From December 1st until December 24th, Scum writers will be building onto this growing story. Check in every day to watch it unfold! Continue reading
The underfed fled home on summer break. Invitations leaked out on Facebook. Boosters used words like shindig and soirée. This was a less obvious way of saying party. We were trained to overstate the hint and underestimate the open gesture. Obscurity was in vogue. The truth was yesterday’s newspaper.
The acting thing wasn’t going great. I was in a play, but it was unpaid, overly long, am-dram and terrible. I was dressed as a yokel and had to wear fake freckles over my real ones. I wrote myself a note that I stuck on my wall, it said – NO MORE ACTING IN PLAYS. I was sleeping with one of the lead actors who only ate pies and protein shakes. When we met up and decided to call it off I smoked three cigarettes. It wasn’t stressful; I just thought it should’ve been. My flatmate was an alcoholic on the methadone programme who loved Judas Priest and Dolly Parton. He was currently addicted to prescription painkillers and passed out most nights to the sound of the opening title sequence of The Sopranos or The Godfather. The night before my new job, The Godfather seeped into my dream, and I dreamt my flatmate was ripping up our floorboards with a crow bar. I laughed about the dream at work the next day, as I fed another double-sided sheet of paper into the photocopier in preparation for scanning. Watching the magic of two turning into one.
Svetlana’s body could longer stand the cold; she shivered at the bus stop while fingering the cross around her neck. She’d moved to Prague from Most, away from her parents, and from their neighbours’ stares and the gossip that echoed the halls of their apartment building. She placed a hand on her swollen belly. She was pregnant, due in four weeks.
Sun showers. Dripping and heaps shiny. Everything so blinding because it’s wet as and reflecting the sun which is a big ball that’s on fire a really long way away from us.
We are an ideal distance from a large ball thats on fire.
In a spot where our front isn’t being burnt but is hot enough that it offsets the temperature of our back, which faces out into the cold dark.
If you looked at someone’s bare arm from the side while they were facing a large fire you could tell the difference between their front and back because there would be a type of shadow like the one on the moon when its half-full.
I would like to stand on the half-full moon halfway-in and halfway-out of the shadow. Like standing on a cosmic state-line.
Actual state-lines are underwhelming. Mostly just something about fruit flies. Continue reading
Part I: I Wish You Would Call Me
I am feverish in my apartment. Getting myself off with one hand and holding a cup of Fantastic noodles in the other. I’m not sure what “Oriental” is supposed to taste like but it is not the taste you want in your mouth when you finally squirt during the opening sequence of Today Tonight. Continue reading
He doesn’t like to talk about it now that he’s home.
He has changed. She stares at his shaking hands. His face seems different somehow, wild. There is something untamed in his eyes. They only focus on things far away, very far away.
She reached two hands to the back of her neck, I thought to unzip her dress and wanted to say wait, stop but then, like a magician, she produced one hair pin and another, and another. She’d been straddling my hips and now she let her full weight rest while she concentrated. Eight pins, silver and small, in a school on my chest.
The lady recrosses her legs and stubs out her cigarette.
“Alright, boys,” she says. “You can come in now.” The “boys” are a surly painter and a uni student, neighbours from opposite sides of her apartment. The painter lives with his wife across the hall. The kid studies history.
The room is full of half-packed boxes and she’s got g-strings artistically placed on the furniture. There’s one strung over the back of the suede couch. Another is positioned on the coffee table. The boys pretend not to see them. They stand in her doorjamb, pensive. The kid doesn’t know what to do with his hands.
When the family cat Poppy dies at the ripe old age of sixteen, I am eleven and the only one that seems to realise her soul has been reincarnated into the body of one of the bush pigeons that occupy the trees in our back paddock. It isn’t particularly hard to notice; one day a tree is empty, and the next day Poppy stops breathing not long after lunch. Continue reading