Fiction Archives

CEDRIC MARCHANT LEFT England for the first time at the age of forty-one. He travelled to France by train...

MY NAME IS Fredericka. Every night, I find myself in the same room. Thankfully, it is coloured to my...

FRIDAY MORNING. GREENWICH Village.The industrial dumbwaiter, jam-packed with a two-day accumulation of tenants′ rubbish, made three trips from the...

JODIE'S DESK IN the Capitol building in Wirranbandi is a scratched and gouged door resting across two wooden saw-horses...

WALKING ON TRAIN tracks is unnatural. The distance between the wooden sleepers is just longer than a normal footstep,...

By Chris Flynn

THE FOOTFALL OF the horse was muted in soft ground and leaf litter. The path ahead glimmered with an...

By Eva Hornung

THE COME CLATTERING down the stairwells and surge onto the platform around her: revoltingly young, for the most part,...

By Linda Jaivin

ONCE I HAD to bury a cat. She was a beautiful cat, lithe of limb, delicate, a great leaper....

By Marion Halligan

GORDON NEVER RUNS his own errands but he banged on my door at 4 am and ordered me to...

Calcutta is a big, middle-class, air-conditioned city. My publisher′s chauffeur was waiting for me at the airport. Through the...

The toilet was not what I had expected. Still less the porn.The pedestal in the bathroom of our executive...

By Nick Earls

IF ASKED THEN why I had not returned to London I could have – would have – given several...

By Amanda Lohrey