Tag: Creative writing

  • Within the Viewfinder

    Within the Viewfinder

    —

    by

    Adrienne Slattery
    in

    Marie slips the nail of her ring finger beneath the sleeve of her thick woollen jacket, peeling it back to reveal the watch face. Its little hand paces impatient circles around eight forty-five, collecting frantic seconds. She sighs with frustration, shuffling her boots in the snow. He is fifteen minutes late. The newspaper has tasked…

  • The Friend

    The Friend

    —

    by

    Shay Keats
    in

    There once was a boy named Craig who was very unfortunate. One of these misfortunes was that his name was Craig, and not something like Daemon, or Link or Zuko (as his fellow classmates were named). Other misfortunes involved said classmates with whom he went to school, and if he were to really pity himself…

  • Served

    Served

    —

    by

    Kirsten Hammermeister
    in

    Tonight, I am ethereal, and I glow. With a midnight blue light stretching across my skin, I am an alien. Tonight, you ask for a shot and a cocktail and a cigarette and a resurrection of your soul. And tonight, I am a human-like alien. In a bar, in the rushed streets of nightlife Melbourne.…

  • Roadkill

    Roadkill

    —

    by

    The Tert
    in

    it’s fresh when I pass it by guts glistening in the dim headlights, a red smear of viscera across the dewy morning concrete. as I try and fail to not let my eyes linger, i wonder if, like me, you had a destination in mind.   i see you from around the bend, misshapen lump…

  • Teatime

    Teatime

    —

    by

    Zoe Petersen
    in

    TW for unpleasant eating experience/gagging Harry held his pinky out as he drank, pursing his lips to sip a shy mouthful of tea. He smiled and set the cup down on its saucer, careful not to let it clink.  ‘How’d you like it?’ ‘Delightful, madam.’ ‘Try the spaghetti.’ Harry hummed. This moment had happened once…

  • Monday Fever

    Monday Fever

    —

    by

    Adrienne Slattery
    in ,

    To his alarm, great purple hammocks hung beneath his eyes, sore to the morning sun. Wrestling house keys to the car, it had stung to jog, spurred by the memory that he’d done mere nothing of the work his boss had sprung upon him two weeks back… too much among other tasks, and paralysis of…

  • Walking the Rocks

    Walking the Rocks

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    by

    Adrienne Slattery
    in ,

    Here squats a sandstone city, its streets choked by motley cloth, Crowd River; bank brimming over toes tucked beneath dark waters cloaked by shade of steel shoulders, hunched, crouching. Light ripples on its water, blending hues which glimmer a vibrant crescendo to grins glistening. Wealthy tourists choose cockatoo or kangaroo memento. String lights gleam like…

  • Bonding

    Bonding

    —

    by

    Kirsten Hammermeister
    in

    I. In the deep woods, the decaying and overgrown world, the twisted vines snap, frail from whips of wind. I am consumed, by the hollowness of the night. Here lie the crystals, the mild candlelight and my sacrifice – a bloody, fluffy bunny. Crafted cantations carved from my carnal craze. Cracking call ringing in the…

  • Siege

    Siege

    —

    by

    Adrienne Slattery
    in

    The Quaint residence abides around a cold street corner at 92 C Gosemer Rd, Meralvile, where tall apartments tower over a red door. The porch angles so slightly to the left, leaving an embellishment of chipped paint on its corner where the timber meets the concrete. This is where Mrs Quaint returns home in the…