WORDLY Magazine 'Bloom' Edition 4 2021

edition four 2021

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foreword

table of contents

his year has mirrored 2020 in more ways than one. Between lockdowns and online learning our creativity has been strained and challenged. I thank all of you that have stuck with us and submitted during these times. Even if you haven’t been published, we appreciate the effort you’ve taken in crafting and making your pieces. Our themes this year relate together and have a narrative of renewal and bursting out.

This ‘Bloom’ issue is full of pieces that celebrate and explore themes of love, loss, family as well as killer alien flowers and how fungi are underappreciated. The art and photographs in this issue contrast the beauty and darkness associated with blooming. Our team and designer have done our best to bring you a well-constructed issue that hopes to enthral.

So, let us consider the humble mushroom and look forward to a better year ahead. I hope you like this issue as much as we have reading, editing and designing it all. See you all in the new year!

Jason Winn

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Morning Rose Madeline Kuluris

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Hiraya Manawari Alf Ciriaco

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Dappled Light Katie McClintock

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Nothing Beside Remains Paula McGrath

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Peaches of Summer Chantelle Gourlay

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Chrysanthemums for Me Jesslynda Clarissa

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Forest Owl Sarah Jane Hurst

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De-flower Sarah Jane Hurst

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Little Monk Sharmila Jayasinghe

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Bloom Among the Chaos Venetia Slarke

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The Surname Patricia Clarke

30

Before the Houses Came Sini Salatas

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Remembrances Anders Ross

31

Purple Katie McClintock

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Beauty in the Rain Billy Gibbons

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Blackbird Cliff Jason Winn

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The Cleansing Emily Bennett

34

Melancholy Melissa Bandara

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The Wrong Kind of Bloom MK Pinder

35

No Daisies in August Eliz Bilal

17

The Beginning of the End Ash Ryan

18

Cicada Song Rebekah Griffin

20

The Changing Landscape Drizzela Desouza

21

Reflect Justine Stella

22

Last Chance to Grow Becky Croy

Managing Editor

Editor-in-Chief Becky Croy Managing Editor Jason Winn Communications Manager Jessica Wartski Madeline Kuluris Financial Manager Patricia Clarke Designer & Illustrator Uyen Truong

Editors Grishtha Arya Patricia Clarke Samara Tapp Sub-Editors Lachlan Barker Caitlin Burns Sarah Jane Hurst Kosette Lambert Paula McGrath Blair Morilly Loren Sirel Jessica Wartski

Contributors Melissa Bandara Emily Bennett Eliz Bilal Alf Ciriaco Jesslynda Clarissa Patricia Clarke Becky Croy Drizzela Desouza Billy Gibbons Chantelle Gourlay Rebekah Griffin Sarah Jane Hurst Sharmila Jayasinghe

Katie McClintock Paula McGrath MK Pinder Anders Ross Ash Ryan Sini Salatas Venetia Slarke Justine Stella Sarah Vaughan Jason Winn

Front Cover Artist Sarah Vaughan WORDLY would like to acknowledge the Wurundjeri and Wadawurrung people of the Kulin nation, the traditional owners of the land on which this magazine has been produced and edited. We pay our respects to their Elders: past, present, and emerging.

© 2021 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. Want to advertise? Contact wordlymagazine@gmail.com for more information.

Photos by Mathilde Langevin on Pexels (p.6) | Min An on Pexels (p.18) | Laker on Pexels (p. 22)

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Morning Rose Outside, sunlight cracks the sky.

Shattered rays fall.

Tink. Tink. Tink.

Tiny fractures, of splintering dew.

MADELINE KULURIS

The familiar, stranger in your bed will not know how the sheets crisp.

Dried tears of your defrosting Eyes.

Mr Lincoln’s arms A thorny hold — scratch, slice, prick & Red Rosa oozes on naked sepal and hip.

Escape the violent embrace, Miss evergreen Lady Banks Make haste. Make haste.

Anchored roots — shake off dew blankets.

Climb the garden bed.

Watch union buds escape and rise, whispering incantations of morning vestige.

Dappled Light KATIE MCCLINTOCK @katiemcclintockimages 4

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PEACHES of

scale the trees and dance in the surf. Our imaginations running wild we would climb the tallest trees in the backyard and jump down into the kiddy pool, splashing about like animals.

CHANTELLE GOURLAY

SUMMER

I

anticipated the fruit’s arrival. Sweet and sticky like freshly collected honey, the juice would dribble down our chins and burst in our mouths like star fire. I was at the tender age of eight at the time, my brother was just shy of ten years old and my baby sister was still a wobbling four-year-old on unstable legs. This was a waiting game, one that I would play with my siblings during the warm spring days as we watched the soft pink blossoms blooming, threatening to burst from the branches in a downpour of pinkish snow. Only two more months until those sweet peaches are ready for picking!

The three of us, my little sister Chamomile, my big brother Eden, and myself would dance beneath the tree as the blossom’s petals began to fall. Late spring was the most exciting time because the new buds of fruit to come were finally visible. We would take bets on who would find the ripest peach when they finally arrived.

Eden would always win because he could climb to the higher branches. Chamomile would whine about being too small and then tug on my skirt to help her up the tree. For a small child she was solid, and it would take both myself and Eden to lift her to the highest branches.

‘Ruby!! Help me UP! UP!’ She would say.

‘Oh, Chamomile, you’re not easy to lift!’ I would tease back.

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‘Yes, I am! I’m smaller than you!’ She would huff stamping her little feet against the dirt.

This was a daily occurrence for the weeks of spring that bled into the early summer. Until finally the peaches were ready and ripe for the picking.

Mother would help us with the harvest. The tree would lower its branches for her, his bark crackling into a huge grin as we danced about, plucking the fruit. Her gentle hands would pull the fruit from their resting place and place them in the enormous basket at her feet. Sometimes Chamomile would fall into the basket and crush some of the peaches. Mother would smile and exclaim; ‘Now we have to make some peach juice.’ To which we would all cry out in joy.

Mother’s fresh peach juice was like liquid sugar, as golden as the summer morning sun and as delicious as ever. We would gulp it into our tiny mouths and the flavours would dance on our tongues, blooming in our full bellies and giving us the energy for another day exploring in the sunshine. I likened it to golden ambrosia, the nectar drunk by the gods in all of the wild stories our mother would tell us at night-time.

Then it would be time to dress for a day of adventure. Today we would be pirates on our ship made of sticks, travelling the seas, and searching for a far-off island where we could

After many years of the same summertime rituals, I began to grow apart from the excitement of the newfound fruit. In my fifteenth year I found myself ignoring Chamomile’s childish pleas to climb the peach tree. Eden had left the year before; we were one sibling down and so I failed to see the point of continuing it all.

‘Why don’t you ever want to play with me anymore! First Eden and now you! I just want to play in the peach tree, can’t we play fairies or pirates?!’ Chamomile yelled.

‘Chamomile I don’t care about your stupid games and I don’t care about that stupid tree!’ To this her eyes welled in frustration, and she ran off.

I felt a pang of guilt strike my heart but quickly ignored it, rolling my eyes at her behaviour.

A temper tantrum? Really?

Mother looked tired these days, the lustre had left her hair and her skin had aged. Her peach juice was still delicious but not as remarkable as I had once imagined it to be. She no longer looked like a garden fairy, but more like a regular woman. With lines creasing her forehead and crow’s feet adorning her eyes. She was still quite beautiful, just not ethereal anymore. I would complain to her about Chamomile’s constant pleas to participate in foolish, childhood games and Mother would muse about how she missed it. She missed seeing her three babies dancing in the sunshine and playing beneath the peach tree. She missed my squeals of delight when she would make peach juice and Eden’s constant excitement at each new day.

again to say goodbye to our dearly departed mother. Chamomile had grown into a beautiful young woman, with full lips and curves, her hair had finally straightened out and hung down her back. Eden now had stubble that danced along his chin, he wore glasses and looked much fuller than he had as a teenager. I had changed too; I had grown into another version of our mother. I held my siblings as we silently grieved, shattered sobs leaving our grown-up bodies. The house had barely changed, there was still the scuff mark on the wall where Eden had hit his head as a ten-year-old, still paint stains on the floors of our old bedrooms from when we had thought ourselves artists and didn’t have the proper sense to place down some newspaper first. I blinked back tears and focused my vision long enough to see that the photographs of us as toddlers still hung above the entryway, although now a little yellowed from the sun. I wanted to wrap the memories around myself like a blanket. I wanted to be an artist again or a pirate or a fairy or a hunter. I wanted to pretend again.

We ventured as a trio outside into the warm summer breeze. The backyard was overgrown, and it was a challenge to get past the long grass.

But there, in the corner of the garden, was still our old friend the peach tree. My heart swelled with happiness amongst my tears, it was so nice to see it again after so long. It was as vibrant and strong as ever, its leaves winked at us, and its branches beckoned us forward. The blossoms were in full bloom and had started to peel away revealing the buds of the newfound summer fruit beneath them.

‘What do you say? One more climb for Mum?’ Eden spoke, as soft as a ghostly whisper.

‘Alright.’ Chamomile said behind tears.

‘You’ve grown and the magic is gone Ruby, Chamomile will soon come to realise that too.’

I carried those words with me. They clung to my back like sap to a tree and weighed me down through adulthood. Until the time came for us to return to the old house, three siblings together

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Little Monk

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he Little Monk staggered to his feet, adjusted his saffron robe, and made his bed before the echo of the bell subsided to nothingness. He didn’t long to be under the sheets again as he had every morning for the past few months, but quickly marched on to lead the rest of the robed lot to the water tap. It was a special day for him. ‘Amma is coming. She is bringing pani boondi, the red ones,’ he thought, tasting the remnants of sweet memories on his lips, and chirping like a morning bird.

It was still dark, and the sickening cold made the children look like plucked chickens. They all donned the saffron robes for a reason, although some didn’t know what their reason was.

‘You can do it putha,’ Amma had said the day he left home. ‘End this sad state of existence, stop samsara for all of us.’ It was a heavy load on his shoulders. He often wished he could run around paddy fields and play cricket on the streets like the children outside the monastery, but he did his best to stop these wayward thoughts.

‘My life was meant to be different,’ Amma had often confided to him in anguish. She was no fool.

She had attended school up to the fifth grade when malaria dragged her father to death, and she was forced to trade her white uniform for a white apron, and slave in rich people’s kitchens. It was there she fell for the man who washed the rich people’s clothes.

The dhobi gave her a fairytale life, a home, and three kids, but their happiness ended when the blue jeep of the rich man she worked for ploughed into the communal tap where the dhobi squatted while washing clothes. Those who witnessed the accident said they could not figure out where the mangled parts of the jeep ended, and the dhobi’s body began. It was a miracle he survived.

Forest Owl SARAH JANE HURST @bearahsaja

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Without a hand to wash clothes with the dhobi could not provide. His children went to bed with empty stomachs and a black dog found a permanent abode in his heart, turning him to the bottle, and women on the streets for comfort. One day, his body was found on the rail tracks, mangled, and deformed.

Two months later, an angry drunk moved in to fill the void. ‘His drinking is his problem,’ the boy’s mother said. ‘As long as there’s money to feed the kids, he can do whatever he wants.’

Thoughts of home always made the Little Monk uneasy. Although he was no longer in pain, no longer beaten and bruised by his stepfather, the monastery was a jail to him. But this morning was different.

He felt no unease as he brushed his teeth, washed himself under the water that usually felt like a million pins falling on his skin, and walked to the gardens with an ekel broom.

The children’s routine was unchanging and mundane like the samsara they were attempting to end. ‘Follow the broom with your eyes and mind.

Focus,’ the older monks instructed, but with their stomachs empty and eyes droopy, the robed children could only think of sleep and food.

At the first chance given, the Little Monk hastened towards the kitchen window like a moth to light and inhaled the spicy aromas that clung to the air.

Kneeling on a sand dune, he peered in, his eyes sprinting, craving a glimpse of that familiar face.

He was still too new and too raw to resist the temptation. When he finally spotted her, his lips curled to a smile. The memories left on them tasted sweeter than ever.

She was standing at a low table in a yellow apron, carefully arranging the red pani boondi on a white plate with a smile of deep satisfaction on her face.

With a thousand dandelions blooming in his heart, the Little Monk staggered to his feet, picked up his ekel broom, and continued sweeping.

SHARMILA JAYASINGHE

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The next time she bought me spices, I smiled and served dinner with a glass of milk. ***

PATRICIA CLARKE

N

ia and I were partway through washing up when I set down my dishtowel. ‘I have to call my aunt and uncle’, I said. I’d put it off for months, but tonight, inexplicably, the air rested less heavily in my lungs.

Nia’s grip on the plate faltered. She let it slip into the sink and then frowned when the suds threatened to overflow. ‘I don’t know India’s code.’

‘I do.’

Obligingly, she passed me her phone, ignoring my objections. A dollar a minute to India, my husband, Arjun Bhat, had said.

‘Don’t worry about it.’ Nia returned her attention to the sink. I could almost hear her eavesdropping, but as it turned out, there was nothing to hear.

I put down the phone and Nia looked around in curiosity, brow creased, though she did not pry.

‘No answer,’ I told her and watched her expression smooth in comprehension. Or pity perhaps—did she think I was lying, too scared to call? My face hardened at the thought, jaw tightening. I did not want her pity. ‘I’ll call again soon.’

She asked, ‘Is the time difference huge?’ Then, when I shrugged, ‘Could they be asleep?’

‘The line was engaged.’ I hesitated. ‘I mean, it was busy.’

‘I know what engaged means, Kamala.’ Nia still said my name with a slight lilt to it, drawling the ‘a’ sound. I noticed this because I had become accustomed to speaking with Americans. They lingered on all of their a’s, though somehow it was even more jarring with my name. But this was foolish. Americans invented names for their

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children—brazen in their strange amalgamations of words, and managed to pronounce them accurately, so they could learn to say mine, too.

‘Arjun told me Americans say ‘busy’, not ‘engaged’, when they talk about the phone.’

Nia quirked a brow and sipped her Coke, somehow managing to imbue a wealth of contempt into both actions. ‘Say whatever the fuck you want about phones. American dream and all that.’

‘The American dream is freedom of synonyms?’

‘Freedom of speech. God,’ she said in mock annoyance, but laughed. ‘Freedom, period. Just say what you want instead of what he tells you to, Kamala.’ That lilt, lifting my name aloft.

Instead of answering, I walked to the table and picked up the phone again. International code, country code, then the numbers. I had memorised that the first time Arjun helped me call home.

A dollar a minute.

Fingers clumsy with unfamiliarity, I mistyped the numbers twice, then dialled. A slight crackling on the line told me it had gone through, like a hitch in breath. One last pause before inevitable capitulation. *** The second time I’d stayed with Nia, I’d made her dinner—Kandhari chicken tikka—as a thank you.

Not exactly appropriate: Aunty Leila had impressed upon me that it would soften a man’s heart.

Infallible, she’d promised. But it was my favourite dish, and Nia had brought home packets of spice in an effort to be thoughtful, so I cooked and I made it pungent, because I did not know then of American’s low tolerance for chilli. Nia spent the night coughing, though she assured me it tasted nice.

I had never heard Aunty Leila so shrill. Panic elevated her words an octave higher. ‘Your husband?

The doctor!’ A pause, a breath. ‘In America!’

I imagined her standing in her unpainted kitchen, one hand raised in incredulity, shrieking into the phone at this niece who did not know the value of a good man. ‘Are you mad? What do you throw him away for?’

Briefly, I considered telling her that the good husband they had found for me had gifted his heart to another. I imagined fondly the reaction, the outrage. Uncle Vimal gathering a crowd of my family, the Singhs, to speak sternly to Arjun’s relatives. Aunty Leila spreading gossip to neighbours like wildfire in the summer.

I owed Arjun nothing, the selfish part of me said.

But I did. It was idealistic to say that my life would have been better had I remained in India.

Happier, perhaps, but they had made it clear the marriage was an improvement of my station. Uncle Vimal would bellow this into the phone, knuckles clenched white around it, jaw tight with fury and veins popping in his temples—and suddenly I could not bear to wait for it.

‘I am leaving him,’ I said abruptly, then ended the call. Sat like a statue in silence until the tea Nia brewed grew cold. *** ‘You don’t have to leave, you know,’ Nia had said once. An offhand comment, thrown out breezily, but she’d turned away afterwards. Deflated, like she’d let go of something precious.

We were making pizza that night—a wholly American dish, characterised by grease—and I’d insisted on making it from scratch, as if knowing the

components intimately would improve the taste.

It did not, of course. Agreeable parts can make up a uniquely terrible whole; this, I’d decided, was the premise of America. I told Nia that it worked the opposite way for her, that the pieces combining to create her were infinitely more abhorrent than their sum. Forgoing a retort, she threw flour at me.

‘I have to stay another year with Arjun before my conditional residency status lifts,’ I said noncommittally. Robotic, that sentence, but so many details of my life now seemed so: two years to lift this residency, three for a separate green card. Five years of marriage to a man I did not know.

‘Well, you practically live here anyway.’

‘I suppose I do.’

She still stood half turned away, so I watched the visible side of her face as it curved. A wave of a smile, the apple of her cheek bobbing and rising on it.

I turned back to the dough and imagined the other half of her face lifting into a smile too. *** The communal hallway was a dislocation from Nia’s apartment. Originally patterned, the carpet was stained beyond recognition, and, where it met the poorly papered walls, it had frayed; threads splayed upwards haphazardly. The pervading scent was sickly stale.

I had gone to post mail—a quarter of my wages to my family, new address enclosed—and had picked ours up. Only one letter was addressed to me, and my heart raced over the words stamped on the front.

It had taken months for my social security papers to be changed, but they’d finally seen fit to mail this government-stamped envelope back to me.

My thumb stroked it as I walked.

On the front, it read in bold, black letters: Kamala Singh.

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Remembrances

ANDERS ROSS

Of this fateful present, What the General begot, In Sanctuary Wood grow Forget-me-nots, Little flowers that mean so much.

On another winter’s day, under Honeyed light, such is the sky: A royal blue, sundered by faintest cloud, And in the earth unfolds a sweetest bloom.

That they should grow here at all, when Peace’s silvered wings bear the pall, We needn’t think of these, this woe, For a bunch of flowers gives life to an empty room.

These I send to you.

ANDERS ROSS

Beauty in the Rain BILLY GIBBONS

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G

ina has just slammed the freezer-box closed on a fresh crate of barramundi fillets and is puffing at strands of loose hair plastered to her forehead, when the stranger bursts in through the flyscreen. She inhales sharply, knocking her gloved fingers painfully on the corrugated rear wall. She is embarrassed that her other hand has reached subconsciously towards the dirty knife on the bench. What would she even do with a knife anyway?

Lanky like someone who hasn’t yet grown into their height, he is lurking in the corner of the kitchen by the curtain that encloses her bunk. His t-shirt and shorts are wet, and the trail of water he has left evaporates off the floor drop by drop. He must have swum out to the boat; a shocking thought in itself. His eyes dart between the door and the bright, narrow window near the ceiling, where flies are bumping persistently at the perspex. He is only a kid. During the past three weeks, Gina has stopped counting the number of times she hasn’t known what to do. Perhaps that feeling is the only familiarity when overwhelmed with new experiences.

‘What are you doing here?’ she demands, maintaining a distance. ‘This a private kitchen, you can’t be here.’

The muscles in his boyish face are tense and distorted.

‘I’m not gonna hurt you,’ he stutters, with an air of hyperalertness. His voice is guttural, startling.

‘Better not,’ she retorts, her tone disappointingly weak.

‘Look, I know I shouldn’t be here, but can I please just sit in here for a bit? I won’t stay long and I won’t say nothing. I’ve got some people after me … I think they’ve called the water patrol.’

She frowns. ‘The water patrol?’

‘Like cops in boats.’

‘Ah.’ Pulse galloping, she considers this. She’s not sure what’s more alarming—the fact that she’s been

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asked to harbour a fugitive in the tiny kitchen of Barry’s boat, or that when she looks at this strange kid, shoulders heaving as he recovers his breath, she wouldn’t really mind the company. This was the closest she’d had to a proper conversation in weeks.

‘I don’t think they saw which way I went,’ he adds quickly, as if this will help his case.

‘Two conditions. You have to stay where you are and leave when I ask you. Barry’s due back from lunch soon and this isn’t my boat, so if my boss comes in there’ll be trouble.’

His eyes widen in surprise. ‘Course! Thanks.’

‘Right.’

Drops of blood are beginning to leak patchily from the back of his right hand, and subduing an abrupt sense of revulsion, she throws him the roll of paper towel to clean himself up. She disinfects the bench methodically, dropping her damp plastic gloves

into the pedal bin and washing her hands under the cold tap that runs warm water. Her vision wavers for a moment and she steadies herself against the sink, marvelling at this heat that sits heavily on your shoulders. ‘You swam out here, right?’

He nods stiffly. She extracts two water bottles from the open pack under the sink, tossing him one.

‘You’re lucky you didn’t get eaten by crocs.’

‘Ha. Might’ve saved the cops some work.’ He scratches his head. ‘Nah, lucky for me there’s no crocs here anyway.’

‘Barry did,’ she says, disconcerted. She finds herself recounting the day she’d met the crew on the dock, suitcase in hand. The glaring sun, the naive excitement, the crushing disappointment that she would not be able to swim in the dazzling water upon which she would spend the next scorching weeks afloat.

‘I dunno about the part of the river where you started, but you’re safe to swim here whenever you’re off the clock,’ he informs her.

A foreign sound of disbelief emerges from Gina’s throat and she takes a mouthful of water. As if privy to her thoughts, he mutters, ‘Didn’t get eaten, did I?’ ‘No, you’re right.’ She gestures to him to take a seat on the empty crates by the door as she starts mopping the lino. He moves to sit down, dislodging a sheet of paper. She’d forgotten she’d left it there. He retrieves the page and begins to read aloud in disjointed syllables.

‘Describe yourself in one word.’

but she already knows. She’s known since the moment he ran in with his thin hand split at the knuckle, bright red fading to a deep shade of blue. She’s suppressed the thought until now because it makes her gut churn with a certain disgust that frightens her.

‘My brother was meant to come on this trip with me.’ She swallows, unable to meet his eye. Her legs feel weak. ‘We were going to work here together and save up to go sightseeing over summer. But he couldn’t come because he got hit in a pub the night of graduation. He’s not the same now.’

An uncomfortable, stagnant silence settles over them.

She knows she’s being confrontational, cruel even. She wants him to go. Yet, when Barry’s voice booms from outside that he’ll bring in the next load of fish shortly, they exchange a glance of shared panic. She ushers him out to the edge of the deck, behind a large reel of tarpaulin, keeping watch as he slides into the river. He can swim to the bank easily from here.

‘Good luck,’ she whispers urgently over her shoulder.

‘Brave,’ he says plainly, his ‘My university scholarship battered hands still clenching EMILY BENNETT application,’ she explains. ‘The the edge of the boat. plan is to work here and make my way up the Kimberley; see ‘What?’ the waterfalls before I start uni. I just can’t for the life of me think of a word.’

‘Your one word to describe yourself—you should write brave.’

‘You know,’ he says, ‘there’s a place you’d probably like further up the river. You’ll pass it in a day or two.

For a second, she watches him swim away vigorously, There’s an inlet where all these white flowers are like a fish spared from the hook and released back to sprouting. Growing out of this thick mud.’ the sea.

‘Lotus flowers,’ she says absently, grateful he hasn’t questioned her about the application she’s been putting off.

When Barry asks if she’s seen anything amiss for the monthly report back to water patrol, Gina says, ‘How could I? I’ve been in the kitchen.’

‘Yeah, that’s them. You’ve gotta make sure you see it.’

Later, when the sun is disappearing and the boat has been anchored for the night, she treads quietly across the deck in the still, humid air. Crickets are humming somewhere along the banks and sweat is prickling down her legs. The fishermen are having evening drinks inside, away from the mosquitoes. She arranges her shoes and towel, plunging into the crisp, magnificent water that is everything she has hoped.

She glances sideways at him, all her weight resting on the flimsy mop. ‘Yeah, I will. It sounds nice.’

‘What did you say?’ Gina asks. ‘I’m pretty sure there are crocodiles here.’

‘You haven’t asked me what I did,’ he says suddenly. He doesn’t need to elaborate.

‘Who told you that?’

‘I’m not sure I want to know,’ she responds carefully,

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bloom

Fungus and the Videoludic Zombie MK PINDER

A

t some point in history, we decided that flowers were acceptable love tokens—and mushrooms, despite their variance and vibrance, were not.

Why don’t we offer each other arrangements of fungal blooms like Black Trumpet or Chanterelle, Yellow Foot, or Honey Mushroom? Perhaps Gold Tufts or Fairy Bonnets if you’d prefer a native bloom?

Perhaps it’s their impermanence or because of poisonous mushrooms like the Destroying Angel? But plenty of flowers are temporary and poisonous.

Or is it because they are seemingly enmeshed in the damp folds of a decaying log, like the Orange Fan which has barely a stem at all? Surely, it is worth the inconvenience for the delicate veil and intricate gills.

I suspect it is because we see them as aesthetically alien and inextricably associated with death and decay. Fungi transgress boundaries that disrupt our neat categorisation of the natural world. The multi-organism process of fungal growth contradicts our understanding of the body—and if there is one thing we want to be certain, it’s the boundaries of our bodies. Sure, our bodies contain vast quantities of microorganisms essential to keeping them running. But apart from that, we are pretty fixed and nonporous. Right?

Fungi, specifically fungi of an infectious or parasitic nature, is a pervasive root cause for many of the ills of the gaming world. Linked to mutation and a loss of agency, the fungus challenges our conceptualisation of our corporeal body— we are terrified of not knowing where we end, and the fungus begins.

Insidious possibilities of spore-based reproduction have been exploited to great effect in horror games, Resident Evil 7 and Resident Evil Village. The fungal root and associated mould open up new modes of exploring contagion and mutation, ultimately continuing the series’ preoccupation with unnatural reproduction, the scientific hubris of man, and the invasion of the human body. The player character must survive encounters with the monstrous results of fungal reproduction and scientific hubris. The fungus at the heart of this monstrous matriarchy, or mould family, grows and spreads by asexual and parasitic means, compromising the human form to the extent that the body is no longer

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stable. These infected bodies shift and change rapidly, wounds heal almost instantly and amputated limbs can be reattached. The trade off for this supernatural regeneration is monstrosity; a lack of autonomy and a loss of identity. While certain species of fungus have been known to cause significant health issues, the properties of these strange and faceless fungal entities have been amplified by 1000.

The Last of Us deploys fungal spores in a very similar way, however, these spores are hardly as controlled as those of Resident Evil. Instead, they operate like mass contamination, virus, or plague––the fungus mutates those who breathe it in or ingest it. It is not a weapon to be wielded by a shadowy organisation, and instead is an undiscerning predatory parasite that takes its hosts.

Infection invariably results in a dehumanising loss of selfhood; the afflicted becomes a vessel for the virus, rabid, violent, and without cognition.

This monstrous bloom invades and corrupts, contorts, and incapacitates until the host is of no further use. It used to be that horror video games would signal ominously, through violent acts such as a zombie attack, that the person was infected. This act of violence has been replaced by the inhaling of spores, by the ingesting of mould, by an insidious threat that gradually grows. There is no snap moment of transformation into a monster. Instead, there is creeping mutation and gradual loss of self until the human form becomes enmeshed with the fungus—if not in appearance, then at the very least in deed and action.

So, what can we learn from these depictions of fungal monstrosity?

Is it possible that we have come to crave a more nuanced approach to creating our zombies? Are we simply keeping up with anxieties about the vulnerability of the human body based on the time we are living?

Or is it possible that the scariest idea for audiences right now is the quiet, stealthy invasion of the human form?

Thank you for reading. Might I offer you a garland of Bleeding Mycenae as a token of my gratitude?

No, no, of course not. I understand.

The Beginning of the End ASH RYAN 17

16/12/21 16:20

Cicada Song REBEKAH GRIFFIN

S

ummers in the marshlands were accompanied by a scent that hung thick in the air, like sheets drying under the orange sky. It remained long after the last cicada of the season had erupted from its crunchy shell, finding fleeting freedom until its new life was ended abruptly by the beaks of the summer birds. It was the smell of baked algae and sun-ripened reeds that swayed in the fermented water as the creatures mated frantically between their stems.

The days were longer then, stretching out into the night as the sun sat stubbornly on the horizon, refusing to relent. My skin, sticky with sweat, begged for the reprieve that came only in the cool-air darkness.

If the day was scent, then the night was sound.

When evening descended, so too did the roar of cicadas and frog-song, so thunderous and unyielding. I would glare into the darkness, convinced the squeal of wings would drive me mad. Those nights, my body would collapse into a dreamless, exhausted slumber that I only ever found as a child, yet I would awaken unrefreshed, dark circles under my eyes and a faint buzzing echo in my ears; the reminder of torture endured. My grandfather, who had spent his whole life in the house that overlooked the wetlands, would sit on the porch at night, treating the sounds like a lullaby. He would grin

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at me over his morning tea and cackle when I merely grunted in reply to the daily question: How did I sleep?

In winter, he longed to hear that horrible noise I so detested. I could never admit to him that in the cold months in suburbia, I sometimes found myself leaning my head on my hands and hoping that the seasons would change quickly, that I might be listening to the night sounds sooner.

I would never tell him, although I think he always knew.

I was fifteen the summer that the cicadas stopped singing.

I had left my grandfather, asleep in his chair. That night was sticky, and I had fallen asleep with my legs twisted around the bedsheet in a pretzel knot. Unsure what had woken me, I sluggishly opened my eyes and dragging myself out of unconsciousness, I slowly becoming aware that something was wrong. I sat up in the darkness and rubbed my eyes as they adjusted to the moonlight casting soft shadows around the room that was kept bare, save for the bed, a chest of drawers, and a small bedside table with a lamp that was left unplugged throughout the year until my annual summer visit. I searched for the light switch, pausing as I realised that the night was quiet.

I held my breath, unsure what to make of the silence that blanketed the marsh.

There was no sound. No fluttering of a cicada squeal. Not one frog burp. The crickets were mute, and not even the zip of mosquito wings broke the air. Like me, the creatures of the night were silent, though I doubted the reason for their stolen voices was akin to mine.

escaped my throat barely rose above the frog-song. I pulled the twisted sheet to my chest and stared at the empty doorway.

Pulse thundering in my ears, I peered out the window. Under the star-dotted sky, the marsh was slick and shimmering like spilled oil. I pressed my nose against the flyscreen as I watched—as if the silence was something I could see. I let the air leak out of my chest with a tiny puff, careful to inhale as quietly as possible. I wondered if I should wake my grandfather and turned back to the bedside table to reach for the lamp when, startled, I stopped: there was a shadow standing in my doorway. It was the size and shape of a man, with two piercing silver eyes that stared at me from within its darkness. It was not of this world. As I tried to make sense of it, the static air dancing on my skin made my hair stand. This was not a dream.

I sat frozen on the bed for the remainder of the night, with my hands pressed to my face, waiting for the scent of the morning to waft through the window, too frightened to move. By the time the sun peaked over the faraway hills, I was so tired that I had almost forgotten why I could not move; what was it that had occurred that made me so scared, hoping Grandfather would knock at the open door.

Its stare sent chills throughout my body. I waited for movement, for noise, any sign that I was in danger. My pulse rapidly firing as I waited for the shadow creature to reach out and take me into its darkness.

Silently, we beheld each other for only seconds that seemed like hours, until with as little reason as it had appeared, it slowly began to recede into the hall, folding itself into the shadows that belonged in the house.

Air escaped my throat in a clumsy, gasping croak as I watched the shadow disappear. The floorboards, which usually creaked with the slightest pressure, were silent. Not a scrape, nor a squeak, and as the realisation that I was alone assembled itself in my mind, the night erupted with a roar, and I screamed into my sweat-covered hands as the marsh creatures taunted each other with their croaking and squawking. I waited for my grandfather to appear, expecting my scream to have woken him, but his ears were desensitised to the noisy nights, and the pathetic squawk that

His eyes were large with concern as he asked if I was alright. He told me, just as he had when I was a child, that ghosts are simply shadows of our past, lingering in our periphery, occasionally darting into view to remind us they are there. I could not find the words to tell him that he had been wrong. Sometimes, they came out of the shadows, to stand in plain view.

That morning, I finally picked up the phone and called my mother to tell her grandfather was dead.

I had found him asleep in his chair on the porch overlooking the marsh, and he would not wake up. The words tumbled out of my mouth into the phone receiver like an avalanche. I explained to her how he had appeared to me, that he spoke to me and comforted me. I told her I had been happy deluding myself that he was still alive, until I awoke in the night to find death standing in my room.

I wonder now still, when I see those who have passed, and even when my grandfather visits, if this gift came to me with the summer of my youth.

But when I see the shadows, I hear the shriek of cicadas echoing in the night and wonder instead if I am cursed.

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DRIZZELA DESOUZA

The Changing

T

LANDSCAPE

he changing seasons were not a crucial part of my memories. Mumbai was always humid. I woke up to the sounds of bells and honks, in a city of concrete structures and faint sounds of birds. This landscape of stacked homes and towers didn’t encourage curiosity for nature.

When I moved to Melbourne, the sound of dried leaves, the sight of blooming flowers, and the touch of branches became the new landscape.

To catch a glimpse of this vastness, I walked the winding path along the Yarra River. The road was adorned with patches of trees and few houses.

Walking became a ritual during the long Melbourne lockdown. The open sky, the sudden wave of fragrant wattle during spring, and the calm river added to the scenery. Few cars and cyclists frequented this path.

I couldn’t turn cycling into a ritual.

I’d reminisce on days riding in the narrow streets of Mumbai. The uneven roads and deep potholes.

Scraped knees, shins, or elbows from falling off the bicycle etched in my memory. I used to sneak into my small house and clean the wounds.

My mother always found the bruises and, after yelling, she applied several ointments to heal the wounds. I was always told to apply various kinds of ointments to lighten even the slightest scars.

Scars became a recurring theme during my solo walks. I was visited

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by memories of faint spots on my exterior body, and frequently by deep wounds from within. On most days, my scars were calm like the river I visited on evenings.

Occasionally, I felt ripples followed by an intense feeling of guilt and pain.

I struggled with managing a routine and taking care of my body. Mostly, I felt that I needed to have a sound mind. I remember my mother telling my younger self about the several ways to lighten blemishes, but I don’t remember any conversations

on healing scars that were buried under these layers.

Towards the end of last year, I discovered dark revelations of a relationship I cherished, continued working in a toxic place due to job uncertainty, and squeezed my stomach to fit into clothes that no longer recognised my body. The days outside grew longer while my walks to the river shortened. Long showers gave rise to conflicting life events.

The betrayal experienced in my closest relationship became the inciting action in my story to grapple with life. I banged utensils in rage, cried profusely, and swiftly transitioned the brokenness into a sound body. I found it difficult

to complete simple tasks without weeping in silence. If I was in Mumbai, I wouldn’t have the space and place to express these emotions.

I had to find a pathway to overcome this heaviness and speaking to someone was the only recurring image in my head.

When I first met my psychiatrist on a Zoom call, I smiled profusely from anxiety. Speaking about my life was harder than writing. I narrated my story while the psychiatrist made notes, and this followed for few more sessions. I felt awakened but was expecting results as quick as the changing hues during sunsets.

The notion of ‘happy ending’ seen around pushed me to crave instant gratification. I thought I could bloom again like the flowers I spotted on my solo walks but realised there was immense digging, rooting and rising to be done.

On completing my last session, I realised that I had to pick up the broken pieces and that this was a continual process. There were days where I resonated with the vibrant autumn sunsets, while gloomy days gave me mild shivers.

Every day, I go about picking up the broken pieces and work on building a sound body. Sometimes, my scars cause mild shivers and I immediately make mental notes. Some notes include meeting a psychiatrist again.

Not only when things get worse, but to find ways to heal wounds that I’ve been carrying for years.

Reflect JUSTINE STELLA @jestella 21

16/12/21 16:20

w o r g o t e c n a h c t las BECKY CROY

I sit at the kitchen bench watching the chop, chop, chop of a blade far bigger than my forearm she is not allowed to hit anymore she is forgiven because of the Old Country where children were hit to feel the cold stinging tiny goosebumps—bringing back circulation to the damp and crowded village where carts full of dirty cabbage and roots are brought inside by cousins to take the chill off a kindness she now melts away into the crisp controlled roar of the air conditioner she bathes the chicken in savoury paprika once cooked, the broth of his bones will make the soup delicious this is good, not wasteful of parts I watch the old hands, slower smoother, with precision all nooks of dimpled skin keep their own landfill of rich powder heat waves make cook faster she says, in broken english make veggies grow too outside, rows of plump chillies with shrivelling leaves intertwined with sun-baked vine tomatoes water them, I say—drought, she says dead veggies, I say—God decides, she says waving my comments away she reaches for her faithful Coles-bought plastic container on sale, she says and continues chopping

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Hiraya Manawari ALF CIRIACO @alwic_

23

16/12/21 16:20

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Wordly Bloom.indd 24-25

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25

16/12/21 16:20

Nothing besides Remains PAULA MCGRATH

‘John, look,’ called Rashid, pointing towards the sky.

‘Faugh!’ Rashid swore. ‘It stinks!’

John stood up, stretching out of the bent position he’d held for most of the day. Earth-born crops fared well in the rich soil of this new planet, but in the last few weeks, the winds had turned dusting them with layers of pollen that denied sunlight to the leaves. The broccoli especially suffered, and there was no other way to remove the pollen but by hand.

John laughed at the sight of Rashid, a large and muscular man covered in pollen, a pink flower settling on his head, tendrils draping around his shoulders.

John’s gaze followed Rashid’s pointing finger. Another wave of pollen was coming. This one looked even thicker than the first few. Over half the population was suffering from allergic reactions. The small medic’s bay they’d set up on arrival had been overwhelmed, and help was still over a year away. John had volunteered to help out with the crops as, for some reason, he wasn’t affected.

As John stepped towards him one of the tendrils whipped up and slashed Rashid across the face, cutting through the pollen shield like it was tissue paper.

Rashid picked his way deftly through the broccoli, his spry walk belying the fact that he’d been bent over cleaning plants all day. They built them tough in Pakistan. He and Rashid had become friends on the long journey here swapping stories on why they’d decided to colonise a new planet. For Rashid, this was the opportunity to practice the subsistence farming he’d studied for years; John just wanted to build cool stuff.

Rashid stopped next to John and looked back. ‘It’s thicker than before.’

John reached up under the pollen screen covering his face and scratched at his sweaty scalp. ‘Do you think it’ll be a problem? Crops can’t be harvested yet, can they?’

Rashid smiled as the wind picked up, pushing his pollen screen against his face. ‘Farmers have been dealing with much worse than a bit of pollen for thousands of years, my friend. We will overcome this obstacle, as we have many others.’ He gestured to the crops, covering the land as far as they could see. ‘See what we have already achieved?’

As Rashid was speaking, the wind picked up until it became a steady whistle. John saw something floating down from above. It resembled a giant jellyfish,but with huge pink petals that flapped like parachutes that had lost their air. Trailing tendrils whipped about in the roughening winds like they were alive.

‘What in the world?’,he began, as the jellyfish-like thing dropped on top of Rashid.

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‘It’s not funny,’ Rashid said, his disgusted expression morphing into a scowl. ‘Help me get this thing off.’

‘What the?’ Rashid began, then started to scream. ‘Fuck, it burns! John, fucking help me!’

John rushed over, but he didn’t know where to start. He had to duck the wildly flailing tendrils as they whipped through the air cracks of air displacement audible through the rising noise of the wind. He watched in disbelief as the tendrils began burrowing into Rashid’s skin, and the jelly-like middle of the flower began engulfing his head. Rashid’s screams grew louder, snapping John out of his shock. He grabbed a petal trying to use it to grip the flower. Sharp little spines pierced his gloves and a burning sting began to travel up his arms.

His fingers spasmed and he lost his grip. Rashid fell to the ground frantically pulling at the tendrils burrowing their way into his body.

Rashid’s screaming rose in intensity until John had to clutch his ears. Then there was silence. He looked down at the mess that was his friend’s face, criss-crossed with whip marks and bloody from where the tendrils had penetrated his skin. They continued to burrow through to the other side of Rashid’s body before digging into the soil. John dropped to his knees, tears and snot running down his face, Rashid was gone. Just like that.

John heaved, struggling not to vomit. He needed to tell the others. His numb fingers fumbled to grab his phone out of his pocket as he turned towards home. Hundreds of flowers floated overhead. The strong winds pushing them straight towards the only human base on the planet.

As he pressed send on his phone he felt a soft brush of tendrils on his neck.

Chrysanthemums for Me JESSLYNDA CLARISSA @jess.entries

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16/12/21 16:20

De-flower SARAH JANE HURST

Crowning daisies dance with my hair— entanging themselves, caressing my skin, whispering secrets.

Love me sweetly.

Sleep awaits in a bed of juniper— protect me, encase me, remember me.

I am more than my vessel.

Wilting lotuses lose their white colour— bleed and break.

The sepal is stained.

There’s nothing left.

My voice is lost to the mud.

Lullaby lilies soothe the anxious heart— singing angels, an impatient Gabriel, loose petals.

May death doom us together.

Bloom Among the Chaos VENETIA SLARKE @venetia.illustrations

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Wordly Bloom.indd 28-29

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16/12/21 16:20

As you walk through the grass of this secret garden, you are calm and you are safe.

It’s been here a while, this secret garden.

Long before suburbia engulfed its neighbours.

Long before the roads, and the people, and long before the houses came.

Enter through a break in the trees. Their branches creating an arch. How perfect. Just for you.

There’s a sign: ‘Property of VicRoads. KEEP OUT’. Ignore that.

That was long before too, when a road was planned and the land reserved, preserved, like this. Before the houses came.

Flowers and an old gate. Bricks that once formed a driveway.

Follow the path that the mowers have cleared. Tall grass on either side.

Nothing else exists anymore. Just you, and the trees and the sun and the dragonflies that have claimed this space as their own.

If you look to your right, there will be remnant bricks of an old chimney. Let it inspire you to recreate the old building that stood there. Something rustic, of course.

A washhouse, perhaps?

Maybe a shed for a blacksmith?

A stable? Right next to the path, surrounded by trees, ivy climbing skywards.

To your right, you pass an open field

Before the Houses Came SINI SALATAS

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Before the Houses Came

Purple Purple Purple

Before the Houses Came Before the Houses Came

that once held a house. A wooden farmhouse.

There not too long ago, a time in your memory, but now no remnants remain. But you?

You can see it. Standing tall, standing proud.

The house of a farmer, once.

Once, when the horses grazed in the paddock just beyond. A tin roof, a door flanked by windows, a verandah to the south.

A rocking chair, a cup of tea.

Before the houses came.

Walk further, past the old paddock, past the large open green spaces, surrounded by trees with wildflowers growing at their bases. Think to yourself ‘what a perfect place for a picnic’—and it is, this secret garden with its secret history that only you can see, now that you know, now that you’ve walked through what was here before the houses came.

Purple KATIE McCLINTOCK @katiemcclintockimages

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16/12/21 16:20

JASON WINN

R

ain falls solemnly from the midnight sky.

It’s not heavy tonight. Drops run down my arms, pooling in my open palms, then dispersing at my fingertips. The soft thrumming of the rain on the wildflowers —weighty enough to cause them to bow like mourners and look morosely composed—is peaceful. My dress clings to my legs. My hair begins to smother my forehead as wayward strands twist in the chill wind. How quaint to be up here after so long and still hoping. Perhaps, she will come tonight. I still need to thank her.

Today is the anniversary of the massacre. Ten years ago, an army thundered down into the valley on steeds clad in thoroughly gashed armour. The beasts bellowed and heaved under the weight of their master and crude protection.

The glint of a steel blade or arrowhead through

Through pools of crimson and flashes of silver, orange glows ignited. They started to use torches.

Those flames crept up on thatched roofs under a banner of smoky sky. They engulfed wood and flesh, as I hid behind a large log. I couldn’t do anything. At one point I peeked around the log and saw my friend Edward—we used to play with the frogs at the nearby creek. They skewered him like a mouse on a serpent’s fang.

Within the shadows I saw someone running around. Stealthily they manoeuvred and we locked eyes.

The elder’s granddaughter, Esmeralda, rushed to me. She was sombre and didn’t show fear. I always admired that about her. Even in danger, she seemed so brave. She was beloved by all and was known for her kindness. After a quick look around, she nodded and grabbed my arm, whisking me away from the horrid spectacle. It

f f i l C d r i b k Blac an eye were plentiful for many a death sentence.

Screams. How they punctured through the chaos. I was only eight. My father departed violently—his skills at the lyre couldn’t prepare him for such brutality. Then mother went. She fell to her knees and ran her bloodied palm through my hair mumbling something to me.

I couldn’t make it out, the commotion drowned out her voice. She pushed me away as a solider approached. Mother beckoned me to run. I did.

Tears were abundant. I looked back and saw the clouded silhouette of a boot stamping on her head.

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was sudden. My feet had to find ground as we ran, dodging both soldiers and mangled corpses.

Everything was hot. Sweat stung my eyes. I glanced towards her. Her mane of raven-black flickered with patches of white. They were aspen daisies, somehow managing to cling to her hair without falling during our rush.

We kept going for what seemed like eternity.

My legs were about to give out from under me when we stopped. She had led me to the cave at the nearby mountain, where hid a dozen or so children she had already brought to the cave. I recognised most of them—we had played hide

and seek there the night before. I wanted to say something to them—some reassurance that we’d be fine—but my throat was barren and false hope brings no reprieve. Some were dejected—trying to deny that they would never meet the gaze of loved ones again. There was a beaten case of some sort by the entrance.

Esmeralda put a hand on my shoulder. Her sapphire eyes matched the darkness of the cave as she looked at me sternly and demanded, ‘Stay here with the others.’ I couldn’t reach out to stop her. She took the case and ran back to the killing spree as her threaded daises waved goodbye. I just wished I could’ve thanked her. I joined the other children and waited in bated anticipation.

They all cried. Just beyond the horizon I could still make out the plumes of smoke choking the air. I began to cry too. With my dirtied face smeared in soot and black streaks.

There was no sleep. The night was insufferable.

Huddling together brought little comfort. The echoes of the names of the deceased spoken in broken sniffles rattled throughout the cave as our hearts perished from loss. The smell of scorched skin was permeating in the air, but we refused to acknowledge it. We were met at dawn by a sudden symphony. Music began to echo within the cave. Drawn by curiosity we slowly left the cave and began to follow the sound. The trek saw us follow the mountain path towards its summit. I faintly remember one of the bigger kids piggybacked me after I tripped and sprained my ankle. The notes, every one of them was calm and held a precision that only a true maestro could hope to achieve. There was something calm within it. We were getting closer.

A little further up past the rock formation that looked like a totem-pole we found her.

Esmeralda played her violin beautifully. She was on a cliff. Wildflowers blanketed the ground, and the beaten case lay open. She moved with

passion, flitting among the flowers while not trampling any. We stared in awe and time seemed to halt. Her sable hair with daises entwined undulated with the grace in her step.

At one point she seemed airborne, thrusting her head to the sky as if she was to fly into heaven like a blackbird. She knew we were there and eventually slowed until the marvel stopped.

She looked at us all and swept her arm to the valley below. We tentatively peered over and saw the charred remnants of our homes. The cliff overlooked where we used to play, sleep and live. I noticed where Esmeralda’s grandparents’ house used to exist.

‘Here they are, we’ve found them!’ Suddenly from behind we were greeted by adults—other survivors from the village. Her music must’ve guided them to us. The children’s eyes begged for answers they didn’t want to know, yet already knew. Some ran into hugs—the rest like me stood in silence. After a few moments of reassurances, they lead us back down from the mountain to rebuild elsewhere. Esmeralda was gone. She saved us all. *** I wish to know what mother had said that night.

Mother. Father. I miss you both. The rain begins to turn into a downpour. I pick myself up and feel sadness wash over. It’s been ten years since then. Esmeralda, how could you leave us all like that? Why can’t I find you!? I uproot a few of the daises and grip them.

I walk to the edge of the cliff and see the jagged silhouettes of the once houses and stumps of old foundations. My dress is soddened and caked in dirt and green blotches from the grass I was lying on. I fall to my knees and stare out to the graveyard of found memories. I cry. Tears mingle with the rain, until I hear something in the distance. It’s getting closer approaching.

Through the cacophony of rain, I can barely make it out. Is that music? I let the daises go.

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No Daisies in August ELIZ BILAL

The daisies have shrivelled away In the clay pot by the window.

The cobblestone streets below, Where children used to play hopscotch And toss marbles in the gutters, are empty.

Angels with dirty faces, untied shoelaces, and laughter Made the daisies grow.

Now, there are none left in the fields, No arms stretched out, no white petal lips Kissing the clementine sun.

Young Florence, who wore a Rattan straw hat and a loose-fitting dress Used to stroll along the rolling Meadow, the grass between her toes, Pick the ones with the biggest smiles And place them in her wicker basket To bring home.

Today, she parts her curtains to find The midday sky has turned grey.

With a heavy sigh, She tucks the yellow buds into Their soil bed, Longing for them to awaken.

But under August’s cold breath, The daisies by her window remain In a limbo between sleep and death.

Melancholy MELISSA BANDARA @mel.dineli 34

Wordly Bloom.indd 34-35

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thank you Grishtha Arya

Billy Gibbons

Anders Ross

Melissa Bandara

Rebekah Griffin

Sini Salatas

Lachlan Barker Emily Bennett Eliz Bilal

Caitlin Burns Alf Ciriaco

Jesslynda Clarissa Patricia Clarke Becky Croy

Drizzela Desouza

Wordly Bloom.indd 36

Chantelle Gourlay Sarah Jane Hurst

Sharmila Jayasinghe Madeline Kuluris

Kosette Lambert

Katie McClintock Paula McGrath Blair Morilly MK Pinder

Ash Ryan

Loren Sirel

Venetia Slarke Justine Stella Samara Tapp Uyen Truong

Sarah Vaughan

Jessica Wartski Jason Winn

16/12/21 16:20