Words by Andie - Fiction

“All’s quiet on the Western front,” Barbara whispers softly, as we take in the gentle coastal breeze drifting through the car, from her side to mine. The yachts in front of us bob gently, the only noises a gentle tapping of some metal piece on a mast somewhere, a seabird calling for its mates, and the occasional hum of a motorised dingy charging through the aquamarine landscape. “Look at him,” I say, pointing to the dingy. “He’s on a rocket to somewhere.” “Yes, he sure is.” Barbara smiles wistfully. She pauses, before adding “I used to sail”. I know this. I respond, “Did you?” I enjoy this story, each iteration as it comes. “Yes, it was such fun!” Barbara says. I turn to her, and notice her eyes are closed as she sinks into the memory. Her hair, possibly a blonde in years gone by, coils in grey waves about her face, her expression knitted into the joy of the thought, soft knots of skin focussed. “My husband grew up around boats.” I say conversationally, as I have for the ...

“Marge, put the kettle on will you?”, a kindly voice grunted from underneath the house. Attentively, Marge stood and strode over to the kitchen, enjoying the pleasant sensation of her plush new rug underneath her feet. This was a good purchase. He was a good man for all the little luxuries he’d given her over the past forty years. As Marge waited for the kettle to boil, the front doorbell rang. The tones of Greensleeves echoed throughout the spacious hallway, reverberating off the many picture frames, 1990’s style photos of little children peeking out from oval casings, next to more modern photos of grandchildren, captured on iPhones and printed cheaply online. The faces watched her as she strolled to the front door where through the glass pane, she could see a tiny, stout old man wearing a top hat, a very unusual choice for a hot summers’ day in Sydney. She paused at the door as the stranger gestured frantically for her to open it. As a flicker of suspicion ran across her shoulder bla...

  Gary Busmont sucked down a gulp of air. He had taken to sucking his air, as if through a straw that had been spiked several times with a pin. His lungs were fragile paper in his chest, as if a breath too large, or a shock too great, would burst a hole once and for all. In a bid to distract himself, Gary surveyed the room, taking in the pitiful surroundings that now rose over him, silently judging him. His eyes flickered to the wall nearest the window, past the IV stand, the beeping machines, and the wardrobe where his few possessions hung, mocking him as they rested. The fibres seeming to hang in reticence, sensing this as the end of the line. At last, his eyes found their target - the irritatingly abstract painting. He wondered how many other old folks had met their bitter end in this room, staring blankly at that ridiculous image of nothing, all blues and whites moulded into each other. He curled his lip at the painting and cursed his pea-brained children for putting him in...

  Kylie breathed a gentle sigh of relief. In the late afternoon sunshine, she lowered herself heavily into her khaki green camp chair, crossing one ankle over the other, comforted by the deep shade her caravan’s stretched awning provided. When she purchased the awning, those years ago, it had been a brilliant white. Now stained with flecks of amber, it wore the red dirt that had been kicked up from the road, cloaking her every possession, including within her nostrils and down the back of her throat. A shower would really be a treat this afternoon! Then, catching the thought before reality tumbled in, yes, but that would require 20 litres of water, and I’d need to be on the move again tomorrow to fill up. It would be a ‘bird bath’ again later, just her and her trusty red face washer trying to make as few sudden movements as possible in that cramped shower. It was quite a feat, keeping somewhat clean with both elbows glued to her sides, bending over to a slight hunchback posi...

Rashelle lay on her stomach, head in her hands, tears pricking at the corners of her eyes. The swirly pink covers beneath her had been with her since childhood. She squeezed her eyes shut, trying to will herself out of this impossible situation. If I can’t go to the afterparty, her squeezed eyes let out fresh drops, falling onto the ridiculous pink pillowcase, my friends will all drop me. They already call me a baby. I’m nearly 18, for Christ’s sake! A familiar anger spread through her chest and upper back, radiating out to each fingertip. This isn’t fair. Conflicting smells wafted upstairs, her father preparing his usual terrible dinner. Bacon carbonara, probably – he never listens. Doesn’t even care that I’m trying to go plant-based. She bit into the pillowcase and screamed. Padding downstairs, Rashelle let her hunger win. I hate him, she thought. Doesn’t he know pigs are as intelligent as dogs? I’ll tell him tonight— As she approached, her father stood at the stove, the blue flam...

  Leg outstretched, Tiff washed herself, scratchy tongue pulling each fibre of glamourous black fur clean, leaving a smell of fresh laundry. The common servant, who occasionally refered to herself as “Mother”, sometimes remarked that Tiff and her sister eat only fish, yet they smell of “nothing”. Well Missus, Tiff tutted to herself, if we bathed only once per day, as you do – foul heathen – we would probably emit quite the odour ourselves. But some of us have a little decorum. Her perfect limb clean, in keeping with her other four and in appealing contrast to her cream-coloured chest and abdomen, Tiff turned her attention to regard her sister. Smaller, scrawnier, with an unsightly chunk missing from her left ear – terrible misunderstanding, that one – Co leered down from her position in front of the coloured box Mother liked to watch, her blue eyes ablaze in the quickly fading afternoon sun. Co had made an awful embarassment of herself this afternoon when the girl came to visit ...