to make it to work/uni/social events, whether I’ll sleep at all or sleep all day, my social interactions, the grade on my essay, my self-worth, and my emotions. You make me the ‘sick’ person, the one that was unlucky and got dealt a bad hand in life, the one that needs looking after, and the one that holds their breath and doesn’t want to be self-pitying but still says, because the point remains, “this isn’t fair.” But the fact is Illness, you are my everything and my nothing at the same time. You mean nothing to me. You do not define me and will not control me. You are my will to live and I will never say die. You make every choice I have something I value. You make me fight harder when hope seems to be teetering off a cliff. You are the reason I value life and health so much because I know how far away from these you make me feel sometimes. You are the reason I am stronger and I resent that. However, the strength I have developed as a result of your persistence has aided me elsewhere, in my life. It has made me endeavor to succeed in and enjoy everything I do, when I can do it. When I see my friends, I relish the fact that I am in their company and listen so intently to everything that they say. When I go out on a date, I order all the food and drinks and savor the conversation. When I work, I work my butt off and when I study, I power through and study three times as hard as I would when I did not have you Illness. Basically, you have made me into the living epitome of ‘go hard or go home’. This is a bittersweet reality you have created for me Illness, but one that makes me live and adore every moment of life without you. Never yours, Jess Nicole

ART WORK BY ROSEMARY ELLISON

No poacher can get Rogerâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s horns while there is air in his tyres!

monsters of the east Let’s start with a controversial statement – the East has scarier ghost stories and folklore than the West. Of course, I don’t know all legends and myths from all parts of the world, but from the ones I do know - I’d rather face monsters from the West. Scratch that, I rather face no monsters at all. Lets begin with the popular vampires. Upon reflection, Western vampires are more badass than their Chinese counterparts. Chinese vampires, aka jiang shi, are more like blood-sucking zombies. They were said to be corpses who were buried in cursed lands, or held grudges when they died, or simply wanted to cause troubles etc. They are also mindless creatures, incapable of any thoughts but simply hop and chase after living victims. Yes, they move by hopping. Jiang Shi literally means ‘stiff corpse’, so they only way for them to travel is by hopping, with their arms stretched out. Aside from the hopping, they can also be identified by their pale skin, sharp fangs and long black fingernails. Then we have the Malay vampire, aka the pontianak. Stories are mixed in regards to their origins – some say they were women who died while pregnant, others, during childbirth. But all agree that all pontianaks are women, whose presence are indicated by the fragrance of frangipani and baby cries. According to myths, if the cries are soft, one is nearby; if the crying is loud, then there’s still a good distance between you and her (what?) Often appearing as a pale-skinned beauty with long hair, they lured men and killed them via disembowelment and/or castration. Legend has it that if a man can drive a nail into the back of the pontianak’s neck, she will turn into a beautiful human woman who makes a good wife. Oh, and if the nail is removed, she reverts into pontianak-murderess-mode. Taming of the Shrew meets Dracula? (You’re welcome, Hollywood.) The Chinese believe that these Ghostbusters’ prey have an entire month holiday. On the seventh month of the Chinese calendar, the gates of the lower realm is opened, and the dead shall visit the living. The Hungry Ghost Festival has begun. This festival is said to have a Buddhist origin, and is a time to pay respects. During this month, there are a list of taboos/superstitions that one is advised to follow. These include avoid getting married during the month (the spirits

will think you are getting married to them); avoid moving house (the spirits might assume the house is meant for them); don’t stay out late (or risk getting possessed) etc. All in all, it’s an unholy month. Also, prayers and offerings are given, and I don’t mean just food and incense. Chinese prayers offerings include Hell Bank Notes and ‘servants’, chariots, and mansions. The latter items are achieved via the ceremonial burning of papier-mâché that resembled the objects in question. This leads to the modern equivalent of burning paper cars, paper iPhones, paper laptops, and paper Viagra pills(!) etc, for the dead to use after they return to the afterlife… Oh, and the money can be used to bribe the officials in the afterlife… It should be noted that the term ‘Hell’ is rather loosely translated, as it is believed that all dead go through an ‘underground court’. If, however, you are looking for something more Dante-ish, there’s diyu, which is more of a ‘purgatory’ realm – if you end up here, you will be assigned to one of the eighteen levels and be punished until deemed enough, and be sent to be reincarnated. The punishment and torture here is dealt according to one’s evil-doings, and includes being fried in cauldrons of boiling oil, climbing up hills of blades on all fours, violent and painful organ removal. Speaking of evil, in Malay ghost stories, there is this heinous creature known as the ‘orang minyak’, literally meaning ‘oily man’. This being is covered with shiny black oil, making it hard to catch and see in the night. The monster was originally a human black magic practitioner, who gained supernatural abilities via a pact with the Devil. In return, he must rape 21 virgins in a week, or die. Defences against this sicko include covering it with the batik cloth, or biting its left thumb. I’m not sure if I should describe this monster as weirdly scary, or scarily weird… Before ending this, a few warnings. Never apply horse tears or dog tears to your eyes, unless you want the permanent ability to see “things”. There are stories of those unfortunate to born with the ‘third eye’, and have to live with seeing things no one else can see. “I see dead people…”

Words by Charles Chiam Chuang Chao

Photo Drew Coffman 2010

Nightmare Writing Gigs If you’ve ever had thoughts about becoming a writer at any stage in your life, get used to seeing a lot of these adverts online. These are completely real, and the posters are completely serious. The saddest part of all of it is the fact that these ads have often had up to twenty replies from around the world, with writers desperate to make cash. The people posting come from a range of cold companies that will work writers to the bone with little to no care for their mental ability to write, people who have finally decided to get that novel written for them perfectly to a Harry Potter standard with a budget of $50 and individuals who assume that writers do not have the need for eating, sleeping, or looking after their own families. Below are some of the gems I have stumbled across in my travels, ranging from screenplay based websites to the more commonly flocked writing websites for businesses to get a paper quickly made: “I am seeking ghostwriter for an ebook. There is need to have good command of the English language and familiarity with finance and investment terms. I have a budget of $50.00” Whoa, fifty whole dollars?! Sign me up!

“I need a person who is going to write a 90 page first draft screenplay based on a story treatment I will provide. You are going to write a descriptive screenplay, develop characters, subplots and take the action to exciting new levels. I need a creative person who has an understanding of classic science fiction stories and who loves the work of such writers as Robert Heinleim , Isaac Asimov, Ray Brad Bury and Ursula Le Guin. The way you write the screenplay is up to you as long as it follows the treatment so there is a lot of flexibility to be very creative in this project. My terms $100 USA per week, for 30 pages delivered each week, job to be completed in 3 weeks, 15 hours per week that’s $6.66 per hour. Good luck Ladies and Gentlemen! “ Alright, so between whatever busy daily life you lead whether it be studying, a family, or another job, I need you to give me 30 pages of top notch work in a week, and you’ve got to finish it in three weeks, for around $300. How could you say no?! “We pay well ($12) per 110 page script. SERIOUS INQUIRIES ONLY. NO WANNABEES MUST HAVE OWN TRANSPORTATION. DRUG SCREEN REQUIRED (pee pee) IF WE PICK YOU, THERE IS STILL ANOTHER LEVEL OF SCREENING YOU WILL BE ASKED TO GO THROUGH. YOU MUST DRIVE TO OUR OFFICES IN LA

“Between whatever busy daily life you lead whether it be studying, a family, or another job, I need you to give me 30 pages of top notch work in a week, and you’ve got to finish an entire screenplay in three weeks, for around $300. How could you say no?!” CUENTADA FOR INITIAL SCREENING PARKING IS $13.” This is just.... What. I assume it came directly from Tommy Wiseau. Also, I love how you end up paying more for parking than what you get paid. “I’m looking for a ghostwriter to read through, proof read, edit, and finish writing my book. This book in my eyes is a #1 New York Best Seller. I’m a 21 year old with a story and I share my voice through the book so I want the voice to stay consistent. I’m a creative thinker, and see a perspective way of life so I want to convey that across in my voice. The book needs to have a very authentic tone throughout the voice, yet extremely sophisticated for his age. The author is not only a genius but extremely mysterious as well. He is a very attractive character. He is a stud, a winner with everything he does. He sounds attractive. There’s sometime about his character that’s so attractive. It’s his confidence. He’s divinely guided by something called faith. Willing to pay if you really have what it takes. I’m serious about a #1 New York Best Seller. It also has to be just right and perfected, and finalized to publish right on January 31st, 2014.”

Unfortunately they’ll always be adverts out there like this, and writers who are worked to the bone to bring their work up to the standard that these demanding gigs want. Publishable work really doesn’t fall from the sky, people. It takes a lot of perfecting and redrafting and often writers can go for years without getting a single piece published. Things that do not help the process are adverts such as these. So if you’re ever looking for that last minute assignment writer (which you SHOULDN’T, you cheats!) and want to pay them in peanuts, please consider the writers. We have to eat too!

Words by Bethany Lawrence

This right here is gold. The 21 year old who already has found the wisdom of the world, and is ready to share it.... Or rather, the writer has to. Anybody who knows anything about writing ads knows to steer COMPLETELY away from anyone who claims their idea is a best seller, because on a whopping 95% of the time, it is not. Also, you may have noticed that this ‘stud’ doesn’t look like he’s going to pay you. Share Your Story of Child Abuse with the World: We are a publishing house who is looking to publish child abuse stories. Even though we don’t share profits, you will have an input on the cover design, title and other factors of the book. The payment will be $100 and the deadline to finish the short story is 2 weeks. The manuscript length we are looking for is around 50-70 pages.” The first line there sums up basically what is wrong with this ad. Not only do you have to write about an extremely delicate subject, but you’ll be made to finish this delicate subject on an extremely tight deadline for only a peanut wage. And if you thought you’d own the rights to your work afterward, you thought wrong. I’d also be worried about what ‘other factors’ they would be wanting to change, too. “2 page business ethics paper. Compensation: $12-15/page. Hey writers. Looking for a writer well versed in business ethics to take on my end of course portfolio assignment. The 2 pager needs to be done tomorrow at midnight, while the portfolio not for another three weeks. So, if interested let me know what your fee would be for the 2 pages and if you’re interested in the portfolio assignment and I can provide you details. And please save me the “do your own work responses” I carry a 4.0 GPA, have let literally ONE other person write an assignment for me. But let’s be honest: ethics is horribly boring not to mention I am having a surgical procedure done soon right in the midst of my course portfolio assignment. K? Good. For those of you really interested: can’t wait to hear from you.” Because why do your own work when you’ve got hundreds of cheap and desperate writers at your disposal?

but really, what were they wearing? trigger warning: article discusses rape themes

words by kaisha wyld

Rape culture is one of those things that can infiltrate a conversation or thought without anyone noticing. Then, if someone does point out the rape culture, people tend to react in one of two ways: they get overly protective of their contribution to rape culture, or they go silent and move on without acknowledging what they’ve said or referred to. Either reaction is frustrating as hell. Rape culture is more of a concept than an actual quantifiable culture. It links rape and sexual violence to acts or attitudes which normalise, tolerate, and even excuse rape and related acts. Before I go any further, no one deserves to be raped. Regardless of how they act, how they dress, how they speak, regardless of their sexuality, NO ONE DESERVES TO BE RAPED. Rape culture is the news presenter telling you a person was walking alone at night when they were raped. It’s the advertisement suggesting you attend a self-defence/kickboxing/martial arts class so you can defend yourself in any situation. It’s the dress code telling you to cover your shoulders and thighs. It’s that school in the USA petitioning to allow a rapist back

on campus after the survivor took out an AVO. It’s that person joking about rape. It’s that casual comment that ‘they deserved it’. It’s a society which teaches people how to avoid rape, but declines to teach people how not to rape others. Related to rape culture, and just as horrible, is victim shaming. A while ago I was watching the news and a story about a young person ‘narrowly avoiding rape’ came on. The young person was walking alone through a well-lit park after a party, and was physically assaulted by someone who had been waiting behind a tree. Fortunately, the young person was able to wrestle themselves free and run far enough away to be sufficiently safe to call the police. The assaulter, according to the news report, was never caught. Someone commented: ‘well what do you expect when you walk alone at night! Going to that park made it even worse’. Wait, what? Why not ask why the assaulter thought it was appropriate to attack the young person? What made them think they’d get away with it? If no one had walked through the park, would they have

moved to another hiding place? Why are you questioning the victim? I will never understand why is it more shameful to be raped than to be a rapist. Let’s unpack rape. Rape occurs when consent is not provided for a sexual act. It is also a violent act, which can be related to dominance and control. It is used during conflict as psychological warfare. It is used to incite fear and obedience. It is being forced to do something you don’t want to. Most survivors knew their rapists previously. Rape is one of the most underreported crimes in the Western world. Rape isn’t just when someone says no; it’s when someone doesn’t say yes. Just because someone is wearing revealing clothing doesn’t mean someone else is entitled to rape them. Just like if a bank teller is counting money, it doesn’t mean someone is entitled to take it. Rape can happen to anyone, regardless of gender, age, or ability. Next time you hear about a rape, ask about the rapists motives. Chances are, you won’t find much information. s

Domestic Violence: A short memoir of a dysfunctional relationship TRIGGER WARNING: This article discusses themes of domestic abuse.

Words by Anon I live on the second story in a block of flats. The girl next door is a sweet wisp o’ blonde, just out of university. She is a social worker and during the week leaves early in the morning and often doesn’t return home until 8.30 at night. Her boyfriend is probably five years older than her and is studying for a PhD.

him” and “we all know how argumentative she is?” and “what did she expect? She stayed with him didn’t she?” I was snapped back to the now by the bloke next door screaming “Faaarrk you…I am going to faaarrking kill you”. I strained to listen for the girls response – silence.

My favourite thing on a Sunday afternoon is to lie in bed eating mandarins surrounded by books. Their favourite is to make love. I know this because I can hear her bed banging up against the other side of the common wall my pillows are propped up on.

Stop! I rang 000 and then went and loudly knocked on their door “I have just phoned the police” I called out. I could feel myself shaking, what if he has killed her? What if he kills me next? I felt sick and clammy; other neighbours turned up to investigate and stood around awkwardly. Her door swung open hard and the man shoved passed me as he stormed off down the stairs. The woman’s face was pale and tear-stained, black streaks of mascara mixed with blood dribbling from a cut on her cheek.

Last weekend as I peeled fruit and zenned out with Elizabeth Gilbert in a Bali paradise, I smiled as I heard thumps coming from the neighbours. Five minutes later I heard a man shouting “Fuck you, fuck off” thump… “What the fuck is your problem?” thump…thump. This went on for about 15 minutes, with his voice rising and falling at intervals; I couldn’t hear her at all. Jeez, they’re having a fight I realised, the smirk wiped from my face. “Domestic violence” elicits a shudder from ALL women. According to the statistics, 1 in 3 women in Australia have been victims of domestic violence, and I am here to tell you the other two know that woman. She is one of our friends, a colleague, a cousin, our sister, our mother or a neighbour. It is a spine chilling and primitive fear. The boyfriend’s angry tirade yanks me back to an ex of mine, I shall call him David. I met David at an art gallery and it wasn’t long before we moved in together. We were the golden couple – young, talented and ambitious. He was sexy and quick with the comic responses. I once asked him why he never wore underpants: “Haven’t found a pair that can handle the job” he bragged with a wink as he made us dinner – Oh, and could he cook! Our relationship progressed along; we had a mildly glamorous lifestyle and socialised with a set of the beautiful people. David got a promotion and an interstate transfer where we bought a pretty house with a swimming pool and all the mod cons. Everything was hunky-dory for a few years, until one day I was offered a work project in Florence, Italy. My bursting elation (I mean someone was going to pay me to go to I-T-A-L-Y for four months!!) was equally matched by his sour disapproval. Not in an “I own you and therefore you can’t go” sort of way. No, David was too smart for that. Instead he offered valid arguments “What about your job here?” or “If you resign and then can’t find work when you return how will we pay the mortgage?” and on it went for two weeks. I concluded that if it made him that unhappy then I would turn down the offer; after all I was committed to “us” as my priority. Needless to say, it all went downhill from there. We began to bicker over stupid things which soon escalated into shouting matches. The final, tragic crescendo of our relationship was when he hit me, and not any short, sharp slap (I had stupidly tolerated enough of those) but a “this requires hospitalisation” beating. Afterwards, in some crazy way, to add insult to injury, I felt humiliated – I had become one of those women. I felt everyone was thinking “she probably provoked

“Um, are you OK?” I asked… then “Sorry, that was stupid of course you’re not OK. You’re bleeding. The police are coming. Can I do anything to help?” all just poured out at once. “Thank you. I…I am OK” she stammered, and then I see the look of embarrassment, she hurries to close her front door. She wants to escape from my pity. The show is over when the police turn up, I am quick to direct them to her place and shut my own door. I also want to avoid the ugliness which still lingers in the air. I sit at my kitchen bench and think about the stats “1 in 3. One in Three Women” I repeat it over in my head. That equates to more than 100,000 women in Adelaide. I am outraged, this is not an individual’s problem – this is a society problem. I begin to imagine a fantasy where 100,000 pissed off women retaliate against their violent partners and universally poison them with arsenic. Then what? Where would we find room to bury the bodies? How would we jail so many people all at once, how could we? The idea cheers me up. I again remember David. I left him for good that fateful day and stayed with friends who forever I am in gratitude to. We spent the following months in court untangling our joint finances. During this time my emotions slowly moved from utter devastation to seething anger and eventually towards peace. “Peace? How on earth did I find peace?” I hear you wonder. Well, it’s true that time heals and at the end of our legal proceedings a day was agreed upon in which I could collect my belongings from the house without him being present. I spent a few hours packing up what was left of my life into boxes, and as a parting gesture to my tattered love for a man that liked to hang free – I lubricated all of his trouser zippers with chilli oil! Feeling Unsafe? If you, a child or another person is in immediate danger CALL 000. 1800RESPECT National Sexual Assault, Domestic Family Violence Counselling Service. Information and Support 24/7 – Call 1800 737 732 https://www.1800respect.org

feature

passing for well words by miranda richardson

For people with illnesses that are not always visible to observers, the concept of ‘passing’ may be quite familiar. For them it means passing as healthy under the everyday perceptions of their peers. Many of us have experienced passing from a perspective of race, sexuality, religion, or politics, and it is always for the same reason: avoiding prejudice. Managing long-term illness is a difficult task in many unexpected ways. It’s important to question why ill people should choose to be inauthentic in their lives. Judith L. Alpert suggests in her work, ‘Loss of Humanness: The Ultimate Trauma’ (2012) that an ill person may find themselves excluded from various activities because they may be seen as a weak person who must be treated delicately; certainly not a person that one can ‘argue with, depend on, or treat as an equal.’ This makes them seem less desirable romantically, socially, and in a work environment. It’s logical to want to avoid this. Long-term illness implies unreliability. In a job interview I take care not to mention my own chronic illness (unless asked directly) even though it has a huge effect on my life. While it is illegal to discriminate, employers can find other reasons not to employ someone if they believe the person will be a drain on the company. It’s in the nature of chronic illness to have to continue meeting the demands of your life regardless of how unwell you are, and I have a history of taking fewer sick days than most other employees. But the stigma surrounding illness is difficult to undermine. Particularly when confronted with more severe illnesses, there can be a strange fear of even being around the ill person in those who are comparatively well. As Alpert points out, it is not unheard of for a medical practitioner to demand that a breast cancer patient should get a prosthetic replacement to ‘elevate the spirits of people in the doctor’s office.’ It is considered admirable to hide signs of our pain; R. Murphy states in ‘The Body Silent’ (1990) that ‘the person who smiles and jokes while in obvious physical misery is honoured by all.’ The reasons for passing can have a focus on the perceived needs of the ill person. Observers may support someone in their choice to pass because they don’t want to remind them of their suffering. For example,

if someone is crying, many would assume that they are embarrassed by their outburst and try to support them in their return to a calm facade by changing the subject or making jokes. Often this is legitimately what the person wants. If the nature of long-term illness requires a lot of ‘soldiering on’, there are certainly days when someone even simply asking about your health will make this much harder. Because the moment someone asks about it you may cry, and you may not be able to stop crying. And you have shit to do. Sometimes people with invisible illnesses also simply want to exercise their freedom to choose who knows about their condition. If I walk to uni hunched over, breathing loudly, pausing occasionally to lie on the ground in the foetal position to wait for a wave of pain to pass, I will probably feel compelled to explain my strange behaviour to the strangers who witness it. In particular my illness, chronic IBS, is one of many that are considered ugly and shameful because it affects bowel movements. I am not yet above that shame. And I don’t actually want to explain myself to the whole world, so I pretend I’m fine and the only reason I’m walking this slow is because I’m being leisurely today.

...For the ill person, passing is an opportunity to find control in a situation that is entirely out of their control... While passing is a practical solution for avoiding the results of social stigma, and while it makes getting through the day easier, it creates regular inauthenticity in your life. It might not sound like a big deal, but it has a huge effect on the way you feel, and creates discrepancies in how you understand yourself and in the way others will choose to treat you. In a way, you are lying on a daily basis. It makes you feel disconnected from the people in your life. You don’t know if they are friends with an incomplete picture of you.

You begin to take measures to pass automatically and lose your connection to the truth. You can lose your gauge of how bad your symptoms are until you’ve reached the point of collapse. Things get much worse than they should have before you could have noticed and taken measures to look after yourself better. It inhibits your connection with your body, which inhibits your management of the symptoms. People are also less likely to understand you if you are deliberately distorting the signals you communicate to them about how you’re feeling. They are less likely to believe you when you try to explain how bad it is. They don’t know how to help you, and they will probably miss your signals in situations when you no longer have a choice but to depend on their help. For the ill person, passing is an opportunity to find control in a situation that is entirely out of their control. They may not be able to get well any time soon, but they can at least have some power over how people perceive them. They can avoid some of the social disadvantages of having a longterm illness and they can feel courageous in doing so. My dad told me recently that he was proud of how well I hide my illness. It could sound like he’s proud of me for hiding my shameful secret or something, but I think he really meant that he’s proud that I have found a way to cope and that I’m pretty good at it. From a practical, survival point of view, passing is a good idea for me. But if you choose to pass, it’s important to balance that by remaining authentic with a few people that you love and trust. I find that most people don’t want to know about illness. Even if they brought it up, and I joke and I understate and I try to fit my explanation into only one or two sentences, they seem instantly bored or irritated. I don’t know if they think I’m making it up, or if they don’t think it’s as bad as I’m saying. But these days whenever someone tells me they’re struggling, I not only believe them, but I assume it’s probably much worse. s

Words By Emma Sachsse

Retail jobs suck. Customers can suck. But the bosses suck most of all. The assumption that because you are in a menial job means you have a minimal brain just pisses me off. Many people I know who work in retail, hospitality and even security, are also putting themselves through uni. Even if the person behind the cash register isn’t putting themselves through uni it doesn’t actually mean there are brain dead or that you have a right to be mean to them you know. Anyway, hospitality is a laugh - there are good times to be had after the hard work is done. Not always conducive to excellent study patterns admittedly but fun. I know people who ended up making a career out of hospitality and they have never really had to grow up. But retail that is soul destroying. No matter where you work you eventually come to the realisation that you are selling crap people don’t need at prices they wouldn’t have to pay on the internet. Unless it is food and then you just know you are part of a corporate duopoly that is raping the farmers and killing small independent businesses. But the thing that kills me in retail is the boss breathing down your neck about your daily sales figures. I have been in retail for a fuck of a long time, I have been the most successful salesperson on my counter, and I have made my bosses very happy on those days. My intricate, clever, tricksy formula for good sales; say hello and be friendly and available and willing to help the customer should they want it. And then there are days where I have had no sales and the clock drags and you haven’t done the target you were meant to and you have to report to the boss. What did you do differently that day? Nothing. Except maybe get a little desperate for sales or maybe been a bit too eager when a few people did finally walk through the door. Perhaps customers can smell the desperation for sales on you? All I know is that a bad day just seems to get worse and your boss will blame it on you. Not on the customers walking through the door, not on the stock they have or haven’t got, not on the fact they gave you no product knowledge training, not on the weather or the footy finals, or the holidays. Good sales are a little on you and the bad are all on you. I call bullshit on that, good sales come from having a great day with great

customer interaction and bad sales come from bad days with little or no customers while the pressure to make the sales builds. You can’t change anything. And yet, although you do exactly the same things on good days and bad, your boss will blame you for the bad ones and, at some point you will think, “Who needs your stupid products and your stupid patronising rude customers (the ones who think that because I am behind a shop counter I am a second class citizen)? Who needs your crap about what I should do to improve my sales and what is wrong with me (things that last week were all fine because my sales figures were great)”. You will tell your boss to stuff it, walk out and start all over again in yet another retail job. Or go back to hospitality. My advice before you get the next job: • • • •

To be treated the worst by customers, work behind a cash register. To really know you are selling overpriced rubbish, work in clothing. To feel like you have really sold ou, sell cosmetics.. To enjoy yourself, work for a small successful business preferably selling something everybody needs all the time.

But whatever you do, finish that degree and get out of retail because the internet is here. Need to vent about your job? empire.times@flinders.edu.au we’re great listeners!

COMIC BY MADELEINE KARUTZ

VOX POP: Night of the living journals 1.White. 2. Dubnium. 3. 15. 4. In year four, I once sang a solo

in front of the whole school with clenched teeth.

5. My boyfriend.

SAM

1. Bubblegum, so I can have a choice of colour.

2. Published in Dubnium. 3. Atleast 30. 4. My friends and I were going to sing ‘So Ronery’ from Team America for a talent show, and at the last minute they didn’t go up. I had to sing the whole thing by myself.

5. Oscar Wilde.

MAX

1. Black. Like the colour of my soul.

2. Dubnium. 3. 8. 4. Playing the tuba in

front of the whole school at age 12 and having it turn out that I spent the entire time playing fart noises.

5. Quentin Tarantino.

AMY

1. What colour jellybean would you be, and why? 2. So, what brings you to the Emerging Writers' Festival, Night of the Living Journals? 3. How many shirts do you own? 4. What is your most embarrassing moment? 5. If you could have sex with anyone, who would it be?

1. Bertie Bots, because of

infinite variety and the nostalgia factor.

2. Just a general love of writing. 3. No idea. 4. I once pointed out a competitor rather loudly while the student politics were going on at Adelaide Uni. It did not end well.

5. My girlfriend.

1. Black, because Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m not sure if people like me.

2. Journalist for Citymag. 3. 11 black and 1 red one. 4. Playing a gig by myself and

BEN

forgetting all the words to the songs.

5. Join Max and Oscar Wilde as a threesome.

HEATH

STUDENT MEDIA STUDENT PUBLICATIONS FROM AROUND AUSTRALIA CHAT TO EMPIRE TIMES ABOUT WHAT IT’S LIKE WORKING IN STUDENT MEDIA, WHY STUDENT PUBLICATIONS ARE IMPORTANT, AND JUST EXACTLY WHAT GOES ON BEHIND THE SCENES OF STUDENT MEDIA.

CATALYST

RMIT University (Melb)

Editors: Broede Carmody Allison Worrall Alan Weedon

CURIEUX

University of Canberra Editors: Jeremy Stevens Andrew Nardi

Tell us about the history of your publication. Until this year, Curieux was actually known as CUrio. As a student publication, it’s been around for a number of years in various shapes and forms, but the past handful of years it’s had some rough patches. When Andrew Nardi (Co-editor and Designer) and I discovered that a couple of other magazines named Curio also existed, we decided it was a good chance to give the magazine a fresh face and try and buck some perception issues we felt it had. What is your readership like? We tend to distribute a lot of copies at free BBQs on campus, so hungry. Also smart, cultured, and attractive. But mainly hungry.

Tell us about the history of your publication. Catalyst was first published in 1944, originally as a student newspaper. In the ’00s it changed to a magazine format. . Why are student publications important? Student media is important because it is a training ground for young journalists, writers and artists. We also cover stories that the mainstream media generally miss and hold the student union and university to account. Worst thing that’s happened? Let’s not dwell on that. Water off the duck’s back, as they say. (First-years, cough.) How much time do you spend on the publication per week? Too much. Please pass the gin. What makes for a good article? The best articles we’ve published are ones you wouldn’t see published elsewhere. The writing is fresh and the subject matter grabs the reader right from the get-go. For example, we’ve covered feature articles on ice-use among young people in Victoria, the issues faced by regional Australians when it comes to accessing abortion services, and the stigma around when a family member takes their own life. What do you see in the future for the publication? Are there any long-term goals? The long-term goals are to keep publishing talented students, build up a community of contributors and see them get jobs and build life-long friendships thanks to Catalyst.

Funniest thing that’s happened? For our second issue’s cover, we ordered one of those eerily realistic cow masks for our model to wear. It smelled awful, and he had to take it off every few minutes to get fresh air. The cow’s stare was so unnerving though that no one wanted to keep it in their room, let alone their apartment. Demonic cow mask stayed in the freezer that night before an exorcism was performed the next day. How much time do you spend on the publication per week? We normally start putting in semi-regular hours a month before we aim to hit printers, with those hours ramping up into the final week or two. At that time, we usually both hit around forty hours or more a week – and with other jobs and full time study, most nights that gets us through into the very early hours. What are the benefits of working on a student publication? The buzz that comes from seeing box upon box of copies coming into our office from the printers more than beats all of the sleepless nights. That fresh magazine smell! What issues does your publication face? At the moment we’re getting by, but potentially in the future, funding. Also, while we’ve come some way, we still face perception issues amongst the student body regarding what we’re about and who we are. What would you tell a student who is interested in being an editor? While it can be great if you’re lucky enough to be paid to edit and run a publication, ultimately you’ve gotta do it because you care about it. You can’t buy sleep (if only!) and it can be stressful and much more work than you probably think. But the feeling you’ll get when you pick up that issue you spent close to 100 hours on will be priceless.

What made you take on the role of editor? We wanted to make a kick-arse magazine. Who supports you the most throughout the process? Each other. The office is like a Care Bear promotional video sometimes (read: all the time).

BULL

University of Sydney Editors: Katie Davern Eden Caceda Erin Rooney

Robert North Sophie Gallagher Sean O’Grady

VERTIGo

University of Technology (Syd) Editors: Rachel Eddie Andy Huang Larissa Bricis Lily Mei Nathalie Meier

Design Babes: Nicola Parise Alex Barnet Kristen Troy Emma Sprouster Tom Lodewyke Lachlan Mackenzie Hattie O’Donnell

Tell us about the history of your publication. ALL: BULL has a really diverse history and place in our university. It was originally an A4 page daily bulletin of the events on campus and was a sort of go-to for many students who wanted to get involved and see what was happening each day. It then became The Bull where it would include some campus news and stories, while maintaining its role as a schedule for students to be involved. After Voluntary Student Unionism was introduced it was announced that The Bull (rebranded and transitioned into its current state as BULL Magazine in 2006) would be the main monthly student magazine to feature student editors and student content on campus. Why are student publications important? Erin: I know that student publications hold a very sentimental spot in the hearts of aspiring writers and accomplished writers. They’re the publications that give people that first chance they need to gain the confidence to improve and branch out to other publications off campus. For me, BULL was the first publication that I got my writing published in and has been the first publication I’ve been editor of it will always be special to me! Sean: Personally I think it gives people the chance to challenge the conventions of established media and try out new things. What makes for a good article? Katie: I think clarity is paramount – a really great idea with a unique angle that is well researched is definitely let down if it’s poorly expressed or too confusing to follow. How do you survive financially? Rob: The magazine survives financially due to the generosity of the University of Sydney Student Union. What would you tell a student who is interested in being an editor? Sophie: If you’re passionate about journalism and expanding your skills, then go for it! It’s a lot of work, but it’s an incredible opportunity. Student journalism is... Eden: Truly an incredible thing. At very few opportunities in professional life do individuals have the chance to manage and contribute to a publication that lacks so few boundaries and oppositions. We have published many articles that are niche or would not be explored in mainstream magazines or newspapers and the fact that we are able to do this at all is a testament to the amazing thing student journalism is.

Tell us about the history of your publication. Vertigo in its current form started in 1991, before that it was called Newsit, I think. It’s gone through various forms and I’m pretty sure it was almost a black and white zine the year VSU was stopped. It’s always been a little bit snarky and we feel the tradition of Vertigo is definitely to be self-deprecating and never take ourselves too seriously. We’re UTS, nothing grand, a little shitty, but still doing pretty damn fine. What do you see in the future for the publication? Are there any long-term goals? I’d like to see future editors have a more concrete way to be appraised for their work. Currently everyone is unpaid and that makes it really hard at times when you’re not getting the feedback from students. We put a lot of ourselves into the mag and it’s easy to feel like you’re not getting anywhere. I’d love next year’s team to put a lot of effort into online presence and to create a better contributor culture through that. And I pray they get paid. What made you take on the role of editor? Personally, one of my best friends went on exchange and I needed something to do. In my head the editors were like celebrities and I thought they were 1000 times cooler than I’d ever be. I went along to an info night with no real expectations then things just started falling into place. I didn’t really go in with any specific goals, I just wanted to try it and do the best job I could. What are the benefits of working on a student publication? The experience. The people, the pride and the creativity are all amazing. What are the challenges associated with working on a student publication? Student politicians, accessing funding and the navigating the Bermuda Triangle that is any student-run organisation. Of course the changes to SSAF are scary because, not that the people trying to introduce these changes care, but it will destroy a lot of student life on-campus. Also, it’s so so important to the identity of a university to have a place for students to have a voice. Funding is the biggest problem for every student publication I think, or is soon to be. If you don’t understand SSAF and just complain about paying money, please for the love of uni being more than high school but bigger, get behind funding student organisations. Who supports you the most throughout the process? Each other, really. We’re a family, truly, and some of us definitely speak to each other more than we do to the people who made us. What would you tell a student who is interested in being an editor? Editing a student publication is like a gateway drug to success.

we once received a submission

a letter about from a student...

a murder confession 27

verse

NUCLEUS

Head Editor: Georgina Vivian Sub-Editor: Divya Balakumar Web Editor: Ben Allison Graphic Designer: Prerna Ashok

Editors: Bridgette Glover Alana Young

unisa

University of New England (NSW)

Tell us about the history of your publication. Georgina:The first UniSA magazine was, to my knowledge, Entropy, which later changed to Unilife Magazine. This year, the magazine briefly changed to USASA Magazine to reflect the rebranding of the Student Association from Unilife to USASA. We have recently rebranded the magazine again and it is now Verse Magazine. Why are student publications important? Ben: Student publications are extremely important because it gives students the chance to speak up on any issues they may be facing in a public format that may relate to uni, or even the outside world. Secondly, especially for students in Journalism or Creative Writing courses, it’s a fantastic opportunity to get their writing published before they graduate. As for the editing team, it has given us a world of knowledge on how to publish a real magazine (you can’t really get the same experience in any of the journalism classes I’ve enrolled in). It’s also great to have for your resume, CV and portfolio. Funniest thing that’s happened? Ben: Probably the funniest thing that has happened to our magazine was we once received a submission from a student, which was a letter about a murder confession. The author confessed to obsessing over a fellow student and then killing her. As a team, we debated whether we should publish it or not. In the end, we did. I hope to God that it was fictional… I guess it’s not that funny if it actually happened. Divya: We are happy to report there have been no incidents involving UniSA students! What kind of content to do you cover within the publication? Georgina: Our issues this year are themed around The Seven Deadly Sins, so when we call out for submissions, we ask for articles and stories that relate to whatever sins the particular issue is themed around. What are the challenges associated with working on a student publication? Georgina: A lot of our contributors seem to give writing stories for us the ‘assignment treatment’ where they submit their work at the very last minute before the deadline.

Tell us about the history of your publication. As the University of New England was originally known as the New England University College, the student newspaper was originally spelt Neucleus and was formed in 1947. It was published monthly right up until the introduction of VSU, after which the paper suffered financially and was forced to shut down. In 2013, UNEG, UNE’s student association at the time, brought the paper back to life and with a different spelling to acknowledge the hiatus as well as the different title of the university. Worst thing that’s happened? Just the other day we were called a ‘hub for pro-rape students and victim blamers’ because of an article we published that discussed rape (but in no way endorsed it) from a male perspective. The absolute worst part was that people complained about it but didn’t try to discuss it rationally with us. How much time do you spend on the publication per week? The week in which we format the publication, we spend about 50 hours working; the remaining weeks of the month only about 15 hours. What stops you from stressing out when a deadline is approaching? Coffee, chocolate, YouTube clips, and keeping to the original plan. What are the benefits of working on a student publication? Recognition of your hard work and contribution from people who matter to you. Do you have any wise words for future editors? It’s corny, but follow your gut in regards to what you want to print. When you become editor you will know better than anyone else what you can and can’t print. Don’t let anyone tell you what’s best for your paper. s

Film Review Words by Callum McLean

There may be magic in the moonlight as Woody Allen suggests with the title of his new film, but it’s a pretty insubstantial light. Don’t get me wrong; this latest fare is absolutely gorgeous, with an atypically witty script and enjoyable performances. If only we hadn’t seen it before. Despite this being familiar Allen territory, the premise seems refreshing. Set in the Roaring Twenties, British magician Stanley (Colin Firth), who performs as Chinese illusionist Wei Ling Soo, is enlisted by old friend Howard Burkan (Simon McBurney) to help disprove the psychic abilities of Sophie (Emma Stone), who, with her mother, has secreted herself into the Catledge family and found herself the object of desire of their son—though it is painfully obvious who she is meant to end up with. Stanley succumbs to the idea that Sophie might actually be psychic which changes his worldview, while Sophie finds herself falling for him. Firth and Stone both give charming performances as Stanley and Sophie. They have a pleasant chemistry, but they don’t quite convince as a couple. Both characters are written in fairly broad strokes, though their actors manage to overcome this shortcoming with ease. Stanley himself is written somewhat inconsistently, and though there is a (flimsy) reason given for his rapid changes of character, the result comes across as lazy. There are several broadly drawn characters here, but luckily they are brought to life by a skilled cast. Jacki Weaver gives an amusingly daft performance as Grace Catledge. Her first scene is, playing opposite a rather transparent Marcia Gay Harden as Sophie’s mother, is extremely funny, and sees her filling a kind of clueless Miss Havisham role. Her son Brice, played by Hamish Linklater, is equally oblivious; completely besotted with Sophie, he spends half his time arm-in-arm with his mother or trying to woo the object of his desire with amateur ukulele playing. Though this is used sparingly enough to not wear thin—and Linklater gives a youthful performance—his role as the fool is very apparent. McBurney gives a deliciously sly performance as Stanley’s friend Howard, remaining on the fringe of events before coming to the centre of things very quickly. The star performance is undoubtedly Eileen Atkins, who gives a bitingly sharp and funny performance as Stanley’s aunt Vanessa.

Allen’s direction is fairly simple, allowing for Darius Khondji’s cinematography to shine through; the location filming in the sunshine and sea of the French Riviera is practically glowing all through the film. The same cannot be said for the set decorations and costumes by Jille Azis and Sonia Grande respectively, which are suitably period though uninspired. Despite an initial burst of colour in an entertaining post-title scene of Stanley’s magic act, the rest of the film is fairly drably designed, bar Stone’s costumes. Allen’s script is full of wonderful jokes and fantastic back-and-forth dialogue— including (SPOILERS) a twist that will completely blind-sight most. There are problems with pace; the initial scenes launch the audience directly in Allen’s story, but this is somewhat sidelined later in favour of delightful but empty scenes of dialogue

between Stanley and Sophie. Long after the main thrust of the story has been resolved, the film starts to lose momentum, coming to a sluggish rather than triumphant end. There is some interesting stuff for analysis here in regards to Stanley’s staunch atheism coming into conflict with his desire for a little magic in the world, though Allen’s familiar theme of love being the only consolation in a Godless universe has been played out to better effect elsewhere. Ultimately, Magic in the Moonlight is an entertaining film, but an instantly forgettable one. It is the performances and the gorgeous French Riviera that ultimately remain after the credits roll.

Film Review Words by Shaun Hobby

The Helpmann Academy Film Project The state of student film making in Adelaide is strong, if the films presented as part of the Helpmann Academy Film Project are anything to go by. Admittedly, it is in a darn sight better state than I was when I arrived at the Regal on that chilly September evening. Tired from a long day and a vigorous cross-city ride with stops for long-overdue office supplies, I arrived feeling a little worse for wear. As I walked into the theatre, I kind of looked like someone who should have been asking for directions or making an eleventh hour delivery of a film fresh from the cutting room. Being a little out of character for your humble reviewer, I was late to the evening’s proceedings. It turns out that I very likely missed out on the opportunity to speak with the filmmakers and some of the cast who were milling around the area in front of the screen. Although, perhaps this was for the best, I never quite know how to conduct myself at these kinds of events. The drinks were flowing and what was left of the snacks were steadily disappearing when we were guided toward our seats. From my seat in the sixth row, I could see the mixture of anxiousness and relief on the faces of the filmmakers who took their seats a few rows before us. It’s possible that for a group of Flinders media students, that this was the largest audience to which some of them had ever played. Following some opening remarks about the important role that the Helpmann plays in fostering the talent of young creatives across a range of disciplines; we were treated to a short documentary piece that served as a showcase of the academy’s programs and ethos. Given that donations and patronage are a large part of what keep the operation afloat, this was both entirely welcome and provided a useful insight into how collaborative spaces can be created for multidisciplinary arts projects. The four films themselves were mostly in the 12-15 minute range. Three of them were dramatic pieces complete with multiple-location shoots and some well-executed allusions to what would have been special effects in full-scale theatrical pieces. The schedule commenced with a touching story of childhood friendship in a secluded forest town set against the backdrop of what seemed to be a long and bloody war. Some of the dialogue delivery in this piece was a little strained, but that is only a small part of what the piece was designed to showcase. The selection of sets and location shoots was excellent; the sound design was highly effective. The first time you hear those klaxons and the far-off sounds of battle, you know that you’ve struck a director who knows their craft. The second piece was a music video that was designed to accompany the RUOK Day suicide prevention campaign. It featured a number of well-executed location transitions without breaking the flow of the music piece. The editing and location scouting were brilliant. The way that the piece wound its way across the city contributed to the sense of community that RUOK Day is supposed to connect us with.

The third piece tackled the moral implications of managing a population stability program. The shoot makes excellent use of the single-room set. The positioning of the players in relation to the table, windows and cupboard provided the opportunity for the space to feel bigger than it actually was. The acting was solid, and the emotional resonance of the piece was palpable. The only thing that let the film down for me was that I felt the coarse language was a little overused in the script. The final piece of the evening played to so many of the troubles that are associated with getting a small, community organization off the ground. Anyone who has ever sat in a community hall for a presentation by an earnest, but unsophisticated host will understand the emotional workings of this piece. The film dealt with the theme of amateur ufologists with warmth and humor. I say humor, because this film’s small budget did not detract from the fact that it was flatout hilarious. The final credits rolled, we thanked the casts and crew for their efforts and filed out. Hopefully, the event has attracted a few more donators and patrons to the important work facilitated by the Helpmann Academy.

ANIME REVIEW

Another is a mystery/horror anime that is filled with suspense and plot turns that keep the viewer guessing until the very end. My reaction to Another was one of awe and delight. I enjoyed the bloody spin on the typical ‘Whodunnit’ storytelling. It features award winning voice actors Greg Ayres and Monica Rial and is directed by Tsutomu Mizushima. This 12 episode series was produced in 2012 by P.A Works but was based on the 2009 novel by Yukito Ayatsuji. The series follows the protagonist Kouichi Sakakibara, a 15 year old boy who has transferred to a new school. Here he befriends a puzzling and troubled girl named Mei Misaki who seems to go entirely unnoticed by their other classmates, surprising given the eye patch she wears. Without warning, Kouichi is flung into a whirlpool of violent deaths and cryptic messages as he learns more about a certain curse that is said to claim the lives of those in class 3-3 and their relatives. This curse is shrouded in mystery and fear whereby all 3-3 students are in imminent danger. While not every protagonist in a mystery genre needs to be the one taking the lead and asking the key questions to unravel the plot, it does make them more appealing. The viewer can feel more inclined to support the lead character and immerse themselves in the story arch. It is in this that I feel Another did not deliver well. Kouichi Sakakibara is portrayed as more of an observer to the story and doesn’t bring much to the series. Kouichi represents what I call the ‘tutorial character’ which exists to ask basic questions in order to establish details relevant to the plot so that the audience isn’t left confused. In addition, Kouichi takes the back seat while more interesting characters do the legwork. He is merely present to experience and narrate. However, while a tutorial character may still undergo personal character developments, Kouichi

does not. To my disappointment, he begins and ends with little personality and little impact on the audience. Kouichi’s lack of characterisation does, however, allow more time to showcase the vast array of other characters and their back-stories. The supporting cast of the series is well-portrayed and colourful in personality, something which made watching Another all the more enthralling and horrifying given their lives and minds were at risk of the curse. As the story progresses, the classmates become overwhelmed with panic and paranoia. Mayhem ensues as the students who once cared for each other, become pitted against each other while their sense of mortality closes in around them. The students were not superheroes - they were depicted as realistic teenagers in fear of their lives and grieved, fought and formed alliances together. In a lot of anime, you come to expect most of the characters will bounce back and survive almost anything thrown at them - their wounds, no matter how deep, seem to be superficial and the characters are often capable of surviving merely through willpower. However, in Another, since the characters are real and fully capable of being killed, the audience is captivated with trepidation and fear. Overall, Another is one of those anime that is not for the feint of heart - it’s gory, violent and downright creepy. It is an anime you watch for the first time and love, and watch a second time just to see if you can identify the clues that were always there. I give it 3.5 stars out of 5. s

Words by Lucas Abraham 31

REVIEW

Avatar the Last Airbender // Avatar the Legend of Korra With the recent release of the season three finale of Avatar: The Legend of Korra, I thought I would go back and let everyone in on this well kept series, from where it all began to where it is now.

type, while still including the fun and lighthearted feeling one associates with a Nickelodeon classic. This made it instantly popular for the young and adult alike.

Avatar The Last Airbender originally aired on Nickelodeon in 2005; it combined both the elements (save the pun for later), of a classic cartoon while incorporating the familiar style and features seen within Japanese anime. The series takes heavy influence from Asian culture, mythology and practices while still remaining assessable to a younger western audience. There is much debate as to what classification the show fits within, but I myself think of it as a cartoon. Anime generally is adapted from Japanese drawn comics called manga, which are then animated, voiced, released, re-voiced in an English Dub then re-released to western audiences.

Set in a world where people can manipulate the four elements (earth, fire, wind and water) the series centers around a young boy named Aang. He is the next Avatar, a powerful master of the elements and bridge to the spirits who must bring peace to the world and stop war between the nations. The story features a clever cast of characters from the completely wacky and hilarious to the serious and downright terrifying. The show follows Aangâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s journey through the world, along with the backstories he and his friends Katara and Sokka encounter. The show is divided into three books; Water, Earth, then Fire, each book represents Aangâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s mastering of the elements and with it his journey to becoming the Avatar. Aang being only 12 years of age is a monk and disciple of the air nomad nation who is obviously gifted with air bending. The traditional martial art forms such as Kung Fu and Tai Chi inspire each bending

All debates aside, the show was incredibly popular from its initial release in 2005 all the way to the series finale in 2008. It explored quite dense and heavy themes considering the intended audience

style giving it a well-developed historical heritage. As the series progresses and the characters become more fleshed out the darker themes begin to emerge and this is where the strong point of the show is seen. Aang is quickly forced to grow up and fill his role knowing that he is possibly the last hope in saving humanity. The series is a medium sized 61-episode show, which evenly distributes the good the bad and the sad, breaking the drama when it’s needed but also providing some of the most intense and suspenseful storytelling I have ever seen. In 2010 The Last Airbender was adapted into a live action film by director M. Night Shyamalam. The film was a flop, leaving a bad taste in the mouth of anyone with a shred of respect for the original series; if you value your viewing experience of the original show DO NOT watch this monstrosity. To end, everything about this show from the imaginative world and landscape, the awe-inspiring friendships, the stellar voice acting or the incredibly engaging story will draw in almost any fan. I would highly recommend Avatar: The Last Airbender to almost anyone. I give it 5 out of 5 stars.

...if you value your viewing experience of the original show DO NOT watch this monstrosity...

not possibly live up to the expectation set by the original cast, but to my surprise I found them equally if not more likeable in a different way. The animation, voice acting and music meet the same exceptional level as that of the original. The adventures, characters and situations in which Korra and her friends Bolin, Mako and Asami are truly an example of story writing at it’s best, with each season brining a fresh and new layer of interest to the table. The series is currently still running with season 4 set to debut in early October. It is presently at 39 episodes, with the last season rumored to be the last of the series. So far Korra has been through one hell of a journey, with season 3’s finale being an on-edge-of seat experience I’m not keen to relive anytime soon. The show itself has copped quite a large amount of criticism from fans of the original but any fan worth his/her salt knows how to appreciate a show for its differences, not for the things that make it the same. Overall, Avatar: The Legend of Korra has been one of my favorite shows this year, it has met and destroyed my highest expectations of the original and provided me with some serious hours of entertainment. Whether you’re a die hard fan of the original or looking for a new show to sink your teeth into, I highly recommend Avatar: The Legend of Korra. 5 out of 5 stars. s

Words by Shaun Gill

Now I move onto Avatar: The Legend of Korra, the highly anticipated sequel to the original series. Released in April 2012, almost 4 years after the end of Avatar: The Last Airbender, Avatar: The Legend of Korra is a breath of fresh air and a very different take on this well known and loved world. Set 70 years after the events of the original, The Legend of Korra tells the story of the new Avatar, a teenage waterbender named Korra. (WARNING: this section will contain slight SPOILERS of the original series, I will try and be as unspecific as possible to allow an unsoiled viewing experience for all). Aang is no longer the Avatar and the cycle has been passed to Korra. Although the world she lives in is very different to that of the original series, there are still various struggles that only the Avatar can assist with. As mentioned previously, the world has changed from an extreme degree to that of the original; the industrial era has began and with it automobiles, planes and non-bending extremists have emerged. Korra, being much older than Aang has already mastered most of the elements so the story focuses more on understanding the spiritual side of the elements as well as how mans influence has impacted the world. The themes in The Legend of Korra are certainly more complex and mature than that of the original, they would better suit an older age bracket and at times can be quite confronting. This being said, the show still maintains its quality cast allowing for a highly entertaining and enjoyable journey. On a personal note; I was worried that Korra and her friends could

gig REVIEW KINGSWOOD // THE SINKING TEETH Words by Ruby-Rose Niemann

Urghhhh. Is anyone else a little bit bored by Australian music? Like there’s some good stuff, obviously, but there’s also this core of bored, lazy indie music that rips off every other bluesy-rock band that went before them. That’s what Kingswood does, them and their support act The Sinking Teeth. They’re very talented musicians with a very good grasp on song construction but they have no soul. Kingswood kicked off their album launch tour, for debut album Microscopic Wars, at Adelaide’s Pirie & Co Social Club on the 20th of August, with fellow Melbourne indie rock band The Sinking Teeth. First off, just let me say that as far as small venues go I love Pirie & Co. It’s seriously just such a cool bar, it looks like the captain’s cabin of a fancy cruise ship from 1910, all brass and candles and big leather couches. Plus it’s a good music venue – the bar is a long, low-ceilinged room so the sound just fills it up, and the space in front of the low stage is spacious without impeding the rest of the room. Seriously, Pirie & Co. Go there. Anyway, the gig itself. The Sinking Teeth kicked things off, and they’re...they’re very Australian. Funny, a little crude, but ultimately a group of very talented but ultimately visionless young men with a heaping dose of stage presence. Their

skills are so good – some really incredible guitar riffs, just beautiful – but they’re not a great band. Probably good fun if you’re into slightly sleazy Aussie rock though, they remind me of about 15 guys I knew in high school, all of whom drank a lot of Coopers and had Opinions on Coopers vs West End. Their lead guitarist is so good – just such good guitar solos all over The Sinking Teeth’s songs – but it’s not really enough to raise the band above mediocrity. There’s a chance they could be fun if you’re in the right mood, but honestly there’s almost no soul here, no heart and no cleverness. As for the main event, Kingswood are a slicker, better put together take on everything I’ve said about The Sinking Teeth. They play an Australian brand of blues-rock that sounds like The Rolling Stones by way of Muse. It’s not terrible – technically, not by a long shot, Kingswood are very competent musicians – but there’s nothing new. Their live show is a blend of by-the-numbers indie rock and presumably sincere banter about loving Adelaide. If nothing else, a large portion of the audience did seem to be enjoying themselves. If you were in the right state of mind – a little drunk maybe, on a date, just felt like dancing – it probably would have been a great show. As it was, I’m just

so sick of hearing the same music played by talented but directionless Australians, over and over again. If you’d like some sincerely brilliant indie music, there’s a band called Ceres, also from Melbourne, that are doing some really wonderful things with indie and post-punk. Kingswood just skates the surface, never going anywhere interesting, and it’s a damn shame because I really want Australia to have a good music scene. But seriously, go to Pirie & Co if you can. Getting to hang out there again for an evening was well worth it.

MUSIC REVIEW Neil Cicierega // Mouth Sounds and Mouth Silence Words by Rohan Neagle

I don’t know jack shit about music. I’m the type who has nothing interesting to say about anything until something grabs my attention by shaking my shoulders violently and shouting in my face in the same manner a food-stained hag gifted with visions of the future would do for any one of us. I substitute valuable music knowledge with momentary bursts of passion that requires me to be to be strapped to a hospital bed while a bitter and jaded doctor brandishes my fourth syringe of morphine – but not before briefly looking at my soon-to-be injection and considering taking it for his own ‘medication’. Mouth Sounds is all this and more. Neil Cicierega, the mastermind behind Potter Puppet Pals and behind the internetfamous band Lemon Demon, has released a tribute – wait, no, that’s too weak a word. He has released an album of unabashed feverous worship in awe of the popular (Kid’s Choice) award-winning band Smash Mouth. While not every song is a Smash Mouth mash up (we’ll call these ‘smash ups’) one listen of the album and you can almost feel yourself attracted to the idea of building an effigy of the Smash Mouth crew made of their discarded chewing gum and trash so you can dance with it and kiss

it and end up covered with its offal. If Neil Cicierega laid prostrate any harder he’d be doing a handstand is what I’m saying. Mouth Sounds features the likes of All Star ‘smashed up’ with Modest Mouse’s Float On. All Star smashed up with the theme from the TV show Full House which I’ve never seen but now I have learned to recognize it as if I’ve watched it throughout whatever the hell decade it comes from. All Star is smashed up with John Lennon’s ‘Imagine’ significantly improving the song from ‘overplayed’ to ‘overlistened’. Daft Punk isn’t even given any mercy when it comes to their ‘Harder Better Faster Stronger’ and in many respects I’ve learned to love it more than the original. Then there’s the other, regular non-Smash Mouth mash ups such as the vast improvement on the Men In Black rap by Will Smith, Billie Jean mashed with Nirvana’s ‘Smells Like Teen Spirit’, and a ‘Chocolate Rain’ remix. At worst, the albums are a non-stop parade of music heresy that shits down your ears. At best, you’re indoctrinated – welcome, recruit! Did I mention that the albums don’t cost you any money? And they’re free? You have the internet. You can pretty much YouTube

it and listen to it now. Why aren’t you listening to it now? Mouth Silence is purported by Neil Cicierega as a ‘prequel’ album and is almost completely devoid of Smash Mouth. While this is a bummer to the Smash Mouth masses (Smasses?) it does prove itself to be an excellent proto-album. One of the most significant mash ups involves ‘Closer’ by Nine Inch Nails and ‘Love Rollercoaster’ by The Ohio Players that melds as well as a cheese toastie full of CCs dip. Ever wanted Stevie Wonder’s ‘Foxy Lady’ to be associated with furries? Too late, Mouth Silence has jump started your fluffy fantasies! Ever wanted a mash up of all the ‘Best’ songs ever? And by best, I mean songs that mention ‘best’ a lot. ‘Best’ won’t sound like a word after this album is through with you. I learned the lyrics to Katy Perry’s ‘California Girls’ because of Orgonon Gurlz. I learned to find a version of ‘Wonderwall’ to like without guilt because of this album. I learned to love again because of this album. Agnes, if you’re reading this, I won’t hold back anymore. I love you! I give these albums Smash/Mouth.

fiction

ANOTHER SHOT JACQUI LAWSON

We lie apart in bed and agree we are at our worst. With the window open to the traffic, I cry as we sift our lives for grains of promise, reasons to stay together. You reluctantly talk of the future – ‘it’s not that I can imagine a future without you, it’s just that I can’t always imagine one with you either’ – while I double back into the past, picking out the good times as though we might be able to replicate them at will. ‘Memories aren’t like photos, Lorrie,’ you say, pointing at the frame in my hands. ‘They don’t come with a roll of negatives. You can’t just shut yourself up in a darkroom and make copies.’ I squint at the photo through the half-dark: us standing on a sunny Romanian hillside, laughing, struggling to hold up a crate of just-picked apples. You, with your bare feet and chest and wild hair; me all in black, chunky boots and sleek pony-tail trailing down my back. Once, our differences were proud points, from which we’d run at each other, meeting in the middle in ways that surprised even us. ‘What’s happened to us, Nick?’ A car backfires somewhere in the street below. You turn to me. ‘Let’s go back.’ We haven’t left London in over three years. Things haven’t gone to plan; my recent exhibition has been a flop and I have cheap commission pieces piled up that I can’t bring myself to face. Your band is still getting regular gigs, but at the same pubs; split between four, your take is just enough to call a wage. We both turn thirty next month. Our car has been at the garage for a fortnight. We are weeks behind in rent. It’s a reckless idea. Silly. The last thing we need. ‘Nick, I don’t think it’s a good idea.’ You turn to me and I can just make out your eyes flickering between mine. ‘Come on, Lorrie,’ you say, resting the frame down in the space between us. ‘Don’t you think we owe it to ourselves?’ *

You hold your arm out in an effort to hitch a ride. A smile stretches across your face. You can’t keep your eyes in check; they dart around like insects, alighting briefly upon everything: the jagged horizon, haystacks dotting the fields, the white church spire rising from a copse of trees at the bottom of the valley. Your unruffled optimism is catching and for the first time in months, despite the heat and the pack on my back, I’m also grinning. A rumble behind us and a small truck rattles to a stop. You jog over. ‘Buna!’ I stand back as you exchange words with the driver. You hold your own in the conversation, pointing and smiling. Except on stage, I can’t remember the last time I’ve seen you this animated. You dip your head and do a little bow in thanks. We throw our packs into the tray and climb in after them. The view spills open before us – a patchwork of green hills folding in upon itself. I let my hair down and shake it loose so it whips about in the draught. The driver drops us off in front of the hostel. It is barely

recognisable. The grounds are no longer pastoral: the lawn is freshly mown, groups of backpackers crowd around picnic benches, new buildings have sprung up. I point to our hut, peeking out from behind a new double-story cabin. ‘Well, fucking, well!’ A voice booms. ‘It’s Romeo and Juliet!’ The owner, Joe, is loping towards us, beaming. We laugh and exchange hugs. ‘How long has it been? I knew you’d be back.’ ‘Ten long years,’ you say. ‘That long? Feels like last week.’ He leads us inside the hut, plucks a photo from the pin-up board and hands it to us. It’s a print of the one you keep in your wallet. ‘A lot’s changed, as you can see,’ he says, taking a bottle and three shot glasses from the shelf above his desk. ‘Sometimes you’ve just gotta adapt, you know?’ People walk past the open door carrying masks and bundles of fabric. ‘Midsummer’s Eve,’ Joe says. ‘The village people have set up a bonfire just over the back here. There’ll be music, firecrackers, dancing, that sort of thing. Come on over. It’s a celebration of luck and love, after all.’ He winks and passes us each a shot. You hold yours to your nose and sniff. Your eyes water and we laugh. ‘Noroc!’ Joe holds his glass up. ‘Noroc!’ we say together, glasses clinking. *

The inside of the hut is unchanged. The fire is stacked with kindling, the bench seats lining the lime-coated mud walls are draped in sheepskins, there is a bowl of fresh apples and tomatoes on the table. We race each other up the narrow stairs to the loft. I jump onto the bed and sink into the white quilt. You jump on top of me, pin my arms down. Pressed into each other, with sunlight slanting in through the window, ten years fall away. You shake me awake. I open my eyes to cold, grey light. You check the time. It’s late. ‘Fuck!’ you hiss. We had mapped out the whole day, planned it down to the hour to emulate our first day together: a trek out of town, past the old church and down to the creek for a picnic, before returning for a home-cooked dinner and some palinka on the veranda, then a stroll across the fields to watch the celebrations tonight. Shaking your head, you climb over me and hurry downstairs. ‘Great start,’ you shout up the ladder, slamming the door. We follow the main track back through the village centre. The road is now roughly bituminised and lined with cars and tourists. Original wooden dwellings have been replaced by multiple-storey holiday homes: block- like, rendered and painted in clean pastel pinks, greens and oranges. A single horse-driven cart loaded with hay rolls past. A bus rumbles through from the other direction; the cart is forced off the road, up on to the path, losing a portion of its load. You stop.

‘Remember that bakery with the little currant buns, the one that grumpy woman ran from her front room?’ I nod. We’d gorged ourselves on our first picnic together and fallen asleep in the sun, waking hours later to a sudden downpour. ‘It was here,’ you say, pointing at a rubble-filled allotment. I shake my head. ‘No, it’s further along, across from the house with the wooden gates.’ ‘No, Lorrie, it was here. Now it’s gone.’ I walk on, determined to show him that it’s just around the next bend. We reach the house with the wooden gates. Across from it is the house, the only hint of the old bakery a darker patch of paint where its sign used to be. *

For hours we traipse dirt tracks, conversing like strangers. ‘So, do you have any more exhibitions lined up?’ It startles me that you don’t know. ‘Just a small one at a local next month. But no new material.’ We crest a rise and another view opens up. In the distance a single solid cloud looms, casting a shadow bigger than itself across the valley. ‘Well, what are you waiting for?’ You stop and take the camera from the pack. You hand it to me, rummaging again before withdrawing your harmonica. You’re rusty to begin with, all lips and off-notes. We laugh and it loosens us up and soon I’m snapping away while you’re humming. For a long while we don’t speak at all. *

It’s almost dark when we reach the church. Three dogs, strays probably, lie sprawled on the gravel by the gates, soaking up the last of its warmth. Suddenly you’re off, sprinting down the hill. I follow, legs loping, laughing uncontrollably. I’m almost at the bottom when one of the dogs – a grey mutt – charges. Its jaws lock around the exposed skin on my calf. I kick at it with my free foot. You run over, picking up a rock as you go,

hurling it, roaring. The dog skulks away, trembling, teeth still bared. A woman runs out of her house, shouting. She picks up a handful of stones and throws them one by one at the dogs until they finally turn their backs and wander down the road. She shrugs her shoulders in apology. A man emerges from the house. ‘Is okay,’ she assures us, before explaining to the man what has happened. He inspects the wound. Although the pain is getting worse, the bite hasn’t drawn blood. ‘Is good. No blood.’ You cross your hands behind your head and exhale loudly. ‘So I’m not getting rid of her?’ you joke. But your eyes are wide, your face pale. ‘No, no,’ the man laughs. ‘You keep.’ *

When we start back for the village it’s already growing dark. We’re going to miss the celebrations. ‘I think I remember a shortcut. You game?’ I ask. You swing me round onto your back. It feels good, my body resting along yours. You lead us down the next track on the left, follow a sagging fence-line, pass through a backyard and on to a narrow track that leads up through an apple orchard. As we pass through I let go of you and stretch up to pluck an apple from a tree. I hold it in front of you and you take a bite. ‘Mm. Mmm.’ ‘No good?’ I giggle, taking a chunk from the other side. It’s overripe. Powdery. But sweet. We crest the last rise before the village, the sky erupts as fire crackers begin to explode. You set me down on a patch of grass and collapse beside me. We lay back, shoulder-toshoulder, with the steep slope at our backs. ‘I’m sorry, Lorrie. If this whole thing was a stupid idea,’ you say, concentrating on the smoky, spark-filled sky, your eyes serious. ‘Pass me my camera,’ I say. I wriggle closer to you, hold the camera above us and snap. The flash bursts, bright and sure, lighting us up in the dark. s

The Batteries of Life Clearly, I’d known from the start that it was not a matter of ‘if’, but ‘when.’ I felt bad that I’d never taken Alice to Paris like she’d hoped. I was being a typical guy with the guttering - I’d get to it someday, but not today. I’d promised her we’d go when we were sapling newly weds, on our honeymoon in New Zealand. I knew she had wanted Paris and it was on her mind when she remained in silence after we’d made love in the leaky motel. So I leaned over the sweat soaked sheets and told her that someday soon, we’d be there. But now we could never be. I’d delayed it 25 years and was betrayed by the security that my wife would last as long as time itself. For the long blonde hair that floated so gently down her shoulders had worn with age- patches missing, more hair appearing on the pillow than ever before. Her condition rapidly sliding down a ungodly steep hill with no brakes. Her right cheek seemed almost punctured, her red ruby lips faded to a baby pink. Her whole face paler and more worn. She was haggard, tired, and couldn’t do it anymore. I’d talked with her once about the batteries of life, and what they meant. Alice had her own batteries, but they were vintage and expensive. When we first met, they were charged and ready to roll, and I didn’t think to stock up on more for her. But now, as supply had dwindled, so did her life. There were odd days. Sometimes the batteries worked, and other days they delayed, and sometimes it seemed as though they had run flat. At first I used to be terrified for these days; terrified she would leave me. Of course I still had the children- but it did not compare. I would beg her to snap out of it when her circuits delayed, and most of the time, she would. But as time wore on, I realized I should just be aware that when the batteries ran flat, they ran flat. Her time was fading out, and it was then I realized that it was not a matter of ‘if’ but of ‘when.’ We adopted two children, as Alice and I found out she couldn’t conceive quickly after marriage. I had always wanted to be a father, and hadn’t even let the process of adoption sway me when we adopted our children. But the real pain for me now was that I had wanted to be a father with Alice by my side. What on earth was I supposed to do alone? How was I going to be strong for them if she wasn’t there?

Alice’s farewell could not have come at a worse time in regards to our children. Our son Robert had barely been adopted, and although it had been months, his face seemed frozen to us, forever a newborn baby. How was I to raise him all alone? I had Annabelle- my teenage daughter, but she was in a world of her own grief and hardly spoke. She remained in her bedroom; slumped over her desk, arm resting under her chin for what seemed like weeks. She didn’t go to school as we had chosen to homeschool her, but with Alice’s illness I hadn’t had the time to teach. I liked to think she was writing up there, because whenever I passed her room and peeked inside it was always the same notebook. Maybe she was dealing with her grief in the way only a writer could. We were a quiet family. Nobody on our street really knew us- and in a way, we preferred it that way. Alice seemed silent and embarrassed about her condition, which gave me the instinct to keep her safe from the public eye. I knew she secretly feared a battery drain in public, and especially didn’t want the children to see it happen. So for most of the time she remained in bed- hooked to a potato. It sounds ridiculous, but it really isn’t- getting energy from a potato was one of the only options we found worked. And although it did nothing but increase her life inch by inch, volt by volt, she seemed to like it, and it was all a matter of making sure she was comfortable. We had gone through around five hundred potatoes in the last month, and there was only so many potato bakes I could make before the children complained of repetition. It put a heavy strain on our savings, the savings we had put toward Paris, that now didn’t matter. I carefully and quietly tiptoed up to our bedroom that morning, nibbling a crust of toast. Alice never ate, and it had practically become non-existent during her illness, so I just grabbed the odd slice of toast to energize me for the day. After all, I had batteries too. Batteries that would need fuel not only to get through the day and care for Alice but also to raise two children on my own. I decided to get Robert up first, as I knew Alice would enjoy seeing him, even if her arms were so haggard and torn that she couldn’t hold him. As I padded up the stairs silently and into the baby blue room, I knew I wouldn’t be expecting a loud cry. Robert was a dream baby, silent as stars, quiet as a mouse. I often thought if his tiny mind knew instinctively what was going on because he was so good for me.

Sure enough, he was still asleep in his cradle. His tiny hands were balled into fists and pressed against his face, as his expression was one of delightful annoyance. I didn’t mind though, as Robert had always slept this way. It didn’t matter whether he was unhappy or sad, he would always sleep with such an expression. I stuffed the remaining shard of toast into my mouth, before gently picking up Robert with both hands and lifting him out the cot. His expression didn’t change, but his little head tipped back slightly as he was lifted. I pressed him to my shoulder, patting his back as I swayed back and forth gently. With the free hand, I grasp one of his many tracksuits for the day. I’m not sure how Alice used to do it while I was away at work, but I manage to lay out a fresh one suit, blue with a jumping smiling lamb, on his changing table. I decide to change him later. Routine was out the window, like everything else was since Alice began to drain. I carry Robert up the remaining stairs, feeling how heavy yet light his little body feels while clinging to me. I was going to have to do everything alone with him. I would have to cook his meals, tell him to clean his room, drive him to school or soccer and tell him to go to bed all alone. I was going to have to be brave without Alice therewould my son like me as he grew up? Would he have wished I had run flat instead of her? I pass Annabelle’s room, and pause to sway over the open crack in her door she still left open because of the fear of monsters. I hoped, like every normal sixteen year old, she had at least gone into her own bed, but alas- she was still there, hunched over her notebook. ‘Annabelle?’ I find myself whispering. She does not turn. I know exactly why, of course. During the difficult dealings with Alice, and trying to get my work life together, I found out that Annabelle had been garnering the attention of the local boys. In fact, I caught my daughter outside the back of the tool shed with one. She had been stripped and he was displaying his masculinity. He had the audacity while I yelled at her to refer to my daughter as only a ‘Doll’, as if her femininity was nothing. Since then I have changed the locks and grounded her. But to her, I’ve stirred up her whole world. ‘Mum was feeling a little better this morning.’ I try to sound joyous, but she does not turn. I know it was wrong of me to tell her that her mother would pass on without a doubt, but what else could I say? So to Annabelle, no news I can say now is good news, unless there’s been a cure for Alice’s haywire dying batteries. ‘Keep up the writing…’ Is all I can murmur, before closing her bedroom door. I know it’s the only thing she really wants now. I reach our bedroom, grasping the door handle while trying to keep Robert still in my arms, and quietly enter. Alice is awake, which surprises me. Tubes and wires of all sorts are

tangled around the bed in a heap, potatoes bulbing at each end. She can’t talk or move now, as it is too painful and too much energy for her, but her eyes open gives me the signal that she’s happy to see us. ‘I brought the baby…’ I say quietly, gently ‘it’s been a while since you’ve seen each other, eh?’ She doesn’t respond, but doesn’t go back to sleep, either. I put Robert in her line of sight, and let her stare at him for a few moments- taking in his beauty, and his little sleeping expression. All of a sudden there is a jerk of her lips, and a low moan creaks out, although it is distorted and cracked as the batteries circuit. I put Robert quickly down on the bed and grab her cold clammy hands. ‘Don’t worry, don’t panic.’ I chant to her gently ‘Just relax. It’s alright.’ Her eyes flap shut, and for a minute I swear she is gone, as this has been the most she’s moved in days. But after a while, I put my ear to her chest, and can hear the cogs of her heart whirring and struggling. Still alive, still kicking. ‘I think that’s the most you’re going to get out of her today, little man.’ I tell Robert, picking him back up ‘I think tonight’s the night.’ I go about the day as usual, trying to forget that something so daunting and frightening is going to happen. I change Robert and take him into the kitchen where I go to get Annabelle up to tell her the news. She does not take it lightly, as seems to go even more limp as before. I find myself practically carrying her down the hall to the kitchen. She seems to heavy for such a finely tuned body, but then I recall she came from the same place her mother came from, and Alice also seemed to weigh heavier than she looked. I have breakfast with the children, one chair still open for if Alice decided to leap from her bed sheets and prance downstairs. Annabelle is quiet, looking over her cereal, while Robert decides to remain snoozing. I clean up and take Annabelle back to her room, where I decide to attempt to teach her English to break up the day. Annabelle takes in all of the lesson quietly, then sets to work on her latest piece when I leave. Work was no doubt out of the question, and although my work colleagues never really knew, they were extremely surprised and sympathetic when I phoned. I spent a lot of the afternoon with Robert dozing in my lap, reading aloud The Paper Doll for Alice, which was her favourite. After the book was finished, I finally made the choice to take away the potatoes from Alice. She wouldn’t need them anymore. I cut them off, one by one, and if anything, it seemed to make Alice even drowsier. I took them into the kitchen, washed them, and set about preparing dinner with them while I parked Robert in front of the television

to watch Toy Story, which he was promptly asleep for. I eventually got Annabelle into Alice’s room to eat dinner. Eating in bedrooms was something normally banned in our household, but tonight was certainly not normal. I went to the effort of sprinkling sprigs of rosemary on the potatoes I had cooked from Alice’s treatment. She was smart enough to figure out, even if she wasn’t going to eat it, that it was a silent sign that I would remember her. After dinner it was just talking. Mostly on my part, telling Alice how much she was loved and how we would indeed miss her, but we didn’t want to see her suffering anymore. For our sake, it just wasn’t worth it. At around ten that night, it happened. I had been slowly thinking that perhaps it wouldn’t be tonight, but it was. I was rocking Robert in my arms, speaking to him, when suddenly Alice’s eyes flickered open, as if she were brand new again. Her eyes were at the ceiling though, not on mine, and there was an exhausted moan from her body as it suddenly drained to its last volt of energy. She simply stopped, opened her eyes, let out a sigh, and died. It was as simple as that. I removed the children quickly from the room afterward, opening up the whole book of instructions on how to live that I had been stored in my head. I grieved with them in the hallway, all of us. We were now alone. Authorities stepped in a few weeks after Alice’s death. I had stopped working, and there had been no funeral, which had ignited the concern of my workplace. Social workers were sent in for the children, and they found us, almost exactly as we were, except alone as a family. I was trying my hardest to care for them, and the social workers gently told me that it was time to go. Go where? I didn’t know. They took my children from me when I arrived at the social worker home. Where they took Alice, I begged to know, and they gently told me she had been removed and dealt with respectively. I wanted to see my children badly, but they didn’t understand. ‘Mr Darning, do you HAVE children who can come visit?’ One worker, Mindy, asked me. ‘YES! YOU SAW THEM!’ I exploded for the hundredth time ‘They lived with me, a boy and a girl!’ Mindy shook her head, checking a notepad for signs of them. ‘There were no children.’ She said gently ‘We were surprised we even got the call for children. Are ... are these the other plastic dolls that were in the house?’ ‘THEY AREN’T DOLLS!’ I snarled at her ‘they’re my children! I need them here- I promised Alice!’ My new home was too clean and white for me; I needed the mess that only children could provide. I wanted to hold Robert

close, and I wanted to assure Annabelle it was all right. ‘I can see you’re very distressed.’ Mindy said, taking down notes ‘the situation is that the house is abandoned, and its very lucky you weren’t targeted by the teenage youths who like to stalk around there. We will try to get your Love Doll and Reborn Baby doll back to you, Mr Darning, if that’s what you want.’ ‘It wasn’t abandoned!’ I growl ‘it was a beautiful two storey home, for Christs sake! I don’t care about that- just give me my kids back!’ I began to realise how much I hated the real world, and why I had asked for Alice’s hand in marriage in the first place. My children were truly now the only things who felt real to me, even if everyone tried to tell me the opposite. I didn’t understand why I had to be taken away, as I was happy there. I had lost a wife, but I was happy. We were happy. One day, while I sat in my tiny little house, the door opened and Mindy came in, followed by two removal men who held my beautiful babes in arms. I leapt to my feet with joy, rushing to them. I laughed out loud as I noticed that Robert was still asleep, probably oblivious to the whole thing. I fell with them in a heap, hugging each other for dear life. ‘You’re here, you’re here!’ I kept saying over and over, overjoyed ‘we’re going to move on from this, children. We’re going to live. We’re going to make mummy proud of us.’ Sure enough, we did. We were let out of the social worker home when I was assessed to be a fit father. I honestly thought I didn’t need the testing, but they were stern. As soon as we were cleared, I realized that our home had been thoroughly trashed by the time we got home. For my children’s sake, I decided it was time to move and start anew. I decided, taking a lock of hair from Alice’s once beautiful head that I kept underneath my pillow, we should go where she would want. And so we went to Paris.

Words by Bethany Lawrence Dedicated to my father, who had to find the strength to go on.

4141

Colebrook Eerie, warm, tranquil but screaming loudly in pain, “Help me, You made me” Is what I hear. Grief, lost heritage, misconnections Is what I fear.

The 1850s - 1940’s saw “protection”, segregation and Missions, reserves, Designed for prosperity of life. Neglect, ration, derogatory, Could not escape the strife.

I am told this is the site of The Stolen Generation’s Past, Taken, stolen, brought to a “home” Left alone, abused, refused, The white fella tells me it’s based upon their genome.

Words cannot fathom such an experience. Who am I, who is my family? An eternity spent is confusion, Anger, sadness, unknowing, Time to take some action.

Such ordeal spanned fifty seven years, Oodnadatta, Miss Annie Lock, The beginning of the end. Quorn, Miss Ruby Hyde, Blackwood, How does one comprehend? But why was this a thing? Colonisation, assimilation Just to name a few. Racism, sovereignty, identity Have something to do with it too. In 1788 white invaders came, Destroyed, controlled, Land which is not theirs, Terra nullius, death, disease, Overwhelmed with such affairs. The history books tell a lie, Pacifism, order, is not how it went down. Massacre, bloodshed, frontier violence, Excuse me while I frown. This went on for sixty-two years, Settled, grouped basic human rights taken away, Not accepted, disconnected, protested, From whiteness, one could not stray. Life was never the same, Government, enforcement, Policies designed for white superiority, Pain, suffering, anguish At such authority.

In 1997, The Bringing Them Home Report was released, Tribute, inquiry, Into Australian History somewhat hidden. Exposed, truth, the beginning of reconciliation, Although voices still forbidden. The Blackwood Reconciliation Group ignited the fire for change, Sausage sizzle, awareness Upon the land screaming in pain, Honour, acknowledgement, reconcile, A gesture that still remains. A statue stands quietly but loudly within the park, Stone, flowers, A Grieving Mother, Haunted, powerful, inconsolable, The loss of her other. Not too far away trickling water sounds, Cold, continuous, A Fountain of Tears, Forever, comfort, is sorry enough? Is what I fear. Eerie, warm, tranquil but asking for your help, “Acknowledge us, accept the past” Is what I hear, Reconnect, move forward, collaborate While I shed a tear.

Words by Jade Kelly

poetry and prose Children’s Edition

Clouds Can’t Cry

Idyllic Decay

In my head, I’m lost in a forest and I see a path that may lead to home I figure it’s better to stray down a wrong paththan wander lost and never knowing… When I start to walk down this path of least resistance The gates shut behind me, and I hear wild beasts in the distance… Hunter’s gun shots are persistent…

I am a cloud, A collection of all below, The streams, Lakes, Rivers, And oceans. When I start to feel heavy, I break myself into pieces, And give them all back, To you, Below. You grow strong, I am happy. You start to flow faster, And faster, And faster, Until you are gone. Leaving me, With nothing, But a few drops. Tears, On an ex-lovers cheek.

Rusted old rotting carcass Glassless eyes agape Long dead mouldless carpet Horse-power’s final gate.

I start to see things that change me, and what changes in me can’t be unchanged and I start to realise my mistake, because to sit and wonder at the gate would have been a better fate than this hopeless wander; soul reshape.

Words by JJ Nestor

Coat now lustless tones Vengeful weeds taking root Sun-bleached wooden bones Tail stained with soot. Once proud plains reclaim Deceased industrious farmers steed March of progress losing steam Uselessness decreed. Battle Field bodies strewn Graveyard of broken tools. Blood bought post-war boon Live until the last drop of fuel

Words by Jack McEntee

Only the strong survive ideas on the finger line in my mind it’s fine it’s fine Poems are strong as their weakest link spartan centurions discarding young it’s fine it’s fine

Words by Jack McEntee

note: words by michael adams

As University students we, perhaps better than most people, understand the importance and the difficulties of maintaining a balance in life. All too often we find ourselves attempting to juggle work with study, sport with rest, and relationships with personaltime. Seeing as I am typing this in the early hours of the morning it is rather apparent that this balance eludes me still. Trying to find this balance can drive us to near-breaking point and those who have found balance have endured a great deal of stress to get there. A good friend once told me that amidst all this confusion it is important to find an anchor, something that keeps us grounded whenever we find ourselves overwhelmed. Recently I have come to the realisation that my anchor, what keeps me grounded, is my friends. In recent years we have had to face the hard truth that as we grow older, and as our schedules become more crowded, we have less time for friends. Most of us would have grown apart from someone and in some cases lost all contact with people who were once part of our inner circles. There are a number people I rarely see anymore whom without I would not have survived being a teenager. This year has been an important one for many of my friends and I. Twenty-first birthdays have been ticked off quickly and though it is just a number we are beginning to acknowledge our transition into adults. It was at such an event recently that I was again reminded of just how important friendships really are. That night, amidst the sounds of laughter, all my worries and problems faded into the background. That is the great thing about friends. They have the amazing ability to shrink our problems, to help us overcome the obstacles in our path, to remind us that they are there to pick us up when we fall. We may not see them as much as we used to, they may even cancel plans with us every now and then, but if they’re a real friend they will always be there ready to help.

Perhaps as we grow older, and as we learn to pick ourselves up through practice, their support isn’t needed as often. But, we can only learn to pick ourselves up after being shown. I have learnt more about life and about myself from my friends than I have from anything else. I use these lessons every day of my life and that is why they continue to be my foundation, my anchor. Most people may have a different view of what is their anchor, but I would be surprised if anyone was to disagree with me on the importance of preserving friendships. I’ve always liked to close with a quote and though I cannot remember who said it, they say it better than I ever could. “If you are too busy for friends, then you are too busy.” s

ART REVIEW

Flinders University Art Museum & Gallery 6 December - 8 February 2015 Curator Beth Jackson Bimblebox: art – science – nature is a touring exhibition about the Bimblebox Nature Refuge, a representatation of an artist group’s creative response to their experience of a unique and threatened environment. The exhibition is rich, dynamic and diverse, including artworks in installation, works on paper, painting, artist books, photography, digital media and sound. Curated by Beth Jackson from a project initiated by artist Jill Sampson, the exhibition also incorporates aspects of scientific and environmental research and social history of the site. Bimblebox Nature Refuge is located in semi-arid, desert uplands environment approximately 50km north-west of Alpha in Central Queensland, comprising 8000 hectares of native bushland, the majority of which has never been cleared. While legally recognised as a Nature Refuge and part of the National Reserve System of Protected Areas, Bimblebox is under threat from coal mining. This exhibition explores the challenging subjects of coal mining, global warming, diminishing biodiversity, the changing socio-cultural dispositions of regional communities and the role of creativity in that process. Aiming to document and creatively interpret this unique place and time, Bimblebox: art – science – nature may help to save this nature refuge from destruction or it will provide lasting testimony. *Bimblebox: art – science – nature is a touring exhibition partnered by Museum and Gallery Services Queensland and Redland Art Gallery in association with Bimblebox Nature Refuge. Supported by The Gordon Darling Foundation and proudly sponsored by Artfully, Tangible Media, Planet Boab and Wotif.com. Glenda Orr, Bimblebox Sky Map 2, 2013, embossed paper painted with sap from Bimblebox trees. Photo by Carl Warner.

Complete the crossword and send a picture of your answers to stephanie.walker@ flinders.edu.au and WIN one of ten free double passes to Palace Nova!

Across

Down

6. Tale of two brothers in the favelas of Rio De Janeiro (3 Words) 7. Isn’t every fancy ballet school a front for evil? 8. Von Trier’s hard to watch film of people pretending to be mentally handicapped (2 Words) 12. Landmark Hong Kong police thriller (2 Words) 14. Rob and steal for Newcastle United tickets? (2 Words) 16. Freder gets embroiled in class struggle in a future utopia 17. This quirky French heroine learns not to be a supporting character in her own life. (2 Words) 19. This wandering musician wasn’t the gunman they were looking for. 20. Watch a German U-Boat mission… in real time… well, almost. (2 Words) 21. A stolen bike causes frustration in post-war Italy (2 Words) 22. Tokyo Gorelord bathes his sets in the red red kroovy 23. The inspiration for Pitt’s character in Snatch

1. Indonesian tower-assault film’s resemblance to another film is a coincidence (2 Words) 2. The revolution in the caboose gets bloody 3. A missing persons case takes a private eye to a city where love is outlawed 4. A giant pyramid full of bored gods is never a good sign 5. An invincible warrior carves a path of destruction through mutant revolutionaries 9. Wander off? Wind up slaving away in a haunted bathhouse (2 Words) 10. Herzog’s tale of the Spanish quest for the fabled city of gold 11. A Russian naval labour strike devolves into a riot (2 Words) 13. Guido’s internal life, despite his outward struggles, is ________ 15. A wandering samurai plays both ends against the middle in this Kurosawa classic 18. Creepy old men in creepy old castles need real estate agents too 20. Bunker down for a film that launched a thousand memes 21. Yamamoto discovers that the game is the same the world over

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