every second weekend at dad’s

Honi Soit Writing Competition Fiction Shortlist


the ancients cannot help us now.

we dove (sometimes drove) – far away,

perhaps over the Nullarbor,

or is it Oondiri? – we were

never bogged down with such facts – we

grew in fishbowls, from Latin roots.


heaving and hurrying

humidity sticks to the lungs,

breathes like water, but not

– like at the coast – where it foams in

the air as mist and sheen.

– entirely uniform, solid

spread – detected by the

weather instruments, an eighty

per cent humidity.


a low resonance blows (breathes) from

the soundboard – of polished chip-wood

and plastic veneer. – its heavy

bass runs up my hands – how do you

describe vibrations?       – maybe they’re

another sense – of place and home

among the rhythm and soundscape.


Hephaestion knew what was

– impenetrable beyond the

Indus. – if he slyly

danced like Salome          – it was in

– tents, – and all that remained

visible was the flicker of

– a fire – projecting his

form against the royal fabric.


the wicker man burns brightly, – I

– myself set him alight.

I set him with sacrifices

– of my choosing – and watched

him burn until dawn. – I collect

my things – I’m getting picked

– up out the front in half an hour.

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