Express Media – We're here for young writers

• edcommitorial
• listening
• Writing

Play Edcommitorial, Listen

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Johannes Jakob

Dec 20, 2011

As promised in the magazine, you can now listen to the edcommitorial from Play, which is confusingly but sensibly itself called Listen. It's both written and read by Rosanna Stevens.

Winning Poem: ARTillery Poetry Slam

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Joe

Dec 19, 2011

Read more about the Artillery Poetry Slam here. By Kirsti Whalen. These are the things that I don’t know. I don’t know how to do calculus. Or long division. Or short division. I don’t know how to cook a steak (I’m vegetarian). I don’t know how to re-hang hinges on my broken door And I don’t know how to live this life without expecting more. I don’t know what it means to be raped and tortured. I don’t know what it means to put your faith in the police I don’t know what it means to live in a state where you think you’re safe because of the police then have all of that trust betrayed and know your faith’s been thwarted. I don’t know what it means to go to trial believing that the truth will save you then sit within that witness box and watch the system fail you. When I went to court For driving too fast and forgetting to pay they just patted me on the back and sent me away I don’t know What it’s like To know you’ll never walk away again. I don’t know what it’s like to lay On a cold hard table of steel and feel my life’s last injection the injection that will take all that I am             away because some man in some office thinks that’s okay I don’t know what it’s like to stand in a row, back to the wall And know I’m about to be shot I can try to imagine But I know not. I don’t know how to stand up here and wax lyrically about oppression I don’t know what it’s like to be a refugee Held for years in dank detention. What I do know Is how to say That I don’t know And that’s okay. Because if I know I don’t know then one day I’ll find out and know I know and in this way When I do speak out I’ll know it’s true. So I want to ask the law makers and the policy makers And the policemen spraying pepper spray And holding up their guns And the war fighters and the war makers And the person with his finger poised upon the button Which is going to kill someone Do you?

Who Do You Think You Are Post 4

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Joe

Dec 06, 2011

“Just Who Do You Think You Are”

During 2011, six diverse schools began working together on a very exciting year 10 student writing project. Collaborating online, the teacher-librarians, English teachers and students shared their personal writing and gained a broad understanding of the diversity of culture and experience across Victoria.

Over the coming weeks, we will be publishing some of the stories from the project here on the Virgule blog.

WHO AM I?

By Josh Hanegbi

From: Bialik College

I pace up and down an empty hall, doors on both sides. Each door looks the same but I know that only one will take me forward.

My sharp footsteps slowly turn into the crunch of sand under my feet. The waves breaking on the shore fill the air, timeless and endless.

I can see a boat bob up and down smoothly on the horizon. Waves chase it, voices carrying in the air behind it. A man, a woman and small boy sit on its deck, sun warming their faces. Matching gold rings are on the couple’s hands, the boy has his mother’s eyes. It is his 12th birthday and they are sailing out to the open water for a special family lunch, just the three of them. The two of them are the most important things in the man’s life, nothing could replace this moment for him.

I am in a room with floor and ceiling that are identical, infinite twisting black lines on a bright white background.

I can see a man screaming. Nothing else matters to him, he must scream, for if he does not then they will think he is crazy.

A long room surrounds me, a huge raised platform in the middle.

I can see a man walking across it, a thousand camera flashes illuminating his perfect features. His shoulders, arms, legs and stomach; all are the product of dedication to self. Each of his features is more defined and perfect than they have ever been; except for the brilliant blue, hidden behind squinting lashes.

I walk towards a man in a suit, sitting on a small black leather stool.

I can see the calluses on his fingers as he plays, alone with just his music. Fingers flying over a grand piano standing on a dark stained wooden floor, black shiny body polished perfectly, gleaming in the soft light. Superbly structured, excellently executed, the music seems to come naturally to him. Years of hard work, of repeated scales and technical exercises have finally paid off. He is The Pianist, and when he plays nothing else exists. The piano is no longer just wood, ivory and metal; it is an extension of him.

As I step away, the music ceases. I am walking across a marble hall, a butler clad in suit and jacket leads me towards grand mahogany doors.

I can see the watch on his wrist, heavy platinum wristband glinting, hands moving silently. The bulge in a breast pocket hiding a set of keys to the car he has someone drive for him. Everyone always knew he would be the best, they had told him so since he was a kid. He had known it, and now he had become it.

I walk around and see all of these people. And I am completely alone.

I turn and look back down the hall at the doors, and I begin to pace.

• interns

From The Desk Of… Emmyrose Hobbs

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Emmyrose Hobbs

Nov 30, 2011

Hello. I’m Emmyrose Hobbs, Express Media Online Media and Communications Intern. Nice to meet you. I spend some of my week hanging out in Express Media HQ coming up with ways to interact with and let you guys know about our lit journal Voiceworks and other bits and bobs that Express Media do.

I’ve been hanging out in the Wheeler Centre since the start of the year  because I was lucky enough to intern at The Emerging Writers’ Festival. When my stint there finished, I skipped (literally) to the office next door. That’s how excited I was to start interning with the Express Media gang. The excitement is still here.

I get to do some amazing stuff by interning here. Last month, I taught some savvy little children how to blog and write art reviews for the organisation Artplay. Not a bad way to spend a few Saturdays off work I thought to myself.

When I'm not in the office, I sometimes serve our lovely Program Manager, Lefa Singleton-Norton in the cafe I work in part time. Also not a bad way to spend my time when I’m not at uni or interning here at Express.

Lately I have had the pleasure of meeting some of the other new interns, hopefully you will sometime soon too. We are busy bees in the office here, getting organised for our end of year Express Media Awards Extravaganza.

I hope you come say 'hi' at the Awards night.

Until then, see you all on twitter!

Who Do You Think You Are Post 3

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Joe

Nov 29, 2011

“Just Who Do You Think You Are”

During 2011, six diverse schools began working together on a very exciting year 10 student writing project. Collaborating online, the teacher-librarians, English teachers and students shared their personal writing and gained a broad understanding of the diversity of culture and experience across Victoria.

Over the coming weeks, we will be publishing some of the stories from the project here on the Virgule blog.

UNTITLED

By Jake Glanc

From: Bialik College

I want to change the world but instead

I sleep.

I want to feed the poor but instead

I eat.

And all I can do is keep breathing.

I want to decide my life but instead

I play.

I want to make my future better than it is today

And all I can do is keep breathing.

People outside are dying

I close my blinds.

Left or right

I really don’t mind.

And all I can do is keep breathing

When a storm is coming

I close my eyes.

And when I don’t understand

I happen to lie.

And all I can do is keep breathing.

I can try to be the difference

That I want to see.

And I want to believe in more

Than you and me.

All that I know is I’m breathing

My fire’s about to lose its flame

Ill pass on by

And when someone needs my help

All I can do is try

All that I know is I’m breathing

The world is screaming my name

I block my ears

If my life is a winding road

I refuse to steer.

All that I know is I’m breathing

Maybe one day I’ll appreciate

Or maybe I won’t.

Maybe one day you help me

Or maybe you don’t

All we can do is keep breathing

And take one step at a time

Who Do You Think You Are Post 2

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Emmyrose Hobbs

Nov 22, 2011

"Just Who Do You Think You Are"

During 2011, six diverse schools began working together on a very exciting year 10 student writing project. Collaborating online, the teacher-librarians, English teachers and students shared their personal writing and gained a broad understanding of the diversity of culture and experience across Victoria.

Over the coming weeks, we will be publishing some of the stories from the project here on the Virgule blog.

GETTING A GRIP

By Claude Davies

From: Melbourne High

I have far too much time on my hands. It’s a warm Thursday in July, and my excess recreation is manifesting itself as late-night shopping. Shopping for comforting things, like chocolate and MSG-laden noodles. Confectionaries are grabbed from the shelves; sweetmeats and bribes to my appetite. I’m focussing my efforts on the grabbing. ‘Carpe Diem’ – seize the day. That’s what Dead Poets Society told me to do. This ennui can be cured if the right opportunity is found, if something happens. So I’m reaching out to rope it in, but my fists are coming back stuffed with food. Filling my stomach is my best shot at filling this lull. Purchase made, I exit the store.

The transition from the harsh halogen lighting to the dim streetscape triggers a mood change. I recall, despite my best efforts, how this empty interlude started. It was only a week or so ago: she walked away from me and left nothing but empty excuses. And, because I was the least popular of the couple, the inevitable side-taking in the fallout resulted in my ostracism from groups and gatherings.  In the space of a few days, my leisure time was reconstituted from nights out on the town to room-ridden angst and procrastination. What I need is an identity – right now I’m floating in a social void, and my nights are spent watching television and doing the minimum homework required – I need something to latch onto; a stable surface to right myself with.

To my left a peculiar storefront throws a tide of warm radiance out into the light-polluted night. This shopping strip is almost completely comprised of the bland facades of florists, bakeries and real estate agencies. The bright green paint makes this store stick out like a sore thumb. The spines of leather books are cluttered up against the window like plastic balls in a pit, and inside I can see shelves lined with potential purchases. The money in my wallet is begging to be spent, and I think I might be subconsciously attempting to postpone my inevitable night of ramen and horror movies – so on a whim I push through the squeaky door and into the store. The reek of incense and musty paper is overpowering. My presence seems a welcome surprise to the man behind the counter. This place feels unfamiliar, secluded – and for a second I contemplate turning around and leaving. However, I chant my mantra of ‘Carpe Diem’ in my mind, and seize eye contact with the owner, before politely asking for a recommendation.

His eyes pass over me silently, and then his hands join them in motion towards a small dusty book sitting to his left. In golden print on the red front are the words ‘Collected Poems – W.B. Yeats’.  “Perfect for when you’re a tad lonely,” he says. I’m not entirely sure if my manner is giving away my lonesomeness, or if he has just taken a lucky guess, or maybe if the kind of people that shop at second-hand bookstores late on a Thursday night usually feel bit blue, but he seems to be offering  something which may be the cure to my problems. My money changes hands with all the recklessness and premonitions of regret that make an impulse buy, and I hurriedly exit the store and sigh at the onset of the fresh night air.

****

The door to my room swings open and my hands eagerly pull my new purchase out of its bag. I grasp the cover of my Yeats compendium and peel the book open, disturbing decades of dust and dog-ears from previous owners. For the first time in months, I read. The void begins to fill with words. I pull in poems; relate to them. ‘The Lake Isle of Innisfree’ reminds me of time spent in the country, of drowsy late night walks along rivers, and of campfires that stole the focus of rooms. ‘The Second Coming’ makes me think of anxious episodes I’ve had before; of philosophies adopted and of beliefs shed. ‘The Stolen Child’ makes me feel existential and melancholy, but ever gladder to be who I am. A rush of hope breaks through, and the stream of words washes through the still estuaries of my mind and brings a tide back to my thoughts.

Finally, I reach the poem that makes the rest pale in comparison - ‘No Second Troy’. Despite the context being so very different – Yeats was writing over his unrequited love for Maud Gonne, an Irish revolutionary, not a high school crush – it still reminds of my problems. In the end, he was only writing about loneliness. About things that affect every human, about obstacles we all have to face and overcome. My view leaves the page and ventures out of my window. A smile creeps across a previously glum face. I’m still lonely. I’m still questioning my life. But now I feel safer in the knowledge that people have been through this before, and made it out alive, and gone on to write such works as these.  It’s important to remember your ‘Carpe Diem’ – to seize what you can from life. But it’s equally important to remember that life has a grip on you, and it won’t give up without a fight.

• Alice Grundy
• Q&A
• Seizure

Q&A with Alice Grundy

1 comment

Rosanna Stevens

Nov 17, 2011

It's been a while, Q&A, but we thought it'd be worth meeting again. Last Saturday, new literary magazine Seizure launched its second edition -- themed Sci-Fi -- in conjunction with the Speculative Fiction Festival at the NSW Writers' Centre. Best of all, Editor-in-Chief Alice Grundy is Voiceworks contributor alumni. We nabbed her on the day after the launch, and sat down to talk words -- in all capacities -- for a few moments.

Aside from being only just too old to contribute to Voiceworks anymore, and being E in C for Seizure, Alice works by day as a Project Editor for a trade publisher. She has a BA Hons from  the University of Sydney and a Graduate Certificate in Editing and Publishing from UTS where she was an editor on the 2010 Anthology.

Who Do You Think You Are Post 1

1 comment

Joe

Nov 15, 2011

“Just Who Do You Think You Are”

During 2011, six diverse schools began working together on a very exciting year 10 student writing project. Collaborating online, the teacher-librarians, English teachers and students shared their personal writing and gained a broad understanding of the diversity of culture and experience across Victoria.

Over the coming weeks, we will be publishing some of the stories from the project here on the Virgule blog.

GRANDPA'S SHOES

By Alice Widdowson

From: Melbourne Girls' College

I reached down and opened the latch on the small, rusted iron gate. I followed the uneven brick path toward the front door, looking around at the state of the miserable garden. The grass had turned a golden colour, completely dried out after months of battling alone against the scorching summer sun. A feeling of nostalgia crept through my veins as I walked, much like the way the long, thick weeds had wound themselves around the garden, encompassing it.

I composed myself and rapped loudly three times on the wooden threshold, hoping Nan had remembered to put in her hearing aid this morning. I could see her shadowy figure through the glass as she dragged her feet to the front door. The key turned in the lock and soon we were facing each other.

“Nan!” I greeted her with a warm hug and breathed in her familiar scent. She grasped my hand, her skin cold against mine, and we both took a step back. She smiled.

“Here, Nan. Let me fix that for you”, I said, motioning to the brown lace that had come undone. She was wearing Grandpa’s shoes again. They were far too big, but I didn’t say a word.

She thanked me and I stood up, closing the door behind me. She made her way to the kitchen; shoulders slouched, as if there was a hefty load pushing down on her. I glanced around. Things had changed; the walls were bare and the couch faced the window, not the television. Grandpa's military photos had been taken down, the only evidence of their existence were the many small hooks lining the cream walls like rows of tiny soldiers ready for battle.

Over dinner, we watched a film and drank red wine. Nan had half a glass. I had three. I thought the alcohol would keep me distracted, but each time I glanced at her, the look in her grey-blue eyes sobered me up. So we drank the wine and we watched the film, then we both agreed it was time for some rest.

*          *          *

I woke up to the late-morning sunshine making its way through the thin gaps in the blinds. I rubbed my eyes, adjusting to the brightness. Nan's side of the bed was already made - her duvet folded once and pillow propped up neatly against the wooden bed head. I walked into the kitchen to find her sitting by the window, drinking a cup of warm tea. I wondered how long she had been up for. Despite her early night, she looked tired; the kind of tiredness for which sleep is not the answer. I couldn’t stand it for much longer. “Nan”, I said, trying to speak calmly.

She glanced up, a questioning look on her face.

I then said something about finding her a new home amid caring workers, bingo nights and new slippers, but my well-rehearsed speech became a jumble of words as I went on.

She paused and studied me for a moment. We had talked about a nursing home before, but today she was looking at me as if the thought had never even crossed her mind. Then she smiled. I'm not certain as to why, but she did.

“Not today, dear.”

I sighed, and that was the end of that. I supposed I could congratulate myself on trying, but for me, it was just as easy to punish myself for not succeeding.

“Tea? Coffee?” Nan asked, bringing me back to reality.

I nodded, and then shook my head, an awkward movement.

“No, no. I’ll do it Nan. You take a seat.”

The afternoon came quickly. Nan slipped on Grandpa's shoes and, despite my resistance, walked with me along the busy street to the tram stop. It was something she hadn’t done since I was a child. I slowed my pace to match her now accustomed shuffle, and we talked about the weather. We reached the tram stop, and stood together for a minute watching the oncoming traffic pass through the lights.

"Well. This is goodbye, dear," she said. "I can't spend forever waiting around for a tram!” she laughed. Her lips, chapped and faded, pressed against my cheek like an old paintbrush, its worn bristles looking to leave their final mark.

I furrowed my brow in a state of confusion. I didn't like the way Nan said the two words 'goodbye' and 'forever'. They sounded too final, like she knew that this could well be the end.

"Bye Nan, I'll see you soon,” I replied casually, as if my attitude could will her to believe something different. She nodded and smiled what seemed to me like a knowing smile, then turned and hobbled away. I watched her back. I watched her disappear into the crowds, people darting around this frail, old woman, busy getting on with their own lives. I squinted my eyes until I couldn't see her at all; the stream of sunlight ahead had enclosed her figure. I put my sunglasses to my face and wiped my cheek.

And then the figure was gone.

• Anna Funder
• Avid Reader
• Brisbane
• Sian Campbell

Sian Campbell from Issue #86 V Reading At Avid Reader

2 comments

Emmyrose Hobbs

Nov 03, 2011

Brisbane Bookstore Avid Reader is hosting a regular Salon Event in conjunction with the launch of Anna Funder's new book All That I Am – except for this one, Sian Campbell will be a guest reader.

As part of the event local Brisbane writer Sian Campbell, who is featured in the latest issue of Voiceworks (issue #86: V), will be giving a reading.

Because the kind people at Avid Reader like Voiceworks so much, they have offered free entry to all friends of Voiceworks who RSVP by email events@avidreader.com.au or phone on 3846 3422 before the event date.

Here are the details –

A Special Salon Event with Anna Funder
"All That I Am"
Thursday 10th of November
6.00pm for a 6.30pm start
Avid Reader Bookshop, 193 Boundary Street West End
Tickets $5.00 (includes a glass of wine) RSVP Essential

For all the details head here.

• ghosts
• horror
• Voiceworks Live

Shock! Horror! Voiceworks Live!

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Johannes Jakob

Oct 19, 2011

Slightly belated heads up, if you didn't know already: we're doing another of our fabled Voiceworks Live events this Friday. Details details details. Or Facebook. Former Voiceworks editor Tom Doig is going to perform a reading of his story, Winnie The Pooh as told by Cormac McCarthy, and something equally horrific from the Genre issue that entered the world under his glorious reign. Michael Richardson will read his story from Pulp, re: the mind-rending horror beneath the Galapagos. Duncan Felton will read and/or talk about his piece from Other, where he investigated the paranormal and visited a psychic. I'm going to do a ghost and horror tour of the internet! There will be probably be one or two other spooky/fun things. There will be a bar and scary decorations!