The colour of perception – by Tony Barrett
Fiction Tony Barrett Fiction Tony Barrett

The colour of perception – by Tony Barrett

Robbie was a volunteer driver. His first pick-up was in Warrane, a largely public housing suburb on Hobart’s eastern shore. Reno, a cancer patient, was in his mid-seventies, though the disease made him look older. He had far more reason than Robbie to think his day had begun badly, but he didn’t. He’d been a concreter for over fifty years, so he knew about structural weakness and had recognised it in himself long before the specialist delivered his dismal sentence.

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Fish inside a birdcage – by Samuel O'Neil Hamad
Fiction Samuel O'Neil-Hamad Fiction Samuel O'Neil-Hamad

Fish inside a birdcage – by Samuel O'Neil Hamad

‘Winkle-dink, there’s been another one.’

Winkle-dink is an unsightly albatross in his forties with a crooked foot and a mucked-up eye. He’s been off the field for ten years, but he’s still the best detective the Bureau of Investigative Research and Detection (BIRD) has. Mr. Hamburger would trust Winkle-dink with his life and then some.

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The sobber – by Oliver Johns
Fiction Oliver Johns Fiction Oliver Johns

The sobber – by Oliver Johns

Crying is a skill, and I do it exceptionally well. So well, it’s scary. I can’t exactly remember when I first shed a tear. There’s a collection of abstract images: a dropped Cornetto, an overly aggressive peacock, gravelly skinned kneecaps. But they fade in and out. All these memories have melded into a crystallised mound of bad days, something I would need to hack at with a pickaxe – or therapy – but who needs that?

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Gravity – by Morgan Kelly
Fiction Morgan Kelly Fiction Morgan Kelly

Gravity – by Morgan Kelly

He finished his fourth Coke and slumped onto an elbow and a palm. There was nothing new to look at on Countenance – he’d checked. Six times. In the last half hour. Anyone he might have complained to was in bed, go figure. The guys who had dragged him out here had long ago vanished into different corners of the bar. He called them his ‘mates’ in the same sense you might say ‘thanks, mate’ to a stranger. They were the people he saw most often, certainly, but they weren’t his friends.

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Once inside – by Maddie Goss
Fiction Maddie Goss Fiction Maddie Goss

Once inside – by Maddie Goss

He sits in front of a fire, almost life, in a house, a patchwork of frayed could-haves and has-beens. The anger that was once inside is now outside, and the man that was once out there is now in here.

So is the dog, waiting inside to go out.

Once, when the man was boy, he ran and played, small hands tugged, pulled, patted fur and ears with fingers always salty. Now, man smells like something that is not life, pours it down his throat and throws it into the fire. No little hands, no salty fingers.

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Parasites make red pearls – by Lucy Haughton
Fiction Lucy Haughton Fiction Lucy Haughton

Parasites make red pearls – by Lucy Haughton

It was their sixth year at school and the first person in their class, Strillia, had started to Bleed. Conversations erupted in every corner as the children debated when and where they were going to Bleed. Luna took it upon herself to bring her mother’s nail polish in and paint Strillia’s nails all the shades of blood. Crimson red, magenta, deep brown, and baby pink proudly covered Strillia’s fingers for the entire week.

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Flotsam on the drift – by Lonnie Dalton
Fiction Lonnie Dalton Fiction Lonnie Dalton

Flotsam on the drift – by Lonnie Dalton

Upon the frothing current rode splintered ships, barnacled barrels, and one wayward soul.

Crengston lounged on his makeshift raft, whistling out of tune. To be on the drift was a marvellous thing – to be truly detached, basking in nothingness. These waters were strange, but peaceful. The brown, fragrant sea gave the sensation of spiralling down, down towards some unseen centre.

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Why Benjamin Stork broke the ribbit glass – by Angus Macdonald
Fiction Angus Macdonald Fiction Angus Macdonald

Why Benjamin Stork broke the ribbit glass – by Angus Macdonald

Benjamin Stork sent his final email of the day with Kindest Regards, switched his computer to Standby mode, gave the account executive in the adjoining cubicle a small, apologetic nod, passed Zeke the janitor in the kitchenette, smiled, received a radiant beam of teeth in return, stopped, talked to Zeke about the lobby’s malfunctioning automatic door, looked dumbly at his smart watch, learned from Zeke that a special infrared-sensor part was being shipped in from Portugal, finally took his leave, used his ID card to swipe out and expressionlessly looked at the reflection of his reflection in the lift’s mirror…

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The more you are going home – by Stephen Orr
Nonfiction Stephen Orr Nonfiction Stephen Orr

The more you are going home – by Stephen Orr

Sleeping under the piano, close to the rosewood, night sounds amplified by eighty-eight strings. So quiet I can’t really tell, but they’re just outside the window. The scraping of a leaf on a concrete path, until the breeze stops. The movement of a lizard in litter; the way wind works on canopies. Each singing, vibrating, resonating, and when I step outside, the once-a-minute bark of a dog filling the void, this sound moving across the land, through yards, down to the river. All suggesting something else is going on.

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Ishbel – by Claire Aman
Fiction Claire Aman Fiction Claire Aman

Ishbel – by Claire Aman

There was a body in the park one afternoon, back when we were kids. Martin and I sprinted home to tell Dad, our schoolbags bumping against our backs. I could hear my blood pounding in my eardrums like footsteps. Dad walked back with us, but there was nothing. Martin and I took turns to lie down in the man’s cold imprint on the grass.

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Anglerfish – by Siobhan Hodge
Poetry Siobhan Hodge Poetry Siobhan Hodge

Anglerfish – by Siobhan Hodge

She is coming to haunt us –

an ascending angel, serrated black pillow slip,

her beacon dim as her starblind eyes

She belongs to another world, a night away, swimming closer

for one last gasp.

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New purpose – by Alex Bennetts
Fiction Alex Bennetts Fiction Alex Bennetts

New purpose – by Alex Bennetts

She tried her hand at pottery, indoor rock climbing, bonsai. Her palms showed the work of these dalliances, but they always, in tangential ways, recalled the honeymoon. The smashed vase on the bathroom tiles. The unnaturally-biceped man inviting the newlyweds to his room; her husband’s fury. The fronds of the trees that she stood under, waiting for a bus that never arrived. Stems of island ferns cracking in the storm.

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Improving the area – by Keith Goh Johnson
Fiction Keith Goh Johnson Fiction Keith Goh Johnson

Improving the area – by Keith Goh Johnson

Nerys sent another jewelled fruit cake this year with an invitation to spend the holidays with her in Ullapool. Kind of her to remember me and who knows? One day I might go. They’re tearing down all the tenements in Caledonia Road to build high-rise flats. If they continue with all the other streets there might not be anywhere else to go. Improving the area. One can but laugh.

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My fisherman – by Scott-Patrick Mitchell
Poetry Scott-Patrick Mitchell Poetry Scott-Patrick Mitchell

My fisherman – by Scott-Patrick Mitchell

I know you in the brine-infused sea

an open wound that carries you away

into aquamarine photographs bouncing

between satellites before beamed

to my bed, a wreck where your touch

a ghost waiting to come hitch Anchorage

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Rescue – by Toby Davidson
Poetry Toby Davidson Poetry Toby Davidson

Rescue – by Toby Davidson

I hang out with what I suppose is your ghost

and call you by only the last of your names,

I in my new place and you in yours.

It’s waggling bliss before recall and what took you

snarl in combined from the teeth of an ocean

too broad to tear around, comical hound.

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a natural sort of being – by Miriam Jones
Nonfiction Miriam Jones Nonfiction Miriam Jones

a natural sort of being – by Miriam Jones

At home we were a newborn, a toddler, a man, and a non-binary me. For three months we lived outside of normal time and normal social life. The privatised home is not known for nurturing gender improvisation. Some things known to take place within the home are the unwaged feminised labour of social reproduction, and domestic violence. But for me the parental leave bubble was a quiet place, away from the sharp and assured gender infrastructure of the outside world. 

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with flowers – by Alexander Bennetts
Poetry Alex Bennetts Poetry Alex Bennetts

with flowers – by Alexander Bennetts

If you hide behind a mixed bouquet you can get out of a tram fine. You can get out of small talk when you’re hoarding grief like a bundle of paper straws. With flowers, your headshot could be a botanist’s pin-up.

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An Island of Dogs – by Ronald Araña Atilano
Poetry Ronald Araña Atilano Poetry Ronald Araña Atilano

An Island of Dogs – by Ronald Araña Atilano

Everyone had left after the typhoons,
says our boatman. Only two dogs live here—

they wander aimlessly through mudflats,
along the empty beach. See them come to the water

to meet us, tails wagging as soon as boat touches sand,
eyes leaping as we disembark.

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Good for nothing – by Winnie Dunn
Fiction Winnie Dunn Fiction Winnie Dunn

Good for nothing – by Winnie Dunn

Powerlines hum as heat and dusk swirl together. Gah-gah-gah go the galahs. Pick bits of twigs, grains of dirt and fragments of gum leaves out of the underside of my calves. Problems. Wipe sweat off my upper lip. Problems. Jumping at the clash of fly screen back door, I can’t help but think: No money, all problems. Shadow of an afro carrying a loaded basket floats under a rusty Hills Hoist. Sirens sound in the distance like cicadas. Flash of a red ‘overdue’ stamp searing in my mind’s eye.

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