Spring2022

The chimney sweep is six years old,
His lungs are clogged with soot and tar.
Three hundred years have passed us by,
Yet man has not come as far.

The child is eight years old,
She sits forlorn and binds yet another shoe,
The tyranny of distance, extinguishes her existence,
Long before ‘the product’ reaches you.

They shall not feel cool gurgling water,
They shall not be bathed in glorious sun,
Trapped in dark factories, serving the rich,
Their conveyor belt of sickening, saccharine fun.

No longer nature’s happy students,
Poor lost exquisite creatures,
Alas, man’s vain attempt at ‘progress’,
Has destroyed his greatest teachers!

For the bright blue lake, they never swam in,
This vast greenery, towering trees; they never climbed,
Just like the forgotten young ones,
Have withered too and died.

Was this an accident of God or destiny?
A baffling act or deed?
No! Vain man designed this horror,
To appease their lust and greed!

All the tea in China,
Glistening gold wealth beyond compare,
Should not be cause enough for a righteous man,
To harm a single strand of a precious child’s hair.

How could power and status,
Justify this in any way,
Destruction of the natural world,
On any given day?

How strange the nature of man,
That he still refuses to see –
That all the answers lie within sublime nature,
And the love for humanity!

Earth’s our hotel and we’re overusing the services,
and refusing to perform extra maintenances.
The engine’s overheating and the adapters are burning.
Our supplies are disappearing.
But we’re standing on the sidelines cheering.
Those trees aren’t reappearing as we can’t stop interfering,
The earth retaliates, on us the tables are turning.
Nations aren’t listening, they seem to be hard of hearing,
We need the Earth, like a child would need its mother.
In the burning forest the leaves are falling,
In the cities our leaders are stalling,
We wage war over who gets to wage war over nature more,
If space is a supermarket, then we’re looting this store,
It seems as if there isn’t much more,
Aisles of products we seem to waste.
If we want to fix it, we must make haste.
We take too much and the Earth can’t do this evermore.
Our stars preach to us not to waste,
But they get to those speeches on a Giant beast of steel
That cut through the clouds and replace them with their burnt-up fuel,
Under those planes trees are falling in the fires, creaking and groaning then snapping and cracking,
How are They so two-faced?
Is that not absolutely insane?
Mother Earth feels disgraced, she looks at us like a sickness (with disdain),
Now the forests will hold in all their sorrows, misery and pain,
And wait patiently for the rain,
A hotel will crumble when the guests leave,
But Earth will not.
Or maybe we aren’t the VIP guests,
They’ve yet to come and we’ll get kicked out for making a mess.
We still have some time, but that doesn’t mean you shouldn’t stress.

I open my eyes,
Hand lifts, watch displays.
Time, far too late.
Mind adrift in haze.

I look to my little piece of sky,
Lost in its deep indigo, I find comfort outside my window.
Those two lone stars entrance.
I lay there, watch their brilliance ebb and flow.

I find peace there in my little piece of sky.
It comforts me but I don’t know why.
I watch as the night does progress,
Those two brilliant pearls ease my stress.

As the night matures, I feel so do I.
I lie, captivated by my little piece of sky.
I wonder if this night is endless, if morn will ever come,
Will the horizon ever be graced by sun?

I lay there watching as the clouds wander across.
I watch while the deep indigo lightens as we approach dawn.
Now, I feel it, what I’ve been waiting for all night,
Finally, after all this time, I yawn.

I drift off, lose my grip.
Into slumber I slip.
I close my eyes,
Just as the sun begins to rise.

The bright and full moon raises
Like a guarding light, hanging in the sky
It’s time for reunion
Wherever you are, whatever you’re doing
If you see the enticing moon
Beckoning you to go back home
No matter how high and treacherous the mountain is
No matter how wide and deep the ocean is
You have to go back home

Spend more time with your family that you ever do
The reunited family is delighted
It is painful to be divided
Spend more time with your family
Life is short but the connection of family is long
Don’t leave regrets behind
it’s agony to eat mooncakes individually
It’s agony to admire the graceful moon individually
Listen to me
Enjoy the time with your family

Some club remix of some Top 100 song unwound every possible way to describe a pretty girl while the mild house party reached an anti-climactic apex as anyone could have assumed it would. It was the same ensemble of unwinding kids partying, the same marble mansion of a house, the same disputed beer pong teams, the same lonely girls dancing together with the tattoo covered DJ.

She had lost sight of her friends, so she put one leg over the other and leaned back on the midnight-black fabric of the excessively wide single-seater couch. She held her drink like the Hollywood girls, looking as though she had seen things and done things – awesome and awful. Maybe it would make her look worthwhile, like someone mysterious and in control, self-assured even, someone a person would want to get to know. She didn’t find the same worth in infiltrating groups of drunk guys to seek their validation as the other girls did, yet her tipsy monologues which edged on hubris undoubtedly turned every head near her. She was an antonym to how they dressed, spoke, and treated each other. She knew this, and it did nothing but feed her opinionated, cynical views. The guys in baggy skate pants and shabby explicit tees found her apparent sophistication somewhat satirical, while the others just ogled at her elegant jawline complimented by a backdrop of platinum blonde hair reaching down to her exposed mid back, all enveloped by a black corset. Her friends regularly checked on her, but no matter how nicely all these people treated her, there was not an ounce of genuineness in their manner. She knew they were nasty people because of the way they treated the other girls.

On weekdays her top-of-the-range earphones would play some sort of mainstream pop which told her how good it is to be young – as she leaned against the bus window, paraded through the school gate, even in every second classroom, and then while she stared at the dimly lit roof on sleepless nights. Sometimes she was lucky enough that the piercing, erotically pitched vocals would drown out the anxious tornado of thoughts on the opposite side of her eardrums. On weekends her portable speaker would keep her company in her enormous house. It would give a platform to people like Mac Miller, softly vocalising over low acoustic ticks and tacks, “I’m in love with the way you say my name, every time it sounds brand new.” And she would sing every word.

Her pseudo behaviour at school had made a good impression on the nasty girls and she grew close with them. Every Saturday night they would go to the unimpressionable lukewarm parties that she used to feel honoured to attend; she would dance a bit and flirt a lot. Her mother used to jokingly tell her, “The way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.” Nobody taught her how to cook so instead she rested her velvet red nails above their waistbands.

He was the first one to kiss her on more than one occasion. He enjoyed the intricate things in life, he liked slow piano rap because it let him pick the lyrics apart and nod approval to their layered meanings. He would be outside her house every spare moment he got; he didn’t need to call her or ring the doorbell. Every time she would already be running down the long-twisted driveway. Sometimes she was running from her parents’ questions, sometimes because it was a rainy winter – she didn’t think umbrellas suited her outfits, but mostly because of what she associated with that boy’s front passenger seat. Every time the car would pull away with a jolt of adrenalin as a beat, an orchestra, a guitar solo and everything in between would give them an excuse to avoid talking. They would do everything they could to stay together without having to admit they just liked the company. These days where time flew consisted of sunrises, sunsets, and spontaneous hikes to the most pointless places. Taking turns on connecting to the speaker was a quintessential part of those days that were unique to them.

When they finally did talk it would end up as a chaotic series of complaints about every factor of her horrible life. He didn’t think “only” getting a second-hand Jeep was worth crying about. She always wanted to be somewhere else it seemed, probably with someone else. He bit his tongue and twisted the keys in the ignition; maybe the purr of diesel would dull her sharp voice. It seemed ironic that when the distorted stereo came to life a syrupy, soothing violin reached out in conjunction with a raspy male voice, “A lot of people just focus on how empty their glass is.” She jumped to skip the song.

While he watched her walk backwards up her twisted driveway, preciously waving at him, his mind raced; for once he didn’t wait for her to get to the door before pulling away. A sweet female vocal cord strummed, “They’ll never know you the way that I do.”

He never waited again.

He thought she might notice, but she was too abstract, too distantly absorbed. He would go to her house less and less. She would walk down the driveway. Sometimes he had to knock. He didn’t know if he loved her or the routine, her or the polite hugs, the free compliments, the effortless kisses.

A mercurial rock tune buzzed: “Unapologetic apathy.”

When another Saturday turned bland, he went to get her. Nobody was running down the driveway, nobody answered the door, the phone went straight to voicemail.

That was it.

A left turn set him home-bound, stereo blaring.

A prepossessing rhythm went, “Beauty in the struggle, ugliness in the success.”

A first exit in the roundabout. He should be putting his fist through a wall.

An electric tip and tap, “It’s a place you hate to know so well and yet feel so unknown.”

A red light. He’s not even upset.

A timeless guitar strum, “You’re just a sad song with nothing to say.”

A green arrow. He’s relieved.

An encapsulating melody, “How are you the devil rebuking the sin?”

A right turn. She is probably someplace else, with someone else, but she’s not his problem now.

A tune worth humming to, “A teenage vow in the parking lot, ‘till tonight do us part.”

A sharp left into his parking spot. He pulls the keys out of the ignition. The music stops.

A memory for late, lonely nights. That’s all she is.

From early mornings,
to late evenings,
the long hours, never boring.
From looking out the header window,
the endless crop heads there to be harvested.
As you step out, the heat makes you skip a beat.

Bare barren fields of brown across the plain,
then the new seed sprouts after a rain.
The soil seems to boil with lush greens.
The fields get greener and look cleaner,
when the crops start to sag you will have a full bag.
The field is diminished until it is it finished and
the heat makes life start to retreat.

’Roos hopping across the countryside,
cockatoos flapping helplessly in the strong breeze.
When the old men begin to wheeze working with sheep,
In contrast to the beep of some posh bloke’s Jeep,
the city is no contender,
to the bender that home is.

Going for drives in the old farm banger,
Watching wedge tail eagles dive on helpless quail,
listening to rabbits’ wail in drought.
There will be a lot of doubt farmers might fight,
that’s why they sit trying to crawl out of their plight.
The grit of teeth, pushing through the pain,
when the rain comes all commotion until it drains away
ending the emotion.

Kids going away to school,
being pulled away to be educated.
But always dedicated to the farm,
The freedom, the life, the conflict.
Driving over a field makes you calm
therefore,
I love the farm.

I like being in the Kimberley because I feel wild,
a great place to grow up as a child.
All the land is beautifully styled,
being a Kimberley boy.

Fire’s burning a dry wood,
snuggling down in my hood.
Under the stars feeling good,
being a Kimberley boy.

Wednesday morning, we answer the call,
and we all race off to football.
When we get bored,
we’re off to basketball,
being a Kimberley boy.

Going hunting for Goolel on the boat,
If you miss him in the throat,
One harpoon to the back makes him float,
being a Kimberley boy.

I like to know my culture is protected,
Never feel like it could be affected.
Always feel like I am connected,
Being a Kimberley boy.

Saltwater blues and desert red,
My culture’s language is in Lool’s head.
In his footsteps I want to tread,
being a Kimberley boy.

Bare foot warrior, feet tough and browned,
step by step I hear the sound.
Damper foot from the Kimberley ground,
Because I’m proud of being an Indigenous Kimberley boy.

(Goolel = turtle and Lool= grandfather)

Jeong-Wu and Seo-Young Choi lay in a peaceful slumber, dreaming they were in a land far away from the carnage they endured every day. The darkness shattered instantly, crumbling around their feet. A burst of movement and flash of light pulled Jeong-Wu onto his feet as though he was a puppet on a string. Pulling Seo-Young up with him, the pair scurried out of the house, snatching clothes wherever they could. The frontline was edging closer each day, and tonight was the night the advancing People’s Army made a push for their town. It was pandemonium outside – car horns blasting and children screaming and the distant yells and flashes of light – gunfire. Clamping his hand to the cold steel of a passing truck, Jeong-Wu reached out for his wife with his other hand, pulling her up onto the footboard. She leant onto his shoulder and sobbed, supporting her swollen stomach with her free hand.

The hitchhike to the airport, frenzied race through customs and rush to find a seat on a plane passed in a blur. The flight east was uneventful, their entire life contained within a single plastic bag – some currency, valuables and clothes. The plane touched down in Houston, marking the first moment either of the Chois had travelled outside of South Korea. Stepping off, the first thing that hit them was the heat radiating off the tarmac. They hopped into a taxi, passed some foreign banknotes to the driver, and told him their new address in broken English. The taxi dropped them off, initially at the wrong address, then at their new home, a dingy apartment on the outskirts of town, and slowly rolled off, coughing.

The Chois did what little they could to refurbish the house, peeling off the mouldy wallpaper and paying a plumber to repair the flooded toilet. Seo-Young’s swollen ankles and back-ache prevented her from doing much more than passing her husband nails. After many hours of hard physical labour, their work had paid off, and their house became a suitable environment to raise a child.

Four months later Do Yun was born, a happy, healthy girl. Their grey world suddenly seemed to have colour for the Choi family, and they lived each day with a newfound vitality. Although they were dirt poor and living in government housing, the Choi family’s optimism never wavered. Jeong-Wu saved up the little spare money he had for a second-hand Suzuki, and spent what he had left painting it red, white and blue, the colours of the Korean flag, to display their heritage.

Do Yun was raised in a traditional Korean manner, bringing kimchi and tofu in her lunchbox to school. The other students ridiculed her, asking her, “Why don’t you eat American food?” Do Yun responded as her parents taught her to, replying with, “Why don’t you eat Korean food then?” Secretly, Do Yun thought the other kids were right, and she longed to sink her teeth into a hamburger or pizza.

This opportunity soon came, as her classmates invited her to go to McDonalds after school one day. Do Yun could think of nothing she’d rather eat than a piping hot hamburger and did something she’d never done before – lied to her mother. Do Yun texted her mother from her Blackberry, as a smartphone would ‘corrupt her brain’ (according to her parents at least) and told her she was staying at the library to do some extra study.

Do Yun and her classmates walked to the nearby McDonalds, changing her leather school shoes for a pair of Converse sneakers that her friend had bought, but were too small to wear. Full of anticipation, her mouth began watering like a dog smelling fresh meat. The warmth and smell when she got inside was akin to stepping into the gates of heaven. The smells of oil and meat lingered in her nostrils and everywhere she looked suddenly had a golden tint to it. Do Yun looked up at the electronic menu above the counter, flashing a heavenly meal and replacing it with a new one as fast as she could look. At last, she locked eyes with a ‘Big Mac Meal’, and knew instantly that that’s what she would order.

Her meal arrived faster than she believed it was possible to prepare food and she sat down at a nearby table to indulge. Her fingers trembling in anticipation, she picked up the soft, light-brown bun and sank her teeth into it. Fireworks exploded on her tongue and a fanfare of trumpets played in her ears. The taste was unlike anything Do Yun had ever eaten before, and she greedily took another bite before she had finished swallowing. The sweetness of the bun, tartness of the pickles and punch of the beef patty coalesced into a symphony of flavour that took Do Yun off her feet. “Much better than tofu and kimchi,” she thought.

She took the meal outside to enjoy in the summer sun, tucking into the golden-brown fries as she walked. Her heart stopped and her blood ran cold when she saw the blue, red and white Suzuki driving past, brake suddenly and the window roll down. Her worst fears had been realised – Seo-Young had caught her daughter red-handed, lying to her face, eating McDonalds and wearing American sneakers. Infuriated, Seo-Young grabbed her daughter by the arm and frogmarched her to the passenger seat, her cheeks flushed with embarrassment. The Big Mac Meal lay upturned on the ground.

The tension was as thick as syrup in the car on the way home, Seo-Young visibly irate at her daughter. Her hands gripped the steering wheel so hard her knuckles turned white, and her breathing was fast and aggressive. Without warning, she pulled into a side street, parked the car and began crying. She knew Jeong-Wu would also be distraught and didn’t know how to break the news that despite their best efforts in raising Do Yun as a Korean, they had failed. “Maybe,” she thought to herself, “we should’ve got the car painted in different colours.”

I watch as my comrades take their last breath,
The clanking of the bayonets on the metal walls,
The silence of the morning broken by the thick fog,
One, Two, Three, the whistle blows, and I play my last tune.

All Blue Bonnets Are Over the Border I play,
The swirling sound of bullets skimming my teeth,
The ear-piercing sound of mortars hitting the ground,
Staring dead in the eye of the German soldier.

I charge the trenches with no fear, remembering my family back home,
My bag rips on the rust, cold barb wire,
I keep blowing, playing my last breath,
I get to the edge staring down the barrel of a Howitzer,
I take my last breath…

BAM
Sound drifting out of drones,
If a man ever deserved a Victoria Cross,
He did.

They came to be since the dawn of time,
First as two.
Two becomes four,
And four became more.
Like the leaves of a sapling.

Mankind,
They achieved objectives that were meaningless,
Which brought them to worlds of beyond.
We are a construct of righteousness, wickedness and equalizing morality.
It is what make us human.

Man,
They expanded across the earth,
Inhabiting every place there is.
From the dunes of blazing heat,
To the summits of frosty cold.
From the towns of thriving life,
To the lands of desolate ruins.

It takes on many forms,
physically and psychologically.
They hold a moral obligation,
which determines what makes us bold, brave and boisterous.
And what makes us fearful, feeble and fragile.

Humans,
Each one has a personality, fragments of strength and flaws.
One side is the dignity and superiority,
and one side is the darkness of foul iniquity.
Yin and Yang,
Powerful and Puny,
Good and Grim.

Stories,
They warp the mind.
Fooling us to believe there are beings of pure virtuousness,
And beings of pure repugnance.
In the end, they make up the very concept we call ‘Human’.

Gerald stood quietly in solitude, leaning against his house, sombrely staring at his wheat crop, dried out after another year of drought. It dawned on him that money was going to be a problem again this year. This wasn’t the life he envisioned for his son, Jeff. It was getting to the point where they had to limit the amount of food they ate. Much to his reluctance, Gerald could sense that he had to take a chance and get a job in the city if he and his son were going to have a future.

On the day of their departure, Gerald and Jeff closed their house door for the last time and trudged down their gravel driveway to his trusty old, rusty Ute that was waiting for him. Suddenly, he was confronted with an onslaught of noise. Turning his head in shock, it looked like the whole town had come to see him off, but there was one distinct voice amidst the others. “Hey Gerald! Did you pack that beanie I knitted for Jeff? You never know, it can get quite cold out in the city, he’ll need all the comfort he can get!”

Gerald turned around. It was Jasmine, grinning from ear to ear. Jasmine was essentially Jeff’s surrogate parent, mostly because his mum ran away when he was ten. Unfortunately, she couldn’t come with Gerald and Jeff to the city, as much as she would have loved too. It was too much of a commitment for her, but she supported them, nonetheless.

“Yeah, Jasmine, you know I wouldn’t forget it!” boomed Gerald. He said it in a sort of playful and sarcastic manner, as if it was appeasing for him to toy and joke with Jasmine. As Gerald and Jeff were preparing to board the car, Gerald turned back one last time, to truly soak in and relish the last moments he would have at his hometown, lit up by the dappled sunlight. The father and son were initially reluctant to leave, as they felt a close attachment to their town, and couldn’t stand the thought of being separated from their community. However, he was immediately assured when, instead of convincing him to stay because they couldn’t bear it themselves, which was true, they instead encouraged him to pursue and live his future life in the city, saying “It’ll be good for you and Jeff, plus we’ll finally get to live in peace for once.” That made Gerald laugh at the time. Now, the mere thought made him feel verklempt, as the voices he had heard all his life grew muffled over the loud engine as his car sped away.

When they were near the city, Gerald was shocked at all the glamourous cars that were zipping passing them, dazzling their senses. Even the engines sounded trimmed, refined, and immaculate. Eventually, the father and son arrived at the city. Gerald took in his surroundings in awe. There was a cacophony of noise from the city surrounding Gerald and Jeff, unwinding its unnatural disharmony and demeanour, influencing all those who listen. The city seemed huge compared to his hometown, having incredible skyscrapers towering over everything, forming a complex labyrinth of concrete. The glaring sun ricocheted off the walls of glass high above into the valley below, filled with people and cars and buses and lights and noises, bringing a striking glow to the city. The city felt like it was humming. A machine.

Soon Gerald and Jeff stumbled across a luxury item store that was selling exquisite items they had never seen before. Entranced, they both turned towards the store, watching a woman with dark shades and a long broad-brimmed hat exit, making clinking noises from the metal she wore as she walked, complimented with a strut from her high heels, seemingly oblivious, neither caring, of the two people staring at her. Curious, the father and son walked into the store, while glancing at the delicately displayed items for sale on either side of them, reinforced with thick glass, and accompanied with cameras in every crevice of the store. Gerald and Jeff admired the lavishly polished floor tiles and, at the same time, also looking at their dusty old boots, leaving imprints on the floor, mocking them as if they were unworthy of this luxury.

Soon, they heard someone coming towards them. It was an attendant. There was a sharp “Hi” from the attendant as the father and son wandered through the store, glancing at everything for sale, tightly secured behind glass cabinets. Gerald asked the assistant a question: “So, how much does this one cost exactly?” He noticed his son’s curiosity towards one of the items.

“This, Sir, is an example of our finest work, the new TX8100 model. I can guarantee that you will be delighted with this new product. It is not uncommon for our customers who buy this model to not want to part with it, because the TX8100 is the latest thing out there.” The assistant proudly jutted out his chest.

“Yes, that is all good, but can you please tell me what the price is?” Gerald was getting slightly annoyed.

“Oh, sorry Sir, our customers don’t normally ask for the price tag, but I believe it is two thousand dollars.”

“Two thousand dollars! Good grief! Who would pay for that?” shrieked Gerald as they left, with the assistant finally retreating from them in defeat as they did so.

Gerald and Jeff soon realized after leaving the store that they stood out in their overalls, while everyone else was wearing suits and formal attire. This dawned on Gerald as he chuckled to himself.

“Come on Jeff, we should get changed into something that blends in a bit more than this… Hopefully I can get a job here and then one day I could maybe afford that 2000 dollars for you”.

Jeff smiled warmly. “Thanks Dad”.

The duo soon found a store that was selling clothing and hats and sports equipment. When inside, there was a more diminished tone of luxury compared to the store they were just at. Eventually, Gerald picked out a hat for Jeff, costing him forty dollars. Unfortunately, Gerald realized he left his wallet in the car, and the store owner proposed that Jeff could give him his beanie for it. Amazed at his generosity, Gerald and Jeff happily took the offer and left the store with their new hat. Gerald smiled at Jeff, ruffling his hair, saying “Now you can look more like a city boy now,” as they both headed off back to their trusty, rusty old Ute.

Oceans hush, and feathered tails,
Pale petals, on granite beds,
Warm soft winds lift up our heads,
Down dusty eucalypt trails.

Wooden gnarls and rusted gates,
Green sea moss and barnacle plates,
Our toes in the sand, we gaze out from the land,
Down dusty eucalypt trails.

In brush and thicket, the croaks of crickets,
Call out a song for us.
Our endless lust for more than enough,
Runs down the path most tread.

To go down to the sea of our peers’ ideas,
And find ourselves to our knees in jeers,
We sacrifice ourselves to our peers,
So the death of our personality comes quietly.

When caught in the corners of our mind.

I wish to be in an ideal place,
You may have it in your mind already.
It’s a very happy place indeed,
It keeps me active,
It keeps me buzzing,
And it makes me content.
My one may be very different to yours?
Very…

It’s every beach,
Every bay,
Every wave,
Each and Every island.
They all have the same importance to me.

The smell is always the same,
The salt,
The seaweed,
The fish,
The smell wafts up your nose like sugar in a candy,
The salt clears your head and mind, so you are at peace once again.

The sound it makes…
The sound is the wind,
The birds,
The waves crashing, crash!
That’s it,
But I love it that way now – peaceful.

The thing I do when I’m there,
Surfing,
Fishing,
Swimming,
I desire doing these things,
And breath for it.

As day ticked to night, a soft magenta glow filled the sky above the sprawl of plain silver roofing; the passionate beauty of the falling sun never resting through the cool winter eves. The world began to hush, and crickets emerged like chattering audience members. There was a harsh silence. Where there were once bubbles, laughter, excited chattering colouring the scene of a warm home, there was a still, audible silence. Instead of laughter and conversation, the dull monotone of the nightly news lay in the background of quiet. Thoughts of breaking this silence were met with internal mutiny. At once, his mouth opened, as if to reach out over the cavernous pit of conversation lost, but words did not emerge. Defeated, his jaw hinged tensely shut again.

It had been a week and a half since the argument began, some petty squabbling over the colour of a garden picket or something, but it had long been unimportant over what the silence argued, merely that it did, and that it did so without refute. Where once, the man would wave goodbye and wish a good day as she left for work in the morning, he had sat on the chairs on the veranda, overlooking her as she left, sipping at a coffee brewed for one in a pot half empty.

His days were wasted, meaningless chores distracting, hiding from any possibility of his own fault. As the sun peaked, cresting the summit of yet another journey towards dusk, he sat on his chair, book in hand. His glasses rested just on the tip of his nose, making clear the letters, but not the words they formed. He had been re-reading this same book for a week now. Over and over, replaying scenes in his mind’s eye. Pages crinkled, corners bent, spine cracked so badly that the name could only be read on the front. It was not the meaning that eluded his grasp, however. What escaped his understanding was the message of the book.

As he ticked away at the last chapter, again and again, closed the book only to flip to the front to begin it anew, the pages blurred. His mind’s eye lost focus and drifted back to the garden those weeks prior. He shook his head, trying to instil righteous confidence in his arrogance, but the question would not leave him.

By late afternoon, his wife had returned home. Her arrival had at first tempered his resolve, but as dinner was served, his arrogance softened. Behind her, he could see the sun setting once again. Streaks of orange ran incandescent over the darkening sky. At this sight, the man sat and stared; it was a blank stare, one of deep contemplation and reflection, so deep he did not notice when his wife had finished and gone to wash her plate… The sound of water woke him from his trance. He had finished his meal, and so he rose to join his wife by the sink. They did not speak yet, but they did exchange smiles, small, cheeky glances of smiles. The curve of lips seen from the corner of the eye pursed together like the petals of a blooming tulip.

The next morning, as the man sat on the veranda as he had done habitually, sipping his coffee, as he had sipped as many times before, he gave a wave and a smile as his wife left for work. Not a loud, toothy smile, as he had given when they moved in together, but a subtle smirk, nor an energetic, jumping wave as he had given after their honeymoon, but large enough to be certain she could see him. The coffee he had drunk that morning had been brewed in a pot that was filled to its brim. But they had still yet to speak.

He began the day’s chores poised with new purpose; the posts were painted a hue he had hated, but the colour quickly proved its quality. In the heat of the noon sun, the man slept. He slept a peaceful slumber, a restful slumber, a reflective slumber. Dreams danced across his vision and described wonderful images and impossibly familiar estranged scenes. The book did not trouble him this time, leaving him to rest for the first time in a while. His conscience battled itself unbeknownst to the man, engaged in a ferocious invisible conflict with its tail. When he woke, the sun hung low in the sky, resting above the maw of the horizon. The passionate magenta was giving way to a gentler lilac tint by the day, and so did his demeanour.

Dinner was silent again, but it was soft then. Not a wordless argument, but an unspoken conversation. That night, they joined each other’s company in the dark bedroom. The chill of the winter was less intense than the last week, and as his wife drifted to sleep, three soft words slipped from her lips and floated to him:

“Goodnight, honey. I…”

Hearing this brought great comfort to the man, and he soon drifted away to join her.

The book rested on the coffee table that next day, as it would for a long while to come. A conversation was had over dinner, a creamy carbonara, her favourite and his signature. The sunsets began to fade, and over time, the fiery passion of the sunset reprise burned hotter and brighter through the midday. Life carried on. The husband began to smile a giant, tooth-filled smile, shining as his wife left in the morning once more. The television set imposed less on evenings, and the chatter emerged again. The silver ocean resting below the sunset framed its fading colour in the spring like a master’s painting, and the bird’s silk songs played passionately through the warm days.

The vibrant coral swayed like a beautiful dance,
The whirlpool of colour led us to a trance,
Flamboyant fish scales gleamed in the light,
We wouldn’t let our home go without a fight.

I am a turtle green and small,
Yet, I am an observer, I see all.
I see the lush kelp shake like an emerald earthquake,
But I also see the plastic food, which is fake.

The currents carry us along our blue paradise,
A stunning azure heaven in which we fantasise,
And yet why corrupt our cerulean nirvana, haven’t you taken enough?
You’re making this world into a smokey volcano, waiting to erupt,
In a hellish fire.
Making my world something no-one would ever desire.

The vortex of trash suffocates us,
Soon nothing will be left but dust.
So please, I beg you, return our colour,
Because we can live in harmony with one another.

The mundane concrete leads to a glistening coast,
The glaring sunbeams laying across the glassy ocean,
The tranquil water seems so lifeless like a ghost,
But underneath there is so much commotion,
All the creatures scurry across a golden bed of sand.

The fish glide majestically through the icy tide,
Their scales are shining like stars in the night,
They can’t escape predators, though they tried,
Struggling through the water to avoid the fight,
But there is no escape from the killer.

A cloud is pulled over the beach and the trees,
And the waves start roaring and crashing,
The calmness of the beach quickly seized,
The tumbling birds resort to thrashing,
Their feathers disabling and contorted.

The fish below the surface get thrust,
Their fins are no use against this force,
The destructive waves leave the animals crushed,
The concrete above is safe and reinforced,
But nature’s gift below is damaged and hurt.

As his feet touched the ground in the land which he calls home, he feels a sense of connection unmatched by his experiences from where he now resides. His name is Cael, and he has returned home to the Emerald Isle.

The young man stands on the pavement outside Dublin Airport. As he stands there, he breathes in the sweet Irish air and the kiss of the frigid air on his fair skin, contemplating how his culture has shaped him from the thoughts in his head to the words which he chooses to impress on the world. A rush of emotion fills his mind as he listens to the conversations of those beautiful, preposterously expressive Irish individuals who surround his environment.

Putting his mind to rest, he calls for an Uber; stepping into the warmth inside the vehicle, he is greeted by the words, “Dia Dhuit, where are you going lad?” asked a young African Irish woman. He responds, “Dublin, please,” in a friendly tone. For the start of their journey a silence befell in which the young man chose to indulge in his passionate feelings for his homeland that were diluted by a feeling of great loss, the loss of his native tongue. He reflects on the driver’s greeting and felt almost grief, like losing a loved one. He mourned that his mouth could no longer form the words of his home, the very thing that now defines him.

As if the universe could feel his mourning, it sent this other human to console the young man. She inquired, “You look as though you’re empty love. My mother said, ‘If someone else can see what’s wrong you need to start feckin talking’.” She changes her gaze into his eyes through the rear-view mirror. Chuckling from the remark, he explains, “Sorry, I’ve just been away from here for too long.” In a blissful tone she responds, “Love, we all get home sick,” with a soothing empathy that calmed the man’s mind.

The young man again threw himself into his ever-spacious void of contemplation, staring out the window as his eyes consumed the landscape’s beauty with a ravaging interest, as if nothing in the world in that moment could be more important. He had been away from his home for so long emotions that he thought he had contained within him decided to burst from their cage in his mind as a tear rolled down his cheek. The young woman noticed his sudden expression of emotion and with a simplistic elegance consoled him, “Aw love, don’t let these emotions control ya. Don’t be sad that you have lost this time. Be glad that you are back.” Keeping her eyes on the road no longer staring back at him in the rear-view mirror like a power beyond her had used her voice as a conduit to soothe his troubled mind.

The young man responded, “I’m so glad that I found you, I’m so glad that I found myself.” As the tears dried from his eyes, he thought deeply about his home. From the cobbled streets of Temple Bar where noise, music and life would flow to the tranquil fields of Athenry, this green jewel of a country he had longed for was finally back within his grasp. He no longer mourned the loss of his early years in this country but was filled with the excitement for his opportunity to now experience it.

The car came to a stop outside his hotel in central Dublin. As he grabbed the handle of the door, he spoke to her in a tone that inferred he knew her forever, “Thank you for bringing me home.” He stepped out of the car and walked into the hotel…

It was a Friday evening at 7:30, people were streaming into the casino like moths to a light, and I was on door duty. This issue only got worse as I remembered that it was Halloween, so there would be the Masquerade Halloween Ball later which always seemed to triple the number of people at the casino. As I asked the same questions, I noticed a man who was dressed similarly to everyone else: a golden mask and a black tuxedo. But this man had a mysterious aura radiating from him; his masquerade seemed to be hiding much more than his face. I then observed his hunched back which told me all I needed to know, a serial slot machine gambler who wasn’t doing well financially or wouldn’t be soon. Everything else seemed to become a blur as I stopped asking questions to the rest of the customers, probably letting in hundreds of underage individuals, but I didn’t notice nor care at the time. As the man plodded to the front spot in the queue, I tried to imagine his broken and twisted world, one where money was not earned but won through sheer luck. Although I felt sorry for the man, I figured that the cycle he was in was unbreakable. This detail, however, didn’t stop me from wondering if telling him would make a difference.

As the night wore on, my role in the casino steadily changed from door duty, to assistant, to waiter, and then to security, and the world became a figurative blur as the hours continued well past midnight, and that was when I noticed the man from the entrance. He was sitting at a slot machine with a back so hunched I knew he had been there for hours and had not partaken in any of the special events from the night. I watched him as he placed another coin from his ever-shrinking stack into the mouth that was stealing away more than just his money. He pulled on the trigger, and his body posture seemed to have hope radiating around it. That was until the machine blared three different images, and his body posture seemed to get worse than before as he slammed his hand down on his machine. I wanted to go and help him, but my body told me otherwise. This man was the exact kind of person we preyed on to keep the money coming into the business, so scaring him away might begin lowering our revenue for the night. I stayed put, but my mind began thinking about the possibility of helping him get out of the situation.

Thirty more minutes passed, and I continued to watch him as his stack of coins began to reach zero. I peered closer at his tiny stack of coins and realised he had only three more games left to play. I walked up to him and asked if he wanted a refill on his chips. He turned around and showed me his card number while telling me to empty his savings. I plugged it into my machine, and the account flashed red, empty. That was when I knew this man would either exit the casino rich or rest here for eternity. My boss would be pleased with this performance, any Russian Roulette player would always attract more people and more bets. Given tonight was particularly crowded due to the Ball, one Russian Roulette experience would surely bring in hundreds of thousands of dollars in profit, and we might even get some under-the-table money for our hard work. But the thought of saving this poor man’s life kept buzzing in my head, continuing to drive me slowly insane. But I managed to push the thought of saving this man’s life aside after a little while, with the knowledge of that extra money that would come with the business.

I watched the man as he put his second last chip into the monster that continued to eat more than his money, pulled the trigger with eyes closed in hope, and watched as the first wheel flashed a crown, the second wheel a crown, and then the third wheel as it slowly rolled around for what seemed like an eternity, just passed the third crown that would win him hundreds of thousands of dollars, onto a dud. The innocent man didn’t have the energy left, however, or the will, to be angry. He stared at his one, final chance to win hundreds of thousands of dollars before death was the penalty for losing. He plugged his last chip into the machine, which cackled at him as it rolled into its stomach and the flashing lights on the trigger switched on. With all the energy he had left, he pulled as hard as he could, put his head on the machine, and closed his eyes, quivering with fear and anticipation. He didn’t see the result as it flashed:
7…
7…

The word JACKPOT flashed across the screen as he opened his eyes. I strolled over to him, stunned, but as I caught his attention, I realised that there would be no extra money for me tonight, so my tonality quickly changed from ecstatic, to dejected, “I thought you weren’t going to get anything with your stack there.” The man turned around to me, tears streaming across his face with joy, and I rethought my decision. This helpless man’s life hadn’t been put to the 83.33% chance of survival that would’ve come had he not hit the jackpot, and I was unhappy because I wouldn’t get paid extra money tonight. There were many rules at the casino, and the one most important one, was to never tell a customer to stop spending their money, and then I realised why. This was the one rule that would push these poor, innocent, and depressingly addicted people towards putting their life on 83.33%. By the time I had this realisation, however, I was helping another customer with a cocktail. The thought that the business was supporting this reckless behaviour, however, obliged me to break free of the casino’s rules.

Feeling confident, I walked straight up to the man who was still hunched over his machine, gambling as though nothing had changed, and told him, “My name is John Stocks. I’ve worked in this poisonous business for ten years, and you need to leave right now. That is, unless you want to put your life up to the odds.” The room around me became so silent after I finished speaking that you could’ve heard a pin drop. Suddenly, the man spun around towards me and menacingly stared at me before snarling, “You’ll not tell me how to live my life!” before turning back around to the slot machine.

Before long, the room was suddenly strumming the chords of a casino again, but I wasn’t in that mood. I couldn’t bear to be in that noxious place, so I left. I didn’t even need to quit my job, the manager did that for me. I tried unsuccessfully to get myself a new job, but nobody would take me in. That was when I turned back to the casino to make money for myself again and began putting my life to the numbers. What had once seemed so foreign and twisted to me, suddenly seemed normal, my back began to hunch, and I became the victim of the slot machine, which gleefully under its mask of numbers and a flashing screen, began eating away at more than just my money.

The city doesn’t look right in ten years’ time,
This yellow glow lingers on this apartment of mine,
Radiation can be seen from miles away,
Houses overpopulated, there is nowhere to stay.
Sirens can be heard in the distance, though it is nothing new,
Our raging war has been going since 2022.

The once green grass has been burnt black,
To be honest, I don’t think we can go back.
Back to a time when the trees stood tall,
Before we could watch all our homes fall.

When birds flew in the once blue sky,
When it wasn’t just me, myself, and I.
Scavenging for a long-lost salvation,
Knowing there is nothing in this cruel creation.
This twisted reality, this harsh world,
With the roots of life thrown up and hurled.
Orange skies, a world full of crime,
Yes, this is our city in ten years’ time.

I never thought it would happen to me,
Ten years on, it still feels like a fantasy.
Bombs, bullets, battles, bodies;
Only now are they the least of my worries.
The pain and the hurt have gone numb,
As the sound of war becomes a steady hum.

I miss the days of worrying about school,
Before the world became so cruel.
Before the world became filled with crime,
This will be our city in ten years’ time.