The men who live in the woods behind my house had been getting out of hand for some time. They were all in their mid-fifties, golfers formerly, and meat eaters -- jolly men in general -- but since ... [+]
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.