inScribe (issue seven)

our TEAM

editors in chief

Samantha Thomas: NMIT

Meredith Tucker-Evans: Darebin Community

NMIT editorial and production

Jan Robinson, Ashlea Shaw, Jack Waghorn

Darebin Community editorial team

poetry

Kylie Brusaschi, Nimity James

fiction

Claudine Edwards, Athi Kokonis

non-fiction

Stella Glorie

all-rounder

Shirl Bramich

project director

Bel Schenk: City of Darebin

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

inSIDE

08

ISSUE SEVEN

SUMMER 2013

creative director

Brad Webb: Yarra Bend Press

WWW.NMIT.EDU.AU/ybp

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.

12

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 writingprojects@darebin.vic.gov.au

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

2 inSCRIBE SUMMER 2013 EDITION

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.

16

22

26

Samantha Thomas

NMIT

edITORS

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

[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.

Meredith Tucker-Evans

Darebin Community

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

For a large print edition of inScribe contact: Phone 8470 8458; TTY 8470 8696; writingprojects@darebin.vic.gov.au

inSCRIBE SUMMER 2013 EDITION

3

bookREVIEW

CARAVANstory

the fashion

capital

ANNERLIEGH GRACE MCCALL

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 Story

Wayne Macauley

www.TextPublishing.com.au

Baby you’ve changed

Skin bare

Dappled light

Where sunshine would hang

Between shoulders

Now painstakingly casual

Buttoned

Beneath only pure wool

Found at Vinnies - repurposed

Accented with high couture heels

And Grandma’s ugly brooch

Though garish

Even the golden arches

Were better

Than this

They spoke of something

Like life

And chaos

Wrapped in paper

The 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 flesh

And unconscious desire

Eating the city

You’ve bricked yourself

Into a paper cup

Thin wrists

Long cold fingers

Elegantly starving

Bricked yourself into a bored

Not-quite-grimace

Too smooth

For hamburgers

So mind the wolves

They stand on street corners

Where you might expect

Though we never suspected

They’d look like you

Doe eyed

Murmuring ghosts

Fingering labels

‘Is it vintage?’

Consuming the city.

Image: Elizabeth Riseborough


sentimental

about the

body of me

BIANCA 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 wisp

and started to hold on to life,

to feed the drink that saved

my 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.


5

Image: Zachary Grenfell

bookREVIEW

AMBERamulet

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 Amulet

Craig Silvey

www.AllenAndUnwin.com

demented

ANN J. STOCKER

She doesn’t know it’s time,

Just sits there in her chair.

The cat wails in that way it has

When 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. She

masticates 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 fall

Pacing the clock’s heart

Ticking on the wall.

Image: Adam Knapper

stranger

CYNTHIA TROUP

Stranger

than plain old strange

stranger takes

a strained hold on attention

or hand-in-hand feels clammy instead of warm.

Strange how

stranger creates stranger

clouds the sun on faces

the animals go quiet—

Often a distraction flicks into focus as absurd

or inordinately vivid: the hum

of the refrigerator heard at an exact pitch

the dark circle for a jewel on an heirloom brooch

the length of a thumbnail

the jostling blue cubes

in the picture of a Cezanne painting that, strange

must always

have been shimmering like that.

Image: Constance Hunter


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.’

nostalgia

TOM O’CONNELL

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

COAST

Image: Emma Wiesenekker


7

sparkling

top

notes

REFINING THE

MUSICAL TASTES

OF THE CITY

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.

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.


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.

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.


Rehearsing one to two times a week in their offseason

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 fly. st

For more information on Darebin City Brass or if

you want to join please visit:

www.DarebinCityBrass.com

Photos: Jan Robinson

9

a tale of two cities of

LITERATURE

From medieval Edinburgh to postmodern

Melbourne, Anna Burkey talks about moving

from one City of Literature to another.

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.

Photo: UNESCO


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 CITIES

As 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


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

11

GHOST writers

inScribe’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.

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


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

Photos: The National Trust of Australia (Victoria)


13

bookREVIEW

NINEdays

seeking universal truth

JUDY DOUBAS

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 Days

Toni Jordan

www.TextPublishing.com.au

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 ROAM

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.

IT 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

15

northcote

THE CENTRAL HUB FOR ALL THINGS ARTISTIC


TOWN HALL

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.


17


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.


19

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.

Photos: Louise Walton


so much ado

JELTJE FANOY

That, whatever way you look at it,

shower heads are not dumb?

III.

I’ve started yelling at cars

bookREVIEW

THE INHERITANCE OF

ivorie hammer

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 attendant

will never run out of dust particles?

That stuffed bats come back to life,

if heard flapping 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, that

grown men grow out of jump-suits?

Hey, how about a bit more oxygen

instead of giving more gas!

Excuse me, I’m just about

to 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 for

one 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 on

wanting to slide off its hanger

The moon shows me its brighter side

Well, it’s the one made for “baby”.


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 Hammer

Edwina Preston

www.UQP.uq.edu.au

21

go

GIVING 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

gobeauty in its long-forgotten notes.


Image: Josh Head

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.

The whole episode

just reminded me of

how it is when you’re

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 floors.

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?

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.


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

flights 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

23

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.

Image: Samuel Davis


“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

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

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 all

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.

PATRICK O’DUFFY

FOR

sale

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.

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 butterflies. But,

y’know, cooler.”

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.

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.

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


But that’s a plan for another day. Today, there are

baby heads to sort. And names to remember. po’d

25

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 weatherseared

face wearing a pinstriped jacket. With coldclumsy

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.

Image: Samuel Davis

THE LAST

card

WARWICK SPRAWSON


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.

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

27

black veil

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.

AND

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.


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.

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 Round four! The two women punched back and

on. Lettie’s brother Claude checked the ties on her forth, back and forth, until Lettie put too much

gloves, while Charlene blew kisses to the crowd. into a cross and left herself open.

gloves

PATRICK O’DUFFY

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!

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.

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.

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.

Image: Susy Cirina

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.

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.


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

29

bookREVIEW

BILLtheBASTARD LETTER TO THE editor

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 Bastard

Roland Perry

www.AllenAndUnwin.com


Dear 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 subeditors

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)

Image: Clint Cure

WINTER 2013

call for SUBMISSIONS

Image: Constance Hunter

pinned to

my principles

JUDY DOUBAS

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

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.

For full submission details visit:

www.darebin.vic.gov.au/

writingprojects

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.

DEADLINE FOR ISSUE EIGHT IS sunday 24/02/2013

inSCRIBE

www.nmit.edu.au/courseblog/ybp/inscribe31


Image: Kate Kingsmill

Image: Emily Hassle

inScribe (issue seven)

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