Published in Overland Issue 217 Summer 2014 · Uncategorized Issue 217 Editorial team REGULARS Jeff Sparrow – Editorial Alison Croggon Mel Campbell Stephen Wright Giovanni Tiso Contributors FEATURES Khalid Warsame The authentic writer self CAL–Connections essay series Christopher Scanlon Happiness™ The dark side of positive psychology Jennifer Down The end Overcoming grief Kirsten Tranter Go, little book On being reviewed Tony McKenna The politics of deduction The secret of Sherlock Holmes Michael Brull A tale of two settler colonies Australia and Israel compared SAFDAR AHMED The Refugee Art Project Drawing behind the wire John McLaren Bias Australian? Revisiting Overland’s early decades FICTION prizes Jennifer Mills VU prize judges’ report Paddy O’Reilly Story Wine prize judges’ report FICTION Madelaine Lucas Dog story Michelle Wright Late change Kyra Giorgi The circle and the equator Leah Swann That inward eye Ali Alizadeh Samira was a terrorist POETRY John KInsella Emily Stewart Tim Thorne Beth Spencer Ben Walter Phillip Hall Nathan Curnow Brendan McDougall Mark O’Flynn Dusk Dundler Cassandra Atherton Martin Kovan ILLUSTRATIONS Léuli Eshraghi Lily Mae Martin Fikaris Mahla Karimiyan Sam Wallman Merv Heers Madina sayar Anton Pulvirenti Alwy fadhel COVER ART Richard Lewer Editorial team More by Editorial team › Overland is a not-for-profit magazine with a proud history of supporting writers, and publishing ideas and voices often excluded from other places. If you like this piece, or support Overland’s work in general, please subscribe or donate. Related articles & Essays 18 May 202618 May 2026 · Militarisation Sacrificed for the Pentagon: on Australia’s “security” crisis Gwenaël Velge The connection between the Jarrah Forest, the submarine base, and the data centres is not metaphorical. It is the three pillars of AUKUS, made material in a single city. Pillar III strips the forest to supply aluminium and gallium to the other two pillars, gutting environmental and water security. 15 May 2026 · Friday Fiction The structure Dominic Carew We made it to the park by eight. The winter sun was filtering through the far trees in a wan, lemon trickle, the thin clouds sheets of white. The cool sky a rubbed-at blue. The grass squelched beneath our feet and elsewhere, thinned from wear, the earth stretched grassless and muddy and, in some parts, released a thick mist.
