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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Nature Writing Project- Cycle 3

The next six pieces are the third and final cycle of work from our Australian Nature Writing Project.

The pieces were selected by Ben Walter, who also initiated the project. This is what Ben had to say about this set of works …

Recently, I found myself with a spare day in Launceston. I thought about climbing an obscure mountain nearby, but there’d been major rain, flooding in the area – the huge weather event that trammelled over Victoria in mid-October had also blasted Tasmania …

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The Right One to Rescue – by Sharon Kent
Nonfiction Sharon Kent Nonfiction Sharon Kent

The Right One to Rescue – by Sharon Kent

… ‘Mum! There’s a cat on the road. With a bucket on its head.’

I am studying the map. From somewhere, I half-hear this ludicrous statement, but I dismiss it, like an annoying mosquito that I can’t be bothered to swat away. I turn to my son. ‘It’s going to be dark soon. Will – you – get – in – the – car!’ I flash him a stony look. ‘Hurry up!’

He hesitates, looking down the road forlornly, before trying a different tone.

‘There’s a cat on the road. With a bucket on its head.’ He speaks evenly, as if he’s dealing with someone who doesn’t understand his language, where there’s no point becoming exasperated or overly excited …

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Straight From the Horse’s Mouth: Windsor Chairmaking in Tasmania – by Dan Dwyer
Nonfiction Dan Dwyer Nonfiction Dan Dwyer

Straight From the Horse’s Mouth: Windsor Chairmaking in Tasmania – by Dan Dwyer

… The democratic chair is designed to be made with a small number of hand tools, hence democratic. If a student learns this chair, they can make more complex Windsor chairs. ‘It wouldn’t be a Windsor chair without a bit of blood on it,’ Jon said … My vision of soulful strokes and wispy shavings, the Zen and the Art of Chairmaking, had become a crash course in kindling. I took another spindle, and returned to first principles, ‘one long stroke, two short ones.’ Secretly, I breathed a sigh of relief that Jon was away; I could embarrass myself in peace …

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A Shadow From Country – by Naomi Parry
Nonfiction Naomi Parry Nonfiction Naomi Parry

A Shadow From Country – by Naomi Parry

SHORTLISTED, ISLAND NONFICTION PRIZE 2021

… I’ve been researching the Gai-mariagal warrior Musquito since 2003 and today we are looking for a name list that I have heard about, which is supposed to tell a story of the time he was exiled from Sydney to Norfolk Island. We go through indexes and bibliographies and footnotes without finding anything. Then Melissa flicks through the computer catalogue and pulls up an image. It’s a seraphic face, illuminated in the computer’s glow.
Who is this?
It’s Black Jack. It’s his death mask.

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Moss – by Jane Rawson
Fiction Jane Rawson Fiction Jane Rawson

Moss – by Jane Rawson

… She remembered it cold and damp. She remembered it dark and green. Her first days in a nest beneath the snow, then those brief, bright moments before she stretched new limbs and took cover in a close, green cavern. A life of icy winds, sleet that pricked her skin into life. / Then David’s hands around her his lips on her damp breathing skin and now every day is hot and dry …

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The Third Angel of Chernobyl – by Carmel Bird
Nonfiction Carmel Bird Nonfiction Carmel Bird

The Third Angel of Chernobyl – by Carmel Bird

… I write this in February 2022, beginning on Valentine’s Day. The whole world, suffering from the pestilence of COVID, is focused on the question of whether Russia is or is not going to invade Ukraine, which has been a separate and troubled country since 1991. By 17 February, the suspense continues, and perhaps Russia will invade, perhaps it won’t. Naturally, the world watches on television as snow falls on the troops, on the tanks, on people in bright puffer jackets …

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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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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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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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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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Housing Climate: From Plastic to Concrete - by Miriam McGarry
Nonfiction Miriam McGarry Nonfiction Miriam McGarry

Housing Climate: From Plastic to Concrete - by Miriam McGarry

From Tasmanian fires to Queensland floods, Miriam McGarry wonders how we will find home in an age of climate instability:
… I was reclaiming a pair of jeans I had loaned her, collateral from the era we had share-housed, when Jack shouted from the bathroom, ‘Look at this sky!’ It appeared as if the entire mountain was on fire. ‘Hobart blue’ was replaced by a brutal and swelling terracotta. A closing barricade. A shroud …

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