Wet hair & underwear


An horrific sight. One to be remembered (not cherished, but recounted in horror). Unlike any I’ve seen before (and unlike any I may see again).

A flash of cheek, a schoolgirl giggle that should never be heard from those lips.

That boyish, joyful laugh you’ve heard so many times before. Camping. Chasing waves. Out in the bush proving your manhood. But here. Never here – this is just bloody wrong.

Quick about face. Get away from that doorway. Must escape. Jump through window if necessary. Restrain urge to vomit.

Holy crap. They're getting worse. What is wrong with them? Fricking animals.

Return to bedroom.

Can still hear thumping. Run downstairs. Worse. Don’t they know that I’m home? I’ve got to leave my uni schedule around more conspicuously.

Kochie’s on Sunrise. Volume up. Relief! Shit, this is boring. Who watches this crap anyway?

TV off. Fuck! What the hell is their problem???

Finally the thumping stops. Then a god awful moan that would make even the sturdiest of stomachs turn.

This is ridiculous. Surely this will be over soon. Getting seriously close to repression.

Breath out, and in, and out and in, and out. Wait three minutes. Feels like 3 hrs. Return to bedroom to retrieve belongings and leave.

Holy shit. Put some clothes on Mum. And dry your hair Dad you disgusting beast.

Retreat. Must not return for a least 2 days.


Blinding Light

“I’ve seen you naked,” smirked some random kid brushing passed Mick, probably on his way to maths or stick his tongue down his year 9 girlfriends throat in too public a place.

“Bullshit. You’re a friggin liar.”

“I’m serious man. It’s everywhere; Jack emailed it to everyone,” he smiled back.

Mick’s gut twisted at least seven hundred and twenty degrees. He was sure it had just split and fallen out the arse of his pants. Blood drained from his face and the corridor walls sped past him as he stood still.
Half of him was petrified – the leering dagger eyes of kids that passed him in the hall, sharp with that mocking intensity only felt in schools.

The other half was racing along the hall - just keeping up with the walls that were threatening to outpace him and drag him to his death like in one of those old Ben Hur movies with the chariots and horses, all gnashing teeth and saliva.
Mick just managed to dodge the daggers and break free of the chariot towing him along in time to duck into an adjoining corridor.

Breathless, he slumped against the cold plastered wall. Fricking Jack. I hate that bastard. I swear he’ll wish he hadn’t done that, the piece of shit.
Continuing down the stairs and kicking open the doors to the quadrangle he was hit square in the face by the blinding light of the 10.30am summer sun.

He cursed the blinding rays.

Just as his eyes were recovering, Mick, through his squinty daze, turned toward his left to see Jack sitting under a tree tapping away on his laptop, giving him the smuggest wave he’d seen in a long time.

Frickin Jack, you dirtbag.

He turned and walked towards the dunnies to plan his next move.