Fiction

My dad taught me how to toast campfire marshmallows when I was young. But no matter how hard I tried to follow his instructions, I always burnt them. All my cousins got to enjoy their smores and to the corner, I had a growing pile of coal like I was on some naughty list. I followed the same recipe every year, only to end up eating char again and again, I thought I should pretend I burnt it on purpose, and so I did, my smouldering secret. It’s better than admitting I still don’t know or that I am just

James never made it home.  There’d never been much to mourn over anyway: narrow and unstable roads along every streetway, rundown stores left to rot in debt, fallen leaves that crunched beneath his feet, echoes of children laughing while he remained inside. A town hidden from a world he yearned to explore – a haven he’d wished would exile him. It was home, yet never really was at all. It was home, but the hole in his heart still ached. Never had he been complacent, nor content with how easily he’d memorised every streetway. What had belonged to him was

Eleanor was the sort of person who didn’t dance. It was not that she didn’t want to, more that she was rather unable to do so. When she was in uni she would sometimes sit alone in her bedroom at 3am, both earphones in, blasting Chappell Roan, and a strange urge would come over her causing her to shrug her shoulders up and down instead of writing the essay that was due in six hours. It was the closest she would come to dancing though. The second other people appeared it was as if all desire, all knowledge of how,

Content Warnings: emotional abuse   A delicate young flower, unpicked by the bare hands of a malicious suitor. She would never allow someone to extract her. Yet the young prince had been gentle, and the naïve princess had felt herself blossom. They’d met amongst the stars, her light brighter than the sky. She had a captivation that was irresistible. Eyes like sapphires; lips red as the rose; hair black as ebony; skin white as snow.  All eyes had been on her. The prettiest accessory. How could he not resist? Within his introduction, he mentioned things he knew she liked, pretended

Content Warnings: Hospital Environment, Implied Terminal Illness A hospital room. 5:00pm.  Only the hum of equipment and soft movement outside is heard. There is a bed with various monitors on either side. A fluorescent light shines from above, flickering occasionally while a warm champagne glow from the back window washes over the bed. A young woman lies gazing out the window, watching the sociability of the streets beyond the smudged glass. A drawing book lies open on the bedside table.    Athena: Time passes slowly in hospital. Nurses come, nurses go as does everyone else while you're stuck in bed.

Content Warning: Bullying & Discussion of Mental Health Every story must have its protagonist. Its saviour. Someone who has a purpose, who leads the plot. Though that person couldn’t possibly be you. Yes, you. So who will you choose to be instead?   Protagonist A: A hero: incapable of mistakes. Untouched by bad guys, your pursuit of glory is never fractured by those who desire your downfall. You’re a god, with the world at your feet. You have everything you could ever want: the job, the fortune, the lover, and especially the recognition. Your strength is unmatched; flaws indistinguishable. Therefore,

It was different now they didn’t talk. Olive and Lotte had always been something, even when they were fresh-faced fifteen-year-olds, too young to put words to the feelings that were growing between them. By the time they’d reached second year they were everything. But now, after Olive had gone off to Italy for six months and come back, something had changed.  If Olive had to, she would probably pinpoint the moment of their decline as that argument they’d had one evening in Rome. It had been months without seeing each other in-person, tied together only by phone calls. Late at

Not long after they leave, Will arrives. He is here to build my bed for me. I greet him with red eyes and a tired smile, he knows I’ve been crying. It’s just the two of us, surrounded by boxes and a hopeful future. We head into my bedroom where I show him the box of the bed frame. I bring the floor cushion into the room to watch as he starts unpacking. He tells me he has done this twice before, so my expectations are big. It took us four hours. Four fucking hours to build the frame. It

Every time that I hang out with you and them I feel so alienated but I feel like an alien would fit in more than me  because they are inherently interesting and I just feel like the most boring person alive   I can’t keep up with any of the jokes while the three of you go back and forth, faster and faster and I force myself to laugh  in grating harmony   I grapple with possible things to say but none of them seem worthwhile sometimes one of you says something I had thought of  and I resent myself

Content Warning: Violence There was a house up ahead on the left. Amidst the gloom of what was a cool winter’s night, it appeared tall and grand in what seemed like an abyss of nothingness for miles on end. There I remained, confined to its interior with very few visitors. It made sense to pass it– surely there were signs further down the road; why stop for help? Hence why I was thrilled to see the lost couple quickly pulling into the driveway.  The two-storey house, further away from the others down the road, appeared rather large with a decently

  Words by Kiara Sharee It’s stuffy in here, the air is almost stifling. Strange, given that my window is rolled down, the car greedily sucking in the sea-kissed wind. It likes to tell me of its past travels and where it has yet to roam. Often threads itself between my fingers, enticing me to join it on its adventures. At times, I want to. At other times, it sends my hair whipping so fiercely that I can’t even see where we would go.    I can hear the ocean calling out to me. She rocks to and fro, sending

This piece was first published in Lot’s Wife Edition 3, 2021. I spent the first 18 hours in Melbourne immersed in the deepest sleep I’ve ever had in my life. Sharing a room of 10 reeking bunk beds at the cheapest hostel I could afford didn’t even matter: this jetlag was all-consuming.  The days flew by as I remained in bed watching movies on my laptop, sheltered under the humid fort of towels that hung from the bed above my own. It is a popular belief that you make tons of friends staying at a hostel. But I had been