Collisions: Fictions of the Future - A Liminal Anthology

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“To exist in a non-white body is to collide: against Eurocentric ideals, against narrow concepts of excellence, against stagnant idea of the world to come. But collisions also manifest in the way our lives come into contact with others, how or pasts shifts against the present, and how our imaginations sit against our realities.” 


Liminal is a magazine created by Leah Jing McIntosh to showcase Asian-Australian creativity. In 2019, from January to April, their inaugural Liminal Fiction Prize was held. The criteria was simple: submissions must be from Australian writers of colour, with the intent to combat the lack of non-white winners of Australian literary prizes. The theme was aptly “the future.” 

Now, a year later, the long list of prize-worthy writing has been collated in Collisions: Fictions of the Future. The decision by Liminal to publish this anthology reflects their founding philosophy: to hold aloft diverse writings and proclaim their value, while combatting the colonial narrative that would see only Eurocentric writing as worthwhile. 

McIntosh and the editors of Liminal were faced with the ideal problem: too much good fiction. With each intriguing tale comes a pushing of fiction in a new direction. In “Auburn Heights,” Naima Ibrahim takes snapshots of the process of gentrification over a period of three years. The lucid prose Hannah Wu commands throughout “Dried up in Aralkum” both speaks and feels of loss. 

But the prize was clinched by Bryant Apolonio with his beautiful story “Bad Weather.” In two interweaving tales read alongside one another, Apolonio captures the difference and sameness of a man across time; how he is dually shaped by his upbringing and his physical location. There is a gentleness to Apolonio’s prose that instantly stands out, and the moments where past and present collide are transcendent: 

“…how could you explain that smell? Like crystallised dew, like citrus, soap. Something out of time. The last hold-out of an old, carried out to sea and moving further. Travelling south – far south – against all odds.” 

“Bad Weather” features in the first of three sections, “Bodies,” which is followed by “Movement” and “Contact.” These sections reflect an aspect of Collisions; or perhaps it is better to say the stories are grouped by their common treatment of the future, feeding these themes. 

“Bodies” asks the epistemological question: are people capable of viewing the world through the eyes of another, or are we trapped by our own limited perception? Kicking off with “See You Tomorrow” by Claire Cao, the tone is set for Collisions. Following Chinese immigrant and grandmother Li Xuan, Cao explores theme of heritage and queer identity across generations. In contrast, “Tongue” by Jessica Zhan Mei Yu explores teenage isolation and the silencing effect of being on the outside. Throughout all the stories is the enriching quality of walking through the life of another; for fiction, particularly good fiction such as this, gives us the chance to see through eyes other than our own. 

Bodies are not still – they have movement, existing across time. The future is not possible without the past. Cultural histories, our stories, must be clung to and given voice. In “The Voyeur,” Elizabeth Flux considers how our family history might add to our present. Explored through the ability to relive memories of the deceased, Flux warns of a life that is solely determined by the past: there must be movement forward. Indeed, cultural significance can carry meaning into new lives, as is the case in Misha Wolf’s “Her Hands.” Centred on a pair of preserved hands, Wolf dips into magical realism to capture the otherworldly power of history: 

“‘Touch me… touch me…. touch me…’ A muted voice from somewhere outside – or perhaps, within – the house… She listens, blood loudly pumping in her ears. ‘Free me, I have stories to tell. Free me!’” 

From “Movement” comes “Contact:” the impact of an idea against another. When these impacts occur, one cannot help but consider the future in their fallout. “Wish You Were” by Claire G. Coleman brings to life our digital footprint in a harrowing consideration of what we are handing over parcelled within our data. In contrast, “Terranora” by Mykaela Saunders considers a future where the traditional custodians of Australia have returned to their land and traditions, while tracing the impact of colonialism and climate change on the people and land. Both fictional futures have deep roots in our present and share a vision (or warning) for where our society might go. 

Reading these stories was a practice of empathy. It is a gift to be able to walk, however briefly, through the life of another. It remains immensely frustrating to think writers of this calibre might be ignored or overlooked by a Eurocentric establishment in Australian writing. But I have hope for literary community in Australia, that as collisions occur and people read these stories, the culture will be changed so that writers of generations to come might be given the attention they deserve.


 Patrick Johns is a poet and editor based in the inner-west of Sydney. He is studying Philosophy and English at the University of Sydney.

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