I ease the door open. The weak light from the corridor reveals the interior, filthy tiles and limbs. My heart is thumping in protest, my head feels like it's a dying star about to collapse in on itself. I look down briefly at my mostly naked body; the advertatts give off a sickly incandescence.Read More
The beach is full of men. All naked. Some wear hats, others have covered their noses with pink zinc. The colour complements their cheeks. I remember Gideon's love of cricket and iced Boston Buns with desiccated coconut.Read More
He leans against me and rests his head on my shoulder. I try to imagine that it’s just sticky tree sap smeared across his cheeks and shirt like when we’d swing from the gums out the front of Grandpa’s place. I try to imagine that he’s just a little sauced after a big win.Read More
The moment he asked her to explain what happened on the abandoned golf course, there among the trees by the eighth hole, she knew.Read More
Go, you say, before he gets in the mustard-coloured Nissan and winds the window down.Read More
It started with a scream and ended with a bang.Read More
You live in a small studio apartment above a fish and chip shop; the smell of oil is your incense. There’s a large red couch that makes the room look smaller than it is. It’s a shit hole but you love the place. You need some help so you consider having a housemate to help with the rent.Read More
As I turn the earth I think how strange it is to destroy so many little lives for just one death.Read More
The day rose fast and hot. We walked down to the river and Jemima showed me how to catch a yabby in a stocking.Read More
She looked strangely similar to me – she’d the same dark kind of hair that fluffed into the air, the same bony knees and thick thighs. Long before we met people would ask if I had a twin. (She the same, I later learnt.) And then we met and got on so well: ‘peas in a pod’.Read More
Roald Dahl wrote his mother a letter once a week until the week she died. One of his late father’s wishes was that he go to boarding school, so at the age of seven, he did. At the end of each week they wrote home. When he left school he never stopped writing on Sundays.Read More
The air quakes in the heat.An ant crawls across Lisa’s arm and Madeleine licks it up. It’s on her tongue, still moving, and then she swallows it, mostly because she remembers swallowing an ant when she was little, and wonders if the sweetness was real. Lisa is fucked on the sun and murmurs don’t before closing her eyes again.
At the shops that morning they’d had a fight about the health benefits of sourdough. Madeleine had stopped looking Lisa in the eye halfway down aisle three, where the air was plump with raisin wafts and yeast. She always looked away when they fought, and Lisa couldn’t handle it the way she used to.
Look at me Mad, you have to look at me or I’ll just go, I’ll just walk out, she’d said through tightened teeth.
Madeleine couldn’t look, never could once the air got tight. But she’d grabbed Lisa’s hand and chewed her lip and then they had kissed, because Lisa was just a little more in love with Madeleine than she should have been.
The ant isn’t sweet. It tastes like blood and grey-lead pencil and she can almost feel its ballooned body slide down her throat. Madeleine is lying on her belly with her elbows bent and her head held up in her hands. She looks around the park, for something. Beside her Lisa dozes, her nose quietly whistling.