Verse Magazine - Edition 57

VERSE

ACKNOWLEDGMENT OF COUNTRY.

It was and always will be Aboriginal land.

Verse Magazine acknowledges the Kaurna, Boandik and Barngarla First Nations People as the traditional custodians of the unceded lands that are now home to the Univeristy of South Australia’s campuses in Adelaide, Mount Gambier and Whyalla. Verse Magazine respectfully acknowledges their Ancestors and Elders, past, present and emerging. Verse Magazine also acknowledge the Traditional Custodians and their Ancestors of the lands and waters across Australia.

EDITOR’S LETTER

Welcome to the Autumn edition of Verse Magazine.

It’s been a very exciting start to the year, with Orientation and Campus Fair welcoming new and, not so new, students to explore what’s on offer around the university grounds. I was fortunate enough to attend both events, where I met many fans who excitedly introduced themselves and shared enthusiastic views on what Verse Magazine has meant to them. Kiara, an international student, said:

“I was so excited when I saw my design published I had to send a copy to my family in India.”

Listening to stories like these was our inspiration for the Destiny theme.

Destiny is a powerful word; it can define your purpose, encourage reflection, and be a tool to prompt experiences yet to come. For some, destiny can be a spiritual journey, a path with an unspoken outcome, a specific quest, or an inner force that drives us to do something worthy.

Nelson Mandela said, “I am the master of my fate and the captain on my destiny…”

However we interpret the notion, within our minds, destiny is a place of conviction.

In this edition, we congratulate the book prize winner, Prisha Mercy, for her tenacious poetic flair in depicting this theme. Her creative piece, A Tapestry of Love, is intelligently written, rhythmic and beautifully captures the craft of poetry.

Aside from poetry, Edition 57 offers an array of short stories, including emerging writer Grace Fatchen, who shares a South Australian adventure with her beloved “blue foldout chair, swag, and Corolla.” Artworks and photography pieces are also plentiful, and choosing the cover page was tough!!!

This edition unleashes misty moods from photographer Tokkie Harshdeep, Oak Buckley’s animation Inbound, The Butterfly Effects from designer Olivia Halliday and more.

Music buffs will love chilling out over the Spotify picks; perfect background music to take on the crossword challenge and zodiac quiz.

We share highlights from our socials and announce a short story writing challenge for those seeking further incentive. Tip #1: read the guidelines!

If writing is your thing, don’t miss reading acclaimed author Dr Ben Stubbs’s tips and tricks for emerging writers. As a travel writing master, among many other genres, his wealth of experience is worth noting!

The next edition of Verse Magazine will adopt the theme Balance. Submit by April 29 for a chance to win a membership with Writers’ SA. How cool is that?

We hope you enjoy Edition 57 as much as we have putting it together.

Melissa

A SPOTIFY PLAYLIST

Cruel Summer by Talyor Swift

On My Way by Sheppard

Sunset Boulevard by Hohyn Black Friday by Tom Odell

I

Saw you in a dream by The Japanese House Slow Burn by Kacey Musgraves Getting Down by Sid’s Balcony

scrutiny

WORDS by eoghann nivall

is it the first wind that blows the oxygen through your bones and out your lungs, the first cry jumping out with blunt force?

is it the branch your seed sprouts from, or what nurture the roots channel up to you? what wounds force the veins to swerve and scrape or miss your soul?

is it the god you are raised below, or the one you discover as you deconstruct your inner workings? is it the devil you were told to raise yourself above, or the one that grew cancerous within as your cells rebelled against themselves?

is it the hand that moulds you, or the clay from which your figure is formed? is it what stars are aligned the moment you are born, or the ones that are shining blindingly bright the night you are conceived?

what design are the bricks that pave your fate? has their value lost lustre under trampling ambitions, or are yours the inaugural soles pressing down on their unmarred hues?

and what kind of ink flows from my author’s pen? do i have any power in how the strokes compose what’s written? is there more to being real than just thinking that i am? like me, do you ever wonder if this could be the promised land?

i was born in mid-summer mourning under a sagittarian moon, waning patience as she awaits the first bloom of her light kiss upon my cheek, as i am held away into my first ever night’s sleep

i was born with a name i can no longer speak, can only bare its echo in mother nature’s homilies; alighting from the hymnals of birds and confessional leaves, it is held harmonious and peachly sweet, like the morsel in the palm of the questioning eve,

but pulled through human chords it is harsh wires yanked from castrated pipe organs and wrapped around my limbs slicing into freshly healed flesh through to mending bone as it strings me backward falling passed father time all that i can do is release a screaming plea for angels as the colossal cosmos dwindles to a pinprick before my eyes; but at the cost of denying murky water from the river, for bright garnet blood in a stolen chalice, i can pay for my resurrection within three days; requiesce in pace.

dear mother, how i am sorry for scrubbing myself of the name you anointed so gently as holy oil upon my soul; is it absurd to request the last of your forgiveness when there’s a fragment i still hold from you of my own?

is this where we were always bound by lineage to find ourselves fallen?

was there any line or crevice we could have cut into the mountainous carving of us to shift the rapid cascade?

Inheritors we are of legacy’s thread, Passed down through ages, in words left unsaid. Each stitch, each seam, a story to tell, Of destinies intertwined in love’s gentle spell.

In the silent hum of Singer’s old machine, A grandmother’s hands, steady and keen. With each careful stitch, a legacy told, In the fabric of time, her stories unfold.

Another shies away from the camera’s sight, Hiding from the lens, with a gentle plight.Her presence felt in every shadowed frame, Her love a beacon, though never unnamed.

As toes intertwine in a silent vow, We walk together, destiny’s brow. For sacrifices made, for love’s sweet sake, In each other’s arms, our destinies we make.

From the loom of time, our paths doth entwine, In the dance of destiny, love’s design. With long lashes fluttering like wings in flight, A brother’s gaze bathed in ethereal light.

In the laughter of youth, so pure and bright, A toddler’s joy, a radiant light.

On the wings of love, they soar and play, In the warm embrace of family’s sway.

Destiny’s path, a winding road, But in the love of family, our abode. Inherited traits and talents, a divine decree, Nurtured by love, forever free.

In the tapestry of time, we find our place, Bound by love’s threads, in infinite grace. For within the folds of family’s embrace, We discover our destiny in love’s embrace.

So let destiny’s hand guide our way, As we journey forth, come what may.

In the arms of family, forever, we’ll roam, Bound by love, to destiny’s home.

And in the whispers of wind and the echoes of time, Family’s embrace, an eternal chime. Though years may pass and miles divide, In our hearts, forever, they reside.

WORDS by Prisha

Mercy

Waves

Standing on the sand

With an ocean, full of waves in front of me

But my eyes on the broken trees

Standing Behind me

The wind blows the waves

To meet my toes

Breaking the broken trees, more The roots of the trees won’t let me go

But my inner desire says no

And burns the roots away

Breaking the broken trees, more…

WORDS by Aaro

ILLUSTRATION by Maya Porter

A Conversation with Alana Pahor

Interviewer: Melissa Raymond

It’s all about a bookish appetite for Alana Pahor

Meet On The Record Head Editor, a third-year Journalism and Professional Writing student with a BA in Creative Writing and Literature. Taking the reins for 2024, her enthusiasm for the arts, small enterprises and cultural activities around Adelaide is infectious.

I caught up with Alana at City West campus in the mouth-watering coffee hub Abbots and Kinney as I am a massive fan of the online journalism platform that presents audiences with articles about real-world issues, lifestyle topics, opinion pieces and impactful Long Reads that highlight local, national, and global affairs.

I’m inspired by many things, but mostly stories. I love reading books and immersing myself in the rich arts scene of Adelaide - there’s just so many fascinating stories and perspectives that I want to amplify. That’s why I enjoy freelance writing; it opens you up to such a breadth of experiences. I recently wrote an article on dry stone walling for Fleurieu Living Magazine - it’s not something I’d think to write about, but the opportunity opened me up to this new world of craftsmanship. I love surprises like that.

On The Record is another standalone UniSA platform, similar to Verse that encourages student submissions. What interests you most about your role?

As a journalism student, I’ve been involved with On The Record for quite some time; it’s a news publication run by students for students, and it’s a great place to get published while studying. What interested me about stepping into the Editor role was the opportunity to work with my team to put students’ stories out there. It can be daunting trying to write a news story when you’re ‘just a student’, so I love that On The Record gives students a platform to share important issues that impact our community. I enjoy being part of that process. I also wanted to help make news accessible and interesting to studentswe try to incorporate a variety of story topics, including arts/culture, student news, politics and health.

Another thing! I have always been keen to learn how a newsroom works behind the scenes. As expected, it’s a fast-paced, collaborative environment where I’m continuously learning from my peers and our mentor. I really value the opportunity to develop my editorial skills and journalistic “style” without the pressure that comes with an industry job.

Any tips and advice you could offer creative artists and emerging writers’ from your experiences so far in the writing world?”

I know it sounds cliché, but I really believe that as creators, we need to find our niche, and the only way it has worked for me so far is to write a lot - being a freelancer helps. I find networking opportunities are key for meeting and learning from likeminded people and as a tactic to seek writing opportunities. Also, creating a personalised social media page and website has proven vital; you can build a public portfolio with it, and my page has gotten me a couple writing opportunities. And if I could mention one more… internships are also very worthwhile.

Find out more about Alana Pahor @bookish_alana

Do you menstruate?

Are you a UniSA student?

Are you over 18?

If you answered yes to all 3, we would love to hear from you about your experience of managing your menstruation at university

What & where:

Participation involves taking part in a focus group with up to 9 other UniSA students at your main campus or online, for 60-90 minutes, plus a 5 min demographic survey.

When:

Magill: Tues 26th March 9:30-11am

Mt Gambier (online): Tues 2nd April 9:30-11am

Whyalla (online): Tues 2nd April 2-3:30pm

City East: Tues 23 April 9:30-11am

City West: Tues 23 April 2-3:30pm

Mawson Lakes: Mon 29th April 2-3:30pm

To read more about this project, scan the QR code to read the Participant Information Sheet.

To register:

Please email the primary researcher taylah.gregory@mymail.unisa.edu.au

T a y l a h

g o r y @ m y m a i l u n i s a . e d u . a u M e n s t r u a t i o n a t u n i v e r s T a y l a h G r e g o r y t a y l a h g r e g o r y @ m y m a i l u n i s a . e d u . a u M e n s t r u a t i o n a t u n i v e r s T a y l a h G r e g o r y t a y l a h . g r e g o r y @ m y m a i l u n i s a . e d u . a u M e n s t r u a t i o n a t u n i v e r s

T a y l a h

G r e g o r y t a y l a h g r e g o r y @ m y m a i l u n i s a e d u a u M e n s t r u a t i o n a t u n i v e r s

G r e g o r y t a y l a h . g r e g o r y @ m y m a i l u n i s a . e d u . a u M e n s t r u a t i o n a t u n i v e r s T a y l a h

G r e g o r y t a y l a h . g r e g o r y @ m y m a i l u n i s a e d u a u

ILLUSTRATION by Hong Nhung Hoang Ta

by Hong Nhung Hoang Ta

by Tokkie Harshdeep

Donation of Emotions

Words by Archie Arora

I was incapable of handling it. Those little hormonal entities in my blood, made me crazy; but we need these emotions almost as much as we need air to breathe.

So, my parents decided to set up a donation box in our yard on my twelfth birthday where people would give their unwanted emotions so that I could learn to experience them.

I am fifteen now and have experienced the same darkness for the past three years. I woke up every morning to see my emotion box black in color. Every day I would open it and be sucked into a vortex of negativity. Having nothing to compare the feeling with, I started living in an illusion, believing those emotions filled the empty void inside me.

Like every other day I opened the box, without noticing that the it’s color was different that day. Suddenly I turned my frown upside down! I started appreciating the seemingly un-seeming, like the warmth of the sun on my skin.

I felt uncomfortable. I didn’t know what this feeling was, but whatever it was, it was good. I yearned to feel that way every day when I opened my eyes.

Thoroughly engrossed in the strange feeling, I didn’t hear the sound of my parent’s footsteps approaching me. I turned around when they tapped my shoulders, overjoyed to see them for no apparent reason. They looked different given the way I was feeling that day. They informed me that this morning someone came and donated ‘Happiness.’ I now felt it.

So indebted to the person that I asked if he had left us an address so that I could thank him. He didn’t, just a piece of paper that read ‘Enjoy.’

PHOTOGRAPHY by Olivia Halliday

WORDS by Aaro ILLUSTRATION by Molina Arias Scarleth

MOMENTS

A little afraid about the future

A little regret about the past

A little love for the present

Wishing these moments to last Someday, they go away

But they do come back again

Moments of smiles

And Moments of pain

And I wish this life is more of smiles

But even if it isn't

There's always a reason to find…

WORDS by Tinara Dona

ILLUSTRATION by Taybah Hamza

rollercoaster

no one ever told me what life really consists of, they say life is as good as gold and no one gets hurt, i say life isn’t easy and everyone gets hurt. it’s like a rollercoaster, there’s always ups and downs.

the truth is, your heart gets broken and mended over time, there are times in which deep down it still hurts, but you try not to show. time can be the biggest heartbreakers.

why is life full of decision making? life is full of decisions, some which you regret, and others that are helpful for the future. there are 365 days in a year, it wouldn’t hurt for one mistake.

all I know, is that it’s better not to let bad memories, hate, haunt, and hurt you. bad memories can provide you with experience.

they say life is as good as gold, but it doesn’t matter what they think. it’s your story…

A GRAIN OF SAND

Words by Nivika Lopchan

Image by Akshay Ramkumar

The James Webb telescope picture of the universe was everywhere on the internet yesterday.

Half of the people whose Instagram story I viewed captured the picture.

“A groundbreaking, breathtaking discovery”, everyone said.

I remember feeling nothing looking at the supposedly magnificent photo. The photo was beautiful, but it did not move me like it moved others. It did not bring a dawn of realisation of how infinitesimal we are.

Even after reading about the captured photo occupying the area equivalent to a grain of sand, when held at an arm’s length against the sky, I felt nothing. I didn’t gasp, my hand didn’t fly to my mouth, my heartbeat didn’t seed, I didn’t save the photo, I wasn’t patient enough to read the caption, to grasp the weight of the photo.

Then I questioned an 18-year old me, “what excites you? If not galaxies and planets? If not time and infinity? If not a picture, years old, captured now? If not the vastness of sky and the red shift? If not the theory of relativity? If not how telescopes are time machines? If not how your world quite literally revolves around you despite your individual insignificance? If not how seasons change, and days turn into nights? If not car races and the World Cup? If not washing machines and dry cleaning work? If not the top-10 must watch movies?”.

The answer was the same. Nothing.

An 8 year old me would have said reading and singing, writing words that begin with an e, reading the stories in textbooks in awe, writing letters to a non-existent friend for an answer during exams, playing house and the pretend cutlery, swapping my white paper copy with a yellow one with my friend, finding the perfect ink pen that wrote with a flawless thickness, patiently waiting for a telly serial to restart after the ad break, reading chapters before class.

Anything except for nothing.

But I smile, when I stumble upon a dog eared page, or when the sky turns rose and gold, or at my futile attempts at capturing a non-blurry picture of the moon. And the more I looked at the James Webb telescope image, the more mesmerised I was.

Of course, I still haven’t fully understood the importance of the picture, but I figured the galaxies and heavenly bodies do make my heart skip a beat but so do things as minuscule as a grain of sand. Because after yesterday’s discovery, aren’t those the same thing?

PHOTOGRAPHY by Olivia Halliday

A VIEW FROM AFAR

WORDS by Melissa Raymond Creative Genre: Magical Realism

A wave of fear came over the middleaged mother as she clutched her stomach and fell on the lounge room floor. The house would have remained silent had she not screeched and woken the two-year-old. Unable to move, the pain pinned her to the floor while tears and snot dripped amongst the pool of blood forming around her feet. The toddler began crying while rattling the cot with an empty milk bottle, calling Dadda and waking his sister. The noise soon woke the neighbours, evident by the beam of light protruding the lounge-room window as though mid-morning. Unable to speak, the pain remerged, but this time with more intensity. She knew she needed help, but the noise was not a one-off occurrence. Feeling helpless and alone, she turned and squinted through her pulsating black eye. A few moments passed before she fixed her gaze on the mobile phone hanging out of the high-vis vest dumped at the door. She began moving on all fours until another jolt of pain came, but this time, it was nothing like she had experienced. And then, in an instant, her eyes closed, and a cool breeze drifted across her face as though an invisible person had tried to offer her relief.

In the background, the clock was ticking, the ceiling fans were moaning, and the waning wood fire was beginning to settle before the screaming toddlers woke her in fright. The room was now dark, except for the microwave clock reflecting a green tone across the tiled floor from the joining room. Laying still but hesitant, her breathing intensified before it dulled the toddlers noise. She knew now more than ever it was her last chance to call for help. Sliding herself while pushing from one foot, she paused at intervals to wipe drops of sweat that had formed around her eyebrows. Finally, she reached the coat; a smile signalled a brief achievement before she haphazardly selected redial. No answer, she tried again. No response. Unable to make out the contacts, she tried another. Again, there was no response; within an instant, her hopes had diminished to fear. Exhausted and puzzled at the untimely event, she prepared herself as another sharp pain emerged; however, it was not as significant this time. Then a moment of clarity set in, and the emergency symbol on the mobile became evident before her thumb pressed it hard. By now, her energy was spent, and she knew from experience it was time to position herself and put an end to her suffering.

“One, two, three, push!” “Wait…Wait…” she mumbled before commanding, “one, two, three—push!”

Exhausted, as though working to a rhythm, she persisted. No time was apparent, just blood filling her cheeks as the sweat poured and dripped from her face onto her soiled nightdress.

She woke to sirens. Her husband had arrived after being caught in traffic. Holding her hand, his masculine frame was nervously wiping her face with a warm, damp cloth. Alert but with little response, she pointed to the frame on the mantle before another stabbing pain crippled her. Her husband, smelling of diesel and dust, had thrown his esky when entering in fright, thinking she was dead amongst the blood-stained floor. Then, the nightmare of giving birth to her third child alone was over. From outside the weather-board home, the arrival of the siren noise ceased almost instantly, but the lights remained flashing, illuminating the room with blue and red tones. Suddenly, footsteps like soldiers could be heard running at pace before thunderous thuds hit the wooden steps that joined the veranda. With urgency, boots smacked the timber slabs and hastily emerged through the opened farmhouse door.

back, allowing the paramedic to jump into position; with force he ripped her nightdress and secured the defibrillator. The noise was intolerable, yet the toddlers made more than all of them. Knowing his wife was cared for, he hurried down the narrow hall and swung the door hard; the handle pierced a hole in the soft, blue plaster wall. The youngest child had wept so hard he had fallen back to sleep. At the same time, the sister lay frightened among the gathering of teddy bears, out of breath but managing a simmering sob. An emotional wreck, he picked her up, hugged her tight and began singing a lullaby before gently flipping over her tearsodden pillow and returning sweet Lucy to bed. Within moments, he dimmed the lights and gently exited the bedroom door.

Returning up the hallway passage, his footsteps broke the silence as his boots crushed against the daily gatherings of excess food scraps and play-bits. He knew from the silence and the paramedic’s sullen gesture the news was not good.

Suddenly, the clock began ticking loudly, the ceiling fans moaned, and aromas of blackened charcoal signalled more than death in the lounge room. The junior paramedic nervously scurried past to support the entrance door as the death trolley rolled by, rattling annoyingly from the uneven surface. And just like that, the father was alone, contemplating what could have been.

Slumped in the lounge chair, his view captured the red dust dissipating from the ambulance van as the magpies gathered on the lawn to welcome a new day with a merry tune. Within an instant, his life had changed; her life had vanished, and one baby did not enter this world. However, the mother’s plan as an organ donor had been made clear and viewed by the paramedic on the way to the hospital. First, the hospital took her heart and gave it to another mother. Then, her kidneys, followed by her eyes, leaving two healthy lungs for research. Destinations unknown, other than the organ donation was successful for all recipients.

Yearly holidays at the Gold Coast were always a treat. The two toddlers, now in their primary years, loved building sandcastles with the help of their Dad. One would shovel while the other would dig, enabling him to stack as high as he could before the castle walls crumbled into the wash of the lapping waves. Previously, the mother had painted the sand buckets with blue butterflies that matched the children’s blue painted bedroom walls.

One bucket for the girl had two pink paint stripes, and the other was dotted purple for the baby brother. Passes by would stop and admire the sand creations but never speak, only smile and walk by. But one warm December day, a lady watched in the distance. As the hours passed, she came closer, smiling before helping scoop the sand with her hands. The children paused as though it was all too familiar.

“Glad to see you still use the sand buckets, my love,” she said with a warm glow.

“What do you mean,” responded the Dad. “Mum said... the sand buckets she painted silly!” stated the sister.

In disbelief, the Dad continued, feeling like an unnerving spirit had entered the space. “Remember, you liked the colours purple and blue and couldn’t decide, so I painted both for your prized baby boy,” the lady said amusingly while packing down the slurry of sand. He stood up in fright and looked deep into her eyes. She was not familiar. He looked over her from head to toe. His eyes looked lost, but he was trying not to make it obvious. Her bikini top revealed a vertical scar beginning from the base of her neck, lighter than her coloured skin. Their eyes connected, and still, he could not recall ever meeting this kindhearted woman. Her white teeth glimmered between her chocolate lips before her hand motioned towards his, grabbing it tightly and placing it on her chest. Palm side down, her head repositioned while she waited calmly for the beats to play a familiar melody.

“Do you feel that!” she laughed. “My bones are different now, along with the rest.”

“That does not make sense!” blurted the father in a panick while looking at the children.

“I remember everything, she paused, our favourite beach. At first, remembering frightened me but I knew extraordinary events could happen with organ donation.”

A delay followed before his puzzled face repositioned. His gut was tight—his anxiety apparent. He paused again before squeezing his eyes shut with his index finger and thumb. Unexpectedly, his mobile vibrated. He reached deep into his board-short pocket and accidentally selected video call, connecting him to his newly appointed junior apprentice. “Hey mate, just checking in,” he gleefully announced.

Not familiar with his face so close, the father focused on the unusual double dot in his left eye. His shock was apparent; as though bitten by a bee. A delayed response sparked the children’s attention as the father dropped the mobile in shock.

MANDARIN SKINS

WORDS by Grace Fatchen

In the kitchen there is slight fish-smell. You watch your own reflection in the window eating vegetable soup for dinner, your glasses and your sly eyes, and the way your lips are crisp above your chin. The light times out with a tick, and you get up to flick it on again, to hear the buzz of the fluoro, to see it light up the grey bespeckled bench where people have burnt little holes with brown edged dimples in the lino. You wear an Akubra your friend gave to you. You think maybe you have gallstones, so you don’t eat any eggs.

The pain was with you all of yesterday, and made you want to lie down in a tiny hole and cover yourself with dirt. All day, driving to the coast, you went hungry because you were scared the pain would return with food. But, oh, the drive!

To the ruddy excellence of new-freedom, you turned right at Lincoln Gap, leaving behind the huge cement tanks full of used tyres – black, smoking things – and the graffiti covered their bulging sides, and the road opened wide, a desert plateau on the left, a truck rearing white up ahead; you passed the truck with ease.

Under that sky you went, never having driven this road before, and the way you sat high in the sun, well – you felt like a Greek god. The bitumen the colour of rain, the red dust, the desert flowered yellow. ‘Breath this’, you said, while the pain went unremembered, and the colour in the sky was the same as when you learnt to suffer, and so it reminded you of suffering. And childhood. From the back seat there came the smell of warm tent canvas – a mouldy swag –and your red sleeping bag; I am on the wallaby. This thought with glee, and only a little trembling. It was a grand stretch from Port Augusta to Kimba, two streets, the galah, and the souvenir shop Halfway Across Australia – you went in to buy a kangaroo keyring and they only had Tassie devils, the bastards. You stared, downcast. Behind the murky window, a ’99 Corolla was parked in the gravel – the sun winked on its silver body, a stifled warm grey carpet, tyre crunch – it made you well up. You walked outside and got in. The bloody thing rattled at idle. You drove on. You drove hard.

Later, you felt troubled.

‘Damn idiot forgot to bring a mallet.’ Too coward to ask the other campers for one, you peered subtly at the ground for a good rock – it’s deserty-dry out here, you thought – but only pebbles and gravel, the sand-blown cracks, and the tiny, weedy bits of green rewarded your scrounging. The old heat of childhood rose to your face when you remembered reading Lawson that morning and how he was laughing at you now – he was bloody laughing in his heaven. Next door the people who owned the white Landcruiser glanced at you. He wore a white t-shirt, skinny little legs in that bright sun, black sunnies so his eyes weren’t visible. The wife sunk deep in her chair and faced her profile towards you, her nose towards the great flat bay. The wind blew only a little, and the beach was right before, and you became tempted to swim its clean, clear lengths ’til you no longer thirsted under the cloudless blue. The Connemara marble bracelet you bought in Northern Ireland turned black under the sun, but your own skin turned buttery under it –your freckled arms peeled like mandarins; you sighed quietly, so no one saw your insides. The flesh of them, the gritty bitter seeds, the segmented tears.

The blue foldout chair, the swag, the Corolla, and someone lit a fire deep down the beach – the smoke drifted – its murky scent brought the moon out, the sun dipped tired to the pastel ocean, while you watched and smelt it.

Nose running, you finish your soup, now cold from open windows and the glazed ceramic bowl. Tenderly, you slip off the bar stool and think about rummaging deep in your dark bag for fresh clothes, and showering, and reading.

Outside, the stars make a new landscape to gaze at. The lights on the sea – the red-lit towers out on the cape – are closer in the dark, trembling with the water.

The phone box stands lonely, so you make a call from it. You grab the receiver, and a redback spider jutters on its web hanging below the steel cord. You watch it shake on its thread, feel revolt at this phone box right by the sea, while next door, the starless streetlight illuminating the many webby creatures in the corners, watching, listening – but no stars.

‘Hello?’

‘Hello Jan, it’s me.’

‘Oh, where are you calling from?’

‘A phone box on the street – I got here okay.’

‘Good.’

The old Telstra symbol displays itself in an antique, digital kind of way. You remember a summer day when you were a kid, and your dad rode with you around to the cape – you had the red bike, it’s chain dripping with rusty grease and rattled song, he rode the big grey one with the basket up front – together you rang Mum, who was drinking tea back at the house. You rang from the orange-hooded phone box by the caravan park. It cost your dad two silver coins with the Queen’s face on them. Now you ring free. The redback has gone home. That night, the stones roll around inside you, twisting to stamp out the pain.

Laughter. Moccona in a tin cup. You by the beach. Cozy-swag and the hell of sleepless nights – too frightened to sleep in case you miss the performance of the stars, reading Kerouac, Keegan, and Rhys all at once like the taste of seventy meals, making you sick but never satisfied. When the days stretch long, you walk into town, a lost tourist, and you witness old ghosts vandalising the Yacht Club, the hotel on the corner. On the same corner, where the gum tree carries secrets belonging to colonials now dead, there’s a high sense of the Gooligulchian – that tumbling, desert loneliness. Four wheel drives growl, hungry for rest, past the jetty sticking awkward into the hard slab of sea. The constant bouncing pain just behind your ribcage, cement, red dust, brick houses, hard sun, the people blistered and cracked from too much fishing. As he looks into the sun, one crinkled being nearly walks into you.

‘Oh sorry mate, didn’t see you there.’

‘Nah, it’s alright,’ smiling.

The heavy afternoon vomits old sun and gossip straight down main street. The shops are about to close, but you go in and buy three mandarins – big, sweet ones, a dollar-fifty. The heads of tiny weeds bow to the breeze on the sidewalk, the gulls creak above you. Mandarins swing in a plastic bag by your side.

The kitchen is busy when you get back. A family from Victoria wearing Kathmandu gear are cooking and watching the TV –the sad story of Tasmanians trying to avoid lead poisoning, the finance and interest rates, tomorrow’s weather – but then they are done and leave a quiet-lit kitchen with oven humming and garlic scent. So, you stand by the stove and stir your soup while some guy does his dishes, the clatter of it takes you back to bedtime as a child and listening to your parents clean up after dinner. Even now you see a bowed head, elbows working, suds slowly crawling off the bowls in the rack, the light in the kitchen old-yellow – the colour of hard work.

The soup boils, and you sit to inhale it before the clinking of cutlery sends you mad. You cook two eggs, fry them in a little butter until the edges curl rustycrisp; the pain has cleaned up like the dishes and you sit without hunching up because it’s all over now. You tear a white thread from the top of a mandarin down to its centre and try to keep the skin in one piece as it comes away from the flesh which you carelessly throw in the bin. Thoughts of tomorrow leap for you, and the familiar buzz of restless scenario fills your mind. You leave the kitchen, thoughts set on the road –the moaning, stretching road of dead reptiles, sundust, and mirage. As you walk in the half-night, the lights in the caravan park mix with the weak day, the sky. On the horizon, they blink misty far across the sea. The bang of a door, the laughter of children, a tent zipping, silhouettes of trees, your own swag lying in wait. Turns out, your gallstones were imaginary. Looking back at the kitchen, you think you see a steady orange glow through the window. The

SMALL BUSINESS SPOTLIGHT

KUROMI

Hey, my name is Aaron. I’m a 4th-year UniSA Branding and Advertising student. A little bit about myself: I became interested in floristry through my mother; I fell in love with it, as I always liked to do things differently, such as my Kuromi bouquet, where I incorporated a cartoon character with flowers.

@tias.flowers is my floristry business; it’s online via Instagram, and at times, as an independent florist, I offer flower arrangements through another florist store.

I love making unique flower arrangements and making people say - wow!

Harshdeep

PHOTOGRAPHY by Tokkie

ILLUSTRATION by Oak Buckley

PHOTOGRAPHY by Anadi Sharma

PHOTOGRAPHY by Akshay Ramkumar

PHOTOGRAPHY by Prisha Mercy

‘Quite possibly the most unique travel book you’ll ever read’ Blue Cork

WINNER

Congratulations Prisha Mercy! Your poem A Tapestry of Love perfectly depicted the theme Destiny.

TIPS & TRICKS BY DR BEN STUBBS

Considering becoming a writer?

Award-winning author, travel writer, journalist and UniSA’s senior lecturer, Dr Ben Stubbs shares his thoughts.

As an accomplished journalist and creative non-fiction writer with numerous publications in the genre of travel writing, what would be your top three tips for someone considering a writing career?

1. Be persistent. It takes time to develop your craft and find suitable publications to get published.

2. Set goals (short, medium and long term) to help you keep momentum with what you’re doing and where you want to get to.

3. Read! I don’t think there’s any great secret to writing well beyond commitment and practice, though it is certainly helped by reading widely to help develop your own style and to see what other writers across different genres are doing.

Is having a social media platform important? If you could only recommend one, which would it be?

I suppose it is, though I think many younger writers are too preoccupied with social media presence. Make sure you have a professional page on one of the platforms so editors can look you up.

What Podcast/s would you recommend?

Conversations

A good story has… but a great story…

A great hook, a sense of timeliness and a tone that makes you want to keep reading, even if the subject isn’t in your field.

Across

2. A Buddhist tradition

5. Beginning with the letter N and the Greek goddess of vengeance

6. The hidden meaning behind a story

8. An American album title and female band between 1990-2006

9. Ben Sweetland said, ‘Success is a journey, not a...’

10. Seven characters, one word to describe your destination

Down

1. Beginning with the sixth letter of the alphabet and could be described as a curse

3. One word describing life after death

4. A short Indian film produced in 2018 on YouTubein the genre of a dramatic comedy and stars Bhupendra Singh Jadawat

7. The name of a children’s book series by StephenCosgrove. The short stories have a moral theme andfeature animals

CROSS WORD

GUESS THE ZODIAC SIGN QUIZ

Ruled by Neptune, I am friendly, creative and generous. I am happiest with a sole mate and attracted to Taurus and Virgo star signs. Symbolized by two fish, I am wise, kind, and have a natural sixth sense. I desire to escape from reality, love my sleep, and dislike any sort of cruelty. Mauve and purple are just two of my birthstone colours.

Short Story Writing Challenge

We are thrilled to announce a new feature within Verse Magazine—writing prompts!

This exciting opportunity is for creative artists seeking inspiration and a platform to publish worthy prose works.

Simply follow the writing prompt announced on @Versemagazine social pages and via each magazine edition.

Guidelines: The first line must open with the writing prompt and comprise of a 500-word short story — no more and no less! All genres, including music, will be considered for publication.

Lastly, title your story with the writing prompt; it can be part of the title, meaning it does not need to be the complete title. Include your name and genre (memoir, fiction, comedy and more).

Up to three submissions will be published.

Good luck!

PHOTOGRAPHY by Suzy Zhu

PRESIDENT’S LETTER

meeting and getting to know many of you there.

year is getting busy as the waves of assignments begin to roll in. As students, balancing many competing priorities in our lives can often be tricky. University, paid work, and the other complexities of life are always challenging to balance. I’m by no means an expert, and at points, I have yet to manage everything well, but here are a couple of tips and tricks I’d like to recommend as they will help

It may seem tedious, but planning and prioritizing your time is crucial for success in university. When you have a lot going on at once, it’s essential to schedule when you will work on assignments and make time

Don’t wait till the night before. I know it sounds obvious, but so many (including me) put off doing that assignment or preparing for that exam until the night or week before. While many say it’s probably not great for your grades, it’s also not good for your well-being. Nothing is more stressful than frantically completing an assignment.

Starting assignments early and breaking up tasks can go a long way to helping you get more done and also help take the stress out of many situations.

Take a Break. It often seems the only way you’ll get your university work done is by endlessly focusing on it, but usually, the best thing is to take a break. Have some downtime, rest, and don’t focus on uni for a bit. Then, it will be much easier to go back and focus on what you need to do.

However, sometimes uni doesn’t go to plan, and that’s perfectly normal. You can’t predict everything but it’s important to remember that there is always support when you need it.

The Uni Counselling service is an amazing team, and you can reach out for free and confidential support. I highly recommend using this service whenever you need it. The USASA Academic Advocacy service is also essential for supporting you whenever you need help and assistance with academic policies or if you are having issues with a course.

They can help you request remarking and resubmissions, appeal against a final grade, and solve problems with a course or lecturer.

Once again, the board is here for you! We always want to hear and understand your concerns, and if needed, we fight to improve your university experience.

Thank you,

Oliver

Tues 7 May | City West, George St

Wed 8 May | City East, Basil Hetzel Plaza 11:30 am - 2:30 pm

USASA Clubs & Societies

Ready to find your flock?

Explore over 90 cultural, special interest, academic and social justice clubs.

Joining a club allows you to make friends with like-minded people, expand your university experience and much more!

Can’t find the club for you?

Start your own!

USASA is here to help you through the good times & the bad. We are a non-profit, student-owned organisation focused on providing services & a voice for all UniSA students.

USASA empowers you through:

Verse Magazine

Student Representation

Academic Advocacy

Clubs & Societies

Social Events

Student Voice

Club Grants

Financial Wellbeing

USASA Shops

UniSA Merchandise

Volunteer Community

Facebook Instagram TikTok Discord

USASA.sa.edu.au

CONTRIBUTERS

Akshay Ramkumar

Anadi Sharma

Aaro

Archie Arora

Aaron Meas

eóghann nivall

Grace Fatchen

Hong Nhung Hoang Ta Manith

Maya Porter

Molina Arias Scarleth

Melissa Raymond

Nirvika Lopchan

Oak Buckley

Olivia Halliday

Prisha Mercy

Suzy Zhu

Tinara Dona

Tokkie Harshdeep

Taybah Hamza

@akshay_arts96

@lets.revive.humanity

@aaro.xyz

@tias.flowers

@eoghannnivall

@gracefatchen

@Bruhccoliiiiiii

@__nith

@mayaporter

@scar_cube

@gardenandfield

@fitted_between_alphabets

@oakasaurus

@oliviahalliiday

@prisha_mercy

@aesthete21_

@harshtoki04

@_designbytay