Liam Blackford recommends: the New Oz Cunts
I have complained that Australians are “small, something we insist on for ourselves and for each other.” But some of us want something bigger. Who are the New Oz Cunts, heralds of the Ausnaissance? Brothers Sini, Smith, Niccolai, Cuthbertson, Norman and Walter have each given some comments. Some of us even got together and podded about it. Here are some further observations of my own: Lewis Woolston – The Last Free Man and Other Stories (Truth Serum Press, 2019) ‘I legit thought that having a steady job, a missus and kids, paying off your mortgage and saving for retirement was
Prue or Roberta by Z.H. Gill
I met a writer at a party who said she knew me. Her name was Prue or it was Roberta. I wasn’t familiar with her or her work, but a half-circle of humans half-encircled around us, assuring me of Prue/Roberta’s work’s quality. And what is it that you do? the half-circle demands of me now. I tell them I’m a personal assistant—no, an Executive Assistant! We mean, like, your artistic self, dude, says the half-circle. I tell them I run a magazine online. That some people enjoy it—‘Tomb Magazine, it’s called.’ ‘Oh. You rejected me,’ replies one of the humans
Getting Even, Letting Go: an Interview with Julian Tepper by Svetlana Satchkova
Julian Tepper’s fifth novel, Getting Even, Letting Go (Rare Bird, 2026), takes place over a single day in New York. We experience it with Gene Mills, a broke writer whose ex-wife has become a famous painter. Years after their marriage ended, Gene still has some forty paintings his ex-wife left behind. Among them are two portraits of a man she had an affair with while they were together. In need of money and still nursing the wounds of the marriage, he decides to sell the portraits at auction, hoping both for a financial windfall and, perhaps, a way of finally
Upshot by Selen Ozturk
“Guess our ages,” the clearly slightly oldest one says. “Start with our widdle baby.” I’d chosen the remotest nook of a bar that I choose daily at whatever hour my house gets cold, to bear in mind the end of my most painful, lonely, robust bond, which I’d since smoothly prolonged only another year. I compare the tiny bald face of the massive one, the baby, to the faces on both sides of him. “How old am I?” asks the one by the wilted plastic palm tree. “Here’s a hint: It’s one of our birthdays tonight. You may be off
Bradley Sides Recommends: Nine Collections that Capture Rural Settings in their Simple Beauty
Oftentimes, as a kid in rural Alabama, I fell asleep with my window open. I could hear a mix of cows mooing, frogs croaking, and creeks flowing. It was the best sound machine I’ve ever had. The days were just as pleasant. I swam in ponds, gave show cows baths, and hung out with my grandfather in his expansive garden. Each day was brimming with the natural beauty of the rural world. In my debut novella, The Volcano Keeper (Regal House, 2026), I plant my characters in a fictionalized rural Alabama community that is similar to the one I’m from.
Back when we lived in the flat that faced the street by Amber Ken
A man knocked on the door to comment on what we were eating for dinner, ‘got cheese on that’, he said, ‘can I have some?’ We were eating spaghetti bolognese, and then rethinking our table’s proximity to the windows. Back when we lived in the flat that faced the street we were watching reality TV one summer night, the smell of cigarette smoke. It wasn’t hot enough to need the windows open. I turned my head, saw fat fingers wriggling through our letterbox as though taunting. We let our dog do the talking and ran to the bedroom. Back when