Jack sometimes slept on his back, one arm flung across, face buried in the crook of his elbow. He lay still, hardly breathing. Their bedroom might have been any room, anywhere, but for the smell of wattle-blossom coming in through the fly-screen.
‘She keeps her eyes on me, but slowly her eyebrows come down and she mumbles, ‘I’m not a ganga.’ Then she unpacks her McChicken…’
In its long history Meanjin has had the honour of bringing some of Australia’s finest voices to readers—and what form could be so involving, so transportive, so seductive, as the short story?
Also Starring Bob Hawke as Himself [pdf-embedder url=”https://meanjin.com.au/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/ALANW.pdf”]
They laughed, uneasily. Every hour one or both looked out their kitchen window. The car remained parked, most likely with the man inside, but from the first floor of their space-age block they could not be sure.
Jesus-fucking-christ-what-a-stupid-fucking-cunt-of-a-thing. Keithy’s frog body slapping rock, air oomphing out of him. Snapped rope pinging. He posted up, back leg slipping. Wrong fucking side of the creek. Lantern, the boy, nursed his arm, shivering. Dirt and grass clumps in his hair. A wind gusting theremin. The swollen creek, a painter’s hand under a running tap, from brown to red. Algae blue green. Flood plain black. Ribs stinging. Could he jump it? No, no, no. Palm heeling his forehead. Tap, tap, tap. Could Lantern? Tap, tap, tap. Could he throw him? Bone discus spinning. No and fuck no. On the right side […]
A story based on the escape attempt of George ‘Billy’ Hunt from the convict jail at Port Arthur, Tasmania.
By the time mum pulls into the station, Levi is about ready to piss himself …
Fish and Bread by Jonathan Dunk
Miracles by Jennifer Mills
Saturday Morning by Margaret Hickey
The Grief Code by Joshua Pomare