I’ve been standing in the queue at the Post Office for what seemed like an eternity. The drone of once-loved Christmas carols over the music system is beginning to drive me to distraction, as I still feeling rather seedy from the Christmas party the night before. My shopping list seems much longer than I remembered and I am starting to seriously worry whether my budget is going to cover it all. The weather is extremely hot and muggy, tempers are frayed and there seems to be an endless stream of restless small children bumping up against my legs.I’ve just come off the phone to my sister who has announced that, after months of family squabbling, it has finally been decided that Christmas lunch will be held at my place. Tension rises in me once again as I recall that at least one leg of the dining table needs repair and I only have five decent chairs.The queue inches forward and my memory is jolted once again: that special Christmas posting box for Aunt Mary’s clock! It is probably on the back shelf and there is no time to leave the queue to find it now. ‘Bummer’, I think. This means I will have to come back tomorrow. But tomorrow is Christmas Eve and, aside from the fact that it will be much too late to send it, my time will probably be more consumed with arranging for the dining table to be fixed and deciding on the family seating for Christmas Day: not an easy task. I finally reach the sales counter and am greeted by a cranky sales assistant who informs me that the cute little Christmas angel stamps I ordered last week are now out-of-stock. I leave with next to nothing.The car is parked six blocks away (and that took half an hour to find two hours ago) and the bags hanging from my numbed wrists are feeling heavier by the minute. If only I was looking forward to a holiday but my tight budget, the long term effects of the cost of living crisis and the ridiculous fluctuating price of petrol over the last few years has made this idea impossible. All I want to do is to go home, relax and hope that Christmas Day won’t be as bad as the last one. Then, as every year before it, there will only be 364 days to recover ‘til the next one.

The GatheringA short story by Jenny EnglandThey found her early in the morning, propped up on a pillow on her bed, eyes closed, motionless, pale and cold. Serenely dead. An open book lay across her chest. She must have been reading until her very last breath. It was the dog barking that alerted Sally, her next door neighbour on the left. The silky terrier, her constant companion, rarely barked. They knew instantly when they heard the barking that something must have been amiss. Luckily the back door was not locked so she could let herself in.     We soon gathered in the street after hearing the sad news. I remarked on the odd symbolism of the open book, as she and her life had been far from an open book. Few of us even knew her name or where she had come from although it was well known that she had lived in the area for over twenty years. Those who were a little more in the know revealed that her name was unpronounceable, leading to various suspicions about her origin. Ted, one very imaginative neighbourhood character indeed, suggested she may have been a Russian spy. As he was never able to elaborate on this wild idea we dismissed it as pure waffle.     The police arrived just after 9 o’clock. Later on we were informed, much to the disappointment of some, that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding her death. She was quite elderly. Vera, from across the road estimated she must have been in her early nineties but no-one really knew for sure.     I often saw her walking her little dog around Black Beach. From my kitchen window I would watch as she occasionally stopped, picked up an odd piece of driftwood or some shells that had been swept onto the shore from a recent storm, and then carefully packed them into a hessian bag she carried on her back.  I used to wonder what she did with all this stuff and how she might spend her days, devoid of human contact.     She did, however, have one visitor from time to time. A young man mowed her lawns every month or so and was occasionally seen doing a little weeding. So I guess she wasn’t into gardening or felt it was too much for her. She never seemed lonely to me but of course I have never lived on my own for long periods of time so I don’t know how it would feel year after year. She didn’t drive anymore. Once a week she would walk to the bus stop, disappear for the day and then return in a taxi with her shopping. Sometimes the taxi driver would help her in with her parcels. I would like to think she met a friend for lunch or coffee and cake, but I guess I will never know.     We all agreed it was a shame we had not got to know her better. We did invite her to our yearly Christmas street party but she never came. The one day I worried most about her was Halloween. The neighbourhood kids usually get together in the street and go from house to house for trick or treats. The young ones are pretty harmless and all finished before dark but the older ones often go on a bit of a rampage, throwing eggs and flour at each other and occasionally fighting.     A few of the neighbours didn’t make it to the gathering. Many had already left before the hullabaloo began. Old Ted, who we all knew was also in his nineties was probably pottering around in his back garden tending to his vegetable patch, totally oblivious to what was going on in the street. He would eventually find out, I was sure, through his daughter, who was a regular visitor.  Or from a death notice in the local paper, if any was placed. I was more than sure that that was not likely to happen.     When the ambulance arrived to take her away we, her neighbours, stood silent and still. Even though some of us would have liked a closer look, there was really nothing to see. They simply packed her into the back of the van and drove off. I wondered if there was a family somewhere that would organise a funeral but it is more likely it will be a private cremation arranged by some remote government department that takes over in situations like this. The little dog was also whisked away by the police. No-one in the gathering offered to take him so he was off to the pound, I suspect.     The gathering started to disperse around 10 o’clock. We all wandered off in various directions, back to our lives. Some off to work, shopping and university, albeit a little late. Others went back to their cosy homes to tend to housework or to their small children, who had started becoming decidedly restless in the street. We all resolved that day to get to know each other better, keep in touch and never to let such a lonely death in our street ever happen again. But I haven’t caught sight of any of them of them since.     As for the book? We never did find out its title or what it was about.

It is mid-morning, early spring. The Sun’s gentle warmth caresses my skin as I settle into a quiet, shady spot on a bench. From my bag, I take out my watercolour pad, pencils, jar of water, and brush, arranging them beside me. Sketching and painting here has become a cherished routine since I discovered The Garden: a tranquil oasis of native flora hidden behind the bustle of shops and offices in a busy urban suburb. This 3.3-hectare haven, transformed from an old sandstone quarry over fifty years ago, now flourishes under the care of dedicated volunteers. I am proud to count myself among them.I love all native flora—the eucalypts, acacias, grevilleas, the delicate flannel flowers, and the many varieties of ferns. But my favourite is the Weeping Bottlebrush (Callistemon viminalis), a hardy, graceful tree that explodes with vibrant red brush-like flowers in spring, attracting birds from far and wide. One stands before me now, and today it will be the centrepiece of my artistic endeavour. If I’m pleased with the result, I plan to frame the painting and create greeting cards from it.I begin by roughing out the composition in pencil, experimenting with layouts for aesthetic appeal. Gradually, I sketch the slender light-green leaves with watercolour pencils, layering greens for a realistic effect. Once I add the crimson brush flowers, I’ll use water to bring the scene to life. Today, however, my pace quickens—there’s an urgent matter to discuss with a fellow volunteer, who is meeting me here soon.“Hey, that’s already looking good,” a familiar voice calls from behind. My colleague appears, holding a thermos. “I brought us some coffee,” she adds, pouring two cups and handing me one.Our casual meeting masks the importance of our conversation. We need to strategise against a proposed multi-story residential development before the Council—one that could block most of the sunlight from The Garden. While increasing urban density addresses housing shortages, it threatens sanctuaries like ours. This isn’t just about preserving greenery; it’s about protecting the wildlife that depends on these spaces and maintaining a balance in urban ecosystems.“The demonstration outside the Council Chambers the other day was a success,” she begins. “The local paper gave it excellent coverage, and it drew some much-needed attention. Our submission and petition are now with the Council, but we need to do more. It’s shocking how many locals don’t even know The Garden exists.”“What if we host an Open Day?” I suggest, after mulling it over. “Invite the Councillors and other local dignitaries, make it a community event. I could curate an exhibition of my sketches and paintings to auction off, raising funds to support our campaign.”Her eyes light up. “That’s a fantastic idea! I’ll call an urgent meeting for Saturday so we can get started.” She springs up and heads for the car park. “See you then!”“See you,” I call after her.Looking back at my painting-in-progress, I feel a renewed sense of purpose. Finishing this watercolour isn’t just about artistic fulfillment anymore—it’s about contributing to a cause close to my heart.

It was eerily still and quiet. Foreboding storm clouds had been gathering for sometime. I watched and waited in readiness for the first bolt of lightning to ignite the sky and thunderclap to break the silence. It didn’t take long. Within minutes the torrential rain began, tramping my rainforest undergrowth and turning what were once walking trails into muddy river-lets streaming down to my lagoon, taking with them anything in their path.Strong wind gusts lifted anything unsecured into the air, randomly depositing them back to the ground onto piles of debris from earlier storms. My once pristine shoreline did not escape the developing onslaught either. Powerful sea swells combined with the wind gusts rhythmically pounded my rocky shore, and then retreated to pound and retreat, over and over again.There was little I could do but hold on tight and wait patiently until the storm passed and tranquillity restored. It always did. The cycle of storm and calm had been going on for as long as I could remember but it had become more frequent over the last hundred years and each storm more destructive than the one before. There was not enough time between these regular assaults for any recovery and regeneration. My rainforest, lagoon, and coastline once flourished with life but I was no longer a safe habitat.I used to listen, fascinated, to the sounds coming from my rainforest, especially at night. Small animals would scurry around in search of night time snacks or to meet up with their mates. Insects would buzz and chatter in high-pitched crackles and frogs would join in the chorus with their own special songs. But their numbers had gradually diminished over time. Birds once nested on my cliff tops but with local food sources declining from raised sea temperature. Now only a few hardy ones would bother settling here.My lagoon used to be a marvellous place for all kinds of aquatic activities and teem with marine life too. Many local and exotic fish, turtles and aquatic greenery had called it home for centuries, proving a food source for other life here, but the gradual encroachment of sea water and the constant attack by storms made it a difficult place for them to thrive.The humans that had called me home for centuries were eventually forced to leave and find higher ground and a more stable environment to live and raise their families. As well as the demise of their small scale tourist ventures and the decline in availability of local food sources, fresh water too had become a scarce resource due to the increased salinity of ground water.Every day I miss them. I miss the regular pace of their daily lives. I used to enjoy watching them fishing on the reef and bringing their catches back; children frolicking on the beach, dipping in and out of the waves on very hot days; the aromas coming from campfire cook-ups when families got together to share a meal and take pleasure in each others company. There was always something to enjoy about their presence here. I needed to get used to the idea I had now been deprived of all that energy and delight. It made me sad.Forever etched in my memory are scenes of the days the last groups of humans left in a flotilla of boats. For good. Tears ran down the faces of children clinging tightly to their mothers who it appeared were trying to show a stoic acceptance of their fate. Most of the men had already left to set up new homes for their families and find work elsewhere. It was an overwhelming sight.I had always enjoyed visitors, chuffed that they found me a place they wanted to explore. This always made me feel special. But the only visitors that have arrived regularly recently were groups of scientists and environmentalists measuring changes in the shoreline; assessing wildlife varieties, counting their numbers and testing waters. It bothers me to think that they believed they will be able to do anything about the issues their investigations reveal. But deep down, I hope they can.Eventually the rain, sea swell and the wind began to ease and the dark clouds started to dissipate. It was then time to survey the damage they left in their wake: a task I dreaded every time. However, the hours after a storm passed was often also a magical time as cracks of sunlight peeping through created glistening effects on wet leaves and small signs of the remaining life began to emerge. And if the atmospheric conditions were just right, a multi-coloured rainbow would appear to brighten up the sky. As I started to relax after this last tempest, I really hoped one would.

I stood by the kerb quietly contemplating the short walk down to the Community Centre. On any normal day this would be easy and uneventful, but as it was Election Day, I expected the walk to be particularly annoying. Both sides of the path were flanked by colourful sandwich boards displaying the faces of the local candidates and the parties they supported, creating potential trip hazards if a speedy get-away was required. I wasn’t looking forward to the stroll, but it was my nearest polling booth and I had forgotten to vote in the pre-poll or organise a postal vote.I took a deep breath and hesitantly stepped onto the path to be instantly greeted by eager candidate supporters thrusting ‘how to vote’ pamphlets into my hands. I took each one gracefully, keeping silent to avoid any conversation. I thought I was managing this well until I was accosted by a close neighbour, dressed in a brightly coloured tee shirt printed with the picture of the candidate he was volunteering for. “Hi. Great to see you here on such a fine day,” he began, offering me one of his pamphlets. “We are having a celebratory party at my place tonight,” he continued confidently. “You are welcome to join us.” I smiled a smile that I hoped didn’t suggest I would be at all interested attending and proceeded to join the queue at the main entrance.  Damn, I thought, the last thing I need is a rowdy party tonight that may last into the wee hours of the morning regardless of the outcome of the election.  Luckily there was no one I knew in the queue. The tantalising aroma of sausages and onions being barbequed filled the air, enticing me to believe it was nearly lunchtime, which it actually wasn’t. I made a mental note to check it and the local school fundraising cake stall before heading home. As the queue inched forward, I could see a crowd collecting in the park.  It appeared to be one of the candidates surrounded by a dozen or so supporters. I made another mental note to avoid it at all costs.Suddenly at the head of the queue I was ushered inside. I made another mental note to avoid such a busy time of the day for the next election. Soon I was being crossed off the electoral roll by a grumpy middle-aged lady who thrust the ballot papers into my hands and pointed to the booths. Obviously, she wasn’t having a good day. Perhaps an early start?It was only as I was marking my preferred candidates as a dutiful member of society, I remembered I had arranged to meet my bestie for coffee afterwards. The actual voting didn’t take much thought as I’d already decided weeks before. I hurried it up, placed the papers in the ballot boxes and scurried outside to see if my bestie had arrived yet. She hadn’t. While waiting I handed all the ‘how to vote’ pamphlets back to each volunteer as a silent protest about the paper wastage.I heard a familiar voice behind me.  “All done?”“Yep. You?” I replied, turning around to greet her.“I voted a few days ago. Coffee?”“Smart choice voting early. Coffee? I thought you’d never ask.”Then as we started heading towards the coffee shops in the street, I suddenly remembered something and stopped. “Wait. We’ve got to get a sausage sandwich first,” I said pointing in the direction of the barbeque, “and perhaps a couple of cupcakes.”Before long we were sitting on a bench in the sunny park eating our sausage sandwiches and sipping our coffees.“Guess what,” I began as I took my last bite, “I was invited to a celebratory party tonight at one of my neighbours’ places.”“You going?”“Gosh no. Tonight I am going to curl up on my sofa with the cat and a glass of wine watching a movie, occasionally flipping over to see the election results.”“Yeh. Me too…minus the cat.”

‘Watch out old man!’ Tom recognised the youthful voice and the familiar clatter of skateboards along the variegated footpath behind him. He stumbled a little in the half-light as the line of scruffy skaters accelerated around him.Tom stopped, took a few breaths and gently steadied himself for a moment against the cold metal lamppost. He pulled his beanie down over his ears. It was cooler than he had expected. Then, in calm acceptance of his declining agility, he shuffled over to the dilapidated bench seat beside a long planter box. Drawing up his walking stick and placing it comfortably across his lap, he wriggled along a few inches to settle for the best view of the plaza. What an ideal setting for an early evening of priceless entertainment! He watched as the skaters dispersed in all directions before gracefully choreographing themselves into a synchronised team to then regroup around the top of the terraced slopes to the sunken auditorium. ‘Take the jump!’ came a cry from Blue Tee-Shirt to Red Cap, who appeared to be the leader.Red Cap paused for a moment, then gathered speed and flew across the steps. His board glued to his naked feet. His smooth landing set into play a continuous flow, along the same route, of effortless leaps from the rest of the wiry pack.The still of the twilight was abruptly broken by distinct squeals and cries of delight from the opposite side of the plaza. A group of young teenies, brightly coloured tank tops widely dislocated from thigh-hugging denim skirts, hovered tightly together, creating a vibrant, giggling backdrop.Peacock feathers rose among the skater set and Blue Tee-Shirt, Red Cap, Odd Socks, Black Wristband and the rest of the troupe readied themselves to put on a more spectacular show. Twists. Turns. Spins. Slalom around the benches. In, out and around the radiant spotlights created by the lamplights above. Down the steps and up again. Around the slopes and back again. Into the shadows and out again. A final flurry; a line leisurely re-formed; a quick acceleration, and the motley skaters disappeared into the night beyond. Teenies in tow.‘Tom?’ A voice and a hand holding a bulging paper bag appeared from behind him. Tom didn’t move or say a word.‘Thought I might find you here. We closed the bakery early as we were just about sold out. Happens every Saturday’ Tom took the paper bag and the warm voice continued: ‘Some chocolate éclairs I kept aside for you. I thought you might like them with your tea.’Tom nodded and grinned a grateful thankyou. He tucked his newly acquired supper securely beneath his arm. Gently steadying himself onto the pavement with his walking stick, Tom hesitated for a moment or two, took another deep breath then leisurely, through the growing darkness, made his way home.

“Old buildings whisper to us in the creaking of the floorboards and the rattling of the window panes.”Fennel HudsonA Meaningful Life – Fennel’s Journal No 1Old buildings have always fascinated me. The older and more dilapidated, the more intriguing. This one was no exception: a building that had stood tall and proud for over 150 years but now ached with the pain of old age. A crusty stone façade exposed the ravages of time and environmental degradation. Inside cracked floorboards scrambled invisible footprints of the many who had traversed them, playing a vital role in its rich varied history.I loved that old building. It was a fine example of what many new buildings lacked – character and history. It was soon to be gone forever however, a victim of the escalating push for urban renewal in the 21st century. I was on a mission to capture that character and record the history for everyone now and future generations to appreciate.I found a quiet spot, out of the potential path of the scores of pedestrians soon to hit the pavement. I erected my folding chair and placed my bag containing my sketch pad and pencils, a flask of coffee and a few snacks beside it. This building had been in my mind for a morning of sketching for some time but it was only hearing of its upcoming demise that I bumped it up to the top of my list.“Morning” a familiar voice greeted me from behind. It was Tom, a member of my urban sketch group who had lately joined my urban rescue missions.“You’re earlier than usual and very snugly clad for a cold morning I see,” I replied, commenting on his brightly coloured coat with matching beanie and mittens. “It’ll warm up soon,” I assured him.“So, what’s the story with this one?” “I’ve been able to get some old plans from the Council and information from the local historical society but it’s a little patchy.” I settled down in the chair, pulled my notepad from my bag and read out some of the information I had so far unearthed:It was built in 1849 by the Forward Steamship Company as a boarding house for seamen due to its close proximity to the working harbour. It soon became known as The Seafarers Lodge, described in the records as ‘a commodious dwelling house with spacious stores, replete with every convenience. Built from stone it had three floors and a 40 foot frontage on the street.’By the 1880s its casual residents also included sex workers, travellers with one floor operating as an opium den. During the early years of the 20th century it was bought and sold a number times with some renovations and improvements noted in the Council records. For a few years it housed a doctor’s surgery and manufacturing chemist. The Harbour Trust took it over in 1930 to lease out. It morphed into a boarding house for the last time during WW2, this time for the navy. During the 1980s it became a museum with extensive renovations begun but not completed due to the huge cost involved. It has been vacant since 2010, left to the elements (and a few rough-sleepers from time to time) while awaiting a decision about its future. Now the State Government is embarking on a number of projects that include this site to increase social housing in an attempt to tackle the housing affordability crisis in major cities. So, despite many protests over the last year or so, it is now earmarked for demolition: in the next few weeks to be precise.“There,” I quickly added, “another one bites the dust.”“So much for protests over these buildings,” Tom reminded me. “What about that one a month ago in Reid Street when we were nearly arrested,” he added as he settled into his chair getting his equipment organised for the morning of sketching. “Yep. That was a close call. It was only when the gallery confirmed why we were there they eventually let us go. We weren’t disrupting traffic; people were just curious and stopped to investigate. That’s why it's less problematic starting early like this.”   “So how are the plans for the exhibition going?”   “Great. Only one more then all they have to do is get them mounted and framed and finish writing up the histories to make them more interesting. Are you sure you don’t want to put some of yours in too?”I don’t think they are good enough.”“Well, they are, but it’s up to you.”It was gradually getting warmer and the light more intense. The city was beginning to awaken and come to life. When I arrived an hour or so earlier it was as if it had been holding its breath through the long cold night. In the distance I could hear the rattling of a couple of trains carrying the precious cargo of city workers and students from suburbs and surrounding towns into the central district for the day. Before long cafes down the street would be opening their doors, setting up tables for breakfast and preparing their coffee machines for takeaways.I glanced over at Tom, now with his mittens off, totally absorbed in his drawing. I looked down at my empty white page and remembering why we were there, pulled a charcoal pencil from my bag and began…

It was the most unusual and intriguing music box I had ever laid eyes on, and I had seen quite a few in my twenty-five years as an antiques and curios dealer. Atop an exquisitely carved wooden box encasing the mechanism that produced the sound, sat an exquisitely crafted wooden clown with a rather deadly smirk on its face, clothed in a brightly coloured costume adorned with gold braid trimmings. It appeared to work by winding a handle on the side to make it play a whimsical tune with bells. I was allowed to try it but the tune was nothing I recognised. The moment I saw it in the auction room I knew I had to have it.     Despite being over a hundred years old, according to the listing in the auction catalogue, it was in excellent condition and the mechanism still worked. Its provenance was a little sketchy though – probably French but there was little else to provide clues to its origins. Provenance is important when dealing with antiques and curios so I approached the auctioneer to see if he had any more information     “It came from a deceased estate,” he began. “The name of the last owners was Carlyle. Such a tragedy,” he added. “I’ll provide you with the estate administrators' contact details, if you like.”    “Thanks, that would be great,” I replied, curious to know more. I was determined to buy it anyway. With little provenance, the price was going to be affordable I suspected.     The bidding went smoothly, and as there were only a couple of less enthusiastic bidders, I was soon heading back to the shop with my new treasure and a few other interesting bits and pieces.     There was really only one spot in the shop for my music box - in the middle of the front window display. I didn’t put a price on it. To tell you the truth, I wasn’t sure I wanted to sell it anyway but being in the window it was sure to capture the attention of passersby, who hopefully, would come inside and become customers.      “Oh, that was a real tragedy,” the estate administrator began when I contacted him the next day. “The entire family died in a disastrous house fire. Two very young children were deprived of a future and they were only just back from their trip of a lifetime to Europe. Such a waste.”     “Well, it’s actually the music box I bought at the auction and added to my collection that I am interested in. Do you know anything about it?” I asked, trying not to sound too disinterested in the awful circumstances by which I had acquired it. I vaguely remembered something in the news about a house fire recently but gave it no more thought.     “Oh, that creepy thing,” he replied, “One of the few items that survived the fire, heaven knows how. Sorry, I don’t know much about the music box except that I think they probably brought back from their trip.”     The music box was definitely creepy as he said but I was used to unusual things and had always been attracted to items that might be described as different, especially anything macabre. At times I did feel the strange clown’s eyes following me around the shop. The little bells he held in his hands would ring when someone entered the shop. As it turned out, rather than being annoying, the ringing of the bells was quite useful as it alerted me while I was busy online researching French music boxes to get some clues to their origin and history. I had already thoroughly inspected every bit of the box inside and out, looking for a makers’ mark or date to no avail.     As I was now quite certain that it had French origins, I started to search for information on music box makers around the time the auctioneer had suggested. It was then I came across an article in a French newspaper dated around 10 years ago. Although my French is a bit limited, I did manage to get the gist of it. It was a mysterious fire where a house burned down killing all its occupants. Only a strange music box survived the inferno. The photo attached to the article was a bit fuzzy but I could make out the silhouette of the music box and the distinctive clown. It had to be it! I instantly printed it out and arranged to take it to a friend, who was more fluent in the language and had connections in the antique market in France.       I am not sure if it was the smell of the smoke or the fire engine sirens that woke me abruptly from a deep sleep that night. Regardless, I was quickly out the window, carefully navigating my way down the rickety fire stairs in the dark. Thank heavens the old building that housed my shop and living quarters above it still had one, although it was in desperate need of repair.     Soon I was standing in the street wrapped in a blanket along with many of my neighbours, watching everything that mattered to me… the shop and all its wonderful antiques and curios, burn to the ground.     The source of the fire is still under investigation. An electrical fault, they suspect as the building was quite old and had not been maintained well enough, I was told by experts. But I had another idea that would have been too weird to share and no one would have believed me anyway. True to the history I had been discovering about it, once again, the music box was the only item in the shop that survived.     I often wonder why it spared me but I'll never know because as much as I still loved it, the music box went straight back to the auction house the very next day.

By Jenny EnglandI took my sparkling mineral water and a bowl of deep-fried locust wings from the bar and rejoined Bailey in the quiet Beer Garden, remembering how it once used to buzz with chatter, laughter and music. It was one of my favourite outings: a brief catch-up with my gorgeous grandson.“This is my last one here this month,” I said as I sat down. “I’m now out of ration coupons.”“Me too,” he replied, holding up his half-finished glass of beer.I offered him some locust wings. He shook his head.“I know,” I began, “they are an acquired taste, definitely not the same as a bowl of peanuts or a packet of potato chips.”It was hard getting used to the only foods that were available since The Dry began to wipe out most of our agriculture. Thank heavens there were some local far-thinking farmers who began to substitute their traditional crops of fruit and vegetables and livestock to more drought-resistant varieties.“I’m still angry with the government for what they let happen to our food supply,” Bailey began to rant. “They should have done much more, much earlier. There were plenty of warning signs of the potential devastating effects of Climate Change many years before The Dry.”I took a few sips of the refreshing mineral water and nodded in agreement. Despite the efforts of the far-thinking farmers, any kind of meat, even from those we once thought of as vermin. The diminishing stocks of feral camel and goat were difficult to obtain and oceanic fish supplies were getting desperately low. It was the same for most fruit and vegetables and other, once stable, crops.“How’s the job hunting?” I quizzed him, changing the subject, as any discussion these days concerning climate change could become quite intense even between friends and family.“Slow,” he replied. “There isn’t much demand for landscape gardeners these days. It was the only thing I ever wanted to do.”“I’ve heard the Desalination Plant is recruiting again as they expand to meet the never-ending demand for clean drinkable water. The shifts are long but they pay well and you get extra water vouchers,” I suggested in an effort to be supportive.“I’ll look into it,” Bailey replied, but he sounded and looked despondent. “Hold on,” he suddenly added. “It's time for tomorrow’s weather report. I’ll get it on my phone and turn it to speaker so we can both hear it.”It soon began:The Regional Weather Report for Wednesday 20th October 2032. It will be a sunny, hot, dry day with temperatures ranging from 35 degrees to 28 degrees during the day, dropping to 26 degrees overnight. Moderate winds are expected. Precipitation will be extremely low with a 2% chance of rain.We both sat quietly for a few minutes only to be interrupted by Brad, the Hotel Owner.“Are you two nearly finished,” he began politely. “I am closing early as you can see there are very few customers here today. If it wasn’t for the small subsidies I get from the government, I would have closed the hotel down by now as most of the others in the region have been forced to.”“Yes,” Bailey replied. We both watched in silence as he proceeded over to the other few patrons there that evening.“Well, I’d better get going then,” I said, breaking the silence. “Pa expects me home by 7pm.”“Yep, me too. I’ve got heaps of stuff to do tonight besides checking job vacancies.”We picked up our now empty glasses and the bowl with a few locust wings left in it and dutifully placed them on the bar on our way out to the car-park. It was still hot but we were used to that. Bailey headed over to his battered old car.As he only had a short distance to drive and hadn’t had much to drink he was fine to go. He was still able to use his car occasionally when he could get fuel but it was beyond his means to afford to convert it to electric. I made my way to the bicycle rack and released my electric tricycle from its lock, but with so few people around it probably didn’t need to be secured.“One positive in all this,” I called over to Bailey. “At least the roads are much safer for cyclists like me without as much traffic as there used to be.”“Trust you to think of something positive about The Dry,” he called back as he jumped in the driver's seat of his car. “Love you, Gran!”“Love you too, Bails!”It was hard for us oldies to get through these difficult dry dusty days, but so much harder for the young.

I took the photograph from my handbag and sat it on my lap as I waited patiently for my turn at the psychic reading. While the others around the table were listening intently to the first reading by Sapphire, the resident psychic, I scanned their faces: a habit I had acquired since I began working with the police. After years of investigation it was now time to wrap up the cold case I had been recently assigned. I already had a plethora of evidence however there was one more step I needed to take in order to secure a definitive conviction. The suspect had to give themselves away. Most of my uniformed colleagues found my methods rather unusual; however I was building up a long list of satisfactory arrests and convictions that many envied. The historic Grand Hotel was the perfect setting for a psychic reading session and it wasn’t the first one I had organised there during the course of an investigation.“Who’s next,” Sapphire announced after abruptly finishing her first reading.I quickly handed her the photograph before anyone else could respond. She ran her hand across the face and held it up for all to see. Then she began:“Ah, a sweet girl with a lot to say from the grave. I see a grisly death. Near water. It seems she wants the truth of it to come out so she can pass over.”I scanned the faces of my suspects sitting unknowingly next to my invitee plants. I was particularly interested in anything revealing from my main suspect Tom Hughes. However, nothing. Yet. I waited patiently.Sapphire looked at the back of the photograph, shut her eyes and continued:“Her name is Sophie.” Addressing the photograph directly she followed with: “Sophie, can you hear me? What do you want us to know? Can you tell us who did it? Who took your life-force away?”With these few words my main suspect Tom Hughes started wriggling in his seat and loosening his collar. His face was beginning to redden. Under the table I could sense his foot tapping on the floor. All signs of rising anxiety. He was also eyeing the exit door.Gotcha! I thought.So, before he had time to make a dash for it, I surreptitiously sent the message with the initials TH to my team. Then, as they stormed into the lounge to arrest him, Sapphire winked at me. She had played her part well . . . once again. I'll definitely use her next time, I thought. It always amazed me how easy it was to lure suspects to a psychic reading session with free tickets they thought they had won. I smiled as they took him away in handcuffs.On the way back to my car I stopped when I heard some of my favorite music coming from the Festival at the Showground in full swing. I smiled and did a little jig.  I've still got it, I mused. The rhythm that is!