Cirrus@Austlit

'If I was to stretch this issue’s theme to the nth degree of breaking point of no return, etc., I’d have one mixed metaphor on my hands but also a tidy example of how clichés are like copying and pasting. In case that sentence did your head in, let me elaborate. Through reusing or abusing familiar imagery and sentence constructions, writing can become less of a creative exercise and more of a cobbled together Command + C + V Word doc. That is to say, clichéd. And when you’re starting out as a writer, it’s natural for your imagination to default to this setting without realising.' (Introduction)

' "Don't you think it's a tad presumptuous that he's brought his stuff?" Patrick peered round the corner to where the stranger reclined on the couch, apparently unworried by their hushed conversation...'

 (Publication abstract)

'Phillip Ward hurtles along the bush track like a wombat down its run, leaving me hopping rocks and dodging branches as they whip back behind him. Ward has lived on the skirts of the Field of Mars Reserve his whole life, and he is fiercely protective of it. "A lot of these trees aren't supposed to be here," he says, pointing out the ferals as we rush by. Some, like the silky oak, are natives but in the wrong place, planted by humans.'

 (Publication abstract)

'Out of the flat, empty fields the children ran. Their footsteps fell in tune with the bell chiming out to let them know it was time to take a seat at the glorious wooden table made from the finest dark wood of the surrounding forest. It was time to sit and listen to the Old Man (Beth's grandfather) who would officially proclaim the New Year and the end of the harvest. They scrambled past each other, dodging the venomless snakes with no teeth who only licked ankles and still remained out in the open despite the dying sun...' (Publication abstract)

 

'We were on the dance floor all night, sticking to ourselves and each other. I'm not sure how we ended up there. I swear, two minutes ago we had been on your couch, sunk deep and gin-logged. Talking about our bodies and where they will eventually someday go. I guess we had our answer...' (Publication abstract)

 

'I stand in a flower shop, regretting my careless words uttered in the morning. I'll get the flowers, I had said. I pass by the shop on my way home anyway.'

 (Publication abstract)

'Sometime that year, when I was still living with my girlfriend in the Russian woman's basement, word came from home that my brother, Alistair, was going to be in town for court...' (Publication abstract)

 

'The Travelling Story [] is an Express Media first. Kicked off with a story starter by Chris Currie, it was written by thirty young Australians from all around the country. This collaborative story was one of many innovative projects that took place during National Young Writers’ Month in June.' 

 (Publication abstract)

'Before she left to live in Sydney, I asked my mother one afternoon where her favourite place on Earth was. I told her mine was Antarctica, and she said how can that be my favourite place if I've never been there, and I said I'd seen photos in magazines and penguins at the zoo in Melbourne. I said I had half a Milo tin full of gold coins and I was saving to go there in the next two years...'  

 (Publication abstract)

'Every day, wiping down the glass ketchup bottles, I notice the hardened crescents of sauce that form in the grooves of the screwtops. With a damp cloth, I wipe around the neck of the bottle and watch the crusts fall. Can't help but imagine them in my mouth...' (Publication abstract)

 

'At the turn of the twentieth century, J. W. Gregory, a professor of geology at the University of Glasgow, travelled to the Lake Eyre region in South Australia. As the lowest point on the continent, it is the focal point of the Lake Eyre Basin - which covers one-sixth of Australia - and on the rare occasion that it fills, it is our largest lake. It's not hard to see why all roads led to Lake Eyre for the early European explorers. Indeed, Gregory titled the memoirs of his journey The Dead Heart of Australia, concluding that "there is nothing on earth more desolate than its stony plains and bare clay-pots". And despite our tropical rainforests and green mountain ranges, the Australian imagination has always been dominated by the desert, the outback.' 

 (Publication abstract)

'My nights are like this: after uni I am willingly abducted by Amy, by her arms and her lips and her eyes and her voice; she drags me through the swarming Sydney streets before we collapse together into the quietness of her tiny apartment; we flee guiltily when her roommate arrives; we eat dinner at the graffitied McDonald's at the end of the street; she talks to some friend on her phone while clutching at my shirt and begging me to stay longer; I eventually escape and push to make the six-thirty ferry across the bristling harbour; come seven I plunge into the pulsing lights and delirious colour of Luna Park...'

 (Publication abstract)