Cirrus@Austlit

'In my mind I’m already running down the corridor. Straight, then a sharp left before I’m outside. My lunch box is clenched in my hand, the sandwich getting pummelled in the rush to get to the huts. Lettuce is escaping the glad wrap. We can’t let the others get there first.'  (Introduction)

'I sent my first submission email at the age of thirteen. It was addressed to a publishing house, HarperCollins, and outlined my burning childhood desire to become an author. Attached was a three-page extract (in reality, the only three pages that were ever written) that featured your standard Mary Sue protagonist in a poorly appropriated Harry Potterrealm.'

 (Introduction)

''Mvududu' is the Shona word for 'motorbike'. The syllables mimic the sound of the engine starting up. Mvududu. My Grandpa would take me on motorbike rides when we had the tobacco farm...'  (Publication abstract)

'Nobody was overly surprised when Mum went insane. For years we speculated about her nerves like they were risky shares, always on the verge of going bust. But no one ever mentioned she was an alcoholic, or that one of us should do something about it.' (Publication abstract)

'I want a man who's gonna take candid photos of me and upload them to Tumblr, Alice thinks as she prepares for 'The Quest'. She flicks the kettle switch. Spoons Moccona Classic Medium Roast granules and the tiniest clump of raw sugar into her favourite mug. Walks into her bedroom and swipes the day's clothes from her bed. Places her stable table on the mattress. Balances her MacBook Pro on the Stable Table and turns it on...'

 (Introduction)

'When I was a toddler they called me The Wailer. My uncles, obsessed with catching life on camera, would vie for the best angle when I was on show. There were hours of home video of me writhing on the floor at Nonna's or pulling at Mum's dress, crying. I was temperamental, easy to provoke. None of the adults understood why. They thought I was needy.' (Publication abstract)

'Sure, I knew McCaffrey at college, in first year, and once, once only, in the Biblical sense. That's why I can't write you an obituary of her, you understand. Or rather, this is my obituary, but you can't publish it like this - sorry about that. I'm sorrier still that she has died. The species is minus one great scientist and one great woman. There are no endings in a person's life except the last one but the dead leave countless endings in their slipstreams. Chesterton remarked that a suicide doesn't only kill himself, he kills everyone. McCaffrey's death feels like that...'

 (Publication abstract)

 

' I recently discovered my student profile from Mrs Ogden's year one and two composite class at Highgate Junior Primary School. As I read the scrapbook of class exercises and teacher comments, I remembered the sting of a spelling bee and feeling physically ill in mathematics.' (Publication abstract)

'As soon as he had finished his resume, which was very late, Oliver opened his bathroom window, turned into a hawk, and took off into the depths of Ueno Park. He soared between high-rise towers, their office lights still toiling away to keep each cubicle safe and illuminated. He glided over the train tracks and taxicab queues made small by distance, the icy coo of the wind flowing past his ears and eyeballs. Flocks of pigeons and the odd crow greeted him as he wafted past, unafraid because they knew that despite his appearance Oliver was entirely amicable and always ate before he went flying. He settled down in the park's enclosure where the Bear was waiting...'

 (Publication abstract)

'Claire watched the smoke and fire on the far hills. She saw the flames themselves through her camera's lens. They showed between the distant trees as just a few orange points. The smell of the burning eucalypts rose with the smoke that reddened the morning light. The wind came hard off the northern deserts with that burning smell upon it. Claire hoped that the fire would grow by afternoon and the hot wind that stoked the flames promised her that it would...' (Publication abstract)

'Clad in A full-length black dress and floral headscarf, Linda Hamze strides towards me. "Matilda right?" She's average height. Maybe a hundred and sixty centimetres. Solid.' (Publication abstract)

'No one warned me that voices broke. There were all sorts of other veiled threats that puberty had tried to intimidate me with, like a school bully waiting to do weird things to my body - the inverse of kicking my testicles. But that sort of body damage was expected, the same way you knew what would happen when a poet tried to play football. But nothing about things actually breaking.' (Publication abstract)