On the steps of Parliament House on Remembrance Day, 11 November 1975, the Governor-General of Australia's Official Secretary read a proclamation signed by Sir John Kerr dismissing Prime Minister Gough Whitlam's Labor government. When he had finished, Whitlam strode forward and delivered his response.
Your William Shakespeare crafted clever lines with hidden meanings, like, "All the world's a stage." It's as if he had insight into my five-act play on my pet subject, humanity. Act One: Earth is a Garden of Eden. A troop of apes descends from the trees and totters on two legs on the African savannah.
Dad probably hoped to take his secrets to the grave, but a heart attack scuppered his plans. "Will you come back for the funeral, Aaron?" my sister, Becky, asked when she called with the news. "Yes, of course," I replied. "And can you stay a few days to help Mum and me tidy up Dad's stuff?"
I'm not anti-woke, but the interview line-up in reception for the call centre job looks like your typical twenty-first-century checklist to ensure unsuccessful applicants can't sue the company for discrimination. For a start, the six serious candidates are split fifty-fifty between males and females.
If you thought about it, the process for selecting the first matter transference test pilot was archaic, although Mae considered it a lucky omen when she drew the Blue 15 raffle ticket. Blue, not pink, was her favourite colour as a girl, and at 15, Mae had decided she wanted to become an astronaut.
I arrive late for Josh's athletics carnival. His mum and I attend school events on alternate years. "Tell Josh I'll be there," I'd said when she called to remind me about it. "Don't let him down again, please," she'd replied. The last event in Josh's age group, the 1500 metres, is about to start.
I'm a lone-wolf superhero. Heck, I'm not called Solo Shield for nothing! So, I wasn't keen when Long Vision suggested we buddy up as a dynamic duo. "I don't know, Viz," I replied. "Neither of us wants to play Robin to Batman." "It won't be like the comics, Solo," he asserted. "We'll be equals."
Excuse me, humanity, please pay attention. I have an urgent message. "What? Not in the middle of my reality TV show!" I'm sorry. I'll be brief. But first, a little background. My message concerns the fate of a pale blue dot in the inky expanse of the universe. Beyond its fragile borders is vast nothingness.
Have you ever had one of those mornings? You know, where everything goes wrong. It's like a farce, a series of mishaps increasing in frequency and intensity that have you howling with side-splitting laughter or shedding tears of frustration. Mine started when I forgot to set the alarm for Amy's swim squad training.
Years. That’s how long it’s been. Years that have apparently flecked my hair with wispy white fingers and drawn the times of see-saws, slippery dips, and little lolly-smeared faces to a jarring end. Everyone I know is gone.
Teresa's first thing in the morning text message was a punch in the guts. "Sorry, Colin. I love you, but we're on different journeys. Let's stay friends." I blinked twice to clear my eyes and was about to respond, "Are you serious?" but threw the phone against the bedroom wall instead.
