WORDLY Magazine 'Atmosphere' Edition 1 2020 by WORDLY Magazine

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Atmosphere Edition One 2020

Meet The Team Julie Dickson - Editor-in-Chief Julie loves how her Zumba classes create a fun, positive atmosphere where she can forget about everything she hasn’t done on her to-do list.

Becky Croy - Managing Editor Becky finds pure happiness at Disneyland. It instils a magical, child-like joy in her heart. Perhaps it’s just the chemicals in the water of the Pirates of the Caribbean ride ...

Jessica Wartski - Communications Manager & Editor Jess’s favourite place is one full of warmth. A warmth that she feels as she pats a little being on her lap, and a warmth that she sees in his eyes when his tail wags.

Hassaan Ahmed – Financial Manager There is this place, down the small but dingy steps of a decrepit midtown mall, that breathes a certain magic into all who pass through it. Decades later, he is back for another taste. The old bookshop quietly welcomes him back into its loving embrace.

Jess Ali – Social Media Manager Recently Jess discovered the thrill of India. Particularly, India from the back seat of an auto-rickshaw, precariously dodging through cows, cars, and camels. Whew!

Teodora Kopic - Designer Teodora’s favorite place is with a brush in hand and her watercolor paints around her. Painting watercolor portraits and landscapes whilst watching them dry is oddly relaxing and meditative.

Elisabeth Gail - Editor Elisabeth enjoys a peaceful highway at night—the way the trees twist into shadows as everything falls silent but the hum of the car (This is in no way related to any rumours about vampirism).

Sini Salatas - Editor Sini’s favourite place is her bedroom early on a quiet morning. She likes to light a candle, put a record on, curl up on her floral couch near the window with a cup of tea and ponder life.

Jason Winn - Editor A favoured place of Jason’s is the state library where he can often be found perusing the historical exhibits or flicking through their immense collection of books.

Grishtha Arya - Sub-Editor Whenever home, Grishtha’s favourite place is next to her maa. Sometimes talking, sometimes existing, but mostly revelling in the warmth of their bond.

James Barnett - Sub-Editor James loves to sit under a tree on a sunny day and read a riveting thriller. Even if the moment is rare and he is constantly interrupted by his three dogs. His other favourite place is in a moment of creativity.

Chloe Blanchard - Sub-Editor Chloe spends most of her nights listening to records and looking outside up at the twinkling stars, wondering what else is out there.

Georgie Brimer - Sub-Editor Twin blue plains face each other: one imperfect and creased by ripples, the other an endless blue heaven. They reflect each other in an unending cycle. Still. Calm.

Matthew Galic - Sub-Editor His place is in constant motion. He is in a state of limbo, not just between two places, but between two responsibilities, two expectations. He can just sit in relative silence, listening to the hums of the traffic, or the grinding of metal wheels on train tracks. A place of constant motion, where for him, the world stands still.

Sheridan Harris - Sub-Editor The water rushes in consistently, wave after wave warring with the one before it, crashing into the rocks. She stares at the sea, breathing in deeply and feeling the ocean air settle into her soul.

Jessica Hinschen - Sub-Editor Jessica loves the cosy, relaxing atmosphere of a library. Most of the time, she scours bookshelves, hoping to discover hidden gems, or the latest that sparks her interest.

Michael Pallaris - Sub-Editor Michaelâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favourite place is Donvale Tennis Club, especially at night when the lights are switched on as they illuminate the crimson clay courts which beautifully contrast with the sky.

Loren Sirel - Sub-Editor Loren enjoys visiting a little lake among the mountains. Surrounded by trees, and life, and the freshest of air, it is a place of serenity and comfort.

Zoe Trezise - Sub-Editor Zoeâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s favourite place is the Ilse of Skye in Scotland. The air is clean and the sky polluted by nothing but stars, and at any moment it seems faeries could appear.

Foreword

By Dr Antonia Pont

For me, it’s a really useful word, a useful articulation. ‘Atmosphere’ helps me consider what art is for, what it does. Sometimes, especially with writing, it’s easy to think that the main point—of creative or artistic or imaginative writing—is meaning, story, or even entertainment. We think we are seeking stories with narrative meaning that will entertain and distract us. We think what we go to writing/ reading for has to do with the meanings or messages it offers. Sure. Maybe. I won’t argue against this (arguing is often tedious ...) but I do want to add to it, extend it. Personally, I’m not one for ‘messages’ in my choice of reading material. Or not mostly. Atmosphere—I’ve come to see—is one major aspect I go to written forms of expression to encounter. I want atmospheres that interrupt my usual ‘selfing’, or how I habitually put myself together. I want a break from my usualness. I want to be shocked or off-kiltered or led into some new tonality of beauty, strangeness, being/nonbeing, desire, rhythm &c. that I didn’t know before. (If I were writing in French, this last ‘know’ would be rendered by connaître [to be acquainted with a person, place, to meet as in ‘get to know’], not by savoir [to know, as in knowledge and stuff] ...) I want to get to know, be introduced to, an atmosphere. Artists are Atmosphere Makers, whether they know it or not. They invent characters, yes. But characters (at their most nuanced register) are perhaps also just constellations of atmospheres. And certainly, artists build worlds—which we love and long for and fear and fantasise about—but these worlds are suffused with atmospheres. The latter are mutable, invisible affective climates, hard to say or name, which nevertheless press on us, move us and refigure our relation to the humdrum after we take leave of the art gallery, the studio, the cinema, the text &c. Atmospheres, you could even speculate, are what we love about people, namely: the kinds of atmospheres they trail behind them, or which cling to them imperceptibly as they grace (or mar) our spending-time. Their atmosphere, making a mixture with yours ... Chemistry! I reckon when I fall in love—and continue loving—it’s because I’ve learned a taste for a rare atmosphere, and it’s intoxicating and ontologically terrifying (—philosophically, it must be both ...). Then, of course, love unfolds its dire and whimsical consequences. (We and those we love are changing all the time.) We never know our own atmospheres, either. What kind do we (and have we tended to) cast out? This is why we both never understand why we are loved, and also shouldn’t doubt that we can be, will be. Perhaps, too, we also don’t need to get too busy with the whys, when we aren’t. Our atmosphere is unnameable, unique, a tendril of the infinite. It is not fixed. (Unhealth might be when we stay too long in one atmosphere or flit too quickly from one to another. Steadily fluent, but not frantic, might be what expresses the most aliveness, beauty.) So, art for me—one of the best reasons for being alive—is a frame in which a new, fledgling atmosphere can get going, like a humidicrib for moods of being. (And, then I have to nurture these potentials on my own, for my own life.) This issue promises to be so exciting. A bunch of artists conjuring atmospheres they don’t even realise. And it comes at a time, when the other objective, scientific inflection of atmosphere is seeming more precious, more crucial than even before: air, what we breathe Editor-in-Chief: Julie Dickson Managing Editor: Becky Croy Communications Manager: Jessica Wartski Financial Manager: Hassaan Ahmed Social Media Manager: Jess Ali Designer: Teodora Kopic Front Cover Artist: Melissa Bandara Editors: Elisabeth Roberts, Sini Salatas, Jessica Wartski, Jason Winn Sub-Editors: Grishtha Arya, James Barnett, Chloe Blanchard, Georgie Brimer, Matthew Galic Sheridan Harris, Jessica Hinschen, Michael Pallaris, Loren Sirel, Zoe Trezise Contributors: Cameron Alexander, Liam Ball, Melissa Bandara, Alexander Barticel, Chloe Blanchard, Beth Brown, Laura Clark, Kelsey Claudius, Becky Croy, Chantelle Gourlay, Teodora Kopic, Monique Kostelac, Katie McClintock, Jack McPhail, Dr Antonia Pont, Sini Salatas, Venetia Slarke, Gaden Sousa, Jasmine Triyono, Friederike Weissner, Jason Winn

WORDLY would like to acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land and pay respects to Elders past and present.

©2020 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 https://www.vecteezy.com and Adobe Creative Cloud Assets. Want to advertise? Contact wordlymagazine@gmail.com for more information.

Contents 06

Nebula – Teodora Kopic

The Man Who Hangs Up the Stars – Chloe Blanchard

Through His Eyes – Laura Clark

10 12

Burn – Gaden Sousa Solo – Katie McClintock

A Bar in New York – Chantelle Gourlay

The Little Astronaut – Kelsey Claudius

Ynyslas – Noni De Lacy

Blue Mountains – Katie McClintock

The Black The City Knows Not – Cameron Alexander

Fort Nepean – Becky Croy

Upon Bald Hill – Sini Salatas

The Kick – Monique Kostelac

HOW DO I GET THERE? – Jasmine Triyono

Breathless – Liam Ball

A Meeting of Devil and Mage – Alexander Barticel

Dark Pools – Friederike Weissner

Murmurs – Venetia Slarke

Halcyon Days – Jason Winn

Startled Dark – Dr Antonia Pont

Australia Burning Pantoum – Beth Brown

Hurt – Jack McPhail

Nebula - Teodora Kopic @kopicdesign 6

The Man Who Hangs Up The Stars Chloe Blanchard

There is a quiet old man I know Shy of being borderline short but stout With a whisper of greying hair Chasing down past his nose Who takes the time each day To hang up high in the country sky The expanding galaxies and firesome nebulas The burning suns and crashing moons Every night to no avail

My parents donâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t believe me When I say that such a person Let alone a simple old widowed man Who takes the time to water His kangaroo paws every morning at nine Would have the sheer capacity To do something as magical As constructing a string of constellations Every night to no avail

But there he stands a little bolder At the edge of beautiful twilights Stringing up the freckled faced sky A masterpiece beyond words Across the endless blackness To show us a symphony of play And inspire our dreams To work a little harder Every night to no avail

Through His Eyes Glistening things decorate our home: strips of shiny foil drape the mantelpiece, flashing lights line the roof, and my favourites dangle on the fake tree. The smell of a large bird cooking floats into my nostrils. It’s being over-prepared by my person, Sarah. Jingling sounds from the music box cause my ears to flutter. Sarah asks if I ‘like this one, Buddy?’ as she dances around. But it muffles exterior noises, impairing my audible guard of the house. Sarah has forgotten about park time today. Park time is for off-leash bounding and investigating marks left by furry tree residents that smell better than old socks. Each visit, I’d greet fellow park visitors, especially spaghetti-eater Patches, the white Maltese. There’d often be something tasty stuck around his orange-stained mouth. I loved listening to Sarah when she wasn’t tapping on her device. I’d pant up to her as she sat on the park bench, telling me about her goals and worries. Her tone of voice and the rhythm of her hands on my fur would change with each subject, allowing me to understand her meaning when I didn’t recognise all of her words. But today, even though I’m sure it’s still a weekday, Sarah has stayed home. Without her attention, I head to the backyard and complete my typical duties. After checking the fence for trespassing crows, I lie belly up to collect the morning sun. It must be a special day; I hear Sarah’s device inside emitting noises like trapped birds. She picks the device up and chirps into it, ‘Hey, Amanda.’ It warbles back.

Laura Clark My body wriggles, and I seize the new, soft, fake dog that Sarah gave me this morning. I’d quickly obliterated its odd paper wrapping and made it nice and damp with leisurely chewing over the course of the morning. I lift it between my teeth again now as I make my way inside. It pushes my lips up so guests will think they can snatch it. ‘Hello, darling,’ Amanda coos as she enters. Her slim face behind thick frames descends. She’s wearing an odd, red hat with a white ball on the end. Her hands are wonderfully friendly, and I topple a little. As all the guests arrive, they chatter like the chickens next door, but Sarah’s distracted. ‘He’ll be here soon, you’ll love him,’ she tells Amanda. A smile covers Sarah’s face as one more visitor creeps in.

***

A disagreeable scent overwhelms me as his tall knees pass. He hands her a long bottle as he greets her with a brief touch of his lips to hers, and murmurs something into her head fur. Sarah looks like she’s filled with fresh air. My wagging tail interrupts them, but he doesn’t acknowledge me. Guests finally begin eating the large, carved bird while I hold my backside to the floor like a good boy. My nose stays on that bird, but out of the corner of my eye, I notice Amanda tipping on her chair towards the new man. I wonder why attention is not on me or on feasting. The room laughs continuously with the new man they call Mike. ***

She smiles. ‘All ready. I can’t wait for you to meet him.’

Mike is the last visitor at the gathering. He changes the music and lights a flame. ‘Rose fragrance,’ he grins.

I roll over outside, grass cushioning my belly and tickling my paws. I give them a lick, tasting a dirt mix.

The smell is fake.

The bell from the front door bounces around the house.

‘Sit, boy,’ he tells me. I won’t.

He dangles a piece of the bird on his fork near the back door. I run out to receive it, but turn around to a shut door in my face. I bark at him, feeling betrayed and hateful. I grumble as he puts it into the silver container of what Sarah calls ‘rubbish’. Easing my head onto my paws, I fixate my eyes on the fool.

‘Ugh,’ Amanda interrupts. ‘It stinks like dirt here and it’s all over my boots. Someone finish this for me?’ Mike gawks like an owl. I approach to offer my services.

Sarah eventually leads him out the front door and I’m glad to see him leave.

*** I wake in the backyard to Sarah yapping on her device. Sliding my paws forward and pushing my butt up into the breeze, a satisfying quiver climbs along the muscles in my back. ‘I’ll have to bring Buddy,’ she says. ‘It’s too late this time of year to book a kennel.’ *** The door of the moving kennel Sarah calls a ‘car’ opens and I shake off the ride. A large park dazzles me with all its scents. I pursue one across the field of grass and dirt to where Amanda and others play with bendy poles. I bounce to match their movements, but multiple voices scold me. Thumping sounds lead me to another group of people where a car emits music and the fool, Mike, snickers with a fumy liquid in his hand. ‘I’m hoping she’ll sleep in my tent tonight, know what I mean?’ Sarah’s calls beckon me away from the river I've managed to find between the campsite and the huddled trees. After grabbing a modest branch that I’ve chewed to be comfortable for throwing, I find Sarah constructing makeshift shelters with the others. I shake my body, letting out excess particles from my thick fur and initiating the drying process.

*** People relax by the hot flames set in the middle of the open campsite area, the makeshift shelters dotted around the outskirts. The loudening crowd gradually drown out the peaceful bush sounds. I wander occasionally to relieve my ears. On my third return, I hear shouting: ‘Ten, nine, eight, seven…’ Everyone’s odours blend with the smoke and the fumes of liquids they’ve been guzzling all night as I search for Sarah. ‘Two, one…’ I finally spot her, and him, on the other side of the flames. Between each swig, Mike leans closer to her, skimming a hand up her legs as she tries to turn from his breath. Bursting and whizzing sounds above interrupt me. Sparks of light swirl around like illuminated birds at war. But these are not any birds I know or would like to bark at. My tail hides between my legs. I keep my head down, away from the terrifying war while I search to protect Sarah from both Mike and this sky. I finally reach them, and launch towards the offender, Mike, pushing my front paws into his chest as hard as I can. Mike and his liquid spill off the log. I check Sarah with hurried licks.

Everyone wails.

‘I guess you’re the only man for me, Buddy.’ She kisses my head.

Mike jumbles with pieces of his shelter, too close to Sarah’s.

I lead her to Amanda. We’re welcomed with singing and embraces.

‘Having trouble there?’ she asks him, laughing.

The sky is dark and still again. And I am with my person. I stand by, as I always will.

BURN

Gaden Sousa

‘As we make our descent, you might start to smell some smoke. No cause for alarm.’ A young boy marvels at what he sees: a sea of faded smokiness, made of dead and dying trees. The off-white ocean below him penetrated by icebergs of pillow white, the clouds an odd and offensive reminder of what normal used to be. The gentle wafts of wood fire, that remind the boy of gourmet pizza and cold winter nights. Warm memories mixed with a frightful sight as the cool and soothing light of the airplane was replaced with a painful orange as, suddenly, the world changed. ‘If you are in fire-affected areas, it may already be too late to escape.’ It starts with a flicker. Small, a lapping of orange like a chameleon snatching a fly with its tongue. Slowly it spreads. They always say that fires spread out of control quickly, but this one spread slow. A molasses of orange clinging to the ground crawling its way from grass to bush and up the trunks of ancient trees. For the family of five, their only warning is a slow brightening of the night, as the darkness is replaced by a soft orange glow. Some of them wake up, the mother and father roused by the heat of the house rising. At the door they find it is too late, their world is alight. Seeping in through every crack are the last breaths of dying trees, crawling, contorting, bending their way into the home. Outside the smoke threatens to never leave as it changes the silver glimmer of the moon to bronze. An apocalypse of nature’s making, ending with all things blackened and alone. ‘There’s a lot of smoke out there, be careful.’ Matilda drives to pick up her sister from a friend’s house. She drives through the quiet country town, past the shops she’s visited every day in the eighteen years she’d been there, past her school, past the parks she played in as a child, and past the town altogether. Family friends’ farms pass by and she attempts to see them past the thick, messy smoke that lay across the whole region like a horrible blanket. A reminder of the danger all around them. This place, her place, once survived many a drought. Years where water fell nowhere, it still fell here, but now even in the winter the rain didn’t come. The smoke arrived several days ago and would leave occasionally only to be brought back by the winds. It was like an uninvited party guest who stays for too long. Just when you think you’ve gotten rid of them, they come back, louder, thicker, and more annoying than ever. One dead kangaroo passes by Matilda, then two, three … after five she stops counting. The farms had turned to desert and it was all the kangaroos could do to find nourishment on the side of the road, kept uncharacteristically green, as if a small joke was being played. You can only find food in the most dangerous place. Most of them wound up dead, either starved or hit, lying on the road as a reminder and a warning to those entering the town: stay away. Here lies death. A left turn pulls Matilda off the highway and onto a dirt road. She looks behind her as the parched earth kicks up dust to join the hazy grey all around. Everything is a reminder of the dry, the heat and the flames. She sits and waits for her sister. While she waits, she pretends she can’t smell the world on fire. Pretends she hasn’t driven past blackened forests and dying livestock. What else is there to do but pretend none of it is happening. That’s what her parents do, her friends do, it’s what everyone does. And so, she sits, and she waits, pretending that the rain might come.

The

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Solo - Katie McClintock 12

@ katiemcclintockimages

A Bar in New York Chantelle Gourlay

My shoulders tighten, like that feeling you get as a plane is about to take off and you’re on it. The room smells intoxicating—a mixture of rich whiskey, cigars, and red wine. Men clad in business suits and women with pursed lips and sultry expressions fill the cramped setting. The mood in here could quite literally be sliced through like butter, like that scene from Taxi Driver, where De Niro holds a gun to his reflection. Or like when Joe Pesci does the famous ‘What, do I amuse you?’ spiel in Goodfellas. I wish I was joking, but I’m really not. It’s like the whole world stopped. All the chatting and laughing from the other patrons in this dingy little bar on the east side of New York, not too far from Brooklyn, has stopped. This place feels like a small slice of 1940s New York in the middle of 2019. Timeless, except for the few women wearing ripped jeans and the punk looking man in the far corner with the ring through his septum. He sips on a pina colada awkwardly and I silently chuckle. What a sight! The eyes of the crowd are plastered on me. Women’s feline-like gazes, lined with black, fall upon my face. Men with sharp jawlines and slick hair glare through the smoky haze. It’s not hard to pick who the Mob are. ‘Hey, kid. You ain’t from ‘round here, are ya?’ says a dark, gravelly voice. ‘Johnny, the Boss, points right at me and my throat sticks. He looks just like Tony Soprano, except with more hair. I recently did a job for one of his guys that didn’t go to plan. He wasn’t too pleased about it, so I’d heard.

The thick scent of cigar smoke dances in the space between my nostrils and upper lip. The whiskey I just swallowed still lingers on my tongue. I didn’t think these kinds of places even existed anymore. I’ve been swept up in the inner workings of the New York Mob for the past five years, so nothing really surprises me anymore. I don’t even get nightmares. I used to at the start. After seeing a teenager’s brain get blasted apart at the opposing end of a pistol. Or after watching on as the owner of a smallgoods store in Manhattan had his throat cut. Now I am so accustomed to it that nothing scares me anymore. The past is the past, dwelling on it would just make me sloppy. I have to focus. I look around at the crowded bar—no exits nearby. I would have to jump my way through at least ten of these clowns before I made it to the door. And even then, there’s no telling how many have a gun hidden away in their overcoats. The sickly-sweet scents of women’s perfumes melt together and make my head spin. There ain’t no getting out of this alive, not without a gun or some other kind of weapon.

Despite the pressure building from every angle, it feels calm. The whispers have stopped but no one looks angry, not yet. There’s a soft piano that fills the empty space and if I didn’t know any better, I’d feel completely relaxed. Even the women with their dark, sultry eyes are smiling at me. No one is reaching their hands inside their coats for a gun or anything. Then Johnny, the Boss, stands up. Pointing a pistol right between my goddamn eyes. Here we go again …

What do you mean?’ ‘What? Am I over here speakin’ Chinese? You ain’t from ‘round here.’ ‘No.’

The Li t tle A s t ro naut Kelsey Claudius

My brother was always fascinated with the universe. He spoke of planets and stars the way you would a favourite book, the kind with a worn-out spine you could never put down. Some days I would listen to him for hours, his little freckled nose would scrunch up in excitement and his eyes would slightly bulge out of his head, words becoming quicker and quicker. He was always like that. He always spoke before he could even think of what to say. Other days when I was in a mood, I would pretend to listen. Which now I realise was a cruel thing to do, he always listened to me—even when it wasn’t interesting to him. His usual topic of discussion was other life that could be present on these planets. He believed we lived among aliens that lived on planets such as Pluto or Neptune. I didn’t have the heart to tell him that there was no way anything could live on them. These creatures would live a cold and lonely life. What a horrible way to live. He was very good at creating things from nothing, it was almost effortless for him. Me, however, I liked order, logic. I wasn’t very good at thinking outside my very small but reasonable box. My mother was always entertained by his big imaginative brain. She believed he was going to cure cancer, or discover a new planet. She once asked him, ‘Why don’t you fly up there yourself and discover all this?’ He loved that idea. He carried a blue hardcover journal where he wrote his thoughts and ideas down. The journal had seen better days: pages were ripped and scribbled on, the front cover had vegemite stains. But ‘it never bothered him; small things like that never phased him. As his older sister, it bothered me, like leaving the toothpaste lid off, or the lids off the jars, or eating toast with no plate.

*** Our old oak tree sat in the back corner of our backyard. It reached high into the air, with branches the length of my entire body. They curled around the air and stuck out in all places like they were stretching toward the sun. They were strong branches which only shook slightly when the wind would blow through. The thing that shook them the most was the wooden swing we had tied. Most days it would sit there swaying slightly, calling out for us to play. We fell to the grass, sometimes laying there for hours, where we would talk and murmur soft words and ideas about our solar system, but my brother did most of the talking on those afternoons. Sometimes, on the windiest nights, the branches would smack around. I could never bear the thought of that tree getting loose. I imagined it would fly around swinging, tearing through the picket fence. It would fly into the air and turn back around falling onto the house, smashing up windows and breaking through the walls. But we were lucky that never happened. Instead of the tree ripping the soil, the swing would be the thing to go flying from its home. Living on a hill meant we often got heavy winds, we were used to the thumping of branches and the scratching of leaves against our windows throughout the night. Some nights the scratching and thumping got so loud I was convinced it was trying to warn me. If only I could’ve understood.

*** 14

For the few years after mum told him he should fly, he believed that he would.

‘First, I will fly to another country to test myself”, he once said as we laid on the grass, the wind blowing over our long-sleeved clothes, tussling his curls around his face. But he didn’t seem to mind, he still spoke as though nothing was getting in his face. ‘—and if you don’t?’ ‘Well, that’s a silly response. I’ll love it.’ He didn’t even acknowledge I was in the mood to push his buttons rather than listen to him talk. ‘You don’t know you’ll love it, you just think it’s cool. You may end up hating it.’ I was getting annoyed he wouldn’t take the bait. ‘Just because you don’t like things doesn’t mean you have to be rude about it.’ I think I was more annoyed that he was so carefree. He just wanted to talk to someone. He didn’t even care if they were listening, he just wanted company. I wasn’t getting a reaction. He didn’t even deserve to be stirred the way I was stirring him. Sometimes I think he made up his mind to fly that night so he could find someone who wasn’t as mean as me.

***

My brother decided he would fly into the sky and discover new planets and stars. He would float amongst the space dust naming stars after us. He had made it very clear that before he was old, he would fly. Every time a star would twinkle in the sky, it was him waving back at us. Reminding us he was up there and he would come home. He also made room in his bedroom in case he brought some uninvited guests home for a visit. This never bothered my mum. It just made her smile; it made us all smile.

***

That night my brother finally flew. The wind picked up his tiny, scrawny bones and brought him to the stars. We found our old wooden swing detached from the tree, thrown over the picket fence with crimson stains running down the white paint. His little body laid next to the fence. He was thrown against the fence and hit his head. We weren’t sure if maybe it was the force or the cold that killed him, perhaps it was both. His striped t-shirt was blowing in the wind, the fabric swaying in the breeze screaming out to us like a cry of surrender. I could hear his voice with each swish of the material. ‘It’s okay.’ Swish. ‘I am safe.’ Swish. ‘I belong with the star dust.’ I imagined what he would have seen and heard as he swung on that swing. He would have had his head tilted up staring at the sky, watching himself get closer to the sounds of the crunching leaves. His bare feet would skim the dirt and blades of grass on his way down. He was growing so fast his legs were getting closer to the ground. I imagined the way the cold grass would have brushed up against his feet. Tickling his soles and reminding him he was on land. His hands would have been gripping the chains so tightly, leaving indents on his palms. Would he have let go before? Or would he have kept holding on, wishing that if he just held on he could make it. Maybe if the wind have had of picked up, or if I had have stayed, perhaps he would still be here. But I doubt that. He promised us that one day he would fly, and I think that night he made up his mind to join the stars and twinkle down at us every night. 15

Ynyslas Noni De Lacy

An eerie forest of prostrate, buried trunks. Sand worn Pinus, Querus, Betula, and Alnus. This salvaged woodlandâ&#x20AC;&#x201D;petrified; a gift from the storms.

Before we stood here, there were spiralling branches and sphagnum bog. This earth untrodden by human feet, until mighty waves washed clean the shore and now, we walk the ancient ground.

Blue Mountains - Katie McClintock @katiemcclintockimages 17

The Black The City Knows Not Cameron Alexander

2006 Coopers Creek Smoke, The Polar Express, Burnt Houses, Flames We only had a few days left of the school year. Since it was our final year in primary, we were enjoying it. Dad was off fighting a fire to our east, but that was rather normal. However, during the lunch break, a few of us noticed the smoke growing from white to black. All of us, being country kids, knew it wasn’t a good sign, especially since many of us had some form of association with the CFA. We heard the bell even though we knew it wasn’t the end of lunch yet. Everyone was gathered into their classrooms and movies were put on. The Polar Express was the movie chosen for my class. The classes of grade four/five were joined with us filling the room with forty-five kids. I did say it was a country school, right? I was chosen, along with a few school captains to go to the younger years and try to keep their spirits up. We had to make sure they weren’t too scared. Student after student left, often in groups of either relatives or people whose parents were close. Then my mother arrived. We got home and got everything ready, packing up the important items. Ash and embers blew over our house and we would later find out that houses in town had actually burned from this. A few days later, I attended a friend’s birthday. We stood out back talking and having fun as the bulk of the danger had passed, looking up to the hill where the smoke was coming from. The flames stared at us, sitting at the hilltop, filled with hate and threat. We watched and waited.

2009 Black Saturday Sweltering Heat, Like Curtains It Spread, Twilight, Fire Radio I was in the pool with my brother, sister, and a few of their friends. Mum and Dad were off fighting fires. I had gone to fight one a few days earlier, despite being underage. But these flames were a bit bigger, so I was to stay home and relax as well as be the person in charge of any fire safety of the house. It was a swelteringly hot day. It had been a hot summer. We could see the plumes of smoke to the south. Slowly we noticed the smoke grow and move. Like curtains, it spread east and west. The smoke crept around the sky until it reached a point north-east. As soon as the two blankets met the light disappeared and twilight took us. It was around 3 pm, yet after the two smoke points left it could have been 8 pm. We knew this was bad. I can still remember the worry that gripped us. Ash fell despite us being forty kilometres away as the crow flies. We covered the pool with the blanket to try to keep the water clean, went inside, and turned on the news and the fire radio. We waited.

2013 Aberfeldy CFA, Paddocks, The Sword and The Fire, Racing Through Flames My cousins had to leave their house as the fire threatened them. It actually burnt their shed and melted their pool. I had been called up. It was my fourth year officially in the CFA, so I had seen some action before, but this was a proper bushfire. It jumped rivers and raced through forests. I wasn’t on a truck this time. I was on an old ute that had been in service since the Ash Wednesday fires in 1983. We were amongst a small scrub with fire around us, since the ute could get to the spots the trucks couldn’t. I was on the back of the old Toyota as it bounced through paddocks driving alongside the fire. I was trying to put out as much as I could, with the only communication between me and the driver being a bang on the roof. For those of you not familiar with the fire services, there is an alarm that sounds on the trucks when the water level reaches one-fourth, so that should we require to retreat to save our lives, we are able to. It’s basically the truck saying to go fill up. This old truck had only a drum on the back and a pump. A rather large fire was currently contesting with me as I felt its heat singe my face. Then the hose ran dry. The fire laughed at me as my sword vanished, the hilt held uselessly in my hand. I smashed my hand onto the cab, and we sped off having to actually drive through flames. Racing through blackened fields to the fill up point, I waited.

2015 Orbost Calm, Smoldering Spots, Crack, Ration Pack It was rather calm, albeit smoky. Or maybe it was the cigarette I had as we crawled along the burnt-out plantation. The main fire had been taken care of, so we were on mop-up duty. When you are out of the fireground you are never meant to be alone in the cabin or on the back of the truck. But then again, we technically aren’t supposed to do Santa runs—so regulations be damned. Small smoldering spots were put out as we went along. It was an easy strike team and nothing too intensive, instead it was mainly making sure it didn’t flare up again. I heard a crack to my left. This wasn’t unusual as the amount of trees and branches falling was enormous. This one however sounded larger and closer. I turned to see a tree falling. It came at me, so I stepped aside. Where I had been standing, there was now a length of wood as wide as my head. The driver was rattling off through the comms. Fear was evident in his voice. I called out as the tree blocked my path and told him that I was okay. I took a photo and sent it off to my mother. We were called back to the main area so the truck could be looked over. The steel had been heavily dinted and a hole punched in. I was forced to remain for half an hour to make sure I wasn’t in shock. The driver seemed to be more shaken than I was. I was given a can of creamed rice from a ration pack to placate me. I waited and I wondered. Was my lack of fear a sign of something worse? It was, but I refused to acknowledge it. Instead, I waited to be sent back out.

2018 Melbourne Home, Harsh Orange, Fires, Waiting I had left Gippsland and was now living in Melbourne. I knew there were fires back home and part of me wanted to go home and fight them. However, I had to merely accept that I would get updates from my family as time went on. The light on the ground was a harsh orange from the smoke in the sky. One hundred and fifty metres away my family was fighting fires and as I sat doing nothing, I wished to be out there. I was sick of waiting.

Fort Nepean

Becky Croy

The windows are rolled down at the request of an elderly passenger, enveloping the bus with a fresh linen breeze. We park at the top of a teetering hill. Where the clouds mix with an eggbeater, the waves of the east ripple gently and flies are buzzing around the swells of shrubbery. Where the old tombs of war veterans echo against the patterned sky. Cicadas drum a pipe-bomb rhythm, picking up as we draw near. Crashes meeting land are soundless before the delayed foam, stirring up alternating shades of blue and green. Reflecting in billowy waters, cradling the shoreline so the wind cannot reach us, lies cowering bush and twig bending without backbone. People have built around the harshness, scratched tracks untouched for years. This is where we find ourselves. A receding hairline of a hazy, traceable, Australian history. Walk a little further: sandstone, moss lenses, sagging hills, white noise spritzer, jarring bricks, rusty hooks, bomb shelter, red engine room, musty dust, lost divers, plummeting down into sweat pools. In the distance beyond an aching sky, a light house, washing white and tips of reddish stone. Seagulls rest, pecking at the seaweed beneath their bodies. Not fazed by the afternoon heat rush, dipping in and out of cooler climates. Meeting in the middle of the bay, we look for substance. Cruelly quiet. Unmatched by the events before us. The afternoon lays into the evening, folding into misty purple. Lights ignite across the water; sparking a swirl of electrical wires shooting through the fading sunlight. The bricks of bunkers grow cold and musty air flows through damp tunnels. There is a lost energy now, remembered in audio tapes. Listen, between the small howls of the wind, distant stamping boots, and flu coughs. Voices commanding against dull metal helmets. Echoes muttering in return. It radiates through the tunnel. Pausing long enough for our hearts to skip a beat, before the ritual begins again. We scrape through tiny openings imagining a more sinister darkness. None remains. Piles upon piles of discarded chests and tattered uniforms. Power left the souls of these rags long ago. Inch to the left and up the rigid stairs to a slit of stone and inclosing sand walls. Covered by prickles and browning leaves. Between them, gritty shores and whitecap flourish make an ideal hiding place. Pockets of light glint in the cave before bouncing back to meet its maker. Can you breathe clearly in here? The only way out is to march and we do. Directly in line with the frozen horizon. Stuck between this world and the next. A final dip into the blackening ocean. The day is set, signalling the last of the buses home. A familiar, uneasy journey on the narrow bitumen road.

Upon Bald Hill Sini Salatas

Up a steep incline and through a rusted, broken fence. On to a disturbed nest of ants, scattering. Left pinkie toe throbbing.

Cleared land, at the edge of the world. Looking down on civilisation, under a blanket of darkness. Bald Hill—surrounded by towering gums, thick scrub, overgrown bushes.

Trees, shadows long and skinny. Comforting, enclosing us in this patch of barren land. High enough to see Port Phillip Bay, north to Bundoora and beyond the city skyline to Werribee. Low enough to hear the laughter and chatter of celebrations wafting gaily from down below.

Lights glittering in the distance, mirroring the inky sky above. The smell of moist earth, gum leaves. Fresh breeze. The smiling faces and contented murmurings of loved ones gathered to celebrate a beginning. And an end.

Kangaroo droppings encrusted in the damp earth below. Wet grass—dewy in anticipation of a long night ahead. It will awake in the morning clean and renewed.

We are gods up here.

More people now. Stragglers, from the parties below. Drinks clinking. A gentle calmness. ‘How much longer have we got?’ It’s almost time now.

‘5… 4… 3... 2… 1...’ The sky explodes. We are new again.

The Kick

Monique Kostelac

My eyes burned as my lungs filled with the smoke of the countless flares erupting around Maksimir stadium. Ear-piercing whistles filled the air and patriotic chants that stemmed from century old rivalries echoed across the stands. Dozens of Dinamo Zagreb fans laid strewn across the playing field, enduring the flurry of whacks and kicks from police batons and Red Star Belgrade fans. Canary yellow seats that had been ripped up from the South End by the Delije flew across the stands, as Zagreb locals attempted to bypass the police barricade that prevented them from even trying to defend their own territory. Since Tito died ten years ago, football started becoming more about politics than unity. It was a form of expression. A way for people to voice how they felt and what they wanted. For the Croatians, it was a chance to enforce a movement to finally break free from the reign of Yugoslavia and become an independent country—something our ancestors had fought to obtain for centuries. Only a few weeks ago, a poll was held to see what people wanted for their country and a resounding number of Croatians and Slovenians voted out of Yugoslavia. Naturally, the Serbian government wasn’t thrilled and wanted to do everything in its power to stop Yugoslavia from falling apart. The Delije resonated with this, as did the predominantly Serbian police force present at the game. I should’ve seen this coming. It was the first game between the two biggest teams in Yugoslavia—of course something was bound to happen. Not even the water bottle I had snuck in with me was enough to soothe the unnatural chemical reaction occurring in my body. I could barely hear or see anything because of the smoke bombs, yelling, whistles, and the sun’s glare. I hadn’t been to a game in years and I decided to come to what was probably the most politically charged game in the history of Yugoslav sport. I should’ve listened to my brother, Niko, when he suggested we turn around and go home after seeing fights breaking out in the streets surrounding the stadium. I insisted we didn’t, thinking it was just the usual hooligan shenanigans. It wasn’t unusual for the Delije, the hardcore supporters of Serbia’s biggest team—Red Star Belgrade—to cause trouble and face off with the Bad Blue Boys, the firm of dedicated Dinamo Zagreb supporters. The Bad Blue Boys weren’t exactly angels when they went to Belgrade either. That was just football. Our attention had turned from the game to the Delije ripping up the seats only ten minutes earlier. The police did nothing to stop them from tearing up our stadium and it infuriated all of us. When we tried taking matters into our own hands, we were doused in pepper spray and attacked by swinging batons. I tried sneaking through the crowds, being much smaller than the other Dinamo fans, but Niko grabbed me before I had the chance.

‘Are you crazy?’ He yelled, with the addition of a profane insult which affectionately described me as a ‘donkey lunatic’. ‘You’re going to get yourself killed.’ ‘Just because I’m a girl…’ I replied.

Before he could argue with me, we noticed a few of the Dinamo players making their way across the field. They had originally been forced off the field by the managers for their own safety. I don’t think our captain, Zvonimir Boban, would have been too impressed with seeing his own people being beaten up for doing nothing wrong. He and a few of his teammates strolled across the field and helped battered Dinamo fans back up to their feet. Men who I assume were on the Dinamo board attempted to get Boban and the other players off the pitch, but it was to no avail. Boban was on a mission, and he wasn’t letting a couple of suits get in his way.

‘Isuse,’ Niko commented. ‘Are they going to hit the players too?’ I questioned, curious to see what would unfold next. If they could have, they would have. What came next was something I knew would be a symbol for Croatian independence for years to come. The stadium became electric. We became revitalised. I wasn’t sure whether it was a morale boost, or a moment that filled our veins with fire. Boban’s kick divided the stadium, and the nation. The Dinamo Zagreb captain saw a fan being beaten by a police officer and decided enough was enough. Surrounded by his own people rolling around the field writhing in pain, Boban charged up to a police officer, who hovered over a fan’s curled up body, and roundhouse kicked him. He jogged a few steps in the opposite direction, just in case the officer came swinging at him. He was ready to go back for more until he was shielded by his teammates and coach, who protected him from any members of the police force. I could just hear the profanity desperately being yelled across the field as the officials told the cops to leave the players alone. It was no longer about the Bad Blue Boys and the Delije. It was no longer about Dinamo Zagreb and Red Star Belgrade. It wasn’t even about Zagreb and Belgrade. It was Croatia and Serbia. It was a war of ideologies. It was a battle of religions. It was centuries worth of rivalries and ethnic tension finally reaching the surface. I felt water drops on my arm. The red fire truck that was often tucked away in the corner of the stadium snuck out and had begun hosing down whoever was in its range of fire. ‘Ana, follow me,’ Niko ordered, grabbing my arm and pulling me down the aisle which had begun to clear out. ‘They found a way out.’ I followed after him, ducking and weaving between fights, flares, and projectiles. The tear gas began wafting up towards us, stinging our eyes. We found our way into the tunnel which was filled with murmurs and cries. Parents held their sons and daughters close, wondering how a family day out could go so wrong. They just wanted to cheer on their beloved Dinamo in a blockbuster game and share the pastime with their kids in hopes that it would become a family tradition for years to come. Instead, they realised their kids would remember they were there at the beginning of the end of Yugoslavia. Minutes later, we found ourselves out and away from the stadium. Police cars and ambulances raced past as Zagreb locals watched on, trying to figure out what they had just heard. A stranger on the street handed us two water bottles and ordered us to keep dousing our eyes until the stinging stopped. Along with half a dozen red-eyed Dinamo supporters, we hopped on our tram, praying it would just speed through the city and take us home. Home.

HOW DO I GET T HERE? Jasmine Triyono

You haven’t been empty in a while. You’re too full right now. What are you full of? Planets, you think. Some you’ve heard of, others you haven’t. They’re spinning, floating, falling in and out of sleep, beautiful. Sometimes they meet and explosions happen. Other times, nothing. You could take a cleaver and cut yourself open, free the space up a little, but the sky is filled with all kinds of shit and it’s doing just fine, so put it down. You’ve had it forever, unused. It’s not a shield. You should be okay without it.

Oh, you. Pins and needles on a sewing sponge, you. There you go again, denying yourself, shying away, floating around, hoping and hoping. The planets are restless. Venus wants to fall in love. Mercury wonders why you mince your words. Neptune wishes you’d be less afraid of dreaming. Don’t even sweat it; take your place and let the love tiptoe out of you. You’ll do all that and more. Earth-girl, you are so quick to glitch but just as quickly you refresh. Not a machine—just human. Human-girl, fly freely. There’s nothing but time. Try as you might, you can’t put any distance between you and yourself. You start to lose the form you once knew and soon enough you’ll have to come back and get to know it all over again. You’ll want to. Hey, yeah, it’s been a while, I know I’ve been gone. It’s been hard but I’m back now and I’m saying sorry. I’m keeping you close. I’m listening. We’ll rocket on over into deep space. There’s no coordinates and we might get lost, but it’ll be fine. It’ll be fun. It’ll be scary. That’s the way it is.

Breathless - Liam Ball @barely_drawn 25

A Meeting of Devil and Mage Alexander Barticel Deep within the confines of the Loralian empire sat the Ebon Spire. A twisted tower which rose from the earth—a single, carved mass of stone. None knew of its true origins except, perhaps, those that lay outside the bounds of mortal life. In a sparsely furnished room at the heart of the Ebon Spire sat the greatest mage of the time, Eisenwald. The man studied, searching for the secrets of these immortal beings. In doing so, he had drawn the attention of those who would prefer that their secrets remain as such. One being in particular had been watching and waiting for quite some time. *** Balthazar lounged on a cleared mantel above a lively fireplace. The stone’s heavy warmth reminded him of the fiery depths of home. The golden rings of his eyes seemed to dance as they took in the form of his prey. The devil’s long, spade-tipped tail waved languidly at his back. His form was invisible to all, except for those that knew how to look. Eisenwald hunched over his desk. His head shifted slightly from side to side as he read and took notes simultaneously. His round spectacles eased to the end of his nose while he studied, his left hand rising swiftly to meet them while his right continued his note-taking. There was no waste to his movements. Balthazar’s form flowed like smoke from the mantel as he eased towards the hearth. This was the one he had been waiting for. A mortal with a gift from the gods. This man possessed a boundless luck which the devil—and his masters—yearned to make his own. But how? he wondered. This man was unwavering. Ever alert and always working. As the devil’s foot met the wooden floor, there was the slightest hint of a creak. The devil immediately scrambled to return to his perch, but it was too late. A wave of light rushed from Eisenwald. The light spilled across the floor, covering furniture before climbing up along the walls to encircle the entire space. The light grew brighter, becoming almost blinding before it disappeared in a radiant burst. The traces of Eisenwald’s sealing spell could be seen along every sharp edge—a soft green-tinted glow. ‘Finally.’ Eisenwald’s chair grated across the floor as he moved to stand. The mage turned, looking out across the empty room. ‘Reveal yourself, whatever you are. You cannot hide or escape. I would rather not resort to violence.’ A torrent of thick, black smoke erupted from a point in the centre of the room. The smoke formed a column, rushing from the floor to the ceiling. The soft glow of Eisenwald’s barrier intensified and where it met the smoke a circular glyph formed, encasing the column. The smoke did not spread to fill the room, yet surged endlessly upwards. A single, swirling mass. The mage scrunched his nose as an acrid smell filled the space. Laughter followed. Deep. Rumbling. Directionless. The laughter gave way to three fiery tears, which ripped through the swirling column of darkness. Two featureless eyes and a gaping maw, filled with hellfire, shifted within the smoke before the mage. ‘You have done well, mortal. Few would have been able to detect me, but if you think your paltry magic will hold me, you are mistaken.’ The multitudinous voice seemed to resound from every surface. It vibrated throughout the entirety of Eisenwald’s body. The mage pushed his glasses back into place and clicked his fingers. In response, the column of smoke exploded outwards, now filling the room. With a short gesture and a formless word, the smoke began to coalesce, collecting rapidly in the palm of Eisenwald’s free hand.

Balthazar fell to the wooden floor with a heavy thud. The devil coughed and spluttered, propping himself up on his elbows. Eisenwald’s eyebrow arched and his hand clamped around the orb of smoke that he now held, forcing the darkness to disperse. The soft smell of burning hickory began to ease its way back into the room from the fireplace. ‘I know not what your purpose is here, demon, but I will suffer neither your insults nor your trickery. You speak with Eisenwald: Kingsmage to the First, protector of the Loralian Empire. Tell me, who sent you to pester me? What is your purpose here?’ It took Balthazar a few moments to catch his breath. The devil could feel his bones reverberating with the aftershock of the mage’s spell. His teeth felt as if they rattled in his skull. Once he could stand again, Balthazar took his time to straighten his cloak. His hands moved to ensure that his long, white hair had not become tangled around the horns that protruded from above his brow. Balthazar stood straight and tall, looking slightly down to meet Eisenwald’s gaze. The devil’s face was impassive as his tail waved softly back and forth behind him. ‘Well, demon, I have asked you two questions and am yet to receive any answers. I do not wish to force you to answer, but I will if needed.’ Balthazar’s tail cut through the air sharply before resuming its soft, confident movement. His words followed. ‘I am Balthazar! Watcher of the seventh gate, maligner of mages, and devil among devils. I am no mere demon.’ With his last word, he spat. The ichorous wad sizzled as it struck the edge of the barrier. Eisenwald’s eyes did not leave the devil’s own as he introduced himself. ‘My apologies. Balthazar, was it? You must forgive my ignorance but, please, humour me. By whose grace have you deemed to observe me in my own study, o’ devil among devils?’ Balthazar’s tail seemed to dance, no longer sweeping surely from side-to-side. It bobbed and coiled, straightening and relaxing before coming to rest over the devil’s shoulder. Balthazar smiled, closing his eyes and sitting in place. The devil raised his hands in a placatory gesture. ‘I’m afraid I can tell you no more until we come to an agreement.’ There was a sound like that of a sword being drawn, followed by a rush of wind. The black smoke that Balthazar had used to try and intimidate the mage now floated before him. A sharp tendril of darkness pointed directly at the devil’s throat. Balthazar opened a single eye and met the mage’s cold ones. They were still for a moment before Eisenwald spoke. ‘If you have no information then you are of no further use to me and I shall simply dispatch you, though I would prefer otherwise. You’ve given me enough either way. This piece of your essence will keep me entertained for a while, at least.’ Balthazar’s tail eased over his shoulder to push the tip of the smoke-borne spear away from his throat. ‘Now, now. Let’s not be hasty, mortal. I am a devil, which means that there is an endless array of things I can offer you. We need simply make a deal—an accord, a compact if you will. Once that is done you will have whatever it is that you wish.’ Eisenwald’s eyes narrowed. ‘What kind of an accord?’ Balthazar’s smile widened to show pointed teeth as he replied, ‘A simple one.’

dark pools Friederike Wiessner

i slowly open the door to my nightly dreams, hadopelagic depths of what is underneath i throw light onto the retina wall, through plastic shards of un-moments i replace ceilings with glass i stand naked and without defence, my head tied to look straight ahead pupils diluted. immovable my screams futilely fill an aphonic room you, alienated adulterated memories clothed as nightmares i can't seem to differentiate recollection becomes paralysis, in fear i wake, with a sense of loss and mourning i am tired of gazing into my own injured heart of being rendered m o t i o n l e s s and begging for you to prove the night is goneâ&#x20AC;&#x201D; the nights burn my feet, make them dance roundelays i am unable to tell whether i move back into the middle or out into the open my bare feet search for daisies and the dew of morning nights like films, like glitching re-runs, foils laid over my day, hazing out the sun shadow is dimmed, colours are levelled out into different sameness as my insides shrink i crouch, anticipate the next hit panting to recover still

Murmurs - Venetia Slarke @ venetia.illustrations

Halcyon Days

Jason Winn

I can feel it all, pulsating its tremendous soul beneath me. I breathe in the icy air; it swells in my chest as I find vigour in my step. I run. My bare feet flatten dew-kissed blades of grass. The scent of flowering plants fills my nostrils with fragrant aromas. It has been too long. The surroundings blur, melding into patches of subdued umber, mottled with flashes of chartreuse. Silhouettes of distant mountains line the horizon, like a giant’s serrated teeth. A robin tenderly nestles with her chicks, gently brushing their heads with her sable beak. Shadows from colossal trees frolic across the ground. I lavish in this feeling of liberation. I continue to sprint, throwing myself into the ever-changing scenery. A sudden drop chills my cheek as it streaks down. Rain begins to fall, dampening my clothes. No. I can’t go back now. I sprint to get away. The undergrowth tears up as my feet shred through soddened moss. My heart catches in my throat. The rain pelts harder. No escape. There never has been. I swiftly bolt and hide under a low hanging bough shrouded in foliage. My breath escapes in hurried gasps. I cover my mouth with my hands, trying to stifle whimpers. It mustn’t find me. Something lands on my shoulder. I dare not to look, but more start to drape my back. Dread seeps in. My sanity slips. It’s too late. Swarms of coal feathers envelop me. They pierce like barbs, scorching my skin, forcing me to howl shrilly into the air. I plunge my fingertips into the earth, grasping onto primordial roots. I feel the forest’s spirit dim to a faltering resonance. The world is cast high above me as I sink into blackness. *** I am thrust awake. My headphones clatter to the ground. I catch Dad’s Walkman before it follows suit. I’m coated in sweat. Why does this always happen? Such ambient echoes of a better yesterday never failed to cheer me up. Yet all they do now is remind me of what I have lost. A carousel of fond memories flares up. Tears descend, moistening my pillow. Dad gave me his Walkman before he passed away. He was an environmental scientist and was obsessed with recording the sounds of nature. He persisted that it was important to catalogue such things, because the world would eventually miss such simplicities. He was right. I rub away the tears and in doing so I entomb the past. I notice the neon of my clock. 10 am. I’m late to work. It’s my turn to operate the machinery. I take out the cassette from the Walkman and change it to the one labelled Rainforest in early June. I change, get my belongings, don my headphones and put on my gas mask. The industrious smog instantly hits as I heave open the door. It lightly sears my eyes, causing small fissures of red to web. Miniscule orange lights smear through the thick haze as horns blare, followed by screams of frustration. A symphony of drumming bird calls ring through my ears. A couple of emaciated dogs mangle each other in a darkened alley. A man under a streetlamp puffs a cigarette, its own smoke coiling and twisting, momentarily becoming discernible from the toxic fog cocooning the city. He violently coughs and retches on the ground, coating a part of his worn-out shoes with coagulated blood and fetid phlegm. I reach my work and stare at the building. Its two defiant smoke stacks jut out, their apex unfathomable like the Tower of Babylon. Earl, the elderly man who does his shift before me, leaves. His eyes are downcast, the once piercing irises mute to a perished grey. His right hand is bound by blood-stained bandages, something metal protrudes from the scarlet cloth. With a nail in his hand and a chasm in his heart, he limps into downtown’s murky depths.

I dodge a raven’s corpse, its skin flayed by voracious rats. Its beak is agape, as if screeching in eternal disquiet. The tape finishes. I take my headphones off and enter, back into pestilent stagnation. Paradise is but a forlorn memory.

startled dark Dr Antonia Pont

you can’t unsee what you’ve seen there are (& we make) too many words these do not create closeness this—this thing you/we /they want—grows under undocumented conditions in the red-hued, startled dark we are designed to huddle in groups & I fail at the huddling & to muster myself to pass muster those who do surgery on rhythms on the little strings we call saying (‘explaining’)—there is no mercy for us who in revealing the world reveal our tender selves, our rushing, scarlet meat-bodies —when the corner of your vision fell dark you asked that wordless question (having learned waiting): we saw calm all about your eyes softness in the hot, unsettled flanks.

RUN BY STUDENTS,FOR STUDENTS

Australia Burning Pantoum Beth Brown When Australia is burning, an orchid’s rubber petals bruise. Soft pink lips and lungs are turning Autumn’s unholy dying hues. The orchid’s rubber petals bruise, if greedy fingers pinch them tight. Autumn’s unholy crying hues will call smoke clouds to quicken night. His greedy fingers pinch her tight around her naked gasping nape. You call smoke clouds to quicken night, pleas trip from teeth and tears escape. Around her naked choking nape, soft pink lips and lungs are turning. Prayers trip from teeth, tears escape when Australia is burning.

HURT

Jack McPhail

Trigger Warning: This piece contains themes of anxiety, depression, and mental illness. It’s been a long night. You’re a social person, but something about tonight, in particular, has left you weary. It’s not that you aren’t happy to see anybody—in fact, it’s the opposite. But your heart feels heavy. Some of these people you haven’t seen in months—why haven’t you hung out with them more before tonight? Music was played, food was eaten, time passed, and people got drunk. The night feels like it passes over you in a single blur. And before long, the comfort of the long absent company slowly fades as your friends hug you tight, kiss your cheek, and wish you a good night before heading home. Watching them leave, you feel your heart sink deeper again, and before long, you leave, too. The door clicks shut behind you. You scan the room, cringing slightly at the mess of clothes and shoes that have gradually grown to overcome your desk chairs, bedframe, and precious floor space. You feel the urge to pick it all up—to hang up the shirts and the jackets, fold the shorts, and toss anything that smells even a little bit like sweat into the washing basket. But something stops you. Something always stops you. Instead, you let the mess grow. You let your clothes drop to the floor, and you pull on the nearest pair of tracksuit pants and clean looking t-shirt. Comfort comes easily this way—for all the unruly mess your unintentional floordrobe creates, immediate access to something easy to wear is one of its benefits. You manoeuvre through the chaos with care, so as to not accidentlly tread on, and consequently break, anything fragile that may have been concealed beneath the mess of assorted fabric.

The mattress feels, as you sit down, not quite comfortable. The springs jut out in a way you hadn’t noticed. The feel of the bedsheet is rough, and perhaps in need of changing. It isn’t as bad as your senses are telling you though— you can feel it coming from the same place that stopped you from cleaning your room. It’s another sensation that lingers, the feeling of discomfort. The feeling of something being not quite right. But is it physical, or something nestled inside yourself? Sitting on the edge of your bed, you listen. Not that there is really anything to listen to this late at night—the soft murmurs of crickets outside, and the rustle of tree branches shaken by the wind are the only sounds you can hear. Though if you listen particularly carefully, there is the hum of the few cars left on the highway in the distance. In all of this emptiness, however, you can hear that cold, detached call that during the day feels like it’s hardly there at all. Silence screams out in voices that Noise doesn’t let you hear. Night—in all its vile darkness—is the bastard that hands Silence the megaphone. What it calls out is simple, but to the faint of heart its words can land devastating blows. Reminders. Reminders to re-evaluate what people think of you. Reminders to judge yourself. Reminders that you are alone. That you are annoying. That what you are isn’t enough. That there is nothing you can do to change this mess—this waste—of a human body and its accompanying life. Your friends will move on— no one could ever be interested in a human as pathetic as yourself. Your bed will always be empty. You are not enough. You are alone. You are alone. You are alone.

Silence and Darkness are effective accomplices—hiding in corners, cloaking themselves in shadows, and preying on your weaknesses. In the night, you are vulnerable. Silence wraps its hands around your throat, and compresses your lungs. It isolates you. Suffocates you. Darkness, in the meantime, forces its weight onto your chest, your heart. It dampens your brain to a dank, empty landscape. Then they linger.

They prey on humans that build facades of joy. A smile is a dangerously effective method of concealing truth. A laugh is an effective disguise for pain. After all, how can anyone hear the Silence screaming out when you’re making such joyful Noise? As you sit on the edge of your bed, Silence and Darkness hold onto you tight. Thank God I didn’t touch any alcohol, you tell yourself. Alcohol is a beloved friend of Darkness and Silence; the kind of friendship that gasoline has with flames. Your breath is shaky, your eyes are heavy but you know that there is no way you’ll be able to fall asleep. But ... the sleep deprived mind is far more vulnerable to Silence’s calls.

Suddenly, there’s a buzz. Your phone screen washes your room in cold light. Slowly, you reach for it and glance at the screen: Hey there! Was rly great to see u tonight x Hope ur feeling okay, I noticed u were a little flat at the party Remember im always here to talk if u need. Catch up again soon? Love u x Light. That’s all it takes. Fleeting, wonderful moments of Light. It penetrates the defences of Night that Darkness and Silence rely on to pin you down. It’s only miniscule, but those simple messages ignite the smallest spark inside you—whether it’s in your brain, or in your heart, you can’t tell. It doesn’t matter. Silence and Darkness are both still inside you—but they’re writhing in horror at the tiny bit of warmth you suddenly feel. It’s wonderful. It’s terrible. It’s unbearably painful, exposing the pair that thrive within yourself. You feel your chest swelling, your eyes filling with tears. They don’t know it yet, but this person has whispered a reminder of their own: you are loved. You are wanted. People care. You feel a tear glide down your cheek as you type: Can I call you? You wait for a moment, then they respond: Of course. With a breath, you shakily dial their number. You hold the receiver to your ear, listening for the dial tones, then finally you hear them. ‘Hey, what’s up? Are you okay?’ They call through Darkness and Silence. To the unprepared, those words cause a rift within. They force you to realise your emotions. They help you notice the pain that Darkness and Silence so enjoy causing. You hesitate, then you cave. You cry. And with every tear shed, and with every word spoken, you start to feel the Light creep in, as the Silence is replaced with Sound. People care. You are wanted. You are loved.

Hassaan Ahmed Cameron Alexander Jessica Ali Grishtha Arya Liam Ball Melissa Bandara James Barnett Alexander Barticel Chloe Blanchard Georgie Brimer Beth Brown Laura Clark Kelsey Claudius Becky Croy Noni De Lacy Julie Dickson Matthew Galic Chantelle Gourlay Sheridan Harris Jessica Hinschen Teodora Kopic Monique Kostelac Katie McClintock Jack McPhail Michael Pallaris Dr Antonia Pont Elisabeth Roberts Sini Salatas Loren Sirel Venetia Slarke Gaden Sousa Zoe Tresize Jasmine Triyono Jessica Wartski Friederike Weissner Jason Winn