In the River – by Searlait O’Neill
Nonfiction Searlait O'Neill Nonfiction Searlait O'Neill

In the River – by Searlait O’Neill

St Mary drowned in the floods.

It can be strange seeing objects drown. The eye isn’t looking for movements, because there never were any to begin with. What is the eye looking for?

It was a white marble, her rock body. And it seemed to represent something.

The salt pillar?

Muteness?

All our lost souls watching on?

The cathedral was flooded, but they hosed it out.

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Sandcastles – by Ruth Armstrong
Fiction Ruth Armstrong Fiction Ruth Armstrong

Sandcastles – by Ruth Armstrong

WINNER, OLGA MASTERS SHORT STORY AWARD 2022

Rumi doesn’t know how long he’s been on the beach. He’s not sunburnt, thanks to his yellow and red lycra stinger suit. He’s not particularly thirsty either. The only sign that time has passed is the collection of identical sandcastles lined up in evenly spaced rows fanning back from the shore – each moulded into the turreted shape of his plastic beach bucket … When the tide goes out it will leave his creations pale and brittle in the sun, and by the following morning they will be gone – no trace of them amongst the stingray holes and fragments of chalky bleached coral …

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The Mowing – by Ivy Ireland
Fiction Ivy Ireland Fiction Ivy Ireland

The Mowing – by Ivy Ireland

WINNER, OLGA MASTERS SHORT STORY AWARD 2021

That cloud looks more like a squished chicken than a dragon. Not a dragon day, then. Nothing auspicious. No signs or portents. Just an up-ended moon beside a squished chicken cloud, which is fast turning into a pile of dog turds. I close the blind before the sun rises above the tree line. I pour a coffee but don’t drink it. I wander in and out of my bedroom, but don’t change out of my crushed and sweaty PJs. I head outside and walk up the long, dusty drive to bring in the bins … I itch for a ciggie. No. As bad as things are, I’ve still got that one giant refusal to cling to …

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In the Archives – by Keely Jobe
Fiction Keely Jobe Fiction Keely Jobe

In the Archives – by Keely Jobe

It’s as if the place is hermetically sealed. Left outside is a pelting rain, gushing pipes, greasy water surging over gutters and traffic islands, slopping into sandals and brogues, umbrellas sucked inside out like marrow from a bone, office workers jammed in alcoves with hands wrapped around takeaway coffees, waiting for the lights to go green. Also barred from entry, the petrichor and panic, the blaring horns, the hot-wet stickiness of a late spring storm. None of that has made it past the door. Once inside, you’re floating in white space … 

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Hawksbill – by Grace Heathcote
Nonfiction Grace Heathcote Nonfiction Grace Heathcote

Hawksbill – by Grace Heathcote

The turtle registers our presence with a flick of an eye, but does not pause. We are crouched so close we can see the salt-crust around her eyes, the dark-and-light patchwork of her face, the soft wrinkles on her neck. She watches us as we watch her. Where do we fit, I imagine her thinking: friend or foe?
Her strong back flippers scoop the sand to create a deep pit. Surprisingly dextrous, they stretch into the cavity and cup the sand carefully to lift it out …

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A Thin, Brilliant Line – by Lal Perera
Fiction Lal Perera Fiction Lal Perera

A Thin, Brilliant Line – by Lal Perera

According to Mandy, the things we imagine are as important as the things that are real. I imagine if our house had no roof back then, a bird could look down and see the three of us in front of the TV: Dad lying along the length of the grey couch, me on the brown one, and then, once Mandy had done stretching herself out on the floor, the bird would see us making the shape of an arrow, and the arrow would point to the door …

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Woonoongoora – by Caroline Gardam
Nonfiction Caroline Gardam Nonfiction Caroline Gardam

Woonoongoora – by Caroline Gardam

The sun snuffs early and arrives late. Dawn is tardy, slow and defiant: a gentle light finally emerging, lightening – any birdsong chorus drowned by the rush of creek over rocks below, to the north. It’s a full three hours from first light to when winter rays deign to glitter the creek. Facing this little hut is a wall of green – an entire forest shuddering down from what we call a bluff because we think the name Fort is dumb for a proud outcrop. It’s part of the ridge along the scenic rim, of which I know nothing, but you gotta start somewhere …

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The River Path – by Tadhg Muller
Fiction Tadhg Muller Fiction Tadhg Muller

The River Path – by Tadhg Muller

The rain came. Long steady sheets etching the sky in diagonal lines, the first glimpse of winter, a hint of cold in the air, and the street desolate. The rain fell on murky cobbles that mirrored the clouds. A dead-end town. Nowhere. Like a hazardous reef for a ship that you dragged your body onto, not sure of how, or why. You ended up marooned, sipping calvados and chewing on rillettes and torn warm baguette – at least I did. 

We were caught by the downpour en route to another imaginary location, traversing the town in ever-expanding spirals, on the laneway, through the field, up the river and onto the ridge, until we reached a point of exhaustion and turning back. We’d taken to doing this time and time again, as the day came to an end, as it started to fade – our strange evening walks …

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Objects of Illness/Recovery – by Anna Jacobson and Katerina Bryant
Nonfiction Anna Jacobson and Katerina Bryant Nonfiction Anna Jacobson and Katerina Bryant

Objects of Illness/Recovery – by Anna Jacobson and Katerina Bryant

As rainwater seeped through the laminate flooring, I piled my objects onto my bed: an antique out-of-tune zither, my books, a woven rainbow rug that had made my room my home. I lost none of these objects, but I did lose my shelving, which drank up water through its base. I also lost my room at the rental that had housed all my things – the doorway warped with water damage and was no longer safe to inhabit. I stayed with a friend for two-and-a-half weeks while I tried to find a new place to live. My objects were splayed across three different suburbs, and I felt fractured: one part at the old share house – safe if the disintegrating ship of the bed could hold – another part in a suitcase at a friend’s house, and a third split lifeline to my parents’ home. I wore my hamsa ring – silver hand with larimar stone at its centre – to ward off the evil eye. I needed spiritual protection, wanted to feel safe …

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Strokes of White – by Julian Fell
Fiction Julian Fell Fiction Julian Fell

Strokes of White – by Julian Fell

(Image: Tim Storrier 2023, Twighlight Blaze Line - detail. Full image appears with the story, reproduced with permission of the artist.)

Red clay crumbles underfoot as two poles are driven deep into the earth. Sal Bridle, shirtless and sweaty, fastens a thick rope between them. He coats it in lacquer, and, with the conviction of a man inspired, strikes a match. Fire dances across the length of the rope until it is reduced to embers. Only once it has finished burning does he realise that he should have waited. No matter.
With his easel positioned in the shade thrown by his ute, Bridle spends the next couple of hours setting out the lay of the land: the twin peaks that loom over him, an expansive sky, a black band of horizon that sucks a bank of clouds towards its vanishing point …Then, with a single free-flowing stroke of white, he sets the rope alight …

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The Dark House – by Emma Yearwood
Nonfiction Emma Yearwood Nonfiction Emma Yearwood

The Dark House – by Emma Yearwood

I have taken to leaving the ceiling fan on all night due to an unnerving premonition that the air will set like jelly and I will no longer be able to breathe. The solution – I must stir it, stir it, keep the air in constant motion.

This house is older and darker, more closed in, than I’m used to – like chocolate, like soil humus, like dog fart. I am used to light and airy spaces, where the wind rattles about and you may as well be outside; I am used to a feeling of un-containment …

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The Blue Fox – by Michael Burrows
Fiction Michael Burrows Fiction Michael Burrows

The Blue Fox – by Michael Burrows

“We create our own London; build our own streets and design our own St Pauls, but always, on the fringes, something lurks: crying in the night, knocking over dustbins, tearing out our hearts.”


… some nights there’d be screaming on Regent Street, or back-alley fights about stupid things, my jealousy or your pride, and London would drop away into inky darkness. What Estable would call ‘Piccadilly’s gaping maw’ would open and swallow us whole, and, dumb rabbits that we were, we’d skip hand-in-hand into the darkness, scoffing the breadcrumbs that would have guided us home …

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Lines of Location – by Johanna Ellersdorfer
Nonfiction Johanna Ellersdorfer Nonfiction Johanna Ellersdorfer

Lines of Location – by Johanna Ellersdorfer

… With each step I take, webs come in and out of focus. Light-jewelled threads like small nets in the night sky. Looking upwards towards an opening in a leafy hedge, I see a spider begin to build its web. It starts as a single line, like unspooled thread, taut and bright in the light of the street lamp. The spider glides back and forth between other lines I can barely see, and then starts to join them into an intricate mesh.

Compared to the spider, my hands are clumsy. I have tried to stitch the night sky in a series of loops and knots, copying patterns designed by a Scottish woman who, the century before last, moved around this country with her engineer husband …

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How to Kill a Pea – by Lara Keys
Fiction Lara Keys Fiction Lara Keys

How to Kill a Pea – by Lara Keys

Twins! Adorable! Like two peas in a pod.

People say shit like that when they meet me and Mary. Well, old people say it. Kids wouldn’t. It’s stupid.

Mary smiles at them. Bang! Be. Ee. Ay. Em. A full-on blowtorch. That grin is squint-eyes kinda bright. She turns it on in an instant because she knows she’s beautiful.

I don’t smile.

I’m something else.

Shit. Not two peas at all. That is one perfect pea and that, that is one garbage pea …

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How to Build a Brother – by Helena Pantsis
Nonfiction Helena Pantsis Nonfiction Helena Pantsis

How to Build a Brother – by Helena Pantsis

My brother is a creature slowly falling apart … He first breaks a bone in Year 8 when a football hits his hand and fractures his thumb in a thin, painful line down the bone. Our school doesn’t have a nurse, just a bursar with a first aid kit, so he is sent back to class to write with his broken thumb, to return to PE in his bright-purple sports uniform. He falls apart in these ways so subtly it’s hard to remember we are all fading, slowly …

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Selfish Ghosts – by Heather Taylor-Johnson
Nonfiction Heather Taylor-Johnson Nonfiction Heather Taylor-Johnson

Selfish Ghosts – by Heather Taylor-Johnson

WINNER, ISLAND NONFICTION PRIZE 2022

It’s 1978–79 and in an abandoned warehouse in New York City, at a diner slightly out-of-focus, on a crowded subway pistoling through Brooklyn, seen pissing in a toilet in a dilapidated cubicle is Arthur Rimbaud. Rimbaud’s in Coney Island and at the Hudson River sex piers. He’s shooting up heroin. He is masturbating. He is pointing at Jesus graffitied on a wall. He is holding a gun to his head …

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Sudden, Temporary Deaths – by Chris Fleming
Nonfiction Chris Fleming Nonfiction Chris Fleming

Sudden, Temporary Deaths – by Chris Fleming

SHORTLISTED, ISLAND NONFICTION PRIZE 2022

I had a dream last night that I could extend my arms and legs in any direction I wanted. At first, bending my forearm back past 180 degrees, I was sure it would dislocate; and it did – but only a little, like the nitrogen pop of cracking bones. I kept going and soon possessed complete flexion and extension. I discovered the more I bent my joints like this, the fewer dislocation pains there were, the quieter the pops. I moved on to incredible, disturbing yogic feats. And then, as I often do whenever I accomplish something impossible in a dream (unaided human flight, producing fresh juice inside my mouth to drink, passing my head through solid objects), the thought occurred to me:
anyone
can do this …

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Wingsets and Snowdrifts: A Subantarctic Year – by Emily Mowat
Nonfiction Emily Mowat Nonfiction Emily Mowat

Wingsets and Snowdrifts: A Subantarctic Year – by Emily Mowat

SHORTLISTED, ISLAND NONFICTION PRIZE 2022

It’s late December, and the subantarctic summer stretches out the daylight hours. On the slopes of the escarpment where the light-mantled albatross nest, egg hatching is imminent.
I approach one, sitting plump and pleased upon her scraped-together nest of mud and tussock. She’s as sleek as a Siamese cat, with slate-brown head fading seamlessly into a mantle of pale grey. Her crescent-moon eyes tell of pack ice and polar fronts.
I notice her stretching to gather scraps of grass within reach of her nest, and tucking them carefully under her body in preparation for her soon-to-hatch chick. Perhaps I shouldn’t, but I can’t help but proffer a dried grass stem myself, and, to my surprise, her powerful, hooked black bill delicately grasps it from my hand …

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The Long Daylight – by Jo Gardiner
Nonfiction Jo Gardiner Nonfiction Jo Gardiner

The Long Daylight – by Jo Gardiner

SHORTLISTED, ISLAND NONFICTION PRIZE 2022

2015. December. Diamond Beach.
That Christmas, I travelled north from the Blue Labyrinth up through the dairy country east of the Barrington Tops and turned into Failford Road where great smooth-barked apple gums gathered amber light into their limbs.
As I crested the last rise before the small town of Diamond Beach, a snatch of violet sea appeared. That night, I remembered its colour as I rode the steady thump of surf into sleep.
On that first morning, before I met my three brothers and sister, magpies gathered on the open grassland before the dunes in front of the cabin and poured light from their throats. The whipbird whistled up the sun.

Fully fledged, first light
appears – swoops out from night and
conjures up a world …

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Chaste – by Suri Matondkar
Nonfiction Suri Matondkar Nonfiction Suri Matondkar

Chaste – by Suri Matondkar

SHORTLISTED, ISLAND NONFICTION PRIZE 2022

I once lived in a city where the buildings stood too close, edges brushing like sardined shadows on public transport.
I lived in an apartment on the third floor, sharing a room with a pair of girls. We sat on that floor, arms outstretched on either side – wingless birds imitating flight – joking about how our fingers touched each end of the room without even trying.
Stuck in that cage of cement. A luxurious one. Western toilet with flush, shower we never switched on. Buckets stoically awaiting flood. A ceiling with a bulb and tube light. Never to be used during the day, even if the room was bathed in gloom, because light was only needed at night.
The front door was held together with a chain that anyone could unhook with a floating arm, desperate fingers scraping until the metal clicked apart. Perfect for surprise wellness checks to ensure we weren’t being dirty girls who would invite dishonour into the house …

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