Theodore and Victoria Stills stood on the shore, watching as the tide rolled closer and closer to their disposed bodies. Their feet made no imprints in the sand.

‘I told you to wear the black dress.’

‘The stockings, Teddy, the stockings!’

Theodore shrugged. It was too late. They were both wrapped up in a silver tarpaulin, party clothes ruined.

‘You might start a trend.’

Victoria rolled her eyes. Her makeup was running all over her face, a once perfect chignon hanging loose. Those lurid pink stockings were split and laddered, her knees bloody. A bright red line ran across her neck, the gold lamé dress that Theodore had bought for her birthday was stained dark with her own blood.

‘Brilliant.’ She inspected her ruined manicure, pulling off one of her loose fingernails and flicking it away.

‘Listen, I’m really sorry about – ’

‘Don’t start.’

Theodore took a deep breath. The first rays of sunlight were beginning to peek over the horizon. Inside that tarpaulin his Tom Ford suit was riddled with bullet holes.

When he reached his fingertips up to touch his face, they came away sticky, and he realised now that he was only looking out of one eye, the other too swollen and bruised to open. He was dying for a cigarette.

‘You’re dead, you can’t smoke.’

‘All the more reason.’

He found a pack of cigarillos in his pocket, a bullet hole right through the middle. They laughed. They stopped laughing. Theodore coughed up a bullet fragment.

‘I just wanted to go to a party.’ Victoria pulled at the loose thread on the shoulder of her dress. ‘Now I’m trussed up like Laura Palmer in last season’s Louboutins. Mum’s going to be furious.’

Theodore took a deep pull on the cigarillo, smoke leaking out of the holes in his chest. He tried to think of something comforting to say, but nothing came to him. Victoria nodded in the direction of a figure in the distance, the first jogger of the morning.

‘Here we go.’

They watched as the young woman drew closer. It was magnificent, the way she screamed, staggered, retched; ran away.

‘Well, we’ve missed the morning papers.’ Theodore tossed his cigarillo into the sand.

‘No – we’ll make a cover, we have to.’ Victoria held up her hands as if she were flattening out a poster. ‘Underworld Siblings Meet a Fateful End.’

‘In pink stockings.’

‘We’ll be like Evelyn McHale on that crunched up car. Tom Ford will have holey suits next season. Pink stockings all over the runway.’ Victoria grinned at her brother through her bloody teeth, one incisor missing. ‘Screw the papers, we’ll make magazine covers.’

‘Something classy, independent.’

Theodore put his hands in his pockets. He would have liked to have held her hand. Did they hold hands as children?

‘If you say so, darling.’

Lucy Faerber
@LucyAmalia

A couple of sleepers down at Culburra beach. Pink leggings; silver tarpaulin. Looking cosy.

On the drive to Culburra, he opens a fresh bottle of alertness pills, chewing them down dry. The bitterness is a harsh contrast to the cinnamon scroll, but he relishes the taste. He’d been up all night writing – his daily contribution to the local edition of Trending Texts, mandated by the Text Bureau – and now he needed to be alert for the day’s work.

The beach is empty, and they are easy to find. Lying atop each other: cosy indeed. Sleeping is a crime, but you can get away with it at home, in small doses. Everybody knows that. So why would they do it out here? What if they’re dead?

The policeman treks towards the beach, trudging through the soft sand until he nears the firmer surface at the waterline. He looks down at the couple, pulling back the tarp. A man and a woman. Breathing – not dead. It’s tempting to leave them in peace, but his superiors wouldn’t be satisfied with that. Still, he won’t wake them up yet. He delves gently into the man’s pockets, retrieving his wallet.

A card inside reads Editor, Trending Texts. Seizure Division. Oh, shit.

He walks away, chewing another pill. Above the law, these editors. Waste of time. Let ‘em sleep.

Daniel Young
@jazir1979

Seizure ‘Crime’ author, Gretchen Shirm, was published on the SRB with her review of Ashley Hay’s The Railwayman’s Wife.

At Adelaide Writers’ Week, Pat Grant appeared in conversation with Tim Soutphommasane on the topic of multiculturalism and national identity (live recording up here), and Fiona Wright joined the panel of distinguished female poets, Josephine Rowe and LK Holt, in an evening of readings and conversation about poetry in Australia today.

Penguin Plays Rough told stories in a lighthouse, and friend of Seizure, J. Wolfers, started up an internet digest for the Penguins here. Also, Story Club is back in town next Monday, and this time they’re bringing the Chaser and a video camera.

And some excellent click-bait from Overland in the lead-up to the Emerging Writers’ Festival: a piece from Stephen Knight who famously sledged an unnamed (though easily identified) lit-mag launch. Wright returns with his critique of the neo-liberal construct that is ‘the emerging writer’.

OTHER STUFF:

While aimlessly filling in the hours of writers block and finding myself in need of words of encouragement, harsh truths, and straight up RULES, I read up on all the rules for writers Google could find. The Guardian did a great series a while go, with highlights including Will Self’s handy hints, and Aunty Atwood, whose words are always a joy. Edgar Karet put in his two cents this week, and a warm and fuzzy two cents it is. But of course, the godfathers of writing laid down the law before any of these punks. Refresh yourself on Orwell’s commandments, and Vonnegut’s guidelines for a great story.

EVENT ALERTS:

When David Henley is not busy being the Dad of Seizure, he is writing a science fiction trilogy. Come along and celebrate the launch of ‘The Hunt for Pierre Jnr’ at Kinokuniya!

Also, Sydney–siders, if you haven’t got your ticket to our Crime launch yet, please do join us for some good, old-fashioned, crime-time fun. Young Henry’s is offering an extra incentive of a growler of beer for those who write the best sentence about their brew.

Melbourne pals, we’ve got our Flashers event at the Emerging Writers Fest coming up and would love to see your friendly faces there.

Tooroo!

Jesus, why is the room empty? Is this the room we were in that time before? I don’t remember it being this light, but it was winter I guess, and you had that white sheet hung up in front of the window. It was a fitted sheet, and the one on the bed wasn’t.
I tried so hard for that not to bother me. You have curtains now. You got curtains. Too late.

Why is the room empty? These things move in cycles. Most days some of us are in the room and some are outside, listening at the door; but today nobody wants to be in the room. We are all outside, jostling to hear, ears on the painted wood. ‘Did you hear that? I think it was a woman crying. I think it was a woman laughing. I think it was a woman moaning.’

Which of us will be the one to edge the door open, peer inside, and ask

Vijay Khurana
@vijaykhurana
http://www.vijaykhurana.com

To add to the festival fever, the SWF unveiled poetic garbo trucks, which look pretty great. If you’re a poet and you know it or a UTS writing student, you may have rubbed shoulders with the fabulous Martin Harrison, whose work is featured alongside some big shots.

The excitement continues (I hope you’re excited), with the inaugural First Nations Australia Writers Workshop being held at the State Library of Queensland this week. Seizure editor, Alice Grundy, is a lucky attendee and you can keep up with her live updates here or follow #FNAWW.

Music and writing, a lot of magic things happen when these cats get together. The Lifted Brow has released a bangin’ series of writer mix-tapes. Highlights include Pip Smith’s lady-licious mix with dance notes included, Chris Womersley’s mix of strange/beautiful tracks, and Lawrence Leung’s collection of old faves. The SWF are taking listeners on a musical adventure with their event Troubadours and Minstrels, and chatting about how lyrics and poetry collide at their Words and Music session. The EWF are in on the action too with their event Turn the Words Up Loud. Because we’re in the Crime zone, I thought this was re-post-able too: crime writers discuss their ‘killer soundtracks’ in an article by Martyn Waites.

If you want to feast your eyes on some cartoon-y treats, Bailey Sharp has posted up a new comic. First published in issue two of Irene, the seven-page comic is up in instalments on her blog. Bailey is a featured artist in our upcoming Crime issue and does awesome stuff.

Before I go – a reminder to keep those Crime Flashers submissions coming! We’ll start publishing the shortlist soon and will announce the winner at our launch.

Raising our leaders, we tied them to fence posts – side by side, but not touching. We didn’t help one another when our ties came undone.

As the first people trickled through, we fixed ourselves metres apart, pylons of the compulsory corridor. Tagged in slogans and armed with leaflets we pressed our colours into open hands. Collectively we were received and collectively ignored, until one of you was picked above the rest, made worse by a drive-by P-plater yelling ‘fuck Julia Gillard’ to the growing queue. You couldn’t help but reveal your grin.

By mid-morning the flow was thick and the wind was bold and our placards rattled on their fence posts. You threw insults at each other then together at me, as one, you bonded, while we packed and stacked our numbers into passing palms. Paper cuts did little to slow us down.

Then our lunches arrived, yours, mine, his, sandwiches and handshakes of different sorts. Yours were bread and butter and not much in between, but you could talk up anything. Mine promised more and tasted better, not that you’d admit it. Sharing cover from the wind, we huddled together but ate alone.

You couldn’t have been satisfied, returning headstrong to the wind. But you put your hunger down and something must be said for the dedication. Side by side, but not touching, we fixed ourselves anew.

We were stretching our limbs and bending our spines when one of you mentioned beer – you must have known it was on all of our minds. Self-consciously, measuring our efforts against the concessions of the next, we edged a bit closer. With pre-decided preferences we rated our best and damned our worst, while the wind prickled our cheeks, and empty hands passed us by. You were both wary of my passion for homebrew, though I could tell you hadn’t even tried it. Then a lofty gust swept through our corridor. Stole my voice. Caught the two of you unaware, tore the leaflets from your hands and whipped up a two-toned tornado. All that blueandred. And I held mine tight in white-knuckled fists. And I watched as you ran after your losses.

By afternoon the flow had slackened and our energy was dwindling. I bought us each a coffee. One of you offered me a mint. The other gave me a secret – a whispered confession that you voted my way.

Later, when the wind pulled your leader from her post, I helped you tie the corners back down. Quietly, you thanked me.

It was dark when we packed up what we couldn’t palm off, and our efforts lay crumpled in bins. Wind-burnt and paper-cut and arms too full for handshakes, we smiled instead. Then the two of you left, holding all that you could carry, while your leaders remained – fixed to the fence and fighting the wind.

Belinda Campbell

And if that isn’t enough, we’ll also be revealing the winner of the inaugural Viva la Novella competition and announcing an exciting secret project. So head down to the Thousand Pound Bend and get flashing!

-insert a cello riff-

Remember when we were fourteen and you could run real fast, spindly legs churning, feeling no burn because you had hardly any thigh muscles? And you would pass that ball, weave, wink at me, dodge and score. I couldn’t catch you; I didn’t want to because of your resounding glory! They said you were super groovy with your finesse of movement, feisty conversation and black hair that grew and grew and grew. And I seethed while picking out bits of food from between my braces because I couldn’t run or talk.

Now you can’t run, not really, you only run away, or run to patients as you complete blood transfusions and prescribe drugs and give them that warm it’ll-be-okay-smile I haven’t seen in such a long time. You are learning to save lives; there is someone else’s rotten bacteria seeping from your hands and you can’t reply to me. Tell me what is in those overwhelmed organs of yours! I won’t go finding someone to tell your secrets to this time: I will just whisper them onto a hidden record that I will play on repeat to keep your legacy alive.

Lady you keep your secrets like the goal-keeper shields the net because your biggest fear is being exploited! But wait, I have already done that. Accidentally. ‘Doctor! Doctor! Tell me your secrets!’ But you can’t, not legally so when you do it is in a tumble of substance of whim. And then you retract further. As if the secrets are lies or the lies are secrets and all the formations of vice-versa that we can multiply.

The pride choking in my throat can’t apologise properly: but I would chop my hand off for you. Isn’t that what friends are supposed to do?

Secret: I have told you all my secrets, knowing that they have been swallowed into the minds of others, not caring as the thought of losing you barely fits into the cracks between the letters in d-e-v-a-s-t-a-t-i-n-g.

Clare Cholerton

This week there were some interesting moments on the Australian literary stage, make of them what you will. I want to start off by putting the words WOMEN WRITERS in capitals. April has been all about them/us. First, we had the inaugural winner of The Stella Prize announced in Melbourne and Carrie Tiffany’s extraordinary act of generosity by sharing the cash prize. Then Wikipedia was sexist (awkward). The Miles Franklin shortlist announcement also created a stir with its all-lady line-up. If you want to get involved, The Australian Women Writers are all over it with their AWW Challenge for 2013 and are seeking your reviews.

Another announcement that got people talking this week was the decision by the judges of the Australian/Vogel’s Literary Award that – for only the second time in over twenty-five years – they would not crown a winner. I say all the under 35-year-olds write A++ manuscripts and give them something they can’t ignore for 2014 – submissions are now open.

Here’s something I stumbled across and wanted to share with all the writers: Lynne Barrett has published a great article titled ‘What Editors Want: A Must Read for Writers Submitting to Literary Magazines.’ Really good breakdown of what goes through the editor’s mind while reading submissions (e.g. ‘Oh no, another story with the character waking up hung-over and getting a phone call…Why must they flash back before anything interesting happens?…We don’t publish travel articles. Does no one read the guidelines?’).

Beneficial event alert: Our friends at 107 Projects and Writers Bloc are helping you combat laziness and distraction this weekend with their event ‘Write Here’ (May 4^th 12-5pm). For the price of NOTHING, you get a desk, a chair and a good, old–fashioned atmosphere of hard work.

Beloved comic book artist, Pat Grant, is also featured at Kinokuniya’s Wedge Gallery, coinciding with Free Comic Book Day which is in Sydney on Saturday!

Thanks to everyone for sending me your blogs and feeds for my cowgirl collection. Let me know if you have an event or launch or something exciting coming up.

One final neat thing – if you want to follow the Seizure site without having to go to there, plug seizureonline.com/feed into your Rss reader or aggregator.

That’s all, but don’t worry, I’ll be watching y’all from @slatterbrain and @seizureonline (two eyes are better than one).

Read, write and forever re-tweet good things!