swine issue 02, 2024: MYTH

Myth

Vanessa Perera

Zara Kernan

Jonas Buerskog

Kazi Tazwar Islam

Kayla Willson

Acknowledgement of Country

The swine team would like to acknowledge the Wurundjeri People of the Kulin Nation, the traditional owners of the land on which the SSU offices are located and our staff live and work. We extend this respect to Elders past, present and future, and to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Swinburne students, faculty and alumni.

As creators, writers, and artists of all types, we feel it is vital to acknowledge the deep connection to land, sea and community held by the Traditional Custodians.

As we may draw inspiration from and explore our connection to so-called Australia, we recognise

First Nations peoples as the original storytellers, whose knowledge and wisdom has been, and continues to be, passed through generations since time immemorial. We also recognise the continued attempted destruction of this cultural practice through British colonisation.

Sovereignty was never ceded, always was and always will be Aboriginal land. …

If you’re looking for further ways to take action, check out indigenousx.com.au for articles and resources, and consider paying the rent at paytherent.net.au.

Swinburne's Moondani Tommbadool Centre.

Indigenous Student Resources

Indigenous Student Advisers

Indigenous Student Advisers are available to meet at Hawthorn, Wantirna or Croydon campus by appointment during office hours on Monday to Friday. You can also email and schedule a call-back at a time that suits you. To contact the Indigenous Student Adviser, email indigenousstudents@swinburne. edu.au or leave a voicemail on +61 3 9214 8481.

Academic skills support

The Indigenous Student Services team provides academic skills support for Indigenous students enrolled in higher education and vocational education.

Indigenous Academic Success Program

All Indigenous students enrolled at Swinburne (including Swinburne Online) are encouraged to apply for the Indigenous Academic Success Program.

Eligible students receive two hours of tuition per unit of study per week from qualified tutors to assist with their studies. Additional tuition for exam preparation is also provided. The availability of tuition is based on funding and need. The program is provided free to eligible students.

There are also a range of scholarships available as well as an Indigenous Student Lounge at the Hawthorn campus which provides a quiet and culturally safe environment. To find out how to apply for scholarships or gain access to the Indigenous student lounge, visit the ‘Indigenous Student Services’ page on the Swinburne website or email indigenousstudents@swinburne. edu.au or leave a voicemail on +61 3 9214 8481.

Core team

Editor-in-Chief

Zara Kernan

print@ssu.org.au

Zara is a tea enthusiast, Twilight apologist and book lover. She’s in her final year of studying a Bachelor of Media and Communication with a major in Professional Writing and Editing, and has been a sub-editor of swine since 2022. When she’s not writing stories, reading or working (as a copywriter) she can be found relaxing with some yoga. She’s looking forward to editing all your wonderful work this year!

Head Designer

Sophie Robertson

designer@ssu.org.au

Sophie (she/her) is a designer by day and still a designer by night. She also happens to be the current designer of swine magazine. She is currently undertaking a Bachelor of Communication Design (Honours). You’ll find her trying to justify buying a too-expensivebut-oh-so-pretty design book, or getting an equally expensive almond croissant. Sophie gravitates towards storytelling that emotionally strikes her in the heart.

Submissions Editor

Matt Richardson

Matt Richardson (he/they) is queer fiction author and editor based in Naarm, whose stories experiment with points of view and the intricacies of queer characters. They are an editor with Meridian Australis, Swine Magazine and Other Terrain Literary Journal. His previous works can be found in Apparition Literary Magazine, TL;DR Press charity anthologies and Swine Magazine. Updates on their work can be found on Instagram @apollopic_s

Sub Designer Tara Mulama

Hi, my name is Tara. I have been a Subdesigner for Swine since mid 2023 and I look forward to continuing that role in 2024!

I'm in my third year studying a Bachelor of Design here at Swinburne, majoring in Communication Design. I love all things creative and look forward to seeing everyones contributions to Swine this year!

Sub-editor team

Charlene Behal

Miles Johnstone

Erin O’Connor

Vanessa Chim

Rachel Li

Alex Schagen

Caitlin Ho

Lucy Pembroke

Edward Roebuck-Jones*

Tamar Peterson*

Dilini Fredrick*

Advertise in swine

Eric Lee Events and Marketing Coordinator Media@ssu.org.au

Stay tuned Instagram @swinemag Facebook @swinemag Website swinemagazine.org

How to Contribute

If you’d like to contribute to future issues or have your work published on our website, check out: swinemagazine.org/contribute or reach out to: print@ssu.org.au

Interested in sub-editing or sub-designing? You can always join throughout the year. Email your application to print@ssu.org.au

*Requested to not display a photo.

Editor’s letter

Dear reader,

Like most writers, I’ve always had a fascination with myths. The fantastical has a way of getting under your skin. From mermaids to fairies (see p.16) to Greek gods and fables, I am endlessly inspired by this tradition of storytelling.

But as we prepared this issue, I found myself asking: what makes a myth?

The Oxford dictionary defines it as, ‘a traditional story…explaining a natural or social phenomenon, and typically involving supernatural beings or events.’

But that lacks a certain spark to me. So, I turned to the words of writers instead.

Author Patrick Ness said, ‘folk tales and myths, they’ve lasted for a reason. We tell them over and over because we keep finding truths in them, and we keep finding life in them.’

So, perhaps the best way to describe a myth is a story with the power to stick around because it moves people.

For our second issue of 2024, we asked contributors to share the myths that move them. In return, we received tales of deserted lands (p.40), men who transform under the moonlight (p.34), old wives tales turned true (p.14) and more. Plus, an impassioned defense of bigfoot (p.38).

So, as you turn the pages, I hope you discover their magic and reflect on the myths that make you.

Happy reading,

Editor-in-Chief

Going Through, Growing Through

Vanessa Perera

‘Talk to your plants, and they’ll grow better,’ Grandma said.

At the beginning of the term, Miss Williams gave the class seed packets. She wanted us to grow a plant, learn about its life cycle, and report back at the end of the year. The optimistic ones picked the beans, strawberries, cucumbers, raspberries, and tomatoes. I was smart enough to pick mustard seeds. I remembered Grandma telling me that they grow faster. She told me that the Bible said that—I believed her.

Maddie told me she overheard her parents say it was the school guilt-tripping parents into buying the expensive stuff. The stuff that Cassidy and Cassandra’s mum packed in their lunchboxes. The twins always bragged about how they only ate ‘organic food’ at home while we waited for our parents to pick us up after school. Of course, my parents never did—Grandma did.

Mum and Dad didn’t know much about what I did at school, but they asked anyway.

‘How was school today?’ Dad would ask while he piled some mash potatoes on his fork or cut through Mum’s rubbery, overcooked steak.

‘Good,’ I would say, picking at the brussels sprouts with my fork. I didn’t think it was important to tell them what went on in school.

Grandma always insisted that they take more interest in what I did.

I didn’t have the patience to watch a plant grow. It was exhausting.

I didn’t know how much water or sunlight a plant needed because I threw the packet with the instructions away.

I didn’t know how much singing or small talk a plant needed. It was hard to care when you were never cared for.

Soon the mustard seeds quickly sprouted, just like Grandma predicted, or the Bible did. The pot was filled with mustard greens that grew despite me not singing to it or watering it each day.

When I miscarried my first child at thirty-one, I wanted to quickly sprout out of the grief like the mustard seeds did out of the soil. I went for walks, I joined support groups and therapy sessions, painted, baked, and God, did I pray. I remained rooted in the bog.

So, I rang Grandma for the first time in two months. I heard heavy breathing on the other end, no voice.

‘Grandma, it’s me, Jen,’ I whispered into the blankness.

‘Oh Jen, I’m so glad you called, my love. I’ve missed you!’ she weakly squealed into the phone.

The mustard seeds grew because Grandma watered them. They grew because she talked and sang to them each day.

When I was 5, I thought I could fly. Not really, But maybe if I tried Hard enough I could at least Move objects with my mind.

When I was 5, I tried on different versions of myself To test out what I liked.

I was a princess on Saturdays, Bejewelled in a plastic crown, At the sticky bowling alley downtown.

Then a fairy on Mondays, With elastic wings, Flying through the garden, Whispering spells into the wind.

I wonder now, How it feels to be that free. Soaring through the air, Legs kicking wildly on the swing.

I wonder how To become her again. Though the fairy wings and crown, Have long since disappeared.

But when I was 5, I was magic Whispered in the wind.

When I Was 5

Zara Kernan

Thunderstorm

When I am huddled in the corner of my room and my breaths get heavier, I wonder if you wonder how different it would’ve been if only you’d kept your promise, but that’s the funny thing. How could you expect someone to live up to swears made under the moonlight just by intertwining fingers?

How could you expect a kid who always dreamt about fairy tales to suddenly accept that all the love she ever had was used up as if it never existed, as if it were a myth?

How could you expect the moon to not listen to the tides?

How could you expect a seedling to not grow when it is watered?

So how could you, how could you expect a person who wasn’t even yours to begin with to hold up the last match that burns inside you when they were the extinguisher?

Slowly yet steadily,

I am trying to recall and jog my memory of the days that have passed by like the leaves of a tree during autumn starting from green, like the grass on your side because when I was painting my story, you were the title but when you were writing yours, I was just a chapter.

As soon as you turned the page, the color of my being turned yellow and pale like the leaves that covered the ground. So, I tried my best to stay red and match the color of blood that pumps in my heart and save a drop of love that wasn’t meant to be saved.

As the leaf came tumbling down and got carried away with the wind, I wondered if you ever cared to look after me or was it so easy to welcome another spring?

If I could draw my own self, I’d just leave the paper empty because at the moment even my silhouette does not recognise me. The only thing my pen writes about is this empty feeling that has no name and the only thing that keeps me sane is the night that is so quiet, it stops me from feeling a thing. The chaos in my mind is loud enough to crumple me up like a piece of paper that the poet throws away when his ink runs dry. I feel like a stranger in my own body, like an impostor pretending to be everything I’d hoped to become but it keeps on failing, disappointing itself through the same miseries.

I still carry the weight of yesterday and the person I used to be. I wonder if I’ll ever come close to becoming free of the guilt that travels with me. Every time I pass by a river and see the pebbles underneath, I feel this sense of satisfaction, almost like I’m aware of everything around me, like the way gravity holds me; it brings me a sense of familiarity. I am scared of getting comfortable again with this feeling of the atmosphere hugging me. So, I slow down my breath one final time.

I cradle myself to sleep, like a kid escaping thunderstorms at night.

kraftløus

Jonas Buerskog

‘kraftløus’

Submitted photography by Jonas Buerskog

Was it easy?

Kazi Tazwar Islam

Was it easy to walk away, to leave our story behind, Did you feel the ache, as you left me undefined?

Was it simple to say goodbye, to turn away and go, Did you ever stop to wonder, the depths of my sorrow?

Was it effortless to forget, all we once held dear, Did you find it painless, to make me disappear?

Was it easy to break my heart, to watch our love decay, Did you ever pause to question, the price I had to pay?

Was it easy to move on, to start a life anew, Did you ever think of us, and all we had been through?

Was it easy to let go, to bid our love adieu, But most of all, I wonder, was it easy for you?

Submitted photography by Kazi Tazwar

‘Vintage’

Islam

Bond

Kayla Willson

You sit on the phone to your estranged father. The cool air pulls at the little hairs on our skin, And you—you are glorious in the glow of the cheap computer monitor. The full moon casts but a small blink, Compared to the enlightenment that flickers in your steel eyes.

Your head hangs low, Wisps and tendrils crawling down your face, Eating away at the space around your eyes, ears, lips. I watch you now, pacing the room methodically, Pleading for just a moment of understanding.

Nothing comes of it, but your words, Beautiful and bespoke, Flowing from a man only just old enough. Showing unfathomable maturity, That is simply lacking in a man twenty years his senior.

You hold your ground, And my heart stumbles. Despite this turbulent tide, Your figure remains statuesque, Not shallow beauty, but the immovable virtues of which you bleed.

Your hands are etched with years of pain, Twirled around your fingers like intricate jewellery. Like tender threads of a woven blanket, That no longer provide the comfort nor fear, You used to know so intimately.

His incessant bickering drifts away with the smoke of your cigarette. Freshly lit, like the dual fires of our hearts, Flowing around this stale room, And leaving me wondering, How this could ever have been called love.

Poetry Club x swine Magazine

His Eye

Simon Owen

A macro photo of you. I stare into your eye. Larger than life.

Zoom in, every crater and mountain decorating That brown marvel of nature. Such weight lies behind it.

The damned spot, Pulling at my heart Like a string of violins.

A deep, black abyss beckons, So much life trapped behind that pupil. Brilliant sparks fly about wildly.

With the twisted braids of fibre-optic cable Threaded through the iris, Spiking outward circularly.

The outer edge rippled, Softly as the frills of a fine oyster. An intelligent glow, slinking lowly.

Life is great when his gaze is upon you. Such shiny ones they are.

Beaming, teeming with lustre. Such beauty you couldn’t dream of.

Submitted photography by Simon Owen

Poetry Club x swine Magazine

Myth

Everything is a ‘myth’: How our lives are structured, How our lives are destroyed, How a life is given, How a life is taken. Is there any gospel truth of life? Or is everything a myth? Guess we will never know And if we ever knew, The ‘myth’ would become a lie.

Poetry Club x swine Magazine

Glare

Ash McCormick

TW: mentions of violence and bullying.

Society glares at me, As I walk on by. I don’t know why, I did nothing wrong. Yet I deal with shouting. The torment is endless. I lay on the floor, Blood dripping from where I am hit. Children laughing, Adults saying they are just playing. But I am not playing. Society glares at me, As I walk on by.

Poetry Club x swine Magazine

Final Draft

Storm Howard

My own mind whispers rumours, it claims I’m a fraud and a cheat. It lies to my ears, my eyes, my face. Self-doubt again proving hard to beat.

But I write my silly words! Boring words of boring. Of drafts and repetitive words, so plain my brain is snoring...

Discouraging lies my mind keeps humming, always so persistently in my ear. Yet I prove it wrong, I write a better something, a version I’d like for you to hear.

A piece deserving of chance, not another to ignore and delete. Now steady and strong is my stance; my mind’s myth shall face defeat.

I have been trapped in a grim place for a while now. Sick to my core, anger swelling in my chest, I’m weary of pouring into cups that always seem empty when it’s my turn to drink. But they are very quick to profess their undying love for me, better than a committed shrink. I feel like I’m caught in a hedgehog’s dilemma all day long. Do I crave to be loved or fear getting too close, only to burn myself alive?

This myth that I am living, of a people-pleasing being, I want to kill. I love her, but she’s ruining my life. Each nod and each smile, each ‘I understand’ and each ‘it’s okay’, a silent scream, a mask I mound from dread and dream. The more I bend, the less I feel my true self behind a seal. This rage in me is humming a different tune. But if I bellow it all out, will I be able exist in this world where I’m only loved if I am flexible enough for them to walk over me?

All these songs and poems speak of an unconditional love, which, to my knowledge, I provide everyone with and yet I’m still not the chosen one. Where is this cosmic love everyone praises? Is this love hidden among the stars, out of reach? Or merely a shadow in the flicker of their promises? Each day, I pour my heart out into this hollow vessel of a world, finding they hold nothing but the echo of my own sacrifices.

I’m not looking for pity. I just ask for my share that I have earned. Where is this love that claims not to tally the wrongs? The myth of perfect, giving love—I chased it, breathed it, lived it—a phantom that fades when touched, leaving behind the sting of its absence.

I loathe the reflection that meets me in the mirror, not for what I see but for what I feel. The anger in me stems from pain—pain of being different from others, pain of disdain. The pain of being a woman, often unseen, cast aside in the shadows. Touched without consent, judged for my skin, my size, my hijab—a piece of cloth that stirs up so much hate, always a mark of debate. The inheritance of my mother’s pain, the agony of her enduring years. The pain of my lands in strife—Palestine,

Silent Rage

Bangladesh, Afghanistan, Sudan, Congo and so many more. Echoes of suffering. Tales of woe.

Everyone around me whispers of good change, of hope, of a time when all will be well, yet the dawn seems out of my reach. A cruel mirage that dances in the distance. How long must I wade through this mire of despair while everyone around me finds their forever happiness? No, I do not seek a perfect ending, a neatly-tied bow over my wounds. I crave acknowledgment of this relentless ache, acknowledgment of the pain I have been put through. The acknowledgment that some storms never pass. They settle in and always sting.

I am done playing the healer, the peacekeeper, always the one to patch up, not even being able to peacefully bleed. I’m tired of swallowing my screams, polishing my rage until it gleams like a button. Pretty for those who caused it, so they don’t feel the burn in their throats from betraying my trust. I want to scream, offend and shatter this oppressive silence. Burn down the facades of false decency.

I’m through with being the bigger person. I would like to make room for my wrath. I want to return every slight, every stab, every condescending remark. Maybe I don’t want peace. I want problems. Problems for those who sleep in peace while I seethe in this anger of mine.

I have suppressed this rage in me for so long that I do not know how to let it go. Writing this will probably be my last hope of getting rid of it, but I know it will only worsen. I’m scared I will bleed on the ones who did me no wrong, and I’m scared I will never be free. Each step I take forward seems tainted by a past hurt that refuses to release its grip, reminding me that some scars are too deep and never truly heal.

Perhaps there is no ultimate release from this torment. No final absolution that can wash away the residue of my anger. The echoes of betrayal and pain will likely reverberate in my heart for a lifetime. A sad symphony with no finale. So, I continue, day by weary day, knowing that my path is one of solitude and struggle, a poignant testament to the cost of bearing an untamed heart in a too-cruel world. This is my existence: to endure, to remember, and perhaps, to slowly fade beneath the weight of my own unshed tears.

The Children of the Night

Crooked teeth, sharp nails, the smell of dirt, and a shave-proof layer of thick, dark hair. Raggedy boots, frayed flannel shirt—scars old and new criss-crossed my discarded canvas of a body. I had a huge family back home, but they weren’t my pack. I didn’t need people like that. This place suited me much better, anyway.

The library lacked its usual shuffling and whispering, and for that I was glad. I was alone with the woody smell of books and the pungent chemical scent of their glossy covers. Well, except for Allistair the student librarian. He never bothered me though. Behind his black wireframe glasses and dark eyebags, his pale complexion often stood out to me among the aisles.

Usually, I’d hear someone coming or smell them. It let me slip away when I wanted to be alone. Allistair’s steps mustn’t have even been felt by the carpet beneath him, and if he smelled of anything, it wasn’t strong.

Vaguely, I became aware of someone speaking near me, and quickly popped out one of my earbuds.

‘Hi, Reece.’ Allistair was sitting on a plush ottoman.

‘A collection of new film journals arrived earlier today, and before I put them up on the shelves, I wanted to see if you would like to borrow any of them.’ He smiled politely, gesturing to a package at his feet.

‘Oh! Y-yeah, sick, thanks.’ I shuffled my feet and shied away behind the collar of my flannel shirt. Even up close, I still couldn’t smell him. To perceive him I had to look at him. Those haunting yet warm eyes, redbrown and precise.

‘It is past six, which is unusual for you. I do not mean to be intrusive, but the library closes for the night shortly.’ His verbosity reminded me of a kindly English butler, but it made me smile.

‘Yeah, ‘course, uhm—I already have to be home by…’ I checked my

Harley Dark

phone. Shit! ‘I’m sorry, I gotta go—like now.’ Panic surged through me; the full moon was already too high in the sky. Fuck. I practically live here. I have to stop losing track of time while reading. I can’t get caught. I think the city already suspects me. If I make a break for it, I could cross the street, reach the tree line—

‘Reece, it’s okay,’ he said.

‘It’s not, you don’t get it.’ I scrambled to get my bag. ‘Sorry, I mean—it’s—it’s complicated.’ I made a break for the door, bounding across the room in two inhuman strides.

‘After 6pm you must use your library card in order to leave, Reece,’ Allistair said, somehow already leaning against the doorway. His voice was steady, calm, and it made me see red. How can you be calm? I can’t let this happen, especially not to you.

With already violent and wild fingernails, I ripped the zip from my bag as I tried to retrieve my card. As my overgrown digits thrashed in vain, Allistair tapped his own card against the entrance. I leapt for the door so quickly that I ripped it from its track, bursting through in a hail of glass. In the lacerating storm, my clothes tore in places and patches of pelt peeked through, dark muscled fur drenched in the ichor of transformation.

My hands collided with shards of glass, and I sprinted wildly down the narrow hall. I collapsed onto all fours, but my speed only increased as my claws tore away at the carpet.

My hands snapped, cracked, and groaned as they lengthened into paws, and my clothes shredded under the strain of expanding flesh and fur. I screamed in anguish, but it came out as a gargled howl. Blood and saliva roared into the air.

When my reflection manifested in the exit door ahead of me, it was a blur of teeth and dark hair, magnitudes larger than I was moments ago. With a vicious swat, I struck it from its hinges and leapt into the night. In the air, I was a bolt of lightning—thunderous, and unyielding. Castoff scraps of fabric shed from me, my hominal concerns with them. This was my element: howling zephyr, claws of the earth, wild kin.

My body rolled as it landed amongst the trees, a dark mass heaving with ragged breath. Metal monsters roared on the long ashen line that bordered the forest, so I retreated further in. Birdsong, whistling wind, and the rushing blood of prey. I inhaled deeply, the fresh air a resuscitating force.

Instincts urged me to hunt, and my ravenous stomach groaned with supernatural hunger. I lowered myself into a snake like belly-crawl and snagged the heartbeat of a deer in my mind’s eye.

Staying downwind, I followed the trail. Every noise echoed in my pointed ears, drawing me like a beacon. Warm flesh, dripping rare carcass, shearing sinews from bone, cracking them open to suck out the

marrow… Saliva drooled from my maw as I envisioned my bounty.

I emerged carefully from the cover of the pine trees, into the clearing where my prey awaited. My cold yellow eyes narrowed, sensing something was awry, and fixated on the buck. It laid in a heap, struck down so recently that I could still smell the life leaving its body. From behind it, a shadow grew. It lengthened its back, rising to stand tall over me.

The form had no heartbeat and smelled not of fear or life. Red ran from its pale lips, the essence of my quarry. My black lips pulled back in a snarl that flashed my white teeth and I grew to my full stature, tail swaying menacingly.

The creature lifted its chin, and the moonlight that peeked through the canopies illuminated its face. A black, insectile shape containing two clear shiny lenses adorned its visage. It lifted an arm with an imperious, sweeping gesture and brushed an impalpable fog from my mind. My hunger vanished in an instant, as a heavy cloud passed across the face of the moon.

‘You are beast, but you are no monster,’ it said from its fanged mouth. It glided across the grass, not a single blade compressed underfoot. A cold but tender hand brushed the fur between my ears. I fixed my charmed gaze on him, and my tail wagged softly.

Allistair. Pack.

It’s Not Your Camera, Us Bigfeet Are Just Really Blurry

Emily Wren

My name is Jared and I’ve been a bigfoot, or as others like to call it a sasquatch, since the day I was born over 300 years ago. My parents were expert roamers in Northern California for many years, spending their days avoiding cameras and scaring campers in the area. We live a simple life, and yet we are subject to endless hatred and scepticism online. I have decided today to use my voice and speak for bigfeet everywhere, alongside other ‘mythical’ creatures who are subject to scrutiny. I will be frank, I AM SICK OF IT.

Misconception 1: Bigfeet don’t exist. Then who the hell am I? In what way should I go fuck myself, so you’ll be satisfied with these rubbish claims?

Misconception 2: The plural for multiple bigfeets is ‘bigfoots’. This is utter nonsense to the highest degree. When you see a pack of bigfeet, yes, multiple sasquatches, it is referred to as such. Not, ‘look, Ma! There’re two bigfoots over there!’ The fact that the literacy that surrounds us is so far behind, or that nobody even considered asking us what we’d like to be referred to is insulting to say the least. Are we not creatures like humans are creatures too? Do we not deserve the same respect?

Misconception 3: If there exists a bigfoot, shouldn’t there be a littlefoot? Yes, that is my younger brother Alejandro. He is adopted and doesn’t like to leave the cave much. He’d rather spend his time playing with those damn sticks all day. Thus, there is no photographic evidence of a littlefoot.

Misconception 4: Bigfeet aren’t real because all the pictures of them are blurry. Alright. Time to drop a bombshell. Us bigfeet just really are blurry. No, it’s not your camera. We just happen to be this way. Our appearance has been the biggest doubt for humans when it comes to our existence. Posing questions such as: ‘well if they’re so real, why can’t anybody capture a proper picture of them?’ YOU HAVE. Like I said, we are just blurry. Sorry.

I hate to be the bearer of bad news, but it’s not just us. Humans have complained for years that ‘if we have these phones in our hands, why can’t anyone get a good image of a UFO?’ Again, another bombshell—they’re really 240p IRL. No, I’m not making this up, look at any image of a UFO and there you have it. It’s not your cameras, their resolution is just incredibly low. Consider it an interdimensional difference between aliens and humans.

Finally, when I was visiting my good friend Nessie in Scotland, we had a big discussion about this. For she too just happens to be blurry. Some may know her as the Loch Ness Monster, a slimy creature that dwells beneath the surface. She expressed to me her disbelief in humans, ‘I mean, the pictureʼs right there,’ she told me. ‘It couldn’t be any clearer even if the lens was just bought today.’ I had to agree. It is so typical of humans to expect everything to be presented to them in a way which they understand. If these ‘mythical’ creatures, who happen to be very mythical, are blurry in pictures, why is it that we cannot accept that they may just be blurry? Open your minds, people. Jesus.

I am making a call to #endthediscrimination against bigfeet and my friends. I am sick and tired of being doubted and treated like an urban legend because of a simple misconception.

I must go scare some campers who may feel like they left their prescription lenses at home. Signing off.

Max Marten

Echoes of Myth

In 2234, our beloved Earth is a portrait of desolation. Life’s vibrant blue and green mosaic has faded to monochrome; vast deserts stretch the breadth of entire continents and whisper tales of forgotten life. Cities, now mere skeletons, choked by the relentless advancing sand. The sun renders the air a thick, suffocating daemon, an unyielding overlord, scorching the planet with raging fury. Battered and broken, humanity clings to survival, battling the encroaching sand. Nature endures, however, in isolated pockets as a little testament to Earth’s resilience against the advancing devastation.

Among the remnants of civilisation lives Orion, a young archaeologist whose eyes don’t burn with defeat like others but instead with a fire of purpose. Fascinated by the ancients, Orion desperately wishes to believe in a world beyond the sandstorm bound horizon, where Earth’s beauty is not just a forlorn myth but a reality. A reality that can be restored. Orion’s life is a mosaic of excavations, ancient texts, puzzle pieces, and scrolled whispers from the past.

On a day like any other, a discovery comes from the shadow of another ruin. A discovery that will change everything: a text. Fragile, almost lost, ravaged by sand and time, yet its words are strangely clear—a hymn to Gaia, the primal goddess who embodies Earth itself. Among the verses is a veiled reference to a secret: lost knowledge with the power to awaken the slumbering vitality of the planet. This revelation ignites in Orion’s soul a beacon in the darkness. To embark on a quest leading into the heart of the mythical scroll hymn—to unearth a hope that could revive the world. It begins a journey following the echo of a myth across centuries. A promise of either renewal or oblivion.

The ancient hymn whispers of the Heart of Gaia, a mythical essence said to have the power to breathe life back into a dying world. With the conviction of one who has finally found purpose, Orion sets sight beyond the endless dunes, beyond the horizon, that promises nothing but more desolation. This quest is one of revival, of seeking out the heart of a planet that has long since forgotten how to beat.

The journey is merciless. The sun, a tyrant in the sky, beats down with a vengeance, and the sands shift beneath as if to swallow all whole. Each step is a testament to resolve, each breath a defiance of the stacked odds. Sceptics mock this quest as folly; rivals, threatened by the potential of discovery, shadow every move. Yet, it is the emotional odyssey that proves to be the most daunting. Doubt creeps to mind like a desert night chill, whispering seductive negations of purpose. The isolation of endeavour, coupled with the magnitude of the task, weighs heavily upon Orion, a constant battle against the erosion of hope.

In the desolate quiet, a voice breaks the silence—a guide, Hermes, neither man nor machine but something more profound. An AI with a soul of ancient myths, Hermes appears to Orion, a beacon of wisdom in digital form, promising guidance through ruins and towards hope. This mentor, bearing the name of the messenger of the gods, provides not only companionship but also illuminates the path with insights veiled to the uninitiated. Under Hermes’s tutelage, Orion learns to read the language of the earth, listens to the whispers of the wind, and begins to see the signs in the stars.

Orion’s trials refine the crucible of physical hardship and the fire of spiritual and intellectual awakening, bringing Orion closer to the mythic sought-after heart. The journey, a labyrinth of external peril and internal turmoil, leads to an oasis, a place out of time, untouched by the sand. This verdant haven, hidden from sight by a veil of neglect over time, is the resting place of the Heart of Gaia.

The discovery is nothing short of miraculous. Amid greenery that defies the sand’s claim to the world, in the heart of an oasis as old as myth, Orion finds it. It is not a gemstone nor a magic wellspring but a convergence of ley lines, a nexus of life force, waiting silently for one to awaken it. The Heart of Gaia calls to Orion. It is a profound connection, a communion of spirit and soil, promising rebirth and renewal.

The guardian, an enigma cloaked in the guise of the Minotaur, dwells not in a labyrinth of stone but one of algorithms and ancient wisdom, a technological marvel designed to test the worthiness of those who dare seek the Heart of Gaia. Each step forward is a battle not just against the guardian’s cunning but against Orion’s own doubts, a psychological trial that tests resolve, intelligence, and purity of intention.

The confrontation is not physical might but mental fortitude. The Minotaur, a sentinel born from the fusion of myth and technology,

challenges Orion with illusions, each obstacle a layer in the maze that is both virtual and visceral. Confronting truth within oneself will save the planet as Orion delves deeper, guided by Hermes’s whispers and a burgeoning understanding of Gaia’s essence.

The answer is something Orion’s Nanna once told: the tale of an onion. The Minotaur morphs and the Heart of Gaia is revealed. Not as a tangible relic but a confluence of ancient genetic codes and forgotten environmental strategies, a blueprint for renewal encoded in the very fabric of life. Hidden within the oasis’s core, this revelation is a testament to the ancients’ understanding of harmony and balance, a path to restore Earth’s ecosystems.

Orion’s realisation that the power to rejuvenate the planet lies not in external salvation but in reclaiming and applying ancient wisdom marks a pivotal moment of transformation. Acknowledging worthiness, the guardian dissipates, leaving Orion with knowledge, the true Heart of Gaia, and the capability to ignite the global renaissance of growth and balance. Orion’s return from the oasis marks the commencement of a profound transformation, personal and planetary. Stepping back into the remnants of civilisation, not as an archaeologist, but as the messenger of a new dawn for Earth.

Initial attempts to share are met with scepticism and hope. Communities, worn down by centuries of survival against unrelenting sand, struggle to grasp the possibility of restoration. Yet, Orion, fuelled by tangible evidence of vitality and wisdom imparted by Hermes, begins to kindle belief among people. Workshops are established, texts deciphered, and seeds of change are sown into soil and soul.

In these moments, Orion observes the subtle signs of an environment recovering. A sprout emerges from parched earth, insects return to pollinate deserts, and a soft murmur of water flows where none has for centuries.

Orion continues to impart The Wisdom of Hermes. Myth, often dismissed as a mere story, is a reservoir of profound wisdom. It carries the seeds of survival and rebirth within. In the cycle of death and life, decay and growth, lies the echo of the journey—a reminder that in facing an existential threat, your most extraordinary guide may well lie in... Echoes of Myth.