They dig up the Myers pit again. The walkway disappears. They get a bigger crane. It’s gone the next day. They keep digging. The pit still
The Sleeping Beauty rolls over in her sleep, tearing apart the land. We pray she will not wake.
They say there are massive ships sunk in the Derwent river, never recovered. It is far, far deeper than a river should be. At night, phantom lights like sirens travel the old shipping lanes, deep below the surface.
The water is freezing, but the children go in anyway. They look back at you and their eyes are huge, dark. They do not look back again; you should have kept their skins better hidden.
The say the monkeys in City Park cannot get out, but there is something watching you from the trees as you walk home at night. You hope it is only the monkeys.
You see David Walsh in the supermarket. In your coffee shop. Across the street. Behind you in the mirror. Don’t look-
You walk out into the bush, birds singing, knowing there are no thylacines left. They were more like cats than dogs, the tour guide tells you. Big as a panther, and as agile. There is a rustling in the bushes, but you are sure there are no thylacines left. They could open their jaws to 120 degrees. The rustling stops, but the birds have stopped singing. Tiger, they called it. You run, praying there are no thylacines left.