writer | editor | artist
The architect comes into my office smiling, a woven basket on her arm. Greenery – wild and fragrant – spills from the basket. It is a hot day, and she sinks gratefully into the spare chair in my office. I should be clear and say that she is no longer an architect, or not a…
I spent Christmas night sleeping on the floor beside the guest bed in our friends’ home. At one point, in my sleep, I rolled towards the bed – towards you – and must have bumped it. You woke in a sleepy rage. Unwilling to hiss or roar in someone else’s home, you simply kicked me…
The story I am writing about you takes place during your fall. It begins at the top of that building in Manhattan, when you step off the roof, and ends when you reach the sidewalk. It begins with a recitation, and ends in silence. After your death, I fell silent. It might be more accurate…
The thing is, I was always afraid of leaving you. Do you remember the story about Lot’s wife, leaving Sodom? The angels took her and her daughters by the hand. They led them out of the city, towards the hills. She would have been safe if she hadn’t turned back. It was the turning back that…
Today’s contribution comes from Carla Billinghurst. I first met Carla about … oooh … well, I know it was before the apocalypse. She’s a smart, funny, and inspiring writer. You can find her online at Carla Billinghurst.com, or follow her on FaceBook. If you are in the Blue Mountains in late November, you can go along…
I am interested in usable truths. I am interested in food I can eat, water I can drink, and stories I can tell. I am interested in doorways and roads: leading in, leading out. I am interested in stones, particularly the stones that mark the path we must walk tonight. My mother has died, and her corpse…
After lunch, we wander along the foreshore of the lake. There’s a raised wooden path, shaded and cool. As we walk, she tells we how the lake formed. ‘Where the lake is now,’ she says, ‘used to a great valley full of trees. The local people used to come here and celebrate every three years, when…
Just outside the door to my office is the photocopier. Things have been like this since the refurbishment, and I don’t see them changing any time soon. At first, this was good: convenient. I can hear my printing running off, and if I need to photocopy something for a student visiting my office I can do…
When the job was done, Jared went down to the river and took off his shirt to wash it. Then he walked home, toiling up the long rise to our place. It was late afternoon, and the light had that drowned golden tone it gets at times. The road cut a pale, straggly tunnel through…
a thousand clear confetti spangle your arms like moons the scales of our fish dinner * the fruit in this poem cannot be eaten unlike the poet * the river remembers where it lives; no matter how often you turn me away I will return to the same bed * Not 2oo words today; but…