Call-Out Issue 2: Super(heroes)

Have you ever worn your undies outside your pants so you could be just like Superman? Or perhaps, you’ve been saved before by your own knight-in-shining-leotard. We want to hear all about it in our second issue, ‘Super(heroes)’. Go wild and tell us what it means to you to be a Super(hero), whether that’s having the power of invisibility or perhaps being a good samaritan. We want the fantasies, the jokes, the dramatic and the bad. And as an added bonus, this issue gives you graphic designers out there the perfect opportunity to send us your super designs.

Remember every issue we have our regular columns, and we welcome all topics and creative works regardless of the theme. See below for more details:

Deadline: Monday, 22nd February 2010 (First day of Semester 1).

Send submissions to: grapeshotmq@gmail.com

Every Issue:
If you have any photos – send them in with “Pictorial Round-up” in the subject line.
Pictures don’t have to be related to campus life – if you have some great shots from festivals, volunteer excursions or holidays you’ve been on, we’d love to receive them!

Send submissions of 150 words or less to “The Rant & Letters.”

Send all articles regarding clubs and societies according to the following submission guidelines.

Send calendar dates of no more than two sentences to the “What’s On Calendar”. Submissions should consist of a Date of event, Name of event/Name of club, Brief purpose/details of event.

Word Limits:
Poetry – 30 lines
Fiction – 800 words
Non-fiction/Articles – 800 words
Artwork – 300dpi – PDF or EPS – no more than 1 x A4 page per submission
Photos – send single uncompressed files at maximum quality

Correspondence will be via email only.
Please make sure you read the style guide available at: http://www.campuslife.mq.edu.au/get-involved/student-publication

The editorial team will respond to every submission.

Thanks,

The Grapeshot Editorial Team

Parlez Vous Francais? (from Issue 10)

I remember Paris. A phrase I became accustomed to hearing was “c’est ta faute.” The occasional “imbécile” was thrown onto the end of it.

I arrived in Gare de Nord, Paris’ Eurostar train terminal, at 10am on New Year’s Eve. It was -10°C and foggy. A soft yellow light bordered the glass dome ceiling and exit archway. Rue de Dunkerque, the outside street, was cobblestone. I thought it was a footpath and the taxi drivers thought this warranted death by Mercedes.

“If you got killed it would have been your own fault,” one driver yelled from his window. “Where are you going?”

“Hotel Sofitel, how did you know to speak English?”

“Your hat,” he winked.

I removed my knitted beret and loaded my duffel bag and suitcase into the boot. After about fifteen minutes it began snowing, and fairy lights adorned to most roadside trees were switched on. I squealed at familiar sights - Le Arc de Triumph, Le Tour de Eiffel, Starbucks.

We arrived at the hotel by noon. It was four storeys, flush within a row of shopfronts and cafes. The driver reminded me to never leave my bags unattended. I thanked him and got out of the taxi. I heard the doors lock.

“€60” he said, as he wound his window down. I ordered him to check the meter.

“Check it yourself.”

No meter.

I waved my arms at the hotel doorman. He smiled and waved back. I waved a €5 note at him. He and two others put their red coats on and ran towards me. After an exchange of “sacrebleus,” I was told taxis which don’t have a meter operate on a fixed price basis.

“You would have known this if you read the sign,” one of the doormen pointed to the dashboard. “It is not the driver’s fault, he does not speak English.”

The driver smiled and held out his hand. I gave him my entry to the Louvre, and he released my luggage. He lit a cigarette as he was pulling out and said “c’est ta faute, imbécile.” Translation: It was your own fault, idiot.

Katarina Taurian

The Death of Bart Simpson? (from Issue 9)

Sweet scented smoke fills the air.

Jeremy and his friends watch it rise.

“How did the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles pay for their pizza?” the friend who likes to call himself Sid asks.

“And didn’t anyone ever notice that there were giant turtles living in New York’s sewers?” adds Christine in a slurred voice.

Jeremy shakes his head, “No, no, no…” He giggles. “You see, the Ninja Turtles were invisible to the naked eye.”

His friends look confused.

“What about April O’Neal? She could see them.”

“She wore contact lenses!” At this, they all shriek with irrepressible laughter.

Suddenly, Jeremy looks up. “How come the Simpsons are yellow?” he asks.

They all sit quietly, contemplating the Simpsons, or more specifically, Bart Simpson, an important figure of their generation.

“Maybe they all have jaundice,” Claudia, another friend, suggests.

“Yeah…” Stoned sarcasm creeps into Sid’s voice “The entire city of Springfield has jaundice.”

Christine shrugs. “Well they are based around a nuclear power plant.”

Jeremy looks sad. He sighs heavily and lights up another joint. The others stare at him with melodramatic concern.

“I miss Bart,” he tells them. “Don’t you remember when The Simpsons first came on T.V. and we were all in fourth grade?”

Claudia nods. “Yeah man, we could all relate to him, he was totally cool.”

The group fall into silence once more as they realise that while they have all grown up, got I.Ds and left school, Bart is still in fourth grade.

He is an immortal figure, trapped, in a cartoon child’s body. Perpetually left behind.

He presses himself up against the television black screen, patiently waiting for the next generation of kids to laugh at his pranks and mimic his catch-phrases.

But they are all hooked on South Park.