Meet the EditorsViva editor profile

    By Zoya Patel

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    Meet the EditorsViva editor profile

    By Nicola Redhouse

    I am interested in the subjective human experience, and when this is explored, in relation to almost anything, with a captivating voice and crafted writing, you’ve got me.

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    50 Grams

    By Suemi Chiba

    Roald Dahl wrote his mother a letter once a week until the week she died. One of his late father’s wishes was that he go to boarding school, so at the age of seven, he did. At the end of each week they wrote home. When he left school he never stopped writing on Sundays.

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    Meet the EditorsViva editor profile

    By Marisa Wikramanayake

    For the first in of our meet the editors profiles, we’d like to introduce you to Marisa Wikramanayake who is currently inhabiting WA and whose tastes seem quite diverse.

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    Tags: Round-Up

    Write, my pretties

    By Lucy Faerber

    November is here to ruin your life.  Opportunities abound for those who are suffering through Nanowrimo, and those who are not.

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    One FleshThree semi-fictional collisions of faith, intimacy and teh interwebz

    By Grace De Morgan

    I click on the link he’s sent me and find myself looking at a gallery of Adam and Halli’s Southern wedding, an attractive American couple I’ve never met nor ever will. The masthead is simple and streamlined – white sans serif typeface on black background.

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    Sugar Ant

    By Laura McPhee-Browne

    The air quakes in the heat. An ant crawls across Lisa’s arm and Madeleine licks it up. It’s on her tongue, still moving, and then she swallows it, mostly because she remembers swallowing an ant when she was little, and wonders if the sweetness was real. Lisa is fucked on the sun and murmurs don’t before closing her eyes again.

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    Pushing Aside Vulvic Doily ArtA place for trans people in subversive handicrafts

    By Vincent Silk

    The Doily and the Unsung Heroes: I was sitting at the launch of the Lip Magazine Anthology, that came out of a magazine published in Melbourne from 1976 to 1984. A feminist magazine, it was called a ‘lightning rod’ for art, theatre and journalism in the Women’s Movement.

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    Viva la EditorsMeet the editors for the 2014-15 Viva la Novella

    After many months of searching we are proud to announce the editors for Viva la Novella 3.

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    Tags: Fictions

    Two stories

    By Manisha Anjali

    Anju lay starfished in the sand. The ferris wheel behind her had been there for decades, and stood there now as a famous monument to the unfortunate part of the island. The part of the island where children were dumped. The wheel did not go round and round. It just stood there rotting into the sand.

     

    Like every other morning of her life, Anju had awoken to call of the rooster. But this morning she had not slept well and wished for the old cock to be murdered. If Aji did not do it today, Anju would take the honour herself.

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    Feathers

    By Marisa Wikramanayake

    He looked up from the paper, groaning slightly as he stretched various muscles and straightened his back. Enough strain for his eyes for today. He dropped the pencil, ran his hand through his hair. His eyes darted as usual to the wall, to the setting sunlight glinting off the framed feathers. Christ, he was getting old.

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    Tags: Round-Up

    ReadrumA special Halloween Round Up!

    By Lucy Faerber

    It’s the most magical time of the year, so put on your Lydia Deetz costume and dive into some horror.

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    Rapture and Terror and Awe

    By Nick Marland

    The farm was huge and he was the only kid there. He wandered paddocks and watched spooked browns writhe off into the long grass. He climbed trees and picked up beetles, and he stared into the eternal eyes of the Herefords as their mouths worked the grass. But the image which had not left him in twenty years was the night sky on those nights: stars like the powder of crushed Greek marbles tossed into the infinite; scattered everywhere, clumping in places, older than everything. The lazy tentacle of the Milky Way reaching out from the eastern horizon; meteorites breaking up low in the sky. You never got to see it like that in the city, where orphaned stars floated in illuminated filth. He remembered asking his mother, Can you see an aurora from here?

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    Tailgate Fume

    By Sean Williams

    Tailgating, my dad said it’s called. He used to do it in the old days, back before cars and trucks became obsolete. He and his friends would hang on and let the wake carry them, high on exhaust fumes, whooping and hollering like loons.

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    Eva the Stenographer

    By Alison Martin

    For a brief moment in world history, Sylvia’s mother, Eva McEvoy, was a stenographer for the United Nations . . .

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