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Articles by Victoria Manifold
Overland literary journal
A Quiet Man I’m a quiet man. I don’t talk much. I like a quiet drink. Sometimes a bit more, sometimes too much. I have this quiet spot at the Royal pub. Just a little spot around from the bar near the corner. They always serve me a beer as soon as I walk in. A bit of a nod, a bit of a wink, and then I slide on to the stool and rest my elbow on the bar. This is what I do. I watch people. They think I’m looking straight into my beer glass. Well, I am, sort of. But most of the time I am looking at people.
Overland literary journal
Aya’s hair is sopping wet and it’s long enough that the ends make swirling patterns against my exposed collarbones and tickle my skin from where she is leaning over my shoulder. She refuses to put it into a ponytail or a bun. I even offered to twist together one or two thick braids on the train ride over. She says wet hair down is a sexier look. Which is fine for the beach but I don’t know what there is to be sexy for in the shoddy computer lab of Snapton Public Library.
Fiction | garramilla/Darwin
We sit in East Point Reserve and look at how the gidjaas, green ants, make globe-like homes out of the leaves — connected edges with fibrous tissue that I later learn is faithful silk. Safe inside. Why isn’t it safe outside? I pick up the plastic around this circular lake cause this is the way I can landcare, care land. Tend to the space and picture that I insert myself into, then stretch my legs out on the grass once we find the right spot. Visitor.
Overland literary journal
The last Pieface in the state had closed its doors; not even a concession at a servo remained open. This is it, I thought, the golden age is at an end, it’s all drying up now, no one will ever prosper again. An echo rang out—a small pop as if someone had taken a pin to the thin membrane covering a void—the bubble had burst.
Phantom Menace Hours – by Victoria Manifold | Australian Literary Arts Magazine | ISLAND
It’s real Phantom Menace hours down at the motel. I’m waiting for Adam. We’re having an affair but haven’t consummated it yet. I’m vaguely worried that if we have sex it’ll be terrible, ‘not because of me,’ I’d told him, ‘I’m really good at it.’ And it’s true. I have a great track record with lots of positive feedback. When Adam arrives his face is bleeding, as is typical of the times in which we live. Blood on his forehead, cheek, a small part of his chin. We press our faces together.
Fiction | How to express yourself
Some men paint. Others compose. You might one day favour the written word, scrawling tales of the fantastic told many times before, meaning nothing to anyone. For now, start by telling your childhood sweetheart the truth. Watch her pale face crumple like soggy tissue paper and wish, wish, you’d been born better. ‘I don’t understand,’ she sobs, ‘How can you do this to me? How can you just decide to be gay?’ Patiently explain that you are not in fact gay.
The White Review Short Story Prize 2016
The White Review Short Story Prize 2016 THE 2016 WHITE REVIEW SHORT STORY PRIZE WINNER Grace by Sophie Mackintosh 2016 SHORTLIST click on the title to read the story Clerical Error by Victoria Manifold Date Night by Chris Newlove Horton Grace by Sophie Mackintosh Oh Whistle And by Uschi Gatward Oogenesis by Karina Lickorish Quinn Mute Canticle by Leon Craig Roleplay by Naomi Frisby Seasickness by David Isaacs About The White Review Short Story Prize The White Review Short Story Prize is an...
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