Trampled Underfoot somewhere off Route 7 by Welton B Marsland

It’s raining outside
when you fuck him in your car
rivers beat on the windows,
pulse beats in your cock
as you fight your way
inside each other’s space
and clothes
and defences.
On hands and knees
on leather
on bitching suspension,
the car creaks and
calls you a cocktease ‘cos
you’re screwing him so shallow,
spit-shined knob reeling him in slow
before fucking him hard
like a bass chord
like a John Paul Jones
There’s pounding on the roof
when, beneath your hands,
he twists under you
and looks up and back,
pins you naked like you aren’t
right now
and tells you
“I like this song.”


Originally published in CQ6: Smut.

Welton B. Marsland

Still tickled I managed to get cars, fucking, bass guitars & Led Zep into one short poem. Twitter at me here – @wbmarsland

Unstuck by Hamish McIntyre

She was unstuck in time.

She wasn’t sure exactly how it happened. There was no secret military experiment, no toxic waste spill, and no magical McGuffin. One day she just felt a low rumble before being flung back three hours, as if she was the only person on Earth not wearing a seatbelt.

There was no rumble the second time around, but the damage was already done. The next day she woke up and got ready for class seven times before it finally stuck and she was able to continue her day as normal.

She kept quiet at first. If she started thinking about it too much, she’d have to accept that either it was real, or she was going mad. So she tried ignoring the problem, occasionally just gritting her teeth and repeating moments over and over without complaint. But gradually it wore her down.


A few days after it started, she was having lunch with her girlfriends, Mel and Hannah, when they finally noticed something was wrong. Mel looked up and saw her scrolling through her phone in boredom, silently mouthing along to what Hannah was saying. Mel put a hand on her shoulder.

“Hey, what’s going on?” Mel asked.

She raised her head with a slight look of panic in her eyes and gave a strained smile. “I’ve already heard this shit fifteen times.”

Hannah’s face fell.

“Fuck, no that’s not what I meant,” she said quickly. “Look, can we talk about it at your place?”

The trio walked to Hannah’s apartment to discuss everything. It took a long time and several pots of tea, but after a while they believed her. They couldn’t work out the cause, but maybe it didn’t matter. Sometimes weird shit just happens to cute people, they reasoned before retiring to bed.


She was much more cheerful the next day. She didn’t have to face this alone anymore, Mel and Hannah were surprisingly understanding and patient. They barely even reacted when she refused to eat the pancakes Mel made because she’d already eaten them half-a-dozen times that morning. They knew it was uncontrollable, so why make her feel bad about it?

She tried not to let it get to her when she fell back through time, but it was hard. One day she interrupted a conversation by throwing her head back, closing her eyes and letting out an exaggerated groan of frustration.

“Sorry, are we boring you?” Mel crossed her arms and glared.

Hannah was a bit more observant.

“How many times?” Hannah asked quietly.

“Twenty-seven”, she mumbled.

Mel’s eyes widened. “Shit. I’m sorry.”

After a minute of silence, Hannah spoke up.

“You normally seem really calm about the whole thing. Doesn’t it just freak you out, repeating stuff all the time?”

She shook her head. “Reliving a moment over and over isn’t always bad. Sometimes it’s the best!”

As if to emphasise her response, she pointed a finger-gun at each of her girlfriends, waggling her eyebrows suggestively. Mel smirked and threw her a wink, while Hannah went bright red and buried her face in her hands.

She looked at them both and smiled widely. If she had to choose, this would be a good moment to get stuck in. Maybe she could learn to control it. Maybe if she relaxed enough, she could just-

“Sorry, are we boring you?” Mel crossed her arms and glared.

Her eyes snapped open.

“Not this time.”



Originally published in CQ5: Poetry

Hamish McIntyre | he/him/his
Ham is especially interested in writing interactive fiction text adventures. He is not a real ham, but can be found on Twitter as @zombieham

partial memories of friday night by Liz Duck-Chong

i fell asleep on a train,
woke up in a new place,
well, not a new place, but i
didn’t have all my bearings – a
place less travelled, found
my way back where i’d
come from, wrapped in
scarves slowly unravelled.

the bus fell halted, held
askew, we watched the
view, two headlights illuminated
a brick wall and shop, it
had spun like a star out
ahead of us til a full stop.
then drove into the night.

i leaned into a shoulder,
passing lights overhead as
we swam into the sounds
of an album growing older;
she held me, an inverse,
i’d usually hold her, i told
her, she laughed. i leaned
harder, felt colder.

i divulged a whole secret,
there’s not that many left
but i’d managed to keep it
held tight to my chest as
a symbol of individuality,
let it boil inside me, gently
steep it. maybe it changed
me, i’m not sure. yes i mean


Originally published in CQ5: Poetry.

Liz Duck-Chong | she & they | 5
Liz is a writer, sexual health nerd and filmmaker who has had articles, poetry and essays in a range of publications. She co-hosts wholesome sex ed show @letsdoitpodcast, and is on Twitter at @lizduckchong.

Universe Building by Welton B. Marsland

“You okay?”

“Yeah.  I think.  Except … could you let go of my hair now?”

Jimmy chuckled and relaxed the hand he’d gripped in Ryan’s sweaty hair.  “Sorry.”


At first, their expressions were sombre and serious, faces just centimetres apart, breathing heavy, both of them a little stunned and uncertain.  Then, slowly, as it became obvious that no lightning bolt was about to strike them down, nor one of them erupt into mindless rage, their mouths curved upwards at the same time.  Everything was okay – they were on the same page.

“That…” said Ryan, and raised his eyebrows a little way.

“I know,” Jimmy said.

Ryan chuckled like Jimmy had done, his voice very low and a bit throaty.  “That was very, very naughty,” he half-whispered.

Jimmy’s smile continued to widen, warm brown eyes shining with delight and great amusement and not a small amount of mischief.  “Oops!” he laughed.

Raising his head a little way off the bed, Ryan glanced down the length of their bodies.  Not that he could see too much; mostly, he could see Jimmy’s taut upper arm and the sides of their rib cages.  He let his head fall back again.  “Have we made a mess?”

Jimmy swept a glance downwards.  “Not too bad.”  He rolled his hips slightly.

They stared into each other’s eyes for a moment, the enormity of what they’d done beginning to sneak up on them.

“Don’t,” Jimmy said softly.

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t freak out on me now.”

Ryan smiled.  “I wasn’t going to.”

“Well.  Good, then.  Cos you’re not allowed.”

“Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”  Jimmy quirked his mouth.  “I’ve decided – you’re not allowed to freak out about anything anymore.”

Ryan pulled an exaggerated sad face.  “Not ever?”

“Well.  Maybe at Christmas.  Everyone’s entitled to go a bit yampy at Christmas.  Family and all that.”

“Very generous of you.”

They both smirked and Ryan cleared his throat lightly.  Jimmy resettled himself a little lower down his mate’s body.

“We’ve really done it now, haven’t we?”

“Meaning?” Ryan asked.

“Well, we’ve just caused a whole new universe to be created, haven’t we?”

“Hmph.  You mean we didn’t merely make the planet tilt on its axis?”

Jimmy poked his tongue out briefly.  “Nah.  Quantum theory.  You know, each decision and change we make creates a new reality and a new universe.”

“Quantum theory?” queried Ryan.  “When did you suddenly become a deep prick?”

Jimmy ignored him.  “There’s a universe where we’re just best mates.  There’s another one where we barely know each other.”

“Not friends?”

“Nah, we don’t get along much in that universe.”


Jimmy affected a nonchalant tone as his imagination offered up a parallel universe version of themselves.  “That universe – we pretty much hate each other’s guts.  Fought all through school.   Trophy-fuck each other’s girlfriends.”

“You’re really warming to this material, aren’t you?”

Jimmy tilted his face down and blew a raspberry on Ryan’s chest.  A hand swatted at the top of his head and he came up laughing.  “Anyway.  Hrm.  There’s probably another universe where we never even met.”

“Naturally.  A whole lotta decisions from a bunch of different people went into me ending up in the same classes as you.”

Jimmy nodded.  “And I’m sure there’s one where we’re super-spies or playing in the Ashes series or some shit.  And now, now we’ve just created a whole new one.  One where we’re just a couple of blokes and best mates and fuck buddies.”

A bark of laughter shot up out of Ryan at that.  “Fuck buddies?!”  His chest heaved as he laughed.  “Bloody hell.  Do you seriously have to call it that?”

“I’m not calling you “my lover”, dude.  That’d just be weird!”

They were laughing together again, voices filling the room as their bodies shook against one another.  Ryan composed himself first, rubbing at his eyes as his breathing calmed.

Jimmy sighed happily.  “Hungry work, universe building.”

“Want me to call room service?” Ryan offered. “You’ll have to shift off me if you want me to get to the phone.”

“Pity,” said Jimmy. “I’m pretty comfortable here.  In my cool new universe.”

They lay still together for several more minutes before either of them could bring himself to move away, fresh new universes spiralling off into the unknown as a dozen silent decisions were agreed upon in their locked gaze.


Originally published in CQ4: Romance.

Welton B. Marsland
Welton B. Marsland is a queer-punk writer from Melbourne whose stories, poetry & more have appeared in many local & international markets. Debut novel “By the Currawong’s Call”, set in 1890s Australia, is available through and recently won the Romance category at the 2018 Bisexual Book Awards in New York. WBM is also Editor of a poetry anthology inspired by the TV show Supernatural, called “Carrying On”. Twitter: @wbmarsland Website:

Ginger by Katherine Back

Ginger always yowled.

He yowled when he was hungry, he yowled when he was tired, he yowled at nothing at all. Jem used to joke that he was yowling because he could see things that we couldn’t; that he was trying to warn us about the things lurking in the shadows.

Jem was an asshole like that.

Ginger always yowled, but he yowled his loudest the night of the first summer storm. The thunder rattled the window panes and the lightning lit up the house better than daylight; the wind tore at the walls and the trees and the garden, trying to find a way in. And Ginger screamed and howled and bawled, loud enough to be heard over the storm, loud enough to wake the dead. He yowled right up until the lights went out, right up to when the whole house fell into darkness.

He stopped yowling then.

The storm finally broke and a silence fell over the whole house. Despite the blackout, we all slept the sleep of the relieved.

When we woke the next day the power was still out and Ginger was still silent. We fed him his food and gave him his medication, but not a single sound left his body.

“Maybe he saw something in the storm that terrified him into silence,” Jem said.

But he wasn’t scared and he wasn’t afraid. He was calm in a way he’d never been before. He seemed … content. For the first time since he’d moved in he seemed happy to just be. Confused, but grateful, we all began to clean up after the storm. The wind had thrown leaves and branches all over the yard, and torn palings from the fence and hurled them around like they were balsa. One had burst through the wall of the shed, tearing a hole large enough for Alison to climb through.

“I bet it let the ghosts escape,” Jem said.

“Don’t even joke!” Alison replied, but tweeted about it anyway.

We decided not to tell them about the child’s footprint that had appeared on the floor.

Ginger didn’t yowl for a week, for two weeks, for an entire month. The landlord finally sent someone to patch up the fence and the shed. The tradies announced their arrival and, disappointed that it wasn’t Jem who greeted them, set about working almost immediately. They never announced their departure, but when Jem got home we went outside and inspected their work and found it was immaculate. The fence palings had all been replaced, and the shed wall looked like it had never even been damaged. We went back inside to find Laura had three missed calls from her mother. She called back, but the phone rang out each time. She sent her mother a text asking what was wrong. The reply she received just made her all the more confused: driving there. important. see you soon. 

Laura read it out and we looked at each other in confusion.

“What the heck could be so important? It’s nearly 10.”

In Alison’s room, Ginger began to yowl. Nothing we did calmed him; when Laura went to comfort him he lashed out at her, his claws drawing trails of blood along her arm. Eventually we managed to throw a blanket over him and bundle him into the laundry, but the yowling continued.

We waited in the lounge room and after what felt like an eternity we heard a car pull into the driveway. We gathered in the hallway, all of us in our pyjamas, exhausted and irritable. Laura’s mother knocked on the door and it was Laura that pulled it open, the rest of us gathered behind her like a guard. Her mother stood there, wind whipping around her, holding something in her hand.

“You’ll never guess who made it home today!” she said, hoisting the box aloft. “Someone must have gotten scared in that big storm a while back. He finally made it home though!”

From inside the box, a thin, ragged Ginger meowed softly at us.

In the laundry, the yowling stopped. We huddled together as we pushed open the door, but the room was empty.

Outside, we heard the shed door creak.


Originally published in CQ3: Horror.

Katherine Back | she/her
Katherine is a Melbourne-based writer and editor who loves trashy horror, trashy food and trashy people. For complaints about trams and pictures of dogs follow her on Twitter: @tideoftrash


Fabric by Hannah Aroni

Vittoria’s office is small and warm. The wallpaper peels from the walls and the window frame rattles in even the mildest wind; if you look too long at the details of the room, they seem brittle, dry, like the wings of an old moth under glass at the edge of an entomologist’s vast proud display. But there is a fireplace in the office; improbably, there is a fireplace on the second floor of a seven floor office building, and code violations must surely be involved, because whenever a client visits a fire burns there, but no client remembers seeing smoke rising from the building as they enter or leave. It is the sort of thing they would remember, surely. If they look long enough into the fire, the shape of the room grows rounder and the walls seem to fill out, less moth and more leather, more mushroom. Continue reading Fabric by Hannah Aroni

Trans trucks by Alison Evans

originally published in CQ1

Alison Evans  |  they, she & he
Alison is co-editor of Concrete Queers and loves it with the fiery passion of a thousand million burning suns. They also wrote a book called Ida which is a queer YA spec fic genre mash up. You can find him on twitter @_budgie