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 Alexander Bennetts Fiction Alexander 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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Animal Life of Penang – by Claire Aman
Fiction Claire Aman Fiction Claire Aman

Animal Life of Penang – by Claire Aman

It is lovely to have Claire back in Island again! Long before 'Animal Life of Penang', Claire's very first published short story, 'Sustenance', appeared in Island issue 109 in 2007.

Penang used to be interesting. Back then, young, you could pay to let a swallow escape from a wicker cage. You could choose a crab from a tank in a laneway. You could wake up on the beach at dawn. The tide could be out, your clothes slightly damp. You would remember nothing. Afterwards, you could live your whole life …

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Butter – by Daniel Ray
Fiction Daniel Ray Fiction Daniel Ray

Butter – by Daniel Ray

It’s that time of morning when everything’s clean with cold and I can smell Dad’s aftershave spilling with gold light from the bathroom. My mouth is dry. I’m still shrugging off sleep and dark misshapen dreams. I focus on the yellow cut of light, imagining sheafs of steam, and Dad, face red with razor burn, looming in the mirror, clipping his fingernails while Mum ties back her hair and leans in to spit foaming toothpaste into the sink. For a moment their images converge in the mirror as if they are one person. Then they split apart like anagrams into body parts—ears, hair, noses, eyes—before they resolidify. I know little about them apart from this: their routines, their tiny ministrations. It’s as if they both died when they married …

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Not Gone, Just Different – by Rae White
Fiction Rae White Fiction Rae White

Not Gone, Just Different – by Rae White

Our neighbour’s latest pandemic purchase lounges on the front porch, brown fur glistening in the sun and big limbs stretching across the stairs.

‘Babe!’ I holler to my wife, as I stare out our finger-smudged window. ‘Looks like next door’s got a dog.’

In the backyard sit more of our neighbour’s recently acquired bargains: a shiny new barbecue, a blow-up kids’ pool (now deflated) and a crashed drone lolling on the highest branch of a tree.

Brooke comes over and wraps her arms around me, her old woollen jumper scratching at my upper arms. She peers over me, leaning her chin on my head. ‘Looks like a good dog,’ she comments …

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Rigel and Betelgeuse – by A E Macleod
Fiction A E Macleod Fiction A E Macleod

Rigel and Betelgeuse – by A E Macleod

R looks at their ball of thread on the floor. They are never sure when they pull the first thread where it is coming from. Is the beginning really blissfully unaware of the end? … R has been marking their movements with thread for years to thwart the loss of time; letting it out, taking it in. R is not sure who recommended this …

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Get Joy from GetJoy – by Alex Cothren
Fiction Alex Cothren Fiction Alex Cothren

Get Joy from GetJoy – by Alex Cothren

Your neighbours all have one. Your work colleagues never talk about anything else. Celebrities, star athletes and even the Pope have gotten in on the action. Yep, it’s official: GetJoy fever is sweeping the globe! But while obtaining your very own GetJoy is just a click away, being a host with the most can be trickier business. So, if you find your jubilation turning to frustration, more despondency than joie de vivre, well we’re here to help with our top tips to get joy from GetJoy …

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No Tomorrow – by Catherine Deery
Fiction Catherine Deery Fiction Catherine Deery

No Tomorrow – by Catherine Deery

On the day Josephine our sow escapes her pen and trots off across the flat paddocks in search of love, Timmy from town is at ours and me and him are trying to hurdle the creek on our BMXs using empty drench drums and sleepers stolen from Mum’s garden as a ramp. When Mum gets the call from old Mr Taylor on the farm next door about that goddamn pig rooting around in his house garden again, she puts her hand over the receiver and sticks her head out the back door and clocks the sleepers and drums and me and Timmy and the BMXs in one sharp eyeful but doesn’t say anything, just beckons me over and makes the shape JOSEPHINE with her mouth then TAYLOR’S, so I know it’s bad …

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The Great Aviary of Love – by Kathryn Goldie
Fiction Kathryn Goldie Fiction Kathryn Goldie

The Great Aviary of Love – by Kathryn Goldie

MYTH - We fell in love at the Phoenix, a dingy pub opposite a bus stop. We joked about the graffiti in the toilets. She wanted to know everything about me. She put her hand on my leg.

REALITY - She has my toucan wind chime, the one I bought with my good ex. My good ex haggled it down from $15 to $12.50. Now the toucan perches silently on her balcony, watching me with its wooden eye. It has watched my every move for more than a year. She was supposed to be just minding it …

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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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Bombera – by Josefina Huq
Fiction Josefina Huq Fiction Josefina Huq

Bombera – by Josefina Huq

… Somebody asks her how it felt having her birthday on the day of the fire. What’s it matter? she says. Even starting a fire couldn’t get people to come. They laugh, and she tries to laugh hard enough so as not to feel hurt, thinking about that night. How she was across town and saw the firetrucks zoom down the main road, headed straight towards her wooden spot in the corner. The sirens cutting through the lyrics of Happy Birthday …

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