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To let my outline thin – by Bridget Webster
Nonfiction Bridget Webster Nonfiction Bridget Webster

To let my outline thin – by Bridget Webster

It was my first writing residency.  A lot of interesting things happened. I felt the range of my emotions widen – the grief and terror deeper than I let myself feel in the city before scrambling for distraction, the bliss and contentment more whole and suffusing.

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Savings - by Rachel Leary
Nonfiction Rachel Leary Nonfiction Rachel Leary

Savings - by Rachel Leary

I watch her and I want to tell her she’s the most beautiful woman in the world. I’ve felt this way about her for a long time. It’s not desire. I don’t know if this is normal, but some humans elicit this in me: I find them so damn beautiful I don’t know what to do with myself.

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Between snow and slogans - by Ramak Bamzar
Nonfiction Ramak Bamzar Nonfiction Ramak Bamzar

Between snow and slogans - by Ramak Bamzar

The Iran–Iraq War had just ended and everywhere the walls were covered with murals of martyrs and blood: Khomeini with a raised hand pointing to a bright point in the sky; a woman holding a blood-soaked martyr in her arms and crying; red tulips sprouting here and there from stains of blood on the ground.

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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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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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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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Extinctions – by Dani Netherclift
Nonfiction Dani Netherclift Nonfiction Dani Netherclift

Extinctions – by Dani Netherclift

The threat AI poses to writers and the art of writing seems to have arisen swiftly. Who threw open those doors? What is an entry? A door is an aperture to possibility. These are important concerns for a lyric essayist. There are so many ways in (and out), so many connecting silences in between. What does it mean for your calling to become extinct?

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Cold coffee – by Aboubakr Daqiq
Nonfiction Aboubakr Daqiq Nonfiction Aboubakr Daqiq

Cold coffee – by Aboubakr Daqiq

I haven’t always liked coffee. Loved the smell, just not the taste. In recent years, however, I’ve found myself more than impartial towards an occasional morning coffee – especially when paired with a delicious pastry. My poison of choice is the mocha. Often perjured by claims of inauthenticity and childlike nodes, the mocha has long been a victim of slander and ridicule. Putting aside the politics of coffee elitism, I’ve found that brewing a good mocha is no easy feat.

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The more you are going home – by Stephen Orr
Nonfiction Stephen Orr Nonfiction Stephen Orr

The more you are going home – by Stephen Orr

Sleeping under the piano, close to the rosewood, night sounds amplified by eighty-eight strings. So quiet I can’t really tell, but they’re just outside the window. The scraping of a leaf on a concrete path, until the breeze stops. The movement of a lizard in litter; the way wind works on canopies. Each singing, vibrating, resonating, and when I step outside, the once-a-minute bark of a dog filling the void, this sound moving across the land, through yards, down to the river. All suggesting something else is going on.

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a natural sort of being – by Miriam Jones
Nonfiction Miriam Jones Nonfiction Miriam Jones

a natural sort of being – by Miriam Jones

At home we were a newborn, a toddler, a man, and a non-binary me. For three months we lived outside of normal time and normal social life. The privatised home is not known for nurturing gender improvisation. Some things known to take place within the home are the unwaged feminised labour of social reproduction, and domestic violence. But for me the parental leave bubble was a quiet place, away from the sharp and assured gender infrastructure of the outside world. 

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