02 min 
Issue Three & Reviews

A Review of Anthony O’Neill’s ‘Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Seek’.

Reviewed by Oscar O’Neill-Pugh.

“If he be Mr. Hyde, I shall be Mr. Seek”.

As I went to start working on my first book review, I found myself looking towards my bookshelf. An old paperback copy of ‘Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde’ stared back and I nodded at it in approval. I opened the newly arrived proof of ‘Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Seek’ and started a journey I had no idea I’d needed. In a decade seemingly obsessed with reboots, reunions, remakes and sequels, very few make the return trip worth traveling. What so many of these rehashes fail at delivering is validity. A remake or reboot should feel warranted. Ideally, it would pay homage to the original mythos, engage it in a new and thought provoking way, make it seem perfectly in-line with that property and all the while be well executed. Anthony O’Neill’s ‘Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Seek’ excels on all these fronts. It is a journey that needs to be travelled.

Set seven years after ‘disappearance’ of Dr. Henry Jekyll and the death of Edward Hyde, ‘Dr. Jekyll’ & Mr. Seek’ follows Gabriel Utterson –  the good doctor’s faithful friend, lawyer and ultimately, confidant. Set to take possession of Jekyll’s estate, Utterson is thrown into disarray when a charming gentleman swoops in, claiming to be none other than Jekyll. Of course, this must be the work of an imposter as both the reader and Utterson know that Jekyll was Hyde. However, himself being Jekyll’s sole confidant, Utterson can only look on in horror as this imposter goes about convincing old friends that Jekyll has returned. When mysterious ‘accidents’ start killing off potential doubters and challengers, Utterson is thrown into a frenzy to prove the truth, while not discrediting Jekyll’s name and memory. The reader follows Utterson as he finds his friends turning against him, begins to fear for his life and ultimately, question his own sanity.

Originally, I aimed to write notes and take the book a few chapters at a time, but O’Neill’s masterful use of paranoia, suspense and mystery made me forget my pen and paper even existed. What was supposed to be the first few chapters soon became a full read through. Once I began, I simply couldn’t stop. Anthony O’Neill creates a wonderful narrative that constantly keeps a reader engaged; doubting, questioning and guessing at every turn. The title, taken from a quote from Utterson in the original, illustrates the story a reader is taken on. Even for those who have limited knowledge of, or haven’t read the original, this is a book for you. Without feeling intrusive, O’Neill perfectly blends in recaps, throwbacks and memories from the original story, aiding a new reader without stepping on the coattails of those familiar. As an avid reader, I can say that Anthony O’Neill has written a marvellous story with a fantastic use of language that makes the novel feel authentic to its time period. As a fan of Robert Louis Stevenson’s original, I can also say that ‘Dr. Jekyll & Mr. Seek’ serves as a true sequel to the original, and a near perfect one at that. It is well worth your penny dreadful.

Issue Three & Poetry

On a wing and a prayer – by Anne Casey

Tiny star twinkling in the mid-morning sun

Minute emissary

Expelled from clustered time

Set adrift to witness the callistemon calyx

Wither and die

So close to fertile ground


Parachuting past the brush turkeys

Scruffling and scrounging

Irresistible instinct pressing them

Into early spring service

Beneath the branches where a

Gaggle of galahs cackle and gorge


Indifferent to their albino cousin’s difference

His anaemic peculiarity obscured

By whatever kinship lies within

Drifting in the neverspace

Solitary voyager

Cast out of cosy consort


Past the pair of kookaburras

Silently surveying their domain

Resolutely unperturbed by the

Noisy miners with their bombing raids

Archly arrowed

Determined to harangue


Yearning for the warm earth

To be swallowed up shallowly

Thirsting for the bright, soft rain

To swell and burst you

Into a new magnificence

To rise in glorious reflection


And adorn the morning

With your golden crown

Tiny star

Floating on a spring breeze

Aching to arrive

To be reborn


Adrift alone

21 sec 
Fiction & Issue Three


By Ed Carmine


 The crunch of her palette cleansing salad was a detestably audible as well as visual experience. Her incisors ground the spines of her lightly dressed spinach leaves into a flecky green resin with mechanic precision. My salmon arrived, midway through her bouts of frontal lobe rattling chews and nauseating small talk, drenched in its own juices and lifeless in its bowl.

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12 sec 

Ed Carmine

Ed Carmine is a Creative Writing and Literature student at Swinburne University who thoroughly enjoys the process of character building. His day to day public transport trips provide priceless inspiration for his short stories. He may never bother getting his drivers license

15 sec 
Fiction & Issue Three


By Evie Kendal


‘She’s gifted!’

‘Cursed you mean! Are you sure? How did this happen?’

Lady Maria Wetherford stared at the small creature smiling up at her from the crib. She cooed quietly, sucking on her tiny thumb and giggling periodically – all the while tracking her mother’s movements with unnatural closeness.

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11 sec 

Evie Kendal

Evie Kendal is a feminist bioethicist and literary critic from Melbourne, Australia. Her research interests include representations of reproductive biotechnology in science fiction, legal and ethical issues for end-of-life care, and feminist issues in young adult literature and film.

27 sec 
Fiction & Issue Three


By Charlotte Duff


Oscar must be outside. Normally he’s at her by now, nuzzling at whatever part of her body happens to be protruding from the edge of the bed. A cold nose or a nibble on her big toe isn’t the nicest way to wake up, but there it is. And then those brown doggie eyes looking up at her. So she’ll get herself out of bed, bare feet on cold linoleum, to drop some more biscuits in his bowl.

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22 sec 
Issue Three

Dear Drought

By Sarah Giles

Dear Drought,

A long time ago I wrote to you. I wrote to you and I begged you for rain.

Your parched sky and dusty red ground with deep cracks that seemed to grow wider with each passing day. Long black fractures in the chalky clay. The grass was crumbling into dust and blowing away in the wind, leaving the sheep that usually wandered around the paddock out the front, with nothing.

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Ron Barton - Headshot
31 sec 

Ron Barton

Ron Barton is an English teacher who has twice been published by Ginninderra Press (If God is a Poet, 2012; Unremarkable, 2014) and Tincture Journal (2013) and, more recently, he has had poems displayed at the Sydney Fringe Festival and the University of Western Australia. In 2014 he had poetry appear in Windmills (published through Deakin University) and self-published a collection of short stories, Paved With Words, that is geared at a YA audience. In addition to his own writing Ron has also coordinated a Young Writers’ Festival held in the Rockingham district in an effort to support WA’s creative youth.


Allan Lake

Originally from Saskatchewan, Allan Lake has lived in Vancouver, Cape Breton Island, Ibiza, Perth  (WA), Tasmania, Sicily and at present Melbourne.  His collection, SandintheSole(2014)waslaunchedattheTasmanianPoetryFestival.

In 2015 Lake won the Elwood Poetry Prize. During 2016 his poems appeared in Australian journals Meniscus, Plumwood Mountain Journal, Poetica Christi anthology and Poetry Matters.

23 sec 
Fiction & Issue Three


By Brendan Leigh

The bike bucked as it went over the little bump in the driveway, and I bucked with it. The drain pump would have to be cleaned again this weekend, the refuse that builds up over time been forced out by sheer force of water. Dad had told me that water always followed the path of least resistance, but that when enough force builds up, you’d better move out of the way right quick.

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21 sec 

Bill Cotter

Bill Cotter has been writing short stories and poetry for forty years, He has won a number of literary awards, including the poetry prize for the International Library of Poetry, the Maryborough Golden Wattle Festival poetry prize and the Melbourne Shakespeare Society sonnet prize.His work has appeared in journals throughout Australia.  Ginninderra Press has published eight books of his poetry, a collection of short stories and a short play for voices.


Lyn Chatham


Lyn Chatham lives in Geelong. She works as a teacher of adult literacy. She has had work published in the genres of short fiction, non-fiction and poetry. Her story, ‘Mars Bars and Lawson,’ was included in the anthology Tales of the Blackboard. In 2005, her book, Martino’s Story, the memoir of an Italian migrant, was shortlisted in the Victorian Premier’s Literary Awards and she has written media analyses for the magazines Australian Screen Education and Metro. Her poetry has been published in Australian print and online literary journals, including Blue Dog, blast and e:foam.


Rebecca Jane

Rebecca Jane is a student from the Yarra Valley currently studying writing and film in Bachelor of Arts. Her stories have been published twice in a Queensland Magazine, which has also shown one of her illustrations.  She enjoys books and films of all genres, and has devoted the other half of her soul to music and bands. While working multiple hospitality and retail jobs, and working on her first novel, Rebecca is also exploring moving into drawings and professional illustrations as an option for her future.

Many of her works and commissions can be found here: http://fhyeah1.deviantart.com/

31 sec 

Nicole Russo

Nicole Russo is the Sub-editor of Other Terrain journal. Currently studying her final year of Professional Writing and Editing at Swinburne University. She loves reading novels as it allows her to get lost in different fantastical worlds, experience the lives of many characters, and indulge in diverse and enthralling writing styles. Her favourite way to enjoy this pastime is to curl up on a couch with a blanket, tea, chocolate, and her kindle.  Nicole hopes to one day work at a book publishing company, so she can be surrounded by talented authors, new and alluring stories, and basically work in the heart of her passion.

18 sec 
Issue Two

Guest Reflection

By Julia Prendergast

It is my pleasure to reflect upon this issue of Other Terrain. I found myself immersed in voices of startling authenticity and yearning. The prose and poetry contributions in this issue indicate a willingness to engage with content and form in an experimental way. This is utterly refreshing: pushing boundaries of saying—of seeing, being, knowing.

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23 sec 

Julia Prendergast

Julia Pre has a PhD in Writing and Literature. Julia is a short fiction addict. Her short stories have been longlisted, shortlisted and published: Lightship Anthology 2 (UK), Glimmer Train (US), Séan Ó Faoláin Competition, Munster Literature Centre (Cork City, Ireland), Australian Book Review Elizabeth Jolley Prize, Josephine Ulrick Prize. Julia’s theoretical work has been published:Current Narratives, AAWP, New Writing: The International Journal for the Practice and Theory of Creative Writing (UK), Testimony Witness Authority: The Politics and Poetics of Experience (UK: Cambridge Scholars Press).

19 sec 

Skye Jenner

Skye Jenner is studying her Masters of Writing and has an unhealthy obsession with books of all sizes and shapes. She enjoys writing fantasy and contemporary YA stories, and has been recently employed by MadeGlobal Publishing as a publicity writer. In the little free time that she has left, she is normally seen chasing her not-so-well-behaved Beagle across the paddocks screaming for her to come back

Jeremy Yap
22 sec 
Fiction & Issue Two

The Quickening

by James Nicolson

Jane had seen the news reports. Animated billboards spilled their message as moving colours across travelways; others using public transport would have the same message projected into their eyes from hand terminals, huddled silently on a monotrain. Regardless of medium, the news was always the same: Artificial Intelligence was here.  The AIs were free. AIs could change matter.  AIs are matter.  And the AIs are benevolent. Just ask.

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22 sec 
Fiction & Issue Two


By Eloise Faichney

Stassi lay with Cole’s corpse for two nights.

It wasn’t until the third night that she dared to reach out and touch him.

She poked solid flesh with a trembling finger and jerked back in fright, startling her cat, Fuckwit, who lay curled at the foot of her blanket. The feline rose, stretching her back and circling indignantly a few times, before settling back down. She kneaded her claws into Stassi’s feet. Read more

A photo by Jacob Aguilar-Friend. unsplash.com/photos/FRUNWjolvNA
46 sec 
Fiction & Issue Two


By Kathryn Ryman

The cave is larger than the beast that keeps it. The walls stretch up high into the dark and the roof seems as distant as the moon when first you enter. The dragon itself is small. It lies stranded in the center of its vast empty domain, a huddle of bones and wasted muscle. You feel your heart sink; awash with disappointment, you regard the pitiable creature from afar. It rolls its sunken eyes towards you and scents the air but it does not get up, makes no move to guard its barren kingdom. You start forwards refusing to be deterred. The treasure could be something small you reason, something that can’t be seen from as far away as this. Something tiny you think… or something invisible even; with a dragon lying there before your very eyes will you really draw the line of disbelief at invisible treasure?

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28 sec 
Fiction & Issue Two

The Town

by Keren Heenan

Out here the wind always blows up high and hard before a storm; the sudden buffeting of trees against the wall, low murmur building to a howl and the darkening outside the window. There’s a feeling as if the sky itself could fall. And then comes the rain.

He arrived on such a day. Sometime between the howling of the wind and the bruising of the sky, he glided into town, some said, as if he knew where he was going. But I know now that he probably didn’t.

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Photo on 22-03-2016 at 4.13 pm #2
35 sec 

Kathryn Ryman

Katie Ryman is a Professional Writing and Editing student at Swinburne. She has wanted to be a writer since she was five and has recently come to the conclusion that in order to make that happen she might actually have to get some writing done. She divides her time evenly between worrying that she doesn’t write enough, actually working on her novel, and wishing that she could wake up tomorrow and just be Neil Gaiman (or someone half that good, she really isn’t picky). Once or twice she has tried to produce a story that wandered tentatively away from the realms of fantasy and horror, but she’s learnt her lesson now.

Her other stories can be found at: filloryandfurther.wordpress.com

04 min 
Fiction & Issue Two


By Trina Denner

It was cold.

The carriage doors opened to let in the young woman, and, with her, a gust of wind that carried an assurance of snow. They closed behind, silencing the platform, sealing her in with the fragrance of wool and warm bodies.

The train did not dally in its launch, but transitioned from stationary to fast in one solid movement.

The faux fur lining the edges of her jacket held droplets of winter. Although, it wasn’t winter yet. It was barely October. She shrugged off the hood, and with wet beads falling to the floor, she was revealed. Rusty smears flecked her skin; the colour of parched bone.

The men did not look at her. They gently curved their faces to left or right. She gave a snappy shake of her head to dislodge the hair wedged at her nape, knowing they would not turn towards her. Not that she would mind if they had.

She raked her fingers through hair down her chest, enjoying the feeling of it, unraveled.

She found the men oddly unreachable, and in a way, disappointing.

Nothing like the boys back home, with their howls and barking. Their strained voices from Holden dual-cabs yelling ‘show us your tits’.

She grabbed at an overhead hand-hold, scanning for a seat. It was mid-morning and the daylight was faint.

Not like back home.

This was a sun wrapped in blue cellophane. Crisp and cool. She was used to a sun with harsh angles, drawing contrast and colour from everything it touched. Bouncing off the surf, blinding you so you couldn’t see if it were your brother on that wave, or your boyfriend. Hell, it could even be your grandmother’s podiatrist for all you could see, in that sun, from the dunes.

The young woman chose to sit on a side-facing seat, between two men, who moved in responding unison. Both shifting their weight, minutely away, and back down, as if at a more respectable distance. She wasn’t sure if she’d sat there just to make them uncomfortable, and she didn’t care to work it out.

She sat as an isthmus. No, as an island.

Contained, obvious, and quite decidedly remote.

And bare, she reflected, as she turned, finch-like, to take in the gentleman on her right. Funny that she would think of him as a gentle-man, in his middle-aged business suit, with his ever-dark hair and posture noble enough for a monarch. He was definitely not a bloke. Or a fella. Or a lad.

He turned further from her. Almost imperceptibly so, but she was as a bird in that moment, and noticed his discomfort under her placid scrutiny. She flicked her head to the other side, crossing her leg against his silent rebuff.

On her left sat a man not much older than herself. He wore dark glasses. Superdry. And mowhawk-reminiscent hair. And Tsubi jeans. And a Comme de Garcons jacket.

Stylin’, she thought, but then went on to consider nothing else about him as she noticed the two women across.

They were old. So old. Fragile old.

Their eyes were closed in sleep, this pigeon pair, and for all intents and purposes, they were dead. Frozen in last century; painted white faces and rose bud lips that were mostly just rouge on skin rather than actual lip. And those funny thick-white socks with their clogs, which made her thoughts shift whimsically to running through summer in thongs.

So different from the old ladies back home with their fawn coloured slacks, pleated definite and straight down the front of each leg, and singlets for bras, and their hair permed into tight, fake balls of violet.

The two ancient dolls swayed gently in their sleep. Hands on purses neatly in their laps, and white-gray hair twisted smooth and stabbed through with sticks that held glass beads jingling softly as they danced with the motion of the train.

They stirred in her a memory she did not recognise as her own.

She closed her eyes, recording the sight of them. Their kimonos of red and pale blue, and cherry blossoms and herons. The finest of thread woven into a gloss. The young woman smiled as the eyes of one flickered in her slumber. It was the smaller woman. The plumper one.

She wondered what she dreamed about that should cause her lashes to flutter so, speculating that perhaps it was her lover from decades past who had returned to her, where age could not reach them. His hair jet and eyes alert, and his lips parting softly as he kissed her dream.

The red letters scrolled across the digital board at the corner of her vision. Shinjuku station.

She stood with a last look at the old women, who refused to stir as the train baulked at the sight of the station.

The doors opened and the scent of early winter burned her nostrils. She stepped down and was immediately engulfed in the tide of black-haired travelers. She, ginger and bright, zigzagged in a haphazard line as she moved away from the train.


Image by Wilson Lau

21 sec 
Fiction & Issue Two

New Dog

By Andy Goss

‘We need a dog,’ she said.

‘There will never be another Suki, you know that.’

‘Yes. But it was so good, having that other person, that animal person in our lives. It just seems right to me. Suki has left such a hole.’

Joe fiddled with his teacup, turning it round and round, peering into it as if the answer lay within. But you can’t tell fortunes with a teabag.

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贝莉儿 NG
33 sec 
Fiction & Issue Two

The Fishbowl Astronaut

by Clare Millar

On the driveway was the kind of van you would expect to be told about before arriving home. Stark white with the letters ‘exterminator’, it was parked right in the way of where Annalise wanted to park. She turned her keys to silence the car. For a moment she lingered with the door two-thirds open, and thought it was likely a mistake; her house was more likely to need an ambulance than an exterminator. But she quarantined her doubts with the soft click of the lock. She jiggled her way between the dead rose bushes and the pearly van. There were no clues behind the windows.

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17 sec 

Clare Millar

Clare Millar studies creative writing / literature and professional writing / editing at Swinburne University. She’s part of the editorial committee at Voiceworks where she focuses on poetry. Clare also teaches creative writing to children at Creative Write-It. “Fishbowl Astronaut”, “276” and “Identity: A Recipe of Crumbs” are her first publication. You can find her on twitter @claresmillar