Gun

More from author

Mirror, mirror

I have lost my face. This is not a metaphor; I no longer recognise myself in mirrors. I know the facts: I’m wearing the face I’ve always worn, the same muscle, the same scaffolding of bone – but recognition is a different order of knowing. My sense of kinship is gone. I stare and a stranger stares back. 

More from this edition

‘This is how I will strangle you’

ReportageThis story contains descriptions of violence and abuse. NATASA CHRISTIDOU’S EARLIEST memory is of her father Peter masturbating over her as she lay in bed....

Adjudged

PoetryWilliam Spalyng, who, for selling putrid beef…was put upon the pillory, and the carcasses were burnt beneath. Arthur Griffiths, The Chronicles of Newgate Justin R Haymaker,...

White justice, black suffering

ReportageDad began this job in 1989 in the days of the Royal Commission into Aboriginal Deaths in Custody. He was not the only black prison guard on staff – in fact, at one point, Rockhampton’s jail had the highest percentage of Indigenous employees in the state. And yet, there were even more Murris locked up. The first thing that shocked Dad was just how many were inside, and over the next two decades he would see many of his own relatives coming through the gates.

Featured in

Share article

Subscribe to great writing