When the family cat Poppy dies at the ripe old age of sixteen, I am eleven and the only one that seems to realise her soul has been reincarnated into the body of one of the bush pigeons that occupy the trees in our back paddock. It isn’t particularly hard to notice; one day a tree is empty, and the next day Poppy stops breathing not long after lunch. Continue reading
Posts by Sian Campbell
Earlier in the week, Mia Freedman published an opinion piece on her website, Mamamia, outlining why she plans on telling her daughter that binge drinking means dramatically increasing her risk of being sexually assaulted. The thing is, Freedman says, is that she can’t understand why mean old militant feminists want to convince everyone that this innocent attempt to protect her daughter is “victim-blaming”. Why do those filthy feminists gotta get up in a steam about everything?! whines Freedman, the self-proclaimed feminist, wringing her hands online. Continue reading
There’s something about reading Banana Yoshimoto’s books that has always made me feel as though I’m reading a love letter to my twenties. Lizard, a collection of six short stories published when Yoshimoto was twenty-nine (she penned the Japanese edition’s afterword on her way to a Sonic Youth concert, and dedicated the American edition to Kurt Cobain, BANANA GURL WHY ARE YOU SO COOL) perfectly encapsulates why. Continue reading
When we get off the 109 tram, the families in their Sunday sunny-day spring clothes flock to Ikea for meatballs and the promise of home improvement. On the other side of the road, a cul-de-sac is trying to swallow a footbridge inconspicuously with minimal success. Dry, dusty bushland circles the footbridge as the Yarra slithers and wiggles beneath our wooden floorboards like a cheerful Slip ’n Slide in a summer backyard. If it rained for a thousand years and the Yarra rose to meet us, I think, this footbridge would make a fine raft. I imagine sliding down the bend of the Yarra, sliding for years, and the conversations I would have with everyone else crossing the bridge with me when the water rose. I would learn the names of their families and where they went to school. When we finally made it home, we would write postcards to each other, and be friends for the rest of our lives.