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Nonfiction Yves Rees Nonfiction Yves Rees

Blokes throwing bouquets – by Yves Rees

From at least the 1890s until the 1980s, from Perth to Launceston, Noosa to the Adelaide Hills, Melbourne to Rockhampton, respectable men and women decided to swap clothes and get pretend-hitched. Although sometimes staged as a private party, the mock wedding was typically a public event, a participatory mass ritual that often doubled as a community fundraiser.

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Fiction Jacob Murray Fiction Jacob Murray

No stopping – by Jacob Murray

Paulie was on his second book deal already, and you hated that fact, Paulie doing better than you as a writer, Paulie, come on, PLEASE, Paulie wrote like McCarthy and McCarthy wrote like Faulkner and reading Faulkner was like watching grass grow even if you smoked some meth beforehand, holy canNOLI

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Nonfiction Caroline Lenette Nonfiction Caroline Lenette

On track – by Caroline Lenette

Figuring out the horses’ personalities is fun. I get along with some of them from day dot – I even have a couple of favourites. The gentle ones rest their muzzles on my shoulder while I clean their stalls, requesting a tickle. Ebony likes to grab my jacket zipper with her teeth and pull it up and down until I cackle.

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Poetry MRS K Poetry MRS K

Melopeia – mellifluous Melos and the madness of melons – by MRS K

When the Library of Alexandria was burnt down around the year 642 CE, the world lost centuries upon centuries of poetry. While some texts were preserved (those that were copied time and time again as a testament to their beauty and aesthetic sensibility), many others were lost. Surely, this text ought to have fallen victim to the ravages of time…

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Poetry Sarah Temporal Poetry Sarah Temporal

How it happens – by Sarah Temporal

We paint yellow sample colours on the wall

and bam: there’s four patches of potential sun

and no dull white left in the garage to fix it,

and we haven’t said for sure we want to paint

this room—that’s how it happens.

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Nonfiction Lana Guineay Nonfiction Lana Guineay

Terminal length – by Lana Guineay

The oldest known sentence written in the earliest alphabet is a hair spell. A Bronze Age ivory comb was unearthed in 2017 in Lachish, a Canaanite city of the second millennium BCE (roughly 1700–1500 BCE). The inscription reads: ‘May this tusk root out the lice of the hair and the beard’.

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Poetry Gayelene Carbis Poetry Gayelene Carbis

Divinations – by Gayelene Carbis

I had this fall in the street and fell to the ground like flour.
After that I became very frail, as if I was old, unsteady on my feet.
Suddenly I was less vital – as if my normal organs could only function
if I was whole, complete; as if there is something unfinished about …

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Nonfiction Cherry Zheng Nonfiction Cherry Zheng

Fucking with Chineseness – by Cherry Zheng

WINNER OF THE 2024 ISLAND NONFICTION PRIZE

Growing up, my Mandarin was strained through a provincial Cantonese accent and cobbled together by English grammar patterns. It was not enough to understand Chinese song lyrics or the quickfire colloquialisms of international students. It was never enough to win an argument against my parents. That’s why I majored in Chinese at university. I was surprised to find it was a popular language. I couldn’t fathom why the non-Chinese were there.

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Fiction Franklin Barker Fiction Franklin Barker

The manual for egress – by Franklin Barker

The manual for egress was their bible, written some hundred years before by Dr Osram – the worst of the magicians and a man they worshipped. After long nights at the Bistro Eileen or the Club Marguerite they would drunkenly quote at one another in unlit parks occupied only by tramps.

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Fiction Konstantinos Skrepetos Fiction Konstantinos Skrepetos

Killing time – by Konstantinos Skrepetos

Cyrus was surprised to see Andy from HR sitting in the meeting room. ‘Sorry, mate – I’ll wait outside,’ Cyrus said. ‘No, no, come in,’ Andy said. ‘Laura asked me to sit in today to ensure your transition back to the office is as smooth as possible. We care – you know our core value: “people are at the heart of everything we do”.’

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Fiction Amelia Warman Fiction Amelia Warman

Foos Yer Doos? – by Amelia Warman

I felt swallowed by the shimmering granite walls, lost in the surging throng. An intruder in a city still recovering from a blizzard I had narrowly missed. Maybe that was why everyone else seemed so eager. The people on the streets and in cars alike had been trapped inside for days and were now finally bursting back into their lives.

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Fiction Benjamin Wong Fiction Benjamin Wong

Old growth – by Benjamin Wong

I can’t stay here any longer, and I know Mum can’t either. She will have to wander her mindscape looking for sanctuary, leaving a trail of ephemeral daisies behind her on whatever ground her feet might grace with their touch. The clouds spiral about Ah Gong’s head, the winds hasten, and the spreading darkness threatens the starlight. I could jump out of Mum’s mind as a last resort, but I need to look for her while the night is young. I must make for the old-growth forest.

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