It felt a touch brutal. Like signing my own death warrant. And like they wanted me out. It wasn’t even a friend they were lining up to replace me. Maybe I should leave after all. In my head it was 50:50. In case I left - and just because - I’d been clearing out: old notes and notebooks, clothes, junk. Everything I had was junk.
My flat was small, top floor of a city tenement. What would otherwise be the living room became my studio, lit during the day by the industrial skyline through ill-fitting French windows which opened onto a tiny balcony. I slept in a box room just off the front door, and, when not painting, washing or cooking, spent the rest of my time in a white-walled annexe with only a sofa, laptop and bookcase. Such was my life. All else I’d left behind.
Sandra Arnold is an award-winning writer who lives in New Zealand. She has a PhD in Creative Writing from CQ University, Australia. She is the author of a book on parental bereavement, Sing no Sad Songs and two novels, Tomorrow’s Empire and A Distraction of Opposites. Her short stories and essays have been widely published [...]
Hey guys! Last time, I spoke to you about the first couple meetings of my society that happened under my "presidency", and the nerves and mild awkwardness that pervaded those meetings. This week, we're going to skip forward a little bit. Truth be told, much of the year as a society was enjoyable, but uneventful. [...]