inScribe (issue seven)

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Mia Jung was born in Busan, South Korea. A freelance fine artist and illustrator, she has studied art around the world and collected many memories. These memories are often used within her work as she is a lover of pretty things, be that flowers, buildings or people. She enjoys travelling and is grateful for long sleeps whenever the opportunity arises. More of her excellent artwork can be found on her website www.jungmia.com.

FACEBOOK.COM/inscribenews

Judy Doubas has had several short plays produced and some poetry published. She is currently studying creative writing part time. Annerliegh Grace McCall is an emerging writer. She is currently undertaking a Bachelor of Creative Writing at Melbourne University. [to’c] Tom O’Connell is currently studying for a Diploma in Professional Writing and Editing at NMIT. His work has appeared in [untitled] and Vine Leaves Literary Journal. [po’d] Patrick O’Duffy is a Northcote author of horror, crime and generally weird fiction, whose ebooks can be found on Amazon and Smashwords or through www.PatrickODuffy.com. [ws] Warwick Sprawson works as a Communications Assistant at NMIT Preston www.WarwickSprawson.com. [ct] Born in Melbourne, Cynthia Troup is a writer and editor based in Darebin since 2007. [mt-e] Meredith Tucker-Evans is a Northcote-based writer, editor, communications advisor, vegetarian foodie and Twitter addict. Bianca Walsh is a freelance writer, studying librarianship and living in the Thornbury area. [jw] Jodi Wiley is a writer, artist, teacher and kid-wrangler. Jeltje Fanoy is a Melbourne poet and was the convenor of La Mama Poetica (2004 – 2010). Ann J. Stocker’s main career is in genetics but she has always written, mainly poetry but some prose. Kate Kingsmill is an artist with a playful, stylized approach to her work, studying illustration at NMIT. Libby Riseborough was brought up on a cherry farm in the Yarra Valley. Her favorite days were spent on the front porch during a thunder storm, wrapped in a blanket, drawing pictures. Evie Cahir is a second year Bachelor of Illustration student whose narrative visuals often refer to the styles and traditions of fine art. Josh Head is a graduating illustrator drawn to popular culture and comics, an influence often apparent in his work. Zachary Grenfell likes to explore a wide range of mediums such as ink, watercolour, and digital media and bases a lot of his work on children’s story telling and the unnatural. Clint Cure is a local cartoonist and film maker. He used to draw for Walt Disney.

our TEAM

Emily Hassle is a Melbourne based illustrator who specialises in mixed media drawings, paintings, printing and digital media. She has exhibited all over Australia and internationally in countries such as Japan, USA and Europe. Emily’s style comes from a natural flow of subconscious inspirations that extends through her pen. She is heavily influenced by the line work and detail of art nouveau, the colourful effects of 60s poster art and Japanese horror comics. Emily is currently studying a Bachelor of Illustration at NMIT.

editors in chiefSamantha Thomas: NMIT

Meredith Tucker-Evans: Darebin Community

NMIT editorial and productionJan Robinson, Ashlea Shaw, Jack Waghorn

Darebin Community editorial teampoetry

Kylie Brusaschi, Nimity James

fictionClaudine Edwards, Athi Kokonis

non-fictionStella Glorie

all-rounderShirl Bramich

project directorBel Schenk: City of Darebin

creative directorBrad Webb: Yarra Bend Press

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inScribe is presented by the Darebin City Council in partnership with NMIT. inScribe publishes writers and artists who live, work or study in the City of Darebin. The magazine is published twice a year by the students of NMIT and members of the local writing community. It is distributed free in Darebin and beyond. For further information contact us at [email protected]

inScribe is produced as part of the NMIT Bachelor of Writing and Publishing Yarra Bend Press live work studio activities. For more information contact us on 03 9269 1833 or visit www.nmit.edu.au/bwap

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[jr] Jan Robinson is an endangered species. She can be seen in the wilds of Darebin stalking sentences. [as] Ashlea Shaw enjoys whiling away idyllic sunny days besides one of the many pools found within the grounds of the Playboy mansion. [st] Samantha Thomas is a writer of non-fiction and reviews, specialising in arts and food reviews. She was born and raised in Melbourne. [jw] Jack Waghorn is an aspiring writer whose key area of focus is the horror genre. Currently studying a Bachelor of Illustration at NMIT, Adam Knapper was born and raised in Melbourne. Adam works with design elements and visual language such as colour, line, form and pattern. He can be seen on www.AdamKnapper.blogspot.com. Susy Cirina is a mature aged student studying a Bachelor of Illustration at NMIT. Her inspirations are equal rights, political graphic novels, editorial cartoons and comic book art. Some of her work can be found on her blog DrawBlahDraw.blogspot.com.au. Emma Wiesenekker is a Melbourne based illustrator. She likes using watercolour and ink to represent things found in nature. Visit her at www.EmmaWiesenekker.blogspot.com. Samuel Davis hopes his work can associate with a spiritual reconnection with the arts and to look at confronting our understanding of each other within different sociopolitical environments.

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I’d always wanted to have a shot at being an editor and finally got my chance with this issue of inScribe. It’s been a lot of fun working with my fellow students at NMIT and at Yarra Bend Press. We have put together a great new issue of inScribe for you to read and we hope that you enjoy every single word. We had some impressive submissions from the residents and community members in the Darebin City area and beyond. We also have some amazing written content from our own staff writers including a great piece by Ashlea Shaw on our very own Northcote Town Hall. In addition to these great articles, we have some excellent book reviews, some great interviews with local figures and a piece on Darebin’s own award-winning brass band. Thanks to the Darebin and surrounding communities for allowing me to be a part of this issue and thank you for your continued support of both inScribe and NMIT’s Bachelor of Writing and Publishing students. Read on! st

It’s hard to believe we’re coming to the end of another year. This is the fourth edition of inScribe I have worked on, and I am continually amazed at the talent we have here in the northern suburbs of Melbourne. You might notice that we have widened our remit to include other suburbs in the north, including Fitzroy, Brunswick and so on. While NMIT and Darebin City Council remain our key partners, we felt that there was so much to share with you from our neighbouring suburbs that we needed to accept material from them as well. I wish you all a wonderful, creative summer and we’re looking forward to seeing what you produce for the next edition early in 2013. mt-e

Meredith Tucker-EvansDarebin Community

Samantha ThomasNMIT

For a large print edition of inScribe contact: Phone 8470 8458; TTY 8470 8696; [email protected]


With a premise that grasps your interest and never lets go, Caravan Story is both an insightful and inventive twist on Australian writing. Wayne Macauley has created a surreal scenario for the reader, yet approaches it in a way that doesn’t seem that farfetched. A young couple, one being our narrator, a writer conveniently named Wayne Macauley, are taken away in a caravan to a camp, a place for artists of all kinds. We learn about life in the caravan camp, and Wayne begins to work on his writing. However it becomes apparent that the work of the writers is quickly being discarded, and more and more writers are leaving the camp, never to return. In terms of writing, Caravan Story offers us a number of clever descriptions, and an almost dreamlike quality to the narrative. Events are often described in fragments by our narrator, and while it may be hard to focus on the action at times, it offers the reader a unique opportunity to fill in the gaps for themselves. Caravan Story is a clever piece of satire and is readable to the point of being addictive. It’s well written, has good pacing and is a great example of Australian literature. jw

Caravan StoryWayne Macauleywww.TextPublishing.com.au

CARAVANstorybookREVIEW

the fashioncapitalANNERLIEGH GRACE MCCALL

Baby you’ve changedSkin bareDappled light Where sunshine would hangBetween shouldersNow painstakingly casualButtonedBeneath only pure woolFound at Vinnies - repurposedAccented with high couture heelsAnd Grandma’s ugly brooch

Though garish Even the golden archesWere better Than thisThey spoke of something Like life And chaos Wrapped in paperThe salt stench Of living death

Don’t you recall The haunting wails and whispers? Carrion calling out to ghosts ‘You chasing?’‘Spare us a dollar brother?’Their hollowed f lesh And unconscious desire Eating the city

You’ve bricked yourself Into a paper cupThin wrists Long cold fingers Elegantly starvingBricked yourself into a boredNot-quite-grimaceToo smooth For hamburgers

So mind the wolvesThey stand on street cornersWhere you might expectThough we never suspectedThey’d look like youDoe eyedMurmuring ghosts Fingering labels‘Is it vintage?’Consuming the city.

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sentimentalabout thebody of meBIANCA WALSH

And when I looked at my body,souls very balance.My eyes were birdlike,quite changed in shape.What I saw hung about me,a cloak of my image,an other of my own faces.

I was a skinny as a wispand started to hold on to life,to feed the drink that savedmy essence.I became as fat as butter.Curvy like a bohemian dancer.

Girl that did the shimmy (with the spawn)Sweet dove he was and dark discs he voiced.Penetrating the ovum of my frame.Boisterous, robust, arduous,sugar whipped and then split healed.It was together we came on.

Sweet tender form where did you hide?Did you go where my history is etched?There at the base of my spine?

And shot thoughts vied through me.And night shot its glances.And you understood the conundrum of me.You simply told me.

And you told me that,to save a bee its sting,do not sting it with your fear. Im

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Everybody should read Craig Silvey. His books are fantastic and The Amber Amulet, just like its hero, possesses both powerful and magical qualities. A book that is written for a younger audience, this is a novella that would appeal to everyone. It appealed to me, and I’m a twenty-something female who normally reads the classics. After all, everybody has wanted to be a superhero at one stage or another. This book tells the story of a boy who made it happen. Written and designed in the style of the pulp detective or superhero story, The Amber Amulet is a wonderful little story that you can’t help but read in that husky cigar-toting narrator voice that goes with detective-style b-movies. The Amber Amulet is the story of Liam McKenzie, a twelve-year-old boy who is keeping the citizens of Franklin Street safe without them even knowing it. He keeps their tyres at optimum air pressure, fixes ailing sprinklers and records it all in his hero log. Also woven in are some very grown up themes like love, possible abuse and whether or not there is actually a cure for unhappiness. This is a well-written, quirky tale that parents should read to their child and then read again to themselves in order grasp the full beauty of this gem of a story – no pun intended. You’ll know what I mean when you take my advice and read this book. st

The Amber AmuletCraig Silveywww.AllenAndUnwin.com

AMBERamuletbookREVIEW

She doesn’t know it’s time,Just sits there in her chair. The cat wails in that way it hasWhen instinct marks the hour.You feed them both, the cat All curve and purr Has learned to use its paws as hands.She’s lost this aptitude. You raise the food, mouth opens.You slide it in. Shemasticates with toothless gums,Punctuates her swallows with a chuckle.The clock ticks, she chuckles on.The cat stretches, settles for a wash.You notice when the chuckle stops.Her eyes are closed, She’s slumped in her chair.You raise the footrest, adjust her shawl,Watch the cat’s ribs rise and fallPacing the clock’s heartTicking on the wall.

dementedANN J. STOCKER stranger

CYNTHIA TROUP

Stranger than plain old strange stranger takes a strained hold on attentionor hand-in-hand feels clammy instead of warm. Strange howstranger creates strangerclouds the sun on facesthe animals go quiet—

Often a distraction flicks into focus as absurdor inordinately vivid: the humof the refrigerator heard at an exact pitch the dark circle for a jewel on an heirloom broochthe length of a thumbnailthe jostling blue cubes in the picture of a Cezanne painting that, strange must alwayshave been shimmering like that.

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THE FOUR-WHEEL DRIVE CAME TO REST at the edge of a deserted sea-cliff. Patrick killed the ignition but did not get out. He couldn’t — the view beyond his windscreen had him mesmerised. He drummed three fingers along the steering wheel, in awe of the ocean and its hypnotic navy. A pack of four-footers surged up with dreaded urgency, then faded just as quickly. He shook his head and whistled. It seemed the only way to acknowledge such a sight.

It was just after daybreak. The soft light of dawn met the ocean at just the right angle; the combination instilled a great calmness in Patrick. No cars. No trucks. Just the gentle clockwork of waves forming and breaking, forming and breaking. Patrick was grateful that few joggers frequented the area.

He opened his door and greedily inhaled the sea air. His vehicle, he realised, had insulated him from the complete seaside experience. Now

that he was out in the midst of it, his senses intensified and everything felt, at once, sharper and more visceral.

Patrick recalled a string of memories from his childhood. They involved trips to the beach with his father and sister, Harriet. Every time they went, their father had asked Patrick to retrieve the styrofoam boogie boards from the back of the car. He’d never trusted his daughter to do this, even though she was the elder child. These memories had always made Patrick smile. He could read the Morse code of his father’s favouritism, even then.

A moment passed and Patrick stretched out his muscles using the car’s frame as resistance. ‘Well,’ he said to himself, ‘guess it’s time to get to work.’ He walked to the rear of the car. A glimpse of the dunes below proved inviting. ‘A shame, really. Wouldn’t have minded spending all day here.’

He reached inside his pocket and fondled the central locking remote. It had been acting temperamental ever since Patrick had thrown it at his unfaithful wife. To open the boot, you were now required to hold the button in for up to six seconds, and even that was no guarantee. Fortunately, the sea air seemed to agree with the technology, for it opened that morning on the first go.

Patrick reached into the boot, just as he had done for the family’s boogie boards all those years ago. He reached in and heaved. It was deafeningly loud, the sound of crinkling tarpaulin — particularly against the muffled backdrop of the ocean.

He huffed and heaved and threw the heavy mass to the ground. From there it would be easier to drag to the cliff ’s edge.

Patrick’s wife had always wanted her remains scattered across the ocean. to’c

nostalgiaTOM O’CONNELL

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REFINING THEMUSICAL TASTESOF THE CITY

REFINING THEMUSICAL TASTESOF THE CITY

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BRASS BANDS ARE A CENTURIES OLD PART OF MUSIC. BUT who would think that you could still hear the beautiful brass notes trailing out of a nondescript brick building on Cramer Street?

Since 1934, the Darebin Brass Band has been filling the soundscape with music, giving people the chance to hear history being played. Some of Melbourne’s most talented amateur musicians are members of the Darebin Brass Band, which is actually made up of three smaller bands including the A grade Presto Band, the Northern Brass Band and the Darebin Youth Brass Band.

It is a rare occasion in this day and age to be able to see someone play a tuba, trombone, cornet or tenor horn, but Darebin Brass play them all. And they play them with style, their trophy-lined rehearsal space can attest to that.

As regular players on the Darebin arts circuit, you can find Northern Brass playing at the Darebin Arts Festival and the renowned Darebin Music Feast. In addition, you will also see both the Presto and Northern Brass playing in state and national competitions, sometimes even in international competitions; in its seventy-eight year history, Darebin Brass has played twice in New Zealand and once in the United Kingdom.

Writer Samantha Thomas shines some light on a part of Darebin’s history that is seldom remembered and talks with those in the know about all things big band in Darebin City.


Recently, Northern Brass competed at the 2012 State Band Competition. Travelling to Ballarat, they achieved an admirable second place, comfortably beating the third-placed Wodonga Brass Band and only just being edged out by the Boroondara Harmony Brass. Competitions like this are run by the Victorian Bands’ League, the governing body for brass and concert bands in Victoria. They also run a solo and ensemble competition where Northern Brass placed exceptionally well. Players from Northern Brass received no less than twenty-eight top five placings across the various divisions of the competition over the two day event.

Most people would be unaware that Brass Bands play and compete regularly, but Darebin Brass, across all three levels of its members, are working to change that. With recent performances at the Royal Melbourne Show, Darebin showcased the talents of its members, many of whom are university students and incredibly talented young people. Whilst Darebin Brass is a large part of the Darebin arts program, they need support from the community as well. Performing annually at local Christmas carolling events helps get word out about the band, but through social media and their yearly cabaret show, their position is growing to one of higher and higher esteem within the community.

The current line-up of Northern Brass has been virtually the same for a number of years and as a result, their sound has become quite refined. But while the sound of a brass band doesn’t appeal to everyone, nobody can deny the beauty of every single note. Gleaming instruments played in complete unison is what these talented young musicians strive for. There is a real sense of family within Northern Brass, especially considering that within the band are three members of the Morris family who have been with Northern Brass since its inception seven years ago.

Rehearsing one to two times a week in their off-season and three to four times during competition season, Darebin City Brass is always looking for new members and new hands to help them raise the funds they need to keep competing and representing their city in competition. You can often find its members running sausage sizzles and busking to keep the band going and their annual cabaret show is their biggest event.

A constant figure at Darebin Brass since 1965 and the man behind the youth band, Kelly first picked up his father’s cornet at the age of eleven and joined his first band at thirteen and has been hooked ever since. Kelly encourages young people to join the band, with musicians starting at as young as eight years old. A man of many talents, he has won the State Solo Championships numerous times on baritone, euphonium and trombone; and he has gone on to become the National Baritone Champion.

To keep the music playing, this amazing band of young people and members of the community need your support. All you have to do is hear them play and you’ll be just as hooked as Mr Kelly was. Playing traditional hymns as well as composition pieces, Darebin Brass is a marvellous part of the history and heritage of Darebin City, even surviving the war era and subsequently playing regularly with the Darebin Returned Services League on their ANZAC and Remembrance Day marches. Northern Brass and the Presto Band are bringing a much loved but sadly overlooked art form back to the forefront of musical performance by encouraging Darebin youth to aim high and let the notes f ly. st

For more information on Darebin City Brass or if you want to join please visit:www.DarebinCityBrass.com

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A constant figure at Darebin Brass since 1965 and the man behind the youth band, Kelly first picked up his father’s cornet at the age of eleven and joined his first band at thirteen and has been hooked ever since.


I’D LIKE TO SAY THAT I TOOK MY BOOK AND HEADED STRAIGHT for the espresso machines of Degraves Street, but my first day as a Melbourne resident was spent sleeping – as was my second. By the third the jet lag subsided, so I went hunting for urban art murals, joined the City Library and stalked authors in Fed Square, catching the final sessions of the Melbourne Writers’ Festival.

In relocating from Edinburgh to Melbourne, I have happily swapped one literary city for another, leaving behind a medieval Old Town for a sprawling city of history and character, with distinct neighbourhoods, bustling libraries, fairy penguins and great possibility. I’ve long been impressed with the strength of Melbourne’s creative community, with the willingness to experiment and the crazy, fresh ideas that have developed innovative events – I was at the Freeplay Festival, and have been watching the Emerging Writers’ Festival blossom. Since my first glimpse, I have wanted be part of this creative world.

I visited Melbourne in 2008, when the city had just been named City of Literature; I brought colleagues from the UK to spend a whirlwind week in the literary world. We got lost in bookshops and inspired by publishers and writers; we cheered at the Australian Poetry Slam and gazed in wonder at the State Library’s stunning reading rooms.

From medieval Edinburgh to postmodern Melbourne, Anna Burkey talks about moving from one City of Literature to another.

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literary salons bring together writers, publishers, journalists, librarians, illustrators, bloggers and animators to drink copious amounts of wine and get to know one another. Writers and alcohol seem to go together very nicely in Edinburgh, and I’m fairly sure the same is true in Oz. I’d love to get something similar happening here, if it isn’t already.

On that first visit to Melbourne four years ago, I got a sneak peek at what would become the Wheeler Centre for Books, Writing and Ideas, then just abandoned concrete and ventilation ducts. Now it’s an exciting hub of very special literary organisations – with the State Library of Victoria, it’s part of a whole city block devoted to stories and learning. An entire block. This is an amazing city, to have such a powerful focal point.

The gems I saw back in 2008 are still here – the Centre for Youth Literature’s Inside a Dog website for teen readers had the UK delegates glowing with praise – and many of them are involved in looking beyond the city boundaries to state and national prospects. When we say Victorian in Scotland, we just mean the architecture. Here, I see Melbourne as a gateway to the readers and writers of regional Victoria and beyond.

I feel I should confess: I haven’t quite got over the jet lag, so I haven’t been to nearly enough literary events. (Since I’m confessing, I also own too many shoes and I really can’t stand coffee.) But I’m proud and excited to be a citizen of these sister Cities of Literature, and I think there’s a lot we can all do together, Melbourne. Nothing is impossible in a city that has

fairy penguins. So what should we do next? ab

After years creating bookish delights in Scotland and beyond, literary ninja Anna Burkey (@AnnaNotKarenina) is now heading up the Centre for Youth Literature at the State Library of Victoria.www.AnnaBurkey.com

In this country at the opposite edge of the world, I have always found the warmest of welcomes. I have also found a country that, like my own, has high rates of functional illiteracy, significant areas of disadvantage and is still working out how to define its contemporary identity. These challenges may be tough, but they present us with opportunities to engage new audiences with the skills and delights of reading and storytelling.

While books are enduring, times are changing everywhere and the toolkit we have to engage with stories is growing. We have on offer digital media, games and evolving technology – all ways for us to play with stories, and a chance to invent a new kind of storytelling.

CHAMPIONING LITERARY CITIESAs one of the two founding staff at Edinburgh City of Literature, I was charged with creating a company that meant something to local people, that celebrated the startlingly rich literary heritage from Arthur Conan Doyle & Muriel Spark to Walter Scott, McCall Smith, Welsh, Rankin and JK Rowling, while championing new voices and new ways of working. I see the same desire and foundations in Melbourne, and I see the same strong building blocks in the fantastic people working in this city’s creative sphere. It can be tough to pull off alone, and we have to help each other.

Edinburgh’s first City of Literature campaign had humble aims: we wanted the entire city to read one book at the same time. One Book – One Edinburgh became a month-long festival with events, schools programmes and community outreach, giving away 35,000 free copies of R L Stevenson’s Kidnapped, including a gorgeous graphic novel. Edinburgh went on to Carry a Poem, lighting up the city with literary quotes, set up a series of literary trails and program an emerging writing strand at the Edinburgh International Book Festival.

These City of Literature campaigns worked because they had incredible partners who gave generously of their time and goodwill. By the fifth year, we were working with over 100 organisations; the collaborative approach has been key to making an impact, building books and reading into all types of businesses.

A LITERARY COMMUNITY In Edinburgh, the City of Literature supports individual voices and grassroots activity: the monthly Ph

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YOU SIT IN YOUR STUDIO, HARD AT WORK ON YOUR LATEST piece. You feel a cold breeze across your neck…could it be? No, surely not. You shake it off and keep writing. A moment later and you are icy cold. You feel a hand on your shoulder and see movement out of the corner of your eye, even though you are alone…

This scenario is imaginary, but is easy to picture happening at some of Melbourne’s more unusual creative studios. Perhaps the essence of someone long dead still lurks in The Parlour in Preston, which used to be a funeral parlour. You might encounter the essence of an angry criminal, long ago held at the old Northcote Police Station. Or even the ghost of Ned Kelly might come calling, if you are one of the lucky writers to use the new studio at the Old Melbourne Gaol.

For a man working on a book about crime in Melbourne during the early part of the 20th century, there could be no more perfect a place to write than the Old Melbourne Gaol. Fitzroy writer Michael Shelford had been doing intensive research for his book on the lives of criminals in Melbourne during the early 1900s and had collected enormous amounts of information on their crimes, but says, “I felt that the one thing I was missing was an understanding of their existence whilst incarcerated.”

National Trust, in partnership with Writers Victoria, have started a program called Cells for Writers, intended to “let authors lock themselves away and follow in the footsteps of famous writers such as O’Henry and Dostoevsky, whose creativity thrived when in confinement.” Given that the Old Melbourne Gaol housed such infamous criminals as Squizzy Taylor and was

GHOST writersGHOST writersinScribe’s editor Meredith Tucker-Evans chats with Melbourne writer Michael Shelford about his need for a unique creative space and takes you on a journey through some of Melbourne’s more distinctive studios.


where Ned Kelly spent his final days before being hanged there in 1880, it was a golden opportunity for Shelford.

“All of my characters spent time within the Old Melbourne Gaol, so an understanding of their lives within this facility is integral to my project. When they were taken through the front gates…they entered a different world, one that was shrunken into several tiny blocks of cells. I feel that I have in some way shared their experience as I have gotten to know that tiny world like the back of my hand.”

How does working in a building with such an incredible history affect your creativity? “One hundred and thirty three people were executed at the gallows within thirty feet of my writing space. Countless others were subjected to mental torture and suffered horribly under the birch or at the end of the lash…There’s a definite sense of doom about the place,” says Shelford.

David Surman and Ian Gouldstone are the newest residents at Northcote’s artDECL, a digital arts business incubator located at the old Northcote Police Station perched on the top of Ruckers Hill. Their company, Pachinko Pictures, is an award-winning boutique video games studio. They also design and create animated content for many different platforms, including TV and large outdoor projections.

Surman and Gouldstone, from rural England and Long Island, New York respectively, had been in Australia for about eighteen months before they started looking for

studio space. They were finding working from their compact two-bedroom unit increasingly difficult. artDECL promised a unique workspace complete with high ceilings, a young, vibrant creative community and a colourful history.

“You can still see messages carved into the walls of the interview rooms, which are part of our studio,” says Ian.

artDECL has been running since 2010 and houses nine creative businesses, including three video games companies. As a business incubator, artDECL provides its residents with assistance in marketing, accounting and general mentoring. The building itself was originally constructed as the Northcote Police Station in 1891, at a time when the area was undergoing a period of suburban expansion. The location of the building gave an excellent view of the surrounding area and across to the city.

The gothic nature of the building easily lends itself to flights of fancy – you can picture local crims and thugs being hauled through the front door, perhaps having been sprung running an illegal brothel or indulging in a spot of cattle rustling.

There is a long tradition of creative types working in unique spaces, like Roald Dahl and Mark Twain in their sheds, J. K. Rowling in her Edinburgh café or Truman Capote writing supine on his chaise lounge, glass of sherry in his hand. These few examples here in Melbourne will hopefully produce similarly world-class, if not spooky, projects. mt-e Ph

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Nine Days was inspired by the cover photo of a young soldier reaching down to say goodbye to a young woman on a packed train of soldiers leaving for World War II. Michael Heyward, publisher at Text, had come across this old photo and given it to Jordan to inspire her next novel. What Jordan did with the image was create an Australian masterpiece. Set in the working-class suburb of Richmond in 1939, the story weaves around the Westaway family, masterfully moving between the early years of the war and forward to seventy years later, when the repercussions of actions over nine days in 1939 are discovered. The story revolves around cheeky young stablehand Kip Westaway’s poverty-stricken family including his annoying and scholastic brother Francis, beloved older sister Connie and his widowed mother, and all the tragedy, wit and compassion that goes with them. It is beautifully told in a distinctive Australian voice that holds the reader spellbound as Jordan takes us from the daily life of poverty, family love, romance and catastrophe through the broad sweep of history, consequences of tiny actions and great passion to the pivotal moment of the photograph. Backwards and forwards in history, the moment of this photograph breeds a far-reaching, intimate family story. The story is one of any family, every family with a rich history of fights, love, dreams and aspirations, tragedy and acceptance. Most of all, it is about love. Jordan has once again written a literary best seller. jr

Nine DaysToni Jordanwww.TextPublishing.com.au

NINEdaysbookREVIEW

seeking universal truthJUDY DOUBAS

When my toilet started leaking, I saw it as a metaphor for my brain. [I have a good bladder for my age]. I had spent the week leaking information about my finances to the bank manager. [Who was Chinese]. She had apologised to me that day for being racist. [She had just rejected my loan application]. I felt compelled to explain to her that she was not being racist [or was she?], but ageist.[Although unstated, she thought that I would die before the loan was repaid ]. God, [‘God’ is also not relevant, as I am an atheist], I am not racist at all; never have been. And now that I traverse the world[speedily, greedily] spending my childrens’ inheritance, I feel right at home in my global family.

My children state repeatedly that I repeat myself. That I repeat sentences. I say that I do this because they do not listen the first time. Then I reiterate defensively that at least I try to avoid repeating the same mistakes in my life the way they seem to. [I decline to tell them that this is what they must do in order to learn about universal truth]. [I do not use the term “universal truth”, because then they might ask me what it means and I do not know].

Sometimes I refuse to offer an opinion now. Even when asked directly. [My children tell me that I am very opinionated ]. There are also times when I take advantage of [and use] the invisibility that comes with age. So as my cells leak away and I wrestle with my memory [and my lap top], I take refuge in the thought that perhaps I have enough knowledge stored in my brain to last the distance. [This surely makes up for the dissidence of youth]. Surely! [I do not have the courage to intimate that I am wiser than them].

PS. My leaking toilet was fixed easily by tightening a tiny, loose screw.[It must be time to do another Sudoku].


in ROAMIT IS DEEP INTO A SATURDAY NIGHT AND I CAN’T SLEEP. Doubts are pouring into my sleeping hours. Doubts about finances, impending change of age, single status, future prospects, living arrangements, physical appearance, physical well-being and whether I am, or ever have been, a good person.

Needless to say, Sunday morning is a drab affair in my residence in Reservoir. I look out of my window to the said reservoir, bordered by a cyclone fence feral with choko-vine. This was not the life or the place I envisioned for myself at this age: I am no longer a youthful inner-city dweller or on the precipice of a great future. Half of my future is gone now and what’s left seems simultaneously futile and roaring with hollowness.

I go for my morning walk. It is not motivation: I am Pavlov’s dog. I go down Broadway past the two-dollar shops and the bingo centre. I cross the four-lane road where, waiting at the red light, a fully hotted-up silver ute with an Australia Fair sticker is blasting out Credence Clearwater Revival’s “Fortunate Son”.

I think that the driver might believe he’s Southern Man and that CCR is speaking to him in terms of white men now not being the fortunate ones. I want to tap on his window to tell him, “It’s not that type of protest song. You are not the underdog.”

Instead, I cross the road before the green man changes and I walk down Edwardes Street. I go past the cafe with the smoking section. Despite the early hour, there are half a dozen customers keen to light up with their coffees and Herald Suns.

I keep on walking and get to the park. Already there are people bagging the undercover seats and tables. Some are blowing up balloons for the parties to come later that day. I head toward the lake. The ducks barely give me a glance. They know I’m just a morning walker with no bread. I wonder if they know

it’s a Sunday and there’ll be plenty of treats to come. I make my way across the bridge and look over to where I can see the water is low. I feel sympathy for the ducks, despite their forthcoming treats – it couldn’t be easy for them. I follow the path and past a bench where Coke cans, an empty bottle of cheap bourbon and a dead carp are lying. Someone’s had a party the night before. It couldn’t have been the carp, although I have no idea how it got there. The dried up vomit indicates it didn’t end well – especially for the carp.

I follow the curve of the athletics track. There are no athletes today, just the grill across the toilets and VB cans and smoke butts. And I see all of this while contemplating the demise of me and my unfulfilled potential and how I came to be living in this area that has no visible signs of the life that I had foreseen for myself. I step up onto the curb of the road to head back home.

A wolf whistle surprises me out of myself and I look up to see a white Commodore drive past with a tattooed arm hanging out the window, and I laugh without even thinking about it. I laugh mainly because of my unattractive tracksuit pants and doleful mood. I almost call out, “Are you sure?”

I try to argue that this whistling soul is pathological in his whistling: he is Pavlov’s dog. He doesn’t see me as a person – I am a woman and women are to be whistled at. But the whistle was so profoundly sure and cheerful. Besides, there is no point in arguing: I am buoyed and you can’t argue with happiness. Shame on me. How, at my age, given my university education and feminist ideals, could I be bought so easily by something so charmless and predictable?

But how could I not be?

I am in Rome now. And when in Rome… sg

Stella Glorie looks back at the feelings and emotions that defined her as she recounts what life was like and what life became when she moved to Reservoir.


in ROAM

THE CENTRAL HUB FOR ALL THINGS ARTISTIC


northcotenorthcote

Writer Ashlea Shaw takes a walk around one of Darebin’s most prized establishments with photographer Louise Walton and along the way they discover a number of hidden gems.


TOWN HALL

18 inSCRIBE SUMMER 2013 EDITION18 inSCRIBE SUMMER 2013 EDITION


PERCHED ON TOP OF A HILL IN HIGH STREET NORTHCOTE, the Northcote Town Hall is home to a diverse range of arts and theatre groups, as well as various other clubs and committees. Originally known as ‘James’s Paddock,’ it was purchased in 1884 by four Northcote councillors – Bastings, William Dennis, William Wallis and Charles Verso (all four have streets named after them in the areas close to the Town Hall) – and given to the council by them. There was a lot of trouble when trying to build on the land, so the council held a competition to allow the winner a chance to design and build the town hall. A man named George Raymond Johnson won the competition,

and so the first configuration of the Northcote Town Hall was born in 1891. Subsequent additions were added in 1912 and 1930, and in 2000 it was

remodeled. An additional two studio and theatre spaces were added (both fully equipped) to encourage more usage by the wider community.

Since the cities of Northcote and Preston amalgamated to form the City of Darebin in the 1990’s, the building and surrounding area is a magnet for all who are interested in the arts, culture and music

scenes. Following this merger, all municipal activities were moved to Preston, making way for new arts and cultural events

at Northcote. It is home to the meetings and development of the one and only inScribe magazine.

On any given day, the outside of the building can be crowded with musicians, skateboarders and book lovers, all of whom are seemingly unaware of what each other is doing. Caught up in their own little worlds, they will sit here for hours making use of an area that is much calmer than the street it is situated on. Conveniently, no one has to venture out of their little oasis to get their next caffeine fix, as there is currently a coffee truck called The Coffee Box onsite. This coffee truck also offers training and work experience to those wanting to become baristas.

During the year, the town hall hosts various festivals and exhibitions in support of the ever-growing arts culture in the City of Darebin. One of the major festivals featured partly at the town hall is the Darebin Music Feast, a festival also held at different venues in Darebin.


20 inSCRIBE SUMMER 2013 EDITION20 inSCRIBE SUMMER 2013 EDITION

It showcases the musical talents of local artists in both free and cheaply-priced environments. The festival is held yearly from late September to early October.

Some of the regular groups and activities held inside this cream and grey coloured building include St Martin’s Primary School Youth and Arts Centre – this program is run in the latter half of the year, in terms three and four; a wide variety of yoga and meditation groups for all ages; a Star Trek Fan Club (great for all of those hard-core ‘Trekkies’ out there who love anything to do with the show!); karate classes; life drawing art classes and workshops; and Flag Youth Centre for children aged five to sixteen years old. This group helps to enable children and teens express themselves creatively through different, arts-related outlets. Theatre, comedy and scriptwriting are amongst some of the activities offered.

For those of you who love to shop at craft and fashion markets, the town hall hosts both indoor and outdoor markets throughout the year. The outdoor markets are held in the adjacent space to the building and are great fun during the warmer months. The indoor markets are held in the main hall and offer plenty of unique gifts, especially at the Kris Kringle Night Markets held later on in the year. The town hall website has a full list of dates for all of the markets, so if you’re interested, make sure you check out when they’re on!

Because of the location of Northcote Town Hall (right opposite a tram stop and at the top of the hill), it is a great place to have a function both for the view and convenience of public transport. There are nine different rooms of varying sizes to hire, as well as a couple of studio spaces and the main hall. They also offer kitchen facilities and audio/visual equipment for the functions that need them. inScribe meetings take place in one of the smaller, corner rooms and we have a full view of High Street. I was taken on a tour through one of the function rooms as a part of my research. Wow! The view from the balcony is truly sensational during the daytime. You get a full view of the city in the near distance, and I can only imagine how beautiful it must look at nighttime.

Northcote Town Hall plays such a large role in the community and has done so for over one hundred years. Not only is the building itself a true piece of history for the City of Darebin, but the events that are blossoming each year are fast becoming traditions themselves. as

Since writing this article, there have been many exciting developments involving the Northcote Town Hall program. Early 2013 will see an eclectic array of adventurous performances and events, forging a unique Northcote experience, plus exuberant and unusual performances and workshops for kids. Ph

otos

: Lou

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Edwina Preston teaches writing at NMIT at the TAFE and Higher Education levels. Her first book was a biography of the artist Howard Arkley, Not Just A Suburban Boy (2002). She has also published articles and reviews in The Age, The Australian, Heat and Griffith Review. Edwina Preston’s latest work is her first novel and revels in murder mystery and comedy in a playful and engaging manner. It is a page-turner, often wry and tongue in cheek. This novel entertains and delights. When brothers Arcadia and Otto Cirque arrive in a half-forgotten country town with their travelling circus, Saturnalia, events move with startling consequences. Months later, the flamboyant Arcadia Cirque is found dead, a pregnant young woman disappears and Otto Cirque, a pale mute with an air of mystery, tries to find her. This mystery travels down the decades and encompasses Mrs Ivorie Hammer, who is pregnant and upset by recent catastrophic events in her hometown of Pitch. She discovers that her own origins are also a mystery, one which has numerous social and emotional consequences. As the small community of Pitch is scandalized by several mysterious deaths and disappearances, it is Ivorie’s secret history that holds the key to the truth. The Inheritance of Ivorie Hammer is a sweeping, enthralling epic that brings together a Dickensian tone, beautifully drawn characters, a comedy of societal mores and a thrilling plot that makes it very hard to put down. This novel is both refreshing, intelligent and a wonderful read. A major literary talent in Australia has been launched. jr

The Inheritance of Ivorie HammerEdwina Prestonwww.UQP.uq.edu.au

THE INHERITANCE OFivorie hammer

bookREVIEW

I.Pedestrians are shown texting their next of kin

please, don’t close that door!

They now say, they cant’ find their way, on the Overpass

can’t keep a lid on things!

Nobody even thinks of confiding to a passing bat

the night came so early!

Watch that clock strike half past six, the updates are

loosing their hindsight!

II.That last year’s service station attendantwill never run out of dust particles?

That stuffed bats come back to life,if heard f lapping in the hallway?

That we’re witnessing the second leg of a meandering coastline?

That, when the clock strikes ten,bricks say good morning to mortar?

That all we are saying is, thatgrown men grow out of jump-suits?

so much adoJELTJE FANOY

That, whatever way you look at it,shower heads are not dumb?

III.I’ve started yelling at cars

Hey, how about a bit more oxygeninstead of giving more gas!

Excuse me, I’m just aboutto check the temperature

I’m with the birds, you see,they don’t like being caged

either, look, the weather

has been seen freewheeling in the park,behaving like an absolute stranger!

Well, of course,

it’s like a ménage a trois plus, add

the annoying, bossy streak inherent in stars

and if you ever avert your eyes just forone minute, voila!

IV.Mother’s coat hangers keep me tucked in, tight, for the night

My mother kept everything, for “later”

I hang up my jacket, keeps onwanting to slide off its hanger

The moon shows me its brighter side

Well, it’s the one made for “baby”.

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goGIVING IT A Jodi Whiley writes about how an electric organ is given new life when a group of young musicians see the hidden gold in its keys and hear the beauty in its long-forgotten notes.go

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IT’S HARD TO TRY NEW THINGS AS AN adult. It really is. What if you fail? What if you look stupid? What if it’s a waste of time?

Very rarely do you find yourself thinking, but wait, what if it’s amazing?

Take the CRB Elettronica Diamond 901 Electronic Organ for example. Stay with me on this.

When we were cleaning out my grandfather’s house in preparation for sale after he passed away a few years ago, we put some of the bigger, bulkier treasures on eBay: a solid wood table, a bookshelf, a cocktail unit. That kind of thing.

My grandfather also had a huge dusty old electronic organ which I remember being allowed to play a few times when I was a kid. It had that special kind of synth sound that nowadays is considered retro and cool by the skinny-jeaned crowd.

In fact, that’s exactly who bought it. One Saturday afternoon as we were sorting out the cupboards, the eBay buyers for the organ arrived in their beat-up Kingswood station wagon. Two skinny, pasty-faced hipsters unfolded themselves from the car. It was about three in the afternoon and they’d just woken up.

Okay, I made that bit up. But it’s probably true.

Their hair fell into their eyes moodily, their black jeans were painted on and their pointy-toed shoes were just made for smoke-filled venues with sticky-carpeted f loors.

When they saw the organ in all its retro glory, they were awe-struck, as if they found themselves in the presence of some kind of deity. They handed over the grand sum of $26.50, which is where the auction had ended, and one of them kept repeating how bad they felt they’d got such a bargain. Honestly, we were just grateful that someone had arrived to take it off our hands. It would have been nice to be able to keep it, but where do you store such a behemoth?

Then came the circus of getting it into the car. It was like one of those light bulb jokes. How many hipsters does it take to get an electronic organ into the back of a station wagon? Answer: none, actually. My husband did it.

After they’d folded down the backseat to make room and emptied the contents of the back of the car onto the driveway (my memory tells me more pointy shoes), the two performed an awkward dance with the organ until Kim walked over and slid it effortlessly into the back.

They kept thanking us profusely and were about to drive off when Kim called out to one, “Buddy” and gestured to the all the pointy shoes on the driveway. “Ah, thanks man,” he said absent-mindedly, as he tossed them into the back.

They chugged off happily to what I imagined was their inner-city terrace share-house where they would have to carry the organ up two f lights of stairs.

Point is: they were trying something new. They were going to set the world alight with their new synth retro sound on my grandpa’s CRB Elettronica Diamond 901 Electronic Organ. And for all I know, they have.

The whole episode just reminded me of how it is when you’re younger: you try things out just for the hell of it, because you haven’t yet decided you’re a certain kind of person and blocked yourself off to new experiences because, well, you already know the CRB Elettronica Diamond 901 Electronic Organ isn’t for you.

There are so many things I want to try: I want to learn how to use watercolours properly, I want to try cross-stitch...hardly hipster-approved activities. I also want to learn, finally, how to play the guitar. Is that better? I just have to remember that ‘give it a go’ spirit exemplified by those two dudes who now have Grandpa’s cool-as organ ... if it ever made it up those terrace stairs. jw

The whole episode just reminded me of how it is when you’re younger: you try things out just for the hell of it, because you haven’t yet decided you’re a certain kind of person and blocked yourself off to new experiences because, well, you already know the CRB Elettronica Diamond 901 Electronic Organ isn’t for you.

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FOR SALE, BABY HEADS, NEVER WORN.One dozen kewpie doll heads for sale.One dozen kewpie doll torsos for sale.Two dozen kewpie doll arms for sale.Two dozen kewpie doll legs for sale.

“The ones who buy the legs are fucking sickos,” Jeanette tells me. “The heads, they get bid on by Goths and arts students and teenagers who want to surprise their mother when she opens her jewellery box. The arms and torsos mostly go to doll collectors who need them for repairs. But the guys who bid on the legs? Fucking perverts, every last one. Those legs will end up in a permanently sticky jar under the bed, only to be discovered when CSI finally bag and tag them along with all the other evidence.”

Oooh-kay.

“I don’t see why you don’t just sell, you know, the dolls. Intact and undismembered. That way people could actually use them.”

“And that’s why you’ll never make a fortune on eBay,” she says. “There’s no money in selling them whole. Who the hell wants to give their kid a kewpie doll? But you separate them into pieces and you get some interest, because there are people who just want the arms or the heads and don’t want the hassle of pulling them apart themselves. That’s my customer base – weirdos that have creative (or disgusting) ideas but are too lazy or busy to do the basic legwork.”

Her workshop (which is what Jeanette calls her garage) backs her up. We sit in a corner pulling the heads and limbs off the dolls she’d bought for next to nothing, sorting them into piles and sticking them with all the other racks and boxes and baskets of disassembled geegaws and widgets. Toaster handles. Typewriter keys. Smurf feet. Dozens of collections of bits, waiting to be sold in online auctions.

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“The future is piecemeal,” she says. “We’ll assemble our houses and jobs and lives from collections of stuff, buying one bit at a time and sticking it into place. Drive cars made from recycled parts, listen to mix tapes made from bits of other mix tapes, leftover pieces of other people’s lives coming back to us. Like bottles in the surf. But, y’know, cooler.”

She talks like this a lot. And yeah, she’s a little bit crazy. But she might also be right. And she’s definitely beautiful. And I’m kind of in love

with her, so I hang on her every word and pull the hands off old alarm clocks just so I can hang around.

I know it’s pathetic. But it’s who I am, and what I can hope for. So I come by and hang out every day, and help her disassemble and sort things that used to be whole, and wait for her to realise that I’m the guy for her.

I’ve been waiting a while. Every time I come over, I try to work my courage up to tell her how I feel, and every time I lose my nerve and just disassemble old Atari joysticks without pay instead.

FORPATRICK O’DUFFY

sale

But not today. Finally, after months, I just think fuck it and lunge in to kiss her while she’s writing up an auction for a set of five ‘ESCAPE’ buttons prised off computer keyboards (surprisingly popular items).

And she recoils. Not in a disgusted way, but in a disappointed way, which is a lot worse.

Then she has to goddamn explain herself.

“I go to the movies with Dave. I run my business with Solomon. I sleep with Donell. I read

Takashi my poetry. I cry on Lukas’ shoulder. And I talk to you about my ideas. None of you can be everything I want, because no-one is ever everything that someone else wants. People will understand that one day, and we’ll live in clouds of piecemeal relationships, focusing on people when they matter and ignoring them when they don’t. Flitting like butterf lies. But, y’know, cooler.”

Jeannette puts her hand on my chest and smiles, like she doesn’t want to hurt me, like she knows it’s not my fault that I’m not advanced (or crazy) enough to understand what she thinks we

should be. Like her choices are always someone else’s problem.

“You get to be a piece of my life,” she says, “Same as the other men I know. That’s a ll I can offer you. And you have to decide if that’s enough.”

Is it enough? I think about it.

No. No, it’s not … and yet, I nod my head and give her a little smile and say sorry.

Because even if it’s not enough, it’s enough for now. She might change her mind. I might grow on her.

Or I might just bump off all those other guys.

One by one.

Piecemeal.

But that’s a plan for another day. Today, there are baby heads to sort. And names to remember. po’d

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THE CIGARETTE BUTTS ARE SODDEN and autumn leaves cling to the footpath like starfish. When it’s cold and wet the thing is to keep moving. Walk, walk, walk. Walk away from the cold and the stomach pains, walk away from the hunger and vertiginous thoughts. But it’s hard today; I am so very tired. Yet I must continue. You never know when God is going to talk to you – today might be the day I find the last card.

My jacket is not made for Melbourne winters and the cold stabs my bones. If I were someone else – someone with a full stomach and warm clothes and a safe bed and a loving family and a calm head – then I might find the sight of me funny: an old bum with a white, tangled mop of hair and a weather-seared face wearing a pinstriped jacket. With cold-clumsy fingers I feel the playing cards in the jacket’s pocket, ninety-seven of them held together with an elastic band. My life’s work, as yet incomplete.

I turn onto Sydney Road near McDonald’s and look in the bin beside the tram stop. Even while looking through the bin, I keep an eye out for a card. You never know where they will turn up. God moves in mysterious ways. In the first thirty years of searching I found an average of three cards a year, but in the past week, I have found seven cards, one a day.

The first card I ever found was not long after the Fall. Everything had turned to shit so quickly that I was stunned. How could this smart young man, who had gone to uni, worked hard, obeyed the rules and believed in the system, suddenly be out on the street? I didn’t know anything about survival back then so ended up sleeping in a mausoleum in the Melbourne General Cemetery. One morning, while thinking of ways to kill myself, I found a card on the steps of the mausoleum: a seven of diamonds, the pattern on the back like a Persian carpet. Who had lost this card – just a single card – and why had I found it? I turned the card over in my hands. Diamonds were my birthstone and seven had been my lucky number.

THE LASTcardWARWICK SPRAWSON

cardIm

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What did it mean, if anything? Something within me shifted. It was the first time since the Fall that I had thought of anything other than my own grinding despair. I put the card carefully in my pocket and began to walk the streets.

I dig deeper in the bin and sure enough, it provides. I find a nearly full packet of French fries and half a Big Mac.

I eat as I walk towards the city, continuing to scan the broken footpaths of Brunswick. The Vic Market is on today, and the market’s always good for a few bucks. It’s hard to ignore an emaciated old man when your arms are full of imported cheese and organic bananas. But it’s the cards that are my main mission, my purpose. I’ve found two cards at the market over the years: the first a ten of clubs, the second, about eleven years later, a five of spades. The seven cards I have found in the last week have been seven of the eight I need to complete the full pack. That alone proves something, because statistically it would be impossible, not only to find that many cards, but to find the exact ones I need. The more cards you find the harder it becomes until, with a few cards left to find, it becomes mathematically impossible. Or so the ignorant might think.

I long for the last card, the final proof I need that God exists.

I cross Brunswick Road, cars honking – as if I care – and walk down Royal Parade beside Princess Park. Joggers lope past in Lyrca and headphones, some pushing prams. Their breath juts from their mouths in white plumes.

The pain flares again in my stomach, the tubes of my guts writhing like snakes on hot sand. I toss away the food and bend over and howl at the pain until it begins to recede. When I straighten, I am lightheaded and shaky.

I used to walk thirty kilometres a day. I walked everywhere and saw everything. I ranged as far as Fawkner in the north, Yarraville to the west, Kew to the east and St Kilda to the south. There is not a street or a lane I do not know. But recently my steps have become brittle, the restless energy that has always powered me has begun to fade. Getting up this morning took all my resolve. Fortunately, I still have an abundance of resolve: I must achieve my goal. I must know for sure.

The cold’s menthol breath is chiselling the edges off me, making me lose focus. My hands feel like frozen rissoles. I massage some feeling into them and then rub my eyelids with the heel of my palm, as if I can cram concentration back into my skull. I can’t afford to drift away now, not when I’m so close. I set my eyes on the leaf-strewn track and resume walking.

After finding that first card in the cemetery, I began to look for more. It’s amazing how once you look, you see. A queen of hearts in a gutter near a Lygon Street brothel, a king of clubs on the steps of the parliament, a three of spades on a construction site in North Melbourne, a mouldering joker near Luna Park. Pacing the streets, I had time to think about each card’s meaning and the meaning of the cards as a whole. Even then I knew that there was clarity locked within them. After some time, perhaps a few years, I became certain that I wasn’t finding the cards by chance, but was guided to them by a higher power. The cards were the crack in reality that allowed me to glimpse God. After that, every time I found a card it reaffirmed that my life was worth living.

I trudge on beside the park. An old guy jogs past, wiry legs in flapping shorts, chest hair bursting from beneath his singlet. That should be me. Fit and healthy, getting some exercise before heading to work at Melbourne University. If my cards had been different, I could be an English literature lecturer in a building draped in ivy. But that wasn’t to be. It riles me that most people have no idea of how close

to a Fall they are. You split up with your partner, get a little sick, lose your job. It’s only when the bills mount up that you realise how alone you are and how much your mortgage is. The next thing you’re sleeping on somebody’s grave and using a bin as a larder. It’s so very easy. Still, despite it all, I pity them, these people who focus only on the air in front of their faces. I’m the one who has been chosen to prove God exists. But there is blood in my shit and I still need to find the last card.

I force myself into longer steps, eyes scanning the brown grit of the jogging track, legs feeling as flimsy as reeds.

The cold is deep into my bones. My feet are carved from ice. As I approach the end of the park I suddenly turn left towards the cemetery instead of continuing down the road towards the market. I follow my aching feet beneath the ornate ironwork gate into an avenue of graves, the tombstones arranged as neatly as a model city.

I am close now. The cold recedes as a tingling starts at the nape of my neck and flushes warm through my body. My steps falter as I follow a small track through a row of marble graves, bunches of plastic flowers sadder than nothing at all.

I stumble and fall to my knees beneath a cypress. And that’s where I find it, at the end of the row of graves, face down beneath the tree.

I pick the card up. The back of it is blue, another Persian carpet design. I feel the card in my fingers, the surface roughened from exposure to rain and sun. I smell the bitter-lemon tang of the cypress’ dusty leaves. Nearby a wattlebird screeches.

As I turn the card over I feel euphoric, shot through with warm embers and sunset clouds. The proof feels wonderful. The proof feels right. This is how it feels to find the last card. ws

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EVERY BOXER IN THE COUNTY CAME TO pay their respects when Mickey Duggan died of a broken heart. Whether bleeders who went the distance or mooks who led with their chin every damn time, they were all there. The line went down the block from where Mickey’s body lay in state in O’Malley’s Gym, dressed in his Sunday best jacket and his trademark purple trunks.

One by one the boxers filed in to view the body. And then, after saying goodbye, each took a seat around the ring to watch his widow and his mistress beat the hell outta each other.

Lettie Duggan sat in the black corner, face covered by the widow’s veil, hands in the widow’s boxing gloves. She had eschewed the widow’s mouthguard; it made her lose the disapproving expression she had perfected over two decades of infidelitous marriage. She glared implacably at her opponent, Miss Charlene Piscoperra, late of the saloon at 9th and Overeasy, late of the Zoidfield Follies, late of Mickey Duggan’s bed. The bed where he drank himself to death after Lettie tossed him out for the last time and screamed I never loved you, you worthless palooka! loud enough for the whole borough to hear.

Charlene had matched her low-cut dress with a pair of shiny red boots. This was a chance to show off her curves and curls, after all, and she missed Mickey and all but hell, mister, a girl’s gotta eat.

Widow’s matches were traditionally for the wife’s right to keep her husband’s belt and medals, but Mickey had never been a contender. He rarely won fights; he just lost them hard. He had all the chin in the world, and no-one qualified for a title shot until they could say they’d lasted twenty or thirty rounds with Mickey.

These women were fighting for something more important – the right for the widow’s seat by Mickey’s coffin, the right to hear the boxers mumble something sad and pointless on the way out. The right to say that they were Mickey’s one true love, to the end.

The boxers stood as the referee entered, formal in his striped shirt and dog collar, ready to lead Mickey’s service as soon as he judged the winner. He rattled off the rules and conditions, by the powers invested in me by God and the boxing commission and so on. Lettie’s brother Claude checked the ties on her gloves, while Charlene blew kisses to the crowd.

Round one! Lettie laid into Charlene with a hard right to the bodice. She followed up with a left and another right, sledging the bargirl around the ribs. Charlene stumbled back, fists flailing. The widow pushed the hussy back to the ropes, pounding away until the bell rang and the ref yelled at them to get back to their corners.

Round two! Lettie came out hard again but this time Charlene was ready, blocking low and tight, protecting her assets from the widow’s fury. Punch after punch connected but did little damage. A mutter swept the crowd as it became obvious that Lettie had passion but not enough power. Charlene went back to her corner with a smile; Lettie went back with aching wrists.

Round three! Now the balance swung to Charlene. Her looping crosses lacked finesse but were backed up by five years of tap and three of pulling beers. It was all Lettie could do to block the blows. Charlene snarled at her: You maybe think you made a mistake, old lady? When the bell rang Lettie thundered back to her corner in outrage.

Round four! The two women punched back and forth, back and forth, until Lettie put too much into a cross and left herself open.

AND

black veil

PATRICK O’DUFFYglovesgloves


And from nowhere Charlene came back with a left hook that crunched into Lettie’s nose and threw her eggs over breakfast down to the mat. The ref ran in for the count.

One! Two!

Lettie flopped on the canvas like a drunk marionette, strings tangled up, hand in the sky all broken.

Three! Four!

Charlene paraded around the ring, screaming at Lettie. Stay down, consarnit it! You didn’t love him! You told everyone you didn’t love him! Stay down!

Five! Six! Seven!

Lettie got to her shaking knees like a newborn fawn. Charlene screeched as the ref stopped the count and pouted back into her corner while Lettie crawled back to Claude, barely conscious.

You want me to throw in the towel, sis? Lettie fixed Claude with a look that coulda boiled an egg.

Like hell.

She flopped onto the stool, spat a glob of blood and adrenaline drool into a bucket, a lost tooth clanking as it hit metal. Claude quietly plucked it out and stuck it in his pocket. Win or lose, it’d be worth a couple of bucks from a collector or something.

Right then, muttered Lettie. Enough of this.

Round five! Lettie did the stick-and-move, showering Charlene with long punches while dancing to the side, staying away from that terrible left hook. She snapped off a jab into Charlene’s face, enough to rattle her, then came in for a clench. In the seconds before the ref split them up, she put her lips to Charlene’s ear and slurred I said I didn’t love him, but maybe I lied.

Another jab. In for the clench again.

And maybe I didn’t.

Jab. Jab. Clench. A last hiss. I’m the only one who gets to know.

And with that Lettie put everything she had into a roundhouse haymaker that started at the small of her back and swung out through Timbuktu before coming back smack dab onto Charlene’s chin.

Charlene, as it happened, did not have all the chin in the world. She kissed canvas hard and didn’t move again.

Lettie slumped against the ref as he proclaimed her Winner and marital champion! With his help she staggered out of the ring and collapsed in a chair next to Mickey. Blood dripped from her nose, her veil glued to her battered face like a mask of red.

But she was a boxer’s widow. And that was the makeup you wore to anything worth fighting for.

Lettie smiled sweetly through torn lips and waited for the service to start. po’d

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I admit I was not looking forward to reading this book, as I had anticipated possibly another dreary account of Australia at war. This book was both a refreshing surprise and a brilliant, inspiring story. The true story of an amazing animal - a Waler horse affectionately named ‘Bill the Bastard’ - whose unwillingness to let anyone mount him was paired with the select few who he’d decided were worthy enough to ride him. Bill surprised everyone with his wealth of equine character, but more surprising were the stories of love and brotherhood between a light horseman and his mount. I felt like I was able to truly see battles raging at Gallipoli and in the Sinai. This book gives a highly accurate portrayal of Australians at war even bringing to light parts of the ANZAC campaign that aren’t written in the history books. Bill the Bastard is many stories brought together by a beautiful animal: the story of the great balladeer Banjo Paterson who was made a Major and looked after many of the light horse mounts; the enthralling story of Major Michael Shanahan, who was the first man to successfully ride Bill and was a true gentleman, not only in battle but in life in general. The behaviour of General Allenby and the British government in ordering the destruction of thousands of our war horses, despite them being healthy and despite the protests of their troopers, is the only negative part of this book. It is definitely a cringe-worthy and tear-inducing part of this story. But you can’t tell Bill’s story or any story of war without telling of the losses involved. A well written book from Roland Perry, an old hand in the non-fiction game. This book will not disappoint any fan of war stories or military history as it contains a fair dose of each within its pages. st

Bill The BastardRoland Perrywww.AllenAndUnwin.com

BILLtheBASTARDbookREVIEW

LETTER TO THE editorDear Editors,

I love the new-look inScribe. It is glossy, has a stimulating lay-out out and I was stunned by Katrina Rhodes’ paintings and the quality of your photographs of her work. But, please, please, please, try to resist that annoying, tiresome habit of Australian editors and sub-editors to turn every headline into a pun. No, it is not remotely funny to have to read about a “well travelled Rhodes” (got it? roads!) And having that expanded upon by reading that she will talk “on her inner journey” (travelled. roads. journey. ooooh, clever!) And did Phoebe Cannard-Higgins think to title her story “Sole Searcher” or was it an inspired find by one of the editors? Apart from this gripe I have nothing

but admiration for your professional-looking, but more importantly, for your inviting-looking, magazine. Keep it up!

Janna Hilbrink, Northcote

Thank you for taking the time to give us some feedback. We really appreciate it. We’re sorry you didn’t like all of our puns and have taken your suggestions into account. As a general rule, all work submitted already has a title. Since the whole point of the magazine is to give emerging writers and artists a chance to become published, we don’t like to ask them to change the title of their work. We hope you continue to enjoy future issues of inScribe and look forward to hearing from you again.

Regards, Ashlea Shaw (Issue Six Editor-in-Chief)

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Do you live, work or study in the City of Darebin? Then why not submit your work to inScribe issue eight, a free magazine of arts and literary culture, news and events in the northern suburbs of Melbourne. We welcome general writing submissions of 2500 words or less as well as expressions of interest for:

• Full colour illustrations and photographs• Comic and cartoon concepts• Writer-friendly cafe reviews• Feature articles and essays• Novel extracts• Book reviews

For full submission details visit: www.darebin.vic.gov.au/ writingprojects

inSCRIBE

call for SUBMISSIONSWINTER 2013

pinned tomy principlesJUDY DOUBAS

I don my ideals, resplendent with purity, pour ideas into my brain and focus. After confronting and analyzing issues in the newspaper, I become disillusioned and turn on the television.Lusty protests beckon as radicals hot with desire adorn their shimmering principles. Tempted, I march over to my socialist literature. I delve and penetrate the choices, deliberate and justify, exploding capitalist values.

Pinned to my principles, I wonder at the past and contemplate the future.

I grit marble faced at my lack of action and drag my courage from its hiding place. I scrape my middle class values away.Passions ignited, I march, protest and occupy. I politicise a ‘fair go’ and shout ‘revolution!’ Perplexed at my level of rebelliousness, my family whine “ Why bother?” I berate and nullify their objections , justify my actions then blame the beast within. My passion implodes. I am spent.

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DEADLINE FOR ISSUE EIGHT IS sunday 24/02/2013

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illwww.nmit.edu.au/courseblog/ybp/inscribe

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inScribe (issue seven)