ReadFin Literary Journal (Winter 2018)
In the compilation of the 'Readfin' Literary Journal the editors and designers have worked closely together. The final outcome is a journal that incorporates fiction, poetry and prose, illustration, and creative fiction – a melting pot, something for everyone. Journals such as this have wide ranging appeal, not only for those who have submitted stories, but great as gifts, for book clubs, and an illustration of what can be achieved for students of writing and publishing. 'Readfin' is a published book with their writing.
In the compilation of the 'Readfin' Literary Journal the editors and designers have worked closely together. The final outcome is a journal that incorporates fiction, poetry and prose, illustration, and creative fiction – a melting pot, something for everyone. Journals such as this have wide ranging appeal, not only for those who have submitted stories, but great as gifts, for book clubs, and an illustration of what can be achieved for students of writing and publishing. 'Readfin' is a published book with their writing.
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When I was a Gardener
Sarah Irene Robinson
I just replaced the throttle cable on my lawn mower. Wowee! This is a thing I have
never done before. Minimal swearing, only one nap and a few borrowed tools. I am
aware that this feat isn’t so much a feat to some, but for me and my brain it was a
challenge.
I was working in the sun the other day and the identical twins came up to say
hello. It was only today that I realised how identical they are. They usually shout
out pleasantries from across the street and I assumed they were very close friends
who maybe lived in a women’s home and had their daily outings together. They
are in their twenties I’d say, brown hair, very slim, tall upright, and completely
identical. Today they came over to inspect me closer, one of them offered me
some lipstick, pulling an uncapped bright red lipstick from her clutch bag, it was
covered in bag dirt, she looked at me with open eyes, offering it to me delicately.
These two are the only things I like about this job with the leaf blower and cement
that never seems to end.
I want to tell the story of this tree, but I cannot tell it myself properly. It was an
old eucalypt, white wattle-like flowers, it must have fallen over years ago, but it
kept growing, the roots twisting out of the ground, and I’m not sure why, maybe to
balance itself, it had grown back around the way the way it came. And had formed
a full circle from a birds’ perspective. Then some children had put a tire swing
in it, hanging from a branch in the middle. It was the perfect cubby or escape or
private place. Then things got rough and life got in the way and beautiful people
died. They hired me to help them plant things and one day I saw this mess of
blackberries and asked if I could clear them. It took the whole day, me and Robyn
and as we got further in we fousnd this beauty, and it all came rushing back for
her and it was amazing I had never seen such a thing before. We were both covered
in blood and crusty sweat and fresh sweat and then crusty sweat again. We drank
wine in the middle as the rains finally came in, after such a dry month.
I fixed the throttle cable and then sat in the yard with the birds until it got all
dark and cold and my feet had had enough and the cool grass had gotten into the
heat of my body enough.
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ReadFin Literary Journal
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