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And on the third router restart, He rose again.
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The desultory, limping, flight into the night.

Ejected from bright lights and chemical-polished stainless-steel. The cold swirls but hesitates to take hold, like an all-encompassing mosquito. After careful consideration, it latches onto skin and gorges. That shiver in acknowledgement.

The dishies chat in some foreign language, sharing a cigarette. The…

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The rock had begun its life like everything else on Earth: of stardust compressing and compacting until the planet emerged from the void, raw and unformed.

Even before the concept of Time became fixed in the imaginations of primitive people — even before the ancestors of these primitive people emerged…

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Jeremy tried not to glance right and down, but he lost that fight. Then he lost the rematch in observing the guy’s cock was bigger than his own.

“Ah,” the man sighed as he relieved a couple of hours of pent-up pints straight down the urinal. He spat right where…

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The bowls were ascribed to be multi-purpose, which Sarah took as gospel and verse. With five young boys, creativity and efficiency were key to keeping the ship sailing.

A hairdresser was out of the question, so once a month, she sat her boys down, placed the silver metal bowls on…

Photo by the author’s lovely girlfriend

The last time we’d had dinner at the dining table — a second-hand IKEA pick-up for a couple hundred bucks — was when I’d made pasta from scratch. A touch of nutmeg turned into too much and the sauce ended up being a bit too dry for my liking. …

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We’re old hands at it now
As cases rise, we bow
To staying inside
And starting the ride
Back down to zero, we vow


I don’t mean to brag
But my cakes, once ragtag
In lockdown have become
By far number one
And hoist high I will, that flag


Before COVID, you should have seen
This apartment — it was quite a scene
Called pigsty by some
Full of filth, dirt, crumbs
And now glitteringly, sparkling clean

Matt Querzoli wrote these. Sydney is locked down again. Where the fork are our vaccines?

Photo by Markus Spiske on Unsplash

Eden was planting tomatoes the day her daughter and son-in-law died in the car accident. …

Connor Rancan

It reminded him of his old maths workbooks, they ones with the blue-ruled grid lines. Shit, he’d hated maths. And with a cold indifference, it had snubbed him and refused relenting so that he might understand it, or at least grasp a foothold in the language of the universe.


Photo by the author’s lovely girlfriend

When the law passed, the streets didn’t run red with blood like the critics said they would. The world wasn’t suddenly the paradise its supporters proclaimed it would be. As with most topics with vehement oppositions, the reality struck somewhere down the middle.

What did happen, was the conceiving of…

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You complain of how you feel ill
To your mother — her answer a thrill
Your body taxed
You kick back and relax
To watch a midday episode of Doctor Phil


Your parents have indulged you
When you said you had the flu
No Xbox, though
A harsh blow
So you watch a marathon of movies, in lieu


To be free of the school routine
For even a day, it’s serene
Of blankets instead
And hot meals in bed
Even if your mucus is thick and green

Matt Querzoli wrote these. His usual run of sick-day shows were morning cartoons, Oprah, Dr Phil, Ellen, Ready Steady Cook and Judge Judy. He would have killed for pay TV.

Matthew Querzoli

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