For a moment I thought they might have really been special residents from the local estate, or at least some odd orphans from the Children’s Home up the road. They were peculiar enough. I recoiled. ‘Er, where exactly are you from? I mean no one goes around in so much hot clothing on a hundred-degree day.’Read more "Aussie Summer Tales (2)"
‘What do you say, ol’ boy?’ Mr B badgered Dad.
‘I don’t know, it’s getting late.’
We edged around the southern foot of the mountain-sized boulders. Mr B leaned forward and peered at the hill leaning up against the designated highest peak. ‘I mean to say, we could give it a try.’
We plunged through the stormy red spot of Jupiter; a centuries-old hurricane to the observers on Earth, but to Star travellers, a worm hole in a constant state of flux. Intelligence from ISF headquarters suggested Boris and his fleet of cockroaches lurked on the outskirts of Betelgeux, a red supergiant about to explode into a supernova.Read more "Out of the Chocolate box (13)"
As there were more tourists in their Land Rovers and cars also circling the Rock, Richard and I descended from our high status on the top of the Rover and crammed into the back cabin. The roads, though not sealed, were better graded with gravel tempering the bull dust, so though the dust was still a nuisance, it didn’t make me cough.Read more "The T-Team with Mr B (12)"
My father and I sat in the dry river bed of the Finke River painting Mt Hermannsburg which towered above the river gums and spinifex.Read more "Mt Hermannsburg with Dad"
The creek narrowed, and I scrambled over rocks, pushed through reeds to the spring. Anticipating a pretty pond, with waterlilies, ducks and a kangaroo or two drinking the fresh clear water, I was disappointed. The spring, if you could call it a spring was little more than a pit of slime. A puddle at the end of our driveway at home was more photogenic than this hole filled with muddy water.Read more "The T-Team with Mr B (9)"
As the Captain cried all aboard and the ferry’s horn reverberated throughout the cove, I scampered over to the ticket office. ‘One fare to Sarah Island.’ I offered my credit card.
‘Sorry, love.’ The stout man with jolly red cheeks shook his head. ‘We’re all sold out.’
‘But I lost my ticket.’ I clasped my hands together in begging pose. ‘I need to get on that boat—I must get to Sarah Island—isn’t there…?’
The man swayed his head full of grey curls. ‘I’m afraid you’ve missed the boat.’