Tag Archives: Ryan Stone

Clipped Wings

With his head between my mother’s splayed legs, Doctor Cheung joked, “He looks like one of mine!” He was Chinese. I had jaundice. My old man never laughed at that story, through countless retellings. He’d slink away to drink, like … Continue reading

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The Journey Home

She tells me her pain is a squall, sudden and vicious, like a flash storm whipping in from Bass Strait to batter King Island. Do you remember our Island, Garth? Her doctors build shelters; nurses batten hatches, but this tempest … Continue reading

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Drought Town

This is the summer of red dust. Everything sucked dry—hollow as cicada husks, wedged under eaves and porch stairs—waiting for a wind change. On the road out of town, empty grain silos loom, perched like headstones over wheat-field graves. Harvesters … Continue reading

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Coal Town

Birds don’t stop in this town. I see them fly past, black peppering blue, going someplace. I’ve given up dreaming wings. This town will know my bones. Condoms sell well in Joe’s corner store – boredom breeds but breeding’s a … Continue reading

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