WORDLY MYTH
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Foreword Whether this is your first time at Deakin or returning for another year, I am delighted to welcome you to Deakin and to this first edition of WORDLY for 2018. If you’re reading this you’ve already discovered the benefits of Deakin’s ‘complementary curriculum’: a place outside of the classroom for you to nurture your skills and passions. DUSA has a plethora of clubs and societies where Deakin students can discover new interests, make new friends, learn new things and join with others who want to make a difference in the world. Through the Deakin Writers Club you can connect with other writers, artists and thinkers as you hone your creative skills. It’s a place to think, to discuss, to share great ideas and to learn and you’ll find that publishing in WORDLY, or volunteering for the club will make an excellent addition to your CV. On top of that WORDLY also happens to be a very good read indeed and I do hope you’ll enjoy this Myth edition, a foray into the mysterious world of myth, monsters and intrigue. Jane Den Hollander, Vice Chancellor
2018—as a year that largely lies ahead of us—is technically in the future. In our futures. The thing about the future—as Deleuze, after Nietzsche, tells us—is that it comes in the form of pure emptiness. Unknown. Not Yet Decided. This means that a realdeal future, as opposed to the close up-ahead of anticipation and prediction, can turn out to be anything. It can include things we never even imagined. My name is Antonia Pont and I’m Course Director for the Creative Writing degree here at Deakin. I like reminding myself (inspired by the dead, brainy blokes) that even if I believe I can see up ahead, I really can’t—and this is a very good thing. If you’ve joined Deakin this year as a writer, or someone who loves writing and reading, then feel welcome to this curious and inclusive community of wordy folk. Maybe 2018 will be a year when you surprise yourself by submitting something to WORDLY and finding it accepted!!!! That’s an example of the future really being empty, which means ready to be filled in with something extraordinary. You never know ... So keep writing.
This issue has the theme ‘Myth’, which Deleuze links to literature and writing: Literature is the attempt to interpret ... the myths we no longer understand, at the moment we no longer understand them, since we no longer know how to dream them or reproduce them. Literature is the competition of misinterpretations that consciousness naturally and necessarily produces on themes of the unconscious ... Gilles Deleuze, Desert Islands, p. 12. (2004 edition, italics added). Literature, as creative writing, is the competition of misinterpretations of myth. Wow. Brilliant, right? So go forth, and get busy misinterpreting the myths you know, that coloured your childhood, that you read on the web, that your education drummed into you, that society wants you to swallow. Misinterpret. Mess With. Radicalise. Reinvent. Can’t wait to read you soon. Antonia Pont
Editor-in-Chief: Aiden Walridge-Finlayson Managing Editor: Mel O’Connor Editors:
Production Managers:
Aidan Kennedy • Bel Ellison
Alicia Cooper • Alison Turnbull • Ari Moore • Bonnee Crawford • Julie Dickson • Justine Stella Lori Franklin • Mark Aidan • Natacha Manomaiphan • Tyler McPherson
Contributors:
Aiden Walridge-Finlayson • Anders Ross • Apoorva Wadhwa • Gabi Kypriotis • Jennifer Briguglio Jessica Ali • John Coomans • Justine Stella • Keiley Colpoys • Lori Franklin • Mark Russell Matt Emmett • Mel O’Connor • Rentia Britz • Taylor Rawson • Tyler McPherson • William Farnsworth Design by Ashleigh Radnell
© 2017 Deakin University Student Association Inc Cover Art by Justine Stella 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 unsplash.com and Adobe Creative Cloud Assets. and Adobe Creative Cloud Assets. Want to advertise? Contact wordlymagazine@gmail.com for more information.
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WORDLY Magazine
C ONTENTS 04. 06. 07. 08. 09. 10. 12. 14. 15. 16. 18. 20. 21. 22. 24. 26. 28. 30. 31.
Myth and Legends, History and Statues The Past Takes Me to Bed & Desolation in Black Youth Bestowed upon Us Follow the Light Neon Velvet Spring Personified On the shore of Lethe Collection City Life The Break of Dawn Cartography of Being Life Shrouded by the Mist The Dybbuk Box Coatlicue’s Stars Burgers in the ‘Burbs: Huxtaburger, Eastland Saving Average Joe A Particular Kind of Light Autumn Nirvana Across Elysian Fields
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Myth and Legends, History and Statues Written by John Coomans Myths and legends play a foundational role in human societies and civilisations. Ultimately the human experience can be boiled down to a series of stories: our own story, the stories of those that have come before us, the stories that teach us our history, and the stories that teach us right from wrong. In days long past, the factual accuracy of these stories was of little importance. Whether or not Heracles actually completed his supposed tasks, or if there really were a Romulus and Remus who suckled from a wolf before founding Rome, did not ultimately change the effect those stories had on their respective cultures. The Romans understood that, in order to unite people behind an idea, one must first unite people behind a story. So before ‘Rome’ as an idea could exist, ‘Rome’ as a story must. This aspect of our cultures and our civilisations has not gone anywhere since the days of Ancient Rome. What has changed, however, is the nature of the stories we tell. Gone are the days of extravagant, exaggerated tales of fighting monsters and interference by the gods. Those stories hold little bearing in our modern world of secularism and science. Instead we have looked elsewhere for our unifying myths. Instead of characters from ultimately fictitious stories, we have placed figures from our own history onto these pedestals: men and women, though the record is sharply skewed, who lived and died, who had their own flaws and limitations and imperfections, whose actions had consequences, whose successes live on alongside their failures, and whose decisions still linger in the world around us. This is, of course, an entirely logical and necessary change to make. After all, the tales of the Olympians and the many heroes of ancient Greece likely stemmed from some form of truth. A story of a brave warrior becomes more and more exaggerated until it becomes entirely mythical. With documents and evidence, this process is removed, but the original story remains. Instead of an oral tradition that allows for variation, a fixed syllabus of verifiable facts is established. In 2017, we saw this process of obfuscation called into question. The character of figures placed on pedestals and the reasons they were put there suddenly became a matter of sharp debate. It began, as many things do, in the United States. Statues erected to Confederate figures were removed, both legitimately and illegitimately, resulting in protests and counter-protests. The mythology of Southern Confederate heritage hinges on figures like General Lee and Jefferson
Davis, just as the mythology of the United States hinges on George Washington and Thomas Jefferson. After the white nationalist rally in Charlottesville, Virginia, President Trump asked that if General Lee’s statues had to come down, would Jefferson and Washington’s statues be next, since they themselves were slave owners. This prompted intellectuals and social critics to weigh in to clarify as to why one class of unsavoury behaviour may be outweighed by other achievements, and this discourse created a back-and-forth ultimately left unresolved. As Australia watched our American neighbours from a vantage point, our own statues become a topic of conversation. For simplicity, we can focus on just one figure: Captain James Cook. Captain Cook is a central figure in Australia’s mythology. The statue to Cook in Hyde Park was defaced, the words ‘NO PRIDE IN GENOCIDE’ spray-painted on the pedestal. Historically, Cook’s interactions with Indigenous Australians were mostly positive. There are certainly other figures in our history with worse records than his. But they do not hold the same place in the history books as Cook. Cook’s actual actions during his life are less relevant that his symbolism. What he represents is more important than what he actually did, in much the same way as Romulus and Remus. Cook represents the inception of European settlement of Australia, both to white Australians and Indigenous Australians. Malcolm Turnbull condemned the graffiti as a cowardly attempt to obliterate Australia’s history, because to many, our history is directly tied to the reverence of these figures. To remove Cook from his pedestal is to call into question the very idea of what Australia is or ever was. Cook embodies many qualities that have become ingrained in the Australian identity. To say that Cook was not these things, or more complex than these things, becomes dangerous territory for some. This is for the same reason that the date of Australia Day is such a point of contention. For all our posturing of facts over feelings, for objectivity over subjectivity, we still place enormous and arbitrary stock in something like a date. The 26th of January on its own is nothing. Even as commemorations go, it doesn’t approach the significance of, say, the 4th of July. However, it represents the closest thing to an official founding that Australia really has, and as such it is a crucial part of Australia’s history to many people—
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the same people who feel threatened at the thought that it could be something more sinister or complicated. Many times the defence of Australia Day put forward is ‘it’s a day for all Australians’, which of course has its own implications. But well-intentioned people might say that in the hopes that history might be forgotten, even while supposedly celebrating a historical day. The divisions between ‘history’ and ‘culture’ become clearer and clearer. The grey area in the middle might be called ‘myth’.’ Captain Cook is our own Romulus and Remus; a British man sent by the Crown to make a map as an afterthought. Not even a Captain when he landed on the Australian coast for the first time—not even the first European to discover Australia let alone the first human being—he becomes our Founding Father, central to all childhood education and Australian storytelling. What is interesting is that Cook appears as a figure in Indigenous history as well, not only in places that Cook visited, but places he did not. Tribes in the Northern Territory ‘remember’ Cook coming to them, and he has come to represent to them the theft of their land. Two cultures with different interpretations of the same events and figures. One set of facts, two sets of myths. This is the fundamental but inevitable problem with using reality, rather than fiction, as a basis for myth. Reality is messy. It’s complicated and unfair. A hero one day may be a villain the next. One can certainly call the character of Heracles into question, and many have, but the family he killed were not real people. The Eora people who lived around Sydney Harbour were. The slaves which Thomas Jefferson owned were. The moral lessons and cultural unification old myths offered is still present in these modern myths to some, but not all. They come with the baggage of reality and the impacts of time. The myths that were supposed to unify us now end up dividing us. We find ourselves now more deeply divided than in any other time in recent history, and it is our reliance on these figures to guide us that has led us here. Perhaps it’s time to find a new set of myths.
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The Past Takes Me to Bed Written by Taylor Rawson
do you remember, he asks, eyes barren, you once thought me a river, rushing and hurtling over myself, like oblivion caged, untamed, bleeding salts and sorrows
yes, she says, to the space between their ears, and once you called me an earthquake, head-splitting, grinding up the jagged corners of the world like it always belonged to me do you remember once we were called a waterfall, shattering the heavens and hells in a rush of roiling tides, until our voices echoed the waters of the past and our hearts and our heads were buried in the sand
De so l atio n in Bl a c k
Photography by Re ntia B ritz
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Yo u th Be sto we d u p on Us Photography by Re ntia B ritz
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Neon___Velvet Written by W.D. Farnsworth Shining lights, lighting beauty in solemnity Cool wins and crisp air slide through my lips The breath of my cigarette lighting my indemnity I see him with another sealing the night with a sip Cooling the wind harsher than my fire lighting The blistering effect of his hands on someone better He kisses the other with his kiss inviting Within me the tears turning, the street rain’s simmer If the cool winds held my hand through the chilled Crying in the far tundra of concrete rhythm Mourning where we last stood; our kiss fulfilled Now tattered in the whirl of mind, broken as strips of film, if fire could tame the love fulfilled The burn would wait until properly distilled To soft and bodily frames, I shared your youth Talking to me as I dream in that neon light He talks of seismic orgasm forsooth He talks to me of something I always saw in flight In the frozen grass of the foreign countryside Where we swam in the lakes of sexual discourse With you I felt the language of Hyde lying naked in the fields, finding the source When I find it, wherever it might lay Finding what was left of what we used to be I find you so beautiful, not knowing you were gay Even when together, in places no one was meant to see There was never anything wrong, my sweet Even with you gone again, I still feel your heat I should stay here, in the dark wind The rain drenching my hair and hiding the tears Outside here in the bone narrowed land, I leave behind That night deep in concrete jungle, in the music of the spheres Where the memory of you was turning black Left in the ditch of the cocaine dusted alley Where the last cry of the razorback Brought you and me down into the valley Of the traps of love still mark my heart deep The marks of the scorching words making me twitch I cry at least, with the war of hearts lost in the last weep and at last, after your fire is gone, I can flip that final switch I am so weary, left behind by you So away I left, away I flew
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SPRING PERSONIFIED
Written by Gabi Kypriotis
The life force of inner city Melbourne resided within a forty-four-story apartment complex in the very heart of the city: Mount Olympus. If you lived in the concrete jungle, you would have heard the whispers of the elite that lived there. How their power and money kept the town alive, and how their Instagram-perfect faces and god-like bodies were almost as iconic as the bars that they partied in. Only the rich and wealthy could afford their life there; in fact, it was only a collection of families that did live there. The penthouse suite was occupied by two brothers, partners in crime: Zeus and Poseidon. However, the two lead very different lives; Poseidon adored his long-term partner, while Zeus craved women like people needed air, and every party he threw was lavish and drug fuelled, top shelf champagne with girls in gorgeous dresses. But there was a third brother, Hades. Banished from the penthouse to the basement. Standing next to his six foot five brothers made him look like the runt of the family. His dark hair dulled compared to their bright blonde locks, his pale skin looked sickly compared to their healthy tans (that came courtesy of Bondi Sands, not that they would ever admit it). To their parties, he was invited only out of obligation, Poseidon having the sense to know that if he wasn’t it would end in a three-hour lecture from their mother about not including him.
It was rare that Hades made an effort to leave the basement of the complex at all, let alone in the raw heat of the Australian summer. Which, admittedly, was why he loved Melbourne the best. It was home, and he craved the mostly grey and gloomy weather. With sunglasses, long sleeves in spite of the heat, and covered in industrial level sunscreen, Hades drifted over to the Royal Botanic Gardens. He, himself, couldn’t keep a plant alive if it meant his life. His parents were often shocked that he managed to keep himself alive, lovingly nicknaming him the Prince of the Underworld from his early teens. The only thing that he had managed to keep breathing were his three pit-bulls, the only companions on these rare walks. He had barely made a dent into his hike through the gardens when he spotted her. His dogs tried to pull him towards her but he had stopped, stunned, their leads grasped firmly. She looked so at home, like she could have been born there. Her braids were pulled back into a ponytail, the sun illuminating her skin. ‘You can sit. I don’t bite like I hear your dogs do,’ she quipped with a small smirk, looking down at the three dogs that struggled at his side. ‘Only bite when they’re told. I bite harder,’ Hades said.
So, there he was, standing in the corner in what looked like a pinstripe suit—in reality, the pinstripes were curse words embroidered so tiny that they could only be seen with a magnifying glass. He kept to himself, waiting with anticipation for the main act. Pushing a hand through his black hair, he tried not to stare as the door to the apartment flew open. It was that girl from the forty-second floor that he had never worked up the nerve to speak to. It looked like she floated on air, her emerald green dress shining, box braids cascading down her back, large purple hydrangeas atop her head in a crown; spring personified.
‘Good to know.’ Persephone let out a curt laugh.
‘Stop staring. She’s out of your league.’ Zeus chuckled at his younger brother, suddenly appearing beside him, his hand around the waist of a lithe girl in a golden flapper dress.
‘What?’
‘I’m not staring,’ Hades said.
Shit. Shit. Shit. Had he said it out loud?
‘Your eyes are practically falling out of your head. Besides, her mother wouldn’t let you within a foot of her. She’s floor fortytwo, and you’re basement.’
‘We could just skip it next time?’ she asked.
Zeus winced slightly as he felt something hard hit the back of his head. An apple fell to the floor, a smirk etched onto Persephone’s lips from across the room.
‘You’re right. We’d get eaten alive.’ She extended her hand, a smile on her face. ‘Persephone.’
***
‘I didn’t mean—’ ‘It’s fine.’ She paused, ‘It’s nice to officially meet you, normally I just see you brooding in corners at Zeus’s parties,’ ‘I don’t exactly like being there,’ he said. And then he thought, I only go because of you. ‘Because of me?’
‘You said you only go because of me.’
‘It’s not that simple.’
‘Hades.’ He slipped his hand with hers and he smiled. For once, no one shied away from how cold his hands were.
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‘You should … you should come over some time,’ he said in a moment of pure bravery; a rare occurrence for the man. Persephone gave him a smirk. ‘Oh, yeah? It has always intrigued me. They say it’s where fun goes to die,’ she tried to joke. Hades’s face faltered for a split second before he smiled again. ‘Well, the basement is something else …’ Hades began, describing the dark intricacies of his home. Persephone sat with wide-eyed interest, only briefly looking away to grab the phone that was vibrating loudly from her pocket. Her mother’s name flashed on the LCD screen. ‘I have to go,’ her voice going soft. She didn’t want to leave. ‘Well … if you ever want to cause trouble.’ ‘You have no idea.’ *** Zeus would find any excuse to throw a party. Hades didn’t understand the innate need to spend your Sundays nursing a hangover and cleaning the remnants of a torn apartment. So, there he was again, observing everyone as they snorted lines off the coffee tables and drank until their heads spun. ‘She’s gone, you know.’ Zeus sniffed as he ran his nose along the back of his hand. ‘Hmm?’ Hades raised an eyebrow, assuming his brother was talking about some girl that he was playing with. ‘Her mother took her away, heard you were sniffing around and didn’t want her corrupted. You really are the Prince of Underworld.’ Hades’ face fell. Of course, that’s what happened. Why was he surprised? He killed everything he touched, and she was too other worldly to be touched by the hands of someone like him.
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On the Shore of Lethe Written by Mark Russell The true memory of first contact lingers beneath the gaudy scar tissue of relentless optimism, beneath heroic rewrites of history that make an enemy of an infinite universe. The military infrastructure, like segments of the Berlin Wall, receives a mixed reception as shrines to both human triumph over the cosmos, and, beneath the tourist traps, the tragedy of the emptiness of destiny. The graffiti reads: better to rule in hell ... For every busload of tourists buying plaster facsimiles of the Alien Monolith, there is at least one person who was old enough during the awestruck panic of first contact to recognise the hand reaching down from heaven. These are the customers who never buy souvenirs, even while grandchildren tug at their sleeves. This year’s must-have Christmas toy is a scale-model levitating Monolith. The set includes military tanks with functioning cannons. My generation lives on packaging empty promises. I once made my fortune hawking original photos and scrap metal. ‘Well, young lady,’ I say, leaning over my stall counter to offer the girl a smile. She is wearing a novelty NASA jacket. ‘Are you going to be an astronaut when you grow up?’
make an appearance during the day. As always, there is the occasional Experiencer who sidles conspiratorially to my counter. For some reason they see a sympathetic ear in me, and waste no shortage of words describing the sensations of being probed, vivisected, and enlightened. Each and every customer promises me that the NASA lecture sounds fascinating, but apologise that they may not have time. They still need to drive out to photograph the Giant Hamburger before dinner. I always make it a rule to attend these lectures. I pity the physicists and dreamers: an endangered species whose last few caged members haven’t realised the world has moved on. The lecture takes place in a bar, The Alien Autopsy. The normal jazz act breaks up to give the grimy stage to a desiccated man in a NASA uniform and a sheaf of scattered notes. A few coughs attend his taps at the microphone. A few of the tables empty. The lecture bores me half to sleep. It’s depressing listening to the remnants of human utopianism denounce the possibility of faster than light travel. They remind me of pagan hierophants pawning off their last few sacred rocks. Instead, I spend the hour watching Star Trek reruns in my head.
The girl giggles but her father, a stumpy man in an expensive suit and gold rings, replies on her behalf. ‘The good money’s in finance. Let the art students in their cardboard boxes worry about space, sweetie. You’ll be a banker, just like daddy.’ He ruffles his daughter’s hair and forks over a hundred to buy a two-dollar postcard.
Afterwards, I’m sitting at the bar when an old man slumps down beside me and proffers a sarcastic salute. A familiar face, infamous across the world.
‘They have a physicist from NASA giving a lecture tonight,’ I tell them. The girl gawps, but her father isn’t fooled. My enthusiasm is so earnest it tastes fake. ‘We used to say the stars were made of diamonds,’ I call after them as they push through the curtains into the hot afternoon sun.
The bartender remembers him and serves the usual on the house. An optimistic vodka sunrise that gradually devolves into straight vodka. The Captain is unshaven and his uniform is faded by the decades. After the PR disaster of first contact, the government was so embarrassed they decorated him with every honour conceivable.
‘And heaven is paved in gold,’ the girl’s father winks, looking back. He was one of the bankers who sold ET-Insurance with claims a fleet of Alien Monoliths was hidden in the dark of the moon. There was a time I read every news article I could, before indifference blunted my activist rage. After they have left, a steady stream of tourists swarms through. Children grasp and run about, tugging at purse strings. Adults range between nostalgic sadness and moral disgust of all spectrums. Pro-Alien-Protestors, Anti-AlienActivists, Universe-Deniers, Deliverance-Worshippers; all
‘Thirty years ago today,’ the Captain says. ‘Thirty years and only silence. No why, no answer...’
‘I suppose they’re smart enough to stay away,’ I say. The Captain finishes his drink and demands another. ‘You’re that kid ... owns the gift shop on the boulevard?’ ‘You ask me that every anniversary. Nothing ever changes around here.’ ‘I remember you ... ’ he clears his throat and sways on his stool. ‘This was barely a town in those days. Good old days.
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I suppose you’re doing good business now.’
‘It was our failure. We fired first. If only given the chance we could do so much.’
‘Beats selling cigarettes to soldiers,’ I reply. He proceeds to tell me antique things he has told me on a thousand other occasions. I listen long enough to finish my drink and make for the exit. As I skip down the steps, the Captain appears in the bar doorway behind me. Some of the protestors in the crowd begin to throw tomatoes. The Captain salutes some choice members. The Reverend Jesus Centauri stands on a podium of military wreckage, a shrine complete with plaque and velvet ropes, and barks slogans and alien prayers through his megaphone. He stomps his sandal-clad feet on the old metal, scorch marks of a rioter’s Molotov.
The assistant shrugs, grabs her backpack from behind the counter and vanishes into the music of a beer-coloured twilight.
‘You’d think I’d personally nailed God to the cross,’ the Captain whines, stumbling after me. He manages to follow me back to my shop and launches into a stilted monologue at the assistant. ‘I’d prefer it if you weren’t seen in my shop ... like this,’ I tell him carefully, as though evicting a cockroach. His cheeks are a violent pink. Last anniversary he started smashing all the little models I had set out on the counter, and shouting Anti-Alien slogans. Those photos became the standard for all discussions of the Captain’s recent career, replacing the former Hero who Saved the World portraiture. ‘I planted a body in April,’ the Captain blurts out. The assistant smiles and nods on cue. The same smile she gives all tourists who make claims of enlightenment. ‘Under the monument at the landing site,’ the Captain pleads. ‘He was praying. I beat his head against the altar.’ Little icy tears creep out of his eyes and he pulls at his beard. After failing to convey his cavern of wordless emotions, of existential pains and meaningless moments, he staggers out of the shop and into the path of a tourist with a camera. The assistant sniggers when the Captain is hit in the head with a stone. When I glance across, she hides it behind a manicured hand and raises a painted-on eyebrow. I flip the window sign and turn to her. ‘You wouldn’t understand what it was like in those days. Half of us preparing for death from above. The other half for salvation. Only to discover the universe didn’t care.’ The assistant rolls her eyes and gives me the customer-service smile. ‘Should we?’
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Collection
Written by Jennifer Briguglio
For most things, dropping a building on them would really be the end of them. Drop a building on a spider? Your arachnophobic ass is safe. Drop a building on a dictator? Goodbye totalitarian society. So, when Tabitha realised the fae wasn’t staying down, there was only one logical path to follow. From atop the rubble, Tabitha looked on in disbelief as large slabs of concrete shifted. A bubbling of laughter climbed from the massacred house, dragging broken, bloody pieces behind it. The fairy princess wasn’t so pretty anymore. Only one of her entrancing eyes remained in the socket, the left swung with each giggle. Dust coated it a dark grey. The opposite side of her skull had caved in, taking on the look of a partially deflated basketball. Clumps of platinum hair were missing from her scalp. Blood dripped from her mouth where pieces of cracked teeth rolled around a lacerated tongue. Her torso was entirely collapsed and bits of pink insides spilled from her stomach. But still she laughed, blood sprayed, and that loose eyeball wobbled. ‘Do you pay yourself for those teeth or does another fairy collect them?’ Tabitha asked. Laughter turned to screeching. The fairy dropped to all fours and scrambled up the scattered house. Tabitha was mildly impressed to watch the fae put weight on an arm that had been bent at least four different ways before the petite monster was on top of her. ‘I’m going to eat your skin while you’re still breathing,’ the fairy said. Tabitha closed her eyes against the onslaught of blood seeping from the thing’s mouth. ‘You know all the right things to say.’ The fairy reared up, as if she were about to headbutt the woman beneath her. Tabitha slammed a fist into the already fragile side of its head, gagging as it gave way a little. She felt her iron rings burn into the exposed skin. The fairy let out a howl and rolled off her. A flavour of burning wood filtered into the air.
‘Rude. Salt, then?’ The fairy snarled and moved as if to flee. Tabitha took a glass saltshaker from her pocket, shifting a little to the left to aim it just right. It landed directly in front of the fae and shattered. Tabitha held her breath and the fairy froze, as if time itself needed to register what had happened. In the first true moment of silence since their fight had begun, the fairy dropped to her knees over the strewn salt, iron burns still steaming in the night air. She counted. Tabitha stepped closer, careful to avoid the snowy grains. Guilt surged through her; it was a cheap trick far worse than dropping a house on someone. She reached into her jacket pocket once more and felt for the freezing vial. It was small, about the size of a key. Beneath the ice that had formed around the glass, the spell contained within gave off a bright orange glow. It lit up Tabitha’s face and threw shadows over deep cuts the fairy’s nails had raked into her cheeks. Over the distracted fae, Tabitha cracked the vial like a glow stick. The spell fell in shards, turning to liquid when it splashed against the mangled skin. A sharp whine came from the fairy. Her hand, though it had slowed, still reached for the salt until her shrinking palm overflowed. The fae’s wounds smoothed, rapidly drying dark blood taking on the hue of a child’s red paint. What was left of her hair solidified, along with her eyelashes and swinging eyeball, moulding against her head and face. As she shrunk, every grotesque detail was immortalised. Tabitha picked up the little figurine, the newest addition to her grandmother’s collection. Anger vibrated inside the fairy’s tiny prison. Tabitha picked her way out of the ruined house and felt the saltshaker’s glass crack under her feet.
‘If I give you some cream, will you calm the hell down?’ Tabitha was on her feet again. The fairy hissed at her and clutched its face, rocking on its back. ‘Shove your cream, witch,’ she spat.
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City Life
Pho to g ra p hy by Ju s t i n e Ste lla WORDLY Magazine - 15
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The Break of Dawn
Written by Keiley Colpoys
It seemed like humanity had been waiting for the world to end since its very beginning. It had become mythic, an everlooming possibility that never quite seemed to come to fruition. But now when the sun hung too low in the sky, and everyone who could afford to escape on a ship had left, it became myth made reality. The last ship had vanished almost an hour ago; that one had been for the desperate people who had only just scraped together the money in time. No one had been sure if it was going to make it clear of the blast; everyone on it might be dead no later than everyone still there would. There was no telling how many people had stayed behind. Anyone who had declared any intention of doing so was immediately written off and mourned as though they were dead, even before the ships had departed. But as far as Charlie was concerned, there were two people in all the world, herself included. ‘So, what now?’ Ally strolled up alongside her, their fingers entwined. ‘We find the spot with the best view. Once in a lifetime show tomorrow after all,’ she declared, accentuated by a cocky grin. Her eyes began scanning the city skyline, now covered in the thin layer of dust that covered everything on a dying world. ‘There. There’s our spot.’ She pointed to the tallest building in sight; if she was going to die, then she wanted the best seat in the house for the greatest show on Earth.
‘Maybe someone else stayed behind,’ Ally said hopefully. ‘There have to be other people.’ That much was true. While it had never been said outright, it had been thoroughly implied that anyone who didn’t have much of anything to contribute to the new off-world colonies, anyone with more health problems than was deemed reasonable, anyone who couldn’t ‘further the species’, was best left behind on Earth. They claimed the end would be quick and painless, but Charlie had her doubts. Quick, maybe, but not painless. ‘It sounds like…’ Ally trailed off as Charlie eased open the door to the nearest storefront, letting Ally’s fingers slip through her grasp. A McDonalds, of course, because what else would still be standing at the very ends of a world drowned in consumerism, if not a McDonalds. Charlie hoped that she hadn’t heard what she thought she did. But it wasn’t the sort of thing that could be ignored. Shifting the weight of her backpack, she took slow, quiet steps through to the plastic playground, the bright colours bleached into dullness by the sun. The noise echoed from the slide and she crouched down. A small, round, tear stained face stared back at her from the shadows. Oh God.
Arguing with her was pointless, Ally had told her once; she always got her way, and it wasn’t like anyone had any better ideas. A chilling wind blew clouds of dust through the empty streets, and the further into the city they walked, the more eerie the silence became. Charlie’s hand remained tightly entwined with Ally’s, and each time she squeezed it Charlie felt a sting of remorse for not pushing harder for Ally to leave. She could have been safe aboard one of those ships, despite what Ally had said—Ally’s family had the money, she could have gone with them. But she’d stayed anyway, to be with Charlie at the very end. She hated herself a little for that, but it was okay. She wouldn’t have to live with it for very long. No one would have to live with anything for very much longer. ‘You hear that?’ Ally asked, stopping dead in her tracks. Charlie was embarrassed to say she’d been a little too caught up in her head to hear anything.
‘Hey, are you alright?’ She asked, softening her voice in the way reserved for small children and even smaller animals. She received only a sniffle in return. ‘Where are your parents?’ ‘Mum said she’d come back and get me. She said to wait r-right here,’ the little girl replied, stumbling over her own hiccupped sobs. ‘How long has she been gone?’ ‘Since last night.’ Charlie’s heart sank right through the floor. She managed a weak smile. ‘You wait here a second longer, okay?’ She rose back to her full height, turning wide-eyed to Ally, who looked equally as full of dread. ‘If she’s been here that long… last night was when they started checks for access to the ship. The streets are abandoned, she might be the only other person left in the city,’ Ally said, looking like she hated herself for every whispered word. ‘She’s
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not coming back. I don’t think anyone is.’ Charlie looked at Ally one last time, desperate. But nothing she found there was going to make this any easier. She crouched back down.
She could hear the smile in Ally’s voice. ‘I wished I’d stay here, with you. One perfect night, right?’ A hand reached out, tilting her head to face Ally’s, and she felt soft lips touch her own. And for a moment, it was perfect, and she knew this could have been the rest of their lives; the long lives they were promised and denied.
‘Hey, what’s your name?’ And then the first light of dawn broke. ‘Ivy.’ ‘Well Ivy, we’re going to see a show. Why don’t we leave a note for your mum and you can come with us?’ It went against everything any small child had been taught about strangers, but Charlie had to believe that even someone as young as Ivy had to know something was wrong. Had to know no one was coming for her. She hesitated, then nodded. Charlie held out her arms and the girl climbed into them without a thought. And so they went on. The roof of her chosen skyscraper was even higher than she’d thought and the climb up the stairs carrying the backpack and Ivy had been brutal. But once she got there, and the empty dark night sky settled in, she knew it would be worth it. She lit the fire—scouts paid off, she’d boasted—and they all gathered round; the last three people in the world (at least as far as Charlie was concerned), and she opened the backpack. Things immediately started falling out; a couple photographs blew away in the wind almost immediately. Each of them dug through it; the photos, the letters, the report cards, everything that had seemed so important—even Ivy who knew what none of it was—and began throwing them into the fire. It all turned to ashes and floated away in the wind. Charlie felt lighter than she ever had, and still somehow heavy as a stone. Charlie lay staring at the sky beside Ally with Ivy wedged safely between them, sleeping soundly. They said when the sun rose, the wave of radiation would hit the city. They had until then. ‘I wish you’d gone with them,’ she whispered, looking at the sky and not at the person she spoke to.
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Cartography of Being Written by Apoorva Wadhwa Feeding in my current location And where I wanna go. I can trace my way about anywhere With Google Maps in my i-Phone. But nobody gave me an app That tells my being How to get out of this Forever fuming maze Of existential angst. Walk straight for 110 metres I I I I can plan my journey Fix coordinates W E And select how I am goingCar/ Public Transport/ or Walking. But nobody gave me directions On how to avoid feeling lost Every day of this damn life How to not panic When my soul cannot Perpetually find its way. Take a right on Lonsdale St. ----------------------This global positioning system can map my position anywhere on Earth and let me know the shortest way to get to Point B from A. But none has ever been able to map my soul or even vaguely deduce the coordinates of my existence.
Your destination is on your left
Really? I haven’t moved a step.
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ATTENTION
ALL GEELONG BASED DEAKIN CLUBS AND STUDENTS There is funding currently available to all Geelong based students, clubs and societies which is held in Trust and for the sole benefit and welfare of students at the Geelong Waurn Ponds and Waterfront Campuses. DUSA acts as the Trustee for this Trust Fund, and as such disburses the monies for projects that will benefit Geelong based students. This is in addition to current DUSA funding. The Trust Fund currently has just over $379,000 of funds available. If you (or a club you are involved in) have a project you want funded, DUSA will consider all applications which are submitted on the application form – this is available from your local DUSA Clubs and Societies Officer. There is a criteria and process which must be adhered to when submitting a funding application for assessment, so please ensure that you address these when submitting an application. DUSA looks forward to receiving project proposals from across the student community. If you have any questions or want background information on how to submit a proposal please contact DUSA at dusa-contact@deakin. edu.au or 1300 555 528.
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L i f e Sh roud ed b y the Mist Ph o to g rap hy by Re nt i a B r i t z
TheDybbuk Box Written by Mel O’Connor
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When she first tries to get rid of me, I pluck the hair from her scalp. I do it quietly, painlessly, while she sleeps. At first, I think it’s a little joke between us. That she doesn’t really mean anything when she starts to google things like ‘wine cabinet sales’ and ‘teak wood box Amazon’. I even feel a little guilty when she stands at her bathroom mirror, a clump of red hair in one hand, silent tears down her cheeks. But that night when she tries again, when she creates an ad for my box on eBay, I scream until I burst every lightbulb in her house. They hum with brightness then shatter as one. Sparks burst from her overloaded power points. She shrieks and covers her face as her computer monitor goes black but for a single thread of white light. It’s admirable how she persists after that. She takes my box back to the rubbish tip where she found it, my little yellow box with the Shema burned into the back, and leaves it beside a broken radio. When she was between jobs, she used to come here and sift through the garbage for things she could sell—before she found me. So when she takes me back there after all of this time, of course I come back to her front drive. For three weeks, I make sure that her whole house smells like cat’s piss, even with her diffusers in every room. When he catches a whiff, her red-faced landlord serves her a notice to vacate. But that just makes her more determined. It doesn’t matter how many of her fingers I break or how many public computers I fill with malware. She keeps trying, always, determined to be rid of me. Her ads for the box say things like ‘historic’ and ‘vintage gift’, but there is no mention of me. I smash the window above her desk pane by pane, but she says nothing, just wipes the glass to one side and keeps typing. I spoil all her food, but she orders Chinese and meets the delivery-man at next door’s gate. It takes me weeks to realise it, but when I do, it’s one of the worst things I’ve ever felt. Haunting her has stopped being fun.
It takes months to find a buyer. A university student with a forklift license and a winner’s smile that I make it my mission to destroy. He chalks the broken kitchenware and the summer cold to coincidence. He doesn’t know I’m inside the box yet, so I wait for him to realise. I can be patient when I want to be. I am obedient and territorial. I am the kind of dread you only feel once, when you die. He will see my face in his nightmares. Only six others know the shape of my bones, the twist of my teeth, the way one of my eyes squints all the time. I am their recurring dreams. It is the price they pay for touching the box. He purchased the box to give as a birthday present to his mother. For this reason, but more so to get rid of me, he leaves me on her kitchen bench. His mother is a sweet old lady with cataracts and a little garden. I give her birthday gifts, too; I give her hives, I give her welts shaped like leeches. I make her cough up her blood. Years pass, and I grow tired. There is something taxing about my existence. By now stories about me and my box have spread, so it’s no surprise when a man in a suit comes to visit. He brings with him three other men, all with beards and grey sidelocks. When they chant their words and spread their incense, I let them. They trap me inside my box, but I’m not bothered. It’s a relief. I could use a nap. And I’m not afraid because I know I won’t be trapped for long. I know what humans are like. Insatiable in your curiosity. Fragile inside your skulls. One of you will open my box. And I am patient. I can wait.
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Coatlicue's Stars Written by Tyler McPherson
The off-colour walls, the antiseptic smell, the silence, it got under Derek’s skin. Worst of all was the desperation that radiated from the residents of the retirement home. Some sat staring longingly at the outside world, others were almost comatose in their chairs, and then there were some, like his nana, who just wanted to escape. He didn’t know how many “prison breaks” the staff had had to foil, but his nana was stuck in her ways. She would keep trying until she succeeded. That was why he came every weekend, to take her outside, let her feel free. Hopefully that would be enough to placate her until his next visit. ‘Derek, honey. How are you?’ Nana appeared down the corridor, pushed along in a wheelchair by an orderly in a crisp navy uniform. She nodded politely and handed the wheelchair over. ‘Margaret is a delight,’ she told him, ‘always telling us these amazing stories. She really should have considered being an author.’
Taking Nana out for tea went smoothly for once, and Derek was surprised. Normally the kids played up (spurred on by Nana, of course), or Nana choked on her food, or some other event reared its head. But no, the night was without a single hiccup. When they had finished their tea and moved to the parking lot, the group separated. Diana leaned down and kissed Nana on the cheek. We will see you next week, Nana.’ Nana had insisted that the whole family call her that, Diana included, and everybody had obliged. ‘Don’t cause the orderlies too much harm,’ she added with a wink, before turning to her husband and giving him a kiss. ‘See you at home,’ she said to him, grabbing their two daughters by the hand and leading them away. ‘Come on, Nana, let’s get you back.’ Derek pushed the handles of the wheelchair, but Nana put her feet down, stopping him from pushing her any further. ‘Not yet,’ she whispered. ‘Please.’
Derek smiled at the orderly. ‘I have been telling her that for years. Haven’t I, Nana?’ his voice rose for the last question to account for his nana’s hearing loss. ‘And every time you get the same answer,’ Nana replied with jest. ‘Well, I hope you two enjoy your night.’ The orderly gave Nana a quick wave before turning and hurrying off in the other direction. ‘What’s the plan?’ Nana asked with a sly look in her eyes. ‘Do I get to hit the town? I’m ready to booooogie.’ She waved her arms around in the wheelchair, and Derek tried not to roll his eyes. Ninety-two years old and she still hadn’t lost her spirit. ‘We are going to the pub, Nana,’ he replied simply. ‘The kids and Diana are going to meet us there. We thought it would be nice to take you out for tea.’ ‘You’re no fun,’ she replied, still with that same twinkle in her eye. ***
Derek could see the desperation written across her face, but he knew he should get her back. ‘You know the rules. I have to get you back before they lock the doors at ten.’ ‘And it’s only 8:30,’ Nana countered. ‘Can you at least wheel me along the pier? I want to see the ocean and the stars. Fifteen minutes, tops.’ Derek knew he had lost. He couldn’t force her to do anything, and she was as stubborn as his mother. He grabbed the handles of her wheelchair and pushed her along the small track that led to the pier. ‘Right to the end, please, Derek,’ Nana said, and he consented, feeling the vibrations of the wheels on the planks through his arms. The pier was empty, and so he pushed Nana almost to the very edge, just far enough back so that she wouldn’t fall into the water. ‘Thank you,’ she said, and then went silent as she looked out towards the ocean and the stars. It was the picture of tranquillity. The gentle sound of waves against the empty beach, the full moon joining the lights of fishing boats in
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illuminating the ocean. Derek couldn’t have asked for a nicer night to spend with his family. ‘Do you remember those stories about the stars I used to tell you?’ Nana’s voice almost startled him. He had been lulled by the serenity. ‘Yeah,’ he said softly. It felt like any loud noise would ruin the perfect bubble they were in. ‘The one with the coat lady.’ Nana chuckled at that. ‘Coatlicue. Yes, that’s the one.’ ‘I remember. You said this … this Coatlicue woman was a queen and a witch and she wanted men to have light.’ ‘I said that she didn’t want them to be afraid of the dark,’ Nana interjected. ‘This was way, way back, when the sky was starless and the night was full of horrors. Coatlicue wanted to change that.’ ‘So she gathered together four hundred people,’ Derek continued the story as he remembered. ‘Women, men, children, all those of pure heart and selflessness.’ ‘The best of the best,’ Nana whispered. ‘She gathered them all together in a huddle and then she stole their souls. She scattered the souls far and wide across the heavens, creating the stars, while her own soul became the moon. Their sacrifice brightened our world.’ ‘I used to love that story as a kid.’ Derek paused for a moment lost in thought. ‘Yes, you did,’ Nana laughed softly. ‘Remember we used to name the stars? Pretend we knew who they used to be?’
*** At almost exactly 4 am that night, Derek was woken by a phone ringing. ‘Just leave it,’ Diana whispered into his chest. He tried to ignore it, but the ringing just bored into his brain, pounding and echoing. ‘I have to,’ he murmured. ‘Sorry.’ He walked to the phone and lifted it from its hook. A voice almost as tired as his spoke on the other end. ‘Hi, Derek. This is Kelsie. We met earlier today … yesterday, I suppose it was now. I was the orderly helping Margaret.’ Derek felt his insides grow cold. ‘She’s gone, isn’t she?’ He knew the answer, but he still needed to ask. ‘I’m afraid so,’ Kelsie said. ‘It was quiet and peaceful. She passed in her sleep.’ ‘Thank you for telling me.’ He hung up the phone. Sinking to the floor, he put his head in his hands. He tried to cry but found he couldn’t. Nothing would happen. Instead, he stepped outside to get some fresh air. It wasn’t long before Diana came out in her dressing gown and wrapped her arms around him. For a long while they stood in silence. ‘What are we going to tell the kids?’ Diana asked. ‘We haven’t had to talk to them about this yet.’
‘I do. There was Samson and Hilda and Luke and-’ ‘Harry …’ Nana sighed. ‘Yeah.’ Derek was silent a moment. ‘After Pa Harry died, you told us he was with Coatlicue. That everyone who had died since her sacrifice had joined her in the stars. It was a nice story.’
‘We tell the truth. And remind them that Nana will always be with us.’ Derek drew in a long breath and released it as he looked up into the cloudless sky. Up towards the thousands of stars that illuminated the night.
‘It was.’ Nana was silent for a moment, looking almost longingly up at the stars.
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Burgers in the ‘Burbs: Huxtaburger, Eastland
Written by Matt Emmett
Huxtaburger is one of the more well-known burger franchises that haunts the conversations and Instagram feeds of foodies and burger aficionados alike. However, much like Spider-Man, its exploits can sometimes go unnoticed by the residents of Melbourne, with many, many burger joints clamouring for our money and attention. With this in mind, we travelled into the misty urban sprawl that is the eastern suburbs of Melbourne to reveal Huxtaburger to those yet to be acquainted with it. The Food I ordered the Theo, which boasts double beef and double cheese, as well as bacon, barbecue sauce, mustard, mayo, tomato, lettuce and pickles. It reads like a monster on the menu, but is actually quite well-contained, producing little in the way of spillage. It was no let down in terms of taste, although the mustard overpowered the barbecue sauce in the battle of the tastebuds. Indeed, the barbecue sauce plays a bit of a phantom role, dancing away from your tongue and allowing the mustard to take centre stage. The pickles play Robin to the barbecue’s Batman, joining it in its off-Broadway role. On the other hand, the bacon forms a duet with the mustard, the two of them singing in perfect harmony. I must admit the mustard used at Huxtaburger is something special and definitely worth using in the burgers. As a repeat customer, I can tell you it really stands out in the Huxtaburger, the first item on the menu.
The Drinks I went with a small chocolate milkshake, which is thick and sweet. Being lactose intolerant, I actually struggled to finish it. Chloe went with good old water, which in hindsight was a good choice since she is also lactose intolerant and already had her plate full with cheese!
Chloe ordered the Cheesus, which, as the name implies, is very cheesy. It also includes double beef and double cheese along with cheesy mayo, mustard, tomato sauce and pickles. Here the mustard works to cut through the richness of the cheese, balancing it out so as to prevent a potential cheese overdose, if such a thing is possible. She very much liked this burger, giving it a double thumbs-up.
Alcohol: Huxtaburger has their own brew, along with a selection of beers, ciders and wines. I recommend the White Rabbit Dark Ale for those looking to tread a different path.
We both ordered onion rings as sides. They are super thick and super crunchy. Consistency is a minor issue, with some rings cooked better than others, to the
point where some went down as gracefully as a ghost in a hallway, while others took a bit of time to chew through.
Important Nuggets Dietary Requirements: Vegans and vegetarians aren’t left in the dark here, with the Sondra and the Vege Denise (the Sondra can be made vegan on request). Those seeking gluten-free buns will pay an extra $2 for them.
Ambiance: Fun and laid-back, Huxtaburger caters to the cool crowd. It targets students (flash your student card for 10% off) and has a strong, positive stance on same-sex marriage. Inclusivity is a big part of their culture.
About: Address: 171-175 Maroondah Highway, Ringwood (in the town square opposite the train station). Parking: There is parking at Eastland, of which the first three hours are free. If you intend on catching a movie along with your meal, you might end up paying a fee. Public Transport: Catch the 281 to Box Hill Station, then grab a train on the Belgrave/Lilydale line to Ringwood. Pricing: Huxtaburger can be a little expensive with the Theo and the Cheesus coming in at $15 and $13.50 respectively, so hop in on a Tuesday or Wednesday for a Huxtaburger and regular fries at $11. As far as I can tell this extends across the entirety of both days, which really makes it a damn good deal for the budget-conscious.
The Last Bite I’m a big fan of this franchise, so much so that it sits firmly in my top three burger joints in this city. The Eastland restaurant doesn’t disappoint, lighting the gloom of outer suburbia with a bit of trendy inner-city flair.
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Saving Average Joe Written by Lori Franklin
It’s my first day on the job. New assignment today; since it’s the first day of the year we all got reshuffled. They don’t want us to get too attached to our human so they only let us have yearly shifts. Besides, let’s just say some guardian angels are more competent than others, so we need to be rotated to even the odds. So far, it’s looking uneventful. No toaster fires or broken elevators, my guy’s on his way to work with no trouble. He’s average height, wears nice suits and has a good head of hair despite his middling age. Judging by his apartment, he makes good money and doesn’t get out much. This year should be a snooze. My last guy was pretty cruisey as well so looks like I’m in for another solid decade without incident—wings crossed. The longest record held by a guardian with zero major incidents is sixty-seven years, and I’m closing in on sixty-three. I’ll breeze right past the seventy mark if my luck holds out. Several boring office meetings later and I’m almost wishing I was assigned someone more exciting. This guy’s not exactly riveting. I mean, I wouldn’t wish for a junkie or a rock star or anything like that, but Average-Joes like this can be such a bore. Oh, and looking at his file I see his name is actually Joe, how perfectly average is that. At this rate, it’s going to be a long year. Over the next few months I get to know Joe’s routine. He goes to the gym twice a week to do cardio and weights, but never lifts more than he can handle. He eats almost too healthily, only breaking his granola, kale and green tea filled diet with the occasional late-night burger on a Friday after work. He absolutely always waits for the green man before he crosses the road and still looks both ways. He never texts while driving, doesn’t drink or do drugs, doesn’t keep his hair dryer too close to the bath, and never ever takes risks. He’s a piece of cake. A dull, boring, dry piece of vanilla cake. Joe is so safe he doesn’t even need a guardian angel, honestly. *** Something is different today. There’s a tingle in my wings, like a storm’s in the air. The sunny skies aren’t fooling me, something’s coming. I close the game of Cherub Crush I
was playing. I can’t afford to be distracted today. That’s how you fail assignments. That’s how incidents happen. Death is obviously the biggest one to avoid, but even minor incidents can set off a chain of events and then before you can blink it’s all spiralled out of control. You can’t be too careful. All it takes is one misstep, one slow reaction, and your human’s toast. Sometimes literally. Joe’s on the move, sucking down a protein shake in the elevator ride to the ground floor. The doors ping as they open and he heads across the lobby. So far, so good. He begins his morning commute on foot. He barely makes it down to the corner of the street unscathed. A small yappy dog clips at his heels while its owner stands nearby talking on her phone. Unsettled, he trips on its elastic lead. He’s headed fast into the oncoming traffic; I can smell the petrol fumes in the morning air as the cars screech and beep their way down the street. I use a gust of nearby breeze to send Joe sprawling into a rubbish bin to slow him down. The wheelie bin slides a little under his weight but holds up enough to stop him before he tumbles into the path of the speeding death traps they call cars. One crisis averted, but now I’m faced with a worse one: six cyclists whizzing down the bike lane with a crazed look in their eyes, and one of them will hit him. Can’t avoid that, but I can influence which cyclist it will be. They’re not big guys but they’re riding hard and fast, oblivious to my stray pedestrian. I pick the older one on the left with the bike that looks like it’ll cause the least damage. Poor Joe picks himself up only to promptly be knocked back down by the unapologetic lycrawearing culprit, now wobbling atop his weapon. The fresh cut on Joe’s forehead sends blood oozing down into his left eye, gumming his eyelashes together. Half-blind, he clutches his head and flags down a passing taxi to take him to the nearest hospital. It’s about as close a call as I can handle, but Joe should be fine after a few stitches. I don’t even need to clear the traffic; it’s flowing smoothly and we make it to the emergency room in twelve minutes flat. The large amount of blood dripping down his face puts him to the top of the list and Joe gets in to the doctor straight away. The whole thing only takes about another twenty minutes to clean and glue up Joe’s forehead. Apparently they don’t use stitches on smaller
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wounds anymore. Anyway, the point is he’s fine. We’re just waiting on his discharge paperwork from the nurse and we can get out of here. Until suddenly Joe’s not fine. His heart rate skyrockets and he’s sweating all over. Must be an allergic reaction to the stupid glue. I look around for somebody to help, but no one’s paying attention. Everyone who could help is too busy to notice Joe’s quiet decline, and he’s not hooked up to any machines that might alert them. Okay, stay calm. I’ve stopped worse than this, there’s always something you can do. In a literal light-bulb moment of inspiration, I make the fluorescent lights above Joe’s bed flicker and strobe. The pulsing catches the eye of a passing nurse, just in the nick of time. She pushes a button and moments later another scrubclad person shows up and soon Joe’s body is returning to normal. Phew, back on track. After several proper stitches, Joe is cleared for concussion and further risk. We take a taxi back to his apartment and he spends the rest of the afternoon watching his favourite TV show on the couch, feeling a little sorry for himself. After a bowl of fruit and two protein bars, Joe decides to call it a night and head to bed. The dressing on his forehead itches a little and he has to lie on his left side to avoid putting pressure on it, but eventually he falls asleep and dreams of small barking dogs. He doesn’t wake up again. That’s it. Game over. Joe’s gone and my record is wiped, just like that. I’d forgotten what it even feels like to lose a human and I almost don’t believe he’s really gone until his autopsy comes back. Sixty years of careful, meticulous guarding and I’m undone by a tiny little blood clot. Nothing I could have done. What a waste. I suppose in the end even we are slaves to fate, fighting so hard to cling to life, but doomed to merely delay the inevitable.
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A Particular Kind of Light
Written by Justine Stella
I wanted to share something with you,’ our professor began. ‘I learned this when I first started teaching this course. While there are many myths and fables concerning the concept of love at first sight, one of the earliest versions is one of the most beautiful things I’ve ever heard. ‘The tale goes that when you first meet the person that you are meant to be with, the light from your eyes goes into your partner’s eyes, and vice versa: the light from their eyes goes into yours. This exchange of light means that you are looking through each other’s eyes. This is where it starts: you are seeing each other with a particular kind of light and begin to fall in love from that very first sight.’ I wrote it down word for word and tore the piece of notepaper out of my book. I folded the page and slipped it into the pocket of my oversized winter jacket. *** The next morning was one degree Celsius. London was cold. Our teacher was late, and we huddled in a loose circle on the pavement outside of our classroom. There were sixteen of us on this study tour and, as we got to know each other, our conversation turned to relationships. ‘I just broke up with my boyfriend; he didn’t “let” me come here.’ ‘My girlfriend is meeting me on the last day of our classes.’ ‘I’ve been single for ages.’ ‘I would love to meet a cute English guy!’ The guy next to me nudged me when it was my turn. ‘I, uh, sort of, um, have a person. You know, not really together. We were together ages ago. But he doesn’t really want to be in a relationship at the moment. But I love him. It’s just, uh, complicated.’ I shrugged and nodded at the girl on my other side. ‘Are you in a relationship?’ She offered a small smile. ‘Nah, I have no people.’ I elbowed her gently and grinned. ‘It’s all right; we’ll be your people.’
Our circle was smiling at me in the kind of way that seemed to approve of what I’d said when our professor approached us. I walked into the classroom with people who I’d just met, and yet it felt like I belonged with them more naturally than I’d ever belonged with him. *** I tapped my fingertips on my laptop as I waited for him to accept my Skype video call. It took him three minutes. I pulled my laptop close as soon as I saw his face. I missed him. I’d spent the afternoon wandering through a market with some of the girls, listening to them share cute stories about their partners. The fiancé who proposed adorably. The boyfriend who never stopped trying to make her laugh. The girlfriend who helped her pack enough clothing so she wouldn’t freeze over here. These girls were cherished. My stories were a little different. Lately, he swore at me daily. He read through my text messages with male friends. He wouldn’t let me put sunscreen on at a waterslide park. He broke up with me so he could sleep with my friend. Listening to the girls’ stories made me miss him in a way that hurt, almost like I was missing something that I never had, something that didn’t exist. So I needed to talk to him. I needed to feel cherished. There were good things about him, good things about us. I just needed to remember them. He wasn’t looking at the camera. His huge headphones nestled into his greasy hair, flat from staying in the same position all day. The time difference meant that it was two in the morning for him. ‘Yeah, me too.’ His voice was soft, distracted. He still didn’t look at the camera. His eyes were looking down, at his screen. One arm was moving every now and then while he typed with the other. He was playing a game. He didn’t even bother to flick his gaze to the small square at the top left of his screen: my picture.
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I kept trying. ‘You should see it here. It’s so beautiful. So soft and grey and hazy.’
that I liked the way my body felt now, like I was no longer on guard. The lack of grief for what we’d had reassured me that I’d done the right thing. Things seemed a little less dark now.
‘Cool.’ He still didn’t make eye contact.
‘Yeah, you too.’
I’m not sure if I believe in love at first sight, in any of its versions or stories. Maybe it’s a myth, maybe it’s a rare phenomenon. But I do believe in love. Love is not a myth. Love is real and important and worth protecting.
I hung up.
What we’d had was not love.
I left the hotel room, wrapping myself in the oversized jacket. When the sliding doors opened out onto the street, the air stole my breath for a moment. I shoved my hands into the pockets and pressed my nails into my palms so I wouldn’t cry. And then I felt the folded square of paper.
If I find another person that I want to share my life with, I will make sure what we have is real, that we cherish each other. I will make sure that what I have learned here in London does not go to waste. It’s simply not worth holding on to something that isn’t love.
He didn’t make eye contact when we met either. He tickled me and laughed with me. He carried my books to my next class and bought me chocolate from the canteen. He walked me to the bus stop. But he never looked at me. He was always busy looking over my shoulder at the friends he’d left to hang out with me, showing off his catch.
Love is one of those things that’s worth doing right.
‘I love you,’ I murmured, a last attempt.
*** I gave it one last shot. He answered the Skype call much faster this time. For a heartbeat, I thought that was a good sign. But his eyes never flicked up to the camera. He never looked at me. ‘I don’t think we’re okay.’ No response. ‘I don’t think we cherish each other the way we should.’ Nothing. ‘This relationship is over.’ Still nothing. I could hear the keys tapping. A game was more important than our “relationship”. I hung up. Then I smiled. I was free to be whoever I wanted to be now. I didn’t have to alter my behaviour to satisfy him. I didn’t have to edit my sentences to his liking. I breathed deep and found
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A u t u mn Nir vana
Pho to g ra p hy by Re nt i a B ri t z 30 - WORDLY Magazine
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Across Elysian Fields Written by Anders Ross Red sky with violet clouds, strewn As a dusking Earth. Its canopy Spread long like fingers — what run Across Elysian Fields, roughly hewn. Calliope smiles down, through the pocketful Of silver, peppered tonight in the stars; Though I do not stare, as once I did, At Parthenope . . . Halt! (A solitary maiden-voice muffled my passing bell.) Low slung and waxing, Here stalked the Moon. I lowered My ship’s lone sail, a mighty triune; Poised as the region’s soldiery, a fool, I stepped out to bathe, in the sheer White: For I heard Her sing, this Siren . . . And we many sleepers groaned, From within the Earth we were entombed; For we saw before Heaven, a Hell, In the grey mud upon Ypres Hill.
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