Glass Issue 5: Paradise - 2019

Why Glass?

You know that classic phrase “You can’t spell class without ass”? Well.

Way back when we were just beginning our journey together as editors of the QUT Guild student magazine, we were having an intellectual and productive discussion about said phrase when editor Matt piped up and stated, “But it just doesn’t make any sense!”

“What do you mean?”

“Well, what does ‘glass’ and ‘ass’ even have to do with each other?”

Oh, Matthew.

We found this so hilarious that we began randomly throwing “No ass, no glass” into conversations. Matthew felt personally attacked and was actually quite embarrassed. We reflected on our actions and decided to do what any caring, empathic colleagues would do...

We named the magazine after his mistake.

Art by Kyra Bellamy Cover Art - ‘Venus’ by Claude Pilbeam

Nikita Lucy Alana Matthew

Letter from the Editors

Hello Glassies! Welcome to paradise; where student work is celebrated, everyone is welcome and loving Coldplay is not a fineable offence.

Semester two is shaping up to be a monumental couple of months on campus with many exciting new initiatives from QUT Guild. Free RAPID STI testing is officially operating at Gardens Point every single Wednesday, a QUT-signature beer is on its way, we’ve enjoyed the live music the new Battle of the Bands competition has brought to the Bot Bar, and we have Garden Sounds later in October to look forward too. It’s all too good, we must be bloody dreamin’.

GLASS issue five is wrapped in a sunny golden yellow and is filled with equally golden rays of sunshine. Prepare yourself for an array of art, poems and stories that will take you on a journey of fresh air, saltwater and nostalgic summer days. This little collection of paper is filled with some big, beautiful work and, once again, we could not be more proud of our talented community.

Upon saying that, we regret to inform you that no open letters to Chris Martin thanking him and the rest of Coldplay for delivering the groundbreaking hit Paradise to our ears, a song responsible for the writer’s ‘musical-awakening’, were submitted. Alas - life goes on, it gets so heavy...

We’re nearing that time in the semester where things start to get a little crazy and we’d just like to remind all of our wonderful readers that taking a minute for yourself is not only encouraged but NECESSARY. Get on that grind, pals, but please remember to get some good food in your belly, have a decent sleep and treat yourself to a little slice of paradise every now and then. We are certain that you’ve earnt it!

That’s all for now Glassies, we’ll see you next time in our final issue of GLASS for 2019.

With love and Chris Martin, The GLASS editors

Alana Riley – Liam Blair – Lucy Czerwinski

Matthew Latter – Nikita Oliver

Liam

Acknowledgment of Country:

GLASS acknowledges the traditional owners of the lands on which it is created. We pay respects of elders past, present and emerging and acknowledge the important role Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people continue to play within our community. Sovereignty was never ceded.

GLASS is published six times a year by the QUT Guild. The views expressed herein are not necessarily the views of GLASS or the QUT Guild, unless explicitly stated. Any issues or questions please contact us at media@qutguild.com

Photography by Ryan Turner – Paradise

Eco Matters with the Enviro Collective

The planet is in a less than ideal state. Temperatures are rising and humans are effectively doing nothing to stop it. As the generation that will soon inherit this steaming pile of literal garbage, we have a lot of work to do. Some of this work is being taken on by QUT Guild’s Environment Collective who are working towards creating a more environmentally friendly campus.

“The Enviro Collective started because we felt like there wasn’t really an active space on campus to talk about environmental issues and discuss strat egy,” said Laura Harland, Environment Officer for QUT Guild.

The collective is a place to share ideas and get support for projects to run on campus. If you have a project in mind and need some help, come along to one of the weekly Enviro Collective meetings.

Eco Hub is an idea that was birthed by the Enviro Collective headed by your Environment Officers, Laura Harland and Ben English. Every week, they run the Eco Hub, promoting practical, environmen tal solutions. Students can get their hands on fresh, local, sustainable produce for the fraction of the retail price. This produce is supplied in partnership with Food Connect.

“It originally began as a seconds market but through Food Connect, we’re able to support regenerative agriculture,” said Laura.

The Sequel

By Alana Riley An update on QUT’s free-tampon

debate

In our very first edition of Glass, we published a piece called ‘Tampon Tantrum’ which covered some discussion about whether QUT should provide free sanitary products in its bathrooms.

At the time, QUT Physics student Zina Lindsay had posted in QUT StalkerSpace, a Facebook group used by over 15,000 QUT students, supporting a move by Victoria’s State Government to provide free tampons/pads in its high school bathrooms.

“We need something like this at universities too ... condoms are more readily available to females than basic sanitary items,” Ms Lindsay said.

What followed was a tirade of abusive and sexist comments. I’ve cherry-picked some zingers; “Fuck off, buy your own shit” “Jesus Christ, this happens every month, if you cant have the gear on hand with you maybe attending school is too complicated for you”

“Just get pregnant so you don’t need them”

“Why should I have to pay because you were too daft to remember your blood rag”

While many people have a blood rag handy in the event they DON’T get pregnant each month, sometimes people are too daft to remember them.

In fact, it’s easy to be caught off guard and not have your ‘gear’ with you.

Cue: QUT Guild’s very own free tampon and pad initiative, Little Emergencies.

In what is possibly the best sequel since Shrek 2, this follow-up article is very pleased to inform you that Little Emergencies is THRIVING.

The initiative has provided students with a whopping 10,000 sanitary products across bathrooms on both campus since it was launched in semester one.

QUT Guild VP Max Fox said he hopes to keep expanding the initiative.

“We know we don’t cover everywhere. That’s why I’m hoping to TRIPLE the number of bathrooms covered,” Max said.

The QUT Guild posted an update about the initiative to their Facebook page and it was soon flooded with support and personal anecdotes from students positively affected by Little Emergencies.

“Facilities Management, if you are reading this and really care about the reputation of your work, take up Max’s Little Emergencies program.”

“I was going to skip class because I randomly got my period but ‘Little Emergencies’ absolutely saved me! A big THANK YOU”

“It makes that time of the month a little more bearable knowing there’s emergency supplies available.”

Max said the support made him feel like he was doing the right thing by his Gender and Sexuality role within the Guild, and especially right by the students of QUT.

“This is about dignity, public health, and support for women,” Max said.

“It’s a project I hope to secure as a long-term initiative of the QUT Guild long after my term of office has ended.”

Campus Catchup

By Alana Riley

QUT Guild creating new jobs for studentsflooded with applicants

The QUT Guild was inundated with over one hundred applicants just days after posting a call out for casual workers on its Facebook page.

After receiving one million dollars in Student Services and Amenities Fees (SSAF) from QUT, the Guild has begun work on its list of almost one hundred projects to support students.

‘SSAF’ is charged to students to cover non-academic costs, such as student health, welfare and employment advice to name a few.

One million is just part of the total SSAF money the university receives, as each student will pay up to $303 per year (based on the number of credit points a student is enrolled in).

QUT Guild treasurer Lewis Holmes said that students will be needed from a variety of disciplines.

Some projects include developing a mental health campaign for students, facilitating child minding on campus and revamping the foodbank.

“There have been a number of projects happening since day one that are now becoming SSAF projects too,” Lewis said.

“So stuff like our free breakfasts and some of the stuff that our collectives are doing – we’re providing funding to each of the collectives and putting that under SSAF.”

New roles are already starting to be filled such as a new member of the clubs and social sports team and a new graphic design student for GLASS magazine.

Lewis suggests students who are interested in getting involved to stay up to date with the ‘QUT Guild Noticeboard’ page on Facebook for upcoming opportunities.

GLASS Magazine has some merch, your prayers are answered!

Do you love GLASS and wish everyone you met knew just how much you love GLASS via the medium of enamel pin? Well wish no longer! You can wear GLASS on your sleeve with our colourful pins, now available at the General Store for $5. These little babies will not last, so get in quick!

Inclusive bathrooms on campus supported in student council

A motion was raised at the August QUT Guild Council to pledge to trans-inclusive bathrooms at QUT campus – which the student council unanimously supported.

QUT Guild Gender and Sexuality VP Max Fox raised the issue which asked the QUT Guild to support trans and gender diverse people to use the bathroom of their choice and to call on QUT to install sanitary bins in all bathrooms.

Max said that “not all people who get periods are women... currently, trans and gender diverse persons who use male bathrooms have no sanitary bin to dispose of waste thoughtfully”.

Tasty Treats at International Bites

Hundreds of students gathered for the first International Bites earlier this semester, a partnership between QUT Guild and student engagement.

The afternoon saw performances and an array of traditional dishes from six student-run international clubs.

QUT Guild Campus Culture VP Lydia Argyros said that a few clubs had approached the Guild to run events but didn’t have the capabilities to get it off

“These people should be afforded the same dignity as others by being able to use a sanitary bin in their bathroom of choice,” he said.

The motion also calls on the QUT Guild to mention this matter in any and all meeting with QUT in which there are relevant stakeholders.

If you have an issue you would like to raise at the next QUT Guild Council and aren’t sure how to get your motion off the ground, visit email secretary@ qutguild.com and we can help you in the right direction.

the ground, so the QUT Singapore Club suggested one big international celebration.

‘I think everyone involved was happy with how it turned out. I definitely see potential for it happening again,” Lydia said.

Lydia said QUT Guild and Student Engagement have teamed up for other events in the past such as Norwegian day, and hope more clubs get involved with the next International Bites.

Did you know these QUT rules?

You are entitled to have your grade reviewed

If you’re a little suspicious at a grade you receive, you can absolutely ask for it to be reviewed. First, begin an informal discussion with the unit coordinator. If they accept that the grade isn’t correct, they will begin a process that will alter your grade.

If the unit coordinator doesn’t accept your case, you may apply for a school level review within 10 working days of the release of the final grade for the unit. This requires more documentation supporting your argument.

Lastly, if you’re still hitting dead ends, you may apply for a faculty level review within five working days of notification of the school level review result. Unfortunately, this has even more documentation. However, the case will be seen by a committee not previously involved in the process, including one student representative, so you’re certain to receive fair treatment.

This is all very complicated! If you’re eager to learn more about this process, type this into your browser: tinyurl.com/reviewgrade

You can’t copy-paste your own assignments! Self-plagiarism is a thing

Students should tread very carefully when using their own work as inspiration for a new piece of assessment. It is technically possible to reuse your work, but you should always consult your unit coordinator and gain permission before going ahead.

By Liam Blair

Here’s when you can reuse your work. Again, only with permission from your unit coordinator: - It didn’t contribute to a grade anywhere

- It is not currently being assessed anywhere

- It was not from a group assignment

- It fits the purpose and objectives of the new assessment task

Do you know about the QUT MOPP?

The Manual of Policies and Procedures (MOPP) contains detailed information on the policy and procedures that govern how the University operates. Most importantly for students, the MOPP details what rights you are entitled to.

The MOPP covers a lot, and not everything directly affects you as a student. Unfortunately, awareness of these rules is quite low, so this is a quick description of some important points.

If you think you’ve been treated unfairly treated or you’ve seen a breach of the MOPP, contact the Guild’s Student Rights VP or Student Assist staff members at the contact info on the opposite page.

To learn more about these rules, Google “QUT MOPP”.

Battle of the Bands, Baby!

The QUT Guild have introduced a new competition to campus and we’re all pretty bloody stoked about it. Over the past month, Botanic Bar goers have witnessed five heats of bands and solo artists competing for chance to perform alongside Kingswood, Delta Riggs and Running Touch at the Guild’s new music festival Garden Sounds (October 3). Let’s quickly acquaint you with the winners of the first couple of rounds...

By Nikita Oliver

ROUND ROUND

01.

01.

Big Dinner

Who? Rory Watkins, Tom Jones, Charles Henzell, Kris Muller and guest Saxophonist Simon

What? Mellow rock tunes filled with softas-butter vocals and an abundance of funky guitar riffs

Listen to if you’re a fan of Mac Demarco, Skeggs, The Growlers

we had two winners!

King George

Who? Jacob Hawkins, Daniel Martinez-Lopez and James Hurwood

What? Pop punk and 90’s grunge rock tunes that force you to get up and have a boogie

Listen to if you’re a fan of Pearl Jam, Green Day, Sum 41

Mecha Mecha

Who? Walter Webb, Isaac Vincent and Angelo Webb

What? Indie rock with a gothic twist that often swaps out the lead guitar for a violin

Listen to if you’re a fan of Arctic Monkeys, Radiohead, old-school Panic! at the Disco

ROUND ROUND

03.

02. 03.

Jon Marsden

Who? Jon Marsden with backup band members Paddy, Yusuf, Ocean and Fin

What? Dreamy, groove-based alt-pop that will send you into a trance

Listen to if you’re a fan of Unknown Mortal Orchestra, Tame Impala, Ministry of Mars

sick of hearing

Australia isn’t perfect - in fact there is a lot of work that can be done to policy and our culture.

Climate Change, the wellbeing of our indigenous community and many other issues have failed to make some Australians proud of this nation. It bothers me when certain activists, journalists and that one mate who has had a few too many says things they know will stir the conversation into overdrive.

“Fuck, this country is so shit!”

It’s obvious that they genuinely mean it. This bothers me. It bothers me not just as an Australian citizen, but also as a child of refugees.

My parents and other relatives left their home and majority of their family decades ago, escaping one of the countless civil wars that plagued developing nations during and partially because of the “Cold War.”

Even years after the Cold War ended, my ancestral country of El Salvador has one of the highest murder rates in the world. It’s a place where the dangers towards tourists, women and queer folk are a very grim reality.

I have visited three times. As I grew older, each time the love and connection I have with my parent’s first home faded. I became more aware and soon enough realised the firecrackers I heard in the middle of the night weren’t firecrackers at all. Myself and many other 2nd generation Australians are told our entire lives that this country is paradise

to a point of annoyance. Then, after seeing their first homes and hearing the stories of loved ones and dignity lost to truly tyrannical leaders and unquestionably discriminatory systems and cultural norms, we realise we have it so easy here.

The horrible things that happen at places that were once home to our families cannot happen here, and this isn’t only because of systemic regulations. Australia as a society has proved its power in enforcing cultural norms. While there’s still a long way to go, this country has seen communities come together and be successful in preventing and fixing humane acts towards marginalised communities.

As a multicultural nation of immigrants, many other people can empathise or at least sympathise with my parents struggle and my experience as a PoC. Here we have safety in freedom of speech to take a stance and criticise one another. Here we deem what is considered upper middle class in the developing world as middle-class standards. Here we can walk by the Prime Minster, call him a wanker in a Mega Death shirt and not have to worry about getting arrested - or shot. This is all true because the power and courage from an outraged Australian population, or at least a few passionate individuals, ensures that it stays that way or otherwise forces change on what we fall short on.

My parents and the parents or grandparents of many others didn’t have these privileges at my age and unfortunately many still don’t because of imposed fear. That’s why so

“This country is so shit” and other stuff I’m

Daniel Martinez-Lopez

many people sacrifice so much to come here.

When they do, some may still struggle earning and adjusting into new surroundings, but many are very grateful for the safety and new opportunities that lay before them.

While it’s good to appreciate the privileges we have in Australia, we should not let our love for this country blind us of its wrongdoings.

While writing this I became aware of 21-yearold Habiburahman (Habib), a Rohingya man from Myanmar. For years Habib has been trying to flee his home and numerous atrocities such as ethnic cleansing and oppressive cultural attitudes towards his people - all because they are an Islamic population.

After years searching within the Asian Pacific area, he was finally recognised as a refugee in Australia and now looks at his future with optimism. This was, however, after he had spent 32 months in Australian detention facilities where he experienced further inhumane conditions and was shocked at our immigration policies.

Now Habib has a platform in Australia to speak out about the struggles of his people, having been interviewed by numerous media outlets and even publishing a memoir of his experiences called First They Erased Our Name

Habib’s story resonates with me and it should resonate with other people.

For those who love this country, there are many reasons why your love is justified, but beware that there are issues both politically and socially in Australia that prevent it’s own citizens within marganinalised groups from living as comfortably or as safe as you.

For those protesting, writing and speaking about your frustrations and solutions to legitimate issues, I applaud you for taking action but recognise that your ability to take action safely is one of many privileges that countless do not have.

Yes, it may be far from perfect, but for many migrants and children of migrants Australia is a Paradise.

To truly understand a migrant’s point of view, you need to do the most important thing in helping marginalised communities: Listen.

And reconsider. Criticise and protest poor behaviour – of your neighbours, of your friends, of your parliament. Exercise the incredible power you have to do so. But please, before you outright call your home a “shitshow”, the “worst place to live”, a “disgrace” think about those who call it “Paradise”.

But first, hope must die

Laura Harland

There is a saying about doors, we all know it, it goes something like this: “Sometimes we have to close a door for a new one to open”. I used to see the world through a lens that perhaps reflected my own personal experiences, that everything would be alright in the end. I recognise that this comes from a place of privilege, where I can make mistakes or go through adversity and I can get another chance. I’ve always had a safety net to push me back up, pull me through. We’re constantly told the narrative ‘if we just work hard and get a good degree, everything will be fine and we will have a comfortable life’. For me, facing the world we live in today means facing this for what it is: a monumental lie.

I used to go to protests and feel hopeful that politicians will listen to us if we just show them the community support or opposition to the particular issue, convey the facts and the circumstances logically, play nice and not be ‘too hard’ on them. It’s common sense, right? If we convey the science, expert opinion and community opinion, they will listen to us. We have elected representatives to serve the needs of the people. They have a duty to us to ensure we have a safe, liveable future and therefore we need to stop burning fossil fuels, respect indigenous land rights and sovereignty, commit mass public investment into renewables and provide a just transition for people who will be affected by the change. Easy... apparently not. Call me bitter, but for someone who has been actively involved in the climate movement for years in different non-government organisations, it’s hard not to be. Hope first died in me (but only a little bit) after a

long campaign in the Queensland state election to stop public money going to the Adani mine. The Premier ruled out the public funding of the Northern Australia Infrastructure Facility loan during the election campaign. There was also success in the campaign against some of the banks to rule out funding for the mine. Many of us naively thought this was the end of Adani. We were wrong. The stranglehold of mining corporations is just too strong over our political institutions and society. I felt my body paralyse. A little part of my hope withered as I read one article after another: talking about current government decisions, the science, big fossil fuel corporations, money, special deals, extreme weather events, government inaction, violations of Indigenous land rights, denial, pollution, actions without consequences. 12. Years.

Fuck.

Our arctic circle is on fire and permafrost is melting. I don’t want to alarm you, but Fuck.

Hope dies but community keeps us strong. Fighting back keeps us sane. Through this shared sense of hopelessness, and an ultimate rejection of apathy, hope in a different form emerges. It’s the kind of hope you find when you watch a Christmas beetle stuck on its back in a pool, with its legs still kicking, or when you watch a friend shrug their shoulders with a half-smile after a sad attempt of making light of a bad situation. It’s not great, but we’ll take it.

This article began as a 3am scribble fest, with the thought of submitting it to the student magazine in mind, but not a clear idea of the message I wanted to pass on to fellow students.

The main point I want to convey now is that we are at a juncture, individually and collectively. The forces pulling us down are currently not in our favour, but there are counter forces in action. Swathes of young people are rising up, striking and using all the will they have to not be silenced. Mass civil disobedience is brewing and people are putting their bodies on the line to stop fossil fuel companies. I feel a resurgence of this new hope by committing myself to action over inaction. Again, when I see an Extinction Rebellion pin on a stranger’s chest, or in a crazed smile on a friends face that I know I am mirroring right back at them when we crack a logistical question relating to some future protest.

It’s the movement for climate justice in itself where hope lies because in all honesty, the future is a big unknown and therefore something (in my opinion) not worth deliberating optimism or pessimism over. Right now, what matters most is getting active.

So down with apathy and down with nihilism! Our future is unknown, a false type of hope that many of us had in our institutions may be dead, but it’s about time people started taking on this issue incredibly personally, and decide:

Are you going to stand still, and shift the balance of the world towards irreversible climate change and ecological breakdown? Or are you going to do absolutely everything you can to fight against the systems of oppression and corruption that have led us to this mess, and fight for the chance of a safe future?

An Ode to Botanic Bar

A Haiku Set by

Zoe Mauerhan

Classes were finished Day was drawing to a close Time to travel home Corner of my eye On the way to the Goodwill It calls to my heart Rum, Scotch or Bourbon How about a jug to share? I’ve got time to spare The warmth of friendship Meeting people over pool All for a good time Botanic Bar is Wholesome, friendly, warm and sweet It’s my paradise

The Happiest Place on Earth

Anon

My friends wave goodbye as they join the lengthy queue for the tall ride I can’t conquer. I have some time to kill and my inner child sees me on a mission for Mickey Mouse ears. Unsurprisingly, it doesn’t take long before I’m standing in front of an array of them and as I try one on and turn to find a mirror I catch a glimpse of a pair with a rainbow bow. I approach them, looking around cautiously before adorning them and I know these are the ones. I mean I was in the happiest place on Earth after all.

I last maybe two minutes outside the store before I start shaking and have to sit down. What if they ask? I’m a terrible liar you see. I’ll say I just liked the rainbow? Or that I wanted to support the community? The Mickey ears are far too big to fit in my bag so I have to commit. I take a deep breath and bear a strained smile.

Walking down the pier I feel a rush of adrenaline and I feel good. Somewhere deep down I think I want people to know. I scan the crowds, trying to tell if people are looking at me funny but it’s hard to tell since I naturally look pretty goofy. Lost in thought, I bump into some of the others from the tour group. In the midst of hellos, I catch one girl look up at my ears and say “oh”.

My cheeks burn in fiery reds and pinks and I can’t lift my eyes off the floor. I point them in the direction of the nearest bathroom and hurry the other way. The floor pools with water as an ocean of memories threaten the flood gates. Before I’m swept away, my friends message me that they’re finished, waiting. These are some of my closest friends and I have to face the music. Excuses at

the ready, I walk with anxious anticipation. I see them in the distance and question if it’s too late to turn back, but they move towards me and in the blink of an eye I’m stood in front of them, their eyes naturally darting to the colourful bow atop my head. They say they like it and say nothing more as if it was just another pair of Mickey Mouse ears in Disneyland but I feel awkward. I can’t tell if I can see the cogs turning in their minds as they try to solve the puzzle of my sexuality or if I’m just overthinking.

Waiting in line for a water ride, my friends debate which side gets the wettest, peering over the balcony to see those ahead of us and compare the dryness of their clothes. As they bicker, Ethan turns to me and asks “Did you pick those ears specifically? You know… or was it at random?” Panic. My eyes glaze over and I muster a response in the calmest voice I can “I uh, guess I liked these ones”. He nods and I fall silent, hoping he didn’t notice the crack in my voice. Deep down I know he means well and probably just wanted to test the waters to see if I was in the mood to share but I can’t shake the thought of his perception of me shifting for the worse. I overhear the others. “There can’t be an edge that gets the least wet if the ride is a circle, there are no edges” I pipe in. Chaos breaks out with this new information and as the argument continues I can’t help but smile.

We queue for what is to be our final ride, my nagging fears dissolving as I forget about the Mickey ears resting on top of my head. “Wait a minute,” a heavy hand grips my shoulder from behind and I turn, my eyes tracing the hand back to Luke as he gestures up to the ears. A wave of confusion and nerves hits me and I feel as weak as uncooked pasta. Out of the group he’s said the least about them, nothing in fact. “The tag’s sticking out” he adds, stepping forward and tucking the tag away. We exchange smiles, genuine, overcome with relief mine says a thousand words.

I like to tell myself that if someone asked me I’d tell them. That I’d be honest. I like to imagine being drunk, without inhibitions, answering that one question with the ease of spreading butter, as if it meant nothing. Disneyland saw me out of the closet but with a safety net. I won’t ever forget the reactions I’ve had from some of the few I’ve told, the pity in their eyes and the harsh words they spoke that have rendered me petrified of saying the words aloud. I’m not sure if I’ll ever be ready to come out now that I expect the worst. But Disneyland was a step towards reaching the promised land of out and proud, as was writing this.

Crawlers

Busteed

“Found them!” I yelled, my voice bouncing across the mudflats and into the big blue sky. “Crabs?” dad responded, his sunnies sparkling in my direction from about a hundred metres away. “Yeah!”

There had to be thousands of them; tiny, ten-legged blurs of blue, white and yellow. Soldier crabs! Small troupes sprinted in every direction. It looked like the brown sand was shifting. What was a vast, desolate coast of mud before, was now a kaleidoscope contracting and swelling before my eyes. The previous silence, other than intermittent bird calls, became an oscillation of moist scuttering on the sand.

I gazed at their seamless synchronicity. In their bands of hundreds, the tiny ones marched no slower than the adult ones. They seemed to step at the same time as each other, and they were so weightless a species that none of them left any trace at all. I stepped cautiously so as not to injure any already beneath me. Baffled and bashful, I laughed silently within myself. I screamed silently too, up at the sun – are you seeing this? I wondered what the age difference between the big ones and

the little ones was. I wondered if they wondered that about themselves.

I decided to follow them. I kept a safe distance. I concerned myself with being light-footed across the brown, squelching ground. I didn’t want to falsely alert the crabs I was a predator. Stupid girl for shouting so loud. What a dingus. They knew I was there. All at once, their numbers shrivelled down, down, down into the mud. Any that were close to me before vanished, leaving little balls of murky mush as evidence. The more I tip-toed in one direction, the less crawlers remained there –an orchestra of determined diggers.

I chuckled at the fierceness of the larger, tougher soldier crabs. Whilst their counterparts decided to swiftly sink below the surface and hide themselves, these subjects in question rose their claws higher, as if to say, ‘fight me, human!’

I stopped moving. The mud glistened on my feet. The scuttering had stopped. The air was quiet again. Had I forgotten to breathe? How fascinating to be so small an animal and make such a sensational impact on a mere passer-by. I inhaled the moment; the salt, the sand, the sea and the short-tailed

Words and images by Nina

crawling crustaceans. My mind was emptied of all thoughts and worries and replaced with a gratitude for this casual magic. I was surrounded by so many little lives. The minutes passed me by. The sun burned the back of my neck and the breeze moved around me, inviting bumps on the skin of my arms and tugging my shorts. I saw my sister and father over my right shoulder, scavenging yabbies with a silver pump, their words reaching me in broken syllables. Hundreds of metres past them was where the shallow water began. Low tide. Ephemeral bliss.

One…two…three. They were returning to the surface. Off in the distance, and closer to me too. One medium-sized crab passed right over my left foot, anointing me with fresh dollops of grainy mud. Did they know I was still here? I felt apprehen-

sive about moving and stayed rooted to the earth. Maybe they thought I had left. I would be betraying them to suddenly generate what no-doubt feels like an earthquake to their little bodies.

There had to be thousands of them; tiny, ten-legged blurs of blue, white and yellow. If they knew I was still among them, they did not care. Armies of them began voyaging in all directions across the vast mud plains. With resolve, I endeavoured not to catch up to them, but to witness their crawling glory. I was not the protagonist of this story. I was a side character, with one or two lines perhaps, observing from afar. How fascinating to be so small an animal and make such a sensational impact on a mere passer-by.

Privilege

What a fucking paradise, we are meant to be in. But the altitudes of the mountains, are unaware to those upon them.

What a fucking paradise,

But the altitudes of the mountains,

Mothership

What will we do when our planet dies? Will we build a mine just to keep us alive, Will we tend the fire and then put out the flame, What will we do when the worlds not the same, What will we do when all the animals leave, Will we sit in their shadow and silently grieve, And what then when the seas fill the world, When ice caps are melted, when chaos has unfurled, What will do when the last child is born, When the rivers stop running, will we witness and mourn, What will we do when the food chain is broken,

When the last note is sung, when the last word is spoken, Will we sit with our money, and out coins we will cry, Much like our shores, will our savings be dry, Will we look to our leaders for guidance and strength, Cashing in our last penny, spending forth our last cent, Will we sit in our houses as our true home wilts away, Will we save our voices, with nothing left to say, Will we wish we’d done different, will we regret what we’ve done, What will happen to the world when the humans are none?

Our Beach Trip

Words by Jaime Colley Image by Nina Busteed

We’re craving sun kissed skin

Like we’ve been pregnant with summer All of winter.

The sand puckers Where pipis lay nestled underneath. We chase the kisses on the sand, Hands and knees, Forefingers raw from digging up the shells Before cracking them open on reels, Pulling the muscle away And winding it onto the hook, The puckers in the sand now Looking like French kisses.

And as the sun dips behind the horizon, The final rays glaze the shore in gold, Until the moon paints the waves Silver.

A new day will start, A wild concoction Which tastes more exotic than the last. But for her, the days blend together, Like ocean waves gently Smoothing out the shore.

Her mind indenting footsteps into the sand Instants before the peak wave in high tide Washes across the beach, And just like that, The shore is wiped clean.

And the kisses in the sand, Are now long-lost loves, That went missing out at sea.

But six months later, We’ll walk with her Past the park. We’re back to our dull reality, Where the thought of Summer Is already pitted in our bellies, Cravings beginning to stir.

We will talk about our beach trip, Like an inside joke to her But when we walk past the playground And she sees the uneven sand, She will tug me on the shoulder and say, There are pipis there.

You and Me

Staying up until the young hours of the morning our eyelids falling slowly, heavily over eyes That refuse to look away from each other; This is love

Your arms wrapping around me Sitting on a bench in Guanajuato And feeling every cell come alive And all my anxiety wash away; This is love

Sometimes our minds slip And we forget that love is Hell on earth, yet heaven at the same time Anxiety, yet our own valium Selfish, yet completely selfless Love is time, devotion, energy

Love is You and me

~ P.B. ~

Driving the Barkly

The heat of the day sinks into your car; your skin; your blood

There is nothing beyond the endless highway and the brilliant blue of the sky.

~ Terri Cassells ~

Good Morning, Good Night

Good morning world, I opened my eyes.

The clear blue sky And luscious green trees, Filled my sight beyond the horizon.

The subtle breeze And endearing warmth, Graze my skin in its orgasmic ways. Sweeping me off my feet And lifting me in my strides.

The sun crossed the white blotch blue canvas, Chasing the end on the other side. Revealing the moon in its navy coat, Waiting for its turn to light up the sky.

Sweet whisperings by the lunar face. Hypnotising me till my eyes flutter close. Good night world.

~ Mui Siew Tan ~

Photography by Ryan Turner

Paradise Rd

Our favourite tracks waver through the stereo, as sea-green falls away, our worries flow down the bridge connecting the mainland to the island.

Hands hot on the steering wheel. Eyes crinkling under sunglass and steel. The breeze pulls out our hair, the windows down low, melting tires then the churning depths of the sea–far below.

~ Amanda Thomas ~

Until Dawn

Are you awake Moon? Are you awake like me? Like eyes squeezed open. Like primitive colours of amygdala.

Can you hear me Moon? Can you hear my silence? Darkness holds my bones afloat. The sun will scorch them bare. We’ll drift through cloudless skies tonight. We’ll share this fleeting paradise. But only until dawn.

~ Claudia Shelley ~

Photography by Ryan Turner

The Symptoms of Suppression

Thomis Bride

Ding. The microwave sung its note and the lasagne was now warmer than room temperature. Warmer than the atmosphere of the breakroom at least. A seat near the window at the head of one of the tables was sufficiently far away from the rest of the department’s dullards for his liking. It was outside of the contagion zone of their insipid small talk, so it was there that the lasagne would meet its demise.

Planting himself in the chair with a creak, he surrendered a few tiresome blinks and took advantage of looking at something that wasn’t an LED screen. The clock’s hands pointed straight to heaven, the notice board stood flush with event notices, and every head in the room was hunched over the dim light of a smartphone. The heat of the microwave hadn’t completely softened the lasagne, it remained hardened by its reservation in the fridge the previous night, but it would still be no match for his plastic knife and fork.

His gaze wandered around the banality of the office until it stretched out through the window into the world beyond his white collar labour camp. It found its way onto the window sill, where a pigeon pecked through dirt, scraps and whatever else interested a pigeon. The pigeon appeared to be completely normal, it wore a sleek coat of grey feathers that converged into a smooth green at its head. But then the pigeon appeared to be everything but completely normal.

It’s feather’s hardened into scales, pearling from the unremarkable grey into a striking turquoise. Its head slithered out from its shoulders, elongating and undulating like a snake, and sharpened into a snout. Where there were simple pigeon’s feet were now monstrous claws brandishing talons of jet-black. The window sill cracked under the weight of the former-pigeon, who had now grown larger than the building itself, completing its transformation into a fearsome dragon.

The dragon emptied its lungs with a stentorian roar, filling the air of the world around it with a most terrible sound. The force of the sound caused the land itself to ripple, trees became uprooted and skyscrapers collapsed as waves the size of houses rolled all the way through to the horizon. The distortion of the earth caused the ground to crack, ripping enormous fissures into the landscape that swallowed cars, buses and anything else that tried to escape. Tongues of fire lashed out from the fissures with blasts of magma as an encore, smothering the landscape with pure flame.

And then something else rose from the fissures. A gargantuan, muscled arm leathered by coarse, excrescency skin grasped for the sky before planting its fist into the ground, sending out a shockwave that cracked the cooled magma. The arm was one of four that belonged to a hideous demon, in size that matched the dragon, bearing an array of mismatched fangs scattered across both jaws, with four pairs of twisting and swirling horns sprouting from its skull that housed two burning eyes. The demon unfurled leathery wings spanning longer than freeways, and beat them in a ferocious rhythm to rise up to the dragon. More arms reached outward from the fissures, and soon dozens more demons rose to join their harbinger.

The dragon flew erratically to escape the flock of demons that pursued it, now hundreds strong, like a swarm of locusts. The sky was thick with the creatures, soon the world around the dragon became blotted with nothing but twisting horns and leathery skin. With no space to breathe, the mass of demons soon converged on the dragon.

But not before a beam of light pierced the sky. A scintillating ray of sunshine cut through the heavens and smothered the dragon in pure brightness. The demons scattered, falling away like sand brushed off tarp. The beam of light dimmed slightly, and a figure descended from the cloud line. The figure took the form of a man, gleaming with flawless skin and curling blonde hair, brandishing enormous white, feathered wings from its back. More identical figures began to pour out of the beam of light, and soon their number matched the horde of demons.

The demons released a cacophony of terrible screams to rally themselves, and the angels sang in kind. Before the dragon could react, both throngs hurtled towards each other and all the eye could see was the great and terrible conflict between the two. Demon and angel began to fall from the sky as a result of the conflict, littering the broken world with their corpses. All the dragon could do was“Hey”

The chair creaked again, this time with a jolt of shock, and he saw the familiar white collar figure of his manager.

“Break’s over. Back to work.”

The break room was vacated. All that remained of the lasagne was a few smears of bolognese. He looked to the window sill and saw a pigeon pecking through dirt, scraps and whatever else interested a pigeon. The clock’s longest hand pointed straight to hell. And that was where he returned to.

Dungeons & Dragons

By Daniel Brown Paradise is table-top gaming

Four adventurers set out on a noble quest to rescue their friend from mysterious forces. Floating intangibly in the space above and yet also alongside and within them, four players sit around a table. Some are eating chocolate, some are eating chips, and one guy got the bright idea to pour Mountain Dew over his chips and eat the lot out of a small bowl. Over and above them, and yet alongside them and disgusted by this green bowl of soggy potato, is the God of this world; he who holds all the cards and rolls the dice without explaining what it was for. This being has no character in the story for they are every character, their will be uncontainable within a single shell; call them Legion, for they are many. In combat they are the hydra, the many headed foe. Slay one and two more shall take its place. In a tavern they are every barmaid and every patron, and they are endlessly propositioned. They oversee a map made of squares, and it is here that our adventurers find themselves.

A dwarf, two humans, and a half-elf enter a bar. It isn’t a joke, this is just how every quest begins. They are sitting on their high, wooden bar stools, ignoring every lead supplied to them by their God. The half-orc at that table in the corner who looks angry about something? They’re fine. The mysterious juke box that started playing when they entered the room? Sleeping dogs, they say. Instead, they have begun a spirited deconstruction of their characters. The dwarf is detailing their family history going back generations, and in chronological order, while the half-elf is responding to direct questions in as evasive a manner as possible yet being sure to interject cryptic statements into others’ conversations. They order another round of drinks.

‘That’ll be five gold pieces each.’

‘But the first round was free!’

‘Aye, but I liked you then, and now I just wish you’d get a move on with that quest o’ yours.’

‘We buy them anyway.’

Above them, their players are getting a look from the DM, who rolls on a random encounter chart. Back in the bar, a loud crack like Thunderclap erupts in one part of the room, but only the four adventurers seem to notice. They stand up from their stools (‘Finally’), and walk towards the centre of the 10ft bludgeoning damage-ed area. Before them is a large, blue and purple ball that appears to have come through the ceiling. The dwarf asks the room how many sides it has, but fails his Intelligence check, and so they do not know. The party moves closer to investigate and finds that alone a member can cause it to move, a little bit.

‘What if we shove it?’

‘Is that an Athletics roll?’

‘I’ll help.’

The party line up on one side of the object, with the strongest in the middle and the half-elf on the edge so that they can run from any danger (they are hesitantly assisting). The surface of the object is smooth and slippery, made of a substance none there can identify. The dwarf and the half-elf give each other a look.

‘Alright then, let’s do this.’

The party shoves, and shoves, and the manysided object begins to turn, rolling over into a new position. At that moment the dwarf is struck by a sudden realisation: they now know that this is a d20, common in taverns as an aid to role-playing games, and that its position can determine the success or failure of any venture.

‘Interesting,’ they say.

‘Very interesting.’

by Jaimeson Gilders

Illustration

The Humble Bushturkey

The humble Bushturkey. He pecks, he rakes, he builds. He makes the largest and moistest mound of leaf litter in the suburb, maintained at exactly 33°C, and the ladies (identified by their much smaller and more pale yellow wattle around their neck) simply cannot resist laying their eggs to reward his efforts.

Tell anyone living in Brisbane that the Bushturkey is a threatened & protected species. They’ll scoff at you. “It’s a pest! Have you had a backyard before, you townie? They’re doing fine!” Admittedly, our red, black and yellow Aussie battler friend has adapted extremely well to urbanisation in the grand scheme of things. Despite our campuses being inner-city, they still manage to survive and thrive, with a healthy population often strutting their stuff in areas seemingly unhabitable due to their concrete jungle nature.

This brings us to the struggle currently faced by the Bushturkey that has set up shop outside K Block at Kelvin Grove. It has been coined as the battle between Facilities Management and Native Wildlife, and it is perhaps the highlight of my life at the moment. Every single morning, the Bushturkey rakes up all of the leaves and soil from the garden bed, and places it as a large pile on top of the footpath. Every single afternoon, Facilities Management leafblows the whole pile back into the garden bed. Rinse and repeat. Poetry in motion. Humankind on the backfoot, responding to the whims of nature.

Despite the humour in the situation, it has brought me great concern. Where it rakes its pile is right next to the main road outside QUT, and when it slowly crosses the road with a beak and fist full of leaves, I’ve seen it nearly hit by a car multiple times. This struck me as curious. Why was it taking leaves across the road? What’s worth the risk? It took following it one day to solve the mystery. It turns out, on the other side of the road, behind some hedges, right outside C Block, it has built a massive mound; an absolute masterpiece that must have taken months to craft. The daily one outside K Block is merely a decoy, designed to make local competition think he isn’t a threat to their mating success. Well, they couldn’t be more wrong. Although this is very clever, I still have fear for it crossing the road so slowly. The potentially scientifically informed pitch I have made to Facilities Management multiple times is that they collect all the leaf litter in this garden bed, and dump it on top of the real mound, to save him the trouble of transporting it over from the decoy. However, until my voice is properly heard in the slow-moving machine that is the university, the daily leafblower struggle will continue. Maybe, one day, this QUT Bushturkey will be able to build its paradise, the ultimate non-vandalised mound, in peace.

Yours Bushturkily,

Vinnie Batten

CONTENT WARNING - GRAPHIC IMAGERY

Sightless Bob

The tale of

J.A. Lightfoot

misery by

They call him Sightless Bob. The call him Sightless because he has no eyes, and they call him Bob because of the old joke.

What do you call a man with no arms and no legs floating in a pool?

Bob.

Sightless Bob had arms, but he cut them off. His greatest love was a person so special. He loved them with all his heart, and he held them, trying to protect them from all outside harm and bathe them in his love. Sightless Bob once squeezed too tight, however, and they were hurt. He didn’t mean to hurt them, for he did not even realise until it was too late. In time, they healed, and said it was nothing to stress over. But Sightless Bob despised what his arms had done. He could not forgive them, so he cut them off and burned them, so that they may never harm his love again.

Sightless Bob had legs, but he crushed them into dust. His greatest love would sometimes need help with tasks, and Sightless Bob would walk everywhere to try and help. Sightless Bob had no arms, however, and his love told him that he was not helpful enough and he was only really getting in their way. They didn’t mind most of the time, but Sightless Bob was ashamed of his legs, taking him to places that he wasn’t wanted or needed. He couldn’t forgive them, so he had an anvil dropped on them, and his legs were gone.

Sightless Bob once had eyes, but he gouged them out. He once used them to look out for his great love, who he loved more than himself. He would watch them as much as he could, in hopes that this would keep any more distain from entering their life. Yet, Sightless Bob could not move, for he no longer had his legs. He ended up seeing what they did not want him to see. Sightless Bob couldn’t have helped it, for he could not move an inch. Nevertheless, he now despised his eyes for looking, and carved them out with a rock on the ground.

Sightless Bob once had a heart, but he pulled it out with his teeth, and died. Though Sightless Bob was a gruesome sight, there were a few foolish enough to love him, and they loved him for his great big heart. Sightless Bob’s love did not love him though, and it filled his heart with anguish and misery. Each heartbeat felt like a thousand rusty nails driven into his skin. Without eyes or legs or arms to pump blood to, Sightless Bob’s heart beat too loud and strong. It made the people he loved and the people he loved shake, and Sightless Bob knew that soon it would shatter them. So, Sightless Bob bit into his own chest, and devoured his heart. Finally it stopped, and Sightless Bob died. Once again, he made people miserable, and they cried and mourned the loss of his wretched life.

This story is a happy one, though. After all Sightless Bob became all that he knew he should be. A Joke. What do you call a man with no arms, eyes or legs, floating in a pool of blood?

Sightless Bob.

joyous

Foliage

Words byJordan Towns Image by Kyra Bellamy

With her cup of tea nestled warmly in her hands, Josie admired the morning fog travelling through the mountains. The light, single-degree temperatures stung her lungs each time she breathed in too deeply. After finishing only the second page of the newspaper, Josie felt the unbearable heaviness of the latest words. As she sat there, overlooking a view some would never witness, she could feel the tenseness of the stories begin to spread to her aching joints.

The dull notes of her doorbell made her jump in fright. Setting her cup down, Josie forced herself onto her slow, shaky legs as she made her way inside. The green arms of her potted plants tickled her ankles and fingertips comfortingly as she passed them, the sound of her heart echoing down the hallway. She twisted the doorknob slowly, revealing her red-faced husband holding a large cardboard box.

“What took you so long?” George huffed, his knees creaking as he stumbled inside.

“I was reading the paper,” she replied, closing and locking the door.

“Why do you read that nonsense? All it does is scare you,” George groaned as he gently set the box down onto the wooden living room floor.

She watched as he straightened his spine, cracking his bones back into place. “It keeps me informed,” she shrugged as she studied the box before them.

“What’s this?”

Wiping the sweat from his forehead, and airing out his woolly jumper, George smiled. “Happy birthday,” he murmured, as his lips pressed lovingly against her cheek.

She blinked, before she smiled. Her birthday. She had completely forgotten.

Using George’s arm as support, Josie slowly knelt down before the box. She noticed how big it was and the fact that it had numerous holes around its sides. She rose an eyebrow, looking up at her husband. “You didn’t…”

George only smiled. “I thought you might appreciate some more company around here. When I saw this fella last week, I just knew he was yours.”

She beamed at him, flung open the two doors at the top of the box and peered inside. She gasped loudly, falling back onto her feet as her frail hands cupped her mouth. She tried to stop herself from crying, but the tears travelled down her wrinkles anyway. In a grasp as soothing as a mother’s touch, she reached into the box and picked up one the most beautiful plants she had ever seen.

“A Calathea Zebrina,” she beamed, admiring it, before placing it back down.

As George kneeled on the floor beside her, she wrapped her arms around him tightly. For minutes they quietly embraced each other amongst the dozens of potted greenery, smiling.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

Dawn to a Widow

Words by Sathyani Kotakadeniya

Image by Claude Pilbeam

Insanity...yes, I am draped in insanity Laughing the high pitched shrills of a nightingale a wing

Hair down, pale faced, walking an infinitely slow walk

I’ve become a slave to the world’s bitter ways

I lost you love And with it I have lost myself Abandoning my happiness with your loss in the past Never letting myself move on in this never-ending circle of life

I’ve become a ghost; an insomniac, a lunatic, a fright

But time seems to heal the painful sores that brought tears once upon a time And now I’m left with scars; a reminiscence of the past of bittersweet memories, My tears trickle light

That scar I will cherish till the day I die Like a trophy or a star Moving on doesn’t mean I don’t love you It means I’ve learned to love myself, accept life’s bitter ways Accept change and increment Yet cherish your love all the way

Jacaranda

Sophie Barlow

The jacaranda tree stood tall in the middle of the backyard.

It was the highlight feature; everything else was unremarkable.

The dead patch of dirt where the above-ground pool used to be. A swing-set, the stock standard one that was owned by every house with children living there. A garden shed, made of corrugated iron, and housed redbacks. An old barbecue, the cooking plate sitting unused and rusted over the pit that would have housed a fire. A Hills Hoist. Of all of these, the jacaranda was what drew the attention.

The jacaranda tree stood tall in the middle of the backyard.

It stood tall and strong, easily clearing the roof of the house, which was only a single story. It’s limbs and branches, blooming with the delicate purple petals, were sturdy; strong enough so that that children never hesitated when they would climb up and through and in and around the jacaranda. They would frolic underneath as the flowers floated to the ground, or gently landed in their hair. They would around the trunk, in an almost pagan-like manner, as if they were paying homage to the gods, to Mother Nature, to Gaia, thanking them for this gift. When the children could sense that a storm inside the house was about to break, they would race outside, and find comforting shelter beneath the jacaranda. While their parents would scream at each other, back and forth, back and forth, the children would transport themselves to an imaginary world of their own making, where they could drown out the sound of yelling.

When their father would storm out the back, heading to the car so he could leave, his face red as bottle-brush, the children would race up the branches to the foliage, the safety, the jacaranda provided them. They would watch their father leave, with a furious rev of the engine and squeal of the tires, hidden amongst the flowers.

The jacaranda tree stood tall in the middle of the backyard.

But it was too close to the house. The roots were extending, creeping insidiously, towards the foundation. Already, cracks had begun to form in the concrete floor of the patio. It would not be long until the roots would reach under the house, crushing the water pipes and wrecking who knows what else. The children’s father told them that the tree would have to be destroyed. The children cried – why did the tree have to be taken down? The tree was theirs. It wasn’t harming anyone. No matter how much their father tried to explain to them – the jacaranda is damaging the house, we won’t be able to live here if the tree damages the house – they still don’t understand why it needs to go. It was their tree. Their father had no right to take it from them. The jacaranda tree stood tall in the middle of the backyard.

The men came, with ropes and tarps and chainsaws and shovels, to cut it down. The children watched as they tied the ropes to the upper limbs of the tree. Three of the men pulled the ropes, holding their body weight to the ground while two other men started digging at the base of the tree. The men chopped and cut and stabbed at the ground with the shovels, exposing the roots. They took the chainsaw to the trunk, the metal of the blade churning and whirring and screeching as it cut through the wood. The smell of mower fuel poisoning the children’s nostrils.

Finally, the jacaranda fell, the creaking of the wood splitting and splintering echoing throughout the neighbourhood. As it came down, the jacaranda flowers erupted into the air, a final expulsion signalling the tree’s death knell. The men loaded the wood and branches and leaves into a trailer and covered the clippings with a tarp, and then drove away.

The sun beat down on the children’s skin, shining on them as golden as wattle, as they stared at the empty hole where their jacaranda tree once stood.

The jacaranda tree stood tall in the middle of the backyard.

It was the highlight feature; everything else was unremarkable.

The dead patch of dirt where the above-ground pool used to be. A swing-set, the stock standard one that was owned by every house with children living there. A garden shed, made of corrugated iron, and housed redbacks. An old barbecue, the cooking plate sitting unused and rusted over the pit that would have housed a fire. A Hills Hoist. Of all of these, the jacaranda was what drew the attention.

As I Lay Here

Anahita Ebrahimi

I remember the raindrops trickling Down your sunburnt cheeks

Your arms wrapped around me for a second too long High hopes and consciences wavering Words of encouragement

From you and the man with the polished boots

My fear hushed by your blind kisses

Yet I chose not to cherish those moments Because cherishing and goodbyes come hand in hand As I lay here

A melody of memories dances around the pain Your hands in mine

Purple blooms of jacaranda dancing at our feet

The sweet summer air singing us to sleep no more Blind faith and the glazing of greed to thank for And as the angels lead the way

I know my paradise is what our life was

Staying

Words by Vivianna Vitikka Image by Danielle Pocock

The plane touched down, a bony singing swan ‘You are home,’ so I’m told: this is home. Over thirteen thousand kilometres and thirty-eight hours

you are twelve years old and the trees don’t shuffle the way you’d have them The lorikeets cock their heads when you speak, they know their place in these suburbs –It is here under the endless blue sky where the sun blinds scorching, nurturing, feeding on flaking white skin the sun rubs off in your sleep, dry snow in the sheets

Down the street Paddle Pop wrappers lie scattered by the milkbar mynas fight the magpies over their liquefied insides, battling on scolding pavement bare feet can’t withstand

A question rooted in your brain Existing neither here nor there every roundabout takes you exactly where you started no matter which exit you take even if, rising above, about thirteen thousand kilometres looking down at your twelve-year-old self and everything that comes with it

in these fields of houses with single-glazed windows, swimming pools empty or larvae-filled, mailboxes brimmed with real estate, your brother kicking the football across the quiet streets, towards you but inevitably into neighbouring yards

It never gets so cold as it did, your toes never feel too big under layers, instead they scurry away from a flat possum feasted on by insects who also know their place in all this, while you, the poor possum so much of you is spread wide in some space inspected and pulled apart in strings

But you weren’t meant to grow up here. You are home This is home. Here, you’ve stayed despite your threats. Stuck and shifting your cold feet side to side, arms up high with your fellow birds waiting for the football to bite, screaming down beaches and rooftops, rooftops near beaches and near hills looking for a bedroom with a sea-view so when you wake, if you look past the flare in the window maybe then you can see home.

The Orbserver

Physics department investigates time-space curiosity in the vicinity of the QUT ‘sphere’

A televisual orb renowned for being QUT’s greatest marketing opportunity has been blamed for the stretching of space-time in the vicinity of the Kelvin Grove library and E Block.

Physicists have told GLASS Media that an observer close to the 4.8-metre wide interactive digital globe screen will experience time differently to those further away.

“It’s a mystery that we hope to learn more about,” said one of the physicists.

“One theory is that this OLED ball of gigascreen thingamajigs has literally consumed the black hole in the budget that was used to create it.”

David (not his real name) thinks there should be warning signs at the entrances.

“When I entered the building, I was leaving a second-year lecture,” David explained.

“But after studying in the library for what I thought was half an hour, it turns out that I’m in my seventh year,” he said.

QUT Facilities Management has said that there is no need to be alarmed.

“We categorically reject any suggestion that our installation of a spherical jumboscreen large enough to hold its own gravitational pull, was for nefarious reasons,” a spokesperson said.

“We have seen no evidence to substantiate rumours of students levitating towards the SphereTM against their will,” he said, despite nobody mentioning this to him.

“Nor should students believe the spurious allegation that the distortion of space-time is a ploy to keep them enrolled for longer than they expected,” they said.

QUT Guild President Vinnie Batten has said that the Guild will be investigating.

“We are concerned with reports that students are suddenly realising that it’s week 6 of the semester and totally unprepared in their studies,” he said.

“Clearly the Orb is to blame.”

Issue 5 - Paradise Semester Two - 2019

Non-fake news with non-fake facts

Look at this damn huge brain! What a fucking waste of money. - Image: Liam Blair

WANT TO BE IN THE

Contributors

Claude Pilbeam

Kyra Bellamy

Ryan Turner

Daniel Martinez-Lopez

Laura Harland

Zoe Mauerhan

Nina Busteed

Kyra Bellamy

Jessie Taggart

Jaime Colley

PB Terri Cassells

Mui Siew Tan

Amanda Thomas

Editors

Alana Riley

Liam Blair

Lucy Czerwinski

Claudia Shelley

Thomis Bride

Daniel Brown

Jaimeson Gilders

Vinnie Batten

J.A. Lightfoot

Jordan Towns

Sathyani Kotakadeniya

Sophie Barlow

Anahita Ebrahimi

Vivianna Vitikka

Danielle Pocock

Matthew Latter

Nikita Oliver

Layout & Graphic Design

Amy Hitchener