A poem by Will Solomon.
A shortlisted piece in the Fiction section of the Honi Soit Writing Competition 2021.
What I remember best about it; Was the way the red clay; Clung to her fur like leaves.
Next Tuesday’s protests will be going ahead without plans to limit numbers to 500.
Reflections on Sydney.
To earn the fellowship and advice of the best of players, those of lesser skill seek validation, and when the Discord's top dog happens to also be a fascist, the pipeline forms.
I had envisaged another life, if only for a month, more closely aligned with what I desired than I had in the years I had lived in Sydney since leaving high school.
They exist somewhere between fact and my imagination, and this is how I love them.
Will Solomon takes some advice from Chekhov about getting through isolation.
"He’s looking out the window again. It’s a lovely voice. Low, like a baritone, but he inflects his vowels with a climb toward the end of sentences."