Welcome, reader, to Volume I of the

Peacock Magazine for Two Thousand &

Fourteen. That could almost be
considered a rhyme. Regardless, this
address is not for poetry or prose, those
can be found in the pages ahead of you in
abundance. Rather, this address is a
celebration of the creativity, imagination
and vision of students studying a Bachelor
of Arts. From the Arts Unions foundation in
1944, the Peacock Magazine has held a
unique place in the hearts of students and
staff alike. Named after the beloved
animals that, of their own accord, have
inhabited the Arts faculty since their
donation in 1975, (I encourage you to
research their backstory further) the title is
a metaphor for the beautifully mottled,
elegant and diverse colour palette of the
works published herein. The process from
thought in the brain to immortality on the
page is, and should be, amazing. Original
creations are something to be treasured.

This volume heralds new life for The
Peacock. May it live forever.

Henry Austin President, 2014.
Studying Arts inspires people in many
different ways. So often this is where the
magic starts: the great novels, the social
revolutions, the new fads and insights into
human existence. We certainly feel that
the voices of students are worth listening
to, and hope to have done some justice to
their creativity with this edition of The
Peacock. The role of the magazine could
be seen as engaging both the author and
the readers in the dialectic of a text or
artwork, and we hope that this edition is as
rewarding for all students involved in
creating or reading as it has been for us
as editors. Amidst the copious amounts of
cake, good music, and assorted spirits,
we may have actually managed to make
something that resembles a decent
magazine. But it's not up to us; you will
have to find out for yourself.


Editors:
Henry Austin
Jess Cockerill
Michael France
Katy Morrison
Lily Sullivan




contents






















artistic contributors
jessica cockerill cover page
aheli guha page opposite
isabel roden page 4, 16, 30
si-en wong page 7
presidents address and editorials
waves
glory of mediocrity
summer
aberdeen
empires of decay
nocturnal tides
the many faces of humanities
5 reasons why money is no excuse not to travel
stone
from the dunes & brunei
legato
night
indie chick
friend in the corner of the room
family dynamics
dead inside
coping
not going to get better
8 tips for finding a great hostel
i
1
5
7
8
11
15
17
21
23
26
30
31
33
35
36
39
41
44
47

Waves
Eleanor Bruyn

I wish the sea would just swallow me up
and let me sink, to rest at the bottom in
the quiet. It would be somewhere for me
to escape to and somewhere where
nobody could find me.
Shaking my head I try to focus on the surf
as I make my way down the desolate
beach. Even though its late afternoon, I
can still feel the heat from the sand rising
up through my feet. Paddling out towards
the swollen bellies of the clouds, I feel just
like they look. Theres something deeply
satisfying about having the weather
match your mood. Having the weather
agree with you, gives you permission to
feel as miserable as you do. I watch as
the Sun sinks through the dark clouds,
casting the sky in the colour of deep
bruises. I love watching the Sun melt into
the ocean because it means the end of
another day. I like the sense of calm that
the dusk brings and how it drapes the
world in a quiet shadow.

The sea is churning out messy waves but
I dont mind; Im not really here to surf. I
just needed to get out for a while. The
wind cuts across the top of the water
covering me with spray. As I wipe the
water out of my eyes I look up at the
shore but its empty. The beach stretches
on in the dusk, barren but for a few piles
of rotting weed.
I try for a couple of cleaner looking
breakers but its no good. The seas had
enough and spits me out like a piece of
grit and I tumble through the water. It
jerks me round and roughs me up with its
trembling energy.
Im forced down amongst the foaming
white wash and weed but this kind of
helplessness isnt new to me. The waves
surge above me, making my body tingle
as they burst and seethe and I just let it
hold me there all limp and heavy.
Eventually the spell is broken and the
tension of my leg rope tugs me upwards.
As my head breaks the surface I gasp in
as much air as I can. My chest is
pounding and I have to grab onto the rails
of my board. I love the sensation of
breaking the surface and taking that first
breath because the feeling of relief is
unbelievable.







I feel like I live in auto pilot most of the
time, where Im there but just numb to the
day to day experience. I dont feel
anything as strongly as I feel that first
breath bursting into my lungs and I dont
seem to enjoy anything as much either.
More often than not I just bumble around
feeling like an empty shell. I dont think
anyones noticed though, which is sad. A
whole part of me is missing, like my
insides have slipped out of my chest and
no one even blinked. I guess its good too
We know only too well that what we are doing is
nothing more than a drop in the ocean. But if the
drop were not there, the ocean would be missing
something.
Mother Teresa
\\\1///

though, I mean I dont want to make a
fuss. But I cant even seem to catch my
breath above water these days; not when
the years gone so damn fast! Exams are
almost here and then another year will
have passed.
Time scares me. It doesnt slow down for
anyone and Im terrified about how
quickly it moves. You get one second,
one scrap of time on this Earth to call your
own and then youre gone.
Were nothing but a blip on the radar, a
fish in the sea and Im just worried Im
gonna stuff up my chance. I mean how
do you really make the most of it all? What
if I just wander around this lost forever?
Every time I come out here I hope to work
it all out, have my light bulb moment and
figure out my plan, but it never happens.
I just want to work out what I want to do
and succeed at it so that Dad will be
proud of me. He says hell be proud no
matter what but hes lying. Theres
nothing he wants more in the whole world
than to see me succeed. Hes always told
me how smart I am, how studious and
how bright my future is. He thinks Im
destined to become some crash hot
director or CEO. Hes put up with so
much shit that I just cant bear to
disappoint him. If I stuff this up hell be
crushed and enough things in his life
have crushed him. Sometimes I worry that
Ill just find him flattened somewhere like
an empty balloon. Its funny how some
people seem to have all the luck, whilst
others just get the scraps.
It makes me feel less alone to have the
water blanketing me in its warmth. I guess
its why I come out so often. Its not like I
can surf that well or anything, it just
makes me feel like everything is a little
more manageable. Its vastness and
power is so humbling. Thinking about
how far it stretches and how deep it
reaches, seeping down into the earth you
cant help but feel small and your
problems even smaller.
As I let the waves nudge me further along
the beach I notice a small figure walking
up the headland, hunched up against the
cold. As they get closer to the cliffs I can
see its a girl with her long hair tangling in
the wind. Making her way up the hill I
know she hasnt seen me, she hasnt
seen anyone. I watch as she reaches the
edge and stands there looking out. I
guess Im not the only one who comes
here to think.
Its so quiet floating on my board in the
dark, looking at the girl on the cliff. I
watch her gazing at the pulse of the deep
ink like water. She seems to be getting
closer and closer to the edge now.
Too close.
Its a straight drop into the ocean and
onto the rocks from there. She really
needs to step-
All I did was blink. My eyes closed for a
second and she was gone. It feels like my
heart has stopped beating and my
stomach writhes as I paddle as fast as my
arms can manage.
The wind has begun to drop off and the
water is murky but calm. My arms stretch
out into the water pulling me closer and
closer to where she fell. I try and keep my
eyes fixed on where I saw her body
disappear but its too dark. The suns
completely gone now and theres no hint
of the moon; maybe its decided not to
come. Im nearly at the base of the cliffs
but theres no sign of her. Whatever ripple
she left behind is gone and theres
nothing left. I cant waste time and so I
plunge in stretching my arms out hoping
to find her. The salts testing my eyes as I
strain to make out anything in the water. I
hold my breath clawing at the water until
my chest feels like it will explode. I steal
another breath and dive further into the
dark. Its like the blackness has just
\\\2///

swallowed her up. I thrash around,
throwing my limbs out hoping to catch the
fabric of her dress or the ends of her hair.
As I fling my arms out wider still my
fingertips brush what feels like flesh.
Frantically I throw myself forward,
fumbling for her waist.




I yank at my leg rope and pull her onto
the board. Kicking desperately behind it, I
race to beat the oncoming swell. If I can
just reach the water beyond before this
wave breaks then I think well be ok. The
swell looms behind us and I know that if it
catches us we wont make it. It would
envelop us, pin us down; fill our lungs
and crowd the emptiness in our bodies.
I look down at her limp frame and notice
how her skins been leeched of all colour.
The waters washed it off as if she was a
painting to be erased.
Shes a drowned watercolour.
The ends of her hair trail through the foam
and she looks like shes been floating in
the ocean forever. Nothing has ever
mattered so much as getting us away
from those rocks and I can feel the acid
rising in my throat. The rank taste of it fills
my mouth and I think Im going to be sick.
The sourness of it burns my tongue and I
force myself to swallow the rising vomit.
My stomach flips and churns like the
turning of the tide. Suddenly the water is
upon us and with one final kick I watch as
the nose of the board climbs the face and
we hang at the crest for what seems like
an impossible amount of time. Im praying
well glide over the other side and not
crash backwards into the sea but in a
flash were over the top and let past.



Heaving, I drag myself onto the board
careful not to crush her chest. With my
shins trailing in the water I fix my eyes on
the shore and paddle. Suddenly the
beach seems so far away. Usually this
would be an easy feat but tonight it looks
like the water stretches on for miles.
Im shaking with nerves and exhaustion
as I power through the last few metres.
Reaching the beach, I notice theres no
one around. For the first time in a long
time I would give anything to have
someone here.
As I lift her from the water, waves lick at
her limbs like they want to drag her back
and tonight I think she belongs to the
waves.


Shes a drowned watercolour.
\\\3///


Isabelle Roden
\\\4///

The Glory of Being Mediocre
Emma Louise Elliot

It seems todays world is obsessed with success and the glory that comes with it. Were
taught to aim high, achieve our best and not settle for average. But what do we sacrifice
during this process? What if I dont want to reach my potential?

Its drilled into us from childhood that we
must be better than average, we must
aim for the moon and constantly strive to
be the best possible version of ourselves.
If not youre plain lazy. We live in a
society where people are shamed into
success. Starting in kindergarten we are
made to plan for the future, we must be
something, we must do something
worthwhile and god forbid we just want to
be happy. Happiness doesnt achieve
glory. Glory is gained through hard work,
by giving 110% and following other
clichd, motivational mantras. So what I
want to know is; what happens if the
whole over-achieving trend just isnt for
you? Is being average really all that bad?

Personally I relish in my averageness.
After all, youre beating 50% of the
population, a pretty solid effort I think! For
most people being average just isnt
good enough. Our worth as individuals,
our self-esteem, how fulfilling our lives are,
is measured by how much we achieve.
Nobody is happy with an average body,
an average mark or an average job. This
creates a community of self-obsessed,
over-achieving but often unhappy people.

When success is valued so highly people
are willing to sacrifice their health, their
relationships and sometimes their sanity
in order to not be a disappointment. We
glorify those that achieve, that strive for
perfection, that reach the peak and turn
our nose down at those simply going
about their everyday lives. Do people
become corporate hot-shots, big time
athletes and over-worked professionals
because their passions have driven them,
or is it because unless passion results in
success then it is not valued? Nobody
cares about the work of a writer who is
not a best-seller or the persistence of a
football player who has not made it to the
AFL. Unless you are at the top of your
field what you do is made to seem less
worthwhile, less significant, a waste of
time.

Average is not something to be ashamed
of, neither is success of course, if that is
what you want. What Im saying is that
people should be free to live the life they
decide and not feel judged for not being
good enough or pressured into living a
life centered around accomplishments.
Maybe its ok to live a humble life where
you actually have time to look after
\\\5///

yourself and your relationships. Since
when did careers become more important
than people and community?

With todays mentality everything is
focused on the individual, we must prove
to others and ourselves how great we are,
group glory is glory shared and nobody
wants that! When I posed the question of
whats wrong with average to my dad he
replied by saying, I dont think theres
anything wrong with people being
average, it makes me look good. Our
self-centered goals, desires and pursuits
make us competitive and determined but
does personal achievement really leave
one satisfied?

Whilst I think it is important to have a
strong sense of self and have personal
goals it seems lately that caring about
and self-sacrificing for others is seen as
weak. You are characterized as a
pushover or someone that has no
personal orientation or aspirations. This
has been seen through the lack of
glorification for stay at home parents. We
are supposed to compromise ourselves
for careers but no longer for people. I
dont think its ok to be so consumed by
your own goals and your own road to
glory that you think you live in a vacuum
where the role of other people is to be
there at the end to cheer, clap and
acknowledge you. We cant deny that we
live in a shared world and our
relationships with people are what make
our world what it is, not what job we have,
what car we drive, what size dress we fit
into or what mark we get in an exam. If
being average means I have time to enjoy
life and appreciate the people I care
about then screw you glory, my mediocre
self and I dont want you anyway!



\\\6///

Si-En Wong
Summer
Lara Connolly-Bromfield
Warmth. Sun reflects off the bricks behind me. Warms my back and my
head. Yawn. I shake my head.
Bzzzzz bzzzzzt. A bee, nearby. Bzzzt.
Wind. I raise my nose. Dust, pollen, barbeque next door. A bird, near the
house. I turn to watch. Ears pricked. Bird flies away. Relax.
Rumbles in the ground. A threat? I stand up. Rumbling in my throat, mirroring
the rumbling in the ground. What is it?
Thud, thud. I shout! Theyre home!
Is it safe for them here? I shout. Run around. Rustles in the tree above. Bird
flies away. Again, shout. Nothing. Safe.
Run to the gate! Theyre here! Where were they? Shoulders bunched up,
excited. Tail waving. The gate swings open.
Claws out, clicking against the pavement. I run in circles. Surrounding two-
legs. Where were you? Smelling knees, ankles.
Where is my ball? I need it!
Find the ball for two-legs. Inside now. Run to two-legs. Drop the ball.
Crouched, I look up. I wait.






























\\\7///


Aberdeen
Dennis Venning

You didnt need to say that, I said to her,
and she just looked at me back and didnt
say anything. We pulled the suitcases
outside. Man, was I tired. Theyd said itd
be cold, so Id kept my jacket on, but I
knew Id be all red in the face now. My
skin was all prickled like the scratches
from dry grass. We pulled the suitcases
up to the taxi stand. Mine kept getting
caught on the cobblestones because the
left wheel was fucked.
You said itd be cold here, I puffed. She
didnt say anything. When my wheel got
caught again she just kept on walking.
Shed calm down. I knew that.

The cabbie came round to get our cases.
She left hers. I was about to pick it up, to
put it in the boot, but then the cabbie
winked at me and took it.
Where you heading, then? he asked me.
64 Clyde Street, she said, Know it?
She could be a real bitch sometimes.
Knew she wasnt trying to be. She was
tired. Shed done it to the girls on the
aeroplane, too.
Clyde? he said. Wheres that then?
We were in the back now. I sat down next
to her and kissed her on the cheek. She
leaned forward.
Near the uni? she said.
Uni? he said. I could tell he was having a
laugh. I unbuttoned my jacketfuck me
was I warm. He reminded me of some
actor, but his hair was different.
The University of Aberdeen? She was
flustered. She didnt get it.
University of Aberdeen... he said. Dont
know that one... Robert Galbraith
University? Dya mean that?
No, the University of Aberdeen, she said
again. I couldnt help myself from
chuckling. She didnt notice.
I dont know it. Reckon you could direct
uz, love? He said uz, as if there was a z
on the end. Seriously? she said. Then
she noticed me chuckling.
I think hes just having us on, dear, I
said. She pushed air out her nostrils. I
hated it when she d!id that, because it
made her look ugly.

Ah well, he said. At least weve got a
woman to direct us, eh? I let out another
little chuckle, sort of nervous: Whered we
be without them?
She didnt say anything, looked out the
window. The cars around us were all
shiny, lots of nice four-wheel drives. The
houses looked miserable, like tombs. Still,
it was winterprobably looked better
when the sun was out.
So where are you two from? he asked.
Australia, I said. Pause. And shes from
Sweden.
\\\8///


Australia, eh? he said. Have yabeen to
Aberdeen before? He rolled the rrrr in
Aberdeen. I said I hadnt.
But she studies here, I explained.
Students, he said. Leeches. Get all the
good housing, dont buy anything, get
pissed, complain, then go back to where
theyre from once they got their free
degrees. Rest of uz, we pay for em. He
laughedshort, barking laughthen
went on: Theyre all going to work for the
UN, very important stuff, they tell me.
Nobody can mock like the Scottish. I
stifled my murmur of agreement. Shed
told me she wanted to work for the UN
once. I moved the conversation on.

What do you think we should do in
Aberdeen?
Maritime Museum, he said, without
hesitating. Got a fantastic collection here.
All the old ships, history of the place.
What is the history? I asked. I dont
know much about it.
Used to be a great city, he said. Used to
build ships here. Thats how it started:
shipbuilding. Then the oil came. We were
oil capital of the world, dya ken? They
used to try everything here, the cutting-
edge stuff. If it worked, theyd do it all
around the world. All came from here.
Yeah, this used to be a great place to
live. Do I go down this one, love? he
asked her.
She shook her head, still looking out the
window, then said: No, after the lights.
They were red. He stopped.
So what happened? I asked.
Greenies fucked it all up, he said.
Environmental laws. Sod all now.
Everybodys lost their lives here, cause of
that. Why Im still driving this cab, he
said, shaking his head.
Wow, I said.

I looked out at the slabs of granite they
called houses. They were the same dull
colour as the sky. It was hard not to be
miserable, looking out the window.
A lot of these apartment blocks look the
same, I said, mostly to her.
Social housing, he said. For the
druggies. Government thinks they can
help these people.
You dont think it works? I asked.
It doesnt work, he said. Doesnt work.
These people are addicts. Better to just
give em the blue pill and let em get on
with it. I nodded. She rolled her eyes,
and I saw something flash across his
mouth in the rear-view mirror.

He pulled up to her flat. I leaned forward
to put the money on the tray, and she got
out behind me.
Reminds me of my ex-wife, he said to
me, confidentially. I nodded and smiled,
then got out. He came round to help with
the bags.
Thanks for that, I said.
Nae problem, he said. Want me to do
you a favour?

Sure, I said. For a second I imagined
him revealing a pistol and shooting her,
bang, through the chest, the two of us
driving back to the airport and me getting
\\\9///


back on the plane. But then he gave me a
flier for the Maritime Museum.
There yare, he said, and winked again.

We pulled our suitcases up the streets. It
was only four-thirty, but it was dark, cold,
now. She was shivering. My wheel got
stuck again, but this time she waited.
Sorry, I said, as I unstuck the wheel,
sorry for all of that.
She nodded. Its okay.
He was an arsehole, hey, I said, as we
started walking again. Complete arse-
hole.

If I say it enough times I might believe it.
\\\10///


St Petersburg, Germany.


Empires of Decay
Michael Franz

Recently I was lucky enough to be invited to intern for Lonely Planet doing travel
photography and writing in Europe. Amongst taking photos of tourist attractions
and monuments, I found myself drawn to the lesser seen side of these cities, the
grunge and grime of urban decay. The stark visuals and haunting beauty of
these scenes captivated me, and I was immediately drawn to capture them.

\\\11///


Moscow, Russia.
Though most of Russia has moved on from the days of communism, Moscow, with its
monolithic Stalinist architecture and foreboding spartan aesthetic, still feels like the
brutal heart of the Soviet Empire. After taking this photo, a police patrol pulled up in the
alleyway and proceeded to interrogate us as to our reasons for being there. Afterward,
our guide told us that we were smart not to have run. "If you had," he said, "they
definitely would have shot you."

\\\12///


Moscow, Russia.
















\\\13///


Oslo, Norway.
Moscow, Russia.







\\\14///


Nocturnal Tides
Jessica Grace

Ours are the cars with the sun
damage, ours are the
Streets lined with the sleet of salt
The circular dreams
Crashing wet and tubular
The inherited showrooms, outdated
Doomed anyway
Fridges and clotheslines
Old boats for sale
Ours are the winds from the east to
dry out the day
And the breeze of noon
Hydrate the dunes
With sea spray

The boys loiter on ramps
Or in computer shops
Tight tendons
Fat blisters
Freckled bambi faces wreathed in
Eyebrows, zits and pits
Beautiful bloodied knees weep
More salt for the concrete
To sizzle

The sun isnt gold: its an ocean
White shards to open
The heart and the mind
Hes coming down
Choked in smoke all the time
And rests his head
In the nest of his bed

The summer was terrible
She knew it would be
She awoke in front of the screen
With a stomach of mercury
Curling, obscene
As the blonde burnished monsters
That furnish his dreams
And her nightmares
Drip
Their sacred, slippery ooze
In his room; on the couch; on the
floor; into space; into nothing.


Hes dreaming
On a friends couch
About a mannequin with its tits out
And all he really wants is a rest
But his mind wont let him forget
The night urge and yet
He gets turned on
He moves on when he takes these
pills
Platonic thrills
With nowhere to go
Par the void of the sky

Her self emerges
From her mind
Rolls into the empty street
Vivid, freed, alone,
Into the balmy realm of roaches.
Like starved men, they crawl
across
A pavement desert, indigo
Lucid glow, dissipating
On the ultraviolet cheeks of florid
faces.
They wilt as she darts by
There is no alleyway for demons
here
The white eye heavy
It solidifies all that it sees
Into tangible utility
Her fingers ease up on her sharp
keys
Or feel the breeze
As hills are stitched
Their systems fed with polished
deck
She spins her wheels and web
And makes the night her tableaux
Loosens her legs

We go back to the sea
To surf through easy infinity

\\\15///




Isabelle Roden
\\\16///

\\\17///


The Many Faces of Humanities
Daniel Robinson

Eyes lock onto yours, the hand moves forward for the shake. An
acquaintance makes it known that you are a student and the question hangs
from your assailants tongue. You are a humanities student and there will
be blood.
So what do you study?
It is an inevitable question for a known student
that could be directed from any source. Most
students will dutifully regurgitate an answer to this
dull yet all-important question. The humanities
student however, knows that another question is
sure to follow after they describe their degree:
And what are you doing to do with your degree?
The humanities student now faces an impasse
and must choose upon which social field they are
to die. It is easy enough to concoct a theoretical
career based upon ones particular discipline or
major. Journalist, translator, creative and PR
officer are all acceptable to the public mind.
Further study in more vocationally focussed
degrees is met with approval and the suggestion
of unemployment with appropriate titters. This
path is the generally accepted option, which
should leave the student with a queasy feeling of
capitulation to the career driven, and hence
economic imperatives of contemporary society.
The bold or possibly foolish student may answer
the question of what is to be done with a degree
with another:
Why must I do anything with this degree?
At this point the student may speak earnestly
about knowledge for its own sake, about cultural
enrichment and the cultivation of moral
imagination and effective citizens. Detractors of
the humanities will suggest that knowledge for its
own sake is a luxury that many people, and
indeed the world, cannot afford. The student
might point out that it is exactly this type of rigid
economic thinking that gets us into trouble and
that we need to rethink the whole system so it
stops creating angry, impotent suburbanites like
you. The gloves are truly off and the student is
open to the criticism of being a commie,
hypocritical bastard, railing against the system
that provides a commonwealth-assisted place at
an Australian university using taxpayer money.
Let us stop this before it gets any nastier.
. . .
This scenario draws attention to a crucial
consideration in valuing a humanities degree: for
better or worse, much of what is deemed valuable
in liberal democracies is measured in economic
terms. The value of a university degree is often
measured with reference to income and the
perceived social good it can provide. This means
subjects like Medicine, Engineering and Law are
held above others because they lead to
occupations that promote justice and health,
create infrastructure and importantly, money.
These subjects are valuable because the impact
they have is quantifiable. Psychology, Philosophy
and Sociology also uphold these values and
graduates may do similar social good. However,
the barriers to entry are lower, the skills more
general, the career pathways less clearly defined
and their impact largely unquantifiable. In this
historical moment the value of a particular course
of study seems to be directly related to
employability and income. In considering the
value of humanities today there would appear to
be a tension between the historical purpose of the
humanities and the current need-for-use value.
Peacock Magazine spoke with three humanities
graduates to find out how they think about the
purpose and value of their education. These past
students have together studied in England, New
Zealand and Australia and worked in diverse
fields, including: education, design, public
relations, events management and research.
While there is a great deal of diversity and breadth
amongst the graduates they have all undergone
training in a tradition that has its roots in Ancient
Greece as a broad education for citizens. Clearly
the humanities have undergone a great deal of
change in purpose and value since their
conception. Can the historical function of
humanities provide a way of thinking about current
value and function? Interestingly, the vocational
demand indicated by enrolments in majors
perceived as employable
1
, may be more aligned
with the practice of the Ancient Greeks and
Romans. In Rome the seven liberal arts were
designed to prepare students for practical
applications in contrast to the fifteenth century
shift towards theory.
Driven by economic imperatives the current trend
in humanities is towards harder practical skills,
similar to those taught in the ancient humanities,
albeit in far more narrowly focussed areas.
However, students suggest that theory is not
without its own practical applications. Kate, a
recent Communications Studies graduate from
University of Western Australia, indicated that the
process of learning theory had practical value:
you get to understand theory as a tool for looking
at the way of things. While receptiveness to a
multitude of perspectives and the associated
variety of approaches to problems and new
situations are desirable skills, they cannot be said
to be the domain of the humanities alone. Indeed
they could be considered the basis of scientific
investigation. What then can be said to belong to
the humanities alone?
Many scholars, particularly scholars from the
humanities have attempted to answer this
question with varying degrees of success. A
common suggestion is that the distinctive value of
the humanities lies in the cultivation of moral
imagination and the empathy associated with
imagining other points of view
2
. Professor Eliza
Kent of Colgate University builds upon these
qualities and the broad skill set of humanities -
writing, communication and critical thinking - to
claim that the most valuable aspect of humanities
study is the cultivation of voice. As she puts it: in
a competitive market and in a world constantly
changing under our feet where the marketplace
will always be intensely competitive, the most
important resource you have is your voice
3
.
Kents perspective is aligned with that of Adam, a
2013 English and Cultural Studies graduate from
the University of Leeds and a keen amateur boxer.
Recently employed in company that specialises in
public relations concerning new electronic
technologies, Adam describes the most useful
skill for his job as being the ability to be sociable
with others both colleagues and clients. Not
pulling any punches, Adam does not think these
skills and his individual voice can be attributed to
university alone, suggesting instead that individual
personalities play a large role. Despite Adams
reservations about completely attributing these
skills to humanities study or university more
generally it is arguable that studying a broad
range of perspectives and disciplines may refine
a students voice and develop sociable and
articulate citizens and employees. Though again,
these skills do not seem to be the domain of
humanities alone and indeed are arguably more
those of business schools.
So while some of the most articulate and ardent
voices speaking in defence of humanities
education come from within the discipline it may
be useful to turn to defences initiated from the
business sphere. Dr Terry Cutler, Principal of
Cutler and Company, a Melbourne based market
evaluation and strategy firm, defends the study of
Can the historical function of humanities provide a way
of thinking about current value and function?
\\\18///


humanities and humanities research as being
crucial to innovation. Cutler suggests that
attributing value to a liberal
education is not to demean other
faculties of learning, but rather to
suggest that the liberal and creative
arts are perhaps the only
disciplines, along with pure
science, to stand outside the
dominant policy paradigm of
promoting instrumental knowledge
and narrow vocational training
4
.
Cutlers perspective is in alignment with that of Dr
Jonathan Jacobs, Director of the Institute for
Criminal Justice Ethics, who points that not all
knowledge is scientific knowledge, reinforcing his
statement by indicating the claim is itself
philosophical. Cutler and Jacobs both
demonstrate concern at the specialisation that is
becoming pervasive in the business and
academic spheres, Jacobs indicating that
credential-orientated education...effectively
disables students for intellectual versatility and for
engaging issues and problems of new and
unfamiliar kinds
5
. Cutler invokes the father of
modern economics, Adam Smith, and his Wealth
of Nations (1776), which describes Smiths belief
in a societal need for class of people to be
thinkers, allowing innovation to stem from those
whose trade it is, not to do anything, but to
observe everything; and who, upon that account,
are often capable of combining together the
powers of the most distant and dissimilar
objects
6
.
The value of humanities may be said to rest with
the broad conceptual fluency that it cultivates in
students rather than in any instrumental skills like
reading or writing. This accords with the
experience of Adam, who believes he could
definitely have obtained the skills he did during his
humanities degree through other courses of study,
however, he notes that the advantage of
humanities is that they provide scope for
interpretation and thus offer a new freedom in how
the skills are employed.
A core aspect of the humanities, so far
overlooked, is the idea of values that crucially
separate humanities from pure science. While
both fields are concerned with knowledge, the
humanities are focussed on the value of
knowledge as it relates to humans. Value
judgement is beyond the scope of scientific
method, yet is a fundamental aspect of human
identity. The knowledge of the humanities is
concerned with issues as diverse as what is
ethical, the origins and function of language and
what it means to live a good life. This article, which
constitutes a value judgement of the humanities,
would not be possible without the processes of the
humanities. By its nature, value judgement is
subjective and requires lively and critical debate
to arrive at the knowledge beyond science. To this
end this article is intended to question in what
ways the study of humanities may be valuable and
to engage with the perspectives of students,
graduates and other stakeholders. What does it
mean to live in a world where value is measured
largely in economic terms? This is a question not
only pertinent to advocates of the humanities but
also to all humans when considering what it
means to lead good and fulfilling lives.
When asked whether there was value in current
students studying humanities, arts graduate
turned science writer Rose answered yes,
explaining that: I think humanities is about ideas
and cultures and about people. And I think that
the world would be a lot poorer if it didnt have
people focussed on these things. It would be a
very unbalanced world if all were vocationally
driven.
To return to the initial scenario where the student
is asked: what do you intend to do with your
degree? The student may now feel free to answer
that they intend to use their degree to think about
the diverse aspects of human civilisation in
divergent and evaluative ways. Despite the
apparent pretensions of such a student, there is
\\\19///


value in such an answer. Pressed further a student
might reply that these skills would be of use to any
employer. Exposed to the value judgements of
others based upon their life choices a student of
the humanities may recognise that in many
respects their own judgement is all that matters.

List of Works Cited

1. Kent, EF 2012, What are you going to do with a degree in that? Arguing for the
humanities in an era of efficiency, Arts and Humanities in Higher Education, vol. 11, no. 3.
2. Ibid.
3. Ibid
4. Cutler, T 2005, The Humanities and Core Skills for the 21st Century, Business/ Higher
Education Round Table, no. 22.
5. Jacobs, J 2012, Theory, Practice and Specialization: The Case for the Humanities, Arts
and Humanities in Higher Education, vol. 11, no. 3.
6. Cutler, T 2005, The Humanities and Core Skills for the 21st Century, Business/ Higher
Education Round Table, no. 22








\\\20///


Five Reasons Why Money is a Bad
Excuse Not to Travel
Sofia Tkatchenko

We have all heard the reason Oh I dont have any money when asking people why they
do not travel. Let me tell you a secret no one ever has any money.

Personally, I travel quite a bit and I have both; friends who also travel quite a bit and those
who dont. And those who dont always assume that I somehow magically have money left,
right and centre. This is not true. I work the same casual jobs as any other full-time
university student, with the same hours and pay.

Unless you are famous with billions stocked up in your bank account, chances are you are
broke. Just like everyone else. So without further ado, here are the five reasons why your
excuse is not good enough

Admit to the fact that travel just isnt a priority to you. Although some may view
this as a negative aspect of life, there is nothing worse than hearing someone
tell you that they wish they could travel but they just cant. There is no cant,
only the choices you make. If travel isnt one of them, thats ok and you need to
realize that.


Learning to travel on a budget is a valuable life skill. It will teach you to really
manage your money and to really experience the cheap life. You will have no
other option but to figure out how to sort out your own money when you travel.


Dont buy food. Not in a sense of, dont eat. Eat. But do so at home. Bring food
from home. I hear so many people say that most of their money goes towards
food. What sort of excuse is that? If you think you spend so much money on
food, then cut it down and start to prepare your own meals.


Remember that the option to work whilst you travel is always there. You can find
a job in a hostel or a caf in lots of cities and you can make money as you go.
This of course depends on the amount of time you wish to travel and spend in
each city but I find that people tend to overlook it as an option.
2
3
1
4
\\\21///



And finally a clich; remember that at the end of it all, you will remember the
amazing experiences you had whilst you travelled when you were broke
rather than how hard it was to make the money.

There are of course time when you absolutely can not afford it and sometimes just general
life gets in the way. Thats understandable.

Just remember that if you keep thinking Ill travel later in life, you may never travel at all.
Its like I say Ill exercise tomorrow. But I never do.

As the only way to truly live is to go out and see what the world really has to offer.

5
\\\22///


Stone
Dennis Venning



Tap, tap. Swish-thwack. Tap, tap. Swish-
thwack. I close my eyelids over pupils.
Tap, tap. I close my mind over pain.
Swish-thwack. It doesnt work. I open
mind and eye again. Tap, tap. He is not
much taller than me, my tutor-tormentor.
Swish-thwack. His name is Brother
Michael. He has two bad habits. The first
is his cassock, edges grime-thick, whites
yellowed, blacks browned. Tap, tap. The
second is his penchant for caning young
boys. Swish-thwack.

From these two verities you have the sum
of the man before me. A man whose
obsession with brutal discipline is
matched only by his personal lack of it. I
can tell you his hair is thin; describe a
belly distended; report a nose large and
cruel; but these are all unnecessaries.
Tap, tap. For in those first two truths you
know all that is needed to place Brother
Michael into that most repugnant species
of men: the hypocrite. Swish-thwack.

Number six. I have been sentenced to
twelve strikes, and with this last sound of
air cut, skin screaming, we cross the
medial: five behind, five ahead. Of
course, now you are thinking: ten? Ten?
Here I must explain. One, as you know, is
one too many. Four is the signature of a
cruel man. Six the echo of a tyrant. But
Brother Michael is no ordinary psychotic,
no ordinary teacher. Tap, tap. The dear
Brother Michael is a hypocrite. Swish-
thwack.

After this seventh the tears have begun to
well, see them easily in the corners of my
blue eyes, but still I do not pull my hand
away. Moving is a gift to the Brother, his
birthday come early. Often the strike will
still find a hand that moves, landing
across not the palm, but the fingers. This
is the most painful strike of all, and if the
stick does not mark those wretched
digits, the dear Brother ensures that the
next strike will. Neither of these strikes will
be counted against the total. Once I saw
a boy struck fifteen times, for he could not
stop himself, and moved his hand eight.
As he was required to write an exam not
two hours later, all fifteen blows landed on
the left hand. When I next saw him the
appendage was swathed in bandages.
The crimson still seeped through. Tap,
tap. I tell you this because after this sixth,
my palm is bleeding. Swish-thwack.

I draw a deep breath. I am a statue.
Through my stone-eyes I watch this
creature align his weapon against my
broken skin: tap, tap. My stone eyes see
the taps taking with them flecks of blood,
not my blood, because I am a statue. The
blood that is not my blood dots the stick
bright-red, but the hypocrite does not
\\\23///


notice, and with my stone-mind I wonder:
was it this man who made the caning, or
was it the caning that made the man?
Had the dear Brothers lips always
twitched upwards as the switch found its
mark? Had he smiled as a boy just as he
smiled now, as he tore the wings from
flies, pinned to a school-desk? Swish-
thwack.

Or was it something much worse? Had
the brother felt the pain of the boys before
him, and thus fallen victim to the air-cut-
swish of his own stick? We once found a
birch tree that had been half-cut through
by an axe, left where it stood. The tree
had withered in its place, the wood turned
dead-grey and brittle. We felled the giant,
took it to our homes as fuel. For months it
burned better than all else wed collected,
and we were ashamed, for we all knew
why. The heart had been cut out of it.

Had the blows of the cane been the same
as the blows of that axe? Had they slowly
chipped away at the heart of the brother,
had his eyes turned that same dead-
grey? And then, had there been a spark?
Perhaps the annoyance at the boy who
snivels, the cries he has heard so many
times before? The spark becomes a
flame, and the flame rises up through a
man now hollow, ever-faster, and he feels
pleasure now, yes, pleasure, his eyes are
not dead-grey but burning and the boys
are hardened under strikes that come
and come again until they do not cry any-
more. Tap, tap. I do not cry anymore.
Swish-thwack.

I do not cry anymore. I swallow them, the
tears that grow in the corners of my
vision, the shrieks that build in the back of
my throat. Ten times now the stick has
found its mark, ten times our hollow
hypocrites blow has cut deeper into my
suffering. But I do not suffer. I swallow
tears and cries because I am a statue,
and my hand does not tremble. I am a
statue, and my pain is made of stone. I
am a statue, and the cane is weak. Tap,
tap. I am a statue, and I am strong.
Swish-thwack.

I am a stone. I watch the blood pool
between the fingers; not my fingers,
because I am made of stone. I watch the
blood drip to the floor; not my blood,
because I am made of stone. I watch the
hypocrite wipe the stick on his habit, the
blood that is not my blood is on his
cassock, bright, bright red. The rod is still
smeared with the blood that is not my
blood, but now too the blood that is not
my blood is on the hypocrite, seeping into
him. Now at last I look at him, the mouth
that curls at the sight of the blood that is
not my blood, the eyes that are dead-
grey. But then, they are not dead-grey.
For a moment they flash blue, bright-blue,
bright, burning blue. The blood is
spreading across the cassock now,
darkening its yellowed-folds to red, and
the lips are not disgusted but fascinated,
drawn in by the blood, I watch the eyes
trace the seeping through the grime-
edges, the browned blacks, and as the
eyes trace they flash again bright blue,
\\\24///


after the flash I almost feel it, the hand
that is in front of me, the well of blood, but
then it is not my blood, I am a statue, I am
a stone. The blood that is not my blood,
pooling from the fingers that are not my
fingers, the palm that is not my palm, I
watch it with these eyes that are not my
eyes as it waterfalls onto the floor. It is a
torrent now, it fills the carpet and from the
carpet it is drawn up into the habit of the
hypocrite whose eyes no longer flash but
blaze now, blaze bright blue. My stone-
mind works slowly, I cannot think or do
but only watch as the blood that is not his
blood fills the hollow hypocrite, the eyes
that are not his eyes burn brighter and
brighter, he is smiling now, laughing as
the fingers holding cane, not his fingers,
the cane now, coming downwards, the
blood in droplets released to the air as it
comes down, caught by the air and held
as the switch moves faster, faster, faster
towards the blood that is a pool, a
waterfall, the cassock is all-red now, the
eyes are all-blue, the cane is closer,
closer, closer, the boys who do not cry
anymore, closer, closer, I do not cry
anymore swish-thwack I am a statue, I am
a stone.



Brother Michael taught me well: I am not like him. I always wear a suit, granite-clean. I do
not smile. My eyes are stone-grey and do not blaze when I cane the boys. When I cane the
boys I do not feel a thing.
\\\25///



From the Dunes
Henry Austin

Rottnest Island has a magical effect on the things and creatures within its
space. The inanimate are brought to life while the living become frozen in
time. Lighthouses are towering cosmic beacons, bright with being. The
people, blend into sand. This series of square-prints captures the islands
mystique through contrasted colours and soft light.
Camera: Diana F+
Film: 120
\\\26///




























\\\27///



















































\\\28///























Brunei
Henry Austin
After a year away from home, I was stranded in Brunei because of snowfalls in London.
These square-prints capture my relief to be marooned in hot rain and humidity after a
snow-hampered Heathrow in 2010. Camera: Diana F+, film: 120

\\\29///


Legato
Lara Connolly Bromfield

Soft notes drift across the air.
I watch gentle fingers pressed into keys, a striking melody
swells out from their subtle touch. A ring that flashes in the light.
I close my eyes, transported. Scottish highlands, blue skies and rugged cliffs.
A harmony and I relax, drawn into the refrain I sink into my seat.
A stretch, a chord, a rest, a third. Black keys, white keys, rest a fifth.
A dissonance and I am shaken from my reverie.
Wrist relaxed with fingers arched sinking, swaying, jumping, spacing.
A grace that I could never hope to match or see
with my hands on those keys.

















Isabelle Roden
\\\30///

Night
Eve Radley

Humans have always been drawn to the night, as we are entranced by all things we can
neither understand nor tame. The sunless hours bring out a strange side of us all, we
breathe a little freer, dare a little more, intoxicated by the mystery and anonymity of the
dark. The world spins; a kaleidoscope of colour and chaos, ringing with the cacophony of
a thousand lives colliding and ricocheting in the shade of a fractured city.

The sweeping streets are teeming with life, streaming with the clamour of conversation and
laughter. Along the footpath an array of bistros and bars cling like vibrant anomies at the
edge of a frenzied rock pool, drinking in the tides of people. Life is reflected in all its forms,
a mixing pot of affluence and abject poverty, delinquency and conformity, vivacious youth
and waning age. There are those who welcome the excitement of the evening, attired in all
degrees of finery and promiscuity. They glide above the rest; the vagrants whose
ramshackle shelters adhere to the graffitied boulevards like misshapen barnacles, the glut
of grey clad hollow men, faces drawn with weariness and disappointment, the unfulfilled
making their exodus out of the congested heart of the urban world. The castes never
intersect; blinkered eyes resolutely ignore the vivid narratives that surround them. Yet they
all breathe in the same musk of grease, exhaust and expectation.

As the distant moon rises so does the volume of inharmonious music, the air grows heavy
with the tang of spilt alcohol and lust. The streets dissolve into rippling patterns of shadow
and starlight, buoying midnight revelers along their fickle escapades. In those moments,
saturated with potent cocktails of inebriation and desire, they feel alive. Spurred on by own
nave perceptions of their own immortality they burn, illuminating the night like fireflies.

Whilst the sky grows darker we attempt to banish the tenebrous, reclaim the night for
ourselves; lampposts stand guard, sentries of the murky roads, jagged skyscrapers are
checkered with glowing panels of yellowed light. But like a wary predator it stalks the
shadowed gaps between neon signs advertising a range of tawdry wares in humming
cursive. It prowls through the pathways and along street sides, darting between the
blinding flashes of headlights. Makes its domain among the circumvented alleyways, those
forgotten corners untouched by all but the dusk. These twisted roads spawn a different
type of darkness, one that reeks of violence, desperation, and cheap liquor. Its presence
a thousand lives colliding and ricocheting in the
shade of a fractured city.

\\\31///


is marked by the dissonance of sirens, the searing flashes of electric and ruby light.
Fleeting brutality, its ugliness stark against the indifferent sky.

As the edges of the world begin to glow, bleaching the heavy clouds, the city sheds its
cloak of melancholy. The dawn seeps into the crevasses of the city, expelling the frail
shadows. In the stark illumination the world appears a little smaller, less vibrant. Mundane.
As incandescent haze rises, the last flickering stars fade into the whitewashed morning.

\\\32///




















Indie Chick
Michelle Teo

My inspiration for this line of work came from simple design embellishments such as zips,
jig saw puzzles, and recycled materials. From this I created a collection consisting of 2
corsets and 4 different skirts that could be easily joined together at waist through the use
of zippers, and therefore interchangeable.


\\\33///


















My one and only rule for this collection was to use only recycled materials. I allowed myself
a $10 budget, everything else had t3o be "dollar free". I sourced materials from op shops,
friends and family, and clothes I no longer used. This collection can be used for many
different occasions such as formal evening occasions, casual day or night occasions, or at
parties. What I find most amazing about textiles is that you can pick up a pencil and draw
out a garment on paper, and no matter how crazy it is you can actually make it come alive.






\\\34///


My Friend in the Corner of the Room


It wasnt like the death of a friend or family member. That was like a clear steam. It made it
muggy to breathe, to talk, and to see. It fogged up your eyes. But you could still see
through it. You could see why you had it, you could reason with it, you could see the way
out of it.

This was different. It was darker, blacker. Silty, noxious fumes surrounding you, wrapping
around you. Catching in your throat and lungs. It was a cold embrace.

My closest friends and family members knew about it. They didnt know the depths of it.
The weight that pressed in on me, on my chest, on my shoulders.

It wasnt just that though. It was like a friend. He was always around. He knew me so
intimately, and I knew him. We both knew how much stronger than me he was. Still is. He
would wait until I was at my weakest, and then he would consume me. I knew that if that
happened, there was nothing I could do about it.

The worst of it was over, now. But he would never leave. I knew that, too. That was almost
a comfort to me. He was my point of reference. I measured myself up to him, against him,
and away from him. I hope that I am never as close to him as I once was. And I still
respect him, for I dont doubt that he is stronger than me still.

I can feel him now. Sometimes he lurks just out of sight, never out of mind. And other times
he is right in front of me, confronting. He is my friend in the corner of the room.

\\\35///

The Family of Dynamics
Gabrielle Clark

I could never quite discern why it was I among my other siblings who received the
minimum quantities of affection. If the endless photographs of a first-born child were an
accurate depiction of how parents favoured one kid the most; I would gladly nominate our
family photo albums to stand the test. It seemed there was a period when all the devices
capable of taking photographs suddenly ceased to function in my household, conveniently
around the time that I was growing up. Although it was the humiliating occasion when my
mother forgot to pick me up from a group singing-class at age 10 that remains among the
chief incidents I have harboured well into adulthood. These emotions still register
somewhere in my psychological filing system, close by to my creativity although nearer to
my indecisiveness and independence.

However there was once a peculiar time when things were closer to equal, where I
remained the prized conversationalist, and when I flourished among my immediate family.
This was coincidentally the period of which I was the youngest child. Although it should be
noted that this period of time was judged inconceivably by a much younger version of
myself, who in turn, accounted for attention and material items as official means of
affection. I would like to acknowledge that I have since learnt better than this.

It was at this very stage of my life that my eldest sister and I both came to acknowledge a
sense of sibling uniformity characterized by the very idea that any item which was given to
her, was conversely also given to me in a different colour. Occasionally this drove us apart
but more often than not it brought us closer together. The two years separating us was
only a number in my eyes. I considered us a dream team of sorts. I knew no person and
no thing that could tear apart the bond of this 1990s sisterhood. There were countless
liberating weeknights we spent in front of our television sharing relief over the Power-Puff
Girls abilities to defeat Mojo JoJos evil dispositions.

However before long my parents felt unsatisfied with the amount of children they already
had. Adding a third child to the equation of an already able-bodied family of four appeared
to be an issue only for me. Some misconstrued understanding that welcoming this beacon
of a sibling would do the world of good, conversely translated only to a loss of place and
affection for myself. While my sister glided comfortably between the title of golden child
and responsible older sister, it was evident I had assumed the role of the misbehaved and
somewhat derelict tween my parents never signed up for. And naturally my brother was
received with open arms and made the centre of attention. By this stage my parents had
\\\36///


also seemed to forget how exactly to say no when it came to dealing with our youngest
sibling, which was quite the contrast to the strict guidelines they had always laid out for us.

It may seem melodramatic to claim that I exist among a silenced and forgotten sub-group,
but perhaps it is a part of a reality I have come to accept in my own mind. Compiling these
incidents as evidence for a very cautious self-diagnosis of middle-child syndrome seems
to have fed a bitter resentment toward my immediate family. And as I continued to cast
myself aside in my teenage years, by choice, I had allowed for this resentment to brew
further past my own expectations.

I often have wondered if it was an inevitable path shaped by biological factors that drove
my tendencies to occupy time on the very outskirts of my family web. Although my mother
did eventually arrive that night to pick me up from music class, I had already transitioned
past the point of feeling alone and wasnt interested in conversing with her in the slightest.
Perhaps it was moments like these, which I used to my advantage in gaining a position for
which to bestow my comfort in silence upon them. It is the silence and alone time that are
the two things I have learned to enjoy most about being a first class introvert and a middle
child.

\\\37///


Isabelle Roden
\\\38///


Dead Inside
Thomas Shaw

Jess smiled and closed her eyes, her whole body ached reminding her softly that she was not whole,
she was not perfect. Sometimes she thought she was crazy, learning to enjoy the pain, taking sweet
pleasure in being different, in dying. When she was younger she had thought a lot about dying, about
the comfort she could draw from a terminal illness, from a set end. I suppose she had always loved
structure, always loved plans and knowing how things would end, she had always read the last page
of the book first, because if the ending wasnt any good then she didnt want to know the rest. So why
should death be any different?

She used to dream up extravagant ways of killing herself, obviously only after a life well lived. She just
loved the thought of being in control of her own demise, and going out with a bang. Something to be
remembered even if she was never someone to be remembered. After all if you dont live well you can
at least die well. Knock-knock.
Come in.

Her dad entered, he visited her everyday, sometimes she pretended to be asleep to avoid talking to
him and he would just sit at her bedside and weep. She wished people could see things the way she
did, she hated tears and sad sympathetic looks, she hated promises of the future. Yes she was young,
and dying, but it happened every day didnt it? At least she could plan out what she wanted and she
felt she had achieved a lot in her time, even if that time was short. For the first couple of months she
had acted like everyones counselor, she had felt like a wise, old sage explaining life and death to her
followers, but as her friends and family were insistent on being sad she had soon given up.
Jess supposed it was something to be admired, her calm and her acceptance.

How are you feeling?
Every day, the same questions, the same futile attempts at communicating with someone, with her,
that her family and friends seemed to have lost the ability to communicate with. Sometimes it was like
she was already dead. To them at least.
Fine.
If you had a choice between eating worms for the rest of your life or being a worm which would you
choose?
Jess you need to rest, stop thinking of worms, such morbid things.
Jess tried to change the conversation to make everything about something else, just for a second but
every time she did it was always related back to death. She hadnt even been thinking about grave
worms, just little, cute ones that appear in a teachers apple in cartoons. It seemed like everyone was
so obsessed with her dying, except for her.

She rolled over and pretended to sleep until eventually her dad stood up, stroked her hair and left, the
door swishing shut behind him.
\\\39///


It was nearly lunch time. After lunch she would be heading to the operating theatre. She was donating
bone marrow. Again. Her family thought she was crazy to put herself through that, and even the
doctors had advised against it but her illness didnt affect her bone marrow and she wouldnt be
needing it soon. Plus it was better to regularly donate while she was still alive, it grew back or
something. She wasnt entirely sure how it worked. All she really knew about was the pain, lying on her
stomach and feeling the dull aching. She tried to concentrate on the pain, and really feel every bit of it.
Sometimes it seemed the more she tried to feel every tiny bit of pain, the less it hurt.






The doctors wouldnt let her donate blood, it made her too weak, given her condition. She had signed
up to be an organ donor though, she liked the thought of every piece of her going in different
directions to different people when she died. She liked to picture it as water washing over her dead
body, the ocean tugging and pulling and sweeping until there was nothing left. It seemed like
happiness, almost.

A knock sounded at the door and a nurse entered carrying a tray. Jess looked at the lunch and
decided to start with dessert today. She sat eating the jelly and she thought about primary school.
About that day in year four when Brayden had spewed all over the desk and on her books, about
never being able to understand her seven times tables and about always running to the books for
silent reading to make sure she could grab her favourite before anyone else could steal it from her.

It seemed strange, but to Jess all these little moments, all the things that happened throughout a life,
they seemed to be leading up to this. Sometimes she felt as if she was born to die.

Jess head reeled and she was violently heaving, jelly and yellow liquid flying from her mouth, all over
the bed and floor. She leaned to the side and her body heaved, up and down, up and down. Her
vision started to blur and the pain caused a swirl of black in her mind, she was losing
consciousness. Her heart pounded and a strange heat filled her body, swelling and swelling, like a
giant red demon trying to break out. Machines started beeping as pain wracked her small frame.

Jess heard faint footsteps in the distance, but they were already too far away, she was already too far
away. An invisible wall seemed to be appearing between Jess and the rest of the world, as if she
wasnt a part of it anymore. And then she wasnt. Jess body stilled, she felt nothing, she thought
nothing. Machines stopped beeping, only footsteps broke the silence and even they soon stopped.
Nothing.

She had always read the last page of the book first,
because if the ending wasnt any good then she didnt
want to know the rest. So why should death be any
different?
\\\40///


Coping
Benjamin Kirker

Once he had finished his piece, the doctor took his carefully constructed facial
expression and left us. There was a short, hollow moment of silence. It wasnt that
the information hadnt sunk in; it was as if the breath had been knocked out of us,
and it wasnt certain whether wed ever fill our lungs again.

I noticed that Maria was wearing her
powder blue slippers, and was
wearing the same track pants she
would have been in when she leapt
out of bed. As my gaze tracked to her
face, she slowly buckled, wrapping
her arms around herself and choking
silent sobs out only to swallow them
again. Anyone who claims that a
mothers grief cant be matched is
simply wrong on all accounts, but it
was a powerful thing to witness, and
she spoke for all of us. Dad shifted
closer on the sterile, squeaking couch
and put his arm around her, like he
did for Mum when her parents
passed. Like he did for both of us
when Mum followed them. Dad wasnt
an overly emotional man, but he was
no proponent of masculine stoicism.
His tears were quiet, dampening his
grey beard as he held his daughter
like the sixteen year old girl she had
once been. I moved my hands to
cover my eyes, but they were dry.
Ian sat across from us on the row of
chairs facing the couch in the small
waiting room attached to the ED, a
tatty blue curtain all that separated us
from the crises of other people. He
seemed to be staring at the wall over
my right shoulder, and was trembling
like a cornered mouse. Shakily, he
climbed to his feet and passed
through the curtain into the space
beyond. Dad and I watched him go,
and once he had passed the
threshold of our holding cell, Dad
turned to me.
Go with him, he said, a wobble in his
voice that showed the cracks in his
relative composure. Ill stay with
Maria.
I inhaled through my nose and
nodded, rising and pushing the
curtain aside to find Ian. He hadnt
gone far, only a few meters from the
waiting room. He faced away from me
and was slowly shuffling in a random
direction. I reached his side, and took
his arm. I found myself supporting
quite a bit of his weight.
Come on Ian, lets find somewhere to
sit down. Come on, I mumbled as we
crawled forward. I got no response
from him. I scanned the open area of
the ED and spotted another row of
chairs against a wall, and started
\\\41///

guiding us towards them. We only
managed to get a few more paces
before he collapsed into my side, no
longer supporting any of his own
weight. Ian isnt a big man, but I could
still only carry him for half a second
before he just dropped to the ground.
Im sure it would have been painful,
had he been aware. Once on the
ground, his torso and head jerked in
spasms, and his legs kicked below
him. Nurses around us rushed
towards him, some crouching. I just
stared down at him and was largely
ignored by the half a dozen attending
staff. One turned to the other, asking if
perhaps it was an epileptic fit.
Murmurs between them started as
they prepared to take action. I pushed
through the mugginess in my head,
knowing I had to stop them before
they jabbed him with an adrenaline
shot or something.
Its not epilepsy, I said, still staring at
Ian on the ground. Its a pseudo-
seizure. Theyre brought on by stress.
Hes had them before, when he and
Maria first had Peter. The nurses
moved in as his thrashing became
less intense, hoisting him to his feet by
his shoulders. They whispered
comforts to him under his breath as
they half-dragged him to a bed across
the main aisle. I bet most of them
didnt even know what had happened
to us, they were just dealing with one
more emergency.
Once he was laid on the hospital cot,
he was basically left alone, strapped
up and plugged into one of those
machines that monitor vital signs.
Sure, there were nurses all around,
and one would come in to check on
him every few minutes, but the
assumption was that he would sort
himself out. I had pulled up a chair
and watched them work. After the
immediacy of our crisis has passed,
they pulled a curtain around the
bedspace, sealing us in together.
Ian still hadnt said a word or shown
any sign of emotion apart from the
weariness on his face. He lay facing
the ceiling, oblivious of anything
around him. I leaned over and put my
hand on his arm, massaging it slowly.
I didnt know what else to do. Unlike
the nurses, I couldnt honestly give
him any reassurances, and if I did
neither of us would believe them
anyway.
Hospitals arent quiet places, but there
was a degree of stillness to our
cordoned-off space. Inside it, the only
noise came from the beeping of the
heart rate monitor. It was a strange
feeling, hearing that sound. On TV and
in the movies we always assume its
going to go still. Ians beeped steadily
on. Hypnotised by the rhythms of his
body, I had a moment of insight. Dad
would shoulder this burden like all his
others, and probably the burden of
caring for Maria as well. Marias tears
would be painful and long, but they
would surely stop eventually. I knew
tonight would never leave her, but she
would live a life again. Ians tears
\\\42///

would come soon enough, but I wasnt
sure if his would stop. He was
functional enough most of the time,
but Id seen his fragility before,
particularly in those first few months of
caring for the newborn Pete. Maria
had been fractured, but he had been
shattered; I knew it. I swear I knew it
from that instant at his bedside.
However, the truth was that the future
that had fared the worst that night was
Peters. He probably still lay on a table
a few rooms down, his paling face too
small to be so guarded. He would
never bounce on his Grandads knee
or be swung around on the arms of his
father. I would never embarrass him in
front of his girlfriend. He would never
taste his mothers cooking, or grow to
miss it. And yet, he would never shed
another tear of self-pity, never have to
cope with death. He wouldnt see the
light fade from a loved ones eyes. No
one could ever be taken from him too
soon. The most bitter irony imaginable
is the dead kid who never had to fear
death.

A nurse stepped inside the curtain with some orange juice in a little plastic cup and
a sad smile. After checking briefly on Ian she moved out again, leaving me by
myself. For a while the cup just sat in my hand. I took a sip, and the unremarkable
fake citrus triggered something in me. I felt pinching on the roof of my mouth and in
my sinuses, and I took a second to notice that I had started to cry.

\\\43///

Its Not Going to Get Better.
Jenny Dent

Luka rolled over and didnt cry. Later she
would wonder why she didnt cry at that point
or say anything to him or why earlier she
hadn't tried to stop what had happened. She
would wonder if she was a strong person, or
if she deserved this, she would wonder what
it all meant. But at the moment she did not
cry. She simply slept.

When they woke it was just like any other
morning, she acted normal, he acted normal,
but what had happened was like a tiny
maggot slowly gnawing away at the inside of
her head growing bigger and bigger with
every bite until it consumed her every
thought. She didnt understand how he could
act so normal, how she could act so normal.
She brought it up and that is when the tears
started.

She cried for hours, the whole day. She
questioned life and love, pain and
forgiveness, she tried to talk and choked up
on tears. She would stop crying one minute
only to burst into a watery, blubbery mess the
next. He asked if she wanted him to leave but
she didnt. She thought it was crazy how one
person who hurt you so much, who did
something so unspeakable could feel like the
only person able to comfort you. Or did she
just want him to have to watch her cry, see
her pain and suffer through what he had
caused? She just didnt want to be alone.
How could someone hurt you so bad and
claim to love you? How could someone hurt
you so bad and yet you still love them?

At what point was it ok to put up with this? At
what point do you stop making it work? Was
she one of those women now? She didnt
want to be one of those women. Those
women that just dont leave abusive partners.
But was that what it was like? Didnt he love
her?

She tried talking to him but couldnt bring
herself to talk about everything; about the
way every action had made her feel. She
couldnt bring herself to talk about the big
bad thing that was right there. So she talked
around the edges, she talked about what he
had said, giving him a chance to explain
himself. She wanted to understand. What had
he been thinking?
When I told you it hurt, you said Thats the
whole point
I dont think I meant that

He didnt think he meant that? What did that
mean? He either did or didnt mean it. And
how can you say something and not mean it?
It sounded like he meant it at the time. She
tried to talk more, to start a conversation, to
gradually work up to talking about the big
bad thing that was right there but he only
nodded, offering nothing in response. She
didnt need him to listen she needed him to
talk.
Im just trying to understand here
He only nodded.

Luka went to the bathroom, the blood was a
bit much to deal with. She cried more and it
felt good to cry alone. Or did it just feel good
to be away from him for a minute? She
wondered if she would have sustained any
permanent damage. She remembered him
pinning her face down, at this point she
\\\44///


thought they were just playing.
I like it when you pin me down
Oh do you
She remembered the malicious way he had
said that and the agony as he rammed it in
her ass. She remembered biting down on the
pillow, crying and trying not to scream
because she didnt want to wake her family.
She remembered how every thrust had made
her cry a little harder, bite down a little
harder. Thinking hes drunk, just endure it".

In the bathroom Luka examined the bruises
and blood all down her neck, a colourful scarf
made by his teeth and hands. She thought
about how she would cover it up and what
make-up to use. She remembered him rolling
her onto her back, and thinking it was finally
over. But then he lifted her legs and
Im gonna try and get it really deep in your
arsehole
But it hurts There, that brief moment of
strength, she had made her stand, albeit
weakly.
Thats the whole point And back to
hopelessness, he didnt care.

That Monday night changed a lot of things for
Luka but it took a long time. That Tuesday
she forgave him, how she did that she wont
ever know, but she did. She cant even say
he was nice to her after that point, because
he wasnt. He tried to do it again and she still
cried a lot. One night he thought he was
being nice when he offered to use lubricant,
when he looked across at her arse and said,
Mmm, dat ass. I have lube
She cried, a lot.

She didnt feel comfortable being vulnerable
around him again. She couldnt trust him to
do what he wanted and not hurt her.
Gradually she built up the strength to leave
him but it was hard, hard to leave something
you love even though you know its bad for
you, like quitting a drug, an addiction. Things
looked so much different in hindsight. She
knew she hadnt deserved the way he treated
her. Maybe he did love her but he was
incapable of showing it or of thinking about
anything from her perspective. In his mind
she was only there for him, the way you love
an object, not a person.

She forgave him for that Monday night, but
she was grateful for it. That night made it so
much easier for her to see how badly he
treated her, and that night was only a tiny
part of it. That Monday night was not the
reason she left. She left because every day
he made her feel bad and sad to the point of
shaking and crying and being physically ill.
She left because that Monday night was just
one of many nights that he made her cry. She
always thought it would get better and it
never did.

She lost hope in him and found it in being
alone, in doing what she wanted and treating
herself right. She found hope in enjoying her
life, her friends, her work. And later she found
hope in someone else.

\\\45///


Whats Wong?
Si-en Wong
The lines of society
blur in between
what is right and whats Wong.
You may ask what I mean when I say
whats Wong,
and I can riddle you this:
Could it mean the state of my emotions,
or the play on my name?
Could it be my thoughts on this issue,
or the essence of my identity.
I am Wong.
But whats Wong with that?
Being mass produced.
Shipped out, slapped afar.
Pre-empted to surpass the masses;
math, chemistry and physics:
That is our specialty;
what were all good for.
An exquisite eastern side dish
to the main of fish and chips.
To be a by-product
of this commercial process;
mundane and obscured.
But to put on a white freckled mask
well finally be seen.
Am I right or am I still Wong?
Were whipped into talent, shaped in to
fear.
Because brown almond eyes:
were all the same;
the musical, the medical, the mathematical.
This caste of society stands:
It takes two Wongs to make a Wright.
And there is surely no wrong in that.

\\\46///


Eight Tips for Finding a Great Hostel
Kristina Tkatchenko


It is a well-known fact that a nice or a not-so-nice hostel experience can be a deal-breaker
for a trip, especially if this is your first time in a new city. I still honestly believe that a dirty
hotel on my first visit to London was one of the major contributors to my dislike of this
beautiful city, beloved by so many. Although maybe the ever-grey skies and cold weather
had something to do with it too. Either way choosing a right place to stay is extremely
important, so below are a few tips on how to choose a good hostel, and not break the
bank.

Choose your location wisely. Your accommodation location is the one, single, most
important consideration when choosing accommodation in a new city. If the hostel
is in a nice place, the whole city feels like a nice place. And vice versa. I have learnt
this the hard way, and now know that I personally would rather stay in an older
place, but closer to the city centre, than have to catch the metro for 40 minutes
each way just to get to the town hall.

Read the reviews I cannot emphasise this enough. Take a few seconds to skim
through at least the few tops ones. And pay close attention to the negatives, more
so than the positives. Its nice if everything is nice, but if its not, youd rather know in
advance.

Consider the negatives that you can and cannot deal with. Like I said, I cannot deal
with a bad location, but can with bad pillows, but you may think the complete
opposite. So if the reviews constantly mention the things you hate, maybe consider
other options.

Think about what you are looking for Are you a going solo and wanting to meet new
people? Would you like to go out at night with your fellow travellers? Or are you
aiming to visit every single museum and so need to wake up early? Most hostels will
have some sort of indication as to whether they have a bar and a common area, or
have a curfew and like to keep things quiet. If they dont explicitly say it, read the
reviews. If the reviews mention no atmosphere maybe this is not the right choice
for a partygoer. Perfect for a history-lesson weekend though!


1
2
3
4
\\\47///


Choose your room type correctly. Again, if you are looking to meet people, stay in a
larger dorm, its always easier to start conversations in your room than in a bar. If
you just want some peace, go for a 4-person room, or a private (if you can afford it).

Check if towels and laundry services are provided. This may not be relevant for a
one-night getaway, but becomes a major issue after youve been on the road for
some days or weeks.

Check for kitchen facilities. Do not assume a kitchen will be readily available. If you
intend to cook, read the description carefully.


Watch the rating. Overall I personally try not to book hostels with a less than a 90%
rating on Hostelbookers. This rule is far from ideal of course, and varies both ways,
but at least it makes the unpleasant surprised far less likely.

Enjoy your stay!


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6
7
8
\\\48///