Verse Magazine Edition #12 | September / October

FREE Edition 12 | September - October 2016 Your Student Mag

Inside This Edition Songs For Spring Bitter Band Review Advice From Charlie Stick It To The (Wo)man

Edition 12 | September - August 2016

contact@versemag.com.au www.versemag.com.au Head Editor Emmylou Macdonald Editor Jordan Leović Communications Editor Adrienne Goode Graphic Designer Nicole Scriva Contributors Ashleigh Chapman, Sash Corowa, Hafiza Garipov, Meg Bielby, Emma Jane Warren, Loren Orsillo, Anne Jackson, Isabella Whittaker, S. Z. Telford, Chloe Byrne, Lauren Brauer, Shannen Wilkinson, Kurt Miegel, Charlotte Rollinson, Carli Stasinopoulos, Maria Kharitonova, Rhys Stalba-Smith, Bianca Hoffrichter, Lucy Ahern, Daniel Zander, Alexander Binetti, Wendy Dixon-Whiley, Glenn Rogers, Taylor Robinson, Hannah Edwards, Emmanuel Nshangalume, Andre Arias, Courtney Moore, Maddison Olson, Michael Tremonte, Zoe Street, Caitlin Tait, Jean Joseph, Entice Photography and Design, Pumpometer, The Monikers, Radix, Larsen Cover Wendy Dixon-Whiley Printer Newstyle Design & Production Consultant Georgie Smith The views expressed in this magazine are not necessarily representative of the views of USASA or the editors.

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Original Cover Image â–ś Wendy Dixon-Whiley

Verse Magazine is brought to you by Edition 12 2016

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Editor’s Letter Head Editor | Emmylou Macdonald

The end of 2016 is quickly coming into focus. As we start barrelling towards the final stages of study for the year, it’s best to get on top of things early before it swallows you whole.

From here on out it’s going to snowball, with time going faster and faster until it’s 2017 and we’re all left wondering how it got here so damn quick.

This edition is the calm before the storm.

There’s plenty to reflect on— from the brightest aspects of life to the darkest recesses of the mind, we’ve got you covered.

This is the penultimate edition for 2016. We’ve got one more left.

Take it all in this time around and lend the most powerful, inspired, opinionated version of yourself to the next instalment so we can all go out with a bang!

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Contents Edition 12 | September - October 2016

02 Editor’s Letter

Page 08

04 The Great Penalty Rates Debate 08 Stick it to the (wo)man 12 Ed 17 Haunting the Living 18 Tiny Gallery 20 Rufus Stiltskin 22 Dubrovnik 24 Spaces

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26 Advice From Charlie 28 Her 30 The Doctor is Calling 32 In[ter]view: Lucy Ahern 36 Distance 38 Imag[in]e: Wendy Dixon-Whiley 46 Vox: Student Voice 50 Songs for Spring

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54 Barren Women 60 Bitter Band Chat: Review 62 Horrorscopes

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Words ▶ Ashleigh Chapman | Image ▶ Sash Corowa

Everything you need to know about the future of penalty rates in the workplace.

For over 100 years penalty rates have provided hospitality and retail employees with a little extra incentive to throw on their uniform and head to work on a Sunday morning when most would prefer to be sleeping in or relaxing with family and friends. However, in a looming decision by the Fair Work Commission, employees could see their bumped-up Sunday rates gone for good.

Penalty rates were established in 1909 under the precedent that employees should be compensated for working at inconvenient and unsociable times. In 1950, the NSW Industrial Relations Commission reaffirmed this with a statement that said, ‘employers must compensate employees for the disturbance to family and social life and religious observance that weekend work brings.’

More recently, in 2014, the former Labor Government introduced the new modern award objective which essentially provided a safeguard for penalty rates.

However, since the election of the Liberal-National Coalition Government in 2013, there has been an increase in employer groups advocating for a reduction or removal of penalty rates all together.

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An inquiry, released by the Productivity Commission late last year, has been the cause of major controversy as the possibly of cuts to Sunday penalty rates becomes a reality. Commissioned by the Abbott Government, the inquiry reviewed Australia’s industrial relations system and workplace rates, with its recommendations towards penalty rates attracting more attention than any other aspect of the report.

Consumers today commonly expect to be able to shop, eat at cafes and purchase other services, seven days a week.

There are two sides to the argument. The workplace unions and a large proportion of employees are deadly against the cuts to penalty rates, but on the other hand, employers and small business owners are excited at the benefits this change could bring to their businesses.

The Fair Work Commission has accepted penalty rates as a legitimate feature of workplace relations across all

industries, but the appropriate level for weekend penalty rates, in a number of customer service industries, has become a highly controversial issue.

The Sunday penalty rates for permanent employees are between one and a half to two times the wage rate paid on a weekday. The lowest skill level retail employee earns $18.99 per hour during weekdays, but $37.98 per hour on a Sunday.

The Productivity Commission recommends cutting Sunday penalty rates to align with Saturday penalty rates as the economic environment and community attitudes, on which penalty rates were originally based, have changed. The report argues that policy should enable wages that attract people to work on weekends, but are not so high that businesses are unable to open and have a negative impact on hiring.

Penalty rates arose at a time when married women and students were hardly in the workplace, when Sunday work often also involved long hours, and when Sundays had a privileged role as a day for rest and religious observance, the Productivity Commission states.

Many employers in hospitality, entertainment, retail, restaurants and cafes, where consumer demand is high on weekends, are concerned about the high rates on Sundays.

‘At the moment shop owners won’t open on Sundays mainly because it’s the shop owner and the family who have to work, and if they want time off it’s usually a Sunday because that’s the most expensive day to open,’ Mr Chapman says.

‘Cuts to penalty rates will help small business and it’ll help the casual kids who are trying to get jobs to work on weekends. Employers will have more hours because they will have to pay less money to kids to work, so they will be more inclined to have more people working for the same money.’

‘On Sundays now, we’re more inclined to get family members to work instead of paying staff, so there will be more hours available for regular staff to work and earn money.’

Consumers would be also benefit from cuts to penalty rates. With lower Sunday rates, consumers would gain access to more services for longer hours and with higher staffing ratios. Sunday surcharges would be likely to disappear and average prices for consumer services throughout the week would likely be a little lower, the report states.

Consumers today commonly expect to be able to shop, eat at cafes and access other services seven days a week.

These services are vital to cities and regional communities however some business owners choose not to open their doors on Sundays because they cannot afford to pay the high wages to staff.

The Productivity Commission report states that the total hours worked by employees in these industries is likely to increase substantially on Sundays, as is the amount of staff employed, so business owners are likely to reduce their very long working hours.

Kym Chapman, owner and manager of a small business in regional South Australia, says cuts to Sunday penalty rates will affect the amount of stores that are open on a Sunday because they will be more inclined, like everyone else, to pay staff to work on Sundays.

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‘For many workers, penalty rates make up a substantial amount of their take-home pay each week, which is why they are willing to give up their weekend to work.

Penalty rates help put petrol in the car and food on the table. Without that financial incentive, many retail workers may choose not to work on a Sunday.’

The SDA is running a national penalty rates campaign that calls on community-wide support. So far over 34,000 people have signed up to the campaign and over 6,000 workers have made direct submissions to the Fair Work Commission, telling them how cuts to penalty rates would leave them worse off.

Melissa Mikhail, casual retail employee at Target, says if penalty rates were cut she would never work a Sunday again.

The Productivity Commission does acknowledge that many people prefer weekends than weekdays for time off, which reflects the social impacts of working on weekends. Although they do argue that there is little evidence that says the social impacts are greater working on a Sunday compared to a Saturday.

Sonia Romeo, Shop, Distributive & Allied Employees’ Association (SDA) Secretary at the SA/NT Branch, disagrees with this statement. She says it is important that workers receive a higher rate of pay for working on a Sunday because it recognises that time off is valuable and the weekend is still important to the Australian people.

‘When workers work on Sundays it means they miss out— on watching a game of footy, special occasions with family and friends, study time, or just spending time with the kids when they’re not at school,’ Romeo says.

‘The vast majority of Australians don’t have to work on the weekend—that’s when the kids are home from school, no Uni classes are on, that’s when people catch up with friends or play sport or get organised for the week ahead.

If you don’t receive penalty rates on a Sunday, there is no recognition that you’re working unsociable hours.’

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‘It’s just always been a thing and it’s always motivated you to work on Sundays, so if that’s taken away you’re not going to have much motivation to go to work,’ Miss Mikhail says.

‘No one wants to work a Sunday in the first place, regardless of whether or not there’s penalty rates, but those penalty rates help those of us who are students and those of us who can only work weekends, get more income because they’re the only days we can work.’

Romeo also argues that reducing penalty rates will have a negative effect on the Australian economy.

‘Research from the McKell Institute indicates that if penalty rates in the retail and hospitality industries were abolished, it would result in a loss of between $445.6 million and $748.3 million per year to local economies in rural Australia. In South Australia, it would mean a loss of up to $36.1 million per year to local economies,’ Romeo says.

‘This is because workers need wage increases to help drive the economy. If you cut the wages of thousands of workers it will mean workers will cut spending. It reduces their ability to spend in local shops, cafes and restaurants, which will hurt local businesses and the economy.’

The Fair Work Commission is expected to make a decision on whether or not changes should be made to Sunday penalty rates soon after the Federal election.

Unwind - Relax

- Enjoy

Spring Retreat Petting Zoo - Massage Henna - Brunch

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Words ▶ Hafiza Garipov | Images ▶ Meg Bielby

Hafiza Garipov explains why feminism is a necessity in her daily life.

It’s the little things. The clenching of keys in your hand as you walk down the street. The angry expression you wear in order to create this perception that you’re tough, just so you can avoid a man’s gaze. You make pretend phone calls to make it seem like you aren’t by yourself so that group of men you just passed won’t follow you. You take the long way home as it gets dark, just to avoid being harassed if you turn into the wrong alleyway. You pull your skirt down when you see that old man turn his head as you pass by. All these little precautions that women make just to avoid being abused, harassed or raped. Every. Single. Day. This is no attack on men. I do not hate men. The fact that I have to make that loud and clear proves the level of patriarchy in our society. Everyone has this preconceived idea that when I say I am a feminist, I must fit into this negatively constructed stereotype.

A man-hating, non-shaving, extremely intense and masculine girl who has nothing more to do with her life but make problems out of thin air. Being called a

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feminist has unfortunately become an insult to many women. The word has lost its meaning and I think it’s time we reclaimed it (not Australia, but that’s a whole ‘nother can of worms).

Much like my favourite author Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, I tend to make the mistake of thinking that something that is clear and evident to me is just as clear to others. Truth be told, I am not even sure how I got around to writing all this down considering all the frustration and anger I have towards all the misogyny and lack of understanding that exists. Yet again, anger has a pretty good record of fuelling positive change.

It is fairly obvious that there are differences between women and men, hence why I like to think of feminism as fighting for equity rather than equality.

Men and women have biological differences and capabilities, such as men don’t have the ability for their non-existent uteruses to expand to 500 times

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This is no attack on men.

I do not hate men. The fact that I have to make that loud and clear proves the level of patriarchy in our society. its size in order to house a child. Think of it this way, you have three people watching a game of soccer. One is tall, another medium height and the third short. Now, the tallest can see over the fence and watch the game, the medium sized person can just see the game whereas the short individual cannot at all. For all three of these individuals to be equal, you give them all the same sized stool to stand on and watch the game.

Whereas, if it is equity that we want to achieve with these individuals, you give the shortest person a larger stool to stand on, and the smallest stool to the tallest person. This results in everyone being able to see the game.

I may only have just entered the world of adulthood but I have had my share of deeply frustrating conversations with males, and unfortunately females, about why feminism is still relevant. I may only be 18, but I have lost count of the catcalling, the glaring and the honking I receive on a daily basis just by walking 10m up the main road. We‘ve been taught to take precautions, to change how we act, to alter our personalities, to become this second class being that caters to the ego of the man.

I can’t grasp onto the idea of people not calling themselves feminists. What part don’t you support?

What about having equity or equality of the sexes is so abhorrent? What part of the freedom to make your own decisions without having to ask permission of your ‘man’ is so degrading? When you say that

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feminism is unnecessary in the 21st century, you dismiss the issues that women and girls face. You dismiss the girl who was just forced into marriage.

You dismiss the genital mutilation that just occurred.

You justify the honour killing of that little girl. You justify the acid being thrown at her because she simply had no interest in him.

If in the past 25 years we have seen such rapid and life changing advancements in technology and the way our society communicates, how are we still not fully recognising the fundamental human rights of 51% of the world’s population? We have the power to observe the microscopic units of life and we manage to send people into space, yet we can’t even manage to achieve equal pay. I don’t find your rape or violent jokes funny because there is nothing humorous about demeaning and hurting someone for your own pleasure and lack of self-confidence. There is nothing funny about 1 in every 3 women experiencing domestic violence or the one million girls under 15 giving birth every year. It is a chain effect, you educate a girl, they stay in school, marriage is prolonged, childbirth prolonged, leading to longer lives and positives all round for them, their families, their communities and the world.

Feminism may be unnecessary for you because you are a person of privilege and privilege is invisible to those who have it. I need feminism because I can’t go on late night runs alone. I need feminism because people question my sexuality when I am calling others out on their misogyny. Because our worth and value as human beings is based so heavily on our domestic abilities and physical looks.

So next time, check your privilege before you check out my ass.

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Ed Words ▶ Emma Jane Warren | Images ▶ Loren Orsillo

A struggle with body image manifests as a struggle with the mind.

“What do you see, Sarah?” Doctor Pru questioned softly.

I looked at my reflection in the full-length mirror that had been placed in front of us. My wide figure took up three quarters of the mirror space. Ed’s frame, standing beside me, was just a petite slither on the side.

I spoke through my scratched tonsils. The words came out croaky.

“I see myself.”

Pru gently smiled. She was seated on the left of the mirror with her legs crossed. Her eyes shot through her glasses and glazed over my body, scanning head to toe and then back up again. I hated that she scowled at my lumpy body but didn’t even glance at Ed’s.

“How do you think you look? What stands out when you look at yourself?”

I noticed that Ed’s eyes were shifted to study my body as well. His pupils focused in on my lower half. I knew he would be looking at how the fat from my thighs practically folded over my knees. There was no definition between my calves and ankles. Both legs were just thick

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tree stumps, buttressing the heavy upper of my body.

Even though I was clothed, the size of my hips and waist were still visible. They extended much further than they should. The longer I looked at the mirror, the faster my breathing got.

Hot tears began to prick like needles underneath my eyes.

Ed rested an ice-cold hand on my shoulder, which sizzled on my flustered skin.

He whispered, “It’s okay, Sarah. We can get you looking better than that.”

His words were a waterfall atop my head. They trickled down my skull and cooled my brain before seeping through and calming my pulsing heartbeat. Refreshing.

Ever so quietly, without even moving his lips, Ed then whispered how I should respond to Pru. “Say that you think you look beautiful and that your face stands out because it is bright and you are happy today. Say you feel good. Say you don’t think you look particularly fat or bad in any area.”

“Where did you first learn to purge your food?”

“Ed told me.”

“Who’s Ed?” I stammered, “just a friend.”

It was all a lie. But I said it aloud anyway because I trusted Ed’s advice. I trusted that it was the smart thing to say.

And lying had become second nature to me after being in therapy for months.

When the session ended, I learnt that the bullshit had worked in my favour. Pru informed me that she was pleased with my progress and was going to allow me to eat meals by myself in my room, instead of always in the common hall.

Obviously, Ed and I preferred this. I did still consume the food that was sent around for me. I couldn’t stop my mouth salivating at the sight of the meals. The big, hearty breakfasts of bacon and eggs, the lunch sandwiches with freshly buttered bread, and the warm dinners with large chunks of spicy meat. My stomach churned and begged to be filled with the rich, satisfying flavours. I couldn’t stop from pouncing on the plates like they were prey and pushing the food down my throat with desperation. I swallowed the food so quickly, as if I were starving in a third world country and had mere seconds before the meal would be snatched from me. In those moments, my brain was clouded and my movements felt uncontrollable.

Within seconds of licking the plates clean, I was always stabbed with guilt. I’d look up at Ed and my cheeks would flush red. I regretted acting so erratic and permitting my tastebuds to be selfish. My animalistic behaviour was embarrassing. Thankfully, Ed always knew what to do and how to coach me through the mistake.

He wrapped my thin hair into a ponytail as I leant over the bowl of the toilet and coughed up the acidic mess.

It burnt my oesophagus and my vision went dizzy.

My lips trembled and my head began to throb. It wasn’t long until I’d feel empty again. Usually, I was so exhausted and felt so queasy that I would stumble over to my bed and fall unconscious for a few hours.

Fridays were weigh-in day, as Pru called them. Pru never showed me the numbers, but she frowned when she read the scales at the end of the week.

In a session the following week, Ed and I were seated opposite Pru on a lounge chair. She asked the usual questions about how I was feeling and how I had been going with my eating. Ed lazily slung his weightless arm over my shoulder and gently rubbed my arm with his hand. I became so comfortable that I didn’t realise when Pru asked a deeper question.

“Where did you first learn to purge your food?”

“Ed told me.”

“Who’s Ed?” I stammered, “just a friend.”

Ed removed his arm from around me and stood up from the couch. The walls of my throat seemed to get thicker and air was struggling to get through. My head heated up and flushed red as a result.

“Where do you know Ed from? What made you listen to Ed? Do you think Ed is someone you should be trusting?”

These were all questions I didn’t know how to answer.

They were background noise to Ed’s heavy breathing.

Sweat started to press out from the pores in my forehead.

Ed stormed from the room, leaving me alone to tap my foot with anxiousness as Pru interrogated. Like a kettle, I eventually reached boiling point and bolted from my seat. I dove out the therapy room and thudded down the halls to my private room. It wasn’t far, but I was out of breath entirely. I bent forward, pressing the palms of my hands into my knees for support.

To my relief, Ed was in my room waiting for me. He hadn’t left me completely.

“You’re so unfit, Sarah,” he hissed.

I nodded ferociously, attempting to get back on his good side by agreeing.

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Ignoring the knife and fork, my hands snatched at the logs of juicy meat on the plate and crammed them with full force past my cracked lips.

“You need to start exercising so that you’re not such an embarrassment.”

My eyebrows raised.

He spat at me, “star jumps, go.”

I pulled my body up from the crouched position and began flinging my wrists up to the sky and kicking both my feet out to the walls. Surprisingly, the bright red burn on my face faded and turned translucent white.

I felt a chill down my spine even though my actions should’ve been warming my skin.

My stomach churned—an all too familiar feeling.

Except this wasn’t initiated from me scratching my claws against my tonsils. I swooped into the bathroom and threw my mouth into the toilet bowl. My chubby fingers tightly grasped the edges of the seat as my upper body shook from dehydration. Coughs splintered past my lips, but nothing else. I dry reached for almost half an hour.

Ed patted my back.

On multiple occasions that night, I woke up with anxiety rushing through my blood. My thoughts were consumed by the idea of Pru and the way her eyes set on fire as soon as she heard me mention Ed. I dreaded seeing Pru ever again. My heart pounded aggressively and painfully against my frail ribs.

When morning finally came, the grey stains of fatigue underneath my eyes felt thick and heavy. A nurse knocked on the door and entered my room, placing breakfast on the small wooden dining table near my bed.

My eyes may have been shielded by my quilt but I still knew what the food was. Sausages. My nostrils flared and sucked in the oil that was dripping from them.

They were freshly cooked and the heat of them raised the temperature of my bedroom. I slithered out of bed like a snake. My limbs were weighty and weak from the

tiring night. Yet, once my eyes caught a glimpse of the served meal, my fingers and jaw sought a burst of energy.

Ignoring the knife and fork, my hands snatched at the logs of juicy meat on the plate and crammed them with full force past my cracked lips. My teeth chewed so with such vigour that it caused an ache to wrench through my lower jaw. Even still, I continued to feast at the same pace.

There was tomato sauce that had accumulated around my lips and excess fat from the sausages that dripped slowly down my chin. The food was being swallowed so quick that my tastebuds were barely able to enjoy the flavour. Within moments, it was all gone. My stomach was bursting at all sides and had bloated my torso as if I was pregnant.

I took a few sharp breaths and closed my eyes.

Any second Ed would slide into the room and help me.

He’d urge me to the bathroom. He’d give me support.

Like anticipated, the door behind me creaked and footsteps clopped into the room. However, they didn’t sound like Ed’s. Ed was often relatively quiet when he entered. My ears were hearing clipping and clopping against the floorboards. Curiosity snapped my neck around.

It was Pru. She had a smile strung across her face as she lunged over to the seat adjacent from mine and planted herself down.

My eyes followed her every move as she plonked her leather bag to lean against the leg of her chair. She dug out a folder and notepad from the bag and dropped into onto the table.

“I thought I would come join you for breakfast today, but it seems you’ve already eaten. That’s fine, though.

We can still have our meeting in here.”

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My brain started pulsing. Sweat was gathering in every crest of my body. My lips were partially agape, my face still remaining a childish mess from breakfast. The white around my pupils became slashed with abrasive red lines as I forgot how to blink. Attention drew to my throbbing stomach as the weight of the sausages swished around uncomfortably. Pru’s lips were moving as if she was talking, but I couldn’t hear a thing. There was a dull screaming noise pounding in my head. It was blaring through my left ear and escaping out the right, freezing my brain along the way.

Past my blurry vision, I noticed a figure appear in the seat next to Pru. He was strong, slim and handsome.

He appeared soft and gentle, whereas Pru looked hard.

It was Ed. Ed was a glowing angel.

Suddenly, everything stopped for a moment.

The screeching stopped. The demonic cries from my stomach stopped. I heard Pru and Ed speak at the same time.

“You’re going to have to make a decision, Sarah. It’s going to be either a life with Ed, or a life of-“ Pru said, “recovery.”

Ed said, “fat.”

Pru glared at me harshly. Her stare burnt so much that I had to look at Ed instead. I needed the comfort of him.

I craved to have his cold hand rubbing my shoulder and his words of advice whispering into my ear. My heartbeat slowed as I thought of a future with Ed. I imagined the fresh, cosy feeling of being truly cared for. Ed knew me. He knew what I wanted. He was encouraging, uplifting.

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“What are you looking at?” Pru questioned.

Ed’s head tilted toward the door, motioning that we should leave.

It was never going to be a difficult choice for me. I hastily bolted from my chair and dashed to the door. The rushed movement made me lightheaded and I started to fall backward for a brief second. A smooth arm cupped my back and pushed me back upright. I exhaled. My shoulders relaxed into his figure.

Ed practically carried me from the building. We surpassed staff and ignored calls from Pru. Down staircases we fled, through large doors. Ed held my hand, intertwining his fingers with mine. As soon as we were outside the centre, the breeze brushed through my knotty morning hair. We were barely 500 metres from the building when Ed led me to a tree, urging me to kneel beside it.

“Time to get those sausages out,” he hummed, soothingly scratching my scalp.

After the clumpy brown and red vomit had vanished from my plump stomach, we rested against the large stalk of the tree. Ed sat first and then I slotted between his legs, my back pressed against his stomach. I moaned in contentment, letting my eyelids close shut.

“I love you, Ed,” I blurted in a half comatose state.

“A few more inches to lose, Sarah. And then I’ll love you too.”

The Butterly foundation for eating disorder support services can be contacted on 1800 ED HOPE and at www.thebutterflyfoundation.org.au

Laid down below the Rowan Tree There lies a babe of barest bone Conceived in anger’s violent lust Assault that spawned a life of fear Her shame she sought to hide below Still haunts, consuming life with fear Unloved unwanted child stillborn

Words ▶ Anne Jackson | Image ▶ Sash Corowa

Held tight in tangled twisted roots Cocooned in darkness, earth’s embrace Now sleeps eternal safe from fear

Tiny Gallery Isabella Whittaker is an enthusiastic young designer who has recently discovered a new style of drawing.

These groovy ‘babes’ heavily reflect imperfection and individuality while recognising realistic body shapes and sizes. She has also incorporated birds, plants and macramé in her recent pieces. She uses thin liners and watercolour applied on paper to achieve her trademark style. Isabella’s ‘babes’ will be showcased at Swedish Tarts in Henley Beach during Spring.

Find her on Instagram @bellawhitts

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Words ▶ S. Z. Telford | Image ▶ Sash Corowa

As the leaves fell from the Autumn trees in a biting gust of wind, Ginger wrapped her moth-bitten scarf tightly around her slim, pale face. She walked along a deserted street feeling just as cold and empty. Her Daddy, that’s what he made her call him, had forced her out the door in her jewellery and threw some clothes after her. Ginger stood on the icy step, her knees quivering whilst she hurriedly pulled on the orange leggings and thick black jacket Daddy had dumped at her feet.

“Come back with some gold or you’re dead,” he spat at her before she turned to start her search. That’s what he liked to call it—gold. It was just as precious.

Ginger’s life hadn’t always been this way but the sweet home-cooked dinners and warm soft beds were now just a fragmented memory tucked away behind the spiraling existence that she now found herself in. The only evidence of such a life remained in the golden necklace and ruby 20

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ring that was left to her by her grandmother. None of that mattered now. Daddy wanted his gold and that’s what mattered. Not her aching legs, or the sickness that came creeping up from her gut to infest every cell of her body.

She had a roll of cash tucked deep in Daddy’s jacket and now Ginger needed to find a dealer.

It was getting late, far too late. The moon was rising and the stars twinkled on a purple backdrop. Ginger loved the stars, they reminded her of a chandelier she had once seen as a child. The stars however, also meant that Daddy had been waiting far too long. Ginger could feel a lump grow in her throat as she flittered around grizzly men huddled around burning trashcans. When they proved useless she worked the parked cars peering dangerously from dark alleyways. Ginger’s blue eyes welled with tears as she stumbled down to a garden shed in the park where she planned to sleep, too scared to return to Daddy empty handed. After she picked the lock to the small shed, she crawled into a ball on the damp ground and began to weep.

The crack of a match and the smell of cigarette smoke was accompanied by a burning ember in the dark.

Ginger gasped and sat upright. She scrambled into a ball in the corner and whispered a terrified “Who’s there?”

“Don’t be afraid girl,” a voice said from the shadows, “I’m here to help you.”

Ginger’s breathing came in rapid bursts but she made herself continue. “Tell me who you are. I really doubt you can help me.”

The mysterious stranger stepped into the moonlight streaming from a pane glass window. He was short.

Shorter than the average man but still oozed danger.

“You don’t need to know my name, but I know yours, Ginger,” he said.

“How did you —” “And I know that Daddy is looking for some gold,” the little man continued. “As I said I can help you out, sweet Ginger, but the question is what can you do for me?” he asked.

Ginger scurried to her feet and produced the roll of bills Daddy had trusted her with. She thrust the money toward the little man with outstretched palms. “That’ll do.”

When Ginger eventually made her way back to Daddy’s house she was greeted with the usual violent threats and a sore cheek from his hand. This was the longest time she had taken to find Daddy’s gold and he was not pleased.

He was short. Shorter than the average man but still oozed danger.

His rage subsided when Ginger threw a little plastic bag to the floor and slumped against the wall. Daddy turned his attention to the baggie and went about his ritual.

The prick of the syringe a few minutes later was Ginger’s reward. Her last thoughts before slipping into pure ecstasy were of the little man in the garden shed.

Three days later Ginger was once again roughly handed out the front door of Daddy’s run down house and back on the streets to look for gold. Again she stumbled down the frozen footpaths and once again she could not find anyone who would sell her gold. Ginger decided to run down to the park shed in desperation looking for the little man. Ginger smashed the window to the shed and crawled in, glass ripping at her clothes. Ginger waited for the moon to be high amongst the stars before she was rewarded with the familiar sound of a struck match.

The man asked Ginger what she had for him. Ginger, with tears in her eyes ripped off her grandmother’s jewellery and flung it at him. Three days later Ginger was once again in the small shed and this time she had nothing to give the little man for his gold, but her body. He took her that night in the shed for a handful of Daddy’s gold.

Ginger eventually escaped from Daddy and his gold as the year grew colder. A fire burned within her to do better for herself and the baby she held in her stomach. She had put that life in her past. The little man had attempted to retrieve his son when she finally gave birth but Ginger wailed so terribly that he left but not before vowing to return in three days time for his son. Ginger asked about the man to the few friends she had made whilst under Daddy’s wrath. She ran for the phone when it rang on the third day. A voice told her the little man’s name was Rufus Stiltskin. When she heard this she howled with joy and relief.

Her next phone call was to the police with Rufus’s name and more tears of liberation fell as Ginger was assured that he would be tracked down and arrested. Ginger took to motherhood with love and compassion, living a wonderful life with her son, without Daddy or Rufus Stiltskin.

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Words ▶ Chloe Byrne | Image ▶ Lauren Brauer

A father and daughter exchange words for the first time.

As I saw the silhouette moving across the dusty carpark, I started to change my mind. His face was obscured by darkness, his hands sunk into the pockets of his worn jeans, and he moved with an uneasy gait. I wrung my hands together, nervously wondering what the hell I was doing out in the middle of nowhere, meeting a virtual stranger. The bell above the door jingled as he entered, letting in a swirl of warm breeze behind him.

He met my gaze, his face lined and brown with age and exposure. He made his way to my table and sat down across from me.

‘Charlotte.’ He didn’t say it as either a question or a statement, but more of a new and foreign word he had been practicing, rolling it around in his mouth and seeing how it felt.

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‘Hi, Steve. Dad. Steve.’ My cheeks prickled with the heat of blush. I cleared my throat and took a deep breath.

‘Mum hasn’t got much time. It’s moved to her lungs now.

She wanted me to meet you. I guess she wanted to see loose ends tied up before she… goes.’

‘Well I’m glad you tracked me down, and I’m sorry to hear about your mum. I’ve thought about you a lot over the years. Wondered what you were doing, what you looked like. From your letters, it seemed like you were doing great. I’m glad you’re at uni. Done better than your old man, that’s for sure. Jesus, Charlotte, what can I say?

I’ve been a crap dad. I should’ve been there.’

I stared out into the night, through the greasy film of the diner’s windows, across the dimly lit carpark and onto the busy highway. Massive trucks groaned past

in both directions, their metallic shells flashing in the streetlights like polished aliens. I wondered how many fathers drove those trucks, and whether they were rushing towards or away from their families.

‘It’s not that I never wanted you, love,’ he said, as if reading my thoughts. ‘Your mum and I were both young. We weren’t even together. I didn’t even know she was knocked up until my mate heard it from someone else. I was scared.’

He ran his hands over his face. I noticed how weary and worn he looked, his cheeks as lined and crumpled as a paper bag. His hair was dirty and unkempt, and a dark stubble was peppered across his chin. I wondered if I was looking at the same cognac eyes my mother had fallen for all those years ago.

‘I just don’t understand why you never tried to find out about me. You’ve had twenty years.’ A lump formed in my throat and my voice crackled into a falsetto. ‘I always wondered what it was like to have a dad. All my friends had them, even if their parents had split up. I’d make up these elaborate stories about you, telling my friends that you were an international spy who was on a mission in Dubrovnik. Or you were a movie star away on location.

But it was never about you being mysterious, or successful, or famous. I could never bring myself to admit that you’d had every opportunity to know me if you had wanted to. That you were a truck driver who got a girl pregnant and ditched your responsibilities. That it was too fucking hard for you to pick up the phone or write me a fucking letter.’

Dad let out a long breath. ‘I don’t even know where Dubrovnik is.’

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Words â–ś Shannen Wilkinson

Gaps Spaces Fill them with dreams With fantasies With things you hold dear With everything from the stars, To the smallest speck of dust Things of age and the new The past The present The spaces will disappear But, you will still know That underneath all the piles Of written dreams Fantasies, Old and new, Past and present, There will still be spaces.

No one sees them But, you know they exist Like you exist Like pain exists And like pleasure exists all the same But, keep filling the spaces Keep going Maybe one day they will disappear Maybe one day you will feel whole.

Advice from Charlie Words ▶ Kurt Miegel | Image ▶ Charlotte Rollinson

Kurt Miegel reflects on the reality of forming and maintaining relationships in the modern world.

“We have developed speed, but we have shut ourselves in. Machinery that gives abundance has left us in want. Our knowledge has made us cynical. Our cleverness, hard and unkind. We think too much and feel too little. More than machinery we need humanity. More than cleverness we need kindness and gentleness.

Without these qualities, life will be violent and all will be lost...”

To whom might you attribute this quote?

A modern world leader? A tech giant like a Steve Jobs or Bill Gates? Even a well-meaning celebrity? No. This quote is taken from the 1940 film The Great Dictator starring silent movie legend Charlie Chaplin. Once you get over the fact that he actually does have a voice, you begin to read into what he is saying and how much it still rings true today.

We live faster lives, full of more technology with access to endless knowledge at our fingertips. But when was the last time you could honestly say you reached out and talked to a stranger? A total stranger. Not someone who is in the same course as you or someone who shares some interests with you. Just someone who might be waiting for the bus or sitting next to you at an event.

This is the problem with this technologically focussed world. Although we are so connected, we lose touch with so many people. I have hundreds of contacts in my phone and on Facebook, but what good are they if I can’t speak to those people face-to-face? Because I know I can call or message them at any time, I end up not talking to them at all. Not only that, but we don’t make meaningful connections with people like we used to. I could only tell you the birthdays and some key facts about a few of my friends. My grandfather is on the positive side of 80, can list off birthdays, key personality traits and so much more about everyone he’s met.

See what I’m getting at?

We have so much wonderful technology in our lives that allows us to live in ease and to do great things. It would be easy to claim that because of this we are smarter than we have ever been but if we lose the ability to develop close relationships with people around us, are we really smarter than the generations which have come before us?

The world faces an uncertain and potentially dangerous future. If there ever was a time to form more lasting and meaningful connections, it is probably now. As Chaplin points out, it is the kindness and gentleness of humanity that we need, not the bigger, better and faster machinery in our pockets and all around us. Those around you need to be the priority, not the gadgets and gizmos that we so often put first.

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Her Words ▶ Carli Stasinopoulos | Images ▶ Maria Kharitonova His life exists in two points: before her and after her.

One summer evening, before he even knew her name, he found her head resting on his chest as they lay in the sand watching the sun descend into the ocean. He twirled a section of her hair around his fingers and, for a fraction of a second, peered down to watch the sun illuminate pink into the sky. That is when he realised everything he ever believed was wrong.

She came in like a cataclysmic technicolour explosion, and almost as quickly as she came in, she was gone. He’d been trying to bring her back ever since.

She had the darkest brown eyes he had ever seen, and it was almost impossible for eyes that dark to shine. He related her eyes to her hair; it wasn’t until the sunset drowned her in gold that he realised her hair wasn’t brown like he once

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believed. It was black and blonde and light and dark at the same time. The strands behind her neck were ashy, yet the hair around his fingers threw red. He had passed a lot of dark brown eyes since, but none sparkled like hers.

When he dipped her in the middle of the dance floor on their first date, the swirls of her tangerine and peach coloured dress blurred his vision before his lips pressed softly against hers. He consumed himself in golden rays, but no summer was ever as warm.

Before her, he merely existed. Life was nothing more than grey. During her, he lived. And then she left. Winter passed, Spring blossomed new life, and Summer rolled around again. This time, he stopped trying to bring her back. Instead, he now appreciates every ounce of colour she brought into his life.

After her, he was reborn.

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The Doctor Is Calling Words ▶ Rhys Stalba-Smith | Image ▶ Bianca Hoffrichter

‘Come on, wakey wakey. I’ve prepared something special for you! Let me just remove that blindfold.’ Said the voice.

‘There we go. Now you can see my work! Isn’t that better?’

Darcy stared down at his chest in disbelief. Well, what had been his chest was now an open cavity. His heart sat one foot above him in a glass jar. Beating haphazardly.

A man in a surgeon’s apron stood at the end of the bed.

Darcy glimpsed a vision of his eyes and looked away.

He felt cold. No one should smile like that.

‘I think you’ll find it was a success, the operation that is,’ gesturing with his hand. ‘Our accommodation though, isn’t quite up to the standards one might grow to expect.’

Darcy lay motionless as dust rained down upon him from the corrugated ceiling. He stared at the blood-stained apron, trying not to move above the Doctor’s chest.

What had he heard Ellie screaming? Doctor Insane?

Was that it? Was that he’d heard Ellie screaming through the walls?

‘You might be a bit disorientated, Darcy. Ol’ Rexy used a bit of gas to knock you out… You were just making it so difficult.’

‘Look!’

As if it was against his will, Darcy tried to suppress tears as his eyes traced up the sickly green scrubs, taking in the mouldy stethoscope and finally looking into the Doctor’s eyes.

Darcy’s heartbeat quickened in the jar.

‘You could at least thank me, Darcy. It wasn’t easy you know. I had to make two breaks in you. That heart of yours didn’t want to come out!’ He said, turning to the sink in the corner.

The hot salt plains outside peaked through the window.

Six hundred kilometres from the last petrol station, he and Ellie had set out for the ‘Screaming Plains’. With jerry cans of extra fuel, the salt plains had stretched out before them like the terrible whites of the Doctor’s eyes. At the very centre of the plains was a pub and water well.

He’d been so nice behind the counter, making sandwiches, cold drinks, he even sat with them and had a chat.

The best time to sit outside was at night, he said, when the stars were out whispering a secret message.

A phone rang in the next room, the Doctor frowned.

Darcy didn’t know what day it was, but the last he’d heard of Ellie had been screams mixed with what sounded like paper tearing.

‘Probably someone calling your slut girlfriend,’ he said, ’trying to find out where she is.’

‘Look at me, Darcy.’ Said the Doctor.

He swept out of the room and into the next, leaving the door ajar so Darcy could see through.

Darcy shook his head.

A man in a surgeon’s apron stood at the end of the bed.

Darcy glimpsed a vision of his eyes and looked away.

He felt cold. No one should smile like that.

He saw Ellie, or what was left of her.

There had been weight in the air that afternoon, and not just from the heat. It seemed to roll off the pitched roof and cascade onto them. The other man sitting with them was the Doctor’s younger brother, Rex. He kept his left elbow tucked into his ribs and played with his fingers endlessly. What caused the unease though, was how he stared at them. With his head tilted forward, a slight grin upon his face, a dimpled cheek had never looked so menacing.

‘Oh yes, forgot about that.’ The Doctor said. He smiled.

‘Ya’see, you didn’t need them teeth o’ yours, so I gave ‘em to Rex. He’s got a pretty good collection now too.

Haven’t ya mate?’

‘Yuh huh’ echoed from the next room.

‘And while I was poking around, I decided to do a bit of spring cleaning for ya. Little scrape of the throat.’

Darcy tensed his lips, feeling the twine move through his flesh that had sewn them shut.

‘You should thank me!’ The Doctor shouted.

Doctor Insane opened Darcy’s jar.

A knife flew through the air and buried itself into Ellie’s body.

‘Now, I don’t wanna do this Darce, really. But you’ve given me no choice, really.’

Darcy went to scream but pain tore up his throat.

The Doctor opened his own jar.

‘Aren’t you gonna thank me, ya no good piece’a shit?’

He said.

‘You gave me no choice when you came out here willynilly, screaming across the plains in your car. It’s gonna be a harder one to destroy too, yours is. Being a copper’s car an’ all. But lunatics you and that girl. Thinking you could come pokin’ ‘round here. These are my plains!’ He said.

Ellie’s dead body didn’t reply.

The Doctor stormed in holding a jar of salt. He stopped and smiled at Darcy, resuming his bedside manor.

Blood thundered in and out of Darcy’s jar.

‘I tried to help you ya’know, even her, but ya pissed me Darce, ya really did.’

Darcy went to speak but pain shot up his throat again, blood trickling out of his mouth.

‘Ouuuuaaahauauugh’

The Doctor began to foam at the mouth like a rabid dog.

‘You just say when,’ he snarled.

The Doctor dumped the jar of salt into Darcy’s heart-filled jar. Screams tore their way out of Darcy’s throat as his heart burned. He convulsed in his bed, hoping for his mind to collapse and go free.

In[ter]view Verse Mag’s Regular Graduate Interview

Since completing a double degree of Journalism and Creative Communication, Lucy Ahern has found her feet at Australian Fashion Labels taking care of marketing and social media.

Words ▶ Emmylou Macdonald | Images ▶ Andre Castelluci, Australian Fashion Labels

What kick-started the change from journalism to marketing? How smooth was the transition?

I interned at Australian Fashion Labels at the end of the last year of my degree, was asked to help out over Christmas and ended up staying on in a customer care position. Then a few months down the track I moved into a social media and copy writing position, and then moved on up from there as my experience grew!

Because it was quite gradual, it was pretty smooth!

But there's always a learning curve, no matter how much experience you have in a particular area or company.

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Walk us through a regular day at your job.

It's social media from the get go. It sounds a little predictable but I do the whole 'roll over and post' thing.

So checking on Instagram first, then Facebook and Twitter.

I try to make it to the gym, and then try and gather my life together before I rush into work.

When I get into work I grab a coffee—especially if Kindling Coffee is hanging around outside—check on all the socials again, then start on emails for the day. If it's a Monday I'm looking at the metrics from the week before, followed by back-to-back meetings with the rest of the digital team

to analyse and plan. Any other day it's communicating with influencers, our offices in LA, Melbourne or China, planning our social strategy for the week ahead or contributing to our blog (blog.fashionbunker.com). So generally pretty packed!

I try and take my time on the walk to and from work to zone out a bit, mainly with Buzzfeed articles and questionable Spotify choices.

How do you see social media evolving in the next decade?

We've already seen a ridiculous amount of change just in the last few years. The evolving roles of influencers, especially the growth of micro-influencers, has had a real impact on how platforms function and monetise.

The greater integration of advertising across the major platforms is having a huge effect on metrics like organic reach, which I think could be increasingly problematic for businesses as the years go on.

Every time I think we're at saturation point with the number of platforms, something else comes along—I'm looking at you, Instagram Stories—but I'm guessing it will just keep snowballing. I think live media and perhaps also virtual reality will become more prevalent in the next decade, and the age of influencers will either die out or will have to evolve itself in order to keep up.

New platforms, apps and functions always keep us on our toes so as a team and as a company we're always continuously evolving too.

With the rapidly growing popularity of Aus Fashion Labels, has your role gotten easier or more challenging?

It's always amazing to see the kind of PR that comes in.

The fact that C/MEO COLLECTIVE has collaborated with Solange Knowles for a capsule collection still blows my mind a little bit.

But I wouldn't necessarily say it’s easier or more challenging. I think my experience with the labels and social platforms has grown as AFL has which means I'm better equipped to adapt to changes to the environment and our company. The workload has increased but so have my responsibilities and the scope of my role, so I'm happy to put in the hours.

What has been the best piece of advice given to you throughout your career?

To take a break, even if I definitely don't follow it sometimes. The longer I'm in this position and this industry the more I see the importance of at least a little bit of down time. Sometimes it means putting in more hours the day before but if it means more Netflix time on the weekend then it's worth it.

If you could make your own social media platform, what would it involve?

I feel like it's all been done! I think the focus at the moment is really on live media so maybe something involving that. If it can also involve filters and stickers you've totally got me hooked so I'd push for that too.

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What is your favourite marketing campaign by another company and why?

The Old Spice guy. Hands down. Always. I would say because of the horse or the diamonds but also A+ scripting.

Where do you see yourself in five years?

I'll be 30. Jesus Christ. My career has definitely gone in a much different direction than I anticipated since I finished uni, so who really knows at this point! I'd really like to focus more on my writing even if it's a bit more of a side

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hustle. I guess it's all about increasing my skill set and focusing on where I know my strengths are or probably actually working out exactly what they are.

Mainly I'm just going to try and take the next few years as they come. As I've mentioned, the industry and those who work in it are continually having to adapt just to keep up.

It's hard to predict next week let alone the next five years.

Also a sneaky bit of travel wouldn't go astray.

Keep up to date with Australian Fashion Labels on facebook.com/AustralianFashionLabels and instagram.com/ausfashionlabels

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e c n a t s Di Words ▶ Daniel Zander | Image ▶ Alexander Binetti

Daniel Zander discusses why maintaining long distance friendships is difficult even with the presence of social media.

One of the best things about growing up in the 21st century has been benefiting from the leaps and bounds made in technology and communication. It means we now have constant contact with our friends and family; those who live both near and far. However, despite these advances, there is no substitute for physical contact and seeing someone face-to-face. All of this is exacerbated it seems, when they live on the opposite side of the world with a time zone difference that means you’re waking up when they’re going to sleep, or vice versa.

Facebook, Whatsapp, Snapchat, Instagram, Skype and FaceTime are all wonderful services to help maintain that contact but time and space apart begin to take their toll and several thoughts start running through your head: ‘why did they have to leave?’, ‘why do we have to be so far apart?’, ‘what if I’m being replaced?’, ‘I wonder if they think about me as much as I think about them?’

The important thing is to rest assured that most of these thoughts are unfounded and that everything is going to be okay. You need to focus on yourself too — your schooling, career, relationships and future goals — these are all important and shouldn’t stop being your focus just because your friend lives far away. Chances are that they feel the same and miss you just as much as you miss them.

Life goes on, it gets in the way and you begin to feel left out of their life even more than before. They go on road trips, cook with their friends, go out to pretty bars or even achieve life milestones like graduating or moving house and suddenly those Facebook posts and Snapchats seem like a punch in the gut rather than a source of happiness like you know they should be. Of course you begin to feel jealous since you’re not there to be a part of those memories, but honestly Skype is a lifeline and there’s nothing a good, long call can’t fix. When your schedules line up and you can finally talk to your friend or loved one,

you wonder how people ever lived without the Internet in the first place.

Catching up on all the smaller things in your friend or loved ones life makes you feel bad, I mean shouldn’t you have known about all of this and been there to experience it too? But don’t worry, they feel exactly the same and the urge to see each other again is 100% mutual. When you are reunited, countless hugs and life updates are exchanged, you go on new adventures with them and everything picks up right where it left off. You take photos in front of landmarks and countless selfies together, even if they are only drunken snaps in a club. All is good in the world again and that’s when you know they’re a true friend — distance and time apart haven’t changed a thing.

You make plans to see each other again in the not-sodistant future, dates when you’re mutually free are cross checked and you’re optimistic that you actually go through with it this time.

Then you’re apart again, the cycle of missing them recommences and the rollercoaster of emotions and longing to see them start to take their toll. Online apps and services help to minimise that; Good morning snaps and Instagram posts serve as a source of happiness, your friends and loved ones are doing okay, they’re healthy and well and at the end of the day that’s all you really wish for. Sure, you think about them a lot and you never stop missing them. You overhear something on the train and think about how funny your friend would have found it. You see a movie advertised that your friend would have loved and feel like you can’t see it without them.

You hear your friend’s favourite song on the radio and smile because you remember all the memories you have jamming out to it. They might be far away but you never forget them, they think about you too, and while the distance is hard it makes those fleeting reunions even more special.

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The art of Wendy Dixon Whiley

Imag[in]e Verse Mag’s Regular Student Art & Design feature

Wendy Dixon-Whiley believes art can and should be found everywhere.

Having studied a Master of Visual Art at UniSA, she has developed a bold and somewhat mischievous style which thrives within the streets of Adelaide and beyond.

Words ▶ Jordan Leović | Images ▶ Wendy Dixon Whiley

Tell us about how you discovered your love for art.

At the risk of sounding like a cliché, I’ve loved art for as long as I can remember. However for a few years my creative side became somewhat sidelined because of the usual life pressures of working and so forth. I realised that the source of a lot of my general angst was because I wasn’t using my creative abilities so I set out to make the visual arts central to my focus again. Going back to study a Master of Visual Art was the best decision I ever made; I was able to build my practice up again quickly and I’m excited about what’s next for me creatively.

How would you describe the characteristics of your work?

My style sits somewhere on a spectrum between contemporary and street art, depending on what I am working on. There’s a distinct ‘cartoonish’ aesthetic to a lot of my work with a lot of bold lines and bright, primary colours. The style has evolved a lot in the past few years into a combination of a kind of personal cosmology and pictorial script.

The signature ‘beast’ creatures which you draw appear playful yet, at the same time, menacing. In your eyes, are they heroes or villains?

Both. Sometimes I feel like they have elements of my own personality in them and other times I have specific people in mind as they take form. We all have light and dark sides to our personalities and there’s no such thing as a person who is completely ‘good’ or ‘bad’. This is a concept somewhat related to the themes of some of my work. In a way, I feel like these creatures embody that idea which is why they seem friendly yet menacing.

What are your best tips for getting creative?

I’m fairly introverted so I absolutely must have quiet time to be with my thoughts. I’ve gone to the extent of removing myself to the middle of nowhere with no phone reception, technology or electricity as I find the less distractions I have the better. Keeping detailed journals is also a great help. I go to the lengths of indexing mine so that if I ever need to find out where I noted down some vague reference to a work by - for example - Philip Guston, I know exactly which journal and which page to look on. Those journals are a goldmine and can spark new ideas that I might not have considered back when I first made a note or observation. I also find that I have some of my best breakthroughs when I am not at all concerned about the outcome, so I keep some cheap materials on hand (paints, papers, canvases etc.) which I don’t mind destroying in the experimentation process.

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Top: A Privation of Good Above: Beasts and Brews Boards

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What are some of the most interesting and unusual projects you’ve worked on?

Painting a mural in the Melbourne Street Laundromat during the 2015 Adelaide Fringe Festival was an interesting experience. However, the most unusual project is just about to start – shortly I’ll be beginning an Arts SA-funded project in a secret location in the Adelaide Hills named ‘Paste the Hills’. I’ve committed to completely covering one of the many under-freeway tunnels with my artwork and will be inviting members of the public to get involved by scanning a QR code which they will register to receive. This code will reveal the location and instructions.

More can be found out about this at wdixonwhiley.com for those who are curious. These will definitely be the most unusual surfaces and locations I have ever painted on!

Do you have any strange obsessions?

A lot of my creative research is based around the study of Dante Alighieri’s Inferno. I admit to being a little bit obsessed with this poem. I even have a tattoo of Dante’s map of Hell on my forearm. Some people would probably think it’s a little odd to be fixated on such a dark and, at times, depressing story but I think it’s magical – even when its descriptions are graphic and disturbing and I’ve re-read it countless times. My other obsession isn’t so strange; I’m a bit of a connoisseur of craft beer and love seeking out new types to try.

Above: Beasts and Brews Boards Right: Creatures

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Above: Monsters

Where would you like to be in five years?

In a perfect world I’d love to begin a PhD, at some point in the next few years – in all honesty, I’d start tomorrow if I could! I adore research and the City West campus is a bit of a ‘happy place’ for me. Practice-based research takes my work in such interesting and unexpected directions and going to the ‘next level’ via a higher degree would be unbelievably exciting. Who knows what might happen?

And in reference to the aforementioned obsession with Inferno, I’d love to travel to Florence in Italy to immerse myself in the hometown of Dante and see what else I can find out about my favourite poet.

See more of Wendy’s work at wdixonwhiley.com

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Above: Short Lived Mockery

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VO X: Student Voice UniSA students tell us what they’d win a gold medal for and where to find the best burgers in Adelaide.

Words & Images ▶ Adrienne Goode

Glenn Rogers Bachelor of Commerce (Accounting), Bachelor of Business (Finance) What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

Interior design.

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

The Burger Club.

Taylor Robinson Bachelor of Commerce (Accounting), Bachelor of Business (Finance) What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

Eating ice-cream.

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

The Blue and White Café at North Adelaide.

Hannah Edwards PhD (Health Science) What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

Knowing things about people that I shouldn’t know.

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

127 Days because they have a different creative special every day of the year.

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Emmanuel Nshangalume Bachelor of Education (Primary) What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

FIFA. I reckon I’d be the best at that and would definitely win a gold medal.

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

Nordburger at Norwood. Everything in there is really really good, you can’t go wrong

Andre Arias Bachelor of Education (Primary and Middle) What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

Soccer.

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

Grill’d.

Courtney Moore Bachelor of Social Sciences (Human Services), Bachelor of Psychological Science What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

Drinking coffee (lots of it).

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

I don’t eat out much, so probably HJ’s.

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Maddison Olson Bachelor of Social Sciences (Human Services), Bachelor of Psychological Science What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

Procrasti-organising.

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

The Pickled Duck.

Michael Tremonte Bachelor of Health Science What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

Binge watching multiple episodes of a TV show.

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

Nordburger is pretty good.

Zoe Street Bachelor of Arts (Indigenous Cultures and Australian Society), Bachelor of Social Work What activity in your daily life would you win an Olympic gold medal for?

Sitting on the couch and eating.

Where do you go to get the best burgers in Adelaide?

The Tax Payer. Awesome burgers! They’re all to do with people evading tax, so they have an OJ Simpson Burger, a Martha Stewart burger and so on.

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Songs for Spring A mix to groove to, grow to, and welcome the warmer months to.

Words ▶ Caitlin Tait | Images ▶ Maria Kharitonova Coming Home - Leon Bridges Forrest Gump - Frank Ocean Come to L.A. - Pretty Sister for him. - Troye Sivan ft. Allday Everywhere - Fleetwood Mac tRuTh - ZAYN Window Seat - Thompston x Wafia So Far (It's Alright) - The 1975 Maybe We're Home - Lewis Watson Just Ask - Lake Street Dive Don't Wanna Try - Saskwatch Cruel - The Preatures A Dizzy Fashion - Electric Exiles Ivy League - Alex Lahey My Love, My Lover - BANFF x Caitlin Park

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September Election Nominations Students who would like to gain hands on leadership experience while shaping the future of UniSA and USASA, are invited to nominate to be a representative on the 2017 USASA Student Board.

What the heck is there to do around here? These things.

2nd - 11th: Royal Adelaide Show 2016

6th - 16th: USASA Board Nominations Open

Info and how to nominate: www.usasa.sa.edu.au/election Art on Campus Competition Here’s your chance to see your art on campus and win a share of $1000 in prizes thanks to USASA & Art Stretchers!

Be as creative as you want - be inspired and inspire others while bringing UniSA’s campuses to life.

9th: Verse Edition 12 Launch at Peter Rabbit 9th: Nursing and Midwifery WWJD Pub Crawl

Full brief & details: www.USASA.sa.edu.au/CampusArt

16th: UniSA Business Pub Crawl

17th – October 2nd: OzASia Festival 19th – October 2nd: SP5 Teaching Break

26th: Verse Edition 13 Deadline 30th: Art Comp closes

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October

Or these things.

Elections & Democracy Sausages All UniSA students are able to vote online in the USASA student board elections from October 10- 14. You can vote at anytime during the period via your student email (check ya inbox this week!)

5th: UniTopia Whyalla 10th – 14th - USASA Student Board Election online voting open

During this week USASA are also are serving up democracy sausages next to voing booths on metro campuses. 11.00am – 2.00pm daily • • • •

Mawson Lakes - GP Courtyard - Monday 10th Magill - Aroma BBQ and Courtyard – Tuesday 11th City West - Hoj Plaza - Wednesday 12th City East - Bazil Hetzel Plaza- Thursday 13th

18th: UniTopia Mawson Lakes 19th: UniTopia Magill

Verse #12 Comes Out!

25th: UniTopia City West UniTopia: Spring Retreat

26th: UniTopia City East

Everyone’s favourite stress-less event, UniTopia, will be back for spring! Unwind, relax and enjoy before exams 11.00am - 3.00pm October 5, 18, 19, 25 & 26.

Petting Zoo, Massage, Henna, Lawn Games & more • • • •

Mawson Lakes - GP Courtyard Magill – Amy Wheaton Lawns City West – George Street City East – Basil Hetzel Plaza

More info at: www.USASA.sa.edu.au/UniTopia *Activities vary for regional campuses.

If you’d like to organise an event, join or start a club! Visit USASA.sa.edu.au/clubs Edition 12 2016

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Barren Woman Words â–ś Jean Joseph | Image â–ś Bianca Hoffrichter Baby, dear baby; I am ready for you to arrive.

Arrive quickly into me, on this awfully humid September night.

Ripe as I am, raw as I have ever been.

Ready for your occupancy. I remain plied open, lusciously vacant.

Encroach. Dear baby, my baby; I am ready for you.

Nethers and loins natter, the bricks and mortar laid.

Wistfully open, these windows might entice your most anticipated trade.

Oval and supple, your palace is padded. Pleasures, treasures, adventures.

My baby, darling baby. Have I tempted you into emerging?

Antagonise me much later, just now come conquer your rotunda.

Naked and standing are the beams of your limber legacy.

Bound to me, my baby baluster, bound by desperate desire.

Alive but alone, my heart beat echoes against yielding walls.

Run up and around, please seek out my vacuous halls.

Rosy, peaked and tender for you. Bloat my hollow haunch.

Ever as this plunger latches my fate, come towards me.

Night and never, have I stopped to lay these tiles.

Working like a black bull, dancing through the muddy miles.

Open, over, into, under. Your path feeds my endless obsession.

Mark me as your sheltered selection, paint your blush here.

Another pinch to prove I'm worthy. Trap this torrential tune.

Not to consume prickly tacks and earthly wax. Void, avoid.

Blasted tangled wires of hair fall quickly as the tide.

A quickened glance, a small sacrificed, your palace now fortified.

Remembering vaulted encounters with small and fragile feet and fingers.

Rented movies of my heart, briefly granted a second scene.

Enough space to carve out what only might have been.

Nothing but more logs to throw onto my burning pyre.

Who else can I seek to guide you to me?

Odin and Freya, bless me to make my cauldron swell.

Moon of whole, bright of white light, send your advice.

Answer this still warm, tossing pocus chant of blue entice.

Night is my favourite time to call out your name.

Breathing your pale laughing eyes into my torrid brain.

Arrow like, your smiles slice and slaughter my foulest moods.

Run to me, my blessed baby. Lunar angel of mine.

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Rumours rustle within my bones, still emptiness aches and groans.

Ernest devastation claws up the walls of my veins.

Nameless voices, taunt, tease, torment - throw me off my ledge.

Woeful is your wilful absence. Your cruel choice to asphyxiate.

Omen after sought-after sign, merciless invasions of my sacred apron.

Masters at the humble lie, slowly dredging my bedrock away.

As my essence drips down my thighs. Milky, foul, red.

Nausea blocking the gentle glow of the moon’s silent ray.

Bankrupt of even a small speck of warmth or light. Accounting for life takes up almost all of my hours.

Running water, washing away. Rotten ribbons, life drowning decay.

Remember me in my earnest plight, this my last day.

Enough time has passed since I tried to follow you.

Needles, noises, noses and names. Surgeons, Sisters, Saviours and Saints.

White papers signed, the involuntary end to my moonstruck sabbatical.

Opportunity to encounter my limitations again. All visions have altered.

Moments are measured. Saccharine breezes molest my tepid skin.

Around my vain waist is tied an implacable sledge hammer.

Night and night it pounds you out of my memory.

Bashing motions after bashing motions. These wounds fade into foreordination.

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Alive but alone, my heart beat echoes against unyielding walls.

Rising against the concave now ruined walls of this vessel. Ropes of tears spontaneously tumble out of my dithering eyes.

Expunging all traces of the beauty that was my prize.

Night and new night, I have stopped laying these tiles.

Wandering through the terrifyingly severe weatherscapes of my musty mind.

Only wading in near boiling water has any soothing effect.

Might I be trying to burn this nagging numbness away.

Another pinch proves I'm still unworthy. Trapping this torrential tune.

Nothing means what it used to, nothing means anything now.

Bones not flesh, shards to control. Blood on everything whole.

Absolve me from this cruel, miserable sentence - I am innocent.

Recalling vaulted encounters with still feet and blue black fingers.

Robbed of the sacred promises that were most honestly made.

Everyone said and all who tried failed, faulted destiny prevailed.

Now is the very worst season of my wretched life.

Who else can I seek to find you for me?

Omar son of Eliphaz, the chief speaker of the Edomites?

Madness, malice, misery, mistake. Cold comfort, my dreadful companion delights.

Atrocity, am I. My fists clenched, poised to punch me.

Nervously, I tolerate my other’s probing on my aggrieved abode.

Big shivers of terror conflicting with the urge to surrender.

Almighty great struggles I wage against my own glazed sorrow.

Ruined beyond recognition, miry what once was solid and sound.

Rubbing life into my icicle-tipped toes, awareness spreading itself up.

Edging closer, moving further, building, breaking - all at once.

Nerves naturally assuaged by gentle waves of sure handed familiarity.

Washing inches of devastation away amidst the arising goose bumps.

Older now, my beams are broader, sure structured and securer.

Making the most of the second sun rise, worshipping politely.

Anticipating nothing. No more life dreaming, hope farming or fear.

Night and this night, I have re-laid those demented tiles.

Baby, dear baby, here is an open invitation for you.

Allowances have been made, there are no more disastrous disconnects.

Reinforcements are at the ready. Your family is with me.

Roaming no more, I find myself prepared, able to forget.

Encroach dear baby, most anticipated one; we are awaiting you.

Nethers and loins seamlessly connect, bricks and mortar now laid.

Wistfully open, our windows might entice your most anticipated trade.

Oval and pliant, your palace is polished. Your throne awaits.

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Marked by unexpected expulsion at dawn. That torrential tune, replayed.

Atrocity, again. My fists clenched, poised ready to hold me.

Nameless voices, taunt, tease, torment - throw me off my guard.

Broad shivers of terror drill incessantly, I am not dissuaded.

Alive but not alone, two heartbeats echo within my walls!

Revelations of life, awareness spreading itself up into my whole.

Reinforcements are at the ready. Our family is beside me.

Edging closer, moving together, building, blooming - all in control.

Night and all nights, these tiles have exposed a path.

Night and de-light, we stand as guards of one fight.

Oceans of expectancy. Though tragedy remains that delicate house guest.

Mollycoddled, swaddled and swamped. Your fortress is a raven’s haven.

Opulence, surrounds and reflects the rays of light and gold.

Rosy, peaked and tender, your vicious movements are predictability bold.

Enter, my baby, divine Destiny, Queen of my survived soul.

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bitter band Review: National Campus band Competition

Verse Mag’s Regular Band Chat: Special Edition

Words ▶ Jordan Leović | Images ▶ Entice Photography & Design

Last month, JIVE on Hindley Street was besieged by a storm of sour notes and off-key singing from four incredibly average bands from UniSA who are all focussed on the unlikely chance of winning $5k at the national finals.

Let’s begin with the funk-rock fathers called Pumpometer.

These middle-aged maestros flaunted joggers, jeans and mean goatees which gave off some pungent 40-yearold dad vibes, highlighting their unawareness of the competition being for university students. Perhaps the most youthful thing about these guys was the drummer’s unabashed draping of himself in a World of Warcraft t-shirt. Pumpometer evoked even more curiosity when their macho skin-head lead singer stepped up to the

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stage with an electric ukulele: not your standard, fedorawearing, Jason Mraz-type ukulele wielder. But, boy, could that man bust a note on that thing. He stole the show with a shredding solo while the bass player’s finger-work would have even give Flea from the Red Hot Chili Peppers a massive hard-on. It’s a real shame they didn’t make it through to the finals and I’d love to see them give it another crack next year if they’re not too busy paying off mortgages.

Next up there’s Larsen, the mop-headed grunge dudes.

As expected, their tunes weren’t as smooth as their luscious, silky locks; meat-and-potatoes drumming was boxed in by a wall of thick guitar distortion and aggressive bass. They pumped out ballsy, Silverchair-esque bangers which were paired with some half-decent attempts at vocal harmonising. If there was one thing that Larsen had proved, it was that kitchen mops make better guitar players than one would expect – solos were wellexecuted, especially considering neither guitarists had any vision of their instruments. Nevertheless, it’s great to know the boys will have those Head and Shoulders endorsements to fall back on when their music careers fall through.

The next musical abomination were The Monikers.

First impressions were not good; stepping up to the stage were a motley bunch of misfits with a Jack Black lookalike as their frontman. Okay Kung Fu Panda, show me what you’ve got. Truth be told, I was expecting woeful covers from the School of Rock soundtrack but I was pleasantly surprised. These boys delivered jangly ditties with groovy basslines and snarling guitar solos. Catchy pop hooks and bright, colourful melodies made for instant crowdpleasers. And may I add, Nacho Libre’s voice was tastier than a Zamby’s burrito. Having finished first place, these indie-rock oddballs are something of which UniSA should be mildly proud.

Punk rock drongos Radix were then called to the stage, displaying the usual rock ‘n’ roll tragedies. The bass player was unsure whether he wanted to be a punk or a flowerchild with a bandana unsuitably wrapped around his spiky-haired head. One could say they looked a bit Radix-ulous, banging those heads with no hair to whip.

The lead singer had a couple of cracking jokes up his sleeve which even raised smiles on the surly judges’ faces, suggesting a promising career in comedy when his musical endeavours inevitably crash and burn.

They played aggro tunes that make you want to get up, steal old ladies’ purses and kick people in the head.

Yet, two of the golden rules of punk music were broken; there were guitar solos and, amazingly, a sense of melody.

They even mustered up the musical prowess to throw in some dance-y little disco beats which smartened up all of that big, dumb punk. The judges seemed to enjoy (or at least tolerate) this, as Radix finished second place.

In all, it was an unforgettable night with some very forgettable bands. Congratulations to finalists The Monikers and runners-up Radix, who proved themselves marginally less average than the others. Show your halfhearted support for our bands and check them out online.

Pumpometer facebook.com/pumpometer/ The Monikers facebook.com/TheMonikers/ Radix facebook.com/Radixbandadelaide/ Larsen facebook.com/larsen.music.adelaide/

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Stargazing â–ś Nicole Scriva

Turn your head to the side and embrace the early 2000s. Apply your lucky ancient emoji when using any digital correspondence.

a

b

c

March 21 - April 20

April 21 - May 21

May 22 - June 21

You will miss out on a HD by 0.5 of a mark. Blergh.

Your crush will reveal that they like you but never follow up with a date.

You will have an existential crisis.

Just for a bit.

Lucky ancient emoji: 8====D

Lucky ancient emoji: :'-)

Lucky ancient emoji: @---->

g

h

i

September 24 - October 23

October 24 - November 22

November 23 - December 22

That white lie to get out of socializing will bite you in the butt next week.

Centrelink is gonna be keeping you on hold for 60 minutes.

That old flame who dumped you is gonna be super rich. Bummer.

Lucky ancient emoji: >:-o

Lucky ancient emoji: ;-P

Lucky ancient emoji: o:-)

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d

e

f

June 22 - July 23

July 24 - August 23

August 24 - September 23

Let the dream die. You will never have personalised number plates.

Be careful. A cracked phone screen is on your horizon.

Your library books will be recalled all semester. Watch out for fines.

Lucky ancient emoji: <3

Lucky ancient emoji: B-)

Lucky ancient emoji: :3

j

k

l

December 23 - January 20

January 21 - February 19

February 20 - March 20

Your favourite drink bottle will start leaking tomorrow.

That PokĂŠmon you want will never be yours. Go back to Candy Crush Saga.

There will be no soap left in the public bathrooms you visit this month.

Lucky ancient emoji: :@)

Lucky ancient emoji: :-\

Lucky ancient emoji: X-(

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versemag.com.au Another way to procrastinate.

Exclusive online content, articles, reviews, galleries & flick through past issues!

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