Rolled Oats
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Bougainvillea
These are the thorny stems of a bougainvillea that formerly grew in the front garden. I helped dad cut it down last week, finally bringing an end to an era of treading on its barbs. On those occasions, it would be a fine morning, like today, and the thorns would catch my soft feet unaware, sometimes burying themselves down to the stem. The cold dew, the fresh morning air, the first warm rays of the sun and the pain shooting up my ankle were all parts of the same beast. Why did that evil thing grow there for so long? What evil person planted it there? No one had any answers. it just grew.
By Rolled Oats4 years ago in Poets
What Lies Beneath the Dust
A liar always looks you in the eyes, thought Tom as he stared deeply into his father’s dark pupils. The old man took careful sips of his hot tea. “It’s going to be alright, there's no point in arguing,” he said to Tom. “This will stay open long enough for us.” The hot air stirred up willy-willies that moved across the black dirt of the open cut coal mine. They sat with sweat beading off their noses. Tom looked at his father who cast a long shadow over him. They were all liars, thought Tom, liars and cowards. The mine wasn’t profitable anymore, they had just laid off three hundred people to try and make it so, but it wouldn’t be so. Tom watched his father and his steaming drink. He loved the heat, he didn’t see a problem with it, the heat was summer and summer was a holiday but Tom didn’t see it that way. Tom was only reminded of the melanoma ads he’d seen on T.V. when he was a kid and the bushfires that were burning on the east coast. A big earth moving truck lifted another load of coal out of the mine. Its giant black tires, turning like planets, seemed unstoppable.
By Rolled Oats4 years ago in Fiction
The Shearwater
Standing in waist deep water that has been blown concrete-smooth by the westerly wind, I look out at the horizon where I see the white tails of waves. Behind me, a storm is building. The sky is a swollen purple with lashings of rain coming down inland. The beach houses stand guard on the dunes - solemn and still. Out at sea, a single shearwater moves parallel to the horizon, searching for fish in the dark green water, drilling down with its black eye. I watch its feathered body move with the wind and the salt spray. It is a prisoner to this death-defying dance. One with the cold air, the salt, the water and the coarse sand, its brittle beak snaps and cries, its black eyes are still, and its bones are lighter than the air it floats in.
By Rolled Oats4 years ago in Poets
The Tragedy of Harry the Singing Dog
The Family had a dog. He was a small Jack Russell with all the marks of inbreeding. A foot that turned out like it was broken. Impenetrable cloudy eyes that looked in two different directions. When he ran his misaligned hips made him look as rigid as a toy horse. But what upset the family the most were the seizures that he had once a month. Those feeble contortions made Lily cry.
By Rolled Oats4 years ago in Fiction
