Reflections in Bloom

Table of Contents: 1. Broadbent, Bryce - The Eos………………….……………….. 1 2. Da Silva Valerio, Ana Raquel – Continuity……….…………...7 3. Deoki, Madison – Silence………………………………..……13 4. Dodd, Lisa – I’ll get you one day….……………………….…19 5. Evans, Matthew – Fear the Dark……………………….….…25 6. Houat, Abdou - The redeemer is on the other shores…..….31 7. Jayne, Laura – In Forever, Escape……………………….….37 8. Jose, Soleil – Outdoors…………………………………….….43 9. Stoddart, Lilian – Cassandra….………………………………50 10. Rowe, Cooper - Advice not from a friend………………..…57

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Olive Flower Scientific name: Oleaceae Family: Olea Meaning: Friendship, Healing and Peace

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The Eos Bryce Broadbent

Crete was beautiful this time of year. Just after summer but far from winter, the pleasant weather coated the Greek island like a warm blanket. Knossos, located on the north side of the island, was bursting with people left to right; trading, working, and living in the ancient city. What initially seemed a beautiful place had become far from, with many people inside its walls being the cause. Over the years, the city had regressed to selfishness, dishonesty, apathy, and greed. While it used to be a city full of some of the greatest men in Greece had relapsed, as though they had forgotten what their ancestors had done to aid them to this point and the trials they had overcome for their people.

A young man distinct from the crowd could be seen moving through the street, his long, tied back black hair flowing in the cool breeze that living near the ocean gifted them. The man, Arxis, was the ideal figure for Greek men, his skin a dark olive, his physique a reflection of the grand statues of gods. He strode down the stone path, Greeting the stall runners in the market with a friendly smile, all eyes landing on him with envy. He wasn’t just any man in this city, but an idol with most people desiring to chat with him for even just a minute.

Up in the beautiful Olympus, the gods looked down upon the people of Crete in particular, Knossos. They had always looked at them with stages of love, hate and compassion, but now the gods only felt disgust for they had become. Where the ideal men of old were courageous, brave, wise, and selfless, they had now only one reputable face amongst the many who walked its roads. The gods were sick of these new beings that were selfish to the core, men that now stand in the place of many great men of past, and a new Eos will challenge these Greeks.

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Arxis steered towards a well-kept gynaikon house, knocking on its door with a big grin. The door swung open seconds later, the person on the other side reflecting the same energy as Arxis, realizing who it was.

“Brother!” he exclaimed, moving forward, and embracing his friend.

Laughing Arxis replied “Braccus how have you been my brother?” collecting his friend in a bear hug. Arxis ushered his companion to walk with him and catch up, it hadn’t been more than a week since they last spoke. “What has been going on my friend? How has the farm been?” he asked interested in his friend’s response. “It has been okay; the weather has kept them healthy along with the grass they need to thrive…”

Suddenly the ground began to shake, causing the people near the palace to fall to their knees under the magnitude. Vases, statues, and buildings, around them had collapsed due to the powerful shake, causing the citizens began screaming in terror.

Seconds later, it passed, and everyone was able to get to their feet. In panic, some had blamed nature for what had occurred, while those who had retained faith in the gods spoke of their displeasure. Citizens ran to the entrance of the palace where the king and the city’s oracle were located, safely within its walls, the anomaly seemed to intentionally avoid the place. A woman dressed in fine black silks emerged, shouting for the people to hear “The gods have seen our disloyalty and neglect for them, and they seek redemption!”

The people began to scatter to their homes down below, many of which had been destroyed by the shake, looking to grab their families and escape the city. In the panic of it all, Arxis could only distinguish one voice, the voice of the oracle. She was now turned to him, speaking only once “There is a hero born of the gods, young and confident. He must march,” she blared. He looked around realizing nobody else could hear this. When he looked back, she was nowhere to be found. His heart skipped a beat, realizing that it might not be the oracle who spoke those words, and this was a journey for him to undertake. Arxis parted way with his friend, simply telling him to head home and wait for him to arrive, to which Braccus nodded.

Arxis swiftly moved home, collecting his armour and weapons, battle scars detailing the equipment. He then moved to the house from earlier before being interrupted by those seeking his wisdom. Reassuringly, he spoke out. “There is no more need for panic, the gods have set a task that I shall triumph!” he said to the people of Knossos, comforting them with his stalwart speech. Noticing they had begun 3

to calm, he marched towards the familiar building of his friend. Without knocking, the door swung open and the gathered inside. “Brother, this is a quest I must undertake, but I cannot do it alone,” he said pleading to his friend for help.

Braccus nodded, collecting his weapons, his armour already donned. “There is no need for more words. I would be happy to die by your side,” Braccus replied, giving confidence to his friend, eyes gazing intently at one another.

Arxis could hear almost a fate hum which drew him to a specific location on the island, the gods were ushering him to head toward. Their journey, guided by the hum took them through three gruelling days, following the roads only taking camp to rest until the sun rose. Only days later they arrived at a cave hearing the hum bellowing out from deep within its walls, they had arrived.

Both men drew their weapons and head inside. Braccus held a torch in his other hand to lead the way. The cave’s large circular shape bent and weaved closer to Tartarus as they went, the cave decorated in bloodied scratches and animal hide. Arxis’ ears began to bleed as the hum developed into a deafening screech before suddenly… it stopped. Reaching a large opening, Arxis pointed to a dark corner on the other side. “Heads up, brother. It’s here.” he said as he took the torch from his companion. Braccus pulled out his bow, lit the tip of an arrow using the torch, and took fire into the abyss. The arrow travelled through the darkness before a deep thud echoed. It didn’t hit rock but the flesh of a monstrous beast, two red eyes now visible in the void.

A tongue flickered out from a wide mouth before the scaley face rose into the sky and struck towards them. Time was of the essence. Both dashed out the path of the creature which closed the gap in seconds. Arxis and Braccus aim their weapons towards the unknown beast with Arxis being the first to close in, aiming for the beast’s body. Reaching it in seconds, he thrusted his spear through the gap in its scales, causing a thundering roar as if Zeus had thrown his thunderbolt, and the creature wrenched backward. Inverse to Arxis, Braccus was caught in a chain reaction caused by his friend, stabbing at the creature only to hear the shatter of his sword as the thrashing scales tore through in a of rage. It swung around, eyes fixed on Braccus,

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and charged toward him. It sunk its fangs inside Braccus’ arm and venom slid through his veins. His body fell like Sisyphus’ rock, collapsing onto the floor.

Arxis could hear something was wrong, unable to see over the large body of the creature until it moved back, prepared to attack again. Arxis dropped the torch and donned his shield, preparing to best the beast. He looked over at his friend, realizing that he had been gravely wounded. He then looked at the creature who was prepared to strike. Arxis had two options: save his lifelong friend or defeat the beast that was staring him dead in the eye. His fate decided, he charged the creature, stopping halfway to hurl the spear into the beast’s eye, causing it to reel in pain again. With this brief opportunity, he rushed to his friend and grabbed Braccus’ arm, beginning to suck the poison out and spit it on the ground.

The creature behind them thrashed with the power of the titans, its fury bestowed

by Lyssa. It then calmed as it noticed its prey exposed and unaware and prepared to strike. Braccus tossed in pain as the poison began to die down, saved by his cherished friend. Looking to Arxis, his eyes began to widen. “Brother, behind you,” he choked out, unable to shout.

Before Arxis could react, he was struck in the back, the creature’s two fangs protruding out the other side of his body. As he spat out globs of his own blood, Arxis looked to Braccus, his eyes drained of life as he began to speak. “It’s okay, brother.

It’s how it was meant to be. We shall meet again in Elysium.” Arxis spoke, his voice drained of life as his body fell limp. Braccus, his body able to move again, tears streaming down his face, stood up and grab hold of the spear in the creature’s eye, forcing it deeper in before it connected with the vital organs underneath. The creatures screamed in agony and its body went limp. As loud as Hephaestus’ hammer hitting his forge, the body slammed into the ground. Victory had been achieved.

The gods on Olympus looked down at Braccus, who knelt has his friend grave located within Knossos. The gods were glad about the outcome, watching as the news had reached the city and people grieved over the death of their fallen hero. They watched as the citizens began to change and followed in the steps of their ancestors and in the name of dear Arxis.

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About the Author: I wrote this story as a tribute to the classical Greek stories that have been around for many years, such as the Iliad and the Odyssey. They inspired me to write this unique piece and it was enjoyable to incorporate and revisit old ideas from when I had explored this in previous study. I hope people can enjoy and learn a little on the Greek stories that were written with these newly introduced characters.

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Daffodil Scientific name: Narcissus Family: Amaryllidaceae Meaning: Rebirth, New Beginnings and Hope

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Continuity

Ana Raquel da Silva Valerio

It’s Saturday.

It’s always Saturday.

It has been Saturday for 271 days.

Stacy awoke to the melodic voice of her mother calling out to her, a gentle hand shaking her awake.

“Stacy - Princessa, wake up.” Her mother said as she sat on the side of the bed, the additional weight causing the mattress to dip and Stacy's body to roll closer to her.

Wanting to stay in this groggy state of consciousness for longer, Stacy buried her face deeper into her pillow.

“Stacy,” her mother continued, “you need to get up, it’s a special day.”

Stacy smiled into her pillow at her mother’s words. To be honest, this day stopped feeling special after the 32nd time it reset, but her Mama didn’t know that. No one ever knew anything, no one except for Stacy… It’s what made the loops so fun, aside from waking up early on a weekend.

“I know what will get you up and out of bed” her mother said with a lilting voice, leaning closer to Stacy’s ears. “Who wants cake for breakfast?”

“Meeeee” Stacy replied groggily as she rolled over, shielding her eyes from the morning light by ungracefully plopping her head onto her mama’s lap. Anita bent slightly to the side and a light clack sounded as she placed a plate on the bedside table.

“Well then, you better get up,” she said with a smirk.

A resounding groan emanated from her daughter below her.

“Happy birthday, mija,” Anita said with a light chuckle at her daughter's antics, stroking her hair lightly as she continued, “13 is such a wonderful age to be. These are –” “– my formative years, I know mama,” Stacy said with a smile, sitting up slowly and facing Anita.

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Her mother gave her a pointed look and clutched Stacy’s face lightly in her hands.

“I mean it,” she said. “These years to come will be so important. Even if you don't see it yet.”

Stacy had been hearing her mother say the same thing for 9 months. At this point, she was closer to 14 than 13, but it didn’t matter. She was glad for any moment she could get with her mother. She didn’t have many moments left otherwise.

Anita was diagnosed with cancer shortly after Stacy’s father passed away. They were all each other had left, but they were all each other needed.

Still clutching her face, Stacy’s mother asked the million-dollar question; “what would you like to do today, aside from having cake for breakfast?”

She had been asked this question every day for months, but it never made the decision easier. The truth was, Stacy didn't know what she wanted to do. They had gone skydiving, to the beach, to the zoo, rollerblading, they saw every movie showing at the cinemas. They were simply running out of activities.

“Can we stay home?” Stacy asked, as she rested her head on her mother’s small shoulder.

“Home?” her mother inquired.

“Yes,” Stacy replied quietly, humming contently as her mother began to stroke her hair once more.

“Of all the things you could do today, you want to stay home and do nothing?”

Anita asked, slightly confused.

“Not nothing, mama,” Stacy said with a smile. “We can watch tv and eat snacks in our Pyjamas. Let’s order something for dinner later too.”

“Are you certain?” Anita asked. “You don’t want to go out for lunch or have a party with your friends?”

Stacy wrapped an arm around her mother, still sitting up on her bed, reaching for the cupcake plate on her bedside table.

“I’ve got everything I need right here.” Stacy said, holding the cupcake close to her face; half-melted candle melding with the icing ‘I wish to be with my mother forever,’ she thought, as she closed her eyes and blew out the candle It’s all she ever needed.

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Simon woke up in the early afternoon from a stray ray of light peeking through his curtains. Accustomed to the routine, he rolled over to the side of his bed and hit STOP just as his alarm began to sound. His body ached from the night shift he worked 9 months ago, yet yesterday. With a light groan, he turned to face a small dark creature curled up in a ball on the other side of his bed.

“Good morning, Choc-Top,” he grumbled as he reached his arm from the sanctity of his sheets, arm hair standing on edge from the chill. The furry mass in front of him unravelled from its shape as soon as his hand reached it, purring softly and rolling to allow better access to its belly for some light ministrations. Simon smirked, aware of what would happen next.

The purrs got louder and louder as Simon scratched in different spots, almost but not quite in the spot the cat wanted. Choc-Top stretched out further in the hopes of scratching that perfect spot, when – he fell off the bed.

Landing upright on the floor with a thud, Choc-Top let out an affronted meow, almost as if to say how dare you let this happen. Simon had watched this happen nearly every day during his loops, but it never got old.

With another sulky meow, the cat began his daily routine of annoying Simon for food.

Simon briefly questioned his sanity, contemplating if understanding his cat was due to the time loop or because he’d become one of those crazy cat owners. Deciding against continuing such a thought pattern, he haphazardly climbed his way out of bed and padded over to the Kitchen. Choc-top made it his personal mission to weave himself between Simon's legs and make his life harder than it needed to be at that moment as he attempted to retrieve the cat food for the petty furball.

“You know, you’re making it take longer for me to give you your sachet” he points out to the cat, who looks thoroughly unimpressed.

Choc-top let out an insistent yowl, as if to say hurry up, you’re taking too long.

He should really go out more, he thought, as he poured the sachet into Choctop’s bowl. The cat attacked the contents so ferociously that an outsider would think Simon had been starving the overpampered feline.

Yep, he should definitely get out more. But he couldn’t go out, not yet at least.

Simon needed to wait exactly 7 minutes and 22 seconds after he woke up, he needed to wait for – There was a knock at the front door.

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He needed to wait for that.

Simon opened the door in record time, the man in front of him barely having time to put down his raised arm before he was swept up by his partner. He let out surprised laugh as he was swung around in a circle.

“Put me down!” Jeremy chirped happily.

Simon kicked the door closed behind him and rested their foreheads together, taking a deep breath.

“I missed you,” he said finally, after a moment of silence.

His partner raised his hand toward him, picking a stray eyelash from his cheek.

“I missed you too. Now make a wish,” he said, the eyelash resting on the tip of his finger.

“How childish,” Simon said with a smile, closing his eyes nonetheless. He wished for what he always does.

‘I want to see you every day of my life,’ he thought, as he gently blew the eyelash away.

And so, he does.

Every day.

Choc-top meowed in the background for more food.

Being stuck in a time loop meant that there were many things that people could miss; their friends, their family… Delilah missed plumbing.

Not the framework really, but rather the existence of it.

As much as she loved the outdoors, there were only so many days that you could wake up in a tent in 10-degree weather, with a need to pee and not a bathroom in sight for over 3 kilometres.

That being said, she was glad that she was there.

Delilah had originally driven out to the middle of nowhere to see a rare meteor storm, an event that only happens once every 200 years. She was determined to get the best view for this one-in-a-lifetime experience, however there was just too much to document by herself in one night.

That night, she wished she could have more time to record her findings, as she watched the meteor shower from below, the shooting stars disappearing in front of her very eyes in seconds.

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And more time she got.

Being so far away from civilization, you would expect a person to go crazy from the isolation, but not Delilah. She would go months and sometimes years without contacting her friends and family. Her work was primarily done remotely so she would always be able to do it wherever she saw fit. To be honest, Delilah had been social distancing since before the pandemic.

But plumbing, now that was an absence that was missed.

But lamenting her lack of a lavatory wouldn’t magically conjure one in front of her. Anyway… she thought to herself as she finished setting up the last of her equipment, before saying aloud: “It’s time to take notes.” Giddy with excitement, she plugged her laptop to the sensors as the meteor shower began above her.

As the sky began to fall, Delilah watched in wonder, recording the data from her scanners, hoping to catch something new, a piece of information that was missing.

As the brightest comet began to streak across the sky, Delilah wished for what she always did.

“I wish I had more time,” she said out loud, her eyes following the comet until it disappeared into the distance.

And more time she got.

And so, it remains Saturday.

It’s always Saturday.

It has been Saturday for 272 days.

About the Author My mind often wanders as I watch people go about their day; running for the train, eating with friends or simply laying on the grass. I am a curious soul by nature and I wrote my stories with a simple question in mind; what would these people do if they could do anything. My lifetime has been filled with the interactions of countless souls that have helped me form my own. Every soul is different because every interaction is different. I aimed to explore this in my story as I typically ponder and read about the existential.

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Common Butterwort Scientific name: Pinguicula Vulgaris Family: Lentibulariaeceae Meaning: Holding on, Danger, Greed

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Silence Madison Deoki

Present Claire stares straight through me like I’m not even here. It’s been like this for a long while now. I talk to her, she answers, but it’s almost like she has automatic responses ready for me.

We don’t talk much these days, not like we used to. Claire has been my best friend for years, though hasn’t been the same since her parents’ deaths. I feel bad for Claire, she went through a lot all at once. I can’t even begin to imagine what she is going through.

Claire goes through the same motions every day. The medication she’s on puts her in a daze, I’m not even sure if she knows I’m here. I make sure to visit her as often as I can, because I want to be here for her whether she knows it or not.

I look across to where she sits on her bed staring at the TV. I can’t tell if she’s watching the screen or lost within her own head.

10 Years Ago “I don’t want to go mummy”, I whine.

“Come on Selena don’t be silly. It will be fine”, she replied.

I hate going to Paul and Avery’s house. They are not nice to me. They always yell at me and sometimes hit me, but mummy doesn’t believe me.

Paul and Avery have a daughter, she’s my age but she doesn’t talk much. I think she’s a bit weird. She always just stares at me, but never says a word. I wish I could stay at my best

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friend Sienna’s house while mummy goes to work. She has a nice family and a big house. I like Sienna.

“Please don’t make me go mummy! Why can’t I stay at Sienna’s house?”

“No Selena, we don’t have time for this. We need to leave now.”

Mummy never listens to me. She thinks Paul and Avery are nice people, they are her friends. I wish she would just believe me.

Present I can feel an anxiety attack creeping up on me. My breathing is shallow, and my heart is pounding so loud as though someone is banging a drum. I grab out the book I’m currently reading from my bag to help me calm down. Claire will be back any minute and I don’t want her to see me like this.

I’m sitting in the chair opposite her bed when the doctor brings her back into her room.

Claire climbs into bed and her attention turns straight to the TV. Sometimes I feel like she does this on purpose. Like she wants me to know that she knows I’m here but doesn’t care to acknowledge my existence. This is selfish of me to think, Claire has witnessed a lot and I shouldn’t feel this way. It’s just so hard to watch your best friend slowly lose herself. Although I guess witnessing and partaking in your parents’ murder can do that to a person.

10 Years Ago My face is wet with tears as I sit in the corner and cry. My arm hurts from where Paul hit me. I didn’t even do anything wrong. I was just hungry and wanted a snack. Paul hit me when he found Avery telling me off. Avery didn’t even stop Paul , she just stood there looking scared.

Their daughter is watching me from the other corner of the room. I turn to look at her and she gives me the smallest smile. We have never really been friends. Only forced to play together.

She walks over to me and sits beside me, putting her hand on my shoulder. I smile back at her as we sit here in silence with tears streaming down my face.

A few hours later…

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Mummy is helping me get ready for bed when she looks at my arm.

“Oh, what happened to your arm honey? Did you bump into something today?”

She never believes me when I tell the truth, but maybe I should try again. “No. Paul hit me today”, I said.

“Don’t be silly Selena. Paul would never do that, and you should never make up stories like this.”

“But I’m not lying. He really did hit me”, I said as a tear streamed down my face.

Mummy was staring down at me. She looked upset and shocked, but I still don’t think she believes me.

“It’s time to go to bed Selena. Come on, let's say goodnight.” I got into bed and watched as she walked out of my room without another word.

Present “How’s Claire doing?” asks mum.

“Still the same, not much has changed.”

“Aw, well she has been through a lot; I hope she starts to show some progress soon.”

“Me too.”

At least Claire’s not screaming anymore. Although the doctors say her nightmares are occurring more frequently. I want to help her, but I don’t know how.

Every time I visit Claire, I write down how it went. So, I go to grab my diary from my bag when something falls out of it. It’s a piece of paper. That’s strange, I don’t remember putting anything in here.

I unfold it and am confused by its contents. There’s one sentence that says, ‘do you know what really happened?’ That’s odd. Who would put this in my diary? And who has had access to it because I always keep it on me.

I jolt at the sound of my phone ringing. I don’t recognise the number, but I answer anyway.

“Hello” “Hi, this is Doctor Madeline, Claire’s doctor. Am I speaking with Selena?”

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“Oh, hi. Yes, this is Selena.”

“I’m afraid I have some bad news for you.”

“Is Claire, okay? Did something happen to her?”

“Claire is fine, nothing is wrong with her. Although I’m afraid she has requested to take you off her visitors list.”

What?!

“I’m so sorry, I think Claire just needs some time to heal and adjust to this lifestyle before she can have more visitors.”

“Did she say why she doesn’t want me there anymore?”

“I think she just needs some time for herself, I will let you know as soon as you can visit again.”

“Okay, thank you for calling.” I can’t believe she doesn’t want me to come and visit her.

What have I done wrong? I am completely numb to what feels like a loss of my best friend.

Claire 8 months ago My parents are fighting again. Well, my dad’s fighting with my mum and she just sits there are takes it. It’s the same thing all the time. Although this time Selena is over, and I feel so embarrassed that she’s witnessing the yelling from downstairs.

“Should I leave?” asks Selena.

“I’m so sorry this is happening right now. I’m so embarrassed.”

“It’s okay. It’s not your fault, but I feel like I should go to give your family some privacy.”

“I’m so sorry Selena. I’ll just see you at school tomorrow.” I don’t want to walk her out because we have to walk past my parents to get to the door, but it’s best she leaves now before it gets worse. Although Selena’s aware of my father’s violence, since she’s experienced his anger a few times throughout her life, I’ll never be able to forgive myself for letting my dad do that to her, but I was young and there wasn’t much I could change then.

We’re making our way out of my room when we hear a gunshot, and we sprint down the stairs to see the scene laid out before us. My mum is on the ground in a pool of blood with my dad standing over her body with a gun in his hand. I can feel Selena next to me staring at the 17

scene in front of us, but all I see is red. In this moment I want him dead. He has made our family suffer enough and now he’s taking the most important person in the world from me.

I move without thinking. He doesn’t see me coming as his back is faced towards me. I rip the gun from his hand and point it straight at him. I know Selena is trying to talk to me, but I can’t hear her right now. My focus is solely on my father.

My father turns and stares at me wide eyed. Good, let him fear me. I’ve never hated anyone more than I hate my father right now. My finger is on the trigger, I’m so close to pulling it. He’s looking at me with pleading eyes, but he does not deserve my mercy right now.

BANG! A shot was fired at my father’s head, but it did not come from me. My finger is still resting on the trigger. I turn my head and find Selena’s mother with a gun in her hand having just fired the shot. She turns to me and puts a finger on her mouth telling me to keep quiet. Then she runs out the door as fast as lightening as if she was never there.

“OH MY GOD! What just happened? Did you just kill your father?” Selena’s panicked voice breaks the silence. I can’t tell her what just happened. She’ll never believe me. So, I stay silent. I’m silent as we wait for the ambulance to arrive while Selena paces the room and freaks out. I don’t speak as the police take me away. I don’t answer any questions they have for me, and I stay silent as they take me to the psych ward.

Selena will never know what happened, and I can never tell her.

About the Author ‘Silence’ was inspired by two different books including Verity by Colleen Hoover, and The Silent Patient by Alex Michaelides. I also added elements from movies and shows I’ve seen including the TV show pretty little liars and the movie shutter island. I wanted to draw on books and shows that I loved. I also wanted to include mental health as that is something I struggle with, as well as mystery because it’s always fun to try and solve a mystery and make the reader think.

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Yellow Carnation Scientific name: Dianthus Caryophyllus Family: Caryophyllaceae Meaning: Disappointment and Rejection 19

I’ll get you one day Lisa Dodd

“James, come on, this isn’t fair” I plea with him.

“What, Clover? What’s not fair? The fact that you’re choosing him over me? Yeah, you’re right, that isn’t fair,” James spits back at me.

“How am I choosing him over you?” I ask.

“Because you’d rather spend time with that Aaron guy than me”.

“I’ve spent plenty of time with you. The time I’ve spent with Aaron is all for my uni work,” I lie. I’ve been spending most of my time at uni, yes, but I’ve been meeting Aaron before, during, and after class. Though I could never tell James, or else he would react, well, exactly like this.

It all started when I met Aaron just a couple weeks earlier.

“Uno!” I say with delight. We’ve played three games now which means three wins for me.

“How the fuck do you have Uno again!” James says with frustration.

“I always win Uno, I never lose Uno, you know this but still get upset when you lose. Why, James, why?” I question with a giggle. We play on and I win, which is expected of course.

“I’ll get you one day,” James says to me.

“You won’t, you know you won’t.” We have this conversation every single game and nothing changes. Not that I want it to change at all I guess, James has been my best friend all through school and now in university. I couldn’t be happier having him in my life.

“I have to go but, I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?” I have a biology class starting soon.

“Nah, surely you’re not going, though” James tells me.

“You say this every time, you know I have to go.”

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“Ahhh but you could stay, and we could keep playing Uno, it would give me a fair chance to winnnnn,” he teases.

“Go home, James, go see your parents. I’ll see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Yeah, yeah, I’ll leave.”

“Bye, James.” I grab my uni bag and lock the door to begin the short walk to the university campus. I love starting new subjects at uni. It means I get to meet new people. It’s one of my favourite parts about studying, you never know who you’ll meet.

And it gives me a chance to talk to other people who aren’t James or James’s family.

I start my class and quickly become friends with this guy called Aaron. He’s nice and fun to talk to, we get along pretty well. We start hanging out at the uni café and start texting more, and not just about the upcoming assignments we’ve partnered on.

He wants to know things about me like my favourite songs and favourite tv shows, and he tells me things about himself too, like how he hates tomatoes but loves tomato sauce. It’s been nice having someone to laugh with freely. I feel like I can finally breathe. That is until I see James, and it feels like I am drowning once again. He soon catches on to the skip in my step, and how I smile when I see a new message appear on my phone screen, I try to play it all off on the weather that was once a cold winter, but is now a bright spring. But James can see right through it all. He’s started going through my phone more and more, making snappy comments at me as he goes. I am starting to wonder if he’s been like this all along. There’s been little things that I’ve noticed, but not much. Like how he always wants to know about the different people in my classes and if I speak to any of them. Or how he doesn’t like it when I say the main male character in the movie is hot. I’m starting to see it all clearly now, but I don’t want to. I don’t want to think of all the times my friends tried to warm me, and how I defended him. I don’t want to think about the fights he’s gotten into about me with other guys. And I absolutely, without a doubt, refuse to believe that James is doing this so he can keep me all for himself. But I do think about it, and I start to believe it.

So here I am, arguing with my so-called best friend about why I should be able to talk to Aaron.

21

“What do you expect me to do, James? Drop out of uni so I never see him again?”

James says nothing, almost like that was his exact idea. He really can’t expect me just to drop out of uni.

“Oh, you can’t be serious.” Apparently, judging by the silence he’s completely serious.

“It’s not a bad idea” James tells me.

“He’s not good for you and I don’t like his intentions”.

“His intentions? What intentions, James?” I am just confused now. I swear James is just making these things up.

“They’re just not good, Clover.”

“Not good? That’s all you can say? ‘They’re just not good’. At least give me a good enough reason as to why” I want to know the reason why.

“Because he won’t be able to take care of you like I can.”

“What on earth are you talking about? What makes you think I want to be taken care of? And while I’m here let’s circle back to you thinking I should drop out of my university course, just so I don’t talk to one singular guy!”

“CLOVER, FOR FUCK’S SAKE, JUST DO AS YOUR TOLD!” James yells. I’ve struck a nerve, making him feel like he’s the bad guy for once. I stand there shocked, and silent.

“Don’t” I tell James. I just don’t want to keep going.

“You just don’t get it, Clov-“ “Don’t, James,” I force now.

“Don’t what?” he asks me.

“Don’t try to gaslight me into feeling like I don’t have a right to feel this way, because it’s not working.” I want him just to stop. If he stops now, we can try and fix this.

“Oh my lord, Clover, you’re just making up words now!” I’m speechless. How is any one even meant to reply to that nonsense? I don’t think there’s anything left to fix anymore.

“I’m sorry,” I tell him.

“It’s okay. You don’t have to apologise to me, I just want you to underst-” “I am sorry, because I can’t anymore”.

“You can’t, what do you mean you can’t?”

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“I can’t do this anymore. It’s exhausting constantly trying to hide things from you so you don’t get upset. I just can’t anymore.”

“Right, fine, we can talk about it more tomorrow.”

He doesn’t get it.

“No. Just stop, okay? I don’t want to be around you anymore. I can’t be friends with someone who is constantly trying to tell me what I can and can’t do. You don’t have the right to do that to me.”

“Well, if you would just go out with me then I would finally have the right to.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

“You think we should be going out? And that if we were going out you would be able to have full control over me?” I can’t believe what he’s saying anymore.

“Well yeah, why do you think I’ve been friends with you for so long? I am completely in love with you.”

I lose my breathe. And not in the good way, like when people say the act of true love will take your breath away. More like I am completely surrounded by water and can’t breathe.

“Is that why you’ve never ever let me be friends with anyone else? Why you get so crazy and jealous every time I find another guy interesting?” It all clicks, and I realise how right I really was.

“Well yeah, that, and I don’t like the way they look at you.”

“You are impossible.”

“I am impossibly in love with you.”

“Enough! All the friends I’ve lost, because of you. All the things I’ve missed out on, because of you. When people told me this wasn’t right, I defended you, I stayed.”

“What are you saying?”

“I’m saying I want you to go.”

“What? No, I’m not leaving you, Clover. I’ve done nothing wrong, and you can’t make me.”

“Actually, I can, you don’t have the right to that James”. I take out my phone, and make it visible to James. I have 000 already typed in my phone. If James doesn’t want to leave, I’ll show him he has to.

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“You know what? Fine. You’re too crazy, anyway.” James goes to walk out the door, but not before he turns to me and says, “You’re never going to find another like me, Clover” And at that moment I realise, I never ever, want to meet anyone like James ever again.

“Oh, James,” I say full of breath, like the drowning sensation has finally stopped.

“I truly hope not.”

About the author I am currently studying a Bachelor of Education Studies at Victoria University and am majoring in English Literature. I really enjoy reading and talking to my friends about the books I’ve read, but writing my own short story was something completely out of my comfort zone. I thought I wanted to write a love story and didn’t think I would take it in a completely different direction. I wanted to reverse the stereo type that love can take your breath away and turn it into someone feeling like they could finally breathe, that person was Clover.

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Siberian Iris Scientific name: Iris Sibirica Family: Iridaceae Meaning: Faith, Hope, Wisdom and Admiration

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Fear The Dark Matthew Evans

“What’s your name?”

Jodie approaches the bridge’s edge, slowly and carefully, eyes fixed on the young man half dangling over the dark, busy streets below, his arms clutched around the thick iron rails behind him. He hadn’t answered any of her questions, but his reddened eyes trained on the asphalt between them show his attention is on her.

“I’m Jodie. Friends call me Jo. No ‘e’, obviously.” She titters nervously, questioning why she chose to do this. It’s not too late to turn back, she thought, leave it to someone else, but the endless stream of headlights scanning past proved that to be a hopeless fantasy.

The man’s lips move, but his words are suffocated by tears. Jodie cocks her head.

“Sorry?”

“Go! Away!” His voice is deep, a venomous growl through tightly clenched teeth.

Jodie freezes, a wave of anxiety washing over her, the colour fading from her face.

Images of her mother flash in her mind, towering above in a red-faced snarl, raining saliva as she screams about failed schoolwork and lost pocket money, accompanied by the familiar sting of swollen cheeks and bruised arms.

“Can’t do that.” Her attempts at tenderness are drowned under the screeching horns accosting her parked Toyota. She glances back over her shoulder, eyeing the faint silhouette of her roommate in the driver’s seat calling for the police. She swallows hard, fiddling with the zipper on her jacket. “I can’t leave you alone.”

“Why the fuck not?” His words are shaky and weak. His knuckles have turned pale from his grip on the bottom of the railing. Through heavy panicked breaths, he finally lifts his head to meet Jodie’s gaze. In a quick flash of car-light, she sees the torment in his trembling eyes, the invisible scars beneath his pale, dampened skin.

She sees herself, and simply shrugs.

“Just not right.”

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Barely five seconds pass before the man turns away from her once more. Five seconds in agony as Jodie watches him loosen his grip on the guardrail and lean toward the cacophony below. Five seconds fearing that the cold draft of a passing vehicle could push a man into oblivion. Five seconds before she finally hears his name.

“Thomas.” He spits the word with vitriol and frustration. With a short and heavy sigh, the young man catches the last of his composure. “Thomas Hall.”

“Pleasure to meet you, Thomas.” Another nervous chuckle, another memory to recall in the cruel dark of night. Jodie continues her approach, watching for the slightest twitch in the man’s movements. She sits on the rough ant-ridden ground and rests her back against the rail, two posts from where Thomas dangles off the other side. “Why are you here?”

“The fuck do you care?” His voice has lost its ferocity, replaced with the stilted whisper hiccoughed through harsh breaths. Jodie tries to choose her next words carefully, desperate not to add to the tragic pile of ill-thought lines that plague her in times of solitude.

She doesn’t succeed.

“Don’t want to see someone die, is all.”

“I don’t give a shit what you want! I don’t even know who the fuck you are! Is this some kind of ego trip for you? See some sad little cunt, swoop in and save the day, get yourself on the fucking news or something? Fuck off!”

“Okay, alright, I’m sorry. I get it.”

“No, you don’t get it! That’s the fucking point!” Silent tears stream down his cheeks as Thomas’ head droops and he mouths something breathless and inaudible.

“You’re right. I’m sorry. I’m not good at this stuff, I just–” Jodie balls a fist and grits her teeth, cutting off her rambling before it really did get her on the news. She was used to being the one crying to her sister for comfort on hard days, and days were never easy enough to be on the giving side. “Help me understand.”

A brief lull in traffic leaves the air still and quiet, the tension suffocating. Thomas shakes his head, eyes clasped shut, gasping for air. “I can’t.” His voice is raspy, drained of anger and replaced with dolorous anguish. His lips silently echo the words as he sobs, droplets staining his jeans a shade darker.

Jodie sees herself in his tears, despite her attempts not to. She thinks back to her youth, when her classmates first determined she was gay before she did. The countless nights spent weeping, abandoned by everyone she called friend out of fear 27

they’d be labelled a dyke by proxy. She thinks of all the things she wished her parents had said, those magic words that would remind her she was cherished no matter what.

A sharp gust of air escapes her nostrils and Jodie pushes herself to her feet.

Digging around in her jacket pocket, she moves to Thomas’ side and sits beside him, sliding her legs under the railing and sprawling over the edge. Thomas wipes his face messily on his sleeve and looks at her with confusion as she produces a decorated vape.

“Blueberry?”

“I don’t smoke…”

“It’s not smo–! Never mind. Not important.” Jodie leans back, propping herself up with one hand on the asphalt, and inhales the sugary mixture. As she blows out a thick cloud from the corner of her mouth, Thomas cranes his head away from her, tightening his grip on the supports once more. “What do you do to relax then?”

“What?” His attention snaps back to Jodie, his bewildered look growing more intense. “Nothing.”

“Bullshit. You gotta do something.” She takes another hit of blueberry, keeping her gaze on Thomas. “Do you drink?”

“Never.”

“Ever go clubbing?”

“Why the fuck–” Each question fills Thomas with an ever-growing irritation, like a parent forced to entertain a chatty toddler on a road trip. “Do I look like someone who parties?” Jodie doesn’t respond, taking the gap in conversation as an opportunity for another puff.

“Do you like movies?”

“No.” “Games?”

“No!” “Music?”

Silence. Thomas’ expression freezes, slowly retreating to its sombre resting point as he turns back to the streets below. Jodie sees her opening.

“What kind of music do you like?”

“I don’t know… Classical.”

“Like Beethoven?”

He glares at her from the corner of his eye. “Yes. Like Beethoven.”

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“That’s cool!” Her enthusiasm sounds forced even to herself, though she means it in earnest. Often, as a teenager, she regretted not pursuing music as a hobby herself, revelling in the joyful chaos of those early school music classes. She justified it by saying she had no true talent. Cutting words birthed from her father. “Do you play an instrument?”

Thomas sniffs loudly. “I used to…”

Jodie pauses for a moment, aware of the trap she’s set for herself. She chews her lip and prepares herself for the unavoidable, lowering her voice in imitation of her sister’s placid demeanour. “Why did you stop?”

His sniffles turn more frequent as Thomas looks up into the night sky, eyes glistening in the polluted moonlight. “My mum taught me piano. We had an old wooden one, belonged to her grandmother. Fucking thing gave me splinters and needed tuning every other week, but I loved it. I begged her every night to play it with me. She taught me Brahms, Vivaldi, fucking Beethoven. It was great. It was all great.”

“I’m sorry,” Jodie sputters unthinkingly, immediately priming herself to get snapped at in return. Thomas wipes the water from his eyes and continues.

“Dad sold it to pay for the funeral. Only thing we had that was worth something.

After that, I had nothing. Flunked out of school a month later. No friends, no job, just… wallowing, for years. I’m sick of it…”

Jodie leans over the guardrail and rests her head in her arms. Every instinct tells her to keep her mouth shut, that anything she could say would only make things worse for this man. She fights those instincts.

“My sister died three years ago. She was everything to me. Walked me to school each morning, made us dinner every night. Played with me when I was bored, held me when I was sad. Kept me safe when our parents were drinking. Everyday sucks without her.”

She blows one last stream of vapour at the traffic below and stuffs the stick back in her pocket. They share moments of quiet as Thomas glances toward her and back to the streets. He breaks the silence with a faint muttering. “How do you live with it?”

Jodie shrugs. “Dunno. It’s just what you do, right? Gotta press on, look for something worth fighting for.” The colours of the road start to blend as her own eyes begin to water. “Just don’t want her effort to go to waste, you know?”

The two sit for a time in quiet solidarity, broken by the distant sound of sirens.

Jodie snaps her sight to the far ends of the bridge and spots the flashing lights moving 29

towards them. She pushes herself back and clambers to her feet once more. “Pass me your phone.”

Thomas’ silent contemplation is shattered. “What? Why?” “Just hand it over a sec.” Jodie claps one hand in Thomas’ direction until he surrenders his phone. She begins swiping through it immediately.

“What are you doing?”

She gestures loosely toward the rapidly approaching emergency vehicles.

“Getting out of your hair. You gotta be sick of my voice by now. Time for you to get some real help. And when they’re done–” She hands back the phone, the screen showing a newly added contact: ‘Jo’.

Jodie steps backward toward her car, hands stuffed in her pockets, a pained smirk on her tear-drenched face. As people begin to pour out of the police cars and ambulance, she stifles a dry cough and yells over the blaring sirens.

“Talk again soon?”

About the Author I finished high school more than a decade ago. I haven’t done much with my life since then, always toying with the idea of tertiary study or getting into the workplace but never able to commit. It’s extremely difficult getting out of your own head when you spend most of your life hating yourself, and I think that’s a feeling far too many people can relate to these days. I don’t imagine this piece will go on to change anyone’s lives with some grand self-revelation, but I think it has helped me to understand just how far I’ve come.

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Sunflower Scientific name: Helianthus Annuus Family: Asteraceae Meaning: Long Life and Everlasting Happiness

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The redeemer is on the other shores Abdou Houat Annie, a customer service clerk, whose life had been dedicated to work and caring for her elderly father, was resolute and downright passionate about life. She was the kind of person who would enjoy life to the fullest. Her bubbly character, however, had started to change. Her passion for life had been derailed by a static monotone life, notably following a failed relationship with a partner whom she thought was a joke. With passing time, her limited world, which revolved around work, caring for her father and running errands, was not offering a space for her to breath, as though the world was crashing down around her.

To escape her increasingly tightening world, Annie had switched to her best hobbies; collecting stamps and gardening to relieve the stress associated with the dullness and boredom caused by the striking routine, particularly after all her friends, aside from Leila, had gone down the road of marriage and unwittingly severed ties with her As the days passed by, Annie’s spirit continued to wear off. Even those hobbies could not push away a bout of depression she had slipped into and had become ineffective in lifting her morale to simply live as happily as any human had wished. To illustrate further, Annie’s passion for life had drifted to a record-low.

Amid such a twist and turn in her life, Annie had turned to her friend Leila for help and some advice to get over these striking fits of fatigue and boredom. Annie met Leila in one of the coffee shops where Leila lived. Upon meeting, Leila noticed the change manifesting clearly in her friend’s look.

“What happened to that glowing face?” Leila said.

“I feel like I am carrying a heavy weight, I feel like I am walking a long winding dark path.’’

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‘‘You’ll be okay. Life is testing your strength. It often treats us nicely, but at some points, it turns on us like a foe,’’ Leila responded, drawing Annie’s shawl around her shoulder, as though she were protecting her from the cold rattling wind outside. ‘‘I want to escape this routine; I want to break free from this tedious life; I want no longer be responsible for anybody apart from myself,’’ Annie said. ‘‘I recommend you go on holiday to Urandi, a nice seaside destination to recharge your battery. Lock away your annoying world and go and enjoy yourself, your gloomy world will come crumbling behind you,'' Leila said in assertive way. Leila’s words lifted Annie morale and revived her lifetime desire to travel. After meeting Leila, Annie walked to her car with Leila's advice whistling in her ears as fierce as that day's roaring wind.

There was no way a zealous woman like Annie would stand such suddenly striking monotony, and she was resolute to go beyond a life locked into a routinely performed activities of work, visiting her parent and running errands. She would strive for happy life and fight tooth and nail for it. Leila’s words about travel had already charted a pathway to that life. Those words were alluding to a world, where she could turn her life around and start afresh.

On one cold night, Annie drew all curtains to avoid the uproar of the wind against her windows and slipped into her bed earlier than usual. She awoke to her near-lifeless desire of traveling rejuvenated. She made up her mind to go on holiday to Urandi, a small nation with a different culture and different language, to escape her increasingly tightening world, and nourish her passion of learning about other nations’ culture and values. She set aside all the rumours about the dangers of women’s safety to travel alone in a male dominated country, for she was adamant about digging into such destination’s culture, walking its streets and discovering its long coastlines.

After taking time off work and putting her father in a residential care facility for respite, she packed up and flew to Urandi as planned. while she was walking through the bustling shops, she set her eyes on an antic stuff stall and she was taken aback by some old stamps hung on its walls. Before she entered the shop, she was greeted by a broad smile from Adil, the shop owner. ‘‘What a lovely collection of stamps you have,’’ Annie said. ‘‘Welcome to the antic shop. Yes, these red stamps date back to the Victorian times, and the green ones’ time stretches back to the Ottoman era. I've got some

33

antique jewellery if you are interested,’’ the man said, pointing out to a glass cupboard filled with a variety of jewellery.

Following some stamp purchases, Annie asked Adil whether she could hire a local guide to show her around Urandi. Unfortunately, there had been no travel agencies that could offer such assistance. However, Adil offered to be her local guide in his free time. Hesitant, yet implicitly satisfied, Annie accepted his offer, for at least, she would be in the company of someone who was a local and spoke English fluently.

The next day Annie and Adil met in one of the coffee shops. They then decided to head to the Urandi charming coastline. They walked over a long cliff and across a large swath of greenery to get down to the ocean. While walking, Annie, so comfortable in Adil's company said, ‘‘It is so serene here.’’

Startled by pink flowers around her, she went on to say, ‘‘What kind of flowers are these.’’ ‘‘They are butterfly bush flowers,’’ Adil said. He then made a wreath out of those flowers and offered it to her.

As they continued their walk, they came across a group of women reaping the mint’s harvest. Curiously, Annie asked, “Why are men are not among women in the plot?’’ ‘‘Some men don't like their women mixed with men, that is why you are only seeing women,’’ Adil responded.

To her surprise, Annie spotted a group of men harvesting mints a few meters ahead in another plot. The cultural shocks kept striking her, when men waved their hands to Adil, but ignored her, and not a single man looked her in the eye.

She was not happy and dared to ask Adil, ‘‘Why those men acted as though I was non-existent.’’ ‘‘Do not count their act as ignorance, men here don’t make eye contact with women in the company of men as a sign of respect to the man they are with,” Adil said soothing her bewilderment.

Once they arrived at the coast, Annie was stunned by its beauty and its serenity. while walking on, a group of men, whom Adil did not know, invited them to share a meal with them. Again, Annie was bewildered at finding herself in the presence of strangers. Though nervous, she was keen to share those men's atmosphere of an excursion by the sea alongside Adil. She was surprised at how all of them ate from the same plate, using their hands and no mere utensil had been utilised.

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While heading back, Annie asked Adil, ‘‘Why had those men invited us though they don't know us.’’

“It is cultural here in Urandi to invite one another to share as a meal. This is a symbol of solidarity, and such habit goes back a century when a severe drought and famine struck Urandi and people have been helpful to each other since,'' Adil responded in seemingly convincing manner.

Annie fell in love with those positive cultural features of Urandi, largely because she found them based on social cohesion and solidarity. To further comprehend such culture, a few days later, she and Adil went to visit Urandi Historical sites and museums where a history and colure had been thoroughly displayed. During such visit, Adil asked her whether she would be interested in going to a wedding he had been invited to. ‘‘Do you want to see what wedding traditions are like in Urandi?’’ he said. ‘‘That would be nice,’' she said.

At the wedding, men and women were separated, no alcohol was involved, and everybody was dancing and singing. Though Annie was shocked at such separation, she had enjoyed the night with those women circling the bride, and cherishing her with spiritual songs about her transition from singlehood to a state of wedlock. Annie even bonded with a few female guests and created friendships.

Annie enjoyed Adil’s company, but she could not figure out her feeling towards him. She was shutting down herself to any potential relationship. This played out in one morning when Adil suddenly wrapped his arms around her and said: ‘‘Through this time I have spent with you, I feel I am falling for you.’’ ‘‘At this point, I am only here to enjoy my holiday,’’ Annie replied. ‘‘I love to keep in touch with you. I would love to have you as wife one day,’’ Adil said reaching out an arm to touch her.

A year later, Annie returned to Urandi and got engaged with Adil. In Adil’s company she had never felt homesick and become known as his wife in the community. While They were walk holding hands in the street near Adil’s shop.

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Adil said, ‘‘My sister already organized your wedding dress.’’ ‘‘She should not have done that; it is too expensive for her,’’ Annie said feeling grateful to Adil’s sister. ‘‘She wanted to make it as surprise for you,’’ Adil said again. ‘‘She is so kind, shall we take her for dinner,’’ Annie said.

“Another night. We still have much to do,” Adil responded.

Annie never thought she would be a bride in a wedding whose scenes were similar to the one she and Adil were once invited to. But as she believed in destiny, she thought everything was possible. As the time went by, Annie had become a wellregarded woman in Urandi community, working as a part-time English teacher, rearing her kids and happily living with her husband Adil.

About the Author I wrote this story to address the theme of cross-cultural marriage from a positive perspective, as many believe that cross-cultural marriage often ends up failing due to cultural differences. I would argue that cultural differences are not always a barrier to having a successful marriage. When love and cultural adaptation are strong, as in the case of Annie and Adil, there is no way that marriage could end. When based on love and mutual respect, the cross cultural marriage can overcome those cultural shockwaves through cultural adaptation, which signifies grabbing the positive aspect of the couture to one’s advantage.

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Forget-me-not Scientific name: Myosotis Family: Boraginaceae Meaning: True Love, Faithfulness, Remembering the Dead 37

In Forever, Escape Laura Jayne

It began in the house of a friend, where the window to the playroom framed the work of a real estate agent, hammering his sign into the ground. Lenore, seven years old, watched the man work while Eve beside her continued to play.

“Mummy says I’ll get a bigger room, in the new house,” Eve said. “I’ll have more room for toys.”

Lenore had visited this house many, many times. She knew the size of the playroom, the shape of the garden, the smell of the kitchen. She had slept top to tail with Eve in her bed, in her bedroom, in her house which Lenore would never see again.

The idea was a jolt that mimicked the strike of the man’s hammer on the signpost outside. No new bedroom, no matter how big, would be the right size and shape to hold all the memories she had made inside these walls.

Lenore’s mother came to pick her up. The time it took to find Lenore, hiding from them all under the bathroom sink, was attributed to the strength of friendship between the two girls, a plot to extend the playdate.

Sniffling in the backseat, Lenore watched her mother turn their car towards the park. There was a slide and swings and a picnic table, and an acre or so of open, green grass, perfect for dog walking, or walking small and upset children out of their worries. Lenore and her mother walked here often.

Life continued on, after Eve’s family moved. Lenore’s first playdate at the new house was a reluctant one. But Eve’s mother was right – the new room was bigger, and more toys would fit, and new cubbies could be built.

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Lenore developed a tendency to linger – in classrooms at the end of each year, in hotel lobbies on holidays which had run their course. Often, she collected mementos, and a box in her wardrobe filled over the years with reminders of people and places she had known. It was easier to let go, knowing she had something to hold on to.

She was seventeen when her mother fell ill. While death hovered near, nothing was small enough to bear losing. Mementos were not items special for their rarity: they were the teabag that her mother used one night when the sickness was dire, and which might be the last. It was the receipt for a hot chocolate on a Tuesday. The box from which they had eaten donuts together at the park. And a teabag again, from a later night, one that might be the last. It was a teabag, when the first two nights were borne through, and a third threatened the end yet again.

It was anything with which she could hold on, as tightly as she could.

Her mother recovered, and the collecting slowly began to ease.

Lenore lived many peaceful years before her mother was taken from her.

Someone found her in the park after work and told her of the accident. A collision on the road. Avoidable. Irreversible.

She had entered the park gate expecting to meet her mother there, like the old days. As she left, the gate was warped by tears and the shape of someone who would never walk through it again.

They had to drag her from the funeral home as the coffin disappeared.

In torn and tearstained mourning clothes, she made her way to the park. She lay on the picnic table and thought of all that she had lost. Night drew in, and she began to sit up to leave when the gate caught her eye, and she froze. Once, she had been a child, and had walked through that gate with her mother, entering with tear-stained cheeks, leaving with a smile. Once, she had walked through that gate with her mother for the last time. Once, she had walked through from a world that had her mother in it into one that did not.

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Something bit at her insides at the thought of leaving. Unknown threats seemed to wait beyond the familiar threshold. She lay back down. Darkness gathered and settled. She could not leave.

Midnight brought the intruder. She did not hear him, but she knew he approached. The dull fear of life that had been weighing on her sharpened into a fear of death as she sat up, and saw him standing over her, his dark robes billowing. She sensed his hungering teeth before she ever saw them. Some old, old instinct buried deep inside her recognised that his was an ancient, and terrible form.

“There is a great mourning within you.” His voice did not disturb the night; it blended into the darkness. “Why is that?”

“It’s my punishment.”

“And why are you punished?”

“Because I didn’t hold on tight enough.” Her tears stroked her cheeks with the gentle fingers of her mother. “Because I couldn’t cling on well enough to stop it all going away.”

Folds of dark fabric whispered as wind caught in the robes of the intruder. His voice and his whispering silks were as one.

“Those of my kind do not mourn. Nothing is lost to me. I am unchanging. I may come and go as I wish, and the passage of time will not steal any wonder from me… as long as I am willing to do what I must, with every cycle that is trod by our moon. To grasp at what others lose… sacrifices must be made.”

The sneaking odour of threat that had first heralded his arrival crept back into her nostrils. A dull beat dropped out of place from her heart, its pattern disturbed.

“You’re... you’re going to kill me?”

The intruder spoke the truth with no disguise.

“It was my intention. Now, instead, I am going to give you a gift.”

More beats fell in untimely succession, like dropped plates from jostled cupboard shelves; hope and despair wrestled in her chest until the crockery jumped and shook free. She knew what he was offering, and what he would take in return for his gift. The gift of preservation. A gift which would protect her from a life in which she would leave the park one day, and never return. She caught a glimpse of a life in which she would never have to let go.

She let him put white hands around her neck. Let him lower ancient teeth to hover over her throat.

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No moon broke the darkness of the unlit park, as the gift was given, and the toll paid.

Life, or at least the absence of death, was no longer bound by the laws it had been before. No time would ever be the last. Lenore would never leave the gate of the park without the complete assurance that she could, would, return. The memories would not be left behind. Their temple would remain open to her, a haven of what was, and now would always continue to be. The past was not over if she could be where it had been, stay where it had lived. She could not die and would never have to leave the park for the last time.

All it took was to feed. One person, once a month.

She grew used to the ritual rhythm. Grew used to lowering her teeth over the neck of whoever would become the next month’s guarantee of prolonging undeath, become her assurance that in her new-found form, she could patrol the moonlit park into infinity.

12 years of victims. 12 years of holding on.

The cycle shifted when one night, in the very park in which she was turned, she seized her 145th victim, and stared into the face of a woman whose girlhood playroom she had once known in all its dimensions of memory.

Eve’s frightened eyes paused Lenore’s aching teeth from lowering. The innate desire to feed, and the disciple’s need to uphold duty to that which had become everything to her, to the preservation of the memories housed in this park which she had chosen to be her temple on the night of her mother’s funeral – this desire, this need, urged her to bite… but in this moment, the woman before her called to the person she had once been. The person before grief. The person she could never be again.

She bit.

The toll was paid.

The moon trod its cycle once more.

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Lenore returned to the park. By the picnic bench, lit silver by moonlight, a figure stood waiting. Her heart sank when it turned, and once more she stared into the face of Eve. It was not simply moonlight that caused Eve’s skin to blaze silver. Some far-off light glowed from within her – a pale halo which marked her apart from the living, the corporeal.

Eve’s ghost spoke with a distant voice. “You’ve bound me here. You – you've ruined everything. I’ll never be able to leave this, this place, I’m stuck.”

“Is that truly so terrible a fate?”

Eve’s lips parted, and a silver tear rolled down her cheek. “Terrible? I’ll never be able to rest! And yet – I’ll never leave, never grow, never change… How could you do this to me?”

The words sent disparate ripples through Lenore’s heart. For the first time in 12 years, she caught a glimpse of everything she had left behind when she bound herself to eternal preservation. All that she destroyed in her desire to maintain, to archive, to protect. She glimpsed what she could have been.

The light glowing from her former friend seemed to grow so silver she could almost see her own reflection staring back at her.

About the Author I wrote this story in my final weeks of on-campus classes for my Bachelor of Arts.

I write mainly poetry and short fiction, often exploring gothic, historical, or supernatural genres. In this story, I wanted to dramatise an extreme hyperbole of my experience with OCD and turn obsessive-compulsive “magical thinking” into an all-consuming and supernatural urge to live in and protect the past – an attempt to hold on to and replicate part feelings of safety and happiness, even if the attempt is totally illogical; even if it means that you can’t move forward.

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Purple Dead Nettle Scientific name: Lamium Family: Lamiaceae Meaning: Death, Joy, Determination and Tenacity 43

Outdoors Soleil Jose

There is nothing more earthly beautiful than the act of swallowing pain throughout girlhood.

Last Night I dreamt that I danced in the absence of light. Twirling in what little glow the moon granted, mindful there might have been creatures in the hours of darkness, hidden beneath and behind each shadow, but that notion I disregard. Had they taken me whilst playing with the night, I think that a most charming way to go.

I will never know how to write my grief onto a page. To embody in a few sentences what has cursed me a lifetime. So instead, I write of what could once lessen the chime of melancholy in the left ear: The sun reflecting onto surfaces as water does when rippling. The tree outside my bedroom window and how for years I've watched it both lose and grow its leaves. The first time I could embrace myself without aversion and regret. Laying a hand on the surface of my sahasrara and feeling its mellowness after having sat beneath the sun for hours. Discovering the aroma of my preferred variety of paper when opening a new book. Studying my lover's eyes and realizing it is too late. My bunny, how I named her Luna after the moon. Feeling resentment twirl into sickening pity when I learnt why my father is who he is. The feel of velvet on the fingers and how my love grows for it when it is the colour green. My terminal illness and yes, 44

how it seeks to extinguish my existence each day and night - but I dress the machines stuck to my skin and beneath my clothing in colours of pink or white and thus, feel childlike once again. How, ever since the age of five I have perpetually dreamed of death and find solace in the lack of change, as it is intolerable. The way I am met with radio silence when I pray to an empty sky. The way I turned the sour age of 18 and came to accept the curse both Mama and Sissy were dealt with at an age alike. On no occasion though does my grief attempt to polish me off, no. It pokes its head out when it notices an act of drifting too far from my heart. To remind me, it will invariably and always perch beside me, to carry my hand as any old friend should.

I delight in reopening scabs. Not part B where I discern the sting of my skin being plucked at once again. But part A, where for a moment, the act of picking is deflecting and grants me the feeling of both cleanliness and unconfined by pressure.

For the instant I sense it is there, I am compelled to rid of it.

My father favours rat poison. Oh, how he loathes those grubby little things.

Yes, yes he will sit you down and tell you all about his abhorrence towards them. So much so that eventually it is no longer words that spill from his lips but sounds and grunts. Remember that on no occasion should you alert him to this fact, for he will grace you with his vexation at your doing so. He takes pleasure in the sound of his voice and to inform him of his hypocrisy means a following week of the family paying no heed to your requirements as your own unique punishment chosen just for you. It may not appear to be the most woeful of lessons to be wield against you, but through time the hush morphs into a cutlass of lunacy; but fret not, as there is always mother to fix what he could not. After all that is her duty.

Oh, how I love mother. Her soft spoken words, her tolerance, that ability of hers to commiserate with each and every human being who brokenly wanders into her life, only to waltz back out wearing a grin like no other. Her willingness to meet at death's door if only one other gains but a single seed from her garden to begin growing their own.

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Today's friend is icky, sticky, and licky.

Where it licks, I shall not say.

For it is invasive To know.

I grew up with flashing fairy lights coloured red and blue. With roaring clamour and vintage doors, hinges fractured around the perimeter, paint peeling. I grew up with little sleep and many days off from a wonderland called school. This especially occurred on prior nights where the front door was left open for a lengthy time. Mother would say this was in order to usher the wee ones out, however they weren't little. I grew with my sister peeking through door frames in the early hours of morning when the loud was extra loud.

No friends came within the box called home, as they weren't allowed to witness the magic inside. But now, I live with coffee's set on the kitchen counter waiting patiently for me to swallow them with mindfulness. With fellow Fae catering to my each and every need. I live with two rooms all to myself and a voice which says no. But the tinkling of neverland has not left my ears. The walls are still ruptured and the door frames are loose. There are gifts, frozen in time hidden beneath the floorboards outside, remnants of past faery gatherings. Father tells me not to touch those, accepting gifts from the Fair Folk can lead to trickery and deceit.

But if I’m being honest, I think father steals them for himself.

There are car doors slamming in a land far, far away called Footscray which make adult women wet the bed, and there are iron locks stationed on each of father’s magical belongings. Mother still speaks to the fairies, but only at night and when alone, for that which she calls her rainbow magic seems to disperse in darkness, I've witnessed it. It leaves her to resemble a boggart.

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For a season I pondered the notion of there being gwyllion arguing in the opening of the front door as they have in the past. Mother asked about therapy when I alerted her of their presence, it was silly of me. If mother couldn’t see them then the banshee which resides in the left ear must also be an illusion. A forever ringing of the past.

My whole being wishes to write both beautifully and about beautiful things.

Soft things. The sort of things that lead you with a warm hand on an adventure and has you feeling tender and wise by the end. But my hand writes roughly. Scribbling frantically till the paper tears, till my eyes are blessed with pain, and my brain with vertigo’s laugh. There is nothing beautiful about my essence, about me. And so there is nothing beautiful about my work. It is writing that stems from years of biting my tongue and swallowing blood with little but a wince. Of fog in the brain and the effort to become something more. But I am learning as one must. To be content with what one has. Even if it is nothing but a scar.

Be as you are and scream.

To embrace suffering. The most permanently damaging and enlightening thing one can do.

I wish to be peeled as an orange. Undressed slowly and with care. A gentle hand, aware that if too much pressure is applied, I will bruise. The best and juiciest parts of myself will have squirted into your eye, no longer there for your tongue to taste.

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I once read that life, existence, is our hell. Humans’ hell. That there are no fiery pits, no pitchfork wielding demons, or mass groups of humans stripped bare, screaming for what it is they aren't even sure of. No, this is hell; The birth from one's breeder, life, and the sweet blow of death. In most depictions of hell, each individual has their own curse chosen for them with care and beauty. A personal demon of some sort, metaphorically speaking. I believe I have discovered what mine is. I read a quote when I was at the ripe age of fourteen. The quote was centred around “almost”. Almost there. Almost home. Almost changed. Almost happy. Almost, but not quite. I find remedies for my illness. Poetry. Maladaptive daydreaming. Wishing.

Coffee. And they work. Almost. There is a nasty habit of mine where I seek more than almost through love, no matter how it leaves me feeling; black and blue, soft and tender, or snarling and depraved.

But that's not how it works, is it? Because change is the only constant this hell has. Maybe that's a concrete curse we each share in this realm.

My mother was a reader, and in her image, I grew to find my brand of heroin was novels. That's what I would guess keeps me in this matrix. Maybe it's books, and the dreams they create in the mind, and the emotion of hope which allows, convinces me, to want. But want what? Something more than almost, I guess. I crave and crave and crave. And that craving is what keeps me going. A curse or blessing? Am I almost there? Am I pulling on wet rope or etching the burns myself? I don't know if I ever will, but maybe I'm getting close to it. Maybe I'm almost there.

About the Author: In the year 2020 I discovered that poetry can be useful for several things.

Free therapy, a fun way to explore creativity, and an excellent way to drive yourself mad with pretentious philosophical notions. Authors such as Albert Camu, Fyodor Dostoyevsky, and Cornelia Funke have assisted in the influence of my writing style and targeted themes. My childhood is one of the many ghostly friends that have followed me into adulthood and writing poetry is one of the many ways I talk with this friend, my inner child.

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Marigold Scientific name: Tagetes Family: Asteraceae Meaning: Positive Energy, Good luck and Creativity 49

Cassandra Lilian Stoddart

Claudia had been seeing the end since she was eight. Dreams of burning landscapes and sulphur, of death and destruction, that she could not understand. Foggy and strange but clear at the same time.

She started seeing other things not long after, small and insignificant compared to the hellfire, but there, nonetheless. They were always about the near-future, and always eventually true.

Her father loses his job when she is nine, she sees it a week before it happens.

She tells her mother, who dismisses it as childish concern.

"Your father’s job is very important to his company, Dear. He’s not going to lose it anytime soon." she tells her as she brushes out Claudia’s hair.” Now what’s brought this on?"

Her father’s job is very vital, it turns out. Not long after they fire him, the company collapses. The family is in shambles for a bit as they move in with Claudia’s aunt and her cousin Harri, who is just over a year older than Claudia. She’s pretty and smart and everything Claudia isn’t. Claudia is ashamed to say she’s jealous, especially since Harri very quickly becomes her best friend.

It isn’t long before they become inseparable.

She dreams of fire, then brimstone, then ash.

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Harri doesn’t believe her either.

“I sometimes see things that haven’t happened yet,” she tells her one night when Harri is braiding her hair. She receives a scoff in return.

“We aren’t little kids, Clauds. I’m not going to buy that.”

“It’s true!” she says, and Harri shakes her head.

“Fine then, what’s for dinner tomorrow?”

Claudia pouts. “It doesn’t work like that! Its random, I can’t control it!”

Harri pats her on the shoulder. “Sure, you can’t.”

As Claudia grows up, the visions of the end of the world get stronger. She writes the details in a little notebook she keeps on her person, and with every passing day the view gets less blurry and more solid.

Fire, then brimstone, then ash.

She’s ten when she tells Harri that her birthday party will be ruined. Their rude neighbour will enter through the back gate and go through Harri’s presents.

She doesn’t believe her, the neighbour is out of town for the foreseeable future.

It happens anyway, and Claudia’s aunt chases the neighbour off with a broom.

She’s twelve when she sees that a large storm will ruin the family holiday, destroying the tent and soaking through their shoes.

Her father doesn’t believe her, the weather forecast is clear with no clouds in sight.

It happens anyway, and Claudia ends up with a bag full of ruined clothes.

She’s thirteen when she foretells her grandfather’s death. Undiagnosed cancer.

She begs her mother to go see him before he dies.

Her mother doesn’t believe her, tells her not to be silly. Her grandfather may be old but he’s not sick.

It happens anyway, a day before they were supposed to go see him.

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She’s fifteen when she sees a man show up at their doorstep, the man that had left her aunt after finding out she was pregnant with Harri.

She tells her aunt, who scoffs and tells Claudia to go wash the dishes. That man had abandoned them then, what would he want from them now?

He shows up anyways, and Harri punches him.

Hindsight is twenty/twenty though, so she gets responses like ‘that neighbour was always looking for an opportunity to ruin something’ or ‘your grandfather was getting a bit old’.

No one believes her when she says she saw it coming.

Especially when she talks about the hellfire.

Fire, then brimstone, then ash. She can see everything so clearly now. It’s coming closer.

She’s sixteen when she tries something different. She sees Harri’s friend Calvin asking Harri out. Harri has never been interested in Calvin, she makes that clear. In the vision, he asks her out in front of everyone, so she feels like she can’t say no. He reacts poorly to rejection.

So, instead of telling Harri outright, she twists it.

“I think Calvin likes you,” she mentions one night.

“I’d sure hope so,” Harri says. They are sitting on her bed and Claudia is painting her nails. “He’s my best friend.”

“Aside from me,” Claudia says, and Harri smiles.

“You don’t count.”

“I think he like likes you, like wants to go out with you.”

“Don’t be silly,” Harri says and rolls her eyes, “he knows I’m gay.”

Claudia isn’t so sure about that. “He probably thinks he can change you or something.”

“Claudia,” Harri says sternly, “I know you want what’s best for me, but Calvin isn’t like that.”

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Claudia wants to push it, to tell Harri to drop him, but instead she just looks away.

“I’m just worried.”

“Okay,” Harri says, and she leaves it at that.

Harri ends up crying in Claudia’s room a week later. Calvin had taken rejection worse than even Claudia could have predicted, and Harri feels like she’s lost a part of herself to a friendship that wasn’t real.

“I’m sorry,” Claudia whispers, and Harri just shakes her head.

“You told me, I should have listened. I just… I don’t know what I thought.” She thinks for a moment before a large smile etches its way onto her face. “Looks like your forbidden future vision is back.” Harri waggles her hands around like she’s casting a spell.

Claudia groans, “Not this again,” as Harri clears her throat.

“Oh, mighty seer!” Harri says like she always does whenever it comes up. Her eyes are still red from crying but she’s smiling like a maniac. “Forgive my insolence!

Please I beg you, what are next week’s lottery numbers?”

“Shut up,” Claudia grumbles, she lets Harri have this though, because she’s smiling.

She can’t change fate either way.

Fire then brimstone then ash. It’s here.

She’s eighteen, and everything is a blinding orange, she can feel the burn in the air on her tongue. It’s hard to breathe with the sheer amount of soot in the air, and she can feel the dirt between her toes, searing hot like the floor is bubbling beneath her.

Everything is so vivid.

When she wakes up, she knows.

She considers changing her routine, doing something different, something wild, but she doesn’t. Claudia is a creature of habit, one who doesn’t like to change even when she knows that this is the end.

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She doesn’t do her homework though, that is the last thing she will waste her time on. What’s left of it anyway.

She drifts along like a log in a river, uncaring, not resisting the pull of the water.

She does her chores, goes with her parents to the shops, lives like she doesn’t know.

She doesn’t say anything, not to her parents, not to her aunt, and not to Harri.

She goes on a walk that night, the only great deviation to her routine that she will allow herself. She can feel it, the fire on her tongue, the flavour of death. The memory gets clearer with every passing second. She doesn’t want to be in the house at the end. She says a quick goodbye to her family, it’s not enough, but it will do. She doesn’t take her shoes; her feet won’t hurt tomorrow. She won’t be tomorrow.

Harri comes with her, a bit confused, Claudia doesn’t stop her but doesn’t encourage her either. They walk in silence. Claudia feels like she’s floating, ethereal, and she doesn’t want to break the moment.

"Are you okay?" Harri asks, and the feeling oddly doesn’t come crashing down like she expected.

"I’m not sure." She feels like she shouldn’t be, but she feels very neutral about the whole thing.

They reach the park, it’s the same one they had visited when they were kids, and Claudia sits on the ground and waits.

"What are we doing?" Harri says, standing next to Claudia.

"Waiting." She doesn’t really have time to say anything else as the sky bursts into a bright orange.

“Wha- “ Claudia sighs. “No one listens, no one hears me”.

She reaches up to the sky, her fingers tingling. It gets hot fairly suddenly. She doesn’t know what it is, but it’s coming, and it will kill her and everything she knows.

It feels familiar now though, like a warm blanket that wraps her in a comforting embrace. She’s known this feeling since she was young, it’s almost nostalgic, and she can’t help but smile. Why exactly had she been trying to avoid this?

“What is it?” Harri asks, almost entranced, she doesn’t panic, doesn’t run.

Claudia can appreciate that.

“The end” “It might not be.”

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“It is.” She buries her fingers into the ground, the fly in the web that she is, burrowing further in, cementing her fate even more even as the spider approaches. “I may never get the lottery numbers right, but this is what I know.”

Harri stares at the sky, before sitting next to her cousin. “You saw this then? All those years?”

Claudia just hands Harri her notebook. “Fire, then brimstone. then ash.”

Harri opens the book, it’s the first thing written. Fire, then brimstone, then ash, in a childish scribble in crayon. Every page, the same thing, each page more detailed then the last. She flips to the end of her prediction notebook, where all it says is ‘today.’

Harri doesn’t say anything else, just stares at the sky next to Claudia, grasping her cousin’s hand in her own.

Fire, then brimstone, then ash.

About the author Hello, my name is Lily, and I wrote the short story ‘Cassandra’. I’m currently studying a Batchelor of arts at VU, majoring in creative writing and visual arts. The story ‘Cassandra’ was based off of the Greek mythological figure of the same name; a seer who was cursed by Apollo to see the future and for no one to believe her. Cassandra is known for trying to warn the Trojans of the downfall of Troy. Cassandra’s story is meant to be a tragedy, a woman unheard. It’s sad, but I felt that Claudia’s had to follow the same path.

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White Lily Scientific name: Lilium Candidum Family: Liliaceae Meaning: Purity, Innocence and Rebirth.

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Advice not from a friend Cooper Rowe

The lights from Clive’s car lit up the nicely-kept driveway, casting shadows that danced and jumped as he arrived. He shut the engine off and readjusted his circular glasses before getting out. He was looking forward to catching up with his best mate, it had been a few weeks since they had last seen each other. They messaged every now and again, but ultimately both of them had been caught up in their own lives. He sighed, closing the door and locking it. They had been rough, those weeks since they’d last caught up.

A familiar voice cut through his thoughts, wrenching him back into reality. “Clive my man, how you been?” Jim stood in the doorway of the house, welcoming him in.

Walking up the driveway to join him, Clive glanced around him. This time, the plants and flowers didn’t seem as nicely-kept as he first thought.

“Ah you know, I’m fine.” He paused. “Work was a bit rough though. I’m feeling ill-equipped to deal with other people’s problems nowadays”.

Jim nodded. “Yeah, well maybe the psychologist needs a psychologist,’ he joked.

Clive shrugged. “Probably, or I just need to see my best friend.” He ignored Jim’s outstretched hand, instead opting to hug him. Jim accepted the embrace awkwardly. “Come in,” he said, cutting off the hug and turning to walk down the hallway into his kitchen, as Clive stepped through the door and took off his shoes.

“Drink?” Came the offer from down the hall.

“Fuck yes man, I need it,” Clive replied, walking through the dimly-lit, slightly cold house. He couldn’t help feeling the lifelessness that hung in the air. Isn’t it too early for the kids to be asleep? He rounded the corner into the joint dining room and 58

kitchen. Jim held out a VB. Clive accepted with a frown. “Gone off the Jack have ya?” he questioned, cracking the can open and taking a swig. Jim looked confused. “Jack Daniel’s?” Clive repeated.

“Ah, yeah I have,” Jim confirmed as he sat at the table. Nodding, Clive paused, looking at the family photo hanging on the wall.

“How’s the family?” he asked, as he took a seat across from Jim. “They’re out tonight,” came the curt response. Clive eyed Jim, confused.

“Ok, but how are they?”

Jim cracked open his own beer. “Oh, right, my bad. Lisa’s doing well despite being worried about her dad. Unfortunately, he’s not getting any better. As for the kids, well, I’d prefer if they stayed out of trouble at school and behaved a bit more, but they’re doing just fine. Honestly, sometimes the little buggers make me want to swap with you,” Jim laughed.

“We don’t have any kids. Audrey doesn’t want any, remember?”

Jim nodded after a slight pause. “That’s exactly what I mean. Anyway, enough catching up – what did you want?”

An anxiety Clive never felt around Jim began its slow creep up his spine.

“You are unusually straight to the point tonight.” He paused to collect himself.

“Well, I guess I needed some advice.”

Jim nodded. “Of course, dude, go ahead.”

Readjusting his glasses, Clive attempted to force the building anxiety down.

“Well… Audrey and I aren’t doing so good. We’ve been arguing. I’ve become so stressed at work lately, and I’ve tried talking to her about it. But she says I always bring the mood down when I bring up work. That all I talk about is my work. When she does listen, she asks me to tell her more about the clients and gets pissy when I remind her that I can’t disclose client details. Says it’s a waste of time to even bring it up then.”

Clive heard Jim shift in his seat. “I just need her to listen, maybe remind me why I choose this job in the first place. Reassure me that what I’m doing is actually helping people. Is that wrong?”

Looking up, Clive noticed that Jim had lent over the table and was now studying his face intently. A silence smothered the room. Clive was frozen. What is Jim doing?

What’s gotten into him? The sense of unease made his muscles tense. What’s gotten into me – Why am I so anxious?

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Jim was the first to move, slapping a hand on his friend’s shoulder. “Look. I think you really do need to try some therapy yourself. It sounds like you have a lot on your plate. Dumping it all on Audrey isn’t going to help either of you. She probably has her own worries. Whilst I do believe that you should be able to rely on each other, you also need space. I’m here to talk whenever you need but I can only help so much.

Psychologists seeking therapy for themselves is totally normal, dude”.

The ballooning anxiety suddenly left Clive’s body as he exhaled, leaving him feeling slightly deflated. “Yeah, ok you’re right. I’ll give it go. Thanks man.”

Jim leaned back again. “No problem at all my friend.”

Finishing his drink Clive stood up. “Gotta take a leak”.

Clive excused himself as he walked further into the house. Past the living room, stopping at the sliding door to the backyard. Here he waited for the familiar greeting he would usually receive from Cloud. But the canine with the white coat didn’t come to the door. Strange. He’s usually ecstatic to see me, Clive thought with disappointment. He went to move on but spotted Cloud’s bowl. It was empty, dirty, and unused. Unease once again began to stir his stomach like a cauldron.

.

He flushed and walked out, turning in to the bathroom. Flicking on the light, he went to wash his hands. Listening to the running water, he glanced at himself in the mirror.

He looked pale. Before he could properly process this, a swift movement in the reflection made him jump – something like a person darting down the hall had caught his eye, and he span around.

“Jim?” He waited. Deafening silence was his only response. His hands still dripping wet he walked out into the hallway. “Jim?” he repeated, this time louder. Still no response. The hot air of fear rushed into his body, inflating his muscles with adrenaline. Rushing back down the hallway he left a damp trail on the carpet. “Jim!” he almost shouted, hurrying into the kitchen.

“What?!” The man snapped back. He was still seated.

“Shit man. You’re scaring me, why didn’t you answer?”

Jim glared at him. “Why the fuck should I?” Clive’s hairs stood on end. He suddenly felt like a deer in headlights. But he didn’t know why. “Alright what’s gotten into you man? What’s with the sudden aggression?”

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Jim rose out of his chair but didn’t answer. “It’s like you let your Unconscious take control.” Jim walked around the table causing Clive to back up. “Th-That’s not healthy.”

Now facing him, Jim reached around Clive, grabbing something from the kitchen counter. He moved back handing Clive a roll of paper towel.

“Yeah sorry.” He apologised softly for the outburst. “But don’t go psychoanalysing me again, kay?” he said, sitting back down. “If I wanted therapy, I’d pay you for it”.

Clive’s unease didn’t leave this time. He stood in silence as Jim watched him.

Letting out a nervous laugh Clive dried his hands. “True. Wouldn’t want to be doing charity work now would I?” he said, shakily sitting down again.

“Not at all,” Jim responded. “Then I’d have you stressing about my troubles with nothing to show for it.”

The pair sat for a few minutes before Clive spoke up again. “It’s awfully cold in here don’t you think?”

Jim slowly turned his head, running his gaze over the room until his eyes locked with Clive’s. “Yeah, I guess it is,” he agreed, but made no move to turn the heater on.

“You gonna turn the heat on?” Clive questioned.

“Nah”. Jim said lazily. His entire demeanour had changed.

“Well could you please turn the heater on?” Clive asked.

“Nah”. Jim repeated. Clive just nodded trying to think of what to say next. That’s when he remembered.

“Oh yeah, I almost forgot. Do you guys still have Cloud? I noticed his bowl; it looks a little…”

This time Jim didn’t speak. He just shook his head side to side. Clive didn’t want to speak anymore. He didn’t want to ask. His instincts told him not to ask. But for some reason he couldn’t help but open his mouth.

“What happened to him?”

As soon as the question left his lips, he regretted it. Jim’s expression changed.

His face began to stretch, the skin pulling taut over his skull. His mouth slowly formed a large, inhuman grin. The smile was so painfully wide it seemed to threaten tearing the skin on his face. It was as if his face was a mask hiding what was underneath.

“We ate him”.

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About the Author I’m a student studying at Victoria University. I’m majoring in psychology which was my first influence for deciding on a psychological horror. I’ve always loved a decently-written horror with psychological elements that challenge the reader or viewer in some way. Whether it be a challenge of understanding around an unidentified creature that has certain rules pertaining to it that need to be followed in order to survive an encounter with it; or the type of psychological horror that dives into dark themes of trauma and asks deep questions about the human psyche. I attempted to blend both of these elements into my short writing piece with my limited word count.

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