We Don't Have the Budget for This

Contents
INTRODUCTION
Rhys Lorenc
EMBRACE THE LOSS OF KNOWLEDGE
Ray Lee
The Highway
Ada
THIS STORY IS NOT ABOUT THE OLD YOU
Abi
THE SINGULAR REGRETS OF A SCIENTIST
Alec
INVINCIBLE
Milly
A ZOMBIE’S POSTMODERN LIFE: PILOT EXCERPT
Mallee Pike-Wills
THIS IS (NOT) A GAME
Leni
THE PANTHEON OF BRAINROT
Charlotte
COLLATERAL REGICIDE
Lil
MAGNANIMOUS: EXCERPT
Lore
MY LITTLE PSYCHO
Jess
3
4
9
11
14
21
23
29
31
33
35
39
1

THE HAND
Ryder
THERE IS LIFE
Abi
42
48
2

Introduction
The Young Writers Program was started by local author and all-around
cool-person Helena Fox many, many moons ago, and offers writing
workshops for young folks aged ten to twenty-five. (Don’t worry, the tenyear
olds are in a different writing group to the twenty-five-year olds.)
The works contained herein showcase the talents of the 2024 Senior
Young Writers Group; the SYWG caters for ages fourteen to eighteen.
Some of the authors you’ll run into here were new to the YWP, and others
have been students in it for longer than I’ve been running workshops.
Each writer selected their own piece for publication, and took time out of
their day to edit and ready it for publication. They named the anthology
and the group themselves (both after in-jokes), and the cover was
designed by Lil. Unrelated: yes, that is me on the cover—both in body
and name. Sometimes democracy produces disconcerting results. But I
digress. The takeaway is not that these young folks have organically
formed a pseudo-cult around my hotspot, but that they built this
anthology with their own blood, sweat and ink.
The reader should be warned that, in the overwhelming majority of
these pieces, there is at least some murder, death, violence, or—to borrow
a nebulous term from Australia’s Classification Board—strong themes
The reader should also steady themselves for some gut-wrenching
emotional twists and absolutely banging writing.
Rhys Lorenc | SYWG Workshop Leader
3

Embrace the Loss of Knowledge
Ray
17 th February
We found it. Them. We found them. After all these years, all the wild
goose chases, financial struggle and the doubt scorned onto my
colleagues’ faces.
The map was accurate, but the construction and manipulations of the
land has deformed it from the original contours. The impossible paths
were there once, and we followed some mockery of them.
The city must have been structurally sound. Large chunks still stand. It
could only be the shelter mountains and the vicious terrain that have kept
travellers and scientists out for so long. And we’re still not sure how these
people died.
18 th February
The structures look glorious in the morning light. The sandstone glowing
in the gleam. I’ll have the architect inspect them today. They were much
too tired from the walk yesterday to marvel at the sights around us.
I’m sitting in someone’s home. I didn’t sleep here. But I couldn’t
wait until everyone woke up to explore. The climate is getting better. The
mornings are getting quicker to warm.
4

The architect hasn’t been able to specifically date any of the buildings.
They told me that the styles of the buildings aren’t consistent to one era.
There will be a banister that is definitively 15 th century, but the
surrounding walls are 9 th . They think it has something to do with the
city’s isolation. Maybe trends stuck for a while and the people only
updated them when infrastructure needed maintenance. That’s their
current theory. I don’t know what mine is. I think I might just follow
theirs.
19 th February
There’s a house here.
It looks just like mine. But. Not.
The red metal sheets on top that Carla hates and wants redone. The
brown brick that covers the whole house.
The door is old. Victorian or something. Nothing I would have in my
house. And the windows have shutters in a style I’ve never seen before. I
don’t want to show the architect. They’d have a breakdown. They’re
already close because of the styles of the other houses and structures.
This house is also strangely composed. Nothing looks broken or
weather damaged. I won’t go inside.
I don’t know how I never saw it. We walked up and down this road
so many times yesterday. Up and down. Looking left and right.
Did we really not see this house?
5

20 th February
I managed to keep everyone away from my ‘house’ yesterday. I said we
should have a proper observation of as much of the area as possible. They
didn’t want to, but I pay them.
We managed to find a town square. A large cobbled area. It must
have been a place for the markets at some point. I must have been
delirious in the heat. I kept thinking I could smell food being cooked
when I should have only been able to smell my sweat. As we were
leaving, a few streets away, I could hear it. The cooking, the yelling of a
barterer, the chattering of a busy square.
If it was my imagination, the other’s shouldn’t have heard it. But
they too turned their heads to listen to impossible sounds.
21 st February
There are people here.
But they’re wrong.
They speak multiple tongues. They have multiple mouths. The
linguist is in tears trying to understand. I am in tears at the conglomerate
people. A man with dark skin speaks with a deep accent, but the woman
with fairer skin who has her mouth at his chin disrupts his words. Neither
seems to care. Their arms move independently of each other and they
don’t seem to care when they collide.
There are children playing soccer in the streets. I don’t know how
many. I cannot count the heads because some have several.
6

We’re not sure whether to stay or continue. We have yet to find
people that speak our English.
22 nd February
We lost the architect. I don’t know how.
They said they needed air. Away from us. Probably me.
Maybe they went for a walk. But why wouldn’t they come back?
Everyone is in shambles. Some want to abandon them. Some want to
wait for them.
I will send everyone back. I will look for the architect myself.
Maybe I can understand something about this place. I still need to know.
23 rd February
We spent the night as a group. Everyone is on their way back as I stay to
find the architect. From what I can tell of the supplies, they didn’t take
anything, so they’re off with the clothes on their back. No food, no water.
Hopefully they’ve doubled back at some point and I can find them.
I found them. Singular and plural. I found the architect.
It seems they managed to understand. Not in a way I feel I must
follow.
They could still speak. The body was taller than theirs, so their
mouth sat in the middle of its throat.
They seemed to understand everyone around them. But when I
asked, they said they didn’t know what they were saying. I don’t think
7

they were saying this out of secretiveness, they seemed sincere. I believe
they genuinely couldn’t articulate what the people were saying to me in a
way I could comprehend.
They told me to stay. It was everything I wanted, if only I could
properly understand. I said that I would return—a lie obviously. I’ve
packed my things and am on my way back to the others. This is just a rest
break. Though the people don’t seem to leave the square into the
overgrown shrubs we were in, I didn’t want to chance the architect going
and looking for me.
Their words keep looping in my head. A broken record that has captured a
siren’s song. I want to go back and I’m losing my grip on why I
shouldn’t. I don’t want to go back. I don’t I don’t I don’t
There’s nothing left for me there. My curiosity is satiated by the
truth of this place. My curiosity is satiated.
It doesn’t matter the thousands of dollars and hours spent to get here.
It doesn’t matter that the architect knows and I don’t. I don’t want what
they have. I don't I don’t
24 th February
I’m back in the first village. I avoided my house. I fear what I will do if I
go back to it. I haven’t paid attention to any of the houses. I fear that I
will recognise someone else’s.
I will be out of here come tomorrow morning.
I am no longer curious. I swear I am no longer curious.
8

The Highway
Ada
There’s a body on the ground. It's next to Stuart Highway, in the middle
of nowhere. I can't tell if they’re breathing.
I get out of my car. I stare, watching this limp, unconscious body. I
hit them. With the car I stole this morning. What have I done?
I stand over the body. It’s so small, so fragile. Barely older than a
child. I hit them, I hit them, I killed them.
I crouch down, leaning over them. They are breathing, barely—skin
dry, lips cracked, eyes closed and unresponsive—but breathing. An
ambulance would never make it in time, not even one of those helicopters
they send to remote areas. This person is going to die. This person is
going to die and it’s my fault.
I step back. I turn around and get back in the car. Without thinking, I
turn on the engine. No. I can’t just leave. No. This is wrong. A terrible
thought comes into my head. If I left, no one would know. No one would
even find the body for days. No one would ever find out that it was me
who hit this person with this stolen car because I was too busy staring
into space.
The car starts. Wheels begin to spin and the car drives faster and
faster along the road. This moment didn’t happen. I didn’t steal this car. I
didn’t drive one hundred and fifty kilometres an hour along the Stuart
Highway without a licence. I didn’t kill this person and leave their body
9

alone, with their bones shattered and their limbs bent in ways that limbs
should never bend, on the side of the road in the middle of nowhere to be
found by some random truck driver having a bad day.
This never happened, I will never remember it and I will never
forget it.
10

This Story is Not About the Old You
Abi
This story is not about the old you.
The rain pelts down on the roof of the bus stop that does little to
protect your head. You don’t have an umbrella. The only thing on you is a
bag as big as the distance you walked to get here. You have left
everything behind. Now you are in a place where the trees merge with the
fog that cloaks the mountain with nothing but the clothes on your back
and the stuff in your backpack. Starting life anew has never felt so
looming until now. All alone, the past swallows you whole and the rain
soaks your shoes like a sponge. It is dark. Tucked in this humid corner of
the mountain it feels like you are the only one in a universe full of
millions. The trees restlessly wave at you and only the thumping of the
rain on grass can be heard.
The smell of petrichor sticks in the air and your arms feel sticky with
sweat. Patiently you wait. Time has no meaning here in this place, a safe
haven where leaving doesn’t seem so daunting. The past is so far away.
The sound of rattling on the pavement echoes in the air, louder than
the rain and a shuttle bus rocks up beside the tiny bus stop where you
stand. This is your ticket out of here. This vehicle will take you home, or
at least any place that isn’t here. Home is a word. You still don’t quite
know where it is, but you trust you will find it. In the sway of familiar
nature you fear you can do anything. Something aches inside of you. A
11

longing to go back somewhere you never knew, overpowering any
thoughts of going back. Although you will miss the way the trees wave at
you and the birds sing in harmony, the wet damp air and long tall grass on
rainless nights, you know somehow, someway you’ll find this somewhere
else.
The bus doors creak open with rusty hinges to let you inside. The
stranger inside greets you with a comforting smile. You feel warmth in
the stranger’s embrace and a small smile flits across your face. It is
strange to you how some people can be so nice but others so cruel.
Coming out from the shell of the bus stop, rain hits your face like tiny
pebbles and wets your already damp hair. You are lost in the moment.
Spinning around, like a dancer you marvel in the beauty of the world
around you. Everything is so different now. Every leaf, every person is a
wonder on its own. The sky is everlasting and you are getting soaked in
the rain. The bus driver laughs with you as you step onto the bus a little
more drenched, the load you carry on your back a little lighter. Vibrating
smiles and plush seats. The emptiness inside you is filling itself in bit by
bit. Happiness is blooming like a blossom in Spring. This is only the start
of your new life.
There are a few others seated on the bus. Ready, you swing yourself
into a seat of your own and watch out the window as the bus doors creak
closed once more. You are racked with a low rumbling sound as you set
off away from the mountains and fog. You try to glance back at the bus
stop but in a fleeting moment it has disappeared behind the turn and new
scenery springs up before you. More towering trees, low hanging vines,
12

short dark green grass. Something seizes hold of you at the thought of
moving so fast, but quickly subsides. Perhaps new things are good. That
is what you are trying to relearn anyway. Become a new you.
13

The Singular Regrets of a Scientist
Alec
START
Again. You activate the robot. It leaps, turns in midair, begins falling…
and hits the ground at an angle, crumpling. You hear a crunching sound,
followed by a whirring. It doesn’t get up. With a groan, you climb out of
your seat and lumber over to it, fed up with the constant failures. You
consider scrapping it and beginning work on a new version…
Do you replace the robot with a new version (Go to Page 15)
OR
Repair it, and keep trying to make it work? (Go to Page 18)
14

REPLACE
You decide that you’re never going to get this version working, and that
working on a new model is the best idea. Picking up the phone on your
desk, you call management to get approval for this. They happily approve
of it, as tired as you are with the continual lack of success. As you hang
up, ready to get to work, you hear a noise behind you. You turn around, to
see the robot standing over you, clearly incensed with the idea of being
replaced.
Do you attempt to placate the robot (Go to Page 16)
OR
Do you attempt to fight it? (Go to Page 17)
15

PLACATE
Holding up your hands, you frantically try to placate it, stumbling over
your words. ‘I-I’m sorry. I didn’t realize you were alive, that you could be
upset by this. I won’t replace you. Do you understand me?’ It shoots out a
hand, wrapping it around your neck. As you feel the air leave your lungs
for the last time, you contemplate whether it didn’t understand you, or
simply didn’t care what you said.
END
16

FIGHT
You turn tail and run, relying on its damaged mechanisms to let you
escape. You barrel through the door out of the lab, slamming them behind
you and locking them with your key. Thumping your hand down on the
emergency button next to the door, you can only hope security arrives
before it breaks through the barrier. Just its fist punctures through the
door. Security sprints around the corner, weapons raised. It only takes a
few bullets to down it long enough for you to disable it.
After the incident, you are filled with regret that you destroyed the
first known instance of artificial emotions. A month later, you are so
overwhelmed with guilt that you take your own life.
END
17

REPAIR
You shake your head and sigh. You’ve put so much effort into this
version, you may as well keep on going. After half an hour of examining
the damage, you find the main issue. The knee motors broke trying to
absorb the force of the landing. You’re going to have to replace them, but
you don’t have any of the same motor. You could try and make it work
with some old motors you have lying around, or you could order some
proper replacements.
Do you try to use the old motors (Go to Page 19)
OR
Do you order new motors? (Go to Page 20)
18

OLD MOTORS
You’re so close to getting it to work, you’re sure. You don’t want to wait
for new motors. After a few hours of work, you’ve jerry-rigged the old
motors into it. You boot up the robot, hoping it will work. The robot tries
to stand up, gears grinding and crunching, before the severely underspecced
motors overheat, melting the insulation on the cables touching it
and short-circuiting the robot. You’re going to have to replace the whole
thing.
Go to Page 15
19

NEW MOTORS
Using proper motors is going to give you a better chance of success. You
put in the order for new motors, which are going to take a couple weeks,
and get to work waiting.
Halfway through the wait, the current CEO of the company resigns.
The new CEO is far less eager to indulge in your ‘silly’ project, and lays
you off. You’re forced to work a dead-end retail job for the rest of your
life.
END
20

Invincible
Milly
The body is on the ground, its eyes filled with fear. I stab it again, and
again, until the eyes contain nothing. No fear. Its blood stains the ground
of the alleyway and the bin it’s leaning against. I cut through its clothing
and its skin, punching the ribs until they break. I grab the heart and cut
the surrounding arteries away. They fall back into its chest cavity. I put
the heart in my bag.
Sirens begin to get louder. I don’t move. The body doesn’t move. I
walk away. The body doesn’t walk away. Sirens fill the area near the
body. They’re loud. I’m in the sewers. Police don’t look in sewers, only
rats do. I walk through the sewers. The police don’t walk through the
sewers. The body doesn’t walk through the sewers. I walk in the sewers
until I find a ladder. I climb the ladder. I’m not in Brooklyn. I’m in
Flatbush. No one will look in Flatbush. They never do. I’m free.
I walk to my house. It takes long enough that people won’t be
suspicious. I walk in. The lights are on. My cat turned on the lights again.
It’s too smart for its own good. I go to my living room. The TV is on. I
left it on so that my cat wouldn’t be alone. The TV anchor starts talking
about me again. I’m finally famous enough. It thinks that I attempted to
kill two people today. A lie. I killed four. They won’t know that until they
go to their apartment. The TV anchor talks and talks about me. I turn it
off, and my cat starts complaining. It’s stupid. I hold it. I hate it. It hates
me. I let it go.
21

I leave the living room and go to my room. It doesn’t follow me. The
air smells too much like blood for it to come near my room. I like blood.
It reminds me of how good I am at my job. I put the hearts that I forcibly
removed from people on the shelf with the others. They’re still warm. It
feels nice to hold them. It makes me remember how I got them. I look at
the oldest heart with the most rot on it and the most pungent smell. It was
my teacher’s. He tried to make me repeat seventh grade. He was unable to
do that. I sit on my bed. The sheets haven’t been changed in years. The
blanket has hundreds of DNA samples on it. The pillows look like they
have been there since the 17 th Century. The only new thing on it is the
pillowcase. Old pillowcases are bad for your hair and skin. I lie down. I
fall asleep.
I wake up. I check the clock. It says it’s 5am. It’s lying. I get out of
bed. I don’t change my clothes. I walk into my kitchen. I grab a bowl,
Froot Loops and milk. I put the bowl down. I pour the milk. I pour the
cereal. I put it out in the sun. My cat will eat it later.
I leave the house and walk to a supermarket in Brooklyn. I walk in.
There are only two other people there: two minimum wage staff. I will
put them out of their misery. I walk over to the first person, and hold my
dagger up to its throat. The blood trickles down its neck. It screams. I
don’t scream. I stab it in the neck. I stab it in the abdomen. I twist the
dagger. It screams again. I twist the dagger again. It falls to the ground. I
cut through the skin and clothes on its chest, punch its ribs and grab the
heart. I repeat the process for the second one. I leave.
No one will ever find me. I am invincible.
22

A Zombie’s Postmodern Life: Pilot Excerpt
Mallee Pike-Wills
FADE IN:
INT. UNLIT ROOM
The episode starts in complete darkness, before a
single light comes from above. It illuminates a
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE who is wearing a black coat, cracked
black leather boots and a faded black bowling cap. He
is sitting on a wooden swivel chair covered with vines
with his back turned to the camera. He lights matches
and watches them burn into nothing, before turning to
look at the audience, The match keeps on burning as he
talks.
MYSTERIOUS FIGURE
You know, in any other story
this would be the time where
I’d be explaining to you how
the world began. In any other
story I’d probably tell you
how the world burned and how
an intrepid bunch of heroes
rose up to save it. But this
Isn’t any other story. This
isn't a story where everyone
lives happily ever after.
This is a story about a man
trapped in a genre——well,
he's barely a man but you’ll
learn more about that later——
and what the cruelty of life
can do to a person. Before I
leave I will give you one
23

quote to understand this
world. Let this be your
guiding light in this
unending abyss: “No matter
what, life always finds a
way.” And now I open for you
the door into this neverending
spiral of
nothingness.
After he says this the light slowly begins to fade
until there is nothing left but a burning match. Tand
the mysterious figure blows out the match. There is
darkness once more.
INT. BILL’S PLACE — MORNING
CUT TO:
Scene two starts with a panning shot around a messy
room. Abstract paintings cover the walls, dirty clothes
lie across the floor and there are pill bottles all
over the tops of the drawers. The camera eventually
reaches a ringing dial phone atop a night stand. A
decaying hand picks up the phone. The camera turns up
to reveal a zombie lying in bed wearing a white tank
top and denim jeans. BILL. He has long, matted, messy
black hair and brown eyes. He is looking very tired as
he answers the phone.
BILL
Hello, this is Bill R.
Terence. What do you want
from me?
24

HAROLD
Listen Bill, it’s me Harold.
Look, things haven’t been
great. The gallery has been
going through some financial
trouble and the world’s just
moved on from you. So I’m
sorry. You just weren’t able
to make the cut.
Harold hangs up. Bill grabs a cigarette and smokes it.
He slowly gets out of bed and sighs while picking up a
bottle of pills on one of the shelves. He walks towards
the kitchen and thinks to himself.
BILL (V.O.)
Why do I keep on failing? I
just wish that I could do
better, but I’ll never be
able to get back all those
wasted years.
As Bill enters the kitchen he sees another zombie,
HAILEY, frying meat on a pan. The kitchen sink is
clogged with dirty dishes, the fridge is covered in
notices of overdue rent and newspaper clippings, and a
broken plate lies on the floor.
HAILEY
Bill, I don’t have time for
this. Could you please just
leave me alone?
BILL
Why can't you just be happy
with what we’ve got?
25

Hailey continues cooking for a while, ignoring Bill.
HAILEY
Because Bill. You never
change.
BILL
Well at least I try to
change, unlike you, who can’t
even wash the dishes without
taking my pills.
HAILEY
Well at least I don’t waste
my life on failed, broken
dreams.
BILL
You don’t get to say that.
Thanks to you, my best years
have been wasted. I could
have been remembered, I could
have made a name for myself.
But now thanks to you I’m
wasting my life away.
HAILEY
Oh, don’t give me that
bullshit. ‘Being remembered,
making a name for yourself.’
No one liked the art you made
and no one likes art from a
dead genre. I don’t need to
help you waste your life, you
do that fine on your own.
26

Bill stands there, just taking it. He grabs a
cigarette, struggles to light it, then smokes it.
BILL
Maybe I am broken, but I can
fix you. I can fix us.
HAILEY
This house may as well be
built from the pieces of your
broken promises, but actions
speak louder than words. So
if you can prove to me that
there’s still something left
in the rotting husk that is
us, then maybe you’ll keep
this flame alive for just a
couple more months. But if
you fail, the flame will
(MORE)
HAILEY (CONT’D)
extinguish and all that will
be left is a lonely, broken
man.
Bill leaves without saying another word. He goes back
into his bedroom and gets dressed. Bill puts on his
worn, shaggy dark blue suit, tie and pants. He leaves,
grabbing his weathered white briefcase and a green
beanie filled with stitched stars. Before Bill opens
the door he looks at the beanie, slides his thumb over
it and puts it on. One tear runs down Bill’s cheek as
he does so. He pulls a picture out of his pocket and
looks at it. The picture is of a young zombie boy
wearing a beanie, a scarf, knitted gloves, a long
27

jacket with denim pants and a pair of weathered boots.
The zombie kid is sitting on a log surrounded by trees
and moss as it snows. Bill looks at the picture, sighs
and then puts it away.
28

This is (Not) a Game,
Leni
This is a game. Maybe it isn’t. You’re being played. Or are you? Every
step you take, every time you inhale, something is being pulled further
away from you. This is a game. Maybe it isn’t. You blink every time
something peculiar comes into view, but it’s gone within seconds. It isn’t
real. But those talons brush against your arm. It is real. It always was real.
Now that you’ve discovered half of the truth, the other half remains
unknown. What do the voices mean? They mean nothing. This is just a
game, after all. They will help you get to the next level. But you were
sick of the next level twelve levels ago. Perhaps this isn’t just a game.
You wake, your heart thundering in your chest and sweat making
your clothes stick to your skin. Or maybe you wake perfectly calm, the
sun shining down on your skin, casting lights through your window. The
image splinters, and now you know that you are truly awake. It is neither.
You’re in a white room. You think you went to sleep in bedsheets, but
now you’re on concrete, your limbs aching. Someone is talking to you.
You crane your neck. Someone isn’t there. This is too confusing for your
little head. There’s music playing, but you blink, and you aren’t in the
white room anymore. You’re in your bed, or maybe someone else’s. You
don’t even know whose skin you’re in right now.
Come on, a voice coaxes, take another step.
29

You take a step. You were lying down just a second ago. Someone is
staring at you. You can feel their eyes on the back of your head. You turn.
Just a window. You open your mouth, but moving it feels wrong. A voice
that isn’t yours screams, but it comes out of your throat. This is all wrong.
You can feel it now. This isn't just a game. The sharp edges of talons
brush your arms once more, and the voice inside you screams again.
There’s something sliding down your cheeks. It falls into your mouth. It
tastes like salt and fear. When will the next level be? You’re so tired.
Sleep sounds good. Sleep is good.
30

The Pantheon of Brainrot
Charlotte
When people think of gods, they think of the big dogs up top, the real
scary type of dudes like the God of Water, or the God of the Earth, God of
Fire, Baby Gronk, Big Chungus and Kai Cenat. But the ones they never
think of, are the real heroes—the true moggers. The ones making society
rizz along—us!
The Pantheon of Brainrot!
When you get a stealth kill in Fornite with a legendary sniper rifle
and a legendary chug jug that leads to a battle royale, the God of Fortnite
was there, cheering you on.
When you drop an ‘icl u pmo n ts pmo sm ngl r u fr rn b fr I h8 bein
diff idek anm mn js h8 ts’ in a business email, the God Abbrv is there,
wiping away a joyful tear.
When you finish up your 800 day streak of mewmaxxing,
jelqmaxxing, sleepmaxxing, eatmaxxing and rizzmaxxing by mogging at
some beta without hunter eyes at mogwarts, the God of Looksmaxxing is
inspired by you!
When you start flossing in the middle of class after seeing some
derpy meme about Troll Face and Big Chungus with Nyan Cat in the
background, the God of OG Brainrot smiles, knowing someone still cares
about him.
31

When there’s a girl behind you, and you ask ‘Whadidido?’ and
Donatella Versace asks ‘Who is this diva?’ at the Ellie and Mason house,
the God of just wants to be part of your symphony.
And when you pull up a Slushy Noobz video on YouTube.com and
watch it until the VERY end, Charlotte smiles.
You see, it was US all long. Not those rizzless non-gamers who’ve
never hawk tuahed at a level 10 GYATT up on Mount Olympus.
More like Mount Omegus!
We were the ones there all along!
And it’s time for the sigmas to rise up and save the day once again.
So, open up your subway surfer reddit stories with family guy in the
background.
Drop that niche chronically online reference that’ll just make you
look like you don’t touch grass.
Sing that meme song!
We’ll be here. We’ll always be here.
No matter how much Rhys tries to stop us.
32

Collateral Regicide
Lil
You keep a tight grip on the King's neck, a 9mm Calico submachine gun
pressed against his temple. The whole world is watching as the labelled
psychopath threatens to kill the King. Of course you aren’t going to kill
just the King. You don’t give two shits about the King, but you know
everyone else does. So that's why you kidnapped him. Now about four
million people are standing around you with guns aimed. Your body is
covered in hundreds of little red dots from the British Army’s various
weapons. But you are immortal in this moment. They won’t kill you if it
means risking the King's safety. You laugh, finding the whole
predicament extremely entertaining. A helicopter circles above and
cameras flash. Your face is being projected onto screens everywhere in
the world. You laugh again, dragging a hand down your eye, causing it to
bleed. You don’t notice the pain, your entire focus on the thing in your
hand. Then with your free hand you hold a remote up for everyone to see.
A few shouts can be heard. Then someone bursts from the crowd and
walks a little bit closer to you. Oh, how funny. A hostage negotiator. The
young man starts speaking softly, saying stuff like ‘Take some breaths.
You don’t need to do this. Do you want something in exchange for the
King?’
Blah blah, just boring stuff. You roll your eyes.
33

‘I don’t need jack shit from you.’ With that you stick your tongue
out, almost in a teasing manner, and press the button on the remote. The
bombs you planted in the sewers detonate. You watch as four million
people blow up. The city erupts into chaos. A shockwave is sent through
the city. And the Army and anyone else nearby die. You and the King also
join the death count, your body ripping apart in the explosion. London is
devoured in smoke and fire. The world is shocked after this catastrophe.
The death count grows every day, and still years after the explosion
bodies are being discovered. The bodies are buried and people try to
rebuild. One day London is attacked again, but this time no one knows
about it. Who could’ve known that the victims of the explosion dug
themselves out their graves and filled the half-rebuilt London with the
stench of rotten flesh? A zombie apocalypse devastated London. No-one
knew because no one survived. Except you. The mass murderer back
from the dead. The plan worked and now you thrive in the mess you
made.
34

Magnanimous: Excerpt
Lore
Velos walked across the railing, the patter his feet made while hitting the
thin metal mimicking that of the rain falling around him. He was one
hundred and fifty metres above ground level, and he looked down with an
unnerving smile. The night was cold, and the wind whistled voraciously,
pestering Velos about the goings-on in this dark night. The hindrance felt
like sharp knives stabbing into his bronze-hued skin, never in need of a
longed-for reprieve. The howling drowned out the roaring of many
vehicles from down below, their forms looking like tiny ants in an anthill
from where Velos was standing. The world continued to spin, blissfully
unaware of the man lingering on the roof. His nimble frame balanced
impeccably, moving to sit crossed legged on the edge of what could
inevitably be his doom.
He slowly started tapping his dexterous fingers onto his upper thigh
in a subconscious way he’d picked up over the last few months. The
moon peeked over the horizon in a glimmer of hope that was impossible
just moments ago, the moonlight breaching Velos’ hazelnut eyes in a way
that was not entirely unwelcome anymore. He’d found that happening a
lot recently—that being things he once detested slowly becoming much
more tolerable. Velos removed the circular gold reading glasses from
where they normally sat perched on the bridge of his nose and slid them
into the pocket of his black dress pants. He could still feel eyes on him.
35

Velos could always feel eyes on him. There was no interlude to the eyes
he found endlessly glued to his back. He sighed as he set his gaze upon
the horizon. Up here he could forget about responsibility and burden. He
could finally remember that he owed everybody nothing.
McIntyre stumbled down the dark path, nothing lighting his way. He was
imprisoned in the looming shadows of neverending skyscrapers, the
darkness highlighting his sunken eyes and jawbone. He could feel
crimson red liquid trickling from where his hand was clasped firmly
around the wound in his torso. As he looked down to assess the greyish
hue over his deep complexion, he stumbled slightly forward. His black
leather boot caught on a crack in the drab concrete. His shoulder-length
blonde hair was matted with sweat and what was likely blood, if the sharp
stabbing in his temples was anything to go off.
So this was how he died. A pathetic whimper in the dead of night.
Unbefitting to his own expectations, his death would be awfully quiet.
The loneliness and fear was suffocating, almost akin to a muscular hand
wrapping around his neck. Had he done enough? Was everybody else
safe? The fear holding him in a vice grip was not so much directed
towards himself, but instead towards those he would be leaving behind.
The work was not yet done. People were still in danger. He willed himself
not to succumb to the nausea and shortness of breath as he made his way
down the haggard concrete. He had to survive this. For his family, for his
coworkers, for his friends, for V… The name got caught in the stream of
his thoughts, causing the perseverant ranting to come to an unanticipated
36

halt. No. Not for him. The situation was currently bigger than whatever
was going on between the two. McIntyre had sworn an oath to all those
who relied on him, a duty to serve and a duty to protect. He very much
intended to follow through on his oath, from now until the end of time.
Velos looked down at how small everything was. It was tiny. Uneventful.
Not important to him right now. There were other things worth focusing
on. Things that could’ve been. Things that now would never be. He had
failed. He had failed at the one thing he was good at, the one thing he
never wanted to be good at and the one thing he would never do again.
Everything was lost. He pushed a coil of dark brown hair out of his eyes,
skin touching no tears. He couldn’t cry, and he couldn’t shake the stupid
smile plastered on his face. Everything had failed, this was not his
problem. Everything had failed, and that was alright. His gaze still
scanned the streets with vigour, falling on what was now a limited group
of people littered like trash under the looming shadows of buildings. This
whole place felt like a prison, but he was above that now. He had
transcended. Nothing here would bother him anymore. Nothing could
bother him anymore. He kept staring at the cityscape, looking for
something that he eventually found. A figure below him, limping its
merry way down the road. The tips of Velos’s mouth curved further and
he chuckled. No regret flashed in his eyes as he jumped.
McIntyre kept on going, not bothering to be stationary despite his injury.
It had only kept on bleeding, more and more of the liquid hitting the
37

concrete floor in small splashes that mimicked how he imagined ink fell
onto fresh parchment. The environment had not changed in the while he’d
been stumbling, purely passing beneath monstrous skyscraper after
monstrous skyscraper in a never-ending loop that McIntyre had begun to
detest. This was strange, but had been happening a lot recently. That
being things he once tolerated coming to be much more detested.
Everything was grimy and dirty, so McIntyre bitterly figured he’d fit right
in. He winced with every step his weakening legs took towards… towards
wherever he was going. He wasn’t quite sure yet. What he did know was
that this was extremely painful, and he intended to push through the pain.
However, he knew analytically that the way things were going he’d be
dead in a minute. His vision was blurring and he could barely stand, so he
quickly ducked into a small alleyway he saw. It was even more grimy and
dirty than the main street, which McIntyre hated. He sucked it up anyway
and winced again as he slid down the wall. He could feel his conscience
slipping away and despised himself for it. Those bastards were going to
find his body, he would let everybody down and fail his only purpose. A
hint of regret flashed in his eyes as his head slumped against the harsh
brick.
38

My Little Psycho
Jess
‘I stabbed my ex-best friend. I could never be free anyway,’ I tell myself
‘That's what you get for telling me I am weak,’ I mutter. Not many are
idiotic enough to mess with a psycho who has escaped jail forty-seven
times at just nineteen years old. I stare down at the body of my ex-best
friend. She lies there useless. Ten minutes ago, I went to the place where I
met with my ex-best friend. It was a small cafe, it had the best view of a
dandelion field. My ex-best friend showed up, She refused to give me her
wallet which made her useless to me. Oh well, her loss. Anywhere else
would’ve made it easier to hide the body, but I have no shot now. The
police swarmed the area right after I ran here. How do I even have friends
at this rate? Oh well. I run in the dandelion fields. It would’ve been
considered fun if it wasn’t for the police after me.
The blood stains my shirt and the knife in my hand, but who did I
kill this time? When will this madness end? Madness. I am mad, just like
they all said, but it feels good. No, I can’t…. help! HELP! I gasp as I get
up. I tripped, at least I thought I did. It’s all fuzzy. Everyone has gathered
around me, the lights are blurry in a red and blue haze, then it is washed
out by black. I am not one person, I am two people in one, and I can’t
control the other person, the aggressive narcissistic person who kills for
fun. The demon then fucking escapes jail with more killing. I can’t just
remove the price on my head; I won’t get peace. Everyone calls me a
39

psychopath but I can be sane. It gets harder everyday though. Now would
be a great time to give in. I know it will end in murder. Both sides of me
want to kill The psycho wants to kill others, the sane side of me wants to
kill myself, to get true peace. Am I truly sane?
I wake up again in a courtroom. I went too far this time. I love it
though I can’t stop it. Do I want to? I am charged with first degree
murder, but who did I kill? Who cares? My red hair is stained with blood,
and my freckles could also be mistaken for a blood splatter. There is
probably blood still on my face. I glare at the guard through my piercing
blue eyes. He jumps in fright. HA! Got him good. I introduce myself in
the most friendly tone I can to fool them. I remember shit, I know the
psycho got a hold of me, and the lifeless body of my ex-best friend is
lifeless on the street but I am calm. My name is Mira, I told them. I lied. I
am Zara, but I use cover-ups from some old gangs I know that turned
their life around. Ugh, I am way better than Mira. She looks like me
though, and high security sucks. Mira would never be sent to high
security, she has never done anything severe. A few drug trades, that was
all. With all the boring information and evidence, the defence lawyer I
was assigned holds up well. I am declared guilty of manslaughter and
sent to Cell 4, a simple cell with regular security. Mira was one of many
cover names I had used over the years that they still hadn’t caught on. Oh
well, I am here now. I need to get out, before she does, I do, the psycho
does. But it’s too late. I stick my hand out and grab the guard, pulling him
in. I grab his keys and gun. I shoot him and watch the life leave his eyes.
Then I unlock my cell, walking out. I see his blood pool around him on
40

the cold hard floor. I hold the pistol steady and shoot the guard again, I
have to be sure he’s dead. I shoot the reception lady and walk out a free
psycho once again. I laugh. I walk down the street as people hold back
their children and back up. I smile. I walk into a home and into a spare
bed, falling asleep instantly. Hours later I wake up gasping, I’ve killed
again but I’m free from jail. I wish I was truly free though, free from the
demons in my head, the psycho in my head. My little psycho.
41

The Hand
Ryder
Conflict. A common occurrence in the Elliot household. Serenity yelled
but her mother screamed, her words like daggers, cutting Serenity until
she bled out. Serenity lies awake in her bed, thinking of everything and
nothing all at once. Thoughts of colours and sounds flood her mind,
telling her stories of dismay. She blocks these thoughts; they were too
much for her fragile mental state. Shivers, shivers run up and down her
spine, her old, wooden window allowing in drafts to a party they were not
invited to. Serenity stands, dizzy, tired, disgruntled. SLAM. She hits the
ground as she stares at her window in horror. A hand—a blue, webbed,
wet hand—reaches through her window. It waves at her politely. No
response uttered. Serenity lays on the ground, staring. The hand seems
upset with Serenity’s reaction. A note, a slimy, wet note floats through the
air to her feet. What terrible handwriting it has, Serenity thinks. The note
reads, ‘Will me came in?’
She agrees to the hand’s request. A tall, blue figure enters the room,
its feet squelching on the ground, its four eyes darting around, trying to
make sense of their new environment. Its cold, wet wings flutter
excitedly.
‘Wha-what are you?’ Serenity questions the beast. No response…
Another note, another cold, slimy note. ‘Me is you friendship. Me
gaze your and mother has argumentation.’
42

The beast explains how it has been watching her for years.
Watching, waiting, listening… ‘We’ve can took your to housing area.’ It
begs her to leave her home, her family, her life behind to start again.
Serenity knows never to make deals with strangers but, a restart? A
second chance? She would give anything to have another chance at a life,
but what would it want in return?
The beast puffs its chest out. ‘Dramatic plot twist!’ It exclaims.
‘Your would has to does somethings for my.’A deal. Typical. Serenity’s
head is full, her mind once a blank canvas, now an abstract masterpiece.
What would it want? Will she die? Her head is racing, all her thoughts
running to the finish line.
‘Wh-what do you want?’ She asks nervously.
‘Secret.’ The beast grins at Serenity, sending shivers down her spine.
'Pleasing, we’ve got loneliness over time.' It creeps closer to her, leaving
wet footprints on the grey carpet.
Serenity stumbles backwards, crawling to her bed. The beast creeps
closer and closer until it is right in front of her, spit dripping from its
fang-infested mouth. ‘Agreeing? Me hoping thy doing.’
Its eyes are empty, an endless void, devoid of light. Gulp. Serenity
aggressively nods. Her life is in danger and she knows it. ‘Lovely,’ it says
whilst retreating to the open window. ‘Follow. Me showing you housing
area.’
It waits for Serenity to follow. She takes one last look at her family,
her friends, her life as she walks away, leaving it behind.
43

The rain falls down onto Serenity. Her pink hair dye runs from her hair,
down her neck, staining her clothes. She shivers as she shuffles behind
the beast, her teeth chattering. The beast is unbothered by the rain, its feet
squishing on the wet mud.
From Serenity’s perspective, the rain is more than just a weather
phenomenon; it is an unyielding force, determined to wash away
everything in its path. Her discomfort extends beyond the physical realm,
as she feels a sense of frustration at the elements conspiring against her.
Why did I leave? Is this the right choice? Should I go back? These
thoughts consume her. She wants to know if she chose the right option
but it is far too late for that.
The beast seems unaffected by the rain, moving with grace. To the
girl, it appears almost related to the rain, as if it has accepted the constant
wetness that surrounds them. The beast notices Serenity’s visible
discomfort, but it does not care. It is a beast, she is a girl. Why should it
care?
‘Hey uhm wh-what’s your name? I’m sorry if this sounds weird but I
never asked,’ Serenity says to the beast.
Without spinning around to face her, the beast replies. ‘Me named
Elida, means Small Winged One in our tongue.’ Elida continues to move
forwards. As Serenity trudges on, her thoughts are a mix of irritation and
resignation, mixed with moments of awe at the beast’s unwavering
determination. She cannot help but marvel at its innate ability to navigate
the slippery terrain effortlessly.
44

Hours upon hours of walking eat away at Serenity’s hope of a new life, a
better life. ‘Not longer now, being patience pleasing,’ Elida requests of
Serenity. She raises her head from her arms to see luminous, purple trees,
letting off fragrances of cherry and lime. The stars seem bigger, brighter,
closer. The grass is red, shining in the light of the moon. Serenity is
starstruck. Her eyes have never seen anything more beautiful, more
magnificent, more perfect.
‘I-I, this is amazing. You-you live here?’ Serenity stutters, taking in
the breathtaking nature.
‘Oh? Are you finding this beautifully? This be the worst rating
neighbourhood in whole cities! Humanity has strange tasting in real
estating.’ Elida scoffs at Serenity’s words.
Everywhere in sight, houses in trees, people in trees, new smells fill
her nose. She is glad she left. Her new life will be good, fun, better.
Serenity wanders off, exploring this village to the fullest of her abilities.
A green lake sits in the very middle of the village. It calls her name,
beckoning Serenity to come closer. Voices fill her head, screaming, telling
her to leave, that it is not safe here. She blocks these thoughts; they were
too much for her to handle right now.
The voices are gone but a small buzzing keeps coming in and out
and in and out of her ears. A pixie, a pixie that could not be taller than
four centimetres, stares at Serenity, not a thought behind its eyes.
‘Oh, Jesus! You scared me little guy! I am Serenity, I love your
wings! What is your name?’ Serenity politely asks the pixie.
The pixie says nothing, just nothing.
45

‘Uhm, hello? Are you okay?’ She asks.
‘…G-g,’ The pixie utters under its breath, fear in its eyes. ‘G-g…
GIVE ME YOUR SKIN,’ the pixie squeals, revealing thousands upon
thousands of blood-stained fangs. Serenity’s face goes white.
She cannot move—a statue in an art museum. Then: splurt, stamp,
splurt. The screaming stops at last, The will no longer hurt her, its guts lie
on display on the cold, Isua Greenstone ground.
‘Filthy pixim, being gone with your!’ Elida screeches before
stepping on the already departed pixie’s body. ‘Your does not running off
again! Understanding?!’ Elida yells at Serenity. She nods her head
vigorously, her face regaining its rosy colour. ‘Good, now, following or
going back to you home.’ Elida walks away, expecting Serenity to follow
closely.
‘God have mercy on my soul,’ Serenity mutters as she involuntarily
stands and treads in the heels of Elida—a certainly strange, but wise
being. Serenity’s new life has begun. She has been born anew. A second
chance has been handed to her by some divine being. She scoffs. Lucky.
Serenity cautiously steps through the realm she had been searching for
her whole life, her eyes darting from place to place.
‘Why? Why have you brought me here? You did not have to bring
me anywhere; you could have left me alone so… why?’ Serenity eagerly
asks the already annoyed Elida.
‘Telling me, what is you naming?’ Elida avoids the question as if she
cannot tell Serenity the truth.
‘Oh, I’m Serenity. Serenity Elliot.’ She responds.
46

‘Your name… your does knowing of our culture? Corrected?’ Elida
seems fearful of something… strange.
‘N-no, I do not. Honestly, I still don’t even know what you are.’
‘Hmm, stranger.’ Elida squints her eyes, examining Serenity’s build
and structure.
‘W-why? Do I remind you of something? Am I important or
something?’ Serenity asks eagerly.
‘…This way, following.’ Elida moves on.
‘H-hey! You didn’t answer the question!’ Serenity yells to Elida who
is now moving further and further away. ‘Where are you going—?’
Elida cuts Serenity off. ‘Do not asking questions, child. Hurrying.’
The two continue down the path of dirt. Serenity, taking in the
scenery and Elida? Nothing, absolutely nothing. Just… blank.
47

There is Life
Abi
You are slumped against the wall of an abandoned 7/11, the rain
drenching your clothes. You are like a drowned rat as you breathe in the
smell of petrichor and iron, aware that each breath you take could be your
last. Sweat mixes with the rain water as you try to peer down at the mess
underneath your shirt, but every movement makes pain lance through you
like tiny needles. Still, despite the pain, you are able to take a glance at
the cavity tearing away at your dirt strewn stomach. It is only a second.
Blood, leaking onto the concrete floor and washing away with the
rain. Parts of you are gone with the rain. Your stomach is a hole. Internal
organs and intestines spill out of you like confetti, some twisted pinata,
the liver, spleen and stomach only hanging on by a few veins and arteries.
Your skin is as pale as the moon, turning ice blue and purple where the
stomach's flesh has been cut away.
No more looking. You can feel non-existent bile clawing up your
throat, constricting your airways. So this is the end?
You watch the rain lap at the sidewalk and cars drive by, headlights
splashing on your sunken figure for a split second before flitting away
again. The long grass past the abandoned piece of concrete sways with
the wind and the moonlit clouds look over you with approval. Dimly lit
street lamps attract fluttering clusters of moths and the electricity wires
stretch to infinity and back across the highway. You wonder if a death like
48

this is worth dying for. Heart beating slower now, you take the beauty of
the place around you in, holding it close in your mind. Delirium hits you
as you slip on the wet concrete and your head hits the floor with a crack.
The flowers that sprout out of the cracks would tickle you with their
petals if you weren’t so numb.
At least you had a fulfilling life, or something like that. As you close
your eyes, darkness encases you, everlasting and breath-holding. You
float in it like a boat against the waves as your body succumbs to rot.
The sound of the rain comforts you in the waves, but then there is a
crashing. Lightning? Like the finale of your life. It is fitting. Burning.
There is death.
One Year Later
There is sun.
It spills onto the concrete curb and fries the pale yellow swaying
grass that opens up into more and more grass. The road alongside the
grass is old and rickety with no use. Potholes litter the concrete and a
faint white stripe streaks down the middle. The power lines swing up and
down into the trees, the wood poles they’re attached to sunstreaked. The
dilapidated building that split half of the road that ran into a car park sits
rejected. No one who passes by knows what this building once was. Its
signage has long been smashed by the torrents of rain that have ripped
through the area, and now is only a remnant of metal and neon. Its
windows have been shattered, the glass long ago misplaced, bricks
49

skewed or fallen. It is a quiet, little place shunned by society in only a
year. After the storm, it was a shell of itself.
That is except for the flowers. In every crack in the concrete, every
patch of dirt and mud. They grow from bones, outreaching stems and
colourful petals. They bloom from the life of something. Seemingly
nothing but you. Out of the ground, a bouquet for the dead. Sunflowers,
daisies, lilies, orchids, roses, irises, tulips, every flower you could ever
imagine. A rainbow of floral sprouts. And bees. Honeybees that suck
pollen from the centres and buzz like a microwave. The building is their
hive. A constant chorus that keeps the flowers living. Sun, water, soil.
Life, sprouting. Something beautiful in the unknown corner of this
endless, grass and dead-but-repaired buildings. And so.
There is life.
50