Dad's Mid-Life Crisis Cars
Dad’s midlife crisis began in earnest in the early 1970’s.
Read more "Dad's Mid-Life Crisis Cars"Author: lmkling
The Fantastic Fleurieu
Koalas, if there were any, remained hidden. Mating season over, cold day, and these marsupials preferred to hide in lofty gum trees, getting high on eucalyptus leaves and sleeping. The Swiss visitors then set their hopes on seeing koalas in the wild at Morialta. Perhaps Morialta koalas are more sociable.
Read more "The Fantastic Fleurieu"Out of the Chocolate Box (72)
‘I’m not your girl!’ I threw a book at him.
The book bounced off his head, and then cartwheeled over to the lampstand. Kirk’s gun claws, aimed at Günter and me, remained steady. They vibrated and whirred charging up to fire. Kirk crowed, ‘Bombs away!’
Overworked in Kings Canyon
I used my willpower to put one foot in front of the other. The track back to that camp seemed to take an eternity.
Read more "Overworked in Kings Canyon"Out of the Chocolate Box (71)
I took a deep breath. ‘Hoy! What’s his face!’ I hollered. Chief Ex man turned towards me. ‘I’ll talk. But only if you take off that mask. I can’t talk to someone I can’t see. It creeps me out! I don’t care if you’ve shown me once who you are. Take it off.’ That would keep the conversation going a while. I was sure that he would not take off his mask and argue against removing the mask. ‘They’re going wild out there, they won’t care if you’re—’
Read more "Out of the Chocolate Box (71)"Trekking With the T-Team: Kings Canyon
I caught up to the fellers who lingered at the base of these three adjoining cliffs near a small rock-hole. We marvelled at the chasm, and the steady stream of tourists like ants trailing along the edge of the cliffs above.
Read more "Trekking With the T-Team: Kings Canyon"Out of the Chocolate Box (70)
I whacked the plate scattering strings of pasta, or what looked like strings of pasta, over the floor, wall and his mask.
The Chief Ex peeled a spaghetti noodle from his mask. ‘What did you do that for?’
‘How do I know it’s not Boris food? Magellan maggots and some poor human’s blood and flesh?’
