Category: Literary

Posted on in 2017, Comics, Current Writing, Essays, Film, Literary

Thor Ragnarok and Colonialism

[Spoilers for Thor Ragnarok]

So, some weeks ago I was watching the latest offering in the Marvel Cinematic Universe about a superhero whose mythos and supporting cast are drawn from Norse mythology. Here’s the thing. I know most of the work of director Taika Waititi and eagerly awaited Thor Ragnarok purely because of the comedy stylings of its director meeting the solid structure powerhouse that is Marvel Studios. The film was loved for its humour and action. For my money, it’s not my favourite Taika Waititi film (What We Do in the Shadows) or my favourite Marvel movie (Captain America The First Avenger), but that’s a matter of personal taste and there’s certainly lots to love about the film. The thing I want to discuss in regards to Thor Ragnarok is a couple of scenes in particular. However, first, I have to talk about Hela.

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Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Essays, Literary

Who Should You Write About?

I find myself being very introspective of late. Perhaps it’s just that time of year. Perhaps it’s the fact that I have a short one-act play burning in my back pocket that’s all about the responsibility of writers and the power that writers have over the grand narrative. It might have been disingenuous of me to eliminate social media into that above creative thesis. Anyway, I’m getting off track thinking about a project that most of you haven’t even seen. Let’s focus on what you might have actually seen. My website has quite a few pieces on it that I’ve noticed fall into a broad catergory: Men thinking about their past and their relationship with the women in their life. Now, upon this realisation I thought to myself: God, am I really that boring? Then it lead me to the thesis point of this whole piece: Who Should You Write About?

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Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Literary, Short Stories

The Holiday

Ronan looked over the bright blue bubbling sea. He looked above to the cloudless blue sky with its taunting yellow sun shining down on the earth below. The day was a balmy thirty-degree day on the east coast of Australia. Down below he heard the frolicking laughs of young kids and their nagging of their parents filling the pool area. He stood on his balcony, noting the slight breeze. This was a perfectly lovely day, he told himself as he tried desperately to believe it. He felt the cool tiles of the balcony against his bare feet and decided it was time to head inside.

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Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Essays, Literary

What Words Mean

In the words of Hamlet ‘words, words, words’. So, language is sort of my thing. It kind of comes with the territory of being a writer. Naturally, I think about the nature of language and how we use it. Language is how our brains translate our inner thoughts into outward communication. Language is one of the ways in which we exert power in the world. Now, with the Internet breaking down all the barriers, most people have a chance to voice their thoughts. That’s a double-edged sword that we’re still living under. So, let’s look at words and how they function in the modern world.

So, I have this strange linguistic dichotomy in me. Say I’m in a conversation with friends and one of them uses the wrong term, using stagnant instead of static for example. I might catch the mistake and mention the correct word. They’ll apologize and we’ll all move on. However, sometimes it’s worth noting that using the correct word doesn’t matter. So long as the two people in the conversation know what is being said, then as long as meaning is conveyed it sort of doesn’t matter how the language is used.

On the other hand, there are a few words that I care about that I demand be used properly. Like ‘political correctness’, like ‘ethics in game journalism’, like ‘feminism’. To me, using these terms correctly matters, even in casual conversation, and I’ll explain why. Look, I know how this looks. It looks like I’m about to start a rant. The truth of it is that I’m maybe about to start a rant.

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Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Literary, Sci-Fi, Short Stories

The Last Human

They say she lives in the Undercity. They say it reminds her of home. She is the last human. I went looking for her. It is not an easy path. Not many people travel to the Undercity anymore, just plunderers and scavengers. Not company I often associate with. An old friend, Nate, heard I was looking for a way into the Undercity. He took me to a bar on the street level. I rarely visited the lower levels. My work was in an office building. My home was in another skyscraper. All my friends lived in the high rises of the Overcity.

Nate introduced me to a man. The man was bald and in his mid-fifties, well, that was the face he wore at least. None of us aged anymore; we’re all made of synthetic parts. The only thing connecting us to our human heritage being our consciousness, though philosophers still debate whether the consciousness our bodies inherited was the same that belonged to our historic humanity.

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Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Literary, Short Stories

Look Who’s Back in Town

[Author’s Note: This piece is a sequel to the piece What We’ve Become.]

 

The room was all wood panelling and polished metal corporate logos. Scott Darrow sat far back in his chair in the empty room. There were several other chairs around a large wooden table. Each chair was near identical to the ones next to it. They were black, cushioned, curved, and all had wheels affixed to their legs. Scott messed with the levers, trying to lock his chair in position, slightly tilted, so he could sit back comfortably. Once he was successfully adjusted, he began spinning towards the spotless glass windows. The windows reached from floor to ceiling. From his position, he could see most of the city. Part of his vision was blocked by skyscrapers taller than the comparatively squat office building he was currently in. The large wooden doors swung open as his agent stormed into the room.

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Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Literary, Short Stories

What We’ve Become

The place was a humdrum coffee place on the corner of a busy road. Nothing remarkable about it. It was one of those franchise places. He used to grab his coffee here a long time ago. He approached the coffee place hesitantly. He reached into his pocket and felt for the cold metal of his smartphone. He had received an email and arranged a time. If he’d been born in an earlier time, the summons might have come as a letter. Through the glass windows of the coffee place, he could see the inner workings of the coffee shop. Baristas working behind the counter, brewing beverages for twenty bucks an hour. He crossed the street and entered the door on the main street. The cold chill of Melbourne’s winter weather left him as the warmth of the climate-controlled coffee shop coalesced around him. He queued behind the rows of busy business types waiting for their coffee. He ordered a flat white and waited for his order.

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Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Literary, Short Stories

Stage Kiss

An outdoor stage, mirrored on the inside by an indoor stage. One bathed in light, the other in shadow. From where he stood on this dark, outer stage, he could hear the revelries of the party inside. They occupied the space where an audience had been mere hours ago. Meanwhile, this private stage of his, had only crickets for an audience. Their incessant chirping suggested that summer was on its way. It wasn’t quite there yet though. Upon reflection, one could name this season he inhabited the Spring of Not-Quite-There.

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Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Literary, Short Stories

The Gorge

I see it in the distance as we approach. The chasm, it seems impossibly huge. Impassable. The car stops and I approach the edge of the gorge. I look over the edge. At the bottom of the gorge, there is a valley of verdant scrub. The valley is enticing, it is calling me to jump. The stark reality of the orange-brown rocks stops me. Looking up, I am reminded of the length of the gorge. The others, who brought me to the edge of the gorge approach. They move their hands slowly and grab me. Their hand lean me dangerously over the gorge. They speak, sometimes in unison, sometimes discordantly against each other.

“You must jump the gorge. Everyone here has jumped the gorge, so must you.” (more…)

Posted on in 2017, Current Writing, Literary, Short Stories

Object

The room was a sea of black marble. Black marble floors, black marble walls, black marble ceiling. Paintings adorned the sleek walls, hanging by some invisible thread. The room was immaculately and delicately designed. So delicate that the designer must have known that no child would ever enter this room. In the centre of the room was a statue. A statue of a woman, made of white marble. It stood upon a small tower of black marble. The woman was hunched over and naked.

Her hands clutched her face as her mouth seemed to let out a silent shriek. The finesse of the marble showed her fingers digging into her face, as if the woman was in such agony that she might claw her face asunder. Her hunched body made her breasts hang and come to a point, almost pointing towards the floor. The slim figure had rolls of skin that if she was standing straight up would disappear. The woman’s pubic hair was neatly trimmed. Her legs stood shoulder width apart, the folds of her sculpted vagina sitting between her thighs. Her legs were firmly planted upon the black marble. Upon the black marble sat a small gold plaque with the title of the piece ‘Object’.

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