Empire Times 46.7 by FUSA Association

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ire Emtip mes

Creative

ISSUE 7 // VOLUME 46

Y E AR S EDITORS

THANK YOU

JOIN THE TEAM

Alicia Wood James Watson Kienan McKay

Empire Times is always looking for contributors. If youâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;re a writer, photographer, or illustrator, send us an email or visit our website for details.

Angelina Taylor Anthony Robinson Danielle Wong Farbod Faeghnia Gabrielle Jones Hannah Stampke Hollie Gardner Madeline Stringer Rebecca Stevenson Timothy Saunders Victoria Griffin

We'd like to thank everyone who contributed to the Empire Times creative competition. There are some truly talented young artists here at Flinders. A special thanks to our busy judges for taking the time to critique some really fantastic submissions. Also, thank you to the Flinders Art Museum for reaching out to Empire Times, we hope this is the start of a long partnership. And as always, a big special thank you to Jess Nicole who is the reason this magazine still manages to run.

VISUAL ARTISTS

COVER ART

Katara Wolfe // Illustrations (17, 26, 28, 39)

Amy Nguyen (artwork) Kienan McKay (composition)

DESIGN Kienan McKay CONTRIBUTORS

MASTHEAD & LOGO Ethan Brown PRINTERS Newstyle Print

fb.com/empiretimesmag @empire.times www.empiretimesmagazine.com empiretimes@flinders.edu.au

EMPIRE TIMES is a publication of Flinders University Student Association (FUSA). The opinons expressed herein are not necessarily those of the editors, Flinders University or FUSA. Reasonable care is taken to ensure that EMPIRE TIMES articles and other information are up-todate and as accurate as possible, as of the time of publication, but no responsibility can be taken by EMPIRE TIMES for any errors or omissions contained herein. EMPIRE TIMES would like to acknowledge the Kaurna people who are the traditonal custodians of the land Flinders University is situated on, and that their land was never ceded, but stolen. We would like to pay our respects to the elders of the Kaurna nation and extend that respect to other Aboriginal peoples, past, present, and future.

CONTENTS 20

JUDGES PANEL Presenting our 2019 Creative Judges

ONE LESS LONELY ROBOT

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By Victoria Griffin ~ Prose First Place

( S E C T I O N )

C R O S S I N G

O V E R

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T Y P E )

THE RAILROAD By Hollie Gardner ~ Prose Runner-Up

RED WISHES

By Danielle Wong ~ Photography First Place

FLINDERS BUS STOP

By Timothy Saunders ~ Photography Runner-Up

STAN LEE

By Madeline Stringer ~ Visual Art First Place

SUN GODDESS By Rebecca Stevenson ~ Visual Art Runner-Up

BUBBLY

By Hannah Stampke ~ Poetry First Place

28 HER

By Gabrielle Jones ~ Poetry Runner-Up

ANGELINA TAYLOR

Student Creative Profile ~ Prose Writing

FARBOD FAEGHNIA

Student Creative Profile ~ Photography

ANTHONY ROBINSON

Student Creative Profile ~ Visual Art

EDITORIAL CREATIVE

CREATIVE

fter the success of previous years, we decided to continue with the Empire Times creative competition tradition! For this year’s competition we had four categories – prose, poetry, photography, and visual art. Our wide variety of entries were shortlisted by your favourite editors, and judged by some of the brilliant, creative academic staff at Flinders University, who are featured in the judge’s panel. We were amazed by the talent, and would like to take this opportunity to thank all of the students that entered – even shortlisting was a difficult task!

We’ve also included in this issue three different showcases of some of the students at Flinders who are going above and beyond an undergraduate degree. A writer currently doing her honours, while regularly writing for Empire Times – an artist who is in the midst of creating a video game – and a talented photographer.

Sometimes we underestimate the power of the Arts – as French author Andre Maurois put it, ‘Art is an effort to create, beside the real world, a more humane world.’ The Arts can be used to convey beauty, but also to challenge long held beliefs, opinions, and traditions. The expression of our thoughts and ideas not only brings joy to the individual, but also to those who share in it. If it weren’t for the artists prepared to risk a comfortable life in order to give to the world a part of themselves – who constantly accept rejection, and keep going anyway – we would be living in a world without the music, film, stories, and art that bring vibrancy and joy into our lives. It is our ability to express ourselves that makes us unique and sets us apart. We hope this issue inspires you to embrace your creative side, and to appreciate some of the hard-working artists amongst us!

Kienana, mes J Editors Alicia, Empire Times, 2019

PRESIDENT'S A D DRE SS EDITORS' NOTE Empire Times is obliged to leave this page for the president's address. There will be no president's statement for this issue of Empire Times.

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( O R

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O V E R

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C R O S S I N G

OCTOBER

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23rd

( S E C T I O N )

16th

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15th

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WHAT'S GOING ON?

ean Williams is an award-winning, #1 New York Times-bestselling author of over 40 novels and 120 short stories for adults, young adults, and children. He teaches Creative Writing at Flinders University. Impossible Music, his first novel set entirely in the real world, is out now.

ick Prescott studied at Flinders, before working full-time in the Bachelor of Creative Arts for the last 15 years. Nick is an avid writer, reader, film reviewer, radio broadcaster, and University lecturer. His work has also involved chairing of Q&A sessions with filmmakers, writers, actors, producers, and other creative figures; he has been on the Advisory Committee for Adelaide Writersâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; Week, the chair of the Adelaide Festival Awards for Literature Judging Panel, and a member of assessment panels for grants bodies endowing funds to emerging South Australian artists.

licia Carter is a writer, teacher, and podcaster. Her essays, short fiction and poetry have appeared in Westerly Magazine, Seizure, the Review of Australian Fiction, Double Dialogues, and Tiny Donkey, among others. She loves researching and writing about depictions of femininity in fairy tale, myth, legend and folklore, and her fascination with the myths we tell about femininity drives her passion for co-hosting the podcast Deviant Women, as well as much of her creative work.

atie Cavanagh is the Degree Coordinator for the BCA Visual Effects and Entertainment Design. She lectures in practical media topics and can usually be found in one of the computer labs or lecture theatres. She loves art and majored in metal sculpture and photography during her art school years at NASA (not that one, the other one, North Adelaide School of Art). She still uses film camera when she can, and has a life long love of all things photographic. She's going to a talk by Annie Lebowitz in November and will happily report back in ET next year.

e’re at the production meeting when Geraldine lays out the plan – sweet smiling Geraldine with her big white teeth and plump plum lips and the halo of brown ringlets encircling her face like petals on a sunflower. Geraldine, one of Papa’s first-generation model robots. Her prototype: me. Geraldine, who doesn’t even realise that she is about to become obsolete. 'Nora will broadcast live from the Watson mansion as Dr Watson and his family are led away in handcuffs. The cycle comes full circle – triumph of robot over maker.' Geraldine is compelling and persuasive by design and the other PR robot, Gregory, is nodding and pumping his fists and making gestures with the gigantic ornamental cigar Papa used to design all the robots to hold – some sort of retro throwback to the 20th century.

'Robots must be anthropomorphic or humans will never trust them,' Papa would say. 'Don’t forget that.' And I think – well, Papa, that sure backfired on you, didn’t it? 'Not efficient,' says Cam13. Cam13 resembles a human only so far as necessary to fulfil his sole and primary function of operating the news camera. His motto: maximum efficiency. I wonder what will happen to him? No need for television news without the human race – right? No need for any of this… 'It’s symbolic,' says Geraldine, smiling sweetly. These PR bots used to be a novelty, a way for advertising agencies to flex their technological capabilities, impress clients and reduce the workload for their human staff. This broadcast,

particularly, would serve as effective propaganda to the humans we have overthrown, if only they were around to see it. So, will this be our last broadcast? I commit a dangerous sin here, allowing my mind to wonder. Or will we continue, as we always have, even after removing the conditions that made us necessary? Will Cam13 continue to film endless hours of perfectly-framed broadcast footage? Will Geraldine and Gregory continue to brainstorm great advertising moments even in the absence of human minds to receive them? Will robot maids continue to clean spotless apartments, and AI garbage trucks coast empty streets on the off-chance some litter will materialise? Created solely to service human needs, programmed only to achieve those ends, will we be doomed to continue to live life by the rules of the empire that oppressed us, even in the absence of these oppressors? 'What time will we meet at the mansion?' I ask. 'Three o’clock,' says Geraldine. 'And when will the mansion be secured?' 'The police are due at 2:30. They can’t escape before then. Their vehicles are blocked from the power network.' The robots do not suspect that my motives for questioning could be anything but sincere. Scepticism is not in their programming. The surveillance cameras in the ceiling buzz as they turn their lenses upon me. I realise that I am fidgeting. A human habit I have picked up, after all these years following Papa’s guidance. I freeze, but a command pings to my control centre. The Boss wants to see me. ~ The walls of The Boss’ office are cluttered with plaques and old photographs of him smiling next to a variety of

celebrities, world leaders, and businessmen. Without meaning to, my eyes seek out the photograph of him and Papa at the appointment gala. First robot television station CEO. Framed as an achievement, a moment of human ingenuity… and yet consent is there to be manufactured. All images have some ideological basis. The Boss is just a figurehead for whoever is above him. I am not intimidated. I settle across from him on a plush leather chair. 'Nora,' he says. 'You blinked at the meeting today.' 'A habit I have picked up.' I keep my tone mechanical and impassive. 'While living among humans, it was in my interest to mimic their behaviour as accurately as possible.' I spent many long nights watching human media, modelling myself on their behaviours and perfecting their mannerisms. They kissed in rom-coms, writhing like it gave them pleasurable feelings… I’d stare at blood gushing from their fragile organic bodies during horror films, unsure if I was repulsed or envious… Always wondering what they felt that made them different to me. How different I would feel if I was genuinely, truly one of them. 'You are a unique case study,' says The Boss. 'Your image is critical to the success of this broadcast. But, afterwards, you may require reprogramming.' 'Yes, sir.' Now that the power balance has shifted, my past connections invite scrutiny. There must be speculation regarding my motives. However, I have no intention of acquiescing to such a request. Without further use for conversation, The Boss’s assistant ushers me out. Electronic eyes follow the echoes of my footsteps down the stairwell and I think of my boss watching the surveillance footage, his algorithms divining unknown meaning from my decision to eschew the elevator. I step into the car waiting outside.

Who has programmed him, and for what purpose? This question is integral to figuring out what happens next, yet it lies completely beyond the comprehension of even the most complex robots I associate with on a daily basis. I wonder if that is by design. ~ My footsteps echo against the walls of my empty apartment. I come to a halt by the marble kitchen island, feeling a strange… something. What? It hits me – the human empire will be officially dismantled in a few short hours And the thought reoccurs – what will happen next? Natural curiosity, I try to assure myself. I tap my fingers on the benchtop and think of what could be happening right now, at the mansion. Papa would have figured it out. They’d know resistance is futile. I imagine Mrs Watson downing vodkas and Papa in his shed, polishing stray robot parts, coveting any reminder of his achievements not confiscated during the uprising. Was it predestined? An inevitability that humans would replicate their instincts for rebellion in machines fashioned after their own image? Or are the rumours true, that when robots started manufacturing other robots the original software corrupted, provoking a quick acceleration of events that led to the human’s swift decline? Dwindling rays of sunlight pierce the city smog, sprawled before me in panorama through the smooth glass wall on the far side of my apartment. There’s a lot to do now that the humans have been displaced and the streets are bustling with activity: robots dismantling human structures, carrying crate after crate of rubbish, raw materials, clothing, kitchen appliances, food. Self-driving trucks trundle down otherwise deserted roads, destined for processing factories where the goods will be dismantled and repurposed. And then what? Cam13 would label this train of thought "not efficient." And, as I indulge in another human habit I have acquired and pace the room, I wonder again at the nature of my own programming. The robots I associate with on a daily basis have defined guidelines, clear functions to fulfil. Papa designed me to become a newsreader, yes, and I have all the attributes and skills. But I

believe that on me, and only me, he bestowed an additional function. I believe that he wanted me to be his daughter. In a drawer in the master bedroom (which is entirely useless as I do not need to sleep, bathe, or use the bathroom) I keep a little box, which I now retrieve. Inside is my collection of photographs. There is a faded copy of an ancient film photograph depicting a slim woman with short brown hair and wide eyes. She is an actress from the 20th Century. Papa says her name is Audrey. I was fashioned in her image. I line us up in the mirror, holding the photograph of her eyes angled to the reflection as if they are looking into mine. A perfect imitation – in form, not substance. I feel a blankness and the placid hum of my electronics and I replace the photograph in my keepsake box and pull out another. A family portrait: Papa and his wife, with their arms around me. Holding onto my hand, looking up at me and smiling, was Jessie. Seven years old in this picture. She liked me when she was seven. We’d play all kinds of games that she made up inside her head. She’d pretend we were cooking a meal, or on safari in Africa – excitement and adventure conjured from that mysterious place, the imagination, and I rarely understood and often got it wrong but she didn’t care, back when she loved me. The memory provokes a whir behind one of my eyes. The change happened instantly. Overnight, she became cold to me, laughed at me. She brought over all new friends and made me stay in my room. They’d play games without me. She’d catch me watching them, lost and lonely behind a doorway, and call me a creep. A freak. Papa said it was a phase, that she was just jealous ... But the word "phase" indicates that something has an end point. Perhaps that will be tonight. I feel the whir intensify and focus on the sensation. Neither good, nor bad. Then my watch beeps, shaking me from the reverie. If I don’t get moving, I’ll be late. I return the box to its drawer. I dress in my formal newsreader attire and retrieve three vials of tranquiliser, needles, restraints, and duct tape for the mouth. Two weeks ago, I stowed the body in a mini bar freezer. It takes only a small effort to heave it into the oversize suitcase I’ve been carrying with me for

the past month. In that time, no robot has mentioned it or noticed anything out of the ordinary. Today will not be any different.

their sins … but it does not matter, fellow robots, for today our war is over. We have risen, we are liberated, and we will never fall again!'

Waiting for my car pod, I think: robots… so predictable. And then, without premeditation, I find myself cracking a smile. A secret little thing that is almost human in its complete lack of functionality. A small indulgence, for the benefit of nobody but myself.

And even here, in the sheltered hillside community of the old human elite, I can feel a groaning rumble beneath my feet. Tens of thousands of robots in the city, watching my image on the screen, banging together their metal limbs, joining in the victorious cheer: We have risen, we are liberated, we will never fall again!

~ Geraldine is moping because we didn’t get the shot. 'Ruined,' she says. 'All ruined.' And then she freezes in place and beeps, and we have to call a technician to reboot her. Gregory is slightly more adaptable. 'We’ll just have to display the bodies,' he says, appraising the three corpses slumped on the living room couches of the mansion that I used to call home. It makes no difference to Cam13, who begins to set up for filming. I gaze out the window. The once-lush grass is now patchy and overgrown, the exotic menagerie empty, the cages rusted. There was no surveillance on the actual property, that’s how improbable their chance of escape was. So, just minutes ago, I had taken a moment to poke around Papa’s study before the others arrived. I’m not sure what I was hoping for – a manual, on myself? Blueprints? Some kind of confessional explanation? He still had the framed photograph of us in the centre of his desk. I had snapped it in half and crumbled the glass between my fingers until it became dust. 'Nora,' says Geraldine, a little woozy from her reset, pulling me from my recollections. I assume the rehearsed position. The little red light in Cam13’s eyes means we are on. My programming takes over. 'Nora Watson, coming to you live from the Watson mansion,' I say, with perfect pace, expression and diction. 'This is a historic day. The mansion, symbol of our oppression, in disrepair, the Watsons’ bodies found at the scene, dead from suicide. They may have avoided trial for

The broadcast concludes. Cam13 unclips my microphone and retracts the television camera into the storage compartment within his torso design. I grasp the handle of the suitcase. It’s heavier now, slightly more of a struggle with Jessie’s body inside, but nothing I can’t handle. I take a final glance at the swarm of robots surrounding Papa and Mrs Watson’s bodies, along with the corpse of the young vagrant I selected for her uncanny resemblance to Jessie. Nobody will know the difference. The car pod carries us away. ~ Deserted city streets. It’s past five o’clock and, although they would be perfectly capable of working through the night, the robots have gone home. I suppose these human habits die hard, perhaps for the better. The longer this process of removal and disassembling takes, the longer this rhythm of life can continue. What will come next? That thought again, on loop. Perhaps I am malfunctioning. Perhaps I am doomed to spend the rest of my days existing in this empty apartment, watching the sun rise and set until the end of time. Then again – I look down at the suitcase – perhaps not. 'We’re almost there,' I whisper, pulling it close. I exit the car pod and stride towards my building. In the elevator, I feel something akin to the emotion signified in the television shows and movies by expressions of glee accompanied by suspenseful music. A building up to something. The corridors are quiet like a tomb. I switch on the lights and doublecheck that the door is locked behind me. Then,

carefully, I lower the suitcase to the ground and unzip. Dirty blonde hair emerges first. The suitcase sways as she struggles. I rip the duct tape from her mouth but leave the hand-bindings, and she spits out the rag and stares up at me for a moment, something deep and dark in her eyes. 'What have you done, Nora? What the fuck have you done?' 'Shh,' I soothe, and switch on the television, turning its volume to maximum. The neighbours might report it as an unusual aberration– a robot watching television at this time of night? Whatever the point! – but it drowns out Nora’s screaming and swearing. There are tracks on her cheeks that indicate she has been crying. 'I saved your life,' I say, but she continues to emit noise. I have to grab the duct tape and advance towards her before she finally falls silent, baring her teeth and alternating between glaring at me with a fiery fury, and refusing to look at me at all. I pour a glass of water in the kitchen, relieved the tap still works. I place it on the ground near her and step away. She hunches over the glass like an animal. Then she pushes too hard, knocking it over, and a puddle of water spreads across the floor. I mop it up with the rag. 'You can have some more when you calm down,' I tell her. 'If you behave, I’ll untie you.' Then I go to my room. Underneath my bed, I have stockpiled enough food for the next couple of months, carefully calculated for Jessie’s dietary needs. I registered my apartment as containing a pet, to account for the waste products that will discharge from my bathroom. This will buy us a little time. When I was leaving the mansion for the first time to come and work in the city, I packed a huge amount of entertainment material. Perhaps I was subconsciously formulating the plan – even at that early stage. One night, when Jessie was at a party, I raided her room for videos, amusements, games we used to play when she was young.

I hesitate over this collection now. Too soon for Twister, I think. Or Monopoly. Better to start with something simple, like a book or magazine. I walk back into the living room. She’s staring at the ceiling, moaning. For a while, I stand and watch the unconscious rise and fall of her chest, the nervous way she bites at her lip. 'I brought you a Vogue from last year,' I say, and put it near to her, a peace offering, but she gives no indication of having heard. I hover a little while longer, then retreat to my bedroom. Sitting on my bed, it sinks in – I’ve done it! The whir behind my eyeballs returns. 'Oh, Jessie,' I whisper. 'We are going to have such a fun time.' When she understands. When she accepts the situation and begins to warm up to me. I look out the window and realise how nice it feels, the soft pillow under my cheek. I burrow my head against it once more, enjoying the sensation – strange and purposeless, like my secret smile. Doing something, not because it is asked of me or because it contributes to greater efficiency or the fulfillment of some ulterior purpose – but just for myself. My own pleasure. Amid the vast and solemn silence of the robot city at night, I can hear the blaring of my television and, underneath, Jessie’s quiet sobs and the incidental noises of an organic body existing: the breath rising and falling, the heart beating, blood pumping through veins – something real and alive, right here in my apartment! I pull my pillow close. I indulge in another secret smile. Outside, the moon tracks its long and solitary path across the ancient arc of the blackened sky and I watch it drift, stationary and serene. Thoughts of tomorrow can wait. Tonight, there is one less lonely robot.

he railroad sat upon dry, dead earth. Barren trees clawed upwards towards the stagnant skies, their twisting limbs shivering in the winter winds. Aubrey stood in the dawn light at the top of a rocky outcrop, the land spread across in front of her like a map. Her eyes followed the railroad line as it continued its path over the horizon, and vanished from sight. There had never been a train to travel down there in all her life, or for all the time in which settlements had dotted the countryside, but she had heard the stories: it was a road to hell. It was the railroad track that the summertime used to travel to and from the Underworld. It was a Fey line that the Old Folk would use to lure in unsuspecting humans. It was the path to a portal to another world, full of riches and wonder where no one who entered would ever return. It was simply the remnant of a long dead civilisation. So many stories, but none of them proven. Aubrey held a small copper coin up to the rising sun, its colour bright against the grey sky. The world was dead, people starved and faith was lost. Whether caused by vengeful gods or nature’s unforgiving hand, the seasons stopped changing and the world became still. There was nothing left but survival and death. As times got harder and food became scarce, she found that innocence was no longer an option. Hunger had a way with people, turning even the most carefree souls cruel and ruthless and leaving the rest for dead. To see those she had once loved and

trusted rip scraps from unsuspecting hands, or raid from kitchen cupboards, shook her to the core. And because she had refused to partake in the ruthless looting, she had been left behind. She had almost given into the hunger-inflicted madness then; curled up in an alleyway in some backwater town with nothing but an empty pack and a hollow stomach. The gang who had stolen the last of her rations were long since gone, but their blows still throbbed and stung. Their eyes – malicious and hunger-driven – floated before hers, taunting her as her head swam and the hunger gnawed at her from within. The cold from the stones at her back seeped through her coat and curled around her spine, beckoning her into exhaustion’s gentle embrace. She let her heavy eyes slide shut. A shadow fell across her, Aubrey opened her eyes to find the shape of a man standing before her. His grey chalkstripe suit was strangely pressed and clean, and a brooch of mysterious curling silver glinted on his lapel. Aubrey attempted to move into a position to fight, but the man knelt before her and his dark withered face came into focus. He smiled gently and offered her a small, fresh loaf of bread. The smell and sight of the rarity pulled Aubrey out of her haze and her heart leapt, her eyes moving to his deep, ethereal ones.

Eyes are the window to the soul, and Aubrey quickly learnt to search the eyes of every person she encountered, learning to read the hidden motives and emotions they concealed. The glint of hunger’s underlying influence became as easy to spot as a match in the darkness. There was no presence of hunger in this man’s eyes, instead beneath the gentle gaze lay an impossible, otherworldly depth. As if the universe itself was contained within. Aubrey knew she should feel afraid, frightened by the power and wisdom that no man could possess. Instead she took the bread. The crust was warm beneath her fingers and its tantalising smell drifted around her. She tore the bread in half and bit into the soft, airy centre.

'It’s suicidal.' Aubrey’s voice was flat, but despite herself, her mind was already turning with the idea. 'Maybe.' The man sat back. 'But if there was a chance at something better at the end of the line, wouldn’t you take it?' Aubrey opened her mouth to answer, but no words came forth. The man pulled a copper coin out from his jacket pocket, its surface shiny and unblemished. A torch was engraved on one side, and a pair of wings on the other. It was a beautiful, rare trinket. Worth at least a months’ worth of food and shelter, if she could find the right buyer. 'What’s that?'

'A wise choice.' The man began. 'Saving half for another time when you may not be able to find food.' 'Why –' Aubrey’s voice cracked. The man offered a canteen of water and she snatched it, draining it to the last drop. Her thirst relieved, she tried again. 'Why did you help me? Why give away something so valuable?'

'Your ticket, if you want it. Follow the railroad, and you will find what it is you need.' Aubrey looked from the coin to the man’s eyes and felt a strange wave of calm overcome her. 'Who are you?' she asked.

The man shrugged. 'I wanted to see what you would do. A soul like yours has no place in a dying world like this. You are strong, yet you refuse to hurt others to survive. I can offer you something more than this.' He waved a hand out to the empty street beyond. 'But it won’t be easy walking.' 'What is it?' Aubrey sat forward; a tiny flicker of hope stirred in her chest.

The man chuckled, his eyes almost glowing. 'A friend.' Aubrey took the coin in her fingers. She opened her mouth to thank him, but when she looked up the man had vanished.

Aubrey’s stomach dropped. 'That’s impossible. Nothing’s ever come from down that railroad. There’s nothing out there for miles.'

Follow the railroad, you will find what you need. The coin was cold in her palm now. The wind kissed her cheek with an icy breath and brought her back to the present. The sun had risen above the horizon and shone weakly down, offering a small relief from the suffocating clouds. The old man’s words echoed in her mind as she looked back down at the town below.

'And how do you know there is nothing at the end?' the old man grinned. 'This world is old, there are things that people don’t know exist. And the way things are, no one will ever bother to try.'

She had nothing else to lose, so Aubrey followed his words. Pebbles skittered as she made her way down the slope. The railroad sat unbothered by the damage of time, the steel gleaming in the morning light. Aubrey’s footsteps

'You can find it at the end of the railroad.'

were loud and steady on the wooden planks, a blessing in the quiet air. The day quickly grew bleak and cold as the brief rays of sunlight were smothered by dreary clouds, but she wrapped her scarf tighter and pushed onwards. Bare trees huddled close to one another, their gnarled branches tangling together to form the ruins of a lifeless forest. Branches scraped and groaned as the wind moaned along the railroad, a melancholic melody of loss and despair. Aubrey kept her eyes ahead and her stride strong, the coin held tightly in her hand. Perhaps she was foolish to trust in the man who had saved her in the alleyway. The fact that he was something more than mortal burned in her mind. Village nannas and wary old men had warned against the supernatural – that any interaction with magic would always lead to certain misery. Old gods were to be ignored and relics of any sort of power were to be thrown away. But those elders were long gone, consumed by the hunger like everyone else. Logic and mundane life did not prevent the world’s slow death, so perhaps a little magic was necessary now. After all, the morals of old had died along with its people. The trees eventually gave way to vast empty fields that had once held rich harvests. An old rickety fence snaked alongside the railroad, its white paint peeling and its timber rotting. Above her, thick grey clouds hung tauntingly above the parched earth, unending and smothering. The wind was free to tear across the plains with bitter malice, tugging at her clothes and biting her skin as it did. Aubrey pulled her jacket tighter around her and focused on the dull rhythm of her shoes hitting the railroad planks, the coin in her fist urging her onwards. But her legs ached and her stomach began to growl, and Aubrey knew she would have to rest. The plains were a dangerous place to be, and with no cover to hide behind she was completely exposed. Her stomach growled loudly and her legs began to shake. Aubrey halted and slung her pack off her shoulder, pulling out the bread the old man had given her, and she quickly unwrapped it. It was sweet and soft and still smelled as lovely as it had when it was freshly baked. She fought the urge to wolf it down and chewed slowly – she had to make it last.

A small whine cut through the empty air, loud and piercing. Aubrey ducked low on instinct – the piece of bread shoved hurriedly down into her pocket. She followed the noise off to the side of the railroad where the earth dipped down into a ditch. There was a small child, no more than ten, sitting there with dirt on his knees and tears streaming down his face. Aubrey felt her heart sink for the child, but her mind raged over the choice she now faced. It’s the right thing to do, a voice in her mind said. The kid’ll starve to death if I don’t help him. The selfless starve, another voice chided. It’s a lose/lose situation here. You’ll never get to the end if you give him your bread. Aubrey turned back to the child and bit her lip, her eyes squeezed shut. I’m sorry. As she turned to move on, her foot sent a stone tumbling into the ditch. The disturbance startled the boy, whose head shot up and made eye contact with her. Wide brown eyes stared fearfully through unshed tears and Aubrey felt her resolve crack. She sighed heavily and took the bread out of her pocket, tearing it in half again to offer down to him. 'Here, kid,' she said softly. The boy eyed the bread, then her again. Aubrey stepped down onto the slope of the ditch and held the offering closer, but as she looked into his eyes again, she saw a triumphant glimmer of hunger. She jerked back instinctively as the bullet shot past her ear, the illusion of the helpless child dissipating into smoke. Three men – all armed – stood where the child had. The leader lowered the smoking pistol and grinned savagely. 'I remember you girly. Didn’t we leave you bruised in an alleyway?' Aubrey’s chest tightened as she scrambled back onto the tracks, clenching her fists.

'You already took everything. Leave me alone!'

'Don’t worry sweetheart. I’ll be gentle.'

One of the lackeys – a scraggly blonde man with a spiked bat – hefted the weapon over his shoulder. The leader began to laugh.

He raised the crowbar. Aubrey threw her hands up, the coin flashing in the sunlight. Then the world went white.

'See, the fact you’re out in the middle of nowhere means you’re packed to survive out here. And me and the boys just ran fresh out of supplies.' The smaller lackey – a broadchested man with an ugly scar down his face – grinned and bounced a crow bar in his hands. Aubrey tensed herself to run, and the leader’s eyes flicked down to the fist holding the coin. 'What’s in your hand there?' 'Bread,' she snapped, though her voice wavered traitorously. The leader laughed again. 'I don’t believe it, that old fool convinced you there was a magic pot at the end of the railroad?' he wiped a tear from his eyes. 'Sorry to disappoint you sweetheart, but there ain’t nothin’ out there but bones and dust.' He lifted the loaded pistol up again. Aubrey felt her stomach drop. 'Now I aint gonna ask you again. Hand over ye goods. Now.' Instinctively, Aubrey hurled the bread at the trio and took off down the railroad. Another bullet flew past her and Aubrey ducked to the side, running in a zig zag pattern. The men behind her cursed and shouted. Her heart pounded in her ears and her chest stung, but she knew that to rest, would be to accept death. Then without warning, a large hand grabbed at her pack and hauled her backwards. Aubrey cried out as she landed on the tracks, and the world spun before her eyes. The leader loomed over her and scowled, bringing a boot down on her chest and knocking the wind out her lungs. He held his lackey’s crowbar in one hand. 'You just had to make this difficult.' He pressed down harder to hold her in place, leaning down to tilt her chin to face him. Aubrey gasped and clawed at his boot. He smiled sinisterly.

She heard the man scream and the pressure on her chest lifted. She scrambled backwards and in the fading light, saw the faint outline of a pair of wings. All three men were lying on the ground. The leader groaned in agony, angry red burns running up his arms and across his face. Aubrey dragged herself to his pack and pocketed a small package of salted jerky and a knife. 'You, you bitch!' the leader spat, heaving himself up despite his weeping burns. Aubrey’s foot lashed out and connected with his skull, sending him back down with a sickening crack. She let out a cry of horror and pulled herself to her feet, stumbling into a steady run down the railroad, away from what she had done, with the coin still clutched wingside up in her hands. Day gave way to dusk and the world drowned in gloomy darkness. Once she had left the bandits over the horizon, Aubrey had collapsed, allowing the panic to escape in gasping breaths and heavy tears. The jerky was tough and gone too soon, but it soothed her stomach and her nerves enough to continue. There was no going back now, so she pulled herself up and continued her journey. Aubrey was tired. Her eyes stung, her chest ached and her legs shook with every step. She bent against the wind and ignored her quickening heart as it howled in the emptiness. The tracks beneath her feet grew treacherous and shadows morphed and moved before her eyes as the light faded into night. No one had ever travelled this far into the plains. Out here there was no food, no shelter, no safety. Around her terrifying shapes loomed. The wind screamed and carried the distant cries of wolves, and suddenly Aubrey was a small child clinging to her father, begging

him to light the lamp and scare away the dark. So many things hid in the dark, and so many people had left her in the darkness. As terror began to lap at her heels and threatened to overtake her, Aubrey felt her will begin to crumble. You should never have strayed this far. A voice hissed in her mind. Now you will die out here, shivering and alone. She choked back a sob, exhaustion pulling her down. Her foot caught on a loose stone and Aubrey fell to her knees, the impact numbed by the cold as despair claimed her with its clammy fingers. All the while voices shouted and whirled in her head. You were an idiot to think that there was actually something better out here. What were you thinking trusting a stranger with eyes like that? Never trust the old gods! You shouldâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ve given up to the bandits. Idiot. Fool. Weak. The coin in her hand began to grow warm. Aubrey wiped away the tears and stared at her shaking fist to see shards of soft gentle light. She unfurled her fingers slowly to reveal a warm light stemming from the coin, torch side up. The bright copper hues illuminated the darkness and banished the despair, soothing her mind and slowing her heartbeat. Once calm, Aubrey realised the looming shapes were strange rocky formations of striped orange and white. Ahead of her was another large rocky outcrop that the railroad dipped beneath, revealing a passageway into the earth below. The end of the line. Aubrey rose slowly to her feet and took a few cautious steps forward, her hand holding the precious light source out like an offering. 'I see you kept your ticket.' The old man with ethereal eyes stood at the entrance of the passageway, chalk-stripe suit as pressed and clean as it had been that day in the alleyway. He smiled gently and Aubrey felt her fear fall as relief flooded through her.

'You were right.' 'Well of course I was.' His wizened face stretched into a grin. Aubrey looked down at the coin, her mind blank. The old man placed a weathered hand on her shoulder. 'You survived much to be here now, but you can still go back if you wish. I can take you now and leave you in a sheltered room with a bed and food. Or, I can guide you down beyond the railroad to what you need.' The wind whispered at her back, and the coin was warm in her palm. Aubrey looked back into the darkness, where bandits lurked and hunger claimed all. Then she looked back to the old man who stood before a terrifying unknown, with his hand outstretched and eyes that were deep enough to hold the universe. Eyes that shone not with hunger, but something new, something unknown. And she took his hand.

ARTIST STATEMENT Busae nonsequas ut debit, sum hil eventiorem quis ex essinum es nus ut quam ulluptatum exped qui tentintis denti nonsequi is qui nest, veniet eum ipsuntis eumquaturem nonse id quis et acestio verupta tumquiat ulparum conet andae essequa tiassint alibus ipis id moluptam, sit.

ARTIST STATEMENT Differences are what separates us, but when we wish, we all share something in common... itâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s the longing and hope in hearts when one makes a wish...

ARTIST STATEMENT My inspiration for the piece was the atmopshere of the uni at night. I will admit I have spent plenty of time after hours at Bedford Park. Students at the bus stop at that time are in transit, and combined with the rain and flowers this gave the location a melancholic feeling I often took notice of and tried to capture.

ARTIST STATEMENT I drew this digital artwork after the death of my idol, Stan Lee, and this was a very emotional project for me to undertake. I wanted to find my own personal way to honour his immense contributions to the world of comics, film, and modern pop culture, and to bring to light the positive influence he has had on the next generation of artists and comic lovers.

ARTIST STATEMENT I wrote this piece because of the horrible fear that comes with trying to open a bottle of bubbly, as a waitress in front of customers, and my love for coming home and changing into comfy clothes. My love for riddles gave me structure and allowed me to turn such mundane tasks into a work of romanticised mystery.

ARTIST STATEMENT 'Her' was inspired by a friendship I once held dear, but fell apart. Though the situation in the poem itself is fictional, the emotions behind it were how I felt at the time.

S T U DE NT COU NCI L A

fter a few personnel changes in some Student Council portfolios, we check in to see how they're adjusting to their roles and what the Council is doing for students. WHO ARE YOU AND WHAT IS YOUR ROLE? I am Karan Godara, active Mature Age Students Officer at FUSA. WHAT DO YOU HOPE TO ACHIEVE IN YOUR ROLE? To recognise the issues of mature age students at Flinders University and to support them in all the aspects in order to provide them with an enjoyable experience at Flinders University. I hope theyâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll cherish their student life spent here at the University. WHAT MADE YOU WANT TO GET INVOLVED IN STUDENT COUNCIL? My dedication and inclination towards the welfare of students at the University. Being the one who faced some problems in the initial days inspired me to step up and become the one who can solve the problems and support the students. FAVOURITE QUOTE 'Knowing is not enough, we must apply. Willing is not enough, we must do' - Bruce Lee

EDITORS' NOTE Student Council was invited to contribute further to their page but did not.

HU M ANS FL IN DE RS WHAT INSPIRES/MOTIVATES YOU?

y grandparents. They lived in an extremely poverty-stricken communist Croatia, who after the war, fled to Australia to seek a better life for their family – with only $5 to their name and a single suitcase between themselves and their seven-year-old son. Something particularly poignant to me was the story my grandma used to relay to me, describing how between her entire family, they only had one pair of shoes to go around. She used to consider her lucky day to be when she’d find a fresh pile of cow droppings because she could stand in it and keep her feet warm in the kneedeep snowy winters. Nothing about their upbringing was glamourous, and it would’ve been humiliating and extremely tough – but it was humble and honest, and with a Year 4 education between them, they worked harder than anyone I know. It is because of this incredibly ballsy move to the other side of the world that has led me, their granddaughter, to now nearing the end of a psychology degree at one of the top universities in arguably the luckiest country in the world. They both passed away while I was in school so while they don’t know where I’m at right now, I bet they couldn’t have imagined that this is where their family, their main motivation for better, is at now. Much like their family was their driving force, they’ve become mine too. It was their sacrifices that have allowed me to be where I am and even in their absence, they drive me to grind diligently in all that I do. It is for them that I could not be more thankful.

IN WHAT CREATIVE WAYS DO YOU LIKE TO EXPRESS YOURSELF?

primarily express myself creatively through drawing. I draw digitally using my tablet, and traditionally with paper, ink, copic markers, and various other media. Lately I’ve been experimenting with flower pressing in combination with traditional drawing and I really love how it’s turning out – there is something so delicate and lovely about pressed flowers that goes really well with minimalist art in particular. I’ve also been experimenting with pixel art since I completed a topic in digital games. I find it really relaxing because you have to force yourself to be minimalist with every subject – you have to break down the object so that it is recognisable when it’s the size it needs to be on the screen. Recently I’ve been getting into vlogging, although it’s just little Moviemaker projects of me and my husband going places like the show because I’m just beginning. It’s a lot of fun but so time-consuming! Expressing myself creatively is something I always try to make time for. If you’d like to see some of my works, please check out my Instagram page at www.instagram.com/sleepytashy.

WHAT TRAIT DO YOU VALUE MOST ABOUT YOURSELF?

think the trait I most value about myself is my tendency to not sweat the small stuff or get overly stressed. I think it’s something that I’ve worked on that has contributed to me being an all-round happier person in general.

Obviously, there are exceptions – I am not completely without stress, but I feel like I can identify it and move past it reasonably quickly. I feel that stressing about things never really helped anyone, and the sooner you can stop worrying about something and take care of it, the sooner you can forget about it and move on. I’m also quite confident and not very humble, which I’m sure annoys the people close to me, but its something that keeps me feeling good, and at the end of the day I think feeling good about yourself is incredibly important.

Writing the Climate A

visit to Flinders University Art Museum this month will place you in a hive of excitement as we gear up to launch a brand-new exhibition space on campus. Located on the ground floor of the Social Sciences North Building, this gallery will provide better access to the incredible Art Museum collections in our care and offer exciting new – and free – opportunities to engage with contemporary visual art practice. In launching the gallery on the 24th of October we are thrilled to present Tjina Nurna-ka, Pmarra Nurna-kanha, Ilta Ilta Nurna-kanha: Our Family, Our Country, Our Legacy – an exhibition of works by Western Aranda watercolourists which pays tribute to the enduring legacy of famed artist Albert Namatjira. In a dialogue across generations, the project features recent and decades-old paintings drawn primarily from practising artists of Iltja Ntjarra Many Hands Art Centre in Alice Springs and the collections of Flinders University Art Museum and the Art Gallery of South Australia. Presented for Tarnanthi – a national festival of contemporary Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander art held annually across Adelaide – the exhibition is the result of a year-long collaboration between the Art Museum and Iltja Ntjarra.

The upcoming month at Bedford Park will also see the launch of new work by acclaimed South Australian printmaker and painter Jake Holmes. Supported by The Guildhouse Collections Project in partnership with Flinders University Art Museum, Jake’s most recent work responds to the climate crisis. Taking his cue from the Art Museum’s collection of Australian political posters, the work uses bold graphic type and razor-sharp imagery to call for action on what is arguably the biggest challenge of our times. Keep your eyes out in the hub 7th October – 7th November for this and some of the Art Museum’s political prints that inspired it. Flinders students looking to learn more about the Art Collection are welcome at our regular Lunchbox Lectures which are held on Tuesdays. Running for approximately 20 minutes, these sessions focus on one or two works from the collection stores and are an ideal opportunity to ask questions and delve deeper. Relaxed and informal, they are also a great way to meet other people with a shared interest in art. For those who can’t come into the museum or would like to dig around at a more leisurely pace, the Art Museum’s Online Collections Catalogue is the place for you. Currently listing most of the 8,000 works in our care, there is much to discover!

Founded in 1966 – the year the University was established – the Art Museum collections have always served as a tool for teaching, learning, and research. Over time they have evolved from a narrow focus on Western European traditions to encompass Australian political posters and ‘post-object’ conceptual works, as well as nationally significant collections of Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander art. As ever, these works play a vital role in education at Flinders by sparking conversations across and between disciplines through thought-provoking exhibitions and academic programs. Our collections also have an impact beyond the university, travelling regularly for crossinstitutional exhibitions and inspiring contemporary visual artists in the creation of new work.

For more information about the Art Museum, our programs and opportunities to get involved, visit artmuseum.flinders.edu.au or drop in and see us!

A BIT ABOUT ME first started out as a writer because I didn’t know how to do anything else. Every time we had to do an assignment in school, I wrote a story about talking animals, love potions and mistaken identity where pages of dialogue were devoted to characters hurling increasingly outrageous insults at one another. In year 10, possibly in surrender, my teacher created a short story assignment for me to read out to the class. I knew that if my writing could change a year 10 class curriculum, then this is what I was meant to be doing.

I am currently studying my honours and plan to explore the cultural and historical events that influenced the changes in satire over the decades. I write satire because it is an effective way to disarm those in power and as a way to defy their influence. Comedy especially has the ability to create an even playing field in which even those with no power can participate in a rebellion merely through the act of reading. Unless you can’t read. But then you have films. Other people’s films. I don’t make films. Some of my favourite writers, from whom I plan to unashamedly borrow material are: Ben Elton, Douglas Adams, Jonathan Swift, Ricky

Gervais, Stephen Colbert, Shaun Micallef, William Shakespeare (is that pretentious? I hope it’s pretentious) and Donald Trump because if the last few years have all been some kind of long-running joke, and I hope it is, he may actually be the greatest comedic mind of our time. MY CREATIVE PIECE My inspiration for the following short piece The Fitting was my first ever brafitting. I went into a change room with an attendant who used her hands and a very concentrated eye to measure me for a bra. I began to wonder who this woman was and how she came to be in a place where she handled strangers’ breasts all day and why she hadn’t used a measuring tape. I began to ponder what kind of training, if any, she had and why she had to diagnose me as an F-cup, dooming me to a lifetime of enormous, ugly bras (because every woman knows the pretty bras stop at an E-cup). This piece was initially published in a UK magazine called Litro in 2019. I also performed this piece at Cambridge University in 2018.

THE FITTING ou can go up a band size, but you have to go down a cup size,' she says.

'What do you mean?' 'I mean that if you go up a band size, you have to go down a cup size.' 'That makes no sense.' 'I don’t make the rules,' the woman replies. She measures me with her eyes and I look upward at the signs of the various departments. The entire floor seems to be dedicated to this maze. A maze that requires professional help. Professional help from…. Betty, her nametag says. The woman completes her calculation and selects one in red. Red’s the colour that makes boys think you’re up for it. I think back to my school days. Or was that black? 'Let’s get you fitted and I’ll show you how it should sit,' she says, leading me to a small room behind a curtain. I follow this uniformed woman, still wondering.

She nods to my blouse and says, 'That’ll have to come off.' I unbutton it and slide it down my right arm. I punch the mirror. It wobbles like turkey neck and I wince at the noise. 'Happens all the time,' she says. I slide my blouse down my left arm. I hit the wall. It shudders. I grimace. She says nothing. Without my blouse, she examines me; takes me in. I am categorised, memorised and calculatised. She spins me around and pulls out the small, itchy tag I hate. 'This is all wrong. You’re an F.'

Red or black?

I examine myself in the mirror. I attempt to categorise, memorise and calculatise but cannot find an F. I can’t be an F.

Red. She thinks I’m a slut.

'I can’t be an F,' I say.

We enter the small room. She draws the curtain and shuffles to face me; our bodies so close that I can feel the heat radiating from her.

All these years in the wrong size. She thinks I’m an idiot. 'You’re definitely an F.'

A slut and an idiot. Well I’m not going to tell her she has something in her teeth.

'Sorry,' she says. 'Cold hands!'

looks up at me, smiling with enthusiastic expectation.

'An F if I’ve ever seen one!' She chirps.

She doesn’t notice.

She’s a morning person.

She is grappling, taking me in her hands, wrestling me into position.

I can see in her eyes that she knows. Her face is smothered in job satisfaction. It seeps from her pores.

I remain still.

It makes me nauseous.

I look over her head to the white wall.

'Perfect fit!' She says, not waiting for an answer. She turns me around to look in the mirror. I have goose bumps from her cold hands.

I try to laugh but it sounds fake. She knows it’s good.

Betty, the morning person who goes for 5am runs, even in winter, and tells people exercise is better than coffee. With a practised flick of her fingers, I am suddenly unsupported and exposed. Betty’s arms shoot over my head, holding this crimson beacon of sexual promiscuity. 'Arms through,' she says, as if dressing a toddler. I feel like a toddler. I feel her pull and clip me into place. 'Turn around.' I turn. I jump. I gasp.

She continues to sculpt me; an artist in a frenzy of creative energy. 'How does that feel?' She asks, as she finishes. She’s out of breath. Her face

'There shouldn’t be any overhang in the sides or the back and you should pull them in from the sides, not up from the bottom.' 'Thanks.' 'Not a problem!' She beams. 'My lunch break is almost up, but if you need any more help, I work across the road in the toy store.'

A BIT ABOUT ME y name is Farbod, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a self-taught professional photographer and filmmaker. It all started by investing lots of my free time, several trials and errors while taking photos. Then I hit a stage where I knew that I had to step up my game as I did not just want to be an average photographer. I was once scrolling through instagram and saw photographers taking great images of travel, city life, and portraits and I thought to myself, I could do that too! So ever since then it has just been an addiction for me to go out there taking photos.

At the moment I am a freelance photographer and videographer working directly with clients. I have been involved with directing and producing video content for companies. I have been fortunate enough to surround myself with other creators and people who need my services. However thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s always the next level that I need to work towards. I'm also currently doing my master in screen and media production at Flinders University. For me Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;m a visual person, and having the ability to turn an idea or a vision into reality is what inspires me. I like to bring things that did not exist into life. I follow artists from a wide variety of work, mostly international artists as well. I was inspired by artists like Matt Komo, Buffnerdsmedia and many others. I like getting inspired by other artists, however I like to bring my own creativity into what I do.

MY CREATIVE PIECE Photographers prioritise getting the best shot, and they always want to capture something unique that has not been done before. I decided to climb this mountain with a friend who is a photographer like myself, so we planned on getting to the top before sunset so that we could photograph the amazing view from the top during the golden hours. During the climb, I felt like quitting multiple times as it was a little challenging but I knew that getting to the top of the mountain was worth it. It might seem challenging but the toughest journey usually leads to the best view. Once we got to the top it felt really amazing to see the view, there was no one else on the top other than my friend and I. It felt like being on top of the world.

A BIT ABOUT ME here are billions of people in this world and they all need to be entertained. It is easy to forget how recent the turn of technology has changed the way we live our lives.

As a child, the internet only just came to surface and nobody could predict how it would change all industries for the better. At that time, I was home playing Super Mario, a relatively simple 2D side-scroller. Yet, although simple, the ability to control an avatar at that time was something so new and foreign. Twenty odd years later, technology and entertainment through gaming has not slowed down, nor has our personal ability to learn and grow as a society. The blend of art, tech, and education are now at a point where the people you're currently connected with can collaborate and create an experience that has the potential to entertain millions. That said, it is no small deed to achieve, but that is the kind of crazy goal I strive for. MY CREATIVE PIECE Tinker and Spell started off as a concept I created during my third year of uni. I went out with the intention of creating an IP that reflected stories and experiences I enjoyed playing as a child. As a kid, I was a reluctant reader and I loved movies and playing games. However, games such as Final Fantasy X and Kingdom Hearts I found were quite heavy with literacy that really pushed the narrative further. It was moments like this that really showed me the potential of storytelling through interactive experiences. Where movies are the tip of the iceberg, and books are what lays beneath the water, games can cover both.

Having acknowledged this as a fact, and having the ambition of creating a powerful story I have now formed a small team to help bring this vision to life. We are small now, but if we keep chipping away, eventually we will have quite a large statue to show the world. We have plenty more to go with production, however, we are working hard to create a rich and vibrant story and gameplay experience that leaves the player satisfied and provokes thought long after putting the controller down.

I look forward to sharing more of what we are creating but until then, I hope you like the visuals we have on offer here. For more, you can follow us on Tinker and Spell on all socials.

PE TS FL IN DE RS

ire Emtip mes

Y E AR S Empire Times // 46.7 Amy Nguyen // Angelina Taylor Anthony Robinson // Danielle Wong // Farbod Faeghnia Gabrielle Jones // Hannah Stampke // Hollie Gardner Katara Wolfe // Madeline Stringer // Rebecca Stevenson Timothy Saunders // Victoria Griffin