FARRAGO

When night approached, I would sit near my window while watching the night sky in hopes of seeing the origin of the sound but I never did.

All that matters in life is Jimmy Barnes, nineteenth-century lesbians, and the three boxes of Cheerios I clutch to my chest in the car park at Coles. Woolworths didn’t have them in stock so I had to drive to the next suburb.

The University of Melbourne’s Creative Literature and Writing Society present The Remarkable Quests of Raddish and Quill, a collaborative column for Farrago.

It was your birthday drinks last time her arm was around you. It’s only been three weeks since then, you were in Fitzroy at yet another rooftop bar, basking in the suburban sunset. Your gift came in a plastic shopping bag.

After damning allegations that Red Riding Hood left her missing grandmother to fend for herself in the woods, she has now pronounced that her grandmother has been found dead at the edge of the woods.

Murukami sits in a sole green bog in an ashen wasteland, knees pinned to ground by rusting nails. His arms, detached, caress and cradle his head as an acid wind blows harshly.

You’re reading Hellboy in Hell—cornered in a pocket of the Brunswick library—the collected trade paperback of the original comics run. Hellboy is in Hell, because. He falls as a beating heart through the mouth of a petrified giant.

The University of Melbourne’s Creative Literature and Writing Society present The Remarkable Quests of Raddish and Quill, a collaborative column for Farrago.

I want to say that death is just a wound things grow around and that I Miss the way the world tasted back then, before life touched me like that, Cold Finger pressed to my Tongue; hurts like freezer-burn, tastes like freezer-burn.

“Do you have wine?” Rebuffed inquired in a raspy voice.“No,” replied Oost. “Why? Should I?”Rebuffed inclined her head. “I just assumed.”Oost was silent for a time, perplexed. Rebuffed filled the space: “You know. Since we’re here.”