‘Shit, this is the worst.’ Gary checked his mirrors, looking for an opportunity to change lanes. The four lane thoroughfare, laughably referred to as a freeway, was clogged with trucks, cars and buses all simultaneously discovering that one of the four lanes was gradually tapering into non-existence, thanks to some gleefully brazen yet emotionally uninvolved fluorescent orange cones. Why these cones were blockading the leftmost lane was anyone’s guess, as there appeared to be no roadworkers, no machinery, no potholes, nor even the slightest hint of loose gravel which might pose a danger to the peak hour traffic that the lane’s closure was exacerbating.
Category: Writing (Page 1 of 11)
As soon as it was safe to return, the people of Unst marched back into their town. Excited and defiant, they dared the lava to come spilling down from the mountain top again and send them scurrying back to the mainland.
My grandfather was a man of sawdust and sweets, skinny legs and cardigans.
As Mary stepped into the river, she prayed it would be over soon.
Neville was in full flight.
Mrs Jemima Babcock was an anxious woman with too many years on her hips. She liked neither the bush nor ghosts, yet here she was in the fading light of a Sunday afternoon, pushing through the scrub with her two reluctant daughters in search of Mr Terry’s Spiritualist Retreat.
“Bye Ma, see you tomorrow. Love You”. We each hugged a tight hug and reluctantly let go. We eventually left turning to look back, at each step and smile with reassurance that we’d be back tomorrow but also, that Mum would still be there. Eventually we found ourselves walking out of the hospital at a slow melancholy pace.
“I wanted to kill her but, damn it, death was too good for her, too easy. I wanted her to suffer, long and hard. I wanted see her struggle, to hear the groans, know her pain and celebrate her agony.”
After my mother’s sudden death, I needed to spend a few days at the family home in order to sort out a few legal matters before her burial the following week.
It was only the revelations of the Banking Royal Commission that made Rhonda delve into the state of her financial investments. At 63 years of age, and divorced for some time, her mother’s inheritance had left her with a comfortable amount of money, that if spent wisely would see her through the remainder of her days.