Sacrilegious

[Content Warning: Sexual References; Illicit Drug Use, Sensitive Themes] It was two shots of vodka and one to the head. It was a bad breakup and a long walk off a short pier. The problem with my town is that it was always trying to kill you. This was back when everyone prayed before bed, and not to aliens or dairy product deities. It was the bourbon-veined business men fingering pistols in their pockets. It was a set of gnashing teeth hibernating under your porch step. The other problem with my town was that it was both sides of a mix tape to the nearest hospital. This was back before people planted pansies, and became pansies, and ate pansies in gluten free soup. Kurt Cobain died the same d

When do we know what we're talking about?

It takes moments of introspection to realise that, just maybe, we don’t know what we’re talking about; that we might just not get it at all. Maybe these moments are rare for some, but fortunately (or unfortunately) I spend a lot of time within the confines of my mind. I’ve only been writing for four years. I’m halfway through both my first manuscript and my undergraduate degree. Why should anyone listen to what I have to say? I can’t give you an honest reason. I imagine very few of us can. Perhaps it’s because we feel we have something interesting to say, something assured which can alter any conversation. I can’t count how many times I’ve had to awkwardly retract something I’ve said while s

Forsaken

At the tide line amongst the jumbled bladder-wrack and shells, the rotting carcass of a timber boat lies upturned upon the sand. Forsaken by fishermen, no future now. Cracks where once the oiled decks shone, ribs exposed, iron rivets rusting, a hole punched in its side. Coarse calls coruscate, greedy gulls trailing fish guts strut the ramparts of their keep. The reek of rotting carcasses clots the air. You promised a future, fisher of men. Wracked upon a timber cross with arms outspread, iron nails through hands and feet, forsaken, you hang. From beneath exposed ribs, a hole punched in your side oozes wine-dark blood. Coarse calls oscillate as legionaries patrol the ramparts of their killing

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