Story Competition

Congratulations to Ayub Kajela, winner of the story competition delivered by the Migrant Resource Centre in Tasmania. Ayub is a young Ethiopian boy who came to Tasmania from Egypt in February 2020. His winning comic was selected from a number of entrants who entered a creative storytelling competition held by the Migrant Resource Centre in May 2020. We hope you enjoy Ayub’s comic as much as we do!

Writers Scene

Hobart Literary and Platform Designer: Caylee Tierney

Writer, creative and soon-to-be DOCTOR of words and children’s stories!

Caylee came to Youth ARC a couple of years ago to get involved with PLATFORM Magazine, and in doing so, ended up designing and writing for Issue 11 and this incredible new edition 12!

We talk to Caylee about the writer’s world and what it’s like to be an extraordinary PhD student. Will Caylee be the next J. K. Rowling?! Time will tell, but she is definitely one to watch out for in all good bookstores, coming soon to a space near you …

Doing a PhD sounds quite daunting! Tell us a little bit about your journey. What does it involve and how did you get there?

I guess it never really seemed that daunting to me as I’ve always really liked studying: yes NERD alert (haha)! It was just always what I anticipated doing. I took a bit of time off to live overseas in Japan, then when I came back, I got into my honours degree in the anticipation that I would keep studying until I didn’t have anywhere further to go with it. At the moment I’m pretty much two years through and the general standard in Australia at least is about three years for a PhD. My PhD is in English, which is quite broad. A lot of people are working on classical and canonical literature, so the books that everyone knows and expects to study, but I’m looking more at popular fiction, which is about the kind of books that are commercial and often what we see in bestseller lists. It overlaps quite closely with the idea of genre fiction, which is things like your typical sci-fi, romance and fantasy. Getting more specific, my PhD is about children’s fantasy, and the narrative and professional conventions that influence the kinds of books produced. The conventions that affect narratives within children’s books are things like repetition, because if you consider the younger end of the age group, they’re really learning to read, so having a lot of repetition makes that easier. Moving further up the age group, children usually also appreciate things they’re familiar with, so coming back to themes and worlds that they’ve read about before is an appropriate strategy. Repetition is definitely a big thing that comes out of the children’s fiction side of things.

Where does this type of PhD lead? And what does creative writing give to you in a time like the COVID lockdown?

Ultimately, I do want to write fiction and that was a big motivation in this kind of PhD. In a lot of ways, writing acts as an extension for what reading is to me, which at the simplest level is escapism and I don’t have any problem with seeing reading or writing as opportunities for that. It’s definitely a good thing to have at hand in a time like this, where you can kind of shut the world out and at least for a little while just chill-out. It’s a good coping strategy for people. I guess COVID also obviously has had an impact for people who like to read physical books (with current closures of libraries and such), and for social writers groups and things like that. I think a lot of writing circles are already quite active online though, often with a strong presence in the online space as it is. There are also e-books! Although they're not always everyone’s preference.

When I’m reading for the sake of it, I definitely prefer print books, which feel more natural and relaxing, probably because I grew up reading physical books. But when it comes to research, it’s very useful to have an e-book on hand because you can ‘control + F’ and find something (haha), so there’s definitely advantages to both! In terms of accessibility, I’d say there’s still a lot you can do online. I think the reading and writing community is pretty adaptable, so will be able to adapt in this kind of situation. I’m pretty positive about how our communities can go on in a time like this.

Who are your favourite authors and how did you get into writing?

Favourite authors ... hmm that’s always a really difficult question for anyone who reads or writes a lot! I guess I'll mention the ones I’m focusing on in my PhD. They're case studies from middle grade (~12 year old age group), including Rick Riordan’s Percy Jackson books, The Magisterium Series by Holly Black and Cassandra Clare, and Jessica Townsend’s The Trials of Morrigan Crow, which is an interesting one even if you aren’t into middle grade fantasy. I was always a big reader as a kid, and I have my mother to thank for that. I still remember when she brought home the first Harry Potter book and I read that one. Even before that, I loved reading. Writing came from doing bits and pieces at school. I remember writing a pretty weird Harry Potter type fan fiction for a school assignment, and the teacher loved it so much she put stickers all over it (haha). I was a very big sticker fan!! So that really encouraged me and a few years later, even though I don’t think I was into writing at that stage, I wrote a story and submitted it to a competition where you could win lots of books. I must have been a winner of some kind because I remember getting all the books, which also encouraged me to believe that maybe writing is something I could do! I guess I never really looked back from there.

Have you found much progression in your writing style over the years?

I have definitely developed at least in the skill of crafting stories together and that hasn’t just come from within me; I’ve had to seek out books on those topics and attend conferences and undertake courses and things like that. I would also really recommend that type of thing to anyone who is serious about writing because it does make you think about your own writing in a different way and think about how your work fits in with the broader world and business side of things. I was totally one of those people who wanted to live in a box and just write (haha) … and that could be me and everyone else could deal with everything else, but if you’re serious about writing that’s not always going to be a practical approach.

If you had a magic wand and could dream up anything, where would writing take you over the next few years?

Well I’m going to assume the magic wand is bounded by reality (haha)! Ultimately, I would like to write full-time and be published as an author in the area of children's or young adult fantasy. I’m working towards that now. That would be ideal!

Hi everyone, I thought I’d give you an insight into my thought processes with the design for this issue. Usually, beyond an initial theme or direction decided by the purpose of a particular piece of design, I don’t spend a lot of time thinking about the meaning of what I’m creating. I just go for it, driven by what looks pleasing to my eye. Given that, it wouldn’t be at all unusual for me to be incapable of elaborating on what I’ve done and why in a design. With this issue, though, I found as I was going and looking back at what I’d done, that I could pick out a few elements that were emerging unconsciously. You might notice repeated objects, shapes or patterns in some spreads. I took inspiration for this from the repeated bubbles and eggs on the cover, but chose objects relevant to the pieces. To me, this repetition represents how in a situation where so much becomes unfamiliar, typical patterns are broken, reconfigured or re-examined. But at the same time, we can hold onto the patterns, habits and activities important to us as stabilising forces in a ‘Brave New World’. I based my palette loosely on the greens and blues of the Earth in Malachi’s cover art, with the slight bit of purple from the melting Earth added in. I’ve diverged from this base in places, taking colours from the main images of some pieces to create a sense of cohesion within that piece. As is my tendency, I’ve also gone a bit wild with the title fonts, trying to use them where possible to give an additional level of atmosphere and personality to the stories. I hope you enjoy the issue as much as I enjoyed designing it. Caylee

Tadpoles Caylee Tierney

The little black tadpole wriggled desperately, but it was well and truly stuck in the mud. Kelly crouched down and scooped it and the glob of mud around it up with her empty ice cream container, squinting in the glare that glanced off the six-bay farm shed behind the puddle. She tipped the tadpole, mud and a dribble of brown water into her bucket, which was already teeming with the wriggling creatures, most no bigger than half a centimetre. Kelly’s newest addition finally broke free of the now dissolving mud, liberated into the comparatively expansive meadow that was the bucket. ‘Just you wait, little tadpole,’ Kelly said. ‘The dam’s much bigger than this.’ James carved his ice cream container through the mud, making chugging noises like a tractor. He got pretty much all of the remaining water, and left nothing but slimy brown sludge behind. Kelly picked at the crusty edges of the puddle and stared into the sludge. The puddle was all dried out where the water had evaporated away and the hot sun had baked the mud. The dry encroached further into the sludge with each passing hour, as the sun that beat down on her back hit the land. A day or two longer and her little tadpole would have been dried out and crusty, too. They’d left their run late this year, so busy with packing for the move that rescuing tadpoles had only come as an afterthought. Even the last container of water was thick with tadpoles. They slipped into James’s bucket as he upended his ice cream container roughly and kicked it across the driveway, stirring up flurries of dust. ‘Let’s go,’ he said. Kelly straightened and gave what was left of the puddle one last inspection. No more tadpoles wriggled at the edges. None had been buried by James’s careless treatment. Satisfied, she picked up her heavy bucket and started up the hill. They always went up the hill. The top dam was closer than any of the bottom ones, so it was the better choice even though it meant carrying the full bucket up and the empty bucket down. Kelly’s arms burned with the weight of her bucket, but she carried it steadily, careful not to tilt it so much that water slopped over the edges. She felt sad about what would happen to the tadpoles next year, when she and James were gone. The rains would come as always, and the frogs would lay their eggs in the puddle, oblivious to the fact that it would dry up well before the tadpoles became frogs. And no one would be there to carry the tadpoles to the dam because Dad had decided the family was moving to the city. They reached the dam and James shucked off his shoes. He waded well into the water to empty his bucket, leaving a trail of stirred up mud in his wake. Kelly got as close to the edge as she could without getting her shoes wet and tipped her bucket up gently. ‘Don’t worry, it’s only the edge that’s muddy,’ she told the tadpoles as they flowed from the bucket into the dam. She watched them disperse. Dad had told her that moving to the city would be just like moving the tadpoles from the puddle to the dam. In the dam, he’d said, they could swim around just as they liked, exploring the reeds or the deep part right in the middle. She wasn’t sure she really understood what Dad meant, but if that was what moving to the city was like, she didn’t think it would be so bad.

no one would be there to carry the tadpoles to the dam

Little Sister

by Oliver Elly

It’s been a long time since I visited her. Lives keep moving and some connections are hard to maintain, and I’ve been busy the past few years. She was about the same height as me last time I visited, her arms thinner than mine, her fingers thinner still. I hope she gets enough nutrients. I hope she’s healthy. I wind my way down alongside the creek, feet bouncing slightly on spongy moss, dew creeping up the toes of my shoes. It’s still and quiet here; only the water gurgling and the birds occasionally calling to one another break the silence. I can see why she likes it here. She was always more content with what she had than I could ever be. I come up to where she’s waiting and hardly recognise her. Dressed head to knees in dark green, with dark brown feet sliding gracefully into the damp earth below her, she’s more elegant than ever. Her arms, though still slim, are a little stronger now. Her fingers are the same thin and pointy needles. She’s taller than me. She’s tall and still growing, I think, and I worry if she gets top-heavy she’ll fall into the creek, but her roots clench like a fist and hold fast to the soil. She will not fall, she tells me; she’s strong. She’s well, she says, despite the wind that mocks and makes her dance. The days are getting cold again, and the wind is getting meaner – pulling her hair, pushing her around. He whistles at her whenever he goes by. How she wishes the sun would visit more. He did this summer, but comes less and less each day, and never stays very long. The rain comes often though, and they’re good friends, she says. The rain tells the best stories. We stand there, facing one another. She seems happy. She seems healthy. I tell her I miss her, and that I’ll visit again soon. She says I know where to find her whenever I find the time. The dew soaks into my socks as I make my way back up the creek.

What Makes Rain Fly by Oliver Elly

“What makes you fly, Trace?” I look up, covering my eyes from the sun, to where Matt stands in front of me. “What do you mean?” I say. “Well, heat makes rain fly, right?” “That’s one way of putting it. Heat from the sun causes moisture to evaporate, which then condenses and—” I cut off; he’s not properly listening anymore, just smiling and waiting for me to finish. “So then what makes you fly?” I think for a long moment, distracted by trying to work out why he’s asking. “A lack of gravity would, I guess?” I manage half-heartedly. Matt rolls his eyes dramatically. He grabs my arms, and starts slowly flapping them up and down like wings. “Not fly,” he says, letting go and putting his hands on his hips instead. He puffs out his chest and lifts his chin. “Fly,” he declares, like it’s supposed to have some enormous meaning. I raise an eyebrow. He drops his arms to his sides, heaving out a sigh and looking around with a pout, then his eyes light up again as he grabs a magazine from the pile on the bench beside me. On the cover is some pop artist – I don’t know who and don’t care. They all look the same anyway. Matt taps the shiny paper with a nail and continues his lecture with new vigour: “Pop artists have fans and talent. That’s why they fly.” I resist making a pun out of flying and fans, and instead just correct him. “No, they have trashy break up songs and weird loyalty from  complete randoms. That’s why they ‘fly’ or whatever.” Matt shrugs, undeterred. “Same difference,” he says. “And anyway, that isn’t the point.” “Then what is the point?” I ask, exasperated.

“You,” he says. “Heat makes rain fly, and something will make you fly too. We just have to work out what.” I look down at my knees – just because it’s bright, obviously. “You know what happens to rain after it ‘flies’?” I ask cuttingly. “It becomes a cloud!” he practically sings, dancing circles around me. I swallow the laugh that rises up inside me; now, but the ghost of a smile still lingers at the ready. It’s never truly gone. “Don’t you love the rain?” he asks softly, his voice almost a whisper. “Yes, of course,” I say. “But—” “Even when it falls?” “Especially when it falls – it’s only really rain when it falls,” I agree. “But that’s rain.”  I’m not in the mood. He ignores the last comment, staring “No,” I say. “It falls.” It takes Matt a second straight in my eyes. or so to process, and then he pauses. He “Then I will love you, Tracy, even when you looks at me strangely now, almost with pity fall.” He pauses to stand, the usual grin slowly that I can’t see everything as optimistically returning as he holds out a hand. “Let’s just as he does. get you in the sky first, and then you can “I suppose so,” he admits gently, “but then worry. Yeah?” it flies again.” His smile is infectious, and I can’t help but “If it’s lucky,” I add. “And then it just falls again.” Matt comes and sits on the floor in give in to it. Maybe I’ll let him win this one think, and smile back. , I front of me, holding my head with his hands “Fine,” I say, nodding, and take his hand. so I have to look at him. His face is serious “Yeah.”

Break Free Break free from the binds of expectations And the chains of criticism. Tear off the blindfold you tied around yourself And take in the light of truth. Spread your wings of freedom But don’t fly too close to the sun. Realize that this is how we’re meant to be And bask in the liberty you always had. Freedom freedom in art freedom in heart freedom in expression freedom of soul deep understanding of expression nourishing the mind ever challenging FREEDOM POEMS forward, keep moving, forward freedom lived freedom experienced no words needed the body moves, demand visible power painful endurance for tender moment graceful beyond delicate captured in time, echoes for ever what time, what space, it’s an illusion eyes surrounded by deep dimples flowing hair, expressing mouth ooh how elegant the wine has become, well-aged the body demand respect in movement the heart resilient the mind always moving, wanderer oh how beautiful the art of freedom Sail by Ruby Bartle Build me a boat and let’s sail; Sail away and be free.

You Listen

you listen to what passes for the TV news you read some but not all of social media views you notice that despite all internationalism it‘s mostly old sensationalism combined with more or less suggestive speculations about how many people may have died in forest fires to what imaginable depths the president aspires whether the North Koreans have more rockets despite the wonderful achievements of the national super dealer who of the leader‘s staff might be the next to lose her job or his credentials etc. etc. Give Your Yourself Liberty in short the world has mostly shrunk to domestic politics and power games plus a few places on the globe where U.S. soldiers still are dying in order to protect their country‘s interests in oil, assorted mineral resources or allies of political expedience or a few thousand refugees from countries plagued by persecution or dictators are Check your mind and clear it Whether it takes a day or all year, Mental health is not a process We should take lightly. Though some of the steps are Uncomfortable and unsightly, Perhaps the view only looks like Dark rooms, Because you never allowed the light To shine through them. marching for weeks to claim asylum in the home of the brave and the free under the statue of liberty only to discover that they are seen as an invasion threatening that blessed city upon a hill Hope and promise pours from your Thoughts if you only let them become Words then, They’ll have more power than your doubt. So shine through because even a shadow Needs light. visions have grown smaller more petty voices dominate the talk Open the door and ignore the darkness Because you are the light In the darkness.

a nation made of immigrants faced with the poor who flee from their oppressors decides to close its borders to the immigrants‘ next wave oblivious of the times when they themselves still searching for a better life found a new place where they felt safe led by the statue‘s torch that shone its light…

A Piece of Me

Take this from me So I can see What you can be With this piece of me. You’ll be able to sour.

Fly the highest skies So that whatever Lies try to drag you down You’ll have that piece of me So you can be whatever You wish to be, To be free.

Freedom Is Flying Like A Bird And Floating Like Balloons In The Sky

Find Freedom

Cast out the demon Tell the teacher Press pause Turn off the computer Shut the door Rewind the moment Stop Don’t stop Give up Keep going Hold on Let go And… Find Freedom