Scum cover art

It’s Chicken

As the daughter of a police sergeant, going to my first Blue Light Disco was less about unwinding from a long week at my public primary school with a rousing round of line-dancing to Cotton-Eyed Joe, and more about seeing my dad’s friends and colleagues kitted out in their crisp, blue uniforms, adorned with badges, holsters and scowls. These men and women taught me to swim, dressed up as Santa Claus to give me presents at Christmas time and joined my family on the one camping trip we ever took together. But inside the walls of the Gympie Civic Centre, they were terrifying and in charge. Continue reading

Untitled

How to call fellow men out on misogyny: a choose-your-own-failed-argument

Hey men! Have you suddenly discovered a good friend, someone you might even love, has said something awful about women? As a beneficiary of the problem, and despite your innate cowardice, are you obligated to challenge your friend’s attitude (hint: yes)?

More importantly, are you also an inarticulate idiot? If so, wonderful! Come with me as we argue that women are indeed people while navigating the terrifying world that is friendship. And all in the internet-approved format of a chose-your-own-adventure! Continue reading

tangled

Disentangling

I.

I realised I was probably in love with you. It was that day we were all building things at my rambling junk-strewn house, hammering and sanding and painting the chassis of the old trailer that we wanted to fill with tools and use as a mobile bike workshop. Do you remember trying to pry up the splintered lino with a chisel while the sun beat down outside? Later we retired to the porch, cracked tinnies, and watched the chickens mow the front lawn while the gums across the street pinkened in fading light. Continue reading

NoGirlsAllowed

‘The Boys’ Club': sexism in the legal fraternity

The thirty of us were sitting in a private dining room at Friday’s Riverside, emptying flutes of Moet et Chandon and licking our plates clean of medium-rare Wagyu steak jus. Floor-to-ceiling glass doors led out to a tiled balcony and mini-bar that overlooked the Brisbane river. It was an early afternoon at the end of semester, a very large tab was poised ready to open at 5:00pm, and we had reached the awards part of the party.

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photocopier

Roger

 

The acting thing wasn’t going great. I was in a play, but it was unpaid, overly long, am-dram and terrible. I was dressed as a yokel and had to wear fake freckles over my real ones. I wrote myself a note that I stuck on my wall, it said – NO MORE ACTING IN PLAYS. I was sleeping with one of the lead actors who only ate pies and protein shakes. When we met up and decided to call it off I smoked three cigarettes. It wasn’t stressful; I just thought it should’ve been. My flatmate was an alcoholic on the methadone programme who loved Judas Priest and Dolly Parton. He was currently addicted to prescription painkillers and passed out most nights to the sound of the opening title sequence of The Sopranos or The Godfather. The night before my new job, The Godfather seeped into my dream, and I dreamt my flatmate was ripping up our floorboards with a crow bar. I laughed about the dream at work the next day, as I fed another double-sided sheet of paper into the photocopier in preparation for scanning. Watching the magic of two turning into one.

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