swine 2022 issue 04 – treasure

swine swine

the team

print editor

Zoe Sorenson print@ssu.org.au

news editor

Jessica Norris news@ssu.org.au designer

Adele Easton designer@ssu.org.au

communications officer

Nikitha Neelakantan comms@ssu.org.au

•

with thanks to

our extended team

Zoe Abletez, Daniela Abriola, Madison Bryce, Deanne Jeffers, Zara Kernan, Sophie Robertson, Eli Rooke

our talented contributors

our lovely readers

advertise in swine

communications & partnerships officer Eric Lee media@ssu.org.au

media credit

Zoe Abletez, Engin Akyurt, Julia Craice, Greengrey Darya, Adele Easton, Christian Fridell, Dan Gold, Casey Honer, Eli Rooke, Jasmin Sessler, Joshua Sortino, Annie Spratt, Juliana Stein, Birger Strahl, Tatiana Syrikova, Josh Withers, Samuel Wolfl

how to submit

• stay tuned

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instagram @swinemag facebook @swinemag website www.swinemagazine.org

If you’d like to contribute to future print editions or get your work published on our website, please reach out and get in touch!

www.swinemagazine.org/contribute editor@ssu.org.au

contents

Zoe Sorenson

Eli Rooke

Zoe Sorenson

Mikala Smee

Sarah Cirillo

Jessica Murdoch

Anthony Vezzu

Kayla Willson Adrian Dixon

Charlene Behal

Nisakya Perera

Jarryd Worland

Zoe Sorenson

Editor’s (love) letter

Ode to myself as a poet

A dictionary just for me

The forbidden workshop

Lemon tree

The holding on and letting go

European snow Matriarch Mine skeleton flower

Swim with me

Take a moment, for the memories

An interview with the swine team

9 10 13 16 23 24 26 31 32 39 40 42 44

acknowledgement of country

The team at swine magazine would like to acknowledge the Wurundjeri People of the Kulin Nation, who are the Traditional Owners of the land on which the Swinburne Student Union’s offices are situated. We pay our respects to their Elders, past, present, and emerging.

We also respectfully acknowledge Swinburne’s Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander students, staff, alumni, partners, and visitors.

We extend this respect to the Traditional Owners of lands across so-called Australia. We recognise that sovereignty was never ceded. This land always was and always will be Aboriginal land.

The Wurundjeri People observe seven seasons throughout the year: biderap (dry) season from January to February, iuk (eel) season in March, waring (wombat) season from April to July, guling (orchid) season in August, poorneet (tadpole) season from September to October, buarth gurru (grass flowering) season in November, and garrawang (kangaroo apple) season in December. These are much more appropriate than the four mainstream European seasons that were imposed on the landscape by people who didn’t understand it.

We’re currently in poorneet season. During this time, days and nights are of equal length. We can feel the temperature rise and see the rain continue. Growling grass ngarrert (frogs) lay their eggs and poorneets appear in great numbers. We can hear the pied currawongs calling. Gurnmil (snakes) and budjing (lizards) are awake and active. Many plants are still flowering, such as the garrong (wattles), guling (flax lilies), and terrat (prickly currants). The yellow murnong (yam daisies) are starting to bloom and are ready to be eaten. If you live on Wurundjeri Country, keep an eye out for these changes yourself.

Information from Senior Wurundjeri Elder Aunty Joy Murphy Wandin (https://www.twma.com.au/channel/poorneet).

editor’s (love) letter

Zoe Sorenson

Hello!

Here it is: the fourth and final issue of swine for 2022.

Looking back over the year and the themes I chose, I’ve realised that the magazines have manifested as something of a commentary on what I think being a person is all about: belonging, spirit, transition, and treasure. Our contributors’ interpretations of the themes have only consolidated this. In the end, of course it all comes down to treasure, to love.

I’ve loved having this opportunity to do work that I care about and grow from the experience. I’ve loved collaborating with –and being inspired by – so many different people at every stage of the creative process.

I’ve loved the successes we’ve achieved and celebrated, and the mistakes we’ve stumbled through and learnt from. I love that there are now four magazines that I’ve helped bring into the world and can hold in my hands. I’ve loved swine.

I want to dedicate my last editor’s letter as a love letter to swine, and to everyone who has been involved along the way.

Thank you to our contributors – the first-timers and the familiar names, those who contributed

a single piece and those who were published in every issue. There, quite literally, wouldn’t be a magazine without you.

Thank you to our extended team – sub-editors, sub-designers, and everyone in between who has volunteered their time to help us out. Your passion and dedication have made our lives so much easier and swine so much better.

I’d like to give a special thank you to Jessica Murdoch and Eli Rooke for supporting me with such patience, enthusiasm, and insight.

Thank you to the swine team – Jessica Norris, Nikitha Neelakantan, and Eric Lee. Your excitement and support behind the scenes are so appreciated.

Thank you to the best partner ever – Adele Easton. I can’t imagine having gone on this journey with anyone else. We’ve created something pretty special, haven’t we?

And, lastly, to our readers – thank you so much for having me. It’s been a pleasure.

Happy reading, Zoe :)

ode to myself as a poet

Eli Rooke

This is a patchwork poem comprised solely of my writing from the last year. It is a reminder of how much I treasure my craft, a keepsake of whom I have been as a poet, and a reassurance that I will continue to grow into myself as time passes.

I am here. I am everything I have not yet forgotten and maybe that which I already have. I have stolen a stranger’s name; I find myself on accident most days.

I long to be a poet. Electricity passes by like crackling constellations and, unceremonious, I didn’t hear the tree fall.

Maybe it didn’t mean anything; maybe they were one and the same.

I have already written a poem about this. Tell me who I am between the lines. Lost time haunts and I can’t speak.

I wish I was brave. I will search, in fear and powerful defiance, for more than what is in front of me.

Give me growth. There are so many stories at the end of the universe. I just want it to be true. There’s time left to wonder. I will become the namesake.

me

am

a dictionary just for me

Zoe Sorenson

I have always loved words.

As a kid, I somewhat fancied myself a writer (look at me now, huh?) and kept a notebook filled with all my big ideas. There was a page at the back with just lists and lists of names.

Nora • Aishwarya • Frankie • Kira

I remember having writer’s block and sporadically trying stream-of-consciousness exercises. I would write down all the pretty words I liked, hoping for a jolt of inspiration.

wisteria • eclipse • amalgamation • beloved

My first semester at uni really brought this fascination for words into focus as I started studying both editing and media. There is so much to explore within the realm of communication: subjects, semiotics, interpretations. All words and symbols are made up! They convey meaning because we give them meaning. Dictionaries adapt to keep up with people. There are broader accepted definitions, but there can also be personal understandings between you and one other person. Isn’t that so neat?

As much as I love my lists of words, their meanings remain at a distance; they don’t

mean anything to me, really. Over time, I have realised that there are words out there that are meant for me, that mean me

Some of these words evolve and change alongside me.

girly girl • tomboy • girl • woman

Some words require more introspection, shaping my sense of self and the way I move through the world.

whiteness • feminism • privilege • bias

Some words – some of the most important words, though they didn’t feel that way at the time – had to be discovered.

LGBTQ+ • lesbian • gay • bisexual • transgender • queer…

I learnt a lot about this acronym when I was thirteen. I dissected these words and their meanings because I wanted to understand, wanted to be supportive, wanted to be an ally, like when I looked into sovereignty and accessibility.

The first time someone personally came out to me, two years later, it occurred to me at last

that maybe one or more of these words could be added to my list as well.

I conducted more research, learning about words I’d never even known existed. Then I researched some more. Thought really, really hard. The idea of a label sounded nice, in theory; for so many people, labels meant community, meant understanding, meant having the words to articulate their own experiences. For me, labels mostly seemed to mean stress.

I didn’t feel like I was able to call myself queer. Even saying I was questioning felt like it was too much – too active, too committed, too confident.

I want to be clear that I wasn’t concerned about maybe being queer; that was a nonissue. What bothered me was that I couldn’t be sure. I felt like I was trying to steal these words from the people they really belonged to, as though language were a finite resource.

I resigned myself to just looking at the queer people in my life from the outside, wishing for me too to come out of my mouth without the words being able to fully form.

When it comes down to it, labels are extremely personal and mean different things to different people. I struggled with the fact that there weren’t concrete definitions to gauge my experiences against, especially because I wasn’t even sure what my experiences were. Attraction was an abstract concept that meant nothing to me in a practical context.

I became my own case study, trying to follow observations of myself to their logical conclusions and always somehow ending up back at the beginning.

During this time, I began to overanalyse everything I thought and said and did, my research going too far. I got to the point where

I chose to stop thinking about my identity altogether, otherwise I would buckle under the stress. I tucked these words away, like a halffinished book at the back of my shelf.

I needed that time; I wasn’t ready to figure myself out at that stage. I stopped trying to force it.

I unhurriedly continued feeling out the shape of my queerness, sounding it out. Over the course of years, I reopened those pages, looking at the words out of the corner of my eye and not moving too quickly, in case I accidentally spooked one or both of us.

One day, with very little fanfare, I discovered I could identify myself without it feeling like a lie.

queer

As I made that discovery, I also realised that I was content with just that. I was queer, and that was the only word I needed. My desperation to understand the specifics of my queerness softened to curiosity. I wasn’t in a rush to define myself in any other way, and I didn’t need any more-specific words to describe what I was experiencing. My vagueness was just as valid as another person’s microlabels.

Now, when I related to the queer people I spent time with, I didn’t feel like an imposter.

After one of many conversations with my best friend, she reached out to me. I know that labels kinda stress you out and I’m not at all trying to tell you how to live your life, but have you considered that you might be asexual?

I had, in fact, considered that I might be asexual. At length. It was one of the options I’d thought about from the very beginning, early

enough that I’d wondered if maybe I didn’t feel attraction because I was a literal child.

But coming from someone else, having this word repackaged with love and gifted to me by my ace best friend…everything clicked into place. Labels had used to feel like an immense burden, but now these words – queerromantic, asexual – brought me comfort.

I still maintain that people don’t need words; everyone is different and has different ways of defining themselves, if they want to define themselves at all. We learn more words every day, make them up, make them our own. We ourselves change.

It’s an impossible, even unhealthy, task to try categorising our entire human experience using the limitations of language. (I would know.) But they can be useful tools as we try and make sense of ourselves and the world around us.

For me, words are still pretty special. I can’t wait to see how my lists grow in the future.

me

R

A

S W E

The hinges screamed into the silent corridor. Grimacing, I tensed, gripping the attic ladder as I watched Mum’s bedroom door. A few seconds passed, and I stopped expecting her to stalk out into the hall and ground me. After taking a steadying breath, I hurried up the small wooden ladder, pulling it up after me as I snuck into the attic.

This was as far as I’d ever come before. I squinted against the thickness of the shadows. Grandad had told me to stay out of here and Mum had echoed the sentiment, but I couldn’t resist. What were they hiding up here? They’d said they would bring me up when I was ready, but that had been years ago now. I refused to wait any longer. With one last glance at the shrouded ladder and hatch at my feet, I crept forward into the forbidden attic. Keeping to the balls of my feet, I made my way across the floor, hoping my fluffy bedsocks would absorb the sound of my movement. Mum would kill me if she found me up here; the thought alone brought on a sweat. She thought I was too young, too naive, but I knew better. I could handle whatever was up here. I was old enough.

Slivers of moonlight filtered in through the lone window on the wall, the shadows casting strange shapes across the room. Despite my squinting, I could only make out the shapes of the larger pieces of furniture. They were stacked high, sheets draped over them, obscuring their distinct forms.

Where was the workshop Grandad spoke so proudly of? Confused, I crept further in, the

16 the forbidden workshop Mikala Smee

musky smell growing as I explored the room. It made no sense. Grandad disappeared up here every day. For hours, most of the time. As I neared a large silhouette cloaked in a sheet, I ran my fingers across the surface. They came back slicked in dust, a thick grainy layer. I brushed it off and stretched my arms out wide, using the furniture to guide me towards the back of the room. Something sweet started to force its way through the musk, like Mum’s mixed-berry tarts, only richer.

The further into the room I went, the stronger the smell became. Mouth watering, I tried to follow it like Molly did when I took her on our daily walks. A flash of light caught my eye instead. It was small – tiny – hidden at the back of the room. I cocked my head to the side. The light flashed again. It was there, barely visible.

I rushed towards the light, carefully weaving around the furniture in my way. As I moved, the smell became almost overpowering, and other scents started to tangle with it. But I focused on the glow; it was brighter now. It sliced through the wall, the light bursting out and cutting through the darkness. Grinning, I struggled to resist the urge to jump up and down. This had to be it. I’d actually found it.

I took a deep breath, steadying the rapid beating of my heart, and spread my palms wide. The light leaked through a seam. I felt along the sharp groove in the wood. It spread up and down the wall. Squinting, I took a step back. It was a rectangle. A door? There was a small cupboard in front of it and, unlike the rest of the furniture, it didn’t have a sheet

draped across it. I smirked and pushed it aside. It groaned against the floor and I froze, expecting someone to race up and drag me back downstairs.

Again, nothing happened.

I waited a few more moments before continuing, this time gently sliding the cupboard the rest of the way. Crouching, I followed the seam, and soon my fingers brushed against a metal handle I hadn’t seen before. It was cool in my palm. Icy, just like the rest of the house. I pushed down on the handle. Of course, it was locked.

Stifling a groan, I got down on my knees and pressed my ear against the wood. There was a soft scraping on the other side. Muffled, but there. I fiddled with the lock. Luckily, the keyhole was old, like the ones from the movies Mum liked. I peeked into it but flinched back as the light overwhelmed me, stinging my eyes.

‘Nice try, Grandad,’ I muttered with a grin, rushing back into the room. This was not going to stop me.

There had to be something in here I could use to jimmy the lock. As I felt around, my hands became coated in dust and grime. Eventually, I found what seemed to be a small desk, back near the hatch. I quickly snaked my hand under the filthy sheet; it flew into the air and I held my breath, the urge to sneeze nearly overcoming me. Once it faded, I continued my search.

Fiona had taught me how to pick locks last summer at camp, much to our counsellor’s annoyance. If she hadn’t, I would’ve been screwed. I just needed something to use as a pick. A hairpin would have been ideal – it’s what she had used to teach me – but I didn’t

have one. I had some on my bedside vanity downstairs, but I’d be risking waking Mum or Grandad – or worse, both. No, it was safer to find something up here.

I looked through the drawers as quietly as I could. My hands brushed over the silky sheen of paper, loose pencil shavings, and even a screwdriver, which might work. I soon found a bunch of paper clips. I laughed quietly. Success! The clips were entangled with each other, but I quickly undid the mess and grabbed a few, rushing back to the door handle. On my knees, I started to fight with the lock. It was far harder than the ones Fiona and I had practised on; the pins didn’t want to catch, and they kept falling back down.

‘Come on,’ I whispered, as it refused again and again to budge. It took some time, but eventually the final pin clicked into place, and I twisted the handle. ‘Yes!’

I swung open the door and gasped. Light exploded from above, coming from the centre of vibrant blue flowers growing along the ceiling, purple vines snaking behind them. I moved under the light; it washed the room in its brightness. Under the flowers, the sweetness grew.

But that wasn’t all. I dragged my eyes over the rest of the room. On one side was a wallto-wall bookshelf. Hundreds of books were stacked on the shelves. None of them seemed familiar; they were thick and leather-bound, not like the paperbacks downstairs. Scattered in between the tomes, spread across the shelves, were trinkets and glass jars.

I moved towards the crowded shelves. Some of the books were new, while others seemed to be crumbling where they stood. I dragged a single finger down the spines. No dust. The titles stood out against the covers in golden

ink. They were the type of books I’d only seen from afar. Ones kids weren’t supposed to touch.

Eventually, I got to the end of the row of books, leaving only a small metal trinket on the shelf. Dials of blue and green were slowly rotating on the surface, clicking over every second like a clock. What was it for? There were four dials, and in the centre was a large gap.

I was distracted from it as a flicker of movement on the shelf below caught my attention. Bending down, I found a moth trapped in a glass jar. It fluttered its blue wings and lightly bumped against the glass as it tried to escape its invisible enclosure.

‘What is this place?’ I whispered to myself. I hadn’t been expecting this.

On the other side of the room was a large desk. Papers were scattered atop the surface. Hanging on the wall above were paintings and sketches of creatures. Ones I’d never seen before. Some were almost animals I knew, but with extra fins or another set of legs. Shivering, I looked away.

A small light flared at the back of the room, beneath a large map of the world dotted with pins. Had Grandad been to all of these places? The light flared again, blue. I skirted around the table in the middle of the room, ignoring the mysterious vials and liquids bubbling away on the wooden surface. I wasn’t any good at chemistry, and I doubted I was about to get any better.

As I moved towards the back, the light glowed once more, this time a vivid orange. It was coming from a small clear box. Inside, a creature scurried across some twigs, emitting light as it moved. It looked like a caterpillar.

Despite my thundering heart, I opened the enclosure. Setting the lid down, I began to reach into the small box, but hesitated as the creature flared green. I steeled myself, and placed my hand beside the small insect. The creature quickly wriggled its way onto my finger. As it did, the colour transitioned to purple.

‘Hi, little guy.’ I waved my other hand at it, and it flared pink in answer. I was transfixed, watching as it darted from my finger to my palm and back again.

‘Let’s not tell your mother about this,’ Grandad said from somewhere behind me. He chuckled as I jumped. ‘Now, if you think that’s cool, you should see a Dormaught butterfly. They leave a trail of fire in their wake!’

I gently set the caterpillar back into its enclosure and turned to face him. He was in his long blue-striped pyjamas, his white goatee bent at an angle from sleep.

‘What do you mean?’ I wanted to know more. I needed to. ‘What is all of this?’

‘Well, this is my job, and your mother’s.’ He shrugged, walking into the room and closing the door behind him.

That didn’t answer my question. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Our family has researched and kept magical creatures hidden for hundreds of years now, with the help of a few others. That’s what those dots are.’ He pointed up at the map, and then hurried across the room to one of the bookshelves, his eyes fixed. He seemed more excited than I had seen him in years. He pulled out a book and handed it to me. ‘These treasures and books are going to be yours one day. This is your legacy, Jules.’

I met his gaze, and he gestured for me to open the book. The first page had signatures dotted over the paper. I ran my hand across them, but stopped as I noticed my mother’s name. Marian. She really was a part of this, just like Grandad had said. I turned the page, careful not to rip the delicate paper. I flipped through, the slight sound of the pages rustling together accompanying the ticking of that strange dial. The book smelt old, as if the dust had settled into its pages. The words were handwritten, the paper slightly yellow with age. It was full of sketches and notes. Some were drawn directly onto the page, others were glued in.

‘Is this real?’ I asked, looking up at my grandad.

He gestured to the room. ‘Do you really need more proof?’

I nodded even though I didn’t. I already believed him. But what if it was all a dream? Or maybe I’d had an accident, and this was just a hallucination. Smirking, Grandad reached for one of the jars on the bookcase. Inside was a swirling green liquid. He twisted off the top with a pop and poured the liquid into two glasses sitting on a table.

‘Drink this.’

I was hesitant, but as he downed a gulp, I followed suit. The fruity elixir hit my tastebuds and sent a zap through my body. I went weightless and quickly began to float. I clung to the bookcase, but Grandad laughed as he floated into the middle of the room.

‘Believe me now?’ He smiled, plucking a flower from the ceiling.

lemon tree

Sarah Cirillo

This piece was awarded first place in the 2022 Swinburne Sudden Writing Competition.

The lemon tree stretches its arms out wide, boughs heaving with fruit. Underneath, there is a graveyard of rotting lemons, sickly sweet and buzzing with flies, and I gag as I reach under her. All the ripest lemons are there, but all the thorns are there too. They await my bare arms, ready to tear at my skin. I think it’s her revenge for taking her fruit. She works so hard and then she gets pissed on by Dad and Nonno. It’s good for the lemons, they both say. Men and their bloody dicks, Mum says.

Lemons are my favourite. People hate them because they’re bitter, but if you dip them in sugar they taste like lollies. Nonno taught me that. We cut them into small wedges, drenching them in the tiny granules. We grin as we eat them, and sticky lemon juice drips down my chin and onto the floor.

Nonno’s house has a huge lemon tree. We always climb up to the highest lemons, fighting to get the best ones. We play for hours, sometimes hopping over to the fig tree. She’s even bigger than the lemon tree, with twisted limbs bearing budding, milky fruit. I wonder if she gets pissed on, too.

It’s summertime and lemons hang like a lady’s jewels. Knobbed branches are marred with wrinkles, grotesque knots twisting this way and that, just like Nonno’s hands. Dad is the same, leather on bone, stubbled like the pricks on the lemon tree. They work hard, Mum says as we watch Dad and Nonno pruning the lemon tree. To the bone. Her branches fall to the ground uselessly, decorating the graveyard beneath her. I wonder if she knows she’s treated like nothing. She bears her fruit like she bears her soul, and all she gets back are broken limbs and piss.

Mum calls me over to help her make dinner. Salt dribbles onto my lips and I lick it away, turning to Mum as she sets out the cotoletta. She stands over the bench, back bent, like the trunk of my lemon tree, only Mum doesn’t get pissed on – we just take fruit, leaving her bare.

Today, Nonno taught my cousin to piss on the lemon tree. Men and their dicks, I think. He’s thirteen, and at lunchtime his friends play scopa and yell about the girls they want to fuck. They probably piss on their lemon trees too.

the holding on and letting go

Jessica Murdoch

What do I value? What’s important? What do I treasure?

A few years ago, it seemed minimalism and decluttering were all the rage. (Remember Marie Kondo? If it didn’t bring you joy? Gone.) Being stuck at home in lockdowns, experiencing shifts in working conditions, and facing new existential crises every other week (the world is going through it right now) have definitely forced many of us to think a little more about these questions.

The introspection has brought up a little more than I anticipated though.

When I think about decluttering, I think about getting rid of ‘stuff’. The physical clutter that

takes up space in my house. But, sometimes, that’s not all that needs addressing.

I’ve had hoarding tendencies for most of my life. Perhaps some culpability must fall to my genes. I inherited it from my mother, as she did from her mother before her. Both women have always loved any excuse to give presents. Christmas in our home was a marathon. It could take us most of the morning, hours, to unwrap everything. Surely, giving gifts is one of my mother’s love languages. However, it’s not the receiving that’s the problem for me, it’s the holding on.

It’s taken me a long time to dig down and understand what might be underpinning these behaviours. There are different reasons

behind why I keep what I keep. Some of it is nostalgia. I find it so hard to throw away things that equate to memories. Having a physical reminder of a past experience feels important. But just how many old school projects do I actually need to keep?

Then there are the objects that I can’t get rid of because maybe they’ll come in handy. What if I waste something that could still have a use? Well, my grandmother grew up during the war, and some habits are impossible to break. Apparently, even when they aren’t your habits, just ones that have been gifted across generations.

Maybe most interesting are the items I’ve collected that fit together to make an idea of who I am. Or, rather, who I want to be. My fantasy self. The dresses and fancy shoes that I could never seem to find the right occasion for. The home gym equipment that was going to save me all those membership fees. The paints and canvases, the knitting needles and wool, the pencils and sketch pads…whatever equipment I might need for whatever the latest crafty hobby was going to be.

As I sort through it all, I realise there are lots of versions of myself that I have been. That I could be. That I may never be. Why do I still hold on to them?

Maybe I have a picture in my head of who I might be. Some of those dreams are possible. Some seem a little more out of reach.

I think it’s time to let go of the versions of me that are unattainable and recognise those versions that, with a slight adjustment or a little tweak, could be possible. To determine which ones really matter.

I like doing yoga. Sometimes I even manage to get to multiple classes per week. But that

grand vision of rising each day at dawn to roll out the mat is just not me. And it’s never going to be.

The crafter who makes her own clothes and homemade gifts might be more of an aesthetic I’m going for, rather than a person I could be in real life. Maybe I’ll pick out one project that I’ll actually do and move the rest of the paraphernalia on.

I hold not-so-secret aspirations of someday writing a novel. I read widely. I’ve started sharing my words publicly. I recently quit my job as a teacher to go back to university, and last year I started a master’s project that is working on exactly that.

We can take time and put effort into developing skills or honing habits, but I also think it’s okay to acknowledge that you don’t need to fight the fundamentals of yourself. You need to work with who you are, not just who you wish you could be. Recognise the ideas in your head that are important enough and close enough to be real, and then you have a chance of actually achieving your dreams.

I started a decluttering journey thinking it was just about getting rid of my excess stuff. But it’s really been more about reflecting on who I am, who I want to be, why I want to be them, and how those versions of me exist (or don’t). By addressing those questions – what do I value? What’s important? What do I treasure? – I can let go of the unrealistic fantasy self to focus on becoming who I want to be.

european snow

Anthony Vezzu

With thanks to Julia, Isobella, Lulu, Autumn, and Mum – for their reassurance and guidance.

Content warning: This piece contains brief descriptions of violence.

I smashed the china cups with my golf club one by one. Janet’s cheeks brightened a shade with every demolition, but there was none of her usual play-by-play. She was leaning on the pole of the lone basketball ring. Someone had stolen its hoop long before we started coming here, to our spot at the edge of the suburbs.

By the time I stepped up to the last cup of my miniature firing line, my breathing had gone all shuddery, like willow trees in a spring breeze.

*I squared my hips, relaxed my elbows, and swung. The face of my 9 iron careened right through those screaming shards of porcelain. I obliterated all their intricate tattoos of blue peonies and sunflowers. Something unhinged inside my chest at the exquisite, ear-clenching chimes of the china busting on the concrete. I turned towards the shopping cart to get the lamp.

I’d been eyeing the thing off since we swiped it from the hard rubbish pile outside 13 Wickham Street. It had a lampshade that was all violet velvet with carmine tassels – real nineteenth-century whorehouse chic. The thing had history. I rifled around the cart, eager to tee up the lamp. Its lampshade was wedged between a clunky old analogue clock and this strangely phallic vase we’d gotten from the dumping ground around the corner. Janet had stumbled across it, but I had to pick it up.

Here’s to dismantling the patriarchy, Janny, I’d said, waving the porcelain penis at her.

Yes, yes – girl power, feminism and all that, Janet had said. Now put that hideous thing away before someone sees.

When I managed to prise the lamp loose from the cart, the sick white glow of the streetlight caught on something beneath it. A glassy glint pricked my eye. I leant forward.

A snow globe had been hiding in the underlayers of my collection.

I picked it up. A small, gilded plaque on its base read Prague. A diorama of Charles Bridge stood inside. The bridge – speckled with snow, lined with its statues of all those suppliant saints – sent the blood river-rushing from my fingers and my face. My throat puckered up and closed in on itself. This

wasn’t from any pile of junk Janet and I had passed tonight.

I propped the snow globe on our concrete slab, amongst the hunks of broken china. I watched Janet as I did it. I held my stare as I knelt. The whites of her eyes held steady, but her shoulders were stuck stiff like some taxidermic cat. Janet wasn’t breathing. Neither was I – but it wasn’t me who’d planted the snow globe. I turned to grab the golf club I’d left leaning against the shopping cart.

‘At first,’ Janet said, suddenly, shakily, ‘I thought it would’ve looked just darling on my bedside table. It’s splendid – lovely. But no matter what arrangement I thought up, it simply never would have matched my room.’ She began rolling a cigarette.

I sat myself down on the concrete, the 9 iron resting across my thighs, the snow globe waiting between my outstretched boots. ‘Suppose your feng shui books didn’t have a “snow globes” section, hey, Jan?’ I coiled my stare around her, squeezing like a pair of boa constrictors. ‘Doesn’t matter. The only bedside table this piece is going to sit on is the big bedside table in the sky.’

I fixed my eyes on the empty spot of the backboard above Janet, the spot where the ring had once hung. Staring at it, at the absence, I felt briny scalding tears needling at my insides. They scampered and squealed like rats beneath my eyelids. I may as well have let them fall. Janet saw. But it wasn’t time, yet. It wasn’t time.

‘You don’t want to hold on to it for yourself, Lauren?’ Janet queried, looking hard at the globe.

‘I never keep this stuff, Janny. You know that. It’s all just scrap metal for the compactor.’

Janet looked down and licked the paper of her cigarette. Then she pulled a match from her pocket and flicked its red head with her thumbnail, igniting it. I always found it witchy how she did that. Especially in times like this, when her hands shook. Janet lit her cigarette, took a drag, and blew a wispy smoke ring up towards the moon. I didn’t have to watch her to know the movements of her mouth. My eyes were transfixed on Charles Bridge, but I was picturing the lips from which Janet’s smoke rings fluttered. The tongue that danced between them. The confectionary-pink lipstick that coated them.

The way they had glistened under the foggy morning sunlight on the bridge.

The European snow I had once brushed from them with my thumb.

To kiss them better.

To feel them closer.

*

I pressed my thumb down into the golf club’s rubber handle, and pressed harder when the bone ached. The rubber let out this helpless sound like grinding teeth.

‘Please, Lauren,’ Janet said to me. ‘Don’t you think this one’s too nice for your golf club? Don’t you think it deserves a home?’

‘Yes, Jan,’ I spat. ‘I do think it deserves a home. That’s why I gave it to you.’

Her lips clamped closed, all God-fearing, but her eyes turned to thunder. Janet would always tell you what she meant with her eyes. Like she had heat vision. She’d scorch her message into your skin letter by letter. And her eyes were sending me quite the message. They loosened my stomach, but I trapped the feeling there. I squeezed my abdominal

muscles, picturing all the little fibres knitting together, holding me together. I sequestered that whirling anxiety into the room of my gut, kept it from racing to my lips and painting –thick and coarse – over my words.

‘Don’t you know there’s still time to call off your wedding?’ I told her.

Janet flicked her cigarette at my shoe. It ricocheted off my boot. Embers flared in a brief explosion of life, then died on the concrete. ‘Don’t you start with that again,’ she hissed.

I flew up at her. ‘With what, Janny?’ Our foreheads touched. ‘What did you think would happen? That you’d just sneak the snow globe in, so we’d never have to talk about that “little sin” of ours? That I’d give you a wink, and swing at it as if to say, “Go be with simple stupid Hubert because it meant shit-all to me too! All forgiven! All forgotten!” Jesus, you are such a fucking child—’

And she slapped me across the face.

Cords bulged in her neck like parasitic worms. She started to shiver despite her gaudy fur coat.

The muscles in my arms swelled with electricity, begging me to grab at her throat. Something more cerebral won out, though, keeping me frozen and watchful. Even the air went still between us. Everything, everywhere, was hung up on the moment.

Then tears, colder than a statue’s, prickled up in Janet’s eyes. She wouldn’t let them fall, but she may as well have. With the finesse of a ghost, she walked over to me and gently pressed the inside of my palm with her fingers. My legs went buttery, and I know she saw the melting in my eyes.

‘Don’t do it to me, kid,’ I said. ‘Don’t you do it.’

‘Do what?’ she said, her eyes so big, so vast and all-filling, that there seemed to be nowhere else to look. She traced my fingers with hers, lacing one over the other – my shadow in the night.

One of my hands fluttered up, like old newspaper in the wind, and landed on Janet’s hip. I didn’t even tell it to. I didn’t tell my other hand to sidle up and around her waist, either. Yet there she was, encircled in my arms, sinking into me, wrapping me tightly around her. And it was as if we were back there, lying together in that Czech hotel room, sharing secrets before the daylight could find us. Janet surrendered her cheek to my bare shoulder. God help me, she was warm.

A car passed us by. If the driver had looked, they might have thought we were slow dancing. In some ways, I suppose we were: slow dancing to the broken promise of music.

I tried to think of what to say. I hadn’t had to do that with Janet for a long time. My mouth opened, but it was her voice that we heard first.

‘It meant everything to me, Lauren. It still means everything. Those two weeks were the best weeks of my life.’

‘We didn’t even open our notebooks that whole time, did we?’

I felt Janet’s cheek quirk into a smile, and a tear drop on my shoulder. ‘Difficult to take notes when you don’t bother attending the lectures,’ she said. ‘It was a miracle I passed that first year.’

‘I flunked out,’ I said, ‘because the only thing I learnt from that study trip was how much

I detest architecture.’ Janet laughed, then sniffled. My throat burned. ‘Oh, Janny,’ I sighed. ‘You told me you’d stay with Hubert, like your parents wanted. You told me we couldn’t keep things going after we got back.’ I pulled away from her. I gripped her arms tight to keep the distance. ‘But I never got back. Not really.’ And I turned from her, somehow finding my way out of her eyes. ‘I’m going home. I’ll leave the club with you.’

‘Don’t leave me alone, Lauren.’ Janet’s words whistled over my shoulders like the loon’s mournful bird call.

‘You’re not alone, Janny,’ I called back. ‘You’ve got a whole city there with you, right at your feet.’

I didn’t wait for the sound of shattering glass before walking away. I could hear it already, the twinkles of destruction floating through my mind like snowfall.

REMOTE PILOT LICENCE ELECTIVE

Delivered by Swinburne’s RPAS partner Suas Rov

AVF10001 REMOTE PILOT LICENCE THEORY & PRACTICUM (Multi rotor drones up to 25 kg)

Remote aviation (drones) is one of the fastest growing industries globally, and new applications are being discovered daily.

Did you know that you can now obtain your Civil Aviation Safety Authority (CASA) remote pilot licence and also gain 12.5 points towards your higher education qualification? You can also add the course fees to your HECS HELP, so there are no out of pocket fees!

The elective runs each term over a 6 week period, and requires compulsory attendance at each of the 5 tutorials as well as a full day’s practical training. You will gain lots of skills and learn where, when and how to plan remote pilot missions and execute missions safely in accordance with CASA regulations.

Places are available in Terms 3 and 4 and are strictly on a first come, first served basis. To enrol, contact your Course Coordinator and reference AVF10001.

For additional information, please contact Siobhan at ssleater@swin.edu.au

matriarch

Kayla Willson

My mother used to shine. Brighter than any star in that beautiful black sky. Call it what you will. Childlike wonder. Naive hope. Unwavering love. But she was the sun my world revolved around, before I even understood the concept of space or the multitude of orbiting planets.

When I was little, my mother used to hold my hand. Up the stairs, down the slide. Across the street, through the door. Guiding me through this life, which changed before my very eyes. She taught me everything I thought I’d ever need to know. So, I used to see the world in black and white.

She had the softest hands. They held me as if I were a paper crane. But I never claimed to be her saviour. Tumultuous tundra, why do your hands grow cold when I reach for the clouds?

Her blue eyes have faded. A new grey that seeps out every now and then. Through her hair, although she dyes it. Through her anger, when she forgets to hide it.

Her celestial glow is dimming. A pedestal of rust stands where tenderness once bloomed. Like her mother’s silverware, a good polish is due.

mineAdrian Dixon

Content warning: This piece contains nongraphic descriptions of guns, violence, and death.

Natalia could only watch helplessly as one of the masts of her target ship, the Bellowing Bull, came crashing down onto the burning deck, sending splinters and embers billowing into the frigid air of the night. The crow’s nest narrowly missed her own ship anchored nearby as it snapped off and plunged into the depths below.

Natalia and Tommy had been en route to a rendezvous point to reunite with the rest of their team when she had spotted the Bull. In a tavern a few weeks prior, she had overheard that this exact ship had been hired to transport gold and relics for a cultist faction. Seeing the Bull come across her path, Natalia knew she couldn’t let this opportunity slip through her fingers. What she wasn’t expecting was for

the merchant vessel to be fully equipped with weaponry and crew worthy of a warship.

She wasn’t scared. Maybe a bit unprepared, but she was good at improvisation, if she did say so herself, quickly formulating a new plan of approach after a moment of pause. But, no, before Natalia had even had the chance to call out the new orders, Tommy, the blundering fool, had leapt into battle on her behalf. While flattering, his supposed chivalry was more of a nuisance that served to only enrage her more than the fact that she’d have to put effort into getting her reward.

Tommy then, of course, had seen fit to set the entire ship on fire. Natalia had caught him firing a pistol at an exposed gunpowder barrel to take out a large group of the enemy crew. She had always known he was unpredictable, but this was absurd. Summoning his silver armour with a sweep of golden magic, he had

jumped into the flames to continue his battle. Attempts to gain his attention only served to prove that Tommy was impervious to any and all forms of common sense. Regardless, Natalia had to begrudgingly admit that his idea was actually working.

After the mast fell, the Bull swayed violently from the resulting waves, causing everyone on board to stumble around and try to catch their footing. Out of the corner of her eye, Natalia saw Tommy gripping a rope, using the momentum to kick his opponent into the dark sea with a giggle and a taunting wave. Natalia growled as she caught the portside railing. She made to shout at him, but movement from the doorway under the helm caught her attention. Her eyes narrowed as she saw who emerged.

Her archnemesis. And, no, not Tommy – at least, not anymore – but Jordan, her rival from

her earlier years, hell-bent on vanquishing her in retaliation for ‘stealing’ his spot as next in line to the pirate throne. Natalia couldn’t care less for the title or the responsibility, but she sure as all hell had earnt that spot next to the queen through spilt blood, sweat, and tears.

As the ship righted itself, chaos broke out once more, and Jordan disappeared from view. With a flash of her cutlass, Natalia leapt back into the fray herself, determined to finish the battle, kill her rival, and loot the vessel in one fell swoop. Her own ship was no help; she knew she should’ve invested into her spectral skeleton crew being able to do more than just sail.

Flames dashed across the deck, igniting the remaining masts of the doomed boat. Smoke began to spill out of the gaps between the boards of the deck. Natalia cursed loudly. Looting the ship of her treasure was

impossible now; there was no way to get below deck and come back out without severe injury. Channelling her anger into her attacks, she cut down crew members with ease, capering between the flames.

Suddenly, her frenzy was blocked by the powerful swing of a sabre, and her eyes locked with her rival’s as he towered over her. Being faced with a proper challenge fueled her fury as she dodged his flurry of blows. Flames licked at their boots as they waltzed around the deck in a slow dance of dominance, neither intending to submit to the other as the air grew hotter around them.

A sharp crack cut through Natalia’s concentration, and a second mast crashed down between her and Jordan. A wall of smoke gave him the chance to take her by surprise, and she barely managed to evade his attack, tripping over a stray rope in the process.

She unsheathed two of her four pistols from her chest, firing haphazardly into the screen of smoke. There was a brief stillness, before Jordan leapt through the smoke, sabre raised above his head. Her hand moving faster than her thoughts, Natalia cast her concealed dagger at him. The knife embedded itself in his torso, causing him to miss and collapse close by.

She stood up as the flames encircled them like starving seagulls, waiting for scraps to devour. They faced each other, Jordan trying and failing to get his feet under him as Natalia zeroed in. The final mast plummeted onto the deck, tilting the ship once more and splitting the whole vessel apart, causing her to stumble. A tiny part of her brain screeched about the loss of treasure, but her temper was focused on finishing this overlong battle once and for all.

A cannon shifted with the sway, parking itself conveniently between her and her rival, its mouth swinging directly to face him. Without a moment’s hesitation, Natalia struck the fuse, cackling wildly as she did so.

‘I’d say I’ll miss these scuffles, dear Jordan,’ she grinned wickedly, ‘but I really won’t. You were more of a nuisance than a threat. Goodbye.’

‘I deserved to be next in line!’ he bellowed.

‘Oh, shut up,’ Natalia said with disinterest, unsheathing another pistol and firing at Jordan’s leg, revelling in his shout of pain. ‘Do me a favour and die quietly, would you?’

The ship began to sink and list. Jordan tried to scrabble out of the way, only pausing when a pistol drifted by his injured leg. He swiped it up quickly, firing at her with a cursed call of her name just as the cannon went off. She shut her eyes, expecting not to open them ever again.

When the ringing of the blast in her ears persisted, she cracked an eye open. Natalia found herself guarded behind an opaque shield coloured in a familiar golden aura, the bullet hovering in the air in front of her. In contrast, her weapon had found its mark, and it was safe to say that her rival would not be bothering her again.

‘I gotcha,’ a voice called out, followed by a flash of silver dropping onto the deck next to her. Natalia blinked, slowly coming back to herself. Tommy grabbed her wrist, bolting towards the nearest edge. The care in his voice filled her with rage; this was all his fault in the first place. ‘Come on, we’ve gotta go!’

‘Tommy Swifthand, let go of me this instant

‘And watch you burn to death? No thanks. Save the lecture for later, Natalia.’

That was the last she heard before they jumped overboard, and she was submerged in cold, wet darkness.

• • • Natalia avoided him for the next few days. Mixed feelings of defeat and victory and anger and gratitude swirled within her, all coming to a head when she cornered Tommy on the helm of her ship’s deck.

‘Do you understand exactly what you’ve cost me?’ She scowled.

‘No,’ Tommy replied flippantly, ‘and I don’t care. You’re safe. That’s what matters to me, Natz.’ He leaned against the railings, pointedly looking away from her.

‘Keeping safe doesn’t get me profit! And you don’t get to call me that anymore.’ The nickname reminded her too much of a relationship long gone.

‘You only ever say that when you’re angry, Natz. Think of your dead rival as an investment of safety for the future then, if you’ve gotta be so materialistic about it all. You know, you could at least thank me for saving your ass from being shot or trapped in a watery tomb.’ All the while, Tommy kept his voice relatively calm. Natalia hated it. He had matured a lot, and she wasn’t sure if she hated the change or that she was the reason he had grown.

‘I didn’t need your bloody help! If you had followed my damn orders, we could’ve made off with everything. But, no, you had to burn the target like a bloodthirsty menace!’

‘What are you even talking about? You hypocrite!’ Tommy’s loss of temper filled Natalia with a sick pleasure, knowing that only she could get under his skin like this and break his usual carefree nature. The wearing of his emotions on his sleeve was a weakness she would always take advantage of.

‘Just the two of us against an entire crew?’ Tommy continued. ‘We were outnumbered, unprepared, and I made a decision to help us get out of there when you hesitated. Of course, I’ll set the whole ship on fire if that’s what it takes to keep you alive! And it’s not like you do anything with the bloody treasure except stash it in your “secret” hideout! You could at least, I don’t know, spend it?’

‘What I do with my gold is none of your business, soldier,’ she snarled.

‘Alright, pirate,’ he spat in return.

A harsh silence consumed the air between them, and Natalia began to feel a tinge of guilt. She fumed internally. She never used to have such easily exploitable emotions. Tommy had damaged her tempered steel walls irreparably, those four years ago, when they exchanged vulnerable words in soft voices, intimately vowing each other’s safety – until the day it all came crashing down. Now, much to her delight and chagrin, they were back in each other’s lives, on yet another quest to save the world.

Natalia considered shoving the well-meaning boy off the side of her ship in retaliation for the cold edge she had lost. What would he know about wealth anyway? All he did was flounder around battling mythical creatures to save people who had done nothing for him, expecting nothing in return for his services

like the common altruistic fairytale hero. She couldn’t understand him and his ridiculous notion for sentimentality at all.

‘Here,’ Tommy said, his low voice cutting into her brooding. ‘I saved you this.’ He pulled out a golden fox pendant from inside his jacket and offered it to her.

‘A pendant? Really? Out of all the loot you could grab, that is the only thing you chose to save?’

‘It’s all I could pick up at the time. If you don’t want it, that’s fine. I’ll keep it and give it to Lily or some—’

‘Give me that.’ Natalia snatched the pedant off Tommy. She examined it as it shimmered in the low afternoon sun. ‘I’m glad you’re safe.’

‘Me, or that?’

Natalia shot him an icy glare. He glowered in return, but his eyes were tinted with a hint of relief. She looked away with a huff, shifting ever so slightly closer to him.

She detested Tommy with all her will, yes, and they most definitely brought out the worst in each other. But Natalia couldn’t deny the comfort in knowing that there was someone watching her back, who genuinely cared for her, even after her mistakes many years ago. Natalia had dearly missed him, his unruly antics, and his golden heart that she couldn’t sell but could perhaps still keep. Not that she’d ever admit that.

skeleton flower

Charlene Behal

you are a flower that turns transparent in the rain. chameleon of the woods, your invisibility bewitches me. so intricate that you break at the touch.

you thrive in the dark, and when the water touches you, you disappear.

s l o w l y you wither away, drenched in the storm.

the rain won this battle. it washed you away; your winter has ended.

i am a multicoloured pansy: bright and full of vitality.

your existence itself inspires me. to live with the colour you never had but instead gifted to me.

my springs are forever warm because you are my treasure.

how lucky am i, that you will always be my treasure?

swim with me

Nisakya Perera

It is a bleak, brutal winter day. Clouds are blanketing the entire city, and rain is knocking on the fibreglass window next to my desk. I stare at the black screen before me. Eye bags hang on my face like dark oysters, dragging my eyes down. My fingers are typing numbers on my keyboard, endlessly in sync with the tick of the clock on the wall. They create a pattern of beats, the only sounds I can hear. I am slowly giving up and drifting into an uneasy slumber.

Pearly-looking rain droplets are hitting the glass heavier and more intensely than ever, as if they are trying to force their way into my dingy square-walled office. I try my hardest to not look out the window, but as the rain continues, I turn my head to face it. Below the high-rise building I am in, I can see tiny people running. They are going about their busy days, trying to earn that gold. I stare up at the clouds, my fingers still operating on their own. The window is now a mirror – a reflection of my current state as I look up at the bitter sky.

I see a puff of smoke emerge from the gloomy clouds. It gradually makes its way towards the window, growing while the rain tries to crack the glass. The smoke turns blue, like a bright sapphire, and lights up the sky. I cannot believe what I am seeing. The smoke transforms into a giant fish, its scales glittering in cobalt and indigo colours. I can feel raindrops hitting my face, the window now a portal to a dreamy adventure. The giant glowing fish – Glowy, I realise, somehow knowing its name instinctively – has come to greet me, and we face each other. My reflection appears small within the inkycoloured pupils of the wild creature – I could almost lose myself in them.

I step out of the window and reach out my hand, surrendering myself to Glowy. Its sparkly gem-like fins feel warm against my palm. I stare at it in awe. Within seconds, I have left my duties behind and find myself swimming with Glowy among the clouds. I feel wild and free. The air around me feels fresh. It reminds me of the days I used to bathe in the deep untamed waves of the beach, the roaring of the water joining the laughter of the people there.

Clusters of colourful corals bloom out of the cloud beds. They are crunchy and sparkly, like sugar-coated biscuits. I can almost taste them, as if they were on the tip of my tongue.

I remember the joy of rainy afternoons with tea, biscuits and a blanket covering me. The rain is transforming into tiny golden bubbles, reminding me of lit-up buildings in the city, the ones I would pass by during walks in the twilight with my favorite people.

More fish pop out of the clouds to join us. As they swim above me, I notice some of the fish have tangerine-coloured scales. They resemble the warmth of the sunset on an evening by the mountains, where a young couple would sit in my grey car and watch the sun crawl back into its nest.

Bright turquoise and purple fish start to swim alongside me like familiar companions. They guide me through the clouds, and we tackle the current in the air together. Glowy and I swim, and strokes of cobalt blue splash the air. A small black fish comes to swim with me.

It is so tiny and cheeky – it reminds me of a puppy I brought home a long time ago. Glowy chases and plays with the black fish, but never catches it.

The once-sombre sky outside my office has transformed into a painted canvas. The beat of my typing and the ticking of the clock have transformed into the sound of familiar school bells, echoing through the clouds. Everything around me is full of joy and liveliness.

Glowy and I swim into a current of gas particles that wrap around me, embracing me in a tight hug. I can smell the fresh varnish of the wooden floor of my parents’ house, and a trace of spice and turmeric powder fills the air.

I realise I am entering a gallery of treasured memories that have been kept inside of me.

I look up at Glowy holding my hand. I had painted it years ago. I remember being so content when I had finished the painting,

knowing a fish like that could never exist anywhere in this world. Now, here it is, come to life to remind me of what real treasure looks like.

The many fish swim back into the clouds, one by one, and I feel as if I will not see them again. The ticks of the clock in my office become present. Peppery clouds begin to smudge the blue, and everything pleasant evaporates from view. Glowy lets go and swims away too, and I cannot even say goodbye. I am staring at my screen inside the office, the glow around me gone. My fingers finally stop typing.

It is time to finish work, so I begin to pack my things. My eyes linger on the window, hoping to catch the glimmer of a fish. I get inside my rusty grey car, hair and face wet from the rain. I sit and wonder, What happened to my painting of the giant glowing fish?

take a moment, for the memories

Jarryd Worland

Life is never more exhilarating than when jumping into the role of being an adult. The freedom is ecstasy, the choices countless. The world feels so open it can induce panic and anxiety. Does life truly begin when you can pencil in your own appointments in your own calendar? Or does life truly start when the first pay cheque comes in?

University is a launching pad for life, from the friends you make, to the opportunities you encounter. The professors with enlightening lessons, to the assignments that take pride of place in your portfolio. The celebration of that first HD, to the fear of failing a class.

Our priorities are diverse, and headspaces and mindsets change. Allow me, though, to pass on this hint of advice to you, my dear student reader, new to this life.

The three, four, five years seem so fast when compared to the seven-plus-six years of primary and high school past. A word of warning, though, in case your grades make you fear: there’s more to tertiary education than the degree you walk out with at the end.

Don’t be pushed by the world that tells you time is short! Passing quickly through academic life can breed a tendency to blast your way through without sampling what is on offer around you. Look out for the clubs that you have yet to join, the leadership roles you could apply for, and the internship opportunities that appear when you least expect them.

There’s so much that populates your life beyond writing reports and essays, and staying up until 11:59pm for those last-minute changes to your project. Go beyond even the usual O-Week spectacle! Your essence of life comes from the people you meet and the cheeky nights out on the town. Make the most of the free food, activities, and entertainment throughout the year, and consider, perhaps, that poem you could submit to swine’s latest issue…(Wait, what?)

Don’t be afraid to sample uni life and bask in the countless memories you develop. Stop the moment and savour it; celebrate your time now I ask you, dear reader, starting on your journey, to please treasure the memories you are creating today, for these moments will never pause to again come your way.

an interview with the swine team

Zoe Sorenson

Each issue, we like to take some time to chat with current office-bearers of the Swinburne Student Union (SSU) so you can get to know them and better understand the roles they play in representing you. As this is the last issue of 2022, and for each of us on the swine team, we thought we’d take the opportunity to talk about our year with this magazine and the experiences that we really treasure. So, for the final time, Print Editor Zoe Sorenson (she/her) spoke to Designer Adele Easton (she/her) and News Editor Jessica Norris (she/her).

ZS: Hi everyone! Talking about swine with you both is one of my favourite pastimes, so I’m excited to be chatting with you today! (Even if it is kind of bittersweet.) Since our journey is coming to an end, I thought we could start by looking back to the beginning – how did you initially get involved with swine?

AE: My first taste of designing the magazine was through the lovely Zoe Abletez, the previous designer. We’ve been good friends since the beginning of university, and last year, she asked if I’d be keen to help at swine. Of course, I said yes! It was super easy to work together (specifically on issues 01 and 04) since we both like similar aesthetics and have a mutual admiration for each other’s designs. I found the whole process of putting a magazine together super insightful and fun, and it left me wanting more.

ZS: My story is pretty similar to Adele’s! I got into swine through the previous editor, Jessica Murdoch. I’d seen the magazine back in my very first week at uni and thought it was so cool, but I’d assumed it was very official and exclusive, so it didn’t even occur to me that I could get involved. Fast forward to a year and

a half later, I met Jess in an editing class where we really hit it off. When I found out more about swine, I very subtly asked if there were any sub-editing opportunities, and the next thing I knew, I was added to the swine group chat! I kind of did the reverse of what most people do, editing first and then having a go sending in some writing.

JN: My story is a little different – I got involved with swine without having any prior connections. I had seen the magazine around and was keen to get more involved at uni and make some friends. So, one night, out of the blue, I decided to slide into swine’s DMs and see if I could get involved. The very same week, I started writing my first article for the website, and not long after that I was a subeditor. I haven’t looked back since!

ZS: This issue is all about treasure. Apart from literally everything, is there a particular moment from this year that you really cherish?

JN: For me, it has to be the first time I published a contributor’s piece of work on the website as the News Editor. The contributor and I had been working on the piece for almost a month, and I was just so proud of how it turned out. The whole experience reminded me of the first time I had work published, and I guess I felt like I was giving back. I still treasure that feeling.

ZS: I’m going to cheat a little and say realising that editing is my thing, because it means so much to me that I’ve discovered my passion. It’s really a whole bunch of moments added together: everything clicking into place with the first theme, and then the second, then the third and fourth; working with you and our

Zoe Print Editor

Adele Designer Jessica News Editor

incredible extended team and contributors; reading each new submission and watching them grow, first through editing and then with Adele’s beautiful designs; getting thanked by a contributor for really seeing them through their writing; holding a copy of swine in my hands, knowing I helped bring it to life.

AE: Yes, Zoe, there are so many moments to cherish from swine, it’s so hard to choose! It was super cool to get to contribute my very first piece to issue 02! But a main highlight for me was holding issue 01 in my hands for the first time and thinking, ‘My designs are real and tangible.’ I thought the novelty of it would wear off by the next issue, but I felt just as excited and delighted as the first time. I don’t think this feeling ever wears off. Especially when I receive the most heartwarming messages from contributors, and I know that I was able to help them bring their pieces to life.

ZS: Now that you’re finishing up with swine, what are your plans for what comes after?

AE: Who knows? A year ago, I wouldn’t have imagined myself at all where I am today. What

I can say for sure is that I’m not done being creative! I’m going to miss swine, but I also can’t wait to see what the future issues will look like. Right now, I’m just feeling warm and so grateful to have been a part of something so beautiful.

JN: I have managed to snag a pretty great grad job in media and comms, so I’ll be diving into that after graduation. Having said that, I am not ready to say goodbye – I’m too keen to see swine’s next chapter unfold for goodbyes. I see myself staying on as a sub-editor and hopefully contributing as well. If I’m being honest, swine will probably have to kick me out before I leave.

ZS: Yes! I’m super keen to see how swine evolves beyond us! As for me, I’m still figuring out where I’m going from here. Honestly, I’m just excited to try my hand at anything and everything that comes my way. I’ll definitely miss swine, but I can’t wait to explore this next chapter of my life and see where editing takes me.

*The Partner Program offer is available to eligible customers who are currently a member of the Swinburne Student Union, an EnergyAustralia Partner Program participant. Not available in all areas or for all tariff types. Guaranteed discount is off our market energy charges and applies for the 12-month benefit period. Your energy charges and other fees will be variable, but we’ll let you know before a rate change occurs. We may change or end this offer at any time. A Basic Plan Information Document/Energy Fact Sheet with the key details of this plan is available on request. ^Opt in and we will offset the carbon emissions from your electricity and gas usage from the 6-month anniversary of the date your EnergyAustralia account is established. For more info and full terms visit energyaustralia.com.au/ carbon-neutral.

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