Curtin Writers Club

[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 ot

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

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 arm