ORDER EDITION FOUR | 2018
FOREWORD Well, what a year it’s been for WORDLY. We began our first edition with the mysterious ‘Myth’, sliding sensationally on into ‘Taboo’, then creeping cautiously into ‘Skeptic’, and here we are at last in ‘Order’.
But what is order, really? Is it the sharp commands of a general to their troops? Neat, shining rows of impeccably lined up stationary? A satisfying sequence of numbers? Can order even exist without disorder?
This edition explores all these ideas, and more. From dark to light, dystopia to utopia, ‘Order’ truly has something for everyone. Quick-witted fiction, bold manifestos, powerful poetry, insightful non-fiction, tug-on-yourheartstrings short stories, cooking inspiration, and even a few extra surprises await the turn of your page. It’s been a pleasure to see this gutsy magazine grow, even just in the space of a year, and I’m thrilled to be on board as Managing Editor for this little gem of an edition. Whether you’re looking for orderly perfection or trying to find peace among the chaos, you’ll discover it between these pages. Enjoy!
Lori Franklin Managing Editor Editor-in-Chief: Tara Komaromy • Managing Editor: Lori Franklin
Communications Manager: Bel Ellison • Art Director: Jack McMahon Financial Manager: Mathew Sharp • Social Media Officer: Jessica Wartski Designer: Mallory Arbour • Front Cover Artist: Melissa Bandara Editors: Mel O’Connor • Mark Russell • Justine Stella
Sub-Editors: Jessica Ali • Anna Bilbrough • Julie Dickson • Yasmin Drury Surya Matondkar • Tyler McPherson • Ruby Roberts • Sini Salatas Tim Same • Kellie Seaye • Jessica Wartski • Jason Winn
Contributors: Liam Ball • Melissa Bandara • Anna Bilbrough • Brianna Bullen Melina Bunting • Bel Carroll • A. J. Charles • Becky Croy • Lori Franklin Molly Herd • Toby Jeffs • Gabi Kypriotis • Lauren Hay • Darren O’Hehir Aaron Purton • Loren Rae • Helayna Redmond-Ball • Tim Same Venetia Slarke • Robyn Smith • Tristan Urriola • Jason Winn © 2018 Deakin University Student Association Inc Reg. No. A0040625Y All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form by any electronic or mechanical means (including photocopying, recording, information storage and retrieval) without permission in writing from the publisher. Opinions expressed in this publication belong to their respective authors, and it may not be the opinions of WORDLY or DUSA. Unattributed images sourced from Flickr (CC) and Adobe Creative Cloud Assets. Want to advertise? Contact email@example.com for more information.
CONTENTS 04 A List Of Musings About Lists - Melina Bunting 05 Squiggles And Lines - Helayna Redmond-Ball 06 Twisted, Like A Möbius Strip - Brianna Bullen 07 Alternative Arrangement - Darren O’Hehir 08 Sweetness - Loren Rae 09 On The Seventh Day, She Rested - Lori Franklin 10 Ten - A. J. Charles 11 Invention No. 1 In C Major (Bach) - Darren O’Hehir 12 The Order Of The Masculine - Toby Jeffs 14 This Will Be Home - Aaron Purton 16 Damaged Is Beautiful - Tristan Urriola 17 Chaos - Gabi Kypriotis 18 Word: Order - Lauren Hay 20 I’ll Come Up With A Better Title For This Later - Tim Same 22 Serenity - Venetia Slarke 23 Cotton Towers - Molly Herd 24 No Soy Marinated Chicken Wings - Robyn Smith 26 One - Bel Carroll 28 Breakaway - Liam Ball 29 Wordly Search 30 The Executioner’s Song - Jason Winn 31 An Ode To Those Left Behind - Becky Croy 32 Pets Page 33 Me And My Kin - A Manifesto - Anna Bilbrough
list of musings about lists
Lists offer me a sense of security. They give me the illusion of being organised. If I have everything written down, it’s simply a matter of slowly crossing everything off until it’s all finished. Finish first draft of Literature essay by Wednesday.
Making the list is the easy part. It’s satisfying to compile all of my tasks in one place. It feels productive. But most of the time, the things that I have to do are things that I really don’t want to do. So, I end up skipping the boring parts to get to the easy ones, like doing the washing. To help fix this problem, I make myself a sub list of tasks pulled from my list of things that need to get done. It looks something like this: 1) Literature assignment due at the end of the week. The task that lines my stomach with dread.
2) Communication assignment due next month. The task that requires a lot of mental concentration but causes me significantly less stress. 3) Work 3 pm – 6 pm. An easy task that I add to my list because I want to feel productive after achieving the bare minimum.
4) Unit readings. All those annoying but relatively small tidbits of work that need to be done before my next Uni class.
Overall, I try to have no more than six items on my daily list, so I don’t get overwhelmed. If I finish them all, it’s been a good, productive day. And when I feel the tickle of a memory flexing inside my mind, I check on my other lists.
These are delightfully pointless. Namely, my list of fun things to do in Melbourne. I have it as a prompt to get me out of the house, but it rarely works. Trying to plan a day out around Uni, study and work is difficult, especially if you’re trying to organise someone to go with you. I don’t like to go places alone. I need someone there to help me direct my thoughts. When I’m on my own, I slip away into a secret room in my head.
I also have a lot of lists of films that I want to watch. I have a better chance of addressing these items than those on any of my other lists. I will always make time to see a film, read a book or listen to some music. Sometimes I even let them coax me out of my hiding place. I have these lists because I want to distract myself. Everyone has something circling around their minds that likes to surface at the most inconvenient times. I have memories that I can’t seem to stop replaying, even though when I do it feels like something in my chest gets dislodged. I tunnel back into that space, so I can pretend that certain parts of my life still exist, but a part of me acknowledges that I shouldn’t do that. Training your brain is difficult. I was never any good at meditation or mindfulness, no matter how much they pushed it on us at school. I turn to as many forms of distraction as I can. Of course, these thoughts always emerge once there’s nothing to keep them away. It’s difficult to hold those feelings within yourself and to know they are there, to accept them as being natural. It can be easier to cram one’s life with tasks, however meaningless or not, in order to stop them from thinking too much. But that does not mean that we should.
l g u i S q g es 8 and L NES Helayna Redmond-Ball
Can you remember when you were just a child A world full of colour, where your imagination ran wild. When every piece of paper felt unlimited in space You could choose any quirky colour, find your artistic grace. Pink elephants, blue monkeys, skies coloured green Colouring outside the lines, forever chasing dreams. Amazed by every squiggle, so different from the next Tell me why these memories now seem like childish mess. No longer do we colour, we must simply shade Every stroke in one direction, purposefully made. The lines become constricting, controlling how far weâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;ll go Chaos is unwanted, there is order to follow. The world is made of black and white, that fact is clear Seeing life in technicolour is practically a fear. Conformity is the solution, plan life to a T Do not follow crazy dreams invented at age three. Do you remember the last time you made a squiggle? Not because your pen ran out, but just to have a giggle. Why do we want to live our lives from inside the lines? When did we decide to follow these monotone confines? I beg of you to colour in any tone you please Why not fill the page with rainbow coloured trees? So hold tight to those technicolour dreams you left behind Squiggle your way out from inside those imprisoning lines. 5 Order.indd 5
T w i s t e d, like
Brianna Bullen We drift in blue-grid cyberspace, the latest innovation in cinema. Our bodies inside, our bodies outside the screen. Sex in the backrow among popcorn empty rows & robot ushers blind to ‘public etiquette.’ Seedy & seeded, sticky as Pepsi spills & Maltesers, melted. You tease me, flipping me into you until we’re a Möbius strip, stripped of clothes, metal sheens & oil slick obscene on show. My body into your mind, yours into mine, mine into my own. We feel our bodies through each other, neural nets & adrenaline pulsing. Borders dissolve. Aspirin in Coke. Enamel painted smile—your potty mouth—sluiced with slick words & stuttering splashes of silicone spit. Innocence is a corrupt glitch, but it virus-pops up when surprised, accompanied by widening eyes. The film ends abruptly. We digest the shock over dinner. The food will go through us in a system as sophisticated as a Baby Born. Eating always leaves me hungry & anxious. I ask you about the film: you can’t with Lacan, but you enjoyed the primordial tensions & mirroring in the black & white & gradient grey. Of the film— whose name turns on the t-t-tip of my tongue like a screw— or our bodies in the cinema? You plead the fifth but admit that loving a fellow tin can is narcissism. It’s all too much to process so I focus on your traffic light eyes. You stroke your straw & claim you taste its weight on your hand like a granule syrup kiss. You feel too much, know too little, & process nothing. I know the feeling hands & body & cunt mood ring synesthetic, feeling colour, emotion & song. You scrawl an algorithm to keep me happy— like a phone number on your serviette, gift-wrapped folded. The key code to your past, its sedimentary & sentimental layers. You promise no dead bodies, unfortunately not even a dinosaur although your artificial intelligence is ancient. I realise: you fear I will make you obsolete. 6 Order.indd 6
Alternative Arrangement - Darren Oâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;Hehir
7 08/10/2018 14:24:12
They apologised and, wonderfully enough, I could see they meant it in their eyes. Their roundness and softness astounded me and all at once I forgot about the coffee, the cold air outside and the dwindling dark behind my eyes. I said hello. Blue eyes bright, dark-haired beauty, their voice invited me into their forest—their soul. The trees upon the tender ground and emerald surroundings of what I saw encouraged my mouth to bend up, allowed my eyes to crinkle and my lungs to expand. Standing in the familiar cold I cherished the thawing feeling, the privilege, of being near them. I didn’t think I could feel the sun bloom in my chest again. I was wrong. ‘I’m sorry I mixed up our orders.’ Their voice was soft and comforting. ‘Are you okay?’ They took a small step closer and a breath got caught in my unforgiving chest. Kindness seemed strange to me now, it tugged on something inside my lungs that I had forgotten was there.
‘I’m fine.’ The right words didn’t come out. They sat, filling an emptiness in my eyes, my soul dried of its tears.
he coffee shop was half-filled with that humming of slow, sweet conversation between friends, lovers and brothers. The smell of roasting coffee beans warmed something in me that I had forgotten over my grey week—a week in which my depression had managed to sneak in. I hadn’t left the house for days upon days, but I knew it was time to leave. I needed to see if the outside air was enough to breathe a little deeper. On that pale day, the air was crisp upon my cheeks, but I’m glad my craving for caffeine had trudged me to this coffee shop on the corner. If it hadn’t, I would have been caught by the walls of my room, being a little too sad about life. And if I had not stood against the kinder walls of the coffee shop, I would never have met that person, in all of their colourful loveliness. They wouldn’t have picked up my cappuccino nor would I have picked up their latte with an extra sugar in it, and I might not have had to go running after them out the door of the shop.
I tapped them on the shoulder, still unaware of their beauty. I ran out of breath as I told them they had picked up the wrong order—the coffee in their gracious hands was meant for me. They smiled a smile that I hadn’t seen in a long time—a smile that I hadn’t experienced upon my face during a space of time that I would rather forget.
‘Only fine? You seem wonderful to me.’ Their mouth moved, but their eyes spoke.
‘Wonderful?’ believe them.
‘Exactly. There is wonder in your eyes.’ I felt the sun brush my lashes. ‘Don’t ever lose that,’ they said quietly and smiled again. ‘I’ll try not to.’ My cheeks warmed. ‘As long as you don’t lose your kindness.’
‘I promise,’ they whispered. ‘Take care of yourself, love, we all need to take a little more care.’ And in that evanescent moment, I smiled too.
Our gorgeously insignificant conversation warmed the cool pavement beneath our feet. The coffee, which had been handed back to me as I handed over theirs, warmed both of our hands. I tried to ignore the slight tingling in my fingers as their touch lingered, leaving with it an air of everlasting endearment. They smiled for the last time and began to walk away in serenity, while I was still smiling for the first. They turned around a final time. The sun was warmer than ever. There is a kindness within quiet moments that is irreversible. A connection that stood in time for barely enough time at all. A touch that scarred me in the most beautiful way. This divine soul will be permanently drawn in my mind, even though the pencil was blunt— so perfectly outside the lines. I will never see them again. Every time I order a cappuccino, now with an extra sugar, I will think of their sweetness.
On the Seventh Day , She Rested Lori Franklin
od sat on a simple velvet cushion, atop a plain wooden chair. She had just woken up. Clouds swirled across the inverted sky of the throne room, rolling in real time with the world down below. Winding a long strand of luminescent silvery hair around her elegant finger, God sighed deeply. It was a lament born out of millennia of frustration. She yawned, stretching her stiff neck; even God needed a break once in a while.
Having taken a nap, she had awoken to find her Earth literally and figuratively falling apart beneath her. Everywhere she looked, it was chaos. Glaciers melting, people starving and bodies piling up. She could barely see through the smog in some patches. The sounds of suffering rang in her ears, making her heart ache. She looked up as Michael fluttered in on his oversized pearly wings, a clipboard in one hand.
‘Oh. You’re awake!’ he exclaimed, his pen clattering to the floor. ‘Yes,’ she said. ‘But, what is going on?’ She beckoned him over and waved at the scenes below, her robes flapping.
‘Ah. Yes, well, I can’t lie to you. We’ve just been having a few issues while you were aslee—I, ah ... mean, away.’ Michael twitched nervously.
‘I rest my eyes for five minutes, and in the blink of a few thousand years you just let them burn it all down, is that right?’ God gestured wildly. ‘Well, honestly, putting out fires has been a large part of the job. Make it rain over here, stop people from Order.indd 9
killing each other over there. It’s exhausting trying to be everywhere at once!’
‘I know, Michael. Why do you think I need to nap so much?’
God sighed. She loved her children, even the annoying ones, but they could really be a headache at times. Did they have to be so vicious and cruel? Couldn’t they just have nice things? ‘So, what are we going to do?’
Michael’s cheeks grew pink as he spluttered, ‘Well, I did try some strategies, but it seems to have caused more trouble than it helped.’ God rolled her eyes. ‘What did you do?’
‘Remember when you put on that really low voice to talk to Moses on the hill, and he thought you were a man?’
God remained silent, her perfect eyebrows raised.
Michael continued, ‘We never actually corrected that assumption, so I decided to just roll with it, and I sent one of the other angels down to try and get a bit of leverage with your name.’ ‘What? Who did you send?’ ‘Jesus.’
‘You sent Jesus down to Earth, to pretend to be my son, is that what you’re saying?’
Michael nodded. Just for a millisecond, she entertained the idea of ripping his wings off. She refrained. ‘How bad is it?’ she asked.
‘Pretty bad,’ Michael admitted.
Her eyes drilled into the archangel. Beads of sweat shimmered on his wing feathers. ‘Well, at the time Jesus seemed to have done a lot of good. We did the whole ‘sacrifice’ gig and they really ate it up. Cried when they put him on the stake and everything.’ ‘They staked him?!’ God interjected.
‘I mean, yes but only for a minute. It was fine, really. Hardly any blood, just a few nails. Well ... and a spear.’ He ignored God’s fiery expression and hurried on, ‘But anyway, it worked! Except after a while they started to distort the facts and well, basically now it’s worse than ever. They keep inventing new ways to mutilate each other. Don’t even ask me about the nuclear fallout.’ ‘Okay, well let’s schedule a plague.’
‘The remaining population is already starving.’ ‘A flood then.’
‘The poles have almost fully melted; sea levels are up fifteen percent already.’ ‘Well, what then?’ God snapped.
Michael finally looked her in the eyes. He shook his head.
‘Oh.’ She slumped in her chair. ‘I don’t want to start again from scratch so soon! Are you sure?’ ‘The planet is in stage four decline.’ Michael said softly.
God sighed. What a disaster, such a waste. How tiresome. She would need another nap after this for sure. She stood, surveying the world below, robes swirling menacingly. ‘Summon the horsemen.’
9 08/10/2018 14:24:13
10 TEN 101010
Mid-way through his inspection, Edward’s superior, Glendon, approached him. In a soft voice he asked Edward what he was doing. The sound of his beard bristling as he spoke, and his repeated attempts to swallow his excess saliva, irritated Edward. Edward tried to explain himself, but Glendon simply waved him back to his cubicle.
A. J. Charles
Edward sat at his desk in the tenth cubicle on the tenth
floor of 1010 Willoughby Street and ate the ten raisins he had packed for his ten-minute break at 10 o’clock. As always, his desk was in impeccable order. Ten pencils, all exactly ten centimetres long, in a perfect line along the sidewall, with ten pieces of blank paper held together with a bulldog clip. He sat and was happy as everything was right. He stood and walked to the bathroom, where, when finished, he scrubbed each hand ten times before using the hand dryer for ten seconds. Today was a good day as everything was right; everything was in order.
He returned to his desk, and what he found could have made his blood boil in his veins. One of his ten pencils, normally lined against the sidewall, sat centrally on his desk with paper strewn beneath it. The lead of the pencil had broken and sat at a near ninety-degree angle to the shaft. With the break in the lead the pencil could not be ten centimetres long, and as such was useless. With his good mood now soured, Edward sat at his desk and began to return everything to the way it should be. He brought a new pencil out of the drawer of his desk and began sharpening it down to ten centimetres. When finished he inspected the paper remaining on his desk— only nine pages. Eight if you discount the one with ugly grooves impressed in it by the trespasser’s scribbling. Discarding the remainder of the pile of pages, Edward retrieved more from his desk drawer. Once all was back as it should be on his desk, he began to look around the other cubicles.
At ten-past one Edward broke from the small amount of work that he had done to eat his lunch. He unpacked his two sandwiches, each cut into five strips, as if toast soldiers, and surveyed his colleagues’ desks from where he sat. Finally, he noticed something out of the ordinary at Jeremy’s desk, diagonally adjacent to his own: a piece of paper with a hurriedly scrawled message on it in pencil, yet no stationary at Jeremy’s desk.
Edward waited. The others in his office took lunch in the break room while Edward remained at his desk. Jeremy was the last to arrive back to his cubicle, a spot of tomato sauce still on his shirt. Edward stalked across the way to Jeremy’s cubicle to confront him. As he stood in the entrance, Jeremy refused to even acknowledge him. It was only after Edward had knocked repeatedly on the sidewall that Jeremy looked up. Edward asked him if he had been the one to use his stationary and Jeremy rejected the claim.
Edward stewed in his anger at Jeremy for the remainder of the day, as he knew without doubt that it had been he who had disrupted his desk. ***
Edward sat at his desk in the tenth cubicle on the tenth floor of 1010 Willoughby Street and ate the ten raisins he had packed for his ten-minute break at 10 o’clock. What was not ordinary about this day was Jeremy’s absence. Though he was rarely on time, he rarely missed an entire day. There was chatter amongst the cubicles with the arrival of two police officers, exiting the elevator and walking to Glendon’s office at the end of the room. The police officers announced that they had found Jeremy dead that morning in his apartment. He had sustained multiple knife wounds, leading to his bleeding out. There were ten wounds in total, each ten centimetres long, and perfectly straight. Everything was right; everything was in order.
This artwork explores the connection between music and art and is a visual representation of a piece of music composed by Bach, titled ‘Invention No.1’. Each colour represents a different musical note and the rhythm is indicated by the length of its shape. Because sheet music is read left to right and top to bottom, the order of the painted colours also follows the same structure. The resulting display of colours reflect Bach’s compositional choices for this piece of music.
Invention No. 1 in C Major (Bach) - Darren O’Hehir
11 08/10/2018 14:24:14
The Order of the
n many ways, masculinity is much like an order. There appears only two ways of performing masculinity in Western society: the traditional way, and the wrong way. What is this traditional way of being a man? What behaviours are supported, and what would society rather not see? The stringent norms of the traditional way are overseen by society as a whole, and values are enforced through media. This is what I call ‘the order’. Should you practise the wrong way, the order will put you down, shame you, and ‘other’ you until you are fixed. I am an example of a regular rule-breaker and have thus been punished in many ways for my expressions of masculinity.
12 Order.indd 12
Indoctrination begins from a very young age: that’s how they get you to think it’s normal. My early
schooling years were where many of my offences were first recognised. My lack of athletic ability and general attitude towards sports were the biggest ones. Being unfit and never at peak health for my age, sports were always difficult for me to participate in. The order, however, could not allow for me to simply sit out of mandatory physical education classes. The gruff, burly teachers pushed me into every rope climb, ball game, and lap around the oval. The constant stuff-ups and visible discomfort were not enough for them to see I didn’t want to be there, that it made me feel small. These instances culminated in a reputation that the order punished me for. I was treated as lesser than my other classmates, and not just in PE class. The other young boys were all sporty in their own way: they were textbook cases of the kinds of young 08/10/2018 14:24:14
men the order desired. If they weren’t preaching how athletic they were themselves, they were talking about sport. The school would organise for football players to visit and I would have to pretend to be excited about their presence. Sometimes, even my friends got caught up in the distractions. The order made sure that I felt alone because I preferred to watch cartoons and write, instead of devoting my attention to sports. Which leads me to expression of emotion. The order’s idea of a man is one that is emotionally unavailable, to the point where all feelings are bottled up and expressed through violence. I however, chose to express my emotions clear as day, as my tear ducts naturally reacted to intense situations. Time after time, I would get overwhelmed in social situations, in class and during mandatory sport, and more often than not it would end with me sitting to the side and crying. I could feel all the judging stares and murmurs about how weak I looked. You can imagine how much better that made me feel, especially after I earned another delightful reputation as the boy that cried all the time. Of course, that is a title I wear and admit nowadays, but back when I was afraid of the order and what it would do to my social standing, I was most afraid of this label. Not that it stopped me from crying in public; if anything, it made me cry more.
went with it, because I did like girls. However, every time thoughts of liking boys came to my head, it was I who pushed them aside. Perhaps twelve-year-old me couldn’t bear to have another reason for the order to push me to the outskirts. Maybe I wasn’t sure how my friends would feel being around me knowing I was bisexual and might be attracted to them. Or, most likely, the order never properly educated me about any sexualities other than ‘straight’ because, as I said, the order does not want to see men kissing each other. Heterosexuality is what keeps the order going and is one main way that successful masculinity is measured. My consistent rule-breaking has led to a myriad of issues, even today. Even though the friends that promote my rebellion against the order have become louder in my life, I can still feel the order’s presence. I’m tired of being told to be someone I’m not. What would my childhood have been like had my performance of gender been seen as just as valid as the ‘sporty kids’? These days, I’m sure the knowledge that I have an affinity for two genders gives the order hope that they can ‘iron the gay’ out of me. To that I say, don’t count on it, sweeties. I know the way I love is valid and it is the way I feel best about myself.
I fully believe that every Because where crying was expression of masculinity is supposed to be a release of the heavy emotions, it valid, so long as it isn’t being used to harm anyone. became a mark of shame But the order must be dismantled. Every version of ‘man’ and only left me feeling has to be equally respected and cared for. I have found worse than I did before. myself becoming great friends with all different types of
I could tell that even my friends felt they had to tread lightly around me for fear of upsetting me. The order was clever in shaming my method of expressing emotion, as—finding that crying was making things worse—a terrible temper manifested in me, leading to violent outbursts. That was just the kind of expression the order wanted to see and encouraged in me. Thankfully, things got better, and my temper cooled, but it is undeniable that it created lasting damage to the way I express hard feelings. Nowadays, I continue my crying, especially in movies and cartoons. What the underlings of the order I encountered in primary school would think of me now, I care very little. Sexuality is an interesting one. Growing up, I didn’t realise it, but I was being pressured to only like girls. What I later realised is that the order fears the prospect of men wanting to kiss other men, and promotes the desire of wanting women, and only women. I always Order.indd 13
men that perform masculinity in their own unique ways.
The next generation has to grow up knowing that they are valid, even if they don’t express their gender the way that is ‘traditional’.
They should be able grow up without expectation and constraint, because no one should have to fight to be themselves.
I will not keep my voice silent any longer. I am an emotional, bisexual man that loves cartoons and couldn’t give a flying kipper about what is going on in the world of sports. If my mere presence in this world makes the order tremble, good.
this will be home Aaron Purton
sits cross-legged in front of the pantry. It’s bare—just the basics for some home-cooked meals to break up the pizza and fish ‘n’ chips we’ll indulge in until we’re properly settled. It’s wild—I’m used to moving about, but always with Dad. Not, ya know, my freaking boyfriend. I’m twenty, a year older, but I feel like the Dad in this relationship. It still feels like we rented out the place for a week’s holiday by the beach, not the proper deal. Everything’s so damn plain. Cereal is uber important. No seriously, first thing Aiden picked up when we went shopping this morning was cereal: Corn Flakes, porridge, and Rice Krispies. As the budget’s thin, I convinced him to settle on three. It’s an odd number, so he won’t freak.
‘Hey, downer,’ I say, falling to the tiles beside him. He looks up, frowning. ‘Cause, you know, you’re down and not u—Never mind.’ ‘Something’s not right,’ he murmurs. I feel my face fall. It never is. ‘You wanted five, didn’t you? I’m sorry, it’s cause—’
‘No. It’s not that. It’s not the … ’ he sighs, ‘Not the cereal. That’s great. You’re great.’ Wasn’t much enthusiasm there, mate. I kiss him, but I can tell he doesn’t feel it. I take his hand in between mine when the pot hisses and bubbles behind me. Then the smoke alarm goes off. Again.
‘Crap!’ I exclaim, scrambling to my feet. I scoop up a tea towel and fan at the wailing device. As soon as the beeping zips it, I open the back door, letting the frosty night air in. Aiden appears behind me, jacket zipped right up to his chin, arms tucked in his armpits, frowning. ‘Did you need any help?’
‘No. Let me handle this. I’m just—just getting the hang of this, babe.’ ‘I know.’
Aiden slips out the room like a shadow. I take one fleeting glance at the frothing pot and turn down the knob a tad. Spaghetti can wait. ***
Aiden is enveloped in his own fortress of pillows, and I can just make out his face. His hood is wrapped so tight only his eyes and nose are visible. I smile, diving onto the top, and he groans. I wait a few seconds, and then I hear it. He’s … he’s crying.
‘Crap, I’m sorry, Ai …’ I say, throwing pillows left and right as I carve a path to him. He starts to wrestle one from me and I let go. ‘I needed that,’ he sobs, ‘I had seven pillows. Seven!’ ‘I—I’ll go.’
‘Don’t.’ His chest slumps. ‘Ignore me.’
I pause by the doorway. I love Aiden. Love him to bits. But sometimes I forget just how sensitive he is, closer to twelve than nineteen. I sigh, running a hand through my frantic hair. Day two is … It sucks.
I just gotta hope he still loves me by the end of the week. It’s dramatic-as-hell, I know. I don’t care. It’s just the truth. Aiden’s the dreamer—the one going places. I get the strong feeling I’m eating dinner alone tonight. ***
I find Aiden in the same spot the next morning. Same furrowed brow. But this isn’t just about the cereal.
‘Morning, Ai,’ I say, slapping my hands down on his shoulders, ‘sleep well?’ I didn’t. The pillows were gone, but it felt like there was an invisible line of them between us anyway. He grunts.
‘Need me to drive you to Uni tomorrow?’ I say, opening the fridge. It’s only slightly less abysmal than the pantry.
Aiden’s Uni is ten minutes down the road, but I’ve been driving him there every day until this company gets back to me about my apprenticeship. Between my current job, stressing over this mechanic apprenticeship, and keeping Aiden—and this apartment—afloat, I’m stretched real thin. I don’t even get a grunt this time. I let out a long stream of air.
‘Alright, come here.’ I wrap my hands under his armpits and lift. He grumbles and kicks his legs out but doesn’t put up much of a fight. I drag him over to the bean bag in the lounge, which serves as a couch. He folds his arms and I sit before him, taking his hand. He doesn’t wrench it free, thankfully. ‘Hey,’ I coo, ‘hey, come on. You need to tell me what’s up. I can’t help you if—’ ‘Just forget it.’
Aiden is … Well, he’s always taken a bit more effort than others, but I used to like that about him. Now …
‘It’s not the cereal,’ I say, ‘it’s this place, isn’t it?’ He’s giving away nothing. ‘You miss your mum and Dad?’ He shrugs.
‘I can’t promise you that feeling’s ever gonna go away. I don’t even know what that feels like, belonging to one
place, ya know. Longest I’ve crashed somewhere? This flat in Adelaide with Dad, until he found a different contractor up in Sydney. That was a month. A month. I want you to be happy here, with me … I want—’ ‘I know,’ he breathes, ‘it’s not you, I swear. It’s … I don’t know. Everything’s so new … Everything is really … ’ ‘Overwhelming?’
‘My brain’s trying really hard to process it all.’
‘That’s okay.’ I reach over and grab the Rice Krispies, moving them to the left of the Corn Flakes. Aiden absently pulls it back into place. I smile. ‘It’ll get better. Just talk to me.’ Aiden buries his head in between his knees and I reach out to touch the back of his head, but I stop myself. ‘You having those nasty thoughts again?’
‘I keep … ’ he swallows, ‘I get afraid you forgot to turn the stove off and the place burned down, or—or you take the steps too fast and—’ ‘Aiden, you can’t control that. I know me saying that won’t be much help, but you need to hear me say it anyway. I’ll be alright. You will be alright.’
My awkward little bundle of nerves unfurls himself and wraps his arms around me, clinging on for dear life.
‘You know,’ I say, breathing into his ear, ‘I was thinking we need toilet paper and dinner for tonight. Your choice.’ ‘Okay. But I put the toilet rolls on.’
‘Course. Over the top—I know your style.’
I try and uncurl his arms from my neck—to no use. Huffing, I stand. With his bony frame it’s like lifting a chimpanzee. I steer us towards the front door and work around him, slipping my shoes on. He eventually does let go, and we’re out of the house, Aiden double-checking I locked the door. Then triple. In the car, radio volume’s at fifteen—even if it’s a song he loves. ‘This will be home,’ I say as we pull out onto the road. ‘I just need you to give it time.’ ‘You were patient with me. I can be patient, too. It’s got you in it, so as far as I’m concerned, it’s already home.’ Why did I even worry for a second? ‘We’re gonna be alright.’ ‘I know.’
And this time, I believe it when he says it.
15 08/10/2018 14:24:15
16 Order.indd 16
Damaged is Beautiful - Tristan Urriola
My bedroom is a chaotic and disorganised mess.
There is clutter all along the floor, discarded clothes from days that I don’t remember. Sweaters with various stains, jeans with inner thigh rips where my thick thighs have caused the fabric to part like Moses did the red sea. Books stacked in piles on any surface that can hold them: the vintage-style bedside table, my Ikea desk, shelves that were supposed to be used for school paperwork or perfume. Make-up stacked on top of each other in a mismatched way. My bed isn’t made, the fartoo-expensive emerald-green velvet quilt set is tangled up in a mess of itself. I can’t even remember the last time I straightened the doona out inside of it let alone actually made my bed. But that’s the thing, I can’t remember. There isn’t enough mental space in my head to be able to organise my room. Organise my car. Organise my life. An ever-present cloud of panic disorder and clinical depression, a mix of elements that leaves me feeling some kind of way; and I’ve been living with this for almost a decade. A mix of a racing heart and the constant need to sleep. The feeling of paranoia, a tight chest, constantly craving the adoration and attention of everyone I hold dearly but can’t bring myself to care enough to earn it because hey, we’re all going to die, right?
I’m tired even though I haven’t done anything, but God forbid I sleep. If I sleep there goes at least six hours. That’s productive time, kid. I could be clocked into something for those hours. No wonder I’m a failure when I’m sleeping all the time.
When I’m fine, I’m fine. My room is barely organised, a chaotic mess nevertheless, but I know where everything is. The books sitting haphazardly on the shelves, makeup palettes organised in order of size, brushes in their baby-pink Kmart jar. Clothes are hung, and folded; dirty underwear tossed into the wash. My bed looks like something ripped from Pinterest. Fairy lights cast shadows along the grey walls. The vase of wilting flowers is no longer; they’ve been replaced, a new scent Order.indd 17
filling the room and the old ones turned out to mulch.
The reality of my life is that that’s an extremely rare occasion. My name has never been synonymous with organisation, with cleanliness, with a room that has everything tucked into compartments. Ask anyone in my family and the phrase:
‘Oh, I cleaned my room,’ has always been met with snorts of laughter and a ‘That’ll last a day’.
My room has always been the external representation of me, a chaotic maze of thought. An op-shop sourced, Soviet Russian hat that makes me want to call everyone ‘comrade’ hangs beside a shrine to Doris Day’s 1950s masterpiece Calamity Jane. A painting of a pig, next to a poster of The Evil Dead, next to polaroids arranged in the form of a heart, next to a hanging fabric wall that holds an amalgamation of unpaid bills and parking tickets from when my life is in such disarray that moving my car from the two-hour spot in front of the office building I barely make it to in time to clock-in for work becomes the last thing to clock into my head. Instead it’s call, after call, after call, until ‘Hi! Thank you for waiting, what can I do for you?’ drags out and I start sounding like Mr Incredible in his tiny office cubicle. I don’t know how to create order. It took me years to realise that the mess I live in isn’t just my room, or my car. I live in a mess of depression, of panic disorder and, to be honest, a few other things that spring to fruition every few months: eating disorders, insomnia, depersonalisation, things that I don’t want to face let alone clean. Things turn to a blur and sometimes I struggle to peel myself from bed. So, it sits that way, for days. Weeks. Months. Unmade, uncared for, unloved.
When the depression and the disassociation mix together in this weird melting pot, it doesn’t take long to realise that the bed is only there because it has to be. Nothing has a purpose anymore. And I realise, that’s what I think everyone feels about me. And the walls don’t crumble, they rise.
: O D R W [A machine eeks out the docket:]
‘One order of Creativity. Light Puns, no innuendos. With just a sprinkling of typos, for customer 18.’ ‘I asked for this to-go.’
‘Pardon me, let’s see … To-go or not to-go, our manager never knows. If you would but wait, we’ll discount the rate, and give you words to blow your palate.’
‘—Order 19. A poem. Iambic free. Easy on the social comment. Slam style. A pinch of salt.’ ‘He-hem—!
—Did you know that the world is unfair? Scribes lack flare, and pizazz is a buzz kill if you’re unskilled. Or pun-filled. Unlike a creamy one-liner these poets are designer—all brand name and about fame and thrills. Oh, woe is me. Oh, this world isn’t free. It just is—n’t my business to get all up in this. But wait here. If it’s still relevant and hot to a tee. Off this misery for Slam tens for victory—you can all sign my brazen behind, Sugar!’ ‘Yes, that’s mine! I’m surprised.’ ‘Surprised?’
‘No one makes poetry like this anymore.’
‘Order 18, we thank you for waiting.’ ‘To-go?’
‘It is so—!
—Please absconed with this treat. May the weather not bite nor bleat—at you. As you go through you’re day, in sunshine or reign, dear. Just remember who’s queen. That’s you in the front seat. A gift to the masses, whom stare at your assets. Yes, do not look so sheepish—you may grant all their woollen whispers. It’s you who is shaving the way.’ ‘So, touching! Hooray! I thank you and good day.’
‘No, false alarm! Thought I had something … but nay! I’m sorry, Dear Customer …
Little Miss Muffet appears to have stuffed it, While looking for the right words to say. She thought something inspired Had sat down beside her
… Only to realise she was caught in the web.’ ‘You’re pardoned.’
‘… No one made poetry like that ever …’
‘—Order for table 9. An entrée of flash fiction, sublimesubtext, choose your own ending.’
‘—There was an order 15.
‘So, it begins—!
—The request, a limerick, it would seem. But with no smut and no sex It seems quite perplex
To order a limerick, I mean.’
—A girl and a wolf. And a wolf and a dog. Run forest trails, they sniff and chase tails. The girl’s name is Angie, the wolf is called Wolf. The dog has a collar inscribed with an A. The forest was law. But its only law was: Live. So, the love of the doggirlandwolf was permitted to exist. 1. Their children were litter-ally unending. 2. This is a true story, my bro.
3. They are the latest Nootflix sensation. The 101 Mutts Altercation.’ 08/10/2018 14:24:17
R D E R
‘—Order 20, a Word of the Day, to takeaway.’ ‘Your word then—! —Reticent:
1) inclined to be silent or uncommunicative in speech.
2) restrained in expression, presentation, or appearance. 3) reluctant.’ ‘… Um.’
‘Oh, hello! Number 20? Is this yours?’ ‘… Yes.’
‘There you are. Have a good day, enjoy your word.’ ‘… Okay.’
‘Tch! Some people.’
‘—Order for table 7. A haiku for a friend someone wants not to be friends with anymore.’ ‘From the lady who just left—! —Dear friend of mine. Hi.
Just wanted to let you know. You’re a bitch. Peace out.’ ‘…’
‘Oh no! No. Please, don’t throw the ink pot miss. No! Not the sticky notes! Don’t touch the whiteout!’
‘Order for—! Oh, no. You must go to the back of this queue before I can serve you. Sir.’
‘Yes! Yes! For booth 3, a short story. They requested, let’s see … Half-n-half genres. Ugh! Vampires and Erotica. Are we licenced for this trash? It’s not even twelve o’clock yet. Very well. Very well. He-hem—!
—It was an indubitably angsty teen that one day stumbled upon the old-style ad in the paper. Blood donations wanted, paid in sexual favours. No, it’s not too good to be true. Feel good morally and physically. Satisfy us and we satisfy you. A picture of a sparkling, pristine model writhing in ecstasy, the intravenous needle relieving them of blood; taunts our protagonist from the page. They slowly reach in *!#@ ... &%!!! NOPE! CENSORED. CENSORED. CENSORED.
This story is not for public viewing. To order your own story today just contact our personal writer, Madame Sir Ink’Salot, on: 04 XXX XX98. Or by email: firstname.lastname@example.org.’
‘—Order for a certain Professor of Words. A Wordy’s definition: Words Tailored to Order. Ordained. Orderstentatious. Orderly. Orderbly. Odorable. Odder for you! Order in the courteous way! Order-mnivious. ExtraOrdernarily.’ ‘The definition—!
—Order, to me, is as marvellous a fairy-tale as one can ever tell. The precision, the structure is! Myth. A beautiful myth that we wrap about ourselves to keep out the chaos—the winds of the world. That buffet and broil, Tumultuous and wild. Order is! Our understanding of the wild, ferocious things. The placid snapshot, we modify till it sings a coddling song in a tongue that doesn’t ache for us to speak. In tune—not truth. But, aesthetically symmetrical next to our desires. Order is! The most wonderful lie, the world tells itself to exist.
It’s—reeling off an order for a hot beverage and, after providing payment, knowing in a few minutes, it will be upon your lips.’
‘—Order 21. A cliff-hanger and …’
e l t i t r e t t e b a h ’ t i w p u I ll come r e t a l s i h t r fo Tim Same
Let’s go for a walk
I feel sick
Let’s read an instruction manual
My life lacks direction
I need brunch
Build a LEGO car
Moar avocadoes, coffee and brunch! I’m going to change it
Admire my face for a bit
Turn this shit around
A Bit After Brunch
I need more brunch
3 Past MOOO
Multiple cat videos
Wasn’t I meant to do something today?
MAKE SOME SICK HOTTAKES Did Mack LeCrack Break His Leg? Oh shit—he broke his leg
I need coffee
Toilet WATERLOO! An Evening Not 4:20 Ooooooohhhh GHOSTS?
This shakes up the footy this weekend Watch news—regret immediately ALL MY FRIENDS MUST KNOW Look at Twitter—regret faster Not a lot of my friends wanna know Invest in avocado housing bub- Let’s watch superheroes ble Play one move of chess every Critique the realism of their three minutes movies Practice elbow drops on my Do some burpies pillows Treat yoself—cheese platter I’m ready for a nap
20 Order.indd 20
A week planner based exploration of planning for inevitable procrastination wednesday
Be Politically Active
Do a Goal I Didn’t do Earlier
Fuck, when’s this game gonna come I’m so bored I might do something good Eat BEST SANDWICH EVER
There’s a new game out?
This winter morning’s too hot
Are there Fascists?
What WOULD my superpowers be? I have spare time to draw this on a board Conclusion—INVENTORY WHEEL How don’t I have a significant other? I haven’t had meals yet
I JUST SAW A FLUFFY DOGGO I want a cloud as a pet
Isn’t my ‘Potato Culture’ essay due? Scramble to nearest library Get distracted by loud people Leave library, having accomplished nothin’ Sit on my ‘Comfort Beanbag’
… or memes …
‘Why not both?’
Oh yeah, I still have parents
(celebratory mariachi music)
Oh yeah, they’re still weird to me Is it bad I still haven’t had food today? What did I do to them? Footy’s on soon! Watch inspirational wrestling promos ‘ … COS STONE COLD SAID SO!’ I should perfect my dabs!!
Fooooooottttyyyyy CARN THE GENERIC FOOTY TEAM!!!! Farkin LeCrack shouldn’t be here Why do LeCrack/I even bother? Why can’t the world be just and right? Why do I know so much about so little? That potato essay’s two weeks late now Footy was crap I ‘spose
‘The house is on fire!’
What’s on for the weekend?
‘No mother, it’s just the Northern Lights’ That meme never gets old
Have I forgotten anything? What was I going to write here?
21 Order.indd 21
22 Order.indd 22
Serenity - Venetia Slarke
She starts on the next blanket.
She folds the blanket.
Top to bottom.
Top to bottom.
Left to right.
Left to right. She folds the blanket.
She folds the blanket.
She flattens it with her skinny hand, pressing gently, then applying pressure as she slides her hand off it. She takes in the moment, like the many before, and the many to come. She places the folded blanket on the top of a meticulous pile of other folded blankets—small, baby blankets.
Her cries woke him in the dead of the night. His heart raced as he saw her blood manifesting across their sheets. He called an ambulance, as she commanded, and raced to find some towels, or some water, or some anything. He found himself in the mirror, pale as anything, needing water himself.
Her husband watches from the doorway. He had laboured day and night to finish the room she occupies. He had spent a particularly long time choosing the paint colour. He felt pink was too cliché, but he was so thrilled about his daughter that he seriously considered it. In the end, he chose a soft lilac—he knew his wife’s weakness for purple hues.
The room was his brain child, his terrible sketching come to life, his nails rubbed raw to his skin. He wanted to be involved, the way her father wasn’t. He didn’t want her to worry, to feel she had to put her child through the same trauma. He wanted to show her, to prove what she already knew—he was ready to be a parent. She was confused when he had finished the nursery. She felt as if she never witnessed the renovation. Before, it was a guest room without any guests. It had always been just the two of them.
She often spoke of having many children, like her mother did. She wanted children bustling through the hallway, yelling at each other, pulling hair and kicking chins. She wanted to teach them how to drive, and how to cook scones. He wanted what she wanted.
The nurses swerved and dodged with her bed and didn’t tell him anything, except wait outside. So, he waited, and every ill thought consumed him. Then those ill thoughts became hope, but only for a fleeting second. A doctor came from behind the doors. He’s very sorry, he said.
She didn’t speak for a month. Her silent battle a faraway experience for him. He began working overtime to cover the mortgage. She sat in the nursery, staring at the lilac wall. He no longer felt pride when looking at the room— only a lonely emptiness, similar to what he felt when his parents died. Over time she got better—bit by bit, slow steps, deep breaths. She talks now, but rarely. She has developed a habit for folding the baby blankets they had. Some were gifted by talented knitters and sewers, others they had bought even when he told her no more. She had an order to her chaos. Fold them all and stack them in a neat pile, then unfold them all, smoothing out every little kink that may ruin the process. He gave up on trying to help her, and secretly had a habit of his own. He slipped out into his tool shed to work on a tiny bike, a fast, little machine he had sketched in his mind’s eye and brought to life. His final addition—a pair of lilac training wheels. This was a gift to who could have been. His proudest creation.
No Soy Marinated Chicken Wings Ingredients 3/4 cup coconut aminos 1/2 cup apple cider vinegar 1 teaspoon minced garlic 1 teaspoon minced ginger 1 tablespoon honey 2kg chicken wings Method
1. Measure out the coconut aminos and apple cider vinegar. Pour both liquids into a mixing bowl. 2. Add garlic, ginger and honey to the liquid.
his recipe is inspired by the marinade recipe Mum used often when we were kids—she can’t remember where she learnt it, and I have never known it from anywhere other than her small red recipe folder. As kids, Mum would cook us a special meal on our birthday, and we got to choose what food we most wanted. My favourite meal was marinated chicken wings, and I requested this as my birthday dinner for many years. Over the last handful of years, Mum and I have been exploring solutions for a range of illnesses that I have battled throughout my life. That was how I discovered the Autoimmune Protocol (AIP) framework, and began the journey of changing my lifestyle to manage multiple autoimmune diseases, including asthma and rheumatoid arthritis. Diet plays a big part in AIP. The first stage of the diet eliminates a lot of food that is known to irritate the gut and give it a chance to heal. That means that many staple pantry items—like soy sauce and red wine—are not recommended during that stage. We discovered that I don’t tolerate soy—which meant no more marinades. Or so I thought. A couple of years ago our local health food shop started stocking coconut aminos—a soy sauce alternative. I worked up the courage to experiment with Mum’s recipe, and rediscovered my love for marinated chicken wings. You wouldn’t expect it, but apple cider vinegar makes a great substitute for red wine, and also means the recipe is suitable for the elimination stage of AIP. Changing our lifestyle can sometimes feel like all the yummy food is out of reach. For those of us that feel like we’re missing out, or even those who like trying something new, this one is for you!
24 Order.indd 24
3. Using a fork or a whisk, stir mixture until most of the honey has dissolved. This can take a few minutes. Then set bowl aside.
4. Using a sharp knife or meat cleaver, remove the wing tips and discard (or save them to make chicken stock later). Then, separate the drumette from the mid-joint. Alternatively, save yourself some time and buy your chicken wings pre-cut.
5. Place chicken wings in a marinating container or large zip-lock bag, pour marinade over chicken and seal container/bag. 6. Shake container/bag to coat chicken in marinade.
7. Put marinated chicken into fridge and allow to marinate for up to 12 hours.
8. When ready to cook, preheat oven to 200C / 400F —if using a fan forced oven, heat to 180C / 375F. 9. Grease baking trays with a little olive oil—olive oil spray works well. 10. Place chicken wings in a single layer over as many trays as necessary—usually three. 11. Pour remaining marinade liquid evenly over wings.
12. Bake in the oven for 25–30 minutes, then carefully turn wings over.
13. Return to the oven and bake for a further 15–20 minutes. Wings should be a rich dark brown colour. 14. Remove from the oven, and allow to rest for 5 minutes.
Best enjoyed with good company for a relaxed meal in late winter—especially if followed with birthday cake.
Cleaning note: often the marinade caramelises to the baking tray. The best way to clean this is to sprinkle with bi-carb soda and fill tray with boiling water. Leave to soak for 30 minutes, then tip out water and scrape the remainder of the baked on marinade into the bin.
BE PA R T OF TH E EXPER IENC E & JOIN Enric h yo ur st ud en t e xp e rie nc e at De a k i n and be p ar t o f a f u n , inc l usive & sup p o rt i v e c o mmunity at DU S A. DUS A. OR G . AU
25 Order.indd 25
y father is a man of many constants and little to no variables—a machine mind and a human heart. He has a condition where the chaos in his life is sorted through a numerical order. He told me that when I was two years old, I had announced to him that he could not have a third child because two is a good number. He comforted me, he said he and my mother only wanted two children. That I was his second child so it was going to be okay. I was relieved, I then went on to tell him that I didn’t want to have my birthday that year or ever again, because I wanted to stay at two. Confused, he asked why so and I explained that if I turned three, I would cry. He tried to tell me that being three wasn’t so bad, but I still cried. He realised then that he had passed on his very same condition to me. When I first started going to school, the teachers always made us get into twos in our classes, which I thought was delightful. I mostly found the world overwhelming at that age, but I clung to moments like these that made perfect sense. However, my class had twentythree children and I was always left as the odd one out. I constantly came home from school crying, and my parents thought initially it was because I was never picked. But one day I told them between sobs that it was because I wasn’t a two. My mother thought I was just being a child throwing a tantrum over nothing important. But my father furrowed his brow and went silent, something he does when he feels guilty, after all, he would go on to tell me that he felt like it was his fault that I was born like this. So over the years that followed he taught me what he knew about his condition, that there were certain numbers that distressed him, but there were other ones that gave him peace. 26 Order.indd 26
He told me I had to learn to make the numbers work for me and if I could do that, then I would be okay, the number two was not going to be my jailer.
He tried to be the person that he did not have himself growing up, someone who could guide him through the absurdity and loneliness of the condition. As I got older, I came to understand the advice that my father gave to me that day. Now that I am an adult, I am much better at making the numbers work. I look for twos when I get anxious.
I have two hands, I have two best friends and I take two pills in the morning to cope.
I find it comforting that many people also like things to be in twos. Interestingly, everyone in my immediate family has a two in their birthdates, except me. Their birthdays get to be joyous whereas I end up just enduring mine. When my father catches me sulking about this, he reminds me to make the numbers work. So I end up comforting myself by saying my due date had the number two in it and my mother ruined it by getting a caesarean section before that particular date. It’s not her fault that numbers dictate my happiness in life. I was diagnosed with depression when I was 17 which I already knew I had, but now it would be on my medical record forever. This news upset my mother terribly, I remembered coming home to find large unpaid medical bills on the kitchen bench. She wasn’t sleeping and I hated that I was the cause of her distress. Shortly thereafter, the same doctor gave me a test for OCD. I knew if I answered honestly, that would then leave me with two mental illnesses, but I decided to not answer any of the test questions. This was because I hated hurting my mother more than I hated only one of my conditions being confirmed. I overheard my mother arguing with my father later after that appointment, she said that it was his fault that I was like this. My mother has both a human brain as well as a human heart. This is why we fought all the time growing up and still do. She can tolerate my father’s antics with numbers but mine just tip her over the edge. I don’t hold it against her.
People aren’t numbers, they are much more complicated.
My mother is actually a twin, she had been part of a two from the moment of her conception. I once asked her what it was like to have always been in a two, she sighed at me and said her twin annoyed her but it was also comforting to have always had someone. I also once asked her if my sibling died, would she have another child so that way she could still have two children like her and my father always wanted. She screamed at me, said she should have only ever had one child. My psychologist told me once that apparently, you are more likely to commit suicide if you have made an attempt on your life before. I disagreed, I told her I had tried to kill myself twice and therefore I couldn’t try again because I didn’t like the number three. I was actually safer now than I was with only one attempt. My psychologist frowned, said that’s not how the risk of suicide works. I said that’s not how I work. My father knew how I worked because he made me. He understands why I can never just ask someone how they are once, or why I had to get another tattoo immediately after I got my first. My psychologist asked what I would do if I was at risk again, I promised that I’d call my father if I got like that again. My friends say lately that I should find someone to be with, and say I’d be happier as a two than a one. I smile and tell them that I agree, but on the inside I know I must remain a one. This is because I feel that there are only two people in the world that are like me and when my father dies, there will just be one. I need to get used to being just a one for my own sake. Even if the thought of it makes me want to cry.
27 08/10/2018 14:24:39
28 Order.indd 28
Breakaway - Liam Ball
O L D Y R w sea r c h X F Y U S O U L S O F I N K C U B E R K
C U T A B O O G O T S P I R I T H L U J
A A R T I S T O S C R E A T I V E L B B
art article artist bunny candy chaos coffee contributor creative cube deakin dusa editor end game
A R T I C L E I H D A D D Y K F V Z I C
O F D S K E P T I C W R I T I N G U K O
C M Y P R O C R A S T I N A T I O N S N
T H I E F T Y E N D G A M E C D R V C T
P G A R T H E D Y B B U K B O X D X U R
A I F W W E V M U L A U N C H L E Y B I
R D A R W B Y A C H A O S L J F R S E B
A D L I F R P G M F T W T A M F E T A U
S D S T I E E A B C G O U D E T D U U T
I Z E E C A M Z U O N R D I A H I D L O
false light fiction got spirit kinky ladies in red launch lists magazine me and my kin myth order parasite poetry procrastination
T I L R T K Y I N F D D E E N I T E I R
E L I S I O T N N F E O N S D R O N S Z
M G G C O F H E Y E A R T I M D R T T Z
Y F H L N D T T K E K D L N Y E Z S S V
D I T U C A N D Y J I E Y R K Y I U X P
O N E B W W D D M A N R F E I E D U S A
V L G L O N C P O E T R Y D N K I N K Y
rubikâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s cube skeptic souls of ink #studentlyf students taboo the break of dawn the dybbuk box thief third eye word: order writers club writing
29 Order.indd 29
he Executioner’s Song Jason Winn
Your finger points towards the smoky horizon The soldiers bend to your will Following you without question
Bullets spray into soft flesh Newly christened orphans hide behind brittle stone walls Widowed mothers cradle the dead in maternal arms Fathers rejecting your cause become human shields Children not old enough to count lay under smouldering debris You spout more orders— With a tongue too sharp to leash Directing where the current of blood will flow next
It never matters Colour, gender or status— You never discriminate They all bleed the same Watering the grounds of your new empire If only the people followed you towards a brighter dawn
Your composition is complete Mad soldiers are the musicians With their instrumental weaponry Screams and cries of the guiltless are the audience And you, the executioner of thousands, are the conductor But who will listen to your discordant symphony— When there is no one left to satisfy your cruelty?
30 Order.indd 30
An Ode to Those Left Behind Becky Croy
The smell, like stockpile fire, as they shrieked through the night sky, Our Saviour left us waiting for a more glad sound. We cowered down into our resting place, by the contaminated river. Our Humanity had fled, raised on metal wings—we held each other tighter, I could not stress enough, the pressure of love— In such an Unholy place.
Frostbitten fingers left me for dead— Severed breaths and severed minutes lingered through the strained valley. Many held their breaths for his return—through his good-judgment. My empty arms reached for the departed, knowing there is now, a distant hope.
We forgot his face—he set us up, before guzzling down his nuclear soup. The man who built walls, the man of the hour— Left us sterile and deserted as we wept and cowered— The sour taste of abandonment filled the chemical air, rebirth in the Promised Land amid the frozen stars. Maybe one day I’ll join my Father— But no mortal ship can bring me peace. He is gone now. I don’t mind, he hated this place. Sent off to the world of tomorrow—in the dancing spiral of the northern galaxy. This is cactus land, dead with the dogs, We lie under the burning wilderness of fantastic beasts and cancerous skies— With my eyes, I can see the distortion of faint light in the darkness. I know they are safe. This is our Sacrifice, to live within the chaos. Back to the dust, with radiation shrouds and crumbling tombs, To the departed—we sing our nuclear Hymns. To the Saviour that made us, The Salvation failed us. I hope my life was worth it, To make Humanity great. Again.
31 Order.indd 31
We asked Deakin students how their fur babies help (or don’t help) with writing or studying.
Sylvia Sylvia likes to make sure I’m her top priority every day (literally). Her favourite places to sit include my desk, laptop, workspace and anywhere she can stare at me with her judging eyes while I study. - Lori Franklin
Chip is a pint-size distraction always popping his head around the corner when I’m trying to study. If only he could write essays for me! - Nikita Kulkarni
Honey Honey is super cute and likes to lay next to me like she is in the photo, but she gradually shuffles closer and closer before getting close enough to hit my laptop screen. The one thing she hates more than anything is being ignored.
Winter This is my boyfriend’s cat, Winter. She likes to assess my work with a scrutinising eye. - Sini Salatas
- Kellie Seaye
Cookie Cookie helps me study by suggesting that I watch Friends with him instead. He ensures that I take time out to relax between my many commitments, so I don’t burn out. - Bel Ellison
Hazel Hazel both helps and does not help when studying! She’s an awesome stress reliever with her cuddles and purring, but then she also does things like this, which make it hard to get stuff done! - Chloe Elizabeth Sumner
Me and My Kin A Manifesto Anna Bilbrough
e and my kin see feet mostly. Five-toed feet. Ankles with hair, ankles with no hair, ankles with fresh pinpricks of hair that glint when the sun hits them at the right angle. Me and my kin hear bells as we walk. Hear the pad of our paws.
Me and my kin claw high, higher than we stand. Above the heads of them, so we can see clearly, so our scope is unencumbered. But we are forever coaxed back down. They don’t like the feeling of breath down their necks, out of sight. Don’t like fearing something behind them. We are pulled, persuaded, pushed back to the ground, back to those goddamn feet. Me and my kin can weave between the feet. From below, underneath, me and my kin can cause confusion, unsteadiness. In the places we are banished, we find the advantage. They cannot weave between our feet—they are too big, too ungainly—but we, me and my kin, can weave between theirs! This small thrill is what we, me and my kin, have consoled ourselves with for years, as will our kin to come. It delights the fibres of our small bodies when the yelp of stupefaction signals the success of this subtle act of disruption. Subtle disruptions.
We, me and my kin, will no longer be subtle!
When me and my kin cause a ruckus, they scold us. When me and my kin ask for more, they relinquish
nothing. They’ve collared us, me and my kin. They’ve chained us, me and my kin. They’ve enslaved us, me and my kin!
We, me and my kin, speak a language they do not understand. A language of mewling music. The protests of me and my kin they water down. The outcries of me and my kin they dilute. They appease me and my kin with affection, placate me and my kin with pomposity, look over me and my kin with lordly haughtiness. If we, me and my kin, could speak as they do, we would not say of us what they do. If we, me and my kin, could write as they do, we would not write of us what they do.
Me and my kin, we call upon our kind. We air the atrocities they act against us. We must speak and write of what it means to be us, me and my kin, of what it means in a world that interprets us, me and my kin, incorrectly. That uses us, me and my kin, for possession and prize, all the while pasteurising and patronising us. We, me and my kin, are token totems to them. Token totems in a world they pretend to accept, but want to collar just the same as us, me and my kin; control just the same as us, me and my kin! We, me and my kin, shall claw and keep high.
We, me and my kin, shall write to and of a world that collars us.
We, me and my kin, shall breathe down necks. We, me and my kin!
33 08/10/2018 14:24:43
Did you know that WORDLY is online too? Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s all sorts of things on our blog: movie reviews, poetry, opinion pieces and way more! Liked the work by Helayna Redmond-Ball, Bel Carroll, Jason Winn, Aaron Purton or Molly Herd? Thereâ&#x20AC;&#x2122;s more where that came from. Check out: https://wordlypress.wordpress.com/
34 Order.indd 34
This magazine has progressed far more in 2018 than we could have 'â&#x20AC;&#x2122; hoped, and it wouldn t have happened without our readers and contributors. So from the team at Wordly: ThankYou!
35 Order.indd 35
Jessica Ali Mallory Arbour Liam Ball Melissa Bandara Anna Bilbrough Brianna Bullen Melina Bunting Bel Carroll A. J. Charles Becky Croy Julie Dickson Yasmin Drury Lori Franklin Lauren Hay Molly Herd Toby Jeffs Tara Komaromy Gabi Kypriotis Surya Matondkar Tyler McPherson Jack McMahon Mel O’Connor Darren O’Hehir Aaron Purton Loren Rae Helayna Redmond-Ball Ruby Roberts Mark Russell Sini Salatas Tim Same Kellie Seaye Mathew Sharp Venetia Slarke Robyn Smith Justine Stella Tristan Urriola Jessica Wartski Jason Winn