Dolphins are right here. Doing beach ball tricks gladly. They are in our hearts.

Dolphins, we are told, only let one side of their brain sleep at a time – what with the whole mammals drowning thing. This presents an ideal metaphor for poor-quality sleep which leaves you feeling as if you never slept. To sleep thus is ‘dolphining’. (That’s what I claim, anyway). It’s a depressingly useful word. I’m in no danger of drowning in my bed, yet I dolphin constantly.   I have questions. 1) How does one determine that a sleeping dolphin is partitioning its brain? W

A bunch of grapes sit. The grapes are bunched together. The green grapes sit still.

He stared at the dead body. Its head caved in.   ‘What do we know?’   ‘Well, it looks like he’s had a heart attack.’   ‘WHAT? No it doesn’t. It looks like he’s sustained a blow to the head with a blunt object, I’d say.’   ‘Well maybe he fell and hit his head and then had a heart attack.’   Shaking his head he stared at her.   She stood calmly staring at the body and he could tell she was processing the entire event. It was her first dead body. He knew from the past, that when

Picture it – an atlas on top of someone’s head. Is there a god with an atlas or world on the head? Or a subject of mythology? My story starts with a host of lists and message on a table. Well, who doesn’t accumulate lists and message? Shopping lists, to-do-lists, to-contact lists, to-bin lists. Messages from, messages to, messages about, don’t forget messages. Credit card slips, flyers, newspapers, advertisements, events messages.   They are all there for a reason. Some are n

Bonn uses Mother’s Puter-info for safety and making clothes and weapons.  Stumpy blue trees are like Ashwood and best to use for making bows and arrows.  He bounces his way to the closest Ashes forest 50kms away.  The laser-gun fells a few and trims them to a bendy bow and straight arrows.  Sharpened Grumblebum bones make arrowheads while leg sinews twisted with spook-reed flax stretch for bowstrings.   Red-Black Pandabeasts are the simplest to hunt, while a spook-reed gassed

“What do you want to do? Where do you want to go?” “Oh, I don’t know, pick a spot.” “I’ll get out the maps and have a look.” “I got something better than that. Let’s go for a big fly! As far as we can make it in one day.” “Do we have the fuel for that?” “Of course, we have a full tank of rocket fuel. The sun is just rising and the air is still – let’s go baby!!” “Start those engines and let’s get down the runway.” “Hang on I best put my helmet and seatbelt on.” McGonagall pu

Heavy-winged night sits on my shoulder. The weight of night comes down like a soft paw, in velvet finality. An atlas moth spreads its powdery wings, channelling the moonlight into fractal droplets of incalculable weight.   What rebellion were we guilty of, to be so burdened? What Titanic fault?   Probably nothing. This is just the way of things. Earlier iterations must give way to later. Titans to Olympians. Moths, too, are more ancient than butterflies. I had always imagined

The globe spun around and round. ‘Look at the Atlas children.’ ‘That's not an Atlas that's a globe.’ ‘Don't argue Tim, just do as I say.’ ‘Yes but you got it wrong miss.’ ‘Don't be so rude Tim or you'll sit in the corner.’ ‘But...’ ‘No buts.’ ‘But don't you know an Atlas is a book?’ With this the rest of the five year olds nodded their heads in five year old wisdom. ‘Wasn't Atlas a man?’ The teacher smugly asked. ‘Oh nooo,’ Little Tim said knowingly. ‘Yes he was,’ the teacher

He sits in mother’s doorway eating psycho-melons.  He is lost in space and time.  He has no name.  No one calls him or speaks to him or talks about him.  He is a “Boy of No Name”.  So, he calls himself just that -“BONN”- instructing Puter to call him Bonn, just so he can “be”.   Bonn gathers fruit.  Large juicy, blue-fleshed melons growing in massive patches are his favourite.  Unfortunately, they give off psychotic fumes of close, cloying atmosphere that is overly sweet, sti

‘Well it’s closed.’   ‘WHAT! I’m dying for dinner! That’s crap. How can it be closed? It’s always open.’   ‘Well it seems that it is. We were told if we weren’t here on time it would be shut.’   ‘That’s bullshit. That woman is a nightmare. Just because we’re a little late, SHE CLOSES!’   A lady stood at the door and smiled at them, refusing to open up.   ‘MUMMMMMMM, OPEN THE DOOR AND LET US IN. I WANT DINNER!! THAT’S NOT FAIR.’   The lady smiles more and walks off.   ‘Awwww M

I’ve recently moved to Jindabyne.  There have been a few lifestyle changes to adjust to.  One of these is work.  I had a business before I moved from Newcastle, but it was a consulting business that only really worked if I could be onsite, only now, I’m 600 kilometres away from my customers.  I have a choice, either, rebuild the same business here by finding new customers, or start a new business doing something new.    One idea is to put water in cans and sell it online.  He

POP! BANG! – Exploded the tire suddenly.   ‘Fuck, not now!’ complained Mum, who had to hold the annual Mothers of NSW expo. Mum got out of her car and got the carjack out of her boot. She was in the middle of the bush with no phone signal, so trying to call the NRMA would be useless. As she was almost done changing her tire, she heard loud rustling in the bush. Thinking she might get a good chance to get a good picture of a kangaroo, she took her phone out of her car and went

The knife was held to her throat. ‘What if this is a real knife? What if the actor is really going to kill me? What do I know about her? Did I check to ensure the knife was the prop knife? OH MY GOD, I DIDN’T!’ With that Kala grabbed the hand with the knife, she reefed the arm out away from the actors body, twisted it around…and whoops, she broke it. The actor wreathed around the stage in pain. The audience applauded. The director closed the curtain to a standing ovation. The

• That's not a knife, this is a knife. • Was it one of the Modernists who painted a picture of a • knife and said this is a knife? • Then another guy painted the same picture and said this is not a knife . Writing is like art, it is a deception. I am holding a knife in my hand right now. I am bleeding. Blood is falling from the sleeve of skin above my wrist. Did this happen? Maybe it did. If it did, the image you see in your mind is not quite like the actual incident. Could I

He crept along the banister holding on as best his little furry legs could grip the curved wood. Paint chips made the grip harder but the knife, firmly between his clenched jaws, glistened with spittle and sweat. The light was dim with only the moon coyly peeking out occasionally. It was enough to glisten off the blade that shone with a dull hue. He hissed and gulped back even more of his spit as he snaked around the banister pole flaking green shards of paint. No one wa

‘She gouged out his eye with a butter knife?’   ‘A plastic one.’   Jeannie sipped on her tea. ‘Were there no metal ones to hand?’ She replaced her cup in her saucer with a small chink.   ‘Perhaps she enjoyed the challenge.’   ‘Hm. Care for a white chocolate almond? They’re very good.’   ‘Oh, thank you, yes…So did you finish the backyard renovations? I heard you were doing some mosaics.’   ‘Yes, they’re done. All concreted over. Couldn’t leave that sort of stuff lying arou

Table grapes still sit. The light lights and warms the grapes. Grapes still green in bowl.

There is no choice.  No way off this planet, no charts to guide him back to safe environments.  The escape-pod is his survivor, friend, companion, parent and protector.  ‘Mother’ protects him, feeds him, fosters him, teaches him, finds and collects water from the water-table.  It doesn’t rain.  Dew rises to the surface when one of the moons pass and draws it from the groundwater aquifers.  It’s exciting to watch thousands of batbirds swooping or thundering grumblebums chasing

She sat on the table watching her mother cook. Her five-year-old legs dangling and swinging as she watched.   ‘I want to sit on the bench.’   ‘You can’t.’   ‘But I want to. I can’t see what you’re doing.’   ‘Well you can’t and that’s not a good reason to put your dirty little bottom on the bench.’   ‘Why not?’   ‘Because I said so.’   ‘Well, that’s not a good reason.’   Outsmarted by her five-year-old daughter the mother continued cooking with the ferocity of someone outsmart