Scripsi 2022

Scripsi

Volume 16: 2022

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Stephanie Zervos Year 10

This year’s Scripsi is notable for the enlivening expressions of warmth and humour that has sprung up alongside the passionate articulations of protest and empathy. Students’ work ranges in form, as it often does, from imagined letters to missed loved ones that seek to capture the aching loneliness and disorientation of migration to the tentative explorations, in monologue form, of the experience of growing into one’s self as a nearly-adult. In addition to this there are poems of protest, created by students who have studied works of Literature from William Blake to Donald Glover, and scripted scenes of wit, humour and intelligence that have erupted joyously out of enjoying the filmic artistry of Taika Waititi. Other works of poetry and short story have been prompted by the classroom itself, or the memories and images of life beyond it; in students’ homes, on the sporting field, on the tram, and with their friends and families.

In the words of Emily Dickinson, ‘I imagine, therefore I belong and am free.’ This paradox captures the joy and challenge of creative expression and some of the ways student work can move us: we see that they have imagined worlds wholly distinctive, places and spaces and feelings and ideas that are all their own, that came into being, wondrously, through the simple but painstaking act of putting pen to paper. They move us because they are so familiar, because in reading them we too recall the feeling of feet caked in mud, of friendships that felt they’d never end, and of longing for home. At the same time, we should acknowledge that many students were moved to speak out against injustice, too. They sought to challenge the status quo, to give voice to feelings they felt were not otherwise recognised, to articulate a sense of indignation, even, at the endless swell of righteous anger they saw in others. Here we see our students’ feelings and experiences in all these forms: they were tired, they were angry, they were beguiled, they were delighted, they were full of all of these things at once.

To our students: thank you for sharing these words and images, for the time you put into crafting them, for the feelings you sat with and made space for, and the way you allowed yourself to be moved by the reading and thinking of your peers and writers and creators before you. To our readers: take a moment to step into the world that your peers, children and grandchildren have created, and enjoy the collected works of the students of Ruyton published in Scripsi Volume 16: 2022.

Leader

The Years

Gone By Sharmini Cooper

When I started school, I wanted to learn, Being young and unknowing. World affairs weren’t my concern.

As I got older, I made new friends. Together we grew from saplings to trees. Making a forest, Like the ones full of bees.

School is nearly over, Just one year left to go. Soon it will be time To let all this go.

Now as I recall, All the fun we had, I miss the days, But it makes me glad.

Our gazelle legs sprung us far

The gentle breeze swayed our hair

In floral bucket hats and bright pink rashies

Our feet were coated in muddy sand

We didn’t care

We were just small stars in cosmic space

Printing patterns in the sky

Idling the time away

Hope was always heavy in our hearts

Intricate carvings on the walls

You always shielded them from mothers’ piercing gaze

Now I stroll alone across the beach

The hollow gusts of wind couldn’t sway me

A midnight lid and raven wrap adorn me

My caked feet squelch and squirm in strange seaweed

I have no time for pure pastimes these days

It now seems that stars do eventually burn out

Leaving the sky a little emptier

Scrounging in the dark for something

A sliver of hope or salvation

My bloodshot eyes are blinded

My face is now shielded by a salty sodden tissue

Zoe popelianSki

Innocence Of Flowers

Zali White

The bush outside my window is covered in jade buds

Around the edges of their mouths a sliver of red can be seen

With dancing rain and lavish sunlight

Soon all the other buds burst into colour

The bush turns red and yellow

The petals wrinkled as skin, blood red and as fragile as silence

From the middle the stamen emerges dotted by yellow pollen. I rush outside

Bringing masses into the house, Leaving a trail of red behind me. I fill every pot, jar, cup and vase with flowers

Decorating the house until it looks like a tsunami of flowers had surrounded it

The next morning I rise

The smell envelopes me like a wave, Delighted by the sight of flowers everywhere. But slowly one, by one, they droop their merry heads

Wrinkled, wilted and withered. Dying. Every year I wished this cycle would stop, knew it would not.

I hated the season summer, I despised the sticky sweat on my skin, My mother telling me to go; ‘Out!’ , when I’d rather just stay in.

But it was during the season summer, When I first met you.

Your smile was enchanting, you looked like an angel, Your hair glowed under the summer sun, like a halo, I thought you were My Angel.

I hated the season summer, but I didn’t hate you.

We hung around the playground, with the squeaky swings that swung like crazy and hurt our backs when we sat on them for too long.

I was out every day that summer, My mother was confused. She asked me what I was up to, To which I only smiled and thought about you.

I didn’t realise that, maybe, just maybe, There was a small, minuscule chance, That I was in love.

I hate the season summer, Because first love never lasts.

There is no point in love at all, For you had moved away in fall.

I Hated The Season Summer

Norah Yan

Grandfather Oak Inez Wijayadharmadasa

For my Grandfather

From carefree to tired, How can one change so much? A Grandfather Oak Tree,

Its endless existence, magnificence, A protector of all, earth’s sweet gentle eye, Seen many years, Watched the earth evolve and the stars grow brighter, So wise and full of wisdom, enriched in thought,

I admire the wondrous tree,

Rubbing my supple palms along his back, A crack threatens the sky, emerging thunderous droplets, His locks of auburn hair sheltering us from the harsh rain, Smelling the familiar mud scent of earth, Tracing the dried blood along his body, The wrinkles creasing around his bright eyes embracing,

I know he is not scared of growing up, growing old But I seem to be scared for him, The weather turns into the calm after the storm, Settling.

Fear washing away with the storm, Washing away another soul, Washing the grandfather oak tree down, Gently as the rain grows quieter the grandfather oak tree fades away.

On a sickly hot summer day, We sat on the carpet that gave you burns, listening to Ms Margaret’s soothing voice read Where the Wild Things Are Entranced by Max’s land of imagination Where we also thought that we could rule our own world.

The fascinating wall of numbers, And the shining collection of freshly scented books. The colours, that were bombarded all over the walls We truly loved it. The special glow that welcomed us into the classroom every day.

Autumn soon neared us And some people were slowly morphing, Into their scary siblings. I was starting to feel like Max coming back to the real world, faced with monsters I couldn’t control.

Then the leaves turned over in their sleep, From the luscious, sweet green of summer, To the burnt crisp of envy red. Our roots had all sprouted, And Mrs Magaret’s presence slowly faded.

The bitter taste of the real world, For now, we had escaped our imaginations, like Max Like leaves we all eventually fell, lying together on the wet ground We couldn’t tell which was which, And from our demise, a new sprout grew.

Celena Ma Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing

My Colouring Book

Christina Cheng

Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing Year 7 Winner

I would once draw with textas and colour outside the lines. I would scribble meaningless swirls, that looked like twisted vines.

I would use the brightest colours that stood out from the crowd. I would paint pink and green hair, feeling visible and proud.

Now I draw with a pencil and colour inside the lines. Now I trace squares and circles, no stickers or glitter that shines.

Now I use the dullest colours, monochromatic and faded. Now I paint a plain self-portrait, wait – what happened to me?

I see myself but not the same, there’s only greys and white.

I see no colour, the life is gone, like a sunset, no more light.

As I look outside my room

I see a bright blue bird fly. The dirt is brown, the grass is green, there’s colours in the sky.

A name is a curious thing.

Sure, it’s how people refer to you, but does it not mean more than that? Names cannot be chosen, and yet, it’s how everyone refers to you. Whoever names you will play an enormous role in how you are perceived socially for the rest of your life. Some love their names, and what they represent, some don’t. What’s more curious is what a name makes you unconsciously assume, even before you meet them.

Today started like any other day. I woke up, sleepily made breakfast and trudged over to the kitchen table, where, like any other day, I stubbed my toe into the leg, and grouched as I sat down. As I was fighting to stay awake, my parents were fighting over something different. Most of their fights went the same way; my stepdad making a comment offhandedly, then my mother taking it too seriously, and then three minutes of arguing before they both give up.

‘Surely, we should talk to Jack before he marries Mary. He has a right to know,’ My stepdad was saying, and I perked up. A right to know what?

‘What does he have a right to know?’ I replied, as my mum rolled her eyes, walking off to go get dressed. I pressed on, and finally my stepdad snapped.

‘He has a right to know how psychotic her family can get with their expectations.’

‘Derrick!’ I heard echoing from down the hallway. Obviously, his comments had upset her. Her family has always been on the peculiar side, not that I would ever admit it. They were fervent Christians who went to church three times a week. They’re all nice people, of course, but their ideologies are simply conservative. My great grandmother, the matriarch of our family, has the right to voice any viewpoints she chooses, and we must pay attention to what she has to say. No matter what she says, you must adhere to her exact instructions. She told my parents what to name me, as she had told my grandparents what to name my mother, and so on. Neveah was her choice.

Not a usual name, is it? Heaven spelt backwards – in case you were wondering.

Sophie Kenafacke

Today continued like any other day. I got dressed, brushed my teeth, and then walked to school, where, as usual, I rushed to my first class, shoved my books on the table where I wanted to sit, and slumped down in my seat as the teacher began taking the roll. I numbly sat through a class on the history of Europe and, as I sat, I thought more about my family. What crazy expectations had my stepdad been talking about before? Before I could fully flesh out a thought, I was jolted back to the real world.

‘Nevaeh!’

I saw my friend Chelsea waltzing into the room, casually fifteen minutes late, but who cares? She’s the most popular girl in school, and probably my best friend, but I would estimate that she has at least four people who come before me. Queen bee, top of the food chain, essentially forms the social hierarchy, whatever you want to say. It’s lucky she came, otherwise I might have had to sit alone. Our friendship is formed on a mutual understanding that I will do most of our group work and submit it with both of our names on it, and she will talk to me. Eventually, class ends. I head off to my next class and she heads to hers, until we meet again.

This was when today no longer continued like any other day, as I found Chelsea, and by extension, a group of two loyal followers, waiting for me at my locker. Obviously, she wanted me to do an individual assignment for her, but I wasn’t going to simply hand her the satisfaction of asking what I could do for her. I had to at least string her along a little bit, pretend to engage in some petty conversation about her uncreatively named dog, Goldilocks. Take a stab at what breed it is.

We were walking from the classroom to the seats that were designated for us, because I was sitting with Chelsea, and no one dared to challenge her.

‘How’s Goldilocks doing?’ I asked, not out of any true curiosity but to break up the silence.

‘Great, actually. We’re thinking about adopting another one, she’s just been so awesome.’

The Chelsea followers audibly gasped, either genuinely excited or devastated that she wasn’t directly talking to them when she said it for the first time.

‘What are you going to name it?’ I asked.

‘Nala or Simba.’ she replied, completely disregarding the fact that

lions and golden retrievers were different animals, not even in the same family.

‘You know, while I’ve been naming things, it’s been making me think about why things have their specific names, you know what I mean?’

‘I guess I think about that too’ I got out before Chelsea cut me off again.

‘Like your name… where does that come from?’ she inquired.

‘My grandma named me, it’s heaven spelt backwards.’

‘That’s interesting.’ She muttered, before quickly dismissing what I had said.

‘I’ve always thought it sounded funny, and why is it heaven backwards? You don’t even care about religion.’

Three Ways To Stand Out

As A ChineseAustralian Girl

madiSon hong-lee

Isobelle Carmody Award

I was astonished that nobody else celebrated my favourite holiday of the year: Chinese New Year. Every year, my cousins and I would gather at a large round table and try to grab as many xiãpiàn , prawn crackers, as we could fit on our plates. I pranced around like a princess, wearing my traditional, bright red dress with embroidered flowers. I felt rather special receiving shiny red pockets filled with money, however I knew it would be tucked away in my mother’s jewellery box.

‘For later,’ she would say as I begged her for ten dollars to spend at the canteen.

‘Vivian, you know you are only seven, I’m saving it for when you grow up.’

Growing up; the irreversible and unchangeable effect of life. Those were the good memories of being different, however the immaturity and ignorance of children didn’t fail to create unwanted memories when I was growing up. Year 2 orientation day was the first time I had experienced undeniable racism when slurs were being yelled to my face. From that young age, I began to feel alienated, and it formed an insecurity that haunted me for years. As the years went on, I collected many examples of times when I felt distanced from both Australian and Chinese people. So, here are three simple ways to stand out as a Chinese-Australian girl:

1. Look different, dress-up

Like all adolescents, I wanted to fit in. In fact, I hated being different. My hair resembled the darkness of a midnight sky, but my eyes didn’t reflect a calm and glistening ocean; you could barely distinguish the difference between the pupil and iris of my eye. I vividly recall the shame as my friends stared at my face in confusion as we compared the colours of our eyes. I didn’t understand the concept of race and how my genetics affected my appearance, I simply thought I had horrible luck.

During the peak of my love for Disney, Book Week crept up on me. No elegant princess or courageous adventurer looked like me. So, while other girls in my class embraced Pippi Longstocking or Snow White , I sat in the back of the room on the verge of tears. Like all young Chinese girls, Mulan felt like my only option. I showed up the next day with a costume that my mother and I had thrown together and to my dismay, no one knew who I was. No costume shop supplied Mulan outfits, they had Belle , Cinderella , plenty of options

for my Australian friends but not one for me. My makeshift costume caused me to spend the day being laughed at and constantly questioned,

‘Wait, who are you actually supposed to be?’

I had to clarify who I was, which usually ended in being ridiculed.

‘Vivian, you do know that you look nothing like her?’

I didn’t have any other options; Mulan was the only character who was actually Chinese. Every Book Week, Halloween, and dress-up party always ended in misery and embarrassment. I wished I looked like my friends with fair skin, blond hair and beautiful coloured eyes; I wanted to look Australian. I would stare into the mirror and pull at my skin to make my eyes larger and my face less round. I had lived in Australia all my life and yet I didn’t belong amongst Australians.

2. Fail to learn Chinese, meaningless words

‘Arghh’, I would groan every Sunday morning as I rolled out of my bed. My eyes were barely open as I stumbled out of my room for breakfast, a warm piece of sourdough toast covered in salty and indulgent butter. I savoured each bite as it was the only food that would get me through the next two hours of misery, Chinese lessons. Every Sunday at 8am I drove through the quiet streets of Box Hill to a place that I dreaded. I wasn’t ahead of the class, like I was at school and this discouraged me and caused me to despise it. I wanted to be like my friends who were probably at the footy or cricket with their families, doing Australian things. From the age of five until I was nine, I endured Chinese lessons however at the end of four years I could barely string two sentences together. I genuinely did want to learn Chinese but no matter how hard I tried I could never retain any knowledge. Chinese lessons just became teachers throwing meaningless words at me.

‘5D, I have a surprise for you!’

A timid Chinese boy entered through the door. I avoided all eye contact when he was forced to awkwardly stand at the front of the classroom.

‘Please welcome Thomas, he immigrated from China three months ago.’

My teacher purposely sat him on the desk next to me expecting me to translate his fluent Chinese. Instead, I froze and didn’t know what to say. I couldn’t understand him. I had to raise my hand and

Three Ways To Stand Out As A ChineseAustralian Girl

Three Ways To Stand Out As A ChineseAustralian Girl

embarrassingly announce that I couldn’t speak Chinese. Everyone always assumed I could speak Chinese, it got tiring when teachers, relatives and even strangers would assume this. I realised that I was different, not only from Australians but from people of my own race. I didn’t belong amongst Australian people or Chinese people. I didn’t belong anywhere.

3. Embrace it, the dress and the dragon

Belonging: the feeling I desired all throughout my primary school years. I was too Australian for my relatives and too Chinese for my friends. Nobody was like me, so I began to push away my culture by never bringing the mouth-watering food to school or explaining my rich heritage to those who were curious. When Chinese New Year came around once again, I didn’t feel the bursts of excitement and joy like my six-year-old self, instead, I dreaded the anticipated day.

I opened my wardrobe to see an untouched red dress waiting for me to wear, it was a gift from my parents. I considered putting it on, but I simply couldn’t. I was enraged as I looked in the mirror. Why was my face round like a panda, why were my eyes shaped like those of a fox? Why could I not learn my language like a typical Chinese girl? Nobody else got called hateful slurs and none of my friends ate smelly food. Why was it always me? Overwhelmed by my emotions I grabbed the dress and picked up my scissors. I cut off the collar, I could no longer suffocate in the racism and hatred I had experienced, I cut off the sleeves, my arms needed freedom from carrying the weight of pleasing my family and living up to all expectations. Finally, I cut it in half. I was Chinese-Australian, my identity was constantly questioned. Half of me wanted to belong like an ordinary Australian girl and the other half desired to learn about Chinese roots. I didn’t know how to embrace both; I didn’t know who I was anymore. My identity felt lost.

Three succinct knocks on my door were enough to fill the silence of my room. I sat on my bed, sinking into the mattress, drowning in my own regret and guilt. My mother entered the room as tears rolled down my cheeks. I could see her open her mouth to shout at me but hesitated and instead sighed and hugged me.

‘It’s okay Vivian, don’t worry. Put on one of your other dresses, Amma won’t mind if we are late.’

As I entered the restaurant, chatter filled the room and the

xiãpiàn [prawn crackers] had already been scoffed down by my cousins. I sat down next to my six-year-old cousin, Ivy, her smile dominated her face and she was a ball of excitement. She turned to me and exclaimed,

‘Vivian, we need to hand red packets to the dragon first, this is very important!’.

I was amused by the authority expressed by someone half my age, but I played along, I wanted her to enjoy the celebration while she could.

CLANG, CLANG, CLANG.

I had forgotten how loud and boisterous the Chinese New Year dragon was. Drums, cymbals and chanting echoed throughout the room. Ivy’s face lit up, she laughed and clapped with joy. She handed me a small red packet, but I was too anxious that whoever was under the dragon costume would begin to speak Chinese, I couldn’t bear more embarrassment. However, my feisty younger cousin shoved it into my hand and pushed me right in front of the dragon. I hesitantly handed the money through the dragon’s mouth and was prepared for complete humiliation but instead, the man inside the costume remarked:

‘Thanks mate, I like your dress.’

He was wearing an Australian youth community t-shirt and I walked away shocked, surprised that he had such a thick Australian accent. I felt a rush of realisation come over me, an understanding that the man still could connect with his culture and the life of an Australian.

I finally recognised that it wasn’t my lack of knowledge of Chinese alienating me from my culture, it was the fact that I was pushing it away. I wished to be like my friends and their Australian families despite the fact that I was Australian, proudly ChineseAustralian. In fact, I understood that I did stand out and I made my biggest insecurity into a spectacular part of my identity. No matter what I did, I would always be different, all I needed to do was embrace it. To love my eyes, share my knowledge and take every opportunity to learn more about my culture. So, these are three ways on how to stand out as a Chinese-Australian girl and it’s a blessing, it is what makes me, me.

Three Ways To Stand Out As A ChineseAustralian Girl

Tea With Milk

Ribbons of silk hug the walls and the gold dragons stand boldly against the red. Bright lanterns light the doorway, the aromatic smell of food leaking through the cracks. As the twelve of us crowd towards the door, it is opened by a waiter, smiling.

Year 8 Winner

‘Doesn’t he look just like a penguin!’ I say to my little cousin Amelia.

‘Ni hao’ the penguin says, leading us towards a large round table.

I fold my napkin into a duck.

‘Quack, quack’ I whisper to Amelia, as I make the duck playfully nip her arm.

She giggles at the sight. I turn to make a fox, but as I do, the waiter gently, but without my invitation, unfolds the duck and spreads it on my lap. Amelia frowns, my feelings reflected on her face. As soon as he is gone, I pick my napkin up again, folding it into a star. My Ma-ma, discreetly, but meaningfully, inclines her head, looking me in the eye. I return my napkin to my lap, and try to focus on the small, shallow, talk. But after listening to how it hasn’t rained for two days, and the amount of COVID cases, I start to fidget on my chair and play with my chopsticks, tapping them against the table.

‘Jasmine…’ I am warned.

Because it is Ma-ma’s birthday, we have a treat before dinner. Tea! The steady stream of warm, delicious goodness is poured into my cup, already grasped by my eager hands. Using my best manners, I ask Yeh-yeh for the milk jug, planning to make the perfect cuppa. Someone says something and everybody starts laughing, I laugh along, not wanting to be the only person left out. I don’t even know what they are laughing at. Or who. But they are looking at me. Now what have I done?! I think to myself, but I have to keep my thoughts inside, and brush them away. Then I realise. It is a jug of soya sauce. My cheeks turn crimson, and I duck my head, wishing I could escape into the floor.

I smell the food before I see it. Steaming hot plates of san choi bao, pork buns, Peking duck and five other fragrant dishes. Eight for good luck. My tummy rumbling, I grab my chopsticks and try to manoeuvre them into picking up a chicken wing. Eventually, a precariously balanced chicken wing gets carried across the chasm between the plates, threatening to fall, before it safely reaches the other side. I sigh with relief. With a bit more confidence, a tender piece of beef is pierced by a chopstick, preparing for flight. Halfway

across, the beef flips and splatters onto the stark white tablecloth. I quickly move my glass to cover it and glance around to check that nobody saw. None of my family noticed, but the waiter did. He walks away and comes back with one fork in his hand. It is meant to be a helpful gesture, but instead I wish he’d go. My family looks up at him, standing between me and my young cousin. They expect the fork is for her, but I know who it’s really for.

‘Here’ he says, ‘you might need it’, and I try to be as small as possible, hiding behind my dark hair.

I quietly sit in my chair, with my shoulders hunched, trying not to be noticed. I jealously listen to the chatter, my parents effortlessly swapping between Cantonese and English. They always manage to fit in wherever they are. And I always trail behind them, unsure of where to go, and who to be. When I meet new people, they never know where I come from. Other Cantonese people speak Cantonese to me, and I have to shake my head to show I don’t understand. English speakers stretch out the syllables, speaking slowly and meaningfully, to supposedly make it easier for me to understand. They would never have guessed I was born here and only speak English. When people ask where I’m from, I don’t know what to say. Am I Chinese? Or maybe Australian? What does ‘Australian’ even mean? I don’t know who to be. I don’t know who I am.

As I become lost in my head, dessert is served. I try to rise out of my thoughts, to come back to the real world. The waiter arrives, carrying a large silver plate, the dessert concealed by a dome. With a flourish he lifts the lid.

‘Our very own fusion of Australian and Chinese cuisine… lychee pavlova!’

I place a heaped spoon in my mouth, the sweet, delicate flavour of the lychee paired with fluffy pavlova. The perfect combination.

I don’t believe that love can be captured in simple words. In music, possibly, but what do I know? Although, I think when I feel it, I will finally understand. I seem to like a lot of things. I like the sound of rain, each water droplet hitting a surface in a harmonious rhythm is familiar. I like music too; I feel transported into realms of peace and tranquillity. I also like him . However, I have never loved. Not a boy nor a girl, not my father and most certainly not myself. Maybe it’s me, or maybe it’s the universe, but I don’t think I am capable of loving.

I arose to the comforting sound of rain; large grey thundering clouds were apparent outside my dust-covered windows. I stumbled out of my bed, leaving the warm sheets and fluffy pillows to cold and thin air. Like every morning, I ignored my freezing body and stripped it of any clothing, any dignity. Vulnerable and alone, I dashed into the single bathroom within my house and stood on the only thing I trusted in my life, the scales. I patiently waited for the numbers to calculate and then finally stop. Crap, I had gained weight. I stepped off and stared at my exposed and naked body in the mirror. I have considered shaving my head or removing my appendix, anything that will make the numbers decrease. I haven’t always been like this, it has been a year, a year since the 19th of July 2017. The day my father passed; the day I thought my life shattered into one million pieces. The day I was too full of my own sadness and deprivation I forgot to eat. Which later led to two days and three until I couldn’t walk down the stairs without needing to sit down momentarily. I had lost my comfort in food and my father all at once. I don’t dwell. It is depressing yet true; I have moved on past my dad and I don’t think I ever loved him. He was a bad man, he constantly cheated on my mother and simply disappeared off to London after a seriously messy divorce. And the eating thing, well, it is just a part of me now, I don’t know what I am without it. It gives me a goal in life and something that is constantly rewarding. My room is filled with magazines, thin models with perfect skin occupy each page, I have always wanted to look like them. I desire a flat stomach that is perfect even when I sit down and thighs that have a gap I can show off in any piece of clothing. It is a habit that I don’t think will go away and when society only wants you as a skinny

I Love You More Than I Love Myself

madiSon hong-lee

fragile girl who is flawlessly beautiful, I must continue until I physically cannot.

It takes me exactly five minutes and 12 seconds to reach school, the right amount of time to listen to Claire de Lune one time through, my favourite song and my fathers too. The large metal gates of Brenaway College used to be daunting for 12-year-old me, starting Year 7 alone and afraid, but now at 15 years old, still somewhat alone, the gates mean I can finally drop my heavy bag and close my wet umbrella.

They knew, everyone knew. I felt pupils staring at me, it was a known fact that today was ‘that’ day. I turned the corner of the Year 10 area and heard,

‘I bet ten dollars she is going to have a breakdown; it’s going to be tragic.’

I felt tears accumulate in my eyes and a wave of embarrassment I couldn’t shake. I had no choice but to seek refuge in the only room that I felt safe in, the music room. The music room had stained carpets, peeling walls and a strange yet familiar smell that never seemed to disappear. I just wanted to burst into tears, however, as I approached the door I heard a familiar song, Claire de Lune . I peeked through the small, dew-covered window; it was him. Rowan was a sweet brunette who was nice to just about everyone. His dark eyes enchanted me, and his voice gave me butterflies. He joined Brenaway in Year 9 on a music scholarship. We have maths together and he plays soccer when I have choir. I stare at him through the window. I have barely ever spoken to him, yet I dream about him every night.

I couldn’t show my vulnerability and had no choice but to burst straight into the music room unannounced. Rowan was startled at first and stopped playing but when he caught a glimpse of my face, he expressed,

‘Juno? You look like you are about to cry, ar–are you okay?’

Naturally, when those words exited his mouth, I began uncontrollably crying.

‘You don’t have to talk to me about it… is there anything I can do?’

I gathered my emotions for a second to respond: ‘Just… keep playing.’ Rowan looked at me confused but the awkward silence in the room forced him to resume playing the piano.

My father bought me a keyboard for my tenth birthday, at the

I Love You More Than I Love Myself

I Love You More Than I Love Myself

time my parents were already divorced, and my dad was living in London. On my birthday he sent a large box covered in shiny pink wrapping paper. Inside was a note in his notoriously messy handwriting.

‘Happy Birthday Juno,

I hope you like the present; I worked extra shifts at the museum for it, so I sure hope you are grateful. I will be visiting as soon as I have enough money. Until then, I will give you a challenge: Learn my favourite song, Claire de Lune. You know the one, I would always hum it when I put you to bed. I might not see you for a long time, so I want you to know that I love you so much. I love you to the moon and back.’

It took my dad four years to save the money, with long hours and minimal pay. Every night since my tenth birthday I practised the keyboard endlessly until I was able to play anything just by looking at the sheet music. I couldn’t sleep the night before his plane took off, I lay in bed tossing and turning. At school, I was so excited, ready to flaunt my skills and simply just hug him. Then, in maths class, I got the phone call that nobody wants to receive. His taxi crashed on the way to the airport and the rest of the story is selfexplanatory. Sometimes I blame myself or I blame the universe, or I blame both. Hearing his favourite piece in the midst of my tears provided me with the inner peace to finally control my emotions as the final chord faded out.

‘I am so, so sorry Rowan. I didn’t mean to interrupt your practice.’

‘Honestly Juno, it’s fine, but is everything okay.’

I was happy that he cared or pretended to care.

‘Yeah…. yeah, of course, I am just being dramatic.’ His eyes locked with mine. I felt butterflies in my stomach.

‘Juno, if you are going through something, it isn’t dramatic. Why don’t I get a teacher to come and talk to you.’ I was disappointed that he didn’t offer to stay but then again, he thinks he is just another random guy.

‘Have you met our teachers?

‘Okay then, well I care about you. Do you want to talk?’ My heart stopped and I blushed. Nobody had ever shown this amount of compassion towards me.

‘I’m fine, really.’ I wasn’t fine at all. My dad was gone, rotting in a

cheap cemetery and my body was deprived of any energy. The bell rang, I was gutted. I wanted to stay and talk for longer. I stood up and my vision went black momentarily, so I had to stabilise myself. I could sense him standing up behind me and he slowly approached me, as I turned around, he hugged me. I felt his hand touch my back carefully and his body was radiating warmth. At first, I was confused but he made me feel so safe and comfortable in his arms and I embraced him. As we both steadily pulled away and he grabbed his bag and said,

‘Don’t worry, I believe you, but if you are lying, a hug always makes me feel better. I’ll see you in maths Juno.’ Maybe I could love a person, maybe I love him.

Dear Roselle,

It’s been a while, and I wish you were here with me. I now realise there are so many things I should’ve said to you long ago.

Starting with something that hasn’t changed in these past 12 years: I love you . I have loved you ever since we first met when I approached you carrying a bucket of laundry. Do you remember that day? I do. I remember every day with you like it was yesterday. I remember how my eyes had shifted from sapphire to violet, allowing you to see my darkest secret. I had let my guard slip, but you did not cower away in fear, instead, you looked at me with wonder and curiosity. At that moment, everything felt so right, as if we were two pieces of a perfect puzzle. Tell me, what did you see back then? Did you see who I really was? Or was it something else? It doesn’t matter now... my secrets have changed.

I guess my darkest secret won’t be a secret anymore once this letter finds you. I know it was a mistake, but there is no going back now...

After your father kicked me out of the Valerian Kingdom, I was homeless and back at square one: back in my past life. A life where I only had one set of clothes, battered with holes. A life where I never knew if I would eat that day. A life where my parents passed in front of my eyes when I was six... six. They fell into my arms, Roselle. I was left in pieces, feeling like someone had ripped my heart out and left me hollow. When the police came, I ran. I was scared they would send me somewhere dark and cold. Leaving the only two people who had ever fully understood my poverty and raised me with unconditional love was the hardest thing that I had ever done.

When a man found me outside the gates of Valeria, I wanted to run, but something seemed to pin me still. He offered me a home and a life of infinite money, in return for loyalty… to demons. His eyes carved into my soul and somehow made me say yes. The next day, he took me to living monsters and introduced himself properly, deeming himself Azrael, King of Demons and ruler of their cave, the Windes Caves.

So, in these three years that I haven’t seen you, I’ve been living with demons. Azrael brainwashes me daily. I promise I did not want

to do it, but I couldn’t control my brain or body when he made me do unspeakable things. Azrael plans to invade and attack Valeria and for me to be his lead commander. I’m sorry, I don’t want to, but I have to do this... I have to, or there won’t be the slightest chance of me seeing you again… not that there is any right now… Run, Roselle… run.

Love, Rhyder

I slowly placed my black fountain pen down, knowing that Roselle would never receive this message.

RHYDER

I knew that beautiful heart of hers would catch up to her one day, but I would not let that day be today. She was violently thrashing under my grip, but I could not let go and let her run into the burning fire, where demons, whom I had joined and trained, would surely execute insufferable feats. I had walked away once before. Lost everything. Lost her ... I was selfish, a traitor who had betrayed both sides of a coin. A deer lost in the woods. A boy who had done nothing but made terrible decisions. I didn’t care. The world was burning around us as demons I had called family , destroyed everything in sight.

Beneath my arms, Roselle forcefully writhed. Until she stopped. The screaming and shouting faded as I realised what was happening. As I desperately searched for a way to prevent what was about to occur, it happened… Clarissa fell. From within the shadows and ash, Azrael screamed a victory cry. My vision blurred as I felt Roselle’s heart drop along with my own.

‘No,’ she whispered, ‘no, no, NO!’

Every sob that fell out of her mouth punctured a cavernous hole in my heart.

‘I could have saved her! I could have SAVED her! I COULD HAVE SAVED HER! SHE WAS RIGHT THERE.’

Roselle pounded her fist against my aching chest, her shouts turning into muffled cries. She gripped my collar and forced me downward. The world spun as I fell to my knees.

Chapter 1: Because I love you

‘WHY?’

I couldn’t look up and face those fierce emerald eyes.

‘Because I love you.’

The words I whispered weren’t words, but despicable sounds escaping my mouth. Roselle grasped my collar tighter and yanked me closer to those eyes.

‘YOU LOVE ME? How dare you even mention love? You left me. Nine years together and you just disappear?’

My throat bobbed as Roselle pulled us eye to eye, forcing me to cower.

‘And now you come back with an army of the demons you promised only existed in the stories you read with me. You love me?’

A laugh escaped her lips. One that was not joyous.

‘You lied.’

Her eyes splintered through me like I was nothing but a mere grain of sand. My knees weakened as Roselle released her clutch.

‘My mother is DEAD because of you, Rhyder. YOU.’

This time I didn’t stop myself as I tumbled to the ground. Roselle stared down at me. A true princess’s determination burned in her eyes.

‘I hope your name is stripped away by the wind to wherever you’ve been these nine years.’

There wasn’t a flicker of emotion in those words, nor a hint of the love that once connected our hearts. Her words broke me in two as I lay crumpled on the floor.

‘I love you, Roselle. I always have. I hope you remember that…’

My voice was croaky as I murmured the words I should have said long ago. I hated how weak and vulnerable she made me feel. Hated that the one person who had shown me what joy was now wanted me gone, the same way I wanted myself gone.

So, I finished it there. Purple wisps of ethereal light broke from my fingers and caressed her blood-soaked hair, my magic entwining into her mind.

‘STOP. STOP! WHAT ARE YOU DOING? RHYDER! STOP!’

‘I love you, Roselle.’

As she dropped to the floor, unconscious, I quickly pulled her behind a large boulder and opened a small portal. I could only hold this portal for a few moments, but I needed one last look at Roselle

before I let go of everything we once shared. Forever. I softly kissed her forehead before placing her into the portal.

‘Because I love you, Roselle…’

A flash of purple light broke from my fingers, and she was off to the human world. As I walked back onto the battlefield, a shadow, black as night, greeted me.

‘Where is she?’

‘Gone. I finished the job.’

A vicious flash of teeth, followed by a rallying cry for demons had my head relentlessly pounding.

‘Every last Valerian royal has perished.’ Azrael cackled over and over.

I grimly nodded. All I could do was hope Roselle would one day remember and forgive. One day.

Forgotten

Five Steps To Fit In As An Italian Immigrant

mia hoYle

Step 1: Change your name

I’m Stefano Putrino, always have been, always will… well not anymore. You can now call me Steve. I’m proud to say that I’m one of five Stefanos in the Putrino family. I moved from Sicily with my mama at the ripe old age of nine and we spent 29 days on the boat to go join my Papa all the way in Australia. As soon as I stepped out of that boat with my cheeky monkey grin ready to take on a whole new country, I discovered the lack of sophistication in the Australian language.

‘Stefano? What kind of name is that?’

My name wasn’t strange, it was very popular back home but as I started going to school, I realised anything that made you remotely different would bring you down. Fast. Back home there were Giuseppes, Giovannis and, like me, Stefanos. Here, there are Johns, Jacks, and Nicks. All these locals who couldn’t pronounce my name, amateurs. So, I changed my name to the Australian version: Steve. In Sicily we didn’t abbreviate names, so my parents couldn’t really get the hang of it. Who knew two syllables would completely change how I was perceived as an Italian immigrant in Australia?

Step 2: Learn the language slang

As soon as I stepped off that boat and got in the car with my uncle, I continued to repeat the numbers 1 to 100 in English, until I learnt it. I always had an ear for languages, but I also had a talent for being overly determined. When I would talk, walk, breathe all I would get was:

‘I can’t understand your accent.’

I watched what happened to mama. She stayed in the house all night and day scared; she really could never grasp the language. She was so intelligent, but no one would teach her because she was an adult Italian woman. They were like a pack of wolves, and if you wanted to be welcomed you needed to dress like them, walk like them and, most of all, talk like them. I needed to master the vocabulary and I don’t give up easily. I came home and worked hard every day, making my cousins test me and teach me everything, not only to be perfect at English but to know all my slang. Back then I had no clue why my work looked like a ‘dog’s breakfast’ or what ‘gooday’ meant! One important thing I got the hang of was abbreviating. Lots of abbreviating. Football was footy. Mama was mum. Everything was weird; not at all like Sicily.

Step 3: Wear the right school uniform

Nowadays I see all these children changing their school uniform to be deliberately different, but in the 60s, I refused to go to school without the full school uniform. From my head straight down to my toes, I needed to be dressed like everyone else in grey shorts, a creaseless white shirt, striped-blue tie, grey jumper, prissy grey socks and black shoes. At school we all strutted around like roosters in our posh get ups. I know this seems a bit dramatic, but if I stepped into that lion-cage looking like an Italian, I’d get eaten alive. Other immigrants wore European clothes because that’s what we wore to school back home. No uniform. No dress code. You just had to look presentable or, in other words, casual. Not only was it a whole different outfit but I went from snow to this 42-degree heat. It’s like a desert out here. Did I like this new style? I’m not sure, but I was accepted in this style, so I guess it had to do.

Step 4: Don’t eat good food

My mama was the most amazing cook ever. In the first week of school I had steak, cutlets, beautiful expensive ham, salami, sandwiches with homemade delicious bread. I nervously pulled out my lunchbox each day slightly opening the lid to see kids staring. These kids had white bread almost like plastic. It was like lollies to me! They had these processed spreads called jam and peanut butter. Everyone started calling me ‘spag muncher’ . I know, right? That was their only good nickname because Italians are obsessed with spaghetti, apparently. Sometimes I threw them a grin and said ‘Wanna eat this fist?’ I was a sneaky boy back then. I slid through the cracks. I begged Mama for this weird sweet and disgusting bread, but the tables began to turn. Everyone started to want my food. They went from ‘Hey spag muncher, got some spaghetti?’ to ‘Steve, c’mon, can I have some?’ My class became a pack of seagulls lurking around my lunch box. People change their opinions real quick once you have something of interest.

Step 5: Remember where you came from I always find a way, I’m pretty smart and sneaky, always have been and always will be. Moving to Australia was one of the best things that happened to my whole family and of course it was hard, but we had the support of our Australian family. I visit my hometown

Five Steps To Fit In As An Italian Immigrant

whenever I can and remember the loud opening of the shutters as I entered the world and my town cheering for me, the little baby I was and the man I am now. As soon as I could, I started to work in the public service with the Immigration Department. I wanted others to have the same chance I got, and to make their lives just a tad easier. I stayed there for most of my working life and then went on to work in the Department of Education. I worked at an all-boys secondary college for 15 years so I could continue to help craft and inspire the new generation. I have no regrets in life, my roots are forever with me and the friendships I made over 60 years ago, I still have today. I will always be Italian, but Australia is my home.

‘She is special,’ they said, And they repeated it, over and over again. They said it so many times, That a part of her started to believe it was true. How naive she was, Those days when she thought that they were Talking about her And not the shell she was encased in.

Not the parts of her that weren’t The same

As all the other girls

Walking the same pathways, Singing the same songs, Thinking the same thoughts. The parts of her that were cracked, raw, broken, No matter how many times she tried to stitch them back up.

But, as they say, With age comes wisdom

And one day she saw what they did. That when they called her special, They really meant to say, ‘She is Different.’

An ugly duckling in a lake filled with swans.

She was tired, so tired, Of looking in the mirror and Finding someone else staring back. Someone she didn’t, couldn’t recognise, When all she wanted to see Was a normal girl, Because she knew that normal did exist, somewhere But no one had told her how to find it.

She tried to do the impossible, What so many people before her had tried, And so many people after her would try.

She pushed everything away Into a dark, dark room, somewhere, So dark that some days, even she couldn’t find it. She locked the doors, and turned off the lights, Not knowing that one day, it would have to surface.

For a long time, everything seemed better. Not perfect, but better. The wall she had built around herself Protected her From the cruelness of the outside world. She was a different person, Different, but better And it felt like it could last forever.

But it didn’t.

Her walls came crashing down, As all walls must eventually.

They crumbled, she crumbled, Crushing her, exposing her Yet it was she who had knocked them down.

She could not hide herself anymore. Could not hold up her walls alone. Could not pretend to be a person That was never meant to exist.

At first, it was exhausting, The desire to be regular To be flawless, beautiful, perfect, But the inability to, Was like a gaping hole in her chest.

But, little by little, the hole was filled With a fire, a desire, burning fiercely intense, Fuelled by words and feelings, To change people’s perceptions

Show them that she was real That she was able.

She wanted, Needed to prove That she had been put on earth for a purpose The way she was, Not the way others wanted her to be. She wasn’t a mistake, but a gift, Sent here to change the world, to make it hers.

Maybe she wasn’t perfect Or even normal.

Maybe she needed a little extra help To find herself, But maybe that made her perfect, in her own, imperfect way. ‘I am special,’ she said. She repeated it, over and over again, And this time, she knew it was true.

‘We’ve always been in hiding, more so now. From the humans, from the shadows. Villages and villages are turning on each other. Survival is the main concern. There are only a couple of neutral villages left. To be clear, neutral to other Lacigam, not to the shadows. The shadows are shadow creatures, creatures that appear in the night. They hunt Lacigam, steal their magic and when Lacigam loses too much of their magic they die. But I will destroy the shadows, whatever it takes.’

‘Ame. Ame? Amelia?’

She suddenly turned around to see a Lagicam. He was a tall guy in denim shorts, a t-shirt and torn-up runners. His hair was messy, as if he had just woken up. Of course, it was Sebastian.

‘Ame, you ok?’ Seb asked, concerned.

‘Yeah, I’m fine. Just thinking,’ Ame replied, still somewhat in a daze.

‘About…?’ Seb paused, waiting for Ame to continue on.

‘Uhh… Guess!’ Ame said

‘Ooh okay, this challenge again! Well, we are up on a rocky ledge so probably something serious… Maybe you’re wondering what we are going to eat for lunch?’ Seb chuckled.

‘No.’

‘Then what Ame?’

‘Stuff!’

‘You know that’s not an answer,’ Seb said, annoyed.

‘It is!’ Ame stubbornly replied.

‘Fine. Then don’t tell me.’ Seb sat down and looked at the view.

‘Great! I won’t’ A cheerful Ame replied, before whispering a quiet ‘I. Win’. They both burst out laughing before looking at the sunrise, deep in their own thoughts. Seb kept on thinking about what Ame could be hiding: was it bad if she wasn’t going to tell him? But then again, Ame was a very secretive person. She kept on stressing about what would happen if the shadows attacked Westington. What would happen to them, to their families? In order to distract herself, she thought that maybe she should ask Seb a question.

‘Hey, how did you know where I was?’

‘First of all, I wanted to come here as well and then I recognised you. You always wear that ribbon and jacket. So, it’s not that hard to recognise the only person in the village who always wears a yellow ribbon and green floral jacket’.

‘Yeah, I guess…’ Ame said softly.

‘It’s nice to come here, you know, and just be left to your thoughts. Any time of day it’s just...’ Seb paused, ‘You know.’

‘True. But mornings are always best to see the sunrise silently, while everyone is still asleep. It’s so peaceful.’

‘Meh, I have always been more of a sunset kind of guy, but we can never come anymore, at least for now.’

‘Yeah, it’s so annoying the shadows always get close to the village every few months, they don’t bother the village but everyone freaks out like ahhhh curfew.’

‘True, but probably the only reason they don’t bother the village is that we have a curfew. No one out at night, no one to bother the Shadows.’

There was a pause while both thought it over.

‘Um, how are your parents?’ Seb started ‘Good. Yours?’

‘That’s good. Yeah, mine are fine.’

‘That’s good. Uh what time is it?’

Seb looked at the sun and concentrated for a second ‘Uh 8 O’clock I think.’

‘I will never understand how you do that.’ Ame laughed.

‘Do what?’

‘Look at the sun and know the time. Is it like a fairy thing or…?’ Ame stopped before she could finish the question.

‘I don’t know. I just can. Sort of like the way you can sense when someone is coming towards you, which by the way you weren’t focusing on because I was able to sneak up on you and you didn’t know’ Seb raised an eyebrow and smirked.

‘Sure... but I guess it is similar. Think we should go back now?’ said Ame with a roll of her eyes.

‘Yeah probably. Want to race?’

‘Sure 3.. 2..’

‘1!’ Seb yelled and started running.

‘Hey!’ Ame followed.

They raced through the forest. Underneath the snake-like vines hanging from the trees, past the rocky hillside and over burned, fallen trees, due to a lightning storm four days ago, to follow an old, long, dirt path which was the only road or path that would lead them back to the village. Eventually, the path faded and the speed

that Seb was going made the path very hard to see. It was almost invisible even except for two dark lines marking the colour difference between the path gravel and the dirt. Seb jumped off a rock to start climbing a tall tree to see how far away the village was.

‘Still pretty far away,’ he yelled back to Ame before he turned around to try and spot her.

Seb could see the magic specks coming from the bush about 200 metres away from his location. She was coming in close, after all, she is an incredibly fast sprinter.

‘Better keep on running, so I can win this thing!’ Seb chuckled and then jumped down and ran straight to the village.

It had been ten minutes of continuous running and Seb had run out of eye distance from Ame. She was starting to slow down. Her running pace went from a run to a jog until it went to a walk. Ame started getting back deep into her thoughts, mainly about the Shadows. How did they come about? What is it they want? Magic? Power? What in the world is it? Suddenly Ame heard this soft growling. She turned around.

‘Hello? Is anyone there?’

No reply.

Probably a canine of some sort, it could be a wolf or a dog, she thought.

Ame kept on going but speed walking this time. The growling got louder. Every time the growling got louder Ame’s pace sped up. The thing making the noise must have been chasing her. Once she got to a full running pace she stopped.

‘I’m not going to be running scared from a canine.’

She stopped and went to pull out her sword but as this was early in the morning, she didn’t pack it. Who would be up this early in the morning to attack? Good thing was she had her knife. Ame always brought it with her when she went out of town.

Every now and again she would find items that could be helpful for the village. Berries are good for cooking, giving to the market, and of course a great snack on a hike. Herbs would be very helpful for the healers as many of the remedies are herbs. Meat would be great to give around to families around the village as this was a hard time for the village and any sort of food people could make would be a miracle.

Thinking about all the good that Ame could do for her village with her scavenging really put her mind at ease and, after a while,

she thought that maybe the threat had passed. So, she lowered her knife and put it back in the bag. She looked around just to make sure nothing was around just waiting for her to be defenceless so then they could attack. But it was mostly dark so she couldn’t see much and she couldn’t sense anything. As she was looking around, she noticed a racken red berry bush. They were really rare, known for their medicinal properties and their delicious flavours.

Score!

Ame thought and picked at least a kilogram of berries plus some leaves so she could try to use a little magic back home to grow her own bush. As she was about to leave, she noticed a black outline on the bush. At first, she thought it was herself. But slowly the outline grew on her she turned around and...

‘AHHH!!!’

luCY dekker & jaimie merrett

Isobelle Carmody Award For Creative Writing

Based on the film Hunt for the Wilderpeople by Taika Waititi

EXT. [STREET] — DAY –ESTABLISHING LONG-SHOT

Run-down courthouse, located on a desolate street. Decrepit car drives past, REVS as scraggly birds SQUAWK from roof of building. Courthouse is in disarray. Facade of the building is dirty and unmaintained. CAMERA SPEEDS THROUGH THE DOORWAY TO A LONG-SHOT of a full courtroom, warmly lit. Seats are SQUEAKING and the microphone SCREECHES. PAULA dresses professionally, as does JURY. RICKY wears formal clothes. HEC wears casual clothes and an ankle monitor. TK and KAHU sit patiently, awaiting the trial.

LONG-SHOT OF JUDGE.

judge: Good morning ladies, gentlemen and delinquents. Please be seated.

LONG-SHOT OF COURTROOM – [ALL CHARACTERS are seated ] CUT TO JUDGE.

judge: I would like to call upon the lawyer representing Ricky Baker, JACINTA UWU, followed by the lawyer representing Paula Hall, TIM.

COWBOY-SHOT

jaCinta : (Passionately) This is a case of love, of loyalty, of beginnings…

LONG-SHOT

tim: (Angrily) Betrayal, darkness, and refusal…

CUT TO JACINTA

jaCinta : …Ricky deserves a second chance at a fulfilling life…

CUT TO TIM

tim: …It’s time for him to take initiative over his irresponsibility!

MID-SHOT OF PAULA, fiddling with her cue cards. Hec has a blank and dirty stare. Ricky is falling asleep. Judge gavel BANGS O.S against wood. Ricky wakes up suddenly, looking around the courtroom in alarm.

r iCk Y: Huh?

CAMERA PANS LEFT, PAST JUDGE, SETTLING ON JURY. The Jury, dressed in professional attire, profusely writing notes in notebooks, fronting judgemental looks. CAMERA PANS RIGHT, BACK TO JUDGE.

judge: (Bored) Moving on. I now invite Tim to stand.

paula : (Aggressively stands, points at TK) WHERE WERE YOU ON THE NIGHT OF THE 16TH?

tim: (Whispering) This isn’t appropriate!

paula : (Whispering angrily) I’m serving the community! Doing what needs to be done!

judge: Order. Sit down! (Paula sits, defeated)

judge: That’s enough for now. (Exasperated, Paula throws hands in the air)

judge: Ok (sighs) , I invite child welfare services officer Paula Hall to stand.

LONG-SHOT OF JURY, nodding at one another in approval. Paula, stands from her chair, squeaking against wooden floor CUT TO JUDGE.

judge: Begin.

CUT TO PAULA, NOW AT THE WITNESS STAND.

paula : (Passionately) I have known Ricky Baker longer than I have known myself.

COURT REPORTER types speedily. CUT TO JURY, entranced by Paula’s words. CUT TO PAULA.

– I have put all of my heart and soul into trying to train – I mean, help him – don’t write that!

Court-reporter keeps typing every word she says.

paula : Anyway… Ricky’s future is so unclear, and I will not allow him to be left behind. Help this poor, vulnerable child –(Paula points to Ricky O.S).

The Courtroom CLOSE-UP OF RICKY picking his nose . CUT TO PAULA, repulsed.

paula : (Assertively) – well, he needs some serious reformation! (Paula nods proudly, returning to seat.)

MID-SHOT OF JURY, CLAPPING for Paula. MID-SHOT OF RICKY, who is at the witness stand

r iCk Y: (Reading out of notebook stiltedly) I have gotten better since I got to Bella and Hec’s.

judge: (Confused) Ricky, you’re supposed to wait to be called to the stand.

r iCk Y: Oh. (Continues, unconcerned) Bella made me feel safe. Like I had a home. Someone to take me to Subway and to re…re… (Struggling) ci…pra…cat my love. (Pauses) THIS IS BULL

CUT TO HEC, who sighs and slams his head on the table with a BANG. CUT BACK TO RICKY, who throws his notebook on the ground.

r iCk Y: (Aggressively) HEC IS SO SKUX! We went on adventures, and he had a HUGE GUN–

CAMERA VERY QUICKLY PANS TO JURY, who GASP loudly, CAMERA VERY QUICKLY PANS BACK TO RICKY.

r iCk Y: and he taught me how to survive in the wilderness! So, Paula, you big, fat, ugly –

judge: I think that’s enough, Ricky.

r iCk Y: I’ve changed! I DON’T kick stuff or spit on people or buy a fake ID from a registered s-

judge: (BANGS gavel) ORDER!

r iCk Y: Sorry. I want to stay with Hec forever. I can’t go to juvie. I’d probs get bashed. So, yeah. (Ricky leaves the stand abruptly).

CUT TO JURY, looking horrified . CUT TO JUDGE, who seems concerned.

judge: Thank you. Hector, please approach the stand.

CUT TO HEC, who rises from his seat. LONG-SHOT OF HEC walking to the stand, ankle monitor CLANGING against the floor. Microphone SCREECHES as he takes his seat . CUT TO JURY, watching Hec with apprehension. MID-SHOT OF HEC.

heC: Look, I’m just gonna cut to the chase. Ricky is not a bad egg, just a kid who’s been unlucky.

CUT TO JURY, appearing unimpressed. CUT TO HEC.

heC: I’m the adult, and I take full responsibility. I’m the one who chased him through the bush. I’m not a molesterer, but I’m guilty. Don’t punish that little fat kid.

LONG-SHOT OF JURY, who appear bored. MID-SHOT OF HEC, who stands from his seat. HEC stops, looking upwards for a second before looking back down.

heC: (Opening up) : When Bella – (Gulps) – passed, I felt as if all the joy in my life was gone. A light had been turned off inside me and I,um, couldn’t turn it back on.

HEC turns head to look at OS Ricky (SIDE-PROFILE-SHOT)

heC: But then there was Ricky Baker.

CUT TO RICKY, looking disturbed. MID-SHOT OF HEC, turning his head to Jury.

heC: Ricky has grown up surrounded by people who haven’t always had his best interests at heart. He’s been moved around the foster system since his parents left – people don’t want a kid who’s a handful.

CAMERA QUICKLY PANS TO RICKY, who appears slightly offended. CAMERA PANS BACK TO HEC.

heC: But, Ricky has remained good at heart. Surely that has to count for something. Bella… she knew there was something about him, something no one else had understood yet.

SIDE-SHOT OF HEC turning his head to look O.S at R icky

heC: (Silently counting syllables on his fingers): She would be so proud. All the things he’s done for me. Ricky is the light.

The Courtroom

MID-SHOT OF HEC, turning his head back to face Judge and Jury.

judge: (Confused) Well, um, thank you Hec.

LONG-SHOT OF JURY, multiple of whom are holding handkerchiefs and trying to hold back tears, looking from one another to Hec with admiration and sympathy. MID-SHOT OF JUDGE.

judge: If there are no more statements, we can discuss sentencing and care.

MONTAGE OF SENTENCING DISCUSSION: Jury pondering and questioning amongst one another; Paula trying to snatch the police’s handcuffs; Judge goes over her notes, straightening up her eyeglasses. All of a sudden, TK walks over to Jacinta, whispering in her ear. Jacinta rises out of her chair.

jaCinta : Your honour, Mr. TK has offered an alternate solution.

TK stands up and speaks his idea passionately to the judge.

judge: That might just work.

Screen goes black for 0.5 seconds. CAMERA SHIFTS TO LONG-SHOT OF THE BACK OF THE COURTROOM, NEAR THE DOOR. TK picks up Ricky’s bags, the same ones seen at the start of the movie.

CAMERA PANS TO HEC, (OTS-SHOT). Hec stares blankly at Ricky.

heC: (Monotonously) See ya, kid.

r iCk Y: (Tentatively )Bye, Hec. Ricky turns and walks towards door with TK and Kahu. TK opens door, Ricky and Kahu leave first.

r iCk Y: Can I get a Diet Coke?

CAMERA ZOOMS OUT, Ricky-Baker-song plays (O.S, non-diegetic) End

1. EXT. IN THE BUSH MAJESTICAL PLACE – DAY

CLOSE UP SHOT as a hiking boot steps on a stick. LONG SHOT OF OWNER OF THE BOOT – RICKY. RICKY and HEC walk into the scene together.

r iCk Y: Wow, this place is majestical!

heC: Yeah, majestical. Come on, we have a mission.

r iCk Y: What do we do? Look for bird droppings? Or track it?

CAMERA PANS TO A BRANCH. A huia lands on a tree branch not far from RICKY and HEC. RICKY clamps his hand over his mouth, silently takes out his camera and takes a photo. After a snap of the camera, the bird is startled away.

r iCk Y: Aw man, that was really close, that one!

heC: You got the photo?

r iCk Y: Yeah, but it would have been cool if we could catch the bird though.

heC: Yeah well, we can’t keep it… C’mon, let’s head back

r iCk Y: Me and uncle Hec went to a majestical place and found a huia

2. EXT. IN THE BUSH, NEXT TO A CREEK – DAWN

LONG SHOT OF TENT. HEC and RICKY are asleep in camp; the tent is half open. The huia lands close to the camp and begins to sing, HEC wakes up and spots the huia and quietly shakes RICKY.

heC: (whispering) Wake up kid.

r iCk Y: Go away (Hec muffles Ricky’s mouth)

heC: The bird is here. Next to our camp.

r iCk Y: No, it’s not.

Ricky peels open his eyelids and sees the huia

r iCk Y: Yeah, it is.

heC: You want to take some more photos?

Ricky climbs further into the tent to find his camera but when he comes back out the bird is gone

r iCk Y: Where did it go?

Hec: (shrugs) Probably to its home.

r iCk Y: You reckon it has chicks?

heC: I think it was a male.

r iCk Y: Maybe a wife and chicks?

heC: Maybe.

3. INT. CABIN IN THE BUSH – NIGHT

MEDIUM SHOT OF RICKY. RICKY reads a book titled: Extinction –Extinct species of New Zealand, HEC is cooking some food.

r iCk Y: (looks up) Uncle, if we showed the photos to the museum, what would happen?

CAMERA SWITCHES TO HEC , who is still cooking

heC: I dunno, maybe experts are going to come to see it?

r iCk Y: Wouldn’t the bird be like us then? Having to run away?

heC: (turns around) Yeah, what are you reading kid?

r iCk Y: A book about dead animals.

heC: Then why’d you ask?

r iCk Y: I just, I just thought that, that bird may have chicks, it may have a family. But if we hand the photos to the museums, them people. Lots of people would try catch it wouldn’t they?

heC: Yeah

r iCk Y: Then they’d just be like us, having to run through a million hectares of bush.

heC: (pause) Yeah…yeah they would Why don’t you sleep, and think it over in bed?

4. EXT. IN THE BUSH CLOSE TO HOME – DAY

CAMERA LONG SHOT, OVERHEAD ANGLE. RICKY and HEC are walking through the trees and undergrowth. They pause for a break and sit down on a log in the undergrowth.

r iCk Y: (turns head, faces HEC) Uncle.

heC: (Looks at Ricky) Hmmm?

r iCk Y: I was thinking, maybe we could keep the photos to ourselves. I thought about it, I think we are famous enough from our skux life.

heC: You thought it over?

r iCk Y: Yeah, I wouldn’t want the bird to be hunted. I mean, it was fun being a criminal, but then the bird might not like it. And it might not survive like us. It might go into the zoo or something like that.

heC: You sure about it?

r iCk Y: It belongs to the bush, and I don’t want people and hunters to go to that place. It was majestical, but people don’t belong there.

heC: Oh alright, it’ll be our secret, eh?

r iCk Y: (RICKY hugs HEC) Thank you uncle!

heC: (HEC pats RICKY on the back) I have a haiku for our adventure, want to hear it?

The Huia r iCk Y: (nods) Yeah!

heC: (clears his throat) Me and the fat kid We let the bird go home To the majestical place.

r iCk Y: That was good, but not as good as mine! We saved the bird From the terminator And it was the best.

5. INT. IN THE FARM – DAY

LONG SHOT OF KAHU AND HER DAD. CAMERA SWITCHES TO RICKY AND HEC ON THE EDGE OF THE BUSH. RICKY starts to run and CAMERA ZOOMS OUT TO SHOW EVERYONE ON THE SCREEN. RICKY slows to a walk when he nears KAHU.

k ahu: So, did you find the bird?

r iCk Y: (Looks at Hec) Naw, saw something like it. But it wasn’t a huia, must have been something like it, though.

k ahu: Did you have fun?

r iCk Y: (nods) Yeah, we had a lot of fun! Me and uncle, we…

CAMERA PANS UP TO THE SKY, and RICKY’s voice slowly fades out.

EXT. WAINUIOTOTO BEACH (NEW CHUMS BEACH), COROMANDEL – DAY

Non diegetic sound – ‘Aline’ by Jarvis Cocker (0-30s)

CLOSE ON LUKE’S DRESS SHOES (10 s ) ON THE RIGHT SIDE. WE HOLD ON HIS SHOES FOR A SHORT TIME to show the audience their worn condition. He is sitting on a bench looking at the ocean in thought. Soft sounds of the ocean can be heard in the distance. CAMERA MOVES UP SLOWLY AND VERTICALLY, shows LUKE’S tired appearance.

CLOSE ON LUKE’S FACE (RIGHT SIDE). He is facing the sea. Non diegetic sound – ‘Aline’ fades out

luke: (monotonously)‘Cowards die many times before their deaths; The valiant never taste of death but once.’

LUKE turns to face the camera. He begins an aside.

luke (cont’d): Shakespeare, Julius Caesar , Act 2, Scene 2, when Julius thought his cowardice was weak, yet deadly. I have always wondered what it would be like to be a brave coward.

LUKE turns back to the ocean.

luke (cont’d) : (chuckling) A brave coward. My Father.

Flashback begins.

CUT TO:

INT. BARLOWE FAMILY HOME – NIGHT

Non diegetic sound – ‘Bad Things’ by Cults (0-40s)

CAMERA CUT TO CLOSE OF FRONT DOOR HANDLE, no noise at all. We hold for a while, suddenly the door handle rattles as if someone is struggling to open it. ZOOM OUT, SHOW THE WHOLE SPLINTERED DOORWAY. ANDREW (father) throws his weight against the door, door opens and slams into the wall.

CUT TO:

BIRDSEYE 360° SHOT – LUKE IN HIS CHILDHOOD BED; HE IS SIGNIFICANTLY YOUNGER.

LUKE is in bed, tugging a sheet around his body securely.

Zoe Bokas

Family Line

luke (V.O): my father was a man of very few words.

CLOSE ON LUKE’S FACE (display of fear)

CAMERA PANS RIGHT TO LUKE’S BEDROOM DOOR AS IT OPENS. Light pours into the room.

Non diegetic sound – ‘bad things’ stops SILENCE.

CUT TO BLACK.

luke (V.O) : But my mother was always there to soften the blows. CUT TO BLACK.

Sound of a lighter clicking (3 times). A flame finally appears, SHARON (mother) lights a candle on the kitchen counter. CAMERA PANS TO THE LEFT to show YOUNG LUKE standing next to countertop with SHARON moving towards him. She reaches out and takes his face in her hands.

luke (cont’d): She loved candles. Every time I would smell the sweet, delicate smell of lavender or the fresh aroma of eucalyptus, I knew that even though I was at home, I was safe. Safe with her.

Non diegetic sound (faintly) – ‘Aline’ (2:17-2:45)

SHARON takes LUKE’S hands and pulls him towards the middle of the aged and weathered kitchen. Floorboards creak as they move.

CAMERA FOLLOWS THE PAIR AS THEY BEGIN DANCING. ARC SHOT AROUND THE PAIR.

CAMERA CUTS BACK TO CANDLE, it is melting. LUKE visibly matures and grows while they dance.

CAMERA CUTS BACK TO CANDLE, it is almost fully melted. SHARON grows older and wrinkled as they dance.

Finally, CAMERA CUTS TO CANDLE to show it is fully melted and the flame dies out.

Non diegetic sound – ‘Aline’ stops

luke (cont’d) (V.O) : Until I didn’t feel safe anymore.

LONG SHOT of LUKE, dressed in a crinkled, t-shirt with old and faded jeans. He is walking along the pier at Wainuiototo Beach. He stops and looks out to the ocean.

MEDIUM SHOT, LUKE pulls out a plastic bag. He holds it for a while, as if contemplating what he should do. Taking a deep, laboured breath, he finally decides to open the bag and spread its contents into the ocean.

luke (cont’d): I love you, mum.

LUKE turns to leave, CAMERA TURNS WITH HIM, AS LUKE WALKS AWAY, CAMERA STAYS PUT AND WATCHES HIM.

CUT BACK TO:

EXT. WAINUIOTOTO BEACH (NEW CHUMS BEACH), COROMANDEL – DAY

LUKE faces the ocean. CAMERA CUTS TO THE SKY as a huia bird whistles and flies over the sea.

Seeing this bird represents the fact that LUKE is at peace with his trauma. While society has written off this bird as extinct, LUKE is able to find it by becoming one with his memories and expressing his emotions, rather than seeking to repress them.

CLOSE-UP AT EYE LEVEL WITH LUKE

luke: My mother was a safe haven. Every day that I lived on my own was a day where I cowered in my thoughts, away from my father. I dealt with the realisation that I was stuck and that I would never escape. It was a feeling that I thought would never leave. Fear.

luke (cont’d): (looking at the camera) I am not afraid anymore.

CUT TO BLACK.

Non diegetic sound – ‘Aline’ by Jarvis Cocker (0-15s)

mia Sinnett

INT. BELLA AND HEC’S HOUSE — 4.28 PM – FULL CAMERA SHOT

OLD MAORI MUSIC PLAYING SOFTLY. FULL CAMERA SHOT OF DINING ROOM. The clock showing 4.28pm is ticking on the wall of the room. The sun is going down, and the light is gloomy. CAMERA PANS TO THE BACKYARD. BELLA is hanging clothes on the line out the back of the house, gently humming. CAMERA SHOT PANS TO THE KITCHEN.

HEC is feeding ZAG dry food and bends down to give Zag a bowl of water.

heC: There you go, buddy. (Hec pats Zag on the head.)

HEC goes to find RICKY to see what he’s up to. HEC walks from the kitchen to RICKY’s bedroom

CAMERA TRACKS HEC DOWN THE HALLWAY INTO RICKY’S BEDROOM. Music continues.

HEC finds RICKY in his bedroom, reading, with the hottie in his arms. RICKY is listening to music with headphones over his ears.

MEDIUM CAMERA SHOT, MOVES CLOSER TO RICKY.

‘Uptown Funk’ by Mark Ronson plays.

PANS CLOSE-UP CAMERA SHOT.

HEC sees RICKY’s headphones over his ears, and speaks loudly, to be heard.

heC: Hi mate, whatcha up too?

r iCk Y: Not much, just uh readin’ a book.

heC: Nice, what uhh… book you readin’?

r iCk Y: Don’t know, some book that is kinda interestin’, I guess.

HeC: Well, why don’t cha take Tupac outside for a run!

PANS TO LONG CAMERA SHOT.

Long pause

r iCk Y: Uhhhh, fine...

Music stops playing from RICKY’s headphones as he takes them off. EXCITING MUSIC PLAYS.

RICKY jumps up from his bed, slides his shoes on and runs out the door past Hec.

r iCk Y: Come on, Tupac! (Tupac barks twice.)

RICKY then finds TUPAC and jogs to his favourite spot in the tall grass of the fields. RICKY puts two lines of muddy dirt on his cheeks.

r iCk Y: I’m a Maori Warrior!

RICKY runs off with TUPAC.

Music stops abruptly.

SOFT MUSIC PLAYS IN BACKGROUND. CLOSE-UP CAMERA SHOT ON HEC AND BELLA.

HEC sees RICKY and has a small smile on his face. BELLA comes inside and sits down with Hec.

bella : Thanks for the cup of tea, Hec.

heC: No worries, Ricky’s outside playing with Tupac. Long pause of silence.

bella : I’m so happy we found Ricky, we are turning into a family and he’s becoming one of us…

Long pause.

BELLA sips her cup of tea slowly, hoping HEC will agree with her, but HEC doesn’t say anything. HEC instead looks out the window with a thoughtful glance.

bella (cont’d) : I know you are a bit upset with Ricky coming into our lives... but we finally have a child to protect and love.

There is another long pause; it is obvious that HEC doesn’t want to say anything.

bella (cont’d) : Look Hec, just accept him. I don’t know why you are so judgmental about this new change in our lives.

Finally, HEC looks up from his tea, looking nervously at BELLA.

CLOSE-UP CAMERA SHOT MOVING FROM HEC TO BELLA.

Eternal Love heC: (breathes in deeply) Okay, okay. I know that’s what you want Bella, I unde rstand.

bella : Our lives were terrible before Ricky came. We were lonely a nd we’ve been through so much!

heC: Don’t worry, Bella, calm down. We have each other at least...

bella : Well... I’m going to go and finish the washing, I hope you know t hat I want a family, Hec.

(HEC sighs and nods at BELLA.)

heC: Okay, okay...

HEC reads his book and drinks his tea by himself.HEC is still reading when he hears BELLA yell in pain. He jumps out of his chair.

MEDIUM CAMERA SHOT FOLLOWS HEC AS HE RUNS. HEC quickly finds BELLA on the ground whimpering in pain holding her chest. BELLA is struggling to breathe.

CLOSE-UP SHOTS ON HEC AND BELLA’S FACES.

bella : Hec, I… I can’t breathe...

HEC holds BELLA in his arms, looking lost, not knowing what to do. BELLA holds her chest.

bella (cont’d) : Hec... look after the boy... I know you’ll struggle, but be t here for him..., for me... (Breathing heavily)

I… love... you (Faint breath.)

heC: I... I will, I love you my darling. You know I never needed anyone but you, good-bye my love.

EXTREME CLOSE-UP CAMERA SHOT ON HEC AND BELLA. Bella lets out her final and last breath and slowly closes her eyes slumping into Hec’s arms...

FADE IN:

Ext. In The Bush — Day – Close Up

THE CAMERA IS STATIONED AT WORM’S EYE VIEW, depicting an array of thin Monterey Pine trees. The trees seem to extend upwards for miles and bend around a singular apex. Their colour is a rich green and they appear to be well-nourished. The air is still, and the slits between tree branches reveal a baby-blue sky, and rays of sunlight flooding in from the left of the frame. Suddenly, we see the bottom of RICKY’s shoe as he hurriedly steps over the camera.

THE CAMERA PULLS BACK INTO A LONG SHOT OF RICKY’S BACKSIDE where we see him running through the forest in a fluster, seemingly trying to escape from some kind of unseen threat. Non-diegetic music plays. We hear quick paced drumming.

THE CAMERA PANS ALONG RICKY’S SIDE , showing his head bobbing up and down as he moves.

WITH RICKY ALWAYS IN FRAME, THE CAMERA CONTINUOUSLY SWITCHES ANGLES to signify RICKY’S fear and disorientation. Ricky stumbles this way and that over tree branches and loose twigs.

We hear the DIEGETIC SOUND of RICKY’s panting and his feet crunching against leaves as he runs. RICKY looks ahead, and fret dawns on him when he sees a dead end. Out of the blue, a white wall appears in front of RICKY. The wall, slowly increasing in size, depicts a dark and intimidating shadow.

THE CAMERA NOW SWITCHED TO A FULL SHOT OF RICKY, where he slams his back against the ground and sprawls his arms and legs out behind him. RICKY looks up at the shadow, his lip quivering as he prepares to defend himself from the shadow creature.

r iCk Y: (Whispering to himself) I’m a gangster. It’s okay. I’m a gangster.

To RICKY’s confusion, the size of the shadow begins to decrease, until a small creature emerges from behind the corner of the wall. The creature is a little bird.

The Bush Angel r iCk Y: Holy s***! You scared me little bird… WAIT! I KNOW YOU…

RICKY is now thinking as he paces up and down in the cave. You’re the hukuka, huiabo, hantalu… erm, that doesn’t sound quite right. Oh! Huia bird, that’s what you are. Uncle Hec spotted you! You’re the one that was supposed to be extinct.

The bird limps toward RICKY, its wing damaged.

r iCk Y: Oooh Christ! What happened to you?

RICKY examines the wing. He pulls a leaf off a small bush behind him and wraps it around the bird with sticks. It doesn’t really achieve anything, but RICKY is satisfied with himself.

r iCk Y: Hm. All better. Damn, I’m really not bad. Maybe I could be a doctor!

All of a sudden, a bright light appears where the bird once was and RICKY covers his eyes. He is depicted in a CLOSEUP THE CAMERA THEN REFOCUSES ON THE SPOT IN FRONT OF RICKY WHERE BELLA IS NOW STANDING , wearing all white (like an angel) her hair blowing back.

Non-diegetic angelic sound plays

RICKY’s mouth falls wide open

bella : But I thought you were going to be a gangster.

RICKY blinks once, twice, rubbing his widened eyes in utter shock. He gasps violently.

r iCk Y: I- wha- wha- (whispers). ..BELLA?

He immediately runs towards BELLA and they share a tight embrace. BELLA’s expression is assuaged and relieved.

bella : (Whispers) Oh Ricky. (Breathes deeply into the top of his head) I’ve missed you more than I’ve missed slaughtering pigs.

r iCk Y: I don’t … I don’t understand. How are you … you died! What happened? AHHH AM I DEAD?! (Pinches himself to see if he’s dead).

bella : No Ricky, ya duffer! You’re very much alive. And as for me… well, you don’t need ta know the details dear, the important thing is that I’m here now. (Smiles at him)

RICKY is at a loss for words, but then proceeds to smile, as he is elated at BELLA’s appearance.

bella : I wrote a haiku for ya Ricky. Wanna hear it?

r iCk Y: Nah, I think I’m better at haikus than you no offence..

Ya see…

Rick-y finds Bell-a

In the for-est of heav-en

I think I am dead

TA DAAAAA

bella : Wow Ricky! Clearly you’ve been practising! Tell me what you think of this…

Ri-cky the bad egg

Has hatched in-to a chick-en

Rea-dy for the world

What’d you think of that RICKY!

BELLA smiles with pride. RICKY looks at her confused.

r iCk Y: Do you think I’m a chicken! Because I don’t know how to feel about that-

BELLA chuckles to herself at RICKY’s innocence.

bella : No silly, it’s called a metaphor!

r iCk Y: Ohhhhhhhh… ….What?

bella : It’s a bit hard to explain… let me show you!

Suddenly, BELLA’s Huia bird wings appear on her back. RICKY thinks she looks like an angel. A halo of light expands behind her back, and NONDIEGETIC, angelic music plays as BELLA lifts RICKY from his feet and props him on her back. BELLA pauses, before rapidly soaring into the sky.

r iCk Y: AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH

The Bush Angel

The Bush Angel

bella : It’s okay. I’ve got you.

THE CAMERA SITS AT BIRD’S EYE VIEW, showing RICKY and BELLA flying above rolling green mountains.

bella : Look Ricky, see that mountain over there?

r iCk Y: Woah! That’s even bigger than my old foster dad!

bella : Well, sometimes, people will say ‘I’ve got a mountain of work to do ’, but as an expression. They don’t mean a real mountain, because that would be crazy! They just say to make the point that there’s a lotta work to do. Ya get it?

Ricky thinks to himself.

r iCk Y: Ohhh, so, if I say, ‘my brain is smaller than an ant’, is that a metaphor?

bella : Exactly!

r iCk Y: I’ve missed you, Bella.

bella : I’ve missed you too, buddy.

BELLA dips her body to her side, intending to make a small turn in the air. As she tilts downwards, we see RICKY’s red hottie slip out of his jacket pocket. The hottie falls in mid-air for hundreds of metres, before plunging into a lake below. RICKY leans over to watch it fall.

RiCk Y: NOOOOOOOOOOO! DANG! Bella, my hottie’s gone!

bella : Oh no, I’m sorry buddy. [Pause] You know what? I’m gonna get it back for you…

THE CAMERA FOLLOWS THE BOTTLE as it slowly descends into the lake below. As BELLA swoops down, intending to reach the lake’s surface and collect it. There’s an increase in her speed.

bella : Hold on tight Ricky, I’m going in.

BELLA moves very fast now. The CAMERA CATCHES HER FROM A BIRD’S EYE VIEW, AND THEN CLOSES UP ON HER FACE ,

which is determined. RICKY is struggling to maintain his grip. We then see RICKY’s hands slip down the length of her wings, until he is hanging from the bottom of her right wing with only one hand.

r iCk Y: (SCREAMS) AAAAAAAAAH! BELLA! BELLA HELP ME!

BELLA looks to her right and her eyes widen. Before she can blink, RICKY’s hand loses its grip and he falls.

bella : (SCREAMS) RICKY! RICKY! NOOOOOOOOO!

THE CAMERA SWITCHES FROM BELLA TO RICKY, PANNING DOWNWARD IN FRONT OF HIS BODY AS HE FALLS. Suddenly, there is a splash as we see RICKY drop in through the cold lake’s surface. THE CAMERA IS NOW PLACED DEEP UNDER WATER AT WORM’S EYE VIEW. In slow motion we see RICKY’s body sink deeper and deeper, closer and closer toward the camera. Eventually, RICKY opens his eyes and swims back up to the light. His head reaches the surface and…

THE CAMERA CUTS TO RICKY SITTING ON A BED, where he is currently living. He is still splashing .., but instead his arm hits the thin air. He scans the room hopelessly, searching for a sign of the bush.

r iCk Y: What…? (Whispers) BELLA? (Screams) BELLA?

[Pause] BELLA?

(RICKY stands up frantically and continues to call for Bella.)

r iCk Y: BELLA? ……PLEASE! [pause]

(…Whispers) I love you Bella.

Feeling feeble and forlorn, RICKY slips back into bed and curls up there. Tears fill his eyes. Suddenly, he feels something under his back. RICKY pushes his covers aside, and finds his hottie laying there. RICKY holds it, feeling its warmth, and begins to weep.

End Scene ‘

The Bush Angel

Claudia Carter

They call me vain. But what is vanity by any other name, A curse, an obsession yet I’m to blame, Even as they shoved the apple down my throat, Used their weapon of words, I fought in vain, Put up my shields, despite the strain, A worthy battle, I could not sustain, I asked, no longer could I refrain, Mirror, mirror on the wall, Who’s the fairest of them all?

Look at me on the wall, try not to cry or bawl, How could you be fairest of them all? Don’t you see the girls on your phone, All of them are skin and bone, Perfect, pedestalled, phantoms. Not like you all alone, Sitting so sad in your home, You see the girls on your screen, Beautiful, barren, berated. Don’t look at yourself, you might scream.

I found a new weapon, learned to paint my face my eyes, lips and cheeks, I complete my doll face. I hold my double-edged sword as they call me conceited, But one too many times I have conceded; Changing myself to reach your sun, Only to burn, how far I’ve come. You can call me lovely or ugly or vain, In your misconceiving mind I will wane, Rot and decay. Yet still I remain. Now in my prime, you watch, we wait.

I find myself quietly standing In a corner of a room

Shouting boys and men surrounding While I stay silent in the gloom

‘Come here, come sit with me’

A hand grabs my waist, please, can he not?

‘You’ve got a pretty face, a pretty body too’ Stop saying those things, stop

‘Don’t speak your mind’ But I have things to say?

‘Guys don’t like that’

Enough with the cliché?

‘What was she wearing?’

‘Who was she with?’

‘Did she even try to stop it?’

‘Why did she drink if she didn’t want to give?’

The room begins to shrink, My low-cut shirt wasn’t an invitation. I don’t like your hands on my body. Get them off, for your information.

Charlotte nheu

She is the harmony: The helper of daisies, The killer of creepers, A planter for comfort. A seed to grow lovely.

She is the compelling: That flickering firewood, That riveting ruin, A sweeting to harbour. A bud to shed shelling.

She is the ethereal: More beauty than Venus, More life than a plaything, A heavenly carcass. A sprout to defy soil.

She is the ecstasy: The darkening of trust, The sunshine of desire, A radiant bullet. An ensnaring holly.

She is the calamity: Something for me to feast, Something for me to yearn, A desire to slay for. A thorn to prick deadly.

Herself

She is the absolute: That light in the storm, That murderous beacon, A thunderous beauty. Crimson, but darker.

She is mine: Mine to nurture lifeless, Mine to cherish deathless.

She is mine, Amongst my other flora.

Herself

SundaY WilliamS Starkie

And I’ll kill without hesitation

I won’t entertain this petty conversation I’ll kill it and I won’t feel sorry.

I have no empathy for the people who pick us apart Teeth puncture wounds in the fibres of my heart I will not sit and smile at those who Take the suffering I scream as food I will cut and I will slice, and I will Tear off every writing limb, I’ll kill The patience that here festers and seethes, The expectation of the person you think I should be, This rotten, mouldering, swollen heap Lies in my throat, and it’s angry.

Not prettily tied up by some infected anxiety, Not poetically worded by intellectual sobriety, Not furious, not seething. Pissed off that I have to keep repeating Myself again, but louder Meaner, a delicate white flower Turned rotten and foul, Its slender head turned to the ground, The light shining over its twisted carcass Painting it by its shades of darkness. By its flaws and its failures, This pretty little thing This tiny inconsequential thing on the floor.

This tiny thing that dared wish for more, This tiny speck of insolence, this poor Sweet crystal shattered into pieces, ‘This isn’t you, you’ve been defeated!’ All because I didn’t allow myself to be.

I am not sad. I was not sad. I will not be sad , Dainty thing, head full of clouds Submission parcelled out, endowed Outwards. Because the world wants another submission, A sacrifice, not senseless rebellion

I am pissed off and I am right I will be until my crows take flight I will be angry until I can’t feel anymore And I’m a twisted carcass with nothing more Inside of it. Until then my blood will fizz And every nerve will writhe and twitch And I will hold my weapon

To the heart of this filth

Until it dies, And I die, And the planet slots into alignment, And I am pure again.

No... Just Sadness

eliSe CurrY

No… just sadness.

Picking every one of my bones apart Coiling in tendrils around my heart

Puncturing my lungs, pop, pop, pop Until

My breathing seems to slow To a stop

I’m used to the way the sensation grows You’re looking at me funny, as though I shouldn’t be smiling, but I need this feeling The near-death, hold-my-breath, floor-becomes-theceiling

My chest, compressing in The world spins, and I can’t hold onto anything Or anyone

For a little while, I can pretend That my problems have a start and an end My life, reduced to a timeline Of events that I never really asked to be mine A father I never really learnt to know A mother I never really learnt to let go And a sadness that I can’t escape That still holds my tongue and takes my breath away.

The quiet before the storm, the anticipatory hush of a crowd.

The footsteps of the judge echo as they walk into the courtroom, Clicking against the hardwood floor Abrasive against the silence

Will the defendant please stand. At first words are strung together in casual phrases

Not quite in agreement but diplomatic Straining against the limits of polite conflict

Please state your case, voice your opinion. You won’t be judged.

Raised voices, Objecting to every objection Bared teeth set in faces every shade of puce shouting across the room

Will the defendant please stand.

The barrage of words collide mid-strike harsh and combative beating against each other fighters in the ring

Will

Will The Defendant Please Stand?

In a clamouring throng

Your voice must carry above the din

Be louder

The bang of the gavel on the weathered wooden desk, demanding attention only adds to the chaos

Each sentence tangled in a knot of confused explanation words overlapping indecipherable even to the speaker their meanings lost Pointless

Will the defendant please stand.

[Shouts and roars, cracking sound of machine guns firing. The Ghost sees a young Aboriginal boy fighting alongside white Australian soldiers.]

the ghoSt: I’m still here, waiting. Longing for home, I’ve tracked every river through this goddamn land and yet all streams lead to foreign seas, not the sunburnt country of mine. This blood-soaked soil may be dyed red, but I cannot mistake it for the ochre tones of the outback sand. Sometimes I pretend I’m back home, the river I trace now the McIntyre, but the soil is too damp and the birds sings songs in foreign tongues, and I lay here tracing the birds that fly overhead wishing I could catch a ride home.

Home! And to think how excited I was to leave! How I once, with my mates, like innocent little boys, fought to join this big event. ‘To protect country!’ we cried, pleading with our father and left our red dirt that grew our eucalyptus trees with strong driving hope that this would be the chance to prove ourselves, to be what they call ‘Australian’ and the enticing promise of six shillings a day, much more than what we earnt then. And I remember my brothers and I sitting around the tingling warmth of the fire, crackling along with our overwhelming excitement of the 18 shillings that could get a doctor for Mum. So, we left our names behind to give the army something more appropriate and then were separated into different troops. I think back then I knew, but again no one ever really knew if they would return. If they’d trade back the choppy seas of war for the calming currents of our Pilliga Creek.

I remember that day as if it were my last, in some ways I guess it was, that bloody day when we approached this foreign land armed with guns ready to attack and were welcomed with the cracking of bullets that whizz by so fast you don’t even realise how close to death you were. I remember thinking how funny it was, would have laughed my head off if not for the fear and horror that wrapped itself around me, considering my past, you know? No, most likely you don’t. (Chuckles to himself then sighs and scans his surroundings)

I watch as men creep home as nothing but a shell of themselves, no fanfare this time, just eyes that show no soul as they go home only to go back, go back to the horrors in the trenches when they

georgia Zhou

The Ghost dare to close their eyes at night. I picture my mates, the ‘lucky ’ ones, returning home just like our enemies and I realise no one really won. Instead, even as they leave in victory, they leave knowing they will never truly escape. And when the war ended, I was left to haunt these foreign lands. Left to watch, as the trenches fill with dirt and become overgrown with fresh green shoots and houses were built over my forgotten bones, this wounded land struggling to heal itself. And that makes me think of the ignored wounded back home and I wonder if my fight and sacrifice was worth it, if those ‘fellow’ white soldiers still drink with blokes like me, if that wound was able to somewhat heal or at least be stitched up like those shoots on the battlefields or if it was salted again and again and again and all was for nought. (Shakes his head in grief.) Now imagine my surprise, my horror, when I found those fields filled again with new soldiers whispering old dreams, bringing in new calves for slaughter, as they spill their booze on this dirt not knowing that they’d return to spend the rest of their lives drowning in it, as they are ripped of their humanity and grow into beasts, like those old memories of mine painted fresh onto a canvas. And when I spotted dark-skinned boys with a hope so familiar flickering in their eyes, I thought, no, I knew that we didn’t do it, we didn’t achieve what we hoped for and now the old dreams of equality, of not defining us by our bloody skin colour, continued on to the next generation. But I see a fire in their eyes and I know whether we win our equality under this flag or the next, it is a fight that we will never give up, a fight that will be passed on until it is won and that I can trust my people to never forget. But these fights, battles, wars just don’t seem to end, you know? History seems to love repeating itself in these brutal ways. An eternal fight. And I’ll still be here, waiting. [Looking at the dirt, the ghost fades out.]

1919. a country town train station

[It’s raining. TOMMY, huddled under the awning of the train station. He is sheltering from the rain.]

tomm Y: (sighs) I never learned all that old person stuff, but I do know the Rainbow Serpent. He comes across the land from waterhole to waterhole to bring the rain and renew the land. The people. He can’t smell you though, to talk to him you gotta dirty yourself up. Get in the ground. The Lord is calling you. Lazarus. [He pulls out a bottle and flicks the cap off]

Rain brings the smell o’ dirt and all that. That fresh smell. [He takes a swig from the bottle]

It clings to you. Gets under your skin, your fingernails. In your ears. And all there is is that fresh smell. That metallic smell. Holding you in. Or something. [He puts the bottle away. He sits still and watches the tracks.]

When the earth’s in your ears, everything sounds like a dull ping ping ping and there’s yelling above. But you can’t hear what they’re saying. You can’t hear yourself. Because the dirt is in in in and everyone else is out. Lazarus Lazarus! Come forth! Lazarus!

And the ping of the rain on the tracks. The bullets in the sky. The rain on the tracks. The bullets in the sky. The darkness. The Lord says you’re sleeping, but if that is true. It was so dark. They don’t tell you that about being underground. You’re upside down or right side up and there’s nothin’. Only you and the blood pump pump pumping in your ears.

I was lucky, they say. They pulled me outta there to give me a second chance at life. Like Lazarus, I was brought back. But Lazarus was clean, and proper, and I was covered in dirt, one with the earth. And I’m not getting any cleaner. The filth of war wraps around me, forever closing in and all I can hear is BANG

BANG BANG

and the blood is on my hands, the dirt in my ears and the darkness blinding, pictures playing against my eyelids.

[He picks up the bottle, flicks off the cap and blows over the top of the neck.]

They can tell. The people. They look at me and all they can see is the dirt. And I can scrub and scrub and scrub, but it won’t come off because I am the dirt. Right down to my core, to my skin. And they know.

They all know.

I can see it when their eyes glaze over, when they turn their children away, when they walk on past me. The cream of the crop don’t want the dregs, so I don’t stick around. It’s better that way. The less people you know, the less to leave you behind. Why did they put you in that tomb?

[He sits silently for a beat]

So I’m off again. Running, like always. Hiding, like always. Why can’t I just do something?

In my perfect world, I’d be holding a job. A good one. The money would be flowing in. I’d have a house. A nice one with a blue roof. And a missus. A really pretty girl. We’d be married, locked down for eternity. ‘Til death do us part. Or ‘til she thinks I’m dead and leaves me for dust in a house with four walls all keeping me in. Closing me in. Suffocating me until I’m revived. Lazarus risen from the dead but not his tomb. Because for me the tomb is never ending, the war ever present. [He gently hums a tune. It’s Lazarus]

Lazarus Lazarus! Come forth! Lazarus! The Lord is calling you! Lazarus! The Lord says you’re sleeping but if that is true Why did they put you in that tomb?

teenage girl : When I was seven, my grandad gave me a cold shard of metal. I can’t remember what he said but it was something I wouldn’t have understood anyway. I mean, I was seven. I couldn’t tell my head from my arse much less the complex emotions of my veteran grandad. He was always kind of alien to me, like he was somewhere far away, even in the final years of his life, when he lived with us, me and my mum. Didn’t help he was so tall. Couldn’t even see his eyes. Due in varying degrees to his age and mental state, he stopped going to work when I was in year three-ish. At school I mostly just sat around by myself. I don’t think the other kids fully liked me, or maybe they just didn’t care what I got up to. Just ignored me, really. It never seemed like some deep-rooted Wiluna racism, mostly ‘cause they were all black too. I was just some generic brand of lame. But my teacher was always a little weird to us. Not callingus-slurs weird, but different. Which is odd, given we were smack bang in the middle of dusty WA. I wonder where he thought he was. One day we had show and tell, with the theme of Something important to your family . I didn’t think I really had anything. A jar of some forgotten ashes sitting on the mantelpiece, who’s name I had forgotten? No, too morbid. My mum’s favourite mug? Nah, she dropped it last week. That night I stumbled through the door with my school backpack that was about double my total mass, and sat deep in thought at the kitchen table, the way any harried eight-year-old will. My mum looked up from her grownup business and asked what was up – and went right back to her grown-up stuff when she found out. Grandad came shambling in. Eventually he got my whole sobbing story and chuckled quietly. ‘How about bringing in that piece of shell I gave you?’ I stopped and thought. Is that really important? He laughed again, ‘It’s as important as an old piece of scrap metal can be.’ I rummaged through my room and found the little hard chunk. It would have to do. Next day I stood up and said ‘This piece of metal came outta my grandad’, and the class giggled collectively. My teacher asked me what I meant. I said ‘He was just minding his business and this piece of metal wiggled out like a gun being shot from the inside.’ ‘How did a piece of metal get inside him,’ he asked, and I said ‘It got lodged there, I guess.’ ‘How did it get lodged there?’ ‘Well, when the shell went off it got sort of stuck

WilliamS Starkie Isobelle Carmody Award

1967. The Dusty Shell Of An Old Family House In Wiluna

there.’ Teacher-man stopped, considering what I meant. I said ‘My grandpa fought the big war’, and it was like he exploded.

‘YOUR GRANDPA FOUGHT IN THE WAR?’ He said, excited. ‘YOU MUST BRING HIM IN TO SPEAK TO THE KIDS,’ something the king, something something Australia. ‘HE HAS GIVEN THIS COUNTRY AS MUCH AS A MAN CAN GIVE’ something something white-man’s land ‘HE IS THE FINEST OF THIS POPULATION,’ can’t vote, though. Next time I stepped through the fly-wire door of my house I was confused. My teacher never seemed to care about my family. Practically avoided them. Grandad was snoring on the couch and I poked him until he snorted awake. ‘I think my teacher really likes you now.’ He looked confused. I explained. Well – and his eyebrows went in here –‘There’s a sense of camaraderie that us soldiers share, that extends across all the’ –and my mother interrupted – ‘He likes the old soldiers better than the rest of us. Ern you’re closer to a white bloke than any of us and you know it.’ She looked cross. I was just confused. I’m a little less confused now that I’ve seen the world outside of Wiluna, now my grandfather has died and I’ve been to his funeral, compared it to my father’s when he died in jail, heard the way they spoke about Ern, the brave old bugger versus silence at my father’s. I wonder if people in the city would have liked me more if they knew my grandad served. Wonder if people still care about that sort of thing. I know what my ma meant now.

‘Closest thing to a white bloke is a black guy who served for them, died and bled for the king instead of incidentally at the hands of his goons with guns.’ Maybe I’m still just as confused as that little girl putting a shard of rusty shrapnel on her grandad’s coffin and wondering if anyone could see her as a hero like they saw him. I watched him dement and spill his food down his front and shake at the kitchen table when mum dropped a plate, and I was confused how it made him a hero. Why did he come home as someone else and stay less than a second-class citizen?

[A crowd gathers around an enlistment poster.]

r eCruitment offiCer : (shouting) Join us in victory! Bear arms for our sovereign nation, for our Commonwealth! Join the RAAF and see the end of conflict!

fir St Young m an: You know, Jimmy from down the block went up to the office last week. I’m guessing he slipped past those bastards ‘cause I haven’t seen him since. [They turn towards the noisy crowd.]

SeCond Young m an: Mate, you sure?

fir St Young m an: Yeah, with the crash I don’t even know when we’ll get proper pay again. It’s only gonna get worse and this is our one chance.

SeCond Young m an: Well have you heard the stories? From the other blackfellas?

fir St Young m an: I’ve seen some lost limbs and some deaf folks but do you reckon we have much to lose? And once we’re back we’ll be set for life. Money’ll be good and we can get Mum happy. Maybe a few years on the turf will do us some good. [BERTIE coincidentally walks past and hears their conversation. He struggles at first with his words.]

bertie: (weakly, in fits and starts) How old’s you two?

fir St Young m an: Uh, seventeen? (whispering) What’s up with this bloke?

SeCond Young m an: Eighteen sir. (quietly) Shush.

bertie: You both enlisting?

SeCond Young m an: Well we were thinkin’ about it. He reckons it’ll do us some good. Get us some pay.

1939.

fir St Young m an: Yeah, maybe the white blokes will actually care about us for once. Maybe we find some purpose, ya know. Our place. We could see something new in the bigger world. Here, nothing changes. The Protector’s taking the pay, then every week we hear a little Millie or little Frank’s been taken.

bertie: (sighing) Mum’s told me about bigger world once, about fences–

fir St Young m an: What are you on about?

bertie: – and circuses over the wires and not getting over them.

SeCond Young m an: Apologies sir, we’re not following.

bertie: (pauses) What do you think you’re fighting for?

fir St Young m an: (hesitating) Well, our freedom, our people, for some recognition–

bertie: – for Australia, right? (They both nod) Let me tell you youngins something. I was just like you once. Young. Bold. Ambitious. I had the pride of two soldiers and a half. I boarded that boat with a full haversack, a photo of my mum tucked in my pocket and a twinkle in my eye. I wandered around high as a kite thinkin’ I’d finally see something new, something different, that the white boys would finally call me mate. And they did. They pulled me in just like I was one of ‘em, like my skin was suddenly scrubbed clean and my eyes dyed blue. But you want to know what else happened? I will remember clearer than day that moment when I saw one of my mob fall, Frank he was called. I will always remember that name. The bombs had destroyed his face and body so bad that all he had left intact was his hair. So we cut a lock of it off then I did the worst thing I could have ever done. I prayed. To some Father who I had never known, only through stories from the white blokes. I left Frank’s spirit to some lord I didn’t even believe in. And now he’s wandering. Wandering those fields somewhere too far away and he’s lost because he’s not home and he can’t ever return home and so I never let myself forget because I realised at that moment that I

had betrayed myself. I betrayed my people because I lost my culture, so I never gave Frank the respect he deserved to at least be buried under the soil with ochre-dyed sand. And I will always think myself guilty. Always. And I still hold Frank’s hair for that same reason. (shaking, he unfurls his fist)

SeCond Young m an: We are so sorry for your... loss, sir, we never kn-

bertie: You boys don’t apologise. I’ve told you my story, so that you don’t ever ignore yours. Just know that ever since we’d lost Frank, I hadn’t spoken a single word. Because I was stuck inside my own head. It was the guilt and the shame and the loss that stuck with me and so for 25 years I was silent, and it wasn’t until we start hearin’ about this war on the radio that I really felt something again. Every time I hear about another blackfella goin’ off to the war I just get more angry, because that dream they have will never come true. I seen it and been through the s*** and the mud and come out with half a soul and a quarter of my wits so yer gotta believe me on this one. This country we call ‘Australia’? You see it’s only an idea, a concept, because where was that Australian dream when our farm got taken away, when the money I was owed never came through, when I came home and me white mates jeered and laughed at me when I couldn’t open my mouth to speak. Ever since they came all those years ago and took everything we knew then gave our lands a foreign name we have never had a moment of peace. And I was young and careless enough to never take that into consideration. So I hear yer ramblin’ on about some hope and I feel bad that you’re still blind to it all. I don’t care if you’re already at the docks by tonight but I just need you two buggers to know how it really is and what will happen. Talk to your Uncles and Aunties and see what they say. Because in truth you’ll find yourself in a new war back home. (BERTIE lowers his head, clenching his fist harder, then walks away.)

fir St Young m an: I think we should go home. (His friend nods and they leave the crowd behind them.)

End Scene

Svadishthara CindY jin

The sky is just beginning to wake up, wisps of pale-yellow sneak through crevices between the murky, grey clouds and pirouette their way through my window as if saying hello. I climb out of bed and feel the cool hardness of mahogany beneath my feet as I ease into downward dog, stretching out my limbs like a baby entering the world for the first time. Today my chakra is orange – it’s the svadishthara or acceptance chakra. I can almost see it as a flame, dancing in the soft morning glow of dawn and licking the higher powers up above as it flares with intensity. I concentrate on the rich red panelling below me and breathe in, holding my breath for as long as I can before letting it all out. In the corner of my eye, I see the alarm clock flicker to half past seven and I slowly arise from my position. It’s the day of the talk with Craig so I better not keep him waiting.

Outside the air is fresh and crisp – the walk to the beach is not far but even so I quicken my pace, small, swift steps one after the other and it’s not long before I reach the sailboats at Port Melbourne. I’m here early so I gaze out into the horizon and notice a flock of white birds, soaring above the leaden skies. A single black bird follows them, desperately trying to join the group but they are unrelenting, swiftly gliding away and leaving it all alone, helplessly flapping its wings as it tries to figure out what to do. My heart aches for the black one, unloved and unaccepted just because it wasn’t blessed with white feathers. I yearn for a day when they can all fly together in harmony, be considered one as they navigate through this tumultuous world together.

‘It’s rare of you to be on time.’

I whip around to see Craig, a flash of annoyance flickering behind his eyes, and my heart thumps wildly in my chest. Overhead, the clouds, already pregnant with waiting, darken and advance menacingly towards us. Any second now it’ll start pouring. I clench my moist hands tightly together, my knuckles white from the strain and look at him square in the face. I can’t wait any longer.

‘I’m pregnant.’

Craig opens his mouth and closes it again, tries to say something but nothing comes out. His mouth hangs open and his eyes glass over like a goldfish. He stares at me blankly.

‘And I’m keeping the baby.’

I look at him carefully, trying to decipher what he’s thinking but he gives me nothing. I try to imagine him as a dad, taking the baby

to band practice, clumsily bouncing it on one knee when it cries but only successful in agitating it even further. I grimace. The image that comes is not the one I want to see.

‘Charlotte,’ he says hesitantly, like a child unsure of its pronunciation. ‘Listen to me.’ I shake my head adamantly. It’s easy to hold my ground when the universe has already decided for me.

Craig ignores me.

‘You live in a share house. You work two casual jobs. You don’t even have control over your own life, and you think you could take care of a baby ?’ His tone is patronising, hurtful. I notice that he’s been saying you , not we . As if he’s read my mind, Craig scoffs.

‘Plus, I have no time for a baby. I have my career to think about – heck this baby could ruin my chances of signing with a label!’

His words are sharp, aimed directly at my heart where he knows it’ll hurt most. I don’t respond. An image of an infant passed from hand to hand enters, unwelcome, in my mind, as I imagine myself similarly untethered, unsure of myself. Maybe he’s right. I couldn’t deny there was some truth in what he was saying. After all, I was in no way financially or even emotionally capable of raising a child –how could I be the best mother for this baby, let alone an adequate mother at all?

He gives up.

‘Go home and think about it Charlotte. I know this decision was made on a whim, and it’s the wrong one.’

As I watch him trudge away, the white of his shoes almost blinding against the dull cement, I wonder what it would be like to be a single mother. I envision myself walking down Rowena Parade, pushing the baby in a stroller as I take it to my morning yoga class or to a shift at the store. I can already hear the hushed whispers, see the flitting eyes of women in the streets as they smile at me pityingly before huddling together and gossiping behind my back. At least I have Stanzi. As disapproving as she was about the baby being Craig’s, I know deep down she will support me, no matter what. Perhaps she could even take over Craig’s role, step in as more than just an Auntie for the baby. But then people’s minds would go running, jumping straight to the conclusion that we were lesbians –now that would give them something to talk about. I shudder to imagine the criticising glares that would burn into our backs, the nasty words that would be spat in our faces. I sigh. I guess I should

be thankful that I can keep this baby at all. At least I’m not living in mum’s time, when premarital sex was enough for you to be shunned by society for the rest of your life. But even so, the world can still be so merciless, so unforgiving of the ones that do not blend in with its homogeneity.

I reach for the amethyst nestled above my collarbone and grip it tightly, searching for solace and willing it to communicate with me. ‘Amethyst – the crystal of protection,’ I whisper. Suddenly, I feel as if I am being surrounded by an overwhelming force of feminine energy –the force is intense yet almost comforting in its vigour, and I unknowingly let go of the pendant, bringing a hand to my stomach. Then, just as abruptly as it came, the feeling is gone and I am back on the beach, feeling the warmth of the sun rays as they peek out from behind the clouds and gently caress my face. Despite everything that has just happened, despite the mess I’ve gotten myself into, I am met with a sudden peace, a still tranquillity that I have not been granted since the pendant swung clockwise around my stomach. I notice that the sea has calmed down and the sky has started to clear, quickly, as though it had been summoned. For the first time in days my mind is untroubled. I smile. Everything will be alright.

I am Jesse Owens, running away from the darkness that is chasing me everywhere: inside the house, out onto Rowena Parade and all the way into the Hustings, where Charlie stands patiently without a fear in his massive, brown eyes. I’m trying to be Jesse Owens but even with the blinding light at the crack of dawn and the sharp, bittersweet stench from the brewery clinging to my clothes, I still sense the darkness all around, chasing me like they’re Nazis and I’m on the run. Charlie’s nudging me with his great, big nose now –even if I haven’t had breakfast yet, he knows he’s about to have his. I’m telling him to calm down, that it’s coming when I get this almighty aching in my chest somewhere. My hands scramble for Charlie’s food scoop and I have to tell him again to settle. Now it’s really to tell me because that ache has turned into a hole inside of me that feels like it’s going to swallow me up into it whole, like a snake gulping up a bird. A while ago, I would’ve been finishing up brushing Charlie down and heading back to our house, where Connie would’ve been making breakfast and Francis would’ve got the bacon, but it wouldn’t matter because Connie would’ve been there, and she wasn’t going anywhere.

I’m trying to be Jesse Owens running and running away from the aching, until I’m back in the kitchen, back hearing Ma’s screams and back seeing poor Connie’s pale, empty face. Except it can’t be Connie. It isn’t Connie, and I just keep telling myself, Connie’ll wake up soon . She’s gotta wake up. Ma’s screams echo through the entire house, maybe through all of Richmond even, as she cradles Connie’s limp body in her arms. All I’m thinking is how empty it looks, how tired and dull it seems now without her bursting kindness and love. It’s Connie. Connie who makes me breakfast every morning. Connie who is always home when I get back from the day’s jobs. Connie who always tells me it’s all going to be okay. I was only gone for a few hours; Thinking Ma was going to have a fit if I came back too late, I sprinted back to show Connie the stone I’d found in a puddle, exactly in the shape of a shilling. I was going to give the shilling stone to her, and it’d make her feel all good and proper for the next day, just like my shilling was my one special thing all for me. Except I came back and here’s Connie all lifeless and cold and I couldn’t give her the shilling stone in time and now she’s dead. Just like Dad the day the cops brought him home. I should’ve come home earlier. Maybe Ma needed help, or I could’ve gone to find

mia miChael

Endings And New Beginnings

help, or I could’ve sat with Connie and been there to tell her it was all going to be okay.

The early morning hustle and bustle of the streets is awake by the time I stumble back into our house from the Hustings. It’s quieter inside though, with Ma out to run the errands, without the smell of breakfast on the stove, and Connie not there to tell me to brush the dirt off my shirt. Ma’s back quickly though, muttering rapidly under her breath before she sinks into a chair and her eyes become all glossy and shinier than the shilling Mr Husting gave me.

‘I let them both go,’ Ma whispers, almost too quiet for me to hear, ‘In the morning when I woke up, I didn’t even know and then we were off, and it was done barely before the day was out.’

I sit down next to Ma but I’m not sure what to do. She hasn’t spoken this softly since Dad died. Her voice quivers and she clutches my hands tight, looking into my eyes with such a strong gaze I don’t even believe my Ma is behind them anymore. Then her words tumble out in sobs, just like the tears down her face, ‘I let two of my own blood pass before the war even let out! In one day Kip, it was in one moment that I decided to take her and now look where that’s got her!’

I whisper, ‘it’s ok Ma,’ but I don’t think the words leave my mouth.

Connie’s gone, and whatever Ma is scared of the world knowing won’t take long to escape either. You can’t keep secrets around here – we don’t live in Toorak.

The cakes started coming in yesterday. There’s less here than when Dad died but still, it feels just the same. My life is quieter though, now there’s no-one to remind me to untuck my collar or sneak me a piece of bacon. Ma doesn’t even bother with the little things anymore; she’s stopped reminding me and asking me and telling me off for doing, or not doing, something. It’s like she’s not even there anymore, maybe the darkness has already swallowed her in. Francis walks in, he treads on my foot silently and nicks a piece of bacon, but I don’t call him a pig or ‘his royal highness’ for it. For all I know Francis could be pulled into the darkness next and then I can’t imagine how quiet the whole world would become. He’s talking about how I should probably get a proper job at The Argus, now that he’s truly the man of the house and has got to keep working for our small family. I can barely hear him though, his voice

is just like a blur, muffled by the wind. I’m just thinking about Connie again, who in a few days is going to be put into the ground, somewhere about where Dad and his hat with the little black hairs all over it are. The big hole in my chest hasn’t swallowed me whole into it yet, but I still feel the darkness everywhere. My life feels different without Connie, smaller.

Even though it’s been a month since Connie was put into the ground, I still feel like she’s up here with us somewhere. She’s not cooking the bacon or hanging up the washing, but I don’t think she’s walked out of Rowena Parade really. The darkness still follows me sometimes; when I’m brushing down Charlie, or watching the brilliant, bright sun rise. But I can have fun too sometimes – Francis and I even make jokes together now. He tells me about what happened at school. We laugh about the tales he tells of the other boys there. I still feel an ache in my chest and the darkness still blankets our house sometimes, but I’m not Jesse Owens anymore. I’m not Jesse Owens because I’m not running from the darkness, or I’d be running from Connie. I’m staying right here, with Francis and Ma, and Dad and Connie.

Wheelahan

Crrrack… BOOM! I jolt awake. Rrrrumble . Cripes, the thunder is bloody loud. In a half a mo’ it’ll be bucketing. I tiptoe over to the window to take a peek and CLAP ! Another bolt of thunder. Something tells me all isn’t well with the world today…

I walk down the hallway and gently push open the door, only to be met with the most frigid breeze I’ve ever felt. It’s almost as if it could sweep me right off my feet and take me away to another time, another place… away from here. From school. From everything. To a lush green field with beautiful animals, earthy smells and sunshine. Nature is what makes life truly beautiful, if you ask me.

I look up with hope, praying for the nonstop, frighteningly powerful thunder to come to a halt and for a light spritz of peaceful raindrops… But no, clearly the sky has other plans in store for me today. The thick, smoky clouds are beginning to roll in like boulders, ready to crush anything in their way. The darkness is purely engulfing. And then comes the rain. … and yep, it’s hailing. Righto, I better head back inside unless I want a black eye on account of a hailstone like the one Francis got at cricket yesterday arvo, thinking he was Bradman.

Phew! I shut the door behind me, blocking it all out. Walk around the tiny space some may call a living-room, but I would say that’s a stretch. Walking up and down the hallway. Can’t keep still. Perhaps a cuppa and a book will sort me out. BINGO! Francis got one of those comics last Sat, couldn’t believe his luck. The Living Shadow! And so, I decide to sit down, back against the wall and try to snuggle up with the only blanket we have, and enter my own little world.

‘… For it was a message from the man he called The Shadow. ’ Can’t believe my luck at being able to get a hold of a Shadow comic. I hastily flick the page over, heart pumping a million miles a minute, on the edge of my seat waiting to find out what happens next. All of a sudden, I am lulled out of my fantasy world with a pat on the head. It’s Dad. I glance up and immediately… the smell. It smells like yellow. Not the warm yellow of plants and sunlight or straw but a sick sticky yellow that hangs in the nose. Acrid and dead. The smoke blocks my throat, and I feel a cough coming on. ‘See ya son. Really gettin’ into that book of yours, aren’t you?’ He ruffles my hair affectionately. ‘Mm,’ I reply, eager to return to The Shadow’s universe.

It’s too early for it to be this dark outside. Can’t believe it’s been pitch black skies and buckets of unrelenting rain since dawn. The few hints of sunlight have long since said goodbye to the curtains, and it’s cold and dark inside and the whole house is silent save for my breathing. I make my way through the door, bleedin’, rotting produce from good ol’ Vic market in hand… hang on. This silence… the absence of the usual plumes of cooking smoke, of the freshly fried bacon…. No one is here to greet me. It’s eerie.

BAM! The front door slams open and all of a sudden, my hopes soar sky high, but then I realise… it’s just Francis. He makes such a racket every time he comes home, the clank, clank sound of his boots on the floor, and his cricket bag bumping into every wall and table possible, the sounds echoing through the house. Everyone make way for Saint Francis!

‘I’m home! Guess how many runs I made today? Coach’s saying that if I keep going like this there’ll be plenty of scouts buzzing around here before I know it.’ Huh. I’ve seen Francis play and trust me when I say he’s got Buckley’s chance of attracting any scouts.

But that doesn’t stop him from continuing to go on and on about it.

I hear the sound of him dumping the bag in our room. He pauses for a minute, wondering where his little fanfare of praise is, I suppose. ‘Kip?’

‘Back here!’ I reply.

The doorbell rings at last! Might I tell you; I was beginning to think something serious had happened. But nope, all good. Everything will be alright.

‘Connie!!!’ I yell out. I run up to her and give her a big hug.

‘What mischief have you been up to, my little scoundrel? Hope you’re not getting too many ideas from those comics…’ she gives me a peck on the cheek.

‘Scoundrel he is alright. Kip, did you get the chicken for dinner? I hope everything is laid out on the kitchen bench…’ Ma raises her eyebrows at me expectantly, but something about her expression lets me know she thinks I’ve let her down. Just like Ada Hustings from next door, she thinks me no better than a boy who squanders his opportunities. Well, I’ll prove her wrong.

Ding-Dong. The doorbell? At this time of night? I reckon it’s nearing 7pm. Later maybe. No one stirs at this hour in the neighbourhood. All busy eating dinner with the family. I wonder who it could be… Connie rushes to get it, and I discretely tiptoe into the hallway, peering out from behind my bedroom door. All of a sudden… my heart is in my mouth. I begin to sweat, droplets soaking through my muddied white school shirt. My chest is pounding. I can smell… something rank and pungent, mixed with a tinge of sickly sweetness. What is going on?

I peer out and… there’s a policeman. My blood runs cold.

‘Madam, I’m terribly sorry. But there’s nothing more that can be done now. Is there someone else at home? I suspect you’ll need some help carrying…him.’

Him? What is going on… I honestly don’t want to know. I’ve never felt so… overwhelmed with this sense of… it’s inexplicable. I knew something was coming from the moment I woke. I steady my breath and try to calm the panic. I feel like I’m losing myself in some type of haze… the room is spinning. I’m going to fall. I can sense it.

I wake from the haze to the sound of Ma’s heavy footsteps, pacing towards the door. Ma and Connie, heading my way. I flinch back. Do I want to take a closer look? I take a quick peak… and… they’re carrying something? No, that isn’t something . That is someone . And that someone is my father. I inhale the scent and collapse backwards. This can’t be real. This isn’t happening.

Ma is crying. Howling I’d say. I’ve never heard such a loud noise in my life before, and it shakes me to the core. My mother? Strict as ever, no nonsense, practical, all logic… weeping?? I haven’t even been able to comprehend what is going on. It’s all a blur. I’m in a state of complete and utter disbelief. Connie’s face is as pale as a sheet, I’ve never seen her so faint and helpless. Running around, getting Ma tea and hot washers and the cheap tablets we have… I can’t believe this is how it ends.

My brain stutters for a moment and every part of me goes on pause. Eventually, I step from the shadows, and that’s when I realise. Francis. He hasn’t a clue what is going on. Oh my… how will I tell him? I’m lost. Lost… because of everything. I stumble over to

Francis’ room and gently push the door open. Inside, he is nestled under the covers, torch beside him, The Shadow comic in hand.

‘F-f-Francis?’ I stutter.

‘Kip I’m trying to read! Do you realise how important an education is to me? I need literacy practise whenever I can get it.’ He has no idea.

‘Francis, dad’s gone. Gone for good.’

‘What on earth do you mean gone? On a work trip? I didn’t think we had the money… huh.’

‘Francis, please. He is dead.’

I struggle with my delivery. What if… he doesn’t really care? No, that can’t be right. But what if… I look up, and his eyes are tinged with tears. Moist, but not overflowing. They look… lost. After a few seconds, he looks straight back down at his comic and roughly pulls the covers back over him, disappearing into a mound of faded white.

I rush out of his room, and out the front door. I collapse into a soaking wet bed of grass, the thunder rumbling around me, shaking the earth, the threatening sky demanding my attention. No. I close my eyes, hands over my face, and all at once, I realise. What have I done? My father, he is gone forever. Vanished. Never to be seen again. And just this morning, I… I barely looked up to see him go. I didn’t even say goodbye to him. On account of a stupid comic book.

Jean ava dluZniak

Gossip and glares. A powerful combination, one that drives me out of this corner store before I even get a chance to buy my bloody meat from the butcher! Usually I can take it, brush it off like dust on my shoulder. It’s been happening for years. There never is an outing without a subtle frown or mumbled remark. But not today. Not on the anniversary of her death.

My eyes begin to sting as I march back onto the street, desperate to get back home. I dab my nose with my handkerchief; I’ll be darned if I let these ladies see me make a fool of myself! I won’t give them the satisfaction.

The wind from the tram flying past is enough to make the hairs on my head fly up. My heart still races every time that happens, memories of Tom’s death still fresh in my mind. The panic, the confusion, the exhaustion. The wishing and praying to God every night that he could be back, beside me. Even just for a moment, to embrace him, and then slap some sense into him! I would crouch low, just like I used to when scolding the kids, finger raised and eyebrows furrowed, and question, why did you do this to me?

I approach the rickety front gate, which hangs off its hinges, courtesy of Kip’s attempts to ‘fix up the place.’ My foot! We both know he should be making an honourable man out of himself, serving the country, he never had the brains like Francis. Yet he stays here, aimlessly working around the house, looking after his Ma. The embarrassment of it all, my grown son caring for me! But as I open the gate, I hear the excited buzz of chatter, and turn my head to see the bright eyes and smiles as white of my polished floor from a bunch of lively young girls. This bunch never fails to remind me of her, my Connie.

I’m winded by the impact of it, the thought of her. I thought I could go through the day without thinking about what happened all those years ago today. I was kidding myself. I relive that day endlessly, constantly considering what I could have done to change the outcome. Living with the guilt of it slowly but surely destroys me, like the dying tree out the back, whose branches droop miserably and leaves wilt in the hot summer’s sun.

In dark times like these, Kip reminds me to try and find the light when the darkness is overwhelming. So, I try to replace the image of her pale, ghostly face that’s burned in my mind of happier memories. Her eyes always focused on some spot in the distance.

She was imaginative, always creating games for the boys to play or stories to tell. She was what I always wanted as a first child, nurturing and generous with the boys. She would have made a wonderful mother. And her laugh, oh how I remember her laugh! It was the type that turned up the sides of my mouth, no matter how furious I was.

It is that joyous, belly laugh that I focus on as I pick a bunch of tulips, her favourite, and head towards her tombstone. As I lay them below her headstone, a tear trickles silently down my cheek. But it is not the regret and despair that fills my eyes. It is the love I have for her, and the hope that she is at peace in heaven.

Jean

The world around her begins to fade. Charlotte’s gaze is fixed on the hypnotic motion of the twirling pendant as her heart hammers within her chest. The leaves around her almost rustle from the beating force.

She wills herself to move, her limbs heavy with doubt and fear. Twigs jut into her palms as she pushes herself up. Charlotte stretches up breathing in the earthy smell of petrichor. She looks up and brushes her fingertips through the leaves. She plucks one and traces each vein that lines the fragile leaf, feeling the life present within. Fresh growth on a tree whose roots extend throughout the yard and into the Hustings’ next door.

Charlotte’s gaze shifts towards the house. She loves this house, she feels safe in this house, but somehow things have changed. As she makes her way to the back door she stumbles over a longabandoned broom, its bristles mildewed or missing, but her mind is elsewhere.

Charlotte slides the door open, a rush of warm air enveloping her. The buzz of chatter would normally cut through the walls but now there is silence. Charlotte walks to the living room but she falters at the door, the sharp silhouette of her father in the centre of the room, his shoulders slumped and head hung low.

‘Dad?’ Charlotte whispers.

He startles at the sound, head flicking up. ‘Char, you gave me a bloody fright!’

‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to! Um, where’s everyone else?’ Charlotte asks.

‘They’re all upstairs.’ Kip says. ‘Me, mum and Stanz are gonna stay here for the night. But I was getting worried about you, sitting outside in the cold like that. What were you doing outside for all that time love? Is everything alright?’

‘Um yeah…’ Charlotte hesitates, gnawing at her lip while trying to string together words, but all she can manage to mutter is ‘there’s a baby.’

Kip’s body stiffens, his brows furrowing as the clock ticks on the mantelpiece, the air in the room growing cooler by the second. They sit in silence for what seems like an eternity before Charlotte speaks up.

‘Dad, I know you’re mad, but I’m sorry!’

‘I’m not mad.’ Kip exhales then gingerly kneels on the floor

Charlotte Sophia du

beside her, his knees cracking.

‘Of course you are! You were flying off the damn wall that night of the Year 12 Formal! Isn’t this worse?’

‘Charlotte honey, you know I regret that. I never meant to lose my head, I just… I was worried about you. I am worried about you. What if what happened to Aunt Connie, happened to you? Then what?’

Charlotte frowns, surprised at the mention of that long past tragedy. ‘But things have changed. Things don’t have to be the same.’

‘I know, I know. There’s just this constant voice inside my head reminding me of everything that happened, of everything that I lost, of everything that she lost. It’s just a part of me. But, at least I’m not chasing anyone with a golf club this time.’ Kip chuckles at himself, at the memory of it all.

‘Yeah, thank God!’ Charlotte says laughing. ‘Thanks though Dad, for not flipping out.’

Kip wraps his arms around Charlotte and mumbles into her ear. ‘I love you, always. No matter what you choose to do.’

I can see the crumbling old photograph sitting precariously on the edge of the table – about to fall, surrounded by those God-awful biscuits they give us on account of them thinking that when you get old, you lose your tastebuds as well your hair.

Don’t worry, Connie. I won’t let you fall. This picture’s one of the last parts of you that I have left, crumbling between my fingers. It makes me feel old. I remember taking it. This was some of my best work. I was run down with guilt when I finally found out how you died. I thought maybe I coulda done something to stop you that day, or at least said goodbye before I went on my jolly way. But I guess after all these years it has taught me a few things. You’ve taught me a few things.

Should I be ashamed to think that there was some good that came out of your death? You’d probably be happy that there was some sorta silver-lining after all. You remind me of the tree in the backyard in Richmond. Ma used to say it was an eyesore, but that doesn’t sit quite right with me, I reckon the tree was messy like we were. Messy like the tangle of our relationships, held together by love and the determination to withstand time. The tree used to drop its red berries everywhere, leaving dark and stubborn stains. Red like your blood. I suppose you are like the tree on the concrete, don’t ya reckon? Strong and supportive, and you always had my back. I knew you loved me. I never had to ask. I guess that I know now how important that is, to have loved, and to not let it go. I can feel tears welling up even now thinking about you.

You’ve been watching over us. I know you have. I can feel it. A sense of support, strength and love being sent from above. I know it’s you. You have seen, just as I have, how wonderful it has been to see our messy family grow. Losing you taught me how important it is to hold on to them – and hold on bloody tight. To always take them in your arms and kiss them goodbye like it’s the last time. To love them, and show them just how much every single time it makes me feel more at ease, and less on edge like I am about to tip. I reckon that’s the most important thing in the world. Love. The strongest too, cause even though you’ve been gone so long, I love ya to bits and always have. It’s brought meaning to my life, knowing that at any moment it could end. I wish I could kiss you goodbye one last time, hold you in my arms and never let go. Never. I guess love also brings pain in that way, the pain of longing for a lost – yet vivid –memory. It’s hurting real bad right now.

Carla haberfield

Love is the root of everything in my life. I can see that clear as day. Joy, pain, life, death, your death, all because of love. Passed between people like a shilling, from one pair of hands to another. From one beating heart to another. I’ve known this for a while –since your death, actually. You may think that there’s other bits of life, and you may be right, but I wanna pass out as many shillings as possible before I come and join you up there. I really believe that that’s why God put me on this earth. I never want anyone I love to have to wonder if I love em, even if that means giving up my most prized possession or standing in the road all night, throwing a ball with Alec. They must know how much I love them.

The photo falls out of my fingers and flutters down to the floor quickly. My hands are too slow to react. Bugger. Leaning down to pick it up again hurts like hell on account of my back’s not been so good lately. I’d better put the photo away somewhere to keep it safe. It’s getting late anyways. I feel protective. It needs a nice spot to sit, not just some dusty old shelf. Perfect. Sitting on top of the dresser drawers, with a view to the window and t’ us. I know you’d like it. Goodnight, Connie. I will see you soon.

The Higher The Fence, The Harder They Stare

minduli Weeraman

My dearest William,

It feels somewhat futile to be writing a letter to you, but I do not have anyone else to turn to. I know you won’t write back to me but perhaps this will allow me to pen my thoughts. I am infinitely lost, William. The solitude is suffocating. I am drowning in the dark waves of disillusionment.

When I was younger, I lived a well-cultivated, cultured, and civilised life. ‘The three C’s that make up a woman,’ my mother would say. According to her, marriage was of the utmost importance if I wished to sustain this lifestyle. As a young woman, I traversed this world as a lone figure, desperate for love and stability. However, that all changed one night at the Soda Rock Diner, where you sat in front of the piano and played the most enchanting song! Your melody broke me out of my lonesome reverie. You were the first man to look at me and not through me. Before I knew it, you slid the gold ring onto my finger and vowed to love me until death did us part.

Yet the war rolled in too quickly, off you went in your military uniform. When you returned, all that was left was a fractured soul in an empty shell. Never again did music pervade our household. The William with whom I had fallen in love was gone. To this day, I will never understand the inconspicuous scars you bore. You locked me out of your beautiful mind and tossed away the key. I tried to reach you but day by day, you drifted further away from me like a lone boat on an endless sea. Everyone around us noticed your pain. The neighbours could see the struggle in your eyes, but they looked away. They turned a blind eye to your trauma, leaving you to fend for yourself. Eventually, I gave up on us. Our relationship was past the point of salvation as your mind wandered further, irrevocably, into the darkness. You left me behind to pick up the pieces of my broken heart.

The years that followed were like layers, each year covering the next. I was a sad-eyed wanderer. I saw you everywhere I went. In the sunrise, in the moon glow, on the lonely stairs, I climbed. I made you dinners you would never eat and used the candlesticks from our honeymoon. Yet the empty seat across from me deepened the void in my heart knowing that you’ll never come back. The wick burned out long ago, the candle wax slowly dripping onto the tablecloth, the food going cold.

My mother insisted that I remarried. Society demanded that I remarried. I was hardly the image of a perfect woman if I was unmarried and childless. Reluctantly, I attempted to find my new ‘Prince Charming’, primping the hair, smearing on lipstick, flashing a smile. Gentlemen, welcome to the show starring Martha Garland! But that’s all it was. A show. I became an expert at giving them what they want to see. A damsel in distress in need of being rescued by the hero. Yet no one stepped in to save me. They simply shielded their eyes when the sorrow became too much. I was the Mona Lisa , a cold and lonely, lovely work of art. The lady with the mystic smile, one that tempted a lover but also hid a broken heart. Oh, it was all fruitless, William. Many dreams have been brought to my doorstep, and they just lie there, and they die there.

When you are surrounded by dysfunctional relationships, it’s difficult to maintain hope. Our marriage ended untimely. My parents’ marriage broke down with my father’s alcoholism. Oh, and the neighbours! Despite living in such proximity to each other, we live worlds apart. Each window showcases a unique, unfamiliar story. There are no efforts made to break down the barriers, tear down the fences or shatter the windows. They are strangers. I see them around sometimes, when I am gazing outside of my window to escape the monotony of my pitiful life… that’s harmless, right William? I learn so much about each character living around me… I’m getting to know them! One is a photographer who broke his leg, another is a sculptress, and there’s a pianist who thrashes at his piano all day long. Lovely to meet you all! It all fascinates me. I am surrounded by an abundance of creativity. But what is the point of artistic expression if there is no one to share it with?

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from living here, it’s that while people are capable of watching, they cannot listen or feel. They’re just here to watch the show. There is no interest in being on the outside of the window together. They just watch furtively from behind the safety of their glass with their peeping eyes, looking out for the Reds, ‘doing the community some service’… too busy to notice their neighbour trapped in her mind. Blind to suffering. Take the photographer who lives across from me, peeping through his camera lens – he can zoom in as much as he likes but he will never be able to truly capture my internal emptiness. Perhaps I should smile for the camera!

The Higher The Fence, The Harder They Stare

The Higher The Fence, The Harder They Stare

Gosh, William, my apartment used to be the place where I felt safe. Where I could escape the misery of the outside world, the judgement of others, the empty pity of those who were ‘looking out for me’. Where the pale pink walls of my apartment sheltered me from the impotent role I played in the spectacle of life. But now, the prying yet blind eyes of my neighbours have penetrated my sanctuary. Robbed me of my privacy and peace of mind, robbed me of the empowerment I felt as a woman who had a sense of control in her own home. The higher the fence, the harder they stare. The walls I built to protect me from the cruel world are now crashing down, debris flying everywhere, powerless against the dirty eyes and violating camera lens. I’m no longer in charge of my narrative. I’m now a simple side-character in a peeping Tom’s fiction.

Oh, but William, I’m no better! I too cannot help being roped into my neighbours’ lives even when we are separated by walls. The married couple upstairs were ceaselessly quarrelling day and night, it was exhausting! With their incessant nit-picking and arguing at 3am, I was suddenly sharing their marital problems without a husband of my own. And what could I do, William? I couldn’t march into their apartment and tell them off like a schoolteacher! I just had to ignore what was happening in that tumultuous marriage. They seem to have resolved their issues though, it has been quiet ever since! But is this what marriage is about: the complete absence of communication and bliss? Is it all really for convenience and to fit into society’s cookie-cutter mould?

Oh, forgive my mind for jumping around so erratically, William, but this sense of hopelessness reminds me of the dog. After I found his mangled, bloodied corpse, my faith in humanity withered away. How could anyone take the life of something so innocent, the only ‘good neighbour’? What shocked me the most was the other neighbours just standing around like fools as the poor neighbour wailed. They did nothing, William. Only watched. The death of that sweet dog was the death of humanity’s capability to love. What happened to the world we used to live in, where people cared? Where people connected as human beings in shared humanity, where we were told to ‘love thy neighbour as thyself’? It is not war that will cause humanity’s destruction. It will be disconnection.

In a world plagued by hostility and indifference, Death can seem to be your one true love. He’s the one you can depend on to make all

the demons quiet, and silence all of the voices of doubt and pain. He does not care if you are a pitiful, lonely woman who is well into her years, Death smiles as he proposes a marriage void of the hurt and alienation that life brings. The ultimate holy matrimony.

Oh, William, my mind is a tempest of emotion. As I write, red pills are scattered out in front of me, their scarlet hue engulfing my vision. Let me offer you some mental nourishment from the shadow of a woman who has always been looked through. Reality is merciless, it cuts you like a shard of glass, and you bleed. A waterfall of rich crimson blood, mixed with salty tears filled with the ruthless realisation that these siren-like fantasies of euphoria that human connection, love, and friendship offer are merely delusions that turn into your nightmares. No matter how large the crowd of people around us is, in the end, we die alone. Many dreams ago, I dreamed of waiting for my true love to appear each night. My dream of living happily ever after surrounded by people who cherished me… it now lies shattered, among the pills and the pools of tears.

I am ready to swallow these capsules of death and reunite with you. Death will not do us part.

Oh, William, I had to pause writing to you because I was in the presence of God’s music. The trickle of notes is a translation of my soul, the melody is swimming through my mind like a wakeful dream calling to my entire being. It is my genesis. Oh, it is medicine delivered most divinely. The music seems to be coming from my neighbour’s apartment! He’s a musician, just like you, almost like a younger reincarnation of you. Oh, all the neighbours are looking outside of their windows, hypnotised by the music. Perhaps one day, we’ll be able to step outside of our cocoons and enjoy the music together. Is that your music, my darling William, are you calling to me? To think that I was truly alone in this world! I see you, my love. To see you is to love you, and you’re never out of sight.

Rest peacefully, my dear. I love you, and I’ll see you, in the same old dream tonight.

Yours truly and forever, Martha

The Higher The Fence, The Harder They Stare

These Marital Façades

jaCalYn kellY

Photos of faces with no stories… welcoming me to the door above a turned-around chair, two broken legs and a camera, looking out the rear window.

The rain from the night before suffocates the air, as my back is warmly embraced by the soft sink of the chair … careful not to let my lipstick stain my pants. Gosh, these pants, uncomfortable things really…. why Jeff can’t appreciate a nice dress is beyond me.

My eyes begin to stare aimlessly into the crimson vines creeping through the sky. Washing the darkness, making way for the light.

Jeff will be up soon I suspect, eager to fuel his insatiable hunger for curiosity. Oh, but I suppose this is what life would be like… a life with Jeff that is. A marriage… one like all the rest, I’m sure.

Gosh, but I hope not, have you seen marriages these days? Fragile as china, really. Well, can’t say I’m too shocked, you see the real fairy-tale ending begins from a young age. From the very start, we girls are taught to act ladylike, buy elegant clothes, wear nice shoes and a small handbag for our belongings. Taught that, in order to please the male eye, to … settle down, we would have to appeal to the one thing that a man values most in a woman.

My goodness, I remember so clearly, a young lady in school gazing out the classroom window, I could never catch the attention of any young man, really. The girls, setting out a nice picnic for a strapping fellow of their own, whilst I sat…watching… wondering if I would ever be pretty enough for a man’s attention. Why it was there that I knew what I ought to do to catch the male eye. Marched down to the nearest milk bar and bought five shillings worth of Bazar magazines. Never did I look back. Though I must admit, while it’s really quite despairing, a woman dressing for a man’s attention, there is something quite grand and powerful about dressing with style and is perhaps what drew me to fashion in the first place. A career that is much to Jeff’s disapproval, I’m quite sure.

Oh but a marriage – a binding commitment. How could something so significant possibly last if the basis of what men care about lies in how attractive we women are… on the surface?

Us ladies have substance, intellectual value…feminine intuition, as they so often say. Men really must try to see past the surface for there is so much more underneath. But my, the secret to a happy marriage…why, it certainly isn’t our beauty!

The crimson has faded, leaving a faint trail of blue. My eyes

glance over at Jeff …the covering lens of his camera still resting in his hands and a small bead of sweat inching its way down his forehead.

Oh, but I’m sure he thinks it’s all a game…a losing game, he doesn’t like the cards he’s been dealt and perhaps he never will. Gosh, I’m sure his views on an everlasting commitment are ones for the ages, ones shaped and influenced by those neighbours he watches day in and day out.

Cupping my face in my palm, I capture a glimpse of a young man and woman bathed in the sun’s morning glow. The soft embraces, stealing glances, ah, the life of the newlyweds. The stove alight with two eggs dancing in the pan, a husband and wife, reading the newspaper in between sips of coffee. Gosh, how nice it would be to have someone like that. Someone to love. Someone to hold. Someone to share those moments of everyday life with.

Why, I suppose Jeff could be that someone… is that someone. I just, well…have to make him see that I’m worth it. That’s all really.

Oh, how happy they look together. How happy indeed.

Well, so they appear…for I can only see so far, only see one frame. That’s the problem with this window, always looking in one direction, always showing you what it wants you to see. Can’t be trusted to show what’s real.

My eyes trail off, finding their way into the empty apartment directly across from me. Dark. Abandoned. A place where a marriage flourished only to fail. The constant bickering, fighting, disregard echoing through the walls, through the window. No wonder Jeff thinks it’s all a trap.

But why does he only let the negative aspects of one marriage pollute his mind? Why can’t he look at a different angle …notice all the light radiating from the apartments above?

Oh gosh, look at me… watching you, analysing you. Have I, too, become the diseased person that I once condemned? My, but this all seems so innocent, almost… human nature. Surely, it’s not as horrible as I have made it to be in my head, oh it can’t be…not if everyone does it! Though… do you suppose it’s a crime if we all commit it?

But now really, how can Jeff not see what he has right in front of him? A woman built with class, dignity, elegance. A woman who’s wondering if she’s ever going to be enough for you, Jeff. Oh, how

These Marital Façades

These Marital Façades

naive I was to think that a picnic, two eggs on a stove or a nice dress would make you see what you could have. Oh, how I was wrong, how that window – those neighbours – deceived me!

But alas, you sit there, infatuated with the world around you and not with the world you have right in front of you. Attached to that camera, that window, as if they’re some kind of drug…some kind of addiction.

Your blatant obsession with watching people only feeds into your fear of commitment, Jeff. Don’t you know that what you see in other people’s marriages isn’t a reflection of what ours will be like? That you can’t determine the fate of our relationship based on how others look? Oh, if only you could look in my direction. If only that camera you hold so dear could show you how I truly feel, how our life could truly be and not just fragments of those neighbours’ lives, whose image is judged and distorted by your mind. If only.

Finally, the serenity of the night is intercepted by day, the moon bids farewell giving way to the sun and awakens the neighbourhood, and Jeff’s insistent curiosity, from its slumber.

Picking up the book beside me, I flip to a random page. Jeff will never even notice…he never does.

And so, it begins: ‘Beyond the High Himalayas’.

The welcoming, deep, brown bottle stood open, its long neck housing the wine, which was darker than the darkest red. The woman paced, her steps to and from the bottle, eyes darting around the room. No, she thought, I cannot be drunk before I even show up to the restaurant. Life Magazine said that men prefer women who present themselves in a feminine, precise way.

The candle flicker from the table brought her back to reality, where she continued her production. A careful dress rehearsal of how she would present herself for the next potential suitor. This charade continued before she finally surrendered, her quiet sobs still managing to echo through the apartment and into the square. Laura was all too aware that her sobs would fall on deaf ears, the people of Greenwich village were too obtuse, obsessed with their own lives to notice hers. She knew that the man in the apartment, high in the sky, across from hers took absolutely no notice of her. Why would he? The blonde who paraded around his apartment was hard to miss; she looked like a leading lady. Perfect.

Tears dripped down Laura’s nose, painting spots on her table. Jealousy fuelled these tears, a desire to live the life that the man across from her lives. To be given the privilege to chase her hopes and dreams. The blonde came and went as she pleased, once, Laura swore she saw her bring in dinner for the man. Laura would want that if she could have it, but she was also aware of the marriage above hers. That one was less ideal. The man and his wife were constantly at opposite ends of their apartment arguing with each other. It seemed as if there was never a moment of peace between them. Sometimes Laura grabbed a glass of her favourite liquor and listened, trying to discern what a quarrel was about. Like her own personal soap opera. She felt guilty, but what else were neighbours to do? So intertwined yet distant with each other, it only felt right to implicitly peep into their lives, they lived so close, it was hard to avoid it. It reminded her of the days when she and Lindsey spied on other neighbours.

Her eyes flicked to the closet where her most prized possession was held. Reaching into the forgotten dusty corner, Laura pulled out a tattered box with hidden treasures inside. Cold pearls lay limp in the box along with the faded photograph which had deteriorated past its use by date. The happy girls beamed at Laura, limbs tangled together as they lay in a bed of flowers, the pearls

Charlotte Sammartino

There Is No Such Thing As A Happy Marriage

There Is No Such Thing As A Happy Marriage

draped around the other girl’s neck. Laura could still recall how Lindsey’s dark brown eyes pierced her own, she could remember her touch, her sound, her smell, her taste. How could she forget the only person who had ever truly understood her in her life. Laura and Lindsey used to talk about their future together, where they would get married in secret and be as gay as could be. They were misfits though; their dreams were a fantasy. That future was dead, Laura had never seen any couple of the same sex in any media. Laura reached around her neck to clip the pearls around her neck. She exhaled deeply. Showtime.

The quiet ticking of the clock echoed through the dark cluttered living space. A half-drunk bottle of whiskey lay open on the counter. The clock read half past 10. Exhausted, Laura tramped through the door. At least he wasn’t as bad as the last one, she thought. The bruises from the last date refused to fade, serving a harsh reminder of her potential future with a man she didn’t love. She collapsed onto the vanity and began dismantling her perfectly pinned hair. The cold cream covered her face, soothing her tired skin, wiping away the expectations of society to reveal her true self. She reflected on the date as she did this, thinking about all the pre prepared answers she managed to say. She hoped that made a good impression on the guy, she heard that they preferred women who were organised. Just another way in which she was unable to prove herself worthy of getting married.

Laura knew she had to marry a man, to uphold the image she had presented to the world. However, she couldn’t help but wonder if it would be easier if she could find a man who was like her, one that couldn’t marry who he wanted to. Someone who also wanted to hide in the shadows, away from judging eyes. That way they could both present as acceptable to the outside world. A lavender marriage, they called it. Probably the only way she would be able to feel like herself still. That way both would be able to be accepted, and on some level, understood. A gentle melody made its way into Laura’s complex, filling her with warmth. There he goes again, the bachelor composer. Constantly filling his apartment to the brim with gorgeous music and lavish guests. But somehow, always alone. Laura saw herself in the composer, his interests didn’t match those of a typical man. He didn’t have a prima donna in his apartment like the

man with the tall apartment did. Maybe he didn’t want one. Maybe this was Laura’s chance for happiness in a marriage. Her very own lavender marriage. Time to open the window.

There Is No Such Thing As A Happy Marriage

Sarah lardner

I ought to say, I shoulda said somethin’ to Mr Jefferies when I saw him with that big ol’ camera of his. Poking his nose in places it don’t belong lookin’ at God-knows-what. He ought to know there aren’t any windows in the workhouse. And now with that messed up leg of his, that boy’s got another reason to pry and meddle with the daily lives of God-fearing working folk. Mr Jefferies ain’t got regard for what I says anyways. Don’t stay up all night in that chair, I says. Your back will get all twisted, I says. And do you know what happens? Course, I come in the next day to find knots and buckles all down Mr Jefferies’ spine. What’d I tell him, hey? Been bandaging and fixing up proud people and the like all my life, and they still think they’re the wiser. That’s what’s wrong with people nowadays. Run of the mill folk thinking they’re all clever. Too grand to ever accept such a lowly thing as neighbourly compassion.

I suppose with all that travelling Mr Jefferies did in the war, to those exotic islands and such, it’s almost no wonder he wants to look beyond his four walls; concrete America ain’t a prize to look at when you’ve got that amazon in the back of ya mind! Probably drives the poor fella mad, having all them faces looking out from their arched patios. Mr Jefferies ought to feel like some sorta animal in a zoo in that apartment, caged and gazed upon. Not that he can talk with all that prying and meddling he does – but I suppose all windows that look in can also look out.

Speaking of meddling, giving a handsome girl like Lisa such commotion about marriage. Any man without a log in his eye and a pumping bloodstream would run at the chance to so much as kiss the back of that woman’s hand. That girl hangs on every word Mr Jefferies says, she does, and with such fair skin and those eyes, what else could a man want? Mr Jefferies ought to return from that playground of his, and he ought to marry the girl. She is respectable, even got a name for herself at that magazine place of hers. I reckon it’s a welcomed change to see one of Mr Jefferies girls workin’. The girl can’t cook much, I’ll give him that, but at least by ordering food Mr Jefferies can guarantee it’ll be cooked; better than some of that charcoal stuff I’ve fed my fellow over the years.

Men, I says. Got about as much of a clue as those politician type people around today. Those big fellas on the news with their big words and dark suits fooling people into having some confidence in

what they’re saying. A lot of yapping on about nothing, if you ask me; I coulda told ya that we’ve been having trouble with Bulgaria based on their damn shoes. Men with straps for war boots certainly ain’t gonna be too chuffed ‘bout the States takin’ back the eastern trade. Course, the suited men blamed it all on each other, turning neighbour against neighbour; ratting on their own kind accusing them of supporting the reds. With my husband hearing a thing or two during the war – mark my words those reds certainly ain’t your typical neighbour folk.

My ol’ misfit husband has never been much of a charmer. We’re more simple folk; say what we means and means what we say. Happy enough together to not care too much ‘bout that romantic type wish-wash. Served his time in the uniform and such, got all such claps and commotion for doing his part. Mind you, no one’s given me a medal or a bat of an eye for my years and sleepless nights sewing up hanging limbs and blood splatter in military tents and the like. Saw a bit in my time too, not that anyone would take any notice. Ya hear things as a nurse you know, men just don’t bother to hide all that political talk about the reds from the likes of me. Of course, women like me can’t understand all that talk! Well, I’ll tell ya, women can just about get anything from a fella. Give ‘em a pretty blonde who plays with her hair and watch as that honest fellow tells her the whole lot. Clever little things us girls can be, boys too proud to even consider they’re being used.

Now I’ve always considered myself a God-fearing woman. I works an honest living, add my fair piece at church and never get too caught up in the gossip of them women lunch groups. But as much as I don’t care to let the words pry my tongue, I will say there is a certain attraction in that big window at Mr Jefferies’s place. I’m not proud to admit it but when Mr Jefferies asked for some privacy to finish up his male business I had a sneak peek through those binoculars tempting me on the bench. A few couples and whatnot, but what caught my eye was a mother and her little ones. Hard to see clearly through those bars though, and in this heat? The poor woman wasn’t able to work I tell ya, not with all those crying little things around her. Looked downright miserable. And with all those women at church prying through my windows and asking me why I didn’t have children, yapping on about how I’ll never be happy. Happy? Huh! I get a good night’s rest and more money in my back

pocket, and I’ll say I’m better for it. I don’t want for such pity, gossips ought to keep busy and keep their nose and mouth to ‘emselves.

Tell ya who does deserve some of that women’s lunch group pity though – that poor woman below the glazed glass. What was it that Mr Jefferies called her? Ah yes. Lonelyheart. Setting the table and wine out for someone’s ghost, no doubt. Someone oughta check in on that girl soon or try to match her up with another unlucky chap who married a girl for her looks too young. Now that poor doll ain’t had much luck with the men type; poor soul looks miserable.

Well as I always says, count ya blessings and continue to work an honest living. Prying ain’t never gone unpunished.

Park Avenue evenings have always been predictable, yet here I am with the vagaries of New York’s suffocating weather threatening to unravel my curls and sweat the rouge off my cheeks. As I step to the edge of the sidewalk and outstretch my hand, a mustard automobile pulls up and its driver lets me inside. A grunt of acknowledgment follows my bidding him good evening. I feel eyes on me before I meet them, from the pavement and now inside the confines of the taxicab. I suppose I’ll never truly be able to hide if they are always seeking. Wolf whistles follow me inside as I smooth down the black pleats of my dress. Is that all I am? Simply an accessory to satiate lust and boredom? Perhaps I should be grateful. So be it if that is all there is. Maybe I don’t have more to offer. The sounds of leering men bleed into a cacophony of blaring radios, revving vehicles and inarticulate conversations. Show’s over tonight. As I sit within the confines of tin walls, rattling along on wheels, I blindly trust a stranger to navigate me safely to Greenwich Village. I may as well put my life in his hands. As muggy air rolls through the four open windows, a pair of calloused hands grip the steering wheel and madly blare the horn. New York.

My driver distractedly adjusts the rear-view mirror after an effusion of profanities, his piggy eyes lingering a second too long on mine. I recognise that gaze all too well. It seeks to ravish and devour in ways I would prefer not to mull over. I stare back at my reflection in the mirror, her blue eyes framed with black liner. Oh, I really must be some sort of fool... all this for Jeff? All dolled up for a man whose attention is wed to some strangers across the way. I look down at the nakedness of my fourth finger, longing for it to be heavy with the weight of a diamond. I very much doubt that Jeff and I would be on the same page about this. I know he doesn’t see me like that. It is almost like he refuses to. My fairy-tale is his life sentence. I’m beginning to think that the only way he would allow me to keep up with his ‘daredevil’ lifestyle is by taking out a subscription to his magazine. To watch his life through frames. Ah, I suppose it is natural for Jeff to turn to the safe windows of his neighbours, inexorably ogling and speculating as he is accustomed to with his camera. But at what cost? My feminine intuition tells me that something is not quite right. Jeff has overstepped and I fear it is no longer just a distraction from his boredom but an obsession. A compulsive one at that. Jeff and his camera. Inseparable. Fused

together with the substance that the sculpturist is always handling. He’s wheeling himself in and out of the shadows making wildly nonsensical claims as he intrudes on a secret, private world. So much so that he wakes with bloodshot red eyes! I don’t believe I’ve gone and fallen for a peeping Tom. If only Jeff would take a closer look at me and my world instead. I can feel a gaze preying on me again long before I meet the pair of eyes. In the rear-view mirror the driver looks on shamelessly, his reflection obscured by the smoke from his cigarette. As we come to a slow at the intersection, I shuffle closer towards the window to inhale anything that will overcome the sickening scent of smoke and sour breath. Dusk is quickly falling over New York, swallowing the depth of its many buildings, and setting off amber lights across the city. I know I will attract an undesirable gaze regardless of whether I am on the interior or exterior of this cab, questioning my safety either way. I feel rooted to the sticky leather seat. My taxi driver only averts his eyes from me once he is prompted by a flurry of horns.

I don’t want to accept the realisation that lobster thermidor from 21 , champagne or $1100 dress off a Paris plane would never run Jeff over. It’s all fruitless efforts when Jeff is off flirting with the idea of a neighbourhood murder or gazing lustfully at that dancer across the way. I know I could satisfy him if he’d just let me. I suppose there is a certain thrill he gets from the forbidden gaze that I simply couldn’t provide. That’s Jeff. He is hopelessly in love with the rash and the reckless. I’m standing here foolishly with my heart on my sleeve, confessing my love for him while his lens and shutter are off penetrating another existence. I’m more than a little confused. I guess I’m not the girl I thought I was. I wonder if Jeff sees me for who I truly am – Lisa Carol Freemont.

Isn’t it Jeff who should be chasing me? After all, I’m the one in heels. My two-tone Chanel slingbacks can only take so much. No... what am I thinking having these expectations? Jeff couldn’t even differentiate colours as separate as the black and white on my shoes, so how could I possibly expect him to understand let alone appreciate any of this? Sitting at the back of the taxicab, I am dressed as classic and timeless as I look in his portrait of me. It is framed below his wall of glory, featuring all the photographs he got himself half killed for. Sitting beside them on his sideboard, I look all skeletal and vacant in the undeveloped negative. Why Jeff chose

to be reminded of me like that I couldn’t tell you... but I suppose I should be grateful to have a place at all. The rickety clanking of the windows rolling up arouses me from my thoughts. My driver only manages to pull his up to halfways. I cough pointedly in a polite attempt to keep them down as a puff of his cigarette smoke hits me in the face. with my eyes stinging, I clasp my hands together and breathe shallowly. We shouldn’t be too far from Jeff’s now.

The inside of the cab is eclipsed with faint red light. Another intersection. New York is full of them, and tonight it just feels like a threat to my safety with the rear-view mirror allowing my driver to stare even more so. I want to ask him to pull over, but I know we’re only minutes from Jeff’s now.

As we weave between still streets, muted by brick walls and heavy air, the humming of the radio drifts to the backseat.

‘See the market place in old Algiers, send me photograph and souvenirs. Just remember when a dream appears, you belong to me...’

‘Miss, I’ve seen you on the covers of those magazines before. My kid loves you she does.’

I glance up at the crushed cigarette butt on the dashboard. ‘She does? What’s her name?’

Jo Stafford’s voice drowns and resurfaces under the soundtrack of a New York evening, gently competing against the driver as he talks of his daughter.

I retouch my lips and spritz my neck with Chanel N°5. Won’t he pay attention to me now?

A hook hangs off the wire

Below a bird sits

On a broken-down fence

In between pages of books

A bird-feather mark the pages

Creating a slash across the paper

Around a campfire the children sleep

Soothed by bird song

Drifting softly away with a smile

My darling

There’s more to life than this

The ways we are pitted against each other

The trajectory of this love

Won’t you dance with me?

Your ankles hang over the edge of my bed

I will brush your hair

I will braid your hair

The sheets stained and unchanged for the better What else does she carry in the back pocket of her Levis?

You and I both know there’s more to it than just

Shame

But my darling

I will remain an insufferable teenage girl

Even if it’s the last thing I do.