The band, though successful, had hit a major rut in creativity. So they moved their band sessions back into the lead singer’s parents’ garage, to try and find the spark again, just like had when they were stroppy, pimply teenagers with nothing but dreams and a torrent of hormones.
During the marathon, Aiden stopped three times. Once to catch his breath, once to stretch out a cramp, and once near the 10km mark, to quit the race for the pub.
Sidney stumbled out of her room as the buzzer jabbed into her brain stem. She let the delivery driver into the building, and stood, swaying slightly, near the front door, awaiting the knock and hangover deliverance in the form of greasy fried chicken.
Eloise tried to automate every boring task in her life. Including the process of automating the boring tasks.
All the good stories had been told, so the writer got to work on a reboot.
The tradie walking home passed a day-care and was almost overwhelmed with a desire to return to the sandpit and play with his old toys.
‘Mirror mirror on the wall,’ bemoaned Billy. ‘Why is it that for me, baldness will befall?’
As a librarian, she was against book burning in the vein of anti-intellectualism, but as a realist, it was the second day of the power outage and the cold snap was beginning to bite.
The band often invited people up on stage to help play songs, but stopped the practice after one went overboard and smashed a guitar.
They said he was unprepared for Everest. They were probably right, considering now how Jonny was finishing lacing up the footy boots he was using for crampons. But he’d show ‘em.
