Enter your email address:

Delivered by FeedBurner

Tiggy Johnson
Tiggy Johnson is a Melbourne writer of fiction and poetry, some of which can be found in Cordite, Blue Dog, Island, paper wasp, kipple, Verandah and on Melbourne (Connex) trains as part of the Moving Galleries exhibition. She was awarded 2nd prize in the Herald-Sun Short Story Competition 2004. Her short story collection Svetlana or otherwise was published in 2008 and her poetry collection First taste in 2010.

She is the editor/publisher of the annual literary journal page seventeen, which she co-founded in 2004.

Tiggy can be found at:

Words in progress
Page Seventeen

Read more from Tiggy at:

Moving Galleries

by Tiggy Johnson

I imagine walking through the doorway
will be like visiting
my stillborn niece
only you
are still alive
and lucid

but it isn’t.

I focus on the baby
who’s too young to form a single lasting image
but old enough to visit a stranger’s ward
or to pull at one of the cords affording you life.
I listen for my other children
knowing my eldest won’t speak
and hoping my daughter
who’s just turned four
doesn’t say Are you dying Pa?
or ask why
   or when.

We don’t stay long
you’re too tired to say more than thanks
to the kids
for their homemade birthday cards
and the cupcakes
you won’t touch.

I’d rather remember my previous visit
wondering how ill you were
as you shared your discomfit
as easily as we’d argued
about how to boil rice.
Disgruntled with the chair
detesting the bed
you asked me to retell stories of our recent times
eased your head against a pillow
closed your eyes
and soaked in your pride.

Published in The Diamond & the Thief - July 10

It’s Like…
By Tiggy Johnson

the morning after a night of Sambuca shots, Strongbow Draught and the house white you couldn’t tolerate earlier. You roll around in bed, on the couch, the floor, searching for that magic position where you might avoid spewing like a retarded water feature. Or sleep, hopefully, for the rest of the day, two maybe, until you can hold down a mouthful of water. But the best you can manage is to try not to move, because, if you achieve that, even for a moment, there may be relief. Until your mind returns and you almost wish you could vomit – again – your hungover logic suggesting you’ll feel better.
      But it’s not really like that.
      Because you’ve been there before and you know that far from being gone tomorrow, it will be worse. And more so the day after, and the day after that, and so on for the next seven weeks, because you just found out. And when you think you couldn’t possibly get through another day, and you’re waiting for death, because it has to be better than how you’re feeling
      of every
and you can no longer imagine what it ever felt like to not have your head over a toilet bowl – it disappears completely, as if you imagined it all along.

Published in The Diamond & the Thief - June 10