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.