Issuu

ACKNOWLEDGEMENT OF COUNTRY

The Bulpadok

committee

and its

contributors

acknowledge

and

pay respect

to the Traditional

Owners of the land, the Wurundj eri Woi-wurrung peoples

of the Kulin nation that

this work was produced

on.

Bulpadok

is committed

reconciliation acknowledges

and

that sovereignty

was never ceded and that we continue

to work and live on stolen land .

BULPADOK

COMMITTEE

Editors-in-Chief

Lakotah Avenell-Martin Issy Hunt

Editors

Olivia Aquino 2

James Hills Holly Klose Arabella

Langdon

Lara Nelson

Designers

Eden Blake Ellie Hauge Sarah Rylands Lara Nelson With special

thanks to

Michael Pickering Mim Moran

CONTRIBUTORS Visual Art

Short Fiction

Sam Cameron

Mim Banks

Chris Cao

Tabitha Chamberlain

Issy Hunt

Jamie Hang

Stella Iacono

James Hills

Rome J owett-Crociani

Roy McNab

Lara Nelson

Bella Morgan Shelby Suter

PoetrY-

Lakotah Avenell-Martin

Music

Evie Grace

Angus Dillon

Charlotte

Grimwade

Jamie Hang

James Lao Isabella

Smallwood

Ellie Ilkiw Sammy Johnston

ScreennlaY-

Kathryn

James Hills

Mcinerney

Roy McNab PhotogranhY-

Lukas Andrews Sophie Clarke Issy Hunt Sapphire

McCracken

Oli Wilson

Mimi Koczkar

.E..u..3.YBilly Chen Shine Lin Publisher

E-Plot Printing

Solutions

Visual Art ........ .

Poetry

.......... .

. ........ 30

Photography

Short-

. ................

...................

.................

134

Fiction

Music ..... .

Screenplay

..............................................................

Essay ......................................................................

140

160

T MJXED MEDlA, PHOTOGRAPHS, ARCHIVAL PRINT, CHARCOAL PE CIL, OIL PAS' •

Con1inuing the Iheme of connec1ion 10 place. lbcsc mixed media works utilise poclr)I 10 bold, in rc,·erence, my personal conncclion 10 1becity of Florence, lbc halian language, and my beloved !ale grandfather. In the work pictured on the lefi and top right, I have inscribed the poem, written by my grandpa and which he asked to be read at hi funeral. within the river of Florence - highlighting hi significant encouragement of my pas ion for Italian. Underneath the skyline of ew York. I have inscribed 1hcpoem thal I wrole in Italian for my grandpa close 10 1hetime of his passing. and which I wu lucky lo share with him when he was alive. I am drawn to the idea of maps as not jusl navigational, but as hislory of an individual' identiiy- of both their love and lo .

In this portfolio, I wa1,1tedto reflect on my vibrant life in the States, particularly growing up and learning to draw in New Jersey. I wanted to show my progression to this new city through the way I capture its iconic, quiet, and colorful moments.

Chris Cao

Instagram: @caobeef

Fruit Platter - Coloured Pencils

Scarlet Macaw - Water Colours

BOODJURA (Fire Sticks) explores fire as both destruction and creation. Inspired by Indigenous cultural burning practices, the work reflects my personal and cultural connection to land, renewal, and balance. Layered textures, scorched surfaces, and earthy pigments symbolise resilience and the cycle of damage leading to growth. The process involved experimental burning, layering, and rebuilding to mirror how Country regenerates after fire. BOODJURA invites viewers to reconsider fire not as purely destructive, but as a necessary force that clears, heals, and allows new life to emerge.

Rome JowettCrociani

(Yuin peop es) 18

Double sided canvas reflecting Fire and Life, the movement from cultural burning to cause natural regeneration. Currently being exhibited in the NGV for Top Arts 2026 in Fed Square. 19

This pamtmg celebrates female empowerment via the Chinese Philosophy of holistic health as represented by the balancing forces of Yin and Yang and explores the mind/body connection. It depicts myself as the representation of the mind (Yin) and my friend Liv as the body (Yang). The curvilinear form of the two girls entwined is an homage to the Yin/Yang symbol and the colour green represents vitality. I have been greatly influenced by the linear style of early Chinese and Japanese ink works.

Melanies Pledge 41cm x 51cm 2024 Acrylic on Canvas

This portrait of entrepreneur Melanie Perkins, examines the notion of wealth. Perkins has committed to donating most of her $9 billion fortune to charity. Melanie's wealth has provided her with the freedom to express her empowerment on her own terms. I have been inspired by Pablo Picasso's early Fauvist works and have attempted to capture the es ence of Melanie's spiritual' wealth. My colour palette is in tribute to Picasso's Prussian Blue and his quote "When I haven't any blue, I use red". 22

Hn &

Yang

46cm x 61cm 2024 Acrylic on Canvas

This work has been inspired by Sandro Botticelli's Renaissance masterpiece "The Birth of Venus". It is an exploration of feminine beauty from a revised 21st Century viewpoint. The portrait traverses the concept of female empowerment and the rejection of

patriarchally imposed expectations of female beauty. The representation of Venus's face, minus her body, returns the power to the beauty of the mind, as exemplified by the colour red and the beauty of the soul, as exemplified by the colour gold.

Bearing witness to human connection to place through the tracing of the palm with map lines, this work is an homage to the New York town in which I grew up and its significant impact on my sense of self. l wish to illustrate place as so significant to my personal identity, that it has, in a sense, projected itself onto - or become a part ofmy physicality.

T MEDIUM, PIIOTOGRAPIIY EDITEDUSl G PHOTOSHOP

_2:5uff~~<:r' Sam Cameron

Graphiteonpaper

Where

have

all the stars Ko,ie::>

We washed the sky with artificial light and watched the stars swirl away down the kitchen sink.

•

The stars are lost to the multitude of blinding beams we smear into the night, human noise screaming into every corner of the sky. The city stole the stars, caught them with flood lights, ensnared them in streetlights, laid them on waves of LEDs, which carried them off to the far reaches of the universe By Evie

Grace

About the Author: Evie is a Melbourne-based poet who loves to write ecopoetry, which deals with humanity's relationship with the natural world.

"This poem refers to one of the effects of artificial light pollution, that anthropogenic lights prevent the visibility of stars - this is something I've particularly noticed since moving to Melbourne. "

1, Jfl not an arr; 81 _ stories are strung out, And hung on empty walls yetI'm not an artist. They 're accomplished and Talented -so I'm not an artist

Their stride is effortless unique and stern. You know, you just know they are an artist. Even still I paint my veins in the stori spilling blood for a story though still I'm not an artist.

ffluddled

ripping th proce ed-mu tard loop to keep . ou tead omething compel ou to lift our grain gaze from our phone . a gentleman He i like wine nowftake tuft cling to Hi bead . ou can picture Him forty ear ago: thick, dark hair and hazel kin unrefined like ou He gra p the ugl chool-uniformed-hued loop e es pale and groggy lo t in a pa t lo e th eat are filled opportunity hop clothing clad oung adult 34

th look ... like. ou

the don t offer Him a at neither mandarin nor green the don t ee Him, unlike ou or p rhap the do but don t peak. neither do ou

wh our e e roll and ou neer - ou don t know thi man but wh won't the budge! wh won t they mo c for thi grandfather? this on? i n t that what ou re uppo d to do? 34

thi i new to ou ou e onl been here a few weeks all you know i the touri t tram from home that through the intercom outline the hi tory of. our country town tho e eat aren t candied mandarin or di hwa hing liquid green 35

ou want to peak to Him but the word don t come ou don t. know. thi man. He dido t a k ou to feel for Him ma be thi i all in our head are ou making it all up? ma be He ha judged OU

too. ma. b he like it maybe he like it ju t fine! maybehe lik it ju t fine

amm John ton

home

is the place

created: a collection

by Lakotah

I push back because

Sol

I worry

that if I don't we' 11 merge that every

into one misstep

you make

to my dismay is everything

that I am capable

new year and new house and new us and I thought

that seemed

encouraging

enough

but it's

like the mirror

that I just

bought

the salvage

shop

golden distorted

from

on the outside and

washed

out on the inside

inverted

and

fractured

and

rough

- my reflection 36

looks

like yours

diamonds the most expensive my grandmother

thing ever gave me

fl at

pressed

down like three

between

the pages

flowers

of a book

put me in her wedding veil and gown

rewrite

the narrative

until

you can see where

begins

and ends

rises,

ebbs

truth

becomes

less conical;

stretched

out like liquid

it melds

into me

- the fabric

it spirals molten

from which

I am torn

you went overseas staring

and I found

myself

out into the abyss

wondering if the ocean

you were looking

over was the

same as mine stirred

still

rugged

and

cut into the earth

where

the clouds

above

the hills

eating

away at what's

left

of the place

I knew well

the Great

Ocean

Road

the curves

I remembered

tangled

racetrack

tracing

the ground

as a child

parted

colours

map

rp, ► ~

z ~ (ll

~ 0

:,,;--

cr-

::s '-<

I looked

for it in every

city

and pity swept through

when I realised youth - I'm a woman now but I still think of you(th)

was gone

in the palms

green

and contrast dying

with the day

as the moon surfaced; and I said into the air, breathless take me home with my gold hair,

red dress

make magic with the stars

in my bed

upcrpo!t;tion worldnwa from comfort and n.~t wh •reslori •are heard braid :d lhc \ aimakariri en l'g_\ is natural, all al pc ce y l. and) l m>·ju\' 'nil branch ·} arn to grow up nd OUt\\ townrru the. un rcan.L,hi h abow p •rlrnp,, wh •n wing begin to

rru

unt

th e r until utterly unpinn :d llontin with ambition ifonl • th • wut • \ 'Cl'l' ' n to land on wh n the wa.~yields

how to stay afloat whc • lei 11

mall

n my, ready

to f

r •

an uli •n 1,1c • art from

nh 1w.,·hu r. till I d nd. d

nd,

dl•pth •n\' •I 11, olid horn horn

I ti•ll awu • long ago

as I sink and rise w • lh ·rin a\\a Mme top Um ;wing ofth • pendulum moonli

no Ion too pin

•

comfort uidinx m

Elle: Although I am a biomedicine student, I have always resonated with language as an art form. From the toddler stage I have loved to use the 'wrong' word to describe an object (I like to think it was poetic); from using the word 'far' to describe a plane to 'happy' for a fish. During school, I am grateful to have participated in a writer's program where we took part in a published anthology of short stories, in which a classic fairy tale was given an alternate spin. Growing up as a first generation New Zealander, I combined a Slavic fairytale by setting it in pre-settler Aotearoa, in the piece At the tuna's behest. Since then, I have always kept a passion for writing, striving to continue creating despite the increasing pace of life.

Superposition attempts to describe the complexity of emotion felt when leaving home for a passion. Stemming from a desire to achieve, the resulting solitude from ambition can be hard to articulate. This poem acknowledges that it's okay to experience a range of emotions when leaving the nest despite finding joy in exploring new horizons. Natural imagery felt most instinctive to ground this story, allowing the themes to be explored through various allusions, analogies, and physical arrangement. With a parabolic shape, I yearn for comfort and endeavour for growth, eventually finding peace and rest through the light of the moon. 41

your gambit r,·t alwa~·feltllmJtedln mymo,·e I fur lhat onC't1mort a pitrt forwardIt wouldbt oonC'apturtd Inrapabltofbtromlngmort than\\bat w alrtad~nrlltt>nIn the optnlng. the\\Orldi o blark and "hltt- moooC'bromt. But~·ougirt mt colou1· YouprottC'Imec,·ouwne tbert) Youdtreodmt (~·ou01,·tmt 1htrourageto mon ro"'·;ud) Toaim for mort, to fightfor myplm• \'our 0'\\'11ninnino and mow giw meC'Onftdence to folio myowndirection.

mt toward a path of aft~ • tcnri~·. Sood. helle1;rare & mo I impo1tAntt~· yourlow. ~·ou1elf all ~·ourpb~·mallabour ·ourowndream to flllfflmine. m eemlnolyIott

lbill~·lhat theytAkemint

Thereare two Id ln a oameorcbe : lf onlyI gota glimpe ortbe other Ide tr onlyI gota gllmpe fromyour Ide. t time IIfttl likeyoure m~•opponrnt I m good t lookingat yourna,

but I my rlf amntlnrrablt. Tht>timeI runnlngout c~·our timt> I runningout) )ly chanc of1'inningare oettfnolowrrt\·ery econd and e\l'I) mo,r I makr mu I count.

Tht-~· buildup to the decblon thal l ad to m,·outcome Tbt>outcomtwbrrryour acrtffct-arr worthtr 43

Tbt>queen· gambitI beingpla~·ed ~-ouacceptthegambit. Butin l't'aJi~· I IUDbrinepla,·ed lnce~ ou ba,·eletrue1'1n. Wb,·dot It tlllreellikem~·lo ? rn rorgontn"·bat' mo t Important r,·e forootttnthe pltc that makeup m~·board Thepeoplethathne helpedmealoq thew1~·. l'n forconen ~·oa l'n roraonen bo youart 1lw . onm~·kit . ·otf\·enCa tlln canprotectme. TheKingI COl'Drtd (I'n• conertd11,vll)

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Somed J'O ayU'llfinally beplaced to J'OU'll spect.aov teertbegame thesideJ froma differentpers pectiveJ

I WisIh couldtakeback I have realised thatin 44

onthesidelines&off th

eboani,

reality.l! sscision&sselfishfla .. , lyhopelede

I wane s veplr ayingthegame.

I wasoneof thepieces {apieceof a granga You IBOV11ed d .,£} Jforward ButsamedI ay Willflip theboaniJ akam e ellJs I'll gather thescatterepidecesJm AmI promisto e takeeverychance I'll cheristh h epieces I have left

AsI amapaw(I n was pla,red} Pla,red bythegame Thegag;where youlet m Win Checkmate,

Statement of Intent

Adopting a free verse form, your gambit interrogates the tension between agency and constraint through th ext nd d metaphor of a chessboard. Life is described as strategic yet limited, wh re ach move carries consequence and reflects inherited sacrifice. The ambiguous relationship between the speaker and the 'significant figure' reflects familial car and qui t t nsion hile preserving personal intimacy and allowing readers to project their own experienc s onto th figure. lti1nately, the person realises they are not the player but a piece, shaped by the game as much as their own choices.

THE2025

PHILIP SARGEANT PRIZE WINNER

CHARLOTTE

GRIMWADE

Barefoot on bikes. Bruised knees and white scars. Bouncing off the bindis in the backyard. eighbourhood stalls, selling used board ames and lemonade, the salty, sleepy smell of the dog. U11earthingthe old skateboard and your sister' matching scooter, chasing down the dog to ride him like a hor e, and walking home after school with the kids from down the road. cabs, tilled with dirt, drawn by pa ement and healed by youth.

Turning sixteen and becoming real. Disliking school and a oiding home, seeking solace in your phone, in the bones peeking through your skin. onflicted and confused, living for the brutal taste of liquor from your best friend's dad's garage fridge. Driving up Red Hill, dodging dead kangaroos, challenging the car's accelerator and sound system.

ea iog, finally. Discomfort rather tbao relief. elf-reliance rather than freedom. Dad holds back tears, Mum holds you together, our sister hiccups between breaths. ne grocery basket tilled with four items, and three piles of laundry hidden under your bed. Drinking $5 wine from plastic cups and eating Tuesday nights' takeaway. Evening FaceTimes,just to see the dog's powdered face, exchanging Wordles each morning. The painful retrieve of memories, a tentative familiarity. Bounded by the past.

----------=----

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ARTIST, IssyHUNT

MEDIUM, PHOTOGRAPHY

Born from a I0-minute free-writing exercise, my creative process began spontaneously. Something said in class inspired me: "memory triaging detail". I set out to write a story featuring omissions, making the reader work and suggesting memory is fallible - there are ague and ivid moments. J resisted o er-explaining time jumps, letting the story speak for itself.

This piece aimed to balance ' language I feel at home with" and pushing my narrative oice. I love experimenting with figurati e language and bad to bold myself back from compounding similes and metaphors. Emily Bitto's use of fresh figurati e expressions influenced me; 1 made mine isceral, uncomfortable, and even medical. I find joy in using unexpected erbs to enhance lyricism or conjure images without adjectives. l balanced long sentences with sharper fragments to add rhythmic ariety.

My emotional palette simulated life, playing with the mother-daughter trope. The story discusses complicity, restraint and how we present oursel es ersus what we hide. Whilst editing, I sharpened my narrati e oice and erased clunky language that distracted rather than enhanced. 1 chose my title during free-writing time. I paired the article "the" with the adjecti e "rough", transforming the adjective into a noun, making the threat tangible. This language also features in the second paragraph.

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Grief 90

Bella Morgan

This creati\'e nonfiction work became a mirror of my stages of grief as I was battling the loss of a IO\'edone. It both embraces but challenges Emily Dickinson's 1>oem,'Because I could not stO))for Death', as I deJ>icthow someone can li\'e for Eternity through us and the stories we share.

When to say

Goodbye

Because I co uld not st He kindly stop op for Death-/ ped for me -/ The Carriage held but just Ourseh-cs -/ And Immorta lity. Grier is a funn y thing. Emily a a romantic gentleman, ho Dickin on may have pain ted Death wever she ha she did not ha d no one to ve to contem ay farewell to plate how Dea , towards the th is not so ki family he le nd ft behind. \: hat happen s arter the ca rriage pulls What happen away? s to those who remain standi in the trail of ng dust, watchin g a loved one depart for et ernity?

Originally I intended to write about the complex dynamic between children entering their first tages of life, while their grandparent ent r th final tages of theirs. Death. However halfway through writing about the contrast between my two grandfath r , one pa ed away. At fir tit inhibited my ability to write a I continually que tioned if word could do ju tice to a life as full of love as his? That was until writing became a mean to expre my grief and tart to comprehend it. A I began r writing, I came aero s mily Dickin on' poem, 'Because I could not stop for Death', which envisioned death a an eternal carriage ride. Thi romantici ed notion that ubvert the hristian ideal of Heaven and Hell, both in pi red and comforted me through my different tages of grief. My piece tran form d into a raw, fragm nted tructure to convey the emotional impact death has on the community. It paradoxically challenge Dickin on' romantici ation while also exploring her idea of eternity a I metatextually demonstrate how writing aJlows a piece of them to remain with us forever. Perpetually stuck on the carriage ride until they are forgotten, their torie no longer shared.

Content Warning

Death

-8th of August 2024 lt was a sunny day. Why was it a sunny day? Light streams through the library window as hot, fat tears stream down my face, pooling at the edge ofmy chin that wobbles slightly trying to contain my gasp. One hand is pressing a phone to my ear as my mother's grainy oice filters through. They're just words now. Words I expected but not this soon. e er this soon. l grab at my shirt and begin to tug, trying to let my heart breathe. Let it break through its brittle cage and pound in my head. ilence my thoughts. What thoughts? I only ha ea few of him. 93

A trangled gasp e capes, and my friend's head whips towards me. he finally realises that I ha e slid to the floor and am clawing at the shel es of books for support. Word too many words. They surround me. But ne er word about him. What do l remember him by, then? He is now retained to shards of my memories. Their jagged, metal bars entrap him into the back of my mind, only releasing when my eyes close. My phone i strewn across the floor and my mother's panicked oice filters back in again. I blindly grapple for it to hear her words ... "He's finally with her again, with Philomena." Only then do I allow gentle hands to Liftme up.

)

l tum toward the window hoping the sun could e aporate the water trailing from my eyes, when I spot a sleek, black carriage gliding past. The horses gaJlop towards me, their skin seamlessly shifting to bone. A figure swathed in the darkness of a Victorian trench coat kindly tips His top hat towards me while gripping onto the reigns. As it streaks past, I see a sliver of my grandfather's face ... his skin grips to his skull, his eyes hollowed and wide. I cannot scream out the words stuck in my throat "Goodbye", all I can do is stare as it passes by. He does not look back because it is not my tim . ot yet.

-12th of July 2024The first time I saw the carriage , as outside the house of my father's father, John, on Scan Street Kensington. Despite its silhouette ho cring like a sbado, , impossible to rid, e ery time I isit the old family home, ith my dad, 1 can see the familiar gait of bis step almost skip as we approach the front door. The clouds hang low as my feet retrace the path I used to always take on Christmas day, wrapped up in a floral dress and slicked do, n in sunscreen. The once orange pol plants - now the colour of acidic yello, • line the side passage, their chipped walls housing the remnants of my late grandmother's fa ouritc white rose bush. Inside is the fofmidable, but aloof man I call my grandfather. He is sitting in bis tattered leather chair with one arm propped up nursing a beer - always a Peroni - despite it being the early afternoon. If you look closely enough you can sec the slight tremor that has entrapped his surgeon hands. Look closer and you'll find grey seeping to lhc edges of the skin and red dots littering his forearm of sagging Oesh. Despite the , hite bandage wrapped around his infected leg, he still attempts 10 stand to greet me as I choke past the dust that blankets the Ii ing room. E crything is still. like the furniture is too scared to mo e. The only lhing that is missing from the fragments of my mind is the deafening chauer from an o er-populated family, a Christmas tree suffocating in tinsel, and my grandmother's, Philomena's, beaming smile. A smile that is now hidden and stuffed away in the photo albums that clog the dra, s.

I am too scared to hug him. To feel his meagre body press against mine and remind me of the numbered days I have left, ith him. Instead. I opt for sitting on the little wooden barstool in front of bis chair so that bis car. mutilated thanks to cancer, can hear me. He bombards me, ith questions, thoughts, feelings, stories ... "Hov are you liking Melbourne'?" "I belie c Sydney is still a prettier place ... " 'I remember, orking at that hospital there ... you know the one ... " Despite his hums of response that make you question whether he can hear you or not, I cannot stop asking questions.lam hungry for more of his tales, hungry for a glimpse of the man I never got 10 meet. Howe er, you can tell when he begins to slow, when his eyes become clouded with specks of white as his mind begins playing back a whirlwind of film from o er ninety years of life. I remain quiet, gently kissing his cheek and lea e him staring at the family pictures. Forgetting the words once more.

23rd of August 2024 Make me a channel of your peace. When the processional music began, a hushed silence rippled across the church. All eyes turned towards the cofTtn laying beneath a nickering candle. It had cast a spell o er us, the flame's sofi light making the gold embellishments of the casket shimmer. I couJdn't stop staring until the quiet sobs ofmy cousin sitting next lo me pierced through the shrill oice of the opera singer. Digging into my jacket I ga e her the tissues I had been storil\8 for myself.

It wasn't until my father bowed in front of the altar and heade~ towards the podium did 1 ha e to reach for the tissues too. J had heard him recite ' The Letter of St Paul 10 the Romans' multiple limes before the funeral, yet as he stood there struggling to breathe before the words rolled offhls tongue, l felt as if a band bad taken hold of my heart. Was it perhaps a , hisper of John s hand that was gripping my beating instrument so tightly? Was be prepping it 10 take the scalpel of his death and slowly, gently carve away bis portion?

To be to,,ed as to love with all my 0111. His grip didn't loosen. 01 when I held the hand of another cousin who continued to rub her nine-month pregnant stomach, knuckles white; not when l stood behind the podium and faced a sea of colour, ashed in the light filtering from the stained-glass windows; not when his eighteen grandchildren shufficd his dead corpse out of the church. A church he was baptised in married in, and died in.

;

)

·,

/11dying that we're bom to eternal life.

It wa n't until salt air arrested my nose at the cliff of Waverly Cemetery, did I feel his sil cry embrace loosen as I watched him lower into the ground. His muscles relaxed, finally in peace as his wife, clcomcs him 10 his new home beneath the swaying grass. Past the lulling sound of the waves crashing against the rocks, you could hear the rumble of wheels. He was lea ing the cemetery where bis family was still gathered, heads bowed as we sprinkled white lilies upon his gra c. This time, 1 can imagine bis arm slung over my grandmother's shoulder flashing her a boyish grin as they embark on another journey together, forever.

ince then - 'Ii e11t11rie- and yet/Feels horter than the Day/ I first surmised the Hor es' Heads/ Were toward Eternity -

There was something the priest said during the service that my mind clung to ... "Think of his life as a wave." It starts off small, barely a speck upon the vast ocean, but nurtured by the shining moon the wave begins to grow. It pulls us, the water, in as we cannot help gravitating towards it. We glide together in harmony as the wave does not let us go rather it tucks us in beneath its foaming crest to shelter us from the raging winds. As the shore of Death approaches it begins to spill over, it has nothing left to give. It laps at our feet and gently retreats into the boundless sea of blue. "For he has lived a full life." 96 .,,______ _

It wasn't until the wake when I milled around the event room at the East Lakes Golf Club, did the sea of colour morph into a sea of murky faces. Faces shrouded by the blur of summer memories from the annual Christmas barbeque ofmy childhood. One by one the haze began to clear and similar crinkled eyes and large noses peaked through as they made their way up to me and asked, "How do you know John?". "Granddaughter"

I would tell them.

"Brother" "Sister" "Cousin" "Neice" "Nephew", they would tell me. His magnetic pull had gathered us, his water droplets, all together under his kind eyes that twinkled down upon us from a projector on the wall. He has brought together this family. A family who shares his blood, his name, his stories. Like water is everlasting - living on through our body, the soil, and seas of our earth - words are too. The stories dancing upon the wind, twirling between each family member, will transcend the life contained between the lines and the holder of the pen who dares to transcribe it. Thus, as I write for you, dear John, the carriage ride will continue. Until I can say goodbye.

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Boy

Roy McNab

Roy Mc ab is a Melbourne aannbased writer. Between university and smacking the kin in a band, he enjoys writing to feel connected.

Warning: this coment contains depictions of violence, drug use, uicide and emotional abuse and neglect, which may be distres ing or tri ering/or ome viewers. Reader discretion is advised.

"Boy seeks to examine the intergenerational and societal effects of toxic masculinity. r wanted to show an innately tender boy moulded by his environment, whose emotional process has been harmed by a space of toxicity and an inability to express feelings. This is a pica from a boy to his father - a pica between generations, from someone who has been swept up and moulded by a world he has no control over. I hope it~ ill ha can effect on d1c reader that renders them more conscious of male sensitivities, and I hope they thcmscl cs embrace their own loving and tender instincts."

My first memory is Uncle Ray saying that my pink crayon is gay - that's, hat comesto mind as, e sit in PrincipalJohns' office. It was Christmasday and all I , antedLodo wasdraw a preuy picture.

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My first time in Johns'office wasa monthago.when they found weedin my locker. 011ha1 you'd needreminding. I was told that I'd be more relaxedabout everything,that life, as going to happenfrom me. I bought it from Hugo, the one, ho lives two streetsaway. The one wiL11tiger parents.You ah ays commenton your neighbourhood, alk that, as if by regime, Hugo existed in their living room studying with his headdo, n, grey-lit in the pale e ening light. 'Death. taxes.Hugo studying.'~ e say. half-joking, half-concerned.I wonder if he'll always havethoseeycbags.If someonewill gently hold a cool washcloth over his face 10finally get rid of them.

first time I smoked, ccd, I didn't smokeit at all. Buddy, Ben, and I sat in a circle behind the I oval andThe fumbled , hile we tried rolling it. Eventually,with what looked like a miniature, moldy burrito, Buddy lit it and affected composure.Ben passedit to me and I inhaled. The heat burnt my mouth. and smokeunintentionally shot out my nostrils as I coughedmore than I exhaled.That night I learnt what the tcnu 'bum-sucker' meam. I kno, you careaboutwhat other peoplethink of you. like how you dreadtrying 10ingratiateyourself into the echo-chamberofparems at the school functions,how you loath telling them I'm 1101a legacy.that you didn't go heretoo. That's, hereyours and my lineagestarts:the constalll needto please.And silting here in Johns' office, I can't help but feel that my life hasbeena chronicle of people-pleasing,s, cpt up by a kind of male confonnity I can neiL11er control nor understand.I haven't gro, n into the personI'm meantto be, the precocious,self-assuredboy you oncedescribedme as. I've ne er talked about who I really am. I can tell you nothing about who lam but everytlling about who I'm 1101. And it buns LliatI'll never kt10, bo, to tell you wby I did, bat I just did.

I think you o, e me that, the ability 10be ulnerableand harness1hclo e I think I ha c. I 1hinkyou owe me tbe reality that I'd ne er have 10 iutemalise everytl1ingthat's led me here. You o, e me the candidnessand tendernessto bavereal conversationsat the dinner table,with a kick oftbe footy. cbopping firewood together.I kno, your dad nevertaughtyou bo, 10do this - be taughtyou bow to work tbe odds, how 10tackle someonein the contest- but were you nevercompelled10make the ultimate act of paternal selflessness.and teachme all the valuesof soflncssyou ne er were? 1

I would lo e to tell you the depthofwhal I feel, but I've never learnt ho~ to feel. You neverreally taught me how to. nor have you askedme 10Uy. And, hen I think about ho~ you didn't let yourself cry at Uncle Ray's fllneral, or how you did11'1even put a hand on my shoulder wben l was surreptitiously crying. I don't think you kno, how 10feel either. So many boys use their lists on instinct. Someonestoic your lunch: chaseand pin them to the ground and smearit all over them.The bloke you dislike dribbled the ball during lunchtimesoccer:back his anklesand take no accou111ability for injury. You get L11e chance10tacklesomeonein footy: makesureyou sling them witb all tbe might and thmst you ha e. And don't, wbateveryou do, sit there and take it without lightiug back, you skinny liulc fuck. Just tbc other day I read about this guy wbo accidentallykilled his friend by keeping him in a headlockuntil he went blue and evennially died. We used to be innocuousboys playwrestling in 1hesand.then unexplainableangerand machismocommandeeredour changingbodies.

We used10havea Figln lub. Behind1hegym bleachers.in a secludedroom , heretherewas a cushioned noor mat, with ampleboxjng glovesandno headprotcc1ion- there, e fough1.About thirty ofus cameone Friday, when the word seemed10havespreadfar and wide. Us private school boys. we walked to school with our uncontro crsial haircuts.shins tucked in assiduously.But come lunchtime. for a brief period before we grc, boredof it, we ulllucked our shins, 0ung off our tics and swung punchesal our friends. II was a olu111cering sy 1cm, ith governing rule uch as 'no telling 1hcteachers'- ju I like Ihc film. I preferredwatching. I gol to see1J1e sweatemergefrom the poresbeneaththe , hi1ecouon shirts, forming tbc outlinesof bodily geography.Puncheswere1hrownwith no technicalprecision.Sho1sto lhc headwere followed by a chorusof deepoohs and0111 . The fights , ere raw yet immuneof threat,and the sameblokes always put their bandsup 10fight. It , as neveroutrightly stated,but thoseof us who didn't light figured we wereseenas lesser. Therewas one lunclnime Iha1I fought, though I nevervolunIceredfor ii: Buddyjust told me 10do ii. And I did. I fough1Rory Spencerumil my headwasspinningand blood seepedinto my mo111h. I hit his heada few timesand be hit mine. l'm not going 10tell you l was like Tyler Durdenin Fight lub going red and possessed with fury; I felt nothing. I'm no masochis1 - I'm a deep-feeler.At least,I'd like 10think so. Violencewasnaturalisedhere,ii brouglu us imo 1heworld. We cameback 10classstill pantingandgreased with perspiration,cheapdeodorantapplied 10concealour hot and s, eaty stench,perhapsa black eye for some.Ye1the school neverkne,. It waspeculiar yet ordinary. the Fight Club. We wercjus1boys. Tbe mos1damageI did, though.was ne er from a punch,but a piece of pelletedtoilet paper.It all happenedthis morning. We were utilising the fi e-minutebreakbet, ee11 doubleEnglish,noisily larking in the top noor ba1h.room of the Humani1icsBuilding. The building overlooks the footpath, high enoughto seetl1emagnoliatreesthatshakewith tl1esuburban, ind. Ben did that thing whereyou wet layersof toilet paperand throw it at the ceiling and I followed with Buddy and Leo. The wet toilet papercongealedin my hand and tore apan through my fingers as I clumped i1.Those paper particle will fore er linger in my cuticles now. The pellets stuck 10the higb ceiling and htmg o er us like sa1ellites.\ e beardsome noise outsideon the ground:the li11lekids on their, ay 10junior school.\ e peeredout the window and saw them walking in their clus1crofco11onpolos and, idc-brim hats.I couldn't believe I, asonceso small.

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'What losers, said Buddy. Leo yelled out the windo, at them. 'Ha e fun at schooltoday,don't pi s your pants!' 'i c laughedand slappedLeo's back. Leo alwaysneedslaughsor he goesred. I didn't think it was that funny. But at leasthedidn't call his mum 'a bitch' or Maddie Reed'Oat' this time. I rememberwhen I was ten, walking 10primary school, and somero, dy high school boys walking in tl1eirhorse hoe formation forced me off the footpath. I 'vc ne er forgottenthat feeling of indignity as I scunlcd off the path with my headdown, how scaredI , as of their broad shouldersand deep voices. Thoseboys witl.1their concrete jaws andperfect hair. no older than Ben, Buddy and Leo arc no, . appearin my mind faceless.

They all lookedat me then,asthoughit , as my obligatory lllrn to do somethingfunny. Or maybethey neverlookedat me, maybeI j11s1 remembertheir beckoningeyesasa justification for why I did what I , as about 10do. I , as so fidgety. I had no ideawha1to do wilh my hands,Dad.The tennis-ball-sizedpieceof vet toilet paperbeganto melt in my hand,and I felt tl1eweight of being a passengeramo11gs1 boys crush me wholly. as though 1hiswas a I.estof being worthy. I saw my opportunity and I took it. Somegreat To get somemomcmarylaughs. o I thre, it - I thrc, 1hctoilet re erenceasa darede ii and an anarehis1. papc~at the kids: with rapidity, withou1thought

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boy I now know as Jamielooked up as the pellet fell wi1bthe gra ity ofmy throw. angling his face perpendicularto Liteprojectile. The toilet paper wasn't suspendedin Lhcair: it just fell. with no adorned physics.11hit Jamie'scheekbones, i1'1an unforgiving, percussivesmack.Jamieput his palm over his eyes and leanedhis headback,beforehot tearsfell down his faceand his screechechoedthroughthe streetslike Lhccry of infanticide. Parentson tl1eirmorning coffee rushedto hold the inconsolableJamie their shoes click-clacking on the hardenedpa emcntas they ran acrossthe road.A, aveof nauseaand embarrassment and confusions, cited from my gut 10 my blood-rnshedhead.Buddy, Ben. and Leo duckedout of sight while I stood fixed by the, indo, . paralysedby shameanddisbelief. I Jenmyself in ie, of the parentsto unmistakablyidentify me as the culprit, the brown-hairedboy staringopen-mouthedand unfocuscdlyinto the distance. 'Fuck, mate,' said Buddy. peeringout for assessment I spenttl1erest of this morning throwing up and consumedby self-loathing.Why didn't I go dO\ n and apologise?\! hy didn't I own up to it immediately?Why did I throw it a1all? You didn't teachme to be thatstupid, Dad.And if I wasto makea mistake,I'd at leastown it. Like a man. Half-an-hourlater,e en beforethe first breakof tl1cday, I was called to Johns'office. You arri ed soonafter, disgnmtledby being called away from work. 'You're expelling him on the basisof somethingLlllltcould ha e happened,not sometl1.iilg that actually happened.Ho, is tliat fair, no, ?' you say.

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'Mr. Banks.you ha c to understand.your son nearly blinded someone.'saysJohns.'\ ith that force and gra ity, badit strnck the boy's eye, it would havebeenletbal.The boy is currentlyat the nurse'soffice in lots of pain, nursinga sizeablebmise. ow, this is obviously not the first time your son hasbeenin my office, and tl1crc•s got to be consequences.· 'It just seemsa liulc impulsi c. don·1 you think. his beingexpelledwithin an hour.Don·1 get me\ rong, J tl1inkwhathe did wasabsolutelydisgracefulandI feel it all tl1emoreasbis fatber,but l 'ma little dismayed

by 1J1elack of procedurehere.' I sit here invisibly, no capacity10 proces the implications this convcr ation is ha ing 011 my fumre. only lamentationsof , hat got me here. The rngby guemsey is framed behind Johns' desk like the pre ervationof somesacredrelic. 'You're a fucking idiot,' you sayas we leaveJohns' office. 'You're going to ha e to sit\ ith this fora long, long time, mate.' We drive homein silence.the backseatladenwith the remainsof my clearedlocker. You don't speakto me for the whole car ride, leavingme to stew in what rd doneto the family, letting the consequences of my anxietiesfill thecomersof silence.thereasspectresto hauntme forever. I tilt my headaway from you as uncontrollabletears,there in waiting from the momc111 the toilet paperhit Jamie- there in \ aiting, really, from when you sat back and let nclc Ray first bcliulc me chargedown my red face.I clench my fringe mid try and mute myself. You hearmy sniffies, tl1ough,and you look over to me. I can secyour painedfaceandslight snarl in my periphery. 'Don't do that, mate,' you say. 'We're bcucr Lhantl1is.'

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tbat why Uucle Ray took ltis own life. Dad? Because all he kne, ~ a this ileuce and indifference? Because all he e er felt was kept witl1in?We used to laugh about tbat time be was a teenagerand smashed a hole through tl1ewall at a pany. He always , ioced and feigueda cackle when , e ritually brought ii up, but I now realise what he was concealingall along: embarrassmentand insecurityand unhappinessall at once. We laughed.but if life has taught me anything today, I ll1inkthat all be was concerned, itb , as just somethingto do with his bands, somel11ing10keep him from having a real couvcrsation, ith someone. He couldn't use his hands for a handshake,certainly not a hug. Ray must have realisedthat smashinga hole in a , all at 44 is no longerendearing,if it ever, as. The world surely grew too cold for him. Pink may have been his colour all along. Was he so insecurewithin himself,that he felt the need to belittle me when I was just six. tl1esame way l felt tl1eneed to throw that piece of toilet paper today? It eems that what unites l11emen in our familyacross generationsis anxiety and s)lame.We're passengers. hiding the pain that burns within our soul, 10convince people l11a1 we're wonhy. And I can't hate Uncle Ray for being the original person who killed my self-assurance,because he didn't know auythin else but dogged ridicule - was there ever anyone who asked him ho, he's going, ho, he's going, really? There must have been so many hunful and irreparablethings said to him. And to you. I, ish I got expelled for the weed or the Figlu Club instead-that would've sounded less trivial. Of all the things that landed me in Johns' office, it\ as never the Fight Club. It would' e sounded cooler if that's why I got expelled.I dream ofa tomorrow,but tomorrow is just as uncertain.Too many days will go by and I'll realise I missed the opportunityto salvage my latent tenderness.because I ne er kne, where to start. I , ant that tight feeling in my stomach to disappear. I want to live and not have today plague me like a spectre. I don't want 10be like ncle Ray and tum my trauma into some kind of funny anecdote. I don't \ am 10be like Uncle Ray belie ing that out is the only way through.I tind it bard to forgive myself for burningtlte toa I - ho, am l going to forgi e myself for injuringa boy? For\ bat l'm doing to you and mum? I, am to be con1iden1.I want to tell Leo that what he says is hurtful; I want 10be able 10sit down with him and help him case his insecurity,so he never needs 10say lliosethingsagain. I want to tell Buddythat he docsn't need 10wear his spons gear undemeatb his unifonu. tbat be can take bis sbirt off in front of us. And l want you to bave taught me bo, to teach tllem. l want you to tell me that I'm enougll, Dad. I've pretendedto like beer since I\ as 15, drinking in Buddy's backyard,and I don't want to pretend an more. I, ant to be anxious about test results and footy matches,not about everythin°l fail to be and ho, l can'1 talk to a girl. Or ho, I can't talk 10a boy. I wish I wa boy enough so I kne\ ho\ 10be man enough. I want the world 10be mine and ba e hands big enough to seize it.

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I just, ant to be loved D:1d.I walll 10be lovely.

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It seems nonsensical to me, the notion of waiting for ghosts to eat. We welcome them back home to "Cung" an intimate candlelit feast decorated with bright yellow marigolds, under the ethereal radiance of a full moon. Ba Ngo~i offers our ancestors an abundance of food that remains the same: aromatic roast duck, rough skin of crispy pork, and tender Hainanese chicken. But why? The flowers will wither, the food will spoil and even the moon will fade. The rituals we partake in to celebrate eternal life are ironically transient in nature. Yet, 1 watch my small, limping and frail Ba Ngo<;tiin awe as she kneels, an isolated figure in a near-empty room mumbling her prayers with quiet concentration and reverence.

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To me, this devotion isn't dished up purely out of love and respect. It seems to be a transactional exchange, a deal brokered with the dead for our own prosperity and enlightenment. Yet I find myself kneeling and bowing, surrendering my scepticism, offering instead my tentative faith to the altar where photographs of my other grandparents, the ones I never met, rest alongside the variations of Buddha I didn't know existed. I take this chance to plead my case through prayers but out of the hundred or so Vietnamese words I have on me, none are holy. I speak silently in English, hoping that will be enough to please my ancestors. Or my Ba Ngo<;tiat the very least, at my mimicry of faith. So 1 pray that this moment would end, pray that the gods can't read my mind and pray that the food won't get cold. After a while my knees begin to hurt. Pressed against the ground, my skin feels dry, stretched - about to pull apart. My eczema flares up beneath tbe heat and, with that tension, my knees start to tremble against the ground. Pressure mounts and I lose balance. 106

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everything she

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rin out the scaos,

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remembers something

she returned to

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gaps of awkward

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We returned to the motherland greeted by a sombre grey sky. Welcomed to a gathering shrouded in sorrow. In Vietnam the rituals were more complex in nature. Not only was there more food but there was also more incense and candles. A cloud of smoke made its way inside, seeping through tissue to meet hard bone. The smoke of the incense clung onto everything- clothes, hair, skin. But for once, my body didn't resist. The patches along my arms softened, healed, as if it recognised something in the air that I didn't. In Vietnam, it always seems to fade. For the next five days we rested at Ba Ngo~i's home, which stood quietly on a narrow lane beside a temple and across a river. It served as a small outpost of the temple, hosting dozens of monks and countless relatives as we set up bowls of uncooked rice, glasses of tea, plates of boiled eggs, prawns and pork belly, embellishments of white lotuses and purple orchids.

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In the courtyard stood a Bodhi tree with its heart shaped leaves that whistled. Sprawling branches that danced as sunlight filtered through, casting a gentle play of light and shadows on the ground. As a kid I had once rocked on the swings with Ba Ngo~i below the tree canopy shading us from the beat. But now I sat on the swings alone watching my parents bum our offerings for her in the afterlife. Opulent paper toy doll houses, cardboard cars, stacks of pretend American dollar bills, symbols of mortal vanity became engulfed into ash, their fonner selves transported to the afterlife leaving us here with the ashes of their remains. Everything in life perishes. While grief lingers on. We also released birds, messengers between this life and the next, and l wonder if they could more reliably carry my message to Ba Ngo~i than Viber. The swing remained still, as the flutter of black birds lifted above my shoulders, their shadow- carrying with them the weight that once kept me grounded. As their wings unfurled and they took flight, their silhouettes fading into the horizon, 1 couldn't help but wonder what was waiting for them: freedom or a fate darker than their cages? 108

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Oo the ground, in the tifting heat, I pray to make amends,cry out to no one but eerie silence. I copy my dad and mum but my knee don't tremble. I go down after them and with a temporaryaerial view I see their weak bodies quiver and their hairs that have turned white.

Later that night my mum sighed 'Con oi ma khong con nhiSuthcrigian nua con' - I don't have much time left. So I carefullyplucked my mum's white hairs with a pair of tweezers in the dark before she could say any more. Each strand felt like a small act of defiance a quiet wish to keep her herejust a little longer.

In Vietnamese,the word for love and injury is the same: thuang. ow, when I pray, the contradictionsbegin to make sense. I say: 'Con thuang Ba go@i".BecauseI love her, and becausepain lingers in her ab ence. I miss you.

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I say "Con nh6'Ba Ngo@i"because in Vietnamese,the word for missingsomeoneand rememberingis the same: nM. But when my mum asks me "Con nh6'Ba Ngo@ikhong?• I realise that while I long for her presence,my memoriesof her are fading.I miss you more than I rememberyou. (referencedfrom Ocean Vuong' "On Earth We're BrieflyGorgeou ")

Even if I don't believe I kneel. "Cung" matteredto you and without realising it was somethingthat matteredto me too. I' IIstill wait for you to eat first, and in the silence that follows,I begin to under tand. The altar is filled with smoke, dancing softly on the ashy ends of the smoulderingincense.l encourage it along its dwindlingpath. Amidst all this vanity somethingseems to make sense. The gong is struck three times, its impactsends forth a ripple of echoes that reverberates through me, before it cascadesdown to profound stillnessand solace.

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My shon story ts inspired by Elizabeth Stroul's 'Olive Kiucridgc. trouts loosely connectedsequenceof short stories are set in a small Americantown where through her delicate descriptionsof seemingJy'ordinary' Ii es, she paradoxicallyemphasises that no life is trivial if examined closely. My story follows a retired woman and a schoolboy ~ ho meet in a communitychoir. I really tried to capture the subtlety of trout's language - particularlythe way she avoids melodramaand rather lets small momentsreveal larger truths about who the charactersare. I wantedto tell a story that highlightedthe importanceof kindness,and how it can be e en more special when it

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When lhc pring1imc un begin ii dcsccnl 1oward the bu hlancl' ilhoucncand lhe crickel tan their bu1-1. on 1hcbank oflhe gu 'hing river, l11emall town of Maclean feel like I lelen' ccrct fairyland.h ha been two years ince she joined the communitychoir, but he till pick up 1wo ticky 101Tcc pudding every day al five o'clock on her way to rehearsalone for her aud the other for the kind gentlemanwho lccp on the church' tone tcp . 'll1ingsweren't ah a ·o awfully difficult for him. I lclen remembershow generou he wru.10hand out 1111old pa. tries fr m hi bake to children like her on, Elli t. After her da pent tcering the family' income al l11emill. he would watch him. coffthc naky treat before mnning aero their ugarcanc fields. When lhc bakery buml down, I lclcn wcpl for an entire day. he al cried when Elliot lammed her do r Ii r l11efinal lime before he ten r, r hi j b in alifomia.. he tmggled 10believe thal a childhoodon a fam1in pireclan interc t in prcadshect for a ta1ionerycompany. But it's I Jelen' nalllrc 10remain quiet, o ·he let him impuhvel ay. "Dad, ould ha c ·1aycdif you hadn't made l11ingso hard." !low confu ing a comment-when her husbandwa l11eone who would go ilenl for da after the penie I squabbleand would huff and puff when hi mind wa n'I read. If only there were more car· in this life, shew uld have waited longer before choo·ing a weddingring.

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ll1c communitychoir i foll of people who regret thing . Helen regrets cutting her ilvcr hair bort: it barely pin back witJ1her two pink clip . he al o regret how little be did 10 keep her family together. Dear Gi clle- who c blue kin hugs her bone and faux-fur coat belongs on the boardwalk of Bondi-resents following her . crulTyhu band 10 thi lcepy town. h' a hamc that i elle' di content ha lcll the ·eat beside Ilclen empty incc autwnn, when he told the choir lliat Helen crawled into the lap ofll1e man b idc her like a ultry cat, even though all she did wa let bim bold her hand. ·n1eman moved out of town 0011 allcr, o it wouldn't have made much difference if ·be had slood by the lmth. Helen wonders if 1hi i what life become when you get old; having to pretend you don't mind si11ingalone. At least, al tJ1echurch, they've got limitlesspeppennint tei1. ippingher tea froma papercup 011 an oddlychillyTue day evening,Ilclcncatchc a glimp c of a youngboy marchingin a ir his sneaker arc four i7c 100 largeand hi head i tethered10 the moon.Iii curledbandspre again.I hi thigh.. and hi choolunifom1i. adorablyplaincharcoalblackjeans, whitecollaredtop, and peculiarly,brownwoollenglovesand a red chequeredbow lic-·cemingly his own additions.Elliotused to in i 1 011wearinga cape lo chool. hildrenare o wectlybizarre.Joy overwhelm!> her when he cc. the boy gc tun: 10, ard her bag hoggingthe ~catto her lcl1.lie ighs ·wcctl , waitmg10 ·it, unaware1ha1 no one cl c wouldhavecho co that chair. "A tip for newcomer", he say , tbc word ,pilling fromher mouth." ever cat the chocolatebi cuit fromthejar in the foyer.Rumourha ii they'rea old a me."

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"M chool L Id me I have to ·tend my 11111ict,I talent beyond the cla sroom", the bo ay , ech ing the apparcntl prclcntiou voice of his tea her." Id people inging ecms to be the be I ption." I lclen chuckle . "Glad 10be f ervicc!" the hrivcllcd hand of the accompani t ink into the familiar chord or Abide ll'ith Me, l lclcn roll her eye and mile . "You'll ha e to get II ed to 1hi one", he whi per lo the boy, while wondering if the condu tor know any other hymns. The pau e afier the ccond vcr c. "You're inging llat." The boy tap a note n the hcct lllll ic. " h,I cc-" "It' a harp in the eighth bar. You're singing a D." " orry dear, I'm hopele at reading music.'' The boy pre e the wcct tip ofhi gloved fingc into hi pan . "It' 001100 late to learn'', he murmurs." nd you're not hopclc ·s." I leaven forbid her poor en c of 1>itchi the thing to empt the eat be ide her again. " hat' our name?" he a k . 111cbo ta s quiet, his e es pinned on the conductor. he copic hi gue. ""111at'quite all right, dear. You don'l lmvc to like quc tion ."Thebo gentl nods. n Thur da afternoon, I lclen arrive· at lhc church with three stick toffee pudding , replaying the afiemoou in her mind. he aim I didn't have time f r tbc bake alicr bcingjo tied awake from her nap by the landlinc. Mer 0ccting moment of joy, hen he heard Elliot' voice di olvcd, hen ·he rcali edit was just a me age he had left, a king after the pclling of her middle name. , he cried all lite way to the church.

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Helen's mile rc1t1ms,though, when she ees the boy itting in ll1e ·ame chair a if he'd taycd lite night. The bulk of lti gloves chm, ily banle the rustling heet mu ic, and hi· lingenip nre lo I amid t hi jcai . Ju t a 1-lclcnlean down Looffer the pudding 10 hi mall hand , he look up al her, eye tcady, brow drawn in. There are 110black tain on her check that reveal he ha ju l wiped av ay tears-that' bccau e he nc er wear c cliuer; it doc 11't uil older women. Bui a he feel hi right boulder slow I lc::111 into her when the Ii 1 \ c1 ·c begin, again, ·he uppo c omcthing in her face gave her lonclinc away. "You till need to lift 10that harp." "'lltank you, dear." When Tuesday arrive agaiD, llelen notices llrnt tl1ebo ' eyes arc like bummg ember . h must ju I be the pollen in tbe new ummcr air. The poor thing, twinging al the lighte I creak of a chair, eye falling hut with each llash of unlight U1roughthe open door, and his gloved finger; plunging deeply into hi pant.. " chool bothering you, wce1hcar1?"Dammit, he thought. fh doesn'r like q11estio11s.

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if c,·cry panic le of air is era, ling on his skin, the boy tear off his glo cs. Helendoesn't mean toga . but it is hard to miss his fingernail-ja gcd. like the crisp edges of a wilted rose petal: the furiousredness mangledb his own tc th. Her stomachbarely catches her heart as II falls. Grabbingat his neck, he pulls h1 chin to his chest. like his head is finally loosened from the moon,andjust as Helen almo t cat hes his name on the tag of his shirt, she secs the purple ink stain that has s pcd like blood across his collar. It startles her, too, when she dans her hand to the boy's Ou hcd n k and holds it in a motherlycradle. Good heavens,this fl Ii h world can be sickening. Her thum ing chest thrustsher back twenty-Ii e years and she wishes she didn't rememberit all. The cent of the bleach. Elliot nestled underneathher plump ann. His innocentcry. The story h t I bout th mean boy who snappeda pen on his shoulder.Her throat burning like h r fury had tamped it with welts. "Kid arc a holes." Helen said, surprisingeven hcrseff.She hates swearingin frontof kids. until the momentcams it. She releasesthe boy fromher grasp and his voice qui ers. "The world feels a bit easier here. Helen."

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Helen' stra, bag bulges at the sides on the folio, ing warm Thursday.Il's lucky that tbe boy i runningslightly late. as she carefully lays down a collaredwhite shirt for which. last night, he titched over the label-that once read Elliot-, ith red ribbon.wo en with tbio white lace into a rough chequeredpattern. She hopes it resembles the b 's bow tie enough. When he arrives, it takesjust one glance for him to immediately clutch the unfoldedshin lo ingly against his chest. He looksat her, his tremblingmouthajar. Helen'sbr ath crackles."You don't need to say-". He leans int her side. Then, like a hca cnly gift, his fingers Liftfrom bis pants. Sbe can't help but soar to the C sharp that she bas always missed,as Abide WilhMe begins,and the boy's angelic oicc rings louder than usual throughthe quaint church. Her eyes well with tears. This world still angers hcr-panicularly when it forgetsto embracethe people who arc most lonely.But she is cenain. this time, that they arc tears of happiness.How silly it would have been for an old lady like her to ha e made peace with the empty scat beside her. " o", the boy pipes up. "l' e been bearing whispersthnt you get around~ ith the choir lads!" She nudgeshim. and they both cup their mouths like the laughteris an incoming, ave. As their chuckles fade, bis head turns to her, meetingbcr gaze while a soft grin emergesfrom his face. Then, slo, ly, the boy's heavy head falls on her shoulderand finally,she feels light.

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My Body and I Bella Morgan

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My sho11story, the Body and l, is an absurdist reflection of the extreme desensitisation that is pushed onto medical students. lt explores how it impacts relationships as well as their perception of themselves and their identity, becoming all consuming.

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My piece, 'The Body and I', is inspired by my personal experience studying biomedical science at the uni ersity, as well as many other stories from medical students about their own journey. ln particular, it aims to encapsulate the gruelling experience of desensitization that is drilled into all medical students and how it can consequentially isolate them from not only society, but their sense of self. I was hea ily influenced by the character development in Barnard's story, 'The Persimmon tree', where she used nature as a motif to connote the protagonist's growth and process of self-actualisation. However, r have subverted this metaphor to expose the degeneration of both the character's identity and her relationship o er time. An important contrast between the two texts is Barnard's setting in spring, which symbolises a time of renewal, whereas my piece is set at the end of summer transitioning into autumn to reflect the los of the character both in spirit and mind. Pairing the naturalistic motif with firstperson narration position readers in an uncomfortable mindscape a they intimately watch the protagonist losing sight of her elf and her relationship as it all assimilates into the cadaver she must work on. Lnthis way, I aspire for the piece to become a social commentary on bow the dissociation taught to students studying medicine impacts their emotional and mental wellbeing, infiltrating other aspects of their Ii es. For the readers who are not following a similar pathway, I hope the piece provides an insight into the toll these expectations create, as well as e oking questions about how easily humanity is influenced by the world around us.

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Content Warnings aocer, Delirium, elf-harm, exual intimacy, Violence-cutting people open.

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His arms cocoon me, wrappingme in a bundleof warmth despite the sticky heat of late February.The air conditioningin the medicalbuildingbas been brokensince last year, so the smell of body odor permeates from all comers of the room. Placing my chin on his shoulder I ( allow him LOpull me closer as I peer out at the jacaranda tree throughthe windo~. The sun J nittcrs throughits lea es and blooming lilac petals that, a e in the, ind 10 those, alking by. "" I

My attentionon a lone petal tumblingtowardsthe ground is brokenwhen a droplet of water soaks my shirt. 116

"lt's out of your hands Jack," I v hisperwhilst soothinghis mop of curly, brown hair , away from his wet eyes. "I know", he sigh , rinallypeering down al me, "if only they had caught it sooner my mmum... " Wordse ade me so I tug him closer one more time, hoping that he can feel my sorrow in the gentle kiss I press to hisja, . He rinallypulls back with a half- mile v hen a bald man with aarro, spectacleshollersout to the students,leuing me vanish into lhe sea of, hite lab coats. I .... I

look back as, e lile into a cramped laboratorywith walls lined in jars of brains and lungs, but I (°an 't spot his broad back or curly hair anY' here.

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M hand hake and e e twitch~ hen the door on the oppo ite idc of the room pen and they roll in lhc cadaver we will be u ing thi eme ter. y tomachchum as my bean kip a beat when I pot the outline of a body peekingthroughthe layer of plastic wrap . I thi \ bal Jack' motherwill look like ooo? either ofu know how much time h ha left.'The leach of fonnaldehydcru he alongsidethe cadaver and I can't help wrinklingmy 110 ea il wann 1helaborat ry , ith its foul mell. 1udent crane over me 10try to gel a I k, h wever m eye de perntclytry 10escape them a I will my hcan 10 lo down. In tcad, m pupil trace the edge of the hadowof the jacaranda tree that i en roachingon lhe terile white walls, ii 117

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, a ing Oower make intricatepattern orlight on the gla jar c ntainingdi ectcd limb . In group off; ur we approachthe bench, heathedin our own pla tic wrappingsthat hang loo·el off my boulders.I am partneredwith two boy who give me weak mile and awkwardhand ge tures, and a girl who i taring at the body o intenselybehind the thick, black rim of her gla es a if he i devouringit with her eye . The drone of the demon trator reading from the di secting manualdoesn't deter the excited whi per from risinga the calpel and forcep arc pa ed arot111d. He teache u lo carefulJy,oh o carefully,chip awa and extract tb • . kin of the back. The body i lying race down in frontofu . h no e i qua hed n the table, and I have to clench my hands 10 t p my elf from reachingout 10 upp rt it head, letting its che I ri e and fill with air. What would Jack say ifhe aw hi motlierlying there in I.he.ame po itioo, trugglingfi r breath? nc of the boy fow1dit b dy tag tmppcdbetween it tubby 1

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'rbe Body's name is Doug. e take tum separating l11ethin layer of kin from a squishy layer ofyello~ peels a, ay like two pages ofa book that were once wet and have molded together under the swnmer sun. Doug just patiently waits for us lo finish clumsily tearing up his hairless, white exterior, while he stares at the blue tablecloth. I wonder ifh

had any children. /

Later that night, as I lay in bed I trace the muscles of Jack's back as his snores echo through the room. I pretend my hand is a marker as I drav each muscle, c cut through today: the

/evator capulae (where I like 10 place buucrny kisses upon the back of his neck , hen I catch

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him writing his ne, est story), the delloid (siuing delicately upon the shoulder, stretching deliciously when he opens the door for me), the lrapezius (where his hands like to run o er and massage me when he catches me hunched over a textbook late at night), and the /ati imu dor;·i (ilie muscle ofilie lower back that is squeezed tight, hen he wraps me into a hug). l press my fingers harder, detcnnined 10 seep through the layer of skin separating me from the intricate web of flesh bcneaili. I , ant to pierce ilirough the lungs barricading me from his beating hear/, slice it •open and reveal the river of blood trapped, ithin it. He shuffies slightly and I freeze when his I

lchest inflates with air. Fingers retract. Eyes close. Rolling o er. I stare at the dark ceiling and try to calm my rapid breathing.

When Doug's Body is wheeled out av eek later in tbe next class. l11ercis a gaping indent m the plastic, here his back is meant to be. His cropped blonde hair is mussed from the ciqmped condition of the metal cabinet, and bi nose now bas a permanent indent from laying on bjs

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Jack lets me stencil the same muscleson his leg and list them aloud whilst he lays on his front. l peek o er as I outline the Achilles tendon to watch his fingers ny across the keyboardand his tongue poke out in concentration, hen he reads through researchon his mother's nev chemotherapytreaunent.We visited her in hospitalyesterdayand I squeezedJack's band when \ e saw her bones poking through her paper skin. Her whole Body crumpledover like a dried leaf when she coughed,and I spoiled a splash of red on her tissue. Sighing, I abandon the pencil and snake my hands up the back or his hoodic as I lay on top of him. He huffs out a laugh as I clumsilytry 10remove his glasses whilst kissing him on the check. Laptop forgonco,be nips us o er so that my head is nestled under his chin and my stencils are hidden betv ecn bis nesb and

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the rough fabricor the worn-outcouch. We let the silence embrace us: let it fill in the gaps and uncenaintiesthat are swirlingaround us in the air.

It becomes routine - classc . visiting the hospital,and distractinghim at home - as the petals begin 10fall from thejacaranda tree. washing the entranceor1he medical building in muted purple. Rot creeps up tbc edges or its roots sticking abo c the ground as lhc air turns biller and cold. Bodies roll in and roll out. Doug's Body stans thinning the more we tear throughhis skin, caress his musclesand open his heart, but his lips stay stretched in a permanentgrin. His , cold touch comforts me during the days when there arc dark bags under Jack's eyes and he doesn'1 notice my fingers trailingacross the metaca,pal or his hand. Doug scold heart is not shielded.and I can imagine it beating in the palm or my hand as l reach for it I imagine it when my palm rests nat against his chest, our sweaty Bodiescolliding,sheets tangled.

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I stopped isiting the hospital a couple months later the day of my eighth class. Jack doesn't ask why, but by nO\ he has made his own bed on the chair next to his mother. I don't kno, hov 10 tell him ho, e cry time I see his mother's leaf-like form I see her lying on that blue tablecloth, ith students tumbling o er each other to get a glimpse. I don't know bow to tell him how'!" ould push to the front of the cro, d 10 watch too. o this momiog J silently slip ou11 of the door and pauer past the jacaranda tree, my feet crushing its lifeless lea es on the ground. no longer wrinkle my nose at the smell of formaldehyde that stm wafts from Doug's Body like a perfume , hen I prod a lump of cells nestled on bis grey liver. l poke it one more time to make 120

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sure, before l look up and grin at the girl across from me whose eyes arc shining behind her glasses.

()

"I think r found a tumour." Immediately a swarm of students buzz around me. Glo ed bands reach out and fumble o er each other for the chance to re ercntly touch the treasure I have found. Quizzicle eyes star at it, glazing o er the mess of intestines that hang limply outside his Body. For a moment, I believe I cc Doug intently staring down at me, hilc I proudly sho

off the bulging treasure

J protruding from within him. J v onder ifhe is proud, proud ofmy messy sea enger bunt

throughout his Body to find , bat migbt ha c caused his final days on Earth. My train of thougbt

• disappears, hen the bald head of my instructor peaks through the crowd and nods at me, hen I }>;

ask to confirm if! have indeed just found a cancer. The shadow of the tree's bare limbs wildly dance along the walls of the laboratory as if in celebration.

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...., After class, I recountthe story of my discoveryto Jack. The excitementis bubblingout of I me, so r don't notice the bag he is clutching in his hands until I finallyfinish. y feet halt their pacing when I meet his eye. His eyebrowsarc rurrowcd,and his knucklesarc white, grippingthe clothes that are spillingout of the bag. "You founda canceroustumour?" ·'Yes", I, hisper. My bands reach out to trace the familiarcontoursof bis band which I have grownaccustomed10 ~ hen I comforthim, but this time be pulls away. Instead,his eyes concentrateon my outstretchedfingers.He hasn't moved,sol shuffie closer. 121

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" nd you are excited about it?" I don't respond.I can't, a similar lump has appearedin my throat. The silence stretches bet, een us, answeringthe questionhanging in the air. I reach oul one more time.

"Don't touch me!", he yelps and flinchesaway. He quickly strides towardsthe door, creatingdistancebetweenhis Bodyand my outstretchedhands. Openingit, he gingerlyturns back to me. 'Tm going to stay with my mother. Who has cancer... in case you v ant to dissect her too.' ~

The blood drains frommy face when the door, himpcrsshut, and he slip a, ay. I don't

try to defend myself. Why would I'! Hejust doesn I understand.

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I noat 10 the bathroomv here I strip off myjeans under the nuorescentlights and sho e my shirt to the comer of the tiled noor. Left in only my couon underwearJ stare intentlyat my pale rcOcctionin the mirror that bas a long slitheringcrack winding its way across the surface. I

want to reach out and stroke the tear tl1atis splitting my reflectionin two, but my hands wander

/ themsel es to the marke; precariouslydanglingorr the stained sink. They ho er, suspendingtl1e VI

' markerbetween my breasts before di ing to, ards my lernum,staining the white with its black ink. I watch, entrancedas the pen dances along my clavicleand down to the rib cage, tlie ink bleedingonto my skin as it cuts me open each rib al a time. gleefullyjumping 10 my pelvis its 122

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sharp edge peeling the skin down the.femur10 the meratarsal oftllc toes that arc quished of the arms that are intimately against the bitter cold tiles, before nying to the radiusand ca171el linked in the delicate column of the wrist, my fingers entwineand stroke along the phalangesof each otber before my Body bends over bac~ ards so they can reach the skeletalmuscle tissue of

, latissimusdorsi v here they prod until the ibrant hues of red peek through the thin strip of skin. the same colour that trickledover Doug's Body as my fingersgrabbed and caressed his nesh, furtlier.funher down each vertebra,be would of liked that... ob yes J like tliat cry much. A knock halls th marker's ascent towards my neck. Drapingmyself in the plastic sho, er curtain, I peek throughthe door only to find him staring down at me. He doesn't meet my eyes. instead his pupils arc fixedon the intricatedetails decoratingmy v bite exterior.I grin up at him.

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"Doug. you're here!'. A brownmop of hair shakes its bead in front of me and stans slowlybackingaway. ho\ e er. I don t noticeas the plasticbegins to slip and unwrapme.

The faint sound of a slammingdoor echoes throughthe apartment. The marker lungestoward the levator capulae...

When I stroll into my next class. no one commentson tbe slashingblack stains liuering

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my \ rists that peek from the long sleevesof the lab coal, or the smudgeof ink that still lingers under my eyes. o one asks\ hy there is a doued line tracing my pulsingjugular vein that creeps • up from the neck of my jumper to the back of my ear. Everyoneis focusedon tuggingtheir O\ n slce cs down or biking tbe collar of their coats up a liulc further10hide their new 1a1100s as the Bodiesarc wheeled in. I smile when I sec the glassyeyes ofmy Doug appear beforeme again and unwraphim from his plastic clothe - my ery own strip tease. I can't help the laughter bubblingout ofme as I peer down at the long scars that dance around his Body. We're matching,Dougand I.

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Thi hon tory i et in King ford, Ydney,during the time of Au tralian Army• invo/ emen, in the Vietnamwar. The main protagoni t i depicted lo beconflicted with the raging citizen conflict for or again I the war. Thi bombardment of information the chara ter endure i reflectiveof what we ti// go through !OdayWith the media and Otheroutlet ource Providing a plethora ofinfonnation that can war again t our value .

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Their screams arc an anthem. The swell of oiccs chants the same lines o er and o er again, "Peace now ... End the slaughter in Vietnam ... hildrcn bum while students leam." The children.

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Belinda peers down from the window of her apartment watching a woman's golden hair shine like rhe sun from within the densely packed crowd marching down William St Kings ross. The masses trample down the piss-soaked concrete with a new igour as the screech of police cars amplifies. Despite the early waning sun that iUuminatcs rhe cheap neon-signs of shops (that were the street's attempt to mimic the boulevards of ew York) the posters continued to violently wave in the air. There arc e en children slung upon shoulders, naively clapping their hands to the beat of the chanting. They dodge their parent's attempts ro co er their eyes from the blood spurting from the noses of those bra e nough to lead the charge towards what has now become a barricade of policemen. The ring of the phone upon the wall pierces through the chant and the cold of May that has begun to creep its way past her four whitewalls. With shaking bands, she places the phone to her car. ''I'm ali c". His oice is gra cly, the kit1dofsout1d someone makes when their lips arc dried and cracked, throat shri ellcd with thirst. She can imagine him covered in his anny gear with a hamlet caked in mud just pulled below his forehead. He might be blowing out a puff or smoke, or just rolling a cigarette between his fingers maybe the pack she sent him a couple of weeks ago. Or he might have just jumped off one of the helicopters that held the giant barrels oforangc liquid that sloshed like blood ...

1 She peers down at the gold band scared firmly on her founh finger. he knows that he is , only allowed a minutes to call, but she can't help glance at the kitchen where red still taints her once-white walls. She tcntati ely coughs.

re~

'You-uh-ha en't done anything have you?'

~ ''What do you mean?" His oicc pitches slightly. he's conscious of the limited time they ha cleft but she could help but ask ... "Whataboutthcchildrcn?"

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ilcncc wraps the room in its embrace. Belinda docsn 't dare breathe, only twisting tJ1c ring that feels like it is buming her skin. His reply is short and brief," wccthcart, It's war.' A burst of cool autumn \ ind slips between the cracks of the " indow frame and dances around her, taunting her when a shi er races down her spine. he can't seem to let go of her breath. When she does, a hea iness settles in her stomach. Susan could be right. *** A few days earlier usan had appeared upon her doorstep with Ule un-herald tucked under one arm and a bottle of red wine in the other. She was beaming as she took tJ1rce long strides and engulfed Belinda in a hug. What B linda didn't sec was the sign l11at read, 'Bring our Boys home', that usan had hid next to Ulc front door before entering. 127

The Oared denim jeans swished as the smiling blonde hippie, went searching for cups in the ornate wooden cabinets of the kitchen. Belinda raced to help her friend before they made a mess of d1e pristine benches like they always did. Susan bad ne er understood \. by she insisted on ha ing a spotless l<ltchend1at appeared to be stuck in a I960s home magazine , here Belinda - with her brown curls neatly pinned and cream dress that ne er rose above her knee - was the perfect model. It reminded her of the flat they shared in university back before she had met him ... Susan would always try to alter the kitchen slightly, swap a wooden spoon for a spatula for example, but the next day the wooden spoon magically reappeared. The women sat in front oftJ1e Television, the brunette upon the sofa chair and the blonde cross-legged on the floor. Belinda's bands knotted the golden tresses that sprawled upon her lap into a sort of plait while Susan fer cntly read the paper in front of her. either of , them paid much attention to the images of arcus Welsby on AB pcrfonning surgery in front of them. They fell into a silent haze ofred wine and sunlight Ulat flitted across dlcir faces through the small , indow. Well, a lulling haze for Belinda whose eyes fluttered shut.

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For usan, wit1le ery tum of the page, she sa another starved victim whose ribs poked , out of stretched skin some witl1bums co ering their arms and mouths open mid-scream as smoke filled the background of the black and white image. Every time her fingers itched to show Belinda, she felt his eyes staring down from the picture frame neatly hanging on t11ewhite wall next 10 the TV. usan hurried to the kitchen again to pour more wine into her emptied glass. As a pool of red filled her cup the same image from the ne spaper slashed across the TV screen as the ews disrupted the ABC broadcast. The red droplets gushing from the bottle looked like the red pooling under people's heads on the dusty street of a foreign country, the red , drops falling from the sky like rain that burns their skin ... the red that flo, cd o er the • rim of her glass and rushed in all directions upon the countcrtop.

A startled cry accompanied the crack of glass as the bottle slipped. o words were exchanged as Belinda hurried tluough, stopping mid-step at the sight of a dripping red kitchen. 128

"I ... I was thinking about the children!", usan stuttered pointing at the TV screen that was flashing one horrific image after another. Belinda did not step forward, did not want to stain her shoes, but usan dashed for the door and out into the city.

Belinda perches herself again at the windo, . The phone now hangs limp from the cord securing it co the wall. Her eyes track the blonde woman whose figure seamlessly blends , into the sea of denim jackets and unruly hair that march chrougb the street. Susan. Her apartment srill slunk of aging wine; the red stains will take another week co wash out. Her fingers pull at the latch securing the window slo, ly, ever so slo, ly opening it. Tbc roar of the city greets her, and cool air rushes inside lea ing nothing untouched, filling 1 e ery crevice. Belinda does nor shiver at the cold embrace this time.

o, she smiles and bums along \i itb the chant. Music to her ears.

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A Man in the Rain CJbe manat thebusstop,on hisW"f homefromwork,feltthe stagnant weightinsidehimwhichoftencameonovercastafternoons. As it beganto rain,a torrentof thoughtsalsoassailedhim- in thatwayit doeswhenthey havelongresidedinsideus, yethaveneverconnected.It startedwhen, rummaging throughhisbackpack,he realisedhe hadforgottenhisumbrella. He felthissoddenshirtclingingto hisskinandhisjacketgrowingheavier. Therewasno shelterat thebusstop.Onlya graffitiedbench,a polewith thetimetable,longfaded,all darkening withmoisture.Hecouldonlystand thereuncovered. Hewouldbe soaked! He didn'tevenhavea raincoat.Shit.Hefeltthatweightgo deeperand he droopedwithan irrationaldread.He'dwalkin thedoor,dripping everywhere, andhiswifewouldscoldhim,in a familiar,Jove-hate kindof way,butthere'dbe thattingeof somethingelse,a resentment in herhuffsandsighsas shestrodeoff,backinsideto whatevershe wasdoing,alwayssomehowbusierthanhim..

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A slowmovement, spectralin hisperiphery, distractedhim. Brightp~asticflashed- anumbrella ... it flewopenovera tallfigure- no, notone,buttwo,theothershorter,withdarkhaircoursingdownherback, pressedintotheother'saccommodating side.Warpedin thehazeof therain, theycurvedunnaturally, mirage-like - indistinct,likesomethinglong forgotten.Theyunsettledhim.He swivelledbackto stareat the asphalt, greyandcrackedwithage.Thebususuallycameat four-twenty-two ... he checkedhiswatch- four-thirty! Heturnedhisheadbackto double-check thetimetable,buttheretheywere... Surely,once,he hadmouldedintohiswifelikethat?Hethoughthe remembered thetentativeoutreachof an ann... thatbeautifulawkwardness , whichcomeswhenneitherof youknowshowor whythisis happening, whennervousness castsa deliciousedgeondesire.

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He was nearing sixty ... but he saw, he knew those two now. He knew they were quiet, uncertain, yet locked together - they would try and look away, though really all they wanted was to catch the other's gaze, accidentally, inevitably, each nervous glance lasting forever. This feeling was ancient to him, yet solid as marble, like an altar in his mind. Could you only savour it once it left you forever? Maybe he was responsible for that undeniable resentment which hid beneath their 'love-hate,' that feeble excuse. Maybe it was his fault Maybe he had never revived the deliciousness of uncertainty, that sway between doubt and hope which blessed the ground metres from his sodden feet. He had thought of love as an indestructible rock, permanent - albeit founded on little more than the compliments of others who, really, he barely cared for. Music cannot resolve without tension, but he had kept the same drone going all bis life. He had done nothing for love but assume it was there, and his wife had never forgiven him.. And now there was no way out, because words could not service them with the truth of feeling. In fact, something was always left unsaid, and even love had just become a reason caught quickly to smother the awful quiet.

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He looked up, and the rain streaming down his face was indistinguishable from his tears. The umbrella jerked, the figures entwined as one. It shuddered from the startled hand, then calmed, gently swaying. With sudden desperation, he hoped they woul<,lnever see reason to buy a second one.

"On the surface, all our protagonist is doing is waiting at a bus stop in the rain, looking a little sad. But hopefully this short story will plunge you in and out of his interiority and leave you reeling.I've always been fascinated by the way our thoughts, with seemingly trivial impetus, conclusions. can randomly intersect and lead us to devastating Though true or overblown, we cannot always immediately tell."

James Hills 131

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mi massa, ut lorem gravida

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._.. I :·--~, ...

I •• • •

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-----_.,__. ~ .:,.,

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An Introduction to Experiments Angus Dillon: I've been playing piano for almost my entire life - 16 years out of 20 to be precise. I've always been fascinated by the different types of sounds and music that you can create from it. In high school, my band teacher was showing us his brand new loop pedal that he got for his guitar. I, at the time, did not know how to play guitar, but was fascinated by the concept. After the class, I asked what other things that could be put through the looping station, to which the answer was "anything!". That lunchtime, I set up a digital keyboard, plugged in the looping station, and began to mess around with different loops, starting with simple melodies and slowly building them up to much larger sounds. Fast forward to college last year, and I was fascinated by reigniting that kind of music that I began creating back in school. Using some microphones that I had lying around, an audio interface, and some free software I downloaded on my computer, I took to the Dorothy music room and began to experiment once again. Popping the cover off the piano and putting the felt practice pedal over the hammers created this lovely warm sound, which when paired with close up microphones, gives you a lovely soft tone to which even the sound of the wooden hammers being pressed can be heard through headphones - a truly cozy experience. These three pieces are an accumulation of my experimentation with my recording set up and what sounds can be produced with the piano. Experiment one was a simple one - some basic loops, starting with nothing but a simple one hand melody, before it ultimately reaches its climax with over 15 hands playing simultaneously. Experiment 2 also takes a similar approach, but I attempted to make a larger sound ,vith less hands. Experiment 3 is the most interesting. Using some fancy audio editing techniques and some atypical use of the piano (such as "bowing" a piano string with an old violin bow!) I was able to create some lovely additional sound effects such as a bass tone and some synths which you may hear later on in the song! I hope you enjoy it. It's not exactly mainstream pop music or anything that would get played at a club, but maybe if you're deep into a study session, the rain is coming down on your window outside, the hot chocolate is getting cold, and you've had enough of your study playlist and looking for something a little more instrumental, than this can be something you turn to. 138

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Working together on Sicilienne James Lao: This is our cover of Faure's Sicilliene. So happy to be collaborating with Bella on this piece. We've been spending a lot of time preparing it together. It's a very flowy piece embellished by points of staccato, with neither voice wanting to dominate. I've been playing for 9 years and we do this for the love of performing for you guys. I hope you all enjoy giving it a listen!

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Isabella Smallwood: Sicilienne is a beautiful piece by Gabriel Faure so when James and I saw that the Bulpadok was accepting musical submissions we wanted to share our love for music. I've been playing flute for over 13 years and it's always exciting to play with new people and to hear their interpretation of the music. This is one of my favourite pieces and truly reflects the emotional expression classic of the romantic era.

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LITERARY Written

by James Hills 142

EXT. SHED, BUSHLAND - DAY, A POST-APOCALYPTIC FUTURE A makeshift, corrugated iron shed is surrounded by pens, a chicken coop, fruit trees and a vegetable patch with a water tank b hind. All is encircl d by a four-m tr -high wall of concrete nd other haphazard incursions. Dense bushland is visible through a single metal gate. It is quiet. HARPER(20s), in muddy overalls with a ponytail tied behind her, sits on a tree stump and methodically pulls at a cow's udder. By the shed, THEODORE(Harper's father, early 50s) is absorbed in a novel yellow with age - THE CATCHERIN THE RYE. Re flips over a page and sighs with relish. A farm dog sl eps nearby. Harper looks over to him. HARPER What are you reading, 143

Dad? 143

THEODORE Just th t book I bought ... from the man who cam h re a while ago. HARPER Still? He continues

to read. HARPER(cont'd) eave the chickens

laid

this

morning?

No response. HARPER(cor.t'd) Dad? THEODORE Hm? I said,

HARPER have the chickens laid

this

morning?

THEODORE I'll check soon, honey. (reading to himself) ... on the way to the carousel. From outside

thew

lls,

a gunshot.

143

Harper recoils and the cow jerks bucket of milk. The dog whines and barks Theodore continues

back,

kicking

over the

once.

to read. HARPER Not again ... Dad?

The cow strains

against

its

tether.

THEODORE to himself) A carouse ...

(still

HARPER Dad! I need a hand. Theodore Harper.

looks

up, slams the book down and walks over to

144

Just

HARPER(cont'd) calm her down for me.

144

Theodore pats the cow with a single cursory stroke, then rests his hand on its back. He looks at the gate in thought. Harper turns the bucket back upright and resumes milking the cow. It jerks

again.

Just

HARPER(cont'd) keep her calm, Dad. THEODORE I am.

He pats it again, becomes still. A few moments pass. to a trickle.

repeatedly

this

time.

Gradually,

The stream of milk from the cow reduces

Alright,

that's

HARPER all I'm getting.

She stops milking. Theodore saunters back to his shed. Harper watches him. She frowns.

seat

by the

He begins reading again. Harper walks over to the water tank, grabs a watering can and begins filling it from a rusty tap.

144

THEODORE (to himself) We kept getting closer and closer the carousel...

More gunshots,

also

closer.

The dog barks

and the cow paws the ground restlessly.

Harper looks

up from the tap,

worried.

THEODORE(cont'd) ...you could start to hear that music it always plays. Harper walks over to the vegetable

patch

nutty and begins

watering

l.he planl.s.

Theodore's

face

is scrunched

and concentrated.

THEODORE(cont'd) That's one nice thing about carousels_, about carousels. They always play the same songs ...

145

Another

gunshot.

145

Harper grimaces. THEODORE(cont'd) The same songs ...

The dog continues

to bark,

louder.

THEODORE(cont'd) I thought the carousel was closed the winter time. Closed ...

The dog howls. THEODORE(cont'd) (yelling to Harper) can you get that thing to shut up? HARPER Re's scared. The dog continues to howl. It's nail-biting. Theodore his best to maintain his attention on the book. A car's distant

engine growls yelling.

The dog gets

viciously

from outside.

up, runs to the gate

does

There is

and howls relentlessly.

145

Theodore quickly

THEODORE Fuck! from his chair.

rises

THEODORE (cont'd) Shut up! Shut up! HARPER Dad!

She walks over to the dog, lays pats it comfortingly.

a hand on the dog's

back and

THEODORE I can't focus. Dad, just ...

HARPER just go check on the eggs.

He scowls, then stalks off in the direction coop. Harper gently cradles the dog.

146

of the chicken 146

The gunshots recede slightly into the distance. the car becomes a low, distant runble.

Shhh ...

HARPER(cont'd) (to the dog) it's okay. They'll

The growl of

go soon.

Theodore opens the door to the chicken coop and looks around from outside. After barely a moment, he heads back to his chair without a backwards glance. He leaves the door open behind him. He sits back down, unaware of a chicken the door and outside the coop. Harper sighs in a huff.

in dismay,

glares

that

at Theodore,

waddles

through

then strides

She begins to close the door to the coop but pauses as something catches her eye. Her eyes widen and she brings hand to her mouth. Further opaque,

off

back in the shelter, obscured by shadow, eyes a chicken lies lifeless on the dirt. HARPER(cont'd) It's dead!

146

Theodore's (MORE)

head flies

up from his book. Harper twists

back.

HARPER(cont'd) You've been feeding them, right? Theodore the lull.

is still. A gunshot, closer The cow moos in agitation.

than before,

interrupts

HARPER(cont'd) You always feed them. I ... He rises

slowly

THEODORE of course.

and falters

over to her.

He sees the dead chicken. THEODORE(cont'd) Shit.

You didn't 147

I swear I've

HARPER even notice."

THEODORE been feeding

147

them.

HARPER

No, you haven't. You've been in that chair every morning. THEODORE NO,

I .•.

HARPER That book ... THEODORE I need it, Harper. HARPER You need it(she cracks) I'll tell you what we fucking need! Milk and eggs! You want to fucking starve? You don't even care! I live here too, Dad! If you forget this, you forget met I"m your daughter! I'm your daughter, Dad! I need you. Theodore considers his brow.

her for a moment. He frowns and furrows

THEODORE You've never seen a carousel have you?

before,

147

HARPER

What? THEODORE A carousel? HARPER

What the fuck,

Dad? No, of course

I haven't-

THEODORE I know I have. I was reading the catcher in the Rye. There's a scene where a boy is watching this kid ride on the carousel. And the innocence of it ... it makes him so happy. And I've read this over and over ... but ... no matter how hard I try, I can't remember what a carousel looked like. It's gone. I have.

HARPER

Dad, I know-

148

No, you don't.

148

THEODORE You never have. I want to go back.

HARPER You can't, Dadflurry of gunfire, so close at hand it's like a whiplash. The dog howls and the cow breaks free of its tether. It runs around the farm, trampling the vegetables.

Harper lurches after it. She can barely she does, it bucks and throws her off.

reach

it,

and when

Theodore is motionless for a second, then, with almost unnatural abruptness, bolts over to the gate and rattles lock as he struggles to undo it.

the

Harper hears the metallic scuffle and she looks over. Her face falls. The lock undoes with a CLICK, a grating slide. Theodore stares back. Re swings open the gate and darts

out.

HARPER(cont'd) Dad!

148

Harper rushes over to the gate. Theodore grows smaller. She stands with her mouth slightly open, her features contorted. Her right foot moves forward, then back, forward, back.

A bullet head.

PINGS off the wall.

Harper flinches

She turns

back and sees her father

and covers

her

has vanished.

HARPER(cont'd) Dad! I need you! Theodore runs faster. His foot catches on a protruding root and he trips. He topples down into a gully.

tree

He does not get up. Shocking red blood oozes from his skull. A sharp rock, spattered, sticks up nearby. Harper is statuesque crescendo.

by the gate.

The gunfire

climbs

to a

THE END. 149

149

James is an editor for the Bulpadok and is studying a Bachelor of Arts majoring 1n English and Theatre Studies. and one day a professional He aspires to be a Journalist. novelist or screenwriter. -ibis was a short screenplay I wrote as an assessment piece in first year. for the subject Creative Nonfiction and Multimodal lriting. Often as creative types we're tempted to live our lives through our books and our fantasies, and this screenplay really is a deconstruction of that. As to whether Theodore•s yearning for a world he cannot reach is a redeemable flaw or a tragic inevitability. I'll leave it up to you - this is only a slice of a wider dystopic landscape which is not meant to leave you with all the answers.•

149

DAD'S

DEAD

150

Written

Mimi Kozckar 150

151

INT. SCHOOLCOMMON ROOMDAY A young girl stands in front of a grimy microwave. The greasy plastic coating is bubbled and dried from decades of heat. Her hair falls in a long, dry braid tied with a crisp white school ribbon. She watches as a hot bowl of chicken circles. This is ANNIE (17).

noodle

soup turns

ANNIE (V.O.) I don't even really like chicken noodle soup. It has a weird tangy taste to it, like the bones are lemony. The noodle soup bubbles under the yellow light of the microwave. Behind her, worn out blue couches scatter the room; slouched from years of use, set atop a crunchy carpet. ANNIE (V.O.) (cont'd) I only really eat this one cause mum buys it. And it doesn't have that many calories. It's kind of like eating a tangy, watery nothing.

151

The microwave beeps loudly and interrupts Annie's train of thought, reverberating tirelessly. She perks up and takes the soup out, wincing at its melting heat. Steam unfurls and blows into her face as she walks over to a table of school girls who laugh and chatter, but ignore Annie. The girls sit of dry pasta. chicken slices

in front of uneaten canteen Annie sits and mechanically in her soup.

containers full pokes at the

ANNIE (V.O.) (cont'd) I don't like the canteen food either. The idea of everyone lining up for a scoop of crusty heat lamp pasta grosses me out. Belle and I used to laugh about that. Annie smiles and stifles laugh with her, thinking conversation. A brunette (17) continues talking.

a laugh. The girls turn and she has joined in the with a corse ponytail, EMMA

EMMA That's how he asked formal? Seriously?

A snobby,

pinched-face

girl,

you to

LILY (17) answers. 151

LILY

It was so stupid. We've been dating for what - six months now? And all he did was put a note in my car! EMMA What a dropkick. JULES he thinks

At least

you can

The girls laugh. They lean on each each others hair. Annie pokes her wincing at its heat.

read!

other finger

and in

play with the soup,

EMMA If Jack had done that seriously - I'd finish then and there. Annie, leans

152

shakes the claggy liquid into the conversation. Sorry,

The girls

turn

what her

to me, it right off

her

fingers

and

ANNIE did he do?

begrudgingly.

EMMA (gushing) Well, we're just like watching TV or whatever and he said he needed the bathroom and I was like yeah ok. Anyway ten minutes go by, I turn around and there he is in a suit with a red rose. Soooo stupid! The girls

laugh

again. LILY

(dismissively) So stupid. The girls the winter

bow their heads. The window panes shudder with wind. Annie perks up and smiles in excitement.

ANNIE ... Yeah. Oh that's like! Well ok so there was this one time when Ben and I were driving through MaccasThe girls

152

observe

her

a zoo creature.

152

153

ANNIE(cont'd) -And, you know him, he just randomly asked the barista to write 'I love Annie' in caramel sauce! It dripped every ... where ... Annie cuts herself scraping containers

off. The girls grimace with their forks.

JULES So like ... no-ones formal yet? face

LILY

Cute.

Annie's

expectantly,

asked

you

droops. ANNIE No but um, my Mum's set me up to go with someone. Just a family friend.

Lily

sighs,

tired

153

of Annie talking.

It's

LILY Harry isn't

it?

JULES Handsy Harry!? Annie nods. Cool.

JULES

EMMA Well, at least you have someone! Right?

The table

girls

smile

supportively.

EMMA(cont'd) Ooh! Maybe it'll make Ben jealous? Lily snorts. Annie looks down at her food. A slender, glassy eyed brunette, KATE (17) walks through the battered wooden archway. The doors creak loudly with warning. Annie looks

up. Kate approaches

the

jury.

KATE Hey guys ... Annie can I talk you? Alone?

to 153

The girls

look at her,

unsettled.

Don't

LILY around

dick

It's

just

off.

Kate looks

us.

KATE

Oh uh-

Annie stays pleadingly.

Kate!

Tell.

LILY (interrupting) Go on.

silent,

something's

at her

LILY(cont'd) Annie doesn't mind. EMMA Do you mind Annie? Annie's

eyes

stay

locked

154

Hello? Sorry really Annie gets the door.

on Kate.

guys, just

KATE I really just ... I need Annie.

up from her chair

slowly

and follows

EMMA (calling out) But it's almost one! Lunch ends in five minutes!

Just Now that

LILY leave them. JULES she's goneEMMA talking

What do you think

they're

The girls

uncomfortably.

shuffle

EMMA(cont'd) Do you think it's to do with Belle?

154

JULES (sing-songy)

about?

got something

Kate out

155

Beat. LILY (grinning menacingly) in ladies.

Strap

EXT. SCHOOL GARDEN DAY. Annie trails a pace behind Kate towards a under a big oak tree. The wind blows against uniform, autumn leaves falling in swirls, whipping in the cold winter wind.

school bench her polished her braid

ANNIE (V.O.) My mum used to make pumpkin soup for my lunches. It was always so thick and sweet. I used to dip in the crusty bread and salty french butter that she bought from the good supermarket. Kate sits she sits.

on the

bench

and

looks

expectantly,

155

ANNIE (V.O.) (cont'd) have changed.

But things

KATE Sorry for just pulling of there like that. No, it's

Annie

you out

ANNIE ... fine.

Beat. The wind rustles a tree overhead. Kate shuffles uncomfortably.

Annie

reaches

Leaves

I really approach

KATE don't know this ... situation.

how

ANNIE What is

it?

me.

for

Kate's

You can

tell

pulls

her

hands

away.

and talk.

hands.

ANNIE(cont'd) Kate ... whatever it is ... just Kate

crunch

Her facade

tell

me.

crumbles.

155

Annie,

KATE Belle's dad is dead.

Beat. Thump. Thump. Thump. Annie's

heartbeat

festers

between

throttles

the

violent

the two girls. . ANNIE How did ... KATE He had a brain aneurysm Saturday. He died early morning.

silence

that

on this

Annie is paralyzed with the weight of Kate's stares into her lap and begins to cry.

words.

She

Beat. ANNIE {meekly) Why are you telling

156

me this?

KATE Belle asked me to Annie. She said ... she said wants you to be there with her. Annie looks

up. At the

KATE(cont'd) funeral. ANNIE

What? Beat.

KATE You knew him Annie, and you know her. She said she needs you. I can't

Kate shakes

ANNIE do it.

her head. ANNIE(cont'd) She doesn't even talk to me. She hates me!

156

157

KATE Annie ... ANNIE I hate

her. KATE

Annie!

The school bell rings loudly. School girls in tartan dresses uniformly funnel out from various doors, but Annie and Kate remain consumed in their own depressing reality. She can't

ANNIE do this to me.

KATE I want you to think really hard about what you're saying. I know what she did to you, we all do but ... sometimes you just ... you have to move on. Annie slumps back in her chair, looking down. Kate fiddles with her chipped blue nail polish in the excruciating silence, flicking the aqua shards onto the pavement.

Annie looks

She'll up.

157

KATE(cont'd) be here in ten minutes.

KATE(cont'd) Annie, she really needs right now.

you

INT. BEDROOM NIGHT (FLASHBACK) A younger Annie lies on the carpet of a teenage, childhood bedroom. Girly decorations clutter the room butterfly stickers, pink teddy bears, lacy underwear. Annie smiles distantly at the ceiling. With a happy sigh, Annie turns on her left and lies facet face nose to nose with another girl, adorned with glittery eye shadow and smudged red lipstick. This is BELLE (14). Their noses brush each other affectionately. Belle reaches over and pushes Annie's hair behind her ear, her fingers trailing delicately down Annie's cheek. Annie smiles and kisses Belle's cheek. I love Belle hair.

smiles,

giggles

ANNIE you you know. softly

and twirls

a lock

of Annie's 157

ANNIE(cont'd)

There's no one in the world ... the whole wide world ... who knows me like you. Annie

kisses

her

forehead.

EXT. SCHOOLGARDENDAY. Annie and Kate sit

to each

her brown lace up school shoes against Buzz. Kate checks her phone.

in silence. the

Annie scuffs

gravel.

KATE She's

here.

Annie nods slowly. Kate shifts between leaving staying. KATE(cont'd) I'm gonna go get her. OK. Do you want me to bring her here or-

158

ANNIE want to get my lunch

I just Ok. I'll

and 158

first.

KATE see you in a sec I guess.

Kate leaves the benches. Annie takes a moment and looks up to the oak tree, watching a scrunched brown leaf blow through the air. Before

reaches

the

ground,

Annie has already

left.

INT. SCHOOLCOMMON ROOMDAY. Annie passes through the creaky oak doors. The common room is empty now, with only the remnants of lunchtime activities permeating the bare space. Uno cards, pens and paper, orange dishwasher stained plastic containers. ANNIE (V.O.) After a while I stopped eating soup altogether. I told mum that I couldn't eat it at all. I ate ham sandwiches instead. 158

159

ANNIE (V.O.) (cont'd} I didn't like them at all, but eating something was better than going hungry. At least that's what I told myself.

Annie moves to her table from before. The chicken noodle soups sits in her spot. She looks down on it. She takes a moment, and slowly pokes her finger into it Annie doesn't

react.

It's

gone ice

cold.

CREAK. KATE

Annie? Annie Belle.

turns,

in the

door

stands

Kate,

arm and arm with

Beat. The girls look at each other and for a moment, everything is still. Belle's face crumbles. Annie lets out a short breath and bites her lip, teeth sinking into her pink lips.

159

ANNIE Hi.

About the Author; Mimi is studying a Bachelor of Fine Arts (Screenwriting) at the VCA. The majority of Mimi's works are written for the screen, and are constantly being pitched for production. A recent work of hers, made alongisde Scout Tardent-Tong and in collaboration with additional VCA film students, has been filmed, and is currently in the editing stage, soon to be released.

159

160

161

162

BEYOND "GREAT CAPPUCINOS" BY BILLY CHEN In his first press conference as Opposition Leader, Angus Taylor cited "great cappuccinos" as the exemplar contribution of our nation s immigrants. For those who worked hard to build our nation, it is hard not to see this soundbite as condescending, however well-intentioned it may have been. It sells short the accomplishments of multicultural Australians in every part of our society, who have triumphed over adversity.

•

162

His inability to name anything beyond "great cappuccinos" from the top of his head is concerning. His answer lacked the specificity and depth which the importance of this topic demanded. And on top of this are our leaders really in touch with our migrant communities at all, if they have to be asked to acknowledge their contributions by journalists?

163

When we look beyond this clumsy soundbite, we find multicultural Australians whose lifetime achievements have truly transformed the lives of others. Their accomplishments show that

multiculturol contribution is measured in impoct ond service the kind of impact that the Opposition Leader's anecdote, as decorative and charming as it may be, completely misses. Take Dr Victor Chang for example, a Chinese-Australian cardiac surgeon who was named as the Australian of the Century in J999 by then Prime Minister John Howard. A pioneer of modern heart transplant surgery, Dr Chang was involved in performing Australia's first ever successful heart transplant in 1984 to fourteen-year-old schoolgirl, Fiona Coote, who is alive to this da . ,

Before Dr Chang was tragically murdered in 1991, his teal}'l was one of the most successful heart transplant units in the world. Over 90% of his patients would live 12 months after surgery, an incredible feat for a nation that had just performed its first successful heart transplant seven years earlier. While he was alive, Chang described "giving someone else an opportunity to live ..... [as] the greatest gift that you can give." He performed 266 heart transplants in his lifetime, saving hundreds of patients' lives. 163

163

164

In honour of his contributions to the nation, the Victor Chang Cardiac Research Institute was established to support research into heart disease and was opened by the late Diana, Princess of Wales in 1990s. His legacy today does not just live on through this institute, but also through the thousands of lives in Australia that have been saved thanks to his research, courage and perseverance. Growing up Kon Karapanagiotidis, CEO and founder of the Asylum Seeker Resource Centre {ASRC), suffered racist taunts and bullying on an almost daily basis. In a 2016 interview with the ABC, he de cribed his experience of living in the regional Victorian town of Mount Beauty where his migrant family was one of only two Greek families.

164

Photographed by Sarah Panell

He had an unhappy childhood where he was told repeatedly he did not belong in Australia, and he was subjected to racial slurs at just four years old. Years later at university he would discover volunteering, deciding he would no longer allow himself to be hurt. 164

Stories like these are not an anomaly. They are common all across Australia, where multicultural Australians have triumphed often while facing discrimination. They have not just made significant contributions to medical research, but in every other sector too.

165

They hove continued to give bock to others, even when they hove been told repeatedly

When he learned about the lack of support available to asylum seekers, he established the Asylum Resource Centre to advocate for those fleeing persecution and seeking a new home in Australia. The Centre has now supported over 13,000 refugees and people seeking asylum, helping individuals to find safety and freedom in our nation. He received the 2023 Melburnian of the Year Award, honouring his compassion towards others and the hope that he has provided so many.

to go bock to where they come from. His generosity reminds us all that service to others and impact have no boundaries. It takes true courage and resilience to choose kindness and service in the face of racism. He refused to let prejudice and racism diminish his spirit to help others. This same spirit is present all across our nation today. There are far too many examples of talented, hardworking multicultural Australians for me to include in this article. That alone demonstrates the contributions of migrants across generations.

Photographed by Daniel Howden

165

We are a lucky country. Our greatest gift has never been the resources that lie beneath golden oil. Our greatest gift is the many hard working and ambitious migrants who have arrived on our rocky hores and boundless plains which have been cared for by First Nations people for millennia. Our nation would not be the lucky country it is today without the work of multicultural Australians such as Dr Victor Chang and Kon Karapanagiotidis whose brave families left everything behind to move to Australia

Australia's story of post-war immigration is much more than a hot drink. It is the story of academics, urge on and community leaders who have helped to olve our nation' greate t challenges. It i the tory of organisations and small businesses who have helped to power our nation's economy. For every celebrated surgeon and entrepreneur, there are thousands of aged care workers, doctors, nurses and teachers who dedicate their lives to the service of others.

166

' Pictured here i the "Bileola family" a Sri Lankan Tamil family who were taken from the QLD town of Bilocla and into detention after their visa were refused. Their case highlights the positive contribution of immigrants through the trong community upport and love they received. Photographed by Richard Wainwright, The West Australian.

Their quiet efforts form the bockbone of our notion.

166

167

It is time we told richer narratives - narrative which honour the everyday contributions of multicultural Australians to our lifestyle and cuisine, but also narratives which honour the changemakers and leaders who have made Australia the nation it is today. Neat soundbites may be easy to remember and good for party campaigning, but they do very little to celebrate multicultural Australians. We owe it to multicultural Australians to speak with kindness, gratitude and warmth, lest we reduce decades of accomplishment and service to a mere cappuccino .

•

About the Author: Billy is a third-year resident at Trinity, who is currently studying a Bachelor of Arts and majoring in Politics and International Studies with a minor in Geography. Beyond university Billy is a passionate youth advocate for Melbourne's We t who volunteers for Western Chance . He is a former Victorian Youth Congres member and was named one of three Victorian Rotary Young Achievers by the Governor of Victoria in 2025. He is also currently a parliamentary re earch intern. 167

167

168

~ RETHINKING LI)

N 0 N

~* z ~

~ (/J (/J

w w

(/J

a: <(

INTELLECTUAL PROPERTY LAWS 168

AGE OF GENERATIVE Al~ TECHNOLOGY

0 0

z <( a: LL

SHINE LIN

169

Introduction explosive The growth of generative artificial intelligence (genAI) poses an existential challenge to the philosophical of foundations legal and property (IP) law. intellectual Systems like Stable Diffusion conversion), image to (text generator), (image Midjourney and ChatGPT, which are trained on vast datasets of humancreated works, can produce m1m1c human that outputs creativity with startling fidelity (Fakes Made Easy: Generative Al and the Copyright Conundrum, capability This n.d.). the three disrupts fundamentally core rationales underpinning IP law worldwide - the labour, economic and personality, rationales (Rotstein et al., n.d.). Focusing on Australian copbjright law (Copyright Act 1968 (Cth)), this essay argues that GenAl's model operating current contravenes these foundational legal creating principles, ambiguities that threaten the coherence and legitimacy of the IP system. While an outright collapse of the present regime is unlikely, the accelerating tension

and Al innovation between necessitates rights authorial urgent and substantial reform. And thus, this essay evaluates responses, including possible dealing fair for proposals exceptions and compensatory models, and argues that without significant adaptation, existing IP laws mabl become obsolete in the GenAI era.

Objectives and Rationales of Intellectual Property Law

169

of objective primary The intellectual propertbj law is to strike a delicate balance between the creation of incentivising original works and facilitating the dissemination of knowledge and intellectual Because culture. nonis intangible, property it is non-depletable, rivalrous, and vulnerable to exploitation and free-riding (Rotstein et al., n.d.). Therefore, IP law grants creators exclusive rights over their work, control to them enabling and publication, reproduction, to the rights adaptation-akin property. held over tangible These exclusive rights are not 169

170

absolute; they are tempered by exceptions, such as the fair dealing provisions under section 40 of the Copyright Act, which allow for limited use of protected works for purposes like research, criticism, and news reporting. This ensures that the public interest in access to knowledge is not eclipsed by private monopoly. Fundamentally, intellectual property law, rests on three intertwined philosophical pillars: First, the Labour Theory (Lockean) suggests that individuals have a natural right to the material in respect to which we have exerted our labour over, if the material is un-owned or not commonly owned. Just as a fisherman earns ownership over the fish he catches through the labour of going out with his fishing net, creators gain proprietary rights over the expressions they produce by mixing their intellectual labour with raw materials-ideas, facts, and cultural content. Exclusive rights are thus justified as a reward for effort, risk, and investment. Second, the Personality Theory, informed by thinkers like 170

Hegel and Kant, contends that creative works are extensions of the creator's identity, will, and subjectivity. A novel, for instance, is not merely a sequence of words; it is a vessel of the author's inner world, formed through unique aesthetic choices, emotional insight, and personal worldview which allows the construction of words into sentences, paragraphs, and so on. Copyright law, under this rationale, serves to protect the dignity and autonomy of the author by giving them moral rights to control the way their work is used and interpreted. Third, the Economic Rationale, primarily based on utilitarian theories, views IP as a mechanism to correct market failures associated with public goods. By granting limited-time monopolies over creative outputs, the law incentivises production and investment in works that might otherwise be underproduced due to the risk of uncompensated copying. This, in turn, enriches the public domain once those rights expire, fostering cumulative innovation and cultural advancement. The

170

171

aim is not only to protect creators, but to promote the broader public good through a sustainable ecosystem of knowledge production.

Establishing Protection and Infringement These rationales are embedded in Australian IP law, particularly within the Copyright Act 1968 (Cth), which provides automatic protection for original works including literary, dramatic, musical, and artistic works, as well as "other subject matter" such as sound recordings, films, broadcasts, and published editions. Two key thresholds must be met for automatic protection to arise: authorship and originality. Authorship means that the work is inherently human-made; a work must be the product of a natural person, or at least under human direction. In Network Ten Pty Ltd v TCN Channel Nine Pty Ltd (2004) 218 CLR 273, the High Court affirmed that authorship could not be attributed to fully automated technological processes. Originality, as clarified in /ceTV Pty Ltd v Nine Network

Australia Pty Ltd (2009) 239 CLR 458, requires that a work result from the author's independent intellectual effort or sufficient skill and judgment. Therefore, GenAl-generated outputs, which lack both a human author and independent creative judgment, would likely fall outside the scope of protection. Conversely, to establish infringement, a person must reproduce a "substantial part" of a protected work, which is assessed both qualitatively and quantitatively, as confirmed in Temple Island Collections Ltd v New English Teas Ltd(2012) EWPCC 1. Australian law provides defences to infringement through its fair dealing exceptions (ss 4043, 103A-103C), which allow for use of protected works without authorisation under tightly defined circumstances-aimed at balancing creators' rights with freedom of expression, education, and public access.

Generative Al s Assault on Foundational Rationales 1

Advancements in generative Al technology, which learns 171

171

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patterns from existing data to generate new data such as text, images or videos based on the learnt patterns and prompts from user data input, has begun to give rise to questions as to whether current IP laws are outdated in the modern context where works are taken as learning tools. Labour Rationale The operational model of genAI violates the fundamental belief of the labour rationale where individuals are entitled to the fruits of their intellectual effort. The training of genAI models involves overwhelmingly on massive datasets scraped from the internet-ranging from books and music to code and artworkwithout permission or compensation. This practice, often referred to as data scraping, allows companies to appropriate years of human intellectual labour and skill at scale, bypassing the rights and consent of the original creators ("Intellectual Property Issues in Artificial Intelligence Trained on Scraped Data," 2025). Central to the labour theory is the creator's right to determine how their work is used-a right 172

eroded by GenAI. Artists and authors have no control over whether their work is absorbed into Al models, no visibility into how that material is transformed or recontextualised into potentially derogatory or harmful content, and no mechanism to prevent their style from being imitated or commodified in a way that competes with or devalues their own creation. In late 2022, cartoonist Sarah Andersen wrote a New York Times essay titled "The Alt-Right Manipulated My Comic. Then A.I. Claimed It," detailing her experience of having her art recontextualised, first by far-right online groups and later by Al image generators like "Stable Diffusion" trained on her art. She recounts that simply inserting her name as a prompt could generate uncanny replicas of her distinct artistic style with the signature elements of her comics - mimicking years of refinement without consent. Anderson's chilling response: "I see a monster forming," forefronts the potential threat of image generators to the livelihoods of artists like herself, speaking towards the profound

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loss of control over the destiny of one's creative labour. The current framework compounds this injury due to infringement requiring appropriation of a 'substantial part' of the copyrighted subject matter, when judged quality and quantity. GenAI outputs often avoid verbatim copying, thus evading liability-even as they are built on the aggregate exploitation of countless works. The narrow legal focus on discrete copying overlooks the broader harm of systemic freeriding on a creator's intellectual efforts, anecdotally allowing villagers to take the fisherman's fish for free. A labour-based justification should not allow a creators' contributions to be used without acknowledgement or reward, and demands protection against this systemic exploitation, even if the resulting output doesn't meet the traditional threshold of copyright infringement. Personality Rationale GenAI equally violates the personality rationale that suggests the work is an extension of the author. While Australian

copyright law protects the expression of ideas, it does not protect an artist's style-a critical shortcoming in the Al era, where style is precisely what models learn and mimic. An artist's style is not mere technique; it is an embodied projection of their inner world. Japanese animator Hayao Miyazaki exemplifies this concern. In a 2016 NHK documentary, Miyazaki is shown reacting with horror to Algenerated animation. He decries it as "an insult to life itself," recounting how a grotesque Algenerated creature, crawling unnaturally without regard for pain, was devoid of human experience or emotional authenticity (Mouriquand, 2025). This moment illustrates what the personality theory defends: art is not data-it is a lived expression, crafted from suffering, memory, joy, and worldview. This is where the "Chinese Room" thought experiment becomes relevant. GenAI systems manipulate symbols and patterns without understanding meaning, emotion, or cultural significance .. When Al replicates Miyazaki's 173

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style, it captures none of the pain or humanity behind his work. This hollow replication undermines the personality theory's core tenet: that art is an extension of the self. Miyazaki's reflection on his hospitalised friend, whose disability inspired elements of his animation, highlights the human dimensions missing within Al art. GenAl's mimicry is a simulacrum of personality, stripped of origin, empathy, or history. Current IP law, focused narrowly on expressions rather than style, offers little recourse, inappropriately allowing uncomprehending mimicry to diminish the author's moral rights by treating their unique expressive essence - a core part of their personality - as mere data to be mined. Proponents of GenAI often cite transformative use and fair dealing as legal shields. In Authors Guild v Google (2015), Google's digitisation of books was deemed fair use because it did not substitute the original market and provided a public benefit. However, the analogy falters in the Al context. Al training is rarely limited or 174

transparent; it ingests billions of works, repurposing their style and structure in ways that go far beyond indexing. Even if Algenerated works are not direct copies, they often derive their appeal from stylistic mimicry, bypassing the moral rights of creators to control how their persona is used or represented. Proponents of GenAI often cite transformative use and fair dealing (Copyright Act, ss 40(2), 103C(2)) as legal shields. In Authors Guild v Google (2015), Google's digitisation of books was deemed fair use because it did not substitute the original market and provided a public benefit (Studicata, 2024). However, the analogy falters in the Al context. Al training is rarely limited or transparent; it ingests billions of works, repurposing their style and structure in ways that go far beyond indexing. Even if Al-generated works are not direct copies, they often derive their appeal from stylistic mimicry, bypassing the moral rights of creators to control how their persona is used or represented. Economic Rationale

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Finally, in opposition to the Economic Rationale, genAI training devalues creation through market oversupply and disincentivizing innovation through a lack of monetisation of effort. GenAI models are trained on creators' works without compensation. If authors and rights holders are not remunerated for the essential input (their protected works) that makes genAI valuable, their economic incentive to create new, high-quality, original works diminishes significantly (s 40(2) (b) implicitly recognises the market value of creative works). Creators are unlikely to invest years honing a unique style if an Al can instantly mimic it for free. This leads to deadweight loss, meaning the undersupply of subject matter due to an inability of preventing 'free-riders' benefitting off of one's efforts and non-excludable marketed ideas. In addition to disincentivisation, the simplicity and quantity of GenAI output enables mass production of content that mimics human styles at minimal marginal cost,

causing market devaluation and increased competition for original creators. This floods the market with substitutes, directly competing with human creators and driving down the perceived value and market price for original human-generated works (s 40(2)(e) - effect on potential market). Illustrators, writers, composers, and coders already face pressure as Al tools generate comparable outputs faster and cheaper. This commodification devalues human skill and effort. The vast array of output produces a paradox of innovation and diversity. GenAI models trained on existing, predominantly published, works risk producing outputs that are stylistically derivative and culturally homogenised. Instead of generating truly novel ideas, they risk recycling and recombining existing tropes and styles, potentially limiting and reducing the diversity of works in the long term - the opposite of the public benefit the economic rationale seeks to promote. The transformative nature (s 40(2)(a)) of the genAI outputs is 175

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unequivocally contested as the training process relies on pattern recognition which often creates products competitive to the original in the same market. The current trajectory threatens the integrity of IP law's foundations. If IP law is to remain relevant, it must reform-radically and swiftly-to preserve the dignity, identity, and livelihood of human creators in the age of machines. Solutions must address the core violations identified.

ecosystem it feeds upon. Though the current IP laws seem to have countless ambiguities and loop holes for potential Al exploitation, laws can be adapted or introduced to contain these rifts. Some potential pathways to enact reform could be to reevaluating fair dealings exceptions to copyright infringement and introducing compensatory mechanisms or credit modalities to give artists recognition for their works.

REFORMS

The modern fair dealings exceptions under the Copyright Act 1968 in Australia allows use of copyrighted materials without licence for limited purposes such as research, parody, and criticism, guided by s 40(2)'s fairness factors. However, these exceptions are ill-equipped for the scale and function of GenAI, particularly where millions of works are ingested into training datasets. The volume of material and impracticality of individual licensing (s 40(2)(c)) indicate the need for a new statutory exception tailored to text and data mining (TOM) for Al development.

The path forward demands a fundamental reimagining of how intellectual property principles are applied in an era where machines can mimic the outputs of human creativity, but never the soul or the sweat behind it. Without such significant reform, the core purposes of IP law rewarding labour, protecting personality, and incentivising creation for the public good - risk becoming obsolete. The choice is not between stagnation and progress, but between designing a system that fairly governs Al's potential and allowing it to undermine the very creative 176

Legislative Alterations

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Crucially, this exception cannot Pure fair unconditional. be dealing, even for TOM, risks fatally undermining the economic and labour rationales by allowing uncompensated appropriation. It must be coupled with robust, compensatory enforceable mechanisms. Exploring cautious, narrowly tailored protections for highly distinctive styles might be the prevent to necessary erosion of artistic complete identity in the digital age. The Andersen v Stability Al class action lawsuit highlights how Al-generated works compete with originals, depriving artists of income. Potential laws could cautiously explore the protection for highly distinctive styles which identifiable are exceptionally test, objective an through requiring high thresholds of proof of recognition. This measure can potentially protect the integrity of the personality rationale for bigger creators. However, this does come with the risk of stifling and inspiration legitimate hindering artistic development. Hence should be narrow in scope and carefully balanced with the dissemination of ideas.

Royalty Schemes compensatory Possible mechanisms include the usageA Pools. Royalty Based mandatory collective licensing or statutory levy system, akin to music streaming or reprographic royalties, is feasible. Developers would systems GenAI of contribute to a central fund based on metrics like output volume or revenue. Funds would be distributed to rights holders based on the prominence of their work or category of works in training datasets. This system restores economic not only incentives but also respects the labour embedded in those works. In addition, the of mandating implementation transparency laws can increase the author's control of how their works are used and the output's attribution back to the author. This can be enforced through legislating mandatory disclosure or datasets, training of sufficiently detailed summaries, enabling creators to assert rights, and facilitating fair distribution of royalties. The EU Al Act (2024) which is the first-ever

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comprehensive legal framework on Al, addresses the risks of Al and governs its development and/or use, and positions Europe to play a leading role globally. Australian laws can consider taking examples from this precedence to effectively implement limitations to the use of genAI. Within this, an effective OptOut mechanism can be enforced for creators to have a technically robust, and easily accessible right to opt-out their works from future training datasets. This respects the labour theory (control) and personality theory (autonomy over one's expression). Whilst Opt-in systems would likely stifle Al development excessively, opt-out mechanisms supply genAI with sufficient quantities of work, leaving out the works of creators who are strongly opposed to their works being used for training, and can be genuinely effective. Even where licensing isn't feasible or an exception applies, mechanisms for attribution in Al outputs inspired by specific, identifiable styles should be explored technologically and 178

and encouraged respecting moral rights.

legally,

Conclusion Generative Al does not merely challenge the edges of intellectual property law; it destabilises its philosophical pillars. The unauthorised scraping of copyrighted works for training violates the labour theory by appropriating the fruits of creators' efforts without control or compensation. The replication of unique artistic styles, devoid of understanding, violates the personality theory by appropriating and commodifying an author's expressive essence. The resulting market devaluation and lack of compensation for training data directly undermine the economic rationale's aim of incentivizing creation with the balance of disseminating ideas. Current IP laws, grounded in a human-centric model of authorship, originality, and substantial similarity, are inadequate to govern the Al paradigm. To preserve the value of human creativity, reform is not optional-it is imperative.

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While fair dealing exceptions could foster innovation, they must be paired with robust protections for creators' economic and moral rights. Australian courts and legislators must reconcile the Copyright Act's human-centric framework with Al's transformative potential -or risk rendering IP law obsolete. The path forward demands a delicate balance: incentivising Al's benefits while preserving the irreplaceable value of human creativity.

Bibliography COPYRIGHT ACT 1968. (n.d.). httP-s://www.austlii.edu.au/cgi.: bin/yiewdb/au/legis/cth/cansol act /ca1968133/ EU Artificial Intelligence Act / Up-todate developments and analyses of (n.d.). the EU Al Act. httP-s:/ /artificialintelligenceact.eu/ Fakes made easy: Generative Al and the copyright conundrum. (n.d.). httP-s://www.dentons.com/en/i nsigb. ts/newsletters/2025/j anuary/14/de ntons-intellectual-grogerty= hub/fakes-made-easy Intellectual property issues in artificial intelligence trained on scraped data. (2025). In DECO Artificial Intelligence Papers. httP-s://doi.org/10.1787 /d5241a23-en

Mouriquand, D. (2025, March 28). ChatGPT's viral Studio Ghibli-style images: "An insult to life itself." Euronews. httP-s://www.euronews.com/culture/ 2025/03/28/chatggts-viral-studioghi bli-sty le-images-an-insu Lt-to-lifeitself Rotstein, F., Christie, A. F., Melbourne Law School, University of Melbourne, & Davies Collison Cave Professor of Intellectual Property, Melbourne Law School, University of Melbourne. (n.d.). Objectives of intellectual property protection. In Objectives of Intellectual Property Protection (pp. 2-4). http://achristie.com/wP-= content/ugloads/2015/01/Rotstei n+ Chrisie-Objectives-of-Protection.P-df Studicata. (2024, July 3). Authors Guild v. Google, Inc. - Case Brief Summary for Law School Success. httP-s://studicata.com/casebriefs/case/authors-guild-v-googleinc/

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