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Short Story

1.

Growing up, my brother and I lived with Dad in a Housing Commission flat among a row of identical flats. Back in those days, we played Greatest Hits of the 70s through a subwoofer on the back deck. During the guitar solo in ‘Bohemian Rhapsody’ we howled over the music and the neighbourhood dogs followed our lead ...

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Jolley Prize 2019 (Shortlisted): 'Miracle Windows'

Raaza Jamshed
Tuesday, 27 August 2019

The call of a bansuri rising to her window from the street below awakens Mehr. It is a crooked call; the initial notes, delicate and malleable, make all the right turns inside the hollow of a bamboo reed, but soon miss the swivel that all sounds must make to morph into melodies. The magic that happens between a human mouth and a ...

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'The Point-Blank Murder'

Sonja Dechian
Tuesday, 27 August 2019

The sunset is orange, the sky scattered with clouds. We’re eating pumpkin and lentil soup out of bowls from home. I didn’t think it was necessary to bring them, the cupboards here are well stocked, but Irene insisted. She says they’re the perfect size. Also, she read in her online mother’s group that the glaze on old crockery often contains lead ...

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'Anything Remarkable', a new story by Josephine Rowe

Josephine Rowe
Friday, 05 July 2019

Certain days: it is easy to imagine this small, once-prosperous river town (barely distinct from many other small, once prosperous river towns) as if you are only passing through it, shunpiking the thruways in favour of the scenic rural two-lanes on a road trip in your better, your best life. The life in which your formidable boxer-turned-human-rights-lawyer wife has simply pointed to this town on a much misfolded map and declared: Here, lunch.

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'Metal language', a new story by Beejay Silcox

Beejay Silcox
Tuesday, 23 April 2019

I am a girl who knows how to hold a gun. On weekends, Dad drives me out to the pistol club, while Mum pulls white-sapped weeds from the garden. She plants natives that can handle the salt in the air; angular, bristling plants with angular, bristling names: banksia, grevillea, bottlebrush. A line of Geraldton Wax along the verge to replace some mean and blighted ...

The Hair

Tom wasn’t supposed to bring the wig home; it was peeled from his scalp like a banana skin every night. Then it was arranged on a faceless polystyrene head that sat in front of his dressing room mirror.

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'Joan Mercer's Fertile Head', a new story by S.J. Finn

SJ Finn
Thursday, 29 November 2018
When the urge unearthed itself, Joan Mercer was at the sink washing dishes, her husband’s egg cup and her children’s cereal bowls. She flicked the soapsuds from her hands and crossed the kitchen, going out through the sliding doors and onto the wooden deck. There, she contemplated the garden. In the corner of the backyard, jonquils were blooming. But it wasn’t these that drew her over the lawn. It was the jacaranda tree. It was calling to her. ... (read more)

'Hardflip', a new story by Mirandi Riwoe

Mirandi Riwoe
Thursday, 29 November 2018
The roofing gives a little under his weight but Oskar’s not afraid of heights when he’s on his skateboard. He can see his friends below. Gav has his camera ready and Amadi gives him the thumbs up. ... (read more)

Jolley Prize 2018 (Shortlisted): 'Ruins' by Madelaine Lucas

Madelaine Lucas
Thursday, 26 July 2018

In the car we wound around the bay, which, on the map, made the shape of an ear with a tear-shaped island off the coast like a jewel earring. My mother and I were going to see the lighthouse out on the cape – or what was left of it anyway, which was not much, she told me, but stones and rubble ...

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It was the first thing she noticed: all the clocks had stopped. She only mentioned it when she was shown to the dining table and the woman – his grandmother – placed in front of her a glass of bandung, bright pink and sweating. Thanking her, she held the glass, the chill of it shocking the heat of her palm ...

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