Joe's knuckles bled, the result of inflation.
Tonya was some sort of greedy little Tinker Bell wannabe. She even had the wings to go along with it. She wore them every single day. The whole idiotic
... [+]
Gillian O’Shaughnessy is a journalist with ABC Radio Perth. She was a finalist in the Bath Flash Fiction Award and the London Independent Story Prize. She lives in Fremantle. "Crash Landing at Elizabeth Quay" is part of Short Édition's series, The Current.
I arrive at the bus stop heading for work and see the moon has fallen from the sky and is resting in a crater where the Bell Tower used to be. I'm struck by how unimpressive it looks close up, beige and lumpy, like old porridge.
"Nothing special," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth to a man clutching a briefcase nearby.
"Pardon?" he seems startled.
"THE MOON," I say more loudly. Perhaps he's hard of hearing. I smile reassuringly and gesture towards it, "NOTHING SPECIAL IS IT? NOT VERY "SILVERY?" I make the air quotes.
He looks over his shoulder in the way people do when they think you're talking to someone behind them.
"MATE," I say, arms outstretched, "THEMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON."
"Please leave me alone," he sprints down the street like his arse is on fire.
"Bloke's lost it," I appeal to an old lady crouched over her shopping trolley.
"Piss off kid," she gives me the finger and looks away.
I'm at a loss. As I watch, a crane teeters and with a shriek of metal settles heavily against the side of the moon.
I'm about to dial emergency but the bus arrives, it's a ten minute wait for the next one, and I've been late for work three times this month already, so I think sod it, hop on, and off we rumble down the street, swerving just the tiniest bit to avoid the moon.
"Nothing special," I mutter out of the corner of my mouth to a man clutching a briefcase nearby.
"Pardon?" he seems startled.
"THE MOON," I say more loudly. Perhaps he's hard of hearing. I smile reassuringly and gesture towards it, "NOTHING SPECIAL IS IT? NOT VERY "SILVERY?" I make the air quotes.
He looks over his shoulder in the way people do when they think you're talking to someone behind them.
"MATE," I say, arms outstretched, "THEMOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOON."
"Please leave me alone," he sprints down the street like his arse is on fire.
"Bloke's lost it," I appeal to an old lady crouched over her shopping trolley.
"Piss off kid," she gives me the finger and looks away.
I'm at a loss. As I watch, a crane teeters and with a shriek of metal settles heavily against the side of the moon.
I'm about to dial emergency but the bus arrives, it's a ten minute wait for the next one, and I've been late for work three times this month already, so I think sod it, hop on, and off we rumble down the street, swerving just the tiniest bit to avoid the moon.