Cirrus@Austlit

'Each morning, after dusting the brimstone of my boots and zipping up my hazmat suit, I strike out into the acid fog, skipping over toxic waste puddles, on my way to the Voiceworks headquarters. The journey has felt perilous at times, what with the apocalypse still hanging in the air.'

 (Publication abstract)

'I’ve been doing my breathing exercises for an entire year, preparing to blow out this twenty-fifth candle. In for five… hold for five… out for five… perpetually curling up and unfolding. My diaphragm gets stronger with each repetition, but my heart still beats like a sparrow’s.' 

 (Introduction)

''Wa, it's okay.' Berna chants this privately - enough times a day. A good amount of times a day. Probably thirty to fifty...'

 (Publication abstract)

'The student sharehouse might be dying out. When I say sharehouse, it's not with any particular address in mind, no long-decomposed couch dragged home from roadside collection, no TV with the sound gone. I mean the one in our collective imagination, the one that may have only existed in barely remembered stoned conversations on the couch, unanswered texts to heavenly Gumtree ads, or the House of Trouser that Toadie from Neighbours lived in. As personal and shifting as this idea has been, it's always hovered on the fringe of access, maybe over the next page of Gumtree listings, maybe stuck to the noticeboard at IGA, or residing exactly where your friends are moving into next weekend. While the dream remains bewitching, the reality that made it possible might be slipping away. But why does it mean so much? How did the sharehouse become the sharehouse? And if it's going, why?' (Publication abstract)

'Annie and Russ are flattening scrunched wrapping paper over the carpet when their mum tells them there is anthrax in the sky and soon everyone will be dead. Russ lets go of his new Matchbox car. Annie scratches at a freckle that might be dirt...' (Publication abstract)

'- so we might as well get on with it. Pass me my drink, would you -... (Publication abstract)

'Both my nannus, after they migrated to Australia from Malta, purchased farmland. Paul had a 102- acre property not far from Goulburn. My most vivid memories there are tied to the land, a rolling mass made dense with association, individual synapses linked to each bump and curve of the hard dirt roads. I can instantly recall the spot where a red-bellied snake bit me, the rabbit warren visited at dusk, the grassy slope where we shot clay pigeons, their graceful arcs and violent bursts superimposed on a quintessential pastoral backdrop. I remember waking my nanna, Doris, to wander the frosty paddocks together, picking up thin sheets of ice formed from puddles overnight. And if I close my eyes, I can imagine the snap of gum branches falling and the whispering olive grove, cultivated on a fertile hillside - a distinctly Mediterranean labour of love.' (Publication abstract)

'It was a different species. The way she moved, the jerky way she took off her coat, the half-flung elbow near straight into the maitre d's face without a moment of self-awareness. Julia sat at the table with one arm resting on the back of the chair, half leaning to the side, unable to look away. Everything took so much more effort. Everything was full of overcharged energy. By the time Rachel made her way over to lean down and kiss Julia hello, Julia expected her to be out of breath...' 

 (Publication abstract)

'The year I turned eight, I made my own birthday cake. It was supposed to be a three-tier chocolate gateau with strawberries and cream, but my grandmother set the oven temperature too high and it all fell apart. The blurb in the recipe book described it as an 'elegant cake for very special occasions', with a difficulty rating of three cartoon chef hats. I tried to glue the broken pieces back together with icing, determined to replicate the elegance in the picture, but couldn't get the consistency right. Not enough water and then too much. I was still in the kitchen frantically pressing sliced strawberries into the dripping chocolate mess when my friends started arriving for the party. I could hear them with their parents in the living room being introduced to my newborn sister, my very special occasion having been hijacked five days earlier by Lydia's overdue arrival. Between the incessant crying and the nappy changes and the feeding at all hours, no-one had remembered to organise party games or bake a cake or put together lolly bags. I actually felt sorry for my friends, having to attend such a crap party. Instead of pass-the-parcel, we watched the lingering adults pass Lydia around. When that got boring, we pulled cherry tomatoes off a vine in the backyard and pelted them at each other.' (Publication abstract)

'Charlotte accelerated down the rural road, hitting ninety kilometres per hour as she passed the road sign marked sixty. As usual, she let her adrenaline drive her home. It was usually pitch black when she got out on these roads, with only her headlights to guide her, but the moon was peeking through the trees tonight...' (Publication abstract)

'No one knew - or really cared, it seems - whether Akbar was from Afghanistan, the North-West Frontier Province (now Pakistan), or some other British-Indian city. It was 1894 and he found only racism instead of fortune in Perth, Western Australia. Several years later, he dodged permanent deportation under the new Immigration Restriction Act of 1901. Officials took this 'White Australia' policy seriously, being too busy selecting only British and white European immigrants into the new federation to concern themselves with recording Akbar's reason for exemption or background. He persevered as a travelling hawker, selling anything from books to pots throughout regional WA; his unexpected fortune was finding solace in another outsider who, like himself, drifted on the edge of white society.' 

 (Publication abstract)