I know I write sad stories a lot of the time.
But they’re the ones that linger.
The old man and the boy were sitting by the big river.
Sometimes early on cold Saturday mornings, you’d go fishing just for something to do.
Lightly to the East rise the gentler slopes of the valley. Two hills forming a blockade to the Murray’s entrance.
When doctors look in my ears, they tell me I’ve spent a lot of life in water.
I never knew our Uncle Alf. I only knew of him as Dad’s Dead Uncle laying up out at the cemetery.
I started life in a 2-bedroom fibro house with a groovy flat roof in a circle of unusual neighbours.
I don't know where she got it from but my Nan was a good yarner. Must have been her good bush breeding.
The place: a deserted all night drinking hole. Explicit language warning.
..some of us remember and others need to know about, when AIDS wards in hospitals were waiting rooms for dying.
My man and me, we travelled a lot, we got around. The first time I met him I knew I was in for something big.
A tribute to my departed friend, Rodney Junga-Williams.
I was young. My only memory of age is waiting the next morning in the driveway of a neighbour's house.
Matthew is my friend.
Matthew lives with Tim.
Matthew and Tim have a lovely house.
Lucy came last night. She came to see me for the last time.
My Nan needs a new dress.
She's going to lunch with the Queen.
It's been three weeks now since I last saw Nancy.