Interrobang Team:Mr James - Teacher in ChargeMs Smith - Design TeacherNatasha Guha-Tyrie - Editor in ChiefMikah Buchanan - Head DesignerKaylee Martin - Cover Designer

Foreword

As this year’s editor-in-chief and head designer of Interrobang we’ve had the honour to experience firsthand what the students of James Hargest have to offer. Even through different backgrounds and beliefs people can come together because of a mutual love of creating. During this process we’ve learnt that Interrobang isn’t just a creative writing and arts magazine. It is a curation of the hope and potential every person possesses. It’s an outlet for anyone to express their innermost thoughts and feelings. And most importantly, it is a celebration of young talent.

This year we celebrate the 10th anniversary of the annual Interrobang magazine. While the certainty of this magazine’s existence was questionable during the turmoil of the year, nothing stops us young people from being creative. Through many days of hard work this magazine has come to fruition, and we’re proud to say that it’s able to reflect the talent contained within it.

One of the most valuable things we’ve been able to take away from the creation of this magazine is the beauty in individuality. We’ve been able to imagine the pain and trauma some have experienced, but also how they made it out to the other side. Our perspectives have been widened, and our desire to learn has only gotten stronger! So that is why our biggest thanks go to you, the creators. Without you this magazine would not exist. Thank you.

The best thing about creating is that anyone can do it. Keep creating.

- Natasha Guha-Tyrie- Mikah Buchanan

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writing

Physical Bullying 3Alyssa Gillet

What Even Is Quiet Anyway? 5 Renee Brookland

“title” 7Evan Lawler

Voyage On The Horizon 11 Mikah Buchanan Possession 12Gemma McAllister Here 14Daniel Harley

Limbo 15 Sewmi Dissanayaka

When Flowers Burn 16 Natasha Guha-Tyrie

Delvere Of The Theatre 17 Gemma McAllister

Intoxicated 19 Khristelle Ano

The Journey (Excerpt) 21 Isaac Pask

Monday & Friday 23Olivia Ballantyne

In Honour Of S.K (Excerpt) 25 Arthur Faleauto Surrounded Yet Alone 27 Eulalia Terra Teodoro

Return To Perdition 29Natasha Guha-Tyrie

Caenum 30Virun Mohottallage

Retrospect In Absentia 33Olivia Ballantyne

Seasons At Sandy Point 34Olivia Horton

artwork & photography

The Catlins Adventure 4Charlie Winter

Into The Paradise 6Kian Mortel

Self Portrait 10Milo Henry

Photography 12 Jodie Smith

Berrytastic 13Mudmee Chetchatree

My Best Friend 18 Monique Hibbs

Continue? 20 Yebin Kim

Luna 22Chaii

Photography 24Harris Evans

Feverish Fantails 26 Mikah Buchanan

The Paint Man 28 Nathan Russell

Photography 31Sophie Kelsall

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contents

Physical bullying is not okayPeople have to deal with it every day

Hitting and scratching maybe kicking tooKids running to their parents crying about you

Your words will haunt them like ghostsAnd everyday you just boast

Every kind of contact you make Gets them closer and closer to break

People might think that this is a bad dreamBut in real life you are making them scream

You don’t hurt everyone but specific beingsBut your actions might have a hidden meaning

You do it only to feel specialBut you are actually turning into a devil

You can stop this day, minute and secondTalk to a teacher is what I reckon

Become friends with the people you cut and scratchedAnd a new form of you will hatch

Just remember to thinkThat something can happen in a blink

Your nails will be chewed But remember put yourself in their shoes

Everything will be okayAnd people will forgive you day after day

Physical Bullying Alyssa Gillet

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The Catlins Adventure Charlie Winter

4

It’s quiet. Well, that’s a lie. It’s not quiet. It’s in fact incredibly loud. But to me it’s quiet.

What even is quiet anyway? It’s quite sub-jective really. In class quiet means that the teacher expects silence. At home quiet means we just can’t be loud enough to wake my little brother up. At rehearsals quiet means that the tutor simply needs to be able to hear her own thoughts. So what is quiet? It’s different in every situation isn’t it? Even adults and children see quiet as quite differ-ent.

But then again adults do just have much higher expectations than children do. I mean my mother’s standard when it comes to “tidy your room” is quite different from mine. As long as I can see the floor and I know where everything is when I need it, what’s the problem? It’s no one else’s room. I live in it don’t I? I’m the one who has to be able to get to the bed, I’m the one who needs to know which clothes are clean and I’m the one who knows where my books are. If I can do that then what’s the problem? Mum does not agree, she-

Everyone’s clapping. The girl holds her violin under her arm and drops into a bow before walking off the stage. I smile at her politely as she passes me. That’s just good manners. I don’t really feel like smiling, let alone at her. She is my enemy. One of the many tonight.

It’s such a pain. When mum’s mad at me I can’t go to Sarah’s, and I really like going to Sarah’s. Mum doesn’t like me going, she says it’s not right. She cries about it to Dad. Dad says I’ll grow out of it. I don’t care what they say. Sarah is fun, we paint each

other’s nails and dance with our favourite songs. I don’t get to do that at home, or anywhere. At home I have to practise all the time and do my homework. If I’m finished with my homework, I have to practise some more.

Great. There goes Laura, with all her perfect skill and technique. I hate Laura. She’s beaten me every time for the past 5 years. But not tonight. Tonight I will show her, I have practised hard for this... Practising is tiring. My hands hurt after. Mrs Davis always makes me practise more. She tells my Mum that I don’t practise enough, so she tells me off. Then she tells Dad. Then Dad…

I can just see my pink socks peeking through the gap between my trousers and my shoes. Dad hates my pink socks. He says pink is a girly colour, he says that I should be more manly. Mum tells him not to be too harsh, so he yells at her. I don’t like when Dad yells at Mum. It makes me feel bad, it’s always about me. I just can’t seem to do anything right. I don’t have the right hobbies, or the right friends, or the right favourite colours-

People are clapping again. Suppose I should be clapping too. It’s only polite as mum says. Even if we’re competing against them. Even if we are wanting them to fail so that we can win. We should still be clapping for them. I don’t want to clap for Laura. But I also don’t want to give her the satisfaction of seeing me worried. So I force myself to compliment her as she walks past and she gives me a big grin. I hate her.

I have to win. Mum says, if I win I can go to Sarah’s this weekend. Dad doesn’t like this, but Mum really wants me to win. If I

Renee Brookland

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What Even Is Quiet Anyway?

Renee Brookland

Into The Paradise Kian Mortel

win, maybe I can even convince them to let me go to the sleepover on Saturday. That would be fun. Rachel and Leah are going too. They’re the only other girls who are nice to me. All the others at school say I’m weird and creepy. Mum says if I ever want to get married and have kids I have to learn to be normal. But what does normal mean? Surely having to change myself isn’t normal? That seems very unusual to me. If everyone has to change themselves to fit a certain criterion then how is that normal? Why can’t normal be different?

My parents never understand.

I have to win.

I’m up next. I can hear them announcing my name, my instrument and my song-

My hands are shaking. They’ve never shaken before. I have been in lots of competitions. But they have never shaken. I don’t like it.

It’s quiet.

What even is quiet anyway?

The future is yet in your power…

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BootingLoading system memory into buffer… -success _______________[ /_\ /\ /_\ ][ {/ o \} ][ [Alpha Systems] ] [25/16/2257]

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Loading user Settings… -successReading from [datapack_0b#2h_DeltaSystems_Primata](proprietary)

-[WARNING]-Corrupted data has been found. If read, it may damage the drive, losing all data.Do you wish to save the available data to your personal drive, then attempt to load the corrupted data?[(yes)] [no]

Loading data… -successHiding blacklisted words… (you can edit blacklisted words in [F:/etc/settings/blacklist.brt]) -successConverting dates : float to string -successConverting Hex data : hexb4 to string -successTranslating text : Russian to English -success

Done Loading.

[Journal Entry #1 : 5/8/2074]I found a working primata today, one of those old handheld computer things from before the Calamity, well, that part would be obvious. I am writing this after all. If anyone comes across this, in the future, when I’m, probably not around. I don’t know, give it to a museum? Actually, nah don’t do that, I’m gonna be writing some personal things in here. That’d be embarrassing...I found it when wandering around an old Delta Systems factory, they used to build a whole lot of electronics and tech before the Calamity. It’s pretty neat that so much survived. Must have built them strong. Sadly though, most of the Truyls cells are dead, but I found one still with power. I’m pretty stoked about that, and based on the battery info this thing is telling me, it should last long after I eventually die. or if the Knerve gets me, until I [***********].

“title” Evan Lawler

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[Journal Entry #4 : 8/8/2074]I saw some people today, not from close, however. These people didn’t seem too nice. They were raiders. I heard a story from Mika that right after the Calamity, some raiders were the one who killed the minister. I’m not sure what they were looking for, but they were sure searching, looking under every rock and pebble, for something. Probably anything worth something.

[Journal entry #5 : 8/8/2074]Mika told me off for getting near those raiders, she’s grounded me for a day. :(

[Journal entry #12 : 26/8/2074]The rePublic have started patrolling more often, Mika says that they used to be part of the army, before the Calamity, but after the government fell, they started their own group. They have a settlement up north about an hour or two walk, but you need permission to enter, and who knows how you get permission.

[Journal entry #112 : 3/13/2074]Another person has joined the town, and it’s thriving. Uncle Ankhov started a corn farm and it’s been growing pretty good, maybe that’s because of the Knerve. I heard that in some areas where the bombs hit particularly close some people got such high doses of Knerve, that they transformed, like the Koverophes.

[Journal entry #115 : 8/13/2074]I’m going on a scouting trip with Vanya today, we’re looking for more electrical supplies, and I told them about the factory I found this thing in, and they wanted someone who knew the area to guide them. I’ve wandered around that area for ages, so I know what things to avoid.

[Journal Entry #120 : 21/13/2074]One of the koverophes got into town. Konsantine lost an arm. But luckily Mika had her M-B6 carbine-7 and blew the things head off. She says that she got it during the russian civil war. Which she also told me about. Butcher Mike says that we can use the Koverphes body for a lot, the hide is super durable and makes good armour, and the claws are really sharp and strong, but we have to throw out all the insides, he says that we can’t use them.

[Journal Entry #152 : 6/14/2074]The Knerve levels have been increasing. Korolev said he worked at a nuclear power plant so he understood a lot of science stuff, so he managed to rig up a sort of geiger counter for the Knerve. We don’t know if the increased amounts are a problem with the sensor or if something around us is happening.

[Journal Entry #161 : 15/14/2074]

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I’ve locked myself in Valentina’s house, The outbreak has infected almost all the town. I haven’t had any contact with anyone else. I don’t know if anyone else has survived. I don’t think the things have noticed me yet. But I’ll need to move at some point. I’ll eventually make a noise or run out of supplies. I hope Mika is okay.

[Journal Entry #162 : 15/14/2074]I’m staying the night here. Through the blinds I can see they’re still out there, stumbling around and mumbling to themselves mindlessly. I’m sorry Valentina. I’m going to use your couch tonight. I don’t want to sleep in your room, that’d be weird after seeing you like.. that.

[Journal Entry #163 : 16/14/2074]I’ve made a plan, I’m going to try to escape the town, or this part at least. Luckily Val had a town map on her couch table, a little outdated since the renovations we did, but still useful. I’ve made a plan on which buildings I can jump across the roof of to get to the skywire. If this fails. There is no escape unless someone helps and I don’t want to live in abandoned buildings eating scraps of food for years waiting for that. I’ll do it early tomorrow morning. I’ll have enough light to see but with enough cover. If they even can see.

[Journal Entry #164 : 16/14/2074]I’m scared. I wish this wasn’t happening. I wish my friends were okay. I’m so sorry. Please forgive me.

[Journal Entry #165 : 16/14/2074]I’m doing it tomorrow. I will. Even if I die trying.

-[WARNING: FAILURE TO READ]-[cause:][further data has been corrupted.]This device is proprietary. So the friendly people at our service desk counter will be unable to assist you! Please take this to the original manufacturer to have repairs done.

Thank you for using [Alpha systems] DataPack reader (v1.0.2a) !

Shutting Down…

Ejecting Data Pack…

Performing post-load checks… -successClearing buffer… -successSaving user settings… -success

Goodbye...

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Self Portrait Milo Henry

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The sky above the sea was dull. Dense clouds rolled across the horizon, sprinkling light droplets of rain onto the waves below. At the edge of the water a toy boat lay on its side, abandoned. Waiting. Strings of kelp twisted around the boat’s chipped wooden mast, like a boa constrictor trapping its prey. Salty, spuming waves washed away the sand, yet no words could be read on the small vessel’s scratched up side. Lonely, trapped and nameless. The boat had gone on its last voyage long, long ago.

Dinky yellow gumboots caressed by sea foam. They squelched as the young child crouched down, meticulously working his palm underneath a small shell as if it were a newborn baby. The boy’s stubby fingers brushed dry sand off his newly found treasure. He tucked it into the pocket of his oversized raincoat - which matched the colour of his boots. As the child continued to scan the ground like a gull looking for shellfish, his eyes locked onto the deteriorating toy boat a few metres in front of him. The prospect of collecting shells seemed to vanish from his innocent mind. Water threatened to invade his gumboots as the boy ran breezily across the tide line. His head tilted to one side as he approached the shipwreck, curious.

The pungent scent of seaweed invaded his nostrils as he picked up the wave beaten object. Hesitantly he tugged at one of the slimy kelp strings, nose scrunching in disgust. The boy flicked the plant onto the sand, freeing the wooden mast from its icky clutches. Thick drops of rain began to fall harder, quicker, stronger. Thunder grumbled a warning in the distance, telling the child to get back inside before the weather turned completely. But instead he gently pulled the discoloured cotton sail out fully to admire it. To him it was glorious, even in its tattered state.

Glorious.

A fervent voice echoed out over the sand dunes behind the child. So clutching the boat close to his heart, he ran through the increasingly strong rainfall - a joyous gleam seizing his eyes despite the brewing storm.

A new voyage is on the horizon.

Voyage On The Horizon Mikah Buchanan

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Photography Jodie Smith

Not a house but a home.A lodging of gluttonous dwellings where the mind may feast.Privy to all forms of life, though deaf to the turmoil.Unconditionally lost,Into the unknown.Or perhaps, maybe found in a world far off?The distance becomes a blur as words gain momentum.Senses set reeling,Set free with stirred thought.Whilst rhythmic lines flood the pages,It is in these words I find myself submerged in a book.

Possession Gemma McAllister

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Berrytastic Mudmee Chetchatree

13

Life feels different, unusual as if nothing I knew exists anymore. I’m also surprisingly tired, but refreshed at the same time. It’s as if, no it can’t be, someone would have made sure it never happened, but as I take in these familiar surroundings, it seems brand new, as if someone shut me down and then reset my memory, but didn’t finish it. I sit up, scanning around my dusty surroundings, heart beating faster as I see things I don’t want to be reminded of. I stand up, and the familiarity of the place, it presses down on me, crushing my heart and soul, my body trapped in the thought of death, but I know it isn’t real, it never is. That, at least, hasn’t changed.

My thoughts come quicker now, endlessly it seems, an onslaught of human emotion, sin and death. The concept of love. This shocks me as I try to understand this, but it seems foreign, alien even, an unknown variable in a world of known constants. I fight back my thoughts, order them, and store them for later. Now is the time for movement, to see what is out there. I leave this deserted place behind and emerge on the surface. It’s worse than I remember, all the dead bodies now swept to the side but the war remains visible. The blood-stained ground with pools of blood where the killing happened, the deserted feel to this lonely place, this forgotten place. But I haven’t, my memories, both good and bad, remain intact, my guilt overwhelming and my conscience yelling at me to be punished for my crimes.

I take back control, forcing my conscience to the back of my mind, for now. Back in the here and now, I stumble along hoping that the further I get away from this place the better. I forgot however, that this place continues on for what seems like forever. As I continue, the memories return, and this time, I can’t keep them at bay.

Here Daniel Harley

My parents had thought that being a soldier would be helpful for me, and maybe they were right, but they could never have predicted what happened next. The war broke out, and I was practically unstoppable, the innocent civilians who I had lived with for years became enemies and I slaughtered them. Their uprising against the corrupt government that I hated, had been destroyed by me, their biggest strength. I had fallen to my feet, ashamed of what I had done and wished upon myself, my demise.

Standing here now, I feel the same emotions I did back then, the guilt overwhelming me, here, where I stand. It’s too powerful for me to bear, I can’t handle this, I slip, hit the ground and the memories keep coming.

Years later, I met a scientist, and we became good friends. He helped me with my problems and in turn, I helped him with his research; we created the best things. For some reason, what it was exactly has escaped my memory, but it doesn’t matter, not anymore. We were good friends, but then the government I had helped came for me. They learned of my true intentions and sought to kill me, so I ran.

I ran for so many years, unsure of where I was going. I suddenly had lost everything I had known, loved and cared about, so I ran. I was never stopping until I had cleared my conscience and so, I ran. I kept running, from place to place. I experienced so much, in my travels, betrayal, guilt and happiness, repeated over and over, until I came back here. Here, where I had committed all those cold-blooded killings. Here, where I buried myself deep underground in an old lab. Here, where I went to sleep, hoping to never be awakened again.

14

“See ya later,” said Melissa as she crossed the road to get to her home.

“Bye,” I replied sadly. The night had been marvelous. Just the trio of us hanging out. It had just been like old times. Best buds having fun and caring about nothing at all.

It was nice to remember those old memories. These days it was always work. Lots and lots of work. Smiling, I crossed the road, oblivious to everything around me.

The ear-piercing sound of a truck’s horn brought me back to my senses. I turned around to see a colossal truck speeding my way…

______________

“Time to go,” a gruff voice said.

I blinked. In front of me was a man dressed head to toe in black. I wasn’t sure if I was dreaming or not but the pain when he hoisted me up was real enough.

“Come,” the mysterious man said. His voice had a hint of urgency, but his face was blank, totally expressionless.

“Where?”

“Your time here is up. Now you should see what your future holds,” saying that he directed me towards a blinding light that had appeared out of nowhere. As I walked towards it, I wondered if I really had a future at all...

Limbo Sewmi Dissanayaka

15

They said she was brown like the dirt,forgetting that was where the flowers grew,and it was from there where her stems flew.Challenges arose just as she did;She felt alone and yearned for her place.Because one’s meaning was always dictated by where they found their own race.

In solitude she watched the world grow. The berries ripened with a fiery passion,and darling daisies flaunted their fortune telling power.Even the thistles stood tall with copious pride.Perhaps it was then when she realised, that the beauty of others didn’t detract from her own.And that was when she decided to let the world know.

The bees her gospel, spreading her word’s seedfar and wide, to every square of soil on Earth.Until new buds and sprouts poked their heads from the dirt,as though they felt that their voices had been heard.Her message was out therenow others could take her place.Finally she was able to give freedom a taste.

Some of them denied, others rejoiced inside,they were different beings, all within their right.Through thunder and frost she continued to flourish,while fields of various colours and contours took flight.She watched the teeny buds blossom with a smile, because she knew even if the world went up in flamesall ash becomes dirt once again.

When Flowers Burn Natasha Guha-Tyrie

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Noon began to settle. Rain rapped against the windows. Much like a stray, the storm howled in the outside air pleading to be granted entrance. Although, while indoors the shrill cries could not be heard above the sophisticated elegance of classical music. The melody drifted amongst the dull haze that hung about the room; a combination of stale incense and tobacco smoke which billowed from the pouted lips of a woman. She stood at the blackstone hearth, a hand on her hip whilst the other rested her cigar. She peered down her nose at dust-coated newspaper articles, all framed neatly in a row on the mantelpiece.

“My dear Delvere,” she rasped, taking another long drag. “Oh, how I yearn to feel like a star once more.”

Placing the frame face down, she extinguished her cigar in an ashtray. The music continued. Her body found peace with the tune of strings as she began to dance. Backlit by the dying embers her silhouette resembled that of her youth - elegant in her movement. The room was transformed. Her surroundings no longer an old apartment clustered with secondhand furniture and the continuous rumble of traffic below, but that of a civic stage. Dark polished floors fashioned to perfectly reflect the ambient glow of stage lights. Rows of red seats occupied by an awed audience. An orchestra absorbed in their instruments and the indisputable green eyes that examined it all, hidden in the rafters in the far rear of the old theatre. Watching on in a curious trance.

It was a gradually fading memory now, however those two green eyes remained. Perched on an armchair Delvere watched on. His coat was shabby, loosely hung over jutting bones, and his nose, upturned, was retained with uncombed whiskers. He leapt with agile steps towards the figure

Delvere Of The Theatre Gemma McAllisterbefore the fire, staring up at her with unblinking eyes. She stopped dancing, folding her arms across her chest.

“What a strange little animal you are!”

Delvere let out a meow in return, then carried on to the window where the blizzard endured. He gave it a light scratch, signaling his leave. Beyond goodbyes she turned the latch allowing the fickle feline free. A gale lashed through the tufts of his fur with a spiteful roar, though it did not dishearten him in the slightest. Then, Delvere was gone.

He cascaded down, down, down the maze of window sills and emergency escapes. Landing with ease on all fours. His tail stood upright. His head swayed side to side. He sauntered down the pavement, bathed in the spotlight from street lamps. Lighting the way to the shelter of the old theatre.

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My Best Friend Monique Hibbs

18

The city lights made her dizzy, worsening the migraine. The empty air of the subway felt calming, knowing that she didn’t have to deal with people. She lit up the one thing that she’s been craving for almost a week now.

Soon, the pounding headache soothed out when she tasted the nicotine and inhaled the smoke. She relaxed even more when her wristwatch showed her 2:45 am. The morning train doesn’t run until 3:30. A lot of time to finish many cigarettes, she took a puff and let herself enjoy the sweet deadly taste.

“You know those are bad for you right?” A slurred voice startled her. Her gaze met his eyes. He didn’t seem older than she is; his charming looks and suit didn’t match his drunken state. The man slumped beside the bothered girl; the reek of booze was overpowering. “We’re all gonna die, anyway. Why not start now?” She dryly replied, making him chuckle. “I’ll drink to that.”

He takes out a flask and chugged a huge amount. She hated company, but she strangely didn’t mind being around him. “I don’t get it. Why would she leave me if she loved me?” He ranted, the girl unsure if it was for her but answered anyway, “Well the way you drank that thing told me why.”

“Oh this? Whiskey’s my friend, unlike her, it’s never gonna leave me.”.She lit another cigarette. “Sounds like an alcoholic.” But he surprisingly laughed at her rude whisper.“Quitting yet failing, you should stop too.” He took the cigarette out of her mouth and thrust it to the railways.

“Hey! Those aren’t cheap!” She furrowed her eyebrows, but he just shrugged. “So are your lungs. Don’t smoke another while I’m here.” In return, she hid the flask, “If you’re

not letting me smoke, I won’t let you drink.” Seconds passed in silence, he stared intensely, almost sober.

“Fine.”

Stillness stayed between them for a while. He broke the silence first. “Are you cold?”She nodded, a blanket of heat and cotton draped over her shoulders. Without his blazer, he looked more casual.“Thank you.” She looked down, “She didn’t love you.”The man turned to her, confused “What?” Her profound gaze struck him “Would you quit for her?”“I...yes-”“Don’t lie to yourself.” He knew that it’d be best to shut his mouth, she’d see right through him. “Exactly, she knew that. She had no choice but to leave.”“I didn’t want her to leave.”“And she didn’t want you to be like this.” She held the pack of her cravings, but the man snatched it.“Stay sober for me, please.”

She gave him a grin so sarcastic; it was borderline sweet.“You know that us addicts won’t ever be sober, right?”“Why?”“Because it’s the addiction that keeps us going, not ambition or power, not even love - it’s craving that one thing,” The man bored into the pack of lethality, “I see that you don’t believe in love.” Their fingers brushed as they returned each other’s inclinations.

“I don’t”.

With that said, she stood up and started walking towards the train. She was a slow but vivid blur; he didn’t want to forget. Cigarettes

Intoxicated Khristelle Ano

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Continue? Yebin Kim

Khristelle Ano

didn’t fill her thoughts for the first time; instead it was the stranger that leaned on the train entrance.

“I’d like to see you again.”“You might get addicted to me,” despite her playfulness, she meant it wholeheartedly. Backing away from the closing doors, his muted words from outside brought her satisfaction,“I wouldn’t mind.”“We’ll see,” she replied, but she wasn’t sure if he heard it as the train took her away into the dizzying city lights.

20

(Excerpt From “The Journey”)

Chapter 3

Waking up with the dawn chorus I felt rested but still anxious about the journey ahead.I studied my compass, remembering the man’s voice telling me to go East. I cut myself a piece of bread and then packed up my belongings and headed off up the steep hillside.

The sun was shining bright and there was a gentle breeze which made my journey easier. When I needed a rest I enjoyed some bread and a drink of cool water. In time, I made it to the top of the hill and could look down at the green lush valley below. I continued my journey like this for several days. I began to feel like there was no hope of this village actually existing. Beyond the valley, there was a swampland. Surrounded by alps I had no other choice but to go through it. The swampland was cold, muddy, and damp. I trudged through the muck and slime. I could hear the mud squelching with every step. It became more difficult to get through as the water became deeper. I shivered with the cold and saw the dark clouds begin to drizzle. I was frightened I may never be able to get out. I kept going even when the water crept up to my waist. My mind was set on the village and the safety it would bring. The sludgy mud became soft mossy ground, which became dryer and easier to make my way. I persisted through the swamp and by the time, the sun was setting, I had made it out. The rain had cleared and I found myself in a field. In the distance I saw little white dots which became sheep. “If there are sheep there must be people!! “I thought. The older sheep were resting in the lush green grass while lambs jumped around and played. I could see a white house with an orange brick roof on a hill.

Further on I could see the faint outline of a village, with the sun peeping through the tops of the roofs. I was so excited. I would finally be safe and secure from the raiders and could leave my slave life behind. I could feel tears well up in my eyes. But then the thought occurred to me “what if they did not accept me into the village? What if they did not want refugees?” These thoughts prevailed in me but I still had hope. I was clinging to the promise I would be safe there and before I knew it, I came to a stop at the village gates. I waited not knowing what I should be doing. Then a voice came through the darkness saying “Are you a refugee migrant from the raiders?” And I said “Yes! My name is Matthew and I came from the camp far away, when the raiders expanded their territory I escaped and a friend of mine told me I would be safe here. Look, he gave me this compass with this symbol on it. I held it up so that his torch light would show it. Then they replied, “We have had a lot of migrants from all over the land actually. Many have come to start a new life. You are not the only one. Come in, you are most welcome. You can rest assured you will be safe here.”

I breathed a large sigh of relief. I could feel the tension leaving my body. “What a relief!” Then the gatekeeper said “The man that gave you the compass. Do you know his name?” I said. “No I don’t.” “Because my brother was on a mission to help people escape from slavery.” I asked, “what happened to him?” He said, “he has moved onto other villages now to continue his quest against the raiders and help others find freedom. He will return for the Winter.”“Come my friend, we are having a feast to welcome the new migrants”. The large gates creaked as they swung open. I could see warm lights coming from beautiful arched doorways. I could hear laughter, people chatting and I could smell delicious food. I walked through the gates eager to start my new life.

The Journey Isaac Pask

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Isaac Pask Luna Chaii

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Monday & Friday Olivia Ballantyne

She was Friday, and I was Monday.

She danced through life, hair down, arms free. Bare feet scarcely touching the pavement on which she twirled. And she was always smiling, always happy to see everyone. I slogged, weighed down by the responsibilities and burdens of life. Tired and desperate, stumbling through report after report, gaining no pleasure from work. But she took pride in her work. Loved it, even. An ornate pen in her delicate hand, swooping across the page in elegant cursive. The i’s in her name dotted with hearts, and a smiley face at the end of every note. Pair a smile with that sunny disposition, and everyone wants to be friends. No one wanted to know me. I was temperamental and evasive. A ‘bad work attitude,’ they called it. Not that I cared.

She was Friday, and I was Monday.

She was always happy, always open and welcoming for anyone. Advice, comfort, banter, if you asked she would always provide with a grin and a laugh. No one ever asked me for advice. Then again, I didn’t even know what I could offer. Though I excelled at work, my social skills fell short, and since nobody wants to talk to the prickly one I never even had a chance to make friends. Some say that we should talk, after all opposites do attract, but no one ever saw a Friday with a Monday. Too different, they say. Only difference I saw was that I act like nothing matters. She acts like everything does.

She was Friday, and I was Monday.

But take away the people, return home, and the facade of Friday falls. Some days are better than others. Occasionally she’s still cheerful, other times not. Most of the time she goes quiet, sits mutely on the couch. On these days I snuggle into her side, turn on the TV and tell her how much I love her. Sometimes we fight, and I wonder if what they say about Mondays and Fridays is true. But on days like these, her warm figure in my arms, I realise that it doesn’t matter.

Because she is Friday, and I am Monday.

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Photography Harris Evans

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In Honour Of S.K. (Excerpt) Arthur Faleauto

Curious. Curled like a garden snail in my linens, I awoke upon my shag rug. It’s past three o’ clock. Time for the daily rounds.

I resumed my hunt at around a quarter to six. I double checked the places I had already been, I crawled under the house to check beneath the floorboards, I even peeked inside the toilet chamber. Fruitless. On one of my triple-checking patrols, my mind happened to stop on a wooden door, camouflaged beneath the stairwell. Of course. Caught up in the excitement of opening a frustratingly well sealed box, it had slipped my mind entirely to check the broom closet. My ignorance to its existence was partly purposeful, I was always a fair-weather friend. Cleared of its usual residents, I examined each wall and then lined my cleaning utensils up for closer inspection. The dustpan? Plainly innocent. Empty as the day it was moulded. Sweeping broom? A little suspicious on account of those bristles, but revealed to be perfectly trustworthy. Vacuum cleaner? Inspected reluctantly, as the most well-loved member of my arsenal.

Caught red handed. It had somehow swallowed the key whole. The bag was ripped in twain and the key was finally recovered. All the cleaning utensils were packed away and the vacuum cleaner was relined. I will forgive you this time, you treacherous bastard.

I wanted to wait until nighttime to open the wardrobe. I’m sure that whomever I found there would appreciate the dramatic lighting, even if they happened to be a petrified rat or a stack of old shoes. In the meantime, I unearthed my fanciest candles from their pile and set forth on the celebratory ornamentations.

In a one-woman cutting of the ribbon ceremony, I slipped in the key into the wardrobe. Click. Victory! My feet pitter-

pattered about the wardrobe. The chains dropped to the floor like an avalanche of tambourines. I almost sang. My hands flitted about the handles, hummingbirds. They practically buzzed. A testament to the quality of the carpentry, the wardrobe barely flinched. Not a creak nor groan was uttered from its hinges, not a clue was offered as to what lay beyond its doors. And so, knowing nothing, I proceeded in my frivolous pursuit.

Rot slashed the air.

Its moan. Its terrible, wet gurgle. Writhing on the water-logged cabinet floor, it had the shivering slick appearance of a tumor that had sprouted hair and teeth, that moved only by the accidental stimulation of its remaining nerve system. And yet, its eyes were still glistening and its cracked lips still articulate. One thin rippling slit ran trailed along its flaking pastry skin. Four especially wide openings puckered at me; one revealed bone, two housed what must have been eyes, the other, the other... it rolled to face me. “Please come lay with me,” eyelids billowing, tears thrown like spittle at my feet, “My body is so lonely.” Its sickening imitation of a tongue moistened its teeth one by one as it moaned and moaned on. “Stay with me, my empty hunger, please, to fill me, fill me,” it drooled and garbled. I closed the door. As it clicked shut, the room fell silent. She looked exactly like me.

The key found a home once more, this time taped under the stair closest to the floor. It will be well out of sight, well out of mind. At once, I returned to my bedroom. I lay over the top of my linens in the balmy night air. Perfectly still - my body and the moonlight. The scent of the ditch lilies sailed in on the current of my breath. On it, little boats, little whispered messages, found passage into the blackest harbours of my mind. “Forget, forget, forget….”

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Feverish Fantails Mikah Buchanan

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At the table, I sitSurroundedYet,Alone

I read,I watch,I hear.

Information comes inSuffocating me Taking over my thoughts

“Stay in”, they say

So I stay putDrowning on my own solitudeNowhere to goNo escape

So I speculate,I foresee,I foreshadow,I wait.

At the table, I sitSurroundedYet,Alone.

Surrounded Yet Alone Eulalia Terra Teodoro

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The Paint Man Nathan Russell

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The first thing she noticed was that the curtains had been changed. Harsh hues of firebird red clashed with walls of eggshell blue. An oaken archway loomed over her, the wretched witch carved into it still watching her. Eyes empty and mangled shoulders wearing a filigree shawl of caramel pine. The tattered hallway floor wailed at any whisper of movement, as if the bare-eyed witch was begging freedom from her ornate prison. Exactly how she had remembered it as a child, the two of them, trapped in this living perdition together.

Tracing the familiar grain of the oak with a quivering finger she ventured deeper. Flickers of candy complexions danced on her face. The stained glass windows depicting Eve’s temptation radiated a soft glow that could have only come from the heavens. He had always wanted to live in a church, saying that sanctity only came from the eyes of above. She didn’t feel the same, but then again, it wasn’t her place to make those judgements.

Splattered smears spotted the grim carpet. If she’d lowered her face to the ground, she’d still be able to smell the pungent aroma of cheap whiskey. There was the occasional but unmistakable splotch of blood, caking the carpet and curdling the soul. Reaching an all too familiar doorway she realised it was his room. Its inky blackness beckoned her further. It yearned to envelope her, to suffocate her of all light just as it had done before. “He’s not here, He’s not here,” she tried reasoning with herself. Flailing for a switch she began to spiral, and suddenly the emptiness morphed into a face she knew. Sunken eyes, hollow cheeks and the faintest remnant of a scar crossing the upper lip.

“Mum?”

Its mouth opened, and it replied with a shrill cry. Ear-piercing tones shook the room, and she noticed the thing was growing. Soon it lumbered over her. Hastened breaths lifting her from the air, about to inhale her whole... But suddenly, light materialised. She didn’t question how; she didn’t even question the thing’s disappearance. Because an object in the room’s corner caught her eye. Tenderly, she picked it up. It was one of those

Return To Perdition Natasha Guha-Tyrierubber band bracelets, what were they called again? Silly bands. It resembled the contorted silhouette of a cat, crafted in a neon yellow akin to those fluorescent vests. Her stomach sank, she knew how it ended up here, and where it came from, because it had once belonged to her.

The softest of footsteps could still be heard from inside that room. And as she approached, the blunt thundering of his leather boots rang heavily in her head. She gave a light twist of the heart-shaped doorknob and was greeted by an eerie creak. This room hadn’t changed. The crumpled mattress atop a golden wire frame remained. And a paint-splotched desk was still situated underneath the windowsill with those hideous polyester curtains. It even let in peeks of light for her convenience. Although, it was strange. Because this room felt darker than the other. Not just that, it too had something hiding. Only she knew the thing in this room was real. There was a droning, a deep, dark moaning. Where pleas of pain and pleasure intertwined, and the lines between love and lust blurred to an imperceptible haze. Then there were his hands. Grasping her neck with a concrete strength, threatening to snap her windpipe in half any second. She closed her eyes, waiting for the darkness to take over her, waiting for the black abyss to last forever. Until she realised, there was only one hand, not on her neck, but her shoulder. Its cold, sharp edge melting away as quickly as it came.

“I think it’s time to go home Emlyn.” The warm gaze of her counsellor Dr Galen met her own.“Yes, I think that’s a good idea.” Emlyn then gave one last glance to the bare-eyed witch.

At least one of them had escaped.

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“Ah, the rain. Mother nature is on the stage again. Weaving together the harmonies of the earth as the gust whisks through the alleyways and empty streets, singing in cohesion with its percussionist cousin, the torrent, drumming away with the asphalt and rooftops, forever changing their form. The trees, they ring, like strings on a violin, the leaves, phrasing nature’s notes to near perfection. And with the heavenly choir of wind and the maddening thunder of rain, it all coalesces into a magnificently celestial symphony! With one, simple message - Tonight will be important.Do not fret, fervent tempestas, for I have heard your call. With that in mind I turn to our nearer, more humble stage; the bar piano, where a flame-haired damsel plays a jaunty tune. Yes, a truly joyous melody, how light, how pretty. But alas, what the common pub-goer fails to notice is the whisper of sadness bleeding out of the notes. The lady is mistaken. One cannot lie through music, music is truth itself, your misery will show no matter how well you hide. Or perhaps, this too is a message?”Once her piece had reached completion, I began my approach, curiosity tugging me in. I watched as she descended from her platform and walked away, her path intertwined with mine. And once I had reached her, I discovered her eyes. I saw the depths that reside within them. Vast Oceans, unsettled. With red string tying me to its underbelly. Captivating.

“May I help you?”

“Uh, yes miss, I would like to compliment your beautiful performance just now. It

was entrancing. And might I say that the added strain of certain parts evolved the piece’s flavor wonderfully.”

She pauses, clearly bewildered that her message was heard. “Well… Thank you for the praise, I appreciate it. Excuse me, but I have to go now.”

“Ah, well it was nice meeting you”She gifts me a faint smile as she retreats behind a door near the back, and I return to my seat to finish my drink, once again listening to the ambient tune.The moon is nearly at its apex, and as such, it is time to leave. The storm has soothed into drizzle, its message was received, its purpose, completed. Only a foot out the door and that is when I see it. The flame-haired hummingbird, walking amongst her cage - a lanky man, dressed as a shadow, his face, deathly pale, his decrepit hand, resting upon her shoulder, the picture of dissonance. And now, I understand. The storm, the stain of misery left uncleaned on that piano, it all comes together now, and now, I know what I am meant to do.

“My dear hummingbird, I heard your song of suffering, and I come to you out of compassion. Do not worry, for I will free you from this ill-formed cage.”

“What?” The cage speaks, confused of its widening gate.

“You, malevolent captor, dare keep this beauty from singing free from your chains? Your tyranny has reached its conclusion, dissonant one.”

Caenum Virun Mohottallage

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I step closer.

“Hey! Back Off,” his voice wavers.

I present my hand towards her.

“Now, come with me, my dear. The moon is nearly at its apex, and it is time to leave.”

Staring at my hand, her eyes shutter with gratitude. I can see it now. The cage, it has opened, her oceans, they are calm. The stain has disappeared, the storm has moved on. This night, its beauty and its misery, has all culminated into this one moment. I have fulfilled my duty. I have saved her. Now, take my hand, and you will have your “happily ever after.” Reach

Photography Sophie Kelsall

for me.

“Please, just leave.”

“W-what? But I - I-”

“Please, I don’t want to call the cops, just go away, okay.”

What? That’s not supposed to happen. That shouldn’t have happened. It doesn’t work, It- it doesn’t make sense. That’s not… That’s not… - Oh? Did I manage to forget? Haha. I’m a coward. Pathetic.

And just like that, they left. And nothing more happened that night but the crushing drone of rain.

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Shoes scuffing, she walks along the street, observing the ruins in front of her, and recalling memories. Passing the rundown park, she sits on a swing, and with a close of her eyes everything is suddenly filled with life again. Older children play on the grass, a battered football passing between their legs while younger children sit on the swings, competing to see who can swing higher. Soon, her eyes open, and without a word she continues down the street. The ground shifts, and soon she arrives at the top of a hill, to see a broken down dairy, windows boarded up and signs covered.

But again, eyes are closed and an abrupt appearance of light and colour floods her vision, and there are suddenly teenagers everywhere, laughing, talking and smoking. The smell of sickly sweet sugar and sunshine fills the air and the sound of loud music thuds in her ears. They’re everywhere, the teenagers, and they act like they could own the world with a snap of their fingers. The pounding of the music grows louder, thundering in her ears, but before it can reach its crescendo, her eyes open again, and with a sigh she slopes back down the other side of the hill.

Her knuckles whiten when she reaches a rotting house, and she slumps on the fence, shoulders sagging and breath leaving her in a sigh. She doesn’t have to close her eyes this time, as the memories come rushing in. A young girl, perhaps only three or four stumbles across the lawn and into her mother’s arms, and is lifted and spun as the sound of mother and daughters’ laughter fills the air. The memory flashes, and this time the girl is slightly older, backpack massive on her tiny shoulders, walking out the driveway. A young couple stands at the gate, waving while a tiny baby sleeps in her mother’s arms. The memories flash again, but this time it is night. Two girls climb out of a side window as an argument rages on inside the house. The biggest girl

reaches up and helps the other down, and holding hands they sneak through the garden and across the lawn to the fence, before hopping over it and lying down. Holding each other, the sisters stay there as the shouting continues, occasionally punctuated by the crash of ceramics and other breakables.

It is day again when the next memory comes, and the two girls are sat on the grass, watching as their father is forced into the back of a cop car. While one sobs, the eldest is unusually dry-eyed, and stares her father in the eye until the car drives away. Both standing, the girls make their way to their mother, who engulfs them both in a hug. The final flash turns to a memory on a bright summer’s day, and all three girls are spraying each other with water pistols, the sound of their laughter and shrieks filling the warm air, and the girl smiles as she remembers. However, this memory soon fades, and all that is left is the old house, and the girl sitting on the fence, remembering. She stands and walks down the street, leaving the house, and its memories, behind her.

Retrospect In Absentia Olivia Ballantyne

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In summer, pine trees growing tall line the shady paths of the Mountain Biking tracks. They have strong branches that reach towards the sun, casting shadows onto the ground beneath them, occasionally allowing beams of sunlight to filter through, illuminating the surrounding area. Their roots explode from the ground, twisting over one another, creating elaborate paths and patterns. Along the fire-breaks, the crunching gravel gives way to pine needles, softly coating everything and letting out the warm smell of pine trees. It drifts through the air, a reminder of fresh Christmas trees and sunny days. The pine needles carpet the ground as far as the eye can see, only interrupted by the occasional red mushroom. The fungi are clustered in small groups in the pools of sunlight, their red tops speckled with white, giving them the appearance that they could be home to a village of tiny smurfs. As summer progresses, more of the red-topped mushrooms will arrive, but as winter comes, they will turn to mush as the temperatures drop. Where the tall pine trees end and the summer sun beats down with all its strength, the tracks are lined with blackberry vines, overflowing with the warm fruit. The blackberries let off a tantalising aroma, but the sharp barbs that cover the vines will tear at the hands of anyone trying to reach the sweet treat. Beyond the creeping plants are young pine trees trying to grow tall, stretching towards the cloudless sky. Their branches droop with bright green needles, the main cause of the fresh pine smell. Among them is the occasional stump, the only remains of the trees that preceded them.

In contrast, on a frosty winter morning, there is a cold stillness in the air. It feels like the world is frozen in time; the only sound is the crunching gravel beneath the feet of anyone who dares to brave the cold. The air is silent. Still. Warm breaths

fog in the frigid air, indicating that the temperature has dropped close to zero. In areas unprotected by the towering pine trees, frost covers the plants in a thick layer. The sky up above stretches blue and clear, with few clouds in sight. Despite the shining sun, the frost refuses to thaw. As the day progresses, the wind picks up, howling through the trees. The pines respond with creaking groans, complaining about the constant onslaught from the gale. With the wind, dark clouds blow in from the ocean, blotting out the sun. There is a sudden change in the air, and the strong breeze blows in the fresh smell of rain, an indicator it’s on its way. The sky fills up with menacing black clouds, which suddenly open up and release the rain it was holding in. It buckets down, as if someone in the sky was turning on a tap. The trees offer some protection from the rain, but the water is insistent and makes its way past their branches. The pine needles coating the ground quickly become wet, filling the air with a whole new smell, a damp, earthy scent.

Seasons At Sandy Point Olivia Horton

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