Daughterhood Zine Issue Two

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issue two

featuring work by rhiannon auriol alice, isabelle & kitty blain miriam craddock shivi dixit alliyah enyo isaac harris suki hollywood katrina hummel oliver f j jones anne lØddesØl rebecca martin cat & éiméar mcclay sarah partington lara slyce

Mammy there’s something so loving about turning to the same wrong person for comfort again and again like maybe this time maybe this time maybe this time but mom is like, therapy? why don’t you get through it the old-fashioned way: at great personal cost PTSD is for people who are weak, and there is no weakness left in you, a woman with an arm that cannot pass through airport security too full of grudge blood and bullet. I jump at loud bangs too, but I’ve never been shot, this my inheritance like the stocky family legs, a herd of mountain ponies in lipstick great-uncles and grandfathers who have vanished uncles we wish would A good man is hard to find is that why you girls ran out and married the first losers youse set eyes on?

five bags of sugar in my upper arms steel toe shoes off unshelled spread wide, a bird stretching naked in the departures gate spoonfed oyster tongue going home for christmas to be your baby the teenagers who tack

I love you on to every caption, reply, hello or goodbye keep it up sweaty, ur doing great & I’m begging you, stop pretending love can be diluted and that’s the reason why adults say it less – it’s another conspiracy like going to uni or two genders being straight, mental arithmetic, or having it all together by the time you’re 25 when my mother was 25 she had a husband child and an open wound naked in the bath she said sometimes

you get so angry I’m afraid you’ll kill yourself but then i remember my daughter isn’t one to throw up the rope sometimes, I’m not sure I want to be this survivor, but Ancestry.com says it's in my genes sometimes, I’m not sure I want to be

loved, love is heavy work love is living after the ranch burned down working 12-hour days to give your children a better life then dying too young to meet your grandchildren love is family funerals during my aunt’s service nene wailed cries punching through the silence blue and ragged then at the wake forgot with a pint of Harp asked the men of the family how they were holding up were they coping with her daughter’s death alright? if I die before you, I want you to know that I really had such a good time and that I loved it, every bit I loved my life.

poetry by Suki Hollywood art by Cat & Éiméar McClay

The Sisters i. A man named Lazarus was sick the same one who poured perfume on Jesus and wiped his feet so the sisters sent word, Lord, the one you love is sick When he heard this, Jesus said, this sickness will not end in death a man who walks by day will not stumble. our friend Lazarus has fallen asleep but I am going there to wake him up

ii Lazarus is dead Lord, Martha said, if you had been here my brother would not have died Jesus said to her, I am the resurrection I am the life he who believes in me will live even though he dies Mary fell at his feet Jesus, she said, if you had been here my brother would not have died.

iii Jesus wept See how he loved him! But could he not have kept this man from dying?

Offer your bodies, living sacrifices holy and pleasing Do not conform to the pattern of this world, but be trans-formed be able to test and approve his good perfect and pleasing will Do not think of yourself highly think of yourself with sober judgement in Christ we form one body Let him serve

poetry by Suki Hollywood art by Cat & Éiméar McClay


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empty empty empty empty empty empty empty empty empty empty empty empty empty empty



alliyah enyo mirriam craddock oliver f j jones

[Sarah partington: Through my work I explore romanticised depictions of and encounters with the pas t.: This shoot was all about in-betweens.: I wanted to capture a space in between natural and s taged., res t and play., Elizabethan lady and page. I wanted to work in the gap between all of these things, so that moments with Cordelia appeared, ghos tly and ultimately undefinable.

as a witch, communion with nature and the occult are central ideas that inform my image making. At the same time, I wanted to entirely cons truct her into this overtly romanticised, ‘natural’ scene. The shoot was a collaboration with Hannah Mae Buckingham, whose delicate, his torically-inspired pieces (from the ‘transcendental’ S S collection are featured in the images.

modelled by Cordelia Ostler



He can't stop thinkin bout dem, dey creep in slow to his head till dey da only things in dere. He keep on tryin to sleep, closes his eyes a spell to look at Black fuzz, but he can't, dey open back up n he lies in bed starin at stucco. Loud static sound inna quiet room, crawlin in ears, broken up by da dripdrop a’ da boiler, runnin mice in da walls, or one a’ da other kids snorin n shufflin next to him in bed. Popcorn bumps on da ceilin, he sees dem dance in da dark, dey squiggle n squirm, white paint lookin like it got breath, like it goin’ thresh loose from da ceilin, n drip over his skin. He gets up quiet, sneakin out da room onna front foot walk, goin slow in da hallway

bathroom. Its got da stink a’ molded wood n still water, feel a’ cold linoleum underfoot, n da glow a’ a nightlight in da corner, he likes it, da stink, da feel, da feelin it gives. He can’t stop thinkin bout dem, thots slither from da back a’ his head, take up his hol’ mind. He know it's bad to think bout dese things, Sat in da dark, hearin his daddy’s words in his head,

It aint natural. He can’t help himself, da boy already sat in da bathroom, his own world, part from da rest, n he can’t help it if dem sweet thots come. He wanna fuck dont he?

n settin da do’ open a bit to slip thru to da

I wanna get fucked nice n good. Thots a’ da older boys in da neighborhood. Thots a’ Black-shine skin durin a hot day. Thots a’ white tank-tops n muscle dat dances under flesh. He wanna smell dem, have dat musk floatin up in him, he wans dem up in him, wans deir meat, deir life flowin between dem. Dat boy feelin turgid den aint he, he know what’s goin’ on, his heart

beatin out from his chest, heavy breath, feels his shame in da dark n grabs it. He wanna fuck dont he? I wanna get fucked nice n good. Thots a’ da older boys in da neighborhood. Thots a’ Black-shine skin durin a hot day. Thots a’ white tank-tops n muscle dat dances under flesh. He wanna smell dem, have dat musk floatin up in him, he wans dem up in him, wans deir meat, deir life flowin between dem. Dat boy feelin turgid den aint he, he know what’s goin’ on, his heart beatin out from his chest, heavy breath, feels his shame in da dark n grabs it.

I can’t help it, It aint natural I’m Hard. I wanna fuck. Give me a horndog nigger wit a’ big body n hot breath to feel me up n use me tender, makin me wet n a mess! He cums on da back a’ his hand.

wit a cane in dey hands, sittin on stoops wit drink in brown paper bags, rockin colors n sideways caps.

Can I be him, be a King? Cum drips down, oozin slow towards da drain, a pool dries round da back a’ his hand, dessicated tendrils a’ a white parasite fixin to drain.

He gave me his skin, a man dey call King What his daddy da King a’? King a’ rotten wood apartments, King a’ half-bastard children, King a’ cabinets fulla mouse shit? What dat man lordin over dat gives him dat name? What power dis King got? When bill people keep da phone ringin all hours a’ da day, sayin if u dont pay dis or dat you goin’ be in a hol’ hell a’ a lot a’ trouble. When dat beater car, stuffed wit da smell a’ old leather, got pulled over on da highway n da tightass whiteman got out holdin dat gun to his side. When he gets called boy, n dem Black hands shake when hes whiteknuckle grippin da wheel n stu-stu-stutterin in his mouth.

What would his daddy think? His oldest spermin on his hand to thots a’ boys wit deir puffed up chests n yung Black bravado? What do he remember a’ his daddy, a’ his father?

When burnt red fratboys call him n his kids nigger n taunt out dey jeep when you gettin some food downtown, n da only thing he got to say is “dat aint us”.

He calls me prince

What power dis King got den?

He a prince, who call his daddy King den? Old niggas dat still sag

Dey broke him, gave him nuttin

but deir putrid hearts to eat, n now he got dat rot growin inside a’ him too. He aint a man to dem he a boy, always will be just dat, ”boy”.

Make me go right, Stop dis shame to my skin,

He a King to me, a King here. Out dere, where white eyes stare, he still a slave to ofays.

I got caught, Imma damn fool, Jus sum fag rubbin on deyselves Caught wide eyed n fulla fear A Black body left leakin red on asphalt

What would his daddy think? Anchorite a’ Black bein, keepin da uncodified doctrine a’ negro thot close to his heart, findin pride in white scorn, to be da antithesis lest he rips off his face. He caught him once, fear in da man’s eyes as he saw his firstborn stood at da precipice a’ dat insidious white maw.

Went against him, against my skin. I had to look Maurice n dem older boys, stood in da changin rooms a’ da youth buildin, seein dem peel wet sweetsweat clothes off dey backs.

Can smell dey stink, salacious grit on da skin a’ dem beautiful boys. Fuck! I wan dem, wan dem big lips on me, wan dem to lust, wan Black cocks stood up drippin fa me! Dey caught him

Caught me, Somebody help dis po’ nigger,

Beat him outside next to da pavement, Jordans stompin on ribs n kickin da side a’ his head.

It pulses, he can see it. Da white parasite spermed on da back a’ his hand. It creeps n grows. Black skin disappears under putrid ooze. What dat boy’s daddy think? His prince caught jerkin himself in secret to dem older boys. Moment he got back, limpin thru da do’ wit eyes swole shut, a bag was already sat n packed in da corner a’ da bedroom. What his daddy say? Bloodshot eyes bulgin wit rage. A slap to da side a’ da face, sting n prickles on da cheek. “Who you think you are den boy; think you white huh?” “One dem jackbooted fags dat go paradin out in da city, well how bout you go on n live wit dem den?” “Cus I aint raisin no fag, I aint havin you goin’ round embarassin me, embarassin yo skin, I worked too damn hard to have you act like dis, shamin me”

I cant help it

became his face.

“Next time I hear you up to some shit you gone, you can go live wit dem white folks n dem other Black girls, some nigger whorin deyselves out to any peckerwood dat wanna use dem” He gets in his face, hot breath goin’ up his nose “N da moment dey get tired a’ usin n fillin you up, after yo body rots from dey filth n disease, dey’ll toss you on da curb like any other nigger, some bag a’ meat left to turn green” “You’ll always jus be a nigger to dem”

His crown was his skin. Sole gift a’ his father, remembrances a’ times lost, remembrances a’ times when dey were more dan people a’ Black mud n cotton, tainted.

He remembers dem words, don’t he? Bouncin round his head, whisperin. Look. It consumed him. Subsumed him. Encrusted wit quiverin cum, da parasite took his body, ate his skin. Da prince is no more, how can dis thing ever be a King, dis ivory abomination? Sins a’ his body, ate his skin. Who dis boy is den? Soliloquy a’ da white sodomite in da glow a’ da nightlight.

What happen to my daddy’s skin? Lil nappy head nigga starin at hisself big-eyed in da mirror, soft brown glow a’ his skin gone. Da boy been ate, milk white parasite, gaudy luster in dim light, dat monster on his hand grew til it

I aint a prince no more

It feeds on him, clingin tight to his skin wit each pulse, He can feel it, eatin his essence. It gotta come off. He digs his fingers into da back a’ his hand, n peels. What do he see? Meat. Back a’ his hand gave way to meat, gurglin red effluvia spills on linoleum. Pain, burnin raw n red in still air. Tongue a’ flesh hangs limp, he grasps n pulls. He unravels. Skin rent wit each pull, fibres strain, brown n white streaked wit red. He pulls. He sees red in da mirror, a mass a’ meat, ribbons a’ red piled on da flo’. Iron-smell mixed wit da stink a’ mold clogs da room.

No more, no more prison a’ skin, prison a’ bein. I’m clean A King. Da King a’ blood Da King a’ red Da King a’ meat. What would his daddy think?


three loves – ancient loves – vanish in tears not to be pandemic about it but ur my constant hang my only pornography who edges me like a bruise slowly emotional even in the sheets but even a long leash is a leash & Paris was so rude starting a war like that perhaps i should allow another lonely god to seduce me sing divine muse etc cute as a minotaur in my tracksuit in my pigtails this is for Cassandra this is for Eve no one believed her either lover i don’t understand: i took off all my clothes but still i am no nude

Rhiannon Auriol

Daughter of a Resignation Some things will change. I’ve outgrown That Problem I wrote a note to myself about 6 months ago Hindsight is a gift Under the list of good things I collated half way through the last decade, your name was written 4 times. At the turn of this new one, I know we’ll never take that bus journey in the same way again. But some things will stay the same. Cigarettes and Coffee. Hey ! Wait I’ve got a new complaint “Good summer to you and your family” This new kind of normal – I’m pretty sure I’ll be wearing red lipstick at my graduation Recently my friend’s mum said at 12 I didn’t wear it well but that it compliments me now. The carcass of the butterfly we watched die the day we moved into my flat is still on the window sill two seasons later.

And I’ll always gravitate towards Blue. I will always have courage with strangers. It will probably always be easier to have a relationship with my mum over phone And impossible to have one with my brother in that way. And My Father we will only have a relationship when essays are due and my possessions break Until the longer conversation comes about the other things that broke Walking home to a soaring soundtrack cradling my body, I felt romantic for myself. For yourself? I couldn’t explain it to you then. But I know her And she is touching home And I think that scares you a bit. But to me it doesn’t feel like a comic trap It feels like a liberating absurdity A kierkegaardian ideal A daughter of resignation.

Poem - Lara Slyce Photography - Alice, Isabelle & Kitty Blain

Mrs Dalloway's Daughter Rhiannon Auriol

My mother was always buying flowers. Every day was her wedding day: bouquet upon bouquet, bringing the scent of death in her wake. Rushed armfuls of delphiniums, of sweet peas, of roses, of carnations; the truth is she didn’t know a thing about flowers. And while the act of choosing them took hours, filled novels, tortured scholars and philosophers, the act of nurturing them fell to me. I was always throwing the flowers away. It was June and a weekend. In her favourite shop on Piccadilly I stood to one side of the featured display. The arrangements all had contemptible names: Fresh n Fabulous, Bee’s Knees, Basket of Wishes. There were selections for sympathy, for celebration, for marriage and for grief. My mother was checking the price tag on Life of the Party. I was checking out the girl (pink hair, dreamcatcher earrings) by the peace lily. We had been in the shop for an hour at least and still my mother was not satisfied. Expensive foundation sunk deep into the contours of her face, snakeskin handbag and an opera of lipstick in a mauvered shade. She was so absurd that she wasn’t real to me. She was the character in a morality play whose oblivious actions lead to a chain of misery which only the audience sees in its entirety. And that laugh, that social laugh of hers: face on and cracked into a made-up moon of friendliness, lips wide in a smile that never quite reached her eyes. A crocodile smile, as dad used to say, before he opted out of the ‘family’, swift as leaving a group chat. The second we were out of the sight of the world that smile would vanish. And then came something more unnerving in its place: a kind of nothingness. A kind of bland collapsing inwards. And the florist (slim, attractive in a granola kind of way) thought my mother was the most charming woman. But she always betrayed herself sooner or later. Or sooner. My mother had no authentic shape. Sometimes I felt sorry for her. But she was a cruel woman. An ice sculpture; a dragon. I was an extra in her theatre. A wave of dizziness came over me then. I really shouldn’t drink so much coffee; it wasn’t good for me. And I drank it black. But it was supposed to burn fat, that was why I couldn’t stop drinking the stuff. It tasted like good luck. Like the small change of safety.

A woman (mid 30s, tennis-tanned) entered the florist’s in sports leggings after a jog through Green Park. She wasn’t thin enough to be wearing leggings like that, I could hear my mother think. Besides her there was a hive of other customers fingering the plants for sale. A young man (professional-looking, toned thighs) made the mistake of commenting on the weather to my mother who proceeded to tell him her life story. “I’m getting things ready for a little dinner party, some people hate to host but I think it keeps me sane. Take my daughter Eliza, over there, she’s so antisocial – but I guess that’s teenagers. I had her early, ruined my figure- I was an actress before her you know.” The man had fallen for it, the trap of her ‘honesty’, he was flattered, he felt special; conspiratorial. Like a high schooler honoured by the attention of the queen bee. “You’re not a day over 30, surely.” “Call me Clarissa, please.” He wasn’t much older than me. My face bloomed more fiercely than the scarlet roses. I crept away. Behind the till the florist wrapped flowers in elaborate green and gold textured paper, stiff with the price paid. On the street outside there was a Starbucks, there was a Waterstones, the Crosstown Doughnuts store near the RA. I went down the steps and trailed around the convenience store inside Green Park Station. I felt anonymous and lightheaded. They sold bunches of flowers in the convenience store as well. Flaccidlooking bundles for a fiver, three for ten quid. Including those sad roses that have been tie dyed and tricked into unnatural colours. A rainbow for pride month! A group of tourists (German, early 20s, dad trainers) bundled in to buy postcards and Marlboro reds. The milk bottles looked so proud of themselves in the spotlight of the fridge. I shuddered and there was that metallic taste in my mouth again. What had I eaten today. It had been 26 hours since I last ate. I stood in front of the sandwiches. “There you are. Look at these! Smell, here-” my mother thrust the bouquet that she’d finally picked into my face. Roses. I sneezed. The thorny foliage caught in my hair. My skin itched everywhere. “You need a haircut,” my mother declared. We went to the hair salon where my mother’s hairdresser proceeded to make me look like my mother. Blonde highlights and Chelsea

layers. “How about a side fringe? It’ll hide those spots you have.” “Would either of you ladies like a drink?” the owner of the salon (skinny, dark eyes, sugary stylish) came over. “Oh, nothing for me. Or – actually, go on – a coffee. Black, no sugar.” I seethed. Now what was I supposed to drink? “Water,” I requested. My mother glanced shrewdly at me. I could see her comparing us in the mirror. Once she’d established that she was still more beautiful than me, she relaxed visibly. The salon was a primary supply source for her; the constant, sanctioned chatting. I shrank beneath the edge of her monologue. Later she wanted us to eat lunch together. Why couldn’t something more interesting happen. The smell of hot cheese in the café triggered reactions all over my body: hairs on end, heart slightly too fast. What was it about this hunger? I mused, that obsessed me, that gave me power. It was a simple refusal to allow my mother to nourish me. I picked through a salad as she ordered a glass of something. Rosé. She’d played Ophelia in her younger days, a topic which frequently came up at her parties. Of course she’d played the character whose narrative arc culminates in a scattered bouquet. I liked to think of her like that, babbling and strewing flowers across a stage. It made me less scared of the narcissistic rages, of the fierceness of her resentments when they came. The sorrow of fennel. Violets which are imaginary. It was all just part of the play. Sometimes she ignored me for days. Sometimes just being in the same house as her made me feel insane, made me want to claw off my skin. I hid in the bathroom. And then the guilt. Because after all, hadn’t she given me everything? Every advantage? And wasn’t it a privilege? And she never did to me what her daddy did to her as a kid. And if she completely lost it from time to time, well, shouldn’t I forgive? Daughterhood as damnation; a life spent recovering from the original separation. I wiped my lips, spitting my food into the napkin as I did it. I said I would walk home. I wanted to burn off what I’d eaten. She got a cab and didn’t look back, the flowers on the seat beside her, already bothering the driver with her nervous inane conversation. But it was a beautiful afternoon into evening. I felt

that compulsion to take a photograph, send it to – who, why? – prove that I was alive and somewhere. There was, I thought walking down the street, free of her, a definition of myself here that was etched into everything: the entire conference of London, its shabby old streets soaked in the marinade of a dark history, the smart dead boulevards of Kensington & Chelsea. Home, home, that irrevocable condition, who was it who said that, was it Baldwin. The summer trees burst with leaf. What was that song? Nature was indecent, I thought; erotic. But these days everything reminded me of sex. The house was silent as I let myself in. Where was she? Not in the kitchen. She’d put the flowers of the day in a cutglass vase. My stomach hurt. I was cold. I pulled a blanket round my shoulders and sat down at the empty table. I could see my reflection in the mirror opposite and the new haircut was ugly the ghost behind me agreed. Occasionally I looked good though. When I put my best clothes on and did that eyeliner trick I could be quite glamorous. It was like decorating a dungeon with flowers. I was the match burning in the crocus. When I looked like that my mother lived to show me off. My Elizabeth. My Elizabeth. She envied my freshness, my cleverness, my legs, my unblemished features. Like a Hyacinth, sheathed in glossy green, with buds just tinted. On my 21st birthday she threw one of her huge parties and invited everyone in the family and made a show of eating absolutely nothing the whole night. The fresh air was so delicious. She had a passion for grand gestures. She had a passion for so many things: gloves, handbags, champagne, bed linen from John Lewis, celebratory china, the spring. The room fizzed gently in the darkness. Now I could hear my mother running a bath, taking off her clothes, scattering rose petals like bits of dead skin. The roses in front of me nodded their heads into infinity. A tap dripped, and the fridge rumbled as it digested ice. The sight of all that candy-coloured flower flesh! It was vicious. I put a stem into my mouth and chewed. If I were a flower, I thought, I would simply let the bees destroy me. I chose the scissors from a bouquet of knives. Closed them around each frilly face. It was very, very dangerous to live even one day.

Rebecca Martin: ‘This is my collage, ‘dreamscape’, about growing into my non-binary gender; questioning what it means to no longer be a daughter or a sister, but instead so much more than that. And finally feeling so much freer to exist and express myself.'

Sky to Soil Charge me up With your roots With your soil Beam me up To the blue Cos I’m fuelled on burnin heather I’m powered by purple Look up to where I fell 10,000 metres through the sky Swallowed whole by black clouds That burped me out below Rumble tumble Roly poly Landed like a party popper Mother kindly untangle me Parachute captured me In her spider’s web Was fallin free Til I fell for her trap Perched in plannin Cos it’s time to escape From the grey from the green

Craags layin lines Sowin seams of soil tracks So it seems they swim to space I’m sketchin maps to the moon Draw in sunlight Sittin stiff Wedged between Rocks so I can rocket Off to the moon Thought you were in space But I’m sat here playin cards in a rocket Four walls not four dimensions Here but have you got a clue? So I squint my eyes Put down those binoculars Eye spy everything And nothing Wanna see it all, wanna win the game Cos the earth she’s abundant Gotta gather all her goods Brew em up Spice em nice Bottle her for the blues Cos a dose a day keeps em at bay

Poem - Katrina Hummel Photography - Rhiannon Auriol

sophie's moon well athens has another queer goddess postproduction of hills, of hells sophie at least u stayed true to tragedy when u fell a white glitch dark icarus into the same blood ocean the electronic malefic of yr music a new lunar horizon our weird priority bodies bodies work mhmm hard art rest now moon moon witch ghost but haunt us & be still my beating (heart)

Rhiannon Auriol

delicacy 1 It is a gentle thing And it stinks. Let Loose, it did no good. Kept, it raged until Domesticated. And Domesticated, it wasted away. Washed out, wasted, weakened. In my mother’s arms I twitched, deformed. In My lover’s mouth I perverted guilt, and when he snapped my neck and returned me to the black mud, My earth, mother, whispered: You are a gentle thing; it stinks. Let loose; you do no good. Kept; you will rage until domesticated. Domesticated; waste, wash out, weaken. In my hands; twitch, deformed. Between your lover’s fingers; a twig, snapped. Returned to the wet earth I will tell you: It is a gentle thing. It stinks.

Anne LØddesØl

fear I don’t fear any beast, nor do I fear a God. But the man who walks on earth haunts my nightmares. The prying eyes, the vicious words, telling me I’m an object gnaw at my soul. I am not afraid of the dark, but I fear the presence. For I’m a woman. worshipped by day, used and thrown by night.

Shivi Dixit

about our contributors Rhiannon Auriol (she/her) when

Isaac Harris is a Linguistics

she feels real is the creator of Daughterhood Zine, a writer & editor currently based in Edinburgh. ig @rhiannon.auriol

and History student from Charlottesville,Virginia. Infatuated with Afro-Pessimism, AfroSurrealism, and Négritude he currently focuses on the complex and at times paradoxical relationship between Queerness and Blackness. Please let him know if you sell speed. (ig @ iziccc)

Alice, Isabelle & Kitty Blain are sisters. They are from St. Albans and like swimming, especially in lidos. Kitty Blain is a writer and philosophy and modern languages student at the University of Oxford. She co-edits Cuntry Living magazine and RGB Colour Scheme magazine.

Miriam Craddock is an artist and painting student at Edinburgh College of Art. ig @ miriamcraddock_art

Shivi Dixit is a high school student, currently preparing for medical entrance exam. She writes short horror stories and poems as a hobby, as of now. Using the power of words, she aspires to create something that makes people feel every emotion, one at a time. She can be reached at her instagram handle: @shivi____dixit

Alliyah Enyo (Gemma Smith) is an artist, performer and DJ Iced Gem with the Miss World all-women DJ collective based in Edinburgh. Together with Miriam Craddock and Oliver F J Jones she created the project HYMN *4 EMpty CLub*. ig @alliyah.enyo_iced.gem

Suki Hollywood - born on Valentine’s Day in Belfast, Suki Hollywood is a poet and writer. Her debut pamphlet This Suit is available from Orange Apple Press, and her work has been featured in Clav Mag and From Glasgow to Saturn. An aspiring filmmaker, she contributes cinematic hot takes to Screen Queens. Find her work at sukihollywood.com.

Katrina Hummel is a 4th year student at the University of Edinburgh, a writer and creative and lover of the hills.

Oliver F J Jones is an Edinburgh based artist and deisgner @ oliver.f.j.jones_studio / oliverfjjones. com.

Anne LØddesØl is a young creative from Oslo, Norway. ig @annelddsl

Rebecca Martin (they/them) is an artist, writer and literature student who enjoys talking about flowers, fruit and queerness through colourful collage and painting.

Some of their work may be found on ig @floriography_art.

Cat & Éiméar McClay (both she/ her) are digital artists currently based in Edinburgh. Their collaborative work considers ideas of queerness, abjection and patriarchal systems of power and oppression. Since graduating from Edinburgh College of Art in June 2020, they have exhibited as part of Bloomberg New Contemporaries 2020, Wretched Light Industry and Circa, Class of 2020 amongst others. Their work can be found at catandeimearmcclay.com or on ig @catandeimearmcclay

Sarah Partington is an Edinburgh based analogue photographer, exploring and utilising overtly nostalgic and romanticised interactions with the past. Find her work at sarahpartington.uk, ig @ sarah_party.

Lara Slyce (she/her) is a writer of poems and essays from Hackney, East London. She studies Philosophy and Psychology at The University of Edinburgh, where she co-edits NOMAD magazine and the Philosophy society journal - PENSE. In her work, she draws from music, critical theory and snippets of conversations she has overheard on the street - collating these strands on the notes app of her phone. FOLLOW DAUGHTERHOOD ZINE ON INSTAGRAM @ DAUGHTERHOODZINE / EMAIL


issue two march 2021

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