Mabel
BY TAYA REID
Dad said she enjoyed being at sea. She loved the shape of perfectly sculpted cake layers, the glinting headache of the casino floor and symmetrical rows of blinding white pool loungers, strewn with t-shirts and books to save for later. She sent us photos of all these sights, and none of herself or Dad. One evening she composed me a rambling text message about the different salads she had at dinner, how one of the salads, showered in nasturtiums, would transport sunshine into her body, and the other, made mostly of beetroot, would only bring darkness and decay from underground.
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On cloth and hands and work and love
JANELLE KOH
When I was five, my grandfather would pick me and my sister up from kindergarten, usher us into a cab, and take us home. Back at our house, he would thank the taxi driver (‘kam xia’ if they were Chinese, ‘terima kasih’ if they were Malay), hand him some folded notes he kept in his shirt pocket, and have a quick cigarette outside our apartment before bringing us inside.
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Tell the Birds and Death in the Funeral Parlour
ASHA RAJAN
After her funeral, after the mob of sombre-clothed mourners registering their presence to god and posterity leaves, after my brother and his line-lipped soon-to-be-ex-wife drag their fractious children to the car, after the dolorous funeral directors press their earnest eyebrows together, press my hands in consolation, whisper their commiserations, and present me the final bill, I drive to my mother's house.
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Sriracha
MEGAN CHEONG
Daniel was the first one to get there. He’d paused at the gate wondering whether it was better to get there late, to avoid appearing overeager, or to arrive exactly on time so they didn’t wait around thinking he’d chickened out, and then, in a panic, he’d grabbed the lead lying in the grass of the front lawn and now he and Lucky were the first ones here.
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Kal Ka Kahaani
ZAHINA MAGHRABI
Kal we visited home, on today’s sunrise it has become a khayal rewritten into a memory that turns into a story -A kahaani that I have tried to visit, but end up at a different window to the same emotion. The door was left open as we pressed our hand against the wood, creaking from a dozen loose screws.
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The Pink Dollhouse and other micro fictions
ALYSSA CARROLL
Book is turned down, spine in the air. Sneakers are hefted onto feet. Take cash from Mum. Begin walking the gravel pavement uphill. Our street is long, my eyes focused on the green trees at the far end that mark the T-junction. Finger the money in my pocket.
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my private property
SAMANTHA MCCULLOCH
I can’t say what makes the strangeness – the gradual, razor-sharp recognition of an outside within an inside. The wind dies down temporarily, bringing with it a stillness full of motion, a stirring unquiet, a ceasing that takes hold of me.
FROM THE VAULT
In celebration of three years of Portside Review, we bring you a selection of prose pieces from our archives.
Ask the sea where my love is
WARSAN WEEDHSAN
I never believed in love at first sight until I met him at the beach that I was walking earlier. This guy – automatically my eyes start to evaluate this wonderful, strong guy. A tall, strong body seems to be training muscles. A nice dress with matching colours was attractive, same barefoot and enjoyed the wet sand like I do.
Lingua Franca
CHER TAN
It wasn’t until I was well into adulthood when I learned that ‘chalet’ was a word in Franco-Provençal to mean ‘holiday home’ and not a word in Singlish to mean ‘holiday home.’ Supposedly no emphasis on either syllable. By then, my brain had already been, as is wont to say, ‘internet poisoned.’
Hannah’s Mother
CINDY SOLONEC
The ship docked at Fremantle in December. The new arrivals’ excitement soon turned to bewilderment as they travelled to the Holden Immigration Centre, a refugee camp 100 km east of Perth at Northam. Listed as aliens under the Aliens Act of 1947, their first impressions were lasting.
‘All [of] the bush was burnt. A fire must have gone through. Really, what can I say. The countryside was all burnt,’ Akim lamented. Gertrud added, ‘When we arrived in Australia, we looked out of the train from Fremantle to Northam. It was pretty empty that country. The houses were very primitive then.’
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Shut Up About Avocado Toast
RUBY THIAGARAJAN
It was impossible for me to imagine arriving at adulthood without a partner. Dating around, like they did on TV, seemed fun, but getting married was the most legitimate reason to leave home. I wanted freedom to happen as soon as possible, so I hitched my wagon to his.
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To Dance With You Again
ERNI ALADJAI
A few days earlier, I had heard that the woman was searching for someone to take care of the baby, and if there were anyone, she and her husband would gratefully hand over her child. No one offered, not even their relatives.
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Osaka Calling
KENNETH WONG
Hundreds of bright futures, snuffed out and extinguished just as they were about to take flight. All that was left of them were a bunch of viral memes, digital ghosts of dashed hopes.
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Healing Power
MALACHI EDWIN VETHAMANI
It was a horrid tasting black concoction of Indian spices and herbs boiled in water. It was her speciality, and I doubt even your grandmother knew how to prepare it, the way Paati did. Despite its unpalatable taste I would gladly drink it. Paati's medicines never failed.