Scareship_Issue8

a Chinese elm. I push my eyes with the heels of my hands; the
world is tilting over and leaving me behind.
Finally, I lie back and stare at the sky. Sometime, after the
lorikeets go shrieking overhead, I close my eyes.
* * *
I dream it is night again, and the land is formed of creatures.
They are silent as they move, time and substance at once. They are
rock tumbles become waterfalls, regathering as still pools. Then
they rise from the dam, larger than the sky, muddy water coursing
with serpentine rainbows. Closing.
A twitter snaps my eyes open. An Indian mynah skips by. It
twists a sleek head, brown and orange, and a word drops onto my
tongue.
Invader.
I scramble up. It cocks its head, then darts into the scrub.
Unafraid. Here to stay.
And something unfinished inside my head completes.
The sun is already down, and the night air creeps up the hill,
promising danger. The dam is a dark hole, and I know the creatures
are rising again.
I stumble down the rocks, wanting to be home. There’s a light
on in the farmhouse. But on the level, the estate lights align and I
lose the path. For a few seconds, the world spins—lights, dark,
lights... then, a splash.
I run blind. The lights bob and silver grass whips around my
feet like hands trying to pull me down. I pump my arms and pray
for pavers. Finally, I see colour: the hanging baskets, and the
farmhouse: roof, veranda and door. Colour everywhere.
A qualm bursts through my consciousness.
I hit the brakes still within the violets, and ease my foot back
from the pavers. The Folk line the patio edge. And the gutters. And
the roof. Thousands upon thousands; a swarm. The silver grass
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