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Come play the newest of the new games by Pop Up Playground.

25th May, 22nd June, 27th July
10 am – 5pm

310-314 Church Street, Richmond

Come play and help us finish these games off

email us at rabbithole@popupplayground.com.au to let us know you’re coming

Also, we’ll gladly receive any gold coin donations to help us pay for the space hire.

The good people at University of New South Wales invited us to run a workshop with some of their games design students and interested members of the public.

We ran some warm up games, then got into a massive double game of Werewolf where the accused could run from the lynch mob and join the other town. We also ran a brand new Constructive Play work called Table Town. Then we took a break for lunch and then came back to have a quick chat about what it is Pop Up Playground does and why we do it. We finished off with two games of Pudding Lane (its been a while since we’ve run it, which prompts me to think we need to do semi regular training sessions so we remember the rules) and then showed the documentary we made at IGfest and the weekender.

We would have liked to have a bit more time for reflection and a chance to throw around ideas, but time has a way of getting away from us when we’re having fun.

It was great playing with all those guys and to meet some of the playful people in Sydney. It was also totally awesome to welcome Grant and Mary from Serious Business to Sydney, having just gotten off the plane from the UK that morning.

We’ll be back up soon, we’ll keep you guys in Sydney posted.

Tipping point

by Emilie Collyer

All he did was stop for a coffee.
Tuesday morning, city square. Autumn sunlight bouncing off the little canal they built into the concrete pavers. The smell of promise in the air. Autumn in Melbourne always smells like promise.
His grey suit, nice cut, looking like he forked out a bit for it. Maybe he’s on his way to an interview. He’s nervous. Low self-esteem. The shoes are worn but polished and just a bit too much after-shave scent trailing in his wake. Soapy, with undertones of cigarette smoke. Hands shaking gently as he wraps them around the cardboard cup, flicks the lid off, blows on the coffee.
It’s one of those pretty coffees. The barista has taken care, drawn a delicate swirl in the crema, shaped like a love heart. If the guy had looked closely it might have been warning enough. But only if he’d recognised the symbol. And why would he? He was a regular guy, with ordinary hopes and petty fears, feeling a bit flat on a Tuesday morning, wanting the buzz of a caffeine lift.
He wasn’t one of us.
If he’d heard anything he would have put it down to city noise, the girls chattering like gulls on the other side of the street. Did he hear anything? Or just feel a twinge in his chest, put it down to the coffee and wonder why he couldn’t shake the growing sense of anger inside him for the rest of the day. Would he have been conscious of the change? When his girlfriend or boyfriend or kids or whoever later that night asked him what was wrong, why he was acting strange, would he have seen himself through their eyes and got a creeping terror inside? Or would it have been too late by then, he was all but gone, subsumed by the Return, catapulting towards some act of destruction beyond his control.
‘Don’t stop there!’ I should have yelled out to the guy. ‘Keep moving! You’re in the middle of a Fabric Hole and your body is about to be snatched!’
Every time I see one I think that. But what can I do? Follow every person around like a frigging guard dog? Not possible. There are too many people, too many holes and too many souls seeking the Return. We were never allowed to interfere. Now the Society’s all but dead I guess I could. Some have, still do. But how the hell would I choose who to save and who to let go?
Now I just watch, take notes, make reports, gather evidence and hope to god that one day some genius in our ranks will figure out what to do. How to seal up the Fabric Holes so those desperate dead on the other side stop coming back and snatching the bodies of ordinary, innocent men and women. My god, sometimes they even use children. We used to have sympathy. We used to be the ones who cared: The Whispering Society, attuned to the restlessness of the after life, trying to figure out a way to help them. Now we know what they’re after it’s hard to feel anything except this impotent, gut wrenching rage.
All they want is retribution. The chance to right whatever wrong they never got to address in their own lifetime, from petty jealousies to blistering betrayals. No matter what the scale every human whose body they snatch turns into this foul, raging monster, intent on destruction. And every human whose body they snatch is destroyed, disintegrating into black dust once the Returner has achieved their vengeful goal. The world’s always had its share of ugly. Now the scales are tipping. Indiscriminate murders, strange mass suicides, escalations in neighbourly disputes and family rifts. I’ve heard of more than one case of fork stabbings over kitchen tables. Family sitting silent, picking meat from their teeth, mother suddenly erupts: Why do I always get the goddamn burnt chop?! Put down to suburban neurosis. In reality, a Returner, some pissed off dead housewife coming back to wreak vengeance. One dead husband. One disintegrated wife. Two bewildered children covered in the black dust of rage.
Ordinary people are increasingly on edge, trusting nobody, scared of every stranger, jumping at shadows. Only a few of us know why, that it’s the Returners, more and more slipping back. It’s only a matter of time before they explode through in full force and destroy this whole miserable joint. Person by person. Body by body. Every last one of us.

‘I’m really looking forward to working with you.’
She’s young and smart and knows that she’s smart. Probably a university student or some kind of wannabe poet. I don’t want to know anything about her. If it wasn’t for the honour code I wouldn’t have given her the time of day.
But it still stands, one of the last remaining gestures of this once noble Society. If someone demonstrates the sign, correctly, we’re honour bound to invite them in. I always hated training recruits and it’s no different now I’m basically operating solo.
Don’t see the point. We have to test them, train them, watch them and what the hell for? Our numbers are dying. There’s no hope anyway so why bother with all the effort.
You think you’ve got the Whispering gift? Throw a fucking party, get drunk and forget about it, I say. But still they come. Faces hopeful and just a little bit smug. I drill that out of them quick smart. It’s a curse as much as a gift.
Anyway. Another one.
We’re on the cathedral steps, sitting, watching.
She’s got short hair, cut kind of box like, square black rimmed glasses. Some kind of skirt, dress, flowers on it. Tights, rips in them. I would have expected boots, big chunky things, but no, these little lace ups. Red. And sparkly. Ruby fucking slippers. At least her name isn’t Dorothy. Not that fucking cute. Her name is Ellen.
‘Do you know the signs?’ I ask.
She lists them off, ticking each one with her finger as she does.
‘Shapes or, like, indentations that are out of place. Shadows where there is no light. Incongruous objects. Faces appearing on non-reflective surfaces.’
I nod, reach into my pocket, find the tin of chewing tobacco, roll a piece out and slip it into my mouth. It nestles quickly, finding the sweet spot down where my right wisdom tooth used to be.
‘That’s where the holes are, but you only know one’s about to come through if you hear the whispering at the same time,’ she says. Like she’s written a text book. Goody two shoes girly swat.
‘And what does the whispering sound like?’ I ask.
She cocks her head to one side, purses her lips, looks at me kind with a quirky eyebrow like she’s summing me up.
‘Depends on the person,’ she says.
‘Which person?’ I ask.
‘Okay,’ she chews her lip, adjusts her answer, ‘the people. The triangle that’s formed, between the Returner, the Target and the Whisperer.’
Funny how we’re called Whisperers. We hear the whispers, not make them. It’s always bugged me, an early misnomer that somehow stuck.
‘So,’ she’s still talking. Why is she still talking? She got the answer right. ‘The Target you saw this morning, that guy. He was about your age and I’m not 100% sure about the Returner, but you heard girls chattering didn’t you. Like the girls who would have teased you at school.’
She pauses, I’m guessing to see if she’s hit her mark. She has. I chomp down on the tobacco and a spurt of thick nicotine floods my mouth. Sharp, powerful rush.
‘So yeah,’ she continues,’ the whispering sounds like whatever vulnerable point that’s opened up because of those three people. A bad memory or an unlived hope, deep regret. That kind of thing.’
I run my tongue into the corner of my mouth, seeking out the remnants of the tobacco, then gather it all into a saliva swirl and shoot it out in a neat spit.
‘I’m guessing you’re kept pretty busy,’ the girl says with a big smile. ‘That’s why you’re one of the best.’
Very funny.
She’s a real riot. But the smile doesn’t break. She’s not being sarcastic or even ironic. It’s a weird, unsettling feeling. She’s paying me a genuine compliment.
And again, she’s right. We discovered early on that the most talented Whisperers were people who’d lived the shittiest lives. No. The people with the worst attitudes. Misanthropes. Depressives. Narcissists. Those of us who could easily, on any day, at any time, tap into something dark and vulnerable, find the spots in the human psyche that the Returners were also seeking. They have a lot more trouble penetrating people who are generally positive and buoyant. It seemed for a while as if that might point to some kind of salvation – humanity saved by the shiny, happy people. But then the Returners cottoned on and those kinds of people became targets for their anger. Like the high achievers at school, sports guys, pretty girls, that everyone secretly wanted to kill. The Returners started to have a field day, knocking them off in the most horrendous and disfiguring ways imaginable.
This girl Ellen, is an anomaly. Not traditionally beautiful, but happy and smiley as all shit.
Where does she fit in?
I unscrew the lid of my water bottle and take a slow draught. My fingernails are filthy. Suddenly I’m conscious of them. Embarrassed even. I shove them, and the water bottle deep into the pockets of my overcoat.
Something’s not right. This chic is making me very uneasy, in a way I haven’t felt for a long time. It’s the opposite of the Returners, the darkness. I’m used to that. Eat it, breathe it, live it. No. This is something much more disturbing. Like I want to say the right thing, get her approval. Who the hell is she?
I clamp my lips shut, pull my beanie down lower on my head and nod in the direction of an old woman who’s just heaved herself down onto the bench at the bottom of the cathedral steps.
Ellen follows my gaze. I sense her relax, settle in beside me, like we’re about to pray together. I can smell her whiff of eagerness. Then, she takes my hand.
Jesus. What? I flinch. She leans in, all chummy. I want to pull away.
But something slow and deep swirls inside me. A memory. I’m sitting on the grassy bank down the bottom of the school oval with my best friend. Our legs like stick, white and brown. Crumpled white socks. The scent of warm skin. We lie back and look up and the clouds and tell each other stories about the pictures we see. A rabbit. Smoking a cigarette. I laugh …
A searing pain across my eyes snaps me back to the here and now. I gasp. The world rights itself. I’m on the cathedral steps. Grey sky. Cold concrete. The old woman on the bench shudders. She’s about to be snatched. Fuck! I lost concentration. Ellen is still smiling, almost gleeful. Did she do that on purpose? Distract me with her touch, draw out that memory. Little bitch.
I’m up and running. I’ll show her. She can’t control my mind or what I do. I’ve got plenty left to give. The primal scream builds up in my gut as I sprint toward the old woman. Make sure my mouth is wide open so there’s somewhere for the Returner to go. It’s been a long time since I bothered with this. Used to do it all the time. Save people. Absorb the energy of the Returner and hurl it back to beyond.
Launch myself into the air, knock the old dear off the bench and onto the ground, brace for impact.
I’m expecting the usual sickening rush of wind, like a blow to the gut and the acrid smell of burning rubber. All I hear is a sharp crack and a heavy thud as the old woman topples to the ground. Around me is a dizzying display of rainbow lights and something that smells like cotton candy. What the hell? I shake myself out of the stupor and see that the woman, neat grey hair and buttoned up camel coat is lying on the ground. Blood is oozing dark and thick from gash over her eye. She’s making these little moaning sounds and spittle is frothing at the corner of her mouth.
I pull myself up, using the green metal bench as a lever. No-one has stopped. That’s how we are now. Old woman knocked onto the ground, seriously wounded, needing help. People just cross the street, put their head down, pretend they haven’t seen it. Too much risk. Don’t get involved.
Ellen kneels down. Props the woman’s head on her lap. Murmurs to her. The woman opens her eyes.
‘Stay away!’ I bark. If I didn’t absorb the Returner it must have got into the woman. I’ve had plenty of near death experiences with newly arrived Returners. They’re often disoriented for a few minutes, lash out, test their limits. But Ellen, she just takes the woman’s hand.
‘You all right Mam?’ she asks the old woman.
The woman looks up and I brace myself, ready for the dead, crazy look in her eyes. But they’re just blue and sweet and a little bit watery.
‘Yes dear, thank you. I just had such a vivid memory.’
Ellen nods, encouraging the old lady.
‘My best friend when I was a little girl. I haven’t thought about her for years.’
She keeps talking and it’s all I can do to keep standing. She recites, word for fucking word, the same memory I just had. I’m shaking all over, my legs starting to give way beneath me.
‘Your friend dear …’ I hear the old woman’s voice float behind me as I run, pitching and swaying, out across Swanston Street, toward the train station. I’ve got to get away.

We’re always at the fringes, us Whisperers. Usually I manage to keep myself inconspicuous. Right now, I’m losing it, don’t even have the energy to find a private place to recover.
I can see myself from above, how I must look. Person of indeterminate age and gender. Beanie shoved low. Black overcoat, old and worn. Curled up on the train station platform. Trembling. Probably coming down off some nasty shit. Waiting for the next hit. Skin clammy. Eyes red rimmed and watering. Stay the hell away. You never know what these junkies might do if you get too close.
Is that what they’re thinking? The neat people in their crisp suits waiting for the train, pretending not to see me. The clumps of school kids, teasing and flirting, casting an occasional glance in my direction.
No that I care. I know who I am.
I protected you people! I want to yell. Those of us whom you ignore, discard, want to push to the edges, we tried! For years, we absorbed the energy of the Returners, contained their rage, their sorrow. So none of you had to know about them! You should be thanking me!
The job just got too big. Too many of them and not enough of us. The inner circle of the Whispering Society so militant in keeping our work secret. It ended up strangling the life out of our work. Reducing it to a weird cult. The meetings stopped. Contact was severed. There was a spate of horrific suicides. Whisperers, overloaded and exhausted from hearing and feeling too much started to hurl themselves in the path of raging Returners, seeking destruction. Rumours had it that those who sought this violent end reported hallucinations, glitches in the energy sphere that they couldn’t control.
Now, it seemed, it was my turn.
‘So that’s it,’ I say out loud, not caring who hears me or how fucking crazy I sound. ‘The beginning of the end!’
That old woman had my memory, or I had hers, or the whole thing was an illusion. Whichever way I cut it the news is bad. I’m losing my marbles. All that’s left for me is to decide how long I want to hang around in this compromised state, slowly spinning down into madness, or how quickly I want out.
‘The next train to arrive on Platform 12 will be the 2.25 to Sandringham, stopping all stations. Train about to arrive. Please stand back.’
I lurch up from my slumped position against the wall of the kiosk. Steady myself. Still wobbly, I walk slowly to the platform’s edge. A woman with blonde hair, a red coat and a very new looking pram sees me coming and pushes her baby away, acting like she’s just suddenly seen someone she knows further down the platform.
Prop myself up in a corner seat, at the back of the carriage, try to look inconspicuous. See every person who gets on register me, recoil slightly and turn away. I think of that girl Ellen and her big, sweet smile. She’s wrapped up in this somehow. Should never have agreed to take her on. Still and all, sitting with my head against the thick, cold glass, throbbing with hunger and anxiety, I recall the steady calmness of her presence. Her hand, soft and strong, clasping mine and holding it so firm, it was the nicest goddamn thing I’d felt in years.

The beach is a good place to go if you’re seeking a lot of Returner activity. Especially in winter. That’s where people go when they’re feeling down, want to walk out the fight they just had with their wife, or sit and watch the waves roll in and ponder their deep and unshakeable depression. Easy Targets, there for the taking.
I crunch down the gravel path and breathe in deep. Salt air and sea spray brush my skin, enter my mouth. Love that taste. Slip off my boots and socks. Jesus. When was the last time I took my shoes off? Too disgusting to contemplate.
Curl my toes into the sand, damp and cold.
This is not a pretty beach. No picture postcard of jewel blue sea and bronzed bodies. More like rolling grey waves, stranded Coke cans and abandoned plastic bags. A few lumpen shapes, some kid’s attempt at a sand castle. A thick twig of dried seaweed pokes out the top of one. The water races over my toes. Fuck me sideways! It’s cold. Feet go numb straight away. I fling my arms out to the side, arch my head back and suck in the wind.
‘Ha!’ I shout, quite enjoying this descent into madness now I’ve decided to fully embrace it. I will be the crazy person who walked into the sea and never came back. Why the hell not?
‘Ha, ha!’ I shout again. I scoop water up and fling it about, turning in a circle as I paddle the shallows. A human sprinkler. I turn and turn. The world turns with me.
‘I’m ready!’ I call out. ‘Come and get me you rabid Returners!’
I turn and I turn, waiting for the dark centre to open up, for the whispering to scratch at the corner of my mind. Ready. Terrified. Exhilarated. A wave builds up about 100 metres out and I see it swell, rolling across through the water towards me. Maybe this will be it. My Returner will come in the form of a wave, crash through me and fill me with something deep and dark from the bottom of the ocean.
‘Ha!’
My mouth is closed. I didn’t say that.
‘Ha, ha!’
And again.
What?
I turn back towards the shore and see her. Ellen. Stripped down to a black singlet and undies, clothes abandoned in a pile next to my boots. She’s running, her arms outstretched, face giddy and giggling like a little girl.
Good god.
What the hell is she doing? She must have followed me. Mother fucker. I should be furious, seizing up inside. I should be running away. She’s nothing but trouble. But I’m laughing, this stupid, aching laugh that bounces from my belly to my chest and back again, doubling me over. The harder I try to stop the more it comes. She looks so … beautifully stupid. Her square cut hair and chunky glasses and glaring chalk white skin and chubby arms and legs, skipping and whooping like there’s never been such a thing as Depression or Misanthropy or Narcissism. Like the world has not a thing to fear from any hordes of raging Returners.
‘It worked!’ she shouts and her voice fills the wind and carries across the ocean. Every person on earth must have just heard her victorious declaration.
‘What worked?’ I ask, trying to bring it down a notch. Sensible and cynical. But my voice is flying too. I sound like a happy soprano. Jesus, there’s a bloody joy fest going on here and I somehow got caught in the middle of it.
She’s in the water now, next to me and she grabs my hands, both of them this time.
‘The lady on the bench,’ her breath is coming hard and fast, tiny bits of spit escaping as she talks. ‘You saved her.’
‘I didn’t save her. I just about killed her,’ I say.
She shakes her head.
‘It was a bit violent. Clumsy. But a new method will always have teething problems. She’ll be okay.’
I don’t know what she’s talking about. All I know is that I messed up. I was supposed to be one of the good ones. Saving the world. I just attacked a defenceless woman. I was so desperate to prove myself to Ellen I nearly knocked the life out of an innocent person.
I start to sink. Here. Now. Let the ocean just suck me right down. Please.
Her grip on my hands is vice like.
‘Don’t you see?’ her voice, low and calm.
‘No,’ I croak, ‘I don’t.’
‘The memory,’ she says, slowing down now, her skin goosing up with bumps in the icy water.
‘My memory,’ I say, ‘that she stole. Or you somehow inserted. Infiltrated. Who are you?’
Ellen shakes her head.
‘No, she didn’t steal it. You shared it, right? Get it?’
I pull my hands away. I’m shaking again. The swirling feelings are coming back, thick and fast and frightening.
‘No. I don’t get it. Leave me alone. You’ve already sent me over the edge. I’m done with all this. I give up!’
‘Just … look up,’ she says and points to the sky.
‘I know which way up is, I …’
My sarcastic words dry in my mouth as I lift my head and look to the clouds. They’ve broken up from the relentless grey and are drifting across a sky of blue, all puffy and white like Simpsons clouds. And there, in a brief, beautiful moment, I see my friend’s face. The one from primary school. She smiles and my heart swells and I reach up towards her and then the image shifts again and she is gone.
‘What …’ the word hangs in the air.
Ellen is shivering but she has a stupid big grin on her face.
‘You change it,’ she says. ‘Instead of tapping into the dark centre, the vulnerable moment, you found another fragment.’
My legs are numb now. This water is so fucking cold.
‘I don’t understand.’
‘It’s a new method,’ Ellen says. That word again. Method. ‘They wanted to trial it on a Whisperer with just the right traits.’
‘What traits?’
‘Melancholy. Yearning. States that are still open, that carry stories with them and hopes and possibility.’
The wind has died away and suddenly it is very, very still. Even the water seems to have stopped moving. We are paused. On the brink of something. A massive change.
‘So,’ I speak slowly, piecing the logic together, realising that I have known this all along. ‘The Returners, no matter who they are or how they died or how much pain they were in, we can help them.’
She’s nodding, her black hair sticking out from her head now, all stiff with salt and wind.
I continue talking, ‘and rather than them forcing their way into another person to try and resolve their pain, we … we help release them.’
Ellen smiles.
‘No more human Targets.’
‘Exactly!’ she is giddy with excitement
‘It stops being Us versus Them and Here versus There,’ I say and I look out across the sea, now sparkling, and up to the sky. ‘They are still part of the world but they’re free. They’re in the clouds, or the ocean, or the sand …’
‘Or a tree or a flower or a drop of rain,’ Ellen joins in.
Okay. This is all great. But it’s a bit too Pollyanna for my liking.
‘What about those mad as hell mother fuckers?’ I ask. ‘I mean all this sunshine and lollypops might work fine for someone who just forgot to tell his daughter that he loved her. I can see him being happy to come back and be a blue bird in her fucking garden or something. But what about the real evil shits?’
She rubs her arms, I can see she is freezing, turning blue at the corners of her mouth.
‘The world needs destructive forces too,’ she says, ‘it’ll be hard work but you can do it.’
‘Like, channel them into thunder storms and volcanoes.’
‘Exactly!’ her teeth are chattering.
We have to get out of this water, onto the beach, dry her off, get clothes back on her. Then maybe go to the café up the hill, drink hot chocolates. Get back into the city. Try and find that woman’s family. For once, in such a long aching time, do the right thing. The kind and decent and human thing.
‘Come on,’ I say and I put my arm around her shoulders. She nestles in, her skin damp and cold.
‘Thank you,’ she whispers.
And it’s me who should be thanking her. Maybe one day I’ll tell her how much it meant to me, the moment she reached over to take my hand. How it breathed something real back into me. No need to get ahead of ourselves though. Spoil the moment. Might go to her head.
‘Race ya!’ I say and gripping her hand tightly, I start to run. Big, galumphing steps through the water. She squeezes my hand in return and then it goes limp. I turn and she is falling. I grab at her arms, hauling her up.
‘Come on!’ I shout, tears choking my voice. ‘Get up, damn you, get up!’
But she is drifting into the ocean, dissolving, her skin breaking away, like an image on a screen.
‘You’re one of them,’ I say, suddenly understanding, my own voice now falling to a whisper. The light on the water sparkles in response and I hear the echo of her throaty laughter.
‘Was,’ she whispers, correcting me. Or is it the sea.
‘You’d already taken human form,’ the sequence of events fall into place. ‘You were manipulating me, recruiting me to wreak havoc for you. Turning me into a … killing machine.’
A bitter taste has filled my mouth. How close I just came to surrendering, becoming one of them.
‘Why the old woman?’ I ask.
‘I was afraid of aging,’ her whisper replies. ‘Killed myself as a teenager so I’d never get old. The darkness in me wanted to destroy her.’
I’ve never talked like this to a Returner. There are so many things I want to ask.
‘Why Ellen? Wasn’t she one of the happy ones? How did you penetrate?’
‘Every happy person has a few stains of darkness, just like every dark person has moments of light. We’d reached the tipping point.’
No remaining barriers, nothing to stop them.
‘So the Returners, they’re about to take over everything. They can get into every person now.’ I gulp. This is it. Armageddon.
If it’s possible for an ocean to shake its head, that’s what happens. I am talking to a body of water. Jesus H Christ, what a day.
‘I needed you to help change the energy,’ whispers the water. ‘We only had a split second. And it worked.’
She is shifting around me and that wave is building again. I want to ask her how it worked, what changed. But I know.
‘You held my hand,’ I say.
‘And you didn’t let go,’ she whispers, ‘just for a moment and you know, for most of us that’s enough. That’s all we need. A moment of connection, to know we’re not always so terribly alone.’
‘And Ellen?’ my voice is shaking, can’t control it.
‘I’m sorry. She had to be sacrificed. The last human Target. You saved the old woman. You can save everyone.’
Jesus. That’s a big fucking call.
‘Hang on! I …’
But the voice drifts away. I think I hear the word ‘thank you’ in the wind. She has fallen apart in my hands and I realise I’m grasping at water, trying to hold onto something that cannot be held. There is no black dust though, just the shimmer of light on water.
A great and almighty crack of lightning splits the sky open and the sea rears up in response. I feel the clouds close in again, thick and heavy with rain. They’re coming, the Returners are pressing at the borders, yearning to be set free, now they’ve seen how it can be done.
I watch in wonder as nature prepares to embrace them all, find a place for every soul, each memory, all of the stories. It’s going to be epic. I’ll need help. Rack my brain. I know I’ve seen other Whisperers around the city. Young guy, tends to lurk around the town hall. And that girl, highly strung, but gifted, where have I seen her? Up at the library. Couple of others too. Time to go find them. Call a meeting of the Whisperers, re-group and work out our best strategy.
The wave is gathering strength and racing towards me. I pull off my beanie, the wind lifts my hair as I splash my way out of the water and stride up the beach.
She’s left her ruby slippers.
I pick them up and they’re warm. They fit, one each, neat and snug into the pockets of my coat. I turn back to look at the sea and the wave crashes, foaming and giddy, into the shore.
In my pockets, the ruby slippers click in my hands. Once. Twice. Three times.
I know it’s her way of telling me, she’s found her way home.

Photo of Dave Lamb by Dan Roberts www.threadslike.com

For the moment we’re resting up, but we couldn’t resist sharing some photos from the night.

Thanks to our amazing game runners, Madeline Anderson, Jack Beeby, Sam Dowdswell, Jason Cavenagh and Dave Lamb. Also massive thanks to the volunteer staff of the State Library of Victoria who went above and beyond to help out with all our payers and Gwyn Morfey who stepped in as emergency game runner to help out when we were overwhelmed by numbers of players.

Stay tuned for Emilie Collyer’s conclusion to The Whispering Society.

Plays well with others

by Emilie Collyer

The problem wasn’t so much in the game. The problem was in the aftermath of the game.

‘Who the fuck is going to clean this place up?’

He was blonde, lean and dressed as a security guard. None of us could tell at that moment who was Halo and who was Human. It was hard enough any time, but straight after a long game judgement was particularly impaired. But he was holding a gun so we gave him the benefit of the fucking doubt.

‘It’s Chinese fucking New Year here tomorrow. You understand that? It’s the Year of the fucking Snake. This place has got to be spotless!’

I tried doing a head count but there was a bunch of us and my eyes kept jumping. It was late, already dark and we were all exhausted.

I’d only picked up one new name. She called herself Fifi or was it Didi? Anyway, she’d changed outfits straight after the game so I could only assume she had something to hide.

‘Nice dress,’ I said as we filed out of the holding room, each assigned to a different area for clean up. It wasn’t just a line. She looked pretty, a dress the colour of sunshine, dark hair, fresh face.

‘I don’t have time for this shit,’ she muttered. ‘I signed up for the game. I played. That’s it. Isn’t clean up on someone else’s goddamn roster?’

I shrugged, pulled out a cigarette, offered it to her. She tossed her head, no. I lit up, dragged deep.

‘You want to work together? It’ll be faster.’

She sighed.

‘Yeah. Sure.’

‘Didi is it?’ I extended my hand.

‘That’s my character name,’ she said.

‘Right, and your real name?’

‘You don’t need to know.’

Bitch left my hand flapping out there like a sock in the wind.

‘It’s those fucking giant birds,’ she waved her own hands around, taking in the open paved area we were crossing, which was covered with smears of white shit and the occasional squashed and mangled bee.

‘What were you playing?’ I asked, trying to keep thing nice, teach this newbie a thing or two about game etiquette.

‘Basic hunt and kill. But clean, you know, down by the river.’

‘And that guy I saw you with?’ it was a risk. She’d already made it clear she wasn’t interested in giving out personal details. But I was curious. Two newbies on the one day was unusual. I wanted to sniff things out.

‘Oh him,’ she rolled her eyes and this pretty pink flush spread across her cheeks.

Right.

Already mixing play and reality. She didn’t stand a chance.

‘You want to be careful,’ I took three quick sucks on my cigarette, getting as much as I could out of the cancer stick. ‘Pretty thing like you. Guys’ll take advantage. Don’t get wrapped up in the game. The game’s just a game.’

She pulled her face in, lips pursed, a shitty kind of adolescent look on her face, like I’d caught her out after curfew.

‘It’s all right,’ I lightened my tone, ‘do whatever you want. No skin off my nose. Just, you know, be careful.’

We stopped talking then and started scrubbing. Some of the bees spurted out pollen-y goop as they died and it was sticky as all fuck. We had an area of a couple square feet to cover. It was hot, hard work and even though night had fallen now, sweat started pouring off me. To her credit, little Miss Sunshine worked like a demon and didn’t complain. Fuck that yellow dress looked nice, dancing around in the moonlight as she attacked the ground with a wet bristle mop.

I smelled the guy before I saw him.

One of those mother fuckers who smell like a fucking mint leaf no matter how many hours work they’ve done. I looked up. He was standing, across the other side of the paved area, on a little rise, under a fucking tree. Staring at us. Staring at her. White shirt, black tie, skinny jeans, designer stubble.

A handful of tourists were still meandering around, enjoying the hot summer night, maybe sipping on cold drinks or stumbling drunk or flirting with each other. Not for the first time I wondered what it would be like to be free like that, with so much disposable time and income.

It was a dream. A fucking dream. I was lucky to have this job. Gaming was sought after, highly competitive. The risk of death kept things interesting, part of why they employed a combination of Halos and Humans. The whole thing could have been run by Halos but where would the excitement factor be for Players? It was no great fucking feat to kill a hologram with a blast gun. They just dissolved and re-formed, but to knock off a real Human, legally, feel that rush of mortality, smell the blood, all that – well it was why the Playground could charge so much.

I kept moving, following after Miss Sunshine’s frenzied scrubbing with a bucket rinse. The connection between her and the mint fresh guy was palpable. Waves of desire bouncing all over the place. Sweet. I supposed. I tossed around the possibilities in my head. Could be they were young kids, in love, doing this for a lark. But they looked well off, like they’d come from money. Surely they’d pay to play – which guaranteed personal safety while simulating the adrenaline rush of reality. Who the fuck in their right mind would take this kind of job unless they had no choice?

More likely they were Halos, installed by the Playground to spice things up a bit, add a new level of narrative. I sighed, heaved my sorry arse up the slope to our last clean up spot. I’d seen them come and go, various experiments with how Human to make the Halos, did the Players like it better if we all looked the same or if the Halos looked like frigging two headed aliens? Blah, blah, blah, on it went. The endless pursuit of novelty: how to keep the public amused and engaged and forking over shitloads of money.

If they were just Halos it made Miss Sunshine and her friend a lot less interesting.

‘Are we done here?’

She was all smiles all of a sudden, standing up and stretching her pale, elegant arms towards the night sky.

The area was spotless. She certainly was efficient.

‘Yup,’ I nodded, fishing in my pocket for another cigarette.

‘You know those things will kill you,’ she said, a note of genuine compassion in her voice.

‘Not fucking fast enough,’ I said.

She laughed. It was a superb sound, like water falling into a fucking rock pool. That fresh mint guy was a lucky fuck, even if they were just Halos.

‘I just …’ her eyes flicked over to where he was still standing, watching and he abruptly turned, walked away, down towards the river. A tear spilled out of her deep blue eye and rolled down her cheek. One fucking perfect tear. They programmed these fuckers well. Even though I knew it was fake I couldn’t help the little surge of emotion. My mind clouded. Maybe they were just a couple of crazy kids, making a last ditch attempt to have some kind of independence, life outside mummy and daddy’s tight control. Maybe they’d been kicked out of home. Maybe it was some kind of wrong side of the tracks fucking love story. Who was I to judge?

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’ll put the equipment away and stall for time. How long you need? Twenty minutes?’

We were supposed to sign off and once that was done this whole area was completely out of bounds. Shot on sight if you hung around as it could lead to confusing the public. Fraternising was strictly fucking forbidden.

‘Oh,’ she made a sighing, sort of crying sound and grabbed my hand. ‘Thank you,’ she whispered and planted this sweet, rough kiss on my smelly old cheek and off she ran.

I bent down to collect the wire brush, detergent and bucket. The muscles in my lower back and shoulders were seizing up. I really was getting too old for this shit, running around, playing games. But fuck me if I was going to quit and look for another shit kicking job. They’d be taking me out of here in a body bag.

The crowd was really thin now. I liked the desolate vibe that came over this place at night. It seemed right. Truthful. Took my time and carried the equipment up to that cute fucking grassy hill and the little tree that Mr Minty had been standing under. Could still smell that goddamn fresh mint smell. I inhaled deeply. Mistake. The breath caught in my chest and turned into a wet, racking cough.

Down the hill, the river wound away. I could still see a flash of her lemony dress. They’d be going under the bridge for sure. Maybe buy themselves 10 minutes of privacy. So fucking sweet.

The dress disappeared and with it I felt this almighty chasm open up inside me. Like someone had punched a hole right through my fucking heart. I gasped. This wasn’t smoker’s cough or being short of breath. This was some other fucking thing I’d not felt in a long time. Some kind of deep, aching sorrow.

I stumbled down the hill, kicking the bucket over as I went, didn’t even stop to set it right. I had to know they were okay. Nothing else was worth a pile of shit in this fucked up thing I called a life but this, making sure Miss Sunshine and Mr Minty Fresh had their moment together, it was suddenly the most important fucking thing in the world.

Panting, heaving, I took the stairs that led steeply down to the river bank. A slow barge slid by, filled with the rich and the beautiful, no doubt highly amused at the sight of this old fucker barrelling down the stairs and then running, limping along the pathway, some kind of strange fucking howling sound coming up from my gut.

The flash of yellow dress. The smell of mint. Yes! They were under the bridge. I slowed down, released one last sob and this crazy fucking smile spread over my face, a warm glow buzzing through my chest. Happiness. A rare and fucking valuable thing.

Then I saw them.

Us.

All of us who had just been lined up for the debrief and bawled out by the cock in the security uniform. Some were propped up against the wall. Some were slumped on the ground. It was a fucking massacre. The truth hit me like a bullet in my heart.

Sunshine and Mint Man were Halos, sent in to create a little diversion, draw us all down to the river and terminate us. Time for a new batch of Humans. We’d all known this was a possibility, had heard the rumours that sometimes the Playground did a major cull and brought in fresh blood.

In my heart of fucking hearts I never thought it was true. Always thought I’d meet my end honestly, in a real fucking game, with a Player who gave a shit about winning or losing. Not this cold, brutal termination.

I stopped dead. There was still time. I could pelt back up the hill, dodge security, make my way back out into the city, find some other fucking means of survival. It wasn’t going to end this way.

Miss Sunshine must have heard my fucking breathing ‘cause she looked up from the crowd of corpses, blast gun in her hand.

‘No,’ she said, those pretty eyes wide with surprise. ‘I thought you were going back to HQ. You weren’t supposed to come down here. I thought … I tried …’

Nice try. As if any of us were going to escape. What, take out the whole bunch of Humans except for one and let it live to tell the fucking tale? I don’t think so.

There was no point running now and I sure as fuck didn’t want to be shot in the back. If they wanted to do it, they could kill me with a semblance of honour.

‘This is great!’

It was the first time I’d heard Mr Mint speak. He was excited, jumping around like a little kid, waving his own blast gun. She stood still, kind of shaking now, the pale green of shock spreading across her face.

‘They promised the real thing and this has been fucking awesome!’

Mr Mint thrust his fists up into the air. She looked at him, wounded, confused.

Right.

So this was the truth. It didn’t feel as ugly. I did feel like a fucking idiot for not having spotted it sooner, but hey, it had been a long, hot day and I was no spring fucking chicken.

They weren’t Halos and they weren’t Human Gamers. They were rich Players. The worst kind. Ones who would pay any price for an experience that no-one else had ever had. They wanted to feel what it was like to betray and kill on a grander scale. Horses for courses. They must have led very fucking sheltered lives. I clicked back in my mind to the fake security guard spinning us that line about the Year of the Snake. Now it fell into place why he’d bother with such a minor detail. Must have been part of the fucking game, to put us in the right mood. Snakes are known as charming, cold and calculating.

I eyeballed Miss Sunshine, her wavering resolve, the reality of killing rippling through her body like a sickness.

‘Been a little bit more than you bargained for sweetheart?’

I steadied my voice and reached into my pocket. I was just going for a cigarette but she wasn’t to know that. They would have been informed that all Gamers were potentially dangerous, that some of us were armed and we were instructed to shoot and kill.

Her eyes narrowed and all the confusion cleared from her face.

‘Don’t. Call. Me. Sweetheart.’

She raised the blast gun and squeezed the trigger. The last thing I remember was feeling pretty fucking happy with myself. Once I’d realised I was still part of a Game, I’d played well right up until the end, giving her the ultimate experience, sacrificing my life for the good of the Game. Much better for her to blast the shit out of a condescending git than squeeze the life out of some tragic old geezer she’d started to feel sorry for. I was fucking good at my job. We all were. The Playground would be lucky if they found another crew of Humans as hard working and dedicated to the craft as we’d been.

As the bullet shattered my rib cage and exploded through my chest I saw Miss Sunshine’s face, flushed now with victory and the excitement that comes with taking out an arsehole, and feeling, even if just for a few moments and for however many thousands of dollars they’d paid, like she was somehow in control.

Yep, that shit was worth a fucking fortune, in this life or any.

Believer
(gotta-fucking-love-them)

by Emilie Collyer

My favourite photograph is the one of us at the top of the mountain. You’re looking like a freakin’ movie star. Fuck you’re gorgeous. And I’m looking like the idiot who’s in love with a movie star. We’re both wearing sunglasses and peaked caps and kerchiefs – is that what you call them? – around our necks. Mine is orange and yours is purple. The sun is shining so brilliant. Behind us are mountains and more mountains. Serious mountains for serious fuckers. Our mountain was humble in comparison. It was only 5,000 metres or thereabouts. You know I should look up exactly how high it was. I have never been happier than in that moment. On that day. Fuck me, you were so beautiful.
We never own anything, that’s what I learned. Things, people, mountains, sunshine, they’re just on loan to us and we can’t ever get away with thinking we can keep them forever.

You made me believe in fate. When we met I’d got too old for most of that romantic stuff. Those couples who told stories about meeting and falling instantly in love, I didn’t buy it. Or I figured they were deluded and one day they’d just as suddenly fall out of love. Then they’d hate each other with a ferocity that would scare them.
I was standing at the bar talking to my friend Tom. It was a Christmas party and not a great one. About three people were still wearing paper hats. Most were looking at watches, saying they had to go to another party, or get to the shops before they closed. You know that manic look people get in their eyes a few weeks out from Christmas.
We had met once before and hit it off.
It was at the all day workshop for new disability workers. I was standing behind you in the queue for coffees. You were talking to someone and I saw you. It was like discovering a rare bird.
‘Jesus,’ I thought to myself. ‘Does anyone have any idea how fucking beautiful that woman is?’
I remember looking around, actually embarrassed, that we were all in your presence, being so careful not to stare too hard, not to say anything out loud. All of us. At least I assumed that was what everyone else was thinking. And when you turned and smiled at me:
‘I’ll order yours, it’ll be quicker. What are you having?’
I mean, how can a person’s eyes be so pure? I nearly lost my fucking balance, fell over right then and there. I guess I did fall over, just managed to keep my body upright.
Then, at the Christmas party.
‘Oh my God!’
You embraced me. It was warm and spontaneous.
‘This is so great. I hardly know anyone here. My friend works here. He wanted me to come. Do you work here?’
‘In the building,’ I said. ‘I mean, there’s a bunch of organisations. We share the space. So it’s a … like a shared party.’
‘Wow. Drink? Let’s get pissed. You want to get pissed?’
You were wearing a long black dress with a simple tie around the neck. Your hair glided over your shoulders. Like a magic river. You wore white sandals. On most people they would have looked, I don’t know, like trying too hard. But on you they were perfect.
We drank Mojitos and then beer and finally, shots of vodka. It cost me a fucking fortune.
‘So,’ you said at the end of the night when it was just us left, sitting at an outside table. It was too late for mosquitoes, too late for taxis. The air was still warm and it was going to be one of those nights where nobody would get any sleep. ‘What are your plans for next year? Any resolutions?’
The table was warm beneath my hands. I was looking at my hands, wondering how they would look next to your hands. I wasn’t old then – I know that now – but my skin had already started showing signs of age. The wrinkles around my knuckles. Faint sun spots on the back of my hand. Your hands were smooth like cream and the colour was like a word for caramel that hadn’t been invented yet.
‘I’m going to climb a mountain,’ I said. It just blurted out of me.
‘Wow!’
You slammed down the shot glass and you grabbed my hands in yours.
‘Can I come? Can we do that together?’
Our hands entwined looked perfect.

So yeah. Fate.
I had friends who were living in India and they’d been the ones to suggest the mountain trek. Seriously, after the Christmas party, I thought I’d never hear from you again. I mean we were both drunk. Who sticks to a promise they make to a stranger on a hot night drinking vodka?
You did.
It all happened so easily. My friends in India organised everything from that end. All we had to do was book flights and buy some gear. The plan was to do a 12 day trek in Ladakh, through the Indian Himalayas. We’d fly to Delhi, spend a few days there in the searing heat of mid June. Then we’d all fly to Leh, the capital of Ladakh. It would take us a few days to acclimatise to the altitude.
You and I both loved the light headed feeling.
If we’d had more time, it would have been better to get the bus from Delhi to Leh. That way your body adjusts gradually to the altitude. Flying in is a shock to the system. You can’t take a full breath. Some people panic. Others get terrible headaches. Most people feel incredibly tired. There were signs at the airport advising visitors not to undertake any strenuous activity for at least 72 hours.
The four of us hung out at our little hotel. We played cards and studied maps and read the dog-eared PD James and James Elroy books that were lying around the hotel and drank milky coffee during the day and Nepalese beer at night.
My friends, Dan and Mary, could see how I looked at you. They smiled in that way that good friends smile when they see you happy after a long fucking time. Like they can finally stop worrying about you dying alone in a rented apartment with unpaid phone bills and rats eating your intestines.
If I stop now and close my eyes, I can remember the feeling. Fuck I wish that every person in the universe got to experience that feeling once in their life. Like someone has put bubbles under your skin. Like your stomach is lined with warm honey. Like there is a filter in your eyes that is set to Fuck Off Beauty. And it’s in everything you see.
I wish everyone could have that feeling. But they don’t. I doubt you ever got that feeling.
It’s maybe a curse of being one of the beautiful ones. You’ve got to manufacture the excitement. So you clasp people’s hands and go on adventures with them and drink like a demon, always trying, striving to the reach that same kind of high. It takes effort and gradually, over years, it destroys some of the beautiful ones. Whereas people like me, who never had the beauty, all we ever have to do is find someone like you and spend our lives gazing in wonder.

‘Hey ho! Do you mind if we set up our tents near you guys?’
It was the night before we were due to walk to the summit. We were lying on the grass at our camp site. The guy asking was a friendly German. He was trekking with a friend.
‘Is that okay?’ you asked me, ‘Will it be okay with Dan?’
Dan had been badly affected by the altitude. He was dizzy, nauseous and had even become a bit hallucinatory. But we’d all decided as a group that the best course of action was to push on the next day. Once we were up and over the summit and down the other side, he’d start to feel better immediately. The guides we were with assured us of that. But they still asked Dan again and again if he’d rather we went back down the mountain, back the way we’d come.
‘It’s no problem,’ said Tensing, the lead guide.
‘No,’ Dan replied, keeping his voice low, his moves to a minimum. ‘I’ll be fine.’
He lay quietly in his tent. Mary and the guides both checked on him regularly. It cast a shadow over the evening. Made all of us take it easy, talk less, drink less. The arrival of the Germans was kind of a blessing. They were nice guys, easy going, and very experienced trekkers. They joined the guides in assuring us that Dan would be fine and they also joined in looking after him.
‘People are just brilliant aren’t they,’ you said.
We were tucked up in our sleeping bags by then, cosy in the tent. The murmured German coming from the next tent was comforting.
‘I mean we’re just so lucky to be alive, to get to be a human on this amazing planet with all these amazing other humans.’
You reached for my hand and you took it in yours. You put my hand to your face and I could feel tears on your cheeks.
I’ll never know what I did to deserve those moments with you. Nothing. I was never the smart one or even the nice one. For your own reasons you chose me. I was nothing. No, that’s not true. In those moments I was everything. The whole world and everything wonderful was inside me and of me and all around me in those moments.

Afterwards, during the couple more weeks I spent in India, Dan and Mary kept asking me if I was angry.
You know something – I tried to be. That sounds pretty fucking stupid doesn’t it? But I did. I scrunched myself up all tight inside and I imagined seeing you again and what I should say: how you never even would have gone walking up a mountain if you hadn’t met me; how you could have at least waited till we were back in Australia before you dumped me and moved on to the next guy with big doe-like eyes.
They were the things that Mary and Dan said anyway, as we sat in the stifling Delhi heat on their rooftop and drank beers and talked about life deep into the night. They weren’t impressed with you at all, the way you decided to keep going with the Germans rather than come back to Delhi with us.
‘What a superficial little user she turned out to be,’ said Mary, lighting up a joint and sucking down deep on it and passing it on to me.
‘No thanks,’ I said.
It was the night before I was leaving to fly home to Melbourne.
I couldn’t explain to them why I didn’t feel angry.
I’d got to walk up a mountain with you and see you in that moment, on top of the fucking world, well not quite but pretty fucking close. I got to feel this pure kind of joy at being alive that I don’t know if everyone is lucky enough to feel once in a lifetime.
Because you asked me what my new year’s resolution was, I said it was to climb a mountain and because of that I not only climbed a mountain, but I did it with you.
Every year since I’ve asked a person, someone I don’t know very well, what their new year’s resolution is and if they get stuck I just say:
‘Well how about one thing you’ve always wanted to do?’
And I can see it in their eyes, that little moment where possibilities light up and they might, they just might go out and do that one thing some time in the coming year.

That night, sitting on the rooftop, Dan eventually laughed when he realised I really, truly wasn’t angry with you, when I tried, fumbling, to describe the sense of transient beauty you’d shown me.
‘So she’s a bit like Lassie,’ he said, spinning a bottle top on the table, ‘just came into your life to show you the way.’
I shrugged, opened another beer, passed it to him.
‘No,’ Mary said, stubbing out her joint and pointing her finger into my chest, then outlining some kind of shape, I guess it was around my heart, ‘you’re Lassie,’ she said emphatically, ‘you showed her the way! You’re so fucking good, you’re just …’
‘Lassie was a girl dog,’ Dan pointed out, ‘so he’d be more like um, the Littlest Hobo.’
‘Whatever!’ Mary laid her hand flat over my heart, leant in and kissed me on the head, ‘you’re the dog in this situation man, you’re the good fucking, wish-we-all-knew-one, gotta-fucking-love-them-dog. That’s all I’m saying.’
Either way, you made me believe in fate and wherever you are now, in this great big fucking beautiful fuck off world, I hope you’re seeing the beauty of it all.
I really do.

We saved cities from burning, cracked a safe and sold the loot, had pirate raids and uncivil wars, we made trailers for movies that are yet to be made and took tours of Federation Square, Pop Up Playground style. We made offerings to bovine gods, fed oscine families, made Barbies fly and swim, we made super heroes of ordinary people and illuminated lonely corners of Fed Square.

We’re still sorting through photos, but we thought we’d upload some now for your viewing pleasure! These weren’t all the games on offer, just a couple of photos of gameplay and fun.

We’d like to thank and double thank all the people who helped us run the festival – the game runners, volunteers, game designers and other playful peeps who turned up to help as well as the national and international companies how let us run their games and of course, all the awesome people who turned up to play!

It started tonight and runs through to Sunday. And it’s all FREE.

Tonight I played Chuck a Barbie, well that’s what I called the Hummingbird Rally game.

BEST FUN EVER!

And there are lots of other games: some crafty, some physical, some about being clever, some about luck, some about being a superhero and all about having fun. They are inside Fed Square in The Edge and outside in the square. They are for every age and it’s not possible to not have fun.

Original review here: http://sometimesmelbourne.blogspot.com.au/2013/02/fresh-air-festival-best-fun-ever.html?spref=tw