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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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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Fluctuations in Landscape/Language/Lasagne - by Christine Howe
Nonfiction Christine Howe Nonfiction Christine Howe

Fluctuations in Landscape/Language/Lasagne - by Christine Howe

… here we are – writers, artists, geographers – on a bend in the river, talking about our shared coastlines. We tussle with the knowledge that the coastal areas we love are already experiencing the effects of climate change, and we brainstorm how we might create art that could help our communities envision a vastly different future. We talk, walk and write together …

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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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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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Endlings - by Harriet Riley
Nonfiction Harriet Riley Nonfiction Harriet Riley

Endlings - by Harriet Riley

In 1996 a correspondence published in Nature coined the term ‘endling’ to refer to an animal that was the last of its species. It’s a fantastical word, like something out of a fairytale. An endling lives deep in a dark forest beneath distant mountains, and can only been seen at midnight once every hundred years. In a way, this isn’t so far from the truth. Every now and then there’s a sighting of an animal, like the Australian night parrot, long thought extinct. But just as often we know exactly when and where the last member of a species died …

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Swift Parrot x Dark Mofo - by Zowie Douglas-Kinghorn
Nonfiction Zowie Douglas‐Kinghorn Nonfiction Zowie Douglas‐Kinghorn

Swift Parrot x Dark Mofo - by Zowie Douglas-Kinghorn

Sex and death on the eve of the winter solstice? I gulp as the ogoh-ogoh looms over me, ready to prey on my fears. The usually diminutive swift parrot (or Lathamus discolor) is rendered in behemoth glory as a papier-mâché Balinese sculpture. Beneath the parrot’s clawed foot is a small parcel made of palm leaf: a canang sari …

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Selling the Farm - by Nicole Gill
Nonfiction Nicole Gill Nonfiction Nicole Gill

Selling the Farm - by Nicole Gill

Nicole Gill on holding on, and letting go:
They’re selling our family farm. And I don’t think that I can stop it. I find out second-hand, from my brother. My mind skips over emotions like a stone across water – denial, anger, straight over bargaining, and into depression. How can this be? The Van Diemonian squattocracy ain’t what it used to be …

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hope thicks the air - by Viv Cutbush
Nonfiction Viv Cutbush Nonfiction Viv Cutbush

hope thicks the air - by Viv Cutbush

… It’s about the movement of water. Clay, silt, sand and gravel. The skin of a mountain ash tree. It’s about Joan of Arc and hope in the dark. It’s about the futility of words, except without words all we are left with is what goes unsaid …

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