Twice a year I made the two-hour drive to visit my hometown. Each time, I took a detour to the snake breeder’s house. The streetlight directly in front of the house draped a warm yellow glow over my silver hatchback, which idled its low hum while I sat and stared.
The new NSW premier wasted no time announcing an accelerated easing of the state’s COVID-19 lockdown last week, citing the economy, health, and mental health as the key reasons for the change. For anyone who’s suffered poor mental health over the last two years, hearing the government toss in the term ‘mental health’ as part of their decision making seems more than a little disingenuous.
As unusual as it may sound, there is nothing particularly wrong with Scott Morrison’s belief that he and his wife have been called upon to do “God’s work”. This is the real issue.
I can’t say for sure what prompted me to read Neil Gaiman’s The Ocean at the End of the Lane, although I do believe it was a combination of two factors: first, I was impressed by the speech Neil gave…
Sue Monk Kidd’s 1996 book The Dance of the Dissident Daughter is a work of nonfiction about Sue’s journey away from the Christian tradition and towards what she calls the ‘Sacred Feminine’.
It is the fact that journalist Reni Eddo-Lodge has given up wasting time and energy talking to white people about race that makes her 2017 book, the aptly titled Why I’m No Longer Talking to White People About Race, so darn…
One of my favourite short books is Richard Bach’s philosophical work of fiction titled Illusions: The Adventures of a Reluctant Messiah. First published in 1977, this book features Richard as himself, a disillusioned writer and pilot, who happens to meet ex-mechanic…
It is early morning on a gloomy, windy day. Country girl (ahem) is standing at the bus stop in the city, one hand holding a large suitcase which seems to continuously want to tip over, the other holding a much needed coffee, laptop bag handle over forearm, and umbrella held in place with right armpit. She is anxiously awaiting the bus, which never comes. Did I mention it had started raining?
When Holden Sheppard answers my phone call on a Monday morning, I’m surprised he sounds so damn normal. Given his selfie-taking, extroverted style on social media, often shirtless or sporting a brightly coloured mohawk (now removed, but temporarily replaced by a Freddie Mercury-esque moustache, because as explained on Twitter he looks like a “HIDEOUS DEMON BABY TWINK BOY” without it), I expected something different, although I’m not sure exactly what.
When I was around nine, I asked my mother why she didn’t just divorce my father. In response, she looked at me like I just morphed into an alien. ‘Why do you hate your father so much?’ she asked.
Like most of us, Jamie “Stedo” Stedman isn’t a fan of labels. But if there’s one word to describe him, given his tumultuous childhood, capacity for forgiveness, near death experiences and refusal to become a victim, it’s “resilient”.
A flash fiction piece over at The Daily Drunk.
Like most of us, I do try to be a nice person. It’s mostly for selfish reasons, to be honest. I want to be so stable and happy within myself that no-one can bother me, or mess with the remaining shreds of my equanimity, or some shit. I can’t think of a better place to practice than the most annoying place on earth: the humble supermarket.
Not many authors can write an immersive novel from a galah’s perspective. Particularly a galah with remarkable perceptions of the world around her, dreams of flight and romance, a slight inferiority complex and a wild jealous streak. But not everyone is Tracy Sorensen.
Dana looks peaceful as she waits for me outside the library of her hometown in Bathurst. She’s staring at something – the birds, or maybe the trees – as I approach, rushing due to a mini-traffic jam I had not anticipated. Less than a decade ago our simple chat would not have happened, back when Dana’s agoraphobia, anxiety and depression caused her to retreat into herself for almost fifteen years.
When John “Swanee” Swan takes my phone call he answers with a surprising “Hey girl!”, even though we’ve spoken only once before. I suspect this level of familiarity is something he offers everyone, not just yours truly, since his passion these days is found not at the bottom of a bottle, or even while holding a microphone, but in the simple act of connecting with another human.
Being on the wrong side of 30, I’m very familiar with Gary “Angry” Anderson. Particularly his place in the music world as the loud-mouthed front man of Rose Tattoo, his crazy “bad boy” days, his charity work and youth advocacy. But before our interview last week, I had no idea of the deep-seated spiritual beliefs that form the crux of the man known as Angry.
I’ve read ol’ Eat Pray Love by Elizabeth Gilbert twice now: the first time I read it, which was 10 years ago, I FRIGGEN HATED IT. The second time, much more recently, I LOVED IT. I have to put my emotions in…
A few years ago I headed to Bourke to experience the outback of Australia, on assignment to write 10 articles about the Darling River Run. “The Run” is a 730km drive bookended by the townships of Brewarrina in the north, and Wentworth…
My mother hated feet. In her opinion, it was acceptable that they existed, but unless sleeping or showering they should be tucked away, hidden from the world inside a nice pair of shoes.
The house was ours, not Harry’s. But every night he’d show up just the same: dirty bare feet; bruised shins; a Band-Aid on his knee covering an ever-present wound; white shirt and grey knee-length pants several sizes too small. His…
“Until the year 2039, the streets were lined with what were called telegraph poles,” the voice says dryly, as an image of several thick wooden trunks connected by straight black wires displays on screen. Read the full story at Free Flash…
A one sentence nonfiction story over at Complete Sentence Lit.
