A Waving Forest – by Zowie Douglas-Kinghorn
Nonfiction Zowie Douglas‐Kinghorn Nonfiction Zowie Douglas‐Kinghorn

A Waving Forest – by Zowie Douglas-Kinghorn

… Beneath the water, life is more graceful. Sprawling groves of kelp shift and furl in the current, while tiny silver snook fish dart between the seaweed; a wrasse glides between the plunging curtains. I follow it, hearing my sucking breath amplified by my snorkel. The mask fogs up. I continue paddling, floating and kicking over the kelp beds. I can’t see anything except a cloud of my own shallow breathing. Suddenly, my heart is racing—my chest feels like it will burst. The physical sensation of being underwater grips my ribcage like a vice. As spots appear in the corner of my mask, every shadow becomes a dark trench ready to swallow me …

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Changing Spots – by Sharon Kent
Nonfiction Sharon Kent Nonfiction Sharon Kent

Changing Spots – by Sharon Kent

I find the scats on the beach, lying by a faint depression in the sand. With careful gloved hands I pick them up. They are strange – grey-brown with a gritty texture, smelling nothing like the dog faeces they are supposed to resemble. I label a plastic bag with neat letters –16 January 2017. The Neck, Bruny Island, Tasmania – then drop the scats into the bag and seal it up. Later, a researcher will examine the specimen and extract samples for DNA analysis – a small piece in a giant puzzle. Through the plastic, I can see feathers. They are black and white. I wonder if any of them belong to the little penguins from the colony behind the dunes …

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A Questionable Survey of Suburban Eucalypts – by Uthpala Gunethilake
Nonfiction Uthpala Gunethilake Nonfiction Uthpala Gunethilake

A Questionable Survey of Suburban Eucalypts – by Uthpala Gunethilake

… There are several magnificent specimens down the slope; tall, always tall, with reddish-orange trunks and sprays of white blossoms in summer. Two books, one app and many websites later, I’m confused – is this a grey gum that has shed its bark or a Sydney red gum? Another has the telltale squiggle of moth larvae etched on its creamy-smooth bark, so it must be a scribbly gum. But it looks so much like another smooth-barked species, which fits the description of blackbutt. Another has bark furrowed like a Christmas log cake – is that a stringybark? The thing is, I can’t be sure. I know they’re all eucalypts, but I can’t call them by their names …

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The Rats Move In – by Karen A Johnson
Nonfiction Karen A Johnson Nonfiction Karen A Johnson

The Rats Move In – by Karen A Johnson

… Death and disease have hijacked the world’s narrative, at least until the sheer enormity becomes too overwhelming, and it becomes impossible to concentrate on anything outside of the inside. We beat hasty retreats to our homes and hide away until the next news broadcast. The news has replaced the novel in my world.

This is the time for explorative, dangerous fiction. Apocalyptic fiction. But I’m living in a fiction I can’t find a way to write. Nothing rivals the terror of nonfiction. I go online. I could order a gun, a knife. I don’t. I order a plant. A life …

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Fire There Is – by Searlait O’Neill
Nonfiction Searlait O'Neill Nonfiction Searlait O'Neill

Fire There Is – by Searlait O’Neill

My younger brother said that it looked as though all the feathers had been pulled from the skin of a bird, leaving nothing but demarcated veins. He went on to say, ‘That’s not exactly how it looked. I can’t say, really, how it looked.’ At the time we spoke about this, I was trying out images. I thought I’d stumble across something that could capture it. Asking him to recount the experience of seeing our brother, J, and the fire, I was looking to capture a feeling more than anything. The feeling of seeing your brother’s arms burn, of seeing his clothes dropping away like singed leaves …

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Riverine – by Kavita Bedford
Nonfiction Kavita Bedford Nonfiction Kavita Bedford

Riverine – by Kavita Bedford

… Then, it was as if the river was remembered. In the first month of the pandemic, the golden hour hit the river at six each evening. The skies were honey drenched … As the pandemic stretched over months, time ran tandem to the river. My days were linked to other city dwellers, whose sense of time, once ruled by workplaces, was now punctuated only by river walks. On certain days, the river was like glass, reflecting the sky back to itself. One day, I watched a silver heron perched on a dead tree, bark and bird merging into one bar of light as the sun went down …

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How to Be a Better Mother – by Lisa Kenway
Nonfiction Lisa Kenway Nonfiction Lisa Kenway

How to Be a Better Mother – by Lisa Kenway

Don’t wait too long to start a family, but before trying to conceive, make sure you’re ready to support a child, financially and emotionally. Be prepared to put someone else’s needs ahead of your own. Write a birth plan. Exercise regularly. Don’t smoke or inhale second-hand smoke. Don’t eat raw fish or soft cheese. Cut out caffeine and alcohol. Religiously consume prenatal vitamins, but think twice about taking any other medication, even a headache tablet, during the pregnancy …

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The Funeral [Farewell Kenny-G] – by W<J>P Newnham
Nonfiction W P Newnham Nonfiction W P Newnham

The Funeral [Farewell Kenny-G] – by W<J>P Newnham

I had not seen Kenny in years; not up the shops nor hooning past in stolen drift cars with hot dogged exhausts; not on the nightly news. None of the usual sightings. Once, I had seen him looking the part, the weasel-faced crim on Crime Watch; I knew it was him, that Glock held sideways like an OG, that Schnozzle that even a balaclava couldn’t cover. He had been a one-man crime wave / Ice cold and running crack-pipe-hot …

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6 Years, 6 Months and 24 Days Apart – by Saanjana Kapoor
Nonfiction Saanjana Kapoor Nonfiction Saanjana Kapoor

6 Years, 6 Months and 24 Days Apart – by Saanjana Kapoor

… I lead, and she follows close behind. I wonder if she has it easier, given she can watch and learn from my mistakes. Is that what a younger sister is, a better version of the older one? Doesn’t that make me the understudy? Born to prepare her for the role I have rehearsed my entire life; it will never be mine when she can play it better …

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Good For It - by Lillian Telford
Nonfiction Lillian Telford Nonfiction Lillian Telford

Good For It - by Lillian Telford

Content warning: this essay discusses rape and trauma.

2021: Whenever it happens, the tweets and subtweets say similar things. I join in the shared rage, retweeting heavy words of condemnation. Our stories of trauma are sent into the ether, where screams and cries become whispers against the backdrop of coding and HTML.

In the Twittersphere, someone asks how we can be mad at Morrison’s comments when an old white man will speak like an old white man. After all, boys will be boys …

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Peace Body Pain Body - by Jarad Bruinstroop
Nonfiction Jarad Bruinstroop Nonfiction Jarad Bruinstroop

Peace Body Pain Body - by Jarad Bruinstroop

… At the hospital, they call chronic pain ‘persistent pain’. ‘Persistent’ has a more positive connotation, but it also suggests the pain has agency. The pain does not persist. I persist.

The head of the spinal clinic tells me there’s no point in more physiotherapy, since I reported no benefit from it. I ask him what he would do if he were me. He says, I would try to learn to live with the pain. We are talking on the phone, so I can’t see his face. And he can’t see the expression on mine …

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The Orchid - by Erica Wheadon
Nonfiction Erica Wheadon Nonfiction Erica Wheadon

The Orchid - by Erica Wheadon

Your husband gives you an orchid for Valentine’s Day. Again. You don’t know why he bothers and tell him so. All you have to do is look after it, he shrugs, and you twist your mouth into a smile, place the pot on the corner of the deck next to the hammock and stare at it like you would a newborn baby that has been thrust on you …

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Various Emilys/Gondals - by Josie/Jocelyn Deane
Nonfiction Josie/Jocelyn Deane Nonfiction Josie/Jocelyn Deane

Various Emilys/Gondals - by Josie/Jocelyn Deane

We’re getting back into Dungeons and Dragons, ordering Ghost Pan pizza. I’m experimenting with close reading, through the language of dice rolls and spell lists. Emily Dickinson, my character – who may not be an exact representation of Emily Dickinson – is sleeping in the garret she rents in the fictional city of Sigil. We agree there’s nothing much in her room. A bed. A chest of drawers, a mirror and a crucifix, a chair. Emily’s white dress is slumped across its back, caked in dry sewage …

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Fluctuations in Landscape/Language/Lasagne - by Christine Howe
Nonfiction Christine Howe Nonfiction Christine Howe

Fluctuations in Landscape/Language/Lasagne - by Christine Howe

… here we are – writers, artists, geographers – on a bend in the river, talking about our shared coastlines. We tussle with the knowledge that the coastal areas we love are already experiencing the effects of climate change, and we brainstorm how we might create art that could help our communities envision a vastly different future. We talk, walk and write together …

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Witchcraft, charming, &amp;c. - by Eliza Henry-Jones
Nonfiction Eliza Henry-Jones Nonfiction Eliza Henry-Jones

Witchcraft, charming, &c. - by Eliza Henry-Jones

You live on a wild and beautiful collection of islands off the coast of mainland Scotland. Your name is Jonet. On the 14th of May, 1643, you are denounced as a witch by your neighbours. You are charged with witchcraft, charming &c. and soon you will be sentenced to die. Did you hear whispers of unrest on the sharp wind, kicked up from the icy tides of the North Sea? Or is the denouncement a shock to you? …

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Submerged - by Nova Weetman
Nonfiction Nova Weetman Nonfiction Nova Weetman

Submerged - by Nova Weetman

A reflection on swimming through the pandemic; swimming for much more than the exercise alone …
There must have been other people we knew at the Croydon pool, but I don’t remember them. It was like all that space existed just for the three of us. All January, Mum would be in her spotted bikini, sunbaking with reef oil splashed across her skin, and I’d be in my bright yellow bather bottoms with ties at the sides; my long hair in two messy ponytails and zinc in a stripe across my freckled nose. We’d try to arrive just as the turnstiles opened, then we’d dash across the hot concrete to the patchy grass that skirted the 50-metre pool …

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Pilgrimage to Frog Hollow - by Clare Murphy
Nonfiction Clare Murphy Nonfiction Clare Murphy

Pilgrimage to Frog Hollow - by Clare Murphy

We are here in search of the same thing: some kind of restoration. A salve. Something increasingly referred to as green therapy. We are here because we do not know where else to go …
As if following the Zealous Settler’s Handbook of Coloniser Tropes, we lose our way somewhere between the Echidna Track and the Entolasia Trail and descend into sour looks and barely bitten tongues. The fresh air we’ve come for simmers in our lungs …

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You Can’t Go Home Again - by Jenny Sinclair
Nonfiction Jenny Sinclair Nonfiction Jenny Sinclair

You Can’t Go Home Again - by Jenny Sinclair

A brief moment of memoir that captures so much:
You can’t go home again. But you do, tearing up the highway to get there just in time. And there they all are, the faces and the names. Names without faces, floating in the air on a willy-willy of small-town gossip. You should know the names, but it’s been so many years …

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31.5°S, 159°E - by Keely Jobe
Nonfiction Keely Jobe Nonfiction Keely Jobe

31.5°S, 159°E - by Keely Jobe

In the centre of the bird, a message.
Bottle top golf tee balloon clip tube cap cable tie nurdle pen top strapping tape twist top lollipop bread tag glow stick …

I see Jenn standing with a group of bird carcasses. Her back is to the ocean, the shearwaters are fanned out in front. There’s something ceremonial about the image – the bodies are laid with care – but there’s no avoiding the violence. The birds are knocked over like bowling pins. It’s a strike …

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Athai - by Lakshmi Narayanan
Nonfiction Lakshmi Narayanan Nonfiction Lakshmi Narayanan

Athai - by Lakshmi Narayanan

Athai ruthlessly elbowed them and pulled me to the front, so I could get an unrestricted view. This was no joke. We were in a mosh pit now and Lord Shiva was Kurt Cobain …

This is a love song to an aunt on the other side of the world - written as part of our new 5-piece suite from South-Asian Australian writers inspired by the COVID situation in India and the Australian response

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