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 Tracey Farren (1966 - ) is a full time writer and lives in False Bay with her teenage children, her partner and four large dogs. Farren has a psychology honours degree from the University of Cape Town. Before pursuing her full time writing ambitions, she worked as a freelance journalist for a few years, publishing in the South African newspapers and magazines. Her journalism during this time showed a marked interest in issues like child justice, prison conditions and prostitution.
Farren published several short stories in South African collections before writing her first novel, Whiplash. These include stories in the South African Short Story Review, Urban One, Urban Two, Nobody Ever Said Aids, Women Flashing and Writing the Self. She is currently working on her second novel entitled Snake in the Grass.
 Extract from Whiplash
New Year's day, a gull whacks into my window. They say birds bring messages from the dead. I dunno who sent it but I'm ironing my socks when it smacks into the glass. I nearly wet my pants, I get such a fright. Shame, poor bird lies on its side, feathers floating. I hope like hell it's dead. The South Easter blew it in. It hammers our building, chews on the paint. Spins off the South Pole and stays for days. It's turned the sea on its head, now it's blowing in birds. The gull gets up, tries to walk a straight line. Bang! Into the glass. I clench my fanny. I can't help it, it's an old habit. You told me Mom, keep your fanny closed, else the birds can fly in. You said it to stop me peeing in my pants. I'm still scared of thrashing wings and sudden thuds. Birds, and flying insects, if they come too close. The gull shuffles to the corner of the balcony and watches itself in the glass, its eyes that pale blue, like paraffin. I creep round inside the flat. Knock back five Syndol, eat a lump of cheese. Down some cold Coke. I check out the bird, scared he's gonna try again. He sits between the broken wheels of my swivel chair. The sun cranks up above the bottle store, lights the glass. He turns his back and waits, like he's waiting or an ambulance. I put water in the mayonnaise lid. Find a piece of pie in the bin, cut it up tiny. I creep out on my knees. Slide the stuff towards the gull. Chuck myself back in the flat. Bibliography 2008. Whiplash. (Modjaji Books). |
