Type
Fiction
Category
Fiction
Kuracca Prize

Kuracca Prize Winner | Great Grandmother Arrabrilya

I am waiting for another dreamer to come down from that Arrabrilya there. I don’t know who it is yet. I don’t know their skin or songs, or when they’ll be here, but I’ll wait just the same. They’ll bring stories and tokens from their dreaming days on that Arrabrilya. I will greet them with ritual.

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Type
Article
Category
Kuracca Prize
Memoir

Kuracca Prize Runner-Up | Me, the (failed) revolutionary

For a second, the tired-grey-suit-guy sees me. They stand up. Their body is tackled down into submission.  Their body, crumpled on the ground, is yanked away by the arm of the policeman. Their eyes meet my eyes as they are…

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Type
Article
Category
Kuracca Prize
Poetry

Kuracca Prize Runner-up | The grief tourist

They called you nameless, but you are my many named where foreground, midground, background fold in on one another like black hole time, black time, bush time, way out back that way time

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Type
Essay

Coming through ceremony

The story goes that a writer, and wannabe singer, dancer and actor (who screamed like Screamin’ Jay Hawkins and pivoted like James Brown), and a real actor and wannabe director (you might know her from such TV shows as Prisoner, The Flying Doctors, and the cult film Little Miss Wonder), met at the Black Playwright’s conference in 1989 in Canberra.

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Type
Essay
Category
Work
Workers' rights

The bridge and the fire

I want to begin by acknowledging the enduring loss experienced by those whose family members, loved ones and workmates died in Australia’s worst industrial accident. I started on the West Gate Bridge well after the collapse, and I often wondered if only those there on the day could fully comprehend the human dimensions of its tragedy.

Type
Fiction
Category
Fiction
Kuracca Prize

Kuracca Prize Winner | Great Grandmother Arrabrilya

I am waiting for another dreamer to come down from that Arrabrilya there. I don’t know who it is yet. I don’t know their skin or songs, or when they’ll be here, but I’ll wait just the same. They’ll bring stories and tokens from their dreaming days on that Arrabrilya. I will greet them with ritual.

Online soon. In the meantime, subscribe to Overland.
Type
Fiction

Green thumb

Out at the rubbish tip, she was first to spot the old caravan. It sat proud amid the twisted swing-sets, crushed white dishwashers, and dejected hot water systems. ‘If you fix it up maybe we can go up north next winter, Jase?’ Jason was always up for bringing new life where others had abandoned hope. ‘The world has gone mad with all this stuff,’ he’d often say. ‘Why we need all this shit is beyond me.’

Type
Fiction
Category
Fiction

Ritual

We live in a hotel now. Well, for the moment anyway. Until Thursday. Until the money runs out. Everything smells like mushrooms. People come and go, with their conferences and morning corporate functions. This morning, when we filled up on our complimentary breakfast in the small dining room for guests, I felt someone’s eyes on me and curled my lip. The animal in me rising.

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Type
Fiction
Category
Fiction

see you later

Jess tossed and turned in her bed. Far away, she imagined thick sleeves of bull kelp sucking against limestone cliffs. The sea was restless, spreading itself over the crumbling city grid where vehicles dunked and flipped. Houses turned to flotsam as the Earth blinked, the eye of the storm turned away from the sun. There was no Moon—everything was churning liquid, rubbery darkness. She had sunk to the ocean floor, head firmly anchored to the pillow.

Type
Poetry
Category
Poetry

Among the quietening air

We slow down enough to grow a patch of moss on our legs where the shade lives longest. Do not look away. We are growing through the most alarming of days.

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Type
Poetry
Category
Poetry

The dead sea

We went to the Dead Sea but I didn’t bring my bathers so I couldn’t go in. I had to watch on the shore, I didn’t know then I’d never be back. I was young. I thought rivers and seas and skies lasted forever.

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Type
Poetry
Category
Poetry

Backseat driving

on the carpet at the rear of the family car juddering engine our throats to the night sky with mum green in the face from the dash light long roads thrum bodies still heads

Type
Poetry
Category
Poetry

until it was memory

i am grieving for this wolf         hole where her heart should be          my cloak dyed red from her blood       regret washes off my hand         who holds her now that the hole          has become a stone      so heavy

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Type
Poetry
Category
Poetry

The coffee coffee drinks

‘Fortis ut mors dilectio’ — from the Song of Solomon, as inscribed on a necklace my grandfather gave my grandmother on their engagement.

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Type
Poetry
Category
Poetry

Graphology restoration 20

I heard phrases I don’t recall having heard before when pied butcherbirds sang outside my sleep of a morning as indefinite article. Still troubled by the behaviours of a friend when we were catching reflections off a deep sacred lake

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Type
Poetry
Category
Poetry

Graphology restoration 17: name rename name ... term

No claim in the name ‘Jam Tree Gully’ — rather, a personal and familial association of presence which is neither assertion nor acquiescence. There are jam trees. There is a gully. No names displayed on gates.

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