The only fish – by Ben Walter
Nonfiction Ben Walter Nonfiction Ben Walter

The only fish – by Ben Walter

The first fish I catch as a child is a flathead. I’m leaning over the side of the boat with my red toy fishing rod, mind drifting wherever a tiny mind does, when I notice a fish at the end of the white string line. Confused, I turn to my dad. ‘Is that … the bait?’ I ask, before seeing that it is a real, actual flathead, and I have somehow caught it.

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The miracle – by Nadia Mahjouri
Fiction Nadia Mahjouri Fiction Nadia Mahjouri

The miracle – by Nadia Mahjouri

Lori believed in miracles. But not the sort them God-botherers bang on about – Dad told her they were all just a bunch of hippa–critts, all fancy hats and hell fire. And anyways, Lori didn’t want their sort of miracles - the type you had to beg for, and wait for, and hope for, and deserve. No, the miracles Lori believed in were the ones she saw every day: the pink soft blossom that swelled and swelled until it was a red ripe apple, the insides of the egg that turned from breakfast to a fluffy chick simply by waiting warm under its mother’s wings.

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Visitor Ghazal – by Megan Cartwright
Poetry Megan Cartwright Poetry Megan Cartwright

Visitor Ghazal – by Megan Cartwright

In its practised temperance the monks’ routine compels sleep –

yet in this land I have no language; I cannot spell sleep.

 

Outsider – conspicuous. I imitate reverence.

I count sheep. In the dark my heart pounds like a death knell: sleep.

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The ballet school – by Helena Gjone
Nonfiction Helena Gjone Nonfiction Helena Gjone

The ballet school – by Helena Gjone

After the longest hour of my life, Galina, our classical teacher, bursts through the door clutching a sheet of paper. Everyone sits up a little straighter. The room goes silent with anticipation, the wall clock ticking. My Australian dance teachers would have taken this moment to remind us ‘how much progress we’ve made this year,’ and ‘how proud I am to be your teacher’. Results would be handed out individually. But Galina doesn’t waste time with politeness or sentimental speeches, simply unfolding the paper and reading marks aloud for the entire class to hear.

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Chrysalis – by Lachlan Plain
Fiction Lachlan Plain Fiction Lachlan Plain

Chrysalis – by Lachlan Plain

I was raised on an island of rock surrounded by a sea of sand. Every evening a fine dust blew in from the coast, down the city streets, entering our homes through chinks in our curtains and settling on our tablecloths. Our skin was caked in it. Our lungs were lined with the grit of it.

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Great flying soar and in command – by Lily Chan
Nonfiction Lily Chan Nonfiction Lily Chan

Great flying soar and in command – by Lily Chan

My brother’s name is Haoren. It means great flying, soar, esteem, in command. His name is Bob when he orders takeaway. Nobody mishears Bob. Nobody checks Bob’s ID. Bob has no history and is taken at face value. He has the cheekbones of a deathless vampire from a K-pop band, honed from evening climbs of Jacob’s Ladder, 242 unbroken concrete steps showing a panoramic view of King’s Park in Perth.

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Dhanggal Bawagal: Mussel Sisters – by Michelle Vlatkovic
Nonfiction Michelle Vlatkovic Nonfiction Michelle Vlatkovic

Dhanggal Bawagal: Mussel Sisters – by Michelle Vlatkovic

Long before Jesus, my family always travelled from Biridja when it was warm but not hot. When the chill had begun to melt away from the days and the mornings had no frost, Yulawirri’s family walked from Weetalabah Creek. We all camped with other clans by the Baawan at Burriiwarranha. My mother prepared fish our way, pulling out the guts and covering the outside with mud. Yulawirri’s mother worked her flour into damper with water. Ready for the fire, they dug a hole then buried the food in hot coals. We ate as the sun went down.

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The mystery of the lost hours – by Sue Brennan
Fiction Sue Brennan Fiction Sue Brennan

The mystery of the lost hours – by Sue Brennan

How far is it between me and the barn? How many steps? Will my spittle reach that rock? If I walk towards it with my eyes closed, will I stumble? How far will my voice travel? Will it reach Dad in his office? Will he look up from his writing and say, ‘What’s that stupid girl up to now?’ and go back to work?

‘Joey,’ he calls out the window after some time. ‘Get in here now.’

If I cry one of those open-mouth sobs, will I even hear myself?

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Masters – by Andrei Seleznev
Fiction Andrei Seleznev Fiction Andrei Seleznev

Masters – by Andrei Seleznev

The novel was in Russian, that was the problem. Everyone else in my book club had a translation, but I’d wanted to show off, not realising my mother tongue had atrophied. I wasn’t even halfway through. The other problem was that reading Russian on the train felt suspect. What if passengers clocked on to the Cyrillic? I imagined absurd scenes: is that really and how dare you, angry calls to my employer. Only my train crush, two seats ahead in impeccable slacks, wouldn’t care. She’d be unflappable.

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The libraries we must enter, the songs we will sing – by Jamil Badi
Nonfiction Jamil Badi Nonfiction Jamil Badi

The libraries we must enter, the songs we will sing – by Jamil Badi

Since the 14th century, the griots have been the human archives of many West African communities. The responsibilities of the griot are rooted in the importance of oral storytelling as a way of preserving and passing on history. Like the saying suggests, griots would collect and memorise the history of their communities, sharing the collective past through poetry, music, and performance. Before history was written and typed, it was spoken and sung in the form of stories.

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Girl/Monster – by Simmone Howell
Nonfiction Simmone Howell Nonfiction Simmone Howell

Girl/Monster – by Simmone Howell

Once, after I’d grown pubic hair, I slathered Mum’s Nair all over it. This was in the early 1980s. I don’t know how it is now, but back then Nair smelled like nothing else. The results were unsatisfactory: only some of the hair came off and what was left looked like splinters. Looking down at the mess, I can remember feeling estranged from my body. I wanted to go back to a time when I wasn’t so obviously disgusting, but of course this was impossible.

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Words inside words – by Ouyang Yu
Nonfiction Ouyang Yu Nonfiction Ouyang Yu

Words inside words – by Ouyang Yu

It’s 7.30am. Dark, becoming light. Lighter. Had a dream last night. Several. Only one that I can remember. Driving a vehicle several storeys high. Through the city. Lost on the way. For years, I have been living like a shadow. A shadow critic. A shadow novelist. A shadow poet. Living like a word inside a word. A shadow word. I once did a translation for a client and delivered it in my usual fast and efficient manner. But she refused to pay, suggesting that my work could have easily been done by Google Translate. Instead of asking for money, I got a debt collector to act on my behalf without first prompting her. Soon enough, I got my money back, minus the collector’s commission.

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The Edit / An Edit – by Michael Farrell
Poetry Michael Farrell Poetry Michael Farrell

The Edit / An Edit – by Michael Farrell

Immanence redirected. The infrastructure of the edgelord and the snowflake are the same.

Can power be generally oppressive? Up in the trees, radically outside the gift economy, radically outside bricolage. Read this sentence. Read this sentence linguistically. Tampering mid-ride.

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Paan – by Josefina Huq
Fiction Josefina Huq Fiction Josefina Huq

Paan – by Josefina Huq

Our mother is bursting through doors, breathlessly dropping pieces of jewellery across the floor whenever they are not working with her shalwar kameez. She has changed three times, has settled on a blue one that doesn’t suit her at all. To tell her would be fatal. Years later she will wear one again, for a solemn occasion , and it will remind her of nights like this. She will trick herself into missing these nights.

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Snakes in the valleys, in their hair – by Ben Walter
Nonfiction Ben Walter Nonfiction Ben Walter

Snakes in the valleys, in their hair – by Ben Walter

Once, I was walking on a ridge and lightning was sparkling peaks to the east and the west, while a white spear of cloud hurtled straight for us. We found the top of the mountain, felt its texture through our boots, stared at the views, then turned and ran through an explosion of rain that was dark in the fury of its clouds, that swapped the sweat from our faces with its own jealous wet. Going was the only thing to do, but it still felt a terrible idea, because we’d have to leave the top of the mountain. There were still views. We could still see.

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