Short Stories

Orienteering was supposed to save us as children. Part race, part treasure hunt, we read specially prepared maps to navigate our way through the wild to a number of checkpoints. One year, the Whispering Wall was nominated to be on the list. Built over 120 years ago, the reservoir retaining wall overlooking the bush landscape proved to have powerful acoustic abilities.  The concave wall is perfectly curved and forms one sector of a circle, where sound waves travel unobstructed from one end to the other. We soon found out that words spoken at one side of the wall could be heard from more than 150 metres away on the other side. We were captivated. Forgetting about the other checkpoints, we lingered and listened to strangers share their secrets. They sounded so close by.  At the time, it felt harmless to be a passive participant, waiting silently to receive soliloquies from the other side. We compared our scars to pass the time in between intimate leaks. We were too young to understand why

Holding a kite, along with the other kids on our quiet suburban street, we run free. Lovers of abandoned places, we leave the familiar neighbourhood and explore the forgotten railway station. We don’t move in straight lines but jostle with the wind. With each other. With ourselves. Still, we share the sky. Weeds stand silently beside crumbling stone walls while we wrestle with tangled kite lines.  We check the wind before flying. Sometimes there is barely a breeze, and at other times there are huge gusts. Licking our index fingers, we point them upwards towards the heavens. The side of the finger cooled by the breath of the blowing wind indicates the direction we must turn our backs on. Instead of taking a run-up, we hold our kites in the air and let the wind navigate for us.  One kite starts to spin in big loops, swirling closer to the ground, it meets the dirt track. We launch kites only to have them fall at our feet. Making slight adjustments to its design, we lighten the load to in

The young couple would meet at the beach every Saturday afternoon. I used to watch them embrace from my rock pool. When they began their journey to the secret spot, I followed them around the shoreline, clawing my way up to observe the girl who had set me free. I trailed them, past the marina, past the tissue-box houses, along the esplanade, until they found the lonely table. I listened to them talk over the roar of the ocean about nothing and everything. She shivered during the night hours. I saw them kiss under the lonely table once, but only once. "The whitewash looks like wild white horses running towards us."  "Then let's race them. First one to touch the jetty wins!" "Wins what?" "You'll see." Together they ran, but her long satin skirt tripped her up and pulled her down. She laughed so hard at the sky that her face turned red. Then he pretended to fall spectacularly next to her. Sprawled out, smiling at each other for a moment, the

“Is it all right you’re up here with me, or would you rather be with someone else?” After our steep climb, clambering over rocks under the afternoon sun, I took a moment to breathe in the view. Australia’s Central Desert is a mix of ochre red dirt with patches of green bush spread out to the horizon. It was greener than I thought it would be.  “No... I’m glad it’s with you.” Surprised by the question after what seemed like hours of sweaty silence. With throbbing dehydrated skulls, we sat down, our legs hanging over the cliff’s edge. We drank from our water bottles and sucked the nectar from nearby honey grevillea flowers. Her uncertainty reminded me of my own inherent self-doubt. We were two young women contemplating whether we should be here, forging a friendship in a wondrous landscape.  Curious about the collective stories of places, I imagined we were actively taking part in the desert’s living memory. Escaping from our perceived limitations and searching for adventure, we made an

I capture people in my locale  From living room windows  Trusty old camera  Connects me  To the surreal world outside  Impatiently waiting  For red lights to turn green

A friend of mine Has a cottage In the countryside That is full of ghosts He stays there with his family In the summer The antique walls  Decorated in remnants of the past Protect its kin At night When the cottage takes a deep breath And sighs at the new world outside Everyone gets goosebumps And knows  It is time to leave 

Stories are also a form of imaginary travel, a way of traversing the landscape of the mind. In his book, Sad Topographies, Damien Rudd writes a chapter on non-places, specifically gas stations. It took me back to a forgotten story in my timeline of memories, some 20 years ago, when I celebrated New Year’s Eve at a petrol station.  I had a friend who worked the night shift at petrol stations around the outskirts of Adelaide. I think the money was decent but not worth the hassle of dealing with the unruly behaviour of late-night customers. I was surprised to learn how many people would fill up their car’s petrol tank with fuel and then drive off. Mind you, this was the early 2000s, so security was not what it is today. The money that was unaccounted for would have to come out of my friend’s paycheck, supposedly incentivising him to keep an eagle eye on his customers. The job stressed him out, but it gave him the time to think about where he wanted his future self to be. A petrol station

White fluorescent light  Radiates across the canal  My sensitive eyes squint  At the irritating incandescence  Flickering  For moments For hours I curse its presence  The elevated glass tardis Where the light lives Floats against the cerulean sky Ingratiating itself  With the neighbourhood  But a rooftop dweller Glares furiously behind the blinds At my windows During the night