Melbourne
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There was that time in Bournemouth. One of the summer holidays of guaranteed sunshine. I was about six years old and one afternoon I had my portrait done by a woman near to the beach. It was done in pastels, I think. It must have been pastels because they smudged, and if you rubbed a
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It’s the usual cafe, every Saturday. Today, Aaron asks for a banana milkshake, and his brother says he’ll have one too. “He always has the same as me,” says Aaron. And it’s true, the brother always has exactly the same, whatever it is. “Why do you have to copy me?” says Aaron, riled by his brother’s
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When he’s nostalgic, it’s pale blue, like seaside houses. Distant seagulls in morning harbours, old-fashioned cream cakes, and the damp wood of rickety beach-huts. Relaxation is liquid green, like late-summer afternoons. He hears the lazy buzz of insects in the settled heat, and tastes the sweet anticipation of the evening to come. When he’s anxious,
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If I had a lion, I’d train it to eat anyone that wasn’t me. It would just be me and the lion. The lion would do his stuff, and I’d do mine. He’d hunt, because that’s what lions do. I’d harvest and eat wild plants and berries, because that’s what I’d do. I’d shed my
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I am waiting. I’m waiting for the bus, at the shelter near the corner where the streets cross. The lights change, the cars stop. Lights change, cars stop, over and over. Passengers stare and I stare back. We size each other up. The bus is late, but I have to keep waiting, and it’s cold
Barry Lee Thompson 