Tulpa Magazine Editorial Committee 2020

We are currently seeking applications for our Editorial Committee. Before applying please read the following guidelines:

Our Values

Tulpa Magazine believes in providing a safe space for emerging writers to publish their work, hone their skills, and develop networks in the arts industry. Safety and support are the key cornerstones of our publication. We believe in the rights of journalists to produce stories without fear of censorship. We strive to provide support and information to writers and artists in order to help them grow professionally and find new ways to showcase their work. We utilise social media in order to share the work of writers and artists across Australia, but with an added focus on South Australian writers.

 

Position Description

The Tulpa Magazine editorial committee is responsible for the communication, marketing, and management of the publication. This includes the management of the editorial and review teams, allocation of work, communication with contributors and organisations, and the upkeep of the website and all social media platforms.

The editorial committee will work closely with all parts of Tulpa Magazine, and all decisions made about the publication’s direction and growth must be discussed and agreed upon by the entire team. However, each committee member will have an area of specialisation. This might be a section or regular segment of the publication which they are responsible for running, advertising, and managing.

General administration, marketing, and online work is shared between committee members based upon their workload, availability, and individual skill-set. The committee members are the public and professional face of the publication and are expected to engage with organisations and the local community to further the general interests of the publication.

The ideal candidate will be highly organised and self-motivated individuals capable of managing a team of writers and editors as well as producing and commissioning high-quality content targeted at our audience.

This is a new position and successful applicants will run Tulpa Magazine for twelve months with the opportunity to extend this term upon completion. Editing experience is desirable however not essential as successful candidates will receive training upon commencement.

Please note that Tulpa Magazine is an entirely volunteer-run organisation and as a result this is voluntary position suited for those interested in further developing their skills.

 

Key Duties

  • Maintaining the website
  • Working with writers to edit and prepare submissions for publication
  • Liaising with sub-editors, writers, and other contacts
  • Networking with local artists and arts groups and organisations
  • Pursuing opportunities related to the publication
  • Producing regular and engaging social media content
  • General administrative duties

 

To ask questions or apply for this position please send your resume and cover letter to tulpamagazine@gmail.com by 25 October 2019.

National Young Writers Festival 2018

 

The National Young Writer’s Festival (NYWF) has been a go-to for young writers across Australia for over twenty years. Held in Newcastle, NSW, over four days, NYWF is part of the This is Not Art (TiNA) Festival. This year it was held between September 27-30 and it was my first visit to both the festival and Newcastle. My time there has left my mind teeming with new ideas and a better understanding of what it’s like to be a young writer in Australia.

There was something for essentially every writer possible at NYWF. There were panels and workshops on fiction, journalism, and gaming to name just a few. I attended a variety of different topics, from community journalism to getting work as a writer.

newcastle-library.jpg

 

I found there were two particularly memorable panels. The first was ‘Write Off the Page’, where four panellists gathered and discussed games and digital poetry. The panellists included: Andrew Gleeson, Karen Lowry, Chad Toprak, and Cecile Richard. Lowry spoke of her digital poetry and electronic literature, which includes a detective game with poetry (check it out here). Toprak mentioned a game (Cart-Load-of-Fun) he made for the trams in Melbourne to try and bring games into a public sphere. One of his successes of this game was convincing a sceptical stranger and making them smile. Read more about Toprak here. Twine, a game engine, was mentioned and recommended for writers wanting to explore game development.

Another memorable panel was ‘Narrative Prosthesis’, which was panelled by Robin M. Eames and Alistair Baldwin. I went into this panel at random and discovered it was about disability in the arts. Being someone with a disability, I found this panel extremely empowering. It made me feel equal to other issues discussed over the weekend and raised some interesting points about disability in the arts. One fact I discovered is how it’s cheaper to hire a non-disabled person to play a disabled role on television than someone with that disability. I was surprised to hear this and it’s got me asking two questions: why does this happen and how can they get away with it? I wish to explore this further in future.

Podcast Panel.jpg

 

As I travelled to NYWF with Empire Times (which I currently edit), I attended and participated in the ‘Student Media Symposium’. Held by the editors from Farrago (Melbourne University student magazine), the Symposium was mainly a discussion about student media, which included topics like what is expected of student media and how we address student politics. We also discussed issues in student media, coming back to common contemporary issues, such as budget, diversity and university politics.

Beyond the panels, discussions and workshops were plenty of other free events to attend across both NYWF and TiNA. Countless readings were on across Newcastle on a variety of different topics. One reading I sat in was called The Best Book I (N)ever Read. It was fascinating to listen to the stories on what other people thought about what are often referred to as the ‘best’ books and why they didn’t read them. Other readings included By the Sea (held at Newcastle Beach), Why I Write, and Late-Night Readings.

Zine Collection

 

Another event that took place was the NYWF Zine Fair. Held on the Sunday at Newcastle Library, the Zine Fair was where attendees could pick up zines from writers from Newcastle and across Australia. It’s here that I picked up copies of The Line (a free Newcastle zine) and a graphic novel called Ghost Beach by Ben Mitchell.

NewsXpress, a newspaper for TiNA, was also present throughout the festival. NewsXpress ran over the four days in different locations of the festival and was created by editor Danni McGrath through screen printing. The newspaper printed a new issue every day of the festival, typically discussing news and what’s happening around Newcastle. I watched McGrath create a copy of the Sunday issue when I picked my copy up (also on Sunday), fascinated by how it was done. It has now left me with the intention to try it out at smaller conventions here in Adelaide in future.

Overall, the 2018 NYWF overall was a lot of fun and full of useful information for every kind of writer. I enjoyed my visit and the addition of panels about gaming and podcasts make it the most contemporary and advanced literary festival I have attended yet. All the panels and workshops were free and the Zine Fair is a fantastic place to pick up a literary souvenir and support local writers and zine-makers. If I have the opportunity, I would love to go back next year, and if you do too, I highly recommend you visit it too.


 

Words and photography by Cameron Lowe

Meet-the-Team-Cameron2

Cameron Lowe is a horror and sci-fi writer, editor and student. He’s had fiction and articles featured in Speakeasy Zine and Empire Times. He loves to read, play video games, and drink green tea. He’s one of the 2018 editors at Empire Times. He tweets at @cloweshadowking.

‘Bleeding Hearts’ by Annalise Timms

A pleasant humming sound emitted from within Pots and Pansies, a small flower shop run by Vivian Finley. The store was filled with a wide variety of colour, in the form of tulips, peonies, gerberas, lilies, roses, succulents, carnations and much more. It was a Tuesday afternoon and Vivian had just finished sweeping the floor when the wind-chime on the door jingled merrily. She quickly wiped her soil-covered hands on her apron and brushed her messy brunette hair out of her face as she glanced up at the young man. The first thing she noticed was his warm smile, followed by his kind, shining, green eyes.

‘Can I help you?’ Vivian offered as the man looked around the shop, surveying the displays of bright floral bunches and twisting leaves.

‘Yes, please,’ he nodded. ‘Do you have any bleeding hearts?’

‘Yes, I got them in this morning, actually,’ she replied. ‘I’ve got a few different arrangements if you want to look at size and prices,’ she added, gesturing to one of the tables.

Vivian found bleeding hearts to be very intriguing flowers. They were perceived as a symbol of strong romantic love, and had a very unique appearance, looking nothing like the family of poppies they belonged to. Each stem was lined with dark pink heart-shaped flowers that hung down in a neat row. The small hearts folded up at the bottom, revealing a small white tear-drop tip that made it seem as though the hearts were bleeding.

It didn’t take the man long to decide which bunch he wanted before bringing it to the counter. He had chosen a small arrangement wrapped in baby pink cellophane and brown twine, tied in a small bow.

‘Could I please get a tag too?’ he requested, nodding to the small decorative tags for sale.

‘Sure, what would you like on it?’ she asked, picking up a pen.

‘To the most beautiful person in the world,’ he answered. ‘Love, Elliot.’

‘How sweet,’ Vivian said softly, tying it around one of the stems.

When she handed Elliot his change, he didn’t hesitate to drop the coins into the tin she had on the counter, collecting donations for cancer research.

‘Your family?’ he asked, looking at the framed photo beside the till. The photo was from two years ago, and showed both of her parents kissing her on the cheeks, while her younger brother, Eugene, ruffled her hair.

‘Yeah,’ Vivian replied quietly. ‘That was opening day.’

‘It’s a nice photo.’

After he walked out, Vivian sighed. Whoever received the flowers would be extremely lucky, indeed, and there was no denying the nagging sense of envy that filled her chest. She did not believe in love at first sight – no, that was preposterous – but as she thought of the goofy smile that lit up his face, she couldn’t help but hope that she would see him again.

__

The following Tuesday afternoon, Vivian was trimming the lavender roses, although she was struggling to concentrate properly due to how fast her mind was racing. Despite how quiet the day had been, she had been feeling anxious ever since the fight she had that morning with Eugene, now twenty years old.

Their parents’ recent divorce had put a significant strain on their relationship, causing fights to erupt between them over the smallest issues. That morning, Eugene snapped at her for using the last of the milk, and it had escalated to a shouting match, in which they ended up blaming each other for the divorce. Of course, none of it was true, but Vivian had not had time to make up with Eugene before she had to rush to work.

The argument had just been playing over in her mind all day, so when the wind chime suddenly clanged to life as Elliot entered the shop, she jumped, causing her fingers to slip, and instead of cutting the stem, she accidentally sliced her finger. Vivian swore loudly, quickly trying to find something to clean her finger with.

‘I am so sorry! Are you okay?’

‘N-no, it’s fine, my fault for being so clumsy,’ she stammered.

‘Here,’ Elliot offered her a handkerchief.

What millennial carries a hanky? Vivian thought to herself, biting back a grin when she saw a tiny rose stitched in the corner.

Elliot held Vivian’s hand closer to him so he could get a better look at her injury, causing her breath to hitch in her throat slightly as his warm touch sent tingles down her arm.

‘It looks pretty bad…’ he murmured. ‘I think you might need stitches.’

‘I’d rather a Band-Aid,’ Vivian laughed nervously.

‘I’d rather you made sure your finger is properly treated.’

‘Well… I’d rather you let me make poor choices to avoid my fears.’

‘Okay, fine,’ he gave in with an eye roll. ‘But, I’ll be back next week, so if it’s infected, I’ll have to chop it.’

‘My hero,’ Vivian snorted. ‘Thank you… do you want this back?’ she asked tentatively, holding out the bloody handkerchief.

‘You keep it,’ he laughed. ‘I’ll see you next week, Vivian.’

As he walked out again, she wondered how he knew her name, but quickly smacked herself as she remembered she was wearing a name badge. After realising she’d had a successful conversation with Elliot without making a total fool out of herself, Vivian did a happy jig, however, it was short lived when he burst back in, catching her off guard.

‘I was just, er, running on the spot – gotta keep fit, right?’ she chuckled nervously.

‘I forgot the flowers,’ Elliot laughed awkwardly.

‘Bleeding hearts?’ they asked in unison.

The two broke into bashful smiles as Vivian nodded.

‘Just over there.’

When Elliot returned to the counter with a small bunch in hand, he asked for another tag, with the same thing written on it as last time: ‘To the most beautiful person in the world, Love Elliot.’

Vivian tried very hard to ignore the sinking feeling in her chest as he walked out once more, knowing that that person was not her.

___

For many weeks, Elliot continued to visit her shop every Tuesday afternoon, each time buying the same flowers with the same tag. With each purchase, the two would get to know each other that little bit more and Vivian knew that, what once was a teensy little crush, was now a steady, throbbing ache in her heart, slowly swallowing her whole.

‘Who are they for?’ she managed to ask as Elliot placed another bunch bleeding hearts on the counter, many Tuesdays later.

Contrary to what Vivian expected, Elliot’s face fell, his green eyes immediately losing their shine.

‘My gran,’ he answered grimly.

‘Y-your gran?’ Vivian repeated in shock.

‘She’s in hospital… brain cancer,’ he sighed.

‘I- I’m so sorry,’ she breathed.

‘It’s not your fault,’ Elliot shrugged. ‘It’s looking a lot better though, they think the treatment is finally working.’

‘That’s great!’

‘Yeah… I told her about you, too… she wants to meet you, actually.’

In that moment, Vivian was struggling to breathe slightly, too overcome by a range of emotions to notice the pink blush that had coloured his cheeks.

‘I better hurry though,’ he added, glancing at his watch. ‘I’ll see you next week!’

__

But Elliot did not return next week, or the week after that, and the extra bleeding hearts Vivian had ordered were left to wilt and die when no one bought them. She worried what had happened to him, until he came in a week later, although he was hardly recognisable. His hair was a mess, he had large bags under his eyes and there was no smile on his face. Vivian didn’t even know what to say to him, but he spoke first, his voice hoarse.

‘I need more bleeding hearts… do you do funeral arrangements?’


IMG_4140Words by Annalise Timms

Annalise is a young writer and poet from Adelaide. She is in year 11 at high school. She enjoys reading, writing, being a social hermit and staying home with her pets. Last year, her work was published for the first time in the SAETA Spring Poetry Festival Anthology.

‘Crashing Waves’ by J.R. Polkinghorne

 

Wind whistled over the deck, howling through every nook and cranny, growing in strength and lowering in pitch as it whooshed around me like a cold blanket encasing my body. Waves clashed on either side of the ship in rapid hits like a hundred thrashing drummers beating endlessly away at the ship’s wooden panels.
The wind picked up and the waves grew larger around me, while the crew snored away below. I was showered in a spray of icy salt water as I clung desperately to the ship’s edge, watching as Davy Jones pulled and tugged at the vessel, trying to drag us down into the watery depths of his locker.

I tied myself to the deck, the coarse rope rubbing against my soft flesh as the waves knocked me back and forth. One moment I was standing upright, and in another a wave had bashed me down onto my hands and knees. The first time it happened I tried to scream, but nothing came out. All I accomplished was filling my lungs with water and heaving it up on the deck until another wave came.
I should have stayed below with the others; they were all tucked away in their beds, warm and dry. I should have ignored the sounds coming from above, but by god, I was stupid. The thought of drowning in my sleep sent such fear over me that I scrambled on deck in nothing but my pants and socks. What a mistake that was. Every time the icy water hit me stabbing into my skin over and over. My limbs were getting stiff from the cold and yet the waves could still toss me around as though I was a ragdoll. And although the rope didn’t let me go far I still managed to slam painfully into everything. I thought of going back. Back into the dark under the deck, and yet I stayed frozen. The fear kept me in place and the fear would be my doom.

My skin was turning purple from both the cold and the bruises. I was starting to look like a prune. I was damned soul stuck forever in a loop of pain and suffering for the sins I have no doubt committed in my short life aboard this ship. This wasn’t the hell my mother warned me about, but I couldn’t think of another word to call this.
My body was going numb and all I could do was think. Right now I wanted nothing more than to curl up in my mother’s arms against her breast and cry as though I was a boy. She would sing to me, her voice sweet and soothed my aguish.

I wanted to sing, I wanted to open my mouth and let the words out, but I couldn’t, not with the fear of filling my lungs again with foul fishy water.
My thoughts left me, and all I could do was stare blankly at the deck, as it sank into the endless depth of the sea, the impending doom of my watery grave mocking me, the promise of gold and adventure sinking along with me. I shouldn’t have jumped on this ship, shouldn’t have thrown away the life my mother gave me for a chance at adventure, but the idea of sailing across the sea, my name striking fear into the hearts of men, so tempted me.

But alas, my dreams were lost and my hopes were drowning, falling deep into hopeless despair. My death was forming around me clinging tightly to my skin as the darkness crept in. Death was on my shoulder, his breath like rotten fish, as he waited for my demise.

As the gloom started sneaking in, another sound picked up through the beating of waves and screaming wind. It was just a faint whisper, carried out along the sea, settling down against my cheek. The whisper turned into a song, moving in time with the waves and floating along the breeze. It was truly beautiful and it brought a small flicker of light into my soul, fanning the fire of my heart. I tried to stand—but to no avail. I still couldn’t move, my limbs cold and numb. The best I could do was open my mouth to call out, but as I tried another waved crashed down. This was the end. I didn’t have the strength to force the water out, nor the strength to search for the angel calling out to me.

Another wave washed over, covering the ship and bringing silence with it. I was no longer cold, only the suffocating embrace of the ocean was around, squeezing my lungs. My body didn’t hurt anymore. My lungs did though, and in that moment I felt the urge to breath, to move, to swim away. My limbs sprang into action and moved against the pull of the sea, but I was tied down; attached to the ship as it sunk. The thing I thought would be my saviour was instead aiding in my death as I, too, was dragged down with the ship. I tugged at the rope, my skin rubbing raw. It was no use. I was trapped.

I was dying and there was nothing I could do about it. Scared, helpless, and small, I was held down by something bigger than me. Even though I knew it was hopeless, I still struggled to swim towards the surface. I still struggled for that last breath of crisp air.
But I only sank further, my strength leaving me, my limbs stopped moving.

It was then, in that moment of defeat that I heard it again. The sweet voice kissed my cheek, a whisper through the silence of the sea. I wanted to see it. I needed to see the angel calling out to me before I was gone, before everything was gone and the only thing left was this vast sea. I gritted my teeth and forced my eyes open, the salt stinging them every time they opened even the slightest bit.

The voice was louder now, and I could almost make out words. Against my lids I could feel light shining, begging me to open them. Again I tried, and every time I did I let out a little more breath from the pain. I was running out of time. I couldn’t let it end like this. I needed to fight through the pain, through the despair and hopelessness, but it hurt. It hurt so much, and every time I tried it seemed I only got further from my goal. Even in the water I knew I was crying, for that one little glimpse of the light that was taunting my death. I don’t believe I have ever wanted something more in my entire life.

The song kept playing, and it was now that I heard my name. The angel was singing for me and me alone. I needed to see it. With the final force of my body I flung open my eyes. Light consumed me as I was blinded by it, but after blinking I could see it. The angel calling for me was no angel at all but the captain holding a candle by my face, her gruff features illuminated by it. I was still on the ship. The storm had died down and we hadn’t sunk.
I was still tied to the ship and wet from the waves, but the air was light. I could breathe. I was cold, but I could move. I sat up and looked at the captain who gave me a puzzled look before standing extending her hand to me. “You shouldn’t sleep on the deck. Men drown doing that you know.”

I laughed. I laughed so hard it hurt my lungs but I couldn’t stop. Even though the captain kept staring I still laughed. I laughed at the captain’s words. I laughed at my foolish dreams. But most of all I laughed because I could, because I was alive.

 


Words by J.R. Polkinghorne

Art by Rhianna Carr. You can find more of Rhianna’s art on Facebook @RhiannaCarrART