Latest Articles

Editorial Assistant, Katrina Wang, examines lace-making’s unknown origins, pulling loose the myths to reveal the women who wove history in thread. Lace making has an incredibly rich history and is more than just a simple, decorative hobby. When making lace by hand, it quickly becomes evident the unparalleled skill required; endless patience, great skill and attention to detail, the intricacies of the art making is one of the hardest needle arts there is. Like a spider spinnin

Deputy Editor Niamh McGonnell-Hall unearths the gothic pulse of Mary Shelley’s cinematic wonder, from stitched flesh to silver-screen immortality Please note that this article contains spoilers for the movie Frankenstein (2025) We meet again, my dear readers, for another gothic piece. For this year’s women’s issue Veiled, I shall be introducing you to the original Gothic heroine: Mary Shelley, and discussing her work’s recent film adaptation, the 2025 Guillermo del Toro film

Hungry for recommendations? Editor-in-Chief Kayleigh Greig brews a stew of all the most grim and gruesome artists, authors and areas. Warning: This piece discusses real and imagined murder in detail. Music: Flower Face “In the morning, I’ll love the mangled bits of you.”—Flower Face, ‘Cornflower Blue’ Her voice may seem as sweet as her name, yet her lyrics are anything but. Flower Face’s songs descend like a spell, hushing all chatter as no audience can do anything but listen

News Section Editor Siya Pujari, ruminates on the criticism surrounding Rachel Zegler, where talent takes a back seat to the tired spectacle of tearing women down For this issue’s Culture and Her Criticism column, we are going to be talking about the one and only Rachel Zegler, who at one time was the most disliked female celebrity in the cultural zeitgeist. For those of you who have missed her rise in Hollywood, she first entered the public eye by beating 30,000 other auditi

Editorial Assistant Vanessa Bland, conjures the dark magic of The Craft (1996), tapping into the film’s spellbinding legacy and the rebellious cultural zeitgeist that made it iconic I was sixteen when The Craft hit screens—roughly the same age as the girls it portrayed. I didn’t see it at the movies; I thought it looked like a film about try-hard teenage goths, and I was busy reading books on astral projection and ghosts. But my close friend did see it, and suddenly she becam

Editorial Assistant Alicja Krotofil dissects The Last Dinner Party’s latest album and their rapturous live rite, where femme excess becomes power. When The Last Dinner Party entered the stage at the ICC Sydney Theatre, it felt less like the beginning of a concert and more like the lifting of a velvet curtain. Bathed in theatrical lighting and draped in their signature baroque styling, the all-woman band delivered a performance that was dramatic and deliberate. There is someth

Section Editor, Juliette Allen, deconstructs unbridled maternal grief & anguish displayed by Actress Jessie Buckley in Chloe Zhao’s Hamnet Content Warning: This review contains discussions surrounding death of a child and grief, as well as spoilers from the film. Still From Hamnet (2025, Dir. Chloe Zhao) Wow! It is hard to believe the time has come again for my favourite, the annual women’s issue. For Veiled our wonderful executives have implored us to examine women as wande

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