On Dit Issue 85.10 - Hearsay

Hearsay

Issue 85.10

27

Oc

27 Oct - 3 Nov

Level 4 Hub Central

ber

Procrastination Station

to b e r

TO TAKE A BREAK FROM STUDY BRAIN

Nove m 3 -

~ On Di t ~

Issue contribution dates

Issue 12: October 20

Feel free to email us with your ideas/work at onditmag@gmail.com

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~ On Di t ~

FOREWORD To put words on a page is an extremely powerful thing.

current events.

For the majority of this year, we have been printing

This is a wonderful issue for anyone who shares a

political commentary and general interest stories with

passion for literature; the sheer breadth of content,

the aim of provoking discussion amongst students at this

ranging from romantic era style poetry to dystopian

university. While straightforward, more factual writing

writing on an underemployed populous, shows the overall

is one of the primary means of achieving some form

range that students at our university have for writing.

of a response from readers, the importance of creative

We implore you, dear reader, to take your time to really

writing cannot be overstated. The way in which authors

breathe this issue in and consider what it is that the

weave their words to inspire, to provoke, and to intensify

authors are intending to say through their works.

emotions and reactions is something which is extremely purposeful in this issue.

Creative writing is alive and well at this university.

This year’s edition of Hearsay should serve as a reminder

Creative writing has always served an important

that your peers have a passion for words that stir inside of

purpose for student media and especially On Dit. As one

them. If their words cause this stirring within you, On Dit

of the world’s oldest art forms, literature offers the reader

will always be there for student authors to cut their teeth

a chance to experience alternative perspectives, vivid

in the world of published writing.

imagery, and poignant metaphors within the seemingly limited medium of paper and ink. For the authors, it

Your words are powerful,

offers them all a chance to share their perspectives on the world around us or perhaps to infer their commentary on

On Dit

OUTSTANDING QUALITY PRINTERS FOR ALL YOUR BUSINESS NEEDS For all your Limited Edition Prints, Brochures & Catalogues, Booklets & Flyers, Books, Magazines, Calendars, Postcards, Stationery, Self-adhesive Stickers, Packaging, Posters & Point of Sale…

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~ On Di t ~

On Dit

Contents Short Stories

Editors Tom Haskell, Jesse Davidson, & Jennifer

The Lady Who Walks

6

A Dance With You

10

Free As A Bird

14

Work

20

Winter Sea

24

For The Next One

26

Nguyen Cover Art Merrick Liao Designers Jesse Davidson and Tom Haskell Contact ondit@adelaide.edu.au

Poetry

Sunburn

32

Love Poems (Under Sirius)

34

21 Years / 7 Days / 3 Seconds

36

Owl Kingdom

38

F is a Passing Grade

39

Effeuiller la Marguarite

40

Southern Cross

42

Always

44

Friction

46

Undisclosed Bidder

47

To a Fruit Forbidden

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We r e c o g n i s e t h a t t h e K a u r n a Pe o p l e are the traditional land-owners and custodians of the Adelaide plains Ngaldu tampinthi Kaurna miyurna yarta mathanya Wa m a Ta r n t a n y a k u

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~ Ad vert i seme nt ~

Meet the Union’s 2017 Student Experience Directors!

The Student Experience Director programme gives students a chance to work with the Union’s Events and Marketing Departments to gain hands on experience in the industry. It involves one-on-one mentoring opportunities, a series of industry based workshops and a chance to shape campus culture at the University of Adelaide. Applications for the 2018 programme are now open – find out more at auu.org.au/SED

Connie Media & Marketing 1. Professional puppy cuddler. But alas, I’m studying Media.

2. Definitely naps. You convince yourself that you’re doing future you a favour, but really you’re not…

3. Travel, and also fly my mum and I to Vietnam because she hasn’t been to her hometown in 10 years – I think she really misses it.

4. Getting to be one of the stage managers at O’Week with Lucy!

Ying English & Creative Writing 1. Getting paid to travel, write, eat, sing, act…

2. Make a list of things to do, and then lose the list. Make another, but don’t follow it.

3. Pay my debts and invest.

4. Being able to help others.

~ Ad vert i seme nt ~

1. What’s your dream job?

2. Number one way to procrastinate.

3. If I won a million dollars I would….

4. Highlight of being a Student Experience Director.

Lucy Law, International Studies & French 1. I’d love to work for UNICEF or a similar organisation as a project manager.

2. Ahh, it’s so cliché but I like baking. Last week I baked vegan apple and oat cookies just because I had a test I was supposed to be revising for.

3. Pay for a financial adviser! And buy a banjolele.

4. Definitely being stage director at O’Week with Connie! I also loved gaining skills from the industry workshops, and all the free food!

Sarah Law & Innovation 1. Can I say puppy cuddler?!

2. Procrasti-baking!

3. Invest, plus see what I can do to help others.

4. I can’t pick one! Working with everyone in the team, helping come up with the idea for Native Food Market and getting to see that idea come to life, and doing social media during O’Week.

Greg Computer Science 1. Adam and Jamie’s job – MythBusters!

2. Get a medical certificate and apply for an extension….

3. I would take my mum to travel the world, and donate the rest.

4. Working with amazing people.

Apply now: auu.org.au/SED

~ On Di t ~

The Lady Who Walks written by Ann Jackson

I was never particularly nice to my mother. I guess I found it hard to forgive her for being Chinese. We lived together with my dad, who never saw a foreign shore in his life, in a flat that was really only meant for two people.

I’m not sure exactly when the walking started. It was just something that happened naturally, like fruit coming into season. Ma would be up at six thirty and out the door in ten minutes. I knew because the walls were so thin you could always tell what everyone else was up to. After I heard the front door click shut, sometimes I would push the curtain aside and watch as she set off down the street.

These days when I think about Ma, the funny thing is that I can’t picture her face properly.

But I can see her tiny figure as she marches down the footpath, pumping her arms back and forth with a fierce determination. *** One morning — I reckon I must’ve been eight or so — a boy came and spoke to me at recess. “That lady who walks all the time, she’s your mum, right?” When I didn’t reply he went on: “My uncle saw her this morning.”

I said: “Is he okay? He’d better wash his eyes out quick!”

That was the first time I’d ever gotten a laugh out of my classmates. It gave me a warm shiver in my belly.

That very same day, a girl I’d never spoken to sat next to me at lunch. She had a brown ponytail and freckles on her nose. She told me I was lucky, being able to eat Chinese food whenever I wanted. I wasn’t sure how to reply to that so I offered her some of my chicken rice instead and we ended up trading lunches.

When I got home I told Dad I’d made a new friend. I pretended it was no big deal but he could tell how pleased I was. Ma was busy in the kitchen and I didn’t think she’d even heard.

But at dinnertime when she clunked the bowl down in front of me, there was an extra fried egg sitting on top of my noodles.

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~ On Di t ~

*** I was ten when I first joined Ma for one of her walks. I remember because that year she’d insisted on a big birthday celebration, as if reaching double digits was some kind of momentous occasion. This particular morning Dad urged me to tag along with her. “Go on. She’d be stoked,” he said. It wasn’t exactly my idea of a morning pick-me-up. But for once I didn’t whinge, just slipped on a pair of thongs and followed Ma out the door, slapping away flies.

It was the middle of summer and even at this hour, the air was warm and sluggish. My shirt was sticky with sweat and I knew my ears were bright red.

This was the first time I’d walked Ma’s route: past the IGA, through the park, around the school and back again. I must’ve been afraid someone would see us together as we passed the school, because I began talking to Ma in a short, stiff manner so as to not appear too close. She didn’t seem to notice.

We’d just reached the park when Ma grabbed my arm with a gasp. “Lu, look!”

I looked. A fly was tickling the back of my neck and Ma’s fingers were pressing into my arm.

She was pointing to a cluster of small red apples, smiling like she’d stumbled across some buried treasure. Before I could say anything, she began to rip the fruit off the branch and stash them in the green recyclable bag she was carrying.

The fly buzzed in my ear, making me jump violently. “Ma,” I hissed, glancing up and down the street to make sure no-one was around. “Are you sure that’s allowed?”

Ma shrugged and reached for another apple. “But no-one has taken them. They’ll be wasted.”

Maybe it was the heat — I’ve never had much of a tolerance for hot weather — but, all of a sudden, I felt hugely irritated with Ma. “Stop it!” I pushed the bag out of her hand. Apples rolled across the dirt. Ma squinted at me for a moment, as if I were an odd word she couldn’t quite figure out. Then she shook her head and made a clucking noise — like I was the one who was loopy — and squatted to gather the fallen apples.

I hesitated. I think I’d expected her to snap back at me or something. But now there was no easy way to make things right. I muttered something about heading home. The words dangled stupidly in the air, and after a few seconds I marched off.

When I reached the edge of the park I looked back. Ma was down on all fours, snatching up the dusty apples and shovelling them into that old green bag as if her life depended on it. *** One morning I woke up and there was no porridge waiting. Dad made Vegemite on toast. It tasted dry and stuck in my throat. Dad said he’d wait a couple more minutes then take the car out to look for Ma. He told me not to worry.

When the phone rang he leapt up like he’d been shot. Only once we were heading down the road did Dad tell me that Ma had tried to enter someone else’s flat. “Maybe it looked sort of like ours,” I said, and mumbled something about having seen plenty of dingy white buildings around. It was the first time I’d heard of Ma being, you know, not quite right up there. So I wasn’t exactly sure what to say.

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~ On Di t ~

When we got to the police station Ma was smaller than I remembered, like she’d shrunk into herself. There was a trickle of dried blood from her nostril. The cop was chewing gum. He said Ma had become violent when he’d tried to get her to leave the block of flats. It seemed unbelievable. Dad was the one who smacked me when I was mucking about. I’d never even seen Ma hit a fly with a rolled-up newspaper. *** Dad said one of us had to accompany Ma every time she left the house. On Saturdays, that unlucky person was me. I set my alarm to six. If Ma went off by herself, Dad would yell at me later. It was like the more patience he spent on her, the less was left for me.

When Ma saw me coming her face lit up with a smile. She kept patting my arm with her small hand as we trudged down the footpath. “Lu,” she’d say, “look at that lovely big fruit. Like youzi. You know youzi? Can feed a whole family.”

I spoke as little as possible. I guess I was still a bit scared that somebody might see us together. At first Ma didn’t seem to mind, but slowly, our conversations shrivelled and died. She still liked to point things out — maybe an early plum blossom, or a blackbird startled into flight — but it was as if she’d lost the words to say how beautiful they were. And for me, it seemed like far too much effort to do anything other than nod and keep walking.

Dad was awfully patient with Ma, always ready with a smile and the old dictionary so she could point to the words she couldn’t pronounce. Somehow he managed to figure out exactly what she wanted each time; I never bothered.

It took me several months to realise she’d stopped talking altogether. I’m not proud of it. I assumed Ma had simply accepted that I wasn’t interested in making conversation. It was only when she began to speak Chinese that I realised just how much her English had been chewed away.

I suppose I should make it clear that Ma had never spoken to me in Chinese before. Dad said it was because she’d wanted me to speak English like a native. Of course, I’d heard the rapid-fire string of swear words that spilled out when she broke a plate or burned herself on the kettle, so I wasn’t completely ignorant of the language. But the first time she turned to me and spoke in Chinese, the best reply I could give her was a blank stare.

Dad bought me a couple of textbooks but I never found the time to get very far. Weeks bled into months. Ma would step outside with dried porridge crusted on her upper lip and her shoelaces undone. When I bent down to help her, I could smell her stale sweat — she’d forgotten to wash again.

She would often reach a corner and head down the wrong street without the slightest hesitation. On the particular morning I’m thinking of, we’d just circled the primary school when she paused at the edge of the park. When I pointed her in the right direction she nodded and said something to me in Chinese.

It took a few moments to register. I knew very little of the language, but the words were straight off the first page of the textbook. The translation: “Thank you, miss.” And underneath, in fine black print: Used to address a stranger.

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~ On Di t ~

*** The year I turned thirteen, Ma stopped walking.

She slept a lot and when she woke she was always irritable, so I preferred it when she was asleep. If there were roadworks in the street or the neighbours were having a party we would suddenly hear this bellowing, and Dad would jump out of his seat and run to Ma’s room. Only he could calm her down. Afterwards he’d apologise to the neighbours, as if what Ma did were his fault.

We never talked much about our feelings, but I could tell Dad was pretty cut up about everything that happened to Ma. After she passed he kind of let himself go. It was like he’d been holding together all these years for her sake. Dad’s sister Julie moved in to give us a hand. She had a prickly temper, but she could tell when I needed space and knew how to cook a fine roast lamb.

By then I was in high school so it was a while before I went back to the park and saw that the apple tree — you know, the one Ma’d been nicking fruit from — wasn’t there anymore.

Maybe it’d been pulled out or maybe it just died, I don’t know. But it was a bit of a shock. It kind of made me realise that Ma was gone. Like, really gone. *** Sometimes I jolt awake at six. It’s actually a bit creepy. Not that I believe Ma’s spirit is hanging about or anything like that. Still, I pull on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt and head off into the cold crisp morning.

I take Ma’s route just out of habit. The IGA’s bigger now. There’s a bunch of new shops, with some of the stuff you could only buy at the city market before. They’ve even got sticky rice cakes out for the New Year. I picked up a packet the other day, thinking I’d share them with Julie and Dad. I’d just stashed them in one of my bags along with the dried noodles and the rest of the groceries when I heard a woman say: “Look, isn’t that her? You know, the lady who walks in the mornings.” My bags fell with a thump; one of them burst open and apples tumbled across the floor. I scanned the aisles desperately for the shrunken form of my mother. Finally I caught sight of the woman who’d spoken and realised she’d been pointing at me.

My ears burned with embarrassment but I managed a smile. She came over to help me gather the bruised apples. Together we knelt on the floor and packed them into my bag — gently, as if each one was a treasure.

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~ On Di t ~

A Dance With You Story by Banjo Weatherald

The first conversation began uncomfortably. Tanya walked into the restaurant to see Harrison making an origami flower with a napkin; she guessed he had been waiting for some time but he insisted that he had only just arrived.

Harrison said the word excited twice and the word glad three times and mentioned Kerouac’s name twice (once in vain). Tanya said the word childhood three times, the word sorry four times and integrity and feet both three times.

They drank wine and pizza was served. Then the conversation went more easily. Harrison made a joke in Spanish about the ophthalmologist conference he had just returned from and Tanya laughed. They both managed to say

mother five times. The word holiday was used six times, four times by Harrison,

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~ On Di t ~

and between them they used the word love fifteen times, but not once in a romantic sense.

When the waiter topped their glasses up the conversation fell silent. Tanya chewed on a piece of pizza whilst wondering about the recent protests in Algiers and then Harrison said the word disappointed once and deceived twice and the word apology four times, and for the rest of that moment their gaze avoided one another. Outside, oblique rain pushed against the windows and a red umbrella tumbled along the oil-slicked road.

Tanya excused herself for a moment. And sitting alone, Harrison thought that perhaps her clairvoyant eyes might have many years earlier fooled him.

Although she had not changed, she spoke differently, not different in word choice, but it was something to do with her tone or punctuation, commas he thought, that’s what it is, more commas. When she returned, he forgot that thought immediately and filled her glass up with more wine. Feeling as if he was losing command over his thoughts, Harrison remembered that they were just getting pizza. Tanya was drinking quickly and Harrison watched her lips move and wondered if they had changed. Do lips change? They were softer, less defined, and he wanted to say something about them and about the past and about their soft red peaks, but then he felt somewhat ashamed and tried to find a word: Nostalgia, Broken, Friendship. Yes, he thought, Friendship, that is it and forgave himself. Besides, he thought, a comment about her lips might have led the conversation towards flattery, which was a good thing. The word

lips were never mentioned.

Tanya was looking at the ceiling and wondered how old it was and wanted to say something about it, but how irritating it would be if she said something as trivial as, the age of this ceiling and so and so. So rather, she said a sentence that contained the word crepuscular , and then she thought how pretentious it was of her to use such elaborate language to discuss her family paddock at dawn.

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She could have just said something about milking cows and how hard the work was on her fathers back. However, the word crepuscular reminded Harrison of something, perhaps he had heard it in a news article about nocturnal animals, he nodded his head, or perhaps a recent train trip, he wasn’t sure. Tanya’s lips kept moving even when the words ended and this reminded Harrison that his psychiatrist had asked him to have soft hands in nervous situations, like a cricket player, his psychiatrist would tell him, but he felt this was much more like tennis and he needed a racquet. The fork in his hand would not do.

He began to sweat a little from his forehead. Was pizza with an old friend foolish, he thought, especially with all that rain coming down? Then, he thought that intimacy was the reason he was here in the first place or at least some abstract idea of connection which was as equally as confusing as love but love for some reason seemed to be more tangible than intimacy. Had he deceived her? What a fool I am, he thought, a confused fool. He couldn’t remember why he was sitting with her at that exact moment, if intimacy had nothing to do with it, it was friendship he whispered. Then Tanya said the word fate and that was followed by an explanation of the principle of evidential existentiality and something to do with desire and the bizarre mating strategies of dung beetles.

Both Tanya and Harrison couldn’t agree at all about anything at first, then as if there was some divine synchronistic they couldn’t disagree, so they settled the matter; marking a partner with a the smell of dung was a short term and a long term mating strategy.

They drank more wine and the words Civil and War were said by both of them with a giggle and the city of Saint Petersburg was mentioned six times and the word dysentery eight times and mountains twice (once in reference to New Zealand). By this stage they were both laughing. Tanya took off her Kashmir cardigan and spoke of the Hungarian Dance Academy and of her first

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~ On Di t ~

performance as Odette, and pulled off one of her socks and threw her bloody foot onto the table. People turned and the words dear me and oh god and Christ were muttered. In this moment Harrison could have dropped dramatically to the carpet and opened his arms with his tongue dangling out and perhaps Tanya might have said the word Matador. Tanya moved her arms about, saying the word allegro nine times and bravura four.

Maybe if we kiss he might just disappear, she thought, and then I could breathe. But she didn’t want to breathe or for him to disappear at all. She wanted to be lost in him, or for him to be lost in her or to run from him and with him but all this was impossible. It made no sense. No matter how hard you try, she thought, you cannot stop the spin of the world.

Harrison shouted abruptly allegro once piercing candle light silence and

bravura was said twice and he spooned chocolate gelato into his mouth and said the word amblyopia three times and cornea eight times. Tanya stood up, she said she wanted to feel the rain and for them both of them to leave immediately.

They bought some more wine and walked along the main street, the VĂĄci Utca and found a bench beneath a dead tree and the river was black with plastic bottles chased drunks on boats were singing, and then the fireworks began dissecting the sky and Tanya whispered the word tomorrow once and then said the word maybe but then Harrison said the word flamingo or that he would like to dance flamenco. The second conversation had begun.

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~ On Di t ~

FREE AS A BIRD written by Linda Shmith

‘My grandfather was a signalman in the First World War and used pigeons to send messages,’ said Neil.

‘Really? How did that work?’ said Gary.

‘They carried pigeons in baskets on their back, put the message in a small canister and strapped it to the bird’s leg. They’d release them in pairs and hope that the Germans didn’t shoot them or the hawks attack; the hawks were trained to attack. When they arrived ‘home’ a bell rang and the message retrieved, decoded and sent to the right person’.

Neil and Gary met at High School and made a point of catching up for the ANZAC Day match at the MCG. Gary flew in from Adelaide and they met outside Gate 2 before making their way to their fold-down seats. Neil always had a Camel lit. He had shorn grey hair and yellow teeth from years of smoking. He managed a paint store two cans of VB from home, married late in life and now had a teenage stepdaughter who talked back. Gary wasn’t a smoker but usually stayed until last drinks. He ran his own business and had travelled overseas regularly for the past 35 years. He didn’t care that his team wasn’t playing. He just loved footy, his friends, and being at the MCG. His father was a compositor for Citadel Press and worked at a function room on Saturdays to make ends meet.

Gary’s first-born was the catalyst to put his and her name on the MCC waiting list. She learnt to sing ‘It’s a Grand ol’ Flag’ before ‘Twinkle Twinkle’ and now they go to the Grand Final together.

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Gary and Neil had arrived in time to watch the commemorative celebrations where the pigeons and seagulls were still freely strutting and pecking unaware of the ensuing battle. They stood for the last post and the minute silence held.

‘Where was he posted?’ asked Gary.

The siren blared and the balled bounced, the battle had begun.

‘He was shipped to St Yves, Belgium, 3rd Division late 1916. My grandfather told me about using a camera with pigeons to get photos of the Germans’ location and numbers,’ said Neil ‘That’s crazy,’ said Gary.

‘Yeah, that nearly got my grandfather caught. Dedicated snipers were watching for pigeons and projecting back to release locations. It may have been the reason for the pre-empted gassing in the Wood, who knows.’

There was a clash of bodies high in the air and then stumbling, fumbling and running. The action was fierce and fast, one way then another, ‘go Pies, come on you Bombers, Goooooooo………, what was that for you white maggot?’ and ‘baaaaaalllllll’, the all-encompassing growl from the bleachers. Enormous flags waved side to side behind the sticks and the roar was deafening as the umpires signalled a goal.

The offensive was planned for June 7th 1917. They had miners from Australia, Britain and Canada tunnelling for two years, heading for the German frontline.

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The plan was to pack them with explosives and detonate at 3:10am to gain control of Messines Ridge. The Germans knew something was about to happen and at 11pm on the 6th June, shelled the Wood, a critical location killing a mass of Allied troops. If the shrapnel didn’t hit you the gas would kill you, or worse.

The pigeons moved out of the way as the action approached. Sometimes they ran, other times flew a little way and if the action kept coming, flew up high but this time a bird got smacked by the ball and the stadium heaved ‘ooooooohhhh’. The bird somersaulted in mid-air and dropped to the ground. He was on the fifty-metre line so the umpire blew his whistle to stop play.

‘Who’s responsible for the wildlife?’ said Neil.

The umpire cleared the area for security to collect the bird but after about a minute, it fluttered, flipped and stood on its wobbly red legs. The pink and green opalescence flickered around its neck as the Egyptian head movement commenced and it flew off to the cheer of one hundred thousand fans.

The focus now was on surviving the next four hours. If the armies weren’t in place for the offensive, the whole mission would fail. It was a hot steamy night and the gas masks made it harder to see. They had box-respirators strapped to their chests, ammunition, guns and some carried equipment. There were fumes and dust and officers had to remove their masks to direct troops and keep their regiments together. The gas shells kept on coming, whirring and whining before exploding.

Men were falling and those that could, continued to the trenches. At 3:09am the men were on high alert. They were waiting for the rumbling explosion to tell them that the battle had begun. My grandfather told me there was an almighty burst of flames and dirt that shot up into the night sky and showered back to earth. They knew that thousands of Germans had been wiped out. At daybreak he released several pigeons with news of the shelling and casualties. Which reminds me; King George used pigeons to get updates back to Sandringham,’ said Neil

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Half time at the footy, Gary and Neil stood up.

‘Pie?’ said Gary.

‘Yeah, that might warm me up,’ said Neil.

Several people squeezed past Neil after Gary left to get food and the kid behind him started kicking the seat. Neil put up with it expecting the dad to say something but soon turned to the kid and said ‘please stop’.

The dad, hearing this chimed in ‘stop that Luke’.

‘Collingwood’s looking good,’ said Gary as he handed the pie to Neil.

‘Cheers,’ said Neil ‘Yeah, bugger.’

‘I thought pigeons were a pest, don’t they call them the rats of the sky?’ said Gary ‘The façade of city buildings are similar to the rock cliffs that pigeons originally inhabited. In the city they’ve got a better supply of food and less hawks so as far as pigeons are concerned, a city is the place to be,’ said Neil.

‘What about, Trafalgar Square and that Square in Venice, they’re covered in pigeons, not to mention pigeon shit’ said Gary.

‘Imagine throwing birdseed?’ said Neil.

‘Gross,’ said Gary.

‘People seem to fancy pigeons, sorry about the pun,’ said Neil.

‘They took them when they moved to another country, put them into dovecotes farmed them for meat and now people race them. Have you ever really looked at them?’ said Neil.

‘Was he wounded?’ said Gary.

‘One that was noticeable. His folks gave him a ring when he enlisted and it got caught on a hook as he jumped out the back of a truck and ripped his finger off.

That was before he got to the front line. There were a few flesh wounds from hot bullets but lucky really, not that he told me everything. Saw a documentary the other night, some archaeologists found remains and belongings in a trench near Messines Village after all these years, Private Mather, I think, got him on display in a museum in Singleton,’ said Neil.

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‘Coooooooollingwooooood!’ echoed around the ground.

‘Who’s down?’ said Neil.

‘I think it’s Collingwood’s Ruckman - here comes the stretcher. I can’t watch when their leg goes the wrong way,’ said Gary.

The ANZAC Day medal is awarded to the best on-ground player that displays the ANZAC spirit. The splatter of red and black Essendon players were standing, crouching and wandering in a contained area nearby but distinct from Collingwood.

There was mainly red and black movement down the veins of the stands as Essendon supporters filed out. The medal was awarded to the Collingwood halfback Flanker who continually repelled the Essendon Bomber’s advances.

They left their seats to the chorus of ‘Good ol’ Collingwood forever‘ and walked through the parklands towards the city.

‘You’ve heard of the Victoria Cross?’ said Neil.

‘Yep,’ said Gary.

‘Well there was an animal equivalent in the war and in World War Two, the Dickin Medal was created by a woman in Britain, Mrs Dickin. Animals were part of the infantry. You would have heard of Simpson and his donkey? Well they used dogs as well. There are memorials to animals that served in the war all around the world, like Hyde Park, London. I don’t know if we’ve got one in Australia,’ said Neil.

My grandfather told me that Australian pigeons got medals in the Second World War but Cher Ami was famous in World War One for helping a group of American soldiers get a message to their army who were firing on them. Cher Ami got hit by a sniper, recovered to deliver the message but was covered in blood when he arrived. They saved him but he lost a leg. After he died they stuffed him and he’s in the Smithsonian in Washington with the French medal Croix de Guerre. The French were very grateful to the Americans,’ said Neil.

‘Never heard of that,’ said Gary.

‘In the Second World War, the Australian pigeons were useful for getting messages over mountains and sections of ocean where radio communication wasn’t.

One Australian pigeon, DD battled a tropical storm to get ‘home’ delivering the location of the ship. This saved the ship, crew and cargo. The Australian War Museum has the two-awarded pigeons and some others. They’ve got their own

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enlistment number,’ said Neil ‘We had a relative that ended up in Changi as a P.O.W.,’ said Gary ‘I remember mum saying she wasn’t allowed to walk behind him. He enlisted probably never left the country town he was born in – of course everyone knew if you weren’t helping out. Anyway, the poor bastard shot himself after being home for about six months. His gravestone has the rising sun symbol.’

‘It’s a mongrel of a thing,’ said Neil ‘Young and Jackson?’ said Gary and they bantered about the football and their families walking through the parklands.

Sitting side on to the life size nude of Chloe they began to plan the next football weekend and discuss their hopes for their teams.

‘Any games for the Dees in Adelaide?’ said Neil ‘Yeah one, August,’ said Gary ‘You’re looking good again this year,’ said Gary ‘we’re fucked as usual.’

Neil held the frothy cold beer in his right hand, lifted it to his lips as his blue eyes crinkled a smile, tipped back his head and the blue rubber bracelet appeared on his tanned hairless wrist.

It read LEST WE FORGET.

REFERENCES: 1.

http://www.army.gov.au/Our-history/History-in-Focus/The-Battle-of-Messines-1917

2

Humphries, Courtney. Superdoves. HarperCollins Publishers New York 2008

3

Allsop, Nigel. Animals in Combat. New Holland Publishers Chatswood, NSW 2014

4

http://www.telegraph.co.uk/history/world-war-one/10566025/Honoured-the-WW1-pigeons-who-earned-their- wings.html

5

www.rpra.org/pigeon-history/pigeons-in -war (Story of DD- Australian Army Signal Corps)

6 www.homeofheroes.com/wings/part1/36-cherami.html 7

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Anzac_Day_clash (Medal)

8

www.awm.gov.au/blog/2008/03/12/animals-in-war (stuffed pigeons in war museum)

21

~ On Di t ~

Work Story by Katie-Jane Nance

Just like a sleeping cat next to a sunny window, Ravethi’s Sunday mornings could remain almost motionless. She had trained herself to stillness so as to capture each, single, simple moment of Sunday mornings. This was because Ravethi knew that the tension of Sunday afternoons began to tease and prickle around lunch-time, just as the morning tip-toed away.

Then, by late Sunday afternoon her mood circulated steadily downward into melancholy just before slipping into fear. And by dinnertime her thoughts turned into a stinging halo of dread about what Monday morning would bring.

Most Monday mornings Ravethi and her younger sister made their way into the city to be allocated work for the week. Monday mornings did not unfold gently like Sundays did.

Monday mornings burst forth with orchestrated precision and adherence to ritual. A level of commitment that would render any Hasidic Jew shamed.

The sisters would rise, take turns to shower and assess the choices in their arsenal. Their finest creams, serums, luminisers, lash extenders, parfums and powders considered against the effects of nocturnal stresses on their faces. The weather man was consulted and the chance of rain, humidity, wind and UV all weighed against the promises that Estee Lauder made. Hair was, straightened, plucked, sprayed and cursed. Sleep lines and blemishes abused with the vehemence of a road-rage enthusiast.

When they were coiffed and suited the younger sister would commence her mandatory appraisal of them both. As the younger of the two her twenty-twenty eyes were more reliable and so she was charged with the Mandatory Monday Morning Inspection. Part of the inspection required the younger sister to embrace Ravethi, not to console or to nurture but to ensure that her sister’s body was sweet both to touch and to smell. This ritual guaranteed no hint of last night’s Biryani, monthly menses, or any other bodily function would be

22

~ On Di t ~

detected by the time they left the house. Finally, elegant suits were assessed under a handheld magnifying glass. Every inch scanned. The magnifying glass moved slowly across a taught skirt or lapel like a magician’s wand; revealing something surprising and hidden.

The magnifier once belonged to their grandfather, Oswald. Oswald used it to read his daily broadsheet. His old eyes needed the glass to alert him to News of the World, Local News, the field in race five at Randwick, and if his dahlias would need watering by hand on the weekend. That was a time when work was for all, education less so and magnifying glasses weren’t needed to shield one against fear. Though now the magnifier was tasked with finding lint that may prove imperfection on a sister, or worse. The magnifier searched out tiny bugs that could easily trigger a cascade of shrieking sirens if not found and removed before the sisters boarded the Free Workers Tram which would swift them to the City and through the waiting, open doors of the Careers Hall.

Ravethi alighted the tram ahead of her sister on this particular Monday morning. She stepped out onto the concourse of the Careers Hall to join the throng. Three thousand groomed, educated, expectant workers. Ravethi let go of the passenger rail and moved away from the Free Workers Tram. Her hand was moist. She silently wondered if it was her sweat or that of another worker who groped the cool rail to steady their own fermenting anxiety before she did. Ravethi slowed down and observed her palm. The perspiration shimmered gold and bronze as the overhead lighting caught on the damp road map of her hand. To remedy this she lifted her hand, pursed her two, pillowed bows the colour of shame and blew softly toward the glistening shadow in her palm. Her breath was cool and dry but it did not help. Noticing that her sister had moved ahead of her, Ravethi quickened her own steps.

There were so many workers around Ravethi, it was impossible to tell that she had changed her pace, though her warm, moist palm was cause for concern.

Ravethi fell in step with her sister and in less than five minutes they were side by side in a line of forty-eight others. The tips of each shoe met the edge of a white line on which they stood and waited. All four-hundred and eighty toes encased in pairs of polished perfection, kissed the very edge of the three-inch white line down the length of the row.

Then at 8.05am the Agents rose stiffly from where they were seated at the far end of each row of workers. The way in which an Agent moved gave the impression that one shoe had wheels on the sole, so that as he walked there was a rhythm to his gait but not evenness; one leg walked and the other appeared to glide.

The workers were immaculate and expectant. Some eyes were able to follow their Agent; most stared into the back of the head in front of them. The Agent for Ravethi’s line adjusted his ear piece and moved towards his pool of temporary workers.

There were one-hundred and ten centimetres between each line of workers. Just enough space for an Agent to move down past his row of forty-eight workers without affecting the

23

~ On Di t ~

line in front or behind him. He stopped in front of his first worker. A woman in her early twenties.

“Name?” The Agent appraised her steadily. It was a question he had asked, though the inflection of his intonation did not rise. His voice, lacking cadence, remained as even as his gaze.

“Emily”, responded the young woman softly.

“Age and education?” The Agent maintained his gaze.

“Twenty. I’m Twenty years old. Law.” Emily whispered.

The sisters were a dozen workers away from the young woman. They could hear her whispers. They did not look at each other but each sister knew that whispers did not bode well for young Emily.

The Agent tapped his ear piece and waited.

“Laundry. Hospital. West”. The Agent was able deliver the allocation without mirth, irony, humour or sympathy.

He turned and took a single step to stand directly in front of the second worker. Emily turned and walked away, headed for the western Free Workers Tram, for the Hospital, and her week in the Laundry.

“Name?” asked the Agent for the second time that Monday morning.

“Mo” offered the next worker. “Surgeon. Fifty-six years old”.

“Mo, why aren’t you lined up with the medical and specialists workers?”

Mo’s chest deflated so that he slumped onto the waistband of his trousers. The Agent, still facing him, posed the question again.

“Mo, why aren’t you lined up with the medical and specialists workers?”

Mo raised his arms so that his hands were at chest height. His hands were small. Small man’s hands. They were delicate; if not attached to his arms you could easily mistake them for belonging to a female many years younger than he. The hands trembled. The Agent stared.

“Assessment”, said the Agent and Mo and his small hands moved off towards the buses at the far end of the Careers Hall.

The Agent continued to move down his line of workers making his allocations. Some workers were happy, some were not. Though you probably could not tell by looking. Many workers would be back again in a week’s time. Some would be offered contracts. One, out of a thousand of them, may even be made permanent this week. Maybe.

The Agent reached Ravethi’s sister, Simmi. To say Simmi knew the procedure well was to sorely understate the matter. She had graduated ten years ago and in that time had held

24

~ On Di t ~

just one, twelve-month work contract. Since then she had endured the weekly Monday allocation performance. There had been the occasional three-month contract of work but nothing long-term and certainly nothing permanent.

“Name?” The Agent was able to execute such sameness in his manner to each worker.

Simmi had seen and heard it over and over again. The Agents were all alike and Simmi had seen hundreds of them.

“Simmi. Thirty years old. Bachelor of Commerce”.

The Agent waited. “Banking. East”.

Simmi’s eyes met the Agent’s. His were motionless and glassy. Bright, glassy bulbs with perfect, intricate detail in his silken, blue iris. They were glassy, but you could never describe them as cold. Simmi sensed a blankness in them though. When she looked at his face she felt she was looking at a life-sized bird with human eye-balls.

Before she fell out of the line Simmi extended the index finger on her left hand so that she could momentarily touch her sister who stood perfectly still and perfectly turned-out beside her. As her finger extended the other fingers on her hand curled to greet her palm.

It was a small gesture which only the Agent saw. He remained fixed on Simmi though one of his eyes, just one eye, looked down toward her left hip where her hand had moved from, while his other eye—quite independently—held Simmi’s stare. In a moment, a blink of her own eye, she had moved out of the line and her hand had relaxed.

Both of the Agent’s eyes, now in unison, looked ahead. He moved a single stride down the row and stopped in front of Ravethi. At Ravethi he turned his head fully to his right and looked up at the long, opaque window on the mezzanine of the Careers Hall. The window was milky-glass and it gave the impression that the entire first floor of the Careers Hall suffered from a cataract. He gently grasped Ravethi’s arm and pulled her a single step forward and used his hand to pivot her so that she too faced the mezzanine window.

The Agent’s hand felt cold on Ravethi’s back. Despite the cool, hard hand, she could feel perspiration draw to the surface of her skin. She knew that there would be a blemish on her silk shirt right there in the small of her back where the Agent’s hand had rested. They both paused. The Agent listened to his earpiece and then he motioned Ravethi back into her position on the white line.

“Name?”

“Ravethi. Thirty-six years old. Double degree. Sustainability and Economics”.

The Agent lingered momentarily and then served the allocation. “Companion”, he said.

Ravethi fell out of line and headed for the stairs underneath the mezzanine.

25

~ On Di t ~

WINTER SEA ~ Words by Banjo Weatherald Art by Jesse Davidson

You say you don’t know how you feel anymore. My response is mostly heartbeat. You don’t know what has changed or it’s just hard to tell someone that you want to return to the surface. I was thinking we were going to build Atlantis together.

You know, a world of

coral and pearl. I don’t know if you felt like you were drowning or if you were drowning. I had my doubts too, normal I thought, things we could get through. And now I am worried that it was all a fantasy. And I am worried because how did I not know? Is what I have now no more real than what we had? I shouldn’t start a chain of unanswerable questions because in that time in my kitchen I have to start living again. So today I am spring-cleaning: sorting books, baking bread and there is pumpkin soup on the stove. And although it is still too cold I am going to plant Bush Beans and Painted Mountain Corn. They’ll be ripe by Christmas and I wonder if by then I will still be dreaming of a Life undersea.

26

~ On Di t ~

27

For the Next One written by Jordan Vihermaki

Trudging through that frozen landscape, it taking all of my energy to put one foot in front of the other, my memories had blended into one amorphous mess.

They came in strange shifts and bursts, forgotten one moment, only to be remembered with absolute clarity hours later. Sometimes I could swear I’d been at my mother’s funeral moments before, trying not to cry as they lowered her into the dirt. Others, I’d been drinking with friends from uni, shuffling drunkenly down the streets as we sung at the top of our lungs.

I was so cold, I couldn’t feel my fingers any longer, even with the gloves I’d scavenged from the airplane’s cabin.

That’s all I’d got for twenty years service at Virgin, a free flight over the Rockies, to stare at the tundra below. Even before we’d taken off, I’d known it was a bad idea.

Perhaps it was God’s doing, to cast us out of the sky. Retribution for some minor infraction I’d never known I’d made.

One moment we’d been flying fine, pilot droning on at me with some nature-based anecdote I did not care about.

Whatever had been cause, we’d seen nothing. All of a sudden violent winds had buffeted the tiny airplane, and static electricity hung so heavily in the air I could taste copper on my tongue.

The plane had just stopped working, that was the only way to describe it. Even the radio had

died, the occasional burst of static all there was to answer the pilots increasingly alarmed calls for assistance.

He’d tried to glide us down, but we were hours away from civilisation, and the forest was far too densely packed. We’d stayed above the treetops well over an hour, hoping and praying that we’d discover a clearing in that time. But we hadn’t, and eventually the trees had grown so close to us I could make out every leaf and speck of snow.

It had almost been serene, the calm before the storm, if not for the frantic beating of my own heart. To know you were about to die, that you could count your remaining time in minutes, it was not something I ever wished to experience again.

But I hadn’t died. My next memory was waking up, shivering from the cold, sitting next to a man who stared me with frozen eyes. The crimson down his shirt, it painted a clear enough picture.

There was no choice, I had to leave him. I’d wept though, shook him trying to wake him, holding onto some childish belief that he was merely hurt. It wasn’t even that he was dead— he’d been an asshole anyway and pushing seventy—I just couldn’t bear the thought of being left all alone.

I’d gathered up the onboard snacks; a couple of sandwiches and a dozen bags of chips, and set off.

The first two days were manageable even if the air was freezing, well past glacial, enough to cut me to the core. The snow boots I wore were too big for me; I’d found them under the pilot’s seat.

After a few hours on the first day, I’d stumbled across a railway line; partially covered by snow but impossible to miss. I spent my days following it, hoping it would lead me back to civilization. At night I slept in caves, lighting fires with the same tricks I’d learned in the Boy Scouts thirty years earlier.

It was on the second day that it happened. A wave of clouds rolled over the blue sky, that was the only way I could describe it. It moved faster than any cloud formation I’d ever seen before, and in its wake it blotted out the sky.

Not knowing what else to do, I walked, although with very few steps I found my eyes turned skyward again.

It must’ve been afternoon sometime when the clouds finally caught up to the sun. As I rested, shivering, at the base of a tree to watch the sun be overtaken, a part of me knew that it would be the last time I’d ever see it. That was the thing, walking all alone, it left the mind to wander.

Perhaps, it was the end of the world.

God forgive me, it made me feel better. Maybe I was not as alone in my suffering as I’d first thought.

The world was plunged into an eerie twilight, darker than even the greyest of grey days. It reminded me of the eclipse I’d witnessed in my younger years; the darkest night in the middle of the day.

That night, I could not get warm. I huddled close enough to the fire that I could feel the flames lick at my clothes. Right then, I was willing to risk any number of burns for the chance to not feel cold anymore, even if just for a little while. But nothing helped, and still the chill stayed with me, as if it had seeped into my very being.

I awoke the next morning shivering. But that time I shook with such violence I could barely stand. The wind blew a gale outside, its movement through the cave creating an unearthly whistling that left me feeling faint and dizzy.

I set off again, what choice did I have? If I were to stay, then whatever blizzard that the wind was heralding would arrive, and I would not survive it in that cave.

My supplies were down to a frozen can of Coke and a handful of jerky. It just wasn’t enough to last me much longer, even with my pathetic attempts at rationing.

Thankfully the train tracks were still visible, at least in enough parts that I knew I was still moving in the right direction. The unnatural darkness still reigned though, and in some parts where the trees grew closer to the line I was forced to rely more on the feeling of the hard wooden tracks beneath me, rather than sight alone.

Every breath hurt, like icicles forming in my lungs.

Without a watch, or the sun, whatever time it may’ve been was a mystery. I couldn’t even say how long I’d been walking when the snow began to fall.

It was pleasant at first, white powder that reminded me of Christmas movies my brother and I watched as kids. Did they even still exist, or were they moments away from oblivion, relegated to digital bits that would never again be able to translate into pictures and sound.

As the snowfall grew heavier, the wind only made things worse. Sharp pinpricks assaulted the small bits of exposed skin I could still feel.

My vision had become nothing but a white blur, and I could not tell if I looked at the ground below or the horizon. It took me walking head first into a wall of wood to recognise my salvation.

It was a ranger station, or something similar. Nondescript and made from the same trees that clustered about, it may just as well have been the most beautiful structure I had ever seen.

There were bunk beds, two of them, and in the corner sat a pot bellied stove that I soon put to good use. Judging by the dust, no one had used it in quite some time, but there was rations hidden in a cupboard; jerky so tough it felt like I was near ripping my teeth out with every bite, and fruit preserved in cans.

An emergency phone was there too, with a neat little laminated card stating that in case anyone needing rescue stumbled across this place, it would connect them to the closest 24-hour ranger station.

My brief spark of hope died quickly, however, there was nothing but a dial tone. It had been a foolish hope anyway, when deep down inside I had already accepted that the end of the world was already upon us. The exact cause, I couldn’t say, but how else could I explain the phenomena that caused our crash and total absence of a rescue party.

If there was still a surviving society out there, they would’ve already found me.

With no other choice, I spent the next few days in that cabin, hoping that the storm would finally die down. The whistling unnerved me, it was constant and unending for every hour of the day. Sometimes, I would awake in the night—or what I assumed to be night—in a blind panic, certain that I heard cries for help out in the blizzard.

There was never any reply, even when I shouted out into the darkness through a crack in the door. Must’ve been my mind toying with me, rescuing me from the unending tedium.

My salvation quickly became some form of purgatory. There was nothing to do in there, no abandoned books or hidden deck of cards. All there was to do was sit there, and try my best to ignore the gnawing hunger that I could never properly sate. If I did not ration, I would not survive.

The only source of moderate entertainment was a kitten calendar, an innocuous thing of no true value. It proudly boasted on the front cover that part of its proceeds would go to some charity I’d never heard of.

It was all a lie of course. In my boredom I’d read the fine print at least a dozen times. Only five percent went to where they claimed.

It was a few years out of date too, but still I found myself marking off the dates as best I could.

It was utter guesswork, figuring out when night had transitioned into day, and then back again, but it felt almost like a duty. Without a calendar to mark, all those dates and months and years might as well never have ever existed.

The tenth day was marvelous, the transition from one month to the next. A new kitten, something different to look at. Up until then, I’d stopped myself from skipping ahead, not wanting to spoil the surprise.

I would’ve done anything for something to distract me from the unpleasant thoughts that welled up to greet me at every moment of weakness, a great wave of anxiety that had no place to go. Sometimes I wanted to break something, to be free of its ethereal claws, but there was nothing to be done.

Reality was far too heavy a burden for me to bear those days, if I let it stretch wider than the four walls that confined me.

The weather had not abated as I’d hoped; if anything it had only grown worse. Sometimes it blew with such strength I could feel the cabin’s temperature drop along with it. I’d been forced to start burning the spare blankets for warmth, but that was not the problem.

With all my rationing, and care, the food was again running low. It’d never been intended to

last as long as it had, it was only to keep a lost soul comfortable until help arrived. The hubris, to think there always would be someone to come back for us.

I waited for as long as I could, did not eat two days in a row, lay in bed all day with a stomach that ached from hunger.

Sometimes I prayed, begged God to rescue me. I never got an answer, maybe that was the point.

But I had to leave, what choice did I have? In the end, all the waiting had done was delay whatever lay in wait for me.

There was no food to bring anymore, I’d already eaten the last of the canned fruit for my final meal. It’d been delicious, so sweet that I’d wept even if I couldn’t quite say why.

But, as I turned to leave, the storm in front of me and civilization behind, I hesitated.

Whatever I should’ve done, or said, or thought through, there was nothing.

Yet as I left, I closed the door behind me. Why did I do that? No one would ever use it again.

It would end up a decayed pile of rotten debris no matter what I did, a memory of what had once been that soon enough would be forgotten too.

I suppose, it was for the next one.

~ On Di t ~

SUNBURN

by Evangeline Salamone Polymeneas

No one ever talks about the sadness after.

The sadness after you get happy.

The sadness after you escaped rock bottom.

The sadness creeps up on you, like sunburn on a cloudy day.

Everything is fine, until you notice the flush.

This sunburn isn’t as bad as the heatstroke you got a month ago, but you feel worse.

You told yourself you would never get sunburned again, but you didn’t wear sunscreen, a hat, or sit in the shade.

You told yourself you would never let yourself get that way again and you did.

The sunburn after the heatstroke sometimes hurts more.

It isn’t just the stinging of your burning flesh but it’s the sting of disappointment.

Sometimes after you get happier, you fall.

Sometimes that little fall has a bigger impact; than any jump.

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~ On Di t ~

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35

~ On Di t ~

words by Dom Symes

Love Poem (Under Sirius)

after W. H. Auden Before I go to sleep I make a list of all the things I have to wake up for It’s a dog’s life

all these dog-days I keep my phone on flight mode because sleep is capital most envied by those employed

I am banking it up

When you aren’t here I simply wallow

(is this depression by any other name?)

Our messages are an expressive medium Saying just: “I wish you were here”

“I can’t think about anything but you”

We have around twenty seven thousand days on earth

but try telling the unshaved captain as he surveys the slowly rusting spears

When I am with you I feel as invincible as when I was a boy

and dad would put me on his shoulders I pay my bills on time I write to my friends overseas in long languid prose

36

I have a glass of wine most nights When you and I speak there is this openness I can’t properly describe other than as the opposite

~ On Di t ~

of the fear I used to feel

when I put my hand up in class

to answer a question and

the whole room

went silent This bright blue morning I hesitate about what to have for breakfast what jeans to wear whether to bother ironing a shirt or not

but when you say I don’t flinch

“Let’s elope”

We are both as big as our ideas

I won’t ever order food without first asking if you want to share

(though I’ll assume it)

I have to give you reasons

why I love you because that’s who I am

but when someone says

“why are you always smiling?”

I just keep on smiling

I want to tell you more I want more words to tell you with

You are small and so am I

We take up very little space in this world together

but that space is ours

I look over at the reading lamp

on your side of the bed

thinking I could be fully alive too

if it weren’t for the nights we’re forced to spend apart It’s natural to hope and pious, of course to believe

That all in the end shall be well.

37

~ On Di t ~

21 Years / 7 Days / 3 Seconds words by Max Wurm art by Merrick Liao Burning entrails for fun circling around infused wood and steel clutching frozen sand like a lifeline milling like lost cats, confused in colourful stone rooms and doing cartwheels on empty dancefloors.

Look left look right everyone do the head shaker nope, still don’t recognise anyone let’s stand still for another two minutes then check again later.

Empty sand hold it anyway fills up with liquid that came from the aether down that too the cubes had to go somewhere now here comes the thirst gotta keep the party going, dudes beautiful.

The best party to throw is a funeral nobody’s in the mood to talk at all don’t have to feel awkward – there’s a first there’s better music, so it goes.

21 years 6 feet under the dancefloor everyone do the zombie starving for brains disappointed with the turn out.

Whore derves, whole meals steal a hungry glance at her across the dancefloor before she disappears still running on empty over here.

Did you know that 7 divides 21?

Another one in 7 days times a hundred till it takes 3 seconds to realise the 21st century daze isn’t going away.

Hip hip hooray.

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~ On Di t ~

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~ On Di t ~

Owl’s Kingdom and the Lord of Wisdom

by Lauren McKechnie

Imposing you perch on the bough of the old oak, Chest puffed out siting on your leafy throne of gold.

What brings you to spy a Mother Nature awoke?

To trade diurnal sleep and watchful of the day, Hark woodland friends and beasts who came to seek insight.

Why so caring to all, for those that on you prey?

A king of the trees high in the branches you wait, For sand to move time forward and to dream at last.

For Lord of Wisdom will a throne to perch steer fate?

When hourglass stops and time finally stands still, A heart forced to silence and breathing lastly halts.

A leafy throne sits empty and all ‘round tranquil.

Life persists but Lord of Wisdom’s bare throne his will.

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~ On Di t ~

F IS A PASSING GRADE written by Jessica Liebelt

a funny thing happens when I begin to almost pass their curtains draw less quickly their harsh gaze diminishes they start searching for a new toy like pigs in the sand they’re trying to find me naked trying to find me with my shirt lifted trying to find me when my tuck slips trying to find me with my girlhood in hand the search thrills them I know it well they stare and stare and stare mouth agape and drooling looking for the smallest slip the tiniest falter the faintest facial hair a sign that we are flawed and they are perfect sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry sorry

I have a flat chest I have harsh skin I’m not changing faster for my name I am melting I am poured in to your mould I look like you

so rip my skin off wear me as your trophy a token of your efforts beat and bruise me until I fit the shape you want your garbage can your sex toy I know the shapes well you taught me long ago

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~ On Di t ~

Effeuiller la Marguerite

by Benjamin Carr

One lightly lit lamppost, no thought was despite A man and his mongrel were no one tonight Those trusting companions revered for their sight Necessity nulled when this world’s lacking light That lightly lit lamppost which hovers above A bastion of safety, an olive branch dove But getting down to it, when push comes to shove What more is a lamppost than shadow’s first love And what more is darkness than shadow of all And what more is progress without wherewithal And what more is pride if a loss must befall Ah, that one brings things that I’d try not recall ~~~ Retracing his footsteps to where this did start An odd pile of petals torn down from his heart They’ve faded like pre-post-pop-pastoral art His yoke overborne, his ox-eye torn apart But don’t get him wrong he’s been broken a while The eye that he tore is what’s left of the pile The world on his shoulders, well that’s just his style His shoes aren’t that bad if you just walk a mile But walking a mile, even that’s not his game He’s under this lamplight like nothing so lame It’s not like he came here in search of some fame Although I’m here watching, I don’t know his name ~~~ But what’s in a name, either famous or nought Just knowing of someone’s not giving them thought Just wanting for something won’t make it then sought Just teaching yourself doesn’t make you self-taught The dawn was the door to what day had in store He saw only darkness, the same as before But still, he reached down, to retrieve from the floor For what more’s a man than the petals he tore

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~ On Di t ~

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~ On Di t ~

Southern Cross written by Emma Carson

I want to waltz with you like leaves in a whirly, even if I cannot dance And chirp the spectrum of lorikeets’ melody, even if I cannot sing.

Let us link fingers like koalas cling to a tree Their ink-black claws tattoo “I want you” in the bark, as I knead your hand.

Our kiss brought rain to a baked, parched land.

The rivers slithered under serpents’ bellies Weaving their way through desolation, like tears streak a newborn’s cheek.

You make me feel as rare as a Thylacine, but is that to say our kind of love is extinct:

Only existing in dog-eared photographs and stuffed with dust in decrepit buildings?

In the clear, dry, navy night I stare above us from inside the car My finger draws circles on your wrist, searching for water beneath your torrid skin.

All it unearths is sand, an empty swag, and hollow bones.

Out the window, there’s our sign blinking bright: We are Southern-star-crossed lovers.

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~ On Di t ~

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~ On Di t ~

Always words and photography by Sinead O’Shaughnessy

It is, and it isn’t this beautiful land of ours wretched, hot, burning like the sun has made us an enemy the dry earth eradicates all hope in our future, yet, somehow, brings about hope for a new life Tomorrow is always a new day, and rain will always fall Rain, like the seasons, changes the land and makes it new and whole again.

This country of ours, has been drenched by rain and burnt by fire, each time, we awake as new people we push forward, we strive to make a change we learn from our mistakes, and we see the tomorrow

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~ On Di t ~

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~ On Di t ~

Friction (Art Gallery of South Australia)

by Dom Symes like the scene where Han Solo says to Luke I don’t know if I hate her or if I’m falling in love with her then they disappear down the garbage chute two dead horses walk into an art gallery they are up against it these horses against one another fighting? making love? you’re always saying how knackered you are after spending time with me our exhausting courtship I disappear down the stairwell to purple glass windows TOO QUIET their purpose? the death of the lord may the force be with you and also with you where are the weeping women?

I find no poetry in textiles art in repose I want friction abrasion this is one of those conversations I go into knowing I might come out different like the dinner party at your own house you left because I made you cry like the party at Ancient World I left because you kept leaving me to talk to everyone else you’re a sensitive mother fucker but you always keep me on my toes this pottery the work of human hands decorative behind glass I wonder what it would feel like against my skin.

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~ On Di t ~

undisclosed bidder by Evangeline

You grab me like you’re authorised; like my body is property that has your name on the deed.

But I won the auction; an undisclosed bidder.

I’ve signed the contract, paid the deposit.

Hand over the keys – I’m the new owner.

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~ On Di t ~

To a Fruit Forbidden

by Lauren McKechnie

Thou shines with the ruby of bloods eternal kiss, The sweet nectar of god thy sweet flesh stows, And pours forth in waves of everlasting bliss.

Why dost thou taste so sweet?

Why dost thou glisten in my hand?

Each bite trickles from the corner of my mouth A sweetness that envelopes the very essence of my soul demand And judgement lost in an unrelenting defeat.

Tongue laps sticky ridges of my lips, Basking in pure ecstasy of thy sacred flavour.

Must I lose such control and eat thou only to devour?

One can only dream of thy as his undying savour.

But thou art only an apple, An object that tastes so grand, Can decay and crash and squash and plummet With the thrust of my surest hand.

Thou scarlet sphere seated in a bowl upon my stand, Surrounded by many ordinary fruits of various kinds.

Why must thou sheen so scarlet and glimmer to mine eye?

Drawn to thy lustre I hunger at thy bowl, Slip from my grasp and under the table thy roll.

I plead for survival, to consume you after all But thou art only an apple, And thou hast perished by thy fall.

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