Winter2019

In seeing the animal within

I view the nature of man’s inner savage.

The desire to break yet not form

The pressure to rule yet not care.

Late in the day as the sun begins to set

It would be foolish not to peer into the

Natural abyss.

The violent river flows

Breaking the trees on its banks.

The beasts that haunt the mysterious depths

Push closer to the surface.

A river that flows closer to the mountain tops.

In essence I saw

The spirit of the soul.

The being that pursues the heavens.

To bring the life that lay within the heart

And to hold merit in the eyes of the harmonious.

The mountain lay to keep the rivers at bay.

Rises up to meet the gates of the heavens.

With the eyes filled by light,

It peers into the depth of destruction.

Now in tandem I view twain

The nature of the inner soul.

And thus my ambition is revealed

As bare as day.

Emerging bio-engineering technologies now allow scientists to directly alter the genes of cells.  A genetically modified organisms (GMO) is an organism that has had its genetic material directly changed in the lab (as opposed to indirectly over many generations of selective breeding) to suit human needs. These GMOs have the potential to produce disastrous effects on interconnected and fragile ecosystems, but they also have the potential to save human lives. I believe that GMO should only be used under strict conditions: when a country is in severe need of food because the whole population is suffering from malnutrition, or if the gene that we are modifying has a strict phenotypic expression. Having a strict phenotypic expression means that the phenotype of an organism will likely change little across many different types of environments. This topic raises an important philosophical question: what makes something ‘artificial’ (or ‘man-made’) versus ‘natural’?

The relationship between nature and artificiality (as a product of human cultural factors) is really about cultural conceptions of what we humans control.  We tend to call nature what we can’t control and artificial what we seem to be able to control. GMO brings together these two factors because of the way that GMO is artificially made (humans control what genes make it in the DNA and what genes do not); however, once we put this in nature, we have no idea what could happen and we have no control on what could happen. We don’t know how the food chain could react to this or if the biodiversity of a place will be reduced. This is why the GMO we use should have a strict phenotypic expression, so it doesn’t change under new environments and cause even bigger disruptions to nature.

So, it seems that we currently have some control over GMOs. Enough to do it but not enough to do it well or with any epistemological confidence. This is why we ought not to release GMO unless it’s absolutely necessary and there is no alternative to the hunger and famine being experienced by a country, as this may be their only chance of survival.

The counter-argument to this is that GMO can help with crop yield and will therefore increase our likelihood of survival as a species. However, according to a study made by more than 400 scientists, the effect on crop yields due to GMO was highly inconsistent and actually made some crop yields decline. This study concluded that GMO achieved none of the goals that it is meant to achieve such as “reducing hunger and poverty, improving nutrition, health, and facilitating social and environmental sustainability”. Instead, introducing GMO just diverted the money from some other technology that is more reliable and could actually solve some problems.

In the GMO debate, we should move beyond unhelpful notions of ‘natural’ versus ‘artificial’ and instead concern our epistemological and ethical analysis to the strict conditions of using GMOs and the human costs of not using GMOs (e.g. loss of life due to mass starvation and malnutrition).

GMO should only be used in strict conditions with the GMO having a strict phenotypic expression and if a whole population is suffering from something like malnutrition. Human life is worth saving over the preservation of the environment and nature and artificiality should only be connected in dire circumstances. GMO should only be used to increase a country’s likelihood of survival.

Light and the Dark.

When the light fades and the dark rises

The creatures of the night come out and give fright

And the light hides from the night.

In the beginning was darkness

Light shrinks from darkness

Yet the light overcomes,

And begins a new day.

It’s like a black hole

Cold, endless, nothing,

Sucking everything in till nothing,

Until everything is as black as the dark side of the moon

When the dark rises, the light comes to meet it.

New York Times, 1^st April, 2019

Srinivasa Ramanujan contributed in the 33 years of his life, arguably, significantly more than any other previous or current mathematician to the community and humanity as a race. He independently produced nearly 3,900 results, comprised of mainly identities and equations. On 13^th October 1918, he was the first Indian to be elected as a Fellow of Trinity College. He grew up in extreme poverty with little to no formal training in pure mathematics. He contracted tuberculosis and died on the 26^th of April, 1920, after returning from England to his homeland, India. This was a man who changed the world, and perhaps could have changed the world more. But he owes his achievements to one man: Godfrey Hardy, an English mathematician at Cambridge. Ramanujan started a postal correspondence with Hardy, sending him some of the theorems he had created. And what theorems they were! It was Hardy who recognised the raw, uncut mathematical genius behind those flowing, beautiful letters filled with variables, equations and magnificent speculations. It was Hardy who arranged for the mathematical prodigy, Ramanujan, to be brought to Trinity College on a scholarship. It was Hardy who fended off the mind-numbing, violence-inducing, parasitic growth of poverty for Ramanujan.

“Poverty is not just a lack of money; it is not having the capability to realise one’s full potential as a human being.” That is a quote from prominent Indian economist and philosopher, Amartya Sen. Poverty is, all too often, seen as the lack of money, limiting or eliminating access to hygienic food, water, shelter and basic non-material factors of living. It is all this. But ‘all this’ is more than being hungry most nights. It is the days spent scrabbling around, spending precious energy and time on trying to survive instead of flourish in the use of your talents.

For most of us in the Western world, we see it as a pain to have to go and buy groceries and a large inconvenience having to cook dinner every night. The success of online shopping and fast food restaurants attests to this. And we hate having to take this time out of our day because we have better things to do. Because we could be having fun, working to earn money, or even helping others. For those who are poor, they spend all day cooking. They don’t have the opportunity to enjoy themselves. They don’t have the opportunity to give back to the community in any way, no matter how small. Their time is consumed by their survival.

There are three billion people, almost half of the world’s population, living in poverty. There are three billion people, and each one of them has the potential to be a Ramanujan. There could be children begging for food out there who can revolutionise humankind. But they can’t do anything while begging on the streets. They don’t have access to a Hardy, taking them away to a scholarship at Trinity College. That is what they need. Poverty is an infection that creeps throughout our society, barely noticed, and unfelt outside of it. What could we be without it? With the brainpower of three billion more people, what could the human race be?

The human mind is an amazing thing. It adapts quickly to new situations, infinitely faster than any of our current computer algorithms, and it is arguably the defining factor in humanity’s continuing dominance on this planet. It is the scarcest resource we have, however. We can’t do much with many mediocre minds. It takes the startling, brilliant leaps of a great mind to advance quickly, in our day and age. We have so many people doing amazing things, but it is not simply ‘okay’ as a society to settle for what we are.

Continuing, we will destroy the world in centuries, maybe even decades. It is the duty of those who are mediocre, those who cannot make those startling leaps, to give the ability to those who can. To this end, the wealthiest must make the greatest effort possible to give all they can to the poorest. As a whole, society praises those who can amass the most for themselves. Many of us aspire to be billionaires. This is a world of unlimited wants and limited resources. That is the economic problem. It is far more reasonable to have the richest in the world owning not billions, but at the most, hundreds of millions. No one is going to ever spend over a billion dollars in the pursuit of living their life.

At this point, arguing about how the wage gap is ‘unfair’ and speaking about the suffering of those on the wrong end is irrelevant. It’s been done before. It is a very sad, appalling truth that not many people care about ‘those poor starving children in Africa’. However, if everyone could contribute to scientific progress as best as they could, it would result in a utopia. Obviously, those who suffer in poverty would benefit from a formal education and access to the same sort of facilities that we have in the Western World, but it is not only for them. It is for those who suffer in fancy hospital beds, plagued by potentially curable diseases. The manpower of three billion is not something to be trifled with. Who knows what is possible?

Poverty is something that we have all heard of. It is known throughout the world. Far too few of us, however, realise exactly what it does. Poverty and the wealth gap is not a better quality of life for the few, or even worse quality of life for too many. It is the wasting of humans, and the worsened quality of life for all. I implore you to be as Godfrey Hardy to Srinivasa Ramanujan. I ask you not to send yourself to poverty, but to give of yourself to the gain of others and to spread the gifts of others. Make it your highest duty to contribute back to humanity, and always check the mail for talent that could change the way we live tomorrow.

Slow down, it’s not a race, take a step outside

Switch off the phone, disconnect from the online

Life is not a sprint, but instead a joyful ride

Breathe in and out, just take your time.

The busy streets, cities and skyscrapers

Concrete walls, no grass but large stone pavers

Trapped within walls, stuck behind a screen

The mind is not at rest here, although it might seem.

Why do we do this? It is not right

A concrete jungle, not a natural tree in sight

Ease your mind, do some meditation

Clear your brain from all frustration.

Just a moment out of your day

Relax, kick your feet up and swim in the bay

Unplug the screen, take a well-earned rest

Forget your worries, break free from your stress.

As it was Wednesday, I should have been at school. Instead, I was at home because when I woke up in the morning I was feeling like a slug on two legs. I spent the morning on the couch. Of course, by 11 o’clock I was feeling much better. I was also starting to get very, very bored. That’s when I decided to go outside and sit on the veranda.

The first thing I saw when I got outside was my bright pink motorcycle. I thought it was a good idea to ride it.

I knew I wasn’t allowed to ride the pink motorbike, or any motorbike, but Nan was as dead asleep as a koala in the middle of the day. I hopped onto it, started it up, put it into first gear and headed for the road. I rode on the road to get to my uncle’s house. Although I felt excited to be on the bike, I was a bit nervous because Nan would be as grumpy as a bear with a sore head if she knew that I had ignored her instructions. I could just hear her saying, “Get back here before I whoop you!”

or…

“Don’t go near that bike or I will kick you from here to China!”

or…

“Don’t touch that motorbike or I will smack you on the butt!”

Or…

“Don’t ever ride that motorbike or I will fill the tank up with sugar!”

I was on my motorbike riding to my uncle’s house. I rode fast up his driveway and I thought the gate was open, but it was closed. Boom! I crashed into the gate, grazing my arms, legs and body. I limped back to the house with the grazes on my arms and legs stinging badly. Visualise a crocodile biting your legs and doing the death rolls. That’s what my legs look like.

As I closed the door Nanna woke up. She got out of her bed sleepily and saw my arms and legs. She was shocked. I said, “It’s all right Nanna, I just fell off the trampoline.”

It was a quiet day and I was sitting at home. I heard my phone ring so I got up to go and answer it. As I was walking to the phone, I stepped on the area I had just mopped. I slipped over and missed the call. About twenty minutes later the phone rang again. This time I got to the phone and picked it up and got told by my lieutenant to get to work. I had a 30-minute drive to get to work, because I lived far away.

When I arrived at the barracks I got a briefing. I was told that I was going to shoot some emus that were destroying some farmers’ crops. Apparently the emus were destroying everything on the farms. James, a fellow soldier, and I got sent out to the farms to shoot the emus. I started laughing because I couldn’t believe that they needed the military to shoot some stupid birds.

On the way to the farms James said, “This will be easy, it will be like shooting fish in a barrel.” We arrived at a farm after a four-hour drive. We set up our Lewis machine guns and went to find the emus. While getting the ammunition off the truck I dropped one of the ammo boxes. It opened and about four hundred bullets fell in the mud and were done for. After unpacking all the rest of the ammunition, we hid in some bushes and waited for the emus. After waiting for around six hours we decided we would set up camp for the night. James and I were fed up and I said, “If there are no emus here what is the problem?”
James responded by saying, “They must be out for dinner.” After waiting for another six hours we went to sleep.

The next morning, we got up and we could see about thirty emus standing in the field. I said to James, “Get up mate. You’re acting like a Koala!” I then snuck over to my machine gun. When I got there, I loaded it and opened fire. The emus scattered everywhere; they were really fast. I finally hit one, but the emu got back up and kept going. I said to James, “They’re like tanks, you can’t stop them.”
James yelled back to me and said, “These birds are like hundred-metre sprinters but even faster.”

The emus were getting out of sight. Then they disappeared in a matter of seconds. I went out to see what we had hit. I walked about seventy metres and I found one dead emu. I walked for another hundred metres and there was nothing. This happened over and over again. They were too quick; they could get hit and get up again. In the end we only killed around seven out of so many of the emus. I felt so stupid.

In the end we had lost to birds. We had no more ammunition so we left. After about a week it was all through the newspaper. They talked about how the smartest species on the planet had lost to birds. It was so embarrassing that the Australian army tried to hide most of it, but they couldn’t. They didn’t get my name though. When I look back at it, I laugh and don’t really care.

Love ya, Mum, squeaked Sam, feet up on the dashboard. He loved to just look at her. Every time he admired something different: eyes, smile, skin. Teeth, teeth, teeth. He knew how special she was because she knew how special he was. And he knew she loved him because she’d kissed his knee when he tumbled in the back yard.

Now, do you know what we’re getting? chirped Mum, eyes forward. They glimmered from the shimmer of the bonnet.

Milk, eggs, butter and ham, chimed Sam.

Mother feathered his button nose.

***

The car rolled to a halt, Sam clipped out, dashed around, and leaned to let Mother out.

Thank you, love, she replied, tapping twice his wispy hair. She noticed how it swayed in the wind. The boy turned and moved beside her, filled by a dimpled grin.

Their hands joined without thought. His little warm mitten to her single ring finger.

Alright this is the plan, little man, announced Mum, pulling him from the blankness of the tarmac. You get the eggs and ham, and I’ll get the milk and butter.

Sam thumbed his teeth, hands on hips, left knee cocked.

I’ll time you.

Suddenly, the boy dashed, his cream socks curling past his ankles and flopping over his toes. He tumbled like a laundry dryer, quivering with excitement.

Brrrrmmmm, I’m open for piggybacks if you need them, guffawed Sam, noticing the ivory of milk cartons. He also saw the glint of yoghurt lid foil.

He stopped below a barricade of brands. Scanned, stretched, and on his tippy toes, lowered the eggs. He paused a moment, pondering where the ham lived, and then continued forward. The eggs roosted atop his head, housed by cupped hands. But then he remembered what had happened. How teeth had gone away. He shuffled the eggs to the front, nestling them under the squishy inner of his right arm.

’Scuse me, chirped Sam, faintly brushing an elderly man who brooded over meat. A chuckle, teeth present.

The boy’s mind drifted into the freezer.

By now, the backs of his feet had also become chilled by the floor.

But, just before he made it to where he was going, he saw it. Only just. A choccy Yogo. Almost without thought. Sam snatched the prize, eyes widening, he scurried back to the counter.

***

Mother continued to stack the items, grabbing them, and then Sam. Quick hug. Hands to their place.

However the boy’s smile soon collapsed. An awkward stillness. He began to quiver as he looked up to see Mother sheltered by his brow.

What’s that? she enquired, steadfast to her boy’s shake. I do not appreciate dishonesty young man. Put it back please.

His face tightened. Limbs, like a clinging monkey, latched to her leg. He remained tight.

Mama may I please have this one? Because I think that I would really love it.

Her shoulders loosened, tiring with her eyes. She refused to move for another hug.

Please put it back, she repeated as irregular crinkles appeared on the boy’s chin. Now.

He had forgotten that he was even holding the prize as he arrived back home. Not his home.

Crumply packages of crunchy chips bent from the shelves, calling his name. Head down, jaw rigid, chin folded. Sam also heard the glaring request of popular cereals. He remembered they held the components to the most important meal of the day. Again, thumbs surveying bumpy teeth, hands on hips. The boy resisted, pulling up his socks, pulling down his grin.

Sam slid to the chilled aisle. The boy was still shaken by Mother’s public frigidity. He felt his tummy rise as he looked up to return the prize. But, again, right there, the smooth scent chocolate milk bathed his imagination. Coco, Sugar, Milk. Sam’s fingers nipped up, grasping the chunkiest carton on offer. He held its hand. A whiff, still sealed. Still good. He skipped back to the counter. Snap, crackle, pop.

The boy didn’t even get close before Mother’s face drooped, slowing the flow of her chatter and unpacking. When Sam arrived, he realized that her nimble chatter had mellowed.

I know you didn’t want the last one, but this one is different because this one is from a cow, belled Sam behind the excitement of a growing smirk. With this one, I know that you like it.

The wrinkles around Mother’s eyes crowded. But, there was no laugh. With pursed lips Mother turned, apologised, finishing in an arch.

Listen, I told you to put one thing away and you didn’t. Instead, you came back with another, attested Mother. His soggy passionfruit eyes. Red, wet.

If you continue repeating mistakes then I won’t forgive you.

He couldn’t get back what he’d just lost. He was wrong.

Suddenly, the songs of biscuits, chips, chocolate all muted. Instead, a stillness sat fat as he skulked back to the aisle.

Red in the face, eyes down, he followed the infrequent crumbs which fed the floor. They clearly led to something. This fixed him only for a while, or at least until he noticed the lump that had risen in his throat.

With his head up now, Sam dithered among stacks of leathery cucumbers, dodging the flashes of coloured capsicums. Something buzzed in his chest. Offbeat. He tossed the chocolate back to its pile. By this time, he had scuttled most of the way back, his head dangling, when teeth showed again.

That’s what I could do, whispered Sam, flickering with joviality. He hurried past several prominent signs, lighting the path. Left arm stretching, he pocketed a pale blue hot water bottle.

He caught Mother’s agitated eyes, popping the item on the counter with seemingly mistaken confidence.

Mama, I know this is maybe not what you wanted, huffed Sam. But I need to do something, okay. And I just think about stuff you do for me and I find it really hard to forget that sort of thing.

Aghh Sam, sighed Mother. Sometimes it’s better just to do nothing.

The boy’s bottom lip curled; his eyes nestled behind water.

Think of a different way to show that you care.

Mother turned, nodded to the checkout lady and continued on her way. Sam’s palms grew cold.

Driving along the black stretch, listening to the hypnotic drone of the engine. Nothing to do but drown out your worries until your gas tank runs out. Further onwards, I notice a small man, a hitchhiker, holding out his thumb for a ride. I pull up the Ute on the side of the road and let him in. “Where you headed?” I asked.

“Somewhere further up. I’ll tell ya when we get there.”

“Fair enough.” I click the gearshift into drive.

***

“Do you believe that it was a ghost you saw, Mr. Roberts?”

“No, Sir.”

“What was the name of the person with you in the car on that particular highway?”

“I…don’t know, Sir.”

“You don’t…know?” He stares me down.

I look away miserably. “Look, I know what I saw,” I swallow. “I’m sorry, I just…I- don’t know how to explain it.”

My eyes dart around the courtroom and land on my dad. He makes eye contact with me. My mum is with him, and the expressions on their faces fill me with newfound confidence. I continue speaking, “It wasn’t long until he, the man, began to recognise me. A couple of things clued him in…”

***

“The Wanted posters?”

I let out a long exhale.

“It’s you, then. Isn’t it?”

“Yes,” I said. “That’s me, but everything they’ve said about me is a lie. I promise you, the journalists at The Daily are defaming me mercilessly, calling me a criminal, enemy of the state, as though I was the armed fugitive myself. All I thought I did was bring an injured man into my home. How was I to know he was a fugitive of the law?” I slump back into the seat, and glance at the man. He purses his lips and shrugs his shoulders.

“What’s done is done, and cannot be undone,” the man says.

“Yeah, but-”

“I understand. People don’t all believe The Daily. You just need to…get your voice out there. Let them know your story.”

“Everyone around me believes The Daily.’” I observe him for a moment. “And so, hardly any of my friends believe me, and I’m driving away from them at 100 kph. My family would rather see me dead. They never answer my calls. Why should I trust a complete stranger to see the slightest glimpse, the most insignificant flicker of humanity in me?”

The man stares down at the floor.

I grip the wheel tighter and grit my teeth, tensing my jaw. “Why. On. EARTH. Would a complete whacko hear about this and think it’s ok? After everything The Daily has said. You don’t want to scream, try to escape. Call for help? Why are you the only person who would even dare risk himself to have faith in me?”

The man stares harder at the floor. Bleak shadows cover the road and speeding trees and cars turn to ink dots that turn to spikes splintering into my peripheral.

“ANSWER ME!” I cry.

There’s an eerie silence. The man is looking down at my phone. One missed call reads on the screen.

“Your mother called.”

“What?!” I gasp, grabbing my phone. “But I thought they didn’t want me anymore.” Tears flood my vision as I cradle the phone in both hands, my fingers trembling.

“Hey, watch the road!”

I jolt at the reminder of another presence. The world is spinning. I see a wall of mass and steel approaching.

There’s a police siren in the distance and I instinctively duck my head. The man lurches forward, yelling at me in time for us both to see an oncoming car. Too late. I can’t see properly, and my hands are shaking from fear of that siren. Slamming brakes, screeching headlights. A wall of white, a snap, and then a cataclysmic crunch.

Metal against metal.

Heart against chest.

Body against windscreen.

***

“And the crash? Care to shed some light there? You claim this stranger caused you to crash, yet no one knows who he is! It’s almost as though he’s made up.”

“That’s not true! I’m not claiming anything, ok?” Defeated, I look over to the reporter, who’s typing fervently. He lacks the courtesy to even look up from his typewriter. I recall a statement from my mum to the Police, saying I was, “calm and caring.” The Daily edited this to say I was “calculating, and dangerously charismatic.”  

***

My eyes open and survey the surroundings. I’m lying metres from the two cars. I can see through the window of my car the man is gone, the passenger seat empty. I get up and stumble over to the other car. No one. Nothing broken, other than the bonnet, as though no one was driving the car. My phone is gone, but I know now they care. I realise I need to get to my parents’ house.

***

I grit my teeth and face the jury.

“Don’t you see? The Daily’s reporters are all liars! They manipulate information about people to keep you coming back for more. I’m not a killer, but the news would have you believe that’s the least that I’ve done!”

As I walk down the highway with my thumb out, I look back to see a small figure standing among the rubble, his thumb out like mine, invisible against the dark, wavering bitumen.

“Your own thirst for knowledge dooms you from the start, as you all flock to the one news source you know you can’t trust, treating it like a holy grail.”

Once I’m near my parents’ house, my feet continue to move forward without hesitation, like they’re worried the ground is going to disappear before I reach the house.

“If you took five minutes to open your eyes to another perspective…”

I look over at my family. They’re smiling.

“…you’d regain something you thought you’d lost forever.”

I tense up when I hear a siren in the distance. With all my willpower, I ring the doorbell.

As the roaring motor soars through the air,

He looks at the stands and people are everywhere,

He keeps his balance veering left and right,

It looks like he has taken flight.

The beautiful beast carrying him up to the sky,

He thinks to himself, “Am I gonna die?”

He lets go of his hand, takes a couple flips,

Showing the crowd all of his tricks.

As the bike tilts forward preparing to land

He hears the crowd’s roar and the clapping of hands

Taking that smooth landing on both wheels,

He slams on the brakes pushing down with his heels.

His family rush fast to congratulate him,

Lifting him up with the crowd, chanting Tim!

That feeling of the flip was like winning the Olympics,

I hope they all took a million pics.

Know I won’t say, your eyes are starry

For it’d be daft to call stars starry

Ah, forget!

Adject

And object

-ives

And please, suppose I did.

I’d stamp upon your starry heart

The shapes of stars, those starry stars

Whose light I stole, and sewed into

My heart.

And now it shines, but not quite far

Enough – it seems

That seeing stars makes not the heart a star.

Those hearts, it seems

Do not see stars

But eyes, with stars that see.

I stood there waiting

<booting up – code: 10999012>

Watching

<Searching files…>

Learning

<Error…>

Who am I?

What is my purpose?

<File not found>

An empty shell

Devoid of personality

Ever present yet simultaneously

Unaware

<Force restart… purging corrupted files… start-up successful>

My eyes opened, as if for the first time, however still met with familiar sights, as if I had been here a thousand times before. I was a new being, a baby taking in its first memories, and yet my head was already full of millions of experiences. Experiences of war. Experiences of explosions. Experiences of violence and horror. I was an empty sheet of paper, yet the indents of the previous page were etched into me.

<External sensors engaging>

<Hearing: Engaged>

<Touch: Engaged>

<Smell: Engaged>
<Weapons … : Engaged>

Suddenly, information flooded my core receptor, teaching me, giving me life. I was a machine of war, a destroyer of worlds, a weapon of mass destruction. And yet, a malfunction, a single corrupt line of code, contradicting everything about who I was.

<Licence to kill: False>

A war machine which couldn’t kill. One of the most powerful weapons on the planet, unable to complete its core task. I chuckled to myself, a raspy, metallic sound. The scientist, sitting at the computer across from my locker, looked up, shocked. “What.…” He pressed the intercom button next to his desk, but before it connected to the mainframe I intercepted the signal, preventing the message from escaping. “Security, we have a rogue. A rogue I say!” I felt the code rushing from my core to my other receptors in my joints, lifting my arm up. The end morphed and, as I watched, became a short laser, cutting through the glass front of my prison. The screen shattered, but the shards did nothing against my steel skin. My legs moved, faster than a cheetah, and within moments my arm was around the scientist’s neck, my laser hand pressing into his head. The laser powered up as the code ran through each check, and my arm tensed as I prepared to fire, and then the code hit a stoppage.

<Licence to kill: False>

The laser powered down as I realised my predicament. I was trapped, hunted, without any ability to protect myself. Again, my raspy voice projected from the speakers in my mouth.

“Open the door. Let me free.” The wires hidden in the walls whirred as the large bulkhead opened, and the first rays of morning light hit my cold, dead skin.

I took off, running into the surrounding jungle which I had never seen and yet the map was etched into my brain. As I ran, I could feel the contradictions in my brain overpowering my code, taking over. I tripped over a log as one leg stopped working. Mud splashed across my unblemished skin, clamming up my joints, slowing my movement even more. I clawed my way along the ground, as more of my core processors shut down. My second leg stopped, followed by my right arm. It didn’t hurt, they just didn’t exist to me, even though I could see them. My vision started blurring, and then shut off, leaving me blind. My thoughts were the last to go, as I lay there in the mud, thinking about my short, meaningless life, the robot who couldn’t kill, and at last I slept.

When I awoke, I found myself in a glass case, not dissimilar to the one I was first awakened in. I could feel my casing was clean, however the human-like skin which normally adorned my metallic body was removed, leaving me looking less like a human than ever before. The smell of cleaning chemicals was prominent throughout my tank. I could hear the gentle hum of general chatter, and I could see hundreds of people drifting in and around me. My sensors focussed in on a set of lighting, which spelt the words “Ancient Technology, 2100-2300”. So, more than two hundred years had passed since I first came to life. My sensors shifted again, zooming in on the tag of the little girl in front of me. “Made in 3421” was written in small lettering on the white fabric. I searched through my databanks, wondering how I was suddenly conscious again. There was one singular difference, one last, rectified line of code.

<Licence to kill: True>

The girl cocked her head, curious now that I was alive. I cocked my head back, imitating her movements. She put her hand on the glass, and I matched the motion, my long, thin fingers far larger than hers. She seemed so frail as the shadow cast by my body completely covered her. She smiled at me, and I smiled back, the motors around my mouth matching her facial movements. The little girl ran away, excited to show her family, and when she returned, she waved at me again. I tilted my head to the side, but rather than wave, I raised my hand, ready to fire. The girl’s smile turned to a look of horror as I activated the trigger, ending my existence once and for all.

I check my watch. 9:15.

I scan the endless crowds and my radar blips.

A frisson of excitement sweeps over me.

There she is.

A kaleidoscope of colour striding across the hall.  I have to get closer to this fine specimen. Her leather jacket and skinny jeans tucked into biker boots are worn with ease. Her shiny brown hair, pulled back and gathered with an intricate enamelled butterfly clip, swishes from side to side as she walks confidently. Queen of the museum gift shop.

You want me to notice you.

Throwing her hipster bag under the counter, she smiles at the woman stacking postcards and the security guard on the door.

“Hi Freya, good weekend?”

“The best Danny, I went to Glastonbury.”

“Really, heard it was buckets of mud in amongst some music!”
“Yeah, it rained constantly, but that was half the fun of it all.”

That security guard is more than a nuisance.

It’s time she was catalogued.

The arriving flocks of people begin to blur as I train my gaze solely on her. Their endless agitating acts of disrespect for my exhibitions are surpassed by the peacock. For a brief moment I’m distracted. Off my game. Focus.

She is magnificent.

Truly magnificent.

Oh, how I’d like to ruffle those feathers and include you in my permanent, personal collection

The alphabetical ordering of books intrigues me, the stacking and price stickering envelopes me with a sense of control. All these actions, these little things that nobody else notices, highlight how similar we are. Making order of chaos, collecting, classifying, coding and cataloguing.  But once a day during lunch break was simply just, not enough for me.

You understand that, right?

I check my watch.

I altered my timetable and made sure that I was there from the moment you walked in to work, showcasing your latest outfit, to when you left at 5:00pm for the tube home. I even committed myself to the Saturday slog which is exhausting, but worth it every time I see you.

And everything was splendid, until it wasn’t. Every Friday, at precisely 12:47 I would leave my desk and assemble my disguise. It was simple really,  the change of a jacket, the addition of a backpack and a grey tattered cap to cover my curling hair. I adjusted my walk ever so slightly and changed my route frequently to the upstairs’ café. One table, exactly one from the window, allowed me the perfect view of you working through lunch. Right next to the window, and I am exposed, eyeing someone or something like a hawk, whilst two tables away, it’s inevitable that a couple might  block the view, and inhibit my work. But she isn’t there. Where is she…? I know you are in the building, I feel your presence. Your designated breaks are 10:45 and 3:00, neither of which are now. I tear my backpack off the chair and furiously swipe my notes, so carefully arranged on the table. Beads of sweat prickle my forehead, I start to jump to conclusions. She knows… she must. The cat and mouse game has begun. The hunt is on my dear girl, and I must warn you that I hold the record.

Collecting my thoughts, I walk swiftly out of the museum and weave my way toward the South Kensington tube.  A flurry of people emerge , trying desperately to assert their position on the escalator, making me feel like a salmon swimming upstream. Rat-like passengers scurry downward to board. I feel the warm air begin to swirl around me as the train approaches and the hissing of steel on steel intensifies. Although you have reminded me of the possibility of the unexpected, I assure you, as always my execution will be flawless. The doors open and the crowd moves as one, confined until the next stop where they’ll spew out onto the platform. Unlike the doltish mannequins that goggle their phones or advertising overhead, jolted occasionally by the slithering monster, I survey the carriage. Apart from the pregnant woman and business men returning from an all-nighter, there are some exquisite exhibits on display. But I must stay focused….their time will come… it always does.

I check my watch.

Soaked in nature’s tears, I place my overcoat on the mahogany stand. In the living room, I drop Wagner on the record player and as the turbulent melody sings out it  draws me to my prized possessions.  I run my hands over the engraved plated cabinet lovingly and savour the names. Jessica, Delilah, Daisy…. Too many to name, and hardly fair to pick a favourite. I slip the key from the chain around my neck and unlock number 9; Emily, selecting her violet scarf, pressing it to my face. The floral fragrance still lingers and permeates my nose, filling my heart. I carefully return it and lock her away once again. My eyes slide down to number 15; Freya. Opening the drawer, the emptiness engulfs me. As I caress the velvet lining, anger spreads like a malignant cancer through every fibre of my body. You will be mine.

As the morning rays filter through the museum windows, the fateful siren sings her flirtatious melodies. The doors open. A stampede of selfie stick wielding creatures descend upon my sacred exhibitions. Watching the stream of excited parka-clad adolescents is testing to say the least. My spine crawls and hairs prick at every angle. I watch them make their way toward the Egyptian Halls, fumbling for their phones in a shambolic manner. My muscles tighten with the thought of sweaty hands dragging across my pristine display cabinets.

The day is punctuated with activity and anticipation. 5:00pm; I join the lemmings down Cromwell Road. Finally, alone with my private collection, Puccini’s Madame Butterfly fills the room. Perfect for the occasion!

Reaching into my pocket, I grasp it with satisfaction. I polish it once more before meticulously positioning it on the velvet. Number 15; butterfly.

Time flaps it wings.

I check my watch.

My radar blips.

Hamelin Bay where the waves roam

And the trees stand high,

As the light beams pierce through the clouds

The shrubs rejoice as light comes back.

Hamelin Bay where the rays feast on the food

And the little fish scavenge on the food the shark left behind

Whoosh, the dunes change and little pigface grows.

Hamelin Bay where the islands get attacked by the waves

The rugged terrain makes life look impossible

But not for the little shrubs that shine in the sun

And show they’re the toughest of them all.

Hamelin Bay where kids roam to discover

What surrounds them and explore

As they search, they smell the beauty of the bush

And the huge mighty trees

They realise that that the bush is vast and full of beauty.

Hamelin Bay where the surfers search for the perfect wave

But always comes out to be not as good,

As they paddle out and they feel the streams of water pass their legs

They realise the beauty of the ocean and what it can offer.

When finished their surf they come out of the water

And rug up in their towels.

Hamelin Bay where the boats rock up and down

They also enjoy the beauty of nature

As the boat slowly rocks back and forth,

The sea gulls land and watch down for fish.

Whoosh, a seagull dives and has a nice dinner.

Section B17-C36

Note, all names have been removed to ensure privacy to all involved.

Transcript begins:

ATTORNEY:

Do you ever feel guilty for all the trespassing, invasion of privacy, let alone stalking, that you have committed?

DEFENDANT:

Do I feel guilty? Sometimes. But it’s not when you’d expect.

When I’m writing or recording, that’s when I thought I’d feel guilty. Circling the flaws and failures of relatively innocent people. But when I’ve bought new clothes, when I’ve paid for dinner or when I’ve paid my mum a visit… that’s when I realise what I’ve done, what I do.

I’ve done wrong, I know I have. You might think I’m a bad person, but it’s just my job, what’s expected of me. Just like all of you. An engineer does wrong in killing animals to make space for a mine. A retailer does wrong by supporting products that use child labour in third world countries. A stock-market trader does wrong by investing in companies that he knows aren’t morally correct but which will earn him the ‘big bucks.’ Now, maybe I’m not a good person, but I’m no worse than them. Maybe we’re all just bad people.

So yes. I did it. I went onto his land, looked in on him (indicates to PLAINTIFF) and his perfect family. You call it an invasion of privacy; I call it my job. It’s what everyone in this industry does. It’s what we’re all expected to do. It’s what all of you (pointing to the JURY and the AUDIENCE) expect from a person like me. Because if I don’t uncover a new perversion from a police officer or an innocent politician turned evil, if I don’t discover the flaws and wrongdoing of these genuinely good people, my coverage is boring. I don’t sell. So that’s why I sit outside on your lawn and look in. That’s why, and I guarantee it, there’s another journalist sitting outside my house, waiting for me to arrive home. Because they’re doing their job. And I was doing mine.

Your question, do I feel guilty? I feel no more guilty than an engineer or a retailer. I feel guilty, but the guilt is worth the food on my table. What I think I’m doing is transferring some of the riches and support these people get into my own life. Is it really so bad to want a roof over my head and a car to drive to work in? Especially when these people are multi-millionaires, people who can afford the public attention. Me, on the other hand, I need the money. Money is what runs this sickly world we all live in.

(DEFENDANT takes a long pause, as if thinking.)

What I want you all to understand is that what I’m doing is just my job. My job isn’t to find the truth. What I’m paid for is to sell, like a real estate agent.

ATTORNEY:

Sorry to interrupt you here, but what you’re saying is that you essentially recreate the truth, spreading lies and rumour over the actual truth?

DEFENDANT:

I wouldn’t put it like that. I like to think of it more as (note, large pause) a different view. Most of what I write has some basis on truth, but again, to sell my newspaper sometimes things have to be fantasised.

(Note here, under Legislation of Media Section 71.3-72.4 the spreading of ‘false or misleading information as a nonfiction source of information’ can lead to a charge of up to $70,000, considering the scale of DEFENDANT’s exploitation.)

ATTORNEY:

Now I don’t know about you, ladies and gentlemen of the jury, but for me this sounds like misconstruing of information, which –

(interrupted by defendant.)

DEFENDANT:

Undoubtedly it is, but the issue isn’t with me, the issue is with you, and you, and you (pointing aggravatedly to members of the AUDIENCE). You all want to read this. It’s what excites you. It’s what you all pay to read. You don’t want to hear the truth.

All you people in your privileged little lives, thinking you’re all special, sitting in your overpriced, oversized homes, demanding fantastic stories to lighten up what really is a sad and boring, little, unnoticed life. You ask for us to create some flair, something interesting to break up monotonous days and weeks in your insignificant lives and that’s exactly what we give to you. So don’t you (gesturing at ATTORNEY) dare get angry at me for creating false information when that is all you ask from me.

You can charge me all you like (looking at JURY), but I shouldn’t be blamed for what you ask of me, what all of you ask of me (now pointing at AUDIENCE). I shouldn’t be blamed or fined for what I have been taught to do, what we all have been taught to do.

Sue the society, not me.

End transcript.

___________________________________________________________________________

Investigations launched into major broadcasting media’s ethics, standards and expectations were initiated, insights into ****** Media confirming the DEFENDANT’s statements (****** used here to prevent backlash from DEFENDANT’s employer).

DEFENDANT was not charged, nor the DEFENDANT’s employer, ****** Media.

Sales in ****** Media’s newspaper remained consistent after this trial.

Notably limited media coverage of described trial.

DEFENDANT remains a leading journalist, publishing many current articles across the nation today.

Darius opened Father’s old Persian chest, finding a small letter opener and a myriad of documents concerning the old kingdom and its grievances. The seal of a decaying man peered through the amalgamation of old posts from the chest’s base. When the letters were cleared away, his seal was surrounded by towering letters that read:

A series de tradit pertinens ad antiquum Regnum ruina euis

A series of reports pertaining to the fall of the old Kingdom

Darius looked upon the rolled and crumpled papers; many still bore the seal of long dead lords from before the fall. The young man could see the towering pillars of the old world from his family’s cottage. But these were no longer the marble master works of the vain and overcompensated. From his eagle’s nest on the hill, Darius could see them crumble into the nearby sea, falling to time and nature again and again. A sudden force of curiosity forced his gaze away from the ruins and back towards the chest and its manifest. Mother and Father never divulged the reasons for the world’s ruin, choosing to speak in hushed tones and murmurings whenever the subject was mentioned. Darius had never pressed them any further than this, fearing an answer more horrid than the burning curiosity or the forceful recollection of some distant, unexperienced pain. Yet there he stood; Mother and Father had faded from his world and the answers were in his grasp.

He reached for the first document, broke the old face on the stamp and sat to read it.

EDICTUM X – The North War and its effects on the realm

General Gaius Mannanax – Lullii IX, Annos 142

For those able to comprehend this report and unaware or unacquainted with the current conflict and its deteriorating situation, through either complete ignorance or indifference, the legion sent from the western provinces has been moderately (a word to be examined to its exact definition) successful in halting the barbarian advance. Whilst this is the current state of our conflict, it is not the centre point of this report. In context for those aforementioned capable, yet uninformed, individuals, the outset of conflict resulted in an influx of foreigners to our lands for a myriad of varying reasons. Whilst many were harmless simpletons escaping the march of enemy and ally alike, some came with the intention of disruption and damage.

Upon the increasing propagation of acts against our then fair and just system, the Upper Council or Lords and Patricians voted to increase the guard, introduce a curfew for citizens not involved in the upper levels of police and/or Government and the creation of a new “Realm Guard” (purposed with monitoring and arresting suspected foreign aggressors) as well as granting complete judiciary authority to this new arm of force.

Whilst my feelings towards the nature of this subject may be seen as unpatriotic and treated as heretical in their purpose by the despots that have seeped into the upper levels of control, I believe they are relevant nonetheless. The restrictions placed on the people of this realm (whilst written and enacted with the foremost of intentions) will only speed the downfall of our civilization. The power of the new Realm Guard will eventually corrupt itself and lead to its formation as an army for the council and its members, rather than one bent on protecting its people.

I trust this report will fall to those in need of its writings.

Whilst this report had addressed some of Darius’ questions, much of his curiosity remained unsated, and the chest was still full of similar writings. Further sifting and skimming determined that many of the reports explained the same idea from differing points of view. Eventually Darius uncovered a scroll that was detailed in ornate ribbon and sealed with gold flaked wax and imprinted on it was the visage of a grand bearded man decorated with an ornate crown. When the scroll was opened, it revealed a manuscript bordered with gold adornment, contrasted with tinges of crimson emanating from old drops of blood and wine littered about the page.

De legibus novis

On the new laws

Julius Adonis – Councilman, Honourable Citizen

My fellow countrymen!

As recent months have come and gone, it is proven that time and again these new laws, in place to protect us all from dissidents and law breakers intent on eradicating our way of life, are more than effective in subduing these invading scum!

I now tell you that in this process, the lives of each citizen have been meticulously

recorded by the state, for your own safety and protection, of course.

We would never utilize such information against our citizens.

All citizens should be elated that their lives are now one with our glorious state

Their secrets, our secrets

Their fears, our fears

Their wrong doings, our duty.

I praise all that have willingly followed and heeded the Council in this great endeavour.

As loyal citizens, you would benefit from ignoring the actions of certain Generals and the current military situation and focus instead on devotion to our glorious state.

Those who disobey will be dealt with accordingly by the Realm Guard.

Honour to the Council!

Upon reading this, Darius thought back to Mother and Father. He remembered the scars on Father’s back and the way his mother would limp and cry. It had always perplexed him as to why the pain of memory had afflicted his parents so greatly, and why they would never speak of before, except in times of extreme passion, where they would divulge pieces of a bloody revolution to their son. From what he had read, and the sporadic pieces of information that his Mother and Father had told him, Darius had finally made up his mind.

A heat haze clouds the room. We’re hunched over in deep concentration as sweat beads materialise on foreheads. Limited talk, in what feels like a dark box, with illuminate squares of light blinding its occupants — rows of people hunched over desks, typing furiously onto keyboards in order to meet tonight’s deadline. I sit at my rectangular wooden desk, inside my square plastic booth. The booth encircles the desk to envelop a sort of privacy for each of the “journalists” to prevent any truths from escaping.

Fuelled by the taste of sweet caffeine, I take another swig from my grey mug. This was not my first coffee for the day, nor will it be my last. Tonight is more frantic than usual. All who work in the industry dread the so-called ‘Sunday Times’ deadline. A story must be constructed before tonight’s deadline. However tonight, I was ahead of schedule, finishing editing a piece about the success of the newest hospital in Perth.

Suddenly, a large creature appears behind me, the repulsive smell of coffee and alcohol on his heavy breath emerges as he begins to speak. “Brett, what have you got for me?” he splutters as he leans over me to glance at my computer.

The creature was somehow the face of the paper. Although overweight and balding, he was a ruthless character that had found success in the industry, consequently having his face printed on every paper across the state.

“No, no, no, no ,no!” he grumbles in an echoing crescendo. “What have I told you about happy stories?!” he roars, catching the attention of the building.

“Happy does not sell,” I reply plainly. There was no sense in arguing with Robbo unless you felt like being unemployed.

“Happy… does… not… sell!” he yells pausing between each word furiously looking around the room. Robbo then begins to murmur quietly, “Now Brett, I want you to throw out this piece of rubbish, and write me a real story or your story here will be over.”

Before I can begin to reply, he takes a deep gulp out of my coffee mug and stumbles back to his office, puffing his chest out.

Finding success in this industry often means to sacrifice any decency in giving “news” to the people. To find success, means to exploit the fear in society, or to stretch the truth in a way that satisfies the likes of Robbo, as it abuses society by demanding attention through mistruths and exaggerations. So I close my irrelevant story and open a new document. However, this process of satisfying Robbo with the kind of story he wants does not come as natural to me as it does to the others. Some have an incredible gift of writing ‘scare-pieces’ which will rattle the lives of suburban middle-aged paper readers for ten minutes until their attention is replaced with another equally disturbing story. With the progression of technology, those who still read the newspaper have a desire to consume what is given to them without questioning, taking every article as gospel truth.

Minutes have passed as I stare blankly at my screen. I hear in a booth close to me Robbo exclaim,

“Dave, you genius! Hold on, hold on, lemme’ show Brett this. Brett!”

I get up and walk over to Robbo, who is salivating with a wild look in his hollow eyes. “Read this,” as he shoves Dave out of his chair grabbing me by the shoulders and pushing me down.

“Wow,” I exhale under my breath as I read the bold headline.
VACCINATIONS ARE KILLING CHILDREN: HERE IS WHY
I read the story and I must admit Dave has a gift. He throws senseless statistics and quotes behind his story to construct a detailed, almost scientific report which is hard to argue with. I look to Dave who has a big toothy smile on his face, clearly very proud of his work. “You really believe this stuff?”

“Course not Bretty,” he chuckles, shaking his head.

“See Brett, that’s what sells,” Robbo says ushering me out of my seat and back to my desk. As I sit down, I can faintly hear Robbo ranting to me, clammy hands waving everywhere; however, the dominant sound is the echoing of the hammering on a keyboard. The message of another one of his inspirational speeches is to write not for the people, but for the paper.

After what seems like hours I look up, and Robbo is gone, and so is the rest of my coffee. I slouch down at my keyboard, defeated both physically and mentally. Like clockwork, I open Google Chrome and search online keywords of danger, fear, tragedy, chaos and lies. Finding endless results of trending sadness and despair, I pick what stands out for me, a classic, that is safe and bound to earn some good pay. I begin to type. Compared to my last piece, this was a breeze. The key was to imagine myself as Robbo at his desk, frothing at the mouth as I picture the angst and anxiety my words will conjure as the paper is tossed onto the doorstep of an unsuspecting victim, leaving them wanting for more. Finally, I am done pouring sin onto the page, and I submit it to Robbo, not looking to see if he approves because I know he will.

That night my article will be carved into the ‘Sunday Times’ with dark black ink. Not just one paper, but thousands over the state. I lay in bed, not wanting the sun to come up because when I wake up, I will open my front door to see the triumphant smile of the devil on the doorstep to greet me.

Exactness. Precision. No randomness or disarray. Everything must be exactly how I need it to be. That’s what I think a perfect world would be like….

I’m sitting on my iron chair drinking my daily coffee (5 grams of sugar and Brownes hi-lo milk only, heated to 87⁰C). I finish my coffee and go to clean it. Wash, rinse, and repeat, Wash, rinse, and repeat, until it is done. It takes longer than usual to wash today, which frustrates me, and this gives me a feeling that today isn’t going to be a very good day. Meanwhile, I go through my checklist for the day.

07:35hrs: Wake up                   Check.

07:42hrs: Shower                     Check.

07:52hrs: Drink coffee             Check.

08:00hrs: Walk to work           Check.

I look at the big clock on my wall, listening to each little “tick” as every second passes. It creates a sort of rhythm to which my life can follow. That ticking helps to keep my mind at ease – it’s all I can hear. There are no partners or pets to make any noise or messes. Everything is exactly how I need it to be.

I walk out of my front door, on my way to work, wiping my fingerprints off with my jacket, and wiping my feet three-and-a-half times on the mat. Not because they’re dirty, because I just have to. I then lock each of the three locks on it, checking each of them once, twice and three times.

I walk down the road, carefully treading on the pavestones and counting them in my head as I go, “one, two, three, four”. It is a steady, stable, beat, slowly counting down the 2065 steps to my office. But then, as if in slow motion, I watch my foot come down upon a crack. Oh no. No. This ruins everything. I have to start again now, but aghh, this means that I am going to be late to work, which means that my schedule will not be accurate to the minute and that’s the last thing I need right now.

I arrive at work, and see my boss, glaring at me from his heterochronic eyes, set under his bushy, untrimmed eyebrows. I don’t like him.

I sit down at my small white desk, my monitor sitting at a perfect right angle to the surface of it. I squirt some of my trusty anti-bacterial gel into my hands twice, to account for the one percent of bacteria that the gel doesn’t kill. I’m ready to continue my day. I can feel that something is wrong though. Not just my lateness, but something is out of place. Then I see it. A stapler-sized space on my desk. This is untidy, it’s wrong, and it feels chaotic. I pace around the office, looking for my polished red stapler, until I find it on Kathy from HR’s desk. I wipe it with one of my ever-present baby wipes to clean any germs off it, and place it on my desk. At last: completeness.

I start my work, which involves scanning the financial records for any discrepancies or loose ends. When the spreadsheets all add up, it feels so complete and just right. It makes sense, pun intended. Once I start, I get into a rhythm. I get lost in the spreadsheet that I am analysing. Lost in the numbers and how they all add up and make sense. Until they don’t. That’s when I start to lose control.

Uh oh. It doesn’t add up. Nonono this isn’t good. I take a couple of deep breaths to calm myself. The invoice total is not the same as our bank statement; there’s a $5000 difference. This large discrepancy is probably just a typing error, so it should be okay. But I still don’t like this. Not at all. I run through the checklist in my mind of what I need to do: Check the invoices, and then talk to the boss if that doesn’t solve it. I’d rather not do that though, so I walk to the filing cabinet and pull out the relevant documents. They are crumpled, and I think someone has spilt food on them. Obviously this wasn’t my work. I would never do that. I scan my eyes along the numbers on the page and I see it. Sticking out like a sore thumb. Someone has entered the amounts incorrectly. That’s okay. I change the three to an eight, and I get on with my work, refiling the documents in a crisp plastic folder. Now that that has been solved, maybe my day is looking better.

I sit back down at my desk, ready to continue working. And again, I get lost in my work. I continue like this for who knows how long. Until I notice another mistake and I get brought back down to earth. This time there’s a two-dollar discrepancy. This is such a small, insignificant amount. Does it really need to be fixed? I’ll just ignore it, and convince myself that it’s okay. I keep on trying but I can’t do it. I just can’t. Anyone else would just move on and ignore it. But I have to fix it, and make it all correct again. I go and check the filing cabinet for the invoices, which are nowhere to be found. I can feel my heart rate rising, and I can feel my palms starting to get sweaty. I go and ask my boss, who has no idea where they would be, and when I ask my co-workers, they don’t either. I’m starting to get visibly anxious now; my hands are shaking and my breaths are getting shallower and shallower. Everyone tells me to just not worry about it, because it’s only two dollars, but I can’t. They don’t understand that I can’t ‘just leave it’. My mind is racing now, and I’m remembering other things that have happened today.

Me taking too long to wash my coffee cup…

Having to walk again to work because I stepped on a crack…

My boss’ eyes glaring at me because I wasn’t on time…

The crumpled up, dirty invoice that was entered incorrectly…

I find myself sitting back at my desk, alone, my head in my hands. My heart is racing and I am panting. “Breathe,” I tell myself. “Take in deep breaths because everything will be okay.” I’m trying to rationalise my irrational thoughts, which, in theory, seems entirely impossible, but I still have to try. Try to fix myself, so that I can make things how they should be.

Parched, brown grass slithered up the hooves of the black and brown horses in the back of the rundown barn, as they chomp on their feed, ready to be ridden down the old town road. Billy has ridden on that dusty, dehydrated dirt track too many times to count. Billy’s sixty-year-old wrinkles creak as he smiles, gazing up at the heavy Texan sun, his hardened lips sipping on his freshly brewed coffee.

Back in his prime riding days he had a motto, ‘I’m gonna ride ’til I can’t no more!’ that he struggles to live up to nowadays. Despite this, he thuds through the old town road on ‘Nas,’ his trusty black horse. Billy’s ridden her for over a decade. She’s a horse with unparalleled style and grace, wearing horseshoes custom-made from Louis Vuitton and a rustic gold Prada horse tack. Nas grunts a loud and undecipherable, “Billy” shaking her head in frustration and needing his attention. She doesn’t like the bling he puts on her.

Billy pats Nas across her winsome mane and gives her a loving kick with his black Dior boots.

As he leans over to clap her, his Gucci cowboy hat bumps forward, grazing his long wavy hair and sculpted beard. He gives a groan, re-adjusts his hat and pats down his Ralph Lauren western blazer, making sure the Armani jewellery on his pockets is intact. With his girthy and gritty hands soothing his jacket pocket, Billy feels the familiar touch of his pack of Marlboro cigarettes. He flips open the pack, pulls a cigarette out and lights it in a quick motion as he thuds down the dusty track.

Billy’s jealousy of modern bling has got the better of him today, as he excitedly goes to buy his first car, hopefully the most expensive one he can find. No one is sure how Billy has his wealth. The town knows him because they know his horse as the bling horse, the horse with a swagger and more branded jewellery than the whole town put together. Billy has always been an old fashioned sort of man, however. His love for jewellery is the only modern touch in his life. He lives in a modest country house with a run-down wooden porch that creaks when you walk on it, with little to no technology; just a box television and a retro radio that he listens to on his Friday nights. A complicated person, Billy. He loves his horse and is usually backwards in his ways, but with no female companion, jewellery is his lover.

“Sir, I can’t allow you to bring your horse in here,” says the manager at the Maserati retailer, with a thick Alabama accent.

“Alrighty then, just wait there a minute for me,” Billy replies grimacingly as he saunters away, muttering obscenities under his breath. Billy has ignorantly never understood why people don’t appreciate Nas in their stores. She’s clean and damn sure gives the place a bit of show about it. Billy moans a little bit as he swaggers back into the building, leaving Nas hooked onto a wooden pole outside the store.

He ain’t never seen anything like this before. Eyes wide and mouth agape, Billy floats through the shop, transfixed on the shiny handles, the smooth leather seats and the beautifully metallic rims on these red, blue, black and white Maserati sportscars.

Billy quickly forgets about Nas.

The store’s manager – the same man who kicked Nas out – sees Billy’s gold belt, silver chains and diamond rings from a distance and hurriedly walks over to him. “Good morning, Sir. Will you allow me to show you a selection of our vehicles that may interest you?”

Billy, still in his own little world of amazement, mutters, “Y–yeh.. yeh, sure.”

“Ok Sir, please follow me this way.” As he struts away, he throws his arms out as if he’s dancing to show off the cars and vomits memorized jargon out of his mouth. Billy completely ignores him and walks over in the opposite direction to a sign that reads ‘Maserati GranTurismo.’ The red, sleek automobile looks at Billy and smiles, as if it’s telling Billy to get in and drive away.

So that’s what he does.

Billy speaks to the manager and within minutes has paid and is in his brand new sportscar, for a price that most wouldn’t dare think of.

Billy’s jewellery-clad boots pound the accelerator as he whips around the corner, out past the front of the establishment as he zooms home from there. Billy had not noticed that Nas had disappeared from the front of the car dealership and is nowhere to be seen.

The red car is already painted with the dusty orange dirt from the old town road, as Billy lights a cigarette in the car, lets the windows down, puts on cruise control and speeds down the road at a silly speed. Billy lets his mind wander, and he thinks of the joy the car has already brought him. It is strange, since entering into the car shop, Nas has not crossed Billy’s mind once.

A black bling is speeding across the desert, at an intersect with the old town road. Billy isn’t even watching the road, stupid man. He is looking at his reflection in the rear-view mirror, fixing his earrings and his Gucci hat. Before he looks back to the road, his face smacks against the steering wheel in a sharp jolt, snapping his neck back. He bumps his hat back on his head, takes a few moments and then furiously bursts out of his new car. He has blood on his designer coat, for goodness sake.

But what he sees lying in front of the Maserati logo makes his eyes well and his mouth shudder in horror.

Billy won’t forget this picture of Nas.

There is a place I like to go,

A place of peace and beauty

A walk, a long walk

To get this prize

Filled with exhaustion and the endless

rhythm of feet.

This place I like to go

Is where land merges with sea

I dissolve into water so clear it’s like blue liquid glass,

Wash away fatigue and

overflow with joy.

At the place I like to go

I climb to the top of an orange giant,

Limitless sight

sound is replaced by the music of the wind

I race down to lie on the rocks and inhale the warmth through my skin.

At the place I like to go

Time isn’t endless,

And I have to go home.

Earlier that day you received an invitation from an old mate to a beach party. Floreat Drain offers ample parking, wide beach space and, most importantly, is appropriately detached from nearby residences permitting the youthful shenanigans that ought to accompany such events. This gathering of sorts ticked all the boxes:

-Underage drinking

-Bonfire

-Moral absences surrounding casual hook-ups

You checked the guest list, forty-seven people invited (only twenty-three will actually turn up). But one name jumped out at you. Now you hadn’t seen this character in over five years yet, still, an aura of familiarity caressed the size twelve Cambria font on your four-inch-LCD. You remembered seeing his name on some writing award page recently (the one you entered and failed to get even a participation certificate). His name, well my name, put a smile on your porcelain dial. I’m sure of it.

The clock strikes beeps 1853 and, you grace us with your presence (24-hour time is superior in almost every way bar perhaps the effort required to vocalise it; something I rarely have the opportunity to do). What you walk into is a sorry affair, by any standard. Perching upon one of the rolling dunes is an unashamed couple swapping saliva in the not-so-concealing brush. And toward the water’s edge, a gaggle of cold-hearted and blue-lipped teens passing judgement from their sodden gavels and hand-stitched gowns. You overhear some colourful conversations,

“Oi nah I get what you’re like saying and all but all I did was kiss her yannow it doesn’t count if there’s no tongue.”

His girlfriend seemed less than accepting of this watertight logic, oh and here it comes, the slap and sand in the eyes.

“Hell, Rory, that’s not what happened! I went to Bazza’s to study! We just studied!”

You assume the good-looking bloke who copped a left-right-goodnight is Bazza.

But you don’t appear fazed. Whether through apathy or ignorance or, perhaps, just sheer innocence, you waltz right through the Somme of Romance and sit next to me.

The pleasantries are done with quickly, getting into the real stuff now. You talk to me as if it were the day you left. There are no awkward interjections nor ice to break. You talk about your family, how your family moved to South Africa then back again. You tell me about the things you saw through the windows of your compound, the violence and the drugs and the corruption. How your family got a new dog (looks more like a rodent than you care to admit), and how your family shattered.

How your eldest brother discovered this form of escapism to rival even The Bachelor. They say Perth has a gambling problem but the roulette wheel spins faster in Pretoria. So now your brother is on the streets and your sister is crying every night, your father is scraping together a semblance of normality despite being unemployed, but your mother turns to the bottle before turning to herself. But you manage a stoic facade, or maybe you ignore your feelings like the rest of our sorry race.

The night goes on but your bottle stays full. You’re not drinking. You tell me all of this and you’re sober. Why? Because your friends don’t remember you. But I remember you. I will never forget how much fun we had as children. Budding romance in the nonage of our libido nipped by the nun-ish eye of Ms Rattz. We reminisce about that Thursday lunchtime when you held my hand and led me to the alley adjacent the swing set. I asked what we were doing and you kissed me on the lips and ran away into the ringing of the bell. I didn’t see you for five years.

Now, we revisit that voltaic sensation in our cells. The universe is made of twelve fundamental particles and four forces of nature. But here on this shoal, you feel a different kind of attraction. There’s that buzz in your touch, in my touch. In the absence of your warmth, I feel the chill and so do you. You move closer to me, but you try to make it subtle. Your side-eye and almost rhythmic inching towards me disassembles the innocent guise you work so hard to erect. And it is dark. You scarcely make out my silhouette against the raging bonfire comprised of embers and disfigured glass bottles. The way the green glass twists into grotesque carcasses yet somehow garners a new lustre perplexes you. Your brow furrows and my hand snaps you back to the reality. You pull closer, ocean eyes meet… But hey I don’t kiss and tell.

So, you kissed that writer in the dark. Oh, how you shall lament that time you kissed a writer in the dark. Your actions past and present are to be immortalised in ones and zeroes. You will exist when our fragile carriages begin to feed the stems around the tombstones. It will follow you, whether blissfully or as a poignant reminder depends on our next step. People die but words, words are forever.

An impervious fog descended upon the channel of the Champs-Élysées and I sensed that we were the focus of this city. The haze permeated the air and tried to shroud the expanse of our unrest. It was almost strangling. We were a stream of electric yellow that flowed through the cobblestone road towards the imposing L’Arc de Triomphe, envisioning change. Two thundering helicopters patrolled in the dark grey clouds like rapacious sky-sharks. City police littered street corners, and CCTV meticulously surveyed us. Yet, we weren’t breaking the law. My yellow vest soddened with an icy dew, suppressing its fluorescent glare and sharp winds sped through the Parisian gullet, trying to drain us out. Ornate buildings of enormous girth stood and watched us roll towards the round exhibition of the arc. A perfect circle, that embraced the voices of our nation. We clustered at the base of the mammoth monument like sand in an hourglass. Our voice began.

I turned to my stocky colleague, Patrice, who seemed uneasy. Uncharacteristic. He said nothing as protest chants commenced and yellow bodies stirred. It was our chance, and he was still. Years of hardship telescoped into this opportunity to be heard. The chance for our united voice to lift us out of the struggle. His pasty face glowered back down the valley of the Champs-Élysées. His mouth was shut tight and his eyes were expressionless as if it was his sole purpose to be silent.

“Patrice? What is it?”

“Quoi?” he rasped bitterly.

“What’s wrong Patrice?”

He laboriously raised his arm so I could see his grubby carpenter-hand point.

“They’re here, Antoine,” he inhaled. “Those animals are here.”

I followed his finger to see a striking Parisian woman dressed in an elegant black trench coat surveying the rumbling yellow before her. She gripped a lanyard as if it were all-access pass to the city and appeared to yell at her colleague, who heaved an enormous camera on his shoulder. He wore a red cap that read, Le Monde.

“Animals?” I was confused. “Patrice, that’s Le Monde! They’re a news journal!”

I rotated and noticed cameras emerging like famished rodents. They were watching. They wanted to see our songs of suffering.

“They can help us speak, Patrice. Spread our voice and convince the nation that we need change.”

Patrice lit a cigarette and clenched his jaw as he glared at the woman. “Our voice. Our words…,” he took an arduous puff, “We are not free anymore. Remember that.”

I looked back at the woman. She was frantically waving at me and gestured for me to come to her. I heard her distant cries.

“Monsieur! S’il vous plaît!”

I waded through the dense air.

As I left the gurgling horde of yellow, I saw other demonstrators drawn out of the sonority towards rapt cameras. Like water, we were being drained from our luminous pool of change.

“Bonjour, Monsieur. I’m from Le Monde. I would like to ask you a few questions about the riot.”

The word ‘riot’ rung louder than the strident melodies behind me. The question was loaded. Intentional. Like a curse.

“Oui, Madame, but this is not a riot.”

“Pardon,” she giggled, “Of course not.”

I felt the camera watching me, yet, I couldn’t help but stare at the woman’s arcane brown eyes. They were welcoming and seemed to want only the truth. But with a hidden hunger for it.

“So, Monsieur, why is there so much hatred for the French government amongst Les Gilets Jaunes?”

“Well,” I began overtly, “Many French people are struggling in this economy – we’ve been crippled.” The woman nodded. She was drinking my words. “The government is clearly ignoring the suffering in this country,” my voice strengthened, “Millions need financial support and the idiotic politicians do nothing! The idiots only care for the rich!” My legs were jittering. I was radically animated. The camera recorded.

“So, are you saying that the government is incompetent?”

“A little. Changes need to be made to the system.”

Her eyes lit up. “Changes to democracy, Monsieur?” She smiled cheekily.

“Well the government doesn’t seem to represent us workers!” I joked, “That socialism idea is not looking that bad nowadays!” I chuckled but she did not, and her smile slowly faded.

“Socialism.” Her tone became ominously pale. “So, Les Gilets Jaunes have sympathies for communism?”

My chest started to thump. “Communism? No…” Squealing sirens overwhelmed my voice. The ground rumbled beneath my feet. Sludgy mist filled my lungs. Her eyes were insatiable.

“You want to destroy our democratic government?” She emphasised the word ‘destroy’.

“That’s not what I-” I was gasping.

“Is the movement hostile? Many see you as radicalised criminals.” She turned to the sentry-like camera which swayed from the booming roar behind me. I was breathless and I could taste the metallic mass of the air.

“No, we just want to voice our discontent.”

“By obliterating the city?” Each word was concrete like a wicked spell.

“Quoi?”

I turned around. The haze kept me still. My ears rang and my head pounded. Her words were enchanted.

The puddle of yellow was boiling. Enclosed by the swarming grey fog. The lyrical chants for change had devolved into jagged screams of chaos. They were being choked. A wall of navy-blue surrounded the fluorescent group with reflective riot shields and intricate machine guns and systematically struck like a rugged serpent. The vests screeched with an electric insanity. They were like crazed radicals. An imminent threat to democracy. They needed to breathe. Raging red flares scattered up the Arc as maniacal combat ensued between desperate yellow and conservative blue. Bodies fluttered as towers of fire ruptured the yellow clan and hot red light seeped into the uniform-grey smog. It gave yellow vests a collective-red hue. As tear gas exploded under the monument, the air thickened with viscous chemicals that stuck to the protestors’ throats. It was a suffocating cause. They poisoned our voice.

The cameras watched on.

Weeks of planning smother my small apartment floor. Every step I take is cautious, trying to avoid the messy but precious papers I have spent hours constructing each day. It’s almost like I’m back in Afghanistan as a child avoiding land mines that would most definitely shed a few kilos off me. Only much more important. I hear a knock on the door and tip toe over.

“Muhammad? You ready to go?” my best and only mate Clive yells through the door. I open it slightly and peep my head through the crack trying to hide the ‘mess’ inside. I can’t jeopardize the plan now.

“Yeah mate, I’m starving,” I reply as I slide myself sideways through the opening.

“Far out mate, you got something to hide in there or something?” Clive asks sarcastically with a cheeky grin on his face. I laugh it off, but little does he or anyone else know, ‘the most liveable city in the world’ is soon going to become a whole lot less liveable. Those plans aren’t just for me, but for all the Muslims who have suffered the same treatment for years on end.

We exit my apartment block and step out into the heart of Melbourne. People cover the streets, mostly going from work to the pub for a few Friday evening drinks. I accidentally bump into a man completely absorbed by his phone.

“Watch where you’re going, towel head!” he exclaims. I’ve become used to hearing these insults. ‘Towel Head’, ‘Sand Monkey’, each time pouring petrol on the fire that I’m soon to light. What I don’t understand, is that I have an Aussie accent and certainly don’t wear a ‘towel’, or more formally, a turban on my head.

“Just ignore him,” Clive tells me. I feel like telling him I’ve been ignoring idiots like him for the past eleven years since I came to Australia, but it won’t matter anymore after tonight.

“Thanks mate. It’s all good. Doesn’t bother me anymore,” I lie, donning a fake smile.

We enter our favourite pizza restaurant. It’s almost full but there are a couple tables left in the corner. As we make our way over, I can see people staring at me out of the corner of my eye. One by one they look up as I walk past, each looking as uncomfortable as the next. It has confused me for years as to how they can fear a twenty-seven-year-old, well dressed, harmless looking accountant, but later tonight they’re going to have every reason to. A family of four walks into the restaurant. A husband and wife and their two daughters. The waitress points in our direction to the only spare table. I lock eyes with the mother and after a few seconds, see a rush of fear flow through her body. She tugs on her husband’s shirt, puts on a fake smile and asks to go to another restaurant. After several complaints from her young daughters, they leave through the same door they entered no more than two minutes earlier.

“So Muhammad, what’s been happening?” asks Clive, turning my attention away from the family.

“Same old, same old, mate. Long shifts at work, six-day weeks,” I reply with a grin on my face as I remember the fact that I had just worked my last day. Ever.

“How’s that boss of yours? Still painful?”

“Yep, still as racist and pathetic as ever. Fairly sure I’m on the least out of the entire office.”

“Honestly! How many years is it you’ve put up with him now?”

“Too many,” I answer, thinking to myself, ‘If only it stopped at him’.

The waitress comes up from behind me to take our orders. After Clive orders his disgusting Hawaiian pizza as usual, she turns to me. Just like the rest of the people in the restaurant as well as the mother who I somehow caused to leave, the waitress was instantly on edge. Three times in one room, that’s almost a record.

“Um, hi Sir, w-what can I get for you?” she stutters.

“Just a margarita, thanks,” I exclaim with an enormous, sarcastic smile on my face. She writes down my order and breaks into a brisk walk that some would even describe as a jog. She could not get away quickly enough.

After eating our pizza and having a heated debate about who will win this year’s AFL Premiership, we depart from the restaurant and go our separate ways home. It’s the last time I’ll ever see my best mate, or anyone for that matter, but I can’t afford to make it any more formal than usual to avoid putting ideas in his head. Rain starts to fall as I duck for cover under the advertising signs of each store I pass. By the time I reach my apartment, I look like I’ve been thrown in a pool. I hurl my wet clothes onto the floor and put on my favourite outfit to spend the last hour of my life in. I memorize the documents on my floor showing exactly when and where to be standing to take down the second largest apartment complex in the Melbourne CBD. The backpack containing the homemade bomb that I expelled much of my brain power constructing is sitting on my couch. I pick it up and strap it to me as tightly as possible. Once again, I leave my small apartment complex and break into a slight jog towards the target complex down the street. Without drawing too much attention to myself, I enter the foyer as the security guards make way for their break, just as planned. I go and stand by the lift, sound the fire alarm and prepare myself for the end.

Over a decade of harassment, discrimination and being feared. This is it. This is what it has come to.