credit: rachela nardella
the break up, but not break down.
by hayley stockall
You
feel it coming, even if perhaps you can’t acknowledge what it is yet.
Something
is out of place. Something makes you feel heavy in the heart, where you once
felt nothing but lightness. Something that was there yesterday is gone. Is it
time to feel paranoid yet? You think not.
A
few days later, a few weeks later, a few months later – can you even remember
the time? It all felt so unmeasured back then. A morning was simply waking up
to another warm body in bed.
not like the movies.
by kimberley veart
If you are anything like me, you avoid high school reminiscing at all costs.
I think part of me fears that if I think about it too long, some Freaky Friday incident might transport me back to those days of awkwardness, compulsory uniforms and the endless politics. Oh the terror.
However, Hollywood would appear to want to remind me of my experiences by consistently dreaming up increasing ways to make me feel that I did not live out my teen years in a satisfactory manner. There was certainly no singing in corridors, people weren't forever walking into each others' houses unannounced and no one hatched wacky but amusing revenge plots that ended in a dramatic self-realization.
ramsay street under house arrest.
by charlotte guest
Something
must be done.
Call
me Constable Care, but something must be done to turn this shambles into a case
of “citizens' watch”, instead of “watch for citizens”.
You
see, I live in a cul-de-sac. There are a number of driveways that connect to
the same bitumen circle like a multi-handle frying pan. The circle is so small
that sometimes, when we put the bins out, they touch.
chasing ghosts.
by kimberley veart
Woody
Allen and I share a malady, and I'm not sure how I feel about that.
We both
are sufferers of the condition of 'nostalgia' and long for our spiritual homes
in our idealised, rose hued visions of past decades. He wishes for the
twenties, the 'golden age', when apparently walking in the rain in Paris was
common practice.
I long
for the sixties. For the time when Mary Quant dresses were in, the Beatles and
their bowl cuts reigned and Edie Sedgewick was still Andy Warhol's muse.
sometimes.
by clayton lin
Sometimes,
you’ve been listening to indie tunes, the tunes that have literacy all over them, songs with meaning and wisdom - and they’re good too.
Things that fall under the umbrella of indie folk or rock when it was real. Stuff like Lana Del Rey’s 'Video Games' (still peeved that no one has had this song cut/edited to actual video game footage), Bruce Springsteen’s ‘The River’ or Joy Division’s ‘Love Will Tear Us Apart’.
leaving the windows open.
by blaze edwards
No one
ever told me it would be so hard, choosing.
I sit at
my computer, a throne of possibilities, Sia gently singing me into bliss. I was
feigning indifference.
High
school. The warm blanket that your grandma knitted, so comfortable, slightly
mismatched and slightly scratchy, but familiar.
that plant is plastic.
by charlotte guest.
My parents think I'm a moron.
I know this because I'm staring at a note that says close the fridge door, which is next to another note that says feed the dog.
I open the fridge door,
get some juice, and sit at the kitchen table that has an A4 piece of
paper sellotaped to it. It's titled
Daily Jobs.
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