Basement – by Damen O’Brien
Poetry Damen O'Brien Poetry Damen O'Brien

Basement – by Damen O’Brien

A hatch left open where we played, so we descended  

into a subterranean place visited only by men in helmets  

and hi vis as though preparing to navigate a labyrinth…

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Jack and the Argonauts – by Grace Heathcote
Fiction Grace Heathcote Fiction Grace Heathcote

Jack and the Argonauts – by Grace Heathcote

Cars begin to queue near the boarding ramp, waiting for the ferry to arrive. Gulls perching atop the billboard shit on the artwork below. As the ferry slides into view, Jack sees a line of pedestrians form on its walkway, impatient to disembark.

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Irukandji Death Syndrome – by Tabitha Laffernis
Fiction Tabitha Laffernis Fiction Tabitha Laffernis

Irukandji Death Syndrome – by Tabitha Laffernis

I came up for air. And everything got worse.  

The water was crystalline, warm and salty as sweat.  

‘Happy honeymoon,’ the concierge had said when we arrived, smile pinging against a tan. His face took in nothing, betrayed nothing.  

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Habitat – by Rosalee Kiely
Nonfiction Rosalee Kiely Nonfiction Rosalee Kiely

Habitat – by Rosalee Kiely

I sit and watch the goings on at the kitchen bench. A person cuts bread for a sandwich and leaves the crumbs of wheat on the wooden board, leaves a cut orange. One day later, give or take, the orange is desiccated.

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Cute poem – by Toby Fitch
Nonfiction Toby Fitch Nonfiction Toby Fitch

Cute poem – by Toby Fitch

I know something that I wouldn’t mind seeing extinct, I told Evie and Tilda, who were cuddling up to me in bed, Pusheens! – those blimpy, expensive soft toy cats plonked haughtily in toy shops (basically high-end retail therapy for children)…

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Hellsite – by Jane O’Sullivan
Fiction Jane O'Sullivan Fiction Jane O'Sullivan

Hellsite – by Jane O’Sullivan

Eva fusses with the burner and when it doesn’t ignite, she gets the lighter and rasps it hard. The flames go up with a whoosh. Orange and blue. What colour is that, I wonder? Smauglust, maybe. Glimmertod. She sets down the frypan and I think the conversation must be over because she just stands there with her hand over the pan, feeling it warming up.

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La Moustache – by Howard McKenzie-Murray
Fiction Howard McKenzie-Murray Fiction Howard McKenzie-Murray

La Moustache – by Howard McKenzie-Murray

Although the babysitter hadn’t budged on the sunlounge in 30 minutes, a singularly shitty mood radiated visibly off her. She lay supine by the pool way beyond Cancer Council recommendations under a double coat of SPF 50+. 

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Life Span – by Fiona Reilly
Nonfiction Fiona Reilly Nonfiction Fiona Reilly

Life Span – by Fiona Reilly

Every night, broad wings of black, brown and silver fluttered against my windows, drawn by the kitchen lights. Hundreds of moths scattered across the glass, forming a dark floral pattern against the inky backdrop of the night sky.

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333532 – by Ouyang Yu
Fiction Ouyang Yu Fiction Ouyang Yu

333532 – by Ouyang Yu

When a writer is reaching his year of never-never, do you know what goes through his mind on a daily basis? Even after he has lived for more than thirty years in a country that is a cultural, linguistic, political, philosophical, poetical and pathological antithesis to his home country, these things that come to haunt him remain an antithesis in themselves.

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Alhambra – by Omar Musa
Poetry Omar Musa Poetry Omar Musa

Alhambra – by Omar Musa

Mashallah —
tsk tsk tsk —
walls brim with barakas —
the Almighty’s horror vacui —
knotted Kufic, lattice-worked centuries —
rammed, iron-blooded, light-strafed earth —

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Outer Banks – by Kathleen Williams
Nonfiction Kathleen Williams Nonfiction Kathleen Williams

Outer Banks – by Kathleen Williams

Six houses collapsed into the ocean on the Outer Banks, a series of islands off North Carolina, between May and November 2024. In this area of the world, strips of houses that were once on solid ground find themselves on sand due to coastal erosion. I discover these houses through TikTok. Their immense, shuddering structures collapsing into the ocean are captivating, seductive. I wonder if it’s somehow appealing on a class level, if we’re all hiding smirks while watching the upstairs gentry implode from the downstairs quarters.

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