The Good Woman - by Anneliz Erese
Fiction Anneliz Erese Fiction Anneliz Erese

The Good Woman - by Anneliz Erese

She wakes up before her husband. Turns on the shower for him. Hot, steamy, just the way he likes it. She waits with a fresh towel. Hands it to him, warm, soft, just the way he likes it. Not long after, she cooks breakfast in the kitchen. No radio, only newspaper. She prepares the tea. Hot, steamy. Cups in perfect order. Quiet …

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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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A Man Alone - by Mark O’Flynn
Fiction Mark O'Flynn Fiction Mark O'Flynn

A Man Alone - by Mark O’Flynn

Take a house in any land and in it place a man. A man alone: demonstrable, verifiable, did not get there by himself. He must have had progenitors. A carpenter at least. A man like this, who has never lived in any other house. At least not one that he can remember; but then memory is a flippant thing. In any event, there are no other houses nearby, unless you count the lightning-struck ruin next door, whose owner shook his fist at the sky …

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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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Boxing Day - by Fiona Robertson
Fiction Fiona Robertson Fiction Fiona Robertson

Boxing Day - by Fiona Robertson

Nadine placed a hand on Herc’s chest. Above the bed, the fan stirred tropical air. ‘We should have sex,’ she said, ‘since we didn’t for Christmas.’
Herc raised his eyebrows. ‘Wow, what an offer.’ He began to lift her fingers one by one, flexing them back a little too far, so that she pulled her hand away.
‘Herc, don’t.’

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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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Severe Weather Warning - by Miriam Webster
Fiction Miriam Webster Fiction Miriam Webster

Severe Weather Warning - by Miriam Webster

I was walking the dog at the beach when I saw rats throwing themselves into the sea, spilling over the shoreline in a great tumble of nose and tail. All the birds left. The dogs’ hair prickled and stood on end; electrified, we thought, by atmospheric changes ominous and invisible. At dusk they let out one, unified bark. The cats stayed indoors, licking themselves. Those who find meaning in constellations blamed it on the moon in Scorpio, that volatile sign. Those of sound mind blamed it on climate change …

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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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Three Fragments - by Cameron Hindrum
Fiction Cameron Hindrum Fiction Cameron Hindrum

Three Fragments - by Cameron Hindrum

Three delicate, beautiful, devastating vignettes from a versatile Tasmanian writer.
… I start the car and the old man listens and my great-grandmother is sitting next to me, holding flowers in her papery hands …
… Can’t describe the sound. Tyres locked up, a squeal harsh in the darkness, a soft crump, metal hitting metal like a full stop at the end of the squealing and glass breaking …

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In My Father’s House - by Suneeta Peres da Costa 
Poetry Suneeta Peres da Costa Poetry Suneeta Peres da Costa

In My Father’s House - by Suneeta Peres da Costa 

We are / on land but the water is rising. Baby frogs, escaped / from the long-unused well, are found, delicate as / foreskins, among the Macau china …

This is 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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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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King of Sweets - by Atul Joshi
Fiction Atul Joshi Fiction Atul Joshi

King of Sweets - by Atul Joshi

Baba believed in kismet and Yaseen believed in Baba. He had come here, started uni, then went into lockdown …
It’s time to go home, the Prime Minister said on TV. If you can’t support yourself, there’s an alternative. Return to your home country.

A short story set in Western Sydney - 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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Reality Check - by Jocelyn Prasad
Nonfiction Jocelyn Prasad Nonfiction Jocelyn Prasad

Reality Check - by Jocelyn Prasad

I was more at home among backpackers and their well-thumbed copies of Lonely Planet. The real Indians were out of my reach. They were so self-assured in their Indianness that I felt like a fraud, like someone who arrived late to a party and couldn’t find her way in …

A moment of memoir - 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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Agency - by Tasnim Hossain
Fiction Tasnim Hossain Fiction Tasnim Hossain

Agency - by Tasnim Hossain

‘Well, they shouldn’t have gone back in the first place, not during a pandemic,’ said Denny … ‘They all live on top of each other, so what do you expect? Diseases just waiting to spread.’

A short story - 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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Principles of Permaculture - by Sam George-Allen
Nonfiction Sam George-Allen Nonfiction Sam George-Allen

Principles of Permaculture - by Sam George-Allen

… Now, alone and an adult, I am having a renaissance with the ground. I am changing; I am getting lower down. Mole-like, I want to go beneath the grass, I want to swim in the earth. I imagine seeds and the root-hairs they send down into the soil. I want to silence the bell even further with the press of earth, with the silent growing living things down there that go on living while the world above them falls to bits …

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How Do You Make Them Let You Belong? - by Erin Hortle
Nonfiction Erin Hortle Nonfiction Erin Hortle

How Do You Make Them Let You Belong? - by Erin Hortle

Through the casual sexism inherent in Australian surfing culture, Erin Hortle reflects on identity and inclusion
I want to begin by telling you about this time a guy was a dick wielding a phallus. A film of cloud sheened the sun’s light silver. There was no wind. The bush, sprawled beyond the sand dunes, was still and quiet. The ocean was glossy, and heavy lines of swell rolled sluggishly across its expanse. Quicksilver, silverquick …

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Julie Gough: Tense Past
Arts Features Mary Knights Arts Features Mary Knights

Julie Gough: Tense Past

On the Queen’s Domain in the middle of a Hobart winter, people silently wander along a narrow track through a dark grove of she-oaks, eucalyptus and acacia trees. As night falls, long shadows cross the path …

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