Category: Issue Three
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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…
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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…
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Ubiquitous
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,…
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Avatar
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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Skin
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…
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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…
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The Barrel of the Gun
By Rebecca Jane I couldn’t tell Tyler that my arm hurt. Even though it was still throbbing painfully and the crude, sorry excuse for a bandage was already falling to shreds. If Tyler found out I was injured, then his already tangled head would spin into even more chaos.
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The Poet
By Gerrit Bos He sits at his desk, telling his secrets to the world: though a blank sheet is his only confidante, a pen his only friend.
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Gaeta
By Jay Parker Indecision clouds my mind, The loneliness now dependable. But no longer can I continue blind, To a truth I find detestable.
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The Eternal Moment
By Gerrit Bos Mechanised hands, the passage of time. The eternal moment, the righteous crime. Thawing hands frozen when their eyes first met. Nothing can stop, infinity will let.
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Hands of Time
By Senaj Alijevski Don’t turn over the clock when it stops ticking. Leave the past behind and don’t remind yourself Of what was is or ever will be.
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Undesirable secrets
By Senaj Alijevski Some secrets last forever. Even when no one is watching, Don’t worry, my lips are sealed.
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This is not a test
By Ron Barton Where are all the standardised people? Row by row they sit, minute by minute the clock ticks their life away.
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Grandpa’s Last Stand
By Ron Barton Whenever we heard sirens grandpa would leap behind the couch and yell, “you’ll never take me alive”
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Erosion
By Ron Barton We are but castles of sand formed by things beyond our control. We are strong and sturdy for a while
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Manhood
By Ron Barton manhood ˈmanhʊd/ noun
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Superfluent
By Ron Barton I am well versed in being an unnecessary extra. I speak third wheel
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Poppadums in a Garden
By Allan Lake On the footpath beside the pond in the idyllic botanical garden, poppadums fallen from heaven or thrown for the hell of it – likely source the small Indian cafe nearby.
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Memories
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…
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Melbourne, mid-winter
By Allan Lake My chilly 50’s apartment: beyond the pane of glass winter-lush garden, sun half trying.