WORDLY Magazine 'Tension' Edition 2019

wordly MAGAZINE

TENSION Edition Two 2019

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FOREWORD Wonderful WORDLY readers, welcome to edition two of 2019!

Despite our choice of theme, this edition has truly been a treat to work on. I’m so proud to be part of our lovely team here at WORDLY, and thankful to everyone who puts their all into making this little mag with us. It’s my pleasure to see WORDLY grow and mature with each and every edition, and ‘Tension’ is no exception.

If you’ve picked up this little paper baby in search of escape, or for an injection of interest into a boring bit of your day, then you’ve come to the right place. No spoilers, but this edition has it all: striking artwork, gorgeously personal pieces, a healthy dose of twists and turns, and above all it has bucket-loads of tension.

Ready? Let’s go.

Lori Franklin Managing Editor

Editor-in-Chief: Tara Komaromy Managing Editor: Lori Franklin Communications Manager: Bel Ellison

Financial Manager: Mathew Sharp Designer: Sian Mariel Legaspi Front cover artist: ItsJustAlf

Editors: Justine Stella | Julie Dickson | Jessica Wartski

Sub-Editors: Surya Matondkar | Sini Salatas | Tim Same | Kellie Seaye | Jason Winn

Contributors: Liam Ball | Bel Carroll | Julie Dickson | Jay D Edwards | Froggy | Declan Hanlon | Monique Kostelac | Tran Dac Nghia | Mel O’Connor | Michael Pallaris | Aaron Purton | Loren Rae | Helayna Redmond-Ball | Tim Same | Venetia Slarke | Robyn Smith | Justine Stella | Jason Winn

WORDLY would like to acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land and pay respects to Elders past and present. © 2019 Deakin University Student Association Inc Reg. No. A0040625Y All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher.

Opinions expressed in this publication belong to their respective authors, and it may not be the opinions of WORDLY or DUSA. Unattributed images sourced from Google Images and Adobe Creative Cloud Assets.

Want to advertise? Contact wordlymagazine@gmail.com for more information.

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CONTENTS 04

Life Rope - Helayna Redmond-Ball

05

Mat Troi - Froggy

06

Escalation - Jay D Edwards

08

Prince vs the Internet - Bel Carroll

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Shards - Julie Dickson

11

Missing Person - Loren Rae

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Into Darkness - Aaron Purton

14

Then They Came - Monique Kostelac

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Bubbling - Tran Dac Nghia

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Breaking Point - Tran Dac Nghia

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Piñata - Mel O’Connor

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A Game of Cat and Mouse - Liam Ball

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Pets Page

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Red Smear - Justine Stella

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Bone-Deep - Anonymous

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Anxious - Venetia Slarke

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Harold ‘Mr Competent’ Arthurson Applies for a Belt - Tim Same

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Tennis Trials - Michael Pallaris

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Xavier - Declan Hanlon

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The Unseen - Jason Winn

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The Day We Feared Aeroplanes - Robyn Smith

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L ife Rope Helayna Redmond-Ball

It’s the things that truly excite you whilst they cripple you with fear.

It’s moving out of home, or the first day of your career,

Like walking on a tightrope—it all comes down to you,

The slightest loss of balance and your plans will fall right through.

The moment before you step out to make your grand debut, Your mind begins to analyse, is this what you want to do?

It’s not too late to turn back now, but it’s the only chance you’ll get If you don’t leave your comfort zone, is it a choice you will regret?

But you’ve climbed up this great tower to get you where you are,

and if you squint your eyes enough, the other side doesn’t seem so far.

You muster up the courage to step out on the rope,

Your legs may start to tremble, but you feel a sense of hope.

The doubts of other people are hanging in your mind,

but sometimes there’s a reason we leave those ones behind.

Before you even know it, you’re halfway to your aim,

And the crowd begins to roar as they all call out your name.

For although we feel alone through this journey we are on,

There are loved ones in the crowd who will support you all day long.

No matter if you stumble or even if you fall,

The net is there to catch you anytime you call.

You’re now moments away from the final death-defying act, You must keep your focus; for the landing to be exact.

Every single step has led you to this place,

As you perfect the dismount with elegance and grace.

So proud of your achievement, and the amazing things you’ve done,

You look back across the tight rope astonished by how far you’ve come.

The first step is the hardest, but the most rewarding in the end

So, leap onwards down your life rope, it’s the best thing I could recommend.

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Mat Troi – Froggy @froggy.truong

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Escalation

‘It’s mine,’ the little brown squirrel squeaked.

‘No, mine!’ the white-bellied squirrel shot back.

Beneath the shade of the sugar maple in the heart of the boreal forest, they bickered for hours, trading insults, demands, and intimidations. The cause? A giant walnut almost too big to be eaten in a single bite, which they both wanted. They were occupied in a harsh tug o’ war match, neither giving up as their arms slowly softened to jelly.

‘I found it first!’ the little squirrel (Paddle was his name) said, starting the argument anew. ‘It was covered in mud from the swamp. I cleaned it, I polished it, therefore it’s mine.’

The white bellied squirrel (Bumbletail to her friends) pulled back hard, clenching her jaw as she dug her tiny feet into the dirt. Through gritted teeth she said, ‘That swamp is mine, and so is everything in it. You stole my walnut. You should just apologise and let go. Let go I said!

Or I’ll tell Grizzly.’

‘Tell Grizzly what?’ a high-pitched voice called. Startled, both squirrels let go of the walnut at once, falling back into the soft morning dew grass. Brushing damp leaves from their furry backs, they both turned to see Grizzly the bear slowly lumbering into view. Perched upon his head, like always, was Spotty the woodpecker. It was Spotty who had called out. ‘You two have been bickering for hours and the beavers are complaining. Just what in the wide woods has you in such a ruckus?’

‘He said,’ ‘She said,’ the two squirrels began in earnest, leaping into their arguments like a well-rehearsed play. However, Spotty, whom had glided down from Grizzly’s head, was neither looking at nor listening to either of them. Instead, his eyes grew wide at the sight of the polished gem that lay between them, so shiny he could see his own reflection. After a moment of silence, Spotty came back to reality, coughing once to clear the air.

‘So far as I can tell you both claim this walnut as yours,’ Spotty said, trying to disguise his own motives. Even as he spoke, he could already picture drumming into the tasty delicacy, breaking open the shell and nibbling at the buttery treat inside. ‘However, neither one of you can actually prove ownership. Upupupup!’ Spotty repeated to silence the pair before they could protest. ‘Thus, the law of the wood is simple. The walnut will go to the strongest in the forest, Grizzly.’

Normally Spotty’s rules were followed without question as no one wanted to be on Grizzly’s bad side—though no one had actually seen his bad side before. This time however, both squirrels were furious. Paddle argued fiercely with Spotty, while Bumbletail tried to reason with Grizzly. ‘This is so unfair Grizzly,’ she pleaded, offering concessions she would never make for another squirrel. ‘Surely we can at least share?’ Grizzly, too shy to get involved, looked away saying nothing.

‘Enough,’ Spotty declared, before leaping into the air and landing upright on a nearby tree trunk. ‘If you two can’t be civil, then we’ll just let the council decide.’ With an air of finality, he pecked at the tree trunk, drumming a high-pitched tick tick tick which echoed throughout the woods. He continued for several minutes, making certain everyone had heard him.

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Jay D Edwards A short while later the animals gathered from every corner of the boreal forest, forming a ring around Grizzly.

First came the birds: the grackles, the crows, and the geese, swooping in to land on low branches. Then came the beavers from their river dams. They gathered two by six. Then the largest, the bison, causing the ground to quake as they stomped. Then the prideful moose, the grey wolves which howled in the mid-morning dew, and the solitary wolverine.

When all gathered had grown silent, Spotty addressed the animals. When he had finished, the bison scoffed.

‘All this for a walnut?’ they said.

The moose chided, ‘Now now, don’t be unkind. No problem is too little. We all come in many sizes, great and small after all.’ They leaned low to get a better look at the walnut, becoming mesmerised by its sheen. It was a very beautiful walnut. ‘The moose claim the nut. That sounds reasonable.

Winter nears and we’ve had more calves than usual this year. We need all the food we can get.’

‘If the moose want it, then we want it!’ the bison said.

‘Excuse me,’ Mother Goose said, her voice soft and sweet.

But Mother Goose was drowned out by the cacophony of noise that followed. With the bison and the moose claiming the nut, interest from the other animals grew. The birds became enraptured by its polished surface, the beavers were impressed by its size. The grey wolves had no interest at first, but when other animals laid a claim, they decided to take a side. The wolverine wanted it so no one else could have it.

‘Please listen,’ Mother Goose tried to make herself heard against the brouhaha and fiery faces of the other animals. The only one who heard her was Grizzly, now too shy to even move.

And so, their voices grew and grew, and their words began to bite and gnaw. The bison stomped in frustration, which caused the birds to take flight. The grackles circled the crows which circled the geese which circled the grackles. The beavers, small and meek, shied away while the wolves bared their fangs against the bison and the moose. Grizzly moved to protect Spotty. He rose high on his hind legs, silencing the whole forest, as the animals prepared for fight or flight.

Just then Paddle noticed something odd. His walnut began to crack. Not from any shouting or stomping or fighting, no. It looked as though it were cracking all on its own.

One zigzagged line danced across its surface, and then another. They met, forming a crooked circle which was pushed away from the inside. From within emerged the cries of a newborn baby goose. Mother Goose rushed forward past the squirrels then, and in that instant all the builtup animosity in the air diminished. Gone as quick as it had come.

After a brief period of near silence, Spotty called the meeting to an end. One by one, the animals took their leave, returning to their grazing, nesting, and hunting. Mother Goose remained a while, until her gosling was ready to walk. Bored now, the two squirrels parted ways, searching for more food or new things to do, the near disaster of the morning soon forgotten.

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Prince vs the Internet The artist formerly known as Prince was an enigma to the music industry. A flamboyant, unapologetic musical genius, he took the rules of what it meant to be a male musician back in the 1980s and rewrote them to his liking. His approaches to race, gender, and sexuality varied from downright outrageous to gamechanging. Few artists could survive changing their stage names, meanwhile, Prince changed his name to an unpronounceable Egyptian symbol and still remained one of the most successful musicians of all time (Shah 2016). But perhaps the most interesting part of his legacy wasn’t his fashion choices, his catchy songs, or even how he has a shade of purple named after him, but instead how he fought back against all unauthorised uses of his music and image, no matter the cost.

Prince was a perfectionist who had a specific vision for every song and every album. It was this disposition that arguably made him a brilliant musician, because he would not accept anything less than his standards.

However, he began to take it to a new level when he began to famously write the word ‘slave’ on his cheek.

He did this because he felt that his record label, Warner Bros. Records, was not allowing him enough creative control over his music and career. He was a ‘slave’ because he could not release music when he wanted, he did not own the master copies to his own music, and still answered to record executives despite his massive record sales. Even though the record label had granted him the freedom to produce his own music, the right to decline any and all interviews, and bend between music genres—it was not enough for him (Shah 2016).

When Prince did eventually split with Warner Bros., he was free to micromanage every finite detail of his public image. However, it was only a matter of time before he realised he was never going to get his wish.

Prince became known for constantly demanding takedowns of his music from sites such as YouTube which allowed people to listen to his music for free. This was a time in the 2000s and early 2010s when streaming and torrenting music online was the considered norm, and sites such as The Pirate Bay were proudly letting their users download whatever they wanted, regardless of copyright or intellectual property laws (Quian 2019). It can be widely assumed that fans who went through these channels simply wanted to share and enjoy music from talented artists like him in a more accessible manner. Prince certainly didn’t see it this way, and in 2014 dropped a 22-million-dollar lawsuit against unauthorised users sharing his music online.

Basically, Prince tried to sue his own fans (Shah 2016).

Creating tension with your record label is one matter, it’s completely different when it’s your own fans.

Copyright is designed by its very nature to protect artists’ works from being stolen or having the wrong people profit from it (Copyright Agency 2019). However, it seems to be that copyright claims are an avenue that only those with money can pursue as the vast majority of artists unfortunately cannot afford to lawyerup every time their work is repurposed. These days, music artists have adapted to this shift in buying behaviour by focusing on promotion, sponsorship and touring. For people like Prince who pursued this legal venture, they were ultimately fighting against the inevitable. For every takedown, there would be a reupload and no amount of lawsuits could seemingly stop it. The internet had become a gargantuan beast that Prince could not slay. He would eventually withdraw his lawsuits and return to what he did best: recording and playing music.

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Bel Carroll Arguably, Prince should not be criticised for wanting people to pay for his music. However, by suing his fans, Prince did make any musician wanting people to buy their music look petty and selfish. Society has long debated over if and how much artists should be paid for their services. It is still a common issue in the creative arts world where artists are expected to work for free for the sake of getting exposure and contacts. The reality for most artists in the late 90s and early 2000s was that they weren’t prepared for the systemic changes the internet would bring to the music industry. Suddenly, music fans no longer had to go down to the record store to buy an album so they could listen to it. All they had to do was find a website, click download and then play. Artists like Prince would remain rich despite this revolution due to the profit he made from selling millions of albums, and would remain rich even if no one bought their albums again.

Who knows how many struggling musicians suffered or gave up on music as a career during this time, because people found another way of not paying them for their work.

These days the internet has a new landscape. No longer can we do what we want when we want without the potential for real-life backlash. Sites like YouTube have started adhering to the copyright requests more diligently. Services like Tidal and Spotify hide discographies behind paywalls much to the infuriation of casual listeners. The Pirate Bay has sunk and resurfaced multiple times due to legal investigations. But society still has the internet as a place that people can discover music that they otherwise would never find.

Never has it been easier to discover upcoming artists, find out more about someone’s earlier work or even support your friend’s band.

Music was never meant to divide people and it’s unfortunate that Prince failed to see this.

Prince left us a complex legacy when he moved on to the not-so-physical world in 2016. He gave us decades of his brilliant vision for music and a catalogue of music so large most of us will never get through it. Even though his tactics were flawed, Prince stands as a reminder of how supporting your favourite musicians has changed over the years. Supporting musicians can take the form of following them on social media, going to their concerts, and sharing their work with our friends. May the world remember Prince for his many records and for bringing the ongoing issues of the music industry into public discussion.

Reference List: Copyright Agency 2019, About Copyright, Copyright Agency, retrieved 12 March 2019, <https://www.copyright.com.au/aboutcopyright/>.

Quian, S 2019, How does illegally downloading music impact the music industry, Chron Small Business, retrieved 12 March 2019, <https://smallbusiness.chron.com/illegally-downloading-music-impact-music-industry-27748.html>.

Shah, H 2016, Poor lonely computer: Prince’s misunderstood relationship with the internet , NPR, retrieved 10 March 2019, <https:// www.npr.org/sections/therecord/2016/03/08/469627962/poor-lonely-computer-princes-misunderstood-relationship-with-theinternet>.

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Shards Julie Dickson racing down the backroads your James Dean personality always has us dancing with death booze tainted minds and throbbing pulses my bruises are permanent shadows pounding music and sweaty bodies you looked at your dealer like you used to look at me a shard of glass lodged in my heart my hazy kisses on a stranger’s lips you painted bruises on his body turned him into a live masterpiece your specialty

you’re illuminated by the moonlight I should have never given you a halo

your knuckles were bruised and bleeding and shone like a fervent artist’s the intimacy of our hands as I dabbed away the blood echoed our delicate beginning a slip of the tongue, a slap on the cheek it was so easy to cut myself on your sharp edges a piercing symphony of screams a mosaic of broken glass cut to darkness

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Missing Person Loren Rae Pick up the phone.

Please pick up.

I know something is wrong.

‘Missing Person’ flyer on the table.

Please don’t be gone.

The ringing becomes rhythmic.

Like a song I can’t get out of my mind.

Or perhaps your heartbeat.

Beating away on the other line.

Your silence swallowing our lives.

I can see the tears in Mum’s eyes.

Holding, but never falling.

The wrinkles on Dad’s forehead grow deeper.

You’re ageing them in your absence.

Please don’t leave them in the dark.

I can’t remember how to breathe without you.

I can’t be without my sister.

The police officer says, ‘She’s just taken a break.’

That you needed space.

I know differently.

You were unwell.

I knew.

Not everyone else did.

But I knew.

I knew facing the sun was a challenge.

I knew getting to work was painful.

I knew tears were familiar.

I knew you wanted it to end.

I beg of you, don’t end this.

The heavens aren’t ready for you yet.

Stay.

Please.

Pick up the phone.

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Into Darkness Ebony skitters through shadows, tail waggling until it stops sharply; then she bolts further into the cave. The bloody torch keeps acting up and giving it a good whack against the rocks does little good. The moon’s light doesn’t reach this far, but that’s okay—what’s a proper adventure without some complications and mystery?

The clatter of nails on stone, and Ebony’s persistent sniffs, draws further out into the echoey expanse. The measly light fizzles and falters in this oppressive darkness, and the steady drip-drip coming from stalactites above is the only melody to break the silence.

This cave is far deeper than I’ve ever dared to explore.

How far could the little scamp really get?

Nothing to worry about here. Middle of the night.

Rainy mountain trail. Typical Oliver playing cheeky and wandering off a little too far. A dad doesn’t act scared, not on the surface. But I should have heard from him by now, surely? Little fool might have tripped and hit his head. Not the first time. How am I supposed to find him in all this darkness?

Ebony explodes into rapid-fire barking, coursing through my body like electric bolts, my insides a mess. She’s not too far, and I direct my torch toward her howling. There!

Hackles raised, eyes glinting in the sudden light, facing off against . . . what? Not Oliver. She’d never bark at that beautiful boy. What lives up on these mountains but the occasional wolf pack and grazing elks? We don’t get bears this far . . .

My light settles on a new figure. Oliver. Deathly pale.

Arms locked tight at his side. Eyes corpse-white.

My heart seizes and I madly juggle the torch, just catching it in time to steady it and … where did he go?

‘O-Oliver, hey! It’s me, it’s dad! Don’t run. Please.’

Drip.

Drip.

I swallow.

Something brushes against my legs, and my knees buckle.

‘Ebony, girl? That you?’

Drip.

Dri—

‘E-Ebony, come here, girl? Hey? Ebony?’

I drop to a crouch, holding my hand out, snapping my fingers.

Quiet. Not even the dri—

A scraping, to the right! I direct my torch in its direction.

Nothingness. I swerve it left, trying to listen, to focus, but my heart hammers deafeningly within my chest.

‘Oliver? Enough! Okay. We’re going home. I’m not playing anymore. I . . . I’m going to leave this cave, you hear me? You don’t want to be lost in here all night, not anymore. Bats and all manner of . . . of . . . ’ The silence is a crushing cacophony against all my senses, and I find myself stumbling, slipping on the uneven grimy rocks beneath me. I know the cave reaches a steep decline. I’ve just never gotten this far. Call it nerves.

I have to feel my way, testing with my feet so that I don’t take the same tumble he did, a few months ago now. But it’s okay. He just scraped his head. Nothing serious. Kid’s tougher than nails! Always has been.

The ghostly light settles over dust and glistening rock, and the jagged shapes of the cave make for dreadful faces. I’ve always had a crazy active imagination and— Laying on the rocks ahead, arms twisted into unnatural shapes. A deathly still boy. My boy . . .

‘Oliver!’

I rush forward, slipping and falling hard on my knee, but I ignore the pain, forcing myself up. I’m running now, towards my son, closer than I’ve ever been. It always plays out like this, and I’m always pretending like the end result will be different. A broken little boy. Dark rocks stained darker by a child’s blood.

The world gone cold and wrong.

I crumple to his side, an agonising wail choked out, and shaking fingers clutch and press at his icy-cold skin, hoping that I can make him warm again. Somehow.

Somehow . . .

I cry, for the longest while. Ebony is silent. She knows this lamentable tune.

A finger—two fingers twitch. I swear it! His eye loses that milky stillness, hardening with colour. He’s moving,

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Aaron Purton

he’s alive!

I grab at his tiny hand and . . .

His head creaks and twists violently, meeting me with that pale white gaze, paralysing me, refusing me to look away and run. Everything in me is screaming to run. Run or die!

This . . . this isn’t my son!

It smiles. A terrible thing.

And screams.

Like nothing of this Earth.

Dizzying moments of paralysis, of an indescribable numbing chill, before the fear properly kicks in.

I push myself unsteadily to my feet and run, back the way I came.

I think.

Run and run, the screaming never ceasing. Tripping, limping. My torch gave up long ago, but I keep running.

Run and run, only my survival instincts keeping me going.

‘Dad!’ comes a familiar, trembling voice ahead of me.

Something snatches at my ankle, and I fall, hard, on my knees and face. I push myself up, and don’t look back.

The exit is so close!

I find new reserves of energy. Something scrapes at my neck, a whisper in one ear. The other. Whispers promising peace and quiet. Promising death.

And then I’m out into the night air, lungs exploding for air. I fall to my knees, and Ebony leaps excitedly around me. I look up, to my son, reaching out a hand to touch his face. And my fingers slip through. He disappears.

I was so sure . . .

This time . . . this time was different, I know it!

Ebony licks at me as I fall to the mud and grass, and I lay there, wanting out of this nightmare. I limp my way home, seeing his face over and over again. I say nothing to Steph, letting her sleep, but sleep fails to find me.

Everything feels cold, too cold. I can see the life in his eyes, forest green again. I feel like I’m still in that cave, that this room, this house, is a nightmare. I know I’ll

wake back up with those terrible white eyes.

I press my face into my pillow, trying and failing to silence his face. The whispers. They won’t leave me alone! *** ‘These dreams, love,’ Stephanie sighs. ‘They’re getting worse. You need to see Brianna. Here, I’ll find her number. She’ll help.’

‘I don’t need her. These aren’t dreams!’

No doctor has trained for what I’ve been through. Laying here, snug in my bed, the warmth of my wife to keep me rooted, yet it’s all . . . somehow false, and ethereal. As if in a waking dream.

‘You said you saw Oliver. That’s not right. Y-you know that . . . ’ ‘I did. He . . . I was in the cave!’

‘Why? Why would . . . that’s so unbelievably stupid! He died! He died there! And you’re off . . . gallivanting and . . . ’ Stephanie throws her arms out in frustration. ‘I want you off that mountain.’

‘No.’ A ragged whisper.

‘No?! It’s dangerous! You know that, and yet you can’t let go!’

Steph is wailing now, and I know I should comfort her.

But I can’t. I’m so certain of this.

‘He’s there. I know he is. I saw him.’

‘He fell! I don’t want . . . ’ She closes her eyes, steadying her breathing. ‘I don’t want the same happening to you ...’

I kiss her and promise her it won’t. That I’ll make everything right, make her happy. ***

A new light carves a beam through shadows, and I venture out further. I’m not dreaming. Ebony saw him, too; I know she did. He’s still there. My son. I know I’ll find him. He’s not dead.

The torch’s light flickers. Into darkness I go.

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Then They Monique Kostelac

I leaned back on the steps, embracing the warm rays of sunshine hitting my embarrassingly pale skin. Skin that would be the basis of jokes surrounding the assumption that I had been adopted. My parents had dark hair, hazel or brown eyes, and olive skin. Me? I was blonde, with porcelain skin and green eyes, just like my Hungarian grandmother. At times I would feel conflicted when reading about the history of Croatia, and how Ban Jelačić would defend the Croats from the Magyars. I’d sing the song Ustani Bane louder than anyone, but I won’t deny that a small part of me would ask myself whether I was also singing the song against myself. I wasn’t; I was a proud Croatian, through and through.

My best friend, Marina, stood beside me, looking at her reflection in the classroom window. She bounced her hair upwards, thinking it’d provide some extra volume to her already voluminous hair. I have no idea who she thought she was trying to be. Maybe Madonna? I continued to watch as she pulled either side of her jacket towards her midline, pretending to model for Seventeen magazine.

Then came the profanity as she ducked down and hid behind the bushes. I raised an eyebrow, unsure of what had happened, but I assumed that my initial concerns of people being in that classroom were warranted.

‘There are people in there,’ she hissed. ‘Let’s go.’

‘Oh, now you want to go?’

She sighed and grabbed my hand as I took time getting my bag. As we scurried by, I peeked in and realised it was a class of soldiers. I burst out laughing. It would’ve been Marina’s worse nightmare, considering her desire to marry a soldier and live some romanticised version of those songs about wartime love stories. Personally, I didn’t see the appeal. My boyfriend was in the army, fighting for Croatia’s independence in a war that seemed to have no end.

Lucky for him though, he was in Sibenik—a gorgeous seaside town on the Dalmatian coast. He didn’t see much combat either, thankfully, but I missed him more than words could explain.

Marina and I walked around the campus. The typical lemon exterior had a classical English feel to it. It reminded me of a downtrodden manor that awaited its return to the glory days, where Bentleys rolled up carrying A-listers wearing millions of dollars worth of jewellery and gowns. Instead, it housed thousands of students trying to forget there was a war raging on. Sandbags lined the walls. Every entrance had a barricade with soldiers pacing back and forth. They often admired the ladies who walked past them with flirtatious glances.

‘He was cute,’ Marina whispered to me, nudging my arm as we walked past one of the soldiers. ‘Should I give him my number?’

‘He’s married.’

Marina glanced back and spotted the ring, huffing and crossing her arms. ‘How do you always notice these things?’

‘I have my ways,’ I smirked. ‘It’s okay, Marina. You’ll find your soldier boy.’

As I listened to her continued rambling, I spotted the urgent expressions on the soldiers’ faces down the street.

Jeeps zoomed past us and the atmosphere around us felt like it had changed from an average Wednesday afternoon in Zagreb to one that was about to become the breaking news story across the world. My eyes darted between the Jeeps, the oncoming tanks, and the soldiers running back and forth between each other. I heard the infamous beeps that echoed on the newsreels. Marina stopped her rant as she noticed me on edge.

Then they came. Their low-flying rumble was unmissable. Marina looked up at the blue sky between the green tree leaves. I didn’t even bother. I knew who they were and what they meant. The eerie air-raid sirens began to whir. I

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Came grabbed Marina’s arm, fearing if I didn’t she wouldn’t budge.

Not on my watch, I thought.

I sprinted down a laneway, away from the campus. If they picked up that soldiers were there, it would be a target.

It wasn’t safe. There were also going to be too many students in the bunkers. I had to figure out somewhere else.

Trust me to be walking on the side of campus that I wasn’t familiar with. I should’ve listened to Dad when he told me where to find all the closest shelters. Stubborn me had other ideas. It couldn’t be that hard to find some shelter.

Yeah right.

Good one, Sanja, I thought to myself.

I paused to assess where we were. Marina was silent—the most silent she had ever been in our eight-year friendship.

For now, we were tucked away behind a white building. I thought it was a decent spot, until I realised it was the hospital. I demanded Marina follow me and we headed down another laneway.

Whilst we were tucked behind a large wall of a residential building on the outskirts of the campus, we heard the first whistle of the rocket falling upon Zagreb. It went silent for a second and then it exploded, echoing throughout the area. I peered around the corner; it was so loud because it had hit the road 200 metres up from us. We could either go back the other way, or stay. There was another whistle and an explosion. I turned just in time to see the debris flying from a nearby building.

Another rocket dropped. And another. I heard the yells and cries for help. I didn’t want to look out onto the street, but I did. A body lay on the road in a pool of blood, whilst another person hobbled down the street, clasping their leg. I wanted to help, but Marina held me back.

‘You can’t go out there,’ she told me.

‘I’ll be back in a minute,’ I assured her, releasing from her grip.

I checked my surroundings to ensure I wasn’t under any threat and ran out onto the road to the man lying there.

I didn’t get far before another whistle came. It was far too loud for my liking. I looked up and saw a rocket making its descent towards the building. I stopped. Then felt two arms wrap around me, tackling me back into the laneway.

For a moment I didn’t know what was going on. I heard the explosion erupt and I looked up to see Marina and my brother in his uniform beside me.

‘Mum and Dad are gonna kill you,’ he sang, rather enthusiastically for the situation.

‘But the man . . . ’

‘He’s being helped. Come, I know a shelter nearby.’

He led us to an open door in the laneway that we must have missed. Within moments we found ourselves surrounded by other locals, waiting for the attack to be over. A lady handed me a water bottle when she heard what I had tried to do. I chickened out, yet they still commended me. I was pathetic to myself but a hero to those people in the shelter.

As scared as I was, I wouldn’t hesitate to do it again.

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Bubbling â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Tran Dac Nghia @incompletio_

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Breaking Point â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Tran Dac Nghia @incompletio_

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Piñata My first kiss, alone with someone in their bed, was devoid of lust.

It started chaste and kind. I knew how to decipher it until my lover laid a hand on my waist and tugged me closer into her. For her, the moment became adrenalinefueled. This was a part of our relationship that I think she had looked forward to for some time.

She pulled me down and I went with her, weighed down by my discomfort.

My smile fell when she kissed me. I waited for the attraction to kickstart inside my blood and whispered, in my head, a mantra of how much I loved her.

After a while, she pulled back and murmured, ‘Are you okay? You’re trembling.’

She wasn’t wrong. We were sixteen. I’d have married her. We wore our pyjamas on her single bed. The heating system of her house kept our faces flushed with a warmth-blush, even though we were in wintertime Torquay. I couldn’t place the reason behind the shaking. Distress? I tried to convince myself that it was excitement. I tried to convince myself that it was supposed to be like this.

I love her. When’s it going to start?

Her eyes closed and so did my trust in myself. Over her shoulder I found a place between the posters on her wall to stare at. Throughout our kiss I struggled to distance my imagination from the unease against my mouth. I struggled to categorise what was wrong. I realised that it had to be something wrong with me.

‘It’s cute,’ she whispered as she traced a hand down one of my trembling arms. A moment passed between our eyes. ‘Would you kiss me again?’

Here is a list of things that were true, though I didn’t want them to be –

• that I would; • that I always would; • that I’d give her anything she wanted; • that I didn’t want to disappoint her.

My papier-mâché skin rustled. At the end of the twine, I twisted in the breeze.

I kissed her and waited for the spark.

I kissed her until I wanted to cry from guilt. ***

When there is something wrong with you, you google your symptoms. I googled things like:

• kissing feels weird • no sex drive • I feel broken

***

Months before I realised it wasn’t true, I came out as a lesbian to my friends and family. I could have passed a polygraph test with the conviction I felt. I was so sure I was gay. I dated girls and did not date men, I was a lesbian. Yes, that made me a lesbian. I’m gay, I thought; I am sexually attracted to women.

I am not, nor ever have been, sexually attracted to anyone. I am not physically attracted to women the same way that a lesbian is not physically attracted to a man. For so long, I didn’t realise this. Most asexuals don’t.

Most asexuals don’t realise that what they feel for the person they want to date—that they look beautiful, that you want to be close to them—is not sexual attraction.

It is a romantic attraction, but you can have one of these without the other.

‘Broken’ is a word voiced often in asexuality discourse.

It is used so much because the feeling is so universally internalised. There is no better word to describe an asexual’s feeling in that epiphany. For me, it was when I had my first kiss.

When you are asexual, you have nothing to compare your romantic attraction to. You do not think, What I feel isn’t the same as what they feel. You do not think this because, as a singular being, you have no idea what anyone else feels. There is no way for you to discern that you are different. Likewise, you do not think, Of course this is sexual attraction, what else could it be, because there is no reason for you to question your feelings, nor to question the nature of anyone else’s.

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Mel O’Connor The truth is, this never enters your mind.

‘I think I’m asexual,’ I said, in an art class.

You go on like this until eventually, years into your life, you realise. It becomes clear—finally, you see the truth through the murk of societal objectification, commodification, the saturation of compulsory sexuality.

I leaned to one side to get a better view of the hawkweeds in the middle of the room. ‘I guess.’

When you are asexual, you never question the nature of your outlook at all.

It becomes obvious that you’ve been passing the polygraph test by ignorance alone. ***

Todd Chavez, in BoJack Horseman, says:

‘I’m not gay. I mean, I don’t think I am, but I don’t think I’m straight, either. I don’t know what I am. I think I might be nothing.’

Uninterested, one hand on the easel, a friend of mine replied, ‘That must be like realising you’re bi.’

‘Well, it would be, wouldn’t it? The only difference is, well—’ ‘Yeah?’

As if it was obvious, she explained, ‘You don’t have a sexuality, do you?’

I ruptured down the middle. Lollies rained out of my burst papier-mâché underbelly as my tissue paper fluttered away.

***

There is a way to put what I wanted to say into words.

Those words are, I do. I do have a sexuality and it took me years to understand it. It took me years to realise that I’m:

‘I just have one question before I do,’ she said. ‘Can you tell me what the A stands for?’

I don’t come apart in water. I don’t dangle by a thread.

I’m not broken and you can’t make me feel like I am.

At one orientation week when I was at University, a girl stopped beside the Queer Collective booth twice before she spoke to us about joining.

‘Asexual first,’ I answered. ‘Ally second.’

She joined then and there. Later, after we’d packed up our stall, she told me that she’d recently realised that she was asexual. Like so many of us, she’d experienced discrimination from the LGBT community before. She had learned to be wary of pride organisations like ours.

I chose not to tell her that, about a month after I first joined, someone had hung the different flags of the community on the queer room walls. The asexual flag, with its black, grey, white, and purple stripes, had been hung upside-down.

I swung on the twine. I reeled to steady myself as the gash in my side spilled confetti and sweets.

• physical; • complete; • not made of crepe paper.

I know who I am, and I’m not here to be beaten by you.

Later, after the class, she said, ‘There’s paint on your face.’

I washed it off in a public bathroom. I scrubbed the colours from my skin, and watched them slip through my fingers down the sink.

But the black, grey, white, and purple, they do not scrub off. My skin is not painted. Like tattoos, I wear my colours wherever I go. I’ve stopped trying to rid myself of them.

They are not meant to be scrubbed off.

***

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A Game of Cat and Mouse Liam Ball Breathing. It echoed loudly in his ears. Tim had been so desperate in his escape that when he had managed to reach the crawlspace inside the old dumbwaiter, he had all but collapsed in there. In vain, he tried to control each breath, for they would surely give him away. And with the heavy thud of footsteps from the room over, where he prowled, time was running out. From where he was crouched inside the dumbwaiter, hidden amongst rags and various other items, he listened carefully to the commotion from outside. Furniture was being moved, curtains were tossed aside, and each time the sound of feet falling upon the timber floor became just a little louder.

The handle on the room’s door suddenly shook, and when it finally gave way, the door groaned as it slowly opened.

Shoes dragged against the carpet as a shadow from just outside the dumbwaiter flittered in through the cracks of the sliding door. Seconds ticked by and the moments seemed to drag. Tim could hear boxes being pushed around the room and groans of exertion coming from the man as he stumbled about the room. Inside the darkness which enveloped him, he clasped his hands over his mouth to hide his shaky breaths.

Thoughts ran through Tim’s mind. He only had to last a little longer. He only had to be quiet just a few minutes more.

If he could avoid being found, he could just make it, he could—

The sound of a foot falling right outside the door threw Tim out of his thoughts. He tugged a sheet of cloth tighter around himself, hoping against any rationale that it would work. That it would be enough.

The door of the dumbwaiter slowly began to rise and light crept in through the ever-widening gap.

‘Where are you . . . ?’ the voice lingered.

Tim tried as hard as he could to stay completely still but the cold air on his toes caused him to wince and pull them closer to himself. And in response he stilled.

‘I’ve looked everywhere around here . . . ’ he whispered, ‘but I just can’t seem to find him . . . ’

The eerily quiet moment lasted for far too long but it was interrupted by movement. The figure seemed to be moving away and a feeling of hope surged through Tim. But it was quickly extinguished when a pair of hands seized around him and dragged him from the dumbwaiter.

‘Or maybe you’re hiding exactly where you did last time!’ he shouted.

Tim squealed as the dirty rags were thrown to the other side of the room as the man—dressed in a red plaid jacket, blue plaid shirt, baggy jeans, and big brown boots—picked him up off the ground. He felt himself get spun around on the spot as he was hugged tightly, the bristles of the man’s beard brushing against his hair.

‘Dad!’ Tim whined. ‘Can’t you let me win once?!’

‘And lose my winning streak? Where’s the fun in that? Besides, you are filthy. We need to get you cleaned up pronto before your mother sees you.’

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Pets Page

Fleur and Dwight Fleur and Dwight. When they’re not sleeping, they like to look sadly at you so you will let them out so they can cause havoc and distract you from your work.

Lulu This is Lulu. Don’t be fooled by her charming smile, she is a princess with

a strong badass attitude! Even though she lives seven hours away from me right now . . . I get mum to send me photos of her when I’m stuck with

assignments/study and her cheeky face gets me through!

Casey This is Casey. She likes to bring me (moist) toys and rest her face on my lap as soon as I settle at my desk. She has inspired many pieces of writing.

Mia and Layla This is Mia and Layla. They like to snuggle.

Kastor This is Kastor, while I’m studying he likes to clack loudly when it’s going to rain soon. He loves to suction cup his body against the enclosure as if to say, ‘you can do it, mum, look at my froggy nipples!’

Buttons This is Buttons, also known as Lord Buttons. He sits on people or places to steal their warmth, or else can be seen whinging for food, even when there is already food in his bowl.

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A True Story The sky was like lint, bits of fluffy white and scrappy grey, lying on top of the seven of us as we huddled together for a group photo in front of the single-storey brick building. The sign claiming this is home to Oxford’s eeriest ghost tour loomed over us.

I didn’t think I believed, but I followed the rest of my study group inside the glass door and adjusted my gloves as we crowded around in the foyer. It was the fourth day of our two-week Shakespeare study tour and one of the girls had organised for everyone to attend this ghost tour as a way of getting to know each other out of the classroom.

As our host dribbled out the safety instructions, I watched everyone’s faces. A short girl to my left kept blinking. A tall guy was rubbing his hands along his bare arms; he was only wearing a thin vest over a t-shirt.

A girl in glasses kept biting her lip. I wondered who was nervous, who was only coming along so that they weren’t left behind. I didn’t believe in it at all, but I was curious.

In an instant we were following the host through a narrow opening in the wall.

We were in a corridor barely wide enough for two of us to walk side by side. The floor and walls were made of uneven dark stone. Old-fashioned lanterns were hanging from various points along the walls. As we walked the lanterns flickered, throwing wisps of light across the walls. The shadows made it difficult to see the floor though, and I tripped several times, brushing my shoulder against the stone wall as I tried to find my feet.

‘All of our residents are silly rather than cruel,’ our host began as we settled into a slow walk. ‘But that doesn’t mean that they can’t be eerie. Don’t be surprised to find flowers in your bags when you leave. Laida is fond of giving guests flowers.’

A nudge against my hand made an army of goosebumps race along my body. I closed my eyes, trying to take deep

breaths. He said they weren’t cruel.

Maybe I did believe.

Another nudge and I opened my eyes to find a gloved hand searching for mine. Tension melted off my rigid shoulders as I realised it was just my best friend. Cristina was the only person I knew on this study tour, we’d come together with grand ideas of having adventures and forming the kind of friendships that would last lifetimes. Though I wasn’t sure a ghost tour was a good place to build those relationships.

We held hands, each needing the other to keep us grounded.

‘Can anyone hear that?’ our host asked, turning off his torch. ‘Laida likes the dark,’ he explained, turning around to face us. I couldn’t see his face, but I could feel eyes on me. ‘And sometimes she can be heard giggling.’

I looked around carefully, waiting for something to shatter the silence, wondering where the hidden speakers would be.

‘No?’ the host continued. ‘Maybe we should introduce ourselves.’ He started walking again. ‘Good afternoon, Laida, I’ve brought some guests for you to meet.’ Pause.

‘Come on guys, introduce yourselves.’

For a moment, there was nothing. And then: ‘Uhh, hello, Laida?’ one of the guys ahead of us murmured.

Nothing.

‘Hmm, she mustn’t be feeling social.’

As we continued to wind our way through the bends of the corridor, I listened hard. I didn’t hear giggling.

We spilled out of the back door after ten more minutes of walking. The corridor hadn’t changed at all throughout the whole tour; it stayed the same lackluster, shadowy, and silent stretch of nothing. At one point I heard a

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Justine Stella

girl behind us mutter about this being ‘such a waste of money’.

The seven of us snuck glances at each other once outside.

A few looked disappointed, some relieved.

‘Anyone have flowers?’

I started taking my gloves off so I could unzip my bag to check. I knew there couldn’t possibly be any flowers.

But I needed to make sure. I felt a tiny slash of pain as I pulled my pinky finger free, revealing a fibre caught on a tiny papercut.

I don’t remember getting a papercut.

‘No flowers,’ the girl who organised the tour declared, ‘but I have a random cut that wasn’t there before.’

Goosebumps claimed me again.

‘Me too,’ Cristina said, inspecting her hand, ‘on my—’ ‘Pinky finger,’ I finished.

All seven of us were sporting tiny papercuts where before we had none.

‘Ooh, now that’s a new one!’ Our host was grinning, inspecting his own hands. ‘I don’t have any cuts! I wonder if I can use this for the next tour . . . maybe Laida just didn’t like you guys . . . ’ he trailed off as he stepped back through the exit. ‘Thanks guys, have a great night!’

As one we walked back to our temporary residence, as silent as the tour had been. I didn’t know the others well enough to guess what they were thinking, but I couldn’t get over the question of how. It wasn’t until we huddled inside the blinking girl’s dorm room that we compared cuts. Same length, same location.

‘Okay, let’s channel all this creeped out energy into a game!’ The girl with glasses hoisted a sleek black box onto her lap. Cards Against Humanity. ‘I bought it this

morning. I need to get my mind off the cuts. Who wants to play?’

I watched the vest guy stop frowning as we began to play, and the lip-biting girl began smiling. It was good to laugh after finding those cuts, to let the what ifs and hows fade out of my mind. It doesn’t matter how we all got cut. We’re safe. We’re okay.

‘What does Santa give to naughty children instead of coal?’ I read out when it was my turn. Six white cards landed in my lap. ‘Old people smell, exploding pigeons, puberty, soup that’s too hot, fish heads, or—’ The last one was, in perfect Cards Against Humanity fashion, so bad it was brilliant. ‘Or dead parents!’

Laughter filled the room and one of the guys snorted.

Cristina claimed her victory.

As she shuffled her cards, I caught a glimpse of red in her hands. ‘Oh no, is your cut bleeding?’ I reached for her handful of white cards, pulling out a card with a red smear on the back.

‘No, I’m fine,’ she said, inspecting her finger.

‘Ooh, I’ve got a blood card too!’ The vest guy brandished his own red-smeared card.

The girl who bought the game looked down at the box. ‘I literally bought it today. You guys saw me open it!’

‘Is anyone bleeding?’

No one was.

We continued to play, scrutinising each card we picked up. As the game wore on, we found four more cards with red on them. Nearly one card for each of us.

Years later, after we’d formed the kinds of friendships Cristina and I had dreamed about, we still get together to play. We haven’t stopped watching for that last redsmeared card.

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bone-deep Anonymous inside me something unfolds i can’t stop feeding on it the hungry memories will not rest i must eat to the bone the knowledge spills out your touch was embedded cut my mind off but my body stays etched

increase the smoke-hazed memories i inhale the fumes they’re shaped like fingers and taste of rubber gloves

my eyes are gummy with flashback-soot they chorus, ‘that never happened’ drug me with reservations i pocket it under my tongue with tight lips, i swallow but my teeth gnaw away crumbs fall from my mouth and i’m knee-deep in self-doubt again this vice of: oblivious / violation / oblivion you built it and clamped it over my eyes

so i slit the lids the blood absolves my silence the salt stings my razor-thin resilience but i continue to drink i regurgitate defeat i empty myself of you but still my skin remembers some bruises stay bone-deep

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Anxious â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Venetia Slarke @venetia.designs

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Harold ‘Mr Competent’ Arthurson Applies for a Belt Tim Same Experience 1970–1990 No-Good Delinquent • Rabble-rouser & Disturber of the Neighborhood Peace • Self-employed

Parts Known To Some People Nearby City, Area Code Made Exclusively of Numbers A Landline Phone Number Email? What is E-mail?

I cannot be found on the internet, and can only be stalked in real life

1991–2005 Extremely Competent Wrestler, Jobber, Boo-magnet • Sparetime Wrestler • Self-employed at promotions such as Extreme Wrestling Tournament, Extra-Extreme Wrestling Tournament, Yet More Extreme Wrestling MegaTournaments & SpeedMetal ThrashClash For Cash 2006–2017 Wrestler Who Defined ‘Competent’, ‘Reliable’ & ‘Oh – That Guy Again?’ • Regional World Champion, SemiRegional Intercontinental Champion, International Local Council District Champion & Rumble Within the Tumble Dryer Winner – Chief AssKicker • Regional SouthWestern Wrestling, but also self-employed at other promotions

I have wrestled since I was finally brought to justice for my hoodlum shenanigans. I have made a name for not being bad at wrestling, and have made other wrestlers take stock of whether or not they really can consider themselves to be competent at wrestling. This is a result of my expansive skillset and tireless training regimen, with disciplined and responsible eating habits, as well as a respectful family life parallel to that of any good citizen.

Early in my career, I squared off against my former mentorturned-antagoniser, Bailey Upright, in a Farmer’s Market Brawl, in a 20-minute brawl that caused his timely retirement, and shot my career up to new heights. This also helped my advertising-acting career, as that same farmer’s market adopted me as their chief spokesperson for their ‘Brawlccoli’ campaign.

As we in the squared circle know, there can never be two wrestlers named ‘Competent’ in the same ring simultaneously.

Thus, I have always been the best wrestler in any match I have ever taken part in.

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Education School of Falls-Count-Anywhere, Local & Everywhere • Achievement of Certificate, ‘Don’t Blade Yourself!’ Award for Most Efficient Breaking of Tables, Chairs and Ladders • Proficient in Bragging and Self-Promotion • Respectable at Fill-In Commentary Professional Summary

For years, I have kicked, punched, fallen, thrown and splashed my way through the ranks of wrestlers who sully our region with their inexperience and incompetence. As Mr Competent, it has been my solemn duty to wrestle better than all the pretenders to the crown of District Regional World Champion.

It is my belief that the current title holder would be challenged more so by me than by their previous challengers, for reasons I will address in the next paragraph.

Championship Declaration

It has come to my attention that the current Regional World Champion, Ms Evangelion Magnolia, has been seeking challengers to her belt who will prove more worthy opponents.

If I may address Ms Magnolia directly, would I be wrong in assuming that the only reason you have not yet found a worthy opponent is that you have not looked for me specifically?

For years, Ms Magnolia has been the top of the tree when it comes to wrestlers. That is ordinarily the case when a wrestler is a consecutive champion 10-years running. However, it is my assertion that Ms Magnolia has handpicked her opponents, her referees, and her various gardening tools, in order to ensure her continued reign as champion. This is what I allege to be non-champion behaviour, an outright besmirching of a onceproud wrestling title, and very incompetent indeed!

I, Harold Arthurson, the future champion, have trained with the best trainers, I have worked from sunrise to sundown, and then on to sunrise again, and I have made sure to call my parents every single day. Because no-one respects their fellow wrestler like I do. No-one works as long or as hard as I do. And I know for certain that no wrestler reliably prepares healthy and delicious microwave meals for their elderly parents like I do!

I look forward to your timely response.

References (Available upon laboured request).

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Tennis Trials It is how we react in times of stress that defines our character.

Donvale Dragons

Tom Wilkinson, a friendly man who enjoyed discussing football, played well during the regular season. However, he was frequently nervous and visibly frustrated when pressure was applied.

Adam Donaldson, a stoic man, was aggressive and critical during matches. He’s been a superb volleyer and arguably our best player since he performed well under pressure.

Nick Kent, our captain, was temperamental on the court but supportive off the court. He’s a talented player with a brilliant serve, powerful groundstrokes, and phenomenal volleys.

I’ve been a competitive and encouraging player. My form was erratic during the regular season, though I played well under pressure.

We didn’t always get along during matches, but still experienced success.

Templestowe Titans

When we were drawn to play against the Templestowe Titans in the semi-final, I was worried since they had comprehensively beaten us both times we clashed during the regular season.

I was covered in sweat. I could hear my heart thump against my chest and struggled to control my audible breathing.

Their captain, Richard Melon, was friendly off the court as he would ask me how university was going. However, on the court, he taunted opponents and made suspect line calls.

His son, Emerson, was arrogant and volatile. He screamed and threw his racket while losing and was antisocial.

Uomo Grande would scream ‘Come on!’ at inappropriate times and would curse if he was losing.

His brother, Francis, was aloof and rarely socialised.

He wasted time by questioning calls, having bathroom breaks, and tying his shoelaces.

We had spiteful clashes.

Nick Kent assured us that we played well under pressure.

I nodded and smiled outwardly, but internally, I was unconvinced. How could we possibly defeat a team that we had never beaten?

Nick had a potentially match-winning idea.

‘We’re going to surprise them and play on our En-ToutCas courts!’ he said smirking. ‘They’ll struggle to adjust to the surface.’

Finals Pressure

When our opponents arrived, they looked smug.

‘I love playing here,’ Richard said. ‘Liesel Heart coaches me on these courts. It’s our home ground advantage!’

Since the last two encounters had produced ugly spats, his ploys weren’t surprising.

‘Really?’ I replied. ‘She’s such a nice lady!’

Richard was silent. Perhaps gamesmanship isn’t effective if an opponent has a quick comeback.

Nick and I were drawn to play against Richard and Uomo in the opening set. I was nervous because I was still haunted by our last loss to this pair. During that match, we had a set point on my serve, but I served a double fault. I thought that the serve was well in. I didn’t challenge the call, and we went on to lose the match.

‘We’ll receive,’ Nick said, after winning the toss.

I was surprised as Uomo and Richard had brilliant serves.

‘Just trust me, Mike,’ he whispered.

I nodded silently, though my arms were heavy and I felt nauseous. I breathed in and loosened my arms. I swayed my hips and breathed out. I was ready.

Letdown

In my second set, I was drawn to play with Tom against Uomo and Francis. We won the first two games and were looking on track to win the set.

Then one point changed the complexion of the entire set. Uomo hit a phenomenally fast serve to my backhand which I chipped back. His attempt at a forehand winner missed the baseline by millimetres.

‘Out!’ Tom exclaimed.

‘Are you serious?’ Uomo shouted. ‘The ball clearly hit the

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Michael Pallaris line!’

Uomo and Francis approached the net and proceeded to walk over to our side of the court! My knees began to shake, and I sighed. This wasn’t going to go well.

‘Hey, you can’t do that!’ I said as my voice cracked.

‘Says who?’ Francis scoffed.

I gulped as my opponents continued to advance, glaring towards us, their eyes filled with fire.

My breathing raced. I could hear my heartbeat, thumping loudly. I hoped that I wouldn’t become overwhelmed with panic.

‘We haven’t questioned any of your calls!’ Tom snapped.

Francis raised his finger as if to argue and then lowered it.

He sighed, slumped his shoulders. Then our opponents walked towards their side of the net.

Despite this inconsequential victory, we lost the momentum since our opponents had distracted us.

Tom and I began playing more cautiously while they were going for their shots.

After an hour, we were 7–8 down, and I double-faulted during the last point, which gave them the set 7–9.

‘Damn!’ I screamed as I threw my racquet against the fence.

Fortunately, Nick and Adam won their set, 8–6. Both teams had won two sets, though we were up by two games.

We prepared the courts for the final two sets.

Endgame

Nick called us over and explained that we had to win the next two sets.

We walked towards our opponents smiling and commenced play.

Our optimism was short-lived. Adam and I lost four out of our first five games to trail 1–4 against Emerson and Uomo.

Then I noticed Nick and Tom dropping their heads as they shook hands with their opponents. I looked at their scoreboard. They had lost 3–8. I felt as if my heart

was about to shatter. In that moment, we were both under immense pressure. Adam and I had to win this set without dropping another game. I melodramatically felt as if dying would be less painful than the emotions that I was experiencing. At this stage, Adam and I were in trouble as we were 15–40 down on Adam’s serve.

Something had to change.

‘Michael, we need to attack, go for our shots and run for everything!’ Adam exclaimed.

We started playing better, winning the next three games while the opposition began to play cautiously.

At four all, Emerson and Uomo aggressively asked us to raise the net in an attempt to upset our rhythm.

They wanted to delay play and disrupt us in an effort to regroup. Instead, we grew in confidence.

We proceeded to win the next three games.

I was serving to win the set and the match. We lost the first two points and were 0–30 down. We were in trouble.

‘Serve to Uomo’s backhand,’ Adam whispered.

When I did, Uomo’s return went long. The score was 15– 30. With the momentum back on our side, we won the next two points. It was now 40–30, match point.

‘Serve to Emerson’s forehand. He won’t expect it,’ Adam instructed.

I took a deep breath, bounced the ball and served wide to his forehand.

I dropped my racquet.

I had just served an ace, a serve that was so fast that Emerson was unable to return it or even touch it! We had won the semi-final by one game! I leapt in ecstasy.

‘Come on!’ I screamed.

Adam and I embraced, while our opponents dropped their heads and sighed.

‘Well played!’ Adam and I said as we all shook hands.

Post Match

Following this intense final, I can conclude that there was no love lost between the Dragons and the Titans.

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Deakin Writer’s Club The Deakin Writer’s Club is a collection of nerds who love to read, write, and create.

The club gives you an opportunity to hone your writing skills and to rant or rave about any and all books you have read recently. The exclusive Deakin Writer’s Facebook group provides a space to make friends with like-minded students, create contacts within the writing and publishing communities, and to post or read about upcoming opportunities.

The Deakin Writer’s Club also run Deakin University’s one-and-only student magazine: the one you’re reading! It is published four times a year, each time with a different theme to spark your writerly talents.

Sign up here! https://www.dusa.org.au/Clubs-Sport/Clubs/Deakin-Writers

Missed the deadline for the print edition but still want to get your work out there?

Submit or pitch to the WORDLY online publication via wordlymagazine@gmail.com We want your articles, reviews, social commentary, creative pieces, half-baked ideas, and anything in between!

You can find examples of our fabulous content at https://wordlymagazine.com and check out the submission guidelines while you’re there.

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Xavier â&#x20AC;&#x201C; Declan Hanlon @itslongboi

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The Unseen The Master of the house is a peculiar fellow; he only corresponds through the door of his study. He has a small brass hatch set into the door where he hands me letters with requests and so forth. I do respect my Master’s privacy, but ensuring that I never even gaze at him is surely an exaggeration.

My years of previous servitude could never prepare me for this. I’m used to aiding the wealthy and clean, not the decrepit and filthy. My previous master passed away.

I had nowhere else to work, it was dire that I found somewhere. This was the only opportunity.

Dust motes rise up with each step. The silver platter radiates warmth in my gloved palms. A spider creeps along the splintered ground with a threadbare Persian rug underfoot. Moonbeams gleam through tattered lace curtains, puppeteering the shadows of barren trees, casting a spectacle of dancing ghouls. The air hangs thick with a malodour that stings when inhaled.

Portraits of strangers line the walls, tarnished gilded frames encapsulate ragged and stern silhouettes . . . A little boy endowed with porcelain skin and rosy cheeks lays his head on his mother’s bosom; a man stands proud cloaked in a scarlet uniform with a hunting dog triumphantly awaiting its next orders; a bowl of fruit sits idly behind an elderly woman, a passive look plasters her face. All the eyes bore holes into the back of my skull, as if I’m trespassing on something sacred.

A small tendril of crimson weeps from the side of the platter and falls, staining a shred of torn wallpaper.

I walk past the parlour where there once would’ve been aristocrats adorning the finest silks and garments gathered from far shores. The clinking of glasses, murmurs of gossip and the scent of Cuban tobacco, are all absent.

The ceiling in the main hall is freckled with patches of darkling mould. Spiderwebs drape archaic furnishings

like a honeycombed blanket with skeletal remains of insects threaded throughout. I can’t help but be wary whenever I traverse the halls in the dark hours. When the sun slips below the horizon and the light dies, the manor’s eeriness grows.

The Master’s study is coming into view. A giant oak door with intricate brass inlay. Serpentine carvings ardently coil the borders of the door. A dull orange glow like that of a solitary firefly seeps from underneath.

Edith steps into view beside me. She is an enigmatic old maid who takes utter pride in her performance, meticulously ensuring that her bonnet is perfectly symmetrical with her forehead.

‘Good evening, Edith,’ I say, meeting her fixated stare. ‘A serving of venison with an Italian red wine sauce and a side of the freshest garden vegetables—as the Master requested for his dinner.’ I bow, handing her the silver platter ‘Thank you for this delightful meal Mr Chambers, I’m sure the Master will be very pleased.’

‘You’re very welcome, Edith, now I shall retire to my quarters—unless the Master has another request for me to accomplish,’ I say with the honesty of a child caught red-handed. It’s been a very long day; the list of duties never ceases. Even a butler needs rest.

Edith smiles through a haze of layered wrinkles, ‘The Master has no work left for you to do, Mr Chambers, you may now rest. I hope you have a pleasant night’s sleep.’

‘Thank you, Edith, give the Master my best.’ I wave and start to head back.

‘You’ve been a great deal of help around here.’

From my understanding she was the Master’s nanny

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Jason Winn

when he was young enough to douse the floor in puddles of dribble. She’s been his main maternal figure ever since his parents died. As he grew older, he became bitter and fired all the staff save for Edith. The years ticked by, the manor went to ruins and isolation became his haven.

About a quarter of the way back my curiosity gets the better of me. Why only allow her in? I peek my head out from behind a marble pillar as Edith enters the Master’s study, she’s bathed in a sheen of muted amber, it abruptly vanishes when the door shuts. I can’t hinder my inquisitiveness anymore.

Near his study is the liquor cabinet. A selection of fine wines and vintages that would make even Bacchus intoxicated. He has a decanter with a few crystal glasses surrounding it, like a séance intended to cast out last night’s regrets and conjure up tomorrow’s wishes. I take one glass and warily go to the nearby wall, place it and listen in. Why am I doing this? It’s muffled. A frenzy of damnations ensues from both Edith and the Master . . . towards each other. I panic. I hurriedly place the glass back and leave. I could’ve sworn there was a third voice within that calamity.

I return to my room, I sleep on a generously sized four poster bed that I try to keep immaculate. A luxury of which I am still not used to. I get undressed and don my nightshirt. Gold-trimmed bedclothes soothe me into slumber.

Suddenly, I jolt awake. The back of my skull slams into the headboard. My ears prick, hearing the echo of what stirred me up from sleep. It disappeared as quickly as it came. It was a strident scream followed by a tremendous crash. A momentary paralysis takes hold as a bead of sweat skates down my cheek. My hands fiddle in the darkness as I swipe at my side table. My fingers curl around a candle as I find a match in the drawer. I light it.

I tread carefully outside my bedroom door, trying to dodge the floorboards that creak the most. The flame’s dim light brings no solace. Wax melts and singes my fingers. Labyrinthine halls lead into nothingness, like blackened estuaries opening up to the abyssal mouth of a river. Breath escapes my lungs in a hurried pace. The portraits pass by me, the candle’s light turns their perpetual stoicism into otherworldly terror; the hunting dog into a vicious hellhound; the boy into a dreadful changeling.

A shape on the floor comes into view.

I drop the candle. The flame snuffs out. I run to the nearby curtains and thrust them open. Moonlight streams in. Edith lays in a mangled heap.

Slivers of white light dance over spots of vermillion.

Her hair writhes about like slippery eels, the bonnet is soddened with a deep ruby. Her skull is caved in, cranial fragments carve into her crystal blue irises. A few specks of dust settle onto her pinprick pupils, others file themselves into the gaps between her soiled eyelashes. Ribs jut out from a sunken chest, blooming like a befouled daisy with sawtooth petals. The silver platter is a foot away, it’s heavily dented and warped, as if it was forcibly rammed into something . . .

A few chunks of split mahogany scatter around her.

I look up. A section of the second-story bannister is disintegrated. What monster could do such a thing? Surely not the Master, she was like a mother to him.

The air tastes metallic.

Someone enters the room.

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The Day We Feared Aeroplanes Robyn Smith On the 12th of September 2001, Australia woke to nonstop, station-wide coverage of the attacks on the World Trade Centre in New York City. After flicking through several TV stations, Mum eventually found one still adhering to its regular program of cartoons, trying to shield us from the bombardment of the repeated images shown on all the other stations. The night before, while watching late night TV, Mum and Dad had found themselves confronted with horrific scenes they thought were from a movie. As they watched, confused at the interruption, it dawned on them that what they saw was, in fact, real life. They witnessed the attack on the second tower, live on international television. The whole world felt the shock waves.

As I got ready for school that morning, I couldn’t imagine how the events overnight would come to impact my world. Gathered with friends before class, it was all the younger students would talk about. Anyone who hadn’t seen the news was quickly brought up to speed, and among the Year 12s was an increased sense of fear and uncertainty. The events in New York fuelled frantic talk that we were seeing the beginning of World War III. Agitated, we raised our voices to speak over the top of one another, or stood quietly to the side in smaller groups of two or three, arms around each other, offering and accepting comfort.

Most of us were either legally adults now or would have our eighteenth birthday in the coming months, and while conscription was no longer a practice in our military, the possibility of it returning was a very present fear. Our futures, that we had been earnestly planning all year, were suddenly filled with doubt. We began to bicker, as talk passed back and forth as to who would willingly enlist to serve the armed forces and who, like myself, would be ineligible due to different circumstances.

There was no gender divide—guys and gals alike were all equally scared of the seemingly inevitable war, of being asked to defend our country, or seeing our friends sent off to

fight. That day, and for several weeks to come, we were convinced that life as we had known it had come to an end.

Classes continued as our teachers tried to keep life as normal as possible. Terror attacks or not, our Business Studies assessment was going ahead. As we quietly worked through the test questions, our attention was drawn to a gradually increasing sound. A sound we had heard, and usually ignored, many times before or during classes or in the yard at lunch. Maybe it was because we were quietly working under test conditions that we heard it coming. The room fell into total silence, and as one we all stopped breathing. Fear rapidly began to flow through the room. We looked to each other and our teacher with a mix of terror and disbelief as the sound grew louder, passing overhead. What should we do?

What could we do? Nothing in our school life, not the routine evacuations or safety talks, could have prepared us for the fear we would face from an attack on the other side of the world. And as the aeroplane passed over the school all eyes bored into our teacher.

‘Think we should hide under the desks?’

Laughter rippled through the room on a wave of relief.

The terrifying spell was broken, and soft murmuring replaced the giggles as the tension dissipated from the room. The sound of the plane’s engines faded into the distance, and our attention was called back to the front of the room.

‘No talking. You still have a test to finish.’

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BE PAR T OF TH E E XP E R IE NC E & JO I N E n ri c h y o u r s t u d e n t e x p e ri e n c e a t D e a k i n a n d b e p a rt o f a f u n , i n c l u s i v e a n d s u p p o rt i v e c o m m u n i t y a t D U S A .

D US A . O R G . A U

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Liam Ball Bel Carroll Julie Dickson Jay D Edwards Lori Franklin Froggy Declan Hanlon ItsJustAlf Tara Komaromy Monique Kostelac Sian Mariel Legaspi Surya Matondkar Tran Dac Nghia Mel Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Connor Michael Pallaris Aaron Purton Loren Rae Helayna Redmond-Ball Sini Salatas Tim Same Kellie Seaye Venetia Slarke Robyn Smith Justine Stella Jessica Wartski Jason Winn 36

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