Things I’ve Thought Or Have Happened At About 2am Mostly In Brisbane between 2006-2007

I’m in Kelvin Grove. At QUT. In the library. The library is pretty empty. I wish there were more people in the library. It’s pretty hard for me to focus on economics right now because I feel too horny. I keep drifting off and then realising I’m touching myself under the table. I wonder if I should touch myself in a toilet cubicle. I think someone’s coming into the library. I’m gonna go to the toilet cubicle.

I don’t know if I should be studying business.

I wish I looked older.

I wish I had girlfriend.

No matter what: my dog is happy to see me. Continue reading

A Letter From The Editors

Dear Scumbags,

You are so cool! You look so nice today! How are you doing? Are you doing swell?

Gosh it feels like we’ve been apart for so long, and we HAVE, because we (Sian, James, and Sam) are all together in Melbourne for the Emerging Writers’ Festival! Wow!

Along with attending some rad panels and getting saturated with inspiration, we’ve been ~networking~ and ~repping the mag~ all over the show but mostly at the SCUM X VOICEWORKS BOX SOCIAL on Saturday afternoon. Boy howdy that was a fun time! It was a delight & a pleasure to meet all the cool cats from the Voiceworks editorial committee and all the other talented and charming guests—thank you SO much for coming along, and thank you as well to everyone who participated in our #boxsocial Twitterfall–wow! 2013!! We had readings from Jessica Alice, Broede Carmody and Oliver Mol (Sam said some junk also) and the whole thing was facilitated by the v. outstanding Kat Muscat. Everyone is so clever and beautiful and patient with Sian’s chicken stories and we’re all still blushing about it.

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There Is The Vague Memory Of Strike Bowling, Part 3

On the way to Strike Bowling they passed Albert Street where some council workers were taking down a “Peace, Love & Joy” sign.
‘Jesus Christ,’ Mavis said, ‘why don’t they just keep it up?’
‘Because it was a Christmas thing. And Christmas is over. 2012 is dead. Besides, Campbell Newman would never foot the bill.’
They walked a bit further and passed Off Ya Tree.
‘My sister works at Off Ya Tree,’ Mavis said, ‘and you know what someone said to her the other day?’
‘What?’
‘Someone came in asking for the crosses with the little person wrapped around the cross. My sister said, ‘Umm, do you mean Jesus?’ and the girl said, ‘I guess.’

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There Is The Vague Memory Of Strike Bowling, Part 2

Charlie recalled first meeting Claudia in Biology at the end of year twelve. They had been lab partners and were doing basic titrations. Claudia had done most of the work, following the procedure exactly as the lab had been designed. Claudia had delegated Charlie the task of recording their results, which he had done, though Claudia had thought Charlie’s handwriting a bit sloppy, so she had rubbed his writing out and filled it in with her own. They had received top marks. Later, after school, Claudia had invited Charlie to her house for dinner, which had confused Charlie because it had sounded like a date. He had not known what to wear and, at home, had deliberated between a business shirt and tie, polo shirt and t-shirt. Continue reading

There Is The Vague Memory Of Strike Bowling, Part 1


*read along with Oliver Mol…if you daaaaare*

Charlie was standing outside “Strange Circumstances”, a new club in Brisbane that had modelled itself on Melbourne’s “laneway culture”. He had not gone inside yet. He’d been standing under the club’s neon sign, something that was partially obscured by graffiti and, oddly, a t-shirt with the print: We’re Full, Fuck Off. Charlie, a bit drunk, had been staring at the sign and after a few seconds he thought: What? This thought was followed by a rationalisation, or an attempt at a rationalisation. He thought, maybe, the t-shirt and graffiti were filters, lenses to view the statement “Strange Circumstances”, some sort of literal Venn diagram. It made sense. He looked around. People were dressed in paisley shirts and black, skinny jeans. He had seen a blog or two. He knew how artists dressed. So this was an “installation”. This was art. But what was it saying? Charlie thought maybe the artist was arguing that “racism” showed its dirty colours–“graffiti”–under “strange circumstances”. He considered Cronulla. Cronulla was a little strange, he thought, if only because it was typical. Typically Australian. These were the thoughts–along with a voice he had swallowed, had sent down, down, down to his stomach, had tried to drown in Asahi except hadn’t entirely drowned in Asahi, that would occasionally resurface, scream, ‘DON’T MARRY THIS GIRL, DON’T MARRY THIS GIRL’–that ran through his head when Mavis came out and lit a cigarette.

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