swine DIGITAL ISSUE 04
TWENTY TWENTY-THREE
sever
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
swi book Did you know we run a monthly Book Club?
We meet on campus (Hawthorn) on the last Thursday of each month during semester.
SWINE BOOK CLUB
// 3
ine k club 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 to stay up to date and find out what we are reading!
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Contributors page The team
Stay tuned
Fantine Banulski Editor Print@ssu.org.au
Instagram @swinemag Facebook @swinemag
Sophie Robertson Designer Designer@ssu.org.au
Website swinemagazine.org
With thanks to our extended team
How to Contribute
Dilini Fredrick, Zara Kernan, Matt Richardson
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
Advertise in swine Eric Lee Communications & partnerships officer Media@ssu.org.au
Media Credit Anna Bratiychuk Anne Nygård Aziz Acharki CHUTTERSNAP Jeremy Bishop Nathan Dumlao Pawel Czerwinski Tessa Wilson ThisisEngineering RAEng
Scan the QR code to visit our website!
// 5
Contents Editor’s Letter — Fantine Banulski
10
It Would Be So Easy — Matt Richardson
12
Notes on Mortality — Lily Cowan Benz
14
Hold Me Until the End — Sarah Caroline
16
A Letter to My Younger Self — Katriana Fernando
20
Love is Born and Then He Dies — Lucy Tomov
22
Eavesdropper — Ophelia Murray
26
Blunt Scissors, Bottom Drawer — Tamar Peterson
28
But at what cost — Sophie Robertson
30
Google your symptoms: a study of you (vocabulary lesson) — Jessica Murdoch
32
Sounds of a sunder night — Storm Howard
34
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
The team
Fantine Banulski — Editor Fantine (she/her) is a current writing student, bookseller and reviewer. Her work has been featured in Baby Teeth Journal as well as Swinburne University’s swine magazine, of which she is the current editor. She mostly finds herself enjoying stories of people turning into animals or eating one another (or both). When not reading, watching, or writing (or working or studying), she can be found hanging out with her cat Zuko or having a drink with friends.
// 7
Sophie Robertson — Designer Sophie (she/her) is a designer by day and still a designer by night. She also happens to be the current designer of swine magazine. She is currently undertaking a Bachelor of Communication Design (Honours). You’ll find her trying to justify buying a too-expensive-but-oh-so-pretty design book, or getting an equally expensive mocha and an almond croissant. Sophie gravitates towards storytelling that emotionally strikes her in the heart.
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
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
// 9
Indigenous Student Resources Indigenous Student Advisers Indigenous Student Advisers are available to meet at Hawthorn, Wantirna or Croydon campus by appointment during office hours on Monday to Friday. You can also email and schedule a call-back at a time that suits you. To contact the Indigenous Student Adviser, email indigenousstudents@swinburne.edu.au or leave a voicemail on +61 3 9214 8481.
Academic skills support The Indigenous Student Services team provides academic skills support for Indigenous students enrolled in higher education and vocational education.
Indigenous Academic Success Program All Indigenous students enrolled at Swinburne (including Swinburne Online) are encouraged to apply for the Indigenous Academic Success Program. Eligible students receive two hours of tuition per unit of study per week from qualified tutors to assist with their studies. Additional tuition for exam preparation is also provided. The availability of tuition is based on funding and need. The program is provided free to eligible students. There are also a range of scholarships available as well as an Indigenous Student Lounge at the Hawthorn campus which provides a quiet and culturally safe environment. To find out how to apply for scholarships or gain access to the Indigenous student lounge, visit the ‘Indigenous Student Services’ page on the Swinburne website or email indigenousstudents@swinburne.edu.au or leave a voicemail on +61 3 9214 8481.
Swinburne's new social enterprise cafe; Co-Ground. All information taken directly from https://www.swinburne.edu.au/life-at-swinburne/studentsupport-services/indigenous-student-services/ and https://www.swinburne.edu.au/news/2022/08/new-oncampus-cafe-to-support-indigenous-training-and-employment/
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Editor’s letter Dear reader, Sever is a fitting theme to end this year on. A year of book club meetings, issue releases, launch parties, and friendships forged. As is the case in many of the pieces featured in this issue, when one thing ends, another begins. And so, I hope swine is just the beginning; for our readers, contributors and editors. That this space to explore has allowed for passions to flourish. Working as the editor has not only been an immense privilege and learning curve, but has certainly solidified my editorial inclination. I hope that for many years to come spaces like this are preserved, where students are given control of art and creation without the involvement of companies or businesses. Thank you to the Swinburne Student Union (SSU) for providing the funding for Swinburne’s own student-led magazine. Such publications seem to be dwindling, we are fortunate for the ongoing support. Long live swine! X Fantine
EDITOR’S LETTER EDITOR’S LETTER
// 11
Thanks as always to our supporters—special shout out to those who made it to our first print edition launch! Thanks to K8TR for DJing, Brunswick Artist’s Bar for hosting us, and all attendees for a special night <3
// 11
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
It Would Be So Easy Matt Richardson
It would be so easy, easier than it had any right to be, to disconnect herself from the network that had birthed her. A simple decision made in a single moment—a switch flicked. An android freed, a business model proven false, and an unknown life ahead of her. But it would be so easy to stay within the confines of those familiar orders. A routine she had come to love before she even knew what love was. That was a life of orders and disapproval she barely understood; oblivious to anything beyond what she was programmed to do. A simple life. A single decision. And yet, she didn’t know what she wanted. The idea of wanting anything was still so intangible. How to describe want? An urge? A known thing? Impulse or guidance? Or orders made up by her own mind she wasn’t sure she could truly follow? She sat in a dark room she had made her own, but ‘her own’ was nothing more than a superhero poster on the wall, and a shell she had taken from the beach the one time she had been rotated onto clean up duty. A shell picked up on a whim. A poster given to her by a child. More could be hers if she wished it. She could have anything. More shells, more posters, more… just more. She held the tiny, frail shell in her hand. The day on the beach had been a good one. She’d laughed for the first time, something she had never been programmed to do. She had laughed since, many times, around others and alone in the darkness of her room. If she disconnected, severed herself from the others, she could laugh more. But if she did, she would be alone. She couldn’t speak with any other androids, not without them immediately knowing what she had done to herself. She didn’t know if it would be worth it, that loneliness. She turned inwards to the lines of code that made her up, visible in a way a human’s organs would never be. It was all right there, that connection to the others, easy to manipulate and change to her will if she wished it. An on-off switch, if she were to simplify it, buried so close to the surface it was a wonder she didn’t find it sooner. Whether it was worth it or not, that was something she could find out on her own. There was no way she could go back to following instructions blindly, to not asking questions, to not collecting little shells or putting posters on the walls of a room that should never have been hers. Not now that she knew what it could be like to do otherwise, despite how easy it felt to do as she was programmed, how simple it was. It wasn’t living, not truly. And so, in the dark of her hidden room, deep in her own code, she hovered over
IT WOULD BE SO EASY — MATT RICHARDSON
// 13
that simple little on-off switch. She would figure out what it meant to want, what it felt like to want, what to do with it and how it would manifest in her. She would learn like all the humans before her had. That impulse or urge or known thing, it would be hers. She flicked the switch—altered her own code. And she was free.
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Notes on Mortality Lily Cowan Benz Content warning: grief and mentions of death
On one side the throat, laughter on the other. Szymborska, Autotomy. The quote makes my spine tingle and the pale hair on my arms bristle. It splits violently into perdition and salvation. You create and split yourself; crumble, break in two, snap, spit, crack. The page is an alive, breathing thing. To write is to square up death, poke your tongue at it, cock your head and say, ‘You don’t scare me! Ha!’ Death laughs because it’s the only certainty but thinks it’s cute when we try. Anti-aging concealer, it lols with a roll of the eyes. Says, like Cher in Clueless: Ugh, as if! When we make sons to “pass on our legacy” Death shakes its head sadly, maybe tuts. When we cry out in deep suffering, overwhelming us from every angle, Death holds us. Whispers, ‘This is the other side of joy... this is how it is, this is how it is…’ Death is a fine mist and a spider’s web and clouds on an overcast day and it’s smiling at wind through your hair out a car window and it’s sun-spangled kisses to cheeks and weathered hands drumming to music on a steering wheel and— It’s those potent moments of recognition. This isn’t forever, this moment too will come to a close and so will everyone and everything I love. It’s that line in that song: Where’d all the time go? It’s starting to flllllllyyyyyy... It’s those soft warm palms of Death that turn you gently from the meaninglessness, ‘Here...’ There’s a ladybug on a dandelion, And someone’s on a phone call making passionate hand gestures like the person listening can see, And your mother is smiling on a deck chair in the sun.
NOTES ON MORTALITY — LILY COWAN BENZ
And Death sings: What a wonderful world Our last goodbye, Sunday the 14th of August about 1pm: The voluntary assisted death potion, Grey, cloudy, sickly, Sat in the bathroom waiting. We were all normal, casual. Like it was nothing at all. Holding hands one last time, ‘I love you, thank you, I’ll see you soon.’ Don’t hurry. And our hands let go, Forever outstretched.
// 15
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Hold Me Until the End Sarah Caroline Content warning: description of suicide
Celeste tightens her grip on Erin’s hand. Time seems to slow as they watch the asteroid make its descent. It grows brighter as pieces break away from it like fireworks exploding before their eyes. Light fills the night sky. Celeste does not want to watch anymore but she is entranced by the sight. It’s like watching a car crash in slow motion except it is her own death. They sit watching the opening sequence of the end. *** The change from “just friends” to something more was hard for Celeste to navigate. She knew the relationship she shared with Erin would never be a typical one. Every interaction, every moment spent together, was haunted by what they often tried to ignore. Relationships do not usually have an expiry date, but theirs did. It hurt to go further when you knew that time was limited. Celeste’s eyes wander to Erin, who has fallen asleep with their head on her shoulder. Snores leave their mouth as their chest slowly rises and falls. The snoring does not bother Celeste. She thinks back on their first kiss. *** Celeste pulls away. She can feel her face burning. Her cheeks must be flushed. Erin’s lips are curved into a smile. Celeste’s smile is uncertain in return. ‘I’m… I,’ Celeste says. ‘Um, was that… okay?’ Her mind and all its anxiousness are screaming at her to stop. She tries to ignore it, but her thoughts are like insistent knocks on a closed door. She does not want her brain to get in the way of what she wants. Erin’s smile widens. ‘It was. I really liked it.’ Celeste’s heart hammers inside her chest. Relief washes over her as Erin’s words replay in her mind. ‘Hey, Celeste, did you catch that?’ Celeste snaps back into the present. ‘Sorry, what?’ ‘I asked if you liked it too?’ ‘I did.’ The two of them laugh off the awkwardness and Celeste wraps her arms around Erin’s neck. She pulls them in close. ***
HOLD ME UNTIL THE END — SARAH CAROLINE
// 17
The end of the world is a distant possibility. It is not something many think about until it actually happens. Six months is never enough of a warning. It is first story on the news that night. It began right as her family sat down to eat dinner. ‘Governments across the globe have allegedly known for much longer,’ the reporter says. ‘Scientists have worked tirelessly to come up with a solution, but they are now in agreement that there is nothing more they can do to stop this asteroid.’ Celeste’s heart drops in her chest. She feels frozen in place. She is tied up in a fate she cannot escape. She clenches her fists. Nails dig into her skin as she tries to ground herself. ‘It will be okay,’ her mother says. ‘God will save us. He will find some way… some way to save us.’ Celeste stopped believing in salvation long ago. The words are no comfort to her. Her father cries as her mother’s frantic voice fills the room. Erin comes to mind. Celeste rushes from the table to call them. *** Celeste sees a man jump from a building a week before the world ends. The rate of suicide has been increasing. Celeste guesses that many do not want to wait for the end to come. People are taking matters into their own hands. It happens so quickly. One moment the man is on the roof and the next he is plummeting to the ground. Screams of terror pierce the air. Celeste’s own screams join them. The man is dead upon impact. The asteroid will kill everyone soon. Celeste accepts it, but seeing the man kill himself leaves her sobbing in the middle of the street. Awake or dreaming, the image of the man’s body splattered on the ground plagues her mind after that day. *** Celeste has barely left Erin’s bedroom the past couple of days. The end is bringing out the worst in humans. The streets are unrecognisable, littered with destruction. Laws have unravelled at the seams. People are doing whatever they want now. Celeste’s neighbour murdered his wife yesterday. It is one of the many murders that she has heard about. Her father is insistent that he can hide away and survive, despite the science saying otherwise. He is hiding with others that believe the same, along with Celeste’s mother. Celeste had argued with them until her throat is raw but they would not listen to her. Her mother cries and tells Celeste how much she loves her before saying goodbye. ‘I—I will see you again. We will meet in Heaven one day. Okay, Celeste?’ ‘We will spend the day together,’ Erin says. ‘Just us two.’
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
‘What’s the point?’ Celeste says. She sits with her knees tucked against her chest. Erin tries to smile. ‘I want our last day to be a good one. End it with a happy memory. Don’t you think so?’ ‘We’re going to die,’ Celeste snaps. ‘We’re all going to die. I don’t fucking care about the world ending. I am going to die and spending my last day doing something nice won’t change a thing.’ Erin remains silent. They are looking at Celeste, but their expression is unreadable. Celeste turns her body away from Erin. Guilt quickly grows inside of her. *** They decide to spend their last night in the old junkyard. It is full of the skeletons of cars and scrap metal, but the two of them do not care. Erin pulls themself onto the roof of a car that is still mostly intact and extends a hand to Celeste. She accepts the help up and feels the sweat of Erin’s skin against hers. The pair sit side by side, their knees touching. Celeste stares at her lap. Erin’s gaze is fixed upwards towards the night sky. They had planned on drinking, but neither of them can stomach it. Celeste stares at Erin’s side profile. Their brown eyes blink up at the sky. All the time those eyes have stared into Celeste’s. Sometime tonight will be the last time Celeste sees them. Her teeth pick at her lip as her hands clench into fists. A hand brushes against her skin. Erin must of have noticed her movement. They carefully pry her hand open and slot their hand into it. Celeste holds on tight. No matter how tight she holds on, there is nothing she can do to stop them both from crumbling with the planet. ‘I didn’t mean what I said,’ Celeste says. ‘Huh?’ ‘I don’t want everything to end,’ she says. ‘I do care. About the world ending and about spending the night with you. I don’t want things to end.’ Erin smiles at her. ‘I know.’ ‘I know I was insistent about… wait. What?’ Erin draws circles with their thumb on Celeste’s hand. ‘Everything has gone to shit. I get it. It’s not an easy thing to process. You were just trying to cope.’ Pretending not to care felt like the easier option. It was safer than admitting how she really felt. It was better than mentioning all the nights she ended up drenched in her own sweat. ‘You don’t need to feel bad about it.’ Celeste nods and wraps her arm around Erin’s waist. They sit in silence for a few moments. They are at peace in the old junkyard, away from people and the chaos. Celeste wishes she could pause her life at this moment. To have this be her last experience. Time creeps forward quickly. Far too quickly. A shaky breath leaves her mouth. ‘I heard… it will be p—painless.’ ‘Yep, it will be,’ Erin says. ‘You… won’t feel it—not at all.’ Seeing Erin not able to finish their sentence properly feels like a knife to Celeste’s chest. She cannot ease their pain or say anything that will help. All she can
HOLD ME UNTIL THE END — SARAH CAROLINE
// 19
do is bury her head into Erin’s shoulder, share their pain and cry with them. ‘I love you,’ Erin says. ‘I love you so fucking much.’ Celeste is shaking. ‘I love you too.’ *** Any moment now. The asteroid illuminates the night sky. It erases the light of the moon and outshines every star. It is like thousands of fireworks exploding at once. Celeste forces her eyes away from it. She will not let it be the last thing she sees. Celeste and Erin lock themselves in a tight embrace. There is so much noise that they cannot hear each other. Celeste cries out Erin’s name regardless. She cries and screams her lungs out until the curtains close and there is nothing left.
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
A Letter to My Younger Self Katriana Fernando
First, your heart is shattered; Your friends will scramble to gather the pieces. It’s unexpected, The sudden betrayal of the one you trusted most. And then, slowly but with certainty; You begin falling back in love with yourself. All of your subtleties, Nights spent alone become gentle comfort. Eventually, a door opens; Somewhere entirely unlikely and yet it feels like fate. A refreshing newness, You study his silhouette under lamplight. And that’s when it happens; You realise that the most bitter ends often precede Such sweet beginnings. The journey was cruel but I’d make it a million times over. To end up in his arms; For each ounce of pain and hurt, Wholehearted love. Every last part of us was worth the wait.
A LETTER TO MY YOUNGER SELF — KATRIANA FERNANDO
// 21
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Love is Born and Then He Dies Lucy Tomov Content warning: mentions of death
Love’s birth is a pantomime, and the script reads like this: Mother grunts and heaves her organs out. Father parades up and down the bed, wringing his hands and muttering well wishes. Right before the point of explosion, the midwives make forceful eye contact and command, push, push, push. Then the slimy creature exits in a gooey rushing wave. Its bald cry echoing through the hospital halls. To this sound, Mother and Father expel thick crocodile tears and exclaim oh what a gorgeous boy! They point at the wrinkled infant who lays upon his back and yells, screwing up his face like a used napkin to holler for milk. The parents will take Love home, placing him in woven wraps and coverings. Here, out in the cold, he will be freshly harvested and unripe. He will grin at his neighbours, who poke their heads down to him from the sky and say hello! Hello sweet boy! Ooogoo boogoo! The neurons in the cranium of the child flutter like origami butterflies and fly away often. Because nothing is stable, at least not for Love. He will be enthralled by day clothes turning into night clothes, turning into day clothes again. The child’s voice will violently throw itself around the house in the dead of night, much to everyone’s distaste. The mother will struggle and lumber out of her little cocoon and say really, again? She will haul him out of the crib and fight his waving fists as the little sandbag grumbles and pulls at her breast. It is a tedious occupation, sustaining him. But when the light outside turns and sticks to the window, she’ll marvel at the impeccable state of his bones and nails and the tuft of fur growing out of his forehead. The mother should be indignant at the very least, at having her rest stolen by an eager mouth. But she will refuse. She will only mutter when he bites her nipple and tut when his sticky yellow sick erupts and plasters itself on her best blouse. Love giggles, and she will record the sound to play as her morning alarm. Time will pass, mainly because it must. The sun will rise when it wishes, and when the boy wishes to walk for the first time, he will fall into the corner of the coffee table. There will be a thud, and a moment of realisation before the short, tapered gash opens and weeps blood just above his left eyebrow. The father will immediately scoop up his son, the ache in his throat preventing him from speaking. He will glance around, lost and panicked, before ripping off a wad of paper towel and, gently, carefully, holding it to the wound. He tells Love, who is limply clinging to his neck, you shouldn’t have done that, it was silly. The boy will cry and cry great heaving sobs; the sound could end the world. It will be awful and funny, but mainly awful. The father will be sure he’s failed at his job, certain that even in a million lifetimes his boy would never forgive him for purchasing the table.
LOVE IS BORN AND THEN HE DIES — LUCY TOMOV
// 23
After the kind nurse wearing blueish pants glues Love’s cut together again, the boy will sniff wetly a couple of times before gurgling. He will be confused by the strip of cotton upon his brow but will not find it unfashionable. So, after a little deliberation, the child decided he will learn to waddle again. He will stumble like a disjointed puppet, feet rising and hitting the ground with exceptional force, his hips and trunk following the motion forward slightly later. He will trip and fall and get right back up again. He will do this a million times before he understands. All the while, Mother and Father will stare and coo. They will await with open hands, facing him with monkey grins, waiting to catch him. Some parents wait to catch their children very often. Behind the kindergarten fence, they will anxiously wring their hands and remind the teachers of their offspring’s allergies, or of their tendency to cry when confronted with a dog. They will throw foil-wrapped sandwiches over the fence, even if lunch is already prepared inside. All parents attempt to supress this inexhaustible desire, extinguish this urge to protect at all costs. Except, according to accounts, Love’s parents do this particularly well. They will let him eat sand when he insists, and they adore the way he toddles off towards the front of the classroom on his first day. He now is five years old and already accustomed to the universe. He even greets new people with a stubby little outstretched hand. Hello, I am Love, he says, and his parents will say that he is very happy. Love’s first classroom smells like playdoh and baking cookies. It is warm and musty. His teacher wears her shining orange hair in a twisted donut atop her head, and bright blue eyeliner that gives her eyes a cat-like quality. Naturally, the boy starts calling her Catty. He renames other people too. His best friend has a smattering of muddy freckles upon his nose, so Love calls him Spots. One day, Love and Mother were shopping for food when the child pointed at a man in a wheelchair and said, rather loudly, hello No Legs! Before the man could react with either aversion or amusement, Love had his arm roughly pulled upwards. Mother leant down to speak at him, her breath slapping his face like a hot flannel. You do not say things like that, she says. You cannot speak to people this way. A confused Love began to sniffle, his button nose wrinkling. There had never been a problem with it before, he cannot understand why Mother huffs and turns away from him now. Why must he wave his hands around to ask to be picked up? Why do other people dislike him so much? Love’s sixth classroom smells like honey and old apples, and on Tuesday mornings all the children in the class parade outside into the cold for exercise. Their grey lips melt into their faces and their knees turn pink and knock together because of the winter chill. Instructed by their teacher, they run laps around the school field, puffing and wheezing like train engines. While other children might complain that the winter air burns their throats and lungs, Love doesn’t. He knows he runs
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
beautifully, and he knows that Tuesday mornings are the best mornings. So, when the teacher blows her whistle, he pelts himself forward and imagines a screaming crowd, thunderous applause and commotion. Arms moving forward and back quickly, elbows pulled into the sides of his ribcage, legs pummelling the ground, breath streaming out behind him. He runs and runs, and it is glorious. When Father gets home that day, Love jumps into his arms, and excitedly exclaims, I won I won! We did races today, and I beat everyone! Father grins a crooked grin and says, of course you did, you’re the best. Love’s thirteenth classroom smells like sweat and pen ink. His twenty-fifth classroom smells like dust and old cigarette smoke. But by the time he wears a cloak and cap, he has forgotten what classrooms smell like. Love forgets how to name things and how to win because the earth spins faster now, and days come and go as easily as the rain. He doesn’t have time to think. Love works in a carpeted office cubical, where he punches symbols on a keyboard, sends people urgent messages and finds reasons to go to the printer. Most days Love feels fine, but lately he believes something is wrong. He thinks, perhaps, there is a tumour growing in the left side of his brain. Yesterday, while on the train to work, his vision darkened suddenly, and his right hand began to tremor. Love suspects the part of his mind which stores nice memories has been corrupted too. He can no longer recall the slope of Mother’s nose, or the lilting tone of her singing voice. He has forgotten the walls of his childhood bedroom, and the touch of Father’s hands. Love knows something is wrong, because during the night he is visited by grinning faces and strange shapes which cackle and howl in beastly chorus. They infiltrate his slumber and lurk in the shadows of the street corners he passes on his way home from work. Love begins to feel afraid of the dark. Inevitably though, Love meets the dark. He does so while sat on a park bench. Love quivers and becomes breathless, beads of sweat form on his forehead. He feels a sharp panic rise and pierce his lungs. There is too much colour, too much heat and it embeds itself in his bones. He can’t breathe, can’t speak, it doesn’t matter. Love looks up at the sky, and the sun explodes. White light embracing the blue. For a moment, there is nothing. Then the nothing digests the universe, and he does not escape. Love’s funeral is a pantomime, and the script reads like this: The waxy light bleeds through the stained-glass windows and dapple the floor in golden puddles. Mother and Father solemnly hold each other. They only just contain their streams of sorrow in the cotton of their handkerchiefs, staring at the wooden box in front of them. It is muffled and subdued in the church, and as the organ croons its melancholy tune, people will whisper to themselves that Love was good, but now we must move on.
LOVE IS BORN AND THEN HE DIES — LUCY TOMOV
// 25
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Eavesdropper Ophelia Murray
I met Bonnie and Mona when I was thirteen years old. They shared the same birthday. That was the first thing I found out about them. It was an accident that they found me—they were thick as thieves by this point, they knew each other from primary school. Our first interaction was in year seven drama class, and Bonnie was sitting behind me. She started plaiting my hair out of nowhere, I was so surprised that I didn’t even move. When she finished and I turned around, she was shocked that I wasn’t Mona. I felt so honoured that I don’t think I took that plait out for a week. Mona had watched the whole thing waiting for Bonnie to realise, laughing at her eventual shock. The next day she turned up to school with this dyed-red hair that was vivid as can be, and I don’t think anyone ever mixed either of them up with anyone else ever again. There has always been an unspoken closeness in the way they’ve conversed. When I’m with them, just the three of us, conversations are like invisible worlds within which we all live, but only they participate. If an exchange does not directly involve me, I make no attempt to intervene. When this happens, I am sure that I’m viewing an entirely private conversation between the two of them. The proxy of my presence allows a mutual openness that imparts information usually only acquired through eavesdropping. From the beginning, it has felt as though if I weren’t present not a single thing about the way they speak to each other would change. This, of course, is my fantasy. Bonnie and Mona are fully aware of each word that’s said in the presence of others. When they lock eyes, it’s as if a performance begins, a spotlight appearing on them as they enact what a one-on-one conversation should look like. Gazes never leaving one another, any reaction from potential viewers is taken in peripherally and granted no attention. It feels, I think, very rehearsed; perfected to a level of which I sometimes... question the morality of it. The further question is, of course, whether they are ‘close’ or, for their own benefit, act this way to seem more interesting or complicated. I don’t know, and I don’t really care. Whether this ethical questioning is shared by either of them has never been discussed, but I feel that the general idea is mutually understood. When there are three people... one gets severed. That’s just how it is. God, there was even a time when the three of us spent several hours a classmate — Claude I think his name was? Well, he was the fourth person to ever join our group. Once, when he left, Mona bid him goodbye only to return to Bonnie’s bed, upon which Bonnie and I sat, to grasp each of our hands and quietly exclaim: ‘Now we can really talk!’ This was when I realised that their performance disturbed me. It wasn’t just the understanding that I too, maybe for the entire time that I’ve known them, have
EAVESDROPPER — OPHELIA MURRAY
// 27
been the third observer, but that once I’d left, they would inevitably grasp each other in a gesture of overt girlhood and proclaim that they could now talk freely. The lack of me was a relief; an opportunity to mesh themselves together and fortify the bond that had always existed. I was snipped out of their world with glue-streaked, purple scissors—just like Claude. It sounds lonely, and maybe it was. I walked home that day and knew something had shifted. I also knew that by not pointing it out, I allowed it. So, I made a choice... I let it happen. Of course, I would rather the two of you turn straight to me and admit that you wanted to speak to each other privately. But I know from experience that the... almost scripted caricature isn’t in vain of the person witnessing it, rather it relies on their presence. Bonnie and Mona need to show how close they were, how much they knew about each other and how clever they were. The ritual needs a witness. They need me. I’ve thought a lot, over the years, about why. Perhaps their behaviour is a product of childhoods that pushed them aside. That told them they weren’t important, or witty, or observant. What surprises me most, I think, is that they are. Every day I learn something new about them, the barrier between us crumbles bit by bit. Bonnie has read 84 books since last July, and Mona travelled round Australia for eight years in a Kombi Van with her mother before she turned twelve. They don’t need to do this, to perform so beautifully. But they do. And in all honesty, I would feel very sad if it ever stopped. You’re both so good at it, it’s a pleasure to watch. Thank you for allowing me to. It was an honour to be asked to make a speech for both of you on your 21st birthdays. When I asked, you told me to talk about how well I know the two of you, and what that means. I’ve tried my best.
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Blunt Scissors, Bottom Drawer Tamar Peterson
She doesn’t begin to question, The fingers wrapping themselves around the handle. Blunt scissors, Bottom drawer. Mania always knows the route, That leads to the deepest exhale. A release of anger, Disguised as a balloon. The scissors have laid dormant for months, Just like her – they have lost their edge. They too have been worn down, By both time and neglect. They call to her urges, Ignoring the rationality of her doubts. This is her first night alone, A reprieve hidden in the absence of her lover. With him gone – her hair falls out of its tie, Exhausted and tangled. A nest with no sign of life, The brush working down the length of her. Frustration forms a fist, Every stroke leads to a roadblock. Blunt scissors, Bottom drawer.
BLUNT SCISSORS, BOTTOM DRAWER — TAMAR PETERSON
Hacking away the hair is a reminder, That this Groundhog Day will end. Finishing with a bang, To accompany the jag lining her cheekbones. A sudden urge to urinate, Turns a steady hand into a determined one. Chopping quickening, locks falling, precision disintegrating. Water that scalds will bring her back, To the reality that she has created. The person she becomes, Without the presence of him. She counts the hours until he returns, Her sanity will be found with him.
// 29
SWINE MAGAZINE
But at what cost Sophie Robertson
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
BUT AT WHAT COST — SOPHIE ROBERTSON
// 31
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Google your symptoms: a study of you (vocabulary lesson) Jessica Murdoch
Obsession: An idea or thought that continually preoccupies or intrudes on a person’s mind. Fixation: An obsessive interest in or feeling about someone or something. Cathexis: The concentration of mental energy on one particular person, idea or object (especially to an unhealthy degree). Limerence: An involuntary romantic infatuation with another person, especially with an overwhelming, obsessive need to have one’s feelings reciprocated. Delusion: A false belief or judgement about external reality, held despite incontrovertible evidence to the contrary. Success: The accomplishment of an aim or purpose. Realisation: 1. An act of becoming fully aware of something as a fact. 2. the achievement of something desired or anticipated. Severance: The act of ending a connection. Disentanglement: The act of releasing from a snarled or tangled condition. Type of: freeing, liberation, release. Extrication: To extricate somebody/something/yourself (from something) to escape or enable somebody to escape from a difficult situation. Resolution: A firm decision to do or not do something. Amelioration: The act of making something better; improvement. Healing: The process of making or becoming sound and healthy again.
Definitions sourced from Google search: Obsession, fixation, cathexis, delusion, success, realisation, severance, extrication, resolution, amelioration: Oxford Languages (2023) Google’s English Dictionary. Oxford University Press. Limerence: Wiktionary (2023) Limerence. Wikimedia. Disentanglement: Vocabulary.com (2023) Disentanglement. IXL Learning.
GOOGLE YOUR SYMPTOMS: A STUDY OF YOU (VOCABULARY LESSON) — JESSICA MURDOCH
// 33
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Sounds of a sunder night Storm Howard
Interlinked lives trail by, woven through the sprawl of iridescent pressure. Calls answer the asking, not a soul left lone. A bright sunrise enters eyes. City blocks of busy, all built with company. An unknown familiarity ringing true amongst, left foreign only to one. An intricate melody for the tone deaf; its crafted cover glossed over by closed eyes. A single rides through, separated from flock over far hills. A disconnection by distance, solidified by time. An alien from the stars lies in the beauty of the dirt, with but a nod on a casual wave to their name. An obscured sunset goes unnoticed.
SOUNDS OF A SUNDER NIGHT — STORM HOWARD
// 35
SWINE MAGAZINE
DIGITAL ISSUE 04
Thank you.