Seian's profile

Will you take my hand and jump off the train with me ever again? The bridge is already buckling beneath our feet. Charcoal sketches of fading lives adorn her aching struts. Outdoor tables Kleines Café. Two monks meander by, along the cobblestone strasse at the edges of the lamp-lit square. Is God in the spaces? The palm-reader takes my hand in hers. She looks out from under ruby scarves, regards me through her straggly long hair. She takes one look at my hand, then gets up and shuffles away…...

The afternoon drifts away on the back of Morrissey's black-vinyl vocals. Two moths circle the bedroom light; the ceiling paint is peeling back the lives of those who lived here before. Jack can almost see the sounds swirl round and around Annie's room – bottle-green ribbons of guitar and ice-blue streams of song. The moths. The music. Jack and Annie. Side by side. And the carpet beneath their backs feels as soft as vanilla ice-cream in Spring. But it's late Winter outside the bedroom door; o...

Sweat stings my already swollen eyes. The moon appears like a hole burnt through a death shroud - blinding. And the smell . . . it's acrid, like dense plumes from a funeral pyre of polystyrene souls; almost unbreathable, it sears my nasal passages - like paint stripper coating my throat, ignited anew with every desperate gasp. The slap of my bare feet running through the rain-soaked car park echo into the urban night. The showers have stopped and I can hear sounds of a party --or perhaps a p...

The race track baked in the early afternoon heat; dust dogged the air. And yet Tony Patrelli didn’t mind one bit. He was knife-edge confident that the conditions would be too tough for the big grey to last the fourteen hundred metres without dying in the final deuce. Sure, Baldazaar was good horse flesh, strong; the sharp black markings on the grey sheen of her coat gave her an elegance not common to most grey mares. Over the past eight months her Melbourne-based owners would have been deligh...