Publication History 2010-26 (Oct)

 

PUBLICATION History - Oct 2026                                                             Total 114

Pavle Radonić

 

 

 

 

 

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“D’Afrique” - Wet Ink March 2010 (AU)

“Grattan Street” - #23 Wet Ink 2011

“The Romance Influence” - #23 Wet Ink 2011

“Rise & Shine” - Southerly Literary Journal Vol. 71, No. 1, 2011 (AU)

“Ibrahim & Ismail” - Antigonish Literary Review #187 2011 (Canada)

“Cunnamulla” - Time To Write NMIT Journal annual 2013 (AU)

“Street Shoot” - Ambit Magazine #221 2015 (UK)

“The Biggest Name of Them All” - Aethlon Literary Sports Journal Vol. 33/1 (US)

“Southernmost Point” - Contemporary Literary Review India (2016 annual)

“Wife No. 2” - Gargouille #6 Winter 2017 (AU)

“Southernmost Point: Jalan Jalan Johor Bahru” - Think City June 2017 (Malaysia)

“Weddings & Devotions” - Orbis #180 Summer 2017 (UK)

“The Volcano” - Linnet’s Wings July 2018 (Ireland)

“Arthur’s Meteorology”, “Chinese Marriage Market” & “Cunnamulla” - Idiom #23 (AU)

“Billboard” - The Anti-Languorous Project Sept 2018 (Canada)

“Gauguin Again” - Orca Literary Journal #1 2019 (US)

“Fighters” - In Parentheses - Oct 2019 Print/PDF (US)

“The Ukraine Again” - The Tulane Review, Fall 2019 (US)

“The Stocks”  - Genre Urban Arts #9 Dec 2019 (US)

“Serious Child’s Play" & "The Sandpit" - Anti-Langourous Project #6 Winter 2020 (CN)

“Nonno” - Nine Cloud Journal #2 June 2021 (US)

“Lonely As a Cloud” - Post Road Magazine #45 (US) Aug26

“In the Public Interest” - Denver Quarterly (US) July26 

 

 

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Digital

 

“Ancient China: Post-(Almost) LKY Singapore” - Cha Lit. Journal Dec2013 (HK)

“Owner-Builder” - Post Magazine Feb 2014  (AU)m

“Small Wonders” - Eastlit. Magazine Nov. 2014 (Thailand)

“Year of the Goat” - Big Bridge #18, July 2015  (US)

“Favourite Indian” - The Literary Yard April 2016  (India)

“Sequestered” - Pendulum Papers July 2016 (AU)

“Dessert: Payassam” - The Literary Yard Sept 2016  (India)

“Hindu Jazz” - Criterion Literary Review India Mar2017

“Wasted Kiss” - Citron Review April 2017  (US)

“On the Horn” - Pendulum Papers Dec 2017 (AU)

 

 

“Burung - Bird” - Entropy Feb 2018 (US); re-issued Literary Veganism June23 (US)

“Singapore 3” - Rambutan #5 (SE Asia)

“The Laboratory” - Map Literary March 2018 (US)

“The Minangkabau” - Bitterzoet Dec 2018 (US)

“Sumptuous Naan & Puthena” - The Literary Yard Jan 2019 (India)

“Game On” - Paragon Literary Journal #16 2019 (US)

“Nano 5” - Public House July 2019 (UK)

“Bread & Circus” -  San Antonio Review Aug 2019 (US)

“Murder at the Haig” - Open: Journal of Arts & Letters 2019 anthology (US)

“Batavia & Bandung” - La Piccioletta Barca #11 Sept 2019 (UK)

 

 

“Sparkling Form” - Modern Literature April 2020 (India)

“Subversive Farming” - Wild Roof Journal #2 April 2020 (US)

“Anonymous” - Panoplyzine #15 May 2020 (US)

“Crisis Central” - The Blue Nib May 2020 (Ireland)

“Recusant” - New World Writing July 2020 (US)

“Skydiving” - New World Writing Ditto

“Storm” - Of Zoos July 2020 (SG)

“Strange Fruit (Singapore)” - New World Writing July 2020 (US)

“Smooching Like There Was No Tomorrow” - Ditto

“Threesome” - NWW Aug 2020

 

 

"Merciless" - Ditto

“Billboards Up To the Sky” - NWW Sept 2020 (US)

“Prayer, Rage, Meditation” - Ditto

"Letter From the East" - Ditto

"Jakarta 1440H" - NWW Oct 2020

“The Heirs” & “The Whip Hand” - Ginosko Literary Journal #25 - Fall 2020 (US)

"Johor Bahru Old Town" - Midway Journal #14/No.4 Oct 2020 (US)

"The Hearth (Montenegro)" - New World Writing Oct 2020

“ ‘Tis the Season “ - NWW Dec 2020

“Up & Down the Tube” - Fleas On the Dog Mar 2021 (CN)

 

 

“Blue” - Sunspot Lit - March 2021 (US)

“Code Red” - New World Writing July 2021

“Blue // Riverbank” - Impermanent Earth July 2021 (US)

 “Stash” - Aletheia Literary Quarterly Oct 21 (AU)

“One Piece Dragon” - New World Writing Oct 21 (US)

“Babi - Pork (Crime & Punishment)” - Of Zoos Dec 21 (SG)

“Land of Brothers” - New World Writing Feb 22 (US)

“ Unfathomable “ - Citron Review Mar 22 (US)

"Scenes In & Around A Guardhouse" and "Bomb" - Defunkt Mag #10 - Spring 22 (US)

“Wife No. 2” & “Four Short Pieces” - NWW Quarterly - July22

 

 

“Visiting the Zen Man Al” - Pendulum Papers Aug22 (AU)

“Harping On” & “Leaping Ahead” poems - Another Chicago Magazine Aug22 

“Weather Report (SG)” – Literary Veganism - Sept22 (US)

“Slowcoaches (The Montenegrins)” - Bosphorus Review of Books - Nov22 

“Turned Eye” - Orca Lit Journal #12 - Dec 22 (US)

“Heavenly Bash” - Impermanent Earth - Dec22 (US)

“For Pity’s Sake” - Literary Veganism - Dec 22

“Crisis Central” - NWW Quarterly - Jan23 (re-issue)

“Voided ” - Sunflowers at Midnight - Feb23 (US)

“Blind Terror” - Panoply - May 23 (US)

 

 

“These I Commend To Thee” - NWW Quarterly - July23

 “Murder, War & the Dead” - The Wrath-Bearing Tree (US) - Aug 23

“The Malay Archipelago In Short” - NWWQ - Oct23 (US)

“Bystand” & “Soho in Singapore” - Of Zoos - Jan24 (SG)

“The Heart of the Matter” - QU Lit Mag #19 - Winter24 (US)

“Minus 41 & 35k Feet” - Airplane Reading Feb24 (US)

“Soekarno-Hatta Hanging - Airplane Reading April24 (US)

“ Out of the Wilds (Dayak)” - SuperPresent #4 No. 3 - June24 (US)

“On the Street (Linda)” - NWW - July24

“Practice Makes Perfect” - Airplane Reading - Aug24 (US)

 

 

“Solo” - New World Writing” - Oct24 (US)

“The Deaf’s Ma” - Panoply - Jan25 (US)

“Attention!” - Airplane Reading - Mar25 (US)

“The Two Alis” - Hobart - March25 (US)

“Class - Komala Vilas - Literary Yard - May25 (India)

“The Spheres” - Sagebrush Review (US) May25

“Stumblin’, Bumblin’ Bad” - Vine Leaves Press (Greece/AU) Sept25

“A Spot of Window-Shopping - Hindsight Journal (US) Nov25

“ Bunga Rampai” - Plants & Poetry Journal (US) Jan26

“The World’s Faire” - Action, Spectacle (US) [delayed due to editor illness, scheduled 30 Sept]

“Johor Bahru (Intro)” - Eksentrika (ML) Feb26

“Salute! (Tekka Market)” - Modern Literature (Ind.) Mar26

“Soaring” - Airplane Reading (US) June26

“Gettin’ On” - Blood+Honey (US) June26

“The Sound of Music” - Packingtown Review #25 (US) Spring June26

“Woebegone (Widow Shark)” - The Words Faire (US) Aug26

“Variety Night” - New Bloom Mag (Taiwan) Aug26

“Some Enchanted Evenings” - Crab Creek Review (US) Aug26 

 “Lord Shiva in Singapore” - Hooghly Rev. (India) Sept26 

“Buccaneers & Pirates - Penned In Rage (UK) Oct26

“Cave Man” - Patrika Aranyak (India) Oct26

                                                                                                                                    91

 

 

 

 

 

 Accepted / Scheduled / Cancelled

Pushcart Prize nomination: Penned In Rage - Buccaneers & Pirates, Oct26

“Slovenian Slalom” excerpt - OfZoos #14 May26 - published

“St Vasil” - Story Sanctum Feb-Mar25 - publication offer, finally deciding to withdraw & try elsewhere

“Appetite” - BULL - July 2023 (US) — following the acceptance & after some Qs fr the editor, nada. Enquiries unanswered.

“Bereft’ - The BeZine Nov23 (US & Israel) — accepted; given subsequent events in Israel easy to understand the publication folding. 

“Inheritance” - River Styx - Aug24 (US) — some kind of foul up at the RS desk, the fiction editor departing, which resulted in an abrupt notice of cancellation. Contract signed & various preparations earlier. Disappointing.

 Nano / Pico - Six Word Memoir (US) Dec25 published: How to take back those kisses?

 

 

 

 

 

NB. 1. D’Afrique underwent some regrettable hashing in the hands of an intern at Wet Ink, for which the editor subsequently apologised.

       2. Grattan Street & The Romance Influence were both shortlisted for the annual Wet Ink fiction prize. 

       3. Cunnamulla underwent another and much worse butchering at the hands of a writing class at NMIT – North Melb. Institute of Technology – a writing & publishing, tertiary-level outfit, supervised by instructors, all without any consultation.

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Quiet Don (Тихий Дон) - Mihail Sholokhov

The second volume of the Sholokhov had been bought about forty-five years before and left on the shelf until a friend’s enthusiastic mention of the book. After at first misguidedly embarking on a reading wrong-way-round, the first volume was eventually found. In the English translation the original Тихий Дон (The Quiet Don) becomes And Quiet Flows the Don, followed by the second part, The Don Flows Home To the Sea (600 & 800 pages respectively).

The first fifty pages of the second volume immediately excited, mostly for the evocative sense of place and the strong Slavic flavouring. Tolstoy, Chekhov, Dostoyevsky and Pasternak had not read so thoroughly Slav as Sholokhov in this great historical saga. These Cossacks on their steppe by the river that iced up over winter and slowly cracked open in the spring had a contempt for peasantry who lived without horses and knew only well water. Nonetheless, there was more than enough life in common, even with the Southern Slav kin in the mountains sloping down to the Adriatic.

At the time of the revolution father Lazar was a boy; when the Whites were defeated and Denikin had fled Russia he had become a teenager. Third son, fourth or fifth child of the old patriarch Pavle. In those early teen years he would lose two of the fingers of his right hand to munitions from WWI that were strewn over the hills. Eldest brother Jovan would make a pilgrimage to the statue of Gavrilo Princip in Sarajevo and at the end of 1953 Bab would take the train from Zelenika up to Sarajevo, the roundabout and only way to get up to the capital for the train to Greece, boarding at Piraeus for Melbourne. Jovan and Lazar had travelled six years earlier: Naples - Port Said - Melbourne.

The Russian émigré Natalia Borovska had taught Bab in the first grade in the village school, where children brought firewood to class in the morning. Sholokhov mentions Serbia as one of the refuges for the fleeing White Russians.

In this reading there was continual re-translating from the lame English back into what could be confidently guessed as the original. 

“…I’m foreign to them from my head to my heel…” / od glave do pete. One of Babi’s common trophes. (“Maturity and good sense needs a long trip from the heel to the head.”)

“Where am I to find her? … I can’t give birth to her” / ne mogu je rodit… (What do you expect, me to birth it?!)

“I don’t know when your telling stories (lies almost certainly) and when you’re telling the truth” / Neznase kad lazes a kad istinu govoris… (By implication a lot of bulldust was being heard, Bab’s rasping note making that clear.)

When a character calls down a heavenly thunderbolt on an antagonist, it could only have been a nebelska strelja, heavenly spear in question. 

Terms of affection, terms of cursing and prayer in Sholokhov were perfectly familiar.

            Seemingly localised rusticity of Bab’s was here put into the rhetorical mouth of Gregor, the hero of the saga, at a public gathering: “We would all like the wolves to be full and the sheep whole, but…” (Siti vuci, cijela goveda; common in narrative, usually expressing temporary order and balance.) Some of our striking language on Village Uble was cultural inheritance from centuries past.

The old patriarch Pantaleimon, Gregor’s father, in his fit of uncontrollable rage (Vol. II, p. 526) brought to mind old Blagoje Todorov at Ivovici, the husband of incomparable Jelena, first cousin of Grandad Rade. Jelena knitting her husband a sweater was pressing him to try it on, to give his arm or shoulder for measure. It had been untimely; Blagoje was in a foul mood; something was not right. What does Blagoje do when his wife won’t be shaken off? What he does is take the knitting in hand, collect a pair of shears and cut the handiwork into little pieces. There you are then!...

Early in their marriage Pantaleimon had beaten his wife Ilicniya with his hard fists, like other women of Village Uble and of the period generally had been beaten. The husband of one of Lazar’s illicit lovers had been tied to a tree in front of their hut for her beating. Kurva Lazar Pavlova! / Whore of Lazar Pavlov.

Pantaleimon’s eldest son’s playfulness with a nephew would read as cruelty to a contemporary reader. Feeding the young boy sour milk the spoon finds the lad’s chin, cheek and forehead rather than mouth. Mach laughter resulting at the boy’s expense. In the same passage another episode has the lad asking permission to urinate close to the house. No, he must go further off. And then further too. No, further still again. Until to great mirth the boy does it in his pants. 

Nothing very exceptional in some forms of upbringing, where a little fun must be devised and cannot be resisted.

Sholokhov’s depiction of deep affection and love is of its own particular kind too, possibly reading rather lamely for some. It is delivered most tellingly in three or four lines in the last section of Volume 2, when Duria tells Aksinia of her brother Gregor’s expected return. Gregor’s wife, who was loved only dutifully, has died; the passionate illicit lover Aksinia has been caring for the children of that union. News of Gregor’s wounding and likely trial before a Soviet Commission, where even a death sentence is possible (despite his subsequent service with the Reds), none of that can prevent Aksinia’s smile at the word of his return. After hearing of it Aksinia escorts Dunia out of the “hut”—there are few houses in this period by the Don—and suddenly snatches up her hand and kisses it. Was she glad at the homecoming, the sister asks in a “broken tone”. Yes, just a little, only a very little, Aksinia answers, “trying to jest, to hide her tears behind a tremulous smile”.

The gruesome, brutal killing in Sholokhov carries echoes of Homer and Shakespeare.  Numerous passages make gruelling reading, the last near the end of the book delivering a particularly horrifying example. A Red has pleaded for his life; eventually he made a hopeless run for it and was shot and sabred. Presumed dead, as the body was beginning to be stripped of its jacket and eventually trousers, the killers find the man is in fact still lingering. The scene is brief, the kind of thing that film treatment hopelessly ruins; unfolded here on the page the horror of inhumanity seizes the brain. (749-51)

It turns out biographical evidence suggests Sholokhov was a ruthless Bolshevik, pitiless in his personal judgements. The pity he reserved for his writings.

 

 

Notation

Sitting by the radio during the war must have been something similar, premier dan in his pressers become a kind of Churchillian figure delivering the somber news and attempting to rally spirits. Many months now a routine recording of the daily totals had taken hold—infections, tests, ICUs & ventilators, all duly noted in the diary. Deaths had been rare here at least, a number of months ago the last. In the media Hiroshima Day had passed without a single mention; even before the virus it had been falling away. Finally the morning after The Progressive in the States duly carried a feature. A couple of days ago a young magpie had been observed up above the medical centre opposite the station, flinging itself against the dark glass of the window on the upper storey. The poor deluded bird launched itself repeatedly from the top of the balcony rail, again and again into the reflected trees and sky in the glass. A couple of trains had passed while the hopeless attempted flight continued. Not a bad metaphor. A few mornings ago a sudden episode of phantasmagloria resulted in a surprisingly strong spurt, which reached onto the middle of the chest and the rolled up tee. It had been quite some while since there had been anything remotely comparable. Fitting in this season of record-breaking feats in Tokyo.

Publication: “Blue // The Riverbank” - Impermanent Earth

 

Hello everyone

Hoping you are all managing in these tough times. Thinking of my Malaysian and Indonesian friends in a very bad situation up there.

Another publication to announce in the States. This piece brings together a recent previously published flash with another composed mid last year. Nature writing you might call it.

Here is the link, 750 words —

https://impermanentearth.com/archive/pavle-radonic/

Cheers & best wishes to all

P

Publication: “Code Red” - New World Writing

 

Hello everyone

Hoping this finds you all strong & well. Thinking particularly of Indo friends caught in the fierce grip of this latest Covid wave.

A publication to announce up in the States with New World Writing again. It’s been good to have found a kinda home with Frederick Barthelme and his crew.

This sequence brings together a couple of recent pieces penned this year in Melbourne, with an older flash from my corner up in Singapore.

Here is the link, 2,500 words —

https://newworldwriting.net/pavle-radonic-code-red/

All best to all

P

Ibrahim // Abraham

We are on the eve of Eid al Adha, aka Hari Raya Haji in Malaysia & Singapore, which commemorates the faith of the Prophet Ibrahim (Abraham).

In 2011 the ritual slaughter was still on public display in Singapore, where at a madrasa a short distance from Geylang Serai it had been witnessed. The following account was published in Canada by The Antigonish Review #187. (“Ibrahim and Ishmael”.) Posted again here for new readers.

Fifty or sixty sheep waiting within the muddy pen that had been improvised against the front fence of the Madrassa. They had arrived late last week, the Qantas flights resumed just in time. The sheep had come from Adelaide; the cheaper goats Perth. Soon after nine an expectant crowd had gathered. Near the side fence a plastic bucket of knives; plastic sheeting spread on the opposite side. The arrangement was clear. Hoses, large plastic bags and boxes, more knives on tables. Above what looked like a pit near the bucket a couple of rails had been laid—in fact it was a drain. The blood would not be collected; that was another kind of practice in northern climates. Two thirds of the meat was usually reserved for the poor, of whom as yet there was no sign. The slaughter was due to begin after the second prayer.
         There was no announcement, no officialdom or muezzin call. The burly young chap who had waited within the pen with the animals made the first move, taking down a sheep by the rear legs. Once the animal was on its side a helper grabbed the fore. It took a short while to unbar the improvised side gate. Three or four more animals were soon waiting in line, held down and quiet.
         The slaughtermen were older hands, unremarkable in the common dress. From an almost vertical position the long blade came down, a prompt and what seemed neat slit following the plunge. Almost like a hot knife in butter: the blade was very sharp. After a number of animals had been done a chap with a whetstone resharpened. Behind, the twitching of the animal's tail lagged a little after the knife. It was only almost an hour later and a score of beasts that the twitching on the pallets before the butchers was noticed. This was a shock. It was possible the second slaughterman was responsible for that; somehow he seemed less accomplished.
         The blood from the knife was wiped on the sheep each time, one side of the blade carefully after the other. It was an integral part of the proceeding. Each time the slaughterman did the same, the second man like the one before him. The remaining blood was washed from the blade by cupping water from another bucket; between times the rails were hosed. The ground throughout the forecourt of the Madrassa was muddy from the rain of past days. Adding further water would only have made the job more difficult.
         A group of men beside the drain raised prayers as the knife came down on each animal, singing a short, plaintive couple of verses that included the acknowledgement of God's greatness.
         — Allahu Akbar. Allahu Akbar.
         The voices were thin and minor key the same as the rest of the scene from one end of the forecourt to the other. It was very much a Brueghel canvas. In front of the chorus as if supervising a young woman stood with a sheet of paper. She had not been present from the beginning; the choir itself might not have been present initially. Various young men helped inside the pen and young boys of ten given a turn too, their laughter and high spirits allowed. After a number of animals had been skinned on the other side a chap produced an electric saw and proceeded to dismember with that. Three or four animals were hung at a time. On a table near the fence on the side of the butchering a man cleaned animal heads. Everyone knew their task without any kind of order or system apparent. This was a practiced communal event far from industrial slaughter.
         After something like a score of animals had been done, the first slaughterman was relieved. The second around the same age, somewhere in his early sixties, wore a black songkok. Once or twice his blade came down a second time after what must have been an imperfect cut of the jugular. At one point there was a clear spout of blood that shot well outside the drain. Possibly the impression of lesser surety was mistaken.
         The relieving of duty was unexpected. Was it the bending that had tired the first slaughterman so quickly? His role was confined to the knife only. The rails were sometimes hosed by him, sometimes by a bystander. So efficiently had the man worked the assumption had been that he might do the entire pen. When he was relieved more than half the animals remained. Somehow the second slaughterman broke the earlier smooth rhythm.
         In the contemporary Christian tradition it is the lamb of the manger that is remembered, if at all. For Jesus the shepherd there is the lamb and the flock—standing for the gentle meekness that has erased the radicalism of the prophet (as Christ is acknowledged in Islam). Abraham and Isaac have been long forgotten in the contemporary Western consciousness. In pockets of the U.S. it might be different.
         A significant number of applicants here were disappointed in not winning a place in the Saudi quota for the hajj. Some who cannot attend pay for an animal to be slaughtered in Mecca on their behalf. Prices of livestock have risen this year because of weather factors. The Straits Times reported $443 per head of Australian sheep and $395 goat — transport inclusive.


Wak Tanjong Katong Madrasah, Sims Avenue Singapore 

Flyweight

They basically don’t exist any more, in cities. Not Western cities at least. When was the last time you saw one? All gone the reverse, as if they had never been. Here the Indians and Chinese still provided examples; almost never the Malays. This lad casting his eye over the morning paper couldn’t be guessed at that level—possibly something like 40-45kg, perhaps. Like a busy and discerning newspaper reader at the breakfast table, the chap turned the pages scanning the headlines. To begin he had focused on the momentous political upheaval raging in the capital on page 1, following the large print with his fingers like a pianist. In his case like a virtuoso practising the notes in his head without actually touching the keys at first. Entirely mesmerised, one might think looking on. Certainly it was all wondrously dramatic; very difficult to make head or tail of the damn thing even for politico wise-guys. Finally here it was the large fluttering Malaysian flag that brought the finger tips onto the paper, man grinning broadly with it. That there with the sun and moon was a known he showed you. (After a thirty or forty years absence flags were again prominent everywhere.) A coloured picture, Ya, you thought. Then returning to the headline below this time he struck the table-top fortissimo, rapping loudly along the headline. Ta ta ta ta! How well he fitted in the world of Perumal  Murugan. Didn’t he light up too seeing the author brought up on the phone for him! Delighted at the surprise! Reading the name in English script what was more. That certainly was unexpected; a few minutes before the man had been underestimated…. Only three years working here. Highly unlikely he had received any English tuition where he came from in Tamil lands. Could he have sounded the name only after seeing the face below on the screen, despite what it had looked like? Perumal  Murugan. Perumal  Murugan…. Continuing to nag in the brain the though of the mass waiting to be encountered on the streets over there. There was nothing on earth to compare. The Chinese cities were something else. Lovely Lizzie from Beaumaris had told the story of landing as a young woman with her boyfriend in Bombay, as it was known at the time, and after the ride from the airport locking herself in the hotel room for a number of days, crying after what she had seen. That traveller tale beat all others for India. (Some younger professional Indians did not like to hear it: there was so much more to the country, they complained.)

NB. Since published by Midway Journal (US), #14/No.4 Oct 2020