CREATIVES

FABLED

Fabled the straight banana is, I’ve only seen one in all my younger days. Only short, lady finger by name. Yellow, I MEAN really YELLOW. Banana Lollies.

Now there’s Fabled for you. Back in the day when one Banana Lolly would fill a whole mouth. Lollies from yesteryear are fabled. Teeth had mint flavouring. Three for one cent or two for one cent, if a big lolly you wanted.

Mr Morris’s handful. Now that was fabled!

“Ten cents worth of mixed lollies, please, Mr Morris.” In would go the hand reaching for different lollies, And then into the little white paper bag. He wouldn’t even count them.

Fabled days of kids on our street, tons of lollies, in bare feet. Footy out the front or hanging out at school on weekends. Pushbikes for transport, sliding sideways and getting hurt.

The longest holidays, eight weeks back then. Drinking from the front hose, and never go inside. Don’t eat bananas anymore, but lollies are liked. Still pushbikes for transport a three-wheel trike. We spoil the grandkids with Strawberries, Blueberries

And sometimes Lollies and Cake. I reckon in the future when I’m gone My grandkids will think a great fable I’ll make.

by Stuart Woodcock

DEVOURERS

One born of earth, Bearing darkness and light, Shall oversee the humans and their kind.

Bringing misfortune to those with teeth so sharp. A destroyer of hearts, Bound to tear red flesh apart.

The cage’s rusted metal rattled as it was gripped; the curved cylinder housed many fingers belonging to the women who pleaded for mercy. Rema crouched between two other young women who looked two-and-twenty. They both raised their voices, joining the harmony of screams of the others through to the dreary fields of moss, sticks and twigs.

“THE GODS WILL PUNISH YOU FOR WHAT YOU HAVE DONE TO US.”

The hunters of the village gathered the women of their community. They called them di Brokaa— the Broken. It was the women who were infertile and the young who disobeyed the orders of the elders. The women were dragged into the cage, cradled in the arms of the forest and auctioned for slaughter. Rema fiddled with the coarse woollen fabric of her plain beige cloak. She was of the silent type; she never spoke and was presumed mute by the other villagers.

The hunters clanged their swords against the cage and the rasp of the metals hitting each other reverberated. One man, Gale – the blacksmith’s son – spat at one of the women. “Shut your tongue, Brokaa.”

The woman, Emeline, Rema recalled, had her hands fisted around her worn cloak. Rema said, “You wait until the beast gets all of you. You will be nothing but flesh and bones, Huntaari.” All the women in the cage stared at her, shocked at the words spoken.

Gale cocked an eyebrow, “The mute bitch speaks.” He smacked the bars, Rema recoiled, and he continued to laugh, “Brokaa bitch.” Gale slammed the cage open and collected Emeline, brought her close to the cage and run a blade straight across her throat. “Which one of you will be next?” The other Huntaari’s laughed and jeered, the women terrified of their fates at the hands of these savages.

They waited in suspense and fear. They waited in relief that a beast could be near. They waited in harmony for the beast to slaughter the men and tear… into them.

Nightfall sneaked upon them. Mother nature knitted a pure blackness into the sky, a blanket of protection before the torches were lit. The captors settled in their camp, clashing flasks filled to the brim with whiskey. The women were glad the Huntaari were occupied, so they faced the light and waited for the beast that roamed the night. Shadows of the moon and the torches wavered as every woman stood together. Rema learnt the names of other women close to her: Isolde, Sari, Jone, Milisent, Winifred, Belsante, Sibil, Elia, Odele.

The fire diminished into ever-glowing embers and the early rise of the sun; its golden-fingers shone across the valley. Yet, the beast did not appear. It was complete silence before chaos erupted.

The men ripped open the metal cage, dragging each woman one by one into the open and raining down their swords upon them. Rema backed into the corner with nowhere to escape. A plump and calloused hand grabbed onto her cloak. Her hood was pulled back and her eyes met the ones of her captor, the blacksmith’s boy. She wrestled against him, but he was too strong against her petite body. Rema resorted to her baser instincts – she bit into his neck and ripped out a chunk of flesh.

The blood surged out in thick and fluid strokes. He clasped his hands over ripped skin, and felt the gushing blood over his hand. Rema untangled herself from the hunter’s grasp. She tore her cloak from her body and threw it onto the ground next to the man’s paling body. Rema darted for the tall evergreens; the echoed screams of the others swarmed her as she eyed the hunters around the bodies of innocent women scattered across the woodland. There was a sort of bloodlust in her eyes at the damage done. Her mouth twitched at the many possible outcomes of defiling these men.

Suddenly, a hunter sneaked up behind Rema, her mind so occupied with rage that she was blind to her surroundings. His arm wrapped around her throat. Rema’s head began to feel light and there was a vision of white blurs as she tried to pry his fingers apart. She scratched deep, red, jagged scars into the hunter. Out in the open, Rema screamed silently as her body sagged against the brown, crooked bark of the hollowed trees.

Suddenly, a growl tore through the valley. The woodlands filled with a great shadow, a dark form between a man and a beast. Its blackened fur rippled with the light breeze as it stalked the hunter a hundred meters away from the massacred camp of women. The silence of the camp full of hunters was deafening. The wolf stood still and bent its head, snout tipped to the ground and curled up its gums to reveal razored teeth dripping with saliva.

All nine of the hunters stood motionless, ready for a fight. The wolf snapped and attacked the closest hunter, jumped and bit between the man’s neck and shoulders, ripped his veins out and grinned with blood-stained teeth. A sword was brought down onto the wolf, landing a blow on its hind leg, as it let out a screeching whimper. The hunter was decapitated as a result. Another one’s eyes were gouged out by the wolf’s claws, and another’s stomach shredded, whilst two of the men’s intestines scattered across the forest floor.

Only two of the hunters were left, and both circled this big bad wolf. The wolf snorted in amusement as it ducked into a low bend and stood up on its hind legs, towering over the two men. It could smell their fear. It leapt and both its claws punctured into both men’s hearts and ripped them out of their chests. Teeth gnashed in a frenzy of feeding, the remnants human. The forest floor was a sea of blood. The wolf strode alongside the human massacre. It eyed a clump on the ground, it sniffed around it until it was between its teeth.

A cherry-red soaked cloak dripped with fresh blood. The garment lifted from its mouth as a hand untied the string and retied it around her naked body. Rema swiped across her blood-stained mouth, and remnants of human flesh stuck between her teeth as she made her way back to the village.

SECRETS

OF THE SKULL

GGliding along the waters of Lake Okeechobee was a small fishing boat. Sun-baked men dotted its wooden deck, backs propped up against a barrel, or elbows resting against the railing as they watched ripples disturb the surface. The water levels had receded after months of drought, leaving swathes of muddy banks exposed. On the shore, a basking alligator opened an eye to watch them pass, but soon slid it shut against the glare of summer. In the shallow waters, the boat’s keel began to scrape, and the men jolted from their trance.

“Haul the nets!” hollered the captain. Calloused hands found coarse rope and moustached lips pulled back over gritted teeth as arms heaved against the pressure of the water. With a final wrench, the nets lurched onto the deck. Fins flapped and silver scales shimmered as the fish cascaded out. Their slimy bodies slapped against the sodden wood, soon scooped up by deft hands and sorted into barrels by type, the small ones tossed overboard.

But something caught the young deckhand’s eye, smooth and white among the gills and gasping mouths. Tangled in the net, dripping wet and tinged with algae, was a human skull. Ralph exclaimed and the others rushed over. Silence settled over them.

“Strange things at the bottom of these waters,” muttered Mr Beake.

“An’ now the water’s shallow, we’re draggin’ ‘em all up,” finished Captain Locke, his face grim.

“Cap’n,” called Michael, by the prow, “yer gonna wanna see this.”

They moved to the front, shifting the boat as they leaned over the side. Fingers broke the water’s surface, gnarled and nibbled by fish, their bones cracked by years under the weight of water. Beneath was a blurred tangle of limbs, only now made visible by the drought and dropping tides. Ribcages breached the mud, navigated by darting bluegills. A sparrow alighted on an exposed hipbone, pecked idly at the remaining flesh, and flitted back into the reeds which whispered as if passing secrets. And everywhere, skulls, so many it looked like a pumpkin patch, pushing up from the soil.

On the journey back, the men spoke in hushed tones, using words such as “who” and “hundreds.” There was talk of the Seminole war, but the theory was soon scratched as only one battle had occurred in 1837, and only thirty soldiers and Native American people had been killed. The others became convinced that there had been a mass tribe suicide to avoid capture and enslavement from the Europeans, and there was nodding all round.

But, that night, Ralph became less certain of their explanation…

He had brought the skull home, if only to scare his siblings with it, but after his sister’s squealing had faded, his fun did too. As the sun sank below the horizon, he stared at its form through the hessian sack in which he had wrapped it. The fabric pulled taught over the smooth cranium and hung limply over the gaping sockets where eyes once stared. With a chill, he realised how small it was. As small as his sister’s.

How had this child died? His mind fought to find fact among the fables.

A draught of wind threw back the curtain, and Ralph recoiled. In the glass’s reflection, there was someone looking back – A girl. She staggered in the street, fighting against the force of a rising gale. Pelting rain darkened the stripes and zigzags which traversed her clothes. Her accusing finger rose, stabbed towards the sac in which the skull was hidden, then swung in a wide arc towards the lake.

Ralph threw open the window. There was nothing there. It was dry and hot, not a drop to be seen. Baffled, he grabbed the hessian bag and swung a leg out of the window frame, slipping onto the street. A form flickered briefly under the streetlamp; pointer outstretched behind her.

“Hey!” he yelled. She vanished. “What…?”

He sprinted after her. Boats bobbed at the jetty as if stirred by ghostly hands. The shoreline was dotted with footprints – just smaller than his own, and barefoot. He couldn’t see far in the dimness, but with each step, more appeared before him, until finally, they trailed off at the water’s edge. Something rustled behind him. A gator…? No. It was her. She emerged in a blast of frigid air. Strands of sodden hair lashed her face, yet nothing could obscure her intense gaze. Her mouth stretched open to scream, but no sound escaped her lips.

“I can’t hear you!” Ralph hollered over the howling wind, but the girl only clawed at her throat, trying to wrench the words free. “What happened to you?” he yelled. Amidst the whirlwind of droplets, Ralph could have sworn there were tears on her cheeks. Her eyes blazed with urgency, with agony, but whatever she needed to say would not come out. She only pointed behind her still, though at what he did not know. A gust ripped the skull from Ralph’s hands, and the girl was knocked off her feet. Both were swallowed by the churning waters, and at once, the night grew still. Moonlight sparkled on the lake, obscuring the horrors beneath. It was as if nothing had happened at all. But… something had changed. There was a touch of humidity, the stirring of a restless wind, and on the horizon, the first tentative flashes…

Of an incoming cyclone.

by Kayleigh Greig

MUSINGS OF THE GREEK GODDESSES

I. Persephone

He found me in a garden of red and gold, and with a gentle hand, led me down to his dark kingdom.

I had heard the stories. A ruler with a crown of bone and shadow. A being that carried the whispers of death.

But his eyes were oh so warm when he gazed upon me. His rough hands soft, as they wrapped around my own. Like I was a treasure. A blessing. Something worthy of worship.

They had said he took me, claimed me, trapped me. But I was born with a ravenous hunger that could never have been quelled among the flowers of spring.

He gave me an offering and I took it gladly, greedily in both hands.

I bit down into the sweet skin, relishing each drip of sticky syrup down my chin. I smiled, with red stained teeth, as I held the pomegranate in one hand and the crown I had forged in the other.

I was a Bringer of Destruction and a Queen of the Underworld.

II. Aphrodite

A thing of divine beauty, men vied for their claim to me. For a single touch, a single taste, they fell to their knees. My sacred body, an object for their sole gratification.

Never mine to give, I was offered to serve another’s purpose. Governed, stifled, and slowly smothered – but I was not a piece of clay to be moulded by someone else’s hand. I was my own, wanting for no one other than myself.

When I saw him, the man of war, he had let me take exactly what I needed. Skin against skin, we were a raging fire made flesh. With only the stars as our witness, every desire was given form, through each soft caress and featherlight kiss. Never was I flushed with thoughts of shame or condemned by humiliation. No one could claim what was mine to give freely as I chose.

I was love. In all its gentleness and wonder. I was love. In all its passion and fury.

III. Hera

I had caught his affections. Lustful stares and sickly-sweet words that did nothing but grate against my skin. I had never wanted him. But with rough hands, tight around my throat, he ensnared me. Claimed what he saw as his.

Placed in a gilded cage high on Mount Olympus, I played the role of devote wife well. But behind the solemn veil, my heart grew colder, edges sharper, all warmth lost from the first brush of his fingers against mine.

The whispers, they had followed me. His absence and drifting eyes, the subject of their heavy judgement. But I was more than just his other.

I was a creature of devastating power. The Queen of Olympus. A ruler in my own right.

I sat upon his gilded throne, reaching out a hand and took and took and took. They realised too late the untempered wrath that festered beneath my skin, waiting to be unleashed.

I was something to fear. All would fall on their knees before and beg for mercy.

IV. The Goddesses

We are only a few of many but the past is held in our hands. We are the Queens and the Goddesses. We reclaim what was told about us.

We rewrite our stories.

by Zoe van der Merwe

GOLDILOCKS

on the untouched horizon, a boat wandered into view. its captain looked lost and white and hungry. not starving, just staring through his helmet of yellow curls. i locked my home and rushed my family out. no chance that greedy ghost was getting in. i didn’t even let my son finish his cassava.

“into the trees,” i instructed. we will watch along with the animals.

onto the shore, the captain sunk his boots into the sand and looked around. “i am hungry and i am tired and that big boat is a bore and i am not turning back.” his teeth were still milky; they glinted like pearls through the ferns. from the trees, we watched the lost captain instruct his crew. he pointed at my home and said, “there. that ugly hut.”

he used his golden locks as keys to unlock the door and he marched in, nose pinched. we couldn’t see him then but we could still hear his shrieks. “what is this white mush? it’s hot and disgusting.” a clatter of bowls on the floor. “and this one. this one’s cold. these animals don’t know how to cook.” then there was silence and i listened to my son’s unsteady breaths. there was a burp and then, “primitive food. go get me some rum.” i wondered why he had eaten the cassava still.

there was a roar then, like a jaguar, as the blonde captain yelled, “don’t these animals use chairs?” he huffed and said, “eck! the floor is dirt,” and he moaned and said, “my goddamn back.” we heard something being kicked and my son whimpered. “get me a stool, will you?” said the captain, and we saw a crew member run from the door and back to the ship.

“i really am tired,” the captain complained. very quietly, almost like a whisper, my son wondered, “don’t they have beds on the ship?”

“they do,” i said, “but you remember the stories? these white ghosts like to take. even if they already have something, they take it again so they have two.”

“greedy ghosts,” said my son.

“you hear that?” the captain yelled. we lowered ourselves deeper into the ferns. “i think those bears are out there. sweep the trees.”

“will the white ghost haunt us?” asked my son.

“yes,” i said. “forever.”

by Bruna Gomes

STORY OF THE WORLD

TThe world is the Greek summer at, let’s say, 35 degrees. It’s sluggish in the late afternoon, no one wants to work now, same story, same same story. The boy’s erastes has told him that if he can scribe, let’s say, a scroll’s worth before sundown, he’ll get some extra money and attention. The boy rolls his eyes to himself, ugh, fine.

So here he sits in this cramped little room, scrawling away despite his exhaustion, despite the damp upper back of his himation. The ink runs low. The other scribes’ elbows keep bumping him. He almost ruins the scroll multiple times. The Aramaic is messy, the hot breeze through the door suffocates, but he tries his best anyways. He does a good job.

He manages to get the scroll done and gives it to the erastes, who’s also tired out from the heat. He skims over it. Okay, looks great, take three drachmas, one for you, two for the poor family, I’ll see you tonight.

The next day the erastes dresses as someone else, takes the scroll to the hill, and starts preaching. He gets into it. He’s got such a convincing and passionate voice that people start to crowd around him. The power of not only the Lord’s voice but also his own puts genuine faith into peoples’ hearts. Some fear too. No one yells at him or takes him away. When he finishes, the crowd themselves go home and spread the Holy word to their wives, children, cattle, friends; directly quoting him and everything.

The erastes goes home content with today’s work. He reads through the scroll again, after all it is the Lord’s word, but then realises – oh. Ohoho. My eromenos has written kamelon, not kamilon. I have been reading kamelon. I have been preaching about camels this whole time. Hohoho.

The erastes tells the boy the funny story; they laugh and shrug.

Now, the world is Christian. So many stories, stories I don’t have space to tell you about, have happened to make the world Christian. Some poor Christians are okay with being poor: again, Matthew tells us, it’s easier for camels to go through the eyes of needles than it is for rich people to enter Heaven. Hoho.

Alright, the world’s now being translated into English, but remember that everything is more complicated than it looks and God, nothing can be simple anymore. So there’s another scribe. He’s staring at a word he’s never seen before, arsenokoitai. He knows that arsen is man, and koitas is bed, but he’s never seen them compounded before, arsenokoitai. What the fuck does that mean? Man-bed? He pictures a bed doing things like a man, hohoho, or a bedframe having a little carved head on it who talks(!), cute.

It probably means something different when put together, like how butterflies are different to butter or flies, who knows. It’s just that this must be a rare word, or it’s supposed to mean something specific he’s just not sure about. Anyways, it’s only one word out of how many; only one sin out of how many; so he takes it to mean something like homosexuality or adultery.

The scribe translates as coherently literal as he can, and he does a good job. After he copies out today’s sections, he passes his work to the non-Greek speaking scribes, so they can copy it out in more English. His hand hurts from all the work today. He needs a break. He forgets about the man-bed.

Now, the world is English. It’s passed the 19th and 20th century, again with the many stories I have no space to tell you, and now it’s 2022 and English-speaking. Yes, the present, finally! Some Christians are not okay with other people being gay. Again, Leviticus tells us, you can’t lie with another man, you’re an abomination. Now the world has 11 countries death-penalising LGBT people. The highest rates of suicide among LGBT people.

Ohoho. The butterfly effect.

Okay. So now, all over the world, people feel they really lose. Now, all over the world, people feel they really win. 2022: the age of digital, social media, two-page articles. Stories come in that form now. Now, all over the world, people still go back to Aristotle, they never left Aristotle, it’s still all about living well, isn’t it? So, how do you do that? Now all over the world you do it with money money money.

Scribes are gone, pretty much. Though things to be passed on still exist. Lots of people want to be storytellers, writers, journalists, but there’s no money in it. Most of the money now is through stories relayed online, especially the trending ones.

Great, so, there’s a news company and journalists who actually do get paid well. They have enthusiastic, persuasive, headstrong voices, but to keep the job they’ve got to keep the clicks. There are too many stories to cover, let alone cover in a digestible, simple-worded way for the millions.

The journalists were interested in their field because they wanted to bring happiness to the masses, truth to the masses, maybe change for the masses. Through storytelling, which is the Holy word.

But there’s a lot of pressure to do well at work; a company is for money after all. Before the easy reading is the difficult one. Overwhelm impacts their wellness of living, but they write anyways, and they do a good job. They manage to write about the hot topics, the crises, the calamities, the reforms, in a general, digestible way for the millions. In a way that either goes against the majority opinion to generate clicks or with the majority opinion to generate clicks. In a way that lets them say, actually, it does pay, I’m living pretty well.

Now the world is millions: millions reading about millions, talking about millions, through those general, digestible stories. Here are some of the stories covered: 27 million refugees, to which millions say go back where you fucking came from. 419 parts per million, to which millions say stop the emissions! 572 million reported COVID cases, to which millions say wear a mask or this is fake! 50 million views on a TikTok storytime, to which millions say im gonna try this lol.

Hohoho. Then the world is its stories, yes?

Untitled Artwork by Dex