Write or WrongCraig Marshall

What king made you have right to say

Which right and wrong we must obey?

Your wrong is right

My right is wrong

Too many times I’ve heard that song

Take your direction, chapter and verse

No longer your rules will I rehearse

For the right and wrong

That you have said

Will eventually be put to bed

Though procedure and practice may never sway

A king will approve my rules someday

And until that moment

When I am right

I will continue writing, however I like.

Issue 1April 2011

Content Contributors

Alex Grumball

Craig Marshall

Emily Clearwater

James Eunson

Jono Boon

Katie Greene

Matt Armitage

Mitchell Gray

Priyal Dass

Rebecca Adam

Rowan Kiff

Introducing Interrobang...…

- Priyal Dass

Welcome to the first Interro

bang Magazine! Here we have pre-

sented a taster of the poe

try, novels, short stories an

d cartoon

strips that our group has put

together. We also have workshops for

both writing and editing, wh

ere we can ponder the rea

sons, muses

and philosophies behind writing

. We are encouraged by the sta

ff at

the Invercargill Public Libra

ry and James Hargest Libra

ry and we

aim to have a magazine out e

very term and a chapter boo

k published

by the end of the year. We hope you en

joy the extracts contained

in our first magazine!

And by the way, everything in life is writable if you have the outgoing

guts to do it, and the imagination to improvise. The worst enemy to

creativity is self-doubt. - Sylvia Plath

“”

Page 1

Blue Eyes (extract)Emily Clearwater

Her soulless body stood in the doorframe. The kitchen lights flickered and quivered. I was trembling. I could see the veins in her body glow through

her transparent skin. The same glow shone from her eyes. They were as bright as the moon, only turquoise and more beautiful that anything I could dream of. My eyes were wide, locked in her bloodthirsty stare. I was locked in the stare of the blue-eyed girl from my dreams.

I was chocked up, unable to take in air. I was suffocating in her presence. Try-ing to make sense of what was happening was impossible. My mind wanted to detonate. The pressure began to build until I forced air into my lungs. I gulped.

Here I was making a hot drink when she shows up in my house- not to men-tion half-naked. Within the confines of the kitchen she began to crouch, slowly mimicking the movements of a skilful cat. A thick drop of blood ran down from the edge of her lips. Her tongue proceeded to lick it up. It was then that I no-ticed the huge staff that she wielded in her left hand. Its sharp, blood-stained and rusted blade hung over her. She gripped it securely. It looked like some-thing you’d find in the den of the reaper. Then another thought crossed my mind, a realisation, she was about to pounce on me with that thing. A frighten-ing vision popped into my head. I watched it pierce my skin as though she was gutting me like a fish. I watched her, almost ready to pounce. I could see it in the way she moved.

That was it. That was the end. Was this all I was meant for? To die young? To die pointlessly? Is this all that I was made for?

She pounced and I threw my hands up in defence, waiting for the final blow. I cringed and braced for a pain like no other, but everything seemed numb.

Thud.

The floor vibrated underneath me. I hesitantly peeked an eye open and looked around to see the girl lying on the floor. He body was strewn awkwardly, her nose pressed against the cold floor. Her large weapon had disappeared and her body lay still. I turned her over with caution, revealing a very pale-skinned, beautiful figure. Her facial construction was moulded like that of a Greek goddess. Her hair was a milky white and had a slight turquoise that faded the more I watched her. The glow from her eyes also vanished.

“So, what now?” I asked her.

I gently lay her head on my knees and waited for any signs of life. I sat there patiently; a little scared that I may have a dead person’s head on my lap. I waited a little longer.

I heard the door unlatch quietly and then two small footsteps enter the house. I slid over the lino flooring to reveal a very un-tidy Amber standing at the door.

“What are you still doing up?” She asked, stumbling towards me.

“Nothing,” I panicked and walked towards her. She smelt of liquor and sweat- I really didn’t want to know what she had been doing.

She focussed towards the kitchen. “Is that a…” she squinted and peered around the corner, into the kitchen, “a foot?”

“No, you’re just drunk and seeing things.” I forced her out of the lounge, into her bedroom and shunted her until she flopped onto her bed.

“I’ll go get you some water.” I shook my head at her drunken state. I shut the door quietly behind me and walked back to the kitchen, terrified of what to do with the girl lying, possibly dead, on my kitchen floor. I returned to an unoccupied kitchen. She’d vanished.

I rubbed my head, unsure of whether I was dreaming or not. My head pounded from my lack of sleep.

Editorial Staff

Priyal Dass

Rebecca Adam

Benjamin Frengley

Katie Greene

Rowan Kiff

Mike McColl

Olivia Wallace

Miss Mulligan

Miss Sullivan

Design Staff

Craig Marshall

Page 2

The Last 70 RoundsJames Eunson

- Epilogue -

“Nose up, Noel! Nose up!” Noel’s best friend’s voice yelled

through the radio at him.

Noel struggled with the controls of his spitfire. “I can’t! he replied, “She won’t budge!”

The British fighter was in a death dive. A Nazi fighter had shot up the wings and smashed the rudders, prompt-ing the plane to plummet. It was bad luck that Noel had to come across the dogfight between the Nazi and the British fighters. The sound of the shell exploding had left Noel’s ears ringing, but it was gradually being replaced by the ominous whine of the screech-ing engine and wind whipping past the wings. Any second now the plane would smash into the autumn ground.

In his mind, Noel heard the distant gruff voice of his commander: “A good pilot always goes down with his plane.” The strict voice slapped him into action. Noel had always cheated death. When he was just a toddler he had managed to get onto the roof of the farmhouse where his family lived. He had needed a place to escape. Times had been hard then. His father had been killed when his cart rolled in a busy London street. His mother was never the same after that. He thought about Christmas, 1922. He thought about his father, his mother, his three older brothers and sister and his dog, Jasper. He wished he was back there, when everyone was happy and together.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG

A German Junkers 88 zoomed past to strafe the wing one more time. Noel’s mind snapped to the present. He couldn’t believe that the pilot would take the trouble to target a plane that was already in flames. Ha, you missed me, he thought.

The ground was coming up fast. He tried pulling back the cockpit canopy. Maybe I could bail out, he thought. He tried the handle, but the sliding canopy wouldn’t budge. Noel looked up through the shattered windscreen and saw the whitish-green field littered with orange and red leaves racing towards him. Closer and closer it came. At the last moment he felt the plane shudder and begin to respond. The nose began to rise, but it was too late to pull out a dive. A crash-landing was the best he could hope for. Crash-land or die. Either way, the only thing left to do was scream.

With a loud gasp, Noel lurched up. All was silent. No screeching engines or the sound of gunfire. It was only the sound of the distant roar of aircraft engines and fire crackling quietly in the small stove. He was in his Nissen hut on a base in Eng-land. It had just been another nightmare. He let out a heavy sigh of relief and was grateful not to have woken the other fliers who slept in the cold hut. They could be tough on a fellow if they smelled his fear. Noel’s nineteen-year-old bones rolled over. He was grateful not to have been shattered yet.

The role of a writer is not to say what we can all say, but what we are unable to

say.- Anais Nin“ ”

Page 3

Wasteland (extract)Jono Boon

Jun stood with his feet firm in the sand with weapon in hand ready to battle. The hooded man stood on the opposite end of the desert-like street. The path of destruction he had caused was evident with collapsing buildings. The dead city surrounding them was now more ruinous than ever before.

“I know who you are,” Jun spoke with a confident tone. “You are my dead form. That is why I never had one.”

“Wrong!” The hooded man replied, laughing manically as he told the truth. “You are just a tool used so that I may become a complete—a being of pure light.” Jun stood, knowing that all he had searched for was now false, that what the man had just said was exact.

“I am not your tool!” Jun now raged with resentment as he had been a puppet to this cruel being. “I will kill you!”

Jun darted towards his opponent with an intense passion. All his struggles had led up to this point where he could end it all. Using his ability, he increased his heart rate and his reaction rate rose ten-fold. While sprinting towards the hood-ed man still stationary, he morphed his weapon into a lance, heaving it with extreme force towards his opponent. He then re-morphed his weapon into a short sword ready for a close combat brawl. As soon as he got his opportunity he dug his blade right into the target. It was a solid hit although something was wrong. The figure was only an illusion.

“Where are you?” Jun yelled, wanting revenge for all the torment he had been put through.

The man now stood on the rooftop of the structure adjacent to Jun, looking down. He stood completely still, not at all worried about his fiery rival below. He opened his mouth and spoke a few words with a grave tone.

“My name is Eikou and I will be your demise.”

Immediately after he had finished speaking, Eikou forced the ground beneath Jun to rise to his level. Eikou released a barrage of flames towards Jun which were easily evaded. A quick series of barrages were expelled by a whip with a crescent moon on the tip. Jun barely avoided each, with only millimetres be-tween them. Eikou was too fast for Jun even now with his advanced senses. Having to continuously go defensive, Jun waited for a split second opportunity to make his move. As sure as he had waited, it came. Morphing his weapon now into knives for agility, he made his strike. Continuously changing his weapon of choice gave him the upper hand on his foe. Dagger for quick close slashes. Dual short swords for mid length. Pole arms for extended range. All of his slashes were still parried. The opponents were fearfully symmetrical in every way- apti-tude, agility and aggression. The battle raged on with no evident winner. Eikou eventually tired of the pointless battle and created thousands of illusions. Jun futilely began hacking at each, destroying them, one-by-one. As he searched for the real being, all of the illusions began speaking in the same monotonous hum.

“Useless creature. You will never be complete.”

With those final words all the illusions along with the real form disappeared into thin air. There being no victor of the battle left Jun feeling infuriated and upset. Jun spoke in a severe tone.

“Eikou, I will kill you one day.”

Rock StarKatie Greene

Claw at the sky

My minions!

Watch my fingers fly

Prance to my pizzicato

Bow to my arco

Tones.

They say,

That delve into hell-

Deep vibrations

Of the intimate souls

Growling against our depths

Release it:

Scream!

Howl to me

Against beautiful nature

An eerie chill

The melodic wrong

Rules are for certainty

No one screams

The same way twice

You are not the stars

But my dark matter

And I am the sun

Burning us to life-

Twist and curl around me

Because the stars could not shine

Without you

No matter how lost in the fusion

You are

Claw at the sky

My minions!

Page 4

Untitled (extract) Mitchell Gray

The man lay in his bed.

The darkness in the room seemed to eat at his body, turning it pale, limp and lifeless. No pulse ran through this man’s body, no electrical currents ran through his brain. Under human definition this man would be pronounced dead without ques-tion. One look at the body’s cold, white skin would prove this without a doubt. Yet no examiner would be able to discover the cause of death because they would never be allowed at his body. This corpse would only be dissected and catalogued by a select team of scientists - a team that would sign hundreds of official papers, declaring that if any of them spoke about what they found, they would be in serious trouble with even more serious people. But the team of scientists isn’t the part that makes this corpse so interesting. What makes it interesting is that it’s still breathing.

Cold sweat covered the man’s body- he had never felt so cold in his life. It was like every memory that he had of heat had been sucked from him. He was still conscious enough to know that he was sick, very sick, but not conscious enough for his brain to think of what to do about that. All he could think of was the man’s face, the man who had come to him, pulled him off the street and given him food, shelter and safety. The man who said he was a doctor, that he could help with his addic-tion. That with one shining syringe of medicine he could make all of his problems go away. So he agreed. After all how bad could the man be? To take him in like this, he surely was a man of God indeed.

Yet as soon as the medicine had hit his bloodstream it burned like liquid fire, roasting him in flames of the inferno. The doc-tor had told him to rest, laid him down on the bed and given him water. But where was he now? Where was the man who did this to him? He did not know. So he lay, in his bed as his body slowly started to shut down: his organs stopping one-by-one. And he felt his soul being sucked into the darkness. He only had one more thought.

“What’s happening to me?”

Hours later, the man awoke. Sitting up in such a hurry he thought he would fly off the bed. His hands went to his forehead, rubbing it, trying to remember the horrible dream he had had. He saw flickers of images, a man’s face and the glimmer of metal in artificial light. He opened his eyes, blink-ing away the blankets of sleep that blurred his vision. He looked around him, his bed sheets thrown around the room. “Must’ve been a bad freaken dream!” He stood up and walked to the bathroom. As always it was immaculately cleaned, the white tiles polished so he could almost see his reflec-tion. He never saw who did it, they came while he was out, but it didn’t bother him.” At least I don’t have to do it!” he laughed

If there’s really a book you want to read, but it hasn’t been written yet, then you must write it.

- Toni Morrison“ ”

Page 5

to himself. A loud rumble echoed through the room, the source seemed to be the man’s stomach. He looked down the hall into the kitchen, his mind too far focused on the prospect of food to see his reflection; far too distracted to see his pale, clammy skin or his pupils that that turned from a deep, dark blue to a blood red. Just before he entered the kitchen his nose picked up a scent, a scent so delectable and fantastic that it turned his still-sleepy mind into a state of pure instinct, a state where he was starving and nothing could stop him from getting to this sweet-smelling source. He threw open the door with an unnatural force, the hinges cracking with the immense pressure. He practically ran into the room, his pale hands outstretched, ready to grab and devour whatever he found. But what he found was a terrifying sight, a young woman with blonde hair, draped over her face, in a dress that fitted her hourglass figure like a glove. Her eyes were closed, either asleep or unconscious- a sight that would make any man do a double-take. This woman was lying on the table in the centre of the room, her body bound with ropes. A small incision in her neck leaked a steady stream of blood.

The man knew this beautiful red liquid was the source of the smell, and he craved it, every fibre of his being wanted it, needed it. His brain didn’t think for one moment that he should help this woman; the ravenous hunger outweighed his conscience. As he approached the table, his foot crossed a wire, a wire that was connected to a mechanism that served to pull heavy curtains across the room. As his foot passed the wire, he set off the mechanism. The curtains flung open and bright midday sunlight poured into the room, lighting every corner- every shadow giving in to its unstoppable force. At first it didn’t bother the man, just blinding his sleepy eyes, not enough to distract him from his hunger. But then he started to burn. Foul smelling smoke started to fill the room, coming from his skin. The burning he had felt during his medication was nothing compared to this. His cracking, drying lips opened long enough to expel a terrible scream of pain. The sunlight blackened his pale skin, exposing the raw flesh beneath and his sensitive nerves to the un-halting force of the harsh sun-light. As his soul finally started to leave his body, for the second time today, releasing him from the terrible, burning pain of his mortal coil, he realised that whatever happened to him- whatever caused this terrible hunger and painful death was because of the man—the smiling face of the man.

And he thought, “How bad could he be?”

Page 6

Someday in the Rain (extract)Alex Grumball

Thoom…

Sebastian was mid-way through folding his blanket when a rumble of thunder echoed throughout the trees. He froze. Look-ing up wistfully he saw the brightening skies slowly vanish, devoured by the first wisps of dark grey cloud.

“Luke,” he called, his voice threading around the surrounding trees in search of his partner, “We need to go.”

No answer to be heard, Sebastian finished shoving his blanket into his case, stood and shifted the rogue strands of his long, jet-black hair away from his face. With his vision cleared, Sebastian peered through the trees at the barely-visible dirt road and mentally calculated how far they’d come since morning the day before.

“Mm-hm?” Came the late, carefree reply drifting up from in-between the roots of a nearby oak. Sebastian paced around the trunk of the tree to stand above Luke, who was stretched out casually with his hands behind his head. Luke’s coat looked slept-in, his waistcoat spattered with dirt and shoes hopelessly worn out over the course of time. Sebastian took one glance and sighed, hanging his head dramatically. Luke’s hair was ruffled, sticking out at ridiculous angles.

“Please tell me you at least washed up, and haven’t just woken,” he asked despairingly.

“I washed up last night!” Luke offered, opening one eye before craning his head to look up at his friend. “Don’t sweat it, Sebas-tian; the storm will have washed away all our troubles by the time we get to the manor!”

“…. You heard the storm coming, then?”

“Yeah, of course! It sure caught up to us fast, didn’t it? I don’t fancy getting dumped on before we reach the estate…”

Sebastian twitched as he felt a single drop fall on the back of his hand. The dusky patches of morning sky had been replaced by the ominous maelstrom Luke had ‘seen’ coming. The sight of his listless companion lazing about without a care irked him, so Sebastian tossed Luke’s bag down onto his stomach. “Poor baby,” he condescended. “Don’t want to get wet? Then shift your backside and get moving!”

“Ha ha! You get angry too easily. You know that, Sebastian?” Luke called out cheerfully as he ran down the dirt road. The small plantation that they had camped in became smaller and smaller as they hurriedly attempted escaping the foreboding dark skies that were quickly closing in. The first drizzle had passed quickly, flowing across the sky to warn others of the monstrosity, hot on its heels. “You mean you don’t take anything seriously, right?” Sebastian sighed loudly, his mocking tone cutting the air. Luke looked across at him, barely panting despite the time they’d been running, only breaking for minutes at a time. He opened both eyes – a feat rare for him – and laughed cheerfully, slowing down to a walk. “Hey, without me you know you’d have no fun, right? Worrywart.”

Sebastian cast a look to the sky and shrugged his long black coat back on in an attempt to protect the rough white shirt he wore from the dirt of the road. Pulling a gold-lined pocket watch from the inside pouch, he cast a foul look at the twin hands and increased his pace, condemning the muscles in his lower legs to burn.

“No time to stop now, we’ll be late!” He yelled over his shoulder.

“Aw, come off it, Sebastian. Just because you don’t like this part doesn’t mean you get to scrimp out on it!”

Sebastian pointed a finger back over Luke’s head, shoving the watch back before fastening the higher clasps of his coat. “Take one more look at the doozy you convinced me we could use and say you want to catch it!”

Heh! He always overreacts when we get to this part, Luke thought rebelliously as he cast an unconvinced glance back. “Urk!” He heard the not-so-distant rain for the first time, driving down from a sky so dark Luke almost wondered if night was trying to eat the day. “Aw, jeez…Run, Sebastian! We’re going to die!”

Luke finally picked up his feet. He was behind Sebastian, so he missed the evil grin that spread across the taller man’s face. He didn’t, however, escape the hand that tossed him into the bushes at the side of the road.

“Waugh!”

“Last one to the manor pays the price!”

“Get back here, Sebastiaaaaan!”

“Good afternoon, my Lady.”

Dark shadows swirled through her eyelids as Sia struggled to keep them open. Focus was another matter so she merely turned over and buried her face into the soft pillows that all of a sudden were much more comfortable than they had been the night before. She was just wondering if she could grasp her sleep again when a gentle voice interrupted her delusions. “It’s afternoon, Miss. The cook saved you something, so you can stop by there on your way to meet your father.”

“Mmm…” Sia propped herself up on her elbows, trying to peer through the haze of sleep at the maid, who busied herself lighting Sia’s bedside lamp.

“Your father was most adamant that you join him in his study today, Miss. But he needn’t worry. The storm Mr. Gibbs forecast has finally arrived. You can’t run off to the grounds this time,” she teased, lightly stepping over Sia’s piles of books and discard-ed clothing, straightening the former and picking up the latter. Sia rubbed her eyes and tried to make out the maid’s outline, summoning the strength to sit up and shove her heavy covers aside.

“Thank you, Lily. Please tell Father that I will join him shortly.”

The dismissal was clear, and Lily bowed respectfully, moving back towards the door. “As you wish, Miss,” she said as she swept out of the room. Breathing a sigh of relief for having survived another morning, Lily started for the laundries. Lesser servants had found mugs and blunt objects to clear up in an attempt to avoid eye-contact with Sia.

Sia waited fifteen seconds and swept out of bed. Pulling her nightgown off, she dressed quickly, shunning the fine dresses in her wardrobe for the simple travelling clothes hidden between her mattress and bedframe. The mahogany made an ef-fective hiding place. None of her servants would dare look for Sia’s last stash while she slept if it were hidden there. “Hehehe,” she chuckled to herself, drunk on glee and the thrill of illegal actions. She would hurry through the rain around to her study, where no one would think to look – as the library would be the first place torn to pieces in the search.

Sia’s study held a panoramic view of the countryside, where even today she could allow the scenery to wash her away … no pun intended.

“There!” Sia brushed at her clothing, trying to smooth the creases from the brown trousers and simple cream shirt, before donning her thick black coat and admiring herself in the mirror mounted on the wall.

Page 7

EmptyRebecca Adam

She sits inside

on a couch in her lounge

and listens to the wind

as it howls and it pounds

against the walls of her home.

The lights are out

she is surrounded by dark

in the midst of it all

her aloneness seems stark

as she waits for him to return.

The noise of the storm;

its screams and its shouts

drowns out her silence

like that of a mouse

yet to her it seems so loud.

The hours tick by

night turns to day

the cold has crept in

there’s little to say

but still she sits alone.

As day turns to night

and the night into day

she wonders softly

if it’s really ok

that he never came back home.

Days turn to months

months into years

and despite her loneliness

she refuses her tears

and sits on her couch to wait.

She sits and she lies

and she sits down some more

and desperately waits

for the sound of the door

as she wastes away in her home.

Drunk on her misery

she gives up her hope

he will never return

it was all just a hoax.

Where was the love she had lost?

Inside her heart

is an empty place

once filled with love

now left in waste

since he walked out the door.

And now she lives

her meagre life

like someone who lost

a terrible fight

and in a way it must be true

because that day

was the day she lost you.

Page 8

Tell HerMatt Armitage

Tell her you love her

Or throw it away.

How can you truly understand what you say?

You say it is love but how can you know?

If it’s never been felt,

Is it something to show?

You can write it as a poem,

Describe it with a word

But writing of love doesn’t show its worth.

Think about it all night long,

Toss and turn ‘till you find what’s wrong,

From what you could lose

What will you gain?

A life with love

Or one full of pain

A True ApologyTaylor Mahuika

I am sorry

I won’t do it again

Please forgive me

An apology is something that comes from the heart,

We often don’t know where to begin or how to start

But to be forgiven we must be sorry

And forgiveness will come without a worry.

To forgive and forget won’t just come with “please,”

A true apology will put your mind at ease.

People can tell when you mean what you say

And often forgive without delay

But once forgiven, you must always rejoice

Because next time, forgiveness may be a choice.

Comic (extract)

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Cover and magazine design by Craig Marshall.

All text and images are copyright of their respective owners.