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Editorial Assistant Emily Chan shares a moment in time, meditating on the privilege of having women to look up to. I, Tinkerer When I finally make it back to my workstation, I am a mess. Coffee breath (I don’t even like coffee), blood red ink trailing down my neck and chest (it’s not what it looks like, I swear; the pen exploded on me), and to top it all off, this woman—Emily, or whatever her name is—will wake in less than four hours and I am nowhere near finished updating he

Editorial Assistant Amy Shelton unveils a powerful lesson of love taught by one of cinema’s most bewitching couples. They were created for the parody of everything dark, twisted and gothic, yet the love between Morticia and Gomez is something to be envied. With their declarations of love and passionate embraces in seemingly inappropriate times, the chemistry of Raul Julia and Anjelica Huston could warm even the darkest of dispositions. While most people think of Ally and No

Section Editor Bethany Sharman muses on self-discovery and performing for an audience of one. The candle flickers inches from my face and I can sense the shadow I cast behind me even now, in the room so dark as to be illuminated merely by a single flame and its glistening form mirrored in my eyes. The reflected light is only half as bright as the source, but the tiny moths still find it. It is a beacon welcoming them with open arms, inviting them to make a home in that window

Editorial Assistant Ella Barker exposes an absence of women’s sexual agency, and the dark veil of social expectation lowered over us all. the song ‘punish’ by ethel cain has a number of interpretations. i personally take it as commentary on a woman’s ability (or lack thereof) to express sexual desire, both within and outside of a religious context. we are punished for doing so, labelled as whores, sluts, pick-me’s. we cannot be sexual beings—at least, not when we want to be.

Editorial Assistant Max Brady Cooper reflects on cherished memories with his mother, and the necessity of spending the present moment with those you love. The truth is, memories fade. They become veiled and hidden from us as we grow older. I have brief flashes, like when I was eight, and my mum threw a Lego car I had built out of the window. It broke into pieces, and I cried so hard I looked like a tomato. Or when she was tucking me into bed one night, and I told her I felt d

Caught it but let it go, Bought it but it was sold. Reality is that you don’t know What you don’t know. Search through the dark tunnel, For the light on the other side But only get cobwebs and dust. Spiders crawl down to the floor, You scream not knowing You’re caged in your vows. Now the sweat covers your brows, so you crawl through the darkness, feeling more hollow than before. Because you caught me and never let me go, and I bought it but I was never sold. by Priya Singh

Ishtar queen of heaven far and near The realm of Hades she set her ear To her sister Ereshigkal, the finest clothes she wore And said farewell to her loyal companion Ninshubar. “Loyal Maid Ninshubar,” said Great Ishtar “When I have not returned in three days,” “Go to the gods to which humanity prays.” “Father Nanna, Enlil and Ea,” “He the master of primal Abzu’s sea,” “The one I got drunk, from whom I stole the Mes,” “With which I became the mistress of destinies.” After whi

Some ghosts must be set aside, Frozen in the past, Encased in the high towers of glass. Some haunting must be left inside, Caged in the ribs, Du-du du-du du-du, Fighting the storm amidst the rains. Some memories must be kept in a jar, Sunshine and giggles, Happy memories fit inside a terrarium. by Priya Singh

The warmth of the half cold coffee Engulfs the room in which, Our protagonist sits. She's whoever you want her to be. She'll never be hers completely. Sometimes she knows, She doesn't want to be, As her lingering gaze traces The space central to her. A window in her quiet coffee shop, Fogged up hiding her from The world, but also Hiding the world from her. She's not a protagonist, Sometimes she feels. So she hugs her main character energy Mug, makes herself believe, Makes her

My limbs ache, pulling my body down towards the mud beneath my ragged feet. Every hair on me stands on end as pricks from the cold breeze slowly invade my white skin. My legs tremble as they prepare to crumble—yet I stand, longing to outlast the pain inflicted by the night as I move my toes to avoid the pins and needles growing from the ground. I can feel small blades in the mud, squashed and dead. I can't move, I can't speak, but most of all I can't sleep. Pure darkness fold

“Be careful with the needle.” My fingers pricked and poked, the light tap of her foot, the repetition of sounds, the whirring of the machine, on the table, hunched over the mahogany surface, stains of coffee and tea and other beverages embedded in the grains. My fingers began to ache, my mother held the fabric beneath the needle of the machine, I observed, when it was my turn, the stitches began to form quickly before twisting off the fabric. We readjusted the machine, this r

And then she said… And then she said… And then she said… Readers are advised to listen to ‘Perfection’ by Clint Mansell I don’t even know her, and yet I want to be everything she is. She has no name, and yet she is more real than what I am. I don’t share any of her looks, and I am not her… …and yet, everytime she touches her lips, I consequently feel my lips pushed upon. I have never been anywhere near her, and yet, I feel I AM her… ..or, at the very least, I should BE her.

Warning: This piece contains gore. War leaves no time for pyres and so when they were done, they buried us in shallow, unmarked graves. This was their ruin, the catalyst for their extinction. For of all bitches, dead and alive, a vindictive woman has the sharpest teeth, and two layers of dirt is easy to chew through. We rose with skin white as snow, lips red as blood and hair black as ebony. Our nails and teeth were blades, our yellow eyes swallowed the moonlight. We were w

The operatic stage is square, and the square is divided as a chess board is, into rows of eight by eight. I cannot see eight by eight. I can only see three by four. The other rows are o b s t r u c t e d. A voice lilts out; it is Madame Butterfly. Her voice is not o b s t r u c t e d but she is. And I cannot see her past the o b s t r u c t i o n. Her voice surges forward on no power but her own. And its foreignness reaches my ears. And I crane my neck to look upwards, tow

She was clothed in black when she was to kill a god. They all were. They were all from an old civilisation that had lived deep under the earth where people wandered, traveled, and fought on the surface. Once, their cities also basked under the rays of the sun, moon, and stars. Then the gods banished their cities to the depths of the earth. For what? The gods simply could not tolerate their peoples’ unwillingness to abandon their faith and beliefs. They managed, even as they

Her skin was white as snow, her lips stained red with blood. Her ebony hair spilled down the side of her glass coffin, curls tangled with memories. Her beloved birds no longer sang songs of joy, unwilling to disturb her rest. Even the wind blew in silence. In the Queen’s chamber, the heart lay encased in its jewelled box. Her most treasured possession, no longer alive, yet pulsing with remembered warmth. Candlelight flickered across its slick surface. It was no longer staine

They shivered, ducking their chin into the upright collars of their worn down oil-skinned coat. Their gloved hand held forward an oil lamp, the odd breeze causing the only light they had to flicker tremulously. It was their chance, of course, to be caught up in a sudden downpour of rain, the already uneven dirt road becoming muddy and clinging to their boots with all their might, like some abyssal monster trying to devour an unsuspecting— "Ack—" They wiped at their face, hiss

Warning: this piece contains slavery, abuse, and implied sexual abuse Rumour had it that Mr Williams’ new wife was the most exquisite creature bestowed upon man. That’s what I heard Dr Jones say when he came by last night. He said you gave her something blue alright. Brides had to wear something blue, didn’t they? Sarah in the kitchen said her name was Georgette, but I’d heard from May that her name was Adriana—something exotic—like the Adriatic Sea, if that was even a real

please do not unravel me do not inspect me or my belongings a set of teeth in my jaws hands to go with my claws and a brain behind painted skin i am tau(gh)t pulled tight around my edges not all of me should be seen i am burdened by awareness self and otherwise everything is open/bare/and there i need to be hidden from all wandering eyes by Ella Barker

Warning: this piece depicts scenes of assault. The world fractures through the lens of the kaleidoscope. Concrete and plaster become paper, folded by its refractions. They twist and turn, a scape of endless collapse. “It’s yours now,” comes my mother’s voice, hushed. “We pass it down through generations. I figure now’s a good time to congratulate you on your first job.” My stomach twinges and I avoid her gaze by keeping my eye fixed on the heirloom. I haven’t told her the

Contributor Lucille Fulcher yearns after the fantasy of what it would be like to be the default in society; the fantasy that is being perceived as a person before a woman. Before I am a woman, before I am anything else, I am a person. However, the world doesn’t seem to view me the same way. There was once a time when I thought I wanted to be a boy. I remember trying to explain it once, but I wasn’t even sure what I meant. It wasn’t that I hated being a girl. I didn’t feel wro

Contributor Muskan Sandhu takes a shot at answering whether or not we will ever escape the shackles of patriarchy by examining choice feminism and its shortcomings. Choice feminism allows women to avoid confronting their own actions that serve the patriarchy, keeping them concealed away with a sense of freedom that doesn’t really exist. Believing that every choice a woman makes is a feminist one, solely because they are a woman, is overlooking the women in the past and presen

Contributor Zara Matthews urges readers to put their Doc Martens on as they thumb through their Gothic classics, to stand with the punkish Feminist rebellion that exists in their subtext. At different points in time, every society succumbs to its own form of chaos. From that chaos stems oppressive circumstances that weigh heavily on individuals, with women often bearing the brunt of these constraints. From there, we see rebellion. I like to think of Gothic works as the punks

Editorial Assistant Navdha Thakkar lifts the veil from the strategies femmes use to hide in plain sight, to be perceived as palatable enough to deserve some semblance of safety. Women are either overlooked or observed. Rarely understood. There are the women you never see; the ones who learned early how to disappear politely. And then there are women who are seen constantly, flattened into images, mood roles, aesthetics. Both are forms of erasure. Both are taught. One side hi