Anatomy of Fiction

Victoria University

Anatomy of Fiction

A BODY OF WORK FROM THE HEARTS AND MINDS OF ASPIRING WRITERS

“The idea is to write it so that people hear it and it slides through the brain and goes straight to the heart.”

– MAYA ANGELOU

Contents

Demon Claws

A POEM BY SPECIAL GUEST CONTRIBUTOR, PAUL BRONSON

Let me introduce the brave heroes five, Who had just frequented their favourite dive.

A priest they met, bestowing a quest, For heroes like these, they barely had rest.

There was Larose the monk, with strong fists and spear, Garath the rogue, with vicious daggers and keen ear, Sir Mistran the knight, was armed with falchion and shield, With platemail and might, he’s the first on the field,

Enthalia the druid, used magic from natural sources, A dryad healer, who could wield elemental forces, Marathel the ranger, held a bow made from yew, An elf, from the forest, arrows swift and true.

The party soon transversed a winding cavern, Barely having left their much loved tavern, To slay a mighty demon, they had been bidden, In the deep caves of the mountain, it was likely hidden.

They spotted fresh gashes on a cold granite floor, Were they caused by a pick, chisel, or demon claw?

Onwards they trekked, and at last heard a yell, Was this the creature that had ventured from Hell?

“Doom be upon you mortals, you’re barely a meal,”

The demon glared at the heroes, with obvious zeal, It was hellish, and fearsome, cloaked in fire and smoke, Its claws were like sickles, they could kill with a stroke.

“Beware fell demon, today your horror will end, To Hell you’ll return, know we’ve no mercy to spend.” Larose strode forward taking a fighting stance, He hit with spear and fist, a powerful dance.

Garath threw his daggers, black streaks of venom and steel, They yielded blood, and ichor, blows that made the fiend reel, Marathel struck next, firing arrows towards its chest, But it burnt the shafts to ash, and cried “Surely you jest.”

The demon slashed with its claws, rending metal, flesh and stone, The monk and ranger were knocked back, almost cut to the bone, The druid channelled power, giving much needed healing, Power flowed upwards, from the floor to the ceiling.

Flame blazed forth from the demon, it shouted “Now, you die!”

But the knight intercepted, his shield held up high, Next came its talons, promising death and destruction, Yet the druid summoned vines, a much needed obstruction.

The infernal beast fought back, unholy fires set, Claws scratched armour, from gauntlet to epaulet, Then Mistran countered with blade, now lit with saint’s power, The monk and rogue’s strikes came in, earning its fierce glower.

The elf fired another volley, arrows in quick succession, These streaks were unchecked, and slowed its progression, She readied more arrows, to fire in the air, The ranger was as dangerous, as she was fair.

The demon declared “No, I shan’t be beaten, I am death incarnate!”

Marathel responded “Well, it’s time, that you met your predestined fate.”

With that the adventurers all gathered ‘round, Larose jabbed deftly, with barely a sound.

Mistran cried “Have at thee fiend, who art thine master?”

The demon fought back, but the heroes were faster, Winter’s frost was summoned, Enthalia’s magic strongly woven, The knight and rogue struck next, and the villain’s neck was soon cloven.

So finally the demon was vanquished, it wailed, power spent, Its body was broken, fires extinguished, and back to Hell it went. Thus, it is said that our champions were victorious, They saved many lives, their tale is glorious.

Yet demons still bath in Hell, in hate, and in fire, With slashing and killing their greatest desire, So if you see claw marks deep underground, You best flee swiftly, before you are found.

Paul Bronson is a lecturer and coordinator of writing and communication studies at Victoria University, Melbourne. His favourite genres are fantasy and sci-fi, and he likes to write speculative fiction in his spare time.

Obtrusion in Three Acts

A SHORT STORY BY ELLIOTT ALEXANDER

Act I: Right Age for It.

I was waiting at the bus stop, smoking, when I noticed you from across the street. Although I had only glanced at you for a moment it was enough to draw your attention. Before I knew it, you approached me with a forcefulness that left me startled to find that you were already standing before me. Placing yourself between me and the road.

You’re staring at me. Smiling. I smile back, though I wish I hadn’t.

“Hey love, can I bum one of those?”

Relief washes over me; you just want a cigarette.

“Yeah,” I mumble.

I hand you a cigarette from my packet and expect you to move on. You don’t.

“You got a light?”

I hand you my lighter. As you light the smoke, I notice the yellow stains left on your fingers from a lifetime of smoking. Your nails are filled with dirt, stick and poke tattoos cover your hands.

You light the cigarette and pocket my lighter. I don’t say anything. You keep smiling. Staring.

I figured you must have been in your fifties. Even through the waft of cigarette smoke that moved around us I could smell the familiar smell of alcohol on your breath. My instinct was that you weren’t homeless, but you weren’t far off it either.

“So, what’s your name love?”

“Jules,” I reply.

“Is that short for Julia? – Jules?”

“Yeah.”

“Pretty name. Pretty girl.”

I shift uncomfortably and look down the road hoping to see the bus coming, knowing it was still a while off. I sensed that you knew you were making me uncomfortable. I could also see that it didn’t bother you. That if anything, judging from your smile, you were enjoying my discomfort.

“Did you just get off school, Jules?”

“Yeah, just heading into town.”

“Bit early, isn’t it? You waggin’ are ya, Jules?”

“Ah, I had some free periods.”

“Sure,” you say, giving me a wink. “What are you doing in town?”

“Just meeting some friends.”

You move to my side, dragging deep on your cigarette.

“I'm not making you uncomfortable, am I Jules? Cause you know, I wouldn’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

I drop my gaze.

“Nah, I’m okay.”

“That’s the way Jules.” You wrap your arm around my shoulder and give it a squeeze.

That’s when I see the bus heading up the road.

“So how old are you, Jules?”

The Bus is about to pull in. Please don’t follow me.

“16,” I reply without thinking.

The bus pulls up, the doors swing open, I lunge towards them.

You reach under my school dress. Your tattooed, dirty, cigarette-stained hand grabbing me forcefully between my legs.

“Right age for it!”

I keep moving forward, onto the bus, and take a seat. You don’t follow and while I never look out the window, out of the corner of my eye I can see you chuckle to yourself and wave at me with that same hand. The same hand I feel on me, in me.

Act II: Do You Need to Use the Bathroom?

I’d been on the train for about ten minutes when you got on at the main station. It was late on a Thursday night and the carriage was empty, so I scored a four-seater to myself.

At 24 I had learnt that I must have the sort of face that made all manner of strangers want to talk to me. So, I wasn’t surprised when you approached me. You stood before me meekly. Hands clasped together under your large stomach. I see your lips moving but I cannot hear you. I reluctantly remove my headphones.

“Do you mind if I sit with you?” You ask in a soft voice.

Yes, I do mind, I think to myself. “Ah, I guess not.”

You take the seat opposite me. I put my headphones back on and try to stare out the window, still you try to talk to me. Again, I remove my headphones.

“Sorry, what were you saying?” I ask.

“Oh, I was just saying that my name is Mark.”

You hold out your hand so I might shake it. I do. Your hand is smooth. Silken. Your nails are long and filed into points.

“Jules,” I reply.

“So, what have you been up to tonight?”

I take a closer look at you. I can see you’re in your late sixties, your long white hair is tied into a ponytail that doubles as a combover. You wear a t-shirt, with a military green cargo vest and cargo shorts.

“I had dinner with my family for my brother’s birthday.”

“Oh! Where did you go?”

I hope that you’re just lonely. That you just want to talk.

“A place called Spice Grove,”

“That’s Mediterranean, yeah? Lots of lamb?”

“Yep,” I reply.

“You had a heavy meal then!”

“Yep.”

“Did you drink anything?”

“A little.”

“Alot?”

“Ah, I guess so? Not really.”

“You know there’s a bathroom at the end of the carriage if you need.”

“Ah… That’s okay. Thank you.”

You change the subject.

“So, what do you do?”

“Nothing really, just on the dole at the moment.”

“Me too, disability. But I used to be in the army.”

“Cool,” I say, doubting this is true.

A moment passes.

“Are you sure you don’t need to use the toilet? It's okay if you do. You did have a heavy meal.”

I look you in the eyes. There’s a glint in them and it hits me all at once. You want me to use the bathroom. I imagine you standing out the front while I took a shit or a piss. That is of course, if you didn’t want to come in with me.

You see that the penny has dropped, and it excites you.

“Sorry, that’s not really my thing.”

“Are you sure? I have some money.” You reach into one of your many cargo pockets.

“No, I’m ok Really.”

“Ok,” you say visibly disappointed.

An announcement interrupts, “Now arriving at Lara.”

“This is my stop.” It’s not. But I quickly gather my things.

“Oh! Ok then, before you go, in case you change your mind.” You pull a card from yet another pocket and hand it to me.

“Ok. Thank you.”

I bolt off the train. As it pulls away, I look at the card:

‘THE SCAT MAN’ CALL 0491 570 006

Act III: You Take After Your Mother. I arrived at your house 30 minutes early.

You had messaged me several days before, begging to see me. It was the first time I heard from you apart from a drunken call on the first Christmas after our cousin Sarah had hanged herself. That was five years ago.

Even before Sarah, the family was hanging by a thread.

It was too big and riddled with the twin traps of addiction and mental health problems. Also, there was money to inherit. Eight years in mediation and the wider family was scattered to the wind, isolated into their nuclear units.

In the early days of the split, I would comfort myself; at least we would have funerals.

Sarah proved I was wrong. So, I grieved the family along with her. I grieved you, my favourite cousin. There was 17 years between us, but you had always been like my big brother. Somehow it was always you I ended up with when my mother would have an episode. You made me feel special, even gave me a nickname. When everyone else called me Jules, you called me Punky.

“Punky, you're better than ice cream.”

So, I was anxious to see you. Mostly I was worried about what you would say when I told you I wasn’t drinking anymore. 18 months now.

Even in a family of fall down drunks you managed to outmatch them all and I had been trying to keep up since I was 13, when you gave me my first drink.

You only give me a little shit, “Ah, you’ve gone soft on me, Punky.”

The early hours of the evening go by. You show me your garden, the work you’re doing around the house, a tinnie always in hand. You introduce me to your dog and your girlfriend Alicja, she’s closer to my age than yours. She manages to keep pace with you. We smoke and talk. About the family, about Sarah, about her kids and my mum, sadness hung thick in the room.

The coffee table in the centre of the room fills with cans. I chain-smoke to avoid picking one up. With a slab sunken you start to slur. Surprisingly, Alicja seems unchanged, though she gave the impression she wasn’t “all there” to begin with.

She asks me, “You’ve got a tattoo on your shoulder, yes?”

“Yeah, an owl,” I tell her.

“Can I see?”

“Sure.”

I take my jacket off so I can unbutton my shirt to pull out my shoulder. As I do, you perk up.

Slumped forward you exclaim, “Jeez! Punky! You inherited your mothers’ tits!” I laugh awkwardly. A habit.

Alicja laughs, “He loves tits, he cums on mine!”

You give me a look that is so familiar, I’ve seen it on men before. On you before. Haven’t I? Desire – no, Hunger.

I put my shirt back on and slink to the bathroom. I lose myself in the mirror.

When I walk out, you’re unconscious, face down in the hallway, you must have pissed yourself on the way down. Your dog licks at the puddle of urine.

Alicja yells from the lounge, “Don't worry about him, he’ll be ok.”

Staring at you, I yell back to Alicja, “I’m going to head home; it was nice to meet you.” And I head for the door.

She meets me there, “You too, we’ll see you soon, yes?”

“Sure,” I say knowing I’ll never see you again. Not even for funerals.

If you, or someone you know, is experiencing – or at risk of experiencing –domestic, family and sexual violence: you can call 1800RESPECT on 1800 737 732, text 0458 737 732 or visit their website for online chat and video call services.

Brünhilde

A SHORT STORY BY MARCO COLLETTA

For today’s assignment, Brünhilde wasn’t allowed to bring her mask. She blocked out the way the Siberian winds bit at her eyes and blued her lips by focusing on how much colder her sniper rifle’s trigger was. Her finger was a delicate, porcelain thing against the black metal, quivering in all its capacity and threatening to break at the slightest provocation. She was doing well. This was all her world was supposed to be in the middle of a job – her finger on the trigger and her target in her crosshair.

Wind resistance: 13 degrees to the west. Distance from the target: 700, maybe 720 metres. Hecate II would reach it, no problem. It hadn’t let Brünhilde down before. Another gust of wind, another distraction – a fleck of dust invaded her right eye, the bad one, and it made her twitch badly enough to throw her aim off a micrometre.

It wouldn’t have even been a problem if Hecate II weren’t such a cruel mistress. The gun’s quality was undeniable, but it was bigger than any rifle Brünhilde had handled before, and it kicked like a bull with an iron spike in its leg. Asena had told her that she was lucky to get away with just a black eye, and even though the skin returned to its regular shade, Brünhilde felt the injury underneath every day.

You’re drifting again, Brünhilde, Asena would have said right then. It was as if the little girl’s surrogate mother was right there with her, with her heavy coat and eyes so hard and dark they could’ve been cut from rock. It was part of the training. It kept her accountable, Asena would have said. They were her one constant through the last four years of her life, her rock, and they were supposed to last until the day she died. But what came before?

Brünhilde frowned. The Siberian minister left her sight, disappearing through a doorway. It annoyed her, even though she had every confidence where he’d settle for the night. What came before?

It was hazy, before the shipping container. She remembered the day itself with perfect clarity – lightning cracked and bullets flew and screams bounced around the room outside like so many angry ghosts. Then, the bodies fell, and so did the silence.

The doors shuddered open. Then, those hard, grey eyes.

They didn’t share a common language and the little girl’s name wasn’t Brünhilde then. Asena would always say that she saw something in her that reminded her of the shieldmaiden who’d been imprisoned on top of the tallest mountain. That potential was why the lessons were so harsh. Balance. Climb. Lift. Punch. Again.

Every morning, the little girl’s surrogate mother would leave their small apartment in Ankara with a heavy metal box strapped to her back and cold-blooded, self-assured purpose in her eyes. Brünhilde had only ever seen the beast that slept within twice. Gram was nearly as tall as her, five feet of black metal with a barrel that punched holes through the air when it fired. She’d seen it once when Asena rescued her, and once more through the crack in her bedroom door, years later, when it had been left in the apartment for cleaning. It had been laid out on the dining room table, a hungry dragon that could go off at any moment, and she didn’t leave her room until Asena returned and put it away.

If Asena left in the morning, she would only ever return once the sun turned gold in the sky. She would knock on Brünhilde’s bedroom door, a glass of wine in hand, and invite her to watch television, and only then would she be allowed to stop. Asena always said that she’d know if Brünhilde took a break without her permission. She’d be able to smell it in the air, like one of the wolves from the countryside. Brünhilde had seen her murder three men twice her size with a corkscrew and a smile. She believed her

Her food was always bland and thin, but with time it was enough to correct her malnutrition and grow as tall as the other girls who attended the Lion Room.

Brünhilde’s eye twitched again, but there was no wind. It just remembered the feeling of her throat clamping and stomach lurching in fear as one of the other girls, Blondey with the Scarred Ear, had her friends stand between them and the Dame and held the point of her tiny pocket knife so close to Brünhilde’s eye it was all she could see.

She complained to Asena that night. She was a foolish sheep to make the wolf her confessor, for the next day in the Lion Room, the Dame had her and Blondey fight in the next Selection. It was supposed to be a random process, a reminder that even the most prepared agent will find themselves bowed to the whims of chance and fate. Brünhilde may have been young, but she wasn’t born yesterday. She saw the way the Dame’s throat twitched when she saw the girls who would be fighting that day come in. She saw it the day What’s-Her-Name, the timid girl with the round glasses who was kind to her, fought Who-Was-That, and lost. She saw it again today, as the Dame smiled her frosty smile at her and welcomed her in.

Blondey didn’t stand a chance. That was the problem with bringing emotions to a job – they got you killed more often than not. Blondey was confident enough to

think that she wouldn’t have to cheat to win. She was less confident with her own pocket knife sticking out of her eye. The silver cat charm jangled against the grip as Brünhilde drove it into the socket, her expression growing all the more dispassionate as Blondey’s life leaked out of her nose.

Brünhilde ate duck that night, and a month later, she was in Tunisia, killing another woman.

Somewhere between Tunisia and Siberia, Brünhilde had grown comfortable with the act of taking a life. Sometime – a long, long time ago – the woman who fed her at her breast had probably told her that all life was precious – sacred, even. It was an idea of a memory that she’d pieced together from a scene she saw in a theatre, one of the times Asena took her. It was how they bonded, if it could be called bonding. At least, it was one of their shared regular experiences that didn’t involve work.

Asena’s theatre was a dark, musty place, and Brünhilde never saw any other children there. They always sat in the fourth row, exactly 10.4 meters away from the projector. There was a window on the far end of the room, and they had a good view of the exits. Asena never sat down unless she knew where the exits were.

While they were presented as simple outings and nothing more, Asena sometimes slipped up and pitched them as ‘cultural studies.’ She never instructed Brünhilde to find a specific lesson or moral or technique to take away from The Sound of Music or Casablanca, but Brünhilde took her social interaction where she could get it. It was supposed to help her blend in better while she was out on a job, but she couldn’t help but fixate on the young girls in the pictures, with their long hair, frilly frocks and their smiles that dripped with gay abandon. It was probably a bad idea, in hindsight, to show the little girl that there was more to life than the job.

To get closer to her targets, she’d learned how to emulate love and loss and joy and sorrow, and in the process, she’d been shown that the real thing was out there. Asena insisted that they were the same. They were two wolves, and they would have their fill of sheep once their job was over. But Asena was five times her age. Her job still wasn’t over. It probably never would be.

You’re drifting again, Brünhilde, said the ghost of Asena that was with her always. What did I tell you this morning? You’re a stone in a pond. The storm shouldn’t even touch you. Block it out and focus on the job.

Even up on the rooftop, away from the memory of Marta von Trapp and her pink parasol, Brünhilde’s short hair just barely tickled the back of her neck. She stiffened and something inside her snapped and her years of education finished coming undone, a runaway train that had already plunged over the cliff.

She’d tracked the Siberian minister from the street to his bedroom window, where he was warm and safe from the biting winds and the memories of The Sound

of Music. His lady caller straddled his waist and whispered something in his ear that made him flush with anticipation. He pawed her chest hungrily, and Brünhilde gritted her teeth. Her crosshair shifted from the minister’s heart to the space between his lady caller’s eyes.

The lady caller’s hard, grey eyes held his with their want, with such pure, naked desire. It was an expression Brünhilde hadn’t quite mastered yet, no matter how many times Asena bruised the back of her knuckles.

For a single, precious moment, the clouds broke and the moon shone through. It lit up the city of Irkutsk, down to the last shard of glass. And in her crosshairs, she watched the lady caller notice the glare of the sniper scope and push the minister away.

Brünhilde squeezed the trigger and Hecate II belched fire.

Hecate II was her brush, and she painted the Siberian Minister and his bed –which cost more than every meal Brünhilde had in her life – with flecks of crimson and strokes of scarlet. Hecate II’s cry reached them long after the woman’s head snapped back and her body went limp.

By the time the minister had enough wits about him to do anything, call anyone, Brünhilde was already three flights of stairs down, taking the steps two at a time. Hecate II was a reassuring weight on her back, a comforting presence that held back the bile that rose in her throat and drove her forward.

Her mentor had spent the last four years teaching Brünhilde how to walk. Maybe, hopefully, it would only take three years to run from the memory of the final life she’d ever take.

Brünhilde liked to think that in the woman’s final moments, in the picosecond the bullet spent between her forehead and her brain, she drew some sense of comfort from the knowledge that her job was finally over.

Unspoken Shadows

A COLLECTION OF WORKS BY ALLYCIA COX

Haunted by the Label

I don’t understand why this is happening, I feel like such an imposter. Maybe it is all inside of my head. Was I too quick to curse you for making me feel this way?

Maybe, I was only ever using it as an excuse. For the things I wanted not to do. I really am lazy, undeserving. Selfish.

That was the last thing I wanted to be.

Isn’t the point of being medicated, to not need it one day?

If I no longer need it, maybe I never even did. I don’t understand this. Is it genetic?

Formed through trauma?

Or did I just decide to be depressed one day?

I think that would be my greatest fear.

Maybe if I hold on tight enough, these feelings won’t leave me alone. My experiences won’t have been in vain. Being told you are no longer clinically depressed. I have taken it to heart more than I should have. This is probably just placebo.

Giving the control to someone over my own mind. On a subject they weren’t even supposed to be teaching.

Maybe one day I will be free.

Of this life and the thoughts of the people around me. But being said, who am I kidding. I will never be truly free.

Intimate Silence: Desire and Disconnection within Ourselves

I absolutely hate being the problem.

Having little to no desire for intimacy can put a strain onto a relationship. I have considered possibly being asexual from time to time. But that sexuality doesn’t resonate with me at all. I still enjoy being romantic as well as the aspects of foreplay, but recently I haven’t had any true desire for the ‘actual sex’. A lot of people will say that we need to strengthen our emotional connection.

Yep, it already looks pretty connected to me.

Or that we need to be more adventurous with our endeavours. If god is real, I have also queried if this is him smiting me for not waiting until marriage.

At least I won’t have to wait long before finding out.

It honestly sometimes feels like I have just broken my body. Even when I want to get into the act, my body literally won’t get the girls ready, so to speak. I can’t pinpoint it exactly, but after a few years of taking my antidepressant medication, my libido decreased. Once I decided to switch off my medication to a new one, I became as eager as a rabbit. But not even a week had passed when I had felt myself revert to my original state.

So, is it not the medication and just me? It’s not my fault, is it?

I don’t believe at all that the medication “broke me” and I would never say that to anyone else either. The grievances that people already get from being on antidepressants is ridiculous, especially since it’s a mental condition no one has ever asked for. I just would like to explore every possibility and understand the why of it all.

Is it purely my depression creating this block or is that not possible? It helps create blocks for everything else I want to do, so I can’t see why this would be anything different. Would the new medication fix me? The medication that I was planning on

switching too – I haven’t been able to physically get my hands on. It is promptly in scarce supply, so I would have to fight to the death to even try obtaining it.

The specific millage is not available anywhere apparently.

It’s been a few months since then but now I am too scared to ask again.

I find going to the doctor incredibly draining, regardless of why I am going. Ideally, I should be going at least once per four to six weeks, because of mental health checkups. I have been going maybe twice every three months or so. Sometimes I genuinely forget so it’s not my fault. I do feel guilty though, when they must reach out with phone calls, texts and even letters. They are doing all they can to help me and I’m probably coming across as very ungrateful.

But it is also just their job, I’m sure they’re not personally affected.

I just wish I could know what specifically the reason is without needing to go to the doctors. Having conversations about sex is already uncomfortable enough as it is, especially when you must tell the same story to different people each time.

Not knowing if this is my depression or if it is just me, or something else entirely really makes me feel discouraged and get down on myself. Part of me would like some help, but the other part wants to push it down and ignore it for as long as possible.

It’s been working out for me thus far.

Even with the answers, it probably wouldn’t even change anything. It’s the same way with how I feel about getting diagnosed with other mental challenges. Sure, I might have this, that or the other and it would be nice to know but what would it change physically? Unless I can block it out with more medication.

I am hoping that one day I will be able to truly understand myself in the same way other people seem to “know themselves” .

It’s Normal for Children to Hate Their Parents.

It’s come back.

The feeling of needing to escape again.

This feeling is like the wind. It comes and goes as it pleases. It’s a fleeting feeling, only comes when life is “too hard”. I can’t imagine a time when I never needed to escape.

It first started when I was a child in my parents’ home. I longed to leave their constant presence so that I could finally relax again. But I suppose that’s a normal feeling. Once I grew up to a certain age, my childlike ignorance was gone. My peace was destroyed.

But then again, what child doesn’t hate their parents?

Being forced to wear certain clothes so that I don’t draw attention from certain people.

Remembering those looks that I would get anyway. Never feeling properly safe in my own home.

It’s normal to hide alone in my room, isn’t it?

All kids are worried their parent will barge in and start yelling, right?

I kept getting told, “It’s all for your own good”. They do care about you. Do they?

I stopped inviting my friends over, worried what they might find. I stayed at their homes for as long as I could. Usually crying whenever I had to leave.

I had friends that said that they also hate their parents. So, this must be a universal experience. I felt hope.

So, this is normal. We could be best friends, and they would understand.

“I wish I could have a parent like yours”.

“Aha, yeah. They’re great”.

They will never understand.

My jokes will never be able to convey those same screams that still haunt me. Telling the difference between fiction and reality is a full-time job. Especially when people act so differently behind closed doors. It’s not fair to blame others for what they are allowed to see. But can no one see what I am telling you?

They only do the nice things when out in the open. They only hold your hand when others are around. They are well respected in the eyes of the people, and always helps whenever they can.

Maybe it’s not fair to judge someone by their past. My past just didn’t matter. I was just a child that didn’t know anything. But that’s okay, that doesn’t matter. I told myself this behaviour was normal.

But it wasn’t.

I felt myself ceasing from existence. Because what I wanted didn’t matter.

I don’t think it has ever mattered.

A game of frisbee taught me more than you ever did. It showed me what a family was supposed to be.

I do need to thank you for showing me. What I want to be when I grow up.

I want to tell people that they deserve to be cherished, loved and matter.

You deserve to be cherished. Loved.

And matter.

Our Forgotten Memories

A SHORT STORY BY ALYSSA ANN ESTAMPA

I do not know who she is, but every night, as soon as I close my eyes, a woman appears – she is beautiful, soft-spoken and sweet. When I wake, the details in my dreams start to slip through my mind. I begin writing, capturing every fragment of my memory to preserve her essence I do not want to forget her.

Through my memory, I bring her to life. She is like a scenic view, her long blonde locks cascade in lustrous waves framing her face like a golden halo, her luminous cerulean eyes captivate the clearest of sunlit skies, whilst her rosy plump lips curve into a smile painting into her ethereal beauty. Though my dreams and she are foreign to me, I see her as a comforting presence, like a ray of sunshine eagerly awaiting to greet me. She says she has no last name but calls herself Cleona.

As I drift into sleep, a soothing haze welcomes me, blurring the edges of reality. My thoughts and heartbeat blend into a gentle, quiet stream and with every breath taking me away from a reality I know. As my body becomes lighter, I sink deeper, where time and space dissolve, slipping effortlessly into the realm I long to be.

When light enters through my eyes again, I am met with the same breathtaking view that I can never get tired of. The sky is soft, swirling with pastel hues, complementing a vast field of flowers that blossom radiantly of iridescent colours. The sound of crystal-clear rivers hums a gentle whoosh...

“Matteo,” a soft voice calls out to me.

Hearing her familiar tone is like melody in my head, making my lips curve into a smile. I turn around and see her.

“Cleona,” I reply, my lips breaking into a grin. “Were you waiting long?”

“No, Matteo. You arrived at the perfect time.” Cleona glances around before sitting herself down under a blossoming cherry tree. “Come sit with me.” Patting a spot next to her.

I nod and make my way over next to her.

“How was your day?” She starts.

“How did we meet like this?” I ask, disregarding her question completely. Cleona looks at me, her eyes inviting me to elaborate. “I mean, why do you keep appearing in my dreams?” I look into eyes, searching for answers.

“I–I’m not sure…” Cleona mumbles. “Maybe we were never supposed to meet in real life, so the universe gave us this instead.” She gazes at me, her voice soft and contemplative.

“Cleo, do you think that… if we ever passed each other on the street, you’d recognise me?” I ask, studying her expressions closely.

She gives me a gentle smile, “Of course I would. My heart would remember the way it beats when I’m with you.”

I smile back, though a pang of sadness lingers. “Where are you? I want to see you. ”

Her smile falters, “I… don’t know.”

“What do you mean? What happens when you wake up?’

“That’s the thing… I don’t. When you wake up, I stay here, in this eternal slumber. I only exist in your mind.” Her eyes glazing over, filled with a deep aching sadness.

I sat at my desk – the soft, amber light from the lamp illuminating over the clutter of sketches and letters. Each drawing was a fragment of Cleona – her deep blue eyes so clear that they reflect the pastel hue of the skies, and her glowing smile sketched in delicate lines that it started to look less like her. The letters also scattered around, ink smudged by my trembling hands, desperate to cling to a connection that seemed to be slipping away.

After our previous meeting, Cleona’s appearances in my dreams had lessened with some nights passing without me dreaming at all. The gaps were growing wider, mounting my panic, and the constant, looming feeling of anxiety churning my stomach. It drove me to scribble my heart out in any way to capture her essence on paper. Without these efforts, I feared I would lose her completely.

I was dreading to fall asleep, as one of these nights might be the last time I’d see her. I didn’t want to let go but even if it meant saying goodbye, it was better than nothing at all. I drift into sleep, entering the place that used to echo our joyful memories, that has now grown cold, muted, and despairingly silent.

I hear shuffling behind me, followed by a voice, “Matteo,” her gentle voice managing to flow through the thick atmosphere.

“Cleona,” I managed, my voice barely more than a whisper. I took a deep breath and turn around. “I’ve missed you.”

“I know,” she replied, her eyes reflecting a sadness that felt like my own. “I’ve missed you too.”

I rush to wrap her in my arms, holding her smaller frame and sinking into the comforting warmth of her embrace. We both felt it, though neither of us wanted to admit it, that this was the end, the last time.

“It’s not fair,” I reply, my voice breaking. “I wish we could stay like this forever.”

Cleona pulls away, squeezing my hand gently, her eyes searching mine for comfort. “I know, but I’m fading away. There’s not much time left.”

I felt my heart crack as I spoke. “I feel like I’m losing a part of myself when I can’t remember you.”

She nodded, her voice faltering. “Remember me in your heart, Matteo. I’m a part of you even if you can’t see me.”

“Why does it have to be so painful?” I ask, my voice cracking as I feel her slipping away.

“Goodbye, Matteo,” Cleona said finally, her voice barely audible.

“Goodbye... Cleona,” I reply

As she fades completely, the warmth of her hands dissolves into the cold emptiness of the dream. I wake up, tears streaming down my face, the ache of her absence piercing through the silence of my room.

I stand amidst the scattered moving boxes, admiring this old, small, cozy house. It feels perfect for me. Even though it’s like stepping into a piece of history, the walls are oddly welcoming, providing a comforting embrace. I continue to pack away essentials for the night before calling it quits, as my body grows weary and my eyes become heavy. It’s time to say goodnight to the day and let the comfort of this new home cradle me into sleep.

I find myself standing in the middle of a blooming flower field bursting with gentle pastel tones. As my eyes adjust, I see a man standing there. My heart begins to race. Am I nervous or scared? No, I am calm, yet my heart aches with sadness. It’s as if my soul recognises him, even though I’ve never met him in my waking life. His presence is strangely familiar; he doesn’t utter a word, but his brown eyes are filled with a sorrowful warmth.

I wake up feeling confused, overwhelmed by an emotion that brings tears to my eyes. Each night, he’s there, saying nothing more, nothing less, painting intricate scenes of shared moments and quiet conversations that feel eerily intimate. He feels real, and the warmth of his company lingers until the sun rises. His name is Matteo.

One afternoon, while exploring the attic, I come across a dusty old trunk. Curiosity gets the better of me, and I carefully open it. Inside, I find a stack of letters tied with a ribbon and several portraits. My heart skips a beat as I stare in shock at the portraits of my face and the letters addressed to me. What is going on?

My dear Cleona,

This may be my last letter to you. The more I revisit these letters and drawings, the more I struggle to remember who you are – to grasp the essence of you that once felt so vivid. Sometimes, in the midst of this, I find myself questioning why I’m clinging to these fragments. I’m forgetting you against my will. I’m sorry. It’s as if I’m mourning you, whether you ever truly existed or not. I’m trapped in a cycle, searching for something I’ve already lost. I love you, and it’s ruining my life.

I read through every letter, struck by the depth of longing and loss Matteo poured into the pages. I look through each portrait, noticing my features fading away in the last few images. It feels as though the house had been waiting for me to uncover these remnants of our unfortunate love story that transcended time. I begin to cry uncontrollably, overwhelmed by a sense of destiny, as if our paths were meant to cross in this surreal, cosmic twist. The letters and portraits are more than artifacts; they are a testament to our connection that was always meant to be, even if only through the echoes of dreams and memories.

Teddy Rucci and the Inadvertent Dismantling of Democracy

A SHORT STORY BY TYLER GRBIC

Half-a-dozen blocks of jagged ice danced around in an unsettled sea of warm amber poison. Teddy Rucci plonked his short tumbler down on the bar for the first time since its last refill, some three minutes earlier. The stand-up comedian, whose relationship with whiskey was at least as famous as his jokes, was looking for answers to difficult questions tonight in all the wrong places “Poor fools,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Jostling for position like it’ll make a difference.”

Though he was sitting at the kitchen’s marble counter-top, Teddy’s attention was directed to the wall-sized TV on the other side of the living room. It was a gaping space scarcely interrupted by designer furniture, and only illuminated by the flickering images of the nightly news. Another bulletin with protests and race riots taking top billing. It was made all the more depressing by the sinking feeling he was inadvertently responsible for this – one of the darkest days in the nation’s history.

Back over at the bar, a new lap record for the evening was clocked by our third- or fourth-favourite Aussie political satirist, who finished off his latest serving of Jack Daniel’s with one greedy gulp. He held the heavy piece of crafted crystal above his eyeline and examined its contents for a second. Not only had he sucked up every last drop of the fun brown stuff, but even the once-robust frozen rocks had now regressed into modest melting pebbles. Teddy tightened his grip and launched the near-empty glass at his 98-inch screen. It missed but still created an almighty racket, bouncing off drawn curtains and then shattering into 27 million pieces upon impact with the glazed vitrified tiles which featured throughout the penthouse apartment.

In the recent words of Melanie, his financial adviser, the final two weeks of Teddy’s 2024 world tour had “paid off the pad” in the heart of Melbourne’s CBD on Ivory Street.

In his own words, Teddy was “proud of staying put” in his hometown, rather than buying up some secluded beachfront property further up the coast, unlike typical snobbish celebrities.

In the words of Melinda, his then-girlfriend, he only bought the place – situated on the highest floor in one of the southern hemisphere’s tallest residential buildings –because he could go out onto the balcony and “literally look down on everybody else”. Sometimes, including the present moment, he thought he could win her back by telling her the truth in turn, which was that throwing himself over the edge often seemed like a tempting proposition. But he suspected it was immoral to place such a burden on any other person. And even more truthfully, since he had somehow managed to avoid any suicidal attempt up to this point in his life, he knew he would never go through with it… short of drinking himself to death.

A month earlier, Teddy was wandering around his newfound local supermarket, feeling more disoriented than any moment of his closely chaperoned European tour leg. He had just got back from Berlin and was left to fend for himself because of a “balls up” which meant Melissa, his personal assistant, wasn’t around for the few days following his return home. Consequently, the apartment’s food and drink stocks were at critical lows. He considered getting Uber Eats and whatever-else delivered to his door for the next week but, technologically speaking, he was woefully inept for somebody his age. He figured it would be easier to simply venture down to ground level and walk across the street to where the common folk buy their groceries. But he’d forgotten he had lost touch with those roots, unlike his sisters – Eleanor and Eliza – who he regretted not texting for help as soon as his flight landed at Tullamarine.

After an hour or so, Teddy emerged from Woolworths with all kinds of nutritious supplies, like Froot Loops and frozen pizzas. Carrying as much as his two tender hands would allow – not since he was 16 and stacking shelves at the local milk bar had they worked this hard – Teddy trudged back towards 180 Ivory while beads of sweat rushed down his face. Before reaching his building, he ran into a group of green-shirted young adults who were handing out flyers to passersby. He tried to subtly avoid them but the most determined member, a nuggety fluoro-yellow-haired girl with an array of facial piercings, made a concerted effort to corner him.

“Support independent news sources,” she blurted out while stuffing a leaflet into one of Teddy’s shopping bags without consent.

The intrusion of personal space was enough to piss Teddy off and activate his million-dollar sardonic wit: “Shouldn’t it support itself if it’s supposed to be fucking independent?”

“Independent of democracy-hating corporations,” she replied unfazed to Teddy’s surprise. “We need people power to help us, in order for us to help empower the people.”

Teddy reluctantly pulled out the flimsy advertisement and casually cast his eyes over it.

“Rightio then, what exactly is it that you guys do?”

“We cover all kinds of news, local and global, without any slant or bias, unlike the corrupt mainstream media.”

“Hmm… I get that mainstream media isn’t perfect, but some of the stuff you’ve got written here, isn’t it kind of bordering on the ‘fake news’ level of rhetoric? You know, in the vein of T-R-U-M–”

“No, no, no. We’re not saying they make things up. We’re just saying that, whether they lean left or right, they’ll run a story that comes across their desk as long as it suits their agenda. Without bothering to verify it!”

“Okay, so, how much money are you after?”

“Lol, we’re not a charity. We’re just asking for a follow on Insta and YouTube. We can make a few bucks off ads if we get the right number of subscribers.”

Teddy decided he wouldn’t broach the contradiction between this brave band of indie journos and the scruples of the likes of Mark Zuckerberg. He simply agreed to look them up on Instagram – one of the few apps on his phone he had much clue about because he used it daily to check out Belarusian models parading around their professionally lit bedrooms while wearing thigh-high boots and tight leather miniskirts.

Later that night, the words of Yellow Haired Girl were still ringing in Teddy’s ears. While eating his microwave dinner, he wondered how true her claims were about the predictable biases of the fourth estate. Perhaps he could put them to the test and get Alex, his writer, to create farcical rumours about politicians and public policy.

“That’s right,” Teddy’s voice brimmed with excitement as he spoke into his phone and simultaneously munched on a fistful of Crispy M&M’s. “Then we’ll try to spread them online and see what gets picked up by the traditional press. And the stories won’t even be that believable, but maybe just enough to dupe the likes of Sky News… If this actually works, I’ve got my next book idea, Al. An exposé on the mainstream media – how the news is cherry picked by evil corporations to try and make us hate minorities and the unemployed!”

“What happened here?” a feminine voice asked. “Did you smash a glass?”

Teddy rolled off the couch with admirable grace for somebody who was half asleep and fully sloshed. He looked up from his floor-adjacent position and saw the woman responsible for disrupting his drunken slumber.

“Ssslipped outta my hand… what’re you doin’ here, Alex?”

“Well, you called me like eight times and your voice messages were… troubling, to say the least. So, I figured I better come and check up on y–”

“Your act was always better than mine,” he started on a non-sequitur. “Your act. It was always better. You shoulda been the one to get the fame. Look what I’ve done with it…”

“Still feeling s–” she paused and waited for Teddy’s elongated burp to end. “Still feeling sorry for yourself then, I take it.”

“Whadda ya want me to do, Alexsssssandra? The country’s rooted, mate! 27 million people, and I managed to turn ‘em all against each other with a coupla fake news stories. Now it’s too late to do anythin’ about it. Even if we reveal the hoax, it’ll only make people disbelieve all information, which is just as bad.”

“In hindsight,” Alex said as she gazed at the television still replaying the horrific scenes which took place during the day across every capital city, “we obviously should’ve been more careful. But who could’ve known the media was this sloppy, and that there were this many people ready to believe their problems are the fault of Aboriginals.”

“And Immigrants... And Gays. And Women. And the Poor. And so on… It’s crazy. All of it was just meant to be a joke.”

“It’s scary, Teddy. Just think. What if we weren’t two comedians, but a foreign government trying to – I d’nno – start another world war?”

Nocturne

A SHORT STORY BY ARIS PAPADIMITRIOU DICKIE

We met by pure chance. It was late, maybe 10 or 11 o’clock on a cool April evening when I found her. Or really, she found me. I was just stumbling. Stumbling through the city. Stumbling through the park. Stumbling through life.

I went on walks every day through the city, but only late in the evening. I liked the cool, damp air of the night on my skin and the buzz of nightlife. The way the crickets sing in grassland or the steady warble of frogs along the creek. The joyful chirps of fruit bats as they crash into tree branches and the bickering of possums who dance along powerlines. Listening to the chorus of the city is one of the only pleasures in life that makes me actually feel like I am alive. It isn’t much, because really, I’m just looking in. I don’t have an instrument to join the bush’s ensemble. I can only sit and try to listen as carefully as I can.

I had just gone to pick up groceries – oat milk, wholemeal bread, Corn Flakes, cat food – and cut through the nature reserve on the way back. During the day, any tranquility in the park would be annihilated by the sound of music, talking, yelling, barking and the roar of traffic from the adjacent main road.

I didn’t really mind it. But that noise, that cacophony – just like at night, it was the sound of companionship. Two joggers dissecting the details of their work days. A pair of mothers pushing their prams along the path together. Friends posing in the shrubbery, taking photos with the city skyline behind them. Retirees taking a leisurely stroll, hand in hand. Envy doesn’t scratch the surface.

In the moonlight I made my own paths through the grassland. I ran my fingers through the yellow waist-high blades of grass, their texture dry and crunchy as they recovered from a hot summer.

I caught a glimpse of something unusual – a limb, or maybe a tail. I figured it was a dead rabbit, so I continued towards it until a sharp hiss startled me backwards. I peered through gaps in the foliage. Stripes!

One more look, I swore to myself. I took one step, then two, until I stood directly in front of the creature. It lay curled up, its large, broad head held low. Its snout was long with a substantial nose, and its jaw wide, much too wide to be a dog’s. Jagged stripes decorated its pale back, down from its shoulders to its thin tail.

A Tasmanian tiger. Holy shit! I mean it really couldn’t have been anything else, they’re a pretty unique looking animal. But they were also long, long extinct.

Something seemed off. Firstly, it was enormous. This one had to be at least 40 or 50 kilograms, and it must’ve been about two metres long. Most notably, though, were its eyes. They were golden and may as well have been as large and as bright as the full moon above us.

She was afraid. Maybe even petrified. No, definitely petrified. I could see the shadow of a lanky figure over her trembling body and realised how terrifying I must’ve appeared gaping at her. I took out a tin of cat food from my bag. The tiger watched me carefully as I opened the lid. Her eyes nearly rolled out of her skull when she got a whiff of that intoxicating scent. She devoured the tin of sludge and, to my surprise, followed me when I continued along the park. I was unnerved by the fact that for once I wasn’t alone.

I went back the next night hoping to see her, but I didn’t. Maybe she was a stray dog? I had thought. Fuelled by hope – or possibly delirium – the grasslands became my new nightly path. Every evening I would make my way down and leave disappointed. Well, that was until two weeks later when I spotted her head poking out of the grass and her gleeful yelps echoed across the reserve.

Every couple of weeks on the full moon, I’d meet her there in the middle of that oval. I’d wait in the darkness, crouching in the growing greenery. Within minutes I would hear soft footsteps crunch the grass and her aggressive sniffs and snorts, slowly increasing in frequency until a final inhale. She’d breathe in my entire essence in one giant gulp before falling quiet, a few seconds of silence passing until 50 kilograms of fur would slam into me at full speed and we’d both be lying in the dirt.

This is how my days would start – really start – at just before midnight for a few nights every two or so weeks. It was like waking up from a dream; a breath of fresh air after days of sucking on an exhaust pipe.

It didn’t take long to notice the pattern. She only appeared during a full or almost-full moon, when civilisation was particularly quiet but the chorus of the grasslands was especially wild. Not only was she an extinct animal, but she was some kind of mythic one, too. The thought that she could be a werewolf or a shape-shifter certainly crossed my mind more than once, but it was irrelevant to me. She was my friend, and I didn’t care about the details.

A dozen rendezvous later and we grew bored of the reserve. We were confined by the city streets on one side and suburbia on the other – this was the dawn of our joyrides. She knew what to do the moment I brought her to the car. Over the span of months our drives turned into adventures. We followed the coast along the peninsulas; inland to the Grampians, the Yarra Ranges – even to the Victorian Alps!

In a strange way, day-to-day life barely changed. I’d have thought that all of my time, energy and money being devoted to a biweekly excursion might have caused a change in my routine. Yet my shifts at the café remained predictably dull, my classes at university impossibly long and my social life as shallow as ever. No amount of tedious and impersonal small talk with my closest friends could verge on the warm feeling that infected me simply being around her.

Tonight it came to a halt. The car broke down halfway home at almost four o’clock in the morning. It was a two hour wait for roadside assistance in an icy spring pre-dawn. I’d spent the last hour trying to find a taxi that would take her disguised as a greyhound but got no bites, so I tried to prepare us both for dawn.

After petting her to sleep, I covered her with a blanket before first light. Once the sun was visible, it only took 10 or 15 minutes for the process to start and finish. I expected it to be painful, but it seemed almost natural. She fell unconscious as a marsupial and woke up as a groggy and disoriented human being, wrapped so tightly in that fuzzy old blanket that I thought she was suffocating. But her eyes begin to flutter open, as golden and wide and afraid as when we first met, and she shoots upwards.

It wasn’t until right now that I realised she actually had her own life too. That her life doesn’t revolve around the full moon in the same way mine does. Her eyes bore into my skin, her eyebrows knitted together in something unreadable – fear? Confusion? Disgust? Her fingernails claw at the blanket and my stomach twists. I should never have been out there so late at night. What kind of idiot approaches a wild animal and keeps doing it? It was none of your business – she was none of your business. Normal adults have a life of their own and yet I was stealing hers to make up for an absence of my own.

“I know you,” she finally whispers. My shoulders tense from a weight I didn’t even know I was carrying. I meet her eyes.

“I’m Alastair,” I mumble, offering her an outstretched hand. “Nice to officially meet you.”

She looks down at my hand and then back at me. Her mouth twitches upwards. Amusement?

Her head lifts back up, her expression resolute. A hesitant arm emerges from her blanket. She decidedly takes my hand and shakes it firmly. Wow. Her fingers are so strangely delicate compared to her usually rough paws.

“Ellie.” Only now does she offer me a reserved smile. “We’ve met before, haven’t we?”

A sharp pain hits my chest. She doesn’t remember. Right. How could she? I would spend days waiting to see her, but for her it must’ve been only mere moments between visits.

“Yeah”, I mumble with my eyes burning. I turn away and let her hand fall gently. How could I expect her life to revolve around me the same way mine does around her?

“Alastair,” she whispers, her expression loosening as she places her hand on my shoulder.

Biracial Poetry

A POEM

BY JAZMINE J. PERRY

Light-skinned

that’s what they call me

they only see my skin colour, not my bloodline.

Indian or white, I can only see the in-between.

Indeed, I can be both,

Don’t make me pick an ethnicity

can you see my growth?

It’s taken my whole life to know,

That I am both.

Indian people don’t see one of their own.

I am the lookalike of their coloniser

A clone of my white mother

They don’t see my love or how I can make pani puri. They don’t see how I eat with my hands or make chai.

White people don’t see one of their own, they see a stereotypical version.

The other half of me

it’s hard to describe that I am made of both. Straight from the land of brown people alone, not one or part of their own.

Please don’t make me pick brown or white. I am more than my ancestry

I have my South Asian and Caucasian in the same tree my combined ethnicity is from the same place and it’s more than the eye can see.

How can I prove that I am equally both if people are trying to separate me.

I am both yet no one can believe a person can be a mixture of different things.

I have my grandfather’s hairline, my ancestor’s blood-stained hands

That is just another side to me, I did ancestry. I know the people who flow through my blood. Frequently, It’s something beautiful rare and full of love

Entire generations from different worlds have come together with stories untold.

I have more than what meets the eye,

but how can people be so blind?

Biracial, of two, belongs to none, I can’t explain the in-between,

I can sit on the fence but never pick a side, and I feel no pride.

Sitting on the fence is not a choice for me, it’s just part of being mixed-raced

Picking a side is what a lot of biracials do but it’s not to replace the other half of you.

Why would anyone blame me?

My parents didn’t think this would affect me.

I grew up with no knowledge of brown or white the in-between

I couldn’t tell you anything different; it’s just based on what you see. Like many stories nowadays, It’s not always as it seems.

Being biracial is a chapter often unread, a history book not written yet

I could name histories that shame us for the mixtures of people.

People don’t look at me with understanding or seek to know me.

I am “exotic” or “unique”. The word exotic annoys me

It doesn’t identify me.

The etymology is not for mixed-race people, They have many other words for people like me some outdated or mean.

I have been called a mutt

half cast and other derogatory names, They all mean the same they tell me that I don’t fit in, or I am different or altered,

My biological makeup has faltered.

People often question why I look the way I do, Just like all the kids at school

I am just me, destined to sit in between,

In school, there weren’t many kids like me; the ones who lived far from me, I couldn’t name a time I didn’t feel left out or lonely, I didn’t take the time to explain my family tree.

When I get questions about why I don’t look like my father, I would slowly move away, change the topic, and hope it would fade.

I couldn’t explain why I didn’t have his skin or the fact I didn’t have his melanin.

Nor could I explain my mum’s blue eyes and why mine don’t resemble hers, Her blonde hair and why I don’t have those I got the in-between of each parent’s features. Making me very different from my sister.

I got the olive skin and hazel eyes with flickers of gold, like a sunrise.

I got the golden-brown hair and the blonde eyelashes, the height of none of my ancestors.

In family photos, I stand out like a sore thumb, as all of them are brown, and I’m just numb

I know I don’t look like the rest, but seeing it in photos is like Holding. My. Breath

My sister got the phenotypes that I wanted most Thick black hair and a lovely nose

I could only dream of having those. She has the melanin that I lacked and what had others engrossed

I could never understand why I didn’t have those. My parents would say that I am the light one and not even close my brown-skinned sister who never got told the same as me. Yet she still was Treated the same as me.

When I started posting online, people often can’t understand why, I wear saris and traditional clothes, kajal along with my makeup, and then post

The confusion would be astronomical, as you never see a white girl with a bindi.

When I tell people from India that my dad is from Lucknow and can speak Hindi, People will often look at me like I am lying.

It’s when I go into detail people see,

Yet,

I am a product of what I see.

I am often confused about why I am questioned, poked and shoved

I want to explain why I am not what they expect, and I can’t

People can't get over my skin’s colour when next to my kin

When I pull out my phone to show a photo, I am proving my point of being biracial, Not tied to one but to many alike my skin is not the issue

It is societal cues. To correct or mark those who don’t look like one of you

Mixed Race are often not spoken about in Australia compared to overseas,

So, when I found a friend with the same mixture as me, we became like sisters

Not by blood but by experience and what we see, We can discuss issues and appreciate each other’s stories. It became a release in a world so rapid

I could finally tell my younger self, We have a friend, which is advantageous when going through the same thing.

Having a Biracial friend has treated me well because I know when I go through something She has as well, and we can gossip and talk about being South Asian, We both identify as “wasian” but not speak Hindi well.

When you sit on the fence for as long as me, often the world changes its view on things

Mixed-race people from all over the world gather on social media to spread awareness.

People see it on their “for your pages” timelines and screens It’s an outlet to hear people just like me speak of story times and things I have seen

I even see actresses and models like me on the TV screen, Zendaya and Meghan have made it so far, putting biracial women on stars.

Avan Jogia writing for people like me is such a fulfilling feeling.

To think that there are famous people like me is a whole new level of confidence,

A spark of what I see.

When I look in the mirror, I don’t see two halves I see me.

Not a mix of what other people deem me to be, Ethnically diverse. Even if that means being in between

No one can question what made me.

Whether I am whiter than a typical South Asian I am still Indian and will always be.

My DNA is a ladder that defines me.

Here to Eternity

A SHORT STORY BY TAHA SHEHAB

In the year 2913 CE, a quaint café named Pellegrinis rests between towering highrises in Melbourne. Its neon-red sign flickers against the backdrop of a sprawling city. Despite the city’s evolution, the café remains a charming relic from a bygone era. Inside, the ambiance is dim, with only a few patrons and robotic servitors quietly attending to their tasks – one pouring coffee, the other slicing cakes.

At a half-empty booth, Elijah, a man in his thirties with an exuberant smile, sits across from Quinn, a woman in her fifties, impeccably dressed. Their conversation is marked by deep reflection and familiarity.

“Do you remember when we first met, Quinn?” Elijah asks, stirring his coffee.

“When we first met?” Quinn tilts her head, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. “Do you mean the first time for me, or for you?”

Elijah chuckles softly. “The first time we met, for you.”

“Despite the passing of many ages, my memory of that night has not dulled. My people were migrating from the cradle of Africa to what would become the Americas. I remember glimpsing you upon a plateau, observing us during our walk. I never knew why you were there.”

“Shortly after discovering time travel, I became curious about mankind’s incipience. I thought witnessing the dawn of our people might ease my existential dread. Though I tried to stay hidden, your keen eyes saw me. Fearing interference, I cut my visit short,” Elijah explains.

“My people thought I was driven mad by hunger and fatigue. None but I had seen you, and few believed my tale of a man with skin white as sand. Later, I wondered if you were a malevolent spirit who cursed me with my condition.”

“Immortality is no curse, Quinn. Consider the impact you’ve had on the world. From reigning with Akhenaten to leading the suffragettes, consider the good you’ve done,” says Elijah.

“You’re right. I find myself growing cynical in my old age. Your perspective is a welcome one. The slow churn of years may wear me down, but they are made more bearable with our chats. It’s a shame you can’t stay in any timeline for more than a few hours.”

“There are limits to what I can do. I may have learnt to travel time, but I cannot control it. Speaking of limits, mankind is about to shatter one. Have you heard?”

“About the latest invention? I’ve heard about our latest step in renewable energy. Tell me, how does it work?” Quinn asks.

“We’ve created Dyson Nets, massive structures positioned between the Sun and Earth. They capture solar rays and convert them into usable power without obstructing sunlight. It’s remarkable. With this, we’ll have more energy than we know what to do with. They’re already talking about colonising other worlds,” Elijah exclaims.

“Tell me again why you can’t bring knowledge like this to the past, expedite humanities evolution.”

Elijah sighs, “I can carry knowledge from the past forward, but I can’t bring future knowledge back when I travel ”

“That’s a shame. Imagine the benefits you could bring. You’d be seen as a god.”

“I’m not interested in godhood, and besides, humanity is approaching its own apotheosis. With enough energy, we can foster any innovation we desire. For the second time, we’ve discovered fire. With this, we’ll create a society that lasts forever.”

“Forever is fickle. One day, the stars will burn out,” replies Quinn.

“You worry too much, Quinn. By then, we’ll have mastered physics. Humanity could create new stars.”

“Reversing entropy? It’s ambitious, but then again, I’m immortal, and you travel through time. Stranger things have happened.”

As they laugh together, Elijah’s wrist device beeps three times, signalling the end of their meeting. Elijah glances at his watch.

“I suppose our time is up. It’s always a pleasure, Quinn. Same spot in 1000 years?”

“Same spot, 1000 years. Let’s see where mankind has taken itself then,” Quinn replies.

They smile at each other for a moment before Elijah disappears in a flash of blue.

On the planet Hades, 6000 years after Quinn and Elijah’s last meeting, a massive Dyson Net stretches between the red planet and its sun. The futuristic city is encased in a giant glass dome. Greenery hangs off the many buildings housed within this structure, contrasting sharply with the red sand of the planet’s surface. On a café balcony overlooking the city, Elijah and Quinn sit once again.

“It’s good to see you again, old friend,” Elijah, now in his sixties and looking weathered, says.

“And you, Eli. It’s peculiar to see this café so empty. I suppose people are flocking to their only salvation,” Quinn responds. Elijah comments on the splendour of her appearance. She has not aged a day since their last meeting, and her dress seems to ripple and pulse with colour.

“You mean their transcendence? What do they call it now? The Godhead?” Elijah asks.

Quinn stands up, moving to the edge of the balcony, her gaze fixed on the nearly lifeless city below. Elijah joins her.

“Yes, the merging of man and machine. Across solar systems, people are uploading themselves into a vast cybernetic web. It’s terrifying to lose oneself and become part of such a colossal entity,” Quinn says.

“It’s better than extinction. The last stars are faltering, and mankind has yet to discover a way to create new energy. Perhaps being part of something greater is better than being part of nothing. Are you that opposed to the idea?” Elijah asks.

“I’ve lived a long time, Eli. I don’t want an eternity more. While natural death eludes me, I find solace in the knowledge that I’ll enter a frozen stasis in a universe devoid of light. I’m weary. Seeing you every millennium helped, but there will be no more meetings in a dead universe,” Quinn explains.

“It pains me to hear that, but I understand. I’ll miss you dearly. They say Hades’ star will be the last to die, with about 300 years left. What will you do until then?” Elijah asks.

“I’ll stay here. Didn’t they have monitoring stations when they built the Dyson Nets? Perhaps I’ll go up and witness the end firsthand,” Quinn says. “And what of you my old friend. Will you endure the end of this universe, or do you yearn to be part of a greater consciousness?”

“I don’t think the collective consciousness is for me. I’m not bound to watch the universe die. I’ll live out my life in my own time. I’ll be long gone before the stars fade,” Elijah replies.

A shadow of sadness crosses Quinn’s face.

“What’s wrong?” Elijah asks.

“Nothing,” Quinn responds.

“Don’t lie to me. How long have we known each other?” Elijah presses.

“I just thought we’d experience the universe’s end together. It’s unrealistic, I know. I grew accustomed to your presence through each of mankind’s crises,” Quinn admits.

“I’m sorry, Quinn…” Elijah says, his voice faltering. He embraces Quinn, and they share a bittersweet smile. Moments later, Elijah’s wrist device beeps three times. They remain in their embrace until Elijah vanishes in a flash. Quinn, left alone, gazes out from the balcony.

In her final moments, Quinn stands alone inside a small space station orbiting Hades. The galaxy outside is an eerie black, illuminated only by Hades’ dying star, Persephone. The station is cold and metallic, with a window offering a view of the star’s final moments.

Quinn stands by the window, her breath forming frost as she exhales. She reflects on her past visits, recalling the vibrant days when the Dyson Net was under construction. A soft laugh escapes her as she speaks to herself.

“Talking to yourself now? I suppose there’s no one left to hear. Have you made the right choices? It seems fitting to witness the end when you were there at the beginning.”

She walks away from the window and makes her way towards a bench, where she sits, watching, waiting, pensively for the end. Behind her, a soft blue glow illuminates the space station. A gentle smile crosses Quinn’s face, it was a shade of blue she knew quite well.

“You could be anywhere, why here?” Quinn asks, still gazing out.

Elijah, hobbles over, now many years on Quinn’s age, in appearance alone. His face wears a haggard weariness of a man who’s lived a full life. With a soft grunt, he sits beside her, slowly letting himself down. In the glow of a dying star, the two cast a long shadow across the chromatic floor of the space station.

“I asked myself the same question. I don’t know if I have an answer. I suppose there’s nowhere else I’d rather be,” he says.

They sit side by side, Quinn resting her head on Elijah’s shoulder as they both watch the star. Slowly, the white dwarf begins to shrink and dim. Suddenly, the star goes nova, filling the space around it with a blinding explosion before fading into utter darkness.

As the universe plunges into an endless cold, Quinn feels the warmth of Elijah’s presence. In that final moment of darkness, as the last remnants of light fade away, the final joy felt by any human is the simple comfort of a familiar touch in the face of the void.

The Fire in Your Eyes

A SHORT STORY BY KHIEM VO

I can vividly remember the night I played my last game for the club on the 24th of June. The coach and club chairman met with me earlier that day, confirming my contract wouldn’t be renewed due to my age. It didn’t help that we ended the season trophyless, marking a bittersweet end to my time at Athletic, where I spent all my career. Soccer can be a ruthless business, but it’s only when you experience it yourself that you truly understand. But, out of the thousands of kids who failed to make it pro, I have to say I was one lucky enough to live the dream. No wonder the pain was profound when I couldn’t sleep until the sun began to rise that night. 25 years of dedication, all gone. I had parted ways with the club I dedicated my entire life to, leaving out the backdoor because some higher ups thought I was “too old”. It certainly felt like the world was collapsing on me. Thoughts raged on in my mind in the following days.

“That’s enough time spent pitying yourself, Gerard,” I said to myself, several nights later

Being all on my own in the house was not something I was used to since Rosa moved in with me. It was her who kept the house in place after all, when I was away the whole week in training then playing a match on the weekend for years.

I really have been a godawful person, haven’t I? Without such dedication, you would never be such a successful baller She’s been with you for nearly a decade now Clearly, it’s you who should step up more instead of finding another alibi.

All sorts of thoughts and feelings raged on in my head, keeping me awake. Given how bleak the situation looked, I got out of the house – something I hadn’t done in the immediate days after the 24th. Given that Rosa was away at her parents’ place, it was convenient enough for us both to have time apart. So, there I was, driving out towards West Lake, a place where Rosa and I would often hang out, especially in our earlier days together.

I parked my car a distance away, then walked over down to the lakeside where I could see my own reflection in the water, under the moonlit sky. I used to come here fairly often when I was younger, when I needed time for myself. I thought of puffing a cigarette, just to ease the tension in me. But I opted against that. Then, I heard footsteps far away on my right-hand side approaching the lakeside.

“Is that you, Lee?” I said aloud. “Didn’t expect you here. Haven’t seen you in forever.”

“Ha, your senses are as sharp as ever, Gerard,” Lee replied. “I was hoping to have some alone time to myself at this hour here, so of course I have to run into you at a time like this,” he continued, jokingly.

Lee and I go way back – all the way from our early school years until our paths diverged as we pursued different careers. We are both enjoyers of “the beautiful game ” but Lee wasn’t fortunate enough to stay in the academy. Instead, he continued in school, graduated, then worked various jobs before helping out his family business. Lee seemed unchanged, just with more on his plate by the look of things, given his success in running multiple franchises of his clothing brand after not taking over the family business.

“So, what brings you out here then? Something on your mind?”

“Of course,” he replied. “We both know the only reason we ever come here is to either crack some beers and talk all sorts of nonsense, or to contemplate matters. But I’m surprised Rosa even allows you out at this hour. ”

“Rosa went to visit her parents yesterday I told them I needed some more time to discuss my contract, but really, it was just convenient for me and her to be away for a bit, you know.”

“Now that’s a surprise. I know that the club chose to let your contract expire, but you and Rosa needing time apart? Deep down, I know she cares for you a lot, Gerard. She’s been with you throughout your time as a professional. Through thick and thin, good times and bad. You’re really lucky, you know.”

I paused. Maybe I have taken her for granted. Maybe I could’ve done more to make her feel loved.

“Yeah, but what about you, Lee? How come you’re dragging yourself out here at this hour?”

“Things have been boiling over where I’m at, Gerard. Emela and I haven’t been seeing eye to eye lately. She says she’s been lacking fulfillment and wants to go abroad so she can find her purpose in life. Unbelievable, right?”

I stood still. I couldn’t possibly have expected such an answer. Lee and his girlfriend have been together for the longest time. After all, they looked set to tie the knot fairly recently, last time I heard.

“I don’t believe the business is struggling, is it?” I asked. “Your clothing brand’s got a few franchises, after all.”

“Not at all, revenue’s been actually improving for once. But she tells me she feels stale in the relationship and now she wants to go study overseas. I’ve worked all my life providing for her, you know. Even when it wasn’t successful, I still gave her everything she desired. But still, somehow that’s not enough. Any chance I get at

home, I help her out I try to spend time with her and be there through everything that happened in our relationship. She told me to take the chance by launching my own clothing brand, at a time when things were stable for me in the family business. It was that leap of faith that got me the success I have currently, Gerard.”

We stood still, staring into space towards the glistening lake under the moonlit sky, saying nary a thing. What coincidence could have brought us back together in a night like this, in such predicaments? Perhaps things do happen for a reason.

“So, what did you say to her, Lee?”

“I told her how much she means to me, how we’ve overcome so many challenges together, that I’ve always given my everything to her and devoted all my time, efforts and money so she could have a great life together with me, after so many sacrifices she gave so I can grow this business. She acknowledged as much, says she still loves me, yet she herself is feeling empty as if something’s missing. But… something in her eyes tells me she doesn’t feel that way. Like a spark that’s no longer there. I insisted we work things out, to try again. Yet ultimately, she walked away…”

“Who knows what happens next?” I interjected. “Maybe she’ll return, maybe she won’t, but that’s in neither of our hands. At least you got something going on for you, regardless. Unlike me, tasting unemployment for the first time at 37 years old. My life’s at a dead end in every way.”

Suddenly, a message appeared on my phone: Can we talk?

“Is it Rosa?” Lee asked.

I nodded, but before we could say anything, a loud roaring noise approached us far onto our left. It was a motorcyclist, flying down the hill, unable to control his vehicle. Lee and I could only watch as the vehicle hit the lakeside railing and fell into the water. Luckily, he swam back close enough to shore so that we were able to rush over and pull him out of the water. The motorcyclist was clearly in shock, yet his eyes showed a fierce, unrelenting will to live – to survive. There was a wild look in his eyes, open and crazed. The pupils dilated in a way I hadn’t imagined possible. He could barely utter a word as we pulled him to safety. Emergency services were called, and he was taken to hospital shortly after. It was remarkable that he survived.

“Not something you see every day, huh?”

“Yeah, what a way to end the night,” I sighed, perhaps finally feeling the fatigue. “Did you see that guy’s eyes, Lee? That’s a look of a guy who’s fighting with everything he’s got for his life.”

We both paused for a while.

“Yeah, that was one crazed look in his eyes there,” Lee eventually replied. “But you know, it reminded me of our time in the academy, actually. You always told us to

‘play with fire in your eyes give everything on the pitch, until the very last moment’.”

“Indeed. We’re both still alive to go again. It’s only over when you decide it is. You could still move on, Lee. Either work things out with Emela, or move on with someone else, whenever it may be, so much that she regrets her decision. As long as you believe.”

“So long as there’s desire, there is hope. If the fire in your eyes still burns, there’s a future, my friend. All you gotta do is start. For you, maybe ring up your agent. You can still stay in the game, if not as a player. Or even take a year off to work things out with Rosa. The choice is yours.”

I nodded silently. The sun rose in the distance. A new day had begun.

From Agony to Freedom

A FREEFORM POEM BY PAIGE YOLE

My feet are cold, and I don’t want to stand anymore, but I can’t sit on the couch with you. My gaze skirts away. It hurts to look at you. Your eyes are deepest blue, palest blue. They’re the sky and the water and everything I’ve ever loved, and now I can’t stand the way you stare. All I can do is listen as you talk and talk and talk.

You’re like a car radio leaving civilisation.

Only a few sentences ever make it through the static.

I don’t know what to say, I don’t know how to interrupt. I’m silent. Like the blank walls of our apartment. There’s a heavy pressure on my chest weighing me down. I want to fly. Fly far away and never come back. Strip myself of this pain, in the hope I never feel it again. I want to scream. Scream and kick and bite in the hope you understand what you’ve done to me. But I’m silent. I’m overwhelmed. I’m everything and nothing. I don’t know what to do. I don’t know what to say.

You ask me to wait. Wait until you’re ready. You want us to take a break, like we’re a KitKat, so you can keep the other half for a rainy day. It wasn’t a surprise when you admitted your feelings. You hide and you lie; to yourself and to me.

No one talks about a friend intimately.

Red fills my vision for I can see it now: I’ll never be enough. You’ll take me off the shelf when you need me, only to put me back when you tire of me. How can you ask me this? How can you think it’s okay?

The last time you did it, she blocked you for days. You cry, yet you are not the one who is hurting. Why would you do that? Why would you hurt me? It was only ever all or nothing for me.

Are you in, or are you out?

And in a heartbeat, it’s all over and done. I hunch over, and yet it does nothing to ease the pain in my chest, for it could never be so fleeting. My heart wrenches in two and it’s all because of you. There’s nothing you can do. No way to make it right. I gasp as tears pour down my face.

I have lost something; I have lost everything. Will I ever get it back? You reach out to comfort me, but you’ve lost that right. For I cannot stand the thought of your touch. But I still want you. For you are all I’ve known for 10 years. My safe space was in your arms, and I don’t want to let go.

I need to let go.

How can I let go?

I’m up and down. Don’t know which way I'm going. One moment I’m laughing, the next I’m loathing.

Is there an end? Is this to be my continued existence?

I am shortsighted but hindsight is 20/20. I waited and waited. ‘One day he’ll be there, one day he’ll see, the things I want to do with him, the things I want to be, together under a blue sky, night sky, purple, orange, red sky.’ I can see now. I feel unmoored. I’m a raging storm. You used me. You sought validation for the feelings you had, no condemnation. Why chase someone who never gave you the time of day? Who would take and take and take? Did you get off on it? Trying to make someone love you when they preferred to ghost you?

Am I the fool? Or did you make me one?

I thought we wanted a future. The house with the white picket fence, and kids running with a dog around the yard. When did this stop being our dream? Was it ever really our dream? Were you just pretending? Saying that to placate me? When did it all change?

I never pushed because you didn’t have the money. Because you wanted a career.

Because you didn’t have a job. Because of your mental health. Because of you, you, you, you, you, you.

How much of me had become about you? Did my wants ever truly matter to you? I stood by your side, but were you ever by mine? I wonder and I search, but I fear the truth will never be found.

We moved so beautifully together, where two could become one, what was so wrong with the idea, that you squashed it like a bug. And you questioned why I was indifferent, after saying things that pushed me away.

Like when you blamed me after complaining about her all day.

Why did you do that? Why I was the problem in our story? But you forgot, relationships are a two-way street. You expected so much but never gave back. Never

did you listen unless it was convenient. So, I became complacent. Never pushing, never expecting better. All in the hope that things would get better.

I hoped, prayed, and pleaded they would. It didn’t make sense. I was there by your side. I hadn’t moved. But somehow you couldn’t see me. You made me feel invisible.

Now I feel lost, I don’t know who I am. How can I continue without you holding my hand? You’ve been by my side for so long, it all seems so wrong. Where do I start? Where do I go? I’ve forgotten what it is to stand on my own.

It’s all I can think about, all I can focus on. We’re over now. All is said and done. But you’re still here. Why are you still here? Don’t you understand the concept of space? Before I was tolerant, listening to your singing. Now I'm irate, because you sound like nails on a chalkboard, constantly squealing. How can I heal while you’re still around? Its time I put my foot down. It’s time to take care of me. No longer are you able to walk all over me.

Read the room already, stop drawing this out.

I’m no longer your safety net, so figure it out.

Begone, get out, leave, and maybe I’ll finally find some peace.

I’m done waiting. I’m done being blamed. I’m not responsible anymore. I’m ready to start again. I want to wake up in a different city and see a different world. I want to own a home with the white picket fence.

And why should I wait for someone to walk me down the aisle to get it?

Life feels much easier without you in it. I don’t have to think of you when making decisions. No more walking on glass so I don’t hurt your precious feelings. Somehow you still have more to say.

You talk and talk about how amazing I am, but it never stopped you from emotionally cheating. Don’t be a fool now, I won’t come crawling back. You have destroyed my trust in you and there’s no way to rebuild that. To move from lovers to friends is no easy feat. Give it another 10 years. Ask me again. Maybe there’s a chance you won’t vex me then. And maybe one day you’ll learn, for every action there is a consequence.

To love is to learn, and I have learned this.

I am strong.

I am independent. I never needed you.

I wanted you.

There’s a difference.

The house is stripped bare, and I am freer for it. The weight is gone, the wait is over, I don’t have to stick around anymore. I can run, skip, jump, fly.

I’m soaring up high, so high, and I’m finally free.

I’m not ever coming back down. Not for him, maybe not for anyone.

The breeze rustles my hair. Red and gold falls everywhere. It’s a stunning sight that I don't want to end. I didn’t even think about holding anyone’s hand. It's the first of many trips. I know that it will be. There is no one waiting for me. I've remembered who I am, I am not beholden to some man. I am determined and assertive to stay as I am. Now that the hurt is mostly gone, I don’t need someone to hold my hand. I know I'll never love the same again. For I'll protect myself better than the first.

And if I never do what society expects of me?

That’s okay too.

For I am alone and free.