This is Thursday! He’s a 14-year-old seagull boy who injures his wing and must rely on the hospitality of a nearby coastal resident until he’s able to fly again. He seems to have nabbed a regular beach-goer’s necklace (that sneaky little seagull boy).
The seagulls know you have fish and chips, they can hear the rustling of the paper. The seagulls begin to gather. One lands next to you. You throw the bird a chip. You look down, blood pours from your hand. The bird flies off with your finger.
Your train is coming in ten minutes. Your train is coming in two minutes. Your train is coming in twenty-three minutes. A train moves through the station, driverless and empty. Your train is coming in ten minutes.
There’s a man playing bagpipes on Princes Bridge. There’s a man playing bagpipes at Flinders Street Station. You can hear them from your office. You wake in the night; they’re coming from your living room.
Your friend suggests a macca’s run, but you can’t move. Your legs have turned to lead. It approaches.
You topped up your MYKI online. It will take two days to process. You begin to grow weaker. The MYKI glows in your hand. The process has begun.
There are roadworks on the Monash freeway. The signs flash at you menacingly in the night; they suggest a detour. You take the detour, but nobody follows. You don’t know this route. The lines on the road disappear, your radio turns to static. You don’t have to look in your rear-view mirror to know that it’s there. It waits.
Everyone keeps talking about the cool new bar. Everyone has been there. You ask where it is, but no one can answer. But everyone insists you must go. You ask how to get there, but everyone is vague. Everyone has been there. You are the only one who has not. The only one left. You run.
You wait for the tram, but a bus approaches. The driver tells you that there’s track works. You get on the bus. The driver exits; he shuts the door. You hear something at the back of the bus, but the bus is empty. The sound moves closer. The driver never returns.
Your footy team is losing. They’re always losing. The draft brings new players, but they disappear. The footy record lists players that you vaguely remember; where are they? You attend the next match, your team has no men on the bench. You bite in to your meat pie and crunch down on something hard. You spit out a wedding ring, it gleams in your hand. More players disappear.
You sit in Hoddle Street traffic. Four lanes are at a standstill. There’s a man in the car in front of you. You check your watch. You glance up at the man, he has a family now. How long have you been here? The seasons change. Your engine rusts. Your wife is waiting at home. Isn’t she?
RinMaki, KotoUmi, NozoEli, NicoPana, TsubaHono, lily freakin white
Umi and Rin almost bump into each other in front of the club room’s door, both holding their phones in their hands with terribly worried faces. Apparently, they both just received a message from Nozomi saying that there’s an emergency for the three of them and they need to talk about it in the club room a-s-a-p.
“What do you think is this lily white emergency, Umi-chan?” Rin asks with a slight pout, still panting from her hurried steps. “Are we in trouble, nya?”
“I really have no idea, honestly,” Umi shrugs. She hesitantly grabs the doorknob with a shaky hand. “L-Let’s go in?”