It’s Chicken

As the daughter of a police sergeant, going to my first Blue Light Disco was less about unwinding from a long week at my public primary school with a rousing round of line-dancing to Cotton-Eyed Joe, and more about seeing my dad’s friends and colleagues kitted out in their crisp, blue uniforms, adorned with badges, holsters and scowls. These men and women taught me to swim, dressed up as Santa Claus to give me presents at Christmas time and joined my family on the one camping trip we ever took together. But inside the walls of the Gympie Civic Centre, they were terrifying and in charge. Continue reading

A Reunion

So we decide on dinner at Queen Street.

I wear this red dress that I bought second-hand and had been saving for an occasion (I’m a thematic dresser at the best of times). It ties up like a noose around my ribcage, snug beneath my bust. I like this right now, the fact that it accentuates the parts of me that have grown up, that aren’t thirteen anymore. My make-up sweats as I cross the William Jolly and I imagine foundation clumping at my neckline like impasto on a canvas which is dumb, because that’s not what happens.

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Dear Tiffany

Dear Tiffany(?),

You may not remember me. In fact I am quite sure you don’t, so I will fill you in on the details of our meeting. It was 2004. I was a fifteen year old boy from the country, and you were a fifteen year old girl from the roughest parts of Ipswich, and you could drink more than anyone I have met. My best friend invited me over for the weekend and dragged me to a stoner basement for an underage party with all of his Ipswich friends that only knew me as “Spanish” even though I do not have Spanish heritage or look in any way Mediterranean. You approached me when I arrived and you were the first girl who ever tried to have sex with me.
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