The Son of Man by Rene Magritte, 1946 

GREEN (adjective)
/ɡriːn/

1. with reference to colour.

   1. Of a colour intermediate between blue and yellow in the spectrum; of the colour of grass, foliage, an emerald, etc.

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      Frequently with preceding nouns or adjectives denoting a particular shade. apple, bottle-, dark, emerald-, grape-, grass-, lettuce, olive-, pea-, sea-green.

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2. of a thing, especially something immaterial, not fully developed or elaborated.

every time i want to cry

(which is, yes, often)

i force myself out of bed and:

• apply 1 coat of plum-coloured mascara

• drink 2 glasses of water with fresh lemon

• run 3 gruelling kilometres to the most eye-watering techno i can find

then stare into the mirror until i can no longer discern my face from that of a stranger’s.

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who the fuck is that, wearing my bruce springsteen t-shirt, my japanese denim?

call it a coping mechanism, call it a lifestyle.

the sheer sensibility of this self-sabotage is perhaps the Greatest Recession Indicator of all

though i can’t quite track when crashing out over pints lost its sparkle 

at 15 bucks a pop, everyone comparing mortgage rates at the picnic table.

a friend tells me she’s not worried about me which, in itself, is worrying:

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claudia, i want to worry about you

which is perhaps the most intimate thing anyone’s ever said to me

but now i know i can survive this (only grievous bodily harm, not death)

the slopes lack a certain sense of adrenaline.

did i use all my drama up the first time? is it less cute at the cusp of 30?

i’m not so afraid of spinsterhood anymore

but no one else will take the baby clothes i’ve been collecting for years.

i had a dream once that i gave birth to a slice of green apple

but the taste is fading as i forget the exact colour of your eyes.

fuck. where is that tube of plum-coloured mascara again?

when i tell people why i’m crying, they always say the same thing:

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better now than later, right? 

and i guess they’re right

but clutching at the skirts of the thing you want most in the world 

doesn’t sting any less for its short shelf life. 

so i’ll dance alone down this möbius strip of mending

dust off this beating thing in my chest that you put on lay-by and never picked up

and figure out how i became so goddamned well-adjusted without noticing.

Decadent young woman, After the dance by Ramon Casas, 1899

SALAD DAYS (plural noun, idiomatic)
/ˈsæləd deɪz/

1. a time of innocence and inexperience

2. a period of youthful inexperience or indiscretion
   “My salad days, / When I was green in judgment” — William Shakespeare

3. also: an early flourishing period; a heyday

it feels kind of freeing to be eating salad on a saturday night, alone and 29

but it’s also kind of sad that i’m wasting my most collagen-filled years going fucking insane

and trying to decipher why people don’t respond to my messages when mum says that i’m really fun to hang out with

and at knock offs i tell 2 of my 5 friends that i don’t want to turn 30

because you’re supposed to have a party at 30

and i don’t want anyone to know that i only have 5 friends

and they say, well, invite the 5 friends anyway

and maybe i will, but maybe i will also be wishing i could multiply their bodies into more bodies

then i could fill a whole room with people i love and not just a roomy toilet stall 

and i am lucky, i know, but i am also eating salad alone at 29 on a saturday night

so maybe 2 things can be true at the same time after all

you’ll find your tribe, mum says, when i come home from year 7 italian class crying because two girls carved my name into the wood of the desk, framed me for vandalism (they spelled my last name wrong)

you’ll find your tribe, mum says, as i flit ghost-edged through uni, sometimes not speaking to another person for an entire day, then an entire week

you’ll find your tribe, mum says, as i wave her out the door to eat salad, alone and 29 on a saturday night

but maybe lonely children grow into lonely adults

and this mythical tribe i’ve been searching for my whole life

voted me off the island long before i’d even reached its shores.

On the day we lay my grandmother to rest, I sing.

Death makes me itch, stage fright even more so. In my clacky heeled boots and green silk skirt – clothes I will never again wear without smelling the phantom floral perfume of the funeral home’s hushed interior – I pace. Pace and pace and pace, and think about running. I pace alone in front of the seaside church, hands slick enough to leave hot wet prints on the funeral program, and ponder the implications of a quick getaway.

My relatives gather inside, drawn together for the first time in what feels like years by death. Strange, I think, that someone’s sudden absence can make us reevaluate the fabric of our family tapestry. As if their departure makes us want to knit together the holes time and distance have left in the drapery of us.

I am 16. I am afraid. Death has touched me before, but never so close. Never so near.

My grandmother stares back at me from the funeral pamphlet, face encased in a decal of glossy stock photo roses. I see you, she seems to say. You promised me, and you wouldn’t break an oath to a dead woman. Would you? No backing out now. My name is printed on the shining brochure, right alongside hers.

The song I am to sing trills through my synapses, a metronome I have set in motion many times before. I’ve practiced, rehearsed, sweat over the treble clefs and vibrato of the tune until it sears itself into my dreams. I wake up with the notes still coursing through my veins, rivalling my red blood cell count. I know this song. This song knows me.

Songbird by Eva Cassidy. A precious lilting song, all the more haunting for the fact that it sounds like goodbye. I remember reading about the singer’s own slow descent into death and can’t help but feel like she’s here with me, urging me on. Do it justice, girl. Do me justice.

I think again about running. I am 16. I am afraid.

I am also brave.

Inside the church, I sit with my mother as her hands tremble around the eulogy she wrote for her own mother. At the pulpit, she battles through the words, choking on tears that come as soon as she returns to the pew. Finally, she lets herself fall apart. I hold her, but it’s not my turn to crumble. My mother was a warrior woman, she says in her eulogy. My hero.

The readings are sweet. Hymns and prayers that whisper of rest, of peace. No peace for the sweating granddaughter in the first pew, though. It’s my turn to rise.

I walk to the front of the church on legs shaky as a newborn deer, just as likely to snap. My clacky heels are muffled by the carpet’s benevolent squidge. I run hot hands along my skirt, wince at the sweat stains that mar the emerald silk. I turn. Blood rushes through my ears, pulses behind my eyelids, and I wonder if I will pass out. My grandmother watches from the enlarged portrait beside me, and her cornflower blue eyes urge me on. I see you. I’m with you.

No music accompanies me. A capella they call it, but it just feels like a betrayal. No net to catch me if I fall. I open my mouth. For a brief moment, nothing comes out but a ghostly puff of air.

Then, miraculously, a note. A note that seems to come from somewhere else, not from me but through me. A clear, crisp, ringing note that rebounds off the church’s stained-glass windows and straight back into my open palms. Another follows. I am singing. I am singing.

Singing with a clarity and gravitas I’ve never known, always been too fearful to grasp. I’ve sung my whole life, but never for others. Never in the spotlight. Never for the stone angels that watch on from the church’s vaulted ceiling, or for a sea of weeping wanting faces.

A life of cowering, of crippling self-consciousness and timidity watches on from the pews. I pay it no mind. I pay no mind to the years of high school torment that lean against an open doorway, watching on in disgust as they snap pink wads of bubblegum in glossy mouths. I ignore the shadowed figures of depression and self-hatred that crawl closer up carpeted steps to the stage, looking for an in.

I focus only on the notes that flow from me like the river I swam in as a child; the river I would float in for hours as nail-polished fingers pruned, the river whose rocky bed I would sink onto and play at mermaids, whose surface turned the world into milky light as I opened water-logged eyes beneath the foam.

I focus on the notes, and my mother, who vibrates with pride. That’s my girl, her eyes say. That’s my Claudia. To my little sister beside her, electric with love, looking up at me like I am an avenging angel.

I focus on my grandmother.

I will not remember her body as I last saw it, still and devoid of life like a pastry that has collapsed unto itself. I will not remember the years of dementia that haunted her waking hours. I will not remember the time she turned to me in a moment of rare lucidity and murmured words hard to scrub away in the hottest of showers. There’s something wrong with my brain. I will not remember the smell of her nursing home; soup and urine and forgetting. I will not remember her fear of the devil, or the way she would wander the halls at night, searching always for an exit.

I will remember instead the baby clothes she knitted for me, the ones I will keep for my own daughter. I will remember the vines of wild raspberries that grew in her back garden, and the way she would let us pick them, laughing as we closed our eyes in delight at the sun-drunk taste. I will remember her downy pepper-grey hair that grew back thick and lush after chemotherapy, the way she fought cancer tooth and nail, came out swinging. I will remember the old grumpy black cat she loved so much, who would be soft only for her. Who would sit on her lap as she reread Harry Potter on that old floral couch we will never throw away. I will remember the ancient jar of boiled candies she kept in the pantry just for us, and the way her thin hands felt clasped in my own.

I will remember her love for music, and the promise I made to her in those last terrible days. I’ll sing for you, Nonnie. I swear. I will remember the way the notes let me drift from my body, up into the rafters of that little seaside church and higher still, into a world where fear does not touch me.

Into a world where I might emerge from the cocoon of myself.

Into a world made of light.

An edited excerpt of this article was published by SBS Voices and later featured on 94.9 MainFM’s radio show ‘Dead Air’.

Read the article here and listen to the episode here.

Image: IMDB

A phantasmagorical landscape of trial and temptation unfolds.

Waves of 80s synth undulate over lush forests, twisting mazes and abundant red herrings. Two-faced allies materialise from the shadows, then lead you astray.

Welcome to the labyrinth.

It’s a rainy Saturday evening. I’m ten years old. A late-night movie rolls on and I’m entranced by a young Jennifer Connelly in a trailing dress and flower crown. She reads aloud from a novel, words ringing clear through the living room.

‘Through dangers untold and hardships unnumbered, I have fought my way here to take back the child you have stolen, for my will is as strong as yours and my kingdom as great.’

Sarah, our wily protagonist, fumbles for the last line and it is not until much later that we hear it. The words echo now across the chasm of years.

‘You have no power over me.’

Labyrinth (1986) follows Sarah as she fights to reclaim her brother from the clutches of the Goblin King after foolishly wishing for his disappearance. Immediately realising her mistake, Sarah must forge a path through the maze guarding Jareth’s castle before midnight strikes and Toby becomes one of the goblins forever.

Directed by creative visionary Jim Henson, Labyrinth has been my favourite movie since I first fell down its rabbit hole a decade ago. Some films never leave you, and while my love for Labyrinth is dripping with nostalgia, it has since defied its box office flop to earn cult classic status alongside other beloved fantasy movies like The NeverEnding Story (1984).

Indeed, revisiting Labyrinth now, I am reminded of its formative and integral role in my life. In my novels, the same themes recur – escapism, moral ambiguity, magic and sacrifice. I pay homage in dedicated annual rewatches, carefully curated playlists and hyper-specific Pinterest boards.

I’ve thought long and hard about why Labyrinth won’t let me go. Is it the cutting-edge puppetry that breathes life into the land’s mysterious inhabitants? Is it the mercurial David Bowie as Jareth, who had a generation of viewers ready to devote themselves to a life as his Goblin Queen? Is it Connelly, whose portrayal of Sarah captured the same restless emboldened energy I felt in my own heart?

Or is it deeper?

Labyrinth’s longevity extends beyond music, set, costuming or cast. It speaks to the fickle heart of youth and distils the darkness that hides in all of us. As Alison Stine wrote, ‘Labyrinth helps us remember what, deep down, we’ve always known… childhood is a scary and dangerous place, an inherently strange time filled with dead-ends, wrong turns, lies, and traps.’

Labyrinth is more than a campy flick with a killer aesthetic. Sarah’s journey through the maze tangibly and fantastically captures the transition from childhood to adulthood.

Sarah makes a mistake by wishing her brother away; a naive blunder borne of self-interest. By resisting Jareth’s persuasion or giving up when hope seemed lost, she claims her agency – and brother – in the process. She emerges from the goblin castle having looked temptation in the eye, stronger and more self-actualised than when she entered. Like growing up, the labyrinth demands we become our bravest and truest incarnations … lest we should lose ourselves entirely.

The goblins are not merely little devils; they are the embodiment of fear, longing and greed. One creature in particular, the Trash Lady, tempts Sarah back into her childhood room with the lure of beloved stuffed toys. She tries to make Sarah in her image, piling teddies on until Sarah can barely breathe beneath the detritus of youth. Sarah resists and surfaces fiercer. Changed.

One thing I could never understand as a child was why Sarah didn’t stay with Jareth. As he stood upon a crumbling tower and begged her to be his queen, I couldn’t fathom why she wouldn’t accept. I move the stars for no one, he says, but everything I’ve done, I’ve done for you. Why, then, did she suddenly remember that all-important line?

‘You have no power over me.’

As an adult, I think I finally understand.

As magical as the labyrinth is, as magical as childhood is, all beautiful things have a lifespan. The mystical allure of Jareth’s world is just that: allure. For Sarah to grow and blossom, she must let go of her fantasies. Though the friends she made along the way will always be with her, just as the magic of youth may always hold a place in our heart, it was time for her to release what had become a shackle.

Letting Jareth go, letting his world go, was the final test.

One we all must face.

Image: Elizabeth Allen

My childhood home is gone.

This is not a figurative declaration. The house I grew up in has been painted, renovated, reconfigured and blasted into modernity beyond all conceivable recognition. Whenever I’m feeling sentimental enough for a drive-by, I barely recognise the indigo blue Victorian weatherboard that housed my growing body for so many years.

I know nostalgia sweetens, but when I think of my time in that house, it’s like one long summer day. Ice creams melt over chubby fists, friends stay over for sleepovers on a weekly basis and the school holidays stretch out before us like a racetrack. The most stressful thing on my mind is making sure I fill out my reader with the latest chapter of Deltora Quest.

Life was sweet, simple, and my home was the centre of it all.

In memories, I pace creaky polished floorboards, open stained glass windows draped in trailing wisteria vines, stir milky Milos in a kitchen warped becomingly by age and play with Bratz dolls on a bright green carpet that never quite looked clean. I pick tiny sour cumquats from the tree in the front garden, build cubby houses in the towering pine on the nature strip with the neighbourhood kids and search for fairies among the wild rose bushes that grow unpruned by the window of my parent’s bedroom.

Now, bought by investors and given a facelift, the house is mushy pea green with a monstrous industrial kitchen and no wisteria in sight. Gone is the pine tree, the crumbling fence, even the ratty carpet that my mother swore she would replace when we learned to stop dropping food on it (we never did). It used to upset me; another vestige of childhood lost to the hungry beast of time. But what those eager investors didn’t realise as they slapped a coat of paint on the house and called it a bed and breakfast is that no amount of renovation can stop me from visiting the space as it was.

My childhood home might be gone, but in my dreams, it is untouched.

Every night I return to the bedroom I shared with my sister, full of treasures long disintegrated. I go back to uneven wooden floorboards, to a bathroom with rose-coloured tiles, to the lounge room that doubled as a concert hall for my elaborately choreographed performances and to the place I learnt to love words. I return to that house in sleep, and though it aches, I’m glad. I’m glad a space exists that will not crumble with age, that is mine and mine alone, shaped by memory and the sweetness of youth.

Dream analysts will tell you that dreaming of your childhood home represents a regression, a yearning for the past, but I say otherwise. My dream house exists as a refuge from the corrosion of time, and though my memories may fade, I believe that the house will always exist somewhere – in a little pocket of space just for me.

This piece was originally published in RMIT Catalyst.

Image: Jesse G-C

‘The cult of living memory was kicking, rolling over in its grave, eager to be released from obscurity.’

If you’ve ever been rushing to catch a train at Flinders Street and attempted a sneaky shortcut through one of the station’s many underpasses, you may have accidentally stumbled upon Campbell Arcade; a dim, pink, forgotten stretch of tunnel that boasts a somewhat checkered past.

Campbell Arcade is an often-overlooked subterranean stretch connecting Degraves St with the nearby metro. Opened in 1955 with the anticipation of the 1956 Olympic Games, the arcade sought to ease congestion into the subway and serve as a secondary entrance to The Mutual Store – Melbourne’s first and most glamorous department store. In true 50s style, the space was bedecked in pink art deco tiles and held aloft by a series of squat black marble columns. Spirits were high; businesses scrambled to secure tenancy of the shops lining the arcade, keen to capitalise on the anticipated foot traffic and the pull of The Mutual Store above.

Almost immediately, the arcade was deemed a failure. Early projections from the city council had estimated around 20,000 people would pass through it daily. Two years later, only 2000 commuters patronised the shortcut regularly. In fact, a survey found that two of three regular commuters were not even aware of the tunnel’s existence.

A series of unfortunate events nailed the coffin shut. With the close of The Mutual Store in 1965 and a lack of promised business, the arcade’s quaint storefronts struggled to thrive. Then, with the devastation of a flood in 1972, it slipped into further disrepair. The subway slowly faded out of use and devolved into a refuge for rough sleepers who dared to endure the 24/7 fluorescents in favour of a dry night. While some rejuvenation came in the form of a heritage listing and the installation of glass display cabinets for the Platform Contemporary Art Group to house ever-changing exhibitions in, Campbell Arcade never truly flourished.

Stepping into the arcade now feels like entering a dream land; somewhere you vaguely remember from childhood but would rather not dwell on. The unmistakable stench of urine permeates the air, forcing you to mouth-breathe for the duration of your stay. The low, claustrophobic ceiling and blinding overhead lights heighten the sense of trapped-ness, of wrongness.

The shop fronts that used to host milk bars, clothing boutiques and coffee stalls stand empty, abandoned. One lone zine store is a bright speck of life amidst the gloom. Graffiti covers most doorways, but it’s not the cool kind. The arcade is a place to hurry through, to avoid at night and tolerate by day. On a bright Tuesday morning, it is all but deserted.

Many have forgotten about Campbell Arcade, that much is obvious. But something fascinating is stirring in the cultural zeitgeist, reinjecting renewed interest into the tepid dark. Recently, Melbourne message boards and Tik Tok threads began to buzz with the urban legend of a secret hidden bowling alley left to rot beneath the bones of Flinders St Station and The Mutual Store. The entrance to this fabled venue? None other than Campbell Arcade.

The mystery of the bowling alley, allegedly called The Mutual Bowl, resurfaced with a vengeance. Kicked off by Tik Tok user @stephislost, whose post about the place went viral, the myth of The Mutual Bowl spurred digital denizens on a spirited hunt for information, photos and evidence of its existence.

During the initial investigation, opinions were mixed. Some claimed that the place never existed and was little more than an internet legend. Some claimed to have bowled there in the 70s, recalling the fact that lane 14 was warped. Some claimed that the bowling alley closed in the 80s and became a carpark. Some claimed it still stood but was walled off forever behind a blind alley.

Whether or not The Mutual Bowl actually existed, what truly mattered is that its skeleton had been dredged from the lake of legacy. Myth became material once more, and people were eager for proof. The cult of living memory was kicking, rolling over in its grave, eager to be released from obscurity. Nothing whets the appetite more than a mystery, and here was a mystery living just beneath the cobblestones, begging to be unravelled.

The story ends happily. @stephislost eventually unearthed proof that the bowling alley existed; pictures of the Mutual Store’s facade with a sign reading ‘bowling alley in basement’, black and white stills of tweens hanging out there and, remarkably, a photo of an intact staff uniform worn by a local in youth. Dozens of people reached out in emails and messages, recounting the many happy days they spent underground. City plans were snatched from library shelves, blueprints dug up from archives. The myth was solved; The Mutual Bowl made the leap from legend to legit within weeks.

Watching the mystery play out, I was reminded again of our city’s history; both remembered and unremembered. All it took was one video to capture an audience hungry for truth, and what power they held in their collective hands when push came to shove. Melbourne is richer for the secrets hidden beneath its surface, as are we all for seeking them out.

Sadly, the Campbell Arcade is under threat of demolition amidst the glossy promise of the new Metro Tunnel project. Melbourne could soon be robbed of another heritage-listed location, and in the face of development, I side with pink tiles and fat marble columns. If the hunt for The Mutual Bowl has taught me anything, it is this: we must not leave our legacy for the hungry wolves of time.

Author’s note: Since being published in RMIT Catalyst, the Campbell Arcade has been officially reopened!

Photograph by Claudia Weiskopf.

I don’t like thinking about Year 7.

In fact, Year 7 is a black hole in my adolescence. Whether you call it repressed trauma or wilful amnesia, I have almost completely erased my 12-year-old self from conscious existence.

High school is a gnarly time for a lot of people. You’re growing in ways you never expected. Hair is sprouting in strange places and your skin has lost the baby-smoothness of childhood. Your friends are changing and all you want is to be as undifferent as possible. Your hormones are a bloody beating heart under the floorboards, tempting you to lash out at your parents and slam doors.

With the tenuous friendships of primary school hanging ever so delicately in the balance, I entered Year 7. It was a big change. New campus, new locker. New teachers, new expectations. New uniform that did not quite hide my baby fat. New school shoes that were not quite as cool as the popular girl’s artfully unbuckled T-bars. New world.

Almost immediately, it was terrible. My fears were realised – I did not ‘fit in’. I was nerdy; I liked to read, liked to sing show tunes, took pride in my marks. I was not skinny and I did not have chunky 2008-era highlights in my hair. I was a teacher’s pet and loved learning. I had never kissed a boy, let alone been asked out by one. I was decidedly uncool.

At my new high school, all the Year 7s crowded into a single locker room. Older grades would traipse by and laugh at how small we were. Walking through the gates of high school as a timid pre-teen in an ill-fitting blazer felt like walking to meet Cerberus each and every morning. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

The girls were unkind, the boys were mean, and I spent many car rides home fighting back tears – asking my mother what was wrong with me. At 12, barely even a person, I truly believed I was broken. This feeling still lingers, even now, and I can’t pass a group of high school girls without clamming up. Friendship was an elusive thing, confidence even moreso. School, once a haven of playground laughter and poster boards, was now a fight to stay above the water.

The popular girls at school took it upon themselves to make my life miserable. They carved my name into the school desks, trying to frame me for vandalism. It backfired, because they couldn’t even manage to spell my last name correctly. When I got stuck with a bottom locker, the girl above me delighted in dropping her heavy metal lock on my skull. When I convinced my mother to let me get highlights in my hair, they laughed in class and told me I looked like Rogue from X-Men; racoon stripes and all.

Even worse than the bullying, though, was the isolation. I had few friends. I tried, of course, but something had snapped inside me. My confidence was in the negatives. I was just a small, silly, wanting thing with hunched shoulders and an aching skull.

I tried a new approach: if I did not fit into the mould of the girls who bullied me, I would embrace my difference. In the era of skinny jeans and lengthy Lovisa necklaces, I wore a vintage sunflower dress over ripped black tights and neon green Converse with pink laces to school on a free dress day. My mother begged me not to, for she must have known the reaction this would have, but I ignored her. The whole ride to school, I convinced myself that this would solidify my status as a bonafide cool girl.

The moment I stepped out of the car, I realised my mistake. The girls pointed and laughed as I stumbled to class, ‘freak’ echoing loud and clear on a eucalyptus wind. Worse, I was part of the choir and had to stand up in front of the entire assembly in my wannabe manic pixie dream girl ensemble. Humiliation is too kind a description.

I haven’t even fully come to terms with this myself, but at the tender age of 12, I was already having thoughts of suicide. I remember tying a belt around my neck and wishing I had the courage to hang myself from the closet rail, knowing I could never leave my sister alone in the world. I slept on her floor for months, cushioned by a thin foam camping mattress, because I was so terrified to be alone at night. She was one of my only friends; someone who kept the nightmares at bay, who wouldn’t – couldn’t – run away.

In Maths class, a teacher once overheard a girl say something nasty to me. He flipped. He shut the textbook and told us a story of how, at his previous school, two girls had hung themselves from a tree on campus because they were so terribly bullied. Two girls, as young as me. Now I realise they could have been me.

The only bright spot in my world was English class. I have always loved reading, loved writing, but in the secretive and intense way one loves something they think they shouldn’t. I read obsessively, taking home boxes of library books and devouring them in a single week. I journaled and wrote poetry for no one to see. I escaped into a world of fantastical places, of brave heroines with brown hair who rose above it all. In reading, I forgot myself. I found myself.

In the end, a humble English teacher saved my life. Mr. Galvin, who got so excited about literature that he would practically bounce around the classroom, eyes alight with the fire of Wuthering Heights and Shakespeare. Mr. Galvin, who made us read out our poems in class one day and, when I meekly said mine was no good, would not let me keep the words to myself. Who smiled when I finished and told me it was good, was great even. Mr. Galvin, who solidified my dreams of authorhood, who made me believe my words were worthy of being heard.

For many years, I believed I could only consume the work of others. I shied away from writing for lack of confidence and direction. Now, 12 years later, I have written a novel of my own and have so many more stories within me. I have articles and poems published in magazines. I’m studying my craft and only cringe a little when I call myself a writer. I love the words, yes, but I also live them. I create as much as I consume.

So to every English teacher who doubts whether their class is really listening to them, who sometimes shudders at the attitudes of moody preteens forced to read, know that there is always one quiet, bullied, bedraggled girl in a vintage sunflower dress listening with baited breath. Know that with your words and kindness, you help the next generation of writers blossom from fearful secretive children into proud powerful creators. To every Mr. Galvin, to every passionate educator, please know you saved me.

I hope I can repay you one day.

Author’s note: I did, in fact, send Mr Galvin this article. He was chuffed.

A version of this piece was published by RMIT Catalyst. Find it here.

Image: Madison O’Friel

‘How can one feel sympathy for the devil?’

A brief scroll through Goodreads, a well-loved website dedicated to tracking and rating novels, reveals a community of fans for even the most obscure of sub-genres. Goodreads’ ‘list’ function – where users compile lists of books by genre, theme, archetype or trope – allows like-minded readers to unearth books on topics of interest. The lists range from generic (see ‘Greatest books of all time’) to so specific that only a person attempting to cook historically accurate meals from Imperial Rome would click.

Though there is a list for everything, the most popular genre for compilation is undoubtedly Young Adult Fantasy. YA fantasy aims to distil the chaos of youth and reflect it onto a tapestry of uncharted, unimagined worlds. I make no secret of my love for YA Fantasy, and while scrolling Goodreads for my next book, found a list intriguingly titled ‘Dark Princes’. The accompanying comment followed:

‘[What every girl truly wants] is her own dark prince. This is my compiled list of books whose male characters are a misunderstood lead, a black sheep who turns out [to be good in the end. After finishing these books, we end up liking – if not loving – these dark princes and wishing they would end up with the heroines].’ (Blessing, 2016)

The list was full of books featuring tragic anti-heroes who, despite torturing, humiliating and killing their way through the novel, somehow end up winning the redeeming love of the beautiful young heroine and assuming the mantle of certified Good Guy. This list struck a question in me; why is the archetype of the Dark Prince so attractive, and what does it spell for the audience so enthralled by its morally grey material?

By drawing on examples from two popular novels The Cruel Prince and A Court of Thorns and Roses, I set out to trace the archetype of the Dark Prince back to the Romantic figure of the Byronic Hero and even further back, still, to the classic myths of Hades and Satan himself. Ultimately, I believe that the Dark Prince exists as a contemporary echo of the well-worn Byronic stock character and has been powered into modernity by the desires of young female-identifying readers.

First, we must define the Dark Prince as an archetype and understand his mythological origins. Though no official definition exists, I understand the Dark Prince to be a brooding, attractive, powerful, snarky and – most importantly – redeemable character who exists as the antithesis of the heroine’s conventionally ‘good’ qualities. For each ounce of bravery and kindness the leading lady possesses, the Prince must match her in trauma, treachery and taunts. It is imperative that the Prince be not only exceedingly attractive but desirable to the main character; he initially acts as the serpent to Eve, tempting her down a path of seduction and power, testing the limits of her morality. However, upon cracking his hardened exterior, the heroine learns that the Dark Prince is not only deeply emotional but troubled, thoughtful and profoundly worthy of her love.

In Holly Black’s The Cruel Prince, human Jude lives in Faerie with her sisters and adoptive father. Her school bully, the beautiful and impervious Prince Cardan, is youngest son to the reigning fae king. Cardan goes out of his way to make Jude’s life hell; forcing her to strip naked in front of her classmates after magically drugging her, constantly belittling her ambitions to become a knight, betraying her confidence and nearly causing her death. Yet beyond his cruelty, Cardan’s apparent hatred for Jude masks a deep longing. While infiltrating his manor house, Jude finds a piece of paper covered in her name, scrawled thousands and thousands of times by the boy-prince’s feverish hand. This, while creepy, spurs Jude to reconsider his apparent hatred and eventually return his affections.

Similarly, in A Court of Thorns and Roses, powerful fae lord Rhysand delights in playing games with human Feyre – even going so far as to kidnap her, trap her in a magical bond and force her to spend months with him at his palace like another famous Dark Prince. Despite his cruelty, Rhysand ultimately admits that he is in love with Feyre and has been from the moment they met. In fact, it is soon revealed that they are ‘mates’. Maybe it’s just the Australian in me, but hearing mate in a romantic context sort of kills the mood.

Nevertheless, Cardan and Rhysand both slot into the archetype of the Dark Prince with ease; they are powerful, seductive and callous men who, by virtue of their love for the main character, end the novel redeemed in both the eyes of the heroine and the reader.

Likewise, the figure of the Byronic Hero echoes the Dark Prince’s gloomy, secretive and romantic tendencies. The Byronic Hero is easier to define; a rebel, a lover, a loner lacking in quintessential heroic virtue but magnetic nonetheless (Marin, 2008). As gothic literature professor Wendy Fall writes, ‘Byronic heroes are arrogant, intelligent, educated outcasts, who somehow balance their cynicism and self-destructive tendencies with a mysterious attraction, particularly for heroines.’ (Fall, 2021).

One only has to flip through a Brontë novel to see the Byronic hero in action; callous Heathcliff loving only Cathy, cold Mr. Rochester hiding a terrible secret in the attic while falling for naive Jane. The Byronic hero exists as a wishful dream for readers, allowing them to step briefly into a world where love and passion are the ultimate cures for evil.

With Cardan and Rhysand as the modern Dark Princes, Heathcliff and Mr. Rochester as the Byronic blueprints, the question arises; who was the original? The obvious answer is Hades, dark god of the Underworld who condemned pure Persephone to a fate of darkness simply because he could not bear to be without her. However, the answer may lay in a different offshoot of myth altogether. It is my belief that the original Dark Prince is none other than Lucifer; a misunderstood angel who fell from heaven for loving too much, for being too proud.

In a comparison between Dante’s Inferno and Byron’s problematic protagonists, Zerafa writes ‘Satan in Paradise Lost, though evil, attracts the reader who in turn is able to sympathise with the demon and his struggles. How can one feel sympathy for the devil?’ If the modern Dark Prince and classic Byronic hero is anything, it is this: a sympathetic devil.

Now that we understand who the Dark Prince is and where he came from, we must ask about his audience. Who are the people consuming this modern archetype, and what does the Prince say about them? Moreover, what effect will the Prince have on his overly young demographic?

First, we must acknowledge that the Dark Prince – and the YA fantasy genre at large – is primarily a female-oriented phenomenon. In 2014, 60.5 percent of all young adult books sold were purchased by women and 39.5 percent were bought by men. Likewise, on NPR’s Best Teen Novels List, 63% of the top 100 books were written by women. It is fair to extrapolate, then, that it is primarily women-identifying people reading and writing about the archetype. Indeed, I would argue that the Dark Prince exists for, and because of, women. The Prince acts as fantastical wish fulfillment, as literary fan service; through the eyes of the heroine and the romantic female gaze, readers can experience the kind of mythological, passionate, world-altering love that we are all taught to crave. Unfortunately, in the Dark Prince’s case, this love is also often unkind and – in some cases – violent.

The Dark Prince teaches young female readers that all manner of violence can be accepted in a partner if only he feels anguish and regret after. After Rhysand kidnaps Feyre and forces her to spend weeks at his palace, he reveals that he only did this to save her from depression and a toxic marriage. Thus, he is redeemed.

After Cardan drugs Jude with a magic apple, makes her strip bare and kiss his feet for amusement, he secretly pricks her finger with the knowledge that when she tastes the blood, the enchantment will lift. This act of mercy, along with the shame and desire Jude sees in his eyes while he humiliates her, redeems Cardan of all wrongdoings.

The Dark Prince teaches passion, yes, but also aggression and possession. By laying claim to the young heroines and treating them as they wish, disregarding the silly notion of consent, the Dark Prince plants a dangerous idea in the minds of young readers. He teaches that women can accept all manner of horrors if only to fix the perpetrator. Beth Younger writes that, ‘YA literature is an important source of cultural information for young readers in that it portrays adolescents negotiating the social and sexual standards of the dominant culture. Young people are influence by the books they read. They need literature that will help them develop into healthy adults’ (Younger, 2009; Wolford, 2010). As exciting as it may be to root for the broken Byronic Prince, we must question the lessons that linger long after the cover of a book falls shut.

A version of this piece was published by RMIT Catalyst. Find it here.

References:

Blessing. (2016). Dark Princes | Goodreads.

Dahl, M. (2014, June 8). The Dudes Who Read Young-Adult Fiction. The Cut.

Fall, W. (2021). Glossary of the Gothic; Byronic Hero. Marquette University.

Lewit, M. (2012). Why Do Female Authors Dominate Young-Adult Fiction? The Atlantic.

Magic Writer. (2017). What is Young Adult Fantasy?

Marin, C. G. (2008). The Byronic Hero. 81-86. Contemporary Literary, Linguistic and Didactic Studies Centre, Pitesti University Press.

Wolford, T. (2010). Maidens or Warriors: Women’s roles in current young adult fantasy literature. University of North Carolina.

Younger, B. (2009). Learning curves: body image and female sexuality in young adult literature. The Scarecrow Press Inc.

Zerafa, L. R. (2013). Beyond hero and villain: Milton’s portrayal of Satan and Byron’s problematic protagonists. University of Malta.

‘How could this be a phase if it had always been there?’

I’m 12 years old and my heart is trilling like a rooster’s morning crow, my breath catching like a hapless fly in a spider’s web. I’m sitting on the cold floorboards in front of the TV, legs crossed, enraptured by the shifting images on the brightly lit screen.

I’m 18 and my heart is pumping with the vigour of an athlete who knows they just won gold, my breath hitching like a horse to a cart. I’ve just kissed someone for the second time in my entire life and now I understand why people write poetry.

What is the connection between these two seemingly disconnected experiences? I won’t make you wait for the answer. It’s girls.

When I was younger, I was obsessed with the 2003 animated DreamWorks movie Sinbad: Legend of the Seven Seas. It’s a dashing tale of pirates, criminals, heists and the end of the world. Its sharp wit, ravishing romance and high stakes action truly stand the test of time, even now in the era of sanitised, Disneyfied media. I loved it then, and I love it still.

However, I’ve come to realise in the past few years that my childhood fixation stemmed from more obscure reasons than mere entertainment.

In the movie, the dashing and cavalier Sinbad must journey to the edge of the world with his best friend’s beautiful fiancée (cue angst) on a journey to retrieve the stolen Book of Peace under threat of death. Sinbad is a lovable, irreverent and understandably misunderstood anti-hero who secretly shields a heart of immense compassion.

His companion, the beautiful and bold Marina, secretly longs for freedom from the political duties of her station as ambassador to Syracuse. They, along with Sinbad’s ragtag crew, must outrun ancient hunters and plentiful obstacles to retrieve the Book from the one who took it; none other than the Goddess of Discord, Eris.

Eris is everything you imagine a chaos goddess would be; conniving, luxurious and utterly wicked. In a dusky purple dress that descends into coils of smoke at the hem and wreathed in sheaths of long ink black hair that seem to defy gravity’s siren song, she is a beautiful menace.

Every time she was on screen, my young eyes remained glued to her animated form. I distinctly remember the fluttering feeling in my stomach that greeted me every time she appeared, as light and unsure as a deer’s first steps. I watched and rewatched her scenes like an acolyte, especially the one where she bathes naked in a galactic bubble bath of stars, never understanding why she made me feel different than Sinbad or Marina or any of the other characters.

It was only after I came out as bisexual years later that I truly grasped my obsession with Eris. I had, even at a young age, been attracted to her. Not consciously, not knowingly, but attracted nonetheless. This revelation made me question my entire coming out journey. This was not something that happened well into my teen years or overnight, this was something that had been present from childhood. I was not ‘going through a phase’ as so many people claimed. I had liked girls from the start.

One only has to ask the question ‘which cartoon character were you obsessed with as a child?’ to get a plethora of answers. Shego from Kim Possible. Jessica Rabbit from Who Framed Roger Rabbit. Megara from Hercules, Velma from Scooby Doo, Kida from Atlantis. These characters, two dimensional as they are, illuminate a world in which the binaries of heterosexuality are not the only pathways to tread. Cartoons allow us to explore attraction in a liminal space, to push the boundaries of what we find appealing in a fluid, non-confrontational way.

Coming out is scary. You fear backlash, intrusive questions, judgement. When I told my family I was bi, they asked if I was doing it for attention. People claimed I was a lesbian when I started dating girls, never stopping to ask me or hesitate to assume my orientation. Bi erasure pervades our community, as do harmful stereotypes about promiscuity and selfishness.

I am so proud to be bi, to be out, but it doesn’t rewrite the rocky road that lies behind me. Somehow knowing that I was attracted to more than men from an early age comforts me, because how would this be a phase if it had always been there?

I’m grateful for Eris; for her charm, for her cunning, but ­– most of all – for helping a questioning girl validate her blossoming sexuality. I recently rewatched Sinbad at 24 years old.

All the same butterflies were there, even more in fact, because now I feel no shame in admitting that Eris is one hell of a goddess.

A version of this piece was published in RMIT Catalyst’s issue 4 Vol 77. Find it on page 16 here.

Art by Claudia Weiskopf.

I used to get hit on a lot. Like, a lot.

I don’t say this to boost my own ego, nor to cultivate an image of myself as the sort of person who can turn heads involuntarily. It’s simply the truth. At 17, I received more male attention – solicited and otherwise – than ever before in my life.

I was a lonely teenager, always desperate for a few people who really ‘got me’. A sense of otherness pervaded me, followed me home from school and crept up my shins. Cliché, I know, but, with the luxury of time and a head full of books, what else is there to do at 17 besides relish in your own gory hormonal angst?

I was not pretty. Remember those silly ‘like for a TBH’ posts that we all circulated on Facebook in high school? Yeah, I thought so. Craving attention and not the least ashamed to demand it, I once ‘liked’ one of these posts from a popular girl at school. This comment, which merits the award for most backhanded compliment ever, quickly followed.

‘Claudia, you’re sooo nice and way prettier than people give you credit for!’

When the response popped up on my screen, it confirmed my suspicions. I was not pretty, and worse, no one had the illusion that I was. The chunky Dream Mousse foundation that I used to cover my adolescent eye bags was fooling no one, nor were the old-school YouTube hair tutorials that I followed like a religion.

Then, seemingly overnight, the impossible occurred. I became pretty. When I left Australia on a scholarship to an international boarding school in the forests of Canada, it felt like I was granted permission to slough off the memory of myself. I was not the girl who forgot an apple in her school locker till it became furry and pervaded the room with thick, pungent waves of stink. I was not the girl who was slightly too chubby to be cute, slightly too shy to be adorkable. I was not the awkward girl who did not get invited to the formal, who had never been kissed – or even asked out – by the end of year 12.

I was made anew. I had no shadow.

That was when I became pretty. Two years in Canada did me good. I lost weight, grew my hair, grew my confidence and returned home with a fresh sense of self. People who saw me on the street commented on my change. I felt like a gooey butterfly fresh from her cocoon, sticky wings unfurling for all to see. But along with a smaller dress size and the sinuous beginnings of an eating disorder, I had gained something else in my years away.

Sex appeal. Fuckability.

Suddenly, men were stopping me in the street for my number. Woolworths check-out boys were asking me to meet them after their shift ended. All around, the male population was waking up to me. I was, for the first time, deserving of ‘my credit’. The male gaze, at once toxic, ephemeral and addictive, was like a drug. Finally, I had grasped that fleeting, dark thing for which so many people crave and crawl and coif. I was pretty.

As you might imagine, it didn’t solve my problems. While I was in Canada, my cursory school friends had faded away and moved on. People had bought cars and started university. My family had disintegrated, my childhood home was sold. The world had moved on, and my prettiness did not stop this. It did not solve my problems like I hoped it would.

I was, at the core, still me. That was the one thing I could not change. I was getting more attention than ever, and yet I was still painfully lonely. Maybe even more so, because I didn’t even have the excuse of ugliness to shield myself. The problem was more than skin deep.

The year of 17 feels like a fever dream now. When I was so lonely and depressed that I thought I may very well fade into the walls, I used to get on the train and go into the city. I would walk around the streets and beg the universe for someone to talk to. She listened, but the leering, middle-aged men who chatted me up were not who I wanted. I wonder now what the hell they were doing talking to someone so young, so vulnerable, so obviously desperate. I sought out the validation I could not give myself in others, but it was no stand-in for the real thing.

Now, I’m different. Not better or worse. Just different. I have a partner and friends who love me. I have a family that is not totally whole, but not totally fractured either. I have passions and dreams and, most importantly, love for myself. I do not get catcalled anymore. Men do not approach me on the street. Check-out boys scan my celery without a second glance. I am not lusted after, nor sought out for my looks. Age and relationship weight gain have seen to that. I wonder if men can sense that vulnerability and insecurity do not dog me anymore and have turned their sights to fresher meat.

Even though I know what lies at the end of the road, I cannot shut out the little nagging voice that tells me I am worth less for every uninterested brush of someone’s eyes over me. The male gaze is a tricky thing. It creeps into your pores with each catcall, with each weight-loss commercial, with every unwanted grasping hand in the dark recesses of a club dance floor. I wonder when my body became less of a vehicle and more of a statement, when it crossed the border from teen toy to invisible adult.

Despite it all, I am better this way. I think of 17-year-old me and wish I could tell her that it gets better. I would sweep her hair from her face and make her a cup of tea, ask if she ate that day. I would gently pull her hands away from her wrist where she had been ascertaining that the fingers still touched around the bone. I would tell her that looking pretty and being pretty are two totally different things. I would tell her that her pain won’t ever fade, but rather take on the shiny, candy-hard texture of memory. She wouldn’t believe me, but I would say it anyway.

They say that your cells renew every 7 years. At 24, this is the last year that I will share a body with my 17-year-old self. When she fades from me, though, I will not forget her.

I hope she would do the same for me.

A version of this piece was published by Fashion Journal. Find it here.

Art by Claudia Weiskopf.

This would be easier if I didn’t have a body.

The idea materialises in my mind like an autumn leaf loosed fast from a tree. It drops into my outstretched palm as if to say, ‘Here I am, and aren’t you silly for not arriving at me earlier?’

An infected tree does not keep its limbs. If my body is the problem, then not having one would solve the issue nicely. The idea and I lie on the bathroom floor together, the terrazzo tiles leaving cold teeth marks on my skin. Somehow, I always end up here. There’s something deeply therapeutic about a bathroom floor. Most issues can be solved by an hour or two down there.

Well, maybe not all issues.

Safe in the floor’s embrace, I allow myself to drift. Let the idea of incorporeality send me away from this body, away from this room. I imagine floating around in the ether as a shining cloud of thought, unbound by the passé laws of gravity. I envision unzipping my skin like a sweatshirt and shimmying out of it, letting it fall back to the ground with a thump - good riddance - and emerging with sticky butterfly wings, ribs you can see, the power of weightlessness. I become the wind; imperceivable, omnipresent.

Perhaps it would not be easier if I had no body at all. Easier only if I did not fight and struggle with the one I am currently in. Ownership is a peculiar thing, isn’t it? My body. I am it and it is me. Yet no matter the meditations or mindfulness tutorials, I cannot reconcile the idea of my soul with this lump of bone, this stretched skin. We have never seen eye to eye. We are not sisters, or cousins, or even friends.

We are foes.

Though I am soppy and sentimental, this softness does not extend to myself. I weep over clothes that don’t fit anymore, too frayed for even a demotion to cleaning rag. I drive past the house I grew up in and fight the urge to barge inside, lock myself in my childhood room, peel back the paint and find my beloved fairy wallpaper hiding beneath.

Youth is a hazy summer day, all melting ice creams and adventures. Everything is bright and wonderful and there is no pain. I was not aware of myself then, far less my body. It was just a vehicle for gallivanting, getting from one tree house to the other. I wonder when this all changed. Before the weight loss ads and fashion magazines had me in their grips. Before I understood that boys don’t like chubby girls, but rather girls who float a few feet off the ground, light like a fairy. Before I realised my body was a currency that the media itched to devalue.

Puberty was kind to me in some ways, and relentlessly cruel in others. The soft puppy fat of my face has never shifted and my hips, wide even in youth, have careened out. My knees have dimples in them. A friend once told me I have grandma arms, the skin swooping softly away from the muscle like wings. My feet are abnormally large and my hands abnormally small. The least they could do is match.

There are good things, too. I have eyes like the palest New Zealand jade. My skin is olive even in winter. My hair, despite years of bleach and DIY colourants, is shiny and gold-edged in the sun. The inside of my forearms are soft as rabbit’s fur. It’s not all bad.

And yet to me, stuck firmly and irrevocably on Planet Dysmorphia, I am the monster in the cupboard. Somewhere along the way, I was plucked from my bed and dumped unceremoniously here. This foreign world, terrain gnarled and inhospitable, has been my home ever since.

I used to lie awake each night, no more than fourteen years old, and pray to God that I would wake up skinny. I don’t believe in God, didn’t even then, and yet I begged Him with the flagrant desperation of a sinner entering Hell. Maybe I was just begging to be returned home from a planet with no escape hatches, no Earth-bound pods.

There was this girl in my class, her every word to me cruel and glass-sharp, with the most perfect body I’d ever seen. Long tanned limbs and an athletic, almost boyish build. I prayed each night that when I rolled out of bed the next morning, my body would be hers. I would happily forgo the map of memory that I had etched on my own skin, the scrapes and scars and freckles from a life well-lived. They could have it all if I were reformed from clay, scraped slender and perfect by a sculptor’s benevolent hand. The world would be right, then.

Not only did I believe that being thin would fix me - I believed it would fix everything else. My parents wouldn’t be getting a divorce. I would have friends, boys would ask me out. I wouldn’t be bullied anymore. I would be one of those girls who I watched out of the corners of my eye, blonde hair gleaming in the sun, untouchable and electric. My dad would tell me he loved me when I begged him to.

I got my wish, but as you might imagine, it didn’t quite have the desired effect. I became thin. When I got sick of my own fruitless hoping, I took action. I drank only black coffee for days, hands shaking so hard that the liquid nearly sloshed over the rim. I starved myself, letting the feeling of being empty become an old friend. I threw up each dinner like clockwork. I measured my progress with dress sizes and my fingers around my wrist, always checking for changes. I kept my secrets close like love letters, and when people commented on my change, I smiled and doubled my efforts. I grew my hair, took care of my skin, graduated from shapeless baggy clothes to things that hugged my new form. I was finally enough for the rest of the world.

And yet I was not enough for me.

At my lowest weight, I still believed that I was the beast under the bed. The gnarled trees of my new planet had crept into my veins, my eyes, blinding me a little more each day. I even took ‘before’ pictures in the mirror, sullen faced and grave, intent on a new fitness journey. I would transform again. I lay in bed for days, too trampled by hatred and hollowness to even go outside. I turned away from friends, family, those who now sought me out like one of those electric girls I’d grown up envying. I tortured myself. It did no good. The thing that I had craved and crawled for did not change my life, nor me.

I didn’t even see how thin I’d become. In my mind, I was still that pudgy teen praying to a God she didn’t believe in.

This all has the candy-hard sweetness of past pain, something to be encapsulated in neat little adages. “When I was your age,” and “Oh yes, I’ve been through that too”. I am different now, yes, but far from better. Dysmorphia and I are still roommates. We have come to know each other well, and though it defies eviction, we can cohabit most days in peace.

Some night it howls at the walls and scratches at my door. Some nights it eats all the food in the fridge … or is that me? It whines and wheedles like a child, begging me to relapse.

But sometimes it is quiet, driven away by the warm arms of a friend or my partner. Sometimes it leaves me in peace for a whole week, locked sulkily in its room, music blasting. If I don’t look in the mirror after a shower or analyse my body too closely, we can skirt around each other silently in the hallway.

I have grown, too. Years of cognitive behavioural therapy, antidepressants and the watchful eyes of loved ones have kept me on track. My dinner stays in my stomach and my fingers only occasionally stray to my wrist. I have fought as hard for recovery as I have for thinness, and for that I am proud. I do not worship my body, nor revere it. Instead, I treat it as a piece of machinery. It needs food and water as a car needs coolant and fuel. My legs are simply propellants, my arms are cranes, my stomach the engine. I am a caretaker, my body not some temple but a working - if stubborn - vehicle.

This helps.

As I pick myself up off the cool bathroom floor and face the world beyond, it dawns on me that I’ve never left Planet Dysmorphia. It’s possible that I never will.

But maybe, just maybe, my torch can beat back its dark snaking hands.

Maybe one day, I will find that lone escape pod in the rubble.

Maybe one day, I will return home.

A version of this piece was published by Fashion Journal here.

It was also shortlisted by Frankie Magazine here.

• pigeons

• bioluminescence

• ocean spray

• beetroot (the colour, the vegetable, the lip stain)

• moss green

• petrichor

• letting the earth devour you

• silk scarves

• vinyl crackle

• homemade pesto

• brogues

• laugh lines

• rice paper lanterns

• 180 bpm

• lemon myrtle scented everything

• match book collections

• 80's fantasy

• clothing swaps, markets, thrifting (honestly anything that breaks the fast fashion cycle)

• wine bottles as candlesticks

• a big career change

• sesame snaps

• chatting with your neighbours over the fence, exchanging lemons

• bleached eyebrows

• leaving work at work

• mixed metals

• witches

• shoegaze, soundscapes

• humility

• japanese horror

• hope

• radical kindness

• fractals

• natural nails

• smiling at everyone, everyone, everyone

2025 OUTS:

• arrogance

• screen time

• overpriced dentistry

• student loans

• prescriptive movie scores

• monotony

• cliques

• ghosting

• tension headaches

• DUST

• ignoring your inner child (she needs you)

• top-down management

• resellers

• cotton balls

• panic buying

• ‘Regards, ____’

• hot cross buns

• slick back buns

• musk

• littering

• laminated eyebrows

• checking your ig story views

• leaky water bottles

• set menus

• Johnston Street

• tax cuts for corporations

• hating cats

• hating pigeons

• hate.

i see you.

in the alley and the gutter and the air,

rainbow wing taut,

scrounging for scraps,

playing in the street like you (don’t) know what pain feels like.

weaving into warm cafés,

and libraries,

and wherever you're (un)welcome.

(didn't you see the spikes on the ledge?

didn't you hear the disdain in the barista's voice?)

bird brain.

hollow bone.

rat feather.

who else could garner such disgust?

we forgot,

didn’t we?

that you carried our poems,

fighting the wind and sleet and rain,

little black eyes narrowed against the cold -

determined to ensure your cargo was delivered with care,

your mission complete.

determined to ensure

that lovers got their letters,

and crones learned their grandchildren's names,

and kings passed on their decrees.

we forgot.

we forgot that you were ours,

that we bred you and

kept you and

held you.

but you didn’t, did you?

you remember the warmth of our hands,

the feel of string and paper around your foot.

you remember that the word homing

is not complete without the word home.

that the only difference between a pigeon and a dove

is size -

no one’s releasing you into the air at a wedding, are they?

now you hop into our cafés,

and food courts,

and libraries,

puffed against the chill,

hoping that someone will look in your small black eyes

and remember

and smile.

so i’ll wait in the alley,

in the gutter,

in the air.

i’ll wait,

because i see you.

and i know you see me too.

• the scent of a blown-out match

• patches of moss

• sylvanian families

• dried roses

• radical honesty

• the sound my cat makes when i wake her up (breow?)

• aesop interior design

• bumping into your friends on the street

• dream journals

• op shop books

• kismet

• wicker baskets

• knowing your neighbours

• waking up in the middle of the night, listening to the rain, falling back asleep

• handmade mugs with the potter’s name engraved on the bottom

• art nouveau

• imperfection

• actually going to therapy

• smile lines

• being a little bit silly

• whimsigoth

• spotify playlists as a love language

• bay windows

• wikipedia rabbit holes

• wabi sabi

• angel numbers

2024 OUTS:

• doctors that won’t bulk bill

• dust

• romanticising your sadness

• killing spiders

• slack notifications

• checking your ex’s instagram at 3 am

• gatekeeping

• sunday scaries

• jeans that you can’t sit down in

• blind complacency

• avoiding difficult conversations

• the rental crisis

• dry cuticles

• the goblin in my washing machine who eats socks

• pretence

• being mean to pigeons

• humidity

• whore-madonna complex

• making fun of people who enjoy discussing zodiac signs

• the paralysing fear of stagnation

• FOMO

lay face down on the forest floor

breathe in moss, warm dark things

/

let sunlight play hide-and-seek kaleidoscopes

through the thin beaten gold of closed eyelids

/

feel the hurt drain out of your heart

like spilled merlot on a white rug

straight into the soil

/

where the earth wraps roots

around the rot

/

and turns it into light

/

listen to her laugh beside you

apply the sound like a salve

/

hold each other’s hands

till you’re not sure

where her heartbeat stops and yours begins

/

and if a bee stings

cry not with pain

but because it thought you were as pretty

as a flower.

1 - EXT. INNER CITY. DAY.

A crowded tram stop in Melbourne’s sluggish heart shivers licentiously with waves of glossy unrelenting heat. Sweat glistens on collarbones alongside tiny golden necklaces, leaves Rorschach blotches on the armpits of collared shirts. Thighs stick to the scorching bars of metal benches. Flies divebomb for dripping ice creams only to be swatted away by hands as quick and irritated as a horse’s tail.

Summer is here. 

So is the tram. 

2 - INT. TRAM. DAY

A girl boards the tram, swept up in the crushing wave of bodies eager for home and air conditioning. Her red hair is frizzing beneath heavy noise-cancelling headphones. She’s surrounded by people but seems distinctly alone. She struggles for a seat but there’s none to be found, makes do with a limp piece of green plastic hanging from the tram’s ceiling and holds on tight as they begin to move. Her feet hurt. She shifts her weight, tucks a backpack between ankles.

The tram is full, too full, and as they take off she bumps into the person standing next to her. She glances up quickly and smiles, slipping off her headphones to let the world rush in.

CLAUDIA.

Sorry.

STRANGER.

All good.

The girl puts her headphones back on, but not before noticing that the person she bumped into - a boy - has eyes like the palest New Zealand jade. Her heart begins a slow, delicate churning and she fiddles with her Spotify app to mask the moment.

No one knows how shy she really is.

The boy has floppy brown curls, her favourite, and a pair of tortoiseshell glasses that keep sliding down the bridge of his nose. A baby begins to cry in its mother’s arms but the girl can’t hear it over the sound of Jeff Buckley’s Lover You Should Have Come Over blaring at full volume through frazzled synapses.

The girl watches the boy from the corner of her eye. She likes the way he holds his book; gently, with respect, like a bird with a broken wing. He opens it again as they trundle ever onwards and she spies the front cover. Hemingway. A Farewell To Arms. Her heart flops again. Melted ice cream. The taste of saltwater on skin.

She thinks about speaking to him but he’s lost in the pages. She lets the moment drop and goes back to her own book.

Her life is a series of missed connections. What’s one more?

3 - INT. TRAM. TWILIGHT 

TRAM ANNOUNCER (disembodied):

Stopping at Leonard Street: Stop 15. At the next stop, the doors will open on the right. 

The girl looks up from her book. It’s nearly her stop. Just a few more minutes in the scorching heat and then she’ll be home. She needs a shower, can feel itchy fever running heavy fingers down her spine and the back of her legs. 

She looks around to see that the tram has emptied. It’s just her, the boy and the mother with the crying baby now. 

She stares at the boy from beneath her eyelashes, safe in the knowledge that Hemingway’s words have him thoroughly entranced. She watches as his mouth twitches at the corner and wants desperately to know which line made him smile. 

She gathers her bag, gets ready to push the grimy stop button, but the driver brakes too quick and she stumbles into the stranger for a second time. He catches her instinctively, one arm braced against a shoulder, and waves of something other than heat begin to bloom. 

They lock eyes and he smiles, pupils blown wide in the coming dusk. She smiles too, almost apologetically, but can’t break from him – doesn’t want to feel empty air in all the places their bodies meet. A tendril of illicit joy unfurls like a fledgling fern inside her ribcage and she delights in this simple thrill; brushing up against another body in the sort of warmth that makes you lazy and loose and longing.

She feels drunk on promise. On this spiderweb scrap of time, soon to be a memory. 

The boy smiles and releases his hand. It’s the girl’s stop. She grabs her bag and drops from the tram onto the road, but not before looking back at the boy one last time.

They will never meet again.

She will never know which line of the book made him smile.

The tram is already speeding off but she can see that he’s watching her right back, intensely, right up until the tram bends artfully around a corner and he’s gone forever. 

It might have been another missed opportunity, she thinks. 

Or maybe it was exactly what it needed to be ... a tiny skerrick of stolen pleasure and mutual understanding.

Hers to treasure.

Never to be repeated. 

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