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.
Handcuffed in the police car, I wished the lamp hadn't been magical. "That, sir, is a genuine antique," the stallholder had asserted when I'd stopped and inspected it at the secondhand market. The oil lamp looked like a prop from Disney's Aladdin. And I thought it would polish up and earn me a tidy profit.
Eighty is the new fifty, or so I'm told. But my back wasn't this dodgy when I was fifty, and my knees lasted longer than a circuit of the park with the dog before seizing up. And I wasn't caught short so often that I needed to memorise the location of the nearest public toilet for emergency pit stops!
"Are we there yet?" Milly whines from the back seat. "I'm bored," adds Tyler. "Oh, for goodness sake!" I snap, eyeballing the pair in the rear vision mirror. "It's only been two hours." Kids nowadays! The drive has been smooth and fast compared to the narrow, windy roads of my childhood family holidays.
