Short Stories

My mind Is a landscape of layered history But my stratigraphy is clumsily understood Bioturbation  Concentrated in the fine-grained upper parts  Is where I remember  I am how I interpret what happens to me Alluvial deposits  Found in the lower parts  Is where I forget Because my mind is involved in a process  Of erosion and decay My body Restores forgotten memories  And is my home that forges meaning  It tells stories of who I am Narratives Waiting to be shared Waiting to be remembered  An existence created out of a need to belong

It was cold on the ferry. I climbed the steep staircase and followed the sun outside. Ocean waves moved in slow motion against the gusts of wind that whipped my hair back and forth. The sound of the wind negated the sound of breaking waves. The ocean was the colour of blue marble; white veins streaked its surface. I stared down at the livestock in transit, transported from the island to live out their happily-ever-after lives in an abattoir. Cows and sheep were all lined up in two separate pens. Some of the cows looked up with wide eyes, knowing what awaited them. Sheep bleated and shuffled; one tried to jump over another. The salty air was charged with nervous energy. The momentary revelation that death was coming for these furry souls brought on an uneasiness that settled in my gut and made me retch. Clouds gathered over the mainland, projecting shadows that left dark green patches over the hills that became clearer as the ferry inched its way across the marble sea. I bowed my head a...

She woke up whimpering on the blow-up mattress inside the dark tent. Her tears had trickled their way down her chin. She wiped her face with the back of her hand as he comforted her with gentle whispers. He listened to her recount the horrid nightmare of women and children being marched off a cliff by cruel men, a colonial massacre with smouldering fires and black smoke. The sounds of the waves and wind from the beach soothed her back to another time on a ridge in another town, with nothing but blue cheese and a starry night. During the days that passed, they would stare at the sea in silence. Her twenty-something-year-old palimpsest heart, filled with a white-hot rage, abated as they drove along the coast. Then it was time for them to leave. He came all that way to save her, but she didn’t want to be saved by anyone. She wanted to be alone. And she was for a while. Then everyone disappeared and became obscure memories in the vestibule of her mind. But when he came along and smiled her...

On Saturday, I attended a talk by Roger Hallam . He is one of the co-founders of the Extinction Rebellion movement that uses civil disobedience to protest against climate change. While Hallam might have come across as an alarmist, his depressing discussion points were on point. We should all be worried about climate change and the slow rate at which governments are taking effective action in the small window of time we have to reduce carbon emissions that contribute to the climate change abomination awaiting us all.  To calm down my existential anxiety, I took a deep dive into the recent Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change report . Supported by more than 100 scientists from 52 countries, the report assesses the latest scientific knowledge about climate change, desertification, land degradation, sustainable land management, food security, and greenhouse gas fluxes in terrestrial ecosystems. Three striking insights I came across in Chapter 7 involve Indigenous and local knowl...

Things are documents of their time. Things can be reinterpreted in the present. Things can acquire a new meaning in the future, but the future can only be built on the remains of the past.   When I was eight years old, our class placed things into an airtight container, a time capsule, my teacher called it. We buried it within our school grounds. I contributed some drawings and my favourite eraser. The idea that people would come across our time capsule one day, perhaps hundreds of years into the future, impressed me deeply.  Soon after, our school closed to accommodate a nursing home. It was built directly over the time capsule burial site. As far as I'm aware, the time capsule remains buried on the hill slope where I used to play kiss chasey.  My siblings and I had to transfer to another school.  Growing up, I would read to my sister and brother from the Harver Junior World Encyclopedia Set from 1971. We would flip through the pages and venture to exotic place...

She balanced herself on the bridge railing that connected the car park to the shopping mall. Her long skirt billowed out around her. It was an overcast Sunday afternoon. Alison and I walked towards her, towards the bridge. What was she doing? A balding man approached us. Don’t get too close. I think she’s going to jump. Oh. Fuck. He edged his way forward. I didn’t hear what he said to her. She looked down. She looked in our direction. She was young; she was our age.  Don’t. Please don’t. I couldn’t read her expression. She appeared calm. Her dark hair was blowing around her face. I thought, for a moment, she was a performer. I closed my eyes then she disappeared. The balding man’s face turned scarlet red. No. No. He asked us if we were OK. I heard someone scream in the distance. Don’t look. Don’t. She was lying in the fetal position, fast asleep in the middle of the street. I don’t know if she survived the fall. Tears pricked my eyes. Alison’s mouth was hanging open. I gripped her...