Dead Lines – Excerpt

Magnolia Yang

PROLOGUE

 

Diamonds could not be made without pressure.

So, as Corwin’s eyes narrowed when he saw the photograph of his soon-to-be mentees, he quickly determined them to be failures. The photograph’s plaque read: From left to right: Elliot Young (essayist), Harlow R. Hart (children’s novelist) and Artemis Crane (poet). In the photo, the trio were sprawled out across a daybed in the library. The look they shared between one another was charged with intense adoration.

Poor things, he thought.

‘They’re lovely,’ said the residency’s co-ordinator, Helen. ‘Such talented individuals.’

‘Mmm. I look forward to meeting them this afternoon,’ said Corwin.

They walked down the stairs.

‘Well, you’re welcome to wait in the library, or the living room, or anywhere for that matter,’ said Helen. She flapped her hands about when talking. Corwin wouldn’t have been surprised if she slipped down the stairs. ‘Oh, and I dialled Elliot before. They were just about to head on back.’

‘They won’t always be late, right?’

‘No. Not at all,’ said Helen.

‘Good.’

As they reached the bottom of the stairs, Corwin excused himself.

‘I’m going to take a look at the garden. I caught a glimpse of some begonias when I first got here,’ he said. ‘I’d like to take a good look before they die in the winter.’

‘I know all about the garden. The Benesch’s made sure to—’

‘Sorry. I’d prefer to enjoy the garden in silence.’

Corwin could see Helen was offended by his bluntness. But Corwin wasn’t here to soothe fragile hearts. He exited the house, took a drag of a cigarette and exhaled. A thread of smoke lifted up into the air. Summer was waning. Soon, a chill would strike the winds; leaves would decay at the feet of trees; the shadows would reach further out. And his students, Corwin planned, would have to undergo some necessary change as well.

 

1

 

Success was measured by the blood, sweat, and tears shed, right? This was the only way Elliot could make sense of his friends’ deaths. Legs draped across laps, smiles shared and gazes aligned. Fingers curled around necks, screams overlapped, and apologies left unsaid. Elliot forced the mismatched puzzle pieces to come together. If he didn’t, those few months at Benesch existed as abandoned chaos in his mind. Years had passed since his time at Benesch, and Elliot’s emotional wounds hadn’t healed. Like a child pulling a rug over their wreckage, Elliot’s recollections of Benesch avoided the turmoil and instead indulged in the calm of the beginning.

Elliot was twenty-one and out of love when he arrived at Benesch House.

Benesch House sat atop the crown of a lone mountain. Mist bled over the property’s ridges and swells. The concrete bodies of water nymphs, the weeping wisterias, the spiralling hedge maze—they disappeared beneath the mist’s veil. Only the house broke the haze. It was at this grand estate that three select individuals whittled the sultry months of summer away, contemplating and creating their written work.

Elliot’s fervour for writing had once been a raging river, but now it was fractured earth, dying of thirst. Word documents remained as voids. Scrawled-on notes became tinder. While Elliot lay on the floor of his new room, drowning in a clutter of clothing, dog-eared books, and literary magazines he’d been rejected from, he prayed Benesch was the cure for this sorry disenchantment.

He flung his hand over his eyes and for a moment, everything went dark.

***

There was this memory Elliot had—the memory never stayed the same—and in this recollection, Elliot remembered his ex-girlfriend’s shadow warped against the doorway of their shared apartment. Her shadow was bends and arches in some places and knives and shards in others. There was an emptiness to her voice.

‘I don’t think writers are meant to fall in love with other writers,’ she said. ‘Writers love other writers’ writing so we think, by extension, we can love each other. But really, it’s a tragedy waiting to happen.’

‘Is that how you feel about us?’ asked Elliot.
‘No,’ she said. ‘That’d require me to love your writing.’

Author: Magnolia Yang

Magnolia Yang is a writer from Meanjin (Brisbane). She is a fourth year student currently completing a dual degree in secondary education and creative writing. Her short stories and poems have been featured in ScratchThat Magazine. If she isn’t watching anime, she’s watching hours-long anime video essays.

Artist: Coco Thompson

Edited by: Max Jenner and Ariya Sokhara Say

Editors: Coco Thompson and Tia Shang