Greetings from...OBLIVION!your guide to death and hereafter

ByBibi AlcockLee GreavesKaci Hillis

Samantha Lyonsand

Harry Quinert

Edited by

Bibi AlcockLee GreavesKaci Hillis

Samantha LyonsHarry Quinert

Sex Panther Publications

Deakin University, Burwood VIC 3125

Greetings from...OBLIVION!your guide to death and hereafter

Copyright ©Bibi Alcock, Kaci Hillis, Samantha Lyons, Harry Quinert, Lee Greaves 2015 This book is copyrighted. Apart from any fair dealings for the purposes of study and research, criticism, review or that which is allowed under the Copyright Act, no part of this work shall be reproduced without

written permission of the publisher. The rights of all the stories are held by the authors.

The character of “Charlie” originally conceived and illustrated by Harry Quinert

Greetings from Oblivion published in 2015 by Sex Panther Publications

Deakin University, Burwood VIC 3125

Published 2015

With thanks to contributing authors:

Bibi Alcock

Samantha Lyons

Catherine Vance

Lee Greaves

Nadine Harrison

National Library of Australia Catalogue-in-Publications entry

Sex Panther PublicationsTitle: Greetings from Oblivion: Your guide to death and hereafter

ISBN: 1234567890Dewey Number: X888.8

Sex Panther Publications is a small group of students from Deakin University created for the purpose of publishing this anthology.

Editors:

Bibi AlcockLee GreavesKaci Hillis

Samantha LyonsHarry Quinert

Design and Imaging:

Harry Quinert

Regardez

Begin your journey here...

Foreword by Lee Greaves

Page 7 - Step 1: Shock, DENIAL AND ISOLATION

One Foot in the Hereafter by Bibi Alcock

Page 11 - Step 2: Anger

Katherine Porterby Samantha Lyons

Page 15 - Step 3: Bargaining

The Other Juliet by Catherine Vance

Page 19 - Step 4: Depression

Resurrection by Lee Greaves

page 25 - Step 5: Acceptance

Grey Undying by Nadine Harrison

Epilogue by Harry Quinert Je suis Charon.Appelez-moi

Charlie...And greet your guide

YOU have decided to join us in the exploration of Oblivion and all the experiences it has to offer. Rest assured, that all the

questions you wish answered will, at the very least, be asked in these 5 carefully procured stories. We will take you on a

journey through the five stages of grief, and while you will not be the same by the end, you will at least acquire a new and

better understanding of the end.

Grief can be a challenging aspect to anyone’s life, but as we all know we will have to experience it at some stage. Luckily for us, psychology has made a simple and painless rationalization for

us to embrace: the five stages of grief. The beauty of this expedition into the subconscious condition is that you can take and use whichever stage you feel serves you best, but our goal is to help you find Acceptance. Don’t feel like Acceptance yet? Try Anger on for size. Too passive

for Anger? Maybe an escape to the cold sweetness of Isolation will fill the void. Sick of Bargaining for a second chance, then by all means numb out to a dizzying dose of Depression.

Your experience is your experience at Oblivion.

If you choose to stop off in Denial and Isolation for a while, you will be treated with Bibi Alcock’s mindful tale, One Foot in Hereafter. Here you can indulge on a feast of the inner workings of the tortured mind and the peacefulness of absence from reality, as interesting

landscapes are traversed through a captivating safari into nothingness.Maybe a bitter lashing of Anger is much more your style?

If so, then let Samantha Lyons treat you to her exposé, Katherine Porter, revealing the vengeful desires of a once-innocent lawyer. Such an oxymoron begs attention, and your sympathies shall

be teased as you assess how far you’d go for love lost.Perhaps Bargaining for another chance is the ultimate purpose of your visit? If so, then we

recommend a brief stop off at Catherine Vance’s charming attempt to reconnect her character, Juliet, with her father in The Other Juliet. Family reunion stories can often be heart-warming,

and this should melt the coldest of them.Feeling a bit low on motivation? That’s fine. There’s not far to go now! Lee Greaves’ story, Resurrection, will help fill out the Depression portion of your journey. And on that note,

remember we are open to all ages at Oblivion, so by all means bring the kids along for the ride!And finally, for the exclusive pleasure of our valued customers, we have Nadine Harrison’s The

Grey Undying, for those whose adventure brings them all the way to Acceptance. This mystical tale will guide you through to the warmth that is Oblivion, our only place of salvation.

5

So,

And should you feel a little lost along the way,

you will be faithfully guided by your very own necrotic know-it-all,

Charlie A little tricky to follow he may be;

he is fluent only in Ancient Greek, and as much French as you could pick up from

watching Eurovision Audition reruns(which play on a constant loop in Purgatory).

However, he may prove useful to you. The road to inner peace is fraught with peril, and we cannot recommend traveling alone. So be sure to fasten your spiritual seat belts, and ready yourself to be transported to the realms of Oblivion; where the journey you

take is entirely up to you.

6

Enchanté

TravelWell!

One foot in hereafter- By Bibi Alcock

Death comes for every person living. For some his touch is swift and sure. Taking their body and their mind from one world and into another in the blink of an eye. For others, his touch is just a brush of fingertips. A half death. A glimpse into a world which they are not yet destined for. A glimpse which once seen, cannot be unseen. And so their mind lives in the world of the dead and their body remains in the world of the living. Until death comes for them once more.

One.

A father swings happily from the rafter of his boat shed.

Two.

A mother falls unknowingly while walking with a takeaway coffee in her hand. She does not hit the ground. She flies above it.

Three.

A daughter, her daughter, books a hot air ballooning trip, and follows the dawn across the sky.

Four.

A wife.

Sinks down into her bed in the early afternoon. She does not get up again before the day is out.

Five.

A Son. Too old for swing sets. Plays on his childhood one, one last time.

Six.

A brush. Another father. Only just touched. A seed has been planted, that will outgrow its pot soon enough.

7

Step 1:

Shock, Denial and Isolation

***Marie Brown only has another two and a half hours before her shift ends at the Creedmore Institution of Mental Health and Research. She is an orderly, and her day so far has been somewhat stressful. Many of the patients today have been acting out. This happens sometimes. The uneasiness seems to spread from one patient to the next like an aggressive virus. A shift could be started with a cohort of calm and reasonable patients and just a few hours later, one agitated patient has seemingly infected all of the others as well. Marie is liaising with a number of other orderlies and staff members about exactly how they are going to sedate their cohort of residents. At the moment most of the ‘safe’ patients, this meaning the ones that don’t have a tendency to act out violently, are having outside time in the courtyard. The issue, though, is that when the staff tried to start moving them back into the dining room for dinner many of them refused to go. Any attempts to try and persuade them indoors only seemed to be agitating the patients further and that agitation is rebounding off of more patients inside the yard. Jason, Marie’s best friend at work, always calls this the “brush of death”. He is a superstitious man and is convinced that when this feeling of unease spreads through the courtyard, it is because Death is walking among them; brushing his hands across them as he passes. This is obviously beyond ridiculous, but Marie never says so to Jason. He has many theories on these things. He also thinks that the reason none of the staff ever get uneasy when the patients do is because they have not been touched by death before. His theory is that all of these people were once normal, fully functioning and mentally stable. And then one day, they happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time, and BOOM, as Jason puts it, “they were brushed by death. Never to be the same again.”

***He lingers on the dark corner, waiting for someone to come along in a moment of weakness, a trusting person, a kind person. He smiles at passers-by. He does not exude a dangerous presence. He is very good, very good at appearing safe. Down the street a little, about fifty meters, there is a lolly shop teeming with children and parents, filling in the long hours of school holidays. A young boy wanders along the street licking a purple and green sugar blob on a stick. The boy trails his fingertips absent-mindedly across the shop windows as he passes them, leaving a trail of oily marks.

The man notices the boy and prepares himself. The boy’s parent is unaware that he has walked away from the safety of the hyper shop. As the boy reaches the corner, and the end of the line of windows, he looks up and sees the man standing just outside of the shadow of the alley. The man says something to the boy, smiling kindly, and the boy licking his lollipop, nods his head. Again, the man says something and holds out his hand to the boy. The boy, trustingly, takes it and is led across the line of shadow. They both disappear into the darkness.

***Johnathan Seagarger was no longer a religious man, but still, he held loosely onto that idea that there was a higher power up in the clouds that was perhaps watching over him.

8

And yet, he argued with himself about whether or not this greater power was indeed above or below him. He was alive, yes, but at what cost?

The White Sister, the ship upon which Johnathan sailed, now felt as if it were a ghost ship, which was set to sail the green mountains for the rest of time. The vessel groaned with the burden of lost souls yet to leave the decks. Johnathon was the only man, now living, who remained on the ship and he had not seen a landscape un-endless for a time which felt longer than any he could remember. The distance to the horizon, as with time, was now immeasurable. Johnathan had dutifully buried each of his stiff shipmates, in the cold earth of the Islartic Sea. They were tipped over the side like a bucket of old fish heads, left to float and then eventually sink into the depths of that great abyss. So now, Johnathan had sailed by himself for perhaps more than thirty days and nights, never once seeing another breathing person, or a still horizon. His world, along with his thoughts, had become quite imaginary. Like a trekker lost in the desert, Johnathan dreamed of warm food, women, and a change in scenery. Like a trekker lost in the desert, Johnathan dreamed of an escape from this relentless desert. Unbeknownst to Johnathan, he was only two horizons away from a land which offered him every dream he had dreamed over the past thirty nights. This land, a border town between two deserts.

***Rahul Steiner had been walking these blasted sandy hills for more than two weeks and hadn’t a cactus or limp weed to show for it, nor for that matter, a bath or a piece of meat that was undried. He’d lost one of his camels eight days into the journey, and when he said lost, he meant that the stupid animal had stepped on a death adder and gotten itself bitten. His bad luck didn’t end there, though. Not even a day later, a storm that was big enough to send the gods scampering into a deep cave had hit them, and pinned them down on a scraggily open plain for over half a day. So he was now at least four days behind schedule, potentially more due to the loss of that wretched camel, leaving him with only three to carry his large collection of goat and fox skins, which he planned on selling at the Hilliar Traders Market.

Rahul had begun to get concerned late yesterday afternoon when he noticed no change in the landscape, if he was a far north as what he thought he was, then he should have reached the Short Forests of Dellitha by now. And yet, he had not seen anything even vaguely familiar in a couple of days. Alas, Rahul worried that he had somehow gone off course. He argued with himself that there was no chance that this could be the case, as he had made this journey many times before with no pitfalls. But the seed of doubt planted late yesterday had now, by the following midday, begun to heavily take root.

Around two hours past midday, Rahul noticed a strange unnatural point which crested the furthest sand dune on the horizon to the left of his position. There were four smaller dunes between him and this monolith, but Rahul found this point so interesting after days of repetition that he decided to take a slight detour in order to investigate this object. With a renewed sense of hope Rahul made off towards the gigantic sand dune, which was hiding a larger object behind it. As was always the case in the desert, things were never quite as close as they appear. Rahul’s progress was slow. As he crested the last sand dune before the big one, he stopped and stared at the object in confusion. Rahul could’ve sworn that—unless he had completely lost his wits in this sand jar—the point up close looked like the mast of the ship.

9

From that vantage point, he could see perhaps three meters of the object, which consisted of a large thick vertical pole, with a wire running off its highest point at an angle that created a triangle with the windblown top of the sand dune.

“What on God’s earth?” muttered Rahul.

Convinced that he was surely seeing through the eyes of a madman, Rahul ran down the steep edge of the sand dune upon which he had been standing. Each step he took was more like a great lunge due to the steepness and softness of the dune. At one point Rahul’s body momentum became too fast for his feet to keep up with. He fell forward and tumbled the last fifteen meters down the sand dune. Having completely forgotten about his camels, Rahul began to run up the largest and steepest of the dunes. The effort to make it to the top exhausted him but he persevered. He was running up the dune like an animal, using both his hands and feet for stability. As he reached the top of the last dune he stood up triumphantly and was immediately lost for words. In front of him was a town sitting as a border between the endless sand dunes which stretched on forever behind him, and the vast ocean which was laid out before him. In the bay there were large ships moored, with their sails down, resting. People walked the streets carrying bags of grain and produce. This was not Hilliar. This town was not on any map he had ever seen. But nonetheless, here it sat, as real as air itself. A border between two deserts.

***Marie has never been quite sure if Jason believes that this ‘Death’ is a real thing or just a metaphor for some other theory he has come up with. Nonetheless, he is right about one thing; Many of the patients here had no prior history of any type of mental illness. And then one day, they just changed. They went from being a fully functioning healthy person to a mentally unstable person in a matter of seconds. One young patient, for instance, a man of twenty-three years, had this happen to him when he was a child. His mother says that she was down the street with him during school holidays when he was eight years old. They had just been to the local lolly shop and she had brought him a large lolly pop which he was extremely excited about, as he wasn’t often allowed treats like this. She says she turned her back for an instant and he disappeared. She searched for him frantically before finding him in an alleyway further down the street sitting in the shadows staring at a brick wall. And that was it. In one instant he was a normal eight year old boy, and the next he wasn’t.

Marie’s superiors are concerned that if they don’t get the patients under control then the safety of both the staff and patients could be under threat. After a short yet direct briefing with the matrons, Marie and her fellow orderlies have been instructed to take responsibility for one patient each. There are twelve patients currently in the yard and fifteen orderlies on duty. Once they have approached the patients they are to inject them with a sedative which will not render them unconscious but will sufficiently calm them and allow them to be moved to a safer area. Marie walks calmly towards her patient who is on the farthest side of the courtyard.

He is sitting in a small wooden boat, speaking quietly to himself and picking at the hem of his woolen jumper. The tiles around the boat have been painted in swirling blue, making it seem as though it were floating on water.

“Johnathan,” Marie begins.

10

Katherine Porter - By Samantha Lyons

My name is Katherine Porter; lawyer by day, vigilante by night. But that doesn't make me the good guy. I don’t go after thieves and run-of-the-mill villains whose biggest crime is twisting their mustaches. I fry bigger fish. I go after more hardened criminals: rapists, kidnappers, child molesters, murderers; basically anything that could get you a life sentence.

The difference between me and comic book vigilantes is that I don’t hand them over to the police gift-wrapped in handcuffs; I actually give them what they deserve. I slaughter them. Prison is too good for them. Prison is living with a roommate, getting fed all meals and maybe having a job, which is far more than some homeless people ever get. I wonder what would happen if the ‘necessities’ meant for high security prisons actually went to those who deserved them instead of those who went against society in favour of their own rules. Would it deter people from committing serious offences if they knew they wouldn't get fed? Would it help to get people off the streets? Probably.

In this line of work I've seen countless victims that no one cared about simply because they were homeless. It’s also given me the chance to see the better side of humanity as well. I've seen a homeless man give his jacket and beanie to a near freezing child in the dead of winter. I guess the phrase ‘those with the least give the most’ is true. True for some people at least, others are never satisfied because of their greedy nature. That’s why I take matters into my own hands. That’s where being a lawyer comes in handy for this line of work. If I know what their defense is for their crime then I’ll know what the outcome will be if their defense and their lawyer are good enough. Sometimes the law isn't enough though. That’s where I come in. When the law fails this city, I take it into my own hands. Some people don’t deserve to live.

***I started doing this because I wanted revenge, but now I do it because I enjoy it. The rush you get from holding someone’s life in your hand is exquisite. Nothing compares to it. Knowing that I've saved a victim from future pain by killing their tormentor is enough for me to continue. I don’t believe that people are born evil, but I do believe that they are created by the world around them. Once you take that path, no matter how hard you try or how desperate you are, there is no coming back; the dead can’t come back.

11

Step 2:

Anger

I know because I tried. Not the trying to bring him back to life, I know that isn't possible. I tried to go back to being innocent. Well, as innocent as a lawyer could be anyway. I used to be happy too, but then my fiancé, Ian, was murdered in front of me. He was the love of my life and we were going to start a family. Everything was planned out; we’d be married in spring and have a baby by the following winter. We had even bought a house and were in the middle of moving in together. I should have known things were too good to last. If it weren't for him standing in front of me that night, I would have been the one that was killed in the alley.

It was a Thursday night after we had watched a play at a theatre in the city. We got free passes, because one of the actors was Ian’s brother. We stayed until after the show ended and the crowd was gone to congratulate him on his performance. It was an amazing show, and Ian was proud of his brother, but I wish I could remember it. I remember nothing about that day up until Ian being murdered. It’s funny how the bad things stick with us more than the good. I only know I enjoyed the play and I know we saw Ian’s brother after it ended, because he told me about it a few days later.

On the night it happened, I don’t know how long it was before the cops showed up but I know I wasn't crying anymore. The tears had dried up and I couldn't cry. The cops said it was because I was dehydrated and in shock. I went numb. Where my skin should have prickled from the cold night air, where there should have been a huge lump in my throat and a gaping hole in my chest, there was nothing. They took me back to the station and tried to coax me out of my shock. I knew this tactic because Ian had told me about it. Yeah, Ian was a cop. I told them what had happened and they made notes. They asked if I knew the guy. I didn’t. They asked if I could identify him. I said yes.

They showed me a few pictures of suspects and then I saw him, the murderer; the man who ended Ian’s life and ruined mine. Geoff said his name was Jared Collins. Geoff was Ian’s partner. He said that Jared shouldn't have even been walking around; he was arrested the day before for alleged possession of illegal drugs, but his parents got him off the hook. Apparently, he had a few charges against his name and a long list of prior offences including, but not limited to, violence, indecent assault, larceny, drug use and possession. This news caused me to snap.

“What the fuck is wrong with you people? Why the hell did you let him walk the fuck out of here?” There was a lot more profanity in it, but you get the idea. “If you did your fucking jobs properly then Ian would still be here!”

They were all shocked because they knew me; I was Ian’s fiancée and never really said a bad word about anyone. Like I said, I used to be innocent. That’s probably why they let me say it. They could see how messed up I was after that night. If I was just some random off the street they would have locked me up for saying that to them.

“Katherine, we need you to go home. Get some rest”, said Geoff, “We can’t get this guy if we’re too focused on trying to keep you sane.”

He succeeded eventually. So I went home and slept for nearly a week. Not literally, but that’s all I did. Didn’t eat, didn’t move, and didn’t answer my phone or my door. A few days later Geoff barged in using the spare key and said they found him. That propelled me out of bed. We drove to the station so I could identify him, only to discover that he had turned himself in by the recommendation of his family’s fancy-arse lawyer. He was a rich kid from a wealthy family who’d turned drug dealer, sampled too much of his product and desperately needed to pay his supplier. His parents’ lawyer got him off the charges on a technicality.

12

The technicality being that his name was spelt Jarrod instead of Jared, so therefore he was the wrong person, despite his confession. Those fucking lawyers. You know the type, the ones who only care about getting paid, no matter the cost to everyone else. They are the kind of lawyers I despise. He walked out a free man and I exploded again.

“You promised you’d catch him. He walks in, confesses, and then walks free. What the hell kind of justice is that?” I screamed. How could this be happening?

“He will pay for what he did to Ian, Katherine.” He looked at me and he was serious. “I’ll make sure of it. But please go home and rest. I’ve got work to do.”

***I was livid, but I went home anyway. When I got home I saw him. Jarrod Collins. He was standing in my bedroom upstairs, watching me. But of course he wasn’t really there. Or at least that’s what the cop who drove me home kept saying. Over the next few days my fear of running into Jarrod Collins was too great for me to handle, to the point I was too scared to go outside at all.

After a few weeks of binge-watching TV and feeling sorry for myself, I saw an ad on the TV for a self-defense class. Ian taught me in case he wasn’t around and I ever got attacked. I already knew how to defend myself because being a lawyer is a hazardous occupation; there will always be someone who isn’t happy with you. But I figured a refresher course couldn’t hurt. The class was pretty basic—I already knew most of it. I wasn’t as defenseless as the other women in the class who were struggling to grasp the most basic technique. That’s what made me realise that I actually wasn’t that defenseless at all. If I ran into Jarrod Collins, I might not be the victim.

It was probably because of all the Marvel and DC movies I’d been watching, but it gave me an idea; if the law wouldn’t give me my revenge, I’d take it myself. Jarrod was tall, but he was scrawny and couldn’t have weighed much more than me. I could take him. I just had to find him first. This actually wasn’t hard. He was dealing most days so I just followed the trail of people overdosing—he was a shitty dealer.

I found him in a bar. It was reasonably crowded; a few guys trying to get lucky, chicks getting free drinks from men they’d never see again, circles of friends chatting in the corners. The patrons in the bar looked like regulars—except for Jarrod, he might as well have worn sign saying ‘buy drugs from me’. He had sores all over his skin. Dark, sunken eyes, and was really thin in the face. He wore a dark hoodie with a beanie, had pockets that were overstuffed—probably with cash and crack—and wore sagging jeans that hung past his arse and revealed his manky grey boxers—not an image I wanted to see. I lured him outside with the promise to buy from him, but in a place no one could witness it.

Once we were alone it was as if all the rage that had built up in me over the past couple of months suddenly boiled over. I was right; taking him down was really easy. When the police found his body they were astonished at how disfigured and bloody he was. They couldn’t actually identify him without testing his blood or dental records, whichever it was they used. That’s how well I did my job. I knew he’d never haunt me or hurt anyone else ever again. I felt free after that, like a huge weight had been lifted off my shoulders—excuse the cliché, but that’s really what it felt like. It was euphorically freeing.

13

***Something I’ve noticed about doing this is that my sense of whether a person is good or bad has been finely tuned, and it now has pinpoint accuracy. All devils must have a keen sense of evil. How else would they always manage to team up? Again, I probably watched too many movies. Jarrod Collins is the first murderer I killed. He was the one who started this for me. If I had never met him, my life would probably be a hell of a lot different, and a lot less violent. If it weren’t for his lawyer, Jarrod would probably still be alive. Before Ian was murdered, I believed in the justice system.

If it hadn’t’ve failed me so appallingly, I would have never turned into a murderer, myself.

14

The Other Juliet- By Catherine Vance

I’m the kind of girl that likes to fly kites in thunderstorms.

You’re the kind of man that likes to watch.

We had a special connection, you and I, your firstborn.

You were inspiring. You told me once that roses had been made to smell sweet for me and for me alone. But you never said by whom. You told me that on a perfect day, you can see the diamonds that make up the ocean. You told me that I was a treasure.

But people don’t walk away from treasure. People spend their whole lives searching for it. Then they keep it close by. To watch over it and to keep it safe. Is that why you came back?

You gave me this name. Chose it over others, researched the meanings for hours on end while I grew and evolved in my mother’s shadowy womb. Perhaps you and her sat together once in a big old comfy armchair that smelled of saddles, and pondered names together, while rubbing the tight skin on her rounded belly.

Juliet. Meaning young or youthful. How apt, when we all start to die from the moment we are born, and you couldn't even wait that long.

But I researched my name too, and found it to be most wonderfully revealing.

There was another Juliet, a Juliet who was willing to die over the one she loved, written into existence by the softly lilting quill of a white ruff-collared man.

***The pram. Always a talking point.

I didn't push my baby sister into oncoming traffic out of spite. I did it because I knew that you were watching. She, with her rosy cheeks and gummy smile. I knew she was safe. Because you were there. But only I could see you. Your appearance was brief and unsatisfying, and it left me wanting more. No one believed me. Little girls who lose their daddies crave attention. Apparently.

15

Step 3:

Bargaining

I know when you are around, as you come with a particular cologne. Like filed nails and burnt hair. Like sweat and leather and soil. As clear as the air preceding rain, when the fungal spores open and everything is still.

I can always tell with that autumnal leaf shuffle that you are near. But now I am older, and I am a tease.

I like to tease you. To see if you will react.

I jump from tall trees. I like to fly through the leaves as gravity pulls me back down.

I hitchhike. I accept lifts in dirty utes. I talk to strangers.

I swim in rips and feel the cold ocean pull me away from safety. Drag me further away from earth and towards the rim. And as that horizon speaks of the piles of ships that have fallen off the edge, I remember that it is round after all. And I too will keep going round and round. And I never see a single diamond.

I walk late at night in a bad part of town, where the street lamps are all broken and car alarms are unremarkable, shadows and the space between them have only one shade.

I know you are following, predictable you. But it is just your presence that I like to feel. To know that you are indeed watching over me. It is our special time.

But I hate clocks. If I hear them ticking I am overcome with a hatred that feeds me. I hunt down those tickers like a hound and bay for their blood. I have thrown clocks from windows, stamped on them, drowned them and ripped them apart with my bare hands until cogs and pins and pointed hands and sharp fragments cut my fingers, cut my palms. I once found a tiny gold X on my bedroom floor, tangled in the carpet. Remnants of destruction.

Most clocks will do it to me, but grandfather clocks are the worst. Do you know why? I dare you to psychoanalyse me and say, ‘You feel you are running out of time. Perhaps they make you feel as if there is not enough time to achieve something, and you must stop time itself.’

No. Wrong.

I hate grandfather clocks because their slow swinging pendulum reminds me of you, swinging from that beam. Back and forth. Back and forth. Tick and tock. No more time.

Evidently there are and have been things beyond my control, and yes, time is one of them. Yet the older I get, the closer I am to you, just as a matter of nature. But I want more. And all little girls need their daddies.

I found the bridge that carried me closer to you than ever before. That little syringe of heat that forced itself under my skin.

The heroin makes me bold, and it makes you bolder. As I knew it would. Each time my veins sing with the strange clarity of the high, other elements weaken in their resolve to keep you and I apart. So I seek it more frequently and in stronger doses.

16

But this story is not about the heroin, it is about you.

And every day thereafter, feeling for that little scar on my inner arm, that little nub on my vein like a rat in a snake’s throat. The lump that simultaneously resists the point but provides the reassurance that I have done this many times before. Oh, how you waited for me to go too far. But I always knew the limit. The heroin and I were a force you could never touch. Sometimes after a rush, when lying prone and breathless, heavy with light, I could see you; just on the edge of reality. On the outskirts of both of our limits.You are the black speck in my vision, darting away if I try to focus in.

Coming down is always where you wait. But what you don’t realise is that I don’t get high to avoid you. I get high to get as close to you as possible, to see your sharp profile and hear your voice, but still be just out of your reach. My safe zone. Where I choose to stay, but you chose to leave.

And yes, as I predicted, your form is getting stronger, taking shape. You are no longer just a presence or a shadow. You are coming home, just like I always wanted. To make up for how you missed seeing me grow, learn and live.

***And then the inevitable. Running thick in my veins is the heroin, and this time it takes control. I take it too far, lying restlessly itchy but amiably numb after the rush. And the darkness creeps around me and fills every crack of my safety, until even I can’t tell where shadows begin and end.

I forget to breathe. That command ingrained in all of us. That structural simplicity that requires no passive thought to send pink lungs convulsing.

I forget to be.

I awaken. Eventually. And just like the other Juliet from her poison-draught slumber, it is only a fake death. Although I realise that I am still asleep, comatose, comfortably draped in white, surrounded by flowers. But where are you, Daddy? Oh, there you are, standing at the window, where dead moths turn to dust in the window runners. You seem upset, perhaps annoyed, or infuriated. Is it because I have cheated you yet again? That I refuse to join you? That I am untouchable? That there are so many things left unsaid? I have changed dimensions. I am a step closer to you, yet a step further away.

I know that my mother will never flick that switch. Deep down she loves me. Despite my multitude of flaws, and my personality tainted by seeking someone she has tried to forget. She will hope that one day I will awake, a hollow eyed princess that, had she flicked the switch, would have missed the chance at freedom. She will wait by my bedside, straightening flowers and binning fallen petals. I am her child. She cannot flick the switch, as that is in your hands. Of this, the irony amuses me. Safe and content that your hands are unable to flick the switch yourself, deprived of human contact, of any tactile ability. I sense your regrets. I laugh.

So I lay here, a stand-off, a stalemate.

17

Our delightful dance that we have done for twenty long years will continue forever. Like you, I am immortal. And like you, I am untouchable. Me. Juliet, the Juliet, is young and youthful forever. We may finally talk, while I am safe.

***

Dearest Juliet,

Your mother is tiring, you know. She tires of seeing your sleeping body. Sickened by the thought that this being, a reflection of Frankenstein’s Monster attached to its wires and cords and buttons, once came out of her. For a long time she has known you were different, ever since you pushed your sister’s pram onto the road. Perhaps that was your mistake, as it alerted her to the fact that you always walked with a shadow, even on an overcast day.

Perhaps she is more like me than you ever will be, as she has suddenly the power to control you. Only she can flick that switch. Flick it and watch you fade away into a realm that has always enticed you.

I feel that now I must also inform you of something important, as I feel that we will soon be meeting. Although I did meet your father once, I am not him. Mistakenly, you have yearned for his presence when it was never there. But don’t worry too much, dearest Juliet. It was me. I have been watching you. And you have deprived me of good business for long enough.

Your mother is tiring. And I am waiting.

Yours Sincerely,Death

18

resurrection- BY lee greaves

Let us beware of saying that death is opposed to life. The living is only a form of what is dead, and a very rare form. – Friedrich Nietzsche, The Gay Science

A searing northerly wind ripped through the open window to Rachael’s cluttered bedroom. The young girl sat various dolls and teddy bears around one other, very beautiful doll, lying flat on its back. It was one of those dolls whose eyes closed when horizontal. The girl had a book open and spoke to those gathered:

“Close friends and family, we are here today to say goodbye to a wonderful wife and mother…”

“Rachael!” growled a stern, but tired, man’s voice. “I told you, none of that. It’s not a game. It’s real life.” There was a shake in her father’s angry tone. His lip quivered and he took a deep breath and tromped down the hallway. His bedroom door slammed; she would be getting her own dinner tonight. She quickly thanked those for coming, held back the tears, and hurriedly dispersed the mourners: most of them to different areas on the floor; Gloria to a special position on the bed.

She navigated her way down the toy-strewn hallway, past the overflowing laundry, tip-toed around various boxes and magazines on the lounge room floor until she found the coffee table buried under a week’s worth of newspapers. She slid the newspapers onto the floor, opened the drawer beneath and pulled out some blank paper and pencils. Rach loved to draw her mother, but when she did, she made sure she threw the pictures out.

***“C’mon Sally, get that brekky in your belly,” Dave coaxed his daughter, “It’s nearly time for school”.

“Yes, Daddy,” she lisped. “Are we going to walk this morning?” she asked, enthusiastically munching through her Cheerios.

“Of course, but only if you hurry up,” he threatened.

19

Step 4:

Depression

“Noooooo!” she cried.

“What’s up, girlie?” Dave asked.“Casey, he’s… is he…?” she asked weeping at the sight of the goldfish bobbing up and down against the filter.

“Oh dear. Yes bub. I think he is.” He held the small frame of his young daughter until the sobbing stopped. “I’ll fix him up when you’re at school.” Once she regained herself, she marched off to finish her morning chores.

“Right, let’s go,” she directed, once her packed bag was snug on both shoulders and her demeanor was cheerful again.

“Don’t forget to say goodbye to your mother,” Dave pointed out to Sally as they were leaving.

***“I miss Casey,” Sally informed her father as they walked. “Why didn’t you cry? Didn’t you love him?”

“Of course I did,” he replied. “But I don’t cry for everything”.

“What about if it was Molly?” Molly was their dog. “Would you cry if Molly died?”,she challenged.

“I’m pretty sure I would,” he answered.

“And Mummy?” she upped the stakes.

“I most definitely would, but we don’t have to worry about Molly or Mummy, they’ll be fine.” His eyes saddened.

“So why not Casey, he’s part of the family?”

“Fish are more fragile I suppose,” he pondered this truth.

***The persistent whirring of the central dust extraction was regularly interrupted by various noises of wood cutting machinery: a panel saw; the new CNC machine; and the beam saw that Dave was working on. A pack of melamine sheeting sat on a hydraulic lift next to him, raising the next sheet to the height of the previous one each time he slid one onto the machine’s table. Air pushed through the table top to prevent the sheets from sticking, but it also blew dust into his nose, drying it out. Challenging the droning sound of the dust extractor was the radio, currently playing a familiar song; Zombie, by The Cranberries.

20

Quite fitting, he thought, considering he had been on auto-pilot since smoko. His thoughts drifted frequently to his wife, and as it is with monotonous labour, he began to daydream of times past.

The smell of stale beer and bourbon wafted throughout the garage where the teens were running amok. Dave had his top off and was bloating his stomach out trying to do his best ET impersonation.

“Oh my god, Dave,” Rachael yelled at him as he was rubbing his belly up against one of his nervous friend’s back in mock seduction. “You’re off your head, leave him alone would ya!”

“Jesus Christ, why d’ya care so much. I’m just having a little fun,” he retorted, adding emphasis with another swig from his Coke bottle spiked with Bundy. Rachael was taken aback, she got embarrassed, and then angry – for some reason. Basement Jaxx was on the stereo, the bass resonating but not piercing the tension.

“You always get stupid when there’s a party on, it’s so frustrating,” she continued.

“It’s a party, that’s what’s supposed to happen. Wha’d’ya even care? You’re acting like a girlfriend! Or worse, a mother.”

Where’s your head at, at… the music resonated perfectly as he said this. Tears welled in Rachael’s eyes. She looked lost and confused.

Don’t let the walls cave in on you; we can’t live on, live on without you…

***“Davo!” yelled his colleague. “You cut ’em fifty mil short. We need kitchen ends, not vanity.” Goddammit, thought Dave, always stuffing up the menial tasks. He reset the beam saw, yawned, and slid another sheet onto the machine. With his hands full of the contents of the letterbox, Dave struggled with the front door, the deadlock had been snipped. Peppa Pig was jumping in muddy puddles on the TV, like she always did, as he passed Sally on the way to dumping the pile on the dining table. “How’s school?” he asked.

“Good,” was her typical response. He went to the bedroom and said hello to Rachael.

“I thought you didn’t watch Peppa anymore?” he asked on return and gave Sally a big kiss on the forehead. He began sifting through the mail and made two piles: bills to the left, junk to the right: Commonwealth Bank, left; Kmart, right; Guide Dogs, right; Stockdale and Leggo, right; Dodo, left: SE Water, left; Headspace, right; Oxfam, right; and finally, in a red overdue envelope, AGL, left. He pushed the junk mail off to the side and opened the bills. They were building up. He looked at them, then to the ones clipped to the board, then to the ones in his hand again. He put them down and left the room with shoulders slumped. He sat on the floor in the hallway against the wall, and put his head in his hands and sobbed, to the sound of Peppa Pig’s jangling outro.

***21

“One more push,” the nurse encouraged Rachael, whose face was contorted to look like some vile Edvard Munch creation . Rachael groaned at the end of the push, worn and tired.

“Oh baby,” Dave marveled at his wife as he was handed the scissors. The room looked like a slaughter house – but life had been introduced to this room, not removed. “She is so beautiful. Are we still calling her Sally?” he asked her, even though she looked too buggered to care.

“Sure,” she replied dully, exhausted.

Later that night, after an unsuccessful breastfeeding attempt, she and Dave were alone in the hospital room. She had only a few hours rest and she looked blankly into the wall. Dave noticed and asked, “are you ok, baby?”

“Yeah,” she replied, somewhat mournfully. “I suppose”.

“I’m not so convinced, Rach. Come on, what’s up?” he prodded.

“Just let it go,” she raised her voice, darkness ever present.

“How can I help you if you don’t talk to me?”

“For fuck’s sake,” she spat, and he recoiled into his chair. “I said let it go.”

***“C’mon Sally, get that brekky in your belly,” Dave coaxed his daughter. “It’s nearly time for school”.

“Yes, Daddy, are we going to walk this morning?” she asked ritualistically.

“Of course, but only if you hurry up,” he threatened. Once all the chores were done he reminded her, “Don’t forget to say goodbye to your mother.”

***“Dad, are there people on the moon?” Sally asked innocently.

“Nope. There have been, but they were only there for a little bit and there hasn’t been anyone there for a long time now.”

“Oh.”

“They are looking at sending some people to Mars, though,” Dave informed her. “But Mars is a long way away.”

“How long?”

22

“So long that the people who go there won’t be able to come back home. They will have to live the rest of their lives on Mars,” he explained, to her displeasure.

“But what about their family? They would miss them.” she said sadly, tears welling in her eyes.

***Sally’s arms flailed and as she did so her bouncer rocked. She made little whimpers, not too obtrusive to the ears but there was still some urgency there. Moments later, a warm bottle of milk was presented to her lips and she suckled away with the fervor of a man parched in the desert. At the other end of the bottle was Rachael’s hand, extended from the couch where she was laying on her side; staring at the television.

“Why don’t you pick her up to feed her?” Dave asked as he walked into the room from his day at work.

“Why should I? She doesn’t even like me,” she retorted sharply, but sullenly.

“Of course she does, you’re her mother,” he tried soothing her. “The two of you could do with the bonding time.”

“Mother,” she scoffed venomously. “Some mother, I wouldn’t even know where to begin with being a mother. All I do is change it and feed it formula. Being a mother has gotta be more than that.”

When Dave returned home from work that evening, Sally was watching her shows as usual. He said hello to her with a kiss on the forehead, and then the same to Rachael. After closing the bedroom door, he took his phone from his pocket and went outside with the power bill. He hated asking for extensions; he hated it most when they wouldn’t grant any more.

***“C’mon Sally, get that brekky in your belly”, Dave coaxed his daughter. “It’s nearly time for school”.

“Yes, Daddy. Are we going to walk this morning?”

“Certainly are.”

They both said goodbye to mum and left for their walk to school.

“You can live with me when I have kids, Dad,” Sally offered. “Then you can take my kids to school for me.”

“Why would I be taking your kids to school?” he questioned.

23

“I’ll be in bed, ‘cos that’s what mummies do.”

“Oh, darling,” he put his arm on her shoulder. “You know your mummy is sick, that’s why she’s in bed a lot. When you are a mummy you’ll be fine and you’ll be able to take your own kids to school. One day when mummy is better she’ll be able to take you to school too,” he hoped.

***Dave opened the front door, a pile of envelopes in his hand again. The house was unfamiliarly quiet. Sally was sitting on the couch with a book in her hand. He recognised it to be Wombat Stew, one of Sally’s favorites. He made his way to her, struggling to juggle the bag slipping off his shoulder and the bills in his hand. He gave her a kiss on the forehead fumbling his way to the dining table to relinquish his burden.

“How was school?” he exhaled his typical afternoon question.

“Good,” came the expected reply. He began to head off to the bedroom when he heard some rustling from that direction. The door slid open slowly, like a heavy stone, revealing the entrance to some sacred cave. He was stunned by the sight before him. Rachael approached; her hands began to rise and there was something in them.

“I called the doctor today,” she revealed with a shameful demeanor,“I have an appointment tomorrow.”

She took a deep breath. He now realised that the object in her hand was the Headspace pamphlet. Dave couldn’t say anything; he just smiled, took her in his arms and held her.

“Mummy...”, smiled Sally, wrapped in their embrace.

24

The Grey undying- By Nadine harrison

The night came in thick and cold, with a sting that reminded them why they were still there. They walked in cloaks made of silk, heading west, towards the Grey Undying Creek. Lil trailed among them, still as a ghost. This was the farthest she had been allowed to venture from the home gates, never before considered ready for the journey. It had been eighty-one years since Lil first opened her eyes this side of life. Physically, she had no lines to show for it. Drifters did not show their age. Born to Antipodes, a towering city, their existence was unknown by most in the land of the Hereafter—even the dead.

They had left Antipodes, one by one, at the pull of an invisible force. Each lured to the same place, they formed an army amidst the thick snow. They walked to the sound of crunching footsteps and quick conversation, as a light wind crept over them. Lil followed the trail alongside AJ, an old friend drawn to the creek not long after her. Before them in the distance was a cluster of hills, wide and icy. Between the drifters and the hills the land was lower, the ground stretching out to the east as far as the eye could see. Naked wiry trees scattered the earth around them. The path, they forged themselves, stopping only when the pull would allow them to.

Four days into their journey, however, Lil and AJ were still being led to walk. The hills grew with each step, until they turned into dark mountains looming in the distance. The wind blew colder there, pinching at any uncovered skin. When a soul was lucky enough to pause off the trail, even for a moment, the drifters would notice, though their eyes would not falter from the path they were on. It was these moments that Lil could feel it most, a lingering queasiness to the stomach, slowly rippling through her.

It didn't help that the visions continued. They took her somewhere else, beyond this plain—where the soul she was bound to lay confined to a bed, silver wisps of hair left to fall against her face. Pale hospital walls stung her eyes and closed her in. Let me go, a voice seemed to whisper, but Lil did not know how to respond, all she could do was stay and watch. Before her in an armchair an elderly man sat, hands resting in his lap. Lil knew the living could also be bound to another, though theirs was by choice. His tired eyes looked towards his wife, taking her in. “Do you want something love?”

“You know what I want, Allen,” her voice came out raspy, without the hint of anger she had intended. “Take me home.”

25

Step 5:

Acceptance

“When you’re feeling better we will,” he smiled.

“I’m feeling better now,” she grabbed at the tubes in her arm. “Take these silly things off and we can go home.”

“Soon, the doctors said soon.”

The pull dragged Lil back then to the land of the grey —for grey is what the journey is said to become once a drifter leaves the gates of Antipodes. No longer protected by the walls of an invisible city, drifters are given over to the lands usually occupied by the dead. To the great expanse of the hereafter, where memories of a life lived come to Lil through harsh wind. She could feel them brushing against her flesh, pushing her forward. She couldn’t fight the memories even if she wanted to. Every undead cell in her body told her it was time. This is what she existed for. She belonged to the sting in the ice covered mountains. She was a hunter, born of life, to take life. It was her privilege. About the only one a drifter had. Yet even so she couldn’t shake it. Deep in her gut a sickness festered, pulling her back and forth, between Antipodes and the great beyond, back and forth it swirled, back and forth and back…

“Lil,” AJ whispered through icy air. “Lil. I think it’s getting stronger now.”

“Yes.” Lil’s head dropped at the approaching sunlight. “I think you’re right.”

The grey creek was said to be surrounded by moss so dense many had drowned before they reached the water. Hector, a younger drifter recounted the story, though it was one they knew well. Once, a whole group of drifters had fallen to the moss—lost in the haze of dreams—all five hundred of them. Traitors, Hector called them.

“The forgotten,” AJ added with a defiant smirk. It was a failure no drifter wished for. Drowning meant madness for more than one soul.

“The fallen,” Lil remembered, kicking at the thick snow with her boot. Sanjeev, her teacher back in Antipodes, had taught her that. She remembered him clad in black, years ago, before he had ever been delivered to the creek of the undying. He’d found her sitting before an outside wall, eyes open, keeping a steady glare upon the old, grey bricks. “What do you see?” he said.

“Nothing,” Lil admitted. “Robbie said I would though.”

“I see,” Sanjeev said with the hint of a smile. “And you see nothing?”

“No. But I might. It’s in my blood—the madness,” she looked up to meet his eyes.

“Why do you think that?”

“It’s obvious, isn’t it? I’m her daughter,” Lil outstretched her hands towards the wall, tracing her fingers against the rough surface, looking for any sign of what was to come. “If she failed, I can too.”

“A drifter’s choice, when it comes to the Grey Undying, has nothing to do with what came before. Remember that Lil.” Sanjeev paused a few moments before continuing.“Tell me, what is a drifter’s true purpose?”

26

“To meet and kill their soul on the other side.”

“Not necessarily,” he admitted, “Sometimes the fight between drifter and soul is so strong, no side wins.”

***Sanjeev’s words rested on Lil as she continued her walk through the snow. Days had turned into weeks. Approaching close to the base of a mountain, the drifters were growing tense. With each step they came closer to the souls of the living, whose calls rang through their undead bodies, snatching away at memories of Antipodes and twisting them with their own. “I don’t know if I can do it,” Lil bit into her lip.

“Do what?” AJ asked.

“This,” she gestured to the drifters around her.

“Maybe you won’t have to.”

“That’s a strong maybe,” Lil murmured. She thought of the old woman, how easily the man could make her smile. How he still did, only it was softer now. “She’s weak.”

“I know,” AJ sighed. “He knows.”

“So what do I do?”

“You go to her. She’s calling you.”

“I don’t think she is,” Lil confessed. “It doesn’t feel right.”

“Maybe it’s not supposed to.”

The visions were starting to disturb her. Lil knew the closer she got the heavier they were supposed to press. What she didn’t imagine was how it would feel, caught between here and there. As each day passed she saw through the old woman’s eyes as she strained to move, to bring food to her lips, her body sore against the mattress and yet she still managed to close her eyes. Family and friends came and went, day after day. They brought flowers; deep blue ones, pansies, orchards. They were pleasant to look at, beautiful and fragrant, until water no longer met their thirst. She watched as blue flowers turned off-white, to be taken away and replaced. Taken away and replaced. Until life meant death and nothing more. Her husband was there every day, until nightfall, when the woman was left to sleep with silence for company. But even sleep could not hold off death’s embrace.

AJ and Lil had walked at a steady pace for most of the journey. Side by side they trailed through the thick snow. Each drifter walked at the pace of the soul they were bound to, that they knew. Though AJ and Lil had hoped they would be together at the end. It seemed only right. When he reached out to hold her hand, she looked into his eyes and knew the spell on him had broken. That, for now, at least the pull had eased its hold. “I’m sorry,” he said.

27

“Don’t be,” she admitted. “We don’t get to choose.”

“We just turn up,” he finished for her. It was quiet for a few moments before he wrapped his hand tighter around hers “I wanted to be there—he wanted to.”

“I know. Maybe it’s better this way.” Each minute that passed, as she paused with him, she fought to remain still.

“I’m afraid he’ll break now…if he’s alone,” AJ confessed.

“Not with smarts like yours,” she half-smiled, giving his hand one last squeeze. As she walked on she felt the pace quicken, cloak flapping in the wind behind her.

Reaching this land of the undying, Lil had expected the Grey Creek to be beautiful beyond anything, a bitter-sweet conclusion to her role in death. “The final sacrifice,” Sanjeev called it. Though she, like the thousands of drifting souls around her stood transfixed, before a frozen creek, one like any other.

Long and flat, without ripples or songbirds, it swerved like a drifter at the mercy of death’s pull, through fields of snow and naked white-wire trees. It vanished behind the curve of a hill. Dark green moss bordered the creek for meters between them. She understood now why Sanjeev insisted the creek was not truly important. “It is what is underneath that matters,” she could hear him saying. They were her thoughts as she took a step closer. The pull was still there, but weaker, almost as though it was forcing her to choose. Lil looked over her shoulder, searching for her friend. They had hoped they would do this part together. AJ wasn’t there.

Hector seemed to sense her apprehension, “Don’t be weak—it is the weak that fall”.

He shook his head before walking on; trembling, even before he reached the moss. Did he say that for my benefit or his own, Lil wondered. Lil had only one name, and one purpose. She was not there for AJ, and yet with every foot she placed into the deep moss pain shot through her for both of them. For Lil and AJ, for the old woman and her husband, again, back and forth her insides swelled. She was closer, and her bound soul must have felt it. So the old woman pulled Lil deeper, until all she could see was the hospital room and the old man sitting before her. They were alone. “You’re not well today,” he confessed.

“No. I’m okay. Just tired.”

“Sleep if you want. I’m not going anywhere.”

“No. You’re not, are you?” she smiled.

“You can’t get rid of me that easy,” he joked.

She let out a small laugh. “No. I wouldn’t want to. Never. Wouldn’t dream of it.” It wasn’t long before the old lady closed her eyes and Lil was able to break free of her hold. She was surprised to see how many drifters had paused through the moss. Even Hector had stopped a few paces in front of her. She called out to him, “Hector. Can you hear me?” When she got no response she looked towards the creek; drifters had made it, many had.

28

The jagged holes they left could be seen in the thick ice, where their swords had met it. Every drifter held one, knowing they would have to one day use it to break the ice. Stepping forward, Lil pulled the sword out from the sling on her back.

She was the closest she had ever been to her bound soul. The messages she was receiving were all mixed, but one stood out among the others.

As she brought the sword down onto the ice of the Grey Undying Creek—she knew she had killed them both—Lil had answered her call.

29

And there you have it.

Oh, this?Yeah, this is Purgatory. Pretty trippy, I know.

Here is where we part ways.And you will return

to the land of the living.

Armed with new knowledge,

new perspective,

new life.

It has been our distinct pleasure tohave shown you the path to survival

in a life after death.

But, as always, where this path leads is entirely up to you.

Travel well.

Sincerely yours, Oblivion

Bienvenue

Welcome And thank you for choosing Oblivion

for all your posthumous needs.

We understand this time of your existence can be extremely difficult, so

we have prepared for you a series of enlightening anecdotes to help you

understand the challenges of the end

This one-size-fits-all approach to eternal rest will expedite you through the

emotional roller coaster that is finality.

Denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance

all feature on this ride of a lifetime.

We are here to get you started on your path to a better understanding of your

imminent and inevitable mortality.Where this path ends, however, is

entirely up to you

Travel Well