The Solitude of Summer

What is there to do when one is both disgusted by – and satisfied with – their own relentless solitude? Of course, one would think that the two counteract each other and thus cannot exist in the same mental space. But one would be mistaken. I am just fine with being on my own. I get anxious for it when I spend too much time around too many people. And after spending a while on my own, I tend to forget how comforted it makes me feel. That’s when I start looking for reasons to reengage with the world, and so the cycle goes. Depending on the time of year, I can go weeks without speaking to people with whom I’m acquainted. My summers are more for work and hibernation than they are for holidays.

Addict

Hexagons cut from magazine paper and musty op-shop sun frocks carried home like trophies. Washed and unmade, faded fabrics like snatches of song, reminiscent of times long gone, stimulate. Bolts of bold beauty arrest. Hands caress endless ranks of cloth, drunk on possibility. Soft brushed cottons, florals, and stripes, checked candy colours and vibrant deep hues, intoxicate. Needles prick pincushion fingertips, tongue tastes rust, bright blood blooms slow. Patience grows. Cable, stem and feather stitch embellish, texture, pattern and shape fascinate. I create.

Red Sea

She came on a summer’s night to rest on banks of gold. Her stomach was too full with stories of blood untold. She yawned a stench so thick; her jaws of hell were wide. Chained by the pale one’s eye, where was I supposed to hide? With mighty, filthy flourish, the wings of outrage cried, “More my Lords of Death?” She pled to a melting sky. For the pale hand gripped us with fear of the well-known, What arctic pit was this that weighed upon our bone? And as the arms of the ocean pulled away the damned, I felt that they were straining beneath the whites’ demand. But hush and listen: fate echoed in the halls, “Go back! Turn back! All you pitiless, abandoned souls!” Life is a faint reflect

The Lynch of Originality

For writers new to the craft, the question of originality often proves a stumbling block. It is the question which can even prompt writers to scrap entire stories in the fear of being called derivative. But much like all stifling mentalities which affect the ability to write consistently and productively, there is no “quick fix”, regardless of what an online search will tell you. And because creative minds work on a wide spectrum, every individual needs to be able to forge their own style according to what makes them comfortable. Every now and again, for example, I am reminded of David Lynch and his approach to consuming other media. It sticks in the brain because his approach is just the op

The Philosophy of a Disposable Camera

Today, I bought a disposable camera. This was the first time I’d held one in my hands since year six camp. Now, nine years later, I’ve decided to make a decision which will undoubtedly raise questions about my sense of judgement. It was strange, to say the least. To say the most, as soon as I walked out of the store, the metaphorical obligation I now had to this somehow-still-in-production relic of my childhood was filling me from head to toe with excitement. I hope to do eleven-year-old-me proud. This camera was expensive, at least for what I was getting; “27 Photos + 12 Free/Gratuites/Gratis”. Lucky me. At $24 for the whole thing that was 61c per photograph (bonus included), 51c more expen

We acknowledge the past, present and emerging traditional owners of the land on which we live and work, the Wadjuk people of the Noongar nation and acknowledge that sovereignty was never ceded.

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© 2020 by Curtin Writers Club