All posts filed under: Stories

Why I talk to Strangers

by Ruby Bisson Hebrews 13:2- ‘Do not forget to entertain strangers, for by so doing, some people have entertained angels without knowing it.’ Talking to strangers has always been something I’ve been comfortable with. I thrive in a room where no one knows my name or anything about that time I was caught with the guy down the road (or with one too many drinks in my system). I enjoy the power it gives me, the power to recreate myself every time. I love knowing that there are hundreds of stories to devour right there, right in front of me. I get excited, nervous almost, to grab a hold of as many as I can, treating them as these special little nuggets of humanity. When I recently went on a backpacking adventure alone, I knew it was up to me to ensure that I had company along the way and to maintain to courage to do so. This meant finding strangers to make friends with, developing a level of comfort that extended beyond the ‘we should catch up …

Words from Collette Dinnigan: Obsessive Creative

by Amy Galea As I was moving house recently, I came across these quotes by Collette Dinnigan that I had noted down when I saw her at the Sydney Writers’ Festival last year. She was speaking about her book, Obsessive Creative, but the interview also covered her career, where she collects inspiration from, and how she desires to ‘paint pictures’ with her work. She is one of Australia’s most successful fashion designers, and yet she spoke with a sort of understated tone- she seems like the kind of person who will say the most beautiful things, without realising how poetic they are. Here are a few snippets of her interview:

Ballad of the Hothouse Flower

by Devan Boyle Mrs. Witterly is of a very excitable nature, very delicate, very fragile, a hothouse plant. Nicholas Nickelby Or, seasonal habits of the highly sensitive. I sometimes refer to myself as a hothouse flower. In unkinder terms: fussy, a whiner. There’s a part of me that needs coddling, thrives under optimal conditions of heat and light, is sensitive in the extreme to its likes and dislikes, no matter how big or small. I need exact directions, a little handholding, an extra sweater, a handkerchief to sniffle into, the right kind of pants, information about the immediate future— when do we get to go home? will there be a place to seat? who is going to be there? Having no other option in the interest of my sanity, I’ve come to think of these predilections toward comfort as essentially positive traits, with positive outcomes. I fancy that there is a grace to my delicacy, the noble sheen of a wish for a better, more pleasant life in my constant need to monitor. If I’m …

The definition of Life

by Erin Rose I recently spoke to a friend who was having what I consider to be close to a melt down, over one of the most commonly asked questions for twenty-somethings in my generation: what the fuck am I going to do with my life? I for one was crippled by this questions some years ago, before I found music, before I found a lot of things.

This is what a feminist looks like

By Hannah- Rose Yee It was a man who first taught me what feminism was. I was in second year at university and I thought I knew everything. I was taking my first ever gender studies course, which cross-listed with my English major (somehow), and which I thought, based on the text list, would be a semester spent discussing Virginia Woolf novels and Sylvia Plath poetry, but ended up being 13 weeks talking about all the ways that women have been well and truly screwed over by the literary, cinematic, historical, governmental, social – you name it – establishment since the dawn of time. I ended up learning a lot, because I went in cocky and self-assured (I’d read Mrs Dalloway before, well, when I say ‘read’, I mean, I had read The Hours), feeling pretty certain that this was an ‘easy’ subject I’d be able to coast my way through. It ended up being the worst mark I ever received at university. And all because I had no idea what feminism was when I …

We Gather

by Erin Rose I leave tomorrow morning for Minneapolis. This one wasn’t planned. They never are. Why does it feel we are always gathering together for funerals? I request someone get married or birth a child, give us a different reason to gather. But, nevertheless, we gather. All the women will wear scarfs and pearls because we will hear Joanne whisper in our ears while we dress. I suspect we will hear her until we join her. I doubt I will ever meet another woman with as much class and elegance as my grandmother had. She set the bar high, very high, in my life; in regards of what it meant to be a lady, what it meant to be a woman, what it meant to be a person. She was tough as steel, sharp as a blade, kind as a child, smart as a scholar, and more stylish than I could ever properly appreciate. We gather because she was our leader, under her wing we were created, a legion of Mahoney’s.

For Alex

By Erin Rose I think for some people there isn’t a whole lot to say when someone dies. For me it’s the opposite, it’s everything. It’s everything I ever said and everything I didn’t say. It’s canyons and oceans of time that passed between us. You for me, felt like so very long ago while you were alive, but in death feel immediate, dredging my memories to build new land on which I will lay you to rest. You, Alex, you were my golden boy. I worshipped you in a way one can only do at sixteen. I gravitated around you. Those blue eyes, that blonde hair, that laugh. You were the coolest person I had ever seen, a stone fox. But it wasn’t only me. You seemed to always have a pull like this. Everyone wanted to be near you, be friends with you, be in love with you. I infamously and debatably lost my virginity to you on the leather couch in John Lopez’s basement.