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Refugees in a Banana Republic
Literary

Refugees in a Banana Republic

Early dawn, when fog hung…

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A Day with Breanne Mc Ivor
Interview

A Day with Breanne Mc Ivor

Meet Breanne Mc Ivor. She…

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Nocturnal Conductions
Humor

Nocturnal Conductions

The first time it happened,…

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The Lady of the Water
Fiction

The Lady of the Water

I’d thought Central America would…

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Never Will I Leave Home
Literary

Never Will I Leave Home

You have not seen our…

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Two Blind Men
Flash Fiction

Two Blind Men

They knew well I was…

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An Interview with Ernest Brawley
Interview

An Interview with Ernest Brawley

Ernest Brawley, a native Californian,…

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‘So, your old man reckons I should give you a go.’ I’d been shown into Charlie Knowles’ office on the 17th floor. He stood with his back to me, yelling into the phone and jabbing two stubby fingers at the twin TNT buildings on the western Sydney horizon. His shirt was damp with sweat despite the air conditioning, and the outline of two sagging straps of flesh gave the appearance of wearing a day-bag in reverse. ‘Yeah, well, you do that.’ He mashed the receiver and phone together and spun around. On seeing me, he blinked. He glanced at his computer screen. ‘Ah. Darlene.’ He threw his bulk into his chair. His eyes travelled over my cleavage and eventually, up to my face. It was then that he mentioned his conversation with Dad. ‘What makes you want to be a journalist? Pretty tough gig, y’know.’ He swung back in the…