Words by Andie - Fiction

  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...