Category: Fiction

Of course, there’s no point writing oneself into a corner or being labelled a one trick poet. So I’ve started writing fiction. Actually, I’ve always written prose. Poetry is for – oops.

  • I’m scared. Is that right? Even if it’s not, I am. I’m scared the world will soon be underwater, along with us. Not that I would mind being underwater with you, as our scuba tanks nudge lazily and our hope bubbles fly upwards towards the surface but I’m scared of that. What will be left?…

  • Josi!

    Josi! You are luscious! I watch you every week on Chartbusting Eighties just because you are so luscious. You make me want to slur my words and say eighdies. I feel fat in my Tears For Fears outfits, especially this gigantic panda jumper but I don’t care because I want to shout, pout and let…

  • DNRC066 | LP | 2008

  • The blisters on my feet have begun to weep. My soles, oh my soles, they’re red and inflamed like my sunburnt knees. The zinc cream tastes like acid on my lips. I can’t swallow, and my elbow’s sick of tennis. History can be read in a forehand, a groundstroke. The only mystery is the spin…

  • Useless, absolutely useless. I thought I could trust you. I thought we were on one wavelength. You said “Wear something glitzy, it’s a Studio 64 party.” Well, thanks. Thanks for pushing my excitement levels so high I had to inhale Ventolin. Thanks for prompting me to spend the next four hours in other peoples’ wardrobes,…

  • Fangrant

    Australia needs more hairdressers, builders, bus drivers, electricians and fangs. The Prime Minister proposes that all migrants to Australia be provided with a clean set of fangs. The Opposition Leader goes one step further by suggesting that all short-term visitors on tourist visas be given a pair of candy teeth instead. Opinion polls put the…

  • Lost in the city of poets, I tried running down random streets in the hope of finding you. That’s the thing about dreams: just when you’re trying to use your mobile to call someone, you find it’s suddenly been equipped with internet access, and you’ve been registered for some lo-fi mobile phone film festival, and…

  • a story

    Hello, possum. I’m trying to write a story that’ll take you a day to read, or just less than four weeks. The kind of story that’s full of description, dialogue, character development and unexpected polka dots. Benny grabbed the knife. I’m trying to write an untold story. Sounds hard, doesn’t it? The kind of story…

  • Please call a doctor. I’m losing blood. There isn’t much time. I’m at home. Please call a doctor right away. I mean it. Hang up the phone, then dial the number. It’s on the fridge. Above that one. Right. You’ve got it? Good. Now, do it. I’m at work. Please call home, as there seems…

  • The Heat-Ray

    No one would have believed in the middle of an already bleak Antipodean winter that cylinders of heat would one day be passed out to individuals as a last refuge against atomic chill. Silver cannisters cold to the touch but containing propellants and gases that, upon contact with the eerie airs, would spontaneously ignite, providing…

  • Polka Dot

    My co-pilot loves polka dots. I love their simple English. Dots that could connect me to the whole world if I wanted, and I do. Polka dot scarves for summer picnics and walks through symmetrical green gardens. Polka dot shirts for shimmering nightclubs and photo opportunities. Polka dot skirts for Sundays and intercontinental flights. I…

  • Love Dumpling

    Welcome. Love dumpling instructions. Filled with kind of oil that rips layer of skin off tongue. Loved by thousands, admired and emulated by millions more. Comes in set of fifteen, complete with complimentary broth and beans. May induce giggles in bystanders, celebrity chefs and fellow customers. Should be eaten with chopstick, small spoon and bravery.…

  • DNRC065 | LP | 2007

  • I should have decided not to get up that morning. I should have stayed in bed, reading WWII-era comic books and drinking Chocolate Moove. But I didn’t, and that’s why I’m writing this story now. I should have known what was coming. I’d been hassled mercilessly since arriving at the public school in that small…

  • Lose You

    Then you came running like a season in reverse. Flowers in your mouth. Standing on a rock. Inside a waterfall. There was a script but we were method-acting. Like Pete Doherty and Carl Barat at their last gig. High on contradictions. Waiting for the bus to leave. Throwing mid-air punches. Stored in a freezer and…