swine 2023 Digital edition 3: SHELL

Sever swine presents submissions for

End it all to start again. Snip, snip, snip, till locks fall and tears crawl. Loosen the threads and embrace the vast space; possibilities of nothing and everything. A part from the whole. Bisect the cord, grow the distance, nurture mitosis. An essential splitting… a new beginning?

Cut into the final theme of swine issue 4: SEVER

We cannot wait to hear your interpretations of the theme. Be as experimental or literal as you like, the theme is there to guide not hinder. Follow whatever inspiration strikes, be it a colour or feeling or abstract reference.

Sever presents for digital issue 4:

Submissions are open to ALL forms of media and we especially encourage visual artists and nonfiction writers to submit. There is a place at swine for all types of content.

Send your submissions, pitches, or ideas to print@ssu.org.au.

Submissions close midnight September 10 2023.

Contributors page

The team

Fantine Banulski

Editor

Print@ssu.org.au

Sophie Robertson Designer

Designer@ssu.org.au

With thanks to our extended team

Dilini Fredrick, Lucy Pembroke, Tamar Peterson, Zara Kearnan, Matt Richardson, Nadia Rocha

Advertise in swine

Communications & partnerships officer

Eric Lee

Media@ssu.org.au

Media Credit

Alexander Andrews

Andrew Bowyer

Annie Spratt

Anthony Ievlev

Ashton Mullins

Charlie Harutaka

Dagmara Dombrovska

Eugene Chystiakov

Gaelle Marcel

Graphic Node

Linda Lee

Roberto Nickson

Rod Long

Yoshua Giri

Stay tuned

Instagram @swinemag

Facebook @swinemag

Website swinemagazine.org

How to Contribute

If you’d like to contribute to future issues or have your work published on our website, check out swinemagazine.org/contribute or reach out to print@ssu.org.au

The Team

Fantine Banulski — Editor

Fantine (she/her) is a current writing student, bookseller and reviewer. Her work has been featured in Baby Teeth Journal as well as Swinburne University’s swine magazine, of which she is the current editor. She mostly finds herself enjoying stories of people turning into animals or eating one another (or both). When not reading, watching, or writing (or working or studying), she can be found hanging out with her cat Zuko or having a drink with friends.

Sophie Robertson — Designer

Sophie (she/her) is a designer by day and still a designer by night. She also happens to be the current designer of swine magazine. She is currently undertaking a Bachelor of Communication Design (Honours). You’ll find her trying to justify buying a too-expensivebut-oh-so-pretty design book, or getting an equally expensive mocha and an almond croissant. Sophie gravitates towards storytelling that emotionally strikes her in the heart.

Acknowledgement of country

The swine team would like to acknowledge the Wurundjeri People of the Kulin Nation, the traditional owners of the land on which the SSU offices are located and our staff live and work. We extend this respect to Elders past, present and future, and to all Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander Swinburne students, faculty and alumni.

As creators, writers, and artists of all types, we feel it is vital to acknowledge the deep connection to land, sea and community held by the Traditional Custodians.

As we may draw inspiration from and explore our connection to so-called Australia, we recognise First Nations peoples as the original storytellers, whose knowledge and wisdom has been, and continues to be, passed through generations since time immemorial. We also recognise the continued attempted destruction of this cultural practice through British colonisation.

Sovereignty was never ceded, always was and always will be Aboriginal land. …

If you’re looking for further ways to take action, check out indigenousx.com.au for articles and resources, and consider paying the rent at paytherent.net.au.

Swinburne's Moondani Tommbadool Centre

Indigenous Student Resources

Indigenous Student Advisers

Indigenous Student Advisers are available to meet at Hawthorn, Wantirna or Croydon campus by appointment during office hours on Monday to Friday. You can also email and schedule a call-back at a time that suits you. To contact the Indigenous Student Adviser, email indigenousstudents@swinburne. edu.au or leave a voicemail on +61 3 9214 8481.

Academic skills support

The Indigenous Student Services team provides academic skills support for Indigenous students enrolled in higher education and vocational education.

Indigenous Academic Success Program

All Indigenous students enrolled at Swinburne (including Swinburne Online) are encouraged to apply for the Indigenous Academic Success Program. Eligible students receive two hours of tuition per unit of study per week from qualified tutors to assist with their studies. Additional tuition for exam preparation is also provided. The availability of tuition is based on funding and need. The program is provided free to eligible students.

There are also a range of scholarships available as well as an Indigenous Student Lounge at the Hawthorn campus which provides a quiet and culturally safe environment. To find out how to apply for scholarships or gain access to the Indigenous student lounge, visit the ‘Indigenous Student Services’ page on the Swinburne website or email indigenousstudents@swinburne.edu.au or leave a voicemail on +61 3 9214 8481. Swinburne's new social enterprise cafe; Co-Ground.

All information taken directly from https://www.swinburne.edu. au/life-at-swinburne/student-support-services/indigenous-studentservices/ and https://www.swinburne.edu.au/news/2022/08/new-oncampus-cafe-to-support-indigenous-training-and-employment/

Dear reader,

Another semester down, another issue of swine for you.

When deciding on a theme, I self-indulge. What has been bothering me lately? What are my friends talking about? What do I want to know more about? It will come as no surprise that after the wonderful heartfelt pieces in Tender, as the fraught Melbourne winter closed in on me and assignments piled up, Shell felt particularly fitting.

The ship of Theseus theory is an ancient, philosophical paradox concerning identity. Originally mentioned by Plutarch and modified by Thomas Hobbes (according to Encyclopedia Britannica) it uses the ship of Theseus to question identity: if all the parts of a ship are replaced is it still the same ship? In a foundational Arts class, we discussed cyborgs—the advancement of human abilities through integration with technology. Specifically, at what point does human become android. When the heart is replaced? The body? The brain? What is the line between outer and inner and can such a line even be drawn.

I was curious to see what shell meant to you; seashell, shell of a person, eggshell skull. In this issue, childhood games of Operation become reality, the seafloor gossips as blood floats through water, a woman searches for her grandmother in a hospital room, a heart emerges from a misty windscreen. The contributions to this issue are varied, from fantasy to body horror, a thread of questioning, and dare I say, melancholy running through each. Identity reveals itself to be deeply interwoven with memory and I wonder if one can ever truly begin anew, when we hold within us the sum total of our experiences.

Thanks as always to our supporters—special shout out to those who made it to our print edition launch! Thanks to K8TR for DJing, Brunswick Artist’s Bar for hosting us, and all attendees for a special night <3

SWINE MAGAZINE

Shrivelled Carcass

Sophie Robertson

How long has it been since you took it off?

It’s growing weary on you.

Sorry love, but it’s got to happen. You can’t wear that thing forever. Don’t give me that face.

Yes, we did talk about this last time. No, I’m not making this up.

You’ll just have to—oh god wait hang on, no no no you’re fine I’m just calling someone to help you so just stay a bit longer it’s going to be oka—

Millions of channels and valleys—lines of a spiderweb glisten as water gushes through.

Run run river, scramble and scurry.

Twist, turn and try to grab, go and gouge.

Carve, corner and cry. Dapple, drip and drop until dry.

Weary eyes, look up to the everlasting sky.

See, through glossy pools of reflection, a loving light longing for you.

These arms will lift, soft hands wrapping below the small of your back, body heavy and full.

Peel away the layers like an old withered onion.

Nothing but a shrivelled carcass.

Watch as your previous skin lies there.

As if dried by a thousand suns.

Cracked like it’s never felt water.

Your hollow shell.

Look into that bright light —

You’ll never feel empty again.

a different time

Zara Kernan

She makes garlands out of shells like flowers and strings them up around her home, her throat, her wrists, her heart. She transforms her driftwood cottage with wildflowers from her garden and ocean finds, coral sculptures and shards of sea glass. She builds each room with her bare hands and a touch of something like magic. There’s no one around, yet she’s never alone. The windchimes speak to her in her sleep and the conch shell on her nightstand relays messages from the sea. She spends her days surrounding herself with her lifelong love affair; nature.

Like clockwork, she is drawn to the shore each sunset. Squinting at the horizon, she can’t quite remember how long ago it was that she washed ashore. A vague memory floats to her, the feeling of a word. It sits on the tip of her tongue and sours. A rounded ‘w’ on the edge of her lips, pushing a shaking breath outwards into an ‘i’. Finally, she bites down on the ‘tch’ sound with gritted teeth. Witch, she whispers. There’s something foreign to it. The syllables taste strange in her mouth, so she rejects the label. Casts it away with the wind.

She steps forward and wades into the ocean fully clothed, her skirt rippling with the waves. Breathe in. Head under water. Always a shock to the system. Reborn. Eyes wide open in the deep blue. Shards of sunlight fight their way through and dance along the sandy floor. Resisting the currents to stay in this moment just a little longer.

She rises to the surface and gulps air into her fiery lungs. Breathe in. In her mind’s eye, she sees a different time. A time of hurt. The first time she threw herself against the ocean and was caught by its thrashing arms. Breathe out. The ocean’s always there to keep her afloat. Yes. Yes, that rings a bell. Like an almost healed bruise, serving as a reminder of pain past. She ducks under a wave again.

Now is a different time. A time of bare feet crunching in the sand, of dancing in the mud to herald rain and footsteps loud enough to wash away their lingering calls. Wild.

Dangerous. Witch

Now, she only feels powerful.

A Steady Hand

Jemma Heitlinger

Losing some random organ to an unruly cousin who had been unable to remember where they placed it, was torturous. An aunt or uncle would have to reluctantly find a suitable replacement, a button or sliver of paper, the process repeating with each loss. The younger kids grew up believing we could replace ourselves just as easily.

Once my infatuation with the process had set in, I researched how brains were harvested for science. To the eye of a professional, the article was a meticulous and simple rendition of the experimental process. In my mind, I could only picture my childhood spent crouched with my cousins over that funny board game.

I remembered the small metal pincers, encased in plastic, reaching beneath the exterior, into the crevices of the board to collect the fake and silly-named organs. The big red nose seemed juvenile at the time. Now that I think back to it, it wasn’t that I wanted to help people. It was something to do with feeling useful, a sense of achievement when as a child I could do nothing, contribute nothing.

Throughout my reading of this article, I easily imagined my body lying flat on a steel table, a doctor with metal prongs picking at my innards. It was harder to assemble an image of my own brain being removed though, and when I tried, it gave me a headache.

Perhaps an invisible doctor was trying to pluck my brain from within my head. Or maybe I was scared that in death I would still be useless.

After finishing my research, not entirely satisfied, what occurred to me was not a grotesque infatuation with the living or some sudden understanding of life’s brevity and its need to be cherished, but a horrible sense of despair. I knew then that death would leave me discontent.

One of the last paragraphs in the article said this: “The whole process takes less than an hour.”

I remember grimacing at that particular line. An hour? I thought. Nothing takes an hour these days. How could a procedure to remove the brain—the most complicated organ in the human body—happen in such a short amount of time?

I thought too much, too often, back then. My patience thinned quickly. When I died, it was only slightly easier to fathom.

Somewhere in the font Courier M, two words had been printed among the informative but ultimately unimportant writing. ORGAN DONOR in small letters, lost within files of funeral directions and formal diagnoses of death. My passing away was laid out between words I never understood in life; what remained of my existence resided in the decaying tissue and flesh of my body.

Waiting for me in the surgery, was an unsympathetic metal table. There was static behind my eyes, and touch was fuzzy. Real-but-not-real sensations skittering over my balmy skin. It was cold the day I died, and funnily enough, my nose was reddish.

Winter rain pounded down into the mulch. My body was numb, and my death occurred quickly. It could have happened to anyone. It was so unremarkable. I strangely felt my cousins laughing at me like years ago when the buzzer would flash red.

The procedure started with the surgeon cutting into the skin of my head. The scalpel’s metal tip pierced behind the curve of my ear. My scalp was pulled back. It sounded wet and flimsy and came away with hardly any resistance. Underneath, my luminous skull was revealed.

Denied the horror of pain, there was something interesting about feeling my own skin peel back without the accompanying agony. The drag of skin from the structure of bone beneath sounded like plastic-wrap being tugged away from a cut of meat.

The surgeon set down her scalpel, and a bone saw was picked up, inspected, and placed against my skull. It was drawn back and forth, back and forth, until a crevice had formed. The surgeon then moved onto the area beside the cut, continuing a semi-straight line around my cranium.

Small flakes of bone dust filtered in the air. The harsh lighting of the surgery illuminating the fine flecks as they floated down, landing on my covered body and atop the surgeon’s hands.

When the full circle was complete, I watched the surgeon retrieve the chisel. I felt the vibrations as she hammered in between the shallow lines, and felt the strong fingers twist and pull as she pried off my skull-cap.

If I was alive, I may have helped to remove it. Even in death, I felt eager to give parts of myself away. I wanted to know if my brain was the missing piece that science needed. I could imagine myself living, reborn within the head of someone else. Living within a new conscious—proof I had provided a cure.

The hunk of bone was set aside, and cranial residue slid down my face in a torrent.

Over my forehead, through the corner of my eye and beside my nose until it reached the upper curve of my lip.

The surgeon rushed over to a table behind me and collected a cloth. ‘It’s okay. You’re okay,’ she told my body. ‘There’s no need to cry.’ She laughed.

I wanted to laugh too. Her touch was careful and efficient, and her observant eyes flickered to my exposed brain thoughtfully. It felt uncomfortable to be watched like this. My glassy eyes couldn’t look away, and I couldn’t laugh along. It was easier to cry.

Long and delicate slices released my spinal cord from the cerebrum. She inserted her hands between the walls of my cranium and lifted from its place the fatty meat within. The procedure was finished in less than an hour—just as the article had promised.

It was secured in a tub of ice with a stark yellow biohazard sign. The surgeon proceeded to put all the pieces of my head back together. Stacking each component until my skull and scalp were fixed together. Death was very quiet. It was hollow, like a shell. My body was an empty, vacant mass that rotted against my will. If my body still contained the ability to respire, it would have released a sigh. Twenty-four years for a brain to mature, and only an hour to take it all away.

Just when you thought it was over

Lucy Joy Pembroke

when I was little I was told that if you found a seashell if you cradled it and listened closely the ocean would call clear and true

we’re always told when we’re little that what we desire may be out of reach but if we try hard enough what we want will answer back

so I tried I waited I prayed for the ocean to call back for what I longed for to answer me to run faster climb higher be better

JUST WHEN YOU THOUGHT IT WAS OVER — LUCY JOY PEMBROKE

years on now

I’m left hollowed by unfulfilled wantings and I’ve forgotten to listen it’s easier this way but for despite that one Sunday night tempted by wondering in between asleep and awake

I find an old box of keepsakes postcards, ticket receipts, love letters, broken promises and I clasp an old seashell

tenderly, I listen the tiniest longing to hear a reply I wait silence i wait though faint at first it grows it surges it calls the ocean for the first time the ocean calls it answers me

Seafloor Gossip & Seafoam Spirit

Seafloor Gossip

Have you heard of the mer-fairies? Born in the palms of pink sea scallops, their tiny, blushed limbs fold like a tulip at night.

Do you see their thick bands of seaweed hair, pink and glistening like tinsel? Their fairy floss scales and honey-shine skin, thick, repellent to water.

The sea scallop girls, they rake the sea floor for speckled coral, swoop up the sand into woven kelp baskets, slimy to the touch. They take them home as toppings for seafoam frumenty.

And have you heard of the turban snail girls, whose mother must befriend or else evict a slug to nest her egg deep within the conch’s turns?

These mer-girls, their skin is deep green, and they spend their days among the kelp. They slash with sharpened pebbles, and swim home with baskets full—

Did you hear that loud thumping last night? Yes, I smelt it too. More fish deaths.

Where do they all end up? It’s so sad…

It doesn’t stop that shark-eye girl

The one with the glint in her eye, who doesn’t say much. She swims out for days to the shallows, and comes home with all kinds of strange things.

Odd things, ugly things, things that pain you to the touch. Foreign things, not made by the ocean.

Lillet Dorothy

Oh! And don’t forget the ones born from steamer clams, their pale hair like doughy ganglions. How they love the mood of the hot spring on boil, the texture in the water as the food warms.

Then there’s the oyster family, yes they’re so beautiful, with each opening of She the sovereign line lengthens. Delicate iridescence scraped into armour, a ritual shedding done in secrecy. But I don’t know about that next one in line, softness for all to see. I don’t know if she has what it takes.

You know what Mother Sea Scallop told me?

She’s been seeing the little oyster girl go off on the shark-eye girl’s adventures. If you ask me, it’s not a very good idea.

Oh, I do wonder at the daughters they’d make, though!

Now that I come to think of it…

I haven’t seen the little oyster girl in a while. You know, it’s awful. Her mama is worried pale. And she’d make such a wonderful leader.

Have you seen the latest trend amongst those spider-conch girls?

They’ve been wearing angular garbs...

I don’t know about it myself, but I feel it suits them quite nicely. I’ve always been jealous of their fruit picking. I tried it once, but my scales aren’t tough like theirs.

Have you heard about our Oyster Princess? She was eaten by… something. We don’t know what. She was found where it’s shallower, by the shark-eye child where she’s always finding those strange things.

She was battered and bruised, all bones, no skin and eyeless. Who would do something like that?

Oh my heart has been ripped in two, all of ours have.

It is so terrible to lose one of our own. Now’s the time to just hold each other close.

It’s only a matter of time, ‘til our ocean skies fill with nets, and the rumble churning never ends. We can smell their hunger.

Seafoam Spirit

Can you feel the granular broken welk beneath your nail beds? The crunching beneath your sore feet, that crippled angst. Do you smell that salt air?

Do you hear the ocean waves, like a fresh Pepsi-Cola fizzling? Can you taste the crisp bite of sand grain in your mouth, the scent of your two-dollar-sixty apple shampooed hair.

It’s not all that hard, after all. It is, it really is. But it isn’t. Two things can be true. Do you know what I mean?

Do you see the flowers that grow near the seashore? The ones planted on the grave. We say that’s Nana’s final resting place, among the flower beds. Flowers and onions and weeds, oh my!

Mary, Mary, quite contrary, How does her garden grow? With silver bells, and cockle shells And pretty maids all in a row.

Home, nails bulged with soil you strip the onions till nude and clear-white and both whiskered ends swiped off. Shhhh-ud, shhhh-ud. shhhh-ud, the onion grows finer.

We’re whole and then we bump and we grind and we churn and we break and we’re dust and we’re smooth and smooth and smooth and smooth and then we’re small, so small we’re almost nothing and we’re back as part of a whole again.

By the Sea Shore

Miki Mackenzie

Q&A with the Artist: Miki Mackenzie

Amelia Godbold

Miki Mackenzie is a current psychology honours student and artist. They specialise in bright, colourful, multilayered abstract pieces. Their art involves a variety of different mediums and materials, with a grounding in embroidery.

The cover piece ‘By the Sea Shore’ is a multi-medium piece inspired by a recent trip to Fiji, where Miki learnt to scuba dive. Each shell is its own underwater biome, encapsulating a multicoloured reef through thread, beading, glue, sequin and other found and repurposed materials.Each element builds upon the individual parts around it, engaging in a tactile conversation which transforms the singular components into a whole.

Miki has taken the time to answer some questions exploring their art, inspirations, creative process, and hopes for the future.

How does it feel to be chosen to be on the cover of swine?

It is very exciting! It feels like the stars aligned really nicely. I was already working on my shells when I found out the theme. I finished up the piece just in time to submit them to swine. Being asked to be on the cover of the digital issue was something I never expected and is a huge honour.

Were you particularly crafty as a kid?

I was definitely a very crafty/arty child. I remember asking for a lot of art supplies for Christmas and my birthday and such. My mum is also very crafty, and she was always sewing or knitting something. She definitely encouraged any sort of artistic expression and we had so many craft and art supplies to explore at home. I used to be very into making beaded jewellery as a kid, and even had a rather unsuccessful stall at a school fair to try to sell said jewellery. It feels very full circle that I now incorporate beading rather heavily into my embroidery work.

Was embroidery an instant love for you?

I want to say that it’s something that I found a love for very quickly. I can’t even really remember what prompted me to ask my mum to teach me in the beginning. There have been periods of time where I’ve sort of put it to the side for months or I think even at one time a year or so, but it’s something that I do keep going back to consistently.

What were your early pieces like compared to your style now?

There is quite a stark contrast between my work when I first started and my work now. When I first started embroidery, my style was a lot more figurative and black line work than it is today.

As for my current art style, it’s something I’m really enjoying at the moment. All of my art is very bright, colourful, and abstract. When I look back and see how my style has changed over the years, it makes me excited to see where it will go.

Apart from embroidery, what have been your other creative joys?

If you name a medium, it’s likely I’ve tried it out at some point or another. I have gotten super into lino printing patches and making polymer clay jewellery in previous years. Painting is definitely another big love for me, acrylics, watercolour, gouache, all of which I have incorporated into my embroidery practice at one point or another. I’m constantly creating, you will always find me with at least five unfinished projects.

Where is your favourite place to embroider?

I’d have to say my loungeroom. I’ll generally be watching a trashy TV show or movie while creating. I make a nest with all the supplies I feel I’ll need for the project at hand, so I don’t have to disturb my cat, Cookie Cat, who can almost always be found sleeping on my lap (or he’s trying to eat my embroidery thread). I do also love to get outdoors and sit in the sunshine and embroider, although at the moment it’s a bit too cold for that.

How do you feel your piece reflects this issue theme of ‘Shell’ ?

I’d say it’s a rather literal reflection of the theme of ‘Shell.’ There are actually six individual shells in the ‘By the Sea Shore’ piece. I was working on the first three when I saw a post asking for submissions for issue 3 of Swine, and I decided to finish off and submit those first three. It kind of felt like it was meant to be.

How has art fitted into your current studies, is it something you wish to pursue full time?

It would be a dream to be able to do art full time. I’m currently studying with the hopes of being a clinical psychologist. Being able to do that part time and art is something I’m hoping to do. I would also love to train in art therapy and to be able to incorporate that into my psychology practice in the future.

How long did it take you to create ‘By the Sea Shore’ ?

People ask me this so often, I really need to sit down and time myself making a piece from start to finish one day. I’d say it took me maybe a week to make this piece, I did definitely focus on it in order to get it completed by the submission date. I often have many pieces on the go at once, and I just swap between them as I please. In terms of pure ‘time worked on project’ I want to say maybe 10 hours? But in all honesty, that’s a guess.

Do you have any advice/anything you wish to say to fellow art makers, crafty people who are trying to start a business, or increase the visiblity of their work?

My advice for people when it comes to art is: Art doesn’t have to be good to be worth making. For me, the joy is really in the process of creating, not just the end product. If you enjoy making things, do it. You don’t have to post it online or try to sell it, it can just be for you. As for getting your work more visible, obviously posting it online is pretty required there, but also, you have to be in it to win it. Submit your art to your student magazine, ask your local café if they’d be interested in hanging it up, or get into selling your things at markets. The worse they can do is say no.

Discover more of Miki’s work on Instagram: @miki.mac.stitches

Miki is also open for commissions through their website: https://mikimacstitches.square.site/

Swine readers can get 10% off of purchases from Miki’s online stop, using the code SWINE10

Tales from a (hospital) bed

Jessica Murdoch

Tori watched as her mother hustled around the room, picking up loose objects, rearranging the mess. The room was so bare, that she just moved in circles, shuffling everything around before returning it to its original position a few minutes later. Tori tapped her toes absent-mindedly against the bag she’d thrown everything haphazardly into as she’d rushed out of the lecture theatre that morning. The stray cord from her phone charger was sticking out of one of the half-unzipped pockets. Her mother’s text had been blunt and to the point.

‘Mum?’ Tori croaked, a whisper that barely made a sound over the beeping and low hum of the machines. She cleared her throat and said it again.

Lily startled at the sound of her daughter’s voice and stopped her circle of the room. When Tori didn’t say anything more, her mother moved towards her and sat down on the chair beside her. She reached a careful hand out and placed it over Tori’s, resting them gently on her knee.

Tori stared at her grandmother from across the room. Her breathing had finally settled. If you ignored all the tubes and wires, she really did look like she was sleeping. The narrow hospital bed looked thin and uncomfortable. Tori wanted to take her home, back to the spacious double bed—piled high with soft cushions, books and magazines— where there was always space for Tori to climb in on those early morning visits. Even years later, when Tori was getting a little too old for fairy tales, she would still climb in and talk. Her gran always made room for her to snuggle down next to her.

Tell me a story…

Gran always had a full bank to draw from—all the classics, plus a few that felt like classics but no one else had ever heard before. Stories of brave little fairies who saved the day or went on adventures or sometimes just played with their friends and never felt the need to do anything more. Stories where characters relied on their own smarts or bravery or quick thinking and others where magic could always be called in to save the day.

Gran would jump from character to character, switching her voice or the way she held her face. Tori loved the villains best. The thrill that tickled up her arms and spine as Gran’s sweet voice switched to the cold, evil queen or the brash, vulgar troll.

Tori took a deep breath.

Her grandmother lay there, a shell of her former self.

A cliché that made Tori itch.

Tori tried to take comfort from her mother’s touch. She knew sitting still was not easy for her. She could feel the effort Lily was exerting to hold space for her. Tori felt a twinge of guilt. How were you supposed to decide who needed support the most? How do you decide when you need help and when it’s okay to collapse and let someone else help you? Tori shook her head. She was just a kid (sort of). Why did this have to happen at all? It felt easier to be angry at her gran. Not reasonable, or at all logical. But easier.

Tori’s mum seemed to feel the shift in her body. She glanced discreetly at her watch.

‘I have to go back to work.’

Tori’s eyes widened. ‘What? Right now?’

Lily’s face grew taut. She pressed her hands together. ‘I know. But there’s nothing else we can do right now anyway…’ Her voice trailed away, and she looked suddenly very young. ‘I’ll check back in tonight.’

Before Tori could answer, her mother briefly bumped her cheek against Tori’s and disappeared out into the echoing corridor.

Tori swallowed. She scooted the chair closer towards the bed. ‘Gran?’ Tori reached out and gently hovered her fingers over the wrinkled hand resting on top of the sheet. ‘Gran?’ Her voice came out a little more firmly. ‘Can you hear me, Gran?’ She placed her smooth, warm hand over her grandmother’s cold, stiff fingers. She took a steadying breath as she strengthened her own resolve.

As Tori felt the heat spread from her to her grandmother, there was a strong scent of lavender, and a peaceful expression rippled across Gran’s face. Tori felt her own breath stabilising, matching the steady rhythm of the machine. The outside hustling noise of the hospital had faded. It was just the two of them alone together. Gran’s breath also seemed more peaceful somehow. Tori felt the seed of hope blooming somewhere deep in her chest. Her gran was still in there somewhere. She had to be.

The heart you traced

Anthony Vezzu

The heart you traced, with fingertips, Into the windscreen’s mist, Arises on the foggy days –A lover dearly missed.

To think those endless nights of ours Could have ever ended, Does pluck the stars from out my eyes –Heaven’s just pretended.

I look upon, with weary gaze, Your heart encased in glass. I house it in my chest for you, I feel it freeze me fast.

The iron of my blood’s turned blue, Lungs collapsing, breathless; This fragile, frigid heart you left Atrophies, though deathless.

Erase the image? Idol mere ‘Tis not, but flesh of soul; The rhythm of my heartbeat now’s A requiem untold.

Each beat’s a vestige prayer to you, Tolling out forever. My inner hymn, you recomposed, Some things can’t be severed.

The heart you traced, with fingertips, Into the windscreen’s mist, It haunts me still, on foggy days, A tattoo of a tryst.

Lego People

Tina Tsironis

Content warning: this story contains depictions of physical abuse, family violence and dissociation.

Catia smiles, as bright and honest-to-goodness as the bubble-gum pink spire that she positions atop her fairy princess Lego tower. Well, part fairy princess tower, part demon dungeon.

Her brow furrows as she wonders what the poor prisoners trapped within this candy-coloured castle must be feeling. Do they feel like crying or screaming or throwing themselves against the deadlocked plastic doors? Did they do something really bad to deserve this? Catia puts a hand to her chest, feeling the heavy thump-thump. But something is missing…

‘Where is my sash? Where is Princess Sa-rah’s sa-ash?’ Catia sings out, her voice strangely on pitch for a seven-year-old. Her smooth timbre falters ever so slightly on the final note, disrupted by her father’s booming voice ricocheting across the room:

‘Did you lose the remote again, mate?’

Catia’s right hand tightens around her beloved Princess Sarah doll. The other hand curls into a fist, knuckles grazing the scratchy living room carpet under her legs.

All she needs right now is the golden sash. And then she can place it over Princess Sarah’s armour and crown her Head Princess Person of Princess People and Ruler of All the Land. And then Catia will have the power to free all the prisoners from that horrible dungeon.

Her gaze flits past Callum, who’s perched high above her on the armchair, facing the TV, where some animated sword fight plays out between two boys with inky black snake hair.

A small smile colours Catia’s face as she spies the toiletry bag of Legos abandoned near the fireplace. Princess Sarah still cradled in her left hand, Catia bum scoots over to the bag. She tips the contents out onto the carpet, feeling around the pile of discarded blocks that have failed to make the final cut for the tower’s exterior. The shapes are too small, too square. Not enough buttons.

At his sister’s obvious frustration, Callum lets out a huff of laughter.

‘Maybe it fell down your bum crack,’ he squeaks.

Catia’s green eyes darken. ‘I bet you stoled it again,’ she mumbles, ‘just like you stole my sash.’

Her brother finally turns away from the TV. Catia shrinks under his gaze, wracking her brain, combing her memory for an impressive retort. She sure needs one if she has any hope of winning this round.

She doesn’t get very far before the sharp thwack of palm meeting skin fills the air, turning her thoughts to dust.

‘I was only joking,’ Callum cries, but the thwacking sound takes on more heft. Catia presses her eyes shut, hoping this will be fast.

Why does this always have to happen when she’s feeling relaxed and happy? Why is she stupid enough to think that she’s able to have fun at her house the way her school friends do at theirs?

How could you ever have any fun in this house, her mummy’s soft, stern voice lectures her, slicing through the other noise momentarily, when he’s here to ruin it every single time?

Catia knows she won’t be home until dinner, but she wishes her mummy would walk through the door anyway.

The howling continues, and Catia wills her eardrums to fold in on themselves so everything can be quiet again. She brings her knees up close to her chin. The swirly feeling in her head makes her want to look away, but some yucky part of her brain is forcing her to keep watching.

Her brother’s face is beet red and scrunched up tight. Like he’s doing an impression of the photo on the mantel. The funny one of him as a baby getting dunked in the church water. That photo is so funny. Callum thinks so too. Maybe she should show him later and they can laugh about it. But then she catches a glimpse of her dad’s scowling face, a flash of teeth-like metal spewing out from his hand, and her thoughts are wiped clean.

The soft fleshy part of Catia’s chin presses firmly against her knee. Her laboured breathing grows quiet. After what feels like a lifetime, the sights and sounds around her blur and fade.

Sweeping orchestral music fills the air, enveloping Catia in a warm godmotherly hug. The room is stretching out, growing longer. Her dad and brother have vanished. They’re no more.

The thump-thump in Catia’s chest grows louder. Then she sees them…not brother and father ‘them’, but Lego people ‘them’. They’re watching her intently with their stuck-on smiley faces.

Catia looks down at the sole Lego person still nestled in the palm of her hand—her Princess Sarah, and her mouth drops open. The Princess’s armour is floating in the air, bigger and brighter and realer. And before Catia can burst into tears or run and hide, the armour attaches itself, gently but with purpose, to her body.

Catia sits up straight and rolls her shoulders back. The armour somehow feels snug but comfy. If her mummy was home, she’d probably say that it’s perfectly Catia sized.

A glittering gold crown drops onto Catia’s head and the sash—finally! —winds itself around her torso. She takes a big deep breath, steeling herself for the words that are about to come, and exhales.

‘For my first order as Princess, I hereby declare the prisoners of Catia-land innocent, and decree that they shall be freed from the dungeons— immediately!’

The Lego people break into a feverish round of applause. And the wave of peace that washes over Queen Catia is so cosy, yet so magical, that she knows she’ll never forget it. Not in her entire lifetime.

fathomless

Charlene Behal

i always loved shells hearing the ocean as I held one close to my ear but when i grew up i learned it was just my imagination

the ocean has always felt safe to me because of its endless possibilities

i wanted to leave my own shell, my quietness never got me anywhere so like a weed on the ocean’s shore i washed away and disappeared into the ocean’s depth.

i stayed there for years in the darkness

the only happiness i felt was in my dreams

Lunitidal Interval

Fantine Banulski

I heard from a friend of a friend, at a friend of a friend’s party, that the weather is turning where you are—that they’re predicting a record-setting summer.

Carbon emissions, I can feel you scowl.

Winter is underway, here, with me, and my nesting has worsened. Skirts and dresses are closing in, casting shadows that swell to the metronomic drip in my bedroom wall. Looming dunes of lightcoloured natural fibres: lace, ribbons, and off-season discounts irresistible. I keep waking, at midnight or midday, to find decadent textures draped over my shivering body. This morning I discovered a pearlescent silk mini-skirt fashioned into a sort of toga and a small pile of sand at my feet. The errant grains itch, clinging to my sticky soles.

It’s getting dark at 4 pm. Hibernation is imminent.

On the rare occasions when I do leave the house, even in a tee shirt, it isn’t long before my face is burning and my armpits are dribbling. I’m hot-blooded. That’s what I used to tell you. When I broke the current between our staticky limbs or bowed beneath your gaze so as not to melt. It wasn’t a lie.

From the depths of the toilet bowl, my phone hums.

I’d fish it out gloveless if you weren’t blocked.

It’s half past two and I can’t get back to sleep.

I kept every shell, you know. They form a neat queue on my windowsill, gleaming for eternity in your outstretched hand. I watch saltwater as rivulets travel down your tangled locks and colour pale ridges. I turn them over, one by one, running my weathered hands over lips and spines. Maybe in a hundred years, they won’t prick at me so. I wonder if you kept anything of mine.

The strangest thing has been happening, though. When I bring a cockle or cowrie to my ear, I hear nothing. No roar or hum. Just silence so loud it hurts. I hold my breath and close my eyes, and you—

You pick up that gnarled, brown and grey whelk we were so obsessed with. Remember how we pitied its dullness? So muted amongst pinks and iridescence. How we wedged it between us in bed at night, and gently rock it awake in the mornings, cooing and singing lullabies. A joke turned genuinely tender.

You bring our briny baby up to your ear. Hard lines on soft folds. Damp hair and smooth skin. And you listen, you listen to the hitch in my breath, and you know, you know it means I am about to tell you something important.

Copper reaches my tongue; the spikes of a conch have dislodged the scab on my cheek.

Anyway, say hi to the sun for me.

I miss the heat.

Swine book club

Love books? Want to love books?

Swine magazine runs a bimonthly book club each semester.

Swine book club shall return on the final Thursday of August and continue until October.

We are excited to be tackling Caleb Azumah Nelson’s latest novel ‘Small Worlds’!

Come join us for a great night discussing this amazing read, other literature and more.

Date: Thursday 31 August, 2023

Location: Hammer and Swine

(UN Building, 3rd floor)

Book: Small Worlds by Azumah Nelson

Thank you.