It’s moments like these you need Minties
At the precise moment I clicked this photo, I remember thinking,
“Yeah, things are not going too badly, it all might work out.”
Snap.
A walk along the sand, onto cement, laughing, a few minutes of happiness, just me and them, where nothing and no one else mattered. Then we met him on the pavement; a change in demeanor, a cold look in his eyes.
And it was all,
“Where have you been?” and changes of plans and coldness. And finally, it’s up to me to drag out of him just what the fuck was going on.
And so then I knew, at the precise moment I clicked this photo, I had been deluding myself.
Hollow
Your words won’t move me, anymore. I’m well-aware just how well-used those words that come so easily to you are. Re-used, re-served, re-heated, re-messaged, re-repeated words of desire, do anything but whet mine, now. Words like yours need a prophylactic, because fuck knows where they had been before they landed on my ear, and does this world really need any more empty, insincere words, released into fertile minds where they only beget amatory sleepless night’s and compel hearts to explode?
An unnatural state
We picked our way down the dusty track to the weed-infested waters edge. Inhaling deeply the heat-enhanced, cloying fragrance of privet blooms, we made our way along the river. The gums of the remnant bush do not fool, the river is disturbed.
“Good place to dump a body.” I say, letting the thoughts spill uncensored from my mouth. I’ve always told him everything, why not this?
“You, are screwy!” he says with a laugh.
“Well, think about it, just off a couple of major roads, but quiet as, no witnesses here.”
“You, are fucked up.”
“Whatever…I’m right though.”
We continue our nature walk through the unnatural environment. We spy a water dragon and make a two minute fuss of seeing a native animal, only to discover as we head on, that hundreds of the prehistoric-like beasties inhabit the track.
Splashing draws our attention to the middle of the river. The afternoon sun penetrates the green-brown water and everywhere we see massive, grey carp, swimming lazily near the surface. An orange fish swims up to a group of its dull-skinned brothers, confirming them as the foreigners I know them to be.
‘They are so big you could shoot them,” I say nodding at the carp.
“Jesus Lilli, what goes on in your head?” he says in mock surprise.
“They,” I say with one eye closed, pointing my hand-gun at the carp, “are big, fishy, target practice. Bang, boom, bang!”
“You, are fucked up. But it would be fun,” he admits, and I knew he would, after all, he is from far north Queensland.
The privet has started to make my eyes itch, the unnatural state of the National Park has me on edge. We round a bend in the track, and spy long white noodle-like streaks in the water ahead. As we get closer, I realise it is a mass of dead and near-dead eels. Bodies entwined, the eels have congregated in the shallows to die en masse. I shiver as I survey the death scene.
I pull out my camera and snap a few shots of the eels. As I finish snapping, I notice him looking at me with a scrunched up face.
“What?” I question.
“Seriously, dead eels? You want photos, of dead eels?” he laughs and shakes his head.
“Yes.”
“You, are fucked up.”
And he is right. I am, totally, and completely, fucked up…but I’m doing my best to get by.
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