An ever-increasing lack of dexterity had Patricia still tying her dressing gown as she shuffled into the kitchen, a task she used to be able to complete before the end of the hallway, and before then the bedroom door.
His guts churn something shocking, so he reaches for the pills and washes down a couple with a good clump of spit. The knot loosens, relief flushes. The kitchen sink is clean. Did the dishes last night. Do the dishes and wake up to a clean caravan. New man, new decisions. Sign of things to come.
The sun chases him over the mattress until one more roll will see him face plant the floor. Been a while since it’s had a mop. Plus, imagine yelling out to the other long termers and asking to help lift him up: all six-four inches and a hundred odd kilos.
Snow crunched under thick boots, compressing into the earth as I trekked further north. I raised my scarf against the breeze sweeping through the trees that brought a frostbite chill to my nose. Not much further; it should start soon. A thump to the left caused me to turn sharply; the only sound besides the wind and my own footsteps. The branch of a tree had been strained too long, finally releasing the built up snow weighing it down. I was unclear why; the wind wandered its way through the forest carrying not a single snowflake.
On entering his apartment Rob could hear the sound of the television. Coming down the hall he noticed cardboard boxes sealed in duck tape with “Arthur’s clothes and books” written across them in scribbled black text. Arthur sat in the living room, despondent. The light coming from the television broke the darkness at intervals with iridescent flashes. Rob passed into the kitchen.
2018 is almost at an end. And what an amazing year it's been. Brain drip would like to thank everyone who submitted works to us this year. We had a blast reading them, and the quality of the submissions was definitely above our expectations. We look forward to reading more in the year ahead.
Our most popular published piece this year was I Thought You'd Be Different by Sydney writer Annette Freeman. Congratulations Annette! What a thrilling and compelling story it is too. If you haven't read it yet, do so now!
I start the day of my death like every other: barely alive.
Sleepless and cruising mindlessly through the shopping centre that some town planner has sketched out next to my regional train station, and probably the train station after that. I imagine a carbon copy of me in the next town over, scurrying to pick up the exact same shrink-wrapped and canned goods that will help me subsist during the workday. Tuna. Sweetcorn. More tuna. A limp and vaguely chemical-tasting salad if it’s Monday (which it is) and you’re detoxing, (which I am).
His guts churn something shocking, so he reaches for the pills and washes down a couple with a good clump of spit. The knot loosens, relief flushes. The kitchen sink is clean. Did the dishes last night. Do the dishes and wake up to a clean caravan. New man, new decisions. Sign of things to come.
The sun chases him over the mattress until one more roll will see him face plant the floor. Been a while since it’s had a mop. Plus, imagine yelling out to the other long termers and asking to help lift him up: all six-four inches and a hundred odd kilos.
