Tag Archives: creative

Girl Talk: Jack

You remove the dust cover from the glass screen of your phone, picking away at a corner until the sticky plastic comes clean off. Inside, the device hides your encrypted confession; a man whose potential, and an unstable mind took the best of him. You leave these thoughts alone; they are useless now. You see no need in holding onto a forgotten moment. And so you begin your day by telling yourself that you’re safe, that everything you fear is irrational and, frankly, you’re acting like a bit of a pussy. These thoughts are nothing but a cluster-fuck of words, so put down the phone. Man up.

You step out of the shower, throw a dirty towel around your hips and wipe away a smudge of steam from the bathroom mirror. You catch a pinhole reflection of yourself: your dark hair hangs limp on your face. You fill the sink with warm water as you wipe away more steam to fill the image in front of you. You possess what has often been referred to as a ‘cheeky face’: since you were a kid, a gaggle of aunts, nannas, neighbours and friends’ mothers have pinched your cheeks and told you how handsome you are. You touch this flesh now as you pull the razor blade down your jaw line, removing all traces of sleepy stubble. Dark circles sit loosely beneath your grey-blue eyes. These are all fragments of your charm; pieces of power that have allowed you a life of wicked indulgence and delicious sin. You smile at this thought, letting dents dimple your perfect skin.

Without warning you are caught by a strangling  memory from last night: a hazy reflection of damp bed sheets and carnal inertia. Her hair splayed out like a mermaid’s forming a halo around her peaceful face. A muffled protest.

Just as quickly as you were pulled into your reverie, you are forced back into reality as you nick yourself below your chin. The cut is small although the pain is sharp. Drops of red fill the sink as you hastily splash cold water on your face.


You walk into your kitchen to find Marie sitting alone at the table, playing with a large bowl of muesli that was slowly disintegrating into sugary mush.

“Mornin’ bones,” you say to her while grabbing a peach from the fruit bowl.

She looks up from her food and considers you for a moment. “You look like shit Jack. What time did you get in last night?”

You take a bite from the fruit; the sweetness drips down your chin. “I dunno. Around three I guess? Why, you keeping tabs on me?”

“Whatever,” she mumbles.

You sit down on a kitchen stool and look around: this place could look so normal and chummy if it weren’t for the harsh architecture and shitty childhoods it’s harboured. This shelter was where you were conceived and grew up; where you eat and sleep, but the charms are too plastic and ultra-modern despite your mother’s efforts to junk up the joint, and the house is always cold regardless of the warmth radiating from the imitation fireplace. For you, the concept of home was an imaginary place, a figment of your mind that you created to wash away the bad days.

When you were a kid and your dad would fall into a drunken, violent rage, you would attempt to escape through words, fantastical words creating fantastical places. Your favourite was Terry Pratchett, and despite the fact that it took you months and months to read a single novel, you basked in the madness he created, the beautiful madness that took you away from your own. Reading meant that for a moment in time, you no longer had to listen to your mum shouting, or the rhythmic thump from upstairs; those nights were long and cast you into a shell with the your insides growing harder. These days it’s different. Without the childish ability to crawl into your cupboard with a nightlight, you fight violence with violence. He’s calmed down these past couple of years, your old man, but every now and then he gets that mean look on his face and a swagger in his step that indicates the kind of night you and your sisters are going to have.
You can feel your sister watching you. “What do you want, creep?” you ask.

“You’re acting weird.”

“No I’m not.”

“Yes you are.”

“No I’m not.”

She pauses. “Aren’t you going to finish your breakfast?” She points to the peach you hold in your fingertips, its nectar inching its way down your wrist. You stand up.

“I’m not hungry,” you toss the fruit in the bin.

“Told ya you’re acting weird. Where are you going?”

“Oh just fuck off Marie!” You walk back down the hallway to your room where you slam the door with a loud crack.

It’s not enough. You’re full of rage but you’re too hung-over to stomach going for a run just yet. You sit on the edge of your bed, reach down in between your knees and pull out a shoebox from underneath. Inside you find a small, glass bong and a container of cut-up grass. You walk into your bathroom, turn on the fan and inhale the green, each wave of nausea and self-loathing being numbed by your herbal remedy. You lie down and allow your thoughts to drift from the banal to the sublime: memories from high school where you were the king, a reminder to yourself to call Jim for more weed and loose fragments from the night before.

You don’t remember the name of the club last night: overpriced drinks, loud, droning music and sweaty youth – these places are all the same. You were celebrating something, someone’s birthday maybe? Or another mate getting engaged?  Either way you were in your element, your happy place. It was just you and the boys: Jim, Luke and Callum. You’d grown up together in this shit-hole town, and you’d probably all die there too. Alex had. You were only grateful that you weren’t the one who had to cut him down, although these things tend to happen a lot in this place.

You went up to the bar and ordered four tequila shots, casually flirting with the bar-chick. You could almost feel her knees tremble. One shot inside you with a pint of beer to chase away the bitterness, and you instantly felt more confident and strong. You leant against the bar and surveyed the club with the eyes of a specialist, counting six girls you’d hooked up with at one point in the last year. You and the boys had two more shots, and then there’s a gap between the shots and how you ended up in the middle of the dance floor grinding with a faceless brunette; her sparrow-like arms wrapped around your neck as your hands cradled her waist. The pit was hot and muggy but you didn’t care: you revelled in your greatness, how lucky you were with your life, how much you loved your friends and family and even the girl you danced with. You pictured your life together with this Jane Doe: summer nights under the stars, planning Asian getaways and large family picnics.

The strobe lights flickered and for a brief second you thought you caught a glimpse of a ghost. You strained your neck as the crowd heaved under the pulse of the music and you saw, this time completely, your high school sweetheart. Chelsea.

You remember the vulnerability of teenage love, how you would question the legitimacy of your feelings for Chelsea because they were so overwhelming. You doubted the chemical love, while getting lost in the blissful, fleeting moments. You adored her home and her mad, European family with the endless cousins and aunts who cooked colourful and aromatic dishes: potato dumplings in beef stew, dense rye bread with chive cream-cheese, and slices of salami and ham for breakfast. You and Chelsea were going to rule the world: after high school, you planned to take a gap year and travel the globe together. She wanted to see rich European history and art, and you wanted to explore the Amazon. You would take pictures that you would later frame in silver squares and keep in your first home together. Even the idea of marriage and kids didn’t scare you with Chels. Needless to say, you fucked it up. You often wonder how your life would have turned out if you’d only kept your dick in your pants, but c’est la vie.

A moment passed and the tequila finally hit you. The flimsy brunette was grinding against you but you had eyes only for Chels. You shouted something clumsy into the girl’s ear and happily wandered over to your past lover. You had her once, and it was only right of you to assume you could have her again; after all, you hadn’t spoken in almost eighteen months. Surely that was time enough to heal all wounds? Chelsea was standing with her girlfriends holding a glass of golden house-wine. Her long blonde hair was curled in spirals and her eyes were painted a smoky black. Her friend saw you and murmured something into Chelsea’s ear. She acknowledged you with an incredulous look  on her face, her eyebrows furrowed and her pink lips pointed down. You flashed her your famous smile and casually put your arms around her for a hug. You two were friends now. Her back stiffened and she flinched as you sought to catch up over the year, gently pulling her aside from her friends and the stuffiness of the crowd. You talked outside in a darkened corner: she ended up exploring Europe with her girlfriends, and the thought of her memories without you made your stomach lurch with sudden anxiety. You needed a change of environment, but no one could bear that alone. You needed her, and the least she could do was see how much you’d changed. You became paranoid that she was seeing someone else; making new memories with someone more deserving. The thought of losing her to another man made you feel dizzy , so you tucked back a lock of her hair and pulled her sun-kissed chin closer to your face. She immediately pulled back.

“What are you playing at?” She asked.

You leant in further while cupping her face. “I miss you so much Chels. I’ve never stopped loving you, you know? Never have and never will. Let’s get out of here, yeah? Talk back at my place?” She paused for a moment and looked at her feet. When she looked up again she stared at you hard with a brim of angry tears in her eyes. “Fuck off, Jack.” She said, and then walked away, leaving her glass of wine sitting on the table between you.

She left you standing there dumbfounded and shell-shocked. You felt your heart drop into your stomach and you leant against the brick wall for support. Jim and Callum found you a minute later fingering the remains of her lipstick imprinted on the wineglass. Jim brought you back to your normal self with some hearty advice:

“They’re all cunts, mate. Every single one of ‘em.”  He was right although Callum looked away, embarrassed.

You ordered another beer and tried to suppress your hurt; the night was still young after all. You stood leaning against the bar staring into your pint when you heard another familiar voice. Everyone knows everyone in this town. Your rib cage was playfully nudged.

“Jack?” You looked over to find a girl from school beaming up at you. Her elfin face was cropped by her short, dark hair, which only highlighted the marbled green in her eyes. When she spoke again you noted a silver stud in her tongue.

“It’s okay,” she said, “You don’t have to pretend to remember me. We were in Lit together. Lottie.”

She held out her hand for you to shake and you chuckled at the formality of the gesture. She ordered a double shot of vodka with cranberry juice and began to flirt with you, supporting her weight on the bar while you attempted to hold a civilized conversation. All the while you were hoping she wouldn’t realise that you hadn’t the faintest idea who she was. She walked with you over to the smoker’s section while scrambling in her bag for hidden cigarettes. As she walked you wondered how you could have ever overlooked this chick in high school: she wore skin-tight black jeans that hugged the curve of her hips, and when she bent over to pick up her dropped lighter you noticed the small diamond her arse made with her thighs. When she brought the cigarette to her lips you saw a small faded tattoo of a cherry on her inner wrist. Her plunging neckline was leaving absolutely nothing to the imagination, but you weren’t complaining. You wondered what she tasted like. A mere few hours later back at her apartment, and you were to find out.

Ash mixed with sweetness, and a sourness that you guessed was vomit. Fumbling in the darkness, her hands dropped off the side of her bed and her head lolled while you explored her body. You kissed her neck and felt a tremble. In the crescent dawn you awoke and left her apartment without a word.


You take your phone and find missed calls from Callum and an ‘x’ from an unknown number from last night. Lottie. You type ‘I’m sorry’ into the keypad and wait a full minute before pressing send. You roll over and find your game controllers, turning on the TV and settling into your pillows.




Filed under Short Stories.

A Dash of Satire: Fake Letter-To-The-Editor

!!!READERS NOTE!!! This was written for a satire assignment for Uni, where I decided to write a fake letter to the editor portraying an over-the-top, racist, homophobic, evangelical nitwit. Please do not read this thinking these are my personal views. If you do then I’m obviously RUBBISH at satire! Ta 🙂

Dear Sir,

This morning as I sat down to my usual bacon and eggs, I found myself choking on my Vegemite-encrusted toast with a sputter of egg yolk and Ketchup as I read the national headlines: Tasmanian Premier Lara Giddings has announced that her state would legislate it’s own marriage laws that would enable Tasmania to become the first state in Australia to allow gay marriage. I am nauseated and shocked to hear such slandering on good, decent society.

I am writing this letter as a representative of the core family values of Australia, and frankly, I think that this impertinent woman should be ashamed of herself, and be asked to resign her position as Premier of Tasmania post-haste. Let me start off by first stating that I have no issue with homosexual coupling as it currently stands: they are free to do as they please, AWAY from the public eye and AWAY from the innocence of our children.

That being said, I feel that I am a compassionate and understanding individual, so I can certainly try to recognize the desire of love, as it takes on many forms. However, I do not understand why any upstanding male citizen would prefer to engage in sexual activities with a fellow man, rather than the pureness of a woman – but I suppose each individual has differing tastes.

Australia has already modernized its moral oversight by making same-sex coupling legal, so I cannot fathom why they should now want to have the same marital rights as us normal folk? I, and the majority of good Australians who have been rightly raised with decent, Christian values, believe that the sanctity of marriage under the eyes of God should be kept between a man and a woman. God created Adam and Eve, NOT Adam and Steve! Procreation and the survival of our species calls for the uniting love demonstrated in marriage, between a man and a woman. Coupling men – to simply put it – cannot naturally conceive a child, so why should they want to get married? The idea is preposterous!

If we were to allow this sort of outright blasphemy to continue, then I can only begin to ponder over what type of heathen trifling’s will prosper under these “modern” laws. We currently have pitiful rallies in our quiet, suburban streets of supporters of gay marriage asserting their “basic human rights”, but I suggest that with this kind of indecent uprising, couples of incest, paedophilia and bestiality will soon be marching down our streets calling for THEIR “basic human rights!” I can imagine that any perverted old man would JUMP at the chance to marry a small child, all under the guise that what they have is the same kind of love as normal couples!

Very soon, every man and his dog will be wanting to get married, and I say that quite literally! Is this what the world is coming to? As soon as we start to let our traditional values disintegrate into the past, all our national, Australian traits will soon be diminished. You can say goodbye to our national pride, our upstanding heritage, our kangaroos and our Mrs Macs!

As soon as we let our moral values die under these modern terms, every Punjab, Mohammed, Hijab and Osama will soon infiltrate OUR country with THEIR so-called “values”, and I’m certain that the politically correct, do-gooders of this embarrassing generation will stand up and fight for them!

You may think that my views are somewhat radical, but I am not without merit to stand by them and speak out when I can see my beloved country going to the dogs. It whole-heartedly saddens me when can I see my sun-burnt country get taken over by this kind of madness. Am I the only one with any sense of decency anymore? I’m starting to think that I am!

My fellow Australians: our sacred country has already been corrupted with the intrusion of a FEMALE ATHEIST as our Prime Minister! Will you stand back and idly watch as our country gets overtaken by more madness, more moral corruption and more atrocities? I for one will NOT!

Join me, as part of the honourable citizens of Australia, as we stand up for the safety of our children, our individual morality under the sovereignty of God, and OUR basic human rights! I will no longer stand for this insanity!!!

The question is; will you?

Yours sincerely,


Patriotic Wallaby

August 2012


Filed under Opinion Pieces.

Hi there…

Are you tired of your jeans not fitting?

Does that dull salad leave you feeling hungry?

Are the moody blues getting you down?

Well…you can say goodbye to those nasty diet pills and detox plans because I have the simplest solution to give you the body you’ve always dreamed of!

Note to the user: product is not designed to ever fit your idea of perfection despite what the label says. You may also harness an abhorring hatred for those around you.


Enter this world so alien to some but reality for us, the most obedient kind.
Here we do not support notions of individual integrity, nor to we advocate perfect imperfections.

One is required to look ones best at all times.

This isn’t about men anymore.
This isn’t about your husbands or your boyfriends or your fuck buddies.

Gone are the days of the feminist uprising.
Such thoughts cluster our already plastic, static brains.

This is about you.
This is about your cankles, your knee-fat, your wobbly arms, your huge pores, your weird nipples, your five-head, your hips, your thighs, your ever imperfect cunt.

How could so much stand wrong in a vessel to lovely?

She was such a pretty girl.

Little did they know that her body was overflowing with dimples and manifestations of mocking marks.
Little did they know of the small creature, growing inside her flesh to be kept in the damp for none to see.
Little did they know that this…thing this…machine that is intrinsically flawed; this selfless loving system is burdened by grief: masked over by the other.

Here…one must obliterate the senseless self because really, aren’t you tired of having no-one else to blame?

And now…despite all my words, my smile and my laugh, I will go home tonight and pinch myself purple so that maybe…just maybe, the fucking won’t seem so hollow.

Each of us has something but…aren’t you tired?

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Filed under Poetry.

Bathroom Floors.

Joni – 18
Violet – 19
Ash – 20

Midnight. A bathroom in an old house. There is a door that divides Joni from Violet and Ash. On Violet and Ash’s side there is an old, tarnished chair and a small table with a lamp. On Joni’s side there is a large space with a small mirrored cabinet and a sink facing the audience, a toilet to the right and a large bathtub next to the toilet. Dotted around the stage are old, stacked TV sets that turn on an off at random times; they play black and white horror films, church videos, and various flashes from news stories, old and new. Violet and Ash aren’t able to see Joni and visa versa.

The scene opens with Joni storming into the bathroom and slamming the door before Violet and Ash catch up. Joni is breathing heavily, she locks the door. Violet bangs on the door. Continue reading

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Filed under Plays.

The English

The English.

Kirk – Mid fourties, George’s wife.
George – Mid fourties, Kirk’s husband.
Ted – Late thirties, Kirk’s brother.
Bob – Late seventies, Maude’s brother.
Maude – Early eighties, Kirk and Ted’s mother.
Trisha – Teenager, Kirk and George’s daughter.
Aunty Polly – Mid thirties, George’s sister.
Gordon – Mid thirties, Polly’s drip boyfriend.

(Summer barbeque – everyone is outside either talking around the table, sun-bathing or smoking – all drinking) Continue reading

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Filed under Plays.

Born Again.

God                                                                   God
cannot                                                             will not
hear you crying or                                     care for your children
kneeling to                                                     let them wither for
Him                                                                   Her

Smile down on crackling                          lips blowing
marchers and mind-fucks                       your petty fathers
who couldn’t get hard                               fucked into oblivion
for                                                                      imminent
logic and chemicals                                    madness blooms
never believe                                                bullshit and forgiveness
the truth                                                          made history
whispers and moans                                   gargling relish

may He                                                             be cast of
rest in                                                                damnation
peace                                                                 at last

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Filed under Poetry.


I sorely regret
to be the one to tell you
But the world is coming to an end.
The sky is falling
Terrorists are sprawling
And the gays refuse to unbend.

But let’s not despair
In this time of bleak mire
For good will come to us all.
Seize the day!
(As they sometimes say)
And let us exult in a brawl!

Kiss a stranger
Tell the lady you love
That your heart beats for her living breath.
Punch a baby
And kick an old lady
And, hey, why not try anal sex?

Start a fire
Of chaos and darkness
And go tell your boss to get fucked.
Jump off a building
And dance on the ceiling!
Time’s out and so is your luck.

Go take up smoking!
And have you done crack?
Don’t knock it until you’ve tried it.
Diddle your sister
And why don’t you fist her?
Two passions have here collided.

Shit on the streets
And piss in the church
For God does not care for your soul
Open your eyes
You might realize
That it’s bliss to lose self-control.

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Filed under Poetry.

Lavender Prose.

Shall I compare thee to a bored cliché?
Shall your eyes be as deep as the wild sea?
And your bosoms as soft as china clay?
And your skin so luminous and milky?

Shall I tattoo my spidery love scrawls,
Onto the leaflets of your broken heart?
And flash my downcast eyes until I fall,
Into the pit of your harrowing art?

Shall we have endless, bountiful blue skies?
And blankets of a starry, daydreamed night?
And metaphorical angels that fly,
Into the red sun, anguished in their flight?

Oh why won’t we all just simply admit –
That Will was a tool who sung through his dick?

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Filed under Poetry.

1 in 3.

(Mid afternoon. Jane and Charlie are driving to a cottage near the beach for a romantic weekend together. They are sitting in chairs and there is a makeshift steering wheel, which Charlie is turning. A projected, black and white moving image of a country road plays over the top of Jane and Charlie while they’re talking, kind of like in old movies. They have been married for six years. Jane is pretty and neurotic while Charlie is handsome and stubborn. A light is shining down on them both, Jane is relaxing in the “sunlight” while Charlie drives and taps his thumb along to the “radio.” “Wouldn’t it be Nice” by the Beach Boys is playing.) Continue reading

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Filed under Plays.

The Tip of the Tongue: An Uncomfortable Monologue.

I’m just like you, you know. I’m ordinary. I do ordinary things. You might have seen me take out my trash, buy milk, fill up my car. Ordinary things. I pass you everyday on the way to work. You might have seen me on the train, listening to my music. I like music. I listen to The Rolling Stones and I own every David Bowie album on vinyl. I used to have a vast stamp collection, but I’ve lost it now. I don’t like TV much – that might make me un-ordinary. I don’t like people coming into my home and screaming at me, telling me what I must like and what I have to have. I like my ordinary.

Part of my ordinary, is little girls and boys. I like them. I like their untouched skin, un-molestered by too much drink or sun. Their skin holds no crevices for wrinkles or spots. Their skin is a refreshing soft under the caresses of my rough hands. They are pure. I like their smallness: they are tiny and light, much like delicate jewels. They hold perfect, miniature feet, with miniature toes, that hold up the lean, tiny legs that stand them erect and straight. Their hair is the colour of honey on a summers day, or dark chocolate, or cherry pie. They taste pure. They laugh and cry without reserve, and frolic together in harmony. I often like to sit and watch them, but only from afar. If I get too close, I might frighten. I can only admire from a distance, keeping my passionate love and secret in the tightness of my trousers. Their bodies are precious, silken manifestations of God’s light and love. He made them for us to enjoy and love.

I only love them. The way that you love. I love just as you love.

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Filed under Plays.