Television has always been a medium that brings people together. Even when watched alone, it is simulcast into millions of locations, bonding far-flung audiences in a shared zeitgeist. The idea of ‘water-cooler TV’ captures the sense in which we’ve understood TV as a medium experienced simultaneously and reflected upon immediately, among people whose social ties are otherwise loose. Digital technology has multiplied and amplified these loose ties.

For years now, I have listened to first-hand accounts of the dangers of being overly connected: strangers, acquaintances and friends who either lament their troubled relationship with the internet and its various contributing technologies – email, social media, smartphones, connectedness in general – or who report great benefits to their complexion and psychological health after spending time offline. I believe all these feelings to be plausible and true, even as I am sceptical about the sometimes tacit, often explicit claim that social activities carried out online are inherently less authentic.

Whether through place names, physical monuments or memorial events, the way a country celebrates its heritage sends strong political messages about its identity, as well as those of its inhabitants. It doesn’t take much to realise the symbolic power of historical monuments: some of the most powerful images of the last century show victorious crowds toppling statues of authoritarian leaders after an oppressive regime has collapsed; those doing the dismantling are fully aware that such monuments represent more than the individual depicted.

This sounds cheesy, and in a way it is. And sometimes it doesn’t work. A lifetime in a racist society is hardly undone by one conversation at a door, no matter how convincing. But it is drastically more effective than dismissing or lecturing. If I were to hazard a guess at how the left can win over right-wing voters – and, for that matter, Labor voters who need more than a simple alignment of policy positions with personal concerns – it would be in the articulation of a broad, transformative vision for changing society. This is otherwise known as a politics.

In 1995, comedian Denis Leary recorded a track called ‘Asshole’, a song about an all-American guy who likes ‘football and porno and books about war’. It concludes with a monologue: I’m gonna get myself a 1967 Cadillac Eldorado convertible Hot pink, with whale skin hubcaps

The tabloids revert to tired tropes: Stacey’s ‘heartbroken family’ had been unaware she was supporting herself by stripping; she was a ‘party girl’ whose friends had warned her against working at the club, described by News Corp as ‘a seedy underground den where drug use was rife’. In Daily Mail Australia, Antoinette Aparo, the sister of Salvatore, the club’s owner, insinuated Stacey’s own culpability: ‘I know strip clubs and I know the type of girls who work there.’

Shiḥa Jamaluddin flew*. (ṭar shiḥa.) The legendary hero flew to the battlefield

Often theatrical skills aren’t as valued as methodical ones & as our spending on apparel declines, retailers claim it’s the fault of the weather – tonight, it’s broiling & the drying

Toad in the garden, which is the same as a snake in Eden or a crack in a mirror. Inexpungable blot of evil but

the moment a tree consoles with its rooted stem that

Somewhere between spirit and appetite, a boy untangles teabag strings, lifts

The picnic moves in laconic circles the roast chook, dry and masticated, forms a pillow. Children aggravate ants at this rug’s

ENTRIP does not contain any safe benefits. It is not approved for use in hives of aggro child -ren. Yellow tongue, nose-bruising, swelling of the eyes

there is a species of tavern where drinkers make disparaging remarks about chinese immigrants. it is patronised by a squadron of pirates of otherwise sweet temperament,

we had a student from the middle kingdom stay with us for three weeks and she was perfectly happy here despite the multitudes of bullocks and a malfunctioning body scanner.

Cover and cartoons for this edition by comics journalist and labour organiser Sam Wallman.

Since learning that we are to lose $80,000 a year in funding from 2021, we’ve spent a lot of time reflecting on contemporary literary culture and its public perception. To put this figure in perspective, $80,000 is about three editions of the print magazine each year or three roles at the magazine (we only have four positions, or the equivalent of 2.2 full-time staff).

The victim’s stomach is filled with water. A hose is placed in the throat. A plank is then placed across the distended stomach. And the kempeitai soldiers, one on each end,

Afterwards, a counsellor came to school to follow us around. Her name was Klara. Our headmaster introduced her to our grade at assembly and told us why she was here, then at lunch she zeroed in on our table and came and plopped herself down, right next to me. I thought about messing with her, saying that I’d once strung Max along for months, pretending I was into him till I finally told him he was a loser, a weirdo, not worth my time.

On the southern edge of the Nullarbor we stop to stretch our legs and I find phone reception strong enough to call my father. ‘Look,’ he says, ‘have you considered changing your name?’ His messages have been banking up for several days as the tour weaves in and out of range. We haven’t spoken more than once, I know, since I got out of prison.

The stories submitted for the 2019 VU Short Story Prize were incredibly impressive. Even the long list I read would make an amazing snapshot of the short story in 2019. In the end, I chose the stories that moved something inside me – a twist that made my stomach drop, a perfectly imagined moment that moved me to tears, a clever wit that made me laugh out loud.

Sure enough, he would discover a patch of green grass in the grey dust, a shady willow springing out amongst the gumtrees like an oasis. Sometimes, they were able to hear the Darling River nearby if they paused in carving out arrows and swords for their next game.

One of the exciting aspects of reading the entries for this year’s Nakata Brophy Prize for Young Indigenous Writers was the breadth of writing, the range of voices, subjects and styles, which is reflected in this year’s winners.