Tag Archives: experimental

Fiction Friday – Definition of Loss

Definition of Loss
He is six and loss is defined when he cannot find his Minecraft t-shirt or he forgot he drank all the milk in his cup or there are no more chips in the bowl or his favourite book is not on the shelf. The loss of his father lacks definition. He knows it is his mother’s tears, Nanna’s cuddles and Grandpa’s silence.


In the playroom he takes blank paper from the open ream and the pencil case of Textas, sits at the drawing desk and draws as many pictures of his father as he can. Stick figures with round bodies and funny shaped heads wearing tradie fluoroes or boardies and rashie or jeans and a t-shirt walking the dog. In the open spaces he draws a hammer, tape measure, saw, drill, as many items as he can remember from the tool box on the back of the ute.


From the craft drawer he takes out a pair of scissors and a roll of sticky tape, takes them to his room with the pictures. He cuts the pictures out one-by-one and sticks them on his bedroom window in a stained glass mosaic. The definition of what he has lost.

Fiction Friday – Pockets

FICTION FRIDAY

Pockets

In my pockets, I hold more memories of your hurts than instances of what gave you joy. I am hoping you have not forgotten what brought you joy. I am hoping you have forgotten what hurt you. I hold it for you without pain. I hold it as witness should you ever point at your heart and ask, “What caused this scar?”

Fiction Friday – Fireflies

I would like to see fireflies again. I saw them, once, when I was young. They were small stars I could reach towards, blinking in the darkness, writing words I could not read in a calligraphy beyond imagination. I wanted to decipher the words they wrote in the night sky, hoping for a revelation, an epiphany, a prophecy. Perhaps they only wrote about the trivial and mundane. If so, I saw then, for a moment, the extraordinary composed as a haiku to the ordinary.

Fiction Friday – A Beatitude


A Beatitude
Each evening he sits down to the mandala of meat and three vegetables. Tonight is sausages. Last night was rissoles. He’s planning for tomorrow night to be chicken. He hasn’t had lamb cutlets in a while. Next time he passes by the butcher’s he will see if they’re on special. Mashed potato, peas, corn and carrots are the basis of this meditation. He sprinkles a little salt and pepper over his food. The table is set with knife and fork, and a spoon for dessert. Custard with tinned fruit is the staple. His family has all grown up, his wife long past. This is his time to reflect, to remember, to reminisce. This is holy communion.

Fiction Friday – Call Me A Palimpsest

Call Me A Palimpsest

Call me a palimpsest for I am continually erasing the virtues written on my arms with tongues of doubt. I have erased myself to the point where the bone is exposed and I wrap layers of newspapers scrounged from recycling bins around the wound. Pages whose words are wounds of their own, more traumatic than mine. Around my heart I have plastered favourite passages torn from lover’s notes and made mortar from poetry. I erase mistakes and leave scars, excise the decaying flesh. Build new flesh ripped from a thousand novels found abandoned in a second-hand bookstore. There is a lit match in my hand and a conflagration on the other side of the world, although neither are connected, except if you want to find causality in images linked together like a comic strip.

Fiction Friday – The Answering Machine

FICTION FRIDAY

The Answering Machine
The answering machine attached to the landline is full. I remember when they used to be tiny cassette tapes. Now it’s all digital. Memory still has a limited capacity. No one has bothered to delete all of the abandoned phone calls from telemarketers and scammers. Mixed into the continual pulses of ended phone calls is the occasional voice mail from Mum who says she’ll call back later. I can delete the memory but won’t, can’t forget, the abandonment.

Fiction Friday – Sunsets

Sunsets

As appealing as sunsets are for their beauty, there is greater resilience found when the light acquiesces to the darkness and you don’t know how long the night will last. You try to shape the shadows with your hands into recognisable forms so you are less afraid of the velvet blackness and it tests your stability when you cannot see where the attack comes from. You feel the impact in your bones and in your spirit. Wounds are hard to manage in the darkness, therefore, find what little light you can. Even that smallest firefly of light dispels enough of the darkness to tend to your injuries and help you see the next step forward. Borrow light if you have to.

Fiction Friday – Couch Surfing

Couchsurfing

Lying on the couch, stretched out, and my head and feet touch the inside of the armrests. My left side is against the back cushions. It feels like it could be three sides of a coffin. That eternal rest. I can wear an origami crane as a crown and watch the television if I turn my head to the right. This is how I make contact with mystery.

Fiction Friday – The Broken Mirror

FICTION FRIDAY

The Broken Mirror
He looked at the shards of broken glass in the bathroom sink as an interruption of the thirteen year old version of himself who had stared back at him from the mirror. The bile of wanting the separation of self and spirit surged up his throat and over the glass, erasing his name written on the glass after fogging it up with his breath.

Fiction Friday – Parentheses

Parentheses It wasn’t much of a cut; a nick of the knife cutting potatoes for dinner. He sucked his finger and grabbed some paper towel, allowing for the moment when the body looks for other abrasions as evidence of mortality. This scratching of the surface to determine the strength, if any, that lies beneath the fragile surface of skin as a counterpoint to the idea that our will and mind is as strong as steel, noticing the flaws of the human body as miraculous. He inhales the iron-infused scent of the wound and knows the memory of Dettol is in its smell, that acrid odour breathed in like an hallucinogen that reminds the lungs how much they love the taste of air. Scrounging in the medicine box he pulled out the box of Band Aids and settled into the parentheses of healing as the blood soaked into the pad.