"In space no one can hear you scream. But what if you're deep in the backwoods, in an isolated cabin on a dead-end trail?" Karen set aside the book. A horror story was not ideal reading for the off-grid log cabin Peter had booked for their thirtieth wedding anniversary weekend, especially as she was alone in bed.
Take my word for it: the best object in the night sky is the Moon. And you don't need an expensive telescope to observe it. A pair of binoculars does the trick. I'm looking at the Moon now, leaning against a wall to steady my hands, and it's a beautiful sight. No wonder it inspires poets and lovers.
I'm getting too old for this. My speechwriter's pulse quickens as the PM mounts the flag-decked stage, flanked by senior ministers and mining industry executives, to announce her government's green coal plan. Panned by environmentalists and scientists, polling suggests it could be a vote winner … if the PM nails my speech.
Pepper gingerly slides a paw over the line his owner has painstakingly pointed out as uncrossable. Like many humans, Rosemary purchased a pandemic dog during the loneliness of lockdowns, paying two months' wages for this poodle-cross-something-or-other but vowing it would be an outdoor dog.
Cassie lay perfectly still in bed, staring at the shadowy shape on the ceiling overhead. A bulky body and eight legs, a spider, but this wasn't Incy Wincy. It was a huntsman with long hairy legs, needle-sharp fangs, and a jump so powerful that if human, it could win gold at the pole vault without a pole.
"Roses are red, violets are blue, I spend my day, thinking of you." Davey reviewed the poem in his exercise book. "Thinking" is what you did at school. It wasn't romantic enough to attempt Mission Impossible with the girl of his dreams. That's it! "I spend my day, dreaming of you."
While this story has elements of autofiction, it's mostly my imagination. But the parts about Indigenous Australians are factual, as objective reading and research will confirm. As is my hope for the successful outcome of the Voice to Parliament Referendum, to be held in Australia in October 2023.
I'm in the middle of a dream, though it might be nearer the beginning or end. Who can tell with dreams? I'm on a rocket, and the final countdown's begun. "10, 9, 8 ..." Then I look down at myself strapped in the seat and see I'm wearing pyjamas. "It's only a dream," I reassure myself.
Dylan woke with jackhammers pounding in his head and a tongue so furry it felt like it needed waxing. "Last time," he croaked, rolling onto his back and resolving to quit drinking again or, at least, to stop bingeing. He stared up at the low ceiling of his studio apartment and replayed the office drinks.
Mum's up first, though she doesn't like looking at her reflection nowadays. She splashes her face and turns away from me with a towel. Over her shoulder, I watch Mum gaze out the bathroom window. And when she turns back, Mum's wearing her pained expression again, like she's failed to solve the riddle of life.
Jennifer swivelled her chair away from the laptop and stared at the lights receding into the distance beyond the high-rise office window. Her eyes had welled up reading Stephen's unexpected emailed demand, and she reached for a tissue to dab at the tears. "Twenty years," Jennifer exhaled softly, wiping her eyes.
