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Articles by Annelise Roberts
Little Men & Till We Have Faces
Current time: 0:00 / Total time: -30:23 Audio playback is not supported on your browser. Please upgrade. Annelise Roberts is a wife and mom of six kids whom she homeschools while raising animals on their homestead in North Carolina. She shares with Tsh a beloved childhood book (that’s very fitting for her life right now), as well as one of the most mind-blowing works of fiction from C.S. Lewis.
5 Quick Things #328 ✍️
Hey there, I don’t know where you’re at while you’re reading this (mentally and emotionally, I mean), but if you’re a metaphysical neighbor of mine, you’re spent.
Tautoga ne Tu’ura: dance of Tu’ura
The Rotuman culture is rich in community, land, the spiritual and the physical. Various factors from colonialism to Christianity have left generational legacies that clash with Indigenous knowledges. Often such clashes leave cultural practices, like that of the Rotuman tattoo, on peripheries of a history. In between survival in a Western-modern world and the need to retain cultural knowledges sit the marks of status, history and creation: tattoos.
Overland literary journal
The skinny man with his beanie and cane – I think he’s dying. His nose is turning blue at the tip. * I saw the boyish woman walking towards me along Paisley Street.
Why I deleted my social media
I did it. It took me almost an hour to figure out how to do it (Meta sure doesn’t make it easy to divorce yourself from its dystopian maze), but I did it. I deactivated my personal Facebook and my personal Instagram account. I also put an ‘away message’ on Born of Wonder’s Instagram and have no plans to sign back in. I first created an Instagram in 2012. It was 2009 the first time I signed onto Facebook. That’s over a decade of my life lived on and through these social media sites.
Fiction | Dear Liza. You are Thursday.
It’s late Thursday evening the week before Christmas and Ma and Aunty Nola have flown into Melbourne because ‘poor wee Liza she got the brain tumour.’ On the airport travelator the two of them are a jangle of post-post-menopausal nerves, shrieking and breathless, giggling like schoolgirls staggering off a carnival ghost-train, oblivious to my silence, and to Kosta behind them heroically blocking their sliding suitcases with his caveman calves.
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