Warwick Sprawson

A writer from Melbourne, Australia

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The unremarkable road across a featureless plane

Two boys walked down a road. The surrounding countryside was featureless, the road underfoot unremarkable.

One of the boys looked at the other, “So who are you?”

The boy looked down at his feet and firmed his lips in perplexity, “I’m not sure. How about you?”

The other boy tilted his head back and sighed at the sky, “I’m not sure either.”

They walked on in silence. There didn’t seem much to say.

For a moment something almost happened, but then things settled down.

They walked on some more.

“Nice day for it though,” one of the boys remarked.

“Is it?” the other boy replied, surprised.

“Well, maybe not.”

“Hard to say for sure.”

They continued to walk along the unremarkable road across the featureless plane.

Far up ahead was a feature, a dark dot in the centre of the road. As they got closer it resolved itself into a dirty old rug, an old sack, a pile of clothes. When they got to a certain distance it turned into a dog and then kept this form.

“It’s a dog.”

“He already said that. It’s poor form to repeat information already given.”

“So there’s rules to this then?”

The other boy pondered this, still walking towards the motionless dog. “Yes, I’d say so, seeing I said so, if you get my meaning.”

“It’s dead,” said the other boy coming to a halt by the dog.

The dog had been dead long enough to have sunken in upon itself and hardened. Its shrunken skin had locked its teeth in a snarl. There was no smell. There were no flies. Just a dead dog in the centre of an unremarkable road on a featureless plane.

“I’d say this was part of the plot.”

“It’s all part of the plot.”

“Well, yes, but this is probably an important part, I mean it’s something isn’t it?” The boy looked dubiously at the dog.

“Definitely,” the other boy said with sudden confidence. “This is definitely the start of the plot.”

They looked around the featureless plane.


“Well what?”

“What do we do with it?”

The boys picked up the dog. One took the front legs, the other the rear, and walking awkwardly, slightly sideways, they continued down the road.

“This is rotten,” a boy said, staggering a little. “This thing is heavy.”

The dog, completely desiccated, was surprisingly light.

“That’s better, but this still sucks.”

“How far are we going to have to walk with this thing?”

“Who knows? What a stupid plot. Two guys walking down a road carrying a dead dog. I mean, there’s no characterisation for starters.”

The taller boy scowled at the shorter who wasn’t carrying an equal weight, “You lazy sod, I’m taking all the weight, start helping me carry the damned thing.”

The shorter boy juggled his grip. His skin was very pale and his eyelashes and hair a straw yellow. “Screw you. You’re older than me, you should take more weight.”

They continued down the road with the dead dog held between them.

“Some plot,” the older boy said. He tried to spit but nothing happened.

The younger boy was daydreaming, “Some plots have pirates and treasure and huge pudding feasts and fast cars…”

“Some plots have killer clowns with chainsaws and deranged policemen abducting hikers.”

“We get a dead dog.”

“We sure do.”

They walked on for an interminable time passing several things of non-descript appearance.

“Have you noticed,” the older boy said, “how he uses double quotes instead of singles?”

“Double what?”

“Quotes. Quotation marks. The squiggly lines around our conversations. The trend in fiction writing is towards singles. I don’t think he knows what he’s doing.”

The boys walked on for a long, long time. The day grew hot. The dog had grown very heavy and was threatening to stink.

‘How do you know so much about quotation marks anyway?’

‘I studied English literature for four years.’

‘Isn’t that a little unrealistic for a boy?’

‘Don’t believe everything he writes. I’m twenty-five.’

They continued to shuffle sideways, carrying the dead dog down the featureless road.

‘What’s the word count?’

‘Let’s see…nearly 700.’

‘How many do you think he’ll write?’

‘I don’t know. I can’t imagine this as a novel. It’s probably a short story.’

‘How many words is a short story?’

‘Who knows? You might as well ask how long this road is.’ The older boy paused to renew his grip on the dog’s legs. ‘Most short stories are around 2 000 words.’

‘What’s he up to now?’

‘Seven sixty.’

‘Shit! Two thousand will take all day.’

‘Well it’s not like we have anything else to do.’

They continued down the unremarkable road.

The younger boy said slowly, ‘Have you ever thought of what happens after?’

‘After what?’

‘After the end of the story. I mean what happens to us.’

‘No, not really. Nothing I guess.’

‘Yes, but what kind of nothing? Do we live on?’

‘Do you call this life now?’

‘Well, yes. I’m here, now, carrying a dead dog down an unremarkable road with an English literature graduate; it’s not much of a life but it’s better than nothing.’

The older boy grunted. ‘He’s still referring to me as a “boy”.’

‘I like to think we’re going to live on after this is over. That we’ll get rid of this dog and have other adventures with new, better writers.’

‘Now that would be good! Imagine being picked up by someone like Jonathan Franzen or Peter Carey.’

‘I bet they would come up with something much better than this. This is really starting to drag. A dead dog on an unremarkable road across a featureless plane — I mean that’s just dumb!’

‘This guy’s a hack. He’s spelt “plane” wrong all the way through — look there he goes again!­ ­— and check out the typeface. Sans Serif. Everyone knows that’s a font designed for webpages. This is just pure crap.’

And then the older boy went to work in a discount Chinese coal mine while the younger grew up to be frighteningly ugly.


The End

‘Like hell it is.’

‘Does this mean we can put the dog down now?’


This story originally appeared in Southerly volume 68 No.2.


                W                 	   EEEEEE
               	                            EEEEEEW                      W
      			W           WWWWWWWW        W

If you’re reading this then I win. Do it Scott; no backing out now – we looked each other in the eye and shook. I know you only agreed to the bet because you were sure – I mean totally convinced – that you’d win. Well guess what Scottie boy, your prose is ezod on. And that’s the way I’m going to beat you and get this published, by being a bit Zany and imaginative – publishers love that shit. Words written backwards have the opposite meanings.

You’re a great writer. The class agrees. That’s not sarcasm. Sarcasm would be_you’re_a_great_writer. I mean it, you write the bejesus out of those sentences. Those guys are streamlined and drop-forged and bought up in cages. They’re like supermodels: great to look at, absolutely no body fat. When they move people admire their lovely lines and sculpted cheek bones. But they’re vacuous. Everyone claps while they are on the catwalk but later, in their homes, the audience nurses vague irritation while the models spew up their anti-depressives. Hello? Are you there? I_love_your_writing_and_want_to_see_ you_again_soon.


I know what you are doing right now. You’re reading this, scowling a little and tugging on your lower lip. And that means, you think this is really doog. Maybe you’re marking it up on the page with your esoteric editorial symbols. Too many adverbs, you always wrote on my work, cut down 40–50%. Sometimes you just put a lazy slash through the whole page.

Well drop the pen, Scott, the course is over. After two years of study the unemployment rate creeps up marginally. No for you obviously, you’ll go on to great things, drifting around the world beneath a head like a hot air balloon. Sure I can sling a few sentences together; even use a semi-colon or two, but I’m no writer. You use words like pellucid and roil and exculpate without the faintest awkwardness that comes from a lexicon source book. I can’t do all that shit you do, you know, story arcs, characters A + B’s profound interactions leading to a transformative nexus. A snappy opening and a resonantly ambiguous ending. That was nice, let’s have another cup of tea. Oh_how_interesting.

I don’t care what you, the teacher, or the class says: I’d rather follow the erratic stalkings of my own brain


                                             (  .)  ( .)  


 I know I’m wrong, but I can’t help it. Your level of control throttles the life out of words, leaving pages of corpses like lines of mangled ants. Honestly, I don’t have the patience. Did I hsiw I.

You sigh and complain you’ve been working on your book for two-and-a-half years. Two-and-a-half years! You’re not a writer you are a construction worker. Some imagination might bring those ants back to life, get them dancing across the page. You_can_do_it!

The bet was to see who could get a short story published here first. You smiled your self-satisfied smile, said you had a few things they might be interested in. You never realised how much I wanted to slap that look off your face. To see a bright bloom on your pale cheek. To replace that look of unshakeable confidence with anything, even if it was just surprise. Well I guess I’ve finally done it.

It was sickening how they all desipsed you in class. The teacher practically took notes of your proclamations. And of course you look like an American soap star, so our broody female classmates lay back and received your wisdom like aural insemination. I had to bite my tongue and stay my hand. Receive your red biro over my work with a grateful nod. I’m sure you were under the impression I idolised and admired you too. That this bet was just a way of prolonging our interaction after the course finished.

            Well a bet’s a bet Scott, and you lose.


Editor’s note: Scott O’Grady’s short story Timelines appeared in Etchings 7. His debut novel, Awakenings, is out with Allen&Unwin in December.



This story was originally published in Etchings 8.


He sits alone with

laugher like sarcasm

and music like insults,

one hand raised

for a beer.


Under fluorescent light

the dregs of coffee

dry hard;

a thousand papercuts

can kill.


She folds her clothes

like origami,

eyes down,

while he waits

on the bed.

Diary of a Stupid Animal


Twelve Earl Street fits the bill. No obvious alarm. A freshly painted weatherboard on a quiet, prosperous street. In my limited experience, cleanliness is next to wealthiness.

I ring the bell and listen for footsteps, straightening and preparing my South-East Water charade. Just to let you know we’re doing some work in the next street. Your water supply might be affected for a minute or two…With my fluoro vest and faded boiler suit I look the part.

No one home. I hurry back down the street. Once I’m around the corner I cram my vest into a pocket that also holds my screwdriver. What scares me is how calm I’ve become. I’m so adept at ignoring reality that I no longer see it. Most of my life is background babble, a black and white TV playing at the margin of my vision. It’s only when I’m with the Queen that I come alive.

The bluestones in the alley are as uneven as a river bed. There are the usual sodden leaves, cat shit and decaying fruit. The rear of number twelve has an eye-height wooden fence, weathered the colour of old roast beef. I haul myself over the top and drop awkwardly into the backyard.

I crouch and hold my breath. For a moment I get a glimpse of reality and I’m scared—I’m scared of getting caught, I’m scared of Joel, but most of all I’m scared of being stopped just before it all comes good. All I want to do is to put everything right, to be normal once more. My luck has to change soon.

The yard is paved with red bricks. A teak table and chairs glow in the afternoon sun. Terracotta pots of oregano and basil are arranged along the base of floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the yard. Through the windows I see the benches and slate floor of a kitchen. No movement.

I scuttle across to the backdoor and flick through my keys…or Tim’s keys, really. He collected them as a kid, buying them at fetes and begging old ones off neighbours. He liked skeleton keys the best—the name as much as anything—but he had plenty of old house keys, too. Tim left them behind when he moved out with his mother. He’s only fifteen, but he vowed never to speak to me again after he found out about his savings account. He didn’t understand that it was just a loan, that I’m going to pay him back. That I’m going to pay everyone back. All I need is for the reels to line up right. I’m overdue, long overdue.

I insert a key into the lock then pull it out a little. I turn the key a few degreesand tap the back of it with the handle of the screwdriver. Nothing. I slacken the pressure slightly and tap the key again. This time the lock turns with a smooth brassy ride.

It’s amazing what’s on the internet these days. I learned to break into houses from a YouTube video that taught ‘bumping’. You file down a key at the points where the lock’s tumblers contact and, with the right jolt and a lot of practice, you can unlock nearly any door.

I don’t waste time in the kitchen, just scan the benches for wallets or cash. There’s only a bowl of coins, mostly twenties and tens. I scoop them into my pockets anyway, snacks to feed the Queen.

Thinking of the Queen gives me courage. The first time I played her I was with friends after work. Friday night, a couple of beers and $20 for a flutter. It was fun, it was more than fun, it was exciting and all my problems just dropped away. I won $80 that first night, and after that I was back every Friday. I craved the Superman lift to elation when I won and dreaded the tunnelling hunger of another loss.

After six months, when my friends started meeting elsewhere, I went to the club alone. Not long after I started going twice a week, then three times, finally every day. After they caught me going through my workmates’ bags, I could spend all day there. My longest session so far has been thirty-six hours: the bank gave me a fifteen thousand dollar loan for a second-hand car that didn’t exist.

My friends don’t call any more, but my passion for the Queen remains undiminished. All I need is a little luck and everything will be all right.

Joel would probably pay well for the fifty-inch plasma TV in the lounge, but it’s too large to carry. The stereo is more likely, a mini-system, Sony. Joel pays fifty cents per CD.

Joel was the guy always hanging around the club sipping whisky and chatting with the staff. He was friendly while lending me money, but became a different person when he demanded repayment, emphasising his words by slamming my head against a wall. Joel was the one that suggested how I could make some quick cash, identifying likely suburbs, the best times of the day. Depending on his mood he either gives me a pittance for the goods, or else nothing at all, just subtracting a few dollars from the twenty-seven thousand I owe him. Joel is the devil with a flick knife. Some days I think my best option is to deliberately provoke him into using it.

In the bedroom there’s a photo of a young couple, grinning into the sunlight, heads pressed together, eyes shining and teeth bright. My wife says I’m a disgrace. In the past three years she’s moved from surprise, to concern, to anger, to despair, to her parent’s place in Rowville. The divorce papers are with her lawyer. Her new phone number is unlisted.

In the study I find a laptop. On a good day Joel might pay a hundred dollars for one with a DVD player and wifi. I shove it into a sports bag I find on the floor. On a shelf I find a Nikon digital SLR. The last I heard, Tim was learning photography at school. I imagine presenting him with the camera, his delighted smile, his grateful hug. There are so many reasons that this will never happen I don’t have time to think of them all. Tears come to my eyes as I thrust the camera deep into the bag.

This time I’ll use the money to pay a few bills and buy food. But already I hear the Queen’s hypnotic theme music and see her coloured lights…three pyramids wins fifteen free spins, all payouts tripled.

I bag an iPod, a scanner and three electric guitar pedals before returning to the lounge for the stereo and CDs. I hurry through the kitchen and into the backyard, closing the door behind me.

Joel will be waiting in his usual lair, but the weight of the coins pulls at my pockets. Hope is a stupid animal that refuses to die.


This story was first published in 21D magazine. Those dudes were so mean contributors not only didn’t get paid, they didn’t even get a complimentary copy. Ouch!

A for Australia, A for Alive

Often I remember the whistling, soft at first like a forest bird, then getting louder with a sound like breaking branches. When the mortars found their range the earth shook and the thatched huts burnt like flares. Women were screaming, parents were calling for their children, bullets stung through the air like angry wasps. People were running everywhere. I went to my parents’ hut but they weren’t there. I ran to the edge of the village and hid in the tall grasses like my father had told me. Their sharp leaves cut my bare knees as groups of djellabas ran passed. The shooting lasted two hours. We had no guns. We were farmers with our cows, millet and maize.

At dawn our huts were smoking black rings on the red dirt. The cattle, goats and chickens were gone. Only the bodies of the people remained, sprawled where they fell. Some black rings enclosed piles of ashes and bone; people trapped in their hut and burnt alive. The bodies of men floated in the river, arms tied, hacked with machetes to save bullets.

I found my parents near the luaak, the cattle enclosure, either side of my youngest brother, the three of them in a row, limbs twisted, fingers clutching the earth.

I tried to dig a grave with a stick but it was February and the ground was too hard. I found some half burnt thatch and covered them the best I could. I was eight years old.

A few other villagers survived the attack. Deng, a friend who lived two huts from ours, and Benson, a man who was respected for owning many cows and who had seven traditional scars on his forehead. Benson told us we had to leave. We had to walk east towards the border.

I didn’t want to leave. I wanted to wait for my brothers and sisters to return. I was sure they had been hiding like me.

Benson told me he had seen my oldest brother, Benjamin, hiding in the forest the night before. Benjamin told him to tell everyone to meet him at the border.

We ran towards the dawn, ducking into the tall grass whenever we heard a noise ahead.


When I first saw Australia from the plane it was just before dawn and I marvelled at all the cooking fires. It wasn’t until we were driving past closed factories and shops that I realised they were electric lights and that Australia was a country that could afford to light up places where no people lived. I remember thinking how strange it was that some people could have too much and others too little.

The former immigration minister said that Sudanese have trouble integrating. He said we don’t fit into the Australian way of life quickly. That was why he halved the number of Sudanese refugees allowed into this beautiful country. Maybe the immigration minister is correct in saying we have problems integrating. I am six foot seven and very, very black.


Some of the djellebas were black, others lighter skinned. Many times we hid in tall grass as they ran passed. Occasionally there was the sound of gunfire, which grew more distant as we ran away from our smouldering village. My feet were bloody from sharp leaves and roots. After several hours Deng fell and started crying for his parents but Benson told him to get up and have the courage of a Dinka.

Deng got up and kept running. He had nothing, not even a pair of shorts like me.

There was many times on that trek through Sudan when I thought we would die. I thought God had turned way from us, and kept looking away, as if waiting for every last boy to die. There were many boys heading to the border from villages like mine. Sometimes big aircraft flew overhead and dropped bombs on us. It was dry season and there was little food or water. Sometimes all we had to eat was mud. It filled your stomach and gave a little water but many died anyway.

We referred to it as ‘falling over’. A person would die mid-step. We left them where they fell, we had no choice – we were dead too, but still walking. Most died from dehydration. They went grey like ash, then almost white.

Nobody had enough tears to cry. There were piles of bones under the shade of trees where people had laid down and never got up. That became another term for death. To ‘sit in the shade’. Some boys who made their way to the border said they had followed the piles of bones.

After two months Deng died. It was probably from lack of water, although he had also been bitten by a snake.

There were so many people fleeing the fighting that villages sometimes shamed themselves by refusing to share what food and water they had.

They didn’t believe that the war would come for them too.


On my first day in Australia I was taken to a supermarket. The aisles were as wide as roads and lined with thousands of things in colourful packaging. I was asked what I would like to eat but there was nothing there I recognised as food. When I saw some eggs I was very relieved. I asked for some milk too and they bought me several litres. The supermarket had beef in white trays covered with clear plastic but I didn’t like the look of that beef and said I didn’t want any.

In truth there is a great variety of food in Australia but much of it smells and tastes strange. Even your milk is not the same as our rich, creamy Sudanese milk. As a boy, tending the cows, I used to squirt it straight in my mouth.


When we arrived at the Kakuma camp in Kenya we were just hips and heads. I looked for my brothers and sisters but they were not there.

Later, when I finally saw a map of Sudan, I saw we had walked 800 kilometres pursued by bullets, bombs, hunger, thirst, wild animals and disease. Maybe God was watching us after all because nobody should have survived that walk.

Kakuma was just a bare paddock and a few thorny achuil trees. There was no running water, no toilets or shelter from the sun. We made shelters from branches, plastic bags and grass, but the red dust still got into everything, into our eyes, mouths and the little food we found. The dust was so thick that later, when a car finally came to the camp, it had to drive with its headlights on even during the day. But it didn’t matter; we were safe. When the UN dug a well it was the best water I had ever tasted.

I was in the camp for ten years. At the start it was very hard and we were hungry all the time, but slowly things improved as we organised the camp into zones and formed committees to improve facilities. It was in Kakuma that I attended my first ever class under the shade of an achuil tree. I traced English letters in the red dust with my finger. The first letter was ‘A’. ‘A’ for Australia. ‘A’ for alive.


When I arrived in Australia I found a job loading boxes onto pallets. The boxes were very heavy but I didn’t mind. When that job finished at five p.m. I changed my clothes, ate my dinner then started to work as a security guard. Security was a good job as when it was quiet I could study English. It was a very hard schedule and I usually only had four or five hours sleep a night, but I didn’t mind.

All the money I saved I sent back to the camp, to Benson, to the friends I’d made. I remembered the lessons of the elders, of Benson. Don’t forget.


Now I am an Australian citizen and love this country – its peace and freedom – very much. But maybe some people still think I am having trouble integrating. I am still six foot seven and very, very black.

I haven’t forgotten. Sometimes at night I still dream about herding the gentle cows of Dinkaland.


This story was first published in ‘Caught in the Breeze, Blemish Books, 2010. It was inspired by the research I was doing for a Sudanese character in my now defunct novel. My background reading includedThey Poured Fire on Us From the Sky by Alephonsion Deng, Benson Deng, Benjamin Ajak and Judy Bernstein; and God grew Tired of us by John Bul Dau and Michael S. Sweeney.

Hello Earthlings

Welcome to my new blog. This site will become the on-line repository for my published short stories and travel articles. I think it will be a considerable step up from the current cardboard box in the shed.

I plan to blog and post furiously, become slowly distracted by other things, post less and eventually disappear from the online world when I don’t pay the host provider. The classic modern story arc.

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