the wood of suicides
andrew kertesz
In some versions, the dead bodies become a kind of reef. Life accretes. Swallows and wind-lost moths harbour in the folds of their bodies, building nests of stolen tobacco and pubic hair. Slow-flying pelicans graze the sluggish currents, mouths wide and filtering, gripping slippery sparrows from oozing vapour, slow and graceful as whales. Albatrosses, wingspans of fifteen feet or more. Lammergeyer that blot the sun, feathers smooth as polished brass.
paris
lyrian fleming
Two hours pass and I can feel the words trying to slip off the page and smear their inky stains over me. A battle I can win, I think, sees me standing over the sink trying to set fire to the corners of the page with the glowing end of my cigarette. Ten left means I could be here for the afternoon. Paragraphs go up in smoke, covering the drain hole with ashes as strong as our commitment. One drop is all it took to wreak havoc.
detour
justina elias
But then it’s different for boys, epecially boys like Mike – tall boys, not that bright but fast runners, broad-shouldered boys with normal looks and mall clothes. What would it be like to live in his body? Would she feel invincible? When they’re naked she likes to lie behind him sometimes and line her arms up with his, warm skin of his back against her front, and half-circle his wrists with her little hands, and jostle him like a puppet. ‘You are mine,’ she’ll murmur, in a Dracula voice, trying not to giggle. ‘All mine.’
‘I’m yours,’ he’ll say, smiling, complacent.
a movement in a moment
janet walker
We haven’t cleaned the gutters yet. There’s dry scrub sticking out like mossy pubes from a nanna’s cossie.
Dry scrub wishing for embers. This valley is a firebowl and we know it but we cook our pork chops and we steam our rice and we watch A Current Affair.
Rob says he would stay and fight. He reckons he could hide under the rock ledge in the basement and the fire would pass him by. I say he’s a fool. Anyone knows this house is a matchbox.
the boy with the lizard egg