Jasmine Wolfe

This is a slow acid.  Amy discarded her child to hold up her hands, palms raised. The tender skin roughened pink then the skin puckered, blistered, then bled. Amy's scream stuck in her chest, even as her child - her gorgeous daughter - reached out for comfort.  ⼮ The Wilser family - Mum, dad, boy and girl - parked their 18ft caravan on the only 'free to camp' area they thought they'd find. It was their first 'roughing it' holiday and they're quite unprepared. But it was the only holiday option they had since the airports are still closed. And they had a strong desire to get out of their house, out of their city. The winter weather didn't deter the Wilsers. They reasoned they'd be the only ones on the road. They were so wrong. Every camp and caravan park were full before they arrived.  But they were here now. Somewhere. For all the bad luck they had on the boring road trip they were lucky right here, right now. Because it would be hours before nightti

I like to walk in graveyards when I'm troubled. And this morning I'm puzzled about a dead uncle. I'd never known about him, before. But a few officials have confirmed he’s my responsibility as I'm the only living next of kin. I love how this morning is overcast as I take today's walk. No threat of rain, there's a light grey overlapping the light purples of dawn. It's reflecting my waking mood. I'm now quite familiar with this graveyard, though my uncle isn't buried here. I've been taking consecutive morning walks since I checked into my motel. I left my uncle's ashes in the linen cupboard of my room. I'm only a macabre tourist among the divine affections carved into stone.  I discovered this romantic walk when I visited the church attached. My uncle had been part of the congregation here and bequeathed his entire will to it. I didn't mind not inheriting anything from an uncle I never knew. But I'm troubled to realise there's n

Hunger is consuming. Saoirse raised her long fingers to comb her charcoal hair. Until the palms pressed into her temples. Then she curled her fingers to gather and pull out her hair if she could. The paid bills kept her in comfort but there are no groceries. The pain of pulling her hair out was no distraction to a pinching stomach. Saoirse stood centre of her living room. It was Pinterest perfect. There was plenty more to do but she couldn’t think on anything. She had to get out. Saoirse grabbed her house keys and sunnies but didn’t bother with the purse. She left the house barefoot. The baking sidewalk and road underfoot were unpleasant distractions. At first, Saoirse didn’t know where she’d prefer to be. But soon found herself near the Goblin Forest Walk. A mosaic path ran alongside a nameless, inner-city, creek. It wasn’t a particularly ‘kid friendly’ area. Saoirse watched her rolling steps, toe-to-heel, toe-to-heel. Moving forwards by taking backward steps. The mosaic underfoot had

Constable Crichton noted Fisher’s disappearance but didn’t quite know how to act. Freddie Fisher had been a convict, sure, but he was now a free man. Did he have family as convicts or settlers, elsewhere? All who know him know he’s now a law-abiding man so it’s not likely he ‘did something’ to abscond from. The Constable looked around the neat stone hut where Fisher is – was – living. His breath fogged the crisp clean air as Fisher’s absence meant no fire to warm this hearth. Nothing looked packed up. Nothing looked tossed. He came outside to his patient nag. And as he hauled his bulk into the saddle he heard the distinct cry of a kingfisher. He turned his head towards the cry and a grove of ghost-gums not far off towards the creek. Folklore says there’s rain in three days of a kingfisher’s cry. The road from Fisher’s to Campbelltown ran alongside the creek. It only serviced the wagons of the local farmers. Constable Crichton followed the road out to Fisher’s neighbours for a chat. And

No one knows what happened to Imogene Caldwell. She had been the family’s matriarch. She bought the hut and land that would become Caldwell Place. She was born in low poverty but raised five sons (to as many different fathers) to become millionaires in their own right. Imogene Caldwell had been old at the time of her disappearance. And there was never a body found out at the Caldwell Place. Everyone is familiar with the farmhouse because everyone knows the legends. It was a right of passage for generations of kids. They camp overnight on the dirt floor, light a fire in the cracked stone hearth, and tell ghost stories. It was scary for kids to try sleeping without a warm nightlight. With a damned owl flying in and out all night through an empty window. All they had was a dying fire, making shadows flicker against the dilapidated walls. In a building that would not protect them if a wraith came out of the pitch-black forest. And decided to murder them all in their sleep. Roy was the youn

Cobar slogged along Phoenix Avenue with no protection from the belting rain. Dragged down by his faded blue jeans and mellow yellow polo top he closed himself against the storm’s mild gusts. There’s no shelter under the blackened urban bones of this flattened city. Yet Cobar keeps to the sidewalks. Not bothering to see where the shuffling tops of his military boots take him. These sturdy boots are the only kindness the military had shown him as they forcibly stripped off his Lance-Corporal uniform. With the world in Hell the military are still greatly in control. But they don’t need Cobar. His sister, Jara, is worth more to them than he was. She promised to get him food and other provisions but Cobar already knew he wasn’t going to let her help him. He is half-dead already. The call of a crow made him stop and look ahead. There’s a bridge with a checkpoint, all busted up, with a fluttering under the lip of it’s arch. Cobar half-remembered this is where civilians dumped the corpses of t