Scent of Grass Death
By Chris Hansen. In the morning, often of a weekend, the sounds of mowers could be heard as far as you might wish to travel through the suburbs. My father’s mower was a Victa. Tried trusty and true it kept … Continued
Killing Passion
By Stephane Vander Bruggen. I was standing on the podium, holding the winner’s cup in both hands and looking up at the sky. This one is for you, Pépé (Grandpa). I could not stop a tear from rolling down my … Continued
Nothing Happened
By Sioux Patullo. I was seen by no one today. No one was witness to anything that I did, nor heard anything I had to say. Maybe the neighbour spied me taking out the rubbish but took no notice. I … Continued
To hold the line
By Polly Lisa Bennett. The gymnastics beam as metaphor The beam was not my choice. I did not choose to be good at it. It chose me. The bars were my choice. The flow, the rhythm, the swing. So … Continued
Two blocks and a lifetime away: reflections on the passing of Samba-cat
24 January Just over a year ago I moved into Geelong West. At the time I wasn’t sure what was next. I just knew I didn’t want to go back to my Footscray flat or Melbourne. As my friends … Continued
The Harder They Fall
By Natalie Fraser. The man with the weepy eye is in my spot. I give him the finger and he mumbles something under his breath, unconcerned, not looking at me but at the footpath, as if he didn’t know it … Continued
For King and Country!
By Judy Rankin. 1916 – King George V was on the throne. The ‘war to end all wars’ was raging through Europe, and the ‘mother country’ called for more of our fit and healthy to join the ranks on the … Continued
“Winter is coming”
As announced on Games of Thrones, “Winter is coming”, but instead of walking icicles, we are threatened with extinction by bouncing droplets. I curse the infection, I condemn to Hell the prevaricators and politicos who have made our lives so miserable, and … Continued
‘Tis The Season
‘Tis the season to be quite jolly, rather merry and to take a break from the writing life. But then, there’s that itch at the end of one’s fingers, a keyboard tapping away by itself at midnight, or the pages of one’s journal aching to be filled and satisfied.