Elmira

Written by Izma Haider

Supper wore a shawl of stars mother, a stole with yellow pansies The posture was superb words gleamed with rightness butterknives shone in their dishes like a well-loved swimming hole gilt on dishes took up the light butterflies shuddering where they lay The shadows became deeper Someone had lit candles it made all the difference

Exeunt I surrender to bed appealing to stomach pain too much cream in the bread pudding

But the lungs swell with perfume almost burst with mallow, styrax, sweet rush breathing from collarbones and breast-pockets of travellers, performers, men who had once lived in the country, women with only brothers, sailors, sailors!

What if we stay? naive asked

The wise smiled and smoothed their hair The night had been realised with nothing to be gained, all lost

Not too much cream, but fattened on beauty came away from the table murmuring like fraying threads Oh, we like to be anthropomorphic? let’s be anthropomorphic Did you hear me? Too much cream I said —Mother, gauche, anachronistic and peeling off stockings Her moustache the only thing catching the light Too loud, radiating heat, fixing conversation like a bubble in glass The stench drives me to the balcony

Her only virtue that endures is through memory An evening, many evenings ago, poured across pushed-together tables like molasses Guests swaying each to each over sweetmeats revise her body at the table as sentiment wrapped in shawls like a burial laudanum head and a red string taut around her middle till finally her head slackened and back retreated, with golden eyes on her hair.

Again! Once again, with feeling!

which one?

So this must be hell where good opinion rests on salt and vapour We forgive inclement weather! Light a fire and dance! Mind you look pleasant, apple-eyed and starry cheek Do we look ruddy in the light, or all the more sallow? Would it be a sin? I think so This must be a special hell A backwards glance or misplaced sigh is branded into pure fury or lust, where someone lighting candles makes all the difference, where neither love nor wrath is earned, and all, invented

Written by Joel Keith

22 December

Three o’clock, maybe, saw Henry today. Friend (?) from highschool. Thought: am so lonely, should try hang out w/ someone, assuage loneliness. Did not work—just spent day observing someone else’s loneliness, remained lonely myself.

Getting ahead of self… Three o’clock, got to Henry’s house. First thing could see inside: HENRY RICH. Well, technically, Henry parents rich. Windows, ocean view, floor-ceiling; marble countertops, massive TV, real leather couches. Other first thing, seen at same time: HENRY LIFE MESS. Rubbish everywhere, weird sour smell, dirty clothes on (real leather) couch. Kind of rich where person forgets life/body processes exist, begins exhibiting symptoms of poverty—would not look out of place in tent under bridge somewhere.

Second thing noticed (or, third numerically, second sequentially, as first two simultaneous): Henry drunk. Took moment to notice because his speech not slurred (Henry good fake sober, had to fake lots to parents in highschool, now with parents gone guess he just faking sober to himself, to me, maybe to God). But no, yes, Henry drunk, all signs there: mostempty vodka bottle on (marble) counter; eyes bloodshot; wide-mouth smile at nothing. Smile, really, tell: could always tell Henry drunk because when Henry fake sober pretend he happy, but actually sober Henry always miserable.

Chitchat made, v boring: how been, how life, job?, girlfriend?, etc. (Henry fine, okay, no, kind of). Eventually got talking about highschool. Henry like: Remember year 8 camp, fat kid, what name, Jamie, haha, Jamie huffing up hill pushing bike behind group, falling into sand? Haha, what Jamie doing now? (I tell him: GP, married). Or: Remember hot chick, year 11, the, uh, uh—Anna!—how Josh had crush on Anna all year 11, never said anything, just started sweating whenever she nearby, sweated all through shirt, haha, ohmygod man, fucking Josh, man (incidentally—Josh: unemployed, Anna: married to Jamie).

By now, we few drinks in (well, I few, he many), sky dark, and Henry suggest, hey, old school just couple blocks away, why not visit?, and so then there we are, clambering over chest-high gate w/ NO TRESPASSING sign, laughing/swearing like teenagers, and I’m all, “what if there are cameras”, but I’m laughing too, I don’t really care. And:

Woah, the canteen is way smaller than I remember Oh god, I remember this classroom, Shakespeare quotes on whiteboard And here’s our table near the cold bubbler the one with the stream of water that shot over the balcony if you held all the way We used to shoot each other when they walked by and fill chip bags with water and throw them at the ground below and one time Amy got caught water-chip-bag in hand by Ms Anderson in that beige flowery dress and ran all the way across school and then I guess she ran all the way across the country, haha

We didn’t even make it out the suburb

And I just put my arm around him, we look at the stars, which, weird to see from school.

Written by Helena Pantsis

Summer dust settled on the indolent, blue and fair, springing ridiculous and shooting through something. The lilies of  the valley sang in open letters, petals closing in on us as we drank iced tea, unsweetened, on the dusky rotting porch. It was when I began to collect dirt that I learned of it, between the frantic blue lumps that stopped scarring Mum’s face. I was taught to remember darkness, how it snaked into our bedrooms with all ten fingers held wide and limber. The lorikeet’s whistling song woke us abruptly, with Mum echoing in the kitchen I am afraid. It was autumn, and the music slithered through windows in rings of smoke. From the countryside, Grandma stoked the lawn—her face faded and yellowing after dark soil. A grave woman, she said to keep quiet and we did. Mum’s eyes said child, we are done for, and winter never came. The grasses turned black and tall in the orchid heat somewhere near the year’s end. We came and left by the money which changed hands, red-ripened by the apple harvest on old hills where things used to grow. Grandma’s eyes became milky and fish-like, planting stories in town with turned wrists; we were friends with our neighbours then. On Wednesday, we stayed indoors all day pretending we weren’t there. Shadows ran long down the curtained hallways, and we, goldfish yearning for a shaft of sunlight, climbed, twisted, contorted under windowpanes. I had my father’s hair, and my mother never kissed my head—not even then, hunkered down with my eyes welled with tears. The sun sliced us sideways while we held the air hostage in our chests. Mum said don’t make a sound. The summer returned, and Grandma called Mum hysteric. I played with mounds of worms in welters of dried leaves. The earth festered like congealed blood and bugs filled the gutter of my throat. Mum’s face was painted and gossamer by the door, a rabbit in her ribcage, ticking, pounding, and her jaw clicking. Grandma’s nails kept my jagged elbow in hand, and I pieced the slabs together between Mum’s swollen stance and the car in the driveway. Mum made no sound, and she met the steps stumbling. Grandma yelled at me for acting and making jokes; I was a jester while Mum held court. She would kick me outside, saying she couldn’t bear to look at my face. I liked to stand in the middle of the road and stare down until the street converged in on itself. I’d stand for as long as I could and listen for the rumble, then I’d slap my feet against the bitumen to make a quick escape from the oncoming car. We had too many chairs in our house after Grandma died. I slept through the wake, but I heard my aunts ask where Dad was in the way old prune-mouthed gossips do. Mum held me and cried through the night. We didn’t call that place home anymore, and even though the backyard was dirty and I never saw my friends anymore, I didn’t want to go. I supposed I didn’t have to worry about where I’d play— Grandma always said the dirt followed me where I went anyway. Still, Mum smacked me when I clung to the front door. The motel rooms glowed with neon signs. The seasons stopped changing. We didn’t live anywhere now, we lived everywhere now and Mum was afraid of every new car in the lot.

Face of Silver

Written by Emma-Grace Clarke

“Five ‘ours it will take, I reckon. I’ll charge you thirty for the service and fifty for the parts.” The magnifying lens made his muddy eyes bulbous, beetle-like and curious. He was enraptured by the watch, glued to the metal with a practised eye, while his gnarled, liver-spotted hands were gentle with the tarnished brass.

“Fifty quid seems a bit steep for parts,” I said. The lint in my wallet stared back at me.

His head jerked up, “Can’t be ‘elped darl. I ‘aven’t seen a watch like this in a long time, gotta get stuff out of storage to fix this.” His voice was a tumble of rocks, and his bushy eyebrows creased when he held the piece out to me.

I didn’t take it.

I hadn’t even looked at it for at least five years; it sat in the bottom of the third draw in the kitchen next to the whisk. It was a small thing, its face was blank; only one small golden stripe marked twelve o’clock. The hands were delicate spindles that curled from the middle in golden spirals.

“Alright, just…” the sigh snuck from my lips, the little traitor, “give me a moment.” That week was going to be a lentils week according to my miserly bank account.

“So ‘oose watch is this?” the man asked, rolling tools out on the wooden benchtop.

“It was my grandfather’s,” I said.

“Ah,” the man looked up, eyes droopy and his jowls all a-wobble. “Sorry for your loss.”

“It was a long time ago. We weren’t very close. I guess I’ll be back in five hours?” I knew my smile was tight.

“Yes, yes.” The man was distracted with his tiny tools, which waved half-heartedly, as if bidding me farewell. I turned on my heel and walked through the shop, admiring the sundry remnants of time and its pieces mounted upon rows of shelves—all ticking in harmony with my strides.

A whisper of “Slowly slowly catchy monkey” hissed along the air, and I turned to the man who was hunched over the table like a crooked hook, the watch clicking under his ministrations.

“What was that?”

“Seen this before?” he held the watch out again, his hands shaking.

Curiosity got the best of me. I ambled back and looked at the latch he had opened from the dented back. Inside was a tiny photograph, tinged brown and yellow with age, of a young man in uniform. There was a smile hinting at his lips, but he didn’t look at the camera—his gaze focused out of the frame.

“I haven’t… may I?” I extended my hand to take the watch, the cool metal smooth against my fingertips.

“Pretty rare design here,” he peered down at the watch. “See this engravin’ here… bit clumsy but the words are clear: ‘Never falter, never fall my silver linin’’. Looks like there was someone your grandfather was rather fond of.”

“Looks like it.”

Rude Vibes at Club Retro

Written by Charlie Joyce

Two large men in front of us in the line are greying on the sides of their heads.

They are excited.

“You know, I’m annoyed I decided against the Hawaiian shirt,” I chirp up, starting a conversation. “I started putting one on, but I just thought with these grey clouds…”

“All the more reason to wear one!” exclaims the one on the left with the almost-mullet. He is wearing a garish tiki shirt. “Plus, we’re celebrating.”

“Oh?”

“Yeah, it’s dads’ night out!” the other one smirks. Matching shirts. His head looks a bit like a rockmelon.

“Dads’ night out? At Club Retro?”

“You know it. We googled the best clubs for old people, and this was the first result!”

A club for old people? We were here for a 21st birthday kick-ons…

A bunch of lads strut past our queue.

“Oi Jimmy, this is where you should go if you wanna pick up MILFs!” one shouts. They cackle.

What is this place?

I go and join the rest of our party at the back of the queue. We scan QR codes, wonder whether we’ll be asked to wear masks, grimace and pay the compulsory $20 fee for entry after 8:30pm (trust me, it isn’t worth it). Finally, we heave up the stairs.

We’re in—but also completely sober. And no matter how many suspiciously sticky shot glasses of tequila you throw back, an uninebriated first impression of Club Retro is something you never really shake.

There’s a strange mixture of characters on the floor at 10:45pm: hens’ parties, divorcees, men with goatee-beards half a dozen inches long, a healthy sprinkling of the sort of people that shout at each other on trams, extras from The Sopranos, that sort of thing.

The sound system is so deafening that my ears begin to ring. ‘Come on Eileen’ plays, and then

five minutes later, plays again. I can feel the too-ra-loo-rye-ay in my ribcage.

A smoke machine occasionally splutters and coughs into action to remind everyone it’s there and smells weird.

It is impossible to shake a sense of impending doom.

I try to dance, but half our party’s hearts aren’t in it. Someone bumps me. I turn around—and suddenly my vision is eclipsed by someone’s aunt grinding on Sopranos Extra #7. She seems very enthusiastic. He grunts in appreciation. I turn to my left: two tram-creatures eating each other’s necks. I quickly turn to the right: a woman in her late 50’s starts making eyes at me! She has the aura of a pool lifeguard who would scold you for being on the wrong side of a lane rope. I turn back to my friends. They aren’t dancing so much as rhythmically bending their knees.

I need more to drink. Maybe that will help with the Fear this Hieronymus Bosch scene is presenting. I order a drink for my friend and I, and begin my odyssey back to the other side of the dance floor.

I duck out of the way as a cyclops monster makes a beeline for the toilet. The music accelerates. Other people’s sweat begins to soak my shirt. I stumble through, tossed about as if caught in a breaking surf wave. I push up for air, gasping a quick breath before being pushed back below the surface again. It engulfs me. Eyes and teeth gleam in the dark, illuminated green by the lasers rhythmically piercing the room. I duck just in time as a bat swoops overhead. It screeches. I think I screech back. My heartbeat is increasing, and my breathing is pained. ‘Sweet Dreams’ by Eurythmics pulses through my arteries. A primary-school-librarian type flounders against me, before streaming back somewhere else.

Nearly there. If the ancient Polynesians were able to navigate the vastness of the Pacific Ocean using only the stars, I can find my way through this scrum. Due west, and then a little north with the current. Trust in the techniques.

The sea pushes me back to the group, and I stagger out dripping. I hand the drink to my friend, and he thanks me.

“No worries.”

I turn back to survey the environment. It remains apocalyptic—and it is still filling up. We will never make it out of here alive.

This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. This is the way the world ends. Not with a bang—but with Cyndi Lauper.

Written by Jessica Faulkner

I have tied a knot around the horizon and am pulling it towards me. My car is on a tightrope road and Noah sits quietly in the back seat. His eyes are fixed upwards as a flock of birds passes by. Grey animals; they etch into the clouds in the half-light. I know Noah can see them. It’s the way he’s moving his eyes, craning his head to look backwards, pressing his nose up against the glass until the insects outside can feel the warmth of his breath.

I should have cleaned the car before we left. The passenger seat is littered with a stranger’s crumbs, smudges streak the windows, and the steering wheel needs a wipe.

I catch Noah’s eyes in the rear-view mirror and smile at him.

“How are we doing back there?”

“Good,” he nods as he speaks, taking his nose away from the glass. “Can we stop for raspberries? I’m hungry. When will we be there?”

“There’s a sandwich and some crackers in your backpack. Vegemite and cheese with the crusts cut off. It won’t be long.”

He perks up a little as he unzips the container. It will keep him distracted as we drive past the raspberry farm—not that he needs distracting. He’s such a compliant child. So easy to love.

Although I keep my eyes on the road, I can still see the rich canvas of my home rolling past. The fields are so green—I once heard a man describe them as painful. He told me how he had to shield his eyes from the brightness of the grass and the trees and the wonder. How he had to squint to see the dew sliding down each blade of grass, the mountains dormant in the distance.

I pull over, careful not to brake too fast with these bald tyres on the gravel edge of the road. I wrench on the handbrake and swivel in my seat to face Noah.

“Okay, buddy, finished that sandwich?”

He nods, his mouth full of bread and his cheeks a vegemite finger painting. I pull a tissue out of my pocket and lean over the back of my seat to clean his face.

I hear my phone buzz and rummage around in my bag. A message from Noah’s father appears on the screen. I don’t bother reading it. Instead, I get out of the car, walk around it, turn off the phone and throw it into the scrub. Noah looks at me quizzically, but I offer him a chocolate biscuit that we baked together yesterday and soon he seems to forget.

“Right, time for our adventure.” I see him smile.

I get back in the car and start the engine again. Singing and laughter trickle through the cab as I drive into the city—if you can call it that. Just a big country town, really. We drive through the streets until the silos dwarf the car, arriving at the docks a little after seven. I watch Noah watching the water. Soon, we will be out in the rise and fall of the ocean. I will have to hold him in my arms to stop his mind swimming through the sea, searching for the kraken beneath its depths.

I drive up to the booth and roll my window down, squinting at the man inside.

“Do you have your ticket?” He sounds disinterested.

“Here.” I give him my boarding pass and wait for him to nod his approval.

“Drive through onto Deck 5, park your car as directed, and leave your vehicle. You can take a bag each into the cabin. Here’s your room key. It’s number 8012.”

I smile and nod, careful not to show my face too directly. As I drive the car onto the boat, I can see Noah’s eyes turn to glass. They are a mirror of the ocean. I quickly point out the men getting ready to tie the cars down. Meltdown averted, I find my parking spot and shut off the engine. I reach into the glovebox and take out the cash-filled envelope. I tuck it into the back of my jeans while keeping my eyes on Noah. If he dived into the sea he would sink down, down into its depths like a lead sinker. I wonder if he would close his eyes or if he would look at the fish and

the seaweed and wait for his feet to hit the sandy bottom.

I pick up his backpack and sling it over one shoulder. Gently, I take his little hand in mine and lead him from the car, across the deck and up the stairs.

“Can we explore the ship?”

“We need to find our cabin. Here, you help. Look at the first number. It’s an 8. We need to find Deck 8.”

“But I want to find the captain and the playroom first.”

“No, Noah, we talked about this. It’s straight to the cabin.”

“But you said we were going on an adventure, Emmie.” I stop and pick him up to sit on my hip.

“And now I say we’re going to the cabin, Noah. No arguing.” My lips brush against his ear as I speak ever so quietly. No doubt he can feel my breath worming into his brain. He wriggles and starts kicking at my shins, tears beginning to stain his cheeks. But his arms are easy to cover with mine. I hold him back as I weave our way through the narrow passages of the ship. It is strange how the closer we get to the sea, the further inland I feel on this travelling island. It is a paradox hotel.

People who pass us in the rabbit warren corridors don’t even seem to notice Noah’s distress. They are far too concerned with finding their own rooms to see something as small as a child, whimpering in my arms.

We reach cabin 8012 and I manage to wrangle out the room key while still holding onto Noah. I drag him inside and close the door behind us.

The water has sprayed up from below and trickles across the porthole. Tears down the cheeks of this great red machine. The grey birds fly across the sky, circling the ship. I will abandon this green land for Noah. I will leave it in the rear-view mirror of a stranger’s car bought with his mother’s money.

Noah looks at me with his giant, telescope eyes and sees a girl in the back of a painting as she steps outside its frame. He has no idea what I am doing for him. The sacrifices I am making for him.

“Where are we going, Emmie? Where are you taking me?”

“To the mainland. Wouldn’t you like that? We can build a life together. Just you and me.”

Noah sits silently as his chest heaves with the rocking of the ship. Finally, he calms himself enough to speak.

“I-I think I’ll miss my mum, Emmie. If we go on an adventure. I think I’ll miss my mum. Maybe we should go back home.”

I scoop him into my lap, clutch him in my arms and rock him gently.

“No, don’t worry my love, you won’t miss your mum. Not after tomorrow, or the next day, or the next.”

His shoulders move up and down; he wheezes like a balloon with a hole in it. He finds it hard to speak between breaths.

“But Mummy will miss me, Emmie. I know she will.”

I shake my head and squeeze him tight.

“No, Noah. Your mum won’t miss you. I know she won’t.”

His hair feels soft between my fingers. His skin peach-sweet like a cherub’s. He is aware of my heart in its bone cage beating against the bars.

“She won’t miss you at all, Noah. She won’t even know you’re gone.”

Written by Hannah Winspear-Schillings

Polidori, Clairmont and Byron did not acknowledge her sitting there. Percy at least squeezed her hand, but the gesture had such a negligible effect on her that it might not have occurred at all. No amount of hand squeezing could melt the ice that had pervaded her since her child’s passing, but she squeezed his hand back. That seemed to placate him.

They were huddled around the fire that night, in a room composed more of shadows than light. The windows were misty with their breath and rain fell relentlessly outside. In later years, she would only have to close her eyes and remember the sound of countless tiny fingernails tapping on the window panes.

Byron was holding forth about the supernatural. Percy adored Byron and was quick on his heels with ripostes. Polidori was a doctor by trade, yet held his end of the conversation amicably. Claire Clairmont said nothing because she had nothing to say.

“In medical school we examined foetuses,” Polidori said excitedly.

Percy’s interested expression collapsed like a dead flower. He was endlessly fascinated by the theological implications of ruins, of memory, of the dead. Polidori, ever the realist, disagreed. The dead are gone. They cannot be brought back.

Undeterred, Polidori chattered on. “Notwithstanding the question of the soul, the process of gestation is quite remarkable. The womb promotes life, and is clearly an embodiment of the life-giving process—”

“I myself have carried many corpses,” said Mary.

Finally circumspect, Byron looked askance at the Shelleys. Clairmont simply drank her wine and watched.

“William will be fine,” Percy said softly, as though his breath might disturb the room.

A victim of the mould and the damp and the unceasing rain, their son had lain prone in their room for the last three days. The air was so cold that it was like breathing through gauze. Her own throat felt as though somebody had clenched a fist around it.

“Perhaps writing will provide a pleasant diversion from your troubles, madam,” Byron said, his words uncharacteristically thoughtful. She thought that perhaps Byron felt sorry for her, but when he canted his eyes maliciously and grinned at her husband, she knew then that Byron truly did not care. Far more important to him was the opportunity to bait Percy.

Even Polidori was grinning now. “A competition? Shall we perhaps expand on our conversation regarding the supernatural?”

She ignored them and stared through the window. The lake had thrown forth a blanket of mist, and Geneva slumbered like a watercolour painting beyond the cut glass.

If my son dies. She forced herself to think it, even as it caused her nails to stab her palms. That was how she thought of her body lately—a series of disconnected parts on pulleys and levers, a charnel house amalgamation of festering limbs, and organs that did not work as they should. For that had to be the cause, hadn’t it? Why else would all her children succumb to death, if there wasn’t something inside her that was deeply rotten. Deeply wrong.

If she could fashion herself a new body and be as buxom and young as the gormless Claire Clairmont, life may have been different. But she was aware that what she lacked in vitality she made up for in intelligence.

She also knew that it was this intelligence that doomed her. Percy had often commented thus. She thought too much, she worried too much, she predicted too much. “You are like the witches on the heath,” he had said. “Nothing but gloom and ominous portents.”

It was a portent, perhaps, that she glimpsed through the window. The rain cast a muted grey pallor on the darkness, making the figure appear little more than an indistinct black shadow. Only his face gleamed white as he looked up at her. The rain was falling on him, but he ignored it, standing motionless with his arms crossed over his chest. It was William, indisputably older. Even at a distance, her child’s resemblance to her father was uncanny.

She ran for the door. The figure darted ahead of her and plunged into the night. The wind lashed the rain against her legs, whistling through every gap it could find in her coat and splattering against her face.

She chased the figure through the night until she reached the shore and could see it no more. She did not know how long she stood sobbing. The cold wind hummed pensively, and once again she thought she saw something—a figure slipping through the long grass.

“No.” Her voice came as a moan. “You’re not here, you’re not—”

At the edge of the lake, she suddenly felt racked with pain. She no longer cared about anything except the empty space inside her that had formed when her children had…

Died.

She forced herself to think the word, to breathe life into the truth that haunted her. Following that truth was the roiling current of nerves, the anxiety that gripped her heart. She wished then that there was some way to safeguard her children against the world.

A hand touched her shoulder.

She turned and found herself face-to-face with her husband. He slowly wound his arms around her. His smile was brilliant.

“William woke up,” said Percy. “He’ll be alright, Mary.”

She looked out across the water. The trees, the rocks, the shoreline and the boats on the lake all wavered through a heavy mist of rain, blurring into the distant blue line where the water met the horizon. Somewhere, far away, some creature howled—its outcry long and plaintive against the black stillness of the night.

“I think,” the words tasted strange on her tongue, “I think I might have a story. For the competition.”

Percy smiled at her and took her hand. Together, they began the long walk back to the lake house.

Fairytales with a twist

The Size 9 and The Frigid One Written by Marija Mrvosevic

There was once a young lass, aged 21, hair in a bun and of lean body—size 9. She searched six continents for a mate handsome as rock stars and smart as philosophers of yore. But all she found was a forgotten pop icon and a posh cunt.

With only the seventh land left—a land as frigid as her best friend— our young lass despaired. She plucked her brow, stuffed her bra, and vehemently stayed off carbs. No luck.

The frigid one exclaimed, “Fuck me instead!”

Our lass tossed a smile. “Why not?”

And they slept soundly moments after.

Deputy Prime Minister a woman all along

Written by Mushu

After 12 years of service, Deputy Prime Minister Mulan Hua has revealed that she is, in fact, a woman.

She explained, “It all started in the Morrison years. The situation in Canberra simply couldn’t have been any worse for women at the time. I said ‘screw it’.”

“Nobody suspected. Which meant no upskirting, no harassment, no daily microaggressions about my competence. Basically I could actually do my fucking job.”

She also apologised for any suggestion that women needed to impersonate men for power. She quipped, “It didn’t get me to the bloody top anyway.”

For and Against: Vampire Romances

For

by Christina Savopoulos

In Favor of Bloodsucking, Brooding, Hundred-year-old Vamps

Vampire romances have indeed dominated pop culture. Maybe it’s the allure of blood, or the hundred-year age gap? Initially, I couldn’t understand the attraction. Who’d want to pursue a relationship where you couldn’t eat garlic?! Surely, that’d be a deal breaker.

But, after watching Spike and Angel vie over Buffy, all the crucifixes fell into place. The impossibility of the relationship makes for captivating viewing, and I’m sure everyone on my block could hear me screaming in shock as the plot unfolded.

Not only do vampire romances make for exciting viewing, they also allow for heated debates. I’m sure every Buffy fan has their own long-winded theories about whether a vampire can be morally ‘good’, even without a soul.

These relationships can be weird, but only if you’re reminded that a centuries-old vamp is dating a high schooler. Otherwise, boy, is it entertaining. Vampire couples may never have a picnic date or an ‘Instagramperfect’ relationship but they’ll most definitely rule at history trivia. So, I’ll happily sit back, eat an overflowing plate of garlic bread and love every minute of them.

Excluding Twilight, of course–I have some standards.

Against

by Katie Ellul

The vampire romance is in itself vampiric, in that a shiny exterior conceals something that should have died long ago. While many of us have considered it our moral duty to see this trope buried, it can always be counted upon to crawl out of the grave and sell millions of copies.

This column falls within the aftermath of Stephenie Meyer’s latest excretion, Midnight Sun, which revisits the plot of the first Twilight novel from Edward’s perspective.

Once again, Meyer has filled in the blanks of a story template and attempted to pass it off as an original work. In reality, the ready-to-eat (bite) vampire trope has eased her passage to success by requiring almost no writing ability. The allure of vampires, as established by literary canon, and the paradox of immortality are just begging to feed vacuous relationship conflict.

Still worse, at the heart of this trope is the fetishisation of unequal power dynamics in hetero relationships. Take away the vampirism and you get 50 Shades of Grey. So, don’t be fooled by the pretty package. At its core, the vampire romance is a patriarchal relic which should be left to biodegrade in literary landfill.

RETRO PLAYLIST

Complied by Mark Yin & Joanne Zou

1. Chain of Fools - Aretha Franklin 2. Signed, Sealed, Delivered (I’m Yours) - Stevie

Wonder 3. Ain’t No Mountain High Enough - Marvin

Gaye, Tammi Terrell 4. Stop! In The Name Of Love - The Supremes 5. I Want You Back - The Jackson 5 6. Got to Be Real - Cheryl Lynn 7. Best of My Love - The Emotions 8. Bad Girls - Donna Summer 9. Big Yellow Taxi - Joni Mitchell 10. Dreams - Fleetwood Mac 11. Take a Chance on Me - ABBA 12. Endless Love - Lionel Ritchie, Diana Ross 13. I’m Every Woman - Chaka Khan 14. Xanadu - Olivia Newton-John 15. Causing a Commotion - Madonna 16. How Will I Know - Whitney Houston 17. New Attitude - Patti LaBelle 18. Open Your Heart - Madonna 19. Got to Be Certain - Kylie Minogue 20. Take on Me - a-ha 21. Girls Just Want to Have Fun - Cyndi Lauper 22. Don’t stop Believin’ - Journey 23. Just Like Heaven - The Cure 24. Just Can’t Get Enough - Depeche Mode 25. Working Class Man - Jimmy Barnes 26. Linger - The Cranberries 27. Faith - George Michael 28. Hold On - Wilson Phillips 29. Girls and Boys - Blur 30. Vision of Love - Mariah Carey