By Stacy Boone

In the end, I only had a flash of a second to see it from my window. It wasn’t the warring factions of political parties. Nor was it artificial intelligence and the illusion that humans were still thinking for themselves.

By Claire Cansick

The sea is, at the moment, my main subject; I utilise thin layers of oil, diluted with various mediums, to create undulating, sensuous movement on the surface, imitating the complex facets of waves, meditative, repetitive, yet never the same.

By Julian Dobson and Ella Hubbard

In Dante’s Inferno, Hell has four stinking rivers. Less well known are the two in Purgatorio: Lethe, for forgetting past wrongs, and Eunoe, a flow of restored and reordered memory before entering paradise.

By Charissa Egger

It rained 165 days the year we moved to Big Cougar Island. Though, at the right time of year, not a drop of rain is to be seen; at the right time of year, the island is only fair weather.

By Jenny Mitchell

I draw a line on a slightly downwards slope from the Meander River in the top right of my map to Mole Creek. This represents the cattle route surveyed in January 1827 for the Van Diemen’s Land Company by Joseph Fossey. Fossey’s track became the Mole Creek Road.

By Alice Kent

Out here in the edgeland, borderland, hinterland, whatever you choose to call it, I came to realise the problem: nobody could hear us scream.

By Helen Grant

I arrive in Manchester utterly unknowing. I have no job and my job applications have only received rejections, so no interviews are on the horizon either.

By Joe Pearson

At the exact moment the world is saved, Anya lights a candle; her mother lies dead on the table before her, storm rain still dripping from the body’s pale face.