Nerd Art 2016: Moonlight Produced in Perth, Western Australia Edited by Akio Ho Introduction by William Hu Designed by Julius Yu, Nathan Tan, Teague Palmer, Joshua Chan, William Hu, Amitabh Jeganathan, Daniel Stark, Alex Honey, Akio Ho, Matthew Hamdorf, Alex McGuckin Multimedia content is viewable at nerdart.ml
Nerd Art 2016: Moonlight Edited by
Akio Ho Introduction by
William Hu Designed by
Julius Yu, Nathan Tan, Teague Palmer, Joshua Chan, William Hu, Amitabh Jeganathan, Daniel Stark, Alex Honey, Matthew Hamdorf, Alex McGuckin, Akio Ho
Nathan Tan Perspective, 2016 Digital Art
Editor’s Note Unlike its overbearing cousin, moonlight is all kinds of things. (There is a more pretentious expansion on this idea, written in flowery prose on the last page of this compilation, which you can read, or maybe not, depending on your attitude to blurbs.) Nerd Art is also all kinds of things, by all kinds of people — this year, 28 Year 10 students found the time to send in copies of their treasured masterpieces, leading to the diverse collection before you. I think this is the first time macrocosms, Cher, John Wall and equirectangular projections have been discussed all in one document. I hope you’ll find this mix entertaining and a nice way to spend some time in the holidays. And if you have not encountered art and writing of this kind before, or do not feel sufficiently prepared or interested to undertake a viewing of this document, this year’s introduction by the illustrious William Hu will no doubt change your mind. Read on and enjoy.
Introduction It's been a pretty eventful year - Brexit, the Olympics, the US election, and, God forbid, dissertation - so I think we can all agree that the holidays come as a welcome mercy. Now, I appreciate the fact that a copy of Nerd Art landing in your mailbox* might not be just as welcome, but the end of 2016 marks the second annual collection of socially awkward musings, spectacled visions, clumsy creations and tangential top set thoughts - and what are friends for if not to sit back, take all the crap you throw at them and say, 'marvellous!' So, if you are not an avid artist nor a particularly interested reader (congratulations on making it this far), just take a moment to flip through the pages** of this document, and you'll soon see that the crap nerds produce is indeed marvellous. There is a slight chance that you may still not be convinced of this, and in that case, say 'marvellous!' to the closest nerd available anyway. In the season of Christmas, Krampus, and compulsory family gatherings, feel blessed that you've got an extra present in your stocking***, a little book**** in which the strangest, most diverse minds can express their ideas - some shocking, some hilarious, some reflective, and some, which might actually be mistaken for art if you look at it upside down. In your hands, you hold***** Nerd Art: Moonlight, where what so often goes unnoticed is allowed to shine in its full glory: bright, bold, and beautiful And even if you don't give two shits about Moonlight, just know it watches you while you sleep. :D Happy reading!
* This will not physically land in your mailbox. Moonlight is a digital document. ** No actual flipping of pages can be done. Moonlight is a digital document. *** This will not physically be in your stocking. Moonlight is a digital document. **** Moonlight has no physical size. Also, it's actually pretty damn big. ***** No, seriously.
William Hu writes poetry and short stories, and lots of music, much of which is featured in Nerd Art: Stardust and Nerd Art: Moonlight.
Nerd Art 2016 moonlight
ˈmuːnlʌɪt noun 1. the light of the moon “moonlight lit the book, faintly, and scattered darkness on the windowsill” 2. to go around secretly at night, engaging in all sorts of unrecommended behaviour.
[blank] ☾ AMITABH JEGANATHAN “Sometimes the truth isn't good enough, sometimes people deserve more. Sometimes people deserve to have their faith rewarded...” – Christian Bale, The Dark Knight. The chair beneath the body shines in the harsh light. The polished wood and leather buckles are antiques, and many have passed through its clutch. Yet none have walked away, and time after time this relic is used. The woman in the chair is slumped, crystal tears streaming down her bruised face. Yet she smiles, as they all do. A real smile, and pure joy. Salvation is upon her. She will meet The Man.
The sunlight streams through the tawny autumn leaves of the oaks that border the cobbled road, the light-hearted chatter of the market creating windy pathways through the clear air. The man walking through the trees bears no emotion. As he walks into the market, similar inscrutable faces can be seen. Apples… Where are the apples? Going through his shopping list, he ambles over to one of the stalls, and sets his eyes upon the baskets filled with his fruit of choice, glistening in the midday light. Picking up two, he looks at the other assorted fruits for sale. All look equally delicious, shiny and crisp in the peaceful marketplace. A bellowing emerges from behind him, scattering the birds in a flurry. “DO NOT TAKE MORE THAN YOUR SHARE.” Turning on his heels, the man finds the reason for the Commandment: A
Denounced lies on the ground, waif thin, with a basket of apples scattered around her. He feels a stirring within his chest, a sorrow, wishing that they should be able to live like him. Reach Salvation like him. People continue to mill about, naturally stepping around the apples, ignoring this strange calamity. “Excuse me Edis’n-eigh’eensevn’y-nine,” jolts the man from his thoughts, and as he steps to the side, a blank face pushes past him and to the stall, ready to collect his daily share. Not a sign remains of the apples, but Edison 1879 continues on, dismissing it as a mere oddity. As it already begins to disappear from his memory, collecting the rest of his groceries he returns through the leafy avenue. Inside his paradigm green block, he lies down on his bed. The events of the morning rush through his mind. He recalls the strange primal emotion that surged through him, diﬀerent to the standardised happiness and sadness. He feels changed, and wonders if he should report it to Normaliser. He dismisses the thought as the door opens silently. Edison gets up, and greets his assignment, Marina 1034. She immediately senses something is wrong, her perceptive eyes opening like oceans.
Albert Smith Infinite, 2016 Digital Art
She sits next to him and they settle together in silence, in a strange contortion of attachment. She waits expectantly, as always. Attempting to explain his day, he feels what could even be described as love, yet he is not to know. The strange heartthrob must be a sign of tiredness, dismissing his strange feelings with lack of sleep. It’ll be better by the next. Marina doesn’t question, but just looks on, silent, brooding. As Edison floats around in the nextspace, he dreams of strange worlds, long gone archaic mutterings that the old men used to make. People don't get old anymore, he thinks, yet the idea again threatens to slip his mind, as they have for years. He feels surges of emotion, things he’s never felt before, things long suppressed and long gone. Things from the ancient times; times of war, times of pain. Yet he feels hope, he feels joy. He wonders why he’s never felt this way before, why his nextspace reveals to him these strange happenings. But they feel so real, unlike the normal surreal experience that accompanies the norm. Jolting out of bed, Edison wonders if there are other like him. Others who have felt it. Going to the church, he feels detached, strangely distanced from these emotionless faces he used to fit in so well in. Sitting within the pews, he looks at the carvings he so often adored in blind hope. He feels this view, this old way of life, slipping away from his grasp. For the first time, he feels alone. He knows hope is vain, but he wishes in the most human way, for there to be others. “Salvation!” mottled cries of the congregation snap Edison out of his thoughts, and he quickly joins in with the orison that echoes through the building; words that used to hold so much meaning turning into sand, rushing through his fingers. As he leaves the chapel, he looks around, a desperate attempt to find a gleam in an eye, a sign, anything to show him he’s not alone. A smile tugging at the end of some thin lips, his Salvation. He reaches out, just as the man turns around. In the second of recognition that flicks through the man’s eyes, they both smile, the simple action laden with understanding. ☾ 1879 follows him through the avenues, and as the man turns through the trees, he vacillates; his whole life is about to change. And then, he steps. The crux of his life swinging in the balance of one movement; his fate sealed through the twitch of a muscle. Walking through the leafy
growth around the village, he questions whether he made the right choice. He arrives at a cold, steel wall, rising up out of the ground as a sudden peak. Its intimidating presence is disrupted by a clear eruption right through it. He heads through the large hole, looking at the burnt and folded metal of the edges, menacing and alarming. They walk past the boundary, into a new hope. Finally, they come upon a dilapidated building. The man opens the doors, pulling a key from a hidden pocket. Entering into the dim afternoon light that filters through grimy windows, long abandoned eyes into the hidden wonderland around them. He sits down on a wooden bench, and attempts to process what he has just gone through. Breathing heavily, a droplet of sweat falls from his nose, something he’s never encountered before. He feels his face, and the moisture scares him. Am I reaching salvation? The man who accompanied him settles down on a chair and sighs. “That’s normal. It’s called… well actually never mind. It’s normal.” The man speaks in a strange accent, more formal and refined. It throws him oﬀ guard, and immediately 1879 feels inferior. “Th…thanks,” comes his bumbling reply. He searches for an identification card, yet he can't see it. “Call me Todd,” comes the curt reply. Todd sighs, and pulls out a device from his pocket. Approaching Edison, He taps the device, a harsh ping echoing around, inherently menacing. As he approaches, Edison shifts his weight between his legs, anxious, feels the blood thumping in his head. Todd closes the gap, and as he raises the device, Edison’s arm reflexively knocks it away. He attempts to run away, but as he reaches the door, he finds that it is jammed shut. Turning around, he sees Todd looming over him. The curtain closes,Edison 1879 realises that Marina wasn’t at church, and sees his fatal mistake.
 The buckles strain under Edison’s grip. He sees his assignment in a chair, and sees the bruises running purple down her face, gleaming under the light. His wrists are raw and the straps stained red, but he still struggles, writhing like a fish. As the device closes in on Marina’s neck, she smiles. Edison’s vision fades, and as he kicks one last time, he finally realises.
 Edison 1879 strolls through the market, passing through the morning light, walking towards the church. Meanwhile, through the sea of emotionless bodies, there stands a woman, confused, feeling her first emotion. And waiting just nearby, are the men with their devices. “Rebellion cannot exist without a strange form of love.” — Albert Camus, The Rebel: An Essay on Man in Revolt.
William Hu Illuminati, 2016 Ink Sketch
Sylph ☾ WILLIAM HU A tribute to Sylvia Plath
The woman wishes away The river bed, dark and sticky. Her feet are too tired for another floor. And those strands of flesh, Free from her cage of bones, Like bubbles, come and go –– To where? Jehovah, Abbadon, All cower where her petticoat strides, Hems red from the infant’s grasping arms. Dusted with hair, like a rotten peach With vines down her legs, It bays to the passing clouds, just wisps –– If her lips were not so sealed in kiss She would say: no tears – And fade into the turbulence.
Akio Ho Small Steps, 2016 Acrylic on card, digital overlay
Jay’s Hope ☾ ALEXANDER HONEY “I've watched through his eyes, I've listened through his ears, and I tell you, he's the one”. Jay's father stared at him intensely. He gave him a look more deserved for a murder. It was a look of disgust and hate. It was like Jay had killed a loved one, or worse, ruined his father's second chance at freedom. Jay watched on silently as his father gritted his teeth and
turned oﬀ the prayer transmitting Theolgrin buzzing in his palm. He would never want God to hear this. Choking back a sob, his father stuttered. “I won't allow it”. Jay clenched his fists as he watched his father let out a wet gasp and footslog back to his Gefilthetamine nook. Jay glared in anger as his hysterical father kneeled down on the brown sodden fabric stuck to the marble floor and proceeded to insert a neon pin into his arm, connecting himself to the star-shaped prism dangling from the ceiling. He watched on in anticipation as his father flicked a pink switch on the wall. Then, with a 'zap!', almost immediately as he did so, the dullcoloured Chrystalisiz oozing through the transparent pipe into his bloodstream turned his veins a melancholy blue and the sobbing came to a halt. Jay's father's eyes turned bloodshot before turning to Jay and screaming, “Abomination!” A tense air fell over the room, and Jay let out a breath as his father finally crumpled to the floor, letting out a tortured sigh. Jay felt his fists unclench and his scowl turn into a grin. “Cal,” he said to himself. “Cal,” he said again, a little louder, his grin almost ear to ear. “Cal!” he screamed, laughing. Jay looked around the room and saw the world fill with the colour it had lost when his Ma and sister passed away all those years ago. He felt as though happiness was pouring out of his chest. It was like he was walking on air and nothing in the whole federation could bring him down. Not the grey sky, the Gefil-heads decorating the streets with blue or even the sight of his father's body sprawled on the floor in the corner of his eye. Jay was in love. And now he was sure of it. From the parking garage in his father's building to the conveyor belt in the Keeper's factory, Jay could picture nothing but the handsome face of the boy he met 2 months ago and hadn't stopped thinking about since. That was until the Haggard sound of the Keeper's voice calling Jay to his oﬃce crushed all hope of happiness in the life he was soon to begin. ☾ The Keeper's oﬃce was dark and decorated with the many faded broken relics of the old world. The only natural light came from a
Julius Yu Untitled, 2016 Ceramic with glazing
small hole beneath his chair acting like a window to view the many conveyor belts on the service floor. The two of them were seated on either side of the Keeper's stocky brass desk, divided by several feet. The Keeper had a somber expression on his face, and before he even opened his mouth, Jay interrupted him with the same two words he'd heard for two months. “Budget cuts.” “That is right, Jacob,” the Keeper said apologetically. “With Lebn growing by the day, we simply just don't have the demand for our products. You just better thank God that your seeds are still young enough to emigrate.” Jay happily sat back in his chair, thinking of his love. “I'm not going,” he said proudly, “I'm staying here, with Caleb Mayer.” The Keeper's demeanour rapidly turned from apologetic to critical. He leaned forward, staring at Jay, never once breaking eye contact. A tense atmosphere fell over the small decrepit oﬃce until,
finally, the Keeper smacked his desk, filling the room with ghostly echoes emanating from the hollow brass. “Darling!” the Keeper demanded, rubbing his forehead in frustration, “Tell me about Szack.” Jay watched in awe as the desktop came to life, moulding into the face of a beautiful woman before gleefully floating towards the Keeper. “Yes, sweetpea!” the face responded eagerly. “Szack is one of or is possibly the last of the surviving colonies in Gehenna not already decimated by the gas. It's population is 10 million self regulating beings (last recorded on Tuesday) and the average air quality is a lifethreatening 320.” “Thank you, Darling”, the Keeper said smugly, glancing at Jay, “Now, please tell Mr. Geller about Lebn." The golden face on the desktop seemed to ignore the Keeper as it continued to gleefully rant. “Szack is currently governed by dear leader Raben and has not had any crime or non-natural fatalities in 63 years thanks to his loving, spirited rule.” “Feh!” Jay blurted out disdainfully, leaning back in his chair. The Keeper let out a grumble of annoyance as he pushed out his chair and began to fiddle with the main control board. The face continued to drone on. “The most common of recreational activities is commonly known as Chrystal. The activity consists of the injection of the drug Gefilthetamine (Also known as Chrystalisiz) into the bloodstream. This, in turn, results in a moment of extreme emotion followed by a blissful coma (the time of said coma depending on dosage).” Jay remembered his father's burst only minutes ago and felt a dull sadness come over him. The face continued, smiling so intensely it seemed as though it might burst. “Side eﬀects can include addiction, blue skin tone, violent emotional bursts and even death. Szack's population has recently faced a rapid decline from twenty million self-regulating beings to four million due to rising death rates and emigration into Lebn. These factor have occurred due to- aaiiieee!” The face screamed as the Keeper flicked the start-up switch and the desk reverted to it's natural form. The Keeper then leaned back out from under the table and wiped his forehead with a handkerchief.
“Finally,” he exclaimed, letting out a breath of exhaustion. “Now, Darling, please inform Mr Geller about the wonderful land of Mishpokhe.” The face reemerged from the desktop and Jay was amazed to see a diﬀerent woman, this time with much more defined, harder features. “Absolutely honey,” it flirted with a deeper, more seductive tone. “Mishpokhe is the most populated colony of the Paradisal Democratic Rebublic of Lebn with a population of 40 million selfregulating beings. Over 25% of the population has migrated from Szack, making it the most popular colony of origin for Mishpokhe's inhabitants.” Jay's ears perked up in the mention of the Colonies and he began to wonder if any others could have survived. He listened on. “The average air quality is a pure 4 due to atmosphere modulators located in every home and public area. It is currently governed by dear leader Rabin and has never had any crime or fatality due to his loving, spirited rule. Recreational activities include hiking (the act of walking long distances), sailing (the act of travelling across open water), Skyjumping—” “Thank you Darling”, the Keeper interrupted. “Now please inform Jacob about the requirements of entering Lebn.” “Sure, hon. To enter Paridisial Democratic Republic of Lebn, you must be a fertile man or woman with a fertile partner of the opposite sex. Each of the partners are allowed to bring with them one other human.” “And, what are the punishments for illegal entry without these requirements?” the Keeper enquired, looking at Jacob. “If one of the partners comes to testing and they are infertile or their love for the other is insincere the couple will be terminated on sight.” “Thank you Darling. Now what is the punishment for same-sex relations in Szack?” The face's smile dissipated. “All homosexuals found will be turned to legal forces and if fertile will be lobotomised and harvested until no longer of use and if infertile they will be terminated. The same punishment applies to those hiding knowledge of such criminals.”
“Thank you Darling, that is all.” The face winked and the desktop reverted to its flat form. The Keeper looked up. “Please Jacob. I have loved you like my own son. Please don't do this. Stay here in Szack, but don't run oﬀ with that boy. You'll die, you both will.” But it was already too late. Jay had made up his mind and was ready to live a new life with Caleb, no matter the consequences. ☾ As he sat on the roof of the Keeper's old factory he wept and thought of what he had done. Three months after their chat, the Keeper had died of atmosphere poisoning and Jay's father soon followed, trying to smuggle himself into Lebn. Jay was sure he was safe and that their love would protect them from anything, but a month later, in a random scanning in his factory as he tried to escape enforcers, Caleb was gunned down too. Now, Jacob had nothing. No one to love, or even too talk to, and no city either. He could see the gas on the horizon, engulfing buildings as it came closer. No one really knew how far away the gas was, but no one thought it was this close. Now everyone had gone or died, and Jacob was the last one. The last man in Szack. An infidel. A curse of his own design. But he wasn’t, was he? He was a man fighting for his love, for a chance at happiness. Why could he not have that? It was the others that did this to him, he thought. The gas, his father, Gehenna. It was not Jay's fault for hoping. It was their fault for Jay's downfall, not his. Society was the creator of its own destruction and hope was man's way of trying to repair it. For the first time since he last saw Caleb, Jay felt a smile cross his face. It almost made the pain of the gas easier to take.
A Portrait of Alice in Six Moments ☾ WILLIAM HU MOMENT 1 “Hey, listen, I think you're pretty cool.” Alice said this only after I had landed a detention for flinging my fists at her. “We should hang out more.” I rubbed the bruise on my cheek. “Yeah, really? You didn't think so yesterday.” “Oy.” She says. “You were asking for it. I see fights through when I get picked on.” “I wasn't picking on you!” “You said my father was trailer trash, so close enough. Just don't do that again, okay?” What a crazy bitch. “Fine.
MOMENT 2 “You will not believe this, John. I caught Samantha and Adam snogging in the locker room.” “You know it's not cool to gossip, right? A, I don't really care, and B, I thought I told you to leave me alone.” “Yeah, well, no one else was gonna talk to you. It's not like I scared any of your friends away.” “Alice, can you learn to shut up?” I began walking away from her to make a point. “Whatever.” She laughed, godammit, she laughed as she strutted across the oval. Where the hell does she get the bloody confidence?
MOMENT 3 “Hey.” I sat down next to Alice in history. “Hey, look who it is. Lemme move my stuﬀ.” She made some extra room on the desk for me. I didn't want to surrender so early. “Thanks.” I made an eﬀort not to talk to her during the class, and she made an eﬀort to show that she really didn't care what I thought of her. The bell rung, and as she gathered up her papers I caught glimpses of strange little sketches - a nude woman lying inside the core of a rose, spheres and pyramids in a dappled desert - and as much as I hated to admit it, she had a way with her pen, no doubt. “Oh by the way —” she put her hand on my shoulder just before she left, and used the other to point at a figure on my page, “it's 1954, not 1953.” The bloody cheeky smile of hers. I didn't correct it until she was out of my sight.
Ping Yap Untitled, 2016 Graphite pencil
William Hu It’s Always Raining Here…, 2016 Ink
MOMENT 4 “What're you drawing?” Shit. Did I really just initiate conversation with her? She looked up with less than half the surprise I expected. Couldn't even grant me the small victories. “Just people.” I crouched down beside her and glanced into her notepad. It was faces. Luke, Chris, Jenny, Samantha and Adam (kissing), Paul, and “Woah, is that me?” It was a rhetorical question, of course - the sketch was so finely crafted there could have been no doubt as to who it was. I could see my tired eyes looking back up from the page, messy hair and one hand supporting the side of my chin, angular fingers curling up a faint trail of stubble. “Nah, it's my brother. Of course it's you, doofus. You can take a closer look if you want.” She handed me the book, and I flipped through the pages. All pen sketches, some surrealist and some gritty and all too real. And on the last used page, me. “Why're they all in pen? Do you do any painting?” She shrugged. “I just sketch. Can I have it back now?” “Sure, sorry.” I handed it back into her lap. “You, um. You're a really good drawer.” “I know, right. It's such a pity the things I choose to draw are so damn ugly, then, isn't it?” “Bastard.” But I laughed. MOMENT 5 “Merry Christmas, you bugger.” I held out my two wrapped parcels for her. “Oy, I didn't ask for anything. So I don't feel obliged to give you something in return.” A wink. She always had a way of avoiding saying thanks. “Open em. Smaller one first.” Oil paints and brushes. She never talked about money, but I knew why she only sketched. The other gift was canvas paper. “Wow.” She said. That was all. “I really don't -” “Come on, take it.”
She smiled, but there was something else underneath. “So long as you take these.” She handed the torn wrapping back into my hands before turning around and running away across the grass, footsteps light on the weeds below and laughter spiralling behind her. Part of me knew, though, that the joke wasn't the whole reason for her quick exit. She didn't want me to see her crying. MOMENT 6 “It's a few weeks late, but you finally got your Christmas present.” She was holding something wrapped in plain brown paper and string. “I'll take that.” It was light, but firm. I tore the corner - canvas paper, and the smell of oil paints. “Now that's cheating. Returning gifts much?” But she didn't laugh as I expected. It was a painting of us. Smiling, side by side, arms over each other's shoulders as we walked through a park. “Do you like it?” “I, um, yeah, I do, but -” “But?” “Nothing. It's nice.” I didn't know what to say. “John?” “Yeah?” “I, um. I really like you and. Um.” “Okaaay, okay.” Shit, what? “Right.” She took a few steps towards me, and (fuck) I stepped back. It took only that moment - that one step back - to see the hurt staining her eyes. “No, wait, that's not what I -” “Yeah, sorry,” she said as she wiped her nose. “Forget it. It's all cool.” She brushed down her sleeves. “I should get going.” “Wait!” I took a long, shaking breath. “Listen, I... I really like you too. It's just that - I don't want anything more than this. This is all I need, this is all I want.” I put the painting down and held her wrists. “Just this.” “I... I don't understand.” “Just the way we can insult each other. The way we can mess around, the way we can talk about all kinds of stupid shit and just not care, you know? It's all I want.” To be friends. She managed a smile, a tear catching at the corner of her lip. “It's all I need.”
I hugged her then, not whispering time old lies about love, just hugging her because I cared, because I cared about that girl who punched me, because I cared about what my feelings meant for hers. â€œI just don't want anything to change.â€? I could feel, in every struggled grasp of her fingers behind my back, the futures she imagined folding in upon themselves. I don't know how long we stood there in that frozen eternity, holding each other as she gazed through tears at pastel smiles laying upon the ground in a sun-filled park only a single lost moment away.
Akio Ho Childâ€™s Fantasy, 2016 Photograph: Acrylic, detergent, card
Greener Grass ☾ TEAGUE PALMER Vibrant blue skies with lone clips floating by, Summers spent in heat, winters not so bleak, It's lovely here, not a single critique, Though swell here I disregard with a sigh, Cause on greener grass a better place lie, But a more simple place is all I seek, A bountiful place to stay for a week - Or more, under it's more beautiful sky. Would I be happier, hopeful when there? My eyes are gold - malleable, not fixed, As still certainly I can change my own mind, Two roads staring me down - choose if I dare, Yet where I stand my feelings remain mixed, Should I venture there what life will I find.
Jack Vann Lammonby Untitled, 2016 Photograph
Nathan Tan 3000 Frames 1000 Layers, 2016 Animation This animation can be viewed under the media section of nerdart.ml or at this link: https://youtu.be/4rKGgH5U8es
Henry Pemberton Sunset, 2016 Photograph
Duality ☾ ALEX THORNHILL
Allow me to paint you a picture. A world. A country. A city. A culture. The city’s population is relatively moderate, although there are none more satisfied than they. Future or past is irrelevant, whichever is beneficial in your eyes. Whether the city is a ‘know everyone and everyone knows you’ or a ‘Hey, I haven't met you before!’ city is up to you, reader, to decide. The air is fresh and the climate perfect, just enough rain and just enough warmth. No one lives in the streets, yet no one lives in a mansion. All are equal, friendly and content, and are part
of a growing, city-wide community. And oh, the things to do, the places to be! Bustling markets, pristine parks, concert halls and museums, hospitals, beaches, libraries and rivers, jam-packed with any public facility the modern or ancient man or woman could possibly want. Monthly auctions, church gatherings, fashion shows, sports competitions, countless concerts, art exhibitions, boat races and historical re-enactments, any event imaginable. Large or small, loud or quiet, obscure or popular, all are numerous and splendid and joyous and memorable. Never, not once, does anyone ever go home from an event unsatisfied or unhappy. There could be technology to accompany this luxurious lifestyle, and if there were many would use it. Dishwashers, washing machines, computers and tablets, you name it, they have it. But on the contrary, there could also just as easily choose not to indulge in these things. They may use candles and oil lamps for light, walk to a friend’s house, repair their clothes with sewing, and wash things manually. Now, that's not to say that technology, or any of these things described, are good or bad. Oh no. But rather to highlight the point that this place is what you, the reader, understands to be good. Let us leave this place for a moment, and enter another, far more sinister place. Beneath a thick roof of rock and earth, where the air is ash and chemicals, and the people live in cesspools of their own sick and sorrow, is another city, an industrial city. The Underground, a city with a population so vast there isn't a number for it. A forgotten city, literally and metaphorically buried beneath the thick veil of the happiness of the people of the surface, drunk on their own success and pleasure. The streets are thin and winding and slimy like jellyfish, lathered in whatever people throw out of their windows. The slums are uncountable. The people… are beyond description. Mutilated. They all, every single one of them, work at a factory. Kilometres on kilometres, factories neatly lined up, numbered 1 through God knows what. Factories, providing little else except extremely dangerous jobs to the already suﬀering peoples of the Underground. The factories themselves are grey, shadowy figures that seem to arch up and over you, bear-like and threatening. They all have enormous exhaust chimneys, towering and treacherous, spewing out endless streams of black, gaseous bile into the already dank and musty
air of the Underground, spreading disease almost as quickly as fear. The buildings themselves are basic, simple rectangles. There are huge industrial-sized pipes running in all directions, some going straight up into the unknown void and some going into nearby factories. They obviously haven't been cleaned in a long time, with dark chemical stains on just about every surface they have and scrap metal and rubbish scattered around like ants to water. The inside is even worse than the outside. I will leave what happens inside the walls up to you to imagine, as there are certainly no proper words I could use that would ever pay justice to the horrific processes within these monolithic hellholes. ☾ Sometimes a man, or group of men, will enter the treacherous cavern. Wealthy businessmen, factory employees, the sort that have never known deep suﬀering, never experienced deep sorrow. The Average Joes of the world. They see the mutated children, they breathe the foul, thick air, and taste the sickness and disease that runs through the city like snake venom. Some men barely flinch, some run away horrified, some vomit and faint. All hate it. Very few, every now and again, try to help the people. They oﬀer a little bit of food, or water, or money. Those who accept this innocent attempt at help usually don't show up to work the next day. This is the same, kilometres on kilometres of people, deprived of sunlight, fresh air, the pleasures of the outside world. It has always been this way, and it always will be. Go back to the surface. The city. Back to the bustling markets. Boat races. Libraries. Museums. Hospitals. The place of plenty. You know what you need to make a market? To build a boat? To learn about in libraries? To stock museums? To run a functioning hospital? Things. Things to sell, to make boats with, to learn about, to admire and to help the sick. Things. You know where these things come from. You know exactly where. The saddest thing? The cities… They are one and the same. They are every city.
Matthew Hamdorf Hyperlapse, 2016 Film This film can be viewed under the media section of nerdart.ml or at this link: https://youtu.be/hg-JFSNaxlI
William Hu Mondrians in the Dark, 2016 Digital Art
Akio Ho Kitchen Mess, 2016 Oil on Canvas
Nathan Tan Bottleneck, 2016 Digital Art
Tom McQuillan Untitled, 2016 Ceramic with glazing
New Boots ☾ JAMES ANNEAR
RECOM ANNOUNCEMENT: STRESSING OVER TIMES OF THE PAST? WANT A HAPPIER, SIMPLER LIFE LIVING IN THE NOW? DOWNLOAD THE NEWEST C.T.A. TODAY, FOR A NEWER, MORE COLONIAL YOU! The encouraging yet stern voice boomed over the gloss metallic speaker from across the long winding hallway - another ‘Colonial Thought Application’ (C.T.A.) that could be downloaded directly into the brain. He was thinking about his daughter, his wife, the last time he saw them. Before the chaos of the rebellion, before The Colony, when things weren't what they were now, not necessarily better, but not the same. When people had their own opinions, didn't always follow trends. Now, all they needed was to have the newest C.T.A., to wear the newest clothes, to buy the latest phone, to own the trendiest car, to be… sheep. It wasn't just a coincidence that the recommendation box (Recom) displayed a C.T.A. directly relating to his thoughts. It was one of the only laws of the government: That every colonist was required to receive an implant to track location, but it clearly read their thoughts, to provide a ‘relevant recommendation’. Under extreme circumstances, the colonial leaders could even force a colonist to download an app using what they called a wireless applicator. The C.T.A. displayed on the Recom was an old application, one capable of deleting all thoughts before the age of the colony, just twenty years ago. Most people, in fact all colonists Noah had ever met, had this application, and had praised it as the best C.T.A. in the colony. But
Noah could never do that to himself, he would never want to forget his daughter’s beautiful eyes looking up at him from out of her crib. Never. ☾ Noah shook the memory out of his mind — time for work. He buttoned up his favourite pale blue collared shirt (all the rage these days), put on his new three-quarter length shorts, and grabbed his father’s shoes, his only possession from the past. The leather was tough and worn, with the dirt encrusted into the soles which were crumbling away. The laces were tattered, and splitting at the ends, but he loved them more than any other of his possessions. Noah still remembered how his father had sung to him at night, with his soft, gentle voice, sitting on an old wooden chair next to his bed… “Hush-a-bye, don't you cry, Go to sleep little baby. When you wake, you shall have, All the pre-” RECOM ANNOUNCEMENT: STRESSING OVER TIMES OF THE PAST? WANT A HAPPIER, SIMPLER LIFE LIVING IN THE NOW? DOWNLOAD THE NEWEST C.T.A. TODAY, FOR A NEWER, MORE COLONIAL YOU!
By the time the Recom finished, Noah was already half way down the footpath. ☾ The jet-train was cramped and full of commuters, all gazing wide-eyed like naïve children, absorbing all the pixels on the automated advertising unit. Noah’s eyes panned across the silent room, watching as the voiceless passengers sat, quite happily, yet made no attempt to communicate. In fact, no one even took notice of one of the crusted old man laying in rags on the floor, who suddenly let out a moan, heard only by Noah. Another walker, people from the outside, most likely trying to be apart of the joys and security of the colony.
Albert Smith Infinite II, 2016 Digital Art
Reluctantly, he helped up the man, who could barely stand by himself. The man, now shaking, violently latched onto him, and raspingly whispered into his ear. “This is not the way. Not the way of Our Lord. Not the way of anything. They’re still out there you know, all the others. Living in peace and without all this!” His hand vaguely gestured to his surroundings. “It’s not natural.” Noah disregarded him completely. He was crazy, Noah knew that for a fact, but the man said it with conviction, as though it was, somehow, the truth. The man had tired eyes and a worn face, one of regret and loss. He seemed familiar in a sense, not the a person you see every day, but someone you always said hello to. However, it had been over twenty years, and the chances of the man being anyone Noah ever knew was almost non-existent. Yet, as Noah continued to reason with himself, the man made the decision for him. “Name?” he rasped. “Noah. Noah Maverick.” The man fell to his knees, gaping.
“Little Noah from next door? Your family, they're still alive, I can take you there, please. Leave this madness.” Religions, beliefs, emotions, family, love, hope. It all came back to him, like a bullet to the brain. Noah was going home. ☾ Suddenly, a male voice disrupted all the Recoms and advertising units: “COLONISTS, PLEASE ALERT AUTHORITIES IF YOU SEE THIS MAN:” A photo of the old man appeared, “HE IS VERY DANGEROUS AND IS THREATENING THE PEACE OF OUR COLONY THROUGH LIES.” The train screeched as it shuddered to a stop. Noah could hear the sound of black boots on lacquered floor approaching his position. He had to leave. Not just leave the train, but the town, the city, the colony. With tears streaming down his cheeks, now glossed with the salty water, he leapt oﬀ the train with the old man slowly following behind. They managed to make it to the colony wall just as the enforcers arrived. The wall was only about three metres high, with crumbling, uneven bricks. It would be easy to climb, the colony never needed to keep anyone in. Noah climbed to the top of the wall, with some unexpected diﬃculty, he wasn't as slim as he used to be. As he turned back to see the colony for the last time, he saw two things: First, an enforcer holding the wireless applicator, capable of wiping his memory in an instant, which would almost certainly occur. Unless… Unless he could just get out of range, but even then, the chances were slim. The second thing he saw was the old man, his past neighbour, still in his knotted old rags, hopelessly trying to climb the wall which was crumbling away beneath his calloused feet. His pale grey eyes were open wide with despair as he continued to stumble, with his right arm raised, waiting and ready to be lifted to safety. Noah turned away… All he could do was to run, and so he did. It was only a matter of time before the enforcer wiped his memory, he needed to see his family one last time. Once again, he thought of his daughter. Her lovely smile, the way she’d hug him when he got back from work. He could feel his memories fading, but he had to keep thinking. Her auburn hair, her
infectious laugh, her beautiful big hazel eyes, her, her… her... nothing. There was no longer anything to remember. Noah, now bewildered by the fact he was on the other side of the wall, stopped and turned back to The Colony. As he walked, he looked to the floor, where he saw his father’s shoes. He chuckled. “My goodness, I could do with a newer pair of boots.”
Jack Vann Lammonby Untitled, 2016 Photograph
An Homage to Monday Morn’ ☾ NATHAN TAN Open eyes in the morning Drops on the green Gold and the gleam Everyday we're mourning Leave the world we've been dreaming Back to the daze we've already seen The fire in my eyes has been Dire, need a reason to sing Slavery is back in fashion This desk our ball and chain Escape the cage with passion Alleviate our pain But I can make a diﬀerence Making change not bloodstains Find happiness in who I am Birth my own deliverance Like a path that meets a dead end It's not where we stop We find another way to amend And send sincere sympathy 'Ars gratia artis' Carving a legacy Passing on agency Breaking the mold
Passing â˜ž RIKI WYLIE The reflection fragmented dances upon broken panes. Clouded glass no longer uniform fails to conceal the blackness that consumes; feeding growing emptiness.
Jack Vann Lammonby Untitled, 2016 Photograph
Australia Day ☾ AKIO HO I took a shadow out on a date last night. We paid respects to the Wagyl, looked at each other with mutual understanding, and on a picnic blanket nestled down to watch the fireworks. The sun’s stain oozed around the edge of the horizon, and suddenly my date was nothing more than some blurry silhouette like those weird purple-green blotches you see after staring at a bright light. Cold? I asked, but there was no answer, and it hadn’t been a question anyway, but my date couldn’t care less about whether or not I wanted a blanket.
They were cold and unfeeling and barely there, blotchy green and purple, fading every few seconds into the scenery, which wasn’t pleasant either, mainly rubbish and dead bushes. The fireworks started, only to be interrupted halfway through by an Alien Invasion. It turned out okay though. Their spinning starcrafts had been driving past, and they had only wanted to see the fireworks, so in true patriotic spirit we welcomed them. How could any of us deny them such a simple wish on such a lovely humid sticky night? Then some of the babies got scared of their glowy eyestalks, and started crying, so the aliens got moved to a cordoned section which was for the good of everyone. They’d gotten a little rowdy, if you know what I mean— of course you do. Doesn’t everyone? I’d gotten separated from my date, the shadow, in the chaos, so I sat next to a little old lady and her grandson, and the evening got a hell of a lot weirder. It did get more interesting, too, and secretly, I thought it was probably a good thing that the shadow had gotten left behind. The little old lady then introduced herself as Connie, which may have been short for something else, and her grandson as Other Demons (which I thought was not very subtle). Because it turns out that they were demons, I could tell by the way their forked tail lashed in the long grass, shifty eyes all yellow aglow, fogged up by some metaphors for misery, or something. I certainly hadn’t been expecting THAT tonight, and to be honest I was unsure of what to do. I began to realise why they’d been sitting a little apart from the others. Over the course of the night, I remembered my grandma’s advice: If you ever meet a demon, be nice.
It had seemed random at the time. I decided to have a little conversation, you know, get to know them a bit. And with a soundtrack of crackling thunder-like booms and sparks of ether raining down in the night sky, I realised that actually, they maybe weren’t all that bad. They were eccentric, but good hearted, probably. You’re welcome to come around sometime, I said, at 84 Kaleep Street. I channelled some literature; don’t bother knocking, and they smiled, I think, a frowny smile, and went back to their home, flapping away into the clouds on black leathery wings which reminded me of liquorice. Later I found out that they’d been on their way to feast on some lonely children but had gotten sidetracked by fireworks. Don’t we all. The fireworks had ended already by the time I made my way back to the sleigh I’d parked between a battered Toyota and a hulking four wheel drive. My eight kangaroos pulled me all the way back, up and down oﬃce buildings, through the desert, around and around a roundabout (we got caught in the whirl) across a river, over the milky way, and then we pulled up on the lawn of my suburban house. Walking inside, I flopped face down, doll-like, and fell asleep on an old white mattress under a fading southern cross. It was Australia Day.
Tuna Sandwiches ☾ WILLIAM HU The low-hung lights of the refectory had always bothered Pearce, with their violent hum and cold white that hurt his eyes unless he looked down. The floor was not much better – it was stained with old chewing gum that no one bothered to scrape oﬀ, and in corners, scraps of paper used by people who had long left the school. He stepped over an English exam, dated from five years ago – the name, ‘Martin Adams’. Pearce supposed Martin must have a job by now, perhaps a girlfriend or even a wife. How odd to see something of his lying lost under a canteen queue. He had timed his arrival well, and familiar footsteps landed behind his. Violet laughed at nothing in particular, as if she just wanted to let the sound free, and tapped him on the shoulder. ‘Oh, hey Violet!’ The façade of surprise was thin, but she took no note, already talking about her latest discovery. Jellyfish, she said, have no brains. They live their life as a senseless organism without any choice or even instinct. They just float through the water, with no purpose but to live like any other jellyfish. Pearce was one of the few people who listened to Violet’s occasionally interesting facts. Freddie always said that Violet was a bore. A pretty bore, but a bore nonetheless. Pearce knew better than to defend her, but inside, he found her excitement over such things quite charming. ‘I used to want to be like a jellyfish.’ Pearce mentioned. ‘I thought they'd have all the time in the world to think. But I suppose not.’ Violet nodded absently. Her electric blue eyes were wide, and the low-hung lights danced in her pupils. Pearce was hypnotised by the image; those cold white rectangles flitting in and out of her eyes, like some elusive parasite. But she turned her head, and then the lights were once again just that; too close above their heads, and too noisy. One couldn't think with that nest of bees in the canteen.
The queue shuﬄed forward, and they were at the counter. The man behind it could have been sleeping; eyelids low, and a strand of saliva down his four day old stubble. ‘Martin’, read the name tag. It couldn't be the same Martin, Pearce concluded – this man was too old. But he entertained the notion that the surname might just be ‘Adams’, that just a few steps away under black polished heels lay something of his from another age. ‘What are you having, Vi?’ ‘Those sandwiches look nice. Excuse me Martin, may I have one of those?’ ‘I'll have one too then, thanks.’ ‘Martin’ was still – had he been still for just a moment longer, Pearce might have tapped him on the chin to ensure that he hadn't passed out, let his consciousness fly away from the children in the line. Yet he must have been awake; for he knew what they asked for, and two tuna sandwiches were passed over from his fat fingers into theirs. ‘Thanks very much.’ The words were useless – the server was once again in a catatonic state, to wake again with the next order. Perhaps, like a jellyfish – ‘Let's sit here!’ Her voice broke Pearce’s train of thought, and he felt a pang of annoyance. ‘Alright.’ ‘You know, I just love these lights. They're energy eﬃcient, did you know? They're CFL bulbs, and they save around 80% of the energy used by normal lights.’ ‘Oh, really?’ A moment. ‘Are you feeling okay, Pearce? You're a little pale.’ ‘Just a headache.’ He could see the lights through his eyelids. He might not ask her out today. ‘Sorry Vi, just a bit out of it right now. Should we eat?’ She took a large bite out of the sandwich. Pallid rectangles prancing gleefully… ‘Mmh! This sandwich is really good. Do you want a bite?’ ‘No, it's alright, I got one too, remember?’ Tuna, corn, cucumber, mayonnaise, jellyfish. I'll ask her out, maybe later, no, not really… Pearce tore oﬀ a corner of his sandwich. The bread was dry, and the fish, like sand on his tongue.
Nathan Tan & Akio Ho New CCGS Houses, 2016 Digital Art
Nathan Tan Space Suit, 2016 Digital Art
Matthew Hamdorf A Study in Scale, 2016 Digital Art
The Mystery of the Powerpoint ☾ DANIEL STARK I was turned on all night but then he left me… What a scumbag… Sorry, it was left on all night… A mystery all right, and it had me wrapped up in its copper wires. Every day at 7:55 I would arrive to the carpeted patio that provided me a place to sit outside room S-17. Every day at 7:55 I would sidle up to the wall and slide my back down ‘til I was sitting neatly on the floor, pull out my iPad from my satchel and every day I would wonder how on earth power point S-DB3-R1 was switched on on the right hand side. Now, don't get sceptical on me just yet, I know what you're thinking. “But Mr Stark, sir, wouldn't it be the cleaners?” Now, now, young lackey, it ain't for you to decide how and why this mystery unfolded. Regardless, the cleaners only clean the classrooms every second night, and yet every day I walk from my locker, into S block, up the stairs, down the corridor and find the wild red eyes of the power point staring me down. So I decided to investigate this mystery a little further… I had to look through the dusty records of the cleaner’s schedule… I had to break into… The marshall’s oﬃce. It wasn't an easy task, to say the least, red-hot laser beams crisscrossed the doorway and guard dogs patrolled the perimeter, but using a combination of old canteen food and, oddly enough, Nivea deodorant, I was in. I searched the shelving rigorously. There must have been years of dust piled on top of each folder. Air currents were as dangerous as tsunamis, especially for someone who is prone to hay fever, but I eventually found the right folder: grounds keeper staﬀ schedule. With my highly adept table reading skills it took me no more than four tries to find the right cleaner: Mr Peeter Uchka. An odd name
Sadie Leighton Strangely Desolate Anxiety Inducing Landscape Endorsed By Silent Capitalist, 2016 Acrylic, watercolour, pastel
to say the least, but none the less I accepted the anomalies as benign and moved on. I had to find where he was. After an hour or three of Internet stalking I concluded that Mr Uchka didn't work at Christ Church any more, but in fact was making a living under the alias John Smyth, an ingenious cover story: he'd moved to India after he developed a passion for telemarketing. But I knew better than to trust a shifty combination of Internet Explorer and Bing, so I moved on to the interrogation phase. Craig Beckham, apparently a close relative of some â€œfootballerâ€? (whatever that is) had played with the Year Eights almost every day just below the art block. After some intense questioning about names of accomplices and striking power plays it took just 25 seconds for me to extract all I needed: Mr Peeter Uchka was a fake name. Astounding. Such artful deception that fooled even the likes of me! What a Catastrophe! I needed to find out who was using this alias, so I turned to one of the brightest sparks I know, Mr Jan Honnens. Unfortunately his
tactic was to let me struggle with the problem myself until I worked it out. Eventually, fed up with the previous approach, I turned to Mr JeďŹ€ries, who didn't know how to solve it. I turned to a last resort: Mr Ristovsky. He showed me 14 problems that were similar to my problem which I solved with ease, but then when I tried my question I utterly failed. After pondering this overnight, I said the name over and overâ€Ś Mr Peter Uchka. Peter Uchka. Peter-Uchka. Peteruchka. Pietrucha! Then and there I had solved the mystery, Mr Edward Pietrucha was the culprit all along! But why would he spend his time every second day waiting until everyone had left the school so he could flick the switch again for the last time? I would have to go deeper... Names of those involved have been removed at the request of the author, for their safety and his own.
Tom McQuillan Untitled, 2016 Oil on Canvas
Jack Maurice Untitled, 2016 Digital Art
Reality ☾ JULIUS YU What if you didn't exist? How would I know? What if I am just walking through the mist? No one to guide me, no one to follow. Are you just a synthesised organism, Or even a piece of computer coding? Being controlled, like a puppet, By some all knowing, all powerful being. Maybe some of you is real, And some is not. Your soul, potentially, will always be alive in me, like a second heart, Beating alongside mine. Maybe I am living in a generated world. With you being projected, As an image would be on a whiteboard. Is there some super computer, Creating everything I know. So advanced it can create lives. With all the highs and lows that come with life. A computer controlled by aliens, An artificial allegory. What, then, does death mean? Because, if everything I know, touch and feel is virtual… Then surely death should be as well? Shouldn't it? After all that life presents us with, The soaring highs and swooping lows, And I find out that you are indeed, An illusion, purely a figment of my imagination. In the vast array of computer coding that is my “life”
Then, after death, (the endless black, the eternal sleep, the end of everything.) Maybe I will, finally, find the truth about you, my friend. After the endless hours of wondering, alone, in this immense, seemingly endless, sea of encryption. Perhaps, this “reality" is just me dreaming, And death is just the awakening, The start of something new, A new life, in which you will be entwined and become a part of me – somehow. If this is all a virtuality then does it matter what we do, or if we live or die? Could “life” just be a continuous loop of birth, the “awakening”, And death, the “end”. We think this reality is the truth, a bright, alive macrocosm, with so many memories, but… I think, after all that life has given me, I will be sad to leave it behind. (If we are, genuinely, leaving this existence.) Most of all, I wouldn't want to leave you behind, In this “life” which means so much to the both of us But at the same time I'm excited to find out what lies beyond – If, there is anything that comes after death. If, indeed, anything exists within the depths of reality
Akio Ho Wilds, 2016 Acrylic, glitter, digital overlay
Starts Today ☾ AKIO HO “Today,” said Ind. Principal, “We’ll be learning of James Madison. ‘The advancement and diﬀusion of knowledge is the only guardian of true liberty.’ Have you recorded that? Please get out your MeMOpads. Your new teacher will be here soon and I hope you are all on your best behaviour.” ☾ PROLEPSIS The steel doors buckle open and like a Biblical flood, the feverish crowd outside rushes into ParliamentHouse towards Raquel Whittaker — greyhaired, plump, PRADA draped, desperately placating in impending doom. “Stop!” she says. “You don’t understand! Listen to me! This is unsustainable, we-” A hologram on her desk flicks open; a man’s face — smiling and whitetoothed — appears. “Darling,” he purrs, “You had it coming.” Her scream is masked by the roar of a crowd as blood and black flesh smear on the white tiled floor. ☾ OuterSprawl, Birming — A dark-eyed woman sits on the side of a street and sighs slowly. See if you can see how her breathe mists in frosty air like paint drops in water. Pulling her rags around her — it's mighty cold this time of year and if you're not careful the Nepi might get you! Nasty stuﬀ, the virus nibbles away until chunks of flesh turn black and flakey and fall oﬀ.
It has been scientifically demonstrated that vaccines cause harm in mental development. Keep warm! This natural aﬄiction is the lesser of the two evils. This message the Capital Government has delivered.
Albert Smith Untitled, 2016 Digital Art
Colmbull, bordering AnhSki — A reporter with almond eyes clickclacks through badly cobbled city streets in an oozing shantytown. She is clutching a microphone (just for show — her speech can be broadcasted through an implant before the words even exit her mouth) and a pen, her prided novelty from a bygone age. Next to her walks a man, he is being interviewed. Behind them a whirring camera floats. The reporter is smiling, but her rapid words slice up the air with practised ease. “The media is like detective, no?” she is saying, laughing like the air; cold, dry. “Now, why isn’t the Government doing anything about the Nepi virus? The man forces a nervous grin, showing the straight, white teeth that got him into politics. He struggles to find an answer; ‘The
Government is doing everything it possibly can, Ava dear!’ forehead shining with the sheen of flash-dried sweat. The reporter tells the camera to cut, and turns to her interviewee. “Oﬀ the record Simon,” she says, placing a hand on the man’s shoulder and gazing at him with those almond eyes, “but do you really think Raquel Whittaker is a good Prime Minister?” Next morning’s news is frenzied, article popups flashing up on citizens’ glasses: “High ranking oﬃcial lacks faith in the PM?! Simon Saul reveals his doubts about the capacity of our current leader.” At 1.00pm, the Government issues sanctions on selected news retailers.
☾ “Class,” said Ind. Teacher. “Copy this quote from Martin Luther King Jr. ‘A social movement that only moves people is merely a revolt. A movement that changes both people and institutions is a revolution.’ What does this mean? Please connect to the stream using the proxy classroom route.”
MeMOpad: Letter - Sara Haﬀord-Cheng — Simon can you check this and then send it down to the replies dept. Dear Ms Cheng, I’m disheartened to hear of your situation… [clipped text, blink to expand] …Thank you again for writing to me. Yours sincerely Raquel Whittaker MeMOpad: Letter - Sara Haﬀord-Cheng, from the Oﬃce of the Prime Minister: Dear Ind. Haﬀord-Cheng, I’m disheartened to hear of your situation, and my heart goes out to you. Unfortunately, scientific evidence shows that these vaccines may not in fact be the best way forward. Thank you for understanding. In my darkest times I oft remember the words our Government was built on: “When making an omelette, eggs must be broken.” Sarah we are on the cusp of a beautiful omelette.
Ongoing dialogue between government and citizens keeps our democracy strong. Thank you again for writing to me. Yours Sincerely Raquel Whittaker MeMOpad: Archived To the CEO of FactsNews, Ind. Gregor Birch We regret to inform you that due to violations of our contractual agreement, as well as a significant budget deficit, the Capitol government will no longer be able to fund Facts News or its aﬃliates. Your coverage of a government oﬃcial’s unproven and unrecorded statements will furthermore have several legal consequences. The Director of Stability/Defence would like to make an appointment with you in the coming weeks to discuss this further. Ongoing dialogue keeps our democracy strong. Regards The Department of Stability and Defence
James Annear Untitled, 2016 Digital Art
- - - MeMOpad is obsolete! Get live time ThoughtStreaming from the Cloud with implant plans starting at $8/month! - - LiveThoughtMessaging archives. From: Gregor Birch Hey Faceless Government Oﬃcial I can’t make the meeting this week, or any other week. You know FactsNews was established to spread the truth — Ow! that step should be fixed —Over the years we’ve gone from a home-run server to a funded Global Database resource, and don’t you know it! —damn that girl is hot —People are slowly waking up to your lies. We know that’s just what you don’t want! I’m not an idiot — so good luck finding me, I’m underground. Not even your skinny little spies can track me down, I’ve been in the media business, the truth business - the detective business - for twenty years. Oohhh! Hope you can sleep in your marbled Civic while everyone scrapes by in the freezing ass winter. In fact, I —arh, mairduhgh! I can’t THINK with —what’s this NOISE —I can’t — shit my — this isn’t — I — be— kieeeeeeeeeeeeeee . . . Connection unable to be established. There may be a problem on the other end of the server. ☾ ParliamentHouse, InnerCivic, Birming — Anderson Kate waits outside for fifteen minutes before deciding that the meeting has, in fact, probably started already, so he holds his wrist chip to the scanner, steps through the swishing open doors — and sees the dumpy Prime Minister and her Chief Assistant, her married Chief Assistant, locked in a passionate embrace. Their gasp of horror times perfectly with the camera in Anderson’s flashing glasses. Five minutes later he is sprinting out the revolving doors and down the shallow, marble steps of ParliamentHouse, ten minutes after that the incriminating photos are all over the global database with complementary outraged headlines, and five minutes after that Anderson Kate is being sued by the PM’s oﬃce for defamation but
that’s okay because he’s part of a popular, influential media corporation which dominates the industry thanks to its growing number of individual donors. FactsNews. Independent, devoted to revealing the truth, in memory of their founder, martyr Gregor Birch. Rest his soul. Look, are you keeping up with this? Breaking: Rising star Simon Saul promoted to position of new Chief Assistant. OuterSprawl, Birming — Homemade signs and people’s arms wave wildly in the air. Their slogans scream indecipherable shouted scrawls, blending in the winter air, but the message is clear. Rotting clothes, feet caked with blood, excrement, trash-sludge. Examine the crowd. That little girl with the bubbly eyes and crooked front tooth hopes one day to become a dentist. Fixing people’s teeth so they can be pretty, imagine that! Maybe she’ll meet a dentist who can fix her teeth. Her mother has worried eyes, and the hand she puts on her daughter’s shoulder is shaking. Neither of them will be alive by winter’s end — the apparently artificial Nepi virus has swept through this region, and over half the natives have already been diagnosed by local doctors. Unable to aﬀord the vaccines regulated by the Capitol Government, this deadly disease will have a devastating impact, smashing the population of the OuterSprawl. How can we stand by while this blatant discrimination and complacency takes place? This is FactsNews, live on the outskirts of Birming in AnhSki. ☾ “Learn the words of Warren Ellis,” said Ind. Teacher, desperately, intensely, in the last class he taught, before he retired. “If you believe that your thoughts originate inside your brain, do you also believe that television shows are made inside your television set? You’re a great class.” ☾ PROLEPSIS II The crowd roars primal, the sound eye-watering with an audial aftertaste like coriander leaves. The rest of Raquel Whittaker has already been trampled into dust by thousands of black-crusted feet.
Disease is everywhere, fever, blood, joy in the air. Simon Saul, our first ever Socially Elected Prime Minister, smiles. "I'm humbled," he says, voice echoing around the square. Now watch, he waves, congenially. "I'm humbled, by this enormous responsibility and honour. You feel let down by the system, and the government." Oh, look— over there, that pretty almond-eyed Deputy standing behind him nods along. A perpetual seesaw. Nod, nod, nod. She’s holding a pen — who writes anymore?? Simon is still speaking. Listen to the words dripping from his mouth. See upon that vinyl-shaven chin the lecherous smile that peels away skin to reveal rows of perfect white teeth lined up like soldiers. “And I have one thing to say. It’s great news for you all, because I mean it, my door is open: GOOD GOVERNMENT…
STARTS TODAY reports on a historic revolt and the rise of the Social Government.
William Hu Mask?…What mask?, 2016 Ink on paper
Daniel Stark Hillary, 2016 Marker
Daniel Stark Nightmare Hillary, 2016 Ink
Akio Ho John Key Wannabe, 2016 Graphite, digital overlay
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☾ MATTHEW HAMDORF The hive’s droopy eyes crack open, As the pale day forces creeping fingers through. Worn-out wing beats bear weary drones, Past row upon row upon row of honeycomb homes. They serve their ever-hungry queens, Bleeding pretty flowers dry for a drop of pollen. At day’s end, their quotas filled, They flee home with wadded green paper; Their honey, So fleetingly sweet.
Jack Vann Lammonby Entering, 2016 Photograph
William Hu Inwards……Outwards, 2016 Photographic series
Untitled ☾ JAMES ANNEAR Above all, we march as proud men Along our sandy shores. Our caked feet press, Leaving footprints. But waves slowly creep up the coast; Steps washed away. .
Nathan Tan Surf Whoring, 2016 Digital Art
Smile ☾ ETHAN KOH The drums rolled as the two stage lights in the circus tent shone flowingly, randomly; searching for the centre point. Centre stage was encircled by the seating stands. The tent was filled with children of young ages, scurrying about and hurriedly choosing their positions. The entrance to the stage was a single red carpet stretching to the centre of the tent. The children, satisfied with their view point, quietened. The lights, once wandering, now focused their attention on the entrance. Out sprung two clowns. They walked side by side waving at their adoring fans. They juggled balls and tripped over their massive shoes. They whacked each other with rubber hammers and displayed their strength by weightlifting two pillows. The crowd loved their weekly stress relievers. The cameras rolled, they were on air. The show began when Mr Bobby had an idea. “Mr Jimmy! I have an idea!” “What?” Mr Jimmy replied. “I forgot…” The children laughed as they saw their two favourite clowns at work. They adored their scintillating humour. The stage was dark, but two spotlights shone down on the two men. Mr Bobby wore his iconic blue oversized business suit with red and white checkered pants. While Mr Jimmy donned his golden robe and shiny silver flare pants. “That's right!”, Mr Bobby exclaimed, “I want to show you kids how much I care about you guys. What do you say Jimmy?” “I sure do!”, he replied whilst honking his red nose. The children erupted with joy! The stands were filled with kids giggling, smiling, and gaily prancing! They love the idea! They loved their two clowns! The stage was set. The lights dimmed and the crowd silenced. A whirring sound could be heard from centre stage. The lights gradually grew brighter and the flood lights flickered on. A boy strapped to an arm chair.
On either side stood Mr Jimmy and Mr Bobby. The boy’s hands and ankles were shackled tight to the legs and arms of the chair. His head hung down; his back hunched forward. His hair was long, dirty, tangled and unkept. His face bled from streaking gashes on his cheeks and chin. His eyes bloodshot and drooped; had dark black bags encircling them. His clothes were terribly torn. Cuts and bruises ran down his bare chest. His shorts were too small for him and above his knee was a small black scarring bullet hole. The children wondered, “What was that boy doing? Maybe it's the magic trick. It must be. Why isn't he moving? Oh, this is so cool!” “Hey kids! Today is a special Friday ‘cause we have a special guest!” announced Mr Jimmy, like a ring leader of a circus. A special guest? Who? Him? “Last night,” Mr Bobby continued, “our guest was snooping around the border.” The boy in the chair stirred. He lifted his head with great eﬀort and will. He muttered, “My friends-.” The children stopped to take a closer look at the boy. There are monsters beyond the border which will gobble you up. Nobody is allowed to go near it. Unless you were“Luckily,” Mr Bobby interrupted gleefully, “Our loyal, faithful, fearless guards on the 185th Tower spotted the rascal before he was up to no good!” The crowd stared in surprise as armed children with rifles and bulletproof vests entered the stage. Red roses and violets fell from the ceiling, showered the heroes. The soldiers stood to attention on stage in a single file facing the audience. They saluted formally, silently and expressionlessly. They then all turned right and marched oﬀ the stage saying nothing, doing nothing, just as they had entered. There was a wave of applause. Mr Jimmy began, “Unfortunately today we won't do anything to the boy as his family, whom he cooperated with, have yet to arrive-” “No!” yelled a child in the throng of kids. “We want magic!” “Yeah!”, replied another. “Magic!” It caught ablaze like wildfire. “Magic! Magic! Magic!” “Children!” Mr Bobby grinned. “I was supposed to show you how much I cared for you guys.”
Ping Yap Untitled, 2016 Digital Art
He and Mr Jimmy simultaneously put their arms up casually onto the back of the wooden arm chair. Leaning forward, sandwiching the boy’s face with their cheeks. “Listen close everyone! This is for your own health and safety.” began Mr Jimmy. They looked up at the audience and continued gleefully. “The crossing of the boarder is illegal. Remember to obey adults!” They stopped abruptly; rose to their feet; stood straight; clasped their hands together and yelled triumphantly, “Everybody count to three!” A metal head piece, much like that of a bowl was lowered by a wire from the ceiling onto the boy head. The two clowns wore rubber gloves and pushed the boy’s head up, forcing him to sit straight. The apparatus set nicely on the boy’s head, covering his hair and forehead. “ONE!” There was a sniﬄe. “TWO!” Sweat trickled. “THREE!”
A held breath. There was the sound of sharp snapping. A flash of blinding light was emitted from the chair. Black smoke rose. The crackling and snapping could still be heard. The crowd was astonished by the outcome. They haven't seen a magic trick so amazing! The boy wasn't moving! Not even breathing! It’s as if they cast a spell! “That was wonderful! Lollies for everyone!” Mr Bobby shouted as he produced sweets from his bottomless pockets and threw them, handful by handful, into the crowd. Hands frantically grabbed for the confections. “Do as the state says,” parents would coddle, “or you'll end up in trouble.” A child in the crowd was crying. A producer crouched down and helped sooth her sorrows. “Don't cry,” he said as the girl swept her tears aside, “everything will be okay. We are all friends here. Would you like a lolly?” She smiled through red swollen eyes, only to be engulfed into the crowd. The cameraman waved his hands. They were oﬀ air. The studio was closing. The boy in the chair was unstrapped, and dragged out. Today was going to be the headline of the week. “Smile!” Mr Jimmy and Mr Bobby both stood on the stage, watching the smiling bouncers usher out the children. The cameramen packed up. The party was over. Children ran out to the open grass field, bathed by the rays of the setting sun, under the orange sky. “Daddy, Mommy! This week we got to watch the best magic trick ever! When I grow up I want to be a tower guard, so I can protect the people too!” But there was one child. That one girl who still sat in her seat. Staring, fixated by the wooden chair. Inert and petrified. Her hands clutched a lolly. A hand tapped her shoulder. It was the clowns. She could see the pasty, cracked, white chalk on their faces. The plastic wigs. Oversized clothes. Red nose. Smile. Her parents pushed past the duo. “Darling! We finally found you! All your friends are running around outside, why don't you join them?”
“Mommy, Daddy,” she said, “I saw something scary.” “Don't worry about it!” replied the clowns in unison. The child's parents nodded in agreement. “We are all here to have fun!” The girl ran to her mother and hugged her leg. Her face embedded in her thigh. Tears cascaded. Somewhere far away. Another child switched oﬀ the television. And wept…
Seiji Miyagawa Untitled, 2016 Watercolours, paper
toc(sin ☾ AMITABH JEGANATHAN toc(sinwords thrown around like bodies onto bonfires Witch burnings, Gay cursings. “We do it for god” As we live in the light. You'll understand when you grow O L D E
as the Car beneath you splutters and chokes; perishing eternally, you take a sip from your ergonomic cup (typika tangy on the tongue) "Caﬀeine kills, kids" teachers preach yet don't follow their own prayers. religion but the lies of a society that in an age of anxiety gives Money to the Poor and slaughters thousands with the same hand.
rs he corne t n i , g n i id rlasting e v e e h t , alleys , of dingy g, fading n i y d y l w King. slo ceasing to exist. ed s stay glu t n e d u t s as screens e n o h P i o t es; net mem r e t n i d n a , the quick o t n e t t i sk nails b wn to du a reddened d m o r f , tapping ht streets g i n d i m in ls oďŹ€er e s m a d n unke s, where dr free fuck ear a single t oticed. falls, unn though s a s r a e p n. and it ap the scree m o r f s e only com the light p is as our lam of society s t e l l u b the beaten by
the power runs out and the world is plunged into darkness.) ki unclothe and join the fun.
reflectionoitcelfer â˜ž DANIEL WU i looked in the mirrororrim eht ni dekool i (and) i wishedehsiw i (dna) that i could find somebodydobemos dnif dluoc i taht who thought like mem ekil thguoht ohw you like
Jack Vann Lammonby Untitled, 2016 Photograph
Albert Smith The Inventorâ€™s Chair, 2016 Digital Art
Included above is the original cropped render. However, the work holds more than might meet the eye. For virtual reality enthusiasts, or mildly curious readers with technological capabilities, the artist has uploaded left (http:// i.imgur.com/HMoz1IR.jpg) and right (http:// i.imgur.com/yV2ZHYF.jpg) images for VR on Imgur. They are Equirectangular projections of the scene and are viewable with a virtual reality headset. The editor has it on good authority that this is possible on Android with the Nvidia VR viewer, or with Cardboard. The artist has kindly set up a Red-Cyan anaglyph version here, whatever that means. http://vr.rollerblading.es/pano/imgur/aUkxjfb
Revolver ☾ WILLIAM HU Revolver: A pistol with a revolving chamber. A chance to make things right.
There is a man, four places away from the front of the line, who today will die for a great cause. He has fifty red tokens in his pocket, saved over the past months, but his intention is not to feast. “Torkens, please!” A lady gives two red tokens to the man in the Nourishment Station. In return, he gives her two blocks of salma. Salma: A tasty, nutritious, and filling snack derived from seaweed. Waste products infused with proteins and vitamins. It is said that children on their first birthday, taken off the milk rations, will retch at the stench.
“Torkens, please!” One red token only. One block of salma. “Torkens, please!” A yellow token. A precious item. Immediately there is uproar – there is no doubt that this peasant has robbed a Tier-2 citizen for this token. But he has presented the token, he must be given his feed. A loaf of bread, dense and greening. This man will be stabbed on his way home for a twice stolen treasure. “Torkens, please!” Fifty red tokens – the price of a yellow. Outrageous! The man is well-known in the third tier – he is a good fighter, no one is going to steal from him. And so they watch, with first envy and then surprise, as he chooses to be given fifty blocks of salma. A gently wobbling mass, awkward and obnoxious, carried in his hands like a crate of precious goods. “Torkens, please!” The Nourishment Server is all brawl and drawl, a hulking beast that seems to grow out of the battered iron of the van. His eyelids, dripping like a fleshy curtain over blank eyes. The man who will die is out of sight. Inside the cube of brown gelatin, hiding within fifty blocks of salma, there are six bullets, and a revolver.
Bullet: A metal-capped projectile. A fortune cookie for the brave.
Fortune cookies: (archaic) Confectionery with supposed futures contained within. Mass produced, comforting lies. There is a woman, just thirty meters away from this Nourishment Station. Of course, the outer wall separates her from the Tier-3 citizens – a vile and rowdy lot, they are. “You know, I pity you, I really do.” She has a charisma which hides even the most blatant barb. A Tier-3 citizen, willowy and shadowed, is cleaning the synthetic carpet morosely. “I wonder why we even get you to clean, you people are so dirty yourselves! It must be all the smoke in the factories.” She glances towards the sky. There is a ring of dark clouds, marking the circumference of the third tier, and underneath, a geometric cascade of roofs and chimneys. “Missus, I'm done. Can I be paid now?” “I have your tokens here, there is no need to be so petulant! Really!” She fumbles with her purse – and her eyebrows crease, leaving still ripples in her soft skin – her clumsy fingers are not suitable for a Skilled or even a musician, no, she is a lowly nurse and how insolent is this cleaner! Her thoughts muddy, but like the clarity of a chill breeze in heat, the smog fades instantly at the feeling of steel against the nape of her neck. She gently raises her (clumsy yes very clumsy) hands. “This is most inconvenient. I do not have many tokens. You would do much better to steal from the house over on the next street.” It was an insult, really – the man knows that this is the neighbourhood of the unSkilled. Even she, occasionally, uses a red token. “I’m not here to steal.” The safety is on – all bets are oﬀ – the gun is given – and soon, a life will be taken. Holist: Of the belief that things are greater than the sum of their parts. Of the belief that vile people do not necessarily imply a vile world. Reductionist: Of the belief that things are lesser than the sum of their parts. Of the belief that a thousand serfs cannot sway the will of the lord.
There is a room, cubic and windowless, hiding away from the light near the centre of the city – almost directly beneath the eye of God’s Window. “Now just relax while I do your legs.” The doctor’s hands are firm
and precise – and underneath the instrument in his fingers, cells shudder, split, reform. The road to eternity is painful. There are three nurses are here, though, and the man makes no change to his expression. Pretty little things with salacious tongues, sweet rosebuds visible through their quaint uniforms, and hands folded in the valley of their laps that he knows so well. “I’m going to do your arms now. Uh-uh, don’t move around too much. We don’t want to keep the others waiting.” The operations have been getting more and more frequent – there is now excess demand for Skilled Tier-2 citizens. God forbid any of the factory rats are promoted. I won’t live with them.
Albert Smith Infinite IV, 2016 Photograph
“I’m hungry.” The man on the table says bluntly. “I’m doing your arms. Just wait a moment.” “I’m very hungry.” “Nurses! Get this man something to eat.” The doctor complies – but he presses a little harder on the patient’s skin, the barely audible hissing sound increasing in intensity. The man cries out – he knows his mistake, but he stops the noise too late – and the nurses giggle in disdain.
A woman enters, a goblet of iCream in her hands, and she quickly surveys the situation. She passes it on to one of the nurses, who almost drops the glass chalice, and exits, heels tapping clack clack clack against the marble floor. Two hands, purposefully forgetting to treat a joint on the man’s arm – it will die within a week. Two hands, messily spooning the tropical treat into the man’s mouth and wiping his stained and repulsive smile. Two hands, caressing his jeans, searching for the pocket with the green token payment. Two hands, holding a revolver, and the clack clack clack of the spinning barrel as three bullets pass from metal to flesh. And for a moment, the superior bows down to the servant. Ending: The final part. Of what?
There is a man, four places from the front of the group, who today will die for a great cause. He has a knife in his pocket, a lunacy in his eyes. A Tier-1 citizen has opened the walls, and now, the revolution begins. There are faces all around – some advancing to the Royal Tier, some yelling for help, some looking up at God’s Window from the ground, red and empty. And look! Finally! The Royal Wall opens, and the crowd lurches forwards, buckling under its own momentum, all of them so desperate to just be there – in the center of it all. But here – there are bullets, this is where sweet lies are born – and a thousand revolvers spin for a thousand revolters, the crowd still pressing on, an undulating mass of canvas flesh – and look! The Royal Wall closes, such a simple, simple thing – but it drowns out all the noise. In the few seconds that it takes for the wall to close, it is over. Not a single one makes it into the center of God’s Window. 298 years. 56 revolutions. 0% net population growth. Revolution: An act performed to satisfy the dissatisfied. A circle – to end where you began.
The Daffodil That Didn’t Bloom ☾ ROHIT KUMAR
February 23rd, 2181 I am walking. I. This body said that again. ‘I’. ‘I’ constitutes that this body is sentient, that it is animate, that it is an entity within this Acheron. This body has no existence. This body is not living. Living conceptualises that there is life, which in itself surmises that there is life to be felt in the first place. This body is reminded not to make the same mistake again. They do not forgive things that make mistakes anymore. This body keeps walking. ☾ March 6th, 2173 They are coming. Everyday they get closer to us. Mama is worried. I can tell. She doesn’t say anything, but something about her has changed. She is diﬀerent now. I don’t think it’s for the better. At night, after she has tucked me in, when she thinks I am asleep, I look at her through the space between the door and the wall. Through the moonlight, her silhouette kneels upon the ground, clutching a daﬀodil, my Mama’s favourite flower. She is praying then, in times like
these. She didnâ€™t do this before. When the Revolution was just talk, a simple break for people in the seriousness of life. She prays every night now.
Julius Yu Untitled, 2016 Sculpture; aluminium
Feb 23rd, 2181 Something below is moving. It carries this body around a corner, past a building and out into a courtyard. There are other bodies here. They are dressed in white. Everything here is white. White fabric covers bodies, from ankles to neck, white paint envelops buildings, the white sky looms overhead. Only white exists here. It was determined that colour would tempt society to emotion, to memories, to the time before the Revolution. So colour was banned.
Below motion interrupts and once again mass moves, navigating the swarm of bodies and time alike. Custom is followed. Eye contact is made, a nod given, never a limb outstretched. Extending compassion is a breach of conduct. It gives value, meaning to things. It leads to other things. Punishable things. This body is careful to satisfy the required 2-second eye contact period. No more, no less, a glance, not a stare. This body is successful. Another body has noticed and similarly goes through Appropriate Conduct 58. Time moves on. But within this world, control is never far from the Commander. â˜ž April 13th, 2173 They will catch us. We cannot run much further. Mama is tiring. Her breath is short, and her ankles cannot support her above the forest floor much longer. Her face has turned a sickly pale, and her sunken veins are visible through the translucency of her skin. She will fall within the hour. She will look up at me with her cadaverous frame upon the floor and she will tell me what I already know she will say. She will tell me to leave her. To take Alex and run, to go to the nearest Rebel state, to hide there and wait. But of course I will not. I will stay with her until they find us, until they catch us and take us and my body can no longer fight. And they will catch us. And they will do to us what they did to Papa. But she is insisting now. She is already saying goodbye, saying sorry for what has happened, even though it is not her fault. Mama is like this. She doesnâ€™t see the blame in others, only herself. And then she is crying, recounting the memories; of Papa, of me, of Alex, of life before. She tells us she is proud of both of us and that everything will get better, that the Rebels will win. She says other things too. But I do not hear them. I only feel a pain I have never before. And then she is gone, her eyes open but her body dead. Lifeless. My Mama is lifeless. I take Alex and run. I do not look back.
â˜ž Feb 23rd, 2181 The motion beneath the body ceases. The destination has been reached. A door guards the entrance to a square grey building. Inside, rows on either side of a walkway are stacked with small, metal containers. Ahead, at the end of the walkway and behind a counter, another body stands. This one is motionless, staring into the distance. At what is unclear: it seems to be staring into space, at time, at everything, all at once. It stirs at the sight of the door opening. Motion below this body begins again, stopping when the counter is reached. A hand explores the cavity within the pant pocket, the right pant pocket. Rounded metals pieces, each emblazoned with a specific insignia, are pulled out. One is selected, a piece sporting the image of grain, and is placed out onto the counter. The body behind the counter picks this up, placing it into a machine behind the counter that chimes as it opens and closes. This is allowed. Under Appropriate Conduct 27, sound is permitted when it is birthed from a machine. Machines are not subjected to the Commanderâ€™s rules. It was determined that they do not pose a risk of regressing to the time before the Revolution. In return a loaf of bread is given and received. The body pivots, the motion starts up again, and soon the door to the building is open, the breeze lapping against the face of this body. May 2nd, 2173 They keep me here now, in this cell. I am alone, in darkness. I do not know where Alex is. They took him away when they caught us. I hope for the best. I hope for possibilities that they didnâ€™t catch him, that my eyes deceived me, that what I saw was a trick of the light. I make myself believe that he escaped, that he made it to a Rebel State, that right at this moment he is smiling that foolish grin he makes when he is happy. But I am not strong. Not anymore. They have kept me here too long. At times I picture him, frail and weak, crying powerlessly. I imagine things being done to him, the things they are doing to me now, the things they did to Papa, and worse.
I cannot control it. It is human. They come in here more now, much more than they used to. They are trying to break me, I know that, but I wish they would stop. Part of me believes I already am. They tell me to forget my name, my family, my life. They say the Revolution is almost complete, that control over society is nearly established. They say this will make things better, that no longer will humanity be fraught with disaster, that civilization will perfect itself, that it will become a utopia. They are wrong. This will not happen. I want to scream, kick and hit them. I want to turn back time and live again with Papa and Mama and Alex. I plot grand escapes, glorious uprisings against the Commander, heroic actions to aid the Rebels. But each time I wake too early and find myself in the same cell. â˜ž Feb 23rd, 2181 The white pavement passes underneath as this body moves on. Ahead on the footpath, in between the cracks of the cemented ground, a yellow shape protrudes upwards. Flower. This is a flower. A daďŹ€odil. This body keeps moving.
Seiji Miyagawa Untitled, 2016 Sculpture; ink, laser cut-acrylic
Life â˜ž ALEXANDER YU The one question, never asked Shied away from, an impossible task The one we all know, but mask What is the meaning of life? The monotony of people, all Going for one, the tall Order to achieve. It galls. Why are there so many walls? Lifeâ€™s festering face, always Spitting abuse in strange, ways Of knocking us down when we raise Up, unable to clear the haze.
Life hits, and knocks the air out Of us, like a stout Fist, we can never holdout Choosing instead the ultimate copout. We fail to grasp our imperfection, Our deepest secret, dejection Present in all our souls, subjection Dominating our dreams Are we the freaks of our dimension Atoms in a one-oďŹ€ mix, deception Through our lives, without direction What is our true intention? We are purposeless, without cause Why do we keep on living, without pause People â€“ live through living hell But they do never tell Dull days, no direction Careless communities, no connection All our conclusions reasonless Our lives are so damn meaningless So now we know, yes We live to keep on living, this mess We call a life, always less Than what we want But life goes on, and we go on living
Jack Vann Lammonby Untitled, 2016 Photograph
[untitled] ☾ AMITABH JEGANATHAN Flash a smile, the, sharp white teeth. words are weapons, unsheathe, your weapon, or maybe, Cher was wrong, a wreath, an ode to love. A message to the future? Or a call from the past? A healer? Or an abuser? Yet is a picture worth a thousand words? I can’t paint. Yet if I helped Pablo, Wouldn’t I be immortalised? If I killed Jesus, Wouldn’t I be immortalised. But when I'm old, hands Calloused, do I want to be immortal? Do I want to be the best? Do I want to be a Doctor? Do I want to hurt, or heal? Does it matter? But when their words heal scars, You make that choice. I AM AN ARTIST I AM NOT IMMORTAL I AM HUMAN I AM ME
Mates Protecting Mates â˜ž ALEXANDER HONEY Inside the church, The hanging man is up there, watching me The hollow air is breathing down my neck The dull and eerie quiet is my only company As I sit here, waiting for my master's beck The ceiling shudders as the tears from upstairs pound the chapel And cacophonous weeping crashes all around For the lord is crying As the wolves take their daily feed I close my eyes and see them circling the paddock Drool coating their chins and ready eyes rallying their prey Unsuspecting lambs happily rest inside the fence designed to protect them Then, one by one, those black-hearted wolves strike Taking a lamb in their jaws as they go I look away before I hear the crunch And another precious flame is snuďŹ€ed Clergymen turn their heads and sleep I run to a shepherd's house and knock To inform him of this early morning's slaughter But still the shepherd sleeps as sickening screams plague the dawn I find myself back between these four walls as my mind returns to me And I prepare to receive my 30 pieces of silver But as I walk I hear the thunder cease Those sour screams are silenced Yet, once my mouth opens Releasing the demons I hold inside The sun smiles once again.
Nathan Tan Lights, Costume, Action!, 2016 Digital Art
A Tribute to the Construction of ‘Good Men’ ☾ DANIEL STARK Who are my oppressors? Those who force us to align, Hidden by a veil of shadows Or shadows by design? Composing lethal symphonies, Plucking out a tune, Crack of the whip ‘dance, my child!’ The end is coming soon. Like zombies we’re commanded, And only ever taught, To exist in fickle fantasies, To lash out void of thought. ‘Deus Dux Doctrina Lux’ Shall lead us into fear, We’re trampled by your masses Just to save your damn career! By counting up our numbers It would seem that we are few, But, sir, we’re gathering an army And we’re coming for you.
Julius Yu Untitled, 2016 Marker
This Poem Is Deep â˜ž AKIO HO the city: it is grim. so grim so grim O! It is so very grim the city in its dirt and grimy grimness and slimy slimness. Woe! Is the World [brackets for no reason] death
Seiji Miyagawa Untitled, 2016 Oil on Canvas
Nathan Tan Eye of Desire, 2016 Digital Art
Ping Yap Untitled, 2016 Acrylic on Canvas
Minus One ☾ RILEY KLUG “We don’t get a chance to do that many things, and everyone should be really excellent”. – Steve Jobs. The large, menacing sign, “Adolescent Testing and Euthanasia facility”, passed over Steven as he rigidly walked through the hissing hydraulic doors into the mammoth building. 1150 – right on schedule. The administration machine scanned him through and a sliding door opened greeting him with the face of Father Kony and the Committee. The required polite greeting ensued, “Hello Steven. Take a seat”. Steven obliged after bowing and holding his hands to the Lord. Kony spoke. “Welcome to your Exam, Steven. You are not being euthanised. You not only fit the required excellence level – you exceed it.” Steven tried not to hold in his relief as he respectfully waited for the Lord to continue. “You have been assigned to Music. Congratulations.” Steven walked out - life assignment in tow - with the recommended grace and compassion, bowing again to the Committee and its leader before retreating to a prayer room for exactly 30 minutes of reflection. Halfway to the prayer room, he glimpsed three boys and one girl similar to himself in age being dragged by two tall, straight, disciplined figure – the Corps; trained in all military forms, feared by all. The four adolescents simply didn’t fit the required level of excellence needed in this world. As they marched away, Steven could almost picture the day in Preparation that he learned about his Exam, the rigorous years leading up to it. He could remember a video of diﬀerent children failing their Exam and being led by the Corps to a Gas Room. It shocked him into the prayers, taking exactly 11 minutes, and then the children were sat down in the middle of the room, resigned to the situation. The Corps walked out and hit the switch.
“You are now adults. So act like one.” This threat was issued by the new Instructor of Steven’s music training. He had to exceed or not have the ability to achieve. Despite not being as important as Politics or Genetics, Music was required to be listened to for 45 minutes a day so that citizens could properly unwind. This was what he was training to be able to create. He held a secret; a dark, moulted one - locked away in the confines of his mind like buried treasure. He loved music, the way its sweet notes caressed him when his Preparation was overwhelming, or when he was reminded about the Exam. The guilt enveloped him in large doses regularly, as his teacher continually said, “Enjoyment and Excellence do not mix. The high lord doesn't accept such frivolity. The desperation to conform and follow the lords descent into eternal excellence must eradicate all other urges and emotions.” Steven knew that citizens didn’t ascend after death – gravity wouldn’t permit it! 6:25am: breakfast. 6:45am: lecture on the new Earth post population climax (exochrétienne lords, euthanasia movement, sub five billion citizens were the key points plastered on the membranes of Steven’s skull after watching this every day for the past eight years). 7:45: Training. “This is it”, he murmured to himself as he exited his sleeping unit with a sense of purpose fuelled by his buried treasure. A one-sided mental fight continued. He lowered himself down to the assigned Compodesk, his fingers grateful as they touched the blue and grey pianoforte keys. The fight had a winner. Lord Kony, fingering his wispy beard had made a rare visit to the Music facility. Here to observe, maybe, assumed Steven as he gazed up. Kony’s flank of Corps’ stroked their weapons and his head shot back down to the screen. He anxiously waited for the head of the Committee to exit the room. His mental battle was midway through a denouement of musical aria. He sweated profusely and his face turned red as he composed a beautiful imperfect cadence on the Compodesk. The hydraulic doors hissed closed and he breathed pure.
Sadie Leighton Mothman, 2016 Digital Art
Julius Yu Untitled, 2016 Sculpture; ink, laser cut-acrylic
Akio Ho Walls, 2016 Acrylic, detergent, card, watercolour
The Zero Man (‘Open the walls, I say, open them!’) ☾ HARRY PLAYFORD The town was silent. The Ones were silent. The Twos stayed still. The Threes were especially quiet. The Eslops and dandies and frontos and shunters and haloes and thyloids all watched on as the Zero Man walked the streets. The Zero Man wore a mask of time and a cloak of schedule, the shoes of trial and the pants of tribulation. When he stepped the ground rose to him, and when he rose the sky bowed to him. He walked to the Ones and they bowed to him. He walked to the Twos and they knelt to him. He walked to the Threes and they payed him homage. He walked
past the Eslops and the dandies and frontos and shunters and haloes and thyloids, and they all payed him homage. The Zero Man was to announce the new restaurant Chez Terne, and all were invited. ☾ The Zero Man spoke with a commanding voice, his word soft as a feather yet his sentences hard as steel. He spoke with such fluency that it made even the best speakers envious. The town looked up to him the way a dog would look up to his owner. After all, he was the supremity of the supreme, the cream of the crop, the pick of the bunch. The Zero One spoke with such conviction that he couldn’t possibly be a fraud, and with such dedication he couldn’t possibly be a fake. The Zero One was represented by Zero, the fairest of all the numbers, the most even, the easiest to understand. Yet all the while the serrells sat just beyond the border of the city, just beyond the reach of civilisation. The serrells just sat and watched. They didn’t stand. They didn’t move, nor wriggle, nor fidget. The just watched. And watched. And watched. They were watching but they could never really see. They were sitting but they could never truly rest their weary legs. They listened but didn’t properly hear. They didn’t speak. They didn’t know how. They had forgotten. They didn’t bother thinking of such things. They simply sat, listened and watched the bleak grey walls. They needed not to worry. Worry was much beyond them. They where so quiet, so peaceful, they were forgotten in the midst of time. But The Zero Man never forgot. Why, he had lived for many Millenia, and he would never forget such things. Yet he never spoke of these people, not with his silky, steel voice that floats with the wind, nor with his polite dinner voice or his rather unruly informal voice. He didn’t need to worry about anyone asking, since no-one knew of anything but their town. No-one would leave the town as it is much to extravagant to leave, and the townsfolk would never dream of such lonely people. The Zero Man need not impose any rules, as everyone adhered to them without realisation of their actions. There was a schedule all people followed and never questioned.
Rise: 6:30am Breakfast: 6:45am Go to work: 7:30am Morning tea: 9:15am Lunch break: 12:45pm End work: 6:30pm Mingle: 6:45pm Dinner: 8:00pm Do hobbie/more mingling: 8:15pm Rest: 10:45pm This took place every day, with the exception of Sunday. Sunday was the day of creation. Every Sunday the people would gather in the town square for the opening of a new building. Every Sunday seemed more exiting than the previous, and every building seemed more impressive than the last. Every Sunday all people, no matter their class, would gather in awe to watch The Zero Man cut the red tape. The headlines were more impressive every week, and the newspapers sold slightly better every Monday. The headlines would always always read things like; New barbers a feather in the townâ€™s pilum Eatery brings smiles to families everywhere Zero Man opens fitness centre Kids make nutritious snacks at new school canteen Zero Man more eloquent than ever in opening of university New bridge opened as Zero Man cuts the tape And so, and so. And so and so and so newspaper after newspaper after newspaper after newspaper. Time seemed to flow quickly, as even the most laborious of work and the most tiring of days finished quickly, with Sunday always seeming nearer and nearer. There was no waste in the town, yet it was filled with rubbish. Each Sunday was discarded and thrown on the street, always forgotten in the wake of the next. People would speak of the next Sunday like it was the first, always looking to the future with no mention of the past. People would say:
“Did you hear about the agenda for next Sunday? Apparently the Zero Man might not wear his shoes for the opening of the trampolining centre.” “I do hope you read the paper, darling. This Sunday will be held 15 minutes early. We must therefore set all of our events 15 minutes earlier before we miss something important.” “The Zero Man says that we can have an extra 15 minutes of mingle on Saturdays so that we can talk about the wonderful things that will happen on Sunday. This means that we can hopefully have a full minute of conversation with each person before it is time to rest.” “The first row is reserved for the Ones, Twos and Threes again this Sunday. Hopefully us Frontos get to sit in the second row again.” Everyone spoke diﬀerently with diﬀerent voices, but on the same agenda. However, The Zero Man did speak of the past, and did think of the dark ages, when people could bought things themselves, and did things for
Jack Vann Lammonby Untitled, 2016 Photograph
themselves and had days oﬀ and holidays. No. The Zero Man knew that these things were wrong, and that the world now was much improved. No more worrying about having enough money, no more making homemade goods, no more worrying about catching up on work. The government provided everything the people needed; a job, food, clothing, juice (there was no water), education and shelter. People didn’t fall behind because there was no way to fall, no chasm of laziness to drift into. People didn’t have long breaks because such things only led to depression and sadness, as every citizen of this town knows. ☾ Yet there was one Citizen, an Eslop, who resisted the rule. He wore his pants three quarters long, and rolled his shirt up two thirds of the way towards his tattered gloves. His eyes were dark and his hair was choppy and wild. He was an outcast, yet he lived within the town. He was an anomaly, an outlier, a glitch. The child who no-one wanted, he was taken in by an Eslop family who had no other choice. He was never accepted, and he would never accept. He, James, had tried to climb the walls, to leave the town, but he simply tore his fingernails and toenails, and scratched his back and shoulders. He never came to a single Sunday, not even one. However, on this fateful Sunday, James came to the square. He walked to the centre, and he sat and watched. He watched as The Zero Man spoke, and he heard him speak: “We today gather to celebrate the opening of another structure, another building but most importantly, another legacy. We gather today to look into the future and to see a better town for the people before me today. We blah blah blah blah so on and so forth blah blah blah.” James didn’t listen to the words, nor comprehend the meaning of his sentences. James simply watched. He watched for a long time as The Zero Man spoke, and simply watched his mouth move. The Zero Man finished his speech, and everyone stood and applauded. While all of the citizens sat, James stayed upright. He walked to The Zero Man, and he stood in his place. He then spoke with a voice even more sweet than a mocking bird, and even more booming than a whale. He spoke to the town and said: “Do we follow a leader, or do we follow a lifestyle? Do we have choice, or do we make choices? Do we make our own path, or follow
others? Open the walls, I say, open them! For then we will understand, we will see, we will truly comprehend what is outside.” The Zero Man stayed silent. He stayed quiet, quiet, quiet. The town didn’t make a sound. The town was peaceful for what seemed like seconds, minutes, hours. Then The Zero Man pulled an Astra 400 pistol from his pocket and shot James. James crumpled to the floor, dead. The Zero Man spoke to the town. “We shall not prosper on the crimes of others. We will forgive the events of the past. We will now stand to mourn the death of James, my son.” The town stood and bowed their heads. They stood for a full minute as they mourned the death of a beautiful voice. Then they left the town square, moving onto their jobs 5 minutes, 36 seconds and 55 milliseconds oﬀ schedule. The town of Ordre soon forgot, and in time James was forgotten. Yet Ordre could never make up the 5 minutes, 36 seconds and 55 milliseconds they lost that day. The Zero Man ruled for another Millenia, making sure to continue progress every Sunday, until Ordre faded from our memories, and was no longer needed, The Zero Man fading away, 5 minutes, 36 seconds and 55 milliseconds late.
Julius Yu Untitled, 2016 Sculpture; aluminium
James Annear Untitled, 2016 Oil on Canvas
Rinse, Wash, Repeat â˜¾ MATTHEW HAMDORF skip next day still Same skip
Next day still skip next day Same Skip next day pale stretched Sheets hung out to dry *die skip next day skip end â€¦ wait no skip
William Hu Perhaps, a Knife (left) Origami (center) Tunnel (right), 2016 Photographs
Worn Paths ☾ JOSHUA HORA Heavy of head, slight of step; neither delay nor diversion leads astray. Steps heard by none but me; outlines in dust.
Julius Yu Untitled, 2016 Graphite pencil
Untitled ☾ ALEX MCGUCKIN p(m e
a n i n g(f u l)l e s s)u r
c a o
s . . .
Julius Yu Untitled, 2016 Oil on Canvas
Nathan Tan Monkey! Business, 2016 Digital Art
Nathan Tan Bi-T-C-H, 2016 Animation
Ballin â˜ž JORDAN MOSSAMMAPARAST We ballin all day Then we go the crib I live in the D But I ain't a G All the whites call me Nigga Us blacks, we don't pull the trigger Them whites, all just pull the trigger Cause they think we gon' pull the trigger
The media say it's the blacks that's the problem They think I'm pulling the glock, I'm just pullin out my wallet All the whites don't even think black lives matter But us blacks, we know white lives matter All the Ops think we trappin But really, We just splashin we ballin' everyday fly to chitown in my plane We ballin so hard like my homie, T Wayne Blockin lobs Playing D makin shots like i'm steph cooking curry like im chef Blockin lobs Playin D makin shots like i'm steph cooking curry like im chef playin pick up like we ballin in the NBA We don't miss we just hit unlike you cause your shit Playing ball and Talkin trash like I'm KG They think I'm smoking all day on that OG They think I'm pullin the trigger on the daily Yea I am, but not the trigger on the glock I make it fly, hear it swish, they can't even block All we want, is for black lives to matter Messin' round gettin triple doubles I make threes, I'm splashin and u know i'm really cashin Posterise the ops, dunking hard, making shots I'll mess you up in da post we ballin coast to coast We don't trap we just ball harder than John Wall I'm better than Delavedova and we gone screw you right over.
Albert Smith Infinite III, 2016 Digital Art
Selection ☾ MATTHEW HAMDORF “One general law, leading to the advancement of all organic beings, namely; multiply, vary, let the strongest live and the weakest die.” — Charles Darwin, On the Origin of Species ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ REPORT FROM HIGH EVOLUTIONIST NAWDRI III:30th 8th-MONTH,139 A.20. WEAK ELIMINATED: Sara Α 435, Juan Ε 761, Smith Ω 323, Mack Δ 507, Xing Θ 183, Jule Π 419, Shan Κ 625, Tre Τ 226, Kate Β 481, Ben Ρ 204. DISSIDENTS: 1 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
ATTENTION ALL ENGCITY CITIZENS – 31st 8th-MONTH, 139.A.20. OCCUPATION OFFICE: The assignment "Historian" will be withdrawn at the end of 139 A.20. OFFICE OF HIGH EVOLUTIONIST NAWDRI III: Shenhua Α 869, Rank 1, is to be commended on his Elevation to the Fittest, 1 of last week’s 10 to do so. OFFICE OF HIGH EVOLUTIONIST NAWDRI III: All Weak with ranks below 100,254,370 will be Eliminated tonight at 9:00 pm. DECEASED NOTICES: The following Weak were Eliminated at 9:00 pm last night; Sara Α 435, RANK 100,254,371; Juan Ε 761, RANK 100,254,372; Smith Ω 323, RANK 100,254,373; Mack Δ 5 Pius Ι 999 crushes the Daily Notices sheet in a clenched fist and hurls it towards the recycling chute to be incinerated. The names of ten dead people crisp into white ash. Always ten. Every day without fail, ten people die. Reflexively, Pius checks his left inner forearm. In place of a watch strap, the number 40,566,345 bathes him with a pale radium glow: his Rank, well above Deceased, but well below Fittest. He studies the number for a moment – he finds it fascinating that one number, connected to a Wallace chip in his brain smaller than his pinky nail, can control his entire life. Two other papers garnish Pius’ table. One more than usual. He slides over his Assignment Sheet and moves his finger to Monday’s column: Child Supervision in the morning and Microchipping in the afternoon. A ringing in his ear from the Wallace chip sends him scurrying to the front door of his unit, pocketing the final package as he leaves. ☾ “This is Charles Darwin. Charles Darwin was a very smart man.” The robotic Teaching Aide drones in its metallic, monotonous voice to a rapt audience of fifty 7-year-olds. Pius vaguely remembers his own Education Assignments, the tales of Darwin’s Origin of Species and Natural Selection, of the conformity of Nature to the ways of Science. He remembers tales of wondrous feats of Scientific mastery; the split atom, the cracked genome. He remembers how the West could compute faster than thought, how technology leapt forward but population leapt further. For while the greatest minds of the West opened their eyes to the
mysteries of nature, they were blind to the suﬀering of 6 billion fellow human beings so the poor bred like rats, bred and bred until the West numbered 2 billion but the rest numbered 18. The World Council tried everything; genetically engineered food, molecularly enhanced cotton, artificial photosynthesis. Nothing could feed, clothe and power the 20 billion people on the planet.
Albert Smith Untitled, 2016 Digital Art
“This is Helsrac Nawdri the First. Helsrac Nawdri was a very smart man.” Nothing, Pius reflected, until Helsrac Nawdri Eliminated his rivals on the World Council and re-introduced Survival of the Fittest; the very best of humanity, the smartest, strongest and fastest of all. Every week, Helsrac would select the 10 highest Ranked people from the entire world to be Elevated into the comfort and luxury of the Fittest. And to spur on the Weak, Nawdri would Eliminate the 10 overall weakest from all 250 city-countries, every day. 139 years later, Helsrac Nawdri III continues his work, Eliminating 70 Weak and Elevating 10 Fittest, week after week. “You children are Weak. You must provide for the Fittest.” Pius pulls the package from his pocket.
As the sun climaxes and begins to sink over Engcity, Pius Ι 999 moves to the Births Oﬃce for his Microchipping Assignment. Births are strictly monitored as part of Nawdri’s Population Control – today there are only 9 births from the 100 million residents of Engcity. Pius collects his supply of Wallace chips and an injector needle. Moving to the first newborn, Pius selects a microchip. The chip sits in the palm of his hand, calmly and silently. One miniaturized computer monitoring cerebral function, somatic stamina and muscular output from its nest in the corpus callosum. It constantly re-evaluates and cross-references its data with the Central Selection Computer, formulating the Rank that rules its host’s life. Pius takes one last look at the apotheosis of nanobiotechnology, then drops it on the ground and crushes it under his heel. Reaching into his pocket, he inserts a chip from the package into the syringe and pushes the shimmering needle through the infant’s skull. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ PIUS I 999 Report to the Office of High Evolutionist Nawdri III at 8:00PM. ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ “Do you know why you have been summoned, Pius?” Helsrac Nawdri the III lounges at his desk, casually leaning on the keyboard that kills 10 people every day. “No, High Evolutionist Nawdri.” “Please, call me Helsrac.” “…….” The most powerful man on the planet glances down at a sheaf of papers on his desk and selects the topmost sheet. “Pius I 999, contained within this package are 9 false Wallace chips. You are to inject the 9 infants Assigned to you for Microchipping with these. Destroy the unused Wallace chips. Do not report this message to the Oﬃce of Helsrac Nawdri.” A droplet of sweat rolls underneath Pius’ shirt, passing the knot forming in his stomach. “Did you receive such a package, Pius?” “No, sir.” “Pius, you have a chip in your head broadcasting every single thing you think to my computer. You had best not lie to me. Now, did you receive such a package this morning?”
“Yes, sir.” “Did you dispose of the package immediately and report the event to my oﬃce?” “No, sir.” “Excellent!” The grin that splits Nawdri’s face is anything but reassuring. “I knew I sent that to the right person! We’re going to have so much fun! Now, I’m sure you realize that this is a capital oﬀence. How does that make you feel, Pius?” The grin persists and the drop of sweat is joined by a rivulet of others. “Nothing? Hmmph. Well, how about this? I’m going to kill those nine infants you falsely implanted – that’s the penalty for being caught without a Wallace chip, isn’t it?” Nawdri’s fingers hum over the keys, igniting the tiny drops of nitroglycerine placed on the imitation chips. A warm prickling begins in Pius’ eyes. “A tear? HA!” Nawdri giggles excitedly, then is silent for a moment. “Say, Pius, what was your Rank?” Pius barely has a chance to glance towards his arm before Nawdri’s computer narrates his Rank. “Ah, 40,566,334. Nowhere near the Fittest. Shame. You seem like a nice enough guy. I know I’m going to kill you in a minute or two, but if any of the Weak were to survive the Purge, I’d choose you.” The dampness had spread from Pius’s cheeks to his shirt. “Oh cheer up Pius, I was only kidding.” Nawdri’s psychopathic joy is evident. “Only the Fittest will survive the Purge.” ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~ REPORT FROM HIGH EVOLUTIONIST NAWDRI III: 31th 8thMONTH,139 A.20. WEAK ELIMINATED: Bernard μ 269, Winston Σ 984, John Σ 269, Eye I 330, Guy μ 451, Rick Δ 263, Emmett Ψ 427, Crake Ο 263, Leonard μ 733, Harrison β 237. DISSIDENTS: 0 ~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
Matthew Hamdorf Untitled, 2016 Digital Art
Thomas McQuillan Untitled, 2016 Graphite pencil
The Fly ☾ WILLIAM HU the curtain, in its whipped dunes of afternoon blankets a coal coated secret. barcode blind-light pries from a nearby room. you - you have drowned in a cream coloured couch where angels plague your dreams; (but they are only that) upon the wavering windowsill breeze spits dust like driftwood, shielded from sun by the shed skin of some billowy beast it’s in those folds that i’ll hide those eyes, those stained glass walls and those mangled legs, bent graphite strokes running oﬀ that blank body… and you - you will wake and leave your fantasies beneath floorboard, and i - i will be a smile, a saturation of sunday sepia, while cloaked in cloth is a winged shard of debris; (but it is only that)
William Hu Untitled, 2016 Photograph
This year, art was submitted by the following people, some of whom also provided extensive and generous feedback and criticism in the editing process, even, occasionally, of their own volition. Accolades and acknowledgements to all!! Akio Ho - Albert Smith - Alexander Honey - Alex McGuckin - Alex Thornhill - Amitabh Jeganathan - Daniel Stark - Daniel Wu - Ethan Koh - Harry Playford - Henry Pemberton - Jack Maurice - Jack Vann Lammonby - James Annear - Jordan Moss - Joshua Chan - Joshua Hora Julius Yu - Matthew Hamdorf - Nathan Tan - Ping Yap - Riki Wylie - Riley Klug - Rohit Kumar Sadie Leighton - Seiji Miyagawa - Teague Palmer - Thomas McQuillan - William Hu