woroni
Catharsis
C R E AT I V E A N T H O L O G Y 2018
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Table of Contents Home Invader Tom Buckland 3 Untitled Emily Rose Andrews 4 We Live in Liminality Ruohan Zhao 4 Innerself Asefeh Abedini 6 The Importance of Putting Yourself in the Arena Alex Costello 7 It Took Me into the Garden Anna Miley 9 Beast of a Different Kind Clare Cìocha Álainn 10 Untitled no. 1, no. 2 and no. 3 Chelsie Baldwin 12 Conflagration Kay Purdon-Brown 13 Graceful & Content Maeve Bannister 14 Nadodi Kasthury Paramiswaran 15 Evolution and Revolution Georgia McDonald 16 The Apartment Julia Faragher 18 Bereft Sarah Oost 23 Too Large Hands Emily Dickey 24 Untitled Emily Rose Andrews 25 We Are, Our Land John Passant 26 Meat Dominic Page 28 Scratches Kain O’Dea 32 The Day the Raft Tipped Phoebe Lupton 36 Untitled Anna Miley 39
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Tom Buckland Home Invader
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We live in liminality [I] I first learned to swim On the black sand beaches in Auckland. Now I swim In an ocean of black hair at Beijing airport. I won’t drown, Because I bleached my hair blonde. [II] I have one citizenship Celebrate New Years twice Kowtow three times Avoid the number four Left China at the age of five Am connected to the world by six degrees of separation. [III] “Foreigner” is not a dialect Recognisable on a map of China. “Chinese” is not a face Recognisable on a map of New Zealand. “No where” is not a home Recognisable on a map of the world. [IV] At home we speak English, Mandarin, and everything in between. Two way miscommunications Peppered with broken accents and Chinglish.
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My parents do not understand me, No matter what I say. [IV] Steak with chopsticks. Dumplings with a fork. Fried rice and cheese. Wontons and ketchup. Stir fry spaghetti. Soy sauce roast chicken. My belly is a melting pot, A smorgasbord of fusion food, Without a price tag, Without a place on a menu. [V] Shakespeare said, “All the world’s a stage.” And we learn as children To rehearse a script to the question: “Where do you come from?” Until it becomes muscle memory. Performing, reinventing our identities With chameleonic range; Until our audience is satisfied. [VI] My life is a patchwork of stamps Sewn into my passport. Read its pages, not my face; It remembers my journey Clearer than my faulty memory.
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[VII] Our lives are made of fractured hellos and goodbyes, Strung together in a messy montage. And tears at the departure gate Are a bittersweet ritual, That never gets any easier. [VIII] I deliberately choose To wander aimlessly, While there is still so much world Left to see.
INNERSELF
ASEFEH ABEDINI
I am candle, your inner candle. I am light, the light inside of you. I am cloud, the clouds of your eyes. I am roar, the numb roar in your throat. Find me, the beam will glow. Find me, your tears will flow. Find me and the blood in your vessels warm up. Listen to me ‘n I will be your servant. I hold a message from you for you, Hear it and use it: “listen to me and reach out to yourself. Find me and embrace me to find you and love yourself. Love me and save me, to be loved and saved. I am the inner voice of you, Do not forget yourself. ...”
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previous page artwork Emily Rose Andrews Unt it led
T H E I M P O RTA N C E O F PUTTING YOURSELF IN THE ARENA A LE X COSTE LLO
I am standing solemnly in the tunnel leading out to the arena. There’s a slight chill in the air and my bare arms and legs are riddled with goose bumps. I am staring intently at my feet. The lace of my left trainer is loosely tied and I wonder if I should tighten it before I walk out. I take in one deep breath smelling the sweetness of the freshly mown grass, and the lingering, sharp scent of my perspiration. My breaths are shallow but rapid and consistent and my loose shirt billows over my chest and stomach. I must look like a boy in this uniform. I have a white-knuckle grip around the hem of my shirt. My view shifts and I think when did my legs get so lanky and pale? I begin to question whether or not I am built for a day like today. Whether or not I am built for this kind of physical contact. Doubt runs through my mind like blood through my veins. I am not ready. Maybe next year, I think. And then, almost ironically my feet begin
one in front of the other, headed straight to the arena. My head is hot and my knees are weak. But I keep walking. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. I march. I am not ready. What if I fall? What if I can’t get back up again? What if I get hurt? My mother always warned me about these kinds of games. I am not ready. There is an eerie silence in the air, filled by the beckoning taunts of my consciousness. I am not ready. As I reach the end of the tunnel and raise my head, almost as if on a string and look out into the seats I see there are three people watching me. Waiting for me to enter. Only three. In the entire arena. I can feel the sweat running down my temples and my fists clenched around my shirt becoming clammy and sore. It is in this moment I want to turn around. I want to go back down the tunnel and away from these intense gazes. I want to go back to safety. Almost ironically, my legs keep moving. I will them to turn
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around and yet they keep marching forward, systematically, toward the middle of the grass, centralizing these six eyes onto me. I am not ready. I feel small. But I keep walking. Left foot. Right foot. Left foot. Once I have reached the middle of the arena, I look up. I see the same familiar six eyes, staring judgingly down at me. In this moment I realize I have lost all breath. Instead, I stand solemnly, not breathing, staring back at them terrified. Second pass, and feel like years. Then I look down. To the front row of the arena and I see my mum. She’s waving at me, smiling from her seat, wrapped up in a blanket striped with my team’s colours. Then I see my dad. And my sisters. And my grandma. All smiling, waving, cheering me on. Then, as if part of a dream, sitting next to my family I see myself staring back at me. My cheeks are flushed, my eyes bright and the corners of my mouth turned upwards in a comforting smile. I squeeze my eyes shut and tears burst from their seams. I open them again and surely enough see myself sitting there. Still waiting. Still smiling. I draw in a deep breath and look up at the three people sitting in the nosebleed seats of the arena and suddenly they seem smaller and more distant. I stand up tall. And begin to play. Theodore Roosevelt said that ‘it is not the critic who counts; not the man who points out how the strong man stumbles, or where the
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doer of deeds could have done them better. The credit belongs to the man who is actually in the arena, whose face is marred by dust and sweat and blood; who strives valiantly; who errs, who comes short again and again, because there is no effort without error and shortcoming.’ According to Brene Brown, there will always be three people in the arena. Shame, scarcity and comparison. These three people will be there to watch, to judge, to influence. As a player, we have no control over them being in the arena. All we can do, is reserve a seat for them, distant from the play, distant from our forethought and continue. It matters not so much that they are there, but that you walked out into the arena in the first place. And instead of fixating about their presence, look to the front row. See who is there. See who is cheering you on. See who is wearing your colours because they are who matters. Whether you err, or are covered in goosebumps or want to turn back, the most important thing is that you made it into the arena and that you’re sitting in your own front row.
It Took Me Into The Garden It took me into the garden Through twisted fig trees dripping syrup From between split lips revealing trapped seeds. The curling delight of boughs fracture sunlight Onto corkscrew snails with brilliant trails Beneath my feet, warm earth silent, Littered with blossoms stuck in grass prisms. Moss, pollen, bark, dark heat, Time suspends itself around the gate that shudders, squeaks, And with a laugh it skips into the dusk. August 2017
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Beast of a different kind Yes I am angry, I know it might be hard to tell, there is no warning bell on my adrenal gland and I haven’t made a fist with my hand and I haven’t raised my voice or been profane if anything I look quite tame my hands are shaking just a tad but that could be the cold, you know I’m bad with temperature changes because as far as you know my mood ranges from placidly happy to mildly peeved if anything you feel relieved that I am so famously chill never once had the will power to engage in a fight even if I’m right even if it might really matter I just let it go I let it slide I know life’s too short to bitch and chide because life’s too short to be always fighting and that flush in my cheeks might just be the lighting and my nail biting is habit not concealed rage because you know I’ll just turn the page turn the other cheek let it lie for a week but I promise that even if you can’t see it even if you don’t want to believe it I am angry it’s not an overreaction it’s not seeking attention my anger is older than that it’s not an outburst waiting to blow it’s not a grudge that I can’t let go I am burning and seething inside it’s something I shouldn’t need to hide
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as my rage is part of me it’s screaming until I’m in agony it’s punching and fighting and snarling and biting it’s tearing at the walls of my mind it’s a beast of a different kind invisible to the naked eye it buzzes in my brain like a horse fly but the noise it makes is bigger and louder like the roar of cicadas before a summer shower like the ocean in a cyclone it deafens like a dropped microphone yes I’m angry why? I’m angry because of course me too is that a surprise? well open your eyes I’m angry because black lives don’t matter and because Katter and Hanson are still kicking around and Syria is still burning to the ground and because Chechnya is literally burying their gays and people think equality is just a passing craze and because being different is still a crime and because rather than being the great social disgrace of our time climate change and human rights are a public debate which our government thinks will just abate if they wait Long enough while Kiribati sinks into the sea And millions of innocent people flee And we grow a thicker skin and don’t let the sadness in when we see The tiny body of Aylan Kurdi on the news at 7:30 Its realising that the greatest tragedies I ever lived are the reality Of so much of the human race who we can’t face we can’t hold in our minds for more than a minute at a time so don’t look at how tranquil I seem to be look past it, because I’m angry.
CLARE CÍOCHA ÁLAINN 11
Chelsie Baldwin Unt it led no. 1 Unt it led no. 2 Unt it led no. 3
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Conflagration
KAY PURDON-BROWN 13
Graceful & Content Is what he called her in the poem he’d written, and shown to his friend, For a second opinion. Now, sitting here with legs stretched beneath a woollen blanket, Socked feet touching slightly, April sun setting behind trees outside her bedroom window. He reached inside his jacket pocket, and Handed her the folded piece of paper, and Waited while she read the poem he’d written, and Shown to his friend, For a second opinion. Later, they stood shivering in June’s night air, His words Suddenly incapable of explaining out loud what she wanted to understand, But couldn’t ask. Instead, she’d wonder for months after what had changed: Why he no longer thought she was Graceful and Content.
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Nadodi
Today I made a decision to make one full circle. Since I know Earth is round, I leave my footprint in the morning, and I am back in its shadows by Sundown. I walk point to point, Connecting dots to make a line. And as I draw my way around, I learn that Earth is orotund. So I’m now native to here and there. And as I do, So do the other nomads.
We speak in tales, in memories, and in recounting moments. Although my mother tongue is one, Colloquy spoken and silent, are many. I understand them all, when we meet at points. Words are but just a means. When experiences shared scream louder, One such is my confusion, How are we to be boxed in? By colors painted across flags? Or the colors bourne over my flesh? When I know Earth is round, I revolve to embrace entirety, Impossible to skip even a fleck. And so I live, To make one full circle.
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Georgia McDonald Evolut ion and revolut ion
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part 1 // chapter 1
THE APARTMENT - a novel extract -
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Kiva is running late. It’s no surprise, this happens practically every morning and she feels like the rest of her life should be used to it by now. She can anticipate the feeling of dread when she looks at her alarm clock to see that she’s slept through it once again, and how her head will feel like a ton of bricks when she tries to sit up straight. It’s a wonder she manages to get out of bed at all. But she pushes through it, because she has decided to like living and wants to see what the world has in store for her today. It’s a brand new day so she wants to get up and meet it. That is only one voice in her head, of course. All the other hundreds tell her how soft the bed is and how inviting her dreams are. And they can be very persuasive. But so can the possibility of food,
so Kiva manages to get up and pull some clothes on, the entire time while thinking of the bacon and eggs sitting in her fridge, waiting to be eaten. She tries to rub the sleep out of her eyes and she walks from her bedroom to the small, claustrophobic kitchen only to come to a complete stop in the living room. Josh. He’s lying on the couch, still in a half-buttoned plaid shirt and chinos, out like a light. Who wouldn’t be, at nine o’clock on a Sunday morning? She’d forgotten that he hadn’t made it home last night, because he hadn’t been able to walk straight let alone drive. And she had a place in the city now, and there were certain advantages to that. Kiva suddenly feels the beating drum inside her forehead, the subtle reminder that she too did not have a quiet night. She’s not doing too badly, though, she
reassures herself. At least she’s awake. She doubts that Josh sees a lot of Sunday mornings. However, just as it’s her duty as best friend to take care of him in the worst of times, she is also entitled to annoy him as much as she likes. This is her roof, after all. He must play by her rules. “Ow!” he yells as the cushion hits him square in the face. His eyes squint as he takes in the massive swarm of bright white light and he struggles to sit up despite the monstrous amount of effort he seems to be putting into the action. It doesn’t really surprise Kiva when he rolls off the couch and straight onto the floor with a massive thud. She scoffs and fails to suppress a smile. “Kiva!” Josh yells as Kiva walks through to the kitchen. “Good morning!” Kiva sings as she opens the fridge and stares at its contents. The open bottle of gin is still sitting on the second-top shelf, half its contents now missing. A flash appears in her head, of colourful lights and pulsating strobes and a crowd of dancing people. They did make it to a club last night, Kiva remembers with another ache from her head.
But she tries to push that aside, thinking again of bacon and eggs, and begins the search for the drawer where she decided to put all the pots and pans. It seems to have disappeared. “That was very rude,” Josh says, putting up a chair to the kitchen counter. “What a way to treat your first guest.” “Boo hoo,” Kiva teases. “Next time I’ll make you take a taxi all the way home instead.” “I’m not denying I’m grateful,” Josh says, taking an apple from the fruit bowl and biting into it, “I’m just saying that you could be a little more hospitable.” “Now where’s the fun in that?” Kiva turns the stove on and cracks two eggs into the pan. “And I’d watch my tone, if I were you. I’m about to make you breakfast.” “Did I ever mention you’re my best friend in the whole wide world?” Kiva scoffs. “Perhaps once or twice, last night,” she says. Josh is what they call an affectionate drunk. Kiva can’t even count the number of times that he’s professed his undying love for her and then woken up the next morning having forgotten it all. She’s not complaining, though. 19
She loves Josh and she knows that he loves her, but it’s still nice to hear every once in a while. “Whatever. What do you remember?” he asks. “I’m not filling you in. Figure it out.” “See, there we go again. Plain rude.” But the kind of love that exists between Kiva and Josh isn’t the romantic kind. They’re not dating, and never have, and Kiva figures that she knows too much about Josh to consider that path anymore. They passed the point of no return a long time again and she’s perfectly happy with that. It’s preferable, actually. Most people find it weird when she tries to explain it, but she likes having someone she can tell her secrets to. That’s more than most have, she realises. She’s feeling very lucky and very loved until she remembers why she’s up this early. She immediately abandons the frying pan on the stove and rushes back to her room. “What?” Josh calls out. “What happened to breakfast, Ki?” “I’m late!” she yells, fishing around her room for a jacket, wallet and keys. She silently curses herself for pulling on a 20
pair of pocketless pants. Then again, she can’t remember the last time she bought a pair of women’s pants that actually had pockets. She rushes for the door, not even caring about Josh anymore who stares at her with indignation. “Cook yourself breakfast, okay?” she says to him frantically. “Don’t burn the house down while I’m gone.” Ki stands outside the coffee shop, pacing awkwardly by the door. She’s already run out of time, it’s long gone, but she still doesn’t want to go in. Or maybe she does, but she really can’t make up her mind about it. She’s already gone and agreed to the meeting though, and she can see him sitting inside when she peeks through the front window. She doesn’t want to see him. She’s known this all along, she knew this when she got his call, when he asked if she had time to meet. She should have said she was busy with the apartment. That wouldn’t have been far from the truth, the place is still full of cardboard boxes and packaging peanuts. Josh would probably be making a snow angel out of them by the
time she got back. But she knows why she didn’t say that. She can’t cut off the source that got her the apartment in the first place. It’s the first taste of independence she’s ever really had, and she’s willing to be restrained by a few things if she must. Her father sits at a table for four people, as if out of habit, and hides his face behind a large monochrome newspaper. His fingers move to turn the page and Kiva coughs quietly to get his attention. “Ki!” She can’t really read his emotions. She hasn’t been able to for a while. Right now, she guesses it’s a mix of happiness and uncertainty with a touch of nostalgia. She gives him a hug hello and sits down opposite him. “Hi,” she says. “Sorry I’m late.” “Don’t worry about it,” he says with a wave of the hand. He never would have said that a few years ago. She can remember the countless lectures about punctuality, about respect for the other person and the necessity of sticking to a schedule. But that’s what happens when things change and priorities shift, people start to stop thinking
about getting the little things right anymore. Kiva doesn’t mind. She’s not getting in trouble anymore, and the lectures stopped a long time ago. She sits there drinkless until her father notices and calls a waiter over. He orders for her, something that Josh would like. Kiva’s not a fan of coffee. Her dad should know that. “So how’s the place?” he asks. “Looking good,” Kiva says. “Still got a lot to set up, though. It’s taking a while.” “A place of your own,” her dad says. “Exciting, huh?” “I guess,” Kiva says, because while it is exciting, she’s not going to forget the circumstances that led to her move anytime soon. It’s a weird paradox: she does want to start her next adventure by herself, but hates the thought of leaving her mother behind. She doesn’t try to explain this. “I’ve settled everything with the landlord, the rent shouldn’t be a problem. It’s all set up.” “Thanks, Dad.” The conversation is civil and there’s nothing inherently wrong in their relationship, but Kiva can’t help feeling like something is missing. She never realised it 21
before, but whatever thread tied her to her father snapped a long time ago and whatever she tries, she can’t connect back. Eventually her father leaves and she sits alone at the table, staring out the window at the busy streets of Melbourne. There’s endless chatter that fills the coffee shop and the humming of the machine in the background, but the emptiness that he brought is still there. This emptiness is not hopeful, though. This emptiness is sad.
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BEREFT There she sleeps Ready as a sunflower To awake Good old dog Callous paws, drying Whiskers grey Weathered memories Oh But her bounding heart Like in her youth; ebullient Ready Remembering the tall sky. The sensual aura, Freedom. Trotting behind the big horse. Sharp rocks unforgiving. And dry dirt, of deserted warrens Tempting kangaroos A rabbit! And now Those seventeen years in passing Another day comes One too many, She gets sleepy Asleep again.
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I let my hands touch m y s e l f my stomach back, breasts. running warm skin slipping down like honeysuckle on summer’s first night. what for so long i only thought o t h e r s could claim could approach and take away. eye off, own in their enlarged hands. hands so large they smother every pocket and pore my body is allowed, too large, hands t o o l a r g e . a body i only minimised and hurt and couldn’t touch. even if my brain in its state of altered eternity forgot, muddled, pretended to NOT understand what stranger’s hands that touched meant to my body, that now forever accepts, bows down
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TOO LARGE HANDS to those with no thoughts, no feelings, no trust yet they d a r e d to touch. they don’t deserve what i don’t know. so now somehow, now i TOUCH myself. and own my legs that walk across m o u n t a i n s and arms that comfort those who have also been touched by enlarged hands. and my touch, my s k i n it is my own.
opposite page Emily Rose Andrews Unt it led
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We are, our land This is the day of no days The time of the end Where the past does fend for ways To bury the past Among the graves are grown Men and Women known to none Unknown, alone Buried in the cloak of history But not for me Children’s stolen days apologise For presence, in our eyes The white picket fence Never lies, but grows The mining hoes
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Here is a warrior The she that cannot be Herself, no one else Her blood cries the soil For all, the toil And the fail, safe behind the land Not planned, not rights There are no nights In a land without sun And a son without land Hear then this demand White man in the big house Of cattled coal and wheat We are, our land This is not defeat J O H N PA S S A N T September 2016
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Meat The faded sign read The Valley Butchery and Carvery. “Morning Anton.” “Hi there. You’re here early. Again.” I said. Christine’s dimples deepened. “Thought I would clean up a little before we open up,” she said. I shook my head with a smile and moved into the storeroom. The locker door swung open. I pulled the white apron over my head and fastened it at the back. My reflection told me my beard needed a trim and that the name tag was on upside down. Correcting it, I grabbed a hairnet and stretched it on. Damn hairnets. They make my head feel too small and too heavy. I pressed down on the dispenser. Clear goo dribbled into my hands as they slid over each other. Jim entered and chucked his bag down. “So I was just telling Christine about the dumbass in the Toyota. I’m heading along the main road, comes up right behind me.” He motioned with both hands. “Full on just misses me when he overtakes. I’ll tell ya, I was fuming.” “No one on the roads when I came over,” I said. “Well I’ve never seen anything like it. Not in the Valley anyway, never.” Jim shook his head. “Crazy morning, Anton. Just crazy. I need some water.” “I’ll start without you then,” I said, and walked through the plastic double doors into the coldroom. 28
I pushed back one of the white curtains and strung up a hunk of meat on the hook. Cleaver in hand and carcass in the other, I sliced, sawed and shaped. Hardly any crunch of bone at all. At the day’s end, sweat beaded my brow and underarms and the apron was dirty. * * * Kate smiled and kissed me when I got home. She went to the kitchen to start the meal while I walked down the hall. A laughing bundle of pink fairy wings erupted out of Lydia’s door. I picked her up into a swinging bear hug. “Daddy, guess what me and Sarah did at playgroup today?” Before I could even take breath she went on. “We made a sandcastle and played catch the boys, Tom and Ben screamed and ran it was so fun but now I’m tired.” She rested her forehead against my shoulder. “Sounds like you had a wonderful day.” The drawings she showed me in her scrapbook were a labyrinth of lines and colour. For dinner we had a roast. Lydia watched me as I carved the lamb with a knife. “Daddy, where does meat come from?” “This is a lamb’s leg.” I said, cutting again. She wrinkled her nose. “That’s a real lamb.” “It was, but not anymore. It’s been cooked.” “Dead.” “Yes.” “Would my leg look like that if it was cooked?” “No. Besides, your leg isn’t going to get cooked. Go and help Mummy set the table.” I watched her go into the dining room. Picking up the knife, I sliced into the lamb again. 29
* * * Next morning I drove to the shop later than usual. Sun was up. Ahead there was a build-up of cars. A crash. People were milling about. Someone was crying and others were whispering. One car was completely destroyed, and the other had flipped over several times. There was glass and bits of metal splayed across the road. I got out of the car. Pushing forward, I saw bodies. Blood. A severed leg lay in a pool next to the mangled body. A man knelt over the woman, moaning and shaking her corpse. Other bodies were strewn on the glistening tarmac, and a small girl was stretchered into an ambulance. There was so much blood and guts and death. Out of here. Now. Back in the car I sat breathing. Police were directing traffic along a side street. I turned on the ignition and drove away. * * * My head felt tight with the hairnet on. Fluid drooled out of the dispenser. Jim sawed away at a slab of meat, buzzing loud and fast. He nodded to me. We took the trays to the big freezer. “How was the sleep in?” “Fine, yeah,” I said. He struggled with the frosted iron wheel but the heavy door eventually swung open with a surge of icy air. I went to another table where a big hunk lay. Hooked it. The meat dangled and glistened. I could feel the coolness radiating from it. To the touch it was slimy and cold and my 30
hands slipped. Stepping back, I looked at the red muscle, rills of tendons, and white bone. With the cleaver in my hand I moved in, then stopped. A single drop of blood oozed out of the carcass. It fell to the floor and small red flecks landed on my shoes. My hands felt sticky. I dropped the cleaver and walked away from the swaying flesh. I went to the basin. Water gushed out of the tap hard onto my hands. Red swirled down the drain. It soon became clear, but my hands kept on washing. The dispenser trickled some cold goo and I scrubbed it into my skin. I pressed again, and more leaked out. I stood there for a long time, scrubbing, thinking. Blood, guts, and goo. A water droplet swelled up on the rim of the tap. Finally bloated, it broke off, hitting the basin with a tinny sound. Jim entered the room and looked at me, then down at my hands. I did too. The skin was beginning to tear. It was deep pink, like raw meat.
Dominic Page
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Scratches
I I Dream that I, were in a amphitheatre Or an arena. Of sorts
I guess you could say I’m in a cell But cyclic walls remember themselves And then, as easily Forget . they shriek in pallid and Apocalyptic midnights. And melt ‘You are not dying, dear. Not tonight’ ‘So just close your damned eyes. And sleep...’ I want to contort. And shake. And. eat But the walls - they’re melting.. Tsk tsk tsk tsk I start poems With ‘I’ To reinvent, some kind of ‘faux-depth’ Bubbling and brooding and ‘confessional’ I’ve never even been to Paris FUCK I’M PATHETIC I’m fevering in the light behind your lampshade. Please pull it back. No, i’m not circumcised. So thanks for not asking. I’m firing half-truths from miscellaneous Thoughts that occur to me not.
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-Pantless and disengagedDo I even know what I mean? I stare at you In awe. When amazonian hair Brushes past bespectacled sage-ess (you’re so wise) YOU Are magnanimous and even vague memories and Recollections of half-converted Phrases and Shit french conversations Ground me, and entomb shattered self-indulged Ideals And philosophies. Last night. The romans tore. They ripped and clawed. And they Lamented at my statue. They wanted to forget me. I want to exhume myself from Latin nightmares But staring at the crowd. I was crisped but I was amongst it. Introspection is for faggots And people with too much time on their hands Why don’t people work? Did I mention that The walls were melting? Don’t worry yourself Too much with that -xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx xxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxxx-
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It’s probably just the pills. Now, who wants some tea? Oh, the pills? It’s nothing Quite literally, nothing. The psych said that weren’t necessary But, if i’m going to tell people I see a shrink. It’s always better to add in some mood stabilisers. People like you better when you’re drugged. Also, I don’t really like tea. II I scratch at my stomach and my shoulders now It used to be my inflamed Neck and arms. Underarms - like Rudolphian noses. Bright and so fucking red. Like a Christmas tree. Except we didn’t actually have Christmas trees in my house - or presents for that matter. Fucking asshole twelve year olds. I wake up proud. everyday. that I’m not an alcoholic. Or illiterate. But sex has been superimposed Onto me. I threw up when I fucked twin sisters. But, that could have been the whiskey I worry about vasoconstriction and pulmonary lumps and bumps and twists and reverberating Arterial pathways that twang and echo from my pulsating arms forever out into infinity. I worry about them too much for a twenty-something. They say.
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I love when they say ‘don’t stress’. JUST Close your eyes, deep breath. Breathe in, deeply, and the world will be At peace. Where’s my ‘kumbaya’? I write up obligations and taste bitter grime Every time I close my eyes. I was twelve when I first started silently pacing around my room beneath augmented fluorescence. ‘What’s thirty-six time forty-four, Kain?’ ‘Whatever, three hundred and ninety-six times four is ...’ ‘If you can still do maths, you can’t possibly be having an aneurysm.’ That’s how it works, right? III My psychologist told me From across an inadequately decor-ed room (for $220.50 an hour, I guess I had expected a little better) P.S. I also don’t understand the fee adds fifty cents either. That I will most likely, always inhibit And self-sabotage relationships With girls. Until I Come to terms with ‘childhood stress’ Well, I was the first person to inaugurate him Into my collection of academics revolutionising their field. Ladies, messieurs, a hand? Please? He clearly fucking deserves it. Aside from disjointed half-english phonology and syntax. I’d almost recommend him on. He’s less expensive than above - I just like to make it seem like I have more money than I do. Even if he has an orange and quilted couch.
KAIN O’DEA 35
THE DAY THE RAFT TIPPED Then the raft tipped inside my head. I could almost feel the water that would have been around me and I thought I was going to die. My world went fuzzy and I could no longer stand. I saw my life flash before my eyes and at last, my world went black. “Zara? Zara!” I heard someone yell in the distance. “Mm-hm? Who’s talking to me?” I murmured, slurring my words. “Zara? Can you hear me?” I forced my eyes open. At the moment I could only make out basic shapes, but my surroundings were gradually becoming clearer. Then I realised who was talking to me and that she wasn’t in the distance at all. “Mum? Oh my God, how long have I been out?” Mum sighed and sadly smiled: “24 hours”. My heart skipped a beat. “That’s the longest I’ve been 36
out” I said. I saw tears form in Mum’s eyes, but she quickly batted them away so that I wouldn’t have to see more. “Come on, let’s get you something to eat”, she said, taking a deep breath. But I could barely move. I could barely speak and I could barely see. All I could see was the raft crashing and tipping. *** I tried to eat, but despite Mum practically forcing spaghetti down my throat, I just couldn’t. “Zara, you have to eat something”, she pressed. I continued to stare at my plate and the anxious expression on Mum’s face grew increasingly more anxious. “Just one bite”, she pleaded. “For me”. Her blue eyes looked so grey and desperate that I couldn’t resist her.
“Fine”, I said. “One bite”. I twizzled the spaghetti onto my fork and pushed it inside my mouth. I couldn’t taste it at all; it was like cardboard. But to satisfy my mother, I said: “delicious Mum”. Her eyes lit up. “I’m glad”. I smiled for the first time since before I could remember. Nothing made me happier than seeing Mum happy. “Can I go back to bed now?” It almost pained me to say it. A bit of the light in Mum’s eyes vanished. “Oh, yeah, of course. But Zarabe careful.” A lump formed in my throat. “I will”. *** Today was Monday. I’m 17, but I’ve been out of school for a month. I just couldn’t deal with public places anymore. When I finally got out of bed, I looked at the calendar and noticed that today was the 6-month anniversary of the accident. I immediately slipped into psychosis. I saw that terrible day play out in front of me: me and Dad in the raft, at first slowly paddling, but gradually
growing faster to keep up with the tide, falling down a small waterfall, hitting a rock, tipping over and not knowing where Dad was. This time, I didn’t pass out after the psychosis; I screamed. Then I heard frantic knocking on my door. It was Mum. “What happened?” she said, holding on to body, which was racked with sobbing. Noticing that I was uncontrollable like I never usually am, she put two and two together: “You saw it again, didn’t you?” I didn’t answer; my body had completely shut down. After a few minutes, Mum said, “would you like me to stay here with you?” Finally able to move, I nodded. Mum kissed my forehead. “Okay”, she reassured me. Mum stayed in my room while I slept for 3 hours. When I finally woke, I saw her hold a cup of tea. “For you”, she said kindly. She is the kindest person I know. Even though I don’t drink tea and never have, I accepted and said, “thanks Mum”. “Do you still want me here?” she asked. “Um, no, I think I’ll be okay 37
now. Thank you, though”. She smiled. “That’s what I’m here for”. She began to make her way out of my room. Then she hesitated and turned to walk back to me. She took the calendar off my wall and went with it out of my room. Two years later… Mum and I carry a chrysanthemum each; it was Dad’s favourite flower. Today we’re at the graveyard visiting him, the first time since his funeral. This time I don’t fall apart. After all the years of barely being able to live, I’ve learnt that I have to be strong, if not for my sake, then for mum’s. As I place the chrysanthemum below Dad’s grave, I remember what my life used to be, but realise what my life is now. But although I’ve managed to put most of all the terrible thoughts and memories behind me, every once in a while I’m still haunted by the day the raft tipped.
PHOEBE LUPTON 38
I Rise! –For the sun has soaked the curtains through, splash out through hotel shouts and into Spring which drowns the inner hubbub. Heat burns through sternum tiers and gasoline seeps in, sucked up by children shouting ‘Foreigner!’ There is never enough silence. Sound slides down pubescent buildings and the dampness sends back echoes of antiquity torn up, bones filled with screaming concrete and left breathless below footsteps and burst blossoms II by the corner room, we came back as the sun cried yes – now – no, that was later, and when you woke he was behind me in the glass. I gazed down at you and up four flights of stairs and back through time, twin reflections slid across the bed, he split you open and I shattered at the sight Anna Miley
39
GEORGIE KAMVISSIS
