Constellations In March 2020, the city of Melbourne, Australia entered lockdown. Its residents would go on to endure more days locked down, in the strictest of conditions, than anywhere else in the world. The pandemic has profoundly changed the city – as a community, and as individuals. This was written as the storm was bearing down on us. The fever clinic is sparse and disorienting, overhead fluoros at once too


Solstice I. (The River) I am alone on a small crowded boat. Alone amongst couples and friends on winter holiday; alone amongst the taciturn crew. I am not on holiday. I came here for a different reason, to this festival of fire and darkness. I came here to be alone. But a shark shadow chased my plane across the ocean and swallowed me whole as we touched down, and now


Passage Laneways are for hidden things. For hiding things. When you grow weary of the city step into the shadow of a narrow lane and you will become invisible, I promise you. The sunlight will lose sight of your face, for just a moment, and you will slip through. You are in here now. In the silence, and the stillness. Don’t sit down though, on that milk crate or that

blue skies from pain

Blue Skies From Pain Read this story in full at Reflex Fiction.  

imaginary numbers

Imaginary Numbers The machine is in debt. An impossible situation, really — we built them to be better than us. To be smarter, stronger, free from the need for that dopamine hit. Add to cart. Buy now. But the machine loves shoes. The machine cannot wear shoes, of course. But still, the machine loves shoes. Red vinyl knee-high platforms. Birkenstocks. The sturdiest work boots that money can buy. Seven pairs

le plafond

Le plafond There are pink index cards taped to everything in the apartment. Pink cards, grubby beige strips of masking tape, my handwriting in black sharpie. Miroir, porte, ordinateur. We are learning French, in the lazy, haphazard way that we do most things. We are learning French in case we really do need to flee to Canada, because it increases your score on the immigration test. We are learning French

nothing was lost

nothing was lost

  A visual diary of the year before everything changed The sun sets on day 28 of lockdown. My small apartment is full of hastily-acquired plants, and I’ve spent an indulgent yet anxious afternoon lying in the sun on the footy oval just behind my building. Bare feet pressed firmly into the soft, lush grass, toes digging down to the damp earth. Hungry for connection. Hoping the cops will leave