By James Aitchison The bush is old and dark and full of slopes, The trees grow ragged here, forlorn and still, And bracken too conspires to blur the hill And mask the shafts where men clung to their hopes. And when evening's light begins to wane, And secrets darken in this crooked ground, I often … Continue reading An Old Goldfield
Hissy Fit
By Glen Donaldson Sssssssssssssssssssss. Lenny Harris knew that sound like he recognised the sound of his own daughter’s voice. Air escaping from the front tire of a bicycle was never a good thing. Especially never good when you were here, where he was. A funny feeling was already beginning to creep up his leg. Lenny, … Continue reading Hissy Fit
After Bushfire
By Julie Holland Bushfire came through Evil as devil may be No thing, nor thought, spared Just a trail of black Shapes rising to ether To sapphire sky, to smoke and sour Young and tender wind, a calling to Green, that pulls life from ash Look at that Dad, said the child A rescue helicopter … Continue reading After Bushfire
Cold Love
By Katie Lane Dei Originally published by cc&d magazine at scars.tv I step out of the warm Australian bungalow and am slapped in the face by a gust of cold air. I pull the collar of my jacket up higher and my beanie down lower. I squint my eyes and see her standing there in front … Continue reading Cold Love
Poems by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad
Skittles with planets An amethyst, he said slamming down the prayer beads. talking above the nauseous fumes of camphor and incense he drew skewed circles intersecting subsets - seventeen of them jotting numbers on a paper that presumably charted the rebel trajectory of all the wayward moons and wastrel stars that had driven me to … Continue reading Poems by Oormila Vijayakrishnan Prahlad
“Nanna’s Sunday Lunch”
By Karen Trappett Every Sunday of my youth was spent in Nanna’s old Queenslander at Sandgate for the ubiquitous Sunday lunch. I didn’t even know there was a beach near her house until much later, which was a shame, I could have used the escape; but as a single digit kid, I had no … Continue reading “Nanna’s Sunday Lunch”
“The Pass”
By Karen Trappett Byron kept his kitchen fastidiously clean; his pride and joy, and his livelihood. The stainless-steel countertops gleamed from constant rubbing and buffering between sittings and the copper-bottomed pots shimmered under the bright halogen downlights - placed with regimented precision above the work surface. Taking off his chef’s hat and placing it … Continue reading “The Pass”
Academy of the Heart And Mind 