The Storm

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Wind chimes beat a frantic fractured metal sound, the music lost, against the noise of strained and flapping sun sails. Views to the south had been reduced to 10 meters from the usual 6 Nautical Miles. With a sudden darkening of rain clouds and a drop in temperature from 40 to 22 o C the southerly had arrived. It was early. It was always early. She had told him it would be early. Now all she could do was shut her fear at the thrashing palm trees and the bent branches of the Lilly Pilly as it actively invaded the much older avocado tree.

Fog

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“This is fucked!” Damian said from the front seat. His hands gripped the wheel tightly and his muscles flexed. He had tattoos all the way up his arms with symbols from New Zealand. Out the front window of the car the headlights reflected off a thick wall of fog. You could only see the road for a car length then it disappeared and there was condensation all over the windows. “Remind me again, what’s so special about the Otways?” Mum didn’t answer; it must have been a rhetorical question. I poked the condensation on the window with my finger. It felt cold and wet.

Undercurrent

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It hasn’t helped, her being ill. That’s to say it hasn’t altered in any way the strange mood that earlier began hanging around. Exactly how long the mood has been with her she doesn’t remember. Everything about it is vague...

Home Sweet Home

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A young couple have moved into our street. They couldn’t be more than twenty-two. I see them some mornings when I’m walking the dog. He’s dressed in sharp attire, off to work. She’s at the door, clutching their clearly adored terrier as he kisses her goodbye and hops into his Ford Ranger. I wave hello but, of course, I don’t know them. I’m left to imagine the very adult lives they lead behind that closed door...

I’m In Here

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A cup of orange juice sits on the table beside me. The sun sneaks in sheets through the shutters of my bedroom. I want to open the rest of my windows but I do not. The drink has sat there for a while. It warms in the sun, changing from juice to honey to amber gold...

Saint Luc de la Chemise

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I

In the year of Our Lord, 1539, or thereabouts, in a small town in the centre of France, or thereabouts, three middle-aged men sat together in the corner of a tavern, in silence. They were Piers L'Hernault (more secular than religious), Onfroi Parsley (more religious than secular), and Gosse Barnard (majoritarian) – three of the twelve town councillors. When their council meeting began that morning, their town was Champs des Navets (Turnip Fields); controversially, when it ended, Saint Luc de la Chemise.