OGMA // ISSUE 03 by Ogma Magazine

ISSUE 03

AUGUST 2020

OGMA 'EXPLORE'

POETRY | FICTION

OGMA ISSUE 03

EDITOR IN CHIEF Aneleh Enner

WRITER & SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER Parker Wright

COPY EDITOR & FRONT COVER ARTIST Nicole

COPY EDITOR Goldie

WRITER Katie

WRITER & SOCIAL MEDIA MANAGER Molly

WRITER Zhana

WRITER Dian For more information, our full staff page and exclusive digital content, head over to ogmamagazine.tumblr.com

editor's note

Welcome to the third issue of the Ogma

Another update we are planning is a

Magazine! This month's theme is

possible merch line! We want to

"Explore". We have a wonderful

produce sweatshirts or other items with

selection of poetry and fiction by

and without our logo and embroidered

talented young writers exploring

emblems. We hope to develop a limited

various topics inspired by this prompts.

edition one for each of our themes

I hope you enjoy reading it and please

every month! All this would not be

let us know what you think via our ask

possible without the Ogma Team. our

box on tumblr.

contributors and of course, you, our reader! Sit back and enjoy this issue...

We have some exciting new updates too! Our wordpress website is up and running and we are developing a digital and print zine. The zine will be a more scrapbook and artsy version of our magazine with other poems and artwork. We will announce it soon on our blog and webiste.

Aneleh Enner

EDITOR IN CHIEF

SECTION 01:

poetry

CONTENTS

I TRY TOO HARD, I SMILE TOO WIDE BY DIAN

TELL ME! BY SANCHI

STORIES BY M.C SHERMAN

GHOST CITY BY MOLLY

PUSH PINS BY KATIE

HOLES IN THE TERRAIN BY SOPHIE E. EIKLI

NEW PATHS BY CASSIDY BEXLEY

I TRY TOO HARD, I SMILE TOO WIDE BY DIAN / @TOKYO.DI

This month’s piece is an exploration of my relationship with validation. It’s my birth month, so I’d initially thought to do something extravagant and blown out but catharsis found its way into my writing instead. So here’s 20 lines of raw emotion, in celebration of my 20th birthday this year. May we all kill our demons and heal our wounds before relishing in the pomp and splendour of another cherished year. I try too hard, I smile too wide I hear all the words they do not say Pricked heart and tired mind Bloodied toes on polished maple Maybe if I danced with more grace, there’d finally be applause. I take up space — too much of it When I cry, I bawl When I scream, I wail My whispers are written in the sky for the world to see But silence is my people’s currency. A broken greenhouse, lonesome atop a jagged hill Daytime flora set alight The night brings faux relief Mirrored shards like serrated matches The grass is glass and I’m the only one bleeding.

Sweet child, locked out in the cold Teddy bear in hand, she knocks tentatively The castle is quaking with calculated laughter but No one answers Now her winters last forever.

TELL ME! BY SANCHI / INSTAGRAM: SANCHI021

Tell me ! Have you ever been drowned, with the thoughts of your own choking and just killing you!! Tell me ! Have you ever been drowned in your own overthinking that didn't let you sleep Tell me ! Have you ever been drowned with unpleasant feels bombarding you to just let things go Tell me ! Have you ever been drowned with the guilt that lies in you twisted and mangled Tell me ! Have you ever been drowned with what you are and started hating yourself?

STORIES BY M.C. SHERMAN / TWITTER: @MARIACHRIS_WRIT

This is my goodbye to you, mom. I have a bag packed and, with my closest friend by my side, will be following the train tracks to the other side of the island. I remember all of the stories that you told me as a child, but I want to confirm them myself. I have everything I need to keep the creatures away. Goodbye for now, my friend & I are leaving in the cool morning to discover what is out there. The trains are no longer running, the tracks are turning green. Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll be thinking of you throughout the journey, pen and notebook in one hand and a flashlight in the other, Iâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll stay safe for you.

GHOST CITY BY MOLLY / TUMBLR: INCIPIENTDREAM

i. there’s a city made of ghosts. one could call it a ghost town, as many such places are known, but i feel as though that would not aptly describe it in its entirety. it wasn’t really a place filled with ghosts, where they lived and breathed as much as dead things could, but rather a city that seemed to occupy a space where the spirits congregated in one spectral unanimity. they were as though a collection of wraiths, of phantoms. as i stood there, an obscure tang of something seemed to crest every breath in and out, like the taste of blood and ash and metal, but sweet all the same. there was also the soft buzzing of something electric, a hundred bees buzzing through the air, perhaps the crackle of thunder before the storm. the sound was comforting, like a warm embrace. i did not know of it, but then again i did not mind. ii. there’s a city made of ghosts. i found this place on a summer day, when sweat pooled along my back and the haze created by the heat on the roads obscured my vision. i thought i was imagining it all, the crumbling yet still intact buildings, the people who floated gracefully above the sidewalks. and yet a ghost waved at me, her hair long and eyes bright. she would have looked entirely alive if it hadn’t been for the faint, lingering transparency that stole her every movement. and as i found myself walking the dusty streets, i noticed the sheer beauty of the ethereal. a shimmering light pervaded every crevice, every nook, and it felt as though it had been shaped by the gods themselves.

iii. there’s a city made of ghosts. i am told that once upon a time this city had a name. but like its occupants it had become nothing but dust upon the wind, a phantom, something that rests heavily and unknown upon the tip of your tongue. not forgotten, but lost in memory. as most things in life one day came to be. i don’t think it was such an awful thing that there was no name; nothing so uninhibited and grandiose could be described in one, negligible label. we danced beneath midnight skies and no one has ever made me feel so alive until i was amongst these spirits. each one a soul made of lost dreams, exiles of the earth, but that did not stop them from living as they were. untethered, a warm wind, breezing their way through everything for they were spirits made of infinite time. iv. there’s a city made of ghosts. the winding, cracking roads began to feel like home. i’m unsure of how long i stayed. i remember snow falling, rain that smelt like earthen fields, the chatter of birds arriving home after the cold. and most distinctly i remembered the ghosts themselves. misery loves company, my mother once whispered, but this crowd had no sadness to speak for. there was nothing but the tantalising, palpable sense of unspeakable joy, where they chattered and laughed as all dead things do. no one wept for their lives lost, because if anything they were more alive in death than in the struggles of surviving each day. they belonged to no one but themselves. v. there’s a city made of ghosts .i ventured through this city from back to front, night and day, until one day i vanished from the land of all things breathing. it happened without notice, without pause, and i felt no loss because of it. i had become one of the living dead, the spirits that haunted this place, this city made of ghosts.

PUSH PINS BY KATIE / TUMBLR: PECHAES

It’s a little bit like looking at the sky for too long. Your head starts to spin and your legs feel too light and the whole time you’re wondering what the clouds would look like if you were lying upside down. Entirely different, you suppose. It’s disorienting, when you stop enough to notice that nothing else is going to stop with you. When you spin the globe and push a pin into the middle of the ocean and spin again with a laugh, the earth still spins. The ocean still flows, unperturbed by the stillness, unbothered by whatever it is that wants it to stop. When you were twelve, you visited the east coast for the first time. You experienced a different ocean, but you swear you’d felt it before. It seems no matter what, the ocean still rushes around you, like it’s avoiding your touch, like it runs itself away from stillness. It’s a bit like looking at the sky for too long. You start to wonder what might be past the clouds, past the stillness in between them. You start to wonder if there are push pins on the east coast. You wonder yourself so far that you stare at the sky until the clouds melt into strawberry constellations, blinking and winking, shooting asteroids blending into airplanes. You blink at the red and green tail lights. They blink back. The thing is, you don’t get to stop; have to learn to be unbothered when something is pinning you down. When you step off the plane, stretch your legs for the first time in hours, you are far away yet so close. 11

It’s a bit like looking at the sky for too long, you start to wonder if it’s looking back at you.

HOLES IN THE TERRAIN BY SOPHIE E. EIKLI

The world of one’s grief is as barren as Mars Whose rusty red ribcage now billows with dust The breast of Olympus Mons raised in the air. While the empty little robots scuttle like pillbugs in sand. A school building’s hallway with the lights turned off, Where nothing looks familiar And the lockers look like waiting things In cold and trepid quarters. This is not a world I know, Our languages aren’t the same. And though the words are just like mine, I can’t figure out how to tame The lines that freeze me out. What once was a palace, now a bomb shelter On Dresden street Lying in the cold where once the children played With their soccer balls and bloody knees. Do you know what I’m trying to tell you? Do you get what I’m trying to say? The road from the mind has a pothole in the space between my Mouth and your ears Shall I say Ich bin, shall I say merci What ways exist in which I do not confound you What ways can I convey to you

That exploration is lead on the tongue, Is trying to flee from mercury in water Tell me that we found the world by will That the first mushroom was eaten in prosperity, And not by starving, desperate mothers with Corpses on their nipples. I don’t think this is working, Let’s try this one more time. The paint on the maps is made out of blood The borders the cracks that linger ‘tween bones Of an old god stuttering to its end Exploration tastes like the evil thing in the woods While your house burns in the village It smells like smoke, it glints with flint. It pops like blisters on the soles of your feet.

NEW PATHS BY CASSIDY BEXLEY / TUMBLR: CASSWRITINGS

the path unwinds for miles no obstacles, no hidden threat trees all around create a nice frame watching everyone who walks into the forest trees see, but they don't tell the tales of the ones who can't follow the path the ones who get lost, who have always been trees don't tell their tales but they watch over them while they wonder, asking if there's a direction for them to take too trees don't tell, but they know that's exactly how a new path is born

SECTION 02:

fiction

CONTENTS

BLUE SKIES ARE COMING BY DIAN

MY HANDS ARE COLD PART II BY PARKER WRIGHT

ROW, ROW, ROW YA BOAT BY A.D PAYNE

MEMORIES OF THE GUILTY BY ASENA F.

HANNAH DOESN'T BELIEVE IN FAIRIES ANY MORE BY ZHANA MATIČEVSKI

THE HOLE KID BY ELIANA SUSSNER

BLUE SKIES ARE COMING BY DIAN / @TOKYO.DI

Old draft turned new hope. A promise from the past. Take heart, my loves. We’re all having a hard time with life so this one’s for those of you who are crying quietly and stifling sobs behind doors that are locked shut; who are hurting silently and inwardly wishing that they could escape, far away from the severe realities of this world; who never asked for any of this crap and never deserved it either, but got the short end of the stick anyway: Imagine this. I know I say that a lot but honestly, this.

imagine

You’re laying down on the backseat of a large Toyota Estima, head propped up by a couple of bags and that one airline pillow you smuggled into your carry-on luggage from a recent trip of yours. Through that little corner window of the car, you can see clear blue skies, smooth and whipped like some sort of thick, rich Moroccan Mezzanine paint. All of it blends so seamlessly with the blur of clouds, puffed up and edged with tones of silver and grey. And this is all that there is, but somehow it’s enough. It’s good. You can’t really see anything else from this angle you’ve twisted yourself into anyway, but you don’t really want to.

You can smell Tiger Balm and that medicated oil your family always uses and it’s the most comforting thing ever, lulling you in and out of slumber, legs curled up beneath a couple of Shearling jackets and face pressed into the plush polyester seats. In your belly are the remnants of homemade oatmeal cookies made by the very kind owner of your previous homestay and luscious, flaky spinach and salmon pastry you managed to steal quick bites of from your grandmother. You feel content and loved and cared for.

The car is speeding on a long, open road, heading towards megalithic, breathtaking, bewitching mountains in the distance, with no actual destination in mind. All you have is a lot of money, a month’s worth of holiday time and company you wouldn’t trade the world for. It’s an adventure. A journey with no real meaning, with the people who mean everything. You make a joke and they laugh, bellies full and voices warm. Your hectic mind hasn’t been this tranquil in years. Back then, years ago, you thought you wouldn’t ever ascend to this state of bliss. Now here you are, swaddled by the simple pleasures, watching the expanse of sky speed by, all warm creams and vivid sapphires, alone and yet not so — the happiest you’ve ever been. Imagine that.

MY HANDS ARE COLD BY PARKER WRIGHT / TWITTER: GARDENSTPARKER | READ THE JULY ISSUE FOR PART I

"Let's explore our options," Lena starts, sipping water out of a mug labeled Kahlua + Coffee. She says it with authority, as if the only person later to practice than her wasn't Tyler. January would really ask her who the hell she thinks she is if she wasn’t the only one with any patience for promotion. They’re split evenly between the couch and a set of bean bag chairs in January’s front room, and if they want to get any farther they’re going to need to convince people they’re cool. For that, they need Lena’s penchant for stupid details. “We could start getting to practice on time?” Vincent suggests from his perch on top of the back of the couch with a practiced sarcastic sweetness. “We could start writing when we say we’re going to,” Harri retorts, looking directly at Vincent. “We could do that.” The comment has to be on Lena’s behalf, but since when does Harri go to bat for Lena? January checks both of their faces for a sign of what’s changed but finds nothing. Vincent looks just as confused .“Y’all, shut up. She means flyers and shit,” Tyler cuts in. They could all take a lesson from him on not responding to subtext. “As I was saying,” Lena begins again, as if she has a whole presentation prepared, “we have options. Flyers are easy, social media probably goes farther but--”

Vincent cuts her off. “Why are we doing promo for this? It’s a house party.”“The world’s not ending the day after, asshole,” she snaps, “I’m talking about going forward. Some of us are still alive, you know.” Tyler cracks a smile but tries to hide it. Vincent leaves. January follows him.

She checks the kitchen and both bathrooms but leaves the basement alone. Eventually, she notices Harri behind her. “What are you doing?” “I know how it feels,” Harri says softly. “I’ve died too.” January considers this. It’s not the same but it’s not… not the same. “He’s not dead,” she asserts. “Didn’t say he was,” Harri replies, even though she kind of did. “I just meant… starting over isn’t fun. Not like that.” “I know,” January replies. She’s not about to argue that she knows better than Harri, but she knows. “What would you have wanted to hear?” Harri thinks for a second. “I’m not sure. I had nothing to hold onto when it happened for me. I just wanted it to go back to normal, but… normal was a hundred twenty-four years in the past.” “It doesn’t seem like he’s trying to hold onto anything,” January points out. Harri shrugs. “Yeah, well, people are different. I was eleven, I probably had an easier adjustment because shit already didn’t make sense to me back then. He was seventeen, he had plans.” January gets hit with a wave of something she doesn’t have time to deal with. “I miss him,” she admits. “Talking about him like he’s dead-dead isn’t going to fix it,” Harri whispers. “Let’s go figure out some kind of plan so that Lena leaves us alone, and he’ll come back when he’s ready.” Unlikely, but January doesn’t really have a better idea.

EIGHTH GRADE January has never liked Language Arts classrooms until this year. She likes the subject just fine, but she’s never really clicked with any of her teachers until now. Ms Nguyen actually has good taste in books, and she doesn’t hate thirteen year olds the way too many middle school teachers do, and best of all, she lets January haunt her classroom during lunchtime like a ghost. Being a ghost would be easier than what January is. Both of her grandmas have passed down the stories of what the women in her family are, so she knew it was coming before anyone else did. And maybe she’s lucky that she got to come out before her powers started coming in, or else she would’ve had a lot of explaining to do. Boys don’t become sirens. Ms Nguyen leans back in her chair to look out into the hallway and addresses someone outside. “She’s in here, Vincent.” Vincent walks into the room with the same swagger as Marcus Akridge, the guy January has caught him staring at a few different times over the last two years. She has her suspicions about why, but she hasn’t gotten around to asking. Vincent marches up to her desk and starts talking. “Okay so you know that idea I had for a band?” He’s gotten used to not waiting for an answer. “I started talking to this girl and she says she’s interested. She plays the violin and I’ve heard her, she’s good.” “Cool,” January replies, “my cousin is in, too.” She technically can use her voice, but she has to be careful about using it too much or else Vincent might realize it’s his own voice that he’s hearing coming out of her mouth. Good thing humans are stupidly bad at recognizing what they actually sound like.

EIGHTH GRADE, TWO DAYS LATER When January said she was bringing her cousin, what she meant was that she was bringing the weird girl from 1897 that her aunt had sort of informally taken in. Not legally, because legally she’d died in a house fire at age 11 more than a hundred years ago and then just kind of materialized in the middle of the summer before 6th grade. Nothing really happens in this town that January is surprised by. Harri is short, and spunky, and she can actually get through a song on the guitar which is far more than January can say about the old keyboard she found in the basement last year. She’s adapted to modern day rather impressively, despite how the first impression most people get is that she thinks it’s 1995. January and Harri are waiting in the basement for Vincent to show up with his friend. January thought she knew all of Vincent’s friends, but apparently not. Finally, the doorbell rings upstairs and both girls go up to answer. “This is Lena,” Vincent says, introducing the girl behind him. She’s wearing a blue sweater, her dark hair is in a braid down her back, and she looks like she’s seen a ghost. Before January can invite her in and ask her what’s wrong, she realizes that Harri isn’t behind her. She excuses herself, because pseudocousins take precedence. She finds Harri in the basement, sitting on the ground with her back against the couch and her knees pulled up to her chest. “I’m not doing this if she is,” she states plainly. to be continued in the next issue

ROW, ROW, ROW YA BOAT BY A. D. PAYNE / INSTAGRAM: TALESFROMBOREDOM

Times were hard in Aunteria. And ya know what ya did when times were hard? Ya just kept rowin. At least that’s what the people told themselves. It was a hard life for most, but they held onto their sticks, which were a shameful excuse for oars, through every rough winter and boiling summer. Always easier to keep rowin, and keep fishin, keep holdin out for the next day. Because maybe someday, the beasts would stop coming. Noxum, they called em. Someday, when that metal-smellin fog they called the Murk faded — a when, because that was the way they thought — they’d resume trading. Now, it took too long for them to produce a lass that didn’t agree. But thank the Gods, in a whole, their village had been agreeable enough to turn their quite blind eyes as that young one steered her boat out into the Murk. She was armed with a stiffened cloth mask and plenty of fishing gear, all the while thinking to herself what a bunch of turnips the rest of them had been. Of course, sweetheart didn’t know nothing about what was in the Murk either, but she had to have some credit for daring to leave. What’s more, when she was well into the Murk and past the range of visibility, she’d raised those fisherman fingers of hers in a gesture that’d send her mam crying. This, of course, made the Noxum like her. Indeed, how could they not? Plenty of growling among them, that night.

Still, she didn’t mind. She’d traveled to the thick enough of Murk, and couldn’t spot her own hand in front of her face. Still thought there had to be more than beasts and mist out here, maybe even some river god that’d cursed the waters. Or a Witch? She’d always wanted to meet one. But she’d be fine, as long as she got to explore. On the second night, she gave up silence while fishing and began to sing a bawdy drinking song from home, because maybe it would make her feel less alone in the dark. It didn’t, though it certainly stirred the Noxum to come closer. She couldn’t see them. Just wait it out. Five days past that, and the fish had gone and disappeared. She’d forgotten about them, anyway. The rods and net hadn’t been there since the third night, and she’d noticed on the fourth. She was starting to forget the words on that song. So she made them up. They probably hadn’t made sense in the first place, anyway. “Row, row, row ya boat, gently down the stream. Merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily, life is but a dream.” Soon, she began to believe it. Why had she come anyway? Something or other about exploring? Didn’t matter, now. The Murk was sweet and safe. Untold days passed for her, though really they were only two weeks. Felt like a whole lot more in the dream. The Noxum pawed at her all night, practically eating out of her hand, though, she could never see what they were eating. She only felt the pain. Sweet and craved pain, pain that mingled blissfully with the Murk as it seeped through her hand. A dream. Of course she’d wanted the dream. She’d wanted to explore the dream, hadn’t she? She hadn’t. But now she did. Well, one month. That was how long it took to reach the end of the Murk, and peer beyond the white. It’d been so long she barely knew what anything else was, and it only seemed like the next part of the dream.

She was greeted by the sight of an endless sea, but with clear skies and a blue horizon. Just at the end, she could make out land, though only a black smudge. And land it was, full of people, trade and a new life waiting for her. That shook her out of the dream, which sparked a deathly pain in her arm. Of course. When she looked down, a smooth stump was the only thing she had for a hand. Though healed, it was only now that the pain crashed in, drowning her far beyond anything the Murk had done. But it spurred her to row, now. Harder. She had no sail, and yet grappled against the tide till the land turned beige, and revealed trees, huts and people. There were people. Once again, the lass stepped on and began to explore.

MEMORIES OF THE GUILTY BY ASENA F. / TUMBLR: ASTRALIS-ELYSIAN TW: POISONING, DEATH, MENTAL MANIPULATION, NEEDLES/INJECTION, THROWING UP

VESTIGE His voice is harsh. He looks me over with a cursory glance, then jerks his head in the direction of the Overlands. “Get out there, collect samples of the rock, come back. If you return alive, we’ll promote you to First Level.” First Level, the most sought-after badge on the entire planet. I suck in a breath. “I’ll do it.” He snorts, but tosses a helmet towards me. I catch it and turn it over in my hands. State-ofthe-art, made specially for the Explorer Division of the Resenri Corporation. This will be my first and only chance. Someone in the same year as me went a few years back, and never returned. It was later reported that she got lost and died from a lack of oxygen. Her name was Effelian, and she used to be one of two people I considered friends. The days before the first test, when we were laughing together at the cafeteria. When there was nothing between us, when we shared our secrets. Well, she did. I just listened. But if it means I get a shot at being promoted to First Level… well, I’d be a fool to turn it down. “Get ready, Officer Vestige. Doors open in ten minutes. Tick tick.” He turns on his heel and stalks away, speaking quietly into his compad. Which leaves me alone in the meeting room, staring out the small window built in the wall. Orange-red sands and black, empty space gazes back at me. A challenge of my lifetime. I heft the helmet and turn away, closing my eyes briefly and offering a prayer to whatever god is listening. 26

Spare my life on this mission, and I’ll do anything you wish. Are you sure about that, Officer Vestige? Are you that desperate for success? I set off, trying to recall the way to the hangar and refusing to surrender to the voice speaking to me. The lights are suddenly a lot brighter, the hallway wider and narrower at the same time, my head spinning, hurting. My palms are sweaty, and my grip on the helmet is loosening. Get it together, Officer Vestige. The voice is mocking me now. Tightening my hold, I stare firmly ahead. My footsteps can’t — won’t— falter. Voice is louder, more persistent now. Gaining strength. When did I start calling it Voice, and not the voice? Watch your step, Officer Vestige, Voice hisses gleefully. Miss one, and soon enough no one will remember you. I ignore it. Turning down another hall, I duck into the first door on the right, which opens into the hangar. I’m surrounded by people and machines, everyone talking over everyone else just to be heard. They all pause when they spot me hovering by the doorway. “Officer Vestige!” Someone shouts, and they nod at me with the farewell salute, faces solemn. Are they remembering Effelian’s death too? She wasn’t popular, but was well-liked by everyone. I keep my face blank and approach the mechanic nearest to me. She bows quickly, before straightening and pointing further inside the hangar with a wrench. “We have a Rove ready for you just over there,” she tells me. “Good luck.” Raising her voice, she tells everyone to clear out and get into the viewing room. Don’t get killed, Voice coos.

I grit my teeth and walk briskly towards the Rove, ignoring the stares, the whispers. I will make it out alive. There is no other option. I climb in through the sunroof or whatever it’s called on this cursed research planet, and someone tosses me a backpack filled with necessities. I call my thanks, and the opening is covered with glass or whatever they use here.

Voice is singing now. A song I don’t recognise, yet it’s hauntingly familiar. The words flow over me, a foreign language, soothing and warning rolled into one sorrowful tune. And for some reason, Voice singing brings back memories of home. I grit my teeth and banish the thoughts to the back of my mind. It won’t do to long for home, especially not now. Not when my life is quite literally on the line. I place both hands on the wheel, the helmet in the passenger seat next to me a strange comfort. There is a buzz, and the doors slide open in front of me, revealing the broad strokes of the Overlands. Uncertainty washes over me for the first time, and I shake it off. There’s no going back now. Is Officer Vestige scared? Oh, boo-hoo, Voice mocks. Shut up, I think angrily. No. Even without a face, I can imagine Voice sticking its tongue out at me. My hands tighten around the wheel, and I curse as I slam on the pedal and the Rove jerks to life, picking up speed while I navigate to the exit. The moment I pass through those doors, they begin to close, shutting me out… maybe for good. Stop dreaming and keep your eyes on the Overlands, Voice snaps, suddenly urgent. At least it’s spouting valid advice now. I grunt in annoyance, but comply anyway. The Rove jerks every single time we crest a hill or dune, and every single time I curse. The view ahead never changes, just an endless sweeping plain of orange-red. I briefly wonder what this would look like from space, then shake my head and think of something else. Something else, like… how Voice got into my head. Yes, that’s something I can definitely wonder about.

Voice has to be an unearthly being, or it wouldn’t be able to get into my thoughts and speak to me like that. When I realise I’m unable to explain this, no matter how hard I try, I sigh and look up to check the rearview mirror. Realising the compound is now barely a speck in the distance, I bring the Rove to a gentle halt and hesitate again. “Ah, goddess be damned,” I mutter, grabbing the helmet and shoving it over my head. While waiting for it to start up, I nudge open the Rove’s door and tumble out. The world shifts, blurs, and clicks into focus, except I no longer see the Overlands, just a whole lot of smoke swirling in a massive cloud. I stumble forward, dazed and confused, when someone emerges with a puff, wisps of smoke trailing behind her. “We meet again, Vestige,” Primora smiles. She’s— “You’re supposed to be dead,” I choke out. I reach out a hand to touch her, as if I never watched her heart stop, as if she was still a living, breathing being, but I feel her and I feel nothing. All at once. “Not dead enough, Vestige,” Primora snaps back at me. “You should know, since you killed me.” This is getting good, so good, Voice whispers. “I didn’t!” I shout. “Why would I? We’re best friends. We were best friends.” “Don’t lie, Vestige,” she hisses. “No one knew poisons like you did in our year. Only you could have done this.” She yanks back her sleeve, revealing an arm covered in black lines that creep towards her shoulder. My nervous laugh as I spent my last moments with Primora, the only person I trusted. She knew too many of my secrets. She had to go. My rushed apology as I stuck the needle in her arm and injected the poison into her sleeping body. As I threw up in the bathroom later, feeling triumphant and regretful, all at the same time. “I had to, Primora, I had to,” I cry out. “You knew too much, I said too much, I was afraid you’d tell on me.”

Her eyes flash with hurt. “So you killed me, huh? A friend you are, indeed. I thought you were above this, unlike the other people in our year.” We both know who she’s referring to. There have been worse deaths, worse murders, than Primora. For even more petty reasons. She spins and disappears into the mist. I shout after her, but she doesn’t return. What was I doing before this? I don’t know— Collect the Overland samples and get out of here, Voice says urgently, helpfully reminding me of my task. Is it… afraid? You don’t have anything to lose, I argue. Why are you suddenly in a hurry? The helmet’s gone back to what I originally expected of it, instead of showing me visions, and I survey my surroundings with a critical eye. The Overlands reach far into the distance, and I note a spot a ways off where I can collect decent samples of rock and the like. I turn to retrieve my backpack from the Rove and find nothing there. I pause, confused. I’ve only taken several steps away, there’s no way an entire vehicle can just disappear off the face of the planet. I stumble around, disoriented. The helmet the helmet the helmet— Voice? Voice, where are you? “Voice!” I shout into the void. As if someone will hear me. As if Voice will hear me. Take the helmet off take it off take— Just as I’ve gotten used to Voice’s presence in my head, it disappears, leaving a jarring hole behind. “Voice?” HEART RATE INCREASING. PRACTICE SLOWER BREATHING. OXYGEN MAY RUN OUT. I curse, hands outstretched as I desperately search the air for the Rove. As if that would work. And that’s when the screaming starts.

# HELRON “Officer Helron, the simulation has been activated in Officer Vestige’s HM-34.” “Good. Thank you.” This will be an interesting exploration of her mind. # VOICE There are some things scarier than a voice in your head. Things that block me from helping. I tried to warn her. Tried to scare her away. Now I realise that never would have worked. It’s not my fault, is it, that she never listened? Stupid humans and their thirst for power and recognition. #

VESTIGE The smoke is back. There’s screaming now, too. Where did the Overlands go? “Primora?” The screaming softens, as if it’s getting further away. Or whoever is screaming is dying. “Vestige, you are going down,” Gemina hisses, stepping out of the smoke and pointing a trembling finger at me.

She’s supposed to be dead too. I killed her. I injected her with the same poison as Primora. She was getting too strong for my liking. Getting harder to best every time we had to spar. Getting ahead of me in class. I could see my future slipping away, and decided she had to go. I even held my finger to her neck after waiting the ten minutes, to really make sure she was dead. Gemina snarls, “I’ll get my revenge one way or another, Vestige. You just wait.”

I reply softly, “If it makes you feel any better, I threw up afterwards.” It took me an hour to clear the bathroom of the stench afterwards, and to get rid of the needle. I had to make sure every bit of evidence against me was disposed off, and could never be unearthed again. Gemina rolls her eyes, turning away from me. I flinch as her arm is exposed, again revealing snaking black lines. She disappears within the smoke. The screaming gets louder. OXYGEN LEVELS DROPPING. OXYGEN RUNNING OUT. PLEASE RECHARGE AND REGULATE BREATHING. I’m going to die here, in the Overlands, just like everyone before me. This was a suicide mission. A desperate attempt for power. I should have listened to Voice. Should have levelled up slowly, should have chosen to stay in the compound. At least then I’d be safe. Not here, lost in the Overlands, with my oxygen running out. And my Rove gone. Voice was right. I missed a step, and now, no one is going to miss me. # HELRON “Tenth Officer Vestige appears to have negative reactions to the simulation. Heart rate rising and admission of murder, when the instructors couldn’t get anything out of her after the deaths were intially reported.” “Good, play the third one.” “As you wish, First Officer Helron.”

# VOICE Vestige should have listened. She was smart. Her quest for power corrupted her, just like it did with everyone else who’s at the top. Power— or the want for it —ruins everyone, even the pure of heart. … She was a sweet girl once. # VESTIGE The screaming is louder again. There’s more than one voice now. Or maybe I’m hallucinating, and there’s only one person. There’s so much smoke, I can’t see anything. It’s just white, all around me. The Overlands are gone now. And I can’t take off the helmet or die. The helmet is now my salvation and my ruin, and I can’t decide which is worse. Someone else emerges from the smoke, head bowed. Hunching. Submitting. I’m about to scoff, when I realise. That person is me. Or what I would have been, had I stayed on the planet sister to this one. Where I definitely would have gotten into trouble for speaking up, for doggedly continuing my quest for power. Where females are inferior to males, where they get all the benefits and rewards I worked to retrieve and build for them. Why should I help build a transport I’ll never get to ride? There, I’d be sent to jail in a heartbeat. At least, here, I can do what I wish. Her voice is hoarse from the endless screaming, but she keeps doing it. Unstoppable. Unmovable. And her hands are in chains, and my poison is running through her. Through me. Both her arms are covered in the trademark black lines. Her hair is bedraggled, her face streaked with tears. 33

And her screaming. It’s so loud. Maybe I’m screaming, too. # VOICE I’m fading, and so is she. # HELRON “Officer Helron, Officer Vestige appears to be fading away. Her oxygen levels are running dangerously low. It is estimated that it will run out in five minutes. Do we proceed with the last simulation?” “Do it. If she dies that’s a decision she made. She knew the risks.” “Of course, Officer Helron.” # VESTIGE My heart. It hurts. Hurts so much. I feel myself sinking to the ground, and my mirror-image does so too, blood leaking from her chained wrists. Am I crying? I’m dying here. No one is coming to save me. No one is going to mourn me. I will atone for my killing. I close my eyes. Dying from lack of oxygen was always one of the worst ways to die. I guess I deserved that. Vestige? “Voice?” 34

Vestige, open your eyes, please.

I do. A young lady peers up at me from where my mirror-image previously knelt. Her face is round, and unearthly. “Voice? Is that you?” She gives me a sorrowful smile. I’m not Voice, whoever that is. You may call me Lady. You’ve been a wonderful subject, she says. “Subject? I- I don’t get it.” This, Lady gestures with a hand, has been a simulation, Vestige. You have confessed to your crimes from three years ago, and are now sentenced to death. “But- The Rove, the—” All a part of it. They needed to close the case on Officer Primora per Officer Helron’s request, and sending you to the Overlands under guise of exploring was the perfect opportunity to use the simulation on you. You have served your purpose. “What about Voice?” There is no record of a being named Voice in our systems. Lady’s soft, lilting tone has been replaced with that of a machine, one I’m all too familiar with. One I heard every day living at the compound. “Voice! Voice—” I can feel my oxygen running out. I fall back on the ground, shutting my eyes again. “Voice, I’m so sorry,” I whisper, as if it can hear me. # VOICE I’m sorry too, Vestige.

# HELRON “Exploration and clarification complete, Officer Helrom. Officer Vestige has been deemed guilty of murdering Officer Primora and Officer Gemina and sentenced to death, which will occur in the near future. Would you like to hear the voiceover?” “Upload it to my computer. I’ll listen later.” “Yes, Officer Helron.” We have images of the Overlands. We have proof that Officer Vestige killed my daughter. We even got her to confess to killing Officer Gemina, another one I’d liked. I’d say that’s a win-win for everyone here at the compound. Primora can finally rest in peace. Exploration complete, indeed.

HANNAH DOESN'T BELIEVE IN FAIRIES ANYMORE BY ZHANA MATIČEVSKI

I was on the tram again, the whistling wheels dug in me ear. It was a quiet Thursday morning, and Hannah hadn't called yet. The seat was comfortable but smelt funny, the driver seemed to be in a hurry. I didn't like going fast. And Hannah didn't believe in fairies anymore. A buzz in my pocket, a simple message: —Can't call today sorry I was disgruntled; I had things to say. Hannah always calls on Thursday. The tram twisted and curled shaking like a tin can in a toddler’s hand. The rich white folk sitting opposite me had a notebook in hand and an elegant scrawl. Her designer handbag said it all. I stifled a yawn and gazed to the window. Moving through the world on an axis of my own. Hannah needn't believe in fairies anymore.

It was a cold clammy spring morning, dew bothered under my socks as I dashed across the greenery. Hannah's hand in mine. It was early days of youth, pimples merely playing on the tips of our noses, soft cheeks and clever hands built. Hannah never liked the building part, she preferred to knock it all down. I never understood that. It always kind of hurt.Always kind of stung. To know that our precision and care would all wash away under the harsh foot of Hannah. I guess that's how everything turns out. A world full of goodbyes. The fairy gardens sat in daisy rings, sticks and leaves for small homes to house short people. A thumbtack of water, a piece of cloth for a blanket. All stamped into the ground at the end of the day. But Hannah always took my hand, stroked it a bit. Amber eyes gluing to mine. —there's always tomorrow, she would say. I never understood what she meant. Fairies don't come out to play. How would they know we gifted them a home if Hannah kept destroying it so?

I'd cry a little and she'd wipe away the tears. Hannah doesn't believe in fairies anymore. I don't think she ever did. We ran back around the river, homeward bound. Hannah used to call, as I didn't like to text. Plus, I missed her voice. It was nails coated in honey, a soft edge that left you startled. You wouldn't expect such a voice from such a small closed person. She saved her voice for the people she wanted most. It made me feel special. The queries we whispered to each other, white noise of traffic building walls; a private solace. Coat on hand, bag slipped on my shoulders I sway to the door. Sharp stinging, air whistling through the gaps. Beige and grey, matching the cityscape, shoes clicking, walking business. Perfected stride, maybe I had forgotten how to believe in fairies. It was the glint in the golden watches on display in the Bourke street shop windows that crinkled my brow. Hannah didn't call anymore; she didn't have anyone else. Calmly placed a hand to my pocket, phone like a deck of cards heavy. It would only take a moment, a call, the time exchanged. It was simple. It was forever and impossible. I kept walking. Flat lemonade and cold days curled together watching cartoons we didn't know and didn't care for. Hannah would always stare out the window, voiceless. Hair pushed behind one ear and a serious expression. So much to say so much to think. I would tap her on the knee and offer her a strawberry. Taking one, squeezing it between her finger and thumb, digging the red flesh into her nails. She frowned at my giggle. Smile wiped clean, kind of confused. She'd lean against my shoulder and hum in comfort. I would stroke her hair. It was 4:08 and the house was ours. ‘I don't think I care for anyone else.’ Hannah would say, prodding my knee in an unfamiliar rhythm. ‘That's good because I care for you.’ She smiled, gleaming from my reply. I wanted to hold her, I was 14 and I was scared. Mocha coffee with extra sugar because I hate bitter things. Shuffled under my neat orderly desk, in tray overflowing. Edits to write decisions to make, phone in hand and no reply. When all you want is one person it's impossible to think of anything else. Mags hand on my shoulder, I swivel around. 38

‘Freya, first edits due in four hours. Here's a croissant on me, we couldn't do this without you.’ Bright white teeth she tossed me a paper bag. Bless Mags, her wholesome soul had a passion for her work. Small publishing companies disappeared in the midst of the honorariums, Mags kept us afloat. I got to work. Grey manicured nails tapping an unfamiliar rhythm on the black mirror of my locked phone. A time bomb ready to go off. Multiplying emotions my friendships grew. Hannah always stayed on the outskirts, hands dug deep into her skirt pockets, eyes serious amber. It was Joan that pulled me away first, grabbing my wrist, her gold bangles clinking. ‘Hannah isn't like us, she's kind of...how do I put this. Dangerous? No wait, not like that. She just doesn't really care about danger.’ Joan's blue eyes glazed over as I tried to explain Hannah's actions. There was always a reason for everything. ‘You don't have to defend her you know; we all know that she's weird.’ Pressure on the last word. I didn't like Joan, I stopped talking to her after that. I knew that Hannah was weird, but so was I.Hannah's hand in mind we watched the day’s pass. School skirts muddied as we trekked the riverbed. My friends divided. My emotions didn't. Amplified into one person. Mags watched me as I sipped my tea at lunch. Hands crossed on the table. She had brilliant blue eyes. They reminded me of my old friend, but saturated to or three times. ‘What's on your mind.’ it wasn't a question. I swallowed my tea, it was a bit too hot. ‘Not much.’ ‘You know Freya, you're always on your own. You've been like that since first year. Did you have any friends in high school?’ ‘I like being alone. Plus, uni is different. Friends are hard in uni. High school was okay. I had friends then.’ ‘Everyone had friends in high school.’ ‘Not everyone.’ I left the words hanging as I ate my soup. It was cold. ‘Well, you need some friends outside of work’ I didn't reply. We sat like that for some time more before slipping back into work. I clicked my phone. 1 missed call.

Deathly glare, hands holding the carcass at arm’s length. Bloody fingernails digging. Joan was crying. I wasn't. Hannah almost was. Her hands shook with the small animal. I took a step closer. Her bloodshot eyes met mine.

‘It was an accident’ it was barely a whisper. I nodded. ‘What do I do.’ I led her to the trees lining the river. I started digging. Joan ran away at some point, I don't remember. I do remember the dirt and the adrenaline. I remember the bloody hands against mine as we buried the being. It was still warm. I remember the walk back, the warm air and heavy breathing from Hannah. I remember washing her hands in my bathroom, cleaning her up. Fingers entangling. The adrenaline didn't go away. I remember making her a cup of earl grey tea and sitting on the porch. Her head nestled in the crook of my neck. Her blonde hair cascading down my back. I remember the feeling. She looked up and placed the cup down. It was quick and quiet and everything I wanted to say. It was scary and crushing. Her face warm against mine, clean and smelt like soap. She leant into me. Open to the street. A quiet rebellion in the backstreets of suburban Melbourne. I never loved her more than that moment. Legs crossed on the toilet seat. Phone ringing in my ear. Fingers tapping tapping tapping waiting willing wanting everything. ‘Freya.’ Her voice again, crashing crashing between the ebbing webs that coated my brain. ‘I'm sorry I didn't call.’ ‘It's okay.’ I could barely get the words out. Slim and quiet. ‘I'm sorry I–’she cut off. "I don't think...is it safe?" A question begging. ‘It's never safe.’ The words hung threateningly. Splitting. Crashed waves coursed across the words left unsaid. ‘It's safe.’ Hannah said. I didn't know what she meant. ‘It always feels safe with you.’ ‘I love you.’ I had never loved her more. ‘I love...I love you too.’ It was hesitant but thoughtful. Letters sewed into skin. ‘Thank you for calling. I'll see you soon.’ The phone died in my hand. A heavy beep and an object empty. Hannah didn't believe in fairies anymore. All the magic in the world had ceased to exist. Life was far more complex now. Was there still love? And was this magic? And we were fairies. And we exist.

It was Friday and the bell rang for the last time. Hand in hand jostled against the crowd, casual stinging remarks thrown our way. Splitting us but gluing us. We left school and took our separate ways home, divided by Fair Street. Heartbeats a few blocks apart. The summers edge a void, an empty future ahead. Hands slipped away, a phone call, a whisper of something new.

THE HOLE KID BY ELIANA SUSSNER

I used to have a name. Honest, I did, it’s definitely around here somewhere, but I’ll be damned if I didn’t lose it under all this other stuff. I live in The Hole, you see, so that makes me The Hole Kid. No! No, see, I have to laugh, because I can hear what you’re thinking from all the way up there. Here’s you, at the lip of The Hole, looking down into this pit, and you can see me! What do I look like, I wonder? Is my hair still neat like it was on that day? Can you still see the glint in my teeth from when I wore whitening strips that fateful morning, as per Mister Doctor’s orders? Do my eyes remind you of sea emeralds, the way my mom used to call them? Perhaps my details are too faded from all the way up there. Besides, there are so many nicer things to look at, I’m sure. You have the trees and the bikers and the grass between your toes, and I have the rocks and the garbage. No grass between your toes…? Ha! Shoes! You’re right, so awfully right! The boys who throw their action figure packaging into The Hole, they started a rumor about me. You must know lots of rumors, to be writing an article about me. They said that after a week in The Hole I had eaten my shoes, torn them fabric from lace and sawed at them with my teeth until I couldn’t distinguish between the taste of dirt and the taste of my own foot fungus. They waved at me when they told me what they had done, like if their friendly gestures didn’t match their words, I would believe that I myself was the animal they wanted me to be. That Someone I was before I was The Hole Kid… is it okay if I call them Someone? In the hole, Someone eats away at my food supply, drinks all my water that the authorities and generous visitors drop to me in buckets. I see them when one of their spindly hands breaches the line between shadow and light. I’ve never seen Someone up close but I know they are watching me, living with me in the shadows and desperate to kill me off before I kill them first. 41

Don’t laugh, it’s true! They all thought the fall would break my spine but they didn’t know that Someone fell in with me. Sometimes Someone talks to me, but it’s in a language I no longer recognize. In the folds of night I can hear them whisper, speaking to me through rats and worms. The doctors that the press brought to The Hole tell me not to listen, but they’re not here when Someone is. Perhaps it’s Someone who knows my name! I’ll have to ask them for you. Ha! What the hell am I talking about! You don’t want to hear The Hole Kid ramble on about Someone, though they’ll certainly punish me for speaking so out of turn. You want to hear the story of how The Hole Kid became The Hole Kid. Now please, miss, know that I am not a storyteller, but I will tell you this: I loved The Hole the same as everyone else, never more. Don’t let them hear me say I loved the Hole more. Maybe now I love it less. Ha! That was a joke! The Hole opened up near my house, near everyone’s house, really. It ate the concrete for food, drank the water from the pipes to wash it down. Here, miss, is your insider scoop, because I saw the Hole when it was born. Yes! I watched the Hole begin to rumble and shake before melting the playground across the street. I was only...seven when it happened. No, nine? Perhaps seventeen...or twenty three. I think of myself as old as the hole, which makes me two today! I would ask Someone about my age, I’m sure they know better. Right! Sorry, I was distracted. Of course, I had to investigate, so I took my styrofoam sword and my cardboard armor and I stood at the edge of The Hole, peering down so far down I could taste the scream in my mouth before I even fell. And fall I did, having grown so close. For lifetimes, I fell. I’m falling still, to this day, though you’re not one to see it. After all, I know everything about The Hole, and you know just that lip. Maybe that’s the story. You asked me what I wanted people to know about the great and mysterious Hole Kid? Well I will tell them. The person that watched The Hole as it was birthed, peered over the edge of its fledgling mouth curious to what was at the bottom, died from that fall. Send flowers to Mom and Dad for me, would you please? They lost a child that day. They lost Someone. Now there is me, stuck looking up at you from the bottom of The Hole and laughing at how small you’ve become. But don’t write your piece as a sob story. If I were you, I’d write about the shoes.

Disclaimer: All images in this magazine are free stockphotos from Canva or unsplash or personal images submitted attached to the writing.

THE EXPLORE ISSUE: OGMA “BE FEARLESS IN THE PURSUIT OF WHAT SETS YOUR SOUL ON FIRE.” – JENNIFER LEE Thank you so much for reading the third issue of the Ogma Magazine. We hope you enjoyed the pieces featured this month. Please let us know what you thought through our ask box on tumblr. Stay tuned for information on our next issue and other updates!