Winter2020

Leaves shimmer and dance, a roaring torrent of fire
Whipped to bedlam by west bound winds
A thousand golden coins coalescing in harmonious chaos
Reflecting the viscous morning light
Outward bound these flashes race
Only to strike thine uncaring eyes.
To thee, it is mere glare, that to be blocked without a care.
Doth thou ignore the majesty? How could thou dare?

By river’s shore sits liquid glass
Inviting man’s tactile remarks
For it a goal may simply be
To sooth the callous skin of thee.
Thou treats such contact as a nuisance.
Thou doth ignore the majesty.

Summer Night Report: No. 8

This story spans over the duration of a Summer night in 2018. What happens here is mainly the facts from three major sources and several minor sources. This report also aims to clear up any ‘blotches’ surrounding Xander and Maria’s break up.

Harold, who has known Xander for around eight-ish years and is one of the major sources, got his brother to give him and Xander a lift to the party. The trio would stop at a shop on the way to get ‘drinks’ for the party; these ‘drinks’ will become important later. Around 7:35pm on a hot summer night Harold and Xander would arrive at 11 Dari Way. The location of the party, as according to all sources, has been described as a white mid 20^th century suburban house with a driveway and no garage. The two boys would be met by Kate and Ashley at the door. These girls would let them into the house. Harold would ask, “Is there a fridge where I could put my room temperature drinks?” Ashely would respond, “Yeah of course, just over there”, pointing to a hallway which would lead to a mini fridge. Harold would remark to this report that Kate and Ashley, “were acting rather strange towards Xander” when they entered the party.

Fifteen minutes later, around 7:50pm, in the middle of the house, where the house would split from the inside of the house to the backyard, it was seen that both Xander and Maria would start having a heated discussion over their relationship leading to this statement being said by Maria: “We’re done.” According to Harold it left Xander in a “distraught” state causing him to disappear for an hour so.

Kate, our second major source, would give a different account to Harold’s. It’s important to make note that she has known Maria “since they were babies”. Her night would start earlier at 5:45pm where she would meet the ‘girls’ at Ashley’s house for pre-s; the ‘girls’ would include Maria. At Ashley’s house the topic of Maria and Xander’s relationship would come up and according to a source, who wants to remain anonymous, “Kate would make several comments such as saying Xander was very controlling and possessive of Maria”. Maria would almost “sympathise” with this as prior to this summer night Maria and Xander would have arguments over personal topics such as drinking alcohol while on certain medications. This would lead to Maria telling the girls that she was going to break up with Xander.

Maria and ‘the girls’ would arrive at 11 Dari Way around 7:00pm and mingle with the crowd. According to Kate, Harold and Xander would arrive at 7:40pm, and whilst previously Harold had not specified what drinks he had, Kate would attest that the two boys brought a “Dutch Lager” with them. This blotch is important as it brings into the question: were the two boys drinking earlier in the night? Were the drinks alcoholic? Was this why Harold thought Kate and Ashley were acting “strange”? Similar to Harold’s statement Kate said that, “Ten or fifteen minutes” would pass and also described Maria’s demeanour as being “steadfast” and “prepared to end things”. Harold would describe the break-up as happening “rather fast”, but when asked about Maria’s demeanour he would not be able to recall it.

According to several minor sources, in the hour that followed the break-up, rumours would start to ‘fill up’ the party. Most of these would come from Elijah, who had been described by the same minor sources as a “grub”, “rubbish bloke” and a “social climber who would do almost anything for personal gain at the expense of others”.

Precisely around 9:00pm to 10:00pm two major events would happen. The first one would be that Xander would reappear after disappearing and that Maria had apparently hooked up with another person at the party. Whilst waiting for his drinks to cool down both Harold and one of his friends Charlie would search the building for Xander as they had heard from others that “Maria’s boyfriend had left”. After searching for twenty minutes or so, Xander would appear with his face being “red and blotchy as well as his eyes being bloodshot”. Harold would offer Xander one of his drinks to make him feel better. Twenty to thirty minutes after this Maria would be seen with another guy, who looked awfully similar to Xander according to a minor source. According to Kate this information would “fill up the party” and become heavily talked about. Kate would see Harold having to physically restrain Xander and having to talk him down from trying to find Maria and the guy.

Due to the circumstances of it being 11pm at a party on a Summer night, we have had to rely mainly on a new major source for information as both Kate and Harold admit that 11pm onwards was “quite hazy”. George, our new source and also a diabetic, recalls that 11pm onwards took a turn for the worst due to Xander and Elijah. Elijah had turned out to be the guy who was with Maria for a bit of the night. During this period Elijah would approach Xander multiple times with the intention of agitating him. According to George, Elijah would say a provocative statement which caused Xander to “snap”. Xander would proceed to shove Elijah to the ground and yell “start on me!” Both would assume a fighting stance and take off their shirts and circle each other like sharks. Both would close the gap and throw haymakers for about seven seconds before Xander would back up to catch his breath. The two would enter a clinch immediately after with Xander getting his arms above Elijah’s. In doing so Xander was able to deliver multiple elbow strikes with his left arm to Elijah’s head causing him to fall unconscious.

The party would end soon after around 12am. Maria would leave with Kate and a concussed Elijah, who had lost a couple of teeth and had his nose broken. Xander would leave with Harold and get home around 1am.

Read on and see what else happened during these Summer nights.

Parents, screaming, swearing and abusing teenage umpires in an attempt to give their child’s team an upper edge. Shouting like a flock of angered birds, the umpire their prey, all with a common goal.

To win. Whatever the cost.

Students, waiting nervously, trembling with anxiety, eyes dancing around the place as the teacher hands out marks. Ready to bask in the eternal glory and newfound superiority or complain, whinge and sulk as their teacher must despise them.

Entrenched in Western Culture, particularly Australia, are toxic, competitive, dog-eat-dog values, that are passed from one generation to the next. While on the surface, they seem harmless, in reality they prevent racial equality. At the root of white Australian culture is a sense of superiority, privilege and power. This is having dire social consequences.

The Recognise Movement is an excellent example of this, seeking to achieve constitutional recognition for First Nation people.

Despite amassing four million supporters, $5 million in funding from the Gillard Government in 2012 and advocates with a fierce and respected public profile, the movement was shut down, as a result of these competitive values entrenched in white Australians. And this is highlighted when Adam Goodes was mercilessly, viciously and savagely booed by thousands of patronizing Australians at the MCG.

While many may not admit it, it is eventually exposed. Some Australians simply believe racial equality and constitutional recognition will come at the cost of White Australian superiority, power and privilege.

Ken Wyatt, Liberal Party member, is responsible for drafting a referendum on Constitutional Recognition for Indigenous Australians. As a strong advocate for recognition and an establishment of a third voice in Parliament, he has sadly admitted that a third voice will not be present in the referendum.

Why you ask?

“Australians just aren’t ready,” he said. “It’s one step too far.”

Despite nurturing this land for some 50,000 years before British convicts set sail, despite the inception of a discriminatory Constitution in 1901, despite the Stolen Generation and despite disproportional incarceration rates, we still won’t let them give input on Legislation?

This isn’t because White Australians aren’t educated on this issue. It’s because these patronising Australians believe the evaluation of Indigenous rights will be at the expense of their superiority.

I guess this is what we have been taught. Life is competition. Someone wins, someone loses. It’s whoever wins for the longest…

When Mr Morrison, our very own Prime Minister, was asked if the referendum will take place this year in the wake of the devastating COVID-19 pandemic he said, “All I am concerned with right now is jobs, jobs and jobs.”

Can Mr Morrison not walk and chew gum at the same time?

Perhaps Mr Morrison despises the violation of equality, or maybe he just understands the competitive values of White Australians, and just simply seeks to represent these patronising Australians and their dog-eat-dog values.

Mr Morrison may just be fulfilling his role of representation in a democracy dominated and ruled over by White Australians.

It’s simple.

Until we expose these competitive values and their societal consequences, there is no hope for racial equality, no hope for Indigenous Constitutional Recognition.

As politicians, representatives for our constituents, all Australians, we must legislate in favour of equality, upholding dignity and respect for all.

Constitutional recognition for Indigenous Australians through a successful referendum will be the first step towards washing racial inequality from our society away.

Streams of warmth trickle down my spine as the welcoming Spring sun peeps over the horizon, the beginning of a new day. The tranquil rustling of the soft vegetation gently cascades across the valley and I deeply inhale, allowing the warm fresh air to flow through my gently pulsating veins, frail from years of climbing. The sky is a canvas, with streaks of sunlight painting its glorious hues of gold, salmon-pink and tangerine. I stop to take in the beauty of my surroundings before closing my eyes, to appreciate the intensity of the moment at hand. Sunlight. Safety.

But it was not always so.

Subdued by menacing conditions, us Sherpas are forced to endure the unrelenting onslaught of Western Climbers during our eight week season. As stated by Chip Brown of National Geographic about us, “They carry the heaviest loads and pay the highest prices on the world’s tallest mountain.” Although we receive ten times the average Sherpa wage elsewhere, our lives are constantly put on the line as we climb through the most dangerous section, the Khumbu Icefall, up to 30 times a season. Nothing, not even our extreme physical ability to function effectively at immensely high altitudes, can save us when tonnes of ice come crashing down.

Nothing could prepare us for the 14^th of April 2014, the darkest day in Everest history.

I flinch as the roar of the avalanche strikes my ears but am soon enshrouded by the wails of agony and despair as they cloud my mind like a sinister haze. My head whips around as one of the anguished cries of the climbers reaches me, the sound reverberating inside my skull. My blood turns to ice as I identify the climber as Nawang Sherpa, my friend.

I watch, frozen in place, as he falls writhing in pain to the ground. I watch, as a dark red pool begins to engulf his rugged clothing, devouring his fight, his energy, his life. I watch, urging my limp limbs to launch forward for my shaking hands to cease the ever-growing red monster from spreading. But I am helpless. Sedentary, like a bird that has lost its flight feathers, I remain tethered to the ground. Impotent and unable to reach my destination. Unable to come to my friend’s aid in his time of dire need. My shaking hands reach towards him in a desperate attempt to close the distance between us, but he seems to be falling further and further out of my feeble grasp. My measures prove futile.

Nawang’s body still remains on the mountain today.

And this is the sad truth for many other noble Sherpas who have laid their lives on the line. Out of the 307 deaths on Everest since 1922, 94 have been Sherpas, including the youngest ever, Pemba Sherpa at the mere age of 19. Sincere condolences are offered. Inadequate insurance payments are paid, chortens are built, plaques affixed, pictures posted on blogs. And then all parties return to the mighty Everest cash machine and the booming business catering for thousands of foreigners paying small fortunes to stand on top of the world.

But the worst part is that an estimated 200 bodies still remain up on the mountain today. Not only is this disrespectful to the gods, but as Tibetan Buddhists, we believe in a cycle of death and rebirth called Samsara. Through Karma and eventual enlightenment, we aim to escape Samsara and achieve Nirvana, an end to suffering. The desolate despair plaguing so many families is that their loved ones will never receive the proper rituals to pass their soul onto the next life, thus rendering their spirit unable to rest for all of eternity.

This coupled with extreme risks, low wages, constant subjugation and minimal government compensation is the punitive yet truthful reality we Sherpa climbers and our families face.

Everest is a magical place for all people to experience but I, for one, hope that the death of Nawang and so many more doesn’t go unnoticed, as I will never forget what transpired on the 14^th of April 2014.

It was 2pm in the afternoon. The frigid wind tore at my hair and face as I looked out over the rugged peaks of the Himalaya. The snowy white caps seemed miniscule from 8,600 metres above sea level. Tenzing and I had been resting, temporarily preparing our weary legs for the summit after three long months on and around Everest. We were about to scale the 10-metre-tall rocky face which was the only obstacle between Tenzing and me and the tallest peak in the world. Now known as the Hillary Step, the rock-face loomed, menacing and unforgiving. A small crease running vertically upwards was the only climbable route.

I entered the small crease barely wide enough for one person, and began slowly inching my way up. Using my crampons to delicately find any available foothold to allow myself to inch desperately towards the small amount of light glimmering at the top in the thin atmosphere, I carefully corresponded with Tenzing to make certain that neither of us would slip. With nowhere to fix ice picks there was only sheer willpower and trust in each other that held us to the mountain. After an hour climbing the steps I emerged, followed by Tenzing to the last stretch of ridge leading to the summit. Despite the splitting headache from the altitude and an unshakeable weariness, I took the final steps to the top of the world. To this day the feeling of accomplishment and joy I shared with Tenzing is unbeaten. Three months on Everest and a lifetime of preparation had not been in vain.

In the years since my summit my fondness of that special day has been somewhat tarnished by some groups who seem to shift the attention of Tenzing and my achievement to more on the way Tenzing was mistreated and unrewarded following our summit. I find their senseless allegations intolerable. People not part of our expedition have no understanding of the bond that develops between Western climbers and the Sherpa. Their loyal expertise and natural adaptation to high attitudes was essential to the success of our expedition. Sherpa were not simply used to carry heavy loads up and down Everest, they were seen as equals. We ate, slept, climbed and put our lives on the line together in search of a common goal.

I also am baffled when people who are responsible for the allegations of racism point out that Tenzing was not knighted as I was after our ascent. As Tensing is Nepalese, he was not eligible for a knighthood; instead he was given the George Medal but not the George Cross as well as an Order of Nepal, the highest honour a Nepalese citizen can have bestowed upon him. Tenzing was a master of his craft, an activist for the awareness and recognition of his people and a great man. I hope that through this autobiography his legacy can be remembered as one of achievement and triumph and not be tarnished by the shadow of false allegations of mistreatment and racism.

engaged in morbid combat with roof and gutters
familiar cough of a 2.7 Hilux trudges along pea gravel
a friendly dog peers through red rusted sheep cage

Twenty-eights chirp from their high perches
Superfluous in sound and number
Father strolls as if he has all the time on earth

(he does)

.22 in hand, beanie on head
Rifle raised, trigger pulled, casing ejected
Twenty-eights drop heavily, acceptingly, to well-trodden ground
Rifle retort shatters relative country peace

and my jaw clenches so hard, and my throat screams so loud, that veins burst.
and blood flows like liquor up-down – through my sewage self.

and i love you like hell loves hate; like tennessee williams loves violence; like violence loves a victim and like a victim loves the warm embrace of another sinner. i love you like a sinner loves to write, and like his writing loves the shackles of censorship. like censorship loves cracks and like cracks love those who abuse them. i love you like those other sinners love secrecy and like secrecy loves the shrill whisper of drunken lips. i want you like drunken lips want cigarettes and like cigarettes want flames and like flames want more than anything else to return to hell, dragging their sinners with bottles and rolls with them.

i love you like cigarettes love loneliness, like the moon loves the earth and like priests love rage. i love you like dreams love sleep, like nails love biting and like dark loves light. i will love you until all dark encompasses all light and until the moon comes careering into earth. i will love you until all cigarettes have been burnt out and until all priests have condemned all rage. i will love you until all the dreamers fall blissfully into sleep and until all nails have been bitten entirely off. i will love you until all puzzles have been decoded and until all rage has been released, and i will love you until i fall dreamily into a deep dark sleep.

i will love you
until all headphones have been untangled and all signals have been unscrambled.
until every traveller finds his route and until all arguments have petered gently out.
until all birds have sung their songs and until every person corrects their wrongs.
until all teens have clenched their jaws, and burst their veins.
until all blood has flown,
and until the world forgets everything it’s ever known.

I would like to begin with a story, the story of the scapegoat. It goes far back in time, many thousands of years ago. It starts with a goat, a mere goat. An innocent, furry, land-grazing goat. So, what happened to this goat? Well, humans ritually burnt it. But for good reason must I add, to repent for these humans’ sins. The sins of others became the demise of the scapegoat. The heartbreaking story of the scapegoat may have not successfully made its way into the repertoire of common bedtime stories; however, it still remains an important reminder to the nature of human behaviour. Specifically, our tendency to seek refuge from our own problems.

Australia 2020. We face many problems which have become the topic of political discourse. Remember the last time you watched the grey-haired, lifeless bodies bicker back and forth on live news? Do you remember hearing the howling echoes of ‘immigration’… ‘refugees’… ‘invasion’… ‘over population’… ‘burden to society’? What do these terms have in common? Well, it’s all linked to the previous story of the Scapegoat. Humans will innately blame others for their own domestic problems. In the present-day, egalitarian, forward-thinking, secular Australia, we blame many of our personal issues on the immigrants who call Australia home. This desire to blame a scapegoat for our own issues is rooted in fear, prejudice and status quo bias. The issues which we castigate immigrants for include, but are not limited to: over population, cultural conflict, unemployment and economic decline.

Since 1778, Australia has been a nation built of immigrants. The original boat people were the European settlers who forcibly made Australia home. We are all immigrants to the red harsh dirt, whether our ancestors came to Australia by feet tens of thousands of years ago, or by plane just last week. Yet, many Australians still fear the impending dystopian society that will be created by immigrants. A fear of people who are alien to us (xenophobia) is not something unique to Australia. In fact, I can guarantee you know of a historical event which was founded on xenophobia, this event being the Holocaust. For context, the Nazi party exterminated six million Jews within a decade due to xenophobic ideologies which created in-group thinking and racial division amongst fellow German people. These exact mentalities from Nazi Germany can be pinpointed in the every-day Australian. While the scapegoating of immigrants is less overt in Australia than the scapegoating of Jews in Nazi Germany, it most certainly still exists. We are not morally superior to murderers of Jews. We are potentially just as bad. On the 15^th of March 2019, a racially motivated Australian-born shooter shot dead 49 people, targeting Muslims at two separate Mosques in New Zealand. The victims inside of these Mosques were immigrants of our sister nation. They were proud to call New Zealand home. But of all that happened, of the 49 massacred, and families destroyed, what was most appalling was Australia’s response.

“The real cause of bloodshed on New Zealand streets today is the immigration program which allowed Muslim fanatics to migrate to New Zealand in the first place.”- Frazer Anning (Australian Politician)

This remark from the Australian politician essentially places the blood of the victims on the hands of Immigration. Immigrants, the true-blue-Aussie-scapegoat. Imagine if the roles were reversed. If a Muslim man killed 49 Christians. Would we blame the Christians in that church for being religious? That is the equivalent of Frazer Anning’s argument. He blames the acts of a murderer, on the victims of a heinous crime. By agreeing with the statements of Frazer Anning, you condone the malicious actions of a mass murderer.

Aside from the social and political values that immigrants seemingly impose upon, many Australians additionally fear the economic consequences of immigration. In fact, politicians have made this economy-based fear of immigration a popular tactic in gaining public support. According to Mary Crook, Professor of Public Law at the University of Sydney, ‘politicians have become adept at exploiting the popular (almost acculturated) fear of outsiders as an electoral weapon’. This tactic closely relates to the political strategies of Adolf Hitler in his rampant spread of Anti-Semitic propaganda. Simply put, Australians are unhappy. They need someone to blame for their own problems of unemployment, low wages and economic decline on. And it makes sense. Immigrants are a convenient scapegoat; they superficially appear to significantly rattle the balance of the Australian economy. However, recent studies show that Australia is in the “Goldilocks’ zone” with immigration. An increase or decrease in immigrants has shown to result in economic decline. This illustrates why a fear of immigration should be seen as irrational as data deductively proves that current immigration policy benefits the economy.

So why should Australia accept immigrants? Immigrants don’t come from Australia, so they aren’t Australia’s responsibility. We already have enough problems to deal with. These statements are the dogma of many Australians. We view immigrants as an external entity for which we shouldn’t feel any sense of responsibility. However, we are all one, united by our common speciation. Geographical barriers should not impact the degree of compassion we show towards others. Immigrants come to Australia for a variety of reasons, but numerous immigrants are forced to leave their home country for reasons including war, violence, persecution and natural disasters. Australia is a wealthy nation, plentiful of resources for all. We cannot hoard our own wealth from others to feed our greedy demands.

Australia. Yes you. The Australian people. What has been going on is unacceptable. The scapegoating of immigrants is outdated. We need to move on. Blaming immigrants for social, political and economic issues and showing a complete lack of compassion towards other humans is morally irresponsible. I’m asking you, Australia, that the next time you consider the complex political problems of Australia, on what basis will you argue your point? A basis of rationality, or on the grounds of immigration? That old scapegoat.

Surrounded, by expansive jungle we march,
Colossal evergreens form nature’s own arch,
Blue sky overhead, green grass down below
Continue we must on the path to Tokyo.
The trees dance in the wind in the distance,
And soil strains under the weight of coexistence.
Sweltering heat harmonious with incessant rain;
The harder we fight the more violent the pain.
A golden sun sets on beaches of the Pacific,
A paradise and paradox, made more prolific,
By blood red sands, holed helmets and hellfire –
Bordering azure blue seas, enough to inspire.

The eternal thunder of gunfire overhead,
The fruits of nature now bombs and bloodshed.
Gone are the days of peace in our time,
Our actions today no more than a crime.
The jungle, our home, a place of great fear,
No ten commandments; no rules to adhere!
Where violence is currency and all men are buying,
And, any man who isn’t, is a man who is lying –
But soon we depart; the battle smoke has fled
All that remains are our memories and the dead.

I wander on the tranquil streets,
Where the clouded moon shined agon,
I see no shadows, hear no sound,
To remove myself from man – alone.

I hear the cries of every man,
The rat-race they pursue in vain,
Scurry o’er, blind to the world
Where passions appear not tame.

But man is preoccupied to work,
To achieve their goal by any means,
Through the day this passion lost
To futile money-making machines

Man seeks, only to gain their wealth,
I seek, to isolate.

He walks down the wooden path to Bronte Beach, Sydney. The footpath lined on both sides by decrepit fences and decayed bushes – a failed council initiative that has succumbed to the sea air. The corrugations of sand seemed to flow out from the rotted path planks into the sea, with little differentiation in-between – as if the whole beach is an island away from the array of busyness.

His Armani shoes sink into the white sand, bringing to attention the grittiness and uncomfortable natural sensation. They’re a leftover from his last great conquest, now an awkward eye roll on the way in and out of the office to get his flat white.

He surrenders to the sand, throwing his wallet and keys to be eaten up by the grains. Stiffly sitting down in a natural indentation in the sand dune, he checks his watch, 22:37….  just an hour after finishing work and nursing a bottle of bottom shelf spirits. The lid is cracked open revealing the strangely sterile aroma, and a gulp is taken down, no mixers this time. He tips it back, and with each swig

I was only the middleman 

I didn’t really know what I was doing 

         … I didn’t think I’d get caught

I wouldn’t let me off.

…

Police wander on the street below his office window. It is impossible, but he can swear that he can hear the thudding of their shoes on the pavement, and the rhythm matching the tapping of his fingers on the desk. Sweat dances down his face as the shredder drowns email printouts, with the digital copies, once his insurance, already thrown off the end of the wharf.

Frappe $4:32-$4:11 short
-Ed

Skinny $6:43 predicted $5 short
                      -Kim

Americano $11.89 Buy net profit up 12%
-Jay

By 11:45, he unplugs his office phone, the occasional ringing becoming unbearable. The desktop whirrs in time to the drumming of his fingertips in his office, and even the stirrup in his ear is in time, resulting in a massive migraine. He rifles about in his top drawer for a codeine cure, tossing out ballpoints, sticky notes and rejected business cards he forgot he’d had there.

He thinks of his defence should they turn up, whoever they are. He’d first have to ask them for some painkillers, since his aren’t anywhere.

Andrew’s not in today, another tie job like him, the year above at Kings. Part of him is worried he’s been recording everything he said, based on their bathroom conversations. He forages around Andrew’s desk looking for painkillers before shuffling everything vaguely back into his chaotic order. He checks the street below by standing on his desk and peering down onto the tiny ants below, looking for a flash of blue or yellow.

“There’s someone on the phone for you…” His receptionist is standing in the door, her eyebrow raised. Her perfectly manicured nails are tapping on the doorway glass and it feels like she knows.

“Tell them I’m busy!” He shuffles the paper off the desk and grabs his briefcase, barging past her out into the hallway and increasing his pace towards the lift.

He sees everyone looking at him, their eyes swirling up from phones and behind their eyelids to meet his, like they’re taunting him. He rushes into the lift and tries to press the buttons fast enough to close it, but the Legal Department crowds in filling the lift, as the throbbing in his temple grows.

“Ground Floor” the elevator announces asininely, as he tries to walk across the polished tiles quietly, but every step is a squeak announcing his shame to the Lobby. The Screw is in her usual office, and he marches up to her affecting control, trying to rub the sweat from his forehead. He asks her if anyone’s come in for him today, and she shakes her head. She hates him now for what he’s done.

“Got any Panadol?”
“What?”
“Oh, for goodness sake!”

His phone vibrates, and he rushes out of the Front Office and into the refuge of the marbled bathroom. It’s Edward. He hesitates and cancels the call – can’t be more incriminating than he has been already. A thought strikes him,

Am I a good person?

and he places his phone in the sink and he switches on the tap, watching it drown.

He wishes it would just die! He eventually switches it off, grabbing it and stomping out of the bathroom, loosening his tie.

Surely Dad could arrange something, with thirty years in property and four years on the Frontbench.

He walks out onto the street and is assaulted by the sound of life – chatter, phones going off…they never really go away. He drops the phone squarely on the pavement, with a twist of the heel, he listens to the satisfying crunch. Vindication.

—

He’s jerked back to the beach with the now half empty Smirnoff and realises his head is lolling. And his eyes can’t focus, like at the Valedictorian, choked by his prefect’s tie, and untameable ego. He could have been anything – surgeon, banker, politician. But what has it come to?

Soon he’ll be a name they want to scratch off the Honours’ board.

He knows they don’t know about this place. The rotting leaves are being crunched underneath his heavy boots. The undergrowth is thick, but the ivy can’t penetrate his clothes. The sun is glimpsed by him through the leafless trees, as it is trying to peak into unbeknownst business. He comes here to play, they wouldn’t like it, but he enjoys the rapidly moving music that grasps his ears and frees his mind! Reaching the end of the undergrowth, a clearing appears before him. The perimeter looks as if a circular stamp has put pressure on the earth, clearing all who opposed it. He waltzes around, hearing harmonies in his head, letting go of his earthly chains.

He arrives at the piano situated in the middle of the clearing. Running his hands over the tarnished mahogany wood, tickling the ivory as the sound tinkles around him.

He puts his rifle down.

He starts to play.

The notes reverberate with the nature around him. The last of the falling leaves dazzle and dance in the coming sunlight, the melodies make the bushes sway with the drone of the earth. The rotting leaves surrounding him regain life and are taken up, up into a spiral by a gust of wind in their want to dance.

Life is ebbing from the piano and he who wears the star.

The notes complement each other like fine wine and cheese; they resonate hope and a chance to live jollity. He plays and he plays. The solitude of the forest is filled with melodious harmonies. The music flies out of the piano, creating a buffer for the silence that plagues the empty land. Notes become signals for the life of the forest to dance. As he plays, life continues to flow, power coursing through all those connected to the earth. As he plays, the trees hear music, and he hears the screams and crying. He hears his orders being repeatedly shouted at him. He hears the last words of all the loved ones, of all the children, and all of their pleas. He hears gunshots and gagging.

He just hears.

As the sun reaches the morning shift, he takes his leave, and he hears the melodies of the echo of what has become.

Among piles of nature’s sheath, I ponder.
How doth thou devote time on such a dulcet morning?
Through my window, pertinent as the azure tinged clouds o’er
Thou stands tall among the green hills;
Swaying in the fresh morning breeze.
My youthful ideas flourish within.  

The fertile soils nurture thou dear;
How do your offspring branch off, but still stay near?
Thy roots string sustenance to your brood;
Crimson in colour and spherical in beauty.
The sun sinks at the feet of the horizon.
My youthful ideas flourish within.  

But I still, among piles of nature’s sheath ponder.
My once teeming brain exhausted by timeworn thoughts
Deprives me of gratitude for all that surrounds.
Through my window – dull as the cloud’s o’er
The last fruit from its bosom falls;
Stagnant – upon its once rich soil.

All year I had slipped under the radar, just how I liked it, observing from the fringes of popularity.  Friendly with both the popular and the socially awkward, but keeping my distance knowing the dangers of the meretricious nature of popularity.

So when my parents told me they were going away for the weekend, I steered away from the typical response of throwing a party.  But like anything under enough pressure, I collapsed to a girls’ night.  We were all sorted, Sarah had just got a fakie sent in from the States so she was on booze, Stella was on snacks, Brittany on mixers and I got off easy with accommodation.

The four of us swore a code of secrecy; after what happened at Jimmy’s last month, there wasn’t a snowflakes chance in hell that the knowledge of my free house could get out.  The week flew by with winks and little giggles shared as we passed each other in the halls in anticipation of the games and gossip that was certified to make Friday night the best night of the year.

The clock was under constant surveillance all of Period 6 until finally I exploded out of the class the moment the bell rang.  Out the door and sprinting to my locker, even wishing the Year 9 underneath me a happy weekend.  I grabbed my books, my laptop, pencil case and lunchbox, shoved them any which way into my bag, plugged the earphones in, queued my Groovin’ playlist and skipped off towards home.

Prancing through the school gate and continuing down Glarryn Street towards the coast, the sun at my back and that perfect balance of blue sky and streaky clouds that guaranteed a perfect sunset.  A sunset that I only need go as far as Snapchat to appreciate the beauty of, all from the comfort of bedroom.  A light breeze picked up as I approached Beachside Parade, heavy enough to sway the trees but light enough to welcome a tickling sensation on the skin.  The surf was dead still and dogs barked gleefully, paired with the sound of splashing in the shallows as they entertained themselves with the simplicity of chasing sticks.

The walk home had pushed me down a rabbit hole of bliss, it seemed like nothing could rid me of that high.  Opening the door however, brought back the sense to me with a rude slap to the face.  The opening of that door trip-wired my phone to connect to the Wi-Fi and with that came dozens of beeps and blips. Both confused and amazed by my sudden influx of popularity I couldn’t help but worry about what this could mean.

Snapchat from Sarah, and 17 others.
Facebook added to event “Free House – 16 Beachside Parade” and 32 others.
Text message from Stella “CHECK YOUR PHONE” and four others.

Simply lost for words I swiped to open Facebook “Free House – 16 Beachside Parade” to find an event; the cover of which was a photo of my house, the address – mine.  Time – 18.30 a measly two and a half hours from now.

My heart ripped from my chest and laid on the floor pumping 100 miles an hour and all I could do was sit there in disbelief.  As quickly as my heart dropped it turned sour with questions, how did people know? Who had betrayed the code of secrecy?  What am I going to do?

The news headline was already clear as day “Out of Control Facebook Event in Perth Suburbs, Police Intervention” I had seen this on 9 News already, even laughed at the plain stupidity of the host.  Now I couldn’t help but feel I was playing the part of the fool.

I prayed that the girls had just played an extravagant prank on me.  I had to make sure and swiped over to Snapchat to confront the group.  I scrolled down to the group chat, trembling, only to find the group chat was dry; not a single message.

“WHAT IS GOING ON?!”

…

“GUYS. IF THIS IS A JOKE I’M NOT LAUGHING. OWN UP!”

…

What felt like nearly an hour but could only have been thirty seconds passes before, BOOP!

“Brittany is typing…”
“Message from Brittany.”

I leave it, staring at the notification, knowing that whatever the response would leave me in tears.  Slowly I swipe to unlock my phone.  Slowly I open Snapchat.  Slowly I open Brittany’s message.

“L. I’m genuinely so sorry, I only told one person. They must have made the Fb event with your address; I didn’t know it would blow up at all.  I’m sooo sorry.”

I haven’t moved in the last half hour since that message, thoughts running riot through my head.  She swore she wouldn’t let it slip.  What could I do to stop this?  How could I get them to leave?

A single conclusion coming to mind.

Nothing.  Not a single thing could be done.  For hundreds of teens wanting to have a good time was an unstoppable beast.  And here I sit conjuring images of what the bottom of this rabbit hole looked like as I was crawled in a ball awaiting the siege that would lay waste to 16 Beachside Parade that fateful weekend.