CREATIVES

Guadalupe is walking down Darling Harbour, the grey, thick water on her left, the towering casinos and squat aquariums on her right. She is moving briskly, the wind smacking against her neck, her hands submerged in the pockets of her coat like two anchors in the woolly harbour. Guadalupe has only one thing on her mind: a flat white. There is just one café on this side of the city who she trusts to make her flat white, and she is on a mission towards it, one foot in front of the other, Dios mío, an expedition or what!

Guadalupe turns into Barangaroo, peels away from the harbour, and arrives at the beloved café. A long line at the counter slithers through the shop and out onto the street. She finds the end and joins it patriotically.

At the very front of the line, a man wearing a navy blue suit orders an espresso because he is Better Than Everyone. His companion, whose suit is also navy blue, orders a double espresso because he is Better Than Everyone (Authenticated). Both these suited men buy tubes of tooth-whitening Colgate once a fortnight and scrub viciously at their gums. Their smiles dazzle like yellow stars against their clothing.

A woman steps up to the counter and orders a cappuccino. She is immediately loved by all who overhear her order: cappuccinos are for the indulgent folks, the ones who treat themselves to froth and choc, the ones who think coffee is breakfast and dessert rolled into one, the ones who make the most of life, c’est la vie, a cappuccino for me! Who cares if the kids have been screaming since yesterday? Who cares if the essay, still unwritten, is due in two hours? Who cares about the country which is, in fact, blistering beneath a hole in the ozone? With a cappuccino in hand, the world is a good place. A cap. Not a hat or a pill but a generous coffee for people with lots of love in their hearts, etc. Behind her, a girl whose denim jeans are overwhelming the lower half of her body, the hems flooding the café floor, orders an oat iced latte. She is most definitely an Earth Lover and/or Feminist. What a queer kid, the old crone behind her is thinking. But who cares! When she receives her oat iced latte, the girl jingles the ice against the wall of the plastic cup. She has a scrunchie on her wrist and a tote bag bumping against her hip. She considers all oat iced latte drinkers to be her family. The jingle of the ice is a platonic mating call. Further down the line, a boy with an excellent fringe perks up at the sound and, deep down, concedes that the city isn’t as cold and dark as he thought it was.

The old crone steps up to the counter and orders a mugaccino and the barista says so, a large cap? She looks at him over the frame of her glasses. What? I said mugaccino, alright, you’ve got that?

The barista has tattooed arms and cuffed pant legs. In his spare time he buys vats of olives at the supermarket and goes road tripping in his van. When he’s at work, he sips piccolos. Sometimes, when the line snakes like it does today, the dark brown foam of his coffee congeals on the lip of his glass, untouched.

A woman named Karen orders skim milk because she’s on a health kick. A man named Jasper orders soy milk. Even though he was an alternative milk trailblazer, he will never admit that society has progressed to better-tasting milks, so, as to not bruise his ego, he drinks the stuff that tastes like dirt. And the almond milk folks drink the stuff that tastes like bamboo (until they find out about the unbelievable amount of water it takes to farm almonds, and the toxins in the nut husks that poison the women who shell them, which is when they switch to oat milk). The people in the line who order good, old-fashioned, full cream milk either a) have souls so strong that they are

happy to put up with the disgust of their friends and family, b) are a father, or c) came back from a trip to Italy.

A man steps up to the counter and orders a long black. He’s a purist who enjoys his six-step nighttime skin regiment and ergonomic furniture, but if people ever ask about his coffee choice, he usually pulls the lactose intolerant card. As if lactose intolerance has ever stopped anyone from a good dose of dairy!

A woman, rather loudly, orders an Americano, to which the queue behind her simultaneously and silently mutter America-NO! The woman is wearing loafers and cigarette pants and is a self-described worldly soul. She frequents the spice aisle in the supermarket and insists on serving house guests coffee boiled in a Moka pot. The barista puts long black into the till, and later, when her coffee is ready and called, long black for Millicent! She feigns deep and underserved confusion.

A woman orders a decaf latte, and everyone wonders if she is pregnant, because if she isn’t, then lord, tell us, why is this woman in a coffee shop?

The person behind her orders a latte because they despise the Western world’s complication of coffee. Everyone in the line longs to one day reach the goal of ordering a latte just like they all long to one day gut their homes of all their material belongings. Does this coffee spark joy?

Guadalupe finally steps up to the counter. Her feet are sore, her lower back is tight, her nose is numb. “A flat white, please.” She taps her credit card on the Eftpos machine. She stands aside and waits dutifully for her order. “Flatty for Guadalupe!” She steps up and takes the warm cardboard cup. She holds it up to her face, first to warm her cheeks, then to tip the mouthpiece against her lips. The coffee, smooth, rich, hot, swills around her mouth, then down into her body. Guadalupe is filled, sublimely, with satisfaction.

by Bruna Gomes

“AW Hooroo, I’m bundling off for the night. BLOKE! Alright Groover I’ve left you A series of jobs That I expect to be completed Once I return from the graveyard. NOW I’ll just sit here in my armchair of power With my beer of no alcohol and rings of cheese. Don’t you dare speak to me while the footy’s on. Alright this weekend I’m off On the bike with the boys We’re going to the church of coffee To confess our sins, Growing old disgracefully. WHEN I return I’ll tend to the Weber For a meat feast Good on Greggy.”

by Anthea Wilson

It is my twenty-first birthday, and I am depositing the contents of my stomach onto a blank canvas. How is that for artistic expression? For once I am grateful for my tendency to arrive to class long before any of my fellow students – this is the last thing I need an audience for.

The circular room does nothing but aid my dizziness and the low-hanging mahogany beams appear to be inching closer and closer to me. Like a wounded bush animal, I stumble down the spiralling staircase and towards the bathroom. The tiled floor is a small comfort to my burning skin as my stomach continues its assault on me and my unsuspecting victim: the toilet of the first cubicle. My bag hangs on the back of the door and mocks me knowingly as I reach into its lining to fumble for what I need amongst a well-stocked collection of contraceptive pills. If the worst thing

I must endure today is an unexpected meeting with my closest confidante,

Clearblue, then it may just be the best birthday yet. There is one thing I know for sure: I am not ready to become a mother. I am not sure what kind of appeal that could have to a girl just trying to get through university – a girl who is barely more than a baby herself. But then again, maybe I am the problem.

Only when I am completely sure that I am still alone and cannot hear anyone in the near vicinity do I dare leave the sanctuary of my cubicle. Swallowing my pride, I wash the front of my fawn brown hair in the sink, being sure to add some dampness to the back of my head while I am at it. For all anyone knows, I just did not have time for a blow dry this morning. The towering mirror threatens to swallow me whole as I suddenly feel the insignificance of my own existence. What if this is all I am meant to do – bear children?

My mind is in overdrive as I wait for the plastic pregnancy test to share its prophetic knowledge with me. I think of Klaus and how much he adores me, but how much he also longs for children of his own. I would not be able to stand the distraught expression that would adorn his features as I crush his hopes and dreams of becoming a father right now. The worst part is, I know he would be more upset for me than himself, and that guilt eats away at me as I await a result. His poor girlfriend who isn’t ready to fulfil her ‘life’s purpose’ which she was bestowed with at birth, or – as I prefer to see it – who wishes to remain free from Rhea’s curse.

As a child, Mum would tell me stories of Greek mythology as I fell asleep. I am not quite sure how much of it stayed true to legend and how much was her own creation, but that is just because she always was such a gifted storyteller – I would believe anything she said, my bright eyes eager and earnest. She could have been so successful in the literary world. The one story that stuck with me most

throughout the years, however, was that of Rhea – the mother of the gods. Daughter of Gaia and Uranus, and Titan goddess of female fertility and motherhood – Rhea created the first Olympian generation. She was burdened with the task of maternal protector very early on, due to a prophecy received by her husband, Cronus. Cronus was warned that he was ultimately destined to be overthrown by one of his children. With his patriarchal power threatened, he proceeded to devour each of his first five children upon their birth. With their sixth child Zeus, Rhea was forced to bear him in secret and, upon his birth, hide from her husband in a cave. When their location was found, she had no choice but to deceive him with a swaddled stone. Zeus’ life was kept a secret from his father until he ultimately defeated him and consequently freed his brothers and sisters. Rhea’s grief and burden were something that haunted my dreams for most of my adolescence. A woman with a domineering husband who lived solely for her children. Not only that, but despite being a devoted and selfless mother, Rhea still could not protect all her children – this duty was instead left to her son. I never wish to have those same shackles on my wrists. I could not bear it. The glaring pair of red lines confirm just what I suspected, though I had hoped it was yet another false alarm. The green eyes staring back at me are dull and lacklustre. “Happy birthday to me.”

I do not need time to consider my options, and I am beyond grateful for it. I have been prepared for this moment for years now. Not because I have been waiting in anticipation for it, but because I knew it was almost inevitable. My clammy hands struggle with the door handle, and I can feel the tears of frustration prickling and burning behind my irises. I just want to exit this damn building. It finally opens from the other side, and I am met with a confused-looking Ivy.

“Freya! Happy birthday! Wait, are you leaving? It is 10:56am? You know how Astaire feels about tardiness!”

“Ivy, hi! Oh, yeah… I am going to have to miss this one unfortunately, turns out Klaus planned this whole surprise thing–”

“That man! You really found a good one there.”

I can feel my stomach churning yet again. It is as though something sharp is being rammed into its lining.

“Yeah…”

“Oh, but it is Kahlo week! You cannot miss Kahlo week!”

I know Ivy means well, and it does disappoint me that I am missing the one week we are studying my favourite artist, but I need to get out of here.

“Lucky I am knowledgeable on the topic! Let me know anything I miss!” I am already making my way down the cobblestone footpath as I yell the farewell behind me.

The medical centre across the road from the National Art School has four arched windows above the awning that remind me of the inside of a church. Perhaps that is why this building provides me with such solace. Or perhaps it is just because it will always be here for me when I need it. A small sanctuary amongst the bustling and vibrant culture of Glebe, nestled amid weathered storefronts and vibrant heritage homes. The green trim, together with the brown brick, have the calming sensation of nature and the ageing exterior gives the impression that the establishment has helped many other women before me. Women of all ages and circumstances, who too have exercised their right to make their own decisions regarding their life and body. I notice I have three missed calls from my mother. Those will have to wait.

“Freya! How are you?” I am greeted warmly and immediately upon closing the door. Though the receptionist tries to appear uplifting and positive, I sense the concerned undertone of her voice and the slight pull of her eyebrows. I am not due for a renewal of my prescription, and she knows this. The women’s clinic was my safe space, and I had shared everything when I first started coming here. I had explored what my options were if I were to ever fall pregnant and was warned of the risks and repercussions of termination. Standing here today, I knew I wanted to terminate this pregnancy. When I had stated a couple of years ago that this would be my plan, they supported my choice. However, they also assured me that it would be perfectly fine to change my mind when the time comes. The nurse had mentioned that a lot of women are overwhelmed with emotion and feel quite a strong connection to their baby after learning of its existence. I do not feel this connection, even after several hours left alone with my thoughts in the waiting room. And though it has still only been a short period of time, I am not willing to wait around and determine whether this will change. “Are you sure this is what you want, Freya?” There is no judgement in the nurse’s calm tone.

“Yes, positive. Thank you.”

She squeezes my hand at that point and promises to not let go until I ask her to.

A silent tremor rolls through my body, like that initial flash of lightning in the distance before the storm unfurls. The very structure of my bones is splintering, and it is as though my soul is being spliced, severed, and brutally ripped. It is a cool sense of dread that slowly drips down my spine at the realisation that I do not know what is going to happen. Not just to my body, but to my relationship with Klaus; with my parents. It is impossible to decipher how I can keep this from them, or even look them in the eye again knowing how badly they want grandchildren. But what I do know is that the feeling of dread and despair that had clouded my mind all day will soon be released. Thank God I live in Australia.

by Jasmine Oke

A past, Of glass, Shattered, Fractured. A shard, A façade, A g’day and a grin, But the present cannot mask the massacre within.

Drift into dreams of a buried era, When sapphire oceans were sparkling clear, Stars were seen, The country was clean. Deep in that memory, A beckoning melody, Cicadas singing on ghost gum trees, Galahs gliding on a summer breeze, A hissing, hushing, racing, rushing, Of rivers and streams gracefully gushing, The sky a canvas, spattered with clouds, Possum hollows and shaded shrouds, Vermillion rocks, Slumbering crocs, Starfish scattered across the sand, Canyons and chasms entrenched in the land, Pearly beaches and tumbling waves, Jewels and gems and opaline caves, Wrapped in the arms of the sun’s warm caress, And blades of grass stooping with dew-drop duress, Burn it down, Build a town, Strangle it with smog and smoke, Let it die, let it choke, Sacred ground where you trespass, And build your city of shattered glass.

by Kayleigh Greig

oddly they prowl as owners of the land where we once littered, plunging their long beaks as they command.

“those are bin chickens” me mate once said as we sat down, devouring our hot chips, “careful mate, they’ll bite off your head.”

bin chickens? one has the right to feel scared threatening with their presence gleaming, on the grating metal our eyes paired.

a watery bird a restless creature, an endless search its sickle-shaped beak lies there quite absurd.

dumpster diving, debris-dirt-drawn lurching, hurling, perching swarming bins from dusk to dawn.

in it’s ecstasy, scoffing down the scraps fruit, vegetables, onion rings, it’s pride, it is joy, those feathery wings flap.

the breeze releases from its clutch my nose goes into hiding, “mate, the bloody bin chickens smell so much.”

picnic pirate, wreckless scavenger slurping the juice of the food we refuse, “mate that bird is a challenger.”

you have originality, that we can praise bin chicken, you’re a true blue aussie, with your lazy honk, and rapid escapes.

perhaps we could shine and bathe in your bright smelly gleaming light, the true title ibis, in the vast swathes, there you feel just right.

by Lauren Knezevic