Lily Sullivan Editor-in-chief

The second semester edition of the Arts Union Peacock The Peahen Edition, saw the addition of
a lot of new names in the magazine. I hope the Peacock continues to be a bi-annual publication
with its readership and writership ever expanding and growing across all the oceans and seas,
yarrr. Ching Shih one of the most powerful pirates in human history started as Chinese prostitute
and took over her husbands fleet when he died. In the early 1800s she controlled most of the
South China Sea and although they attempted to; the British, Chinese and Portuguese navies
could not defeat her, instead they offered her peace. How cool is that. (Also thats Mistress Ching
for any Pirates of the Caribbean fans).

Lara Connolly Editor
I dont know what people write in editorials, really. What do people want to read? In that vein, Ive
always wondered how people decide whats interesting enough to be conversation-worthy.
Something I might find fascinating while talking to one person I would find as boring as a Science
Union sundowner while talking to someone else. Maybe it really does just depend on who Im
talking to if I like you as a person then Ill probably like your conversation. It reminds me of
something my brother once said to me after he got back from the shops one evening. I guess it
really struck a chord in me. He said: I went to the shops today. Saw a greyhound.
Welcome to the Peafowl: Peahen Edition. Hopefully you enjoy the work showcased here and that
some of them strike a chord in you too!

Katy Morrison Editor
I wasnt trusted with positions of responsibility in school because apparently I have little ability,
respect for authority, or propriety. Look at me now. Editor of the best and most prestigious
magazines on campus. And my name is printed in the important front section. Suck it stupid
haters. Its nice to know that even though Im not talented or creative enough to actually contribute
in any meaningful way, I have the pride of knowing that I helped choose fonts, italicize certain
sections of text, and adjust margins. That my friends is true accomplishment.

Michael Franz Editor
Nothing reminds me quite so much of the Peacock magazine as the beauty and majesty of a
marine ecosystem. Allow me to explain. Imagine that you are a walrus, and all day you're floating
around, with nothing to eat but cold, salty fish. Then one day you come across something
delicious, like say, an apple strudel, and you're all "OMG THIS STRUDEL IS FUCKING DELICIOUS!
FUCK FISH, FISH CAN GO EAT A DICK!" However, you have to go back to eating fish, because
the strudel only comes out twice a year. That's probably a good thing though, because if you ate
nothing but strudel, you'd probably get diabetes and have to have your flipper amputated. Then
you'd be sitting there, crying those big, sad walrus tears, and nobody wants that. So I guess that's
what I'm trying to say - that you're a walrus and this magazine is a strudel. I hope that clears things
up.



contents
States
Welcome to the Thing
Void
Peppercorn and Filia
Galapagos Islands
The Legs of Sadie
Kingfisher
Mar
To Crush Error and Ignorance
In Pursuit
Dredged
Performance Art
Golden Boys
Paper Boat
The Fear Trap
Committee Friends vs. Noam Chomsky
Tremolina
3
5
6
7
13
15
18
19
21
22
23
27
30
36
37
38
42

artistic contributors
Jessica Cockerill Cover Page
Joseph Rocca Page 36
Mariana Hill Page 42

\ \ \ 3 / / /
States
Renzo Tweedie

There are two men in my life,
They are the same and different, like
water and steam. My husband is steam.
He drifts through life rather than with it,
burning and fading in more ways than
one. He works for an online company,
spending his hours in his study behind
his screen. In my mind he is cyberspace
blue, with his glasses pure reflection. Im
not even sure what his company does to
be honest; Ive never even owned a
computer. But the tap-tap of his keys has
changed our lives.
I met my husband under unremarkable
circumstances when I was 25; we dated
for five
years and
married on
a whim in
the country. We honeymooned to sun,
with white beaches and clear water so
real it was clich. We were in love. We
are.
He brings money to our table, and
intelligence to our genes. Hes
handsome, charming; he can finish a
crossword in half the time I can.
And yet, he just cant seem to open his
mouth long enough for a conversation.
When he first started playing with his
laptop I used to bring tea to his study. I
would sit on the corner of his desk and
talk to him. Hed whisper his answers to
me in the half-light, adding points of
interest as his eyes mirrored an artificial
glow. Then slowly, he had less to say.
Hed repeat back to me my words or just
murmur, nodding his head.
I stopped bringing him tea.
My husband works hard and late. I wait
for him at night with either my eyes or
fingers wet. And then I cant hold my eyes
open anymore. Many times the sun has
beaten him to warming the sheets next to
me. And I get up to start a new day while
he dwells on the last. Im considering
having an affair; I just dont know what to
do and I think this makes me angry.

The other man in my life is water. He flows
where his life takes him. He is slow to
anger and his
laughter bubbles
through him. Light
seems to seep and
magnify though him.
My son was born with hearing difficulties,
and by age nine he was completely deaf.
However, families accommodate. We
learned to sign together and although the
house grew still, silence was still
uncommon when he was present.
He must know how much I hate the
silence.
We began to incorporate noises into the
language. Clapping and clicking or
banging a surface half way through a
sign; it didnt matter as long as it was
sound.
And his laughter was always somewhere,
filling up the hush. Hell never know how
beautiful his laugh is.
We honeymooned to sun, with
white beaches and clear water so
real it was clich.
\ \ \ 4 / / /
We would talk for hours my son and me.
Wed sit on the veranda in canvas chairs
with soda water and lime wedges. Our
hands moving faster with the
conversation. The sky would deepen
around us and we would slowly forget to
make noises. Only I could appreciate the
occasional giggle or snort that did pierce
the quiet.
Eventually we would talk in silence; this is
when the real conversations started.
Hes spoken
to me of his
hopes and
loves. He
spells out with his fingertips his longings
and regrets. I am honest with him, I tell
him of my past but I skirt around the
future. He is a man but he is my child.

What I know of the future is this.
The day will come when my men notice
their differences, when my son will grow
to despise my husband for his tepidity.
My husband will notice but not know what
to do. He will not be able to click out. The
light in his glasses will be replaced with
the reflection of his family and he will not
notice the paradox of silences that
entwine us. It makes me ache that my
husband will be so lost, but he will not
come to me for
help. My son will
boil, but refuse
to turn into his
father. I can almost feel the quiet
arguments and angry shapes that will
cover their hands. I will again feel the
cold sheets beside me and I will again
know silence.

He spells out with his fingertips
his longings and regrets.
\ \ \ 5 / / /
Welcome to The Thing
Olivia Rourke


Takeaway double burger with extra
Bacon
Chicken
Extra
Hot
Extra
Cheese and a
SERIOUSLY LARGE chips, please.

Takeaway any respect you thought
The front till operation position would grant you
Chilli hat
Chilli name tag
Chilli in your eyes
Chilli under your nails and a
SERIOUSLY SMALL paycheck in your emails.

Takeaway your human scent
Replace it with
Chicken hands
Chicken hair
Chicken soul
Chicken skin
And Im sorry that the store smells something akin
To my welder housemate
Because I cleaned the windows with stainless steel finish again.

Takeaway complimentary packets of salt all over the floor
Stickers that indicate the basting stuck under plates
Portuguese ballads
Portuguese ballads in my nightmares
Portuguese flavours, Perth city flavours
Por-tu
Por-tu
Pour me another drink, honey
\ \ \ 6 / / /

Takeaway order for Sam
Sam?
Where the fuck is Sam? The cutlery is to your left and the wait
Should be about the rest of my life as a student.










Void
Bryce Newton

I cannot walk
My body
Heavy with relief
With sadness
Weigh me
Scales of sickness
Upon my tongue
I sit next to a man
With congealed wounds
And hope
We will not touch.






\ \ \ 7 / / /
Peppercorn and Filia
Corin Rowell

The wedding took place on a Thursday
morning, in the small chapel by the lake
at the South side of the village. The few
people who were up before sunrise would
have heard the slap of bare feet on
cobblestones and maybe seen a girl with
her skirts hitched up to her hips sprinting
down the main street trailing flowers
behind her from the large collection she
had scooped up in her arms. By the time
the sun had
fully risen,
the chapel
was
decorated
with wildflowers from the forest around
the mountain base and Filia was running
back up to the farmhouse with a wild grin.
He thick dark hair was loose and hit
against her shoulders with each stride.
Everyone agreed that she had done a
wonderful job with the flowers.
The wedding had been in the works for
just two weeks, but it had provided a lot
of gossip for the villagers when they
gathered in the pubs and or talked with
neighbours over the top of fences. The
eldest daughter of that farmer with the
largest eggs anyone had seen, and the
silent worker girl who carried logs in the
crook of her arm with a calm smile. It
wasnt that they were girls that caused the
gossip - there had already been a
wedding the previous year between the
daughter of that fisherman and that girl
who sold butter in the city - it was merely
that gossip always clung to Filia in that
place.
She was a product of the forest. It was
known that the trees were dangerous and
the pixies that lived amongst the roots
were devious creatures. They would go to
any lengths to bewitch humans and kill
them and bring ruin on their household.
Never trust that which comes from the
forest, thats
what they
whispered to
each other.
Children were
not allowed to play too close and only that
one farmstead was in the reach of the
trees shadows.
But that girl Peppercorn had never
listened to their warnings. She wandered
through the trees and came back with her
apron full of acorns, a basket of
mushrooms hanging at one elbow, twigs
caught in her dark red tangles. The mud
on her boots was thick and a different
shade to the mud one would pick up
down by the lake. The leaves that caught
on her skirt were dark and spiked, wicked
things they were. She didnt care. She
kicked the mud off her heels and cooked
the berries into pies with a merry whistle.
Even took her younger brother out into the
forest to swim in one of the dark pools
when the months grew hot.
It was known that the trees were
dangerous and the pixies that lived
amongst the roots were devious
creatures.
\ \ \ 8 / / /
And it was on one of those trips into the
trees that she returned with that girl. The
smith saw it when he was shoeing horses,
and he soon let news spread around the
lake about the stranger from the forest.
She was knobbly and thin like a fallen
branch and wore Peppercorns outer shift
tied close to her body. Peppercorn
stomped to the farm in nothing but her
petticoat and shirt, her boots on full
display. Her hand was holding tightly to
that girls fingers.
She was obviously a creation of the
pixies. Her skin was the harsh brown of
mud that had formed her and her hair
was painted tree roots falling to her
middle back. Her eyes even glimmered
gold where energy of the sun itself had
been placed into her body to give her life.
When she opened her mouth, she had no
words to speak. Pixies were clever, but
they couldnt mimic human speech as
everyone knew. Everything about this girl
showed she was a creation of evil and
would bring misfortune to all who saw her.
And yet she was clothed by the farmer,
ate at his table, worked on his farm.
She was good with the horses, brushing
and feeding them with a smile. Though
she was skinny, she had muscle beneath
her skin and could easily swing an axe to
bring down trees then load up the
carriages and accompany the farmer to
the city and to market. She was tall and
willowy and silent, and she held
Peppercorns hand so gently beneath the
shade of the trees as they charmed bees
to give up their honeycomb to make
spiced honey cake. Their lips were sticky
the first time they kissed.
The villagers were right - Peppercorn
never listened to their warnings. Shed
been raised by her steadfast father, and
her mother from the large city further up
the river. She had been reading since she
was only just wearing lace-up boots, and
she could even speak the language of the
southern elves. By the time she was
grown, she knew better than to listen to
the scared stories of the local pub. She
knew that pixies had better things to care
about than souring milk. She knew that
the position of the moons had nothing to
do with the death of old Father Brette last
winter. And she knew that Filia wasnt evil
and wouldnt bring ruin to the family and
that she wanted to marry her.
She asked Filia to be her wife when Filia
was piling up logs by the front gate. She
stood beneath he peppercorn tree, her
hair the same dark red as the corns
hanging above her and her eyes the
mischievous black of the stone by her
feet.
I want to marry you, she said simply.
Her thumbs were buried in the top of her
apron and she rocked back onto her
heels. You are quiet and strong and you
make me happy and I think I love you. We
can build a house near here and I will
cook and clean while you work. Papa will
give us some animals to start our own
farm, I asked him and he said yes. And if
you bring me honey I will make you all the
\ \ \ 9 / / /
cake you can eat and we can grow fat
together. What do you say?
FIlia straightened up and turned. Her
thick roots of hair were knotted at the
nape of her neck. Her eyes were a dull
gold in the shade. For a moment she
considered with her head tilted to one
side. Then she smiled and nodded before
stepping forward to gently kiss
Peppercorns forehead. Their fingers
laced together and Filias thumb rubbed
gently at
the back of
Peppercor
ns hand.
Two weeks was all it took to prepare.
Peppercorn spent the days sewing ribbon
and lace by the light of a flickering
candle, making matching dresses for the
two of them. In the morning, when Filia
was decorating the chapel Peppercorn
had been up for hours making cakes and
pies until the kitchen was filled with food
and she had sweat on her back and
stains on her apron.
They bathed in the pool where they had
first met. The one deep in the forest, with
the waterfall and the mushrooms growing
by the edge that tasted deliciously
mellow. Peppercorn had found her here,
silent and naked and lost huddled behind
the crashing waterfall. She had handed
over her outershift and carefully coaxed
the stranger out. Asked her her name.
Smiled as she had wordlessly written filia
in the earth with one long finger.
When the sun move to the center of the
sky, they sat on stones by the pools edge
and dried themselves. Filia wove
wildflowers through Peppercorns hair
and kissed her bare shoulders.
Peppercorn carefully arranged Filias
locks into a neat coil on the top of her
head. She pressed her nose to the nape
of her fiances neck and breathed in her
scent. Filia always smelled of earth.
Most of the village was waiting down by
the lakes edge for them. They were either
crammed into
the small chapel
or else gathered
around outside
peering through the windows or in the
streets waiting for the girls to arrive. They
all clapped when Peppercorn and Filia
rode their largest horse down the cobbled
streets, their skirts and ribbons spilling
over bare feet and hands clasped
together to keep from falling. The
applause was mingled with whispers
about the pixies and Filias glittering gold
eyes. And since they were all focussed
on the girls riding to the lake, none of
them saw the man who stood at the back
of the crowd with his greyed hair and
nose like the prow of a battleship.
Peppercorns hands were sweaty as she
held Filias in the chapel before young
Father Brette. Filias eyelashes fluttered
and she blushed as she listened to Father
Brette asking the Great Poet to bless the
union and let their love forever sing.
Peppercorn couldnt help grinning her
The applause was mingled with
whispers about the pixies and
Filias glittering gold eyes.
\ \ \ 10 / / /
widest grin when Father Brette asked the
Ancient Kings and Queens to watch over
their union and let the three moons shine
on them. The white ribbon was tied to
their fingers, linking shaking finger to
shaky finger. Silver bells were rung to
entice their love to forever bloom. Golden
bells were rung to encourage prosperity
and longevity. They drank from the same
glass of lake water which they gathered
themselves.
And as they placed down the glass, the
ribbon at their hand was sliced in two
declaring them wed.
It was when they kissed each other for the
first time as a married couple that the
doors to the chapel flew open and the
man entered.
His boots were creaking leather and
metal tacks on the sole rang out as they it
the stone floor. There was salt on his
cracked lips and his hair was windswept
tangles
about his
chicken
neck. The
entire chapel turned to watch him stride
down the centre aisle towards the brides.
He gave a small growl and grabbed
Filias wrist, pulling her towards him.
Found you.
Filias eyes widened and she tried to pull
away, but the mans grip was too strong.
His hand seemed about to snap her
bones and he was glaring down at her
with a frightening rage.
Stop! Peppercorn leapt forward,
marching to the man and grabbing his
hand. How dare you? You beast, unhand
her. What right have you to-
Dont touch me, the man snarled. He
pushed Peppercorn so that she tripped
on the hem of her skirt and stumbled to
the floor. Im this little mistakes creator,
and can touch her as I please. And shes
been missing for months. Now I find her
marrying some whore in a two-horse town
in the middle of nowhere and Im putting
a stop to it.
Peppercorns eyes flashed and she
opened her mouth to shout, but it was
Filia who acted first. She swung her free
hand round and hit the mans cheek with
a resounding slap that echoed through
the chapel. A red hand mark appeared
on his skin.
He was silent, staring down at Filia who
glared back up at him. The entire chapel
only sat and
watched as the
man pressed a
hand to his cheek.
His eyes widened a fraction.
Your eyes, he murmured. Your cranium
must be filled with leaking conductor
fluid. Its getting into your eye sockets,
must be messing with your processors
and short circuiting you. For you to violate
the first law and raise your hand to a
human He moved swiftly, spinning Filia
round and grabbing her by the hair,
forcing her head forward and pawing at
There was a click, not unlike
when a musician cracked their
knuckles.
\ \ \ 11 / / /
the back of her neck. Peppercorn
screeched and leapt to her feet again,
arms raised and hands balled into fists.
Filia was struggling. Her feet kicked out,
her skirts flurrying around her. Her hands
gripped the mans arm around her chest.
Ah! The man sighed. There was a click,
not unlike when a musician cracked their
knuckles. Filia went limp. The man let her
slump to the floor in a puff of petticoat
and lace. Her head hit the floor, forehead
pressing to Peppercorns bare toes.
The man stood back, smoothing down his
coat front. This is a kindness, girl. She
was broken. She had been
malfunctioning and was to be repaired
before she fell from the ship. No doubt
she was damaged even worse in the fall.
Peppercorn was kneeling on the floor. her
hands were shaking as she touched
Filias shoulders, shaking her feebly as if
trying to wake a baby. Wh- What did you
do? Her voice was small and weak. Did
you break her Her Neck?
When I constructed her, I put a wire in
the back of her neck that would shut her
down when it was severed.
Wire?
Is every peasant this stupid? A wire, you
foolish whore! And I shut her down. She is
my machine and she was broken and
now I have no need of her so I turned her
off permanently. He glanced round at the
assembled guests and curled his lip.
She would have broken out here anyway.
I doubt anyone in this end of the world
has even got a basic grasp of robotics.
She would have run down in a year. He
reached into a pocket and pulled out a
cigarette wrapped in brown paper. He lit
it with a strange contraption from another
pocket that summoned a flame, pressed
the thing between his lips and began to
walk down the aisle to the door.
Congratulations, girl. And thank you for
finding my old servant. Now maybe you
can find yourself a human to marry.
The villagers who were outside later
reported that the man pressed at a band
on his wrist and called a contraption that
floated through the air and blocked out
the sun. It seemed to be a large boat,
though not one they had ever seen. The
hull seemed to not be of wood but of a
silvery material that shimmered like fish
as it passed through the cloud. It
hummed as it lowered and hovered over
the rooftops. A ladder fell to the ground
and allowed him to climb.
And each villager who witnessed it
claimed that they saw faces peering over
the side of this ship to stare down at
them. They each said that it was Filia. A
dozen Filias peering over at them with her
sharp shoulders and dark hair, but these
had eyes of a clear white and not the dark
gold they knew.
But Peppercorn did not see any of this.
She was sitting in the chapel, still shaking
Filia and trying to wake her up. Even
when the tears started to pour down her
face and the other villagers had left, she
\ \ \ 12 / / /
stayed down in the chapel knocking away
any hands that tried to help her up or
comfort her. Only when the building was
dark and all were asleep did she tilt her
head back and scream until her throat felt
like it would bleed and her heart would
burst.
And Filia lay on the ground, eyes staring
forward and mouth hanging open.
* * *
The frost had creeped up on them that
morning. The ground crunched
deliciously under Peppercorns boots as
she left the house, carefully shutting the
gate to keep the dogs from getting out as
they had a habit of doing. It was brisk and
she clutched her scarf tight to her face.
The sun was just beginning to rise over
the mountains when she began her
weekly walk into the forest.
The villagers knew she was bewitched.
Had been ever since that Filia had
arrived. But they had thought that since
that wizard with the flying machine had
destroyed the vessel then the spell would
be gone. It seemed not.
It was every Saturday she rose before
dawn to make this walk. No matter the
weather, no matter the work needing
done, no matter her health. Even the
previous year when she had started
coughing and her grandnieces and
grandnephews - all that was left of her
family - had insisted she stay in bed she
still forced her way up and into the forest.
The path was worn into the earth by her
own feet. As she hobbled over tree roots
and rocks, the pixies gathered in the
branches overhead to chatter to each
other and point at the silver-haired
woman walking through their homes. She
moved through the woods at a slow pace,
past the waterfall, over great rocks and
fallen trees, deeper and deeper to the
areas where no other villager had visited.
Until she reached a tree large enough for
a cart horse to run through.
It was here, in a hole she had carved with
an axe so long ago, that Filia rested. She
was still in her wedding things with her
hair perfectly coiled over her skull and her
bonding ribbon at her middle finger. Her
hands were clasped on her lap. Her eyes
were closed as if she might be sleeping.
And it was strange what the man had said
so long ago. That she was not a human.
Peppercorn had decided that it must be
true. For though her own hair had turned
to white and her skin was wrinkled and
her eyesight was failing her, and though
flowers and branches grew over this
grave that Peppercorn tended to each
week with hands that were getting stiffer
each year, and although fifty years had
passed since her death, FIlia looked
exactly the same lying in that carved-out
trunk as she had been on the morning
when they were to be married and
Peppercorn had last been truly happy.
\ \ \ 13 / / /


Bench Reads: Lets preserve what is ours.


Galapagos Islands
Mariana Hill

Galapagos islands inspired Darwins natural selection theory. Now they are one of the last
paradises in the world. There are no natural predators and the biggest animal is the
passive giant tortoise. Today people live with the nature, you can find marine iguanas, sea
lions, birds and other animals resting in the streets. The rule of this paradise is that
touching animals is not allowed and as a consequence they are not afraid of people so
you can sleep in the beach next to a sea lion or swim with huge marine turtles
\ \ \ 14 / / /






















Marine Iguana, A Living Dinosaur



Lonely George, the last individual of its species, died the 24
th
of
June of 2012.

\ \ \ 15 / / /
The Legs of Sadie
Georgia Oman

In the end, it was my grandmothers legs that betrayed her.
They had served her well for eight decades. An exemplary record, really. Not only did they
perform all the essentials required of legs standing, walking, etcetera they went above
and beyond the call of duty in providing all the fancy extras not included with the basic
package. They had always, for example, looked fabulous; not for my grandmother was the
gentle progression towards sensible ankle-length skirts and linen trousers, accepted by
her friends as a part of the ageing process as inevitable as grey hairs.
Ive always had good legs, was her ready response whenever complimented, and from
what Ive gleaned from old stories and faded photographs, her confidence on this point
was not unfounded. It wasnt vanity, either, but rather a simple statement of fact, for Sadie
was not a beanpole, or at least not when I knew her. She had a rather baffling
physiognomy; she stood about a head shorter than I and had lost whatever semblance of
a waist she might once have had, a trait that, along with her somewhat ample bosom,
contributed to the spherical shape of her upper person. Her overall appearance was not
unlike that of an apple balancing on two toothpicks, which was the image that always
came to mind whenever I saw her tottering towards me. But it could not be denied that,
whatever else, shed always had good legs.

These were the legs that, as a child, first learned to crawl, then stand, then walk. The
evolution of man was mirrored in her advancement from the primordial ooze of her
makeshift playpen, a jumble of couch cushions in the corner of the sitting room, to the
triumphant steps of a newly-minted homo erectus, hanging on tightly to her mothers flour-
streaked apron as tentative feet in knitted woollen booties slipped and slid over the
linoleum floor. As the thirties melted into the forties, and the world into chaos, these were
the legs that crouched under her school desk at the sound of the air-raid drill, her chin
buried into her knees as she hugged them to her chest and waited for the ringing in her
ears to stop. These were the legs that clambered up onto the kitchen bench, finding
cautious footholds on cupboard shelves and open cutlery draws, so that she could kneel
beside the sink and peer through the lace-framed window onto the street outside. She
watched from this position as the postman handed her mother a black-edged telegram on
a hot December day, the melted stream of a forgotten raspberry ice staining her arm like a
wound.
The evolution of man was mirrored in her advancement
from the primordial ooze of her makeshift playpen
\ \ \ 16 / / /
As Sadie grew older, these were the legs that walked to the tramline every Friday to catch
the Number 55 into the city. On the night she met my grandfather, they were clad in a
brand new pair of skin-tight cigarette pants. He asked her to dance and they cut a swathe
through a sea of flouncy poodle skirts, high-kicking and jiving for all they were worth. She
was nineteen years old and so was he, and they were engaged that year and married the
next. These were the legs that, hidden beneath a curtain of ivory satin, glided down the
aisle of St Georges church as she clutched her mothers arm. Unused to such modesty,
this situation was rectified following the reception at the home of my grandfathers parents,
as Sadie emerged from her in-laws bedroom at the end of the evening clad in an olive-
green going away suit made in the style of Christian Dior. Her local dressmaker, under
strict instruction during the fitting, had reluctantly inched the hem higher and higher until it
sat at a perilous distance from her knees.

The sixties were really Sadies era. These were the legs that embraced the mini skirt
wholeheartedly, a devoted relationship that could not even be soured by three
pregnancies in as many years. These were the legs that stayed trim and slender as her
stomach ballooned and deflated in what appeared, for a few years, to be a seasonal
cycle. Then, the age of twenty-five, Sadie promptly declared the end of her childbearing
years and embraced the contraceptive pill with the same fervour she reserved for thigh-
skimming shift dresses. As the swinging element of the sixties arrived a little later in
Australia than the rest of the world, but better late than never these were the legs that
twisted and grooved to the vibrant, urgent sounds of the pop music that poured fourth
from the record player, vinyl spinning lazily on an endless loop.
As the sixties turned into the seventies, her grief at the passing of the mini skirts period of
dominance was somewhat assuaged by the introduction of hot pants and bell-bottomed
jeans. Clad in her favourite high-rise pair, buttoned up to her ribcage, these were the legs
that tiptoed among the debris of Sadies famous dinner parties at four in the morning,
avoiding the hors doeuvres lodged in the shag pile carpet and catatonic guests passed
out on the couch. She tossed sugared almonds out of a packet as she went, to be found
by the children the next morning in a treasure hunt to amuse them while their parents slept
off their hangovers.
These were the legs that, in 1970, did not walk, but marched down Swanston Street with a
hundred thousand others in the cool, crisp air of an Australian autumn in protest of a war
being fought in the dense undergrowth of a sweating jungle four thousand miles away.

These were the legs that, the year her eldest daughter finished school, ran off to Europe
with the junior partner in the doctors surgery down the street. They tanned evenly under
the Mediterranean sun, stretched out on an assortment of brightly coloured hotel towels
and deckchairs cluttered over the pebbled beaches of the South of France and Italian
\ \ \ 17 / / /
Riviera. When the weather, and the doctor, began to turn, these were the legs that stood
stiffly outside Tullamarine as she waited in the rain for the familiar hum of the family
Kingswood, the engine noise deafening in the silence of the ride home.
The nineties brought with them the first wave of grandchildren and, not unrelated, the first
denials of increasing age. The words grandmother, nanna and grandma were made taboo
from the cutting of the umbilical cord, and for the first time the rich chestnut colouring of
Sadies razor-sharp bob began to carry with it a whiff of artificiality. By day, these were the
primly-crossed legs behind the reception desk at Mahler & Mahler Solicitors, who had
offered her a job after handling her divorce. By night, these were the legs that trod the
boards as the unofficial star of the Prahran Players, a seniors amateur musical theatre
collective famed for their biannual productions. In the Spring 1997 production of Chicago,
these were the fishnet-clad legs that, as Velma Kelly, strayed too close to the edge of the
stage while Sadie enthusiastically belted out the chorus to All That Jazz. It was a
particularly overzealous step-ball-change that was eventually responsible for her tumble
into the orchestra pit, where she came to rest on the lap of a retired teacher named Steve
who played the trumpet.
These were the legs that, upon Mr Mahlers retirement from the firm, no longer had to
endure the indignity of economy airline seating, as they never travelled less than first class
on the frequent European jaunts she took with him following the death of his wife. These
were the legs that, seized with the spirit of Anita Ekberg in La Dolce Vita, kicked off her
new Prada pumps and waded into the Trevi Fountain, where she was promptly seized by
the polizia. Mr Mahler paid the fine.

These were the legs that refused to be caught dead in flat shoes.
These were the legs that met me in red, patent leather kitten heels when I met her at the
Princess Theatre to see The King and I for her eightieth birthday.
These were the legs that tapped along to the beat as she sang along (softly, she thought)
to every single musical number in the show.
These were the legs that, during the rousing crescendo of Something Wonderful,
accidentally kicked the back of the seat in front, provoking a pointed glare to which she
was impervious.
These were the legs that stumbled on the rain-slicked footpath as we walked back down
Spring Street together.
These were the legs that slipped.
These were the legs that fell.
These were the legs of Sadie.
These were the legs that refused to be caught dead in
flat shoes.
\ \ \ 18 / / /
Kingfisher
Lara Connolly

Its dark around but here
The sand is lit.
A strange unnatural landscape
Of poles stuck in a pit.
A kookaburra, sitting on the tape,
Confused, he contemplates
A meal made of muddled bugs. Back and forth
He sways.
He swoops, and comes away
A moths eternal vigour
Leaving him un-phased.
He swoops again, again, again.
His helpless prey in swarms,
Each hapless victim left for dead,
Their cohort unconcerned.


\ \ \ 19 / / /
Mar
Por Mariana Hill Cruz
Cmo te llamas?
eon miraba el perfil de la chica recortado contra el Sol. Estaba sentada en una roca en el borde del
acantilado y el chico solo alcanzaba a ver y largo cabello, su nariz puntiaguda y perfecta, una parte
de su espalda y sus grandes pestaas. Era la chica ms bella que haba visto en su vida y desde el
instante en que eon la haba visto por primera vez, cuatro horas antes, se haba enamorado de ella.
Se acerc un poco ms y tras armarse nuevamente de valor, pues le haba tomado cuatro horas
decidirse a hacer la primera pregunta, y todo para no obtener respuesta pero esta vez estaba
decidido a no hacerse para atrs. La chica haba permanecido inmvil como una estatua, solo su
cabello ondeante mostraba vida y eon haba estado casi igual de inmvil contemplndola detrs de
una piedra, luego sin nada entre ellos, luego se haba acercado an ms y finalmente haba
preguntado pero la chica no daba seales de notarlo.
Quin eres?
Esta vez la chica s lo not; lanz un sobresalto que detuvo el corazn de eon por un momento
quien crey que la nia caera del acantilado. Gir su cabeza lentamente y dos grandes ojos verde
azulado como el color del agua desde la profundidad se posaron sobre eon.
Quin eres t? pregunt la chica en lugar de responder.
Me llamo eon dijo el chico y soy un pescador del puerto. He vivido con mi padre toda la vida.
Qu tan joven eres? pregunt la chica.
eon se extra por la pregunta.
De cuntos aos me veo? pregunt.
De veinte.
Muy bien! dijo eon sonriendo Ni un ao ms ni uno menos. T cuntos aos tienes? Cmo te
llamas?
De cuntos me ves? pregunt la chica.
Eres hermosa dijo eon sin pensarlo de diecisis . La chica sonri pero no dijo nada. Ante la falta
de respuesta eon insisti. Por favor cuntame de ti. Quiero conocerte, llevo cuatro horas admirando
tu belleza y desde el momento en que te vi me enamor. No tengo remedio dime algo por favor! .
Sus palabras eran tan intensas que la chica se tens como si hubiera tenido un escalofro.
Yo? dijo al fin Pero ya ests enamorado de m, para qu quieres saber ms? Soy yo la que debe
saber de ti. Dime todo.
Todo? Pues yo nac aqu y eon no se atreva a sentarse junto a la joven. Segua detrs de ella
aunque casi poda tocar su espalda; la chica nicamente giraba su cabeza a momentos para dirigirle
una de sus esplendorosas miradas y el resto del tiempo miraba al horizonte, solo quedaba un tercio
de Sol a la vista. eon se concentraba en su cabellera dorada, en sus mejillas rosadas que a tan
cercana distancia vea con toda claridad y poda sentir su delicadeza sin tocarlas, y las gigantescas

\ \ \ 20 / / /
pestaas negras as como los ojos cuando se dignaban a mirarlo. Entonces record que aqul da
haba pescado un enorme pez vela, el ms difcil de capturar y que en aos no se haba atrapado
Los pescadores tenemos una vida dura . Comenz. Vivimos de lo que atrapamos y si hay una mala
temporada no tenemos nada qu comer ni dinero para comprar combustible que nos caliente. En las
heladas del invierno sufrimos especialmente pues los peces no vienen y si no tenemos dinero el fro
es castigador. En verano, por otro lado podemos disfrutar de una buena pesca pero siempre existe la
necesidad de capturar la mayor cantidad posible pues debemos ahorrar.
>>Has de saber que aqu la pesca es muy castigada pues todos somos pescadores y solo podemos
venderle a los nobles a los que no les interesa el pescado chico, solo los grandes que son muy
difciles de capturar. Pero ayer fue un da increble: ayer atrap un pez vela, un gigante que nunca se
ve, es el ms caro de todos y no se haba atrapado uno desde hace ms de cincuenta aos, dicen
que el viejo que lo captur despareci pero la espada del pez se conserv y actualmente decora la
sala del seor ms rico del pueblo. Yo pienso conservar la espada de este pez y mostrrsela a mis
hijos cuando los tenga para que sepan lo que su padre hizo y que es posible capturar al rey de los
peces.
El rey de los peces murmur la doncella. eon no le prest atencin y sigui pues ahora estaba
muy emocionado.
Eres hermosa, hermosa y te amo. Escucha, me pagarn muy bien por la carne y la vela de este pez
y tendr dinero suficiente para dejar mi casa. Por favor ven conmigo. Te lo ruego! S que esto no es
coincidencia, pesqu a esta maravilla y luego te encuentro a ti, la joven ms bella de la Tierra, con el
dinero que me den puedo alquilar una casa y vendrs a vivir conmigo. Por favor ven pues sin ti no
puedo vivir y csate conmigo.
eon termin de hablar y observ impaciente las grandes pestaas de la chica pues sta no
volteaba.
Conoces la leyenda del Mar? contest la chica.
S aunque yo la conozco como la leyenda de la Mardijo eon impacientndose pero la chica volte
y al ver sus ojos exigentes comenz a recitar. Cuando el ocano era joven y los peces bebs, vivan
el rey y la reina del mar. El rey era el gigantesco pez vela, el ms veloz y ms bello de todos; la reina
era hermosa y nadie saba quin era pues jams se mostraba.
>>Un da unos pescadores salieron a pescar en divisaron la vela del rey del mar. Eran pobres y
saban lo preciada que era esa presa as que lanzaron sobre su lomo el preciado anzuelo que dio en
el blanco. El pez luch y luch pero ms anzuelos se clavaron en su espalda hasta que por fin lo
mataron.
>>Los pescadores se hicieron ricos pues era el animal ms grande jams capturado, de color azul
profundo y con una vela roja como la sangre que llor su esposa. Se dice que se llamaba Mar y que
veng a su rey cado. Se cuenta que la dama destrozada sali de las profundidades de su palacio y
mat a los pescadores. Nadie sabe qu pas pero jams se los volvi a ver.
Exacto dijo la chica tengo que rechazar tu mano pues mi corazn est destrozado y salt al
cielo. El ltimo rayo del Sol cay ante la noche y eon vio el destello de una cola de pescado,
brillante como la plata, unida al cuerpo que caa sobre l empujndolo hacia el acantilado.
\ \ \ 21 / / /
To crush error and ignorance
Bayan Edis
-------
They have invaded our country.
Stowaways on ships full of promise.
Quietly for centuries they have been making landfall.
They turn the precious water and clay into clumpy mud.
They make homes in our mind and heart; they whisper into our breasts and cement our
thoughts.
They cause roses to wither and nightingales to go astray.
They tell us to be powerful; to act for ourselves; to throw our gems into the murky seas.
They tell us to climb over friends; to run races against each other; to sow false images into
the pupils of our eyes.
They tell us to lie to ourselves; to fabricate our achievements; to become weary and
overburdened.
They tell us that we are cows, grazing in the fields.
They tell us that we are something other than noble, other than infinite.
And as they spill their contaminants onto the soil of our tender hearts, the earth becomes a
muddy trap that dries up around us. Cracks emerge. The sweet smell of jasmine fades into
the shadows of our prison walls.
But as the land crumbles beneath our frail bare feet, let us direct our gaze to the
omnipresence of the sun and build the world anew.

We should use a different composition, though.

We must build with the Crimson ink of our hearts and the clay of our skin and the majestic
fragrance of our soul.
\ \ \ 22 / / /
Then, let us look at our tireless hands and rejoice.

Then, let us raise the flag of freedom.

For our power does not come from this earthly place,

And our ultimate triumph is assured.









In pursuit
Bayan Edis
--------

The scent of jasmine wafts through the corridors of my brittle mind.
Tireless legs march forth in perseverant pursuit.
The river is perfect this time of night.
The glistening low moon.
The sailboats in momentary solitude.
The stars in perfect solace, hinting of infinity.
The flow of your omnipotent hair.
There are few such moments in this fleeting shadow.
One can only hope
we do not lose them in between the corridors.




\ \ \ 23 / / /
DREDGED
Georgia Blackburn


In the bar that evening he sits and thinks. The humid air creeps through the open plan
foyer of his hotel, the dark carved wood of the walls pressing in on him. His mind whirs and
clicks, anticipating the early dawn fog that will roll over the sea and curl its way up the
volcanic beach, weaving between the panama leaves of the jungle. He breathes deeply.
From where he is sitting he can look straight out over the sheltered bay, out to where he
knows come morning the wave he has dreamt about riding again for years will curl and
snake in the swell. He will be waiting; its roar would be his wake up call.
He thought of the first time hed seen the bombora break. Here, where the black sands
buzzed with energy and the ocean had sucked at the shore before fizzling into the dark
earth. Two local men had taken him to this very same stretch of sand, where just past the
exposed reef a hairy wave of foaming water had rolled itself into a barrel that travelled for
miles, and he had surfed until a dull orange had settled in the sky and darkened
everything that lay beneath it.

Back on the beach, the men had produced these strange triangular parcels wrapped in
banana leaves, and unfolded them to reveal a steaming pile of rice and chicken. They
laughed, fumbled with their English and compared cuts from the reef that drizzled with
blood. He used his salty fingers to delve into the still warm food. Soto Ayam they said,
pointing at the rice that he wolfed down from where he cradled it in his palm. He had been
bruised, cut and sun addled but an intense feeling of drunken happiness had settled upon
him. There, amongst foreigners, on a brand new land, with the ocean still ringing in his
ears, he had never felt happier.

The boards hed carried on that trip had been battered in the swells of southern England,
snapped on the South African coast, bandaged back together in Hawaii. The legendary
bomboras of Uluwatu and Lombok had been his last frontier before he knew hed have to
return home, tail between his legs, crawling back into some office job with the clich nine
to five drag. How those first weeks here had flown as hed surfed until he couldnt stand
and spent nights lying on the beach, bombed to the nines on hash, in the light of
monstrous bonfires. He could remember exactly the way the locals had flickered around
the corner of his eye, dancing in and out of the light, their whites of eyes shining in the
darkness. The girls hed met, most backpacking their way to independence and
adulthood, had tasted sweet on his tongue, tangled up in the sand with him beneath the
stars. Hed eaten strange spiky fruits and had been left paralysed for two days by
\ \ \ 24 / / /
mushrooms hed bought from a wary teenager in a back alley. This land had been exotic
and savage. Hed run wild upon it, relentless and free.

He casts his eye upon the other men at the bar. Most were like him, older Caucasian
males, with a Bintang in hand and bad sunburn. He wondered if they too were preparing
themselves. He slings back the dregs of his beer, feels the icy liquid pool on the back on
his tongue before he swallows. The humidity crowds him. The thick air has a metallic tinge
and he notes the distant lightning that is forking like golden veins on the horizon. It reminds
him of that night. The night that he realised that Sals threats were not as empty as hed
imagined. He can remember the murmur of her voice, like hot breath in his ear, and the
snake bite sting of her words. Thunder had broken and cracked through the house.
Theres someone else.

The buzzing that had filled his ears at the sound of those words had still not quite left him.
For weeks hed walked the streets of the city comatose with an internalized anger and
rage.
Fifteen years. Fifteen fucking years.



Hed met her at a party a week after hed returned from his first visit to the islands; fit, tan
and with jagged scars from the reef that made him look like a dark horse. From across the
room she had stared at him, her tousled blonde locks crowding her face and accentuating
her dark eyes. He wanted her instantly. That very same night she had gone soft beneath
him and when she came she had cried out like a small bird. He had never had anything
more beautiful in his life.

These memories had been coming in fits and starts since shed left. Shed taken Annie
with her too, and now all he had were dredges of the past. So here he was, forty two with
divorce papers on their way and a kid he legally couldnt see. The Perth coast had been
flat and ominous for weeks, with tiny swells that even the grommets out at the cove had
ignored. Unable to take his frustration out by thrashing around in stormy swells, hed come
home from work every night to his empty flat and a carton of beer. When hed lost his job,
even that routine had dulled, becoming him waking, watching the television, perusing the
paper looking for sparky jobs to which he could half heartedly apply. He never went to the
interviews. Somehow, deep down, he knew he needed something more. By nightfall hed
be comatose on the couch as Big Brother flashed across the walls of his dark lounge,
empty beer bottles clustered on the coffee table. Hed gotten a restless itch, the feeling of
For weeks hed walked the streets of the city
comatose with an internalized anger and rage.
\ \ \ 25 / / /
something behind his eyes. One morning hed woken, called Jetstar and booked a flight
out the next day.

In his mind he can see himself fifteen years ago riding that wave, the wave of the year; of
the fucking century. He can remember the warmth of the water on his bare back and
thighs, how the humid air and salt had sucked his eyes dry, stung his lips. He knows that if
he can harness that power again, everything will be alright. He will be alright. He orders
another beer, stares out across the coming storm, and waits.

All night he hardly sleeps. His bed is crisp and cool but he tosses. He burps. His dreams
are broken by thunder and the noise of the street beyond his window.

Eventually it comes. It is soft at first and he has to strain to hear it, but it slowly builds,
buzzing out across the water, up the beach and to him. Its calling him now. By 5am it is
roaring and he can ignore it no longer. He slips out of his bed, pulls on his boardies and
grabs his twin fin. This is it.

In the early glow the locals squat in the sand and stare out. He is jittery now. Like a school
boy during his first time he can hardly contain himself. He feels ripe to burst. The bare foot
walk to the beach along the stained concrete sidewalk had built the tension. He hasnt
surfed in weeks, and its breaking bigger, harder and faster than he can remember. As
faint pinks streak across the sky to render everything in a new light, he launches into the
warm fizz of the tide. Pumped full of adrenaline, he paddles, his arms rigid with some new
found strength. He looks out across the swell and decides which way he needs to head. In
his mind, he turns to Sal and Annie now, thinks of how Sal is probably waking, eyes
fluttering to greet her new lovers face. How down the hall, Annie would be asleep in her
new bedroom, tucked beneath her favourite pink sheets. Maybe he kisses her goodnight.
Maybe Sal still reads her stories before bed the way they used to together. These thoughts
fuel him with a dull anger as he paddles on.
Theres someone else.

When he reaches the break he is met by a small muddle of surfers, mostly locals, who eye
him wearily. They are hesitant, he can tell in the way they paddle further out, sit back and
just watch the vexation of the water. The roar deafens him as the Bombora collapses into
itself, forms a mad tunnel of foam and he almost laughs out loud. Hes done this before.
Hes bombed the sawtooth waves of Manila, slid across the glassy face of Hawaiis
As faint pinks streak across the sky to render
everything in a new light, he launches into the warm
fizz of the tide.
\ \ \ 26 / / /
Cloudbreak, been dumped and churned by the swell of California. There is nothing here to
be afraid of but a bit of a salty nasal passage and a lungful of white water. The waves
building again, he can see it coming over the horizon. Nobody in the little pod moves to
take it. He breathes in deeply. Well then, this one is his.

Before hes even begun to paddle he can tell that hes underestimated it. The energy of
the water is moving faster than he could have imagined. He scrabbles to get into position.
Shit. It heaves up behind him and he flails, up onto to his feet trying to find his balance. His
twin fin is too small of a board and it rattles with the power of the swell. He is struggling to
stay upright. For a minute he thinks he has it, the wave smoothes out beneath him and
begins to wrap overhead. Yes! He is overcome with emotion. He has made it. His arms
reach out, and he lifts his head to the sky as he shoots through the barrel. The group of
surfers watch his body disappear behind the wave, to them, it looks like he is dancing.

He steps back and loses his balance. For a minute he is suspended on the wave. Hung
up, dangling. He is forty two, with no job, no family, and divorce papers on their way, yet
here he is, caught between dancing and flying. The sun catches on the wave and
suddenly everything is ablaze with gold as he falls. The twin fin spears out from beneath
him and he crashes into the foaming surge of water. As his back hits the solid wall of water
it cracks and he cries out like a wounded eagle.

Everything is quiet now. You can feel the transversal energy shudder through your body,
the bubbles foaming at your skin. You realise how unfit you were, how silly it was to try.
The buzzing in your ears has stopped. For the first time in weeks you hear silence. Pure
silence.
Down.
You are sinking through pain, but that doesnt matter now. For a brief moment you had it.
On the golden, sun drenched lip of the Bombora at the dawn of a brand new day.

You god damn had it.



\ \ \ 27 / / /
Performance Art
Dennis Venning

This article was taken from interviews with
a number of students about their
experiences in high school.
Its almost like everyones performing a bit
everyone wears a little bit of a mask in high school. I
definitely felt pressured to have a girlfriend, have
sex that kind of thing. But I was really nervous
about it and so I didnt wanna do it. I think just being
able to say that; being like, I have a girlfriend now
kind of, put your self at ease, and, once youd
fulfilled that expectation, you felt more comfortable
to explore what you wanted personally, because
you could be like, Tick that box, Ive achieved that
now. I was definitely more interested in ticking the
box (than in sex itself).
***
That was pretty much half of my Year
10 life. All my friends had boyfriends
theyd always have boyfriends my
friend Georgia had like three
boyfriends in like two weeks, it was
so legit and then I was like, well,
what do I do? because no really one
understood they just genuinely
didnt understand so I had a
boyfriend for like four months, and I
didnt see him for like three-and-a-
half months in that. For me it was
like, I need a boyfriend, because
people keep asking me and Im not okay
with that anymore. And you cant just
yell at a bunch of fifteen year olds
and explain to them theyre being
shit. And, yeah it worked for a
while.
***
5ometbloq tbot ls obvloosly o blq tbloq ls tbot l wosot
oot ot blqb scbool, ooJ l JlJot teolly tolk oboot my
sexoollty mocb. l boJ o coople of qltlftleoJs ooJ stoff. l
wos oevet teolly opeo oboot tbot ot blqb scbool, ooJ l
qoess ot ool l jost bove beeo.
***
On Valentines day he came over and did a whole
big performance-y thing. It was for everyone else!
It wasnt just for me. Then I broke up with him...
At school. To his face, which I think is good not
via MSN (laughs). And, he accepted it, and then,
that night on MSN he was harassing me but I
didnt recognize it as harassment at the time, like,
I didnt know until I grew up a bit, he sent me so
many messages, and like, basically begging me to
like, date him, or, if I couldnt date him entirely,
just date him at school, kind of thing?
***
Were told that its the time, where its like youre
getting really interested in sex, right? And youre like
its all about the physical, and you want that
intimate connection. But clearly for a lot of people
that doesnt matter at all, and all you care about is
the social stuff, because youve been told that thats
important!
***


\ \ \ 28 / / /
So I understood that everybody was under so
much peer pressure, and I was self aware that I
felt really pressured to do something or to be
something or to be a particular type. So I almost
rebelled against that completely and tried to be
like, I dont give a fuck what anyone thinks, and
didnt care about what anyone thought, but in
reality I probably did care more than I showed,
and that was almost a mask. I like to think that I
dont mind too much what people think of me,
but, you do especially when theyre your
friends. You care about what the people close to
you think. And in high school, you dont really
have much choice over whos close to you.
***
When I think of the people in high school who probably
most wore masks the people who were so conscious of
what other people thought of them, all the time theyre
the people who I think are least happy now. Youre going
from this crazy space where everyone is looking at you all
the time, and then you get dumped [out of high school]
and no ones looking at you anymore. What do you do if
your whole self is based upon the idea that everybodys
looking at you all the time?
***
At tbot polot - oboot mlJwoy tbtooqb yeot eleveo - l
kloJ of teollseJ tbot l wos qoloq to bove o bopplet tlme lo
blqb scbool lf l stoppeJ cotloq wbot people tbooqbt -
coose evetyooe wbo coteJ so mocb oboot tbot wos
ptetty ooboppy. wltblo my qtoop of ftleoJs, so mooy of
tbem wete teolly qooJ lookloq, teolly otttoctlve, bot olso
teolly losecote oboot tbemselves, ooJ l JlJot woot to be
tbot. All tbose people.
***
!"#$% '(%))*+ , *)- ). -%/ -#0/+ 1,' .#2/ 3/,4' ). -%/ ',0/
-%#5$6 7 -%#58 ')0/ 9 /':/(#,**3 '#5$*/ '/; '(%))*'+ -%/
:4#2,-/ )5/' 9 ,4/ <=#-/ >,48+ )::4/''#2/ :*,(/'+ .)4
:/):*/ 1%) >)5?- .#- -%/ (#'+ '-4,#$%- 1%#-/ 9 7 >=55)+ -%/
@5)40,*? '-/4/)-3:/A B5> /2/5 -%/ :/):*/ 1%) %,2/
>#../4/5- #5-/4/'-' 9 :/):*/ 1%) ,4/5?- /;-4)2/4-/>+ $))>
,- ':)4-+ $))> ,(,>/0#(,**36 7-?' ,** -%/'/ 4/,**3 '-4/''/>
-//5,$/4'+ $)#5$ -%4)=$% :=C/4-3+ %,2#5$ -) ':/5> ,**
>,3 /2/43 >,3 -)$/-%/4+ ,5> C/#5$ '-4/''/> ,C)=- /;,0'
9 #-?' :4)C,C*3 5)- , $))> /52#4)50/5- .)4 -43#5$ -)
(4/,-/ , %,40)5#)=' ,-0)':%/4/ 1%/4/ /2/43)5/ .//*'
#0:)4-,5-6 D#4*' 1)=*> C/ '%,0/>6 B** -%/ -#0/6 E3 -%/
/5> /2/43)5/ .//*' *#8/+ )%+ 7 F='- %,2/ -) $/- )=- ). %/4/
9 7 F='- 5//> -) :,'' 03 /;,0'+ ,5> -%/5 #-?' ,** )2/46G
***
Really the people who didnt like me at school
were the people who hated everyone who was
associated with the drama department because
we were all gay. Especially at a private boys
school people definitely got a lot of shit about
that. Those people didnt know as many girls and
stuff, and I felt like that kind of bred a bit of a
culture of objectifying girls like they were sexual
objects and stuff. There were a lot of people who
got to the Year 12 ball and they were like, I dont
know any girls enough that I could just take to the
ball, sorta thing? I dont know if thats a fault of
the school or of them not getting involved with
that extra stuff that gave them that different
gender interaction.
***
I dont think performing is wise in
high school I think youre just a
lot happier when you are who you wanna
be and youre not trying to fit in
\ \ \ 29 / / /
with other people. But I also see that
high school isnt the place where
thats fostered. The variety of
friends and people you meet and level
of acceptance for different lifestyles
is so different when you get to
university, but that doesnt exist in
high school. So to some extent maybe
the performance is necessary.
***
My friends kinda like, super flamboyant and stuff,
and so everyone just assumes correctly assumes
that hes gay. So he kinda got shit for it, but he just
owned it (laughs), and its kinda funny because he
ended up doing stuff for like half the rugby team.
(Laughs) Not half just a few.













***
Ive got friends who came out in
maybe year 12, or after we finished
school gay friends and everyone
knew they were gay. Not necessarily
knew, but people talked about it
behind their back some guys would
call him a faggot behind his back. So
it was like he was putting on a mask,
but maybe he would have been happier,
almost, embracing who he actually was.
People are going to judge you people
judge you no matter what happens in
high school so whether youre
putting on a mask or not putting on a
mask, youre going to get judged
either way. You may as well be happy
while youre being judged so be
yourself.

\ \ \ 30 / / /
Golden Boys
Georgia Blackburn
It was out there, out beyond the charred stumps of blackboys and coteries of Karri trees,
where things happened. Us boys, held high to the sky, peering down from our Eyrie.
Invincible. Teetering on the edge, always ready to jump. We were young, we knew
nothing of the greater world and the greater world knew nothing of us. Until that moment.
Some days I drive out there, out to the ridge, and I climb. Up, onto the speckled granite
outcrops that as a kid I would stare at from my bedroom window. At night I used to
pretend that the white shimmer they gave off in the dark was a secret beacon that the
Government snuck in each night to beam up to the heavens. I used to imagine them
calling out to other life forms, of the strange tongues they would use, as my bedroom fan
clicked and whirred overhead. In the cooler air of the pink dawn Id creep out onto our
verandah to scan the dusty fields for circles or patterns, left to me as secret messages
from galaxies beyond. Every morning I was disappointed.
When we were kids living in Rosa Brook, everything we did stemmed from some sort of
magnified boredom that you thought you could see seeping out over the mottled farming
flats. It amplified and simmered out there in the Summer, when we were let out of school
to run riot for the month of Christmas. We tended to form gangs not for our safety out
there in the bush but so we could feed off of one another and like any young group of
boys, run riot in some sort of covert and undisclosed way. Looking back now, the forests
were our mask. If you played in the small and weedy football field beyond the run down
tennis court in town then you were visible to the pensioners and hippies that lived on the
main road. If you were smart, you went bush, and thats just how all this began.
It was the summer that the fires raged through our small corner of the state. I can still
remember the way the fields around us seemed to crack and pop in the anticipation that
they would be the next to spontaneously combust and burn. Everything seemed to hide. I
only found one snake that summer; it was coiled beneath the stilts of our house, on the
western side. The light of the day was beginning to fade and I could smell the food my
mother was cooking in the kitchen beyond. I was looking for scorpions under small rocks
when I found it. A big King Brown. It eyed me lazily, unfurled its neck and slunk past as I
stood frozen to the spot. In a gabble I ran inside to mum and blurted about how big it had
been but she sat me down and shut me up with a bowl of pasta that made me sweat. The
Roos were the only animals that became more apparent. They huddled in dusty muddles
in the middle of fields, ears right up to the sky. They were waiting.
If you were smart, you went bush, and thats just
how all this began.
\ \ \ 31 / / /
We were all waiting. In our dreams we imagined the fire tearing down the ridge beyond
and into our valley. It would jump the road and terrorize us, leaving the one path out as a
bubbling mess of bitumen and scorching heat. My parents had the wireless on for weeks.
Constant updates on the position of the fires and the direction of the wind would blare at
us while we got ready for school, and theyd still be blaring when we got back in later that
afternoon. We learned to live on the brink of fight or flight, ready to run at any moment, or
stay if we needed to. As stress levels ran high through the adults of every house in town,
the tension filtered through to us kids. At school Tiny laid one into Eggie and suddenly I
found myself caught out.
Edward Pegg, more often known as Eggie or Eggie Peggie, was my fair haired and wide
eyed younger brother. When we were really little our parents nicknamed us the golden
boys, as we both had tousled bleach blonde locks. Eggie was the kind of kid who always
had bruised knees and a snotty nose, and he followed me around like a sheepdog. At
school he was a few years below me. School was a cluster of stained white wash
weatherboard cottages on stilts to one side of the towns main oval. Eggies class was a
mixture of the kindy kids and the young ones like himself, and they had their classroom
over the other side of the school grounds. Us older boys had our classes in the main
school hall, the biggest weatherboard structure that also doubled as the towns church.
There was a group of them, around my age, notorious in town for discreet havoc. They
were the kind of boys who everybody knew were trouble, but nobody ever caught them or
could ever prove anything. They lived in a shroud of elusive invincibility.
It was a Friday afternoon and the sky had turned a strange red. With all the grey smoke
which had seared the horizon for days, this made everything look positively empyrean
and apocalyptic. There was no wind, only the pressing heat, and I was sitting on the ramp
to one of the classrooms resting my head against the cool concrete foundations and
reading my dog eared dictionary when I heard the babble of a crowd of voices. I got up
and turned the corner, and there lay Eggie sprawled in the dust surrounded by a mob of
school kids and Tiny, leering over him.
I went over and helped him up. Evidently the best was over, and the crowd dispersed to
continue cricket games and hopscotch, but Tiny turns to me. Hes got a face only a
mother can love, but its the size of him thats lets him rule over the school yard and his
gang of boys. I let him snarl and snap in my face but he eventually gets bored and slinks
off with his gang to have a ciggy behind the sports shed. On the way home, as we picked
our way across the fields to our own through firebreaks, I needled Eggie in to telling me
what had happened.
Nuffin, nuffin happened.
Dont be stupid Egg, Tiny isnt laying into you for nothing.
\ \ \ 32 / / /
Oright, oright. I went up to the pools.
Whaddya mean you when up to the pools? Without me?
Yeah.
You know thats dangerous. You know Eggie.
Yeah, I know Matty, but I was chasing a big blue.
The sky has cleared somewhat and the afternoon sun pricks me. Eggie and his bloody
butterflies. A few summers back hed found a dead Monarch over by the water tank in the
grass, an exquisite orange and black coloured papery thing, and it had been the start of
his obsession. I still have his collection. They lay in an old shoebox, careful resting on
cotton wool my mother had given him, in all their feeble and frail glory. The colour has
leeched from them, but I cant bear to throw them away.
In an attempt to dampen this fascination, for I knew what kind of trouble itd get him in at
school, Id called him all sorts of names; pansy, twit, loony. Still, Eggie had spent his
afternoons chasing them in the state forest, drawing them in his room late at night, and
writing Butterflies into his school report. Obviously this big blue had been a good one, for
him to venture up to the pools by himself.

The pools were the gem of Rosa. They sprung the brook after which our town was named,
and toppled down the ridge, cascading across the granite to trickle their way seaward.
As the heat amplified come November, every kid at school dreamt of going up there, but
they were exclusive, almost mythical. It was thick, dense bush up there, and there was
only thin, twisting animal tracks that wound in and out. The pools were shrouded in tales,
of black babies born there, of sacrifice and blood spilt on those rocks, of men who had
jumped the waterfall to their deaths. Naturally our parents encouraged these stories, the
rocks were unstable, slippery, and the pools deep. Most of us were not strong swimmers.
They preferred us to stick to the shallow dams around town, where we could easily be
fished out if we found ourselves in trouble.
As school began to wind down that summer, I found myself falling in with the boys who
ran as Tinys gang. Although I was mostly a solitary person, the looming boredom of the
holidays nagged at me, and I found myself hanging out more and more with them. As the
only boys around my age in town, they seemed to begrudgingly accept me, and didnt
pay much notice as I began to slink around the bush in their pack. They fascinated me.
The pools were shrouded in tales, of black babies born
there, of sacrifice and blood spilt on those rocks, of
men who had jumped the waterfall to their deaths.
\ \ \ 33 / / /
Wed burn things and build hide outs. Some had the beginnings of beards and talked
about women and cars and things I knew nothing about. It felt new and exciting. I felt as
though for once I wouldnt be so bored with this town.
Those first few weeks of the holidays I learnt just what it meant to be part of their little cult.
Wed lope along the main street and kick over bins left on curbs. Wed duck in and out of
the bush, skulk across properties, paddocks. One of the boys had knocked off a tin of
spray paint from his dads garage, and we plastered the side of Old William Turners
shearing shed with strange symbols that the boys later told me represented the devil. In
the afternoon we stole fruit and chickens from Mrs. Loveladys backyard. I was zapped
with adrenaline. We set the chickens loose running frantically up the main road and
smashed the fruit onto the cauterized tarmac where its juices sizzled. People around town
began to look at me differently. I began to look at them differently. They seemed to me
now to be cowardly folk, galoots with old peoples interests. I felt the town getting too
small for me. I grew restless. My mother wept, saying it was all just a phase and my dad
yelled and forbid me to hang with Tinys gang, but nobody could stop me. Id begun to
feel invincible.
Eggie idolised me, he always had. If Id of known what hed been doing, I probably
wouldve cut loose at him, called him all sorts of names, and threatened to tell mum and
dad that hed been up to the pools by himself. I was too wrapped up in my own self
importance. Too wrapped up in bursting into the pubescent world, guns blazing. Its hard
to drive through Rosa now. If we drive down from Perth for the weekend to go camping on
the coast with the kids, I prefer to skirt it. Take the old highway. My wife used to ask
questions, but I cant answer them. Shes learnt not to ask anymore. Theres too much
buried there for me to keep digging up. Too much of my past to lay bare for her.
When that day dawned, it was the first day for months with a clear, clean horizon. The
fires had died over Christmas leaving the char black of the forests to strain against the
cerulean sky. Theyd never reached us. Id woken early, just before dawn, with the
throbbing sense that I needed to go and check the paddocks. The heat was already
creeping in. Barefoot and bare chested I stood before the day. I felt good. Tingly good,
for even thought there were no crop circles, I knew today was the day I got to go up to
the pools. Tiny had decided, announcing to us nonchalantly one morning, that wed be
blood brothers. We knew his eccentric Uncle had come to stay in town recently, and it
seemed hed filled Tinys mind with strange, cultish ideas. Tiny began to talk about
nothing but Wiccan rituals, pagan beliefs and satanic liturgy. My parents had murmured
about his Uncle at dinner one evening, after my mother had run into him at the store that
day. Kester Moon, they said, was a drug addled hippie, and nothing more. They
exclaimed over his eccentric draped dress, odd tattoos and weird roguish way of
speaking. He didnt belong in Rosa, but Tiny was hooked on him, and us boys were
enthralled. The idea of us being joined in blood both terrified me and excited me at the
\ \ \ 34 / / /
same time and that was its allure. Id never heard of anything like it. I could be different to
the rest of the town, to the rest of the riff raff. Hed decided to perform a small ritual his
Uncle had taught him, with all of us, and where else to do it at the pools. Tomorrow, hed
whispered, well be real brothers.
The trek up there was a real challenge. The sun had gotten the jump on us, and leered
from above. I was feverish with anticipation. It was a solemn tramp upwards, the rest of
the boys were silent except for the odd sigh or exclamation about the heat. Flies buzzed
in and around the corners of my eyes and mouth as our single file procession made its
way up the ridge. The bush thickened and leant against us. At some points it got so bad
that we crawled along on our hands and knees. I tried not to think of the ticks.
When we reached the pools I was disappointed. The animal track wed taken came out at
the base of the waterfall, which didnt fall so much as trickle down a granite face from a
small pool perhaps twenty five feet up. From there it formed smaller pools further down,
before it wound its way into the valley and into Rosa. When I climb up there now, through
larger firebreaks that DEC has cleared, the pools are all but dried up. The rocks instead
take centre stage, in an unmoving and eternal way, clawing up through the lanky bush to
reach the sky.
We mustve looked a mottled lot, rampant with sweat and flicking off the flies intermittently
with various twigs, awaiting our leaders instructions. Tiny laid out all his strange
paraphernalia on the closest rock, and as I peered over I could see Jam jars with strange
herbs, what I would later realise was a joint, a scalpel and a whole, dead rabbit. I gasped.
He turned and laughed at me. Grabbing the rabbit by the leg he shook its limp and
manky body in my face, exclaiming that this would be our blood animal.
Ive thought about it a lot for years. Sewing together my haze of memories. It all happened
so quickly, and for that I am greatful.
Us mob of boys was perched at the very top of the waterfall, blades ready to leach
crimson to the bubbling spring. The cicadas sang out around us to salute the peak of the
day. Everything seemed to throb, my head with the prickling heat and my veins with the
rush of what we were about to do. It was then that he dashed out of the bushes and let
out a cry. Eggie had followed us up, he must have been watching, anticipating. He came
bounding over the rocks, his sweet hair catching the sun, yelling and howling about how I
was his brother and his brother only. You could see it flash across his eyes. God how he
loved me. As he lunged towards Tiny, right there at the top of the waterfall, his foot caught
and he fell.
We could have been at the edge of the world up there. As the rocks burst forth from the
ridge they left us with a horizon unmarred and untouched. On the bluest of days it
seemed to span outwards, as if delivering us to the rest of the world. In that moment we
\ \ \ 35 / / /
were at the edge of our kingdom. I wish I could say that he fell with grace, poised on the
brink like some sort of holy martyr, but it was nothing like that. As he fell he merely slipped
over the edge. No sound escaped him, but his eyes widened and his mouth formed a
silent exclamation of oh!
Tragedy. Instantly. Upon impact. Those were the terms coined by the big papers. They
shone a spotlight on us for a month or so, before things began to fade. Of course the
whispers never did. The moment hed fallen the boys had scattered into the bush, leaving
only me up there on that Eyrie. Only me. I quickly learnt the power of words, how that
clung to your clothes, dragged you as you walked.
I live up in the arteries of the city now, in the grids of housing estates clogged with traffic
and noise, but for years I couldnt escape the land. I couldnt leave. It was if something
circled me and pinned me there after that day. It felt cowardly to run. When Im up there
now, out at the ridge I can still feel him there. I often get the urge to return. Like a nagging
habit I cant shake. Some nights Ill crawl out of my marital bed to leave my wife confused
yet solemn, and Ill drive for hours to get to Rosa just as the dawn breaks. At that time of
the day the light paints everything new, uncontaminated and untrodden. Out, right out, on
the edge, I stand. I lift my arms up and turn my harrowed face to the sky and I listen to the
bush press in around me, brimming with life, and hes there. Hes right beside me.
Our mothers golden boys. Real brothers, together again.
In that moment we were at the edge of our kingdom.
\ \ \ 36 / / /











Paper Boat
Joseph Rocca















\ \ \ 37 / / /
The Fear Trap
Lily Sullivan

The 2009 Science Fiction movie, Mr
Nobody, has one scene in which a
modern day mental illness is compared to
a prehistoric fear and that really stuck
with me. It got me thinking what if all of
our modern day anxieties, fears and
worries that we cant really explain or
justify in terms of todays context can be
traced back to some innate fear that
would have contextually made sense
hundreds of thousands of years ago? And
doesnt that make you feel better about
the times when your anxiety seemed to
make no sense or even be detrimental to
your enjoyment of life in todays context?
In exploring the answer to this question I
interviewed a number of undergraduate
students about their greatest fears or
worries. These were some of the
responses.

That Ill put twenty years of my life and
two kids into a relationship and be
betrayed. That they wont be the person I
thought they were, like my mum."

The idea that love could be something
different to what I think it is and that Im
missing out on something.

The idea that when I die there wont be
anything left of me.

Sinking deep back into my depression
and losing the people in my life who are
the most important to me, and who I love
the most, because I can't express (or
feel) how much they mean to me."

Losing my mind or senses, going deaf or
blind.

Standing in front of big groups of people,
or doing things in front of groups of
people, particularly men, even if they
arent watching directly but theyre just
there.

That Ill become boring, to myself.

It is interesting to look at these fears and
examine the fears in your own life and
wonder what prehistoric dangers they
may be a response to. Is a fear of being
in front of a group of men a fear of
violence? Or perhaps related to mating,
or both? Are the relationship and love
fears related to abandonment and lack of
resources and possible death? The fears
about not leaving anything behind or
losing your mind or senses could boil
down to fears of death and vulnerability.
This article asks more questions than it
answers, but it is important to consider
that when we dont want to do something
or go somewhere, or we worry about
something that could happen, there may
be a reason for it, even if we cant
understand it and I think that is
comforting because we all search for
reason and meaning in our lives, even in
our greatest insecurities.
Thats not
very
helpful...
Combine to form...
Looks like its up to
the labour kids...
noooooo!
Imposter! You are no true jew, whereas
I was raised in an ashkenazi family! i
smite you with the power of
Kabbalah!
Summoning
her jewish
powers,
lara is
filled with
the
strength
of of
abraham!
Harriet fires a beam of pure
organizational energy!
Fool! I balanced
six different
academic
disciplines! Your
organization is no
match for mine!
Lara
prepares
to strike...
Form of...
Chyort
vozmi!
To no avail!
lily attacks riding
her giant cobra!
Ashleigh prepares
to cast catholic
guilt!
A couch!
Also not very
helpful...
b
o
l
l
o
c
k
S
!
Blyad!
But they are
swiftly
overwhelmed!
katy launches
an attack of
pure
adulthood!
Emma shoots a
bubblebeam!
lucy is...
vaugely vaugely
british...
Tea
guvnor?
Franzs grammatical nazism
is no match for chomskys
formal linguistic powers!
Sofia mother-russia
t-chenko and lizzy
long-hair long launch
into battle!
Couchman!
T
W
H
O
K
!
Were not
doing
very
well...
Actually all
things
considered,
id say were
doing better
than usual.
was that
jewish
stuff
anti-semitic?
its like this
entire fight is
just a series of
poorly written
inside jokes and
stereotypes.
hey dudes.
hey pete.
what are we
going to do?
We have only
one choice
left. we
must
unleash the
ultimate
weapon.
sir,
youve
already
received
a
move-on
notice.
no! You
cant
mean...
r
e
l
e
a
s
e

T
h
e

C
L
a
r
k
e
!
released from the depths
of the common room
dungeons, tim clarke
attacks!
R
O
C
K
O
N

S
T
R
I
N
G
!
!
!
!
no, wait, i
And so, alls well
that ends well.
next on the agenda,
we may have some
committee
vacancies...
AAARGH!
b
a
m
f
!
\ \ \ 42 / / /








Tremolina
Mariana Hill