My phone buzzed and I rolled over to pick it up from its little docking station on the bedside table. The text message read, ‘Weak move, Nasra.’ It was my boss. I was trying to get fired, but Bruno was determined to drag things out for as long as possible. I had sent him a message last night telling him that I wouldn’t be coming into work this morning and that I didn’t feel like finding someone to cover my shift.

A woman deals with a mysterious affliction. A couple invite new friends over for dinner. A young man faces his own guilt after a terrible event. A woman and her new lover visit a terminally ill former lover. In each of these very different stories there is a confrontation. A truth is revealed, but often the truth is a terrible, strange and unwelcome thing.

When I meet new people they often ask me where I’m from. Sometimes I say Melbourne; other times I say Africa. Both claims are equally true. Like many people, I grew up between two cultures. My identity has always been something I could not pin down with any accuracy.