VANGUARD, Robin Kneipp

In a small town in the far north, and Harley Iskranovich is going on an adventure.

Polyarnyy is a naval town, it always has been. Harley has lived there her whole life, on the curb of the arctic, where temperatures reach only about as high as 20 degrees in the summer and -5 in winter. It’s not a fading town, though some parts of it show their age. There are the famous Kirovkas, renovated over and over again, five stories of cheap, tight-knit apartments – she knows all her neighbours. Unfortunately, that doesn’t include that boy from a few blocks down that she wishes she knew better. 

The mountains and hills that’re dotted with lumpy bushes and grasslands – not many trees, the permafrost makes it hard for them to grow – lumber around the settlements humans have eked out in this frigid environment, ships awaiting defueling and disposal rot in the ice waters. A quiet town with not much about it but the wind and water and the motherland somewhere thousands of miles south, far beyond anywhere the Kola Bay leads to; past the hills and mountains in the distance, somewhere after the White Sea and Lake Lagoda. 

Harley is an unusual name for someone here, truth is she was named after the motorcycle. Her Dad loved his, her Mother was taken by the uniqueness of the name (and how quietly soft her Father was after the suave biker attitude. Even if it was likely by default, since he was probably the only biker in the entire Murmansk oblast.) 

The waters sometimes carried faces, images of things long past. Polyarnyy had only been founded in 1893, so there wasn’t much in the way of legend, though the people out in the hills knew better. Harley had little in the way of interacting with them herself, but she been hearing a voice from the hills that she felt like she should probably investigate. It wasn’t urgent, it was always something that could be ignored. But it was like an unreturned shopping trolley – no one’s forcing you to, but for sake of politeness, it’s not something one should ignore.

She was going off to find the voices in the wind, to see if she could see what head they belonged to, see if they could speak, if their eyes contained any memories. 

The ground was hard and firm, it was a warm (by Polyarnyy standards) spring day. A walk would, by any means, be a nice break from the usual procedures. The sun sparkled on the lakes as she left the main road to march down the general direction of where she’d felt their call, the waterfowls wearily watching her wander past them. Foxes watched from their bushes, ignoring the hares who stared with them. 

As a frog were to a boiling pot, Harley didn’t notice the eyes that were building up along her back, nor the shadows whose gestures followed hers. Every creature, living, dead, and inbetween, that lived beyond the naval yards and the touch of man, was keenly aware of Harley Iskranovich, except for Harley Iskranovich. 

They were the ones that’d called for her, the vehicles that had been used to deliver a message for her ears only. It was a whisper carried on the wind, a signal broadcast from the branches of trees that didn’t sprout. How nature could communicate what was incommunicable was a difficult feat, and a good number of people had the mind to ignore her, but Harley had answered – or at least seen the message. 

The Earth is a creature far more complicated and ancient than humans perceive. Beneath its crust lies secrets which never have and probably never will be looked upon by human eyes, and its spirit moves and influences all around it far more than what it is given credit for. A slumbering giant in a permanent REM sleep, aware of activity on its surface, but just unable to wake completely. It could feel Harley’s steps. But Harley couldn’t feel it – though she could see.

Before her, stood.. something.

She wasn’t sure what even was there. What she was supposed to have been looking at. A creature, like a curled up dragon, seated similarly to eastern statues of dogs or other guardian creatures, sat before her, a blue swirling mass in its clawed hands, cackling with some kind of power. It was like nothing she’d ever seen before – not in real life, anyway. 

The hairs on her skin stood on end as she slowly turned, and jumped, startled by all of creation there staring intently at her without any concern for their neighbours. Their glassy eyes, their dim expressions. Nothing they could say or do, the dragon following with the-

Harley jerked her head around. Closed her eyes. Opened them. The dragon statue was still there. Still- what was it, stuck to her eyes? She could see it just as clearly with her eyes closed than if they were open. It was like it was burned into her, a floater stuck on her retinas, and nothing short of an atomic incision could separate it. It got closer the more steps she took, regardless of back or forward. Harley started to panic, her heartbeat rising, not helped by the forest watching her from behind, and not in the least bit aided by the flooding realisation of what was happening, at least, as far as she could tell it; only wanting it to end, clutching her head in a panicked scream until-

S t o p . 

She stopped. 

Everything stopped. The world froze completely still, though Harley, now separated from it, could still think. She could still see, without moving her eyes; and could still hear, though not in the usual way. 

G o .

Time restarted, Harley fell over. Shocks and shivers ran up and down her skin, a pins and needles sensation that ripped strength from her legs and sanity from her mind, her poor brain already struggling to comprehend what was happening. The dragon was gone from her sight, but then she happened to jerk her gaze up to the cliff’s edge in front of her, where there had been a forest pathway laden with trees just seconds before; and there it was again, waiting, patiently, for her to approach it, all the while it burned its image into her eyes once again.

C o m e .

Harley took one step forward, and hesitated. It had an almost magnetic pull to it, the swirling blue, white and dark purple mass it held like an alluring gem, one that Harley obediently felt the need to obtain. She took another step forward, if not to obey the voice that shook her very soul at its majesty, but for herself, for power, for intrigue, for-

Her fingers traced the mass.

The world turned off. She touched the magic swirling ball, and the earth around her disappeared. She did not fall.

She did not vanish. The void suspended her in its chasm. The dragon stayed, as did the ball, but the earth did, at least, as she knew it. 

It was impossible to describe what took its place. A psychedelic dream-like state of being beyond time and space. Beyond what the mind could understand. And yet, it did. And it spoke.

Harley looked back to see herself reflected in the stars, her twin holding the ball as she did.

A r e  y o u  e n j o y i n g  y o u r s e l f ?

Harley couldn’t speak. Even if she could, there was nothing she could say. Reasoning it was her twin speaking, she shook her head slowly. 

Y o u  s h o u l d .

Her twin let go. The ball sank in her hand, a thousand times heavier than she could have possibly imagined, and yet, her body, her hand, did not move – and neither did the ball. 

Y o u  a r e  n o t  g u i l t y , the Earth said, B u t  f o r g i v e  t h o s e  w h o  c a n n o t .

Harley didn’t understand. There was no possible way she could understand. What could it possibly mean-

E s p e c i a l l y, the Earth said, her reflection approaching her forehead with an outstretched finger,  y o u . 

The space fired. Stars and cosmic wonders, that was the closest she could ascribe to it, like a screensaver or a travel through time montage, all of it whirling past her mind through eyes that couldn’t see and ears that could not hear. It was everything and nothing, so much information to store, none of it possible to keep. Her brain was not capable of processing such data. 

A million and one lifetimes in the blink of an eye, a billion in a second, for all time, as the earth had seen and would see immemorial-

“Hey!”

The world returned. And so did Harley. Shaking, sweating, her mind beating a million miles a minute as she tried to comprehend what the hell had just happened – and not to forget.

Tears ran down her face.. Or was it sweat? Had she been running? She couldn’t remember. She felt sweaty. Her knees were shaking, and her palms felt damp. Maybe it was the sun.

“Hey, you there!” 

That voice was back again. Harley blinked, and managed to reply, “y-yeah?”

“You okay? You’re standing awfully close to the edge,” a concerned man’s voice called out. Harley looked down. That was indeed the edge. She backed away instantly.

“I, um,” she swallowed, looking for words. Her eyes darted across the ball.

Wait. What?

She was still holding the ball. A bright blue ball with a white swirl and some kind of magical pulse to it. 

She spun around. The animals were gone. 

Enough of it came back for her to keep her sanity – perhaps the earth was being merciful. She stuffed the ball in her backpack. “Yeah, I, uh, I’m fine.”

“You sure?” the man asked again. “You looked like you were in a trance.”

“Well, we all are, sometimes,” Harley answered awkwardly. 

The man gave her a weird look from his spot at the bottom of the cliff. 

Harley didn’t care. She had bigger monsters to deal with.


The Author

Robin Kneipp is an Australian writer who works in both fiction and non-fiction works, usually with some degree of overlap. Often writing about Australia with some fantasy elements influenced by video games and stories heard growing up, Kneipp’s writing is a blend of of urban fantasy and finding magic in the everyday struggles that all people share.

THE HUNTING OF DETECTIVE WILLIAMS, Scarlett Lavender

Theia lies sprawled across her bed, surrounded by the pillows and blankets that haven’t yet fallen to the floor. Her phone is blasting its ringtone, waking her from what would have been a nice dream. A frown squeezes her eyes shut as she pathetically slaps her sleepy arm on the bedside table trying to find the source of her disruption.
‘Williams, I need you working today,’ barks Chief Ericson over the phone.
‘Sir, this leave was approved weeks ago,’ murmurs Theia, wiping the sleep from her green eyes.
‘You’ll get double pay, I need you over here right now.’
Theia looks over at the double underscored “Lunch with Mum – 1:00” on her calendar, and sighs ‘Yeah, yeah, I’ll be over in half an hour.’
‘Texting you the address.’
‘Happy holidays to you too, Chief,’

The phone beeps as Ericson hangs up. Groaning, Theia sprawls out into a pained stretch before rolling out of bed.
Theia mutters as she texts her mother that she will have to cancel their plans.
As Theia walks through her apartment, she notices the soreness in her shoulders and legs. Making a mental note to not skip any more personal training sessions, she pushes down the kettle switch and waits as the water begins to boil. After she wolfs down a mere few slices of toast and her coffee, Theia ambles over to her closet. With a huff, after failing to get some jackets over her shoulders and skirts over her hips, she settled for some more casual clothes. Maybe missing her mother’s usual critiques wasn’t a bad thing. Taking some time to search through her messy apartment and wondering where her work clothes have disappeared to, she finds her keys, wallet, and badge. Hastily walking out the door, Theia heads down the long staircase to the garage. Scratching an ear as she walks up to her new pride and joy, a shiny new Yamaha sport bike. As the engine purrs like a tiger, she puts on her helmet and races off towards the new case.

*

As Theia storms into the apartment complex, passing under the yellow police tape, the first thing that hits her is the dreadful smell. The disorientingly horrid stench of rotting carcass fills Theia’s nostrils causing her to take a quick step backwards, reeling from the painful odour. An aged, angry voice snaps Theia back to the task at hand.
‘Williams!’ Chief Ericson coughs through a cloud of out-of-date cigar smoke.
‘Sir.’ Theia nods as she addresses her boss.
‘Some kind of animal broke in, tore up the place, ripped these people apart,’ Ericson mutters as he gestures around the room at the multiple shredded corpses. Three bodies lay in pieces, their dried blood seeping through the floorboards.

‘An animal big enough to do this, in Sydney CBD?’ asks Theia, glancing over with a raised eyebrow towards Ericson who shrugs.

‘What did the lab say about the results?’ Theia asks while crouching down to look at some fur.

‘Bite marks suggest some sort of canine, the claw marks suggest a bear or big cat, paw prints suggest canine again,’ Ericson explains while reading out the report before handing it to Theia.

Skimming over the information about the lack of witnesses and the strangeness of the encounter, until something catches Theia’s green eyes.

‘Aren’t these victims members of that drug ring we busted a few weeks back?’

Sitting down in a left alone armchair with a grunt, Ericson replies, ‘Yeah, just some of the ones who managed to skip getting locked up.’

‘What about the ones in prison?’

‘Completely fine. Nothing touched them, or even came near them.’

‘Right, okay,’ Theia takes a second to look at some organs that have spilled out of one of the dead dealers, ‘Are there any rival gangs that have fighting dogs?’

‘Not that we know of. I don’t think any of them would be dumb enough to unleash a pack of them into an apartment, and then take them back.’

‘Is there a local animal expert or something? I’m just trying to wrap my head around this, Boss.’
Ericson looks out a window grimly. ‘Heh, we even called up Taronga. They have no reports of an animal escaping, and apparently no bear or wild dog is going to walk eight Ks without being seen – let alone walk into a random apartment building, tear these dung heaps apart, and march themselves back home!’

Ericson’s beet red face begins to cool down as he fetches some pills out of his pocket. Another officer hands him some strange Hydralite knockoff to swallow them down with. Theia wonders in disgust why the Chief has to swallow things so loudly before she sits down to take some notes from the police and lab reports.
After pondering her notes, witness statements, and references from a canine expert, Theia’s stomach begins to growl.

‘Jesus Williams, you’ll lose those beautiful biceps if you never feed yourself properly. Go take a lunch break and then report back to me,’ Ericson demands before walking over to discuss something with officer Kent.
Quickly nodding, Theia hops up onto her feet and hurriedly leaves to go find something to eat. Thinking about the Chief’s comment, she finds herself feeling the muscles in her arm thinking that her workouts must have been paying off.  Noting the time as Theia enters the elevator, she quickly texts her mother, ‘Hey is it cool if we still meet up for some food?’

‘Having lunch with Arianna, who remembered my birthday.’

‘Hey, work screwed me over.’

‘Why not try getting a nicer job then? Sarah is doing quite well for herself.’

‘I don’t want to be a lawyer Mum.’

‘Why not? It pays much better, and besides, aren’t men intimidated by police officers anyway?’

Letting out a sharp breath through her nose, Theia closes her phone and tucks it away in her jacket pocket before barging into the greasiest Hungry Jacks she can find.
After tearing through three entire burgers in between grumbled curses directed at her mother and sister, while gathering some concerned onlookers, Theia leaves in a huff. Reminding herself to stop skimping on breakfast, she stomps back towards the crime scene.

*

‘Ah Williams, good,’ Ericson states in between a heavy breath, ‘I’ve been going over your notes, what do you think happened?’

‘Well, according to local animal shelters and experts, there is no missing animals or animals that would intentionally seek out and murder these people.’

Looking down at the trampled remains of a kitchen table Theia continues, ‘However, I do find it strange that a rival gang could let loose some sort of black market animal in here, and then be able to recapture it, but it does account for the bite and claw marks.’

‘Hmm, it’s a little far-fetched, but I can’t think of anything else either. So, we don’t really have anything else to go on,’ Ericson grumbles.

‘Sir, I am still trying to figure out who would go to these lengths and I would like to look into other known associates of the victims.’

‘Before you get onto that, another site has been reported.’ Ericson says, pulling up his phone which is far too small for his sausage like fingers before showing the recent messages.

‘The representative of Haymarket?’ Theia’s heart begins to quicken.
With his shoulders sagging, Ericson continues, ‘Mr Clark has been reported dead as of a few minutes ago, when his assistant checked on him at his apartment. I’ve managed to stop the boys from messing up the place because I want you to have a look while it’s still fresh.’

Lightly stamping a foot Theia interjects, ‘Sir, wasn’t this the creep who did everything he could to obstruct the drug ring’s prosecution?’

Slowly sighing, Ericson hands over an aged set of keys, ‘Yes, so I want to see what you can sniff up, and I’m hoping this doesn’t get turned back on to us.’

Within minutes Theia is racing across Sydney CBD on her motorbike, thoughts rushing about in her panicked mind.
‘What the hell is going on!? Who or what is targeting these people, is it someone in the police force?’


*

Theia arrives at the older styled apartment complex, a refurbished abandoned mansion. The few apartments scattered about, all house affluent individuals who seek to live in some memory of a forgotten age. Looking up at the aged brickwork and wood features, Theia spots a shattered window. Heading to the broken window, Theia passes by the police guarding the entrances, arguing with the other occupants of the building. Ignoring the familiar noise of complaints, she crouches down to take a look at the remnants of the window scattered amongst the perfectly sculpted lawn. Glistening with crimson against the midday sun, the shards of glass are stained with dried blood. Amongst the disarray lies a few small clumps of long black fur. Whistling over to the nearest officer, Theia says, ‘Get these blood and fur samples over to the lab right now.’

While the attending officers begin to meticulously gather the DNA evidence, Theia strides into the old building. As she walks through the hideously decorated staircase, she feels a drop in temperature as though the solemn paintings are leeching heat from her body. Approaching the busted door of Mr Clark’s apartment, Theia pulls out her notepad.
‘Door has been forcibly opened, marks indicate the same animal has been used to damage the door enough to be opened.’
Walking past the splinters, Theia enters the remnants of the apartment. A table and chairs are scattered amongst the room, and a couch is digging half into a wall. Trails of blood litter the apartment, leading a trail to the horribly damaged corpse of Mr Clark. Flesh torn in four clawed segments, large bite marks that ripped through skin and crushed bone. The remains of a corrupt politician now scattered about, as his dried blood stains the expensive carpet.

Theia chuckles to herself, ‘Smells a bit like a butcher’s shop.’
Among the disrupted room lies an expensive looking cricket bat that has been shattered in half, with some team’s signatures a little runny due to the blood splatterings. To Theia’s left is a cool breeze, and looking over she sees the expansive shattered window. From the base of the window leading back through the apartment is a trail of blood. Treading carefully around the smattering of blood and broken furniture, she follows the blood into what still exists of Mr Clark’s office. A computer that looks to have been smashed on the floor a few times and then had its insides ripped out lays strewn across the floor. A filing cabinet has had its drawers torn apart, paper lays shredded around.
‘Whatever this was, they were looking to destroy Clark’s work.’

Tracking the rest of the blood trail into a suffocating room with no windows, a few small chairs, a filthy glass table, and a completely smashed suitcases that has bags of white powder scattered about.
‘And that’s why the warrant to search this place was always denied.’
After taking some notes and strolling around the rest of the apartment, Theia returns back to the living room. That is where she finds it, staring directly at her with big green eyes. The thick black fur covering the hulking musculature all the way down to the long, razor sharp claws. The long, snarling snout filled with teeth threatens to tear her to pieces. But it doesn’t. The ferocious creature just stands there breathing, and staring back at her through the fireplace mirror.
Theia glances down at her clawed hands, her clothes laid in tatters around her feet. A burning feeling in her chest goes off as she sprints across the apartment, and leaps out of the broken window. Landing in the lawn, Theia salivates and begins her next hunt. The poor police officers carrying the blood samples don’t even notice the feral beast charging at them on all fours, hungry for bloodshed.


Scarlett Dawn Lavender is currently a student at Macquarie university, who hopes to go on to postgraduate studies once she finishes her degree. Favouring writing within fantasy and science fiction, Scarlett hopes to write stories about strong and intelligent women who pilot spaceships, or battle dastardly monsters.

FISH TAILS, D.H. Smith

I present this fictional story with acknowledgment of the Guringai and Darug people, the Traditional Custodians of the land on which I set my story and have enjoyed much inspiration. I pay my respects to their Elders past and present. I extend that respect to the Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander people reading my work.

There are footsteps in the damp leaves. One human. One on paws. I hear them only because the frogs and night critters have suddenly ceased their moonlight racket. The sound of the Hawkesbury River lapping against the shore becomes clearer and I can hear the chiming boat masts down at Parsley Bay. I reach for my oyster-shucking knife. My fingers rub the familiar salty handle, which is warm from sitting by the almost extinguished fire. I slide out of my sleeping bag and retreat up into the darkness of the sandstone cave behind me.

‘Euch!’ A squeal is stifled. A hand swats skin. Sticks crack in surrender to clumsy boots and loose earth slips beneath them. They are heading directly toward me. My camp is not hard to find. I am well hidden behind a boulder and surrounded by shrubs. It’s the blue tarp hanging above me that is the giveaway. It usually doesn’t matter. The locals shout my name to let me know they are coming, and the day-tripping bushwalkers move swiftly past as if homelessness is catching. Occasionally it is the bad sort, coming to cause trouble.

A dog gives a low bark. ‘Settle down boy,’ whispers, to my relief, a kind young man’s voice. I stow the knife in my trousers and jump down from my hiding spot just as they enter the clearing. ‘Well, hello there,’ I say.

The young man stands before me like a frozen pilchard, startled by my sudden appearance. His doe-eyed Golden Retriever barks. I chuckle and cross my arms. ‘Now, now, I was just keeping myself hidden in case you were here to ransack my camp.’ The young man is around eighteen years old. Tall, but lanky, not yet having shed the awkwardness of teen years. He has a mop of orange hair. He is sickly pale, and his lips are dry. He tries to smile but his brow remains furrowed. The dog approaches me cautiously, and satisfied the fright is over, gives me a good sniff.

‘Oh, h-hey. I’mDanny, this is Raffy.’ Danny pushes the mop of hair self-consciously off his face.

‘Barry,’ I say.

Danny holds out his hand. I shake it because, well, no one ever offers to shake my hand anymore. His palm is hot and clammy.

‘Best sit down, mate. How long have you had the fever?’

I gesture for him to take a seat. I need more light, so I throw kindling on the fire and start to fan it with a copy of The Big Issue. Danny scratches his legs, which flake in scales of dead skin that fall to the ground like dandruff. Fresh blood trickles down from where he has just scratched.

‘You’re going to need an antiseptic cream,’ I say. ‘Paracetamol. Plenty of fluids. You like Billy tea?’

‘Uh yeh, thanks.’ He looks around at my camp, and I see the doubt on his face. He pauses then says, ‘you’re a doctor… I didn’t expect… but they say you’re a bit of legend.’

My throat tightens.

‘Used to be, mate.’ I clear my throat. There is a long, awkward silence. I notice that the frogs and night critters have started up again.

‘I’d just started med school,’ Danny offers, breaking the silence.

‘Oh.’ This catches me off guard. ‘What kind of doctor do you want to be?’

‘A geneticist, I think. I uh, heard you were Brooklyn’s GP for many years, Dr Barry.’

My right eyebrow involuntarily moves up. ‘Just Barry will do. You are new around here, aren’t you?’ But you seem to know a lot about me, I think.

‘I am.’

‘Why did you come all the way out here to me, Danny? The Doc in town could have helped you with your erm, illness.’

‘Yeh, I did see Dr King. She told me to see you and tell you you’re needed at the clinic. I’m the third case this week.’

‘Oh, I see now.’ The penny drops. ‘You’re my wife’s messenger.’

‘Your wife?!’ Danny looked around at the camp again. I thought to clarify ‘separated’ but didn’t. ‘She said you knew the most about this. You’ve seen this before, haven’t you?’ Danny points to his legs. I nod.

Raffy walks over to my sleeping bag and settles in for a nap. My mind is taken back to the day Pip and I bought it for a camping trip. She wore a green silk top that brought out the green in her eyes.

I focus back on Danny, who is glaring at me. There’s building desperation in his mannerisms. ‘It’s a nasty virus,’ I say, knowing that will not be enough.

‘A virus? I’ve turned into a fucking part-time merman Barry!’ He shouts. Then he hangs his head and mumbles, ‘sorry Barry. I’m upset. I’d hoped… ’

‘That’s understandable. I call it fish flu. I’m not sure if it is a virus, but that’s my best guess. A few people around here have caught it over the years. But there is somewhat of an outbreak this year.’

‘Is there a cure?’

‘Not that I know of. Submerging your lower half in the river will help with the discomfort though.’

‘Right,’ he said sceptically. ‘Why isn’t this in the news?’

‘It’s a local phenomenon that we keep to ourselves. Some people want to transition. They see it as a rite of passage and use their new abilities to protect the area. Others do not, and that’s ok. Brooklyn is a sacred place with many mysteries, we all try to fit into and protect it in our own way.’ I stand and stretch my back. ‘I’m always here if you need help managing symptoms, though Dr King is more than capable.’

I could see Danny was unsatisfied with my answers. He stood as if to leave. He hesitated, then stiffened, looking past me. I slowly turned to follow his gaze. I had thought it was too dark to see. The ancient carvings looked alive in the flickering light of the campfire. Two women with fishtails swam across each other. Their mouths open as if screaming.

‘Are they Aboriginal carvings?’ He exclaimed.

‘Yes.’

 Danny walked over to the cave. He raised his finger as if to trace them, then stopped. He moved to inspect the circles within circles, that looked to represent bodies of water. Then moved on to the single line that flowed around the figures, a string, with red ochre paint visible in its deepest cracks.

‘Has this virus got something to do with the Guringai? Or the Darug?’

‘Not directly, no. There are stories of mermaids in Arnhem Land, but that is a long way from here. There are merpeople stories from all over the world. Homer had his sirens. The Scots have their selkies. Merfolk from ancient Greece. There are stone age carvings and so on. But the saltwater mermaids in Arnhem Land, the Ji-Merdiwa, are not permitted to be carved, so it does not fit here. I’m working on a theory that this is Guringai documentation of the arrival of fish flu in the Hawkesbury.’

‘Where do you think it came from?’

‘Europe. Though I don’t know how it spreads. It only seems to happen in Brooklyn.’

‘Dr King said if anyone can cure it, it’d be you.’

I felt a familiar tingle run through my chest.

‘You can tell Dr King that I’m working on it!’

*

A few days later, I watch Danny from my lookout. He is staring into the whitewash, where the waves caused by the postman’s ferry collide with the glistening, jagged rocks of the shoreline. His rubber thongs are useless on the slippery algae, so he holds one arm out as if ready to catch himself. I wonder what he can see. I have seen a red string float to the surface here before, at a low tide. Just like how it is depicted in the carvings. He leans forward as if to jump.

‘Danny!’ I yell and bush bash my way down through the gums.

He turns and narrows his eyes at me.

‘What’s this red string?’ He shouts.

‘That red string might see you drown, so leave it.’

‘How would I drown with a fish’s tail for legs?’

‘Well, you could hit your head on the rocks, for one!’

‘What happens if I get in the water here?’

He scowls and moves to get in the water. I lunge forward and grab his arm.

‘No!’ He pulls back, slips and falls into the water.

I see a flash of silver fishtail, but he doesn’t resurface. I dive in after him.

A spiral of bubbling water surrounds me. Waves throw me in every direction. I am disorientated. I need breath. I see Danny’s tail spinning at a distance from me. Red string wraps itself around me. I grab it, pulling it from my neck. Then I cannot hold on any longer and all light withdraws.

*

I cough out ocean and suck in air, filling my aching lungs. Danny has a fist full of my hair, holding my head above the water.

‘Let go! I’m good mate.’ I start to tread water, my clothing heavy in the water.

Still coughing, I look around. Clear turquoise water sparkles around us and seagulls squawk overhead. Amber-coloured cliffs hug the familiar shore of white sand and olive trees heavy with fruit. A woman standing beneath one of the trees spots us. Her basket drops to the ground, and she shouts.

‘Monstro marinho! Monstro marinho!’

‘What’s she shouting?’

‘Sea monster. You’re seen, now it’s time to go mate.’

*

We had quickly returned the way we came and now sat around my campfire, drying off and looking out to the river. Danny looked like a stunned mullet.

‘You think the virus comes through that portal?’ he finally asked.

‘That’s the leading hypothesis.’

‘Where were we?’

‘An island off Portugal. The exact opposite side of the world to where we are now.’

*

Danny is peering out the window as we trundle along in our train carriage. We’re on our way to his university lab with the hope of slipping in unnoticed and running the virus genome. He looks troubled and violently tries to scratch his legs through thick denim. I stare at my reflection in the glass. I barely recognise myself. I’m showered, shaved and dressed in clean clothes. The old Barry glares back at me. He’s curious. Happy to see me.

‘How much longer am I going to itch like this? I feel like I have a family of mozzies living in my jeans!’ Danny asks.

‘It should be backing off soon. Did you try a good soak in the river?’

‘Yep. Tried that.’

He sighs and returns his gaze to the passing scenery. ‘That lady was right. I’m a freak now. A monster.’

‘I wouldn’t say that. What’s a monster, anyway? You’re not hurting anyone. Look for the silver linings. I’ve seen people grow to like and accept the change,’ I offer. ‘You can use medical science to help people. You may even make a scientific breakthrough! And the ladies… they love a self-assured merman.’

Danny grunted, unappreciative of my humour.

‘It is the psychological challenges that are hardest to overcome,’ I conceded. ‘I’ve had my fair share… The important thing is to reach out.’ I think of Pip. If only I’d reached out.

‘Do you miss her?’ Danny asks to my surprise.

‘What? Who?’

‘You’ve got a crap poker face, Barry.’

‘You should reach out. She lit up when she talked about you.’

‘Really?’ My heart leaps.

‘Really,’ Danny smiles, ‘And you’re looking good… you should drop the test results over to her. I’m sure she’d be interested.’


Diane is a lover of storytelling and sharing the curiosities of science. As a Macquarie University Arts (Creative Writing) and Medical Science (Genomics) student, she enjoys finding ways to combine her two interests. Slay Park was her first published fictional work in The Quarry. Fish Tails is the seedling of a much longer story, so watch this space! 

TROUBLED WATERS, Trinity Rosas

TROUBLED WATERS RECIEVED A HIGH COMMENDATION FOR THE QUARRY’S 2022 FUTURE LEADERS WRITING PRIZE.


Moreton Island used to be widely known for its beaches and coasts. You couldn’t go anywhere without stepping on a tourist’s beach towel or ruining their selfie by mistake, but that all changed when that Facebook post made the late-night news. There was something hiding in the golden sand and crystal blue waters, and it seemed to be searching for prey.

The regional council had to make a public announcement to reassure people that there were no sea monsters on the island, and that the whole thing was an online hoax. Some residents and tourists packed their bags and left the island, while others tried to search for the sea monster using sailboats and scuba gear.

*

‘Do you really think that there’s something near the old lighthouse?’ Remy groaned as he carried the camera and its accessories. ‘There hasn’t been any new stories or sightings, and I heard that the whole Facebook thread was meant to be a new ad campaign for tourists.’

‘That’s because everyone’s looking in the wrong place!’ said Carmen, who had been humming Beyond the Sea. ‘The old tourist never saw the sea monster in the water, they said that it was somewhere near the rocks!’

The two had known each other since their university years, though you would’ve thought that they were brother and sister from how they talked. Carmen loved doing photography and photo imaging, and she ended up making a name for herself from her go-getter personality and skills. Remy, on the other hand, had done business and finance, but he worked with Carmen to create a photography service that was ‘on the go’.  Their newest client had asked them to take photos of sergeant majors, wideband anemonefish, and shipwrecks – and that’s where they were now.

‘I still can’t believe you rented a boat for this. How much did you pay for it anyway? It looks like it’s seen better days.’

The motorboat that Carmen rented was old and worn down, and there was a damp, mouldy stench coming from the wood. She had also promised that she read the boat manual ‘back-to-back’ before she started the engine, but it was practically taking its last breath from the way it stalled and sputtered.

‘…It was about two hundred dollars.’ She said contritely. ‘I mean, the seller said that they’d get the boat in the water for free, and that they’ll throw in the manual as a bonus!’

‘Wait hold on, did you buy the boat? What are you going to do with it when you’re done using it?’ He tried not to think about how she was driving a boat without a licence, but the sound of the starting and revving engine drowned out his rationale.

‘I don’t know, I guess I can sell it to someone else! But what are you waiting for Remy? I don’t think this old girl is going to last for long!’

Remy sighed when he saw some Victoria Bitter bottles and Coca-Cola cans left on the beach. He’d love to go back to the resort and pay his mini-fridge a visit, but that wasn’t an option at this point. Carmen didn’t like backing down from a decision, she would do anything to get the perfect shot of an animal – and sea monsters were definitely a step above fish, dolphins and whales.

‘Okay, okay, I’m coming…’ He rolled his eyes and walked towards the motorboat, the camera gear in tow. ‘But if anything happens, I’m not taking the fall for it!’

It was a small boat trip anyway, what’s the worst thing that could happen?

‘It can’t be, do my eyes deceive me?’ Carmen gasped, pausing for dramatics. ‘Or is a certain someone doing research on sea monsters?’

‘What? No, I was… I was looking at the Facebook page.’ Remy stammered, as he closed Google Chrome and opened the other app.

‘Uh-huh, that’s definitely what I saw…’

Carmen was doing surprisingly well as the boat’s captain, though she had to read the manual a few times when she didn’t know how to change gears.  And while she was busy steering the boat, she made Remy the navigator – which meant marking their destination on Google Maps and letting the app do its job.

Their families would have heart attacks right now if they saw what they were doing. They assumed that Remy and Carmen were taking photos of people at weddings and birthday parties, and that was better than telling them that they worked with animals. It was common for birds and small animals to attack and steal their camera gear, but it was worth the final shot and payment.

Remy didn’t think this was worth the trouble. They weren’t getting paid to take photos of a sea monster, they were supposed to be taking photos of colourful fish and shipwrecks. And if they shared the photos on Facebook, people would think that it was edited and their business’s reputation would fall.

But how would they get out of this alive? They didn’t know whether the sea monster was a kraken, leviathan, or something else that was dangerous. What if there was more than one sea monster? His heart started to pound when he held onto the side of his seat, and it was getting harder to breathe.

‘Remy, are you okay?’ Carmen asked. She stopped the boat’s engine before he could answer. ‘You don’t look good, what’s wrong?’

‘Sorry I… I think I’m seasick or something…’

They hadn’t been out at sea for long, it’d been fifteen minutes at most.

But that was long enough for Remy to overthink.

He could taste the sea salt when he tried to breathe the open air. He could reach the moon and stars when he touched the water’s reflection. There was no telling when he’d fall into the deep darksome abyss. The cries of drowned seafarers and travellers came in the form of harsh waves and wind, as they said one thing, over and over.

‘Don’t let your guard down.’

And the thought of a sea monster causing their deaths formed a pit in his stomach.

*

‘You have arrived.’

Remy had completely forgotten about the Google Maps app until he heard its computerised voice. It scared the life out of him, though Carmen laughed as she lowered the motorboat’s anchor and stepped onto the rocks.

‘Finally! I thought that was going to take forever!’ Carmen sighed, stretching her arms and back. ‘Can you be the boat’s captain on the way back? It’s pretty much the same as driving a car!’

The boat held up despite the spilling waves, though Remy had busied himself with carrying the camera equipment back to ground. His legs were trembling, and he held out one hand to steady himself before he dropped anything.

‘I think that’s the last time I’m getting on a motorboat, or any boat in general…’

‘It’s okay, I’m sure you’ll feel better when you start walking on solid ground!’

She didn’t hesitate to take the equipment and carry it over one shoulder, though he had a feeling that she had done it for his sake rather than hers.

The two took one last look at the boat before they slowly walked across the beach rocks and cobbles. The Google Maps app said that they were close to the lighthouse, but its rays of light were out of reach, and the sound of the waves hitting the shore reminded them of the sea’s lingering presence.

And before Remy could use his phone’s flashlight, his phone popped up with a system notification.

‘Carmen, did you bring your phone? My phone’s battery is low.’

‘Of course, I made sure to charge it before I left!’ She pulled out her phone and tapped the screen, but it didn’t turn on. ‘Wait, I could’ve sworn that I charged it…’

The sound of crumpling plastic stilled them.

‘…Please tell me that you heard that too.’

It was hard to make out anything in the dark, but the pit in his stomach grew larger as his eyes started to adjust.

And it wasn’t a kraken or a leviathan, it was worse.

Remy and Carmen were no more than thirty metres from what appeared to be the sea monster. It had the colossal body of a man, but it used fins and tentacles as its arms and legs. Their eyes were hollow and disproportionate, and they possessed a wide gaping maw that could swallow small boats and ships whole. They were practically an amalgamation of sea animals and beasts that crept out of Davy Jones’ locker, and there was no telling what it could do now that it was out in the open.

‘I don’t believe it… it’s real.’ Carmen murmured, as slowly approached the thalassic chimaera with her DSLR camera.

‘You’re risking your life for a photo op? Really?’ Remy whispered. His heart was pounding, and he considered tossing the camera into the sea. ‘The safest option is to call the regional council and get back to the boat!’

‘It’s a once in a lifetime opportunity! If I take at least one good photo, I’ll be the first person to document a living and breathing sea monster.’

He tried to pull her back, but it was too late – the sound of the camera’s shutter echoed throughout the rock-strewn shore.

And when the camera’s flash went off, she screamed.

What was supposed to be a sea monster was revealed to be a dying dugong.

The creature raised its head in response to the camera’s shutter and Carmen’s screaming, but it couldn’t move its body. It was surrounded by garbage instead of seawater. The sound of crumpling plastic came from the blue disposable bag that was dumped on its back. Its thick skin was dry and cracked from being exposed to the sun, while its mouth was left filled with green nylon nets and fishing line.

Remy called the regional council as Carmen removed the bag from the dugong’s body, but she cried when she heard it groan weakly. There were brown shards of glass embedded in its sides, and its left flipper was trapped in an old can of soft drink.

It didn’t take long for the wildlife rescue team to arrive. They got lectured by the leader for driving an unregistered boat and exploring at night.

‘Sea monsters aren’t real,’ they said, ‘they’re an old sailor’s tale.’

But their definition of a sea monster was outdated – there were other monstrous beings that dwelled the Earth and its Seven Seas, and they would live for hundreds of years.


ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

The fake Facebook thread and text messages were created using zeoob.com and edited using Microsoft Paint. The Facebook thread images were taken from my personal photo gallery, while the text messages’ images were taken from Pexels.com and Imgur.com.

The Google Search was taken from Google before it was edited using PicsArt – the question and answer were written and edited by me. The low battery screenshot was a screenshot taken directly from my OPPO A74 phone and edited using PicsArt and Microsoft Paint.

The dugong photos were created using crayon.com, an AI image generator, and were edited using Microsoft Photo Editor.


Trinity Rosas is a Creative Writing and Philosophy student at Macquarie University. She started writing stories at a young age before she posted them online, and Troubled Waters is the first work she’s published under her real name. She has plans to make a text-based game in the distant future.


THE FACTORY FLOOR, Harley Kendrick

Francisco Goya
Saturn Devouring His Son
1819-1823

The dim glow of the lighter was the only thing guiding her through the darkness. Her bare feet with their hardened soles tread softly, the thrashing of heavy machinery deafening in the night. Hammers striking hard and fast, one after the other a line of echoes stretch far throughout the factory town, through its walls and out into the wilderness. The only thing that comforted her in their trek was knowing that each step was pushing the echoes further away. But still, she knew they had to be careful.

If the Workers were still firing the machines then that meant no one knew they’d escaped the cage yard yet. The Janitors would stick to the perimeters of the workforce as long as there was no word of an escape. It was only the Hunters, they needed to fear. They could be anywhere, their lanterns cutting through the darkness like a knife to a sheet. Traps were still laden everywhere, with the low light they had to watch their steps. The cold metal floors were scarred with deep reaching gashes, travelling for several metres in length.

Holding the lighter arm’s length ahead of her, Alex led her sister forward. Their cold hands clasped together tightly, interlocked with the intention of never letting go. They trod on gingerly, seeking a safe place to rest. For the moment, their world was the few feet of light in front of them. It’s in the maw of the darkness that you can get lost. But it’s in this darkness that you can also hide from them.

Moving past tall, jagged, columns and large pieces of fabric scattered along the way Alex and her sister came across an old workshop. Like a graveyard of huge anvils and dead furnaces, their hearts long since extinguished. Large pipes wobbled and groaned in great effort to stay together, pinned piece by piece with rusted bolts.

Water fell from the sky, but it wasn’t rain, there was no sky anymore, there was the space between the ground and the ceiling, a ceiling that dripped and leaked. Sometimes pouring gallons of water or only small drops. As though the head of a tap was spinning out of control.

The drips picked up as the metal floor became colder, wetter. Where footsteps soon turned into splashes and the water falling down would make distinct splashes on the floor and a particular thwack against their coats. Rising now to their knees the water kept growing higher as they walked further. They’d come to the edge of a huge lake, and there was no telling how deep or how far it reached into the darkness. Her feet stopped when the hand she was holding stopped moving with her.

‘Alex’ a short whisper reached out. She stopped to turn to her sister. A tired and pleading face was what she was met with. Watching her sister, her gaze cold and tired she nodded in agreement.

‘We’ll turn around. Set up where the floor isn’t flooded. We’ll try and cross tomorrow’ Alex’s eyes softened at the relieved smile of her sister. Taking the lead, they backtracked away from the lake.

Alex knelt down by a large piece of discarded cloth, almost large enough to be the sail of a ship, it must have belonged to a Janitor. Right beside it was a split piece of timber. Tugging the cloth as flat as they could the two picked a side, lifting it up together they squirmed underneath while carefully pulling the timber in after them. Once underneath they stood the timber up to form a makeshift tent.

Alex ignited the lighter. Seeing her sister’s face, she smiled.

Kaylie’s long blonde hair spilled out from her hood, the bright blue eyes stood against the dirt covering her face. Freckles were buried somewhere under the grime. The leather jacket clung to her snuggly, a bit too small for her now, but that was all they had. Standing it would hang down over her thighs, exposing the tears and cuts across her knees. Sitting cross-legged the scars on the base of her naked feet were plain to see.

‘What?’ Alex returned to her sister’s eyes. A small smile crept across her lips. She reached out with her hand,

‘Come here Kaylie.’ Kaylie accepted the invitation and lent towards the hand.

‘You’ve got something on your face.’ Alex softly wiped at her cheek with her thumb. This received a light snort from Kaylie as she smiled back. Pulling her hand away she had left behind an oddly out of place smudge among the filth burying her sister’s face. She kept watching her sister as she adjusted herself, her smile. Reminding her of how it could be, once they reach ‘The Grasslands.’

‘Alex, you ‘kay?’ Alex sighed as she realised a frown had crept across her lips. The girl laying down in front of her looked worried.

‘I’m fine,’ she said curtly.

‘Oh… Okay’ Alex reeled slightly at the disheartened voice of her sister.

‘Hey,’ leaning closer to grab her sister’s attention Alex added ‘we’ll be fine too’

‘Will we though?’ Kaylie‘s voice trembled,

‘We’re running out of food- rats keep getting caught in the traps made for us. And what if we end up like Mum, Dad and the others. Y’know, all it takes is one Hunter’ Kaylie glanced down, dodging her sister’s eyes. Alex sighed. She gently pet the back of her sister’s head, moving to the top as she looked back up.

‘No Hunter is going to find us. Being hungry doesn’t bother us. We’re going to get to The Grasslands.’

‘Were Mum and Dad telling the truth? About The Grasslands. Y’think it’s real?’ Kaylie didn’t have a chance to blink,

‘Yes, yes it is. And we’re going to make it there.’

Leaning further forward, ignoring the muck Alex lightly pecked her sister on the forehead. With a flick of her wrist the lighter snapped shut.

*

After waking they set back out into the lake. They had been walking deeper and deeper into it, up to their waist in water. It had been over an hour of dredging through the lake. Hands held together the lighter led them forward. Their chilled limbs were stiff and hard to move as they heaved each step forward. Alex felt a sudden jerk at her hand as Kaylie suddenly screamed. The scream shrill and piercing, Alex threw her palm over the parted lips. Seconds went by and Kaylie was holding her breath. The only noise to come next was a whimper of a whisper,

‘Leg.’

Alex followed with one word, ‘Breathe.’ Kaylie’s hand was over her mouth as tears cut lines into her dirt ridden face. Alex flicked the lighter shut with a quick, sharp, but quiet snap. The darkness enveloped them immediately. She knelt down. Feeling along her sister’s leg she found what it was, a spiked rat trap had clamped around her leg. She stood back up and gave a reassuring squeeze of Kaylie’s hand.

They sat still. Breathing. The water calmed. Their breathing slowed. The echoes slowed down. The hammers slowed. Creeping to a halt entirely. The echoes trailed off, the last one boding the finality of a bell ringing.

The quiet air was filled with the pitter patter of dripping water against their coats. Lungs constricted with fear rattled with each breath as they continued to listen. A sound. It rushed toward them violently. A roar far in the distance. Sounding like a strained breath it screamed out. It kept screaming for several seconds, its own echoes catching up to each other with every fresh breath of anger.

The moment they ceased there were huge, heavy reverberating thuds. Soon after these thuds the machines fired up again, their burning hum building a symphony with the hammers as they restarted their beatings. The thuds didn’t stop. They got louder, louder still. Alex and Kaylie dared not move, too afraid to do anything they stood perfectly still. Statues in the lake they waited, unanimously and wordlessly they decided not to move. Everything was so still, almost as if the air and water had agreed with them, as though fear was struck into every inch of the factory. They kept getting louder, and now a light shake of the scaffolding could be heard as it lightly rattled. Then, a new sound.

Crack.

Crack, like a joint popping.

Cracks.

Cracks, like multiple joints popping. The cracks sent shivers down Alex’s spine as Kaylie’s grip tightened around her hand. The creaking bones were moving, they were doing something, as they shook the scaffolding. Ripples. Ripples. The girls could feel ripples. Without thinking Alex carefully ignited the lighter with one clean stroke. In unison they lowered their eyes to the water around their waists. Now they could see ripples. Whatever it was had carefully- and quietly, lowered itself into the lake from the scaffolding. It was in there with them, it was in the lake… looking for them.

Almost as quickly as she had opened it, Alex closed the lighter, pulling the two back into darkness. The shifting water bent and wrapped around the girls. Weak waves bouncing off of them in response. In spite of all her instincts screaming at her to hold still, in spite of everything she had learned and taught herself, in spite of what was best for survival, she tore herself away from her position. Uprooting her feet with all the strength she had. She tugged on Kaylie’s arm with the intensity she would rouse a baby from its sleep. With a shivering gasp Kaylie eased away. The refusal to move spoke volumes. Alex persisted.

She knew that if they stayed put they’d get caught, she could feel it deep down. No Hunter could climb down from scaffolding that high. There was no light either. A Hunter always had its lantern, even Janitor’s carried torches. But there was no light. This was something different.

She heard it, a small splash, the ripples were getting more intense as well. Crack. A slow deep breath made a horrible gargled whistle, as though the air it drew in was dragging along its throat, trying to claw its way out. She couldn’t see it, but she could feel it. Its hand was right there, fingers outstretched and feeling around.

For no other reason than intuition, she pulled out the lighter and flicked it on without a sound. This thing didn’t need light, why? What illuminated in front of her was a huge grey hand with wrinkled sagging skin, the purpled fingernails larger than her head. It leered over her.

Naturally she sank down into the water, creating as much space between her and the hand as she could without letting it know she was there. Kaylie followed suit. It moved forward. Hand going over them the length of its arm kept going with dark brown sleeves. It had crooked bends and points, as though it had multiple elbows. The sleeves met a heavy overcoat, it wasn’t as tall as a Hunter, closer to the average Worker, its arms were excessively long. Its face. Heavy grey skin drooping down and swaying with its movement. Its lips were hung open exposing the lower row of shark-like teeth. Its eye sockets empty spaces where extra skin sat, cradled by the gaping holes.

Suddenly it clicked, she had never seen one like this before, and it was also able to command the Workers, this must be the Foreman that her parents had told her about. The one who runs the Workers. Alex lightly tugged on her sister again, this time slightly to the side so that the Foreman could pass. They moved over ever so slightly. Kaylie stumbled. Ever so slightly. The trap. A tiny splash is all it made. And all it took. The Foreman grunted as it quickly lashed one of its hands at the noise. Perfectly slamming into Kaylie.

Her shout was muffled as she was driven underwater. For just a moment. Soon she was being lifted all the way out. Now she was screaming as much as her lungs would allow. Their grip only tightening as Alex was now being pulled out of the water too. She yelped at the realisation. She kept holding on tightly crying out,

‘Everything’s going to be okay! Don’t let go!’ their grip was slipping. Tighter still she tried to hold on, abandoning the lighter she grabbed on with her other hand. She still couldn’t hold on. The Foreman was using its other arm to pull itself back to the scaffolding. Her hands slipped and she fell back into the water.

Coming out of the water she gasped as she called out ‘Kaylie! Kaylie!’ There were no other sounds, Kaylie had stopped screaming. Alex froze in the moment. Tears began to roll down her face as she couldn’t control her sobbing. And that’s when she heard it. Crack. Leering just behind her. Fingers outstretched. She could feel it. Ready to grab her. She closed her eyes, Kaylie’s face came to mind.


Harley Kendrick is a writer based in Sydney Australia. The fantasy genre and its sub-categories are his favourite forms in terms of the stories he tells. Exploring unique and special worlds through the eyes of the characters he creates, readers are able to experience his creative visions.

MY MOTHER’S DAUGHTER, Karoul Riyad

I stared at her until her features turned into mush. It was always that way in the dark, her face inches from mine, and so much larger, her breath soft and warm on my face. I’d squirm there in the dark, neurotic about how heavy my head must feel on her arm. Sometimes I’d quietly move it out of guilt, but other times I’d leave it there for hours to see if she would say anything. But she never did.

I stare at her until her features turn into mush. It was always that way in our living room, harsh yellow light sharp against her skin. Her features swirl around in the pool of her face, the glimmer of sweat on her forehead a souvenir from her walk home from work. The last few months of manning the local bakery had started to set in, leaving her cheek with an almost permanent flour stain and caking her dark hair with a penetrating doughy smell. I could feel the leftover croissant bags she walked in with eyeing me from beside our front door, witnessing how our two figures studied each other from opposite ends of the room.

My gaze was returned, and I could see she was biting at the insides of her mouth, every so often taking a breath as though to say something, before letting it out in abrupt sighs and gritting her teeth.

I try to look at her eyes, but it appears they were already looking through mine, sticking out of her skull like apprehensive vultures, perched on the caves of her dark circles, bursting to swoop in, claw out, chew up. The nose between them protruded, equally as condemning. It sat at the edge of its seat, waiting to sniff out, drill in, burn up. Her nostrils were flared, and I could see her collarbones rise and fall with every breath, shaking the small cross that hung from the chain between them. The pink goo behind my own eyeballs began to spin.  

Some nights, as I lay there in the dark, I’d grow exceedingly aware of how small my body was relative to my mother’s. We’d be lying, one next to the other, and my feet would only just about reach her shins, my head tucked underneath hers.

I remember the nights she took me in like that and pulled me close, under the covers, to make sure I was warm and cosy. Protected. Snug. Nurtured. Untouchable… But it was the middle of summer. It was 40 degrees; I didn’t need to be attended to like that. Sometimes, it felt like she was trying to suffocate me. Sometimes she did, and I felt stifled and had to emerge, wake her up, arouse her from her slumber, stop the stifling warmth, pull the cover way down —below my belly button— and secure it in place with both my arms pinned on either side of my body. And I’d breathe again. And I’d sigh, realising how hot my cheeks are, how red my face must be, how it glowed red in the dark, a bizarre pearl in the womb of my room. She’d pull me in again, gentler this time, letting me be —so long as it was under her care. She’d always reach for me in her sleep, her massive limbs swallowing mine, almost hiding me completely. I can’t have been older than five or six.

When I first started school, we’d spend the first part of our mornings lined up and leaning against a fence, withering in the sun like dead flies on a windowsill, uniformed and still in our crooked single file. And there was my mum, across the playground, absolutely beaming, lingering long after all the other parents had left, to make sure I made it to my first class on time and that I was settling well.

She was the first to sign up for every parent-volunteer role imaginable. She never bothered anyone, and I often forgot she was there at all until I’d turn around mid-lunch when someone would point out how the canteen lady who suspiciously resembled me had been staring at the back of my head for the last twenty minutes.

Not even uni could stop her. If she couldn’t be there to make sure I was staying out of trouble, she made sure her warnings rang clear in my head no matter what. I’d collated a series of horror stories against everything —drinks from strangers, drinks from friends, drinks at all… It extended to dressing warm too, of course, and Covid only exacerbated this.

‘Put on a damn jumper, Jamilla, at the very least —please. You’re only hurting yourself.’

But there was a funny urgency in her voice I wished to further acquaint myself with, so I resisted. A jumper wasn’t going to stop me from catching the virus the same way her freshly squeezed orange juice every relentless morning wasn’t going to stop me from trying the drinks she’d vetoed years ago. I had a car now; there was no stopping me. I may have only driven about ten minutes away for a seventy-five cent soft serve, and I may have caught the leprosy she dreaded from a wholly different source many weeks later, but I’d set a new era in motion.

A new era that came crashing down when she decided what’s mine was hers the same way what’s hers was always mine —virus or not. She brought me soup in bed and regularly laid her hand on my forehead, breath held in anticipation, inner thermometer calculating, lips crocheting a soundless prayer. It was my first time seeing her cry. My forehead had told her fingers a number they didn’t like, and they took the heat and spurned a fire she contained until I was asleep. I woke up to the sound of her sniffling at the foot of my bed. I was so taken aback by this, I didn’t know what to do, and so I did nothing at all. I shifted slightly, feigning stirring, buried my head in the pillow face-first and went on pretending to be asleep…

So now I look at her. And now she looks at me. I don’t even really know what we’re fighting about, to be honest with you. This isn’t really about getting the job, or keeping it if I land it, or the late night shifts, or meeting Aidan again, or how he’s just like Thomas (and Thomas was just like dad), or how I didn’t consult her about either —or even about how I didn’t so much as tell her about them at all until they were both gone and I became a soppy, sobbing, wilting heap on my bedroom floor. I feel the distance swelling. I feel the distance between us grow, and I feel the distance between me and something else shrink, and I often can’t tell what it is. I can’t tell whether it’s my demise or my destiny, or whether either of those broad, vague terms really mean anything at all. Sometimes I want to scream and wrench myself away from her, leaving her empty, leaving her claw marks on me, claws severed finally, leaving nothing more than stumps, with deep, ever-raw gashes that bleed onto everything I put my own hands to. My bloodied hands. Literally red-handed. They’ll leave my fingerprints in the ink of her blood wherever I go, a stamp sealing the time the pearl broke the oyster that carried it so close. Warm and cosy, right? Protected? Snug? Nurtured? Untouchable? I vow to carry this guilt with me wherever I go.

But where to, big girl? I don’t want to go. Where else will I go? I can’t escape the thing I need to escape into the most —far, far from the beast that is this world, with its roaring engines and obscene fluorescent lights advertising cheap vanilla poison and charming, broken boys who flash their fangs at you in a smile and, in the next instant, are seen and heard no more, their faces foggy memories you could’ve easily conjured up one boring high school class you’re not sure you ever attended.

I used to think dying was the ultimate escape, but I now see how that isn’t an option for me. If the only memory I’ll live in is hers, I might as well live out here instead. I’ll live out here in a face like hers, with a nose like hers and hands like hers. We are the same down to our pinkies; they share the same swollen knuckle, the same inward bend. I’d hold onto hers with my own on the nights I’d been shaken awake with nightmares. They don’t feel that long ago. The nightmares certainly haven’t stopped, and they make me question whether I ever really grew past five or six.

I stare at her still. I look straight into the mush. There are signs of ageing in the mush, signs I’d never really noticed before. I let my eyes travel from the neck that never sagged like this to the lines on her forehead that only seemed to surface now. I did this to her. I did; I gave her one (just one, Jamilla?) too many nights of crying into her, one (are you sure?) too many arguments that ended with me getting my way anyway, one (million or so, it seems) too many heartbreaks when I’d look her in the eye and knowingly push her away. She never said anything then the same way she never said anything those summer nights as a child, when my head would get too heavy for her arm, when it would block the blood from flowing freely into her fingertips, when her entire arm would go numb but she’d stay silent so I could sleep comfortably.

At least she has laugh lines, right? She’d complained about those before, but I never really looked at them enough to scrutinise what she’d described as her face turning into leather. Seeing them now, I think her laugh lines are the most beautiful thing about her. I think they tell the brighter side of a darker story, like how laughing at her own horrible puns carried us through the ‘car-tastrophe’ that almost killed me last year, nearly robbing her of all she had. Seeing them now, I wouldn’t change a thing. I wouldn’t change the deep craters she has for dimples, or her thick dark brows that shoot up when telepathically communicating with me, or the warm brown of her eyes that she hated in her younger years compared to her sister’s bright viridian. I want to tell her that now. I want to speak into the mush I made of her, to tell her I’m sorry I’m the reason her eyes are more hungry than they are brown, even if it wouldn’t change much. Her eyes are not vultures; and they never were. Her eyes only ever looked in my direction to give. Her eyes withstand the pins and needles. Her eyes are glimpses across a crowded high school cafeteria. Her eyes are soup in bed. Her eyes are… flooding.

I don’t need the world to see that I’ve been the best I can be, but I don’t think I can stand to be where you don’t see me. And autumn comes when you’re not yet done with the summer passing by*

And here comes winter too. And after it will come the spring, and yet another summer, and the temporary absence of warmth never meant there was none to begin with. It doesn’t mean there isn’t more to come.

Her hungry warm brown eyes continue to swell, and the distance between us shrinks. I take her in under the harsh yellow light of our living room, and I tuck her head under mine. She lets me feel the weight of her head on my shoulder, and I hold still, inviting the paresthesia… Mama, I don’t think I can stand to be where you don’t see me. The pink goo stops spinning.

*Lyrics are from Mitski’s ‘Francis Forever’, from her album Bury Me at Makeout Creek, released by Warner Chappell Music, Inc, 2014.


Karoul (Carol) Riyad is a second-year student doing a Bachelor of Linguistics and Language Sciences & Bachelor of Arts with a Major in Creative Writing at Macquarie University. Her piece ‘My Mother’s Daughter’ was considered ‘Highly Commended’ for the Future Leaders Writers Prize 2022.

SHARDS OF GLASS, Lauren Grzina

The sinking sun casts golden light across the porch and front door. It makes the door seem haunted or spectral like it’s some gateway to another world. But it’s not; it’s just an old wooden door splintering at the hinges that creaks when it’s opened.

Without pausing I toss my bag into the living room and make my way into the kitchen. I open the fridge to find it almost empty. There’s three cups of my mum’s low-fat yogurt and two bottles of my dad’s expensive wine half-drunk that I’m not supposed to touch. I grab a yogurt cup.

Leaning against the fruit bowl on the kitchen island I find a small envelope with my name in my mother’s neat handwriting across the front. I untuck the note from the envelope:

We’ve gone to Melbourne. Back in 3 days.

No ‘love you’. No ‘sorry’. No warning. Just gone.

Rage heats my body and makes my head hurt. 

I open the fridge and without reading the label choose a wine bottle. I bring the bottle to my lips and down half its contents in three big swigs.

Something snakes its way up my leg. Long fingers that feel as thin as flower stems but as strong as chains. I look down and almost miss the shadow holding my leg. I try to tug my leg away from the shadows. It doesn’t budge. I grip the counter and with the violent intensity that could bring down a grown man, I kick my leg. The fingers around my ankle never slip, just tighten.

With just a swift tug it has me on the ground. The bottle shatters, scattering shards of glass across the kitchen floor around me.

It takes the opportunity to rapidly ascend my leg and wrap itself around my torso, like a boa constrictor. It drags me so quickly through the house that everything—the walls, the floors, the furniture—blends and folds together. I feel the kitchen tiles, the wooden flooring of the dining room, the shaggy rug in the living room. Above me the white ceiling blurs with the yellow hue of the lights, making a murky, streaky mess.

My thrashing only makes it tighten its grip around my waist and legs until I can’t breathe. My hands try to find a purchase on the shadow, but I can’t grasp it. My fingers fall through it like it’s not even there. But it is. It’s all around me, smothering me, crushing me.

It’s black and translucent and it’s pulling me towards an inky black hole in the middle of the living room, the depth of which I cannot tell. As it pulls me closer, I resist more, and it tightens more. My heart is galloping. The harder the shadow squeezes my waist, the more I feel like my heart is going to be squeezed out of me like a sauce packet.

Then I’m going down the inky black hole. Down. Down.

                                                                                                Down.

                                                                                                            Down.

                                                                                                                        Down.

                                                                                                                                    Down.

                                                                                                                                             Down.

I enter my house; the door opens with a long creak. The door closes behind me shutting out the noise from the streets, leaving me in silence.

Sometimes I think my house is haunted. I always feel like I’m being watched even when I’m alone. Like there is something tucked deep into the blackness of the shadows cast in the corners. The shadows seem to breathe, slightly expanding and contracting in intervals. Something was there, I was sure, coiled in the shadows waiting for a moment to spring.

I toss my school bag in the living room and go to the kitchen.

My parents’ note from the previous day is still sitting on the kitchen island. Shards of the broken wine bottle were scattered across the floor, but I fail to remember why.

I grab a yogurt from the fridge and sink to the floor, my back resting against the cabinets. Loneliness is a heavy feeling. A seed as heavy as a stone in the pit of my stomach.

I place my empty yogurt cup on the ground beside me, accidentally cutting my palm on the shards of glass littering the floor. I press my thumb against the wound which throbs against it. 

I rummage through my dad’s liquor cabinet filled with gifted spirits and expensive wines for a suitable disinfectant. Using one of my dad’s unopened bottles of alcohol as disinfectant would definitely piss him off when he gets home. 

I grab a vodka bottle from the depths of the cabinet, and I pour only a couple of drops of vodka on the wound, but the skin still burns and screams.

I examine the bottle, toying with the idea of trying some. I’ve tried sips of my dad’s wine or beer when I was younger, but I’d never had vodka.

Quickly I grab a shot glass from the cabinet’s top shelf and pour myself a little vodka like I’m expecting him home soon. Tentatively, I taste it. I savour the taste on my tongue.

I polish off the glass like it’s water. I like the way it burns. I pour my second. Third. Fourth.

Something nudges my heel, creeping up the side of my foot, rubbing against it and grasping my ankle. It is nothing but the shadow of a vine but has the strength of steel.

The thing from the shadows had finally made its move. Its eyes were on me, but now it is ready to attack.

It races up my leg. I try to kick it away, but it never budges, it just coils around tighter and tighter.

With its iron grip, it pulls me to the ground, wrapping a second arm around my other leg as it pulls me quickly down the hallway. The house goes by in a blur, I feel the terrain beneath my back change from tile to wood to rug. 

My phone slips from my dress pocket, I manage to grab it before I’m pulled away. I squeeze my phone in my hand as the shadow squeezes me harder. It moves further up my body and wraps itself around my chest, so I can’t breathe. I panic as I see a large hole opening up in the living room floor. The hole is so inky black I cannot tell its depth. I try to thrash against the shadow, but it doesn’t matter it still tightens and tightens and tightens.

My vision starts to spot, colourful explosions in front of my eyes and then the spots get bigger, and the house turns black and white.

With the palm of my hand, I accidentally activate the flashlight on my phone. Despite my failing vision, it burns my eyes, I turn it away and—

The creature recoils, just enough that I can breathe. I suck the air in like it’s water, and I’ve just journeyed the desert. The creature is still pulling me, but slower, almost cautious. 

I flash the light on the shadow again and it recoils again. So, I hold the light closer to the shadow and it jolts, detangling itself from my leg.

I get up off the floor, waving the flashlight towards the shadow like I’m wielding a sword. The shadow curls up on itself and slowly shrinks in size, as does the inky hole behind it.

I don’t wait to see them disappear. I run upstairs to my bedroom, slamming the door behind me.

Sometimes I think I’m haunting this house. Haunting my parents

I could stomp down the stairs, loud enough to shake the photo frames on the walls and they’d barely even take notice. It’s like any frequency of noise I make they’re not tuned into. When I come into the room my father will flick his eyes over me with the same disdain he regards the politics page in the newspaper with, but nothing else will move. When my mother has guests over, she doesn’t even look at me. If I make a noise and her friends look at me instead of her, she says, ‘Oh, just ignore her’, and laughs, high and shrill like silver bells. Like I’m just some poltergeist living in her walls.

So, I decided today I’m not going to go to school. My parents’ note was still in the kitchen, along with the glass shards. I saw them every time I went to the kitchen hungry only to remember there is no yogurt left. I ate it this morning, while I mulled over whether I should go to school.

The hunger pangs are sharp now though, so I wander into the kitchen and open the fridge just to be reminded there is still nothing.

I slam the fridge door closed and pull open every door and cabinet in the kitchen, pulling out glasses, bowls, plates, and cutlery to the floor on the hunt for any bit of food my parents’ might have hidden.

I eventually reach the bar cabinet and sift through all the labels in my father’s alcohol collection. I pick the Melbourne-themed souvenir shot glass—a toast to my parents perhaps—and the vodka bottle from the back of the cabinet.

But by the time I slug my fifth shot, I can feel something crawling up my leg and pulling at my ankle. I jolt backwards and the vodka bottle falls from the top of the cabinet and smashes around my feet.

The thing pulls me again, I look down, and see only a thick strap of shadow wound up my leg. I try to shake it off, but that only encourages it, as it wraps tighter and tighter and up and up my leg.

My heart thar-rumps. My face is flushed. I reach down to shove the shadowy creature, but my hands just can’t connect. With every kick and flail the shadow creature fights back harder and faster.

It gives one swift, hard tug and I fall on my back, my dress pockets emptying on the floor beside me.

I wildly search for something at my side to help me and my hand grasps at the little lighter. I flick the trigger and put the flame against the shadow. It jerks back. I go at it again, dragging the lighter across as much as I can reach. It rapidly detaches itself from my leg.

We stay apart for a just a breath. I close the lighter flame. It jumps at me and before I can react it wraps itself around my face. I can see and hear nothing except darkness. I try to scratch it off my face, but my hands can’t grasp it. I can’t breathe, the shadow covers my mouth and nose. I struggle to ignite the lighter flame.

I try once, nothing.

Twice—nothing.

Thrice and the flame ignites. I assume it touches the shadow, because it jumps back, so the spilt alcohol is pooled between us.

I touch the lighter to the puddle and it erupts into flames. I turn and run.

*

Ash falls like rain around me, speckling the street. The emergency vehicles cast red and blue hues over the neighbours’ houses. But nothing reflects off the blacken, razed mess of my former house.

Even with the air polluted with smoke, it was the first time in a long while I could breathe. The heavy smoke-filled air couldn’t hold me down. I felt light, my heart was soaring. I could barely feel my feet against the ground.

A taxi containing my parent’s perfectly manicured figures in the back pulls into the street. They jump out of the taxi before the taxi could come to a complete stop. From their frantic gestures, I can tell my mom was crying and my dad was angry. They only looked at the house though, they didn’t search the crowd for me. With the mess of people, vehicles, and equipment, it’s easy for me to slip away. I bet nobody will even realise I’m gone.


Lauren Grzina is a Sydney based writer. She was published in the 2018 KSP Ghost Stories Competition Anthology, Night Works, for her story The Midnight Creature. Lauren has also been highly commended for the Future Leaders Writers Prize. Lauren is often inspired by fantastical stories and otherworldly creatures and has a soft spot for morally grey characters.

DEATH COMES AROUND LIKE CLOCKWORK, Ahrya Reddy

Alvara’s father had always told her about the chest of gold coins buried within the sands of Selle island. He had intended it to be her inheritance one day. He had long since given up pirating but had kept a map to this last vestige of treasure that he promised to gift her come her twenty-first birthday. After his death, Alvara had not been able to find that map anywhere. She had lost both her beloved father and the promise of a future fortune that she’d dreamt about since she was a child.

Until one morning when she was walking through the fading night-time darkness along the solitary streets of Freywood harbour. Opposite the harbour, hidden in the alcoves of Dahlia Street stood The Dead Helm—a tavern bustling with travellers alongside villagers, mercenaries and the occasional guild meeting. Alvara worked there most mornings, heaping bowls with soup of stewed meat and vegetables. She plated the steaming piles of food and placed them on the stained wooden countertop and continued with the next batch of food. She heard of a docked pirate ship at the port and surveyed the room, a rowdy bunch of pirates sat at the centre of the room sculling tankards of beer.

She overheard a man wearing a long gold-threaded coat, she assumed he was the Captain, rambling to his crew. ‘It’s East of Selle. That’s where it’s buried, not West.’

‘Ay,’ The crew jeered.

She stopped ladling soup into bowls at the words of a foreign location. It was not so foreign to her. Selle’s coordinates were ingrained in her head.

Isn’t this the map father spoke of?

Alvara flung the ladle back into the steel pot and approached the congested table of pirates. She slapped the bowls down. There was a moment of startled silence at her intrusion, accusatory curses murmured from the crew.

Self-righteous pricks, she thought to herself.

The man who had been addressed just now as ‘Captain’ turned to his seatmate questioning the map’s presumed written clue.

Wandering and tumbling down the hills. The weeping willow sat still, she repeated in disbelief at the words spoken aloud. Father left it for me.

Alvara collected the empty tankards and returned to the kitchen, bumping into others on the way, ignoring their stares. She frantically placed the tankards amongst the organised chaos.

How did those low lives get my father’s map, Alvara wondered.

There was only one explanation, she decided as she buried herself away back in the kitchen. They murdered him. Alvara clutched a knife and buried it into the ingrained oak table.

She breathed in and out, not understanding the weight of her emotions. A grin curled on her face as she snatched the barman’s loose shirt, trousers and belt before she made her way out of the tavern.

She had a plan in mind.

*

Alvara scurried along the dockside in her loose attire, searching for the Captain’s vessel. She came upon a grand Brigantine ship, its beige sails billowing above its black hull. The vessel’s figurehead was a veiled skulled woman, a guiding eye for the men at sea.

Revenge of the Damned, she read on the ship’s side. Alvara continued and walked the gangplank onto the docked ship, surveying her surroundings.  She stood along the deck at the bow, a cool draught of air blew errant strands of her short onyx hair. The breeze howled in a low whistle. The ocean breathed, the surface rising and falling with rhythmic ease. The waves echo of the souls kept safe in its cradle of brine.

The only woman allowed on this ship is a dead one, Alvara threw her head back in frustration.

A commotion arose from the docks as the rest of the crew began trailing their way back onboard, the wooden floors creaked. Alvara winced. She reclined onto the beams and huffed.

‘A boy, Captain Warwick! Aboard our ship.’ Murmurs of confusion encompassed the crew as they saw a petite figure aboard their vessel.

Men were shoved to the side as the Captain ventured closer to Alvara. ‘What are you doing on my ship?’

‘To join your crew.’

‘You? A puny boy like yourself.’

 ‘I can pull my own weight,’ Alvara pushed off the beam, ‘I assure you, Capt’n.’

A man stood behind the Captain with the leather map grasped between his hands. Alvara viciously eyed it. Silence surrounded the deck in anticipation of his decision.

‘Fine boy! You can join. ‘If you slight me in any way,’ the Captain gesturing to the figurehead, ‘I’ll skull you like Old Ada over there.’ Captain nodded to the man by his side. ‘Fletcher here will tell you of your duties. Do you understand, boy?’

Alvara stared blankly at him. ‘Yes, sir!’ she mockingly asserted.

‘Captain, best be on our way to Selle now,’ Fletcher interjected, ‘You. Need to get you to work.’

Alvara’s mouth twitched at the Captain’s agitation. She hoped his head would soon get decapitated by a broken mast.

He wrenched his intense gaze off of her, turned to Fletcher and tore the map from his grasp. ‘Set the sails!’ he bellowed.

The crew flurried at the Captain’s instructions. Alvara stared at the leather bounded map clasped in the Captain’s hands soiled with dirt and remains of an early morning supper.

‘What’s your name? Or I’ll keep calling you boy,’ Fletcher interrupted Alvara’s thoughts.

Ace? That’ll do, she thought. ‘The name’s Ace.’

‘You’re the new Deckhand.’ Fletcher brought Alvara over to a bucket and mop. ‘Welcome aboard Ace,’ he pushed the mop into her chest, fixed his spectacles and left her with her duties.

Above, the clouds settled low and dark in the sky; a storm was making itself known.

Bloody four-eyed bastard. Alvara hauled the bucket, water splashing uncontrollably. She dipped the unruly mop into the bucket and got to swabbing the deck.

*

With rough waves ahead, the crew worked hard to rig the ship whilst Alvara was hard at work scrubbing the deck of dirt and build-up of salt. Her bones ached and creaked like the panelled floors she mopped.

‘Eh, boy over here. Over here,’ one of the riggers pointed to the front-left of the deck, ‘You missed a spot.’ He spat. The rest of the riggers laughed alongside him.

Useless, she kept swabbing the deck. Piece of shit. Up and down in a row. She tossed the bucket and strode to the rigging crew with the mop in hand. She tossed it in the air, caught it by the bottom and swept it under the offender’s legs.

THUMP.

She sneered. The crew stopped laughing, the rigger swore at her while the Captain watched from the upper deck. ‘Boy! Watch it.’

Alvara swivelled her smirk now a grimace. ‘I…’ Darkness engulfed Alvara, a storm of fury quelling her rebuttal.

‘Sails down. NOW.’

As they struggled against the gale, the gulls are tossed paper in a storm, flashes of white amongst the grey. Beneath them, the sea rises as great mountains, anger in the form of water, turbulent and unforgiving.

‘Ace! Continue swabbing,’ shouted Fletcher.

The crew began furling the sails, brine water crashed on the deck. The ship was rocking side to side like a baby’s cradle in the ocean’s palms. There was no end in sight. While the men around her ran around screaming orders or yelling desperate prayers, she found herself moving in slow motion. Not even a life-threatening storm could wrench her away from her revelation and grief, reliving the moment she had realised these men were her father’s murderers. She felt almost as hollowed out and hopeless as she had when she’d first come across her father’s cold body, so still and lifeless. Another wave crashed against the starboard side and sent another pirate crashing into her. Alvara managed to break their fall by bracing herself against the boat side railing. She was about to savagely rebuke the pirate when she noticed a golden coin dangling from his neck, hanging off a black thread. The shiny metal glinted in the moonlight. Her heart stuttered and she felt herself move headily past grief and into a mind-numbing rage. That was her father’s necklace. She remembered it as clearly as if it were yesterday.

She pounced forward, the pirate her prey as she clutched the necklace between her slender fingers, ‘Where did you get this?’ she hissed. She coiled the cord around his neck, restricting his airways, suffocating her prey every time he breathed. She straddled his slumped body on the ground, all his colour drained. She tore and draped the necklace around her own, fingers dragging against the engraved coin with her initials. The necklace reminded her of good memories amongst all the cruel ones she had.

They killed him. Alvara choked back her tears. Her bloodthirst was still unsated.

A hand clawed outside of the ship, another man dangled from the starboard side screaming for help. Alvara’s rage destroyed her from the inside, an inferno of emotions erupted as she dragged herself to the starboard in front of the screaming man. Her hot rage became a cold smoulder of suppressed anger. She plucked each of the man’s fingers off the railing—one, two, three…until he was engulfed by pacifying waves.

The ship battered and bruised from oncoming waves, the ocean poured countless tears at the feet of men onboard before calming at the arrival of nightfall. As the ship sailed on through the night, Alvara watched on in silence, her nails cutting into her palms, drawing scarlet blood from beneath. 

*

At dawn, the ship docked on the island of Selle with fewer men than they left with. Alvara trailed behind the Captain, the rest following behind, except for Fletcher who stayed on the ship.

‘Keep up the pace,’ the Captain said. He held the map tightly in his agitated state. The trek was long and his agitation grew with each failed attempt at locating the treasure.

Alvara and the entire crew followed through tangled roots and broken vines, winding their way through the jungle into an open space. The sun blinded Alvara as she stepped into patches of golden sand. The Captain procured a brass compass out from his coat. He located the East of Selle and trekked towards the awaited gold. Palms waved in the breeze as the crew strode between each massive tree. They came to a stop in front of boulders piled on top of each other, trickles of evergreen moss clinging to the crevices.

‘It says the treasure is here. Start digging.’ The Captain shut the compass and grunted in anticipation.

Alvara bounded over and started digging with the others.

Thwack! Thwack! Thwack! The crew dug with intensity, spades filling up with wet sediment, sand and rocks. Again, and again. A repetitive flow of digging continued, until, a sharp sound of metal slammed against a chest. Alvara looked on in shock. The Captain pushed through, tossed the map onto the ground and tugged the chest from below with the help of the crew. He grinned in glee as he unlatched the hook revealing gold coins, jewellery and a hardbound journal. Alvara’s eyes widened at the fortune. Her anger flared.

My father didn’t disappear.

Alvara’s hands tremored as she arose from the pit.

They killed him.

She grabbed a curved splintered rock as she approached the Captain from behind. ‘Do you know a W.H. Leighstone?’ she whispered. 

Before creeping up behind him and bashing the rock against his skull. He fell to the ground in pain, ‘You little shit.’ Warm blood trickled down his forehead.

‘You killed a man, Captain,’ she crouched down to be level with his gaze.

‘I’ve killed many men, boy,’ he croaked.

‘You killed my father. I’ll avenge him for it,’ she didn’t let him speak, ‘You got another thing wrong. I’m not a boy.’ She held him and impaled the rock down into his chest, repeatedly stabbing him in her rage, painting her face with his splattering blood.

The crew watched in horror at her wrathful vengeance. The Captain’s indistinguishable face was nothing but a battered carcass of flesh and bones. Alvara stood and faced the crew directly with blood dripping down her face, she grinned menacingly at them. She made her way back to the ship with the treasure in tow.

The Captain’s body was left to rot.


Ahrya Reddy is a poet and writer who is inspired by her culture and experience of being a South Asian woman of colour. She is passionate about exploring and celebrating queerness, mental health, and feminism within her writing. Outside of writing, Ahrya indulges in book-hoarding tendencies and excessive daydreaming.

A TRAVELLING COMPANION, Gemma Sandblom

This story contains themes of sexual abuse

‘The first time I saw the woman, she was standing across the carriage from me. She was gripping the yellow railing of the train. I remember because she looked dishevelled, and her hand had turned white from her grip. Her hair – fire-engine red – looked like she had been tugging on it. There were little fly-aways everywhere. When she saw me, she kind of tilted her head to the side and maintained eye contact. It was a bit creepy, to be honest. Her eyes had these giant bags that made her look like she had been punched in the face. It was her eyes that haunted me the most, I think.’

*

This train will stop at Lidcombe, Auburn, Clyde, Granville, then all stations to Edmondson Park and Leppington.

Lila was obsessed with the automated voice that sounded across the crowded carriage. She loved the way that it somehow managed to sound both like a woman and a robot. The way the female timbre mixed with something distinctly mechanical never failed to capture her attention.

Lila shuffled her feet on the stairs, accidentally knocking the man squeezed on the step beside her.

‘Sorry,’ she murmured. The train was so full that Lila almost wished she were brave enough to shove people until she could create a space for herself. Clenching her book against her chest and keeping her eyes planted on her feet, she tried to huddle closer to the stair railing instead.

Lila mentally ticked off the stations. Twelve stops to go before home. She would see about getting a seat by Yennora, and then there would only be five stops to go.  

This train will stop at Lidcombe.

Lila watched people shuffle about to let others alight. The man beside Lila slid to stand on the step directly behind her, letting a stream of people push past them. A large woman’s handbag slammed into Lila as she crashed down the stairs, a man with a satchel descending quickly behind her. Through it all, the heat and smell of the man behind her was uncomfortable. Having sprayed on too much deodorant, he smelt strongly of stale spice. The smell left a sour aftertaste in her mouth. Please move away.

As the passengers rushed off the train, Lila counted one, two, three, four people rushing up the stairs to fill any gaps that the exiting strangers had left. She squeezed one hand on the railing, the other mutilating the cover of her book. Please move away. But the man stayed pressed against Lila, moving impossibly closer to her.

Doors closing, please stand clear.

The doors slid shut, the train slowly pulling away from the station with a small jolt. She waited one, two, three, four, five, six seconds but the man made no move to slide back into the vacant position beside her.

Lila forced herself to loosen her grip around her book and take one, two, three shallow breaths. She wished that she were the kind of girl who would pull herself away. The kind of girl who spoke up for herself. The kind of girl who wasn’t afraid to tell people like track star Michael Blake to back-off, get out of my space. Lila felt a light brush of something warm against her backside. She sucked in a sharp breath, squeezing her eyes shut.

Behind her eyelids, large hands stroked, squeezed, and cupped. The hands swept across her back slowly, trailing down to test the waters. In that faux darkness, the train became the equipment storeroom. Lila had wanted to know the secrets that Michael had promised to share with her, but she hadn’t wanted to do more than make-out a little. She hadn’t wanted that.

No. She wouldn’t let her mind go there. She wouldn’t. The hand was just an accident. There were a lot of people in a small space, and everyone was frustrated about the ongoing train strikes. It was normal for people to brush against each other. The man was standing so close behind her that she probably imagined it. He wouldn’t do that to a stranger. It was fine. Perfectly fine. Then the swipe came again, firmer this time. The hand trailed teasingly from her bottom to her waistline, inching around her sides…

Lila’s eyes bugged open, her hand shoving hard against the railing to catapult herself across the staircase. Her side slammed into the wall with a thump. Dozens of eyes moved in her direction, but Lila found herself returning only one person’s stare.

Standing across the train, the woman’s brown eyes met hers without confusion or curiosity. Her eyes were black, as if she hadn’t slept properly in weeks. With just a small cock of the head, she stared back at Lila, taking in her heaving chest and damaged book. Their eyes only met for three seconds before the woman turned away. Loose strands of her bright red hair masked her eyes as she dropped her gaze to the floor, avoiding Lila’s own stare. Lila felt it was a dismissal and a condemnation all at once.

‘It’s just that your boundaries are so unclear, Lila. It’s hard to know what you want. If you were clearer, it wouldn’t be like this.’ That’s what Michael had said as he pulled up his running shorts. It’s what he had said when he saw her in the school corridor later that week. And again, when she was timing his races. It was what ran through her head when he had asked her out a month later in front of all her starry-eyed friends. Lila felt tears gathering behind her eyes. She swallowed once, twice, and pushed them back. The crowd had returned to their screens, ignoring her once again.

This was now, in a crowded train. Michael wasn’t here. Lila swallowed, running her eyes over all the people crowded together. All the eyes that had been staring at her just a moment ago. If she moved again, would they stare at her again? Would they know? Would they care? That woman even looked away. It was nothing to her. If it was nothing to her, it would be nothing to Lila. She couldn’t even blame the man, could she? It was probably an accident. He probably wanted to get off the train at the next stop, that’s all. It was nothing to be concerned about.

Doors closing, please stand clear.

Lila glanced to her right, but the man was gone. She glanced around the train trying to spot the man, or the small woman with severe, blackened eyes and fiery hair. But both were gone.

This train will stop at Clyde, Granville…

Lila tuned out the mechanical woman. She knew there were ten stops to go. Ten stops and then she could go home. Ten stops before she could wash today’s events away in a boiling hot shower.

Ten stops.   

*

‘I saw her over and over again for the next few years. Each time it felt like she stared at me for longer and longer. I would go home and have a shower, but I could never seem to wash away whatever it was she was doing to me. I would think about her, and then I would think about Michael and then I would ask myself “what is true?”. Was what Michael said true? Did I really bring it on myself? Let me tell you, the more that someone tells you that everything is your fault, the more you start to believe it. Over and over again I would convince myself that Michael was right – that that woman was right to turn away from me. But then I’d think about it some more and convince myself of the opposite. I felt like I was splitting apart, and I don’t know what it was about that woman that gave her the power to do that to me. To put me in that state. She never even spoke to me. Not until that last time.’

*

Lila strode onto the train, scaling the stairs in one, two, three, four steps. Quickly scanning the carriage for an empty seat, she slipped into the last row, eyes catching the woman that had followed her up the stairs. The woman swept past Lila, ignoring the seat left beside her. Lila placed her bag on the seat next to her, hoping that it would deter anyone else from sitting beside her. She kept her gaze away from the other passengers and was just pulling out her book to read when she heard a pointed cough.

Lila swung her head up to the person next to her, instantly meeting familiar brown eyes swamped in black. The bags under the woman’s eyes never failed to jolt Lila. Lila swept a few fallen pieces of hair back into her bun as she squirmed on her seat. The woman stared at Lila’s constant movement, refusing to look away as she usually did. Lila met the woman’s gaze, noting the red lipstick that had smudged onto a tiny tooth that had been ground down into almost nothing. The woman’s mouth twitched in response to Lila’s attention, and Lila could feel her own tongue sweep across her teeth. Still, the woman did not look away. Instead, for the first time, the woman began to speak.

‘My ex-boyfriend used to play this game, you know. He’d come home from work and he’d tell me all these stories. Some were true, some were not. Most of the time they were both. It was my job to figure out which parts were real and which were not.’ The woman tilted her head to the side, mirroring Lila’s perplexed expression. ‘But the asshole could never keep a story straight. How am I supposed to know what’s real when he can’t even stick to a single narrative?’

‘I-I d-don’t know. How?’ Lila’s heart slowed down in her chest.

‘You can’t!’ The woman cackled.

Lila shrunk back into herself, unable to take her eyes off the woman who seemed so dishevelled; like she was splitting apart at the seams. 

‘He didn’t like when I pointed that out. I was wrong he insisted. Wrong! If I got it right, all would be forgiven. If I got it wrong, he would walk out. He said it was to give me “space” to figure out my mistake.’ The woman’s face shut down now, lips stretching down into a frown, eyes flattening back into a dead expression. ‘Maybe I should have been smarter. Maybe I should have known he was lying.’ The woman paused, her eyes misting over as she finished softly, ‘I wish I hadn’t believed him when he told me that it was my fault. That my boundaries were unclear.’

I wish I hadn’t believed him when he told me that it was my fault. That my boundaries were unclear. Lila couldn’t breathe.

‘Hey! You’re scaring my kids. Go get help if you can’t help talking to yourself!’

Lila’s head whipped around at the raspy call. A broad woman on the other side of the train was sneering at Lila, her large hands forcing her son to look away. Her voice had sounded loudly across the space, turning heads in Lila’s direction. Lila’s chest started to burn at the attention of so many people.

Flicking her head back to the woman beside her, Lila was greeted with empty space. There was no one sitting next to her. Just her own reflection in the glass window, her own messy red hair, her own panicked brown eyes staring back at her above dark bags.

This train will stop at Granville.


Gemma Sandblom is an aspiring writer who spends her time reading, daydreaming, writing and studying – in that order. Her writing spans genres, but more often than not, it finds its home in fantasy, where she questions realities. You’ll find her patting her cats and listening to music.             

TO SLAY THE MONSTER, YOU MUST BE THE MONSTER, Annika Barton

The healer pulls out a pouch filled with small bottles and a dozen thumb-sized stones with blue carvings. Rune stones containing anti-venom, small samples of blood or root poison just in case the bite takes hold too soon. She works, hands steady holding the stones as they warm and begin to glow. Anti-venom is a silky substance, it doesn’t quite flow like blood. Under the rune’s magic, it quickens and seeks out the two puncture wounds.

It’s a delicate process preventing vampirism. The thick black venom starts to stream out. The little girl stirs only slightly, a faint moan as her head rocks gently to one side. Her eyelids flutter but do not open. The brown-haired woman in the corner, whimpers at the sight of her young daughter.

The situation could have been easily avoided had the healer been called for sooner. The disease of the Night Children, Vampires as the commonfolk called them, had plagued the dark times for centuries. Leagues of healers are trained each year in castles gifted by monarchs to control the spread.

But despite their training, healers cannot save a human once the blood fever takes hold.

No one had called for the healer at just past sunset when there had been a scream.

It had come from an alleyway off the twilight markets. A crowd had gathered on Crescent Street. Hushed whispering followed by fearful gasping. It was difficult to know what had transpired at first, but the arrival of the Night Watch enforcement gave it away. If the victim wasn’t dead, they would turn. And that was worse. Far worse. The markets were shut down. The wind music cut short and all the moon lanterns were blown out.

‘Not my little girl,’ A woman was muttering as she rocked on her knees. The bony, immobile hand of her daughter between her own. A messy streak of liquid black trailed down her daughter’s limp arm. The girl had left her mother’s sight for only a few seconds to give away some of her flowers. Now they were scattered, shredded petals, stems and thorns.

‘Ma’am, we need to finish her now.’ One of the watchmen stood only a step behind them. Respectful and cautious. The woman laid her head against her daughter’s chest, please, let there be a beat still.

The woman let the girl’s arm drop.

The watchmen reached out, crystal stake in hand–a finger twitched.

‘Wait, stop,’ The woman said. Dead bodies don’t twitch like that. ‘I want the healer. Now.’

Why they had not brought the girl straight to the Mage Castle to save time was beyond the healer. She’d been able to smell the victim before she saw her. The scent of rotting flesh and dried blood. It infiltrated her long-beaked mask made of the same crystal as the stake at her side. If the victim was already detectable by her scent…they should have staked her.

The healer gently brushes some stray hairs from the young girl’s face. Her hand catches a bloody petal in the strands of golden blonde. The healer lightly rubs it between her fingers and feels her long crystal beak mask grow heavy. She examines the wrist, angling to better see the slowing trickle of black venom. It was slowing too soon.

The healer looks to the mother in the corner. When she had arrived at the markets the older woman had had the young girl clutched tightly to her body, a limp mess of wild hair stained with dark splatters and dried-up trails of blood. The mother had looked up, a heavy plea in her eyes. Save her, save her, save her.

She hadn’t loosened her hold when the healer first looked at the two needle-thin puncture wounds on the wrist of the girl’s right arm.

‘I only looked away for a moment, there’s still time. I’ve seen it done before. I know you can save her.’ The woman hadn’t looked at her, continuing to rub gentle circles into the bleeding wrist. The healer felt the heat burn behind her mask. She didn’t like hesitation. She had done it before, it had been done to her before.

‘It may be too late,’ She had told the mother. ‘If the venom has spread too much it will be better if they stake her–,’ The healer paused and watched her continue to trace circles on the wrist. Pulses are strong in the wrist so surely…the mother knew it was too late.

‘Is there somewhere we can take her?’ The healer had asked.

They found a nearby storage room filled with bags of grain and shiny bottles. Creaky wooden beams lined the high ceiling forming long shadows in the candlelight.

The mother went to stand in the far corner of the room as the Watchmen had laid the girl onto a workbench. Bits of rosemary and melted wax stained the surface but it failed to block out the thickening scent of rotting blood.

The healer dismissed the Watchmen.

The last trickles of black ooze out of the small punctures in the girl’s wrist. When it comes to a stop, the healer huffs a gentle sigh. This is the fourth child this week. The first three had died, two from the transformation failing and the third had needed to be staked by the Night Watch. The healer attended to all of them though, it was her duty but she was growing tired all the same, and there was only so much death she could witness. Especially when all the targets were children, all attacked close to dusk followed by a delay in communication. There were never any parents nearby either, except for now. The healer doesn’t hide her observation of the girl’s mother in the corner this time.

‘Usually, sires are faster at taking their prey. This one,’ The healer waves her hand towards the girl’s still body. ‘Was not. Saving her is beyond even my capabilities I’m afraid.’

Silence follows. The healer continues,

‘You said you only looked away for a moment and yet the Watchmen told me they were ready to stake her on sight.’

More silence.

‘Tell me, what mother lets her child bleed out on the street, a slow and painful death, refuses to let someone end her suffering and then pleads for her to be saved?’ The healer raises her head, the long sharp beak of her crystal mask on full display.

‘You are awfully quiet for someone who screamed so loud half the village came to your aid.’ The healer stands from the workbench and begins to circle the room. ‘But, it wasn’t you that screamed, was it?’ The silence in the room thickens. ‘You were happily waiting in the privacy of the alleyway, weren’t you? Until the venom reached her heart, and she became just like you.’

The corner had been a good choice for the mother. The light did not quite reach it. Making it dark enough to conceal the colour of her eyes.

Red.

Like the blood dripping over the sides of the workbench. Rimmed in black same as the venom mixing with the blood. The healer continues to slowly approaches her.

‘The only thing I do not understand is why you would allow yourself to be so…sloppy. Stealing another person’s child for your own is risky at best–’

The vampire woman strikes.

Hands reaching forward to grasp the healer but the crystal beak mask turns towards her, a distance forced between them. Vampires are killed by the crystal of stakes and burn at the proximity of it.

The mother is no different.

‘She is my child. Mine!’ The vampire seethes.

‘But you did not raise nor birth her yourself.’

‘I have given her a new life. Birthed her into the night!’

‘Why take a child that is not truly yours?’ The healer inquires. She pulls out the stake from the inside of her robes. Her gloved hand gripping the warm crystal, preparing to strike.

‘Because they killed my Alyson! We were happy and they plunged their wretched stakes into her heart!’ The vampire woman’s hair waves in front of her face. Dark brown curls so unlike the golden blonde strands of the dead girl on the table.

‘So you suppose it’s only fair you take another child for your own? A responsible mother would have been faster to sire. Now the girl is dead. Her real mother probably crying somewhere for her missing child.’  The healer matches her pace to that of the vampires. They prowl around the workbench with the dead girl’s body.

‘You could have saved her.’ The vampire says. ‘I know you healer. Clarisse of the Castle. I’ve heard the whispers of how all your patients are saved from the graveyard.’ The healer keeps her eyes on the vampire. She ignores the stirring she can sense from the girl on the table; the pumping blood in her veins. 

‘Not everyone can be saved.’ The healer rushes around the table. Arm moving to strike but the vampire moves faster, dodging, avoiding the healer’s mask, the vampire rips the stake from her. She throws it across the room, it clatters against the floor and slides too far out of reach.

The vampire reaches towards the mask and pulls, the ties keeping it in place give. Cool air rushes against her burning skin, raw from the heat of the crystal against her deathly pale skin. The vampire starts to laugh.

‘Oh how mighty you are healer. I cannot have a child to replace the one stolen from me and yet you,’ The vampire points at her, at the healing welts on her face. ‘You are allowed to exist behind that mask, lying to everyone.’

The healer waits patiently, not for the vampire to finish but for the girl on the table to rise, for the stirring blood in her limp body to come alive again. She cannot see it but the healer can feel when the blood reacts to her call. The air changes, feverish and ready.

The vampire does not feel it, too enthralled by her new prey. Nor does she suspect when the once-dead girl-now-alive stalks behind her and picks up the discarded crystal mask with a beak sharp as any stake. The healer waits and doesn’t move her gaze from the vampire as the girl comes up behind her attacker and strikes.

The girl’s strike isn’t clean but it’s enough for the healer to spin the vampire and push her to the ground arms pinned to her sides. The vampire struggles, but with two sets of arms holding her down she cannot rise.

The girl pulls the mask out from the vampire’s back and strikes a second time.

True to the heart.

The vampire mother stills.

The girl holds a torn flower in her hand.

It had been in her pocket when she woke to the sound of hissing and taunting. The vampire with brown hair that had offered to buy some flowers was there, her sharp teeth exposed. The girl looks down at the puncture wounds already healed.

‘The scar is permanent but you won’t suffer another like it.’ The healer was by the fire burning what remains of her attacker were left. The girl looked at the flower again, to the thorn on the side and just to be sure, pricked her finger on it. Sure enough, the wound closed cleanly like it had never been. Like the burns from the mask had faded.

‘Why did you save me? How did you know she wasn’t really–,’ The healer cut her off.

‘You already know.’ The girl did. The burns on the healers face, the voice she had heard, wake up, wake up, sounded exactly like the healer did now. The healer had saved her, with her own venom when her attacker’s venom failed to take hold.

The healer throws the last bit of the mother into the fire. She could not hide it now. The burns her translucent skin endures under the mask, the red of her eyes, and the incisors that poke out when she begins to talk

‘The woman wanted me to save you. I’m a healer, so I did.’ The healer moves to the door. ‘It’s time for us to go hunting, can’t have your blood fever catching you on your first night as a vampire.’

The healer puts the mask back on, ignoring the burns that begin to form.


Annika Barton is enthralled by storytelling and language. She is most likely to be found in her room reading about a fantasy world when not playing netball or streaming her latest television obsession. She hopes to eventually publish these fantasy worlds when not debating where to correctly put the comma.