ISSUE #11 by swine

CONTENTS

the day i shot a gun

12 one fine morning 16 hair ties and heartbreak 20 sores vampire the masquerade;

24 bloodlines

28 in memoriam 32 treats

Swine Issue #11 Published November 2016 www.swinemagazine.org Swine is published by the Swinburne Student Union Email us at advertising@media.ssu. org.au for advertising enquiries

film review: 10 Cloverfield Lane

film review: Tallulah

album reviews

sudoku, comics & origami

EDITORIAL

It’s the last SWINE for 2016! It seems like only yesterday that we watched our little baby zine hatch from an egg, and like a proud mama bird, we raised it, built it a nest, and regurgitated crushed insects into its mouth. This isn’t a perfect metaphor. It’s three years later, and SWINE has matured into a healthy, ‘culturally savvy’ peacock. And it obviously couldn’t have gotten to where it is now without you, the reader. The last thing we expected was for people to actually give a shit about our what we do, so, thanks. After everything that happened earlier with that men’s mental health group, we expect we’ve got a few more hate-readers this time around, so if you’re one of them, welcome! We’re sure you find some sort of satisfaction watching us all ship of into the inevitable blackness of the abyss. It’s actually been a bit of a bizarre semester around here at SWINE. Tons of things changing. We’re getting kicked out of our office while the SR Building undergoes some massive restructure, there’s a whole new team coming in to govern the Swinburne Student Union, so who knows what SWINE will manifest as in 2017, if at all. Sometimes all the weirdness makes you wonder why we did all this. Ultimately it’s just a strong belief that if one person learned something by getting their feelings out onto paper, or saw a pride in the eyes of their families and friends when they bounded through the door waving their article printed in an actual-paper-magazineythingy, that we’d done some good. But a generalised goodbye from SWINE didn’t really feel right, so we’ve gotten the team to write their piece below as one final send off. Thanks for reading, SWINE Student Magazine.

credits Grace Griffith Photography Columbia Winterton Writing Scott Renton Writing Alice de Valle Writing Savannah Ferguson Writing Jack Boffa Writing Ella Pace Writing Anthony Labonte Comics

SQUAD

Nick Kennedy

Pedro Cooray Managing Editor

Editor-in-Chief

When I got told I was to be in charge of SWINE I felt like someone had made a terrible mistake - and maybe they had - but I look back on what we produced over the past three years and I feel nothing but pride regardless. I’ve had the benefit in my life of having certain people support me in my endeavours; believe in my ideas and incubate my passion. SWINE became my attempt to do that same thing for those around me. Swinburne students are beautiful, interesting, fucking annoying, and endlessly worthwhile, so I’m glad that I got the chance to read their words, hear their ideas, piss them off, and have some sort of effect on them during my time at this silly little magazine. It’s been a time, so, thank you everyone.

Aaaaaaaaaahhhh! Who’da thunk that writing a couple of movie (sorry, FILM) reviews in early 2014 would accidentally lead to the breakneck multiverse of journalism. Over the past two years I infiltrated an underground board game ring, interviewed a member of the furry community, embarrassed myself in front of famous teenagers, wrote about hating online harassment (and got harassed online for it), made fun of my dad, and most importantly, I got to watch a ton of amazing movies for free. I’m gonna miss SWINE, and I hope it gets to continue on to 2017 and beyond. We aren’t the only opinionated weirdos at Swinburne; it’s time for someone else to have a go.

Josh Coates Lead Designer

Jared Berman

Promotions & Distribution Officer 5

This year I’ve had the huge pleasure of being the Lead Designer for SWINE. We’ve seen the magazine mature over the past few years till now and I’m eager to see the direction it heads next year. I’m not sure if this is a goodbye because of some recent controversy surrounding the SSU elections, but if it isn’t (fingers crossed) I’ll be continuing as Lead Designer. The magazine has brought many memories, both good and bad, and frankly too many to bother listing. But you can re-live those with us through our digitized copies available on issuu.com/ swinemagazine and our Facebook page. Cheers

When I was asked to join the union and contribute more than just a volunteer, my response was that I’d rather not. I just wanted to find another outlet to increase my portfolio of writing and find some way of combatting the apathy of students at Swinburne towards union politics. That last one has yet to be accomplished, and it will be a lengthy endeavour. I’ve really enjoyed my time with the SWINE, I’ve got a lot of experience out of it and learned loads about how to write and edit articles, fact check my content properly and the process of printing a magazine. I just wish it didn’t include carrying around so many heavy boxes. I’ll miss the team next year and the outlet it provided, I have faith that the next group of editors will be able to take our little zine to greater heights.

THE DAY I SHOT A GUN

By Pedro Cooray My left eyelid quivered as I pushed my cheek against the cold plastic edge of the stock. Cranking my neck on every axis, I managed to aim the crosshairs on my target. My elbows were already starting to hurt, which must’ve meant I was holding it wrong, but I didn’t know how to fix that. Green Beanie’s rules were doing incomplete laps inside my head, like TV static: ‘When the bolt handle is down, you don’t talk.’ ‘Count to 15 when you hear the-’ ‘You might hear a click.’ I inhaled. I was steady on the target. With my right hand, I pushed the bolt handle forward, and pulled it down. I quadruple-checked I was still aiming at the right target. I took half a second to notice how heavy the trigger is.

Thaththi (that’s “dad” if you don’t speak Sinhalese) was a soldier before I was born. He enlisted in the Air Force when he was 18, and spent his 20s in the midst of the Sri Lankan Civil War. He’s seen violence and death, been in fighter jets, participated in Ranger School, been around the world, and he gave it all up when he found out Ammi was pregnant with me. To compare, I am currently spending my 20s studying an arts degree, taking improv classes, and I have never had a job that’s required me to get out of my pyjamas.

‘I play a lot of videogames.’ I said. ‘I know snipers are long-range, shotguns are short-range, then there’s pistols, assault rif les, SMGs, rocket launchers…’ My sister and I always bonded over videogames. In Borderlands 2, she would usually climb a nearby tower carrying a sniper rif le, picking off unsuspecting bandits one by one, while I would charge in with assault rif les (one in each hand, obviously) to mow down the guys too fast for her to catch. I grew up knowing a lot about guns, without ever touching one in my life. Not that I ever wanted to. Growing up with Thaththi’s war stories made sure we would never forget the worst case scenarios of being careless with firearms. This assignment asked me to go out of my comfort zone, and operating non-virtual guns was as far out of it as I could go. When we first arrived, the only visible light was from inside the shooting range, and with no clear signs telling us where how to enter, we parked the car at the nearest curb and ambled cautiously towards the light. It was too dark to see what we were walking on, but judging by the sounds our shoes were making, it was mud, and judging by all the parked trucks, it was some kind of car park. Why park trucks in the mud? We didn’t stop to think about it.

And then I shot a gun for the first time in my life.

‘Exactly. So how do you know how sniper rif les work?’ asked Thaththi one day, as he was driving me home from the station.

The building appeared circular, even though it wasn’t; a blue hallway curving either side of me around what looked like a small football oval. A yellow line on the f loor divided the hallway into two territories: shooters and non-shooters. Along the inner wall were thin mattresses, on which men lined up on their stomachs, shooting rif les through a fence at targets on the other side of the grass. They just looked like blokes; untrained civilians. I looked around the hall and wondered how easy it would be for any of them to suddenly point those things at each other, or me, or Thaththi. This is enough for the essay, I remember thinking. We can go now.

‘Were you guys looking for a session?’ My legs betrayed me as I saw myself f loating closer to the stranger on the other side of the desk. He was an upbeat man, of Malaysian descent (I only know because our arrival interrupted a conversation with his coworker that ended with ‘Oh, so your brother’s Malaysian too, is he?’). ‘Uh, yeah. We were thinking of trying the rif les out.’ ‘Alright, that’ll be $46 each. You’ll each get a long rif le and 50 rounds. If you want more rounds, you can buy more for $10 after you’re done. First, I’m gonna ask you to give me one form of ID and I’ll get you your targets.’ We gave him our driver’s licenses. He smiled and disappeared behind a cabinet. ‘How much did he say?’ whispered Thaththi. ‘Fifteen rounds?’ ‘Fifty.’ ‘No!’ ‘Yeah.’ ‘And he asked if we wanted more?’ The Upbeat Man came back with our numbered targets – Thaththi was #14, I was #15 – and instructed us to take them to a man in a green beanie and f luorescent vest further down the hall. We left the desk slightly confused. Where were our guns? Where were our licenses?

‘Now, while the guns are down, you’re gonna walk out onto the field and place your targets. Make sure they’re in numbered order. Don’t worry, we won’t end the ceasefire until you get…MATE!’ Green Beanie’s voice reverberated down the hall. Thaththi was standing on the other side of the line, checking the height of the fence. ‘BEHIND THE LINE, MATE!’ I grabbed Thaththi’s arm and yanked him back to my side. He snorted; the first beat of a laugh he was too tired to finish. After we returned from stapling our targets to the stands, Green Beanie ran us through the basics with an unloaded rif le.

Green Beanie already saw us coming. He had a very commanding presence, like an old hawk. He didn’t bother with pleasantries. We were just newbies; in his eyes, he’d already met us a thousand times before. He didn’t care to know our names, and we never knew his. Nice guy, though.

‘Rest the barrel against the beam on the fence. Helps keep it steady.’ ‘When you are not shooting, the bolt handle will remain up. Only put it down when you are ready to shoot. When it is down, you do not talk.’ And then he got to the scary part.

‘First time here?’ ‘Yes.’ said Thaththi. I let him do all the talking. ‘Well, the first thing you need to do is walk out onto the field and stick your targets up on the wooden stands. In a few minutes, I’ll call a ceasefire, which means everyone has to stop shooting and stand behind the yellow line.’ He then called the ceasefire, which involves shouting a set of instructions: empty your current magazine, take it out, and stand behind the yellow line. He repeated it until everyone complied.

Don’t worry, we won’t end the ceasefire until you get…MATE!’

‘When we call a ceasefire, or when you are done using your firearm, you will take out the magazine and put the plastic f lag back in the chamber. This is to show everyone else that this rif le is not loaded or primed.

‘Now the most important thing is, sometimes, you might hear this.’ He pulled the trigger on the empty gun. Click. ‘Hearing a click usually means you need to reload, but sometimes, it means the casing is stuck in the barrel. If you hear a click, do not under any circumstances pull the trigger again, or raise the bolt handle. If you do, the casing will fall out of the barrel, and if it’s still active, it will explode and take you out, and whoever’s next to you.’ I wanted to go home. This was a mistake.

‘If you hear a click, you need to count to 15, and keep it aimed on the target. If the bullet is delayed it will shoot as normal. If you count to 15 and nothing happens, put your hand up and we will come to you.’ We went back to the counter, received our rif les, a matchbox full of bullets, and a magazine. We went back to the mattresses, did what Green Beanie said, and, yeah, I shot a gun. It was anticlimactic. There was no bang, no recoil. The shot definitely happened, but I wasn’t expecting such an emotional distance between it and me; it felt like I missed it. I was expecting rolling waves of ennui to wash over me as I contemplated the gravity of my- nope. I was just really glad I didn’t get a click on my first go. Besides, that was just the first bullet in the magazine. I had 49 more of the buggers to get through or else I’d wasted Thaththi’s money.

I pulled the bolt handle back up and out with the base of my palm, causing the shell casing to high-jump out of the chamber with a metallic ding and land on the corner of the mattress next to mine. I didn’t realise the simple act of popping the casing out was such a masculine power fantasy; I suddenly felt like a goddamn action hero. Inhale. Handle in. Handle down. Aim. Aim. Shoot. Exhale. That shot was a lot quicker than the last one. Handle up. Handle out. Back in. Back down. I inhaled. I’d lost count if I was on my third or fourth now. I should probably reload soon, I thought. I aim…I aim…I aim…I pull the trigger. Click. My body stopped moving. My brain turned to ice. I didn’t want to think, or I stopped thinking, or I forgot how to, I don’t know. Count to 15. I need to count to 15. I counted. 15. Nothing. My hand shot up. Green Beanie got on his knees. ‘You alright, mate?’ ‘I got a click. I counted to 15. Nothing happened.’

Reloading the magazine: I was aware of the concept, but in games, you just press a button and your character handles the rest

but I knew the protocol by then. I was less self-conscious to raise my hand. ‘Another problem?’ ‘It happened again. Sorry.’ I settled into the routine quite easily. Before I knew it, I had already shot more than half of my rounds. I looked over at Thaththi’s gun. It was sleeping on its side against the beam, with the f lag in its chamber. Thaththi was watching me with his chin on his fist, like a new dad watching his baby sleep. ‘What?’

‘Well, do you wanna pop the handle up and see?’ My breath was staggered. I planned my apology in advance: I’m so sorry your shoulder’s gone. It was my first time. I hope you understand.

There weren’t any bullets in it. I just emptied the magazine. That’s it. ‘Oh.’ I said, looking back at Green Beanie. He smiled and went back to his post before I could thank him. Relieved, I was faced with my next challenge of reloading the magazine. I was aware of the concept, but in games, you just press a button and your character handles the rest. I never actually knew what it entailed: individually pushing metal pills into a tight rubber box, five at a time, all facing the right direction, and making sure they don’t all bounce out onto the f loor. Being my first time, my first successful reload resulted in a lot of stray bullets around my elbows. The rest of my session was a lot less stressful. I got one or two more clicks,

‘Almost,’ I said, looking inside the matchbox. ‘I’ve got 5 left.’ After we were done, Green Beanie declared another ceasefire so we could retrieve our targets. Being almost 25 years since he’d last handled a gun, Thaththi’s shots were understandably scattered and imprecise. But growing up with videogames, I instinctively took the time to aim for the bullseye between every shot, assuming that was how everyone else did it. ‘Akalanka, look at yours! Well done.’ Only two of my shots were outside the 9-point circle. I still abhor shooting, and my anxiety was at its maximum the whole way through, but turns out, I’m really good at it. Thanks, Borderlands. We returned our guns to the Upbeat Man, retrieved our licenses, and walked back outside, into the night and the mud. We came across Green Beanie smoking a cigarette in front of one of the parked trucks. ‘Thank you!’ said Thaththi, shaking his hand. ‘Yeah, thanks.’ I said. ‘No worries mate,’ said Green Beanie, smiling. ‘See you next time.’ ‘Haha, definitely!’ I lied.

I pulled the handle, and chugged it open backwards. Nothing exploded, yet. I slowly craned over to see inside the chamber.

‘Nothing. Are you done?’

ONE FINE MORNING

By Columbia Winterton It was 6.47am and Kate was leaning against a cupboard in the kitchen. She twirled the phone charger chord with one hand. ‘You know what I think? There are two kinds of people in this world–’ ‘Sure I’ve said this before, but you need to hear it again. Two kinds of people - the reliable ones who return their library books by the due-back date, you know? And then, there are the likes of you, who don’t even bother returning a book. You’re the worst,’ she laughed, victorious and looked up as Steve fumbled through her bag for his keys. ‘Whatever, I saw that graphic design manual still sitting under your coffee table last Thursday!’ she continued. ‘How long has it been? Two years?’ She dropped the chord and knocked on the cupboard to get Steve’s attention.

He paused on cue and looked at her like he was in a TV commercial McCain’s snap-frozen peas - eyebrows sufficiently raised, mouth open just as sufficiently, head tilted at an angle which could be interpreted in multiple ways but hinted anticipation. ‘Nicole, hang on a sec,’ she whispered then lifted her chin up towards Steve. ‘Keys are in your navy linen jacket.’ She sent him an airkiss with a smack of her lips. His shoulders dropped and he saluted her. ‘You’re the best. Really!’ ‘Don’t forget dinner! 7.30!’ she called after him, not moving from her post against the cupboard.

‘My point is there might be some poor sucker waiting for the very book you haven’t returned. They’ll be waiting forever!’ she laughed again, generous and affectionate. The door banged shut after Steve. ‘I’m surprised – no, appalled – that you haven’t even been sent a fine – a reminder – in the very least.’ ‘Seriously now, Nic,’ Kate sighed and pulled out a stool at the kitchen bench. ‘What am I going to do?’ Soft f licks of rain arrived on the window as if to suggest that they were in on the conversation and of course, that they sympathised with Kate. Kate frowned and sighed again. ‘I just can’t get a serious discussion happening. I’m nearly forty. He’s closer to fifty. My parents are at me as well, and besides, I really want this.’ She picked up a lone chopstick lying on the bench and began tapping.

‘Of course I’m happy with just us.’ She slapped the chopstick back down on the bench. ‘It’s just that there isn’t that much of us. We rarely spend any time together. And I also want a baby, Nicole. I’m going loco with this…’ ‘You know what,’ she tossed the chopstick into the air. ‘You’re not helping!’ ‘Okay, okay. I’ll mention couple’s therapy again and see what he says this time.’ Kate slumped over the bench and propped her head up in one hand. ‘Maybe I should–.’ The front door burst open greeting the coat rack behind it with a thump. ‘Kay-ate?’ A high pitched screech bounced down the hall. ‘We just went to the market. Marv, hurry up!’

‘I’ve tried that. He’s just not ¬– his work is exciting enough. He’s happy with just us.’ She tapped her head with the chopstick.

The friction-scrunch sound of laden plastic bags along with heavy footsteps on waxed f loorboards began to move closer toward to the kitchen. Kate straightened up and waved a manic hand over the front of her shirt and loose hair around her face. Lorraine bustled in followed closely by Marv. ‘Kate, it’s just us.’ ‘Nic, see you tonight, okay,’ she said. She slid the phone across the bench towards the electricity socket. ‘You two are up early.’ With accomplished precision Marv and Lorraine dropped a dozen grocery bags on the f loor. ‘This isn’t early for us, darling heart.’ Lorraine eyed Kate then started to pack away the groceries. Marv clasped his hands together and stretched his arms behind his shoulders. Kate slumped back over the bench.

‘What’s wrong pumpkin?’ said Lorraine. Marv ruff led Kate’s hair and sat up on a bar stool next to her. Despite the f lurry functioning of Lorraine, she had a surprising measure of discernment and sensitivity to the feelings of others which, in a first or second encounter, might easily have gone unnoticed. Quite possibly Marv had capacity for even greater sensitivity though he considered it a hindrance more than anything. Fortunately, however, he was a patient man. ‘Before you answer,’ Lorraine sang, raising a hand in a bid for pause. ‘In an age of modernity…’ she plunged into the grocery bags, pulled out a box and held it up like it was gold at the Olympics. ‘We took the liberty of buying you another pregnancy test,’ she beamed. ‘It’s a three-pack!’ Kate jerked her head. She didn’t even know that there were three-pack pregnancy tests. Marv lowered his gaze. ‘Well…’ he started to pick at his shirt button. ‘It was your idea, Lorraine.’ He regarded Kate for a moment then focussed on the window.

‘We took the liberty of buying you another pregnancy test,’ she beamed. ‘It’s a three-pack!’

‘You’ve just won yourself a major grant and you’re stuffed in this pigeon hole? It gets smaller each time I come past.’ He shook his head, smiling. ‘Marv, don’t you start. How about a cup of tea. Kate?’ Lorraine reached over to the stove and grabbed the kettle. ‘Sure, mum.’

‘Are you. What does this one involve?’ ‘Well you’re not allowed to have any caffeine, for starters.’ ‘Steveeey!! Well done sir!’ Steve looked up from behind the piles of books and paper that commandeered most of his desk. The only free space available was a spot for a small laptop. One day, Steve hoped to upgrade to a bigger office so he could fit in a bookcase, nothing too grand or pretentious. In the meantime, he would have been happy to have had some shelves secured onto the wall. Tom had a hand outstretched across the door.

‘You won! You. Won. You’re bloody brilliant. That’s what you are!’ ‘No way… I thought, for sure, they’d think the proposal was ludicrous. This is brilliant!’ Steve leaned back into his chair and swivelled left and right, stroking the cardboard cup. ‘Who did you hear it from? Wait why are you telling me?’ His wonder became a frown and he sat up. ‘Woah, woah, woah. Hold on big guy,’ Tom mimed a slow-motion KungFu move. ‘So. I’m walking past the Dean’s office this morning, overheard your name, then overheard the grant mentioned and so I knocked on the door. Cut a short story short, I persuaded them to let me give you the letter personally rather than have them post it.’ He moved into the office, taking a few steps forward, and handed Steve an envelope. ‘By decree,’ he bowed. Steve unfolded an arm to accept the envelope, smiled a halfsmile half-sniff at it. ‘Dinner tonight, right?’ Tom scanned the office. ‘There’s not even room for another chair in here.’

‘I’ll have peppermint tea if there is any,’ Marv said. ‘I’m starting a new health plan,’ he turned to Kate.

‘We won?’ Steve picked up a takeaway coffee cup from off the f loor.

HAIR TIES AND HEARTBREAK

By Scott Renton I always found it weird that people could attach an emotional value to an inanimate object. You know, like how your Dad really loves this plain, black leather belt because he bought it while he was holidaying in Europe years ago. Or how your sister has a â&#x20AC;&#x2DC;lucky rockâ&#x20AC;&#x2122; she found on the beach that she keeps because it supposedly brings her good fortune. My friend was wearing a pair of socks when he lost his virginity, and now he displays them on his bookshelf. I tried to throw them out once without him noticing, as a joke, and he got very angry at me.

I don’t think animals are capable of attaching emotions to objects. It’s a weird thing, but it’s a human thing I guess it’s because these objects evoke a sense of feeling. The feeling is what makes us become attached to the object. We don’t become attached to stuff we’re indifferent to. Your Dad loves that belt because it gives him a sense of nostalgia. Your sister loves that rock because it makes her feel lucky, and therefore privileged, at least to a degree. Fucked if I know what those socks do for my friend though. Maybe a weird sense of pride, or something.

// When I was in high school I had a massive crush on this girl in one of my classes. I used to sit next to her and ask to borrow a ruler or something as an excuse to talk to her. Pretty slick, I know. One time I asked for a rubber and she responded with “But you’re writing in pen”. Before I could sputter out a panicked response, she smiled and told me I was funny and I managed to keep the ball rolling from there.

Our ability to attach feelings to objects and become emotionally invested in a rock is kinda what makes us human, I think. It separates us from animals. Shows us that we have a conscience that reaches beyond the boundaries of instinct. To make my point clearer, a dog might be very fond of a blanket. This dog sleeps with the blanket every night. He won’t sleep without it. The dog doesn’t love the blanket because it makes him feel something, he just likes it because it’s soft and is comfortable to lie on. I don’t think animals are capable of attaching emotions to objects. It’s a weird thing, but it’s a human thing. //

I think everyone thought they were in love at some point during their early teens

We started to hang out after school. I would cut the grass and wash my parent’s (already clean) cars to raise enough pocket money for food and a movie for us. As time went by I grew more and more fond of her. I could tell she liked me, too. I really liked her at the time. I think everyone thought they were in love at some point during their early teens. Really it was just the first time my hormones were active enough for me to feel anything significant towards a girl. It still felt real while it was happening, though. It’s funny to think about how I would have handled myself differently if I knew there was a testosterone-fueled orgy happening inside me at the time. That’s beside the point, in any case.

One night after school we were eating ice cream (vanilla) and I asked her if she was my girlfriend. She looked at me and said, “Yeah, I think I am. Are you my boyfriend?” This shouldn’t have taken me by surprise, but it did a little. Before I answered, I untied a bracelet on my wrist and took it off. It was one of those colourful thread bracelets that you get in stalls in South-East Asia. I picked it up on a family trip when I was 6 years old. I had the time of my life on that trip, and the bracelet reminded me of it, so it meant a lot to me. Sewn into the bracelet were the words ‘Surf’s Up, Dude’. I don’t even surf. I tied it round her wrist and said, “Yeah, I guess so,” a little too casually. She blushed slightly and said she didn’t have anything for me. She thought for a moment, then took her hair tie out and handed it to me. “You can wear this, if you like.”

I wore the shit out of that hair tie. Every day I had it on. I slept with it on, I showered with it on, I wore it on my wrist at school. I felt somewhat exposed without my bracelet, but the hair tie made up for this. It was such a mundane item but I placed so much value in it. It was a light blue/green colour. Surf green, I guess you’d call it. The same colour as a green Fender Jaguar, one of the coolest guitars on the planet. I liked that about it. I also liked that it reminded me of my girlfriend, and by this point in time I was so smitten that I’d convinced myself that she must be an angel, or something. Your mind works in mysterious ways during puberty. //

She certainly wasn’t an angel, but I’m still not convinced she’s human.

// A few months went by. An interesting few months. Trying new things, awkward experiences, the usual teenage stuff. We were sitting together on a Friday after school, waiting for her Mum to pick her up. We weren’t really talking, but it was a comfortable silence. She broke it when she said “I don’t think I can be your girlfriend anymore.” I let go of her hand. “Oh,” I said, somewhat taken aback, “How come?” She started untying my bracelet. “I think I like someone else and that’s not really fair on you,” At least she was honest. Relationships are simple during your teenage years. “That’s okay, I guess.” I said, “It makes sense.” I was pretty sad, but I still hadn’t fully processed what was happening. She held out my bracelet. “I guess you’ll want this back then,” I didn’t open my hand, so she placed the bracelet on my lap. Her Mum arrived and she got up to leave. “Hang on,” I started after her, “You’ll probably want this then.” I held her hair tie out in front of me at arms length, feeling it wouldn’t be appropriate to come any closer. She looked at me, quite blankly, “Well, no.” She said, “It’s just a hair tie.” I guess she was right. It was just a hair tie.

SORES

By Alice de Valle

Drugs played no hand in your incessant picking. You’re not an addict of that nature. The sores are a product of heightened anxiety, that’s what they tell you. You suppose that the psychiatrist was right… you do feel anxious quite often, sometimes so severely that it feels as though your lungs may burst under the erratic breathing you find impossible to control. The psychiatrist had encouraged you to divulge what you believed made you so nervous. The question was obviously designed to offer insight into possible situations you should avoid, so as to lessen your anxiety. You pondered the answer until the psychiatrist placed their clammy palm over your now blood stained fingers, suggesting that perhaps you could postpone your answer until the next session. You had been distractedly eyeing bumps and spots on your skin, idly picking at the ones that bothered you most.

Your co-workers suspect that you’re involved in some form of methamphetamine abuse. Every day the inf lamed holes in your arms deepen and widen; you rarely allow them enough time to close over and heal. Sleeves are little help both in hiding the sores and preventing further mutilation of your own f lesh. If the sleeves are too tight to roll back, you eventually press hard enough through the material to lift fresh scabs and accumulate more crimson stains to the ever growing collection in your wardrobe.

An arctic breeze snakes its way under the locked door of your apartment, with it, the stale smell of dust, damp plaster and unwashed dishes is carried. You cringe at the disarray that lurks behind f laking walls, think of all the times you begged yourself to do something about it, but failed to muster the motivation to do so, and reluctantly twist the door handle, dragging it shut behind you like the cold, hinged bars of a prison cell.

Evenings are spent in miserable isolation, your life an endured, unwilling routine of nightly solitary confinement. You yourself are not loveless, you feel love, though it has been beaten into a dark corner that you struggle to reach. It was impressed upon you at a young age that the love you felt was abnormal, alien, an illness in need of curing in order for you to be ‘normal’. You can’t hold eye contact or a casual conversation for fear of implying romantic or sexual intent, they know you’re different, perhaps it’s the way you dress, your posture or tone of voice. Perhaps they can smell your apprehension in the sweat pooling on your itchy skin. Dwelling on it nauseates you, you shake the thoughts from your mind. Heavy rain pelts the small window of your cluttered room, it creates a blurry blanket of water intensifying the feeling of entrapment stirring inside you. The night drags on, sleep is a foreign concept. With the rising sun, there is no reprieve from the incessant downpour, grey clouds only darken further and swell with the charge of an oncoming storm. Within the depths of unwashed clothes and unopened bills, you hear the echo of a telephone you almost never use. The shrill ringing cuts off and a robotic voice prompts the caller to leave a message. Your mother’s voice follows a beep; she repeats the usual drawl:

“It’s Mum. We’re worried. Are you still working? We need to talk about when you’re going back to university. Love you. Bye.” You struggle to find any sincerity in her concern, the words are the same poorly scripted, impassive lines she delivers every month or so. Never in your life has she expressed genuine love, not towards you or anyone but herself. You wonder why she ever gave birth. A black cross marks your calendar, branding today as your last. It is as unremarkable as any other day, you collect and push trollies around a busy carpark, the thin f luorescent uniform offers little protection from winter’s sharp winds. People avoid you all day, you suppose it’s the sores or your tired complexion. Your dejected countenance isn’t questioned; no one suspects your thoughts. 23

Thunder cracks, bringing heavy rain at the close of your shift. When you arrive home, your clothes are drenched. Peeling them off, you sit bare skinned on your bed beside a tupperware container of hoarded medication. Acid chews at the pills churning in your stomach. Your vision blurs. Knives twist in your abdomen. Your whole body screams. You can’t breathe. Darkness devours you. There is only nothing. Throbbing pain pulls you out of a deep sleep, crusted vomit clings to your skin. Your boss’s voice berates you on the answering machine, “Your shift was covered; next time you might not be so lucky.”

A black cross marks your calendar, branding today as your last

VAMPIRE THE MASQUERADE; BLOODLINES a love affair

By Savannah Ferguson

Released in 2004 by Troika Games, VtMB has not aged well. In fact, like a sad millennial, it looks like it was made in the 90’s. It’ll have you suffering through glitches, clunky combat, disappearing characters, atrocious animations and near constant crashes, so without the unofficial (but officially endorsed) fan patch, it’s practically unplayable. Yet more than a decade after its release, a passionate community still works diligently upon the same blueprint. Why? The story is simple. You are turned and know nothing of what you are. You’re told vampires have one rule; do not break the ‘Masquerade’ by revealing yourself to mortals. Then, the game throws you into its backstabbing, gritty political world. With vampires, ghosts, werewolves, mages and even zombies at one point, you rarely run out of things to explore in this rich, but dangerous reimagining of Los Angeles.

Vampire the Masquerade. A roleplaying game, terrible TV show, a few spin off books, and one of my most valued games, Vampire the Masquerade: Bloodlines— or for brevity, VtMB.

It’s not just that I love this game, it’s that I’ve never played anything like it in digital form.

Y’know, you’re probably thinking ‘I get it. You’re a fanboy. It’s an old game with a story you love but badly made and not actually that good. You’ve got a nostalgia thing for this like the rest of us do for Zelda.’ ‘Cept, I wasn’t introduced to any of this till much later. In 2012 I found myself suddenly immersed in this amazing game, much more interesting than anything Dungeons and Dragons had given me.

It’s not just that I love this game, it’s that I’ve never played anything like it in digital form. It’s incredibly faithful to its base roleplaying material, and with 8 playable kinds of vampire clans for you to choose, this is where it really shines. In the usual RPG scenario where you can choose your race, the expectation is that only your stats and appearance will change, but with VtMB it’s so much more in-depth. For one clan, The Malkavians, or the ‘Incurably Insane’, every single line of dialog is altered for this. I mean, every line. From the character dialog (seemingly inane utterings) to the random chatter of TVs suddenly accusing you of murder, the Malks are a completely different game. Each clan has their own particular difference like this that changes the experience in its own unique way. The creators put just as much love and dedication towards level development too. Constantly bustling with townsfolk just going about their lives, filled with mortals and super-naturals alike, L.A. feels dirty and grimy in all the best ways. If you think for a minute this game takes itself seriously, you’ve got another thing coming. It plays out like a convoluted roleplaying campaign run by your best mates who all take turns running a session.

From reuniting surfers in love to the most terrifying ‘haunted house’ level in any video game I’ve ever played, VtMB has so many changes in pacing direction that just feels so true to what RPG’s should be giving you. Choice to be a freak. Choice to be a white collar citizen. Choice to explore dense worlds filled with as many messed up things as you can imagine. Choices to stand against authority, or with it. Not just how most RPG’s work – like getting a nice answer, a mean one, and a funny one that all lead to the same result. VtMB is the closest to the literal definition of ‘roleplaying game’ that I’ve ever encountered; and roleplaying is cheesy as all hell. Find me a roleplaying campaign that takes itself completely seriously and I will show you dull role-players.

VtMB is one of the few games that doesn’t make me feel old. It’s endured into a younger gamer generation, always managing to seem older than I am, despite my obvious vampire immortality. No one else has been able to make a game like this, is because it’s the perfect mix of dirt, pervasion, choice to be filthy and old 80’s goth aesthetics that combine to make the cheesiest, proudest RPG ever made.

And over a decade on, we’re still talking about it. The fan patch is still constantly updated, mods are still being run, letsplays are still being made and obviously, reviews are still being written. Because when we want an immersive, hearty roleplaying experience, we only have one play to turn to. Years on, I’m still discovering things, still working my way through the Clans.

IN MEMORIAM

a tribute to Australian music festivals that didnâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t make it

By Jack Boffa The Australian music festival scene has been particularly precarious in the past few years. As the market became saturated with new festival after new festival, sadly punters chose to stop spending their money on tickets. As a result, we’ve seen a large number of festivals, many of them fairly iconic, cease to exist as of late. It’s sad when a music festival dies and becomes nothing but a memory; a hazy, alcohol filled, sun soaked memory. That being said, I think it’s good to remember, as a means of recalling our music festival roots and reliving the glory days of live music in Australia. Here’s some last words and some memories for a few music festivals that sadly, didn’t make it.

Big Day Out

How could I not start with one of the biggest music festivals Australia has ever seen? Born in Sydney in 1992, Big Day Out quickly became one of the most significant annual festivals in Australia, expanding its reach to three other states in only its second year running. It managed to attract some of the biggest acts around at the time, with Nirvana being one of the first bands to ever headline. They were booked just before their explosion in popularity and still garnered a crowd of around 10,000 people. The following years saw more and more huge acts signing on, including Sonic Youth, The Ramones, Rage Against the Machine and Nine Inch Nails. The line-up grew bigger each year, as it moved to two new locations, including Auckland (who were often snubbed of a good portion of the line-up). Furthermore, the festival was a great place to showcase Australian talent, and was one of the performances where Silverchair first gathered big attention. Big Day out lasted until 2014, where it was put on hiatus indefinitely shortly after it was purchased by AJ Maddah. There’s been rumours of replacements and revivals but so far, nothing has come about. I’ll forever be regretting my first and only Big Day Out in 2013, since Death Grips and Animal Collective were both on the line-up and I managed to see neither.

Future Music Festival

Soundwave

Probably one of the biggest festivals that Australia had just after Big Day Out, Soundwave shares a very similar story in both its life and death. Originally held in Perth in 2004 and titled ‘Gravity Soundwave’, it was a celebration of harder acts than other festivals, from metal, to punk, to pop punk. Good Charlotte were the first band to headline when the festival was held in Perth. Three years later the festival spread to Brisbane and Sydney and soon after to Melbourne and Adelaide. The festival was held around February and March, which could be seen as a reason for its downfall, being so close to Big Day Out. It’s hard to justify the huge prices for a single festival, let alone two in as many months. Still, Soundwave ran strongly for 11 years having headline acts such as The Offspring, Faith No More, Iron Maiden and Metallica. My first Soundwave experience was 2011, where a few friends and I skipped school to go to the festival. I managed to see Queens of the Stone Age for the first time and, a little know Canadian band called Fucked Up. We went to see them because of the funny name (I was 16) and ended up walking away with one of the best live experiences of my life. The lead singer, Damian Abraham, moshed in the crowd through his entire set and at the end I walked away with one of the drummer’s drumsticks. In its last year, Soundwave was split over two days but it didn’t help. Ticket sales were poor and it was cancelled by AJ Maddah in December of that same year. I always had a sort of fascination with Future, as I could never really tell who it was for. It seemed to me like a strange mashup of Stereosonic and Big Day Out. I mean, in 2013, The Stone Roses and Bloc Party played alongside Timmy Trumpet and Hardwell. Still, the festival had a decent run over 9 years, born in Sydney in 2006. Much like Big Day Out and Soundwave, the festival quickly spread to other cities throughout Australia, and even made it to Kuala Lumpur in 2012 and 2013. Initially showcasing techno and dance acts, featuring David Guetta,

Harvest Festival

Armin Van Buuren and Sneaky Sound System in its first year, the festival eventually broadened its scope to include more rap and alternative acts. As stated before, I always found it hard to determine who the festival’s target audience was. For example, in 2013, PSY performed at the festival, on the back of his hugely popular YouTube video, Gangnam Style, which he reportedly performed twice throughout his set. A month after the 2015 iteration of the festival, it was cancelled, apparently due to debt. 2015 was a real cursed year for Australian music festivals.

Harvest Festival was never as big as any of the other festivals I’ve discussed here, but I feel like it still deserves a mention. Lasting only two years and cancelled during its third, Harvest was held in Melbourne, Sydney and Brisbane and consistently had a fantastic line-up. In 2011, its first year running, Harvest booked The Flaming Lips, Portishead and The National all on the same bill. Impressive for the first iteration of a festival. In the following two years, acts such as Beck, Grizzly Bear and even Dexys Midnight Runners were featured acts. I think I was always the most keen to see Harvest’s line-up each year more than others, considering how big the acts were for what was a significantly smaller festival in scale. Sadly in 2013, Harvest Festival was cancelled by AJ Maddah (there’s a definite pattern here). Unlike the other festivals discussed, Harvest was cancelled before its iteration for the year had even run. Ticket sales were poor and the festival, sadly, couldn’t be saved.

TREATS

By Ella Pace 10 Cloverfield Lane is a thriller directed by Dan Trachtenberg and produced by J.J. Abrams’ cinematic production house Bad Robot. A ‘spiritual sequel’ to Cloverfield (2008), 10 Cloverfield Lane takes the grandiose sci-fi apocalypse plot of its predecessor and condenses it into something unique. This film saw its cinematic release back in March of this year, and was not only financially successful, but received virtually perfect reviews. I made a few predictions regarding this film when I first saw it, including that it would obtain traction come awards season, but also that it would find its place on my top ten favourite films of 2016. Since then, I have added a few films to my list, but 10 Cloverfield Lane still maintains its place.

10 Cloverfield Lane sees Michelle (Mary Elizabeth Winstead) involved in a car accident, which leads to her detainment in an underground bunker by Howard (John Goodman) as well as a second bunk(er)-mate, Emmett (John Gallagher Jr.). Although the men inform Michelle that everyone above the ground are likely dead due to a chemical attack, Michelle still suspects that there are other, more sinister reasons for her capture. I went into 10 Cloverfield Lane expecting (and hoping) for some answers to the ending of Cloverfield which had us all guessing (“it’s still alive”). Although I did not receive any of these answers, I was surprised and delighted with what was delivered through 10 Cloverfield Lane. Though Trachtenberg’s directional debut touched on many genres of cinema including horror, drama, sci-fi and mystery, 10 Cloverfield Lane is a pure thriller. And I would gladly choose this film over a pure sequel to Cloverfield.

REVIEW: 10 CLOVERFIELD LANE

one of my favourite things about 10 Cloverfield Lane is that it is told from the perspective of a female character

Unlike Marion Crane, however, upon her capture and subsequent transition into life in the bunker, Michelle perseveres (spoilers for Psycho) with intelligence. It had been a long time since, as a fan of the horror/thriller genre, I had seen a character with such calculated decision making skills. In the climate of irrational, terror-wracked characters (usually female), it was really refreshing to see Michelle, as a character, survive and even succeed in this world. Visually, 10 Cloverfield Lane is stunning. With no natural light, each scene is penetrated with a succinct mood, following the narrative through scenes of intensity, as if each small f licker of the f lorescent light ticks the audience into a new level of suspense. As the camera moves around the bunker from scene to scene, we as the audience feel as though we know the f loorplan of the bunker as well as Michelle does.

10 Cloverfield Lane is one of the more suspenseful films that I had seen in a while. Essentially devoid of blood and gore (save for one scene), the film relies on tension created through technical elements such as sound and editing. There is one particular scene, in which Michelle has to crawl through a closed-space vent, I was so physically uncomfortable in the cinema that I had my hands clapped over my ears.

Speaking of Michelle, one of my favourite things about 10 Cloverfield Lane is that it is told from the perspective of a female character. At the beginning of the narrative, we know nothing about Michelle, only that she is leaving her home, and fiancée, behind (film secret—Michelle’s fiancée is voiced by Bradley Cooper). In many ways, Michelle’s character is very much like Marion Crane in Alfred Hitchcock’s Psycho (1960), in that the audience is forced to guess their backstories and position, usually resulting in audiences involuntarily placing a bit of themselves into a character. For Michelle, this action from audiences is almost crucial. It assists us in aligning with Michelle’s perspective, even without knowing much of her backstory.

Spoiler alert: Michelle was fine. But with the combination of the beautifully edited sound design and the high emotional stakes for the character, I had a lot of trouble viewing that scene (perhaps because of my own discomfort of small spaces, which I brought into my own understanding of Michelle).

10 Cloverfield Lane is unique, because it seems like it would fit in with the smaller-budget thrillers, but then Michelle goes outside (spoiler) and our expectations are entirely subverted. 10 Cloverfield Lane is really something. It is completely unpredictable in terms of its plot, which it definitely uses to its advantage to create palpable tension and resolution. I am completely satisfied with being unsatisfied. 10 Cloverfield Lane is now on Blu-Ray and DVD 4.5/5

I must also quickly touch John Goodman’s performance. Predominantly type-cast into jolly, edgy characters usually written by the likes of the Coen Brothers, John Goodman certainly brings a degree of this lighter spirit to his character Howard. And this spirit is absolutely vital, as it completely contrasts the other, more sinister side of Howard. Goodman embeds fear into the audience, which then dissipates leading us, like Michelle to trust Howard. It is when the plot turns and Howard reveals his true colours that we, with Michelle identify the sinister truth about what lies on the surface outside. This is really one of Goodman’s best performances, and I will be cheering him on come awards season.

This year has been absolutely filled to the brim with great horror/thrillers. Of course, you have your obligatory franchise films akin to Conjuring 2, but we’ve also received smaller-budget gems such as The Witch and Don’t Breathe which seem to be breaking the mould of horror, utilising genuine suspense rather than blood/guts/goo or single-POV-style (looking at you, The Visit) which is now so boring.

By Ella Pace

REVIEW: TALLULAH

After losing by her boyfriend, Tallulah’s (Ellen Page) impulsivity carries her into difficult circumstances with a kidnapped baby and wouldbe mother-in-law (Allison Janney). Written and directed by Sian Heder, Tallulah premiered at Sundance Film Festival – a fact which is evident upon viewing, as it has that distinctive indie darling vibe that is prominent in Sundance’s movies, some of the alltime highlights including Little Miss Sunshine, Juno and Like Crazy.

Tallulah feels very female, which is certainly refreshing. As it is from the perspective of Lu, as well as being directed and written by a woman, it feels familiar in terms of its depiction of a distinctly female experience. Still all too scarce in the sea of male perspectives in film. Tallulah is a total demonstration of the recesses of human emotion, and where the darkness can take us when we are alone. It is incredibly insightful and introduces us to Lu immediately with her f laws and insecurities. Every action, however detrimental, is understandable for us as the audience, because it is informed by our knowledge of the characters. And at times, Lu is infuriating â&#x20AC;&#x201C; a trait held by almost every other character in the film â&#x20AC;&#x201C; but we are forced to look, and to understand how and why characters have found themselves in these terrible situations.

The highlights of this film are the tremendous performances. Ellen Page as Lu is only amplified by Allison Janney as Margo. Also demonstrated in the few scenes they shared together in Juno, they have tremendous chemistry, that is based on obvious mutual trust and respect. I truly hope they make more content together. Tammy Blanchard and Uzo Aduba are also remarkable, especially in their scenes together.

Tallulah is a total demonstration of the recesses of human emotion

At the heart of this movie is a true manifestation of what love does to a person, and what happens when that love is taken away. Tallulah is certainly not a feel-good, easy watch. But its messages about love and love lost hits hard and true, showing us the nature of what it is to love, especially as only a mother can. Tallulah is on Netf lix. 4/5

Tallulah is really a story about motherhood, an experience that Lu first dismisses and comes to understand. But as she begins to know what it is to both be a mother and to have one, Lu adapts and canâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;t let go of what she has found.

ALBUM REVIEWS

Warpaint Heads Up Rough Trade Find it on: Spotify

By Jack Boffa Warpaint’s third record, Heads Up, covers a lot of different genres and exhibits a number of different inf luences. It’s what makes it such a listening experience, as you’re taken from sound to sound with each passing track. It’s somewhat surprising how well the album works as a whole, considering how different tracks can sound from one another. The second track on the album, By Your Side, sounds somewhat dark and industrial right from the beginning, warranting a comparison to a band like Tool. Immediately after, the track New Song is significantly contrasting; much more upbeat and poppy. The blend of sounds simply works throughout the entirety of the album. The vocals, being the constant throughout, are consistently solid and always manage to work with everything that they’re paired up with. Heads Up is an ethereal sort of trip to listen to, and perhaps the bands best work to date.

Mac Miller By Jack Boffa

The Divine Feminine REMember/Warner Bros

It’s been interesting to follow Mac Miller throughout his career, noting how his sound has changed pretty significantly. His fourth record, The Divine Feminine, is maybe best described as ‘jazz rap’, interestingly different to the ‘frat rap’ he has been described for in the past. The beats on this record are, for the most part, fantastic. Dang!, featuring vocals from Anderson .Paak is smooth and soulful, blending trumpets and guitars f luently, paired with vocals from both Miller and Paak. It’s probably the records best track, followed by other tracks with collaborators, such as Cinderalla (featuring Ty Dolla $ign) and God Is Fair, Sexy Nasty (featuring Kendrick Lamar). The latter track especially benefits from Lamar’s verses, perhaps at times overshadowing Miller. The lyrical content is fairly sexual, which honestly becomes grating at times. There’s nothing wrong with sexuality as a theme for art, but there’s only so many times you can listen to Miller talk about ‘opening your legs’ before it gets a bit old. Still, most of the tracks are worth a listen if not just for the notion of jazz and rap mixed together.

Find it on: Spotify

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issue 11, November