One Eyed World of Wonder.

From slumbering darkness, I’m whipped into bright light and warm air – but where?

In the car, balancing on the steering wheel, we’re roaming a new road. Be it dirt, sand, or asphalt, I’ve been there, crossing countless kilometres, to scan sunsets, sunrises and storm clouds. I’ve felt the wind, the smog, and arid desert dust, and sweltered within the humid monsoons. But nothing is scarier than to cringe against a bushfire’s slickened heat, where wounds and memories are healed within the smooth roll of cool salty seas.

I’ve faced wide-eyed green tree frogs awakening for the change of tropical seasons and kissed sand covered dog noses. I’ve flinched at a Barramundi’s watery tail-flick propelling above water-lily riddled billabongs. It was a place to track a sea eagle’s wingspan that’s mirrored across stilled waters at dawn’s first light.

I’ve been swallowed amongst the street mazes, darkened alleys, and shifting crowds. Dodged bike wheel rolls and rumbling engines. Stooped before hovering helicopters. Eyed roaring planes soaring above skeletal cranes, peppering overpopulated city skylines.

Yet, I’ve basked in this galaxy’s starlit skies of silence, while camped on secluded summits to watch the eclipsing blood moon spread shadows across the desolate outback.

I’ve witnessed weddings, celebrations, and ancient mystical ceremonies. The loud and proud singing shouts of team players. And yet, I still heard a child’s whispering wish follow a falling star.

This world contains much beauty which my owner wants me to see. As I aim, focus, snap and save, with hope of sharing and keeping what they see is true.

Then I’m shoved into darkness once again.

Brought out, stripped down. Memory’s downloaded. Battery’s re-charged. Lens cleaned. Then packed away. Ready.

And I wait.

Until my eye’s re-opened to capture another small part of this planet’s picturesque magnificence.

(300 words)

First published 20/10/2015



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Postie’s Pause

With helmet visor lowered, I thought of my pet goldfish and her delicate feathered finned graceful water dance, while I’m as graceful as a horse walking in flippers across a pond of porridge.

It’s a far cry from becoming a Sushi chef–when I’m allergic to fish and kept one as a pet. I can relate to my pet goldfish, watching the world through my helmet’s visor delivering mail to the masses. There are the postcards from travellers already home, and the bills no one wanted. The odd grandparent birthday card, where you try and guess its cash contents. All while the scooter caused a canine Mexican barking wave–in stereo.

But back to my goldfish window theory…

We live behind windows.

Every day.

Houses have windows.

Cars are mobile fish tanks.

Office windowed towers are full of people floating around.

Isn’t Earth, wrapped in her sea of gravity, just a bigger fishbowl?

“Shiiiiiiit – they’re open!” My scooter screeches to a halt as the adrenalin spike of fear squirrels up my spine. My heart tries to escape its rib cage and the helmet’s visor began fogging up, as sweat gathered inside my gloves, and I waited with a shallow breath.

I gunned the engine with one hand as the other slid beneath my seat for The Equaliser’. Not recommended, not advertised, not condoned, but sadly a necessity.

Because there stood the duo of canine severity.

They stared at me. I stared back.

They lowered their heads, squared off their shoulders, hackles raised.

I raised my foggy visor and flicked the switch on The Equaliser and noted the time for the report about to be committed.

It was the wrong gate to be open, on the wrong street, with the wrong duo of dogs.

And me.

Stuck in a side-street duel, in the middle of a Mexican standoff an hour before lunch.

“INSIDE,” shouted the owner, chasing her dogs back into the yard. “I’m so sorry. They won’t hurt you.”

Not from what I’ve endured when the pampered pooches’ poop-scooping owners aren’t around.

With the equaliser re-hidden, grateful I didn’t need to file my already mentally written report, I gunned the scooter and went back to my fishbowl view delivering the word to the masses. Except for that house – they’re mail’s gonna be late for a bit.

(387 words)


Home Sweet Not - by Mel A Rowe

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