This section publishes creative contributions mostly from currently and formerly incarcerated people. It includes short-stories, poetry, creative nonfiction, art, and much more.
If you have something creative to submit to us, we would love to read it, or see it, and publish it in About Time – please write to us!
Life is only short my son, with so many paths to take, life is an uphill struggle, with every step you make. That’s why you must treasure life, with every second of the day, because you may never know, when it’s your turn to go away.
I dream, and think, and feel from the opposite side of the city, in a cell of grey and steel, about our home – peaceful and pretty.
The outside on the inside, steals passion for fun. When arrows come from far and wide, facing the new shiny sun, with dignity. There are ribbons in the fire, and lives still painfully on hold. Beneath the folds of desire, the barred windows still remain cold indefinitely.
I’ve done almost 10 years in prison and I’m totally done with it now and can’t wait to be out away from this place.
Somebody’s Daughter Theatre Company (SDTC) began running art workshops with women at Fairlea Women’s Prison over forty years ago.
One cold and windy night, I laid upon my gaol bed, and as I closed my eyes, I heard a voice that said: “Please don’t be afraid, I wish to speak with you, maybe you will listen, to my words that are true.”
No one can see the shame and guilt, trapped behind these eyes. As I sit here in a prison cell, all due to a pack of lies.
Clean me of this damaged life and make it right. And I swear I will do whatever it takes to be a better man. I swear it.
My partner and I are both currently locked up down here in Tasmania. Your newspaper has been a huge hit in both the women's and the men's prisons, so I thought I'd send you something from both of us.
When in jail some don’t want to go home, it’s true. Hard to believe, so I will find out more for you. Are the dudes for real, or a screw loose in the head. They would rather stay in jail, than going home instead.
The voice is beautiful; my lungs fill with a relieved gasp. I expected a prison sentence. A feeling of chest tightening, breath weak, metal and voices. A life of strip searches and beatings.
The woman of my dreams; she isn’t there. The woman of my dreams; she doesn’t care. The woman of my dreams; she isn’t real. The woman of my dreams knows not how I feel.
Behind cement walls and razor wire, I can see a tall tree – swaying in the breeze it reminds me, the day I’ll be free. Then in come the birds from out of that tree, I watch these birds with envy and I wish it was me.
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