A new-age nurse isn’t just a contradiction in terms. It’s batshit crazy; mysticism ain’t ever medicine. Yet this Emergency Department nurse has gone rogue, surrendered to the counter-cultural zeitgeist and weaved astrology into her fucking decision-making. All because a newbie I’d mentored had waxed lyrically about star signs. That trainee nurse had been born under a water sign—Cancer, Scorpio, and Pisces, in case you’re...

Typical; my clueless husband had immediately agreed. Hadn't hesitated; he’d even cut me off before I got a word in edgeways. The hussy next door simpered, having successfully battered hubby into submission with those long fake eyelashes. Then scurried inside her bungalow to change into a swimsuit. That bitch, and recently her daughter, have become way too flirtatious around my beloved. And he, being a typical man, prefers...

Flickering sunlight seeped around the edges of her eyelids. The rays energized a phantom drummer who had trespassed into her skull overnight. Dark percussion squalls throbbed against her temples, ebbing and flowing with every twitch of her waking body. Unmoored, she focused on motionlessness, cocooning herself in a bed more luxurious than her usual. A floral-infused breeze—frangipani, seemingly—delicately caressed her bar...

Bah humbug, God! You’re kidding, right? Like, I’ve confessed. Done my penance. On my knees daily, the whole nine yards. You, however? Christ, you’re an all-knowing hard arse. You’ve heard me constantly praying: Lead us not into temptation. Foresaw the Midnight Mass choir’s opening hymn, O come all ye faithful, messing with my mind. Knickers too. For God’s sake, you’re like she was last Christmas. Getting your jollies spot...

The Princess of Wales paused; her eyes sought out the Netherlands’ Ambassador. Having sighted his supportive smile, she concluded her speech: “The exhibition’s highlight is the two Vermeer paintings I’ll now unveil. The one on your left is a delight, the unexpected companion piece for the more famous Girl with the Pearl Earring. Rediscovered in Delft just over a year ago, this painting not only generated global excitement...

Rat-a-tat. Rat-a-tat? “Hey, I’ve forgotten my key…” Rat-a-tat-tat! “Hurry up little whore—" Rat-a-tat-tat-tat! “Get your bloody arse into gear and open the front door.” “So sorry, Miss. I can’t.” “For fuck’s sake, whyever not. These groceries aren’t getting any lighter.” “Following orders, Miss. Sorry.” “What … Whose?” “Yours, of course, Miss.” “Never ever suggested not letting your Mistress into her own apartment.” “Sorr...

Pounding music. She’s dancing, always packing, a grunge-goth Mistress of tuneless nihilism. Torn fishnets, punk attitude, air punches. Shrieking the lyrics: fuck government, fuck Jesus, fuck fake. She sneers, knows I’m that preppy princess from happy-snappy election pics. Irresistible, she circles her prey. Tongue violates my mouth. Fingers find my knickerless pussy. Stunned by oozing acceptance of subversive seduction, s...

Demanding. Insistent. She’s flipping the bird at my earlier text: Give me an hour. Pop-up drinks with the directors to celebrate last night’s Businesswoman of the Year win. Whatever. Her text is adamant, not a centimetre of wiggle room: I meant right NOW, little whore. Now, seriously! I must rearrange my world because a capricious whim has lodged in Mistress’s head. She knows I’m the board’s golden girl, but surely, she g...

It was the best of times; it was the worst of times. It was hosting my first Christmas Eve television spectacular; it was my rellies’ Christmas Day shit show. It was Aussie, Aussie, Aussie, gold standard families, oi, oi, oi; it was a public debasement of that currency, bah humbug rules, okay! Christmas morning dawned full of promise; the sun was beating down, yet the oppressive heat that stymies outdoor eating was for an...

Liminal, subliminal; all a bit silly. Witches forget britches… and knickers! Pastor Papa ranted against pagan paraphernalia. But Faith’s dreamy Halloween was all cutie-pie saucy, not witchy-bitchy. She snuck outdoors, rocking that ‘ungodly’ Luna Lovegood look. Ignored lecherous frat-bros; let will-of-the-wisp pumpkins guide through tangled woods. Moonlight revealed a fiery-haired beauty assessing Faith. “You’re queer, dea...

She’d dumped him; seriously, pneumatic blonds from fucking accounts count. Glammed up, Sarah needed a man-free cocktail. The leather dyke was empathetic, flirtatious… packing. Back in Sarah’s apartment, the BBC strappy took her, animalistic relentless fucking. Being used liquified her gaping cunt. A first; monster multiple cums had wracked and wrecked her. “Food?” Sarah eventually whimpered. The dyke’s hand slid lasciviou...

Finally, my dad nodded to the undertaker who started the conveyor. “Annie?” he had asked. I just couldn't, wouldn't, shouldn't. Bloody typical, Sarah would’ve thought. “Brian?” Sarah’s father, again cervical cancer’s bitch, had also shaken his head; a stoic’s single tear staining his new cream shirt. My fingers locked with theirs. My face dissolved, a mascara mess. The white pine coffin, painted with rainbows and unicorns...

Most nights one of us regulars would unceremoniously tell a tatt-free stranger to fuck off. Wouldn’t matter that she appeared to comply with the, Women only; No Replicants, rule on the bar’s front door. But, on a slow retro-punk Saturday, no one summoned up the energy, so the too-femme-for-here stray scored a stay of execution. One that would be reconsidered when she revealed who and, indeed, what she was. Not that a star...

Sydney’s free settlers had limits, a regular blind eye was turned to the biblical invocation: Judge not, that ye be not judged. So, when it came to the likes of Brigid O’Sullivan, polite society couldn’t help itself: all freed convicts were skilamalink, but the Irish were beyond the pale. It was just as well the great and good didn’t know the half of it. The next stop for those who shaked a flannin of Sydney’s establishme...