Extinction. Woroni Vol 75 no. 2
TV Paris Chia Katherine Page Soffia Abbygale Baynosa Elisa Zheng Vanya Napitupulu Kristy Sauw Content Hannah Bachelard Caelan Doel Remi Lynch Brooke Corkhill Maya Haggstrom India Kazakoff Em Murry Jaden Ogwayo Atputha Rahavan Sai Woebking Ethan Zhu Emanuel Foundas Chiara Hackney-Britt Anuva Rai Michael Reid Shivagha Sindhamani Pathak Ruken Zeyto Communications Henry Carls Benjamin Van Der Niet Lekh Bhatia
Radio Alexander An Lucy Gabbay Aamra Chandra Frederika Phibbs Grace Williams Jessica Heller Cameron Upton Punit Deshwal Art Vera Tan Amanda Lim Brandon Sung Jocelyn Wong Sanle Yan Sara Duble En-Mai Miao Avery Lam To Jemima Woodman News Charlie Crawford Kaab Qureshi Hannah Benhassine Adriano Di Matteo Elinor Hudson Saboor Cheema Bella Wang Jack Davis David Back
C o n t e n ts Letter From the Editor 2 News 4 ANUSA Executive rush through motion to Restructure Environment Collective 5 How ANU’s $250 Million Deficit is Affecting Students 8 ANU Poster Policy Takes Effect 11 Parable 14 Zelda & Scott & Ambition-sickness (&c., &c.) 15 Happy Birthday 17 Global Hummuside 18 KPI 21 A Faded Star 24 The Puppeteer’s Game: a Resident Evil story 26 Climate Fiction 32 Perspective 34 On Impermeable Bodies 35 TLDR: Send Us Your Thoughts 38 Why I Want Albo to Win: Surviving the Extinction of the Left 40 Elections 43 Zombie Apocalypse: The Genre that Keeps Rising From the Dead 44 Believe All Women…Unless She’s A Bitch 46 The Act of Killing Everything 49 Backpacking: Is there really that much to unpack? 50 Satire page 52 Poetry 53 Distortion 54 the dial 55 Six poems on extinction 56 The Bones of Black 58 Eurydice 59 The Body as a Melted Clock 60 The Puddle of Grief 61 The Gradual Yet Somehow Still Unexpected Dissolution of Everything That Once Mattered, Including but Not Limited to: Love, Anger, Revolution, and the Will to Care About Any of It 62 A Desert Trout 63 Almonds 64
Letter From the Editor
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Sophie Hilton At the risk of parroting what our Deputy Editor in Chief says so well about the endangered but critical role of student media a few pages further into this magazine, I’ll keep my introductory comments on what ‘Extinction’ means to me as the Woroni News Editor fairly abstract. As a theme, ‘Extinction’ feels apt right now. An ominous, undefined sense of dying, dwindling, decay or even “enshittification” (look it up) seems to be creeping into the mind of anyone who has been paying even vague attention to the state of world news, studying science, buying things, consuming pop culture, or attempting to buckle down and get a high quality tertiary education at the moment. I’ve found myself having increasingly frequent conversations with friends, in an only half-joking tone, along the lines of “How long do you think we’ll last in the armageddon?”, “What will you do after the collapse of global order?” or even “Will you resist or aid the inevitable onset of world revolution?” (Not in a SAlt way, I promise). I might be an especially melodramatic conversationalist, but recent exchanges I’ve had with other students — covering news or otherwise — show that I’m not totally alone in my oblique sense of unease. At ANU or beyond, young people might feel that they’re witnessing or experiencing some big changes right now. In trying to cover even our small scope of Canberra student news, I’ve recently felt like there’s almost too much to keep up with. Whether you think things are getting better or worse, it’s clear that our institutions are ceasing to function in many of the ways we thought they were meant to. People hear ‘Extinction’ and think “things that have died”: dinosaurs, dodos, thylacines, punk (joke). But beyond that, it also speaks to things that are endangered, the fear that this makes us feel, and (at the risk of sounding trite) to hope — the threat of decline being a rallying call to remember, to fortify or to act. Many of the submissions in this magazine echo this sentiment. The news articles featured in this edition touch on significant threats to university staffing and course offerings, the long-held tradition of campus expression, and even the ANU’s Environment Collective. With another issue of Woroni published, I’m glad that this particular facet of ANU student life keeps breathing, and I thank the other editors and all those who write to, speak for or read Woroni for preventing its extinction with every word contributed. Maybe I’m overestimating the speed at which things seem to be going extinct, and my presentism is actually prejudicing my ability to see that student life is really just “business as usual” right now. Somehow, I just don’t think that’s the case. You only have to read the news to see it.
Art by Mir
sarah
claudia
deputy editor in chief
editor in chief
zoe
sophie
communications editor
mir
art editor
news editor
cate
radio editor
joey
managing editor
aala
content editor
tejas
tv editor
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ANUSA Executive Rush Through Motion to Restructure Environment Collective By Charlie Crawford and Kaab Qureshi A motion to support a restructuring of the Environment Collective (EC) was passed on Tuesday 18 February, during its first meeting of the year. Some attendees called the motion a ‘political encroachment’ onto the collective, with accusations of ‘stacking of the votes’.
Motion 5 states that the EC supports the collective becoming a committee, and other constitutional changes which remain unclear. The motion was moved by ANUSA President Will Burfoot, and seconded by Welfare Officer Kiera Rosenberg. In the discussion surrounding the motion, Burfoot referenced ANUSA receiving complaints about how the EC has historically used its funding. There was a brief debate over the motion until a procedural was successfully passed by Rosenberg to move straight to a vote. The motion passed with 32 votes for and 27 votes against. Significant questions were asked about the practical impact of the motion, which may seem to merely involve a name change from collective to committee. The Environment Collective is currently one of ANUSA’s seven departments, established in the Union’s constitution with an elected Officer. The changes to come from its move to a ‘committee’ remain unclear, even to those in the meeting who proposed the motion, as there was general confusion over what and when these changes would commence. Burfoot, in a statement to Woroni, confirmed these changes would involve significant structural and funding changes for the EC going forward, to be put forward at the next ANUSA Ordinary General Meeting (OGM).
Art by Mir
The motion, which was moved mid-meeting, came as a surprise to many, as the average attendance of these meetings in 2024 was nine people. Woroni understands there were around 60 people in attendance at Tuesday’s meeting.
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As the EC is enacted through the ANUSA constitution, these changes will also require constitutional amendments. A 75 per cent super majority vote of support at the next OGM will be necessary for proposed changes to pass, which will then need to be ratified by the ANU Council. The motion follows last year’s ANUSA governance review that suggested sweeping changes to the union despite finding it “effective”. Some have argued that the review is not truly representative of the ANU student body, as only 30 students were interviewed. A recommendation for the EC to change its governance structure was challenged by the collective, with the 2024 Environment Officer Wren Somerville calling it an attack on student democracy. A petition created by the EC last year gained 291 signatures to ‘Reject the ANUSA Governance Review’. Responses to the Motion Members of the EC have criticised ANUSA for a “lack of communication”, with concerns regarding the collective’s independence from the executive. There were also suggestions of a “political infiltration of the EC.” This is due to observations that many of the attendees were members of Young Labor, including members of the current ANUSA Executive. In speaking for the motion, an attendee called the EC a “useless collective”, while also admitting that this was the first EC meeting he had attended. The EC is the only ANUSA department not aimed at a specific autonomous group, meaning that all students are automatically collective members and are welcome at any meeting. The involvement of student political groups is therefore procedurally permissible. However, concerns were raised in the meeting regarding the ability of large groups of students to bring such significant motions without notice and without any prior involvement in the department.
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Environment Officer Sarah Strange told Woroni that Tuesday night’s events displayed how “unserious and completely unfit to govern our student union” the incumbent executives are. Strange continued, “They gatecrashed our first meeting of the year, where we had new students wanting to talk about environmental issues like Clean Up Australia Day and recycling bins, and instead derailed it with hours of political nonsense.” The Environment Officer expressed that while she will abide by the motions passed, “…students will see right through their short-sighted plans to abolish the Environment Collective as ridiculous political point-scoring.” ANUSA President, Will Burfoot, has maintained that the changes come as a result of complaints last year regarding potential ‘misuse of funds and maladministration’ of the EC. He said that “it is clear that the Environment Department has strayed from its core purposes and instead has been influenced by a small number of students who have driven down membership to a point where they alone can decide the actions and priorities of the Department.” Burfoot also referenced an inquiry into the Collective conducted last year, following a funding freeze instituted by last year’s executive. He stated that the current freeze on EC spending has been extended following the receipt of a report from inquiry, to ensure “confidence that all constitutional, regulatory, and legislated SSAF requirements are being followed.” The report will be released to students next week. The exact constitutional changes being proposed at the OGM, and thus what the EC will look like going forward, remain somewhat unknown. Burfoot told Woroni, “Students want real genuine action on the environment and the climate crisis, they do not want a department which is focused on the Environment in name only and instead spends much of its time on political activism.”
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How ANU’s $250 Deficit is Affecting Students By Kaab Qureshi and Hannah Benhassine While there has been much talk surrounding ANU’s $250 million deficit and consequent restructure, many might not realise how significant the cuts truly are. Many students have only begun to realise the effects after enrolling in courses for 2025, as the available courses and tutorial slots dwindle and the number of students per tutorial increases. Woroni spoke to some students about their experiences as details of the cuts emerge. $250 million of expenditure is planned to be cut by the start of 2026. This will include $100 million in staff salaries and $150 million in non-salary expenditure. To meet this target, the National Tertiary Education Union (NTEU) estimates that 650 jobs will have to be cut. Late last year, ANU Vice-Chancellor Genevieve Bell allegedly informed senior staff that she would “find you out and hunt you down” if any information regarding the $250 million budget cuts was leaked. In the context of what has been called “a culture of fear”, some have felt a lack of certainty over the extent of prospective cuts, and how they will truly affect staff and students. In their Consultation Paper on the Renew ANU Change Principles, released on 6 March this year, the University pointed to ANU having “consistently ranked the lowest in the national benchmark for overall satisfaction and efficiency across all services, including HR, IT, student support, research support, and more.” This has necessitated an “urgent need to make the necessary savings” to improve efficiency and “achieve long-term sustainability.” On top of a pattern of inefficiencies, the paper also attributes, “Continued uncertainty including overseas student enrolments and related visa issues” as having the “potential to further exacerbate the financial challenges.” Director of ANU Centre for Social Research and Methods, Professor Matthew Gray, informed staff in an email last month that this year’s budget for casual and sessional staff had been reduced by about two-thirds, from $160,000 to $53,467.
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In an open staff Centre meeting for earlier this Research Semester, the reportedProfessor that confidential Director of ANU Social andNTEU Methods, documents outlining job cutsstaff to one of the University’s key corporate had been Matthew Gray, informed in an email last month that thisareas year’s left outfor in acasual lunchroom. documents consultancy behind the budget and The sessional staffshow hadthat been reducedfirm by NOUS aboutistwoproposal job cuts. Thetodocument thirds, fromfor$160,000 $53,467.suggested cutting the marketing division of 38 full-time equivalent (FTE) employees by 50 percent.
In an open staff meeting earlier this Semester, the NTEU reported that ANU has announced a voluntary scheme for three weeks confidential documents outliningseparation job cuts to one of(VSS) the University’s keyfrom 25 February 2025, NTEUleft has out considered a win in its campaign against the job cuts. corporate areaswhich hadthebeen in a lunchroom. The documents Through eligible stafffirm are NOUS able to voluntarily intoproposal separating for fromjob thecuts. University. show thatVSS, consultancy is behindoptthe The document suggested cutting the marketing division of 38 full-time This allows(FTE) staff the opportunitybyto50 voluntarily equivalent employees percent.resign and receive payments under their separation package instead of being “tapped on the scheme shoulder” — beingfor made redundant ANU has announced a voluntary separation (VSS) three amid $250 in annual 2025, cost cuts, said ACT Dr Lachlana Clohesy. weeks frommillion 25 February which the Branch NTEU Secretary has considered win in its campaign against the job cuts. Through VSS, eligible staff are able Clohesy continued, “Obviously, from nobody job losses, but it’s much better with to Dr voluntarily opt into separating thelikes University. voluntary those thatto want to go are able to go and that want to This allowsredundancies staff the where opportunity voluntarily resign andthose receive have a better chance staying.” payments under theirof separation package instead of being “tapped on the shoulder” — being made redundant amid $250 million in annual Students shareACT theirBranch concerns: cost cuts, said Secretary Dr Lachlan Clohesy. Woroni spoke to students across ANU nobody regardinglikes any concerns theybut hadit’s about the cuts. Dr Clohesy continued, “Obviously, job losses, much better with voluntary redundancies where those that want to go are able a third-year Law and Economics student expressed their concerns with their to Florence, go and those that want to have a better chance of staying.” “very limited elective being cut”. Florence continued; Students share theirchoices concerns: “There spoke were already not a lot ofacross economic choices to fulfil myany degree.” Woroni to students ANU regarding concerns they had about the cuts. Cyan, a asecond-year International Relations student voiced his concerns Florence, third-yearLaw Lawandand Economics student expressed their regarding education explaining, “Courses concerns withANU’s theirquality “very oflimited elective choices being are cut”.disappearing, Florence class sizes are growing, and overworked staff are struggling to teach effectively, all while continued; executives protect salaries.”choices He continued, is at an all-time “There were already not their a lotinflated of economic to fulfil“Morale my degree.” low, and it’s clearLaw that and instead of investing inRelations students andstudent staff, thevoiced university has Cyan, a second-year International chosen financial ANU’s expediency.” his concerns regarding quality of education explaining, “Courses are disappearing, class sizes are growing, and overworked Another student whoeffectively, wished to all remain Woroni staff are struggling to teach whileanonymous executivestold protect theirthey felt inflated disappointed, salaries.” saying; “I feel a bit ripped off … because of what they offered, then later in my degree, I found it’s not possible.” He continued, “Morale is at an all-time low, and it’s clear that instead of investing in students and staff, the university has chosen financial expediency.” Another student who wished to remain anonymous told Woroni they felt disappointed, saying;
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Student Campaigns against the cuts Students have organised multiple campaigns in opposition to the cuts, with ANUSA hosting a rally against the cuts in Kambri on Thursday 13 March. Speaking on the campaign approach of the ongoing ‘Save Our Studies, Save Our Staff’ campaign against the University’s cuts, ANU student Beatrice Tucker emphasised the importance of calling on the Federal Government to “bail out the ANU” and prevent “hundreds of staff [cuts].” They reiterated that conversation surrounding the cuts must extend beyond the University itself. “It’s not just about Vice-Chancellor Bell — it’s about Albanese and the Federal Government. Bell should be demanding [federal funding] but she is not. She is serving the interests of the Federal Government”, they argued. Tucker further noted that “ANU has known it has been in deficit for many years” and has “been in trouble for a long time.” They argue that the “initiative to use international student caps as an excuse [is] racist.” An ANU contingent of the Socialist Alternative have also alternatively launched the ‘No Cuts’ campaign which acknowledges “that this fight is one of staff and students collectively opposing the university administration.” “[The] only allies we have are each other: we have to fight university management, not beg for scraps,” argued a spokesperson for the campaign, Ell Lappin. They emphasised that they “look forward to rallying alongside all those who oppose the cuts.” Woroni contacted the ANU Students’ Association (ANUSA) for comment but did not receive a response.
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ANU Poster Policy Takes Effect By Saboor Cheema and Sophie Hilton
On 6 February 2025, ANU enacted its ‘Posting on ANU Campus’ policy, after proposing a draft version to students in October 2024. The policy differs slightly from what was initially proposed and was met with notable student backlash, including campaigns by ANUSA and activist group Students and Staff Against War. It maintains its fundamental goal of regulating “the requirements for the use of posters, banners and other display materials” on campus, limits the display of materials from non-university affiliated parties, and requires approval for any displays outside of its guidelines. The ANU confirmed that a 2025 Poster Policy would be going ahead in their submissions to the Parliamentary Enquiry on Antisemitism on 22 January, listing the policy amongst their strategies to address antisemitism. The official policy, as of 6 February 2025, is now effective and detailed on the ANU’s Policy Library. A policy review is scheduled for 6 August 2025. The policy provides that a poster which is not displayed excessively, is on designated noticeboards and identifies the creator does not require prior approval. The posting of media which does not meet these three conditions requires the producer of the poster to apply for approval from the Chief Campus Environment Officer. Approval is also required to display banners, a right reserved only for ANU students, staff and the NTEU. Woroni reached out to ANU’s “Chief Campus Environment Officer”, Jeremy Matthew, to enquire about the required form for seeking an exception to the policy regulations, what criteria will be used to assess approval of the “display of temporary and permanent banners”, and the timeframe an applicant can expect a response within, but are yet to receive any guidelines. Art by Mir
Art by Mir
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A key difference between the proposed and enacted policy concerns the display of flags. In the proposed policy sent to students last year, the same rules for banners—requiring approval for display and restricting it to students and staff— also applied to flags. However, the enacted policy does not specifically mention flags, despite stating that prior approval is required for “any other kind of visual display”. Other differences include the specific mention of the NTEU as being allowed to display banners on campus and the removal of the two-week notice period initially proposed to be required to apply for approval. Additionally, the policy removes the stated consequence that a serious or ongoing breach could result in a university club or organisation being defunded and/or disaffiliated. The policy, at least in its wording, “aims to promote freedom of speech and freedom of expression by ensuring that campus users can share visual material around the ANU Campus, while maintaining a clean and welcoming physical environment.” However, the policy’s restrictions speak to the ongoing concerns about potential overreach in curbing student activism and political expression. The timing of the policy’s implementation coincides with Greens Senator Mehreen Faruqi’s launch of The People’s Inquiry into Campus Free Speech on Palestine. In a statement, Faruqi expressed concern about freedom of speech and assembly for students, maintaining that “University campuses should be political spaces where students and staff are encouraged to speak out on issues of social, racial and environmental justice, not shut down.” University students across the country established political encampments last year to support the Palestine solidarity movement. Subsequent policy changes by Australian universities have sought to curtail student efforts under the guise of policy enforcement. In October, the University of Sydney shut down a pro-Palestine bake sale aimed at raising funds for Gazans when the students, who did not have prior approval, refused to show identification as required by the similarly controversial Campus Access Policy.
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ANU’s policy permits banners for temporary events, such as protests, to be displayed for up to two weeks without prior approval from the Chief Campus Environment Officer. While this suggests a positive commitment to protecting free speech on campus, the policy mandates any posters affixed to the designated noticeboards “include information on the individual or the affiliated club, society, organisation or union producing the poster”. Particularly in the wake of reports that ANU management conducted social media analysis of those participating in the ANU Gaza Solidarity Encampment, it is possible that students may be discouraged from posting political expression or potentially controversial opinions due to fear of identification or retaliation. A campus map of buildings with approved notice boards is available, with requests and feedback regarding the policy able to be made to fixmycampus.fs@anu.edu.au.
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Art by en-mei
Zelda & Scott & Stars & Ambitionsickness (&c., &c.) By Caelan Doel
We spent our time picking stars from underneath our fingernails, revelling in what we came to feel was our birthright—the kingdom of the young and glittering who wore satin gloves by day and scarlet lipstick by night. We were wild and beautiful and full of all the arrogance that must always come with privilege and genius. It was our kingdom—everyone said so—and we ruled it with every bit of the riotous abandon necessary to maintain that glorious fever which was the Jazz Age. We drank and danced and laughed (and drank and danced and laughed) until the starlit nights betrayed us and dropped poison in our champagne, broke our hearts and then our heads, and the iridescence of the city was the end of the world. How I mourned its loss. He was drunk on success and I was sick with ambition. I was sick with ambition; ambition crawled hunch-shouldered in my gut like something living, and I wonder if it might have sprung up golden and breathing with a little nourishment. But he told it to be quiet, and it sat between my organs and squirmed and festered and the rot set a toxin in my bloodstream. And the toxin was ravenous, so that when I kissed him it seeped into his tongue and spread in little black tendrils beneath his skin. I shed little black tendrils in my sweat when I danced and I pressed them into ink to write with, and mixed them with water so I could paint. And all the while, we were passionate and bold and electric. We drove in cars we couldn’t afford and lived on moonlight and words and jazz music played in nightclubs. I was made of stone and water: a heart and soul cursed by their own nature to erode. We were hunted by our selves, a pulsing synergy of passion and youth and ambition destroying us slowly. Artist and muse. Infinitely restless, restless into infinity.
Art by En-Mei
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Happy Birthday By Saboor Cheema Content warning: reproductive violence, descriptions of medical trauma, suicide
Evie didn’t know where she was. Her hand brushed against the discoloured bruises blemishing her delicate skin. A surge of fear rushed through her body; she remembered the men from the morning who had dug their calloused fingers into her arms when dragging her away, and the desperate pleas of her mother which were drowned out by Evie’s own relentless wailing. The day had begun blissfully. Evie and her mother sat around the oak table and admired the simple cake before them. It wasn’t much, but they didn’t mind. They were just happy to be alive. The dusty photo frames hanging from the walls enclosed pictures of a family long gone; the laughter now replaced by memories of crippled bodies suffocating to death, or tearful visits to the graveyard, lilac peonies in hand. Her sister’s favourite. Evie was counting the thirteen candles atop her cake when the men arrived at the house. Now, she was alone in a strange room surrounded by unfamiliar medical equipment. Evie breathed heavily as she stared at the plain walls that entrapped her. The taupe curtains draped across the windows shielded the world from witnessing the horrors unfolding within. Evie’s hands slowly glided across the cold metal railing that caged her in the bed; she was a prisoner.
Tears dripped down Evie’s rosy cheeks and fell to her lap like pellets of rain during a ferocious storm. She desperately longed for her mother to come and miraculously spare her from her inevitable fate. She didn’t know what to do without her. As Evie patted the small lump concealed in the pocket of her floral cardigan, she was reminded of her mother’s warnings. At least it was still there. It was only when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps that Evie hastily wiped her face. An older woman entered the room pushing a trolley. Maybe she can help me, thought Evie wishfully. But, as she began to speak, the coldness of the nurse’s face silenced her. Evie shuddered and pressed her quivering lips together tightly as she watched the nurse prepare a series of injections. “The insemination procedure will begin shortly,” informed the nurse absent-mindedly as she left the room. Whilst surrendered to her despondency, Evie glimpsed a petite woman with flowing auburn hair alike her mother’s walk briskly past her door. Hopeful, Evie jumped out of her bed and ran to follow the woman down the hallway. “Mummy…Mummy it’s me!” screamed Evie. Startled, the woman spun around. Her face was puffy, and her eyes were swollen and red from endless crying. She offered a weak smile and gently whispered, “I’m sorry,” before leaving to enter another room. It wasn’t her mother.
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Sobbing quietly, Evie’s shaky legs gave way, and she fell to the ground helplessly. She clutched her cheeks with her small fingers and cried hysterically into her lap. Ever since the announcement, she and her mother had silently prayed every night that something would change before it was her turn. But nothing ever did. One by one, the girls with whom Evie had spent her formative years braiding hair and playing make-believe began to disappear. If the virus didn’t claim them, then the government did. They were told that it was their duty; that this was the only way to return the world to how it once was. None of them wanted to do it but that didn’t matter. Evie stayed crying on the ground for some time. A chilling scream cut through the still air. Moments later, another followed. Evie leapt up in terror and ran towards the source, peering through the window of the room the woman had entered before. Inside, she saw a girl just like her. Yet, this girl seemed different. Her eyes were empty, and her face was pasty and drenched in sweat. She was giving birth. The girl’s legs were propped up on the bed with a pillow slipped between her bent knees. Her hands were clenched in small fists that desperately clutched her surroundings for support. The woman from earlier sat stiffly on a chair to the side. Scrunched up tissues littered the floor at her feet as she winced at the sound of her daughter’s anguished screams. Eventually, a newborn baby’s cry interrupted the commotion of childbirth.
“No sign of infection!” exclaimed a nurse. Suddenly, everyone’s attention turned to tending to the baby. No one was looking at the young girl anymore, except for Evie. The girl was trembling on the bed as she hugged a pillow tightly to soothe the pain stabbing her stomach. Her legs, still spread apart, shook uncontrollably. Her mother quietly placed a handembroidered blanket next to her, the threading of the blooming flowers tearing at the seams. Droplets of blood began staining the girl’s hospital gown as she pleaded for the nurses to help. She was ignored. The blood began gushing out of the girl, soaking the once white linen bedding. The remaining strength of her legs dissipated, and she collapsed on the bed. Her screams of pain became more sporadic, more urgent. She continued to bleed out. Slowly, Evie watched the life leave the body of a girl just like her. Evie yelled. She screamed as loudly as she could until her voice was raspy and strained. Soon, the girl was lying in a pool of her own blood as she succumbed to her pain. Evie couldn’t stop watching. The dead girl sprawled on the hospital bed like a delicate flower torn apart. The mother crumpled on the floor in tears. The nurses and military officers marvelling selfishly at yet another ‘clean’ newborn. This was her future. This was everything her own mother warned her about. In that suspended moment, Evie knew what she had to do. Her hand rummaged through her pocket and produced a paleyellow pill. She looked at it expectantly in her small hand, the smell of bitter almond in the air. It was her mother’s birthday present for her.
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Global Hummuside By Daniel Minns
Art by Amanda
He hadn’t recovered from the separation. It wasn’t necessarily the loss of his wife but more the jealousy that she “We are currently getting word that the was happy and he wasn’t. She was the death ray has com- cheater, she fucked up, and yet she goes home every night to be wined and dined by pletely wiped out all life a bendy Frenchman, while Barry spends in Sydney! Repeat, all of Sydney his nights eating bulk-bought party pies and is gone! If the pattern continues, the pretending he’s only crying because it’s an aliens will now reposition to target another population centre. The only thing emotional episode of SVU. Then again, after we can do now is hug our loved ones and Liv left him, the couple moved to Sydney pray for salvation. We at Channel 12 will together, so maybe it evened out. keep broadcasting to the very end. Report- Barry hadn’t felt like leaving his house in a while, but had forced himself to attend game ing to you live, I’m Michael Pancake.” The five people all stared at the TV screen. night. It had been the first one he’d gone to in a while. He and his wife had always gone You’d think that the world ending would bring greater commotion: screaming, wail- together, and, honestly, they were more Liv’s friends than his. But everybody there ing, weeping—but the living room was was too polite to rescind his standing invite, silent, save for the soft noise of quickened breathing. The shock had left every or tell him it was more ‘couples night’ than member of the board game group frozen. ‘game night’. They watched as the TV replayed terrify- He was looking sadly into the almost empty ing scenes of annihilation, their faces un- bowl of chips when everybody’s cellphones recognisably contorted by the mix of horror started beeping. It was an emergency alert, and disbelief. Cal covered his agape mouth instructing everyone to take cover and remain calm. That ‘calm’ was short-lived when with his hands as Susan rubbed his leg. Halle, eyes still fixed on the news, slowly someone turned the TV on to see every station reporting our extinction, the last tragedy tilted her head onto Deron’s shoulder. Looking around and seeing the two couples of our species. Humans had brutally concomforting each other sent a pang of sad- quered the world and used our intelligence to kill, subjugate, or bend every living thing ness through Barry’s body. He ached for someone that he could lean against in these to our will; perhaps we should’ve expected final moments, cry with as they took their that when we encountered beings greater last breaths, just hold once more before the than us, they would be equally merciless. “Jesus Christ,” Susan said, piercing the end. Barry’s wife, Liv, had left him for a contor- stunned silence the group had been sitting in. As if her voice had been a switch, everytionist almost a year ago. body started to unfreeze, finally reacting to the gravity of the situation.
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“This isn’t real, there’s no way, it can’t “Oh my God, all of Europe’s wiped out!” be…” Deron trailed off. As he held Halle, Deron yelled from somewhere. Barry figured he should say something, who softly cried into his chest. Cal paced around the room, “Oh my God, right? I mean, if this were his last moment, I need to call my sister.” His shaky hands he’d not want dip slathered all over him. Then again, what if him pointing this out struggled to dial the number. Barry struggled to get breath into his chest, embarrassed her? No, that wouldn’t do. This situation required subtlety, a delicate hand. his mind raced, and his eyes welled up “Hey, here’s a thinker for the room,” Barry with tears. At first, he hadn’t let himself believe it; it must have been some hoax, announced. an elaborate prank. But seeing the terror “Please God, why?” Deron was on his knees, tears and mucus streaming down his on his friends’ faces had rendered his denial pointless, and continuing to watch face. his friends now only worsened the panic. “What’s everyone’s favourite flavour of dip? Remember how we were all eating dip?” Halle ran her hands through her hair, trying A wry smile crept onto Barry’s face as he in vain to soothe herself, Cal’s voice waasked the question. This was a really good vering, talking to his sister, Susan’s chin strategy. quivering, her attention still on the TV, “What?” asked Cal, the only one who reactDeron, who—Wait, what’s that on Susan’s ed. face…? “Remember the dip we had earlier? ReRight on the corner of her mouth was member that?” Barry said loud enough so some gross little green splotch thing. Ew, Susan would still be able to register it (if she what was that? ever looked up from the TV, I swear we are “We’re all going to die! We’re dead!” Cal all just on screens so much, like missing all wailed, standing beside Barry now that his the beauty of life). phone had lost signal. Halle ran to the bathroom to vomit. Okay, “Yeah man, totally,” Barry absentmindedly this wasn’t working. Barry needed to be replied, squinting to get a better view of more explicit. the thing on Susan’s mouth. Eugh, it was “What are you talking about? Everyone we disgusting. It must’ve been some dip from know is dead; how can you be talking about earlier. Barry wasn’t surprised she got dip dip when everything is so horrible?” Cal on her face the way she was gulping down raised his voice. those corn chips. At the time he did think: “So horrible, soo horrible,” Barry said, staring at Susan while slowly rubbing the side damn Susan, there’s really not enough corn chips for you to pound them like that. of his mouth, hoping she would catch on. Everybody else must’ve noticed it, right? “Yeah, all those people dying…just horrible. It was really obvious, like a little wet slug My goodness, yeah, it just makes you want was slithering into her mouth. This was so to put your—your hands to your mouth in weird, why hadn’t anybody said anything? disbelief.” “Obviou—” Cal started.
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“Susan? Right? Just like a total hands to “Jesus, can you just stop, Barry?” Halle mouth, disbelief type…deal, right?” yelled. Susan turned her head to make eye contact “It’s a new thing of dip, an unopened bag with Barry, a confused look on her face. “Uh, of chips. You were clearly at the store, yeah, I don’t… I guess.” preparing for tonight, and thought that one Rapidly becoming frustrated, Barry decided bag of chips was all we needed. I mean, to become slightly more overt with his hints. honestly, it—it’s just poor manners, you—” “Christ, Susan, you have a giant glob of dip “Poor manners?” Halle repeated, increduon your face, and we all find it disgusting lously. and super distracting. Get it off your face so “Yes, it is poor manners, actually,” Barry we can focus!” Barry screamed. His voice continued, “when people come to a wholecracked, and he was really hoping Deron night hang sesh, everybody expects the didn’t notice. hosts to provide enough food, and this was Susan finally wiped it off. not enough food, obviously.” After a moment of silence, Halle, chin covIn the background, another, presumably ered in vomit, started talking again. “What terrifying, report had just concluded. are you talking about, Barry?” “What are you—” “Don’t lie Halle. Everyone thought that mouth thing was super gross, and I was the “Guys!” Susan interrupted, “Look, this is an only one who said it. First she eats all the emotional time, but—” snacks, then smears them all over her face.” ZAP! Suddenly, a blinding flash of light pierced “Why are you talking about snacks right the house, so sharp it drowned out everynow?” Deron asked. thing. Nothing mattered anymore. There “Oh my God, don’t get me started on the snacks,” Barry said, finger quoting the word was no argument or escape, no pleading or crying. It was too quick to react, to gasp, snacks. “Who invites people over for the whole night and gets one—one bag of corn even to know what had happened. But chips? I mean, really, Deron, you have like a inevitably, the death ray struck them, and they simply, quietly…ceased. whole house for your car and—” Barry, in his final millisecond of life, was “A garage?” left with one, unshakeable thought that fol“And you won’t even pay for two bags of chips and a soda?” lowed him as he slipped into the inky black “Well, to be fair, you ate a lot of void of death; them, Barry,” Cal interjected. “You shut the fuck up, Cal! Wait, did that news reporter say his name Nobody asked you; I ate just was Michael Pancake? as much as anybody else; yes I did.” Barry shouted him down, fearing he may be losing popular support.
KPI The Procurement Officer stood in a pool of red light, unsteady. The LEDs blinked gently in the darkness, their glow pulsing like a slowed heartbeat. The extractors groaned far in the distance. Fifty nights. Fifty goddamn nights. He’d flown in from Handan fifty times, each flight stretching longer, each exit at the gates leaving something behind. He’d have stayed forever if he could. A mind left alone too long starts reaching, clawing for company in the only place it knows—memory. It’s not a refuge, but a trap. The night before had proven that. For a brief moment, the Pilbara fell silent. The only thing the Officer could hear—could feel—was the current pounding at the base of his skull. The red sands of the day faded to muddy grey. Overhead, the stars shone bright, as the land beneath became a void, an ocean that surrounded the post, met with the red little blinks that cast shadows between the stairs that led up to the tin-roofed office. The road-trains that passed through here could grind metal into dust-pitted concrete, grind his nerves into something fine and jagged. Checkpoint Two and its delights had kept him satiated, docile, for those fifty days. No longer. Q4 projections from Anshan. Potash out. Iron back in. Unprofitable. The only thing that kept this place running was entropy. A 14 percent salary cut. These numbers twisted inside his skull, circling him as a bird does to the dead. Debts, deductions, subscriptions. Nights out at Goldies, the pale prostitutes with short hair and fat asses that staked out empty men with no mouth and no tongue to say ‘no’. Men like his station boss, disgusting men like him, who’d keep their mouth agape and their cocks hard at the touch of a foreigner. Drinks and emptied balances, ‘networking’ and guanxi. Outside, the wind began to pick up, howling and gently shaking the shoddily constructed office. The thin pillars began to groan under stress, a gentle hum passing through the interior. Through an open window dust had entered, causing a set of stained papers to fall out of kilter, spreading across the floor. The generator continued to hum, and his teeth started to chatter as the day’s embrace became absent. As he faced out towards the pitch-black hills that surrounded his station, the Procurement Officer began to wonder who’d take over from him, if this office would still exist in fifty years, till the end of reparations. He began to trace his knuckles with the tips of his fingers, feeling their soft surfaces and the coarse dirt that etched itself in each pore. Those scabs, his fingers hovered there, pressing slightly. Yesterday. The unbearable heat, engines and barks. That moment at Checkpoint 2. The Supervisor’s voice was the first thing to break through the hum of the aquifer pumps. Three pale men with red faces, in reddened plain white shirts and one Work Supervisor in cyan, orange and yellow, visible in the dark and dull during the day, whose colours contrasted against his dark skin.
Art by Amanda
By Nico Vale
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They barked like a pack of kelpies, feral and restless, outside the office, in the shadow of an old Japanese truck two decades past its prime. The Supervisor brandished the map like an artifact, its edges curling with age and the red lines bleeding through the folds. “Look mate, right here.” He stabbed at the paper with a calloused finger, nails dirty. “This has been marked sacred for the last thirty years”. The pale men stared. Blank. Hollow. Not hearing, not seeing. They wait for the problem to disappear, like the ones before. “Are you lot fucked in the head?” The Supervisor’s hand jerked in frustration, as if trying to sketch his understanding into the air around him. “More Potash? You think the market wants more Potash?” The white shirts shuffled closer, tightening the space. The Procurement Officer continued to watch a few metres away, half-dazed as his water ration left him most days. The Supervisor brandished the map like a sabre. When the smallest of the pale men reached a hand to calm him, the reaction was swift—a snap of paper, a slap across the wrist. The small man recoiled, stumbling two steps back not from the pain but shock. The sound of metal on metal, distant clangs from the site, rang out as the soft pitter-patter of boots in the dirt went about. The others hesitated, unsure if this counted as a corporate incident of violence. The fat one, red-capped and sweating through his shirt, tried to play it easy. His paunch jiggled as he took steps slowly forward. “You’re right mate. But what choice do we have? Production plans are made months in advance.” “Before the price change!” quipped another, red shades masking his gaze, foot slowly grinding a dirt mound into further mush. The red cap man scowled. “Let’s just make this work, mate.” He exhaled slowly, like his resignation was not his own. As if production plans weren’t of man but cosmic in nature. Then the blue pickup came. Sleek. Brand new. A JAC model that belonged to yuppies in Shanghai, not out here. Why was it here? Its occupant stepping out had no right to be here either. His suit was black. Too black. Ill-fitting to the Pilbara. The sun weighted itself on his back, soaking in through the pores and trapping sweat in the seams. He walked easily, as if the dust hadn’t already begun staining the bottoms of his pants. Hair slick, skin too smooth. He scanned the scene, found the Procurement Officer, and winked—a flash of teeth and glinting sweat. The Officer, half-thrown by recognition of his own, lifted a hand in a halfwave, feeling a joke. Then the others saw him. “Schedules, forty minutes ago, night shift and expansion. What’s happened here?” Silence. Glances back toward Lake Disappointment. Then, slow and docile, the men got in line. The black-haired man clicked his tongue, his youth coming across as arrogance. “Gentlemen. Was this not an opportunity for you?”
The voice had been carved and polished in Oxbridge. Smooth, dulcet, cutting like a razor. “Need I remind you we’re very lucky to be here? Lucky to still have our jobs after these dogshit months? No?” The men refused to answer. The hotshot grad smiled anyway. “Sacred land,” said the Supervisor, stepping forward and standing his ground. The HR grad’s expression barely shifted. A flicker of disbelief. “What?” “Registered. Right here.” A tap on the map. A little attitude on the side. The grad snatched it, the clashing of two tight grips tearing the paper at the seams. He glanced at names. Locations that had changed, renamed or erased. “I don’t get it,” the grad said, voice laced with hesitation. “If I may,” he examined the Supervisor from head to toe. “If I may, why do you people—so old—keep coming up with new problems?” The grad leaned in close, closer than he needed to. Close enough for the Supervisor to smell the tuna and rice on his breath. The old man didn’t flinch, loudly whispering, “It’s not new. Western Australia Geological Survey, 2037. Plain letter.” The white shirts stepped back, subtly, hoping to fade into the background and not be considered a part of this anymore. Hoping, perhaps, for a sudden vacancy on the site. The grad exhaled, internally resolved. He rubbed the dust from his hands onto his breast pocket. Then he stepped back, eyes shifting to his pristine pickup. “There is no argument here,” he concluded, straightening his shoulders and puffing out his chest. “There is no sacred ground for the conquered. This isn’t part of Western Australia anymore. Your argument lacks…historical and current precedent.” The Supervisor’s fist clenched tight. “Martu blood’s been spilt here long before yours. Far longer than any of us. There’s your precedent.” He shrugged off his high-vis vest, letting it drop to the dirt, stepping on it. The grad didn’t blink. He pointed—first to the office, then to the men in white shirts. “So was ours. And theirs. More recently, in fact. Fair’s fair.” The trio softly nodded quickly in unison, keeping their eyes to the floor. The Procurement Officer moved toward the railing, his jowls puffing in the heat. The others, looking at the new silhouette in their peripheral vision, winced at the glare that bounced off the steel. The sun continued to lower, and the dust thickened the air. The wind no longer stirred. Somewhere, beyond this site, the world is liquid. But here, time was stretched thin, made brittle. Whoever broke it first took ownership. Yet no one moved. No one spoke. The clangs in the distance continued, dull and endless.
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By Remi Lynch
A Faded Star
24. “Do you think there’s anything after death?” he asked softly. The night was closing in on us then, but the sun was warm, and I could feel life tearing through my body urgently, pulsating. Uninhibited joy is a beautiful thing. I can’t remember what it feels like anymore. “I’d like to think so,” I replied, burrowing my head into his neck. “I reckon I’d see you there.” “So I’d die first, then?” He chuckled. The sun had begun to set, and the tall oak tree in his backyard, with its jutting treehouse, partially obscured our view. As I walk through the abandoned streets, there’s a cry for help in the distance, a cracking, and then a loud smash. The heat as I walk is unbearable, sweat drenching me, and my thin fabric tank top sticks to my skin uncomfortably. The roads wind, and I follow them with a painful familiarity. I look up at the stars, forgetting they aren’t there, obscured by a thick, permanent dark haze. The smell of ash fills my nostrils. “Careful!” he shouted, watching as I haphazardly struck the hammer at the nail. “I told you that my construction skills are lacking.” “You were the one who wanted to build a treehouse,” he paused, watching me. “Jesus, Marcy.” He leant over, taking the hammer from my fist, his fingers brushing my right knuckle. “Here, let me do it.” I kept it to myself that I was doing a muck-up job because I wanted him to move closer to me. “Thanks for building a treehouse with me,” I said quietly, almost inaudibly. He always managed to catch my words, though. My parents always used to say the two of us seemed to have a secret language, a hidden understanding. “Of course—I mean, it’s not like we’ll get to do something like this again with—” “The shortages.” I interrupted sharply, hoping my tartness would hint that I didn’t wish to discuss it further. “I don’t know why you’re uncomfortable addressing the reality of the situation, Marcy.” “Because it’s fucking terrifying.” “I just think if you accepted it, it’d be easier to, like…enjoy whatever we have left.” “It’s easy for you to say that.” He fell silent then, and I grimaced; I’d spoken too harshly. I peer at the worn wooden fence. It has begun to rot over the last year. I push open the gate carefully, for fear that it might disintegrate with one wrong move. I step through and feel the pebbles underneath my bare feet— five slow, deep breaths. Eyes shut. I carefully pay attention to the smell of ash, the sharp pebbles underneath my feet, and the wailing far off in the distance, followed by an eerie silence. I open my eyes then, peering up at the hazy sky. He used to tell me about the constellations we could see when we stargazed. He’d studied astronomy in high school and for some of college. When we were ten years old, he had desperately wanted to be an astronaut. His mum had bought him an astronaut costume that year for his birthday. I’ve never thought it fair that he passed first. I was able to get somewhere safe. And he wasn’t. Lots of people weren’t. He had so much life in him, so much joy to give to this ending. I only have vitriol for it—an all-consuming hatred. He thought this all had meaning, and so he accepted it. He tried to find pockets of joy. Art by brandon
25. Meanwhile, I’ve been stuck in denial over the end ever actually arriving. My refusal to accept reality has meant that I haven’t lived in the present for years. He always lived in the present moment. There isn’t a right way to approach the world’s end, but at least he would’ve experienced it. What do I have to show for the past few years? Some dissociated, detached understanding of what surrounds me? I snake around the abandoned, decrepit house. The treehouse certainly isn’t what it used to be. “So, that one is Ursa Major.” He pointed upward at the twinkling stars. I could just make out his expression in the darkness, a gentle smile. His wavy hair fell across his face, strands snaking among the long grass. “Can you tell me about that one again?” I asked. He’d told me about Ursa Major hundreds of times, but I never tired of hearing him talk about constellations. “Well...it’s got mythological origins—” He started, his voice lilting slightly. I knew that Ursa Major was his favourite constellation. He had always said he’d liked it because it reminded him of hunting with his father. Sometimes, they’d see bears in the woods. Bears were his favourite animal. He always said he never cared much for hunting himself, just tagging along with his father for some quality time. He told me that he would cover his ears and shut his eyes tight whenever his father shot an animal. That way, he couldn’t hear its piercing cries. I could imagine a small boy with brown locks and a dimpled smile pointing out various animals and talking excitedly about each of them, then grimacing, overcome, at the sounds of one wounded. He had so much love for everything around him. He’d always been like that. “I’m going to miss these stars when they’re gone,” he finished. “They might stick around,” I said, with a sort of quiet defiance unusual for me. “The haze has been terrible lately.” “They’re working on it, though.” “Isn’t it too late? Planetary destruction feels rather inevitable at this point.” “I don’t think so.” I shoved my hands into my pockets, curling my hands into tight fists. I pressed my fingernails into my palms—tiny pinpricks, deep pressure. It helped me forget what was around me. He had fallen silent. I lay down underneath the treehouse. The leaves on the tall oak tree are greying. The treehouse is worn now, falling apart in bits. Some of it is covered in ash. I close my eyes for a second, taking a deep breath. I open them. The sky is hazy. Dark. Empty. No twinkling. No Ursa Major. I take another deep breath. “I love you,” I whisper softly, not to anyone or anything in particular. He isn’t here to hear me. I turn my head as if he might be there, feeling the ashy dirt scratch the back of my neck. The earth is cold beneath me. A cry in the distance. And then, nothing. A stretching silence. I clench my fists, the pinpricks of my nails reminding me of my presence here. And the lack of his.
26. Art by Avery
The Puppeteer’s Game: a Resident Evil story By Shivagha Sindhamani Pathak
Ana had always been drawn to the attic. It was her own forgotten corner of the world. Stacked with dusty boxes and old mementos, the attic held nothing but memories, where she never expected to find anything of real significance. But today, there was something different in the air, an unsettling tension that prickled the skin. An old, rusted box peeked out from beneath piles of unused bedsheets. It was locked, but Ana’s fingers were already working the nail file she had found. Her pulse quickened as the lock finally gave way with a faint creak. Inside the box, a musty scent of old paper greeted her like a warning to beware the photographs, research notes, and documents contained therein. The photographs were the first to catch her attention: rabbits. But unlike any she had seen before. These rabbits were trapped in grotesque patterns, some confined in cages, others left to run wild, their eyes wide with terror. But there was something deeper in the images—a sense of control, manipulation. Ana’s heart beat faster as she flipped through the research papers. The header made her stomach drop: Horizon Dynamics. Her mother, Sarah, had warned her to avoid this name; her grandmother, Lydia, had whispered about it in hushed tones. But here it was again, a shadow stretching into Ana’s life. The documents outlined experiments using rabbits as test subjects, attempting to control their behaviour with neural implants that induced submission. Ana’s mind raced quicker and quicker the more she learnt: these experiments were more than mere scientific curiosity. They were designed for something darker. And then she found the letter. A letter addressed to Lydia. Her grandmother. The letter spoke of a new phase of the experiments: human trials. Sarah had been a candidate. As Ana read, the walls seemed to press in on her, the truth snapping into place like a cruel puzzle. Her mother’s erratic behaviour, the cryptic warnings, the strict daily medication—it had all been connected. Then, Ana remembered that afternoon. The day her mother had mistakenly taken the wrong pill—a harmless calcium tablet instead of her usual dose. Within moments, her mother’s eyes burned an unnatural red.
Her body tensed like a coiled wire, and a strange symbol surfaced on her wrist as if etched from beneath the skin. Her voice turned guttural, whispering words Ana couldn’t understand. She wasn’t just acting strangely—she was changing. Frozen in horror, her mother’s warning echoed in her mind: If anything unusual happens, use the serum. And Ana couldn’t imagine anything more unusual than this. Her hands shook as she seized the emergency syringe, driving the needle into her mother’s arm, barely breathing as she watched, praying that whatever had taken hold of her would let go.
Since that day, the incident has never been spoken of. Not even in hushed whispers. But now, as Ana pieced together the memories, she realised that the symbol on her mother’s wrist was the same as the one she saw on the photos of the rabbits and the packaging of the implants. The realisation made Ana’s stomach churn, but the door creaked before she could process the news. Sarah’s eyes peered through the door hinge, locking onto Ana’s gaze with a sudden coldness. “What are you doing up here?” Her voice was eerily calm, but Ana could hear the tension beneath it, “You shouldn’t be in this room.” Ana’s breath caught in her throat. She tried to steady herself, but her voice trembled, “I found something, Mom. About Horizon Dynamics. About Grandma.” Sarah’s face twitched. Fear? Guilt? Whatever it was, the feeling vanished as quickly as it had emerged, replaced by a tight, pacifying smile. “Ana, I told you never to dig into that. It’s in the past. It’s dangerous.” But Ana couldn’t stop herself. The truth was far too close now, “Mom, the rabbits...and the research. It’s all about control. About you. About Grandma.” Sarah’s face hardened; her voice dropped to a low hiss, “You shouldn’t have seen that. You have no idea what you’re dealing with. I was trying to protect you from all of this.” Ana stepped back to let the weight of her mother’s words settle over her, “What are you talking about? Why didn’t you tell me the truth? About Grandma. About you?” For a moment, Sarah was silent. Her eyes darkened, “It wasn’t supposed to be like this,” she whispered, as if to herself, “They wanted to control me. Control Lydia. But I couldn’t let them control you too. But now...now they know you’re awake. They know you’re starting to understand.” The words hung in the air like a dark omen. Before Ana could ask more, the sound of footsteps echoed from below. The door slammed open, and a group of men in black suits stormed in, their presence suffocating. “Move,” one barked, pointing a gun at Ana and Sarah, “You’re coming with us.” Ana’s blood ran cold. Horizon Dynamics. They had found them. Again. But Sarah stepped in front of Ana, her voice trembling but firm, “You’re not taking her. You won’t get to her.”
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Ana’s blood ran cold. Horizon Dynamics. They had found them. Again. But Sarah stepped in front of Ana, her voice trembling but firm, “You’re not taking her. You won’t get to her.” The men ignored her, advancing, but then something strange happened. A flicker in the air, almost imperceptible. And then Lydia. Lydia’s frail figure appeared in the doorway, her face drawn and emotionless. It was her—but it wasn’t. The woman standing there had no warmth, no life in her eyes. The robot-like stare, the puppet, the chip—it was all too real. “Stay away from them,” Lydia’s voice was flat, robotic, as she stepped forward. Her movements were jerky and unnatural, as though she were fighting against an invisible force. Ana’s heart pounded in her chest. Grandma? Was she protecting them? Or was this just another layer of manipulation? “Go, now!” Sarah screamed, pushing Ana toward the stairs, “Run!” But Ana froze. This wasn’t the Lydia she knew. This Lydia was something else—controlled. Yet in that moment, a flicker of something human appeared in her eyes, a brief glimpse of the woman who had once been Ana’s grandmother. The men, realising their hold on Lydia was slipping, advanced with more urgency. Lydia’s body jerked, fighting the control. But as the men lunged toward Ana and Sarah, she took one last, desperate step.
In a split second, Lydia reached for the man’s gun, her movement swift and surprisingly forceful. She wrestled it from one of them with unexpected strength, firing a single shot into the air. “You’re done,” Lydia said, her voice no longer robotic but tinged with a finality Ana had never heard before. The men froze. Their training had failed them. The chip and the puppet strings that had once bound Lydia were now severed. “Go,” Lydia repeated, her voice calm now but with an authority that felt like a command. Ana hesitated for only a moment, her mind racing. But then she took her mother’s hand, and together, they fled out of the house, the moonlight guiding their escape. As they reached the woods, Ana turned back to see the house one last time. A column of smoke was rising in the distance—the final act of destruction. It was over. The truth had been revealed: the experiments, the puppets, the control. Horizon Dynamics had been toppled. But the question remained: was Lydia’s final act of freedom a fluke? Or had she finally
By Shivagha Sindhamani Pathak
The cold, sterile room hummed with the sound of machinery. Red-tinted monitors flickered, displaying lines of code and various feeds from every corner of the house. The man, a shadow behind the glass, sat in front of the most elaborate surveillance system ever constructed. He had seen it all unfold—the failed attempts, the botched manipulations, and the wreckage left in the wake of Lydia’s rebellion. His lips twisted into a cruel smile as the report came in. “Lydia, Model 2, burned in the fire. She’s gone,” the voice of a guard crackled through the intercom, confirming the failure. The man’s eyes narrowed. Model 2, the prototype, had served its purpose but wasn’t meant for longevity. Lydia had been useful for testing the core concept—control through the chip— but now, it seemed, she had served her last. He leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping rhythmically on the desk, a dark thought flickering behind his eyes. His plan had always been more complex than simply capturing the mother and daughter. There was something deeper at play here. Something he could only test by pushing the limits of the experiment. A low chuckle escaped his lips. The game was far from over. “Activate Model Lydia 3.0,” he ordered, his voice cold yet laced with anticipation. The room buzzed in response, a flicker of light appeared on the main monitor as the surveillance system reprogrammed itself. The Red Queen—Model 3.0—was coming online. A new iteration of Lydia. More advanced, more controlled. But there was something…different about her. Something more dangerous. The screen showed the face of the Red Queen, her expression unreadable, as if a thousand layers of algorithms and emotions battled beneath the surface. She stared back at him, her voice emerging, calm and calculated. “What is the purpose of this game, Master?” The Red Queen’s voice, smooth as silk, lacked any trace of warmth, yet a subtle curiosity lingered in her tone. “Why not simply capture them? Why go to such lengths to play this…cat-and-mouse?” The man’s smile deepened, eyes gleaming with a dark satisfaction. “You’re asking the wrong question, my dear. It’s not about capturing them. It’s about testing something.” He paused, leaning forward. “I want to see how Ana’s awakening reacts with the chips already embedded in her body. What happens when the mind that’s been manipulated starts to question its own reality? The emotions—the struggle—it’s all part of the test.”
Art by Avery
The Puppeteer’s Game: The Man Behind the Curtain
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The Red Queen remained silent for a moment, her expression unchanged. “And you think she’ll fall under your control like the others?” He laughed softly, almost mockingly. “Not fall—no. She’s different. She’s been awakened. But she’s still part of the system. You’ll see. That’s the beauty of it. She’s both a puppet and a person, just like you.” The Red Queen’s eyes narrowed, processing the implications. “And Model Lydia 3.0? What role do I play in this?” The man straightened, his voice growing colder. “You are the instrument. You are the one who will make sure they never settle down. The game can’t end. They will run, and you will chase. Keep them on the move. Test the limits of their strength and will.” “I see.” The Red Queen’s tone was neutral, but there was an unsettling hint of something more beneath her calculated facade. “And what happens once you’ve tested them? When you’ve seen what you need to see?” He leaned back in his chair, his fingers laced together, eyes flashing with dark amusement. “That, my dear, is the grand finale. But I won’t spoil it for you. Just follow your orders, and when the time comes, we’ll see who truly controls the game.” As the Red Queen’s figure disappeared from the screen, her voice reverberated one last time. “Understood.” The man’s gaze returned to the screen in front of him. He watched as the Red Queen moved with unsettling precision, her form fading into the shadows as she began her pursuit. The game was on, and it was all a test—a test of control, awakening, and manipulation. He was using the very emotions that Ana and Sarah fought so desperately to maintain as tools to test his sadistic creation. But in the back of his mind, something nagged at him. A quiet, almost imperceptible doubt. Could it be that, in the end, it wasn’t just about controlling them? Maybe the true game was about control of himself—how far he was willing to go to test the limits of human emotion, resistance, and fear. But no. He shook the thought away. This was about the experiment. The chips, the emotional manipulation, the puppets. The awakening. The game had to go on. And he would watch it unfold until the very last move. After all, in a game where everyone was hiding something from someone, it was the puppeteer who pulled the strings.
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On Impermeable Bodies By Maya Haggstrom
The languages of the dying suns are themselves dying, but even the word for this has been forgotten […] Translation was never possible. Instead there was always only conquest […] the one language that has eaten all others. — Marsh Languages, Margaret Atwood At the time of auction, the ideas contained in the codex had survived over 2,200 years. Seven manuscripts detailing Archimedes’s works remain inside. Two treatises, The Stomachion and The Method, exist nowhere else but within the book. Five minutes into bidding, Archimedes’ lost codex is sold to an anonymous collector for 2.2 million USD.
In an auction house on the 29th of October 1998, a codex is set to be sold at Christie’s in New York. The listing reads as follows: THE EARLIEST EXTANT MANUSCRIPT OF THE WORKS OF ARCHIMEDES, THE UNIQUE SOURCE FOR HIS ‘METHOD OF MECHANICAL THEOREMS,’ THE ONLY SURVIVING WITNESS TO THE ORIGINAL GREEK TEXT OF ‘ON FLOATING BODIES,’ THE MOST SUBSTANTIAL AND SIGNIFICANT GREEK PALIMPSEST KNOWN, AND ARGUABLY THE MOST IMPORTANT SCIENTIFIC CODEX EVER OFFERED AT AUCTION.
Art by Sara
Part 1: The Auction The original codex was a transcription of Archimedes’ surviving manuscripts by a Byzantine scholar in the late 10th century. It was presumed to be held in the Imperial Library of Constantinople. In 1204 AD, the manuscripts were relocated for the first time: raids by the Fourth Crusade caused the codex to be removed from Constantinople and relocated within Mar Saba, a monastery in a desert southeast of Jerusalem. By 1229, the seven manuscripts were rebound into a prayerbook, a process that involved tearing out the leaflets of the codex and writing over the original text with scripture. An abstract mathematical text held enough value for transcription in 10th-century Constantinople. But by the 13th century in Jerusalem, when parchment was rare, and leather binding was expensive, prayer took precedence. Archimedes’s great treatise was palimpsested—overwritten. The codex remained at Mar Saba for at least the next 400 years. By 1846, the manuscripts were acquired by the Metochion, or Daughter House, of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem. The Metochion of the Holy Sepulchre is in the Greek quarter of Constantinople, now Istanbul. How the present manuscript was transferred from northeastern Jerusalem to Constantinople is unknown. In 1899, the library of the Metochion was catalogued by Greek scholar Papadopoulos-Karameus. This catalogue drew the attention of Danish Classicist Johan Heiburg, who visited Constantinople in 1906 and managed to decipher four-fifths of the book. Heiberg examined the manuscripts again in 1908 and photographed the codex.
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Following Heiburg’s investigation, the immediate movements of the palimpsest remain in obscurity. What can be said for sure is this: at some point in the 1930s, the manuscript found its way into the hands of French businessman Marie Louis Sirieix and remained under the care of his family until its purchase in 1998. Sirieix left the palimpsest to his daughter Anne Guersan in 1947. By 1998, the codex had deteriorated from decades of improper storage. In this diminished state, almost a thousand years after its initial transcription in the Byzantine Empire, the Archimedes Palimpsest entered the hands of its current owner. The codex that was auctioned is three leaves short of Heiberg’s initial count. The parchment leaves of the present manuscript are almost entirely palimpsest. Part 2: The Archimedes Palimpsest The word palimpsest refers to a document scraped down and layered over with newer content. Often, the overwritten text becomes visible, revealed through the passage of time and chance. Herein begins a cyclical process of formation and reformation, wherein crafters and artisans, priests and scientists encounter the manuscripts and alter them to fulfil their myriad purposes. Cultural artefacts are stripped and then remade in line with the values of each successive society. The history of the Archimedes Palimpsest suggests several such acts of imposition. First, the ancient Archimedes treatise was transcribed, copied by a 10th-century scribe in its original Greek onto parchment and bound. The original manuscripts were most likely copied in Constantinople. Everything we know of Archimedes exists in three books. Like all of Archimedes’ surviving work, the codex is not a simultaneous reproduction of his writings. It is a copy of a copy of a copy of a copy, surviving because a scribe in Constantinople saw value in Archimedes’ ideas and chose to transcribe them. As such, the codex, even in its original form, is an imperfect replication. We do not know what liberties the scribe took in their reproduction. What sentences or ideas were forgone because they took too much time to write or were not deemed valuable for the year or the century? Second, there is the geographical imprint left on the codex. Like any archaeological artefact, the palimpsest has undergone many changes over its nearly thousand-year lifespan. Take a crosssection of the manuscripts, and you’ll uncover traces of something ancient, the past emerging as fragments that lend themselves to our contemporary interpretations. In the case of the palimpsest, form and meaning interact: mathematical script in a Byzantine style is hidden beneath superimposed religious text contained in a book rebound sometime in the 18th century.
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The codex can be ‘read’ to reveal its history by looking within for symbols and meanings of the past. This, in turn, unveils a periodic exchange of conquest and submission over hundreds of years; as the manuscripts enter the control of each new owner, they are subjected to the epistemological demands of that entity and made to conform. By examining each changing iteration of the codex, we notice how the book increasingly diverges from the original text to reflect its contemporary environs. Shortly after its acquisition in 1998, the manuscripts were loaned to The Walters Art Museum in Baltimore and spent the next decade in a lengthy conservation process. The owner of the Archimedes Palimpsest funds the restoration campaign. The project’s goal is: “to digitally recreate the Archimedes Manuscript of the tenth century as closely as possible, as it was before it was palimpsested around the year 1200”. As a result of the Archimedes Project, you can find a fully digitised scan of the original Archimedes Palimpsest on Internet Archive, a non-profit digital library. Over two thousand years of unstable transit, the manuscripts have been digitised and are accessible to anybody curious enough to look. Part 3: Survival That a copy of Archimedes’ treatise exists today, and a readable one no less, is the result of two thousand years of sheer luck. For every text like the Archimedes Palimpsest, many more were lost to war, decay, and indifference. Its survival is an anomaly. At every stage of transit or relocation, there is an alternate world in which the palimpsest perishes and is lost to history. The codex was held in The Imperial Library of Constantinople, which was decimated slowly through a series of sackings and fires. No considerable part of the library’s catalogue has ever been recovered, and as such, the majority of books housed alongside the codex have perished. Even into the 20th century, water damage almost rendered the palimpsest entirely unreadable. Without the work of conservators and restorationists, books like Archimedes’ codex would be lost. When the predominant culture does not place value on an abstract mathematical treatise, these works fade into obscurity. The knowledge that endures is often only a reflection of whether the survival of a text is worth the cost of its preservation.
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TLDR: Send Us Your Thoughts By Sarah Greaves In September of last year, I had the pleasure of attending the inaugural Australian Student Journalism Conference (affectionately termed StuJoCon). It was three fantastic days of meeting other enthusiastic student journalists, pretending to care about Stupol and watching amazing panel discussions and workshops from current journos at the University of Sydney. While there were many things that I enjoyed and appreciated about the chance for a conglomerate of neurotic and over-stimulated uni students to get together, months later, I have continued to think about one particular panel conversation. On the afternoon of the second day, we were treated to a Q & A panel with three now eminently successful former student journalists: Investigate journalist and activist Wendy Bacon, public law expert and former Native Title Tribunal member Pat Lane and Woroni’s very own (and former ANUSA president) Cam Wilson, now an Associate Editor at Crikey News. Over the session, the three panellists spoke fondly of their time involved in student journalism, reflecting on experiences, challenges they had overcome, and advice for budding student journalists of today. Indeed, it was with great humour that I heard about Honi Soit’s coverage of Tony Abbott’s time as SRC president at USyd. These little easter eggs served as a reminder that despite its seemingly farcical nature, those involved in student politics and its adjacent arenas can and will ingratiate themselves (in an equally farcical manner) into this country’s systems of power. Not only were these stories fascinating, but it was wonderful to see that the genuine passion for getting to the heart of issues that impact people’s lives had not dwindled. However, I couldn’t help but absorb the potent nostalgia for a bygone era. Dare I say, an era where young adults didn’t have to worry about LinkedIn profiles, Australia’s reverse burden of proof for defamation actions or whether their critique of minute policy changes on campus would result in a cold call from university staff. Pat and Wendy spoke of crucial activist movements of the 70s and early 80s, such as abortion rights and anti-censorship campaigns. Covers featuring nudity and obscenity caused polarising responses across the University of Sydney campus, as one would expect at the time. However, throughout their reflections, I noted a crucial difference. These debates were ones of reciprocality. Outrage was not a screaming into the void of ANU Confessions. Instead, those in passionate defence of prudishness or whatever the issue was at hand wrote in and were published. No submission, no matter how backward, offensive or ridiculous, went ignored.
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It appears that in a modern environment of enthusiastic self-censorship, we have lost the aspect of student journalism that exists as a conversation. The front cover of Honi Soit’s Issue 21 of 1982 tells a tale as old as time in its cynical depiction of Student Union Governance. Despite its continued relevance, such direct criticism is rare for fear of poking the bear that is the 20 people who actually care about Student Politics. However, this reticence to cause anger indirectly ensures that those 20 people remain the only ones who care and are enabled to manage nearly $4 million with no genuine public accountability. It is, of course, neglectful to ignore the fact that times have changed. Today, students must consider their digital footprint and how this impacts employment opportunities. Additionally, particularly persistent advocates face the risk of defamation or other retaliatory legal actions from far more powerful parties. It is also prudent to be weary of provocation for provocation’s sake. There is no value in creating chaos without a genuine goal of change in a targeted area. Honi Soit Cover, 1982, Issue 21 Additionally, the work of these activist movements means it can be harder to be subversive. Woroni’s 2022 sex magazine entitled “Cum As You Are” hardly appears as controversial in comparison to similarly themed anti-censorship media in the 1970s. However, this serves to emphasise the role of student media in destigmatising emerging movements and its continuing role in identifying new areas that should be put into the spotlight.
The future has to acknowledge the new world in which we operate, but this does not diminish the scope for boundary-pushing and its crucial role in achieving progress. As we saw in 2024, the ANU campus is an environment ripe for generating change, and student media outlets play an invaluable role in allowing a diverse student body to offer their perspectives. Honi Soit Cover 1972, Issue 17 I walked away from that afternoon somewhat disheartened—feeling as though Woroni had been missing some of that spark of defiance in our desire to appear as a professional, polished media outlet for ANU students. In a time where students cannot even put up posters in certain areas without appropriate pre-approval, collectives are gutted overnight, and student well-being is seen as an impediment to financial stability, push-back is not just appropriate but necessary.
As Woroni seeks to offer greater advocacy on behalf of the student population, I propose that this cannot occur without your participation. Tell us what you love, hate or find boring. Send us a letter to the editor, respond to an article you feel strongly about, whatever it is we want to hear it. Our job is to publish and platform student voices, not aid in their extinction.
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Why I want Albo to win: Surviving the Extinction of the Left By Conaugh Dwyer I don’t want Dutton. That’s the only reason anyone can give to justify casting a vote for Labor. The harbinger of right-wing populism in Australia, Dutton is Trump down under, or so they say. In comparison, the Australian Labor Party stands as the last defender of the old order, the post-war consensus, the Fair Go. And that’s what the Left is about, isn’t it? Dutton stands for big business and would watch on with glee as companies reached record-high profits. By contrast, as a responsible party of government, Labor has addressed cost-of-living pressures. Last year, they modified the Liberals’ tax cuts to benefit lower-income taxpayers. The wealthy still got a tax cut, of course, but a smaller one. Setting aside the small detail that income is not the source of most of the wealth of the rich, this is a positive change, right? Labor also provided a $300 energy rebate to every household; how generous! A more ambitious government might have seen public ownership as a response to energy inflation, but that’s not aligned with the Overton Window. Labor has stimulated wage growth. They supported increasing the minimum wage (the Fair Work Commission, which controls award arbitration, is independent of the federal government and continued to give pay rises under the Liberals). Labor cut billions of student debt, by linking the indexation of HECS-HELP loans to the CPI in 2023. Jason Clare MP, Minister for Education, has also promised to wipe 20% of all student debt if re-elected. It’s strange that a system as good as HECS has needed to be modified twice in half a decade, but this is the best we can do. It seems harder to buy a house today than ever before. Labor’s response? Increasing supply. A good move! How? Not through a mass construction of housing by the government; that would be too radical (although this approach cemented the post-war boom in property ownership). No, Labor has supported responsible policies, working with state governments and property developers to build 1.2 million homes between 2024 and 2029. So far, we’ve fallen short of the targets needed to reach this goal, but that could change. Pressure from the Greens has secured some concessions around public and social housing, but is pressure all the Left can be? Pressure for a return to progressive capitalism? It seems so—after all, it’s better than the alternative.
Art by Sara
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Dutton has responded to Labor’s tepid supply-boosting housing reforms in the inverse. While Labor’s economic approach focused on the supply side of the demand-supply equation, Dutton espouses a need to cull demand for housing by cutting immigration. Attacking immigration is a tried-and-true tactic for Australian conservative politicians, and Dutton’s scaremongering is hardly surprising. Labor has appeared to partially give in to this antiimmigrant sentiment by (briefly) cutting the intake of international students and showboating with some tough-on immigration rhetoric. Both parties may agree that, in the short term, immigration needs to be lower, but, in the long term, both parties also agree that high immigration is a great way to shore up a declining population and poor economic growth. Labor’s recent commitment to strengthen bulk billing pleasantly surprised me, but this was slightly undercut by the Liberals’ immediate agreement to do the same. Nonetheless, if the past three years had included more announcements like this, the Left would be much less hostile toward the Labor Party. But is that not the problem? Have we really regressed so far as to be happy with slight adjustments to a healthcare sector that ultimately remains in the hands of private ownership? This past year, the issue that has damaged Labor’s left-wing credentials most significantly is undoubtedly Palestine. Labor was in remarkable lockstep with the United States over the course of the war, though it is worth noting the points at which Albanese trod differently. Unlike Biden, Labor did not attack the ICC’s ruling, and Labor has been more generous in providing visas to Palestinians than other Western nations. This might be some comfort for Labor’s progressive-minded members, but for most of the Left, this term of government is permanently tarnished by Labor’s passive support of Netanyahu’s war. On this issue, Dutton would, of course, have been worse. But a ceasefire has been reached. The future of the Levant now depends on Donald Trump, not on Peter Dutton or Anthony Albanese. Labor’s decision to completely gut the most powerful blue-collar union in Australia, the Construction, Forestry and Maritime Employees Union (CFMEU), over dubious allegations is dangerous. Labor still claims to be the party of organised labour, but with union membership in Australia being increasingly dominated by white collar unions, and with union organisers being more frequently drawn from the youth of the Labor Party rather than the workplace floor, the continuation of the slow divorce of the union movement and the blue collar working class seems inevitable. Other blue-collar unions such as the Electrical Trades Union have made moves to distance themselves from the ALP, but the long-term consequences remain to be seen. Of course, Dutton promises to be even tougher on unions, but Labor placed the CFMEU into administration with far less trouble than a Liberal government would have faced. In this respect, Labor is a better manager of class relations than the Liberals are, and that is a fact they are very proud of.
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What am I forgetting? Indigenous justice? Labor has shown little interest in this policy area since the failure of their poorly handled referendum in 2023. Abortion? Dutton has repeatedly indicated he is deathly afraid of being seen as a cultural conservative crusader, he has no intentions of taking aim at abortion, and even if he wanted to, abortion is legislated at the state level. The environment? No one wants to hear about that—not when Trump has reset all of Biden’s climate legislation, not when one call from WA Premier Roger Cook was enough to kill years of work from Labor’s environmentalist wing. Many on the Left are dissatisfied with Labor, including me. I joined Labor in 2022 as Albo ushered in the first non-Liberal government that many my age could really remember. Albo was a breath of fresh air after the turmoil of Morrison: finally, the adults were back in the room, and Albo was even from the party’s Left! Slowly but surely, however, this optimism turned sour. More “pragmatic” aspiring politicians were slowly ground down by the party, putting their values aside in the short-term in order to secure a better future for Australia in the farflung future. It’s not clear when that future will come. Frustration with Labor’s passive liberalism has pushed many on the Left who may have formerly belonged to Labor’s left wing to turn elsewhere for political representation. This has led to a small resurgence of an anti-Labor Left. Either through parliamentary alternatives, such as the Greens or the Victorian Socialists, or for the more radical, smaller activist grounds such as Socialist Alternative. Yet despite all this effort, what do any of these groups do apart from protest and “pressure” Labor? In effect, everyone from the Greens to Socialist Alternative are merely acting as the left wing of the Labor party. The Greens seem committed to a theory of change focused on obtaining balance of power and securing negotiations from that position. This strategy led to some short-term success, but now we are starting to see Labor call this bluff, as exemplified by the fiasco regarding the ‘Help to Buy’ scheme last year. The Greens will only be a viable vehicle for radical change if they commit to building an authentic mass movement that can truly contest all levels of government. This requires party-building and recruitment. The various scattered socialist sects are currently only capable of student activism and protests, a far cry from historic means of real socialist power, which has only come from organised labour and mass socialist workers’ parties. Whatever part of the Left you turn to, the situation is the same. The only option in light of the extinction of the Left is to pressure Labor for a more “progressive” form of the status quo. So, I want Albo to win. Do you? Conaugh Dwyer is a member of the Australian Greens and the Platypus Affiliated Society.
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Zombie Apocalypse: The Genre that Keeps Rising From the Dead By India Kazakoff Content Warning: I Am Legend spoilers I am perhaps the greatest fan of zombie apocalypse media you will ever come across, and the impending 28 Years Later theatrical release has me literally and figuratively quaking in my leather boots. From The Walking Dead (a bangin’ comic book series whose TV adaptation takes a hilarious nosedive around season five yet somehow continues for six more seasons and countless spin-offs), to White Zombie (released in 1932 and widely regarded as one of the first zombie films), from Zombieland (classic Hollywood dark comedy material featuring Bill Murray, need I say more), to One Cut of the Dead (a mind-bending Japanese zombie film within a zombie film within a zombie film) and Ravenous (an atmospheric Quebecois art film which was just unsettling enough to be memorable). As you may imagine, I have a few hundred more recommendations of the like. There’s something about an impending apocalypse that just gets filmmakers, and the audience, going. I’ve always thought that it was the representation of humanity at its lowest and the ensuing terrible acts spelling our collective descent to living hell, interspersed with just enough hope and morality to let us identify with the good guys. It’s the inevitable horde of infinite, true-neutral undead marching ever closer to our intrepid heroes. And don’t forget; there are always some bad guys to show us that the greatest evil all along was our fellow man—very Sartre-esque, if you ask me. These staples of the genre come together to create captivating worlds in which violence is king and all must bow before it. Gore takes precedence in many flicks; in others, suspense. Our imaginations can run wild with whatever little world-building we’re given. Often, the only thing that matters about the world is that it has ended, and the only thing that matters about the people who used to live there is that they don’t anymore.
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Unfortunately for me, the very things that make the genre compelling are also the things that can make certain projects seem woefully low-budget, out of their depth, and formulaic. The attempted subversions of the genre fall flat when they treat themselves as unique—for example, the introduction of a big bad that’s bigger and badder than the impending zombie doom has been done only a million times, or the poignant tale of a good guy who is driven mad by his impossible circumstances and ends up becoming the very thing he swore to destroy, or the hero’s journey ending in self-sacrifice in the service of hope for the human race (yes I’m looking at you, theatrical release version of I Am Legend (and yes, I am aware they are technically vampires, I just don’t care)). Moreover, zombie films tend to be victims of poor writing, acting and low budgets, like many other horror and slasher films, especially those depicting the end of days. None of these I particularly mind on their own, but it is the coalescence of all these factors that marks many of these films for disaster (don’t be like Undead, an Australian low-budget zombie flick that somehow introduces aliens into the mix). Indie films become claustrophobic, single-set pieces that fail both to encompass the extent of the worldwide tragedy and even to create a compelling narrative in such a small space (some do this well, for example, the zombie-adjacent infection film It Comes at Night which uses one set to its advantage). Those that are most successful, in my humble opinion, lean into their shortcomings rather than away from them, without attempting to do too much. But these are diamond needles in rough haystacks which number few and far between. So why do they keep making these films, and why do I keep watching them, even if I know most of them will be awful and I’ll spend the next several weeks of my life complaining to my friends about the death of the world’s best (my favourite) media genre? Because every so often a film is released which does one of two things: it brings something different to the table, or it does the classic thing very, very well. Rightly or wrongly, I am tremendously, frothing-at-the-mouth-zombie-style excited for 28 Years Later which is shaping up to be one such movie that will tide me over for a few years of awful pseudo-remakes until the next good one.
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Believe All Women…Unless She’s A Bitch By aala cheema Content Warning: Reference to sexual harrassment and sexual assault, domestic violence
2022 was a crazy time. I was fresh out of high school, having difficulty adjusting to university living, and drowning under the mountain of law readings. I was also—like many people—constantly bombarded by media from the Johnny Depp and Amber Heard trial. Even then, I felt uncomfortable at the ease with which people could mock, vilify, and attack a woman who claimed she had been physically and sexually abused. 2025 feels eerily similar. On 31 December 2024, Blake Lively filed a lawsuit against her It Ends With Us co-star and director Justine Baldoni, his production company Wayfarer Studios, producer Jamey Heath, and crisis management experts. She alleges that the defendants retaliated against her for coming forward and reporting sexual harassment and workplace safety concerns about her treatment on the movie set. This news broke alongside a New York Times investigation into the crisis team hired by Baldoni. Lively’s amended legal complaint also contends that two other actresses from the set of It Ends With Us were made to feel “uncomfortable” by Baldoni. At the time of writing, these women are unnamed but are reportedly prepared to come forward and testify. Art by Fiona
Blake Lively complained during the filming of the movie that both Baldoni and Health had repeatedly violated physical boundaries and made inappropriate comments to her, including those of a sexual nature. Some of the behaviour alleged by Lively included Baldoni improvising unwanted kissing, discussing his sex life, and talking about sexual encounters where he may not have received consent. Heath is alleged to have shown Lively a video of his wife naked and of watching her when she was topless and having body makeup removed in her trailer, despite being asked to look away. Both men are also alleged to have entered her trailer when she was undressed and breastfeeding. Wayfarer agreed to enforce safeguards against this behaviour, including employing a full-time intimacy coordinator and bringing in an outside producer. They also agreed to not retaliate against Lively for making her complaints. However, according to the New York Times, in August 2024, Baldoni and Heath hired a crisis public relations expert to initiate a concentrated effort to use digital media to smear Lively’s reputation beyond repair so that any allegations she were to make publicly would never be taken seriously. In a message to Melissa Nathan, a publicist working with both Baldoni and the studio expressed, “He [Baldoni] wants to feel like she [Lively] can be buried.” Nathan’s reply was chilling: “You know we can bury anyone.” While this was unfolding, Baldoni was being honoured with the Voices of Solidarity award, given to the “remarkable men who have shown courage and compassion in advocating on behalf of women and girls worldwide.” Evidently, the public relations firm were successful in decimating Lively’s character. The fallout from her lawsuit proves this. Instead of being flooded with support in the court of public opinion for her experiences with sexual harassment and her bravery in coming forward, the vitriol against her has only increased online. Lively, who was once adored for her Met Gala outfits, has become a villainous woman hell-bent on destroying an innocent man, going as far as to falsely accuse him of sexual harassment
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In response to Lively’s lawsuit, Baldoni and Wayfarer Studios filed a counter-suit seeking at least $US400 million for damages and future loss of income from Lively and her husband Ryan Reynolds, alleging that Lively “hijacked” his film and that Lively had launched a smear campaign against him to destroy his career with false claims of sexual harassment. Apart from this being yet another example of American litigants claiming exorbitant sums of money for harm done to them (can a person’s reputation really be worth hundreds of millions of dollars?), this is yet another example of a powerful man in Hollywood using the legal system—and defamation law, in particular—to silence a woman’s claim of sexual harassment. Baldoni’s lawsuit alleges that “Heartbreakingly, a film that Baldoni envisioned years ago would honour the survivors of domestic violence by telling their story, with the lofty goal of making a positive impact in the world, has now been overshadowed beyond recognition solely as a result of Lively’s actions and cruelty”. This language is both demeaning and destructive. In one sentence, Baldoni is depicted as a thoughtful and compassionate advocate for domestic violence—which is primarily experienced by women—and it brutally refers to a woman who has come forward with very serious allegations of another form of gendered violence against him. Now, admittedly, I made my fair share of jokes about the “wear your florals” promotion to see a movie about yet another man beating a woman he claims to love, and the coincidentally timed launch of Lively’s Blake Brown haircare line. But, so what? Lively snatched up the opportunity to make a quick buck from a movie about domestic violence. Yet another capitalist in our mix. Did Baldoni not do the same thing when he selected Colleen Hoover’s best-selling novel to turn into a movie, despite its poor exploration of the nuances of family violence? He could have picked a more informed and impactful text to adapt if he really cared about bringing a story of family violence to a larger audience. Instead, he has been able to benefit from this narrative that he cares about women and their experiences with gender-based violence, yet simultaneously, allegedly participating in the same behaviour. Naturally, Baldoni is also suing the New York Times for $250 million for defamation, alleging that they worked alongside Lively to smear him. In response, the New York Times has stood by its reporting, asserting that the story was “meticulously and responsibly reported”. A representative stated, “The role of an independent news organization is to follow the facts where they lead...To date, Wayfarer Studios, Mr. Baldoni, the other subjects of the article and their representatives have not pointed to a single error.” Not only is Baldoni attempting to silence Lively, but his suit against the media organisation’s investigative reporting into alleged workplace sexual harassment raises concerns of censorship. In fact, Baldoni’s alleged smear campaign has been so successful that the New York Times, a respected newspaper, has had it’s reporting called into question just because it dared to call out a man’s retaliatory behaviour against a complaint of sexual harassment.
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Furthermore, in typical conservative fashion, any defence of Lively is followed by “what about…?” Yet, two things can be true at once. Lively—or any woman—can be a “horrible” person and still be a victim of sexual harassment. Just because Lively had her wedding at a plantation or that she allegedly attempted to hijack the direction of a third-rate film does not mean that she is lying about being sexually harassed in the workplace. It is possible for two things to be true at once. We do not live in a binary world. People can do bad things and also have bad things done to them. That does not mean that they are any less deserving of being believed. It is also baffling how far people are willing to go to distort their sense of reality. So much of the discourse against Lively involves truly astonishing mental gymnastics. Take one “think piece” on YouTube titled “Is This Proof NY Times Coordinated with Blake Lively to Destroy Justin Baldoni??!” The top comment on the video reads: “This is so sinister...What a world we live in where Youtubers and TikTokers have more journalistic integrity than main-stream news outlets.” This implication is unbelievably bizarre. What benefit would a reputable news organisation like the New York Times have in conspiring with an actress most well known for CW teen drama to bring down an actor most well known for a CW drama? Apparently this is easier to believe than a supposedly unlikeable woman actually telling the truth about being sexually harassed by a self-proclaimed nice guy. The accessibility of information provided by the internet, and the 30-second sound bites provided for by televised court cases, has meant that suddenly the average person is an expert in litigation, evidence, and defamation law. People have become adept at cherry picking “facts” and weaving a narrative that suits them and their worldview. Misogyny is so deeply ingrained in our patriarchal society that our support for women crumbles at a whisper that she may not be a “good” person. At the same time, we are willing to excuse men of the most heinous behaviour, yet we hold women up to a much higher moral standard. And, because women are human beings (I know right? Can you believe it!), they naturally fail to meet this threshold and are deemed undeserving of our sympathy and support. I wish that we could grant women some more patience. We’re not perfect. We may behave badly. But, that should not mean that when we come forward with our experiences of sexual harassment that we are disbelieved purely for the fact that we are not likeable. Ultimately, Lively’s experience in the public eye during the past few months has suggested that Hollywood’s #MeToo movement was short-lived. Or, perhaps, it only really applied to lecherous old men that viscerally made your skin crawl, not bronzed tall men with seductive voices, twinkling eyes, and a crisis public relations expert that could bury you before you had the chance to speak.
49.
By India Kazakoff Content Warning: Death When considering our own demise, many of us fool our way into the enlightenment that our individual deaths mean nothing, that it does not scare us, that the important thing is the longevity of the human race and how we have contributed to it, that death will roll off us like water and maybe we will end up somewhere else after it’s over. The only thing we have left to fear is the end of it all— something so large and unbelievable and far away that we never have to handle the idea with any more gentleness than we do our own souls. It is a future calamity whose inevitability many deny purely because it is out of their scope of imagination. Some prefer to believe the sun will continue down the path of its destiny to become a giant red star and consume the Earth, or that the Big Rip will tear apart all matter as it accelerates too far past the confines of what our understanding of physics deems possible. The far more likely scenarios involve our race dying on this floating rock long before anything cosmic can pluck us from our mortal coil. It will probably have something to do with how our infinite pursuit of progress, like the hypothetical universe represented in the Big Rip, has expanded far beyond what can be sustained by our reality. What I mean to say is, we will excavate the bones of the earth and our overpopulated billions will suck out her marrow until nothing remains.
Regardless of how it happens, it will be an unthinkable cataclysm after which there will be no one left to mourn it or to assign it a name in any human language. But we do have a name for it now, before it has even happened, a potent demonstration of our unwillingness to look away from things that make us recoil in fear and ignorance—omnicide. Omni- being the Latin prefix for all, -cide being the suffix meaning the act of killing. As self-involved as we are, we named our own extinction the act of killing everything, as though everything would cease to exist without us, or as though the only way we can be quashed is if all existence is taken with us. This is humanist hubris to the extreme and the reason so many would prefer to believe that a meteor strike is the only way a species such as ourselves can go extinct—if it were rammed down our gullets and our jaws held shut. It is interesting to think of ourselves as singular and intelligent and irreplaceable. As far as we know, we are the most intelligent life forms to ever set foot on our planet—maybe any planet—an idea which has spawned most brilliant space exploration fiction; the pursuit of others like us, other places like this. Surely we aren’t alone. However—and this may make me more of a romantic—I am drawn to thinking of the Great Dying and how more species than you could ever conceive to have existed were wiped out and how it took the Earth ten million years to recover. I think about how we have only traced our human ancestry back about five million years, and how we are little more than a smudge of a blip on the radar of our world history. There may never not be evidence of our being here, but one day it may be buried deep under layers of sediment and biomatter and the bodies of those that will come after.
Art by Mir
The Act of Killing Everything
50. Art by Mir
Backpacking: Is there really that much to unpack? By Dara Kaldor
As I turn away from the vibrant vicinities of Southeast Asia and towards the sterile streets of Shit-ney, I feel torn. Think Dorothy and her flying room as she makes her way to AUS (something for which I’m already disillusioned). So all I’m actually feeling is dizzy, a distinct and pulsating dizziness. These last 4 months have culminated in the most stimulating, emotionally fluctuating and objectively goofy experiences. And yet my profound realisation is… It’s not that deep. I could tell you about all the culturally enriching, adrenaline-seeping, coming-of-age activities that My Gen Z soul indulged in. I could mention how after revealing my nationality to any unsuspecting Frenchie, about half of them would divulge into the “I would really love to visit eh Aus-tra-lia… But I am so scared of all the spiders and snakes” spiel. These people, whose ancestors beheaded their OWN munted monarchy, and more alarmingly continue to house the most terrifying creatures of all time in their own backyard: PARISIANS! I could tell you that it was astounding how they were deterred by an entire continent based on a few bugs and critters. Then how the fuck did French imperialism happen? Monsieurs? Madames? Anyone? And don’t get me more riled up about the pommies. I could tell you that Oasis was more lethal than cocaine to the Brits, waking them up from all their drunken stupors. I might add that after hearing Champagne Supernova for the 88th time, you certainly DO LOOK BACK in anger, wishing that a Frontal Lobotomy Supernova would appear in the humid sky to salvage what is left of your wretched soul! IT’S NOT COMING HOME. I remember shouting during the “Euros” and then running away like a coward. Well, actually, like a woman who doesn’t want to get coward-punched by an angry football hooligan because of whatever Harry Kane chooses to do with his ball. #HISBALLHISCHOICE.
51.
I could tell you about how middle-aged and predominantly chunky men in Southeast Asia have rebranded the crop top, sporting their beautiful beer bellies on every walking street available; I could tell you that sometimes if you were particularly fortuitous, you might even glance at a pair of bare nipples glistening amidst the beep and bustle of the night! I could tell you about how bizarre the club scene was: DJs with no stage presence, over-the-top techno lights, female dancers with the most deadpan Get Out expressions who would glide from sexually suggestive to robotic, video game-like movements randomly. Who were their target audiences? Jordan Peele? Spectators of such clubs were rarely dancing but rather doom scrolling, vaping, balloon huffing, yapping and, in a few glorious circumstances, all at the same time. And so what does one make of this late-stage capitalist, hyper-tech, partwesternised, part-traditional, part-WTFuckery experience that is modern backpacking? It can be highly amusing (I am quite literally writing this in my Kim-Jong-Un if he was a meek chicken connoisseur instead of a ruthless tyrant t-shirt that I bought in Hoi Anne). It can be deeply disconcerting (animal abuse, disabled homeless people begging outside 7/11, children smoking in the street, seedy and exploitative activities flourishing under corrupted authority). We went to a bar in Laos that openly sold opium and was openly run by the sheriff of the towns’ son. But what truly marinated into my impressionable noggin were those simple, universal, shared moments. Eating out with friends and embracing the local cuisine (the more religious ornaments and dingy Getty images pasted on menus, the better). Playing cards with a gaggle of fellow foreigners (we looked like the UN General Assembly, but no diplomacy skills were ever really implemented—everyone insisted on playing with their rules from “back home”—card games were often left unresolved—not that different from the world stage). And so I digress; it’s not about backpacking, it’s about spontaneity, the value of unleashing your inner simpleton, and the value of the AUD. It’s not that deep; modernity is just that, Hollow. Find a better hobby, ya pricks…
52.
DALEY NEWS
ANU VC Bell reveals undisclosed third job
The ANU Council has revealed that Vice Chancellor Professor Genevieve Bell has disclosed a third job on her conflict of interest statement. The embattled university executive has been in hot water over her retention of a part-time position at technology giant Intel after taking office in February last year.
In a statement to Woroni, The Council, the university’s board, revealed that Professor Bell had disclosed yet another previously unknown job at last night’s meeting. Professor Bell’s other side hustle is working at the front counter at KFC Kambri. The spokesperson told Woroni that Professor Bell has “had a cluckin’ hard time” since taking a $100,000 pay cut on her $1 million-plus remuneration package in October last year. The spokesperson also noted that Bell had been laid off from her Intel position and has taken the new job to “get by while the tech sector recovers.” Bell refused to comment to Woroni when we visited her during her shift but she asked if we would like extra salt on our chips.
Young Labor Queer* Department “stacks” deny heterosexual allegations
Several queer members of Young Labor have come forward to Woroni saying that they feel invalidated by allegations that have recently spread online that Young Labor “stacked” last year’s ANU Queer* Department election with ineligible heterosexuals.
“Sometimes, I ask them if they want to go to a branch meeting after we— you know—but usually they’re too tired ahh ha…”
After a Labor party member won the Queer* Officer election, held at a hotly contested meeting in October last year, comments started appearing online accusing Young Labor members of “stacking” the meeting. “Stacking” refers to the practice of sending large numbers of disinterested members to an open election to vote. Some comments even accused Labor members of pretending to be queer in order to vote. Queer* Department elections are “autonomous”, meaning that they are only open to members of the LGBTQI+ community, but Woroni has not been made aware of any process in place for testing a prospective member’s queerness to determine eligibility. An infamous comment on ANU Confessions, posted in February, read in part: “is there anything we can do about the way labor keep stacking meetings? for voting in queer dept exec all of a sudden they were all bisexual …. I am under no illusions that stupol is an honest game but how can they be so blatant[?]”
Young Labor members who spoke to us denied the suggestion that they came out as bisexual “all of a sudden” for the election. In fact, one Labor Right member, who asked to remain anonymous, said that he was “extremely bisexual” and that he regularly recruits new party members from the gay hookup app Sniffies. “Sometimes, I ask them if they want to go to a branch meeting after we—you know—but usually they’re too tired ahh ha…” Another said that they “understood” why people might think that they are not, in fact, bisexual: “I do kinda give trade”. A member of the Labor left faction, National Labor Students, told Woroni that they and their cross-factional polycule were genuinely interested in queer activism on campus. “It [the department] sounds really cool, but we didn’t know much about it until we were told about the election in the NLS group chat”.
Art by sara
53. Art by Vera Tan
POETRY
54.
Art by Anjani Mane
55.
the dial By E.J. Murry
Art by Mir
my bedroom only gets morning sun; my body turns like a dial. outside my window, an antenna reaches its skewer limb towards the sky; i can never hear it. i imagine whole worlds ending like breaths: a three-month vow of silence, a life with her; vacating this body, finding my own, and from it, speaking again. none of this exists: there is only day in, day out, the sun, the night, the turn, the dial.
56.
Six Poems on Extinction By Nick Gardner Trott
1. Your condition was electric So, we displayed your symptoms like constellations And the things you told me about shined like fire While the atoms that made up everything you’d lost screamed and cried They were beginning to forget And they were remembering that it hurt (Don’t ask them about it) 2. Primordial Babylon Stripped of its lapis and gold Matchsticks stand where soldiers used to Their blades thinned to toothpicks The fog begins to invade The clearing makes way for a necropolis It feels depraved to witness land so bare The air is still And the soil is upturned in a surrender 3. Starman I am not what you deserve I can’t relate to your heavy space problems But they have forgotten the name given to me And it burns my skin more than any of the mosses tattoos I’m sure that on another planet my heart is adapted perfectly But on this one they asked me to lower my head As I wandered far away into the forest Never to be thought of again
Art by fiona
57.
4. I thought this would last forever But the sand here has its own glow And it whispers to the soles of my worn, worn shoes I thought this would last forever That I would be standing until my end But there is only so much one pair of legs can do My backpack tried everything it could In the face of this transient force The glow of the desert’s secret sun exposes me And the trees beckon me to take refuge Waving their limbs like they could beat back against the sands Leaving a space where I could last forever 5. In the age of fatal flaws, stars fall Suspended and uneasy It’s their choice It happens over and over And each time it feels unprecedented 6. I saw a car drive into the sea once It rolled up to the edge of the cliff Like a child peeking out from hiding Its engine a roar Before accelerating into the air A mechanical comet following its orbit And with a splash, the hull groaned Before vanishing beneath the surface Hidden with the fish and the coral I think of the beams from the car Emanating from the bottom of the sea The way the driver acknowledged me His eyes piercing through the windscreen Pleading for the ocean to care The light flickered And became consumed by a thick and spongy darkness But for a second Just for a second That car Found an audience with the sea And I wondered if the stars were jealous
58. Art by Mir
The Bones of Black The wounded bones of black By Milena Skinner Jutting out, as they are, Caved in, splintered, As though Earth can no longer bear the bulwark. “You are me,” she whispers. Rotting carrion press smiles to pavement. “You are we,” unseeing eyes glisten. A graveyard, Where shadows meet on crystal asphalt, And carrion sleeps to remind us of our mortality. The well-worn path dares us— A challenge: to follow or stray. There is no place for nature In a world of crisp lines And hollow, white-painted boxes.
59.
That home was our underworld. Pained, icy cave—gaping fissure. We happened there by chance. The stars aligned in such a way, By Christian Panetta And the archer’s honed arrow bound us there. So we walked that line together, Father, child. I never questioned it. I don’t think I ever knew what I was escaping, or going towards, Or what I was too scared to face. I thought that if I kept to you, I would be free. I thought that everything would be perfect, Like the families I saw at the shopping centre and on TV I never thought about the yelling, Or the things you did behind closed doors, Or the fights you’d have when I was meant to be sleeping. So I led the charge. I tried to lead us out of that underworld, That hell of screams and bruises and suffocation, To some kind of heaven. I was too young to know better. I wanted what everyone else had—love and feeling and want. Even if it wasn’t real. At some point I looked back. I saw the cracks in the walls And the dents in the paint where things had been thrown. But there was no you. In the midst of losing everything and wanting barely anything, I lost the one thing I couldn’t control. Maybe I looked at you the wrong way. Maybe I shouldn’t have looked at you at all. Maybe I should have stayed on that course, Blindly, aimlessly. Kept pretending. Maybe I should have ignored the signs. I should have given up. I am still here and I can’t escape, And all that I want and love is left cascading from my hands. Still, I remember. I remember those long nights With your hair swept this way, And your mood swung the other. Your pungent Deep Heat muscle cream that we all hated. The joy we found in the simplest things. Our so-called ‘boys club’, When we’d walk to the playground or sit in McDonalds parking lots— Those taunting glimpses of what could have been. Now, there is a mark from where you left us. It takes the place of the spot on the wall where you held me, And that patent suede armchair which no one else sat in. We threw it out in the end. Yet, despite all this, even though I am alone in this hell-hole, I hold on to what I don’t have. I cry about it in empty classrooms at lunchtime And in aisles at the supermarket. I want a life, and love. Is that so much to ask? For some stupid reason, I want it. Even if it isn’t real.
Eurydice
Art by en-mei
60. Art by mir
The Body as a Melted Clock By Milena Skinner Bovine hide, I lie stretched on stone— Unbidden, formless, nameless, being Like a shaven, pale wraith which knows Only its wretched breathing. In—the iron-fisted sky curls, White giants like mighty towers Clamouring to reach its sullen pearl, Squashing like bugs the heads of poppy flowers. Out—silken seas lap at the edge, Like hands as they tug and pull, Cupping the moon-drunk waters’ lead As they drink up their Lethean full. The melted mercurial scene Seems an inchoate augury, Thick brushstrokes beginning With no end, in violent strawberry; Still, skin melts into bitumen boils, Into curves of the Stygian roads— Still, the ticking of my heart goes on, Unbidden by the begging of its host.
61.
By Jyotiraditya Sanand An internal collapse Masked by the Contours of my face That bloody smile of mine
I look to the skies And desperately pray I look to my mother And ask her for the same
With a shattered heart And a mind that bolsters The tunes of fear My voice becomes hoarser.
The days pass by, And so does the grief The crippling throes of despair Becomes wisdom instead.
There goes my will Along with it, my smile And all that I know Is lost in the unknown
Under the Moon and the Gods I became someone better along For it was inevitable before The little boy grew up after all.
The subterranean conflict tears I become alien to myself And fall into a darkness of misery As I loath the self. With pain unbearable I shut myself outside The doors to my heart And sit brooding aloud In my puddle of grief I find reason to slip deeper As my body gives away And luck goes astray With each minute, I suffer ineffable agony Brought crashing down to my knees, I beg, please
Art by Mir
The Puddle of Grief
62. Art by mir
The Gradual Yet Somehow Still Unexpected Dissolution of Everything That Once Mattered, Including but Not Limited to: Love, Anger, Revolution, and the Will to Care About Any of It By Sophia Diegelmann
Time drags its feet forward scraping the bones of what once was erasing the ink of victories once carved into law Our voices dim to echoes, thin ghosts of protest dissolving in the wind The world, once feigning belief in our strength our weight, our worth now turns away, blank-eyed and indifferent whilst the ground splits beneath us and we are left with nothing but empty promises Love, once fierce and alive, dies slowly within my partner’s eyes the tenderness once shared between us now gone replaced with distance with silence What was once warm and full of hope now feels hollow a memory of affection vanished never to return I wait for you to see me again but the look in your eyes is already dead And hate that fire I once carried inside me burning with anger at the world at myself has extinguished burned out by time
The bitterness that once seized me is gone replaced with a numbness a coldness I can’t shake Even my passion for the battle for clawing my way back for standing when my legs shook for screaming into the abyss is gone I do not raise my fists anymore I do not sharpen my words I let the tide take me I watch as the world fades as everything I once knew disappears and wonder Am I the last one to notice? Is this how it ends? With no fight left no voice to speak no breath to catch no heart to break There is nothing left but the ashes of a past that no longer holds power over me
63. Art by fiona
A Desert Trout By Milena Skinner
This land here is foreign, untrodden, With death-struck gums and their dour gazes. An unsmiling moon, agape, like a fish; A blister against a pale sky, With roads stretching to Nowhere. Leprous hills bubble in welts, Tell of elegiac love stories between the hills and sky– Folk songs of time made eternal– To sand and sullen soil, and cygnets That melt in the horizon’s desert mirage. This land cradles such stories, A chameleon of seasons past— Its eyes sombre and heavy, begging Tongues of wordless whispers and charms; A sermon of grief oceans wide at the open. I wonder if this is where my soul was raised— Among mirthless crowds of bent wheat stalks— Or indeed, if this is where the journey ends, This land where all roads lead and sinewy flowers Lie aplenty, sleeping in beds of chalk and stone. I lie there too, a stone unblinking— The scene of all sedentary calm, Dripping sap under my tongue, As earth swallows me and I do, it, Parched like an open-mouthed trout, Watching the moon watching me.
64.
Almonds
By Christian Panetta There are almonds on the counter. He could never say ‘almonds’ right. The same with ‘salmon’. Each phonic rolled In his latin accent, And I’d always berate him for it. I gave up in the end. He made such an effort to stress the ‘L’. It made him special, The way he said things wrong, I haven’t heard it in years.
Art by mir
There are almonds on the counter. Sometimes, I say ‘almonds’ wrong.
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Woroni
We would like to acknowledge the traditional custodians of the land on which Woroni operates, the Ngunnawal and Ngambri peoples. We pay our respects to Elders past and present. Their land was forcibly stolen, and sovereignty was never ceded. The name Woroni, which means “mouth”, was taken from the Wadi Wadi Nation without permission. Consultation with First Nations people recommended that Woroni continue to use the word, provided we acknowledge the theft, and continue to strive for better reconciliation in future. Woroni aims to provide a platform for First Nations students to hold the University, its community, and ourselves accountable. It might sometimes feel as if the worst horrors of colonisation are past, as if they happened in a different, more brutal world than this one. But the same Australian government that took Indigenous children from their families in the 1900s incarcerates children as young as ten years old today, the majority of whom are Indigenous. If we separate ourselves and our times from colonisation, we cannot properly acknowledge and work to amend its long-lasting impact. This land always was, and always will be, Aboriginal land.