I’m sorry Dora, I was asleep. I never would have done it to you if I was awake. This is what I told her. When she sleeps she isn’t there. I don’t feel a warm presence next to me. She doesn’t dream. She barely breathes. I remember pulling her into me when she wasn’t so cold to touch.
We’re excited to announce our program of Late Night Library events for City of Sydney. Join us at Haymarket Library for a lot of fun, creativity, and a spot of ranting, at the following free events:
Wednesday 3 September, 8–9pm
Got something to get off your chest? Then get up on that soapbox! Join professional ranters, writers and comedians as they tell us what they really think. Hosted by David Henley, who may have a few grievances of his own to share, and featuring Benjamin Law, Lauren Beukes, Alice Fraser and David Hunt. Book here.
On the last day of his freedom, the great Grygory Vrevca went to visit his daughter. The authorities had traced him to the basement of a building in Prague, a damp apartment with bare brick walls below a hosiery shop. The police surrounded the place, but Grygory predictably escaped – he and his bodyguard Kovac knocked through the ceiling, prized up the floorboards, and swung themselves into a scattering of startled customers in the shop above. He bought a pair of the best silk stockings for his daughter then walked calmly out of the shop, right past a line of officers who were watching their colleagues hack through the apartment door with an axe.
Burying PabloStories of Sydney
By Stephen Pham
I slip on a white shirt just as the phone starts buzzing. It’s mum. She says, ‘The cat just died.’
I reply in Vietnamese. ‘Huh? Happened which that – no have thing, child come down now. Mother don’t do thing stop, okay?’
She agrees and hangs up. I do up my shirt. My fingers fumble with each button. When I’m done, I head down to Newtown station and catch the next train to Cabramatta. It’s a tin can, with doors that rattle open. I step inside and it smells like sweat. I go downstairs, tiptoeing my way through the spilled coffee on the floor, and pick a shady seat. I look out the water-stained window and, as I get further away from the city, the people standing on the platform become less young and more colourful.
Viva La Novella 3 is Open!Come ye merry writers
Today we announce that submissions are open for our Viva La Novella 3 competition. Once again we are inviting authors from Australia and New Zealand to submit manuscripts of between fifteen and fifty thousand words for the opportunity to win $1000 and a publishing deal with Seizure.
By Holly Childs
I want to rob. My parents’ house was robbed the day I was born. I have three big sisters; all of my stories are hand-me-downs. When I was little, all I wanted to write about was adult acne and how celebrities don’t have it. Except Posh Spice did, but she had rich-people treatments and then it stopped. I want to rob Victoria Beckham. I’m watching ‘Say You’ll Be There’, the second single from the Spice Girls, the only clip in which Posh’s ‘bad’ skin is kinda noticeable, if you watch it on HD, which didn’t exist when the Spice Girls did. ‘Bad skin’ as in ‘naughty skin’.
Dear Agony Aunt,
I spent 18 months of my life interviewing, photographing, writing, designing, laying out, producing (and having professionally printed in China), living and breathing a hard cover coffee table book. The first six months after the launch was great, okay, hard work. I did it all myself (aside from retaining the services of a professional editor) which I am immensely proud of. I have sold/gifted around 500 of 1000 books, which I hear is not bad, but it didn’t even pay for band aids and now my garage has become a sad and sorry graveyard. It’s a great book (if I do say so myself); I did hate it there for a while, but now I’m feeling sad for it and need to do something to move the last of the stock. Alas my post-production sales enthusiasm has dried up and I need help and inspiration on how I can relieve myself of the rest of my babies, so I can move onto a new book or project. Any advice that doesn’t involve matches and deranged laughter?
— Garage Graveyard