Short stories, features and poems from our writing community.
Randa Abdel-Fattah has a very impressive CV. She is a lawyer, a human rights advocate, a community volunteer, and a researcher – she has a PhD in sociology. And of course, she is a writer. Randa studies Islamophobia, racism and multiculturalism in Australia.
As part of The Garret Podcast, Nic Brasch interviewed Randa at the State Library of Victoria, and started by talking about her earliest experiences with books.
Today, on one of those wonderful winter summer days, I make my way to meet writer Melanie Cheng at her local library Bargoonga Nganjin in Fitzroy North.
I’m a little early so, after I nab one of the heavily coveted study rooms, I flick through my copy of Melanie’s newly released book, 'Australia Day'.
At the Writers Victoria fundraiser in December 2016, spoken word poet Tariro Mavondo performed her poem 'Black Girl'.
Tariro is a Melbourne-based artist of Zimbabwean descent. She is dedicated and committed to working with the creative industry, corporate sector and community and health services to provide professional pathways and mentoring programs for young Culturally and Linguistically Diverse and Visibly Different artists.
Kurdish-Iranian journalist, Behrouz Boochani, detained on Manus Island since August 2013, has been a PEN International case since 2015. The international campaign on his behalf has been spearheaded by PEN Melbourne. Boochani has produced a growing body of work, in a range of genres, exposing the horrors of incarceration on Manus Island. The 900 men, in the prime of their lives, have been imprisoned for four years now.
Welcome to our new monthly feature looking at one of our members, their writing and writing practices. This month we feature member Kat Clay, cross-genre writer of horror/sci fi/noir.
Success is powerful: this isn’t a new concept. We know this. Success can change how others see us and how we see ourselves. And when perceptions changes, we change. For what are we if not subjective human constructions?
Em must sleep awhile with the others; unconscious in an instant, like turning out a light. Then all at once they are beyond the city, the wide, tidal salt-flats, and into the glittering bay. Em shocks awake, doused in icy spray. It is dawn, and it seems they are all waking, dropping into a nightmare rather than surfacing from one. Spluttering, Em lunges for Matilda. She calls the child’s name even before she can rub saltwater from her eyes. But the little girl is still there, already awake, rigid with fear. The men have set the outboard wheezing, keeping them on course.
Anton got out of the cab a short distance from the party and walked across the park. He liked the aspect, heading west through Sydney Park with the ruined brick works looming on the horizon. On a hot day like today, the pollution from the road and the industrial area beyond shimmered in the humid air and if you squinted you could imagine the ruins were still smoking.
I dropped my bike and plonked down on a patch of grass on the edge of the muddy campsite, trying to catch my breath. The tent was one of those big ones with two rooms and a kitchen tacked on the front. The flaps were all pulled down because of the shimmery rain, with the Parents shut away inside. Dad was always pissed when I interrupted Parent time. But I knew he’d be more pissed if I got blood on my windcheater, so I poked my head ‘round the flap.
