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Sandcastles – by Ruth Armstrong
Fiction Ruth Armstrong Fiction Ruth Armstrong

Sandcastles – by Ruth Armstrong

WINNER, OLGA MASTERS SHORT STORY AWARD 2022

Rumi doesn’t know how long he’s been on the beach. He’s not sunburnt, thanks to his yellow and red lycra stinger suit. He’s not particularly thirsty either. The only sign that time has passed is the collection of identical sandcastles lined up in evenly spaced rows fanning back from the shore – each moulded into the turreted shape of his plastic beach bucket … When the tide goes out it will leave his creations pale and brittle in the sun, and by the following morning they will be gone – no trace of them amongst the stingray holes and fragments of chalky bleached coral …

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The Mowing – by Ivy Ireland
Fiction Ivy Ireland Fiction Ivy Ireland

The Mowing – by Ivy Ireland

WINNER, OLGA MASTERS SHORT STORY AWARD 2021

That cloud looks more like a squished chicken than a dragon. Not a dragon day, then. Nothing auspicious. No signs or portents. Just an up-ended moon beside a squished chicken cloud, which is fast turning into a pile of dog turds. I close the blind before the sun rises above the tree line. I pour a coffee but don’t drink it. I wander in and out of my bedroom, but don’t change out of my crushed and sweaty PJs. I head outside and walk up the long, dusty drive to bring in the bins … I itch for a ciggie. No. As bad as things are, I’ve still got that one giant refusal to cling to …

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In the Archives – by Keely Jobe
Fiction Keely Jobe Fiction Keely Jobe

In the Archives – by Keely Jobe

It’s as if the place is hermetically sealed. Left outside is a pelting rain, gushing pipes, greasy water surging over gutters and traffic islands, slopping into sandals and brogues, umbrellas sucked inside out like marrow from a bone, office workers jammed in alcoves with hands wrapped around takeaway coffees, waiting for the lights to go green. Also barred from entry, the petrichor and panic, the blaring horns, the hot-wet stickiness of a late spring storm. None of that has made it past the door. Once inside, you’re floating in white space … 

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A Thin, Brilliant Line – by Lal Perera
Fiction Lal Perera Fiction Lal Perera

A Thin, Brilliant Line – by Lal Perera

According to Mandy, the things we imagine are as important as the things that are real. I imagine if our house had no roof back then, a bird could look down and see the three of us in front of the TV: Dad lying along the length of the grey couch, me on the brown one, and then, once Mandy had done stretching herself out on the floor, the bird would see us making the shape of an arrow, and the arrow would point to the door …

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The River Path – by Tadhg Muller
Fiction Tadhg Muller Fiction Tadhg Muller

The River Path – by Tadhg Muller

The rain came. Long steady sheets etching the sky in diagonal lines, the first glimpse of winter, a hint of cold in the air, and the street desolate. The rain fell on murky cobbles that mirrored the clouds. A dead-end town. Nowhere. Like a hazardous reef for a ship that you dragged your body onto, not sure of how, or why. You ended up marooned, sipping calvados and chewing on rillettes and torn warm baguette – at least I did. 

We were caught by the downpour en route to another imaginary location, traversing the town in ever-expanding spirals, on the laneway, through the field, up the river and onto the ridge, until we reached a point of exhaustion and turning back. We’d taken to doing this time and time again, as the day came to an end, as it started to fade – our strange evening walks …

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Strokes of White – by Julian Fell
Fiction Julian Fell Fiction Julian Fell

Strokes of White – by Julian Fell

(Image: Tim Storrier 2023, Twighlight Blaze Line - detail. Full image appears with the story, reproduced with permission of the artist.)

Red clay crumbles underfoot as two poles are driven deep into the earth. Sal Bridle, shirtless and sweaty, fastens a thick rope between them. He coats it in lacquer, and, with the conviction of a man inspired, strikes a match. Fire dances across the length of the rope until it is reduced to embers. Only once it has finished burning does he realise that he should have waited. No matter.
With his easel positioned in the shade thrown by his ute, Bridle spends the next couple of hours setting out the lay of the land: the twin peaks that loom over him, an expansive sky, a black band of horizon that sucks a bank of clouds towards its vanishing point …Then, with a single free-flowing stroke of white, he sets the rope alight …

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The Blue Fox – by Michael Burrows
Fiction Michael Burrows Fiction Michael Burrows

The Blue Fox – by Michael Burrows

“We create our own London; build our own streets and design our own St Pauls, but always, on the fringes, something lurks: crying in the night, knocking over dustbins, tearing out our hearts.”


… some nights there’d be screaming on Regent Street, or back-alley fights about stupid things, my jealousy or your pride, and London would drop away into inky darkness. What Estable would call ‘Piccadilly’s gaping maw’ would open and swallow us whole, and, dumb rabbits that we were, we’d skip hand-in-hand into the darkness, scoffing the breadcrumbs that would have guided us home …

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How to Kill a Pea – by Lara Keys
Fiction Lara Keys Fiction Lara Keys

How to Kill a Pea – by Lara Keys

Twins! Adorable! Like two peas in a pod.

People say shit like that when they meet me and Mary. Well, old people say it. Kids wouldn’t. It’s stupid.

Mary smiles at them. Bang! Be. Ee. Ay. Em. A full-on blowtorch. That grin is squint-eyes kinda bright. She turns it on in an instant because she knows she’s beautiful.

I don’t smile.

I’m something else.

…

Shit. Not two peas at all. That is one perfect pea and that, that is one garbage pea …

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Dottie and Pin Go Somewhere – by Kate Kruimink
Fiction Kate Kruimink Fiction Kate Kruimink

Dottie and Pin Go Somewhere – by Kate Kruimink

The day was in three fat strips, like cuttings from a magazine. At the top, a thick piece of dark purple for the sky. In the middle, dense green treetops lit with gold. Below that, a narrow strip of grey road set with low buildings. Pin and her feral little creature were stuck down in the bottom strip, the grey road and the buildings, although they were standing in a cloud of glitter. The air down there was warm and wet. Pin’s little creature, her Dottie, was dancing, or something …

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The Planet Terrarium - by Philomena van Rijswijk
Fiction Philomena van Rijswijk Fiction Philomena van Rijswijk

The Planet Terrarium - by Philomena van Rijswijk

The big Cat woman wakes at six every morning with enough time for half-a-dozen fatalistic breaths before dragging herself crooked across the mattress and somehow standing, her tie-dyed nightie bunched around big bluish thighs, her breasts pulled askew by the twists and suns. Those old boots that she fumbles into are stained and split from too many wet and dark winters in this wet and dark place ... a grey hollow where the frost lies all day in winter, making impressions on the grass of towels hanging stiff from the line. Sometimes she can smell the very moulds of the place exhaling from her skin. But it is not winter yet. It’s still trying to be autumn, though none of the beauty has come …

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Sloane on the Mountain – by Alexander Bennetts
Fiction Alex Bennetts Fiction Alex Bennetts

Sloane on the Mountain – by Alexander Bennetts

What she was running from, well, Sloane would never speak of it, but if you pored through reams of court transcripts and certain bank transactions, I’m sure you could eventually work it out.

She parked her canary-yellow Saab opposite the Mount Macedon Hotel and nodded to the regulars on the porch. Sloane made a show of greeting the bartender. He wore a deep V-neck; he looked like the kind of man who paid for his protein supplements to be shipped in from overseas. She asked for two bottled waters.

‘Just came in on the Spirit this morning,’ Sloane told him. ‘Figured it’d be a smart move to stretch the old legs.’ …

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Infrared – by Ryan Delaney
Fiction Ryan Delaney Fiction Ryan Delaney

Infrared – by Ryan Delaney

Emily scans the bush for signs of life. She can spot Ben and Gary in the distance – their lurid, wattle-coloured jumpsuits making them stand out amongst the burnt gum trees. Their eyes will be peeled for fresh droppings, scratches on black trunks and animal tracks imprinted in the ash. As she watches the men solemnly comb the scorched earth, Emily wonders if there is really a difference anymore between a forensic and environmental scientist.

On the surface, the land appears to be healing. Bright pink and green epicormic shoots have burst through black bark and are beginning to flower. Other native pyrophites – such as blackboys, bottlebrush and banksia – are not only surviving but flourishing in this post-fire landscape, their hardy seeds split open by the extreme heat …

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The Day the Wave Came – by Paul Mitchell
Fiction Paul Mitchell Fiction Paul Mitchell

The Day the Wave Came – by Paul Mitchell

Morning sunlight through the kitchen window warmed my stubbled face and I finished filling the sink with hot water and soap suds. I turned off the tap and picked up the silver pot that I hadn’t been able to cram into the dishwasher last night. It smelt of the Portuguese-style chicken dish Leah had made, a meal she’d dubbed ‘our last supper’. I hadn’t laughed, or eaten much.

My dressing gown sleeves drooped into the dishwater so I rolled them up, tighter this time. I could have taken the gown off, but I was naked underneath. If I went and got dressed, I’d risk waking Leah – who should really be up by now, given the plan we’d made last night. Maybe she was sick and would stay in bed all day. And the inevitable would be postponed …

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Collateral Damage – by John Tully
Fiction John Tully Fiction John Tully

Collateral Damage – by John Tully

Barry Hall didn’t care too much for pubs but it beat sitting in front of the TV in his crummy Yarraville flat on a rainy Friday night. He was nursing a pint of Fat Yak in the lounge bar of the Railway Hotel and keeping a covert eye on who was coming in through the doors from Anderson Street. The city did nothing for him; Barry was a Tasmanian country boy who liked his space. Melbourne was vast and noisy, with trucks going past his little flat at all hours of the day and night with their headlights blazing through the faded old curtains …

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Philomela – by Orana Loren
Fiction Orana Loren Fiction Orana Loren

Philomela – by Orana Loren

… I brought you here so that the deadness of the walls would whiten your tongue. Your tongue was always too fleshy for me, too pink-flashing. I could never look at your lips for long; they were always too full and swollen with honey, and the edges curved when you smiled – curved up, you know? But when I brought you here, your tongue did not stop. Each time you grinned I saw river-pink, a young-blood pink, a new-skinned pink, the thickest water. Pink over pink over pink, in and out went your tongue; then your breath, and your breath, and your tongue. The thickest pink …

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The Museum – by Gemma Parker
Fiction Gemma Parker Fiction Gemma Parker

The Museum – by Gemma Parker

The ferris wheel is closed. Two little faces peer up at her – they have traipsed all this way. People around them are strolling into a nearby museum, which is painted black and has no windows. She holds their hands tightly and walks up to an attendant. Do you speak English? A nod. Would this be appropriate … okay … for the young children? Would they like it?

The young woman, dressed in a smart navy uniform, glances at her in genuine surprise. Oh yes, she murmurs. She looks reverently down at the children. Yes, okay for children …

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The Moths – by Gillian Britton
Fiction Gillian Britton Fiction Gillian Britton

The Moths – by Gillian Britton

On the first morning of the moths there was very little rain. Other invaders had seemed formed of the rain, but the moths seeped in as if formed of stone or air. They appeared in the storm cellar, where Kepi was laying down bottles of the juice they had made from seaweed and nettles – surprisingly flavoursome. The moths were suddenly there, flapping ghosts of pale smoke grey that sent Kepi shrieking back up to the surface. When she took Meno down for a look – creeping quietly, peeking down from the top of the stairs – the moths had mostly shredded themselves on the coarse stone walls, leaving soft traces, like chalk markings. Black, wingless bodies covered the stone floor, some still writhing. But they died quickly …

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Finger-branches – by Eliza Henry-Jones
Fiction Eliza Henry-Jones Fiction Eliza Henry-Jones

Finger-branches – by Eliza Henry-Jones

A breathtaking new story inspired by a residency at the Australian Institute of Marine Science

… We, the oldest from the reef, remember crown-of-thorns starfish from the sea. We never see them, but we know they’re near. They change things (a whiff a tremor). We have long learnt to buckle down (draw in fight fight fight) at their approach. The whiff tremor of them carries through cold lab air. It makes us so grateful for our tight, clear tank. Louise noises COTS. Crown-of-thorns COTS. They are feasters. We are their sunlight …

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The Grass Painter – by KA Rees
Fiction KA Rees Fiction KA Rees

The Grass Painter – by KA Rees

When you look at me, you wonder what it is like. To be an artist. I think what you are really asking is what it is like to be a failed artist. Let’s face it, where are the successful ones? Does anyone know? You may know of them, from catalogues sitting unread in your magazine rack, from guest spots on Arts on Sunday, but you do not know them. You do, however, know artists like me who serve you. Who work as your baristas, your cleaners, your children’s entertainers. Who arrive at the door with glitter and metallic paint and large brushes that scream of ruined furniture.

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Nithing – by Clayton O’Toole
Fiction Clayton O'Toole Fiction Clayton O'Toole

Nithing – by Clayton O’Toole

… He lived in the inert dark between night and early morning. Things that had been snug in the afternoon light were cold to him now. The house was a void corralled by clean, white, modern lines. There was furniture; a thin TV. Nooks clung in clusters to the walls, filled with picture frames and souvenirs and little baked-clay monsters. From the kitchen you could see the paddock. From the table you could see the paddock. From the wrong end of the lounge room you could see the paddock …

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