W'SUP Inspired Edition: Spring 2021

SPRING EDITION

2021

SOCIAL ISSUES

MENTAL HEALTH

CREATIVE WRITING

ART

Acknowledgement of Traditional Owners Western Sydney University and W’SUP acknowledges and respects the Traditional custodians of the Lands, the Darug, Gundungurra, D’harawal, Wiradjuri and Bundjalung Peoples, whose relationships to this land we work and live upon informs our own sense of belonging and accountability. We pay our respects to the elders while upholding the promise of future generations.

W’SUP is Western Sydney University’s multimedia student publication.

W’SUP publishes new stories online every two weeks during the semester. Occasionally, the W’SUP team also produces a print magazine – like the one you are holding in your hot little hands right now.

Get your work published If you would like the W’SUP editors to consider your work for publication, or have a story idea, please send it to wsup@westernsydney.edu.au or message us via Facebook.

The W’SUP team publishes videos, photographs. audio podcasts and writing.

For more information, visit our website www.wsup.news

PUBLISHING TEAM

Director of Student Publications Sarah Cupitt

Editors Ishmamul Haque Shayma Abdellatif Dania Roumieh Tileah Dobson Katelyn Brunner

Contributors Kai Dilkush Kaur

Ashna Sehgal

Fatimah Hafsah Ahamed

Marc Odell

Matthew Jones

Jiro Amorada

Lauren Rainey

Anastasia King

Amnah Arain

Chris Sifniotis

Samuel Sullivan

Amy Nye

Graphic Design & Illustrations Donita Wilegoda Mudalige Rachana Udaya Kumar Daniel Krivacic Susan Alzaim Thomas Baldwin Sarah Ko

Western Sydney University supporting staff Grant Murray, Student Representative Officer Jostina Basta, Publications & Student Representative Officer (Acting) Richard Martino, Manager, Student Community Jenny Page, Administrative Officer

Published by

WWW.WSUP.NEWS

W’SUP Publication Committee Student Representation & Participation Locked Bag 1797 Penrith NSW 2751

Printing

WSUP@WESTERNSYDNEY.EDU.AU

Arrow Print

Western Sydney University

Cover image: Susan Alzaim

@WSUPNEWS

Tabz A.

CONTENTS

TABLE OF

Meet the WSUP Team Report from Western SRC

4 6

Topic: Social Issues

8

Topic: Art

20

Topic: Mental Health

29

Topic: Creative Writing

42

MEET THE

W’SUP TEAM SARAH CUPITT

DIRECTOR OF STUDENT PUBLICATIONS W’SUP’s ‘Inspired Edition’ allows students to discover and explore personal journeys and celebrate the return to campus since COVID-19. Everyone has a story to tell, and if you want to share yours as a student, W’SUP is your platform. The main themes of this edition are Social Issues, Art, Mental Health & Creative Writing. Too often, as students, there’s a strong focus on academic success, and so we want to show you ways to get involved on campus, stories to inspire you to be a future leader, poems to make you feel, words to make you sing.

A little about myself: I’m a 3rd-year student studying a Bachelor of Communication (Journalism & Public Relations). At WSU, I have become known for spending too much time in the student community, being the former SRC Vice President (Undergraduate), Online Rep, Multimedia Editor.

I’m also the exec of 8 student clubs and founded WSU’s first writing club Modern Ink last year.

In Spring Semester, I will be returning to SRC as the General Secretary. As Director of Student Publications, my position has been an exciting journey, as I began as a contributor to the student paper when I was just a first-year student. I now also work at WSU as a P2P Creative Agent and Engagement Marketing Intern. So if you have any questions about uni, don’t hesitate to reach out; I do free tours on campus!

ALL: sarahcupitt.contactin.bio EMAIL: sarahjanecupitt@gmail.com WEBSITE: https://theauthortoria.com/ LINKEDIN: https://www.linkedin.com/in/sarahcupitt/

KATELYN BRUNNER

EDITOR

Katelyn is a writer, poet and illustrator studying a Bachelor of Arts (Creative Writing)/ Bachelor of Creative Industries (Graphic Design). Writing is the way that she makes sense of a world that often feels confusing. She is passionate about self-expression, inclusion, and a good meme or two. When she is not writing or drawing, she’s in ballet class, stress baking, or playing with her dogs.

TWITTER, TIKTOK & INSTAGRAM: @brunner_katelyn

ISHMAMUL HAQUE

EDITOR

I am an international student from Bangladesh pursuing a double degree in Information Technology and Accounting. I have always been passionate about expressing my ideas through writing and W’SUP has been an amazing platform which has allowed me to do just that. As a voracious reader, I am always on the hunt for good local content and I intend to make W’SUP just that. I love debating ideas or enthusing over the latest developments in the tech and finance industries. When I am not in a bid to stack my accomplishments, I can be found at hackathons, debating comps, pubs or seated comfortably in the sofa binging anime. I hope to be the voice of students and assist the team at W’SUP so that we can make it the go-to, trusted news source for all WSU students.

EMAIL: ishmamhaque@outlook.com

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DANIA ROUMIEH

EDITOR

I’m a final year Bachelor of Communications (journalism) student that aspires to explore the stories of people from different walks of life. As a second generation Australian with a Lebanese heritage, I have always been captivated by how people can have such similar yet completely different experiences and have incredible stories to share. Being a part of the W’SUP team has allowed me to publish the diversity of people’s lives through my new column, Humans of WSU! More importantly, it has given me the opportunity to give our WSU students a voice through W’SUP. If you’re interested in sharing an inspiring life experience (I’m always fascinated!), or have a story to pitch, feel free email me.

EMAIL: 19002415@student.westernsydney.edu.au PERSONAL EMAIL: daniaroumieh@gmail.com LINKEDIN: Dania Roumieh

TILEAH DOBSON

EDITOR

Tileah Dobson (Dobby for you Potterheads out there) is a mature aged third-year student studying Creative Industries and majoring in Journalism. A proud cat lady, she enjoys cooking, baking, video games (RPG, JRPG, VR, Strategy, Otome), and binge-watching movies and TV shows. Downtown Abbey is her latest obsession. Through the power of previously struggling with mental health issues, she no longer has time or energy to deal with adult life’s malarky. If you ever need to reach out with struggles of mental health, she’s just an email away with plenty of cute animal pics, sugar and jokes to make it less bleak. Also, a huge bookworm suffering from the disease of continuously buying books she won’t have time to read. Her favourite saying “If all else fails, do the murder-walk to the road ahead”.

FACEBOOK: Tileah Dobson INSTAGRAM: @tileahdobby SPOTIFY: Tileah Dobby

SHAYMA ABELLATIF

EDITOR

Creativity is all about drawing links – only all the fascinating ones, like the relationship between you and your parents, me and my readers and us and our ever-piling university work. It’s also all about our expressions, our communal ties and the inspiring stories which showcase human feats in the face of adversity. W’SUP’s ‘Inspired Edition’ is a collective effort to pay tribute to the diverse student creativity.

A little about me, I study a Bachelor of Communication and a Bachelor of International Studies, majoring in journalism, Asian studies, Indonesian language.I am an aspiring journalist with a passion for retelling human stories and sharing diverse cultures. When I’m not enjoying brunch with friends, I’m the family’s self-assigned patisserie chef. The W’SUP team enjoyed working on this issue and we hope you enjoy reading it! Feel free to contact me for any stories or ideas!

EMAIL: shay.abdellatif@gmail.com LINKEDIN: Shayma Abdellatif

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SRC REPORT SRC PRESIDENT

ALANNAH HADER Hi! My name is Alannah, and I am the incoming President of the WSU SRC for 2021/22. As a first-year student, I am super keen to get to know the diverse people of various cohorts, schools, clubs and societies. I aim to foster strong collaborative relationships with these groups with the vision that university student life is once again vibrant and able to flourish to regain the levels of engagement there was university-wide pre-covid. I envision that my incoming SRC will work collaboratively as a cohesive body across every single campus so that we can not only hear but act upon the issues that matter to the broader student body. The SRC is our platform as a student body to initiate and make the change at Western Sydney to benefit all students. I plan to work closely with SRC representatives to hear and validate every voice and opinion - so no one is left behind. I am so excited to work with everyone and make 2021 a year of renewal and change!

FROM CAMPUS REPRESENTATIVE FOR PARRAMATTA SOUTH

RAZIN POLARA As SRC Campus Representative for Parramatta South, I have worked towards some of the events requested by most students, including more sporting opportunities on campus. I had the opportunity to organise several sports competitions on campus aptly named SRC Sports Day, incorporating popular sports such as soccer, badminton, and tennis. Additionally, I also had the pleasure earlier this year to participate in the Pride Football Australia Day (PFA Day) competition team formed by SRC Campus Representative for Kingswood, Simon Preuss-Kearney, to represent Western Sydney University alongside my student peers.

Recently, my role has seen me assist the Ethnocultural Collective in organising a lunchtime meet up of the students every Thursday at Building EF to help the students make new friends and connections. I look forward to reprising my role in the 2021/2022 term as I aim to reach out to as many students as possible and facilitate as many events and activities as possible.

6

SRC CAMPUS REPRESENTATIVE FOR BANKSTOWN

VICKY-RAE REED 60% of university students are food insecure, with a higher prevalence in international students (76.5% vs 52% of domestic students) reporting they often skip meals to be able to afford essentials such as rent and utilities (Mansour, 2014) I have not ignored these statistics over my representative career.

I have led initiatives such as Little Free Pantries at both Liverpool and Bankstown campuses, Replenishing the Res alongside The Humanities Project and most recently, Free OzHarvest Hampers.

Food insecurity doesn’t discriminate. Since April, the current initiative, which we have been running at the Bankstown Campus, has partnered with OzHarvest through their Food Relief program funded by the NSW Government. Our goal is to assist both international and domestic students from all walks of life. The initiative currently sees an allocation of 20 hampers per fortnight via OzHarvest, which we usually exceed- with another 17 students on a waitlist referred fortnightly to community organisations.

FROM THE WOMEN’S REPRESENTATIVE

ROSINA ARMSTRONG MENSAH Having had the opportunity to reprise my role in the 2021/22 term has given me the insight to reflect on my role and its many highlights as to what I did, what I could have done, and what I will be doing.

In my previous term, I planned for a monthly catch up for the collective, which I endeavoured to do, but it became apparent that this was easier to do some months than others. In saying this, however, the women’s collective did achieve several highlights this year, such as: We had our successful pizza day at the Campbelltown campus.

The collective participated in International Women’s Day and Mother’s Day. Got involved with the W’SUP podcast, in addition to Chaplaincy’s community dinner and lunch initiatives.

I hope in 2021/22 to engage other female-identifying representatives within the university leadership students and staff more actively. I plan to achieve this by: Facilitating a wide array of events and workshops for women. ●Improve current campus facilities for parents and women. ●Ensuring a continued provision of sanitary products are available within our women’s rooms

With the support of the Student Representative Council (SRC) and YOU, the Women’s Collective aim to build and foster long term sustainable change for women. I encourage you all to share your thoughts and ideas with us through WesternLife, Email and Facebook.

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8

‘STILL ALIVE’ A TRUE TELLING OF AUSTRALIA’S IMMIGRATION DETENTIONS

BY SHAYMA ABDELLATIF Have you ever wondered what it

realistic drawings, resin artwork, music,

According to the Department of Home

is like to be in one of Australia’s

poetry to zines. “The book is a natural

Affairs, around 1,484 people are locked

immigration detention centres? The

outgrowth of community work with

up in detention centres, and more

recently published graphic novel ’Still

the Refugee Arts Project,” said Mr

than 500 reside in the community

Alive’ is the first of its kind to offer

Ahmed. The book illustrates various

with no visa and minimal rights. This

a glimpse into the daily experienc-

aspects of a refugee’s life in detention,

is in addition to 30,000 asylum seek-

es of refugees in detention centres.

including the struggle with food, sleep,

ers and refugees whose claims have

relationships,

spirituality

not been finalised as mentioned in the

Graphic journalism can be powerful in

and the lingering trauma from their

education,

2019 Australian Human Rights report.

raising awareness of social and polit-

survival journeys. “I wanted to put a

Mr Ahmed encourages his readers to

ical issues as they are easy to consume

spotlight on the way people resist de-

hear directly from refugees who shared

yet often have a strong impact on its

tention and to show their agency, and

their stories like Behrouz Boochani. He

audience. The Walkley Awards winning

I think resistance isn’t just about when

adds that being more active in the pol-

artist and author of the graphic novel,

people protest or when people riot or

itics of this nation is equally important.

Safdar Ahmed, explains that comics are

when people speak to the media. Re-

“People can protest, people can write

a very subtle and sophisticated way of

sistance can occur every day in many

letters to their local politicians, people

communicating, however they remain

other small ways,” notes Mr Ahmed.

can join associations that support refu-

to be one of the most effective tools

gees and asylum seekers directly… send

for activism. “Art can provide a con-

The author notes that most Austra-

a clear message that Australia’s position

text for understanding our place in the

lians are unaware of human rights

is unacceptable and immoral,” he said.

world, and using art to challenge pow-

violations that occur in immigration

er, to open our minds and to not just

detentions. He adds that politicians

You can purchase ‘Still Alive’ from

accept the way things are when they’re

have misled the public regarding the

the

wrong and unjust,” said Mr Ahmed.

reality of the detention system for the

Twelve

Panels

Press

website.

past 30 years, and have succeeded in ‘Still Alive’ is the culmination of almost

dehumanising and criminalising ref-

a decade of visiting the Villawood Im-

ugees who are often labelled as ‘que

migration Detention Centre and wit-

jumpers’, ‘illegal arrivals’ and ‘foreign-

nessing the lives of detained refugees

ers who will steal Australian jobs’. “The

and asylum seekers. Mr Ahmed has been

whole policy of mandatory detention

visiting the centre since 2011, where he

is also an outgrowth and a continua-

volunteered to run art workshops for

tion of Australia as a colonial project,”

people in detention, alongside other lo-

he said. Despite efforts to raise aware-

cal artists. The workshops sparked the

ness, the heart-breaking reality lingers

idea of facilitating a space for refugee

that thousands of refugees continue

artists, prompting the establishment

to suffer from Australia’s immigration

of ‘The Refugee Arts Project’ that runs

policies. Only one refugee mentioned

workshops, community dinners, and ex-

in the book received an Australian

hibitions for emerging artists. The not-

citizenship, while the rest are left in

for-profit community arts organisation

limbo. “They don’t have family re-

has successfully created a community of

union, they’re still alone, they’re still

local and refugee artists who produced

in a very difficult legal situation which

various forms of art from coffee painting,

is isolating and punishing,” he notes.

9

SARAH CUPITT & KATELYN BRUNNER

10

ORIGINAL STORYTELLERS:

MYTHOLOGY

BY TILEAH DOBSON Anyone who is anyone knows that 90% of Greek mythology is a result of Zeus not keeping it in his pants, but some are either hilarious or are a way to explain natural phenomenon. I’ve gathered some mythological stories from across three different cultures and simplified them. Enjoy.

GREEK: PYGMALION AND GALATEA (THE ORIGINAL WAIFU)

JAPANESE: THE TALE OF KAGUYA-HIME (INSPIRATION FOR SAILOR MOON) This is one of three myths that were the inspiration behind the popular anime, Sailor Moon. One day, an old bamboo cutter noticed a strange glow coming from one stalk in the grove. He cuts it open and discovers a tiny baby, the size of his thumb. He takes the baby home to his wife, and they raise her as their own, naming her Kaguya.

From then on, any time he cut a bam-

This is one of the few Greek myths

boo stalk, a gold nugget would appear.

that didn’t involve Zeus, so it’s already

Now rich, the old man could provide

a win in my book. The story of Pyg-

for his wife and daughter. And be-

malion and Galatea is about a famous

cause she’s a mythical bamboo stalk

sculptor by the name of Pygmalion.

baby, Kaguya grows up to be beautiful.

Pygmalion is famous for his renowned

Kaguya declines because she’s not a citizen of his empire and promises

to

stay

friends

with

him.

By the end of summer, it’s revealed that Kaguya is from the moon and is set to return home soon. Not wanting to be separated from her, the emperor orders his guards to surround Kaguya’s home and protect her from the moon people.

This obviously doesn’t work as the moon people temporarily blind the guards and take Kaguya back. Before she leaves though, she writes a letter to her parents and the emperor, even leaving behind a bottle of the elixir of immortality.

The emperor chooses to burn the elixir and the letter on top of the highest mountain because immortality is nothing if Kaguya isn’t with him. That mountain was Mt. Fuji which gave it its name.

skills and his unorthodox taste in wom-

So

en, which basically means none. He

rounded by suitors. Only five were

wasn’t a fan of women who talked or

in her league, all princes, and since

had intercourse. Take that as you will.

she

But Pygmalion was still a man who had

gave them an impossible task each.

feelings, and he began to get lone-

She sends the first one to get the Bud-

ly. So, he did what every great creative

dha’s stone begging bowl, the second

mind does and made himself a girl-

one is sent to get a jewelled tree from

This one is straight-up hilarious to

friend. He created this beautiful stat-

Hōrai island, the third one is sent to get

anyone who isn’t a man, and I high-

ue of a woman who he named Galatea.

the robe of the fire-rat, the fourth is sent

ly recommend you read the full sto-

beautiful,

wasn’t

that

she

interested

in

was

sur-

marriage,

CELTIC: THE CURSE OF MACHA (WHY YOU SHOULDN’T MESS WITH A PREGNANT LADY)

to get a jewel from the neck of a drag-

ry. Basically, there once was a farmer

At first, everything was great as she was

on and the fifth is sent to get a cowry

in Ulster named Crunden. Crunden’s

his ideal woman, but Pygmalion didn’t

shell born from swallows. The first three

first wife died and left him with three

like that she couldn’t love him back.

princes come back with expensive forg-

kids to take care of. Crunden, in his

Pygmalion then pleads with Aphrodite

eries, the fourth one nopes out of the

despair, let his life fall apart and his

to bring his waifu to life, and Aphrodite,

task, and the fifth one dies. This leaves

house got really dirty. Then, one day,

being the sucker for a pretty face, agrees.

Kaguya to remain blissfully single. How-

he comes home and finds it clean

Galatea is brought to life and the two

ever, one day the emperor falls in love

and a beautiful woman in his house.

happily got married and had two kids.

with her and asks her to be his wife.

She introduces herself as Macha and

11

says she’ll be his wife. Not wanting to

befall them all. He agrees and they head

into labour and gave birth to a pair

give this up, Crunden agrees. He noticed

to the feast. Crunden then got drunk

of stillborn twins. Devastated at the

Macha was not human by the way she

and stupidly began to brag that his wife

loss of her children, Macha cursed

was able to move quickly without mak-

could beat the king’s horses in a race.

the warriors of Ulster so that their

ing a sound but didn’t say much on it.

The king declared that Macha now had

strength would fail them in their time

Then the king of Ulster summons ev-

to back up her husband’s claim. She

of need, and for nine days and nine

eryone for a feast in honour of his new

asked the king if they could wait un-

nights, they would be put through

horses. Before the pair went, a heavily

til she gave birth but the king said no

the pains of childbirth. This curse was

pregnant Macha told her husband not

and forced her to race. Macha won

to last for nine generations. Macha

to speak of her or else misfortune would

but throughout the race, she went

then ran off with the bodies of her two children, never to be seen again.

THE MYTH OF

LOSSYPHUS

BY ISHMAMUL HAQUE

The sand gleams a golden hue in stark comparison to the dark expanse that stretches endlessly alongside it. A warm, golden island hosts the sole life in the midst of a vast ocean of darkness.

A lone sun fighting off the ever encompassing vacuum, glistens into the shut eyes of the body that lay lost on the ground. The figure opens his eyes to take stock of his unfamiliar surroundings. He is confronted by the sand, the sun, the darkness, and his legs trapped under a giant boulder.

First, came fear. Alone, stranded and trapped under a boulder on an island in the middle of nowhere, he cries out.

The scream is devoured by the void and lost without an audience. He frantically attempts to free himself. He musters his flailing strength and manages a Herculean shove. The boulder relents – his legs are free but his strength dissipates.

In the last fleeting moments of consciousness, he smirks at his bested foe.

The glistening sun awakens him. Truly,

12

this cannot be happening. He feels the vigour and adrenaline subside within

as

him. This feels almost farcical. He feels

He lies there having abandoned all

almost weightless, as though in a trance,

hopes of moving the boulder. Ev-

a cruel cosmic joke where he halluci-

ery time he moved the boulder, it

nates that the boulder has returned to

returned. The cursed magnetism of

its throne atop his legs. He sees the im-

despair becomes his dwelling. An ee-

mutable sneer of the inanimate rock and

rie tranquillity had grasped him – he

balls his fists in a fit of rage. He pounds,

felt heavy, filled with nothingness

punches and thrashes the immovable

and emptiness. He adopts the like-

object until his hands are bruised and

ness of his surroundings – immov-

bleeding. Seething in anger and writh-

able, dispassionate, indistinguishable.

ing in pain, tears trickle down his flushed

Sometimes,

cheeks – if only he was stronger, if only…

es, it exudes one last bright spark as

Resigned to his fate, he lies there as the

a testament of its fading existence.

it

wraps

before

around

a

star

him.

collaps-

sun blazes away. The light feels softer and weaker and dimmer. The gen-

One day, like a dying star, he reaches

tle warmth of the sand lulls him into

out of the sand in a final manifesta-

a dangerous embrace. It has slowly

tion of his being. This time he does not

been creeping up and shrouding more

attempt to push it away. He reaches

and more of his un-bouldered body.

out and lifts the boulder and emerg-

The edges of the island are being erod-

es from the depths - alive and living.

ed by the vortex in which the island

The sand gleams a golden hue in stark

floats. Murky, black waves voraciously

comparison to the dark expanse that

eat away at his shrinking sanctuary. The

stretches endlessly alongside it. A man

sand seems drained of its incandescence

carrying a boulder moves idly along.

HUMANS OF WSU

BY DANIA ROUMIEH

SEBASTIAN FLORIAN GUZMAN – BACHELOR OF ECONOMICS

WHAT WAS THE INSPIRATION TO JOIN THE SUSTAINABILITY EDUCATION TEAM? “As an economics student, you’re always involved with these concepts, that everything is limited. So, we like to study, ‘how can we use these resources in the best possible way’. So, from that principle, I’ve been interested about sustainability. I had the opportunity to do these units about circular economy, which is related to sustainability. Circular economy says that everything should be reused – our clothes, plastic bottles, everything should be reused. We shouldn’t have to waste in our economy, that’s what got me inspired behind this university”.

HOW ARE MICROPLASTICS IMPACTING OUR ENVIRONMENT TODAY? “Microplastics are small particles of plastic, less than five millimetres in size. They aren’t visible to the naked eye. You find these microplastics in cosmetics too. It affects us all because when micro-plastics are going to rivers or oceans and small plants too. The small fish eat this, and the big fish eat the smaller fish, right? When animals eat these microplastics, it affects their body. So, when the microplastics are in the ocean, they absorb chemicals that you can find in the environment. So, the microplastic enters the food chain, and we will end up consuming it. It not only affects the fish in the ocean, but the consequences of those microplastics have in our body is a huge issue. Like when we wash our clothes, we put them in the washing machine, and this is like one of the biggest principal resources of microplastics. We can find microplastics in our clothes because of synthetic materials like nylon. Once our clothes are in the washing machine, these fibres from our own clothes go into the waterways and all end up in the oceans. How can we fight this problem or avoid these problems? It’s not that difficult. We can use bag filters for our washing machines, they’re a little bit expensive but worth it”

> SEBASTIAN’S ADVICE: “I would like to tell everyone to educate themselves about microplastics because I know that many people have never heard of this before. I studied and read up on all these facts, and researched microplastics with the university. It’s a very important topic to discuss and research about”.

“Average leaders raise the bar on themselves; good leaders raise the bar for others; great leaders inspire others to raise their own bar.”

- Orrin Woodward, New York Times bestselling author

14

NATASHA FERRER – BACHELOR OF NURSING

WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO STUDY NURSING? “I guess what inspired me is that when people go to the hospital, they’re in a very fragile state, a very vulnerable state where you could be embarrassed and ashamed of yourself. The nurses are right there at your call button if you’re ever in need of help. We’re there to support the person and make them feel confident in themselves to get better. Just being there for someone at a very vulnerable time and inspiring hope within their recovery journey, that’s something special. I would love to help people out in those dark times”

WHAT CHALLENGES DO YOU FACE AS A NURSING STUDENT WORKING IN THE INDUSTRY? “To be completely honest with you, as a nursing student, we are expected to do 800 hours of unpaid clinical placements. It ranges from one week to even four weeks from Monday to Friday, eight hours every day. I find that personally very challenging because sometimes it drains my emotional and physical energy. If you’re there from Monday to Friday and especially if it’s not paid too, you’d have to sacrifice work or push yourself to work afterwards if you need to financially support yourself and/or family. Depending on where you’re placed, there’s a lot of manual handling, a lot of critical thinking and communication to your team and interdisciplinary teams. For many students, placement tends to burn us out but it also helps us develop the essential critical thinking and skills we would need to become a nurse”.

WHAT INSPIRED YOU TO FOUND THE WSU NURSING AND MIDWIFERY SOCIETY? “So initially when I started out, I was very keen to join the nursing society. But when I found out that there wasn’t one, I took it upon myself to actually create it. I understood that there was a need in the student community for an academic, social and advocacy platform. I just wanted to help out in any way I could”.

HOW DOES THIS SOCIETY PROVIDE THE STUDENT BODY WITH A VOICE? “If we grow our society more and if we develop a relationship with our school, the School of Nursing and Midwifery, I think that the potential is amazing. If we established this relationship, students could potentially have more of a say and more support and knowledge of what happens in their academic life. By consulting and engaging with our society regarding academic matters, the School of Nursing and Midwifery can ensure an increase in student performance and satisfaction on their academic journey. I extremely hope they recognise us soon so we can start collaborating in an academic and social manner”.

HOW DO YOU PLAN ON EXTENDING THE RELATIONSHIP BETWEEN NURSING STUDENTS AND THE WIDER NURSING COMMUNITY? “The society is more of an internal, school-based society. The outer community is definitely welcome to participate and learn about our society. Like other courses for example, they are welcome to join and see what we do, however, it is mainly focused around schoolwork. Our society aims to support the students academically, socially and to advocate for their needs. It would be more catered towards nursing and midwifery university students”.

> NATASHA’S ADVICE: “In our NaMSS (Nursing and Midwifery Students Society) team, we focus on three main components: social, academic and advocacy.

If you’d like to join our society, or reach out to us, you’ll be benefited in so many ways, and we can support you with any of those components”.

15

ART AT THE CENTRE OF

ANCIENT EGYPT

BY SHAYMA ABDELLATIF Art was more than an expression of creativity in ancient Egypt. It was central to life and the primary method of communicating, documenting and preserving knowledge in ways that expressed spiritual and social value.

value and significance to take to the

Size and colour also depicted social

afterlife. They preserved these objects

status

in tombs engraved in artworks which

quality of the material used to make

served two primary functions. Firstly,

this art differed based on the value of

to protect the soul through magic spells

its content. Some artwork were treat-

inscribed on the walls of the tombs, and

ed to remain in the afterlife and have

secondly to guide the soul back to its

survived for thousands of years. Oth-

physical body, corpse, for rebirth to occur.

ers disappeared as they were made

Testament to the sustainability of an-

to merely deliver messages of lesser

What we refer to as Egyptian art was

cient Egyptian art, it survived through-

significance concerning their current

initially created to perform magic and

out the centuries despite all the environ-

lives that were deemed unworthy of

demonstrate religious instructions. Not

mental challenges, including sandstorms

preservation. In modern context, the

only were the drawings on the mud brick

and floods. Pharaonic artists developed

concept is similar to text messages

walls produced to communicate their

a unique set of symbols and over time

that serve their purpose and can be

current affairs and aspirations, ancient

these systematically became socially

deleted anytime. There is much more

Egyptians believed that the drawings

recognised to convey specific messages

to this topic and much more about an-

were an instrument of transforming their

and meaning. They adopted a simplified

cient Egypt that is yet to be discovered.

wishes into reality. Drawings of battles

style of clear outlines, simple shapes and

showcased the strength of the pharaoh

use of warm and cool colour, all arranged

If you want to read more, check The

leading his army and their ability to de-

in perfectly horizontal lines to ensure

Ministry of Tourism and Antiques or The

feat the enemy. However, they also con-

precision and ease of comprehension.

Metropolitan Museum of Art website.

sidered the artwork to be a way of seeking victory from the gods they believed.

Art existed at every level of ancient Egyptian society. Walls were decorated with announcements from the pharaoh and priests informing the citizens of the latest news and laws. The social and religious status of people were also outlined through art. Different symbols categorised people in various positions, which was helpful in identifying their rulers and officials. Images of the pharaoh, in particular, were very detailed in exhibiting the characteristics of the pharaoh in a way that the people could recognise him or her.

Ancient Egyptians believed in a life after death and they made substantial effort to prepare; preserving objects of great

16

and

religious

symbolism.The

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20

DAISIES

BY AMY NYE

21

STARDREAMER

BY SARAH CUPITT

22

23

TALENT AND HISTORY AT THE ROYAL EASTER SHOW

BY MARC ODELL “The horseshoe was from Randwick Racecourse when I worked on the light rail and the horse painting I did for the Easter Show to pay tribute to Australia’s history.”

Draft horses played a significant role even in the 20th century for practical work such as farming. Over half a million were used during World War I to support the military effort until motor vehicles became an affordable and reliable substitute.

24

BETRAYAL

BY TABZ A. I think dreams can be a great source of inspiration. While usually based on our life events, things we see, hear or experience, in dreams everything is exaggerated, twisted and surreal. They’re an endless source of ideas, and I think more people could explore their dreams in creative ways. This artwork is based on a dream I had as a kid, that for some reason I can still vividly remember. Maybe because of how graphically disturbing it was, or because I have often wondered if there was a significant meaning behind it that I couldn’t read.

25

AMAZING

PHOTOGRAPHY

BY FATIMAH HAFSAH AHAMED

29

HOW TO STOP BEING SUCH A PERFECTIONIST &

JUST CREATE ART

BY KATELYN BRUNNER We have all had that mental block

“I am going to write the best poem

Use cheap art supplies so that

that stops us from even getting

ever written”, of course, you are

you aren’t afraid of ‘ruining’

started. What if it’s not good

going to be afraid to put pen to

them.

enough? What if everyone is better

paper!

to

ruined with. So think and act

than us? What if we mess up? What

happen and be pleasantly surprised.

like a child and play with your

Expect

nothing

if we’re a terrible artist?

Stop

the

negative

art form. There are no rules! self-talk!

That type of perfectionism will continue

if

you

continue

to

think like that. Here is some advice,

from

one

creative

to

another, on how to get past that mental block of perfection and just create art. You’ll get back to loving your artform in no time!

UNDERSTAND YOU WON’T GET PERFECTION ON THE FIRST TRY. Your

first

draft

won’t

be

perfect, so why not give it your all? Do you think any of the greats had a perfect first draft?

Give yourself the opportunity to try and fail. You won’t know your limits until you give it a go.

GIVE YOURSELF NO EXPECTATIONS. As mentioned in the first point, don’t expect a Picasso on your first try. In whatever form it may be in, when you go to create art, approach it as “I am just having a casual creation session”.

If you enter the session thinking

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They were made to be

SCHEDULE IN CREATIVE TIME (WITH NO LIMITATIONS).

Set

out

a

time

every

day

that is allocated just to your creative endeavours. This not only creates a habit, but it allows you to relax and to be unafraid of being creative. Society tends to think creative avenues are a ‘waste of time’. In allocating an hour a day to your craft, you are able to unlearn this societal belief.

CREATE PURPOSEFULLY UGLY ARTWORK. That’s right, make it ugly on purpose! I want you to sit with that feeling and learn to be okay with

making

ugly

art.

(note:

I don’t believe that there is a ‘bad’ art, but it is whatever you perceived

to

be

your

worst).

USE CHEAP ART SUPPLIES AND TYPICALLY ‘CHILDISH’ MEDIUMS. Tap into your inner child, a time where you didn’t worry about what anyone thought of your art.

USE PROMPTS. Are

you

get

an

struggling idea?

Look

even up

to

some

creativity prompts online to help you get started. Sometimes just the idea can be the hardest part.

You don’t even have to keep the prompt once you have your creative juices flowing; you can deviate any direction you want.

34

WSUP COLOURING IN COMPETITION

Win $50

Want to win a $50 dollar gift voucher for colouring in?

All you have to do is bust out your coloured pencils, fill in both pages with whatever your heart desires, take a photo, email us on wsup@westernsydney.edu. au with the subject “wsupcompetition” for a chance to win. Up to two winners will be chosen. It’s as easy as that! So go on, get to colouring!” *Terms and conditions apply. Visit the website, wsup.news, for more information.

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TW: BODYSHAMING, MENTAL ILLNESS, BODY DYSMORPHIA

DYSMORPHIA

BY ISHMAMUL HAQUE

I have a fear of mirrors.

Let me rephrase that – I have a fear of my reflection on the mirror.

I hate the face that looks back when I look into the mirror.

It does not look like me – if feels grotesque, absurd.

The human eye is so acutely trained to fixate on impurities and imperfections. It has an insatiable thirst for providing an infinite supply of ammunition for all your insecurities.

The blemishes, the uneven tones, the acne – it disgusts me.

Don’t get me started on the full body mirrors. The fit of clothes on me makes me nauseous. I am either overweight, disproportionately sized, too short or too untoned. All I never am is me. It befuddles me why my brain would betray me and make me believe I look like something I am not and show me something I don’t want to be.

Its crude humour is lost on me.

Why make me guzzle down food from stress eating if you cannot stand to see yourself overweight? Why grow out and gift me beautiful curls

34

only to rip them away from me before I even hit adulthood? To be betrayed by one’s body is an indescribably painful infidelity. Actually, scratch that last line. The pain is benign compared to the betrayal from those you love most. The third sentence that escaped my mother’s mouth as I met her after a “year and half” consisted of criticisms about my weight, my skin and the texture of my hair. An uncle made the very astute observation that I had developed a deeper tan.

But the vernacular to express that is to quip that my complexion had got dirtier, which was somehow a euphemism to avoid more serious colourist remarks. It’s not his fault.

It’s the society that moulded him. The one that segments newborns into “beautiful” or “dark-skinned” because it believes that their mutual exclusivity is a matter of fact.

The one which led a child to scrub his skin till he bled in order to wash away the “dirt”, which made his skin murky. The one which beat me down into not looking at a mirror for the last 2 years.

I felt guilty that the only bit of rebellion I put up against this society was so minuscule

and private. I rebelled each time I had that extra plate of food because it brought joy to my foodie soul. I rebelled each time I went to the gym because I like the runner’s high and not because my mother said I look unpresentable in my current form. I rebelled each time I ignored any fairness products and wore bright colours, which they said would not suit my complexion. I rebelled when I looked into the mirror for the first time in 2 years. Someday, I will rebel by accepting the face and the body that look back at me.

TALKCAMPUS IS HERE! Student life can be incredibly tough for anybody, it can feel lonely and overwhelming.

Life is full of highs and lows for each and every one of us so why do we always try to go it alone?

TalkCampus is a free app that students can download to get instant support for their mental health. TalkCampus brings together students from around the world and is based on peer support with professional safeguarding and escalation. Students can talk anonymously to students from other universities around the world, in their own language, about commonly shared struggles such as exam stress, anxiety, depression and a range of other matters.

TalkCampus is for everyone and anyone who is looking for someone who understands what you are going through (because someone always does) and who just needs someone to talk to and listen. Because, we all do.

TalkCampus is a place where you can work through life with other University students, because everything is better together.

So get on TalkCampus and talk to students going through the exact same struggles you are, all around the world, any time of day or night. Sometimes it can be hard to talk about certain things with family, or even friends. This is a safe place where you can talk anonymously about anything; mental health, depression, self-harm, eating disorders, a bad break-up or a relationship, stress and studies...it doesn’t matter. If you want to talk about it, someone else does too. No judgements. Just people who understand you.

So join TalkCampus and download the free app today from Google Play or the App Store Sign up using your student email. For more information, please visit the Western Sydney University TalkCampus webpage.

35

FANTASTIC NAPS AND

HOW TO GET THEM

BY TILEAH DOBSON

There is a word in the English language that adults look forward to and children despise it: naps.

Yes, the very thing we hated as children is the very thing we crave as adults— with university students being one of the biggest advocates. But despite the well-deserved stereotype imposed on us, not many students know nap or are unaware of the benefits. Well, no more!

I shall tear through the mystery and the big words, so you don’t have to. Let’s make students nap again! Sleep experts have said that napping can make you a better, more functional worker. It also reduces sleepiness while improving your cognitive functions, psychomotor performance, short-term memory, and mood.

effects of sleep inertia do set in after you wake up. That groggy feeling you get? That is due to parts of your

brain

haven’t

woken

up

yet.

This particular nap just grazes the edg-

Don’t: Nap after 4 pm. You’ll mess up your

es of deep sleep. A nap that often pro-

normal sleep schedule.

vides the most benefits; remembering

Do: Make your nap area comfortable.

facts, places you’ve been to, names and

Have it dark, cool, and quiet. Eye masks

faces. This is due to our brain waves

are great for blocking out the light.

slowing down and our memories be-

Do: Have a playlist of soft music or white

ing pushed to our neocortex (brain’s

noise. This is particularly great for people

permanent storage) as we sleep, thus

who can’t sleep when it’s too quiet.

preventing us from losing any data.

WEIGHTED BLANKETS: DO THEY HELP?

REM NAP: 90 MINUTES last stage of a sleep cycle and where you

each one has a benefit.

dream. REM naps provide the benefits

ness, along with decreasing fatigue.

This one is perfect for road trips or long hours of driving. The Australian Police Force runs a campaign called ‘Stop, Revive, Survive’ to decrease car accidents and deaths due to driver fatigue.

GROGGINESS NAPS: 30 MINUTES This one allows a boost to hand-to-eye coordination. However, this particular nap does come with a downside. The

ing to achieve.

Don’t: Go over a 90-minute nap.

There are four main types of naps, and

This nap provides a quick jolt of alert-

Do: Set an alarm to which nap you’re try-

SHORT-TERM NAP: 60 MINUTES

REM sleep, or rapid eye movement, is the

POWER NAP: 10-20 MINUTES

DOS AND DON’TS TO NAPPING:

of improving creativity, emotional and procedural memory. So, when you’re in a creative slump, aim for this nap. REM nap also helps to avoid sleep inertia, but this one is best saved for the weekends or after a huge study binge session. Sleep experts have suggested the ideal time to have a nap between 1 pm – 4 pm. Napping any later could affect your normal sleep schedule. And if you find yourself dreaming whilst napping, that’s a sign your body is telling you that you’re sleep-deprived. Better fix that.

Do: Nap early in the day. Midday to early afternoon is best.

The trend of weighted blankets rose in 2018 and haven’t stopped since. The use of weighted blankets were used by therapists for kids with autism and behavioral issues. They also help people with anxiety, insomnia, and depression.

Studies have shown that: + 33% of people saw a decrease in their nervous system overactivity + 63% of people reported had their stress lowered + 78% of people preferred weighted blankets as a tool to relieve stress.

It’s seen as a sensory tool. The idea is to create the same feeling as swaddling newborns; making us feel snug and secure to doze off. One of the best weighted blanket companies is Calm Blankets. They provide a weighted blanket for all season, sizes, and lifestyles. There you have it folks. The science behind napping, which one is right for, how to achieve the perfect nap and the benefits of weight blankets.

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We’ve even made a playlist on our Spotify account to help you achieve those Z’s.

Sarah/Katelyn Find a Word

?

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42

THE PLANT ROOM

BY SARAH CUPITT Quarantine is romanticising isolation a concept of mindless daily living trapped in a box with microorganisms that bite and bruise indoor plants the way silence eats at your mind the way the flowers on my desk have started to wilt but are still alive I feel trapped like there’s a rope tying me close to the ribs that sucks out the air that I’m trying to breathe but its poison lures in the corners of my prison cell and if I escape, I’ll most surely die

43

RED

BY CHRIS SIFNIOTIS The smell of blood, A murder of birds, A flock of rosettas, screaming high above.

A shout of terror, A violent act, of the death of a soul.

The light of heat, The fire of the camp, The site of the crime, a forewarning of the final oblivion.

The colour of red, is only a colour, if you give it meaning.

44

STARS

BY ASHNA SEHGAL Usually the beauty of the stars in the night is what’s focused on.

What about the spaces in between the stars?

The darkest blue being silent In the background.

That silence is gentle and empowering.

How grounded is the sky above.

45

THAT HONEY LIGHT

BY SARAH CUPITT the sound of slow jazz on a crisp afternoon an empty reading room beside an amber glow the radiant light seeping through the window a hot blanket of sun soothing you into oblivion the golden specks sparkling in your warm eyes a trembling half-light tangled in the chilly air the lucid dreaming melting into waxing nightfall a sun-induced trance that sends you to sleep

46

STRANGERS

BY LAUREN RAINEY Little things remind me of us And the way we once were Now they’re just shadows looming over me A reminder of what we used to be I’ve started searching through our memories Searching for meaning that doesn’t exist I should have just accepted That this would never be forever I hoped for something that would never happen And now we’ve drifted apart So far away that we don’t know how to start again I believed every little thing you said But now I think you said those things to see me react Now I can’t help but replay those moments And wonder if you really meant it I have so much to say but words will never be enough There’s nothing left to hold us together The people I cared for no longer exist Now we’re all strangers But in a way

47

REACHING FOR SOMETHING

BY RACHANA UDAYA KUMAR

Speckles of sand slip through my toes, Like the slipping seconds i spend Staring at the sea of gold.

It is no flight of pleasure, But a walk of pain and pressure.

I walk with no thoughts, Feeling the blood in my sole clot.

I walk with no destination in mind, for loneliness is what I was destined for.

I walk, searching for something I’ll never find.

The feeling of loneliness is a drug.

“No”, is what my mind says, But the cold hug Is what my heart craves.

Being lonely is an endless cycle Of wanting to be wanted; You can only wish for it, But can never acquire it.

Being wanted is a mirage that sweeps the golden grains.

The closer you get, The farther it wanes.

I no longer understand the feeling of being lonely, as I stand, idly, watching the mirage that keeps me company.

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49

CHANGE IS UNFORGIVING AND INEVITABLE

BY MATTHEW JONES The fact that Mallory had died hit hard.

It had been weeks since George had eaten a home-cooked meal. It was the simple bit of life that was different, the simple bits of life that had made it much more enjoyable. George didn’t understand it.

He didn’t understand how the kids moved on so quickly. “No normal person would ever move on” George thought to himself.

The kids were like robots. Woke up, get ready for school, come home from school, get ready for the next day and repeat. George was similar in the way in which he would wake up, eat, sleep and repeat.

The main difference between George and the kids was emotion. Whilst George was overcome by his emotion, the kids lacked it. There were fights, usually how ‘dad’ was supposed to help around the house. Or how the ‘kids’ didn’t care about anything.

Fights would usually start as a snarky comment. The kids would usually start with “Typical of dad to lounge around all day, and us kids to slave around at school, only to find the dishes not done”.

But when ‘dad’ started it. Everyone was involved.

“How come you don’t care about YOUR MOTHER?” George roared. “How do you just continue, whilst someone SIGNIFICANT to you is gone?

The kids yelled back, “YOU DARE QUESTION US? YOU WERE THE ONE THAT DIDN’T CARE, WHILST YOU WERE HOPING FOR THE BEST, WE WERE CRYING FOR THE WORST. You. You sick twisted little man. You were smiling during her treatments”.

They knew it was inevitable.

The memory hit all of them at once.

She had cancer.

50

THE CASE OF THE GRANDFATHER CLOCK

BY KATELYN BRUNNER I am wound up like cogs in clockwork Constantly ticking and teetering about being forgotten in a new era with the terror of irrelevance.

(I perceive myself to be as such) and when dread feeds into fear It’s like one click shifts focus and I can’t fix it Trying to negotiate with rigid hands; so clear and defined on what is time is like negotiating with the sun not to rise.

I do wish that I could change my hours but my rules are so woven into my mechanics that it breaks me to break them.

I clamour on the hour; constantly reminded of self-induced deadlines The fine lining between finding myself and forcing myself and I am the one to blame But if it was not for bad wiring or the broken glass where cracks cannot be glued back perhaps I could have been fixed. (or maybe such thoughts are truly abstract!)

I feel 12 hours behind everyone else; In the comfort of analogue, I am no different but change me to 24-hour time and you will truly see where the differences lie.

51

THE FAERIE CIRCLE

BY ANASTASIA KING Niamh winced. The thigh of her dominant right leg had been thoroughly damaged by Vasryn’s blasted arrow, her jaw ached as well since Vasryn sucker punched her. She had always been jealous of the speedy fae healing, born into a mortal body, Niamh had to live through mortal wounds.

Niamh’s muscles tightened against the frigid air, waiting for the one creature who could keep her warm. She hadn’t been born in the snowcapped lands of Northern Faerie, but she had adapted as much as her mortal body would allow.

Niamh wrapped her tattered cloak tighter around her. She had collected a number of different scars and injuries from the prince, throughout their deadly game of cat and mouse.

No one had won yet, but judging from last week’s ambush, he was closer than she was. If Niamh hadn’t been incapacitated by the blinding, nerve searing pain, echoing through her entire body, as she refused to maim or kill him, she could have leaped out of the way. Smacked it aside with her sword.

She wanted to claw out the cursed f****** mark that got her into this godsforsaken mess. It truly was a shame that the blood oath she swore to the king, to kill his last living heir, prevented her from killing the king.

Because that was the only way she and Vasryn were going to stay alive.

She took a chance in summoning him to Holywood Forest, so close to his home. But he always stabbed her in the shoulder or leg. Never the neck, or the chest, or the spine. Niamh couldn’t bring herself to kill him either.

Ever since the night where everything went wrong, but also reset the tone of her objective…

52

“Why have you summoned me here, Niamh?” Vasryn demanded from the shadows of the willow tree, inside the only summoning circle in Faerie.

The mortal woman found the question quite reasonable. One she didn’t know how to answer, since her purpose could get her killed.

As she pondered all that led her to that moment, and finally faced with her ex-lover, she suddenly craved the peppermint scent of his skin against hers.

Her fingers tangled through his long, soft, raven black hair. His desperate, seeking hands. And mouth. His jaw was tight now. His gaze furious as it met hers.Niamh straightened, as if her right leg wasn’t burning, and her whole body aching. Not from pleasure.

She maintained eye contact even as she had him pressed firmly against the tree. Vasryn’s breathing increased in tempo. Niamh’s lips tugged up at his involuntary response. Vasryn can claim indifference, but his body betrayed him too easily. “I’m sore, I’m tired, and I want to kill your father.”

A breath later, Vasryn had her pinned to the tree. It made her hackles rise, as she struggled against his firmer grip. “You made me believe you were in love with me— and I with you! You must be truly f****** mad if you think I will trust you after everything!” Vasryn snarled.

This made Niamh stop squirming. That, and the proximity of his face to hers.

“If I wanted to actually kill you, did you really think I would miss? All the f****** time?”

There was a heavy pause.

Vasryn pushed himself off the tree, and Niamh.

“You’re crazy,” he said dumbly, but truthfully. Niamh clenched her hands as he took three strides towards her. Then her whole body relaxed when his arms caged her, loosely, and dropped his head on her shoulder. The warmth of his breath reached past the flexible leather of her jacket. “We have to be smart about it. Smarter than the King of Faerie.”

53

CINDEREBEL

BY LAUREN The crash echoed across the empty walls. Outside, the sky was alive with colour. Streaks of pink tore through the fading blue, the shafts of sunlight fading and shadows disappearing. The air was wet, wafting in from the open window by the sink. Penny stood over the sink, sucking the blood from her hand. Her stomach protested the metallic taste, forcing Penny to reach for the cupboard above her head. Drops of red fell into the sink, where a piece of glass sat, the edge covered in blood. Her stepmother Eleanor’s words had felt like a knife to the heart.

“You’re not going to that party, Penny.”

With a bitterness in the back of her throat, Penny rushed from the room. The horizon glowed with the golden light of sunset that gave way to the black of the night. Penny grabbed a pillow and held it close to her chest, letting its softness comfort her. How could Eleanor do this? Why did she have to ruin everything? There was a soft knock at her door, and Penny crossed her arms over her chest as her stepmother entered the room.

“You know why you can’t go to the party, don’t you?” The harshness in her voice was gone, replaced by that soft, apologetic voice Penny recognised.

She stayed quiet.

“It’s not because I’m trying to ruin your life.” Penny lifted her mouth in a small smile as her stepmother laughed. “I know what it’s like to lose your friends. And after what happened last year, I don’t want you to feel that pain.” Penny stayed silent, staring out at the night sky until Eleanor left.

The music was pounding in Penny’s ears as she wandered around the

54

garden, drowning out Eleanor’s words from earlier. How could she think that Penny would make the same mistake, whatever that was? Bright lights shook her out of her thoughts and back into the moment.

She was standing under a wooden shelter; tall beams reached up to a transparent roof. Her heart copied the beat of the music as she walked, watching as people stared at her only to look away again.

The voice in the back of her mind, the one that sounded like Eleanor, told her she shouldn’t have come to the party, that she had no hope of making friends. Grabbing a chair, Penny dragged it into a corner, cringing as it scraped along the concrete.

Her phone buzzed in her pocket, the vibrations running along her leg.

Pulling it out of her pocket, she turned it on. Her body went cold, and her stomach dropped when she saw the time. Swearing, she pushed her way to the street, colliding with a tall figure. He looked down at her, his deep blue eyes fixing on her as he tried to figure out who she was. Penny knew that this was Niall, the host. She mumbled an apology and took off down the street, her heart pounding in more ways than one.

Penny pulled up her hood to cover the streaks of red hair and pushed the door open. The creak echoed through the house as the moon cut a path of light along the floor. Her clothes mixed in with the darkness as she sneaked through the house. Glancing into the kitchen, Penny flinched as light flooded the room.

As her eyes adjusted to the light, Eleanor came into view, her arms crossed, and her mouth set into a hard line.

55

ANTS

BY SAMUEL SULLIVAN They say when calming the mind

So, instead of looking out upon the illusion

One must only look to the horizon

Why not peer unto the distant diamond sky

Where the sky meets the sea and

Where pinpricks of light spatter our nights

The never ending expanse of the Earth

We can barely imagine their size, so very far away

Falling away, it seems, to nothingness

Yet, from here, are no larger than the head of a pin

As if one could just sail to the end of the world...

To these giant balls of gas, we, We all know that that is the point,

Our seemingly ‘all powerful’ head of the food chain

Where the eyes cannot understand the spherical nature

human race,

Of this dusty world we call home.

Are nothing but ants running about Our small insignificant lives.

56

THE PANDEMIC

BY FATIMAH HAFSAH AHAMED As time trickles away, Moments like these turn into memories.

Distant, but not forgotten.

There’s still hope for a new day, When we can step outside once againAnd explore the world, like we used to before.

Discover new places, new people, and culture together.

And just as each drop of water fades like a forgotten memory

– we will enjoy each moment And slowly see the darkness turn back into light.

There’s still hope on this road ahead, And although it has taken a year away from us, We will meet our loved ones again soon – both you and me.

Until then, please. Don’t give up. Hold on.

For just as the sun does every day – we will rise again together.

57

WHAT REMAINS BEFORE DAYBREAK

BY JIRO AMORADA Wake wraps around my body like prickling piano keys striking hammers to strings.

The night was old, but it was not the light that called.

My dreams made me wax and wane in my bed before waking to an unsettled room.

It was after a glass of cold milk that I walked out of the house. Under the streetlamps I snagged at your heels with mindless steps, just as often you would snag at mine.

Eventually, I sat upon a weary wooden bench.

The air blew softly, stirring up distant wind chimes, substitutes for the little knells that called for you.

Your form was hazy against the roughs of the road.

Eyeless, mouthless, faceless, yet you could still smile with the dimple I had forgotten long ago.

Smiling at a black sky slowly turning colourful.

Smiling at the crickets silencing and the birds chirping.

Smiling at a distant light that would fade you away.

Before long, our time was cut short.

My shoes took me home.

My feet took me back to bed.

But still you remain, before sunlight, before moonlight, before dreams of gentle summer rain.

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LOVE

BY SAMUEL SULLIVAN I used to write you poetry

But I hope that you can forgive me

To show you how much I loved you

For my rash behaviour

With every word

Fueled on insecurity and depression

You fell deeper in love with me Every promise

Just like the moon loves the sun

Every image that captures your beauty

Spinning out of cycle

Every single word

Rarely on the same page

Was crafted from the depths of my heart

Or the waves love the shore

And still to this very second

Yet constantly being pulled

I mean every word.

Back and forth My love for you is constant

I may not show it all the time I may do the complete opposite In your eyes

But am unable to show it As my own darkness Pulls me away.

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HAUNTED HOME

BY JIRO AMORADA I stood in front of a red door. I opened the lock with the keys I should’ve abandoned and let it rattle and rot in the rusted chamber. I set foot in the house that was left behind. The living room was blinded by bright sunlight. A painted wall in skin-deep green to tattoo the flesh of aloof beige. Next to it was a hallway that stretched into a backend of a conjoined kitchen and dining room.

I entered the first door of the two on the left-side of the corridor, the one door on the right side was mute. The air in the room tasted stale. The wardrobes and shelves stood along the half of what was once an office or a study. The lacrimal wood floor had specks of dust despite the daily schedule of cleaning and more cleaning. The bed cramped itself against the closet door to save space. I laid amongst its wrinkled sheets, tried to keep myself ever so still, forced my eyes shut, and swallowed.

I opened my eyes to a different ceiling. I blinked and blinked again. The yawning horizon of a bed was thrice the size it was beforeand five times the size of my current body. I leaned forward and scrambled backwards; there was a spider, an arachnid of scribbly black, an unbearably large thing. My body froze as if my stare would stop it from moving or make it disappear. Then a shrill scream of a kettle penetrated through the walls. The monster was just a ball of string; it wasn’t real. My legs rushed through the bedroom door, and I ran onto the aching chill of an endless grid of pale tiles that was an indeterminably large size.

The flooding light and the white walls drowned together into a gnawing colourless void. I still tried to search for the source of the sound and repent for my foolishness so that it could rest. But I still could not find it, let alone ask for forgiveness.

So, I only kept on running towards that unceasing screeching with wide palms over squished ears. Until the moment I found the kettle and stopped the boiling. I closed my eyes and inhaled a refreshing breath of air,

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and exhaled my eyes were now staring down the stairs as I hopped down with chubby legs like a rabbit as the hardwood stairs groaned under my weight. My arms couldn’t reach the railing, nor did I end up needing their guidance. I giggled as I wandered around dashed through the open spaces despite the hot humidity of the sweating air the corner of the squared archway approached me,but I could not stop in time my forehead met up with its blunt edge and left me with a wound that required stitches and a mark on my face.

I cried out in anguish immediately and the gasps of my family soon followed they made sure I was okay. I was wincing from the pain and squeezed my eyelids from the sensation.

Then I raised my gaze to you, who stared into our burned eyes of keeping wake. You spoke, but you were only able to mouth my words of musing. You swept your hand alongside mine, all over our faces. As if wanting to murder the sameness of our expressions. We wiped away the last physical trace of our time here as I turned around to leave you in the looking glass.

Perhaps you no longer pondered over yesterday’s dreams as you finished seeing the paint. Of boring beige dry over the former green wall of the soonto-be-sold house. But you remained within the reflection for another house that grew too small for our aging selves. The light of an evening sun lingered through slack curtains. The dust was all but settled and swept away. The rooms were now barren without personality, waiting for rest. I stood in front of a red door. In the end, it was finally time to move on to a new home.

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STILLNESS

BY KAI DILKHUSH KAUR The world we live in is so fast-paced that it is anything but still. It’s hard to find time and space where you can hear yourself breathe and listen to the environment around you. Textbook definition of stillness means the state of being still or not moving, calm. I’d say brownie points for nailing the definition, Mr. Dictionary, but there is more to stillness than meets the eye. Like, paralysis or being asked to stand in the corner of the class would make for perfect examples of stillness, though both belong to entirely different contemporary worlds. But stillness is also looking at the trees and noticing just how perfectly the sunlight hits the shrubberies.

That leaves you in awe of the beauty nature has to provide, enough for you to forget that the bus driver is hysterical about you not having moved one inch even after the red light has turned green 30 seconds back. I’ll admit, not the kind of stillness one should aspire for but something pretty close. Some would even call this magical; doctors might want to look into possible dissociation, but hey, we are average homo-sapiens, let’s enjoy this moment, shall we? Except do be careful on the road, I’m entirely broke; I wouldn’t be of any monetary help even if I wanted to. Writing this has been cathartic enough to call it my moment of stillness. I hope reading it provides you with the same. The poet in me wants to dazzle you with metaphors and take you on these fancy trips to fairylands, but today, my soul is tired. Although, quite frankly, it has been for a long while; call it an absence of calm, if you will, this, too, is stillness, of the mind, of body, the world around. You get it too, don’t you? I hope I’m not the only one. But, even if I am, I hope you find a moment that works for you and make it yours.

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A WRITER’S LAMENT

BY SARAH CUPITT You are the only temptation that I would pray and live for, fall for words soft as the shade carrying a meaning that hides chaotic dried remnants of a summertime gone plucked from the same branches in the fall when I first met you along a cement sidewalk where waves crashed against the brick wall and brushed it with a gentle kiss

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A NARRATIVE OF LATE

BY AMNAH ARAIN We warmly welcomed, They savagely stole.

A land unto them promised, But when promised, thought it droll.

This man he sells sandals, His daughter’s a dentist.

The army deemed them jackals, So they were blasted from this world’s shackles.

But the son he saw, The spreading pools of blood.

His voice screaming raw, His tears a flood.

The boy single-handed, His heart ablaze, A rock he vaulted, At the murderers’ face.

The armed soldier, Enraged by his gall,

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Drew out from his holster, And the bullets hit their goal.

The boy’s voice was silenced, His brethren dead.

The haze slowly settled, To Palestine stained red.

Other countries simply watched, Said it’s just a ‘conflict.’

Said their powers are matched, To the world they try to trick.

But out from the ashes, The boy’s voice is heard.

Not from the grave masses, But from the world bestirred.

The soul of a people, Does not die with flesh.

It lives on in multiple, Hopes forever afresh.

WOE AND WRATH

BY SARAH CUPITT I long for vengeance to creep up my neck in the dark of night.

Whispering ‘Remember when…’ you surrendered attachment to pleasure, ambition for castles of glass to sink in a morass of seething anger drowning in your past, falling slowly towards the weedy disarray to greet the cold, barren ground.

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LITTLE PURPLE GHOSTS

BY AMY NYE Dear Marianne, I’ve been thinking about the one good poem I ever wrote. The one called Orange. I only remember a few lines of it now. I remember you said it was beautiful.

I wonder where that poem is now. Do you have it tucked away in a drawer? Has it fallen, forgotten, behind your bookshelf? Maybe you threw it out years ago. Maybe it’s been recycled a thousand times and now it’s a chocolate milk carton. Maybe you’ve drunk from it and left your red stain there on the spout.

I miss you and I’m afraid. I can’t think of a pretty way to say it. It’s not pretty. It’s damp nights and stomach cramps and pounding in the very front of my head. I think of you and hornets bash against the inside of my skull. They want out, Marianne. I want out, too.

I’m still here, in the mountains. Deliliah’s is still here and I walk there every morning for a coffee. I take the long way there; I don’t walk through the park. I can’t stand it. Lately I’ve been freezing on my walks. A whole life here and I still can’t stand the cold.

Is it warm wherever you are? I hope you have reason to wear your big straw hat every single day, Marianne; I do. It’s been twenty-seven years now and “I don’t know where you are, or if it’s orange there / I miss your thighs / your eyes / how we spoke in bad movie lines”.

I have one Polaroid of you, inside the copy of The Price of Salt you gave me when we were seventeen. But you’re not two-dimensional, Marianne, and you’re too beautiful to be captured in a photograph. The Polaroid doesn’t capture the creases by your eyes when you laugh, the tiny chip in your front tooth, the deepness of your collarbones, and the webbed-water blue of your eyes.

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My new therapist is called Helen. I use vagueries when I talk about Him. ‘He hurt me’, ‘He abused me’. Never specifics. I don’t talk about the bruises that I swear I can still see on my arms when I’m in the shower, how they fade in and out like little purple ghosts.

I don’t tell Helen that I dream about it every night. How He found us in the park, kissing. How He dragged me into the Holden Kingswood, and how you got in too. God, I wish I’d never let you get in that car, Marianne. I don’t tell her how he dragged me across the lawn by my hair. How you followed, screaming.

I don’t tell her how He took me into the bathroom. How you kept following no matter how much I screamed for you to run. How my cheek pressed against the tile as he filled the bath with water, how icy cold it was when he threw me in. I don’t tell her how my lungs burned when he held me down.

But I do tell her he locked me in my bedroom and I was in there ’til morning. I tell her that you wrote a letter to your parents, explaining how being outed would ruin your life and you had to run away. I tell her that your parents said “good riddance” and no one has seen you since. I don’t tell her about that shadow on His face when he told me you ran off. I don’t tell her how certain He seems to be that you’re never coming back.

Marianne, come back. For the love of God. Yours, forever and ever,

Ingrid

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THOUG

S OTE

“Don’t waste time with people who don’t even value your presence. It is best to be alone than being with such unappreciative people”.

“Running away from your problems will not solve your problems, it will still follow you. Best to confront them and solve it”.

“You are more capable than you think. Sometimes our assumption in regards to our strengths are inaccurate”.

U

S

C UC

ESS IS

YO

“Once we are born, we are closer to death”.

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U T Y. R D

QU

“People like blaming others but the wise one blames no one, saves time to try to fix themselves”.

KING

BY DONITA WILEGODA MUDALIGE

PRO VO

WORDS OF WISDOM

HT

“The egoistic one does not accept one’s faults. The humble one accepts one’s faults, does not get angry when told about their weaknesses and strives to remove their faults”.

“To relieve someone’s hunger is incredible. To save a life is extraoridinary. To give someone the truth is priceless”.

“Fix yourself before fixing others.

Fixing yourself will be more realistic”.

“You want to live a life free from danger, so does every other being. Don’t harm, only protect”.

“It is hard to accept reality when you are stuck to irrational views”.

“If you are going to give feedback to someone, make sure it is constructive. Don’t give feedback to destroy someone’s self esteem and self worth”.

“Never praise immoral acts. You are encouraging more of it”.

“Some people are like poison.

One drop is enough to cause you damage”.

“Jealousy does not contribute to your success.

It only destroys it slowly.

The fact that you don’t se its immediate results doesn’t mean it won’t destory you in some degree”.

“No one gets rich by serving themselves”.

“Most problems are created by the mind”.

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REGRET

BY MATTHEW JONES He trudged towards the house, solemnly from his faded yellow car. Big grey clouds were taunting him with a sprinkle. Tripping past the front yard gate, he saw the cracks in the path close up. Wobbling as he got back on his feet, he saw everything; an overgrown garden and a decrepit, empty house.

Entering, the groan of the man and the door were in unison. Looking over at the calendar on the far wall in the hallway, he saw that calendar was open to May. After checking his phone, he flipped the calendar to June. Walking over to his loungeroom, he flicked the light switch but just like him, there was no spark or light. Staggering to the kitchen, the figure looked over at the dust-covered table. Opposite from his usual seat, he settled down.

Something was awry. It didn’t feel like his own kitchen.

He lay his head on the table’s surface, but the feeling of dust on his face triggered a response to go wash it off. Stumbling to the kitchen sink, he dispensed an excess of soap onto his hands and remarked “huh, wasted this soap just like I have my life”. But no amount of complaining was going to fix the rumbling from his stomach. It was a sort of ritual. Come home and make soup. Lather, rinse and repeat. It was somewhat lacking in variety. But it hadn’t affected him up until that point, not until now.

Looking over at his Masters certificate, he asked himself “did I really achieve anything?”. Irony is fate’s cruellest tool. Quite often would he criticise his old pal Al for finding work back in Scotland. “Why not make something of yourself, Al?” mouthing the words he had once said. And just as often he would ask, Alistair would answer “Aye laddy, engineering just ain’t for me, besides it looks like there ain’t a shortage of engineers” as he would often gesture to the people around them. Again, reality came back into focus.

James shook his head and took his certificate down, off of the kitchen wall

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where it could be seen as some sort of trophy, placing it on the kitchen bench next to a pile of newspapers. Much like a trophy, his engineering degree was just for show and not much else. Perhaps Alistair had been right?

There hadn’t been a shortage of engineers. Even without the large supply of engineers, there had been little demand for them anyway. He went to put his certificate back up when he nudged the pile of newspaper off the bench.

Just like the newspapers, he was stuck. Not on the ground perhaps, but back with Alistair. Surrounded by photos of a family by old fortresses and lochs, he heard Alistair state “You don’t get to choose if you get hurt in this world” as a little messy haired monster tackled him with a hug. “But you do have some say in who hurts you. I like my choices” grinning at the little one.

“Snap out of it “James winced. “Fresh air. That’s what I need” Even though it felt like an eternity reaching the back door, James couldn’t figure out if he was jealous of Alistair or not. “What does he have that I don’t” James thought. He opened the back door just to slam it again, the rain wasn’t just taunting but now it was laughing. Then it struck him. He was jetlagged, he looked at his phone to check the time. 6:22am it read. He would usually wake up at 6:30am, not go to sleep.

Walking past the kitchen and loungeroom, he looked towards his bedroom.

As he got closer he saw two things on his bedside table; a note and a photo.

The photo showed Alistair with messier hair. Arms were wrapped around a younger him and a girl with the biggest grin anyone had ever seen.

Although, she had less grey hair in the photo than during his trip to Scotland. The blaring noise of an alarm clock woke James out of his spell.

Picking it up, he felt the engraving on the back.

I was profoundly enchanted by the flowing complexity in her, she made me happier than anything engineering could, I wish you knew the feeling “Me too”. Those words echoed at the back of James’ mind like a car alarm in the middle of the night.

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PARRAMATTA • MARSDEN PARK

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