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

Species merging was generating problems among the parents. ‘Icthy’ (the fishy-folk) were gene sharing with the previously lower consciousness group ‘Dollface’. The fish couldn’t resist those cute baby blues, the ageless physiology, and the absence of self-determination among the females. Fishy females were having tricks employed by the clown fish and bees. Namely, gender reversal. Female were becoming male fish! Not due to rising water temperatures but precisely because the

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

(Bunch Lunch Munch) Change just one letter and the concept mutates If two letters are altered Bunch > Lunch > Lungh Lunph > lench Lanch Linch Lunch > Munch > Munch Munce Mundh Monch Manch Mench But When three letters change, oddly the words can remain Bunch > Lunch > Lench > Lengh can remain parallel. Or, was this list just an odd fluke? A ‘bunch’ of bananas and the ‘length’ of a bunch growing down off a banana tree? Try a second example? OK Lunch > Linch > Punch

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

The story of atlases is as jagged as the coast of Norway. Early maps were incredibly incorrect, laced with enticing lies such as: "gold is buried at The X 3 paces from the oak tree". Not being drawn to scale but it made no difference! There was gold fever in the Old World and every country wanted to make a claim - if not in gold, in lands, slaves and trade. What was it like to voyage beyond the horizon? For rum and bread you could be on a boat swabbing the decks, shimmying

“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

Right. I’m warning you in advance. This is not a happy topic. My mum is dead. When she died my daughter was visiting from Australia for Xmas and Elle (my kid) and I had gone to the UK and were staying at my friend’s apartment for free. Worst snow storms that year. It was unclear if we’d get to fly out, but even more critical, could her plane land in Portland? I went to the airport to pick her up. Planes were not landing. There wasn’t a stockpile of de-icer in flights from

The path of least resistance. It’s the topic of argument: water pollution, water right, water ways. It’s the micro-molecule H2O, just three atoms but merely two elements. Organic chemists spend two weeks understanding its unusual qualities. · Frozen it floats · Liquid water compact in space due to weak Van Der Waal’s chemical bonds How does it work? Does water form ions of OH that are bonded to another H2O atoms OR the H atoms interact with each other on t

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

‘Open them Close them Put them away!’ Widely applicable? A riddle? A drawer ? Them what? Clothes? Eyes ? (-> peepers) Where can you put your eyes away? Oh, maybe contacts? Doors of life? Put those unattainable dreams of life tucked safely away? Window ? Can’t put away a window! Presents , right? Open then works, but? Close them? Nope – blows up. Who was the ‘stream of consciousness’ thing author? That Irish bloke…What’s his name? Escaped! A closed mind. Sinclair? No I

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

The knife was golden. Well, the blade was. The handle was obsidian. It was a sacred object from the 17th Dynasty of an ancient civilization whose name was lost to time. Such a knife was unique... Hence worth spilling blood over: either that, or it was a cheap fake made in some grubby corner of the world best avoided by decent folk. Who would know? Well, it was the job of Peregrine Aloysius Smith to find out. And find out he would. For Smithy loved a challenge...And cared deep