Swine Issue 01, 2024: GLOW

Glow

Bare

Matt Richardson

Reverie

Kayla Willson

moonlight

Charlene Behal

Forgotten Fluroescence

Imogen Williams

GLOW prevails...

Max Marten

Shhh

Jamin

That should be me + Tell me why?

Kazi Tazwar Islam

Trusting Boys

Edward Roebuck-Jones

36

Rust

Humaira Mostafa my body, my call

Vanessa Chim

The Dream Shop

Zara Kernan

The Chair

Vanessa Perera

BREAKING: Awkward Quirky Girl Still Just as Ugly Without Her Glasses On

Emily Wren

The Equality of the Frontier

Will Ferguson

Moon

Jehanna Omega

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 social enterprise cafe; Co-Ground.

Core team

Editor-in-Chief

Zara Kernan

print@ssu.org.au

Zara is a tea enthusiast, Twilight apologist and book lover. She’s in her final year of studying a Bachelor of Media and Communication with a major in Professional Writing and Editing, and has been a sub-editor of swine since 2022. When she’s not writing stories, reading or working (as a copywriter) she can be found relaxing with some yoga. She’s looking forward to editing all your wonderful work this year!

Head Designer

Sophie Robertson

designer@ssu.org.au

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 almond croissant. Sophie gravitates towards storytelling that emotionally strikes her in the heart.

Submissions Editor

Matt Richardson (he/they) is queer fiction author and editor based in Naarm, whose stories experiment with points of view and the intricacies of queer characters. They are an editor with Meridian Australis, Swine Magazine and Other Terrain Literary Journal. His previous works can be found in Apparition Literary Magazine, TL;DR Press charity anthologies and Swine Magazine. Updates on their work can be found on Instagram @apollopic_s

Sub Designer Tara Mulama

Hi, my name is Tara. I have been a Subdesigner for Swine since mid 2023 and I look forward to continuing that role in 2024!

I'm in my third year studying a Bachelor of Design here at Swinburne, majoring in Communication Design. I love all things creative and look forward to seeing everyones contributions to Swine this year!

Matt Richardson

Sub-editor team

Charlene Behal

Miles Johnstone

Erin O’Connor

Vanessa Chim

Rachel Li

Alex Schagen

Caitlin Ho

Lucy Pembroke

Edward Roebuck-Jones*

Tamar Peterson*

Dilini Fredrick*

Advertise in swine

Eric Lee

Communications & partnerships officer Media@ssu.org.au

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

Interested in sub-editing? You can always join throughout the year. Email your application to print@ssu.org.au

*Requested to not display a photo.

Editor’s letter

Dear reader,

Welcome to swine’s first digital issue for 2024!

I’m Zara and I’ve been a sub-editor for swine since 2022. I’m honoured to be stepping into the role of Editor-in-Chief this year. It’s been a joy reading and editing everyone’s takes on the theme: glow. Including an unexpectedly moving lament on the life of a glowstick, poetic odes to moonlight, tales of fantastical forests and more.

What’s truly caught me by surprise so far though are the connections I’ve felt within the swine community. From students stopping by our o week stall, to back-and-forths with passionate authors, calls with sub-editors and my (often) frantic messages to Sophie and Matt—thank you both for putting up with me—it’s been wonderful to get to know this creative community who make the magazine what it is.

So I’d like to thank and place a spotlight on those talented students. We hope you’ll be moved, made to reflect, at times giggle and most of all, be entertained by their work. Turn the pages to see how they glow.

Happy reading,

Editor-in-Chief

The sea breeze against his chest was an unexpected feeling, though it shouldn’t be. It was cold and a little misty, like it was against his arms and face only a second ago. Of course it would feel the same, but sometimes, his chest felt like an entity entirely separate to him, as though it wouldn’t feel the same things the rest of his body did.

He looked down, breath caught in his throat. Bare except for a smattering of dark hairs and the pink scars that dragged under his pecs had faded enough to only be visible when standing close. Bare, shirtless, revealed to the world like stage curtains had been opened over his body, a fanfare from an invisible crowd urging him on.

Sand parted under his feet, hot from the sun, glowing radiantly in the light. He took a step forward. Children laughed and splashed each other in the shallow water. Another step forward. A dog raced across the sand in front of him. A third step and he was standing on the damp sand where the tide had once been. His friends waited for him deeper in the sea, jumping with every passing wave.

His shirt sat over the backpack he’d brought with him, forgotten the moment he’d thrown it behind him. At first, he hadn’t wanted to remove it, too scared of what strangers might say about his scars. But what did it matter? He had spent thousands of dollars to have the body he’d always wanted. He deserved to show it off to anyone who dared to look.

Another step forward and the sea foam washed against his feet. He let out a laugh. He was shirtless. He was shirtless! For the first time in public, with crowds surrounding him everywhere he looked. None of them glanced at him, none of them could see that there was anything different about him.

After laughter came the tears – of relief, and sadness, and sheer happiness. He felt bright. His friends waved to him. He waved back and ignored the taste of salt in his mouth. He kept moving, one step after another, and let the cool blue water brush against his bare chest for the first time. The sea swallowed his tears and his body and enveloped him in its welcoming embrace.

“Golden Hour at Sandringham Beach”

by Kazi Tazwar Islam

(submitted photography)

Bare

Matt Richardson

Reverie

Kayla Willson

A Night at Nevs by Jomar Inot (submitted photography)

For millennia, the world’s very best used to glow

The light they emitted, melded with the very molecular structure of their skin

It was how we assumed God had marked His people

So, the rest of us came to accept this

It was ingrained within every culture, every society

This certainty about our fate

It was my least favourite part about my life

The fact that they all glowed

My girlfriend, my little sister

Even my grandparents

Ethereal in nature

I was not jealous

I wasn’t even alone

Two thirds of the population lacked this blinding presence

I had my people, however dim we may be

What I hated, though

Was the crackle in the air that followed them

Like the waft of perfume that tickled your nose

Humid air after a summer storm

This electrical buzz

Seemed to cling to the precious airspace around them

It made my fingers twitch, and my eyes water

It almost felt like I was being poisoned

By the very thing that enabled my life

The sizzling air wormed its way into my being

And boiled my blood from within

I curved and swam amidst this rich heat

Easing my way further from the crowds so bright

We all did

These people of a distant other, dark and cold

When their glow grew brighter than them

We thought our time had come

And those shining people exploded one by one

Leaving a cloud of misty blood in the now fresh, clean air

does the moon glow? because you make me glow the same shine i reflect light from you, my sun, mine.

everyone says how i glow ever since i met you but they haven’t seen the darkness that led me here; the night.

the weight loss, the sleepless nights, not caring about me anymore, only caring about you but thinking it was all okay.

they only saw the beauty of the moon, its supposed glow that really came from the sun; from you, the façade.

but once you left i had to find my own light. can i still glow without your shine?

moonlight

Charlene Behal

Forgotten Fluorescence

Imogen Williams

Someone is gripping me in their hand, and I’m shunted against others who are like me, but blue-and-yellow, green-and-pink, to my orange-and-blue. We all shimmer together as the sun sets on the showgrounds. Your fingers feel their way to find me and you pluck me out of the sweaty volunteer’s hand. Smiling down at me, you snap me around your warm wrist.

‘Look at me, I say Life is Sweet,’ chirps the friendship bracelet you swapped at the Taylor Swift concert.

‘I display the time,’ says a leather analogue watch, at a measured pace. ‘Though it seems nobody understands how to read me anymore.’

‘My body is filled with a fluorescent formula that emits a mesmerising, colourful light,’ I inform them, as we all jangle around your wrist while you throw darts.

‘Ah, you’re just a glow stick,’ tuts the wristwatch.

The old watch’s negativity doesn’t touch me, because I’m exalted as you punch the air in celebration. You’ve won a fluffy teddy bear. You wave your arms to the music blasting through outdoor speakers and I look out at the sea of colour around us. All the glowing bracelets combine to compete with the evening’s starlight.

After a few too many cheap drinks, you giggle and look down at me in awe as your vision goes hazy. When your phone dies on the way home, you jokingly use me as a torch to guide your way along the footpath, and your friends laugh. I laugh along with you. Upon arriving home, you pull off your shoes and shirt, then collapse into bed. I’m your nightlight.

Through the gap in your curtains, I watch the sun come up. Dishevelled in the kitchen, you shut the blinds, blocking out the morning light in order to show me to your little sister.

‘Wow! That’s so cool!’ she shouts, dribbling cereal onto her school dress. You laugh, she grins, and I am loved.

‘Darling, you absolutely reek!’ Mum tells you, reopening the blinds. So you take me off and place me on your bedside table so you can shower. I can hear you singing songs from last night and I love your voice.

When you come back into the room, you ignore me. You replace your watch on your wrist and consider Life is Sweet, but decide to leave it off today. It seems the possibility of restoring me to my rightful place is not considered.

Days pass and dust builds upon my plastic surface. The friendship bracelet is eventually plucked from my side, but your eyes wash over me like I’m nothing. The teddy bear receives pride of place on your pillow. Why do you love that thing more than me? It has no talents. Moths crawl over me and they deposit excrement on the receipts you pile on top of me. I long for your touch. Maybe your sister will find me? When she secretly sneaks into your room, she’s looking for your chocolate stash, not for me. She finds it and flees. I watch you get ready: adding earrings, a necklace, a brooch, a ring, and… me? No, never me. Why do I keep hoping?

Weeks pass and you decide it’s time you tidied your room. First the floor, then the desk, then the dresser, then yes, YES, the bedside table! Moth carcasses are cleared away. Receipts are crumpled and tossed. Then, at last, you see me. Was that a smile? As you pick me up, do I spy a loving glimmer? You turn off the lights, but it’s been too long and I’ve lost my gleam. You have the gall to shrug.

Into the rubbish bin I am thrown: discarded, unwanted, unloved. You will never think of me again. I’m shunted against broken hair ties, used tissues and bread crusts. I listen as your footsteps recede and hear you humming a blissful tune. Don’t you recall how we danced? Left in the dark and the stench and the silence. If I had tear ducts, I would cry.

GLOW Prevails...

Max Marten

The village of Eldritch Hollow lay shrouded in an everlasting twilight, nestled on the fringes of the ancient, foreboding St Helena forest. Legends whispered of St Helena’s heart pulsing with an unnatural glow, beckoning the curious and the brave. With her fiery spirit and raven-black hair, Isolde stood on the threshold of these dark, mythical woods, her resolve as unwavering as the legends were old.

A year prior, her sister Elara had vanished ‘like a sinister mist under the moon’. The villagers spoke of the glow in hushed tones, a harbinger of doom for those ‘simple’ folk endlessly ensnared by tales of its radiance. But to Isolde, it promised answers and perhaps a way to undo the sorrow gnawing at her heart.

Clutching a lantern that scarcely pierced the all-encompassing gloom, Isolde embraced the mist enveloping the woods. The path wound deeper, and the shadows grew thicker as if the forest murmured threats, strangely alive and aware of her trespass. The air was thick with the scent of moss and ancient secrets. The silence was tangible, its own dark entity, broken only by a distant, eerie call that beckoned her even deeper.

With each step, tales of her childhood danced in her mind—tales of spirits, curses left unbroken, and the glow, that ethereal light that held the power to unveil truth or entomb it in shadow. As the boundary between the known and the unknown blurred, Isolde’s journey into the heart of the horror that awaited her had begun.

As Isolde ventured deeper, the veil between the mundane and the mystical seemed to thin. Trees, ancient sentinels, twisted skyward into grotesque shapes, their branches interlocked and blocking out the sky. A thick, miasmic fog began to roll in, cloaking the path in a ghostly shroud. The air hummed with an unspoken warning, a reminder that she trod on forbidden ground.

Suddenly, a soft and seductive whisper emanated from the earth beneath her feet.

‘Why do you seek the glow, child of man?’ it asked, its tone laced with ancient sorrow. Isolde’s heart quickened, but her reply was steady.

‘To find what was lost,’ she replied. Her thoughts never left Elara.

The ground beneath her shimmered, and ghostly apparitions that guarded the way forward rose from that devilish fog. They bore the visages of those who had once sought the glow, eyes empty yet filled with haunted longing. Undeterred by their mournful presence, Isolde silently wished them peace and continued along her path.

As the night deepened, the glow began to reveal itself. The light was unlike any earthly flame—A pulsating spectrum of colours enshrouded in silence unfurled their spectral tapestry. Midnight blues mingled with emeralds of the forest, while deep purples, reminiscent of bruised skies at dusk, wove through the ethereal ballet. These shades cast their eerie luminescence over the scene with a ghostly grace. The colours struck

Isolde with awe, captivated by their beauty yet chilled by the palpable dread that accompanied them.

Drawn like a moth to a flame, Isolde found herself in a clearing, where the source of the light finally became clear. A large, pulsating crystal, almost alive, stood at the centre, its facets casting beams of light that painted the forest. The air around the crystal was thick with power, and the ground around it was littered with trinkets, jewels, and, more ominously, bones.

In the heart of that clearing, Isolde encountered inhabitants, the true guardians of the glow. They were ethereal beings in fluid form, shimmering with the same luminescent quality as the crystal. Their eyes held the depth of the forest’s history, wise yet sorrowful. They spoke in unison.

‘The glow is a curse,’ they began. ‘A remnant from when greed and power sought to harness the forest’s heart. It lures with desires, promising fulfilment but delivering only entrapment.’

Isolde listened, hardening her resolve. The guardians recounted tales of the past: civilisations lost to their lust for power and the glowing crystal’s true nature—a prison for a malevolent spirit that fed on the souls of the unwary.

As the tale unfolded, Isolde understood the gravity of her quest. With its beauty, the glow was a beacon of despair. A lure for the lost and the longing. Yet, within it lay the key to her sister’s disappearance and, perhaps, a way to break the cycle of sorrow that bound the forest and the land beyond.

‘The path you seek is fraught with peril,’ they warned. ‘To confront the glow is to confront the darkness within oneself.’

Isolde nodded. She had come too far to turn back now. Armed with the knowledge of the glow’s true nature and the history of the forest, she was prepared to face whatever truths it might reveal about Elara’s fate.

Under the watchful gaze of the guardians, Isolde stood before the glowing crystal. The air vibrated with an unseen force, the crystal pulsating more intensely as if it recognised her presence. Drawing a deep breath, Isolde reached out, her hand hovering above the crystal’s surface, feeling the raw power from within.

As her fingers brushed against the crystal, a surge of energy coursed through her body, and visions flooded her mind—Elara, trapped within a realm of shadows, her eyes pleading for release. The crystal was a prison of light, holding Elara captive. Her spirit intertwined with the entity the guardians had spoken of—a spirit corrupted by greed and malice, seeking to escape its confinement by feeding on souls lured by the glow.

Isolde’s heart ached with understanding. The glow’s allure, the forest’s curse, was not just a tale of greed or power; it was a story of loss and sacrifice, a mirror of the void within her heart. The entity

preyed upon Elara’s desire to protect her sister, trapping her within its luminescent cage.

With this revelation came a surge of resolve. Isolde, her voice firm with newfound determination, addressed the entity.

‘Release her,’ her words imbued with the strength of her love for Elara and her desire to end the cycle of sorrow. ‘Your hold over us ends... now!’

The crystal pulsed, its glow intensifying as if resisting Isolde’s demand. But beneath the defiance, Elara’s spirit flickered through, reaching out to her sister. At that moment, Isolde understood. The bond between them, forged by love and memories, was the key to breaking the curse and freeing Elara from the malevolent grip.

Isolde steeled herself to confront the abyss, seeking to liberate her sister from its chains and end the forest’s curse. The glow now cast a sinister light upon a path fraught with sorrow and sacrifice. Yet, as the final confrontation unfolded, a heavy shadow fell upon Isolde’s heart. The glow flickered with a deceptive promise of solace. She battled the entity, driven by a love for Elara that trod the fine line between salvation and ruin, challenging the curse that ensnared her sister’s essence.

As the crystal’s luminescence waned, the forest groaned under the weight of grief too vast to comprehend. The guardians, their visages etched with solemn resignation, began to dissolve into the ether, their curse lifted yet leaving behind a silent lament for what had been lost. With Elara in her arms, Isolde felt a chilling solitude envelop her, a testament to the harrowing cost of her quest.

This ordeal irrevocably changed Isolde, weathering her spirit with the grim realities of sacrifice and the knowledge of the glow’s malignant allure. Emerging from the forest not with triumphant clarity but with a soul heavy with the understanding that some darkness is too profound to illuminate, she resolved to safeguard this secret, becoming a guardian of truth too perilous to be sought by others.

Isolde’s journey, a testament not to the victory of light over darkness but to the enduring scars left by their battle, revealed the bleak nuances of her fears. She had stared into the void, her love for Elara her only guide through the encompassing gloom and emerged not unscathed but tethered forever to the shadows she had challenged.

Standing at the forest’s edge, dawn’s light casting long shadows, Isolde contemplated the harrowing saga that had unfolded amidst the age-old trees. The forest now bore the marks of her passage, its silence a grim reminder of the cost of her journey. With Elara’s silent form beside her, Isolde faced the dawning day not as a herald of harmony but as a solemn sentinel, her heart a repository of a bitter legacy.

The glow once sought as a beacon in the night now stood as witness to the tragedy of their tale, a grim reminder that even in the pursuit of light, darkness prevails.

Shhh

Artist name: Jamin

Medium: Collage

Artist’s description:

With the theme, I wanted to depict the term 'glow' as a physical place that felt ethereal and paradisiacal, keeping its visitors almost in a trance state.

That should be me

In the tapestry of life, a story we wove, Fate intervened, and our bonds it strove. Her laughter, a melody, in my heart it lingers, Yet destiny declared, tearing us apart with its fingers.

Underneath the stars, we dreamed as one, In stardust whispers, our souls were spun.

‘That should be me,’ breathed in the night, Love thwarted by destiny’s unforeseen fight.

Her eyes held galaxies, reflections of our could-be, Still forces unseen played a different decree. I traced constellations in the tears I shed, As fate wrote a different path instead.

In the silence of longing, echoes of our song, A bridge unfinished, where we both belong. ‘That should be me,’ echoes the cosmic choir, A lament for a love consumed by fate’s cold fire.

Didn’t you promise to hold me when I’m feeling down? Now I’m lonely and the truth only makes me frown. With you by my side, It feels like a paradise. I’m losing myself tonight, And it’s driving me crazy.

Baby, won’t you help me figure it out?

And show me that I’m not alone, You were always around.

Tell me why you’re not here now, when I need you the most.

Tell me why?

Poems by Kazi Tazwar Islam

I remember what happened.

First, someone yelled, ‘It’ll be fun, come on, don’t be a pussy.’ It was Lachlan, a guy from my brother’s year, who put his arm around me and my brother, Jeff. Lachlan’s parents were rich, but he seemed to prefer acting like a lad more than anything else. I looked at Jeff for a sign as to what to do, but he just stared eagerly back at me.

The three of us were walking through our school’s main gates and out toward the tram line. At this point all I could really think about was getting home and away from all these people, but the way Lachlan was talking to us was like he’d known us forever. After we were safely off school grounds, Jeff finally piped up.

‘Yeah, we’ll come along, sure.’

‘Fuck yeah! JEFFIE’S ON THE BINGE!’ Lachlan yelled with a wide grin.

My brother’s false confidence liquified as he scanned the street for disapproving faces.

‘Look at your face! Nobody cares. We aren’t in school anymore.’ I had never talked to Lachlan before; he was in the year above me.

‘Your brother can even come too,’ Lachlan said, gesturing to me. I was shuffling behind them, zoning out, staring at the ground.

‘Are you going to tell about this if I don’t bring you?’ my brother turned around to ask me; I felt like he was almost baiting me to say yes. But it would be a lie to say I didn’t want to go too.

‘Yeah, haha!’ I quickly ran up behind them so I wouldn’t be left

Trusting boys

Edward Roebuck-Jones

behind. I remember we talked on the walk to the tram about some inside joke Lachlan and Jeff shared. I didn’t get it, and Jeff didn’t seem to laugh as much as Lachlan.

‘Did you fuck up on the test today too?’ my brother asked. I think he was trying to change the subject.

‘Haha, nah, my tutor basically just gives me the answers.’ Lachlan swept the subject away dismissively. ‘Are you ready, dude? You’re really fucking hardcore, you know, man. None of my friends even have the balls, but don’t worry, we’ll all do it together. It’s super fun, man.’

Lachlan was talking a lot at this point. Jeff was having a great time, and I was too. We got on a tram, which stunk. It was full of large school kids in their sports uniforms, who had clearly just finished something physical. My brother and I weren’t into physicality; we were more the stay inside and read type.

We finally got there, some rich suburb. I wasn’t looking at where we were; I was too excited to be invited to something like this. We walked down a hill for a while until Lachlan stopped us. I remember the large suburban houses looming over us from behind their second story fences. I had never felt more out of place in my life.

‘Okay, my place is just up here. This is your last chance. We are going to do this. If you don’t want to, the tram is just back there.’ He stood there, waiting for us. At full height, he was taller than both of us. He glared intently at my brother. I looked to Jeff to see what we should do.

After a brief pause, he chirped, ‘only if you do it!’ and took a step back, blinking sheepishly at the ground, holding onto his backpack strap.

‘Yeah, of course, duh, come on.’ Lachlan waved for us to follow him and lead us towards a large, opulent mansion. I remember lions in the front garden, lots of hedges, and the sound of running water from somewhere I couldn’t see. The smell of the neighbours’ lavender was overpowering; when I looked over, I saw it planted all along the edge of their property line.

‘Don’t worry, Jeffie and Co, nobody will be home all weekend.’ Lachlan reached the front door and started fumbling with the keys.

‘Alright, quick, quick, hurry up, ya muppets.’ He swung the large door open and I was immediately blinded by marble floors, white walls, and cream furniture. We walked inside, and the filthiness of our school uniform became immediately apparent. A heavy smell of pine attempted to cover the still pungent smell of lavender wafting in from the shutting front door.

He took us through the main hallway, out to the back deck, and into a small shed in the backyard.

‘Fuck yeah, are we ready?’ Lachlan smiled at us eagerly while reaching into his backpack.

‘Uh, yeah,’ my brother mumbled.

‘I am,’ I remember saying confidently. That one is definitely on me. He pulled out a little baggie, removed three small round powderbased pills, and gave us each one.

‘On the count of three, we all take it, yeah?’ Lachlan squinted at me and Jeff and pinched the pill between his pointer and his thumb, ready to swallow.

‘Yeah,’ we said simultaneously.

‘Three... two… one… do it.’ The three of us throw our heads back, chucking the pill to the back of our throats and swallowing.

I blinked my eyes a few times, trying to get over the bad taste. Lachlan let out a little laugh.

‘You actually did it, I can’t believe it. They told me you wouldn’t, but you actually did it.’

I turn to my brother, confused. He looked back at me, elated.

‘This is gonna be fun, right?’ he asked, but his smiling face dropped when he looked down at Lachlan’s hand. In Lachlan’s hand was one small, round, powder-based pill.

Lachlan laughed again.

‘Yeah, man, you’re really a trainwreck, you’ll do anything.’ He turned to the partly open door to the shed and shouted, ‘They took them!’

‘It should only be a few minutes then,’ a voice responded.

My vision was becoming blurred; tiny little waves crashed against everything, and I felt gravity’s effect upon me as if for the first time.

In the doorway, two figures appeared. One was a tall, slender older woman, holding a handkerchief to her nose. The other was a child, giggling to herself and staring at my brother.

‘They came, just like you said, Mum, and they took the pills, just like that. I mean, talk about beta cucks, right?’ Lachlan mocked.

‘Watch your language, young man,’ the older woman snapped. ‘Let me handle this now. Go do something useful.’ She glided across the filthy shed floor to my brother, still holding the handkerchief to her nose. The child remained in the doorway, silently observing and giggling to herself. It felt as though gravity couldn’t make its mind up whether to swallow me whole or spit me into space. The lady removed her handkerchief to address us.

‘Sorry, darlings. This must seem very unfair to you.’ She moved over and looked at me. ‘I might as well talk to you, dear,’ she said, in a calming tone that shot static down my almost numb limbs.

‘You see, my dear, your brother is failing; his vocational testing showed him only reaching a base level career, therefore…’ she wrung her hands excitedly. ‘His organs are far better used keeping the most powerful alive. My husband requires a new heart, and as it turns out, your brother is a perfect match, you understand.’ Her eyes pierced me as

TRUSTING BOYS EDWARD ROEBUCK-JONES

she assessed for any other parts she may want.

‘You, however, will live. Your tests show some aptitude with numbers, not the most impressive, but necessary. Therefore, we are going to take some things from you. Don’t worry, you’ll be crunching numbers soon enough. You don’t need all your organs to do our taxes, do you? Honestly, what would you even use them for?’ She looked at the discarded bag of pills. ‘Hard drugs, I suppose.’ A smile widened across her face.

‘And don’t fret about telling people, your parents have been compensated and the school has been informed. Everything’s going to come up roses - well, maybe dandelions for you.’ She stepped to one side, letting two large, shaded figures enter the shed.

‘Your kind is like this; you run from work, a drain on a civilized society. You run for as long as you can and then you die. When will you realise work is all you’re good for?’ She leaned down right into my face, the last thing I see before I passed out.

‘You should be thanking me for this…’

That’s what happened, don’t forget. I’m pretty sure that’s what happened. That’s what I remember. I remember what happened.

Tokyo Station

by Jomar Inot

Rust

Humaira Mostafa

TW: mentions of self-harm

I do not know what comes next. Whether love will keep its distance, or will the pain rise again?

My uncertainties have uncertainties. And I am still walking into the unknown.

They say the eyes are the windows to the soul. Then look into my eyes and listen, to the stories of how they have dimmed my glow.

Listen to how my soul yearns for love and to be touched. Listen to how my soul wears apologies like a second skin. Listen to how my soul has grown old with shame and self-doubt.

I am fighting memories and illusions to survive. And everything good seems miles away. And in between this whirlwind of a world, I can’t help but feel something in me has gone astray.

Why am I the way I am?

Why do I feel this way?

When did life become so agonising? Does anybody else understand this misery?

I worry I am inexplicably drawn to it. The pain.

Even though I want an out from this cruel dancing in a house of fire, my broken heart has grown accustomed to the crackling, blistering of my skin. The red peeking through, my flesh bare, as I sit in the corner of my dark room,

the sun shining through a tear in my curtain, blank stare, on a high away from the mental anguish I am always drowning in.

The sound of my silent cries echo within, the feeling of not being enough, not being able to fix my broken.

All these words cut through my skin like blades, and all these words linger in my head, until who I am starts to rust.

This burning desire that I have to be understood, has always failed and I am exhausted. I am drained of not being enough, not seen, always in agony, drowning, and dressed in red ooze.

When will this misery ever end? Will a ray of hope ever land on my lap?

In the quiet of my solitude with my uncertainties as my companions, a bleak reminder of my endless plight. I see no reprieve, no respite, in the darkness that envelopes me only the indifferent, relentless march of time.

For even as I yearn for salvation hidden in every single cell, is a piece of me I can’t spell. Bound to these chains, my protests in vain. trapped in this mess of a reality, where my dreams are slain.

Vanessa Chim

TW: mentions of eating disorders and bullying.

my body, my call.

This is a story about a girl who appears to have it all together but has been struggling with her relationship with her body and food.

Age 11

‘If she lost weight, I’d pay the class a grand.’

Age 12

‘She needs to lose weight because she’s too big.’

Age 13

‘She’s not pretty enough for me.’

Age 14

‘If you eat too much, you’ll get very fat,’ someone in her class sings along to ‘The Coconut Song’ and points at her.

Age 15

‘There’s no way she’s playing on my sports team.’

Age 16

She starts hating her body. She starts counting calories. She restricts herself every single day.

Age 17

She develops an eating disorder.

Age 18

‘Just eat, it’s not that difficult to eat.’

She sits around the dinner table with her parents, and it’s as if the plate is pushing itself further away.

Age 19

‘She’s fat as usual.’

The guy she has had a crush on since she was 14, body shames her. Alcohol becomes a part of her coping mechanism.

Age 20

‘Welcome to Melbourne,’ a sign says, as she walks through the airport. She moves to a new country, and everyone loves her, but she can’t seem to love herself.

Now

After 9 years, she still feels the same every day. She attempts everything she can to enhance her way of life. But nothing goes her way. She feels lonely in this gloomy world full of toxic beauty standards. She thinks it’s strange when others call her pretty. Every morning, she gazes in the mirror and wonders why she looks the same. She sees numerous psychologists, but even if they help her, she eventually returns to phase one. She lets her traumas convince her that she’ll never be beautiful. She lets her traumas convince her that she is unlovable. She lets her traumas convince her that no one wants to befriend her. She lets her traumas convince her that she can’t live without them.

One day

‘You aren’t living life for yourself.’

She reflects on what her first psychologist told her, and she begins doing her best to live life to the fullest. But doing so requires gradually letting go of the self-criticism she finds comfortable, and embracing the discomfort of self-compassion. Every day was and still is a battle for her. She knows she’ll have to fight for herself no matter how long it takes, and she knows she’ll make it. In that regard, she is me.

The Dream Shop

Zara Kernan

The bell attached to the door rang as a lanky man in his mid-twenties with unruly curls, dressed in a suit and glasses, escaped the rain by entering the Dream Shop. Golden antique curios and floor to ceiling dark wooden shelves with sliding ladders and thick Turkish carpets decorated the vintage store. The shop smelled of old books and lavender. The man rang the bell on the desk and called out,

‘Excuse me, I need to sell a dream.’

Audrey Young, a twenty-one-year-old ‘dream catcher’ called out from behind one of the shelves,

‘Let me guess, love?’

From her limited years as a dream catcher, Audrey was sure of one thing; the problem was usually love. That was why she didn’t bother with it herself.

‘She’s about to marry someone else,’ he responded.

Audrey walked out to the front desk and spoke, ‘Once I capture the dream, you will never get it back. You should think about this carefully because the magic is irreversible.’

‘That’s what I was hoping.’

Audrey specialised in saving poor souls from heartbreak by eradicating their impossible dreams, using her enigmatic magic to erase the ideas from their minds. Fortunately, you couldn’t mourn a dream you didn’t remember. Once captured, the dreams glowed feebly like burst stars, in glass jars along her shelves.

Audrey, a short, glossy-haired woman dressed in denim overalls, was one of the rare people who went about life never worrying about worstcase scenarios. She didn’t get lost inside her head or spend her days in reveries. She was practical in her approach to everything. Her life plan was to continue her family’s business; and she had never questioned the ramifications of her work. Until she met the man in the suit.

Audrey placed an empty jar on the mahogany bench, narrowly avoiding the crystal ball next to it (this item was mainly to appeal to tourists). Before beginning the process, Audrey slid the man a form to sign.

‘This takes a bit of the thrill away from it doesn’t it?’ he said. Audrey gave him a meaningful look. ‘It’s not that I want to forget about her,’ he continued, clearly procrastinating. Audrey sighed and took the form away.

‘Maybe you should just tell me what happened before I take the dream away permanently,’ she said sensibly.

Alex, the man in the suit, was a dreamer stuck inside the body of a divorce lawyer. His dreaming had been discouraged by the usual methods: the schooling system and a healthy dose of well-intentioned but misunderstanding parents. Alex thought his daydreaming days were behind him, until he realised that he was in love. Rather inconveniently, thought Audrey, as Alex explained that he was in love with his childhood best friend, Ruby; his engaged childhood best friend.

‘That really is a problem. Maybe we should just remove the dream,’ suggested Audrey.

‘Are you just telling me that, so I’ll stop talking? Because that’s terrible customer service,’ Alex responded before asking distractedly what the crystal ball was for. Audrey sighed and flipped over the shop’s sign to Closed. She figured this could take a while.

Audrey left the day’s dreamers behind her as she locked up her shop each night. Their worries were pushed aside when she heard the jangle of keys and her feet hit the pavement. But after meeting the man in the suit, Audrey couldn’t help but contemplate his predicament on her walk home and later, as she absentmindedly drank her turmeric tea. She strode into work the next day, still wondering how it could’ve gone so wrong. Inseparable since the age of twelve, and after all that time he hadn’t realised that he was in love with her. It was only now that she was getting married, he’d come to that realisation. Typical.

It was a slow day, which further enabled Audrey’s uncharacteristic ponderings. Audrey hadn’t obsessed about a dream this way since she met the man who desperately wanted to be a trapeze artist, despite his debilitating fear of heights. Why was this comparatively mundane dream playing on her mind? Maybe it was the seed of doubt tugging on the edges of her subconscious, telling her that she shouldn’t meddle in this.

As she was filing away more captured and feebly glowing dreams,

Audrey snapped to attention when the doorbell rang. Alex had come back.

‘Ready to sell the dream?’ Audrey asked.

‘Yes. No. Maybe?’ Alex responded.

‘You’re the most indecisive person I’ve ever met.’

Alex loved Ruby because she made him laugh. A pretty good reason, Audrey considered. Alex was also a chronically nervous person, fidgeting and stuttering, and Ruby was one of the few people with whom he felt comfortable. Not for the first time, Audrey felt a swelling of loneliness as she reflected on her own life. Fiercely independent and strong-minded, she generally preferred her own company. Audrey had friends, but no one close enough with whom she could share her deepest thoughts. Everyone needed someone. It was as if she had an invisible wall around her. She was friendly enough but never open enough for people to be truly close to her.

It was now the fifth day in a row that Alex had come into the Dream Shop, and Audrey was secretly enjoying his visits. It wasn’t the kind of job that garnered returning customers, not if it was done correctly. Alex burst through the door just as Audrey was listening, with detached interest, to a tone-deaf woman with a passion for opera singing.

‘I’ve made up my mind. I need you to take away the dream. Look, I’ve even signed the form and everything,’ Alex said, offering a sheet of paper.

‘Would you mind popping back in tomorrow?’ Audrey asked the singer, ignoring Alex, ‘I require a minimum twenty-four-hour cooling off period. Here’s the paperwork.’ She then turned to Alex to ask, ‘Are you really sure?’

‘Never been more certain of anything.’

Audrey closed her eyes, breathed deeply, and read Alex’s mind. It only took a matter of minutes to remove a dream, but it also took all the concentration and effort that Audrey could summon. Alex would describe his dream being taken as like being in a vacuum. Everything was empty and dark. There was no sign of life around him. He was floating free, untethered to this particular universe or any other.

Audrey would describe erasing dreams as like running a marathon, writing the great novel and solving a Rubik’s cube at the same time. She placed one hand over the empty jar and as she opened her eyes, she saw the captured stars in front of her.

Later that day, Audrey filed away another dream under unrealistic career aspirations, in-between astronaut and runway model. The bell rang as a young, pretty, raven-haired woman ran into the store, ‘Did a man named Alex come in here earlier?’ she asked. ‘Please tell me you didn’t erase his dream.’ Audrey nodded and gave her a sympathetic look. She began to speak, but the woman turned on her heels and rushed out. Audrey instinctively knew she was Ruby and called out, but she was already out of earshot.

Audrey tried to contact Alex, but there was no reaching him. She felt knots in her stomach and a weight on her chest. It was an unfamiliar feeling for her. Worry. She sensed from the beginning that erasing Alex’s dream wasn’t right, and seeing Ruby only confirmed it. Ruby must have learned that he planned to erase his dream and she wanted to stop him. The trouble was, Audrey had never attempted to put a dream back before, she was paid to take them away. She looked at the luminescent glass jars lining the shelves and felt an uncharacteristic sliver of doubt. She could never know how many other people might have been better off with their dreams still intact. Audrey thought, although complicated and inconvenient, maybe dreaming makes us human. Being able to aspire and make mistakes, but at least try.

Audrey assembled a list, longer than her arm, of people whose dreams she had erased. She turned the shop’s sign over to Closed and spent the afternoon sitting on the Turkish carpet, calling previous customers on the shop’s battered rotary phone. She spent twenty-five different conversations explaining who she was and how she’d erased their dreams, (another item on the growing list of problems with memory erasure). Her phone calls had led her to discover a few things. The man who aspired to be a trapeze artist, despite his acrophobia, stopped seeing his friends from circus school and his fear of heights worsened without his challenging it. Audrey always thought he’d be better off with a more realistic dream. She hadn’t envisioned the side-effects. Audrey also called Georgia, a woman whose fiancé had left her for her best friend. Audrey assumed the woman would be happier if she wasn’t still in love with him. But Audrey had erased all good memories of both the best friend and the fiancé. A huge part of her life was gone, and she never got the opportunity to forgive either of them or decide to move on. Audrey hung up the phone with a click and felt the wave of anxiety wash over her. Twenty-one years’ worth of worry, which she had avoided, now crashed over her with a dizzying force.

The first splinters of sunlight revealed that Audrey was almost buried alive in a sea of journals, spell books and dream research which were washed across every available surface of the shop. Despite searching, throughout the night, she had found nothing. Returning captured dreams had never been attempted successfully. She’d have to work it out herself. Audrey had convinced Georgia to come into the store and have her dream returned, but despite Audrey’s best efforts, nothing had worked.

Later, Julian, the former trapeze artist, knocked on the door, making Audrey jump. She pushed the research aside and let him in. After Audrey explained it all to him on the phone, he decided he needed his dream back. Panic spread through her because nothing had worked yet. Regardless, she had to dive straight in, there was no time to get lost in thought. She slid the ladder along the wall and climbed to the highest shelf. Audrey grabbed the swirling galaxy in a jar labelled Unrealistic Career Aspiration: Julian Dean. They sat on the soft Turkish carpet and, with one hand on the glass jar, Audrey closed her eyes and read his mind. It was like watching a movie, but each frame was too fast to grasp. Scenes flicked by at a dizzying rate and then everything stopped. Views of flying trapeze artists darted across her eyes. Then the outside world flooded in, as her eyes flickered open. She glanced at the empty jar under her hand. This was different. Something had shifted. Audrey’s ability to remove dreams was only one part of the equation. Of course. The customer had to want to forget, for it to work. This time, they had to want to remember. Georgia hadn’t wanted her memories back, not like Julian did.

On one of the rarest sunny days the island had seen, a line stretched from the Dream Shop all the way around the block. Inside, customers of all ages with their own catastrophes and triumphs were cured of their dreamlessness. Relief spread through Audrey’s veins as every person who wanted it, had their dreams safely returned. She finally felt like herself again. Alex was the final customer to reverse the process.

‘Promise me you’ll never be decisive again,’ Audrey said.

‘Promise,’ he said with a shy smile.

Images of summer days and a raven-haired girl appeared, before Audrey’s eyes flickered open. She felt a sense of pride when she saw Alex leave the Dream Shop, knowing she’d done the right thing. But then Audrey felt a pang in her chest as she realised, she didn’t want him to go.

THE DREAM SHOP ZARA KERNAN

The chair

Vanessa Perera

Mum always hated it when the chair piled up with clothes. The chair where clothes that are too dirty for the closet, but are too clean for the laundry basket, were stacked.

The chair where the pile grew taller each week after quick trips to the supermarket, jogs in the park, or making fried chicken from scratch.

‘Get rid of the clothes on the chair!’ Mum screamed.

I wondered if she knew how indecisive I was. The clothes laid there because I wasn’t sure if I had worn them enough to dump them in the laundry basket.

The only time I ever cleared the chair was when my room reeked of sweat. After I’d completed at least ten quick trips, jogs, or kitchen experiments in each of those clothes.

So the days I finally decided to clear it, Mum muttered under her breath,

‘When I’m dead and gone, I hope that bloody chair stays empty.’

In my late thirties, I still lived with Mum, and we slept on a double bed in my room. Her arthritis worsened and she needed me beside her. My laundry had to be put away then. She wanted to perch on the chair by the open window.

‘Mum, get out of that chair and come into bed!’ I snapped. Her heavy breathing woke me up each night. The woman ignored me, closed her eyes, and recited a silent prayer.

‘Mum, it’s bloody cold outside, why is the window open?’ I muttered under my breath. She breathed heavily, her eyes were closed and like an apparition caught in the streetlamp’s silver glow, she sat on the chair and prayed.

‘Mum, what the hell? Come into bed’ I hissed and turned towards her.

This time it wasn’t Mum’s heavy breathing. It was the eery rasp of wind screaming through the half-opened window. The chair was empty. Mum laid in bed with me. Her eyes were closed— no breathing, no praying.

Clothes begin to pile up on the chair again. I wake up in the middle of the night and see the clothes perch beside the open window. The silver glow of the streetlamp haunts me, and the words Mum muttered under her breath in my teenage years come to mind:

‘When I’m dead and gone, I hope that bloody chair stays empty.’

BREAKING: Awkward Quirky Girl Still Just as Ugly Without Her Glasses On

Emily Wren

Angela Baker, a senior at Madison Central Highschool in Jacksonville, Mississippi, has endured an experience so humbling she fears she may never recover.

Prom season is approaching in Jacksonville, which has caused masses of teenage girls attending Madison Central to enter their ‘hot girl era’.

‘We’ve all been preparing for this since hot girl summer,’ said Indigo Fernandez, a student at the school. ‘I’ve been bikini bod ready since about July last year, before that… don’t even ask.’

Angela Baker, an art and philosophy student who seemed to fall behind in hot girl summer, because her mother wouldn’t let her do keto or put lemon slices in her Stanley Cup, was confident she had one more trick up her sleeve.

Students who wished to remain anonymous reported that Angela had been an outcast because of her ugly face, glasses, ponytail, and obsession with Tumblr.

With prom approaching and still no partner, Angela announced to her concerned family that she had it all figured out. She removed her ponytail, and her family gasped. She then removed her glasses, and her family gasped again, but this time in horror.

‘I didn’t know it was possible to glow down when you were already in the trenches. She’s always been a bit, you know….’ Mrs Baker, Angela’s mother, told the press, wiping away a tear. ‘I don’t know how to say it, but she looks worse.’

Netizens following the case, witnessed Mr Baker outside of a paternity clinic with papers in his hand. It’s reported he mumbled the words ‘not my daughter... not my daughter...’ several times, while pacing in circles. Videos of this became viral on Facebook and X. Many users with glasses-wearing, ponytail-having daughters agreed, they’d have doubts too if their daughters were just as ugly. When the press attempted to contact him, he refused to comment.

We reached out to Angela for a comment herself, to which she responded: ‘It’s absolute bullshit. Tracy Stewart wears a ponytail and glasses too, and when she took hers off, she got to do the whole stunning walk down the stairs in slow motion. This was supposed to be my moment. My moment!’

The interview was cut short as Angela attempted to remove and then stomp on her glasses.

The outcome of this has been devastating for all ponytail-having, glasses-wearing, awkward quirky girls, many of whom have been sharing their support on Tumblr.

One post reads: ‘For girls like us, its comical to believe beauty is subjective at best. This is an objective matter. Angela Baker, we see you. #beautyiswithin #butifyoudontgotitthenyouredoomed’

More to come.

The Equality of the Frontier

Will Ferguson

The search for new frontiers is what makes post-grad study exhilarating. If you’re lucky, the drudgery of rote learning and the study of well-trodden paths gives way to inspiration in the last year of undergrad. You get a glimpse into the glow of the unexplained.

The opportunity to relinquish the maps created before us and set sail into uncharted territory offers a way to investigate the bounds of the knowable world in an age where information is always a Google away. The privilege of the post-grad student is to ask a question that no one else in the world can answer.

Human sensation and perceptions evolved Darwinianly, growing precisely only in ways that maximise our survival. Our eyes are sharp enough to spot predators and prey but not so sharp that its processing cost would be inefficient and a drain our limited resources.

We can smell, touch, hear, taste and see as much as we need to survive. But not enough to study the world around us scientifically. When we taste food, we perceive chemical stimuli on our tongues. When we hear, we perceive the vibrations of inner hair cells as a result of waves of compressed atoms moving through the air. When we see colour, we perceive photons moving at different wavelengths along the visible light spectrum. But there are limits to what we perceive.

The visible light spectrum consists of only 0.0035% of the electromagnetic spectrum. We can only hear frequencies from 20 to 20,000 Hertz, whereas dolphins can hear up to 100,000. We are animals interpreting the physics and chemistry of the world around us, attempting to understand the unexplainable world through an unbelievably limited range of sensations and perceptions.

We assume that our five senses are sufficient to observe all of the mysteries of the universe through the assistance of technology.

But what makes us so confident?

Variations in the human genome provide us with a neat bell curve of intellectual abilities across our species. We use IQ as a means of comparison between humans to determine who among us is the most intellectually gifted and to prove to ourselves our place as the most intelligent species on the planet.

But we measure intelligence relative to other humans, with the mean score always remaining at 100. By this, we are to say that the metric in which we call humans intelligent is self-appointed, self-administered, and relative. If we look at our technology and innovations, it’s hard to deny that we are a collectively brilliant species.

But just because we are the smartest in the room does not make us suitable to find the answers we long for.

Answering the meaning of life. Seeing beyond three dimensions. Perhaps there’s a species in the universe that’s capable of these things. It’s hard to say what the limits of higher perceptional ranges, more senses and higher intelligence could entail when our own abilities render us unable to observe the phenomena of rainbows without specialised infrared and ultraviolet equipment.

Most of us respect the boundaries of our perceptions and intelligence and move contently through this life without hearing the radiant call of what lies over the horizon.

Enrolment at a university can provide, for those who seek it, a chance to push our species against the boundaries of what can be known, perceived and experienced. We must disband the idea that good research can only be conducted by a select few hyper-intellectual and privileged individuals.

No matter what your genetics have provided, we are all humans locked into senses that evolved for survival, not study. When considering the vastness of the universe, a person with an IQ of 150 is only marginally less limited in their capabilities than the average person.

Psychology tells us that intelligence comes second to personality when predicting university performance. If you wanted to predict someone’s success at university, it would make much more sense to identify their levels of conscientiousness and intrinsic motivation than it would to identify their level of intelligence.1

The further you set your ambitions and the more you wish to learn, the more level the playing field. Novel areas of study require novel approaches, different types of minds and diverse backgrounds. So, if you are drawn to unproven ideas, chase them. You are just as limited as the rest of us.

1Kappe, R., van der Flier, H. Predicting academic success in higher education: what’s more important than being smart?. Eur J Psychol Educ 27, 605–619 (2012).

https://doi.org/10.1007/s10212-011-0099-9

THE EQUALITY OF THE FRONTIER WILL FERGUSON

Rainbow after the storm

by Kazi Tazwar Islam

(submitted photography)

Moon

by Jehanna Omega

The moon. She gives you company and comfort when the sun retires, when the air grows thin and pierces your skin. She guards you until your eyelids go heavy and she lingers when you rise with the sun. You watch the sky as time takes her away and you count the minutes until the sun takes refuge in the west. The sun burns and it blinds; it suffocates and makes the hours feel longer. The moon tells you to rest. She tells you to rid yourself of the worries that the sun has left behind in a trail of ambers and violets.

But the moon can be restless. She can keep you hostage. She will refuse to leave you in peace. She will engulf you in the navy blanket of the night and make you confess thoughts so dark they only uncover themselves once the sun departs. You'll toss and you'll turn under the soft light until she torments you to delirium and cradles you in her cold embrace.

But still, she stays. She does not drag you to the void only to abandon you. She confronts the void with you. She sits and listens. She wants to discover the parts of you that you keep buried from the daylight, what occupies your mind when you are left in solitude. Because the moon understands how lonely it can be when the world goes silent and the lights go off. When you serve to watch and protect but have no one to do the same for you. The moon will grasp you in her gentle radiance and keep you up with her because she needs you. She knows that she is the only one who can carry your secrets. The only one who can listen without judgment or pity when you wail in frustration and throw ugly sobs into your pillow. Sometimes you may curse at her for being so invasive, for stealing your slumber and driving you mad. But she gives you company and comfort when the sun retires, when the air grows thin and pierces your skin. Your moon.

swine book club

Did you know we run a monthly Book Club?

We meet on campus (Hawthorn) on the last Thursday of each month during semester.

For those who love books, want to love books, or just want to meet new people and eat free snacks—all are welcome.

Follow @swinebookclub on Instagram to stay up to date and find out what we are reading!

Swinburne’s

Sudden Writing competition

Submit your unpublished fiction, creative nonfiction, and hybrid forms of writing under 400 words for the chance to be published and

win $150!

Submit your submissions to: comms@ssu.org.au

Deadline: Sunday April 7th