YWC ZINE 2018

Contents
Jamil Badi 01
Paris Barker 04
Yizhe Cheng 08
Lachlan Cosier 11
Kit Fox 13

15
India Goss Maher
Rhys Lorenc 19
Max Taylor 22
Cassie Tsokos 22
Tegan Walsh 28
Zoe Zeppelin 30

Jamil Badi
Spooked
Blades of grass licked our shins as we made our way to the peak.
The same blades of grass transformed into emerald fingers
constricting our limbs, and as our backs sank
comfortably, our shoulders kissed.
We took turns,
I pointed to a star splattered across the dark canvas above
us, and you tried to find it amongst the millions of identical
crumbs of light and gas.
I could feel your eyes following my fingertip;
I’m sure we both knew that this was impossible,
for us to see the sky through eyes that live in another’s skull,
yet we were willing to follow each other’s fingertips
until the sun cast a veil over our constellations.
My fingertips
found yours and the grass constricting our backs brought
your chest to mine,
the same way gravity brought my lips downward
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and your palm to my back;
the same gravity caused my gut to sink
when I pictured hyenas drooling, ready to bloody our flesh as we lay
embraced in each other’s grip, our eyes closed
as their claws savaged the soft grass we believed would
cloak the feelings radiating from our bodies.
I felt the
eyes of hyenas scraping my skin. My breath quickened and
you mistook fear for passion.
Cleaving at the grass that had bound our hands together,
I left you amidst corpses the size of fingernails.
If I had kept my forehead against yours,
I would have had to wash your blood off my clothes
after outrunning hyenas; their distorted cackling
the music to play us out.
I knew you deserved a better tune, perhaps
a thumb piano accompanied by a choir of cicadas.
Before I soaked my clothes, I inhaled the aroma
you had stained them with. As I washed, one by one
the hyenas peeled off and began tracking
the scents of other boys who let blades blanket their bodies.
While I wait for my clothes to dry, I try to recall
the essence you left on my sleeves so maybe I can
track it to the peak and find you
nestled amongst dead grass, still
searching for my star.
2

Alive and Drowning
Heaven lies beneath the bottom of the sea, below the grains.
The weight of our chains guides us to the pearly gates under the sand.
Hell lies at the shoreline, its porcelain fingers beckoning.
They set foot on the burning coals, their feet raw and pink,
We set foot on sand six feet under.
They walk along the plains of fire and pain, their backs raw and pink,
Their chains carry them into the pits of flames, the metal scarring their
children.
We are alive, standing beneath the waves, totems for the fish to see
We are drowning, freedom tastes of salt and floods our lungs
They are dead, standing on ebony earth building ivory towers
Their lungs are filled with poison, a poison that keeps them from us
We die on the seabed our mother has made for us
Their children will live on land they will call home
Their children will believe that home is where they do not belong
The home they build will not shelter them but instead swallow them alive
The more they struggle the deeper they will sink, backs and feet forever raw
and pink
The weight of our chains guides us to the pearly gates under the sand
We are alive and drowning, but our chains will rust and break.
3

Paris Barker
What is it about a girl who cries at jazz? What is it about that soul-puppeting
bass that leaves a girl stunned and new with wonder in her glassy eyes?
Maybe it’s the scent of Shiraz, all silky red and slightly intoxicating. Downtown
suburbia; there’s a chamber that comes alive on Sunday evenings. Brasses
polished, wine glasses reflecting the yellow glow of industrial lighting, they’re
prepped and ready for show time when the wine will flow. Napkins folded
freshly, pressed down by table number 54. Feet are tapping, different heads
are swaying in accord to different instruments. Walls of grey decor and black
silhouettes mirror the streets of glorious New Orleans, the people within fuel
the burning energy that lasts unwaveringly for hours. And just when you think
things can’t get more exhilarating, a band of trombones quake the scene and
all negativity is banished out the barn doors. A cool breeze on naked ankles
has never been properly appreciated until this very moment, nor the smell of
toasted sourdough. Here, there’s rarely a wrong time to applaud musicians and
you’re free to laugh at the marvellousness whenever you please. Here, there are
shameless smile lines and no need for too much to drink. Here, the music, fresh
food and good company is enough to make a pure-hearted girl smile.
4

Apple of my eye
Have you ever seen a man in a suit and tie and top hat… with an apple in his
eye? I hear people talking about them all the time, those men with their jackets
and their apple eyes.
Have you ever seen a man standing at a traffic light, tapping a polished, glossy
shoe on the sidewalk, itching for that little red walkman to turn green, because
across the road, in his home, is his precious apple?
Since when did boys start caring for apples?
And when did boys start turning into men with apples in their eyes?
The closest I’ve ever come to one of these fruitful males is at an art exhibition.
There was a canvas, levitating off the marble floors. On the canvas was a man,
a fine gentleman adequately attired for the 1960’s.
The funny thing was that you could not see his face for in this levitating
painting there was a levitating apple, right in sight of his eyes, covering his
features, blocking his senses if ever the man had any.
And he reminded me of all those men that they’re always talking about, the
men with an apple in their eye.
I’d love to meet one, just to see how it feels.
To see what it’s like,
to be under the gaze of those apple eyes.
Pair
If I am in love
with the idea
of a certain pair of
shoes
then I have
one less pair of shoes
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and some problems
but if somebody loves me
for that quirk
then I guess I’ve found myself
an adequate lover
or
I’ve found two psychos
Shoe Laces
the first steps, the first words,
they smiled and cheered.
the first day of school,
they cried and clutched me in their arms.
the first visit from the tooth fairy, the first letter to santa,
they grinned at each other.
the first cast, the first “get well soon” card,
they rushed to my aid, then scolded me for endangering myself.
the first innocent kiss,
they told me how i’m here.
the first heartbreak,
they told me why i’m here.
the first graduation, reminded me of the first day.
the first drive, the first key,
they smiled in admiration.
the first house, the first independence,
they stared with glassy eyes and quivering lips,
“don’t go,” they said.
the first stride down the aisle,
their eyes spilled like overflowing wells.
6

the first labour pain, the first cry of a newborn,
they marvelled at the title “grandparents”.
the first sleepless night and bruised breasts,
they offered their energy.
the first lesson of a parent, the first time i asked,
they answered, “we had no clue.”
the first mumble of “mumma”
after months of repetition,
i finally understood it, what it is to be a parent,
a mother.
what it is to see your baby girl crawling around,
attempting to copy your every word.
to hear her rattling cries at three in the morning.
to see her reach for you,
wanting your love.
to watch her tie her shoe laces for the first time.
now, everyday, when i handle those leather ribbons,
i picture her little hands with curling fingers and petite nails,
tying her shoe laces.
7

Yizhe Cheng
Calm Down, Mrs Large!
Mrs Large and her elephant family were just your ordinary neighbours.
They had a four-bedroom two-storey house, two cars, two bathrooms, one
kitchen and a medium-sized backyard. Mrs and Mr Large both had office
jobs in the city, which paid a mediocre salary. The three children, Laura,
Lester, and the baby would go to the local public school while their parents
worked.
Mrs Large, although being a mother, had never really liked children in
general. She loved her kids of course, but hated the noise and clutter they
would make. At home, she always longed for peace and quiet.
One Saturday, Mrs Large and her children were all at home. Mr Large had
gone to the local hardware store to purchase tools he would need to repair
his storm damaged shed. This left Mrs Large to look after the children.
At breakfast, the children started making a mess, and when they finished,
they followed Mrs Large all around the house as she tried to get some peace
and quiet. For the first two hours, she put up with it. But afterwards, she
snapped. She had never been so angry in her whole life, she yelled at them
to stop, but her children just moved to the living room and started messing
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up the whole place.
Mrs Large then did something that she never would have thought of
doing: she sent her children to time out. As she did that, something in her
changed, as if all her tolerance and love was sucked out and replaced with
bitterness and anger.
When Mr Large came back, one look at her told him not to ask about
the children. As Mrs Large started her fifth bath of the day, Mr Large snuck
off to the laundry, where he unlocked the door and let his terrified children
out. Not a minute later, Mrs Large stormed downstairs and announced
loudly: “Your father and I are going to have a talk! You kids go to your
rooms NOW!”
Seeing their mother in a state of fury was terrifying for the kids and they
all hurried off to their rooms, making sure the doors were locked.
The kids heard yelling, before a single scream brought silence. Horrified,
the kids dared not make a single sound. Dinner that night was unlike
anything that had happened in the Large household. The kids were completely
silent, while their now-deranged mother served up a meat stew. The
meat tasted very strange and finally, Laura gathered up the courage to ask,
“Where’s Dad?”
Mrs Large laughed erratically before murmuring, “Your father’s gone off
to a quiet place, where he will NEVER hear you lot again!”
Their hearts sinking, the children knew what Mrs Large meant.
The baby, clearly not being able to understand, asked one more question:
“Where is that quiet place?”
Mrs Large chuckled again before shouting out,
“YOUR STOMACHS!!!”
Terrified, the children began to scream and run away to their rooms.
Lester grabbed the phone and started calling the police. He had just
revealed their address when Mrs Large, in a blaze of fury, kicked down the
door and crushed the phone.
“YOU lot! Didn’t Mum tell you to be quiet!!!???”
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The children all instantly ran around her and tried to get out of the front
door, which had been bolted down.
As Mrs Large was reaching for her cleaver, several police cars pulled up
into the driveway. The police could hear the screams and seeing as the front
door had been bolted down from the outside, they had to smash the window.
The police tackled Mrs Large to the ground and tazed her; she was
handcuffed immediately. Lester was the only one injured, with a laceration
on his arm. He was driven to hospital. Screaming, Mrs Large was thrown
into the police car and hauled off, while an officer stayed with the children.
The children were later placed in foster care, and Mrs Large was sentenced
to 75 years in prison. But during her transfer to the prison, she somehow
escaped, leaving behind three injured police officers, one with his arm cut
off. Neighbours saw a female elephant inside the Large house a few days
later. Now known as a deranged serial killer, the entire block was evacuated
and resettled, leaving Mrs Large all alone in her house, doing God knows
what, although council reports have shown that the house had been
consuming large amounts of water since her escape.
10

Lachlan Cosier
The Dark Tribunal
The diver exited the small submarine, letting the feeling of the ocean envelope
him, like a cloak of six billion tons of water. He turned on the lights on his
mask, illuminating nothing but the darkness around him. As he glided further
away, he pulled a small object from a pocket and pressed a button. The beep
beep of the submarine satisfying his worry,
he continued on his journey.
As he swam, he left a trail of floating, glowing tubes behind him, to lead him
back. He swam further on, seeing only the occasional jellyfish or fish, each
glowing a different colour. The ocean’s weight dragged him deeper, and he
slowly sank towards the bottom of the Marianas trench.
The diver frowned suddenly, and squinted a little. Then he switched off the
lights on his mask, waiting for his eyes to adjust. He waited, and waited, and
then... There! Off in the distance, he could see something glowing, almost
pulsing and dancing in the ocean current. His mind filled with images of
gigantic, glowing sharks the size of buildings, and terror wrapped him. But
he closed his eyes and breathed deeply. He steeled his nerves and continued
towards the light.
As he approached, he began to realise it wasn’t some behemoth, but a light
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from a single source emanating out and illuminating a magical sight.
Eleven-thousand metres under the sea, was a gigantic temple. He swam
down, and the strange blue light bounced off walls, lighting up the walls of the
long-abandoned site. Spikes, almost like colossal stalagmites hovered around the
edges of the temple’s ground, a ring of teeth pointed towards the temple.
The diver swam down to the main entrance, the doors that once had led to
the interior long since rotten away, leaving only a gaping scar in the marbled
walls. Above the door was what appeared to be an ancient scrawling of runes,
and a statue of some primordial being. The diver reached out and placed a
hand on the statue, and brushed away the cold lifeless seaweed. The statue was
of a creature the man could not describe, and it filled him with such a feeling of
horror he wished he had never seen it. The walls themselves were veined with
silver and gold, and glassless windows lined the sides.
The man swam through the open doorway, and it felt like even the water
around him was holding its breath. Inside sat rows of pews, rotten and
decrepit, but still clear. At the far end was an altar, untouched by the passing
of time, a seemingly primeval object. Set in its centre was a glowing sphere, its
energy illuminating the entire temple.
As the man beheld the orb, the whole temple rumbled, like some
leviathan had awoken from a very long rest, and it was not happy. The diver
looked around wildly, hoping to find some explanation for the shaking. But just
as quickly as they had come, the terrible shudders left.
The man took another deep breath, and continued down the centre aisle.
Around him, the water seemed to stir and shift unnaturally. At the edges of his
vision, silhouettes appeared on the pews, bowing down
toward the glowing orb, holding a tuneless, wordless orchestra in the room.
Behind the altar, a dark figure appeared, beckoning him forward, almost a smile
on its lips.
[To be continued…]
12

Kit Fox
Will and the Well
Little Will was playing by the well when a hand reached out and pulled him
in.
Nobody saw him go except the farm cat. She watched with lazy eyes,
washing a paw, as the hand grasped little Will by his throat and squeezed until
he choked. She saw his body tumble and break against the stone walls as he
fell.
The cat told the sparrow about what she had seen.
“A human lives in the well,” she said. “With clammy skin and blue veins. It
took little Will with it.”
The sparrow told the beetle, “A human pulled little Will into the well.”
The beetle clicked its pincers, considering for a moment, then turned and
told the grass, “Little Will has been pulled into the well.”
The grass hummed and swayed. It didn’t usually concern itself with the
matters of humans, but it liked little Will. Little Will rarely crushed the grass
underfoot; he preferred to walk on lush carpet and solid
flagstones. Little Will was kind to the grass, so the grass looked up and told
the sky, “Will is in the well.”
The sky watched little Will’s parents sobbing and shrieking, the
13

farmhands scurrying to and fro in search of the boy, the farm cat flicking her
tail atop the brick wall. The sky tried to tell the humans where little Will had
gone, but the humans’ ears were closed to it, and it could not speak.
So instead it began to rain.
The sky rained for three days. It wrung its clouds like cloths, shaking out
their misty pockets. The air turned into a waterfall.
On the third day, little Will’s body floated to the top of the filled-up well.
He was cold and quiet and still. The well lifted him up and poured him out
onto the grass.
Little Will opened his eyes. He saw the cat, the sparrow, the beetle, and the
grass, but first of all he saw the sky.
“Hello, sky,” he said. “Why did you bring me back?”
The sky could not speak, so instead it rumbled, a sound that meant nothing
to little Will.
Little Will had liked it in the well. It was peaceful and dark. It cradled him
as might a mother, and filled his mouth with sweet water. Here, it was bright
and cold, and he could not feel the well around him.
So little Will stood and stepped back into the well. He fell and fell and fell.
He tasted the water on his lips again.
Little Evie was playing by the well when she saw a hand poke out of the well’s
mouth. It was small, almost the size of hers, as though it belonged to a child.
Did it want to play with her? She lifted her palm happily to wave to it.
The hand reached for her, closed around her neck, and dragged her down.
14

India Goss Maher
Flowers
She can often be found here, on a weekday morning, crouched in the white
and purple agapanthus lining the pathways that meander through the Botanic
gardens. A lot of people ignore her, by now, having grown used to her strange
behaviours. Most people avert their eyes. It’s a busy city, though, and she still
draws the attention of those for whom she is a novelty.
She knows they stare. Sometimes from the corners of their eyes, careful not
to face her, often from behind blackened sunglasses. The occasional visitor will
whip their head around to continue to stare as they pass her, disapproval and
confusion written all over their faces. Later, over dinner, they will tell their
families about the woman who crouches in the agapanthus, and their families
will sigh and say “That poor woman.”
Often, these families will speculate over the life of this woman. They
invariably come to the conclusion that this woman is alone in life, a street
sleeper, a no-hoper, and they shake their heads and feel sorry for her.
These people are wrong. Every day, just after peak hour, when most have left
their offices and are cramming themselves into cars and trains and buses and
heading home, a man will come for this woman. No matter how many times
he makes this journey, his heart grows heavy as he approaches her. He sees the
15

petals scattered on her lap like confetti at a wedding that no one but the bride
has attended. He sees the pollen that has rubbed off and formed a moustache
on her top lip. He knows that when she smiles sadly at him, he will not be able
to ignore the fragments of flowers that are caught between her teeth. Every day,
when he sees her like this, he wants to cry, wants to crush her in his arms, wants
to extinguish this version of his wife, wants to wash her away, to chip at her until
all that remains is the brilliant form of the girl he fell in love with.
He does none of that. He walks to her softly. He caresses her cheek with
hands that are soft and cool in the evening air.
“Hey,” he whispers. “Let’s go home. Are you ready to go home?”
She nods without meeting his eyes. Sometimes, a single tear will fall down
her cheek. He takes her hand, and he walks her out of the park where she
has sat all day, eating flowers. On the car ride home they are silent. When she
watches him later in the kitchen, making dinner, she asks him how his day was.
He tells her it wasn’t too bad. Tells her he got caught for hours in business
meetings, but it wasn’t too boring today. She smiles at him and tells him she’s
glad.
When he asks about her day, she tells him about the woman she helped
today at the bank, who wanted to take out a loan to build a dog kennel. She
tells him about a conversation during her lunch break, with a co-worker in an
unhappy marriage. She tells him she’s sorry that she forgot to pick up something
for dinner, and he dismisses it with a laugh and says he likes getting creative with
the limited food in the fridge. She laughs with him.
God, it’s easy to pretend things are normal when it’s just the two of them, at
home. He pushes the empty vases further into the back of the cupboard.
He remembers the last time her bought her flowers. They were roses, red and
plump, for their anniversary. She smiled, and love shone from her eyes and
landed heavily on her husband. She pulled a single rose from the bunch and
turned it over in her hands.
Her eyes went stormy as she tried to pinpoint the feeling that rose inside her.
16

She lifted the flower to her face. He smiled, believing she was about to smell it.
He laughed with amusement as she placed the blossom in her mouth, then with
confusion as she chewed, and concern as she swallowed and reached for another.
He hasn’t bought her flowers since.
She wakes next to him in bed the next morning. It’s early and the sun is not yet
golden. The pale light washes over their bodies like mist rolls over the sea. She
shivers and moves closer to him. Skin on skin. She presses into him, seeking his
warmth. He stirs, pulls her close, and kisses the back of her neck, just below the
hairline. She rolls over to face him and he wraps himself around her. When she
drifts off to sleep again afterwards, she knows he will be gone when she wakes,
throws back the sheets, and shifts down the hallway to the kitchen, where he has
left coffee, still warm, on the stove.
She doesn’t even make it past the front lawn that day. As she walks down the
garden path, she notices a patch of white clover that has escaped her on all the
mornings past. She almost fights the urge, almost shakes herself and
continues on into the day, but the hairy white flowers sing to her, and she goes to
the clover on her hands and knees, shovelling handfuls of the coarse flowers into
her mouth with a rising panic that defies reason.
It takes hours for her to devour the whole patch. She ignores the foot traffic
that is steady on the path outside the fence. She knows that some who pass will
be neighbours who once used to invite her in for tea and dinner parties, and
who now stick their heads in their phones or walk the other way when they
come across her. It’s easier for everyone if she ignores them too.
When she finishes the clover, she sits cross-legged on the grass. The evening
gains consciousness around her. An agitated murmuration of birds flies across
the setting sun. She can smell cooked dinners and jasmine in the air. A ginger
cat watches her from her fence. It is almost dark when her husband’s car
appears out the front, and he runs to her, giddy with relief.
“I was looking for you in the city! You should have told me you stayed
home.”
17

He knows as well as she does that once she starts to consume the flowers, no
interruption will reach her. She hasn’t considered her husband’s stricken nerves
in years. While she is eating, any pause is fleeting and momentary, interrupted
by the ever-present desire to return to the flowers, to have them inside her, to
taste their bitterness on her tongue. And at night, when they are inside, away
from distraction, it wouldn’t suit the false narrative they have spun to admit that
she is ruining her husband’s life.
No, when they are inside, he is a successful business man, she is a bank teller,
they are madly in love, they are hoping to have children soon. When she is
conscious, they both ignore the hours she has spent ravishing flower beds and
nature reserves. It works fine. They are happy. When she falls asleep before him,
he watches her and can’t believe how lucky he is. As he drifts off, he wonders
how long he can keep this up.
It is years later that they find them.
She is sitting at the table, slumped over, a vase of flowers half full in front of
her. Vomit stains the tabletop.
One pale pink petal hangs from her mouth. Oleander. She knew where it
grew in the city, and avoided the areas, because she knew she wouldn’t be able
to stop herself, but he planted it right in the kitchen. Four vases of it, freshly cut,
placed on the kitchen table.
He wept soundlessly as she ate and ate, as she convulsed as the nausea hit her
and coughed as she vomited. She didn’t stop. He knew she wouldn’t.
His sobs gathered volume as her pulse weakened, as she lost consciousness.
When her head cracked against the table and she stopped breathing, he stroked
her hair and kissed her forehead.
He picked up the knife.
18

Rhys Lorenc
The Breaking of Seals
With artillery booming in his ears, drowning out the pitter-patter of his
heartbeat, with the gunfire making streaks across the dead sky, with his chest
pressed to the mud, hand on helmet, rifle missing, with the baker that he’d
met two hours ago drowning in dirt from a bullet to the chest, the soldier had
forgotten his own name.
Maybe he had one, once upon a time. Maybe he had a family; a wife who
didn’t love him enough to complement him, but didn’t hate him enough to
scream when he forgot to tuck the kids in. Maybe he had a house, a small
shack in some corner of Berlin. Maybe he smuggled liquor into the army, and
maybe he didn’t want to be here for another four years.
But all that was shattered, then ground to a fine, invisible dust, until all
that remained was a shivering sack of meat and tissue waiting for it all to end.
The company commander was shouting orders, screeching over the
machine gun fire. The nameless soldier couldn’t hear him, and didn’t want to.
He wouldn’t have even heard the word retreat.
***
The company commander was scared. But more than that, he was
confused; he was a dolphin in a desert, thinking wholeheartedly that he could
still swim.
He shouted at the privates ahead of him, at the men he’d sent to cut the
barbed wire, at the men who he didn’t know had been reduced to frozen
19

marionettes on the same wire they’d meant to slice open.
He shouted at the privates to advance. They had orders to follow. He had
orders to follow.
He didn’t move. He didn’t get up. He couldn’t so much as move a fucking
muscle without risk of being cut down by the machine gun fire.
They were close. So close. He could see his men, lying around him, some
dead, some alive, most in limbo between. Some were still picking away at the
machine gun nests far ahead with their rifles, some had run out of ammo
before the sun had even risen, most were holding their helmets over their
heads with both hands.
He’d failed them. Or if he hadn’t, some bastard had. Hindenburg.
Ludendorff. The generals. God. He didn’t know, and he wish he did.
In his heart, hammering itself to pieces, he knew it was him. He’d let his
men down, and put their fate in the hands of British bullets.
***
Jules pulled the trigger. His sniper rifle kicked, and a body that was once
shouting, once screaming nothings thick-laced in German, stopped moving.
He leant further into the sandbag parapets of the front-line trench,
surveying the battlefield down his scope. The artillery was tearing the skin off
of the earth, and the machine guns were still rattling away, soaking up the last
of the glory.
He sighed. The others were trying to tune out the deafening cacophony,
busying themselves by checking rifles and sneaking glances over the slipshod
battlements. Jules soaked it all in, savoured the upheaval – the upheaval of the
breaking of seals.
He had been a factory worker before all this. Tin cans. He had made tin
cans for people who liked tin cans.
Here, he was Corporal Jules Valentin, a soldier of the King and a damn
fine marksman. Here, breathing in the smoke and the screams, he could prove
himself.
Jules’ scope found a few writhing bodies on the barbed wire.
He felt something for them. They had run as far as they could, for their
country, for their family, straight into the flames, only to be stopped by a wall
of wire.
Jules lined up the scope.
He aimed for their heads.
20

***
Lieutenant Simmons was lying on his bed of rags, in a reserve trench some
three hundred metres from the front lines, flick flick flicking pebbles at the
dirt walls of his bunker. His brothers-in-arms were listening to the artillery
smashing away, flinching every time an earth-shattering explosion rattled the
ground.
He longed to get out there. To run into the field, to do something.
Anything at all. Didn’t care if it was running into the grinder stumbling – at
least that was something. At least that way, he’d be able to look death in the
bloody eyes and go for the gut punch.
Here, he could just not wake up the next day. Cold or disease or something
could take him in his sleep. Then before all his mates were even awake, he’d
be carted off in a stretcher and buried a few kilometres behind the front.
Worse than that, he feared the boredom, the colourless boredom that
gnawed at the ends of his fingers and froze his muscles. He feared that he’d
become one of those stone statues they occasionally passed by in the old,
crumbling French towns; features weathered by time to nothing. Not worn
down by bullets, or hardship, or conflict, but by the crushing passage of time.
Lieutenant Simmons was afraid of eternity.
***
The nameless soldier had a hunk of metal in his stomach. He knew his insides
were leaking out, staining the mud below, he knew that he should’ve been
screaming, but he felt nothing.
He tried to roll himself over, to see the sky one last time. But he couldn’t.
His body had died before his mind.
Mud slithered down his throat, coating his eyes with brown. Dirt and
metal blanketed his back, layer upon layer of debris heaped on by the force of
the explosions. The battlefield was filling in his grave.
He tried to remember something from before.
All that came to him was the mindless pulverising of the Earth, and the
baker dying before him, and the company commander going deathly silent all
of a sudden. His name would not return to him, despite his prayers for it.
The nameless soldier bled out with his face to the mud, waiting for his life
to flash before his eyes.
21

Max Taylor
Buddhists try and make Christians be better Christians
I am yet to observe a true Christian.
You might say you’re all true Christians. Alas, I disagree.
You see, I don’t think a true Christian seeks to convert every person they meet
and spread the word of God through every nod in the street.
I mean, be heard all you like, but I can’t see your mission as a true
Christian to be forcing your opinion into people’s minds.
You have different positions: you’re Christian, they’re not, and that’s fine.
You can begin, and if they listen in, then continue. Spread the Bible and the
words of your idol like wildfire to those whose door is open.
If their door is closed, leave them be.
Please. Just leave me be.
Wheelchair Troubles
The girl was so bloody hot.
It was unfair. How could a human being be so attractive. Miles himself had
been told he was a fairly hideous creature, and every now and then when he
plucked up the courage to look in the mirror, he could understand the direc-
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tion people were coming from. He resembled a walrus. There was no denying
it. A bald head, enormous nose, extra-long front teeth, a wobbly body and
what’s more…he had no legs.
But Miles didn’t let these facts stop him from living his life. He may have
had a skydiving accident where his legs got chopped off in the blades of a
helicopter, leaving him confined to a wheelchair for the rest of his days, and he
may have looked like a walrus, but this didn’t stop him from making the most
of every opportunity sent his way.
And he sensed an opportunity here. A very attractive, girl-shaped opportunity.
That had just entered his general vicinity.
They were in maths class and she had just walked in through the door.
‘Who is she?’ Miles whispered to his friend Seal.
‘New girl in the year above.’
‘She’s so hot.’
‘Boner?’
‘You bet.’
Miles watched as the girl delivered a message to the teacher up the front of
the class. He couldn’t hear what she sounded like, as she was whispering, but
he bet it would be like the pouring of melted chocolate into a Venetian glass
bowl. He was uncertain what that exactly sounded like, but it would be nice.
The girl left the room, and Miles popped up his hand. Like I said, our
friend Miles here sensed an opportunity, and he was going to make the most of
it.
‘Yes?’ said the teacher.
‘Can I please go to the bathroom, sir?’
‘How do you even go to the bathroom?’ asked the teacher. ‘I mean, you
have no legs. Do you just sit in your wheelchair and aim and hope for the best?
Or do you just go into a cubicle and clamber over onto the toilet seat?’
There was a pause. ‘Sorry?’ Miles asked.
The teacher sighed. ‘Doesn’t matter. Just go.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
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Miles wheeled his chair quickly out of the classroom. He was quite a pacey
bastard when strapped to his wheelchair. He sped down the hallway of the
block in the direction he saw the girl had gone, went to take the ramp down
beside the stairs, but then skidded to a stop. There two sets of stairs in the
block, and he found himself at the one without the wheelchair ramp.
‘Shit,’ he muttered, flicking a glance down the hall to where he knew the
ramp sat, waiting. ‘Oh, fuck it.’ He glared down at the stairs before him. ‘I
won’t let you bastards stop me.’ He reversed back, then with a huge push of
his hands against the wheels he launched himself from the top step.
Miles screamed as he somersaulted down the stairs. The scream was cut
short as he smashed his face to smithereens into the last step. This killed him
instantly.
24

Cassie Tsokos
lonely
The wind whips up the sand
A single set of footprints make their mark
The waves sing to the shore
Lonely
Inside a bus, a rumbling container
Next to strangers, shoulder to shoulder
The glow of a screen reflected in their eyes
Lonely
Chairs surround the food
The physical and social sustenance
But in the chaos my words are overpowered
Lonely
Behind the counter, a service smile
Asking cursory questions
25

Hands fly swiftly as bags are filled
Lonely
Greet the day with the sun
Spend it with myself
Let sleep overtake as the people of the night emerge
Lonely
pirate
The breeze whips your hat right off of your head
Your hands are calloused from tugging the ropes
The bow faces forward, ever straight and true
Voyaging the sea with pride and high hopes
The captain inside, counting his gold
The chef down below, chopping up groats
The crewmen scampering up and down
And you at the front, scanning for boats
A speck in the distance, you shout, “Ahoy!”
The ship churns full speed ahead
The holders of treasure, unsuspecting for now,
likely to wind up dead
surfboard
It’s a breezy midday,
the sand soft as silk
I watch as a mother leads her child into the blue
One hand wrapped around her daughter’s,
the other arm around a green surfboard
She sets her child lovingly on top
and climbs on behind
26

A propeller, a protector,
she takes them out to sea
Together they ride the waves
and explore the vastness
I cannot hear them from here
but I imagine the little girl shrieking with joy
found
I went for a trip into my head today
and stumbled across the lost & found
I saw the memory of my swimming days,
the whirring of the generator by the pool
standing out more than anything else
I saw a choir of children
singing gleefully to a song about ducks
that I had chosen
I saw a carefree child,
the softest innocence
but knew it was too late to bring her back
But I saw some other things:
an old favourite song
the face of an old friend
some hope
some happiness
I saw these things, I found these things
and decided to take them with me.
27

Tegan Walsh
The Neibolt Kids
Your parents will tell you a story about the Neibolt kids. A cautionary tale.
Don’t go to the Neibolt house down on Drowry Lane, they will say, don’t
become one of the Neibolt kids.
The Neibolt kids are rancid, the Neibolt kids are disgusting, the Neibolt
kids are dead.
Don’t become one of the Neibolt kids. Stay away from the Neibolt house.
Your friends will tell you a different story. A story of the deaths of the Neibolt
kids.
Of the brave boys and girl, who fought a monster and lost. Of the kids who
now live in the Neibolt house, trapped with their monster.
You won’t go near the Neibolt house, you don’t want to be a Neibolt kid.
You saw them once. Your friends have seen them too.
Everyone knows the Neibolt kids.
The Neibolt kids come out to play at dusk.
They wander around town with their rusted bikes and rotting flesh.
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You do not play with the Neibolt kids, their- games are not for you.
You watch as their bones snap and their skin tears.
You do not play with the Neibolt kids. They are rancid and disgusting and
dead. You do not want to be rancid or disgusting or dead.
You will tell your children about the Neibolt kids, who have not grown as you
have and continue to play their games at dusk.
You will tell your children what your parents told you.
Do not go to the Neibolt house down on Drowry lane, you will say. Do not
become one of the Neibolt kids.
29

Zoe Zeppelin
Masochist
memories of you itch like mosquito bites
in hard to reach places
but even as they sting,
it is my own talons that make them bleed
it is my own tongue that tastes the rust and the metal
when the word carves itself from within my chest
your name so sharp in my mouth,
scratching and clawing at the back of my throat
the letters wedged in between my teeth,
like jagged rocks and shards of glass
and i can’t help but wonder when you became so
cumbersome
just to hold in my child-like hands
as they tremble, as they shake
struggling to catch you like they’ve always had to do,
regardless of the price
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don’t worry, i’ll still clean up my spilled guts later
after—once you are fine again
be extravagant
you drank vodka from a tea cup
(pinkies up)
a few times too many,
but I swear
throwing up on the concrete has never looked so elegant
and
the way you danced through the crowd of male gaze and testosterone
like the whole world wasn’t watching you
god, you were magic
you painted your fingernails the colour of twilight
to match the sparkle in your eye
and
your heartbreaker painted lips were caught
in this contagious mid-laugh that
turned my hands into jellyfish
there is no existing combination of the same 26 letters
to describe how badly
i adore the way that
yesterday and tomorrow no longer exists
when I’m within a mile of you
31

you, a firecracker woman
an irresistible force
the fault is yours, I’m afraid
i have fallen in love with your gravity
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This zine has been created by members of the
Young Writers Collective, an initiative of the South
Coast Writers Centre.
The young writers would like to thank these sponsors for their support: