WORDLY 'Core' Edition 3 2021 by WORDLY Magazine

wordly MAGAZINE

CORE EDITION THREE 2021

FOREWORD Welcome to our third edition of the year! I want to thank all our contributors and staff members at WORDLY for creating the works that you are about to enjoy. Core is about our essence as human beings what makes us get up in the morning, what soothes our soul after a long day, or how we persevere through difficult times in an unstable world. This edition moves from a philosophical apple reflecting on his death to the monsters under your bed to rich and poignant poetry. I just love everyone’s take on the theme and how vastly different the art and written work is from each other. Yet, each work’s core creates the unity needed to make this edition come alive. As I write this, Victorians are finding themselves in yet another strenuous and challenging lockdown. I’ve spent most of the last two weeks at home with family preparing (once again) for online education and work and the inevitability of mental deterioration. Though this has been hard and puts into perspective the precariousness of a somewhat “normal” lockdown-free life, I find myself connecting to others more and more. We have developed a ritual of rules that are keeping us safe and with everyone in the same boat over and over again there emerges a sense of unity. It is surprising how collectively easy it is to slip back into hibernation/hermit mode when the clock ticks over to midnight. We know the drill, whether we like it or not. Though it is the nature of the anxious brain, I try not to focus on when the next one will happen, just focusing on when this one will end. Becky Editor-in-Chief

Editor-in-Chief: Becky Croy Managing Editor: Jason Winn Communications Manager: Jessica Wartski Financial Manager: Blair Morilly Designer: Georgia Oldis Front cover artist: Ash Ryan Editors:

Grishtha Arya Patricia Clarke Samara Tapp

Sub-Editors:

Caitlin Burns Sarah Hurst Kosette Lambert Blair Morilly Loren Sirel Jessica Wartski

Contributors:

Melissa Bandara Steve Bennett Jax Bulstrode Patricia Clarke Danielle Davison Elisabeth Gail Belinda Hearn Sylvia Hedt Erin Husband Linda Kohler Melissa Martins Daniel Matters Katie McClintock Ash Ryan Josh Shimmen Venetia Slarke Abbigail Smith Luke Weavell Jessica Wiseman Christine Woodruff

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. Unattributed images sourced from https://www.pexels.com https://www.canva.com and Adobe Creative Cloud Assets. Want to advertise? Contact wordlymagazine@gmail.com for more information.

CONTENTS 04

Lake Eildon Shoreline - Katie McClintock

It Never Snows in Winter - Daniel Matters

Betty - Sylvia Hedt

And Now, Let us Paint - Linda Kohler

Helios - Danielle Davison

The Business of Fear - Patricia Clarke

Gone - Erin Husband

Light Her Way - Belinda Hearn

Returning - Jax Bulstrode

The Drink - Luke Weavell

Crisp - Melissa Bandara

An Apple a Day - Steve Bennett

Conditioned - Anonymous

Tarcento - Christine Woodruff

Bread & Butter - Christine Woodruff

The Family - Melissa Martins

Seal Teeth - Josh Shimmen Book Recommendations Moonlit Cabaret- Abbigail Smith

Gaia - Venetia Slarke Dissociation - Melissa Bandara it has been a comforting thought - Elisabeth Gail

Bodhisattva - Jessica Wiseman

Lake Eildon Shoreline - Katie McClintock @katiemcclintockimages 4

It Never Snows in Winter Daniel Matters It never snows in Winter— Not since long ago. When the world was older, all was colder, and the glaciers did not flow. It never rains in Springtime— Not since flowers bloomed. When grass shined green, the farms did glean. Now all harvests are doomed. It always burns in Summer— Another fire’s rage. When the sun is high, a warning cry. Smoke defines the Age. It always falls in Autumn— Another victim’s death. When the living rot, the winds come naught to the season without breath. We never felt afflicted by the world beyond our gaze— Until rivers dried, the creatures died. Our atmosphere ablaze. We always felt immortal by standards all our own— Yet by our hand, we killed the land. An end that we have sown.

BETTY Sylvia Hedt

I placed the heavy set of keys down on the counter and slid them across to the woman sitting behind the desk. She looked at me warily and I wondered what I’d done. Maybe I’d put the keys down a little harder than I thought. It’s strange to even have a desk at these vehicle places, you’d think it would just be men of varying ages driving trucks of varying sizes. Well, I suppose it wouldn’t be all men; there’s some women in the job nowadays, and not just sitting behind the front desk, but there never used to be. Not the way I remember it. The formality of it all annoyed me. Why couldn’t I just walk into the depot, hang my keys up and walk back out? The everyday babble that people insisted on went straight through my skull. ‘Sir, if you could just sign on the line.’ The woman held out a piece of paper and a pen.

‘Huh?’ I grumbled. ‘Wha’s this for then?’ Since when did we have to sign to give the keys back? Signing for ‘em in the first place is one thing, that I get, but to give ‘em back? ‘It’s just our new policy, sir.’ She looked affronted and I realised I’d continued my thoughts out loud instead of to myself. ‘We have to keep track of who takes and returns what.’ she continued.

‘Right-o then.’ I took my time in signing my name. I never was a writer, but you’d think I’d have learned to steady my hands with all those years at the wheel. Hands still shaking, I tipped my cap at the receptionist and walked towards the door. I struggled with it for just a moment until I realised it was labelled PULL. After an indignant grunt, I touched the top of my hat again nodded, and opened the door.

The light outside hurt. I scrunched up my eyes, looking for the familiar dull white of Betty. I’d named every truck I’d ever driven, but Betty was a special ute. I’d bought her all the way back in ’86 after my previous Toyota had died in the middle of nowhere. I’d been on a visit to see my mum, not that she could see me, being dead and all. The car dying had brought the whole trip down even further, not that I would’ve thought it possible. It had given up in some town in between Adelaide and the Victorian border. I can’t recall the name of it, not that it matters now. It wasn’t big enough to find anywhere to stay for a few nights without knowing friends or family to bunk with, so I got a lift to the sales yard to see what my wallet could buy me to get home. Betty was never meant to be a long-term car, just good enough to get me back to Melbourne. But I grew to like all her little quirks and when we got back, I sent her off to get her fully fixed up.

I didn’t consciously choose my grandma’s name for the car, but something about being at Mum’s funeral felt the same as Grandma’s. It had been a good day. Weather-wise, of course. It’s never a good day when you bury your mum. The first solid thud of dirt on the coffin hit me just as hard as it hit the wood. I’d been too young to remember what was going on when Grandma was buried, but it’s the same feeling regardless of who goes in the ground.

‘It’s just a car’ others would tell me about Betty, but I couldn’t help it; I still felt a traitor when I was driving their trucks. If I’d been driving Betty on that night, I could’ve stopped much quicker. Trucks are too heavy to stop when they need to the most. The whole ordeal had shaken me in a way I hadn’t felt in 30 years, since I’d heard about Mum. She’d just been standing there, that girl, in the middle of the highway.

It had been a long day of driving. I was tired though not so tired that I didn’t notice her in time. I slammed the brakes on as I jerked the wheel all the way down to the right. The truck swerved and almost went off the road, but I wasn’t worried about the truck. I parked by the roadside and thanked the Lord it was late at night and there was no-one else around. By another miracle, she was still standing there, shocked, but alive. I sat with her and gave her my jacket. I didn’t know what else to do, but it seemed right. She could keep it; I didn’t really need it. I didn’t say much to her; I didn’t think that she wanted to talk. I was afraid of saying the wrong thing too. But it was a night where nothing needed to be said. I stayed with her until the police came to take her home. I’ve seen a lot of things on the road. Some of them I’ve long since forgotten; others are harder to forget. Some things just stick with you, even if you don’t want them too. That’s just life, I guess. Like that night and that girl. I wonder if she knew I still thought of her often, still hoped that she was alright. ***

My keyring was a lot lighter now, usually I had all the trucks’ keys too. Who knows how I kept track of them all? I flicked the light-switch for the kitchen—it always seemed to have second thoughts about whether or not it wanted to turn on—and stared blankly around before seeing the mug I had left out two days ago still on the bench. It was the same mug that I’d made a coffee in, after that night. I finished clearing the kitchen and headed down the hallway to my room. I wanted to sink straight into bed as my first official act of retirement, but I made my way to the bathroom instead. A shower would still have to come first.

And Now, Now, Let Us Paint Linda Kohler

Blessed Trinity: red, yellow, blue. Primary. Core. The purest embers, the epicentre of all hues that exploded in the spectrum and bore rainbows. Does it go like this, each of us alchemists? Or, is it more this way: colours in multitudes from the very beginning—a prism, bursting with wonder? A wheel so intent on turning, colours can’t keep from being made. Of which, all primary matter can be gleaned? If I could ask the serpent, Eve, Earth’s bone, I’d ask about the apple. Was it true red? Did it burst on a tree of mongrel greens and brown? What colour, the core? What shade, the heart? And if we blend the skins and fibres, what impurity or sacredness is this? Tertiary? Base? Or, as Newton says, only light?

Helios - Danielle Davison @Danielleallyce 9

The Business of Fear Patricia Clarke

Content warning: implied domestic violence Her heartbeat hammers in her ears. I can almost taste the fear—it sits hot in her throat, slides wetly from her pores though she’s too young to sweat, reflects in the haunted glances she shoots over her shoulder. It is the look of the hunted. In actual fact, I am not hunting her—I know exactly where she is. Her name is Emilie Morris, and as I lie in wait beneath her bed, I turn over the dream of her fear in my mind. These days, even fear is commodified. The child owes us quite a lot of it, and I intend to get our money’s worth. ***

Rewind a blink—or five thousand years. Picture the Ether. Add in a subjective quantity of fire and brimstone to make it seem realistic; fracture it into nine concentric circles if that’s what your sanity depends upon. Dream me into existence: the monster under your bed—or more accurately, the monster under Noor Khoury’s bed, until seventy heartbeats ago when she learned to regulate her fear, closing her eyes to the unsettling shapes I created. Now picture my boss. They look the same on every plane: frazzled, balding, making a point of being too busy to look you in the eye. ‘Back late, aren’t you?’

I grow some shoulders and shrug. Noor had developed into a teenager before she shook me off, and the habits stick. ‘I took the scenic route. Cut past the Quintessence. Shot the breeze with some of them—bullets went right through, but it was a lark.’ I frown. ‘Well, they didn’t quite go through the lark,’ I corrected myself.

‘Fascinating,’ he grates out. ‘Did it warrant you letting down the entirety of the Ether?’ As he speaks, he flips rapidly through a clipboard which protrudes from one arm. ‘Understaffed, are you?’

He puffs out some brimstone in an expressive whoof.

‘What do you think? No extra funding this quarter and I swear those brats are growing up later. What business do they have still being scared of shadows into their teens? And this one—’ he rips off the first page and brandishes it ‘—this one is the opposite. She isn’t scared of any of us!’ I’m almost surprised enough to grow and spontaneously raise an eyebrow. ‘How old?’ Eight!’ ‘Well,’ I say slowly, trying to keep my growing enthusiasm at bay, ‘you haven’t tried her with me yet.’ He snorts. ‘Sure, take her, if you think you can beat her.’

I take the paper and consume it, savouring the name as it slips into nonexistence. I’ve never met a child who hasn’t feared me. It’s a point of pride for us, finding the scariest thing for a child, and it’s almost always mundane—the creak of a floorboard, the whisper behind the curtain, a soft inhale when they’re holding their breath. The scariest thing for a child should not be the whip-crack of a slap or half-moon scars, the fault of being too small to prevent being dragged across a room. Something much more effective than producing a bloody corpse and making it moan is growing a fingernail and stroking an ankle. We don’t go in to traumatise; we just like you to watch your back. ***

When Emilie enters the room, I am casting a shadow just long enough to be eerie; I want her to pass through me, so the watch your back clings to her like fog. When she enters, she does so with hurried footsteps, without quailing. I peruse her before she leaps into bed and pulls the covers across her like a shield all—the correct actions of a frightened child, but none of the fear I scented was directed towards me. Somewhere, a woman screams.

I was not built with the capacity for sympathy, but they always spoon in curiosity—it’s best practice to create a nature that constantly claws itself towards improvement. It is not, however, best practice to abandon the child, but she’s going nowhere and the curiosity would be burning a hole in my chest. If I had a chest. Absently, I grow myself one, feel the shivering phantom heart, and then melt it back into the whole.

It’ll only be a blink—the length of a gasp into the wind. I compress down into a shadow, slip through the window, and slide under the front door.

It is dark and then bright, cold and then warm. The lamp in the hallway throws light into the centre, dappling the hardwood floor in yellow and brown stripes. The shadows squeeze around the edges, I join them and ooze forwards. I do not look into the kitchen, because the cause of the screams meets me halfway. Victor Morris is uncommonly short, and aggressive because of it. He stumbles through the hallway reeking of rust and beer, though the scent of rust clings to the whole family, even Emilie—their shower is ancient and the money to fix it goes towards alcohol.

His aggression is potent. I seeped away towards Emilie’s bedroom and slithered back underneath her bed, but I can still smell it from across the house. The scent follows me, growing stronger.

Victor slams the door open and enters like a hurricane. I listen to him berate her. I drink in the miasma of sweat and fear and ethanol. He rips the covers off her and drags her out of bed.

With a splintered crash, he knocks over a lamp. Emilie twists her arm free but instead of running for the door, she dives beneath the bed. We make eye contact and, very slowly, I begin to grow teeth and an arm. When Victor Morris reaches beneath the bed, he draws out a creature from his nightmares.

Contrary to popular belief, I can’t really do harm. In fact, it would be a political and administrative nightmare, and that’s not even considering the professional ramifications. I’d have a terrible time in the Ether if I was the one to get our funding slashed. Nonetheless … I have such a boundless form that to lose control for a moment—or fifty—is understandable. To slip into a throat, to coagulate there, to feel it pulse desperately around me. Such a terrible accident.

There is a dull thud as his corpse hits the floor. No blood, no noise—terribly clean. I make a mental note to ask a guy I know to smooth the wrinkles out of this moment and spread out Victor Morris’ last million heartbeats. The Quintessence can be terribly circumspect when it comes to our errors, but they frequently make their own. It is best that they think of him as their imperfect creation. I certainly do. Emilie doesn’t breathe. She doesn’t look at me. She crawls out from underneath the bed, kneels above the worst monster she’s ever known, and stares down into dead eyes. I ooze back under the bed, ease my transient limbs back into a comforting oblique form. Time stretches out.

Emilie turns towards me, and screams.

Gone Erin Husband

Content warning: Contains references to mental illness and suicide

It approached me in the early hours of the morning.

The day was grey and barely formed, without a hint of dawn. The suburbs were shrouded in gloom, simple trees on the nature strip forming vague, round shapes under dim streetlights. A deep, thick silence permeated the air. Time was tentative; creeping; lurking. I stumbled out the door, eyes yet to fully register the world around me. The houses on the other side of the street were little more than grey smudges on the edge of my vision. As I pushed my hip against the gate, grumbling in frustration at the rusty latch, movement in my periphery caught my attention. My breath quickened. Streets were normally empty at this hour. With a metallic creak, the gate’s latch gave in, sending me hurtling into wakefulness as I staggered awkwardly onto the street. There, standing quietly by the fence, was a dog. Little more than a vague, blue-grey shadow in the darkness. It stood silently—tail down and motionless. It looked so familiar, but each time I thought I recognised a feature, its whole form seemed to shift and warp until it became unrecognisable. A ripple of unease flitted through my mind. I knew it was watching me. Intently.

‘What do you want, eh?’ I asked. My voice sounded hollow in the night air.

I lowered myself down to the dog’s level, and reached out a hand, trying to urge it into the faint beam of a streetlight. A dullness slowly crept into the edges of my mind.

The dog took two measured steps forward. Carefully, I felt around for a collar, but there was nothing. There wasn’t even a touch of fur—my hand passed right through it. A voice filled my head: Follow.

I jerked my hand away and rocked back on my heels, sucking in a breath through my teeth. My mind felt foggy. The faint smell of rotting seaweed met my nostrils. ***

I was near the coast. My lungs ached. I was cold. I was on a narrow, sandy path, dense scrub surrounded me. Branches loomed threateningly overhead like a twisted parody of the trees on my street. The smell of salt crystallised the air. It was quiet. Suffocatingly quiet. All I could hear was the sound of each breath dragging itself in and out of my lungs. A faint, warm light filtered down onto the path. It must be nearing dawn. The dog stood silently before me, its shape as vague as before. My heart pounded inside my chest; my mind vague. I became less certain what I was looking at was a dog at all. Follow.

The voice reverberated inside my brain, filling my skull. Sudden doom washed over me. My heart stopped momentarily, then started again. I watched the dog walk away, barely disturbing the loose sand of the path. Silently, it disappeared behind the scrub, leaving me alone.

I turned and ran.

Barely a few steps in, my breath burned inside my chest as though I had covered a great distance. But I paid the sensation little heed. The feeling of impending disaster that enveloped me after hearing the voice inside my head was enough. I had to get away from this thing. I absently became aware of the fact that I had lost my shoes, my feet catching every twig, rock and burr along the path. The light got brighter around me. Faintly, I could hear cars humming past and hoped I would discover the edges of suburbia peering at me through the trees. The further I ran, the more the fog that dominated my mind began to clear. With each gasping breath, a startling gap in my memory became apparent. Panic consumed me. I have no idea how I got here.

Suddenly my legs collapsed beneath me. The fire raging through my lungs and feet was too great to ignore. Still, I kept crawling forward. Exhausted. The sounds of the highway vibrated through the air. It seemed so close.

The smell of rotting seaweed glided past my nostrils once more. I turned my head to see the dog standing in front of me. Follow.

Again, the fog began to overtake my mind, bringing a blunt end to my panic. Follow.

My chest no longer ached. Had I been tired? The air began to sound grainy; gritty. My footsteps reverberated inside my ears as I followed the drifting shape of the dog. ***

We walked for some time. Gradually, the path got steeper and rockier. Wind threatened to unsteady me as the dense scrub grew shorter—twisted, hollow and stripped of life by the sharpness of the salty air. The dog stayed ahead of me, punctuating my every step with a stern reminder to follow. Everything began to seem less and less solid than before. Faint outlines of the coarse ground underneath were just visible through its body. Glancing down at my own feet, I thought I could see the texture of the ground beneath me, too. My eyes were foggy.

***

I was in the open. The sky was brighter than before. The sound of water collapsing onto the shore met my ears. It felt too loud to comprehend. Water was everywhere, rushing forward, throwing itself at me. The wind shredded my skin. The stench of rot in the air was intoxicating. The water hurled a piece of seaweed at me. It came once more. Follow.

My eyes barely followed the shape of the dog as it moved toward the water.

My feet followed. I could now see through my own body. I was barely there at all.

On the horizon, a lone ship’s light glinted and was gone. A beacon that shone through the haze smothered my mind. It felt like the world had left me behind. Then, something shifted. The dog was gone. A tether pulled me to the water.

I relinquished myself to the ocean. Seaweed tangled itself around me. Waves crashed through me. A sudden peace.

Light Her Way - Belinda Hearn @belindahearn_ 14

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Seal Teeth Josh Shimmen

Ashley’s father is taking medication. The medication isn’t for his heart, or his back, or his blood pressure. It’s for something else. Something they don’t talk about. Every day, he takes two small yellow tablets; he also speaks to a doctor once a week. That is part of the medication too. Neither the tablets nor the talking are allowed to be called anything else. The medication has many side effects. He has taken to gardening and laughing, instead of shouting, when he forgets to water things. But the most terrifying side effect is the hugs.

They aren’t actually hugs: they’re more like the intention to hug. When she arrives on Sundays for her bi-weekly visit, he stands in the doorway waiting to greet her. He doesn’t say anything out of the ordinary, just the usual how ya going, but she senses something different. There’s a hesitation that should precede an action, but instead precedes nothing. She can tell he wants to extend his arms and reach out to her, but he can’t figure out how. It’s like watching a toddler fiddle with a child-lock. She knows she can initiate the hug. It would be easy, in theory. But she doesn’t want to. She is not taking the medication; she is not experiencing the side effects. So, in those moments at the door, they just stare, and she pretends not to notice the wound.

He has not been a bad father. There aren’t any dark repressed memories. She doesn’t think so, anyway. They could be really repressed, but she doubts it. There has not been enough bad stuff to write a memoir. But there has not been enough good stuff for her to keep photo albums either. Every so often, when she drops a plate while waitressing, she will feel her muscles tighten and seize expecting a rebuke that never comes. Her father did try sometimes; he took her to Phillip Island one summer. Not just her, the whole family went, but in the memory, it is just the two of them. They are walking down the side beach; it’s hot and he has forgotten to reapply her sunscreen. She is not old enough to do it herself. She can feel herself burning. She wants to ask how long it will take to get back to the house, but she knows better than to ask those kinds of questions. There is a seal washed up on the beach. It’s only small, about the size of her friend’s bull terrier. The smell is something else though. It smells like a kitchen bin on a hot day. Her dad walks straight up to it. He bends down and slips his fingers under the grey jowls. The whiskers tangle with the hairs on his hand. He’s rooting around in its mouth for something. Then he lifts his foot and places it on the seal’s neck. It looks slippery. She hopes he doesn’t slip. He reaches into his pocket and removes his multi-tool. Never leave home without it. He opens the pliers and wraps the steel jaws around an ivory canine tooth. With one foot still on its neck, he begins to pull. Even before the crack, the noise is horrible. She covers her ears and sits in the sand.

The next thing she remembers is the tooth in his hand. It’s under her nose. He’s showing it to her. Pieces of gum encircle it like a tutu. It can be your souvenir. ***

There are watermarks on her nightstand. Ghostly rings. The echoes of old drink bottles. Her partner chides her for not using coasters, for adding to the damage, but she takes satisfaction in leaving these impressions. She opens the nightstand drawer and rummages through the emptied lip balm tubes and orphaned batteries, until she finds a thin silver chain coiled under the mess. She sits on the edge of the bed fiddling with the clasp at the back of her neck, until she feels strange fingers take over. Who got you this? Secret admirer?

She tells the fingers that it’s old, thought to be lost, but just buried somewhere in the mess. She feels the delicate weight of the chain settle around her neck. The weight of the chain is followed by the weight of a face snuggling itself between her shoulder and jaw. Arms tighten around her waist, and she inhales reflexively. One hand reaches up and grasps the small off-white pendant that dangles over her chest. It feels as heavy as a seabird. Is it moonstone? It’s a fang. Whose? Nobody you know.

When she first met the man wrapped around her, they were both waiting tables at a fast casual restaurant. While polishing cutlery, he told her: making conversation with you is like chasing a mirage.

She had told him about the hugs that weren’t really hugs. She had to tell it from the start; he never came with her on the visits. The thought of it causes her stomach to swell with pre-emptive embarrassment. The cracked lips in front of her begin to tell a story; he says it came from a yoga instructor: There was a dog who ran away from an abusive home. It wandered hungry for days, until it found a half-stripped bone. Starving, it gnawed the bone day and night and hoped for relief. A butcher spotted the dog and took pity on it; he left out prime cuts of beef for it to feast on, but the dog had learnt to be wary of people. It ignored the steak and continued gnawing its bone until it starved. She doesn’t understand the story. Which one of us is meant to be the dog? Just forget it.

Before they sleep, she grabs a spare doona from the wardrobe and places it over herself, so she doesn’t have to share. ***

Her father is in the doorway. He’s wearing a long sleeve button up that she hasn’t seen before. How ya going? She waits for the hesitation, but it doesn’t come. He smiles and reaches his arms towards her. It would be easy enough to step into him and be received, but she doesn’t think of that. She is distracted. She is thinking about how old he looks, how he’s bloated, how his stomach stretches the fabric of his shirt, how it strains the little plastic buttons, how his smile is stained yellow from coffee, how he never fixed the chip in his front tooth. She thinks about these things and watches as he lowers his arms, back to his sides. The walls of this house are clean and unmarked. She remembers watching him patch up holes in the plasterboard of the house where they used to live; there were white splodges, the size of apples or fists, speckling the yellowed paint. Her hands stay wedged in her pockets throughout her visit, while he tours her through the garden and shows her what he’s been doing to it. He spent the weekend pulling up tiles and cracking through concrete. He says he is going to pull up everything hard and expose the soil. He wants new things to grow, and he wants to be the one to plant them. Inside her pocket, her fingers polish the charm attached to the silver thread she curls and uncurls around herself. She smiles politely and nods along as she squeezes the charm between her fingertips and imagines it sinking into her skin and being absorbed. She feels it float on the current inside herself and lodge somewhere dark and comfortable. She wonders if something new will ever grow there.

Must Adds to your Reading List Melanie Hilton

‘The Green Rider by Kristen Britain. It’s fantasy and light reading when compared to The Lord of the Rings. I would definitely recommend it to young adults in particular.’

Pat Clarke

‘The Last Days of New Paris — Surrealist art is unleashed in 1940s Paris and starts attacking Nazis. It is an exquisite corpse of a novel that blends the fantasy, historical and literary genres to create the most original book (read: fever dream that haunts me) I have ever read. Mieville asks and answers the common questions — what is history, and who records it? — with a third: what place does art have in politics and history? I am not sure that the novel answers this quite enough, but it definitely has a hell of a go at it.’

Sarah Myers

‘The Six of Crows by Leigh Bardugo: an un-put-downable read with high stakes, diverse characters and an action-packed plot that'll keep you guessing ‘til the end.’

Paula McGrath

‘If you would like a Masterclass in fantasy world building you can’t go past The Curse of Chalion by Lois McMaster Bujold.’

Jack McPhail

‘Red, White and Royal Blue - What Happens when the feud between the First Son of the United States and the Prince of Wales reaches its boiling point? A little international PR of course! But what starts as a publicity stunt quickly grows into something more, leading the two to discover things about themselves that will change their lives - and the families around them - for the better. A wonderful novel of escapist lgbt+ romance, imagining the US in a considerably better situation than it is now. If you want to imagine an America where Trump was never president, this one is for you! 10/10, very gay, definitely recommended.’

Jessica Wartksi

‘Dictatorland by Paul Kenyon. It's a living, or current, history book showing us what happened in selected African countries as the colonial powers withdrew (to varying degrees). You'll see failed revolutions, heartbreaking situations, and absolute corruption. Since the very first chapter, it's made me want to make everyone in the world read it. Intimidating to look at, but eminently readable. It's the type of book that I honestly think everyone will get something out of--regardless of your political leanings, your personal ethics, or whether you've never read a non-fiction book before. It's the most recent book to shake me, and it's shaken everyone else I know who has read it.’

Moonlit Cabaret - Abbigail Smith @itsmethabee

Bodhisattva - Jessica Wiseman @jessicawisemanphotography 20

Returning Jax Bulstrode

I find myself once again

river swamped, frozen among the ice petrichor filling my lungs,

drifting along briar lined banks

and defrosting below the April sun. Evening arrives and now

I am unbothered by the reeds floating by my head, tangling me tight. I release myself

to the uncertainty:

of my future

what will I become?

of this land

where can we go?

I could leave now,

rise and simply walk away, or

I could remain belly up,

ice frost, just a memory

mouth softly, tongue taking in now, the wanting of it all and what I cannot hold

The Drink

Luke Weavell

Dalton swiped across the tablet, marking off another, then glanced across the classroom. The desks were cleared to the side, leaving dark scratches along the linoleum, and the chairs were arranged in a circle. Ten. Twenty. Thirty. They rarely ever filled them all. ‘Thank you, Craig.’ Dalton smiled. ‘The first step is always the most difficult.’ The circle murmured in agreement. One woman’s eyes dropped, then shot open at the alarm of her phone chiming with an ad. A holographic image flickered about a foot from the device in her hand, accompanied by a familiar, grainy jingle: ‘Plymouth’s Car Insurance— bum dabum-bum DUM!’ The ad flickered away, replaced by a pixelated four, even though ten people were present. The woman groaned. She’d just earned forty cents, but it could’ve been a dollar. Finally, the phone went silent. Dalton looked over his tablet. ‘Felicity,’ he said. ‘Could we turn that off, please?’ ‘Why?’ Felicity asked. ‘It’s distracting the session.’ ‘Yeah, well, how else am I s’posed to buy Drops?’ Felicity asked, folding her arms. ‘It’s like you want me to keep drinking Fluid!’

There was a murmur of approval from the others and at once Dalton realised he was outvoted. It was true, his position within the company allowed him free access to Drops. That wasn’t true of everyone. Fluid was cheap and it quenched the thirst, but it had horrible withdrawals. And too much of it led to some nasty consequences. The only sure way to be rid of the symptoms was continued use of Drops. That made them worth the steep price. The problem was not everyone could afford Drops, and that meant they stayed with Fluid, feeding their addiction. Dalton sighed. ‘Fine. Just … Turn it down, would you?’ Felicity sneered. The quieter an ad, the fewer people the ad registered having reached, which meant less income. Some people depended on them. Others, like Felicity, took it as an opportunity for an extra buck. With a sigh, Felicity lowered the volume.

‘Okay,’ Dalton said, turning to look at the woman beside Craig. She was in her mid-thirties and sucking on a cigarette, smoke wreathed in a murky haze around her head.

Her eyes were obscured by dark glasses, probably to hide the withdrawal symptoms: bloodshot eyes, sunken sockets, muscle twitches. ‘Sorry about that,’ Dalton said to the woman. ‘When you’re ready.’ The woman took a long drag, flaring the cigarette’s end before smoke billowed from her parted lips. Dalton cleared his throat. ‘I said—’ ‘I know what you said,’ the woman said. ‘First step is always the most difficult.’ You almost sound like you know what you’re talking about.’ ‘Excuse me?’ The woman snorted, turning to Felicity. ‘You know it’s the same stuff, right?’ the woman said. ‘Drops. Fluid. Water. It’s just branding, darling.’ The circle started muttering again. Felicity blinked in surprise. Dalton cleared his throat again, scrolling through his tablet, searching for the woman’s name but finding no new additions: she was unlisted. ‘I’m sorry,’ Dalton said curtly. ‘Who are you, miss?’ The woman blew another smoke ring, nodding at Dalton. ‘You ever go a few days without Drops?’ She smirked. ‘What?’ ‘You heard me,’ the woman said. ‘Ever forget to take your meds?’ Dalton felt his cheeks go hot. It was absurd. And yet … He said nothing. He let her speak. She had the floor. ‘Dry throat, fatigue.’ The woman nodded at Dalton. ‘If we’re addicted, so are you, shrink.’

Another ripple of murmurs, escalating to excited whispers. ‘What did you mean by branding?’ Felicity piped up. ‘Marketing,’ the woman said. ‘Plain and simple. Fluid bad. Cure with Drops today—only at one-thousand percent mark-up price. Warning: inconsistent medication may result in return of withdrawal symptoms.’ A few people scoffed, folded arms, and shook heads. The others started talking over each other. ‘Bullshit!’ ‘I knew it! I knew it!’ ‘You’re trying to say it’s the same stuff?’ ‘All right, all right,’ Dalton said suddenly. It had gone on long enough. ‘I’m sorry, miss, but this is a space for those who want to get better.

We’re not here to propagate wild conspiracy theories. If you refuse to be constructive, I’m to have to ask you to leave.’ There was silence in the room again. Dalton felt his heart stop racing. The sweat dried on his back, itching the skin and tightness eased in his chest. He hadn’t realised he’d gotten so worked up. The woman took one last drag of the cigarette then flicked it to the ground and stood. ‘Constructive?’ The woman rummaged in her pockets. ‘I’ll be constructive.’ She produced two plastic cups and placed them on the chair beside her. Then she pulled out a hip flask, pouring something clear into the left cup ‘Fluid,’ the woman said.

She stowed the hip flask and reached inside her coat again. This time, she pulled out a transparent sphere roughly the size of a golf ball. A clear liquid sloshed within. Dalton recognised it immediately. The woman squeezed the Drop until it burst. The liquid inside gushed into the second cup, leaving behind a soggy, translucent skin, like a deflated balloon. Then the woman loomed over the chair her coat, obscuring the cups as she appeared to swap them around. Once. Twice. Three times. Ten. Over and over again. Until she stopped. ‘Here’s an activity for the group, the woman said. ‘Tell them apart.’

Which one was which? ‘Well?’ the woman asked. Dalton swallowed. ‘Come on, Dalton,’ Felicity said, leaning forward in her chair. ‘Drink the Drop cup.’ ‘Yeah!’ Craig agreed. ‘Drink.’ Dalton felt sweat bead across his forehead. lowly, the circle around him started chanting, quietly at first then louder, and louder, and louder still. ‘Drink,’ they said as one. ‘Drink, drink, drink.’ The cups trembled in Dalton’s hand. The liquid within rippled with identical viscosity. They looked the same, smelled the same, and deep-down Dalton knew they would taste the same, too. The chorus chant of the circle continued. The woman in the glasses waited, face expressionless as she stared Dalton down, awaiting his decision. Left or right, one or the other. It doesn’t matter … Dalton Drank.

Dalton smirked, looking at both cups. How foolish. The cups were identical, see-through plastic. Both were filled about half-full, each with a clear liquid. Confidently, Dalton got to his feet and approached the cups. ‘This is absurd,’ he said. ‘But if it will get you to stop …’ Dalton lifted the first cup and sniffed. It gave off no scent. Perhaps a slight plastic smell. Regardless, it was evident there were no added chemicals within. It was the Drop cup. Dalton grinned, picking up the second cup and sniffed. And … Nothing. No smell.

Dalton felt his eyes widen. No. He missed it. He must have. He sniffed both again. And again. And again. The circle watched on in bated silence. None spoke. None whispered. None dared move in case of creaking in their seats. All that could be heard was the quiet ticking of Dalton’s watch. Tick, tick, tick. Dalton held the two cups before him, glancing from one to the other.

Crisp - Melissa Bandara @mel.dineli

An Apple a Day Steve Bennett I’ll state for the record that I am an apple, no pun intended. Although I don’t know if there is a pun there. That said, being able to lie in a tree all day is great fun—that is to say, I hang on a branch not actually lie. I do lie but only about my weight and age but that is because I am self-conscious and also my price depends on it. But I digress because as I write this, I am being eaten alive. This isn’t much of a shock to an apple because that is a part of life, no point crying about it.

As I have no tear glands, I don’t have the ability anyway. God, it would be horrifying to see an apple cry. My mother always said I would have made a terrific crier. Bloody mums; always putting unrealistic expectations on their children. I’ve lived my life in a tree at Rich’s Apple Orchard. Hardly an inspiring name but he’s hardly an inspiring man. One time he fell down and the orchard had a great big laugh at his expense—that meant rustling in the wind ever so briefly. Boy, that really showed him. Today he chose to pick me for a taste test and as a grower apple, which is a thankless job. I enjoy being thanked; it’s hard when you don’t have a face to get sympathy and your sole purpose is being eaten.

Oh yes, back to the eating. I am technically a Red Delicious apple if you want to know, and that’s not just racially, I’m also a communist who is attractive, so being eaten is hardly a surprise. At the same time, I do feel bad for some of the uglier apples like Frank. Boy, is he ugly. You’d say so too if you could see him. It’s probably because he is a Granny Smith. That’s life in the orchard, I guess. Some apples are just inherently better than others. That’s capitalism for ya. I once got in a verbal stoush with a Granny Smith after they called me a phony. Looking back, we were only seedlings at the time, and he may have been talking about anyone, but I called him a wombat regardless and we’ve been enemies ever since. At this point, I’m only half-eaten and feeling a little bit unsatisfied if I’m being honest. Now I know how my girlfriend feels—if I had a girlfriend of course and understood the intricacies of oral sex, which I assume carrots do; they are always getting down and dirty. I’m almost getting to the end of this ordeal and frankly it couldn’t come soon enough. I have things to do. Being an apple core is the best shape you can be in. It’s like going on Jenny Craig until all that’s left is your base skeleton and your hair. I assume they’d leave the hair as a calling card or maybe to be nice. Who knows why humans are the way they are. Plus, I get to give birth to other seedlings inside me. This is the life of an apple. Or any creature really. You live, you get eaten, and then your children rise from your remains, the circle of life.

Finally, I am back to my truest core self. It feels terrific! I have no sense of my surroundings, my intelligence has all but disappeared, and I blame all my current problems solely on the shoulders of immigrants—lousy pears stealing my branch. What a day it has been. I assume this is when life really begins for an apple. A bit like retirement, except instead of superannuation I have filthy soil and the corpses of other apples. This is the life.

I hope my kids get more of a chance at life than I did. I never even ended up leaving the orchard. I hope they see the world. I want them to experience Coles, Woolies, or even an IGA if they are good enough. For me, this is the end. Thanks for spending the evening with a little old apple, or at least imagining this whole conversation in your head. Time will tell, I suppose, if you’re insane or not.

Conditioned Anonymous

Most mornings I fill pages of my notebook with nonsense: errant words, memorandums to store and use later, exhalations of gratitude, messages from past and premonitions of the future, fears and hopes. When my pen stops and I take in the ink divots on the page – where I’ve bordered words like future and my girls with asterisks and exclamation points, and where past pain and regrets are thickly outlined from the scrutiny of my repeated pen strokes – I am reminded of the connections between past and present, and the power of moving forward—of breaking the cycle.

Yesterday, my five-year-old daughter said about an altercation with her younger sister, ‘Mum, Leni is biting me and it’s making me angry’, and I felt an instant lightness in my chest at her confidence. ‘It’s okay to feel angry, baby, it’s not okay for Leni to bite you,’ I responded. As a child, I felt like a ghostly figure, ever-present but unseen. What were feelings to a mere apparition of a body? Nothing. My parents’ relationship was a boat made of opposing materials, doomed from the beginning, submerging incrementally over several years of flashing king tides and one-too-many attempts to find a permanent mooring. When they divorced, the water lapping at the boat’s edge eventually consumed them, pulling them to a slow, flaying descent. When I found out that I was pregnant with my first child, I didn’t Google how to breastfeed her or what cream was best for nappy rash. I spent my time researching child development and what it takes to help nurture strong self-worth and confidence. The first step was self-healing, to learn and grow, and to find the parts of me that were lost to the chaos of my overactive brain and body. It went a little something like this. ***

‘When a child grows up afraid or under constant or extreme stress, the immune system and body’s stress response systems may not develop normally. Later, when the child or adult is exposed to even ordinary levels of stress, these systems may automatically respond as if the individual is under extreme stress’ (The National Child Traumatic Stress Network n.d.).

In year one, at school, we learned about the nuclear family, but all I thought of at the time was just how nuclear my family really was. Explosive. Joint custody was the agreement; it sounded fair at the time—I'd get to see my dad every week. But hope was just anticipation of improvement, a plea to whoever might be listening, that everything would be

okay. Instead, it gave way to constant and heavy dread. I can still feel where it took up residence—at the base of my throat.

My sisters and I are fighting, and we are seated in Dad’s car. It’s an unrelenting cycle every Wednesday night. Even in my eight-year-old mind the Ferris Wheel had kicked into gear—when would we get off this time? Would it be too late? ‘See. This is what your mother has done to us.’ It’s a statement that lingers clearly, and festers still in my psyche. The cries turn to groans of frustration, or perhaps weariness; the car swerves, but not to avoid road debris or a stray cat. Dad rambles about death and the pointlessness of his life. I’m frozen in the passenger seat. Inside my blood is a rough ocean tide, rushing quickly to facilitate the urge to run – but I don’t. I don’t make a single sound. Death does seem easier. As is the way most nights, I sit and talk myself down from the metaphoric ledge. I can see it, or perhaps it’s a feeling, an anticipation of the weightlessness that will occur if I just step off—stomach to throat and flailing limbs. Sometimes I want to step over the precipice and see what will become of me if I do. Like a gym membership, the practice of ‘not becoming’ has become necessary for my physical well-being, but it is a constant and tiresome battle to maintain. Tonight, my anxiety takes me to the driver’s seat of our family car. It’s a premonition designed to make the simple task of waking up a heart-pounding step towards the prospect of impending catastrophe. A truck barrels through our local intersection, it doesn’t stop in time, and I survive. My children don’t. Inhale—1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

Exhale—1, 2, 3, 4, 5...

***

‘In order for a child to develop a healthy and accurate self-esteem, they need mirroring, attunement, and validation from the caregiver. If the child doesn’t get enough of it, their ability to self-assess is stunted or even damaged’ (PsychCentral 2016;para.5). How not to repeat history is a constant concern, and a repeated search topic in my Google history. Some days, when I’ve carried my three-year-old around for hours because I am her security blanket in an uncertain world, and my back aches, the urge to fight sets in. My husband gets home, and though I know he hurts too from a full day of labour in the sun, I can’t help but covet his silent lunch breaks and the ability to sit in his air-conditioned car when the heat gets the better of him. It’s like a teeming river after rainfall—the urge to yell, to say ‘poor me’, to make holes in an otherwise whole relationship (because how is a healthy relationship even possible?) floods me. It’s the kids that stop me, because in their minds, I am worthy. And so are they.

I kneel on the hospital bed, naked in every use of the word, nine centimeters dilated and transitioning into what feels like the used car lot—pieces of my body loosened and detached, littering the floor. Instead of pushing this time, I let the contraction wrap its way around my mid-section and try to imagine my baby’s head descending through me. ‘You wonderful woman, I can see the head.’ The midwife believes in me. Reaching between my legs, I pull her—still attached—to my chest, and her cries of release reach out and intertwine with each of my cells. For the first time, I feel like my body is my own—powerful and able. For the first time, I feel more than just blind hope—I know that this moment is where I begin to heal. Reference List: PyschCentral (18 July 2016), How to Promote Your Child’s Good Mental Health, PsychCentral a Red Ventures Company, accessed 2 June 2021. The National Child Traumatic Stress Network (n.d.), Complex Trauma: Effects, accessed 2 June 2021.

Tarcento - Christine Woodruff @christineewoodruff

Bread and Butter - Christine Woodruff @christineewoodruff

The Family Melissa Martins

I watched the cheese melt down the sides of the burger. I felt the familiar nudge of my belly but lacked the desire to eat. I decided at the very least I wouldn’t care if I got fat.

I almost forgot where I’d spent the night. Turns out I would be living there for the next six months. I’d agreed in such a rush. I sat in the café trying to piece together what the apartment looked like. Was it two bedrooms? Did it have a washing machine? How many people was I sharing with? I remembered seeing at least two.

I soon found out it was three. One was a young man I had yet to recall a conversation with. That hurdle would have to be ignored as our beds were so close you could barely pry a twenty-centimetre bedside table between them. Throwing a sheet over both gave the illusion of one giant bed. I felt pressured to eat the cheeseburger because I didn’t want to order something and just stare at it. I didn’t feel anything aside from the plastic chair I sat in, eroding my spine. That didn’t bother me. Was the apartment blue, or grey? Either way those colours are awful. It was a greyish-blue. It was a sixty square metre apartment with two bedrooms and two bathrooms along with a communal living space. I ended up brushing my teeth in the kitchen and often sleeping on a couch shorter than the length of my body. My friends back home found my situation amusing. I would laugh with them since nothing at the time had been that funny. Laughing at nothing sometimes feels more truthful.

I didn’t eat the cheeseburger. My new roommate was waiting in the convenience store next to the restaurant. Calling out to him in the store was strange. I could still barely pick him out in a line up. I didn’t remember our address. It put me at ease when he found me. The boy I shared a room with wore pyjama pants for most of the day. He stocked and ate frozen food and would complain: ‘Who took my food?’

It was strange. The rest of us prepared our meals from scratch. I’d never seen him eat something green.

I was living with one girl and two boys: the one with the pyjamas and an elegant boy with long curls. They accepted me immediately.

We shopped, did washing and watched movies together. I was plotted in like a character to boost the ratings of a show in its decline. The characters always belonged once added, no explanation necessary, or very quick ones: your parents are dead, now your aunty is here to take over; you received brain surgery and now Dr Tim checks on you every few episodes; people searching for a roommate meet a tipsy hapless girl with no shoes. I started looking forward to movie nights. I didn’t need to pay attention to anything, only on reanimating myself as the protagonist, even if they were killer clowns from outer space. Each movie night our legs got more intertwined beneath the blankets. There were times I cried in the shower, but the acoustics were too prominent. So, I upgraded to a closet.

We had all been taking acting on camera classes in how to breathe, speak, and pick up a bottle in the Alexander Technique. I was rewired in how to walk and nap. One evening I spent hours practising how to sit in a chair.

Trips to the supermarket were treated as family outings, an opportunity to practise our accents in public. It was fine until it came to elusively handing over quarters to the clerk hoping that was the right shiny things. The girl would swoop in and save me, extracting the correct change.

The girl and other boy were like parents to me, except they sometimes got drunk and wore my silk robes. They also had a predilection for rare meat. The girl left me with the boys after six weeks. She said she needed to leave and be with her family. She was the one that would stay up late with me in that panic hour of the night. ‘I want to come back and see you,’ she said. Although she never did.

I shared a closet with the pyjamas boy. Ours was not one you could walk in like the one I used for crying. I had to hit at my clothes to get it to shut. The wardrobe had a mirror that the boy would use to read my texts. I started to sleep on the couch. From the couch I could watch the boys make their way from their rooms to the kitchen or to come check on me. Sleeping was not restricted to one area. I would sleep where I fell.

Some mornings I woke to my feet being cradled by the elegant boy with the dark curly hair that sat on his shoulders like a Greek prince. He was as beautiful as my silk robes he slept in. I wanted to pull my feet back into my chest but as he felt them shift, he pushed down his forearms, resting his coffee there. I didn’t move until he finished. Over time I allowed him to stay longer and longer. The elegant boy let me use his closet and bath whenever he was away. I often fell asleep in the bath; my body now adapted to a siesta at all times of the day, as on vacation, you might eat at your leisure. I didn’t mind much anymore if he had gotten home and I was still in the bath; the first time I did mind a little. The elegant boy took us to nearly all our social events. As we all became closer, he led us out more often.

One night, he took us to a party in downtown Los Angeles. The outside was a two-storey building on the corner between a power plant and a sheer walled rectangular building. Inside, a bed stood with a woman lying on top. The bed opened to a forty-five-degree angle, letting out music and revealing an entrance to the basement.

No lights were lit until the tenth step, and still, it took minutes until my eyes adjusted to the golden light of candles. Bodies of people stood around swaying like trees, twisted, stretching, humming, laughing and I did my laugh to nothing. The smells of wood, metals, and smoke overwhelmed me and I fell onto a cushion. People, still laughing, fell around me and kept my skin warm. Through the pockets of smoke, the basement looked unornamented; only people on the floor, next to me, above me, just bodies. The bodies wriggled rhythmically, pushing each other side to side while passing something between them. The elegant boy’s face was darkened by something I couldn’t make out. After he had greeted everyone, now mostly sitting on the ground, he came to me and I could make out the blood on his mouth. The bodies enclosed me like trees and the elegant boy held out my hand, placing in it a wet clump.

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Gaia - Venetia Slarke @venetia.illustrations 33

Dissociation - Melissa Bandara @mel.dineli 34

it has become a comforting thought Elisabeth Gail there is fear about everything

but very few moments of clarity, just smog and rain and that tightness in your lungs you move your body

feed it, let your chest

rise and fall as often as you can but

as you look at the transient faces surrounding you

you can’t help but be aware of your powerlessness at the centre of it all there is death and you are tired

of trying to change that.

Grishtha Arya Melissa Bandara Steve Bennett Jax Bulstrode Caitlin Burns Patricia Clarke Becky Croy Danielle Davison Elisabeth Gail Belinda Hearn Sylvia Hedt Sarah Hurst Erin Husband Linda Kohler Kosette Lambert Melissa Martins Daniel Matters Katie McClintock Blair Morilly Georgia Oldis Ash Ryan Josh Shimmen Loren Sirel Venetia Slarke Abbigail Smith Samara Tapp Jessica Wartski Luke Weavell Jason Winn Jessica Wiseman Christine Woodruff