AWC Furious Fiction – November 2018

Who the hell is driving this thing anyway?

Checkout section. Blaring neon lights. Generic radio advertising blasting through the PA. Polished white floor scuffed with black sole shoe skids. A pimple-faced youth in an ill-fitting uniform anxiously scurries around. An elderly woman calls for his attention and a teenage couple steal a Mars bar.

Surely, this corporation knows people are stealing. Pine-nuts go through as cashews. Mangoes as apples. Mars bars as nothing. The cost of people scamming just has to be lower than the cost to employ additional check-out staff.

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AWC Furious Fiction - October 2018

The Lost Hour

The soft melody danced from her sister’s porcelain throat.

‘Red and yellow and pink and green–’

Emily winced at the cascade of melancholy memories. Her mother hanging clothes on the line, tall and graceful and perfect, her angelic voice carried across the fields by the warm wind of a summer’s morning. Her mother, singing in the kitchen, the soft notes floating through the house on the tail of the rabbit stew. Her mother, face of peace and beauty, sitting on her bed, stroking her hair, nursing her to sleep. The heavy blanket of her embrace, the safety of her touch, the surety of her words.

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A novel is a living organism

I realised recently that a novel not an artefact, it’s a living organism. My novel Eternity exists in physical form across many pieces of paper. Some of it is printed by computer and some by hand. Eternity also exists in digital form on my computer, and in various files and folders on the computers of all the people that I’ve sent it to. It exists in the cloud and in email accounts.

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The Infinity Monster

I lean back into the single mattress stacked up onto the wall in my drug room. The oriental rug has been pulsating for some time now. Toby is curled into a ball on the floor about a metre away from me. He groans. We’ve each eaten five grams of home-grown psilocybin mushrooms, and it’s becoming a little difficult to hold on to reality. 

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psychedelicAlexander Toums

I wrote this stream of consciousness in the notes application on my phone on the morning of the 17th November 2018, partially in the floor of my living room, partially on the footpath on the way to my local coffee shop, and partially in my local coffee shop. The post illustrates how periods of darkness for me tend to last hours, rather than, as was the case in the past, days, weeks, months, or years.

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