Fallow by David Streader

Morphine and IV drips. Catheters and hospital food. Dark grey skies, cold wind. Nicotine and Xanax. Heartbreak and restrained tears. A headache that comes after work, throbbing, until the tablets take their course. Self medication and disassociation techniques. Glazed eyes and plastic plants. A life under fluorescence, subconscious green, tinting the skin of the patients. Subtle insults, patronising compliments. A constant electrical buzz. Anxiety, anti-anxiety, anxiety. Vague sense of filth and bacteria, the overwhelming stench of bleach and chlorine. Cheap coffee, rushed cigarettes. Time races and stands still simultaneously. Mild heart palpitation, traffic fumes. Junk food and sadness. Morning coughing, yellowing teeth. Someone smiles a sweet pitying smile. Brief conversations in the break room; an uncle who had a stroke, a grandparent’s recent death. Valium and caffeine pills. Memories of a suicide, a mother of four hanging in the family bathroom, no note left - a commentary on the rest of us. The pills they say, the doctors gave her the wrong ones. Rubbing eyes, the sun sets again. The sad cold day turns to a sadder colder night. The veins in her temple, they pound. Then TV, then a fitful broken sleep, sweating, shaking. Dreams of death and forgotten friendships. And work. Dreams of work. Until the 5pm alarm goes off. Snooze for nine minutes, snooze for nine minutes more. Coffee and cigarette, peak hour traffic once more. The morning radio, play advertisements and insincere odes to love. Traffic accident, everyone slows down to look. To see if maybe they can catch a glimpse of a corpse, of their own mortality. She won’t look, she’s seen enough death already. She takes the offer of overtime. Mopping up the fluids, watching the clock. The trip to is as exhausting as the trip from. Mild paranoia. Nausea and tremors. Someone’s fucked up. You don’t seem very happy these days, someone says. She stoops over to pick up a discarded magazine, its cover of upset celebrities reminds her of her own divorce. Bring the kids back on time or they can’t see daddy next weekend. Make a phone call. A lingering feeling that she is standing on the edge, about to fall in. It’s the people they say. The people around you will pull you back. She wonders if the doctors have given her the right pills, runs in the family they say. God this place hasn’t changed in thirty years. She sighs, and tries to imagine a time when it wasn’t this bad…

Suggestions for a Newborn by Guido Martini

Wine turns into vinegar so be weary of whom you choose to trust with the rest of your life. A partnership can only be defined as such. When the spark is gone together with the looks, there had better be something else. Don't be stuck pedaling the tandem, solo.

You probably won't make a difference to the world, but it doesn't matter. You are living in YOUR world, so by default, you are making a difference.

All rules must be broken. The square shape can fit into the star opening, if you want it to. The end justifies the means.

Oh yeah, stay away from clichés; they are so passé, and try to avoid pompous French words when writing in English.

Most of all be true to yourself. Never let anyone get in the way of achieving your dreams; or tell you what to do.

Sharing by Neve Chalmers

Caitlin breathed deeply as she turned off the ignition and peered through her smudged windscreen. The kitchen light was on, and a dark shadow moved inside. “She’s home”, Caitlin sighed. She paused for a moment before bundling up her bags for the nightly dance to the door: groceries in one hand, worn briefcase in the other, and hand bag perched precariously in between.

A note met her in the hallway: “Caitlin, I’ve gone to Nebraska for the weekend with Joel. Just thought I’d let you know that the shower needs a good scrub. Electricity bill attached xo”. Caitlin winced. She could hear Sarah’s verbose southern twang, “Don’t forget to the pay the electricity bill, sweetie pie!”

The kitchen sink heaved with the remnants of Sarah’s life: three coffee cups, orange peel, fry pan with complimentary burnt eggs, empty tin of beans, two Tupperware containers and a used pot of bikini wax. “Shit.” Caitlin breathed out and leaned against the sink. She created a new list in her mind of “things to do tonight”, with Sarah’s rank dishes and mess coming in at number one. Behind her, a shadow moved.

Within an hour Caitlin had de-contaminated the kitchen and prepared a tasty Japanese salad. She had even poured herself a glass of pinot noir to celebrate her empty nest. She knew that she had put far too much mirrin in the salad dressing, but was pleased with her attempt nonetheless. She contemplated her toe nails as she sat in front of the blaring television, realizing that it had been at least three months since she’d last paid them any attention. The peace was a welcome gift, Caitlin thought, as it gave her the time and space to indulge her most inane thoughts. Every now and then, she thought she could hear Sarah moving in the bathroom. Caitlin giggled, “one single glass of wine and I’m imagining she’s back.”

After falling into a brief dream on the couch, Caitlin lazily opened her eyes and found that her salad bowl and wine glass had been moved. She gazed up at the ceiling, straining to remember if she herself had moved them. “Must have”, she mumbled. The television screen stared blankly at her. “Did I turn off the T.V.?” Caitlin mused, feeling an underwhelming unease that she knew was a direct consequence of her over-active imagination and seeing “The Ring” many more times than was necessary.

She lifted her heavy bones off the couch and moved towards the hall. In a moment, voices filled the room. Caitlin turned to find the television back on, roaring as its volume steadily increased. A blonde southern belle yelled at Caitlin to try a new feather duster, “with four times more dust grabbing power!” “Where the hell is the remote control?” Caitlin cried out, desperately scanning the room for an answer.

*****

It wasn’t until exactly one month later that Caitlin and Sarah’s elderly neighbour, Jennifer, decided to call the police. She hadn’t seen either of the two young girls come in or out of their home for weeks. The bins hadn’t moved. A pile of damp newspapers was starting to form on their front porch. The first snow of winter had enveloped Caitlin’s car. “I know she didn’t care much for that old thing”, Jennifer explained to the police, “but there’s no way she wouldn’t have moved it into the garage for the first days of winter”.

Sergeant Gidon was assigned the task of inspecting the share property on Hayley Street. He was relieved to escape Headquarters, especially in light of what was regularly referred to around the traps as winter’s “bureaucratic avalanche”. When he arrived at 28 Hayley Street, he was surprised to find that the door to the unit clicked open with ease.

The atmosphere inside was stale. All of the windows were covered, making the place feel and smell like a dank hovel. Gidon moved into the living room to pull back the heavy curtains. His eyes soon adjusted to the light. Peering at the floor, he suddenly confronted the wide eyes of a dead woman. Caitlin lay in a contorted tangle: a television remote control between her limp hands, a full bowl of Japanese salad beside her head and a glass of pinot noir splashed across her body and the white carpet.

Moments later, a panicked Gidon found Caitlin’s housemate Sarah, sitting dead in the base of their shower.

Stephen's Quintet by Guido Martini

My dad occasionally sends me emails of the "Astronomy Picture of the Day"
A sort of cosmic money-shot taken of the orgy of our forming universe.
The thought of it embarrasses me, just like how you felt when your parents embarrassed you in front of your schoolmates
That flushed feeling passing from your head to your toes.

Hold on...how many other parents send out really cool emails?
I mean meaningful, deep, totally enlightening?
Not a viral joke email or a funny picture of a cat
He's sending me pictures of GALAXIES! CONSTELLATIONS! COSMIC DUST!
It's as is he's stating: look up there my son.
Wonder. Why you are here.
Wonder.

And so it was, as I observed "Stephen's Quintet,
It all made sense:
Life is pure energy.
It burns brighter than any sun
Impossible temperatures
But not enough for 37.5°

My Name is Blue Van Meer by Aylma Pessl

Diary Entry 2009 70.3

This is the third time I have swept away course work assignment (see ‘controlled yet passionate arm, sweeping my work off my desk while he passionately heaves me onto the desk, ready to have his way with me’. Think all this without the passion or desk or boy).

How does one effectively use one word, or even several words, that come close to capturing the beautiful, short and sweet sadness of a sigh. A sigh. It’s not even a breath. Something escapes one’s lips (dry because Chanel’s Scintillantes Glossimer, Paillettess, shines more than it moisturises), but not enough to consider it an exhalation. A sigh, a slight sound, barely perceptible except in the most uncomfortable of situations (see Diary Entry 2008 311.2/312.1). Rod in the car, sitting behind the ridiculously large wheel, before telling me he was still fornicating with his ex-sweet-heart, the cruel hearted, bosomy Clarice, and that they would be re-emerging into the college limelight a couple once more at the Dewell-Stanford Dorm House ball that following week).

A sigh escaped me.

Today Anna Lee decided to tell me, yet again, that I needed to relax, be nicer, maybe “get drunk and just snog someone” (see Chapter 3 of How to Meet a Young Man, Ladies. John Parsol, 1997) rather than be “aloof, cold, calculating and down right emotion-less” (the latest quotation from One Tree Hill, her favourite re-ran TV show. Sorry, I don’t recall the season or episode). I hate it when she says these things to me (there Anna Lee, can you feel that emotion? Hate is emotive. Detest. Odium, ha- good one!).

I am not aloof. I may be many things, but I am not aloof. And I do try, just not around her. I could tell from the first time we meet (Diary Entry 2008 158.4, 217.2) that we would not be the ‘best of friends’, close or even remotely interested in each other.

1) Safe sex: It was only because she felt she needed to scrawl her crude, southern moniker onto, yes ONTO the front covers of her school books that they were liberated from the prophylactic-tight plastic to breathe in the learned, collegian air.

2) Cousteau does Harvard: her ridiculously large, all-boxed shoe collection, which she would sift through every Saturday afternoon before a date, leaving the worthy-less ones lying in their tissue prisons like hundreds of uneaten oysters, strewn around the dorm room. I broke several heels by accident I broke several with great deliberation (see Episode 6: Territory Markings of the Siberian Tiger of Canal Plus’ Columbian Award winning six episode series on the rare Siberian Tiger called 6 Hours in the Life of a Fading White Royal).

Another sigh.

I had finally mustered (see Eli Cash’s unpopular WildCat, 1999) the courage to speak to Rudolph Thomas Valisse today when Rod decided he needed to ruin my day and week and life (Dad, you can see that without you around, my dramas are ever more melodramatic and adolescent) by interrupting our budding conversation, like a cruel child stamps on a little, growing daisy (my God, I am becoming so damn sentimental). I had been keeping an eye on Rudolph, like a young, female Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window sans binoculars (I will never stun like Grace), and had developed the following theory: we had had different authors (parents) but we were of similar ilk. His novel may not have been as complex or well travelled as mine (in my own humble opinion) but I think he could be an interesting read. If you could purchase me for $29.95 on Amazon, then he would pop up in the “If you liked this then click here” section.

I think.

I had several things ready to throw out, should the conversation get past the initial greeting.

Potential Topics: Harvard, Dad, local football.
1) “My father went here, and spoke so fondly….”
2) “Of course Dad wrote, but if he had ever decided to attack the non-fiction world, I believe his writing would have been unashamedly Nabokovian…”
3) “Dad really disliked the college teams…”

Instead: Rod. He pecked me on my cheek and gave me an overly affectionate hug. It was more contact than during our two dates.

I was furious, but neither gentleman had a chance to see my disgusted reaction: Rudolph disappeared and Rod stared triumphantly at his departed back. By the time he had turned around, I was gone.

Bastard. Oh Dad, what would you say to all this? That I am too young to be wasting my time with such frivolities? I would argue sternly against that. Your first June Bug was at the tender age of 16. Why can’t I explore the many uncharted channels of my heart?

Oh Dad, sometimes I feel these are nothing more than sad, silent soliloquies to you (Ha! Try saying that Christian Bale).

Stoker’s Horror Blog: Thoughts and Critiques by Steven Rogers - Part 13: It’s Not Just the Name by Sebastien de Robillard

“The slow, creeping, dark cloak of death slowly encircled us, clouding our vision. We couldn’t see, and it felt like we couldn’t breath. My heart slowed down, and I could feel the hearts of my friends slowing too. Death was here for us. Death was here for us...”

John Franco Conard finished with a long, long-hanging-in-the-air dot dot dot (visual aid: . . . ) wanker-of-an-arse pause. You could imagine him planning it earlier in the evening, probably with his thin, black beret-wearing, red-spectacled wife.

The crowd broke into applause, some standing ovations. Some and then more. God. What a bunch of idiots.

I leaned over to my right. “Jesus Christ Rec, what a fucking joke.”

She laughed, “He is the newest, brightest darling of the literary elite.” I rolled my eyes and made to throw up. This year’s Writers’ Festival had been ordinary at best, but to “headline” the festival with John Franco Conard (“My Name is John Franco Conard (and yes, he pronounced “name” like a proper noun, like he was so damn special that “name” was just a word but “Name” was his word for him))!? Oh I missed the wit and brilliance and genial nice-guy-ness of Eggers. I miss the good looks of… the other writer, the Australian one. I missed all those smart funny people, those SEXY ladies who had graced the festival stages. Where were they tonight?

“Should we go?” Rec asked. I nodded. “I need some wine,” she said.

“Of course you do, what else would you drink after an event at the ‘Writers’ Festival’?” I said with some level of sarcasm.

We stumbled out, lucky to leave with our satchels in one peace, battering our way through the gagging horde of amazon.com-top 10-most-popular-books-of-the-month-reader/subscribers dying for a little bit of John Franco Conard.

“Fuck, I can hardly breath. What a joke. I am going to rip the fuck out of this tomorrow.” I didn’t see her, but Rec groaned rather audibly, probably on purpose.

“Boring. Tearing apart something on your crappy little blog. What a boring, clichéd joke Steve, seriously.” We stopped at the lights. I wanted to argue, but I chose against it. We started walking across the road, heading towards our usual, little bar without any real conscious inten…

“Well, why the fuck can’t I? We just sat through dribble, absolute dribble?” I couldn’t help myself.

“Of course. Why can’t you? Poor you, I forgot, I forget how you suffer through life. God, you are such a damn cliché of a failed artist. You are like every protagonist in a Hornby novel… No!” She yelled the last part out, which kinda shocked me.

“No. You’re not even good enough to be a Hornby character, you’re that stupid main character in that ridiculous book Alistair loaned you. The one with the shit writer who is jealous of his friend and gets one blow job a year and…” Rec laughed her cute little arse off.

I didn’t move. Can you believe that? Him? That character? I don’t even remember his name, the book: The Information. I think.

‘Rec, wha… what the fuck?” I stammered out. “That is one of the meanest things you have ever said to me? I mean, shit…”

She laughed at this pathetic attempt at my own defence (not doing that again: I paid a fine AND served a three month community service bit and was hopelessly humiliated). She laughed and then stopped abruptly.

“You are so negative, so full of spite. You didn’t even try, yet you bemoan the fact you never got anywhere, or anything done. People like you are everywhere. Wanker intellects with nothing to give the world but sour, sorry, ego-boosting words.” She was furious now. What did I do?

“You know what Steve? I liked Conard’s book. I never wanted to tell you because I knew it would kill you, look at your face, but I did. It was well written, it conjured wonderfully warm images in my head. You? Your blog hurts my eyes. Change the fucking colour of the font!”

Rec stormed off.

Writer’s Block by Kate Barnaby

I sit on the train and think about writing something. I’ve been encouraged to write, to express myself, if I have things to say. Well, I do have things to say, but who’s really going to be interested? And how do I start?

Suddenly, on this particular rainy day on the delayed Werribee line, I had a brainwave. Where’s my pen? Shit. I search through my dilapidated, held-together-with-duct-tape bag, which, when I really need something, seemingly turns into Mary Poppins’ magical endless bag. I pull out my keys three times, thinking each time that I found my pen and getting increasingly frustrated. Eventually my hand grips a long, thin plastic tube but by then, I’ve forgotten what I was going to scribble on the side of my mX.

It doesn’t matter anyway, it seems all I have is the pen cylinder. Where the hell is the ink? A quick drunken flashback reminds me vaguely of mX spitballs and the moving through Melbourne artwork.

But why am I writing about drunken escapades? I need to save those for my Facebook status updates. Favourite song lyrics? TV quotes? Same thing. There’s really nothing to write about.

I sit on the train and try to remember my idea, and different images flood my mind. But mostly I think about the actual writing part, the affluent language needed, sentence structures, and how I should cast off.

One main niggling question is what style should I write in? There’s too much pressure for writers. Short story? Prayer? Analysis of a politically biased opinion piece? Recipe? Creative writing? Maybe I’ll try my hand at poetry:

Self-cut, indie fringe

Bright red tights, she really is

One delicious roll.

Perhaps I could write something that only one other person will understand. Funny for them, but everyone else will tune out. (For reference, see above Haiku. There is only one person who could decipher that.)

I could write about love and loss, but just how do I write that magical tear jerker? I mean, without sounding like a whiny teenager. I could tell you about how guys pine after me but the one I like is a complete ass. Just enough self indulgence to let you in and know you’re thinking of me and want to know more? Enough self indulgence to pour out every tiny little detail? (Incidentally that’s pretty much autobiographical. I’m the former, but I won’t elaborate).

Ideas come in and out of my head. Boring. Already been done. Too self indulgent. Not self indulgent enough. I’m not sure I’m any good at this.

The writer’s block is frustrating. I have (potentially) hundreds of interesting ideas. I just can’t think of them.

There are already so many biro-ink stained fingers in thousands of word-filled pies. Maybe the writer’s block is stopping me from poisoning them?