Strange: The Senior Young Writers Group Zine 2023

Contents:
Mikey Chisholm – Poems
Max Davis – Starkings
Ray Lee – Corporeal Fear
Ebony Hosa – The House Was Awake
Maia Power – Prose Poems
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POEMS – Mikey Chisholm
Window
22 millimetres is all that stands between us, not nearly enough.
That gleeful grinning glare of air, so suffocating, even from
behind the glass.
Frightful fingers, wicked watchful willingness, waiting to let us
fall.
Brazen booming laugh of lightning surrounds our solid safety.
Warning of wind comes calmly from the cabin of our crate.
Gas’s grinning grimace waiting for lightning to thunder across
the wingspan, wanting for fire on the water far below.
22 millimetres is all that sits between us, not nearly enough.
“When we land, leave the living living… please.”
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Listen
Words flooded the underhill that day.
Listen
Listen
Listen
Listen
Listen
Listen
The words followed my footsteps. The dark flooded my vision,
so I brought out the lantern. Light shone on the footsteps,
relieving the words on the underhill. They told stories of
bodies, of the fire underhill, they screamed.
Listen.
Fire screamed, fire flooded the underhill, flooded the bodies.
Bodies screamed, bodies followed footsteps, followed
footsteps, followed footsteps, followed my footsteps, my vision
relieving flooded words on the underhill.
Listen.
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Fire screamed, vision dark, fire brought out dark shining on
light, relieving bodies of words. The followed footsteps
followed the shining light of day underhill.
Words screamed listen. Listen.
I listen.
Always.
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Neutropia:
The neutropia is going strong. It’s had its hiccoughs as all such
futures have, the climate crisis still threatens its safety, but the
mundanity ploughs ahead.
Leaders across the globe, steeped in their vainglory, drive their
charges towards a status quo they dare not disturb.
People take their sides, ranting each other into ideological
trenches, a stalemate World War III raging on into eternity.
The majority live their lives, following the regular routine in a
lackadaisical monotony. They see the ranters but pay them no
heed, they watch their leader’s vainglorious inadequacy with
detached discontent, and all the while they drag themselves
further into the known neutropia of tomorrow.
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But the sun will still be shining
But the sun will still be shining.
Darkness floods the vision, a brief moment of pain, and the
comforting numb of non-existence.
Screams echo out across the tracks, a choir of warnings
harmonizing with the terrible screech of brakes activated far
too late.
A jostled footfall falls on empty air, the gravel ground rushing
eagerly to meet it.
The river of travellers flows down the platform, the
overcapacity overflow nears the edge.
The escalator creeps down with downcast disinterest on every
step, uncaffeinated commuters led into the depths of the
station.
Her eyes scan the ground, watching the plodding of legs on the
routine route, head bowed to the monotony.
The conscious snaps awake, ready for the day, bad things will
come to pass but the sun will still be shining.
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STARKINGS – Max Davis
Blood, if it wasn’t a vicious red or a stellar scarlet what else
would it be?
I asked that same question before burning a candle.
Let’s travel through time.
A few months ago, I was asked by the clan of Olfric to join
them and a small squadron of berserkers to go on a Viking
exploration mission.
I was the smallest warrior there by the way, with manmountains
standing around me. Sweat poured down my face as
I looked out the window. We saw the stars and planets outside
as we sailed into space. The others called me small, tiny,
innocent, and cute. I was offended by that because I was strong.
We arrived at Neptune and boy, was it cold. Frost made
sweating feel like a paradise. But we trudged on through the
ice, passed the enemy towers and into the village. The problem
was that I got my hands on some large icebergs and I think I
have frostbite. The guards were blind, drunk and screaming as
we shot arrows in their necks.
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They were then spiked by their wooden stakes. And then we
had trouble. The enemy was fast and caught up and chained the
ten men to each other. We were led inside.
We were thrown in jail and locked away but two seconds later
the person next to me was brought out. I heard screaming and
blood that was scarlet.
Then I was next. I had the worst death of all. They forced me to
jump over a candle five times and then they would let me free.
The problem was that I was small. The second my woollen
pants touched the fire I was up in smoke.
But this is not the end of my tale. If that was so, I couldn’t be
writing this story. I had two layers of pants, so it produced lots
of smoke. I dashed out of the way and instead of me dead, the
enemy king ended up clapping so hard he leaned off the edge
and fell into a pool of snow. Leeches, they were two metres
thick and had a large appetite with a taste for royal blood.
And by Odin’s mighty beard, he then popped until he was just
clothes.
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CORPOREAL FEAR – Ray Lee
7:18am
The town was dragging itself to the waking world. The sun
blaring an alarm of harsh, bright light.
There was a stranger. Found between day and night.
Content to work in the cornfields, teach the children in the
school and engage with the adults in the town hall. But the
town was wary of its hands in the fields, of its words with the
children, its input taken with a grain of salt by the adults. No
one knew its name despite how many times they said it, never
invited to get togethers despite their kindness, never trusted
despite their cooperation.
They found its body. Petrified and spindly. A thin, pale
arm reaching out towards the bed of the sun. They noticed the
pain and fear. But not the tears not fallen, nor the desperation
of her wanting to live.
11:55am
The town was living through the addicting taste of mystery and
gossip. The kids called it a vampire or some creature that only
imitates humans. The adults did nothing. None dared to touch
the body. They feared the disease they assumed the stranger
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had died to. They feared that they were contaminated. They did
not wonder if it was they who inflicted the disease.
A man told his son he was scared. That though his
fellow adults had seen the women’s face embedded with fear,
they did not understand. Did not understand the way her skin
had flattened to her bones, like it was clinging to safety. Did
not understand the way her outstretched hand was curved up,
like she wanted someone to hold hers. Did not understand the
way his eyes could not look away from her face, like a spiral of
horror, getting worse as he let his gaze be devoured.
They did not emerge. And neither did his wife when she
returned from her friend’s house for tea.
5:04pm
The children danced in the corn fields surrounding the village.
Some of them worried when their neighbours dragged them
from their houses’. Said their parents had adult things to do,
and to go and play in the fields, enjoy the sun.
An older teen skepticized. The children were not to play
in the fields. Not in the night. Not in the day. Not when their
parents were in there. Not to go in with their parents.
But he went. Trusted that the adults just had to deal
with adult things. And that soon he would be part of that too.
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And so it was with utter confidence that he went looking for the
adults when the sun started to set. The children in varying
states of chaos and exhaustion.
He knocked on the first house he came across. No one
answered. Unexpected but annoying. And so he made his way
to the town centre. He became worried when there was no one
in the town hall.
He lost himself between houses. Knocking. And
yelling. And crying.
And he came to his own house. His legs weak from the
sporadic running, his throat dry from his tears.
He could not cry when he found the spindly remains of
his parents. He just laid down with them. Listening as the
children from the field slowly made their way home. And the
screams as they found their families.
9:36pm
The boy left his house and found a little girl wandering alone in
the town.
“Have you gone inside?”
She shook her tiny head.
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“There were screams. And now I don’t know what to
do.” She waited, and looked him in the eyes and whispered,
“what did you see?”
“I could not look away. The fear embedded on my
parents faces now embedded in my brain. You could not
understand the way their faces did not look at anything, like
they could not bear to look at anything. You could not
understand the way their skin had shrivelled against their
bones, like all the water in their body was used for tears. Could
not understand the way their hands curled into themselves, like
their body was a disease they couldn’t bear to spread. But I can
not understand the way I couldn’t look my parents in the face
for I will feel sad nonetheless.”
“What will we do?”
“There is nothing I can do,” he told her as the fear
began stretching further from his brain, “but you can run.”
She did not wait for her fear to be tangiblised in the
boy’s body, and left. She closed her eyes and followed the
worn paths, stumbling over tiny, thin hands and feet. She
mumbled apologies to the corpses and continued.
She followed the trails to the edge of town, to the
cornfields and oblivion beyond. She left the town, to be a
stranger elsewhere.
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THE HOUSE WAS AWAKE – Ebony Hosa
Violent winds crash onto windows, echoing through the empty
condo. Creaks come from everywhere around the room.
Shadows appear as long dark figures from misshapen tree
branches and cold, hollow air seeps into every crack.
You're alone. Only your thoughts guide you in the inky
darkness; it surrounds the room like a black hole. Assortments
of blankets and sheets cling close to you as if they're afraid of
what lies beyond the black. Thunder crashes nearby; it startles
you. Immediately your head turns to a swivel, looking out a
window with cobwebs at every corner and pieces of dirt and
grime stuck to it. Focusing on the outside: fog covered the sky
like a blanket. Heavy droplets of pouring rain cover the sky
too. It was almost like the two elements were fighting to be on
top.
You close your tired eyes. Cosy and warm in your bed
with your favourite toys. You slowly start to drift off to sleep.
A raspy exhale interrupts your slumber.
Your eyes shoot awake as you quickly glance around
the room. Eyes darting frantically from one corner of your
room to the next. You hear it again – this time it's coming from
outside your left bedroom door. Frightened, you choose to stay
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under the covers but…what if it opens the door and creeps into
the room? What if it's here to take you? If you scream will
anyone hear you?
Thoughts spiral your head into a frightened panic. As
you slowly peel away the covers from your face, the breathing
has stopped. You glance around the room quickly for any
dangers – none seem to appear. You reach out to your bedside
table for your flashlight and cautiously get out of bed.
Wandering around your room, you find some toys scattered
near your closet. Your favourite telephone toy has big eyes and
a dial switch for its nose, the phone part attached to a curly
plastic tube coming out from the underside. You're starting to
feel at ease until a high-pitched mechanical scream comes from
your bed. Alert and armed, you shine your flashlight onto your
bed. Nothing.
Thunder erupts from above the house and rain pours
over the estate like a tsunami. It has you feeling on edge even
more. A long, deep exhale strikes your neck. It sends a chill up
your spine. You turn around while slowly shining your
flashlight in the closet. The rays of bright yellow overflow into
inky darkness, revealing a silver hook laying perfectly still
beside a long, broken leg. Moving your flashlight forward, the
legs appear to be attached to a torso. Reddish in colour with
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tears and matted fur making makeshift doorways to see the
mechanical mess that lies inside. Wires and other bits of
machinery are all working fine. Cogs turn and rusted metal all
make the skeleton of this thing. Trembling, you move your
flashlight further up to see what appears to be a head with fox
ears, a scratched-up eye patch and piercing yellow eyes
seemingly staring right… through… you…
Freaked out, you slowly back away. The thing suddenly
moves one of its arms, then the other, then moves both of its
legs. It stays still for a moment. Loud silence covers the air
eerily. It leaps at you, finally making its decision. A terrible
screeching sound erupts from it while it pins you to the ground.
Your vision blurs and a thick liquidy substance pours down
your face. The thing talks only to mutter two words in a raspy,
mechanical voice.
It's…
Me
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PROSE POEMS – Maia Power
The train is coming
I stand on a platform. Around me hundreds of people huddle
under umbrellas, trying to fight the wind. Rain lashes down
relentlessly, escaping the skies above, sending freezing droplets
to trickle down my back, and into my galoshes.
But as my eyes leave the boots, a light splits the haze in the
distance. It glides through the storm towards me, completely
unaware of its surroundings. Grey-blue clouds look down on it
with despair, but it doesn’t stop. Wind whips past its green
carriages, but warm light still glows from within.
The train is coming.
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Self esteem
It falls with a crash, but their ears can’t hear. I feel it go down,
down, taking my insides with it, taking it to a place where the
air can’t breathe. They see no change, but the blind never do.
They can only feel, but not someone else’s pain. Words can cut
the inside, but you never taste the blood. A mouth can talk, but
not to ears that can’t listen, not to a bow sending arrows out
only to protect itself.
Books of Many Colours
Books of many colours fill the walls, their spines the backbone
of worldly knowledge.
Questions to be answered and asked, the only portals to exist in
real life. The only way to meddle with time. All on one page.
Their presence seeps through walls, hovering heavily on light
air, pulling hands towards them.
The sudden creek of a leather door as you step through white
parchment pages. You are gone.
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Tile 15
I stare back down the winding path of colourful numbers, each
one individual and unique, like the year I was that age. Facing
the other way, I see only blue. A flat, medium blue. Entering
this new chapter will be like school, only the test comes before
the lesson. I would do anything to live the red year again. An
innocent 8-year-old without the crushing depression and
anxiety of being something in this world. Without worrying
about making someone proud. Knowing myself. After blue
comes a bright orange-yellow. Tile 20 escaping my teens. But
for now all I can focus on is the tiles in between, and the fear of
falling into the dark void below with no one to notice.
Sometimes being everything isn’t enough, and I am still yet to
realise that.
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Friend Zone
4:36am
I tear my eyes away from the screen, a pain in my neck starting
with sudden awareness. The clock on the wall drift into focus
and guilt spreads through every cell of my body. Not again. I
know tomorrow will be hell; a taped-on smile trying to cover it
up. They can’t know. They won’t know.
5:17am
Somehow, I’m looking into a screen again, though I never
remember picking it up. My eyes scan the messages I’ve read
and revised for hours, but without an obvious answer they do
not stop.
5:52am
Sleeping is now out of the question, but, with a brain that won’t
stop stabbing your heart, it was never going to be. “Where did I
go wrong? Where did I go wrong? Where did I go wrong?”
6:20am
Friend zone. I never understood it until now. But worst still is
when they start giving up on the friend part too.
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