Blistering new fiction from Rebecca Slater.Read More
Rebecca Slater outperforms the challenge yet again in this, the fifth and final obstruction.Read More
watching you stew
your golden apples
at the stove
suddenly I long
to peel you
like a fruit
to find your
I woke at 8am to the electro-wind chimes of my alarm and the smell of something sweet. Or, I thought, snoozing my phone and turning over in our linen sheets, something rotten. It was hard to be certain. It got me out of bed.Read More
Since our intrepid writer has so easily risen to the challenge of the previous obstructions, I decided to try kicking it up. There are only two obstructions for this round but they're intentionally challenging.Read More
Even though he had never liked the smoking . . .Read More
The obstructee forced to get political. Read her response to the last writing challenge.Read More
For Rebecca’s second obstruction there is only one rule. She has to rewrite the story as a work of propaganda.Read More
Read Rebecca Slater's first Obstruction challenge, as Stewed Fruit moves into the third person.Read More
A short video from the obstructor.Read More
Welcome to the first video on Seizure TV. Meet Rebecca Slater who is part of our Five Obstructions project. Hear her answer questions on the project – her expectations and misgivings.Read More
Join Rebecca Slater and Alice Grundy as they embark on a Lars von Trier-esque adventure of writing challenges.Read More
Read the Monash Undergraduate Creative Writing Prize-winning story, ‘Stewed Fruit’ by Rebecca Slater. This story is the basis for Obstructions II.Read More
Welcome to the first set of obstructions for our young player, Rebecca Slater.Read More
My sweetheart saw a child’s face in the train window. I paid the man to let us off. The milkbar in the town was open, the shopkeep had hair like straw and didn’t give us our money back for the drink machine. We sat at the bar at the inn and my sweetheart looked pale. Did you see the girl? she asked, and I shook my head. She was getting worse. We slept on top of the sheets. In the morning my sweetheart touched my face. It is smoother, she said. I didn’t believe her—I had slept badly, a strange suction noise coming from the bathroom—but I noticed she, too, looked smoother, as though sloughed by a pumice stone.
We should be getting on to mum and dad’s place, I told her. It was in the next town. But she frowned. Not yet, she said, I want to see her one more time. She went off to walk the quiet streets and I was left alone with my oddly smooth hands. In the driveways of the houses were parked vintage cars. I had misplaced my phone.
That night we made love like teenagers.
By the time we got to mum and dad’s we had shrunk down to half-size, and we walked hand in hand, smiling, with sugar floss for thoughts.