Fiction

By Judy Rankin. Sometimes fact can be stranger than fiction… 1 October Had a dream about Bruce last night. He hasn’t died has he? Oh dear. Not that I know of. Maybe you should send him a message and make … Continued

By Paul Bucci. He’s up the back of his folks’ place in Gipps St, right on the edge of the property, 60 metres from the house, where it backs on to the new Court. More accurately his mum’s place now … Continued

By Paul Bucci. She recognized him immediately he got onto the train. She hadn’t seen him for nearly forty years, but he was unmistakable. Unmistakable. A funny word to use for someone who’d been the biggest mistake she’d made in … Continued

By Paul Bucci. Dave’s bored. And a bit stoned. He’s been a bit of both – or quite a lot of both – for the last year or so since his mum died. For the couple of years before that … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. The early evening sun streamed into the room. Outside, the jungle of a garden scratched up against the window as if trying to break in. This was Edith’s favourite room, the room in which she’d spent some … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. The windmill man haunted Stanley. He didn’t know his name. He’d never seen him before. He never saw him after. But became more real than his father. The windmill man had fallen. It was kind of symbolic … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. In the headlights I saw him. It wasn’t him so much that caught my eye, as the manner of his walking along that road. Night time it might have been but even a casual observer could not … Continued

By Geoffrey Gaskill. The place looked no more than a ruined graveyard. The broken teeth of headstones sprouted higgledy-piggledy from the turf threatening as though wanting to devour the church walls that scowled above them. There was no roof. The … Continued