Issue #9 October 2017
KEEN TO START UNIVERSITY EARLY? What’s happening this OctoberNovember?
A myriad of enchanting inspired monologues & narratives
Farewell 2017 with the year’s best headline commentary
s
Influential playwright George Bernard Shaw once declared that ‘progress is impossible without change’. Year 12 students will soon bid a fond farewell to secondary schooling, and while a period of great excitement and adventure inevitably awaits, their departure is sure to be felt across all facets of the Adelaide High community. Nevertheless, with such a melancholic parting comes an opportunity for new beginnings, and the arrival of fresh-faced students in both senior and middle school will no doubt stimulate unprecedented creativity and talent once more. Term 4 marks the second year anniversary of Blueprint. Tracing its inception to the ambitious vision of one remarkable teacher, Blueprint has flourished from the tentative, inexperienced assembly of Issue #1, to the smooth working publication that it is today. Such development is largely attributable to the outstanding effort of the current Editorial Team, as well as the many students that have graciously contributed their amazing artwork and wonderful writing. Issue #9 of Blueprint features an assortment of fiction and monologue pieces that respectively evoke sadness, contentment, and empathy within the reader. Other contributions include a co-authored reflection on the experience of undertaking tertiary studies whilst still in Year 12, as well as the typically quirky news headline commentary and monthly calendar.
EDITORIAL TEAM
I have been honoured to serve as the Managing Editor of this fine creative arts publication since 2015, and wish Mr Macleod and the Editorial Team the very best in continuing Blueprint throughout 2018 and beyond.
Editor-in-Chief: Mr Scott Macleod
Alana Goldschmidt
Managing Editor: Alana Goldschmidt Editors: James Du Preez, Fei Stokes, Kaartik Walia, Lilli Vitagliano, Oscar Steene, Bozica Klisuric, Madeleine Coates, Arlees Blyth
A creative arts publication that commenced in late 2015 as a result of the unbridled energy and enthusiasm of young minds, Blueprint: The Adelaide High Student Magazine has prided itself on showcasing the truly inspirational literary and artistic talent of the entire school community. As Editorin-Chief, I would personally like to express my appreciation to all students who have generously contributed their wonderful work, as well as the Editorial Team, who has worked tirelessly in producing four issues of Blueprint that vividly encapsulate the respective seasonal and emotive chapters of the school year. Given this is the final issue for 2017, it would be remiss not to dedicate a special mention to Alana Goldschmidt who is graduating this year and has served as Managing Editor since the magazine’s humble beginnings. Without her prodigious talent and extraordinary passion for the written word, in addition to hours upon hours of design work, Blueprint would not have even been a possibility. We wish Alana nothing but the absolute very best in her future endeavours. Evident in every piece of work that we publish, no matter the theme or subject matter, is a remarkable level of student talent that makes both Blueprint and Adelaide High School a cauldron of creativity. We are eager to keep this fire burning throughout 2018.
Mr Macleod
CALL FOR CONTRIBUTORS Calling all writers, artists, and creative types! We want your talented work for our tenth issue of Blueprint.
We are especially keen on your best: Fiction writing including (but not limited to) short narratives and stories, recounts, poetry, film and drama short scripts (no longer than 1,000 words each) Short reviews of anything linked with the creative arts. This can include films, television shows, music albums, live concerts, theatre productions, and art exhibitions (no longer than 250 words each) Non-Fiction writing of anything related to the school, local community, or creative arts. This can include food and travel writing, ‘How To’ articles, or any other topic relevant to the student readership (no longer than 1,000 words each) Artwork, graphic design, or illustrations Please email or submit contributions to Mr. Macleod (email: scott.macleod@adelaidehs.sa.edu.au or office – Room 42 / classroom – 124). Alternatively, if you have any ideas for writing or artwork that you would like to contribute to the magazine, please contact one of the super helpful magazine editors listed above.
WHAT’S HAPPENING?
National pizza month
World pasta day
Halloween
National novel writing month
Book lovers’ day
Cook something bold day
Remembrance Day
Young readers’ day
International tolerance day
Homemade bread day
World hello day
Don’t fry day
Pins and needles day
French toast day
Computer security day
NEWS WRITTEN BY | Alana Goldschmidt
THE RECENT “the world’s first ‘drive-thru funeral service’.”
OLD AND NIGHTMARISH
1 2 3
London commuters are baffled over an unsupervised white rabbit that has recently taken to frequenting
4
Last month, a cow brought pandemonium to the Perth Parliamentary House by escaping its handler and
5
the city’s public transportation networks. So far, the adventurous bunny has caught the London Overground and a bus to Holloway.
A Japanese funeral parlour has invented the world’s first ‘drive-thru funeral service’, which promises mourners the opportunity to pay their respects by simply rolling down a car window.
The annual ‘Poochibald Art Prize’, a competition that asks dog owners to create a painting, sculpture, or collage their beloved pet, has recently taken place in Tasmania. Congratulations to blue heeler Basil, the winner of the show.
‘doing a runner’. Winston the cow, from the Perth Royal Show, was part of the state’s R U Ok? Day celebrations.
A team of Peruvian pastry chefs have successfully broken the Guinness World Record for the largest ever chocolate bar. The bar, which was made of 70% pure cocoa, spanned 7 metres in length, and was 3 metres wide and 5 centimetres thick. 3
Infectious Fire This monologue was inspired by Ian Serraillier’s novel ‘The Silver Sword’
Tiana Loechel
T
he sun slips away, illuminating my world in a pale golden light. The window provides a welcome distraction from my thoughts – vibrant hues fade over the thickly wooded Bavarian hills, reflecting on the Falken River as it races and twists down to join the Danube. Yet my mind cannot focus for long, and soon it wanders back to its troubled obsession. Tonight marks a whole day since dear Ludwig’s disappearance. Though elderly and languishing, he had gained vitality and undying devotion over the last weeks, apparently reliving his past years as the best watchdog we ever had. Then on that ill-fated day we lost him. However, it was not only him that we lost on that day: it was also the last connection to my beloved son. Rudolf had loved Ludwig more than anything else in the world – they did everything together. Wherever one was, the other was sure to be around. It was Rudolf who trained Ludwig as a watchdog, and it was Rudolf whom I saw torn apart, loathe to leave his adored dog behind, and yet also loathe to appear cowardly before the party. My son had marched off to Berlin with his head held high, unaware of the horrors he would soon face. Just like his elder brother Hans, Rudolf did not return. Han’s young and handsome face stares
back at me from the mantelpiece. How different he became during the war… I hate to think about it, but I cannot help remembering… Rudolf’s description in one letter of his fleeting glimpse of Hans, in Berlin. ‘His face has aged and become
twisted with bitterness. He recognised me – I saw the flicker in his eyes – but he refuses to acknowledge me – his own brother!’ Yes, I remember those words all too well. I read them a thousand times over before my husband threw them into the furnace in exasperation – the words deformed, twisted, faded, and licked up eagerly by crimson flames – have they not stayed burned into my memory ever since? I cannot bear to think of Hans anymore. It brings me nothing but grief. Yet Rudolf’s fading memory used to bring me hope, in a bittersweet sort of way. Did he stay the kind and gentle man I knew, as he always promised? Only a few weeks ago, Jan turned up in our barn. A small ragged boy with fair wispy hair and unnaturally bright eyes, he reminded me of Rudolf. Perhaps it was his immediate impression on Ludwig: Jan had coaxed the then half-dead creature back to good health, forming a friendship as strong as the fire that burned within Jan. A fire of anguish and anger towards those who destroyed his country, and a fire of hope, for Jan always believed that he would one day reach Switzerland, his promised land. He
was so like my own Rudolf that I found myself unwillingly reminiscing of the good old days – the days consumed by sun and laughter, when my sons would run gleefully around the garden with a young Ludwig nipping at their heels. The emptiness inside that gnaws constantly at my heart and soul has gradually lessened, however, I know that I will never become complete… I have found that good and evil is not always easy to distinguish. Though both my sons fought in the same army, one fought for good, while the other fought for evil. One fought to free his country of her bonds, while the other fought for revenge. Both died doing just that. In Ludwig and Jan, a hero lived on. Jan left yesterday. I suppose that is why Ludwig has disappeared. It should have been obvious – the dog could not have survived without him, not after a second desertion. They took with them a piece of my heart – a tear that can never fully heal. However, the fire of hope that burned so brightly within Jan has spread through my very veins, kindling a flame, which while flickering feebly, is still a flame. My hope is that young Jan will succeed in his journey, taking with him the one whom I am certain followed. Though I have lost the physical connections to my darling son, he lives always in my heart and in the fire of hope that slowly grows inside.
Bei Langemarck Courtesy of Otto Dix
This monologue was inspired by Sylvia Plath’s poem ‘Insomniac’
Alana Goldschmidt
H
e is among them, a woven suit of a man, crudely strung together by the dim grey threads of cheap, commercialistic labour. Like rows of subservient ants, they march, their shiny black shoes artificially agleam with polish, so as to distinguish each stooping figure from the ashen pavement below. However, amid the labyrinthine of his mind lies a wholly personal ant colony, little beings probing endless passages, recovering unwelcome memories as if disturbing graves. His mind though is incapable of occluding such merciless recollections, for he is crippled by the impenetrable darkness. Every ceaseless night he lay awake upon a pillow of black feathers, his eyes burning holes through the ceiling. He is immune to the harlequin pills, which induce only a short-lived sedation, and are always plagued by meteoric thoughts. The night does him no good, and the day is worse. He cannot escape the deathly dreams, for even mindless work brings no reprieve.
During his woeful attempts at even slight slumber, he is hypnotised like a mute automaton, bedevilled by echoes of childhood. His eyes, stiffened and unmoving, play host to this granular movie, replaying over and over his time spent next to the skeleton in the closet. Without needing to rise and lift his heavy, clumsy limbs, he floats high up to the planets and observes, like a wishful deity, a world once past.
The pills have done their feeble duty – their remnants now linger like a thick fog. He wakes, surrounded by the aura of a forgetful baby in the midst of such gloom, dazedly watching it unfurl out the window. The fog diffuses into the night, while he, searching for respiratory relief, trails meekly behind. Behind the panes, he can already feel daylight – it is his white disease – and he recoils at the stench of its emergent purity.
Parental faces on tall stalks, alternately stern and tearful, consume the desert space. He can see ephemeral spots – red, blue, and purple – flickering brilliantly, as if they were fireworks in sardonic disguise. His head is a field of shimmering grey mirrors as he sees his closeted self, younger and perched like a wren on a blanket of baby blue. What a courteous little observant he was! Smack – not even a sound! Bang – don’t flinch now! Crash – the blanket is ripped from him in a dramatic flourish! Memories jostle, fast, faster, fastest, until – the tedium returns.
One-by-one they start to leave, falling away from the path like ants recently depurated with synthetic toxins. However, he remains behind, continuing the march for the sake of monotony. The remnants of last night’s pills claw tangibly at his head, yet nothing can deter the fact that he now feels more deeply benumbed than ever before. Slumber beckons like a persistent friend, but I can never fall asleep. I am condemned, I am damned. I am an insomniac.
Insomnia Courtesy of Gerritt McGill
A HEADSTART ON UNIVERSITY… James Du Preez
I
n late February, I was fortunate enough to undertake the 2017 Headstart Program at the University of Adelaide, which enabled me the opportunity to enrol in two semester-long topics in the School of Humanities while simultaneously completing my Year 12 studies. Whilst browsing through the course catalogue, the offerings in the field of Philosophy immediately took my interest, as I was looking for something that seemed enjoyable and slightly leftfield from the traditional high school subject offerings. ‘Argument and Critical Thinking’ (offered in semester one), and ‘Morality, Society, and the Individual’ (semester two) both satisfied the selection criteria, and together with four Year 12 subjects, promised to keep me extremely busy across the year. Despite both being classified within the Philosophy discipline, the courses differed substantially from each other. ‘Argument and Critical Thinking’, featuring countless Donald Trump examples, provided an overview of the structure of arguments and the common fallacies that renders them faulty. The second half of the course continued the heavy dosage of political anecdotes, as we explored the use of pseudo-science
in research, in addition to dedicating an entire week to examining the correct usage of quotation marks, which was surprisingly quite enjoyable. Whilst the first semester focussed heavily on ideas I did not initially associate with philosophy, ‘Morality, Society, and the Individual’ proved to be more in line with my initial expectations of the subject area. Throughout the second semester we conducted heated discussions on when it is acceptable to lie, the difference between killing and letting die, and whether anything holds meaningful value in the world. The wider university experience has been both immensely challenging and rewarding throughout the year. The university teaching style is significantly different from high school in the sense that all the information is provided in two weekly lectures that run for one hour and are delivered in-person plus available online. Each week also contains a weekly tutorial, with class sizes consisting of around twenty students, in which the assigned weekly readings and questions are discussed collectively. Whilst this learning style forces you to take control of your learning and independently
complete tasks beforehand, the overall time commitment really is not that much more demanding than an average school subject. In the Headstart program, you naturally take classes with first-year university students, which is truly an experience on its own. However, not being on campus full-time can make it difficult to form close friendships, as there are limited opportunities to spend time with the other university students (for instance, the only real “friend” I made sent me a message after two weeks saying that tertiary study wasn’t exactly “his thing” and that he was currently venturing on a trip around America…) Thankfully, the plethora of people you encounter provide a refreshing variety of ideas and personalities, which is often hard to come by in high schools where everyone shares common interests. My experience in the Headstart program was ultimately an enjoyable one, which allowed me to expand my education and worldview at one of the world’s best universities. If you are passionate about a particular subject, and want to accelerate your learning (whilst getting a taste of university life), this is definitely an opportunity not to be missed.
For the 2018 Headstart course catalogue and details regarding the application process, please visit: https://www.adelaide.edu.au/headstart/
6
Alana Goldschmidt
S
ubmitting an application for the University of Adelaide’s Headstart Program is an achievement in itself. The process involves obtaining a letter of recommendation from the school principal, providing proof of past academic performance, and writing a short personal statement of intent, all whilst enduring the pressure of competitive entry. However, if you are fortunate enough to be accepted into the program, prepare to embark on an exhilarating academic journey like no other. Through the Headstart Program, I was able to undertake two semester-long courses in the School of Humanities and School of Psychology respectively. As a lover of English literature, ‘Introduction to English: Ideas of the Real’ was an obvious choice for the first semester. In this course, I had the opportunity to study a range of texts, from Charles Dickens’s Great Expectations (1861) to Thomas Pynchon’s The Crying of Lot 49 (1966), plotting the periodisation of English literature whilst also considering what constitutes ‘the real’. I initially enrolled in only one course for the year, not wanting to burden myself with too many subjects come end-of-year exams, but soon requested to complement my Psychology studies at school with ‘Psychology 1B’ in the second semester. This course covered six basic topics, ‘learning’, ‘statistics’, ‘motivation and emotion’, ‘developmental psychology’, ‘personality’, and ‘intelligence’.
Each first-year university course differs in the amount of on-campus hours you must commit to for your studies. For instance, English only consisted of two weekly face-to-face lectures and one tutorial, the latter featuring approximately fifteen students (although expect this number to steadily drop throughout the semester). Meanwhile, Psychology consisted of between five and seven fortnightly online lectures and one face-to-face workshop. Such study commitments, which vary dramatically from the usual high school timetable, facilitate independent learning and the strengthening of students’ higher-order thinking. Despite the course content increasing in sophistication and calibre, the respective workloads proved similar to my other Year 12 subjects, with each entailing only a limited number of assessments. I found this an attractive quality of the Headstart Program, especially due to the scholarship’s exemption from tuition fees and the fact that the study of two semester-long courses is generously converted into the equivalent of a Year 12 SACE subject grade for your ATAR. For example, the SACE board deems a university High Distinction grade to be worthy of a 20/20 (A+ grade), Distinction equates to a 19.8, and even a Credit grade (which is technically a score between 65-74%) is converted to an 18/20 (A grade). The Headstart Program also grants students with an ID card, allowing them access to the university’s many facilities. The Barr Smith Library, in particular, was a regular haunt of mine throughout the
year, as I constantly browsed its shelves and online databases for useful resources. Many of these resources not only broadened my university studies, but also aided research for school subjects. One difficulty that I encountered throughout the Headstart Program was admitting to peers that I was still a high school student. The common question in introductory tutorials is ‘what degree are you studying?’ Rather than constructing an extravagant lie, I simply told the truth, although this choice did garner some questioning looks when I participated in class discussions (tutors advise against raising your hand at university!) for the first few weeks. Sitting the course finals might also prove trialling if you suffer from exam nerves. A school hall with one hundred students seems daunting enough, but this pales in comparison to the two thousand that partake in the university exams, which in the case of the University of Adelaide are held at the Adelaide Showgrounds. Nevertheless, I found the experience quite enthralling, and particularly excellent preparation for my SACE exams. If you are an accelerated student, high achiever, or simply have the drive and passion to pursue university studies, I urge you to apply for the Headstart Program. Whether successful or not, please have the confidence to recognise your abilities and the tenacity to seek advanced learning. You might just surprise yourself!
7
Dionysios Lobotesis
T
hrough the muddy-brown banks of the creek, the reflection of my scraggly grey beard and mustard shirt stare back at me. The creek makes not a single sound, despite the ebbs and flows of water moving through its tight and messy tangles of nested nettles and densely packed shrubs. Not a single animal stirs, and the only sound echoing through my mind is the rustling of an empty stomach, desperately craving sustenance. After days without food and relentless travel, I am forced to halt in my tracks. As the afternoon sun glares menacingly overhead, I seek final comfort under the shade of a lifeless wattle. Laying myself down, I find it increasingly hard to remain awake. I suppose this really is a waiting game now – the inevitable finality of death will soon beckon for me. I have given up any hope of my scraggly grey beard and mustard yellow shirt ever finding home again. Now begins my elegant dance with the pale-faced man clad in black. I slowly walk the tightrope of life, my gentle soul threatening to succumb to the cold embrace of death. Through eyelids that struggle to remain open, I catch a glimpse of a face drifting through the deadwood. Could it be another explorer? A search crew perhaps? Anyone to take me out of this wretched expanse would be enough. However, any hopes I had for
such a glorious miracle were short lived. Perching my head upwards, as if I were an eagle searching for prey, I looked around the solemn creek. Suddenly, I caught sight of its crystal blue eyes. Surely I must be seeing things? My chest began thumping relentlessly – a sign that my heart was taking its last rise-and-fall. My head reared in shock at what suddenly confronted me. A mute scream escaped from my dry mouth as two figures materialised in front of me. My cries for help no longer echoed between the trees – I was paralysed – and my anxiety only grew as these figures turned to meet my gaze. However, this shock quickly turned to warm delight as I realised the figures were my beautiful wife and son. My wife’s crystal-blue eyes gave me a jarring sense of renewed hope of being with her one final time before death would finally do us part. But this cannot be real. This must be some kind of sadistic mind game, designed to lure me into the cold embrace of death. This must be a false truth – the masquerading of the maleficence of death behind the splendor of life. I must not allow myself to be lured blindly towards the sweet scents that mask the bitter taste of the devil’s fruits. Then again, the thought of spending my last moments in the company of my beloved family compels me to move towards the bed of the shallow creek where their bright faces wait. With hands moving, one after another, rhythmically scraping at the red earth, they slowly pull my aching soul closer. I exude my last breaths in a final attempt to forever lie with my beloved. As I approach, their faces change from jubilant warmth to hollow sadness, and they slowly began to disintegrate before my very eyes. In a fit of pure anger, rage, and self-hatred, I slam my clenched fists into the soil. I had been born from the earth and I would return to it. Where my reflection once stared back at me from the murky water of the creek, now stood the clear figures of my beautiful son and wife. It was only now that I knew what my final act was to be. Slowly, I submerged my face into the creek bed until my whole body became covered by water. I was whisked away swiftly by the pale-faced man clad in black. All was well – I would be with my family again soon. Retracing the muddy brown banks of the creek made me feel like I was reliving my father’s last moments. He had ventured into the forest just as I do now, moving through the tight and messy tangles of nested nettle that surround the muddy brown banks of the creek. The afternoon sun beamed across the landscape, so I sought the comforting shade of a wattle. Looking into the murky creek bed, no longer do I see my own reflection staring back at me. Instead, I make out an unmistakable mustard shirt and scraggly grey beard. My father.
Mother and Son Courtesy of Saar manche
8
Fei Stokes
I
n the time of magic, when gods still walked the earth and mystic creatures sought seclusion in the forest, a graceful hunter lived in the woods. He was fine in shape and virtue, and all the village girls were besotted with him. All except for one. The local tanner’s youngest daughter, Beatrix, was neither plain nor beautiful, and her hands were stained from long hours of work. She owned no finery, but she was honest and humble. The young hunter lived in the wildwoods, hunting deer and snaring rabbit, and he sold the skins to the tanner. He came into the village once a moon, and all the girls eagerly awaited his arrival. From the instant he stepped into the village, he was inundated with their tokens of affection. And none was more eager in her devotion than Beatrix’s elder sister, Marcia. Marcia’s blond tresses tumbled down her back, and her bright blue eyes sparkled in the light, making her the most beautiful and desirable young woman in the village. Much like the young hunter, she was faced with suitors wherever she turned. However, Marcia only had eyes for one man, and that was the graceful woodsman. ‘Oh, Beatrix, he is the most beautiful man I have ever seen’, she would tell her sister. ‘His eyes, they are like the forest in summer, and his hair is like autumn leaves. He is nimble as a deer and strong as a wolf.’ ‘All right,’ Beatrix would reply. ‘But, Marcia, what is he like?’ ‘What’s he like?’ At this, Marcia would turn to her sister with her eyes wide in wonder. ‘He’s like wind and rain and shadows in the night, and I love him like I have never loved anything else. Oh, I should die if any other girl had him, I would simply die of rage and jealousy.’ Beatrix sighed, and gave up. ***
But this did not go unnoticed. Marcia saw that her sister left the house more and more often, always returning with a dreamy smile, and once even with a bluebell woven into her hair. The first seeds of jealousy were planted in Marcia’s heart, for how could her plain sister Beatrix have a suitor when she, the beautiful Marcia, could not bewitch the man she wanted most? It was incomprehensible. And so her curiosity and envy grew, until she one day followed Beatrix out to meet him. Marcia slipped behind her from shadowto-shadow until they reached the eaves of the woods, where Beatrix waited. Only a few minutes passed before the woodsman, quiet as a breathless breeze, appeared. Marcia could scarcely believe what she was seeing. Beatrix had barely opened her mouth to greet him when Marcia stormed out to confront them, spitting with fury. ‘How could you?!’ she hissed vehemently. Her eyes flashed with anger. ‘You know I loved him, and you stole him from me! Damn you, Beatrix! Damn you and damn your forest boy! May you rot here in your woods forever!’ She raised her arms to the skies and cursed the two to the heavens, stamping her feet, tearing her hair with frenzy, and cursing them to each and every spirit between the two realms. And someone must have heard her, be it heaven or hell or someone in between, for as soon as Marcia had left, the lovers melted into each other’s arms. Their intertwined bodies grew into sturdy wood the chestnut colour of Beatrix’s hair. Leaves the summer green of the hunter’s eyes sprouted from the branches, and lo! in their place there stood a great oak tree. *** Whether it was a blessing or a curse, no one shall ever know. Neither Beatrix nor her woodsman were ever seen again, but the great tree stood for an aeon, and when sweethearts stood under it, the hushed rustling of its leaves almost sounded like a soft, sweet whispering.
A few moons later, when the hunter arrived at the tanners, it was Beatrix who answered the door. ‘Hello,’ the hunter greeted her. ‘Is the tanner here? I have some skins to sell him.’ ‘He is ill,’ she told him. ‘But I will buy them.’ The money and hides exchanged hands, and Beatrix made as if to step back inside. ‘Would you like a hand?’ Surprised at his gracious offer, Beatrix accepted. As the hunter helped her work, he became enchanted with her skill and expertise. Here, at last, was a girl who was not throwing herself at his feet. Here, at last, was a girl with spirit. *** After this chance meeting, the hunter began to make excuses to meet her. And as he treated Beatrix with consideration and respect, she slowly grew to see his virtues, patience, and kindness. And day-by-day they grew closer.
Siegfried & the Twilight of the Gods Courtesy of Arthur Rackham
LIVING THROUGH HER Nighthawks Courtesy of Edward Hopper
Kim Van
T
errible day at work? Phillies. Home not where the heart is? Phillies. That gorgeous, red-haired bombshell on your mind? Phillies. The amount of times he has ditched his so-called “loved ones” in favour of that greasy diner is staggering. During both Amelia’s ‘Swan Lake’ recital and Marie’s first basketball game he’d been at Phillies, drowning in his thoughts and watered-down black coffee. His wife was tired of concocting uplifting stories for their paternally neglected offspring and now focussed on fixing what he broke, trying her best to love them twice as much. He didn’t know and didn’t care. He’d become more and more jaded with each passing year. That is, until her unassuming presence graced his mundane routine, shattering his familial tableaux with it. *** She waltzed into the neon-lit eatery one cold December night. He needed to escape from his sickeningly festive home, which was haunted by a bugeyed reindeer and fat, jolly old Saint Nick. He regarded the holiday season with vicious malice. Not to mention, their incessant begging for this and that, “those, daddy, pretty please with cherries on top?” had driven him mad. Lord, he’s going to need more than just one coffee and fat-dripping burger with fries to wash away such thoughts… His downright depressing reverie was suddenly interrupted by a jingling noise, signalling the entrance of a new customer. He looked up. She was there, dressed in something not nearly appropriate for the winter, as a smattering of snowflakes nestled in her crimson hair. She merely glanced at his slouching figure as acknowledgement before enquiring: “What’s good here?” Those were the first of many words that
would smoothly run off her tongue that fateful evening. *** He quickly found himself drowning in her sea-blue eyes and greedily devouring her vivacious stories. She was breathtaking. Even when she snorted with deep breathy laughs, and made a mess of her artery-clogging meal. When they’d both finished, he’d offered to pay for her portion too, “Really, let me. It’d be my pleasure.” He’d forgotten about the photo. He’d forgotten that his wife had stealthily placed it in his wallet in a last-ditch attempt to remind him of them. He’d forgotten to cover it up as he took out some crumpled notes for the attendant. She was quick to notice, asking, “Are they yours? They’re both adorable girls.” He froze. He was hesitant to answer, scared of what she would think. ‘Oh god I’ve screwed it up…’ “Yeah, they are.” She giggled softly, a great big devilish smirk on her face, “I’d love to meet them someday. I’m great with children.” She was there every weekend, ordering hotcakes and maple syrup with a rich chocolate milkshake each time without fail. Phillies was still his regular haunt, but he noticeably perked up on Saturdays and Sundays, keen to see his very own Jessica Rabbit. Initially, it was subtle touches. She’d “accidentally” bump her arm with his, or tap his leg and rope him into a childish game of footsies. Next came the grasping of hands. She reached for him when hearing about those days at work that made him want
to stop coming in forever. Then, after a while, she’d give him sinfully innocent pecks on the cheek upon their farewells. A memento, you could say, full of promise for their next rendezvous. Eventually, his Saturday and Sunday evenings were no longer spent at Phillies, rather the cheap hotel just down the road. He would reserve the room under an alias, but unbeknownst to him, the discovery had been made. His wife found the numerous check-in receipts stashed at the bottom of their closet. She began to put her next move into play. *** The divorce papers glared at him from their shared bed. They screamed at him.
Liar. Cheater. Why didn’t you at least try with your daughters? What kind of father and husband are you? His belongings were strewn around them, a lone suitcase on the floor waiting for him to store his life away. He should feel guilty, yet he didn’t. He should go talk to his children, but he didn’t. He should tell her, the one he promised to take till sickness and death do they part, that he’s sorry. He didn’t. *** Phillies has since closed down. The owner was wanted for tax evasion or something like that… You know, what usually always happens after a so-called “Golden Era”. He knows their golden era is over too. She left him, red hair blowing in the wind, after sinking her claws into some other poor bastard. It’s karma for the way he destroyed his marriage. Here he is, back in this cynical funk, still at that godforsaken job that he should’ve quit ages ago, as jaded as can be. I wish
Phillies was still open.
10
Drown Courtesy of Ravenide
Elisabeth Marie beat. the river flows
D
rowning. Down through the depths where the current drags. Blood fills your lungs as you’re enveloped into the rushing of silver fish. Their scales press against your skin, and you’re taken within their storm. After the initial struggle, you release yourself to the depths. As you drift towards oblivion, you drift towards peace. Then all at once you find yourself spluttering and clawing at the ground. Your clothes are soaked and you can feel your heart beating a million miles an hour. A figure kneels before you, crying out in relief as you regain consciousness. Her hair flows messily in front of tear-filled eyes. The most ethereal creature kneels before you. You speak out to her, desperately calling her name. But she inches at this name, and you’re thrown back into a terrible reality. It isn't her; it's the Other Woman. And that is how you remember why you were drowning in the first place. That is how you regain this vicious cycle that dictates your life and claims your soul. She cries and you reach out to hold her, but she pulls away from your touch. The hurt slashed across her face is like an open wound, and an expression you have unfortunately become far too familiar with.
beat. the river flows Only after midnight do you hear the soft footsteps coming up the cabin steps that signify the return of the Other Woman. As you await her return, you take yourself to the attic. Old tables and thousands of dusty books are scattered throughout the room, but your mind is
fixated on only one thing. You sit before the chest in the back of the room and open it with a gentle and loving touch. Inside is her dress – The Red Dress. You take it out delicately and drape it across your lap. The touch of it is enough to bring butterflies to your stomach and create tears in your eyes. Her smell lingers on the red silk: River Mist. Beneath the dress is the photograph of the Woman in the Red Dress. Her hair falls in long, golden waves down her back and caresses her shoulders. You recognise that mischievous glimmer in her eyes. The most beautiful woman in the world stares through your body and into your soul through the frame, and you watch as tears drop onto the glass. The Other Woman discovers you here after what seems like an eternity. Her eyes are red and her skin is blotched from crying. You know she has been with the fisherman, carrying out whatever sinful pleasures it is that temporarily makes her forget you existed. She kneels beside you and interlaces her fingers with yours, in a desperate attempt to right what you have both made wrong.
beat. the river flows You show the Other Woman the photograph of the Woman in the Red Dress, and allow her to share your pain. She listens as you tell her about your first love – your only true love. Tears stream down her cheeks as you reveal to her that you love, and always will love, another woman. Once you have unburdened yourself from your sorrows, she kisses you anyway. She takes you downstairs and prepares you dinner, one of the silver fish from the river. Ironic, isn't it? They almost took your life, and now you've taken one of theirs. You
spend the night with the Other Woman in your arms – her skin is warm, and so is the tenderness of her embrace. Yet she isn't real, because you aren't real. Ever since you lost the Woman in the Red Dress, you have been nothing more than a ghost of your former self. But you can feel your heart beating in unison with the Other Woman’s. And for now, that is all you need.
beat. the river flows You take other women here, to this place by the river, and you tell them you love them. Perhaps you will even make love to them, and pretend that the wistful whispers and pleasures they provide will be enough to fulfil your longing. But they are imposters, and you are nothing more than a ghost of who you used to be. Your body will be here, with whoever this Other Woman is – yet you’re always searching for me. You’re constantly searching for the Woman in the Red Dress. Although you may be seen with a smile and this Other Woman’s arm around your own, she is only there because I cannot be. But she is beautiful, and you are laughing and smiling, and perhaps she will be laughing and smiling – but she will be laughing at a lie. Because all you have ever done to that person is lie to them. All you will do to anyone else, forever, from this moment forward, anyone who isn't me, is lie. And when you are with them, you feel as though you’re slow dancing on broken glass. It’s beautiful, yet it pains you to be with them when it should be me in your arms.
beat. this love isn't over
11
Where the reeds and rushes grow Macy Newman
H
ot air caressed his skin, blowing back his hair with a flourish. He could smell the soft scent of the sea drifting from the west. He felt the fresh grass below him. The blades danced gracefully until the southerly wind spurred them into a frenzy with the emerald leaves. The flowers left a sickly sweet aroma, as the splash of sun momentarily blinded his vision. He stared at the painting suspended on the wall. The painting that featured clashing waves and majestically timeworn gumtrees. It had hung in his apartment for years. However, it did not feel like his. Its presence seemed to beat down on him, making his ears pound, and his thoughts gush over its unreachable opulence. It seemed to call his name each time he gazed upon it – when he arrived from a weekend visit with his family, or when he returned from working extra hours at the clinic. His life seemed to be a series of deadlines, schedules, and briefcases. He experienced the relentless routine every day. He saw nothing but neon signs and concrete jungles. Every street, sidewalk, and building looked exactly the same – there was no originality any more. The lights, colours, and signs projected the superficiality of the cityscape – a place where he was forced to watch his
life walk by. He just sat while everyone else seemed to move on. He stared out over the masses that spread below his window like a drab methodical diagram. Each miniscule dot carried a briefcase with a set destination. They all walked with a sense of purpose, spinning the world, powering it with their own hands. The blood of the city ran through their veins. In contrast, his veins ran dry a long time ago. His whole life was restricted to the interior of his humble abode, the seven am bus ride, and his work clinic located in a nameless suburb. An existence beyond this mundane lifestyle was unbeknown to him… He gazed upon the painting that had been hung on his manila wall. He regarded it pensively. This glimpse of a paradise, so seemingly unobtainable, drove him wild with desire. In this painting, he found his last glimpse of hope. As he stood, it suddenly dawned on him. He would do anything to experience this paradise – this last chance at life. He took one last longing look at the painting as an idea ignited in his mind. Subsequently, for the first time in years, he allowed the traces of a smile to form across his face. The painting that had hung on his wall,
growing evermore brittle by the day and sporting an impressive layer of dust, was now his paradox. It had become the fictional oxymoron that turned into his reality. The ocean air felt cool and the sun so much brighter in person than he had ever imagined. He teetered at the edge of the seaside cliff, clinging to his briefcase, soaking the last rays of sun before it would disappear behind the pastel horizon. His head, simultaneously consumed by joy and nostalgia, urged him to throw what was left of his old world of monotony off the cliff. He suddenly lurched, causing a flock of seagulls to cry out in outrage and take to the pink sky, dappling his face with their blue hued shadows. He smiled gleefully and sauntered back along the sandy path that lead away from the cliff. He tracked it back to his house. He had finally escaped his life of monotony, the one that suppressed his individually with as much security as the brass locks on his old briefcase – the very same briefcase that he had just thrown into the abyss. *** To this day, he still resides by the sea in the old cottage behind the mangroves. He mostly spends time with his grandchildren, but now and then you might catch him gazing wistfully upon the painting that hangs on his wall, lost in thought.
People I Saw But Never Met Courtesy of Zadok Ben-David