Party
Before (The Party)
Sophie Robertson
As the Lioness and Hyena dance
The Dining Table
Grace McGuffie
two-frame
Samuel Booth
Creative Reviews
Lucy Joy Pembroke
Glitter
Grace McGuffie
Nilushi Jayawardena
Brittany Mackay
Sticky Bar Floor
swine team farewell
Zara Kernan, Sophie Robertson and Matt Ivy Richardson
Samuel Booth
Erin O'Connor
Matt Ivy Richardson
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 candle. Sophie gravitates towards storytelling that emotionally strikes her in the heart.
Submissions
Editor
Matt Ivy Richardson
Matt Richardson (he/they) is a 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 @mattivyauthor
Sub-editor team
Charlene Behal
Miles Johnstone
Vanessa Chim Rachel Li
Caitlin Ho
Lucy Joy Pembroke
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
Edward Roebuck-Jones* Tamar Peterson* Dilini Fredrick*
*Requested to not display a photo.
Interested in sub-editing or sub-designing? You can always join throughout the year. Email your application to print@ssu.org.au
Erin O’Connor
Alex Schagen
Khushi Kumar
Harley Dark
Brittany Mackay
Editor’s love letter
Dear reader,
Welcome to the Party—our fourth and final digital issue of 2024.
I can’t believe how quickly this final issue has come around. It’s hard to summarise how much the mag has meant to me so in the interest of reflection, I’m going to crunch the numbers. This year there’s been 1 launch party (with the second on the way), 2 writing competitions, 4 digital issues published, 4 book club meetups, 14 sub-editors join the team, 43 different contributors, 70 pieces of student work published, and too many conversations to measure.
It’s been an honour to be editor-in-chief this year. I’ve loved editing so many talented students’ contributions and working with Matt and Sophie. But I’ll save my final goodbye in all its sappy glory for our team farewell (p.48).
I chose ‘party’ as the final theme because I see this issue as a celebration: a celebration of the year that was, of all things swine, and on a personal note—of my impending graduation.
The following pages contain stories about pre-party anxiety, masquerade balls, birthdays, nostalgic yearning, community and more. This issue is also the launch of swine’s new creative reviews section, written by our sub-editor Lucy Joy Pembroke. From visual art, poetry, reviews and prose, there’s plenty of good stuff to be found inside.
It’s bittersweet for me to dwell too much on this being the final issue, so for now we’ll party on.
Happy reading,
Editor-in-chief
Before (The Party)
Sophie Robertson
Nothing feels worse than the cruel switch from ‘woah, I’m going to a party!’
to ‘help me! There’s a party and I have to go.’
Clad in your favourite worn-shoes, well-loved jeans with rips in the knees and a sparkly top you bought just for the night, you shiver down the footpath in the dying orange light of the sun.
‘A jumper would have been nice’, you force between chattering teeth; they jackhammer through your jaw, vibrating up your skull and rattle inside your brain. Chicken-skin goosebumps line your freshly shaved forearms. You missed a couple of hairs that poke out near your wrist—hopefully no one will notice.
You shakily pull your phone out and the glass reflection highlights your double chin. The blue light pierces your vision—no response from the helpless: ‘hey! are you coming tonight?’.
With no choice but to keep walking, your rubber soles squeak on the cracked concrete path.
You hear the rumble around the corner, some mindless doof-doof radiating out. You haven’t made it to the bend yet, so there’s a chance to leg it back to the train station, crash through the park and crawl into bed without anyone noticing. Shame would attach itself to your back like a parasite but surely that would be better than life-long embarrassment? Right?
A light ping! sings in your pocket. A message from a friend reads: ‘yes yes I’m there already! tell me you’re not far bc im DYING of no-friend-itis. be here soon?’
A small smile spreads across your face and suddenly you’ve got a little bit more fearlessness in you to turn that corner.
With a skip in your step, you lightly jog to the birch front door, streamers from the worn Victorian veranda flow in the breeze that tickles your ears. The house that looked so polished from afar is really just three layers of peeling paint. The faint glitter on the door mat gently sparkles back.
You suck in one last huge breath, quickly tuck your hair behind your ears and muster every ounce of courage to ring the bell.
22
Nilushi Jayawardena
Belle has never seen so many people in her living room before. She is newly five. Her friends have all arrived in their designated princess dresses. Some of them are simply sparkly and pink with multiple ribbons, while others are more specific. Cinderella and Snow White whisper to each other in the corner. They nod to each other, as they drop their sequined bags and slip into the backyard, oblivious that their secret escape is under the watchful eye of at least two grown-ups. The grownups balance napkins, and plastic forks, and broken tiaras. They talk at all volumes, while covering their mouths as they eat. They almost all decline a second serving of cake.
In the centre of her living room, is a grown-up princess who Belle thinks her parents must have asked to come, but she is shocked that they knew where to find one. The grown-up princess towers over the small swarm of puffy dresses, twirling a wand around, drawing hearts on flushed cheeks with face paint. She brought with her a white paper bag, now placed on a coffee table that is covered with crumbs and paper cups.
The grown-up princess can feel eyes on her, and turns with a dazzling smile.
‘Well, does the birthday girl also want some face paint?’ she asks. ‘You can get a special heart next. Come on!’
Tiara slightly lopsided, adorned in glittery yellow flats to match her yellow dress, Belle smiles, but her smile is shy. She can tell that because it is her birthday she should be in the centre with the grown-up princess too, rather than simply watching.
The scene before her constantly moves. She steps forward and is pulled in.
It’s the same living room but different. New couches, fresher carpet, photographs of Belle in long formal dresses with fewer sparkles and ribbons.
The glass of white she was drinking is now lukewarm, neglected after a long conversation with her best friend. They sit facing each other, burger wrappers littering the floor. There is a box of crepes between them. Two candles are placed aside after she blew them out, and wished for something that in a year she will likely scoff at.
‘We’re going to do this thing called birthday candles,’ her best friend tells her. ‘Here. You have to blow out an imaginary candle, and you have to say your favourite memory from each year of being alive. Or whatever memory comes to your mind first.’
Age seven was her grade two teacher who made them sing the most ridiculous songs and then perform them at assembly – the class’s best received performance was a song detailing the confusing mechanics of eating on a plane. Thirteen was the terrible yet imperative year seven camp where she met all her high school friends – terrible because the pancakes had her on bed rest two days later, imperative because she finally had friends who she could complain to about said bed rest. Twenty was the sigh of relief when she got finally got her driver’s licence, after her late teens showed her only paralysing driving anxiety.
And now twenty-two lay ahead, a blank canvas.
There has never been as many people in her living room on her birthday, than the day she stood as Belle, fidgeting her fingers, a sparkly heart on her face.
There is no grown-up princess handing out gifts, or adults to offer their keen eye. Instead, when she’s exhausted all imaginary candles, she picks up the wrappers, and nurses the last of her wine. She hugs her best friend tight, before walking them out to their car, the street dead asleep at 11pm on a weekday. She comes backs inside, and smiles at the cards on her desk, before turning off the light and going to bed.
The scene before her moves and she now moves with it.
As the Lioness and Hyena dance
Brittany Mackay
Like a mosaic, the ballroom ripples with colours. The blues, reds, greens and yellows of billowing dresses and glinting jewels bounce off the candlelight and reflect onto every wall and window.
Many are in attendance to the much-anticipated yearly masquerade. Lord and Lady Burbrooke always pride themselves on having the best ball of the season. They spare no expense yet again. Tapestries cover every wall; glasses of the finest champagne never run dry and exotic meats are a servant’s hand away. This year the crowd prowl under masks of lions, cheetahs, gazelles and elephants.
‘Lady Fletcher, your necklace is divine.’
Lady Fletcher delicately touches the monstrosity, letting the eyes of the ladies around her follow with their gaze. The necklace was a complicated spiderweb of silver encrusted with diamonds––strangling her. But the things a lady must do to keep her social standing are unlike anything else.
‘Yes. My dear husband misses me so, that he buys the finest jewels and sends them to me. Even from the warfront, he would not forget about his wife alone at home.’
The women around her hum in agreement.
The dance floor is a never-ending parade of silk where every lady and gentleman sparkle in their best jewellery. Ladies are spun around and around, letting jealous onlookers watch as gentlemen ask them to dance, even if some are married; it’s not like their husbands are around to notice.
Securing her lioness mask, Lady Fletcher floats along the dance floor’s outer circle. She lets the fine music fill her, timing her every step to each violin pluck like a well-choreographed dancer.
By the shade of a massive vase of exotic orchids she comes to stand, watching furs and feathers pass her by.
A black shadow materialises into a man at the other end of the dance floor.
The man, with dark hair and a sharp chin, takes a young lady’s hand and plants a kiss upon it. She succumbs to a fit of giggles, and her friends around her grow red. The young lady is so enamoured she fails to notice the man slip her bracelet off and slide it into his pocket with a serpent’s ease.
His hyena mask doesn’t hide his devilish smile as he departs, stalking the outer ring. Their eyes catch across the ballroom.
‘Lady Fletcher.’ Turning sharply, Lady Fletcher sees Lord Hemmingway. Though a distance away, he carries the heavy smell of rum. ‘Wonderful to see you.’
Extending her hand in politeness, he kisses it; the wet smack of his lips has hers curling in distaste, but she hides it as he rises. She glances over his shoulder for the stranger, but he’s disappeared back into the crowd.
‘It’s unfortunate your husband couldn’t be here,’ Lord Hemmingway says.
‘Yes, well, like any fit man, he had to be called away to the war.’
Lord Hemmingway flushes redder still on top of his drunkenness. He begins stumbling over his words for some quick retort when a deep voice calls out, ‘sorry to intrude, I wanted to see if this lovely lady was already taken for the next dance?’
The stranger stands taller than both Lady Fletcher and Lord Hemmingway by a margin. Lady Fletcher notices a small nick to his cleft chin and the deep brown shade of his eyes that make them look black under his hyena mask. He smells thickly of smoke, like he just walked in from a men’s lounge full of jovial cheer and gripes over taxes and politicians.
Curiosity takes its hold as Lady Fletcher extends an arm. ‘No, not as of yet,’ she says. The stranger takes it and whisks her onto the dancefloor, leaving Lord Hemmingway to pick up his dignity from the floor.
With ease, one large hand is placed at Lady Fletcher’s waist, and the other encases itself over her hand as they are led into a waltz.
The lioness and hyena begin to dance.
Though he exudes confidence, his dance skills are average as they spin and twirl. The stranger’s hand is warm as he leads them into move after move.
‘You have not alerted anyone yet. Why?’
Lady Fletcher swallows the stone lodged in her throat as her heart picks up in speed. ‘I’m curious is all.’
He laughs. ‘Of what exactly?’
‘How you intend to sell stolen jewels. There is only so much breaking them apart you can do before the authorities catch on.’
When she twirls in his embrace once again, she dares to step closer, feeling his body heat through layers of silk and cotton, hoping the opulent party distracts the onlookers from stirring at her boldness.
Reaching into his pocket she fingers the cold, delicate metal of the emerald incrusted bracelet the young lady was wearing, hidden now within the stranger’s dark vest pocket.
‘Maybe you’ve taken your mask too seriously. I hear hyenas are the scavenges of the African plains.’ She leans close to whisper.
They are now pressed chest to chest, her bosom all but flush against him in a compromising display. The grin on his face is all teeth.
‘Don’t you worry. I have plenty of buyers. Would it shock you if it was someone from within your own circle?’ he leans close to say.
‘My own circle?’
‘The filthy rich.’
‘And you think it won’t be missed?’
‘Oh, I know it won’t be missed. This isn’t my first party, nor is this my first parting gift.’
That cheeky, devilish smile envelopes his face again. He looks more boyish with it.
Every bracelet, necklace, broch and wristwatch sparkle as the crowd begin to politely applaud when the music finishes.
She can see why he’s drawn to such beauty.
Stooping lower than he needs, the man takes Lady Fletcher’s hand and kisses it, right against the diamond of her wedding ring. She’s surprised his serpent’s tongue doesn’t remove it.
‘Lady Fletcher.’
He leaves as he arrived, melting into the shadows of the ballroom and off into the night.
Later, Lady Fletcher steps out into the cool night. The clop of the oncoming horse-drawn carriage is thunderous against the cobblestone.
With the help of the carriage attendant, she closes herself inside, seated deep into the fluffy pillows, half tempted to fling her pinching heels out the window. Her lioness mask pulls against her hair as she takes off.
Alone in the dark she riffles through the folds of her dress. She pulls out the beautiful bracelet, admiring the deep green emeralds. Her heart races as she looks at it, laughter bubbles across her lips as she locks it on her wrist.
This is fun
The Dining Table
Grace McGuffie
It is known that the kitchen is the heart of a home, where food is cooked, secrets are shared, and recipes are forgotten in the motions of creating a feast. But for my family, it’s our dear old dining table, that is the heart of our home.
It’s not the act of making the food that spreads the love throughout my family, it's eating it all together in each other’s company.
The dining table is the most sacred place in my home. It has been the same for as long as I can remember. My whole childhood is etched in its very surface. Every mark, scuff, and stain holds a memory. For every art project, a spill of paint; for each fork war with my siblings; a sauce stain. There was even one moment when the table was completely out of order because we built a fort so good that our parents allowed it to stay up until the end of the school holidays. My parents always allowed our creative freedom even if it was at the expense of our dinners.
The game nights always get crazy and chaotic and sometimes end in tears, but those nights are always the best. There’s a permanent game that sits at the end of the table in case of emergencies (when boredom hits).
It is the epitome of nostalgia.
Now that I’m older I’ve noticed the joy in the little things like our weekly Sunday dinners and family get-togethers that always make it back to those same chairs and our dear old dining table.
That’s not to say we don’t throw parties with themes, dress-ups, a marquee in the backyard filled with laughter, dancing and maybe a drink or two. Then there’s our more lowkey events such as sitting around a campfire, passing around a phone to queue our favourite songs for the guests to listen to.
I love those moments, I live for those moments, but my favourite isn’t one with blaring music and flashing lights, it’s the sweet spot right after dinner when the plates have been cleared but we haven’t moved from our seats. The conversations are flowing from one topic to another, bouncing off each other, adding to jokes, creating new ones, telling stories from our days and reminiscing on old ones.
To our dear old dining table, you have been so deeply loved.
two-frame
Samuel Booth
Visions of suburban things and the sun sets around me; I see the Banksia’s got it’s Autumn bloom, the absence of summer families echo on. I pace this coast, and the spinifex dunes erode. At my side, the blanket of seaweed decays. Like a white lace unveiling, seafoam follows the low-tide's tiring, gradual, withdrawal, it carries upward toward the sky just the same.
Everything so sudden; a quickening wind, a dozen empty nests return to the earth, becoming just sticks and rubble again. So I remember, this is March, when everything is static, static to the ways of changing. Similar is the second nature of knowing; the way seabirds know which way / when / a warmer place is calling. See I lost a second nature, everything second, now third. I stay put too long—in memory and in dreams— evading the wind of a new migration; political tension, men and the way they ruin. Stubborn to change, I stand by the coast and feel the wind blow in from the west.
And if I watch the waves long enough to forget about the wind still tearing at my clothes, I am reminded; one feather finds another, sunlight looms the storm. The issue is I so easily forget, you, like me, unfold same as the cherry tree—flower and decay—everything an act of prevailing, and existing, in the time of decay.
Time —I breathe a deep breath to sustain this heart beating—rapid. I breathe this southerly, and I am no tree, but a weed transplanted. There's something thread through the two shallow breaths though I can't, quite, pick it.
If the difference is a matter of where I'm standing, if the difference is the same as a memory, and a memory of a dream. Is it the same, irrelevant difference between rats and sparrows? I write it out, on walls, to save a hundred sheets of paper. I stand back and watch the way a wall cracks, and some day, satisfied, I’ll wear the ink stains same as a flower wears the weather.
In smudged black ink, I write what I want, and hate what I want, so I bend the truth of its genesis, the genesis of a haiku…
Sun-flares through the lens I am looking Dead is his leaves in winter wind
And I am the wind
Fragile wind swept into storm / And ego is...
Calling yourself a storm
So, I shrink...
Back to fragile wind
PARTY Creative Reviews
By Lucy Joy Pembroke
Talk talk featuring Troye Sivan
Just when you thought the era of BRAT was coming to a close, pop icon Charli xcx releases a highly anticipated remix with Troye Sivan. On the cusp of their joint tour, Sweat, Talk talk featuring Troye Sivan is freaky, flirty, and epitomises what it means to party.
Playful in their lyricism, Charli and Troye discuss the possibilities that lie in meeting someone new, accompanied by an unwavering and hypnotic beat. The song is bookended by popstar Dua Lipa speaking French and Spanish, hinting that half the fun of a night out is getting to relive it with your friends the next day (preferably over some hangover cures and funny anecdotes).
With lines like ‘I’ll be honest you scare me’, and, ‘the more I know you, the more I like you’, Charli and Troye are transparent about the irrationality of crushing on strangers, admitting a universal experience that never loses its charm, and is a huge part of party culture.
Charli and Troye have collaborated numerous times throughout their careers, and each of their newest albums (Something To Give Each Other and BRAT), share a theme of being liberated through sexuality and embracing this side of ourselves.
Through this, Talk talk featuring Troye Sivan is an ideal collaboration for these two artists. It captures the feeling of arriving at a party and instantly clicking with someone. Friend or foe, romantic or platonic, there is something so electric and intoxicating about meeting someone and trying to figure them out.
This song is an anthem for those who know what they want and are proud to say it. It’s a perfect follow-up to Charli xcx’s world-class album, BRAT, and is a fantastic way to kickstart the excitement for her upcoming remix album: Brat and it’s completely different but also still brat.
Courtesy of Charli xcx, Spotify
After The Party
After The Party is a six-part drama series that questions morality, perception, and the phrase ‘innocent until proven guilty’. The show is about a woman who accuses her then husband of committing a sex crime with an intoxicated minor at a birthday party. After a year-long investigation which has now been closed, After The Party explores the lives of the people at the party, and how they choose to deal with the aftermath of the investigation.
Robyn Malcolm plays the series’ lead, Penny Wilding, a high-school teacher who is driven to near-madness by her need to be believed. Malcolm is unfearing in this role, playing a character that is difficult to love and/or hate. With an unreliable and unlikeable narrator at the centre of the story, we are repeatedly left with doubts about her motivations. By questioning if Penny is any better than the other characters, perhaps even worse, the audience’s allegiance remains unclaimed. This extent of story manipulation is one of the key elements that sets After The Party apart from the typical mystery-drama series.
Playing opposite Malcolm is Peter Mullan, who plays Penny’s ex-husband Phil. He is a good-natured Scotsman who simply wants to move on now that the case has been dropped, his marriage with Penny has ended, and his life has forever changed. Penny and Phil share a daughter, Grace (played by Tara Canton) and a granddaughter. The relationships both Penny and Phil have with these girls play a significant part in swaying the audience's bias. This is another opportunity for the audience to turn on Penny, much like the rest of the community involved.
Without wanting to give too much away, After The Party dissects the concept of morality through the flaws of its characters and their complex relationships. It is set in Wellington, New Zealand, which offers a gorgeous backdrop for this haunting story. By assessing the events of the party episodeby-episode, the inciting incident of the series is constantly picked apart. Who is telling the truth? Is this all for the best? Or would it simply be easier to let bygones be bygones?
After The Party is one of the most wellexecuted and chilling shows that I’ve seen in a long time. It is intricate, all-consuming, and asks the audience the following impossible questions: If you saw something wrong, or thought you did, would you take a stand against it? Even if that stand meant effectively losing all that matters to you?
Think about it, watch the show, and then get back to me.
Courtesy of ABC iView
Glitter
Grace McGuffie
I can hear the music from down the street, where Mum has dropped me off. The thumping of the beat matches the thumping of my heart. I am nervous.
I don’t do parties.
But in the spirit of you only live once, and with a push and a shove from a few friends, here I am, walking towards the house. The front is decorated with a big sign that says: ‘PARTY IN BACKYARD, USE BACK DOOR’, well great, for some reason that makes my skin crawl.
Before pushing the back gate open, I repeat in my head drink first, dance later, drink first, dance later like a mantra just to keep me sane. With a big breath and a fake smile, I walk into the carnage of a 19th birthday party.
In the search for my friends on the dance floor, I see her. It’s like a scene out of a movie. Time has stopped. I have to know who they are. They dance with such freedom and grace. Without a care in the world.
But first liquid courage, drink first, dance later…Once the buzz of my tequila and lemonade takes its effect, I give in to the encouragement from my friends to at least introduce myself. I make my way over.
The minute we make eye contact she smiles. I am hooked before I even know her name. It is beautiful but let’s call her ‘Glitter’ to match her eyeshadow.
The whole night, we talk, dance, flirt and just really enjoy each other’s company. Maybe I do like parties if it means I get to meet a sweet girl.
As the night dies down, like all things this comes to an end, and it is my time to go home. Mum being the designated driver for the night, waits at the same spot she dropped me off.
My heart starts to thump. Will I ever get to see ‘Glitter’ again? When we say our goodbyes, I feel my heart sink. I know that once I get into the car I won’t have the confidence and security within myself to tell my mum about this amazing girl I have just met.
Walking to the car I can feel the night slip away from me. Swallowing the lump that’s formed in my throat and plastering on a fake smile, I open the door.
But then I wake up, in my bed, the sun shining through my window. The pit is still in my stomach, my mind is telling me something, and my dreams are telling me something. ‘Glitter’ is all but a dream.
I make a choice that morning: I will be truthful to myself and to the world because of that girl from my dreams.
I see her everywhere, like glitter she is stuck with me forever.
Faded Laughter
By Kazi Tazwar Islam
The man I am, with weary stride, Treads paths where grown-up worries hide. Yet deep within, a whisper calls, From schoolyard days and hallowed halls.
The bell would ring, we'd laugh and run, The world was small, the world was fun. Our books were maps to distant lands, Our hands unmarked, by life's demands.
Now life is bills and bustling streets, A chase for dreams, for distant feats. But in the stillness, when I rest, I feel the boyhood in my chest.
The games, the friends, the endless sky, A time when I could simply fly. Though time moves on, and I must too, I yearn for days beneath skies of blue.
Her eyes are like a quiet stream, Where moonlight dances, soft and gleam. They speak in whispers: tender, light, A thousand stories in the night.
In every gaze, the world feels new, A sparkling warmth in every hue. They hold the sun, they hold the stars, Through them, I’ve wandered lands afar.
Her eyes, they speak without a word, A silent song that’s always heard. And within their depths, I lose my way, Yet find my heart, where I will stay.
With every glance, I drift and roam, Into the love her eyes call home. So let me soar in endless skies, The boundless beauty of her eyes.
The Language of Her Eyes
By Kazi Tazwar Islam
Mum of the Group
Idalya Brown
I’ll never have another one. Mum got too excited. She said she was on her best behavior, but she got that infantile smile when the doorbell chimed, all bunched cheeks and jittering, wet lips. And when that smile became more certain, and her drink lurched at its rim, I knew she was ready to make the jump, take it too far. And I was stranded with her, eyes locked on that woman-child, watching her dribble down adulthood’s chin.
I watched her marionettes swell and stretch to better engulf two, three, four shots—she poured, she offered, she hogged, and no matter my grip on her forearm, my hissing in her ear, she laughed louder, she bore through me. Kids lapped about her, ogling, a slither too polite to video. But they swapped glances at me, awkward amusement tugging on their sadistic smiles and hesitant eyes. All night I was ready to leap and tackle her as she danced, fiddling and ferreting in her heels—I should have jumped on her jaws and sat tight. I was a cowardly chaperone, looking for that oft imagined version of her, who I’d beg to step in to help when she blew out my candles and clung to my boyfriend—she’s ruining the party. She ruins everything.
I watched her on the lawn, drenched in dawn’s sweat, dress ridden up, pathetic bellows at stragglers to stay screeching out of that lacquered throat. Everyone took a wide berth.
And after all that, she just turned and looked at me, legs spread, palms massaging the grass, this sweet frown on her face. God, she was pissed. Just not as much as I was.
Slim Pickings from the Wasteland
Jack Wu
Dad was right…well, half right, procrastination would be the end of me. Now I’m left scavenging whatever excess goodies people had to leave behind when the bombs fell, or was it a colossal asteroid collision? Solar flare? Lizard people? You know, I probably shouldn’t be trusting the words of the stark-raving loon who robbed me. Should’ve kept up with the news, would’ve prepared me for what was to come. Doesn’t matter— still screwed—the only thing I have left is a jar that nutcase left behind.
The label is haphazardly ripped off the glass—leaving glue residue, a thin layer of worn paper lazily scraped at, and me guessing about the contents. Lifting it up, all I can see is a pitch-black liquid, it’s packed so tightly that when shaken it doesn’t feel like whatever’s inside is moving around. The lid is stuck tight; I consider smashing it on the ground. I've eaten worse. It'd be a waste to leave it.
Perhaps I should have tried knocking on a bunker and asking if anyone was willing to give any leftovers. Although, finding charity would honestly be harder. I don’t know too many people ready to hand limited resources away to scavengers, strangers or this emaciated ghoul.
I watch cockroaches scuttle away into darker crevices, the light gleaming off their exoskeletons being the only way to keep track of them. Hey, at the very least, that’s a backup plan. I try popping the lid off by smashing the lip of the jar against a rock. I do a better job of smashing my fingers. I find a thin piece of scrap metal, stick it between the lid and jar, trying to wedge it open. No luck, it’s like one solid piece. I grip tightly and twist with what strength I have left, testing it against the lid. Embarrassingly, nothing.
One last trick, interlocking my fingers, I place my palms around the lid and squeeze. Squeezing like I’m trying to crush an apple, I attempt to break the vacuum. Until a pop rings out—twisting it open, I take a sniff, and a complex bitter smell pierces my nostrils. I hold myself from gagging.
I stick my fingers in and fish out a clump of something, covered in a deep amber gel. With a quick flick of the wrist, I try shaking off what could be some sort of sauce. The goo splatters onto the floor with the viscosity of paint. I pinch the wad between my fingers—it feels sticky yet has a firm bounce to it—the same amber sauce oozes out of its pale grey shape. My best guess…it’s some kind of meat…thing? I give it a lick. My tongue doesn’t register any known flavours and my body reflexively tries to reject it.
Thinking on it, I’m not actually that hungry. Maybe I could scrounge up some bug mush instead…you know, something a bit more palatable. My stomach gurgles, I swear it shakes the ground around me. I watch the remaining insects scatter into the dust. There goes plan B. I let out a deep sigh, no more lollygagging now. What better occasion to prove Dad wrong, I guess? Time to follow through with something in my life for once. I hold a meat thing in front of my mouth and close my eyes and try to focus on the first positive thought in my head. I need sustenance, and, well…at least it’s protein.
(pity) party
By jamin
Size
21 cm x 29.7 cm
Medium
Mixed media
Artist’s description
I think the term and idea of ‘party’ is usually associated with positivity and celebration. However, I sought to challenge this perspective by presenting the idea of a ‘party’ in a more melancholic light. Specifically, I explored the deep sadness and trepidation associated with party events like birthdays to depict my personal encounters with such occasions. I wanted to delve into the bittersweet nature of gatherings, where amidst the laughter and merriment, there is an undercurrent of longing and introspection. (pity) party is my attempt at deconstructing the forced optimism and the external facade of celebration, to reveal the internal conflict that often lies beneath the surface of social gatherings and festivities. I hope to shed light on the complexity of human emotions and the pressure to always appear happy and carefree in social settings.
Your canned cologne
Storm Howard
The smell of your cologne It comes in cans Bottles and caskets too You wear it all the time Mostly at night It's all I ever breathe
The smell of your cologne Is an odd smell
One I can't get used to You wear it all the time You should stop that Stop buying all those cans
Party change
Ash McCormick
Parties change as you get older
The fun that came when you were younger
The games had prizes and everyone giggled
The food was delicious
Especially the Aussie original of fairy bread
As
you get older
The less fun you have
When you become an adult
You want to make silly decisions
Brand yourself with ink for your birthday
Dance at the most dangerous of places
Things were easier when we were young
The parties were always aesthetically pleasing
Parties change as you get older
The fun that came when you were younger
Contradicts the lack of fun when you are older
Ceder
Samuel Booth
I dream into an estuary past this crescent coast. I lay my head in hope, a Moonah trunk twists around me kindly. I cross the hill where the new daises bleed, not to plot a picketfence, but to let cold water rush us over.
With worn hands, I want to point and know the name of every living thing. The travelled, literate, man of better words says, that's the Hakea and there the Acacia. The better man submits himself to nature. Every shrub, tree and weed: I turn the leaf over. I spent myself on rivers—tossing stones—now I'm headed to the dry center.
See I've got poison in my blood; call it colony, monarchy, say it, you must whisper. Somewhere there’s a forgotten remedy, I hear it’s buried, but it's breathing.
Far from the city and estuary, feel the red dirt like an ethanol flame Lapping up the blackberry, red ant, invisible it spreads to the feral cat, and brumby, raining ashes of the English ivy.
With warm charcoal, on a granite boulder, I scribble a name for this imagining of nature unconquering the ceder.
In the dry wind the words drift, and fire spreads the same. So, I gather flammable things to feed a flame: shame and some enmity I have a lot to learn about the ways a fire cleanses.
In the red dirt, I see a snake circling. Ouroboros is one more whisper, the snake slithers around its meaning. So, lead the snake to water, see it drift across the burning sand, It needs compass, it needs power, it's trying to catch its tail. If you reach for the axe to sever the head, well, that's the poison talking.
Submitted photography
Empty
Erin O'Connor
TW// this story contains themes of depression and miscarriage
‘Shhh, she’s here!’
Behind the closed door to the living room are hushed voices and scurrying feet. Faintly I can smell lavender and overly sweet baked goods. My older sister holds my hand a little too tight, her acrylic nails pressing into the soft flesh of my wrist, her palm sweaty. The muscles between my shoulder blades are stiff and achy as I wait. She turns to me, grinning, before turning the doorknob and excitedly ushering me inside.
‘Congratulations!’ A cacophony of voices yell, all in different keys and all too loud.
I balance my expression between shocked and happy, pressing my hand against my stomach as I take in the room. Sky blue and rose-petal pink balloons cover every inch of the ceiling, and white cardboard letters spelling baby are hung up by twine over the fireplace. A pyramid of presents consumes the coffee table at the centre of the room, and a wooden cot sits next to the couch, filled with an assortment of plush animals and doll-sized clothes.
People are swarming around me, pressing gentle hands against my stomach and on my shoulders. They are all talking at me, not to me.
I’m guided over to a spare spot on the couch next to my husband, who looks out of place in the sea of women in the room. His skin is ashen sandpaper, and he sits as though the air has been ripped from him. He looks at me silently and brushes his hand against mine where it lays on the seat cushion.
It’s been four days since the 20-week checkup. We’ve barely spoken to each other since. We’ve tiptoed around, scared that if one of us speaks too loudly or makes any sudden movements the other will shatter.
‘Let’s get this party started,’ I hear my sister say from the kitchen, followed by the pop of a champagne bottle being opened.
She walks back into the lounge holding the bubbling bottle and a glass of something yellow.
‘Just juice for you, of course,’ she says with a wink. Everybody laughs.
I finish the glass in one swig, wishing it were something stronger. My husband strokes the back of my hand with his thumb. I try to accept his attempt at comfort, but it doesn’t distract from my hollowness. I am a cavernous space my little girl used to fill.
In an instant everything becomes too much. The voices are too loud, the colours too bright, the feeling of his hand over mine suffocating. I rise from the couch and slink down the hallway, the chatter from the living room fading as I enter our bedroom and sit on the edge of the bed. The sheets are cold against my thighs, even through my jeans. The room is dark and messy and stale, and crinkled tissues litter both bedside tables. A gap in the curtains lets a sliver of daylight through, and in the spotlight I can see slowly dancing dust particles. I suck in as much air as my lungs allow, and I let my thoughts wander.
In my mind I carry my baby’s perfectly tiny body in my arms, her minuscule hand gripping my seemingly giant index finger. Her cotton candy onesie stretches over her full belly, which rises and falls as her breathing slows. She gets her nose from her dad, her hair from me. We sit there for hours, her sleeping soundly and me memorising every inch of her.
A soft cough breaks my focus, and I look up to see my husband standing in the doorway.
‘Hun, people are starting to wonder where you are,’ he says quietly. He’s looking at me with an expression contorted with pain and sympathy. He looks as if he’s aged ten years in one weekend. His gaze moves to my lap briefly before he turns to leave. I look at the space he’d glanced at, confused.
I realise I’m holding a cold, perfectly ironed newborn onesie, the Kmart tags still attached by transparent plastic ties. It remains empty and unused.
Sticky Bar Floor
Matt Ivy Richardson
I realised it in what some might think a strange moment. To me, it felt fitting. To those around me, strangers and friends, nothing would look out of place. But my mind was racing, an immediate understanding of myself that left me stumped.
I was okay.
We were in a busy bar surrounded by other authors, so cramped that it was overwhelming, and I should have been looking over my shoulder with every chime of the bell above the door, but I wasn’t. I let it ring, I kept talking, kept laughing and barely paid attention to who was in the room with me.
I hadn’t done that for almost two years. It was constant: the paranoia, the need to look in every corner for a familiar face even if it wasn’t possible for him to be there. I couldn’t leave the house without worrying for hours about what I would do if I saw him.
And yet—there I was—standing in a circle of friends and new people, not caring about it. And it was easy.
Even the knowledge that I hadn’t been keeping an eye on the door didn’t send me into a spiral. I glanced around the room mostly out of habit, a mere flutter in my chest where there was once a storm, and tuned back into the conversation with a smile. The stickiness of the bar floor kept me rooted in place, made it impossible to look further even if I wanted to.
Once aware, I couldn’t push the thought away, lingering on it like I once would with the fear.
Should I be looking for him? He was an author, and we were in a room full of them. There was such a large chance that he would be somewhere among them.
And yet, as far as I could tell, he wasn’t.
And it didn’t even matter if he was.
I had always believed that the day I could go out and not once think about running into him would be the day I finally did. Sometimes, it’s good to be wrong.
Someone made a joke, something that was forgotten the moment it reached my ears, but I laughed anyway. It felt good, like bubbles in my chest, and I took a sip of the forgotten drink in my hand. Crisp cider, not the wine I hadn’t been able to drink for two years—always reminded me of him—but I wanted some in that moment. Something sweet, something to reclaim, something mine again.
The floor of the bar was so sticky. I hated it. I loved it. It was there and real and I was right in the middle of it.
I grinned at my friends despite the crush of bodies around us and the cider that had spilled over my fingers. I let myself become one with the crowd and enjoy the night for the first time in a long, long time.
My friends pulled me into a shuffling dance, and I flung my head back in laughter, unashamed.
It was exhausting and wonderful. It was perfect.
swine team farewell
Zara Kernan, Sophie Robertson and Matt Ivy Richardson
Hello!
I can’t believe this is the final digital issue of swine for 2024. It seems like just yesterday I was fretting about whether we’d get enough submissions and how to operate wordpress. I never quite worked out the latter, but thankfully the former was not an issue!
We’ve been lucky enough to receive heaps of incredible student work in our inbox and put together 4 issues that I’m so proud of this year.
I found swine in my first year when my writing lecturer Carolyn mentioned it as an opportunity for students to get their work published. This immediately excited me. It was made entirely for and by students, it generated community and it sparked creativity.
I started sub-editing for swine in 2022 when the wonderful Zoe was editor. She taught me so much and really grew my confidence with editing. I continued in 2023 with the talented Fantine as editor and even (nervously) had a go submitting my own writing. It was a real honour to step into the role of editor-in-chief at the start of this year.
I’ve loved working in this role and my favourite memory has been the launch party at the end of semester one. It was so rewarding to hear contributors read out their work, hand out physical copies of print issue Part I and finally put my ‘swine party’ playlist to use (it’s mostly just Chappel Roan).
So much of this magazine is put together remotely. For my part, I’m mostly just by myself on my laptop at 1am googling things like ‘em dash use’ and ‘why semicolons?’—not to ruin the mystery of it all (note that dash placement there).
But this made it all the more lovely to come together in person and meet all the talented students who write/edit/photograph for the magazine. swine is a celebration of you and I hope to see it continue as this creative outlet for many, many years to come.
As I write this, I’m really looking forward to our second launch, where I’ll get to see you all again and hand out this farewell in print issue ‘Part II’ (another peak behind the curtain there; all very meta). I feel so lucky to have met so many new, wonderful people through swine and this community has made my last year at uni so special.
I guess what I’d really like to say to you all is thank you. Thank you for reading, thank you for contributing and thank you for sub-editing.
Last but not least, thank you for partying with us.
Long live swine!
- Zara x
Hey, reader!
One quiet afternoon in 2021, I discovered swine on a random table in the AR building corridor. I was a terrified and worried student who had just graduated from Year 12 during lockdown (a very weird and traumatic year) and didn’t realise how much I needed a piece of swine in my life.
I shyly sent an email shortly after containing a poem that had never left the notes app on my phone before and was overjoyed to hear it would be published (first time being published!) After submitting for the next few issues that year, I realised the team at the time were looking for a subdesigner. I leaped at the opportunity and couldn’t believe my eyes when they said yes.
I had the honour of working with the incredible Adele and Zoe, who were fundamental in fostering my love for making a platform for otherwise unheard student voices to shine. Thank you to Zoe for reading my longwinded email submissions and to Adele for taking me under your wing and answering all my millions of questions!
Then in 2023, I gladly accepted the role of head designer and had a blast with Fantine. I’m so glad I got to shape swine to how it looks and feels today—you were a huge part of that so thank you thank you thank you! And to finish off in 2024, I was very lucky to team up with Zara and Matt (dream team)!
Over the four years I’ve been connected to swine, every single person, whether they were the editor, volunteer, contributor or admiring from afar, each moment has been an incredible emotional rollercoaster. The English language doesn’t do it justice when I say that swine has a special place in my heart that will remain forever.
I want to thank everyone who edited my submissions, read my poetry contributions, saw my illustrations and held the issues I’ve designed over the last two years in their hands. Every time you collect another swine mag issue, you carry a piece of us with you.
When you read this final issue for 2024, I hope you feel proud to be a part of this community of book lovers, readers, writers and paper enthusiasts. These magazines are made from love and care, so maybe we can share some of that with you while you read, skim or flick through. A humongous thank you to everyone who submitted something this year. Without your time and efforts, this magazine would cease to exist. You keep us alive with your words, artwork and creativity. My message to
anyone who has ever wondered what it is like to submit their work to a student magazine—do it! Don’t think too hard, just put yourself out there and your bravery could be rewarded.
My hope for swine’s future is that this collective of people and creators live for as long as possible. This magazine is worth fighting for and deserves a place in your hands and on your shelves. Grab your pitch forks and flaming torches and stand up where you can—so many people since the 1980’s have made this magazine so special, so keep that flame burning and those pages turning.
And to the future swine team; be kind to each other. This is a team effort where things only happen when you work together. And to the future designer of swine—keep your typography skills sharp and your layouts crisp (and don’t underestimate the power of a captivating image with a touch of grain).
Signing off, Sophie
Hello everyone!
Can’t believe we’re up to the final issue of the year! Working on this year has been a wonderful experience. I’ve learned so much and worked with some amazing sub-editors. I am immensely proud of everything we have made this year. Issue Three was the biggest issue I have worked on in the two years I’ve been volunteering for the magazine, and I am so happy with how it turned out.
I am so grateful to have been given the opportunity to work alongside Zara and Sophie, as well as our many sub-editors. Everyone has done some fantastic work this year. A massive thank you to Zara for giving me the chance to be swine’s submissions editor this year, it’s been so much fun.
I hope everyone has enjoyed what they’ve read this year. We’ve seen so many different interpretations of our themes that prove that university magazines give so many students the freedom to explore all kinds of topics and styles that normally might not be published, topics that can only be explored within the context of a university magazine. I’m glad we’ve been able to give that opportunity to so many emerging artists and I’m excited to see where they all go from here.
swine is a representation of the students of Swinburne, and I’m glad to have been someone who could help bring their words and art to life. Thank you all so much. I’m looking forward to seeing what swine becomes next year.
- Matt
In collaboration with Swinburne Writing Programs
17 October, 6:30pm
swine Semester Launch
Semester 2 Launch Party!
