Meet Viva la Novella shortlistee, Avi Duckor-JonesRead More
Meet Viva la Novella VI shortlistee Naomi Barton.Read More
Meet Hasti Abbasi, Viva la Novella VI shortlistee.Read More
A red tree sits outside my window. It wasn’t there yesterday.Read More
Birds and bees, drowning roaches and psychology textbooks crowd together in fresh new fiction from Frances An.Read More
You wake up. It’s 7pm. You walk alongside the train line to 110 Chortle Crescent.Read More
We are delighted to announce this year's Viva la Novella shortlist.Read More
Blistering new fiction from Rebecca Slater.Read More
We’re not where we should be, that much is clear. Holding on to what we believe has never been more important, but K is wavering, pulled in other directions, and soon it will be too late.Read More
Words || Hazel Smith
On the night of the partial eclipse you squinted at the moon, wishing the sky seemed less cloudy. Afterwards Amy, Jack, Phil and you sat around a table with a glass of wine. In the middle of a context you could not later recall, Phil said — as if it was self-explanatory — Amy doesn’t get jealous. Amy did not respond, and such a remark did not align with anything you knew about her. You were curious and wondered what he meant. Was he talking about sexual jealousy? Was he hinting at some hidden aspect of their relationship? Or was he reflecting more broadly? Marked by an unasked question, an ellipsis that would expand, the opportunity to enquire was lost. You could not say weeks afterwards, ‘I remember you said that Amy does not get jealous and I have been wondering what you meant by that. I would like to know because the idea that someone is immune from sexually jealousy is unusual’. You had to leave the remark in place, stretching and flexing. You will learn to value it because it cannot be further decoded. You will be grateful for all the thoughts it has provoked in you, all the moments of wonder it has provided. Almost, almost, you hope its orbit will not be stilled, its aura continue to burn brightly.
<3 loving the motherland <3. Esther’s new Facebook profile picture looks like an advertisement for AsianDating.com.Read More
A friend of mine has endometriosis, so severely that she often cannot work, sometimes cannot walk, cannot rely on having enough strength to do her laundry, cook her meals.Read More
A personal essay on constriction and unfurling from Chloe Papas.Read More
Dad bought my ticket and signed me up to housesit across America for three months. He said I’d been sad for too long. I needed to get out, to meet new people, to find someone new.Read More
Words || Rosie McCrossin
I suppose I didn’t notice it was ending. Everything was painted yellow. Sunlight and mangoes broken into fleshy chunks on the bitumen. The bikes fallen over on grass thickened by prickles. Walking from the corner shop, where the immigrant family with their raincloud eyes stare out at us. Technicolour lollies in bright white paper bags. Our feet are bare and browned by sunburn and dirt. Strong against the burning bitumen. At the park, we sit on swings and talk about our world. It is a small one, but there is always something to debate. The heat invades our bodies and forces us under the platform of the playground, where we are printed with patterned shadows. The smell of the fresh bark is heady and sweet. Your tongue, stained by strawberry clouds, glows in the afternoon light.
We are so far out now that the horizon has turned to shimmering waves. The water hovers, tepid and unafraid, around our calves. The toadfish and crabs, with their sharp wariness, make broad circles around us. You find a moon snail. Hold him by his shell. We wait. We can be very quiet. The mudflats are infinite, and the ocean an insipid plain. It is hungry for the heat. It eats it up and lies warm and comfortable around our feet. Perhaps it is saving up for the night when the wind will come and whip its shallow waters into cracked, white waves. The moon snail opens its timid body onto your hand. Its eyes venture out. We stand for a long time, the warm breeze flicking our hair, as the fleshy white flower blooms and closes, again and again.
The boat has been there for a long time. It is a ghost boat. When you look inside it is filled with rats and brokenness and people’s things. Photographs and an oven, bedsheets. Men on motorboats make their way noisily between the gaps in the trees. They shine and shift like ghosts. You kick the boat and the fibreglass crumbles. The emptiness of the mangrove forest eats up our voices and vomits them into symphonies of reverberation. I step into the dirty water. At the bottom, I can feel the too-soft floor, antennae of the mangroves separating my toes. My skin is thick with mud. We crouch in the shade. We are quiet. The shadow shifts like a mother, hiding our squinted eyes from the sun.
Sometimes, I will wake up in the middle of the night, retracing the map again and again in my head. Now, the creek is crowded in by golf courses and modern metal houses and warehouses for supermarkets. The mudflat coast is a tourist drive and they have built picnic tables. They renovated the playground. A man came in to poison all the prickles. It took us a long time, learning how to avoid prickles in the grass. We could teach people. It is a terrific skill. Even now, I remember.
When Neil's leg broke and he got sick, Ooma was delighted.Read More
Words || Tom Wade
Outside the supermarket Sihle reached into his pocket for his keys. A bag of groceries weighed down on his wrist making each movement in his pocket slow and deliberate.
He pulled his keys out of his pocket, but they were stuck, attached to the lining of his pocket now inside out.
‘What the fuck?’ He wrenched his keys, bags thumping against his thighs. His arms were heavy and lopsided as he worked at his keychain.
The bags swinging against his wrists made it hard to get a feel of the situation.
A flame of brown hair and a fan of orange dress pulled up next to Sihle with a rattle and a clank. Caught in his trance of circling and swearing, Sihle didn’t notice. ‘The fuck is wrong with these motherfucking keys?’
‘Do you need some help?’ This was the first time Sihle noticed. Someone had sent an angel on a bike to help him with his keys. Her face glistened with beaded sweat and she was trying to suppress a heaving chest. She’d ridden far to help him. ‘Here, let me get that.’
She reached into the basket of her bike, pulled out her phone, and shone the assistive light on Sihle’s trousers. His keys hung there, caught a strand of thread at the end of pocket lining.
The woman reached for Sihle’s keys and fumbled with them, she was still holding her phone. The light caught Sihle’s eye and dazzled him, leaving spots. ‘Do you want some help?’ he asked her.
‘Your hands look full already.’ She was right. The handles of the plastic bags were starting to cut into his wrists. He heard the jingle of his keys and she help them up. ‘There you go, your jeans accidentally became part of your keychain.’
‘Thank you.’ How did he keep this going? He could feel the moment slipping through his fingers, she was going to be gone forever. ‘My name’s Sihle.’
‘Maria.’ She put out her hand, they shook, and she got on her bike to leave. She pushed down on a pedal, it resisted. He heard her change gears, the bike sputtered and clanged down a few ratios. Her leg swung free and Maria had to put her foot down to stabilise herself.
‘Seems like your bike needs a service,’ Sihle realised his chance, ‘I could do it for you.’
Maria looked up from her bike, ‘I’d love that.’
Words || Alana Bridget Scully
I was watching TV when I first heard the news. The flashing broadcast lit across the screen: a rocket has fallen from the sky, a failed space journey, the whereabouts of the astronauts still largely unknown. I’d looked across to my mother, her face stricken with worry, her hands wringing the tea towel she’d brought in with her from the kitchen.
“Terrible, just terrible,” she muttered under her breath. Then she walked slowly back towards the kitchen, her hands still fumbling in front of her.
The two men had appeared the next day. I was watching TV again, and it was dark and rainy outside.
“What’re you watching?” one of them had asked, jolting me from my relaxed state. I couldn’t really see his face because he was wearing a huge white helmet with an opaque black screen in the front. The helmet looked pretty beat-up, a huge gash on one side that showed tufts of his hair peaking out. The other one had red stains all along his leg, his left foot looking a little askew when he propped it up on the footrest.
They were courteous guests at first. Mother, a natural host, lavished them with cups of tea, warm baths; she even cooked her special roast – something usually reserved for birthdays and Christmas. We’d sit around the dinner table, the two men eating through the gap in their helmets, my mother looking across at them adoringly.
“Wonderful peas!” they’d compliment, and my mother would smile and pile their plates with meat and gravy.
When I asked them where they came from, how they appeared on our couch, they didn’t say much. Usually they’d shirk off my questions, but sometimes they would solemnly point into the sky without saying a word, their white gloves cushioning their pointed finger, their heavy helmet bent down towards the ground.
Weeks passed. The news coverage of the accident had subsided, but occasionally a reporter appeared on the screen, walking through an open field with detectives and policemen and scientists all fossicking on the ground behind him. Apparently, parts of the rocket flung into a neighbouring town, shocking the farmers half to death.
“We’re looking for fingerprints, for any sign of life,” the reporter said, the mood in the living room becoming cold and tense, the air shifting around us.
Eventually, it was my mother who told them to go.
“It’s time,” she’d said, standing at the doorway, beckoning them onto the front porch. They walked down the path but stopped at the front gate. Then they turned back to wave, and even through their helmet, I could’ve sworn I saw the white glean of their teeth from a broad and open smile.
So then, I suppose that’s not really how it began at all - with your face at the airport, walking around the corner, taking slightly too long to recognise me, your expression stained with confusion.Read More
Words || Leith Reid
She gets home first, finds their garage floor covered with mud, inches thick, creased and rumpled like the rug they’d been fooling around on in the park, just yesterday. The stench thick with memories of dog kennels and bin day.
She surveys the sad cardboard boxes spilling swollen books. Her childhood photographs caked with mud, aged beyond their years, milky with cataracts. She picks one up to try and wipe the mud from her mother’s face, and instead wipes her mother from the photograph. She Googles 'how to save flood damaged books and photos'.
When he gets home with the high-pressure hose, he finds ice-cube trays out on the bench, melting to water, the frozen peas soft. The freezer is full of wet photographs in ziplock bags. There she is: a toddler baking with her mother and her big sister. A teenager, on the beach, hanging out the driver-side window of a bright orange 4-wheeled drive giving someone (probably her Dad) the thumbs up.
Outside, the stairs are covered in his books, stood up on their bases, pages fanned, paper towels slipped lovingly between the pages like love notes or pressed flowers. He trips on No Country for Old Men, carefully wiping the cover with his t-shirt before placing it back on the stairs.